The Devil's Piper

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘The story is that the Abbot-General made a visitation and found caches of empty brandy bottles and unpaid bills for venison and turkey. The monks were in disgrace for months,’ said Ciaran, grinning. ‘But even that wasn’t as bad as the Fifteen Hundreds when not only did they refuse to take the Oath of Supremacy to Henry the Eighth, they actually cast a bell which they named after the exiled Catherine of Aragon. It was a gesture of loyalty to a discarded Catholic queen, of course, but unfortunately it was also a very public and very blatant nose-thumbing at Henry Tudor. It took some time for Thomas Cromwell to hear about it because he was too busy dissolving English monasteries – he’d a whale of a time at that by all accounts, hadn’t he? – but he did hear in the end, of course. And in the spring of 1539, a party of men from London, headed by the King’s Commissioner, Sir Rodger Cheke, rode into Curran Glen to call the monastery to account.’ He sent another grin across to Isarel. ‘According to the reports handed down it was very nearly the end of the Abbey; Cheke found the monks celebrating the consecration of the Aragon bell, dancing on tables, most of them what in the parlance of the day was referred to as “myse-dronck”, which today we’d call—’

  ‘Thanks, I can translate for myself,’ said Isarel.

  ‘Well, it was regarded as a terrible thing, anyway. Can you imagine it, Isarel, men of God drinking and carousing and singing bawdy songs?’

  ‘If they were anything like you, only too easily.’

  ‘It’s one of the great scandals in our history, because the Abbey nearly lost most of its revenue and some of the monks were executed for heresy.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Isarel.

  ‘Isn’t it? They were shockingly dissolute of course and flabby-minded as well. They say the only one who stood up to Cheke was Brother Martin, the sub-Prior.’

  The monks had been very cheered at the idea of having a bit of a feast to celebrate the new bell cast in the poor spurned Queen’s honour, even though Brother Martin, terrible spoilsport that he was, had said weren’t they tempting Providence, leave aside drawing down the notice of Henry Tudor’s eagle-eyed spies.

  Nobody had paid this any attention, because you could not be worrying about Henry Tudor’s spies every minute of the day, and also they were far too busy preparing for the banquet which Father Abbot had said they might hold after the consecration ceremony. You could not consecrate a new bell without a bit of a supper to mark the event, and the King’s long-nosed snoopers could pry somewhere else, they said cheerfully. In any case, Ireland’s west coast was a long way from Greenwich Palace, and His Majesty far too absorbed in his search for another wife. Word of Henry’s proxy wooings of half the princesses of Europe had even travelled as far as Curran Glen by this time, and the monks had been shocked to their toes to hear of an anointed King behaving in a way better suited to a licensed buffoon.

  The entire Abbey had always held firmly by the true Queen, of course, Catherine of Aragon, and after her death the Princess Mary, and they were very glad indeed that Ireland had no princesses for Henry to wear out, or send to the block, or divorce – there did not seem to be anything to choose between the three as far as the King was concerned. Father Abbot had firmly declined to be party to the infamous Act of Supremacy, and although this was a grand thing to have done, most of the monks had suffered a few sleepless nights after hearing of the terrible sentences passed on English religious houses. Brother Wilfrid had regularly woken from nightmares in which he had been roasted over a fire with two Carthusian monks for company, and Thomas Cromwell himself turning the handle of the spit and saying evilly, ‘A little slower, brother?’ But in the end they had all ceased to worry, and only Martin had continued to warn against the possibility of a visit from the King’s Commissioners.

  The banquet was a very splendid affair indeed, although it was reported that Wilfrid was very nearly distracted with the task of having to provide it, and had told anyone who would listen that monastic life did not really fit a person for cooking banquets. Wilfrid was very reliable when it came to pease pudding and turnip pottage or stewed mutton, but you could not be serving turnip pottage at a banquet. He had baked and spit-roasted and stewed for an entire twenty-four hours beforehand, he said, and had barely had time for a mouthful of dinner, never mind taking his proper part in the normal round of services which made up the monastery’s day.

