by Ormond House
And to find her.
‘It would seem to me,’ I said, ‘that if this hill is become infested with heathen practices since the collapse of its church, then the surest way to keep the evil at bay would be to… rebuild the church?’
Fyche shook his head.
‘Maybe. In good time. Not yet. Before any restoration is even attempted – yet again – the area around and beneath the stones, the very earth, must needs be cleansed.’
‘How?’ I said. ‘By blessing?’
‘And prayers, thrice daily. I’m also seeking leave, through the Church courts, to have all access to the tor prohibited… for laymen… until such times as we learn how best to re-sanctify it.’
‘This is why you surround yourself with religious men?’
I considered the two monks, only one of whom remained: the elder seated on the grass some yards away, reading from a small book, the title of which I could not make out.
‘Dr John,’ Fyche said. ‘Let there be no doubt. I am a religious man. The law of the land and the law of God are, at last, as one, and I’m called to uphold them both.’
I had answers to this, but Dr John had none.
‘When I was a young monk,’ Fyche said, ‘at the abbey, in its latter days, my older brothers would look over here – to the tor – and they’d shudder and say, Who’ll keep back the darkness when we’re gone?’
‘Knowing what was to come to the abbey?’
‘We all knew it would come.’ Fyche breathed in slowly. ‘I thought myself, at the time, to be more fortunate than most of my brothers, having inherited this land from an uncle. Not realising, at first, that this came with a terrible burden of responsibility. God… places us in the roles where we can most effectively do his work.’
The mist had thickened and with it came confusion. I’d begun to see Fyche as a man reborn into puritanism’s narrow passageway, but nothing here was simple.
‘This is the most sacred place in England,’ he said. ‘Blessed by Our Lord Himself, and thus invested with a rare spiritual power. Which others seek to corrupt to gratify their earthly lusts and base desires. In the absence of the abbey, there must needs be a bastion against this, or the town will become a pit of filth.’
‘Yes.’
No-one could deny the sense of this, but…
‘I met with some of my former brothers, and we prayed together. And then, in answer to those prayers, other men of God travelled to join us. It was interpreted to us that God wanted us to collect all the knowledge that might have been lost.’
An aim, I’d admit, not far removed from my own in establishing a national library.
‘Were you among the monks who petitioned Queen Mary for a restoration of the abbey?’
‘Not the answer,’ Fyche said. ‘Times change. God shows us new ways.’
‘A school?’
While monasteries fell, schools and colleges survived and prospered. As a graduate of Cambridge and Louvain, I knew how influential a cluster of powerful minds could be. And, on occasion, how disruptive.
‘Sons of the nobility were sent from all Europe to study at the abbey. We plan to restore that tradition… from a different viewpoint, obviously. While it’s true that we began with the blessing of the Bishop of Wells – who, as you noted, Dr John, is now in disfavour – I can assure you that every man here has put papacy well behind him and is ready to swear allegiance to the Queen as his spiritual-’
‘Not my business, Sir Edmund.’
If there were cause to suspect his loyalty, he’d hardly have remained a JP. And it would hardly be the role of Dr John, the antiquary, to question his religious allegiance.
‘As regards your own assignment,’ Fyche said, ‘I’d suggest that what was important about the monasteries was not so much the buildings nor the treasures they held, which are now scattered to the winds. It was the depth of knowledge and wisdom retained by the monks themselves. Which should and will be passed on.’
Dr Dee would agree with fervour; Dr John said nothing. The older monk was standing now, peering over his book, smiling gently. He wore a soft black hat and his beard was like to a pointed spade.
‘He can’t hear us,’ Fyche said. ‘Brother Michael is deaf and mute. The story is that he awoke from a beatific dream one morning, with neither hearing nor speech. Since then, with no men’s talk to distract him, he hears only the voices of angels. Thus, as you may imagine, his moral and spiritual judgement is… much valued.’
‘So he’s one of the men whose vision…?’
‘No-one,’ Fyche said, ‘should ignore the words of angels.’
