“I suppose a noggin in de box is bloody disturb in’, isn’t it? But we ’av ter git our relics wha we can git dem.”
To think that he had once taken relics for granted. The Irish and English relics had all been destroyed in the Dissolution of the Monasteries, and the bones of saints finally buried, often in unmarked graves. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” He smiled.
“Hugh McGowan.”
He shook the offered hand. “Grégoire Bellamont.”
“Gray-wha?”
He laughed. “It’s French for Gregory.”
“Yeh nade a place ter stay, Gregory?”
“Just for a few days, yes.” Whatever the rate was, he could pay it. That was not his concern. His concern was that he could barely stand. Hugh took his arm and put it over his broad shoulders.
Hugh lived nearby. And the tiny apartment on the outskirts of town was not far from St. Peter’s Church. “We’re startin’ dat hostin’ business,” Hugh announced to the woman in an apron standing in the doorway. “All we got is a cot an’ food. ’S that all right, Mr. Graywar Bella—Bellamen—“
“Just Gregory,” he said. “And yes, anything is fine.”
He was introduced to Mrs. McGowan, first name Nora, before he asked to rest before supper. The night before, he had slept on the side of a road with his bag as a pillow, so the fur-covered cot was a vast improvement.
When he woke, it was dark outside. A single wax candle was burning on the wooden table. There was no separation between the kitchen and the sitting room where he was housed. A room in the back was presumably the couple’s bedroom. Mrs. McGowan sat alone at the table, and rose when he joined her. “Al’ we ’av is sum stew. I wasn’ ’spectin’ visitors.”
“Anything you have would be lovely, Mrs. McGowan.”
He couldn’t tell what was in the stew, aside from potatoes, but he didn’t care. He was used to either a monastic diet or the fancy ten-course Pemberley dinners, so it was a nice medium.After grace, he ate his portion, and then a second. “Thank you.”
“Yer English is very—English.”
“I learned it from my family,” he said, “on my father’s side. Before that, it was more like yours.”
“An’ yer ma?”
“French.”
“So what’re you doin’ in back-end Ireland, Mr. Gregory?”
He smiled. “I don’t know, properly. There are some places I wanted to visit. Pilgrim sites I read about.”
“Answers ter yer spiritual questions. Most people go elsewhere for dat.”
“I’ve been to Rome,” he said. “And I don’t have the strength to go to Jerusalem. So here I am.”
“An’ yeh git a noggin in a box.”
“I suppose it’s better than an empty box.”
They shared a laugh and chatted about the local sites before he said, “Excuse me. It’s time for prayer.”
“It’s noight, Mr. Gregory.”
“I know—Compline,” he said, and excused himself to the other side of the room. Mrs. McGowan disappeared to give him privacy as he sat in prayer. When he was finished, he rose to drink some local beer.
“’S a monastic thing,” she said. “Innit?”
“Yes. I used to be a monk.” When she showed no disgust at the idea that he had left his religious order, he continued, “Some habits are hard to break. Nor do I wish to break them. Good night, Mrs. McGowan.”
“Gran’ noight to yeh, Gregory. Sleep well.”
Her prediction was accurate. He slept like the dead.
The next morning, Hugh offered to take Grégoire to Mellifont Abbey, Ireland’s oldest Cistercian monastery. The ruins were open for tourists, but Hugh’s guidance was necessary to find the place. Beyond that, Hugh could only guess at what the various ruins were, but Grégoire was able to recognize most of the decaying structures. The gray stone of the columns from one row of cloister arches remained intact, standing alone beside stone floor and grass.The only fully standing building was the chapter house, though the windows were long gone, and there were birds roosting in the inside grooves of the arches.
“What were yeh?” Hugh said. “I mean, before?”
“Benedictine. But I was a novice as a Cistercian in France. That monastery dissolved.Then the one in Bavaria did.There are some left in Austria, but I went to Spain instead,” he said, looking down at the floor of the chapter house and noticing the indentations where the heavy wooden pews had sat. What had happened to the wood after the Dissolution? Had it been chopped for firewood, or was it sitting in the house of some aristocrat, himself unaware of its holy origins?
