chapter 1. the neophyte | chapter 2. the stolen meeting | chapter 3. passion exultant! | chapter 4. the cell | chapter 5. the tragedies at the high altar | chapter 6. annihilation of the monastery
chapter 1. the neophyte
IT was curious that, notwithstanding their power and wealth, their well acknowledged munificence, and their good fortune in other respects, the monks of Holy Trinity Church, Aldgate, were but ill at ease in the year of grace 1530. All that monks wished for they possessed. The Priory was, with the exception of Westminster, the most superb monastic institution in Middlesex. In its revenues were included the whole ward of Portsoken, four parish churches acknowledged its authority, and its privileges far exceeded those of any institution of the like kind, with the one exception named above.
It is true that its wealth had been in former times even greater, and its sway over a portion of the city more undisputed; but still so much remained, so much glory and magnificence still adhered to the monastery, that it was strange the forty monks should have cause for apprehension.
These monks were of the order of canons regular, and with greater power and greater wealth than fell to the lot of other monasteries, they, notwithstanding, escaped the open hostility of the king and his nobles. This being the case, it is plain that they were charitable and popular with their parishioners. Had any scandal attached to the Priory or its inmates, had its revenues been ill-managed, or the poor of the district adjoining cause for complaint that their wants were not attended to, then certain is it that the rapacious King Hal and his still more rapacious nobles would have marked it for destruction. Such, however, was not the case; neither king nor nobles dared lay hand on so useful and popular an institution, and Prior and monks reigned supreme, safe from the temporal power which feared to touch them.
The monks were, however, unhappy, and knew well the cause of their uneasiness. In the beginning of the year a rumour had readied the Prior that one of the forty had been seen in an adjoining church under very suspicious circumstances. What these were the Prior did not deem fit to mention; all he attempted was to discover the delinquent who was so likely to bring discredit on his fellows. This was no easy matter, and the conduct of the forty being, as a rule, so exemplary, the Prior—easy-going, weak-minded man that he was—soon abandoned his search, and dismissed the rumour as unfounded.
Viewed from the events which afterwards occurred, it was a great misfortune to the monastery of Holy Trinity that Prior Handcock was at this juncture its chief. Not that the Prior was a bad man; his faults were not those which would disgrace an ordinary individual, but they were eminently such as incapacitated him for rule. He was very unsuspicious, very frightened of an intellect superior to his own, and very liable to favouritism. The forty monks were, taking them as a body, a strong-minded, intellectual, and hard-headed set, and consequently he feared making his authority felt. It is, however, but fair to Handcock to mention that the men were apparently as good as they were clever, and performed cheerfully the by no means easy tasks allotted to them.
The Prior’s favourite was generally the man who had last entered the monastery, and who came fresh from the pleasures, cares, and turmoils of life. There was much that was cheering in this habit of the Prior, and it often turned out well. The tranquillity, the freedom from petty worries, the probabilities of future reward, the even tenor of the monkish life, were put before the young man with no little eloquence by the kind Prior, and the youth felt satisfied, and stifled any wish to return to the world and its wicked ways. But there was also a danger in this partiality. Handcock would never recognise that of all his flock the latest comer was the most liable to err; never could he bring himself to believe that the neophyte might not be a saint; the young man was never suspected, a cloak of protection was thrown over him, and he felt secure from punishment. Now if the neophyte was a good man, as of course was generally the case, all was well; if, however, as must sometimes happen in every institution, he was a black sheep, his misdeeds were often undiscovered and, if possible, overlooked, and thereby likely to bring great disgrace on the monastery.
In the year before this narrative commences a young man of great promise entered the Priory of Holy Trinity. His appearance attracted attention, and when he conversed he infatuated his hearers with the eloquence and charm of his discourse.
Of spare frame, though not short, he looked delicate, but the head bespoke great power, and told of strong passion, and no unusual capacity for good or evil.
Martin, for such was his name, was very dark, with thick black hair, eyebrows that met and gave to the face a somewhat sinister look, which was partly corrected by the perfectly straightforward-looking blue eyes, which is occasionally seen in very dark persons. The nose was aquiline, but too thin, and the mouth, the worst feature in the face, firmly closed and not unfrequently hidden by the hand. This was the more curious, as Martin possessed the whitest teeth imaginable, beautiful in their regularity and perfection.
When not conversing Martin’s appearance gave the impression of an intellect debased by cunning and evil passion; when, however, he spoke, his eloquence and manner dispelled this, and intellect only was discernible.
