Ormond House - The Bones of Avalon

‘The pilgrims,’ I said, ‘came to venerate the bones of the saints. What remains of them?’

‘Pilgrims?’

‘Bones.’

He eyed me with the kind of suspicion that made me glad we had Carew here to vouch for our status.

‘Bones,’ he said. ‘That’s why you’re here?’

‘In part.’

‘I know not where the bones are,’ Cowdray said. ‘Gone. From the earth, anyway.’

‘All of them?’

‘Maybe. There’s people could tell you better than me.’

‘Were they taken by the King’s men or were some… removed to places of safety?’

He was blinking, wary now, and I guessed I could not expect an honest answer.

‘Listen, I’m a lowly civil servant,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to persecute anybody. I won’t be reporting any names. Myself and Master Roberts, our report will simply be a list of what remains and what does not. So tell me… who’d know better than you about bones?’

Cowdray thought for a moment and then shrugged.

‘The bone-man?’

I waited. This might be mockery.

‘Benlow the bone-man,’ Cowdray said. ‘He collects bones. People take him bones and he pays for them and then sells them to the pilgrims. At least, he used to. Obviously, his trade’s not so good nowadays.’

‘He’s known to conduct this trade? Without getting-’

‘Bothered by the law? What crime does he commit? No doubt they could find one if anyone wanted to, but they don’t seem to.’ Cowdray got up to add a log to the fire in the ingle. ‘The more bones, the holier the place looks to pilgrims, and this was the holiest of all.’

I tore off a piece of bread, spread it with white cheese.

‘ You think so?’

‘Christ himself walked these hills. We gotter believe that.’

I watched the new flames licking at the apple logs in the hearth, the sun lighting the flags.

‘The people here must have been sick at heart when the monks were driven away.’ I caught the flicker of alarm in his eyes. ‘It’s all right. You have my word…’

‘Aye.’ Cowdray looked up at the window. ‘The day they took Abbot Whiting to the tor, ’twas like the end of the world. A good man. Not all abbots are good men, I’d be the first to agree that, but he was a mild old feller, and kind. Never turned his back on the town.’

‘You… saw what they did to him?’

‘Saw him lashed to a hurdle, dragged through the high street.’ Cowdray’s grizzled head in a sunbeam, his words coming out of darkness. ‘Bumping along like a deer carcass. An old man, beaten, bruised and cut about like a low-born thief? Where’s the reason in that?’

I said nothing. I was thinking of an amiable man called Barthlet Green who’d shared my chamber in Bonner’s lock-up, before being burned.

‘Don’t think he knew what was happening,’ Cowdray said, ‘or else he’d given up caring. His eyes were closed. ’Course, there were cheers and trumpets all around – like to a holiday. That’s how stupid some folk are. All following him up the tor, half-pissed. I couldn’t take it. Came in and served drinks and kept quiet.’

‘The tor…?’

‘Yon little pointy hill, doctor,’ Martin Lythgoe said. ‘Wi’ a church on top as were brought down by an earth tremble. Too dark for thee to see last night.’

‘Of course.’ I nodded. ‘That’s where the abbot was executed?’

‘Some say ’tis the devil’s own hill,’ Cowdray said. ‘Why they built a church on it, and why the church fell down. They say that next to every holy place there’s a high ground as the devil takes for his watchtower. And, aye, that’s where they hanged the abbot and two good monks. And then they cut him down and hacked his body into four, and the pieces they took…’

‘I know what’s involved.’

‘Is it any wonder he don’t rest?’

‘Mercy…?’

I looked up at a movement and saw that a woman had come in and sat herself down at the smaller board just inside the door. Evidently not a servant; she wore no apron and had entered uninvited.

‘’Tis why folk don’t go in the abbey after dark,’ Cowdray said. ‘Why they ain’t helping theirselves to stone much n’more. They reckon as first you sees the abbot’s candle in the nave. And then, if you got the sense you was born with, you drops your sack of stone and runs like buggery. Or there’s the abbot himself in front of you, in his full robes.’

I saw Martin Lythgoe shudder. The woman in the corner by the door sat motionless, and I wondered if this was Cowdray’s wife. She had long dark hair pushed back over her shoulders, wore a washed-out blue over-dress with a loose girdle around her waist.

‘If you takes a stone from the abbey and puts it into your wall,’ Cowdray said, ‘you should kneel and do penance every morning for seven weeks. Or ’tis likely your house will not be at peace.’

‘As good a means as any,’ the woman murmured, ‘to deter people from stealing the abbey. Especially if they have stiff knees.’

Cowdray turned on his stool.

‘Nel… never heard you come in.’

‘Let me know,’ she said, ‘when you feel your increasing deafness is worth the expense of a consultation.’

‘Ha. How’s Master Roberts?’

‘Sleeping. The more he sleeps now, the better will be his chances.’

The heavy-panelled room seemed to tilt. Even as I was adjusting to the realisation that this young woman must be Dudley’s doctor, I was hearing his voice in my head.

‘…both feet above the ground, and looking down on me with a terrible pity… the white moon shining through him… Cold.’

Elixir

Ghosts.oft-times I’d be asked about ghosts, and what was I to say, never having seen one?

Would I have wished to see one?

Of course. My God, yes.

And yet…

Wait. Let me try to explain this simply, as a scientist but without, I promise, any employment of arcane symbols.

There are, as is well known, three spheres: the natural world, the celestial or astral world, and the supercelestial, wherein are angels. Much evidence exists, in certain forbidden books, that some living men can move, in thought, to the astral realm and, in thought, exist there for a while.

Not me. I’ve never been there. Let me make my position full clear: my own searching suggests this to be unhealthy and dangerous, not least because of what may be brought back to the natural world. Our world.

Therefore my work, as I’ve oft-times stated, must needs be aimed towards communion with the supercelestial sphere, wherein lies truth and light. Not ghosts, which the reformists anyway seek to banish from our beliefs along with the Catholic purgatory.

What, then, can be said, realistically, about the walking dead? Well… if a living man can exist in thought in a higher realm, then it follows that a dead man can return to the lower or natural world – our own world – and exist here. Long enough, it would seem, to enshroud with fear anyone who might glimpse his shade. Fear, because the seer knows that the only reason a man or woman should wish to return, without body, to the lower world is because they left it while in a state of imbalance, preventing them rising into the light of God. That the presence of the shade in this world must needs be wrong.

‘Let me try to reassure you,’ the doctor said. ‘There’s no taint of imminent death around Master Roberts. I’ve examined him for signs of the worst things and find nothing obvious.’

‘Smallpox?’

‘’Tis more likely to be wool-sorters’ disease in this town, of which fever’s sometimes a sign. But you’d be unlikely to find that in a London man. I’m inclined to think this is a less sinister kind of fever. And… he’s young and strong.’