I will write again. Till then, I am your
SAMUEL TREVAN
Samuel consulted his pocket watch. It had taken the best part of an evening to haul this letter out from the torrent of what he'd actually like to say. He didn't begrudge the time however, for there was nothing better to do.
So, now he had two communications to entrust to the postal courier tomorrow. Even though it meant a tedious trip all the way to Hartland to the nearest acceptance point, Samuel reckoned the commitment as time well spent. For all that the first had taken far less effort to compose, he had hopes, or perhaps a premonition, it might prove just as important as the outpouring to his lady-love. Tonight and tomorrow's efforts would push matters forward somewhat. Whether it be a lot or a little wasn't in his hands.
He went to take a drink from his long-cold posset night-cap, only to find a variety of bugs had left this life by drowning in it. Both insect-enriched liquid and pottery mug went out of the window.
It only remained to sign, seal and address his handiwork, and doing so brought it home to Samuel how low he'd sunk. Both letters had to go under some or other subterfuge.
One he'd need to send 'care of' St Philip Howard's Orphanage and rely on Father Omar's reluctant indulgence. To do otherwise was as good as chucking it on the fire himself.
The second could be sent direct for sure, and even the return address was the true one. But in writing to 'The Holy and Supervisory College of Mercantile Trade, Sub-school: Resources: Chapter of Minerals and Mining', at the Church's Westminster Citadel, he judged it wisest not to use his real name.
Samuel took up the inkstick again and chuckled wryly as he signed himself 'J' [for Judas] Farncombe'.
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 18
‘But your name ain't this...,’ said the Landlord.
‘Farncombe's my mother's maiden name. I use it for business purposes.’
‘No it weren't. I knew your mother, bless her.’
The look Landlord got gave birth to fears greater than his misgivings. He allowed Samuel to snatch the letter from his doubting hand.
‘Trust me,’ Samuel growled.
‘Oh don't mind I,’ the man complained, ‘I just run this place: the place where you live - for the moment.’
Trevan hadn't heard him. He was already half way back to his room. Fragments of a papal-red wax seal were left on the stairway.
He didn't even sit down to read it. There was that feeling of premonition again, of a high path foretold and destined.
'Dear Mr Farncombe', it read.
Ad Majorum Dei Gloriam
We acknowledge your enquiry of the 23rd inst. The Prior of the Minerals and Mining minor-chapter requires that I advise you of the following intelligence:
It is inconceivable that there might be, or ever has been, mineral extraction of any size or consequence in the region described. Reference to the most recent All-England survey (1978) by the Holy and Supervisory College's prospecting staff shows that the rock strata thereabouts are a barren womb as regards useful deposits.
For your further elucidation, I can add that the Earth's mantle in this area (among the first substance brought into being by the Deity) has been wonderfully conjured into extravagant forms by later convulsions attending the Creation. Such much-mutated antediluvian layers are rarely found to be of utility.
Thus, whilst this region's coast and exposed areas may attract remark and specialist study by cause of the twisted rock forms revealed, it has never featured prominently - or indeed at all - in the annals of mining endeavour.'
I trust that the above will assist (or enable you to desist) your enquiries.
I remain, sir, your brother in G*d
Samuel didn't bother with the signature or the pre-printed prayer to St Piran (patron of Miners) beneath. He had no desire to be indebted to any individual, least of all to some scholar-monk lackey of the Church. Nor had he anything to say to a saint. More importantly, his thoughts were racing ahead, unwilling to be detained by civility's pedestrian pace.
‘Gotcha!’ he exhaled, and throttled the letter in his hand.
************
They were well spaced out, and often concealed by years (centuries?) of neglect. Stunted trees, impenetrable gorse and the impoverished stumpy grass of the area blurred the rims. All the same, thirty minutes none too hard search revealed three shafts plummeting into the earth. He strongly suspected there were others further off or less easily approachable.
Samuel stood on the very edge of the last one discovered and peered within. There were even shrubs-grown-to-saplings which had lodged and survived in the crumbling shaft-walls. Desperate for life they lunged steeply for the sun, away from starvation and the blackness below.
He tested the depths with a stone. Long seconds went by before its impact tokened water. Echoes sounded far below him and lingered unpleasantly overlong.
Projected into the murk he had a sudden image of her face, of her flesh, and all her collective deliciousness. It was marvellously vivid. This he also took as a sign; that he should see her so clear in this place. The route to what he wanted started here. The way to one lay through the other.
‘Never fear,’ Samuel told the dark interior, and perhaps Melissa Farncombe also, ‘I'll get to the bottom of you.’
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 19
‘Go on, fill 'er up an' kill me orf!’
The Landlord took the old man's leathern tankard to the racked barrels behind the bar, but put an edge of protest on compliance.
‘You've a thirst on you tonight, Dead-yet, my friend. Mind you leave some pennies for food this week.’
‘You sound like my old girl, rest her soul. Sing another song, boy. I shall drink as I please. In-comer Trevan pays my tally tonight.’
‘Oh, does he now?’ That was both a relief and puzzle, for the Landlord had never noticed his guest be either sociable or generous before. However, he didn't care to look up, for fear he and Trevan should lock glances in challenge. ‘Well, that's nice. Though I notice he's too tired to come fetch it for you.’