Such was the neophyte and favoured protégé of Prior Handcock. Great pains were taken to interest Martin in his new duties, but at first no special work was allotted to him. The monks realised that he was no ordinary man, and though, as a rule, they did not favour new comers, they for once approved the Prior’s selection of a favourite, and regarded him as the coming light of the monastery.
It was soon evident that Martin’s career would be that of a preacher, and so well did he work and so exemplary was his character, that the Prior, after consulting the other monks, decided that the more onerous duties should be waived in order that he might pursue such studies that would befit him for an orator.
Martin progressed very rapidly under the treatment of the good monks, and made himself a great master of rhetoric. His natural polish of manner and silvery voice held him in good stead, and his expressive face emphasised the thoughts that he uttered.
The Prior, however, discovered that his young protégé took but little interest in the works of the Fathers, and made tardy progress in theology. Everything was done to make Martin conversant with the burning questions of the day; no pains were spared to enlist his sympathy and talents in the religious cause in which all were interested, but to no avail. Martin listened to his instructors, apparently pondered over what they said, but was dull and sullen when theology, dogma, or the great cause were subjects of their counsel. The Prior perceiving the uselessness of his instruction at last gave way, and allowed his pupil to pursue his study of rhetoric according to his bent, but insisted that he should possess a fair knowledge of theology before being allowed to preach in public in the great church of Holy Trinity.
Martin’s companions were, as we have stated, intellectual and good men; they performed their routine duties, both religious and temporal, in a manner which brought credit on themselves and happiness on their flock; but at the time in which this narrative is cast an unscrupulous and very able monarch hungered for the wealth of this most wealthy monastery, and it was said that he was only waiting for a fitting opportunity to stretch forth his greedy hand and grasp the prize.
The king employed dirty men to do his dirty work, and many of his tools possessed the wily cunning and insatiable thirst for gold which distinguished their master.
Foremost among these men was Thomas Audley, Speaker of the House of Commons, to whom the king was in debt and anxious to repay. Audley had an old grudge against the Priory of Holy Trinity, and had bargained with the king that should an opportunity occur and the monastery be suppressed, the proceeds should go to paying off this old debt.
The enmity of Audley was well known to the monks, who recognised in him their secret foe; but they felt no alarm so long as their reputation stood high with the people of the city.
Such was the condition of affairs when the strangest rumour reached the ears of the Prior. The monks were not told the nature of this rumour at first; all they knew was that, if true, it boded ill to them, and Prior Handcock, like all unsuspicious and weak men, stuck obstinately to his insane determination of keeping the information secret from the monks, and after awhile dismissed the rumour as unfounded. In such fashion was laid the foundation for the ghastly tragedies and inhuman wickedness which have stamped one small portion of the site of Holy Trinity Church with the curse of Cain.
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chapter 2. the stolen meeting
ALMOST facing the Abbey Church and spacious monastic buildings of Holy Trinity, Aldgate, but separated from them by Houndsditch—at the time of this narrative a broad stream of water—was a row of dwelling-houses, with gabled roofs and gardens at the back.
In one of these there dwelt a woman of about thirty, whose manner was so reserved, and ostracism from her neighbour so complete, that she was viewed with suspicion, and would certainly have been forced to live elsewhere but for the fact that she was reputed to be under the special protection of a high official of the Court.
This woman’s life appeared to be quite purposeless, with the exception that twice a week she received messages from the hands of a page, to whom she delivered answers for her mysterious correspondent. The people in the neighbouring houses watched the woman’s movements with intense interest, and argued rightly that she was the accomplice in some fell purpose; the livery of the page, however, protected her, and whatever may have been the scheme in which she was engaged, it was matured without interruption from the neighbouring inmates.
This prying curiosity, though it stopped short of open enmity, left no stone unturned to discover the reason of the mysterious woman’s secrecy and the nature of her scheme. She was watched night and day, but beyond the advent and departure of the page nothing was found out.
After awhile, however, their watching was rewarded by an event which, though it increased their curiosity, protected the woman still further from insult.
One evening in January, in the year 1530, when the snow lay thick upon the ground, it was noticed that a man, after leaving his horse in a neighbouring hostelry, approached the dwellings by a circuitous route as if to avoid notice, and after a careful searching look to see that he was unobserved, let himself into the house where the strange woman lived. Notwithstanding his precautions, every circumstance of the visit was noted by the neighbours, the stealthy appearance, the length of the interview, and the height and general appearance of the man himself. His departure was effected in the same stealthy manner, but on arriving at the hostelry a surprise was in store for him; the trapping and saddle of his horse had been removed, and no particulars of the robbery could be given by anyone.
