by Kate Ellis
Valentine looked the man in the eye. “I believe you, my friend. But I have heard tell that a certain item was found in your possession: a crucifix. The murdered man was a priest so you understand the reason for the constable’s suspicion, do you not?”
“I told them. It was given me by one of the fathers when I left the abbey lands. When they closed the abbey we were all thrown off and Father Gregory gave me his crucifix and his blessing. I swear on the Holy Book. Believe me sir.”
“Which abbey was this?”
“Norton. I worked on the land. I had no skill but the Fathers were good to us.”
The second man, thin and sick looking, nodded weakly in agreement. He looked too ill to speak but Valentine turned to him. “And you, my friend...have you anything to say?”
The voice was weak, barely audible. “Hodge speaks the truth, sir. We stole from the baker and others like him, but we have never harmed any of God’s creatures. And we would never do harm to a priest: believe us, sir, we never would.” He sank back against the verminous pallet, exhausted by the effort of speech.
Valentine turned to Katheryn who stood silently listening by the door. She nodded. She had heard enough. He turned back to the sick man.
“I will visit again, my friend and bring some physic. Until then, I bid you good day.”
When they were out of earshot of the prisoners Valentine gently upbraided the gaoler for not calling him to treat the sick man. “Did you not see that he was in need of my services?”
“I did not think it worth it, Master, seeing the rogue will hang soon.”
“I shall be back soon with some medicines for him. And as for hanging, you may be mistaken about that.”
Valentine swept from the gaol and out into Dale Street with Katheryn following behind. She drew alongside him and she could tell he was angry.
“You did well in there, Valentine. The men are innocent of Father Clement’s death.”
“But can we prove it?”
“If we find Father Gregory, he will vouch for the truth of their story. They are poor lost souls - there are many such since the religious houses were closed. We got pensions and rewards, but our workers - those who tended our land and our farms and those who worked in our kitchens and households - what became of them?”
“Father Gregory might not be easy to find. He could be anywhere.”
“We gain nothing by talk. If we visit the Norton lands, someone might know the whereabouts of some of the Fathers. Is it far?”
“Not far. A few hours’ ride on a good horse. But first I must see the Constable. He is a fair man and will listen to me. I tended his wife today and I saved the life of his last baby so he owes me a favour.”
“See him now, Valentine. We must ensure that those men do not hang for a murder they did not commit.”
“They may hang anyway for the theft.”
“They are poor men, Valentine...and desperate. If you spoke to the Magistrate...”
“To Master Crosse? Katheryn I could not...”
“Another Crosse? What manner of man is he, this Master Crosse?”
“Owner of Crosse Hall, Mayor of Liverpool, Justice of the Peace and a reasonable man.”
“Then he will listen. Mercy and charity cost a man nothing but they ensure a reward in heaven. Tell that to Master Crosse.”
“I will try. Meanwhile I must talk with the constable.”
“I shall be praying for you.” Katheryn touched his arm gently.
Valentine turned back towards the Guildhall and Katheryn walked the short way back to the shop, narrowly avoiding being drenched by the contents of a chamber pot flung into the street from an overhanging upstairs window.
As she walked, she made plans. A trip to Norton might prove fruitful in other ways. Maybe there were other priests from that house in the town: maybe Agnes’s lover had been a canon of Norton. And if they found Father Gregory, he might know where his brothers had headed when Norton Abbey had been so cruelly despoiled... if not what fortunes had awaited them.
But Norton would have to wait for tomorrow. That evening they had another matter to attend to.
CHAPTER 19
There was nothing more that Katheryn and Valentine could do for Hodge and his friend that night. The constable had promised to inform the Magistrate of their misgivings: they could only trust in his fairness.
But now they stood on the strand in the gloom of dusk, well wrapped against the cold. The Santa Isabella lay at anchor some way out in the River Mersey and rowing boats and small sailing craft scuttled around the larger merchantmen like insects skimming on the oily water.
The strand was filled with the songs and chatter of sailors and fishermen about to set out for a night on the water. Katheryn and Valentine stood by the sheltering walls of the Tower and waited, hoping they wouldn’t miss Father Nicholas in the dimming light.
Katheryn stamped her feet on the sand to ward off the cold: how Jane would scold her for spoiling the fine Spanish leather of her boots on the damp sand, saying that the marks left by salt water were the devil’s own job to clean.
The sound of oars on the water nearby alerted them to the approach of a small rowing boat. In the half-light Katheryn could make out two figures in the craft. One, a roughly clad sailor, jumped from the boat and dragged it up onto the shore. The other man sat, straight backed, until the boat was far enough out of the water for him to disembark without wetting his feet. The seated man, dressed in a fine soft leather coat and velvet cap, barked an order in Spanish to the sailor who then helped him out of the boat. The well dressed man looked around impatiently, and muttered something to his companion that Katheryn, being a short distance away, could not make out.
