The Bastard of Glastonbury

Prologue

The old man stepped from the prison that had once been his manor. The dour soldiers that accompanied him refused to bind his hands, though he had tried desperately to convince them to do so. He wanted the crowd gathered at the gates to know that he was being treated like a common criminal. As a member of the House of Lords, his trial should have been handled differently – more suitable for one of his station. But these were different times.

It was a cold November’s day in western England. The streets were still wet from the rain that had fallen overnight. The wind suggested a new storm was blowing in from the Irish Sea, but dark, heavy clouds had yet to materialize. The crowd of people assembled for the spectacle dressed warmly in anticipation of an early winter storm. They had waited for this day for years, and the weather was not going to prevent them from witnessing this event.

Stumbling out of the building behind him were two younger men with their hands tied in front of them. They struggled to release the bindings, but the firm grip of the king’s men made it impossible for them to flee. These two criminals had been found guilty of hiding gold and valuables from the king’s commissioners. As a result of their alleged offenses, unlike the old man, they were to be treated like criminals.

The soldiers guided all three men toward the front gate.

The crowd silently watched as the prisoners were brought through the massive stone entry. These three men were the last of their kind to walk out those gates, but the people failed to understand the deeper implications. These men had been their employers, judges, task masters, confessors, confidants, and clergy. But that was in the past. There was a new philosophy that had taken the country, and there was not room for competition. Like so many others, these three men had to die.

Next to the main stone gate were three wooden hurdles, brought there for the executions. The hurdles were about six feet tall and four feet wide, just big enough to tie each man’s hands and feet to a corner. The old man was fastened to the middle hurdle first. He did not resist the rough handling that he received from the soldiers. Occasionally, he would offer a prayer and solicit forgiveness for any sin he may have committed. After five minutes he was securely fastened to the rings attached to the wooden planks. The men assigned to the task stepped back and admired their handiwork before moving to the two other men. After all three were tied securely to the wooden frames, the soldiers left them to hang in humiliation.

An hour later, the order came. The king’s men brought in a large war horse to haul the hurdles through town. The witnesses gasped at the size of the draft horse – it was a massive yet mild-tempered beast – used to pulling large loads despite war raging around it. The old man’s structure was tethered to the harness on the enormous horse, and the steed lurched forward when its reigns were snapped by the handler. The gibbet moaned as it pulled loose from the frame that had been hastily constructed that morning. Soldiers stood on either side to make sure the platform did not overturn, causing the condemned man to be dragged with his face on the stones of the wet street. They wanted the old man to be seen in disgrace as he was hauled past his former realm. The majestic church and its numerous buildings – once filled with inhabitants – were now empty. The glorious music that emanated from the community at all hours was now replaced with the scraping of the wooden platform on the cobbled stones. The dark windows, which had been ablaze with light for four hundred years, scrutinized the wretched scene as it played out on the streets below.

The horse dragged the wooden structure up the High Street, past the closed shops and public houses as it made its way southward out of the town and its deserted monastery. The old man groaned occasionally when the hurdle hit particularly hard; otherwise, he made no protest to his condition or his fate. His companions had been left at the gate. The old man’s entire life had been spent with a community, but it seemed he was to die alone.

At the end of High Street, the war horse turned left and, within minutes, the procession was on the outskirts of town. The stone-paved streets turned to a muddy cart path, and the horse forcefully dug its hooves into the soft ground. Several times the hurdle got stuck, and the two soldiers trailing behind were forced to bend down and help free it. After struggling for ten minutes, the horse stopped at the western side of a small creek. The lead soldier waited until some of the crowd caught up before he tugged on the reigns and led the horse to the other side.

Across the creek lay the Tor – a steep portentous mound rising from a wide grassy pasture. Perched on the top was a small chapel, which had been built on the remains of an earlier church dedicated to St. Michael. For many years, the church had served as the object of numerous pilgrimages, but St. Michael’s had been destroyed by an earthquake and eventually replaced by the much smaller chapel. Despite the size of the church that lay at the top, the Tor commanded the skyline of the entire county, and the authorities demanded the old man meet his fate there. Overnight, a primitive gallows structure had been constructed across the front of the chapel and three ropes dangled ten feet above the ground.

The old man was unfastened from the hurdle. Surrounded by soldiers, he staggered up the hill to the chapel. At the top, the condemned and his escort climbed the makeshift ladder to a platform. With no fanfare, speech, or edict, one of the ropes was placed around his neck, and he was shoved off the platform. He thrashed very little before the rope became taunt and swayed gently. His body was immediately taken down, and hauled to the bottom of the Tor. Beside the creek, one of the king’s men pulled a large cleaver and a saw from a coarse sack. On a rough wooden block lying nearby, the condemned man was beheaded, and the rest of his body mutilated. Cut into four pieces, as was the custom for citizens found guilty of treason, the remains were boiled in pitch and prepared for delivery to four other troublesome communities: Wells, Bath, Ilchester and Bridgwater.