They made it back to Drogheda for High Mass at St. Peter’s Church. Hugh, who was out of work until the summer harvest, took Grégoire back to his house.There, Grégoire wrote a brief letter to Darcy, saying he had arrived safely in Drogheda. He did not anticipate a long stay.
The next day, they traveled to Monasterboice, an abbey of a different sort, dating back to before the Norman invasion and containing one of the many unexplained round towers and beautiful Celtic crosses of stone. Carved in relief were the stories of Eve tempting Adam, Cain slaying Abel, Moses striking the rock, the life of Christ—almost the entire Bible on the great Muiredach cross. It was Grégoire who was tour guide now, easily able to decipher the pictography.
“What do ya t’ink dey mean?” Hugh asked, pointing to the round tower.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I have a relative who traveled to India, where there were thousands of towers like that. I forget what he said they were called, but the Mohammedans pray five times a day, so five times a day, a man with a loud voice would climb to the top and call them all to prayer.”
“Loike Saracens?”
“Yes. This was in India. Here, we have bells to tell us the time, but the principle is the same, I suppose.”
“Kinda a heretical ting to be sayin’?”
“If I were a monk, I suppose so,” he said with a smile. “Alas, I am not.”
After they returned from High Mass, Grégoire decided that he would leave the day after next. He had to begin his path west to see the ancient burial sites of Brú na Bóinne. He spent most of the afternoon resting, and enjoyed a final hearty meal with the McGowans.
When he rose at half past three in the morning for Vigils, Nora McGowan was up. She had gone to bed earlier, but she was sitting up now at her kitchen table with a cup of mead.
“Mrs. McGowan,” he said and bowed. Not quite sure what the decorous thing to do was, he sat down across from her and she filled a cup for him from the pot. It was not hot or cold, and had the flavor of honey, but otherwise was fairly tasteless.
They sat in silence for a while. She seemed hypnotized by the single burning flame of the candle that lit the room. He sipped his mead.
“Why did yeh leave de church, Mr. Gregory?” It was not an accusation; it was a question.
“A mixture of the politics of Rome and my own zealous devotion nearly killed me. I’m not damned, just forbidden to take holy orders.” He added, “I didn’t know how to find the balance between physical devotion and preserving my health, and no one would teach me. Instead, they cast me out.” When she seemed satisfied with the answer, he asked, “Why does your husband go to pray at the shrine every day?”
She did not look at him. She had not been looking at him for the entire conversation. “Our only current bun—de wan sprog dat lived—didn’t cum ’um from de war.”
“He died at Waterloo?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not. ’E’s not on de rolls. ’E just went missing. Could be alive, fer all we know.”
“Have you tried going to London? They have more official registries there.” She turned to him. “Do ya t’ink we can afford ta go ta London?”
“I’m sorry.” He put down his mug. “What was his regiment? Do you know? Do you have all of his information?”
“Aye, why?”
“Because I have relatives in London. I could write them and ask them to look.” It had b
een three years—he was most likely dead, buried in a mass grave in France. But unless his whole regiment were in the grave with him, someone would know. They knew that—they had to know that. “It’s no trouble,” he said to her start of a response. “Just give me all his information, and I’ll write it down and send it to my brother.”
“We wouldn’t want ta be beholden—”
“It’s no trouble, I assure you,” he said, and could not be persuaded otherwise. He did not excite her hopes of finding their son alive, or at all, but if there was information to be found, it would be in London.
When they saw him off the next morning with a few days’ worth of food packed in his satchel, it was with tears, not because of how well he had paid his bill, but because of his promise and the letter he had sent out by courier that very morning.
“Jaysus bless yeh, Mr. Gregory,” said Nora.
“I hope that he sees fit to do so,” he said.
