The Devil's Priest

by Kate Ellis

  The beggar huddled against the bales of hay stacked in the Mayor, Master Crosse’s barn. He had been fortunate to discover this haven. There were many in his situation who would dearly love to bed down in dry straw.

  Suddenly, with a great crash, the huge barn doors opened. The beggar moved quickly and sunk himself down deep behind a pile of hay. The straw stuck into his flesh as he kept perfectly still, his heart beating fast, hardly daring to breath.

  There were men - a number of them by the sound of it - calling to each other, shouting remarks. He could hear their banter; the ribald remarks about the women they had met with at the tavern and about Master Crosse’s daughters. Their master could not have been within earshot or they would have been lucky to have escaped with a whipping. From their talk, he gathered that they were taking a proportion of the hay to place in the tithebarn...but that Walton church would not be the recipient of Master Crosse’s bounty. The Molyneux had bought the tithes of Walton church some time ago.

  It was the dog that gave him away. A great grey brute of a thing, scampering over the hay as the men worked to fork it out of the barn and onto the waiting carts. The dog approached the beggar, wagging its tail and enjoying its private game. Each time it came up to him with its wet inquisitive nose, he tried to push it away. But this seemed to encourage it further. Then, tired of rejection, the dog started to bark loudly.

  The beggar tried to bury himself further in the hay, burrowing like a mole to avoid detection. But he wasn’t quick enough. One of the workers, a big man with lank blond hair that hung about his face, accentuating his neanderthal features, decided to investigate and had his pitchfork held ready to dispatch whatever sort of vermin was exciting the dog. But he had not expected vermin of the human kind.

  He looked at the desperate beggar in disbelief before making a half hearted lunge at him with the pitchfork. The beggar hastily gathered up his cloak and his small bundle, stumbled over the hay to the jeers of the men, grateful that they were in a good humour and prepared to let him go without a beating. If it had been earlier in the day and their wits had not been dulled by the contents of the leather bottles they carried with them, he might not have escaped uninjured.

  He stumbled away from the barn, running until the men were out of sight and he was sure that nobody followed him. His heart beat so fast he was sure it would burst within him and he sat down against the wall that marked the boundary of the Crosse Hall lands longing for a drink. He still had four pence left so he would make for the town and buy refreshments.

  But he had lost his makeshift lodgings and he needed a safe base if he was to continue to watch. And watch he must...until the affair was ended one way or the other.

  *

  The beggar had filled his belly with warm stew and good ale, purchased with the charity of a rotund burgess of Liverpool who had been on his way home from the Mermaid in a warm ale-glow of benevolence. Now to find somewhere to lay his head for the night. Anywhere warm and dry would do; anywhere out of the damp night air and biting river winds.

  He walked down the quiet evening streets towards the townfield. There were barns there - shelters for the animals - and no inquisitive human eyes: all work on the burgesses’ plots would have been abandoned by sunset. Now - in between the curfew and the hour when the taverns spewed forth their night time drinkers - was the best time to look for a bed without interference.

  He passed the Old Hall, his cloak pulled around him, keeping against the high stone wall that edged the garden of the big house. The first building he saw as he reached the open expanse of the townfield was the old empty mill.

  His heart beat faster. There was a time, a few weeks back, that he had seen the one he feared at the mill’s entrance, probably waiting for the girl. But now all was quiet and he moved silently, pushing open the disintegrating wooden door. He looked about and he could just make out a ladder in the dim light. The upper storey would be more comfortable and would make discovery less likely. He climbed the ladder carefully, testing each rung, and to his surprise it was intact. This was better than he’d hoped. And he found that the boards of the first floor were covered with straw: to the beggar with one hand this was luxury fit for the King himself.

  He settled himself against a pile of filthy sacks and prepared for sleep. There were noises; but then there were always noises in such places where rats and mice scampered to their hearts content, unbothered by humans or cats. After a while, exhausted, the beggar with one hand drifted into a deep dreamless sleep.

  *

  Mires watched the beggar from behind the pile of hay in the corner of the mill’s upper chamber. He looked round the small room he had made for himself, with its straw pallet and hay bale walls. It was such a perfect hiding place. It was a pity that it had to be abandoned.

  Mires sat in his straw-lined cell, stock still, desperate to empty his bladder. When he heard the gentle snores of the one handed beggar, he pushed out a hay bale as carefully as he could and crept past the sleeping man and out into the night.

  It was then the idea came to him. If the beggar’s body was burned - unrecognisable - then the matter would be closed, the problem solved. Mires pulled a small tinder box from the pocket inside his cloak and went to work. With all that straw, the mill should burn well. He said a silent goodbye to the beggar who was soon to perish, and hoped that his soul would burn in hell as his body would burn on earth. Mires did not stay to see the result of his work but made for the castle...and safety.

