The Two Confessions

by John Whitbourn

  Bideford Road.

  Welcombe.

  Devonshire.

  Wessex.

  England.

  Samuel folded the letter and sealed it. As ever, it galled him to appeal to them for permission for anything, but since the whole earth was the Lord's His sole representatives held all the paperwork. They were easy-going landlords for sure, and ready enough to permit improvements or overlook ground-rents in hard times, but it did permit them stick their nose in Trevan business once again. He'd also seen their more intransigent, obstructive, side in such matters, when seeking leave to expand his London workshops outside the city wall. The humiliating rebuff then had been swift and thundering - as all the worldly-wisemen had predicted. For some reason the Church wasn't keen on big cities and liked to preserve green fields right up to their walls. If that meant cramming people in, building upwards and throttling business, then so be it was their attitude. The more go-ahead (quietly) cursed about it, but there was no point arguing.

  Samuel was optimistic this time round. On the surface - and he chuckled wryly at the pun there - there was no harm proposed; no inconvenience to anyone; only the chance of some good. Every unlikely field wrenched from Nature's more disobliging moods made winter famine less likely - or shorter and less severe. The Church had even been known to sponsor some of the more up-hill projects with grants of cash or seed or oxen: witness the implausible bounty wrenched from the edges of Dartmoor. Samuel laughed again. Now, that would be funny, should his proxy-proposal touch Mother Church's heart and cause her to lob funding his way. He'd have to keep out of the way when the help arrived for fear of wetting himself laughing.

  Come to that, he had to keep out of the way full stop. Hence the need for involving his beloved cousin. He'd been easily drawn in, on the promise of half any profits for the mere loan of his name. There was nothing on paper though, so when the time came just let him try to collect....

  That was another amusing vision - the evening was turning unexpectedly cheerful. Drinkers in the Forge had never seen Samuel smirk so much, and rightly jumped to conclusions in seeing no good in it.

  Strictly speaking there was no need for subterfuge. So long as he did not employ or produce, the terms of Samuel's 'exclusion' left him free to use his pension as he wished. A spot of land speculation, particularly with the reclamation element, would probably be smiled upon: a sign of useful occupation. All the same, it was wise to err towards caution. This wasn't just any old bit of land, nor was he just any old person. The Church might harbour special memories about either. Thereagain, its centuries long concealment of what had been might have draped even her own land registry in ignorance. That was devoutly to be hoped. If she had been too clever for her own good, it would make drawing her (gold) teeth extra sweet.

  But there was no point speculating about it, he just had to wait.

  Samuel went to see if 'Dead-yet's tankard needed filling.

  ************

  It was the length of the wait that should have warned him. Since the Registry was also a religious house, the monks saw swift reply to mountains of mail as part of their vows - and a valuable mortification. Yet Samuel waited and waited and heard nothing. Until:

  ‘To: Mr Samuel Melchizedek Trevan.

  C/O The Forge Inn.

  Welcombe.

  Devonshire.

  Wessex.

  England. 10th day of June, the year of our Salvation 1995.

  Dear Mr Trevan.

  Thank you for your (proxy) letter of the 25th March. Our reply is as follows:

  NO.

  Your servant in Christ.

  Philip Grimes. Senior Brother: Wessex: Stacks 17 - 23 inc.

  From: The All-England Register of Land, Titles and Rights.

  The Monastery of St George-of-the-Mark.

  Gosport.

  Hampshire.

  Wessex.

  England.'

  To illuminate that 'NO', to spend time on it with fine pens and coloured inks, and twirl its finials into fantastic shapes, that was pure insult. Gratuitous mockery. Likewise the passing over of his deceit without comment. They knew who’d written and they'd winged it back to him like a slap in the face.

  He tried to think of a proper response, but words weren't really adequate. Then, for once, inspiration struck when it was needed. He would derive value from their reply.

  Cruelly torturing the letter in his hand, Samuel headed for the privy.

  ************

  The Librarian at Exeter was briefly informed of developments. There'd been a similar occurrence back in his predecessor-but-two's time. Another searcher had stumbled on the Polwerran text and also promptly quit the library he'd striven so hard to join. He too had been written to, and ever after ate his heart out, wondering how could they have known?

