The Brothers of Glastonbury

Chapter Thirteen

I was young and fit in those days, but even so I found myself breathing heavily as I climbed the last few feet to the summit of the Tor. Below me I could see the town and abbey precincts laid out like a chequered board, and all the people, houses and animals had turned into the playthings of some giant’s child. The old Roman road, Dod Lane, leading from Lambcook Street, was nothing more now than a faint thread among the thickets and bushes crowding about the base of this strange, steep hill that rose out of the surrounding moors and marshes. Once, long ago, when water had lapped about its foot, Arthur had been brought here to die …

Here, too, or so the stories would have us believe, Saint Collen had come to live the hermit’s life and wrestle with the evil spirits of the place. Gwyn ap Nud, Lord of the Wild Hunt, who reigned over a fairy world beneath the Tor, had tempted him with visions of a great and luxurious palace where musicians played and dancers cavorted, where tables groaned under the weight of succulent food and fountains spouted every imaginable variety of wine. But Saint Collen would have none of it, preferring his anchorite’s cell and a diet of wild berries from the hedgerows. He had sprinkled holy water in the faces of his tormentors and immediately they had vanished, leaving him in peace thereafter. I could not help wondering if I would have had the strength of character to resist such temptation, and the answer was no. But then I was not (and still am not) a saint, and God, however eternally hopeful of mankind, would never have expected it of me.

A strong breeze was blowing, whipping my hair across my cheeks, and I recalled that the top of the Tor was renowned for always being windy, even on the most still and sultry of days. But this was something more. For the first time in weeks the sky was growing overcast and there was a smell of rain in the air. I suspected that one of those brief but torrential summer storms was brewing, and I hoped that I should be under shelter when it finally broke.

The chapel of Saint Michael and its attendant outhouses — kitchen, bakehouse, barn — were built on the small, flat, slightly sloping area at the Tor’s summit. Over two hundred years before, the original chapel had been destroyed during an earthquake which shook that part of Somerset, and today’s church was rebuilt half a century later under the auspices of Abbot Adam of Sodbury. Made of sandstone and limestone from the Mendip Hills, it had leaded windows, a tiled floor (some of the tiles exquisitely patterned), and a portable altar of Purbeck marble — luxurious furnishings by the standard of many other small chapels.

I entered through the gate in the boundary wall and mounted the steps that brought me at last to the top of the slope. In high summer the enclave was usually crowded with pilgrims — particularly those dedicated to the cult of the Archangel Michael — but today, for some reason, it was almost deserted. One of the abbey novices, whose turn it was to assist Father Elwyn, had just emerged from the bakehouse, the sleeves of his habit rolled above his elbows and his hands covered in flour; a solitary pilgrim, a rich merchant by his appearance, was on his knees before the altar when I glanced inside the chapel — but of further life there seemed, at present, to be no sign.

I sought out the novice, who had by now returned to the kitchen, and asked for Father Elwyn’s whereabouts. I was directed to the barn.

The interior was dim, the more so since clouds had begun to gather, and sunlight no longer filtered through the narrow windows or flooded the open doorway. A lantern had been suspended from a nail in one wall, and by its pale radiance I was just able to make out Father Elwyn’s figure in the deepest recesses of the building, checking his stores against the approach of colder weather.

I called his name, and he swung round with a start.

‘Who’s that? Who’s there? What do you want?’ He came forward — a little, dark man with the lilting speech that betrayed his Welsh origins — and stared long and hard into my face for several seconds. ‘I remember you,’ he said at last. ‘Weren’t you once a novice at the abbey?’

‘I was,’ I admitted. ‘My name was Stonecarver then, but nowadays I’m known as Roger Chapman.’

He nodded, as though perfectly recollecting all the circumstances connected with my departure, and enquired, ‘So what do you want with me, Master Stonecarver, also known as Roger Chapman?’

I decided not to beat about the bush. ‘I understand from Brother Hilarion that a month or so before he disappeared, Peter Gildersleeve paid you a visit … You have heard, I suppose, that Master Gildersleeve has since mysteriously vanished?’

Again Father Elwyn nodded, but wasted no words on the subject, simply asking, ‘Well?’

I drew a bow at a venture. ‘The visit, I believe, had nothing to do with his spiritual welfare.’

‘You understand! You believe!’ Father Elwyn exclaimed testily. ‘I trust Brother Hilarion is not becoming a gossip in his old age! How does he know all this?’

‘He overheard one of the novices — a certain Humphrey, who once helped you in the bakehouse here — telling a fellow novice.’

Father Elwyn gave a short laugh. ‘A trouble-maker, that boy! I had him marked down as such from our very first encounter.’

