The Devil's Priest

by Kate Ellis

  "Nor I, Father James. But we must remember that Satan is everywhere."

  *

  Katheryn’s journey had been uneventful apart from Will Gatley's mount losing a shoe; this misfortune being swiftly remedied by a large sweating blacksmith in the village of Lymm. The inn at Warrington was comfortable and respectable and the landlord had welcomed Katheryn according to her rank, with a tankard of his best ale and a tasty meat pie.

  Refreshed after a night's rest and grateful that the ragged vagrants they had passed on the dusty highway had done nothing more threatening than beg alms, the three riders crossed the great heath and approached the Townsend Bridge with relief. Liverpool was in sight and the weather had held fair.

  Will Gatley rode in front of the party leading the packhorses. Katheryn, on her fine white mare was in the centre of the party and Jane brought up the rear. Katheryn had noticed Jane and Will exchanging glances and the girl seemed to have acquired a new radiance, elevating her mousiness to a delicate prettiness. The power of love, thought the former Abbess, was a wonderful thing...not that she knew much about it from personal experience. She would not be surprised if her brother, Sir John, had another wedding to perform at the church of St. Mary before the year was out.

  Katheryn gathered her cloak about her. The wind was starting to bite. The autumn had been unseasonably warm but now the first chill of winter was making itself felt.

  A yeoman near the Townsend Bridge bid them a cheery good day as they passed. They could see the town in the distance: the tower of Our Lady and St. Nicholas; the bulk of the castle; and the huddle of houses radiating out from the ship-strewn, glistening river.

  The sight of three decomposing corpses hanging from gibbets by the roadside caused Jane to avert her eyes. Katheryn, used to such sights on her journey from Godstow, rode on. The gibbets were full across the land since King Henry had declared that the Pope was no longer head of the church and had claimed to fill the position himself. His agents looked for treason in every quarter and it was a time to keep thoughts to yourself. Even in such far flung towns as Liverpool there were spies only too eager to report dissent to the authorities.

  They continued down Dale Street into the bustling hub of the town. At the cross-roads, by the tall stone High Cross, a pasty faced man stood in the pillory, a smouldering fish stinking beneath his nose; a tradesman who had sold bad fish and was now paying for his greed. He was taunted by a group of jeering youths and a trio of barking dogs joined in the administration of town justice.

  Groups of roughly dressed men strolled down the streets or hung about the tavern doors. Some, by their appearance and their voices, were foreign; some spoke with accents Katheryn knew to be Irish; sailors from the tall masted merchant ships they had seen anchored in the river.

  Katheryn halted her horse at the High Cross. Looking left she could see the grey mass of the castle with its round towers, perched on its red rock base. She bid good day to a chubby merchant’s wife in a neat grey wool gown, and asked her the way to the Old Hall. There was no hesitation; Mistress Moore's house was known to the whole town.

  Their horses clattered down the hard packed dirt of Juggler Street until they reached another cross-roads. To their left was Chapel Street and the parish church, with the tiny chapel of St. Mary del Quay nestling in its shadow. Ahead was the road out to the townfield, Mill Street, furrowed from the passage of carts used by the townsfolk as they cultivated their plots. It was here they found a handsome stone house with neatly dressed servants hurrying about its courtyard and outbuildings.

  Katheryn made a quick appraisal. The signs of a well run household were everywhere. A manservant, will scrubbed and alert, came forward to take their horses' reins and ask them their business. It soon became clear that they were not expected.

  When Mistress Marjory Moore swept out into the courtyard to greet Katheryn, the servants backed away respectfully and went about their duties with self conscious diligence. Katheryn studied her hostess. Marjory was in her mid forties and still clung precariously to her beauty; although the lines on her face had increased and the flesh had begun to sag, she possessed a fine bone structure and tall slim figure. She would remain a handsome woman, long into old age.

  She led Katheryn into the hall and gave orders that Jane and Will were to be looked after. The servants jumped to their tasks like well trained soldiers. There was no slackness allowed in Mistress Marjory's household. The thought came to Katheryn that Sister Agnes must have fitted awkwardly into this efficient establishment.

  "I am grateful to you for coming, Lady Katheryn. Though I must say I did not expect you to answer the request of a silly girl so promptly, if at all." Katheryn detected a touch of bitterness in Marjory's speech, but the mistress of the house did not forget her manners. "I trust you had an uneventful journey?"

  Katheryn smiled warmly. It would need all her charm to coax confidences from this woman. "Indeed. The weather held fair and the roads have not yet become quagmires."

  Marjory clapped her hands and a maidservant, not more than thirteen years of age, scurried forward with two goblets of the finest wine Katheryn had tasted since her days as Abbess of Godstow. She appreciated good claret and complimented Marjory on her choice.

  "We are not at the heart of the wine trade here in Liverpool, my lady, but there is always a merchant ship with wares to sell. My steward knows many of the ships' masters... and he drives a good bargain."

