by Gill Jepson
The tall balding man lunged at him, but Rob sidestepped him nimbly and then with all his might he pushed the man hard. He overbalanced and fell backwards onto the grass. Without a moment’s hesitation he raced along the cloister range and into the undercroft. He sped down towards the infirmary block and caught sight of his sister at the far end of the abbot’s house. Mason pointed and the children disappeared from view, he then marched briskly in the other direction. Rob ran back to where the kids had been, he called Mason but he didn’t hear him. He ran to the slope, which led down into a drainage tunnel beneath the Abbot’s lodgings. Surely, they hadn’t gone down there?
He slipped down the banking and landed heavily on his bottom. He was dazed and slid down on his back to the foot of the tunnel. The sun shone into his eyes and for a second his vision was disturbed. A shadow obliterated the light suddenly and then he refocused and saw a figure. He could hear angry voices from afar and knew that his pursuers were looking for him.
“Come on young chap,” hissed a voice. “Down here, quickly!”
He followed the instructions and scrambled down the tunnel after the youth.
They ran along, bent double until they reached the opening at the end. They struggled up the slope and out onto the grass. Rob was disorientated and was still wary of his pursuers. He crept to the top of the bank and peered over the wall.
“What are you looking for?” asked the stranger.
“Them! Those guys who were chasing me… and my sister…”
He looked around. Gradually it dawned on him that something was missing. He could not see any trace of his sister and her friends, but he was shocked to see the gathering of people had disappeared too. He slumped to the ground. His brain was arguing with the evidence of his eyes. Where was everyone? He turned to look at his new companion.
A young man in his early twenties stood above him, smiling down thoughtfully. He was slim and of medium height, as his smile faded Rob could tell that he had a serious countenance, there were two small grooves between his eyes, making him look older than he really was. He had brown wavy hair, which flopped over his high forehead, but receded at the sides. Rob thought that one day he would probably be bald. Topping the chestnut coloured hair he had a wide brimmed hat, balanced very carefully at an angle. He had sideburns, which framed his jawline and a distinctive cleft in his chin. His long straight nose gave him an air of importance and his eyes were deep set and piercing, with finely arched brows that gave him an air of constant surprise. He wore a brown jacket and trousers, beneath which he had a shirt with a high collar and waistcoat and an untidy looking black cravat. He reached down and offered his open hand. Rob took it and felt himself pulled to his feet.
Rob dusted himself down and shoved his crumpled notebook and camera into his backpack. He appraised the stranger again. A slow realisation crept over him like dawn creeping over the horizon. This bloke was… from another time… just like that boy. The clothes he wore told the whole story. He was dressed like a Victorian. Something about him told Rob that he wasn’t just pretending to be a Victorian, like one those re-enactor friends of Nate – no, there was something genuine, something real about him. The full impact hit him like a punch in the stomach. He felt sick and the colour drained from his cheeks. The young man noticed and looked on with concern.
“Are you quite well? You have a deathly pallor and you look most unwell?”
Even the way he spoke was old fashioned.
“Er yeah, just a bit shocked that’s all,” Rob responded. That didn’t really cover how he felt.
“Well, follow me lad, I have a trap waiting along the lane. I must take you out of reach for the time being…” he grinned, “a few months more and we would be able to take the railway, but we have yet to build the station!”
Rob nodded. He felt dazed as if he was trapped within a dream. He looked around nervously. There seemed little else to do but agree and followed the man across the abbey grounds. He noticed immediately that there were no railings, just a small fence and a track, rather than a road running around the perimeter. The abbey looked different. There was more masonry and lush green ivy adorned the bright red sandstone. He looked towards the nave as they crossed the cloister range. He knew where he was, but was unsure where he was. Everything was confusing and strange and he could not accept that he had travelled back in time. That sort of stuff was his brother’s bag, not his.
There was not a sign of the crowd he had left behind. In the distance he could see two young women and an older lady… this was too strange. They wore long dresses and bonnets, with parasols placed jauntily over their shoulders, just like in those costume dramas on the telly. As they passed by the ladies the young man doffed his hat and bade them good day. Rob glanced at them and mumbled a similar greeting; they giggled behind their elegantly gloved hands and their mother swiftly guided them away.
As they reached the post where the horse was tethered, still hitched to the trap, the man turned and spoke again,
“I am James by the way… James,” Rob waited and half expected him to say Bond… but he didn’t, “James Ramsden at your service.”
He waited for a similar introduction.
“I’m Rob…” he trailed off, “Why am I here? Why are you here? What’s happening?” The questions tumbled out his mouth in a torrent.
“I was told where you would be found and that you were in peril.”
“Who told you?”
“Brother John,” James replied.
Rob looked blankly.
“The monk… you have seen him I believe?”
His face drained of colour again.
“Ha! I see that you have! I too was nonplussed when he first appeared to me in the abbey.”
