St. Edmund Wood

by Caitlin Luke Quinn

  What was the answer to the lady‘s question that broke the spell? What a woman wanted was her own way.

  Nathaniel snapped the book shut and put it back, only to take it up again a second later, putting down three bob for the purchase. Rather than continue on to the vicarage, he kept walking, the book tucked in a pocket, towards St. Edmund Wood.

  The first thing Nathaniel noted when he reached the wild, wooded expanse at the edge of the village was how beautiful it was. It separated a ruined abbey from Knowstone. The abbey stood in the midst of this wood, fragments of arches and walls soaring above the oaks. The afternoon sun was shooting rays through the trees and ruins, motes of gold dappling the ground. What used to be a cloister was now overgrown flower beds that long ago lost symmetry and function—their only present use was to delight the senses. Nathaniel saw the timber and wattle of a manor house not far away, another half hour’s walk, and decided that must be Hazelwick.

  The presence of a cloaked figure in the cloister remains made him stop.

  It was a woman of slight build, seated on a parapet with a notebook and pencil in hand. Undoubtedly she was sketching the fine landscape, but as Nathaniel came closer, he saw that it was Mary Burnley. She was draped in a black shawl, her face partially obscured by the cloth.

  “Hello!” Nathaniel greeted as he approached. “This is a happy chance; I have a book in which you may be interested—”

  The shawl fell away as her head shot up. The bruising and scabs of healing skin marred the left side of her face. The look of horror on her face mirrored Nathaniel’s and before he could say another word, Mary fled.

  The incident in St. Edmund Wood haunted him for days after. Nathaniel forced himself not to inquire, nor make an investigation, but he did go back to the wood several times in hopes of seeing her, but the attempts were unsuccessful. There was no one with whom to share this episode. No one, save Erland Frankewell. Nathaniel had few friends in town. Those he thought he could befriend were in awe of him and those he wanted to befriend were totally unsuitable to his standing in society. Erland Frankewell was both unsuitable and in awe, yet well above Nathaniel in society. A fortnight passed and he decided to discuss Mary Burnley with Erland.

  Nathaniel expected to find Erland at The Castle and Motte that evening, and every evening. At a quarter past eight he’d already be knee deep into his cups. Why was it, Nathaniel ruminated, as he walked down the street, that the sons of the landed gentry did nothing well but drink?

  Nathaniel had asked that question of himself for years.

  As he rounded Brides Lane from Mr. Allyne’s surgery, he literally ran into Mary Burnley. He laughed in embarrassment and set her aright, their glances meeting. She looked away and pulled her shawl close. This evening it wasn’t hiding scars or bruises. Mary wore a hat that obscured most of her lovely face.

  “Good evening, Mistress Burnley! How are you?” Nathaniel said. The mere touch of her shoulders beneath his hands were as if lightning coursed through him and it made Nathaniel back away as if she were made of fire. As soon as he moved, however, he was sorry, for he wanted nothing more than to continue holding her.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Godwin.”

  He glanced up at the sky, avoiding her scrutiny, especially her lovely, clear eyes. “D’you think we’ve seen the last of the rain?” he blurted out.

  “Not until October.”

  They laughed together nervously.

  “Is that a new bonnet, Mistress Burnley? It’s very attractive on you, y’know; you have a face made for hats…” Nathaniel stopped there, floundering.

  “No. I abhor hats of any kind and wear this only to please my mother and keep her quiet. I thank you nevertheless for the compliment.” Mary held her tongue there, for he had seen her at the abbey ruins and saw the injuries. The hat was more to hide the damage her mother had done than to make her happy. Nothing would ever make Emily Witherslack happy. She looked away when Nathaniel kept his intense gaze upon her.

  “You haven’t returned for evening prayer. I thought you might be ill.”

  “I wonder that you haven’t guessed, Mr. Godwin, how Mr. Talbot holds me in low regard and how unwelcome he has made me feel.”

  “He holds you in contempt, for what reason I wish I knew.”

