The Legend of the Black Monk

by Nigel Cubbage

  Her mother had therefore been content to agree to the trip to Cornwall, once she had spoken with the Dewhurst-Hobbs. ‘Not a boy you’ve mentioned before?’ Mrs McOwan had raised her eyebrows in that half-amused, irritating way she had as she replaced the handset. Rebecca had frowned impatiently.

  ‘Whatever you’re thinking, Mother, it isn’t – okay?’

  ‘Whatever you say, dear.’

  * * *

  Rush hour on the London Underground was not for the faint-hearted. To allow time to reach Paddington, Rebecca had to fight her way through the morning commuter rush. ‘Where did all these people come from?’ she wondered, struggling off the crowded train with a heavy bag. They descended from every direction at breakneck speed, a never- ending flow, impatient, humour in short supply. It was impossible to find a spare yard in which to stop and catch her breath without being jostled or tutted at for causing a nanosecond of blockage. And it was uncomfortably humid in the corridors. Although she had to go only a few stops with one change of trains, by the time she emerged into the main concourse at Paddington, she felt as if she had spent the previous half hour in a rugby scrum. Only without any handsome players to admire to take my mind off things, she mused.

  Although swarming with people, Paddington offered the benefit of seating and Rebecca sank gratefully onto a bench facing the electronic ‘departures’ board. She squeezed between a large woman guzzling a Danish pastry and a gaunt man tapping away furiously on a laptop, while whispering furtively into his mobile phone. She looked up at the large clock, on top of which sat two pigeons. It was just before eight thirty, the time she had arranged to meet Drew. He should have arrived on the overnight sleeper from Glasgow to Kings Cross, so he would have enjoyed a similar experience on the tube to cross London to Paddington. She smiled, imagining what the lad from the peaceful, unhurried world of the Highlands might have to say about his first encounter with the bustling English capital.

  Rebecca scanned the departures board. The Truro train was due to leave at 8.59.

  Her mobile rang in her pocket. ‘Laura’ flashed the display. Her best friend.

  ‘Hi. What are you doing up this early in the holidays?’

  ‘Where are you? I can’t see you.’

  ‘Of course you can’t! I’m at Paddington station, you wally – where are you?’

  ‘I’m at Paddington station too.’

  ‘You what?’ Rebecca let out a shout of astonishment.

  The Danish pastry halted momentarily, the fat lady flicking a condescending look. A pigeon at her feet looked up hopefully, eye on the pastry. Rebecca flashed a quick, self-conscious smile. The pastry remained neither motionless nor intact for long. The pigeon was disappointed.

  ‘It’s a long story … I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’ve got your tickets … and mine. I’m coming to Cornwall with you.’

  ‘Laura, where are you? I need you to explain.’ At that moment, Rebecca caught sight of a blonde-haired girl about ten yards away. ‘I see you! Turn around … yep! Hi!’

  ‘Do the English only speak to each other on the phone? Even from ten yards? The must-have accessory for the Sassie about town!’

  ‘Campbell!’ Rebecca spun round with a broad grin. Directly behind the seat she had been occupying stood the smiling Drew. She could not decide if he seemed a little taller since the summer. ‘How long have you been there?’

  He held his hand out for the phone. ‘Can I say ‘Hello, I’m nearly on the train’? I’m learning English to fit in with the natives.’

  Rebecca gave him a mock scowl.’Good to see you too. Enjoy the trip?’

  ‘Oh aye! It’s war out there, isn’t it? Fighting English left, right and centre. Did your mammies no teach you manners down here? Londoners are trainee battery chickens – how many can you squeeze into a tube-train?’

  Rebecca’s mouth suddenly dropped open.’What happened to your hair?’

  Drew had removed his cap, revealing a close-shaven head. He ran his hand over it.

  ‘Ginger hair,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It had to go. Ma’s into recycling, though, so my former locks are now stuffed into cushions, softening the bottoms of posh people in Argyllshire.’

  ‘It’s … Well, it’s … different.’ Rebecca pursed her lips together, stifling a laugh.

  ‘I think it’s cool.’ A voice interrupted them. Drew turned to the smiling blonde girl now standing next to Rebecca.

  ‘Laura!’ Rebecca turned. ‘Er, Drew, Laura, Laura, Drew.’

