It was one of the perversities of my nature — and, I suspect, a common characteristic of most people — that, while I had been free to do as I pleased and go wherever the fancy took me I had had little desire to return home, but as soon as I had committed myself to the concerns of others I longed to see my daughter and mother-in-law again. However, I had promised my services to Dame Joan and Mistress Cicely and could not now go back on my word. And I was unable to suppress entirely the thrill of anticipation which always gripped me when faced with an apparently unsolvable problem — and one, moreover, which might prove perilous. If, in this particular case, magic and witchcraft were involved in Peter Gildersleeve’s disappearance, then I could do nothing except guard myself as best I could from the evil spirits responsible. But I did not really believe that God would lead me into that kind of danger; bodily danger, yes, but surely He would not imperil my immortal soul!
When we had both finished shaving, I suggested to Mark that I should inspect his brother’s chest of books before doing anything else.
‘I’ll walk to the stables later and fetch my cudgel,’ I said, ‘but I’m curious to see these folios of his.’
My host laid aside his razor.
‘They’re not all folios. Many are quartos and some octavos.’ There was a certain pride in his voice, mixed with annoyance at Peter’s extravagance. He went on, ‘You can come with me now. I’m off to the workshop.’
He turned to the apprentices, still lolling over their breakfast. ‘Rob, I need you to help with the scraping. John, you get down to the vats and rescue those skins we set soaking last Friday, before all this trouble came upon us.’ As the last named reached the kitchen door, Mark called after him, ‘Mind you act normally! If people start asking about my brother, you’re to say we’re not worried. Tell them you think I know where he is. Have you marked that?’
John Longbones sighed, nodded and went on his way. After a few moments, we followed him across the garden before turning into the workroom at the back of the house. Here I saw various skins, all sheep except for one calf’s hide, laced on to wooden frames and stretched taut, ready to be scraped to a smooth, even surface. Mark and Rob Undershaft donned leather aprons to begin the day’s work, and the former indicated an iron-bound chest in one corner.
‘That’s where Peter keeps his books, Chapman.’ His tone was indifferent, almost as though he no longer cared whether I inspected them or no.
‘Did you find the key?’ I enquired.
For answer, Mark delved into the pocket of his jerkin. ‘It was in one of the drawers of the bed-head. It occurred to me last night that that was where it would be. It didn’t take long to find. Here! Catch!’ He threw me a small iron key. ‘Now, Rob and I have a lot to do.’
He picked up one of the rounded sticks, which he referred to as a strickle, and started work on the nearest sheepskin, methodically removing all remnants of grease and fat. The apprentice was already busy on another, and between each scraping the skins were doused with a lye of hot water and soda, which simmered in a cauldron over a fire on the workshop hearth. The smell was unpleasant and made my eyes water, but both men assured me that I should grow used to it in time.
But I did not need the key for the chest was, after all, unlocked. Slowly, I raised the lid and peered inside. The musty scent of old books rose to greet me, and I lifted them out carefully, one by one. In order to keep the parchment from cockling, nearly all were bound with heavy boards, some covered in silk, others in velvet, and decorated with tassels or buttons or copper studs arranged in patterns; one lay on a bed of ivory satin in its own special cedarwood box. Several had gilt clasps, but these were easily loosened. There were histories, including Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae and William of Malmesbury’s Gesta Regum Anglorum, devotional works, romances, a very fair copy of Cursor Mundi, and a hunting treatise, The Master of Game, by one of the past Dukes of York. But although I spent until dinnertime turning the pages and reading as much of the contents as I could, I discovered nothing of magic or witchcraft or or any other subject which might link Peter Gildersleeve to the black arts, nor explain the strange way in which he had vanished. Eventually, disappointed and dispirited, I replaced the books in the chest and sat, my back propped against the wall, watching Mark and Rob Undershaft at work.
They had by now finished scraping and dousing, and were scouring the skins with what I thought to be sand, but which, on inquiry, I learned to be finely powdered limestone.
‘You can use sand, but this is the handiest thing for us to use in these parts,’ Mark said, and I remembered that long ago one of the abbey brothers, who knew about such matters, had instructed me that the whole area, including the Mendip Hills, was formed of limestone …
‘So this is where you are!’ Cicely’s voice accused me, and I turned to see her standing in the doorway. ‘I’ve been searching for you for ages.’
‘And now you’ve found me,’ I answered coolly, conscious of Mark’s suspicious glare. ‘What do want with me, Mistress?’
She pouted at this formal mode of address, but merely said, ‘You’re all to come to dinner. Aunt Joan says we’re to eat together in the kitchen until more help can be found for Lyddie. She won’t have her overworked, carrying food upstairs to the solar.’
Mark muttered something under his breath, but made no further protest. He and Rob took off their aprons, running their fingers through their hair in a vain attempt to be rid of the dust, and I copied them, with as little result.
‘What have you been doing?’ Cicely asked as we walked across the garden. It was now well past ten o’clock and the sun was already mounting the heavens. Only a few faint clouds stencilled the relentless blue vault of the sky, and the heat was merciless.
‘With Mark’s permission, I’ve been looking through your cousin Peter’s books.’
‘And what did you discover?’ She spoke a little breathlessly, abandoning her provocative manner.
‘Nothing that need disturb anyone. It’s a perfectly innocent collection, more respectable I should guess than the libraries of many an abbey. At Glastonbury, for example, some books are kept under lock and key, volumes thought too dangerous or too seditious to be viewed by any but the most senior, and therefore most incorruptible, of the monks.’
She glanced sharply at me, as if suspecting me of irreverence towards the Holy Church and its officers, but I smiled blandly back and she was reassured.
So was Dame Joan when I repeated what I had told her niece. ‘That is good news.’ She said a benediction and we began our meal, but she still needed a little reassurance. ‘You’re certain there’s nothing there that could implicate Peter in any form of magic?’
‘Quite certain. You may rest easy on that score.’
‘Then whatever can have happened to him?’ she asked. No one made answer and she looked again at me. ‘What do you plan to do now, Roger?’
I wiped my mouth on the back of one hand. ‘I should like to ride to the Pennards’ farm and have a word with young Abel Fairchild. Would I meet with any opposition from your friends, do you think?’
I had to wait several moments while Mark emptied his mouth of food, but eventually he replied with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘They’re not really friends, just people with whom we have commercial dealings. But they’re all of them pleasant enough, and would probably raise no objections to you speaking with Abel, provided you don’t keep him too long from his work. They must be as anxious as we are to resolve this business. After all, Peter’s disappearance happened on their land, and it may harm their reputation as well as ours if no solution’s found soon.’
‘I’ll ride with you,’ Cicely offered, hurrying to finish her dinner. ‘You’ll need someone to show you the way.’