An All-Consuming Fire

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  Joy responded, filling the pause left by the guide. “Yes, it’s believed to be quite likely that the Dalton Manor house was near the castle so life would have been a bustle, wouldn’t it?”

  “John de Dalton, Richard Rolle’s first patron, was an important man—if not to say self-important.” Monica turned her shy smile on the camera. “Dalton was bailiff to Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, and served as constable of Pickering Castle, bailiff of the liberty of Pickering, and keeper of Pickering Forest. That means Dalton would have been directing the building of the stone wall you see all around you.” Fred swung Ginger to pan a long expanse of wall.

  “Which then successfully kept out the invaders?” Joy prompted, although she certainly knew the answer.

  “Not the wall, no. When Edward II launched a campaign against the Scots in the summer of 1322 Robert the Bruce invaded northern England. He burnt the town of Ripon and installed his army at Malton, just eight miles south of Pickering. When Bruce’s men began ravaging the surrounding countryside Pickering took action, not arms.

  “The town of Pickering promised to pay the Scots a substantial sum and gave up three hostages as pledge. Both town and castle were saved from pillage. The interesting thing for our story is that Dalton was so disliked that the population offered him to Robert the Bruce as one of the hostages.”

  “If Dalton indeed fed Richard Rolle moldy bread as we are told I can certainly understand that,” the presenter concluded with a smile. There followed a voice-over, urging viewers to join them for their next episode which would focus on the life and work of the mature Richard Rolle—work which changed the course of English spirituality.

  As Joy was speaking, Fred began backing across the bridge, panning an ever-wider view of the ancient walls and towers surrounding them. Ginger followed Fred in a smooth glide. He paused at the point that the bridge met the path, just where the railing ended and the sheer walls of the ditch plunged downward to repel any attacking enemy that might get inside the curtain wall.

  At first Antony thought Fred was angling for a trick shot of the motte structure looming above him. It wasn’t until Sylvia screamed that he realized cameraman and camera had pitched headlong into the defensive trough.

  Chapter 3

  Everyone surged forward to line the edge of the precipice. Then all stood speechless for a moment, taking in the tangle of limbs and equipment. A loud groan let them know that at least Fred was alive.

  Harry Forslund jabbed numbers on his mobile. The broad-shouldered Mike, whose primary responsibility was maintaining the structure that supported the delicate camera, was first to descend the grassy slope. He set about pulling the camera off Fred—whether out of concern for Fred or for the camera was unclear.

  Sylvia backed down the precipice on her hands and knees and arrived before her more cautious husband. Producer and director helped their cameraman to his feet—or rather foot because Fred gave a sharp cry of pain when he placed his left foot on the ground.

  A maintenance man rushed from the visitors’ centre with a ladder and shoved it against the wall of the ditch. The insistent, rising and falling scream of an ambulance siren reached them from far below in the town, silencing for a moment the excited buzz of chatter around Antony. He stepped apart from the crowd, thinking. What a strange accident. Ginger was such a well-maintained piece of equipment, Fred such a careful technician and Mike almost a mother to his electronic charges.

  The unlocked van—had someone tampered with the wheels of Ginger’s dolly? For what possible reason? Could this be sabotage or were Antony’s own nerves making him paranoid?

  Antony continued to ponder as he drove back toward Kirkthorpe. He hated the thought of worrying Felicity—especially when she had so much else on her mind. But he very much wanted to talk to her about his concerns.

  And what would happen to the filming now? Sylvia had set a tight schedule, undoubtedly dictated by budget constraints for their small company. But Antony’s concern was more personal. He and Felicity were to be married in just eighteen days, on the Eve of the Epiphany. Then the honeymoon. He smiled in spite of his worries. And let his mind drift.

  Honeymoon, yes. He came back to the issue at hand. He did not want a delayed shooting schedule to mean that he and Felicity would spend their honeymoon on some windswept Yorkshire moor with him answering Joy Wilkins’ leading questions while Harry Forslund barked orders.

