by Clio Gray
The Barberini wasps swiftly shifted into bees to reinforce his power, their trigon seen all over Italy: sculpted into Bernini’s fountains, crawling up the great serpentine columns of St Peter’s, sewn in gold in its famous baldachinno, painted impossibly large on the vast ceiling of the newly built Barberini family seat at Quirinal and also, much later, on Maffeo’s tomb, the odo sanctitatus of his decaying body drawing the stone bees back to live, or so the pilgrims – who saw them shift in the shadows of the mausoleum – swore. Drawing the bees back to life but not Hendrik. Not yet. Not yet.
Greta arrived – after several hours walking – at the Servants of the Sick, the latest in a long line of Irish to pass through its gates, it being the first outpost of safe houses on the Continental Road to Exile established a decade previously by Mogue Kearns himself.
She rang the bell and, when a monk appeared a few minutes later, she spoke the phrase Shauna had made her practice, a halting version of the Dutch, meaning My name is Joseph Finnerty, come from Ireland on the way to France. The monk smiled and nodded though did not reply, presumably knowing she wouldn’t understand, instead indicating that she should follow as he led on. He took her directly to the Abbot who, before his entry into the Servants forty three years previously, went by the name Padraig O’Shaunessy, of the O’Shaunessy’s of Cork.
‘Welcome,’ the Abbot said, though Greta hardly heard him for already she was taking out one of Fergus’s letters, brandishing it in front of him, stabbing at it with her finger.
‘I need to find this Brother Joachim,’ she said slowly, also taking out the flimsy scrap of broadsheet that was hardly more than a wisp, waving it towards the Abbot’s face.
The Abbot looked at Greta with curiosity.
‘Will you not sit?’ he asked politely. Greta sat, and then suddenly looked up at the Abbot.
‘You’re Irish?’ she asked, forgetting to keep her voice low in her astonishment.
‘Once Irish, always so,’ he countered, ‘no matter where we end up. And you, who are you?’
‘Joseph Finnerty,’ Greta said without hesitation, the Abbot noticing the studied drop of pitch, the way she pulled her ankles together, putting one foot behind the other, laying one hand upon her lap while still holding her letter up with the other. It was plain as a pikestaff to the Abbot of the Servants of the Sick – as it had not been to the skipper O’Rourke – that this was a girl. It wasn’t the first time a person of the female persuasion had attempted to infiltrate their ranks on the lookout for some long lost beau, brother or father. He wasn’t fooled for a moment by the ridiculously large boots that didn’t in the slightest match the rest of her, but he was intrigued.
‘And you’re here for why?’ he asked gently.
Greta dithered, not wanting to go into a long explanation about Fergus and Vinegar Hill.
‘It’s a bit complicated,’ she said. ‘But basically I’m here because Mogue Kearns said…well never mind that just now, but I’ve a letter to deliver to a man named Brother Joachim who bides here.’
She laid her letter and the small broadsheet cutting upon the Abbot’s table.
‘To Golo Eck,’ he read out loud, ‘care of Brother Joachim at the Servants of the Sick in Walcheren, and if not there then care of Hendrik Grimalkin of the Athenaeum Library in Deventer, Holland, and if not to Golo Eck himself then to Hendrik Grimalkin.’
And the cutting, barely legible, that described the wrecking of the Collybuckie. The Abbot took his time studying both, not immediately reacting.
‘So is he here?’ Greta asked, leaning forward eagerly. ‘This Brother Joachim? And the other one too?’
The Abbot was not so easily inveigled into giving out information he wasn’t sure he should give.
‘Why do you need to know?’ he asked, making Greta squirm in her seat. She grimaced, but made a choice.
‘Because a man called Fergus Murtagh gave these to me to bring on and deliver, and I promised.’
The Abbot lifted his eyebrows.
‘You promised,’ he repeated slowly. ‘And you came all this way to the Servants just to deliver a letter?’
