by Fay Sampson
Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Fay Sampson From Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Recent Titles by Fay Sampson from Severn House
The Suzie Fewings Genealogical Mysteries
IN THE BLOOD
A MALIGNANT HOUSE
THOSE IN PERIL
FATHER UNKNOWN
THE OVERLOOKER
BENEATH THE SOIL
THE WOUNDED THORN
THE WOUNDED THORN
Fay Sampson
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This first world edition published 2015
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2015 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 by Fay Sampson.
The right of Fay Sampson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Sampson, Fay author.
The Wounded Thorn.
1. Historic sites–England–Glastonbury–Fiction.
2. Chalice Well (Glastonbury, England)–Fiction.
3. Criminal investigation–Fiction. 4. Detective and
mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9’14-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8485-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-589-6 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-639-7 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Most of the settings in this book, in and around Glastonbury, are real and well worth a visit. I have, however, added others which are fictional. You will not find the Bowes Hotel, the Copper Kettle teashop, the Archive of Avalon, the Spiritual Sphere, St Bridget’s School, Sister Mary Magdalene’s convent, the Baptist church hall, Straightway Farm or Arnold’s DIY store. There is no industrial estate or sluice gate at the locations I have indicated.
All the characters are fictional. In particular, my apologies to the real-life staff of the Chalice Well, Glastonbury Abbey and the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. For the purposes of this novel, I have removed them from their jobs and substituted others who are entirely my own invention.
ONE
‘You can see why they call it Wearyall Hill,’ Hilary panted. ‘I seem to remember David and me galloping up here when we were younger.’
They were following the path of beaten grass up the steep hillside. Hawthorn bushes foaming with blossom starred the green slope.
‘It’s not so bad if you take it steadily.’ Veronica laughed. ‘Someone told me to take smaller steps going uphill. But you just charge at everything, regardless of your age.’
‘You needn’t rub it in that I’m the wrong side of sixty now, and you’re not. If it is the wrong side. I’ve often thought about that triple goddess thing: Maiden, Mother, Crone. You know, I quite fancy the Crone stage. Not having to bother what you look like, no squalling brats around your ankles, the licence to say what you want and to hell with what anybody thinks about you.’
They paused for breath as they reached the ridge. From here they would turn right. The spine of the hill would take them more gently to the summit. Hilary looked around her with appreciation. The ground fell away steeply on either side. To her left lay the little town of Glastonbury, the grey pillars of its ruined abbey standing out amid the contrasting red-brick houses. On their right was the broad farmland of the Somerset Levels. And, unmistakably piercing the skyline, the dramatic cone of Glastonbury Tor, surmounted by its solitary tower.
Hilary breathed a sigh of contentment. ‘Glastonbury, Canterbury, Lindisfarne. Probably the three holiest places in England. Where it all began.’
‘Do you think Joseph of Arimathea really did plant his staff here on this hill two thousand years ago?’ Veronica asked. ‘And it took root and flowered to become the Glastonbury Thorn?’
‘Hmm. Well, you can take your pick from two legends. Either he brought the Christ child here, on a trading expedition. Or he came here after the crucifixion, bringing the Grail that caught Christ’s blood.’
Veronica sang softly, ‘And did those feet in ancient times walk upon England’s mountains green? Mind you, they could both be true, couldn’t they? If Joseph was used to trading here, it might explain why he would bring the Grail here, when it grew too dangerous to stay in Palestine.’
‘Hmm. I normally take these kind of legends with a pinch of salt. But there’s an odd thing. Did you know that the Glastonbury Thorn isn’t native to Britain? Apparently it’s a species from the Middle East. It really could have come from Palestine. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
They set off again, along the steadily rising path, striding more easily now.
‘Is that it up ahead? With the metal cage around it?’ Veronica asked. ‘Oh, the poor thing!’
‘You do know some vandal cut it down?’ Hilary asked.
‘Yes, but I read that it had put out new shoots from the stump. And they planted another young one as well.’
Ahead of them, to the side of the path, stood not one but two wire cages. The first appeared to be empty, save for a wooden post. In the other stood an old tree – or rather, the ruin of one. Someone had hacked it off above head height. Every branch had been sawn through, where it sprang from the trunk.
But its nakedness had been transformed. Both cage and tree were hung about with multicoloured ribbons, medallions, and strips of paper bearing prayers.