  Outside Leeds Antony came to a roundabout and shifted gears, making him think how much he enjoyed driving, even in the somewhat dilapidated community car. When he and Felicity were married he must see what he could do about getting their own vehicle. And Felicity would need an English driving license. The exam was beastly hard to pass. He recalled having to take his three times—at considerable expense of money and nerves. But he had no doubt that Felicity would sail through with her usual élan.

  He had just exited the M62 toward Huddersfield when a glance in his rearview mirror made him frown. How long had that green mini been behind him? Definitely through the roundabout. Before that? On the M1? He couldn’t say for sure. Then he gave a shake of his head. Silly. It was no secret where he lived. If anyone wanted him they would hardly have to follow him surreptitiously to the Community of the Transfiguration.

  Then he wondered just how comforting that thought was.

  He was careful, however, to notice that no one followed him into the community parking lot. And a few minutes later as he walked up Nab Lane toward the bungalow he scanned the parked cars to be certain no suspicious vehicles lurked in the shadows.

  “Antony!” Felicity flung herself into his arms and planted a welcoming kiss full on his lips then pulled him forward into the tiny sitting room. “Don’t be cross,” she whispered. “It was Mother. She insisted. And I had to keep her busy.”

  Antony gave an indulgent smile and shook his head at the sight of a fully decorated, brightly lit Christmas tree filling the far corner of the room and extending almost to the middle of the carpet, completely blocking access to their one comfortable chair. “I know it’s still Advent—” Felicity began.

  Antony tightened the arm he had around her waist. “Don’t worry, we’ve had O Sapientia.” He had suggested to Felicity and she had agreed that, when married, they would run their home on the same liturgical principals as those that governed the church. Advent would be Advent—a time of somber reflection to prepare for the feast to come. December Seventeen, which was yesterday, was the traditional day for greening churches and a relaxing of restraints.

  He smiled more fully. “And it is beautiful.”

  He started to suggest they sit in the glow of the colored lights but was preempted by Cynthia bustling into the room. She brushed his cheek with her lips, undoubtedly leaving a smear of scarlet lipstick. “Our blushing groom returns.”

  “It’s the reflection of the lights,” he muttered.

  “Isn’t it beautiful!” His enthusiastic future mother-in-law continued. “Felicity said not before Christmas Eve, but I knew that was nonsense. Everyone has decorations up so I was certain she had just misunderstood.”

  Antony opened his mouth to explain that a strict Advent observance was hardly a universal English custom, but rather to his surprise, Felicity spoke up. “I didn’t misunderstand, Mother. It’s just something Antony and I agree is important. The less society attends to such things the more important it is for someone to set an example. When the whole world’s going mad someone needs to keep their head.”

  Antony was amazed at Felicity’s passionate speech. He had been afraid he might have forced his way of thinking on her, even though that had been far from his intention.

  But Cynthia ignored her daughter’s protest and swept on. “Besides, it’s so dismal here. Dark by 4:30 in the afternoon. Don’t you get depressed?”

  Antony shook his head. How could he possibly explain the wonderful coziness of coming in from the cold and dark on a winter’s afternoon to a fire on the hearth and tea in the pot?

  At leas
t Felicity understood. He had barely registered her slipping from the room before she returned, bearing a tea tray. The fire on the grate was only electric, but it served. Felicity poured out a steaming cup—with milk and two sugars the way he liked it. “Now, tell us all about your first day of stardom.” She settled into a corner of the sofa and beamed at him.

  “I think I got through it all right. It was just an introduction to Richard Rolle.”

  “Who will the series cover?”

  “Just Richard Rolle, Walter Hilton, and the author of The Cloud of Unknowing.”

  Felicity frowned her outrage. “Only the men? What about Julian of Norwich and Margery Kempe?”

  “They came slightly later. I think Harry is hoping for a second season. I wish him luck.” Antony answered lightly, but he couldn’t help recalling the dangers they had encountered exploring the homes of those women while seeking the community’s missing icon.

