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.