The Two Confessions

by John Whitbourn

  Melissa opened her mouth to ask... something. Simultaneously, the door chimes sounded for the umpteenth time that day.

  Trevan knew who it was and, at long last, what to say.

  ‘Would you excuse me a moment, my dear?’ he asked his wife.

  ************

  ************

  'THE LEWES TIMES & PIOUS INTELLIGENCER'.

  The 19th of March 2021 AD.

  P. Brazier. Secular and Ecclesiastic Court Reporter.

  MAYHEM & FOUL MURDER?

  ‘A most curious incident is reported in the Town last Tuesday night, when Mr SAMUEL TREVAN, gent., of Galen House, Keere Street, was witnessed amok in that vicinity and further abroad in Southover, all bloody with a sword and brace of pistols. Cries and shots are reported spread over a prodigious space during the time of darkness, and horrified onlookers testify to seeing bodies left just as they were slain in the street. These tales are supported by the quantity of ghastly gore which THIS REPORTER himself observed over the walls and cobbles of Keere Street, and, in particular, by the Holy Well in St Anne's Churchyard. However, strange to relate, the men of the Watch, coming upon the scene after seeking reinforcement, found none but the aforesaid TREVAN, armed and in a savage state. We dutifully relate that he offered no resistance to the forces of order and surrendered himself into custody.

  Miss Juliet Eyeions, brewster and tapstress of the Lewes Arms, Mount Place, who freely spoke to THIS REPORTER, states on her faith as a Christian that, coming forth to query the commotion, she saw TREVAN, a man intimately known to her from commerce, discharge a pistol point blank into the pate of an old man (who disdained to beg for mercy), whereof he plainly died. I examined the designated spot and indeed found tokens suggestive of such a heinous act; yet of any cadaver not one sign.

  TREVAN is committed in restraint to the Castle Keep on charges yet to be determined, arraigned for trial at the Spring Assize. Readers of this journal of record may be assured that they will continue to be apprised.'

  U[U[U[U[U[U[U

  cHAPTER 8

  ‘You'll excuse me if I don't get up.’

  It was meant as a joke but only made Melissa weep. Samuel could see that they were by no means her first tears of the day.

  Actually, he was glad to see it, having assumed she would still be incandescent-angry. After correctly reading his face that fatal night, she'd barred the way, only to be lifted aside like a china doll and marooned up high on the mantelpiece. A servant had had to rescue her later. Even with all the other problems breeding like cancer around her, she'd not been a happy woman about that.

  ‘Don't mourn yet,’ Samuel ventured, mock-jocular. ‘I'm still here. Just because I can rattle my chains doesn't mean I'm a ghost!’

  Actually he couldn't, because they'd put him in a straitjacket as well. Otherwise though he'd hadn't fared too bad. His money secured him an above-ground private cell and ample food to live on.

  Nevertheless, Trevan reckoned he deserved praise for jesting (however feebly) in present circumstances - but if so he waited in vain. Mrs Trevan seemed inconsolable.

  ‘How's the house? Still surviving?’ he enquired. That ought to get through: Melissa was very protective of her childhood and marital home. It was the factor that had fatally stayed Samuel's hand. Otherwise, he could have fled Bogomil persecution and taken her with him.

  It did indeed do the trick, penetrating her enveloping sorrow.

  ‘Restored,’ she told him. ‘The curse is gone.’

  Samuel attempted a grin - and precariously achieved one.

  ‘That's not a very nice thing to call me.’

  He felt like he was succeeding - if a manacled man can be called any kind of success. Melissa mustered a weak smile back.

  ‘Any messages?’ he asked.

  ‘Just the one.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘I don't know.’

  It was difficult to arrive at any kind of inner peace, constrained in Lewes Castle gaol, under 'investigation', awaiting some or other trial; but at least he'd thought one particular fear dispersed. His stomach gave a preliminary churn at it being re-added to the pile of problems.

  ‘Not the callers?’ he enquired, anxiously. It was the description they'd settled on for want of him explaining about ‘Bogomils’.

