by Paul Doherty
We could do nothing further. Mandeville said he would report the woman's death when we returned to Templecombe and so we continued our cold journey through the bleak Somerset countryside. We arrived at Glastonbury just after dark. The trackways were nigh impassable, the weather so icy we could hardly talk, and Mandeville shouted with relief when the walls of Glastonbury came into sight.
A lay brother let us in through a postern gate where others took care of our horses and baggage. Once again Abbot Bere came to greet us in the guest house, accompanied by a monk who had been absent at our earlier meeting. A vigorous young man, ruddy-faced and bright-eyed, he was scholarly and courteous. I liked him, whilst he and Benjamin struck up an immediate rapport.
This is Brother Eadred, our archivist and librarian,' Abbot Bere declared. 'He will assist you in your enquiries. He knows our manuscript room like the palm of his own hand and is a pertius, an expert in Arthurian life.'
'Did you know Hopkins?' Southgate brusquely enquired, taking off his coat and shaking the damp from it.
'Yes,' replied Eadred. 'Brother Hopkins was a man not at peace with himself or his order. He was not a historian but a collector of legends. He found our monastic rule hard to bear so spent every second he could in the library.'
Eadred patted the old abbot gently on the shoulder. 'Reverend Father did all he could for Brother Hopkins. He arranged for him to be released from his vows and work as a chaplain in Templecombe and the surrounding villages and hamlets.' The librarian's face broke into a boyish smile. 'He wasn't even good at that: he claimed he had found the key to mysterious secrets and hastened off to tell My Lord of Buckingham.' He became solemn. 'In the end Hopkins destroyed himself and others, and brought the King's wrath down on this community and elsewhere.' He stared squarely at the Agentes. 'Though, I tell you this, sirs, John Santerre is a loyal subject of the King.'
I bit back my questions as Mandeville began to list what he wished to see the following morning: Arthur's tomb; the manuscript in which Hopkins had found the riddle; and any other matter the reverend Abbot and Brother Eadred thought might assist us in our search.
Eadred coolly agreed, informed us that food would be sent across and bade us all a courteous good night.
'I don't like him,' Southgate grated as soon as the monks left. 'I don't like this abbey and I think there's some sort of link between this place and Sir John Santerre.'
'Why?' I challenged. 'What proof do you have?'
'Well, after Sir Edmund finished his interrogation this morning, I had a word with a few of the servants, men from the outlying farms. Santerre apparently did not go round his estates yesterday as he claimed. So where was he, eh?'
We kept our mouths shut and Mandeville and Southgate stomped away. We made ourselves at home, ate the simple food sent across to us from the refectory and retired to bed.
Early the next morning Benjamin attended mass in the abbey church then roused me. We breakfasted in the small refectory of the abbot's guest house on light ale and spiced oatmeal heated with boiling milk. Mandeville and Southgate joined us, the soldiers who had accompanied us being billeted elsewhere. The two Agentes were full of themselves, eager to exert their power in this famous abbey so, when Brother Eadred joined us, Mandeville insisted that we go straight to the library.
We left the guest house, going through stone-vaulted passageways into the cloister garth. The study carrels were empty because of the cold weather: snow and ice covered the deserted garden though from the abbey church we could hear the faint chanting of Lauds.
We found the library wondrously warm, being ingeniously heated by hot pipes which also gushed water into the latrines. I remember this well for I have never seen the like since.
I did, however, discuss such a marvel with Sir John Harrington, the Queen's nephew, who has since devised an ingenious system to build a water closet so that privies and latrines can be cleaned by pulling a chain and releasing water. Very clumsy, though I've had one installed here at Burpham.
Of course, Benjamin was at home in the library, exclaiming with delight at the smell of parchment, pumice stone, ink and newly treated vellum. He took down volumes from the shelves, undid their clasps and, chattering like a child, pointed out the beauty of the calligraphy. Some letters were pictures in themselves, containing miniature dragons, wyverns, centaurs and other mythical beasts. Mandeville and Southgate just stood watching patronisingly until Sir Edmund clicked his fingers.
'I want to see the Hopkins manuscripts.'
