Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

Warning: Accents ahead.

Chapter 27 – Saint in a Box

"Sir, are you all right?"

To be perfectly honest, Grégoire was not. The walk from Dublin to Drogheda had worn him out. Usually walking thirty miles over two days would be no trouble for him, but he had not recovered as well from last summer as he presumed. He was only still standing because of his staff. "Yes." His voice said otherwise, and he looked sideways to the priest who had come up from behind him. "Just let me –" Without question, the priest came and helped him to the pew before the shrine. He gave a little cry as his back hit the hard wood. "I will be all right. Thank you."

Now that he was sitting, he was sure he would be. He still could see the gorgeous shrine before him, with the afternoon sun just coming through the stained glass, and all the candles lit around the relic. Behind the glass was the head of Oliver Plunkett, the Catholic protestor who had been martyred by English authorities in 1681. There was talk about making him a saint, but nothing could be done without England's consent, and England would hardly consent. Or, that was what the man at the entrance told him through a thick brogue.

Grégoire crossed himself. He had missed Mass, as it was already late afternoon when he arrived, but he heard one in Dublin the day before and to his great delight. The last Catholic Mass he heard was in July of the previous year.

"Ye al' right?"

This time it came from the man next to him, who had just sat down. This man was no priest, just an ordinary fellow in shabby clothing who had kneeled before the altar first. "To be honest, I'm a little tired."

"Yer nade a draink?"

He nodded.

The man passed him a flask, which apparently contained very watery whiskey, which quenched his thirst somewhat, even though it lit a fire in his throat. "Thank you," he whispered, passing it back to him.

"Wha ye from, fella? yisser accent is fierce quare."

"Lots of places," he said. "France. England. Bavaria. Spain. Pick what you like."

"Been travelin' donkey's years, den?"

He nodded again. "Yes." He felt better now, sitting, and with the whiskey dulling the pain. "Why do you come to this shrine?"

"I suppose a noggin in de box is bloody disturbin', isn't it? but we 'av ter git our relics wha we can git dem."

To think, he had once taken relics for granted. The Irish and English relics had all been destroyed in the Dissolution, and the bones of saints finally buried, often in unmarked graves. "Yes, I suppose that's true." He smiled.

"Hugh McGowan."

He shook the offered hand. "Grégoire Bellamont."

"Grey-wha?"

He laughed. "It's French for Gregory."

"Yer nade a place ter stay, Gregory?"

"Just for a few days, yes." Whatever the rate was, he could pay it. That was not his concern. His concern was that he could barely stand, and Hugh took his arm and put it over his broad shoulders.

Hugh did not live far. The tiny apartment on the outskirts of town was not far from St. Peter's Church. "We're startin' dat hostin' business," Hugh announced to the woman in an apron standing in the doorway. "All we got is a cot an' food. 's that all right, Mr. Greywar Bella – Bellamen – "

"Just Gregory," he said. "And yes, anything is fine."

He was introduced to Mrs. McGowan, first name Nora, before he requested to rest before supper. The night before he had slept on the side of a road with his bag as a pillow, so the fur-covered cot was a vast improvement.

When he woke it was dark outside. A single wax candle was burning on the wooden table. There was no separation between the kitchen and the sitting room where he was housed, only a room in the back that was presumably their bedroom. Mrs. McGowan sat alone at the table, and rose when he joined her. "Al' we 'av is sum stew. I wasn' 'spectin' visitors."

"Anything you have would be lovely, Mrs. McGowan."

He couldn't tell what was in the stew, aside from potatoes, but he didn't care. He was used to either a monastic diet or the fancy ten-course Pemberley dinners, so it was a nice medium. After grace he ate his portion, and then a second. "Thank you."

"Yer English is very – English."

"I learned it from my family," he said, "on my father's side. Before that it was more like yours."

"An' yer ma?"

"French."

"So what're you doin' in backend Ireland, Mr. Gregory?"

He smiled. "I don't know, properly. There are some places I wanted to visit. Pilgrim sites I read about."

