by Mary Burns
I took longer to respond as to my sense of this good lady. “I am inclined to think she’s a good sort altogether, but there is something I can’t quite name—something that intrigues and needles me about her. I’m not sure I really trust her.”
John stared at me a bit. “I’m not quite with you there,” he said. “Although I think, perhaps, she may be able to tell us more about the Reverend’s last few weeks—I get the sense that she has worried about him—she may be able to shed light on what he was up to, that book he sent you and all.” His face softened, and he smiled just a bit. “I think she might be able to tell us a good deal about him.”
I looked at my dear friend and smiled. “And that, my dear Scamps, is why we are so good when we put our heads together—we each perceive such different aspects of humanity—it’s quite perfect!”
He looked at me, an amused gleam in his eye. “She called him Reverend Chaffee.”
“And what meaning do you ascribe to that?”
He shrugged, and waved a dismissive hand.
A discreet knock at the door brought our attention back to where we were, and how late it was growing—the sun had begun its long summer setting, already behind the surrounding trees. The door opened and Mrs. Barnstable appeared.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Paget,” she said, “but His Lordship’s carriage is at the door and ready to take you to the Brampton Arms, if you are of a mind to be going?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barnstable,” I said, getting up from the chair. “I do believe we are ready to depart. You have an admirable sense of timing.”
The housekeeper inclined her head slightly and held open the door for us to pass into the hall. It suddenly occurred to me that, in a way, I was her employer now.
“Mrs. Barnstable,” I said, not sure at first how to express my thoughts—but plain dealing is best for awkward situations. “Our dear Reverend Crickley named me as the executrix—and heiress—of his estate, and I think you should know that he was also very kind and generous in his will to those who, like yourself, cared for him and served him the last several years. I hope I may be able to sit down with you, perhaps tomorrow if that is convenient, to talk about all those matters?”
She bent her head again, nodding yes, but I could see a flush cross her features. Relief? Embarrassment? Interest?
“Mr. Sargent and I will come to Cottage Perilous in the late morning, to stay, and then we can discuss this more comfortably and at length.”
“Thank you, Miss Paget,” she said, composed once more. “Good evening to you, and to you as well, Mr. Sargent.” Here she looked up at John, a grateful and affectionate look which he returned with a warm smile.
That dear John—I almost wished I had a little of his warmth—but then, I felt sure, I wouldn’t have the greater strength of my intellect along with it.
14
Thereafter—as he speaks who tells the tale—
When Arthur reached a field-of-battle bright
With pitched pavilions of his foe, the world
Was all so clear about him, that he saw
The smallest rock far on the faintest hill,
And even in high day the morning star.
–Idylls of the King
20 June 1539
On the Way to Cumberland
A few days later, After the sun had set on the feast of St. Eadburga of Winchester, Gwillem Moor and Arthur slipped through the shadowy back gate of Glastonbury Abbey in the small hours of the night. They drove a wagon with wooden wheels, rimmed in iron; a sturdy young donkey, biddable but stubborn as donkeys can be, pulled the heavy load with a stout heart. The things they carried, disguised in tubs with a thin layer of wax, under drab brown cloth for monks’ robes, or other domestic stuff of little value, were but a small portion of the riches of Glastonbury, though of the greatest holiness and significance to true believers.
But there was one thing they could not carry away. The Abbot and the blind harper had hinted that the most sacred thing of all still lay secret in the church, though in so prominent a place it would be instantly missed if they were to take it away too soon. It would have to be the last thing to be removed, before the end. But how that would be done remained hidden in mist. Arthur racked his brain, thinking about what that one thing could be, but nothing came to mind that would satisfy.
The Abbot, with his brother monks John and Roger, had knelt on the stone floor of St. Joseph’s chapel, praying without ceasing for the safety of the travellers and their precious cargo. In three days it would be the feast day of St. Joseph of Arimathea, the most holy founder of the original wattle church in Glastonbury—the uncle, so it was written, of Christ the Lord. Surely, they thought, St. Joseph himself would provide safe passage for the blind harper and the young novice monk.
