The Brothers of Glastonbury

Chapter Nine

Nor had he returned by nightfall, when the rest of us (with the exception of Dame Joan) went soberly to bed: the two apprentices to their pallets in the workroom, Lydia to her kitchen corner, Cicely to her chamber and I to Mark’s.

‘Won’t you come too, Aunt?’ Cicely pleaded. ‘You can do no good by depriving yourself of rest. If my cousin arrives home during the night or early morning he’ll knock loudly enough to rouse one of us. You’ll achieve nothing except to give yourself that sort of headache which comes from dozing and waking in a chair.’

But Dame Joan was adamant. ‘I must know the moment he returns,’ she said. ‘Roger, lad, fetch me down an armchair from the solar, if you’d be so kind, and place it in the shop. I’ll leave the door into the passageway open, then I’m certain to hear him. Lydia, child, run and fetch me a spare blanket from the cedarwood chest. It’ll be sufficient covering on a warm night like this.’

The maid (whose attempt to say something was angrily hushed) and I did as we were bidden. Cicely tucked the rough grey blanket around her aunt’s legs.

Dame Joan thanked her and patted her cheek. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she told her.

Cicely and I each took a candle and mounted the stairs, saying a muted goodnight to one another before entering our respective rooms. The door to Dame Joan’s chamber stood wide open, showing a glimpse of a four-poster bed, with its tapestried canopy and snowy white cover. I thought of the hard armchair and the draught from the passageway, and hoped, like Cicely, that my hostess would not have cause to regret her decision tomorrow morning, when she would almost surely suffer from fatigue and aching bones.

I lit the wicks of the two horn-paned lanterns and snuffed out my candle before sitting down to pull off my boots. My day had been long and hard. I had been to the Pennards’ and back again, a total distance of some eleven miles, walked to and from Beckery Island in all the glare of the afternoon’s heat, and, finally, paid a visit to the Jarrolds’ cottage in Bove Town. I should have been dog-tired. Indeed, I was — and a few moments earlier my one ambition had been to climb between the sheets, sink into the goose-feather mattress and lose myself in sleep; my racing thoughts, however, prevented me from doing so. I sat there on the blue damask coverlet, one boot off, the other still grasped in my hand, staring before me at the open window but hearing and seeing nothing. Where had Mark gone? He had ridden to Beckery, that much I could be sure of, but I had no idea what had happened next. Absentmindedly I finished removing my second boot, then, elbows propped on knees, chin resting on my hands, I considered such information as I possessed.

Mark had told both Dame Joan and his cousin that he was going to see Father Boniface, but had offered them no explanation — and he had lied to the apprentices about the reason for his visit. The truth was, however, that he had hoped the priest could interpret the contents of the paper left behind by the Irishman, Gerald Clonmel, and had been disappointed. So what had he done then?

The question of exactly when Mark had discovered this mysterious document returned to tease me. He had patently not known of it last night, when he had asked me to go through his brother’s books and folios this morning. It must therefore have been sometime today, before dinner — for I had set off for the Pennards’ immediately afterwards, and he had departed for Beckery before I returned — and consequently prior to ten o’clock, when the meal had been served. We had been much together during those early hours — washing, dressing, breakfasting, shaving — but naturally I had not had him in view every second. There were many moments when our eyes had been averted from one another, and a full ten minutes when I had been in the privy next to the stable.

It was most probable, I decided, that he had chanced upon it then, and somewhere in this room. His brother had originally stored the paper with his other books in the workshop, but as Peter had come to appreciate its value, or what he thought was its value, he had grown more secretive, keeping the chest locked and flying into a rage when Mark had questioned this unaccustomed action. And, eventually, he had removed it from the chest (which he had not bothered to relock) and hidden it elsewhere.

One of my legs was growing numb from the weight of my elbow pressing against my knee, so I straightened my back and looked around me. If Mark had indeed discovered the paper in this room it might still be here, probably in the same place in which he had found it. For unless he had lied again, this time to Father Boniface — and I could see no good reason why he should have done — he had not taken it with him to Beckery. My gaze ranged over the clothes-chest and the oak cupboard in the corner, but I dismissed them out of hand: they were neither of them places in which to hide something that needed to be kept secret; Dame Joan and the maids would have had constant access to them both. Instead my glance rested upon the remarkable bed-head, with its posts of carved acanthus leaves, and, in between, its score or so of tiny drawers and cupboards.

Suddenly I recalled the scene in the workshop, when Mark had produced the key to the book-chest. I remembered his words: ‘It was in one of the drawers of the bed-head. It occurred to me last night that that was where it might be.’ And he had found the paper at the same time. He must have done! There was no other explanation.

