by Mary Burns
All this in a simple song, sung by a blind man to folk who could nor read nor write, but whom he could trust to help speed them on the rest of their journey north, and keep silent to the death.
17
Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards?
“Confusion, and illusion, and relation,
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion”?
–Idylls of the King
Brampton, Cumberland
Tuesday Evening
John was waiting in the dining room, and I couldn’t help noticing as I rushed in, that we were almost the only ones there, although earlier in the day the room had been full of people. A waiter stood by the door to what I presumed was the kitchen, and eyed me curiously as I made my way to the table. John smiled and stood up as I approached, and held the chair for me to be seated. Just then, the only other occupants of the room, an older couple, well but not fashionably dressed, rose and left the room; the gentleman barely nodded as he passed, but the lady almost glared at me. Perhaps without Lord Parke at our side, we were merely outsiders of no account.
“What is amiss?” I said, glancing around the room. “Are we so unfashionably late in dining as to have garnered the opprobrium of the bourgeoisie of Brampton? Or are we somehow scandalous?”
“I expect it’s the latter,” John said, resuming his seat. He caught the attending waiter’s eye, and the man sauntered over. “Let’s increase the scandal, and order a bottle of wine,” he said, mischief in his eyes. He spoke to the waiter, who—I swear by all the Roman gods—positively leered at me, which John also saw and which made him frown. “A bottle of the Chateau Épernay, you wretch, and be quick about it,” John said, more than a trifle imperiously. The waiter paled slightly, bowed his apologies, and scuttled away.
“What on earth…!” I said. Then illumination struck. “They think we’re lovers!” I cried. “How delightful! C’est une etourderie magnifique!”
“Stupidity indeed,” John echoed, shaking his head and muttering, “they have no idea how wrong they are.”
I gazed at my friend thoughtfully. That last remark was unlike him, almost unchivalrous, despite the glaring idiocy of the Bramptonians’ suppositions. But he had said it sotto voce, so I politely assumed he hadn’t meant it to be heard, or commented upon. I let it be, and turned the subject.
“Well,” I said, “prepare yourself for something much more disturbing than an impertinent waiter.” I paused to make sure I had his attention. I looked around—there truly was no one near.
“Someone came into my room whilst I was asleep—just now—and rifled through my things!” Despite our complete isolation, I had leaned over the table and whispered my news.
He was appropriately shocked and dismayed. “They were after the book,” he said, and I saw further that my intelligent friend had come to the same, instant conclusion as I had done—that this was proof of murder most foul. I discreetly glanced at my reticule, which I had placed on the table to keep it always in my line of vision, and he nodded in acknowledgement.
“But that puts you in grave danger, Violet,” he said. “And that is not acceptable.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound brave, “I sincerely doubt anyone is going to throw me down a flight of stairs.” But my words reminded me too vividly of Uncle Chaffee, and I broke off abruptly.
The waiter, solicitous and respectful now, returned with the wine, poured out two glasses, took our orders—I let John choose dinner for me, he knows what I like and don’t like—and left us in peace.
“This is not good, Vi,” John said. “I’m very glad, however, that we’ll be moving to your uncle’s cottage tomorrow, where I’ll be near to keep an eye on things.” He shook out his napkin vigorously, and placed it on his lap.
I was amused and touched by his protectiveness. “I daresay,” I mused, “that we will be safer at Uncle Chaffee’s Cottage Perilous—though, given the circumstances, it may be as easy, perhaps, to gain entrance to it as apparently it is in this hotel.”
We fell silent, both of us thoughtful about this turn of events. I contemplated bringing up the information I’d received from Annie, about Lord Parke’s questionable goings-on, but decided against it—John seemed to get on with him, and I felt that such a delicate subject should not be broached over dinner, at the very least. And really, it was beside the point altogether. John roused himself first.
“I sent a note, by the way, to our Mr. Gravely,” he said. He consulted his watch. “He’s coming here to see us, at nine o’clock—I hope that’s acceptable?”
“Of course, I’m so glad you did that,” I said. “I had quite forgotten we needed to speak with him again.”
The waiter arrived with our dinners, and we proceeded to eat in near silence.
Mr. Gravely arrived just as our plates were being cleared away. John stood to greet him.
“You are most welcome to join us, Mr. Gravely, sir,” he said, with a slight bow. Mr. Gravely responded in kind, and also made a short bow to me. The gentlemen sat down and we looked at each other as if not quite knowing what to say next. We had the dining room entirely to ourselves, and I decided to begin.
“Mr. Gravely,” I said, “you indicated earlier today that you had some doubts about the nature of my…of Reverend Crickley’s death. We would very much like to hear those reservations.” I was on the edge of telling him about my room being searched, but decided that might bias his thinking unduly.
He nodded and leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table.
“As I pointed out to you at the time,” he said, “there were some strange marks on the Reverend’s shins, which I couldn’t account for as occurring in a fall down the stairs.” He looked at me sharply, and then John. “Have you been to the cottage? Have you seen the place….?”
