The Brothers of Glastonbury

Chapter Twenty

Our heads turned simultaneously towards her and her companion, but although this momentary distraction on the part of the Pennards should have given me a chance to fell Thomas, who was nearest, astonishment rooted me to the spot.

‘So,’ the Bee Master grunted, advancing further into the cave, ‘you haven’t dealt with him yet. What in the Devil’s name are you waiting for?’

Cicely and I both stared at him in horror. I wondered briefly if some magic power had robbed me of my senses.

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Cicely quavered in a voice which she could barely master. ‘You’ve come to help Roger.’

Gilbert Honeyman glanced at her with a certain amount of compassion in his eyes, and when he spoke a faint note of regret informed his tone. ‘I’m afraid not, my dear. But I’m very grateful all the same that you came to me for assistance, otherwise I might have had a very unpleasant shock.’ He turned to me. ‘I must apologize to you too, Roger. It must be distressing for you to discover that I’m not quite what I seemed.’

I could not answer him, I was filled with such self-disgust at having been so easily been taken in. The Bee Master had seemed to me a pleasant, honest man, only too anxious to assist his fellows. Nothing he had said or done had made me suspicious of him. And yet suddenly I could see where he fitted into the Pennards’ schemes. The one thing that had been perplexing me since I stumbled across the stolen goods was now made plain.

Gilbert nodded understandingly. ‘It must be galling for a clever young lad like you to be deceived by an old codger such as me. All the same, I was right in warning these three not to underestimate you.’

‘We didn’t,’ Anthony grunted. ‘One of us has been keeping watch in the inner cave since you came to see us yesterday. And by great good fortune it so happened that we were all present when he arrived.’

Cicely found her voice again. ‘But … but I don’t understand,’ she said hoarsely, appealing to me. ‘Why should Master Honeyman be in league with Master Pennard and his sons? And what is it that they’ve been doing?’

I directed her attention towards the three chests ranged side-by-side in the middle of the cave. ‘They are the thieves who have been plaguing this district for so long.’ I added more gently, ‘And I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mark was one of them. He supplied the information as to which houses were standing empty while their owners were from home, or which were the easiest ones to rob. Master Honeyman, I think, was recruited to shift some of the booty in those great baskets of his, and to sell it in Bristol and elsewhere.’

The Bee Master grinned. ‘You’ve got it almost right, my lad, except that I’m not in the pay of Master Pennard and his sons. They are employed by me, and they’re not the only ones. I have several dozen people working for me in various parts of the countryside — wherever, in fact, I take my honey and wax for sale. It’s a sweet set-up, as you might say.’ And he laughed immoderately at his own joke, although no one else saw fit to join in.

In spite of the gravity of our situation, or maybe on account of it, and because my nerves were on edge, I couldn’t forbear from upbraiding Cicely. ‘I told you to speak to nobody! Why did you ignore my instructions?’

‘But Master Honeyman is — was — our friend,’ she wailed. ‘I thought he’d advise me what to do. You said that you might be in danger.’

‘But you didn’t know where to find this cave! I didn’t give you instructions because I wasn’t sure if my hunch was right or no. So didn’t it make you suspicious when Master Honeyman knew exactly where I’d be?’

‘I … I never thought about it.’

Of course she hadn’t; she had been concerned only for my safety. And it was natural that in her confusion she should have turned to the one grown man who was sufficiently privy to the story to be of any use, and who had no need of time-consuming, tortuous explanations. She had run to find Gilbert Honeyman at his hostelry and poured out her tale. He would have needed no second bidding to spring into action, nor any persuasion to take Cicely up before him on the bay. Indeed, he could not well have left her behind even had she desired to stay, for she knew too much. His security was threatened; she had to be silenced along with me.

I wondered if Edgar Shapwick trusted me sufficiently to have carried out the instructions I had given him when collecting Barnabas, but the thought was fleeting. The four men were closing in on me, their faces set and purposeful. The last few shreds of cloth on the end of my home-made torch had almost burned themselves out, but a flame or two continued to lick at the rags.

With a suddenness that took him by surprise I lunged at Thomas Pennard, catching him a blow between the eyes. His hair was singed, and a brand appeared on his forehead which made him scream and drop his knife, clapping both hands to his wound. The other three, unnerved by the incident, hesitated for a second or two before Anthony Pennard leapt forward to retrieve the fallen blade, but I had been too quick for him, placing my right foot on top of it.

‘Run, Cicely!’ I yelled. ‘For Heaven’s sake, run!’