  ‘No. They've gone too.’

  ‘Right! Because I dealt with 'em! Who then?’

  ‘They don't say. Read for yourself.’

  Of course he couldn't. So Melissa had to hold the letter up to his face. Then she kept it there when he'd rather not read any more.

  ‘Ah...,’ he said.

  It was spoken slowly, and solely to postpone what must come next.

  ‘So many women, Samuel,’ she said, amazingly calm, considering. ‘And for so long and so often. Even another wife! And so many other secrets too. Is it true?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Promise me.’

  ‘As true as I love you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘On my oath, I swear!’

  And then she left him without a word, and Samuel knew that the Elves or Bogomils or whoever it was, had supplied her with evidence. Good evidence. Better evidence than his oath. Which now was worthless currency.

  He called after her but she didn't answer. The gaoler kept a straight face and slammed the door shut like death.

  Their positions were now reversed. Melissa had left dry-eyed and it was Samuel's turn for tears.

  ************

  Another day, another visit. The last.

  ‘Please don’t leave Galen House,’ said Samuel. ‘You grew up there. Look, I don’t want it: I’ll give it to you!’

  ‘I don’t want it either,’ answered Melissa. ‘It’s tainted to me.’

  Trevan sank back down to the cell floor.

  ‘Where will you go?’ A dead man's voice.

  ‘Anna has offered me a room in her parents’ house. For the time being.’

  ‘What: your maid? The 'romantic' one? Anna from Malling? Flat chest but saucy bum? Well, well, well: I often wondered if there was something between you two. If I get out can I watch?’

  Melissa looked down on him with pity.

  ‘You've coarsened, Samuel.’

  He didn't - couldn't - deny it.

  ‘Maybe that's what happens when you get everything you want,’ he said. ‘The price for it….’

  She shook her head, trying to hold on to the pristine memory of him.

  ‘I thought.... I really thought you were the one, the man in a million.’

  Trevan gave a bitter chortle, stretching the cord stitches of his straitjacket.

  ‘Funnily enough, my love, it turns out I was; though not in the sense you mean. That's why I'm in so much demand.’

  Melissa lowered her head and voice.

  ‘Not by me,’ she said. ‘Not at the moment.’

  He had nothing to say to that, not wishing to risk treading on any tiny embers that remained.

  She lingered at the cell door, leaving it ajar and letting in an icy draught. A metaphor for what the rest of life promised for both of them.

  ‘Goodbye, Samuel. Thank you for what you were.’

  He said nothing, staring blankly ahead - but if looks could kill the world would have ended then. Had there been anyone around to mock him he might have burst his bounds, chains and all. All his days and years were passing by in review and he was spitting on each of them, as they’d spat on him.

  The heavy door closed, separating them. Then Samuel was left alone in silence.

  He didn't want to speak: not ever again, but words came unbidden. They were made, like him now, from equal parts of cruelty and concern. He called after her, hoping that she would hear.

  ‘Don't worry,’ he shouted. ‘I'll send money!’

  U[U[U[U[U[U[U

  cHAPTER 9

  Now that he was an old man, Field-Marshal Mott sometimes slept as long as four or five hours a night. It was an indulgence he permitted himself following a
heavy day wrestling with the national interest. Tonight, after working into the early hours on the Scottish conundrum, and then treating himself to much postponed evening prayers, he was truly ready for bed.

  What he wasn't prepared for was further pressing work pinned to that same bed: a grisly missive stabbed into his pillow by a stiletto of non-human provenance. The sight especially saddened him because his saintly sister had made that cherished hop-pillow. Now it would have to be disposed of, like she had.

  That loss made him want to berate the sentries who stood perpetual guard before his quarters, but the sinful reflex passed. They could not be held accountable, poor boys. If it had been the work of Welsh assassins or a Leveller Gideon, then yes - but not these people (though that, of course, was the wrong word….)