The visit was repeated at irregular intervals, and always in the same stealthy fashion, the only difference being that the man altered his attire to that of a peasant; whereas on the first occasion he had been richly apparelled. He also came on foot—a precaution evidently considered necessary from the robbery of the saddle. Owing to the poor lighting of the road and the fear to approach too near, none had seen the man’s face sufficiently well to enable them to again recognise it; a fact which the inhabitants greatly deplored, but consoled themselves with the possession of the stolen saddle, and thought that by its means the name and position of the singular visitor would be made known to them.
After the fourth visit, which took place in broad daylight, the man and woman left the house together, and, avoiding the bridge opposite the monastery and Ald Gate, turned to the right and crossed Houndsditch by the bridge of Bishop’s Gate, some little distance off.
This circumstance, though apparently not of great importance, greatly exercised the minds of the watchers, and suggested to them that whatever the secret was, the pair wished to avoid the monks.
That this may not be unintelligible to readers, they must know that (see frontispiece) Ald Gate was an approach to the monastery, through a courtyard of which it would be necessary to pass in order to gain access to the city. Now, the fact that the pair avoided this route and took the longer one over Bishop’s Gate Bridge, was proof that they did not wish to be seen by the inmates of the monastery. After crossing Bishop’s Gate Bridge the pair escaped the vigilance of the watchers.
Bearing to the left, the route taken was along Bishopsgate Street, through St. Mary Axe into Leadenhall Street, passing the stately tower of St. Mary Undershaft, when finally they approached the little church of St. Catherine Cree, adjoining the Abbey buildings.
The man showed a warrant and was allowed to ascend the tower of this church, which commands a good view of the cloisters and outbuildings of Holy Trinity. The singular part of the affair was that the woman was allowed to accompany him; a very rare privilege, and one which could only have been granted by reason of the importance of the warrant or the high official position of the man himself.
The monks were at recreation in the cloisters, but after awhile emerged into the open court, and the man who had impatiently awaited for this event pointed them out to his companion and bade her watch intently. In little groups the monks marched slowly to the transept door of the great church, which, when opened, emitted the solemn strains of the distant organ.
The man again grew impatient. It was evident he was watching for one who had not yet appeared. As far as was possible, from the distance he scrutinised the face of each monk, and as the last two figures emerged into the court he awoke the flagging interest of his companion, and bade her mark the younger of the two.
Martin was engaged in serious converse with the Prior. The strongly-marked features were quite visible from the tower, and the woman, after gazing at him earnestly for about a minute, satisfied her companion that she could not forget the face. On descending the tower the pair immediately separated and went in opposite directions.
After the event just recorded the woman frequently attended the services in the great monastic church, and had the worshippers been less devout and attended less to their prayers, they might have noticed that her gaze was invariably fixed on the neophyte whenever he was present, all his movements being watched with unflagging interest.
Not only did the woman attend the church in service time, still more frequently was she there on less public occasions especially in the mornings and evenings, when the monks were reciting their offices, such as Prime, Mattins, etc. But whether the church was full or empty, her interest was centred on Martin. For him and him alone did she attend the Church of Holy Trinity.
Several months elapsed before the scheme progressed one jot. Many times did the mysterious man visit his accomplice. Long consultations they had together, but apparently nothing came of them. Evidently the intention of the woman was to get Martin by himself, probably to speak to him; but this was difficult to accomplish. When engaged in their temporal duties the monks went their respective ways, one to one occupation and a second to another, and so on. But Martin being the youngest, and in training, had no mission entrusted to him. The monks were generally together when in church; one hour a week, however, each spent in solitary prayer before the altar, and the woman when she discovered this resolved to note the hour and wait till Martin’s turn came, and thus obtain an interview.
She found, in addition, that these hours for solitary prayer were fixed, that is to say, each monk knew beforehand when his time would come to betake himself to the church to offer up his devotions before the high altar. Six times did the woman enter the church to be disappointed, but on the seventh she was more fortunate, and saw Martin in the sanctuary alone, but to her dismay a few people remained in the church and frustrated her design. And after waiting patiently for an hour, longing for them to depart, she saw the neophyte go back into the monastery, and thus again was she foiled in her purpose.
For a week the church was free from her evil presence, but in the following week, on the same day and the same hour, she betook herself to the place of quest, confident now of ultimate success.
