by Kate Ellis
He turned to Valentine and Bartholomew. “The treasure of Birkenhead Priory, brothers...the commissioners did not steal it. They took two small chalices, a jewelled cross and three patens but they got no more. Prior Sharp managed to hide the bulk of it when they came calling. I was saying mass when they came and I helped him....so did Brother Francis the cellarer. At first we hid the treasure in the passageway that leads from the priory crypt to the shore. Then we thought Brother Francis’s corn bins a less obvious place. When the priory was left to ruin we moved it over the water to our hiding place here in the chapel.”
He walked over to the altar and Katheryn followed him. Behind the altar was a sliding panel which James drew aside to reveal a spacious hiding place, big enough to contain the chest she had seen Wharton take across the river.
“When I heard the commissioners were due to visit here, I fixed the panel so that it would move aside. I hid the statue of Our Lady there: I knew that they intended to harm her.” He looked at the fragments on the floor and tears brimmed in his eyes. “She has been good to the people of this town.”
“I ‘m sure God and His Mother hear your prayers, Father James, statue or no statue.” Katheryn touched his arm comfortingly.
James nodded and continued. “When the commissioners left we put Our Lady back in her place where she has stood for hundreds of years, and we brought the priory treasure over here and hid it inside the altar. We thought it would be safe there until we could use it for our work. There was but one moment of danger. It was on St. Matthew’s Eve. Brother Francis was taking a small chalice from the chest to give to Brother John to sell - he needed money from time to time, you understand - when that unfortunate girl, Agnes Moore, came in to pray. I had just entered the chapel and I noticed that Francis, thinking himself alone, had risen up from behind the altar. I did not wish Agnes to see him. If our secret should be known...”
Katheryn smiled. “She did see him. The candles must have cast his shadow on the wall for she thought she had seen the devil: she thought it a judgement for her sins.”
James looked troubled. “The poor child,” he said simply.
“Did Brother Francis see who attacked her?”
James looked down at the floor. “I did not wish to hurt her, just to stun her while we made our escape. I could not risk our secret being discovered.” Katheryn looked at him in disbelief. “I did not know she was with child. I did not wish her to come to any harm. Do you think I have not repented of my sin a thousand times. Yet in a holy cause, maybe it was permissible.” James looked unsure of his ground.
Katheryn stared at James, her heart pounding with fury. “I am sure it is not the Lord’s will that you cudgel my novices to prosper your deeds,” she hissed.
James bowed his head sheepishly as Katheryn turned away from him, trying to contain her wrath. With effort she managed to compose herself. “There is nothing more we can do here, brothers. I fear we shall see no more of Birkenhead Priory’s treasure as I suspect it is gone to line Captain Wharton’s pockets.”
“Wharton threatened us with hanging if we spoke out,” said John Estgate bitterly.
Bartholomew shook his dark tousled head. “I hate to think of the holy treasure of our priory in his filthy hands.”
There was nothing more to be done. Katheryn swept from the chapel, still furious with Father James. She had never thought him to be Agnes’s killer, but now that she knew him to be capable of violence against a young woman she began to reconsider her opinion.
Valentine and Bartholomew followed her, as did Nicholas who was torn between the company of his old friend John Estgate and a desire for a safe escort home with his purse of Spanish gold. The latter won. He bid a hasty farewell to John, inviting him to take a meal with him and Mary when times were better.
When they reached Valentine’s shop, Katheryn went straight to her chamber and prayed that her anger would soon subside.
CHAPTER 20
Valentine was working in the shop when Katheryn came down the next morning. Jane had found her mistress uncharacteristically quiet as she brushed her hair and helped her dress. Something was wrong.
Before Valentine could bid her good morning, the shop door opened and Bartholomew entered, breathless. “I need to talk to you, brother. I know where they have taken the priory treasure.”
Valentine looked sceptical. “It could be anywhere. Wharton’s no fool. He’ll have a safe hiding place.”
Bartholomew shook his head. “I have seen him cross the river often. When he lands on the Birkenhead side, he goes off in the direction of the priory. I think he’s taken our treasure back home, brother. Who would think to look for it there?”
“Even if you are right, who would dare to recover it and risk hanging? I beg you, Bartholomew, don’t let the lure of gold cloud your judgement. Attend to your ferry. It is safer.”
“But...”
“But nothing, brother. Keep out of the matter, I beg you.”
“So you would let that rogue steal it for himself? He will not hand it over to the King, of that I’m sure.”
Katheryn had stayed silent, but seeing Bartholomew’s obstinacy, she felt compelled to speak. “Valentine is right, brother. Unless we have good reason for alerting the constable to Wharton’s treachery, we must let the matter lie. He could betray Father James and John Estgate and they could hang or worse for their treason. Unless we have proof that Wharton is a thief we cannot move against him. He could say he was storing the treasure in a private place for safe keeping until it could be handed to the King’s officers.”