I knelt up on the bed and, with hands that shook a little, opened every drawer and cupboard in turn, peering excitedly into each one, certain that in the next I should find what I was seeking. But there was nothing. Disbelieving, I started over again, but this second search was just as fruitless. Almost weeping with disappointment I then looked in the clothes chest — even rifling through the pockets of the garments it contained — and the corner cupboard, but without success. I stripped the bed of sheets, blankets and mattress, all in vain, and had to remake it before I could sleep.

By this time, however, I was so tired that I could barely stand, and so I reluctantly abandoned any further search until the morning. I thought that in spite of my weariness I shouldn’t know a moment’s rest all night, but I was asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.

* * *

I awoke with the crowing of the cocks and the early morning sunlight shining through the open window. With Mark absent, I had not closed the shutters but left them wide to the cool night air. Nor had they been closed during the intervening hours of darkness, a fact which alerted me, almost before I had come fully to my senses, that my bedfellow had not returned. Immediately I was wide awake, dragging myself up by my elbows and looking anxiously towards the other side of the bed.

My fears were well founded. It was still as empty as when I had fallen asleep last night. The pillow was smooth, the sheets cold to the touch. No one had occupied that space, not even briefly.

I judged that it was yet some time before the bells would ring for Prime, but I could already hear the rumble of cart wheels up and down the High Street. Today was a feast day, and a great many people would be crowding in from the surrounding countryside to attend the abbey’s celebrations. There would be small chance of a private word with Brother Hilarion; he would be too occupied with supervising the novices and making sure they did all that was required of them. Though I stood in urgent need of his quiet wisdom and sound common sense, I should be forced to practise the patience which I had preached to him yesterday.

Sleep, once banished, would not return, so I got out of bed and pulled on my breeches. Before going downstairs however, I decided to look yet again for the missing paper. That Mark had found it here, somewhere in this room, I was as certain as I possibly could be, but still its whereabouts remained a mystery. He had come across it by accident while searching for the key, and I was therefore unable to escape the conclusion that he must have been lying when he told Father Boniface that he did not have it with him yesterday. There was, after all, no reason why he should have scrupled to carry it with him — having no idea that his brother had deemed the paper ‘valuable beyond price’ — not unless Maud had informed him of the fact. But that, of course, she plainly had not done, or Mark would have known of the paper’s existence earlier. He would have questioned Peter on the subject and, having wrung the truth from him, would most likely have demanded his share of the value that his brother placed upon it.

Lydia was the only person Maud had told, during that time of shared confidences, after dark, when the rest of the household was sleeping and the pair of them were snuggled down on their pallets in the kitchen. They would have discussed and wondered at Peter’s unusual spurt of ill temper, commiserated with one another on the unpredictability of employers, perhaps whispered with thrilling voices about cabalistic signs. In the morning, however, the incident would have been forgotten as they resumed their normal, humdrum lives. It was only when Peter had suddenly vanished in such mysterious circumstances that Maud Jarrold had thought again about the paper she had seen. But even so, she had mentioned it to no one but her father, and then not until after he had removed her from the Gildersleeves’ house. Lydia, far from connecting it with Peter’s disappearance, had only recollected Maud’s story when she overheard our conversation at supper the previous evening.

I was convinced in my own mind that my assumptions were correct, but I resolved to make sure by asking Lydia for confirmation.

It was still very early; not even Rob and John were up yet. I washed and dressed and went downstairs to the garden, only to find the kitchen door wide open and the little maid bustling around, already making preparations for breakfast — not just for myself and the two apprentices, but also for Dame Joan and Cicely who, like the rest of the world and his wife, would be abroad betimes, getting ready to go to Mass. After a little small talk, I asked Lydia if she had mentioned the paper to Mark.

‘No, I said nothing to him. I never took much notice of Maud’s tales, and that’s a fact. She could be a bit of a liar at times.’

‘But not on this occasion.’

‘Seems not.’

‘Did Dame Joan stay downstairs all night?’ I asked, looking up from my shaving, which operation I had begun carefully performing at the kitchen table.

‘She did, more fool her.’ Lydia began beating eggs in a basin. ‘She’s gone up to her room now to lie down for half an hour. She’ll be worn out by the time this day’s over.’

‘Mark didn’t come home then.’

It was not a question; I already knew the answer. But Lydia treated it as such.

‘No, not so far.’ She finished beating the eggs and put the bowl down on the table. I sensed that there was something more she wished to say, and smiled at her encouragingly. After a moment’s hesitation, she went on, ‘This isn’t the first time that it’s happened.’

