by Mary Burns
I remembered then that the Howards had remained staunchly Roman Catholic, under great duress—even death—after ‘bad old Henry’ had broken with the Pope and dissolved the monasteries.
“Was Uncle Chaffee … Catholic?” I said, hoping I wasn’t asking a profoundly stupid question.
Mr. Howard smiled. “I believe he was, at heart,” he said. “He had more love for the old faith than many in our time can even conceive, much like, in fact, the way the old medieval believers looked at the world—a life lived in faith, hope and charity—a firm belief in the goodness of the world—and a reverence for the sacred, whether in persons or embodied in such things as a sliver of wood or a piece of bone.”
We were all silent at this sudden and heartfelt encomium.
“A man such as that,” John said quietly. “What could motivate anyone to kill a man such as that?”
Mr. Howard stood abruptly. “I’m afraid we must lay this before the chief constable,” he said. “Even with so little evidence, there is no time to be lost in finding the perpetrator.”
At that moment, two things happened simultaneously. The door to the drawing room opened and the butler announced, then ushered in, the very Mr. Wattendall of whom we had all been speaking.
The second thing that occurred was an enormous clap of thunder, endless in its rolling cannonade, that actually shook the house, fortress that it was, and which was accompanied by a brilliant flash of lightning. I actually jumped in my chair, and both Lord Parke and John cried out in surprise. The next moment, a burst of rain fell from the heavens as if the Almighty had forgotten all about the rainbow, and given the word for a second deluge.
32
And thence I past
Far through a ruinous city, and I saw
That man had once dwelt there; but there I found
Only one man of an exceeding age.
“Where is that goodly company,” said I,
“That so cried out upon me” and he had
Scarce any voice to answer, and yet gasped,
“Whence and what art thou?” and even as he spoke
Fell into dust, and disappeared, and I
Was left alone once more.
–Idylls of the King
16 September 1539
Glastonbury
They reached the outermost precincts of the Abbey on a Sunday, the Feast Day of the Holy Rood, and Arthur felt the familiar longing to be in the chapel with his fellow monks. He and Gwillem were camped in a small, wooded area not far from one of the Abbot’s favorite residences, in Sharpham, about a mile from the Abbey. With any luck, it was just possible the Abbot might come to stay there for a time, as he had done in the past, and they might find a chance to talk with him. His niece and her husband lived in the house, and he was allowed to visit them, despite the inclosure that kept him almost a prisoner in his chamber.
Gwillem Moor and Arthur had delayed leaving Lanercost for some days after they hid the Abbey’s treasures in the secret rooms of Sir William’s Tower, staying to help with the wheat harvest after the feast of Lammas Day, the first harvest festival of the year. Arthur went to say his prayers on that day, as it was also the Feast of St. Peter in Chains, in the ruins of the Priory, and begged St. Peter and all the saints to give success to the final stage of their quest. His heart beat fiercely in his chest as he prayed—he had known, somehow, that the first part of their journey had been too quiet, too smooth—the danger was still to come. And Sir William’s gift to him of his own father’s dagger, seemed a symbol of that danger.
They left on a local saint’s day for good luck—St. Ethelgitha of Northumbria—and as they were travelling this time with their trusty donkey, Alaric, but no cart, they made swifter progress. The mild autumn weather of early September made it easy to sleep in the woods and hills at night, and they stopped again at the crofters’ hut to renew their provisions and hear what little news there was: the King was contracting marriage with a new lady, Anne of Cleves, a German, and her portrait was busy painting, thus to show the king her looks. There had been no further word of any events at Glastonbury.
So now they waited amidst the turning autumn leaves of Glastonbury. Gwillem Moor sat still as a stone, listening to the sounds of the night world around him. The donkey quietly cropped the drying grass under the trees, and Arthur prayed, and prayed again. A day and a night, and another, had passed.
The young monk was edgy and restless at this delay, and he decided he must act.
