CHAPTER 14

THE CONSPIRACY

 

 

 

Facile largire de alieno

 

It is easy to be generous with things of another person

 

 

 

“You have fixed it!” Pacificus, drop-jawed, stands hands on hips by his coracle. He has sent the novice Mark away from Saint Helen’s with a flea in his ear. Indeed he has found it hard to speak one civil word to him since the bishop left four weeks ago. His only comfort is that the lad seems to hate, or least feel chastised by, being the assistant of a man who paints pictures. No riding, no sport, he’s bored. Nothing but Latin primers now with the novice master, prayers and – of course – leaking coracles. But here he is now, the strippling he cursed out of building but two hours hence, and seemingly without tools he has mended his coracle. For a moment Pacificus looks from it to him in astonishment. Who have I been hating these past months – a real human being, a lad no older than that Richard Fenton, or a figment of my imagination? He is brought to by Brother Mark’s offhand explanation about the top-weave needing replacing before next winter. “Yes, yes,” Pacificus says, coming to, “but it is mended for now at least.”

Mark shrugs. “Easy enough. I needed something to do.” The shock of it knocks Pacificus into his more affable self for the next hour. He’d borrowed the tools from old George Wheeler at the Ranworth staithe, says he always liked George, always went there to learn about fixing things when he was boy. And he’s no fool or poor judge of character is that Master Wheelwright, Pacificus thinks.

They row up the dyke to the Bure, no splashes from the oars. Mark can row or scull like a true native. He talks about his family, his older brothers, how he’d hated being sent to Saint Benet’s at first. How he would have done anything else. He says he could improve the oars another time, remake them even. Indeed everywhere he looks he sees and mentions things he either did or would like to do. So much so that Pacificus gets the impression the lad must needs use his mind and hands for something constantly, or else – well, you know what they say about idle hands. That’s why he favoured the prior’s life and perhaps why the prior favoured him; he proved an eager accomplice, if nothing else. And now he is sent to spy on me by Bishop Rugge. Pacificus asks him as much that same day in the boat but the lad does not break his stroke.

“Oh! Is that what you think?” He grins so that the freckles stretch on his cheeks. “No, though I suppose I’d have to tell him if he asked; maybe that’s what he meant by it.”

“And Prior Robert?”

“Oh, he’s finished with me all right, now Brother Martyn has stepped up and him having a duke for a second cousin.”

“No, not that. I meant did he ever get you to spy on me?”

“Oh yes, a few times. Said you had a big secret only the abbot knew. He didn’t trust you. Frightened of you, he was, I think.”

“Was he, now!”

Again the big grin; it was all just a game to him. “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell him everything, you know.”

“What, prithee?”

“Ooh… about your trips up Saint Margaret’s marsh with that leper.”

Pacificus is stunned. Unthinking, he grabs Mark by his throat. “And what did you see there? Tell me!” The boat lists towards the reeds at a dangerous angle.

“I – I meant nothing by it! Like I say, I didn’t tell anyone,” he splutters.

“What did you see?”

“I saw that leper reading with the maid; that’s all. I swear it on Saint Margaret’s bones.”

He loosens his grip. “And why not tell Prior Robert?”

“Well… er… well, because she was – ”

“I see. She was very fair; and what of your vows?” He releases Mark, now gulping hard.

“No, it’s not like that – well, not really. It’s… you see… I know who she is. I grew up with Beth and her brothers about the place, and I didn’t want them arrested on account of what their parents did, or because I betrayed them.”

“I see, I see. Very noble, that is.” Pacificus gives a penitent cough. “I’m sorry I misjudged – that is to say, well… I hope your throat is not hurt.”

“No, it’s all right; only I thought for a moment you were going to do me in and toss me into the river.” He shudders. “I think I need the jakes.”

“Don’t use that sort of language.”

“The prior does.”

“We don’t though, all right?”

“All right! Magister dix.”

“He does say so, and it’s ‘dixit’ – magister dixit.”²³ Fool!

