by Paul Doherty
'It's a custom,' my master muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 'Every month the city verderers have to deliver a fat buck for the Dean's kitchen; in thanksgiving the Dean and Chapter perform this dance.' He cleared his throat. 'God knows why, when they call themselves churchmen.'
I looked at the sleek, well-fed clerics performing their silly jigs.
'It's hard to decide, Master, which are fatter, they or the buck.'
'Never mind that,' he murmured. 'Did you see that message being slipped to our bluff Sir John?' I nodded.
'I wonder what it said, Roger?'
'God knows, Master. Your uncle weaves such tangled webs!'
We heard Mandeville calling us and continued our journey up towards Cripplegate, forcing our way through the lawyers and Serjeants of the coif who were assembling outside the door of the Priory of St Elsing-Spital for their last mass of the Michaelmas term.
We reached the old city walls and passed through the gates. Above us the decapitated heads of traitors, crowned with laurels or ivy, gazed down at us, their eyes and mouths turned black by the pecking of ravens. We had to pause awhile as the body of a suicide, dragged by the feet, was taken by city bailiffs to be dumped in the city ditch. This was followed by a cart full of putrid offal, heading for one of the brooks near the Barbican. A beggar ran alongside the cart and came whining towards us, hands extended. Mandeville drove him away so he passed further down the group and tugged at Benjamin's leg.
'Master, Master, a penny, a penny!'
Benjamin's hand went to his wallet and he gasped as he stared down at the beggar. Despite the ragged head-dress and mud-stained face, I recognised our good Doctor Agrippa.
'Age Circumspecte!’ he hissed and disappeared into the crowd.
'What does he mean?' I asked. 'He told us that before.'
'A pun, Roger. The old Latin tag, "Act wisely", perhaps a warning about the Agentes?
'Magnificent!' I murmured. As if I hadn't realised that already.
We reached Red Cross where the city dwellings gave way to fields and small copses and, an hour later, we were in the open countryside.
I won't bore you with the details of our journey across southern England. The roads were still hard so travel was fast and easy as Mandeville used the royal messenger service to obtain good food and warm beds at priories, monasteries, taverns or royal manors. We travelled in three distinct groups: the Agentes, the Santerres and ourselves.
No one was really at ease. Lady Beatrice ignored my wandering eye, young Rachel dared only smile shyly at us, whilst the Agentes were a law unto themselves. Southgate and Mandeville, their two mutes behind them, travelled at the head of the procession, whispering to each other. My master, preoccupied with Hopkins's riddle drew me into discussion about its meaning, only to reach the conclusion it would tell us nothing until we had reached Glastonbury or Templecombe.
For the rest, when the opportunity presented itself, we questioned Sir John about the legends of Arthur, the Grail and the wonders of Glastonbury Abbey, but never once were the Templars mentioned, as if they were a forbidden subject, a treasonable offence even to refer to them.
Twenty years ago I took the same journey to look at the ruins of Glastonbury, destroyed by Fat Henry and his evil spirit, Thomas Cromwell. Sad, nostalgic, the countryside had hardly changed and, if I closed my eyes at certain parts, I was back with Master Benjamin and all those people, now long dead, travelling to a place where conspiracy, treason and sudden death became part of the very fabric of our lives.
The only difference then was the weather for it turned cold and hard, the clouds massing thick above us as if the sky intended to fall and crush out all life on the face of the earth. A cold, biting wind chilled our fingers and stiffened the muscles of our body and, just as we crossed into Somerset, the long-awaited snow began to fall. At first in soft flurries but, by the time the gables, spires and turrets of Glastonbury came into view, a veritable blizzard raged.
Now I am an old cynic. I have seen men and women betray and kill each other without batting an eyelid. (So much so that, although I believe in God, my great difficulty is accepting that he believes in us!) Glastonbury, however, would challenge the most hardened hearts, a place of mystery and mysticism which catches you by the throat and provokes the mind to strange dreams.
