Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘You have been much married?’

  ‘Six times,’ she announced, splaying, inexplicably, the fingers of one hand. ‘The Clacher name I’ve kept throughout, and it has served me well. And my husband now twenty below me in years.’

  ‘Well done,’ offered Martin. He was rewarded with a gracious nod.

  ‘These ladies, though, riding the town at night?’

  ‘Oh, I hear bruits, but I don’t indulge in such idle gossip. Darroch fancies low women, whores, use the Oakshaw woods to enter the burgh, for the entertainment of the monks. It would not be the first time such things have happened, though the harlots have not made their presence known to me. They would not dare take to the streets, even at night. The burgesses would not have it. The woman havers. Fond, low-born fool that she is.’

  ‘Well, Mistress Clacher, you have been a help to us,’ said Danforth.

  ‘Then I’m glad.’ Her eyes darted downwards, following Danforth’s. ‘You admire it?’ she asked, jabbing a finger at the paperweight lump of stone.

  ‘I –’

  ‘A true piece of the Abbey, recovered from the last fire. A blessed stone, given me by the Prior. You may touch it.’

  Danforth reached out a finger and traced the sign of the cross on the soot-stained chunk of rock. ‘Thank you, madam.’

  ‘My pleasure. When shall the murderer be hanged, sir?’

  ‘That I cannot say. Good day to you.’ Both men bowed to her and showed themselves out. Her voice croaked after them, screaming at the ‘Madge’ who wasn’t called ‘Madge.’ It had begun to rain, soft and intermittent. When they were clear of Mistress Clacher’s house, Danforth fetched a sigh. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that it was as well such people as she lacked the Bible in their own tongue. If they were provided with it, they would only spend hours discussing the sexual escapades of Jezebel and debating whether or not Rahab was a prostitute.

  ‘I would speak to that Darroch woman,’ said Martin. He had turned his attention to another nail.

  ‘Then here is your opportunity.’ Danforth pointed across the street, to a red-painted door on the right. Mistress Darroch, a shawl held over her cap, was standing outside a window next to it, stuffing rags into the gaps in the shutter.

  ‘Mistress Darroch!’ cried Martin. She turned, a vague smile on her open face. It did not fade at the sight of them. Danforth returned it.

  ‘Gentlemen. Yez finished wi’ yon auld nyaff?’

  ‘Our discussion with Mistress Clacher is concluded, aye,’ said Danforth.

  ‘As ye like it. Yez wantin’ a wee word?’

  ‘My friend does,’ said Martin.

  ‘‘Mon in.’

  There was no serving girl in the Darroch household, which was just as well-appointed as Mistress Clacher’s. ‘Kin a get ye anythin’? A little ale, or bread? As sure as fate that prune didnae offer ye a scrap. She was ay a tight-fisted auld shite, even in her day.’

  ‘I’d love–’ began Martin.

  ‘Nothing, thank you, mistress. We would not trouble you, nor long detain you. To the matter, Mr Martin?’

  ‘Mistress,’ began Martin, drawing resentful eyes from Danforth. ‘You spoke of something rotten in the burgh. Of men – men – who abused Kate Brody. What, who, did you mean?’

  ‘Och, it’s a sad thing, so it is. That wee lassie had a rotten father, nothin’ tae her name. Else I’d hae let my boy take her tae wife.’

  ‘Aye, you mentioned yesterday that your son was taken with her.’

  ‘Well, we’re only a wee toon. They knew each o’er as weans, they were always the-gither. She got pretty, he got hair on his face, and he fancied her. I wouldnae have it. He’s got a future, y’see. Whate’er happens wi’ this war, his learnin’ll see him prosper. He’ll go for a scholar, get oot o’ Scotland. Write books, ma wee Jamie will.’

  ‘Of what nature was the girl, Kate?’

  ‘Och, she wiz a good wee thing. Sweet.’

  ‘No wanton, then?’

  ‘No, an’ ye should cry shame on any who say it. She wiz gentle. Jist a wee lassie. A bit daft, ye know, given tae dreams an’ stories. Used tae let her play wae Jamie when they wur baith in skirts. She wiz ay tellin’ him stories aboot how she’d get away fae her da, how she’d get married tae a man o’ means. Ah think that’s whit made Jamie want tae be such a man, such a scholar, an’ for that Ah owe the poor bairn.’

  ‘A worthy calling. You must be proud.’

  ‘Aye, Am are that.’

  ‘About this “abuse”, though,’ said Martin.

