Free The Brothers of Glastonbury by Kate Sedley Page B

Even if Abel Fairchild was known to be the biggest liar unhung, it wouldn’t alter the fact that Peter Gildersleeve was missing, and had been since the previous Friday. Today was Wednesday. Nothing had been seen or heard of him for almost five days.
    I repeated my earlier question. ‘What then do you think has become of your friend?’
    Anthony Pennard was as quick as Mark had been to deny any friendship between the two families.
    ‘We do business together, that’s all. Peter and his brother have been good customers over the years, like their father before them. We go rarely to Glastonbury. Will you take some more ale?’
    I refused, regretfully, and, pushing back my stool, rose to my feet. ‘Where shall I find Abel Fairchild at this time of day?’
    Anthony Pennard also stood up. ‘He’ll most likely be on the lower slopes as it’s close on noon, looking for some shade amongst the trees and scrub. It’s too hot higher up in this weather. I’ll come with you at least a part of the way.’ He addressed his wife, ‘I need to have a word with Gilbert.’
    Mistress Pennard made no demur, and the two of us set out across the steeply rising pastures to locate our quarries. Clumps of gorse and clusters of trees dotted these lower slopes of Mendip, and the undulations of the ground made heavy going, especially as I had to limit my stride to the shorter steps taken by my guide. Clinging veils of heat shrouded the hilltops and made us both sweat in the midday glare. Then, suddenly, as we crested a rise and entered the grateful shade of a circle of stunted oaks, Anthony Pennard gripped my arm and pointed downwards into the dip below us.
    ‘This is the place,’ he whispered. ‘There’s the shepherd’s hut. This is where Peter Gildersleeve disappeared.’

Chapter Six
    I descended the slope at a run, much as Peter Gildersleeve must have done the preceding Friday, and on reaching level ground paused to look around me. Then I glanced up to find myself staring at a boy whom I judged to be some twelve or thirteen summers, dressed in hose and smock of brown homespun, carrying a shepherd’s crook. His narrow face, beneath its thatch of straggling, straw-coloured hair, was pinched and ashen, his mouth agape, eyes wide with fear. The whole of his thin body seemed to tremble as he stood on top of the ridge above me.
    From behind me, as he scrambled awkwardly down the incline, came the reassuring voice of Anthony Pennard.
    ‘It’s all right, Abel, lad! This is Roger Stonecarver, a friend of Mark Gildersleeve. He’s come to talk to you and to have a look at the place where Master Peter vanished.’
    The boy drew a long, shuddering breath and a little colour seeped back into his cheeks. He swallowed hard and his eyes lost their look of terror. After a few moments, when he had regained control of his legs, he came down to greet us, tugging at his forelock.
    ‘I’m s-sorry,’ he stuttered. ‘Just for a second I thought…’
    Anthony clapped him on the shoulder. ‘We know what you thought, lad, and we understand. No need to apologize.’
    ‘It was just seeing a man standing in the same spot where … where—’
    ‘Well, now you’re satisfied that it’s not Master Gildersleeve, I’ll leave you to talk with Roger here.’ And Anthony gave his shepherd-boy another hearty clout on the upper arm. ‘You have my permission. Where’s Gilbert? Have you seen him lately?’
    ‘He’s over to the west pasture with the ewes. Master Tom’s higher up. Last time I set eyes on him, he was rescuing an old tup that keeps wandering away from the flock and was caught in some brambles.’
    ‘Ay, I know the one. A stubborn, wilful old bugger. But Tom’ll be a match for him. No, it’s Gil I want.’ Anthony Pennard turned to me. ‘We’ll talk later when you come back for your horse. You can tell me then if this lad’s been of any use to you.’
    He clambered up the slope again with more haste than dignity, skirted the copse and