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| Historical Novelist Marie Macpherson |
And now it gives me very great pleasure to present historical novelist Marie Macpherson, whose debut novel The First Blast of the Trumpet (Knox Robinson Publishing, 2012) has a setting very close to my own heart - early 16th century Scotland. Central to the story is a real historical figure, Elisabeth Hepburn, prioress of St Mary's Abbey in Haddington, so without further ado, I'll hand over to Marie so she can explain all...
The First Blast of the Trumpet
against the Monstrous Regiment of Women, the polemical pamphlet by the Scottish reformer,
John Knox, has reverberated down through the ages and irritated generations of
women no end. So why did I choose such a controversial title for my novel?
Basically because my original title The Abbess of Unreason lacked
resonance, so the publisher decided. Something punchier was needed and, since
the abbess may have been one of the ‘monstrous regiment’ that Knox railed
against, then why not steal his cracking title? Though it may sound as if my
Abbess of Unreason could be a ‘heroine of fantasy’ she was neither mad nor
fantastic but a very real historical figure whose importance, like many women
then and now, has been overlooked.
Elisabeth Hepburn was the
prioress of St Mary’s Abbey, the Cistercian convent in Haddington, East
Lothian, where the famous treaty that betrothed Mary Queen of Scots to the
French Dauphin was signed in 1548. That tiny nugget of information piqued my
curiosity to find out more about this mystery woman. How was she related to the
Hepburns of Hailes, the powerful Earls of Bothwell? Did she have any connection
with John Knox, who served as a priest in Haddington? Was she acquainted with
the playwright Sir David Lindsay, exiled to Garleton Castle a few miles away? Delving amongst local records I was excited to discover that this prioress was not in the least pious but had a murky history. For a start her age and ‘defect of birth’ should have disqualified her from being appointed prioress. At 24-years-old she was too young and as the natural daughter of an Augustinian canon she was illegitimate. Nevertheless her uncle, John Hepburn the influential Prior of St Andrews, forced through the appointment, overruling the nuns’ own choice and gaining a dispensation for his niece. He did this to ensure that the Hepburn family controlled the wealthy abbey finances.
But her life at St Mary’s was hardly one of quiet contemplation. A prioress in 16th century Scotland was a woman with considerable power in a world dominated by men and Elisabeth was plunged into the political maelstrom and religious turmoil of the times. Strong-willed and independent she rode to the hunt with the court of King James V and faced an accusation of ‘carnal dalliance’. Her unorthodox behaviour may even have inspired the character of the prioress in Lindsay’s biting attack on the corrupt Roman Catholic Church in Ane Satire of the Three Estates’. His prioress turns out to be a ‘scarlet woman’ who tears off her nun’s habit to reveal a crimson underskirt, complaining that she didn’t want to be a nun anyway.
The writing was on the wall for religious houses, however, as the reformation loomed in the shape of her godson, John Knox. The First Blast of the Trumpet speculates about the rôle that Prioress Elisabeth played in the upbringing of the young reformer and how it may have influenced his attitude to women.
The First Blast of the Trumpet, the first book
of the Knox trilogy, is no Calvinist slog but a highly- entertaining
exploration of the early life of the Scottish Reformer, John Knox (an excerpt follows below). It
chronicles his on-going relationship with the powerful Hepburn family,
including the Earls of Bothwell, but especially his godmother, Elisabeth
Hepburn, Prioress of St Mary’s Abbey, Haddington.
Opening in 1511, two years before the
Scots’ tragic defeat at the Battle of Flodden, 1513, it ends in 1548 with John
Knox as a galley slave rowing the young Mary Queen to Scots to France.
Chapter XIV
Ordination
Then would I say: ‘If God me had ordained
To live my life in thraldome thus and pain
What was the cause that He me more
constrained
Than other folk to live in such ruin?
The King’s Quair
James I, 15th Century
St Mary’s
Abbey, 9 November 1513
Arrayed
in the virginal white of a novice with a wreath of embroidered flowers crowning
her chestnut hair, Elisabeth approached the altar and genuflected. Prior
Hepburn smiled indulgently.
‘Her recent loss seems to have purged our bee-heided niece
of all her daft notions.’
‘Aye,’ Dame Janet replied. ‘Now that her fiery temper
has been smoored, you’ll find our niece more ready to accept her fate.’