  It was Martin who said they should lock the doors during the Bell consecration, and it was Martin again who had insisted on sending poor young Edmund – the Abbey’s newest novice and not a day over fifteen – to act as lookout. Exactly as if he believed that a party of the King’s Commissioners would come riding up the hillside and fall on them that very night! said the monks, amused, and arranged amongst themselves to save some of the food for Edmund, poor soul.

  Martin had also somehow bludgeoned Father Abbot into holding the consecration Mass by night on the premise that a nocturnal ceremony was less likely to be noticed than an ordinary daytime one. Most of the brothers had found this rather intriguing and had asked hopefully whether they might not have a candlelit procession through the cloisters, to which Father Abbot, who felt it time to assert his authority over Brother Martin, had said he did not see why not. It would lend an air of mystery to the whole thing, and they could as easily consecrate the Aragon bell at midnight as at mid-day. They would write a little piece of Abbey history, he said firmly.

  ‘Be it on your head,’ said Martin, but he added, ‘Father,’ with the scrupulous deference he always displayed, which meant that he could never quite be reprimanded for disrespect to his superior in God. Father Abbot found him very exhausting.

  In the end there was baked carp and roast venison and beef for the feast, followed by a grand selection of sugared fruits which were a very great delicacy indeed, and a pudding made from sweetened chestnuts. Father Abbot thought it would not be unsuitable to bring up a cask or two of the good wine presented to the Abbey by no less a personage than the Earl of Kildare, because you could not be having inferior stuff at such an occasion, and anyway inferior wine always made Father Abbot bilious next morning.

  The Mass was duly sung and the Aragon Bell duly sounded and pronounced very sweet and true. They could use it to ring Vespers said the monks, pleased, and beamed round the table at one another, flushed with wine and the unaccustomed rich food. Brother Wilfrid, whose life before God beckoned to him had been rather robust, and whose potations in the matter of the wine had been somewhat liberal, started a round of songs, most of which were highly unsuitable for monastic gatherings but which turned out to be known to most of the monks with the understandable exception of Father Abbot. It was as well that young Edmund had been sent out to keep watch after all, because the sentiments of ‘A Cuckolding Cock’ were not fit for an innocent lad of fifteen to be hearing; in fact they were not fit for monks to be singing in the first place. Father Abbot glanced nervously around and tried to frame a reprimand which would not spoil anyone’s enjoyment of the occasion.

  By this time Wilfrid had abandoned ‘A Cuckolding Cock’, and embarked on ‘A Knight’s Lusty Lance’, which was even worse because it was a part-song, and Wilfrid insisted on acting out the part of the Knight and then one of the younger monks leapt up to take the part of the fair young maid who screamed at the seducer’s evil advance and swooned at the sight of the knight’s rampant lance. Father Abbot remembered he had always had misgivings about the proclivities of Brother Ralph and it looked as if he had been right.

  It was into the sly, rollicking singing and dancing, and into the unmistakable stench of belched and farted wine, that Sir Rodger Cheke the King’s Commissioner for the Dissolution of the Monasteries of Ireland came.

  Rodger Cheke was genuinely horrified at the sight that met his eyes. Men of God – actually professed, supposedly devout monks – drinking and singing and dancing in such a lewd fashion that any decent man would think shame to see. Well, this would certainly shock Master Cromwell when Sir Rodger wrote his report, which he woul
d do that very night on account of not wanting to forget any of the details. Not that any of them were in the least forgettable.

  It was unfortunate that Wilfrid’s back was to the door when Sir Rodger entered, and it was even more unfortunate that he carried on singing for an entire verse, unaware of the newcomer. It was absolutely disastrous that he continued with the song’s actions. He had actually reached the part where the Knight had hoisted his lance in his hand and leapt on to the fair maid, shrieking out the chorus of, ‘Trollop and frolic and lay bare the bums’, before it dawned on him that his companions had trailed into horrified silence. He hesitated, forgot the next line, and turned to see himself regarded with a chilly eye that he later described as a fisheye and as nasty a thing as you could wish to see, particularly when you had hiked up your habit the better to play the lusty Knight.