"Answers ter yer spiritual questions. most people go elsewhere for dat."

"I've been to Rome," he said. "And I don't have the strength to go to Jerusalem. So, here I am."

"An' yer git a noggin in a box."

"I suppose it's better than an empty box."

They shared a laugh and chatted about the local sites before he paused. "Excuse me. It's time for prayer."

"It's noight, Mr. Gregory."

"I know. Compline," he said, and excused himself to the other side of the room. Mrs. McGowan disappeared to give him privacy as he sat in prayer, rising when he was finished to have more of the local beer.

"'s a monastic thing," she said. "Innit?"

"Yes. I used to be a monk." When she showed no disgust at the idea that he had left whatever religious order he had been in, he continued, "Some habits are hard to break. Nor do I wish to break them. Good night, Mrs. McGowan."

"Gran' noight, Gregory. Sleep well."

Her prediction was accurate. He slept like the dead.

The next morning, Hugh offered to take him to Mellifont Abbey, Ireland's oldest Cistercian monastery. The ruins were open for tourists, but Hugh's guidance was absolutely necessary to find the place. Beyond that, he could only really guess at what the various ruins were, but the decaying structures were obvious enough that Grégoire was able to recognize most of them. The grey stone of the columns from one row of cloister arches remained intact, standing alone beside stone floor and grass. The only fully-standing building was the chapter house, though the windows were long gone, and there were birds roosting in the inside grooves of the arches.

"What were yeh?" Hugh said. "I mean, before?"

"Benedictine. But I was a novice as a Cistercian in France. That monastery dissolved. Then the one in Bavaria did. There are some left in Austria, but I went to Spain instead," he said, looking down at the floor of the charter-house and noticing the indentations where the heavy wooden pews had one sat. What happened to the wood after the Dissolution? Was it chopped for firewood, or was it sitting in some aristocrat's house, himself unaware of its holy origins?

They made it back to Drogheda proper for High Mass at St. Peter's church. Hugh, who was out of work until the summer harvest, brought Grégoire back to his house. There Grégoire wrote a brief letter to Darcy, saying he had arrived safely in Drogheda. He did not anticipate a long stay.

The next day they traveled to Monasterboice, an abbey of a different sort, dating before the Norman invasion and containing one of the many unexplained round towers and beautiful Celtic crosses of stone. Carved in relief were the stories of Eve tempting Adam, Cain slaying Abel, Moses striking the rock, the life of Christ – almost the entire bible on the great Muiredach cross. It was Grégoire who was tour guide now, easily able to decipher the pictography.

"What do ya tink dey mean?" Hugh asked, pointing to the round tower.

"I don't know," he said. "I have a relative who traveled to India, where there are thousands of towers like that. I forget what he said they were called, but the Mohammedians prayed five times a day, so five times a day, a man with a loud voice would climb to the top and call them all to prayer."

"Loike, Saracens?"

"Yes. This was in India. Here we have bells to tell us the time, but the principle is the same, I suppose."

"Kinda a heretical ting to be sayin'?"

"If I was a monk, I suppose so," he said with a smile. "Alas, I am not."

After they returned from High Mass, Grégoire decided he would leave in the morning. He had to begin his path west to see the ancient burial sites of Brú na Bóinne. He spent most of the afternoon resting and enjoyed a final hearty meal with the McGowans.

When he rose at half past three for Vigils, Nora McGowan was up. She had gone to bed earlier, but she was sitting up now at her kitchen table with a cup of mead.

"Mrs. McGowan," he bowed. Not quite sure what the proper thing to do was, he sat down across from her and she filled a cup for him from the pot. It was not hot or cold, and had the flavor of honey, but otherwise was fairly tasteless.

They sat in silence for a while. She seemed hypnotized by the single burning flame of the candle that lit the room. He sipped his mead.

"Why did yeh leave de church, Mr. Gregory?" It was not an accusation; it was a question.

