As far as I knew, the stones had been put there by the faery folk - except, that is, for the ones that were the work of the Devil himself. Adric, however, had another idea. He believed that the moor had been settled by the Trojans who, led by Aeneas, had escaped from their burning city as the Greeks put it to the sword. One of the Trojans, Brutus, had founded the city of Totnes - that was a well-known fact. But Adric theorised that, after Brutus had defeated Gogmagog (one of the terrible giants who, as any schoolboy knows, once guarded Britain), the grateful people had given him the moors upon which to build a new Troy. I think that Adric wanted to prove this theory so that he could rewrite the history of our islands. He would be a new Geoffrey of Monmouth, and put Devon in its rightful place at the centre of the world, which he, I and everyone else I knew believed to be the case anyway.
This picking through the past reminds me of two apes I once saw, sitting on a prince's throne and sifting through each other's fur in search of tasty fleas. When one beast found a particularly toothsome morsel he would pop it between his jaws and chew ecstatically, and then give his fellow ape a little pat, as if to thank him for harbouring such a flavoursome insect. The prince and his courtiers watched this spectacle in fits of laughter, pointing and cheering whenever the little ritual of thanks was played out. The world regards historians thus, I have found: the spectacle of the poor, half-blind bookworms seeking out tasty nuggets of fact is far more amusing than the finds themselves. I am neither ape nor scholar, but mine is a long story and there is a single flea that I would bid you chew upon before I continue.
It was the spring of my last year at school. I was in the library, trying to concentrate on a gloss of Augustine, when Adric hurried in, looking excited.
'Petroc, I would like your company, if you please,' he said.
I need no persuasion to leave my studies, and followed him to the stables, where one of the grooms was holding two saddled ponies.
Where are we going, brother?' I asked.
'Vennor,' he said. Then, seeing my concern: 'Mount. I shall explain as we ride.'
Vennor is a mean little hamlet about five miles to the northwest of Buckfast. I had been there once with my father to look at some breeding stock, and could not imagine what the present excitement could be about. Nevertheless I obeyed, and we set off at a lively trot.
The sunken lanes of Devon make for pleasant riding. Their high, tree-lined banks are shady, and in places the way has been worn down so much that one could almost be passing through green tunnels. Adric and I rode side by side. I had accompanied him on his investigations before, but this was obviously something special, and he was not able to contain himself for long.
'A pack-train passed through early this morning,' he began, 'and the drover had a message for me. A peasant called Beda has cleared a patch of waste-ground and when he ploughed it yesterday, he turned up an ancient grave.' He glanced at me, knowing very well that I was almost as passionate about the long-gone moor-dwellers as was he.
'I was not able to gather much from the drover, but evidently this Beda assumes whatever he has found to be the work of Satan, refuses to go near it, and has summoned me to prevent or remove the inevitable curse he has stumbled upon.' Adric chuckled happily.
What do you think we will find?' I asked.
Whatever it is, it will not be the work of the faery folk—' and here Adric shot me a look'—or the Devil. But perhaps we might find something of the people of Troy. Maybe Brutus himself?' The laugh that followed told me that my companion fervently wished that this could indeed be so, despite his self-mockery.
And so we rode, through the fly-buzzing lanes, until the land started to rise. The lane became a track through a wind-sculpted oak copse, then we splashed through the Vennor Brook and into Vennor itself. The hamlet was a group of five houses - little more, in truth, than cob huts - around which fowl, dogs and a couple of mat-haired, snot-faced children chased one another joylessly. It was, like many another moorland village, a hard place where the people worked so savagely to extract a pittance of livelihood from the land that they became almost savage themselves. We dismounted, Adric rather monkishly choosing a dung-free spot to plant his sandals, and called out to the children, who wandered over to us looking sullen and frightened. Adric asked for Beda, and after a little coaxing one child, possibly a little girl, was induced to point directions.
We found the peasant on the edge of a newly turned patch of ground. The field - more of a clearing in the surrounding jumble of bracken and boulders - was three-quarters ploughed, and the farthest ridge came to an abrupt end a good fifteen paces shorter than its fellows. The plough was still there, a marker to whatever it was the ploughman had found. After a brisk conversation with Beda, who looked scared out of his wits by the librarian's ghoulish visage, Adric beckoned me, and we picked our way over the broken earth.
