The Brothers of Glastonbury (18 page)

‘You will, lad! You will! And if Mark Gildersleeve’s out there to be found, I’ll find him.’

I squeezed his arm in unspoken gratitude, but was certain in my own mind that he would have nothing to report when he returned for the afternoon meal. Then I crossed the road and entered the abbey by the north gate, the porter deciding after a long, hard stare that there was little in my appearance to which he could take exception. I knew that, at that time of the morning, the Chapter meeting would be over and the monks all busy about their various employments. Brother Hilarion would be at his task of instructing the oblates and novices; and from my own past experience, I remembered that when the weather was fine he often conducted his classes in the cloister garth, deeming it sensible for his pupils to be in the open air as much as possible.

As ever, the abbey precincts were teeming with people, both lay and clerical, for Glastonbury has always been one of the most important religious foundations in the country, and is almost certainly the wealthiest. (How does the old saw go? ‘If the Abbot of Glastonbury were to marry the Abbess of Shaftesbury, they’d be richer than both King and Pope together.’) Messengers came and went, to and from the Abbot’s parlour; a cart laden with building stone nearly ran me down, accompanied by curses from the driver; and pilgrims jostled for position as they made their way inside the Abbey. It was this constant stream of humanity, ensuring daily contact with the outside world, which had been yet another factor in my desire to quit the monastic life. I had never experienced the peace and quiet of a lesser church, and so had had no real chance to settle.

Brother Hilarion was indeed in the cloister garth, his pupils ranged about him in a semi-circle on the grass. His subject for the morning’s lesson – I could hear him holding forth as I approached – was Joseph of Arimathea and his connections with the abbey, how he had come across the sea to Britain after the Crucifixion to establish the first Christian church at Glastonbury. I recalled that this was a subject dear to Abbot Selwood’s heart, as indeed it had been to the hearts of many of his predecessors, for the claim established not only Glastonbury’s superiority over Canterbury, but also over the entire ecclesiastical world. And it encouraged, too, a greater flow of pilgrims, legend linking Joseph to the Arthurian stories as the ancestor of Lancelot and Galahad.

As I trod soft-footed across the grass to stand behind him, Brother Hilarion had just reached the hotly-debated argument concerning the actual date of Joseph’s arrival in Britain: 31
AD
or some years later.

‘At the Council of Pisa, and again at the Council of Constance, the French bishops demanded precedence over the English because, they said, Saint Denis had brought the faith to Paris not long after his conversion by Saint Paul. But our bishops, in their turn, demanded precedence over the French on account of Joseph of Arimathea, who had come to this country immediately after the Passion of Our Lord. And at the Council of Siena the great Richard Fleming, Bishop of Lincoln, upheld England’s claim against the combined opposition of French. Castilians and Scots. Less than fifty years ago, at the Council of Basle, we took on the mighty Alphonso Garcia de Sancta Maria, doctor of law and Dean of the Churches of Compostella and Segovia…’

He broke off, suddenly aware of someone watching him, and turned his head to see who it was. When he saw me, his gentle old face creased into a smile, and he welcomed me with a hand raised in blessing.

‘You’ve come then.’

‘I said I should.’ I looked towards the novices. ‘Are you too busy to spare me a few moments of your time?’

‘No, no. Brother Oswald here is in training to take my place when I grow too old to cope any longer with the vagaries and high spirits of youth.’ He smiled and indicated a young monk who had been standing a few paces in the rear, his head respectfully bent, listening intently. ‘Brother Oswald, pray continue with the life of Joseph while I have a word with my friend. I think, at this point, that you might deal with the miracle of the Holy Thorn and the founding of the early Celtic Church.’

He took my arm and drew me apart into the shelter of the cloister and lowered his voice. ‘Now, is there any news yet of Peter Gildersleeve? And there are also rumours that Mark is missing, including further gossip this morning that the mare, Dorabella, has been brought in riderless. Is this true?’

‘Alas, yes,’ I said. And as briefly as I could – for I was beginning to tire of repeating the story – I told him as much as I knew and of my part in it. He listened without interruption until I had finished and then sighed, pulling down the corners of his mouth.

