* * *
Gilbert Honeyman had drawn a blank, as I had prophesied he would.
The Bee Master had retraced his ride of the morning, across the raised causeway leading to Wells, and then taken the path to the Holly Brook where he had begun his search.
‘From there, I went as far as I could in all directions but, alas, to no avail. There was no sign of anyone lying injured on the ground. But I do assure you, Dame Joan, that only my own and my horse’s weariness stopped me from starting all over again.’
‘You have done more than anyone could expect of you,’ that worthy assured him, her voice tremulous with gratitude, and she laid a hand on his arm. Master Honeyman patted it sustainingly.
We were eating supper, again in the kitchen, and I had promised to tell my news as soon as we had finished. Consequently, once the meal was over, although the dirty dishes were cleared from the table, no effort was made to wash them. Everyone, including Lydia, resumed his or her seat and waited eagerly to hear what I had to say.
When I had recounted the day’s events, there was a moment’s silence. Then Dame Joan let out a sigh.
‘Does this mean that Peter wasn’t dabbling in sorcery after all?’ she asked.
Both Cicely and I, with assistance from Gilbert Honeyman, did our utmost to reassure her on that score. But her next two questions — ‘Where is he then?’ and ‘What’s happened to him and Mark?’ — were as unanswerable as ever.
‘You must give me more time,’ I pleaded, ‘to try to work things out in the light of this new knowledge.’
‘Do you have any ideas at all?’ the Bee Master demanded bluntly.
‘There’s a thought stirring at the back of my mind,’ I admitted, ‘but I’d rather keep it to myself for now.’ I didn’t add that the idea was so absurd I could barely give it credence, and was certainly not prepared to hold myself up to ridicule by sharing it.
‘That’s not fair!’ Cicely exclaimed hotly. ‘This is as much our mystery as it is yours, and I don’t see why you have to be so horridly secretive!’
Dame Joan immediately reprimanded her for her impertinence, but it was obvious that she was inclined to share her niece’s sentiments. Master Honeyman, on the other hand, looked as though he recognized only too well the headstrong, impulsively outspoken female of the species, and sent me a sympathetic glance.
‘I’m not being horridly secretive,’ I answered gently, ‘it’s just that I can’t yet see where my idea is leading me, even supposing that there’s something in it, which may not be the case. I need to speak to Brother Hilarion again. I’ll pay him a visit this evening and see if I can talk to him sometime between Vespers and Compline. But don’t expect me to tell you anything on my return. I shall need to be on my own, to think.’
This in no way placated Cicely, who continued to sulk. Master Honeyman decided on a strategic withdrawal and announced that he must be on his way. ‘I shall be at the abbey hostelry at the bottom of the street, should you need me,’ he said, gallantly bowing over Dame Joan’s hand. ‘I’ve already paid my shot and stabled my horse there. If I may, I shall visit you again tomorrow, to find out how matters stand then.’
‘Don’t waste your time, sir,’ Cicely advised him with a toss of her head, ‘for I’m sure we shan’t be any the wiser than we are now — except Master Chapman, of course.’
Gilbert clapped me on the shoulder and pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re making an enemy there, my lad,’ he hissed in my ear.
I winked in reply and rose to my feet. ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said, ‘as far as the abbey’s north gate.’
Once we had left the house, it was only a step or two before we parted company, but time enough for him to say, ‘What a termagant! She reminds me of my own Rowena.’ He laughed. ‘God preserve us from the female race!’
I smiled and waved him on his way; then I roused the gate-porter and begged admittance for the second time that day.
‘Oh, it’s you again,’ he grumbled. ‘The brothers are in the refectory, at supper.’
‘I can wait,’ I said. ‘But I must speak with Brother Hilarion when he’s finished eating.’
He made no further objection and let me pass. The precincts were just as busy as they had been earlier, and I reflected that it was an abbey which never seemed to sleep. The only truly quiet time was in the small hours of the morning, when the monks roused themselves in the cold, dark dorter and went in procession down the night stairs to sing Vigils in the church, a great pool of darkness starred with a few, faint, flickering lights. (I regret to say that when I was a novice there, I often fell into a doze while chanting my psalms, and had to be nudged awake by my neighbours.)
To pass the time I skirted the Lady Chapel, threaded a path through the old cemetery and past the cloisters towards the dorters, situated between the refectory and the latrines. Away to my right, wonderful, mouth-watering smells were issuing forth from the abbot’s kitchen, and I wondered which local dignitary was being entertained this evening in the adjacent hall. No such appetizing aromas came from the monks’ kitchen as I passed it; a bowlful of thin gruel or broth would have constituted their evening meal, and I recalled with almost physical agony the pangs of hunger from which I used to suffer during my novitiate.
Out of curiosity, I mounted the stairs to the deserted dormitory over the undercroft. Nothing had changed. The same two rows of blankets, straw-filled pillows and rush-mats — only the old and the sick had mattresses — lined each wall, and the same bleak crucifix hung at one end. The door leading to the night-corridor and stairs was shut, but icy draughts still seeped beneath it. As for myself, I was seized with the same urgent longing for escape that had so frequently afflicted me in the past, and I descended into the fresh air again with almost indecent haste.
I returned to the cloisters and found Brother Hilarion’s carrel, hoping that he would come there for meditation, or to read the Scriptures quietly until it was the hour for Compline (always a little later in the summer months). I was not disappointed, and when supper was over and grace said, the brothers entered from the refectory and went each to his own place, some taking up pen or brush again to resume their labours on psalter or Bible or other holy book.
Brother Hilarion did not immediately perceive me, for I was sitting in shadow at the carrel’s further end. When I moved, he started back with a cry.
‘It’s all right, Brother,’ I whispered. ‘It’s only me again.’
‘R-Roger? How you startled me! What do you want?’
‘Can we talk here?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, but we must be very quiet.’ He slid on to the seat beside me. ‘Have you discovered anything since this morning, concerning Peter Gildersleeve?’
Keeping my voice as low as possible, I told him all that had happened, producing for his perusal both the original parchment belonging to Gerald of Clonmel and also the translation made by Blethyn Goode.
His frown deepened as he looked at them. ‘This is certainly no evil spell or incantation. So what can it have to do with Master Gildersleeve’s disappearance?’
I countered with a question of my own. ‘Have you ever heard of any great relic which was housed here in the olden days?’
He shook his head. ‘This is before the coming of our Saxon forefathers. After their conversion by Saint Augustine we might have seen the bones of Saint Patrick and Saint Aidan, relics which we still retain. And three of our Saxon kings were buried here: Edmund, Edgar the Peacable, and Ethelraed Unraed’s son, Edmund Ironside. But what was here in ancient times, I have no idea. Maybe you should speak to Brother Librarian. He might have some thoughts on the subject.’