  The policy of trailing just one loose thread, one vague clue, was again vindicated. Either enquirers never found it and enquired in vain till patience gave out; or else, whether by luck or judgement, entered the baited trap. Any request for that one record was flagged up and investigated and monitored. Other departments of Church and State (the Land Registry the very least amongst them) were told. To date it had never failed.

  As a true scholar the Librarian could hardly rejoice to see curiosity thwarted, but neither did he like his books being ransacked for mere material gain. That struck him as misuse. Likewise, he'd long ago learnt that not all knowledge was wholesome, or pleasing adornment to the mind. There were many books in his custody that he wished he'd never read.

  Therefore he'd come to believe that it was partly his job - and a kindness - to conceal as well as reveal. The Librarian was sure that one day (though perhaps not till the life-to-come) this Mr Trevan would bless him for what he'd done.

  U[U[U[U[U[U[U

  cHAPTER 24

  It was the quiet that told him something was wrong. Nowadays Samuel lay in bed till all hours of the morning, the least of the bad habits drifted into during almost two years of indolence.

  Great events had come and gone; the 'Commotion Times' attending the death of Charles IV, the 'Agrarian Crusade' that struck down England's rising industrialist, land-enclosing, classes: they all passed Trevan by. Still marooned in obscurity at Welcombe, Samuel knew none of all the busy-ness was his business. He kept himself occupied and he kept aloof. But even books and learning eventually pall and now he mostly studied ceilings. It would be drink next without a doubt.

  On the other hand he'd acquired mastery of the local routine. There was nothing he didn't know about it - alas. So, though a gentleman of leisure himself, he expected the sounds of other people going to work. Today however, there was no labourers' chatter along the road, no cart clatter, no tokens of animals being ferried about. The absences accumulated into something noticeable; the hush which should have lulled him woke Samuel up.

  Normal noise from downstairs, a grate being cleared and plates going into the sink, confirmed the strangeness must still be outside. Samuel rolled from bed to go and have a look at it.

  'It' was there, bold as brass, waiting for a look at him. The soldier, leaning on the garden fence and enjoying the sunshine, grinned and waved at Samuel. He was playing a game: it amused him.

  Alerted, his comrades in a circle round the Forge moved in.

  The domestic sounds below were replaced by crashes and screams. In all too short a space they were replaced by the thunder of heavy boots on the stairs.

  Still in his nightshirt, not given time to meet... whatever more fittingly attired, Samuel addressed the door. Somewhere he had a seax, the handy single-blade knife Common Law permitted all Englishmen to bear, but he didn't go in search of it. The visitors - and perhaps story's end - would be upon him momentarily. Better to meet them face-to-face than arse-up scrabbling about through your possessions.

  They did knock - and then stood back: which said a lot about the company they kept. When no shot came from inside the caller returned to pressing the door, introducing a sabre into the gap to lift t
he latch. Suddenly, Samuel had lots of company.

  ‘Post!’ mocked the foremost, a grim giant whose whole face and tone was cruelty - and flicked a letter at him. Samuel was so surprised that he caught it.

  The bluecoats didn't seem inclined to mayhem, for all that it looked their stock in trade. They entered in but did no harm, content for the moment just to have him safe. One began to sort through his clothes, selecting a mismatched ensemble.

  ‘Well, read it then!’ ordered the one blocking the open door.

  Samuel had calculated the odds on resistance or escape, and come to an answer close to nil. Therefore he complied and cracked the seal. It was blue wax: the army's colour.

  Inside were copyists’ versions of his correspondence, both his letter to the Land Registry, and the reply to it. Someone else had scratched out their sarcastic 'NO'. It now read, in a careless, hasty, script:

  'Perhaps'.

  ‘R.S.V.P.,’ said the spokesman soldier. ‘Come with us.’

  ************

  The island was full of hanged men. Their bodies lay, broken necked or purple-faced, in piles. A final few were still on the gibbet when Samuel arrived and he couldn't prise his gaze from their jerky dance.

