It is the bright day that brings forth the adder,
and that craves wary walking.
— William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
For their return to Glastonbury, Lady Mary lent them horses from her stables — a nimble white gelding for Kit, and for Sidonie, riding nervously sidesaddle, a placid chestnut mare. They set out on a day of hazy sunshine, clattering along the narrow road amid fields so intensely green that even now, in autumn, they seemed suffused with light. Sidonie remembered that in the days of Arthur’s Camelot these were the flooded Summer Lands, and Glastonbury was Ynys-witrin, The Isle of Glass, a holy island encircled by lagoons and interlacing streams. Perhaps, she thought, it was those waters still lying close beneath the surface that kept the pasturelands so lush and green. Or was it the ancient magic that clung to Glastonbury’s meadows like October mist?
A chill wind blew among the ruins of the Abbey. Oak leaves, scattered across the paths, promised an early winter. They found the grounds deserted, save for a boy of twelve or so who half-dozed under a sunny wall while his flock grazed among the tumbled stones.
Lifting her skirts and treading carefully through the long wet grass, Sidonie approached the shepherd. “Have you seen the old monk who comes here?” she asked.
“Oh aye,” said the boy, gazing up at her with sleepy eyes. “A fortnight ago, he drove my sheep out of the Lady Chapel. though they did no harm.”
“But today?”
“Not today, mistress, nor I hope any day hereafter.”
Sidonie felt a chill of premonition. “And why is that?”
“He died, mistress.”
In the midst of surprise and sadness, Sidonie felt a half-guilty relief. Am I so wicked, she wondered, to think it a blessing, that the old man will never know what I have come to do?
“How came he to die?” she asked the boy.
“Why, in his bed, mistress. He was old, you see, and wore out from praying.” The boy was wide awake now, and anxious to share his special knowledge. “He showed me a gold cross once, that he swore held a relic of Christ, a nail from the crucifixion. They say that the day before he died he crawled on his knees all the way up Wearyall Hill, dragging that cross behind him.”
For Sidonie, relief gave way to a terrible pity. For what sin could God have demanded from that good old man such heavy penance? Or maybe it was not penance at all, but merely one more test of his life-long devotion.
The boy added, “When they found him dead, he still held the cross in his arms. There was a great argument as to what should become of it, for I think there are some in the village who cling to the old faith, and they wanted him buried with it.”
“And was he?”
The boy shook his head and grinned. “Nay, mistress, it was gold, you see, and studded with gems, and my father thinks they took it away to Wells Cathedral.”
“Perchance,” asked Kit, strolling up behind them, “did the old man raise fish?”
Sidonie guessed at once the reason for his question. If the old monk had saved a gold cross from the Abbey, what other treasure might he have hidden in his cottage garden?
The boy gave him a blank look. “Raise fish? Not that I ever knew.” He added helpfully, “There are fish aplenty in the River Brue, all free for the taking.”
Sidonie and Kit glanced at each other, sharing the same thought. Is there Abbey gold at the bottom of the River Brue? But, decided Sidonie, if the monks had thrown their treasures into the river, what hope would they have of recovering it?
“Where fish keep silence,” Sir Philip had written. Surely he did not mean the river or the village. Aloud, she said, “I remember no fish pond in the Abbey grounds.”
“Is it the Abbey pond you mean?” said the shepherd. “Why did you not say so before? Not enough fish in it now to bother with — though I still see the little lads from the village going up the path with their pails and nets.”
“Prithee, will you show us the path?” asked Sidonie.
“It starts there, by the Abbey cloister.” The lad gestured, without getting up.
“Do you mind our horses, then,” said Kit, and handed him tuppence.
They found the way after some searching: an overgrown footpath winding among ancient yews and hawthorn thickets. They pushed through the tangle of brambles and hazel saplings that half-hid the entrance, and started single-file along the narrow track.
Sidonie, walking after Kit, stopped suddenly and half-turned. Was that rustling in the bracken only a fox, or something heavier-footed?
“What is it?” asked Kit, glancing back.
Sidonie shook her head, unable to explain the faint tingling on the nape of her neck that warned her they were not alone, that they were being watched.
“Sidonie, did you hear something?”
“No,” she said. “It was nothing. Only I have these foolish fancies sometime, that someone is there, that there are eyes upon me.”
Kit came back along the path, and they stood together, listening. There was nothing on the path behind them, no sound now but the wind stirring the leaves.
They went on a little further, and came to the edge of a large round pond. Beyond, to the north-east, they could see the Tor, with mist clinging to its slopes.
In the great days of the Abbey the pond must have been well kept and teeming with fish, but now the water, low at this time of year, was scummed with algae, fouled with rotting leaves. Rank grass and water weeds grew over the encircling wall of stones, and moss-furred tree limbs, felled by the wind, lay half-submerged among the lily pads. There was a rich damp smell of decaying vegetation.
Kit found a long branch and kneeling at the pond’s edge, felt for the bottom. The stick sank deep.
“I’ve no mind to go wading in that,” he remarked. “You must look into your scrying ball, Sidonie. If indeed there is gold down there, under fifty years or more of mud, the Countess will have to drain the pool.”
Sidonie took the crystal from her pocket and laid it at the edge of the pool on its felt wrapping. The slanting afternoon sun filled the glass with shards of light. Turning away from the dazzle, Sidonie spoke her thoughts aloud. “Kit, are we mad, do you think?”
“No more than the rest of the world,” replied Kit with good humour. He settled down on the grass beside her. “But why do you ask me that now?”
“Because I fear we are seeking a chimera — the phantasy of a wishful mind. Maybe there was never any hidden gold, or maybe it was discovered half a century ago. And we have strayed far from our purpose. Should we not collect more of the red elixir, and take it to my father so that he can make gold for the Queen?”
Kit said, with more than a hint of irony, “I applaud your faith in your father’s skills.” Sidonie answered him with a rueful smile.
Kit added, soberly, “Whatever we choose to do, Sidonie, we are chasing will o’ the wisps. The red earth may be the alchemist’s elixir — or it may be rust-coloured mud. There may be a fortune in gold at the bottom of the fish pond, or there may be nothing but weeds and kitchen refuse. But all things considered, your best chance of saving your father’s neck from the noose is to present the Queen with Glastonbury gold.”
“How sensible you are,” sighed Sidonie. “Go then, see to the horses, and leave me do what I must.” She watched as Kit disappeared down the Abbey path, and after a moment turned reluctantly back to the crystal.
The sun, now low on the horizon, was at the wrong angle, she decided, and she moved into the shade of a thorn tree. How to begin?
She tried to focus, conjuring up images of gold candlesticks, censers, chalices. Clouds swirled in the glass, hinted at shapes, dissolved into nothing.
Somewhere close by a twig snapped. “Kit?” she murmured, half in trance. There was no answer, only the faint sound of breathing.
The hair stirred on the back of her neck. She snatched up the crystal and thrust it into her pocket, then turned to look over her shoulder, her gaze meeting cold grey eyes under a wide-brimmed hat. Rough hands gripped her arms and twisted them behind her. A voice said, “An’ you value your life, Mistress Quince, you will not cry out.”