  ‘I’ve heard so much about you – ‘ both began at once and stopped, laughing.

  ‘Okay, there’s plenty of time for all that later,’ Rebecca broke in, quickly.’ Laura, old pal, first you have some serious explaining to do. How come you are here?’

  Laura looked sheepish. ‘You’ve got to promise not to take the mickey,’ she said, looking searchingly at Rebecca.

  ‘That’ll be a first,’ said Drew, dropping a heavy bag to the floor.

  A look of contempt flashed at Drew from Rebecca’s dark brown eyes, before they returned to Laura.

  ‘Well? You’re hardly the person I expected as Rupe the Double- Doughnut’s messenger?’

  ‘Who?’ Laura looked blankly at her.

  ‘Scottish for Dewhurst-whatever,’ interjected Drew helpfully.

  Laura looked still more bemused. ‘Oh, I see. Yes, well, I am Rupert’s messenger. It was me who suggested he asked you to help out, though I didn’t expect to be graced with the presence of the Highlander too.’

  ‘Just get to the point, will you?’

  ‘Okay. You do promise not to tease?’

  ‘No … oh all right, if I must, I promise!’

  Laura took a deep breath and smiled nervously.

  ‘I have been meaning to tell you … Rupert and I, well I … we … are an item.’

  ‘What?!’ Rebecca jumped.

  ‘Since when? I’m your best friend, you never said! You and the nerd? Oh, I’m sorry –’

  ‘It’s okay. I know what everyone says. So did I. Actually, he’s very different when you get to know him.’

  ‘Great name, hey?’ said Drew.

  ‘Drew!’ Rebecca kicked him sharply on the ankle.

  ‘Well, you’ve kept it a pretty good secret. Nobody guessed.’

  ‘You know what people are like. We didn’t want everyone going on. Anyway, there’s loads to tell you and we’ll have hours on the train.’

  Laura turned to Drew and slipped her arm through his.

  ‘And you can tell me the real story about what went on up in Scotland, Drew. I am dying to know!’

  ‘Laura! Tickets, train, now.’ Rebecca put a firm hand on her friend’s shoulder, extracted her arm from Drew’s and turned her in the direction of the platforms.

  * * *

  The train pulled out of Paddington and began its journey west through the sprawling London suburbs. As they relaxed into their seats, Laura began to explain what was behind Rupert’s mysterious letter.

  ‘Rupert has been off school for a while. This is because his Grandfather was very ill. Well, unfortunately, he died. You may be wondering why he wants us to go down there with all that going on.’

  ‘Surely visitors are the last thing his family wants, what with funerals and all the other arrangements?’ Rebecca pursed her lips.

  ‘Too right, except I think his mother suggested he ask a friend down. You know, occupy the kids and all that. His father died a few years ago too so it must be really hard for her. Anyway, before he died, Rupert’s Grandpa asked to see him … alone. Straight afterwards, Rupe rang me and said he needed you to come down. The old man was famous. You may have heard of him? Admiral Bertram Dewhurst-Hobb of the Royal Navy?’

  Drew raised his eyebrows. Rebecca shrugged blankly. Laura continued.

  ‘He commanded a submarine in the Second World War and later became an Admiral. He won loads of medals and is some sort of war hero. Anyway, he told Rupert this story about a load of treasure buried.’

&nb
sp; ‘Ha-haar! Jim, Lad!’ Drew laughed. ‘T’is buried treasure we seeks, cap’n! No doubt there will be pirates and skulls and crossbones in them thar Cornish caves too!’

  Rebecca looked at him with an expression of disdain, while Laura smiled uncertainly.

  ‘I know, it sounds like some daft old story. Rupert didn’t tell me much but the treasure is supposed to have been hoarded by this notorious pirate the Black Monk and it all has something to do with a battle his Grandfather’s submarine had off some rocks called the Horns of Lucifer.’

  ‘Lucifer? As in the Devil?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘The very same.’

  She looked at Drew. ‘The Horns of Lucifer … ever heard of them?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nope! Me and Dougie saw the Omen, though, in Fort William. Great!’

  ‘Neither had I,’ said Laura to Rebecca, with another uncertain look at Drew.