After an hour the brothers had risen, silent and drained of strength but hopeful that their prayers would be heard. They retreated to their respective rooms, there to ponder, sleepless, the changing fortunes of men within the Providence of God—some day, perhaps they would understand better what God had had in mind by unleashing this torrent of tyranny and destruction on His pilgrim Church.
“Tis the feast day of St. Alban and St. Edward,” Arthur said softly. He and Gwillem Moor prepared to sleep as the sun rose. He knelt on the ground where he’d spread out his cloak, and said his prayers. The days were almost at the longest, so their night journeys needed to be swift as possible to cover ground without being detected.
“Aye,” said the blind harper, “and tomorrow is Litha’s Eve.” His sightless eyes seemed to pierce the green depths of the woods surrounding them. “May be best not to travel through that night.”
The cart and the donkey were carefully hidden away from the camp, and so skillfully were they screened that even Arthur, who knew where they were, was hard pressed to see them from where he knelt on the ground. Gwillem Moor had an uncanny way of settling the donkey so it made never a sound, even when munching its handful of hay, and the wooden cart blended into the trees and bushes as if by magic. They were in a very small clearing inside a ring of high holly, and Arthur had barely been able to discern the path they had taken through the forest to get there. And although he typically held the lead as he walked alongside the donkey, he knew that the occasional touch from the harper was enough to direct the plodding animal, even in mere moonlight flickering through the trees, into the right way.
“Three nights we have travelled,” Gwillem Moor said, his voice low and murmuring, at one with the small sound of a nearby brook. He canted his face to the East, where the sun was gaining strength, and then turned to the West and the North. “The moon will be whole on Litha’s Eve, then it wanes.” He took off his cloak and laid it on the ground, and sat down. “When it is whole again, then shall we see Cumberland’s rocky vales.”
Arthur felt the warmth of the singer’s palm on his head, and heard the soft blessing.
“Sleep well, young son of Arthur, son of Joseph, no harm will come to us here in the forest.”
Arthur slept the sleep of youth and innocence—and though Gwillem Moor closed not his sightless eyes, yet he rested.
A strong prickling on the back of his neck woke Arthur from his sleep—it was late day, judging from the position of the sun, though it hung like the Holy Eucharist, white and pale and perfectly round, shrouded in clouds, above the forest crown. He sat up and looked left and right—no sign of Gwillem Moor, not his cloak nor his harp. A rising panic shook the boy, then he took hold, steadying himself with a quick prayer. Swiftly and quietly he stood, shook out his cloak, and threw it around his shoulders. He felt a sudden movement of the air in the tiny green clearing, and cautiously turned to look behind him.
Gwillem Moor appeared in the midst of the bushes, barely visible against the colors and patterns of the branches and leaves—Arthur would have sworn he was the Green Man himself, appearing at Midsummer to lead the dance. The harper nodded, motioning with a finger for Arthur to join him.
As he gained the cover of the bushes, he heard again what had caused that prickle on his neck.
Voices in the air sang a series of vowel sounds, drawn out and low, shaped by tongues and lips to perform an undercurrent of drone, above which floated the individual notes:
O - A - O – U - E - I - Y
A thrill ran through Arthur’s nerves and bones like lightning in water. Eyes wide, he looked up at Gwillem Moor, who was smiling faintly.
“The Old Ones,” he said in a whisper. “Now watch, and tell me what you see.”
The forest around them had grown still and hushed, as if the very stones held their breath. A flutter of wings broke through the air, a black and white flash, a call of pee-wit! pee-wit!
“A lapwing!”
Again, the deepest silence, into which a drumming sound of rapid running, an animal, low to the ground. Through the clearing burst a dog, small and sturdy, its eyes bright black against a coat of brilliant white, its plumy tail a flag streaming behind it. If Arthur had blinked, he would have missed it, so fast did it run.
“A white dog!”
