The Abbey Close

by Steven Veerapen

  5

  A frowning Martin turned to Danforth. ‘He’s a tart fellow. Not at all what I pictured. I thought he’d be a jolly old fat man, old and doting, all cheerful and scatter-brained. Not a skinny, tart one.’

  ‘Nor a worried one.’

  ‘You saw that too?’

  ‘I could not do otherwise,’ sighed Danforth. They were out in the Abbey’s grounds, the smell of rot drifting towards them in the breeze. ‘The man governs weakly in want of the Abbot, and he knows it. Yet all men of the Church live in fear, every monk and nun from Melrose to Monymusk. The tales of the plunders in England blow northwards.’

  ‘I’d wager he knows something also about the lass who’s departed.’

  ‘An arrant whore ... familiar words, eh? Yet who did this young jade make free with, I wonder.’

  ‘And who wrote the placard about her loss?’

  ‘Some friend of the father’s, I should warrant.’

  ‘A monster, the Prior said. Doubt he lacks unfriends.’

  ‘Well, that hardly signifies anything. Some friend of hers.’

  ‘It can’t have escaped your notice, though, that the paper about this Brody lass was brother to the verses against the Cardinal. Perhaps they’re connected.’

  ‘Aye, and perhaps that paper from the silversmiths signifies that they collude in some great conspiracy that involves breaking the Church and stealing away tempting wenches. I note you did not take that one. You are at it, sir. Clutching at straws, as Sir Thomas More said.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. But you’ll allow a crime has been committed.’

  ‘Aye, and the girl is the criminal, running off from her duties, robbing the Church of service.’

  ‘Or abused, taken by force,’ said Martin, halting and putting a hand on his hip. ‘To God knows what end. You say criminal, I say victim.’

  ‘Well, the Prior was right in one thing – as I have said from the start, she is none of ours.’ He kept walking. ‘I daresay the Abbot will recommend some punishment for the father. The sot neglects the labour he owes and must pay for the labour lost by his bairn.’

  ‘I say the Prior is concealing something,’ mumbled Martin, before skipping after Danforth. ‘Here, d’you wish to look upon the Abbey, sir? I admit I’d like to see it, have a proper look.’

  ‘Yes, let us do so.’ Danforth very much wanted the comfort of the Abbey, the smell and the peace of it. The Prior’s words had pinched, his parting shot struck home. He might never be anything more than an Englishman, a defector. He bore his identity like a cross, and had done ever since coming into Scotland. He could remember his flight as though it was a fevered dream, out of London and its growing horrors, up through the wild north, sleeping at mean inns and fearful that he would be followed, or reported to the local lords of each new district. He had been half-mad when he had run, crazed with grief, feeling that the last standing pillar of his life, the Church, was falling. England seemed to have gone mad. Scotland, he felt, would welcome him as an ally, and might offer him a new life with the familiar comforts of what England considered the old religion. Here his fat purse had been worth far more than in England. Here he had found a strange but exciting mix of poor, feuding common folk and stuffy, hard-nosed intellectuals. And, after settling himself in, making himself known, David Beaton, then ambassador to France, had taken him up, impressed by his writing, his earnestness, and eager to adopt an Englishman.

  Now his Englishness felt almost tangible, as the old enemy of Scotland once more sought to ravish her and cast down her people. Within the open arms of the Catholic faith, there was no Englishman, no Scotsman, but only the purity of the true religion and the wickedness of those who sought to damage it. But within these ancient walls there could be no damage, and he would be a true son.

  They found an elderly monk, the white hair around his tonsure sparse, looking up at the sky outside the open door of the Abbey.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Martin. ‘We’re looking for a guide.’ The monk only looked at them, cloudy eyes set deep in a seamed face.

  ‘You may speak, Brother,’ said Danforth. ‘I fancy you have dispensation. The Abbot has given us liberty of the Abbey. We are servants of his Grace the Lord Cardinal.’

  The monk’s face split in a smile. ‘I think we shall have more rain this week. It does get into the bones.’ He arched his back, cracking it. ‘But good morrow to you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘If a guide you seek, I am he. Brother David, almoner of the order. And so,’ he winked, ‘not unused to speech. I know every brick in the place. On pilgrimage, are you? I think I hear English in your voice, my son? You’re an Englishman?’