But she had already made her move — not towards the entrance of the cave but to fling herself at Gilbert Honeyman, her arms coiled about his neck in a strangle-hold. He had been fumbling for the dagger at his belt but was forced to abandon any attempt to draw it in order to shake off his assailant.

Meantime, Anthony Pennard had made a bid to unsheath his own weapon, but was foiled by a glancing blow from my scorched and smoking stick. At the same moment, out of the corner of one eye, I saw Gilbert Pennard reach into the chest behind him and grab a heavy silver candlestick, which he brandished like a club.

And here I made a terrible mistake. In order to parry the blow which he aimed at me, I slid my right hand further along my cudgel to bring it into a defensive, horizontal position; but the blackened end was still smouldering and the charred wood burned my flesh. I let it go with a resounding curse, but through my pain I kept sufficient wits about me to retain my grasp of the the other end.

Gilbert Honeyman had at last managed to loosen Cicely’s grasp, and with a final heave sent her sprawling on the ground. In a sweat of fear and fury, he raised a ham-like fist and would have dealt her a murderous blow had she not rolled clear and scrambled quickly to her feet. I was only vaguely aware of all this, however, my attention being focused on Gilbert Pennard and his candlestick. He was aiming for my head, and, ignoring the agony of blistered palm and fingers, I again took hold of my cudgel with both hands, just in time to save my skull from being crushed.

But in doing so I had shifted my stance, exposing the knife which Thomas Pennard, still in something of a daze, was nonetheless able to stoop and retrieve. His father had also managed to draw his dagger, as had Gilbert Honeyman, and once again all four men were advancing towards me, their evil intentions writ large on every face.

Using my stick to hold them at bay, and completely unconscious now of my painful right hand, I stepped back the two or three paces which in the past few moments I had allowed to open up between me and the wall of the cave. Four pairs of eyes were fixed unwaveringly on my person, and I realized with awful clarity that even if I could lay one man low, I could not escape the vengeance of the others. Only a miracle could save me …

Even as the thought entered my head, Thomas Pennard tripped over one of the many stones and small boulders which littered the ground. He recovered his balance almost immediately, but the accident had caused him to fall a step or so behind the rest. In consequence, he could see that Cicely, whose existence had been temporarily forgotten in the general desire to dispose of me, had copied his own example and armed herself with another of the weighty silver candlesticks. She was already creeping up on Master Honeyman when Thomas shouted a warning.

‘Gilbert! Watch out! Mind your back!’

The effect of this was to deflect the attention of both the Bee Master and his namesake Gilbert Pennard, who each whirled about, knives at the ready. Taking advantage of their momentary distraction I swung my cudgel with all my strength to the side of Anthony Pennard’s head, felling him to the ground, and I knew that he was unlikely to rise again for some little time.

One down, but there were still three to go.

I heard Cicely scream. She retained her hold on the candlestick, but was now using it as best she could as a means of defence against Gilbert Honeyman’s lunging dagger. I forced myself away from the wall, expecting opposition from the Pennard brothers, but to my astonishment Thomas had dropped to his knees beside his father, while Gilbert stooped over the pair of them, arms hanging limply at his sides.

I staggered across the cave’s uneven floor towards the Bee Master, who turned to meet me, calling upon the Pennard brothers to assist him. Although I was able for the moment to keep him at cudgel’s length, I knew that I must lay him low before either Thomas or Gilbert Pennard recovered his senses. At any moment now, their anxiety for their injured father must surely give way to concern for their own safety, for as far as they knew Cicely and I were the only two people who could deliver them into the arms of the law.

Still holding Gilbert Honeyman at bay and judging my moment to strike, I saw one of the brothers slowly raise his head and shake it, like a man gradually awakening from a dream. I could delay no longer, or I should throw away my unlooked-for advantage. I raised my cudgel but my adversary, moving with extraordinary speed, ducked in under my guard and rushed forward with his knife aimed straight at my heart. I twisted out of his path with less than an inch to spare, at the same time catching him a glancing blow to the side of his head. It was not a serious knock, but together with his own momentum it brought him crashing to the floor where he lay gasping for breath.

But it was a losing battle. The two Pennard sons were now coming for me, each armed with a knife, and even if I managed to hold them off, Gilbert Honeyman would not be winded for long.

I yelled again, ‘Run, Cicely! Run!’ And this time she obeyed. She must have realized that there was nothing else she could do to save me, and that if she at least got away, whatever my fate, the villains would be brought to justice. She scrambled towards the entrance to the inner cave and vanished into the darkness of the passageway beyond.

