The story of the Abbot’s Way is one of those ancient tales which are all but impossible to validate. It’s true that many of the books which include the tale make the
legend sound almost feasible . . . but not to a truly cynical mind. For one example, look at the little booklet
Dartmoor Legends Retold – vol. II
by T.H. Gant and W.L. Copley,
published by Baron Jay.
I picked this story as the start point for my novel because it offers an attractive amount of detail – the name of the Abbot of Tavistock of the time (Walter), the fact that there was a
dispute with the monks of Plymstock Abbey (I changed this to Buckfast because I can find no record of an abbey in Plymstock) and the name of the leading protagonist, Milbrosa. However, lest there
be any doubt, I personally do not believe that the legend as retold here has any historical validity. It is a curiosity, nothing more.
In some ways this story shows the extreme difficulty of being accurate when you are writing historical works. While it is possible that somewhere amongst the old Abbey papers a record of the
event exists, I seriously doubt it. If such a record was there, the keen eye of Professor H.P. R. Finberg would have spotted it years ago, and he would have gleefully reported it in his superb
history
Tavistock Abbey
(Cambridge University Press, 1951).
The way that history, or much of it, has been passed down through the centuries is not by means of researched and authenticated material, but by word of mouth. Stories which once bore a shred of
truth are now so embellished and distorted that the man behind the myth of Robin Hood, for example, would be hard put to recognise himself, just as the Dark Ages warlord King Arthur (if he ever
existed) would be astonished to hear about Camelot and his Knights of the Round Table. Word-of-mouth stories
were
subsequently written down, of course, and then were copied out by others
and used as ‘historical’ documents. In this way we learn of the flight of Brutus (not the assassin) from Troy and his eventual landing in Devonshire, where he wrestled with and beat the
indigenous population of giants, thereby taking over the entire kingdom of England, Wales and Scotland. That story, originally invented by Virgil, appeared in many monastic histories after Geoffrey
of Monmouth first penned it. Subsequently, when King Edward I needed a justification to lay claim to Scotland, his spin-doctors hit upon the idea of following up this Roman concept. If the original
men to arrive on Albion found a single, discrete political unit which they conquered, the logic said, the island always had been one entity, and still should be; thus the King of England was
obviously the King of Scotland and Wales.
The Scots disputed this. Then, as now, they distrusted the ‘spin’ or propaganda emanating from Westminster. This claim, and the Scottish rejection of it, was to bedevil Anglo-Scots
relations for hundreds of years, until the Scots agreed to let the English share their Royal Family in 1603 (James VI of Scotland; James I of England).
So what of the Abbot’s Way itself?
We know that hundreds of years ago a series of stone crosses was erected in southern Dartmoor. At some point it was given the name of the Abbot’s Way. This could have been because the
Victorians noticed that it ran from the Abbey at Buckland to the Abbey at Buckfast – but others have disputed this. R. Hansford Worth points out that many tracks across the moors were
well-defined long before the monasteries were built. The path from Buckfast to Nun’s Cross is unmarked by crosses – although they could have been stolen, of course. In his book
Worth’s Dartmoor
(1967) he proposes that if the Abbot of Buckfast
did
sponsor a new path, it would have gone by Holne over the Holne Ridge to Horn’s Cross. From there
it went over Horse Ford on the O Brook to Down Ridge (where there are two crosses), on to Ter Hill, and then to Childes Tomb via Mount Misery. After a cross west of Fox Tor Mire, it led to
Nun’s, or Siward’s, Cross. After this section, the route follows more closely the way marked on modern Ordnance Survey maps.
Now, I cannot claim any great knowledge of this part of the moor, but I rather like Worth’s methodology: seeking out and following the line of all the crosses – and, of course, there
were more of them in his time. And those which had gone in Worth’s day were still sometimes remembered by his contemporaries (who had themselves dug them up to use as gateposts), so for the
purposes of this book I have assumed that Worth was correct. If you look at the map of the area, it is very noticeable that on the route suggested above, between Buckfast and Nun’s Cross, you
pass nine stone crosses; by following the route marked as the ‘Abbot’s Way’ on the map, you pass two. If the Abbot’s Way was marked by crosses, which route is more
likely?
