Chapter Two

Glenstal Abbey

     McLaughlin and Harant asked the driver of their 1928 Ford to stop. Rolling hills of a deep bluish green stretched off to the east. They had driven south of the largest hills in western Ireland, known as the “Twelve Bens”. Once they were through Connemara, they began looking for Glenstal, a small village near the abbey.
  
     They were on a hill overlooking a small valley, in the center of which a large building and several smaller buildings were surrounded by a stonewall with an entry gate. Glenstal Abbey, an imposing three-story structure with turrets at each corner, was centered inside the wall. The entry gate, which looked to be twelve feet high, made of heavy oak, had twin towers on each shoulder, fitted with defensive slits.
 
     “Almost like a castle, isn’t it?” commented their driver. “But it was built in the late 1600’s …the raids by the Norsemen had long since stopped. I think the Benedictine brothers who built the abbey believed they had to protect themselves from the pillagin’ of the English lords who thought they owned this land.”
  
     McLaughlin chuckled. Harant looked over at McLaughlin. He started to say something, but closed his mouth. He asked their driver to proceed to the abbey. It was evident that standing in front of the abbey was a welcoming party.
  
     There was a group of four men in front of the gate. Three were wearing monk’s habits and the fourth wore a dark-blue suit common to travelers and salesmen. The largest of the four, notorious for his girth, was bald with a wreath of hair surrounding his head.
  
    The abbot, Brother Malachi, standing in front of the massive gates, frowned when he saw the bandages wrapped around Harant’s head. What Malachi saw was a tall man of six feet and some inches, with the straight nose of a Roman Centurion. His deep blue eyes were smiling, but his mouth was turned down at the corners.
  
     The big monk smiled at Harant and McLaughlin. “Brothers Timothy and Adenoid will take you to your cells in the monastery building.” The slightly taller man in the suit, with sandy hair and a pipe in his mouth, nodded at Brother Malachi. “And this gentleman is Doctor William Smythe, a researcher from the Historical Society of Abingdon, over in England. He is researching the growth and decline of monasteries.”
  
     “Your embassy called this morning, to ask us to take a look at your head wound. Are you in pain right now? Your people are worried about a possible concussion,” continued the Abbot.
  
     “Yes,” Harant answered. He had a blitz of a headache, and the sun was hurting his eyes. But in front of these strangers, he was unwilling to admit a weakness. Harant shook hands with each of the four and explained that Seaman McLaughlin had been told to stay at the abbey to recuperate for two days before reporting to the naval station at Dublin. He introduced himself as Lieutenant John Harant, United States Navy. Dressed as he was in an old fishing coat, no one would have suspected he was an officer, let alone from a different navy.
  
     Brother Malachi’s face showed surprise, but he said simply, “And we will be gentle towards all …even a seaman from America.”

*****

     The next morning, Lieutenant Harant found the Abbot, Malachi and the researcher, Dr. Smythe at a table in the garden. He had slept late, and the monks were well into their morning duties when Harant went in search of some food and the good Abbot. They were seated at a large table of oak, weathered from many years of exposure. The thick table looked like it hadn’t been moved for a hundred years.
  
     Malachi asked him to join them, and placed a bowl with melon and a plate of bread in front of Harant.
  
     “You’re smiling a little this morning. Are you feeling better?” the monk inquired.
  
     “Yes. Much better. Thank you.” Harant was breaking off a piece of bread from the large loaf on the table. “McLaughlin is still sleeping …and I’m sure he needs it.” He reached for the pitcher and poured himself a mug of apple juice.
  
     “I am curious about something. Coming through the main hall of the abbey just now, I noticed several sets of armor on display, many shields, and other weapons. They seem at odds with what you said yesterday, about being gentle with all people.”
  
     “That’s part of the rule of our order. Be gentle towards all people. Our order, known as the Knights of Godfrey was founded about 1240 during the sixth crusade. Our first abbey was at Abingdon, in England. Here in Ireland, our main abbey was St. Conan’s Abbey, about ten miles from here. St. Conan’s, of course, is only ruins. But we hold and protect the records of the Knights of Godfrey.” Brother Malachi put down the mug he was holding and turned to the academic who was lighting a pipe. “Dr. Smythe has been reviewing these records for the past two weeks.”
  
     “Glenstal, I should add,” he said, “was built as a place of sanctuary during the reign of Oliver Cromwell.”
  
     “True,” added Dr. Smythe. He was cleaning his pipe while he talked. “The monks were seeking prayer and meditation. The most peaceful place for a monastery was in western Ireland, the farther from London the better. The monasteries were built, and a small community with many varied businesses grew up around the abbeys. However, the monks became so wrapped up in running their businesses that they spent less time in prayer and meditation. Discipline and devotion declined and many monasteries and abbeys never regained the practice.”
  
