‘Yes –’ began Martin.
‘The inn is a reasonable establishment suitable for our needs,’ said Danforth, cutting Martin off. ‘Mistress Caldwell governs it well, though her husband’s business has carried him abroad.’
‘What’s that? Oh, business abroad! Mercy, but she’s yet playing upon that harp! More to be pitied, I suppose.’
Confused, Danforth and Martin turned to one another. As though scenting easy prey, Mistress Clacher went on. ‘Her husband has no more gone to business abroad than Queen Marie has gone to Normandy, unless whoremongering’s his business. He ran off with a whore – pardon, young widow Blackwood – must be, oh, two years back. Took the whole lot, horses, everything. Off in Ayr, if the bruits be true.’ She smiled broadly, revealing a few nubs of teeth. ‘And his wife reduced to taking in strange men, like an arrant whore. Ha!’
‘Grissell Clacher, you’d better no’ be bletherin’ gossip,’ cut in a new voice. It belonged to a fat, middle-aged woman in her Sunday dun. ‘Forgive her, gentlemen, for she’s mistress o’ the art o’ gabbin’.’
‘You hold your tongue, Mistress Darroch,’ said Clacher. ‘And come and meet these fine young men. They seek to root out the rabble from the Church.’
‘King’s men, are they? Any news o’ the war?’
‘No, they’re in the service of the Archbishop.’
‘The Cardinal,’ said Danforth, exhausted.
‘So you boys will ken, then, news abroad – news fae ootside the burgh?’
‘We travel,’ offered Martin.
‘You woudnae, by any chance, have knowledge o’ the news oot o’ Glasgow?’
‘What news do you seek?’
‘O’ the Brody lassie. Kate.’ Danforth sighed. He was sick of hearing about the missing brat. Martin, however, leaned forward.
‘Only that she’s missing, mistress. Why do you ask?’
‘For ma son. He’s up at the university. He was quite taken wi’ that chit. I widnae have let a marriage take place, o’ course, no’ wi’ how little she could bring tae it. But since she disappeared ... She’s no’ run off tae Glasgow then? Nor naewhere else you’ve been?’
‘Alas, no.’
‘Ach, I didnae think so. She’d want tae get further away fae that father of her, the vicious brute, fae all o’ them. Well, she’s gone right enough. It was all for nothin’.’
‘What was all for nothing?’ asked Martin. Danforth spoke over him.
‘It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ladies, but we have much to do, and little time here. We must away.’ He bowed again, as did Martin, more reluctantly, and the pair retreated down the High Street. After them Mistress Clacher’s voice sounded like a tin drum, ‘You gentlemen come to me if you wish to know anything about the burgh. Seventy-four years of it I’ve kent!’
‘And you lads ask they monks aboot the queans who ride aboot the burgh at nightfall! They think we don’t see them but God gave us eyes tae see and ears tae hear!’ called Mistress Darroch, unmindful of the stares her words drew.
When they had escaped, Danforth exhaled a long sigh of relief and Martin bent double with laughter. ‘Is there a town in the kingdom that does not have creatures like that?’ he asked when he had recovered.
‘Idle, prating old crows? I should think most of the large burghs have a good many.’ He had seen no town, village or hamlet in either Scotland or England that did have a resident fishwife. Creatures like that could be lush fields of information, if one was willing to sort the wheat from the chaff. Or they might be all chaff. Often men were the worst for it. The image of Archbishop Dunbar, with his curtain of greying hair and his sharp, bright eyes floated into his mind. ‘Anyway, we have done it now. That shall be the word out, who we are and what we’re about. We shall have the petitioners at us from dawn till dusk, making nuisance of themselves.’
‘Oh aye? Well, maybe we can make some money out of that, then.’ He winked at Danforth’s knitted brows. ‘Still, that was news about Mistress Caldwell, wasn’t it?’
‘Do you think it? I do not.’
‘Why not?’
Danforth tilted back his head and crossed his arms. ‘What business do you know of that takes a man from his inn and leaves it in the governance of his widow long enough that it falls into disrepair? Her tale did not hold. Yet, having heard the sordid nature of her circumstances, I can understand her clinging to it. Without doubt she will fall into arrears and her house revert to the Abbot.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Martin.