‘The Glastonbury Thorn,’ Hilary said, stopping in front of it. ‘I wish I knew wh
o did that to it. Someone with a chainsaw and a grudge? Or some exhibitionist who wanted to see his handiwork splashed over the papers and TV?’
Veronica reached out a hand through the cage and stroked the bark. ‘And to think it may have stood here since Joseph of Arimathea brought it from Palestine.’
‘Hmm,’ said Hilary more sceptically. ‘Don’t forget, these trees don’t live for ever. From what I’ve heard, this one was planted by the council in 1951 for the Festival of Britain. The earlier one here was hacked down by the Puritans in the Civil War. But the faithful saved bits of it and planted them all over the town. This was grafted from one of those.’ She bent closer to examine it. The old gnarled wood was spattered gold with lichen. The lower part was almost obscured by a rampant growth of nettles.
‘I thought you said that new shoots were springing from the stump. I can’t see anything, can you?’
Veronica walked around the ruined tree, studying it. ‘No, you’re right. There’s nothing that looks like a green leaf to me.’
Hilary felt an unexpected pang of dismay. ‘I was going to say all sorts of things like: “Hope springs eternal” and “You can’t keep nature down”. A symbol of Resurrection. But there’s nothing, is there?’
‘Do you think the shoots died? Or has the vandal been back? They never caught him, did they? Does he keep on destroying it?’
Hilary straightened up. ‘There’s that other cage. The one we walked straight past. That must be where they planted the replacement.’
Both women moved back to study it. This metal cage had been pushed sideways, so that it hung at a drunken angle. The protective wire netting around its base had been torn aside. There was nothing inside but the wooden post and the black collar that had once supported a young tree.
‘It’s gone too,’ said Hilary bleakly. ‘There’s nothing left.’
She straightened up and surveyed the scene around them. The little town of Glastonbury, the striking landmark of the Tor. A centre of pilgrimage for thousands of years.
‘The sacred heart of England, but there’s evil even here.’
‘Who does it?’ Veronica said, coming to join her. ‘Is it some pagan who wants to attack the Christian myths about the tree? Or a Christian who thinks the tree is pagan, with all these ribbons and stuff?’
‘Or a mindless vandal, who’ll destroy anything people value.’
Veronica stood looking down at the town.
‘There’s so much else holy that draws people to Glastonbury. The Abbey, King Arthur’s grave, the Chalice Well, the Tor. Do you suppose any of that is under threat too? Is there someone here who’d like to destroy more of what we care about?’
Hilary came to join her. ‘Nothing feels as safe as it used to. Or perhaps it’s just me. It really never was a safe world. You know I said that the thorn tree really may have come from Palestine? Touching the bark just now – feeling it dead – I try not to think about David in that hospital in Gaza, but I can’t help worrying.’
‘It’s not the first time he’s gone out to help, is it? It’s only for a month. He’ll be fine.’
An expression of consternation came over Hilary’s face. ‘Oh, Veronica, I’m sorry! Here am I, worrying because my husband might be in danger, while yours …’
Veronica smiled, a little sadly. ‘It’s all right. It’s been six months now. I still miss him terribly, but I’m learning to cope. And it was a kind idea of yours for us to come away here and take our minds off it.’
‘And now I’m rubbing it in. Typical.’
‘No. We came here years ago, Andrew and I. Visited the Abbey ruins, climbed the Tor. It’s good to remember happier times.’
Hilary stood in silence for a while. Andrew had died so suddenly. A ruptured blood vessel. There had been no time for Veronica to prepare herself, to say goodbye. It had been Hilary’s suggestion that the two of them should come to Glastonbury, to set aside their grief and worry in this most sacred of English towns.
‘I sometimes think we take too much for granted. The things we care about. Even here there are people who would attack them, for reasons we probably can’t even guess.’
As she turned back to the ravaged tree, something caught her eye. The glint of metal in the afternoon sun. She bent closer to look.
‘Idiot!’
Someone had pushed a coin into a crevice of the gnarled bark.
‘Look at that! It’s not just vandals. Some devotee thinks this tree is precious, but they’ve done their best to kill it all the same.’
She lowered her knapsack and delved into it to find a Swiss army knife. Using one of the blades, she carefully prised the metal out of the bark.
‘Two pounds! Expensive poison.’
