The Two Confessions

by John Whitbourn

  ************

  Extract from: 'Advice and admonitions to my successor, G*d preserve him'

  Found amongst the effects of Ariel ben Yisrael, Pope Simon-Dismas, 1979 - 2002. First generally published in 'Wisdom of the Holy Fathers'. 12 volumes, Ed. Cardinal Frank Holdsworth, Archbishop of Ankara, Fiat Lux World-wide Press Corporation, Rome, the year of our Salvation 2402 AD.

  ‘A word regarding sicarii. The world is as it is and how Almighty G*d made it, but we can still deplore the wicked necessity to so pervert a G*d-given life by breeding these human attack-dogs. Alas, there is need of such men to thwart the malevolence of other men. But I feel in my bones that each successor to St Peter will be hard put in the tribunal of the afterlife to excuse it. However, we know that G*d is love and mercy, and that His son and the Blessed Virgin will be there to intercede for us. There are always grounds for hope.

  But that hope must be earned. I earnestly implore you to visit ‘St Peter of the Sword’ at Ravenna, where sicarii are made out of mere boys. Witness their birth and acknowledge fatherhood. I have done so as reparation and penance every year since taking up the cross and yoke of the papacy. Whereof I say to you most solemnly, that I found precious little love and mercy there….

  ... But they exist. That melancholy fact being so, be advised that the sicarii, our well-named 'daggermen', represent a sharp tool ready to hand: so very sharp however that it is quite possible to cut oneself by mistake. There is the temptation to reach for them at every opportunity, knowing that they are equal to all tasks. Yet this is a mistake. Do farmers cull rabbits with cannons? Do barbers trim bunions with broadswords? No indeed. Both, I grant, will do the trick but they are too much. What is the gain in success that leaves behind a blasted landscape? No, use your sicarii to pluck just one choice fruit high in the tree, not gather in the whole harvest.

  I will give you an example of the required restraint. When England was ruled by the boy king Guy, and every faction in that restless nation writhed and strived, ambitious for the regency, I sent them a sicarii. He, a Nubian, attached himself to a notorious man of blood, an English soldier named Mott....'

  ************

  ARCHBISHOP OF LONDON'S LIBRARY - WHITEHALL CITADEL.

  'THE DICTIONARY OF NATIONAL BIOGRAPHY'

  Published Stalybridge. Auto-da-fé Press. 2098.

  MOTT, Alexander Scipio. 1967 - 2050. English general and statesman.

  ‘… origin is obscure in every sense. Such indications as survive suggest that he was born of what was then administratively termed ‘Saxon’ and ‘churl’ stock in a Surrey-Hills hamlet called Binscombe, (near Guildford, the county town). However, even these bare facts exist in only one contemporary reference: namely a (mischievously inspired?) pencilled note by the artist Miss Mary (‘Pat’) Freeman on the reverse of Mott’s official portrait for the National Gallery. This presumably escaped the General’s attention and life-long policy of mystification. The single-source attribution acquires some credibility via Mott’s death-bed decision to take the title ‘Lord Binscombe’ upon his controversial and much belated ennoblement.’

  …

  '... the Welsh so-called 'free-state' had long troubled the Kings of United England until Mott's brilliant lightning campaign in the summer and autumn of 1995. Its success, culminating in the unconditional surrender of Caernarfon on Christmas Day, owed as much to Mott's painstaking preparations in the preceding two years as to his martial skills in the field and repeatedly proven personal bravery. A blight was however cast on his achievement by the treatment meted out to an unresisting, albeit less than friendly, area in mid Wales at the start of operations. This seems to have been a quite deliberate act of policy on Mott's part. The village of Llanarth, together with its every inhabitant, regardless of sex or age, was swept from the face of the earth amidst horrific scenes of massacre and rapine. Nothing remains of it to this very day. Even now, in some parts of Wales he is burnt in effigy on the anniversary of the event and dubbed 'The Beast of Llanarth' - an epithet coined at the time and in no way discouraged by Mott, who relished fame or notoriety alike. Conversely, Mott's apologists, of whom there were no shortage, stated that the war was shortened thereby, citing the list of rebel towns who straightaway capitulated at the news, thus saving them and the English/South Walesian army from the rigours and waste of combat. This is arguably so. Certainly, Mott established a lasting settlement in the former 'Cymric' areas which had eluded others for centuries past. Nor was he thereby debarred from aspiring to the most glittering prizes offered by the English state....'

