We were awakened the next morning by Sir Henry Bowyer's rough arrival accompanied by at least a dozen likely-looking rogues. These were not shire levies but professional soldiers who acted as the sheriff's posse in the pursuit of criminals. Bowyer was a short, squat man with very little hair and a cheery red face. He was always smiling and greeted us most amicably as we broke our fast in the great hall.
Nevertheless, he was a man you wouldn't trust. He had piss-holes as eyes, foul breath, decaying teeth and an attitude towards Mandeville which can only be described as servile. The sort of man whose head has been turned by success and left him staring in the wrong direction.
Bowyer's troopers, as professional soldiers are wont, soon made themselves at home in the courtyard and outhouses: within an hour, Sir John was receiving complaints of food being stolen from the kitchen; jugs of wine mysteriously emptying; and chickens, full of life the night before, suddenly being killed, plucked and spitted over makeshift fires. Santerre, however, had problems of his own as Mandeville, assisted by Southgate and a servile Bowyer, had the great hall cleared and turned into a shire court. He and Bowyer sat at the high table, the Santerres and ourselves were treated as onlookers. Mandeville then gathered all the servants, cooks, scullions, chambermaids, Mathilda included, even the men from the stables. He addressed them in short, pithy sentences and promptly began his interrogation of each of them.
'How long have you served here?' 'Does the word "Templar" mean anything to you?' 'Did anyone approach the chapel yesterday afternoon?'
The servants were good but simple people, local peasants who simply shook their heads and stared wide-eyed at this powerful lord from London. Nevertheless, I admired Mandeville's skill for, as he questioned, I caught the unease of some of them. Nothing really significant: a flicker of the eyes, a slight paleness of the face. Answers given too quickly and too readily. Mathilda herself was very ill-at-ease, shifting from foot to foot. Mandeville sensed this and closed like a hawk for the kill. 'You are the linen maid?' Mathilda nodded. 'Aren't you curious about these strangers staying in your master's house?' She shook her head. 'So you have not abused your position by searching our belongings?' Mathilda's eyes flickered quickly towards me. 'No, Master,' she murmured.
'I can vouch for that,' I exclaimed. 'The girl didn't know I was in my room when she was changing the linen. She's the complete opposite to me, Sir Edmund, honest as the day is long.'
Benjamin looked strangely at me but a ripple of laughter lessened the tension and Mathilda was dismissed. The others came up. Mandeville asked the questions, or sometimes Southgate. Occasionally, to show his power, the sheriff would try to hector, though Mandeville kept him firmly under control. At last it was finished but before the servants were dismissed, Mandeville ordered their quarters to be searched. Sir John and Lady Beatrice vehemently objected to this, so Benjamin offered to supervise the soldiers and ensure it was not used as a pretext for theft or pillage.
This search, like the questioning, proved fruitless so Mandeville brusquely dismissed the servants. I watched them leave, paying particular attention to Mathilda and how she held the arm of a grizzle-haired, thickset man who appeared to be her father. I noticed he had a slight limp; I recalled the attack on me the previous day and the wounds I had unwittingly inflicted, but decided to keep the matter to myself. After that we made a thorough search of the chapel, its walls, flagstones and altar, but there was nothing. We even looked under the ancient stalls the Templars once sat in, and I confess (as is the wont of old Shallot) I did little work but spent most of the time admiring the brilliant carvings on the misericord of each stall. The first three enthralled me: a man, miserably clutching a winding frame, being birched on the buttocks by his wife; a tapster drinking; and two peasants disembowelling a slaughtered pig. Each carving was a breath-taking picture in itself. Benjamin came over to join me.
'The Templars,' he declared, 'would come into the stalls and raise the seats. The carvings were placed on the reverse, not only for ornamentation's sake but to make the seats heavier.' He grinned and pointed to the woman birching her husband. 'The local craftsmen always enjoyed themselves, depicting scenes far from sacred.'
Mandeville, however, had finished his search which proved just as fruitless as the previous day's and told us to leave. We all moved out of the church down to the lake which glistened brightly, though the island itself was still mist-shrouded. A number of barges were hidden in the trees along the lakeside and Mandeville and Santerre ordered these to be brought together. They were cleaned of frozen mud, made ready, and we all clambered aboard, Bowyer's soldiers poling us across.