‘Well no,’ Greta said, uncomfortable, thinking how well this Abbot would have got on with Mick Malloy, both able to squeeze information out of you before you were even aware you were being squeezed. ‘I was kind of coming anyway. Bad times back home,’ she added without going into detail, ‘and Mogue told me to get out, and it was only when I was getting out that I realised that these letters… well…the fact is that Fergus gave them me and I forgot all about them till I was already on my way over, and now that I’m here…well…’
She tailed off, wondering if she’d said too much, or maybe too little, but the Abbot on the other side of the table only nodded, tapping his finger against the wood.
‘So this wasn’t the only letter…Fergus gave you?’
Greta swallowed, decided to come clean. This was, after all, a safe house, a link in the chain to France she meant to follow, but how to get to Wolfe Tone when she got there she’d no idea. Maybe an Abbot could do better.
‘One more,’ she murmured, laying it by its brother’s side, the Abbot leaning in with interest.
To Wolfe Tone, of the French Revolutionary Council in Paris, leader of the Irish Legion of Napoleon, on behalf of Golo Eck, from Loch Eck in Scotland.
And now it was the Abbot’s turn to be wrong-footed and unable to hide his surprise.
‘And do you know any of these people?’ he asked.
‘Um, I don’t,’ Greta admitted. ‘I mean I know about Wolfe Tone of course. He was supposed to get his soldiers to Ireland before Vinegar Hill to help us, but that didn’t work out too well.’
She scrunched up her eyes to stop the tears that were on their way and the Abbot saw it.
‘It went badly,’ he said, without judgement or question.
‘Very bad, Father,’ Greta answered, unaware of the appellation she had used. ‘Very bad. But some are still alive, and there’s still some hope…’
‘So you got yourself up in your boy’s disguise and came here,’ the Abbot stated.
Greta started visibly. She’d not expected this. She’d been travelling as a boy for so long, using her brother’s name, it never occurred to her that this man, this Abbot, could see through her as if she was made of glass. She narrowed her eyes and puffed out her cheeks.
‘What difference would it make, if I was?’ she said stoutly ‘A girl I mean.’
She might have said more but in truth she was too tired, and now she’d stopped moving her feet were hurting again. The two thick pairs of woollen socks bulking out her feet in her too big boots – boots that had once belonged to Shauna’s youngest son – were damp and scratchy. She couldn’t wait to shake everything off: boots, socks and pretence. She stared back at the Abbot until he smiled and held up his hands.
‘It makes no difference to me,’ he said after a short pause, ‘but it’s going to make your travelling harder.’
‘Used to it,’ Greta said, but her defiance was empty.
‘And your name?’
‘Greta,’ said Greta shrugging her shoulders. ‘Greta Finnerty.’
‘Well, Greta,’ said the Abbot amiably, ‘the curious thing is that I know both these names on your first letter, and I may know how to deliver the second.’
Greta let out a breath as a rapidity of thoughts blundered about in her head. This was amazing! She wasn’t all that bothered about the letters themselves but she did want to find the people they were addressed to because there was a faint chance they would know how to work the stringy thing properly, and that could mean the saving of Ireland.
‘So when can I speak to this Golo person?’ Greta’s green eyes sparkled with an anticipation that was quickly quashed.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said the Abbot. ‘He’s dead, has been for some while.’
‘Oh for f…’ Greta bit back the expletive, her cheeks going pink as she shot an embarrassed glance at the Abbo
t, who was smiling benignly in return.
‘All is not lost, young Greta,’ he said. ‘Golo Eck is certainly dead, interred here in our graveyard, but he has a next of kin who will be most glad to receive your missive.’
He didn’t add what he knew of Hendrik Grimalkin, not yet. He wanted to ruminate on the situation a while, see if he couldn’t untangle the threads. It seemed incredible that all these separate lives had converged on Walcheren, and the Servants in particular, and although God’s ways were often mysterious they were never without purpose.
‘You must be tired, and hungry, young Greta. Why don’t I get someone to take you to the refectory, get you something to eat? Then you can meet our Brother Joachim. In the meantime I can take care of your letters for now,’ he said, ‘unless you’d rather…?’
‘I’d rather,’ Greta replied by reflex, snatching up the letters and scrap of broadsheet, the messenger never giving up the message except to its direct recipient. ‘But food now, that sounds grand.’