The plough had struck the edge of a stone chest which was made up of separate granite slabs, crudely worked so as to fit together. The lid, a bigger slab, was askew.
'Aha,' Adric muttered. 'The man must have taken a look inside - not so frightened, then.'
I saw my friend could hardly contain himself. 'Give me a hand with this, Petroc,' he said, already tugging at the lid. I bent down beside him and together we heaved the flat rock up and dropped it to one side. At first we saw nothing but loose earth. Adric reached in and grabbed a handful: it was very fine, almost like dust. I joined him, and together we ladled the dust out with cupped hands. I was the first to find something: a round bead, as big as a sheep's eyeball and covered in a sort of hard ash. Adric grabbed it from me with a most unmonkish haste.
"What have we here? Eh, my lad?' The monk spat on the bead and polished it on the rough wool of his robe. The ash came away and amber glowed dully at us.
After that we fell upon the stone chest, digging inside it in a frenzy. I dread to imagine what poor Beda made of the sight of two monks kneeling over the work of Satan he had found, gibbering to each other and hurling fistfuls of earth around and about us. Soon our scrabbling fingers found other prizes. I felt something rough, hard and rounded, and dug out a small clay pot, about the size of a beer mug. It was a sandy colour, and when I brushed off the dirt that clung to it, I saw it was covered in patterns, bands made up of myriad tiny impressions in the clay. I turned it upside down and shook, and amongst the dust that fell out I saw more beads. I heard Adric suck his breath in sharply. He tugged, and suddenly he was holding up a skull, two fingers crooked into the eye-sockets. There was a muffled shriek from where the peasant stood, and I turned to see him on his knees, crossing himself like a man trying to beat out a flaming smock.
Adric thrust the skull at me. In his urgency he misjudged his aim and the bony lump hit me on the nose, hard enough to numb it and for the taste of blood to come into my throat. I smelt damp soil and crushed lobworms. The librarian was prattling at me as I rubbed my bruised snout.
Ancient, Petroc, ancient! Mark me, we have found our Trojan. Stop picking your nose and help me dig, for God's sake.'
Our frenzy continued until the stone chest was empty. On the flattened earth in front of us lay a heap of bones, stained almost chestnut by their peaty grave, a handful of beads, three axe-heads made of polished stone, and a few other lumps of dirt that might or might not be treasure in disguise. Adric's face was flushed with joy - for a few moments his true character displaced the gargoyle mask he was fated to wear.
'Look at these axes, my son,' he gushed. 'See how dark and smooth the stone is, and flecked with red. This is not Devon stone, nor Cornish or Dorset either.'
The stone was indeed beautiful, but I suddenly felt uncomfortable as I realised what it looked like: the liver of a freshly slaughtered hog. I dropped the axe I was holding, and started to polish an amber bead instead. Adric did not notice my discomfort. He was rubbing the dirt from one of the encrusted lumps, jabbering away to me, or to himself, about Brutus, Aeneas and a score of the other wondrous facts on which his mind so often dwelt. A tiny arrowhead emerged between his fingers, tanged and with a wicked-looking point. It was of chipped flint, and very beautiful. I was about to tell the librarian that at last I recognised something, that this was a faery arrow, and that my father had found several on the moor and brought them home for us to wonder at, when I realised that he had fallen silent, and was staring over my shoulder. I turned as well.
The peasant Beda had been joined by a gaggle of other wretched-looking men. I counted eight in all, and they were all carrying scythes, pitchforks or billhooks. One man was hefting a long and gnarled club of bog-oak. They were staring at us and our finds and I fancied that I could actually feel the terror and hatred they held for us. Fear rose in my chest like a bubble rising from a marsh, and I coughed, a pathetic little sound that nonetheless broke Adric's trance. He blinked at me, and I saw that the gargoyle had returned. He hissed at me under his breath.
'Petroc, my son, do you mark them?' I nodded, and he went on: 'They see devils doing the Devil's work, there is no doubt.' He bit his lip. 'Follow me, and by Christ, say nothing.'
