The Devil's Priest

by Kate Ellis

  “So what happened?” prompted Katheryn.

  “Things began to happen...bad things. Walter de Daresbury was arrested for stealing a gold plate from the Abbey. The steward’s son bore witness against him and the plate was found beneath Walter’s mattress. He was thrown in jail and his right hand was cut off as punishment. By the Abbot’s charity, Lucy was allowed to stay in their cottage but she died in childbed and the babe with her. They were healthy enough till the steward’s son visited to see his bastard. There were some spoke of poison. A few days after she died the commissioners came to the Abbey.”

  He paused for a few moments before continuing.

  “It was in the October three years back. They were late finishing their thieving and destruction so they decided to stay the night at our Abbey. The people round about were angry. The Abbey and the fathers were well regarded. Our Abbot, John Birkett, led the tenants and the commissioners took fright and hid themselves in the tower. Walter de Daresbury and his wife were forgotten in all the excitement.” He smiled at this memory: getting the better of the King’s commissioners, even for a few hours, must have been a satisfying experience. “Such a feast we had. We roasted an ox and great fires burned. And we thought to give those robbing King’s men a message they would not forget.” His eyes gleamed at the recollection of that night when spirits and hopes had been high.

  “What happened then?” asked Valentine, guessing that the outcome of the story would not be a happy one.

  “I don’t know how they did it, but those men in the tower managed to get a message to the High Sheriff, Sir Piers Dutton. He and his men came upon us suddenly and there was a great flight. We escaped by swimming across the Abbey pools: it was the only way. The Abbot and three brethren were taken to Halton as the King’s prisoners and it was all over...finished. The Duttons had always been benefactors of our Abbey: if it wasn’t for that, I reckon Sir Piers would have hanged them there and then.”

  “And what of Father Clement? What happened to him?”

  “In truth I don’t know what took place that night. I saw them in the distance...that rogue and Clement. I only saw in the light of the fires but they were talking...arguing, I think: after that all was confusion.”

  “And Walter de Daresbury? What became of him?”

  “I never heard of him again. Some say he died in prison but truly I do not know.”

  “And the steward’s son?”

  “That I cannot say. He could be in hell for all I know. He is unlikely to be in the other place.”

  “And did you see Father Clement again?”

  “Oh yes, I saw him.”

  “Do you know where he went?” Katheryn asked anxiously.

  “Oh yes. Come. I’ll show you.”

  Katheryn and Valentine allowed themselves to be led back to the derelict shell of the Abbey. Robert Janyns walked slowly: he was not a man to hurry. They stopped in the nave of the ruined church, near where the high altar had been. Janyn’s pointed to a patch of bare earth dug in the once magnificently tiled floor of the abbey church. Valentine had noticed it before but had assumed it was the result of villagers plundering the finely decorated tiles.

  Janyns stood staring at the spot, his head bowed reverently. “I found him the next morning when all the excitement had died down. He’d been stabbed.

  Valentine was puzzled. “Who had?”

  “Father Clement. I buried him here; gave him a Christian burial before the high altar where he deserved to be. He was a good man.”

  Katheryn and Valentine looked at each other. “You’re sure it was him?” she asked. “You’re certain?”

  “I lived with the man for ten years. He was my brother.” Katheryn saw tears well up in the eyes of this simple man who asked for nothing but a peaceful existence. “He had been murdered and I did what I could for him. It might have been Dutton’s men but I think not: they harmed nobody else. Their orders were to detain, not kill.”

  “So?”

  “I think he challenged that creature over his treatment of Walter and Lucy de Daresbury. Injustice and wickedness angered Father Clement: he would not tolerate such things.”

  “And the steward’s son...you have no idea what became of him?”

  “He disappeared that night.”

  Katheryn shook her head. Just when she thought the picture was becoming clearer all her assumptions had been shaken by Robert Janyn’s revelations. There was one last question she wanted to ask. “The steward’s son...what was his name?”

  “He was a disgrace to the name of his poor father. His name was Mires...Martin Mires.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The candle guttered as the three men sat round the table. Francis Wells’ normally jovial face was drawn with worry. Father James sat brooding and silent, taking frequent sips from his mug of ale. Only Bartholomew seemed restless and wanting action.

  “We cannot let the matter rest here, brothers. If Wharton is to keep the treasure for himself, he will not dare to complain of its disappearance. If he did, he would have to admit his wrongdoing. Don’t you see, we could get it back.”

  James shook his head. “Don’t be foolish, brother. Wharton would concoct some story; he wouldn’t let us get away with it. Besides, John Estgate has fled. We would have to hide it until his return...if that day ever comes. It is useless, brother, and we must do nothing to put ourselves in further danger.”