‘Very well, then,’ the Abbot said, standing and shepherding Greta out into the courtyard, summoning Brother Eustace from the goat shed because he knew the man spoke English rather well and would be keen to have someone to practice on, Brother Eustace – as predicted – delighted to oblige, twittering away like a particularly restless sparrow the moment he had Greta on her own.
‘So from Ireland?’ Brother Eustace began enthusiastically as he led the way. ‘I know about Ireland.’
The refectory was empty, apart from a man sweeping the bristles of his broom across the floor somewhere towards the back, and Greta was relieved that Eustace seemed happy to carry on his conversation singlehanded. He sat her down, brought her some very welcome leek and lentil soup.
‘Great place for missionaries, Ireland,’ Eustace chattered on. ‘Gave us St Padraig, and let’s not forget Columba. Of warrior aristocracy he was, went over to Scotland and brought its heathen into our fold.’
He flitted off again, returning with more soup, this time with some bread and butter.
‘And so you’ve come to see our Brother Joachim? Well, how exciting! He’s not like the rest of us, you know. A soldier first, just like St Columba. Came to us in middle life. Abandoned his family in Deventer to join us.’
Greta glanced up, recognising the word, aware that the man sweeping his broom had stopped just as she had. She glanced over at him and frowned. She supposed Brothers were just as good at eavesdropping and gossip as anyone else but it didn’t sit well with her, knowing too well how wrong words in wrong places could cost people dear, it going against the grain.
Brother Eustace leapt off again, coming back this time with a bowl of honey looking like liquid amber just poured from the comb. Greta couldn’t remember the last time she’d had honey, let alone so good, and eagerly dipped the remaining bread in it, nodding her thanks.
‘Enjoy, enjoy!’ said Brother Eustace, pleased at Greta’s evident enjoyment, before picking up the previous thread of his one-sided conversation.
‘Deventer,’ he mused. ‘Such a grand place and with such history. Never been there myself, but as a Dutchman naturally I’m proud. Had one of the first proper printing presses in Europe, and is the birthplace of Geert de Groote and his Brethren of the Common Life – Protestant leanings, of course,’ Brother Eustace tutted, ‘but such worthy goals. They brought books to schools and libraries all over Europe, and then of course Erasmus was among their number, as was Johannes Heckius – one of Deventer’s greatest sons, despite, well…I’ll not go into that. But Thomas à Kempis was of the Brethren too and if one has ever read his Meditations on the Life of Christ or the Hospitale Pauperum – of particular interest to us, of course – well, what can one say? Such words and so well put. And then there was Adrian Dedel, another of their number before he went on to become Pope Hadrian VI…’
Brother Eustace finally drew to a stop when he noticed Greta was beginning to snooze where she sat over her empty bowls.
‘Come on,’ he said gently, lifting her by the elbows, depositing her in one of the small guestrooms. It was tiny, a bucket in one corner for a latrine, a small table on which was placed a jug of water for washing alongside a rough cotton towel, the rest of the space taken up by a thin straw-stuffed mattress onto which Greta gratefully subsided, tugging off her boots, pulling off her socks, before laying down and sleeping the whole night through, best night’s sleep she’d had since she’d left Shauna’s.
Ruan was still in the library, pacing up and down the aisle, face puckered with indecision. He’d been all set to go stamping up to the Singel to gawp and then off to the lawyers, but undoubtedly they’d already heard the news and anyway it didn’t feel right to leave Hendrik on his own. He’d owed the man. If it hadn’t been for him Ruan’s Great Adventure would have been scuppered as surely as the Collybuckie had sunk.
He took another walk back down the library and went further this time towards Hendrik, curled and hunched within the acreage of green leather. It blew into his head how badly he’d misjudged Hendrik and Louisa on first call, and how the sudden excision of one from the other was like leaving a sentence partway said. Half-marrowed, they would have called it back home, husband and wife weaved together so closely no one saw the seams until they were ripped back to the quick, a modicum of compassion entering him to see it so starkly illustrated.
‘Mr Grimalkin?’ Ruan began. ‘Hendrik?’
