‘What’s with all these here rumours,’ he demanded, ‘that this new king of ours — and whether or no he ought t’ be king is a matter o’ debate, I gather — has killed off his little nevvies? If that be the case, he should never — ’
I cut him short with more haste than good manners and propounded my theory on the subject with such vehemence that my poor host was left floundering and almost apologizing to me for having raised the matter in the first place. After which, it was hardly surprising that he steered the topic of conversation into less controversial channels and described to me the pleasures and difficulties of farming what he called ‘hruther’ or ‘rudder’ beasts; the old Anglo-Saxon term, which I as a country boy was well acquainted with, for horned cattle.
Supper was a much more modest affair — bread and cheese and onions — taken at a small, wayside ale-house where I was also able to pay for a bed for the night and avail myself of the use of a pump in the backyard; a great relief to me as I had not washed properly for the past two days. I was also relieved to notice that the door of my room, a tiny attic under the eaves, sported a bolt, and I was able to strip and tumble into bed with a quiet mind.
But not quiet enough, it seemed. My dreams were troubled and appeared to centre on the farmhouse where I had eaten my dinner, although without any clarity to them. They were also mixed up with a jumble of nonsense where I kept on telling Adam to speak up and repeat what he had just said, while Adela lectured me about throwing the contents of my pack all over the kitchen floor. Something was bothering me, that was obvious enough, but when I awoke in the morning and tried to assemble the dreams into some sort of order, I was unable to do so.
‘Lord,’ I prayed, hastily going down on my knees beside the bed, ‘I know I’m being stupid and dense, but please, please show me the way more clearly. I realize you are trying to tell me something, but you know that sometimes I don’t have the sense of a louse. Less, probably. So if you could just see your way to putting things more plainly. .’
I stood upright again and listened. The silence was deafening.
Monday was much like Sunday except that there were more people on the roads and I was able to sell my goods wherever possible without straying too far from the main Glastonbury track. In fact, I was more interested in making progress than in making money, and I knew that it would take another steady day and a half’s walking before I was within sight of my destination. The November weather was worsening again, the ground soggy, patches of mist hanging in the air like damp rags and the trees rapidly shedding their autumnal glory of yellow and purple, crimson and yellow, the remaining leaves turning a dull, burnt-out brown.
I was right in my calculations and it was nearing noon on Tuesday — judging by the height of a watery sun appearing and disappearing between lowering grey clouds — when I found myself walking down the long slope of the Mendips into Wells, nestling at their foot. The town hadn’t changed much since my boyhood, the cathedral, that mighty church dedicated to St Andrew, still dominating the huddle of insignificant dwellings crowding around it as if for warmth and protection. I didn’t linger. I knew no one there nowadays and even if I had, by chance, encountered some long lost acquaintance of my youth, I shouldn’t have known what to say to him. So I pressed on along the raised causeway across the flat Somerset levels with the Tor, crowned by its church, rising out of the plain and beckoning me on like a beacon.
Legend says that this is Avalon, and indeed the tomb of Arthur and Guinevere is to be seen in the abbey choir, attracting hundreds of pilgrims every year who come to worship where the Christ child is reputed to have founded the earliest church in Britain; a boy accompanying his uncle, Joseph of Arimathea, who had come to buy tin and lead from the Romans. But there were very few pilgrims at this time of the year and I had met practically no one on my walk. Nor were there many inhabitants abroad on this dank late afternoon as I approached the abbey gates and rang for the porter.
Brother Hilarion, my old Novice Master, was taking exercise in the cloisters, getting a little fresh air between Vespers and the evening service of Compline. As I watched him coming towards me, my first thought was that he had aged considerably since I had last seen him seven years ago, when the disappearance of two brothers from the town had kept me here against my will and strained my deductive powers to the uttermost. My second thought was that he was probably thinking the same about me. A second marriage and the responsibility of three children had without doubt added years to my boyish good looks. I certainly felt as though they had. I felt old and careworn. It would have been no surprise if Brother Hilarion had failed to recognize me.
‘My child! My child!’ He beamed upon me, stretching up to kiss my cheek. ‘You look exactly the same. You haven’t changed one iota.’ He patted my shoulder and regarded my pack and cudgel. ‘Now what brings you here at this unseasonable time of year when you should be tucked up safe within four walls? Don’t tell me that peddling is such a hard task-master that you have to be out in all weathers. No, no! You look too prosperous, too well fed. Besides,’ he took my arm, leaning heavily on it, and began to walk back with me along the cloister, ‘we hear things, you know, even in here.’
‘What sort of things?’ I asked resignedly.
‘Oh, this and that.’ He smiled up at me proudly. ‘I always deplored your decision to follow the calling of a pedlar. You were one of my brighter scholars. You learned to read and write faster than anyone else I’d ever taught and could add up numbers in your head. I knew you to be capable of greater things than just hawking a pedlar’s pack around the countryside.’
‘But that’s what I do.’
My old preceptor chuckled. ‘Yes, yes! Have it your own way. I understand. Your lips are sealed. Your loyalty is to the duke. I mean, the king.’ A frown appeared, creasing his brow. ‘That was a strange business. And His Grace the Bishop of Bath and Wells mixed up in it, too. One doesn’t know what to think. And now these rumours about the two young boys.’ Once again, he glanced up at me, this time curiously. ‘I suppose. . But, no! I mustn’t ask. You’re sworn to secrecy, no doubt. So tell me, what brings you here?’
I sighed. I felt extremely uneasy. My reputation of having the king’s confidence, of being some kind of secret agent for him, was growing and expanding well beyond the walls of Bristol. I could deny it as I had done in the past, but common sense told me that the more I refuted the suggestion, the more people believed the opposite. Denial on my part only strengthened their conviction that I was lying.
‘I know nothing about the fate of the lords Edward and Richard Plantagenet,’ I answered quietly. ‘But I do know something about the character of the king.’ I did indeed. I might as well admit it. ‘And knowing that, I can assure you that these vicious rumours are untrue.’
Brother Hilarion pressed my arm. ‘You relieve my mind, Roger. I have always considered him a good man, and I should be loath to think him capable of such a heinous sin. But if you assure me that all is well. .’
He let the sentence hang and I realized despairingly that with every word I spoke I only confirmed his opinion of my standing at the court. I would do better to hold my tongue. I was just about to turn the conversation into safer channels when my companion did it for me.
‘So, I repeat, what brings you here?’
‘Do I have to have a reason? I might just have walked as far as this on my travels and decided to renew our acquaintance.’