The Bell Tower

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘I came back because I wanted to be with you,’ I said. ‘If that meant learning Latin and literature and all those other things, I was prepared to learn them. For you. Because I adored you from the very first.’

  ‘You should only use that word “adore” about God.’

  This was Seamus remembering he was a monk and reminding me of the fact. He forgot sometimes, and on the nights he forgot the most thoroughly, he came to my cottage in the monastery grounds.

  ‘But,’ I said, ‘it wasn’t until I was grown up that you fell in love with me, I do know that.’

  ‘Thaisa, we shouldn’t talk about love between us,’ he said, in a suddenly ragged voice. ‘I’m nearly twenty years ahead of you and a monk. I’m the Abbot of this monastery, may God help me. And you’re a pagan child of eighteen.’

  ‘How can I be a pagan after spending my life with monks?’

  ‘You’re a pagan when you’re here in my bed, Thaisa. And this – what we’re doing now – what we’re about to do—’

  ‘Again,’ I said, and saw amusement darken his eyes. ‘Is this pagan, too?’

  ‘This,’ he said, ‘is a mortal sin. And so is this – and, oh God, Thaisa, this also …’

  He was pulling me against him again and his mouth tasted sweet and sinless, and I would have killed for him and I would have died for him.

  He did not say he loved me. He never did. But afterwards his arms stayed tightly around me and I wanted to remain like that for ever.

  Today Seamus has told the monks he will address the community before supper in the refectory, and that everyone must be present.

  Brother Cuthwin thinks it will be about the Bishop’s Visitation, which followed the monks’ celebration of St Benedict’s Revels, but I have a premonition that it is something far worse.

  I shall be in the refectory with them. No one will find it unusual, because I have always been free to go in and out of the monastery as I wish. I shall wear my green gown. Seamus once said I looked like a wood nymph in that gown. I do not look in the least like a wood nymph in – or out of – any gown at all, but I stored the remark away to unfold when I am alone.

  I know it is foolish and vain to be thinking of what I shall wear and how I shall look, but if something is going to happen to me tonight, no matter what it is, I want to meet it looking my best.

  My world is in ruins and lies at my feet in painful, splintered shards.

  Two nights ago Seamus addressed the monks as he had announced. It was not my lover of all those enchanted, forbidden nights who stood before them, though; that man had gone and in his place was the Abbot of St Benedict’s, implacable and ruthless.

  The monks would have thought it was chance that had made their Father Abbot stand in front of the newly fitted coloured-glass window, so that the setting sun irradiated him and the light showered over him like a rose and gold cloak. It was not chance at all, of course. In fact Seamus had probably marked the floor earlier so that he knew the exact spot where the dying sun’s glow would fall.

  ‘As most of you know,’ said Seamus, ‘Master Thomas Cromwell is compiling a survey of the country’s monasteries and their wealth for the King.’

  The monks nodded. This was the Valor Ecclesiasticus, regarded with much suspicion.

  ‘Cromwell’s men,’ said Seamus, ‘are visiting a great many of the religious houses.’ He paused. ‘This morning,’ he said, ‘a message came to say the Commissioners are to visit us.’

  There was a murmur of consternation. The monks all knew how Master Cromwell was closing religious houses across the land, scattering the monks and nuns as he went. Most of us knew, as well, of the brutality that was often employed in the scattering.

  ‘Might they close this house?’ asked Brother John, worriedly.

  ‘If they find a reason, they will not hesitate.’

  A reason. It might have been my imagination that Seamus’s eyes flickered to me. But he only said, ‘They will search for evidence of misbehaviour. So, during the visit, you will all behave with dignity and modesty. You will be pious and devout, and you will show complete obedience. There will be no rebellious mutterings or plans for deception. If you are asked about the monastery’s possessions, you will not lie.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said several voices, shocked.

  ‘There is another matter,’ said Seamus, and I felt a twist of nervousness because a coldness had entered his voice. A sudden silence fell; then, into that waiting silence, Seamus said, ‘Thaisa is to leave us for a time.’

