A Finer End (7 page)

Jack followed the lane to its end, pulling the car up in a grassy space where a stone bridge crossed a rocky stream. They got out and took their bearings. The light was a liquid green under the thick canopy of trees; the silence was broken only by water gurgling over the rocks. The cottage stood before them, divided from the lane by a low stone wall; inside the wall a smooth expanse of lawn ran down to the stream, and a flagstone path led from the gate to the arched front door.

Following the men, Winnie paused, her hand on the gate. She felt suspended in the strange, breathless atmosphere, and wondered if she might, at the very last instant, change her mind.

Then Jack turned, waiting for her, and she knew that whatever transpired that night, there could be no going back.

Simon Fitzstephen stacked the dishes from his cold supper in the sink for Mrs. Beddons, his housekeeper, to wash in the morning. They had reached a comfortable arrangement over the years; Mrs. Beddons came in the mornings, fixed his breakfast, did the chores, and made him a hot lunch, then before she left for the day she put together a salad or cold meats for his evening meal.

Although the royalties from his books would have allowed him to live on a grander scale than Riverside Cottage, he had no desire to leave Pilton. The village was not only beautiful, it was one of the oldest possessions of Glastonbury Abbey, a gift from the Saxon king Ine sometime early in the eighth century. Fitzstephen traced his own family’s links to the Abbey only as far back as the
twelfth century, when an ancestor had acted
in loco abbatis
for King Henry II, on the death of the previous abbot.

These associations of place and family gave Simon Fitzstephen an integral sense of connection to his work, at which he had been gratifyingly successful. He had not imagined, when he left active ministry to pursue his study of the Grail, that his books would be so well received by the public. The only drawback he had been able to discover to his minor celebrity was the tendency of his readers to an uncomfortable degree of familiarity. He was by nature a reserved man; he’d found his one speaking tour in America an excruciating experience.

At least the young man who had wangled an invitation this evening was English, and seemed quite civilized. He was also quite astonishingly beautiful and seemingly unaware of it.

The thought made Simon glance at his watch. Nicholas Carlisle and his architect friend would be arriving soon. He should finish the preparations for his guests.

By chance, Simon had run into his old friend Garnet Todd that afternoon, and he had invited her along as well. She was knowledgeable and sharp witted: surely she’d add a bit of spice to the evening’s gathering.

He set glasses, mixers, gin, and whiskey on the round drawing-room table. Inlaid with walnut burl and set round its circumference with two rows of drawers, it had been used by the lords of Pilton Manor for collecting rents. With a vase of full-blown garden roses set in its center, it did justice to the room, his favorite in the house. Three gothic-arched windows stood open to the lawn, and the green silk on the walls brought the garden in. Ornately framed sepia photographs hung everywhere, generations of Fitzstephens. But Simon was the last of his branch of the family, and childless. His name would have to live on through his books, a prospect which did not distress him, except for the fact that lately the well of his creativity seemed to have run dry. What could he say about the Grail
that he had not already said, and said well? And yet he had another book under contract to his publisher, and he could not stall much longer.

Returning to the kitchen, he fetched the silver dishes of olives and salted almonds Mrs. Beddons had left ready. Just as he had everything assembled, the bell rang. He swiped a hand through his thick hair and went to greet his visitors.

Nick Carlisle stood on the doorstep with his friend, a large, fair-haired man—and, much to Simon’s shock, Winifred Catesby. What was she doing here?

Nick introduced Jack Montfort first, giving Simon a chance to recover as he shook Montfort’s hand absently. When released, Simon forestalled Nick’s second introduction.

“Winifred.” He bent to kiss her cheek, his lips meeting air when she turned her face away at the last moment.

“Hullo, Simon.”

“You know each other?” Montfort asked.

“Simon taught a few of my classes in theological college,” Winifred replied coolly. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, hasn’t it?” Simon responded drily. He ushered them into the drawing room, very much aware of her bare arms and her sleeveless, blue silk dress.

The bell rang again just as he had them seated, this time heralding Garnet Todd and an unfamiliar companion. Garnet wore her usual Romany attire, which amused Simon almost as much as her staunch vegetarianism; once in a moment of indiscretion, she’d revealed to him that she was a butcher’s daughter from Clapham.

