Eighteen

A Den of Iniquity

Although Philip failed to show the next day for Lady Messingham’s gaming lesson, she occupied far more of his thoughts than he would have liked. His attempt to conceal it was in vain, the cause of his black mood obvious to George, who joined him for a tankard.

“What you need is diversion, old man,” said George. “You missed a capital hanging at Tyburn yesterday. You should go with me next month. The rabble are deuced entertaining. They hardly wait until the jig is done before they start jockeying for the cadavers for the medical students. There was one burly fellow pulled so hard on a carcass he took the head clean off.”

“Good God!” Philip shuddered. “You find that entertaining?”

“I am in good company, dear boy. Half of London town turned out for it.”

“De gustibus non est disputandum.”

“You know I hate when you quote Latin.”

“To each his own,” Philip translated.

“I’m sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities, but you should do something to celebrate your good fortune. Instead here you are in the devil’s own humor.”

“I’m not out of sorts, Bosky. I’m just… preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied? I won’t ask by what, but by whom?”

Philip’s answering glare should have burned a hole through him, but George continued unfazed. “I warned you that first night at the Rose of Normandy she would be nothing but trouble. Her type always is.”

“Just what would you know of her type?”

“You know what I mean. The so-called beauties of the ton, they always place unreasonable demands upon a man.”

“And you speak from personal experience?” Philip mocked.

“Well, no,” George replied. “I’ve avoided the snare, but I have seen enough poor sots completely unmanned by such women, and you, my dear chap, were well on your way. Leave her be, I say. There are too many merry wenches who won’t complicate a man’s life to bother with the Susannah Messinghams of the world.” He emphasized his point with a great frothy gulp of ale.

Philip raised his own tankard as if in agreement, but even in his state of deep resentment over the hold she had upon him, he could not seem to dismiss her and move on.

“I have it!” George interrupted Philip’s ruminations. “Just the cure for your condition!”

“My condition? What do you blather on about now, Bosky?”

“You know exactly what I mean. You’re boorish company of late, all because you’re besotted with a woman you can’t have. I can’t fathom it with any number of ready whores at Tom’s—”

“I think I’m done with whores. These days, one can scarce risk the cure.”

“You hardly have the means to adopt such fastidiousness. At any rate, I daresay you’ll have no peace until you’ve had a piece.” George chuckled. “You know, Drake, there’s nothing like a good bacchanal to put a man to rights. I think Dashwood’s gathering might be precisely the thing.”

“Dashwood? You mean Sir Francis?”

“The same,” said George. “He and his cronies used ofttimes to gather in this very place.” He gestured to the taproom. “I had near forgotten the… er… club… is now meeting at an altogether new venue. Do you know of Medmenham Abbey?”

“Medmenham? Isn’t it naught but ruins?”

“It was, until Sir Francis leased it and began its restoration to create a more private place to host his… er… entertainments.”

“A private retreat for what?” Philip’s interest was piqued despite himself. “By all accounts, Dashwood’s a complete libertine.”

“Some might consider him so.” George grinned. “A few self-righteous prigs have frowned upon his amusements during his continental travels.”

“What kind of amusements?”

“He is said to have terrorized some poor pilgrims at the Vatican.”

“He did what?”

“Don’t look so shocked, ol’ fellow, ’twas but a lark!” George needed no further encouragement to relate the full tale.

“It was Good Friday, when hundreds, mayhap thousands, of penitents come to scourge themselves at the Sistine Chapel. Sir Francis enters among them, but hides a horsewhip under his greatcoat and waits for the priest to extinguish all but three of the candles. Then, under cover of near-darkness, Dashwood proceeds to flog the penitents from one end of the chapel to the other. The congregated were shrieking in terror, ‘Il Diavolo!’ believing the devil incarnate come upon them!” George burst into a fit of mirth until tears streamed from his eyes. “And even that story is nothing compared to his exploits in Russia when he impersonated the King of Sweden to seduce the Tsarina.”

“Is the man mad?” Philip asked, incredulous.

“Not mad, but a damn-them-all roistering devil for certain. His wine cellar is deep and the bottles flow freely. Best of all, the company of the self-proclaimed Abbot of St. Francis is mixed, and the women liberal with their favors. Dashwood’s precisely the man to provide the diversion you need.”

“He is indeed, Bosky. Wine, women, and unfettered debauchery?” Philip stood and emptied his tankard in a last great swallow. “What are we waiting for?”

***

The two young men threw together some traveling clothes and set out from London on horseback for the ancient Cistercian monastery in Buckinghamshire. Abutting the Thames, the great heap of rubble that was formerly Medmenham Abbey certainly offered seclusion.

Philip’s initial assessment was that the so-called restoration had progressed little beyond the incipient stage, but upon closer inspection he realized that this was precisely the impression that Dashwood intended to give. A cloister and tower, laid out in a peculiar mix of Gothic and neoclassical styles, lay partially hidden behind a crumbling wall, but the fresh mortar belied the structure’s true age.