  A kind of murmur of understanding went through the refectory, as if the monks were saying – or perhaps only thinking – ah, yes, of course, Cromwell’s men must not find Thaisa here. We do not say any more and we do not ask questions, but certainly Thaisa must not be found. I think several of them looked at me with pity, but I was in no case to know, because the room, with its mellow evening sunlight and the familiar scents of beeswax and old leather books and serenity, had splintered and was spinning around me. For a dreadful moment I thought I was going to faint, there in front of them all. It might have been minutes or hours later that I was able to listen again.

  Brother Cuthwin was asking, somewhat hesitantly, where I was to go.

  ‘To a house owned by the Order.’

  ‘Another monastery? Surely that would not be—’

  ‘Not another monastery,’ said Seamus. ‘She will go to a small house in the town of Oxford.’

  ‘Oxford?’ said Brother John. ‘I didn’t know we had property in Oxford.’ John is the monastery’s Prior and responsible for finances.

  ‘There are a few small houses there,’ said Seamus. ‘Four in all, I believe.’ His brows had slanted in the familiar, daunting way, but Brother John, a conscientious soul, pressed on.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father Abbot, but how long have we owned these houses? I’ve never seen mention of them in our inventories. When were they purchased? From whom?’

  ‘They have been bequeathed to us,’ said Seamus, staring at his Prior coldly. ‘By Squire Glaum.’

  ‘Why would Squire Glaum bequeath something as valuable as property?’ asked John.

  ‘Perhaps he wishes to acquire merit in the eyes of God.’

  ‘Father Abbot, if this has been the selling of indulgences or absolution—’

  ‘I sold nothing,’ said Seamus, so sharply that John flinched. ‘I gave no pardon or absolution for any sins in return for the properties. No payment was made of any kind.’

  ‘I am sorry if I seemed to suggest otherwise,’ said John, after a moment.

  ‘Whatever sins Edward Glaum has committed are between him, his maker, and his confessor,’ said Seamus.

  There were several murmurs of understanding. Edward Glaum’s fondness for the ladies was well known, but he was generally thought of as kindly.

  ‘I suppose,’ said John thoughtfully, ‘that the houses will yield some income for us?’

  ‘I have no idea. The rents are a peppercorn,’ said Seamus, sounding uninterested.

  ‘Oxford is a long way from here, Father Abbot.’

  ‘Four days’ journey. Not beyond our reach,’ said Seamus. ‘And one day we may need to hide something, and to do so a long way from Rede Abbas. That is one reason why I accepted the bequest.’

  ‘Hide something?’ asked Cuthwin, anxiously. ‘What kind of something, Father?’

  ‘Cuthwin, you must be aware of the religious turmoil taking place in the land,’ said Seamus, impatiently.

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Cuthwin, who always shut his eyes and his mind to anything unpleasant.

  ‘The shape of religion is changing,’ said Seamus. ‘There may come a time when we need to hide our beliefs and even our very selves.’ With that – and without so much as a glance at me – he turned on his heel and went out of the refectory.

  So there is my world, rent asunder and the pieces tossed to the carrion crows. I am to be sent away, to this place, this Oxford. Oxford. I already hate it. I hate even the name. It sounds slow
and heavy and mindlessly plodding. An ox is a creature of burden, used to pull ploughs and farm carts. Fords are crossings over rivers or streams – thick cold stones or massive slabs of timber that echo dully when you step on them.

  Seamus touched lightly on the changing times and on how religion is being forced into different shapes, but all of us at St Benedict’s know the stories. We know of the brutal punishments inflicted on the Carthusian monks who would not take an Oath of Supremacy to the King. Some of those monks were beheaded. Some of them were hanged. None of us believe the whispers that some of the monks were burned alive.

  This morning the monks are preparing for the visit of Master Cromwell’s men, scurrying back and forth, tidying everywhere, cleaning everything, and, I should think, in some cases, concealing items they think are better hidden.

  I have been putting a few things into a carpet-bag which Brother John has found for my journey to Oxford, although I have no idea what I should put in, because I have never been away from Rede Abbas. I do not know what people take with them on journeys.