And then I heard her scream, a high-pitched, desperate cry that was broken off abruptly. The Pennards stood rooted to the spot, like men who had looked upon the head of the Medusa. Gilbert Honeyman, who had risen halfway to his knees, also stiffened into immobility, as frozen as the stone waterfall behind him. But the silence which had succeeded that Banshee wail was suddenly broken by the reassuring murmur of men’s voices and a gasp of relief from Cicely. A moment later she reappeared in the cave.

‘Roger! Roger! It’s all right! Edgar Shapwick is here with the Sheriff’s men!’

* * *

There is a certain satisfaction in bringing the guilty to justice, and I feel sure it is God’s Will that evil men and women should be punished for their crimes. Yet in all the years that I have acted as an instrument of that Divine Intent I have found very little pleasure in doing it; except, perhaps, on one or two occasions when those concerned have been wicked beyond all possibility of forgiveness. But for the most part, it has been my experience that nearly everyone has some good in him or her which, had things chanced differently, might have kept that person on the straight and narrow path to redemption.

You can tell that I am getting on in years, my children, for only the elderly pontificate in this self-righteous fashion. Nevertheless I have written no less than the truth, for always the innocent suffer with the guilty, snared in a web of other people’s making — innocents like Dame Gildersleeve, who had not only lost both her sons but had to endure hearing one of them posthumously branded as a thief. She might also have been deprived of her livelihood with Mark and Peter dead, had not Cicely decided to remain with her aunt and take on the running of the business.

That girl knew nothing about parchment-making, but I had no doubt that she would learn. Someone in many ways little older than a child had run into that cave, but a woman had come out — a woman who had proved to herself her own courage and worth, and who was ready to tackle the world. I felt almost sorry for Sergeant Armstrong when he eventually arrived in Glastonbury, expecting to find the same easily biddable daughter from whom he had parted.

Another innocent to suffer was Rowena Honeyman. Before he was dragged off to prison, and knowing that he was gallow’s meat, Gilbert had begged a word alone with me.

‘Promise me that before you go home you’ll seek out my daughter. Take her to my late wife’s sister at Frome. It’ll be some miles out of your way, but I beg you to give me your assurance that you’ll do it. Once I’m dead my holding will pass to my half-brother, and we never could abide each other. Apart from the shame and disgrace which will be attached to my name he’ll make my child’s life a misery, and she’ll not fare well either at the hands of the neighbours. A felon’s daughter — who’ll want to know her? Who’ll want to marry her? She’ll be powerless now. But her aunt will give her a home and look after her as best she can. Will you do this for me?’

How could I refuse? To all intents and purposes he was a dead man. He promised me that he had known nothing of the murder of Mark and Peter Gildersleeve until he had called upon the Pennards on his way to Glastonbury two days previously. Dorabella, who had been shut up in one of the outhouses of the farm, had somehow managed to break loose, and it had been pure chance that he of all people had come across her roaming the moor.

But as he was bound and led away by the Sheriff’s officers, I could not help but reflect that although Gilbert Honeyman may have been innocent of the brothers’ killing, he had been nothing loath to help murder Cicely and me. Once we had proved ourselves enemies to his safety, he had not scrupled to advocate our deaths. Yet his villainy could not be laid at his daughter’s door, and so I agreed to do what little I could for her.

Mistress Pennard was a different matter, and there was nothing that anyone could do to ease her lot. She vigorously denied all knowledge of what her husband and sons had been up to, and as the three of them upheld her claim she was, after rigorous examination, allowed to go free. But she had lost her home, her livelihood and her friends. What would become of her in the end, I could not hazard. She would probably end her days in the shelter of some religious house, alone and friendless. As I said, the innocent suffer as much as the guilty.

Dame Joan begged me to stay with them for a little while longer. ‘Just until my brother arrives,’ she pleaded, her expression lost and frightened.

But who could say what length of time it would take for her letter to reach him? And now that my task was done I wanted to be home. Yet even that would be further delayed by the return of Barnabas to Farleigh Castle and the fulfilment of my promise to Master Honeyman, who now languished in prison. So I hardened my heart and said that I would spend the Sabbath beneath her roof, but that I must be on my way no later than the following day.

Cicely, I noticed, did not entreat me to remain, as she might have done a day or two earlier. Rather, she seemed impatient for me to be gone, sparing me but little thought as she held conference with Rob and John on the intricacies of the task before her.