  Rebecca closed her eyes briefly in resignation and waved a hand vaguely in Drew’s direction. ‘Don’t mind him, he doesn’t get out much. First trip south of Hadrian’s Wall.

  Exactly where are these rocks?’

  ‘Somewhere off the Cornish coast along from Boscastle, quite near where we are going. It’s riddled with caves and dangerous rocks all along there. Shipwrecks, smugglers’ country in years gone by. The Admiral lived in this creepy old house called Morbed Manor, in woods on top of the cliffs.’

  ‘If his Grandfather thought the treasure story was true, didn’t he try to find the loot himself?’ asked Drew.

  ‘That’s a good point, Campbell,’ said Rebecca, looking questioningly at Laura.

  ‘Rupert didn’t say.’

  Laura opened her bag and produced a purse.

  ‘I need a bacon sandwich, I’m starving. Anybody else? I’ll go to the buffet car.’

  The other two nodded. Drew let out a sigh. ‘Well! Pirate’s treasure, submarines, creepy houses and the Devil himself ! You take me to all the best places, McOwan!’

  ‘Did Rupert send you the story of the Black Monk?’ Laura held out a sheet of paper.

  ‘He did but Drew hasn’t seen it yet.’

  Laura disappeared down the carriage. Drew opened the paper out and started to read.

  The Legend of the Black Monk

  The sleepy hamlet of Morwenna on the north Cornwall coast boasts a colourful past.

  The Black Monk of Morwenna was one of the most notorious pirates in history. A scourge of the high seas in the seventeenth century, he preyed on ships travelling to and from the Americas. He would steal forth under the cover of night from the remote monastery of St Morwenna, on Druid’s Rock near Boscastle, luring unsuspecting vessels onto the deadly rocks that lurk in the waters, and plunder them.

  His most famous escapade was supposedly looting and sinking the S.S. Mercantile Royal, which sailed the West Indies routes. In 1641 while transporting 600,000 pieces of gold to Antwerp to pay Spanish soldiers, she foundered off Lands End. Her fate is uncertain, for the wreck never was found and her crew were all lost. The popular view at the time was that ‘the Monk done for ‘em’.

  The Black Monk’s true identity was Nathan Trevellyan, eldest son of Lord Ebeneezer Trevellyan, a wealthy Cornish shipping merchant and the local squire. Nathan fell in love with a servant girl, Emily and in doing so, fell out with his father, who forbade him to have anything to do with the girl, or he would lose his inheritance. When Nathan refused, Ebeneezer sent him away to sea, telling him never to darken his door again. After this, his father would not hear his name mentioned, giving it to be believed that his son had died overseas.

  Some years later, Nathan returned to Cornwall. When, on landing back in Falmouth, he met by chance one of his father’s former servants, he heard a terrible story that drove him wild with anger. After he had gone away, Ebeneezer had cast Emily out, having discovered she was expecting his son’s child, about whom Nathan knew nothing. Driven to despair, abandoned without Nathan, the pregnant Emily threw herself on His Lordship’s mercy, begging him at least to take care of his own grandchild. Ebeneezer would take no responsibility for the woman or the child, leaving her destitute and at the mercy of the local poor house. Fearing she would tell her story and worried that his son’s child might mean trouble one day, he had her seized from her bed in the middle of the night and driven to the beach by his coachman, a vicious individual known as Bloody Bill. He took her to the Horns of Lucifer and cast her ashore, marooned. Without food or water, too far from land to swim back, she was never seen alive again.

  Consumed with grief and rage, Nathan abandoned all plans of a rapprochement with his father, with now but one mission in life, to ruin him. He joined the order of St. Morwenna, who inhabited a monastery on an island called Druid’s Rock, a short distance from his father’s country seat, Morbed Manor. He created the persona of the Black Monk, leaving the monastery by night to plunder from his father’s ships as they returned from the Americas. Slowly but surely, he eroded his father’s wealth. And when finally he stole the gold of the Mercantile Royal, he left his father with debts he could never hope to repay.

