The Bell Tower

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘The year 1538,’ said Michael, at once. ‘The same time as the journal.’

  ‘I think so. The sections that I think are the relevant ones are after the monks had a visit from Cromwell’s Commissioners. That seems to be when Thaisa – our diarist – left.’

  ‘And came here to Quire Court?’ Nell glanced at Michael and knew they were both thinking about the child’s body. Thaisa’s child?

  ‘It sounds like it. Myself,’ said Owen, ‘I think Thaisa was bundled out of the way because she was the Abbot’s bit of fluff, or the illegitimate daughter of somebody in a high place, but that’s theorizing without data.’

  Nell said, thoughtfully, ‘We’ve got a kind of shared knowledge in all this, haven’t we, but it’s fragmented. I know some of it, mostly the nineteenth-century stuff from Andrew’s journal. But I know about him meeting Theodora Eynon and how that lecherous old Squire Glaum was killed – and put in the tomb alive. Pure Edgar Allan Poe. And then they came here to hide out. But I don’t know anything about Thaisa.’

  ‘I know a few slivers about her because of the sixteenth-century book we found here,’ said Michael. ‘But I only made out a couple of sentences. So read on, Owen.’

  Owen nodded in appreciation and acceptance of the wine with which Nell topped up his glass, and began to read.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘This morning,’ Cuthwin wrote, ‘we heard that Father Abbot and Thaisa had been captured in Oxford and are being brought back to Rede Abbas to face punishment. Brother John has learned that Master Cromwell’s Commissioners believe Father Abbot to be guilty of simony.’

  ‘They say,’ said Brother John, ‘that Father Abbot sold absolution to Edward Glaum and received properties in the Town of Oxford as payment. I do not believe it, though. Father Abbot denied it when he took Thaisa to Oxford and, whatever else he might be, he is no liar. The Commissioners may want a scapegoat – a reason to close down our house and take our few valuables. If so, they would have found it easy to persuade the villagers to their side. They were already in awe of the Commissioners, and they would be fearful of offending them.’

  ‘More to the point,’ said Brother Angus, ‘they would be fearful of incurring the wrath of the King.’

  Angus is right. These days no one wants to incur the wrath of Henry VIII.

  As for Thaisa, none of us dares voice our thoughts as to why she should be part of Seamus Flannery’s punishment, although I suppose most of us know. But I shall not write those thoughts, for I do not know who may read this. Also, I am mindful of the fact that, ‘He who soweth discord among his brethren’ is listed as one of the Lord’s hates, so I do not gossip.

  Owen looked up briefly from his notes. ‘It is, of course, clear from what I’ve read that Cuthwin was the worst gossip you could meet outside of a tabloid newspaper.’

  ‘Never mind what he was, let’s hear what he has to say.’

  Owen nodded, and resumed.

  We intend to bargain with the Commissioners for the lives and freedom of Father Abbot and Thaisa. Brother John, who is apt to be pernickety about details, says it is a dangerous ploy, and asks what we are to bargain with. We have not told him how we concealed the most valuable items before the Commissioners’ visit. As Brother Angus said at the time, our few treasures could not add much to the King’s coffers.

  The ciborium and the patens are in the vegetable gardens, beneath the onion patch. I know exactly where they are, since I was the one who buried them. It took an entire afternoon and I stank of onions for days afterwards, but at least we can retrieve them.

  Then there is an altar bread box and a communion chalice concealed in the gardener’s fishing equipment, although the bread box may pose a difficulty, because when Brother Francesco last looked, it was being used for storing mealworms.

  In addition, a gilded monstrance is hidden beneath the floor in a privy, but we are hoping it will not be necessary to disinter that.

  If we can free Father Abbot and Thaisa we will take them to a place of safety – perhaps some remote village, where they might pass unnoticed. Brother Angus says Seamus Flannery will never pass unnoticed anywhere, but we cannot heed Angus’s gloomy prognostications.