 

Pacificus has almost forgotten the mystery visitor promised by the bishop. Then one day soon after Corpus Christi – it coming late that year on account of the lunar cycle – a lithe nobleman in his mid-thirties gallops down the lane from Norwich, attended only by his gentlemen and two servants, not in livery. He holds a goodly countenance full of intent – forehead high, hair in half retreat but by no means surrendered to baldness, beard thin with hints of ginger among the brown, and markedly long ears and nose, though not unbecoming. Not that Sir Thomas Percy, brother to the sixth Earl of Northumberland, needs fine looks, being heir to the largest seat of the most noble title in the northern realm. And now his elder brother Henry is ill – very ill and, moreover, very childless. He came down for the annual Chapter of the Garter Knights, but is now coughing into his sheets at the Percy house in Stoke Newington. But on this breathless summer day Sir Thomas rides as if he has no care in the world, yet his gentlemen note that he never takes his eyes from the road, not even to admire the maidens harvesting marsh hay for winter fodder, and thatching corn stacks, on every side.

Minutes away at Saint Helen’s, Pacificus is in no cheerful humour this day; nay, not one wit. So used to mixing his pigment in an egg-based tempera, he is finding the vegetable oil based variety – better for that durable and translucent colour blend – is too thin, and is running hither and thither on Saint Helen’s gown. Above his own grumblings he barely even notices the door open and the verger and clerk being escorted outside. Only when all is quiet and the clink, clink of spurs and riding boots echoes louder down the nave, does he turn to see the visitor. Taller than him, as most are, but broad of shoulder too and slender of waist. The gold silk edging on his doublet, the bejewelled sword and dagger, speak of wealth – rank even. The boots are worn down on the insides; he’s been about of late, been busy. And those brown eyes, that swift step; this fellow has urgent business, and a world on his mind.

He does not introduce himself at first, just stands looking at the Tudor roses decorating the reredos, little ornaments Pacificus paints on bad days when his mood is out, or perhaps when he has slept ill and cannot tackle a larger section.

Pacificus, brush in hand, follows his visitor’s eye.

“These are – ” Sir Thomas draws a word carefully down from the air “ – very patriotic.”

“Our abbot is a loyal man, as everyone knows.”

“Yes. I know it.” Then he gestures with his crop towards Thomas à Becket. “Though I fancy you will be called on to paint over the Becket before long; replace him with Saint Thomas Cromwell, mayhap. Many of yesterday’s saints are today’s traitors.”

The two men stand for a moment beholding the martyr, until Percy places both hands on his hips, saying, “The question is, which are we, and which shall we be remembered as, Sir Hugh Erpingham?”

“Ah.” Pacificus raises his head and looks at him, man to man, as his father always taught him. “I see you have the advantage of me, Sir…?”

“Thomas Percy. I have sought you out at Bishop Rugge’s request.” Sir Thomas takes the priest’s chair, sitting cross-legged and casually removing his gloves. “He thinks you may be useful to the cause.”

“You come at your brother the earl’s request?” Let’s test the waters.

“My brother?” He uncrosses his legs before they are barely crossed, leaning forward and glaring hotly. “My brother has no stomach for anything but his psychics and his bedchamber. But I tell you something else – there is not a noble, abbot, yeoman or peasant in the north that shares his apathy.”

Pacificus keeps his eyes upon the rood screen. “You have pledges from the great houses, the nobles – men who keep troth?”

“We have, and will have more.”

“But enough, you say, to stand against Norfolk, Suffolk and Shrewsbury? They will bring five or six thousand apiece, and Cromwell will not hesitate to bring mercenaries over if the outcome tarries.”

“I think you mistake the strength of feeling north of your own shire; these men are boiling with fury, the common people too – ”

“But they will melt like wax before a real army, a real cavalry, real artillery; aye, like wax, taking their hoes and rakes with them.”

“Which is why we need to train men now.” Thomas gets to his feet again and approaches Pacificus from behind. “That is why you must come north with me now. Think on it: there’s not a man from Lincolnshire on who would not put a thousand to flight if they knew you led the field. Look at yourself, man! You’re a soldier through and through. I saw the way you weighed me before, judged how you could take me down if you needed to.”

This is true. It is a tendency Pacificus has fought hard to extirpate, with little success. Sir Thomas draws closer still. “You are near legend to them, man.”