     “St. Conan’s Abbey was a magnificent structure. Its demise was due to Henry VIII and that barbarian Cromwell. Henry began dissolving monasteries so he could claim their wealth for the crown. But Cromwell destroyed St. Conan’s. He wiped out thousands of Irish and shipped thousands more off to places like Barbados as indentured servants.”
  
     “So, Glenstal was built in the late 1600’s …as a refuge against Cromwell’s men?” Harant asked.
  
     “That’s right. But Cromwell’s men never attacked. It contains one of the few surviving scriptoria built within an abbey. That’s the room where the monks copied and illustrated manuscripts.” Dr. Smythe was looking over his glasses at Harant. The young man was pushing his hair back with both hands, trying to put his hair in place.
  
     “Brother Malachi has allowed me to look through some of their manuscripts.” Dr. Smythe looked up at the sky for a moment and then he looked directly at Brother Malachi. “The Knights of Godfrey, according to rumor, were protecting an artifact that they acquired at Antioch during the First Crusade. I’ve located two references to the Golden Samar …that describe it as an eagle, with wings pointing upward.”
  
     “It was created to be a standard to be carried into battle,” added Brother Malachi. “And Dr. Smythe knows he should not be discussing his work in front of a stranger. Lieutenant, I hope you will forget what you just heard.”
  
     Harant looked at the monk, surprised by the tone of voice and the aura of authority with which Brother Malachi chastised the older man. And he said nothing. Dr. Smythe excused himself and left the table.
  
     “We are required to be gentle with all persons. But I wonder about that man,” added Brother Malachi.
  
     “How so?” asked the young lieutenant. He wasn’t sure of the protocol in talking to a monk, let alone addressing an Abbot.
  
     “He tells me he’s never been married. Brother Adenoid told me yesterday that he caught Dr. Smythe staring at one of our younger monks, who is “rather handsome” to quote Brother Adenoid. Then when you arrived, Adenoid noticed him staring at Seaman McLaughlin. You called him, Archie? Didn’t you? Well …this started me thinking about Dr. Smythe …if you follow my meaning?”
   
     “Well, I do, follow your meaning that is. But I can hardly claim to know the man, having just met him, can I?” added Harant. The Abbot looked away into the green hills of Ireland, for a long moment. He looked back at Harant.
  
     “What is your Christian name, Lieutenant?”
  
     “James Fynmore Harant. My great-grandfather was James Fynmore, a midshipman aboard His Majesty’s Ship Africa at Trafalgar. He rose to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel in the Royal Marines and was the last surviving officer from the Battle of Trafalgar. He died in 1887.”
  
     “Interesting comment,” said the Abbot. “You said that as if you admired your great-grandfather.”
  
     “I do,” said Harant. “In the later years of his career, he worked in intelligence and received medals for the Trafalgar and Algiers campaigns. You might as well know …I am attached to the Office of Naval Intelligence. My job was to report on your mine-sweeping operations.”
  
     “And you don’t judge people without knowing all the important details, do you, Lieutenant?” The heavy-set Abbot was struggling to rise from his chair. Two monks approached, quietly, but with haste. The Abbot held up his hand and they stopped.
The Abbot turned to Harant and added, “These two monks will give you a tour of our Abbey later. For now, I must see what they want.”
  
     Lieutenant Harant left the three monks and walked back into the Abbey, passing through the heavy stone entry into the main hall. He found his way back to his cell and rapped on his neighbor’s door. Seaman McLaughlin was awake and dressing in the old clothes the monks had provided for him and Harant.
  
     “Blimey, Lieutenant. I was just starting to wake up. It was as quiet as a tomb around here, until about five minutes ago. Someone comes running up the hall, goes into the cell across from yours, bangs around in that cell for about two minutes, and then leaves. Or at least I think he left. Walking slowly and quietly, I think.” McLaughlin was finished dressing and putting on sandals as he finished. This was a long speech for him.

*****

     At the mid-day meal, McLaughlin kept his own counsel. He said nothing during prayers and watched the long table. Their heads bowed, the monks listened to prayers while three monks in aprons waited quietly in the doorway to the dining hall. The large room featured windows in the high rafters, which cast a diffused yellow glow across the room. The day’s leader read from the Bible, and explained what the passage meant to him. Brother Malachi added to his interpretation, quite gently.
    