  Sir Rodger let his gaze travel over the now-speechless Wilfrid for a moment before looking round to select the oldest and most worried-looking of the monks. He was gambling (although not very much) that this was the Father Abbot. And he bowed his head in a cursory acknowledgement, before saying in his frosty English voice, ‘I’d be obliged of a word in private, Father.’

  It was wormwood and gall and it was black bitter bile to know that Martin had been right all along. Henry Tudor’s wrath had descended about their heads, and if they escaped with their lives, never mind uncharred skins, it would be God’s mercy, said the monks and remembered with horror the reports that had trickled across of the English Carthusian monks who had rejected the Oath of Supremacy and had not only lost their monasteries, but had been burned alive as heretics. Chastened and repentant, they filed humbly into the chapel and set about praying very earnestly indeed for God’s mercy or Rodger Cheke’s benevolence and preferably both. They closed and locked the chapel doors against the coarse-mannered men who had accompanied Sir Rodger and who appeared to be making an inventory of the monastery’s entire contents – and very noisily too! – and reminded one another of the old English law of sanctuary. Wasn’t it right that you could claim sanctuary for an entire month in a religious place? they demanded of one another, and there and then determined to remain in the chapel praying for a whole twenty-eight days non-stop if it would deliver them from Henry Tudor’s wrath.

  Sir Rodger Cheke eyed Father Abbot in the little study and glanced briefly at the dark-haired, thin-faced Brother Martin whom he took to be the sub-Prior.

  ‘I presume,’ he said coldly, ‘that you keep proper records here?’ All religious houses were supposed to do this of course, but in view of the scene Sir Rodger had witnessed earlier, nothing would have surprised him. He added, ‘You are aware, I suppose, that an edict is in existence for the closure of all monasteries where income is less than two hundred pounds in a year.’

  Father Abbot said in a voice that he managed to edge with quite as much frost as Rodger Cheke’s, ‘Certainly we keep proper records. You will find everything in perfect order.’

  He cast an anguished eye at Brother Martin, who stepped forward and said smoothly, ‘Our income far exceeds that sum, Sir Rodger. But you are welcome to inspect our rent rolls for yourself.’ Since, said his tone, you clearly won’t believe my word. He eyed the Englishman coolly and Cheke thought with irritation that this was precisely the kind of monk Cromwell’s Commissioners had been instructed to pluck out. Arrogant, clever, given to the kind of slippery arguing that lawyers often employed and that was sometimes called specious.

  Martin said, ‘Would you wish to come along now to the scriptorium, Sir Rodger?’ and turned to the door scarcely waiting for the affirmative.

  The ledgers and the accounts were immaculate, of course. Cheke thought he should have guessed it. The entries were all meticulously made in the small precise script of the monks and there was an air of calm about them, as if whoever was responsible for the work carried it out efficiently and unhurriedly. There was nothing that was the smallest bit questionable and there was certainly nothing that could be used against this lax House! Sir Rodger was conscious of a slowly stirring anger. Had he come all this way – five days’ hard riding to England’s west coast and that dreadful sea crossing where he had been sick four times over the side of the boat, and then a further six days’ journey – to find absolutely nothing of any value? Be damned to that, he thought. Let’s see what can be done! He bent his mind to concentrate on the rent rolls and the records placed before him by the supercilious devil who was quite plainly the power here in all but name.

  Most of the income appeared to derive from the usual sources of tithes and endowments, and rent from lands and farms. There was a not inconsiderable sum from tolls and bridges and it appeared that the monks also had the right to hold a market and a fair on their land which would probably bring them some very fat dues. The Abbey’s income, in fact, was much higher than Sir Rodger had been expecting and if Thomas Cromwell’s edict was to be followed to the letter, the Abbey could not be closed down on the basis of its low income – far from it. But that was only one avenue that was closed to him and there were more ways than one of skinning a stoat or depriving a monastery of some of its riches. What about that behaviour earlier tonight? Lewd, gluttonous frolicking and the singing of bawdy songs around a groaning board of an evening? This House of Curran Glen – this dissolute, disorderly House – was precisely the kind of place that ought to be closed down.

