Cornwall: A legend of Holy Vale

The legend which follows comes from “Scilly and its Legends” by Reverend Whitfield. When I originally read it I just gave up and said “No, we obviously aren’t going to be getting anything more of value from the good Reverend.” I was mistaken because, superficially the following story sounds like a simple miracle. Simple miracles make for bad stories, because there’s nothing much the player characters can do about them.

Instead it brings to mind a plot hook that one of the other authors put into the Normandy book. There is a Jerbiton magus who tracks down the heirs of royal families and saves them from assassination: perhaps similarly someone has saved the talented, young lady you’re about to meet from a living interment in a nunnery. She is literate. She can illuminate manuscripts. She appears to have beauty that causes ill luck and she seems to be the keeper of a relic. Does she have a particularly effective prayer to Mary, Mother of God and inspirer of romantic troubadours?

Is she, alternatively, the sort of person who knows how to head for the hills and live in a covenant? She could live there for an extended period of time, take a longevity potion. When close to death she might arrange to have her body snuck back into the church, so she’ll be protected from any of her sins at the Final Day.

Also notice that her boyfriend just disappeared off to the Holy Land. No-one knows where he’s gone. Could these two characters be companions in your saga? One of them carries a Relic. They seem to have the True Love Virtue and, between the two of them, some incredibly useful skills.

Now over to our LibriVox reader for this week: I’m going to cut as much of his work out as I can because Whitfield was quite prolix (also because the reader this week is a slightly younger version of myself).

I don’t want to inculcate comments in one of my own recordings : it’s just confusing. Think about whether this whole thing might be a con. Then again some of you may be more pious and for you: your saga may vary.

The Story

It was Tuesday in Easter-week. The feast [started] late at the season of which I write, so that the beautiful as full of blossoms, and of green leaves, forth their gems timidly, as if aware boldness in thus venturing out so early into the world. A spell of loveliness seemed to lie over the little enchanted hollow, birds sang sweetly, in the fresh and fragrant shade…[cut lots of pastoral loveliness] peradventure, arose on high, with less of the serpent to clog their wings. It was, indeed, a bright day, and man strove to make it brighter still.

After the season of that dread Passion, succeeding the painful vigils of Lent, it was the custom of the day to indulge the people with many sports and pastimes, some of them strangely inconsistent with our ideas of ancient medieval discipline. The Abbot of Misrule was there, and the dragon, and the monastic orders parodied and travestied, and the great Tempter himself, and pretty winged children representing, not unfitly, angels, as they may be seen, even now, on the Continent, in the procession of the Fete Dieu. With a keen knowledge of human nature, and somewhat too of confidence in their own strength, the religious fraternities, and both the secular and regular priests, allowed and even encouraged, some apparently irreverent excesses. These were licensed to an unwonted extent, that day, at Holy Yale.

The mummers and guisers were more numerous than usual, and seemed to have full permission to jest, until an impious step even intruded itself upon holy ground. The Lady Abbess was a dame of high birth, and of unquestioned sanctity. Yet the dragon of Wantley profanely ventured to compare her to the maid Marian who figured among the masquers, and whose condition, to tell the truth, sadly belied her assumed character of single blessedness, the pious superior being afflicted with an infirmity that showed itself in an ungrleiceful rotundity of figure, hardly difiering, to worldly eyes, from that of the buxom matron herself.

It was not altogether the brightness of the day, nor the celebration of Easter sports, which created this more than usual animation and bustle. A ceremony was being performed in the little chapel of the convent, which is always one of solemnity and of importance in the Catholic world. And this, too, as an event of the kind, was of no common order. The profession of a sister is ever an occasion of interest for the community in which it occurs. But the young being, now dedicated to God was, in herself, an object of attention, from the peculiar circumstances in which she had hitherto been placed.

She was, so it was given out, an orphan, brought up in strict seclusion, under the care of an aged maiden lady, in the castle of the Earl of Cornwall, at Old Town. No one knew ought of her parentage, nor of her name. She was simply called the demoiselle Maude, and treated with such respect as, at that time, was accorded only to one of the highest rank.