  Mott only thought of Elves when he had to, and believed in them on the same basis. Intellectually, he accepted that statecraft must involve him in spiritually perilous deeds. For that reason he had his own personal chaplain to confide to, when conscience revolted and duty demanded too much. These... things, though, they were beyond even that; they comprised his vilest, most degrading, association. As a young soldier he'd fantasised about a secret war of extermination against them, with troops who'd then be sent on hazardous crusade. But now he knew that wasn't possible - or even desirable. Shame.

  The letter was extracted and held between thumb and forefinger up to candlelight. Mott hated anything written in other than plain black ink and plain English. Blood (not theirs, of course) was such a cliché – why bother when they’d made their point so many times? And so clearly.

  And why, the Field Marshal next considered, did the name Trevan ring doleful bells?

  ************

  Lewes had seen nothing like it, not since the ‘Reformation-Devastation’ Wars. The entire 'Wisbech and Spalding Regiment of Foot', the famed and infamous, English-but-foreigners, 'Fen Tigers', marched many miles just to escort Samuel Trevan from prison to his new home! A long way to come to facilitate a journey of mere yards. Yet someone thought it proportional.

  A lone figure at the centre of a thousand-strong hollow square of soldiers, Samuel was now free. Free from Lewes Castle and manacles and straightjackets, free even from the threat of ‘grave charges’. Those who now watched over him could arrange all that with ease.

  Just as they could compel him to go behind Lewes Priory’s high walls. And stay there. Forever.

  U[U[U[U[U[U[U

  ************

  THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2037

  ************

  cHAPTER 10

  Quite understandably, 'lay-brother Trevan' was refused permission to attend Melissa's funeral. He watched it from afar even so, spying across to Southover with a perspective-glass loaned by a kindly monk.

  There was a fair crowd – though probably most were taunting Bogomils - but Samuel's attention focused solely on the tiny coffin. It held all he'd ever pinned his hopes on, and they, together with a large part of him, went into the ground with it. He said no prayers that day: said nothing. From then on he had few more words at all; for himself or anyone else.

  The day-in, day-out, went on for further weary years, an exact parallel to the equally relentless siege of the priory. They still bombarded him with the 'god-bile' and entreaties after all this time. Once they grew impatient and even dared to assault the place in force, seeking to carry him off to be their messiah. Mercifully, the permanent garrison proved equal to repelling everything. Even the elemental was held at bay and had to buzz and spark its impotent rage beyond the walls. It therefore proved unnecessary to run the risk of shifting him to more secure accommodation like the Westminster Citadel or Rome itself. Or to consider even more drastic steps.

  Things settled into a routine, the priory continuing its life of prayer and charity much as before. Soldiers and wizards came and went in rapid succession and Samuel lost track of the blur of faces. He learnt that this was a plum posting, the subject of intense competition, despite the dangers. Your pay was enhanced for the duration, and promotion often followed in its wake. Samuel hated it when bluecoats accordingly treated him like a combination of career opportunity and fragile antique. Everywhere he went there were unwanted helping hands. If he so much as paused, a chair would miraculously appear, if not two. Some days, Trevan positively waded through a treacly sea of cupboard-love. For a man of his nature it was customised torture. When it happened he hated his days.

  Only occasionally did reality speak out. Once he'd overheard an Irish captain of archers enquire: 'why don't they just bump him off: quick and kind like; and do everyone a favour?’ But his men had howled him down, inspired by the goose/golden eggs imperative. Similarly, a priest, also earwigging, scolded the captain and put him on a charge (‘Machiavellianism’ might be practised but was proscribed). Samuel had surprised everyone by interceding for the man. He who might be expected to have least sympathy said it was a fair question. Apparently, he increasingly asked it himself.

  Wasted breath. The Irish captain was demoted anyway – and, unfairly enough, never forgave Trevan for it. Thereafter, his minders minded their tongues.

  Every night great warding spells were cast over him, and 'lockmaster' magicians wove their hands over the priory's main gate. It no longer mattered much to Samuel if they strove to keep him in or others out. Everything was indifference now and he was easy.