  Most of the monks have found time to come to my cottage to wish me goodbye, Godspeed, safe travels. They will all remember me in their prayers.

  Brother John has given me a Book of Hours, created in the scriptorium, with beautiful illuminations. The scriptorium is actually a rather cramped recess in a corner of the library, where Brother Angus illuminates religious texts, often grumbling about the lack of space and light. But his work is truly exquisite, and I am touched to have the book.

  ‘We shall miss your light burning in this window,’ John said sadly, standing in my cottage. ‘It was like a small beacon in the dark night.’

  The light had usually been left there for Seamus to find his way from the monastery’s side gate, down the moss-covered steps and through the rose garden. It always seemed to me very right that Seamus should come to me through those flowers of ancient romance – scented fragments of Persia and Isfahan, their perfume heady and drowsy, lying on the air like mandragora, the sleep-juice, the love-syrup of the poets …

  I could not say any of that to Brother John, of course.

  Cuthwin has brought me a flagon of the monastery’s mead, and some honey cakes for sustenance on the journey. He says the monks are hatching plans for concealing the monastery’s most valuable possessions. They will bury the ciborium and the patens in the gardens, and somebody has suggested hiding several things beneath the floor of the privy.

  ‘Father Abbot is pacing the monastery looking like Lucifer newly come from the dark kingdom of hell,’ he said. ‘We’re afraid the Bishop might have talked about the last Revels festivities, and that Cromwell’s men will seize on that as a reason to close down our house. Lewdness and debauchery, you see, Thaisa, that’s what they’d call it. Lewdness and debauchery,’ he repeated, examining the words with the curiosity of the innocent.

  Oh, Cuthwin, if only you knew of the real debauchery that has been going on in these buildings. I do not believe that Master Cromwell’s men will class the singing of a colourful song on St Benedict’s Feast, and the quaffing of a few tankards of mead as sufficiently debauched or lewd to close the monastery.

  But if they were to find other evidence?

  If they were to find that Seamus Flannery had been in the bed of a young girl in his care, not once, but on many nights … If they knew that girl was to have a child as a result … They would seize on that hungrily. And then what would happen to Seamus?

  Seamus has not spoken to me since I told him I am to have a child. I dare not seek him out, because I am afraid he may tell me that my banishment is to be for ever.

  Tonight I hate him. I hate him deeply and strongly. But I have put the light in the window and I am sitting in the rocking chair that was made for me in the monks’ workshop. I do not want to go to bed, because it will be the last time I shall do so here. I feel sadder and more alone than I have ever felt in my whole life.’

  When Thaisa wrote about the child and about leaving Rede Abbas, I was so deeply affected I had to set her book down for a moment.

  The little clock over the hearth has just chimed three o’clock. The sound startled me; I had not realized so many hours had passed since I sat down with Thaisa’s diaries.

  A few moments ago I went softly up the stairs. Theodora was deep in sleep, curled up on the narrow bed. I looked down at her, and I thought, She’s a descendant of Thaisa. She bears the same surname – Eynon. And she has the music, she has ‘Thaisa’s Song’.

  I stooped down to pull the cover more warmly over her shoulders. She smiled, as if something of the gesture had reached her, and her hand curled as if to take hold of something invisible and keep it safely. But she did not wake.

  And now I’ve returned to my candlelit corner and the window overlooking the court, and I’m reaching for Thaisa’s diaries again.

  It had not occurred to me that Seamus would accompany me to Oxford, but he simply appeared outside my cottage as the cart jolted up, and got into it with me. He made some remark about seeing the houses bestowed on us by Squire Glaum so the monastery could properly manage them, but he spoke in a tone which precluded – indeed, forbade – any questions. Other than that he said nothing, and I said nothing either, because before we had gone more than a short way out of Rede Abbas I started to feel dreadfully sick.

  I do not remember much about the journey – only the jolting of the carts we travelled in, and the fact that I spent the hours curled into a tight huddle of misery. I am convinced my malaise was due to the unborn child protesting, but Seamus says sickness is a frequent occurrence with travellers.