  “Even for such a cause as ours?”

  Francis and James looked at each other. “Why do you think we did not ask you to join us in the first place, Bartholomew?” said Francis softly. “You were always headstrong. You would have put us in peril by your actions.”

  Bartholomew stood, spilling his ale as he did so. He marched from the room, angry that these friends of his, these brothers bound to their holy cause, showed such little courage.

  He slammed the door of Father James’s house and made his way down the moonlit strand towards his boat.

  *

  Father Gregory had been easy to find and he had confirmed the story of the imprisoned men. He had indeed given Hodge, the labourer, a crucifix as a remembrance. An expression of deep sadness had appeared on his grey tired face when he heard about the fate of his protégés. He also confirmed Robert Janyns’ account of the evil doing of Martin Mires.

  They rode home in companionable silence. Katheryn had spent a wakeful night at the inn, looking at the simple wooden door that connected her own room with Valentine’s and wondering if she had made the right decision. She did not know that Valentine had spent a similar night thinking similar thoughts. If he had met a woman like Katheryn in his youth, he argued to himself, he would never have committed himself to the vow of chastity.

  But neither spoke of it: neither broke their earlier agreement that the subject was dead. They concentrated instead on their new discoveries.

  “Mires!” said Katheryn thoughtfully. “The man the juggler was to meet was named Mires. And Master Janyns said that many thought Mires to be in league with Satan. It fits well.”

  “If Mires is in Liverpool, why is he not known? It is but a small town.”

  “But not a town like others. It is a port; sailors and merchants come and go without question. A new face causes no comment.”

  “And the Father Clement who was priest at Our Lady and St. Nicholas? Who was he if the real one was dead?”

  “Father James may have been mistaken: he may have been a brother from another Augustinian house. He may have assumed it to be Norton as it was the nearest.”

  “Father James wasn’t mistaken. Clement was recommended by Abbot Birkett himself. It ensured his appointment.”

  “And how was the abbot to recommend anyone if he was locked up in Chester castle?”

  Valentine nodded. What Katheryn said was so obvious. Why had it not been thought of before?

  “So the letter he showed to Father James was false?”

  “I have no doubt of it. I think Mires took the dead Clement’s identity. He went to Chester
and become acquainted with Captain Wharton and gained a hold over the captain by means of witchcraft. Then he followed Wharton to Liverpool and obtained his post as chantry priest. He had been raised on Norton Abbey’s estates so he’d be familiar with the ways of priests: so familiar he could doubtless pass for one.”

  Valentine stared at her in disbelief. “So the Father Clement in Liverpool was really Martin Mires? He had killed the real Clement and taken his name?”

  “It fits, does it not?”

  Valentine shook his head. “Not entirely. The man Mires has traded in the trappings of witchcraft long after the death of Father Clement.”

  “Mires has killed to change his identity once so why not again? The body of Father James’s chantry priest had been in the river for a few days had it not? Was it recognisable?”

  “Father James thought so. I did not know the man well as I had only seen him at a distance. There was a ring on his left hand and James said it was the one Clement always wore.”

  “Then we must speak to Father James.” She gave her white mare a gentle kick to hurry her along and she took off at a gallop. Valentine’s old cob tried its best to keep up but was trailing far behind when they reached the townsend bridge.

  *

  Father James was alone and preoccupied when they came upon him praying in the chantry chapel of St. John. He had unburdened his worries to God but he was still glad to see Valentine. He looked at Katheryn nervously, hoping her anger against him for his attack on Agnes had faded and that she had taken heed of the Lord’s commands concerning forgiveness.

  He was relieved when she greeted him civilly and he began to voice his worries about Bartholomew.

  “Last night I thought he would do something foolish. He thinks he knows where they have taken the treasure and I fear that he might try to recover it on his own. The lad could get himself killed.” He looked downcast. “And I should not like another death on my conscience.”

  Valentine touched his shoulder. “You did not kill Agnes. It was another. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “All Liverpool will blame me.”

  “Then don’t tell all Liverpool. Let the matter rest. The important thing is to catch Agnes’s true killer.”

  “And as to that matter,” said Katheryn, “there is some confusion. When you identified the body of Father Clement, are you certain it was him?”

  “Yes... but it was difficult. The face was... The creatures of the river had destroyed it. It is often thus with drowned corpses.”

  “But you are sure it was Father Clement?”

  “It was his build and his colouring...and his manner of dress. And I recognised the ring he wore...gold with a black stone. I have never seen another like it: it was his for sure.”

  “But the body itself may have been another?” she persisted.

  “I was certain it was him. I made an honest judgement.” Father James was becoming agitated.