  ‘A’ her life. Auld Angus wiz handy wi’ his fists.’

  ‘We have heard. You said “men”.’

  ‘Well it wisnae jist him. He abused her wi’ his hands, left her wi’ the bruises. We a’ seen them. Since the maw died, he took his bad humours oot on the daughter. Ah kin tell ye, ma boy was for kickin’ his arse up and doon the High Street himsel, but Ah wouldnae let him get intae trouble. That’s the end o’ a boy, the fightin’. As bad as the drink.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Aye, sorry. Well, the faither wiz violent. But when she began tae work for the monks ... it wiz common report that she was bein’ led intae sin by them. When she came intae the burgh she had that look. Ye know thon look – a lass that’s gone moon-minded o’er a lad? Well, there wiz nae other lads near her but the monks. They take their pleasure an’ they keep the silence o’ the lass that gies it.’

  ‘You have no good opinion of the Brothers?’ asked Danforth. Mistress Darroch hesitated.

  ‘Ah don’t speak ill of the Church, sir. No’ at a’. Ah go tae Mass, an’ Ah avoid meat an’ keep Lent.’

  ‘How about your boy?’ At this, a frown crossed the woman’s face.

  ‘He’s away, Ah telt ye. Glasgow. The university.’

  ‘That is not what I asked. What are his opinions on religion?’

  ‘Good. He has good opinions. He debates. It’s whit they learn tae dae up there, is it no’?’

  ‘It is. He has not been back to Paisley of late?’

  ‘Naw, o’ course not. It’s Michaelmas term. Ah’ve only written him, and him me.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ smiled Danforth. ‘Mistress Clacher encouraged you to do your own scribbling. Mistress, did you write your son news of his ... friend ... young Kate’s disappearance?’

  ‘Well, Ah cannae write letters. Tried, mind you – Ah’m no’ stupit – but cannae dae it. So Ah keep Clacher as an acquaintance. Ah talk, she writes. Then ma man takes the letters aff on his business. An’ d’ye know, the auld boot asks payment for her labour? Some linens here, fine papers there.’

  ‘And you had the lady write a notice of Kate Brody’s sudden disappearance, and caused it to be taken to your son, where he might advertise the matter abroad?’

  ‘Aye.’ She paused, her eyes darting to Martin in appeal.

  ‘Thank you, Mistress Darroch. You have been more help than we can say. The question of who wrote and placed that placard has vexed us both some time.’

  ‘Yet it is strange, I think,’ said Danforth. ‘You wished the girl found and returned to a hard life?’

  ‘It wisnae that, sir, naw.’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘Ah wished for ma boy’s sake that some news’ o’ her wid be heard. Ah didnae believe she’d come tae good. An’ a wiz right, God rest her.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Jamie’s no’ in trouble for it, is he? Ah’ve no’ got Jamie in trouble? Ah telt him she was taken, and said he might put the notice up in case she was driven tae Glasgow, or taken there tae be oot the way. Ah didnae know she’d been kilt. Ah didnae think anyb’dy would want her tongue stilled like that. That wiz a’.’

  ‘Peace, no. You did good service. I am only sorry it did not bear better fruit. In fact, I think you did more than either the baillies or the Abbey in reaching a hand out on the lass’s behalf. Let that be a comfort to you.’

  ‘Pfft. Ah did what any good Christian ought. The baillies and Abbey would be glad to be rid o’ her. Th
e town’s secrets are theirs tae keep.’

  ‘One more thing,’ said Danforth. ‘You spoke of queans coming into the burgh at night. Be it so?’

  ‘Ah’ve heard it,’ she said, nodding. ‘An’ word passes at market. Only queans ride alone, an’ women have been seen on horses, flittin’ aboot under the stars. Hoors for the monks, is ma guess. You tend to that garden at the bottom o’ the hill, or see what his Grace might dae. It’s choked wi’ weeds. It’s whit’s hurtin’ the whole realm. More than any debates might.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Martin. ‘Again, we thank you.’ They left the Darroch house, its mistress’s distracted smile seeing them out.

  ‘There is one mystery solved.’ Martin clapped a hand over his breast. ‘She had it written, and the son put it up.’

  ‘A university boy, given to debate.’

  ‘All Scots are friends to debate. Pretty name for a wee scrap.’

  ‘Perhaps. I should like to know more of this lad. Aye, I think it was you, sir, who said that the papers might be connected. The libel and the notice of Kateryn Brody’s loss.’