God be my witness, that island was the most mysterious I had ever visited. It was damp, cold, eerie and uncanny. The trees were too close together and the snow-covered gorse seemed to have a life of its own, blocking our passage with its thick stems. We struggled through, soaking ourselves to the skin.
'Have you noticed anything?' Benjamin breathlessly whispered. He stopped and looked up at the tangle of gaunt branches above him. 'No birds here! No rooks, no crows, nothing at all!'
I stopped and listened, straining my ears for any sound above the crashing of the soldiers or the muttered curses as men slipped on the icy ground underfoot. This raucous noise only seemed to emphasize the ominous silence of the island and reminded me of a story I had heard from a traveller who claimed to have sailed the Western Ocean and come across islands inhabited by ghosts of dead sailors. I shivered and muttered a curse. Mandeville and the others had now drawn their swords and were cutting their way through. The Agentes, in particular, seemed to be affected by the oppressive mood of the island and were taking out their fears in the hacking blows of their swords.
At last we reached a clearing and the desolate building we had glimpsed from the shore. It was of yellowing sandstone with a dark, red-tiled roof, no windows but thin, trefoil arrow slits in the walls. The iron-studded door was padlocked. Santerre apologised, he had no key, so Southgate hacked the padlock off and kicked the door open. We walked in and torches were lit. Believe me, the sombre atmosphere of that place seemed a living thing which clutched the heart and dulled the spirit. Nothing in particular, just a yawning emptiness, a cold chilling air which had little to do with the ice and snow outside. 'A home of death,' I muttered. 'Or a very sacred place,' Benjamin replied.
Mandeville ordered the soldiers to stand round the walls, taking their torches which spluttered bravely against the darkness. I had the almost childish impression that if we kept within the pools of light everything would be fine but, beyond the flames, shadows lurked and powers even darker waited to catch you by the throat. The floor was hard paving stone, the walls lime-washed, the room devoid of even a stick of furniture.
The soldiers grew uneasy and grumbled amongst themselves so Mandeville shouted at them to begin the search. Those men were professional foragers and, if there was a loose paving stone or secret passageway, they would have found it, but there was nothing. Benjamin, however, just squatted, moving like a spider from one paving stone to another. He stopped, exclaiming in surprise, so we gathered round as he scraped the floor with his finger.
'Candle grease,' he observed. 'Someone has been here and fairly recently.'
Other drops were found but nothing else so Mandeville ordered us to resume our search. I kept a wary eye on Santerre for this bluff manor lord, usually afraid of nothing, stayed near the door like a child frightened of a dark, strange room. 'Is anything wrong?' I asked. Santerre shook his head but his face was pallid and I saw the beads of sweat on his cheeks. 'What is it?' I muttered. The soldiers pushed by us, eager to get out. Santerre just shook his head. 'Nothing,' he muttered. 'Are you sure?' Benjamin asked, coming up beside him.
Again Santerre nodded. Benjamin looked up at the whitewashed wall above the door. He waited until the rest had left. 'Sir John, I think something is very wrong and Mandeville, in his haste, has overlooked it.' Santerre just stared at him.
'It's the walls,' Benjamin continued. 'They have been recently white-washed. Now why was that done, eh?'
'I don't know,' Santerre mumbled and trudged off to join the others.
We crossed back to the other bank, Mandeville striding away from the barge, shouting orders at Southgate. A cart pulled out from the courtyard, driven by a soldier taking the two coffins down to the village church where the priest would sing a requiem and those two pathetic brothers be buried and, in time, forgotten. Mandeville made ready to follow. The pompous Bowyer was ordered to stay at the manor but Sir Edmund waved us over.
'You will come with us to Glastonbury, though first we have one further task to accomplish.'
He refused to say any more so we collected riding boots, hats and cloaks from our chambers. A white-faced Mathilda sped by me in the gallery but Benjamin was shouting for me so I decided not to accost her. We collected our horses, took leave of Santerre and galloped down the frozen, cobbled track as if Mandeville intended to waste no time in reaching Glastonbury before nightfall. We rode a good way along the track before Mandeville slowed, leaned over and talked quietly to Southgate. Eventually they reined in.
Southgate declared, 'Yes, this is the spot,' and I realised we were going witch-hunting. We dismounted. One soldier was ordered to guard the horses whilst another, a lean whippet of a man with leathery skin and sea-blue eyes, was beckoned over by Mandeville. Sir Edmund grasped the soldier by the shoulder and introduced him.
