The Bones of Avalon (62 page)

‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ‘that our talents are identical.’

He shrugged, opened out his hands, and I reminded myself that his
apparel was misleading, maybe deliberately so. This was not, nor had ever been, a man in holy office.

‘Why are you
really
here?’ I said.

‘A question most reasonable. Which you answered yourself. A fascination with these islands. The portals to the past, they are open here in ways which are not so apparent in most of Europe. This place in particular… has a sense of continuity denied to us. And, it appears, a relationship with the cosmos which elsewhere… is long-lost.’

‘Ah.’ Now I was no longer on the wing. ‘You mean the Zodiac.’

‘My God…’ He spread his arms wide. ‘When I heard of
that…’

‘How long
since
you heard of it?’

‘Not long.’

‘And how came you by the knowledge?’

‘A
ha!’
The smiling Nostradamus wagging an admonitory forefinger. ‘How came
you
by the knowledge of it, Dr Dee?’

So he knew. I must have shown my discomfort, for he laughed.

‘But what’s to be
done
with the thing, that’s the biggest question. I am perfectly ready to accept that the celestial Zodiac is refashioned, by whatever means, on the ground, but what are we to
make
of it?’

He didn’t know either, then. Or was he testing me?

I said slowly, ‘If it were designed by God, it’s miraculous. If by man, then it shows that civilisations far more advanced than ours once lived – as you’ve suggested – in these islands.’

‘
Excellent
thinking.’ Nostradamus leaned forward, alarmingly squeezing my arm, the way an uncle would. ‘You’re a man of perception, Dr Dee.
Was
this Merlin’s secret? What are your thoughts?’

I sensed, at last, a curiosity. I must not lose this advantage. It was clear now that neither Cate Borrow nor John Leland had discovered the final secret – how the terrestrial Zodiac might be employed – which Abbot Whiting may well have died without passing on. If there was no-one alive who knew the key, it would tax all our skills for years to come.

‘My thoughts,’ I said carefully, ‘are, as yet, incomplete. Being more concerned, at this time, with the matter of Arthur.’

‘Oh. Does he not yet live, as the Britons believe?’ Nostradamus folded
his arms, looking down at them for a moment, considering, then raising his head with a sly smile. ‘Does he not live as the spirit of the Tudor line?
Tut!’
Lightly smacking his own hand. ‘I break my own rule about avoiding matters of state.’

‘I’d guess in your position they’d be near impossible to avoid.’

No reply.

‘The matter of Arthur,’ I said, ‘and of Avalon. In seeking to… understand the Tudor line’s ancient right to the throne of England and Wales, certain elements within the French court must surely have realised that the role of Glastonbury must needs be considered.’

‘You flatter your country, Dr Dee.’

‘I don’t think so, Dr de Nostradame. Consider your own country. Until such time as the boy François is deemed fit to rule, France is protected by the Guise family, whose deepest desire is to see its daughter Mary, the Scot, become Queen of England.’

‘As is her right. As the Pope himself—’

‘Ah.… the Pope. There lies the crux of the problem. England being once again free of Rome. Indeed… almost
happily
free.’

‘You delude yourself.’

‘You don’t live here. Consider the blood-letting which followed King Harry’s division from Rome. And consider the even worse bloodletting… the
fire
and blood of Mary Tudor’s reign, when the Pope was invited back. When Mary was gone, England was sick to its heart of religious persecution and the new Queen saw that. Had the vision to realise that Protestants and Catholics could live together, if not in harmony, at least in relative peace…’

‘In
chaos
, my friend! This sorrowful town, with all its witches and quackery, it is England in microcosm. London not much better. Do they not say Parker had virtually to be blackmailed into accepting Canterbury?’

‘The fact remains that in the year or so since Elizabeth became Queen, not one man or woman has been executed for religious belief.’ I opened my hand to the altar. ‘Look at us. Here we are, sitting in a Catholic chapel, with everything to hand for a Mass. There are chapels like it in houses throughout the country. Are they raided? Are they sacked and ruined?’

‘My good friend—’

‘And that’s the problem for the Pope, isn’t it? And for France… France is never sated. And with Elizabeth as Queen, its acquisition of England begins to look highy unlikely. The longed-for Catholic rebellion to remove Elizabeth and put Mary of Guise on the throne – where will that come from now? People
enjoy
the peace, even most Catholics. Why have most of the bishops sworn the Oath of Supremacy?’

‘Only the corrupt ones.’

‘And, of course, the Queen’s only twenty-six years old. She could be Queen for another half century. France… the Guises… the Pope… you’re all damned. Unless…’

His face was without expression.

Unless…

Slowly, it was coming together.

A Catholic chapel in the cellars of Meadwell gave the lie to Fyche’s assertion that
every man here has put papacy well behind him and is ready to swear allegiance to the Queen.