"I don't know how to answer that question properly," he said. "It was a mixture of the politics of Rome and my own zealous devotion, which nearly killed me. I'm not damned, just forbidden to take holy orders." He added, "I didn't know how to find the balance between physical devotion and preserving my health, and no one would teach me. Instead they cast me out." When she seemed satisfied with the answer, he asked, "Why does your husband go to pray at the shrine every day?"

She did not look at him. She had not been looking at him for the entire conversation. "Our only current bun – de wan sprog dat lived, didn't cum 'um from de war."

"He died at Waterloo?"

"Maybe," she said. "Maybe not. 'e's not on de rolls. 'e just disappeared. Could be alive fer all we know."

"Have you tried going to London? They have more official registries there."

She turned to him. "Do ya tink we can afford ta go ta London?"

"I'm sorry." He paused, and put down his mug. "What was his regiment? Do you know? Do you have all of his information?"

"Aye, why?"

"Because I have relatives in London. I could write them and ask them to look." It had been three years – he was most likely dead, buried in a mass grave in France. But unless his whole regiment was in the grave with him, someone would know. They knew that – they had to know that. "It's no trouble," he said to her start of a response. "Just give me all his information and I will write it down and send it to my brother."

"We wouldn't want ta beholden – "

"It's no trouble, I assure you," he said, and could not be persuaded otherwise. He did not excite her hopes of finding their son alive, or at all, but if there was information to be found, it would be in London.

When they saw him off the next morning with a few day's worth of food packed in his satchel, it was in tears, not from how well he paid his bill, but from his promise and the letter he sent out by courier that very morning. "Bejasus bless yeh, Mr. Gregory."

"I hope He sees fit to do so," he said.

Following the river Boyne, Grégoire slowly made his way to Brú na Bóinne, also known as Quarters of the Boyne in proper English. It had no Christian significance, but he was right here, and he decided that there was G-d's glory in any beautiful sight before his eyes.

There was no guide, and there was no one who knew properly how to guide him. This history was lost. He wandered the stone tombs, with their intricate carvings, as the early Irish were so proud of doing. They loved spirals and knots.

He once had a theological discussion with the abbot in Bavaria. "What about all the souls that came before Christ? Was it only the Israelites who were saved, or all people?"

"Our L-rd G-d spoke to other people before He sent His son to earth. Even before Abraham, he gave Noah laws. If people followed them, they went to heaven."

"What if they never heard of Noah? Did G-d speak to other people we don't know about?"

The abbot paused and then answered, "Everyone knew Noah. He was the only one to survive the flood!"

"Of course! Thank you, Father!"

Grégoire smiled at the memory as he sat on the grass before a burial mound. It had all been so simple, the answers all waiting for him. I should have asked about the people who came before the flood! He thought, and slapped himself in amusement.

He wandered south, chasing ruin after ruin of worlds that had passed on. There was Boyle Abbey, the Monastery of Clonmacnoise, and finally he went east again to see the Jerpoint Abbey, another Ciscertian Abbey founded after the Norman invasion. The structure still stood in stone, without windows and with a new floor of grass. He was hardly the only tourist there. He mouthed along with the guide as the man laid out the Carta Caritatis (Charter of Love)'s basic principles – Obedience, Poverty, Chastity, Silence, Prayer, and Work. With some disappointment Grégoire noted that he fulfilled only one, maybe two of those principles in his actions (the other being work). He nevertheless felt calmed by the beautiful structure, covered in moss and ivy.

Upon leaving the grounds he felt a certain despair – he had seen many dead things and many living people, but had he learned anything? Was his time well spent?

He wandered north, unconsciously heading back to Dublin, stopping at inns as he went, occasionally staying with a family or out in the open. He had been traveling for over a month in total when he stopped at a house in a small farming community and asked if there were any sites around.

Grégoire had tried going around with a bowl and begging for his food, as did the Buddha, but it was too strange a custom. He could only answer honestly when they inquired if he had money on him (which he did – often more than their savings) so he looked like a rogue. Instead he offered to do chores for a meal, and chopped wood and milked cows, and sometimes stayed the night.