Eadred stared at him in mock innocence. 'No such books exist, Sir Edmund.'
'Don't play games with me!' Mandeville snarled. 'I don't know the bloody title but I wish to see the ones Hopkins studied!'
'Oh, you mean the Legends of Avalon’
Eadred went and opened a great, iron-bound coffer and brought out a thick folio, leather bound and fastened by two small clasps. He placed this gently down on the table and we all gathered round.
'It's not really a book,' Eadred explained. 'It's actually a collection of legends about Glastonbury and this area.'
'And what did Hopkins find?'
Mandeville undid the clasps and pulled back the leather cover. At first we couldn't see anything on the white backing but then Eadred brought across a candle, held it near the page, not quite close enough to scorch, and sea-green writing began to appear.
'A subtle device,' Eadred murmured. 'God knows how it is done.'
Time and again he wafted the candle flame and, for a while, the writing became quite distinct. Benjamin borrowed a quill and a piece of parchment and copied the verse down, word for word. It was no different from that Agrippa had quoted:
'Beneath Jordan's water Christ's cup does rest,
And above Moses' Ark the sword that's best.'
Mandeville chanted it like a child learning a rhyme.
'What the hell does it mean?' he added.
Eadred invited us to sit round the table.
'How did Hopkins discover this?' Benjamin asked.
The monk spread his hands. 'Perhaps an accident because, though the manuscript contains famous legends, there's nothing new in it. What I suspect is that he was inspecting the binding and moved the candle to study it more closely to see if there was a gap between the cover and its backing: underneath the candle flame the writing must have appeared.' Eadred pointed to the white page where the lettering was beginning to fade. 'I was here when Hopkins discovered it. He didn't tell me but became so agitated and excited, he left the book open with faint drops of candle grease on it. I repeated what I had seen him do. The rest you know.'
Mandeville leaned over and tapped the book. 'And there's nothing else in here?'
'Nothing at all.'
'Then,' Mandeville leaned towards Southgate, 'my colleague here who is an expert in secret writing, codes and ciphers, will take this to another table and study it carefully.'
I looked at Southgate in mock surprise. 'You can read!' I exclaimed. 'You can truly read?'
Well, that got the bastard really enraged.
'I studied at Oriel!' he snapped. 'Theology, Philosophy, Logic and Mathematics!'
'Then I beg your pardon, sir.' I slapped my own wrist. 'It just goes to show you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, eh?'
Southgate picked up the manuscript and stalked away. Mandeville glared at me whilst Eadred and Benjamin seemed preoccupied with their fingers.
'This is no laughing matter, Shallot,' Sir Edmund declared. 'Brother Eadred, on your allegiance to the King, do you know the meaning of Hopkins's riddle?'
'Before God, Sir Edmund, I do not!'
'Is there anything in this abbey that has even the vaguest reference to Jordan's water or the Ark of Moses?'
Eadred smoothed the table top with his fingers. 'The Jordan is a river in Palestine,' he replied. 'What in God's name, Sir Edmund, would that have to do with an abbey in Somerset? And as for the Ark of Moses, this was the sacred chest fashioned at the foot of Mount Sinai to contain the sacred tabl
ets of stone. Where on earth would that be?'
Sir Edmund was not easily put off.
'Yet you have a rose bush,' he retorted. 'Which, you claim, was planted by Joseph of Arimathea. Don't play games with me, dear monk. Your abbey proudly proclaims that this Joseph of Arimathea came here, bringing the Grail with him. According to the book of legends you have just shown us, Arthur came here to drink from the Grail, whilst one of his knights, Sir Bedivere, reputedly took Excalibur down to Narepool which is only three miles from Glastonbury. This is still owned by the abbey and, according to the annual accounts you submit to the exchequer, provides 5,000 eels a year for your kitchen.'
Sir Edmund half-raised himself from his seat and pointed a finger straight at the monk's face. 'Before God, sir,' he threatened hoarsely. 'If I find even the vaguest reference to an Ark or to Jordan's water in this abbey or any place in your possession, I shall see you stand trial at King's Bench in London on a charge of high treason!'