  It made no sense to drag him across the Bristol Channel just to hang him; but Samuel knew better than to expect sense from the world. He thought on it as they approached the village from the jetty, but found no great regrets or fond farewells welling up from inside. What did trouble him was something he'd heard whilst in the London Watch. Supposedly, hung men became erect or fouled themselves. That final indignity would be… regrettable.

  It was dusk when the army yacht reached Lundy. The landing beach was chock full of military craft and soldiers standing guard over the islanders' boats. Further in, there was a vast bonfire in Settlement Square, casting shadows against the lighthouse and Castle walls. A four-man gibbet, fully occupied, stood stark before it. If notions of escape still lingered now was the last chance to try. Samuel might heave the nearest soldier off the path, or seize a sword or gun to make a show. But then where would he go? Bolting off into the oncoming dark would only postpone matters: there was no escape from this bit of rock. Taking a few with him would be in character, but still a mere gesture. No one would know. So Samuel decided to save such indulgence till the last moment. Then there might be an officer to set violent hands on.

  Even now he wasn't exactly a prisoner - but only because he obeyed. They'd barely had a word for him all the way to Clovelly to take ship, or on the twelve or so miles over the water; but neither was he bound or frogmarched at all. Samuel soon gained the impression that these weren't ordinary bluecoats, a few years off the plough. They were taciturn and used to wilder lands and getting their own way. The rough stuff at the Forge wasn't affectation but habit. When he attempted conversation he was ignored. Samuel knew the professional military castes called his kind 'usurers' and 'Mammon-slaves', despising those whose life revolved round pounds and pence.

  He also knew a bit about Lundy, even before his cousin condemned both place and people. He'd considered it when casting round for business opportunities. The island was made of serviceable granite and, a few centuries back, King Joseph the Wizard had pockmarked it with quarries, seeking stone to rebuild London. The slabs which now embanked the Thames from Tower Gardens to Catesby Station came from here, and Samuel had thus, so to speak, walked on Lundy before.

  That, however, had been the limit of his dealings, for he'd caught all the stories. Everyone agreed about the natives; that they were inbred and clannish, being sprung from one lineage - and that a bad one. Kings of England might be up to trading with Lundy-men but Samuel Trevan didn't own such resources. It was too risky to strike deals with those who were businessmen and pirates by turn just as it suited them. He'd left Lundy well alone and now desired more than ever to continue that policy.

  Someone had had dealings with them though: they'd dealt with them and dealt with them. That much became clear as he was marched across Settlement Square. The Castle had been rough-handled and some outlying farmsteads were alight. Samuel saw no shortage of females and little ones bewailing their fate, but Lundy’s menfolk were all lifeless and longer-necked than hitherto. Samuel acknowledged he was in the presence of a uncompromising initiative.

  Its source sat in the commandeered church. Trevan’s guardians stood back, pushing him into its porch, leaving him to make his own way inside. He found a trestle-table set up beside the font, blocking progress up the nave. Samuel presented himself to the busy throng around it. Eventually he was noticed.

  ‘Another?’ asked a dapper but pocket-sized moustachioed soldier occupying the only chair; perhaps a decade older than Trevan: young to be senior. ‘You don't need to ask about each one. Hang him.’

  Samuel thus identified the seat of power here, for soldiers a foot taller and twice the bulk of the little man fairly hurtled forward to obey his order. Though he had other things to think about, Trevan noted the awe or fear inspiring them. It was a puzzle but one he'd have to set aside. Strong hands started to bear him away.

  ‘Possibly not,’ said another voice; not loud but equally commanding. The pinions round Samuel instantly fell away. He was able to turn and face his - temporary - saviour.

  He'd met the occasional Negro before. St John's-sub-Castro in Lewes boasted a 'son-of-Ham' priest for a while, and London had a fair few Africans scattered about. Nevertheless, they were still rare in Northern Christendom and country people would touch them for luck. To find one on Lundy was remarkable in itself: that he should be a sicarii was an event of blue-moon proportions.

  Samuel didn't cavil: anyone would do to rescue him.

  ‘Hello.’ The Vatican agent addressed Trevan with a smile. What nation he once came from was now impossible to tell – by design. All sicarii were from Rome, of Rome and were Rome – and nothing and nowhere else.