     While the kitchen monks were serving, Brother Adenoid produced a folded paper from inside his robes and gave it to Lt. Harant. The paper turned out to be a telegram from Southampton, relayed through Dublin:
  
Date: 17 July 1938
From: Naval Attaché, USA, Southampton Naval Yards
To: Lieutenant John F. Harant
DELIVER TO GLENSTAL ABBEY AT GALWAY, IRELAND
LT. HARANT IS DIRECTED TO REMAIN AT GLENSTAL ABBEY STOP
 AWAIT ARRIVAL ADMIRAL HERFF-JONES, HIS MAJESTY’S NAVY STOP
HMS SAPPER REPORTS NO SURVIVORS REPEAT NO SURVIVORS STOP
NOTICE YOUR PARENTS SENT TRANSATLANTIC CABLE 17 JULY STOP
   
                               /s/ Lt. Elmore Harrington, USN, US Naval Base Southampton.
  
     Harant, McLaughlin, and Dr. Smythe were seated in positions of honor, to the left and right of Brother Malachi. The long table was slowly loaded down with bowls of stew, large loaves of brown bread and tankards of ale. Brother Malachi smiled when he saw McLaughlin smell the tankard and recognize the smell of homemade ale.
  
     “You’re surprised, I think, Mr. McLaughlin. Is that true?”
  
     “Yes indeed, your honor! I thought all monks lived without alcohol. Where I live, the local priest drinks a lot …but we thought the monks drank nothing and said less. I can hardly wait to tell my wife. She frowns on my drinking.”
  
     “Well, Archie. The ale in front of you may be good news. The bad news is this: each monk gets one tankard per day, with the noon meal.” Archie continued to look at the abbot while his message slowly sank in.
  
    “Ha!” laughed Lieutenant Harant. “During Prohibition in the states, everybody made their own beer, or so I’ve been told.”
  
     “It’s an old tradition,” continued Brother Malachi. “We grow the hops and barley, most of which we sell to brewers. But a small amount goes into our own workshop where we experiment in making the best ale possible.”
  
     “I know,” said Dr. Smythe rather forcefully, “that the Germans make the best beer and ales for that matter.” He finished another swallow and put down his tankard. “We’ve had hundreds of years to create the perfect ale. You Irish are just neophytes in brewing.”
  
     Brother Malachi looked at Harant, with one eyebrow cocked. Harant responded quickly by jumping into the conversation. “My family name, by the way, was O’Hara. When my grandfather emigrated from Ireland, he changed it to Harant. The kids in my neighborhood loved to pick on me. They loved to sing, ‘who told Lizzie to stay home? Her aunt! Her aunt!”
 
     There was quiet around the long table. Dr. Smythe smiled. Several of the monks looked puzzled. Several spoons were stalled in mid-air. Moreover, the Abbot smiled, and said, “I think that rhyme has something to do with Lizzie Borden Is that correct? Mr. Harant, Brother Adenoid tells me you received a telegram. Nothing serious, I hope?”
  
     “No, Brother Malachi. I will be using your hospitality for a few days. I have been ordered to wait for one of your admirals, a Herff-Jones, of the Royal Navy. I’m guessing that he wants first-hand information about the sinking of our boat.” Heads were turned. Several monks were looking at Harant. Dr. Smyth’s spoon was stalled in mid-air. McLaughlin looked puzzled but decided to say nothing.

*****

     At two o’clock Seaman McLaughlin was found on the floor in the dormitory hall. He was unconscious, and bleeding from a small wound below his right ear. When he came around, all he could tell anyone was that he heard a noise in Lt. Harant’s cell, looked into the cell and was conked.
  
     At about the same time, Lieutenant Harant was looking at a 600-year-old manuscript in the scriptoria. Brother Malachi was looking over the shoulder of a monk who was painstakingly copying a manuscript from the 17th century, a gift for the next new pope.
  
     Brother Adenoid’s entry into the room was less than dignified, when he bumped into a copying desk and almost fell to the floor. While he was straightening himself, he uttered the words, “He’s gone.”
  
     Malachi’s face turned a shade of red. “Calm yourself, Brother Adenoid. Catch your breath. Then tell me what has happened.” The heavyset monk led Adenoid out of the scriptoria, and left Harant and the copying monk to look at each other with blank expressions on their faces.

*****

     At the evening meal, there was an empty seat reserved for Mr. Smythe, the historian. Harant and McLaughlin were given seats of honor, on both sides of Brother Malachi. After prayers and partway through the meal, Brother Malachi explained that the evening meal was a time when the monks were allowed to ask questions of their guests.
  
     “What do you think of Connemara?” asked a younger monk from the end of the long table.
  
     “Many varieties of green,” answered Harant. “And lots of bogs across this land north of Galway Bay.”
  
     “We were surprised by the police barracks in Carna,” added Archie. “It was an imposing building, three stories high, red brick with yellow sandstone trim. It seemed to tower over the northern end of Carna, where the road turned east toward Connemara. According to our driver, the building was supposed to be built in India, but the plans arrived here and the barracks were built in Carna instead.”
  