‘That what’s happened?’

‘That Mark’s stayed out all night … He’d be furious if he knew I’d told you, for he swore me to secrecy. Said he’d have me dismissed if I so much as breathed a word to his mother.’

‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I shan’t betray you.’

She stooped to put a batch of risen dough into the oven next to the fire, then sat down opposite me, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘It was some months back, not long after Easter — perhaps nearer to Ascensiontide, now I think of it. One night, I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t feeling well. I’d eaten something which disagreed with me. Normally, I never stir until morning.’ That, I thought was understandable, considering how hard she worked and how long her day. ‘I needed to go to the privy.’ She shrugged. ‘You know where that is.’

I did indeed. Sleeping in the kitchen, she would have been forced to make her way across the garden, through the house and let herself out of the front door. The privy stood alongside the stable, and, together with the pump, was shared by the Gildersleeves’ neighbours. I nodded.

Lydia continued, ‘It was very nearly dawn. I remember that, because when I opened the front door, there were streaks of light in the sky over Bove Town. I was running towards the privy when I saw Mark locking the stable. It was obvious he’d only just come home. He looked frightened to death when he first saw me, then he grabbed my arm and asked what the devil I was doing up and about at that hour? I told him, and he let me go.’ She grinned. ‘He had to. But when I got back into the house, he was waiting for me in the passageway. Said he’d spent the previous evening drinking with a friend who lives out on the Meare road. He’d drunk so much, he’d passed out and been forced to spend the night there. That’s when he said if I told Dame Joan I’d be in trouble, and he’d see to it that I was sent packing. I promised I wouldn’t say a word. I was still feeling so bad I’d have promised to kill my grandmother, so he’d let me get back to bed. It wasn’t my business, anyway.’

She rose from her seat and went to take a batch of oatcakes out of the second oven on the other side of the fireplace. ‘So you see, I think the Mistress and Mistress Cicely are making a fuss about nothing. Only I daren’t tell them, because when Mark does come back — and I’m sure he will be back sometime — he’ll be livid if he knows I’ve let on. And I don’t suppose it was the first time it’d happened, either.’

‘Did his brother know, do you think, that he occasionally stayed out all night? After all, they shared a bed.’

Lydia wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of one small hand. ‘He might’ve done, if he’d woken up. But he never said anything. He wouldn’t. There’s not a lot of love lost between Peter and Mark, not since the old Master died, but neither would tell tales on the other.’

‘Why? Are they frightened of Dame Joan?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘She seems a very sweet and gentle lady.’

‘Oh, they aren’t frightened of her!’ Lydia laughed at the very notion. ‘But if either Mark or Peter does something she doesn’t approve of she can make their lives a real misery with her tears and her reproaches. She can go on for days and days until she has their solemn word that they won’t ever do it again. So most of the time they don’t tell her what they’re up to.’

It crossed my mind that this revelation of Lydia’s might cast a new light on Peter’s disappearance, but then I dismissed the idea as absurd. The conspiracy of silence between the brothers would surely never extend to abandoning a horse and vanishing without a word for almost a week — for it would be a week tomorrow since Peter Gildersleeve was last seen alive.

I had finished shaving. I pushed away the bowl of tepid water and returned my razor to my pouch. I looked at Lydia who was now stirring the porridge, bubbling in the pot suspended from the cross-bar in the chimney.

‘You said just now that there isn’t much love lost between the two brothers since their father died. Why’s that?’

Lydia turned her flushed face towards me. ‘Because the old Master left the shop and workshop to Peter, I reckon. And his second-best bed. Dame Joan has the best one, of course.’

‘It’s natural for the elder son to inherit,’ I pointed out. ‘Why should Mark resent it?’ Yet I had guessed myself that he did.

Before she could answer, the door opened and Rob Undershaft and John Longbones came yawning and stretching into the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively the smells of new bread and oatcakes and porridge. They were still young enough for the needs of their stomachs to be the most important thing in their lives. And today, whether Mark returned or no, there would be no work done. They would be at the abbey with the rest of us.

Cicely came in shortly after the apprentices, dressed in her Sunday best gown, her hair brushed and neatly braided. She looked apprehensive. ‘Mark’s not returned?’

Lydia shook her head. ‘He’ll come back, though, don’t you fret, Mistress.’

A thought struck me. ‘If he’d arrived in the middle of the night, or … or early this morning before anyone was stirring, is there any way in which he could have entered the house without rousing someone to let him in?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cicely. ‘I haven’t been here long enough. But I do know that the street door is always bolted after curfew, my aunt told me so herself. That’s why she sat up.’