The conversation ceased abruptly as the door opened and a large gentleman of middling height and years stepped into the sweet-smelling shop. The man had a round shiny face and his steel grey hair fell in a fringe round a large bald dome in the centre giving the effect of an exaggerated monk’s tonsure. He wore a rich brown velvet coat over a crisp linen shirt. His demeanour and apparel proclaimed him to be a man of substance.
Valentine greeted him. “Master Crosse, this is an honour indeed. May I introduce Lady Katheryn Bulkeley who is my guest.”
Katheryn smiled and inclined her head. Master Crosse did likewise. Bartholomew stepped into the background, trying to make himself inconspicuous in this auspicious gathering.
Valentine continued. “Please step through to the parlour, Master Crosse. How may I be of service to you?”
After niceties were exchanged, Master Crosse of Crosse Hall, Justice of the Peace and Mayor of Liverpool, seated himself comfortably by the fire and sipped a cup of the best wine Valentine could offer. He quickly came to the purpose of his visit.
“Although I have much pleasure in our meetings, Master Valentine, I am afraid that this time I come on the King’s business. As Magistrate I am to deal with two villains now incarcerated in the town jail.”
Katheryn, seated on the other side of the fireplace, noted that his voice was deep and pleasant. Here was a man who was used to authority, but used it wisely.
Crosse continued. “I am told by the constable that you have visited these men?”
“I did indeed...and Lady Katheryn with me. They are sorry rogues and no mistake.”
“I understand you have some doubt as to their guilt,” said Crosse, concern in his voice.
The men were most fortunate, Katheryn thought, that such a man would decide their case. There were many who would hang them without bothering to question their guilt: the mere fact that they were destitute would be enough to condemn them.
“If I may speak, Master Crosse,” said Katheryn. “I formed some opinion of the unfortunate men.”
Crosse studied her. Valentine clearly valued this woman’s opinions...and the apothecary’s judgement was usually to be trusted. “Pray tell, my lady, what is your opinion?”
“I think the men’s poverty has forced them into wrongdoing,” Katheryn replied with determination. “They admit taking the baker’s purse but they utterly deny the murder of Father Clement and I am inclined to believe the
m. The Father’s hand was severed from his body, if you recall. Master Valentine and I have discovered one who robs graves to obtain such objects for use in the worship of Satan. He is a juggler with yellow hair. We encountered him once but he escaped us. I suggest you order the constable and his men to keep a lookout for him next market day...if he dares to show his face in Liverpool now that his evil has been uncovered.”
“So you are convinced of our rogues’ innocence?”
“Of the murder, certainly.”
“And the crucifix they had in their possession?”
“They said it was given to them by a Father Gregory, a canon of Norton, when they left the service of the abbey there.” She looked across at Valentine. “If you would allow us, Master Crosse, Master Valentine and I would be happy to verify this...if we can find the good Father in question. Would this satisfy you as to their innocence?”
“It would go a long way to convincing me, madam.” He smiled at her, business like. Here was a woman who spoke straight and knew her own mind. If only Mistress Crosse and his giddy daughters had been gifted with such sound common sense.
*
Norton Abbey was a few hours ride away on the far banks of the Mersey near the village of Runcorn and the King’s castle at Halton. Katheryn said a prayer of thanks that the weather had held fair. It was not a journey to be undertaken in the wet. The land around the abbey was prone to flooding; a fact which had caused the Augustinian canons who lived there much concern throughout its history.
The tower of the great abbey church grew closer as they approached. From a distance the buildings seemed intact. The two visitors could almost imagine that they were back in the days of peace before the King’s commissioners had shattered their ordered world, and that they would be greeted as guests by the hospitaller at the end of their journey and taken into the presence of the Abbot in his well appointed lodgings.
But such idle musings receded as they drew nearer. The lead had been stripped from the roofs of church and monastery buildings alike, leaving only the strongest stone walls standing and the wood of the beams and floors rotting and splintering away. The local people had helped themselves to the stone, causing the walls to tumble here and there.
Surprisingly, in the outer courtyard, stood a statue, some eleven feet high. A bearded giant of a man carried a child on his shoulder, his feet immersed in a great block of stone covered in carved fishes. St. Christopher, the patron saint of travellers, looked down on Katheryn and Valentine benignly, blessing their journey. How this great figure had escaped the commissioners’ axes, Katheryn did not know. But she was glad the saint was still intact to guard the abbey as he had done in happier times.
Slowly, on horseback, Katheryn and Valentine rode about the buildings, alighting to enter the doorless, roofless church, its size, tiles and remaining carvings giving an indication of its former glories. The tombs of the abbots and of the Dutton family - once the abbey’s benefactors but more recently the means of its destruction - lay open to the elements; their carvings and recumbent figures wearing away in the river damp and the rain.
The place was silent apart from the song of the birds and the restless stamping of their horses’ hooves.
“We cannot hope to find any of the brothers here,” said Katheryn without emotion.
“Some might serve in churches nearby...or work in other ways. There was an inn we passed on the road. We can ask there and beg a night’s lodging from the landlord: we can’t return to Liverpool before dark.” He suddenly frowned. “If that suits you, Katheryn.”
