eagerness. ‘He asked me about a paper which I had given to his brother some two or three months ago, knowing of Peter’s interest in all things antiquarian. Mark wanted me to explain its contents to him. Alas, I was unable to do so.’
‘Why was that? Had you not read it?’
‘Yes. Well, I’d seen it.’ The priest shivered suddenly. ‘It’s cold in here,’ he said, laying a hand on my arm. ‘Let’s go outside and sit for a while in the sun.’
Cicely and I, who were both still feeling the effect of our long, hot walk, reluctantly followed him out of doors and sat beside him on the top of the knoll. Daisies and buttercups starred the grass, and here and there I could see the bright sapphire-blue of a speedwell. Beyond the inner fence hens pecked in the dust for grit and the scattered remains of their morning’s feed, while a fat black cat lay curled contentedly in the doorway of the house, sleepily oblivious to the pilgrims forced to step over it as they left or re-entered the building. A cow lowed plaintively from a neighbouring field.
After a long-drawn silence I prompted, ‘Why then, Father, were you unable to explain this paper?’
The priest turned his mild blue eyes upon me with a look of vague astonishment, as though he had, for a moment, forgotten my presence. ‘Ah, yes. The paper. I couldn’t explain its contents, my son, for the simple reason that I couldn’t understand them.’
‘They were written in a foreign language?’
‘You might say that. The message, if it was one, consisted of a number of horizontal and vertical lines. The latter, some upright, some sloping, were arranged in groups, varying in number between one and five, either above, below or aslant the former. And that, as I also told Master Gildersleeve this morning, is the reason I gave it to his brother. I hoped Master Peter might discover how to decipher it.’
‘How did you come by this paper, Father?’
‘It was given into my hands for safekeeping over a year ago by an Irishman, who had travelled to Beckery in the steps of Saint Bridget. From Glastonbury he was going to the shrine of Saint Thomas at Canterbury, and he asked me to look after it until his return, in case it was either lost or stolen from him on the journey.’
Cicely shifted restlessly beside me. All she wanted now was to go home to discover if Mark had reached there before us. Her arms were clasped about her raised knees, her hair, unconfined by net or ribbon, tumbling about her shoulders in an untidy profusion of pale golden-brown curls. Those huge violet eyes were veiled by blue-veined lids, and her sullen expression only served to emphasize the thin lips and heavy lower jaw, making her look almost plain. A ladybird was crawling slowly down her arm, like a drop of blood oozing from a wound.
I ignored her obvious impatience and turned once more to the priest. ‘But did this Irishman tell you nothing about the paper? Didn’t he explain the meaning of these symbols you describe?’
‘The paper was folded and sealed with wax. Naturally, at that time, I did not suggest opening it.’ Father Boniface sounded offended. ‘What it contained was not then my business. I merely put it away to give him again when he came back.’
‘But he has not come back?’
‘No.’ The priest removed his apron as he began at last to feel the heat. He raised the skirts of his habit above his ankles, stretching out his scrawny white shins and sandalled feet to the caressing rays of the sun. ‘He did however tell me his name, Gerald Clonmel, and that he came from the parts about Waterford which, he said, is in the very south of Ireland. But I have no means of knowing whether this is true or not, having no knowledge of the world beyond this island.’
I nodded. ‘Indeed it is. The people of that region have long trafficked with the merchants of southern Wales and with Bristol.’
‘Ah!’ The priest smiled in satisfaction. ‘Then that would add weight to his story.
‘Why was that? Had you not read it?’
‘Yes. Well, I’d seen it.’ The priest shivered suddenly. ‘It’s cold in here,’ he said, laying a hand on my arm. ‘Let’s go outside and sit for a while in the sun.’
Cicely and I, who were both still feeling the effect of our long, hot walk, reluctantly followed him out of doors and sat beside him on the top of the knoll. Daisies and buttercups starred the grass, and here and there I could see the bright sapphire-blue of a speedwell. Beyond the inner fence hens pecked in the dust for grit and the scattered remains of their morning’s feed, while a fat black cat lay curled contentedly in the doorway of the house, sleepily oblivious to the pilgrims forced to step over it as they left or re-entered the building. A cow lowed plaintively from a neighbouring field.
After a long-drawn silence I prompted, ‘Why then, Father, were you unable to explain this paper?’
The priest turned his mild blue eyes upon me with a look of vague astonishment, as though he had, for a moment, forgotten my presence. ‘Ah, yes. The paper. I couldn’t explain its contents, my son, for the simple reason that I couldn’t understand them.’
‘They were written in a foreign language?’
‘You might say that. The message, if it was one, consisted of a number of horizontal and vertical lines. The latter, some upright, some sloping, were arranged in groups, varying in number between one and five, either above, below or aslant the former. And that, as I also told Master Gildersleeve this morning, is the reason I gave it to his brother. I hoped Master Peter might discover how to decipher it.’
‘How did you come by this paper, Father?’
‘It was given into my hands for safekeeping over a year ago by an Irishman, who had travelled to Beckery in the steps of Saint Bridget. From Glastonbury he was going to the shrine of Saint Thomas at Canterbury, and he asked me to look after it until his return, in case it was either lost or stolen from him on the journey.’
Cicely shifted restlessly beside me. All she wanted now was to go home to discover if Mark had reached there before us. Her arms were clasped about her raised knees, her hair, unconfined by net or ribbon, tumbling about her shoulders in an untidy profusion of pale golden-brown curls. Those huge violet eyes were veiled by blue-veined lids, and her sullen expression only served to emphasize the thin lips and heavy lower jaw, making her look almost plain. A ladybird was crawling slowly down her arm, like a drop of blood oozing from a wound.
I ignored her obvious impatience and turned once more to the priest. ‘But did this Irishman tell you nothing about the paper? Didn’t he explain the meaning of these symbols you describe?’
‘The paper was folded and sealed with wax. Naturally, at that time, I did not suggest opening it.’ Father Boniface sounded offended. ‘What it contained was not then my business. I merely put it away to give him again when he came back.’
‘But he has not come back?’
‘No.’ The priest removed his apron as he began at last to feel the heat. He raised the skirts of his habit above his ankles, stretching out his scrawny white shins and sandalled feet to the caressing rays of the sun. ‘He did however tell me his name, Gerald Clonmel, and that he came from the parts about Waterford which, he said, is in the very south of Ireland. But I have no means of knowing whether this is true or not, having no knowledge of the world beyond this island.’
I nodded. ‘Indeed it is. The people of that region have long trafficked with the merchants of southern Wales and with Bristol.’
‘Ah!’ The priest smiled in satisfaction. ‘Then that would add weight to his story.
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