An Unholy Communion

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  “It would have been easier just to die,” Jared joked.

  But Nancy seemed affected by the story. “So much love.” Her remark was directed to Chloe, standing beside her.

  “Love?” Chloe gaped. “It sounds abusive.”

  “It does, to the modern mind.” Nancy nodded. “But it also shows determination and total devotion to sanctify the land David loved so much.”

  Still thinking about Nancy’s appraisal of David’s energetic asceticism, Felicity followed Antony down the wide stairway. “Locals call these steps the ‘39 Articles’—for the similarly numbered articles of religion of the Anglican Church. They were—” The rest of Antony’s sentence was drowned out by an exuberant cascade of bell-ringing from the gatehouse tower behind them. Felicity walked on with the changes tumbling down the hill around her like a waterfall. Such a joyous sound. She flung out her arms as if she would catch the silver sounds.

  Inside, however, the cathedral was quiet. The stone walls completely blocked the sound of the bells. Felicity, who loved change-ringing, considered going back outside to hear the rest of the ring, but stopped still in her tracks at the sight of the graceful beauty of the sanctuary before her. She gazed at the flow of the stone arches supported by pillars running the length of each side of the nave below clerestory windows with clean morning light streaming in. Then she lifted her eyes higher to the wooden ceiling with its carved filigree arches and pendants. The sight that took her breath away, though, was the scalloped lines of the golden oak case enclosing the ranks of gleaming organ pipes, which made her think of angels’ wings.

  A tall, blue-robed verger approached, smiling. “A medieval attempt to create a vision of heaven. I can’t help feeling they did rather well in the attempt.” Felicity smiled her agreement.

  The guide followed the upward line of her gaze. “This is the ‘new’ ceiling, installed in 1530 as an architectural expedient. The walls were leaning outward due to inadequate foundations on the marshy ground. But necessity became virtue, and the Irish oak ceiling—it’s said they insisted on Irish oak to avoid using English oak—is one of the glories of the cathedral.” Her guide pointed out a medieval Green Man and Renaissance dragon-shaped dolphins and delicate fretwork carving, then offered to show her more.

  “Thank you, that was very interesting, but I need to catch up with my group.”

  “Right on up the aisle, then,” he pointed. “Literally up. The nave slopes upward 14 feet.”

  Felicity stopped, trying to discern a rise to the stone floor. “Why?”

  The guide smiled. “Some say the slope is due to the fact that the cathedral was built on marshy, ill-drained land; others that it is simply because it was built on a hillside. The more poetic say it’s to get the worshiper nearer to heaven.”

  Smiling, Felicity hurried forward through the rood screen with the statue of St David to her right, up the stairs across the mosaic-tiled floor of the choir, rich with warm wooden stalls, to the high altar. Behind the presbytery she found her friends in the Holy Trinity Chapel. Felicity looked for a moment at the statue of Giraldus Cambrensis with the bishop’s miter he so desired but failed to achieve lying at his feet. Antony, however, was pointing his little group of pilgrims to a niche tucked away in the back of the wall. An oak casket was almost hidden inside the niche behind a sturdy iron railing. “The chest contains bones—long believed to be those of St David. When David died in 589, the monastery is said to have been ‘filled with angels as Christ received his soul.’ His final words to his followers were: ‘Be joyful. Keep the faith. Do the little things that you have heard and seen me do.’

  “David’s asceticism had a great influence on the Irish church and brought many pilgrims to St David’s, until it was ravaged, first by warring Welsh kings, then by the Vikings. In the eleventh century, a visitor found David’s shrine hidden in the undergrowth and the site abandoned. Our friend Giraldus Cambrensis was one of the rebuilders in the next century.”

  Antony pointed to the statue of Gerald Felicity had observed earlier, then turned to lead the group around to the front of the altar, and stood before three simple Gothic arches set into the north wall. “In medieval times, pilgrims queued to see David’s shrine. It was destroyed at the Reformation, but his relics, being in a portable casket, were secreted away. There is currently an appeal for funds to restore the shrine and return the relics of St David to their rightful place.”

