Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  Following their hostess, they listened as she chattered over her shoulder. ‘I’m no’ used to guests these days. Forgive me, gentlemen. My name’s Euphemia Caldwell, wife to Kennedy.’

  ‘Your husband runs the inn?’ asked Martin.

  ‘My husband’s abroad on business.’

  ‘Oh right. We saw your boy at the stable. Your son, I presume?’

  ‘That lazy creature’s no son of mine. He’s the orphan of a bondsman bound to serve my husband. Uh, but the boy’s good wi’ horses,’ she added, catching Danforth’s look. ‘I’ll say that for him.’

  ‘I see,’ said Danforth. He had seen women like her before, full of complaint. Enduring her grumbling might be a fitting penance in itself. ‘Yet you might lodge us, Mistress Caldwell?’

  ‘Wi’ gratitude, sirs, wi’ gratitude. I meant you no offence. There have been troubles of late, and when I saw two fellows, strangers, I ...’

  ‘Troubles?’ asked Martin.

  ‘It’s nothin’, sir. Nothin’ to trouble a Cardinal of the Church.’

  ‘Is it the lost girl?’

  ‘What?’ she asked. ‘Angus Brody’s girl, you mean? What of her?’

  ‘We heard tell of her in Glasgow, a placard said she had been stolen,’ he said.

  ‘The news went to Glasgow?’

  ‘Aye. The paper said “ravished”, it said “stolen away by wicked persons”.’

  ‘Aye, right enough, she’s away. There are men in town, sir, that would have been pleased to see her gone by some means. It might be better no’ to ask questions. She was badly used. By men, of course. But I trust you gentlemen are no’ like that.’ Her tone was almost accusatory.

  ‘Like what?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Enough.’ said Danforth, crossing his arms. ‘I will not listen to idle gossip. Mr Martin, I can see no use in pursuing this matter.’ The lives of monks should be beyond reproach. The Abbey of Paisley was the final holy place in Scotland he had to see. It must be sacrosanct. Martin and his new friend would not spoil it.

  ‘I forgot myself, sir,’ said Caldwell. ‘It’s no’ often there’s news, no’ often there’s a scandal here. And of course, with the nation at sixes and sevens wi’ this war...’

  ‘Times are unsettled.’

  ‘Indeed. And so ... well, forgive me, sir, but when I heard you speak, and I thought of England, well ...’

  ‘Quite.’ An awkward little pause drew out.

  ‘Well, you’ll lodge upstairs,’ said Caldwell. ‘The rooms are kept as well as I can manage wi’out my husband’s guidance.’ Her tone became business-like. ‘You shift for your own meals, pubic oven is down the town.’

  ‘These arrangements suit us,’ said Danforth, as Martin’s face fell.

  ‘And payment, sirs?’

  ‘We shall pay you in full when we take our leave, and with generous gratuity.’ Delight and disappointment fought for control of her face. Danforth enjoyed the battle.

  ‘Very good, sir. Your rooms are upstairs.’ She gestured to a rough, narrow wooden staircase on the right of the room. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll continue the fortification.’ Her chin jutted up at the last word. ‘No pissin’ in your rooms, by the way, or the halls.’

  When she had slouched back through the passage, Martin exhaled. ‘I don’t much like staying in such a scabby place, nor being starved by that stewed prune. There’s a face that I’d bet seldom sees a smile. I wonder how such unhappy people find the will to continue living. Must be overflowing with black bile, don’t you think? Swimming in it, I reckon.’ He looked at Danforth directly, amusement in his eyes. ‘Anyway, it ... well, doesn’t it reflect poorly on our master to stay in such a mean place?’ Danforth caught the upwards inflection of hope. He dashed it.

  ‘You are at liberty, Mr Martin, to take yourself to the Abbey and beg lodgings from the brothers.’ He didn’t care for the jibing. He liked to think of himself as a phlegmatic man, calm and reasonable: the temperament associated with cool, clear water.

  ‘Peace – I’ve no wish to cloister myself with those holy fellows either, even if you’d rather make submission to them on your knees. No, I’ll make do. Reckon I can have the old bat serving us, to be honest, though I’d doubt her fare. Old women love me. It’s lassies my own age who don’t.’ He gave a little laugh, half serious and half sad. Danforth gave him a half-smile in return. ‘Here, what do you think of this business of the girl and the monks, though?’

