It crossed my mind that Dame Joan’s life must have been very lonely before Cicely’s arrival, with one son’s nose permanently stuck in a book and the other out drinking as soon as work was finished. I turned back to Lydia. ‘Go on,’ I said.
She wriggled into a more comfortable position on the hard stone.
‘Well, it was one evening some three or four weeks ago — I can’t remember exactly when. It was just beginning to get dark. Maud was coming out of the workroom where she’d been talking to John and Rob.’ Lydia sniggered. ‘She was a bit sweet on Rob Undershaft. She’d never confess it, but she was.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ Dame Joan was intrigued.
‘Oh yes, and-’
‘What happened?’ I interrupted them both ruthlessly.
Lydia collected her rambling thoughts and continued: ‘Well, Maud told me that Master Peter must have heard her come out of the workroom and called to her to fetch him a candle. When she returned he wasn’t there — he’d had to leave the room for a few minutes — so she put the candle on the bench and started looking at the books and papers that were spread out all over it. There was this one sheet of parchment, she said, which was nothing but a lot of lines. Just a lot of little strokes arranged in bunches. That was her word: “bunches”. I mean, Maud can’t read any more than I can, but we know what proper writing looks like.’
‘And then?’ I prompted.
‘Master Peter came back, and when he realized what it was she was looking at he flew into a rage. Maud said she’d never seen him so angry, because normally he’s a polite, mild-tempered man.’ Dame Joan nodded in agreement. ‘But he bundled her out of the shop as fast as she could go, shouting all sorts of silly things at her. She was really frightened.’
‘What sort of silly things was he shouting?’
‘Lord, I don’t know. She may have told me, but I’ve forgotten.’ Lydia screwed up her face in an effort to remember. ‘Something about the paper being very valuable, and it wasn’t to be touched.’
‘Valuable?’
‘I think that’s what Maud said. Anyway, Master Peter was quite himself again the following morning and apologized to her for being so hasty. Pretended he’d been feeling unwell — but Maud didn’t believe him.’
After a short silence while I mulled over this information, I asked, ‘Are you certain you can’t recall anything else Maud might have told you?’
Lydia shook her head, suddenly losing interest in the proceedings. She stretched her arms and gave a cavernous yawn before announcing that she was off to prepare the dough for tomorrow’s bread. She slid wearily off the bench and went into the kitchen.
After a few moments I said, ‘Dame Joan, with your permission I’d like to see this Maud Jarrold for myself. If you’ll tell me where she lives, I’ll go at once. I want to know in more detail what passed between her and your son.’
‘Do you consider it so important? You’ve had a tiring day. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
‘I’d rather go this evening. The sooner we know all there is to be known, the better.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. Very well, then. Go as far as the pilgrims’ chapel of Saint James, and beside it you’ll see a lane, running northward. There are half a dozen cottages there which house some of the lay workers of the abbey. John Jarrold’s is the last, the farthest from the road. Maud’s father helps the brothers with the heavier digging and planting in the orchard and the kitchen gardens. He’s a rough-tongued man and won’t take kindly to your wanting to question his daughter. But at this hour of the evening you may be lucky and find him from home. He’ll be in one of the ale-houses.’
I thanked her and rose to my feet.
She smiled up at me, her eyes deeply troubled. ‘Take care, my dear boy,’ she said, and I promised her that I’d try.
I left her sitting on the stone bench, alone with her uneasy reflections.
* * *
There was still a great deal of activity in the lower part of the town, for the fine summer evenings meant that men could work longer, or sit with their womenfolk out of doors gossiping with their neighbours. Children not yet in bed were playing games up and down the street: bowling hoops, trying to kick a blown swine’s bladder between two sticks planted upright in the ground, throwing discarded horseshoes at a given mark, and — the most favoured pastime, as I remembered from my youth — taking sling-shots at birds, or indeed at anything that moved.
Higher up, however, beyond the turning to Lambcook Street where the climb becomes steeper, there was far less noise. Here, in those days at least, the dwellings were sparser. Not so many people lived in Bove Town, and those who did seemed to be of a less friendly disposition; so I trod more warily, keeping my eyes on the road ahead and offering no greetings. I knew the chapel of Saint James well enough; indeed, most of my recollections of Glastonbury were as fresh in my memory as though it were only five weeks, and not five years, since I had last been there. The chapel stood some furrow’s length below the causeway to Wells, on the left-hand side as one walked eastward, and at right angles to it, as Dame Joan had said, ran a narrow lane.
The six cottages were close together, with a patch of ground at the back of each where a pig or cow could be kept during the day and a few vegetables grown in season. The goodwife who lived in the first cottage was already driving her animal indoors for the night — a little premature, I thought, as it would not be dark for a while yet.
I knocked on the door of the last cottage, where the lane dwindled to a rough and narrow track, and waited in some trepidation for it to be opened. To my relief, my summons was answered by a young girl, while a woman’s voice from within shouted, ‘Who is it, Maud?’
‘I don’t know, Mother. A stranger.’ And Maud Jarrold turned a look of enquiry on me, waiting for an explanation of my presence.
I asked, ‘Can I come in?’
Immediately the goodwife was behind her daughter, barring the entrance with a pair of brawny arms. ‘My man’s from home at present, but he’ll be back very shortly. What is it you want?’
I explained as well as I could, and the woman’s face darkened with suspicion.
‘Maud can’t tell you anything. Her father took her from that house as soon as he learned what had happened to Peter Gildersleeve. There were strange goings-on there. Too many books, for one thing; it isn’t safe for a man to read as many books as he did. And then there was that piece of paper my girl saw which had nothing but lines on it! Witchcraft, that’s what my John says!’ Recollecting herself, the goodwife took a step forward to peer nervously down the lane, afraid that one of her neighbours might have heard her.
I said eagerly, ‘It’s that paper I wish to know about.’ I addressed myself directly to her daughter. ‘Lydia told me what happened — the night that you saw it, spread out on the bench in the shop. What did Peter Gildersleeve say to you when he returned?’
Maud, swelling with self-importance, spoke up before her mother could stop her. ‘He was furiously angry. I’ve never known him behave like that before.’ She went on to repeat more or less what Lydia had said: ‘He’s usually so calm and gentle. He thought I’d touched it, but I hadn’t. I wouldn’t.’ She shivered. ‘Not a thing like that. Black magic, I reckon it was. The work of the Devil.’
‘But what did he say?’ I repeated.
Maud thought for a moment or two, her rather plain features hardening into lines of furrowed concentration. At last she said, ‘I was very frightened, you understand, because he was in such a temper, but I do remember him saying that it was … now, let me see … yes, that if he’d int … interpreted it aright — ’ she stumbled a little over the unfamiliar word — ‘it was “valuable beyond price”. That was it! “Valuable beyond price”.’
‘If he’d interpreted it aright,’ I repeated slowly. ‘Did he say anything else that you can recall?’
‘She’s answering no more of your questions,’ the goodwife told me angrily. ‘What’s more, she’s never going back to work for the Gildersleeves. And you can tell Dame Joan so, if she asks! You’d better be off before my man gets home, or he’ll grind you into mincemeat.’ She paused, taking stock of me. ‘Well,’ she amended honestly, ‘he’d try; my man’s not scared of anyone.’