The land itself is relatively free from trees, low, flat and well beneath sea level. The abbey was great and sprawling, a veritable palace behind its high walls and, from the brow of a small hill, Sir John Santerre pointed out the chapel, the abbey church, the cloisters, the hall, the abbot's kitchen, guest houses and gardens, all quite distinct in spite of the falling snow.
However, what caught my imagination was the great Tor or hill overlooking the abbey which jutted like a giant's finger up towards the heavens, making the small church on its summit a most suitable meeting-place between God and man. If the abbey was a marvel of man's work, the Tor was God's answer for in that flat land it looked like one of the high places mentioned in the bible where the ancient patriarchs went to talk to Yahweh. Even Mandeville and Southgate murmured in admiration. Benjamin and I just stared speechlessly down at the abbey, then up at the great Tor.
'Oh, yes,' Santerre declared proudly. 'This, gentlemen, is Avalon. The island of glass, the island of apples, Arthur's last resting place. Once,' he continued, 'everything beneath the great Tor was covered in marsh, meres and pools, but the monks have drained these dry and turned the land into one of God's great wonders.'
I forgot the falling snow and biting wind.
'What is that?' I pointed to the great Tor.
'What you see, Master Shallot. A high place,' Santerre replied. 'Sacred even before Christ was born. The ancient tribes used to come here by boat, led by their leader the Fisher King, to worship on the Tor. Some people say,' he lowered his voice, 'that inside the hill are secret passageways, halls and chambers used by the ancient ones. People have entered its secret paths and entrances and have either never returned or, if they were fortunate enough to do so, came out with their minds mazed, their wits scattered.'
'And why should Arthur come here?' Benjamin asked.
To be healed,' Santerre replied. "There has always been a monastery here but, in ancient times, when the meadows were flooded you had to use secret routes and pathways to reach it. Arthur's great fortress lies further north at Cadbury, a huge hill which still bears the remnants of a formidable fortress. Legend says Arthur's Sword was thrown into one of the pools here after the Grail, kept in the monastery, was brought to him too late. If he had drunk from it, the wounds received in his last dreadful battle against his nephew Mordred would have healed. So, Arthur now lies buried beneath the Abbey.' Santerre wiped the snowflakes from his face as he stared round at us.
‘Chilling legends,' Mandeville interrupted, his dark face damp with snow. 'But, remember, we are here on the King's own business and the legends of this place sent Buckingham to his death.'
With that he kicked his horse forward and we made our way down the trackway to the ornately carved gateway of Glastonbury Abbey. A porter let us in and we were taken into a great yard. Lay brothers hurried about, unpacking the carts, and we were escorted into the spacious, white stone guest house: a large solar on the ground floor with above it chambers for each of the abbot's guests. Servitors took our wet clothing and served us cups of mulled wine, followed by earthenware bowls full of a meaty soup which warmed our hands and removed the chill from our stomachs.
We sat in chairs before a great log fire. Only when we were rested and our bags unpacked did the abbot, Richard Bere, together with a young sub-prior and other monks of the abbey, enter the guest house to greet us. Bere was a frail, white-haired man, one vein-streaked hand clutching an ash cane, the other resting on the arm of the sub-prior. (A great man, Bere. He carried out many building works at Glastonbury. After him came poor old Richard Whitting, who was abbot when Cromwell sent his agents in. Whitting died a horrible death. The abbey was plundered and pillaged,
its treasures looted, its roofs pulled off, and what was once man's homage to God became a nesting place for foxes, ravens and kites. Ah, well, enough of that.)
On that cold, snow-laden winter day Bere and his brethren were most welcoming, but the abbot's anxious lined face and short-sighted eyes betrayed his fear at having the powerful Agentes within the sacred walls of the abbey. He had a pathetic wish to please and I hated Mandeville for his arrogance as he rapped out his orders. We would stay the night, transfer our baggage to sumpter ponies and make our way to Templecombe, he instructed.
'But,' Mandeville boomed, standing over the abbot, ‘we shall return, Reverend Father, to ask questions about the traitor Hopkins. You will produce any memoranda or books held by him and, above all, the manuscript he was so fond of studying with its doggerel verses which drew him and others into the blackest treason.'