‘It sounds worse than I feared. The testimony of the shepherd lad will prove to be the most damning, of course. Had Peter Gildersleeve not vanished into thin air before his eyes, it might have been possible to still people’s clacking tongues with some plausible explanation. As it is…!’

‘Brother Hilarion,’ I reproached him, ‘you don’t believe that a man can vanish into thin air, as you put it. That would be to say that you believe in magic.’

He made the sign of the cross and glanced furtively about him. ‘My child,’ he whispered, ‘this whole realm of Avalon is full of magic. In their time, great wizards have lived here: Merlin and Gwyn ap Nud, the Lord of the Wild Hunt, to name but two. And Satan is about his work both night and day. We cannot deny that his evil presence is constantly amongst us, even though we acknowledge that Christ will triumph in the end.’

‘And you seriously believe that Peter Gildersleeve had truck with the Devil?’

Brother Hilarion shook his head sadly. ‘My child, I pray hourly that it is not so, for the sake of his immortal soul and of his family.’ He hesitated a moment, before adding, ‘There is one thing…’

‘What?’ I queried sharply.

He looked uncomfortable. ‘It may mean nothing at all. I probably shouldn’t mention it.’

‘Tell me anyway,’ I implored him.

My old teacher continued to look unhappy, and fidgeted with the rope girdle that encircled his waist.

‘Tell me!’ I repeated, desperate for any crumb of information in this increasingly baffling affair.

Brother Hilarion glanced sideways at one of the novices, a tow-haired lad, paying scant attention to Brother Oswald’s lecture, and nodded in his direction.

‘A month or so back – maybe a little longer, maybe less – Humphrey there was assisting Father Elwyn in Saint Michael’s Chapel, on the Tor, working in the bakehouse – for he knows something about bread-making, his father being a baker by trade—’

‘Yes, yes!’ I interrupted impatiently.

Brother Hilarion went on, slightly ruffled, ‘Well, it would seem that during this time – the time, that is, that Humphrey spent assisting at Saint Michael’s – Peter Gildersleeve visited Father Elwyn to consult with him on some private matter.’

‘So?’

‘So, I overheard Humphrey telling one of his fellow novices about it yesterday, during a discussion between them concerning Master Peter’s disappearance. Of course, I reprimanded them severely for discussing the subject at all, when there are so many more important things to occupy their minds—’

Once again I cut in ruthlessly. ‘What significance did young Humphrey attach to this visit? Did he say?’

‘No, nor did I ask him.’ Brother Hilarion was offended. ‘To do so would have been to encourage the gossip. I feel that I have been very wrong in repeating it to you now, for the visit was doubtless entirely innocent. Indeed, what reason is there to place any other construction upon it?’

‘None at all,’ I agreed. But Brother Hilarion had thought it worthy of repetition. And he told me that something in the young novice’s tone of voice and general demeanour had implied that he thought there might be a connection between Peter’s call on Father Elwyn and his later disappearance. I did not pursue the matter, however, merely asking, ‘Do you truly believe that Joseph of Arimathea founded the original church at Glastonbury? Do you indeed have faith that he came here at all?’

After a momentary confusion caused by this abrupt change of subject, and after an even briefer attempt to look scandalized at such heresy, Brother Hilarion gave my question the same grave consideration which he had always given my past doubts and queries. He was not a man easily shocked.

‘My child,’ he said at length, ‘I cannot answer you with the certainty of Father Abbot or even of some of my brothers. All I can say is that where a tale or a person is strongly connected with a particular place, as Joseph is with Glastonbury, and where that belief persists down through the centuries, handed on from father to son for endless generations, I think there is good reason to believe that the story could be true – in spite of the Dean of Compostella and Segovia’s contention that Joseph was still imprisoned in Jerusalem as late as 70
AD.
But this is between ourselves, Roger. I can trust you not to make my doubts known.’

‘You seem to have very few doubts,’ I reassured him. ‘Yet why should Joseph come to Britain? Had he indeed been here before, in order to purchase lead from the Romans?’

‘Ah!’ Brother Hilarion smiled. ‘The story of the Christ Child lodging at Priddy! A charming conceit, but not one to which I give much credence.’ I did not embarrass him by asking why not, seeing it was as old a story in these parts as the other, but let him continue. ‘No, no! I think Joseph was directed here by God, as Mary Magdalene was directed to France – at least, so the southerners of that country claim.’

