‘Very well,’ I said as we sat down, ‘tell me what has happened. When did you last see Mark, and where was he going?’
Aunt and niece immediately broke forth in concert, so that nothing made sense and I was forced to beg for quiet. ‘Stop!’ I protested. ‘Stop!’ I turned to the older woman, who seemed the calmer of the pair. ‘Dame Joan, let me hear you first, if you please.’
She looked a trifle bemused. ‘There’s not a lot to tell, I suppose,’ she eventually admitted. ‘After dinner, after you’d gone, Mark said that he was going to go to Beckery Island, to see the priest there.’ She gestured towards Cicely. ‘We both asked him why, but all my son would say was that he wanted a word with Father Boniface. I asked was it to do with Peter’s … well, his disappearance, but Mark didn’t answer. He just instructed me to keep an eye on the apprentices while he was gone, and said he would be back some time after noon.’
‘And it’s now past three o’clock,’ Cicely interrupted, ‘and there’s still no sign of him!’
‘My dear child,’ I objected, ‘half a dozen things might have delayed your cousin, but the most likely, surely, is that he has met a friend and gone with him to an ale-house for a cup of wine or beer. Or he has got into conversation with one of the pilgrims — if memory serves me aright, there are always pilgrims lodging at the priest’s house in Beckery at this time of year. Or perhaps some business has demanded his attention. You are letting your imagination run away with you. Mark will be home soon, safe and sound. You’ll see.’
I had succeeded in reassuring Dame Joan, who smiled and nodded before hurrying downstairs again to the kitchen to oversee Lydia’s preparations for supper. Cicely, however, was clearly still worried.
‘Why did my cousin suddenly take it into his head to visit Beckery?’ she demanded, chewing her bottom lip.
‘To deliver some merchandise?’ I suggested. ‘The priest there must have need of parchment in the course of his work.’
She brightened slightly, but asked, ‘Then why didn’t he say so? What need could there be for secrecy?’
I sighed. ‘People don’t always act in a predictable fashion. How dull life would be if they did! Maybe Mark was irritated by his mother’s questioning. He’s a grown man; he doesn’t have to account to her for his every movement.’
Cicely thought this over before agreeing, albeit grudgingly, that I could be right.
‘All the same,’ she coaxed, ‘I’d like to go to Beckery Island and make sure he really went there. It would put my mind at ease. It won’t take long. We’ll be back before supper.’
‘We?’ I groaned resignedly.
She got resolutely to her feet. ‘Come along,’ she insisted, ‘and you can tell me what happened at the Pennards’ as we go. I haven’t asked you about your visit there yet.’
‘I’ve already told you that there’s nothing much to say. I’ve no solution to offer. I’m as mystified as the rest of you in regard to your cousin’s whereabouts.’ I heaved a second, more heartfelt sigh. ‘Oh, very well! I’ll come with you. But I’ve no doubt that we shall either meet Mark returning, or, in any event, that he’ll be home before us.’
* * *
I was proved wrong on the first count. We did not encounter Mark on our way to Beckery Island.
It is not really an island, of course. It may have been once, centuries ago, when all the low-lying land in these parts was under water and only the hills stood clear. The great Tor itself, rising above the abbey, and which can now be reached dryshod, is still known as the Isle of Avalon — Ynys Afalon in the old Celtic tongue, the ‘Island of Apples’. Beckery, which lies about a mile south-west of the town, was originally called Becc-Eriu, meaning ‘Little Ireland’. Saint Bridget is said to have visited it over a thousand years before to work and pray, while Saint Dunstan was instructed there by Irish teachers.
The other story connected with Beckery is that King Arthur, while resting at Glastonbury, was told by an angel in a dream to go to the hermitage on the island, and when he did so, he was favoured with a remarkable vision of the Virgin and Child.
In that late summer of 1476, however — already nearly half a century in the past as I recount this story; how the years spin by us as old age takes its toll! — Beckery was what it had been for many years: a halt for pilgrims approaching Glastonbury from the west, either by land or along the waterway of the river Brue. A small, compact chapel, a simple oblong in shape, catered for their spiritual needs, while the priest’s house itself, together with another long, low, single-storey building, provided them with accommodation for rest and refreshment. Ditches and a substantial fence protected the whole compound and separated the chapel from the secular buildings. A lavatorium had been added to the north-east corner of the house, a more than welcome sight, no doubt, to dusty and footsore travellers.
Upon enquiry, Cicely and I were told by one of the pilgrims that the priest was within the chapel, getting all ready for Vespers, which was only a half-hour distant. Our journey had taken us longer than we’d expected, the heat having slowed our progress and made several rests necessary for comfort and well-being. We were directed to the building’s only entrance, a door which opened into the nave, where the tiled floor added to the general coolness induced by thick stone walls and a roof of Cornish slates.
The priest, a slender young man wearing the black Benedictine habit, was in the chancel, lighting the altar candles and making certain that all was swept and garnished for the evening service. Cicely and I paused for a moment, silently regarding him while we recovered our breath, before advancing. Our shoes made very little noise, but something — a sudden draught of air, perhaps, or the faint creaking of a door hinge — alerted him immediately to our presence. He turned and came towards us with a friendly smile, wiping his hands on the skirt of a linen apron.
‘Have you come far, my children? Do you require accommodation? We have a space or two. All our overnight visitors have moved on to the abbey, and we have had less than a dozen replacements.’
Cicely forestalled me. ‘No, no, Father! We’re not pilgrims. We’ve come to ask after my cousin, Mark Gildersleeve, who set out to pay you a visit this morning and has not yet returned home. Did he arrive here? And if so, did he stay long?’
The priest frowned for a moment, then his brow cleared and his narrow features lifted into a smile.
‘Yes, yes! Mark was with me today, round about noon. He came to bring me a present of a new sheet of vellum.’
‘A present?’ I repeated. ‘It was not something you had ordered from him then?’
‘Oh no! It is extremely fine vellum. A very generous gift indeed by Master Gildersleeve, but far too good for my mundane needs. I shall, however, pass it on to the abbey scriptorium, where it will doubtless be used to the best advantage.’
Puzzled, I said, ‘But Master Gildersleeve must have known that the vellum was too valuable for your household accounts and suchlike. Why did he bring it?’
Father Boniface’s smile grew rueful. ‘I think it was in the nature of a small douceur. He hoped I could give him some information.’
‘What information?’ Cicely and I demanded in the same breath.
The priest looked somewhat taken aback by our eagerness. ‘He asked me about a paper which I had given to his brother some two or three months ago, knowing of Peter’s interest in all things antiquarian. Mark wanted me to explain its contents to him. Alas, I was unable to do so.’
‘Why was that? Had you not read it?’
‘Yes. Well, I’d seen it.’ The priest shivered suddenly. ‘It’s cold in here,’ he said, laying a hand on my arm. ‘Let’s go outside and sit for a while in the sun.’