Jerome. An old-fashioned name. “Abbot Jerome. And you’re abbot of…Ynys Witrin?”
I’d heard that name before. I hadn’t grown up with an Arthurian-obsessed father without knowing that in the past Glastonbury was known as Ynys Witrin– the Isle of Glass.
He smiled at me, and for the first time I felt a little reassured. “You seem surprised. Do you not know where you are?”
I stammered. “I thought I was at Glastonbury,” was all I could manage, which didn’t quite do justice to how I was feeling.
“Tis an ’eathen name she speaks,” Geraint said. “She be a barbarian spy, sent by the Yeller ’airs. Thinkin’ that a woman might go unremarked.”
Abbot Jerome shook his head with a frown. “I know not the name Glastonbury. Have you journeyed far?”
I shook my head, too. Whether I was intending to answerno, or just to clear my brain, I had no idea.
“Perhaps you can tell me why you are here and where you have come from?” His eyes narrowed. “You seem to have aroused the suspicions of these good people.”
“An’ well she might,” said Geraint, “appearin’ on the Tor with no reason for ’ow she did get there. You know well that the ways into this island be a close guarded secret. None save those initiated do know the pathways through the marshes. Only the boats from the Lake Village come to our wharf. How’d she get ’ere’s what I want to know. And who was it what showed ’er the way?”
“I’m lost,” I said, feeling as though my answer was on the inadequate side. “I went up the Tor on one day and came down it on quite another.” I didn’t think it would be a good idea to tell any of them I suspected I’d parachuted in from the future. If this really was the past, then it was hundreds of years before I was born, and if we didn’t think time travel possible in the twenty-first century, then who knew what they’d think of it in what appeared to be the Dark Ages. Witchcraft, probably– since it couldn’t be science.
Abbot Jerome bowed his head. “Geraint, you have good reason to think this woman, Gwen, should not be here. She bears a bracelet clearly marked with the sign of the kings of Dumnonia, and offers no reasonable explanation as to how she has come by it.”
Dumnonia? I knew that name. I opened my mouth to speak.
Jerome went on. “You did well to bring her to me. It may be it was thought the bracelet would vouchsafe her passage and ease her spying. But I fear we must turn to a greater authority. If she is indeed a spy, then we must deliver her to the Prince. And to do that we must first take her to Din Cadan. They will know what to do with her there. Your name will be mentioned when the story is told. The Prince himself will know you as a faithful subject.”
Geraint looked pleased. “D’ye want us to ’elp escort ’er to Din Cadan, Father Abbot?”
Abbot Jerome shook his head. “I have laymen here for that. You may return to your village and reassure them we have the matter in hand. Pass the rope to Brother Caius.”
One of the monks held out a pudgy hand. He was a small, rotund man of middle-age with several wobbling chins. Unwillingly, Geraint handed him the rope, and Brother Caius wound it in until we were standing only a few feet apart. He didn’t seem as scared of me as Geraint had been.
Abbot Jerome nodded. “She is safe in our custody. You may take your men back to your village.” His eyes rested on me. “There’s no way off the island for her unless one of us shows her the way.”
With marked reluctance and discontented mutterings, Geraint and his men took their leave. Only the little boy who’d first found me remained. I was glad to see them go. Surely I’d be safer with a bunch of monks than a quartet of ignorant villagers?
Abbot Jerome fixed the boy with a firm gaze. “And you, Con, must return to your sheep. I can see from here that they’re scattered all over the Tor. Off with you.” With a rueful backward glance, the little boy scuttled off through the gates.
Jerome raised his right hand, and another monk stepped forward. He was small and wiry with a ring of red hair above a thin ratty face.
“Brother Mark,” Jerome said, “we must escort our prisoner to Din Cadan. Promptly, for the day wears on. Find four of our laymen and tell them to fetch horses. One for the prisoner as well.”
This was all very well, but I wanted to get home. I didn’t want to go to Din Cadan, wherever that was, under armed escort. “I need to go back,” I said, without much hope. “I need to go back where I came from. I’m not from here.”
Jerome turned back to me. “I can tell from your speech that you are nobly born, and yet you present a puzzle. This is a small island. All those who live here are known to me. There is just Geraint’s village and our abbey. The ways in are hidden and secret. We have no need of fortifications because the marshes are our walls. Yet you are here. And you offer us no explanation as to how this has come to pass. And your clothes,” he gestured at my jeans and muddy jacket, “are not like ours. There is some mystery to you which is not for me to judge. Hence, I must send you to one who can. You will go to Din Cadan with my laymen. And there you will be judged.” He turned away.
I was dismissed.
Chapter Three
The other monksdispersed, and Brother Caius kept a beady eye on me until Brother Mark returned with four burly young men. They brought five sturdy ponies, which they tethered in front of one of the thatched buildings and began brushing.
I didn’t much like the look of the men. Feeling desperate, I scanned the dark thatch of the roofs that overhung the cobbles, the silent church, and the gates standing open onto the outside world.
Could I really be in the Dark Ages? The shape of the hill that loomed over the landscape, the thatched, wattle and daub abbey crouching in its shadow and the extreme authenticity of the village all indicated that possibility. But common sense told me I had to be wrong. For one thing, I realized for the first time, if I really was fifteen hundred years back in time, I wouldn’t be able to understand what anyone said to me. They’d all have been speaking some kind of archaic Welsh or maybe even Latin. So no, I couldn’t be in the Dark Ages, whatever the evidence I’d seen. The only possible conclusion was that there was some kind of trickery at work.
But why? What reason could anyone have for wanting me to think I’d travelled back in time?
I pounded my forehead with my bound fists as though I could beat an answer out of my brain. It didn’t work. I just came up with another ridiculous scenario born of watching too many sci-fi programs. Perhaps I’d somehow found myself in an alternate reality, where nothing had progressed since the Dark Ages, but where everyone spoke English. Desperation at my situation was making me silly.