The Brothers of Glastonbury

Chapter Fourteen

From around his neck Blethyn removed a leather thong on which hung a key, and nodded once again towards the chest.

‘Open it,’ he instructed.

I did so, and inside found a woollen cloak, neatly folded, a pair of winter boots, a spare shirt and a dozen or so books, mostly quartos and octavos, thrown in higgledy-piggledy, one on top of the other. There were also several sheets of blank parchment, an inkhorn and pen, and a second pair of bone-framed spectacles, presumably a safeguard in case the first pair were lost. But of anything else I could see no sign, and said so.

‘Use your eyes, boy! Use your eyes!’ said the irascible voice behind me. ‘It’s there somewhere! Just keep looking.’

I did as I was told and, eventually, between the folds of the cloak, I discovered a sheet of paper covered in spidery writing. I held it up for confirmation.

‘That’s it,’ agreed Blethyn. ‘I told you it was there. Lock the chest again and give me back the key. Some of my fellow inmates have more curiosity than is good for them. In this place, you daren’t leave anything open or lying about that you want kept secret.’

When I had done as he bid, I sat down once more beside him on the bed and unfolded the paper.

He glanced sharply at me. ‘Can you read?’

‘I was once a novice at the abbey. The brothers taught me my letters.’

‘In that case,’ he declared, ‘you might as well take the thing away with you and leave me in peace to get on with my book. You can keep it if you like. I know what’s in it. I shan’t be wanting it again.’

‘I’d rather read it for the first time in your presence,’ I said apologetically. ‘There might be something I need to ask you, some point on which I should value your opinion.’

Blethyn grunted and pretended to be annoyed, but secretly, as I could tell, he was flattered.

‘Oh, as you please!’ he snapped, hunching one shoulder.

I settled myself more comfortably, heaving my bulk further on to the bed so that my back was resting against the wall, my long legs stuck straight out in front of me, whereupon, my unwilling host removed himself to the stool in high dudgeon, remarking that it was as though a second earthquake had struck that part of Somerset. I only laughed and held the paper up in front of my eyes, angling it until it caught the light from the cubicle’s open doorway.

It must, I judged, be mid-afternoon by now, but the rain clouds had passed and the sun had reappeared so that it was not too difficult to see, even without a candle. My clothes had dried sufficiently to be comfortable again, and I felt that, at last, one part of my mystery was about to be unravelled.

I began to read.

* * *

‘In this, the five hundredth year since Christ’s Nativity, I, Brother Begninus of the monastery at Ynys Afalon, or Ynys Witrin as it is sometimes called, have been entrusted by my superiors with the safe keeping of the most precious possession this abbey holds, before the Germanic tribes from across the northern sea finally overrun us for ever.

‘Five days ago, news reached us here that the Axe-Ones are advancing on us from both the east and the south, and many people are already fleeing northwards, across the great river and into the mountains beyond. Some of our own Brothers have also left, or are going soon. Tomorrow, Brother Percival and Brother Geraldus will start on the long and hazardous journey to their native Ireland. They will take this paper with them in case they should ever return to Ynys Afalon and I not be alive to greet them. For who can tell what the fate of those of us who remain will be at the hands of the pagan conquerors?

‘Therefore, dear Brothers in God, I say to you, as I have said to Father Abbot, that the Great Relic, brought here by the one who came from over the water, is hidden in the same place in which it was concealed two years since, when we thought the Axe-Ones to be almost upon us: amongst the hills, in the hollow places of the earth, on the altar by Charon’s stream.

‘God go with you both, dear Brothers, and may He keep you and watch over you until we meet again, either in this world or the next.’

* * *

I raised my head and looked across at Blethyn Goode. ‘Is this the whole of the translation?’ I asked. ‘There seems to be so little of it.’

He regarded me with indignation. ‘Why should I deceive you, pray? You’re as suspicious as Master Gildersleeve, so I’ll tell you what I told him. The Bethluisnion is a laborious way of writing and wasteful of space. What you read there is all that is written on the sheet of parchment which you have between the leaves of that book.’

Recollecting that Father Elwyn had said much the same thing, I had, perforce, to be satisfied with this explanation. After a moment or two I asked, ‘What do you think it means?’

Blethyn had resumed his reading again, but at my question, he closed the quarto with a furious slap of its covers and glared angrily at me over the rims of his spectacles.

‘Isn’t it obvious, even to your impoverished intelligence, what it’s saying? Surely you can work that out for yourself!’

I sucked my teeth thoughtfully. ‘In the year 500 AD, one of the brothers of the early Celtic church here was empowered by his abbot to hide their chief relic before they were overrun by the Saxons. This he did, somewhere, apparently, where it had been hidden once before. He told his abbot what he’d done and, for good measure, wrote down the information for two brothers who were returning to Ireland the following day, not knowing what might befall the rest of the community at the hands of the invaders.’