If you wish to follow in the footprints of the story, I would recommend Eric Hemery’s excellent
Walking Dartmoor’s Ancient Tracks
(Robert Hale, 1986). Like me, Hemery
prefers Worth’s route rather than the curious one given on the OS maps. And don’t forget to buy the Dartmoor Rescue Group’s book on walks in Dartmoor, because it gives excellent
advice on all aspects of walking. Most of all, enjoy the feel of the moors. There are few places in our crowded little island where we can really see how things would have been, hundreds of years
ago. Dartmoor has changed in many ways, but as you stand at Siward’s Cross and gaze south and east, it is easy to sense the millions of people who have tramped past here over the centuries,
through rain and sleet, frozen to the marrow, undernourished and desperate, and weighed down by overwork.
I only hope you don’t feel the same as them!
Michael Jecks
Dartmoor
July 2001
When they sat down in the old man’s room on that Tuesday evening, it was the scar that initially held them all spellbound, rather than his stories.
The room was only small, the fire resting in a slight hollow in the middle of the floor, and the novices seated around it. The Almoner hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head
moving from side to side as he studied each boy. Gerard the young acolyte felt a shudder of revulsion pass through his frame as Brother Peter’s gaze passed over him. In this dim light, the
Almoner looked like a demon viewing his prey. Gerard almost expected to see him sprout wings.
Away from the fire there was no light at this time of night, and the wind was gusting in the court outside, making a curious thumping as it caught ill-fitting doors and rattled them in their
frames. This dismal sound was accompanied by the constant rumble and clatter of the corn mill next door; its low grumbling made itself felt through Gerard’s bony buttocks as he sat on the
floor.
Gerard gawped at the Almoner’s terrible wound, knowing he shouldn’t, fearing that at any moment, the man would look up and catch him at it.
Old Peter was aloof mostly, far above the novices in his supreme authority, yet most of them rather liked him. He rarely had to raise his voice to command their respect, rarely had to offer them
the strap; he could keep them obedient and quiet through the mere force of his will. Yet Gerard didn’t much care for Brother Peter. Not now. And the lad was incapable of averting his eyes.
Even as the Almoner turned his gaze from them to the fire, his thin head nodding, his lip curled ever so slightly at the sight of the novices, as though it was hard to imagine that so pathetic a
bunch of young males could have been selected from the length and breadth of Devon, Gerard fixed on that hideous mark, wondering anew how painful it had been.
Even after four or five years, Almoner Peter’s wound glowed in the firelight, a livid, six-inch cicatrice that began beneath his ear and ran along the line of his jaw to his chin.
It must have hurt like hell, Gerard told himself as the Almoner began his story. Most men would have died after receiving such a blow; it said something about Peter’s powers of endurance
that he had not only survived it, but had managed to teach himself to talk again, even with his jawbone shattered and no teeth on that side. The boy shuddered as he imagined a heavy blade shearing
through
his
flesh,
his
bone,
his
teeth.
Old Peter enjoyed talking, particularly when he was relating tales like this one. Gerard could see his eyes glinting, reflecting the sparks from the fire as the logs settled. To Gerard tonight,
he looked mean and malevolent, cunning and cruel. It wasn’t Peter’s fault, it was the acolyte’s reaction to the threat he’d been given. He kept darting nervous looks at his
neighbours: any one of them might be the agent of his ruin, simply by seeing him going about his business. Not that any of the novices looked too bothered right now. They were all busy listening
open-mouthed to the Almoner as he related another of the old legends.
‘Aye, it was a miserable winter’s day, when Abbot Walter set off for Buckfast, many years ago now, and Abbot Walter had a long, hard way of it. Strong of character, he was. Brave.
Off he went, aye, him with none but his advisers and a few clerks to take notes, and all because of an argument between Tavistock here and the Brothers at Buckfast.’
The Almoner paused and stared about him, mouth slightly open, tongue noisily burrowing at the gap where his teeth should have been. He often did this, as though it was an aid to thought, but
Gerard privately believed that it was an affectation, one which Peter had cultivated to repel novices.