  ‘Aye, well ... I think less on that now. I was perhaps, uh, overeager to investigate the girl, and so said anything that might make you help me. They are in different hands, for one thing, and for another I doubt old Clacher writes verses against our master to please some schismastic student. Leave the boy to his studies, sir. Mistress Darroch think the Abbey-men are art and part of this girl’s sorry tale. And so we’re back to the monks.’

  ‘All roads certainly lead back to the Abbey.’ Danforth looked down the High Street, where the spire was visible even through the misty rain. There was something about the place that both attracted and repelled him. The image of a shiny red apple with a maggot buried in its flesh flashed into his mind. That spire now seemed almost to be trying to reach upwards and out of the sinful world of man.

  ‘Shall we take these rumours to the Prior?’ asked Martin, cutting short Danforth’s musings.

  ‘Yes. But I cannot today.’

  ‘Then we might eat? She was after feeding me, you know.’

  ‘Sir, does your mind run on nothing but food?’ Martin smiled impishly. ‘You may go and eat. I cannot stomach anything, I fear.’ The maggoty apple had led to the image of the bloated corpse. The girl must be given justice, or something worse would happen. If God provided a mystery and he were to neglect it, He would ensure some greater evil would fall out. ‘Take yourself into the town. I shall return to our lodgings. I should like to see if our shirts are come.’

  8

  The shirts had not come. So much, thought Danforth, for the gratuity of Jardine the younger. But he was too tired to care. His thighs had taken a racking from the recent trips up and down the wynd to St Nicholas. His eyes nipped. Even walking up and down the hill of the High Street and market cross had taken a toll. He began to wonder if he really was becoming an old man. He had always imagined that the middling age began at thirty – he would pass that in a few months – and then old age made its presence felt at forty.

  He waved off the barrage of questions from Mistress Caldwell: ‘is it true Brody is to hang? Has he confessed? Are you gentlemen engaged in the affair? What news o’ the war?’ He had had enough of fishwives for a lifetime. He climbed the stairs leaving a disappointed Mistress Caldwell at the foot of them, went up to his room and slept. He woke only at a knock from Martin, who delivered some fruit, much of it dried. He ate everything but the apple, and then turned his Book of Hours. His father’s favourite thing about the book had always been its selection from Proverbs. He turned the pages, finding what he wanted:

  20:19. He that goeth about as a talebearer revealeth secrets.

  11:13 The gadding gossiper is sure to let out any secret entrusted to him; therefore, it is implied, be careful in what you say to him.

  ‘Or her’, he added in thick lettering. But should some secrets not be known? He lay back on his lumpy mattress, intending to think about what he had seen, to go over the details of what he had heard. Instead he counted his seven Hail Marys and drifted back to sleep.

  He dreamt that night, but not of Alice and little Elizabeth. Instead he pursued a headless girl, her body marked with bruises, through the grounds of Paisley Abbey. In the deer parks, strange shapes loomed, wild and lumbering, never showing themselves. He chased the girl past them. Watching the pursuit, their faces pressed against the dark glass, were the monks, their mouths making ‘o’s against the murky glass. And then he felt himself awaken and spotted a length of rope jutting from beneath his mattress. When he pulled on it, it was yanked angrily by some unseen force bent on engaging him in a strange tug of war. A terror came to him that he would be dragged under the bed with it. He opened his eyes then and knew it was only another dream – the dream of a child.

  A little knot of dread had taken up lodging in his stomach. He knew that he would have to go to the Abbey again, and he did not relish the thought. He must confront the Prior, draw the truth out of him with threats and terror. He was suddenly very glad that Martin had accompanied him on the pilgrimage. The man’s laughing, easy manner – though undoubtedly infuriating – was a remedy to the bleakness that had wrapped itself around his heart. Somehow, he hoped, proving the guilt or innocence of Brody would release it. Then he could take Mass in the pilgrim’s chapel and feel free. Either the man was guilty and the Abbey free of taint, or some corruption would be found, pulled out by the root, and tranquillity restored.

  Fancying their shirts would last a few days more – and they would have to, until they frightened what they were due out of young Jardine – the pair attended St Nicholas in what was settling in to a ceaseless day of rainfall. If the same weather persisted down south, he thought, the fighting when it came would feel the brunt of it. Men and horses would meet in a marsh, hacking and shooting from uncaring, sucking sludge. In the churchyard lay some freshly turned turf: the hastily dug resting place of Kate Brody.