Arthur turned to the blind harper, impatient for some kind of explanation, but Gwillem Moor put a finger to his lips again.
A trumpet call, not close but not too far, sounding through the forest.
“King’s men,” Gwillem Moor whispered. “Be still.”
After a few minutes, the gallop of horses could be heard from the main road, about a half-mile down the hillside from their little camp. There was a shout, the horses came to an abrupt halt, and then, to Arthur’s dismay, came the sound of something thrashing and ascending through bushes, straight up the hill towards them. A hunting horn’s call pierced the still air, and a moment later a roebuck burst into view.
Arthur drew in his breath, his eyes wide. The roebuck was small, but magnificent—white it was, with silvery antlers strong and hardy—he’d never seen anything like it; most roebucks were dull and brown. It was close enough to Arthur that he could see how its strong leg muscles trembled as it paused, ready to leap away.
“Oh, please, Lord,” Arthur prayed, scarcely knowing what words he used, “please let it get away. Don’t let it be killed.”
The roebuck turned its shapely head and gazed straight at Arthur and the blind harper, its large, soft eyes intelligent and calm. Then without a sound, it leaped away and disappeared. Gwillem Moor had laid his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and his tightened grip warned the boy to continue in silence and stillness.
Moments later, a greater commotion on the far side of the clearing was heard as two men scrambled into view—King’s men no doubt, always to be feared, whose license was to harass strangers on the road, and crofters who lived far from a town—demanding testament of their being true subjects of His Majesty, and extracting goods and ale as evidence of their loyalty. These two were particularly nasty looking, thought Arthur, feeling that for all Gwillem Moor’s skills, neither himself nor the harper was a match for these men with their knives and clubs, and soldiers’ ruthless ways. He held his breath as the two men stood in the center of the clearing, looking all about them.
“He’s gone,” one of them said, the shorter of the two, with red hair and beard; he was gasping a little from the rapid climb. “Told you we’d never catch the beast…stupid idea…why’d I go along….” His mutterings came to a halt as the other man, taller, darker, better dressed and clearly used to leading, held up his hand for silence. He sniffed the air, like a dog, Arthur thought—or a wolf.
“What is it?” Red-beard said in a low voice, looking around. He put his hand on the hilt of his dagger.
“Something…strange,” the dark man said. He was peering into the bushes that ringed the clearing, scanning for a hint of what disturbed him. Arthur could have sworn an oath that the dark man looked directly into his eyes—he made himself keep them open, not daring to blink—but then the dark eyes passed on and looked elsewhere. With a jolt, he realized he knew the man—Richard Layton, the King’s chief Visitor. It had been four years since he’d seen him, but it wasn’t a face that was easily forgotten.
Red-beard was clearly growing uneasy, and said so. “I don’t like this place,” he said, making a hasty sign of the cross. “Let’s get out of here.” When his companion didn’t respond, Red-beard urged him again. “Layton! It grows late.”
The dark man continued to sniff the air, then shook his head. “All right,” he said. He looked further uphill and made a sound like a curse. “If only we could have caught that stag,” he said.
The two continued to grumble in low tones as they broke through the bushes again on the far side of the clearing. Arthur could hear them crashing and tearing their way down the hill, and the shout that greeted them when they returned to their fellows. Moments later, the gallop of horses echoed around the hills, and they were gone.
Arthur and Gwillem Moor eased themselves out into the clearing, their tension flowing away with the narrow escape.
“Richard Layton,” Arthur said, excited. “He came to Glaston four years ago, and spent days in the library—we thought he’d never come out again, he loved it so.”
“He is Henry’s creature,” said Gwillem Moor, his mouth set in a grim line. “We must go further West,” he said. “Away from the roads, and into the hills above where the Severn meets the Avon.”
“There is a great Abbey not too far from there,” Arthur said. “Tintern, on the Wye, where the White Monks of St. Benedict live—” He broke off, his soul sick as memory surged. “No, God save us, but the King took it, three years ago.” He looked up at the harper. “But perhaps some of the brothers are still there? We could hide there for a day, and pray with them?”
