Kate Sedley - The Green Man

Eventually, however, the edge of everyone’s appetite was blunted and the noise of wagging tongues increased. I had scraped my bowl clean and was sitting, picking scraps of mutton from between my teeth, staring into the distance at the chattering throng, seeing, but not seeing, when I was suddenly addressed by Donald Seton in English.

‘I’m told, Chapman, that you were once a novice at Glastonbury Abbey. Before you took up peddling, that is.’

I blinked, jerked out of my reverie.

‘Who told you that?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘I forget, but it doesn’t really matter. Is it true?’

I nodded. ‘What of it? I’ve never made any secret of the fact. Why should I? I left before I took my vows. I discovered that the contemplative life was not for me. Nor the celibate life, either.’

He laughed. ‘All right! No need to take that defensive tone! I’m not blaming you. A religious house is no place for an able, red-blooded man, as I can see you are.’ Murdo nodded in agreement, but I didn’t much care for the cynical grin that accompanied the nod. Donald went on, ‘What interests me — us — ’ he made a little gesture that included his fellow squire — ‘is Glastonbury itself.’ He hesitated for a moment, glancing first at Murdo, then at Davey, as though uncertain whether or not to continue, before returning his gaze to me. The pause was prolonged before he added, with seeming inconsequence, ‘They say you have the “sight”.’

‘Who are these mysterious “they”?’ I demanded irritably. ‘Who have you been talking to?’

‘Do you have the “sight”?’ Murdo interposed, ignoring my questions.

‘Not as my mother had it, no. But I do sometimes have dreams. They don’t, however, foretell the future, but they do, on occasions, guide me along the right path.’

‘You say your mother had the “sight”?’ It was Davey’s turn to speak. ‘You inherited your gift from a woman?’

‘My mother was generally acknowledged to be a woman,’ I replied with heavy sarcasm. ‘And I don’t claim that what I have is a gift. It’s merely my mind clearing itself by way of dreams.’

‘It’s a gift,’ Davey repeated obstinately, ‘inherited through a female.’ He nodded at the other two. ‘I was right. He belongs to the old world as well as this one.’

‘What old world?’ I demanded, playing innocent.

But by the pricking of my thumbs, I had already guessed the answer. He meant the pre-Christian world; the world of faerie; the pagan world of our ancestors, who worshipped the gods of the trees, the goddesses of the lake, the inhabitants of the hollow hills. I felt the sweat suddenly stand out on my brow. I glanced anxiously around me to make sure that we could not possibly be overheard.

But all our neighbours were too busy talking themselves hoarse to pay any attention to us. We might as well have been alone, in the middle of a field or on an island. Nevertheless, this was dangerously heretical talk and I made an effort to change the subject. Before I could even form a thought, however, let alone actually say anything, Donald forestalled me.

‘This is why we are interested in your time at Glastonbury. They say entrance to the Otherworld lies beneath the Tor. Do you know of anyone who has ever found it?’

One of my faults — one of my many, should I say? — is that I can never forbear airing my knowledge (when I have any to air, that is). It was the same now. Although I knew full well that we were on perilously forbidden ground, I couldn’t help saying, ‘Beneath the Tor is supposed to be the home of Gwyn-ap-Nud, son of Nud, the Wind God, and lord of the Wild Hunt. Also occasionally known as Avallach, the Fisher King.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Look, such talk is not only dangerous but foolish, so just let’s …’

‘Have you ever been there?’ Donald interrupted ruthlessly.

‘Or your mother, perhaps?’ Davey added. ‘Has she? In the old times it would have been the goddess of the lake who ruled. It would be her handmaidens, even today, who have the power which is handed down from generation to generation to enter the Otherworld.’

‘This is becoming nonsensical,’ I snarled. ‘My mother died many years ago, but in any case, I never asked her such a foolish question. Mind you,’ I couldn’t restrain myself from adding, ‘there is a legend that a holy man, named Collen, once found his way inside the hill, guided by a beautiful girl.’

‘Like Thomas the Rhymer,’ Davey said eagerly, and the others nodded, even James Petrie, who had so far contributed nothing except a puzzled frown as he tried to follow a conversation that was largely unintelligible to him. But he obviously recognized the name of this Thomas the Rhymer. He said something in rapid Scots to the other three.

I asked, ‘Who’s Thomas the Rhymer?’ and then immediately regretted the question. I was only prolonging a discussion that would be better terminated as soon as possible. Indeed, I half rose to my feet, preparatory to lifting one leg over the bench, but curiosity got the better of me and I sat down again.

Davey slid me a sidelong glance of triumph. ‘In Scotland, the Eildon Hills are said to conceal the entrance to the Otherworld. Thomas was led inside by the Queen of Elfland, herself. The Otherworld, unlike our Christian one, acknowledges women to be the equal of men and accords them equal importance.’

‘Why was he called the Rhymer?’ I asked rather stupidly.

Murdo gave a superior smile, while Donald looked down his nose. Davey gave a little crow of laughter.

‘Because he made rhymes, of course,’ he said. ‘I should have thought that was obvious.’

This time I did get up and stepped over the bench. The crowd in the kitchen was beginning to thin out as servants and retainers finished eating and went in search of their masters. The noise had decreased accordingly: kitcheners and scullions were busy removing empty bowls and dishes, sweeping the remains of broken meats and bread into their aprons, stretching across the shoulders of those diners still seated.

‘You and your companions would do well to watch your tongues, Master Davey,’ I told him. ‘They’ll wag once too often.’ With this parting dart, I was about to stride away when I recollected my unanswered question. ‘Who has been talking to you about me?’

Murdo chuckled deep in his throat. ‘An old friend of yours. My lord of Gloucester’s Spymaster General. One, Timothy Plummer.’

I was astonished. I hadn’t clapped eyes on Timothy since we parted company in London after he had handed me over to Albany.

‘I didn’t know he was travelling with the duke,’ I said.

Donald gave a short laugh as he, too, finally stood up, yawning and rubbing his belly.

‘I don’t suppose we know half the people who are travelling in Gloucester’s train, what with the chaplains, the doctors, the musicians, the lawyers … You’d be lucky to catch a glimpse of your little friend.’

‘How did you, then?’

‘Quite by chance, I overheard him talking to my lord.’

‘Albany? But why were they discussing me?’

‘How in Hades should I know? Should I go barging in demanding information of my betters? All I know is that I came upon them talking together just before my lord went into the council chamber. I couldn’t help hearing something of what Master Plummer was saying, although I didn’t know who he was then. My lord informed me of his identity.’

‘And what exactly was Timothy Plummer saying about me?’ I enquired indignantly.

Donald shrugged. ‘Simply that; that you had once been intended for the church and had entered the monastery at Glastonbury. I think it must have been in response to some information my lord was seeking. But what, I have no idea.’