‘And so you are come to esteem the value of thinking.’ He tapped his temple. A look of grudging respect dawned on Martin’s face. Danforth smiled. ‘Now let us hope that it may provide us with more useful knowledge than the state of our inn and its mistress.’
Full of passable mutton pies, Danforth and Martin began their trek through the Bridge Port and over the Cart. Ahead of them loomed the Abbey complex, and they followed its walls around to the great entrance gate. At intervals were recessed statues of saints, looking through sightless, gentle eyes at the monastery’s visitors, offering guiding hands. The wall itself, nearly a mile in circumference, stretched behind and ahead of them, encircling the Abbey’s buildings in a protective embrace.
To their surprise, the gates were open, and no one in the gatehouse. They passed through, Danforth feeling as though they had wandered into some chivalric land of the past. The Abbey church lay not far into the enclosed monastic lands, surrounded by satellite buildings, each of neat grey stone. Around all were clipped lawns, small deer parks with neatly placed trees, and fenced orchards that stretched off to the left of the buildings. Once again came to Danforth the strange idea of how much more beautiful it all must appear when summer was at its peak, when a blazing sun illuminated all without a veil of thick, louring clouds. Despite knowing what the weather would be like he had imagined a grand building – which it was – bathed always in glorious sunlight – which it wasn’t.
‘A quiet place,’ whispered Martin.
‘A place of peace, a place of constancy, as unchanging as Polaris.’
‘I dunno know how a few monks keep it up. Places like this, I’ve seen them in France. There were always heaps of monks at work. Same in St Andrews. In France –’
‘In France, in France! In France it would be this, in France they do that. In France the fountains spout wine and men chew through metal! Well here they do not, Mr Martin. The Cluniacs forbear toiling with their hands. They employ servants and poor folk of the burgh to maintain all, so that they might spend their own lives in silent prayer and gentle learning.’
They struck out on a little path, brushed clear of dead leaves, that curved through the moss-green parklands and past the towering entrance door – closed, to display its carved effigies of St Mirin – to the Abbey church itself. The path passed under the stone arch of a wall leading from the cloister on their left to the outer wall. The peaceful silence of the place was shattered by some loud guffaws, and a stocky, red-bearded man emerged from an out-building, his cheeks glowing. In one hand, he carried a large, stoppered jug. He saw Danforth staring. In return he gave a belligerent look and swaggered past them, arms swinging, in the direction from which they had come. ‘Something is slack here,’ said Danforth, when the man had gone. ‘Something is not right.’
‘Aye, the smell.’
Danforth wrinkled his nose. A sour smell caught in his throat. ‘Eurgh. You are not wrong, Martin.’
‘It’s worse than the burgh, Jesus. Is that the river?’
‘It must be the drain. If Paisley follows Melrose, one of these buildings must lead underground. To a great drain. Then the river.’
‘Great, my foot. Swollen with monk shit. Backed up with bile. Let’s go.’
They found the doors of the Abbot’s House, or the Prior’s House, as it was serving, open: a Romanesque building reared up in provincial self-importance. Inside, another monk sat reading at a lectern. He looked up as they approached.
‘Brother,’ said Danforth, ‘we are in the employ of his Grace Cardinal Beaton and would speak with the Prior.’
‘It’s Sunday, sirs,’ said the steward-monk in gravelly tones. ‘The Prior is upstairs at prayer and would not wish to be disturbed.’
‘Then we are sorry that we must disturb him.’ Already Danforth was rifling under his robes for the Cardinal’s letters of authority. ‘Kindly request us an audience with the Prior. We shall not detain him for a long space.’ The monk slouched from his stool, stretched, and padded up the stairs. When he had gone, Martin turned to Danforth.
‘Odd fellows, these monks, to sit and read with want of company to listen.’
‘This is true,’ said Danforth. He wandered over to the lectern and began scanning the pages. He ran a finger over the doodles in the margin and smiled at the whimsy.
A slight cough brought his attention back to the room, and he stood back from the lectern, folding his arms over his chest as he realised the monk had returned. ‘Pray attend on the Prior, gentlemen. He has broken with his prayers to speak with you.’