‘Very wise of him,’ Blethyn interrupted nastily. ‘I don’t suppose you could trust the worshippers of Thor and Woden then any more than you can trust them today.’

I ignored this childish interruption and continued, ‘Which is how the original document came to be brought back here by Gerald Clonmel, the Irishman who was on his way to Canterbury, and who told Father Boniface of the family tradition that it was taken to Ireland by one of his ancestors. Which means that he was a descendant of either Brother Geraldus or — ’ I consulted the translation — ‘or of Brother Percival. Some sects of the Celtic priesthood, I believe, were allowed to marry.’

‘And plenty of them, then as now, had children out of wedlock,’ Blethyn snarled. ‘Don’t you believe it, boy, when they tell you that holy men and women never have bastards. Conditions in our monasteries and nunneries have always been a disgrace! If the inmates don’t mend their ways, something terrible is going to happen. The earth will open and the Devil and all his cohorts will swallow them up!’

‘Oh, come!’ I protested mildly. ‘You can’t damn the whole Church because some of its foundations are inclined to be lax.’

Blethyn curled his lip. ‘The Church is too fat, too greedy, too lazy, too prosperous! One day — oh, maybe not in your lifetime, and certainly not in mine — someone is going to cast a covetous eye on all that wealth and want his share of it.’

I laughed and rightly dismissed the notion, returning to the matter in hand.

‘What do you think this precious relic was?’

‘How should I know?’ was the testy response. ‘There are so many in this world that it would be impossible to guess. Bones of the saints, girdles of the Virgin, pieces of the True Cross, bits of the Crown of Thorns! Every church of any size throughout the whole of Europe boasts of its relics.’

‘But the monks thought this one important enough to take special precautions with it, so that it didn’t fall into the hands of the advancing Saxons.’

Blethyn waved one gnarled hand in an airy gesture. ‘God’s toenails, boy! The church here wasn’t anything like as rich then as the abbey is today. Whatever it was, it was probably their only relic and had to be kept safe, especially if they were about to be overrun by heathens.’

I was not totally convinced by his argument, but common sense told me that it was most likely the correct one. For the moment, however, I let it go and moved on to my next query.

‘So where was this relic hidden?’ I tapped the translation and quoted, ‘“Amongst the hills, in the hollow places of the earth, on the altar by Charon’s stream.” Where can that be?’

Blethyn shrugged and started to tighten the iron rivet of his spectacles with one fingernail. ‘How in Heaven’s name do I know? It could be anywhere.’

‘No, not anywhere,’ I corrected him. ‘It must surely be somewhere within reach of the abbey.’

‘Do you think me a fool?’ he snapped. ‘Of course it’s within reach of the abbey! But on foot or on horseback? Either, but particularly the latter, would cover an enormous acreage of ground. North, south, east, west…’ He broke off, shrugging his shoulders.

I could see his point. ‘Do you know of any canal or brook or waterway in these parts known as Charon’s stream?’

‘God’s toenails, boy!’ he exclaimed yet again. ‘Of what possible interest can it be to us now? We’re talking about nearly a thousand years ago! Whatever was hidden won’t still be there, not after all this time! And that’s supposing the relic was left where it was hidden by this Brother Begninus. The chances are that it was recovered shortly afterwards and taken back to its rightful place in the abbey. The year of Our Lord five hundred was the year in which Arthur defeated the Saxons at the battle of Mount Badon, and so halted their advance from the east. Oh, it was only a temporary setback for them, I admit, but no one knew that at the time.’

‘There were Saxons advancing from the south as well,’ I reminded Blethyn, much to his annoyance.

‘All right! All right!’ he answered pettishly. ‘Perhaps it was left where it was hidden. We shall never know now. But what difference does it make? As I said before, it isn’t still there, waiting to be found! Apart from anything else, the landscape will have changed in a thousand years. And then there’s reference to an altar! That suggests to me a church of some kind, maybe a chapel or a wayside shrine. You won’t find that still standing, either. Your forebears weren’t the only invaders this island has seen. Since them we’ve had the Normans as well as the occasional marauding Dane. Not many of them though, hereabouts. Thanks to King Alfred,’ he added grudgingly, loath to speak kindly of one of my race.

‘But…’ I began, then changed my mind. There was no point in further argument with Blethyn, and in any case, he had pointedly opened his book again and resumed his reading. He was tired of the subject and was making it clear that it was time I was gone.

I slid off the bed and stood upright, the crown of my head brushing the cubicle’s low ceiling. I held up the translation. ‘You said that I could keep this. Did you mean it?’

