The Abbey Close

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Yet I think I’ve come to know you better. As I said, you’re a good man. Make your peace tomorrow, and we can leave this place. If you’re the lighter for it, then all that’s passed might have been worth it. When love and death have broken your heart, it can seem easier to run, to do without it at all. But it doesn’t work like that. You’ll never go back to England, will you, even if Henry dies? When, I mean. Your home is here, in this realm and this Church?’

  ‘Back to be gutted or burned? No. Like Antaeus, I draw my strength now from this land.’

  ‘Don’t spoil my wisdom with classics. It’s good wisdom. Shall we find young Brother James?’

  ‘Let us,’ said Danforth, turning away from the Chapel. Then, suddenly remembering, he cried, ‘but wait. The Cardinal’s letter.’ He took it from his cloak and broke the seal, letting the red wax fall to the gravel path. He swallowed. It was brief. ‘The unicorn is tossed on stormy waves. I fear – O unhappy day – that it shall sink anon. Black clouds gather. And I find no favour, nor shall, until a name restores my credit.’

  ‘Riddles. I hate it when our master speaks in riddles. The Unicorn is the name of the king’s ship, isn’t it?’

  ‘The unicorn is the king,’ said Danforth, thinking. ‘Tossed ... sink ... His Grace says the king is ill. That his enemies, his Grace’s enemies, make trouble for him. He must needs have the name of his libeller to restore his credit.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Martin. ‘Aye, if we can prove that his Grace was slandered before this damned battle, that he was conspired against throughout, it’ll take the king’s anger from him and place it on others. We give him the names of these libellers, and he puts them before the king. In such a fashion, he might prove that any words touching his reputation that are spoken following this terrible loss are as like to be based on craft alone, from men who have sought his ruin even before the battle was fought. Tomorrow we shall discover the findings of the Archbishop’s commission. Tomorrow ...’

  The guesthouse of Paisley Abbey, on the western range of the cloister, was more palace than lodging house for weary pilgrims. In its time it had housed royalty and the nobility, and its furnishings, though somewhat careworn, were quality. Brother James, who had made them his confessors the previous week, showed them into the richly-appointed chambers. When he had shut the door behind him, he had looked at them with open, pleading eyes. Martin had told him of his friend Hector’s escape.

  ‘He is now thrown upon God’s mercy,’ said James. ‘An apostate, but one lucky that the monastery shall not be eager to hunt him like rabbit.’

  ‘I see your hand is recovered, Brother,’ nodded Martin. James looked down, again baffled.

  ‘Oh yes. It was only a graze from a knife. There is a fellow from the burgh comes here to buy ale from us, and he cares not if he unsheathes his dirk in our presence. He thinks it might lower the price, and I brushed past him when he was in arms as well as his cups. By his station in the burgh this man thinks himself only sufficiently honoured by lower prices than the rest of the town pay. It is my sad duty to look after guests whether they are ungracious or of your fine disposition.’ He looked up at Martin. ‘You did not think it signified something else?’

  ‘I fancy I know the brute of whom you speak, and I do not envy your labour in attending him. My friend Martin has a suspicious nature, Brother,’ smiled Danforth. ‘And I think a fondness for scandal. He was almost eager for the Abbey to involved in this terrible affair.’ Martin turned sheepish, and began scuffing his boots on the ground.

  ‘I confess my mind waxed strange. But it was a hell of a strange affair, to be sure.’

  Brother James nodded absently, confused by the jesting. ‘I must return to prayer, gentlemen. As honoured guests, all meals will be brought to you.’ He bowed and left them to their luxury.

  Whilst Martin threw his things down on an enormous bed, Danforth toured the room. It truly was a lodging fit a king, the bed curtained, gold and silver candlesticks on every table, thick, fringed tablecloths, and gilded designs crossing the ceiling. On the walls were hung tapestries. Ranged around the room, they told the stories of the Abbey’s favoured saints. Saint James of Compostella was stitched riding into battle against the Moors; Saint Catherine was depicted with one arm leaning on her wheel, her sword held militantly in the other hand; St Columba was shown at the prow of a boat; Saint Nicholas stopped an unjust execution, his hand held up; and St Ninian, the Briton, could be seen leading a group of heathenish, southern Picts, tiny in comparison to their master, towards a shining cross. It must have taken many nuns many hours of sewing, and have cost many fingers painful jabs, to illustrate the stories of God’s chosen miracle workers.