Quite the reverse. Fyche had been playing a double game from the beginning. Appearing to change sides at the Reformation, having betrayed his abbot to Cromwell in return for land and money, a knighthood and the status of Justice of the Peace. A betrayal viewed, maybe, as a necessary sacrifice, in the best long-term interests of the Roman Church.

Not that Catholicism was likely to be closest to the heart of Fyche, from what I knew of him. He’d been a bursar, an administrator of accounts, had expected to become the next abbot… in effect, the supreme lord of Glastonbury and all points west, with limitless riches.

Had he been led to believe that this, or something similar, could still happen? I thought of the long room full of books, furniture, minor treasures – the abbey in storage. Thought of how Cowdray, on our first night here, had told us of the severe penalties now imposed by Fyche on anyone caught stealing stone from the ruins.

The abbey had not, as expected, been restored by Mary Tudor.
But it
might be under the sovereignty of Mary Queen of Scots, with all the wealth of France behind her.

What had Fyche been promised in return for his assistance in the early removal of the Queen of England?

How extensive was the part in this of Nostradamus?

And why – in sudden discomfort, I glanced over my shoulder – was he still looking disturbingly at peace with himself?

O
F COURSE, HE
had no cause to explain anything to me. Unlike poor Benlow, he wasn’t even dying.

I’d need to tempt him, and there was, as far as I could see, only one jewel I could offer him: the key to the mysteries of the round table, the Glastonbury Zodiac. And I didn’t have it.

Not
that he knew that.

‘Who comes here for the Mass?’ I asked him.

‘If you wish me to name anyone, I shall… decline.’

‘Not the rabble, I imagine. Only men of influence. Who might also attend… meetings. Maybe with guests from Europe? Leading theologians? Men of state? Not forgetting renowned prophets and forecasters of world affairs.’

Nostradamus smiled

‘You journeyed to Glastonbury yourself,’ I said, ‘in the hope of deciphering the secret at the heart of Leland’s notes?’

He toyed with the girdle of his robe, but I could feel the heat of his mind’s engine. There was only one way he could have got hold of Leland’s notes, so recently reburied.

‘Presumably, Matthew Borrow sent you the notebook. Having, despite his many skills, been unable to extract any sense from it.’

‘No more than could Leland,’ Nostradamus said.

Probably true. He’d left his notes to Cate in the hope that she might one day make something meaningful of them.

How had Leland himself found out about it originally? Maybe from one of the monks – just a whisper of it, on one of his first visits to Somersetshire, in the ’30s, in search of antiquities and Arthur. When at last he’d found time to investigate it, he’d returned. Most of the monks
having gone by then, but Cate Borrow had still been around and he’d gone to her.
I’m my own man now.

Had Cate found out more? Had she ever got close to the real meaning and intentions of the Zodiac? We would probably never know. She hadn’t had much time, anyway, between receiving the notebook long after Leland’s death and her own arrest for witchcraft and murder.

After which the book had fallen, inevitably, into Borrow’s hands. Borrow would have seen the possible significance and alerted either his masters or Nostradamus himself. How long had it taken Michel de Nostradame, with the help of a translator, to decipher Leland’s notes? Had
he
discovered the whereabouts of the bones of Arthur buried by the last faithful monks of Glastonbury?
Had
the bones of Arthur been buried in Ursa Minor? If so, where were they now? On their way to France?

It was clear that Nostradamus, with his fascination for ancient remains,
had
come to Glastonbury to investigate the Zodiac. Returning the notebook to Borrow?
Worthless,
Borrow had said to Dudley and me.
Occultism.
Knowing how rapidly the last of these words might persuade
me
to approach the unspeakable – taking the bait, waking into the snare. If the journey to Arthur’s grave had been less of a perilous and harrowing quest we’d be far more likely to question what we’d found.

Matthew Borrow was a cunning man.

‘When were you at Montpellier?’ I said. ‘May I ask?’

Nostradamus shrugged.

‘Around 1529. I was twenty-six.’

‘Would’ve taken him under your wing then. The young Matthew Borrow.’

‘He was quite capable of looking after himself, Dr Dee. A Jesuit education does that for one.’

I gripped the stone seat hard.

Hell.

A Jesuit. The steel in the blade of the Catholic Church.

Tried not even to blink, only nodded, as if I’d known of this already.

It at once rang true. The town thought him an unbeliever, a man who went to church only to avoid the fines. Well, safer to be assumed an atheist than a cutting-edge Catholic. The target of Matthew Borrow’s quiet venom would, in his own mind, be the Protestant Church.
When the expulsion from this country of the papacy itself comes through a rising not of the spirit… but a man’s cock…

It also explained his cruelty. The callousness of the zealot with a Jesuit’s cold intelligence and almost mystical intuition.

I don’t think I smiled.

‘Was it you who suggested at the French court that he’d make a perfect secret agent in the town of his birth?’

No reaction. But I could see the reason for it. Fyche had established Meadwell, as a possible hub of Catholic rebellion. But how far could the French trust him? François of Guise, and Charles, Cardinal of Lorraine, would have wanted their own man in Avalon.