Ah, but so was Pompey Magnus, and more deserving too. And what happened when he stamped his feet – did all Italy rally to vanquish Caesar? Most men are as fickle as the wind. They weigh their lives like grain, assessing how much oppression they can stand while still remaining comfortable, then they choose accordingly. And what if it is misunderstood that Hospitallers have sprung up in England? What sort of diplomatic problems would that cause? Besides, the order is sworn never to fight against other Christians. “And your intentions?” Pacificus still faces Becket – what a man to look to.

“We are not talking of treason, if that’s what you think. No, our terms would be that the king has been badly advised and should lay off the pillage of our great houses and traditional religion.”

“I see.” Pacificus glances slightly to one side. “And suppose he does not agree? Will you call on the emperor, drive Norfolk into the sea, send Cromwell back to Cheapside? Replace the king, will you? And with whom?”

Pacificus knows that Sir Thomas’s elder brother, the earl, has made the king his heir; all England knows it. This might colour things somewhat for Sir Thomas.

“It will not come to that, and no, we want nothing for ourselves, only the preservation of traditional piety – a man’s life here is short.”

Pacificus wanders away towards the painting of Saint Helen. He has painted her so proud of her son Constantine, but now wonders whether later generations might think the pious smile ambiguous. Perhaps they will think her embarrassed? He wipes his hands on the rags and points to her. “When she brought forth a man-child, this woman put a sword of steel in the hands of the bride of Christ.” That Christopher Burgh is inside his head confounds him. “Tell me, Sir Thomas, do you think Christ is pleased that we make his bride so bloody?”

“You ask this? I mean, you of all people.”

“Yes, me of all people, more bloodied than David!” He gestures towards his painting of Paul on the rood screen. “You will notice that in ancient times we only painted swords in the hands of the church’s persecutors.”

Sir Thomas walks round in front of him. “God’s son, Hugh! We fight for the very liberty of England!”

“But we don’t, do we? As you have said, we fight first for the old religion.”

“The two are one in my mind, and our cause is just. Now enough of this – are you with us or not?”

Pacificus looks up at the crucifix high in the rood loft and heaves a great sigh. “Yes. I am.” But is Christ – looking down from his cross as we fret and strut, fast in this mortal coil? Ants we are, with too much to carry and too much to lay down. “For the sake of my old order I will go – anonymously, mind – just to advise on strategy and training.”

Thomas agrees reluctantly, and Pacificus also makes him pledge to keep his name from the others for now. They silently each man the other’s arm under the rood, as if to seal a covenant, or else bind God to their cause. Pacificus is numb; this feels like sinking into death, yet somehow inevitable, like when his father made him wear a coat of mail and his mother disapproved because he was still so very young.

As they walk together down the aisle, Pacificus says, “I am sorry to hear of your brother’s illness. We knew each other.”

“Yes, I know. I thank you.”

“If perchance you are alone and there is no one to hear, you might say that I am yet alive and that I pray for him. He was a fine soldier; do not be hard on him. I say that as much for you as for him; it is not good to have regrets. He may not be long for this world.”

Sir Thomas nods penitently, and Pacificus continues, “I hear that he took it hard at Queen Anne’s trial.”

“He collapsed after the verdict. Doesn’t go down well when a peer of the realm has no stomach for the king’s justice when he’s on the judges’ bench.” He releases a tense sigh, remembering the monk’s advice to go easy on his brother, then adding, “You knew they had been close once, I suppose?”

Pacificus nods. Of course he knew. All England knew.

 

The Feast of the Transfiguration, 6 August – High Mass and all in attendance including a collection of local worthies, the sheriff included, whose wife is wearing peacock feathers in her hat – most unsuitable. Someone ought to say something. They have news that Erasmus of Rotterdam died three weeks ago, and Pacificus, who has just had a trying six weeks at Saint Helen’s, is drained with a leaden weariness in his soul when the news comes. He feels that the scholar’s mantra, reform from within, has been the only sane voice in the wilderness of these last twenty years. He will be missed, though not in the English court.

After Mass, Pacificus wanders away from the abbey to think on these things, and somehow weigh the sense of them against the madness of Christopher Burgh and his Anabaptist schismatics – how could anyone make the church stronger by dividing it?