  The pair settled in the Abbey guesthouse, content at first with their own thoughts. Both prayed silently for their country’s victory. If the king fought – worse, if the king should be die – then Henry of England would have claimed the life of another Scottish king: the first his brother-in-law and the second his nephew. Such a man must truly be a monster, thought Danforth. The aftermath of such a catastrophe would be unthinkable, the realm torn apart even if a prince was born. Time moved forwards on leaden feet, and both Danforth and Martin were conscious that, as they sat ensconced in palatial opulence, to the south violent and unknown things were happening. For all the non-spiritual help they could give they might as well have been in England.

  Brother James returned when the short day was over, with some food to see them through the night: bread rubbed with salt, cheese, all luxury. At intervals they could hear the chanting of the monks as they raised their voices in prayer. It was the only time the whole of the company was encouraged to use their voices. It was a comforting, soporific sound, but after an evening of silent contemplation, neither Danforth nor Martin could bear the silence any longer. Instead they sat in cushioned, comfortable chairs by a roaring fire. It was a strange feeling to be in such regal surroundings – it might almost have been a thrill. Yet neither took real pleasure from it.

  ‘That was a good thing you did for Archie,’ said Danforth. ‘It fair delighted me.’

  ‘He’s a sorry wee soul. It’s my nature, sir. I could never bear to see a dog whipped nor a cat drowned. No lad who tends horses well is a bad one.’

  ‘Think you the lad will make good?’

  ‘Who can say?’ Martin shrugged. ‘He might be thrown from the place in a month.’

  ‘Then why provide for him?’

  ‘He deserves a chance, sir. Everyone does. Yet so few are given one in this world. Whether Archie stands or falls will now be up to his own wits. Let’s hope that his laziness was just protest at his treatment. I know I wouldn’t have given good service to such a mistress as he endured.’

  ‘It shall be no easy task making such a dark place so full of mishaps succeed.’

  ‘Perhaps. Or it may be that a burgh so full of folk inclined to idling talk will ensure its success.’ Danforth did not answer. It was a strange thing that people should so rejoice in the disreputable and shameful misdeeds of others, that they should be so intrigued by the darkness that lurks beneath the thatched roofs and within the sturdy walls of their neighbours’ homes and their places of worship. Yet it was a true thing. As long as there were people, there would be the odd, vicarious thrill of indulging in tales of death, destruction and murder. For a while silence again fell between them.

  ‘We will save his Grace’s honour yet,’ said Danforth, answering an unasked question. ‘God will reward us for our work here. He gave it us, and we rose to it.’

  ‘And we might at that,’ said Martin. He had a silver cup of wine in his hand, and he held it out, tilting it this way and that to watch the reflection of the firelight play upon it. ‘If the king’s truly ill ...’

  ‘Do not speak like that. It invites fate.’

  ‘Don’t be so superstitious, mon ami, you’ve been warned. If the king’s ill, we must trust to the wee prince yet to be born. Who knows who might grasp for power if anything should happen. But it’ll
go badly for the Cardinal. This great war against England, his Holy War against heresy, is held to be at his direction. It’s the fruit of his policy.’

  ‘That is slander,’ said Danforth. ‘The English king, with no ounce of shame in him for killing the fourth King James, has threatened this kingdom since before I was born.’

  ‘That long?’

  ‘Do not be light. And since he has thumbed his nose at the Holy Father, King Henry has sought to force Scotland to follow his lead. Because he is determined to cut England off from the great powers of Europe, he demands that Scotland do the like. He is a bully and a tyrant, and invents proofs of his suzerainty over this nation that he lets no man see.’

  Martin sat forward, took a sip from his cup, and fixed Danforth with a stare. ‘And yet my point stands. The Cardinal’s honour must be unblemished if the unicorn sinks. Or his men will have the blame of it. You’re an Englishman, Simon. No, do not wrinkle your face, I am simply offering you a fact. The English might not be popular if anything happens to the king.’

