I at once felt ashamed of myself. Why do we always want people to agree with us, and resent our preconceptions being challenged? So I humbly begged the little monk’s pardon, thanked him for his help, and added for good measure that beyond doubt his wisdom and superior knowledge would prevail with me, when once I had had a chance to mull things over.
I don’t think he really believed me, for his face was still very red when Brother Hilarion and I emerged into the open air.
‘You haven’t improved, Roger,’ the Novice Master reproved me sternly in the disappointed tones I remembered only too well. ‘You must learn respect for your elders.’
I tried to look suitably abashed, but failed dismally if Brother Hilarion’s reproachful expression was anything to judge by. But that had always been a part of my trouble: I could never accept that because a person was older than myself, he was also necessarily wiser. (And even now that I am one of the old ones I cannot feel certain that I know more than my children do. Perhaps it is just as well, for they all have very definite and forthright opinions on almost every subject.)
‘Brother Librarian was most enlightening,’ I said. ‘I shall have much to think about when I return to Dame Joan’s.’
The bell began to toll for Compline and I quickened my step. ‘Thank you, Brother, for your time and patience.’
He raised his hand in blessing. ‘Won’t you come to the service?’ he asked.
But he knew as well as I did that I should derive small benefit from it, that my mind would be on other things. It was surely better to wait until I could concentrate my thoughts as I should. So he let me go without any further attempt at persuasion.
* * *
I sat on the edge of the bed in Peter and Mark Gildersleeve’s bedchamber and tried to marshal my thoughts into some sort of order.
I had returned to the house to be told by Lydia that I was expected in the solar as soon as I set foot indoors. There I had been met by the tired, drawn face of Dame Joan and the sullen, anxious features of Cicely. The strain was making both women ill, especially now that the bracing presence of Gilbert Honeyman had been withdrawn, and the need for courtesy to the stranger within their gates was no longer necessary.
Dame Joan had lived with the disappearance of her elder son for a week now, and with Mark’s since the day before yesterday. All the same, I was still not prepared to take them further into my confidence until I had treated myself to a period of quiet reflection, in order to clarify my ideas. I therefore had begged them both to excuse me, and to allow me to retire for the night.
‘I told you so!’ Cicely had flung at her aunt. ‘I told you that we should learn nothing from Master Chapman! And why? Because, as I said before, it’s my belief that all that boasting about how he’s solved mysteries in the past is so much nonsense! I was never more deceived in anyone in my life.’
I had fully expected the Dame to call her niece to order as she had done previously, but the older woman seemed oblivious to the insult, labouring with some decision of her own.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ she had remarked with sudden purpose, emphasized by tapping her fingers on the table. She looked at Cicely. ‘I’m sending for your father. Where did he say the Duke was bound for when he left Farleigh Castle?’
The younger woman had wrinkled her brow. ‘London, I think. Yes, London, but only for a couple of days. Father said he would leave word of their next destination, however, for anyone enquiring after him. And I do remember now,’ she added guiltily, ‘that he particularly asked to be kept informed of what was happening. He wanted to know that Peter was all right.’
Dame Joan had nodded. ‘That settles it. I have been very remiss in not requesting his presence here earlier. First thing tomorrow I shall instruct Rob Undershaft to search out anyone in the town who is despatching goods to London within the next few days, and if there is someone his carter shall take a message from me to William. I’ll visit the scrivener in the morning and get him to pen a letter, simply stating that my brother is needed here as soon as possible.’
It would have been the easiest thing in the world for me to have proposed that I write the letter for her, and in more detail than she would trust to the scrivener’s discretion, but I had the feeling that the offer would not have been welcomed. I was being deliberately cold-shouldered by the aunt as well as the niece, as though I had been put on trial and found sadly wanting. So I had retired to my bedchamber in a huff, where I had spent the first half-hour making plans to wash my hands of the entire sorry business and set out for home at the crack of dawn.
I should have known better, alas, than to waste my time in this fashion, for once my curiosity is aroused I cannot rest until it is assuaged. And this mystery in particular held me in thrall, just as if it were indeed a spell cast by Merlin. But the longer I thought, the more confused I became, reason and fantasy struggling together for possession of my mind like the magical beasts of the enchanted forest, thrown up by the Wizard about his domains …
My head jerked forward, and I realized that I had almost fallen asleep where I sat. The Holy Grail! The Holy Grail! The words spun round and round in my reeling brain. Had it ever actually existed? And if it had, did Joseph of Arimathea truly bring it to Glastonbury after Our Lord’s death upon the Cross? And if so, what form had it taken? Had Joseph himself really come here, crossing from Little Britain, which we now call Brittany, to Great Britain across the Narrow Sea? Or was that just another myth, as some of our neighbours, jealous of the standing it gave this country in the Christian hierarchy, would have us believe?
My head felt as though it was being squeezed by a band of red-hot iron, and my legs were as heavy as lead. Without even bothering to remove my boots, I swung them on to the bed and was sound asleep before my head touched the pillows.
* * *
When I awoke it was dark, the unshuttered window making an oblong of grey in the blackness of one wall. The house was silent, and I assumed that everyone else had retired for the night. I had no idea how long I had been asleep, but it was obviously for some hours. I must have been more tired than I knew.
But my rest had refreshed me. My mind, which had been so befuddled earlier, was now crystal clear. I realized, as though hit by a blinding truth like Saint Paul on the road to Damascus, that whether or not the Holy Grail had ever existed, whether or not it had taken the form of a cup, a cruet or a gemstone was of no importance. Nor did it really matter what the relic secreted by the long-dead Brother Begninus had actually been. What was of moment was the interpretation put upon the story by Peter Gildersleeve. I had to look at the riddle through his eyes, not through my own.
I got up and closed the shutters, for the downpour of the afternoon had been followed by a chillier night than those we had grown accustomed to during that long, hot summer. The faintest hint of autumn was in the air, the first intimation of a colder wind blowing from the east. I suddenly found myself thinking with almost nostalgic longing of my mother-in-law’s little house in Bristol, of the fire on the hearth with the cooking-pot suspended over it, of my daughter perched on my knee while the winter gales roared along the Backs, whipping the river to a frenzy and howling amongst the roof-tops, leaving us cosy and warm inside.
I groped around until I discovered the tinder-box, lit the two lanterns and then retired again to the bed. This time I removed my boots, although otherwise remaining fully clothed, then banked up the pillows high enough to support my back and resumed my seat, my legs stretched out in front of me.
I had to try to imagine myself inside the mind of Peter Gildersleeve. When Blethyn Goode had translated the parchment’s contents for him, what did he imagine was the relic hidden by Brother Begninus? What secret did he think it held? Had he too hit upon the possibility of the Holy Grail? Or had he, unlike me, indulged in less outrageous flights of fancy? But whatever had been his conclusions, he had considered himself the possessor of information which was ‘valuable beyond price’.