Cuddy, p.20
Cuddy, page 20
‘I firmly believe that it is these brothers who should have achieved sainthood too,’ said Parnell. ‘For they gave their lives to ensure safe passage and that Cuthbert’s body should remain undisturbed.’
The reverend then replenished our glasses which had by now been twice drained of their port. I took another sip and frowned into my drink.
‘Yet now the pair of you seem intent on doing exactly the opposite of that.’
Here Parnell looked to Fraine for what I took to be reassurance, as the latter is clearly the stronger personality of the pair, even if they are of the same standing in the church’s convoluted hierarchical structure.
Now it was Fraine who was frowning and staring deep into the darkness of his port, as if he expected an answer to be found there. But I chose not to give him time to formulate a response, just as I believe they had not yet fully afforded me the respect that I feel is due, a mistake that it will take more than a decent meal and medieval port to rectify.
‘Gentlemen, you will excuse my directness, but let me speak plainly: if this saint of yours is so highly venerated then why is it that you wish, in an act some would surely deem at the very best as sacrilegious, to dig up his remains? Even done with the utmost respect and delicateness, disturbance is certain and though as an antiquarian clearly I am interested in your findings, surely there are deeper moral and theological concerns for your cathedral community.’
‘Let me assure you, we do not enter into this venture lightly,’ said Fraine. ‘However, I believe we have sound theological reasons, which I hope that you as an academic will find just. On your wanderings you may or may not have seen that a new church has been built very close by to here. It is named in our St Cuthbert’s honour and in just two weeks’ time it will open its doors.’
‘And it is Roman Catholic,’ said Parnell, barely able to mask his disdain.
‘This is a problem?’ I asked. ‘Are you so petty as to bicker with fellow believers as to who stakes a claim over this saint’s name, his legacy?’
Reverend Fraine raised a palm, in a gesture of supplication that I took to be somewhat ersatz.
‘No professor, we are not.’
‘Good. Because as you are undoubtedly aware, the frivolous squabbles that take place in the name of God are of no interest to me whatsoever; I find them demeaning for all concerned and a divergence from sound thinking.’
‘In essence I agree,’ said Fraine. ‘But there is a broader point here not yet made. If this peninsula is large enough to house a cathedral and a castle, and the wonderful dwellings that we call home, then it is large enough to accommodate our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters too. Furthermore, grand plans are afoot, sir, for the establishment of a new university, on this very land. Parliament is already being lobbied to introduce a bill to – and I quote – “enable the Dean and Chapter of Durham to appropriate part of the property of their church to the establishment of a University”.’
A university, I thought. Here? In the cursed north country, where the streets are awash with the urine of its townsfolk? I have never been good at divorcing my inner feelings and I fear Reverend Fraine could read me like a book.
‘With respect professor, you might be unwise to express doubt, for our cathedral is one of the very richest in the land. And when university status is granted, as it surely will be, the newly established Durham College will be a seat of learning to soon rival that of Cambridge or your Oxford.’
At this I nearly – nearly – spat out my port, but instead gulped loudly in such a way as to express my scepticism. Also I belched involuntarily; ’twas the oysters. Fraine continued unabashed.
‘However, in taking Cuthbert’s name as their own the Catholics also appear intent on distorting the truth of our saint. No, wait – let me rephrase that. In an attempt to lure converts via an act of blind papism, it is my belief that they are outright lying about the life and death of Cuthbert. And therefore are committing nothing less than blasphemy.’
‘How is that so?’
‘It seems as if – ’
Here Parnell took up the thread, but Fraine interrupted him for the conversation was now his entirely.
‘They are intent on perpetuating the myth that Cuthbert’s corpse remains uncorrupted.’
‘And you do not believe it to be?’
‘Professor, we may be men of God but that does not mean that we reject such things as fact and science and the natural process. And while I may be both a Reverend, a principal surrogate in the consistory court and author of the well-received Documents and evidence relating to the administering of the Holy Communion to the Laity within the parishes between the rivers Tyne and Tees before the Reformation, you might not be aware that for fifteen years I have also been second master at Durham School, and furthermore have held the role of librarian to the dean and chapter. Which is to say, I believe in education, betterment and all pursuits deemed scholarly; I am not stuck in a theological rut, but on a perpetual quest for a greater understanding. For too long this tale has been told, and perhaps its origins are harmless, but today we feel that it is being used to manipulate the emotions of the vulnerable in a manner that we deem crass and cynical. Therefore we wish to prove once and for all that Saint Cuthbert endures in our hearts and our minds and our prayers – and in every stone that made Durham Cathedral – but that his body has, of course, turned to dust, as all bodies do. This, sir, is, I consider, nothing less than an act of charity towards our Catholic cousins.’
Somewhat taken aback by such unexpected logic I chose my response carefully, and tried to overlook the drop of liquid that had returned to his nose.
‘Reverend Fraine, you have surprised me. I find your honesty refreshing and acknowledge your position as master and librarian as well as being a man of God. It is a shame that this business may be perceived as a tug of war between Protestant and Catholic, a battle in which I could never choose one side over the other.’
‘And I, sir, would never be so egregious as to persuade you to adopt such a position.’
