The bold Creed, Lord's Prayer and Ten Commandments are typical late 'Pure-Stuart', from the reign of Joseph I when orthodoxy harboured unnecessary concerns and churches were required to display them over the Altar.
The three stained glass windows are in different styles, each portraying an aspect of Our Lord's existence. The light is a feature of this Church, ranging from clear daylight to depth and mystery around the Altar.
The graveyard contains a tapsel gate, more usually associated with Sussex, and a clearly marked mass-grave pit from 'Counter-Reformation' days....'
************
‘One, two, three, four....’
Samuel stopped and looked down at the low mound before him. The intervening years had caused it to weather and settle; in a short while it would be flush with the ground: invisible. He had come just in time.
He reconsulted his notes. The fourth grave from the Salway sepulchre, 'ten or so paces' behind St Nectan's Chancel wall, in line and to the left of a yew sapling. Samuel checked. That 'sapling' was now a tree, but it and all the other clues were present and correct. There was no marker to assist him - though other Trevans in the family plot had merited a memorial stone. He was entirely reliant on Father Jago's memory. The priest had said he remembered this one well, out of the many hundreds he'd seen on their way. He'd even recalled his words at the time, that 'she was as good as the rest now, their equal at last, if only in death.’
Samuel wondered. It would be a fitting end, and the best joke of all, if he was now before some stranger's grave, mistaken and deluded for ever. However, he was left with no choice but to trust. He had to make a decision and so made it. This was the one.
The light was fading swiftly. Samuel squinted up at St Nectan's square flint tower, and it was not only the declining sun that misted his vision. It was a quiet place this, a sheltered dip amidst steep green hills, separated even from the little village of Welcombe it served. Samuel was glad of that.
He'd gathered some woodland flowers and ferns, fashioning a rough arrangement of them with clumsy fingers. If anyone should have seen him at work in long and careful selection, in doing the best he could to make a posy; if they'd laughed at him, a great grown man thus engaged - and there were no other witnesses - he might have killed them.
Samuel gently placed his offering on the raised turf.
It would have been... nice to say a prayer - but he couldn't do that now. There were only useless words, a cold comfort to him, and nothing at all to her. She couldn't hear him. But he spoke anyway.
‘Hello Mum…. Goodbye Mum.’
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 16
‘What do you want?’
‘Some courtesy for a start. What do you want: another broken door?’
‘I'll get Dad.’
‘I should.’
Uninvited, unsuspected, Samuel followed the youth into the house. Around the great kitchen table the farmhands were having their cider and fat-bacon breakfast. No one commented. They knew his form from last time and carried on eating.
The youth bellowed into empty air.
‘'Ere, da! That blow-in's back. 'Er looks like trouble!’
A gruff voice answered from upstairs, though its tone was less robust than the choice of words.
‘Then 'e'll surely find it. Bind him there while I get me gun.’
Samuel brushed past the stocky boy, who'd been unaware he had close company.
‘Oi! You can't just barge-....’
But by then Trevan was past him and heading up the narrow stairs. Significantly, he wasn't followed or hindered, though there was ample opportunity.
Faced with a selection of doors on the landing, he headed for the one muffling frantic sounds of distress. It opened wide at the prompting of his boot.
His beloved cousin was still in his nightshirt, though milking was at least an hour past. Roused up before schedule, he was sitting on the bed, revealing acres of hairy flesh and equal trepidation. Perhaps it was the unusual circumstances, but a fumbling meal was being made of loading a plain and simple fowling piece.
The farmer's wife was beside him, still tucked up. She saw Samuel first and, just for an instant, he got the impression she'd not object to finding him there more regularly, in place of what she'd got. That was a notion, a bit of leverage, a potential ploy, to be pondered on later. Meanwhile, the lady recalled propriety and screamed.
