by Mary Burns
25 March 1539
Glastonbury Abbey
New Year’s Day
The monks of the Abbey were gathering for the weekly Confessium and Absolutium—an event that Arthur had learned to dread. The privations the brothers had been forced to submit to by the increasing demands of the King for tribute had soured their charity and inflamed the innate human penchant for gossip and back-biting. Foremost in their minds, he well knew, was the ever poorer quality of their food and drink, but also their liberty to study, to make music or work in the scriptorium—privations much more serious to some, including Arthur, who cherished the time he spent in the Abbey library. And since the Bishop’s visitation last year—a forum which had been open to all inside the Abbey, and surprisingly, even people from the town—divisions had formed, seniors against juniors, laborers against scholars, until all sides were only too eager to report infractions and misdemeanours as if they were crimes of treason.
Arthur knew that the Abbot had hoped to give a respite to his monks today, near the end of a long and chilling Lent, in the form of extra food and better wine—the Abbot’s own private cellars had been opened for this first day of the new year. Perhaps, Arthur thought, it would warm their hearts as well as their bodies. It was also the Feast of the Annunciation, when the Angel Gabriel appeared to the Most Blessed Virgin Mary—the Mass said in her honor this morning had, it seemed to him, restored somewhat of cheer to the brethren, but it would not be a lasting one, of that he felt sure.
Arthur knelt quietly at a little distance from the Abbot, who was deep in prayer before the crucifix in his chamber. He could feel the old priest’s despondence like a heavy cloud in the room, and his young heart longed to demolish the evil-doers who hounded so holy and fragile a man. He seemed so completely alone.
Among all the holy company, from the pittancer to the almoner, the infirmarian to the prior, down to the cook and the cellarer, there seemed only two into whose ears the Abbot appeared to feel confident to pour out even a small part of his woes and worries, and whose hearts he trusted—two monks, John Thorne and Roger James. They were awaiting him now, in the vestibule outside the Spartan chamber, ready to escort him to the gathering.
The Abbot rose from his prie-dieu, the scarlet velvet worn by many hours of kneeling, and straightened his shoulders. Arthur stood also, his hands folded inside the sleeves of his cloak, and kept his attention on the Abbot’s face. The old man’s eyes closed briefly, as if attempting to ease away the furrows on his brow, the better to show a face of comfort and serenity to his spiritual children. Arthur thought of the Abbot’s oft-repeated saying, Thy will be done.
At a nod from the Abbot, Arthur opened the door and stood back to let the two monks enter.
“Lord Abbot.” The black-robed monks bowed their respect, then raised their eyes to those of their father in faith, their leader and friend. John Thorne spoke.
“The brethren are all gathered in the chapter house, my lord,” he said, and stepped aside for the Abbot to take the lead.
“A moment,” said the Abbot, raising his hand. He looked around him, as if to assure himself there were no others near enough to hear, and the three men bent heads toward each other. Arthur respectfully stood several paces back, but surveyed the trio as they spoke to each other: the Abbot, elderly but straight-framed, his white hair mere wisps around his tonsure as the trials of the last four years had borne in upon him; John Thorne, a tall, hale man in his fifties, and a gardener in chief on the grounds, though with an aesthetic, narrow face and sharp black eyes that seemed to absorb the light; and Roger James, a young, slightly built man ordained but three years before, silent and composed, but with a look of iron about him that would not bend to the wrong wind. Both men were also assigned as treasurers in the accountancy of the Abbey.
Arthur started slightly as the Abbot motioned him forward to join the little group.
“We have word of the desolation wrought upon our brothers at Bath and Keynsham,” the Abbot said, his voice scarce a whisper. “One of our brother Benedictines, at Hinton Charterhouse, is imprisoned, and it is not long, I fear, that the Visitation shall be made upon us here in Glaston.” He swallowed hard. “We are the last house left in the whole of Somerset. The abbeys are despoiled, the brethren scattered, the sacred vessels carried off, the books….” It was clear that he felt it too much to even say the words.