He passes through the inner precinct gate, heading down to the fish ponds cut like an acre-sized maze of shallow dykes. Something about them has fascinated him since childhood; something about mysteries below the surface, other worlds we can only observe from above. The carp coast the pond like an amphibious armada, leaving smooth streaks in their wake.

He looks up to see men busy at work beyond the abbey walls, for he is still on elevated ground. It is the month for clearing the dykes of mud and weed, ready for transporting marsh hay to the river staithes. Towards the marsh he can see others, women and children among them, cutting rye grass they will use for finishing thatched roofs.

He wonders how the children are. He has not been to see them for three weeks and thinks he must do so soon, for he expects any day the promised visit of Thomas Moyne, a lawyer who will escort him to Lincolnshire to see what may be done for the rebellion.

As he turns all this over in his mind, he detects strained whispers coming from behind the wall to his right. The vegetable garden and herbarium are not large affairs, this spit of land at the forking of the rivers not permitting it. Most of the produce is brought in these days, by the abbey tenants and from the abbey farm at Ludham, and certainly he thinks on this feast day there should be no one working there. He draws closer. One man keeps cutting another off when his companion tries to speak, though he cannot make out any words as yet. Pacificus steps lightly on the grass at the edge of the path, now making out not two but three whisperers or more. He is now six feet from the wall, with the closed door not more than twenty feet to his left. The garden is rectangular, two hundred feet in width on the side where Pacificus stands, and half a furlong in length. There are gates at each end, with the orchards and then poorly drained pasture beyond. The whisperers hiss louder yet.

“It’s right enough,” one says. “Bede knew the consequences. We had common cause; he was avowed, was he not?”

Another chips in with the pious observation: “God will judge aright.”

Then still another warning, “Shhh! Someone is coming.”

The hinges on the oak door grind open on the further side of the herbarium. Pacificus has almost reached the small door by now, but thinks it prudent to move away again to a more neutral distance and await developments. He sits himself down under the shade of a cherry tree and takes his rosary to his hands, half-closing his eyes, waiting to discover who might come forth.

He is not long waiting either, no sooner settled than the latch in the far wall lifts and into the herb beds come Prior Wulfric and his four remaining obedientiries from Binham Abbey – Aelfric, Benedict, Sigismund and Anthony. Their faces show nothing worthy of note but Pacificus does see Wulfric hang back for one last glance through the doorway before closing it firmly. The others meanwhile pass by, led by the lean and intentional faces of Benedict and Sigismund, who walk in front of the others, speaking one to another casually about the feast day and the weather.

“Brother Pacificus, what brings you here?” Benedict says with a nervous smile. They have had cause to talk before this, though not in any depth, when Pacificus had visited another brother at the infirmary and seen Benedict and Sigismund in the next beds.

“I am gathering my thoughts, such as they are. I see you have both recovered your full strength.”

“Indeed we have,” Benedict replies. “Your Brother John in the infirmary is a credit to the abbey – marvellously gifted.”

“Marvellously busy,” Pacificus says, “but yes, a gifted man. He was an apothecary once, you know. Between them, he and the herbalist Gerard can fix anybody.”

While they exchange these insignificant pleasantries, Pacificus cannot help but notice Brothers Aelfric and Anthony lingering at a distance, with a deference that puzzles him. Then as Prior Wulfric approaches, Brother Benedict murmurs a polite farewell, heading off with his companions towards the precinct. Now it is Wulfric and Pacificus alone.

“Pax vobiscum, brother.” The prior parts his hands in greeting and forces a momentary smile, all the time observing the doorway from the corner of his eye. “May I join you? It is a fine day for the feast, is it not?”

“Indeed it is. And how goes it with you, Wulfric? You and the brothers are settling in here, I hope?”

“Yes, yes,” Wulfric says, sitting on the grass, slightly apart from him. “At least well enough for men who have renounced the world.” He sighs like a man who has been holding his breath in pain. “And you, brother? Have you been here long?”

“Long enough.” He pauses. Ah! Now I have your attention. “That is – long enough to see how the carp are faring; we have a goodly stock this year, despite the long freeze.”

“The carp? Ah, yes – no doubt we will be dining on some tonight, celebrating Our Lord’s feast with all the guests here today.”