A young soldier was ordered to pick up the condemned man’s head, and he walked silently back to town. He held the severed head at arm’s length to make sure that he did not soil his uniform. As he approached the abbey, the silent crowd parted to let him pass.

The two remaining captives sobbed openly as they watched the soldier stick the head on a spike above the massive stone gateway to signal that the execution had been carried out. The remaining townspeople nodded their assent and turned to go home. They did not even wait to see the other men hauled up the Tor and executed. That was of no interest to them.

At that moment, a faint light flickered briefly through the dark windows of the deserted abbey, and then it was gone forever.

And if a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing: he hath uncovered his brother's nakedness; they shall be childless. (Leviticus 20: 21)

England

1509

Chapter One

The bells tolled the warning of Vigils. The deep, hollow sound of the two-ton bells, announcing the early morning service, rolled up the side of the adjacent hill and down the unseen wooded eastern slope. The townspeople had chosen long ago to stop complaining about the noise, and the darkness of the countryside also ignored the sound. Nothing stirred in the gloom of the morning – except for the monks of Glastonbury Abbey moving quietly to their daily obligation.

Thomas, a novice and the abbot’s eight-year-old servant, did not hear the bells that morning. So engrossed in his work – the stoking of the abbot’s fire – that the noise went unnoticed. He seldom heard the bells, regardless of the time or occasion. This morning was no exception.

A cold wind blew across the face of the dark hill and over the flatlands. Thomas could only guess at the temperature since he had not yet been outside, but his job at this point in the day was to build the fire, and that is what he set his mind to. Focusing on the task at hand was one way to avoid having his ears boxed by one of the older monks, whose job it was to look after the novices. He had learned that hard and painful lesson. With a total population of well over fifty monks, twice as many workers, and twelve minor novices, as well as day-students from the town, there were a number of tasks taking place at most hours of the day.

But in the darkness of early morning, Thomas felt like the only one alive.

The presence of a young boy in the private office of the abbot was anomalous, yet sensible. Despite the number of workers throughout the manor, paid servants were not allowed into the private office of the abbot. In addition, if older monks were allowed access to the abbot on a daily basis they would see and hear things that might have to be explained or defended during the daily chapter assemblies. As a result, an eight-year-old handled the routine duties there. Minors were not inquisitive about the proceedings of the inner rooms of the abbot’s manor house.

The office was cold in ways other than temperature. The thick stone walls and colored glass windows cast a menacing pall over the room, even on the brightest afternoons. Candles, which burned almost twenty-four hours a day, did little to brighten the room’s gloomy countenance. The cold floor was covered with a thick rug of wool and flax, which had intricate dark red and black patterns woven into the fabric. A dark wooden desk sat just off the middle of the room. Anyone coming into the office was struck by the size and severity of that single piece of furniture. Immediately, a visitor was made to feel inferior by the mere sight of the abbot sitting behind the massive desk. Thomas had been given explicit instructions to touch nothing on the desk. This was a command that he had no intention of disregarding.

Just as Thomas got the fire glowing, there was a bustling sound behind him. Without turning around, he recognized the sound of the abbot moving through the office on his way to the church for Vigils. The old man paid no attention to the small boy, whose face was dirty with the ash that swirled around every time a gust of wind carried across the top of the chimney, fifteen feet above his head. Thomas glanced quickly over his shoulder at the dark cloaked figure. The abbot was not big for a man of his political and economic stature, but he carried his corporeal size with austerity and virtuosity. As the superior of a monastery the size of Glastonbury, Abbot Richard managed an impressive domain with thousands of acres of land, hundreds of tenants, dozens of servants, and countless periphery industries. The total annual income for Glastonbury surpassed every other monastic house in the country, and much of the success was due to the shrewd dealings of Abbot Richard and his predecessors.

Thomas had lived at the abbey for most of his life. He was handed over to the monks of Glastonbury in a ceremony known as Orbus Traditum, in which relatives surrender a child to a house of worship to be raised and educated in the care of the monks or nuns. It was a rarely celebrated ritual due to the sensitive nature of the individuals involved. In many cases the child was the product of the daughter of a local wealthy merchant, who had found herself pregnant after an afternoon romp with some wily young noble. In some instances, the child was an orphan whose closest living kin had no interest in raising the child, or there was the rare child who was sent to live with the brothers because his parents could not be bothered with raising him. In all cases, the monks expected payment in the form of lands or cash in exchange for the room, board, and education of the child. Orbus Traditum was strictly restricted to the wealthy and prominent members of 16th century England.