Gwillem Moor shook his head. “Naught but the wind and the crows live in the empty halls of Tintern Abbey,” he said. “Besides, lad,” he continued, “we best walk away from all men, and keep company only with ourselves and our Alaric here.” He smiled, and Arthur heard a soft wickering as the donkey answered to the sound of its name.
“But wait, Gwillem Moor,” Arthur said. “What was that singing we heard? And the lapwing?” He looked into the harper’s clear, blind eyes as if hoping to read an answer there. “And the dog? The roebuck? What was all that?”
“The Old Ones of the hills have given us a sign,” the harper said. “They worship the Goddess still, and She has sent her three servants to protect us.” He turned his head this way and that, sniffing the air. “They know that what we carry must stay hidden, and they will help us.”
Arthur opened his mouth, but no words came. The Old Ones, and the Goddess. His Christian upbringing had trained him to think of the old religion as pagan superstition, unenlightened by the good news of the Resurrection and man’s new freedom from sin. But he had seen for himself, had felt…something…strange and strong and powerful. He found his voice for a final question.
“And the singing? What were they singing?”
Gwillem Moor looked grim, and began to move away.
“It was the sound of the Name,” was all he said, but Arthur saw the blind harper’s left hand move in a gesture to ward against the strongest magic.
15
I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser fowl,
And reason in the chase: but wherefore now
Do these your lords stir up the heat of war?
–Idylls of the King
Brampton, Cumberland
Tuesday Early Evening
The incomparable luxury of one’s own carriage and driver can not be overstated—although yes, of course, His Lordship’s barouche was not my own—but it felt like it. John and I travelled the short distance to the hotel in utter silence, which was grateful to both of us, I believe. Though we were well past Midsummer’s Day, the sun was still glowing in the west, and had some three hours before it would fully set. What a long day! I was exhausted yet exhilarated, my mind racing with possibilities.
Inside, we ascended the stairs together, and with a brief agreement to meet in
the dining room at eight o’clock for dinner, we parted to our separate rooms.
There was no Maisie on the watch for me this time, and because I am more used than not to dressing and undressing myself without the help of a ladies’ maid, I quickly freed myself from my travelling clothes—I wanted to burn them. I felt I had been wearing them for weeks, so much had occurred in so short a time—and I was soon laid down upon the bed to rest, and to think.
How odd the dimension of time is! This morning, alighting from the train and hearing the devastating news about Uncle Chaffee—it seemed as if that had happened weeks ago, and yet mere hours had intervened. And now, looking at the clock on the table near my bed—it was just six—I surmised that because in two hours I would have to be dressed and ready to dine when all I wanted to do was sleep the night away, those two hours would pass in the proverbial blink of an eye. How elastic our perception of time, to be so bound to our emotions, our expectations, our fears, our duties—it made me wonder if people who lived in the world when there were no clocks, or few, felt the same variableness? Was the feudal knight in his castle as well as the farmer in the field subject only to the cyclically timed movements (as then perceived) of the sun and the moon? Did every day and night seem always to march on at a similar pace, along with the change of the seasons, or did the good people of antiquity also experience the passage of time as sudden or slow, without the aid of a watch to tell them scientifically how much actual time had passed?
With these musings flitting through my over-stimulated brain, I easily fell asleep within moments, and slept for what I determined later was more than an hour. I would undoubtedly have slept on longer, but was abruptly roused by a sound very like the click of a door latch upon closing. Those kinds of sounds—the ones that don’t belong in the normal state of things—are the ones that break through the unconscious, in my experience. Instantly alert, I sat up in the bed, listening intently. My bedroom was dark, as I had pulled the heavy drapes shut against the still bright evening sky—but I had left the door partly open, and the lamp in the other room provided enough light to see. My heart was pounding, and I was just throwing aside the coverlet when I heard a tapping upon the door, and someone calling my name.