Then, Sir Edmund,' Eadred replied coolly, 'discover such evidence.'
Mandeville shoved back his chair and walked to the door.
'I shall inspect this abbey myself!' he shouted over his shoulder. 'Southgate, when you have finished with that manuscript, look around carefully.' He left, slamming the door behind him.
Eadred seemed unmoved by Mandeville's threats.
'Perhaps we should go,' he whispered, glancing sidelong at Southgate who sat poring over the book. 'Sir Edmund does not believe me, yet he'll find nothing in this abbey or elsewhere.'
We left the library, went round the north part of the church and into the abbey church through the Lady Chapel, now covered in sheets and dust.
'Abbot Bere,' Eadred explained, 'is now digging a crypt. This will run under the Lady Chapel and Galilee porch.'
He pulled the sheets aside and led us down some steps. The crypt was a high vaulted room, the roof being supported by thin ribs of stone which spread out from the centre, giving the impression of a bursting star. The crypt was not yet finished and, strangely enough, was the only place in that entire abbey where Eadred seemed rather nervous and unwilling to linger. We then returned to the Galilee porch, past another small chapel and into the great white-stoned nave. We examined the north and south transepts, went under the ornate rood screen and into the sanctuary beneath which lay Arthur's tomb.
'Is there any way,' Benjamin asked, 'that the tomb can be reached?'
Eadred shook his head. 'Of course not. The coffin is sealed in a great vault below. Only the Holy Father can give permission for such a tomb to be opened.' Eadred spread his hands. 'And why should it be opened? The Grail and Excalibur were seen centuries after Arthur's death and the monks who reinterred his body here would scarcely bury such sacred relics.'
We agreed and continued our tour out of the church, following the snow-covered, pebbled paths past the Chapter House, dormitory, rear dorter, monks' kitchen, into the abbot's garden; the latter was enclosed by a high brick wall and carpeted by snow but in the summer must have been beautiful. My eyes, however, were continuously drawn to the great Tor which loomed high above the abbey and the small church of St Michael on its summit.
'Could that contain anything?' I asked.
Eadred smiled and shook his head. 'Everyone who comes here thinks that, yet compared to the abbey, the church is quite new. You are welcome to go there but your climb would be fruitless. I strongly recommend that we leave such arduous duties to your two companions, who will undoubtedly have asked themselves the same question.'
Chapter 11
We returned to the guest house, Eadred ordering mulled wine from the kitchen to warm us. He and Benjamin soon became immersed in a discussion on alchemy and the philosopher's stone: the librarian also offered to take my master to see Narepool at the bottom of which, according to legend, Arthur's Sword still lay. I became bored and wandered back to the library.
Thankfully, Southgate had gone. Some of the brothers were busy in the scriptorium but I was greeted courteously and no one objected when I began to leaf through the manuscript Southgate had left upon the table.
Brother Eadred was correct. The manuscript contained a collection of writings describing the legends of Glastonbury, Avalon, Arthur, the forging of Excalibur, and even the fanciful story of how, when Christ was a boy, Joseph of Arimathea brought him to Glastonbury to buy tin and precious oils from the natives. The book also contained writings on topographical and biblical matters of a general nature; one entry caught my eye. I remembered what Agrippa had told me and a faint suspicion stirred.
I closed the book hastily and sat thinking, trying to apply my discovery to the murderous maze I found myself lost in. I resolved to keep silent on it.
(Oh, excuse me a minute, my little chaplain is jumping up and down, splattering the parchment with ink. Tell me!
Tell me!' he whines. 'There are no clues, no indication, no resolution to the mystery.' I pick up my black ash cane and rap him smartly across the knuckles. Hasn't he read the Book of Ecclesiastes? 'There's a time and place under heaven for everything.' So let me tell my tale. The little turd would never dream of standing up during one of Will Shakespeare's plays and shouting, 'Tell us what happens! Tell us what happens!' He would be pelted with fruit. In fact, that's not a bad idea ... If he's not careful, he'll get my empty wine goblet on the back of his little noddle. Ah well, good, that settled matters.)