‘Nevertheless,’ I pursued, ‘you don’t deny that Peter Gildersleeve did visit you!’

‘No, I don’t deny it.’

‘And was it on a secular matter?’

The priest was growing manifestly more annoyed with every passing second. ‘That has nothing to do with you, nor with anyone save Master Gildersleeve and myself. Now, I have work to do. I’ll bid you good-day.’

He would have turned away from me, but I caught his arm.

‘Father, listen! I think I might know the reason why he came to see you. Had it anything to do with this?’ While I spoke, I had drawn the quarto from beneath my left arm and proceeded to loosen its ties; then, with infinite care, I extracted the folded parchment.

At the sight of it, Father Elwyn stepped back hurriedly, making the sign of the Cross high in the air between himself and the offending paper. ‘How did you come by that?’ he demanded.

I plunged yet again into my tale. The priest listened quietly, passing no comment until I had finished, when he urged me to let the matter well alone.

‘Ever since the report of Master Gildersleeve’s mysterious disappearance reached me, I have been certain that the document you are holding had something to do with it. God forgive me! I should have told him to burn it there and then, for it had the smell of evil about it.’

‘You understand what these strange symbols mean?’ I queried hopefully.

Father Elwyn shook his head. ‘No, but I gave Peter Gildersleeve directions to one who I thought might possibly be able to explain them to him.’

My heart missed a beat with excitement. ‘Who was that?’ I demanded.

‘Do you really expect me to tell you, so that you too can run to put your head in the noose? Don’t be a fool, my son!’

‘Father,’ I said urgently, replacing the precious parchment between the quarto’s leaves, ‘you must tell me. How can I possibly discover what has happened to Peter Gildersleeve unless I know the whole story?’

The priest crossed himself again. ‘You won’t find him,’ he said in a low, scared voice. ‘He has been carried off by demons. How else could he vanish into thin air?’

‘Father, have you not considered that there might be some perfectly ordinary explanation for his disappearance?’

‘How can there be an ordinary explanation,’ the priest asked truculently, ‘when a shepherd-boy sees him with his own eyes one minute, and the next he’s completely vanished?’

Thus challenged, I had to think quickly. ‘The … the shepherd-boy might be lying,’ I stammered. ‘Have you thought of that?’

But he could tell by my expression that I had no faith in my own suggestion, and dismissed it scornfully. ‘No child would make up such lies about a man he barely knew and who meant nothing to him. For what purpose? Besides, in that case, where is Peter Gildersleeve? And why did he abandon his horse?’

I sighed. The questions were unanswerable, the affair far better understood than I had bargained for. The story may not have reached as far as Beckery, but within the town and the abbey enclave, and apparently here on the Tor, it was known in some detail. So I had to fall back on my powers of persuasion.

‘Nevertheless I’m still not convinced, Father, that Peter Gildersleeve has been bewitched or fallen into the clutches of Old Scratch. But even should I be proved wrong, I must put my trust in God and look to Him to deliver me from harm. I’ve promised Dame Joan to find out what happened to her son-’ I bit off the ‘s’ of the last word just in time, for as far as I could tell rumours of Mark having shared the same fate as his brother had not yet travelled this distance. ‘And I intend to keep that promise. Therefore, I must beg you again to tell me where, and to whom, you sent Master Gildersleeve.’

Father Elwyn hesitated. Fleeting changes of expression, shadows of his internal conflict, chased one another across his face. At last, however, he said, ‘So be it. But you must hold me exonerated in this world and the next should anything untoward befall you.’

I gave him my most solemn assurance that this would be the case, and found myself in the odd position of offering him absolution rather than the other way around.

‘Very well then,’ he agreed, albeit with palpable reluctance. A sudden flash of lightning momentarily illuminated the windows of the barn, followed by a faint rumble of thunder as yet some few miles distant, but menacing none the less. It was enough to make the priest jump and show the whites of his eyes, like a startled horse, and for a moment I thought he was going to change his mind and withhold the promised information; such signs and portents were unnerving. But after a further inward struggle, he steeled himself to tell me what I wished to know.

‘It came to me, when I first looked at that paper, that it was written using the ancient Ogham alphabet — or the Bethluisnion as we Welsh call it — of the Celts. It was often used for carving inscriptions on stones, and many of them can still be seen today in Wales.’

‘Would the alphabet have been known in Ireland?’ I interrupted, and was rewarded by a withering glance.

‘Naturally! They too are Celts! But as you can see for yourself it was an unwieldy, time-consuming method of writing much more than a word or two, and its general use died out many centuries ago. Nevertheless, I considered it just possible that it might still be known and employed in the wilder, remoter regions of my country, where you Saxons and your Norman overlords have failed to penetrate.’