But they all knew, from what they had heard and seen themselves—the king’s men, joined by greedy and disaffected townspeople, carrying off precious manuscripts and prayerbooks to use for fuel and fire, for bedding, or to stuff the cracks of wattle walls against the cold spring rains. Gold and silver, jewels and plate, of course, all went to the king—or not nearly all, for some did find its way into the pockets of his henchmen. Monks from the smaller desecrated monasteries had been arriving in ever-increasing numbers at Glastonbury since before Christmas. But now the largest houses, hitherto merely regulated and harassed, were falling prey to the avarice and arrogance of the king—and Thomas Cromwell.
This news did not shock the monks, but Arthur could see their bodies tighten with defiance and a chilling resoluteness. He stood straighter, fiercely at attention.
“What would you have us do, my lord?” John Thorne mouthed the words more than spoke them.
“I have made a sketch of the grounds and our buildings,” the Abbot said, pulling a scrap of parchment from a pocket in his robe. He pointed a finger here and there on the crude map. “Places where things may be stored, hidden—but we must do this quickly, and under cover of night or other labor in the yards, the cemeteries, the gardens—no one must know.”
The two monks nodded grimly, knowing full well what discovery would mean.
“We will do it, my lord,” they said with one voice.
“Come back to me after Compline tonight, and we will begin,” the Abbot said. The paper disappeared into his robe again. Straightening from their huddle, the three Benedictines and the novice monk turned silently and walked out into the late afternoon sunlight, which glimmered on the rain-washed gardens. Arthur marvelled at the contrast between his roiled, anxious thoughts and the peaceful garden, which looked as if nothing untoward could ever happen there, in Glastonbury, which was also Avalon, the Isle of Glass.
The assembled monks fell silent as the Abbot entered the hall, although none, of course, had been talking loudly. Flanked by Roger James and John Thorne, Abbot Whiting made his slow way to the front of the room, where a chair on a low platform had been set for his comfort. Arthur positioned himself behind the Abbot, off the platform, but within easy reach should he be needed. Arthur noticed immediately that the Prior was absent, and wondered at it. Prior Johannes, like the Abbot, was old—ancient to Arthur’s young eyes—but he didn’t have Abbot Whiting’s character—he had often been cowed in the face of discord, and let the Abbot take the brunt. Many of the brothers were restive—Arthur could see darkness and discontent in their shifting, tense forms beneath the black robes, and in the very stillness of their faces.
“Dominus vobiscum,” the Abbot intoned.
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” the assembly answered.
“Oremus—Let us pray.”
Arthur bent his head, following the prayers with half his mind as the other half sped over what he had heard the Abbot and the two brothers discussing. He hoped he would be asked to help them, but thought too little of his position and worthiness to entertain the hope for long. If the Lord wanted his help, he thought, He would let him know.
“Brethren,” said the Abbot, after a moment of silence followed the prayers. “We place ourselves in the hands of the Lord our Savior, and ask the Holy Paraclete to enlighten us with His Grace, so that we may speak in charity and truth at this assembly.”
Arthur noticed a subtle change at these words among the brothers and priests, as some, he imagined, were reminded of their vocations and humbled from their self-righteousness. Others, however, looked only too eager to speak their indignation. A h
eavy-set monk in a soiled and rumpled robe was the first. He stood and addressed the Abbot.
“In all charity, I proclaim that Brother Matthias has been taking food from the kitchen at night and hiding it in his cell.”
“Brother Matthias,” the Abbot said, looking around the room. A short, scrawny monk shuffled his feet and stood. Arthur recognized him; he wasn’t much older than himself, and had always a beaten-down look about him. Arthur felt sorry for him.
“Is this true, Brother Matthias?” the Abbot asked, mildly. When the monk mumbled some reply, he asked him to speak up.
“It was just once, my lord Abbot,” the young man said, his face a dull red. “I felt so faint, after all the fasting….” His voice disappeared, and he looked at his feet.
“We are all tempted,” said the Abbot, “and being merely men, we often fail. Te absolvo. Pray an extra hour on your knees this evening in the chapel.”
