U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 21
It had snowed the day before but failed to settle. Now the sun made recompense by soaking up the remaining damp. Samuel welcomed her kiss and undid his coat. Someone dared to speak to him.
‘What d'ye make of that then, mister? Her's an Iroquois ship!’
‘Really? And there's me thinking she was out of Swansea....’
Samuel heard himself say it, and wondered at the need for such sarcasm. The Devon dockside-loafer agreed.
‘Miss Mass this morning did we?’ the man asked. ‘Should 'ave gone I reckon; it might have sweetened y' temper.’
Trevan could have taken that further: in fact was half minded to. Thereagain, there ought to be proper cause for falling out. He had to guard against this growing sourness. The locals were only making conversation - and besides, there was no shortage of them. They'd band together, no questions asked, against a rough-tongued uplander. He moved on further up the quay.
The tea-clipper was indeed a fine sight, as big and well constructed as anything that put in to New-haven, let alone Lewes, but made wild looking in the Americas style. The sides were festooned with Blessed Virgin totems and each sail bore a lively pictogram of the owning tribe. Even the cannon were cast ornately, with extravagant curlicues and demon faces bizarre to English eyes. Depending on who you believed, the gun ports depicted gaping mouths or vaginas.
Samuel recalled reading that it was the Jesuits who'd taught the native 'Americans' shipbuilding, along with many other useful skills including the modern way of war. If so, they'd long outstripped their tutors, and not only survived but prospered. The Iroquois League, a vindication of the Papal 'nativisation' policy and by no means the least nation of expanding Christendom, now dealt with the east coast colonies as equals.
The mariners certainly looked confident enough, though far from their home continent. They swarmed lithely over the rigging, securing the gaudy sails, or else packed the deck, preparing to dock. For the moment they were in standard, practical, seaman gear, but on dry land they'd resume proper dress and the famous lone feather for the traditional dance of thanks to the 'Great Spirit-and-his-Christ-son' for safe deliverance. Only then would it be right to think about off-loading or stowing supplies for the return run - or a night on the town.
The Devon dockers and merchants stood politely back awaiting the seemly time for business. Only a few port-wives, recognising their lovers, broke the respectful quiet to whoop hellos from the quay.
Apparently, the dance was quite a sight but Samuel had other calls on his time. He forced himself to forego that pleasure. The purpose of this walk was meant to be the marshalling of his thoughts, prior to another day of directed effort. He was not in Exeter to kill time or please himself, but to continue his crusade against fate. There was no excuse for idle moments.
Samuel was in the right place to frame no-nonsense thoughts. Few people came to Exeter and the West for frivolous reasons. It was a hard place and hard-working, where gains were valued and held on to, or else shipped east for safekeeping. Back in the previous century, 'United England' enthusiasts had come west to fight and conspire, but that struggle was now largely won and the movement become respectable and orthodox, even staid. The dwindling band of zealots who came on pilgrimage to the famous 'Three Liberators' monument outside the western 'Kernow' gate now had all they wanted (save Scotland under its unchallengeable Papal guarantee), and were as content as they'd ever be. There also arrived monastic orders and hermits and seekers-after-God attracted by the sparseness of settlement and many mortifications. Otherwise, visitors were all like Samuel: passing through; out for what they could get.
In fact, he'd acquired a great deal during his stay in the city, though for the present without appreciating it. If his great objective remained elusive, there'd been other gains. Way back, in another life, he'd studied the antiquarian arts the better to endear himself to Mr Farncombe. Then, what started as just a short cut to the man's daughter had grown into genuine interest. He'd since devoured books with pleasure and actually worried away at the mysteries of pre and post Flood days. In merely seeking to dupe Farncombe Samuel surprised himself with disinterested curiosity. Now, set loose amidst the Lewes-dwarfing riches of Exeter learning, those forgotten feelings revived.
