The Atwelle Confession

by Joel Gordonson

“Then there are the two side chapels,” she continued. “They were the gifts of the two most prominent families in the town when the church was built. They’re much more ornate with hammer beams and detailed carvings and windows. My guess is that they cost more than the whole rest of the church’s decor.”

  “The Golden Rule,” concluded Don. “He with the gold rules.”

  “Then there’s the enclosed room in a porch over the brick vaulting covering the side entrance to the church. It was a ‘parvis,’ a priest’s room,” Margeaux explained. “Now it’s the office study for the vicar. I love the narrow spiral staircase going up to the small landing at its entry. The priest could see the whole church from there. But watch for the stone steps. They’re quite worn and uneven.

  “And in the study is a unique iron-bound chest built with compartments to hold important books and documents. The only other one like it is in a college in Cambridge.”

  “The lectern there is interesting,” said Margeaux with a gesture at the head and beak of an eagle extending out beyond the platform from which centuries of Bible verses had been read. “It’s made of a brass alloy that was used to mass produce these, it appears. There are some others exactly alike in parishes around Norfolk.

  “It’s said that each parishioner was required to pay to the pope a tax called Peter’s pence by putting coins into the beak of the eagle, which came out through its tail.”

  Margeaux pointed at the other end of the church to the west.

  “In the opposite corners are the baptismal font and the alms box for contributions to the poor and orphaned. Both of them have similar carvings of very sad faces, obviously done by the same carver. It’s rather unusual that those two items would have a similar motif.

  “There are also—”

  “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Whitby!”

  His name echoing from the back of the church interrupted them. Looking up, they saw Miss Daunting waving at Don.

  “Father Lanham will see you now.”

  “Thank you, Miss Daunting,” he called back. “I’ll be right there.”

  “I finally get to meet this bloke,” he said to Margeaux. “You want to come along?”

  “Yes I would,” she answered without hesitation as they stepped from the pew and headed down the aisle.

  “By the way,” she asked him, “were you by any chance here in the church after dark a week ago?”

  “Here in the church? At night?” He wiped the dirt from his face with his handkerchief as he walked. “Not a chance! I never go into churches at night. They’re spooky as hell!” he declared as he ducked through a low door following Miss Daunting to the church office.

  Margeaux suddenly felt once again like she was being watched. Stopping at the door, she glanced back over her shoulder. This time she saw the face of a man peering at her from the shadows of the small porch over the side entrance to the church.

  “I’ll know that face next time I see it,” she thought nervously.

  FOUR

  1532 Margaret DuBois hurriedly poked her head around the thick oaken door to her father’s study.

  “I am going upstairs now, Papa, and will be ready very soon. Please, do not make us late this time.”

  “Have you finished your harp lesson?” her father asked, looking up from his desk. After studying the rows of numbers in the account books before him for many hours, he relaxed at the sight of his beautiful eldest child.

  Margaret’s long wavy auburn hair reappeared next to the door. “Yes, Papa.”

  “And you gave your teacher the coins I left you?”

  “Yes, Papa. He said I do not need any more lessons.”

  “He said no such thing,” retorted her father. “Do you know how many of my sheep had to be sheared to pay for shipping that harp all the way from Brussels?”

  “Papa, please, please do not be late because of your meeting with Father Regis!”

  “All right, all right,” he mumbled as he tried to turn back to the long list of debts demanding his attention. He was interrupted by his wife.

  “Francis, Father Regis is here to see you,” she said from the door, without bothering to enter.

  DuBois sighed wearily and thought, “Another meeting to discuss money I don’t have.”

  Father Regis came into the room with a smile that attempted—unsuccessfully—to suggest he was there solely for the well-being of DuBois.

  “Francis, it is good to see you. How are you feeling, my son?”

  “Why does he always call me ‘son’?” DuBois wondered. “We are the same age, after all.”

  “Father Regis, it is always good to see you. I am well, thank you. Do sit down.”

  “And how are your good wife and the children?”

  “My good wife, like all things in life, Father, is a blessing and burden. And as for the children, I’ve lost count of how many there are.”

  Father Regis smiled. He knew exactly how many there were since he had baptized them all. After the obligatory discussion of the wet weather, the condition of the crops, and the price of wool, the priest eased into his real agenda.

  “Francis, I wanted to thank you again for your extremely generous gift to build a side chapel in the new church to the memory of your family ancestors. It will be a beautiful place of prayer and a worthy memorial to their sainted souls.”

  “You are welcome, of course, Father.” DuBois knew precisely where in the ledger lying on the desk before him was the entry indicating the number of unmade payments on the loan of money he had borrowed for his gift of the chapel.

  “I also wanted to report to you on how the building of the new church is progressing.”

  DuBois was impressed by how well rehearsed Father Regis’s report was. He easily covered numerous details on the nearly finished walls, on the planning and purchases for the interior, and on the efforts of the many expert workmen from the region who were on the job. Uncomfortable and uncertain about his ability to persuade DuBois, Father Regis stayed with the script he had memorized for Richard Lanham.