He gathered up the front of his robe and began shovelling the grave-goods into the pouch thus formed. He motioned me to do the same. When everything, bones and all, were gathered in bundles, we stood. The thought came to me that we must look ridiculous, not frightening, like goodwives out mushrooming, but one look at the gaunt librarian, with his death's-head visage perched atop a great cloth belly full of bones, put that idea to flight. He began to lope towards the peasants, and I could but follow. All at once I realised that, in all likelihood, I was about to be rendered as dead as our jumbled Trojan.
But Adric did not falter as he marched up to the little mob and came to a halt in front of Beda. There was a moment of silence. The peasants' faces were like the faces of the damned in the painted hell above the altar of our church, I noticed absently. Then the monk spoke.
'Beda of Vennor, and you good men: you are witness to a miracle today,' he said, and his voice fairly rang out across the field. "Your plough was guided by Divine Grace, for it has discovered the tomb of a Holy Martyr, one whom I have sought for years, and who will rain down innumerable blessings upon this fortunate place.' Beda gasped, and the group all took a step back as Adric reached into the bundle at his waist and drew out the skull. He held it up to the men and with it made the sign of the cross, as if he were blessing a congregation. I saw the man with the club drop his weapon, and then a scythe and two billhooks wavered and were slowly laid down.
'These are the bones of the martyr ^Flfsige of Frome, who brought the Scriptures to the ungodly Briton before the time of great King Alfred. On your knees, lucky men!' he boomed, then turned his head for a moment: You too, Petroc,' he murmured.
I fell to the soft, ploughed earth, and my loot clattered as I did so. To my amazement, Beda and his companions were on the ground as well, genuflecting and praying. Some wept. Adric's sermon rolled on above us.
'The very air is tinctured with the scent of holiness - these bones might be a meadow of sweet flowers! Smell, and know that you are blessed.' I recalled the aroma of blood and worms, and shuddered, but the club-carrier and one of the billhookers were snuffling like otterhounds, rapture lighting up their pinched features. But now Adric was drawing matters to a close.
'I will take these relics with me and place them before the Abbot. We will go to the Bishop himself, and you will have a church for Vennor, my sons.'
With this he grabbed my cowl and hauled me to my feet. I followed him at that pace which is a walk trying not to be a run, and together we hurried back to where our ponies were tethered. Adric did not pause and, thrusting the hem of his robe between his teeth, fairly leaped into the saddle. I followed suit, trying not to spill my own cargo of bones and beads. Looking round, I saw that the peasants had followed us at a distance and were gazing at us like rabbits tranced by a weasel. As Adric kicked his mount into life, and as we took off down the path and splashed through the ford, I heard the men cry out behind us: 'God keep you, Father!'
We were soon out of sight and earshot of the hamlet, and Adric reined his pony to a halt. His face was filmed with sweat, and was as white as his robe, but he was smiling a wide, skulllike grin, and his eyes sparkled. He pulled the cloth from his mouth.
'God forgive me,' he said, with no trace of repentance. 'In one day I have discovered a Trojan warrior and created a martyr. Hold up, Petroc, and help me squirrel our treasure away.'
We busied ourselves with the saddlebags, taking care not to break the beautiful pot, then dusted the russet soil from our habits as best we could. I could not contain myself any longer.
'Brother Adric,' I quavered, 'who was Saint Elfseed?'
'Elfsige,' he corrected me cheerfully. 'I have no idea. Now he's the pride of Vennor, of course, but a new church will do their muddy souls no harm.'
'Do you mean that we invented a saint, just to save our hides?' I suddenly felt the hot breath of damnation.
'Perhaps, Elfsige indeed saved our hides,' said the librarian. 'Do not be concerned, my son. The Abbot will understand. And besides, you saw those men. They truly felt the miraculous, and that can only be God's work. That, I do believe' -and he fixed me with those shining eyes - 'and so must you.'
'But . . .' I began. Adric waved the skull in my direction to silence me, and the empty sockets dried the words on my tongue.
'People of that sort believe many things that I, the Bishop, the Pope himself know to be rank paganism,' he said. 'Devils, imps, sprites and the old gods are as real to them as the lice that bite their flesh. If it will comfort you, look upon our work today as a mission to the Infidel. Do not worry, Petroc. It was a little harmless trickery that may bring forth much good.'