  Antony was thankful for the knock at the door which interrupted his disturbing memories. Felicity uncurled her long legs from under her and went to answer it. She returned a moment later with two of his students in tow, Corin Alnderby and Nick Cooper. Since Nick was from South Africa it was expected he would be staying in college over Christmas break, but Antony was surprised to see Corin who was from north Yorkshire. Felicity ducked into the kitchen to fetch more tea cups while Antony pulled two folding chairs from the cupboard.

  “So what brings you lads out?” Antony asked when all were settled.

  “Just come from St. James.” Corin explained, tossing back the shock of blond hair that perpetually hung in his eyes, a gesture that made him slop the tea Felicity had just handed him. Antony nodded. Students from the College of the Transfiguration worked in a youth centre in Kirkthorpe on Wednesday afternoons.

  “We met Father Anselm outside the church and he suggested you,” Nick added.

  “Me? For what?” Antony frowned. He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of this.

  Corin sloshed the tea from his delicate cup again. In spite of the fact that he was a graduate theology student, Corin’s tall, rangy figure always reminded Antony of a half-grown colt. And his enormous hands and feet looked like he would be far more comfortable on his native farm on the Yorkshire moors than serving at an altar. Corin could be awkward, even difficult, but there was no doubting his enthusiasm. “The Epiphany pageant. In the Quarry Theatre. For the Youth Club.”

  Antony had heard some time ago that the monks planned to reopen the long disused Quarry Theatre at the back of the community grounds. It was considered a good way to reach out to the wider population and to raise awareness of the monastery. As long as the productions mounted there were on appropriate themes it could even be considered a tool for evangelism. Perfectly laudable, but—“In the dead of winter?” Antony asked.

  “The yobs—er, I mean young people at the centre are dead excited. They already have a committee of volunteers to clear the stage of debris. And Kendra who does music at the centre will lead a sing-song,” Nick added. His horn-rimmed glasses reflected the lights of the Christmas tree.

  “But it’s so cold!” Everyone jumped at Cynthia’s outcry. Sitting as she was in the overstuffed chair obscured by decorated branches it was as if the tree had spoken. “Absolutely frigid. Sub-Arctic,” she embroidered her theme.

  “We thought bonfires. In barrels. For warmth and light. And lanterns around the stage—like theatres used before electricity,” Corin added.

  “And Father Anselm approved this?” Antony felt weak in the face of such energy.

  “Like I said. He sent us to you.”

  “But why?” Antony wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “He said you’re involved with a telly production, so you’d be able to advise us.”

  Antony held up his hand, shaking his head forcefully, but Felicity came to the rescue. “Stage work is really quite different from film. Actually I’ve had quite a bit of experience in that line from my days in ballet.”

  “Oh, darling, you were so lovely.” The tree spoke again. “Remember all those years of Nutcracker? And then La Sylphide? What a shame you gave it up.”

  “I grew to nearly six foot,” Felicity reminded her mother almost under her breath.

  But their visitors, fired with a vision for their project, carried on. “We might even be able to get a real camel. A family near our farm rescues circus camels,” Corin said.

  “And I found a llama farm near Harrogate who definitely rents out their animals for events. They would be a lot closer than transporting a camel from the North Yorks Moors,” Nick added. “Of course, sheep should be easy to get.”

  “It sounds like an awfully big project. And we don’t have much time to pull it together.” Antony appreciated that Felicity was trying to bring a bit of sanity to the discussion, but her use of the pronoun “we” worried him.

  Just then his phone rang. He slipped around the corner to the kitchen to answer it. As he feared, Sylvia reported that filming would have to be delayed at least a day. Fred was under strict orders to keep his foot elevated for twenty-four hours and it would take Mike most of the day to repair Ginger’s dolly. Fortunately, the camera had survived the fall, probably because she landed on top of Fred. But the broken wheel whose shaft had caused the accident would have to be replaced. This was a rare occurrence, so Mike would have to go to London to get a new one. If all went well they could plan on picking up the schedule Thursday morning.