  Though odd to hear entirely unaccented English, it was otherwise perfect. The sound came from a face stamped with sunny cheerfulness. Samuel even felt up to responding.

  ‘Hello…,’ he said.

  ‘Are you the would-be miner?’ The Sicarii peered closely, as if scrutiny alone might tell.

  Samuel wasn't sure. But if that person wasn't to be hanged he'd be him.

  ‘That he is, sir,’ confirmed his former acquaintances at the church door.

  ‘Who?’ asked the small, seated, soldier; puzzled, but not in any irritated way. He seemed genuinely solicitous to know.

  The Sicarii leant down to whisper in the soldier's ear, and enlightenment dawned.

  ‘I remember now,’ said the little man, gladly. ‘No, we don't want to hang you: we want to help you!’

  And with that he came round the paper-strewn table and shook hands most courteously with Samuel, as if they were old friends. Trevan mustered a strong grip from somewhere. His tormentor really was tiny: not actually dwarfish but well into the lower range of Anglo-Saxon physique. Samuel wasn't aware the army took soldiers that petite: not even the militia or the Watch would've had him. It was curious.

  He didn't seem to mind Trevan looming high over his head - merely pleased to meet him.

  ‘Are you hungry - or thirsty? Have you been looked after? Let me get you refreshments. Colour Sergeant, see to it. Will chicken do? Do you like chicken? And cider? That's what the people here seem to have lived on.’

  ‘Um, fine,’ said Samuel, ‘but I'm not all that-....’

  It was too late; already a bluecoat had rushed off. The small soldier frowned.

  ‘You appear troubled: don't be. You are amongst potential friends. I have the potential to be a very good friend.’

  The Sicarii glided over. He seemed permanently teetering on the edge of amusement, though well content to just balance there.

  ‘The problem is,’ he confided quietly, ‘that our miner doesn't know who you are.’

  ‘Few people do,’ agreed the soldier, unfazed. ‘Yet. Though I warrant when he does he'll have heard of me.
’

  ‘Doubtless,’ agreed the Negro, starting up a slick but unappealing double-act: two crocodiles agreeing to share their prey. ‘And then he'll realise just how good a friend....’

  ‘Or bad a foe,’ said the soldier.

  ‘... you....’

  ‘... or we....’

  ‘... can be.’

  ‘Allow me to cut the knot and introduce myself,’ said the small man, still holding on to Samuel's reluctant hand. ‘I am General Mott.’

  Trevan's jaw did, alas, sag a fraction before he regained control.

  ‘That's right,’ the soldier added brightly, noting the involuntary reaction, ‘‘The Beast of Llanarth’!’

  From behind an impassive front he was later proud of, Samuel gingerly greeted the third most powerful man in the England.

  U[U[U[U[U[U[U

  ************

  ARCHBISHOP OF LONDON'S LIBRARY - WHITEHALL CITADEL.

  ‘ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA’ 2020 EDITION.

  'SICARII: from the Latin. Literally 'knife-man'. Originally a terrorist assassin group murderously active in 1st century Judea. See Josephus' 'The Jewish War' passim. In modern parlance applied (initially jocularly) jointly and severally - in defiance of correct Latin usage - to the elite legion maintained by his Holiness. Established 1828. Volunteered by pious parents in tender youth or liberated from heathen slavery; selected against the most stringent of criteria and raised in long years of seclusion at the famous Ravenna Monastery of St Peter-of-the-Sword, there emerges a soldier free of family ties or national feeling, zealous only in the service of the true faith. The Legion's proud boast is that they have never experienced defeat in the field. Notable battle honours include Sparta, 1858; the recapture of Constantinople, 1900; and the Iroquois-League 'Prairie War', 1980-85. Their giant battle banner is notable for being emblazoned with objectives to be removed when achieved. Athens and Constantinople are now duly unpicked; Cairo and Mecca yet remain. However, in more recent times the Sicarii have also acquired a less overtly militaristic role, in keeping with Christendom's largely peaceful condition. [See, for example, in connection with the events in England 1995-96: ENCLOSURE CRUSADE, THE]. They are now most often employed as individual emissaries and agents of political policy....'