The man sat down, relieved, but Arthur noted that his accuser looked far from satisfied.
A second monk rose, one Arthur didn’t know, which seemed odd to him, but then, he’d been closeted with the Abbot for some weeks now; this could be a monk from another Benedictine monastery, newly arrived.
“Ah, Brother Anselm,” the Abbot said. “You are welcome back to Glastonbury, after your long sojourn at Cambridge. I hope you found your studies fruitful.”
“I did, my lord, thank you and the good Lord,” said Brother Anselm. He looked a fastidious person, Arthur thought, his hair cut severely short, his priest’s collar gleaming white, his robe cut to fit his lean frame gracefully. He wore a large signet ring on his long fingers, a ring which, even at a distance, flashed a ruby fire heart in a surround of gold.
“Since I have returned,” Brother Anselm said, his voice a trifle querulous, “I have on more than one occasion seen a brother or a priest creeping along the cloister walk at night, and making unsanctioned visits to brothers in other cells—staying some length of time, I might add—and leaving with furtive looks and disheveled robes.”
A collective gasp struck the air in the hall at this statement, and no man looked at another, but all at the Abbot.
“This is a serious charge,” said the Abbot. “Are you prepared to accuse any individual at this time?”
Brother Anselm lifted his chin, and looked around the room, as if thinking it over.
“Regretfully, I saw only forms in the shadows,” he said at last, looking as if he indeed regretted not being able to accuse anyone. “But I say it as a warning, so those indulging in such unclean and unholy bestialities will repent and cast away this sin from their souls and their bodies.” Before he had time to sit down, or the Abbot to respond, another monk called out, but did not rise to identify himself.
“This is the very kind of wickedness and impiety that the King is trying to stamp out in our country, these dens of iniquity and sin! Reform is needed, and the sooner the better, I say.” His voice was loud, and seemed to Arthur to be coming from the rear of the room; everyone craned their necks, looking to see who had spoken, but no one stood up. Another voice, and another, from other quarters of the hall, were heard, echoing the same sentiments.
“Glastonbury is no exception!”
“There is evil here, and we should submit to the King!”
“The Abbot should step down, and let the King reform us!”
The rising unrest and suspicion in the hall were palpable, and Arthur tensed, at the ready to protect the Abbot with his own body if need be. Then a tall, thin monk with a slight cast to one eye rose, looked severely around the room until all were quiet, and spoke into the dense silence.
“Father Abbot,” he said, his voice calm and soothing, “we monks of Glaston have heard and aye, seen for ourselves, the changes in the name of Reform that are sweeping across our land.” He waved an arm toward the back of the room, where other monks—in the brown robes of the Franciscans, and the black and white of Dominicans—stood silent and anxious. “These our brothers, and many more besides, have sought sanctuary and security within our walls these past six months, and we have welcomed them.”
He paused for effect.
Arthur narrowed his eyes, wondering where this was leading. Though young, and often quiet, Arthur had observed much in his four years at the Abbey, and he knew that this particular brother, Thomas the Twin, who was in charge of provisions and stores, was also skilled in rhetoric and persuasion—and often not without a view to his own interest.
“As welcoming as we may be,” Brother Thomas continued, “it is clear that our resources are dwindling, though I say, in all humility, that in my position as provisioner, I have been managing as thriftily as anyone could.” There was a slight muttering among the assembly at this, but Arthur could hear nothing clearly. Thomas went on, raising his voice above the grumbling.
“Glastonbury stands nearly alone among the great monasteries in refusing to acquiesce to the King’s desire to effect much needed reform and renewal,” he said, presenting this as a mere statement of fact, without judgement. But his voice grew stronger, with a hint of polemic, as he continued. “Everywhere, we have seen that the licentious and idolatrous ways of the declining Italian Church have created a spiritual wasteland in the midst of our own clean and sturdy people—and we cannot but agree that the King does well to root out the wicked and the sinful, can we not?”