She stood looking down at the stained coin in her hand. Then she grinned. ‘Well, no point in throwing it away.’ She slipped it into her purse.
‘Come on, then. This should go some way towards a slice of gateau. Let’s drown our sorrows with a pot of tea and some sinful cream cakes. We’ll enjoy the rest of Glastonbury while we have it.’
They started to walk down the hill.
Presently, Veronica said, ‘That character who destroyed the Holy Thorn … Do you really think he, or someone like him, might target something else?’
TWO
‘Do you know,’ Veronica said, gently stirring her Earl Grey teabag, ‘I’ve never been to the Chalice Well. Andrew and I always meant to, but what with the Abbey and the Tor and the Thorn on Wearyall Hill, we never quite got around to it.’
‘Me neither. Right, that’s settled.’
They walked up the High Street, past St John the Baptist’s church.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Hilary said.
Two large trees stood in the front corners of the churchyard. Half hidden behind the left-hand one was a flowering hawthorn tree. Hilary marched through the gates towards it.
‘There is hope, after all.’
A wooden notice bore the information: A Glastonbury Holy Thorn.
‘I told you the townspeople had sneaked cuttings of it when the Puritans cut it down. This was one of them. Apparently, it still flowers in spring and midwinter.’
‘There’s something magical about that. Is this the one they cut blossoms from to send to the Queen at Christmas?’
‘That’s right. Looks healthy, doesn’t it? Not like that poor wreck on the Tor.’
‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’
Their route led them on through the town. For all the Christian history for which Glastonbury was famous, the shops they passed offered an eccentric mix of New Age wares and alternative religions. Crystal pendants alternated with seated Buddhas. Placards announced aromatherapy and deep soul cleansing.
At the end of the High Street they took the road that led towards the Tor. The traffic was busy, but when they turned in at the gatehouse of the Chalice Well gardens a noticeable peace fell. They walked up the cobbled path to the ticket office. The gate into the gardens was patterned with two overlapping circles, making a figure of eight.
‘The Vesica Piscis,’ Veronica read from the leaflet. ‘It symbolizes a union of heaven and earth, or spirit and matter.’
‘Hmm.’ Hilary pushed the gate open and stepped into the gardens. She looked round, shrewdly appraising.
‘It’s like so much else at Glastonbury. The Christian myth is really strong – and by “myth” I don’t mean it’s false, but the deep story running underneath everything. The red spring, coloured by Christ’s blood from the Grail. And there’s all this other stuff – New Age paganism, Goddess worship, Kabbalah, you name it.’
‘Many Paths, One Source,’ Veronica read.
‘What they mean is, whatever you care to believe in, you’ll find something to attract you in the gift shop.’
‘Don’t be so cynical,’ Veronica reproved her. ‘These gardens are rather lovely. There’s a real atmosphere of … peace.’
Hilary shot an apologetic look sideways. ‘Sorry. You’re right. I sound like a hard
ened old sceptic, don’t I? Go ahead. I’ll follow you.’
Veronica led the way. They came to the first pool, in the open sunshine. It was shaped again like the Vesica Piscis figure of eight. Water tumbled into the pool down a series of fluted cups, banked by flower beds. The water was a brownish red, staining the stones it flowed over. On benches around it people sat, drinking in the peace.
Veronica and Hilary sat down too, meditating companionably.
After a while, Veronica rose. She drifted past flower beds, touching the blossoms lightly as she passed, or bending to drink in their fragrance. Following behind, Hilary watched her. Whatever she had said about the Chalice Well, the gardens were doing her friend good. There was, she had to admit, a sense of healing.
They went up the steps to a rectangular pool, which invited visitors to bathe in the therapeutic waters. Again, the water tumbled through red-stained channels.
Giant yew trees stood sentinel before a higher gateway.
It led them to a spout of water issuing from a lion’s head in the wall. Two circular stones, golden red, stood beneath it. Glasses set on the upper one invited the passer-by to drink. Hilary reached out a finger to investigate the red-slicked stone.
‘A chalybeate spring. Iron. I suppose it’s not surprising that people should jump to mystical conclusions about where the colour came from. Don’t they say it was Christ’s blood which Joseph of Arimathea collected in the chalice he used at the Last Supper?’
‘Or rust from the nails with which he was crucified.’
They both drank from the water.
‘It’s refreshing,’ Veronica said. ‘A little bit metallic. They say you only need a few sips.’