‘I never say anything I don’t mean. Yes, keep it if you must, and show it to that fool Father Elwyn at Saint Michael’s on the Tor. Prove to him that it has nothing to do with spells and incantations, and that it couldn’t of itself have caused Peter Gildersleeve to vanish. But what good it’ll do you I’ve no idea! As I said, you won’t find any hidden relic now, even if you knew where to look for it.’

I was inclined to agree with him. Nevertheless there was no doubt in my mind that Peter Gildersleeve had believed he had stumbled upon some secret which the parchment held. Why, otherwise, would he have told Maud Jarrold that ‘if he’d interpreted it aright’ it was ‘valuable beyond price’? Well, that was something I should have to work out, if I could, for myself. Meantime, the best thing for me to do was to return to the house and reassure Dame Joan and Cicely that the black arts had had nothing to do with Peter’s disappearance. That might afford them some peace of mind at least.

It did not, however, solve the problem of either brother’s whereabouts. When Mark had visited Beckery the day before yesterday he had not long discovered the parchment in the secret drawer, and had hoped that Father Boniface could enlighten him as to its meaning. When that had proved not to be the case, he had gone off on on some quest of his own. But where? And for what purpose? The only clue was that Dorabella had been found wandering on the other side of the moor …

I suddenly remembered Gilbert Honeyman and wondered if, by any chance, he had discovered Mark, lying out there with an injured leg or ankle, or even a broken skull. It became still more imperative that I get back to the house, and I said a somewhat perfunctory goodbye to Blethyn Goode. He merely grunted in reply, shifting from the stool to his former seat on the bed without glancing up. Nor did the three old men, now cosily ensconced on the bench, show any further interest in me. They did not bother to answer my valediction, but continued to cackle with laughter over some piece of gossip they were sharing. I went out under the arch and turned northwards along Magdalene Street.

* * *

Gilbert Honeyman had drawn a blank, as I had prophesied he would.

The Bee Master had retraced his ride of the morning, across the raised causeway leading to Wells, and then taken the path to the Holly Brook where he had begun his search.

‘From there, I went as far as I could in all directions but, alas, to no avail. There was no sign of anyone lying injured on the ground. But I do assure you, Dame Joan, that only my own and my horse’s weariness stopped me from starting all over again.’

‘You have done more than anyone could expect of you,’ that worthy assured him, her voice tremulous with gratitude, and she laid a hand on his arm. Master Honeyman patted it sustainingly.

We were eating supper, again in the kitchen, and I had promised to tell my news as soon as we had finished. Consequently, once the meal was over, although the dirty dishes were cleared from the table, no effort was made to wash them. Everyone, including Lydia, resumed his or her seat and waited eagerly to hear what I had to say.

When I had recounted the day’s events, there was a moment’s silence. Then Dame Joan let out a sigh.

‘Does this mean that Peter wasn’t dabbling in sorcery after all?’ she asked.

Both Cicely and I, with assistance from Gilbert Honeyman, did our utmost to reassure her on that score. But her next two questions — ‘Where is he then?’ and ‘What’s happened to him and Mark?’ — were as unanswerable as ever.

‘You must give me more time,’ I pleaded, ‘to try to work things out in the light of this new knowledge.’

‘Do you have any ideas at all?’ the Bee Master demanded bluntly.

‘There’s a thought stirring at the back of my mind,’ I admitted, ‘but I’d rather keep it to myself for now.’ I didn’t add that the idea was so absurd I could barely give it credence, and was certainly not prepared to hold myself up to ridicule by sharing it.

‘That’s not fair!’ Cicely exclaimed hotly. ‘This is as much our mystery as it is yours, and I don’t see why you have to be so horridly secretive!’

Dame Joan immediately reprimanded her for her impertinence, but it was obvious that she was inclined to share her niece’s sentiments. Master Honeyman, on the other hand, looked as though he recognized only too well the headstrong, impulsively outspoken female of the species, and sent me a sympathetic glance.

‘I’m not being horridly secretive,’ I answered gently, ‘it’s just that I can’t yet see where my idea is leading me, even supposing that there’s something in it, which may not be the case. I need to speak to Brother Hilarion again. I’ll pay him a visit this evening and see if I can talk to him sometime between Vespers and Compline. But don’t expect me to tell you anything on my return. I shall need to be on my own, to think.’

This in no way placated Cicely, who continued to sulk. Master Honeyman decided on a strategic withdrawal and announced that he must be on his way. ‘I shall be at the abbey hostelry at the bottom of the street, should you need me,’ he said, gallantly bowing over Dame Joan’s hand. ‘I’ve already paid my shot and stabled my horse there. If I may, I shall visit you again tomorrow, to find out how matters stand then.’

