And to find her.
‘It would seem to me,’ I said, ‘that if this hill is become infested with heathen practices since the collapse of its church, then the surest way to keep the evil at bay would be to… rebuild the church?’
Fyche shook his head.
‘Maybe. In good time. Not yet. Before any restoration is even attempted – yet again – the area around and beneath the stones, the very earth, must needs be cleansed.’
‘How?’ I said. ‘By blessing?’
‘And prayers, thrice daily. I’m also seeking leave, through the Church courts, to have all access to the tor prohibited… for laymen… until such times as we learn how best to re-sanctify it.’
‘This is why you surround yourself with religious men?’
I considered the two monks, only one of whom remained: the elder seated on the grass some yards away, reading from a small book, the title of which I could not make out.
‘Dr John,’ Fyche said. ‘Let there be no doubt. I am a religious man. The law of the land and the law of God are, at last, as one, and I’m called to uphold them both.’
I had answers to this, but Dr John had none.
‘When I was a young monk,’ Fyche said, ‘at the abbey, in its latter days, my older brothers would look over here – to the tor – and they’d shudder and say, Who’ll keep back the darkness when we’re gone?’
‘Knowing what was to come to the abbey?’
‘We all knew it would come.’ Fyche breathed in slowly. ‘I thought myself, at the time, to be more fortunate than most of my brothers, having inherited this land from an uncle. Not realising, at first, that this came with a terrible burden of responsibility. God… places us in the roles where we can most effectively do his work.’
The mist had thickened and with it came confusion. I’d begun to see Fyche as a man reborn into puritanism’s narrow passageway, but nothing here was simple.
‘This is the most sacred place in England,’ he said. ‘Blessed by Our Lord Himself, and thus invested with a rare spiritual power. Which others seek to corrupt to gratify their earthly lusts and base desires. In the absence of the abbey, there must needs be a bastion against this, or the town will become a pit of filth.’
‘Yes.’
No-one could deny the sense of this, but…
‘I met with some of my former brothers, and we prayed together. And then, in answer to those prayers, other men of God travelled to join us. It was interpreted to us that God wanted us to collect all the knowledge that might have been lost.’
An aim, I’d admit, not far removed from my own in establishing a national library.
‘Were you among the monks who petitioned Queen Mary for a restoration of the abbey?’
‘Not the answer,’ Fyche said. ‘Times change. God shows us new ways.’
‘A school?’
While monasteries fell, schools and colleges survived and prospered. As a graduate of Cambridge and Louvain, I knew how influential a cluster of powerful minds could be. And, on occasion, how disruptive.
‘Sons of the nobility were sent from all Europe to study at the abbey. We plan to restore that tradition… from a different viewpoint, obviously. While it’s true that we began with the blessing of the Bishop of Wells – who, as you noted, Dr John, is now in disfavour – I can assure you that every man here has put papacy well behind him and is ready to swear allegiance to the Queen as his spiritual-’
‘Not my business, Sir Edmund.’
If there were cause to suspect his loyalty, he’d hardly have remained a JP. And it would hardly be the role of Dr John, the antiquary, to question his religious allegiance.
‘As regards your own assignment,’ Fyche said, ‘I’d suggest that what was important about the monasteries was not so much the buildings nor the treasures they held, which are now scattered to the winds. It was the depth of knowledge and wisdom retained by the monks themselves. Which should and will be passed on.’
Dr Dee would agree with fervour; Dr John said nothing. The older monk was standing now, peering over his book, smiling gently. He wore a soft black hat and his beard was like to a pointed spade.
‘He can’t hear us,’ Fyche said. ‘Brother Michael is deaf and mute. The story is that he awoke from a beatific dream one morning, with neither hearing nor speech. Since then, with no men’s talk to distract him, he hears only the voices of angels. Thus, as you may imagine, his moral and spiritual judgement is… much valued.’
‘So he’s one of the men whose vision…?’
‘No-one,’ Fyche said, ‘should ignore the words of angels.’
At once, I wanted to know more of this. Wondered if the day would come when I would be willing to sacrifice my own speech and my ears for an inner communion with the higher spheres. Recalling nights when I’d been in such frustration and despair that I might happily have made the deal before dawn.
‘So…’ Fyche had come closer. ‘Would you care to search my buildings, Dr John?’
‘Sir Edmund-’
‘My farm? The school? Are you thinking that some of the monks here came with treasures from the abbey? Could we, perchance, be serving small beer from the Holy Grail?’
‘Thus turning it into the finest wine?’
He didn’t laugh.
‘There’s no gold here, Dr John. Only a treasury of learning. And the desire to contain what must be contained.’
I stepped back from him, thinking hard. There might never be a better opportunity to approach the matter of the bones of Arthur. Of a sudden, I felt tinglingly close to an elusive mystery. Yes, the real treasure here, in a landscape where spheres of being might merge one with another, would indeed be more elusive than gold. But what, in the material sense, might be inside this too-perfect conical mound?
However, Dr Dee must needs conceal his esoteric interests. While Dr John would be yet wary of this one-time monk turned lawman. As for the other person within me…
Oh yes, there was another, now. A third person.
One who, looking down towards the path, wanted nothing so much as to be on it, and running. For inside this third person something was fluttering like to a trapped bird.
The mist had thinned again, as if some old enchantment had been broken, or a new one formed. And it was the third man who spread his hands to prevent them shaking and prepared to lie.
‘Sir Edmund… even if there were cause to suspect you or your establishment of concealing treasure-’
Fyche watching me steadily, like to a hawk upon a bough.
‘Then what could I do,’ I said, ‘but take my suspicions to a… Justice of the Peace?’
His eyes widened momentarily, then dulled, and he smiled. Knowing now what he was dealing with: a jobbing servant of the Crown who’d muddy no pools and was, like most of his kind, corruptible. There was even a kind of contempt in that smile. I was glad to observe it and made a small bow.
‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I should go and inquire about the health of my colleague.’
Fyche nodded.
‘If I were you, Dr John, I’d set about finding him a qualified physician. If the witch has dosed him with nightshade, you’ll never prove it once he’s dead.’
‘We needed a doctor,’ Dr John said humbly. ‘And were told that, apart from Mistress Borrow, there was no-one.’
‘Then, trust me, Dr John,’ Fyche said. ‘No-one would have been the safer choice. Good day to you.’
He nodded a stern farewell, his face quiet, then turned and walked away, and I headed for the footpath. I would not give way to the third man and go looking for Mistress Borrow, I would continue with my mission and seek out the bone-seller mentioned by Cowdray.
But then, at the footpath’s edge, I stopped, of a sudden, as if both my legs were seized, and looked back at Fyche over my shoulder, calling to him.
‘Would it be permissible, Sir Edmund, to ask what evidence there is against Mistress Borrow?’