Read Online The Brothers of Glastonbury by Kate Sedley - Free Book Online Page A

books before doing anything else.
    ‘I’ll walk to the stables later and fetch my cudgel,’ I said, ‘but I’m curious to see these folios of his.’
    My host laid aside his razor.
    ‘They’re not all folios. Many are quartos and some octavos.’ There was a certain pride in his voice, mixed with annoyance at Peter’s extravagance. He went on, ‘You can come with me now. I’m off to the workshop.’
    He turned to the apprentices, still lolling over their breakfast. ‘Rob, I need you to help with the scraping. John, you get down to the vats and rescue those skins we set soaking last Friday, before all this trouble came upon us.’ As the last named reached the kitchen door, Mark called after him, ‘Mind you act normally! If people start asking about my brother, you’re to say we’re not worried. Tell them you think I know where he is. Have you marked that?’
    John Longbones sighed, nodded and went on his way. After a few moments, we followed him across the garden before turning into the workroom at the back of the house. Here I saw various skins, all sheep except for one calf’s hide, laced on to wooden frames and stretched taut, ready to be scraped to a smooth, even surface. Mark and Rob Undershaft donned leather aprons to begin the day’s work, and the former indicated an iron-bound chest in one corner.
    ‘That’s where Peter keeps his books, Chapman.’ His tone was indifferent, almost as though he no longer cared whether I inspected them or no.
    ‘Did you find the key?’ I enquired.
    For answer, Mark delved into the pocket of his jerkin. ‘It was in one of the drawers of the bed-head. It occurred to me last night that that was where it would be. It didn’t take long to find. Here! Catch!’ He threw me a small iron key. ‘Now, Rob and I have a lot to do.’
    He picked up one of the rounded sticks, which he referred to as a strickle, and started work on the nearest sheepskin, methodically removing all remnants of grease and fat. The apprentice was already busy on another, and between each scraping the skins were doused with a lye of hot water and soda, which simmered in a cauldron over a fire on the workshop hearth. The smell was unpleasant and made my eyes water, but both men assured me that I should grow used to it in time.
    But I did not need the key for the chest was, after all, unlocked. Slowly, I raised the lid and peered inside. The musty scent of old books rose to greet me, and I lifted them out carefully, one by one. In order to keep the parchment from cockling, nearly all were bound with heavy boards, some covered in silk, others in velvet, and decorated with tassels or buttons or copper studs arranged in patterns; one lay on a bed of ivory satin in its own special cedarwood box. Several had gilt clasps, but these were easily loosened. There were histories, including Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae and William of Malmesbury’s Gesta Regum Anglorum, devotional works, romances, a very fair copy of Cursor Mundi, and a hunting treatise, The Master of Game, by one of the past Dukes of York. But although I spent until dinnertime turning the pages and reading as much of the contents as I could, I discovered nothing of magic or witchcraft or or any other subject which might link Peter Gildersleeve to the black arts, nor explain the strange way in which he had vanished. Eventually, disappointed and dispirited, I replaced the books in the chest and sat, my back propped against the wall, watching Mark and Rob Undershaft at work.
    They had by now finished scraping and dousing, and were scouring the skins with what I thought to be sand, but which, on inquiry, I learned to be finely powdered limestone.
    ‘You can use sand, but this is the handiest thing for us to use in these parts,’ Mark said, and I remembered that long ago one of the abbey brothers, who knew about such matters, had instructed me that the whole area, including the Mendip Hills, was formed of limestone …
    ‘So