“Who the deuce are they?” Philip asked upon their approach, indicating two imposing statues, one male and one female, standing sentinel at the stone entrance.

“This couple, my ignorant friend, is the Egyptian god and goddess of silence, Harpocrates and his consort, Angerona. They remind all who enter to uphold the secrecy of the rites within. Now Drake, before we proceed further, you must swear by all you hold holy that you will speak nothing of this place once we leave.”

“Sacred rites? Swearing secrecy? Good God, Bosky, this seems a bit over the top. What manner of place is this?”

“One whose mysteries shall soon be revealed.” George’s expression was enigmatic. “Now do you swear?”

“Yes, yes,” Philip snapped. “I swear on my dear mother’s grave. Are you now satisfied?”

“I brought you as my guest. You could at least try to enter into the spirit of the game,” George retorted churlishly.

“Very well, George, I assure you my lips are sealed. Now may we proceed?”

They progressed through the gate into the cloister leading to the half-crumbled stone tower, where carved over the entrance were the words Fais ce que voudra.

Philip enunciated the phrase as a question, while searching his memory. “‘Do what thou wilt’? Rabelais, isn’t it? If memory serves, ’twas the motto of the Abbey of Thélème in the tale of Gargantua and Pantagruel.”

“Precisely so, gentlemen,” came a deep voice from behind. “The monks lived only by their free will and pleasure. ’Tis the adopted dictum of the Knights of St. Francis.” The hidden voice materialized into an elegantly clad gentleman, who stepped forward to rap thrice upon the tower door.

He then turned to face the younger men and made a perfunctory bow. “Sandwich, at your service,” he said. “Ah! Mr. Selwyn,” he exclaimed in sudden recognition. “It has been some time since we have met.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Selwyn agreed, “likely not since the Knights of St. Francis last convened at the George and Vulture. I thought it high time to see for myself all the to-do about Medmenham Abbey. Now pray let me make known to you my comrade in dissipation, Philip Drake.”

“Drake? Hastings’s feckless younger son?” The Earl of Sandwich laughed at Philip’s scowl. “Now don’t take umbrage simply because your reputation precedes you.”

“I daresay my reputation is grossly exaggerated.”

“Then you deny expulsion from Harrow for leading the underaged scions of the noblest houses to the vices of gaming and gin? Or that your name has become the blight of every hazard table from Blackfriars to Covent Garden?”

“Surely my repute is not so wide-spread.” Philip suppressed a smirk.

“Surely not.” Sandwich winked in understanding. “Nevertheless, I bid you welcome to Sir Francis Dashwood’s new Utopia, where such men as we may be free of the so-called moral subjections and constraints that keep us down, and where for a time we may shake off and break those bonds of servitude wherein we are so tyrannously enslaved.”

“You are the humanist, George, not I. What the deuce does he natter on about?”

“Mostly whores and booze,” George replied with a grin.

Sandwich continued, while rapping once more upon the door, “Man is led into vice only when he is denied, my friends; for it is his nature to long after things forbidden and to desire most fervently what is denied.”

“Another translation?” Philip asked.

“Whores and booze… in boundless supply.” George added under his breath, “All the better at Dashwood’s expense.”

“Ah,” Philip said, “I stand in renewed appreciation of the philosophers.”

They were interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet before the great oak door swung open. The answering servant wore the coarse brown woolen cowl of a Franciscan monk. He maintained silence, indicating by his upheld lantern that they should follow him down the dim stone-paved hallway.

As they walked, the lamplight revealed a long and graphic fresco depicting explicit sexual gratification. Another mural displayed Dionysus and Aphrodite entangled in coitus, leading to the final figure of Priapus in all of his eternally erect splendor under the caption “Peni tento non penitenti.”

Philip’s brows shot upward at the translation. “A tense penis, not penitence?” He looked to George. “And you described Dashwood as a bit of a libertine? I’d liefer call him a veritable Rochester.”

“You have no idea, Drake.” George laughed.

“You must wait here,” croaked the voice from within the cowl. “None may enter without first paying homage.”

At this Sandwich knelt and genuflected. “I hereby profess my faith and hereafter swear my eternal devotion to Venus and to Bacchus.” He followed with a great draught of wine from a bejeweled chalice.

Philip eyed George once more with overt skepticism. “You still ascribe to this heretical nonsense, Bosky? Weren’t you sent down from Cambridge for performing some such sacrilege?”

“Give o’er, Drake. ’Twas just some high jinks, same as this. Just play along with it, for form’s sake,” George urged in a low whisper. With a sigh of resignation, Philip followed his companion through the motions and drank from the ceremonial cup.

“And now you may enter the temple of Venus,” spoke the keeper of the chalice before the twelve-foot oak doors swung free on their hinges.