Antony took a seat in the choir. He smiled at the American flag hanging just beyond his left shoulder, marking the plaques commemorating England and America’s alliance in the Great War. Felicity would like that. He made a mental note to tell her. But for now he turned his attention to the proceedings in the nave. Sir Royce Emmett, RA, an expert from London in medieval church art, was telling their future viewers about the frescoes. “These paintings would not have been considered unusual in the fourteenth century. In those days nearly all church walls were covered with biblical scenes and depictions of the saints. The paintings were there as an aid to worship to help the largely illiterate congregations understand religious stories.
“Biblia Pauperum, the poor man’s Bible, they were called.” He pointed at St. Edmund. “The scenes of martyrdom, so frequently depicted, helped people in the Middle Ages face the closeness of death in their everyday lives.”
The expert strode back down the nave, careless of cords and cables, obviously confident of being followed by camera and crew, to take his stance before the depiction of the Descent into Hell. “This is perhaps the most striking painting in the church.” He gestured upward and one of the cameramen obediently zoomed in on the wide open jaws of a fiery red dragon, swallowing people in his sharp-toothed jaws. “A warning to the would-be sinner, yes, but, surprisingly, this is not a painting of damnation.
“It is actually a message of hope. Christ is there, pulling souls from the very jaws of the dragon. And,” he pointed to the next scene, “notice the rays of sunshine emanating from the risen Christ to tell us that, even in the darkness of Hell, he represents the light of the world. All very encouraging to the medieval mind which readily accepted this as fact.”
“Cut. That’s a wrap.” Harry Forslund, the director, strode forward and clasped Sir Royce’s hand as the crew offered a smattering of applause. The director’s smile softened the severity of his close-cropped black beard. “Thank you, that was superb. Just the right tone.”
The rest of the chatter was lost to Antony as a plump young woman with luminescent pale skin and red, full lips scurried toward him bearing her make-up kit. “Oooh, you’ve been biting yer lips ’aven’t you?” Tara Gilbert shook her mop of magenta-dyed hair.
Antony’s impulse to apologize was cut short by her application of gloss to his lips. She stood back and observed him through narrowed, kohl-lined eyes. “Len, can we get some light over ’ere?” She tugged at her black sweater pulling it tight over her voluptuous figure as if preparing to be in the spotlight herself.
Lenny, in charge of the lighting crew, obediently flipped a switch on his magic panel and the chancel was flooded with light. Tara considered her handiwork, standing alarmingly close to Antony, then backing away and observing him with a creased forehead. “Mm, just as I thought. The lights wash you out.” She produced a pot of blush and a large brush.
Antony started to protest, but she forged ahead with her work. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you look painted. Just restoring your natural color—what there is of it. Naturally pale, aren’t you? It looked good in the woods earlier—suited the mist—but ’Arry’s sure to want more definition indoors.”
Antony shut his eyes and let her get on with it. His more serious concern was whether he had chosen the right spot for his narration. The church furnishings were, of course, relatively modern. The 1876 renovations had also removed the whitewash covering the medieval paintings, judged to be “too popish” by an earlier generation. But Antony wanted to be as close as possible to the site of the actual scene of the events he would be relating. That is, if they were in the right church at all, of course. Scholars did suggest others, but Antony felt they were on good ground here in this historic church.
Would the lady of the manor have had a stall in the choir? Or a pew in the nave? The choir seemed more likely, since the only nave seating offered in most medieval churches were stone seats against the wall. But Antony’s dithering was cut short as Tara snapped shut the lid on her make-up box and melted into the shadows. The crew bore down on Antony with Harry Forslund barking directions for sound readings, test camera shots and adjustments to the lighting.