  ‘I am, Brother.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good thing. This Abbey was founded by men of the order from Shropshire. Do you know Shropshire? It lies near Wales.’

  ‘I am afraid I do not. My family came from Surrey.’

  ‘All come to Scotland, are they?’

  ‘No,’ said Danforth, his eyes falling to the ground. He didn’t mind speaking freely to a monk, but Martin was watching, amused. ‘I no longer have any family to speak of.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir. Family’s a grand thing. Still, if you’ve suffered grief, or loss, let it be a comfort that you’re then one of God’s chosen ones. Pray come, gentlemen, follow me. You haven’t riding boots on? No spurs?’ He glanced down at their feet, smiling at the soft leather. ‘That’s good. Rules. It is usual that the guest-master should show the Abbey and its buildings to visitors, but ... look, there is the fellow yonder.’ Danforth followed his outstretched hand, to one of the buildings along the path. Outside it stood a young man, his hands buried in his robes. He was staring at them, and on meeting Danforth’s gaze, he started and turned back through the door. ‘Damaged his hand. That’s the infirmary. And so, of late, access to the Prior has been too easy. Oh, but it is good to use the voice. Come.’ They followed him.

  The ceiling of the cavernous Abbey church soared above them, lost in the gloom. They genuflected, dipped their fingers in the stoup, and blessed themselves before looking around.Fluted columns climbed upwards, meeting in arches of stone, and at the far end stained glass refracted the soft autumn light. Dark glass, too, reached upwards along the aisle walls, and the aroma of ancient incense – of sanctity and refuge – perfumed the air, sweating from stones that had absorbed it for centuries. But no monks were present, no bald heads and black-robed backs bent at any of the altars.

  ‘Your brothers all at prayer?’ asked Martin, his voice low.

  ‘Eh?’ asked David. Martin repeated his question, this time letting it bounce around the room. ‘The brothers are in our dormitory, adjoining the south transept.’ He gestured ahead and to their right. ‘Over in the quadrangle. You say you are the Cardinal’s men?’

  ‘Yes, Brother David.’

  ‘I hear he has been having troubles in Glasgow.’

  ‘Yes. We are putting a halt to them.’

  ‘Good. I can’t understand this division, this schism.’

  ‘Nor I,’ said Danforth.

  ‘Are you to lodge in the guest house? The west range of the cloister has fine lodgings.’

  ‘No,’ said Martin. ‘We lodge in the burgh.’

  ‘A pity. So few people remain, and the older of us do not meddle with the servants unless it is to give orders, and those seldom followed. Come, regard this, sirs.’

  Brother David led them around the transepts of the Abbey, giving them as he did its history, from the role it had played as birthplace to the first of the Stewart kings through the more recent fires that had plagued it, to the rebuilding and restorations of the previous Abbot. Much of it Danforth knew already, but it was a pleasant thing to hear it from the mouth of an old man who had lived a life in the place.

  As they strolled around the nave, with its profusion of altars each dedicated to different saints, Danforth began to note the hint of decay that tainted the place, like a spot of dirt in the ruffle of a clean, white shirt. The offerings on each altar, th
e candles and plate, caught the eye, but they provided only a brief distraction. Fire had destroyed the choir, and masons had walled it off, replacing the rood screen before it. David made no comment on the destruction, but instead showed them the makeshift high altar in the northern transept, groaning under a glittering array of damask, candlesticks, gold and silver plate, and jewelled crucifixes. There was enough, he thought, to bury a person. ‘Such riches, a goodly sight.’ He was gazing at a large pile of gold offerings.

  ‘More than we’re used to seeing out in the burgh, or back in our lodgings,’ said Martin. Danforth said nothing. Riches belonged locked up in religious houses, piled up by the only people who could be trusted not to covet them. Throw one gold font out amongst the braying mob, and the only survivor would use it to pursue vice. He turned to Martin, eager to point it out, and tutted as he saw the younger man holding the end of a red tablecloth up to his shoulder, and admiring the effect in a silver dish.

  Eventually they were led back to the entrance.

