Ariana Franklin - Grave Goods aka Relics of the Dead

“God be thanked,” Captain Bolt said. He dismounted and began hammering on the Pilgrim’s side door.

Inside, a dog began barking. The candle above was snuffed out. There was a creak, as if somebody had opened the shutter the tiniest crack-other than that, nothing happened.

Adelia and Gyltha were lifted from the saddles, and their horses were led to drink along with the others at a trough standing by the head of a well. Two soldiers began investigating the stables and a barn.

“Open up there. Open in the name of the king.” Captain Bolt was losing his temper.

A quavering voice came from the window, just audible over the barking. “I’ll set the dogs on you. I warn ye, we’m armed in here.”

“So are we out here,” the captain yelled. “Open this door before I take a bloody ram to it.”

Somewhat late in the day, Michael the trumpeter remembered his office and blew a call that sent stately notes echoing around the walls, though their only effect was to set the dog barking again and startle a barn owl into clattering flight from its perch in the stables.

“All right, then,” Captain Bolt said, looking around. “Find something to break this bloody door down.”

At that the door opened an inch and the same voice asked, “Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

“Godwyn, sir. Landlord of this inn.”

“We’re king’s men,” the captain told him. He snapped his fingers at Adelia, who began searching through her saddlebag for the royal warrant. “You’ve received an order from King Henry saying as he was billeting guests on you, and don’t say as you didn’t, acause the messenger came back to say he’d delivered it.”

The door opened wider, allowing Bolt’s lamp to illuminate a short, rotund, barefoot man in his nightshirt, holding back a single slavering dog by its collar. “That was a month ago,” he said. “No guests has come. No guests.” He was trembling.

“They have now.” The captain took the warrant from Adelia’s hand and waved it under the man’s nose. “The lord Mansur-he’s that Saracen gentleman over there, like it says on this scroll. Come to”-Bolt shifted his lantern so that he could read the writing on the warrant-“‘make inquiry into the recent findings at Glastonbury Abbey by permission of Henry, King of England, and his right beloved Abbot Sigward.’ This lady here’s Mistress Adelia, as is also mentioned, and likewise her companion, Mistress Gyltha, and there’s… Hello, what’s wrong with him, then?”

Godwyn the landlord had fainted.

HOW IT WAS DONE, Adelia never knew, because while it was being done, she and Gyltha and Allie dozed on a pile of hay in an empty stable, but by the morning, with the help of Mansur and the soldiers, Landlord Godwyn and his wife had brought their dead inn to life.

Everybody had been allocated rooms with comfortable beds, clean blankets, and warm water for washing. There was even breakfast for all set out on the vast table in the guest’s parlor, a cavern of a room off the passage that led to the front door.

Hilda, the landlady, apologized for it. “Just porridge, cheese, and pickled eel, and a couple of coddled eggs each, for which I’m sorry, sirs and ladies, there being no suppliers in town anymore and six of our hens gone to the fox, God rot it, but later on, Godwyn’ll row over to Godney and fetch proper provisions.”

Since there was fresh, crusty bread to go with the meal, Godwyn, who did the cooking, had already managed to heat ovens, make dough, and let it rise before baking. Both he and his wife, Adelia thought, must have spent the early hours laboring like Trojans.

“I am sorry we alarmed Master Godwyn,” she said to Hilda.

“Very impressible in his humors, our Godwyn,” his wife said. “ ’Twas a shock, what with thinking you was robbers and us not expecting guests, there not having been any since the fire, and no one arriving after the king’s letter, the which we thought he’d forgotten and there was none to come…”

She was a thin, jolly, freckled woman of middle age, taller than her husband, talking all the time while she served the table, never still, regretting that the Pilgrim wasn’t up to its old standard, promising better.

The fire had emptied Glastonbury, she said. Most of the monks had already departed on missions around the country to raise money for the abbey’s rebuilding. As for the townspeople, some had left forever, others had scattered to find work locally until they could return to restore the homes and shops they’d lost.

“The which is a waste of time,” Hilda said briskly, “seeing as how there won’t be no trade until the pilgrims start a-coming again. The which”-and here she turned eager eyes on Mansur-“they will when they hear as King Arthur and his lady lies in our graveyard.”

Adelia sighed. Obviously, it had been impossible to keep the matter quiet in such a small, depleted community, but to have its only expectation resting on her shoulders would be a burden. She hoped she would not be forced to disappoint it; the courage Hilda was showing in adversity was admirable.

“Course, you know who done it, don’t you?” the landlady asked.

“Done what?” Bolt asked.

“Brought this calamity on us deliberate, lost us our living, killed our abbey, killed us.” For a moment, Hilda’s briskness went and her face withered as if all the juice had been sucked out of it, leaving it old and malignant. “Bishop of Wells,” she said.

“A bishop?” Captain Bolt choked over his porridge. “A bishop set the fire?”

“Not him personal, but at his orders,” Hilda told him. “What we want to know is, where’s that useless falconer? Oh, yes, the bishop may say as he was dismissed from Wells for being that he turned to drink, but they’d been close-nobody closer than a hunting bishop and his falconer, lessen it’s his huntsman. And where did that rascal come to, begging to be taken on after the bishop turned him out? To my dear abbot, that’s who. And what happened but three weeks after that? The fire. That’s what happened.” Hilda’s eyes compressed to stop tears from coming. “ Glastonbury ’s murdered and Wells flourishes, and no sign of Useless Eustace since. For why? Because the bishop’s spirited him away so’s he can’t be made to confess.”

Inevitably there would be a scapegoat, Adelia thought. When whole towns became a furnace, as they sometimes did, as this one had, it was either put down to God’s punishment of wickedness-and Glastonbury was regarded as too holy for that-or to arson. There had to be blame; it was too banal that such suffering was caused by the accidental fall of a lighted candle.

To divert a complaint that could carry on for a long time, and because anxiety for Emma gnawed at her, Adelia asked, “By any chance have you heard of a lady with a child and a wounded knight traveling in the vicinity? She was making for Wolvercote Manor but doesn’t seem to have arrived there.”

Hilda sat herself down at the table to think about it. “Lady and a wounded knight, you say?”

“He’s a foreigner, a German.”

“No-o-o, can’t say as I have. I do hope as nothing has happened to your lady, for the roads ain’t safe anymore, what with men have lost their living and turned to robbery-and worse nor robbery, the which there’s travelers having their throats cut over there by Wells, like it wasn’t enough to lose their purses but their lives as well, poor things.”

“That road from Wells is a right disgrace,” Captain Bolt said through a mouthful of porridge. “Trees up to its edges, there’s bound to be robbers. Who’s to catch them in that forest? I wonder as the abbot don’t make it safer.”

Hilda turned on him. “Don’t you blame my dear abbot, don’t you dare. He’d make all safe for everybody, God bless him, but that’s Wells forest-well, the king’s really-but the bishop does his hunting in it and won’t have a twig touched in case it upsets the deer. Oh, if I was a swearing woman, I’d tell you things about the bishop of Wells…”