  "You are fortunate, Mistress." There was a pause while she sipped the warming ruby liquid, so welcome after the dusty journey. She thought it time that she mention the reason for her visit. "And how is Sister Agnes? Her letter sounded most urgent. I hope I have arrived at a fitting time."

  "Indeed you have,” Marjory said unconvincingly. “Somebody needs to talk some sense into the girl." She invited Katheryn to sit on a well carved chair by the roaring fire and drew another chair near for herself.

  "Since Agnes arrived here she has brought nothing but trouble." Katheryn inclined her head, hoping Marjory would elaborate. "She seemed willing enough when she first came and she went about her tasks without complaint." Marjory's lips tightened. Agnes, Katheryn thought, would have been expected to work hard about the house for her keep; such is the fate of poor relations. "Then she began to absent herself from her duties without any explanation. She started daydreaming. I had to tell her more than once about her sewing ...that her stitching was large and clumsy. The girl's mind was on other things."

  "What things, Mistress? Do you know?"

  "Do you think I did not question the girl? She is sly. She said nothing."

  "At Godstow I always found Sister Agnes...how shall I put it best?...a little inattentive; a dreamer, perhaps. But I should scarce have thought her sly. I knew of no malice in the child."

  "Then, my lady, what of the girl's condition?"

  "Condition?"

  "She was with child. She miscarried."

  Katheryn took another sip of wine. "She spoke of sin in her letter." Clearly the girl's romantic nature had got the better of her. "That might be an indication of a lack of control, Mistress, but not necessarily of wickedness. Who was the father of her child?"

  "I have no idea. I never knew of a young man. Whoever it was, they met in secret."

  This did not strike Katheryn as being necessarily sinister. Mistress Marjory would hardly have welcomed the swain of a poor relation into the house or condone any relationship that might distract Agnes from her duties. If Katheryn had been in Agnes's place, she might have done the same. "Many young lovers meet in secret, Mistress. Has he not called to enquire about Agnes? Or enquired of any of the servants?"

  "No. There has been no one. Only the monk who found her unconscious in the chapel. He has called several times to ask after her health. Though he has not asked to see her; she has kept to her chamber."

  "What monk is this?"

  "I should call him a monk no longer. His Priory at Birkenhead over the river was closed by the King’s commissioners
some three years back. His name is Bartholomew. He sails the ferry across the river. The monks at Birkenhead have always kept the ferry. People need to cross the river, priory or no priory."

  "This Bartholomew, has he visited the house before? Did he have any contact with Agnes before he found her?"

  "I know what you think, my lady...that they were lovers. But I think not. The young man shows concern but his behaviour is most proper. He was a monk and, by his demeanour, one who still holds to his vows."

  Marjory had obviously taken a liking to this young ferryman and was refusing to cast him in the role of Agnes's errant lover. Katheryn would keep an open mind. She had known many monks and nuns who were as susceptible to the temptations of the flesh as any other man or woman...and his attentions might indicate an uneasy conscience.

  "Tell me how she was found? What happened to her?"

  "Indeed, my lady, you deserve to hear the full tale as you have taken so much trouble to answer Agnes's request." Marjory took a deep breath, settling down to tell a long story. "Agnes came, as you know, from Godstow. When your house was dissolved she wrote to me, as her only relative, to beg a roof over her head. She is my husband's late cousin's child. He died soon after Agnes's birth. Her mother’s name was Blanche but I hardly knew her. She was a delicate woman in body and mind, given to ill humours and imaginings." Marjory looked disapproving. "Her daughter, it seems, has inherited much from her mother. Blanche's father was a merchant of Oxford but apart from that I know nothing of him. Blanche died when Agnes was but ten years old."

  Katheryn interrupted. "Then she came into our care at the Abbey. I recall her mother's family had some connection with our house and that it was assumed that she would join our order. It often happens thus. She was a quiet girl...much given to dreaming, if I'm not mistaken." There was gentle humour in Katheryn's voice but Marjory missed this and took the last remark as criticism.

  "You are right, my lady. The girl is lazy. Give her a task to perform or an errand to run and she would disappear for hours on end. I have had words with her more than once, I can tell you."

  Katheryn suddenly felt sorry for Agnes. Life as a nun may not have been ideal for her, but at least it was better than the semi-slavery expected of a poor relation in return for food and a roof. She interrupted Marjory's bitter complaints, feeling an urge to defend the girl. "I felt poor Agnes was unsuited to the life of our order, but she made the best of it and would have taken her vows in the next year. Sister Magdalen, our Mistress of Novices, had much praise for Sister Agnes. She said the girl had a loving heart and an aptitude for scholarship."

  Marjory snorted. "But they don't pay for her keep. Am I to keep her in good food and idleness for her loving heart. The girl must work, my lady. It is her only contribution to the household. Book reading and Latin do not pay the butcher and baker." Mistress Marjory sat back, arms folded, and looked at Katheryn who sat toying with her goblet, eyes downcast.