  We took it in turns to watch for the arrival of the prisoners, using the high window overlooking the cliff path. When finally the procession came into sight, dusk was falling and great swathes of purple and violet lay across the countryside, but even through the thickening dusk we could see that the two Commissioners rode at the head of the procession.

  ‘Six horses,’ said one of the younger brothers, whose sight is keener than most of us. ‘Three of them pulling drays, and I can see two figures tied up on the drays.’

  The thought of Seamus Flannery – arrogant, disdainful, fastidious beyond description – bound and helpless on the floor of a common dray was appalling. The thought of Thaisa – small, fragile-boned, possessed of that bright inquisitive intelligence – being similarly treated was unbearable, which is, I know, an absurd word to use, because it had to be borne. And Thaisa herself was having to bear it.

  We had thought the villagers would take their prisoners to the church, or to Glaum Manor, where Commissioners had lodged, but we saw with incredulity that the flickering torchlights were snaking a way down the cliff path. It was Angus who said, ‘Dear God, they’re going to the bell tower.’

  ‘Surely not?’ I leaned forward to see better.

  ‘Angus is right,’ said John. ‘They’re going towards the old tower. It seems strange, but does not affect our plan.’

  ‘We go down to the tower to confront them?’

  ‘We do,’ he said.

  As we walked through the night, I believe most of us were caught between terror and despair. (I write that with some hesitation, since despair is a sin, so I shall do penance later.)

  I could almost believe none of what was happening was real – that we had somehow entered a dark nightmare. The bell tower, when we reached it, was lit by flickering lights, and it was strange to see it like that. As we drew nearer we saw that the door was propped open and that inside were the two Commissioners and some of the villagers. They had wedged torches into crevices in the stones, and the light flared upwards, bleeding through the entire building, and glowing from the half-window and the bell chamber.

  We slowed our steps, and looked uneasily at one another, because we could hear, very clearly, the shouts of what I can only describe as triumphant hatred.

  Angus said, ‘There are more of them in there than I had expected.’

  ‘Can we confront so many?’ I asked, worriedly. I was as determined as anyone to rescue Father Abbot and Thaisa, but the prospect of reasoning with such angry men was daunting.

  ‘We can,’ said John firmly, and led us forward.

  I shall never forget the sight that met us. The room immediately inside the tower is small – the tower was built to house a bell rather than people, so there is not very much room. But the Commissioners and at least a dozen villagers were crammed in there, many of them standing on the stairs leading up to the bell chamber. And at the centre …

  I was aware of a curious feeling of gratitude to Seamus Flannery and Thaisa for both looking so defiant. They were dirty and pale, but neither looked cowed or frightened. Seamus was unshaven and unkempt, like a vagrant who had come in from the roads. Thaisa’s hair streamed over her shoulders, and her eyes, which are narrow and long, glowed with anger.

  When we reached the door we saw that Job Orchard, the stonemason, was there. He is a great hulking figure of a man, his arms and shoulders muscular from years of wielding the stonemason’s hammers and picks. In front of him were two massive pieces of carved stone. At first I could not make out what they were, then three of the village men dragged Thaisa forwards and began to lift the stones and horrified comprehension came.

  At my side, John said, ‘Our plan to bargain for their freedom will not work.’

  ‘I see that. They are too angry,’ I said.

  ‘And to
o many,’ put in Brother Angus.

  We were all staring at the stone shapes, but John recovered himself sufficiently to say, ‘Brother Francesco – you are the youngest, the fleetest of foot. Run as if your life depended on it to Glaum Manor. Bring Squire Glaum here at once – at once, you understand? There must be no time lost.’

  Francesco, an intelligent boy, did not question. He was off, fleeing through the night, his robe flapping like birds’ wings. The darkness swallowed him up.

  ‘They may listen to the squire,’ said John, frowning. ‘If they do not—’

  ‘Brother, forgive me, but what do they intend?’ said Angus.

  John said, ‘They are going to imprison Thaisa inside those stones. Can’t you see how they’re fashioned in the shape of a human figure. Job Orchard must have been chiselling them out unbeknown.’

