“How so?” said Leventhorp.
“Well, this is called the new chapel, but in fact, it was built in the mid 1650s or thereabouts to replace the one desecrated by Sir Samuel. That unfortunate edifice was the original chapel at Brockstone and was built, as was standard at the time, as an annexe to the house in 1554.”
“Desecrated? I hope you’re not suggesting Sir Samuel was one of these Aleister Crowley black magic types?”
“Oh no, not at all! In fact, quite the opposite—though Lady Sadleir might well have said he worked at the Devil’s prompting.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of the iconoclasts, those Puritans who interpreted the commandment against graven images to the letter of the law. William Dowsing in East Anglia was the most celebrated example, a self-appointed ‘Inspector of Monuments’ who went from church to church shattering statues, destroying rood screens and altars, stained glass and anything else that smacked of high church tendencies. Many people admire the austere beauty of East Anglian churches; little do they realise that it’s mostly the result of Dowsing’s destructive rampage!
“The scourge of iconoclasm did not confine itself to East Anglia: the contagion soon spread over the border here into Hertfordshire as well. Fired by Puritan zeal, Sir Samuel Leventhorp commissioned himself as the iconoclast inquisition in the Gaulsford Hundred, and together with a band of thugs armed with pickaxes and mallets he sought out every country church and chapel for some twenty miles around. And, eventually, in his rounds of destruction he paid a visit to Brockstone in 1648. There is an extract of his report to Parliament in the Victoria County History which we have reproduced in the guide to the chapel—it’s rather a depressing thing to read.”
He handed Leventhorp a photocopied piece of paper which gave a history of the fabric and integuments of the chapel and indicated the relevant passage in his ancestor’s own words.
At the Chappell of BROCKSTONE, we brake down XIV superstitious pictures and crucifixes, IX winged angells on the chancel and VII cherubim on the roof, and a Popish inscription in brass Sancta Maria ora pro nobis. XVI windows to be broken down and the chancel cross taken down. Gave severe instruction to my Lady Sadleir to level the altar steps, brake down the communion rails and remove the Popish silver ere I return.
“How appalling!” said Leventhorp.
“Yes, Lady Sadleir was most upset, and was said to have cursed the Leventhorps and their heritage, in true Old-Testament fashion, yea, unto the tenth generation and all that.”
Clark stopped and suddenly flushed red. “Oh dear, I forgot about your relative’s recent passing. Please excuse my insensitivity and accept my sincerest condolences.”
Leventhorp shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you can tell from my accent I’ve not had much doing with the English branch of the family. I never met him or indeed any of the Gaulsford Leventhorps. I have no idea even how he died.”
“Probably just as well not to know,” Clark said, quietly. “Those sorts of details can upset one unnecessarily.”
After a brief moment of uncomfortable silence, Clark conducted Leven-thorp down the nave and pointed out the various features of interest to him.
“The original Brockstone chapel was an opulent affair erected during the reign of the Catholic Queen Mary when certain Protestant ordinances were being relaxed. After the desecration by Sir Samuel, it seemed that Lady Sadleir considered the whole edifice to be irretrievably defiled and as an act of defiance she demolished it and built the chapel we have today in a secluded location away from the house. After the Restoration in 1660, it was redecorated in the high church fashion you see around you.”
“And nothing from the original chapel survives?”
“Not quite. By sheer chance, one or two relics are still with us. If you follow me to the chancel you’ll see in this display cabinet that we have the remains of some paintings on wood, dating from about 1430 or thereabouts, perhaps salvaged by the Sadleirs from the dissolved priory of Stanford Magdalene. These images formed the lower part of a rood screen in the original Brockstone chapel, and it is conjectured that there would have been several other panels, all of which are now unfortunately lost. This particular panel was hidden in the rafters of one of the local tithe barns and only rediscovered quite recently, when they were being converted to holiday lets as is the fashion around here. You can see the results of your ancestor’s iconoclasm, a pretty thorough job I fear. The painting depicts three saints, and though severely damaged, by the various accoutrements, we can identify them as St Michael, St George and St Thomas Becket.”
The cabinet was opened so Leventhorp could inspect the images up close. The faces had been gouged out, quite literally de-faced. A fanatical assailant had attacked the painting in a frenzy of religious enthusiasm with a chisel or some other sharp instrument and the scarred woodwork remained as a testament to the grim determination of Puritan iconoclasm.
Identified by their accoutrements, Leventhorp thought to himself; so tragic really, like some poor murder victim who can only be identified from their dental records.
“So how do you think Sir Samuel came by the prayer-book?” he asked.
“I suspect he probably paid a visit to the new chapel soon after its opening, looking for evidence of Romanizing tendencies, and seized the volume as ‘Exhibit A’ in his ongoing persecution of the Sadleirs.”
“So why wasn’t Lady Sadleir hauled before the courts? If this book was, as you say, pretty strong stuff.”
“Well, she might have been, but looking at the dates: Sir Samuel passed away not so very long afterwards, in December 1653, perhaps before he had time to press for prosecution. And of course, in the turmoil after the dissolution of the Rump Parliament in April of that year and in the interregnum before Cromwell was named Lord Protector, perhaps the times were simply not conducive for these sorts of petty witch hunts.”
Clark gently closed the door to the cabinet. “Thankfully, your family became less enthusiastic about religious matters and I think it was in a moment of mischief that one of Sir Samuel’s sons commissioned the portrait of the great iconoclast which hangs on the staircase at Gaulsford. How droll, immortalising him in the very format he took to be the deepest blasphemy!”
“Yes, I suppose it was,” smiled Leventhorp.
“Isn’t it good to live in the age of reason where we can put these unfortunate misunderstandings behind us!” said Clark. “I must return and do a bit more work on the wall paintings before it gets dark, but please feel free to wander about. Just let the gardener know at the gatehouse on your way out and he’ll come and lock up.”
The sun was declining behind the surrounding trees, and their wavering shadows played on the chapel window-glass like gesticulating figures from an angry crowd. Now that Leventhorp was alone, the silence of the building was unnerving. He clapped his hands to test the acoustics and tunelessly whistled a few bars of Jerusalem. An old organ stood at the rear of the chapel, and he sat down at the pedals, switched on the electric blower, engaged vox humana and allowed himself a little tootle of ‘chopsticks’ on the keys.
There was little else of interest in the chapel, save for one curious discovery. Amidst the florid dedications to the Lords of the Manor and their various incumbents over the years, Leventhorp noticed a curiously plain marble slab set into the floor of the nave and inscribed simply with the initials A.C. Into the centre of the slab was attached a metal ring, standing slightly proud of its surroundings, as if inviting the onlooker to grasp its circumference and haul away the deadweight to reveal whatever secret charnel-house lay concealed beneath. Leventhorp nudged the ironwork gently with his foot and it left a faint, iridescent sheen on the leather of his shoe as if it had just been recently oiled.