blood-?’
‘Yes, yes, yes…’ Borrow’s eyes squeezing shut. ‘I’m afraid that’s what they found, yes.’
‘They accused you?’ Monger said. ‘Of butchering this man?’
‘I wish they had accused me. They asked if Eleanor had ever performed surgery.’
A stone in my gut.
I said, ‘Has she?’
‘Only when there’s been no better way.’
Surgery: the lowest form of doctoring, next to butchery in anyone’s book. I turned to Monger, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes, and Dr Borrow, evidently in near despair, if reluctant to show it, was looking down at the holes in his boots, while Joan Tyrre cackled in my head about the darkness over the tor.
‘I told Fyche why there was blood on the tools. I don’t think he even listened.’ Dr Borrow said. ‘Picks up the bag, thrusts it at a constable to take them all away. Evidence, he says.’
‘All the evidence he’d need,’ Joe Monger said.
How swiftly everything changes when the heart holds sway, altering the order of need. When people had spoken of the heart torn assunder, I’d known not, until now, what emotion they were trying to illustrate.
Or maybe it was all heightened here in Glastonbury, where the very air seemed to hone the perceptions like a whetstone to a knife, sharpening the colours of thoughts, the tastes in the mouth, the pictures which are seen when the eyes are shut.
Leaning back into the oak settle in the panelled room at the George, I could see the outline of the sun pushing vainly at crowding clouds. And then there she was inside my head, sitting amongst the big stones by the iron well, inside the circle of bare thorn trees: the emerald eyes, the faded blue dress, sleeves pushed up exposing, oh God, those brown speckled arms.
‘How can we stop this?’ I said.
Monger was silent for a long moment, sitting opposite me in the square, panelled chamber.
‘We?’ he said. ‘Are you sure of this?’
Me looking down to hide a coming blush and banishing her, with her green eyes and her haunting, crossed- tooth smile, lest I give away too much.
‘I should also ask you about a carpenter. A coffin-maker. A gravedigger. Vicar.’
‘All that can be done tomorrow,’ Monger said. ‘I’ll send them to you. Although I gather you may have to wait for the return of Carew before they’ll release the cadaver.’
When we’d arrived back at the George, Cowdray had told us that Fyche himself had been here, insisting on questioning Master Roberts in his chamber. But Dudley had been sweating again, his eyes full of heat, his sickness beyond dispute, and Fyche had not ventured beyond the threshold, for fear of contagion.
‘Don’t expect Carew to take a different stance,’ Monger said. ‘There’s no harder reformer in the west. If Carew’s given good evidence, he won’t prolong things any more than Fyche would.’
‘Carew has real power here? A sheriff ’s power?’
‘As much power as he wants. Senior knight in Devonshire, owns the abbey and its lands. Has more power here, I’d guess, than he would have in a similar role in London, where knights, I’m told, are two a penny.’
‘She’s a healer,’ I said, wanting to scream it to the beams. ‘In the real sense. Not like the piss-sniffers in their masks. What about the mother of those twins? The woman whose life was saved, and her babes, she’ll surely state before a court that Dr Borrow had to cut into her belly. That it was her blood on the knives?’
‘If she survives. Wounds like that oft-times turn bad. And, anyway, she’ll say what her husband wants her to say. And her husband… The farmers out towards Butleigh they’re all tenants and struggling. They’ll state, albeit with regret, what suits their lord. I know him, too, shoe the horses for his hunt – with which his neighbour rides now and again. His neighbour, who also happens to be the local JP.’
‘Fyche?’
‘You never know when you’re going to need a JP, do you, Dr John?’
‘My colleague,’ I said, with care, ‘has influence. He’ll talk to Carew.’
Monger looked pained.
‘You don’t understand, do you? The poison’s spreading as we speak. A man precisely disbowelled and laid out like a decorated altar? The older townsfolk will already be quaking behind their doors. Who’ll be next? And who’ll be accused? So Fyche puts out a name… and those will emerge who’ll state before a judge that when they couldn’t afford to pay Nel’s doctor’s bill, their cattle died. I tell you in sorrow… it doesn’t take much.’
‘She’s a doctor.’
‘She’s a doctor who’s become too much associated with the worship-pers of the stars and the old stones.’
I shut my eyes, remembering how swiftly all the apocryphal tales had arisen of Anne Boleyn’s dark ways after her husband had first denounced her as a witch.
‘What you must needs understand, Dr John, is that these people – the seekers – there’s still only a few of them compared with the old families of Glastonbury. The old families who hold tight to a Godly fear of the power of this place… who’ll turn their backs upon the tor at certain seasons. Who are afraid of what meddlers like poor mad old Joan might cause, through their meddling, to happen.’
‘Another earthquake?’
‘You may laugh, in your learned, London way…’
‘If you think I laugh at such things-’
‘Mercy.’ Holding up his hands. ‘Yes, I know, of course, where your interests lie. What I’m trying to explain is that most folk here are not men of science and inquiry, all they want is a quiet life and bread on the board. They don’t meddle. For all the talk of treasure, you won’t find hill-diggers on the tor, for ’tis said that when a man once took a hammer to the tower, thinking to obtain stone, the heavens were suddenly aflame with lightning. Out of a cloudless sky. One bolt strikes the hammer, man falls down dead.’
‘This is fact, or legend?’
‘In Glaston… no division. They say that if you put your hands on a certain buttress on a corner of the tower you’ll feel the shock of the thunderbolt.’
‘There’ll be an explanation.’ Recalling my own fall on the tor. ‘Through science. If I had the time here-’
‘Then you, too, would very swiftly fall foul of the old families. They don’t welcome pokers into the unknowable. What you call science.’
‘I know.’
‘Nel was tempted onto a path which is… unstable.’
‘Like her mother?’
Monger smiled his unhappy, priestly smile.
‘Cate Borrow dug her own pit. Through kindness, perhaps, but she dug it none the less.’
It was growing dark. From behind the oaken panels, Cowdray and his maids could be heard serving cider to the farmers and maybe a constable or two. But the room was reserved for overnight guests, and we were yet alone.
‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘Tell me about her.’
XXIV
Fungus Dust
She was a gardener.
Two acres of land reclaimed from the sea, down towards Wells – this was where she was most at peace, passing the lengthening days among its fragrances, harvesting herbs to eat: carrots and onions and leeks, cabbages and beans, to be sold at Glastonbury market.
And also herbs for healing. Behind her husband’s surgery, near the Church of St Benignus, she had a little workroom where they were hung and dried and ground into powder. A quiet woman, who preferred her husband to take the credit for balms and ointments, the cure of infected wounds and upset guts.
‘I knew her first more than a score of years ago,’ Monger said, ‘when I was at the abbey. This was when she