It was late in the evening, nearly eight o’clock and quite dark, but the woman needed no light. She knew her way as well as the most saintly of worshippers, and as she approached the church, the moon, which had been obscured, suddenly reappeared and lit up the stately magnificence of the building, and in spite of herself the woman paused and gazed upon the scene. As big as a cathedral, cruciform in shape, and of perfect symmetry, the monster church of Holy Trinity was, with the exception of the Abbey of Westminster and the Cathedral of St. Paul, the finest building of the metropolis.
Mysterious and solemn it looked on this night, and the great tower, with that almost human expression, seemed to bid her to depart and not disturb its venerable presence. The woman wavered a minute in her resolution, but stifling her scruples she entered the church and saw the young monk kneeling in the sanctuary. Again she wavered, so awe-inspiring were the surroundings; the great massive pillars supporting the rounded arches of the Norman nave, the symmetrical grace of the late Gothic clerestory, the long decorated chancel, with the solitary figure bending in prayer just visible in the gloom, Composed a picture of such impressiveness that she could but wish that another had been entrusted with the work.
She approached the sanctuary, and the rustle of her dress disturbed Martin, who looked round, displeased at the interruption; she beckoned to him, and, his curiosity awakened, the monk responded and went to the steps of the sanctuary. Perceiving, however, that the woman was not in want of help, and suddenly remembering his duty and the suspicious nature of the woman’s approach, he was about to retire, when she removed the head-dress which had partly concealed her features, and Martin was instantly struck with the remarkable similarity of her face to his own.
The same black hair, the same aquiline nose and firmly sealed lips, and, still more remarkable, she had that habit of shielding the mouth before and after speech which he had so vainly tried to cure himself of when studying rhetoric. He asked her what she wanted of him, when, taking from her mantle a small scroll of parchment, she handed it to him, and bade him attend her on the morrow in the church of St. Catherine Cree hard by. Having delivered her message, the woman disappeared, leaving Martin astonished and nervous at so curious an interruption to his meditation.
The monk felt it his duty to take no notice of the summons and destroy the scroll, but he was seized with overmastering curiosity to read it, and then determined to attend the woman on the morrow—a fatal resolve, pregnant with terrible consequences to himself, and still more terrible consequences to others.
On the following day the inhabitants of the gabled houses, ever on the alert whenever the doings of their mysterious neighbour were concerned, descried her again leaving her home with her companion, and this time they resolved that the pair should not escape them. The saddle and trappings had given rise to great discussion, and more than one person had suggested a name for the owner, but the discussions were conducted in secret, a necessary precaution in those troubled times. The liberty of the subject was little understood in those days, the power of the king was almost unlimited, the Court was subservient and corrupt, the nobles plotted one against the other, and the party favoured by the king invariably gained the upper hand. The people wisely held aloof from politics, were time-serving to a degree, and accepted changes without murmur. Woe to the man who questioned the doings of a king’s favourite. If noble, his estate was in danger; if commoner, his life! Bluff King Hal ruled with an iron hand, and was not too scrupulous in his dealings.
In fear and trembling one or two of the boldest followed the mysterious couple and tracked them to the church of St. Catherine Cree, where the woman had arranged to meet the monk. None dared to follow into the church, and were about to depart, when a muffled figure brushed past them and stealthily took the same direction as the other two. Though the people stood in awe of the man who visited their silent neighbour, judging him to be some noble or State official, they did not fear this muffled figure, so quickly going back to the entrance of the church, they traced him before he could evade them.
Notwithstanding his attempts to shield his features, they recognised the monk, whose appearance was well known to them, though they were ignorant of his name.
Now that an inmate of the monastery should be so evidently in league with the suspicious pair much puzzled them; perhaps after all no harm was meant. Had they not better abandon their watchings? But why had the monk shielded his features and avoided their scrutiny? They went home and pondered over these things, and concluded to warn the Prior, and after discussing the best means of doing so, decided that the meeting of the monk in the church of St. Catherine Cree should be told, but no mention made of the strange man, as it might bring trouble upon them.
In such fashion, and not very intelligibly stated, this meeting was a day or two afterwards made known to Nicholas Handcock, and for a time caused him grave anxiety. The forty monks were assembled together and questioned. Handcock informed them that one of the number was reported to have entered the neighbouring church under circumstances such as would bring disgrace and scandal on them all. The wrong-doer was earnestly exhorted to confess, in order that further trouble might be avoided. The monks looked grave and troubled at the news. Their feeling of security left them. Was it possible that they harboured a black sheep among them? They could not believe it; each was so earnest and attentive to his duties.