‘Don’t waste your time, sir,’ Cicely advised him with a toss of her head, ‘for I’m sure we shan’t be any the wiser than we are now — except Master Chapman, of course.’

Gilbert clapped me on the shoulder and pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re making an enemy there, my lad,’ he hissed in my ear.

I winked in reply and rose to my feet. ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said, ‘as far as the abbey’s north gate.’

Once we had left the house, it was only a step or two before we parted company, but time enough for him to say, ‘What a termagant! She reminds me of my own Rowena.’ He laughed. ‘God preserve us from the female race!’

I smiled and waved him on his way; then I roused the gate-porter and begged admittance for the second time that day.

‘Oh, it’s you again,’ he grumbled. ‘The brothers are in the refectory, at supper.’

‘I can wait,’ I said. ‘But I must speak with Brother Hilarion when he’s finished eating.’

He made no further objection and let me pass. The precincts were just as busy as they had been earlier, and I reflected that it was an abbey which never seemed to sleep. The only truly quiet time was in the small hours of the morning, when the monks roused themselves in the cold, dark dorter and went in procession down the night stairs to sing Vigils in the church, a great pool of darkness starred with a few, faint, flickering lights. (I regret to say that when I was a novice there, I often fell into a doze while chanting my psalms, and had to be nudged awake by my neighbours.)

To pass the time I skirted the Lady Chapel, threaded a path through the old cemetery and past the cloisters towards the dorters, situated between the refectory and the latrines. Away to my right, wonderful, mouth-watering smells were issuing forth from the abbot’s kitchen, and I wondered which local dignitary was being entertained this evening in the adjacent hall. No such appetizing aromas came from the monks’ kitchen as I passed it; a bowlful of thin gruel or broth would have constituted their evening meal, and I recalled with almost physical agony the pangs of hunger from which I used to suffer during my novitiate.

Out of curiosity, I mounted the stairs to the deserted dormitory over the undercroft. Nothing had changed. The same two rows of blankets, straw-filled pillows and rush-mats — only the old and the sick had mattresses — lined each wall, and the same bleak crucifix hung at one end. The door leading to the night-corridor and stairs was shut, but icy draughts still seeped beneath it. As for myself, I was seized with the same urgent longing for escape that had so frequently afflicted me in the past, and I descended into the fresh air again with almost indecent haste.

I returned to the cloisters and found Brother Hilarion’s carrel, hoping that he would come there for meditation, or to read the Scriptures quietly until it was the hour for Compline (always a little later in the summer months). I was not disappointed, and when supper was over and grace said, the brothers entered from the refectory and went each to his own place, some taking up pen or brush again to resume their labours on psalter or Bible or other holy book.

Brother Hilarion did not immediately perceive me, for I was sitting in shadow at the carrel’s further end. When I moved, he started back with a cry.

‘It’s all right, Brother,’ I whispered. ‘It’s only me again.’

‘R-Roger? How you startled me! What do you want?’

‘Can we talk here?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, but we must be very quiet.’ He slid on to the seat beside me. ‘Have you discovered anything since this morning, concerning Peter Gildersleeve?’

Keeping my voice as low as possible, I told him all that had happened, producing for his perusal both the original parchment belonging to Gerald of Clonmel and also the translation made by Blethyn Goode.

His frown deepened as he looked at them. ‘This is certainly no evil spell or incantation. So what can it have to do with Master Gildersleeve’s disappearance?’

I countered with a question of my own. ‘Have you ever heard of any great relic which was housed here in the olden days?’

He shook his head. ‘This is before the coming of our Saxon forefathers. After their conversion by Saint Augustine we might have seen the bones of Saint Patrick and Saint Aidan, relics which we still retain. And three of our Saxon kings were buried here: Edmund, Edgar the Peacable, and Ethelraed Unraed’s son, Edmund Ironside. But what was here in ancient times, I have no idea. Maybe you should speak to Brother Librarian. He might have some thoughts on the subject.’

I pointed to a phrase in the translation.

‘It says here that the relic was brought to the Abbey by “the one who came from over the water”.’ I hesitated, then continued, ‘This morning, you were teaching the novices about Joseph of Arimathea, who is, we are told, the Founding Father of this place.’ Again I paused, uncertain whether to proceed in case Brother Hilarion should think me suddenly bereft of my senses. But I plucked up my courage and said, ‘What about the cup that Joseph is said to have brought with him from Palestine? The Passover cup, used by Our Lord at the Last Supper?’

‘Ah!’ The faded blue eyes opened wide in wonder and astonishment as they met mine. ‘You are … You are talking of the Holy Grail.’