A few days before, at the Requiem Mass on All Souls’
Day, as Prior Hepburn read out the roll call of the fallen at Flodden,
Elisabeth fumbled for the talisman she’d hidden underneath her sark. Looped
onto the blue ribbon were the king’s ring and the St John’s nut, its kernel
pierced with a needle. To help her endure fort when she heard Adam’s
name being read out, she pressed it against her heart. Still, the shock made
her ears buzz and, yawning deeply to clear them, she just caught the name – Sir
David Lindsay. Her heart shoogled.
‘Dies Irae, Dies illa. Day of Wrath, that
dreadful day,’ the choir chanted, ‘Lacrimosa dies illa.’
Though her heart longed to scream out in anguish, she
kept her head bowed, fearful that the ever-watchful eyes of Sister Maryoth
might detect her distress. But the words of the Gospel made her raise her head:
Thy brother, Jesus said, will rise again. Would that it were true.
Since then Elisabeth had been confined to her cell where
she’d spent the last few weeks in prayer and fasting to cleanse her soul in
preparation for receiving the sacrament of Holy Orders. The regime must also be
purifying her body for she hadn’t needed to ask for monthly cloths. That, the
washerwife pointed out, was one of the benefits of fasting. It staunched the
accursed monthly bleed. ‘And another,’ she added with a conspiratorial wink as
she gathered up the linen for washing, ‘is that it’ll put you in Sister
Maryoth’s favour. For it’s a sign of devotion in her eyes.’
As he anointed her on the forehead with holy chrism, the prior noticed
that his niece’s downcast eyes were red and swollen and her face pinched and
pale. Janet was right. Much of her fire had been quenched. He must have a word
with Maryoth not to be so harsh.
After Elisabeth had pledged her vows, he presented her with two gifts.
From a velvet-lined box he took out a string of rosary beads made from
freshwater pearls with an exquisite silver crucifix that glinted in the
candlelight. He draped it over her wrist and placed in her hands a Book of
Hours, expensively illustrated with a jewel-encrusted cover and gold clasp.
The newly ordained nun could only nod her thanks.
The sacrificial lamb was led in to the sacristy where Sister Maryoth tore
off the wreath and put away the pearl rosary beads and the gaudily engraved Book
of Hours for safekeeping. Then she set about cutting her hair. She grabbed
it in tufts and hacked at it clumsily, cropping it back almost to the scalp,
all the while muttering, prayers and incantations under her breath to fend off
evil.
'Lord, she is not worthy. Lord, forgive me for this
shameful offering. Cast out the horned Prince of Darkness from this child of
Satan.'
‘What’s this?’ Maryoth’s hand had become entangled in
the blue ribbon round Elisabeth’s neck. ‘A holy scapular?’
Though she had no idea what a scapular was, Elisabeth
gripped hold of it and nodded.
‘Though I doubt it. For a heathen such as you, it’s more
likely to be a lucky charm.’
Before she could stop her, Maryoth had tugged at the
ribbon, snapping the love knot and sending the ring and the nut clattering onto
the flagstones. Elisabeth dropped to her knees, splaying her fingers to search
for them but as she crawled about, Maryoth stamped on her knuckles and then
crunched the nut underfoot. The ring had rolled away unseen.
‘As for this,’ she declared, dangling the blue ribbon as
if it were a venomous viper. ‘The only way to be rid of this devil’s tail, is
to burn it.’ With that, she held it over a candle, watching intently until it
shrivelled to cinders. The vicious look in her narrowed eyes betrayed a desire
to dispose of her rival in the same way.
Meekly the newly shorn lamb obeyed Maryoth’s order to
strip off her white lace gown and stood shivering in the cold vestry, hugging
her tender breasts. Elisabeth closed her eyes as the dun-coloured habit was
pulled down over her head, prickling her scalp and scratching her skin. Only
when Maryoth tugged the hempen cord and knotted it tightly until it dug into
her waist did Elisabeth flinch.
For now that she had lost Lindsay and her only
connection to him had been severed, nothing mattered any more. She didn’t even
have the St John’s nut to protect her from the evil eye. Covering her shaven
head with the wimple and securing the ties, Maryoth thrust a heavy wooden
crucifix, crudely carved with the figure of the dead Saviour into her hands.
‘You are a bride of Christ, now. Kiss your holy spouse,
Sister Elisabeth.’
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