  ‘I do not think of it. Neither should you. But I might well raise it with the Prior when we visit. The Cardinal will want report of any breath of scandal, and he shall not have it from the Cluniacs.’

  ‘Shall we go now?’

  ‘No. This morning’s ride has tired me. I have something else in mind.’

  ‘Well, mon ami, you’re not the young man you once were. Past forty, are you not?’

  ‘I am not yet thirty.’

  ‘And yet so serious of mind.’

  ‘As a man of my years ought to be.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Do you want to go in search of a meal? Sure as fate we won’t find one at this lady’s table. She’s only a poor woman unable to do for herself, you know.’

  ‘No,’ said Danforth. ‘No, I had my fill on the road. I should like to take to my room and think. You go and scout the town if you wish.’

  ‘I’ll find a barber,’ said Martin, rubbing a hand over his jagged neck.

  ‘Ugh. Busy, listening fellows, barbers. Read your Plutarch.’

  ‘They know everyone’s business in any burgh, I’ll give you that. Couldn’t hurt to ask some questions. Then I’m going to eat. Well, Mr Danforth, enjoy your think.’

  Danforth’s unpacked his possessions: a rosary, cutlery, inkpots and paper, and his Book of Hours. The book had been a gift from Cardinal Wolsey to his father, and passed from his father to Alice, to be given to Danforth as a wedding gift. Its illuminated pages gleamed and sparkled in good light. Here they glowered.

  He wrote a letter to the Cardinal informing him of their whereabouts, straining his eyes in the half-light. His tucked his small, neat signature at the bottom, and smiled. It was unobtrusive, the perfect marker for a good servant. Then he turned to the Book of Hours. Inside, an inscription from Alice read, ‘plees excuse mine bad wrytting in thes my furst attempt in my hande. Rember your love in yr gud prayers’. Underneath he had written, ‘I thank you humbly and pray continue, for letters are lasting’. He ran a finger over the words, and then flipped through the pages, stopping when he found what he wanted. A tiny coloured drawing of a bearded man surrounded by a golden halo frowned at him. ‘Saint Odon de Cluny’. Venerated by the Cluniac monks of Paisley. Patron Saint of rain. Feast Day, November 18th. Taking his pen, Danforth wrote in minuscule script, ‘With the forgiveness of God I did miss this blessed Saint’s Day, on this day of November 1542’. He was a day late to Paisley, but he would see the Cluniac Abbey soon enough.

  That done, he dozed a little in his chamber – a bare room with a rough, horsehair mattress on the floor and a sagging desk – until he was woken by Martin’s light tread along the passage outside. The steps paused outside his door, and then came a soft rap.

  ‘Come.’

  ‘You thought, sir?’ asked Martin. He had had his shave, and his black stubble had been arranged into the whisper of a fashionable beard, more neck than face. It was the style the king wore. Seeing Danforth appraising it, he passed the back of his hand across his chin. ‘Did the barber do a job of work? I never know whether to trust a strange one. It’s a risk.’

  ‘Indeed he did. I shall have to pay this fellow a visit myself. You appear much more a Cardinal’s gentleman. What news from our nimble-fingered friend?’

  ‘Of the war, not a scrap. I also cast about for bruits of the Cardinal. In Paisley his name and credit are clean as a whistle. They know, of course, about the troubles in Glasgow, but only of those bills we’ve already taken. The common voice holds it’s the work of the university men, at some jape or other. Always som
eone else’s fault.’

  ‘A jape to abuse a Cardinal. Yet it is fine news that they do not listen.’

  ‘Aye. But sir, what a people are these! They’re so damn full of pride. One would scarce think any other burgh had been chartered, nor any place in Christendom quite so blessed. “Oor burgh” this, and “oor burgh” that.’

  ‘And you know what they say about the sin of pride.’

  ‘I fished also for some news of the monks and the girl.’ Martin ignored Danforth’s tut. ‘The young wench was of no great reputation, but no one blames her for running off, if she has. She has made her escape with her father’s savings, right away she got, on his horse too. The old lout’s turned to drink, and no longer respects his service to the Abbot. His behaviour has been strange. Leastways that’s what the barber said, anyway.’