At once, I wanted to know more of this. Wondered if the day would come when I would be willing to sacrifice my own speech and my ears for an inner communion with the higher spheres. Recalling nights when I’d been in such frustration and despair that I might happily have made the deal before dawn.
‘So…’ Fyche had come closer. ‘Would you care to search my buildings, Dr John?’
‘Sir Edmund-’
‘My farm? The school? Are you thinking that some of the monks here came with treasures from the abbey? Could we, perchance, be serving small beer from the Holy Grail?’
‘Thus turning it into the finest wine?’
He didn’t laugh.
‘There’s no gold here, Dr John. Only a treasury of learning. And the desire to contain what must be contained.’
I stepped back from him, thinking hard. There might never be a better opportunity to approach the matter of the bones of Arthur. Of a sudden, I felt tinglingly close to an elusive mystery. Yes, the real treasure here, in a landscape where spheres of being might merge one with another, would indeed be more elusive than gold. But what, in the material sense, might be inside this too-perfect conical mound?
However, Dr Dee must needs conceal his esoteric interests. While Dr John would be yet wary of this one-time monk turned lawman. As for the other person within me…
Oh yes, there was another, now. A third person.
One who, looking down towards the path, wanted nothing so much as to be on it, and running. For inside this third person something was fluttering like to a trapped bird.
The mist had thinned again, as if some old enchantment had been broken, or a new one formed. And it was the third man who spread his hands to prevent them shaking and prepared to lie.
‘Sir Edmund… even if there were cause to suspect you or your establishment of concealing treasure-’
Fyche watching me steadily, like to a hawk upon a bough.
‘Then what could I do,’ I said, ‘but take my suspicions to a… Justice of the Peace?’
His eyes widened momentarily, then dulled, and he smiled. Knowing now what he was dealing with: a jobbing servant of the Crown who’d muddy no pools and was, like most of his kind, corruptible. There was even a kind of contempt in that smile. I was glad to observe it and made a small bow.
‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I should go and inquire about the health of my colleague.’
Fyche nodded.
‘If I were you, Dr John, I’d set about finding him a qualified physician. If the witch has dosed him with nightshade, you’ll never prove it once he’s dead.’
‘We needed a doctor,’ Dr John said humbly. ‘And were told that, apart from Mistress Borrow, there was no-one.’
‘Then, trust me, Dr John,’ Fyche said. ‘No-one would have been the safer choice. Good day to you.’
He nodded a stern farewell, his face quiet, then turned and walked away, and I headed for the footpath. I would not give way to the third man and go looking for Mistress Borrow, I would continue with my mission and seek out the bone-seller mentioned by Cowdray.
But then, at the footpath’s edge, I stopped, of a sudden, as if both my legs were seized, and looked back at Fyche over my shoulder, calling to him.
‘Would it be permissible, Sir Edmund, to ask what evidence there is against Mistress Borrow?’
He stopped.
‘In the matter
of witchcraft?’ I said.
Fyche turned, remaining a good twenty yards away, fingering his jaw, considering. Then he approached slowly, until he stood before me again.
‘Dr John, you might think me a harsh man. But our roles in life alter, according to the will of God. Until the Dissolution of the abbey, I was a monk. Now I’m the father of two sons. A landowner. A Justice of the Peace. The words justice and peace being at the very heart of God’s teaching.’ He paused for a moment. ‘The main evidence against Eleanor Borrow would be of birth and circumstance.’
I waited. The ruin of the church tower shimmered in the lightening mist, spectral. As if it were of the mist. Or made of glass.
‘I was obliged,’ Fyche said, ‘to hang her mother.’
Yes, I could have taken this further, but that would have meant pursuing him, maybe revealing too much. I’m not good at this.
I walked away, slowly.
At first.
Until I was out of sight of Fyche and the monks, and then there was a green-grey blurring of turf and sky as I went stumbling in a frenzy down the devil’s hill, eyes flicking this way, that way, ignoring the path, tripping twice before ground level, then tumbling over the stile to the holy well, wood-splinters piercing the soft, white flesh of my bookman’s hands.
