The Saint John's Fern (18 page)
But nothing happened. There was neither sign nor sound of movement; no blurring on the edge of my vision to suggest that someone was trying to creep away unnoticed; no sudden snapping of a twig nor rustle of the last year’s leaves that lay rotting beneath the roots of ancient, wind-blasted oak and beech. Finally, persuaded that I had been mistaken and that I had been awakened by possibly nothing more sinister than my head falling forward on to my chest, I lowered my cudgel and took a deep breath. The sense of dread had abated. I had ceased both to sweat and to shiver, although my skin was still cold and clammy to the touch, and a lingering sense of uneasiness continued to hold me in its grip.
Leaving my pack beneath a bush and screwing up my courage, I decided to investigate the margins of the clearing. Taking as my starting point the coast-bound track that I was travelling, I prowled cautiously among the thick belt of trees and undergrowth that surrounded the circle of stunted grass. All was silent as the grave, and by the look of the ground no one had passed this way for several days. But halfway round, I suddenly came across yet another track, leading away from the clearing in a westerly direction; although this was more the ghost of a newly created trail, made simply by the trampling down of ferns and saplings.
On impulse, I followed it, my not inconsiderable weight cutting a deeper defile through the brushwood and leaving a more clearly defined pathway in my wake. I had not gone far, however, when I emerged into a small glade where the trees grew less densely, and where a little sunlight filtered through the foliage, shedding warmth and light into an otherwise desolate spot. But I had barely registered this fact before my eyes were caught and held by the sight of a crude tent, made by pegging down the lower branches of a tree and swathing them with a length of tarred cloth.
Cautiously, I advanced towards it, calling out, ‘Is anyone there?’ and, at the same time, raising my cudgel ready to defend myself, should the need arise. But there was no answer to my challenge and indeed, I already had the feeling that the tent was empty and that there was no one else about. Just to make sure, however, I bent down and peered inside, then, on hands and knees, crawled through the opening. It was dark within and smelled of rotting vegetation, and the grass was extremely wet. It must once have been used as a shelter of some sort, but all signs of habitation were gone. Not so much as a frond of bracken or a wisp of straw indicated that there might once have been a mattress to lie on.
I wriggled out again into the dappled sunshine, glancing around for anything else that I might have missed. But there was nothing, except for a more clearly defined continuation of the track on the opposite side of the little glade, wending its way down behind the makeshift tent and losing itself amongst the crowding trees.
Having come so far, I felt I had no choice but to discover its final destination. So, treading softly in order to make as little noise as possible, I pushed on through the undergrowth where last year’s leaves still festered, where toadstools and puffballs sprouted between the roots of trees, and where saplings turned pale and sickly for want of light and air. I only hoped that I would eventually be able to find my way back again to the original clearing, and offered up a brief prayer for guidance when the time came.
By now, the ground was going rapidly downhill, and suddenly shelved away, bringing me up short on the edge of a steep ravine. Swags of ivy and other trailing plants poured down the rock face, while young trees clung on desperately by fragile roots, embedded precariously in the shallow soil. And some twenty feet below me on the valley floor, nestling in the lee of this miniature cliff, was a solid, granite-built house, surrounded by its outbuildings. Even as I watched, I saw a foreshortened Katherine Glover emerge from one of these to cross a cobbled courtyard and enter another.
Quite by chance, I had stumbled across Valletort Manor.
* * *
Quietly, almost stealthily, I made my way back up the slope and moved out of sight of the house as quickly as possible. Mistress Glover had not seen me; she had not glanced up and had obviously had no presentiment that she was being observed.
I found no difficulty in following the track back to the little glade where the tree-tent was, and reflected that the path to and from Valletort Manor must have been more frequently trodden than its counterpart on the other side, the track that led to the clearing. Whether this had any particular significance or not, I was uncertain, for I could not imagine that the crude makeshift shelter had ever been used by Beric Gifford. It was far too close to the house, and would easily have been found by the Sheriff’s men during one of their many searches of the manor and its environs.