Whilst drawing a blank about gold in Welcombe he'd been obliged to read about other things. If records of the old days said nothing about treasure there then he had to weigh up the things they did say. Whereas to start with he skimmed impatiently though hard reading about matters dead and gone, soon enough he found he was paying proper attention. There was no strict call for him to line-by-line read some dry essay about ‘cromlechs’ and stone circles. There was certainly no reason for him to recollect it over dinner and wonder why and when men built them. He had no cause to lay awake in his lodgings and consider how come there was only one known Roman villa in the far west. And as for the question of the giant 'dragons' bones' that sometimes turned up in cliff faces or rockfalls, what manner of creatures could they have been...?
His pace of study slowed, its quality deepened, and though he should have controlled himself (as he did in everything else), he... chose not to.
There'd never been a mine at Welcombe: he knew that much now: nor a castle or rich palace, or anything of that kind. There was no legend attached to the place he could get his teeth - or spade - into, other than half-baked country-slowness tales about headless coachmen and hell-hounds. It seemed like the area had always been what it still was; not even a footnote in history.
On the other hand it did have the mossy and sweet-tasting well by the Church, miraculously brought into life by St Nectan himself. Samuel had drunk from it on numerous occasions and spent an afternoon likewise absorbing a tome about that and all the other holy wells in the west.
Trevan repented of it after, as though he'd been indulging in something shameful. For penance he hurtled through a vast pile of Bideford assize records, ignoring intriguing tales of blasphemy, heresy and sodomy, in vain search for fabulous wealth lost, hidden or stolen over Welcombe way. There were none – nor anything even like it.
Right now, the Library wasn't open yet, or leastways the psalms and pointless prayers that started its day would still be going on. And, fine as it was, he didn't care to idle in the ancient Cathedral Green awaiting some priest's pleasure. There was ample time to stroll on, pitting himself against Exeter's steep climbs and develop a fine headache chasing 'will she?/won't she?' enlightenment. For Trevan's problem was stubborn persistence in thinking there must be some fresh approach to be found, if only he could batter his brain enough to see it.
And yet... and yet, it was such a well-chewed bone there might actually be no meat left on it. God knew (if he existed or cared) Samuel had gnawed away in search long enough. This wasn't like some child's jigsaw, or a wander in a maze, where there was certainty of a complete picture or a way out, even if you yourself couldn't find it. He'd been in the city – what? - a fortnight? Soon enough it would be Lady Day, when Christian women dressed all in blue and white and their menfolk abstained from them and gave them flowers. He hadn't thought to still be here to behold that. It would pain him. He'd always loved that day in Lewes, making special devotions in preparation, and saving his pennies for blooms to lay before the Orphanage's plain but beloved plaster Virgin. Last year he'd had funds and opportunity and the desire to bestow expensive hothouse roses on both Mary and Melissa. Now, for different reasons, he'd be neglecting both women. So Samuel didn't want to be still in Exeter then, to have the measure of his defeats held before him.
But others... they were quite happy to transfer his humiliating 'pension', that insultingly sufficient dole, from St Nectan's to the Cathedral bursar for ever. It 'kept him out of mischief': Samuel could almost hear the Abbot saying it. By keeping on, by having faith, he could well be co-operating with them neutering him. Best betrayal of all, his cussedness might their chief ally, delivering him, legs apart, to the castratin
g knife.
Arriving at the west-gate, Trevan looked at the incoming people going about their pressing business - and he wished with all his heart to get into powerful 'mischief'. All he had ever wanted was one or two little things, but apparently that was too much to ask. Other people didn't get mucked around like that: witness the untroubled mugs all around. So, either he could join them - as was only fair - or maybe they should try a taste of his world....
Above the city-wall Samuel saw the marble crowned heads of the 'Three Liberators', supposedly the largest depictions of the human form in England, bar St Joseph atop Glastonbury Tor. Incongruous amidst Exeter's industrial area, they loomed over the workshops and mill-leats, high above the serried cloth-drying racks extending out to Shilhay Island. A falconer paid by the Joint Guilds Council strove ceaselessly to save those from the gulls' visiting cards, and as a by-product prevented the statues turning white too.