  Mary smiled and began to walk, Nathaniel joining her. “Don’t you?” she questioned. “So you haven’t heard the rumors, the gossip?”

  “I’ve heard stories—rumors and gossip, I’m sure, but you are the guardian of your secrets.”

  “That‘s just it, Mr. Godwin; I hold no secrets.”They were at the dressmaker’s shop now and Mary’s gaze went involuntarily to the apricot frock still displayed. Nathaniel noted her preoccupation and nodded, saying: “A very pretty dress, don’t you think? I think only you could wear such a fine thing and do it honor.”

  “Oh really, Mr. Godwin!” she protested, but smiled shyly.

  “I’ve made you smile!” He waited for a response, and rather than suffer delightfully under her intense gaze, continued, saying: “A beautiful smile it is. It’s no wonder that the women of Knowstone are so envious.”Nathaniel wanted to crawl away then when the smile faded. He was always saying the wrong thing to women. Was it any wonder he was still unmarried at twenty-five? Now he racked his brain for an apology. “Forgive me, Mistress Burnley! I didn’t mean to be so forward.”

  “Good day, sir. Shall I bring the linen on Wednesday next?”

  “The linen—? Why yes! Yes, at five o’clock.”

  “Wednesday, then.”

  She nodded and started the climb up the hill to the castle ruins. After a moment, Nathaniel sprinted after her.

  “I truly am sorry!” he said breathlessly.

  “Your apology is accepted. Good day, sir.”

  “May I join you?”

  “I fear I would not be good company,” she said. “I go up to the castle for solitude.”

  “Let me be a silent, solitary companion.”

  “If you’d like.”

  They climbed the hill to the castle. Nathaniel followed several paces behind Mary, who scaled the wooded path as easily as a staircase. Soaring out of the hill as if it had been chiseled from it, the ruins of a Norman castle overshadowed the village and served as a milestone to travelers in the West Country heading toward Wales. As soon as they saw the castle, they knew they were in the right direction. Stopping in Knowstone for a night’s rest or for refreshment was always an afterthought. The outer curtain and bailey were gone, the stones used for buildings in the village and beyond, but the donjon and three of the twelve towers were remarkably preserved, if one overlooked the gaping hole here and there, a missing step, or part of a slate and timber roof gone. Mary paused and sat on an embrasure of what used to be a high, double-arched gothic window. She took from the bag slung across her shoulder a little book and opened it to a particular page and there sat reading for the better part of an hour, while Nathaniel silently toured the ruined hall, silently studied the profile of the beautiful young woman. When at last she closed her book, she looked up and smiled.

  “You must tell me what you think,” she said aloud.

  What could he say? That she was like one of the beauties painted in Roman frescoes, sculpted in Greece, that he could watch the rise and fall of her breasts as she read, or walked, all day long, that he could stare forever at that one curl that fell down from her nape and dangled over her right breast and dance with every breath inhaled and exhaled, that her voice was more intoxicating than any strong ale?

  “It’s an ordinary castle, one built by the Conqueror or one of his vassals,” Nathaniel said with a shrug. “It has later developments, such as the remnants of groin and barrel vaulting in places, much like a cathedral.”

  “You are more than theology! That is an achievement compared to other clergymen I know.”

  “I wanted to read history. My father had other plans. Fathers usually do.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, looking down at her book.


  Nathaniel started another tour, hands behind his back, his boots scuffing gently across flagstones intersected by moss and grass, an occasional flower that he made sure to overstep. “It’s remarkable in its own way, I suppose; being here in the marches in this out-of-the-way place preserved it in a way other castles were not and fell victim to ruin.”

  “It is extraordinary, Mr. Godwin. Let me show you.”

  He willingly followed as she went out of the donjon to a semi-ruined building, what looked to be a chapel. Here was a solitary tomb, graced by an effigy of a beautiful woman in medieval garb. It was undefiled and looked as if someone had tended the grounds and kept vagrants and animals away.

