It was now Tuesday. On the previous Friday, Peter Gildersleeve had announced his intention of visiting the Pennards (already known to me through my earlier conversation with Cicely). There was nothing unusual in this as, like their father before them, the brothers bought some of their skins from Anthony Pennard and his two sons, Gilbert and Thomas. He had therefore set out not long after dinner, riding the five or so miles between Glastonbury and Wells on Dorabella, a chestnut mare which belonged to the family. (If a second horse or a carriage for Dame Joan were needed, they were hired from the Northload Street livery stables.)
In the event, however, Peter had made no attempt to see either Anthony or his sons. The three men were from home that afternoon, but Mistress Pennard and both her maids had been indoors all day, not wishing to venture forth in the stifling heat, and they all declared that no one had called at the house. But Peter Gildersleeve had been seen on Pennard land, a fact attested to by one of the shepherd-lads, Abel Fairchild. Not only had Abel set eyes on Peter Gildersleeve, but the terrified boy also swore that the visitor had magically vanished almost in his presence.
By an odd coincidence — or perhaps it was not a coincidence: was it not just as likely that God had taken over the reins and was directing my every move? — this event had occurred on the very same stretch of ground across which Cicely and I had travelled earlier that afternoon, within those two folds of the Mendip hills where she had pointed out the shepherd’s hut and the distant prospect of the Pennards’ house. Abel had been following his flock down to the lower slopes, and had noticed Peter Gildersleeve descending from the copse towards the hut. He had watched him pause and stare around once he had reached level ground. Peter had then glanced up, recognized Abel and raised his hand in greeting.
At this point, the undulation had hidden both him and the hut from Abel’s sight; but the boy was young and active, and it had been only a matter of seconds before he had ascended the opposite slope. In those few seconds, however, Peter Gildersleeve had completely vanished.
To begin with, Abel had thought nothing of it. He assumed that for some reason or other Peter had gone into the hut; so, being a conscientious lad and mindful of his master’s interests, he had opened the door and looked inside to discover what the intruder was up to. But there was no one there. Feeling a little uneasy, although not yet frightened, Abel had walked slowly around the outside of the building, first clockwise and then withershins, but there was still no sign of his quarry, and the rest of the lower hollow was just as empty. Unease had begun to give way to panic. He had called Peter’s name and once more searched the interior of the hut, but to no avail. The man he had seen alive and well only minutes earlier had disappeared without trace.
Abel was, by now, thoroughly scared. He’d scrambled up towards the trees and run as fast as his legs would carry him to the farmhouse. At first, Mistress Pennard had refused to listen, being too busy scolding him for leaving his flock unattended, but when at last she paid attention to his story, she had been sufficiently impressed by his general demeanour to send one of the maids back with him as far as the copse. There they had discovered Dorabella tethered to a tree and quietly cropping the grass. Of Peter Gildersleeve, however, there was still no sign.
The day wore on. Towards suppertime the three Pennard men had returned from Priddy, high on the Mendips, where they had been visiting Anthony’s younger brother, Henry, and had been told the sorry tale. Abel had been sent for and closely questioned, whereupon all three Pennards had visited the site of Peter’s disappearance to conduct their own search, but without success. Consequently, after supper, it had been decided that one of the brothers must ride to Glastonbury, leading Dorabella, and tell the Gildersleeves what had happened. It was reckoned that Dame Joan and Mark would, in any case, be growing worried at Peter’s delay in returning home. Foot-pads and thieves had been plaguing the whole area for some months past, and they would be feeling concerned for his safety, even though there were still a few hours until dusk.
Such had been the events of the last Friday, and the Gildersleeve household had been in turmoil ever since. Had it not been for his abandoning of Dorabella it might have been assumed, by Mark at least, that there was a reasonable explanation for Peter’s absence and that he had gone off about some secret business of his own. Peter, however, would never have left the horse for more than an hour or so; she was far too valuable to him. In addition (and as I already knew) he had been due to ride to Farleigh on the Monday to collect his betrothed and bring her back with him. Mark and the two apprentice lads, Rob Undershaft and John Longbones, had been out hunting for him every hour of daylight since.
‘But of course they won’t find him!’ Dame Joan now exclaimed, pressing her hands together until the knuckles showed white. ‘He’s been taken by the Devil! We shall all be outcasts!’
‘Aunt! Will you please stop saying that!’
There was a sudden, underlying note of hysteria in Cicely’s voice, and I noticed that she was no longer smiling. In the retelling, the eerie little story had begun to affect her, and she was beginning to share her aunt’s belief in witchcraft and magic. Perhaps it was not so surprising that these mysterious events should have happened there, in the Vale of Avalon, where myth and legend abound, and where the bodies of Arthur and Guinevere lie in their great black marble mausoleum before the high altar-of the abbey …
If, that is, they are the bodies of Arthur and Guinevere. (Am I the only person to have my doubts? Probably not, but it’s a brave man or woman who will voice them openly with so much of the abbey’s wealth depending on acceptance of the fact.) Everyone hereabouts knows the story, of course: how, almost three centuries ago, seven years after a disastrous fire which almost destroyed the abbey, Abbot Henry de Soilly ordered his monks to dig in a certain place, where they found two sets of bones and a hank of yellow hair buried in the trunk of a hollowed-out oak tree. Also in the coffin, by the happiest of chances, was a lead cross with an inscription to identify its burden. Pilgrims have flocked to Glastonbury ever since, including, ninety years on from that fortuitous discovery, King Edward the first and his beloved queen, Eleanor of Castile, who, in a magnificent ceremony still reverently talked about two hundred years later, transferred the bones, carrying them in their arms, from the first tomb in one of the abbey’s side-chapels to their present resting place.
And where Arthur and Guinevere are buried, might not the spirits of Merlin and the evil Morgan le Fay also haunt the surrounding countryside? Succeeding abbots have tried in vain to separate the real Arthur from his mythical persona — but who will prefer oatcake if he can have a doucette? It’s almost as if people enjoy being frightened.
I did, however, make an attempt to allay Cicely’s fears by suggesting that there must be a perfectly straightforward explanation for her betrothed’s disappearance.
‘Then what is it?’ she demanded. ‘Tell me! I’m more than willing to listen.’
But naturally, when confronted with this uncompromising request, I was unable to find an answer. ‘Let’s wait until your cousin Mark and his men return,’ I suggested. ‘Let’s hear what they have to say first. After all, they may have news.’
But when, half an hour later, just as darkness fell, the three returned home, they had nothing more to impart. There had been no further sighting of Peter since Friday afternoon, when he had last been seen by Abel Fairchild.
Mark Gildersleeve joined us above stairs, having first stabled Dorabella and sent his two apprentices to the kitchens in search of their belated supper. He had refused all his mother’s offers of food, being, he said, too tired to eat.