‘And so?’ I prompted eagerly as he again paused, racked by yet more doubts.

Father Elwyn sighed. ‘And so I sent Master Gildersleeve to Saint Mary’s, the alms hospital in Magdalene Street, and told him to ask for Blethyn Goode.’

‘Blethyn Goode,’ I repeated, carefully committing the name to memory.

‘That’s right. Blethyn,’ the priest continued, ‘is a countryman of mine, but nobody knows how old he is — some reckon a hundred, and others much older than that. He claims he was already over eighty when he first arrived in Glastonbury, but no one can remember when that was. He was born, he says, somewhere in the Black Mountains, but cannot recall exactly where. He thinks he must have run away from home when he was a boy, but is vague, perhaps on purpose, about the intervening years before he finally settled here. One thing is certain, however, and that is that he is a remarkable man. He can both read and write, has a profound knowledge on many subjects, and seems almost immune to the debilitating effects of old age. Oh, he suffers in his joints and gets chest trouble in the winter, but he sees and hears as well as a person half his years. He uses spectacles, it’s true, and is somewhat deaf in one ear, but otherwise is as fit as I am.’

‘And did Peter Gildersleeve go to see him?’

‘Now, that I am unable to say with any authority. He certainly expressed the intention of doing so, so I can only assume that he did. I haven’t seen Blethyn Goode for many months. His parish priest is the priest of Saint John’s, and I only visit the Infirmary if Father Jerome is sick.’

‘And do you think that Master Goode may have been able to translate the parchment’s message?’

‘I very much fear that he must have done.’ Father Elwyn shivered. ‘That was only a month or so ago, and last Friday Master Gildersleeve disappeared.’

There was long pause before he added, ‘Do you intend to visit Blethyn?’

‘I do. Do you wish me to let you know what he says?’

The priest shook his head vehemently. ‘I want to be embroiled in this affair no more than I have to. Now, leave me to my work. I’ve told you all I can.’

* * *

I was halfway down the Tor when it began to rain, after another flash of lightning and a clap of thunder which was almost directly overhead.

While I had been inside the barn the clouds had continued to march up out of the west with, at their heart, a dirty, sulphurous streak. Away to my left the sun could still be glimpsed every now and then, like fire beneath a pall of smoke, and the light was a murky saffron yellow. The first few drops were as large as hailstones, increasing rapidly in quantity without diminishing in size, and the grass was soon flattened beneath their weight. I battled my way through grey ribbons of water which irrigated the parched ground with a network of tiny streams, loosened earth and stones tumbling in my wake. The world was blotted out in a torrential downpour.

My clothes hung on me like sodden rags and my feet squelched inside my boots. Yet before I had reached the end of Dod Lane, the storm was already passing, the clouds beginning to lift on faint streaks of coral; and by the time I gained Market Place, the sun was riding high again in the heavens, my soaked garments steaming gently in the heat. A couple of apprentice boys, on errands for their masters, jeered at my bedraggled appearance, and I was forced to cuff the most impudent of the two around the ears.

I had managed to keep the quarto and its precious contents dry by pushing it inside my jerkin, and now I gingerly withdrew it to make sure that all was safe. But no drop of rain, however heavy, could penetrate the leather and its scarlet lining, and the strong, coarse cloth of the book’s boarded covers was unspotted.

Two thirds of the way along Magdalene Street, almost opposite the abbey mill, I found the Hospital of Saint Mary Magdalene, a refuge in their old age for eleven poor men and a Master, built some two hundred and fifty years before. It consisted then (as presumably it still does) of a long infirmary hall with twelve cubicles, six on either side, one for each man and one for the Master, and a chapel dedicated to its patron saint.

Three of the old men were inspecting one of the stone benches set against an outside wall, obviously debating whether or not it had dried sufficiently for them to risk sitting down. A thin, arthritic finger, as brittle and bent as a twig, was cautiously drawn across the roughened surface, then the owner of it sadly shook his head.

‘Not yet, boys,’ he said in a husky voice, ‘but maybe in half an hour.’

Frustration was registered on the other two ancient faces, for at least here, through the archway, they could glimpse some of the activity of the bustling street and feel themselves once more part of the outside world. One of them caught sight of me and his leathery features creased into a toothless grin.

‘Here’s a visitor,’ he informed his companions, and they fell on me like ravening wolves upon their prey, hands clawing at my arms and shoulders as they demanded who it was I had come to see.

‘I’m looking for Blethyn Goode,’ I told them, only to watch their faces crumple again into lines of disappointment.