As far as Valletort Manor itself was concerned, it was plain that there had to be another approach to it on leveller ground. The rock face that backed the hollow in which it had been built afforded it protection, but not access. How to reach it from the front, I hoped to discover all in good time.
Before returning to the clearing, I explored the glade and the tree-tent yet again, just to convince myself that neither contained any clue to Beric Gifford’s present whereabouts that I might previously have missed. But I could see nothing except the heavy, broken-off branch of one of the trees, lying half-concealed amongst the grasses. The shelter had been made for some purpose long since abandoned, and I guessed that no one had been near it for many months.
After one or two false starts, I found the trail I was looking for, and began pushing my way through the undergrowth, back towards the clearing. It took me some ten minutes or so to regain the perimeter of trees surrounding it, marked by the fallen log and my discarded apple core, now turning brown where it lay on the grass. I had been halfway round that circle when I had been lured away by the path leading to the glade, so I decided to complete the walk that would bring me once more to the shore-bound path and my pack, hidden under one of the bushes.
But there was only more scrub, more drifts of dead leaves, more beech and oak saplings growing up between the trees, and I was beginning to smell, faintly, the salt tang of the sea. I guessed that within five or six furlongs, this woodland, with its tangles of undergrowth, would give way to the flat open spaces of the downs that sloped down to the shingle and rocks of the shore.
This proved to be the case, but there was still a mile or so to go before I heard the distant hushing of the sea, and yet another half-mile and a steep descent to negotiate before I finally stood on the strip of sand that skirted the base of the cliffs. The track I had followed from Modbury had eventually brought me to a little bay opposite Burrow Island, the latter now in the process of being cut off by the tide. This swept around the rocky outcrop from both directions until the breakers merged and rolled shorewards together, the sand vanishing slowly beneath the waves. At present, however, a narrow strip of causeway still remained, although submerging fast. If I were quick, I could just make the shelter of the monks’ rest-house and beg hospitality for the night. Once there, it was true, I should be unable to return to the mainland until the tide again began to ebb, but after my long walk I was tired and, above all, hungry. After only a few moments’ indecision, I settled my pack more comfortably on my back and started across what remained of the sandy causeway towards the island.
Chapter Thirteen
I reached the island in the nick of time. The waves were already beginning to swirl around my feet while I was still some few yards distant from the shore, and I was ankle-deep in sea water before I stepped up on to one of the large, flat rocks that studded its narrow beach.
Fortunately, my stout leather boots had kept me dry, for I was fussy about keeping them soled and patched, learning from experience how needful it was in my calling to be comfortably shod. Wet feet were the devil, and watertight boots were therefore a necessity. When they were in want of repair, I always made a point of seeking out the very best cobbler in any town through which I happened to be passing, a policy that had so far repaid me well in my lack of corns, blisters and other ailments of the foot.
The October day was already starting to fade, and the sea shimmered in the dying light, gilded by the evening sun. On the grassy slopes above me, two white-habited brothers, crooks in hand, rounded up the community’s sheep and herded them, slowly but surely, into the pen that stood in the lee of the monastery walls. On the island’s crest, still clearly visible against the darkening sky, was the chapel of Saint Michael the Archangel patron saint of mariners, while to my right, at the top of some half-dozen worn stone steps, was the travellers’ hostelry, where I hoped to be given food and a bed for the night.
I was about to mount these steps when a man came running down them, two large baskets grasped one in each hand. He pulled up short, a look of comical dismay on his face, when he saw the level of the tide.
‘Oh, dear me!’ he exclaimed in a rather high, fluting voice. ‘I knew that would happen. I talk too much, that’s my trouble. I was afraid that once I got chatting to Brother Anselm I should forget the time and find myself stranded here for the night. And I’ve left my cart on the mainland, too. Ah well! There’s nothing in it but empty baskets. This was my last port of call.’ He glanced at me and his eyes, a pale, clear blue, suddenly brightened. ‘Still, I suppose you’re going to be here, until the morning, aren’t you? At least I shall have someone to share the hours until bedtime with me.’