One of Samuel's hands permitted the farmer to see stars in the morning; the other took the gun from him and smashed it against the bedside cabinet. Neither weapon nor furniture survived their introduction. Then the stunned man was heaved off the bed and stood shakily upright. Samuel kept hold of a bunched handful of nightshirt and shook a bit more awareness into him. He smiled close into his captive's face.
‘Walkies!’ Samuel told him.
************
‘That's about the shape of it. I don't know no more.’
Samuel indicated that, however reluctantly, he believed him.
‘Very well. Yeah, it ties in with what I've been told. But things would have been easier on everyone if I hadn't had to prise the story out.’
Cousin Trevan judged it was safe to let some of the exasperation he felt out to play.
‘I was a boy when it all happened. No one weren't proud of it. You reckon it was a tale we swapped round the Yule log? No, you just heard rumours and passing comments. Aunt Lucy never said a mite that made sense anyhow. And normal folk don't have much time for innocents. She were getting on when I knew her and sat by the cooking range all day. They let her turn and baste things. That's all I recollect of 'er. We never 'eard hide nor hair of you till you ships up here, and I call on God to witness I've kept nothing back.’
‘After a little prompting, cousin.’
‘And that's another thing. You had no call. You made I look a right Tudor in front of all. How I gonna stand up in front of wife and workers to exercise authority after what you done?’
Samuel seemed abstracted, his thoughts elsewhere.
‘I couldn't say. I don't care. Time's a great healer in these things I'm told. People soon forget.’
‘Not round 'ere they don't. You've done I an ill service.’
Samuel came to a decision and returned his full attention to the exchange.
‘Then we're all square now, the Trevans and me. We can start afresh.’
The farmer warily shook his head. Pound for pound and unarmed he might be no match for this family-foreigner, but he had brothers and cousins and friends, and together they might....
‘I'm not so sure of that, mister. We can't reckon out exactly what you might be after.’
‘Nothing. I want nothing of value off you. That's how we can be at peace. If you want, I'll sign a document renouncing every interest. Go into Bideford or Bude and get a lawyer to draw one up. Then I'll sign it.’
Cousin Trevan's interest was aroused. If the kin thought it was he who 'drove' the cuckoo out there might be a powerful lot of credit in it for him. Still, he had to beware of a trap; in this hard, harsh world it wasn't natural, not reasonable, to exchange something for nothing.
‘That might work...,’ he said hesitantly.
‘And all I ask of you in return,’ Samuel continued, relishing both the disappointment and pleasure warring over the man's face, his hopes punctured even as his prejudices were confirmed, ‘is one thing.’
Cousin Trevan resumed his normal, bristling, ‘us against the world’ self.
‘I thought as much! And what might her be?’
‘A day of your time.’
‘Don't muck I about. It's cruel.’
Samuel caught his shifty gaze.
‘No, really. Since I'm stuck here in this last-place-God-made, I may as well know it well. I want a guide, I want a tour.’
The man's eyes widened. He made a final inspection for mockery or fraud but found none.
‘Done!’ he said.
A hand was upturned, spat upon, then held out.
&
nbsp; Such a sweet deal was never going to be walked away from, no matter what the slight. But excess hesitation might sour the ‘family moment’.
Samuel fastidiously brushed the proffered palm and thus broke with yet another past.
************
They sealed their farmyard treaty with a quart of beer in 'The Forge Inn' at Welcombe. This was where Samuel was lodging, in the absence of hospitality from his wide-ranging family. The owner knew and feared him, concerned about the upshot of those long brooding sessions at his fireside, and only Trevan’s ready money and prompt payments made him a tolerable guest.
Consequently, they got good service, full tankards and a breakfast platter to set them up for the day. Samuel spoke little and paid for all.
His relative warmed to the new role and a day's break from cursing at the churls. He soon so far forgot himself as speak to Samuel like a fellow human being from Devon. They strolled out into the rolling landscape and Samuel took what he needed from the accumulated wisdom of centuries.
'The road branches 'ere but both ways lead down to the sea. 'Er's the quickest but the foreshore there has an evil spirit so don't tread 'er after dark. The other beach has a Lady Shrine carved in the cliff so she's clean and safe to use.'