  “Oh, aye, there is. And it was coming along right fine until this absurd notion got going that it was the Bishop’s Palace that was needing restoring.” Everyone turned at the words of the verger who had guided Felicity earlier. “I ask you—a few thousand pounds to restore a place that was hallowed for 1,500 years,” he pointed to the barren arches of what was once a glorious memorial, “or millions of pounds to restore Bishop Gower’s tribute to his megalomania? I don’t know what people are thinking.” He shook his head and stomped off down the north aisle.

  “What was that all about?” Felicity gaped at his departing, stiffly erect back.

  “Sounds like competing appeals for funds,” Ryan remarked.

  “Wonder which side he’s on?” Nancy laughed.

  “Actually, that’s not a bad segue,” Antony said as he led back through the choir and under the rood screen, which he referred to as a pulpitum, to the statue of St David. Beside the statue a compartment was built into the massive stone screen, surrounded by an ornately decorated Gothic arch. A sarcophagus topped by a stone effigy lay behind an iron railing. “Bishop Gower’s tomb,” Antony said.

  “Sweet,” Kaylyn observed, peering through the grille. Felicity surveyed the grandeur of the tomb. “Was the guide right? Was he a megalomaniac?”

  Antony shook his head. “By all accounts, Gower was an able and energetic bishop who served both church and state.”

  “And also his own memory,” Ryan added.

  Antony nodded. “That, too. But we have him to thank for much of the beauty we see around us in the cathedral today. Of course it’s been restored and remodeled continually through the ages, but Gower’s work in the fourteenth century transformed the cathedral and its precincts.”

  “When’s lunch?” Jared’s abrupt question was seconded by the Goths.

  “I noticed a fish and chips shop back up the street,” Evie said.

  That settled the matter. The shop had an open courtyard with tables set in the sun. Felicity closed her eyes and leaned back while Antony ordered their fish. When he returned with the baskets of crisp, golden cod, she savored the first bite. “Mmm.” After the second succulent mouthful she looked around at their pilgrims. “Where are Lydia and Michael?”

  “I think Lydia was going to look up an old friend here,” said Antony, “and Michael went for a walk.”

  Felicity finished her last chip and, observing a large tabby cat curled up sleeping in a sunny corner of the patio, was thinking how good it would feel to take a nap, when Antony rose to lead them back to the cathedral close.

  This time they went on beyond the entrance and the west front of the cathedral, across a curved bridge over a crystal, flowing stream, and through the gatehouse of the intriguing-looking ruined building. A wide courtyard carpeted with lush grass filled the interior of the structure that sprawled before them on three sides of the lawn.

  “Safe.” “Sweet.” Kaylyn and Evie spoke together.

  “This must have been amazing in its day.” Ryan stopped mid-stride.

  “Oh, this is a photographer’s paradise!” Chloe removed her camera from the case she always wore around her neck, and began adjusting the telephoto lens to focus on interesting angles.

  Antony pointed to the two-storey range topped with a distinctive arched parapet walk on their left. “The east wing has the private episcopal apartments, then the bishop’s hall, solar, and his private chapel.” Now he pointed straight ahead of them across the courtyard toward a wide stairway leading up to an arched entranceway beneath the parapet which crowned the length of the building.
“That’s the grand processional entrance into the south range which housed the Great Hall, parlour and Great Chapel for the entertainment of distinguished pilgrims.”

  “He could have entertained royalty,” Felicity said.

  “He undoubtedly did. Bishops were considered equals with princes,” Antony replied.

  The pilgrims had waited politely while Antony pointed out the general plan of the building, but now they wandered off to explore the enticing ruined chambers, hidden stairways and shadowy undercrofts.

  Felicity turned to the barer, more broken walls to her right. “What was on that side?”

  “The west range was probably used to house lower status visitors, and the north, behind us, would have completed the square with stables.” Antony pointed to their left. “Shall we start in the bishop’s private chambers?”