'We are the King's loyal servants,' murmured Bere defiantly. 'Brother Hopkins, God rest him, was a man lost in the past but the manuscript he studied will be handed over.'
He smiled at all of us, nodding courteously to Lady Beatrice, then with his silent monks around him, walked wearily out of the guest house.
We rose early the next morning awoken by the clanging of the abbey bells. I opened the shuttered window to look out on a countryside blanketed in snow. The blizzard had passed but the sky threatened more. We gingerly broke the ice in the washing bowl, washed, changed and joined the others in the small refectory below.
A lay brother came over and took us into the abbey church to hear morning mass and, believe me, for the glory is now gone, the abbey church of Glastonbury was the nearest thing to heaven on earth. Soaring pillars, cupolas and cornices leafed with gold; huge walls covered in brilliant, multi-hued pictures depicting scenes from the bible. The Lady Chapel in blue, red and gold marble; the choir and rood screen of carved, gleaming oak which shimmered in the light of hundreds of candles. The air was sweet with incense which wafted round the marble high altar like the spirits of the blessed.
So much space, so much beauty. The choir stalls were each carefully sculptured and the wood polished till it shone like burnished gold. Banners of different colours, scarlet, red, green and blue, hung from the hammer-timbered roof whilst around the church were carved statuettes of the most breath-taking beauty depicting the Virgin Mary, St Joseph, St Patrick, and the whole heavenly host. I knelt and gazed around in astonishment.
Yet now it is all gone, nothing left. Henry's agents saw to that. I know many of you are of the reformed faith and in your minds perhaps rightly so, but if you had seen what I saw then, you'd still mourn. You'd weep at the destruction of such sheer glory.
After mass a lay brother offered to take us on a tour of the church and other interesting sights of the abbey. The Santerres demurred, Rachel claiming she felt unwell, but Mandeville and Southgate eagerly joined us. We were shown the great marble slab covering Arthur's coffin and the chalice well which provided water for the brothers. My master peered down this as if expecting to see a vision at the bottom.
'Is it true,' he asked, 'that the Grail might lie beneath the waters of this well?'
The seamed, yellow face of the old lay brother broke into a grin.
'So legend says,' he wheezed. 'Many have searched yet nothing has been found.'
We also visited the holy thorn, a wild rose bush supposedly sprung from Joseph of Arimathea's staff. I tell you this - the legend is true. Even in that bitter weather the plant was beginning to blossom and, when it bloomed at Christmas, the abbot as was customary would send a cutting to the King. After this, at Mandeville's insistence, the old brother took us into the library, a long room, its walls covered with heaped shelves of books. Benjamin's hands positively itched to take down the leather, jewel-embossed tomes (so did mine for other reasons), but Mandeville shook his head.
'We have seen enough for today,' he murmured. 'Such matters are to be examined at our leisure. Templecombe's our destination. We must be there by noon.'
We returned to the guest house and found our companions ready to leave. Outside in the courtyard lay brothers were moving baggage from the carts to sumpter ponies whose iron-shod hooves scraped the cobbles, their hot breath hanging like clouds as they whinnied in protest at being taken from their warm stables. I searched out Rachel. She still looked pale so I plucked up courage to speak.
'Mistress, is there anything wrong?'
She smiled thinly. 'Nothing, Roger.'
(How I thrilled at her use of my first name!)
The journey has been exhausting and I will be glad to be home.'
I would have dallied longer but the venerable Bere came down to wish us farewell. Mandeville was as curt as ever. He leaned over, patting his horse's withers.
'Father Abbot,' he declared for all to hear, 'we thank you for your hospitality but we shall return. Certain questions need to be asked to which truthful answers must be given.'
He then gave the order to move off and led us out of the abbey gate.