Joy Wilkins, the series presenter, gave an off-camera introduction which Antony couldn’t hear, then all attention turned to him. He knew he was perspiring, spoiling Tara’s careful ministrations. He took a deep breath. “After fleeing from the woods in his cobbled gray and white hermit’s robes, having failed so miserably to gain the support he had hoped for from his sister, Richard Rolle’s one thought was undoubtedly to get away from parental influence. He was underage and could have been dragged back home. His primary concern must have been to find himself a patron and likely his mind turned to John de Dalton, his father’s former squire.”
Telling himself to ignore the intruding eye of the camera, Antony concentrated on trying to picture the young man in his mind, the confusion Richard must have been feeling in spite of his certainty over his calling, the fatigue and hunger after his three mile trek to Pickering from Thornton, the relief of finding sanctuary in the protection of the church…
“Did Richard take a seat in the manorial pew by mistake? Was it divine guidance? Or was it a calculated move on his part to gain the attention of the lord of the manor? All we are told is this:
When Lady Dalton entered the church for the vespers service her servants were horrified to find a scruffy hermit occupying their mistress’s place. They moved forward to throw him out. “‘No! Wait,’ she ordered. ‘I will not have this holy man disturbed at his prayers. I can pray as well in another seat.’ And so she did.
“When vespers was over her sons, who had joined her for the service, looked more closely at the unconventional holy man.
“‘Richard!’
“‘What, do you know this man?’ the lady asked.
“Dalton’s sons declared him to be William of Rolle’s son Richard, whom they had known as a fellow student at Oxford.
“The following day Richard donned a surplice and, without asking anyone’s leave, sang the office of Matins. Rolle’s official biography says that he obtained permission from the officiating priest to preach a sermon, although since he was unordained and unlicensed, how he managed that is a puzzle. The adoring nuns of Hampole recorded, however, that the resulting sermon was of such virtue and power that all present were moved to tears.
“Richard Rolle achieved his goal of gaining a patron. John de Dalton invited Rolle home to dinner. Although it seems that Richard made a poor guest because when the meal was ready he could not be found. He was eventually located meditating in a broken down old building and persuaded to join the feast. Afterwards Dalton gave Rolle a cell in his house and provided him with a proper habit and food instead of sending him back to his father.
“It’s perhaps helpful to understand that in the fourteenth century many men and women chose personal sanctity as a career just as today they might choose medicine or law. Hermits were part of the established social order and it was a matter of considerable status to have a hermit ensconced on one’s property. Lady Dalton was known to take large parties to visit Richard after dinner.
“This patronage turned out to be a somewhat mixed blessing for Richard. His cell in the manor house was surrounded by so much hubbub that he found it nearly impossible to concentrate on the life of intense meditation he wished to undertake. And Lord Dalton was less than generous—he fed Richard on moldy bread.”
When the “Cut” command came Antony felt reasonably pleased with his contribution. He hadn’t tripped over the cords or any of his words or made any awkward gestures—so far as he was aware. But Harry Forslund wasn’t so easily satisfied. His mouth was set in a disapproving line framed by his dark beard. At least the problem was apparently with the unexpected shadows on the scene, not with Antony’s recital.
At the director’s order Lenny adjusted several light angles and Fred Deluca rolled the main camera smoothly over the rough stone floor for a test shot. After several more
technical adjustments, including having the well-endowed Tara apply a layer of loose powder which made Antony sneeze, they repeated the process. Unfortunately, this time Antony did fluff his carefully prepared narrative, requiring a retake.
When the third take ended Antony’s sigh of relief was cut short by Pete Petrosky from the sound board, “Sorry, we got a buzz in the background on that last bit.” He pulled his headphones off, shaking his head.
“Okay, once more then we’ll break for lunch,” Harry barked. “Now get it right.”
Perhaps it was the promise of lunch that produced the required results. The smiles of relief when Harry pronounced it a wrap were universal. “Catering van, boys and girls—no sneaking off to the pub. One hour. Assemble at the Castle.”
Antony felt Harry’s orders called for a salute.
