‘Where are you going?’
He pointed to the modern church near the bottom of the town, its tower more modest than St John the Baptist’s. I drew level with him under a sky now as tight and dark-flecked as a goatskin drum.
‘Tell me about Fyche, Master Farrier.’
‘I don’t know Fyche.’
‘Was he not at the abbey the same time as you?’
‘That doesn’t make me his friend. The abbot was happy for me to work at my forge. Tended to meet the others only at prayer. Monks don’t talk much at prayer.’
‘He’s a Protestant now.’
‘Or finds it appropriate to look like one. During the last reign, when there was hope of money to restore the abbey, he’d become a good Catholic again. Such conversions happen in a flash, as you know.’
We’d come to a narrow street behind the church. Its dwellings were mean, but it was surprisingly dry underfoot – in London, the gutters would have been ripe with shit.
‘Fyche’s proposed college of monks,’ I said. ‘You weren’t invited to join them?’
‘They’d want a farrier?’ Monger sniffed. ‘Anyway, there are few monks from the abbey at Meadwell. Most are come from outside – learned men. Heavyweights. God’s army, Fyche’ll tell you, against the rise of an evil older than Christianity.’
‘Evil? Joan Tyrre and her faerie? The men who find wells with a forked twig? Why should he fear these people?’
‘What makes you think it’s fear?’
‘Trust me, Master Monger,’ I said. ‘It’s always fear.’
We’d arrived at the end house, near the church. It was bigger and in better repair than the others, its timber-framing oiled. The man in the doorway wore an apron, faded but clean, and a skullcap the colour of old parchment over stiff white hair.
‘They’ve been, then,’ Monger said.
A tightening of the man’s lips and a nod so small and cautious that it barely happened.
‘How many, Matthew?’
‘Three. Including Fyche himself.’
This man’s voice was dry as ash, his face taut and unfleshed, his eyes watchful.
Monger said, ‘But Nel wasn’t with you?’
‘Must’ve left early, Joe. I know not where to.’
‘But she was here last night?’
‘I don’t…’ The man’s shoulders sagged. ‘I was out till late. Delivery of twins at a farm towards Butleigh, and I had to cut them out or they’d be dead and the mother with them. I thought Nel to be abed when I got back. And then… out before I was up.’
Monger turned to me. ‘This is Nel’s father – Dr Borrow. Matthew, this is Dr John, a visitor to the town, for reasons… yet to be established. But who can, I think, be trusted. What did Fyche say?’
‘Not much. He just looked everywhere in the house, having his men empty lockers, sweep the content of shelves to the floor.’
I remembered his daughter’s jest about the elixir of youth – ninety but looked fifty. Probably was fifty, but had a sinewy, capable look.
‘And that was it?’ Monger said.
‘No.’
Monger waited in silence, arms hanging by his side.
‘My instruments,’ Dr Borrow said. ‘Didn’t get in until nigh on three of the clock. Went straight to bed, having thrown my bag of instruments… just, you know, in the corner. Which is where one of Fyche’s men found them. When they picked up the bag, I never gave a thought to it at first. More concerned that they shouldn’t find the wrong… the wrong books.’
I was guessing he meant the books from which his daughter had learned of the science of stars. More books rescued from the abbey, maybe.
Saw Monger’s jaw jut and stiffen.
‘Your surgical instruments?’
‘’Tis my normal habit, Joe, to clean them soon as I get home. Pulling out a blade in front of a new patient when it’s all splattered with the blood of the last one, that’s… never helpful. But I was too damn tired to think.’
‘Let me get this right,’ Monger said. ‘Your surgeon’s knives. You’re saying they found a surgeon’s knives with blood-?’
‘Yes, yes, yes…’ Borrow’s eyes squeezing shut. ‘I’m afraid that’s what they found, yes.’
‘They accused you?’ Monger said. ‘Of butchering this man?’
‘I wish they had accused me. They asked if Eleanor had ever performed surgery.’
A stone in my gut.
I said, ‘Has she?’
‘Only when there’s been no better way.’
Surgery: the lowest form of doctoring, next to butchery in anyone’s book. I turned to Monger, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes, and Dr Borrow, evidently in near despair, if reluctant to show it, was looking down at the holes in his boots, while Joan Tyrre cackled in my head about the darkness over the tor.
‘I told Fyche why there was blood on the tools. I don’t think he even listened.’ Dr Borrow said. ‘Picks up the bag, thrusts it at a constable to take them all away. Evidence, he says.’
‘All the evidence he’d need,’ Joe Monger said.
How swiftly everything changes when the heart holds sway, altering the order of need. When people had spoken of the heart torn assunder, I’d known not, until now, what emotion they were trying to illustrate.
Or maybe it was all heightened here in Glastonbury, where the very air seemed to hone the perceptions like a whetstone to a knife, sharpening the colours of thoughts, the tastes in the mouth, the pictures which are seen when the eyes are shut.
Leaning back into the oak settle in the panelled room at the George, I could see the outline of the sun pushing vainly at crowding clouds. And then there she was inside my head, sitting amongst the big stones by the iron well, inside the circle of bare thorn trees: the emerald eyes, the faded blue dress, sleeves pushed up exposing, oh God, those brown speckled arms.
‘How can we stop this?’ I said.
Monger was silent for a long moment, sitting opposite me in the square, panelled chamber.
‘We?’ he said. ‘Are you sure of this?’
Me looking down to hide a coming blush and banishing her, with her green eyes and her haunting, crossed-tooth smile, lest I give away too much.
‘I should also ask you about a carpenter. A coffin-maker. A gravedigger. Vicar.’
‘All that can be done tomorrow,’ Monger said. ‘I’ll send them to you. Although I gather you may have to wait for the return of Carew before they’ll release the cadaver.’
When we’d arrived back at the George, Cowdray had told us that Fyche himself had been here, insisting on questioning Master Roberts in his chamber. But Dudley had been sweating again, his eyes full of heat, his sickness beyond dispute, and Fyche had not ventured beyond the threshold, for fear of contagion.
‘Don’t expect Carew to take a different stance,’ Monger said. ‘There’s no harder reformer in the west. If Carew’s given good evidence, he won’t prolong things any more than Fyche would.’
‘Carew has real power here? A sheriff ’s power?’
‘As much power as he wants. Senior knight in Devonshire, owns the abbey and its lands. Has more power here, I’d guess, than he would have in a similar role in London, where knights, I’m told, are two a penny.’
‘She’s a healer,’ I said, wanting to scream it to the beams. ‘In the real sense. Not like the piss-sniffers in their masks. What about the mother of those twins? The woman whose life was saved, and her babes, she’ll surely state before a court that Dr Borrow had to cut into her belly. That it was her blood on the knives?’
‘If she survives. Wounds like that oft-times turn bad. And, anyway, she’ll say what her husband wants her to say. And her husband… The farmers out towards Butleigh they’re all tenants and struggling. They’ll state, albeit with regret, what suits their lord. I know him, too, shoe the horses for his hunt – with which his neighbour rides now and again. His neighbour, who also happens to be the local JP.’
‘Fyche?’
‘You never know when you’re going to need a JP, do you, Dr John?’
‘My colleague,’ I said, with care, ‘has influence. He’ll talk to Carew.’