‘But there might have been water there once,’ I insisted. ‘A thousand years and more ago, there could have been a river known for some reason as the Styx.’
Charon’s stream! But where had it come from? And where was its source? I thought suddenly of the great gorge away to the north-west, near Cheddar. I had never seen it, as I had told Anthony Pennard, but I had heard it described by many pilgrims who visited the abbey in the days when I was a novice. And I recalled one old man, more learned than many of his fellows, and more patient with the questions of a green youth hungry for any scraps of knowledge which came his way, who had told me that this ravine between the towering heights on either side had probably, long, long ago, been the bed of a river which, century after century, had carved a course for itself through the Mendip Hills.
Hard upon the heels of this thought came a recollection of the lie of the land close to the shepherd’s hut, the narrow valley which sloped gently downhill from the sheer cliff-face. I remembered too that there was a well-worn track which curled around the bluff, and which ended in a fall of matted foliage, trailing ivies and ferns that grew in a fissure of the rock higher up. Had that little valley also been a river-bed a thousand years ago? But if so, where had the stream come from? Had it trickled down from the slopes above? Unlikely, because in that case it would surely have worn away the rocks in its path, just as the constant flow of water had done in the great gorge. And yet the only other place it could have come from was out of the cliff-face itself, trickling down through the porous limestone from the sink-holes on top of the Mendip Hills.
A cave! Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that sooner? I recalled one of the brothers at the abbey once telling me that caves are nothing more than the beds of dried-up underground rivers, after the water has been diverted into another channel.
Underground river … Charon’s stream …
I turned again to Cicely, who was regarding me anxiously, unable to follow my racing thoughts. ‘Let’s go and see Rob and John again,’ I said, getting to my feet.
The two apprentices had given up all pretence of working by now and were crouched on the floor of the workshop playing at fivestones.
‘Have you ever heard of there being caves,’ I asked them, ‘on that part of the Pennards’ land known as the Sticks?’
‘Or the Styx,’ Cicely smirked, thereby thoroughly confusing her listeners and distracting their attention from the question.
At last, however, I was able to learn from Rob Undershaft that there were indeed any number of caves in the Mendip Hills, far more perhaps than anyone knew about; and he cited the terrifying experience of one of his cousins who had crawled into what appeared to be nothing more than a hole in the ground, only to find himself in an underground cavern, from which he had eventually been rescued with the greatest effort and difficulty.
‘But I’ve never heard of any on the Pennards’ land,’ he went on, ‘though that isn’t to say there isn’t one. The best person to ask, surely, is Anthony Pennard himself. Why do you want to know?’
‘No particular reason,’ I lied, daring Cicely with a look to contradict me.
I reflected with rising excitement that the Sticks was the area of hills within easiest reach of Glastonbury, close to its sister town of Wells, and which would probably have been most familiar to the monks of Ynys Witrin. Brother Begninus might well have known of a cave through which ran an underground river, a river which found its outlet through an enlarged fissure in the rock and flowed on down the hillside into the great marshy plain below. Perhaps there had been a dry area within the cave, and a rock formation which resembled an altar … Perhaps Begninus had hidden the church’s holy relic there once before when danger had threatened, and used the place again during that year when news of a fresh Saxon advance had reached him and the other brothers, when he had once more been charged with its concealment.
‘Amongst the hills, in the hollow places of the earth, on the altar by Charon’s stream.’ The words kept spinning round and round in my head. Had Peter Gildersleeve followed this same line of reasoning? There was no way of knowing, but somehow I felt it more than possible that he had. And had he also concluded that the entrance to the cave must lie at the head of that little valley?
Once more, I could not know the answer. But just supposing I was right — why had he not come back? Whether he had found what he was looking for or no — whether he was about to become one of the most honoured men in Christendom, feted by kings and cardinals alike, or was a very deeply disappointed man — he should have returned. Where, too, was Mark? And why had Dorabella been found with traces of tar and bits of straw in her coat? The riddle was not yet solved, nor would it be until I put my theory to the test and went to see for myself if it were sound or no.
When we quit the workshop, leaving the apprentices to resume their game, Cicely would have returned to the garden for further discussion, but I shook my head.
‘The time for talking is past,’ I said. ‘I’m going to fetch Barnabas from the stables and ride as far as the shepherd’s hut where Peter disappeared.’
‘And what good will that do? she demanded, eyeing me with suspicion. ‘I’ve been watching you closely while you were talking to Rob and John, and something’s going on in that brain of yours. And why were you asking about a cave? You still haven’t told me everything, have you?’
I smiled and kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘Better you don’t know. Give my respects to Dame Joan when she wakes, and say that I hope to be with you by suppertime.’
‘Why do you say “hope”? You said earlier there might be danger. Were you serious?’ she challenged.
‘Maybe. But God will protect me,’ I answered, wishing that I felt as confident as I sounded.
‘But…’ Cicely began.
‘No “buts”,’ I answered. ‘Listen carefully! You are to remain here and say nothing of where I’ve gone to anyone.’
‘But if there’s danger,’ she persisted, ‘why don’t you ask Master Honeyman to go with you? Two would be better than one.’
‘No,’ I answered firmly. ‘I won’t imperil him for something that’s not his business.’
She gave a reluctant nod. I went swiftly upstairs to collect my cudgel and the tinder-box and flints from the bedchamber, dropping the latter into my pouch before running down again to the kitchen. There I begged from Lydia a few of the linen strips dipped in melted fat which she used for wrapping and preserving joints of meat. Then, ignoring Cicely’s plea of ‘Wait!’, I was out of the front door and along the crowded High Street almost before I knew it, making my way towards Edgar Shapwick’s stables.
* * *
I flattered myself that Barnabas recognized me, for he threw up his head and whinnied as one of the stable-boys led him into the courtyard for saddling. He looked well-groomed and cared for, but he seemed restive for so placid an animal.
‘He needs a good gallop,’ said Edgar Shapwick, coming up behind me. ‘We haven’t had much time to exercise him. Are you leaving us at last, Chapman?’
I did not answer, but mounted the cob, positioning my cudgel awkwardly across the saddlebow, then paid the rest of what I owed for his stabling. I glanced up at the darkening sky.
‘Ay, there’s going to be a storm, Chapman,’ the stablemaster confirmed, ‘as sure as Christ came to Priddy!’
I had given Barnabas the office to start, but Edgar’s words made me tug violently on the reins. I turned to stare at him, and he returned my look with interest.
‘Something bothering you?’ he enquired.
After a moment’s hesitation I said, ‘Supposing I wanted to get from Beckery to the foot of Mendip, are there other paths I could take beside the road to Wells?’
‘Lord love you, yes!’ Edgar laughed. ‘Plenty of tracks for those that know them. But I wouldn’t recommend them to strangers.’