The fish squabble and push, rolling over themselves in clumps like boiling oil.

“Yes, and swan too. For myself,” Pacificus continues conversationally, “I always found something unnatural in carp, that they harass a weakling in the way they do, picking the flesh off his back ’till he dies.”

Until this point Wulfric has been smoothing the coarse wool of his habit round about his lower legs. But now he stops momentarily and his eyes narrow to weigh the comment for just a split second before relaxing and continuing to smooth the fabric. “Aye, like these barons and bishops who conspire with the king to despoil the church.” Wulfric looks from the door to the now upturned palms of his hands. “None of us is safe; certainly not you, not me. They have had a taste for flesh, and now the frenzy will begin in earnest.”

“You seem very certain of it, prior?”

“It is written that Antichristus will war against and lay waste the church, is it not?”

“Really?” Sitting next to you as you rock back and forth like that, it is not the Antichrist I’m concerned about. “The writings of Saint John can surely be taken in various ways. And besides, Wulfric – ” here Pacificus places a restraining hand on the man’s arm, who in turns gives a little jump “ – you ought to beware to whom you say such things regarding the king.”

Wulfric’s face tightens. “I will speak what is true, unlike our brave abbot, bishop and whatever else he has secured for himself.”

“Surely you judge too harshly. Besides, when Cromwell’s Office of Augmentations sends men to make us swear to the king – as assuredly they will – will you be braver, or have better reason than our abbot? Remember those six Carthusians last year at Tyburn? Men must spill their guts if they would stand by their consciences these days.”

“Well, I will swear nothing. I will take refuge somewhere. Does it not also say in Revelation that a place of safety will be given the elect of God?”

“Something like that. I cannot recall exactly.”

“Well, either way, we should be like our founder Benedict, judging the times and making preparations, as wise as serpents just as our Lord commanded.”

“Benedict was not seditious, if I remember.”

“Benedict saw all the world in decline. He saw the barbarians on the frontier – nay, the barbarians in civil office – and he withdrew to preserve moral civility and Christian piety. What he did not do was wait lamely on the promises of impious princes and godless clerics. No – he acted, brother. He struck out and made his model society.”

To these points he gives emphasis by stabbing the air with his finger. “And it was men like he, Ninian, Patrick and Martin of Tours, whom posterity will remember if anything be remembered at all – certainly not Esau and Judas, or abbots who sell their faith for a bishopric, a pension, or any other mess of pottage.”

Wulfric wipes the saliva from his lips and tries to control the involuntary twitch in his left eye by blinking. Pacificus observes it, and admires this much in the man. After all, he has been through a parcel of trouble in the last six months, and what is there not to admire in views honestly held, ideals yearned for?

Wulfric apologises for speaking with ill-considered haste, and he gets up to leave. Pacificus says again that it is all right but again cautions the man that he ought not speak such things too openly. He watches Wulfric wander back to the precinct, mulling over their conversation. He had taken the man for a melancholic; how wrong can you be? Clear waters may look shallow, but are sometimes deeper than those splashing in turbulence. Perhaps a man of such passion ought to join the Anabaptists, for surely they are all choleric utopians like him, even if in theology on the flip side of the coin.

But what can Wulfric hope to accomplish here now? There is no room in England for new monastic orders; above all not men that acknowledge a Pope and might court the interests of the emperor. No, if salvation is to come to England it will have to come, however regrettably, by force of arms, by civil war. The rights and wrongs of taking such a course seem beyond evaluating, no matter which way he argues and chews it out. Nor can he fathom what conspiracy these brothers from Binham are into either, whispering in there among the beet and the berries. What was Bede avowed to? Do they think his death was punishment from God? Are they in it together? No, for there was only one set of extra footprints in the sand, prints that came from nowhere and went nowhere. Pacificus shakes his head; too much to take in, to assimilate. He will need time to digest this.

 

The day following is the feast of the Holy Name of Jesus, and while Pacificus is going in for High Mass, there appears Mark, flushed of face and out of breath. “There – you are! You must come quick! Prior Thomas would speak with you.”