  “Calm yourself, James,” said Valentine gently. “Any mistake you made was made in good faith. What can you tell me of Father Clement?”

  James looked mildly surprised at this new line of questioning, then his expression became guarded. He was hiding something. “What do you mean?”

  Valentine told him of his visit to Norton and of his conversation with Robert Janyns. Father James shut his eyes. “I knew there was something. But he had been so highly recommended by Abbot Birkett himself. He showed me the letter the abbot had written. It was glowing with praise.”

  “We searched his quarters,” said Katheryn. James looked at her, surprised. “If the letter was genuine, he would have kept it in a place of safety and we found no such letter. I fear it was a forgery. The abbot was in prison when Clement came to take up his post.”

  James looked away, annoyed with himself, wondering why he hadn’t thought of this when Clement first came to him. James made a decision: it would do no harm now to tell the truth about Clement as he had seen it.

  “It started soon after he arrived,” he began. “I caught him alone with the Mayor’s daughter, but fifteen years old. He had his hand on her breast and his expression was one of...” James shook his head in disapproval.

  “When he saw me he moved his hand and smiled...as if he was mocking me. Then he spent so much time at the castle. I tried to tell myself that he was attending to the spiritual needs of the men but I suspected there were other reasons for his visits there. His cottage was next to mine and he received visits at night...sometimes from Captain Wharton but more often from women. I heard...noises through the walls. I heard tales about him in the taverns and when I tried to speak with him about it, I was told to mind my own business. I know some priests lead such lives... and I merely thought him one of that kind.”

  “And was Agnes one of his visitors?” asked Katheryn quietly.

  “In truth I don’t know, my lady. You should ask Mistress Moore. She knew him. Ask Marjory Moore: she knew him well.”

  *

  Father James’s words jogged Katheryn’s memory. Griselda had hinted that Marjory might know something. But Katheryn had been distracted by other events and perhaps reluctant to risk another of Marjory’s rejections,. But now that she had new reason to go to the Old Hall, she would not let the woman’s hostility discourage her.

  Katheryn thought it best to visit Marjory alone so she sent Valentine back to Dale Street to attend to his shop and his patients. Mistress Moore might be unwilling to discuss delicate matters in the presence of a man...and Katheryn suspected that Marjory’s revelations might be very delicate indeed. If her suspicions were correct and the wealthy Liverpool family Martin Mires had worked for was the Moores, then Katheryn could only guess what hold Mires might have over Marjory.

  She was received coolly at the Old Hall, as she expected. Marjory offered no refreshment but asked her guest sit while she continued with her embroidery. Katheryn came straight to the point.

  “What do you know of Martin Mires...lately known in this town as Father Clement?”

  Marjory Moore, the authoritative and self possessed mistress of the household, looked as helpless and vulnerable as the youngest maidservant. Her face turned ashen. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came. Katheryn repeated her question.

  “Surely Father James has not broken the seal of the confessional,” Marjory whispered, eyes closed.

  “He has said nothing, I assure you. The facts were bound to be discovered eventually,” Katheryn said confidently. She was making guesses but did not intend to let Marjory know that. “It would be best if you told me everything. It is God’s will that wrongdoers be brought to justice.”

  Marjory nodded. She was a widow with no husband to consider now: and although she had no liking for Katheryn, she presumed her to be a woman who could keep a confidence.

  “I was lonely,” she began quietly. ”My husband was mayor at that time; an important man in the town and much occupied with business. My son had grown and married and had no more use for me.”

  She looked at Katheryn for sympathy. Katheryn smiled gently and nodded.

  “A young man came to Bank Hall as help for our steward there,” she continued. “I found myself more and more in his company. In spite of the difference in our ages, he made it clear that he considered me attractive.”

  She blushed, remembering how her lost youth had been recaptured on a bed of straw above the stables. “Then he began to ask for money and he hinted that my husband and son would find out about... I had some money of my own. I paid him...and I kept meeting him. I know that I was foolish and I hadn’t even the excuse of youthful innocence.”

  “What happened? How did you rid yourself of him?” For the first time Katheryn felt sorry for this woman who must have lived for so many years with the fear that her folly would be exposed to public scrutiny.

  “He left,” she said simply. “He said he was returning to help his father at Norton. I said a thousand prayers of thanks. I had begun to fear him...especially when he spoke of evil things.”
>
  “What evil things?”

  “He showed me a doll of wax. He said it was me: he said that he had obtained some of my hairs from my comb and stuck them on the thing’s head. It was horrible.” She shuddered. “He said he could use it to make me do his will.” She looked up at Katheryn, pleading. “But he was most... When we were... He was quite unlike my husband and I wanted him. You have led a life sheltered by the cloister. You could not understand.”