  ‘In England, it was death to speak of the death of the king.’

  ‘You’re not in England. Well,’ said Martin, yawning, ‘we shall know tomorrow.’

  ‘No. I would attend Mass and be confessed, and then take the highway to Glasgow. We might have the names of these Lutheran fellows from the Archbishop.’ He rose from his chair, stretched, and then settled onto the great bed for an unbroken night’s sleep.

  In the pearly light of a misty morning, the Pilgrim’s church looked like a little haven. Lanterns had been lit outside it, and the flames lapped at the grey stone. They stepped through its door into life in incense and tranquillity. Inside, the welcome sight of golden crucifix, rood screen and statuary stood like constant friends. A brightly-painted stone freeze stood between two statues. On it was depicted the life of St Mirin, the patron of Paisley. Danforth smiled at it fondly. This was precisely the type of thing that the Reformists hated, and he had never understood why. It brought comfort, reminding him of the past.

  The monk who presided over the Mass was one neither Martin nor Danforth had seen, but Brother James, as their host, and Brother David, attended. As always the words worked their charm and magic. Danforth took Communion and then confessed to the monk. He told him of his sin, of his youthful lust, and of his desire for absolution. He did not confess that he knew of Brother Hector’s flight. That was not his burden. The monk listened with his eyes closed, and then pronounced absolution. As penance he was told to show charity to the poor, and to serve God by serving his master. Danforth had heard the words before, but they now had a special significance. He happily dug into his remaining money to purchase Masses for all those he had lost, and those who might be suffering torments in purgatory for their unforgivable sins.

  He had made a great pilgrimage. He had fasted until his body had almost given out. He had unmasked a murderess and, by doing so, prevented slander and scandal falling upon the Abbey. All in all, he felt, he had passed the strange examination that had been set for him. Now, as penance, he would serve his master by putting to an end the ugly matter of the Glasgow libels.

  They gathered their horses and were struck out on the path to the Abbey gate when a servant rushed through it, screaming. Other servants moved towards him, including the gatekeeper.

  ‘What is the matter,’ shouted Danforth. He and Martin joined the group.

  ‘The witch, the possessed murderess, Caldwell,’ the servant was crying, gesticulating wildly. ‘She’s oot, she’s oot! Escaped! Pray, Brothers, she’s kilt Logan! Strangled him wi’ a Rosary and smashed his skull! Run, she’s comin’!’

  Exchanging glances, Danforth and Martin pushed their way past the group and outside the Abbey walls. The road curved towards the Bridge Port on their right and they followed it. Drifting down from the burgh were jeers and screams.

  At the sight of Mistress Caldwell, Danforth crossed himself. She was approaching the Bridge Port from the cross, staring resolutely ahead. It was impossible to make out her expression. Behind her trailed stick figures: the people of the town were behind her, screeching curses and throwing things. None appeared to want to get too close to her. Still she marched onwards. As she did, Danforth could see the matted straw stuck in her rusty hair. ‘Christ,’ said Martin. ‘She’s run madder. She’s coming for the Abbey. Christ, she is possessed, right enough.’

  As though she had heard him, she paused on the bridge. She turned to the crowd and spat. Then she turned left and stepped towards the edge of the bridge. Clambering heavily onto the low wooden wall which spanned it, she stood briefly, balancing, and then went head-first over it. There was a whirl of dirty white as she hurtled to the water below. She disappeared for a moment, and then her skirts blossomed at the surface, before sinking down again.

  ‘Christ,’ repeated Martin. The jeering crowd ran onto the bridge, their fear sunk, and pressed themselves over the edge to watch. Danforth spotting the supposedly dead Logan, blood seeping from a knock on the forehead. ‘Shall we return?’ asked Martin.

  ‘No. Let us get away from this bedlam. She was right. The town shall not forget her. She gave the baillies their spectacle, Arnaud. But it was on her terms.’