‘Yet,’ I added, ‘I feel I at least now understand your motives.’
‘And as Reverend Fraine has already identified, that is precisely why we invited you,’ said Parnell. ‘Because your atheism and clear thinking is well known. There have been Jesuit priests serving the community here for a hundred years or more and the Roman Catholic church owns a fair portion of this city; we are all doing God’s work with equanimity and probity here. Yet you, professor, are famous for your rejection of all things speculative. Your stock in trade, sir, your speciality, the field in which you excel most famously, is unearthing objects, and then walking backwards through epochs in order to tell stories behind them, is it not?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose you could define archaeology and antiquarianism as that.’
‘Well then. Now you see why you are here.’
‘Yes,’ I said proffering my empty glass towards Parnell. ‘Yes I do.’
Parnell obliged by charging my drink and we each had another round before I spoke.
‘Sirs, I do not believe that this man shall be disinterred, but I will help you,’ I said, though I must admit my motives were not entirely altruistic. ‘While I am morally opposed to this venture for academic and ethical reasons, I suspect that you cannot be dissuaded and therefore this endeavour would, I believe, benefit from my experience.’
The reverends raised their glasses, and I did the same. We then spent a further hour discussing the details of tomorrow’s ‘dig’ as they insisted upon calling it.
Perhaps it was the effect of the alcohol, or the strain of the day upon me, but as it came time to take my leave I found myself pausing for a moment and speaking words I had not intended.
‘I do believe I saw one of your lads again today,’ I said to Parnell.
‘Lads?’
‘Yes, the boy you sent to meet me upon arrival.’
Parnell looked to Fraine and then back to me and I immediately regretted opening my mouth. It was as if I were momentarily suffering a decay of the brain.
‘Ah yes, that again,’ he replied with a smile that could not disguise its condescension and doubt. ‘As I mentioned, the only chaperone I had arranged was my good self, and it was a failure of attendance for which I can only apologise once more.’
We were all standing now and I felt my body swaying slightly. I was all at sea, and perhaps this was apparent as Reverend Parnell followed with a question in language which I perceived as being designed to patronise.
‘And where was it you saw this phantom protector a second time?’
Suppressing a frown, I instead made every effort to sound flippant and disinterested.
‘Oh, around and about. It was during my constitution upon this very headland. It matters not.’
Here Fraine interjected in a voice of great import.
‘It matters to us if you, sir, an honoured guest, are being molested in some way. Perhaps if you could describe this fellow we might at least be able to identify him. He could be a cathedral scholar or a chorister. I for one would like to know what this little blighter’s game is.’
I hesitated.
‘Sir, there was no maltreatment to report. But let me see – ’
Still feeling slightly unsteady on my legs, again I hesitated.
‘He had dark hair and the complexion of an alien. An incomer. If I had to guess I’d say Moldavian or Wallachian, though he could be a gypsy, or merely unwashed for all I know.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Parnell, thinking.
‘Hmmm,’ said Fraine. ‘I wonder if it were young Reginald Erskine.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Parnell. ‘It could have been Erskine. Did he have a significant birthmark about his face, professor?’
‘No, he did not.’
‘Then it was not him.’
‘How tall was this boy?’ said Fraine. ‘And of what age?’
‘About my height, and sturdy of build. Of his age it is difficult to say.’
‘Certainly being able to estimate another’s age is a skill that, I find, one loses as one advances oneself,’ said Parnell.
‘Ah, sturdily built,’ said Fraine. ‘Then perchance it was Kit Cannon.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Parnell. ‘It could have been Cannon. Did he speak in a thick Caledonian accent, professor?’
‘No, he did not. Or least not as I recall. I should say he were about six and ten years.’
‘Perhaps that lump Gregory Bullard then? A shock of red hair and eyes so indolent they might remind one of a goat?’
I shook my head.
‘Well is there anything else to distinguish this lad?’ said Parnell. ‘His clothes or something he said? His gait, even?’
Again, I shook my head.
‘It’s curious, all I can truly recall is that he had a look of impudence about him. And exceedingly large dark eyes.’
‘Robert Cockburn,’ said Fraine. ‘He’s as brazenly impertinent as the devil himself when he wants to be.’
‘A strong rower though,’ said Fraine’.
‘True, true,’ said Parnell. ‘There is none better in the coxless pairs.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Fraine.
‘Then again it might have been that little pest Charles Rolfe or maybe Chad McGrillis.’
‘The soprano?’
‘Alas, young Chadwick is a soprano no more, reverend. In daily evensong his honk resembles that of a goose in migration.’
Parnell said this with a discernible sense of sadness which would have troubled me more greatly had not tiredness fallen upon me absolute, and I felt an overwhelming need to extricate myself from this mindless confabulation immediately. I interrupted the two reverends’ incessant wittering.
‘Gentlemen, I must retire. If I see the young man again I shall corner him and ask his name so that this mystery might be resolved, though I’m sure you appreciate that I have more pressing matters upon my mind. I thank you for your hospitality and shall see you anon.’