‘You’re the second person who’s visited him in the past three months,’ the toothless one grumbled, gnashing his empty gums.

‘Why should he be so favoured?’

His friends nodded in agreement, plainly irritated by their fellow’s popularity and the paucity of their own.

‘You can come and talk to me for a while,’ said he of the arthritic fingers, his bright, avian glance busily taking in all the details of my person. ‘What’s that you’re holding?’

‘It’s a book,’ announced the third man gloomily. ‘No use to us; we can’t read. Couldn’t you have brought some food? There’s never enough to eat in this place.’

The other two nodded in agreement, their resentment growing as they began to feel themselves ill-used.

‘I’m sorry,’ I answered, ‘I didn’t think. I’ll … I’ll bring you food next time I call. I promise. Meantime, I must speak to Blethyn Goode. Can you tell me where to find him?’

They were slightly mollified by my apology, and the toothless wonder indicated the door behind him. ‘Inside,’ he spluttered. ‘He’s most likely in his cubicle. Turn left and it’s the one at the far end, on the opposite side of the hall.’

I thanked the three of them with exaggerated courtesy, and left them inspecting the bench once more, in the vain hope that it might now be sufficiently dry for them to sit on.

I recalled having visited the hospital twice as a novice in the company of Brother Infirmarian, when he had come to dose the sick, and realized that Blethyn Goode, and also the old men I had just encountered, had probably been here then. But it was a long time ago, and I had been no more interested in the patients than they had been in me. I must have been a sad trial to all the brothers, and there could hardly have been one who wasn’t relieved to see me go without taking my final vows.

The long hall and the narrow stone cubicles on either side were much as I remembered them, and I crossed to the one in the far left-hand corner, peering inside. It was sparsely furnished with a wooden-framed bed, a single grey woollen blanket folded neatly at its foot, a stool, a shelf above the bed on which reposed a candle in its holder and a tinder-box, and a small wooden chest, presumably containing personal possessions.

The old man who sat reading on the side of the bed glanced up, regarded me indifferently for a moment or two over his spectacles, then looked away again.

‘Blethyn Goode?’ I inquired tentatively, entering the cubicle.

‘Who wants to know? And who invited you to come in?’ was the chilling reply, all without the eyes being raised from the book.

‘My name’s Roger Chapman. Father Elwyn sent me to see you.’

This information did evoke some response. Blethyn Goode lifted his head and glared fiercely at me. ‘He’s always sending people to see me! I wish he wouldn’t.’

‘I–I’m sorry,’ I stammered, ‘but…’ My voice tailed away as I realized he was no longer listening. Vacillation, however, would get me nowhere, so I sat down beside him and untied the strings of the quarto, easing the parchment yet again from between its leaves.

Now that I was close to Blethyn, I could see that he was indeed extremely old, the skin stretched thinly across the bones and blotched with the brown pigment of the aged. Because of the day’s warmth he had removed the linen hood which he normally wore indoors, to reveal a narrow skull to whose dome there clung a few determined tufts of hair, white and as fine as feather fronds. The brown eyes were faded and rheumy, but his glance, like his mind, was as sharp as a razor.

‘Go away,’ he instructed without turning his head; but when I ignored him and continued to sit there, he slapped the leaves of his book together with an irritable sigh and looked towards me. Immediately, his eyes fell on the parchment I was holding. ‘What are you doing with that?’ he demanded. ‘That’s the property of Master Gildersleeve. There can’t possibly be two of them.’

‘He did come to see you, then? Peter Gildersleeve?’

‘Of course he did. You can surely work that out for yourself! I shouldn’t know anything about that piece of paper otherwise, now should I? Father Elwyn sent him to see me.’

‘You know that he’s disappeared? Master Gildersleeve, I mean.’

‘A whisper has penetrated our seclusion, yes. Probably gone off with some woman, a young, good-looking fellow like that.’

‘I don’t think so. He vanished very suddenly and mysteriously, almost in the twinkling of an eye.’ I tapped the parchment. ‘Father Elwyn thinks this to be the cause. He believes it to be some spell or incantation which has conjured up the Devil.’

Blethyn Goode stared at me for several seconds before breaking into a snort of laughter. ‘The man’s a fool,’ he hooted. ‘I’m sorry to say such a thing about one of my fellow countrymen, but he’s an idiot. You can tell him I said so if you like. I’ve translated that parchment. I know what’s in it.’

‘I’d much rather you told me what it says,’ I answered. ‘Can you remember after all these months?’

Again he snorted. ‘I don’t have to remember. I wrote it all down for Master Gildersleeve, but I also made a copy for myself. It’s over there, in that chest.’