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.