At this particular house he inquired after any churches around, or places of interest, as he had already missed High Mass. The small structure housed a working family – a husband and wife and several children running around behind them. The father introduced himself as Mr. O'Muldoon.

"There's ruins out back," he said, pointing. "In de woods. Yer can't miss de wee stone tower."

He thanked them and left, wandering into the forest. This was the place where legends had it that fairies roamed, but he did not believe in such nonsense. He was nearly in despair as he spotted the little enclosure, because it was starting to rain. It was no more than what had probably been the nave of a church, but some of the stone roof was preserved even if the back was not, so that he could sit beneath it and be dry. There were, he noticed now, lumps of fallen stones elsewhere in the grass, with dirt over them. This site had been long-abandoned, but tonight, it would be his home.

As the rain came down, he lit his only candle and set it carefully in the corner, on the stone floor. There was something there. Taking the candle in one hand, he began to wipe away the grime and dirt to find a tiny mosaic portraiture of some saint, not clearly defined but recognizable for his traditional tonsure and golden halo. He had a staff in one hand and his other hand pointed with one finger in some direction. Was it Patrick? It was probably Patrick. He crossed himself. "It is just you and me tonight," he said to the saint, and began Vespers. Afterwards he ate a little black bread, and at Compline, extinguished the candle and drifted off to sleep. The rain had let up, but he was hardly going wandering through the wet woods at night, so he rested his head on his sack and slept.

When he woke for Vigils it was sudden, and the candle was lit again. Had he not put it out? It was thick enough to not be burned down. In a haze he sat up, and stared at the saint. He's pointing.

Grégoire barely remembered saying prayers or going back to sleep. He woke for Lauds and it was light out. The candle was out, and had not burned down, and it was dry and sunny, but the saint was still pointing. "Thank you," he said, crossing himself, and projected the exact angle of the finger in the mosaic set in stone. It lead to a path, not the one he had come through but one going in a similar direction.

He left the woods hungry. He was out of food, having not thought to acquire it from the O'Muldoons. The rest of his stuff was too hard or moldy to eat. When he merged onto the dirt path, he tried to point himself in the saint's direction, which helped him pick a direction.

His stomach was growling terribly when an hour had passed and he came up on a small house with smoke from the chimney – a sign that despite its isolation, it was not abandoned. There were also some chickens running around, and he heard the bell of a cow from behind the wooden building. There was some attempt at a vegetable garden on the right side, but the crops were not doing well.

Grégoire readjusted his satchel, which hung over his shoulder and by his side instead of on his back, and stepped up the stairs to the porch and front door. "Hello?" His hand was still on the door from the knock when it pulled back to reveal a woman with strawberry blond hair, long and straight, standing there as if she had been expecting him. Clearly she had seen his approach.

"'ill ye be 'avin sumndin?" she said, arms crossed.

"I am terribly sorry," he said, bowing, "but I will gladly perform some labor for you if you would feed this hungry pilgrim."

She looked him over – he could not be anything but a strange Christian pilgrim in his odd dress. "We don't 'av any grub."

"You – you have a cow. I could milk it for you."

"Dat coy 'asn't given me milk in days," she said. She stood mainly in darkness, her house unlit, but he could tell she was thin. "We don' even have any fuel for de fire ta cook yer food."

"I could chop wood," he said. "If you have an axe."

"For what? For free? I told yeh – we don' have any food!"

He stepped back. "I'm sorry." He lowered his eyes, looking down at her bare feet. "I'm doing penance. Let me cut some wood for you and I'll be on my way." She obviously needed it more than he did. He had a sack of coins in a pouch under his shirt.

"Yeh're doin' things for free now?"

"Saint Benedict said that work was a form of prayer," he said, trying to give her whatever answer she needed to accept his offer.

This one seemed to work. "There'sn axe in de back, in de shed I t'ink."

He nodded. "Thank you."