  Nathaniel tentatively put a hand out to touch the carved folds of the lady’s gown, to run his fingers along the name on the sepulcher. “Ælfgyva. An Anglo-Saxon name; the patroness of our parish church, I think?”

  “Yes. It means ‘elf gift.’ It was said she was a witch, for her powers of healing.”

  “Do you believe that?” Nathaniel laughed but not unkindly.

  “No; what people do not understand they blame on the devil and other evils in the world.”

  “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. No doubt she was the chatelaine.”

  “She was my ancestor—and she was the handfasted woman to the lord of this castle.”

  He looked at the face of the effigy, to Mary’s face, in surprise.

  “This knowledge has only just come to light. Justin—my husband—found the records in his research of local antiquities and discovered that my family’s true surname is Turold. The first of that name came with the Conqueror and was given this land and Ælfgyva, she that was of royal blood from the house of Wessex—a kinswoman of Alfred the Great. She did not come willingly. She was taken by force and kept a prisoner here, and gave birth to many children; they were evidence of rape and battery and treated just as cruelly. The people in the village accused her of complicity with the Normans and killed her. She was made a saint for the goodness and piety no one saw in her, for they never looked past the beauty of her face and saw only what they wanted. Just before her death, there was one knight, an Englishman, who was the beneficiary of her goodness when she took him in despite the threat to her safety. He’d been wounded in a rebellion against the castle lord. Her knowledge of healing arts saved the knight.”

  Mary picked some wildflowers and placed them on the effigy’s hands. After a lingering gaze, she smiled and walked back the way they came. Once again, Nathaniel was in her wake.

  “Mrs. Burnley!” Nathaniel said when he caught her up. “Mrs. Burnley, is this why you are held in contempt and scorn by the people of this village?”

  “Only one of many reasons, sir,” she replied with a sad smile.

  “May I do anything for you? To assist you in this difficult time?”

  “The difficult time is past; at least, the worst of it is. Thank you, Mr. Godwin, for your concern.”

  “Should you require anything, you need only call at Saint Ælfgyva’s.”

  Mary shook her head in disagreement and smiled. “No. Unless it is on a Wednesday evening. I’ll take my leave now. My mother will wonder what’s become of me. Good day.”

  He watched as she passed down Whitecastle Street towards St. Edmund Wood, wondering what it was that made her so grave and distrustful. He was preoccupied with the mystery of Mary Burnley as he went into The Castle and Motte for supper.

  Chapter 6

  Nathaniel always took his supper at The Castle and Motte, preferring the atmosphere of the inn to evenings at the rectory with Charles Talbot and his disagreeable wife. He could be left alone or entertained, whatever suited his mood. At the rectory Mrs. Talbot would eye him suspiciously over the top of her spectacles while she embroidered yet another altar linen, or mend a collar; Charles Talbot would only look at him and cough. Talbot had to do something about that cough and his disdain of the imperfections of mankind.

  Nathaniel settled into his usual booth in his usual corner, taking a book of John Donne’s poetry from a pocket. Erland Frankewell was there and slid into the booth as soon as dinner was fetched.

  “Mr. Godwin. How are you this evening? You look…perturbed.”Erland’s eyes were uncommonly bright and clear that evening; for once he was still sober and here it was a quarter past eight.

  “I’ve had nothing to eat all day; one of the pitfalls of bachelorhood, Erland. No one to remind me to eat or prepare the meal, and I’ve no desire to stay in at nights with the Talbots. Have you dined?”

  “I wouldn’t call that a supper such as it is, but yes, I have.”

  Nathaniel shrugged and began to eat, turning a page in the book of poetry that now caught Erland’s educated eye.

  “Donne? That poetry will only make you sweat for a woman.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t once or twice. What‘s on your mind, Erland?”

  “What makes a man choose the priesthood?”

  “You’re not chosen. It’s given to you. You’re born to it and it’s damned difficult trying to ignore it. Is that really all you’ve come to talk about?”

  Erland groaned and reached across the table to take a piece of meat and bread off of Nathaniel’s plate, folding them together for a sandwich.