Calling out for her, an owl-screech in my head yet still deafening in its intensity.
Eleanor!
And even once…
Nel…
No-one there. Only the powerful hiss of the blood water racing through the veins of the sacred earth.
’Tis certain true to say that some men and women here are driven very speedily into madness.
How speedily? Two hours? Three hours? Or had whole weeks and months gone by since I first walked with her – as with men and women captured and taken into the faerie world?
Now I was falling, near-sobbing, to the ground, splashing the blood-water on my face, into my eyes.
Jesu, what am I become?
XVI
Love the Dead
No bones were visible within the shop, only raw skin, and I began to wonder if I were tricked.
The premises were in a mean and stinking alley off what was called Magdalene Street, opposite the abbey gatehouse. The sky was darkening now, and swollen like a vast bladder, with unshed rain.
Inside the shop, however, all was pale and soft: everywhere, the skins and fleeces of sheep, some made into rough garments and bulky hats.
And could this truly be Benlow the bone-man?
I’d imagined him old and shrivelled, clad in rags, but this man was no more than my own age. Tall, fair-haired and fresh-faced, and his apparel was of a quality far finer than mine and almost certainly above his station – the silver brooch in his hat, that fashionable slash in his doublet, red as a fresh wound.
He bowed and made gesture toward an array of garments hanging from hooks along one wall.
‘Fleece cloak, my lord?’
‘Fleece-?’
‘You don’t want to be took in by this fine weather. ’Twill turn biting cold by the week’s end, that’s what all the shepherds say, and nobody knows the weather better than a shepherd.’
‘I already, um, have a cloak,’ I said.
‘Fleeced?’
‘Well-’
‘Thought not!’ He bounced upon his toes, his tone light and soft as down-feathers. ‘I’m guessing, my lord, that you ain’t from these parts. London, am I right? Not been here long?’
‘Not yet one day.’
Jesu, it felt like a month.
‘Thought I knew not your face! Well, let me tell you, my lord, the winters in London they don’t compare – they do not compare – with what it’s like out here when the snow comes. And it will come again, before spring, sure as I’m standing here. Don’t mean to put fear into you, but this is God’s absolute truth – without a fleece about your shoulders, my lord, you may die. Ask anybody.’
Eyeing me, now, from head to boots, as if estimating what size coffin I’d require. His accent was more London than the west, which maybe explained why Cowdray had been so quick to finger him to me.
I was silent for a moment, and then looked him in the eyes.
‘No man need fear the cold, ‘ I said calmly, ‘if he has the love of God in his heart.’
‘Ah.’ His face turned at once solemn. ‘How true. How very true that is, my lord.’
‘You’re Master Benlow?’
‘So my mother tells me.’
‘Well, I’m here with a friend.’
‘A friend.. I see. ’
‘We’ve ridden for many days. My friend -’ my voice falling away – ‘is ill.’
‘Oh.’
‘ Sorely ill.’
‘That saddens me, my lord, it truly does.’
‘And, since his arrival, is become worse.’
‘Oh, that is bad news.’ He folded his arms. ‘Because, you know, they say that however strong a man’s faith be…’
‘Sometimes prayer alone is not sufficient.’
‘I’ve heard that, too.’
I was, as you know, not much good at this, but kept step with him.
‘We came here,’ I said, ‘having been told of… miracles?’
He leaned back at last, arms folded, lips pursed at an angle.
‘Been many of those, true enough. Glaston be famous the world over for its miracles. The mark of the Saviour’s been upon this town since He walked these hills as a boy and his uncle, old Joe Mathea, laid down the first stones for the abbey, but I expect you know that.’
I nodded. ‘Once, a true pilgrim might have gone to the abbey and prayed over the relics of saints. All the hundreds of saints buried there.’
‘All gone now.’
I took breath, met his slanting gaze.
‘ All gone?’
‘Gone from the abbey,’ he said.