She touched Valentine’s arm. “Let us walk along the Strand towards the church. If Father Nicholas has a meeting with these men, he will come that way and I do not wish to encounter him when he is in their company. If he should be up to anything amiss...”
Valentine took her arm and they strolled past the two Spaniards who were looking about restlessly as if they were expecting someone to join them. They looked nervous, uneasy.
Katheryn and Valentine didn’t meet Father Nicholas until they reached the churchyard gate. He had the anxious look of somebody in a hurry.
“Good evening to you, Father Nicholas.”
He nodded to Katheryn curtly, as though he dreaded any delay. Valentine caught his arm and Nicholas looked at him in alarm. “Please, brother, I am late for an appointment.”
“With a Spanish captain perhaps?”
Nicholas looked at Valentine, quite crestfallen. “How did you know? Have I been watched?”
“Not by us, Father. We discovered your meeting by chance.”
“So what will you do? My wife is with child. We need money to live. If there was another way I should have taken it, but when Captain Sanchez came to confession and told me he had a particular devotion to the saint, I told him my secret. He offered me so much...a fortune and I could not refuse. Say you will not betray me to the authorities.”
Katheryn spoke gently. “I have no wish to betray you, Father. I think you an honest man...and so does your wife. But if you wish us to harbour no suspicions, I suggest that you tell us the truth. What is it you would trade with the Captain of the Santa Isabella?”
Nicholas looked surprised: this woman seemed to know so much and telling the truth would do no harm: she was no sympathiser with the despoiler of the monasteries. Reverently, he pulled a soft leather bag from the inside of his threadbare cloak. “It has brought me much good fortune,” he said. “I am loath to part with it but I know the captain to be a devout man.”
Father Nicholas opened the bag and gently pushed its folds aside so the contents were visible. Katheryn’s hand went to her mouth to suppress a gasp of horror. Against the leather of the bag lay a hand, the skeletal fingers blackened with the remnants of leathery skin.
“It is the hand of Saint James, torn from its casket when the commissioners visited o
ur abbey at Whalley and flung to the ground. The casket was gold and inlaid with jewels so you can guess what happened to that: the rogues stole everything of earthly value. But the hand itself I rescued and kept safe.” He stroked the thing lovingly. “Captain Sanchez has offered me a great deal of money for it, more than I could earn in three years.”
Nicholas looked down the strand to where the Spaniards were waiting. “He waits for me and I must keep my part of the bargain.” He packed the relic carefully back in its bag. “I wish I did not have to part with this holy thing but I am a man of my word. The captain agreed that I should keep it with me until it was time for him to leave Liverpool. He sails tonight on the tide.”
Katheryn nodded. She understood the priest’s feelings. The relic had been a comfort in adversity. Whether it was actually the hand of Saint James, Katheryn doubted: spurious relics were only too common. But Nicholas believed it was real and drew comfort from it.
“You must go to the captain and complete your transaction,” she said gently.
They watched as Nicholas strode purposefully along the sand to meet Sanchez. Their business took but a moment then Sanchez bowed and, holding the leather bag like a delicate and precious thing, climbed into his boat and was rowed off towards the shadowy bulk of the Santa Isabella, now displaying lanterns that reflected ribbons of light onto the darkening water.
It wasn’t long before Nicholas returned, a purse of gold clutched tightly to his chest. Katheryn and Valentine turned to walk with him towards his cottage. Valentine did not like to think that the money gained by the priest’s personal sacrifice might be gone in a moment if he encountered thieves on his journey home.
It was nearly dark when they passed St. Mary del Quay. The windows of the chapel glowed golden from the candlelight within. A tall limping figure was approaching the chapel door. Nicholas stopped.
“What is it?” asked Valentine.
“That man. I know him. Even in this poor light...I know him.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is John Estgate. He was a brother of my abbey at Whalley. He used to travel with me to tend to the abbey’s lands at Stanlow over the river and the grange at Aigburth nearby. We both spent much time near Liverpool so I came to know him well. But I have not seen him since we were forced to leave the abbey. He stood trial for treason with others. They were executed - even our Lord Abbot - but John was acquitted. It shows there is some little justice for I know that he was innocent - as were the others, God rest their souls.”
John Estgate looked about him, opened the door of the chapel and slipped inside. His manner suggested that he had no wish to be seen.
“Will you go into the chapel to greet your brother, Father Nicholas?” asked Katheryn, watching the priest’s face carefully.
Nicholas shook his head. “I think not. I would guess that he does not wish to have his business disturbed.”
“And what is his business, I wonder?”
Nicholas looked Katheryn in the eye. “There are many, my lady - I am not one of them for I lack the courage - who would defy the King’s laws if those laws contradict the laws of God. I ask no questions and I do not want to know.”