To the mystery of her birth was added another and a more potent charm. She was exceeding fair, fair beyond all rivalry, rich in intellectual gifts, peerless in her lofty beauty. The wise monk, who was her preceptor, could teach her nothing more, for she had surpassed the limits of his old world lore. The brother limner, at the great Abbey of Tresco, confessed himself vanquished by her exquisite creations. The illuminated Bible, done by her, was worth a king’s ransom. The broideress at St. Mary’s Nunnery looked with reverence at the work of the lady Maude’s hands. And with all this saperiority of gifts, natural and acquired, she had the simplicity and the purity of a child.

One clue only to the secret of her position was found, even by the most curious inquirers. This was in her face. Gentle and loving as she was, she had about her that which brooked no familiarity, and no intrusion. There was in her lineaments a likeness felt, but of which men never spoke. There was a sparkle of Plantagenet in her proud thoughtful eye. Such, and in so secluded a fashion, dwelt the demoiselle Maude in the gloomy castle a fresh and radiant spirit budding into womanhood and waiting, apparently, with a heart untouched, for the hour which should unite her fate to that of another.

Her days were peaceful and monotonous, with little to enliven or to vary them. They were precisely the mode of existence calculated to throw a tender and confiding bosom off its guard. Full of impulse and of affection, it encountered no danger to startle it, and to teach it, by that instinctive warning sent by Providence to woman’s heart, to examine its own feelings, and to analyse emotions which are never so perilous or deceitful, as when there is no suspicion of their approach. Few visitors sought the castle, and, of them, fewer still were young. Pilgrims there were, and priests, who brought tidings of the world, and talked in a simple and antique manner with the Dame de Barentin. But they took little heed of the lady Maude, as she bent over her embroidery-frame, or illumined in gold and colours, sonie quaint legend or heraldic device. And she was left to her own maiden meditations with none to direct or share them.

There was, indeed, in the fortress one beside herself, whom his age and position, to a certain extent, drew closer to her than to its other inmates. Jocelyn de St. Martin was the son of an old knight, who had been a former seneschal there, and was now page of honour to the Chatelaine, with a hope of admittance into the Earl’s household, as an esquire. He was of the same age as the demoiselle, and they had been associates from their childhood.

Oh, the danger of that seclusion, that unconscious sacrament of love, between young undoubting hearts ! Not a word had been whispered on either side, not a pledge given, not a syllable of troth plighted or received and yet, though the world dreamed not of it, the secret was no longer theirs to breathe. The youth loved that mysterious maiden and the maiden smiled to know that she was loved. The dream was a bright one, as bright, alas ! as brief.

Some passage between the two, some touch or look, some of those eloquent nothings which are the language and the soul of passion, betrayed their unspoken secret to the Dame de Barentin. She knew her duty, and acted on it instantly. The page was despatched, ostensibly, with a missive for the Earl, then residing at his castle of Launceston, but, in reality, to be the bearer of the news of this perplexing occurrence

The result of the intelligence may be conveyed in a few words. Jocelyn de St. Martin was attached to his lord’s person, as esquire, and ordered to remain and to begin his duties at once. The fate of the beautiful orphan was, to our eyes, far more sad. It did not suit the Earl’s purpose that she, whom he called his ward, should be mated with one of birth inferior to her own. In those days, there was but one alternative. The demoiselle was to be the daughter of Heaven. With a rich dower, as became her guardian’s rank, she was at once to begin her novitiate, and to vow herself, and all her matchless charms, and her young gifted mind, at God’s altar, as His virgin bride.

It was no wonder then that all was joy and festivity at Holy Vale. The Earl had intimated his desire that there should be no delay. A commission, annulling the usual period of probation, had been forwarded by John Grandison, ‘Bishop of Exeter, to Robert Deneys, the Lord Prior of Scilly. On receiving it, notice was sent to the Dame de Barentin who ordered her train to horse, and conveyed her unsuspecting charge to Holy Yale. She was there placed in the hands of the Lady Ahbess, who was henceforth responsible for her. The fair girl was conducted to a cell, where she was visited by the Superior, who confirmed, in language, decided indeed, though not unkind, the suspicions excited by the sudden journey in the maiden’s breast.

The effect of such a revelation may be imagined but cannot be described. It was less despair than an absence of life and its functions. It was an earthquake, crushing at once sense and vitality. It was the mind’s death, while, amid that dreadful paralysis, the body still lived on. But if the likeness of Plantagenet was seen upon the brow of the unhappy girl, the spirit of that haughty race was in her heart. She was one to die, and make no sign. If her bosom became ice, and her being stagnated, on hearing her doom, she never for a moment stooped to remonstrate or to complain.