'Stratton's down that way and she's fine if you want the simpler things, especially on the first Thursday market. Anything rarer or made-to-order you gotta head for Bideford. There's no two ways about it. Her market is on the Tuesday every week and if you go to the Joiners Arms you'll get a special market luncheon that'll half kill yer. Proper job!'
'That land's sour. What? No, I don't know how come but 'er is, take my word for it. If you're a blow-in with money sooner or later you'll be offered some. Steer clear.'
'Look over there and you might see Lundy. Steepholm's that way too but she's not often visible. Evil places! Avoid they however gracious the invitation. The Lord of Lundy is a pirate, famous poet or no. I've seen empty drifting boats with blood all in 'em with my own eyes. That's their work, or some of their Irish brethren. Go armed if you put out in a little craft, or else stick close in unless there's a King's ship nearby. They sweep down from Bristol periodic-like. Any privateer they take they hang 'em from their bowsprit and leave 'em on as a trophy, like crows on a fence. I've seen that sight too'
'And don't buy of their produce. There's a plague-pit hard by, though they'll swear blind otherwise. They can only sell to uplanders or the Welsh slave plantations.'
'Cider? No, you'll derive no money there. Each farm makes its own. The first draw goes to the family and the churls 'as the scrumpy. My advice is don't touch it. It blows up the veins in yer nose and can put a fighting frenzy on yer, if enough's taken. Mass production? What's that? No - who'd buy it? The gentry wouldn't be seen dead with cider, and you'll not make a farmer pay coin for what he can brew in a barrel hisself. You've got some funny ideas, mister, I'll give you that.'
'Mebbe two hundred souls in all, more at harvest time, and most of 'em as poor as Protestants. I'll recount to you the Welcombe families that matter... and if you get the cod-itch there's Joanna Polway or Morwenna Zenn who'll oblige you for next to nothing…. Father McGlashan, he's not so bad but 'e's a stickler; you daren't confess one half the truth to him or you'd pray a hole in your breeches 'fore penance was done.'
'This'll take corn, but it's stubborn like. A wise husbander will leave it sweet-meadow and graze it to death before a fallow time.'
'Course the Cornish still raid over the border. Their friends the Welshies are not above joining in on occasion either. Why else do you reckon places round here are still fortified and barred up? You won't find that up country; people there can make their homes all comfortable like. And it's 'cause the Cornish get up to their tricks that you've got the demi-demon problems biding roundabouts. Those vermin love places as ain't safe or tamed: it's easier for 'em to hide and get their meat there. I tell yer, if it weren't for the sodjers permanent in Bideford and their horse patrols, this land would be worse than Cumbria. It's one-hand ploughing up there they say.
Do we raid back? Course we do. Sometimes it’s unofficial; a few lads after the inn's chucked out. Other days the Governor at Bideford proclaims the Posse Comitatus and we get paid for lending our horses. Men from East Devon come to help. Me? Oh yeah, I've bin on a couple of 'trips over' as we call 'em. It’s more or less expected of a young blade; it shows his mettle for the marrying stakes. Bit long in the tooth now but I've showed the Trevan flag in my time, don’t you worry. Best day was when it were eye-for-an-eye for a manor house over Woolfardisworthy way. I shot a yeoman type point blank, and then had his wife upstairs 'fore we fired the lot. Typical Kernow girl she were: buttermilk skin and black natural ringlets - above and below, if you take me meaning. Lord, but I gave 'er a lapful….'
'Morwenstow's safe enough. They'll trade and talk with you there. It's the traditional truce spot....'
'Glastonbury? I've heard of 'er. Somerset way ain't she? I don't know so much about those parts. No one does.'
'And mind extra careful when you're walking in this portion round here. It's dotted with the old miners' shafts. Some say they're bottomless but I don't see how that can be. There's standing water in 'em and water don't stay where there's no base. That's my experience. Either way, go down one and that's the end of yer.'