‘I ain't dead yet! Don't you worry about me. I can still walk.’
Indeed he could - at a shuffling pace, hindered by creaking joints and the weight of years. His tankard required both shaky claws to ferry it safe back to the bar parlour.
Samuel was waiting for him: impatiently.
‘What have you been doing? Brewing it?’
‘I ain't so fleet on me pins as former. I gets where I want soon enough. I ain't dead yet.’
‘So you keep saying. Sit down and carry on.’
It was a labour for the ancient to set his drink down and lever himself back into the high-backed chair. He wasn't used to this corner, though he'd been coming to the Forge all his life. Samuel's character had altered such that it never occurred to him to help.
‘Carry on what, mister?’
Trevan closed his eyes on the scene for a second.
‘Save us but this is hard work!’
‘And so he shall save us, the Lord Jesus,’ the old man chose to misconstrue. ‘That is our sure and certain hope. The priest told I at school and I keep that by my 'eart. But I don't see where hard work comes into-....’
‘The mines, Mr Dead-yet: you were telling me about the mines.’
‘That's my nickname, child: you can't put mister in front of her. And those mines, I've told you all I know.’
‘Which isn't a lot, it transpires.’
‘If you find anyone 'oo knows more, you go buy them ale. But you won't find a soul. I've outlived all. All them who were boys with I are gorn. Long gorn.’
Something about that achievement, a sense of triumph or perspective perhaps, made the old man laugh into his beer. The head of froth bubbled accordingly.
‘Fair enough.’ Samuel liked to hear things put starkly. ‘So you're sure about the gold bit then?’
The tankard was slowly, carefully, lowered to the table.
‘So my father tol
d me; and he span no yarns. But it were from before his time. Gold mine or gold store, there were stories saying both: I don't judge 'tween 'em. All I recall is about the gold, and that a flood came - of foul waters: each said that - and drown-ded all.’
Samuel barely tolerated the pause as the old man took more refreshment, but it was worth the wait. 'Dead-yet' stopped drinking as a fresh notion occurred to him.
‘I suppose,’ he said slowly, ‘it must still be down there with 'em. I marvel the story don't get round more; that people don't go looking for it....’
Samuel's face was a mask of innocence.
‘Yes, odd, isn't it,’ he agreed. ‘Have another drink.’
************
From that night on, from some unknown source, old 'Dead-yet' seemed to have come into money. Suddenly, the adequate, though hardly ample, basic Church pension was no longer a ball and chain on his way of life.
Being a man of limited ambitions, he simply chose to indulge his thirst to the full, without hindrance, without counting the cost; to the exclusion of all else. No one was over-shocked: he'd always been inclined that way, when funds permitted.
Soon his ruddy face turned purple; he moved and said less and less. What he did say was slurred and made no sense. His decline was rapid. Within a surprisingly short while, some years ahead of time, old 'Dead-Yet' was.
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 20
‘To Whom It May Concern.
The bearer, Mr Samuel Melchizedek Trevan, is an 'excluded person', under my supervision. Whilst, obviously, I can therefore offer no assurances as to his piety or character, I am desirous that he should find a wholesome outlet for his undoubted energies. He has expressed an interest in the history of his birthplace, which I state to be the village of Welcombe in Devonshire.
So long as his researches are restricted to such innocuous matters, I would be grateful if every assistance could be extended to him - and thereby to me.
Your servant in Christ
+ Richard, Abbott of St Nectan's Abbey, Hartland, Devon, England.
‘It's a letter of recommendation,’ said Samuel, smiling down upon the librarian-brother, ‘sort of.’ He accepted the parchment scroll back. Its contents were well known to him: he was past taking offence.
‘As you say,’ the monk replied, neither face nor tone passing judgement. ‘Are you familiar with books?’
That did manage to slide painfully under Samuel's skin. Was it malicious? He couldn't tell. Monks were notoriously light on social niceties; Samuel had come across that before. Supposedly, their best attentions were focused elsewhere. Sense should have favoured giving the benefit of the doubt.
‘What do you mean by that?’ The growl was part and parcel of his reply.
‘Exactly what I said, Mr Trevan. Are you an practised scholar and researcher?’
‘Do I look like one?’
‘No.’
‘Well then.’
The monk took up Samuel's hard gaze, held it - and shoved it back at him. Trevan was impressed and warmed to the man. Apparently he hadn't sheltered all his life amongst bookshelves.
‘Well then,’ the brother returned the words also, ‘in that case, I shall be happy to guide you.’
And so he did, beckoning the visitor out of the administrative antechamber, through guarded double-doors and into the presence of more books than an abashed Samuel Trevan had ever seen before.
************
The famous painted dome helped enforce quiet, for it emphasised and repeated every sound, every footstep. People stepped gently and spoke in reverential whispers. Thus the atmosphere in Exeter Cathedral Library was every bit as church-like, and maybe even more serious minded, than the ancient house of God to which it was joined. The characters depicted in Lely's renowned 'Day of Judgement' looked down upon the scholars and gave them additional food for thought. Several times Samuel caught himself gawping round like some Scot in the Vatican. He forced himself to be more blasé, but it was difficult. Happily, there was distraction in being schooled.
