The Atwelle Confession

by Joel Gordonson

  “I do not, Sergeant.”

  “Its style is known as a ‘hand and a half’ by the length of its hilt. But for those who know swords, it is called—”

  The sergeant looked around to be sure no one else would hear.

  “The Bastard,” he said with a proud smile.

  “Indeed,” answered Father Regis. “Then I shall pray for your bastard as well,” he said with a wry smile as he turned to make his way through the gate and up the path under several great oak trees to the main door of the manor house.

  While waiting for an answer to his knock, he admired the substantial wooden beams curving symmetrically across the facing of the front wall of the tall house. Wooden beams, he was reminded, were his reason for meeting with Lanham. The thought raised a growing feeling of anxiety that once again gripped at his insides. He tried to ignore the gnawing doubt about his ability to succeed at the task before him. Finally, one of Lanham’s servants opened the door and greeted the priest warmly before leading him through the dark, wood-paneled entry to the lord of the manor who welcomed him in the study.

  “Father Regis, good to see you.” The tall, handsome man waved his guest to a chair opposite him.

  “And you, Richard. You must tell me, how is your son doing?”

  Although the look in Lanham’s eyes changed, the smile under his well-trimmed gray beard did not move.

  “Christopher is doing well, thank you.”

  “And has he made a decision?”

  Lanham’s smile disappeared.

  “He has decided to take his vows. He hopes to enter the monastery this winter.”

  “How wonderful!” exclaimed the priest, although he could see Lanham did not agree.

  “How can I help you, Father?” Lanham abruptly diverted the direction of their discussion.

  “First, Richard, I wanted to thank you again for your extremely generous gift to build a side chapel in the new church in the memory of your late wife. It will be a beautiful place of prayer and a worthy memorial to her sainted soul.”

  Lanham looked down at the floor. He thought about how he had made that gesture of a contribution to the new church because it was expected of him, but regretted now that the chapel would remind him of her painfully until the day he died.

  “You are most welcome, Father.”

  “I also wanted to report to you on how well the building of the new church is progressing.” Father Regis provided numerous details on the partially finished walls, on the planning and purchases for the interior, and on the efforts of the expert workmen from the region. Lanham nodded his approval and continued waiting for the real purpose of the priest’s visit.

  “Richard, you appreciate as much as any of our worshipers the beauty and importance of the firmament of heaven over our heads as we live our lives below dedicated to God.”

  Lanham now knew why the priest was there.

  “So I know that you—more than anyone in our church, Richard—appreciate the beauty and importance of the roof of our new church, which protects us as we worship and pray to Him.”

  Lanham was thinking the priest knew full well that the people who most appreciated the beauty of God’s skies above were his parishioners who dug all day in the darkness of Lanham’s new salt mines. Yet he wasn’t talking to them about a new roof.

  “The walls are almost finished and soon will be in need of the crown of beautiful wooden arches pointing to the heavenly firmament above, through which you will ascend one day to join your sainted wife.

  “With the completion of the walls, we are also ready for the installation of the windows of stained glass. Through their beautiful colors, we will see the story of the founding of this church two hundred years ago and its renewal with the building of this new edifice in our time.

  “Richard, God needs your support to purchase the timber for the beams and construction of the roof, and the stained glass that tells the story of this church and your place in it. May we count on you for your help?”

  The priest knew his request was in trouble when he saw the muscles of Lanham’s jaw tighten in response. He waited through Lanham’s silence, preparing to persuade Lanham with more detail on the budget.

  “Who else is contributing to the purchase of timber and glass?”

  “You, of course, for your love of the church, are the first to whom I came,” answered Father Regis.

  Lanham’s hand stroked his bearded chin as his mind turned over the request. The priest prayerfully folded his hands on his lap.

  “Father,” Lanham finally spoke, “you know that my gift of the chapel and other support to this point have been exceedingly generous.”

  “I do know that, Richard. I give thanks to God daily and ask for His blessing on you for your selfless gifts.”

  “And you may know that my recent investments in the new salt mines are substantial and uncertain at present.”

  “I have no doubt, Richard, that you will do well in such business as you have in all your other commercial endeavors.”

  “Then there is the port in Atwelle,” Lanham went on. “There are petitions before the king for the grant of rights to create an inland port through the waterways to the sea. I, as you know, am not the only person seeking these rights and revenues. So there is much uncertainty about the success of that project on which the profits of my mines and enterprise rest mightily.”

  “There is little question that with the efforts of you and others in the town, the reality of the new port will surely come to pass,” announced Father Regis as if such commercial matters were the subject of his daily meditations.

  “Well, the efforts of ‘others in the town,’ as you refer to them, are more certainly in their own interests than they are in the new port,” responded Lanham.

  The priest continued looking at him hopefully.

  “What about our king and the pope?” Lanham asked. With a steady gaze he waited for a response from the priest.

  “How do you mean?” Father Regis replied to avoid a direct answer.

  “You know that the king is close to a direct confrontation on the authority of the pope over the question of the annulment of His Majesty’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon,” stated Lanham.