Samuel had listened to and absorbed everything else without judging. It was necessary he learn about the landscape he was chained to. The natives presumably knew best. But this last, almost throwaway, snippet, he rebelled against.
‘Mines?’ he boggled aloud. ‘No, I don't think so.’
His cousin was unconcerned. Things which weren't useable, edible, drinkable or swivable didn't feature greatly in his thoughts. They weren't on his land: so long as he didn't trip over them, that sufficed.
‘Well, what else then?’ he asked, growing daring. ‘Giant rabbits? No, people say they was mines.’
Samuel repented of his open outbreak of disbelief. Despite all that had happened to him, his inner gaze had never ceased to search the landscape for advantage. Therein lay the only path back.
So he said no more. But to himself he thought 'well, I reckon people say wrong....'
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 17
'My dearest Melissa
I am well. I hope you are likewise. You are always in my thoughts - except when I am at business. No, on reflection, even then, for what else are all my struggles and conspiring but the means to regain you? Accordingly, I find that you are never out of mind, one way or the other.
I have not heard from you. I have no way to tell if Father Omar delivers my letters. It may be that you cannot reply. I will understand if you have given an undertaking to your father not to correspond. If, however, you are free in honour to write, I ask that you do so. Even one word - or a sign - would cheer me. It is dispiriting to labour alone in a hostile world.'
Samuel paused and brushed away the frantic crane-flies drawn to his candle. He wasn't sure about that last line. Were the sentiments too craven? Would a woman respect a man who - occasionally - faltered? Chewing the end of the ink-stick, he thought on and decided to let the phrase stand. What he'd written was the truth, and Melissa would get nothing else but that from him.
'My so-called family are no more hospitable than before; nor ever likely to be. They are an inward looking and clenched fist crowd and we are well shot of them. One deigned - after hard bargaining - to show me the district yesterday. I learnt one or two things of interest.
I have registered my presence in these parts, as required, in the nearest place of any consequence: an Abbey in a secluded place called Hartland, which is north of here. They have been entrusted with my 'case'. Every Saturday I must travel there to report my doings and swear I have commenced no enterprise nor employed any person. In return I receive my 'pension'. You see, I am become a gentleman of leisure now. The sum is more than adequate for a simple life and I shall accumulate respectable savings. It pleases me to ba
nk the un-needed portion with the very people who dole it out.
However, it is a long walk to Hartland, and steep going besides, so I may soon take mercy on my blisters and buy a horse.
The whispering old monk-cum-clerk that I see tries to tempt me to their evening Mass, which would fulfil the Sunday obligation. I do not succumb. He thinks me a neo-Druid, of which there are no shortage round here.
This is a stark place, not like Sussex. The Law is far away and enemies close at hand. Across the water, in Wales, there are the Irish plantations, and their troubles spill over. The Red Dragon fighters hide and train here, so it's said. And every man with a boat bigger than a coracle turns pirate if money's tight. Thus, people pray on their knees and prey on their neighbours. That way the country is poor and always will be. Even Hartland Abbey is fortified; its walls thick and windowless, save for loopholes. But it is better now than formerly. Each village has a tower from the old times, before the Navy came, before 'Kernow' was subdued. They are still kept in good repair.
Near to Welcombe is a valley where nobody will go because it is haunted by the spirit of Damned Drake - he who sold his soul in hope of thwarting the Holy Armada, only to be doubly betrayed. They say that when his 'Golden Hind' blew asunder Drake's broken body was hurled all the way here from Plymouth Sound. Nor is that the worst nonsense I have heard. There are few schools, as you may guess. I go and sit in that silent valley when I wish for solitude and freedom from mankind's silly chatter - and that is often now.
But be entirely confident, and never doubt, that I shall always hunger and thirst for your company. Its absence, through others' actions, is like a toothache to me. A word from you will dull the pain.
The Two Confessions Page 10