There was plenty of wood – trees had fallen down everywhere and had been left uncut. He didn't know who else was living in that house, but they were clearly incapable of manual labor. He worked until his back began to ache, which coincided nicely with Sext, where he took a break and surveyed his work. He had cut enough firewood for several weeks. Perhaps that was why he was so exhausted. He leaned back and closed his eyes. If he nodded off, at least there was an axe by him.

"I got sum milk," the woman announced, and he opened his eyes to her standing over him, blocking the sun. "Guess de coy jist needed rest."

He nodded and stood up, but he needed his staff to do it. "I'm sorry," he said, as she looked surprised by his apparent exhaustion. "I refuse to accept my own limitations." He limped back with her to the house, where he was finally permitted entrance.

It only seemed to have two rooms – a bedroom and the main room, which was much larger. "Does anyone else live here?"

"No," she said. "But I 'av ter say dat when fierce quare men cum ter me door."

"Common sense," he said, taking a seat at the half-broken table. One leg was missing and a stump held it up. "I'm sorry. My name is Grégoire Bellamont."

"Yeh expect me ta pronounce dat?"

He smiled. "I can't pronounce Irish, so we're even. You can call me Gregory." He took the offered cup of milk and drank it greedily.

"I loike it. It's exotic. Greyware." She paused.

He chuckled. "Your accuracy is stunning, Miss – "

"Caitlin. MacKenna."

"Miss MacKenna."

"Yeh sound so proper – but yer not English, yer French."

"Born in France. My father's English. He ... had an affair with his maid." He said it because it made her chuckle and spit out her milk, which made him laugh.

"So wha yeh live?"

"Raised in France, went to England, then Bavaria, then Spain, came home to England ... and now here. If you want to know why, my guess is as good as yours. I just try to walk in G-d's path."

"Yer soun' loike a priest."

"I used to be a monk."

"You left de church?"

"The church left me."

She did not inquire after that. It was obviously too loaded a question. "Well, dere's nuthin special out here."

"There are some ruins in the woods about a mile back."

"Really? I don' – I don' know, wander around." She took his empty cup from him and refilled it. "'suppose you'll want ter know wha me family is."

"I met the O'Muldoons," he said, "but they didn't mention you."

"Noice couple. Laddies are screamers, but not really brutal."

He nodded.

"Bejasus, yer polite."

"Do you want me to be otherwise?"

"It makes me uneasy."

He looked down at his cup, then up at her again. "How far are you along?"

The question did not strike her as hard as he thought it would, but she did look as though something had hit her, however much she had been expecting something along those lines. "T'ree months."

He just nodded.

"Am I showin'?" She was covered in a blue, ratty gown that was rather shapeless.

"No, but you keep putting your hand over your stomach."

She laughed. It was nice to hear. "Yer a smart bugger." She poured the last of the milk into her cup and sat down across from him. "Me ma and pa didn't approve, whaen we said we wud git married. Wanted nothing ta do wit' me. And he didn' want nothing to do wit' me, either." She put a hand over her forehead, blocking eye contact. "He bought me some medicine ta get rid of it. I said no."

He crossed himself, but only gestured for her to continue.

"So he kicked me out. But he gave me a wee nicker for de road, an' I bought dis gaff wi' it." She looked down. "An' 'ere I am."

"Is there a town around here? Somewhere to buy food?"

"'s about foive miles down de road."

"Is the market still open?"

"'til dusk."

He stood up. "Then I had better get going. Thank you for your hospitality, Miss MacKenna. I will return, with G-d's help, in a few hours."

"I can't pay yeh."

"Money means nothing to me," he said. "Too many years as a monk, I suppose." And with that, he abruptly left her presence and set off to town.

When he returned, it was getting dark, and his back ached again from being laden with packages. She looked shocked – almost horrified – to see him politely enter and then set them all down on her kitchen table. "There's bread – and grain, for the cow and chickens – and some mead, and some whiskey, and sugar – "

"Sugar!"