She signified her willingness to proceed to the chapel without delay. No victim ever went to the scene of her sacrifice with a prouder step, or with a face more marble or more serene. Not a shadow crossed it, during the whole of that impressive solemnity. She laid aside her bridal trappings with an air of indifference. She unloosed, and even with her own hands gathered together, the silken volumes of her dark hair, as the Abbess severed it, lock by lock, from her head. When the rites were concluded, she came forward, and received the kisses of the Abbess and of the nuns with a cheek, calm, but so chill, that it seemed to freeze the lips that touched it. As soon as all was done, she retired to her cell, which was in future to be her living tomb. as haughtily as before.

Her favourite tirewomaoy had, as an act of grace, been left for a season with her, and she came to her, and, as soon as they were alone, fell at the feet of her lady, now only Sister Mary, with an irrepressible and natural burst of indignation and of compassion. But the high-bom damsel raised her in silence, and kissed her brow. There was in her eye a glassy stare, and a vacant agony, a kind of unconscious convulsion, in her smile, that spoke of something fearful within. But whatever she felt, she gave it no utterance. The very evil spirit, that would have maddened another, seemed to obey her.

The poor damsel, who loved her mistress tenderly, with the love of a common mind, looked at her with astonishment, and could hardly believe what she saw. The Sister took no heed of her wonder, but gently dismissed her, and remained in her cell alone. Whatever the secrets of that prison-house, they were sacred, and hidden from every eye, but that of God. Nothing was seen of Sister Mary until vespers, when she appeared in the chapel, and petitioned, after the conclusion of the service, that she might be allowed to remain, in prayer, before the high altar, through the night.

The request was at once granted. It was no unusual thing, indeed; and in the case of one thus suddenly, for some mysterious reason, cut off from the world, it seemed natural to come unto the shrine of the Virgin, and there to pray for support and comfort. There could be no refuge for a bleeding heart like the love and pity of her, whose bosom had been pierced by pangs so great. So the Sister’s prayer was accorded cheerfully, and she was left, at the altar, to commence her painful vigil, in communion only with the dead that slept below, and with tbe Mother of God, who looked down upon her, with a smile of pity, from her niche above. Then appeared to come upon her spirit that shadow, which the cross flings upon the bosoms of those vowed to the cloistered solitude of a religious life.

The girl had departed from those walls, but the nun remained. She seldom spoke, and never complained. Her tirewoman visited her often, and was permitted to remain with her for hours in her cell, for the strict rules of the Order were tacitly remitted, in her favour. She could not be called haughty, nor was she reserved, but there was no fellowship between the other Sisters and herself, and, it may be unconsciously, she occupied a place, both in feeling and intellect, which they could not reach.

She never mingled with them. Instead of the usual equality of the conventual life, when by chance they met her moving about, looking so proud, yet so woe- begone withal, they made her a hurried reverence, and passed on. Her only occupation seemed to be the care of a rose-bush, said to have some miraculous properties, and consecrated to the Virgin. It was from this bush that the place was called Holy Vale. One of its flowers was deemed to have the power, if worn, to preserve its bearer from mortal sin. And one of its crimson buds was always borne upon her bosom, for the bush had the gift of perpetual spring, and blossomed through the entire year.

So passed away the months of her novitiate. Winter — such as winter is in this land of the aloe, the myrtle, and the geranium — ^was melting before the smile of spring. The day was approaching when the irrevocable black veil was to be assumed. The demeanour of the novice was unchanged. It was as cold, as formal, and as still as ever. Her faithful tirewoman spent with her the eve of the fatal day, and when Sister Mary had dismissed her from the cloister gate, after vespers, she asked permission to spend in the chapel the solemn night, that was to usher in for her as solemn a dawn. The Abbess gave the desired leave, with her blessing on the head of the fair nun, so soon to be affianced to heaven, by the last awful tie. She went alone, through the holy place, to the high altar, and there was seen, by those who casually observed her, like a prostrate statue, absorbed in an agony of prayer.

There they parted from her, but, on the morrow they sought her there in vain. She left no relic of her presence. They found no traces of her flight. One thing only showed that she had been lately near. By the rose- bush of the Virgin was found a bough broken off, and thrown down upon the ground, one opening bud alone being taken from its stem. Save this slight indication of her taste, and of the tenderness of a crushed heart for even an inanimate thing, her fate and her history were a void. The wrath of the stern Earl was terrible, but it was as vain as the quiet lamentations of the sisterhood. She, whom they deemed a perjured nun, was gone, and, apparently, gone for ever.