  “Yes, but the king has reached out to the Holy See many times to resolve the issue. An ecclesiastical court or Papal Bull will surely resolve the question amicably.”

  Lanham shook his head at the priest’s naiveté.

  “All of that did little good for Cardinal Woolsey, who went from being the king’s chancellor to being charged last year with treason. If Henry VIII, King of England, decides he wants a divorce, he will get it, even in the face of the pope’s opposition.

  “If that happens, Father, the situation could lead to each of us having to choose sides. What if the king orders all priests to pray for his new marriage? What will you do then if the pope forbids it?

  “And what of me, I ask you. What will I be choosing if I decide now to make a large contribution to your church? An eternity in hell through excommunication by the pope if I say no? Or losing my head by the sergeant’s sword upon the king’s command if I say yes?”

  2017 As the old woman handed over a cup of odd-smelling tea, Margeaux could not help taking a sidelong glance at her unusually long and thick gray hair. Its natural waves hung loosely over her shoulders down past her waist.

  “I may be named Daunting, but I’m old and cranky and poor as a church mouse here at St. Clement’s,” the old woman complained.

  “I know what you mean, Miss Daunting,” the young woman responded, gingerly juggling the teacup too hot to touch. “Not having enough money is the story of my life also.”

  “What’s your name again, dearie?”

  Margeaux smiled patiently. Miss Daunting had asked that question several times in the two months they had known each other.

  “I’m Margeaux—Margeaux Wood, Miss Daunting.”

  The old woman gave her a suspicious look.

  “Your accent—are yo
u French?”

  “My mother was French, but my father was English. I was raised in both countries.”

  Miss Daunting’s wary expression did not go away.

  “Now explain something to me. I was told you were a fellow, but you’re clearly a woman.”

  “I am a ‘fellow,’ because that is my academic position,” Margeaux replied and smiled again. “A fellow of my college, Maryhouse Hall, at Cambridge University. I’m a don.”

  The old woman cocked her head with a funny look at her. “Don? I thought you said your name was Margeaux?”

  Margeaux’s smile started fading at the edges.

  “‘Don’ is another word for fellow, like a lecturer. Except I don’t lecture actually, I’m a research fellow in medieval history.”

  “So you’re not working with the new architect then?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so,” huffed the old woman. “Architects are fellows.”

  Margeaux’s smile was gone at that point.

  “And he is a real Don, by the way,” the old woman snipped. “His name is Don.”

  With a satisfied look from having reestablished her natural order of things, Miss Daunting took a sip from her teacup.

  Margeaux was already unhappy at how her project in Atwelle was going, and this conversation was not helping. Like the premature winter weather in the autumn outside, the small office in where they sat felt cold and damp like St. Clement’s, the ancient church to which it was attached. She took a sip of tea. Margeaux didn’t know whether it was exotic tea or maybe just old like Miss Daunting, but at least it was hot.

  “Would you by any chance have some sugar for the tea, Miss Daunting? I’m sorry. I didn’t catch the name of the new architect.”

  “You didn’t catch it because I haven’t yet told it to you,” the old woman replied. “It’s Don, like yours. Don Whitby. A fine-looking young man, if I do say so. And he’s supposed to be the best in the business when it comes to restoration of old churches.”

  Margeaux concluded that Miss Daunting would make no attempt to find sugar in an office that was as disorganized as the old woman’s mind, so she took a sip and tried to ignore its odd taste.

  “When does Mr. Whitby start on the church’s restoration project, Miss Daunting?”

  “I have no idea. I’m just a volunteer. I do almost everything here except preach sermons and give communion,” she answered with both pride and frustration in her voice. “But I’m definitely not in charge of the architect. I don’t get paid a farthing, though I could certainly use it.”

  “How long have you been here?” Margeaux tried to sound polite and interested while trying to figure out what she was drinking.

  “Well, if by ‘here’ you mean the village of Atwelle, my family has been here for centuries. If you mean here at the church, I started volunteering full time a while before Father Charleton disappeared.” She let out a small sigh of resignation. “You see, the Church of England is not doing very well here in Atwelle, and the congregation is not very large anymore. With the fund-raising campaign to refurbish the church just starting, Father Charleton needed help. So I volunteered on a full-time basis. Much more work. No more money,” she grumbled before sipping her tea.

  “It’s so strange, Father Charleton’s disappearance,” remarked Miss Daunting. “Such a pity.”

  “Yes,” Margeaux agreed. “He had such a wealth of information about the church. I learned so much about St. Clement’s from him in my brief time here.”

  Miss Daunting nodded with a frown.

  “And then in the middle of all the activity to start the project to fund and begin the church’s restoration, he up and disappears. Vanishes!” Miss Daunting snapped her fingers loudly and shook her head.

  “But wasn’t it fortunate that Father Lanham arrived as associate vicar just before Father Charleton disappeared,” Margeaux observed. “He should do well to finish his training here, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, that was unexpected,” Miss Daunting replied. “It’s not many small churches like ours that have a curate these days. Plus it’s so special that we have him here with the Lanham name when we’re trying to raise money to restore the Lanham side chapel. And now Father Adams has returned to Atwelle to replace Father Charleton after thirty years as a missionary in Haiti. So I’ve got two ministers plus an old leaky church keeping me busy,” she concluded.