‘I shall be pleased to keep you company,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘Roger Chapman, a pedlar, as you see. I’ve left it far too late to return to Modbury tonight, so, rather than trouble one of the fishermen and his wife, I decided to seek shelter with the brothers. And I’ve only just made it before the island is completely surrounded.’
My new acquaintance, returning my handshake, introduced himself as one, Bevis Godsey, a smallholder from a village some little way eastward, further along the coast.
‘I visit the brothers about once a month,’ he explained volubly, remounting the steps as the bell of the monastery chapel began to ring. He turned his head and winked over his shoulder. ‘I bring them apples from my orchard and newly laid eggs. They’re grateful for these little luxuries out here, perched on this rock. Supplies are not always as fresh as they might be by the time they’ve been transported all the way from the Mother House. When Brother Anselm and his flock are remembered at all, that is. Ah! Brother!’ He hailed a short, stout monk who had just emerged from a stone cottage next door to the hostelry. ‘I was just talking about you. I’ve overstayed my time, as usual, and been stranded yet again, so I must once more beg accommodation for the night. And here’s a chapman also wanting a bed.’
Brother Anselm waved flustered hands, flapping them in the direction of the cottage. ‘I can’t stop now. The bell for compline’s ringing. Speak to Geoffrey, Bevis. He’ll see you both safely bestowed and make certain that you have sufficient victuals for your needs. I may be able to join you later, but in case not, I’ll wish you good night.’ And he trotted off in the direction of the monastery as fast as his legs would carry him.
‘Geoffrey Shapwick,’ my companion informed me, ‘is the lay brother on the island. He lights the lamp in Saint Michael’s chapel every evening, to guide the ships out at sea away from the rocks, and during the day helps the other brothers to look after the sheep. He also hoes and weeds the vegetable patch, attends to the welfare of travellers and, in short, does all the odd jobs the monks themselves haven’t the time – or say they haven’t the time – to do. In return, he gets the cottage to live in rent free.’
‘It sounds as if he earns his tenancy,’ I laughed, and waited patiently while Bevis Godsey fetched Master Shapwick from his fireside and once more explained his continued presence on the island. The lay brother’s total lack of surprise indicated that it was too frequent an occurrence to be worthy of comment, and within half an hour at the very most, we were ensconced beside a fire, a high-backed settle protecting our backs from the draughts that, together with the sand, seeped in under the hostelry door. A mazer each of ale stood at our elbows, while steaming bowls of fish soup and thick slices of black bread warmed our chilled limbs and filled our empty stomachs.
A tallow candle placed, in its holder, at one end of the table gave me my first real look at Bevis Godsey, and I decided that if there was one word that described him better than all others, it was ‘dapper’. To begin with, he was neatly made; a small-boned man of some forty summers with, for one of his sex, delicate hands and feet. His clothes, cut from good woollen cloth, were neither patched nor mended and argued a certain financial status, elevating him above peasant or villein level. His teeth, too, showed white in the tanned face, with no blackening that I was aware of, and although he was short of stature, he held himself well, making the most of such inches as he had. But it was obvious, from the way he frequently displayed them, that his hands were his chief pride and joy. And as a smallholder, constantly working on his land, he had every reason to be proud of them, for the nails were rounded and unbitten, and the long, slender fingers almost completely free of ingrained dirt.
I noticed the ring which adorned his left thumb immediately, but it was some while before my hunger was sufficiently assuaged to allow my attention to wander for any length of time. When it finally did, however, I saw how the candlelight caught the ring and made it sparkle, and I began to suspect that tiny diamonds were set in the duller lustre of the gold. This fact intrigued me because it was surely too expensive a bauble for a man of my companion’s worldly standing, even if he had accumulated some money over the years.
‘A very fine thumb ring,’ I commented, nodding towards it.
Bevis Godsey stopped eating and held his left hand close to the candle flame, spreading his fingers and regarding the ring admiringly.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said. He turned his hand so that its back was towards me, and I could see that the gold of the ring had been worked into an intricate pattern before being studded with the gems. ‘Look closer,’ he urged, ‘and you’ll note that the setting is in the form of my initials.’ He advanced his hand closer to my face. ‘There you are. B. G. Bevis Godsey. What do you think of that?’