The solemn beauty of her pale countenance was missed for a time, but, as no tidings of the fugitive were received, the impression caused by her loss waxed fainter and yet more faint. The name of the fugitive was scarcely ever mentioned ; her empty place was filled up by another ; her memory was, as it were, a tale that is told. Years glided along, and passed lightly, as time ever passes, over the community of Holy Vale.

Yet still, even in a religious society, the hand of the great leveller comes down, gathering, one by one, the human blossoms on the tree of life. The sisters were called from their simple duties, and left the grey walls for a home more lasting, but scarcely more silent or more sad. The stately Abbess laid down her life and her authority together, and bequeathed her mild sceptre to her successor. Those who had known Sister Mary, and had pondered tearfully over her disappearance, at the moment when they deemed her about to win an immortal crown were removed from the scene.

Two or three only, at an advanced age, still lingered on. They spoke sometimes of the mystery of Sister Mary’s flight, but all hope of clearing it up was gone. The register of the angel on high could alone solve the terrible problem. To earth, and to mortal eyes, it was^ apparently, a sealed volume, to be opened only by a mightier hand than that of man. So, however, it was not fated to be.

The eve of Easter Tuesday had again come round, and had fallen late in the year, on exactly the same day as that on which sister Mary had been lost to God and to them, as it seemed, for ever. The eve of the same Tuesday had once more brought its duties, and its religious observances ; for a solemn mass was performed for her who had so unaccountably vanished, and Heaven was entreated for her. It was observed that the rose-bush put forth its earliest and choicest blossoms, in loving profusion. A spirit of peace, and a sacred blessing, appeared to be floating over the hallowed spot

During vespers, a sweet voice seemed to mingle with the choir, as though an angel sang. Next morning the great doors of the chapel were thrown open, as was usual on occasions of state, for matins. The Abbess entered, at the head of her train, but the building was not untenanted. It was already occupied by One, upon whom was impressed the grandeur, and the sanctity, conferred by an immortal power from its contact with that which is mortal. Death, that consecrates by its touch, and hallows eyen while it slays, had been busy there.

A form lay upon the highest step, before the great altar, its hands clasped upon its bosom in the attitude of prayer, and so marble-like and motionless that it might have been deemed an effigy on a tomb. There was no mistaking its dread repose, nor its rigid limbs, nor the stony expression of its upturned face.

Death was frozen in its lineaments of rare beauty, but the expression was as calm and child-like as though they were but composed in sleep, and a sweet smile played about the lips, fixed there, perhaps, by the guardian angel, that bore away the departing spirit from a frame so fair. The form was one of early womanhood, and was clothed in the dress of a novice of the house. Upon the cold bosom, and on the heart that throbbed no more with life, was placed a rose bud, apparently long gathered, but yet as fresh as though newly plucked from its stem.

The sisters crowded round the figure, sleeping in its awful loveliness. The two aged nuns recognised it at once. It was their lost sister, Mary. They buried her where she lay. It was vain to ask by what miracle she. bad been preserved and given back, in her pure and perfect innocence, for by her outward beauty they might be assured of that within. Perhaps the rose bud had guarded her from temptation, and had imparted to her strength to resist it. So they committed her to the dust, with her body sinless and undefiled, and raised above her a marble monument; and the fame of Holy Vale, and of its sacred flower, flourished in the land.

Save those survivors of her sisterhood, there remained, indeed, none to inquire into her fate. Men spoke of a secret passage, leading from the chapel to St. Mary’s, at Old Town, by which she had escaped, and joined her faithful tirewoman; but these surmises led to no result. The stem Earl was dead. Jocelyn de St Martin had died too, in harness, warring against the infidels. When she thus came back, raised, as it were, from the grave, only to be restored to it for ever, she had as little affinity to the old and feeble nuns, as she had felt, when, more than a generation before, she had walked in haughty solitude, beneath that roof. Her presence there troubled them, with its unearthly brightness, and its strange gift of youth, and the contrast of its angelic freshness with their wrinkled and forbidding brews. So they buried her where she lay, in the odour of her sanctity, and in her undying beauty.