  After a final gulp of the peculiar tea, the old woman set down her cup and brushed some long strands of hair back over her shoulder to look directly at Margeaux.

  “So how is your little project doing here at St. Clement’s? What is it again?”

  Margeaux took a deep breath and made an effort to sound enthusiastic as she patiently described her research to Miss Daunting one more time.

  “It’s a research project on the church’s unique collection of facets. It’s quite exciting actually.”

  Miss Daunting gave her a questioning look.

  “Unique? The church has been here for centuries. What’s unique about it? One of those big government research grants, I suppose,” she concluded in a disapproving tone of voice.

  “I’m afraid not,” Margeaux had to admit. “That’s part of my problem. The funding for my research is still uncertain at this point.”

  At this news, Miss Daunting tried to look sympathetic.

  “Well, maybe things will work out for you, dearie.”

  Margeaux took a hasty final sip of the tea and set down the cup and saucer.

  “Now that I’m here, would it be possible to meet Father Adams?” “I’m afraid not now. He doesn’t seem to be available much, unfortunately. He’s not a young man anymore, you know.”

  “Could I see Father Lanham then?”

  “He is unavailable also.”

  “Then why am I bloody well here?” Margeaux wondered with frustration, thinking about the hour-long drive from Cambridge. “Perhaps they might be available for my next visit?” she asked Miss Daunting.

  “Perhaps,” the old woman replied. Thick tresses of her long wavy gray hair fell around her shoulders as she leaned over to stand up.

  Margeaux rose and thanked Miss Daunting before departing through the door to the nave of the church. Though the low light of the late afternoon sky made the church seem like a dark cavern, no lights were turned on. Only a single candle burned on a wall near the large stained glass window behind the altar. She walked past the altar and stood before the base of the window, looking up. Then her eyes circled around the interior of the church.

  “Not much to look at,” thought Margeaux. “But for what it is worth in the end, this may be the only church in England with so many unusual aspects that haven’t been studied and chronicled. And there’s probably a very good reason for that,” she concluded with excitement. “There is something that will make it worthwhile for me to be here. I know it.”

  Margeaux felt a shiver run through her body. Her jacket was too light for the early winter weather and the cold church. Something made her look around. She felt like she was being watched, but in the dim light she saw no one.

  Stepping over a brass figure of a knight with his long sword inlaid in the stone next to the altar, she began walking quickly toward the long aisle between the empty pews. When she thought she heard something, she stopped. The cavernous church was as silent as it was dark. She started walking again. Now she thought she heard footsteps. Again, she stopped, but still she heard nothing. The shiver ran through her once more.

  Halfway down the length of the church, Margeaux looked around at the gray shadowed walls and then up at the dark wooden ceiling arching high above. The small candle by the altar seemed miles away. Taking only a few steps, she halted abruptly. This time she heard a footfall after she stopped.

  Now she hurried down the aisle as quickly as she could without breaking into a run. Her fingers finally felt the cold iron of the latch as she reached the large ancient wooden door at the main entrance of the church. Leaning back to p
ull open the door, she stepped outside and then looked back into the dark empty church. There was no movement, only silence. She shuddered nervously again.

  “Funny how the dark can turn a church from feeling like a sanctuary to feeling so threatening,” Margeaux thought with a shake of her head as the familiar sight of her car calmed her a bit. Turning back to close the door behind her, she started to reach out for the latch.

  The heavy door slammed suddenly in her face, looming over her as its echo raced away inside.

  THREE

  1532 After his midweek mass, Father Regis tried to hurry through his parishioners’ confessions so he could meet with Peter as soon as possible. He very much needed to talk to Peter to work through his concerns before addressing Francis DuBois the next day. But there were many men waiting to make their confessions, and most of them involved the local prostitute, Molly. She was a continuing annoyance for the priest in the confessional, but not a problem for the men in his parish who simply sought absolution from Father Regis to resolve the matter in their consciences.

  He let the last man off with a mild penance and went to find Peter at the side door of the church. The two men did not pass a greeting once the door was opened. Peter simply followed the priest in silence up the narrow spiral stone staircase to the modest cell in an enclosed porch over the side entrance of the partially completed, roofless, and windowless church. Glancing about the small room where the priest lived his spare existence, Father Regis motioned for Peter to sit on one of two plain stools in front of a tiny table.

  Peter sat quietly while Father Regis leaned over the fireplace stirring a thin stew heating in a small cauldron. After he had dished up the stew into two bowls, the priest filled mugs with ale from a cask and joined his friend at the table. Peter gave a moan of eagerness to start eating, but Father Regis started to pray a blessing for the food first.

  Even with his hands folded and head bowed, Peter kept a steady eye on the food. Immediately after the “amen,” he reached for his mug and drank the ale in a single quaff. Then he vigorously broke off some bread from a loaf, dipped it into the stew, and ate it as if it were his first meal in days. Father Regis refilled the mug from the cask and sat down again, watching Peter eat.