“Gwillem Moor,” he said. “I am thinking it may be best for me to go down to the Abbey—I’m still dressed as a monk, so no one will think twice or look at me—and see what I can see. We must talk to the Abbot.”
“You are impatient, lad,” said the blind harper. “Act in haste, repent at leisure.”
Arthur puffed out an indignant snort. “I must go to the Abbot,” he said. “We’re worse than helpless here, we know nothing.”
“And what will you say to your brothers if they ask where you’ve been?”
The young man had a ready answer.
“I’ll tell them that my lord Abbot gave me leave to go home, that my father was deathly ill—but that he recovered, so I came back.” He shrugged. “No one will care anyway. Everyone is too afraid to ask questions.”
“Go then,” said Gwillem Moor. “I cannot keep you from it. But have a keen eye, and ear, for all that is around thee—and be as a shadow under a summer tree.”
Arthur nodded, and put his hand on the harper’s sleeve. “I will return before the morrow, before dawn,” he said. The man nodded, and patted the young monk’s hand, then let him go.
It was just after dawn now, and Arthur knew that the monks and priests would all be gathered in the chapel for Lauds. While he wondered if he should join them there, and mix with the others as if he hadn’t gone away, he also thought he might be able to go straight to the Abbot’s chamber, and perhaps wait for him there if he were absent. This was risky, he knew, but sometimes a very direct approach works better than a devious one.
He was right. He saw no one as he moved through the back gate and stole through the gardens, hugging close to bushes and behind trees. Then he spied a black-robed monk walking across the cloister, and froze in place. But the man walked on, his head down and his face hidden by his hood. Scarcely breathing, Arthur pulled his own hood over his head, folded his hands into his sleeves, and proceeded to walk firmly but not too fast, around behind the kitchen and toward the Abbot’s chamber. He carried Sir William’s dagger in its sheathe, tied and hung from a leather thong about his waist, but its presence did not make him feel safer—rather, the very thought he might need to use it tended to unnerve him. Soon he reached the main door to the Abbot’s quarters, which was open. He half-ran up the steps and halted, breathless, in front of the room. There was no sound of voices, and he hoped that only meant the Abbot was alone, not gone. He knocked softly, then again.
“Praise be to the Lord Jesus Christ, and enter,” came the Abbot’s voice.
Arthur slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. Then he turned and, lifting his hood off his head, showed his face to the Abbot, who sat in a chair by the empty fireplace. Arthur almost gasped at how changed the old man was—older-seeming than ever, with bare wisps of hair plastered to his speckled head, his eyes rheumy, and his hands bony and thin as sticks.
“My lord Abbot,” Arthur said, and walked over to kneel at his feet. “Your blessing, my lord.”
“Arthur Joseph,” said the Abbot, his voice thin, “you have my blessing and that of our Lady Mother Mary. But why are you here? Tell me, quickly.”
Arthur looked up into the old face, etched deeply in sorrow and distress, and fought back the urge to weep. “My lord,” he said, “Sir William Dacre has fulfilled your trust in him, and all is well.”
A look of relief and joy flitted over the Abbot’s face. Arthur continued in a rush, quietly, but hurrying to get it all out.
“But he has word that the King—his
Commissioners—are planning to move against Glastonbury—and the abbeys at Colchester and Reading as well—this very month, it could be any day now—and Gwillem Moor said that we had to come back—that there was something else we needed to do, to save—to bring away, like the other things, only I don’t know what that is, my lord. I came here to tell you, that we are here, and await your orders.” He fell silent, waiting for the Abbot to speak.
“It is time,” he said simply. “It is time. I am ready.” He lifted a hand and placed it on Arthur’s head. “You are a true Knight of Christ, Arthur Joseph, and you have followed your quest with honor and courage. And now you must do so again.”
The old man seemed to gain strength from the young man’s presence and grace; his voice was firm and unwavering when he spoke next.
“Go back to Gwillem Moor, tell him that what he seeks is safe, where it always has been, and when he judges that the time is right, he—and you—must take it. You have my permission, and my blessing.”