‘And what of the story that he is the ancestor of Lancelot and Galahad?’

Brother Hilarion shrugged noncommitally, indicating neither belief nor disbelief in this part of the tale. ‘There’s no proof that Joseph ever had children,’ was his answer.

He glanced anxiously over his shoulder at his charges, but apart from the errant Humphrey – and there is always a Humphrey, in every group of people I have ever known – they were perfectly well behaved. Nevertheless, he sighed and indicated that he must return to them.

I thanked him, and once more he raised his hand in blessing.

‘What will you do now?’ he asked.

‘I must visit Saint Michael’s on the Tor to find out, if I can, what Peter Gildersleeve wanted with Father Elwyn.’

Brother Hilarion nodded. ‘Then let us pray that the good Father will be able to shed some light on this sorry matter.’

Chapter Thirteen

I was young and fit in those days, but even so I found myself breathing heavily as I climbed the last few feet to the summit of the Tor. Below me I could see the town and abbey precincts laid out like a chequered board, and all the people, houses and animals had turned into the playthings of some giant’s child. The old Roman road, Dod Lane, leading from Lambcook Street, was nothing more now than a faint thread among the thickets and bushes crowding about the base of this strange, steep hill that rose out of the surrounding moors and marshes. Once, long ago, when water had lapped about its foot, Arthur had been brought here to die …

Here, too, or so the stories would have us believe, Saint Collen had come to live the hermit’s life and wrestle with the evil spirits of the place. Gwyn ap Nud, Lord of the Wild Hunt, who reigned over a fairy world beneath the Tor, had tempted him with visions of a great and luxurious palace where musicians played and dancers cavorted, where tables groaned under the weight of succulent food and fountains spouted every imaginable variety of wine. But Saint Collen would have none of it, preferring his anchorite’s cell and a diet of wild berries from the hedgerows. He had sprinkled holy water in the faces of his tormentors and immediately they had vanished, leaving him in peace thereafter. I could not help wondering if I would have had the strength of character to resist such temptation, and the answer was no. But then I was not (and still am not) a saint, and God, however eternally hopeful of mankind, would never have expected it of me.

A strong breeze was blowing, whipping my hair across my cheeks, and I recalled that the top of the Tor was renowned for always being windy, even on the most still and sultry of days. But this was something more. For the first time in weeks the sky was growing overcast and there was a smell of rain in the air. I suspected that one of those brief but torrential summer storms was brewing, and I hoped that I should be under shelter when it finally broke.

The chapel of Saint Michael and its attendant outhouses – kitchen, bakehouse, barn – were built on the small, flat, slightly sloping area at the Tor’s summit. Over two hundred years before, the original chapel had been destroyed during an earthquake which shook that part of Somerset, and today’s church was rebuilt half a century later under the auspices of Abbot Adam of Sodbury. Made of sandstone and limestone from the Mendip Hills, it had leaded windows, a tiled floor (some of the tiles exquisitely patterned), and a portable altar of Purbeck marble – luxurious furnishings by the standard of many other small chapels.

I entered through the gate in the boundary wall and mounted the steps that brought me at last to the top of the slope. In high summer the enclave was usually crowded with pilgrims – particularly those dedicated to the cult of the Archangel Michael – but today, for some reason, it was almost deserted. One of the abbey novices, whose turn it was to assist Father Elwyn, had just emerged from the bakehouse, the sleeves of his habit rolled above his elbows and his hands covered in flour; a solitary pilgrim, a rich merchant by his appearance, was on his knees before the altar when I glanced inside the chapel – but of further life there seemed, at present, to be no sign.

I sought out the novice, who had by now returned to the kitchen, and asked for Father Elwyn’s whereabouts. I was directed to the barn.

The interior was dim, the more so since clouds had begun to gather, and sunlight no longer filtered through the narrow windows or flooded the open doorway. A lantern had been suspended from a nail in one wall, and by its pale radiance I was just able to make out Father Elwyn’s figure in the deepest recesses of the building, checking his stores against the approach of colder weather.