‘But not necessarily from…’ I’d run out of byways and subtlety. ‘Master Benlow, my friend is a man of considerable wealth.’
‘Where’s he lie, my lord?’
‘At the George.’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘There is a man lying at the George, I’ve heard that. They thought it was the plague.’
‘We don’t believe it to be the plague,’ I said. ‘But he’s very weak, all the same.’
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘two women were cured of the plague after a visit to St Joe’s shrine. Sure as I stand before you. You knew of that?’
‘Where is… the shrine?’
To my knowledge, there was no evidence at all that Joseph of Arimathea had ever set foot in Glastonbury, never mind been buried here… only lustrous legend.
‘Ah!’ Benlow tapped his lips. ‘Not many know that, and those that do keeps silent.’
‘And are you one of them, Master Benlow?’
‘The Vicar of Wells, now,’ Benlow said. ‘ He couldn’t walk proper and he comes limping over here one day and he was cured in no time at all! And a boy – no word of a lie – was carried in stone dead and was, there and then, raised. Oh, your friend, he’s come to the right place.’
‘Yes.’
‘It just ain’t so easy no more… to find a bone to kiss.’
This was the first mention of bone. I told him we’d thought to take something home with us, some small, blessed relic that might be kept in our own church… secretly, of course.
‘Oh, must be secret, my lord. Must!’ He peered beyond me toward the door. ‘What did you have in mind? A splinter from the true cross? Bottle of water poured from the Holy Grail itself? Or… a fragment…’
‘A fragment?’
‘A piece’ – he leaned close, his voice a wisp upon the air – ‘ a shard of sainted skeleton. ’
I waited a moment, lest I be thought too eager.
‘How much?’
‘Well now, that would depend upon the size of it… and the eminence of the saint.’
‘Who was the most eminent here?’
His eyes went st
ill. I sensed his greed.
‘I am,’ I said, ‘a man of discretion.’
‘Follow me then,’ he said, ‘my lord.’
In the windowless storehouse behind the shop, a single candle burned from a ledge, and the smell of new fleece was overlaid by the almost suffocating scent of incense around the foot of a ladder to the loft.
‘Lambs of God,’ Benlow said. ‘Poor beasts.’
He giggled. Picking up a broom, he brushed wool and rushes away from the centre of the boarded floor, exposing there a shallow well. He paused, peering at me through the gloom.
‘And you were sent here, were you?’
I nodded.
‘See, I don’t usually do no business in town. Some folk feels strongly about certain items being taken away, if you get my flow. When the weather’s better, I usually goes on the road – with a big, hairy friend, naturally, for holy theft’s still a problem in some parts. Though I do reckon a relic stole is a relic cursed and he who steals it won’t last long in this life.’
Bending to the well in the floor, he pulled out a short board and then a second.
‘Pass me the candle, my lord.’
I saw a wooden ladder, leading into blackness.
‘You may go first.’ Benlow held up the candle. ‘Mind your head.’
I held tight to the ladder, not knowing how deep this well might be, but after three or four rungs my feet were both on the ground. It was no deeper than…
…a grave. And as cold.
And smelled like one. An acrid richness, full of earth and damp, and I began to wonder if I’d descended into some kind of cemetery vault.
Benlow handed down the candle, and I saw that the ground was earthen, with rough stone flags set into it, and the wooden ceiling was too low for me to stand upright.
‘There’s a bench to your left,’ Benlow said. ‘Best to sit, or you may emerge unable to hold up your head again. I always sit myself. Or lie.’ He giggled. ‘Not always alone…’
He arrived at the foot of the ladder. Dusted down his doublet, then gestured me to a bench against a wall of what looked to be rubble stone and took the candle to fire two rush-lights on brackets.
Sinking down uncomfortably on the bench, I perceived that the smell of damp and earth was overlaid now with a strange sweetness. Turning my head as light flared, I saw another smile and shuddered: a human skull sat on an arm of the bench, jawless, as if the teeth were sunk into the wood. Hitting my elbow on something hard, turning to see another on the opposite arm, this one with a hole in its cranium.