  ‘I still don’t understand—’

  ‘It’s a form of the punishment meted out to women who lie with monks or priests.’

  ‘But what—’

  In a voice of anger and distress, John said, ‘They are going to wall Thaisa up alive.’

  As we stared at one another in horror, the night began to fill up with sounds of hammering, and above them we could hear Seamus Flannery cursing his captors, swearing with a fluency that scalded my ears and my mind with the passion and hatred it contained. And yet in my own mind I was swearing as well, with just as much passion and hatred.

  Then Brother John pointed towards the seaward side of the tower, where Orchard and two of the others had clambered on to the ledge of the half-window. The darkness made it difficult to see clearly, but ropes swung out and Orchard seemed to be attaching them to something inside the tower. Then Orchard himself sat astride the ledge, so precariously that I thought he might fall. I tried to suppress the hope that he would.

  The massive stone pieces were being hauled into place against the tower’s side – Orchard seemed to be chiselling some kind of fastenings into the stones. The hammering rang out again, but now, with it, came dull, menacing sounds from the bell.

  ‘They’ve disturbed it,’ said Brother Angus, looking upwards. ‘It’s angry.’

  ‘Angus, it’s only a lump of bronze and copper,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t possess intelligence.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ said Angus, softly.

  It was a relief to hear Brother Francesco returning, and see the portly figure of Edward Glaum with him. The squire was panting with the exertion of running, but he still exerted authority and I felt a green-shoot of hope.

  He nodded briefly to us, took a few seconds to regain his breath and his dignity, then strode to the tower. It was clear that either Brother Francesco had explained everything or that the squire understood it for himself. In a ringing, angry voice, he said, ‘This must stop. You cannot commit these atrocities – I won’t allow it.’

  One of the Commissioners said, ‘You can’t stop anything, Squire. This is the King’s justice. The girl is a monk’s whore and a witch. The monk himself is a heretic – a transgressor of his own laws and a fornicator.’

  The other Commissioner said: ‘We have Master Cromwell’s warrants to execute them both. Do you want to see the warrants, Squire? And do you really wish to oppose Thomas Cromwell and King Henry?’

  ‘In any case, you are too late,’ said the first. He pointed to the upper parts of the tower, and that was when we saw that the massive carved stones had been hoisted against the wall, just outside the narrow window. In the leaping flares of the torchlight from within the tower, silhouetted in profile against the night sky, was the outline of a female – a larger-than-life figure, macabre and brooding.

  From inside the figure we heard Thaisa’s voice.

  At first I thought she was screaming for help, but as her voice wove through the night, I realized she was singing the ancient song she had brought when she came to the monastery as a tiny child.

  None of us ever understood the words of that song, except to know they were strange and that there was something pagan and almost inhuman about them. Whether she sang because she believed the words might summon some kind of power to rescue her, or whether she did so simply for comfort, and even as a defiance, I had no idea then and I have no idea now.

  The song affected Squire Glaum the worst. He gasped, then said, ‘It’s the gypsy’s song. Dear God, it’s the song her mother sang the night she – the night she and I …’ He sent a slightly shamefaced look at me and at Brother John, then said firmly, ‘The night Thaisa was conceived.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. I see. We never knew,’ said John, a diplomat to his toes.

  ‘We never question such things,’ I said, wanting to ally myself with Brother John’s words.

  ‘Thank’ee,’ said the squire, and mopped his face. ‘Alluring creatures, those gypsies. Not quite like other people. Let them stay in my meadow every year. Then Thaisa was born. Did all I could for her. Tried to keep her safe.’

  There was the sheen of tears in his eyes, and I said, ‘Squire, we will reach her. Somehow we will.’

  ‘I don’t think you can,’ said the squire, pointing to the waves already lashing around the tower’s base. ‘Even if we can fight back Cromwell’s men and the others, it will take hours to break open that thrice-damned figure. Job Orchard’s a good stonemason.’

  ‘And,’ said John, in a voice of extreme pity, ‘the tide is coming in fast.’

  ‘But we can’t just let her die,’ I said.