“Yes,” I said. “Mrs. Barnstable was so good as to show us the library, and relate to us all that she saw this morning. It was little enough,” I added, thinking back on what we learned.
“Did you examine the staircase?” Mr. Gravely asked.
We shook our heads.
“I would suggest that you do so at the first possible opportunity,” he said. He leaned forward a little more, and lowered his voice—he had noticed, as I had, that the waiter was beginning to hover. “Look for a thin wire, strung across the steps, probably near the top of the stairs; or if not a wire, then marks of some kind that might show that a wire had been attached at some point.”
I grew chill with the horror of it. “You mean someone set a trap for him, to catch at his legs and cause him to fall down the stairs?” Though I knew it was what I had been thinking, that it was a deliberate act, somehow the details made it more heinous.
“Good God,” said John. “What a monstrous thing to do!” His face reflected a sudden, dreadful thought. “If the wire is not there,” he said, “then that would mean either the murderer was present at the time and was able to remove it immediately, or…”
“Or that he came back at some later point and removed it,” I finished his thought. Or she came back, I thought to myself.
As we all reflected on these ideas, the waiter came forward and asked if there were anything more we might want.
“Coffee,” I said. John and Mr. Gravely nodded, and the waiter retreated again, looking none too happy with our continued presence. Wanting to go home, no doubt, I thought—and then thought again, and why not? Poor man, hanging about waiting upon such idle creatures as we when he could be off at the local with his friends or home with a young wife, perhaps. Goodness, I thought, John’s compassionate nature is beginning to rub off on me!
I resolutely turned my attention back to the dire conversation.
“Mr. Gravely,” I said. “Mr. Sargent and I will be decamping from the Brampton Arms tomorrow and taking up residence at the Cottage Perilous, certainly by noon. Would you be available—and so kind—as to join us there to pursue this line of inquiry?”
“I would be proud to do so, Miss Paget,” he
said.
“And something else,” I said, glancing at my reticule with its precious cargo. “Are you at all familiar with Reverend Crickley’s collection of relics?”
“Well, yes and no,” he said, leaning back in his chair, and looking a little puzzled at the question.
The waiter brought coffee, served us, and left. How pedestrian are the interruptions of everyday life!
“Was there anything particularly special about the Reverend’s collection?” I pursued.
“Well, as far as I know and can remember,” Mr. Gravely said, “Reverend Crickley was always most interested in any bit of an item that could be linked to the old Abbey of Glastonbury.” He paused a moment, drank his coffee, and went on. “I know he took great pains to search out antiquities dealers and estate auctions where relics were on offer—it was a matter of some importance to him that these religious items should not be simply left to chance buyers, but should be saved—that was his word for it—by someone who valued them properly.”
He shook his head, with a rueful smile.
“Meaning no disrespect, ma’am, but I didn’t understand very well what the attraction was—I see enough of bones and bits of flesh, I’m guessing, to find such things of any importance, other than merely historical.” He shrugged. “I expect most of them are fake, in any event.”
I nodded in agreement, but John was roused to express himself, unusual for him.
“But that’s not the point, you see,” he said. “Even if they were trumped-up fakeries, even back in the days when people believed in them, it was the belief that mattered—the faith that such things represented—they were symbols of something invisible that people turned to for help and guidance, for … for grace. Those things were symbolic of a whole world, a whole universe, that helped people make sense of a brutal, dangerous world. A world we know almost nothing about, these days. The scientists and philosophers have driven the faeries away and made of the saints a laughingstock.” His face was flushed, and he abruptly stopped speaking, suddenly conscious of being the focus of our attention.
I had never heard such a long or impassioned speech from John before. It actually made me speechless—almost.
“What you say is very heartfelt, my dear John, very real, from a certain perspective,” I said carefully. “But surely, in this day and age, is it not the case that people have become free from the thrall of that kind of belief, of superstition and ignorance, and rather, seek the truth of Nature and Humanity in rational terms, in facts? Is that not a better way than looking to a supernatural force—whether religious or magical—to guide one’s decisions and understanding of life?”
John and I looked long at each other—it was a discussion we’d had many times—and neither of us had ever been able to persuade the other completely to our views. He shrugged and took a sip of his coffee.
Mr. Gravely pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. “People are pretty much the same in every age,” he said. He looked at me with his clear brown eyes. “Believers or not, we are always looking for grace.”
We absorbed the truth of this for a few quiet moments, but I had more questions.
“Wasn’t he also interested in anything related to the Arthurian legends that are also tied to Glastonbury, and the whole Somerset land down in the southwest?” I asked.
“Yes, he was,” the coroner said. “But there you might want to consult with Mr. George Howard, over to Naworth Castle—he and the Reverend both had a keen interest in Arthur—there’s some as say that actual artifacts from that time—jewels, a crown, weapons, as well as precious sacred vessels from the Abbey—were hidden in the great, thick walls of the castle, several centuries ago, though nothing of that sort has ever been found.” He looked at me and John, nodding slightly. “Believe me, the castle has been thoroughly searched for such things. And then, there was the fire, of course, which destroyed nearly the whole building.”