  “You appreciate, Francis, as much as any of our parishioners the beauty and importance of the firmament of heaven over our heads as we live our lives below dedicated to God. So I know that you—more than anyone in our new church—also appreciate the beauty and importance of the roof over our new church that protects us as we worship and pray to Him.”

  Although DuBois appeared to be listening, he caught only vague references to a “need for the crown of beautiful wooden arches pointing to the heavenly firmament” and colored stained glass to tell the “story of the founding of this church two hundred years ago and its renewal with the building of the new edifice.” He looked up at Father Regis when he sensed the priest was finishing.

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

  The priest knew once again that his request was in trouble from the immediate question in response.

  “Who else is contributing to the construction and glass?” DuBois asked.

  “You, from your love of God and the church, are among the first to whom I have come,” Father Regis answered promptly.

  “No one else?”

  “I fully expect that Richard Lanham, your old comrade-in-arms from the war, will be making a generous contribution along with his similar gift of a side chapel.”

  A momentary scowl crossed DuBois’s face at the sound of Lanham’s name.

  “Of course I am inclined to support your request, Father, and shall certainly consider it. However, I fear I must wait until I know what prices are fetched by the harvest and my flocks of sheep. The markets have been fickle these last years, and one must be prudent in one’s expenditures.”

  DuBois glanced down at the long list of debts in the account book awaiting his attention.

  “Then there is the access to the sea. If the inland port is completed and operated
successfully under the control of the right people, my crops, wool, and meat will have ready access to the demand of enough different markets that there will always be a good price.

  “So I regret, Father, that it is not within my power at the moment to provide a response to your reasonable and appropriate request.”

  Father Regis looked crestfallen. Inside he berated himself harshly for the stupidity of relying on the very same request that had not worked for Lanham. The priest tried to salvage something from his effort.

  “Can you suggest, my son, when you might be in a position to offer your help, so I can secure prayers for your success in the meantime?”

  Before DuBois could answer, Margaret was back at the entrance to her father’s study.

  “Papa, we must go now!” she ordered.

  The sunlight through the small window in the study reflected off her beautiful hair. Her hair had grown so thick and long that at the age of sixteen she often needed help from her mother or a servant to brush it. But today, sitting before the mirror, she had brushed it herself. She was not overly concerned about how she looked. It was more important to her that she not be late.

  “Father Regis,” said DuBois rising from his chair, “I am instructed to proceed to my next obligation.”

  Knowing their destination, the priest gave him a disapproving look.

  “But I shall bear your request foremost in my mind, Father, as I tend to my lands and flock. You can be certain that I will advise you on matters as soon as I am able. Now I must go, Father. I look forward to seeing you at Mass on Sunday.”

  As Father Regis stood to leave, a smile came over DuBois’ face.

  “Father,” he interrupted the priest’s departure. “You should come with Margaret and me to our event. You might find it entertaining.”

  Father Regis frowned and DuBois’ amused smile grew since he knew the priest would not find the event entertaining at all, but would have to come to avoid giving offense by declining the invitation.

  “Well—” the priest hesitated.

  “It is done then!” DuBois announced. “You go on and get in the carriage with Margaret. I will be along in just a moment.”

  As soon as Father Regis left the room with Margaret, DuBois reached for his cloak and turned to leave. His wife slipped into the study and closed the door.

  “We have no money to pay for a roof and windows in the church,” she scolded. Her voice was harsh and accusing. “You have already purchased more land holdings and built the largest manor house in the shire, and after the poor prices for wool and our crops the last two years, you do not have the money to pay for it all.”

  Margaret opened the door. “Papa, we must go now!”

  “I will be there in just a moment, my pet. You go get into the carriage,” he said as he gently but firmly steered her out of the doorway and closed the door. He turned back to his wife.

  “Money is only part of our worry,” he said. “What also concerns me is the same discomfort of all prominent Catholics at the prospect of what the king may do. He has failed in all requests to the pope to allow him, as the monarch, to conceive a male heir with a new wife. His Royal Highness could end up as displeased with all major supporters of the Holy Church as he is with the pope. An angry king with soldiers and ships nearby seems a threat far more ominous at the moment than an unhappy distant pope.”

  “Then why did you not refuse Father Regis’s request?”

  “The church still has great power over its parishes. So much so, the Holy See may impose through the parishes a tax called Peter’s pence to raise money for Rome.

  “And above all else, I must maintain the appearance of power and influence. That is the reason for our debt to acquire more lands and build the manor house. You know I have to give the impression of power and influence to be able to position myself for gaining control of the Atwelle port.

  “It will be a masterstroke for us. First, we will have access to all English ports as well as those across the channel on the continent for trading the crops, wool, and sheep from our expanded estate. And if I can also control the revenues from use of the port, including the shipping of salt from Lanham’s mines, we could become the richest and most powerful family in Norfolk.”

  “But how will you pay the debts in the meantime?”