  Soon after his return, Nathan ventured to the Horns of Lucifer and scoured them for Emily’s remains. He found her bones in a cave. He approached the minister for permission to bury her in the chapel graveyard but the minister refused, guessing the identity of the man he was dealing with and frightened of the wrath of Lord Ebeneezer. Not long after this, the old minister died. One wild, stormy night thereafter, Nathan buried Emily’s remains in the graveyard of the Smugglers’ Chapel, so she might rest on sanctified ground.

  Spotting him and hoping he was hiding treasure, three local men dug up the grave.

  For this treachery, the Black Monk found them and killed them. But he was witnessed by one of Ebeneezer’s men. Lord Trevellyan sent his militia to the monastery to summon the Monk to the chapel and confront him. Left alone with his father, Nathan revealed his identity and the truth of how he had been the cause of Ebeneezer’s ruin. There was a terrible fight, during which Nathan delivered his father a mortal blow. As his strength ebbed away, the Earl crawled to the chapel bell and rang it to alert his militia. They chased Nathan to the monastery, where he was cornered.

  After one of the most famous trials of the age at Truro Assizes, Nathan Trevellyan was hanged in 1647 for the murder of his father and three other men, his body strung up from the Smugglers’ Chapel in woods near St Morwenna as a warning to others. His treasure has never been found. As he stood with the noose around his neck, his last words were a curse on anyone who would try and find it. His peregrine falcon appeared on the roof of the chapel and kept vigil by the body, letting nobody near it until it was taken down. Legend has it that every year since a falcon has appeared in the churchyard on the anniversary of his death, as if waiting for its master to return.The Black Monk is said to roam the graveyard, guarding the resting place of his beloved Emily and the child he never knew.

  Drew smiled and looked up. ‘Cool! Great story but how does it relate to Rupert Double-Doughnut?’

  Rebecca shrugged, smiling. ‘No idea … yet.’

  ‘But you believe in ghosts?’ Drew eyed her. ‘After the summer and all?’

  Rebecca gave a short smile, recalling that summer in the Scottish Highlands in the family’s ancestral castle where the voice of a Viking warrior had spoken to her out of the Mist and set off a series of strange events. She looked down at her hands, her long curly hair falling across her face.

  ‘No … yes, no … ghosts? I believe in something beyond what we can see and hear.

  Actually, it’s hard to explain exactly what. My ancestor Becca said ‘I live on through you and you have lived through me’ … and that’s the best way I can explain it.’

  ‘But Becca was a ghost?’ said Drew.

  ‘Yes … I suppose she was if that’s what you want to call her. I think what it tells me is that death isn’t the end. There is today and tomorrow and yesterday and all of them affect us. I believe people are haunted, not place
s … if haunted is the right word. We are all conscious but I think there are more dimensions to us and to this world than we understand. People carry their ‘ghosts’ with them. We may or may not be aware of them. And we leave our imprint, our essence, wherever we go. Is death an end, or just another stage? I can’t imagine nothingness. So I can believe there is a sort of continuation… weird?’

  ‘Yup … and totally incomprehensible!’ Drew smiled uncertainly.

  ‘Well … we’ll all find out, someday,’ said Rebecca, looking out of the window.

  Drew shook his head, looking at the page and tapping it. ‘You see, the guy would have been all right. He was making good money, had a really good cover going. There’s always a woman in there somewhere, causing trouble.’

  Rebecca smiled.

  ‘Who’s causing trouble?’ asked Laura, returning.

  ‘Nobody. Just our Drew deciding whether to become a monk.’

  Chapter 2

  Trial by Trailer

  The train thundered inexorably through the rolling counties of southern England. Beyond Exeter, they began a long climb through the Devonshire hills and fields, until they emerged onto the magnificent wilderness of Dartmoor. Rebecca was struck by the lonely grandeur of the heath land and stark rocky outcrops. Here clouds hung motionless over the land as if loath to move elsewhere, providing a vivid purple swathe over the moor.

  ‘A land of mystery, with stories to tell,’ she breathed to herself.

  ‘Bleak,’ said Drew sitting opposite.

  ‘Beautiful!’ she murmured, softly She smiled at a joke harking back to her first impressions of the wild grandeur of Scotland, but did not take her eyes from the view out of the window.

  London was a far distant memory by the time the train pulled into Morbed Halt on the North Cornwall coast. The little station bore scant resemblance to the grandeur of Paddington. The only building was a small corrugated shack on one side of the line.