The Alchemist's Daughter by Eileen Kernaghan Read Free Book Online Page A

make this journey, my lass, she told herself sternly; now you must needs put on a cheerful face, and make the best of it.

    At Wells they parted company with the waggoner, and followed a sheep-track that led across the green pasturelands to Glastonbury.
    â€œThere is the Tor,” said Kit, pointing to a strange, steepsided hill that rose like a beacon from the misty fields and osier beds. And Sidonie quickened her pace, her weariness for the moment forgotten. She had seen in vision that mysterious, beckoning shape.
    Towards evening they came to the desolate ruins of the Abbey. Standing knee deep in long rank grass, Sidonie gazed silently at the crumbling ivy-covered walls and shattered piers. There was a sick, hollow feeling in her belly. The holiest place in England , she thought. What wickedness can men achieve, and swear it is God’s work.
    Kit said, “Is this the place?”
    She nodded. “Just as I saw it in the crystal. But Kit, it much troubles me, to see with my own eyes what destruction has been wrought.”
    â€œHad you but seen it in its glory,” said a quiet voice. Sidonie spun round.
    He had crept up soft-shod behind them — a tall old man in a battered felt hat and shabby cloak. He must have been three score and ten at least, though still robust and upright. His face, framed by a tangled thicket of white hair, was windburnt and deeply lined.
    â€œIf you could have seen the Abbey as it once was — the sanctuary all a-glitter with gold and brass, the hangings of brocade and embroidered silk. The light through the windows casting all the colours of the rainbow over the high altars, the pillars of the nave lifting their arches up to heaven. All the lords and knights and ladies, the solemn procession of monks, the organ that played so sweetly you would swear you could hear flutes and cornets in it, and a river of plainsong winding its way to heaven.”
    His voice rose and fell in a sombre and familiar rhythm. It is a litany he is chanting , Sidonie thought. A requiem for something precious that is lost forever.
    â€œAll gone now, despoiled,” the old man went on, as though reading her thought. “The lead stripped from the roofs, the carvings burned to melt it down. They took the gold from the altar, smashed the stained glass, carted away the very stones of the walls for road building. And then they set up a dye-house in the ruins, and moved in a company of Flemish weavers.”
    â€œAnd you watched all this happen?” Kit sounded a little dubious.
    â€œAye, lad, this was my home they pillaged and destroyed, for I was an orphan and the fathers took me in as a lad of ten. I had a fine clear voice for the singing, then, and at matins and vespers I sang God’s praises with the other boys. Like a choir of angels, we were. And this place was in my blood and bone — I stayed, and gave myself into the service of the Lord. and took joy in the humblest task in the service of the Abbey, which was the service of God.”
    â€œYou were a Brother,” said Sidonie.
    â€œAye, that I was. Until King Henry dispossessed us, and sent Thomas Cromwell and his minions to drive us out, and hanged our good Abbot Whiting from the top of the Tor, and fastened his head to the Abbey gate.”
    â€œWhat then became of the monks?”
    â€œPensioned off for five pounds a year from the royal coffers. Some I dare say found livings as parish clergy. I made my own choice, for I would not take their money, nor would I renounce my faith to serve the New Religion. Nor did I wish to leave the only home I ever knew.”
    â€œYou stayed here? All these years?” asked Sidonie.
    â€œAye, I have a cottage nearby, with a kitchen garden. I do a little clerking for the village. Better here, than in a ditch or a hedgerow, with the wild rogues and the vagabonds and other masterless men.”
    He stood gazing up at the gaunt ruin of the Abbey. A small wind had sprung up, with a