Arthur was stunned—how could Brother Thomas refer to Holy Mother Church as the “Italian” church? This was rhetoric with a sword! He turned to the Abbot in consternation, and was shocked to see how pale he was, and trembling as he sat, dismayed by the turn of the discussion. Arthur took a step nearer, and glanced at Roger James, who also moved quickly to help the Abbot. John Thorne addressed the assembly.
“The Abbot is ill!” he called out. “We must take him back to his chambers. This meeting is dismissed.”
Arthur heard a loud voice start to declaim. “You have no authority to dismiss us….” but the voice was drowned by the growing mutter of many voices, arguing both sides of what had been said. Arthur’s attention was all for the Abbot, as he and the other two faithful brothers helped the old man to his feet and across the room. But his mind was racing—something evil in Glastonbury indeed, he thought, and he said a fervent prayer to the Virgin Mary for protection and guidance.
He took a quick look back before they left the hall—and saw Brother Thomas and Brother Anselm standing together at the far door, sly smiles on their faces as they watched the quarreling brotherhood.
5
Death, like a friend’s voice from a distant field
Approaching through the darkness, called.
–Idylls of the King
Brampton, Cumberland
Tuesday
I was able to impose my will and defeat His Lordship’s polite objections to an immediate viewing of my dear friend’s remains, so within a few moments of arriving at the Brampton Arms, he was obliged to escort me and John on foot to the town mortuary. The lively footman had been instructed to see that our luggage was installed in the proper rooms, and to bespeak luncheon for our party in forty-five minutes’ time. His Lordship was quite precise in his instructions, and more so in his manner. He had acquired a top hat since we alighted—perhaps it had been waiting in the barouche—it gave him quite an air of expecting to be obeyed.
But I was determined not to be hurried beyond the requirements of my interest and my growing curiosity, which I communicated to John with a glance and a modest lift of an eyebrow. I daresay he understood me instantly, as he always had done since childhood.
The curving streets and walkways of Brampton were clean and freshly swept. It being a Tuesday morning, the town fairly bustled with people pursuing their various domestic and business activities—visits to the butcher, I imagine, or the greengrocer, for the day’s dinner—I’m not really sure how all that is managed, never having done it myself, but there were quite a few older women in shawls and bonnets with large baskets filled with green
s and potatoes, so I presumed that’s what they were doing. We encountered a couple of finely dressed ladies, accompanied by a young man in garish livery who carried a number of parcels quite deftly. Lord Parke merely nodded and touched his hat as we passed; the ladies simpered, and stared at me quite rudely. Any number of men—gentlemen and merchants—nodded to His Lordship or muttered the obligatory Good day, milord, although in this northern country I had to assume the greeting rather than discern it with my untutored ear for the near-Scots inflection.
A very few minutes brought us to the door of a solid looking, stone-fronted building, with half-columns on either side of the doorway, and no windows at street level. Lord Parke pulled at the cord and we heard the low clang of the bell, muffled, from inside. The door opened so quickly I could only think that the man had been lying in wait. A singularly ordinary looking fellow greeted our eyes—grey brown hair, long at the back collar, and he was wearing a coat of dark green wool that looked hastily donned. He bowed slightly, swinging the door inward and stepping back to allow us to enter.
“My lord, it is an honor to receive you here, despite the unfortunate circumstances,” he said.
Lord Parke nodded his acquiescence in the honor, and turned to introduce me and John.
“Mr. Gravely,” he said—yes, Gravely!—“your respects are perhaps best paid to this lady, a family friend of our poor Mr. Crickley. May I introduce Miss Violet Paget, and also Mr. John Sargent.” We bowed and bobbed all round, and as Mr. Gravely looked into my face with searching eyes, I could see there was a sharp mind behind that ordinary, placid face. His eyes asked a question which I took only a moment to consider—if I had to put it into words, it would be Is she someone I can trust? I communicated my answer in an instant, and saw that his response was one of relief—and a grim satisfaction. And then Uncle Chaffee’s admonition came to mind: Trust no one. The thought made me hesitate, but only momentarily. I have great confidence in my instincts about people.