And now I record this evening, exhausted by the day once more, though I am not sure why, for little work has been done here. Again my wrist aches, as do my eyes. I suspect I shall need new spectacles upon my return to Oxford. My stomach feels a little distended too from a meal that gave the illusory impression of being digestible. I fear the daemons of dyspepsia have taken up residence.
Also, I have only to hand a copy of Bede’s Life of Cuthbert, pressed upon me by Fraine. I am too fatigued to read it now, though pleased to see that it contains illustrations of this man whom we are soon to meet. While wearily thumbing the pages an interesting citation arrests my attention: ‘If necessity compels you to choose between two evils, I would much rather that you take my bones from their tomb and carry them away with you to whatever place of rest God may decree.’
Perhaps it is words such as these that Parnell and Fraine interpret as an invitation to move the saint, even if only a matter of inches, and temporarily, once more. Might I find myself caught between the ‘two evils’ of rivalling doctrines? I should be careful, I suppose, though my atheism – they are too polite and too in need of my insight to call it outright heresy – is surely a worthy armour; a rain-shade against the gathering storm clouds of a parochial theological schism.
I now place my pen aside. I have written too many words, and for what purpose I am not sure.
Sleep, then.
I hope.
May 16 1827
Daybreak.
Again slumber evades me.
Indeed I find myself so outspent I can barely be certain of what it was that I experienced during this night past, only that I know it to be inexplicable. I shall keep the account short while it is fresh in my troubled mind.
I could, if so inclined, apportion blame or explanation for what occurred during this night on the libations with which I was plied at last evening’s meal – the sherry, port and wine that I imbibed a little too freely left my head thick and, along with the food, my stomach sour – but I know that to do that would be to question my own keen senses and furthermore deny a deeper truth. The truth being that I, a scholar of international renown, and widely read author of numerous texts, including most recently, Mystras: An Archaeological Chronicle in Six Parts of the Misc. Ceramics and Metalworks Discovered in the Ancient Principality of the Byzantine Empire During the Great Exploratory Dig of 1822–1823, now in its third printing, for the first time in my life, believe myself to be unravelling, perhaps due to a prolonged state of exhaustion brought about by years of study. Or, failing that, I am – and I hardly dare write the words now in the cold morning’s light – the subject of a haunting. Yes, a haunting.
This, of course, goes against everything I believe, teach, write, speak and think, my entire life and career having been devoted to rational thinking, as should be evident in the title alone.
I record this at daybreak. This is what happened.
I had hardly been asleep an hour when I awoke with a start. Compelled to cast light about the place I lit my lamp and saw the same primitive footwear protruding from the floor-length curtain that covered the locked door, and the shape of a figure behind it. I leapt from my mattress and pulled back the drapery only to find there was no one there, and the door firmly nailed into place. But the shoes were real, and quite unlike the hand-made boots one might journey to Jermyn Street twice a year to have made up.
No, these were soft leather moccasins that were little more than thick socks in shape and style, and with a sole of what material I am not certain for the light was poor – thicker layers of treated hide perhaps – over which the leather was roughly stretched and pinned into place. I turned these primitive things in my hand; they carried within them the warmth of the wearer and they were pungent too, reeking as they did of sweat and toil, and perhaps even a note of effluence. That was when I threw them down and retreated beneath my blankets, not daring to consider how they had got there, or how they should have appeared so lived-in.
I calmed my racing mind and composed myself. A few long and confused moments passed before I reached a glaringly obvious conclusion: clearly I was the victim of a prank, but who would dare do such a thing? And why had I not noticed them when I returned from dinner? Had someone snuck in just now to place them there?
I was too tired to consider such questions, and retired once more, resolving to give them thought in the morning, when my nullified senses had returned to reason, and the stark light of day might better enable rationality.
I slept fitfully, if at all, and would estimate that another hour passed before I was disturbed by noise and movements in my bedroom once more. This time they were unambiguous; there was an intruder or several intruders in my chambers. I heard shuffling, the breaths of men and, most disturbingly, a low chanting.
I scrambled for the lamp, but found it out of reach this time, even though I know I had deliberately positioned it right there on the dresser. My hand clutched at nothing but darkness as panic rose within me like bile. The lamp, the lamp. Where was it?
And the noises did not abate: they were real, I heard them. It was the sound of a dire procession, and of tongues speaking a language I barely recognised. I heard not the dry creak of loose floorboards, but instead feet and cartwheels tramping through sludge and mire. I heard the rasping of infected chests, the drastic moans of exhaustion and the uttered prayer of total devotion.
In my mad panic to find my lamp I fell from my bunk and lay prone on the floor like a banked fish, and in the dim light saw all around me the legs and feet of this imagined – or was it? – caravan of people passing through my bedroom, this cavalcade of spectral – or were they? – bodies from an earlier age.
I rolled beneath my bedstead and dared not move further as the feet shuffled around me. Every sense was alert to the moment as I heard their words:
o Cuddy Cuddy o
o Lord o God
o Jesus
o Cuddy sainted soul
The very sound of this whispered mantra, so dire in its delivery, made me want to flee from the room, but I could not move for I was frozen stiff with fear. All my body was ice, my every sense heedful to the point of alarm.