“I hope you don’t mind, Simon,” said Garnet. “I brought my boarder. This is Faith.”

The girl was tall and slender, with a long neck and short-cropped hair that set off her delicate features. She was also, Simon realized as she moved past him into the entry hall, quite visibly pregnant, and not much more than a child. “Faith?” he repeated. “Just Faith?”

“Just Faith.” The girl turned serious dark eyes on him,
with no hint of a smile. What, Simon wondered, had Garnet got herself into?

And if he had had any doubts about young Nick Carlisle’s sexual preferences, they were resolved the instant Faith walked into the drawing room. Both men rose, but Nick was clearly riveted. The girl seemed unaware of her effect, regarding them all with the same solemn gaze.

As Simon introduced Garnet, Winifred said, “Garnet Todd, the ceramist? I love your work! I’ve been hoping one day to have you restore the tiles in my church.”

“Your church?” Garnet’s worn face creased in a smile.

“I’m vicar of St. Mary’s, Compton Grenville,” Winifred answered, and they were soon deep in discussion of the church’s tile work.

Trust Garnet to monopolize the conversation, Simon thought acidly as he served drinks. When he could get a word in edgewise, he said, “Nick tells me you have a particular interest in the history of the Abbey, Mr. Montfort?”

“You might say that. Call me Jack, please. And I understand that you’re the expert where the Abbey is concerned. I’m especially interested in the eleventh-century period and in Aethelnoth’s abbacy.”

“Aethelnoth? That’s not a name most people know. Not exactly a shining star in the Abbey’s history, that one.”

“I wondered what happened in his time that the monks would have seen as bringing God’s wrath upon their House?”

“Among other things, Aethelnoth removed the gold and silver from the Abbey’s holy books and sold it for his own profit, and he appropriated Church lands. His rather disreputable career ended when he was formally deposed and sent into confinement at Christ Church, Canterbury.

“In fact,” Simon continued, warming to his subject, “neither of the last two Saxon abbots was anything to write home about. Aethelweard, Aethelnoth’s predecessor, hacked up King Edgar’s remains and tried to stuff them in a reliquary, after which he became incurably insane—small wonder—then fell and broke his neck. But I don’t know
that any of their misdeeds was worthy of calling down God’s wrath upon the Abbey.”

Montfort and Nick Carlisle exchanged a look of disappointment. “Those sorts of things were fairly common, I take it?” Montfort asked.

“Unfortunately. Abbatial election usually had more to do with political astuteness than religious vocation, but those two lacked either quality. Of course, Frederick Bligh Bond came up with a much glorified version of Aethelnoth through his automatic writings, but in this case I’m inclined to believe the historians.”

“Bligh Bond?” Nick echoed huskily, then cleared his throat. Again he and Montfort exchanged a loaded glance.

“You’re familiar with Bond?” Simon asked.

Montfort’s reply made it clear that he was. “Are you saying that you accept Bond’s … um … 
received
information in other cases?”

“Do I believe that Bond had a direct line to former monks of the Abbey?” This was turning out to be a good deal more interesting than Simon had anticipated. “Not likely. But Bond’s knowledge of the Abbey’s history and architecture was extensive. I think it highly probable that he communicated it somehow to his friend, Captain Bartlett.”

“Oh, really, Simon!” broke in Garnet. “Why not say ‘telepathy’ if you mean ‘telepathy’? And if you’re willing to admit that possibility, why rule out the idea that Bond—and Bartlett—might have tapped into some sort of collective memory? You certainly know the importance of collective memory to the Celts—”

“That’s an entirely different matter. Their collective—and racial—memory was based on the transmission of myth and tradition through highly stylized storytelling, ritual, and ceremony.”

“And it was an extremely powerful force, in ways we can’t even begin to understand,” Garnet challenged, reddening. “Why is it impossible that there are other things that operate beyond our understanding?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Faith, speaking for the first time. “What’s automatic writing?”

Jack Montfort gave her an encouraging smile. “It’s when someone writes things down without being consciously aware of what they’re writing, or knowing where the information originates.”

“You mean like ghosts? Or a séance?”