James unhitched the horse and jumped into the trap, beckoning Rob to join him. He climbed up uncertainly and squeezed onto the narrow seat next to James. They set off with a jolt and the horse clattered off along the uneven road. The contraption was sprung, after a fashion, but it was quite uncomfortable and Rob thought he would not like to travel far in it. They raced along, jolting over every rut and bump in the road, past the Custodian’s cottage he knew so well in his time. It looked very different, smoke rose from the chimney and the garden was planted with vegetables, someone actually lived in it. Trees overhung the narrow lane, a green canopy, shading them from the bright sunlight. They drove past Abbot’s wood but to his amazement there was no wall, no gatehouse, no driveway, just woodland, wild and unkempt.
They followed the valley past the river, which wound along in an uncontrolled way and there was no railway embankment. Men were working at the far end of the field but he could not see what they were doing. James noticed the direction of his gaze.
“They are preparing the ground for our new branch line – we are to blow a tunnel through the hill behind the abbey. I favoured blowing up the abbey,” he laughed.
Rob looked at him in astonishment. Blow up the abbey? Really?
“Ha ha until I met yon monk!” he nodded towards the field, where Rob could make out the still figure of a monk dressed in white in the distance.
He shivered again. James smiled and shrugged.
“You will get used to seeing him after a while! It took me some time to accept that he was not a threat to me… and the railway of course.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to him. He gives me the creeps,” replied Rob.
They rattled on through the lane and past Bow Bridge, which was the only recognisable feature. Rob knew they must be travelling towards where he lived in the present, but it was very different. They passed fields and hedgerows and far in the distance he could see the blue glint of the sea. However, many of the familiar landmarks from his time were absent. They drove past the Ship Inn, which was more of a farm house than a public house and on past the Smithy. He had always wondered why the local fish and chip shop was named “The Smithy” – well now he knew – a blacksmith worked at his forge where the chip shop stood in his day.
From there onwards Rob was unclear where they were. Everything looked green and rural and there were few recognisable landmarks, he spotted the railway line, newly cut into the landscape. They continued until they reached a small village close to the sea. A narrow channel separated a verdant island from the mainland. Beyond that he espied a larger island and the glint of the Irish Sea beyond that. He assumed from what he saw that he must be in Barrow. He knew it had begun as a small hamlet but had not expected it to be this small. Few of the familiar places had been built yet and it was more rural than the Barrow he knew.
They trotted up a hill, where a lot of building was going on. They arrived at a row of sandstone cottages, glowing pink in the sunlight, newly constructed and the only houses around. He felt he had seen them before and he confirmed this in his head when he noticed a newly built railway station and offices. He glanced at the iron railed wall and the germ of an idea emerged. He was on St George’s hill – but as yet there was no St George’s church.
James tethered the horse in front of one of the cottages and jumped down, beckoning him to follow. They went inside. This was apparently where James lodged. The small room was sparsely furnished, with a black leaded range along the back wall. A table stood in the middle of the room, covered with a heavy tablecloth, four wooden chairs surrounded it and a rug lay in front of the range. The room was cosy but functional and a few books piled on the cupboard in the alcove were the only indication of any personal belongings.
“Come then… be seated.” demanded James, pulling out a chair and pointing to him to sit.
Rob sat.
James disappeared into a small curtained scullery at the back of the cottage and returned with two opaque glasses and a bottle. Rob raised his eyebrows, unsure of what the bottle contained. James poured the brown liquid into the glasses and pushed one towards him. He sniffed the drink first and then tentatively took a sip. It was tingly and sharp… quite refreshing.
“It isn’t poison you know! It is the best ginger beer you can find in Barrow.”
“Ok I believe you…” Rob smirked at the earnest look on James’ face.
“So to work. Brother John tells me that you must solve the abbey mystery and find that treasure which is so keenly coveted by your adversaries.”
He spoke as though Rob would understand what he was talking about.
Rob winced and ran his fingers through his hair, sighing with exasperation.
“What are you on about? Speak English will you?” He rubbed his eyes as if he was trying to wake up. “What treasure? How does this involve me? I’m not even that interested in the abbey… and more importantly… how do I get home?”
James removed his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. He sat heavily on the rickety wooden chair opposite Rob and looked directly into his eyes. He seemed to be pondering the predicament hard.
“All I know is that you have to find an important treasure, the loss of which is unthinkable. The monk has appeared to me on many occasions and he has forced me to change my thinking. I too had no great passion for the abbey; indeed my plan would have seen it demolished – but he turned my mind to its great age and importance.”
“Well what is it – this treasure?”
“I have no notion I am afraid!”
“Oh well that’s brilliant! And how DO I get home?”
James smiled, “I would guess that you will return the way you came. The monk would not have you marooned here and for that matter neither would I!”
“You could be right… I was trying to escape from some people who I didn’t like the look of… I suppose you could say he saved my neck. But how did you know I would be at the tunnel?”
“The brother of course, I was surveying and planning where the new station will be and suddenly… there he was. I am used to him now and I listened to what he said and I found you at the other end of the tunnel. Exactly where he said you would be.”