  Felicity led up the small staircase to the bishop’s solar. Chloe stood along the far wall, her camera aimed upward at a small, perky face peering at them from where the ceiling beams would have abutted the wall. “Aren’t these corbels wonderful?” Chloe snapped a picture. “Each face is different. They have such personality—like the sculptor knew each one personally. I’ve spotted human heads, animals, and mythical creatures. There must have been dozens—hundreds—of them.” She took another shot as Felicity and Antony moved on into the bishop’s private chapel.

  “Can I ask you to stand in that window opening? It’ll make a perfect frame.” Felicity obediently posed in the aperture of the enormous Gothic window that filled the end of the chapel. “Great. Thanks. Now will you take one of me?” Chloe showed Antony which buttons to press. “From the outside, if you don’t mind.” Chloe climbed into the window opening while Antony went back outside for the photoshoot.

  Felicity wandered out of the chapel and on across the length of the bishop’s hall toward the kitchen, when a scrabbling noise in the arcaded parapet made her look up. A large black crow took flight, leaving two of his brothers perched on the rim. Felicity smiled and started to turn away when she saw a shadow that wasn’t a bird. She shivered, recalling recent days when their steps had been dogged through London and across Norfolk by a shadowy figure. But this was a sunny June day in Wales. It was undoubtedly another tourist drawn to the enticing walk circling the top of the bishop’s structure.

  A passage led from the kitchen to the grand south range. Antony joined her in the Great Hall where she stood gazing up at the rose window. “It’s still beautiful even without its glass. Dinners here must have been magnificent.” At the far end, a small stairway in the corner led up to an alcove that opened onto the parapet walk. “I wonder what this was for,” she mused. Did it hold someone reading or singing? Or maybe listening to the company below?

  Felicity walked out onto the parapet and leaned over the arcade, observing the unique checkerboard decoration formed by different colored stones: purple and cream sandstone, and white quartz. With Antony behind her, Felicity continued on around the rim of the Great Chamber to look down on the Great Chapel. “The altar stood there,” he pointed, “below what was a three-light east window. And there, to the right note the piscina. It’s considered one of Gower’s most graceful touches.”

  He turned to say something else when a tall, stocky man with thick black hair curling over his forehead entered the chapel below them, lecturing a small group, “Now, the Great Hall would have been limewashed white to set off the deep red, ochre, and purple of the Caerlwdy stone. The whole place would have been a blaze of color. But this is where I believe we should begin.” He directed the group to the niche for washing liturgical vessels. “This piscina is the jewel of the room; it has great architectural value, and it should be restored to its full glory.” His booming voice carried upward. “This now-bare stonework would have been entirely covered with paint. There may have been an illustration of a saint…”

  Felicity saw Jared, Evie and Kaylyn walking across the broad lawn below them and waved. She and Antony made their way back down to the Great Hall, then out the magnificent ceremonial entranceway to join their friends on the grass. “There’s supposed to be an exhibit in the undercroft,” Evie said.

  “Sounds interesting. Let’s take a look.” Felicity walked beside Evie.

  The first archway they entered under the hall led to a cold, dark cavern. Evie shivered deliciously. “Oh, this is spooky. I like it.”

  Felicity smiled. “It might be atmospheric, but I don’t think we found the right place for the exhibit.” A series of undercrofts that had once served as various storage and service rooms ran beneath the entire palace. They tried two more entrances before they found the one that offered models of reconstructed rooms, paintings showing how the rooms had been used, and posters appealing for funds to “Restore the jewel of St David’s to its former glory.”

  Kaylyn and Evie studied a painting of horned, forked-tailed demons tormenting medieval humans. “Medieval people believed themselves poised on a knife-edge between heaven and hell and always threatened by tempting demons,” Kaylyn read out. This spurred the girls and Jared to a lively discussion on the existence of demons.

  Felicity moved on to an exhibit about the bishopric in Gower’s day: In 1326, the bishop had 2,000 tenants’ lands worth £333 a year—twenty times the income of a knight, she read, then turned to Antony. “I was just wondering how Gower managed to finance all this. This explains at least some of it.”

  Antony considered. “I’m not sure. That makes it sound rather a lot, but I read that Gower’s annual income was less than that available to most other bishops of England and Wales. And only about one-eighth of the size of rich dioceses such as Durham or Winchester.”