  When Antony returned to the hallway Felicity was showing their guests out, promising to meet them at the Quarry Theatre in the morning. Cynthia gathered up the used cups and tactfully retired, leaving the soon-to-be-married couple alone. When the kitchen door clicked shut behind Cynthia Felicity and Antony grinned at each other, turned off all the lights except those on the tree and snuggled into a corner of the sofa.

  “Maybe there’s something to be said for putting the tree up ahead of schedule,” Antony said after a very satisfying lingering kiss.

  “Mmm,” Felicity replied and pulled him toward her again.

  Antony would have liked to continue in the euphoric atmosphere for the rest of the evening, but he did need to bring Felicity up to date on the days’ events.

  Felicity was enthralled. She wanted to know all the details about his interview and the various members of the crew. “Maybe I could go with you one day. I know Mother would find it fascinating.”

  Antony liked the sound of that proposal better before Felicity added the last sentence, but he gave an “Um-hum” of agreement. He still needed to tell her about Fred’s accident and the broken dolly. If anything devious was going on he certainly didn’t want her involved.

  But Felicity brushed off the idea of anything nefarious. “Well, accidents do happen. And you said yourself the stone walkway was rough. Fred probably hit a rock and just snapped the shaft on that wheel. You aren’t thinking it was cut or anything are you?”

  Antony admitted there had been no such suggestion.

  “Well then,” Felicity turned in his arms for another kiss. “What a good thing that you have a day off tomorrow. You can help me with this mad pageant idea.”

  Antony laughed. “At least you admit it’s mad. And I’m happy enough to have the time to brush up on Richard Rolle’s process of contemplation. I don’t know just how much information Joy—or Sylvia—whoever makes those decisions—will want but I need to be ready with a concise answer if she asks.”

  “That’s good then. So stop worrying.” She ran a finger along the furrows in his brow.

  “It’s just that we need to be through with Rolle at least before Christmas because I have to be off to Blackpool.” He paused. “Felicity, are you sure that’s all right? You know I’d rather spend Christmas with you.”

  “Of course it’s all right. You need to be with your aunt.” She shook her head. “Her first Christmas without Edward in sixty years. I can’t imagine. Do you think we’ll ever be married that long?”

  Sometime later—considerab
ly later than he had planned, actually—it was so easy to lose track of time—Antony left the cottage with a small smile on his lips, the glow of the Christmas lights seemingly following him out into the misty December dark.

  The great wrought iron gates of the community were swinging shut behind him when a sharp noise made him glance over his shoulder. He frowned at the sight of a little green car parked beside the curb. Surely not the same green car that had seemed to follow him back from Pickering?

  Chapter 4

  Nowhere had Christianity been embraced with greater warmth than in England, and nowhere was there a more fertile soil for mysticism… This new departure of mysticism—as a separation from Scholasticism—is embodied in Richard Rolle, who represents the protest of the heart against intellectual scrutiny… Antony rubbed his hands together briskly to warm his fingers, then picked up his pen to resume the notes he was making from a little-known nineteenth century German writer.

  Perhaps he should have taken the book back to his room to work. He hadn’t realized quite how thoroughly the chill had penetrated this north side of the library. He glanced out the window looking out over the community’s back garden. The grass was still green and a few faded blossoms clung to the rose bushes in the borders. But little heat emanated from the radiator under the window.

  Still, the cold could be a prompt to help him focus; a counter to the warmth of Richard Rolle’s passion derided by the German Horstman who suggested that Rolle is quite as excessive on the side of feeling as the Scholastics on that of the intellect; indeed, he is all feeling, enthusiasm, inspiration, unrestrained by reasoning or any exterior rule, without method or discrimination.

  Antony shook his head. That was his challenge, to make sense of Rolle’s poetic right-brainedness in a way that wouldn’t sound either dull or demented to modern, secular viewers. And yet Rolle was not without structure in analyzing his road to contemplation and his experience of the mysterious presence of God. As with all the mystics, Rolle underwent the classic three-step process of Purification, Illumination and Contemplation…