As far as Valletort Manor itself was concerned, it was plain that there had to be another approach to it on leveller ground. The rock face that backed the hollow in which it had been built afforded it protection, but not access. How to reach it from the front, I hoped to discover all in good time.
Before returning to the clearing, I explored the glade and the tree-tent yet again, just to convince myself that neither contained any clue to Beric Gifford’s present whereabouts that I might previously have missed. But I could see nothing except the heavy, broken-off branch of one of the trees, lying half-concealed amongst the grasses. The shelter had been made for some purpose long since abandoned, and I guessed that no one had been near it for many months.
After one or two false starts, I found the trail I was looking for, and began pushing my way through the undergrowth, back towards the clearing. It took me some ten minutes or so to regain the perimeter of trees surrounding it, marked by the fallen log and my discarded apple core, now turning brown where it lay on the grass. I had been halfway round that circle when I had been lured away by the path leading to the glade, so I decided to complete the walk that would bring me once more to the shore-bound path and my pack, hidden under one of the bushes.
But there was only more scrub, more drifts of dead leaves, more beech and oak saplings growing up between the trees, and I was beginning to smell, faintly, the salt tang of the sea. I guessed that within five or six furlongs, this woodland, with its tangles of undergrowth, would give way to the flat open spaces of the downs that sloped down to the shingle and rocks of the shore.
This proved to be the case, but there was still a mile or so to go before I heard the distant hushing of the sea, and yet another half-mile and a steep descent to negotiate before I finally stood on the strip of sand that skirted the base of the cliffs. The track I had followed from Modbury had eventually brought me to a little bay opposite Burrow Island, the latter now in the process of being cut off by the tide. This swept around the rocky outcrop from both directions until the breakers merged and rolled shorewards together, the sand vanishing slowly beneath the waves. At present, however, a narrow strip of causeway still remained, although submerging fast. If I were quick, I could just make the shelter of the monks’ rest-house and beg hospitality for the night. Once there, it was true, I should be unable to return to the mainland until the tide again began to ebb, but after my long walk I was tired and, above all, hungry. After only a few moments’ indecision, I settled my pack more comfortably on my back and started across what remained of the sandy causeway towards the island.
Chapter Thirteen
I reached the island in the nick of time. The waves were already beginning to swirl around my feet while I was still some few yards distant from the shore, and I was ankle-deep in sea water before I stepped up on to one of the large, flat rocks that studded its narrow beach.
Fortunately, my stout leather boots had kept me dry, for I was fussy about keeping them soled and patched, learning from experience how needful it was in my calling to be comfortably shod. Wet feet were the devil, and watertight boots were therefore a necessity. When they were in want of repair, I always made a point of seeking out the very best cobbler in any town through which I happened to be passing, a policy that had so far repaid me well in my lack of corns, blisters and other ailments of the foot.
The October day was already starting to fade, and the sea shimmered in the dying light, gilded by the evening sun. On the grassy slopes above me, two white-habited brothers, crooks in hand, rounded up the community’s sheep and herded them, slowly but surely, into the pen that stood in the lee of the monastery walls. On the island’s crest, still clearly visible against the darkening sky, was the chapel of Saint Michael the Archangel patron saint of mariners, while to my right, at the top of some half-dozen worn stone steps, was the travellers’ hostelry, where I hoped to be given food and a bed for the night.
I was about to mount these steps when a man came running down them, two large baskets grasped one in each hand. He pulled up short, a look of comical dismay on his face, when he saw the level of the tide.
‘Oh, dear me!’ he exclaimed in a rather high, fluting voice. ‘I knew that would happen. I talk too much, that’s my trouble. I was afraid that once I got chatting to Brother Anselm I should forget the time and find myself stranded here for the night. And I’ve left my cart on the mainland, too. Ah well! There’s nothing in it but empty baskets. This was my last port of call.’ He glanced at me and his eyes, a pale, clear blue, suddenly brightened. ‘Still, I suppose you’re going to be here, until the morning, aren’t you? At least I shall have someone to share the hours until bedtime with me.’
‘I shall be pleased to keep you company,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘Roger Chapman, a pedlar, as you see. I’ve left it far too late to return to Modbury tonight, so, rather than trouble one of the fishermen and his wife, I decided to seek shelter with the brothers. And I’ve only just made it before the island is completely surrounded.’
My new acquaintance, returning my handshake, introduced himself as one, Bevis Godsey, a smallholder from a village some little way eastward, further along the coast.
‘I visit the brothers about once a month,’ he explained volubly, remounting the steps as the bell of the monastery chapel began to ring. He turned his head and winked over his shoulder. ‘I bring them apples from my orchard and newly laid eggs. They’re grateful for these little luxuries out here, perched on this rock. Supplies are not always as fresh as they might be by the time they’ve been transported all the way from the Mother House. When Brother Anselm and his flock are remembered at all, that is. Ah! Brother!’ He hailed a short, stout monk who had just emerged from a stone cottage next door to the hostelry. ‘I was just talking about you. I’ve overstayed my time, as usual, and been stranded yet again, so I must once more beg accommodation for the night. And here’s a chapman also wanting a bed.’
Brother Anselm waved flustered hands, flapping them in the direction of the cottage. ‘I can’t stop now. The bell for compline’s ringing. Speak to Geoffrey, Bevis. He’ll see you both safely bestowed and make certain that you have sufficient victuals for your needs. I may be able to join you later, but in case not, I’ll wish you good night.’ And he trotted off in the direction of the monastery as fast as his legs would carry him.
‘Geoffrey Shapwick,’ my companion informed me, ‘is the lay brother on the island. He lights the lamp in Saint Michael’s chapel every evening, to guide the ships out at sea away from the rocks, and during the day helps the other brothers to look after the sheep. He also hoes and weeds the vegetable patch, attends to the welfare of travellers and, in short, does all the odd jobs the monks themselves haven’t the time — or say they haven’t the time — to do. In return, he gets the cottage to live in rent free.’
‘It sounds as if he earns his tenancy,’ I laughed, and waited patiently while Bevis Godsey fetched Master Shapwick from his fireside and once more explained his continued presence on the island. The lay brother’s total lack of surprise indicated that it was too frequent an occurrence to be worthy of comment, and within half an hour at the very most, we were ensconced beside a fire, a high-backed settle protecting our backs from the draughts that, together with the sand, seeped in under the hostelry door. A mazer each of ale stood at our elbows, while steaming bowls of fish soup and thick slices of black bread warmed our chilled limbs and filled our empty stomachs.
A tallow candle placed, in its holder, at one end of the table gave me my first real look at Bevis Godsey, and I decided that if there was one word that described him better than all others, it was ‘dapper’. To begin with, he was neatly made; a small-boned man of some forty summers with, for one of his sex, delicate hands and feet. His clothes, cut from good woollen cloth, were neither patched nor mended and argued a certain financial status, elevating him above peasant or villein level. His teeth, too, showed white in the tanned face, with no blackening that I was aware of, and although he was short of stature, he held himself well, making the most of such inches as he had. But it was obvious, from the way he frequently displayed them, that his hands were his chief pride and joy. And as a smallholder, constantly working on his land, he had every reason to be proud of them, for the nails were rounded and unbitten, and the long, slender fingers almost completely free of ingrained dirt.