Rob’s anxiety drained away and he relaxed. His investigative brain began to work overtime. The two young people talked at length and discussed the situation further. Rob discovered that they had much in common – despite the hundred and fifty years which separated them. Both were realists, pragmatic and curious; in another time they might have been friends. They shared with each other the little they knew and Rob was embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. James had been told much by the monk and what he had to tell astounded Rob and gave him food for thought. The tale he told began many years before…
CHAPTER 7
A FATEFUL CONSPIRACY
“’Twas long before my time at the abbey”
Brother John Stell wrote. He was engaged in recording events from the abbey’s past and he took his work seriously. Brother John was seated at his place in the Cloister, the summer sun flooding the covered area with a bright and vibrant light; making his task easier than in the dark winter days in the scriptorium. John had been charged with this work and he wrote with great clarity and care. His illuminations were unparalleled in this abbey and probably many others too. Today his thoughts were riddled with worries. He had uncovered a terrible story, which discredited his beloved abbey. It posed another problem too, yet another precious and holy treasure was in need of care.
John’s burden was a heavy one and weighed him down daily. He had been entrusted with his guardianship for many years past. His old abbot had passed away many years ago and John had shared his task with only one other person. Robert the Mason was his friend and had braved many dangers to secure and hide the sacred treasures within the abbey. This latest one had been the most difficult to protect and he knew its future safekeeping would be too. He laid down his goose feather quill and stretched his inky fingers for a moment of contemplation. His task from God was a hard one and he sometimes wondered if he was equal to the challenge. He shook his greying head, picked up the quill, dipping it into the ink well carefully, and tapped it to shake off the excess ink. He would be devastated if his work was to be spoiled by a blot… he knew that this was the sin of pride, something he had tussled with since youth. However, he could not help but wish to do a perfect job and his heart gave a joyful leap when he completed an intricate illuminated letter, or finished pages of detailed history. He began to write again.
“When a moste venerable Abbot called Laurens did hold Furnesse in his charge… a terrible plot was woven by his very own bretheren, whom he trusted and loved. Abbot Laurens was a holy and devoted man who ne’er had an ill worde or action against any mann. Furnesse was in those days a place of peace and safety and none would doubt the loyalty of the brothers. Yet sadly three brothers were not true to the abbot, nor to their vowes”
The Vale of Deadly Nightshade in which ye monasterie was nestled held a treachery too horrible to think of. Amongst those holy monks who kept their vowes and followed the sacred rule of St Benedict were the three who defiled the place with their greed, jealousy and vaulting ambition. These kinsmen were discontented with their place in life and plotted to seize great power and riches. They huddled together in the dark shadows of the cloister and conspired to overthrow the abbot and take his place. They had not resolved which one of them would take on the mantle of abbot, but were bent upon his destruction.
The brothers plotted and planned in quiet corners, stealing moments in the cloister, whispering in the warming room or hiding in the herb garden. The Herbarium was close by the infirmarie and the kitchen and was important to their plan. Brother John worked daily and he knew every herbe and plante, which could be used to make unctions, ointments, medicines and possets, those for flavourings and seasoning for food… and those which could be used for ill. Brother John had selected his plant carefully, for it grew in abundance in the low-lying valley. Indeed the Vale of the Nightshade was named for the plant.
Deadly nightshade grew rampantly, amongst the wild garlic and vetch, its deadly nature disguised by its innocent delicate purple beauty. He had learnt his skill well from the old infirmarian. He knew that the poison lay within its roots
and that it must be suffused until it made a brew of rich royal red and purple liquor; scentless and deadly. T’would be an easy task; few knew what alchemy went on in the herbarium. The old monk in charge was nearly blind and would not catch sight of the murderous brew…
*
Brother Andrew prepared to give the poison to the abbot in a most Judas-like way. He was to assist Abbot Laurence at Holy Mass. It would be easy to add the liquid to the chalice, mixed with the holy wine. Abbot Laurence would die quickly and they could then seize power. Or so he had planned.
*
The conspirators watched anxiously as the abbot began the mass. He looked in rude health and for some time the three monks watched anxiously as he led the prayers. The tension grew, as he seemed to be unharmed by the deadly elixir. It soon became apparent that something was amiss. Beads of sweat glistened on Brother Andrew’s brow as he realised that John had miscalculated the dosage of the poison. The service progressed, as though time had halted, every movement the old man made exaggerated and slow. Just as Andrew was about to give up hope, the abbot swayed slightly. He righted himself and drew his hand across his forehead. He swayed again, this time losing his balance and staggered forwards. Brother Andrew looked on eagerly, smiling inwardly as Abbot Laurence leaned forward, clutching at his priestly garments. The old man staggered, falling against the high altar, sending the chalice crashing onto the green glazed tiles of the floor. He stumbled and fell to his knees, disorientated and dizzy, his sight dimming and wavering. His collapse was hidden behind the decorated rood screen, which separated the quire monks from the high altar. Only the Prior and Brother Andrew were with him and they rushed to his aid. He was carried from the church by the monks and taken to his lodgings. He was put to bed, heralding a flurry of activity. The abbot sickened and his skin grew clammy and he had not a vestige of colour in his cheeks.