  Rodger Cheke knew perfectly well that with so many of the lesser monasteries dissolved, Thomas Cromwell’s sights were being set higher. The larger Houses now, he had said. Rich pickings for the King there. Rich pickings for the King’s Commissioners as well if they are loyal, he had added slyly and Cheke had known that by ‘loyal’, Cromwell had meant ‘discreet’. Cream off what you want but don’t let anyone catch you doing it. You might almost call it a Tudor policy.

  Curran Glen had some very rich pickings indeed. Could some of them possibly be creamed off here and now? How? More to the point, could he justify such an action? He set himself to think.

  Ireland was not really part of Cromwell’s overall scheme of dissolution; it was a long and wearisome journey from Greenwich – that dreadful heaving sea – and Sir Rodger would not have come here at all if it had not been for the reports of blatant flouting of the Oath of Supremacy and slavish and forbidden fidelity to Catherine of Aragon and the Lady Mary. Even without the shocking licentiousness these monks were very nearly behaving treasonably in fact. Treason. Treasonous people and especially treasonous monks needed to be punished. And now he had arrived at the conclusion he had wanted.

  He allowed none of his thoughts to show. He went on studying the rent rolls, asking questions of Brother Martin, hoping to uncover mismanagement or impropriation, but not really expecting it. This arrogant Irish monk knew exactly what he was doing.

  ‘You have half the usufruct of this land here and here?’ He pointed to a small map which had been drawn on a piece of plain parchment with the usual loving monastic attention to detail, and then bound into the book which bore the legend Usufruct Rights.

  ‘Yes, the east and south,’ said Martin. ‘A gift to the House in Thirteen Hundred. The Deed is bound into the book also as you see.’

  ‘From Godfric of Liscannor.’

  ‘Yes. The eastern land includes a shoot and a hide which yields game and fruit and vegetables, and the south takes in a stretch of river there—’ he pointed on the map, ‘which gives us the first thousand of each shad and herring shoal.’

  This was perfectly clear and in accordance with normal monastic practice. The amounts from the usufruct rights alone were more than the rents from Sir Rodger’s own small estate in Warwickshire, which increased his anger even more. What had become of the vow of Poverty here? Sir Rodger had been forced to mortgage a third of his lands to pay off his father’s debts and unless he could find a rich wife he might have to mortgage another third soon. It was monstrous of these celibates to enjoy such fat secure lives, and now he came to think of it the celibacy could be called in
to question as well!

  But when he spoke, his voice was calm and detached. ‘Your income is certainly above the amount set by the Vicar-General,’ he said. ‘And therefore you are not—’

  ‘Under sentence of death?’

  Sir Rodger remembered with disapproval the colourful extravagant way the Irish sometimes had of speaking. He said coldly, ‘Closure is not a consideration here.’ Adding meaningfully, ‘Not yet, that is. The present statute may soon be altered. But there is a degree of laxity which I must report to Master Cromwell.’

  He paused, and Martin said, ‘Unless?’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘You are about to make a condition, Sir Rodger. “Unless such-and-such is done, the behaviour witnessed earlier tonight will be reported to the King’s Vicar-General.” I suppose,’ said Martin thoughtfully, ‘that your condition will be a monetary one.’ He sat down opposite Cheke and clasped his hands under his chin, regarding the other man levelly. ‘Well, Sir Rodger? What do we have to give you to ensure your silence?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Brother Martin, you have done what?’

  ‘Agreed to cede the King half the dues for ten years from the sheepfolds and the timber forest’s charcoal.’

  Father Abbot moaned and lay back in his chair, shading his eyes with one hand. He did not know when he had been so overcome, and he had in fact had to send Wilfrid to mull some wine by way of restorative.

  ‘Also,’ said Martin relentlessly, ‘Cheke is to have the silver altar ornaments and the Italian chalices.’

  ‘The Italian cha—? Our Founder’s jewelled chalices?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have – let me get this clear – you have given away Simon of Cremona’s ruby and topaz chalices, the ones we use for Easter Sunday Mass and to celebrate Our Blessed Lord’s birth?’

  ‘Yes.’