After awhile, however, their suspicion rested on Martin, for no especial reason except that, being the youngest and least known, he was most liable to err. As usual, the Prior refused to suspect his favourite, and forbade the monks to harass Martin with their questions, and thus to the folly of one man and the curiosity of another were to be traced the ghastly tragedies which so soon occurred.
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chapter 3. passion exultent!
AFTER his first year’s training Martin became curious in manner. His mind wandered. His interest in study slackened. No progress was made. He was subject to shaking fits, which weakened the by no means strong frame. His face twitched, and the expression changed in a sudden, almost unnatural fashion. One minute his heavy brow was bent as if in sinister thought; the hand instinctively stole up to the mouth, and tried to hide that telltale organ. The blue eyes wandered as if frightened to fix their gaze on any object, and at such a time he looked the incarnation of evil. Another minute and this was changed. The brow, though heavy, looked that of a clever, not a base man, the blue eyes looked straight at their object, and if he spoke, the beautiful voice disarmed suspicion and adverse criticism. Had a man possessing a knowledge of physiognomy studied Martin’s face and its changes of expression, he would have arrived at one of two conclusions—either that he was a clever dissembler or a man possessed of fierce passions not yet quite under his control; a man who might turn out a saint, but would stop short of no crime if evil got the upper hand, the almost convulsive changes denoting that at present neither good nor evil claimed the man, but that each was struggling for the mastery.
Prior Handcock knew nothing of physiognomy, and regarded his favourite as a man of weak health, at present overworked. The kind but injudicious man knew his pupil not one jot, and prescribed for him the worst of all things—rest. When working hard and his powerful mind interested, Martin’s nobler passions lent weight to the intellect, and gave to it a daring most like genius. When at rest and the mind relaxed, the baser passions were liable to seize the imagination and fill it with unholy thoughts, and change the genius to the fiend.
One power, however, the Prior possessed—the power of kindness. Of his inner self and the recent interview the monk did not tell the Prior; but with these exceptions, all other matters were discussed between them.
Oh, terrible pity that all was not told! Unutterable woe that now, when not too late, Handcock was not enabled to guide aright the passionate man to ward off temptation! Many a time was the neophyte minded to tell all, and almost did so after his interview with the woman in St. Catherine’s. There was then not much to tell. Mere curiosity begot the fault which Martin was too weak to confess. Formerly the Prior’s kindness to his pupil might have lent him greater strength, but infinitely more was now required. A new and great temptation now assailed the man. The good resolve put off became more difficult to accomplish. The terrible passions had now begun to gain the upper hand, and were pointing out the pleasing downward course that ends in sin.
The one bright episode in this narrative of woe may now be recorded. The Prior’s kindness met with some return. Martin grew to revere him much in the light in which a son regards his father, and it was at this time that the Prior questioned him on his former life before entering the monastic career.
A tale of poverty it was—of a boyhood without parents; but in his youth a change occurred. A man of high position caused him to be educated, and, unknown to him, doled out sufficient money for the purpose. Who this benefactor was he had no suspicion, but was told that when he should be old enough he was to become a monk at Holy Trinity, Aldgate.
This was all he knew concerning himself, and of his relations one only did he remember—a sister, a little older than himself, whom he had not seen for years.
The Prior and Martin took long rambles together, and, notwithstanding the disparity in years and station, entertained for one another sincere regard. But, with many and varied duties to attend to, Handcock did not see his pupil more than once or twice a week. By his orders Martin was put on the sick list, and spent the greater part of his time alone, and having been now over a year in the monastery, was allowed greater freedom, and could go much where he liked, provided he was present at the various services of the church. And so the time passed on until he again met the dark woman who had given him the scroll, in the same place—St. Catherine Cree, and this time alone. The scroll was produced, and Martin, flattening it out, read the contents and asked the woman what she had to tell him. She temporised, and the keen intelligence of the monk perceived that other designs occupied her mind—another object had prompted her to seek the interview. Had he left on discovering this, the terrible events which this narrative chronicles would never have happened; but he lingered, and looked at the woman who had dared so to deceive him.
This was the climax in Martin’s life; the conflicting emotions which raged his system, the mighty passions which swayed the mind, and prompted it now to good and now to evil, put forth all their opposing strength; virtue and vice engaged their forces in a final, fierce fight, from which one or other would emerge the victor. Formerly the conflict had been waged in the imagination only; no great visible temptation had assailed the senses. Now came that mighty strain on the will, which the mind had foreseen and knew to be inevitable.