  ‘I think,’ said John, with deep sadness and anger, ‘that she is probably dead already.’

  It was the squire who said, harshly, ‘Pray God she is.’

  Today we heard Squire Glaum is to install a new bell in the tower, with an inscription which will read:

  ‘Bestowed on the good people of Rede Abbas, that they may pray for my family’s darkness to one day be lifted, and the dead be truly dead and at rest. In loving memory of my daughter Thaisa.’

  I do not know, however, how long Cromwell’s Commissioners will suffer it to remain.

  I am glad Thaisa did not live to see what happened to her beloved Seamus after that night.

  We saw it, though. We did not dare disobey the command to attend, and we walked down from the monastery as the great bell chimed – Edward Glaum’s newly cast great bronze bell.

  We watched as Seamus Flannery was brought out, and chained to the stake driven into the ground in the village square. The charges against him were read out – simony was among them, and also heresy, but I could not hear the rest, partly because the wind was snatching away the words, and partly because …

  But I cannot write what I felt. I will say only that I was too overcome by emotion to listen. I do know, though, that they offered him a gentler death – the axe rather than the flames – if he would admit to his errors and take the King’s Oath.

  Seamus laughed. He said he was innocent of everything except loving another human creature and, as for the King’s Oath … From respect to the man who was our Abbot, I do not write what Seamus Flannery actually said there, other than that he cursed the Oath, Thomas Cromwell and Henry Tudor.

  The men lit torches from a brazier standing on the edge of the square, and orange and scarlet flames leapt into the air. As they roared up, Seamus began to struggle, and then to scream. His hands – the sensitive, well-formed hands that we had so often seen clasped in prayer and that must have caressed Thaisa Eynon, seemed to clutch at the air, as if the flames were solid things that could be grasped and pushed away.

  I thought I would be sick or faint, but then, at my side, Brother John murmured a prayer.

  ‘Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for those that love Him …’ He reached for my arm. ‘He’s almost there, Cuthwin,’ he said. ‘He’s almost there.’

  As he said it, the figure at the centre of the fire sagged, and it was over.

  There was an unexpected aftermath to Seamus’s death.

  As the fire burned its way
out, and we watched to be sure that what remained of our Father Abbot would receive a proper Christian burial, a woman stepped from the crowd and approached us.

  Without preamble, she said, ‘My name is Madge, and I was with your Father Abbot and the young girl, Thaisa Eynon, in Glaum’s Acre in Oxford.’

  ‘Yes?’ John spoke tersely, I suspect to hide his emotion.

  Madge said, ‘There was a child that died. He was buried there.’

  ‘Yes?’ said John again.

  ‘The boy’s sister survived,’ said Madge.

  There was a brief pause, then John said, ‘There were twins? Thaisa gave birth to twins?’

  ‘Yes. I managed to hide the little girl when the house in Glaum’s Acre was broken into – when your Father Abbot and Thaisa were dragged away.’

  ‘Where is the babe now?’

  ‘Safe. At my lodgings. Thaisa told me to bring her here. She said there was a woman who would look after her – a woman Thaisa said had brought her up, and who would be kind. A clifftop house, she said. And the Brothers of St Benedict on hand for schooling.’

  John and I looked at one another. ‘The Widow Eynon,’ I said, eagerly. ‘That’s who Thaisa meant.’

  ‘Of course. And this is Thaisa’s daughter – we shan’t have lost her entirely. The Squire won’t have lost her entirely.’

  ‘Thaisa wanted her daughter to be safe,’ said Madge. ‘She wanted her to grow up here, where she had grown up. She wanted to think of her family continuing, and to know that all its goodness – and also all its flaws – would be handed down.’

  ‘And also,’ said John, softly, ‘its music.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  For a long time none of the three people in Nell’s sitting room spoke.

  Then Nell said, ‘I’m not sure I’m going to be able to bear remembering any of that. But I needed to know.’ She looked at Michael. ‘That was who we saw when the stone figure broke away from the tower? It was Thaisa. They walled her up in that figure, and she was there all these centuries.’