Following the River Boyne, Grégoire slowly made his way to Brú na Bóinne, called Quarters of the Boyne in English. It had no Christian significance, but he knew that there was God’s glory in any beautiful sight.
There was no guide. So he wandered alone among the stone tombs, with their intricate carvings of spirals and knots.
He had once had a theological discussion with the abbot in Bavaria. “What about all the souls that came before Christ? Was it only the Israelites who were saved, or all people?”
“Our Lord God spoke to other people before he sent his son to earth. Even before Abraham, he gave Noah laws. If people followed them, they went to heaven.”
“What if they had never heard of Noah? Did God speak to other people we don’t know about?”
The abbot answered, “Everyone knew Noah. He was the only one to survive the Flood!”
“Of course! Thank you, Father!”
Grégoire smiled at the memory as he sat on the grass before a burial mound. It had all been so simple, the answers all waiting for him. I should have asked about the people who came before the Flood! he thought, and slapped his leg in amusement.
He wandered south, chasing ruin after ruin of worlds that had passed on. There was Boyle Abbey, the monastery of Clonmacnoise, and finally he went east again to see the Jerpoint Abbey, another Cistercian abbey founded after the Norman invasion.The structure still stood in stone, without windows and with a new floor of grass. He was hardly the only tourist there. He silently said the words along with the guide as the man laid out the Carta Caritatis (Charter of Love)’s basic principles—obedience, poverty, chastity, silence, prayer, and work.With disappointment, Grégoire noted that he fulfilled only one or two of those principles, prayer and perhaps work. He nevertheless felt calmed by the beautiful structure, covered in moss and ivy.
Upon leaving the grounds, he felt a certain despair—he had seen many relics and ruins, but had he learned anything? Had his time been well spent?
He wandered north, unconsciously heading back to Dublin, stopping at inns as he went, occasionally staying with a family or out in the open. He had been traveling for more than a month when he stopped at a house in a small farming community and asked if there were any religious sites around. He would offer to do chores for a meal. He would chop wood and milk cows, and sometimes he would stay the night.
At this particular house, he inquired after any churches around, or places of interest, as he had already missed High Mass. The small structure housed a working family—a husband and wife and several children running around behind them. The father introduced himself as Mr. O’Muldoon.
“There’s ruins out back,” he said, pointing. “In de woods. Yeh can’t miss de wee stone tower.”
He thanked them and left, wandering into the forest. This was the place where legends had it that fairies roamed, but he did not believe in such nonsense. It was starting to rain, so he was nearly in despair as he spotted the little enclosure that might have once been a church tower. It was no more than what had probably been the nave of a church, but some of the stone arch was preserved even if the back was not, so that he could sit beneath it and be dry. There were, he noticed now, lumps of fallen stones elsewhere in the grass, with dirt over them. This site had been long abandoned, but tonight, it would be his home.
As the rain came down, he lit his only candle and set it carefully in the corner, on the stone floor. There was something there. Taking the candle in one hand, he began to wipe away the grime and dirt to find a tiny mosaic portraiture of some saint, not clearly defined but recognizable for his traditional tonsure and golden halo. He had a staff in one hand and his other hand pointed with one finger in some direction. Was it Patrick? It was probably Patrick. He crossed himself. “It is just you and me tonight,” he said to the saint, and began Vespers. Afterward, he ate a little black bread. After Compline, he extinguished the candle and drifted off to sleep. The rain had let up, but he was hardly going wandering through the wet woods at night, so he rested his head on his sack and slept.
When he woke for Vigils it was sudden, and the candle was lit again. Had he not put it out? It was thick enough to not be burned down. In a haze he sat up, and stared at the saint. He’s pointing.
Grégoire barely remembered saying prayers or going back to sleep. He woke for Lauds and it was light out. The candle was out, and had not burned down, and it was dry and sunny, but the saint was still pointing. “Thank you,” he said, crossing himself, and projected the exact angle of the finger in the mosaic set in stone. It led to a path—not the one he had used to get there, but one going in a similar direction.