  ************

  It was five years to the day after Melissa died; the year the Kwa-Zulu Empire converted.

  ‘Arise.’

  The voice was within his head. Trevan replied likewise.

  ‘Don't want to. I want sleep.’

  ‘By all means sleep on, Samuel-of-bitter-regret - but dream no more!’

  ‘Who-....’

  ‘Come with me.’

  A strong hand wrenched the essential Samuel - a dry and shrivelled thing - from his slumbering form. He was drawn up far beyond the priory and into bluer skies.

  ‘Behold, rascal-of-the-wrong-path: Jerusalem the Golden!’

  Indeed it was, or at least as Trevan had always imagined it: a city of the best of everything, perfect and reflective under a blazing sun. They saw from on high; an eagle or an angel's view.

  ‘Hold me or I'll fall!’ shouted Samuel.

  ‘Ha! I have never ceased to hold you, fool: not for one minute. No child-of-my-keeping shall ever fall.’

  Samuel found he could speak - and yet strangely not break the silence.

  ‘Is this heav-....’

  ‘It is mine, son-of-sorrows, all mine! Here I worship the ineffable and infinitely expand with joy. Would you lose this?’

  ‘No. What must I do?’

  ‘Let go, Samuel-of-the-woeful-grip. Shed your armour: split the shell!’

  ‘I... can't.’

  ‘Observe!’

  The view was wider now, Jerusalem just a diamond speck central in an illumined landscape. Its glow was met and matched by other islands of light. They ranged from powerful beams shed by cathedrals and communities, to the candle flickers of lone souls treading their own way. In-between, there was both grey as well as black, and each shade ebbed and flowed against the other. The pattern and balance shifted constantly. Samuel saw some lights wink out and the dark flood in to cover their space. Elsewhere, new sources flared into being and the gloom retreated.

  ‘Observe closer,’ said his companion, proudly. ‘I helped make this!’

  They were back over St Philip’s in Lewes. Samuel had not known it until then, but the orphanage was a fiery star in the Sussex hills. Its light was almost blinding. And he saw himself nearby, still sleeping, a sunspot upon it, a black detraction.

  ‘The fevered dream is almost done, oh Samuel-so-silly: childhood ebbs away. You must now make a man's decision. Once and for all - for always.’

  It proved easy. The biggest but easiest thing Samuel Trevan had ever done.

  ‘I'm... sorry,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’ asked the voice, slightly puzzled.

&nb
sp; ‘For breaking my vow: your funeral Masses: Melissa - and everything!’

  Samuel heard that old familiar bellow of a laugh and for a moment was happy again. He'd clean forgotten what it felt like.

  ‘Do you still not see, Trevan-so-thick-of-head? We forgave long ago, didn't we, Melissa-of-the-beguiling-smile? No, it is not us you must say sorry to....’

  ************

  The first monk awake found Trevan prone before the great oak cross in the middle of the cloisters. He was fervently calling on Christ and His Church for forgiveness.

  The prior was summoned and, though his charge was plainly raving, agreed out of kindness and concern to hear his confession. Nothing else would serve to calm him.

  Samuel freely admitted this was only his second adult visit to the sacrament. Therefore he had much to tell and was thorough. Absolution and a mild (considering) penance seemed to comfort the fevered brain. Then he spent the remainder of the day asleep - and the rest of his life almost as passively.

  To anyone who'd listen, Trevan said that he repented with all his heart. He had been wrong and therefore, 'logically speaking', those who'd thwarted him must be right. The bronze statue of Father Omar outside nearby St Philip’s had told him this, passing words of wisdom over the wall. From then on it often spoke to him (though no one else was so favoured), supplying faultless guidance.

  The monks smiled gently on such delusions. It was only fitting, if alas mere fiction, that the well-remembered giant should provide instruction for his charges at their sunset, the same as at their dawn. False or no, the laudable effect was that henceforth Trevan spent his days in prayer and even the Bogomils gave up on him.