“Yes, my lord,” Arthur said, though not understanding the whole of his speech.
A sudden commotion in the hall alerted them to someone’s approach, and the Abbot grasped Arthur’s arm, motioning for him to rise. He gestured for the young monk to hide in the wardrobe that stood in a corner of the room, which Arthur did quickly, climbing in without a sound and pulling the door shut just as a heavy thumping was heard on the chamber door.
“My lord Abbot,” a harsh voice called. Arthur recognized it instantly as the voice of Richard Layton, the King’s chief Commissioner and Visitor, the man he and Gwillem Moor had seen in the woods on their journey, hunting the white roebuck.
The Abbot was seated again in his chair, straighter now and serene. Through a crack in the wood of the wardrobe door, Arthur could see the Abbot, facing him—good, that would mean that Layton would not be looking directly at the wardrobe. The Abbot called out the greeting, and Layton entered the room.
There was no pretence at courtesy this time. The King’s chief Commissioner loomed over the old Abbot, filling the room with the odor of power and the threat of violence.
“The King, in his great compassion and kindness,” said Layton, “has granted you one final opportunity to accede to his desire to reform the foul and sinful enclave of your black-hooded monks. For the last time, will you voluntarily give over to His Majesty the possession of this Abbey and all it claims to hold?”
The Abbot raised his head, his eyes bright and fierce again. “I have no right to tender this household of God to anyone, not even to His gracious Majesty, whose humble servant I am, in all other matters. This is God’s house, and only He can give it over.”
“Then, by God indeed, the Abbey will fall, as you will no longer be here to quibble about it.” Layton swore, and moved menacingly toward the Abbot. Arthur felt his muscles tense as he prepared to fly out from the wardrobe to protect the Abbot; his hand gripped the hilt of his knife.
But the Abbot had not even flinched, and the bully pulled back his raised hand.
“Shrive yourself, my lord Abbot,” Layton sneered. “The end is near.” He turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the heavy door shut.
When Layton’s footsteps had died away, Arthur cautiously opened the wardrobe door, and went to stand before the Abbot. He started to speak, but Abbot Whiting laid a quieting hand on his arm. In a whisper that showed his strength was nearly gone, the old priest spoke briefly.
“Go now, while the brethren are still at prayer, and may God keep you safe always.”
Arthur bowed his head and made the sign of the cross. He hated to leave the Abbot in such a state, but there was nothing for it. Opening the chamber door with great care, he looked around the landing and down the stairs—all was still and vacant. At the foot of the steps, he peered cautiously out the door, into the courtyard. Richard Layton was just mounting his horse; he appeared to have come alone to see the Abbot, and was now leaving again—perhaps, Arthur thought, to give the word to the King’s troops to descend upon Glastonbury at last. He heard a voice call Layton’s name, and the man turned in the saddle. Brother Anselm ran to his side and had what seemed to be urgent speech with the King’s man. Layton nodded once, in satisfaction, and wheeled his horse away, thundering down the path and out the Abbey gate. Brother Anselm stood watching for a moment, then moved away back down the cloister to the chapel.
Arthur waited until he was sure Brother Anselm was gone, then slipped out the door, his hood once more in place, and shuffled his way like any other monk along the cloistered walk, and out through the garden once again.
Gwillem Moor listened to Arthur’s recital of his meeting with the Abbot, and Layton’s visit, with grim equanimity. “So it shall be done,” was all he said. He then was silent, and seemed for some hours to be in a kind of trance, sitting cross-legged on the ground, his chest barely rising and falling with shallow breaths. The long day passed—interminable to Arthur—and as the sun set, the blind harper fetched a deep breath, and opened his eyes. But he made no sign to move from the camp.
“The time is not yet right,” he said. Arthur schooled himself to patience, and dug in the leather bag that held their meagre provisions. He handed the harper an oaten bannock, and took one for himself. He would go for water from the stream soon.