  ************

  cHAPTER 25

  Samuel was then dismissed and locked up. Far from being aggrieved, he was glad of it, having not just food for thought but a whole gargantuan banquet of the stuff.

  They chose a small house near to the Castle to hold him in. A few hours back it was probably home to a prosperous fisherman stroke trader stroke pirate; someone of close lineage to the Lord of Lundy. It had been a nice home too - once - that much was clear, worth sacrificing much to hold on to.

  Having sacrificed all, the presumed former owner sat in its parlour, shot to death. Black beard resting on his chest, he looked just drunk or asleep, fit to rise again and resume ownership. The body was still warm. Nearby, a spray of blood up a wall recalled someone else's vain resistance. Yet only the dead man remained out of all who had lived here, the last vestige of what had been until this day. Now the house was very still, waiting for a new beginning. Samuel knew he was not part of it and had no place there. He found a seat beyond sight of the instructive tokens. From outside there still wafted the distant wails of women being loaded onto ships like cattle.

  Along with 'refreshments' came a file, a collection of papers bound in blue card. The soldier who delivered them told him to 'eat!' and 'drink!' and 'read!', as he set each down, making no distinction between the commands. Even without such compelling advice Samuel was happy to comply. It provided a welcome distraction.

  The promised chicken didn't show. Instead came a jar of brawn and an inappropriate, ornate, dessertspoon to fetch it out with. Samuel studied the coarse jelly in the glass and realised that he was indeed hungry. Appetite had been suspended whilst thinking of final things and mastering terror. Now, in accepting there might be days to come, there was occasion to refuel.

  Slow to start with, but speeding up, heaped spoonfuls of the stuff were enjoyed, washed down with scrumpy from the jug. Gradually, Samuel felt strength return.

  With it came the will to plunge into the file. Since its source was Mott he assumed there would be scant comfort within, but as the same source ordered him to it he had little choice. His best hope was for some explanation of his plight before the fate they'd already decided on was dumped in his lap - or drawn across his throat.

  Samuel should have been more himself: less defeatist. What they'd given him was actually the very secret he'd been hunting. By two pages in that was clear. Trevan also learnt - if further proof were needed - he was dealing with short-cut taking, trespass-careless, people. These documents hadn't been acquired in the regular manner, but rough-torn from books and records just as it suited them.

  Some ancient leaves threatened to crumble in his hands and their script was often beyond his scholarship, but usually a modern transcript was provided, scrawled in any old spare space. Which was thoughtful.

  Food forgotten, lured by the promise of great things - at great risk - Samuel read on.

  ************

  'Fr: THE WESTERN ANNALS AND EASTER TABLES, supposedly from the time of Saxon kings to the reign of James the True - but greatly incomplete and damaged and replete with inconsistencies. In seven ancient volumes at Exeter Chapter House and in variant form, five volumes, in custody of the Mayoralty of Bristol, as per custom, time out of mind. Folio 1145, detached by authority of M. Pothecary, gent. Officer, first company, The Queen's Own Guards Regiment. Transcript by same, where possible, with assistance from Mrs Joyce Preston, M.A., a scholarly lady and di
screet, by virtue of her husband being of my command.

  '... ye year of our glorious salvation by the sacrifice of God's only son, Christ Jesus [which pious preamble, being constantly repeated, is henceforth omitted, but only for brevity's sake. JP] 1480. Wherein certain Bristol merchantmen and fish-venturers [? JP] returned from the new-founde-land with strange pelts and vittals and recountings. Item: to subscription [? JP] of listing of those poor persons, hale in body and the women good for child bearing, to go to said land to make their way and regain their fortune, whilst spreading the word of almighty God.