The woman had intended to keep up an interest in the scroll, but had failed, and faltered under the keen, penetrating gaze of the monk, and, with that subtle cleverness which often accompanies a depraved but high intelligence, realised that the time was ripe to show her hand and appeal directly to the passions of the man. Like on the first occasion of their meeting, she threw off her head-gear and returned Martin’s passionate gaze. That look was all that passed between them, but it told of guilty passion, of a secret sympathy, of the success of her scheme to the woman, and of the victory of evil in the man.
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chapter 4. the cell
HAD the prying curiosity of the people been able to penetrate into the house occupied by their silent neighbour in the evening of the event just re-corded, they would have seen her in evident grief; tears, perhaps of compunction, stole down her cheeks, and sorrow at the guilty part she was playing was no doubt felt by the woman. Could she now in safety have abandoned her wicked course she would have done so, but the villain who hired her was not to be baulked of his purpose. Whatever her reflections were she was not long allowed to pursue them undisturbed; the door of her room was opened, and, without any further introduction, her employer entered. Angry words passed between them; the woman wished to retire from the hateful plot, but the man was obdurate, threatened her with every punishment if she deserted the cause, and finally gained the upper hand. Being reassured of her allegiance, he ordered her, when quite certain of Martin’s love, to make him leave the monastery and for her to be seen in his company at certain public places, which were specified, and finally to leave him, it being the object of the man to bring disgrace upon the monastery.
The victory of evil passion in Martin’s strong character at first deadened in him every right feeling, and led him to gloat over the thought of leaving the monastery, and eloping with the woman whom he loved with a fierceness only possible in a man of such passionate temperament. He longed for the week to pass and the day to arrive when he was again to meet her. Should he achieve his purpose then, and quit the monastery and the restraint now so loathsome to him? The conflicting emotion being silenced, outwardly Martin was calm, greatly to the delight of the Prior, who thought his pupil had recovered from an illness, and considering that the time had now come for him to resume his duties, placed him under the instruction of Father Anselm. This was the oldest monk in the monastery, and by far the ablest. With a kindness equalling that of Handcock, he possessed a keen intellect, a great knowledge of character, and a vast experience of the world. Had Martin been placed under this holy father from the first, it is probable that his difficulties and temptations would have been foreseen and danger warded off; but now it was too late; a fiend possessed his soul and held it with an iron grip.
That sense of quiet following a decision even to sin, which Martin had felt, left him under the saintlike eloquence and charity of Father Anselm. This holy man discovered the peculiar temperament of his pupil, and with a fire and genius equal to Martin’s, and a tact gained from experience and knowledge of the passions of men, he poured forth arguments and exhortations of the right kind to appeal to such a temperament. The result of this to Martin was curious; his determination to sin did not leave him, but the thought of it brought untold misery. In a few days he would meet the object of his passion in the great church at the hour put down for him to make his solitary prayer. Would he fly with her and break his priestly vow? Would he bring such scandal on the monastery? Was that to be the return for all the kindness shown him? Yes. Again, did he realise the greatness of the sin? Was his faith still active? Was he to be the one black sheep in all the fold? Again, yes! Oh! mighty passion, like the torrent, regardless of all obstacles, ignoring all attempts to say thy headlong course; oh, fierce, all-consuming fire!
But the eloquent words of the aged priest went home, and though they did not cure Martin of his sinful desire, produced a misery so intense that he feared his mind would get unhinged. Four more days of suspense! He longed for the time to pass, yet would he fain put off the day.
One evening the monk fell ill, a burning sensation seized him, his brain seemed on fire, his mind conjured up strange and awful scenes, Hell seemed to open beneath him, and a laughing fiend to stretch out its bony arm to seize him. Was his reason giving way? His excitement became intense, he beat his brow and clenched his teeth, then, as if suddenly struck with an idea, rushed to the church and paced the lofty nave and aisles, muttering curious, incoherent words. In his abstraction he did not notice the Prior, and started when that kind man, who had been disturbed at his devotion by Martin’s strange manner, came up to him and tried to soothe him and bid him go to rest.
That evening the Prior asked Martin to remain alone in his cell for a day or two, and arranged for a man to supply him with his wants.
