The Midsummer Crown (3 page)

After more agonizing seconds had ticked by, my pursuer – for I felt sure he was that – suddenly swung on his heel and grunted, ‘Back!' He continued, talking more to himself than the dog, ‘I'm damned if I'm going any further. He's gone. I said it was a fool's errand at the start. Women! They get these crotchets in their stupid heads. That oaf was no robber.' He stamped one foot, obviously in a rage. ‘Got a fucking blister on my big toe now, God damn her!'

He stomped out of the clearing, returning the way he had come. I stayed where I was until all sounds of his departure had ceased and blessed silence once more enfolded me, and until cramp in both my legs forced me to my feet. I extricated myself from my hiding place, not without some difficulty and further damage to my clothes, and resumed my journey with more speed than dignity. Just before sundown, I found the alehouse, clean and welcoming, and breathed a sigh of relief.

TWO

There are people who maintain that the thirty-three Daughters of Albion were the children of that scourge of the Christian Church, the Emperor Diocletian. But that's arrant nonsense, of course. The story is obviously set in the dawn of history, long, long before the rise of the Roman Empire. And surely even legends must have their logic. So I favour the version that the sisters were the offspring of some ancient Grecian king who, when his daughters rose as one woman and slaughtered their husbands, was so appalled by the deed that he was unable to tolerate their presence at his court. But neither could he bring himself to kill his own flesh and blood. Instead, he provisioned a ship with six months' supply of food and water and set the women afloat upon the open sea, at the mercy of wind and tide.

When half a year had passed and the provisions were about to run out, the ship fetched up on the shores of an island rising out of the mists on the edge of the world; an island without a name. Albia, the eldest of the thirty-three sisters therefore decreed that it should be called after her: Albion. The island was peopled only by demons, horned and tailed, with whom the sisters mated to produce a race of giants, and these giants ruled Albion for the next seven hundred years. (The great gorge, just outside Bristol, is said to have been hewn from the rock by two of the giants, two brothers, Vincent and Goram, and you can still see the latter's chair carved into the rock face, rising sheer from the bed of the River Avon to the heights above.)

But then came Brutus – son of Silvius, grandson of Ascanius, great-grandson of Aeneas – and his band of Trojans, landing, so it is said, at Totnes in south Devon. He renamed the island Britain and finally, after many hard-fought battles, overcame the giants, carrying their leaders, Gog and Magog, in chains to the Trojans' new settlement on the banks of the River Thames. There the pair were forced to serve as doorkeepers until they were too old to be of any further use, when they were turned, by magic, into two painted effigies of themselves, and where they can still be seen, one on either side of the Guildhall entrance. Mind you, older folk will tell you that, in reality, these effigies formed a part of the street decorations when King Henry V entered his capital in triumph after the battle of Agincourt. (Of course, older people always like to air their superior knowledge in order to disillusion the young. They gain great enjoyment from it. I know because I do the same myself nowadays.)

So how, you may ask, did I become acquainted with these myths and legends? Well, the history of Brutus and his Trojans is told in Geoffrey of Monmouth's
Historia Britonum
which Brother Hilarion, our Novice Master at Glastonbury, permitted his charges to borrow now and then from the abbey library. But this interesting room also contained other delights in the shape of a locked cupboard whose contents we novices were forbidden even to touch, let alone to read. So, naturally, we were desperate to get our hands on them. Now, I think I have mentioned on more than one occasion in these chronicles my friend and fellow novice, Nicholas Fletcher, whose talent for lock-picking was unrivaled by anyone else whom I have ever met. I don't believe the lock was invented that he was unable to open. It was therefore inevitable that, sooner or later, he would break into the forbidden cupboard and allow the rest of us a glimpse of the banned folios – which is how I first learned of the legend of the Daughters of Albion. This particular tale was lavishly illustrated with graphic depictions of the thirty-three sisters mating with the demons; drawings which made our hair stand on end. (And not just our hair, I can tell you. I believe it was that book, as much as anything else, which made me realize that the celibate life was not for me.) Of course, in the end, Brother Hilarion discovered what we were up to and we were all thoroughly whipped and set penances that seemed to last for an eternity. But it was worth it, for me at least.