  1482: Wherein the old dark prevailed and finally, at ye unfortunate and cursed St Nectan's-sub-terra house. Few but the gate-brothers emerged with what poor little of the great glory and riches within (which same proved vain guardians) they might gather with trembling hands. [illegible. JP] glad reports and tokens of a valiant struggle within. Of the rest, full many, we despair save that those who perish against fallen angels are gathered straight to the bosom of Christ Jesus. Sealed is the pit until d[indecipherable - presumably 'Doomsday' JP]. Earl Talbot mounted guard until one month past Candlemass but no sign was from within.

  1485. Henry, called Tudor, strove in battle at Bosworth field....

  ************

  EXTRACT. Westminster Citadel Dragoons' Regimental Diary - enciphered secret section:

  'Twelfth day of July 1702. The pit being breached sufficient by our pioneers, a descent was made, the Legate and Roman troops and Mendip miners preceding.

  Thirteenth day of July 1702. No sign or sound. Two troopers distracted by the evil breath of the open pit, fit only to be sent away. Cornet Fitzgerald, likewise afflicted but being stubborn in blasphemy, was hung. T'was contracted that messengers be sent back by now, but none come.

  Fourteenth day of July 1702. The sentinels (who can abide no more than half of one hour at the mouth of the pit) report musketry and cries from in the deep. Colonel Cadwallon, though fetched, heard none of it for t'was short lived.

  Fifteenth day of July 1702. Nothing and no one.

  Sixteenth day of July 1702. Nothing.

  Seventeenth day of July 1702. Nothing.

  Eighteenth day of July 1702. The Colonel ordered a Holy Mass at the entrance. Satan made no audible protest. Flaming bushels and tar-barrels were cast down and the foremost props sundered. The pit burns. Nothing.

  Nineteenth day of July 1702. The pit was sealed forever.

  Twentieth day of July 1702. We marched to Bideford, little loathe, but sullied and with heavy hearts. The King's orders direct us to the Kentish coalfields where Anabaptists and Levellers....'

  U[U[U[U[U[U[U

  cHAPTER 26

  ‘I've suddenly realised,’ said Mott, abruptly all charm and solicitousness, ‘this must all seem rather strange to you.’

  There was a fine view of dawn over Lundy from the top of the Castle keep, heralding a perfect spring morning. The general had moved his base of operations there. Blazing torches around the battlements made the scene look like the court of Attila. Fixed forever in a gape of surprise, the head of the former lord of the property, a knight of the realm no less, adorned the flagstaff. Another lesson.

  ‘The feeling passes,’ said Samuel, dryly. There was no clue as to which particular bit of madness the General was referring, but that reply covered all.

  ‘Good man. Stout stuff. Wish we had more robust types like you.’

  The General may have approved but Samuel couldn't read the faces of his entourage; the various aides, bodyguards, intelligence officers and, of course, the Sicarii. They looked at him like not-especially hungry men would survey a lamb they might - or might not - dine on. Apparently, the great man Mott had been alone for hours past, communing with the sky and his thoughts - or something. Now, by contrast, he seemed almost chatty.

  ‘Lundy was a nuisance, you see,’ the general explained, lolling back in his chair. ‘It has been for generations. You can't have people being pirates one day and honest seamen the next, can you? They ought to have made their mind up long ago. So I made it up for them. Problem is – was - you can't distinguish 'tween good and bad by sight. Only God Almighty can separate sheep from goats; that's not given to us down here. So we hung the lot - the men I mean - and transported the totties and brats. Shame, but there it is. Also a demonstration for their Irish brethren, else I'll be across the sea to teach them likewise. Besides, Lundy can be restocked. I'll hoick some beggars out of Bristol and bring them over. I think I ordered a few elderly natives kept alive to teach newcomers the ropes....’

  He turned to his staff to check this was so and got half a dozen swift confirmations.

  ‘There you are then. Intrinsically, Lundy's quite a nice place, so I'm told. St Patrick got rid of all the snakes - like he did in Ireland. Not only that, but apparently there's seals over by the western cliffs. I might go and have a look at them: I like seals. Do you like seals? Have you ever seen seals?’