In spite of the weak winter sunshine, it was hardly picnic weather but the ravenous crew, gathered around the catering van parked in the street beyond the church yard, didn’t seem to notice. The warmth of the large cups of lentil soup and steaming pasties made up for the chill in the air. Antony was wondering if he could slip off and ring Felicity when Sylvia Mountbank, the producer, approached him. “Well done, Father. We do appreciate your filling in for us on such short notice.”
Antony looked up at her tall, broad-shouldered figure and mumbled something about being glad he could help while wondering how true that was. He asked her about other films she had produced. Sylvia pushed her brush of curly brown hair behind one ear and, between bites of pasty, told him about the series on the Pre-Raphaelites she had produced last spring. Antony would have like to hear more but Sylvia turned abruptly to toss her empty pasty wrapper in the bin. “You’ll have to excuse me. Have to go exercise Zoe. Poor thing wanted to chase the ducks in Thorntondale Woods, so she’s been in the car all morning.”
Antony was still trying to puzzle this out when Fred Deluca, the slight cameraman in tight jeans and bulky jumper explained. “Her Golden Retriever. Topaze—Zoe for short. Something of a mascot to everything our Sylvia produces. Beautiful animal and very well-mannered. Except where ducks are involved, that is. Hope you like dogs. Pretend you do when you meet Zoe any road. It’s probably written in your contract somewhere.”
“Have you done a lot of work with Sylvia?” Being neutral on the subject of dogs, Antony felt it just as well to move on to another topic.
“Sylvia’s produced just about everything I’ve done since I joined Studio Six—nine years ago, now. We’re a small company. Aim to do high quality and sell to the big boys.” He shrugged his slim shoulders. “It works pretty well. Harry and Sylvia know their business and work together like silk most of the time—unless they’re having the odd domestic, that is.”
“Domestic? You mean they’re married?”
Fred shrugged again. “Near enough, anyway. Met at RADA what—twenty years ago? Came up through the ranks together.”
“Isn’t The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art for stage?”
The characteristic shrug again. “Can’t all be Gielgud, can we? That’s where I got my technical training, too. Absolute tops. Not RADA’s fault some go over to the dark side and take up film.” Fred downed the last of his soup and finished his flapjack in two bites. “Well, see you in church, as they say—except it’s the castle. Operating Ginger on that hill’s going to be no small challenge, I can tell you.”
“Ginger?” Was this another canine mascot Antony had yet to meet?
“Camera. As in Fred and Ginger. Because she’s such a smooth mover. Want a ride up in the van? It’s a pretty steep walk.”
Antony knew. He had clambered up the arduous slope more than once. “Thanks, I will.” He followed Fred to the parking lot and the white van with the Studio Six logo on the side.
Fred had unlocked the passenger door and started around to his own side when a sharp exclamation made Antony turn. He arrived at the back of the van to find Fred swearing at the door which hung slightly ajar.
“A break-in?” Antony asked. “Are you sure you locked it when you stowed your equipment?”
Fred swore again and shook his head. “Mike’s job—the grip. I’ve warned him to be careful. Everything in there’s valuable—” He swung the door open and leapt inside, even in his agitation stepping carefully around the equipment. “He was probably distracted by Savannah. I knew taking on a nubile redhead as his Best Boy would lead to trouble. But our Harry likes them young and—” He sketched a generous hourglass gesture with his hands and began sorting through the equipment.
“Is everything there?” Antony asked after several tense moments.
“Seems to be. At least Ginger looks fine. I’ll have to check with Lenny about the lights.”
“Does he load his own equipment?” Antony wasn’t certain about the hierarchy of crew positions.
Fred nodded. “Part of Len’s job it is. Gaffer—head of electrics.”
Antony frowned at the odd term. “They used to use a gaff—long pole—to adjust lights in a theatre,” Fred explained.
“Where is Len?”