These legends came crowding back into my mind one showery morning seated on the lower slopes of Silbury Hill, that strange and eerie mound built thousands of years ago by the Celtic tribes who originally inhabited this island, although for what purpose no one has ever discovered. I have even heard it suggested that it was raised by a race of beings who came from a land beyond the stars. But that is blasphemy. Beyond the stars is Heaven, God's paradise, which we all hope to attain some day.

Ten days had passed since I left London; ten days of steady walking, still keeping to the side roads and woodland tracks, following the path I had mapped out for myself in my head. It brought me, eventually, to Silbury Hill and, later that same day, to Avebury village where I managed to obtain a supper of freshly-baked bread, goat's-milk cheese and some of those little leeks which grow so profusely in spring and are eaten raw. ‘Stink-breaths' we called them as children, not without good reason. After my meal, and in order to disperse some of the flatulence it was causing, I walked around the remains of the ancient stone circles which echoed the great Giant's Dance to the south, on Salisbury Plain. The stones at Avebury have worn less well and are mere stumps in many places, but they are spread over a far greater area than those at Stonehenge. As far as I could tell after walking around for an hour or so – and it was not easy to discern anything with certainty – I thought I could make out two smaller henges within a larger one, and reflected how the circle, without beginning and without end, had always been a source of fascination; the serpent biting its tail, the ring that signifies fidelity.

A butterfly hovered and settled near me on one of the stones, the pale transparency of its wings opalescent in the watery sunlight. Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, it was gone in a shimmer of coruscating amber and pearl. Indeed, so brief had been the time between its appearance and disappearance that, for a moment, I wondered if I had really seen it or if it was simply a figment of my imagination or the incarnation of a visitor from another world . . .

I gave myself a mental shake and also, literally, shook my head in order to clear my mind of such dangerous fancies. But there was something about this tract of country that gave one fantastical thoughts; visions almost. As I have said, the Giant's Dance lay some miles to the south of Avebury, while roughly an equal number of miles to the north, as I knew from my travels among the lower slopes of the Cotswold hills, was Wayland's smithy and the strange white horse, carved into a hillside near Uffington. The latter is thousands of years old and nothing but a series of sweeping curves cut into the chalk beneath the downs, not at all as our artists today would portray the beast and yet, from a distance, instantly recognizable as a horse. Locals secretly worship it as the depiction of an ancient goddess and for century after century, in defiance of the Church's ruling, have kept the outline clear of encroaching grass. As for Wayland the Smith, he belongs to Norse mythology and perhaps came to these shores with the Viking invaders; a magical being who would shoe travellers' horses in return for a silver coin. I once knew a man who had tried it, leaving his offering at the mouth of the long barrow where the smith is said to have his forge, but nothing, he informed me sadly, had happened. When he awoke in the morning, his horse still had the same old shoes. He really wasn't surprised, but disappointed nonetheless.

And as I stood there among the Avebury circles, I could feel the strangeness of the place seeping into my bones, could feel the prickling of the hairs along my arms and was aware of an inability to control my thoughts. Visions of Druids and blood sacrifice filled my mind and I found that I was sweating profusely in spite of the evening chill. For a moment or two I felt unable to move, as if some unseen force had me in its thrall; as though if I fell sideways I might find myself in some fairy world peopled by elves and demons . . .

I fought back, struggling to recite the words of St Patrick's Breastplate. ‘I bind unto myself today the strong name of the Trinity, the power of Heaven, the light of the sun, the whiteness of snow, the force of fire, the power of the Resurrection with the Ascension, the power of the coming to the sentence of judgement. I have set around me all these powers against the incantations of false prophets, against all knowledge which blinds the soul of man.' And suddenly I was free of the miasma of weird fears which had beset me, whole and sane once more.

But I decided not to linger amongst the stones but to return to the village to see if I could beg a bed for the night.