Suffice to say we spent two fruitless days at Glastonbury and left as we came with only two scraps of information: first, Hopkins had been a monk at the abbey, and secondly had discovered his famous riddle there. Brother Eadred rode with us for a while, two or three miles from the abbey gates. At the crossroads he bade us adieu and warmly clasped Benjamin's hand. My master then turned to us.
'Please ride on,' he asked, 'all of you. I wish to raise a personal matter with Brother Eadred.'
I was a little hurt, Mandeville outraged.
'What is it?' he spluttered.
'Sir Edmund,' Benjamin quietly insisted, 'it is a matter of conscience, a confessional matter!'
Well, who could object? Sir Edmund made a sign and the soldiers, myself included, followed him further down the track. I looked round and saw my master in earnest conversation with the monk. Whatever he was saying clearly discomfited the librarian. Even from where I stood, I glimpsed Eadred's agitation. After a while Benjamin caught up with us.
'What was it, Master?' 'Not now, Roger,' he whispered. We continued on our journey to Templecombe. No snow had fallen during our stay at Glastonbury but the sky was growing overcast and threatening. Once we were past the village on the road up to the major, Sir Edmund, recalling my story about the ambush, ordered the soldiers to fan out before us. We made our way slowly. A biting wind tore at our cheeks, turning our fingers to blocks of ice, whilst our horses scrabbled to maintain a secure foothold. Suddenly, just as we rounded the bend and were able to glimpse the gables and turrets of Templecombe above the trees, one of the soldiers came riding back so fast his horse, slithering and clattering on the path, almost crashed into Mandeville's mount.
'What is it, man?' Southgate snarled.
The soldier's face was like a ghost's. The fellow opened his mouth soundlessly and pointed back down the track. Mandeville pushed his horse forward and we rounded the corner. At first, in the fading light, we could see nothing but the icy path, the snow-covered trees on either side -but then the flicker of a candle flame caught our eyes. It seemed to be standing in the snow, a little metal cap protecting it against the biting breeze, but as we approached closer, my stomach turned. Our horses became skittish. Mandeville and Southgate loudly cursed for the dirty white candle was held in the snow by a greyish-green, severed hand.
'Witchcraft!' Mandeville breathed.
'I'm not passing that!' one of the soldiers exclaimed.
'Remove it!' Mandeville ordered Southgate.
'In this matter, Sir Edmund, I would prefer not to act.'
'Come on, Roger,' Benjamin ordered.
We both dismounted and went to examine the obscenity. The hand was decomposing, the bloody stump of its wrist had turned into a black, congealed mess. The nails were discoloured, the fingers beginning to flake. The breeze shifted and we caught the stench of putrefaction.
'What is it?' Benjamin asked.
(Oh, I knew what it was! Even though I was still an innocent youth, Old Shallot had met the most fierce and sinister of warlocks, magicians and witches: men who used dark powers to unhinge the mind of their opponents. You take Shallot's advice on this: the power of witchcraft lies in what you can make other people think. I recently recounted such a theory when I met Will Shakespeare and Richard Burbage at the Globe. Old Will, God bless his kind eyes, was really taken with the idea: in a play he is now busily writing, he has a scene where witches, on a blasted heath in Scotland, put insidious ideas into the mind of a murderous nobleman called Macbeth.)
On that frozen trackway, however, I just stared at the grotesque thing lying in the snow; the hand seemed to be thrusting up through the earth as if some ghoul was struggling to rise from its grave.
'It's the Hand of Glory,' I explained.
Benjamin looked puzzled.
'A powerful talisman, Master,' I continued. 'The witch cuts the hand from a murdered man then fashions a candle out of human grease which is lighted and put into the hand. It's a way of calling up demons, a curse as well as a warning.'
Benjamin edged nearer. 'Do you think it works?'
I shrugged. 'Oh, I could call Satan up from hell, Master.'
Benjamin glared at me.
'But whether he'd come is another matter.'
(I once said the same thing to Will Shakespeare and, sure enough, it's in one of his plays. I think it's Henry IV Part 1, where Hotspur and Glendower are talking about magic.)