“Come, Arthur Joseph,” Gwillem Moor said. “It will not now be long, and we need all our wits about us. You have kept watch, now you shall sleep whilst I watch through the night.”
Arthur nodded, and lay down on his cloak, curling up into a ball. Despite the tension of waiting, he fell into a sound sleep after a few deep, steadying breaths.
33
There rose a hill that none but man could climb,
Scarred with a hundred wintry water-courses—
Storm at the top, and when we gained it, storm
Round us and death; for every moment glanced
His silver arms and gloomed: so quick and thick
The lightnings here and there to left and right
Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead,
Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death,
Sprang into fire.
–Idylls of the King
Naworth Castle
Wednesday Night
The downpour lashed at the windows, the thunder rolled and crashed in the heavens, and the four of us stood staring, open-mouthed, at Mr. Wattendall, who had also come to a standstill at the breaking of the storm. He was, however, the first among us to speak.
“Mr. Howard,” he said, with a slight bow. “Lord Parke, Mr. Sargent…Miss Paget.” He greeted me last, and with—I noted—a cold gleam in his fishy eye. Lord, I did not like this man! I also noted that he did not seem at all surprised to see me and John here at Naworth Castle. Had he been following us? Was it his presence I had felt in the Priory graveyard? I shivered at the thought.
“Mr. Wattendall,” said Mr. Howard, a trifle stiffly.
“Please excuse my calling uninvited,” the lawyer said in apologetic tones. “But I felt it incumbent upon me as a professional, and a friend as well as the solicitor of the late Reverend Mr. Crickley, to execute promptly that which was laid upon me to do, to wit, inform you of his bequest to you, Mr. Howard, as it was set forth in the Reverend’s final will and testament.”
We all noted his slight emphasis on the word final. I wanted to give his ears a thorough boxing.
“Actually, Mr. Wattendall,” I said, as smoothly as I could, “as executrix of Reverend Crickley’s will, it would seem to fall to me to make such announcements, would it not?” I saw Lord Parke conceal a smile, and grow solemn again; Mr. Howard did not smile.
“I thank you for your kind attention, sir,” said Mr. Howard, “but I am sorry that you felt it necessary to inconvenience yourself so much as to come all this way on an errand that could have been dispatched through a letter.”
Mr. Wattendall bowed his thanks, but clearly, from his pleased countenance, not taking the hint.
; Another great streak of lightning and a drumroll of thunder, sounding as if the heavens were going to crash through the roof, interrupted this desultory exchange. The room was growing ever darker, and rather chilly.
Mr. Howard spoke again, addressing the lawyer. “However, now that you are here, Mr. Wattendall, there are perhaps one or two things needing clarification that you might be of some use in reviewing.”
Mr. Wattendall bowed his acquiescence, obviously delighted to be able to prove his usefulness to the future Earl of Carlisle.
I, on the other hand, looked with some alarm at Mr. Howard, unsure of what he felt compelled to discuss with Mr. Wattendall—all of our suspicions seeming, at such a moment, to be light and feathery as air. I glanced at John, who seemed to share my discomfort, and then at Lord Parke, whose reassuring smile communicated to me that his cousin could be trusted to know what should be said.
The door opened, and several servants came in with lighted tapers; at a nod from Mr. Howard to the butler, they proceeded to light candles throughout the room, and one young man made himself busy starting up a good fire in the handsome fireplace. The room began to warm, and the yellow light of the candles cast a softening glow over the draperies and furniture. And there was even gas light—the butler himself saw to the lighting of a half dozen sconces set in the walls of the room, turning the key with solemn care, and lifting, then replacing the translucent glass chimneys. I noted with approval that the chimneys were not clear glass, which would have cast a dreadful glare, but rather were made of alabaster, light golden in color, with streaks of white and darker gold—the work of Morris and Company, no doubt.
The storm continued its raging, but all inside was now warmth and light, with the added sound of the soft hiss of the gas.