  “We will sell our crops, wool, and sheep as always. Prices will have to go up soon. I will also raise the rents on my tenants once again.”

  He lowered his eyes to the list of debts.

  “And as we discussed,” he looked up at his wife, “we will sell off our daughter if we have to.

  “Do not worry,” he assured his wife with a kiss on her forehead. “Instead of paying a dowry to the groom, I will secure a financial arrangement from the groom’s family for my permission for him to marry this beautiful young woman from a prominent family of means. That will solve all our immediate problems.”

  “Papa!” He heard the frustrated cry from outside. “We will miss the blood!”

  2017 Don struggled to look serious and not smile. Because if he did smile, he knew he would laugh out loud. No stopping it.

  “Who cuts these people’s hair?” he wanted to know. Don looked again at the old woman’s long gray tresses and the young vicar’s bowl haircut. Through sheer willpower, he forced the corners of his mouth to remain immobile.

  The four of them met in the crowded church office. Don and Margeaux sat on one side of a small cluttered table while on the other side Miss Daunting sat next to Father Lanham, giving him an occasional admiring look. Margeaux’s initial thought was that she was grateful Miss Daunting was not serving them tea.

  Moving past Father Lanham’s haircut, Don noticed that the tall, thin young minister rarely blinked and had tiny pupils, which gave the impression of a continual and intense stare.

  “Needless to say, we’re excited about the church’s restoration project, Mr. Whitby,” said Father Lanham.

  Don kept waiting for him to blink.

  “However, we do have continuing problems with funds,” the curate admitted. “How much do you think we can accomplish with the current funding?”

  “Come on! Blink, dammit,” Don’s thoughts urged him until he realized they were waiting for his response. He looked up in the air thoughtfully and furrowed his brow to look professional.

  “Um—well, the good news is that the foundation and crypt are in sound shape. If they weren’t, you’d have two choices. Leave the church alone and see how many more years or centuries it lasts; or tear it down, build a new church, and wait for it to become ancient again someday.”

  Father Lanham did not seem to appreciate any humor on the subject of his church. His stare carried on uninterrupted.

  “And the rest of the building?”

  “The news is not as good, I’m afraid. But I’m hoping the problems may be fixable,” Don answered.

  “Yes?”

  “I haven’t been up there to do a close inspection yet, but it looks like the most serious problems are with the old wooden ceiling.”

  The assistant vicar and Margeaux leaned forward with interest.

  “When this church was built,” explained Don, “wood was used for the ceiling even though stone vaulting had been around for a few hundred years. Wood doesn’t last as long as stone, and five hundred-odd years is not a bad stretch for a wood ceiling. But now there is water leaking onto the walls, which ultimately has a negative effect on the stone and everything below.

  “In addition, the structural integrity of wooden arches after five centuries is anyone’s guess. Over the centuries attempts have been made to put preservatives on the wood. That’s why the ceiling is so dark. I suspect the most recent was creosote applied sometime before the Victorian period. But unfortunately over a long period of time with wood that old, any preservative with a harsh chemical base will start eating at the wood. So, ironically, we may need to preserve the wood from the preservatives.”

  “What will that take?” asked Father Lanham
with a worried look.

  “Well, we won’t know until we can do a closer examination of every square foot of the ceiling.” Don tried to be encouraging. “But we’ll start while we’re up there by inspecting the top of the stones where they meet the wooden ceiling. That should indicate where large problems may lie, and we can do temporary repairs at least to stop leaks as we find them to avoid further damage.”

  “Mr. Whitby, I know you’re experienced in restoration of old churches. Do you have any estimate on the time and costs for such repairs? Funds could be very tight.”

  “I’m afraid not, Father. Not until we know the nature and extent of the damage. But I think I’ve already managed to save us a fair amount of money,” offered Don. “Ideally we’d like to use a cherry picker for the inspection and repairs.”

  “A what?” asked the young curate.

  “A cherry picker. That’s a sort of bucket on an extendable mechanical arm attached to a small tractor with rubber wheels. It’s easily adjusted to different heights and can be moved about quicker and easier than scaffolding.”

  Father Lanham nodded his understanding, and Don continued.

  “But it’s more expensive and would take quite a bit of money to hire for the time we’d be needing it. So instead I got a bargain deal on some older scaffolding that a small construction company I know is no longer using.

  “But there’s not enough scaffolding to line the entire length of the church, so we’ll have to do the inspection in sections. My plan is to split the scaffolding into two smaller platforms, one for inspection of each of the side walls. We’ll start at the back and then reposition the sections at each of the main roof beams moving from the back of the church to the front behind the altar. We’ll do the chapels on either side of the nave last since they seem to be in better shape.

  “Moving the scaffolding along for inspection will take more time. But at the moment, this church has more time than money,” concluded Don.

  “I hope that by proceeding in those stages, the fundraising will progress over time so we will be able to pay for each stage,” said Father Lanham. “That will be the business of Father Adams. He’ll be concerned mostly with the fundraising.”