He got no more response than earlier. Hendrik was awake, eyes open, flicking from one side to the other as if he was reading, which in a way he was. The bees were long flown through the windows of his mind but they’d left the footprints of the Lynx behind them. House was gone, books were gone, wife was gone, but Golo Eck’s fixation on the Lynx remained, caught like a hook inside him, a path to follow, a way to tread, a life-line to hang onto, the ragged root of a tree on a riverbank he could use to haul himself out of the surging waters that were trying to pull him under.
‘Hendrik?’ Ruan said again, but could see it was useless. Hendrik’s mind was elsewhere.
Hendrik’s mind was conjuring up the rest of the letter he’d found in the archives, filling in the blanks he could not remember, those leaves swirling again, making patterns, forcing meaning out of chaos, transported elsewhere, into someone else’s life, a life that was at its start, surging with expectations and better things to come.
Having left the trees that were rocks or the rocks that were trees, Federico went to the summerhouse he called his study. He had a table there, knocked together from an old stable door he’d sanded smooth and propped on a few lengths of discarded fence posts for its legs. He’d erected several shelves to hold his books and journals, and a rough cabinet that held three badly fitting drawers. He could have asked one of the estate’s craftsmen to do all this for him but there’d been a certain satisfaction in doing it himself, without anyone’s knowledge, creating his secret space out there on the edge of the estate where his parents rarely went.
He lit a lamp, took out parchment, pencils, quills, ink, wax block, candle and seal and sat a while looking out of the window at the low crouch of the hills, the blue strip of sky diminishing as the sun descended below the line of his horizon to shine on different places, different continents, that had day where he had night, if Galileo – and Copernicus before him – were to be believed.
And believe them he did, absolutely and without question, knowing they were right and that he was a tiny speck upon a world that was spinning madly through space, one world amongst the many that were spinning out there just as madly as was his own, all adrift within a universe that might conceivably be without end.
Where his father’s God fitted into this framework of new physics he didn’t know, only that maybe He was somehow the whole of it. Like the mosaic of the Christless Entry into Ephesus in the Cesi Palazzo’s hall floor, God had no need to be painted in by human hand but would be there of His own accord, implicit in every brush-stroke, every piece of glass the craftsmen made. Likewise He would be
in every wandering planet, every star, was maybe everywhere all at the same time, not outside the universe but implicit in every tiny detail of it, everywhere and everything in the whole marvellous plenitude that was waiting to be explored.
He had the conviction, did Federico Cesi, that he’d been called upon to do just that: explore it and bring others with him. Believing it to be so he pulled some sheets of paper from the ream at his side, took up a pencil, and on the first piece of paper wrote four names: Francesco Stelluti, Anastasio De Filiis, Johannes Eck, Walter Peat. Beside each name he made small sketches, devising mottos and emblems, jumping up several times to refer to his journals, to his books, his stacks of letters.
His new Society, his Academy of the Lynx, was about to break forth like a chick from an egg. It might have to remain secret in these church-heavy times, at least for now, like a bride beneath her veil, but Federico Cesi was not going to be stopped, and no more would be the men who would soon join him at Aquasparta, ready, willing and able to wed his Academy to the world.
Hendrik saw the scene in front of him as if it had been given form. Present, all four of Federico’s documents signed and sealed, spread upon his desk in his little summer house, and Federico Cesi looking once again out of his window into the night. Il Celivago – the name he’d given to himself, the wanderer of the heavens – doing exactly that, finding the bright white light of Venus hanging like a cohort to the rising moon.
It was a sign that he was on his right path; a sign that acted at a distance, traversing time and place so that Hendrik could follow it too. The leaves from the stream broke away, reconfigured, creating patterns of their own, affording Hendrik glimpses of their underlying order, a bridge between past and present on which he was stood, watching the water, watching the leaves, a sudden strong conviction that the bridge was real, that the present – his present – was an inevitable consequence of Golo’s ancestral past.
The Abbot at the Servants had come up with a plan. It was audacious, but he’d not come upon it lightly. After Greta had left him he’d thought of little else, working all the ramifications through and through until now, in the bold light of morning, he was rather pleased with himself. He knew from Brother Eustace that Greta had not yet spoken to Brother Joachim, had instead retired directly after having eaten and had only just emerged. So much to the good, as far as the Abbot was concerned. Time to put his plan into action.