“He went on ahead with Tara.” Fred smiled. “Time for a smoke and a quick grope behind the parapet. Out of hearing of the sound engineer, so to speak. Pete gives new meaning to the term python wrangler. Or at least he’d like to where our Tara is concerned.” Fred slammed the door shut and went around to the driver’s side.
Antony got in the van, still trying to make sense of Fred’s words. “Python wrangler?”
“Sound technician—because they spend so much time pulling cables. But in the case of Peter…”
“But I thought you said Tara and Len…”
Fred gave a bark of laughter. “Just a bit of fun. You spend too much time in that monastery of yours, Father.”
Rather wishing he were there at the moment, Antony shook his head at the apparently seething dynamics of the crew. And the odd titles. He had enough trouble keeping simple identities straight, never mind the convoluted relationships and esoteric terms.
Fred took the van up the precipitous, narrow road in low gear. The gravel parking lot behind the castle held space for two coaches—both reserved for studio vehicles today, although the castle would not be closed to other visitors. Antony was surprised to see several children playing on the grassy hillside, then realized they were on Christmas holiday.
Fred had just begun unloading Ginger when a spiky-haired, stockily built youngster arrived. He introduced himself as Mike, the grip, and the ripely plump red-haired woman with him as Savannah. Antony couldn’t help thinking that Savannah’s curvaceousness must give rise to plenty of sniggers when she was introduced as Best Boy. The three crew members set about efficiently moving the equipment onto dollies and wheeling it along the path to the castle.
In what seemed to Antony like record time the equipment was in place and Harry Forslund, his stocky figure planted in a commanding position, was issuing clear orders. At least Antony could relax now and observe the proceedings. Sylvia had scheduled a castle guide for the presenter to interview for this bit of the footage. Antony supposed he didn’t really need to stay for the afternoon, but no one suggested he should leave and he was finding the filming interesting. The better he understood the over-all project, the better he could do his part.
Apparently Sylvia agreed, because when she spotted him standing apart from the general activity she called him over to join them at the gatehouse. “Monica, I want you to meet our expert on the Mystics, Father Antony. Father Antony, this is Monica, chief guide here at Pickering Castle.”
A few minutes of small talk followed until Sylvia got them back on track. “Joy, why don’t you run Monica through your questions?”
The presenter commented on the excellent condition of Pickering Castle. “Yes,” Monica’s smooth dark hair swung across her cheek as she turned to survey the fine curtain wall circling the hilltop, enclosing the bailey. “We’re so fortunate to have the castle preserved so well. For most of its life Pickering castle afforded accommodatio
n for the king and his retinue when he visited the north. In the king’s absence it provided a local power base. The great thing is, Pickering was never sacked.”
Antony turned from the interview to walk across the wide, green inner ward of the castle, quiet now except for a few scattered visitors. In earlier times this open bailey area would have been crowded with rooms where the king’s household slept, ate and worked. Stone foundations still marked the locations of the various halls and lodgings. He crossed the small bridge at the foot of the motte and climbed the stairs ascending the large earth and stone mound. Once crowned with the King’s Tower, this would have been the heart of the castle and its last resort in case of siege. From this vantage-point it would have been possible to survey the surrounding valleys for many miles to watch for approaching enemies and to command all parts of the castle at the same time.
Looking back toward the gatehouse Antony saw Fred, with Ginger gliding gracefully on her dolly, moving along the path toward the bridge over the inner ditch. Not wanting to be caught in any long-distance shots, Antony descended the stairs to the base of the two-story Coleman Tower, which Harry apparently had chosen for the background for Monica’s interview. Antony took up a position well behind the camera and crew to observe the interview.
“William the Conqueror built the mound and the first castle which was constructed of wood. The inner stone castle was built in the thirteenth century as defense against the Scots. The outer curtain wall and towers were built in 1323—likely at the very time Richard Rolle was living in his hermitage nearby. It’s little wonder he complained of the lack of peace and quiet.”
An All-Consuming Fire Page 3