  ‘Well, sirs,’ asked David, his eyes shining, ‘what think you of our Abbey?’

  ‘It is a most grand construction, Brother David. A true tribute to God’s glory. Perfect order, perfect,’ said Danforth.

  ‘It is that. A fine thing,’ said David, mollified. ‘And you gentleman will not ... well, you will not speak ill of the place to the Cardinal? Nor the king?’

  ‘Brother David, you misunderstand us,’ said Danforth. ‘We are here as pilgrims.’

  David exhaled his relief. ‘And glad I am to hear it, sir. One never knows when that devil King Harry will convince our king to embrace this reform.’

  ‘There is no reform. There is only destruction.’

  ‘That’s the truth of it. And we of the order, we are good men and true to the faith.’

  ‘Brother David,’ said Martin, a frown appearing between his brows. ‘Forgive me, but you said the older brothers don’t meddle with the servants. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘Did I, sir?’ asked David, looking away. ‘I had not realised, I ... well, you are good men, loyal to the Church. I only mean that if one of number errs, what of it? Any man might fall in error, and be forgiven for it.’

  ‘And has one of yours?’ pressed Martin.

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘Perhaps with a girl from the burgh, a servant?’

  ‘Sir, I ... I have no knowledge of that. If there has been slackness it is ... rectified. If any man has done wrong, he can yet repent. Forgive me, sirs, but the hour draws near for our supper.’ All three looked up as the spire began to toll, followed by the echoing simulacrum of the Tolbooth. ‘I’ve been here so long I need no bells, you see. It has been an honour to escort you. You will come back before you leave Paisley, and take Mass in our pilgrim’s chapel? It is the true measure of a pilgrimage, the crowning glory, as it were.’

  ‘That would be my honour. God be with you, Brother.’

  ‘And with you, sir. And thank you. I enjoyed my talk.’

  ‘As did we, Brother David,’ said Danforth bowing. He then took Martin roughly by the arm and they blinked back into November’s answer to daylight. There he fixed him with a warning look before stamping off for the gatehouse, Martin trailing him.

  When they were outside the walls, Martin called, ‘what ails you, Mr Danforth?’

  ‘See you, you are determined to start something! You shamed us both vexing that old monk.’ High colour streaked Danforth’s pale cheeks and his green eyes flamed with self-righteous anger.

  ‘I did no such thing; or if I did, it wasn’t my intent.’

  ‘There was no need to press him like that. The old fellow meant only to treat us as guests, to do us a service, and you harried him as though he were a criminal. I am ashamed of you, sir, ashamed.’

  ‘Yet we know by him that there was some error on the part of the monks. That this missing girl was meddled with –’

  ‘Leave off, will you?’ snapped Danforth, stopping as they reached the bridge over the Cart. He hated raising his voice, but he could not control it. ‘We have informed the Prior that we will not meddle in the Abbot’s business. This foolish jade is none of our concern, nor is her traffic with those of the Abbey. Why can you not let it lie?’ Beneath them the waters roiled and raced, intent on keeping pace with the human argument above. ‘Whatever fond fantasies you have, Mr Martin, of being a knight errant, or rescue, or, or, I don’t know what – leave them!’

  Martin scuffed at the ground, frowning. ‘Very well,’ he said at length. ‘How long shall we tarry in this damned burgh?’

  ‘Until I feel that my soul is cleansed,’ said Danforth, and began his march back to the inn, leaving his colleague in his wake. As he stomped, an ugly premonition ran through him. The stupid, irritating missing girl, he suddenly felt, would not let his soul be shrived so easily. Martin’s obsession had begun to infect him.

  Danforth could scarcely wait to be alone. He opened his Book of Hours to November. ‘Today,’ he scribbled, ‘I did see the last of the Holy Places of Scotland. It was a goodly sight. Bid me free of these terrors. Shrive me of distrust, for I do distrust some people here. Sit laus Deo in sempiternum.’ As he closed the book, the edge of a page sliced through his finger. ‘God bless it,’ he hissed. Before he could pop the finger in his mouth, a few droplets of blood had splashed onto his cuff.