“If we must stay, so be it. There are many in the land who cannot afford a bed for the night. We must count ourselves fortunate.”
The landlord of the inn, a tall lanky man with a long solemn face which belied his good humour, greeted them effusively. Travellers, he said cheerfully, did not often come this way and he and his good lady would be honoured if her ladyship and her companion would be their guests for the night. They were shown to their rooms by the landlord’s wife who was a short round woman with a retiring disposition; the opposite of her husband.
The rooms were simple but spotless and joined by a communicating door. Katheryn, in a moment of irresolution, wished she had brought Jane or Will with her: in the presence of another there would be no question of temptation. Then she said a quick prayer of contrition for even thinking such thoughts. Her relationship with Valentine had been decided: they were friends...nothing more.
After an ample meal of freshly baked bread, cheese and meat pie washed down with a good strong ale, Katheryn asked the landlord to join them and tell them something of the district. It wasn’t hard to bring the subject round to the Abbey.
“I hear that Abbot Birkett’s out of prison,” said the landlord confidentially. “Though they say he’s much changed.”
“Indeed? How changed?” Katheryn leaned forward encouragingly.
“They say that prison has broken him. I had a man from Chester here a week past. He’d met the poor Abbot and spoken with him. Poor man, he was ever a good landlord to us: and the fathers were much loved in the district.”
“”Do you know what became of any of them?”
“Father Gregory has a post as chantry priest in the church at Runcorn. Father Edmund, Father Theobald and Father John were taken by Sir Piers Dutton and imprisoned in Chester castle with Abbot Birkett. I hear they have now been given their freedom, thanks be to God. I feared they would face the rope.”
“And Father Clement? Did you know him?”
The landlord smiled. “A true Christian man if ever I met one was Father Clement. He was good to us when our daughter died; said her requiem for no fee. Though I don’t know what became of him.”
“I’m sorry to bear bad tidings to you, landlord,” said Valentine softly. “But Father Clement was cruelly done to death by robbers in Liverpool not
long since. He served as chantry priest in the church of Our Lady and St. Nicholas there.”
The landlord made the sign of the cross and looked genuinely upset by the news. Here was one who held a high opinion of Father Clement, whatever others might say. The man shook his head. “We live in terrible times.”
Do any other former monks of Norton live hereabouts?” Katheryn asked, changing the subject. As well as speaking to Father Gregory about the crucifix, she was now full of curiosity about the true nature of Father Clement. The landlord here painted him as a saintly man: in Liverpool she had heard a different story. She wanted to hear the truth.
“There is Father Robert Janyns who farms the Abbey lands. You’ll find his house half a mile east of the Abbey church. He stayed on here and married a local girl...Margaret, the miller’s daughter.” The landlord looked slightly disapproving of this last fact.
There would be no time to find Robert Janyns and ride over to Runcorn before darkness set in. After a brief discussion, Katheryn and Valentine agreed to see the monk turned farmer that afternoon and seek out Father Gregory in the morning on their way home.
Robert Janyn’s farmhouse was easy to find and they were received by a plain, fair haired woman in her thirties whose face was transformed to prettiness when she smiled to greet them. She rocked a wooden cradle with her foot as she wrapped her cheeses in muslin. Her husband Robert, she explained was out in the fields tending the cattle. The little farmhouse was well kept and humbly prosperous. Robert Janyns had not suffered much by the closure of Norton Abbey.
They found him, as his wife had said, in the fields leading down to the River Mersey in the company of half a dozen healthy looking cows. He had the contented look of a born farmer whose land was prospering well.
He greeted his visitors courteously and listened to their questions. As they spoke the expression on his placid, almost bovine, face became troubled. “You ask about Father Clement? I don’t understand.”
“He was a priest near my home in Liverpool,” Valentine explained again patiently. “He was done to death by footpads.”
Robert shook h
is head. “That’s not possible.”
“Please explain,” said Valentine, growing impatient.
Robert Janyns leaned on his stout staff and regarded the cows, calmly chewing the cud around him: it seemed that Janyn’s thought processes were starting to match the pace of his animals. It was no use hurrying him.
“Father Clement was a good man,” he began. “An example to all of us weaker vessels.” He smiled to himself and continued. “There was a worker on our lands who sought his help. He feared his wife was being unfaithful. His name was Walter de Daresbury and his wife was much younger than him...a pretty little thing she was. It seemed that when Walter was away working, the son of our steward would keep her company. Walter was older than his wife as I said and they’d not been blessed with children...but soon Lucy, his wife, was with child.”
“Tongues wagged and fingers pointed and it was said that the steward’s son was the child’s father. He was a wicked lot. He’d gone to Liverpool to work for a wealthy family there for a while but then he came back and we cursed the day he did.” Robert shook his head in disgust. “No maid was safe and he used all folk alike for his own ends. He was bad before he went to Liverpool but he came back worse. There were some said he had powers beyond that of a common man; that he consorted with Satan...but I never knew of it.” He fell silent for a while, ruminating on the nature of evil.