‘We shall miss you, of course,’ she said on Monday morning, absentmindedly reaching up to peck my cheek before hurrying into the workshop.

I smiled to myself, then went to take my leave of Brother Hilarion at the abbey. He was plainly both relieved and distressed by the outcome of my investigations.

‘A bad business. A bad business,’ he kept repeating over and over.

I asked him to keep an eye on Dame Gildersleeve and to invoke Father Abbot’s protection for her against the malice of her neighbours. ‘At least the stigma of a son who dabbled in the Black Arts has been removed, but she will still be branded the mother of a thief.’

Brother Hilarion sighed his acknowledgement and gave me his blessing. As I turned away he called urgently after me, ‘Roger! My child, wait a moment! There’s something I must ask you.’

But just at that moment I was hailed by one of the brothers who had been a novice with me in those days when he had been plain Nicholas Fletcher. And by the time we had traded memories of our time together, and recalled his brother Martin, whom I had met the preceding year in far from happy circumstances, Brother Hilarion’s attention had been claimed by two of his pupils. I wondered idly what he had wanted, but I was too eager now to be off, and bade Brother Nicholas make my farewells for me.

I did not loiter but went straight to Northload Street and the stables to take my leave of Edgar Shapwick.

‘But for you, I should be dead,’ I said, embracing him.

‘I only carried out your instructions to contact the Sheriff’s men,’ he protested. ‘You were wise not to trust the Pennards, it seems. Did you know what you were going to find?’

I shook my head. ‘Although perhaps I should have guessed. But I only knew that the disappearance of Mark and Peter Gildersleeve must be linked to them, once those traces of tar had been found in Dorabella’s mane. It has been a muddled, unsatisfactory business in many ways.’

‘What led you to suspect there was a cave in that part of the hills?’ Edgar inquired, holding Barnabas’s head while I mounted.

‘It’s a long story,’ I answered, then clapped a hand to my mouth as I realized just what it was that Brother Hilarion had been about to ask me.

‘Is something wrong?’ my companion enquired, noting my consternation.

‘N-no,’ I answered slowly. ‘No, nothing!’ I leaned from the saddle. ‘Once again, thank you for your good offices, Master Shapwick.’

‘It’s we, the folk of Glastonbury and the villages around, who should thank you,’ he protested. ‘You’ve done what the Sheriff’s men were unable to do and cleared up the mystery of these robberies. There will be many a home’s occupants grateful to see the return of their valuables.’ He handed up my scorched and blackened cudgel and slapped the cob’s rump. ‘God go with you, lad, and guard you safely home to Bristol.’

I accepted his good wishes and also enlisted his support for Dame Joan and Cicely. ‘They’ll need stalwart friends.’

‘They will that. You can rely on me.’ He clasped my hand and watched me ride out of the stable before turning back to resume the morning’s business.

I rode up the High Street, past the abbey and the church of Saint John, and on into Bove Town, where the pilgrims’ chapel of Saint James indicated the track leading to the Jarrolds’ cottage. To my right the strange, brooding hump of the Tor rose against the skyline, crowned by Saint Michael’s chapel, the home of Merlin, of Gwyn ap Nud, of the early Celtic gods who had been worshipped in these parts long before the coming of the first Christians.

I remembered with a smile my longing, a week ago, to be plunged into some romantic adventure, to become a part of the the mystic, mythical world of my wildest dreams. And for a few, brief hours I had thought myself to be standing on the threshhold of one of the greatest discoveries in the history of mankind, just as Peter Gildersleeve had done before me. But now, as I turned off along the raised causeway to Wells and the Mendip Hills, I wondered heavily whatever had possessed me to believe it possible, and felt that I had been touched by a sort of madness. I had completely forgotten about the Grail in the aftermath of what had happened in the cave, and had only recollected the object of my search just now, prompted by Edgar Shapwick’s question. I felt stupid and dull, as if I had just awakened from a long, deep sleep. Well, it was too late now. I should never be able to prove what Brother Begninus had concealed from the Saxons a thousand years ago, or where he had hidden it …

And then, suddenly, as a shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds which had hung like a pall over the countryside for the past two days, my spirits rose, and I was glad that I had not found the Holy Grail. Down through the centuries it had grown to symbolize so much more than just a great Christian relic. It had come to stand for Man’s quest for everything worthwhile, for his better nature, for hope in an unfriendly world. If it could be reduced to nothing more than an object of gold and precious jewels it would lose its significance, and the world would be a poorer place because it had lost an ideal.

And as I urged Barnabas to a trot, I began to smile.