Cooped up in that little cell the monk grew worse. For hours together he paced the room like a caged beast, and as each day began to wane, a look of exultation, of fiendish delight overspread his countenance. The nights brought him no rest; he did not cease his wanderings. He dared not sleep; his object was to count the hours, and time his appearance in the church. He did not eat, and the feeble frame got wasted; nor did he sleep, and the mind got no rest. The raging passion told on the wasted frame and the excited brain—the man was going mad! He knew it, but it gave him no concern. One anxiety only did he feel—to meet the woman at the hour and place appointed.
The monk had method in his madness, and knew that if seen before that fatal hour his purpose would be foiled. Those wild eyes, that excited expression, that wasted frame, spoke of insanity. Martin felt it, and longed for his time to come. Hour after hour he paced the room until the end of the day before that appointed for the meeting, when a strange thing happened. Peering out into the dark corridor to see if he was unobserved, and waiting until the deathlike stillness convinced him that no one was about, he softly closed his cell and sped down the corridors and flights of steps. The monk was absent for about an hour, and when he returned his eyes gleamed with a savage and a mad delight. What was that hidden object which gave him so much concern? Why did he stay his wanderings to gaze at it with such a fierce interest?
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chapter 5. the tragedies at the high altar
AGAIN the gabled house, and the man and woman in earnest conversation. This time they managed to elude the watchers, and depart entirely unobserved. They took the same direction as before, and as they approached the monastery the clock of the great tower chimed the half hour after five, full an hour too soon, but they decided to go on and wait at their respective posts. The man had at first decided to leave before the woman’s meeting with the monk, but changed his mind, and resolved to be at hearing distance, in case the woman faltered in her design. He asked her if she was quite assured she could induce the monk to leave, and her answer satisfying him, the pair arrived at the entrance of the church and peeped in. There were no worshippers; all was still, and the man looked about the church for a place from which he could watch the interview and be himself unseen. He found what he wanted in the nave, behind the monument to the first Lord Mayor of London, a long distance off from the place of meeting in the chancel, but the only spot which suited his purpose.
The hour of waiting seemed interminable; the woman paced the church with anxious steps, and the autumn day began to wane. Darker and darker the church became, great shadows were cast over the broad nave, the size of the building seemed doubled, and one part of it began to be enveloped in deep gloom. The woman turned with a shuddering glance from the dark corner, walked up the nave, ever and anon glancing behind her to see that the black shadow was not following her. She began to tremble with nervousness, and approached the chancel, which was bathed in light from the rays of the setting sun.
Stay! What was the crimson stain on yon altar step? Horror! It seemed to move! It must be blood! Nearer and nearer it came! It almost approached her! A deep but brilliant red, at first a spot, it now increased till it seemed to flood the chancel with its sanguinary hue; then it died away again, smaller and smaller, till it lingered longest on the chancel steps. Why did it not leave, that stain of crimson? The sun gradually left the rich stained glass windows. Darker and darker the church became, but the woman thought she saw that crimson stain long after the black shadows had enveloped the great building.
Would the hour for meeting never come? How long was she to remain in that dark and eerie place? Stay! What was that? The flickering glimmer of a little candle was approaching the choir from the monastery. It became more and more distinct; a figure entered the church, holding a taper. Could that be Martin? The face was wan and ghastly, the black hair was dishevelled, a raven lock fell over the face and made its ashen paleness more apparent. The monk held out the light at arm’s length and peered into the church, and the woman was terrified at the ghastly figure. The face looked like that of a fiend, not a man; the eyes gleamed with a fierce and unnatural light, and seemed bursting from their sockets; the sleeves had fallen from the bony arm, which looked like that of a skeleton. What was that tiny bright speck just appearing under the folds of his habit? She could not approach the ghost, and crept behind a pillar of the nave. The figure in the choir turned round and knelt down as if in attitude of prayer, and a gust of wind extinguished the taper, which the monk let drop with a thud.
The church was in total darkness, save for the little altar lamp, which but intensified the gloom. One, two, perhaps three, minutes passed, when a curious pale and silvery ray lit up a portion of the choir; the moon had risen to witness the fell and dreadful deed. The woman trembled, but felt that now she must perform her task. Her eyes seemed to swim; she could scarcely guide aright her steps; but slowly and silently she approached the kneeling figure, and touched with her right hand the habit of the monk.
The man in the nave leant forward and watched the scene with terrible earnestness. How suddenly the monk had turned round! What was that bright, object which he held aloft twice, thrice? Good God, was murder being done? The man rushed forward, but, alas! too late. The monk had seized the woman by the throat; a dozen times he gashed the face; the knife descended with lightning rapidity—pools of blood deluged the altar steps. With a demon’s fury the monk then threw down the corpse and trod it out of very recognition. He spat upon the mutilated face, and, with his remaining strength, he ripped the body open and cast the entrails round about.