Unbesmirched therefore, Athelstan, Edward I and Oliver Cromwell shared an artificial hill and stared challengingly out towards Cornwall. They'd each prevailed in their time, pushing England's frontier further west and rescuing Saxons from a harsh yoke, until the third named won lasting victory. The Cornish were expelled out of Exeter and back over the Tamar, setting the border for good. The ambitions of the independent Cornish 'Dukes', hitherto intent on reviving 'Dumnonia', were refashioned into hopes of mere survival. Accordingly, the 'Lord Protector' was much revered in these parts and even the returning Church Universal chose not to quarrel with that. Over the centuries She had acquired the wisdom of when to leave well alone and the confidence to treat local cults with generous spirit. So, though She might have had her quarrels with the man himself (before his conversion), it was reasoned that true Christians suffered less from his rule than under many a true-anointed King. Thus, when at the fervent height of their crusade the 'United Englanders' wished to honour him, no objection was raised. Cromwell rose again after two centuries absence, and took his place beside other heroes of the English.
Such wise moderation, this calculated meekness, bound the Church to the people, allowing it to sink in and meld to the very sinews of the society it served. It could not removed again without fatal surgery.
Samuel approved of the monument and what it symbolised. There was no hint of conciliation here, but a bold statement of dispute. That was the way to do things, instead of shrouding them in false compromise. It was right to step straight up to the enemy and tell them what was what.
‘The enemy’? The enemy! A noun leading to a notion, a corner portion in the jigsaw, a half glimpse of a door opening in the maze.
‘Now, there's a thought!’ Trevan told the puzzled crowd.
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 22
'Original documents appertaining to the Reformation-Devastation in the South-west peninsula' - compiled, together with a cross-referencing index and full notes and commentary, by Monsignor Anthony Rawlinson S.J., Seminary of St Charles Lwanga Press, Plymouth, Wessex, England. 1888.
Great Western House of Wisdom, Exeter. Ref: 4102/89. Vol. 23, Folio 97.
'A true and perfect accompte of items taken by y G*dly arm of His majestie from y sundry parishes of Bradworthy, Clovelly, Welcoome and Hartlande, for the putting away of the popish mass and suppression of feigned miracles, idolatry and superstition. Being namely a certifcat and extract of any golde and precious stuffe from the anciente tainted drosse other-wyse utterly disposed and sundered or putte to flames.
Sworn in the name of Jesus Christ our saviour without mediation, by Thomas Polwerran, Knight and Commissioner-Extraordinary under the authority of our most Holy and Protestant King Edward y VI.
ITEM : 2nd and 3rd chalices of silver without adornment, from the impious chantry-hyse formerly at Darnehole Point.
ITEM : 1 pyx and 1 monstrance of plated golde from the church at Stoke, Hartlande that was burnt in the cleansing of it.
ITEM : 2 silver cruets like-wise, one loaned from All Saints, Clovelly.
ITEM : A holy water bockett fr y so-called our Ladye help of Christians chappel at Markadon. Like-wise one each of a censer, chrismatory, communion spoon and paten all of silver. I state that this hse was a most profitable hse and well worthy of being reformed, for it escaped earlier visitations by its obscuritye and armed hostility of y deluded congregation. His Majestie's Allemagne soldiery did disperse them but are suspect of also secreting some choice pieces. We are few and reliant and so cannot alltimes restrain their bloody arrogance. The Church is nowe bare and seemly.
ITEM : A processional cross set with good gems, and also a chasulbe thicke with thread-of-golde, taken from papist hiding at a private house in Wembsworthy.
ITEM : A chalice of flemmisch glass and chassed-golde, disguised as a profane goblet from y Church of St Nectan (saint that never was) Welcoome.
Y Gospell of John, 2, 10 - 'the best wine is kept till last': ITEM : a chalice, well anciente, of thick and softe old golde, kept privilly by the stubborn abbotte of y dissolved monk-ish hse of St Nectan, Hartlande, (who spente five fingernails and gained racke-inches in his wicked wishe to keepe it). It has four good gems sunk within and a golde placke of new-make attached, whereon the latin verse, I now render into good plain englyshhe:
Sole sad survivor am I
rescued from the suddeyn fall of night.