They climbed the stairs. ‘The Prior shall not feel the cold in this place,’ said, running his hand over the tapestried walls. Danforth nodded. The building was surprisingly warm, its wall sconces making wavering patterns on the carpeted staircase.
The door to the Prior’s office was open. Inside he stood, his head cocked on one side, the light from a roaring fire playing on his tonsure. No smelly peat fire burned here, but good, clean wood. Crumpled papers were curling in the flames. Beyond the Prior the door to a bedchamber lay open, and a four-poster bed was visible. Danforth saw Martin eyeing it with envy.
‘Gentlemen. I am Alexander Walker, Prior of this blessed Abbey. Brother Adam tells me you are the Cardinal’s men. What news? I can have no commissioners here without the foreknowledge of the Abbot, and will not submit this house nor any of its order to any authority, for none in this realm have authority over us.’ The speech almost seemed rehearsed, stiff. Walker was not an old man, but the fire was merciless in picking out the deep worry lines which scratched their way from the corners of his eyes, and made twin tracks over his lips.
‘His Grace,’ said Martin, putting a hand on his hip, ‘is Primate of Scotland, with full powers of visitation. We can go wherever we feel the urge to go.’
Do not push it, thought Danforth. The Cardinal was not legate a latere, however powerful he might be. Besides, they had come as friends, not enemies. ‘Forgive us, Father, we come not on the king’s business, nor, in faith, on that of the Cardinal.’ This threw the Prior, confusion raising the black slashes of his eyebrows. ‘We are pilgrims, like any other.’
A speculative look crossed Walker’s face. ‘Yet not like any other, I think, when his Grace the Cardinal is your master. What business then brings you to the west? Do you seek lodging here? I have nothing sweetened. The guest house is yet being restored since our fire. The expense of it... the stewarding... You gave no warning, we need warning.’
‘We were brought to Glasgow to seek out the matter of some seditious verses against his Grace, Father; that is all. We are not here to meddle in your affairs, and we lodge in the burgh.’
‘I see. Yes, the news out of Glasgow has carried hither. None here had foreknowledge of it. I promise you, in God’s faith.’
‘That I do not doubt.’
‘Yet there is,’ said Martin, ‘some other matter touching the Church, isn’t there, Mr Danforth?’
‘Yes, sir. Father, by my truth we have been distressed by the behaviour of the people in this burgh in matters pertaining to the Church. Only this morning, at the Mass, we found gamesters at play in the porch of Our Lady. Business was conducted as though there were no sanctity. Your people are ... well, they are wantons.’
The Prior’s face began to flush, and he crossed to his desk, overflowing with papers. Danforth could see that most of them were covered in numbers. Walker leant on it, knocking over an inkwell and hissing. ‘Ugh! Damn it! This the Town Council’s business, sirs, and the Abbot appoints them. I cannot do everything, I am not an Abbot. If it offends you, I suggest you speak to the burgesses. Nay, more, I suggest you take your devotions to the chapel of St Nicholas, or St Roque, where you will not be offended by the boisterous. Blast it, find solutions, not problems.’
Danforth took a deep breath. ‘Peace, Father. We came in good faith, not to make trouble for you or this Abbey. We are all of us in communion. We raise this matter only in case it should bring disgrace on the Church.’
‘And what would you have me do?’ said the Prior, collapsing into a chair. ‘We are a small order, fifteen monks, and without our Abbot. I cannot ... I cannot maintain order over the entire burgh in right of the Abbot without seeking permission, and he in turn from the Holy Father. The Pope, sir, is the true master of this place. The Abbot and the Pope are our only sovereigns.’
‘And so you send letters from here, naturally?’
‘Naturally.’ Walker looked at them with contempt, and cast an arm over the papers. ‘What gave me away, sir? We have a boy rides with haste up and down the kingdom. Bills, account papers, bequests, contracts, I must keep it all going. Our lad knows every fast post rider from Carlisle to Aberdeen.’
‘Then perhaps you will allow us to impose upon you a letter to the Cardinal,’ Danforth reached into his pocket and extracted his letter, ‘advertising that his servants lodge in the town, and that we might likewise be reached through your office. Your good office. If your boy is well hooved, he shall have no trouble finding the army and its messengers. This letter may invite news of the war in return. We lodge at the end of the Oakshawside, along the High Street. Mistress Caldwell’s – or rather Kennedy’s – inn.’ The Prior took the letter in his fingertips, as though it was something unclean.