  Monday was Paisley’s market day. Danforth rose early and, without waiting to see what Martin was doing, took himself to the chapel of St Nicholas, its churchyard lying on a steep wynd that snaked its way uphill parallel to the lower High Street. The ground was still dusty with a thin lattice of dawn frost. Though the muddy wynd had been scattered with gravel, and stones and planks of wood had been hammered into the sloping ground at intervals, it was perilous going.

  There he heard Mass in more subdued surroundings. They reminded him of the little parish chapels of Surrey in the old days, and he could feel himself a child again, led by his parents and grandparents into the cosy surroundings. They were all gone now, buried hundreds of miles from him. Idly he wondered if all men and women, as they approached thirty, sought refuge in hoary memories.

  When he re-entered the High Street, he found it transformed into a fury of colour. The smell of roast meats was heavy, covering the customary smell of waste. He might even, he decided, enjoy himself that day, make some purchases. The memories St Nicholas had stirred had left him eager for gaiety. No dream had troubled him. Besides, the market would bring even more people to the burgh, and any news of libels and evil epigrams.

  ‘Good morning, stranger,’ said Martin, and Danforth started. He had, he knew, been rough the previous day, and he had avoided his colleague’s company since. Luckily, Martin’s manner did not register ill feeling.

  ‘Mr Martin. You intend to make free in the market?’

  ‘Indeed I do, sir. If you’re to cleanse your soul, I’m going to enrich my wardrobe. Shirts, I fancy. I wouldn’t buy breeks anywhere but Edinburgh or France.’

  ‘Now that is a strange thing. I was minded to do the same.’

  They began picking their way through the stalls, looking over fruit – Martin bought them some apples, which both wolfed – cheeses, wine and fish. Household goods too were being hawked, from cheap crockery to sturdy pots and pans. Men bartered over saddles, boots and latchets, with the burgh’s officers keeping watch. As they went, Danforth turned a jaundiced eye and Martin two appraising ones on the young ladies. The Paisley women had on jaunty French hoods made of ersatz materials, wide sleeves and skirts that trailed through the mud. Martin hooted laughter at one girl whose train, unbeknownst to her, was soaked with spilled ale. Even Danforth managed a tight smile.

  A young man in a leather jerkin and fashionable breeches caught Martin, still grinning, looking at the girl he was escorting. ‘Whit-ye-lookin’-et?’ he asked. Martin held up his palms in the age-old gesture of apology. ‘Aye,’ said the youth, his chin high, ‘ye know better.’ He grasped his lady’s arm tighter and trie
d to pull her away into the crowd. She shook him off with a cry of, ‘I can shift for masel, ‘sake.’ Again, Martin broke into laughter.

  ‘Ho, gentlemen,’ cried an old man in particoloured breeches. Danforth and Martin turned to him. He was carrying a stick, and his stare denoted blindness. A little distance from him stood a girl, also in peasant’s clothing, keeping an eye on him. ‘I can see ye by yer voices, sirs,’ he explained. ‘Come, see a great jape.’

  Danforth made to move off, but Martin stayed him. ‘What is it, a trick?’

  ‘Gie me but a coin, a single coin. Here.’ He pulled out an empty purse. ‘Drap it in. Ye’ll have it back in a moment.’

  ‘That will be right!’ said Danforth, but Martin obliged.

  ‘Now, now,’ said the old man, whirling on the spot. ‘Who else’ll gie me a coin?’ Not to be outdone, several other men stepped forward, eager to show their own solvency. When the man’s purse was filled, he stepped back, into the centre of the circle of people that had formed. He launched the purse into the air and caught it, to a few muted cheers. He then shook it vigorously, jangling the coins together. ‘Now behold,’ he said, loosening the string. Heads craned forward.

  Methodically, the old man took out each coin in turn, held it up to the crowd, and passed it to its original owner. ‘An’ this was yours, sir, was it no’?’ he said to Martin, who held the coin close to his face and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Aye, it is that. Here, Danforth, look, it is mine, for sure.’ Danforth nodded, impressed in spite of himself. ‘Here,’ said Martin, passing it back to the old man. ‘For your pains, for your art. It was a good trick, that.’ The old man nodded his thanks, muttering, ‘no trick tae it, no trick.’ The other men, groaning, also handed back their coins, none wishing to look mean.