“And John Estgate?”
“He has every reason to join their number. His own brother, Richard Estgate, met his death at the hands of the King - as did our Abbott and another of our brothers in Christ. If John is now engaged in any plot that might restore God’s rule to this land, I keep silent about it. Come, let us go.”
He turned away and began to walk towards Chapel Street and his home. Katheryn and Valentine followed. Whatever was going on in the chapel of St. Mary del Quay was none of their concern.
The three soldiers seemed to appear from nowhere. Nicholas stopped and pressed himself against the wall that separated the churchyard from the strand: Katheryn and Valentine did likewise. The soldiers, silent and well disciplined, approached the chapel. Katheryn recognised Captain Wharton as one of the men who was kicking at the wooden door.
“I’ll fetch Bartholomew,” Valentine hissed. “Stay out of sight...both of you.” He ran down the strand past fishermen who were studiously minding their own business: they had no wish to become involved and risk the wrath of the King’s garrison.
Katheryn stayed, pressed against the wall, her heart pounding. Wharton and his men were trained and armed fighters; there would be no deflecting them from their purpose. For the second time in her life she felt helpless - the first time being when she and her sisters were ejected from the peace of their abbey. Helplessness was not a condition Katheryn felt comfortable with.
“We must do something,” she whispered to Nicholas who stood, fearful, beside her.
“It would be of no use. They would cut us both down and make their excuses afterwards. I beg you, my Lady, do nothing foolish.”
But Katheryn had no intention of abandoning caution. She waited.
It was not long before the soldiers reappeared. Under Wharton’s watchful eye they carried a large wooden chest, staggering under its weight and they made their way across the strand to a small single sailed barque at the end of a wooden jetty. Katheryn and Nicholas watched as they lowered the chest carefully into the boat and then rowed away into the gathering darkness.
Katheryn had supposed that Wharton had come to arrest conspirators, but they had left not with prisoners, but with a heavily laden chest. She thought it unlikely that they would find the men in the chapel alive.
Wharton’s boat was disappearing out of sight when Valentine returned with Bartholomew, who looked tired after his days work.
“The men in the chapel may be in need of our help, brothers,” said Katheryn quietly before climbing the steps to the churchyard gate.
The men followed, apprehensive, each one praying that they would not find a scene of bloodshed in St. Mary del Quay.
Nervously, Bartholomew pushed the battered chapel door open. The damage inflicted by Wharton’s kicks was clearly visible. The others hung back as he entered but then he turned and signalled them to follow.
They found the chapel littered not with bleeding corpses, but with the fragments of the statue of the Virgin that had stood by the altar. Two men sat amongst the debris, their faces showing the marks of their defeat. Luckily, it seemed that the men had received no injuries more serious than a black eye or a superficial sword slash. Many would have thought Father James and John Estgate fortunate in the circumstances.
Father James spoke first. “They smashed her with their swords. They smashed Our Lady.” He mumbled, close to tears. “They said they came to finish the commissioners’ work. We hid her safe when they came last...hid her inside the altar. We did not think they would return.”
“What else did they do, Father?” Katheryn asked firmly. “They took something. What was it?”
Estgate sat silent. James spoke again. “It can do no harm to tell these good people, John. They have all suffered at the King’s hands.”
Estgate looked up and nodded: then he spotted Nicholas hovering anxiously in the background. “It is good to see you, Brother Nicholas,” he called across the chapel. “I should have asked you to join our cause but Father James here says you are now a married man with much to lose...unlike myself.”
Nicholas stepped forward and clasped Estgate’s hand. “I have prayed for you often, Brother. I am glad you are safe. It is a miracle.”
“It is indeed. Our fellowship of the five wounds has much support. I and others hope to raise another Pilgrimage of Grace to plead with the King to dismiss his ungodly ministers and restore the church to her former power.”
Katheryn saw the fire of idealistic fervour burning in Estgate’s eyes. The man was naive, she thought, if he considered the King to be a puppet of wicked ministers: King Henry the eighth was well capable of indulging in wickedness without any help from others.
But there were many like Estgate, trusting and unworldly: many who had paid for their defiance after the last uprising in the north with the
ir earthly remains dismembered and hanging from trees and town walls as a warning to others. John Estgate and Father James had not heeded that warning. The five wounds of Christ had been the badge of the northern rebels three years before. And if Estgate and his fellows hoped to revive the spirit of the first northern rising, they were playing a dangerous game.
She looked Estgate in the eye. “What was in the chest that the captain of the castle garrison and his men carried away from here and took across the river?“ Directness was usually the best way to obtain answers.
It was James who answered. “Brother John here has been travelling the north gaining support for his holy cause. But his work needs money.”