‘... and each volume is indexed sequentially within the year of receipt - not publication - which can lead to some confusion for neophytes or in the case of offerings from remoter parts. I suggest consultation of the index for two adjacent years to the suspected publication date, but if perplexity persists then a duty-brother is always available to render aid. No book should ever elude you, for otherwise we have failed in our duty and vows. Some texts are proscribed or restricted and in the latter case can only be consulted under supervision. Too frequent requests for such books will merit interview with a senior brother: you have been warned. Please do not mutter as you read, trace the words with a fingertip or turn down page corners....’
Samuel couldn't dive into this beckoning sea straight away. First, he must be assessed for allocation to a suitable 'orientation acolyte'. Regrettably, Trevan's precise position in the social hierarchy not being crystal clear, they got it wrong. For a whole morning a young brother of the Library order instructed him in the ordering of books, the filling in of request chits, and use of the elephantine catalogues. The necessity for grease-free fingers, the prohibition on spitting and partaking of victuals whilst reading, the availability of limitless scrap paper, were explained in words of one syllable whilst Samuel bit his tongue. This was another indignity, cruelly imposed on him by a... thoughtless Church; that he - he - should be requested to have a handkerchief about him - and make use of it, not his sleeve or the floor, when necessary! The few others with him, prodigy churls rescued from obscurity by Mother Church, or servant types indulged by their masters, solemnly took it all in and were grateful.
But when he was finally set free, and the Master Librarian he'd first spoken to returned, Samuel's spirit soared. There was... everything here, and thus, by implication, the one thing he sought. It was somewhere nearby, up in the high galleries or the reserve stores below, waiting for him. All he had to do was hunt it down.
The monk apparently recognised that intoxication, even if he couldn't suspect its source and end. He again asked for and consulted the Abbot of Hartland's letter, and thought on for a worrying while. For that space Samuel feared another last minute disaster. It would be in keeping. He held his breath.
Finally, the Librarian stored the scroll away and, raising a thin arm, indicated one quadrant of the massive circuit.
‘Welcome to the Great Western House of Wisdom,’ he said, unafraid to speak at normal volume. ‘History and Geography are yours, Mr Trevan. So long as you do not stray from them, you will remain welcome. So long as you are welcome I shall be your guide.’
************
It was a requirement, right from the Tudors' dying days, that every publishing house, of every size, should lodge copies of their publications with the senior cathedral churches. When Elizabeth I ('Black Betty' to be) was frantically casting round for ways to endear people - anybody - to her regime, it had seemed like a good idea. Some bolstering flattery to a national, 'Protestant', Church dying on its feet from lack of conviction and bad conscience could only help. Unfortunately, a lot of the books being churned out in those fervid, anticipatory times were far from acceptable to the 'Church of England by law established'. The increasingly confident underground 'papist' presses took great glee in supplying copies of their (untraceable) efforts. In the end the usurped cathedrals were burning as many books as they accepted. It was a major distraction during the short slice of history allotted them, just sorting the literary wheat from chaff. Then, soon enough, they and all England were otherwise occupied with more serious bonfires.
Thus, it was not until the great changes were at last put behind the nation, when people could be sure what was Holy and what was not, when they'd had a civil war, and London was burnt and rebuilt, and people traded instead of raided again, that the law was re-enforced. The efforts of later, settled, times went some way to filling in the 'Reformation-Devastation' gaps, but scholars had to accept that the record would never be complete
. Historians considered this not the least shame of that... inexplicable era when even the devout queried the Almighty's stayed hand.
From then on everything English presses had to say, for good or ill, was gathered in and preserved. Other nations saw the sense in it, or at least couldn't bear to be left behind. By 1750 Scotland followed suit and Ireland soon after. After decades of stately consideration, Rome (deciding it approved) ordered an 'All Christendom’ library to be constructed. One centre in each country was obliged to surrender its stock and see it safe to the Vatican.
High King Calvach of Ireland, a fanatical bibliophile, refused to part with his pride and joy, the 'Bibliotheca Fuath-na-Gall' at Skibbereen, and was promptly deposed (and cut in two) by his pious people, even before the Papal interdict arrived. A new ruler, with more realistic priorities (and Ireland's first ever Over-Queen), was in place ready to greet and placate the Roman Legate when his warship sailed into Dublin harbour.
Otherwise all went swimmingly, and the titanic 'Campion Library' (named, in pointed recognition of its inspirer, after one of Elizabeth's victims) took shape in the north-east corner of Rome, replacing all twenty-seven acres of the still spectacular ruins of Emperor Diocletian's Public Baths. Amongst the fair minded of either civilisation it vied with the Damascus-Caliph's 'Allah's Garden’ library as recognised successor to Antiquity’s Royal Library of Alexandria.
Exeter, a prosperous though hardly first rank city, situated in a region where Englishness started to... thin, couldn't aspire to such heights, but it did its best. Samuel Trevan was quietly confident that it was up to serving him.
The Two Confessions Page 11