The abbot’s hasty disappearance was quickly followed by the arrival of Brother Rupert, the novice director. Rupert was a middle-aged man and had been in Glastonbury for almost ten years. He had spent his formative years at Abingdon Abbey, near Oxford. His unconventional transfer to Glastonbury was not discussed, and most of the brothers could not be bothered with the gossip. Rupert had very little success at assimilating into the adult Glastonbury community, but he managed the young monks with the skill of a London school master. As a result, he had no friends within the ranks of the older men, and the younger monks cringed when they heard his approaching footsteps.

Tend to the fire quickly, Thomas, he snapped. You must be washed and in your place for Vigils. Hurry now! He spun around and was gone before the boy could even nod his head in obedience.

Thomas wiped off the front of his dark robe as he stood up and looked into the hearth. That should keep the place warm, he said to no one. He looked around the dreary room before following the path of the two men. Everything seemed in place. Orderly. He looked at his hands and decided they were clean enough to skip the usual washing and go straight to his seat for the service.

* * * * *

Watching the community exit from the eastern side of the cloisters, the dark clad stranger waited until the last brother closed and locked the dormitory door before slipping from behind a partition into the weak light cast by the pale early morning moon. Without glancing over his shoulder, he quietly removed a small piece of metal from his pouch and inserted it into the ancient lock. He had watched the brothers exit this door for several nights, and he knew well the routine they followed – never varying in their timing, habits, or numbers. He shook his head at the thought of how easy they had made his task.

The door unlocked without offering any resistance. It had failed to do the one job that had been its sole purpose for almost three hundred years, and now an uninvited outsider had gained access to the consecrated halls of the monastery. And he was about to do the unthinkable.

The tall intruder made no sounds as he slid through the door and closed it behind him. His heavy winter cloak absorbed the sound of his hard-sole boots, and he wasted no time or effort to keep quiet. There was no one in the brother’s residence, and once he was inside, the thick walls concealed his presence. This was not his first entrance into the dormitory, and he knew exactly where his prey slept.

When he arrived at the correct cot, he unfastened a pouch that was tied to his belt. Next to the simple bed was a small table with a clay pitcher and two small cups. The pitcher was half-filled with water, and the stranger knew that the brothers were required to drink herbal water that was designed to ward off sickness during the winter months. He had seen them drink the foul tasting beverage before they went to sleep; he had listened to the old monks grunt in anguish as the drink went down their throats and had heard them bark at the younger ones who hesitated.

From his pouch, he poured out a small amount of crushed oleander leaves and sprinkled the poisonous fronds into the pitcher with the other herbs. To make sure that his victim ingested enough of the poison, he lightly spat into his palm and poured the remainder of the leaves into his hand, creating a paste. Using his free hand, he spread the mixture around the inside of the boy’s cup and along the rim. After wiping his hands on a nearby blanket, he turned back and walked toward the door. He knew that the brothers would return shortly, and he wanted to be outside the abbey walls before they were back in bed.

The stranger gently closed the door and returned the lock to its correct yet ineffective position. He stopped momentarily to listen to the song of the community gathered in the adjacent church. The peaceful, melodic sound seemed to call him back to another time and place. He had heard the song before, and its hauntingly deep, rich composition seemed to penetrate his clothing, and he grew uncharacteristically chilled. A cold blast of air seemed to push him toward the walls and his escape.

The assassin slipped through the vines and pulled himself over the wall just as the brothers filed out of the church and returned to the dormitory.

******

Following Vigils, the first prayer of the day, the monks returned to the dormitory for a short private prayer before settling in for a little extra sleep and facing the challenges of the day.

Thomas had additional duties which kept him from enjoying an extra hour and a half of sleep. He was not sure why he had these extra duties, but he accepted it as his fate; plus, there was no one to hear his complaints. Brother Rupert would have punished him for even thinking about his lot, and his fellow minors were just thankful that it was not them who had extra duties.

After leaving the nave, Thomas hustled to his next tasks: helping retrieve the extra wood for the fire he had started earlier, unloading the abbot’s daily supply of candles (which had been placed at the foot of the stairs by one of the servants), and feeding the abbot’s enormous dog, Claudius. There were servants to supply the rest of the house with wood, but the abbot’s office fire was his alone to maintain. This was his daily routine, and the only exception was Sunday, when the morning mass disrupted his early duties. On Sundays he was expected to be presentable (no ash on his face or unsightly blotches on the front of his robe).