  ‘The Abbot. He has been in France some years now.’ Danforth knew that Abbot John, of the noble Hamilton family, left his lands and Abbey in the care of a Prior. ‘It will be their Claustral Prior who must keep the Abbey’s tenants in order.’

  ‘Aye, the Abbot ... His Grace dined with him in France. I had no news of the Prior. No one seemed much interested in him.’

  ‘Well, we shall see him tomorrow, perhaps he shall be obliging.’

  ‘He’s no need to speak with us.’

  ‘I know that, sir. But I believe in community in our Church, not division. Remember the folk of Jerusalem, fighting amongst themselves as Vespasian pressed their walls. Have you any other news?’

  ‘None.’ Martin looked down at the palm of his glove. It was stained brown. The scent had faded. He touched it to the wall of Danforth’s room, and it came away black. ‘Jesus, what a place. Ever look at something and think, “what am I doing with my life”?’

  ‘When I find myself on business with you? Yes, Mr Martin. Frequently. If you have no more news, then you might retire to your own room.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Martin turned to go.

  ‘Wait, Mr Martin.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you eat?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. I hope you sleep well.’

  Martin closed the door behind him and Danforth settled down in darkness. He left the pages of his Book of Hours open:

  Oh Lord my God, I love Thee above all things and love my neighbor because of Thee, because Thou art the greatest, infinite, and most-perfect Good, worthy of all my love. In this charity, I resolve to live and to die. Amen.

  He could feel his rosary by touch. His routine of counting seven prayers – his lucky number – would not be interrupted. Tomorrow he would see that last holy place of Scotland. Perhaps he would discover some little abuses or slackness, gently rebuke the Prior – who would nevertheless be thankful for the correction. Then he might bring about God’s forgiveness for his great trespass. He did not dream that night.

  4

  Danforth awoke famished. It occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten since the previous morning, during the ride west. He really would have to take meals more regularly. He scrabbled for his boots. At his touch, one fell on its side, and something raced from it. Danforth let out a little shriek as a small, grey blotch flew across the floor. It was a mouse. He cursed, embarrassed at making a spectacle of himself, even though there was no one to see. He nudged his head out the door and into the gloomy hallway, and spotted what he was looking for: a narrow garderobe with a high window at the end of the hall, past Martin’s room. Inside was a washbowl of clear, cold water. His face wobbled in its still, stagnant depths. He attended to his toilet and used his own handkerchief to polish his teeth before returning to his room to dress. Martin’s light knock interrupted him.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Danforth.’

  ‘Martin,’ he said. His gaze fell to the man’s bare hands. ‘No perfumed gloves today? No aping your betters?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Martin, looking down. ‘Oh. No. You know, I had them in my hand, breathed deep of this rank Paisley air, and thought, who’s this for? Who am I looking like a gentleman for?’

  ‘I see. I intend to hear Mass before we impose upon the Prior.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Very well. Only ... where is our nearest chapel? I did not think to ask Mistress Caldwell yesterday.’

  ‘A surprising omission,’ smiled Martin. ‘Fear not – I asked my barber. The main parish altar is apparently across from the Tolbooth. We both missed it yesterday, so intent were we on finding a meal.’

  ‘So intent were you on finding a meal,’ said Danforth, his stomach warbling at the suggestion. My mind was fixed upon ...’ He remembered the hairy little knock-keeper attending to the clock-face. ‘Upon finding this lodging. Come, let us go, and then we might find somewhere to feed. Although it is Sunday – the people of the town will not be selling.’

  The little chapel stood across from the Tolbooth, on the south side of the high street. It was not surprising they had missed it. It was a small building of grey stone, lacking the beauty of greater religious houses. It was a strange trade-off, the great religious house on one side of the river and the upstart town cresting the hill on the other.

  ‘You needn’t have worried about the town folk refusing work, sir. Look how they prepare already for a fruitful day.’

  Martin was right. Despite the early hour – the sky was still an impassive slate – people were moving to and fro, conducting business and shouting to one another across the street. In the porch of the chapel a crowd of young men escaping the cold were throwing dice. ‘Gies a song, hen’ one shouted as a woman passed by them.