  “Maybe he had private wealth.”

  Antony shook his head. “A lot of bishops did, but not Gower. And along with all this grandeur he built a large hospital for the poor and sick in Swansea.”

  “Hmm,” Felicity considered. “I wonder how he managed it.” Should she add Gower and his achievements to her list of power points in Wales along with Julius and Aaron, St David and Evan Roberts? Such a diversity, spread over so many centuries. And yet in the very path they had trod.

  Felicity realized Antony was continuing his lecture. “… reformed the lives of the clergy and was a brilliant ruler of his flock. The greatest medieval bishop of Wales, and a scholar and chancelor of Oxford university as well.”

  Felicity moved on to read from the next board: “Gower came to St David’s in 1328 and found ‘a lodging for servants and animals where there ought to be a palace.’ Twenty years later he had created the finest bishop’s palace in Britain.” Again her mind turned to the question of financing.

  But not for long. The booming Welsh voice they had last heard floating up to them from the floor of the Great Chapel interrupted further thought. “Now, we can see from this reconstruction exactly what it should look like.” The speaker caught sight of Antony’s clerical collar and left his group to stride across the room to him. “Welcome, Father. Interested in our reconstruction, are you?”

  Antony shook the hand thrust out toward him and replied that the display was very interesting.

  “Rhys Morgan,” the exuberant guide introduced himself. “Chairman of the Reconstruction Committee. We’re holding a tea in the cathedral hall to present an update on our work to the public. I’m just showing some of the early comers around a bit. You’ll come, won’t you? Starts in just a few minutes. Should be there right now myself, but my wife will have it all in hand.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t think—”

  “Thank you, Mr Morgan, that’s very kind of you.” Felicity stepped forward. “We’d love to hear more about your work. And, frankly, a cup of tea sounds wonderful.”

  “Ah, grand. That’s just grand. We’ll see you in a few minutes, then. North side of the cathedral, beside the cloisters.”

  Antony looked at her quizzically, but she waited until Rhys had left before she explained. “Dilys said the committee met at their home. She mentioned the chairma
n had been in and out several times. That must be our effusive friend.”

  Antony smiled. “Right you are. Do you think we can bring the troops?”

  Felicity surveyed their always-hungry friends and shrugged. “He said public.” She interrupted their examination of a display showing the rats and other items from a medieval sewer. “Jared, Ryan, everybody, we’ve been invited to tea.”

  They left the palace precinct and walked back toward the cathedral, crossing the tiny River Alun at the stone bridge with its Narnia lamp post. Rhys saw them approaching and strode toward them. “Ah, right. So glad you all came. Just what we need—to get the word out.” He waved his arm at the structure to the north side of the cathedral. “St Mary’s College, this was, in the fourteenth century, to house the clergy that conducted the continual round of offices in the cathedral. Reformation put an end to all that, of course. But it was restored in the last century. Serves as the cathedral hall, a refectory open to the public, an art gallery.” Even with Felicity’s long legs she was having trouble keeping up with Rhys Morgan. “It’s a good start, I say. An excellent example of what we can accomplish on a much grander scale with the Bishop’s Palace.”

  He led across a small cloister garden into a light, airy room with ivory floors and pale gold walls. “Now, see what I mean.” He addressed their whole group. “Original stone walls, windows glazed, good solid roof, all the mod cons. There’s no reason the palace couldn’t be put back into running order. Talk about prime real estate. It’s wicked to let it go to waste.”

  Felicity considered. “Yes, I see what you mean. But the Bishop’s Palace is vast. What will you use it for?”

  “Oh, there’ll be no end of uses: meetings, conventions, tourist accommodation… All things we can charge for, as well, so the restoration will be an investment. In time it will turn a profit.”

  A tall, slim woman with her pale blonde hair worn in a sleek roll detached herself from a group sipping tea and nibbling biscuits to cross the floor toward them. “Ah, here’s my wife. Anne, my love, meet our pilgrim group. They’ve come all the way from Caerleon in the steps of St David.”