“When was that?” John asked.
“Oh, some thirty years back, now,” he said, shaking his head at the memory. “I was a young man then, as was the Reverend, and I remember the both of us rushing out to the Castle with many of the townspeople, though it was too late to save much.” He glanced kindly at me. “Your dear friend and mine, alas, stood with tears streaming down his face at the loss of so much history and beauty.”
There seemed no more to say after that sad reminiscence. We finished our coffee in silence, and then parted, agreeing to meet at the cottage at noon the next day.
18
Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest,
The King is King, and ever wills the highest.
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.
–Idylls of the King
24 June 1539
Glastonbury Abbey
Richard Layton and his henchmen rode through the great arched gateway of the Abbey two days after Midsummer, on the Feast of John the Baptist. The Abbot espied them from his chamber window, and felt a desperate fear clutch his heart. He knelt at once, praying to God and all the saints and kings whose relics lay at Glastonbury, that this was not the end—not yet. He had hidden away so much, and yet not nearly enough. Two previous visits, last year, by the King’s men had left the Abbey with less gold, less silver plate, fewer chalices and richly embroidered linens—but each time, Henry’s ruffians had not touched the relics, nor the books.
He rose from the floor, now so slowly, more than ever. It was not for himself he prayed—he had long accepted his inevitable fate in this treacherous time—but for his brothers, and for the poor who depended on the Abbey’s care, and especially for Arthur and the blind harper on their journey. And yet, he could not help crying out from his heart, I am old, Lord, let your servant go in peace.
But he straightened his shoulders, and passed his hands over his face, willing himself to be calm in the face of this latest affront. He felt daily the lack of Arthur’s youthful courage and care; he was grateful for what had been. He walked back to the window, in time to see the King’s men alight from their horses, greeted by the cellerar. He looked more closely at a second figure who appeared on the scene—Brother Anselm, who held back a little, standing near an alcove that led to the cloistered walk.
“Anselm!” It was Layton’s voice, harsh and commanding. The Abbot’s breath froze in his chest. Was there more treachery afoot? Would Brother Anselm sell them out, for money, or security? He turned back into the room, not wishing to see it. What would be, would be.
Layton delayed coming to see the Abbot for at least an hour, and then barely allowed the monk to announce him at the door before he strode in, alone. The others must be feasting or taking their rest, thought the Abbot, steeling himself for another cat-and-mouse interrogation. May the Holy Ghost give me the words to say, and the grace to be strong.
“The peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you,” the Abbot said.
Layton still had the decency to respond with a show of respect. “And with your spirit, my Lord Abbot.” But he stood before the old man, towering in his youth and strength, the full knowledge of the King’s power in his eyes and stance.
Suddenly the Abbot felt the flame of outrage, and he spoke forthrightly.
“What is it you want this time, Richard?”
“My lord, you wrong me,” Layton said, his tone silky, sounding hurt. “It is the King who asks for your tribute, and your obedience, not I.” He sauntered further into the chamber, glancing at the bare walls and floors, the crudely carved wooden bowls and clay vessels on the table.
“You have exchanged the elegance of an Abbot’s chambers for the simplicity of a monk’s cell, since last I attended you,” he said.
“We follow the strictures of our blessed founder to live in poverty, chastity and obedience,” the Abbot said mildly. He gestured around the room. “It is for Kings to live in elegance and richesse, as befits their station on this earth.”
Layton grunted an indecipherable reply.
“I understand,”
he began slowly, as he walked around the room, circling the Abbot, “that there have been attempts to, shall we say, safeguard some of the Abbey’s more precious items?” He looked mockingly at the old priest. “You wouldn’t know anything about that?”
The Abbot pressed his thin lips together and stood very still.
“Perhaps that might explain why, on their last two visits, my colleagues found a great deal less of silver plate and embroidered goods than one might expect in such a fine place as this—in fact, so much less than I recall seeing upon my visit here four years ago?”
He had walked up close to the Abbot and was looking intently in his face.
“Your visit four years ago,” the Abbot said, then bethought himself. Better not mention the library, and how impressed Layton was, he decided. He kept his lips closed.
“Well,” Layton said, abruptly turning away. “Enough of this game—my men are even now searching some of those safe-guarded places, and we expect that the King will be very happy to accept the gifts offered by his obedient servant, Abbot Whiting of Glastonbury.”
“Sarcasm does not become a man of your education, Richard,” said the Abbot. The fear and the desperation were returning, and he struggled to conceal his weakness. It must be Brother Anselm, and Brother Thomas with him. Who else? He felt sick that monks of his own Abbey could so sorely betray his trust.
“Lying and deceit do not become your monk’s robes, my Lord,” said Layton with a sneer.
The door opened suddenly, and one of Layton’s men burst in without ceremony.