Ormond House - The Bones of Avalon

‘God.’

‘Keep out of his bedroom, my advice.’

I recalled the heavy smell of incense around the foot of the loft ladder. Cowdray went back to the mop, slopping it around in the pail.

‘He was in here, Dr John. Asking for you.’

‘When?’

‘Couple of times yesterday. Said he thought you’d’ve been back to see him.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Told him if you wanted him you’d know where to find him and to keep out of my inn.’

Cowdray raised his mop, stabbed it down, water pooling on the flags.

I didn’t go to find Benlow. If he’d provided the bones to be planted in Nel’s herb garden, the last man he’d admit that to was me. For what remained of the morning, I walked the streets of Glastonbury, mostly alone with my drab thoughts.

What might I take to Sir Edmund Fyche to induce him to withdraw his factored evidence against Nel Borrow? Only the secret he’d tried to get from Whiting. Somebody had to know the nature of it.

But if it was too late to withdraw whatever charges had been laid against her, then I must needs go to court – a strange court in a strange city – to present my case to a hostile assize judge already primed by Fyche.

I leaned against the sun-dappled wall of the abbey, thinking back to my last time in court, when I’d faced charges of attempting to kill Mary by sorcery. Charges built upon spurious evidence and my own reputation as an astrologer, at a time when astrology itself was deemed by many to be a heresy. Realising now, with a barren dismay, that the case against Eleanor Borrow was, by comparison, as solid as the wall against which I rested.

Unless she knew otherwise.

Around noon, a clatter of horsemen had me scurrying back to the George, where Carew and three attendants were dismounting by the stables entrance, Carew tossing the reins of his horse to a groom as I hurried across the street.

‘How now, Dr John?’

He seemed happy. Not a good sign.

‘You’ve ridden from Wells?’

‘Have indeed,’ he said. ‘It was most pleasant. On such a day, the idea that this is Jesu’s chosen bit of England seems credible indeed.’ He didn’t look at me. ‘Suppose you’ll want to know about your meeting with the witch.’

‘When?’

‘Tell Cowdray to bring up meat,’ he said to one of the attendants. ‘And best cider, none of his dog piss.’ Then addressing me over a shoulder. ‘I regret… not today.’

‘When, then?’

‘Nor tomorrow.’

‘Carew, for-’

‘Nor, come to that, the day after.’ He turned, leaning toward me, teeth agleam through his tarry beard. ‘In fact, not ever.’

It felt like my heart was afloat in an icy well.

‘What are you saying?’

‘She doesn’t wish it,’ Carew said gaily. ‘The witch has no desire to speak with you. Or even to see your white scholar’s face.’

‘You’re lying.’

I was numbed. One of the attendants drew a sharp breath and took a step back as a horse voided its bowels and Carew’s face went blank, as if wiped like a slate.

‘What did you say, then?’

I walked right up to him.

‘You’re such a bastard, Carew. How do I know you’ve even seen her?’

Carew hardly seemed to have moved, and I was unaware of what had happened until I was in the dirt by his feet, watching him rubbing a fist and feeling that my face had been smashed by a side of beef. Realising through the pain that he’d finally found cause to do what he’d been wanting to do for days.

‘How do you know?’ Carew said, ‘Because, Doctor, you hear it from a man of honour.’

With a small prod of his boot, he put me on my back in a tump of steaming horseshit, and walked past me into the inn.

Nothing to Hide

Dr Borrow was in his surgery unbinding a goodwife’s broken arm. I sat and waited and watched, questions tumbling one over the other in my crowded mind.

‘Best not to lift the child with this one for a while,’ Borrow told the goodwife. ‘I don’t want to see you back here… except with the money, of course. Or, if you don’t have the money, a week’s milk will suffice.’

He smiled. I knew not how he could be so calm. There was a scar to one side of his mouth, a swollen lip, but I noticed that he never touched either of the wounds with fingers or tongue.

After the woman had left, he put the stopper into a jar of comfrey, the tangled plant swimming in its own dark brown oil, sunbeams from the mean windows making it look alive. He placed the jar on a shelf in a row of apothecary’s vessels.

‘You’ve come to me for balm, Dr John?’

‘Um… no.’ I could not but put a hand to the side of my jaw. It hurt to speak now. ‘I lost my footing, and… but that’s not why I’m here. I’ll come directly to the point, Dr Borrow. I’d thought to defend your daughter at the assize.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m schooled in law. Hate injustice. I asked Sir Peter Carew to fix a meeting between us, that we might plan the case. Half an hour ago, he came back from Wells, telling me she’d refused to see me.’

Borrow nodded, or I thought he did. He seemed to me the very opposite of Carew, a deft and placid man in whom the balance of humours was held secure, although a strong mix of the melancholic and the phlegmatic was apparent in his movements and his speech, neither of which were expansive.

I said, ‘Do you know why?’

‘She hasn’t much money.’

‘God’s bones, she healed my friend! I’m not asking for money -’

‘I see.’ Borrow rolled up a yard of bandage with long, slender fingers. ‘You must not think this reflects on your abilities, Dr John. Which I’m sure are considerable.’

He put the bandage on the shelf and then to turned me and sighed – the first sign in him of human frailty.

‘She won’t see me either. Won’t see anyone.’

He looked at me, still-eyed. Here was a man dealing, day to day, with death and mortal sickness, accustomed to setting aside all human response in the cause of cool diagnosis.

‘It makes no sense, Dr Borrow. No more than her mother’s refusal to fight for her own life.’

‘Ah… Joe Monger told you.’

I nodded. He waved me to the patient’s stool. I sat down, and he sat on the other side of his trestle board of scrubbed pine.

‘He implied that she sought to defend your reputation,’ I said. ‘To keep you out of it.’

‘Cate… always made little of her own abilities and too much of mine. It’s true that I’d planned to give evidence on her behalf and question their facile assumptions. But never got the chance.’

‘In what way – can I ask?’

‘By questioning the primitive nonsense of alleged witchery.’ Borrow was speaking softly, with no sign of animosity. ‘I… don’t know of your own views on this, but reason tells me such nonsense will be consigned to history by the time this century’s out.’

‘ What will?’

‘The question of a deity – that may take longer to depart, but it’s surely already on its horse. The Pope’s had his arse kicked, and the Church of England’s governed by a lay person – and a woman. A woman? Would anyone, even thirty years ago, have believed that would ever happen? Would you?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘’Tis all coming apart, Dr John. Mankind coming to its senses.’

‘You’re an atheist.’

‘Can I be the only man alive who’s observed that man’s greatest achievements have arisen out of the will of an individual? When the expulsion from this country of the papacy itself, the strongest religious fortress the world has known, comes through a rising not of the spirit… but a man’s cock?’

He smiled at the nonsense of it. Of course, I’d listened to such talk in darkened rooms in Cambridge and Louvain, but that was usually from young and excitable men.