In sharing bread and wine
pray for all my lost brethren.
I opinion it came from underground, from the olde, lost, St Nectan-sub-terra monk-ish hse, at Welcoome, famed in priestly legend, that fell to satan (who full knows his owne) long ago. If such were its riches it should bee re-sought, for lately the papist temples here are poor pickings so zealous have we beene. If His most Holy and Protestant majestie so decree I will search it out, be it never so forgotten. This one mere token, all I have come acrosst, augers much I saye, and alone, melted and made into honest coin, will funde a battell of soldiers to combat the enemy within and withoute. But I must have men to do itte for the G*dly are besieged hereabouts. Matthew 9, 37, 'the harvest is plenteous, but the labourers are few'.
Meanwhile, Majestie, I ever remain your strong right arm in y west. This twenty-fifth day of the twelfth month, the year of our reformed Salvation 1552.
Thomas Polwerran, Knight.
Restraining all reaction, Samuel consulted Rawlinson’s more modern commentary at the back of the book.
'... Polwerran, Thomas, Sir, (? - 1553)... a vicious heretic and persecutor, the methodical despoiler of churches and Holy places throughout north Devon, and held accountable for the entire absence of ancient road-side shrines and market crosses in the region. He was born in Liverpool....
… a dramatic, indeed Damascene, re-conversion to the true faith on Mary's accession failed to convince, and various tales have him torn limb from limb in Clovelly or hurled from Hartland Point after appearing in public adorned with rosary beads. His younger (and estranged) son, Cardinal Bede Polwerran, made spectacular amends by....'
He'd had no time! Chameleon Sir Thomas, that is. They'd got him before he could do anything! Centuries too late Samuel cheered on the angry mob and thanked them. He thanked the remiss Church librarians too. They hadn't thought to purge the vanquished enemy's records. They might clear or hide every reference from their own sources, but revulsion had made them slack, their efforts at concealment incomplete. He'd found a hole in their perfection. Arch-Protestant Polwerran now had belated revenge for his high jump off the cliffs.
Samuel had read everything about St Nectan's Abbey; that had been one of his earliest ports of calls. There was no mention of an earlier house or preceding foundation; not the faintest glimmer of anything at Welcombe. Thinking on, he recollected that the early stuff was pretty sketchy: thin almost, though not so much as to wake suspicion. A lot of Church institutions gave the appearance of just always having been there. Until, that is, you had cause to question their beginnings….
He'd had no inkling - nor ever would have if he'd ploughed on in their furro
w. There was a lesson in that. Yet he had to give Mother Church credit: she was good at teaching things and good at keeping things secret too. Somehow they'd nigh killed off any local memory of what had been. They'd done a thorough job: almost. But he'd had faith as strong as theirs - and so faith was not a weakness after all. Far from it. He'd believed. He believed that if Samuel Trevan looked hard enough there'd be a way though - because that was the way he wanted it to be.
Once again he saw that if Samuel Trevan struggled sufficiently, the world - however much it might whine - would eventually go his way.
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 23
To: The Abbot-Registrar.
The All-England Register of Land, Titles and Rights.
The Monastery of St George-of-the-Mark.
Gosport.
Hampshire.
Wessex.
England.
The 25th day of March, the year of our Salvation 1995.
'Sirs.
Since it is land belonging only to Almighty G*d and to no other, and whereof it is bad ground uncropped or brought to benefit mankind since time immemorial, I request your lightest terms for the reclamation, draining and making sweet of the virgin site detailed hereafter:
Welcombe. Devonshire. England. From St Nectan's Church, west-nor-west, four-fifths of one mile, adjacent to Foxhold; through Knaps Longpeak, Shag Rock and to Newthorne Beach, being one-half of one mile south-sou-west of South Hole hamlet, bounded by the climbing slope of Strawberry Water and Watergap, unto the cliff tops, for the distance of 900 yards from the Mary cairn beside The Hermitage cross-roads to 175 yards from....
... yours in faith.
Benjamin Jethro Trevan
From: Trevan Farm.
The Two Confessions Page 12