The man who had watched this scene of carnage now feared to approach, for the murderer held up his blood-stained knife in triumph, and, in his madness, called upon his patron saint and claimed a benediction for his deed. Exhausted, the monk now threw himself upon his knees, and mumbled a confused medley of prayer and imprecation. Then he got up and faced the villain whose scheme had been his ruin. His thirst for blood now whetted, the monk would have killed the man, but the latter stepped aside and, pointing to the corpse, bade Martin look more closely at his victim. The woman’s mouth was open, the moonlight streamed through the window, and Martin looked intently at the corpse. Maniac as he was, he saw that the roof of the mouth was gone. The striking resemblance of the woman to himself he remembered; an inspiration suddenly dawned upon him; he looked inquiringly at the ruffian opposite, and read in his countenance a confirmation of the awful thought. An agonising cry escaped his lips, he seized the knife, and plunged it deep into his heart, and fell a corpse upon his murdered sister.
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chapter 6. annihilation of the monastery
THE good monks of Holy Trinity, Aldgate, were regular in all their duties, and punctually at nine o’clock they betook themselves in solemn conclave to the church, to offer prayers that God might watch over the great city and protect it from disaster. They carried lighted candles and, preceded by the Prior, arranged themselves in order for procession, and marched towards the transept door of their splendid abbey church, chanting the ancient Latin hymn,
Ye guardian spirits, protect the holy men from the awful sight, the murder, the suicide, the desecrated church, the scene of deeds which had perverted the hallowed building to a place accursed by God and man!
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The monks shut up their church and kept the fearful deeds secret, but no happiness or rest did they know after that fatal night. Ghosts of the murdered dead haunted them; they longed to leave the accursed spot, and atone for the sin of their wicked brother.
And the man whose schemes had worked the misery, Sir Thomas Audley, afterwards to be Lord High Chancellor, what was his next step? Threats were sent to the Prior, threats of instant exposure, if he did not surrender the monastery to the king. The poor weak Prior, beside himself with grief and misery, consulted the monks, and they counselled him to hold out, and for some time there was a sort of interregnum. All traces of the murders were apparently obliterated; and the monks attempted to burn out the stain of blood, but finding this impossible, they hollowed out the stone. This done, they sent an emissary to the Pope, and in resignation awaited for the interdict. But whether their messenger was intercepted or whether the interdict was sent is not known; certainly it was never placed upon the buildings. Sir Thomas Audley informed the king of the murders which had taken place, which he pretended to have unexpectedly discovered, and the king, glad of an opportunity of repaying Sir Thomas for the salary owed to him as Speaker of the House of Commons, gave the Royal permission for the suppression, provided Audley could by threats induce the Prior to make a show of giving up his charge.
Audley called in Thomas Cromwell, and the two sent another message to the Prior, containing renewed threats that if the monastery were not delivered to the king, all the ghastly particulars of the murder and suicide would be made known to the peoples of the city. The Prior and monks now found it impossible to hold out longer, and gave up the splendid time-honoured church and monastic buildings to the king, under a trifling pretext which Audley had invented and forced upon them. It is but fair to Henry VIII. and Cromwell to mention that they were ignorant of Audley’s infamous plot, and had no notion that it was owing to his action that the crimes had taken place.
The monastery was suppressed, the monks turned out, and somewhat later Audley was placed in possession of the building. The poor Prior’s troubles were even now not yet over. A letter of his is extant in which he complains that no portion of the seven hundred pounds a year promised to him after the suppression had been received; but how he provided for himself and the monks is not known.
Audley attempted to sell the buildings, but was not able to do so, and at last he ruthlessly destroyed the magnificent architectural pile; and, with the exception of a few arches, left no trace of the church and monastic institution of Holy Trinity, Aldgate Both during the process of destruction and many years after that event, no one, unless obliged, would approach the spot where the high altar and chancel of the church had once existed. It was rumoured that every night, between the hour of twelve and one, a dark young man appeared in the garb of a monk and always pointed to a spot, and uttered strange prophecies of terrible events that must occur there. The people got wind of the story of Martin and his sister, and for many generations the spot was considered cursed.
Woe to anyone who would live on that spot; woe to him, who remained there at night and out of reach of help!
END OF BOOK 1
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Intro | Book I | Book II| Book III | Images of Mitre Square