  I do recall that we ate in inns that I found noisy and bewildering, and twice we stopped at other religious houses. I remember Cranbourne Priory and Sherborne – both Benedictine houses. They, too, awaited visits from Cromwell’s men, and they were clearly apprehensive.

  Seamus was courteous and completely at ease in all these places. Once I said, ‘You have travelled a good deal, I think?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and the shuttered look came down, so that I did not dare probe further.

  Seamus had said that Oxford was quite a small place – ‘Although there’s talk of it being made a city.’

  But to me it was huge and filled with people. The sounds and the crowds of people bemused me.

  ‘Most of the people who live here depend on the university,’ said Seamus. ‘The students provide a large market for most goods. Ale, food, clothes. Oxford is full of craftsmen who supply all those items.’

  When he talks like this, I am strongly aware that I have never been outside the small village of Rede Abbas until now.

  I never imagined a place like Glaum’s Acre. It’s a huddle of stone buildings, set in a square around a small courtyard, and it’s near a busy thoroughfare. The house is larger than my cottage at Rede Abbas, and there is furniture, although I have no idea whose it is.

  It is strange to think that this all belongs to Squire Glaum. It is even stranger that he gave the houses to the monastery.

  There is a deep wide bed in one of the upper rooms, and Seamus lay with me in that bed last night.

  This morning he told me he has found a woman who will help me through the birth, when it comes. I suppose he is paying her for this, but I have not asked him.

  The woman’s name is Madge and she is a homely soul to look at, but full of common sense and helpful advice and a warm kindness. She has come to the house several times since Seamus returned to Rede Abbas. I never had a friend of this sort before, and I am glad to have her.’

  There is a break in Thaisa’s journal at this page, and it looks as if some sections have been torn out – or perhaps they have only crumbled away with the centuries. There are also a number of pages where the writing is all but obliterated by having something spilled on them. It is difficult to estimate the time that elapses between the entries, but in some cases it could be many weeks – even months.

  However, the next part of Thaisa’s story I coul
d decipher, began with her referring to a ‘terrible event’ that had occurred.

  EIGHTEEN

  Today a terrible event occurred.

  Seamus has returned to Rede Abbas, but Madge is with me, and she and I had walked to a nearby street market to buy food and provisions. This is something that is new to me, and I have had to learn how to hand over money for the goods and demand a cheaper price. I like the market; I like seeing the people and listening to them exchanging talk.

  Beyond the market is a square, enclosed by tall buildings. It is usually a quiet place, but today people were massing there, talking furtively in little groups.

  ‘It’s a burning,’ said Madge, her voice suddenly fearful. ‘They’re going to burn someone. For heresy, probably.’

  I remembered the whispers we had heard in Rede Abbas, and I said, ‘But burnings don’t really happen. They’re just stories to frighten people.’

  ‘Are they? Look there, Thaisa.’

  At the centre of the square was a grim outline – a jutting spike, eight or nine feet tall. Bundles of wood were heaped around it, and there was a small brazier nearby, glowing and sending shivers of heat out.

  ‘Someone will be chained to that,’ said Madge, ‘and the kindling around it fired.’ I shuddered, and she said at once, ‘So we’ll walk past it and go straight home. No one should have to see this.’

  But the square was becoming crowded, and we became hemmed in, backed against one of the buildings. A dreadful excitement lay on the air and I began to feel sick. The child stirred uneasily, sending a tremor of dull pain through my womb.

  A man near to us pointed. ‘They’re bringing him out,’ he said.

  ‘Is he struggling?’ asked another hopefully, standing on tiptoe the better to see.

  ‘Of course he’s struggling,’ said the first man. ‘Refused to take the Oath of Supremacy is what they’re saying.’

  ‘Daft, I call it. It’s only a few words.’

  ‘He says it’ll risk his immortal soul to say them, though. More fool him.’

  As the doomed man was dragged out, there was an uncertain cheer. A small wind blew across the square and the hot smell of the brazier gusted into my face. The sick feeling and the cleaving pain worsened.