Prior Thomas is out of sorts – these feasts always keep him from his hunting. He sits in the abbot’s lodge behind the table staring at a small letter, while another gentleman with a lawyer’s black robe and cap sits at a chair in the window, perched like a crow. Pacificus is about to dismiss Brother Mark, but the prior says he should stay. And so there they are, the four of them, while outside the swallows are dipping on the Bure and the abbey bell is ringing for Mass.

“Well, Pacificus, let us be brief, for I must away to Mass.” He holds the letter up. “Our lord bishop and abbot commands that you and Mark go with this man of the law – this Thomas Moyne – to the north, and that I must destroy this writ as soon as I am satisfied it is his hand.” The prior’s tone is ironic and amused as he finishes surveying the note and looks up to Pacificus. “I suppose you know something about this?”

He gives a nod.

“I see. Well, I’m sure I can make nothing of it, which is probably best.” He sniffs and gets to his feet. “Go then, and God be with you. See the cellarer for what you need. You may take a mule each – no!” He pauses on his way through the door. “No – better take my charger Percival. And you, Mark, that game little courser Arundel, that we broke this spring. Yes, a charger and a rouncey might be just what you will need if the game in Lincoln is as rough as I’ve heard – who knows but you may even get some hunting in.” Ah, so he’s guessed then.

“Thank you, prior; that is very – ”

“Foolish, no doubt. Just make sure you bring them back if you can – and yourselves, too.” He bows to the visitor but does not glance back again as he leaves. Moyne, who has up until this time not said a word, approaches over the oak boards at speed, extending a slender hand with a markedly strong grip. Another keen lawyer – no doubt he fancies himself Chancellor or Master Secretary if the rebellion is successful. “Well, well! My clients in the north are most desirous to make your acquaintance.”

“Brother Pacificus? Why him?” Mark says.

“Oh,” Moyne says. “Oh, I see. The lad is not privy as yet. Well, there is time on the journey no doubt, eh Sir Hugh, eh!”

Pacificus is silent a moment, his eye on the commission that the prior has – whether on purpose or not – left lying on the table in neglect of its instructions. “Tell me, Thomas – ” He leans over the desk and retrieves the letter; it might come in useful one day, semper letteris mandate²⁴. “How many men know that you have come here, to this monastery, to seek me out?”

“He called you ‘Sir Hugh’ – ”

“Silence, Mark!” Pacificus’s voice rises like a tempest. “How many, sir?”

“Well, I… er… that is to say – just me. Only this day has passed since I visited the bishop.”

“Well hear me, man of the law: if you ever breathe one word of where you found me, by God’s own blood I’ll see to it that you and your family pay for it.” Even Mark’s face drains at the tone of the words.

After Moyne has absorbed this, he gives his pledge. “Yes. Yes, I see there must be no links back here.”

“Not so much as a whisper, and upon your silence rest the lives of all at Saint Benet’s.”

“Yes. Yes.” Moyne has beads of sweat now on his pale forehead and the sides of his hooked nose. “I quite see. If the king hears – ”

“My man, do not even breathe what is planned until you are among your own people! And – ” at this point Pacificus lays a finger twice upon the man’s heart “ – you remember what I said. Not one word – not even if they rack you or put you under the board, for it is nothing compared to what I will do to you and your people.”

“Aye, my lord –”

“‘Brother’! Just ‘brother’. I go as I told Sir Thomas, as a monk to advise, nothing more. Mark and I will attend Mass, you will return to your shire and we will follow on tonight. Take not the king’s highway, for it is sure to be watched. Where shall we meet?”

“Oh, my house at Willingham, on the ferry road to the east of Lincoln.”

“Expect us within the week.” And keep your mouth shut, lawyer.

 

And so they left that very afternoon, and all the while Pacificus keeps his eye on Mark, watching that he speaks to no one before they leave. He will not visit Simon on their way north either, for they have long discussed this and have disagreed. And if he had been of two minds about aiding a rebellion before, he fears his harsh dispute over the matter with Simon – who daily seems to manifest a most wilful Lollardy – may serve to solidify a militant position to which he had been far less inclined in the first place.

Simon sees him that afternoon, knowing well enough what it means when his brother rides out on the Wroxham road past Saint James’ Hospital, fully provisioned. They wave from a distance one to another, each silently praying this will not be the manner of their last meeting on earth.