  “I am plagued…”

  This response prompted Nathaniel to pour a glass of wine and slide it towards Erland. “In wine there is truth,” he hinted.

  Erland took a drink and studied Nathaniel carefully. He didn’t understand why a man as handsome as Godwin and with money to inherit would settle for the priesthood. But then, the priesthood hid a multitude of secrets and sins. Godwin didn’t look as if he knew how to sin. At least he was a good listener.

  “There’s no where I can go to hide.” Erland sighed melodramatically if not laconically.

  “Oh dear,” Nathaniel chuckled. “It must be a gambling debt or a lady.”

  “The loss of ten pounds in a game of Whist or Piquet would be easier to bear than this!”

  “Which reminds me, you owe me seven and four. Who is she?” Nathaniel wanted to know as he dug into his meal.

  “The only woman I’ve ever loved. When she left, I thought I’d never see her again. Yet she returned! This is the cruelest joke! I’m thinking of leaving, Nathaniel. I can’t live here, knowing she breathes the same air.”

  “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think? Don’t keep me in suspense, friend. Who is this woman tormenting you?”

  “Mrs. Emily Witherslack’s daughter. Her father was the rector of Saint Ælfgyva’s until two years ago when he was thrown by a horse and killed.”

  Nathaniel paused, and then continued eating. He poured a glass of wine for himself and drank quickly and deeply. “Yes, I’ve met her.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  “I think—I think, Erland, that Mistress Burnley is a very unhappy woman. And this is none of my business.”

  “Don’t let it be said I was the cause of her unhappiness!”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  “I’ve already told you.”

  “In so many words you didn’t.”

  “What I think should be of no concern to you.”

  “Look at your face; you’re dying to know the truth about her,” Erland laughed.

  “As much as you’re dying to tell me,” Nathaniel said, smiling. “Tell me so I can finish my meal, such as it is, in peace.”

  Erland relaxed. “We were engaged to be married. My parents thought it unsuitable at first, to marry the only child and daughter of a penniless vicar, but thought better of it when they considered the spiritual advantages. We were told we must wait, to be sure that this marriage was proper and right for us. Our chief obstacle, The Reverend Mr. Witherslack, died after a fall from his horse, and we thought perhaps our way was clear, Mary’s and mine. And then there was the problem of her mother. My father assumed, and rightly, it seemed, that Mistress Witherslack, Mary’s mother, no
w widowed, would take advantage of the engagement to pay her numerous debts and therefore we were separated, Mary and I. I went away to Germany to complete my education and she climbed into bed with a history professor from Oxford!”

  “You don’t know that. I’ve met her and it seems unlikely that a woman of such seriousness and grace as Mary Burnley would do…something like that,” Nathaniel scoffed.

  “‘Seriousness and grace?‘ No one thinks of seriousness and grace when Mary Burnley comes to mind! You’ve seen her. If Botticelli were alive, he’d paint her.”

  “Put it behind you, man, and get on with your life. Knowstone is not so provincial that you can’t find another girl to your liking.”

  Erland’s face suddenly took on a new passion, a new hatred. He leaned forward and whispered: “You don‘t know Mary Burnley. With Mary, nothing is simple! Wait until you‘ve been with her more than an hour and then consider how you feel, how different everything will be after that, and how different the world will look! It‘s not that simple! After one look you’ll wonder what it would be like to lie in her bed, to feel her against your manhood, to kiss that mouth and join your bodies as one. There’s not a man in Knowstone who doesn’t! I had that taken from me!”

  “She is a widow now and free to marry. What’s to stop you?”

  “Matters as they are, I couldn’t—”

  “Stop complaining then. Take another woman and get on with your life.”

  Erland ran his hands through his hair and started to weep. Nathaniel gently tugged at the cup in Erland’s hand and drew it to his side of the table; he assumed it was the quantity of the wine Erland consumed that made him so morose. He thought it strange indeed that a man who desired a woman as much as Erland professed would allow anything to keep him from that woman’s bed.