     “If it’s good enough for the British in India,” Harant responded, “I would guess that your local builders thought it was good enough for western Ireland, also. Or is it possible that it was built before anybody realized the blueprints were for the northwest frontier of India?” Several monks laughed, enjoying the joke.
  
     “How do you explain the Irish attitude toward the British?” asked Brother Malachi, to nobody in particular. The hall was filled with silence. All of the monks were looking at Malachi; a few had stopped eating when he asked this question.
  
     “To me, the Irish are the poets and minstrels,” Harant said quietly, not really sure of himself. “The British are the penny counters and moneylenders.”
  
     “You have the idealism of youth,” answered Brother Adenoid. One of his bushy eyebrows was raised in a form of a question. The expression on his face seemed to convey skepticism. “And you look at both sides of a question. In today’s world, that is a valuable tool to cultivate.”
  
     The monks were collectively silent. Many of the monks had finished their meal. Two of the kitchen monks began to collect bowls and tankards from the table. Abbot Malachi looked at Adenoid with a hard expression.
  
     “You need to forgive Brother Adenoid. He has been in charge of the scriptoria for so long, and he resents any intrusion into his domain. As if some of you foreigners were out to steal some of his secrets.” Malachi hurriedly finished the remaining meat in his bowl; he lifted his mug for a last swallow of the harsh coffee they were drinking with the evening meal.
  
     “The rule of the Order of Godfrey is,” he added, looking down the table of monks, “to love Christ, to shun wealth, to remain close to the heavenly King, and to be gentle towards all people. We try to follow these rules, handed down when the first Abbot Godfrey chartered our order in 1244.
  
     “Our order did not build Abingdon …it was an existing abbey, linked in legend with the Roman emperor Constantine. The monks at Abingdon owned and farmed vast estates on the Thames River, and built St. Conan’s abbey just ten miles west of here. At Abingdon, only a gateway remains. At St Conan’s, three or four partial walls of the outbuildings are still standing. And two partial walls of the central chapel. We were forced to abandon St. Conan’s during the raids by Cromwell’s men. All of the monks at St. Conan’s were shipped to Barbados.
  
     “But you are here, now?” asked Archie McLaughlin.
  
     “Yes, a few monks earned a return passage, late in their lives. They came back and built Glenstal Abbey as you see it today. We have lost most of the land we once owned. If it weren’t for donations from other Benedictine abbeys, we couldn’t survive.” Brother Malachi seemed to suddenly realize he was directing his comments to Archie, while all of the monks were sitting and absorbing every word.
     
     Turning to the table in general, Malachi added, “Mr. McLaughlin got a rap on the head this afternoon, in the hall outside his cell. We don’t know who or for that matter why someone would want to knock out Mr. McLaughlin. He is recovering. As for Mr. Smythe, Brother Adenoid tells me that Mr. Smythe left the Abbey sometime this afternoon and has not returned.”
  
     McLaughlin had an incredulous look on his face. He looked at Mr. Harant, then at the Abbot. “Well, it’s obvious isn’t it? Mr. Smythe wanted to get out of the hall in a hurry and didn’t want me to stop him.”
  
     “What’s not so obvious,” added Harant “is why Mr. Smythe would be in a hurry. He seemed upset with Brother Malachi’s comments this morning. At lunch, he was particularly interested in the telegram I received from Southampton. What was he working on?” There was silence for a few moments. Malachi stood up, and announced, “For those of you who follow the boats, Oxford raced Cambridge on the four and one-half mile course Putney Bridge to Cheswick Bridge yesterday. Oxford wins the 1938 race. You are dismissed.” There was a pair of “Hurrahs” from the foot of the table. Several monks were smiling.
  
     While the monks were leaving the dining hall Malachi added to nobody in particular “I’ve seen this sport. It’s a chance to shatter the quiet with loud gramophone tunes.” He touched Harant and Adenoid on the arm, indicating they should stay. All three sat down at the table.
  
     “Mr. Harant …I’m going to trust you with some information. You may want to advise this admiral when he arrives. I need” …he paused. He looked at Harant. “This abbey needs some help. Brother Adenoid tells me that Mr. Smythe found a record, part of our history from the 13th century, and he has been eagerly deciphering it. He has taken the parchment with him. Adenoid thinks the record may have recorded what our abbot at St. Conan’s did with the Golden Samar. The Knights of Godfrey, since the 13th century, have protected this artifact, entrusted to the care of the Benedictine monks at Abingdon, then later at St. Conan’s Abbey.
  
     “It was a golden eagle with wings upraised …much like the eagle the Nazis are using as a symbol of their hegemony. It is also known in our records as the Eagle of Christus because legend has it that it contains the Cup of Arimathea. That’s the cup used by Our Lord at the Last Supper…known as the Holy Grail.”