Our journey was cold and uncomfortable, a brutal reminder of the comforts we had left behind. The sky, grey and lowering, threatened more snow whilst the previous day's fall carpeted the hedgerows and fields, choking the ditches and making the trackways slippery and dangerous. Never once did we stop even in Templecombe village but made our way through the sleepy hamlet, the houses on either side all boarded up, the only sign of life being columns of smoke and the occasional villager foraging on the outskirts for fire-wood. These seemed happy enough - burly, red-faced peasants who doffed their caps and shouted salutations to their Lord of the Manor, genuinely pleased to greet his return.
We were making our way up a trackway towards the main gate of the manor when suddenly an old hag slipped out of the trees on one side of the path and stood squarely in front of Mandeville. She was a veritable night bird in a dirty cloak with a hood half-covering her greying wisps of hair. Her face was lined and raddled, the toothless mouth slack, displaying reddened gums, yet her eyes were full of life. She wiped her dripping, hooked nose, clasped her hands together and cackled. Believe me, if I had seen her in any other place, I would have dismissed her as a witch from a mummer's play. One of those old beldames who like to proclaim themselves keepers of secret mysteries. But this old bird was more sinister, a veritable crow, a harbinger of bad news. Mandeville gestured at her to get out of his way. She just laughed and stepped back, her eyes bright with malice.
'Welcome to Templecombe!' Her voice was surprisingly strong and powerful. She made a mock bow. 'Sir John Santerre, your lovely wife and the beautiful Rachel.' The old crone licked at the saliva frothing on her lips.
'Get out of my way, woman!' Mandeville ordered.
'Yes, I will. I will.' The old crone cringed back. 'When I have told you my news.'
Mandeville leaned forward. 'And what news is that?'
'There will be deaths!' the old woman proclaimed, one bony finger streaking up to the grey clouds. 'Death by fire! Death by iron! Death by rope! Death by water! And you, Sir Edmund Mandeville, emissary of a king who is not a king, the hand of death lies over you! The Midnight Destroyer sits at your right elbow whilst the Lord Satan squats at your left. You all,' she screamed, her eyes blazing, *you all have entered the Valley of Death!'
'What do you mean?' Southgate shouted. No languid lisping now, I noted.
The old woman sagged, her chin falling to her breast. She looked up from under grey, bushy eyebrows.
'You have had your news, now I'll be gone!'
And, before any of us could do anything, she flitted like a ghost back into the trees.
Mandeville glared furiously at Sir John Santerre.
'Who the devil was that?'
'One of your tenants, sir?' Southgate accused.
Santerre shrugged. 'She's a crazed old woman who says she has visions. She's lived in a hut in a clearing just beyond the trees for God knows how long.' His eyes were lowered. 'Some people call her mad. Others say she is Hecate, Queen of the Night.'
'She's just an old woman.' Rachel spoke up, her voice muffled behind her cloak. 'Pay no attention to her, sirs. She's a veritable Cassandra who sees doom and death in the flight of a sparrow.'
Mandeville coughed and spat. 'If she accosts me again’ he grumbled, ‘I’ll burn the bitch!'
And on that uncomfortable note we continued our way along the track. A porter opened the double-barred gate, shouting a welcome to the Santerres as he led us along the old causeway which wound past birch, oak and yew trees up to the front of the house.
Chapter 7
Let me tell you about Templecombe. The Templars had first built it as a fortified manor but later generations had embellished it to make it more comfortable. A massive stone edifice built in a square about a spacious inner courtyard, three stories in all, its roof was of grey slate. Although we could see the old arrow-slit windows, more sophisticated owners had added rounded oriels, jutting bays and ornate chimney stacks. The stone gleamed as if freshly washed whilst every window was glazed, some with pure glass, others, despite the poor light, even displaying brave heraldic emblems in a variety of hues.
On our arrival, the great door was flung open. Servants gathered on the steps and for a while all was confusion as stewards, bailiffs, cooks, huntsmen and pages hurried down to greet the Santerres. Despite Sir John's brusque ways, I saw he was a well-respected, even loved, lord of the soil. Servants took our baggage, grooms led our horses away, as the Santerres proudly escorted us in.