" – and I don't know, some other things." He collapsed into his seat, the day's events wearing on him, and it was almost time for Vespers. "Excuse me. It's time for prayer." Without another word, he walked out the door and to the side of the house, where he recited the entire service by heart to the setting sun. She had opened all the packages and the contents were scattered, but she was standing there, quite uncomfortable in her own house. "I'm sorry. Have I done something wrong?"

"Yer always apologizing," she said. "I can't pay fer dis."

"I told you, you don't have to – "

"Ye even a pilgrim? Who ye?"

He sighed. It was always about his blasted money. "My English family is quite wealthy. My brother will give me whatever I want. But possessions mean nothing to me, besides the necessities of life. That's the way I was raised and it remains my mindset," he said. "Food is a necessity – for both of you."

"Do yeh – do yeh want somethin'?"

He sighed. "I'm very tired. May I sleep on your floor tonight?"

"That's it?"

"Yes, Miss MacKenna – that is it." He rubbed his eyes. "And if you excuse me – I am very tired, and would like to sleep a little before Compline."

"Oh. Yes. Of course," she said, and disappeared into her room, emerging with a rug. "I'm sorry – "

"It will be fine. I can sleep on stone. Thank you." He laid out the mat and a small pillow from his bag.

"Dere's nothin' else?"

"No, Miss McKenna."

"Yer sure?"

"Yes."

She did not seem to believe him. Perhaps she had calculated how much he had spent and knew she owed him a small fortune. He laid down, but she would not let him sleep. "Are yeh still a monk or somethin'?"

"What? No, I said, I've actually been -," it dawned on him that she was hovering over him in a particular manner. "No, no! That is not why I came here." He could feel his cheeks burning. "That is not what this is about. If I sent the wrong signals – "

She stepped back, a little alarmed. Perhaps they were both embarrassed. "I just – I didn't know. Fer sure."

"No, please! I assure you, nothing of the kind. I am not under any ... vow, but that is not why I came here. Please believe me."

Her face was red now, too. "I believe yeh. I'm sorry, I tought – It doesn't matter. Forget it."

He nodded, unable to think of anything else to say, and she disappeared into her bedroom. He did not, however, find sleep before Compline, only afterwards, and it was an uneasy one at that.

Grégoire rose as he always did for prayer in the dead of night, lighting a candle to find his way and not trip over half the kitchen. He was not successful and knocked over a chair.

"Yeh need anyt'ing?"

"No!" he said, embarrassed again. "I just – am very clumsy, trying to find my prayer book." He turned and saw her in the hallway leading to her bedroom, holding her own candle.

"Well if ye don' mind - I'm starvin,'" she said, and began to tear through the bread, starting with the white and moving to the black. "Oh G-d, I've been so hungry."

"A normal human response. I get hungry and I'm accustomed to fasting for any reason."

She downed her bread with milk. "Yeh were really a monk? Robes and everyt'ing? Funny haircut?"

He ran a hand over the top of his head. "It just grew back, actually."

"Why did they keck yer out?"

"Many reasons, but mainly, I think I would have killed myself with my monkery," he said. "Martin Luther said that, but it's true for me too. Without the heresy."

She finished off the milk. "It wud be a shame."

"If what?"

"If yea'd killed yerself. Yer such a good man."

"Thank you."

The silence lasted a long time for an awkward silence. He wasn't counting, but it must have been a good twenty seconds before she kissed him, and there was no sacred or religious resistance. They practically toppled over the table. "Watch the back," he said. She was right; he wasn't a monk anymore. At that moment, he certainly didn't want to be.

"I didn't come here for this," he said, forcing himself to pull away from her for a brief moment. It was also to catch his breath. "Everything I told you was true. Do you want me to go?"

"Stupid monk," she said. "Am I actin' loike I want yeh ter leave?" She paused. "Is it 'cuz of the – "

He shushed her, taking her hand away from his shoulder and putting them both on her stomach, where there was a small swelling. "No. I just – am not very experienced with women."

If it bothered her, she brokered no opposition. Grégoire did not leave the house, but he did not return to his mat on the floor, either.

... Next Chapter - Missives From Ireland