  In the market cross afterwards they scouted, as usual, for news. Following their visit, Mistress Clacher had evidently spread the nature of their business, and they were informed by new arrivals from Glasgow that the only news of slanderous bills was a commission against them being undertaken by the Archbishop. That was welcome. The king, Cardinal and army had been in the troubled borders, trying to draw ordnance, sheep and horses, but met resistance and, it was said, found few vassals willing to muster. That was unwelcome.

  ‘Shall we now attend on the Prior?’ asked Martin after their noontime dinner. He wiped his fingers gracelessly on the cuffs of his shirt. ‘I would as soon be out of this rain, and the days have grown so short. It seems not long ago I was in France, where the sun seldom retreated.’

  ‘Not yet. First let us speak with young Jardine.’

  ‘Yes, that’s an idea. I’ve fair ruined the rags that young fool has left me in.’

  Danforth led Martin towards the shop, eager to delay confronting the acting head of the Abbey. Inside the draper’s they found the younger Jardine chatting with a friend, whom he introduced as their erstwhile tailor. Both looked frightened at the petulant faces of their unhappy customers.

  ‘Young Jardine,’ said Danforth, crossing his arms in a pose of solemn disapproval. ‘We were due our shirts yesterday, and yet in our lodgings we find no shirts. How, I ask you, can this be?’

  ‘Sir, I – we – there has been but a delay. I had news of my father, old Jardine, he is due to return later this week, perhaps Friday, perhaps Saturday, it shall depend on the weather; you can see how much it delays things– ’

  ‘We don’t care a straw for your father, young sir,’ said Martin, ‘but for our shirts. You, tailor.’

  ‘Taynne, sir.’

  ‘Taynne, then. You were to cut the cloth this lad provided you into shirts, and to deliver them to our lodgings yesterday, and yet here we stand as vagabonds, not gentlemen in the employ of the Lord Privy Seal. Regard my cuffs, sir. Would you put a villain out in such weeds?’

  ‘
Young Jardine, sirs,’ explained Taynne, ‘is but a prentice. He spoke in haste, eager for trade.’ Jardine cast his eyes downwards. ‘It cannot be done so speedily, or else you will have poor shirts and be the worse for it. But I and my own prentice are hard at work, gentlemen, on what you have ordered.’

  ‘Yes, very hard at work, as my eyes tell me,’ said Martin. It was Taynne’s turn to look sheepish. ‘When shall we have that for which we have paid?’

  ‘Tomorrow, possibly the day following.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  They left the sour merchants to their world of bolls and spools and stepped back out into a washed-out market cross, its complement of argumentative goodwives already settled into the apparent routine of fighting each other for the best of goods. ‘Mon dieu, what a people,’ said Martin. ‘How their minds run on trade. They will say anything to procure it. What a bootless little tinker is young Jardine.’ Danforth mumbled in response, already turning down hill towards the Bridge Port, and Martin ceased trying to distract him.

  They took the familiar path, the saints now weeping rain. If Cromwell had seen them, thought Danforth acidly, he would use the weather as an excuse to get out the hammers. He thanked God daily that he had left England before King Henry had reduced the religious houses to dusty piles of rubble, or sold them off to grasping courtiers.

  Feeling their way along the wall from the other direction were the usual assortment of beggars, eager to seek alms at the gate from Brother David. Danforth cast his gaze downwards. The poor he accepted, as readily as he accepted the role of the Abbey in tending to them. But looking at their pleading, defeated faces, seeing them as individuals, was even harder than looking upon corpses. The dead had lived and lost their lives, were beyond suffering. The itinerant masterless that tried their luck at every burgh and town were suffering alive.

  The gates were still open, although a porter emerged from the gatehouse, asking their business before disappearing back inside to record it. Recognising them as the Cardinal’s men – their fame had certainly spread through the burgh – they were bid welcome. Unlike on their previous visit, the Abbey precincts were alive with activity, bedraggled servants squelching to and fro. In the park, one was chopping a tree for firewood, the handle slipping in his grasp. In an enclosed space an old woman, her cap sodden, was chasing chickens, mud-soaked sacks tied around her ankles. They followed the path around the Abbey church and Danforth spotted the young monk, perhaps in his early twenties, again looking at them from the door of what Brother David had indicated was the infirmary. His hand was out of his robe this time, lightly bandaged. When the boy saw them looking at him, he stared back hard. The others, thought Danforth, must have had their midday meal and prayers, and be back at their books in the Chapter House. What a strange life they must lead, eating, studying and praying within their sturdy walls whilst outside them a town full of revellers, gamblers and traders loomed, drinking life to the dregs.