  It was the smoke that awakened the beggar. And the crackling of flames from somewhere below. His eyes stinging, he rushed for the ladder but the heat drove him back. Then, like a moth, he made for the silvery moonlit square of the window. He could not see what was below but, with a quick prayer, he jumped.

  The old mill, now a tower of flame, began to collapse and crumble. Sailors on the ships moored on the river Mersey watched it, fascinated, as it blazed like a beacon against the velvet sky.

  *

  Thadeus Wharton could not sleep. So it was with some relief that he rose from his bed in the early hours of the morning, summoned by the message that he had a visitor.

  But his heart sank when he saw who was waiting in his private chamber. Something had convinced him that his caller would be Rosina, having left her brute of a husband and come to him at last. During the walk down the chilly stone passageway, he had dared to contemplate the delights that awaited him; Rosina’s final surrender in his bed.

  Mires was the last person he wanted to see but he would not have dared say so to his face. The man still filled him with an unhealthy fear. With the help of Satan, Mires was capable of anything. Wharton greeted him with a geniality he did not feel.

  “My hiding place is discovered. It is burned.”

  “The old mill?”

  Mires turned away impatiently. Why was the man wasting time? “I need somewhere else. Somewhere over the water. I take a risk each time I walk the streets of Liverpool. I know of a place. You must take me there.”

  “Now?”

  “Get your clothes, man. I want to be there before light. And I’ll need supplies. Food...candles.”

  “But...”

  “I’ll say to you what I said to those men of yours guarding the gate. I could ruin you and this garrison with what I know” He grinned unpleasantly. “I’ve been of help to many in this castle.”

  “I shall deny it,” Wharton said, suddenly defiant.

  Mires put his face close to Wharton’s and spoke in a whisper...almost a hiss. “Do not forget, Captain, that I have certain powers. It would not be well to cross me. Do you understand?”

  Wharton nodded nervously. I will get my men to fetch provisions and row you over the river. Where is it you would hide?”

  “I know of a place. There is a chamber beneath the old Priory that will serve my purpose...for the moment. When my business here is finished I shall leave this cursed town and head for London. You shall hear of me no more.”

  “And the business...
when is it to be?”

  “That is your task to find out, Captain. Keep watch and let me know. I wish to know everything. Mark that? Everything.”

  Wharton nodded again. “And in return?”

  “You have your share. And the fair Rosina to enjoy it with.”

  Wharton smiled to himself. With any luck it would soon be over and his visitor would be but a distant and unpleasant memory.

  CHAPTER 13

  Katheryn rose early next morning and resolved to go for a walk. She needed to think. Jane insisting on accompanying her and wanted Will to go too as she was still afraid to venture out unprotected in a town. But Will was cutting wood for the fires so Katheryn was firm.

  “There are not cut-throats lurking around every corner in Liverpool, Jane.” Katheryn said, gently mocking the country girl’s fears. “The town is full of ordinary God-fearing folk going about their daily business. We shall be quite safe alone.”

  “But what about Agnes, my lady? And there was that priest. That makes two people. The town is not safe.”

  “They were not walking down the strand in broad daylight. Now come, Jane, don’t be such a coward.”

  Jane began reluctantly to walk towards the shore. Katheryn was right, she conceded. No harm could come to them on the strand. The place bustled with sailors about their business and fishermen unloading their catches. Some liveried retainers of Lord Derby leaned against the formidable red stone walls of the Tower chatting with the fishermen and choosing the best of the catch for the tables of their household. On the strand, at least, life continued as normal.

  Bartholomew raised a hand in greeting as they passed his jetty. He was busy helping an elderly farmer to load several hens in wicker cages aboard his ferry.

  Katheryn turned and they strolled back slowly along the busy sands. As she passed the chapel of St. Mary del Quay her conscience began to trouble her. Recent events had so much taken up her time and thoughts that she had forgotten to say her offices. A few minutes prayer would make up for some of her omissions.

  “Why do we not go to the big church, my lady?” Jane asked, curious, when she saw where they were heading.

  “This place is more private, Jane. Come, let us go in.”

  She pushed the ancient door open and paused at the entrance while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. As she stepped inside there was a banging sound from near the altar. Katheryn could make out a shape: a man. As he walked towards her she could see he was dressed in the gown of a priest. Then she recognised him.

  “Father James. Good day to you.”

  He did not look straight at her but his eyes darted this way and that, as though planning his escape. “Good day, er...”

  “I am staying with Brother Valentine. My name is Lady Katheryn Bulkeley. I was formerly Abbess of Godstow.” She thought this information might help to gain the man’s confidence since she knew his opinions on the fate of the country’s religious communities. “I came to Liverpool to help one of my sisters but alas she was buried by you some days since.”

  His eyes focused on her face and he visibly relaxed. “Of course, madam. I remember you well. You were at Agnes Moore’s requiem mass. You are staying in Liverpool for long?”

  Katheryn watched his face carefully. “I have resolved to stay until Agnes’s killer is discovered.”