Wincing, Montfort said, “Not necessarily. It could be the person’s subconscious seeking … well, I suppose you could call it an unusual outlet.”

“Is that what you think happened to Mr. Bond—whoever he was?”

“It was Bond’s friend who actually did the writing,” Simon said tersely. “So whether the information came from Bond’s subconscious or another source, he still had to transmit it in some way to Bartlett. Unless, of course, the two were total charlatans, and that I
don’t
believe.”

“It seems odd, don’t you think,” Montfort mused, “that the one question no one ever asked was ‘Why John Bartlett?’ Bond’s connections to the Abbey were obvious—was Bartlett chosen simply because of his friendship with Bond, or was there something more? Bartlett was retired military, an intelligent and fairly well-educated man, but there was nothing to indicate a natural facility for automatism.”

“When you say Bartlett was ‘chosen,’ I take it you favor the collective-memory hypothesis?”

“I’m inclined to, yes,” Montfort answered with what sounded suspiciously like a sigh. “Speaking from my own experience, I find anything else highly improbable.”

There was a moment of surprised silence, then Garnet said, “Your own experience? Do you mean you’ve done automatic writing?”

Montfort hesitated, then with a glance at Winifred, pulled a folded sheaf of papers from his inside jacket pocket. “All these since March. And I knew very little about the history of the Abbey, just the ordinary schoolboy stuff.”

Curiosity battling against disbelief, Simon reached for the papers. He had always been intrigued by the story of Bligh Bond’s experience—what if he’d been wrong in assuming that Bond himself was the source? He read, fascinated, from the first halting script. As he finished each page Garnet reached eagerly for it, then passed it in turn to Faith.

As he read, a strong sense of personality began to emerge. Simon glanced at Jack Montfort, who sat cradling his drink in his hands. Montfort seemed an unlikely candidate for a hoax, nor could Simon imagine that some repressed part of Montfort’s personality sought expression as a medieval monk. And as an architect, the man certainly had nothing to gain by revealing such a thing—it could, without a doubt, seriously damage his career.

Simon felt the beginnings of an excitement he hadn’t experienced in years. Suppose there was the remotest possibility that these communications were genuine, that it was somehow possible to establish a living link with the past. What would that mean for his own studies, to have direct access to history? There could be a book in this that would take his career in an entirely unexpected direction.

He had reached the last page.
Seek one goal and ye shall win
, began the monk who signed himself as Edmund.
Work at that which comes. Take others as ye find, for the task is great, ere ye shall join the Company. We are those who watch, and we are ever with you
.

Garnet took the sheet from him almost before he’d finished reading it. She skimmed it, then read it again more slowly, her lips moving. Wide-eyed, she looked up at Montfort and breathed, “The Company of Watchers. They’ve chosen you.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Winifred. “Who—or what—is the Company of Watchers?”

“The Watchers are those who are tied to Glastonbury by a bond not even death could sever. They guard the spiritual heart of Britain—Logres—and some even say they watch
over King Arthur, waiting for the day when he will rise again.”

“Britain’s hour of greatest need?” scoffed Simon. “Surely no one believes that old chestnut?”

“Six months ago I wouldn’t have given it the time of day,” Montfort answered slowly. “But now … after all this …”

Garnet fingered the Celtic pendant she wore at her throat. “This is a time of conflict, so near the Millennium—”

“Your paranoia’s showing, my dear,” Simon said sharply. Then he looked at the pages gathered in Faith’s slender hand and wavered.

“And the task?” asked Faith.

“I don’t know,” answered Montfort. “That’s one of the things I hoped to learn when I came here today.”

“Take others as ye find,”
Faith read, then she looked at each of them, her gaze intent. “Don’t you see?
We
are the others. Whatever it is, it can only be accomplished if we work
together.”

“All for one and one for all,” said Simon, still half mocking, but finding himself strangely drawn to the idea. “What do you think, Winifred? I doubt the Church would approve of your dabbling in the paranormal.”

“They didn’t much care for Bond’s methods, either, and yet he gave us invaluable information about the Abbey. Can’t we judge the material on the basis of its historical validity, rather than its source?” She looked at Jack Montfort, as if for confirmation; with an unpleasant jolt it dawned on Simon that they were a couple.