  Danforth shouldered his way through, his face turning a blazing red as he smelled strong liquor. The louder folk seemed to be recovering from revelry. Martin followed. Inside the church the wizened chaplain was muttering ‘Pater Noster’, whilst his congregation chatted in huddles. He nodded at Mistress Caldwell, who stood bent, her beads wrapped around thick fingers, her eyes on a statue of the Virgin. They took Communion, Danforth finding that it did little for his physical or his spiritual hunger, and then allowed the chaplain to draw the Dismissal to a weak close. When they left, still more people were playing and carousing in the porch.

  ‘An outrage!’ shouted Danforth when they were outside. ‘In this holy place, these holy lands, to behave so ... so ...’

  ‘It’s the same up and down the kingdom,’ said Martin. Whether his words were meant as a consolation was unclear. ‘It’s what leads to disaffection. Although I’ve not seen so merry a bunch as these.’

  ‘The Church must take a stronger hand, a much stronger hand in these matters. It has been altogether too timid against these abuses and against the heretics. A little burning,’ said Danforth, removing his hat and running a hand through sandy hair, ‘is what is needed to remind the people of what lies before them in the next life if they persist in abusing God’s word. Otherwise the Church is as Epicurus, the people fallen in hedonism. I will not have the Church of Rome follow the Empire of the same, falling into bacchanalian excess.’ Her heart was racing. He knew he was bordering on a tantrum, and didn’t care. ‘They do not behave so saucily in Edinburgh, nor St Andrews – else the courts ecclesiastical would have them. There we have good, faith, uniformity of –’

  ‘Quiet, sir. We have a guest.’

  Danforth turned and looked into the faded blue eyes of a tiny old woman, dressed entirely in blue. She smiled. Danforth thought of grandmothers, and gave her a bow. ‘Mistress, might we help you?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Strangers in the burgh,’ she said in a papery voice that slobbered slightly on the letter s. ‘I couldn’t help but hear you, talking in the street like that. You’re officers of the king?’

  ‘No, mistress ...?’

  ‘Mistress Clacher, sir.’ She held out a hand, bone-white and corded with blue veins. Danforth took it. The grip was strong, the little nails sharp. ‘You’re then perhaps men of the Church?’

  ‘In a fashion,’ said Danforth. He shivered, wiping his hands on his cloak. There was some
thing unpleasant in the woman’s eyes. Then, he thought, he was being unfair. He was only annoyed at being thwarted mid-rant. ‘We are the Cardinal’s men. But,’ he added before she could speak, ‘we are in the burgh on simple pilgrimage.’

  ‘That’s good. It’s good to know that the young still make the pilgrimage, and that you condemn all this.’ She gestured towards the chapel. ‘So many young folk these days devote themselves to pleasure and vice, ever since money raised up the town. Every night you can hear them at it, in every wynd, laughing and singing, and the drinking! Gives the place a rotten name. Gives the country a rotten name. You’re so right, young man, all the whores and whoremasters ought to die; the streets need cleansed of sin as the rain washes away our waste.’ Martin took a step back, his eyes wide and his bottom lip jutting. ‘I’m forever telling my husband to do something. And so you have nothing to do with the Brody girl, that sad little bitch? Oh, but the life she led. Nor yet the war?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Led? he thought.

  ‘Oh.’ Her eyes dimmed, and then brightened again. ‘Has the queen taken to childbed yet, is it known?’

  ‘Those are women’s matters,’ said Danforth. ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘Och, she’ll have a new prince soon enough. And where are you lodging, sirs?’

  ‘At the inn of Mr Kennedy.’

  ‘Is that so? Well then, we’re neighbours, so we are. She’s on the Oakshawside, I’m in Prior’s Croft, over the road. Euphemia Caldwell’s place, eh? She’s an odd duck.’ As she spoke, Mistress Clacher jerked a knotty thumb up the High Street, where Mistress Caldwell’s grey back and slumped shoulders were ascending the hill towards. An unaccountable little chill of sadness ran through Danforth at the sight. Caldwell was an outcast. ‘Still, watch what she charges you. She’s not as green as she’s cabbage-looking. Is her house still falling into sluttery? On the inside?’