  “It is a terrible thing when violent death comes to one so young and....”

  “Innocent, Father? She had a lover. Did you know that?”

  Jane stood behind Katheryn studying her feet, embarrassed by her mistress’s bluntness.

  “I had heard something of the sort. You must excuse me, my lady, I have urgent business.”

  Father James hurried from the chapel as though the devil himself was after him.

  Katheryn turned to her maidservant. “I think something has disturbed Father James, do you not agree, Jane?”

  “Surely Agnes would not... I mean...he’s old.”

  “Some women prefer an older man, Jane. Not you or I perhaps, but some. Was it my question that disturbed him, do you think? Or did we startle him before that?”

  “I could not tell. But all was not well with him.”

  “I did not cast him in the role of Agnes’s lover. I thought him too passionate about the King’s new laws to concern himself with lower things. Maybe I was wrong.”

  “I do not know, my lady.”

  “Let us have a quiet time of prayer now, Jane. We will seek God’s guidance on these matters.”

  The two women knelt on the stone floor in front of the statue of the Virgin surrounded by her firmament of glowing candles. As she knelt Katheryn found herself wondering what Father James had been doing behind the altar. Agnes had claimed to see the devil behind that same altar. What exactly was Father James involved in that made him so fearful of discovery....if not murder?

  *

  When Father James left the chapel he hurried towards the Mermaid Inn. He ordered ale and sat down by the man he had arranged to meet there.

  “How goes it, Father?” Francis Wells, once cellarer of Birkenhead Priory, whispered conspiratorially.

  “All is well...and ready. We wait only for Estgate.”

  “When will he come again?”

  “Monday at sunset.”

  “Let us drink a toast then, Father. To the Brotherhood of the Five Wounds. May we succeed this time where others failed...God rest their martyred souls.”

  They raised their tankards solemnly and drank.

  Wells leaned forward. “And there is further news. One of our brothers stayed at my inn last night. Today he moves up to Lancashire. Support is growing for our cause. He swears that Lincolnshire and Yorkshire are ready to rise up again.”

  “You are sure?”

  “He seemed most certain. And if we can raise Cheshire and Lancashire... You look fearful, Father. You are still with us, I trust?”

  “Have I not been faithful, Brother?”

  Francis Wells looked at the priest whose face was drawn with strain and worry. “You have, Father. Let us drink another toast.” He lowered his voice. “Let us drink to the demise of our sovereign lord King Henry the Eighth. May his soul rot in hell.”

  *

  Katheryn had resolved to go straight back to Dale Street but as she passed near the Old Hall she noticed the smell of burning hanging in the air. She walked slowly up Mill Street to investigate and looked beyond the main house to where the old mill had stood, now reduced to a pile of smouldering rubble.

  Without a word to Jane she approached the great oak front door of the Old Hall and announced herself to the servant. She was ushered into Mistress Moore’s presence in the parlour and the lady of the house greeted her warily.

  “I see you have had a misfortune, Mistress,” Katheryn began.

  Marjory looked at her enquiringly, taut with disapproval.

  “Your mill. It is burned down.”

  “It was but a derelict shell, my lady. No great misfortune to lose it. I am sure you didn’t come here to discuss my losses.”

  Katheryn hadn’t expected such open antagonism. She chose her words carefully.

  “I came, madam, to pay my respects. And to enquire if you have heard anything of Agnes’s young man. If he is a sailor of this port then he may return at any time to hear the tragic news,” Katheryn said with as much innocence as she could muster. She leaned forward. “Though I did hear a tale that I could scarce believe.”

  “What is that, pray, my lady?” said Marjory coolly.

  “I did hear say that Agnes’s lover was a priest. I am sure it is some nonsense dreamed up by an idle gossip. Do you not think, Mistress?”

  Marjory nodded curtly, her expression giving nothing away.

  Knowing she would discover no more, Katheryn stood. “I will take my leave, madam. Thank you for giving me your time. May God bless you. And I am sure you will join me in praying that Agnes’s killer will be brought swiftly to justice.”

  Marjory made no comment but bade the lady farewell
with as good a grace as she could muster and watched her walk off with Jane towards the town.

  *

  When they were gone Marjory left the parlour and made a swift reconnaissance of the hallway. The servants were all about their business. How glad she was that they were too occupied to pry into the business of their betters. She walked silently down the kitchen passage and out into the herb garden. John the gardener, she knew, was tending to the new knot garden at the east end of the house. There was nobody about as she let herself out of the wooden gate that led to the mill path. The mill, or what remained of it, smoked and smouldered in front of her. As she drew closer she could still feel the heat. She took up a half charred piece of wood and poked about in the rubble. How easy, she wondered, would it be to find a body after such a fire. Would it be recognisable? Would anything remain at all? She dug the wood into the blackened masonry. There was no sign of any human remains. But then, that might mean nothing.