  Agnes's situation was indeed a sorry one. Any money she had inherited from her merchant grandfather would have been given to the Abbey as her dowry and was now in the coffers of the King. Without the pension given to the older nuns, Agnes was truly penniless and thrown upon Marjory’s mercy. Katheryn had even heard tales of girls in Agnes's situation turning whore to keep themselves alive. Had Agnes tried this way out? Katheryn did not think the idea would have occurred to her, but in desperate times one never knew.

  "What happened when Agnes arrived?" Katheryn tried to return Marjory to her narrative.

  "She wrote to tell me she was coming and claimed to have nowhere else to go. Her mother had spoken of her father's relatives in Liverpool, it appears, so the girl travelled all the way from Oxford with a group of travellers. Well, you know how careful you have to be nowadays. She fell in with some merchants travelling to Chester...and some monks were in their party. At Chester she found more companions at an inn and made her way to Liverpool by boat." Katheryn raised her eyebrows. She hadn't given Agnes credit for such an enterprising spirit. To travel from one side of the land to another on the perilous roads, showed initiative for a young girl whose head was filled with dreams.

  "Did she speak of anyone she met on the road?"

  "She spoke of her companions but not one name that I remember."

  "And when she arrived?"

  "She rested a day after her journey. Then she was shown her duties in the household.

  "And how long before she began to absent herself?"

  "Almost right away. I was most displeased but when I tackled her about it she would say nothing."

  "And you have no idea where she went or who she was with?"

  "If I knew, my lady, I would tell you. I did suspect she was hiding somewhere...daydreaming or reading." She made the last activity sound like a deadly sin. "But in view of her condition, we must assume that she found other ways of amusing herself."

  "Do you know if she stayed about the house or if she went out? Did anyone see her return, for instance?"

  She is not a prisoner here, my lady. She is free to come and go as she pleases. So if she chooses to abandon her duty and disobey my requests..."

  "Quite." Katheryn noted that Marjory was bristling with righteous indignation. "So what happened on the day she was found unconscious?"

  "It was in the morning. I had asked her to run an errand for me...to Brother Valentine, the apothecary." She corrected herself. "Or I should say Master Valentine? One grows used to..." Katheryn nodded and willed her to continue. "But instead the girl is found half dead in the chapel of St. Mary del Quay. I have mentioned the young ferryman who found her, Brother Bartholomew, he went into the chapel to pray. It was the hour of Terce and he still observes the discipline of his order when his duties permit."

  Katheryn nodded. She knew the difficulty of observing one's vows when one is thrown out into the secular world. One by one the offices would be left unsaid: she was as guilty of this as any.

  "He found Agnes lying before the altar. He saw nobody else about."

  "And Agnes miscarried?"

  "To her shame."

  "How far advanced was her condition?"

  "Master Valentine said about ten weeks. She has been with me but three months. To think how she has repaid my trust."

  "Could she have fainted with pain? Hit her head?"

  "That is what I thought - what Brother Bartholomew thought. Master Valentine says different."

  Katheryn sat forward, suddenly interested. "What do you mean?"

  "He says the injuries to her head show that she was struck...not that she fell. But I cannot believe... Who would wish to attack her?"

  Katheryn said nothing but had her own thoughts. She drained her goblet and Marjory, the good hostess, refilled it. The claret was smooth and warming. Katheryn knew she shouldn't have accepted more if she wanted to keep a clear head, but the journey had given her a thirst.

  "Do you want to see Agnes now, my lady. After all, that is why you came, is it not?" Marjory asked sharply.

  Katheryn nodded and stood up, feeling a little light headed.

  *

  Valentine hurried back to his shop, avoiding the stinking stream that ran down the middle of the narrow street. His apprentice, Ralph, couldn't be left on his own for too long, even though the boy was learning fast.

  It was nearly dark and the sharp autumnal wind from the river held a bitter salty chill. Valentine pulled his cloak about him for warmth. There were many figures scuttling down Juggler Street, heads down against the breeze, making for the warmth of their firesides before the curfew sounded. Small groups of sailors swaggered into the taverns, anticipating an evening’s drinking and, if their luck held, a night in the arms of a whore.

  Shopkeepers, putting up their wooden shutters for the night, bade Valentine goodnight as he strode past. Candles were beginning to flicker in windows, creating a moonlike glow behind the oiled parchment which provided small protection against the weather in the poorer dwellings.

  As Valentine walked
down Dale Street, looking forward to a bowl of hot broth before the fire, a figure, cloaked and bent, emerged from an alleyway and crossed his path in the twilight. The man - he was certain it was a man - stopped and turned towards him. Valentine could not see the face as it was hidden by a hood pulled down so that it concealed the wearer's identity. But he recognised the style of cloak, though this one was stained and torn. The Augustinian canons of Norton had worn such a garment against the cold when their abbey had been in existence...the abbey where the late Father Clement had taken his vows.

  "Alms...alms, sir, I beg you."

  So this shabby creature was a beggar. There were many of them about. If this man was caught by the constables he would be sent from the town or imprisoned for the night in the ground floor of the Guildhall with the other common criminals. Valentine drew a coin from his purse and held it up for the man to see. The beggar, seeing Valentine staring at him, pulled his hood down further to hide his face.