‘More work, yes? I shall, trusting that it does not contain matter prejudicial to the Abbot’s rights.’
‘I note, Father,’ said Martin, drawing the Prior’s eyes from the letter, ‘that you keep a free house.’
‘What?’
‘Only that we were allowed to come right in without stop or check. The gates lay open.’
‘The gates are locked at night. The Brothers of the order here are not prisoners, sir. I am no gaoler.’ As he spoke, the Prior’s hand curled into a trembling fist. Danforth had the impression of fear. He should have anticipated it. The presence of a great man’s men in distant parts was apt to cause anxiety and suspicion, and suspicion bred jealousy and dislike. When he had first come to Scotland he had met the Prior’s expression every time he opened his mouth.
‘Nor should you be, Father. My colleague mentions this only for your better knowledge.’
‘You’ll be aware also,’ said Martin, ‘that a girl from the burgh, a daughter of the Abbot’s tenant, has gone missing? Angus Brody. Kateryn is the daughter.’ The Prior’s fist fell to the desk. More papers fell.
‘What do you know of this?’
‘Only what I’ve had from my barber.’
‘Barbers! Hmph. A gossiping trade. Stopper your ears.’
‘And more, there was a paper pinned up on the market cross in Glasgow, advertising that the girl had been carried off, not run.’
‘Carried off? What paper, when?’ Martin produced the placard from his pocket. The edges were blunted and the writing faint. ‘Let me see that.’ Martin held it up, but did not hand it over. Walker leant forward, his eyes darting over the page and his lips moving soundlessly. His voice, when he spoke, was strained. ‘Who wrote this?’
‘I can’t say.’ Martin shrugged. ‘She was a servant of yours?’
‘... yes. She was.’
‘And yet you didn’t write this?’
‘Indeed not! No!’
‘Why not? If she’s your servant, or your master’s, you must seek her return. This note says that her father entreats it, and that her discovery is to be reported to the townsmen. The townsmen. Not the Abbey.’ The Prior sat back, silent, staring into nothi
ng. ‘Have you any notion as to the girl’s whereabouts, Father? Alive or ... or otherwise.’
‘No, and nor do any of the order. Why should I? Why should any of us? I know only that her father has turned to drink and neglects his duties here and on the land the Abbot leases him. He will be evicted, the dirty old monster. I have written the Abbot telling ... asking him for advice on how to proceed.’
‘And this girl was happy here?’ asked Martin.
‘What has that to do with the matter, sir? She was here to do a job of work, and that she did with little skill. If she’s gone, good riddance to her, for she was naught but an arrant whore, a temptress. Better she were dead than continue the life she did.’
‘Is that so?’ said Danforth. His arms were crossed, and he drummed his fingers. ‘Hard words.’ An uncomfortable thought had come into his mind: temptresses tempt. Whom did she tempt?
‘Yet the girl has not been spied in Glasgow,’ said Martin. ‘And there is nothing to say she got away at all. She might be kept somewhere, kept close. A prisoner.’
‘What nonsense is this, sir?’ asked Walker. ‘Who would gain by keeping a little jade enclosed? Gone is gone. And she is gone. You said you are pilgrims. I say guests. She is none of your business.’
‘Again,’ said Danforth, holding up a hand, ‘we sought only to enlighten you, but see that the matter is already known. Only fifteen monks, you say ... a small order indeed, for a land of such revenues.’
‘We were founded, sir, by only thirteen. We were of course a greater number until your fellows in the Cardinal’s inquisition burned three of our company for heresy, when the young novice informed against them back in ’39.’ He delivered this without expression. ‘I ... I must return to my devotions, my business.’ He put his hand to his forehead, kneading it. ‘Pray get you gone, gentlemen. You may look over the grounds. You will find everything in order. There is nothing here which could bring disgrace on our Mother Church, nothing. Lend no ear,’ he added, his voice turning silky and vicious, ‘to any slanderous words that the people of the burgh might say about our community. The lass is neither murdered nor harmed, and there is no proof to the contrary. I would not have our monastery pulled down for idle rumours, as they were wont to do with the great houses of England.’
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