He left the woods hungry. He was out of food, having not thought to acquire it from the O’Muldoons. When he stepped onto the dirt path, he tried to point himself according to the saint’s direction.
His stomach was growling terribly when an hour had passed and he came upon a small, isolated house with smoke coming from the chimney. There were also some chickens running around, and he heard the bell of a cow from behind the wooden building.There was some attempt at a vegetable garden on the right side, but the crops were not doing well.
Grégoire readjusted his satchel, which hung over his shoulder and by his side instead of on his back, and stepped up the stairs to the porch and front door. “Hello?” His hand was still on the door from the knock when it pulled back to reveal a woman with strawberry blonde hair, long and straight, standing there as if she had been expecting him. Clearly, she had seen his approach.
“’Ill yeh be ’avin’ sumt’in’?” she said, arms crossed.
“I am terribly sorry,” he said, bowing, “but I will gladly perform some labor for you if you would feed this hungry pilgrim.”
She looked him over—he could not be anything but a strange Christian pilgrim in his odd dress. “We don’t ’av any grub.”
“You—you have a cow. I could milk it for you.”
“Dat coy ’asn’t given me milk in days,” she said. She stood mainly in darkness, her house unlit, but he could tell she was thin. “We don’ even have any fuel for de fire ta cook yer food.”
“I could chop wood,” he said. “If you have an axe.”
“For what? For free? I told yeh—we don’ have any food!”
He stepped back. “I’m sorry.” He lowered his eyes, looking down at her bare feet. “I’m doing penance. Let me cut some wood for you and I’ll be on my way.” She needed it more than he did. He had a sack of coins in a pouch under his shirt.
“Yeh’re doin’ things for free now?”
“St. Benedict said that work was a form of prayer,” he said, trying to give her whatever answer she needed to accept his offer.
That one seemed to work. “There’s ’n axe in de back, in de shed, I t’ink.”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
There was plenty of wood—trees had fallen down everywhere and had been left uncut. He didn’t know who else was living in that house, but they were clearly incapable of manual labor. He worked until his back began to ache, which coincided nicely
with Sext, when he took a break and surveyed his work. He had cut enough firewood for several weeks. Perhaps that was why he was so exhausted. He leaned back and closed his eyes. If he nodded off, at least there was an axe by him.
“I got sum milk,” the woman announced, and he opened his eyes to her standing over him, blocking the sun. “Guess de coy jist needed rest.”
He nodded and stood up, but he needed his staff to do it. “I’m sorry,” he said, as she looked surprised by his apparent exhaustion. “I refuse to accept my own limitations.” He limped back with her to the house, where he was finally permitted entrance.
It seemed to have only two rooms—a bedroom and the main room, which was much larger. “Does anyone else live here?”
“No,” she said. “But I ’av ter say dat when fierce quare men cum ter me door.”
“Common sense,” he said, taking a seat at the half-broken table. One leg was missing and a stump held it up. “I’m sorry. My name is Grégoire Bellamont.”
“Yeh expect me ta pronounce dat?”
He smiled. “I can’t pronounce Irish, so we’re even.You can call me Gregory.” He took the offered cup of milk and drank it hungrily.
“I loike it. It’s exotic. Grayware.”
He chuckled. “Your accuracy is stunning, Miss—”
“Caitlin. MacKenna.”
“Miss MacKenna.”
“Yeh sound so proper—but yer not English, yer French.”
“Born in France. My father’s English. He…had an affair with his maid.” The last made her chuckle and spit out her milk, which made him laugh.
“So wha yeh live?”
“Raised in France, went to England, and then Bavaria, and then Spain, and then went home to England…and now here. Why? I just try to walk in God’s path.”
“Yeh soun’ loike a priest.”
“I used to be a monk.”
“You left de church?”
“The church left me.”
She did not inquire after that. It was too loaded a question. “Well, dere’s nuthin’ special out here.”
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 27