I arrived home some eleven days later, three weeks by my reckoning since leaving London. I had deliberately taken my time, even, on one occasion, refusing a lift from a carter who was heading towards Bath with a load of peat, preferring my own company to the trial of making small talk. Besides, the man had only come from Chippenham and would have had no knowledge of what might be going on in the wider world, beyond the boundary between Wiltshire and Somerset. So I made up my mind to let Adela think that her cousins' business had taken longer to solve than was actually the case, and that I had subsequently made all speed back to Bristol.

Fortunately, she was so pleased to see me, and so anxious to be told the outcome of my investigation into the Godsloves' affairs, that her enquiries concerning my journey were perfunctory and easily satisfied. The children, as usual, wanted only to know what I had brought them and were perfectly happy with the sweetmeats and stuffed figs I had managed to buy in Bath market; although Elizabeth did give me a hug and Adam punched me in the belly, which recently had become his chosen method of greeting. All the same, I sensed that everyone was happy to have me at home once more, and reconciled myself to a prolonged period of domesticity, peddling my wares amongst the town's citizens and the surrounding countryside. And, of course, drinking with my friends in the Green Lattis.

‘You're back, then,' Jack Nym observed when I sought him out to thank him for his care of Adela and the children during their journey from London to Bristol.

‘No, I'm still on my way,' I replied with a grin. ‘This is my ghost you're talking to.'

‘There's no need for sarcasm,' he grumbled, but waved aside all my attempts to express my gratitude. ‘It were business,' he disclaimed. ‘You paid me and they weren't 'ny trouble. Leastways, not the humans, but that dog o' yours, he's another matter. He'll chase anything what moves. There weren't a sheep between here and Lunnon what were safe from him. On and off the cart he was until I came very near to strangling him with me bare hands.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘He usually does what he's told.'

‘By you, yes. But you weren't there, were you?' He sniffed. ‘So, how did things go in Lunnon then, after we left? Solved the problem, did you?'

‘Yes.' I answered briefly, but I wasn't really interested in going over events yet again. I had spent my entire first two evenings at home satisfying Adela's curiosity and was tired of the subject. Besides, I had questions of my own that wanted answering. ‘Is there anyone here,' I went on, glancing around the usual throng that packed the ale-room, ‘who has recently returned from London? Within the last two or three days?'

‘What are you up to now?' Jack asked with a leery look, but being the obliging chap that he was, peered around at our fellow drinkers until suddenly he nodded and pointed a bony finger at a man sitting alone in a corner. ‘Over there. Joshua Bullman. A carter like meself, but transports animals mainly. I know he was taking some sheep up near Lunnon . . . oh . . . week afore last, maybe.' He raised his voice above the general hubbub and called, ‘Josh! Josh Bullman!' And when, finally, the man looked our way indicated that the carter should join us.

I ordered fresh cups of ale all round as Master Bullman wedged himself alongside me on the bench.

‘You've not long returned from London Jack tells me.'

‘Yesterday as it happens.' He finished the ale that remained in his beaker as the pot-boy scurried off to execute my order. ‘Left there a week ago. Why d'you want to know?'

‘I was there three weeks back myself. I wondered what's been happening in the meantime.'

Joshua Bullman shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘Nothing much. They're beginning to put up the street decorations for the young king's coronation. He – the king that is – is in the royal apartments in the Tower, but the queen – well her that was queen – and the rest of the children, they're still in sanctuary at Westminster and refusing to come out.' He shrugged again. ‘That's about all there is to tell.'

‘And the Duke of Gloucester?' I queried.

‘Governing the country, I suppose.' The man laughed. ‘How should I know? I'm only a poor carter.' He added with heavy humour, ‘No doubt His Grace would like to consult me, but I'm a busy man. He'll just have to manage without my advice as best he can.'

I forced a smile, but Jack, a more appreciative audience, roared with laughter and continued chuckling to himself long after the time warranted by such a feeble joke. I kicked him hard on the ankle, but it didn't stop him.