But it was not Sunday, and he hoped there would be no interruptions to impose themselves on his daily routine. He did not like interruptions, which complicated his schedule. Even for an eight year old boy, it was easier to stay busy and not think about the monotony of his daily existence.

His arms were full of wood as he walked slowly up the back stairwell. He would need to make at least ten more trips before a sufficient amount of wood was stacked on the landing of the stairs – out of sight but still close enough to be reached quickly when the fire went below an acceptable height. As he approached the door, he could hear a conversation taking place in the abbot’s office, but he paid no attention to the words being said. The voices were excited and louder than usual. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, he quietly laid the pieces of wood in the rack and turned to make another trip. The second oak step squeaked, as it always did, and Thomas froze. The door flew open, and Brother Gregory, the bursar, glared into the darkness.

After a moment the senior brother’s eyes adjusted. It’s only Brother Thomas stacking the wood, Brother Abbot, he said over his shoulder.

Tell him to leave the rest for later, the abbot said faintly. He can finish after Lauds.

The boy groaned inaudibly at this command to wait until after the second prayer of the day. Postponement meant the routine would be disrupted – probably no recreational time later. The younger novices and brothers enjoyed a brief period of recreation every day, assuming that all tasks were completed and that no marks were given to them by the hierarchy within the monastery. Recreation consisted of quiet walks around one of the many abbey gardens, casual conversation, or even a few minutes to spend on a hobby such as a craft, music, or extra time for reading. Any disruption to the normal schedule meant no recreation that day.

Thomas stood still a moment too long.

You heard Abbot Richard! Move along! Gregory closed the door with a heavy thud. The sound echoed down the long stairwell.

Disheartened, Thomas felt his way down through the darkness until he got to the doorway leading to the rear of the abbot’s kitchen. For a moment he thought about going into the kitchen to see if the cook had any scraps for him to eat before breakfast, but he thought twice and decided that he should tend to the dog. The dog’s food was stored just inside the back kitchen door, and Thomas sometimes looked at it longingly, wishing he had as much to eat. He grabbed some food and pushed the door open – bracing for the cold air that would greet him.

Claudius had a small shelter attached to the rear of the abbot’s kitchen. Beyond the kitchen’s back wall sat a small grove of fruit trees, which served as sentinels against the high abbey wall. No usable fruit had been taken from the trees in years - it was easier for the monks to purchase fruit from the townspeople. The trees stood as a reminder of the former self-sufficient lifestyle enjoyed by the earlier Benedictines living in the monastery. Those days had long passed. The wealth and prestige of the religious community afforded some luxuries, and buying fresh fruit, without the laborious task of tending to the trees, was one of them.

There were other dogs around the grounds, but they were all kept near the stable. Claudius was a gift to Abbot Richard from the king on the occasion of his tenth year as abbot, and so the dog had its own quarters. The royal gift could not be kept with the other animals – just in case a representative of the king happened to visit and ask about the dog. Thomas was in charge of feeding it in the morning and in the evening as well as providing some exercise for him throughout the day. This could include a walk around the kitchen or letting him loose to run into the trees to chase a squirrel. Regardless of the time or the activity, both the dog and the child were expected to be quiet and out of sight.

At the sound of the approaching boy, the dog raised his head slightly. He made a low guttural growl to remind the child that he could bark at any time and get the young monk into trouble with the abbot. The large dog lowered his head as if to indicate that barking would require too much effort at this time of the morning. Plus, Claudius had grown a little complacent over the years and seemed to enjoy the boy’s visits.

Good morning, Claudius, the boy said quietly as he rubbed the top of the dog’s head. It sure is cold. I don’t know how you can take it out here all night. He looked around him, peering into the darkness. Seeing nothing of interest, he turned back to the dog. I guess you want your food, eh?

He placed the container of food in front of the dog and waited for him to start eating. Once the dog had decided that the food appeared palatable and began eating, Thomas placed his hand on the top of the dog’s head again. This was part of their morning ritual: it kept the dog quiet and it warmed Thomas’s hands. He kept his hands there for a few extra minutes this morning and was about to stand to go inside when he heard a strange sound from somewhere above and to the right of where he squatted. It was not the sound a human makes when in pain or with pleasure, but the noise a door or window makes when it has not been opened for a long time. Thomas placed his hand on the low roof of the dog’s shelter and pulled himself up. Claudius perked up at the boy’s movement, but quickly went back to his food.

The boy walked in the direction of the noise until he turned to the eastern side of the kitchen building. There, on the ground level of the abbot’s manor, one of the windows was slightly open. On a daily basis the boy walked down the corridor dozens