  22

  They slid through the great doors of Glasgow castle, bypassing the screen before them, following it to the left and climbing the stairs. In the outer office nothing much had changed, save the muddy boot-prints that trailed the ground in both directions. Still the Virgin gazed down from her tapestry; still her eyes were peaceful; still the flowers surrounding her bloomed. The Archbishop’s secretary was not at his desk, and on noticing that, they did notice one difference – the unpleasant little mole had put his affairs in order. His inkwells were arranged neatly in a row, his papers in perfect symmetry against the edge of desk. Martin turned to Danforth, and his mouth formed a question when the door opened. The bespectacled secretary held the door open for a stern-faced young man, his clothes askew from riding. The messenger gave them a brisk nod before taking the stairs at a trot.

  The secretary saw them and, on recognition, disappeared back into the Archbishop’s privy chamber. He emerged momentarily. ‘You gentlemen are wasting your time,’ he said. ‘His Grace has matters of far greater import than you fellows.’ Danforth looked at Martin, and he grinned back, needing no further encouragement. He lifted the man under his arms and deposited him in the chair by his desk, letting Danforth skirt them and open the door. Together they went through, pushing it closed behind them.

  ‘The Cardinal’s slaves, eh,’ said Archbishop Dunbar, without much surprise. ‘And as martial as ever.’ He rose from the seat behind his desk and offered his ring. They each kissed it before Dunbar took his seat again, leaning forward and making a steeple of his bony fingers. It was the office, Danforth reminded himself, and not the man that commanded deference. It did not make it any easier. Recently it seemed that he was always being brought before men of authority, men who demanded respect without offering anything that would encourage loyalty or love. Such was the price of hierarchy. Martin had said something to him about the importance of his faith and his Church to him. It was strange that good Catholics should do so much to test it even when enemies from without were seeking to destroy it.

  ‘What news, your Grace?’ asked Martin.

  ‘To business with haste, I see.’ Danforth noted that Dunbar had deep lines etched into his brow and around his mouth, deeper even that those which plagued Prior Walker. He could not remember them being quite so pronounced on their previous visit. His sharp, dark eyes now also sat above little purple purses. ‘To the matter of the verses touching his Grace the Cardinal’s honour, there is none, save that my ordering a commission appears to have put an end to them. Of course, you fellows left me no proofs, and so I could investigate no man. I have had the market cross watched, and I have had informers visit every tavern and alehouse in the burgh. No man claims knowledge of these bills, and none have been set abroad. Neither, I am told, has any ma
n even tried to approach the market cross save my men. Perhaps,’ he said, almost wistfully, ‘the weather has stopped them as much as I have. Still, the Lord Cardinal might yet have a care that his name is not brought into contempt, eh?’

  ‘Your Grace,’ asked Danforth. His mouth had run dry, and the words rasped out. He did not want an answer. ‘What news of the king?’

  ‘You will know by now about the Solway Moss.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘The king did not join the battle but remained at Lochmaben with a fever. He now waxes weary of this life. I believe the queen to be at Linlithgow in childbed, so his Grace may there. It is said he cannot stand to be in the same city in which your master dwells. Instead the Cardinal chases him, begs him, offers to return to France for aid in the defence of the realm. Talks wildly even of getting the Danes to join in the fight against England. King James gives me his Grace no ear. Your Cardinal,’ he spat, sudden venom animating his face, ‘is disgraced and undone.’

  Danforth was too numb to feel anger. ‘Then all is confusion. How did it happen? We were the greater number. It was our battle to win.’

  ‘That battle,’ said Dunbar, looking fixedly at Danforth, ‘was a fool’s errand. It should not have taken place when it did. It seems that three of your ilk, sir, three banished Englishmen living as exiles in Scotland murdered a herald of the English king. It was done, so it is bruited, with the sufferance of your Cardinal. Yes, sir, your own master inveigled three English Catholic exiles to murder a man who had safe conduct to enter the realm. Yet I suppose his Grace did this without your foreknowledge, eh?’ Little flecks of spittle flew from Dunbar’s mouth as he spoke, splattering on the desk before him. Danforth’s mouth gaped. ‘Do not think I have not heard rumours of what has befallen the burgh of Paisley since you fellows went into it. Men who visited the burgh yesterday tell me that a number of corpses now litter the town and all the talk is of murders and madness. Who’s to pay the corpse duties for all this burial – reburial, hmm? It shan’t be this house. Death, it seems, follows the Cardinal’s imps.’