  Samuel didn't want to commit himself. This was no normal conversation: innocent sounding subjects might mask lethal metaphors. So he lied and shook his head. Mott seemed excessively disappointed but soon recovered.

  ‘Oh dear. Never mind: you may do one day. Come back here when it's all settled. Though really it's all settled now, isn't it, come to think? Despite all the unpleasantness. Good can come out of ill, eh? Sweetness from strength – Samson and the lion sort of thing: do you see? Leastways, that's the way I see it.’

  Then his tone, his expression, everything; all changed without warning; the avuncular manner snuffed out like a light.

  ‘His majesty's given me complete authority in the West,’ said Mott. ‘Mark that. I serve him and the right as I see fit.’

  He wasn't boasting but stating a fact, seeing if, taken unawares, anyone had problems with that.

  Samuel didn't because he'd purposefully stunned all his cussedness to rest. He wanted to get off this island. Nor was he alone in treading that path of wisdom. Mott's staff, though each twice his size and each as hard as a lawyer's heart, all looked like men on thin ice, living in mortal fear of him. The one exception was the Sicarii - who was trained not to be read and also child of an invincible patron.

  Then, like slipping on a familiar, comfortable, coat, the General was his old-friend-well-met self again.

  ‘So you see that I have ambitions just like you: on a different scale of course, but recognisably the same species. You're a businessman, or would wish to be one once more. I'm in business too: the business of acquiring renown. Free Wales is no more: I did that! I also dealt with Liverpool in the Agrarian Crusade. Now I'm an everlasting chapter in Lundy's history. I shall get on top of this piracy nonsense and bring peace to the West country. If Kernow should lift its eyes from the dust it will meet my gaze. I am making myself useful wherever I can, tying up all manner of loose ends. This lost monastery mystery is another such, albeit very minor. Mother Church's perspective spans millennia and her memory isn't lulled by passing years, not like mere nations and dynasties. I've learnt that she still wonders what's down there in... in....’

  ‘St Nectan's-under-the-earth,’ prompted the Sicarii - because no one else seemed to dare.

  ‘The same,’ confirmed Mott, gratefully. ‘She also ponders the fate of the - you've read my file of pilfered piffle, I take it? - Eighteenth century de-consecrating expedition. Did they succeed we all wonder? Yet technically there is an interdict against molestation of the site; against any revival of awareness of it. Now, I tell you most solemnly, the Church's concerns are mine also; I'd no more go against it than I would my beloved parents. Where I am heading I cannot be seen to grapple with this issue. Yet you, dear man, have no such constraints: you are halfway to outlaw already! You, Samuel Trevan, are a desperate but most resourceful man. You wish to plunder the reputed abandoned treasure; Mother Church and I would like to resolve a puzzle. All sorts of interests, high and low, converge. Do you not see the happy pattern?’

  Samuel restrained himself to a simple nod. Mott wa
ited for it all the same before continuing.

  ‘So, here’s how it is: you keep any valuables, bar holy relics naturally. That’s only fair: what you can take you keep. But first find out what we want to know. That’s your top priority. Because we don’t like the thought of the sacred in unclean hands. I don’t like it. It’s not nice. So find out. Get rich if you can and want but find out first. I shall have to be strict with you about that. Afterwards, you’re away and free. Leave us to sort out the aftermath....’

  Mott actually licked his lips at the prospect: an involuntary action – and would have sworn on oath he hadn’t.

  ‘In fact,’ he concluded, ‘it’s a neat deal. I can assist you, with 'volunteers' and funds, but I can also deny you if things go wrong; forgive me for speaking so plain....’

  There was no point in being just a yes-man, Samuel saw that now. It wouldn't be accepted as sufficient.

  ‘Don't apologise, general,’ he said, butting in, ‘I like plain talk.’

  Mott enjoyed sturdy replies less than he pretended, but surfed the resultant wave of irritation without falling off. Just.

  ‘Then you shall have all you want of it,’ he said. ‘But, more importantly: are you in?’

  Samuel hesitated – but only for strategy’s sake. It wouldn’t do for Mott to realise they were made from the same mould.