I caught Lydia’s eye and twitched my eyebrows in enquiry. She gave the faintest shrug of her shoulders. I realized that the one time she had encountered Mark returning at dawn, she would have left the street door open; so she, like me, was none the wiser. Yet on that occasion, Mark could not possibly have foreseen that she would be up and about, so he must, therefore, have known of some way to enter the house without knocking.

Before I could pursue the thought further, Dame Joan entered the kitchen. She, too, was dressed in what was plainly her best gown, a violet silk which must once have been as bright as her eyes, but which now, like them, was a little faded. Her snow-white cap and veil were freshly laundered, while a girdle of purple leather, tagged with silver and studded with small amethysts, emphasized that, although middle-aged, she still retained her trim figure. But her face showed increasing signs of strain, and the two dark circles beneath her eyes seemed more apparent than they had been the previous day.

She took her seat at the kitchen table and Lydia put a bowl of porridge in front of her.

‘You eat that all up, Mistress,’ the maid said with a brusqueness which concealed her true concern, ‘every last bit of it.’

Dame Joan smiled faintly and picked up her spoon. ‘Mark didn’t come home,’ she remarked to no one in particular.

‘We were just debating,’ I said swiftly, seizing my opportunity, ‘if there is any way to enter this house without knocking for admission.’

My hostess shook her head. ‘It’s an awkwardly built house, as you can see, with this kitchen at an angle to the rest of it. It was added on later by my husband’s grandfather, when the original kitchen was turned into the workroom. In his father’s day, the parchment making was carried on in the shop. I’ve heard my husband say that it was the old man’s intention to make a second door in that wall over there, the one that backs on to the stable. But he never did, and like most inconveniences it continues to be tolerated, in spite of constant talk about putting it right. There’s only one entrance to this house, and that’s the front one.’

‘So there’s no other choice for anyone returning home late than to rouse a member of the household to let him in?’

Dame Joan shook her head. ‘No, none at all.’

I glanced thoughtfully across at the two apprentices, who were busy scraping the last mouthful of porridge from their bowls. Both young faces were bland with indifference, neither, apparently, taking anything but the most cursory interest in our conversation. Rob Undershaft, his fair hair falling as ever into his eyes, pushed his bowl away from him and glanced around the table. He reached out one skinny arm towards the dish of oatcakes, took one and began to munch it stolidly, staring into space. John Longbones, his red curls still unkempt from sleep, followed his companion’s example, his nimbler fingers managing to secrete a second oatcake in the palm of his hand, his short-sighted gaze fixed on nothing in particular. It was well-nigh impossible to determine if either of them had anything to hide.

Yet when the others had all dispersed to finish getting ready for church, I lingered in the kitchen with Lydia. I took a cloth and began to dry the dishes as she washed them. ‘That evening,’ I said, ‘when you were ill and met Mark returning in the early hours of the morning…’

‘Yes?’ she asked cautiously. ‘What about it? I’ve told you all that I can remember.’

‘Think very carefully,’ I urged her. ‘You had to run through the house to reach the privy, but do you recall having to unbolt the street door, or was it already unlocked?’

Lydia paused in her task of scouring out the iron pot in which she had cooked the porridge, her bunch of hazel twigs poised in mid-air, her eyes suddenly enormous in her tired little face. ‘I … I can’t remember,’ she answered slowly. ‘Wait … Wait!’ She resumed her scouring, but in a half-hearted manner. ‘I ran along the passageway and … and I just opened the door,’ she finished on a note of surprise. ‘I remember now! Fancy me not thinking that strange at the time! But I was in such a hurry, had such awful pains in my belly, that I never gave it a thought. You’re right!’ She turned her wondering face towards me. ‘Normally, to reach the top bolt in the morning, I have to fetch the little footstool from the shop, and I have to stand on it to get the key down from its nail. Oh, why has that never struck me until now? I am so stupid!’

‘No,’ I smiled, giving her shoulders a friendly squeeze. ‘As you say, you had other things on your mind. But someone had unlocked the door for Mark that night, and probably on other nights, too, when he stayed out drinking.’

‘Who?’

I shrugged. ‘There are are only two likely suspects: either Rob or John. But which one of the two, I wouldn’t like to guess at present. Perhaps both of them are culprits.’

‘Do you think it’s important?’

‘That Mark has stayed out all night on previous occasions? It might be, insofar as it means that we don’t need to give up all hope of seeing him again.’