‘Aye, Abbot Walter was a good, holy man. He lived as the Rule dictated, and he expected his monks to do the same.’ He glowered at the boys as though expecting modern youths like them
to dispute the justice of Abbot Walter’s attitude. Shaking his head he stared into the flames before continuing gruffly.
‘Like you, they were, some of them: always wanting more ale and wine and meat than they needed. And when the Abbot was gone, the bad ones among them decided to make the most of his
absence. One in particular, there was – an acolyte called Milbrosa, learning the ways of the chantry, a happy, cheery fellow with a winning manner and an open, honest face, the sort of man
who finds it easy to make friends. Bold, he was, and disrespectful – always prepared to make jest of older monks. He scoffed when he was told that his levity would lead to punishment –
if not in this world, then in the next.
‘Aye, he behaved like many of you would. When a cat dies, they say that the rats will dance and sing, and that’s how Milbrosa and the younger monks were when Abbot Walter left.
Before his packhorse had even crossed under the Court Gate, Milbrosa led a few of his friends down to the undercroft beneath the Abbot’s lodging, and there they broke into a barrel of his
best wine.’
There was a subdued intake of breath. The novices listened intently, utterly absorbed as he spoke, not because his strange, slurred speech made him difficult to understand, but because Peter
seemed to take an almost sadistic pleasure in seeing how badly he could terrify his young audience. And the youngsters loved to be thrilled by his fearsome tales.
His voice dropped, and all had to lean forward and strain to pick up his words as he said grimly, ‘You can imagine it. Five monks all vying to swallow more than any other, like so many
Scotch gluttons set loose to pillage a tavern!’
Gerard could hear the hot fury in his voice, and he saw a small gobbet of spittle fly from Peter’s lips. It flew through the air, falling with a short hiss into the fire. Yet when he
lifted his eyes to the old monk, Peter’s angry mood had flown. He was contemplatively tugging at a thread of his gown.
‘Aye. Drunks. A terrible thing. Milbrosa was the worst of them. He’d have emptied a whole pipe on his own if he could. They guzzled their fill, getting horribly, beastly drunk,
befouling themselves, spewing and retching, and yet returning to wash away the taste, drinking more and more, forgetting their divine duties, ignoring the bells calling them to Mass, not attending
the Chapter meetings. It was a terrible thing. Terrible.
‘But they couldn’t remain besotted for ever. After some days, they gradually stirred themselves among the wreckage and filth they had created there, and when they saw what they had
done, the appalling truth of their crimes broke upon them like a thunderous wave smiting a ship.’
He sat with that characteristic twisting of his features as he imagined the scene in his mind’s eye. Gerard wondered whether the hideous grimace was in truth nothing more than a relaxation
of his face – it was the nearest the Almoner could come to a smile since the Scottish reivers he so detested had attacked him and left him for dead.
‘You can just see it, can’t you? There they all were, bepissed with terror in the undercroft. They had stolen from the Abbot, and stealing is a terrible sin. But worse, they had
taken his favourite wines! What more evil crime could a man commit? There they lay, moaning and groaning, waiting for the earth to open and swallow them, or for the ceiling to fall and crush them.
That would be preferable to their pain . . . or living with the shame of their sins!’
Gerard shivered. ‘
The shame of their sins
,’ he repeated to himself. The boy knew instinctively that Peter was thinking of
him
as he spoke those words, because Peter
had guessed he was a thief; he had seen Gerard at night, and later he had warned him, telling him to confess his crimes and stop his sinning. The Almoner’s scowling features had petrified the
boy – although not so much as the man who had ordered him to steal just once more, or be exposed to the Abbot as the thief he was.
‘They set themselves to with a will,’ Old Peter resumed. ‘All went to the Chapter meeting and confessed their guilt – not that they needed to. Their brother monks were
well aware of what had been done, and Milbrosa’s enemies were pleased, because they hoped this would be an end to him. But Milbrosa was no fool. He knew that he could avert the Abbot’s
anger if he simply replenished the stores, but he had no money with which to purchase good wine. Like all of us, he had taken the vow of poverty.