'Bowyer calls this man Pointer because he is a skilled hunter. If anyone can find his way through the tracks and forest paths to where that hag lives, Pointer will!' The man grinned wolfishly, showing jagged teeth. He was well named. I have seen better looking hunting dogs. Mandeville fished in his purse and brought out a silver coin, rolling it in his fingers. Pointer watched it greedily. 'Find this old bitch's hut and two of these are yours.'
Pointer needed no further encouragement and I was too intrigued to object to floundering through the frozen bracken. Pointer set off through the trees with a loping stride. God knows how he did, they were clumped together and the undergrowth beneath made more treacherous by a carpet of snow. On no occasion did Pointer seem bemused or in doubt but led us on, disregarding the ankle-deep snow and the sudden flurries and falls from over-hanging branches.
(On reflection, men like Pointer are not so rare. Once, in the wild dark woods of Muscovy, I was hunted by men and dogs in one of the most terrifying escapades of my life. I had been invited to a banquet by some mad Russian prince. What I didn't know was that I was the entertainment afterwards! Before the hunt began, the mad bastard told me that if the yellow-haired mastiffs did not tear me to pieces, I'd be pulled apart by horses. You can be assured I needed no further encouragement to run on that occasion, but that's another tale.)
Now I dislike the countryside at the height of summer, but that forest was bewitched. I protested loudly against the darkness, nature's traps and, above all, kept thinking of those assailants who'd attacked me yesterday. 'A natural place for an ambush,' I cried. Mandeville grinned and wiped the sweat from his face.
That's why I told no one back at the manor of our visit. I want to give this old bitch the surprise of her life.'
At last the trees gave way to a clearing. At the far end was a small rocky hillock as if huge boulders had been jammed together by the hand of some mythical giant. At the base of this cliff was a large cavern. Mandeville drew his sword and we followed suit, though God knows what we expected to find. We strode cautiously across as if the old hag might appear at the mouth of the cave, uttering curses and dire prophecies, yet everything remained silent.
Benjamin stopped and pointed to the entrance. There had been a light snowfall the previous night but it looked as if someone else had been here, visited the witch then gone back to the line of trees, covering their tracks by using a switch of old branches so no imprint could be seen. We entered the cave. The fire which should have flared at the entrance was a pile of wet ash and the oil-topped torches were extinguished. Mandeville lit one of these and we went deeper in.
A strange place – carvings on the wall which, Benjamin explained, must be centuries old. The cave itself was surprisingly warm and we realised we were walking through a gallery which led us into a lofty underground cavern. It was furnished like any room. The rushes on the floor were clean and sprinkled with herbs. A cooking pot hung on a tripod though the logs beneath were now blackened cinders. I glimpsed a chest and coffer, table and stool. In the far corner was a bed and, beside this, slumped like a disused doll, lay the witch. Benjamin hastened over and grasped the woman's shoulder.
She turned, arms flailing, head back, eyes open – but the gaping mouth would utter no more prophecies, her breath cut off by the red garrotte cord round her scrawny neck.
Mandeville just cursed and lashed out, sending a stool flying. Southgate crouched by my master and felt the nape of the old woman's neck, trying to ignore those staring, popping eyes.
'She's been dead for hours,' he commented. 'Her skin's cold as a dead snake's.'
He got up and wiped his hands. 'Sir Edmund, the old witch apparently played her part and now she, too, has been removed.' 'I agree,' Benjamin replied. 'But who killed her?' Mandeville snapped.
'I suspect the same people or person responsible for the murders of Cosmas and Damien, not to mention your agents in London.'
Benjamin pointed at the grotesque corpse. 'She was only a paid player, a silly old woman. The murderer knew we would make her talk. She may have been killed any time in the last two days.'
'You mean someone from Templecombe?' Southgate asked.
'Possibly,' Benjamin replied. 'One of the family, or a servant, or perhaps by the Templars themselves.' My master shrugged. 'We are strangers and how long did it take us -ten to fifteen minutes – to come here? Yet there must be secret routes and trackways into the forest. The murderer probably came by these, killed the old woman and went back, making sure he removed all trace of his movements.'
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 tablets 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.'