“Will I meet Father Adams soon?” asked Don. As the lead on St. Clement’s restoration, he thought it odd that he still had not met with the new head cleric who had succeeded Father Charleton.
“I’m sure you’ll meet him in time,” answered Father Lanham. “But for now he’s quite busy with his new duties.
“You will report to me on any developments and plans for the restoration project,” the young vicar with the odd haircut instructed in a firm tone with added emphasis from his unblinking eyes. He turned and shifted his uninterrupted gaze to Margeaux.
“Now Miss Wood, can you tell us about your project?”
Margeaux described the numerous items of interest in the church and explained that it was historically significant to find them all in a single church.
“Are you at all concerned, Mr. Whitby, about Miss Wood’s project conflicting in any way with your work on the church’s restoration?” Father Lanham asked. “We wouldn’t want either of your projects to be impeded by the other.”
“No, not at all,” answered Don. “If anything, her work might help us discover problems and how we should deal with them to preserve the church’s antiquities.”
Father Lanham’s face took on a small frown as if he were not completely convinced.
“Very well. Miss Wood, do keep me informed of the progress of your project.” He looked back at Don. “And Mr. Whitby, let me know if any concerns are raised in connection with your tasks.”
“Father Lanham,” she asked, “I understand Father Adams just returned from thirty years in Haiti.”
“That’s correct.”
“Have you met much with Father Adams yet?”
“Only briefly, I’m afraid. But I’m sure we’ll be working closely together soon on the restoration project and the other work of the church. Since I’m new and he’s returning after a thirty-year absence, we’ll both have some work to do on getting acquainted here.”
Father Lanham stood up to indicate the meeting was now over. He shook their hands and left rather abruptly. Margeaux and Don headed from the office back into the church.
“He never blinked!” said Don.
“What?” Margeaux gave him a funny look.
“Oh, uh . . . nothing,” he answered. They stood for a moment surveying the interior. An odd sounding voice behind them interrupted their silence.
“Here! Mr. Whitby, nice to see you again.”
Margeaux turned around and found herself looking directly at an unshaven face of a man dressed in rough, disheveled clothes. She could smell him and the liquor on his breath.
“Ah, Squeaky,” Don addressed him. “Margeaux, I’d like you to meet Squeaky, a longstanding resident of Atwelle and a great servant of this church.”
“Aw, Mr. Whitby, I just sweep the place up twice a week for a hot meal.”
“And a good thing you do!” exclaimed Don. “Wouldn’t be the same place without you, Squeaky.”
“How d’ye do ma’am,” Squeaky nodded politely to Margeaux. He turned back to Don.
“Mr. Whitby, could I have a word? Sort of private like.”
“Of course, Squeaky,” answered Don.
Margeaux watched the two men walk over to the corner where she heard Squeaky say something about “standing me a pint or two” before Don pulled out his wallet and handed the man some money.
A ray of sun broke through the clouds outside, brightening the main window behind the altar. Margeaux hastily took out her binoculars to see if she could detect anything of interest in the grimy panes under the pointed arch.
“Can you make out anything up there?” Don asked as Squeaky headed briskly out the church door.
The look she gave him as she lowered the binoculars was filled with disappointment.
“No. I’m afraid not. But the pointed pane on top looks like it might contain heraldic crests.”
“May I?” Don held out his hand for the binoculars and took a look at the window.
“The cleaning lady didn’t quite make it to the top the last five centuries, did she? But you could be right. If those are coats of arms, I’ll bet they are from the two prominent families of the area when the church was built—the families that built the side chapels.”
Margeaux took back the binoculars and was having another look.
“Here’s what I’ll do for you,” offered Don, who was feeling a bit sorry for her. “Unfortunately, we do have to start with the scaffolding at the back of the church and move to the front in stages. But I’ll try to hurry the inspection along and let you know when we get close enough to the windows that you can have a better look. And we will end up in the front corners next to the window where you might be able to make up for the cleaning lady’s neglect and clean the panes at the top for a proper look.”
When he didn’t get a response, he looked over at Margeaux. He quite liked the way her hair curled behind her ear as she peered through the glasses.
“That’s odd,” she said. “Can you make out what those are?”
She handed Don the binoculars. He took a look at the dark ceiling where she was pointing.
“I can’t quite tell,” he said after some hesitation. “Possibly, if we’re lucky, we might have just found ourselves an angel roof.” His voice had a hint of cautious excitement.
“What’s that?”
Don leaned forward, squinting harder into the binoculars to see more clearly what the shadows and dark wood were concealing.
“A number of churches in this region have what are called ‘angel roofs.’ The name comes from wooden figures of angels carved into the hammer beams where the beam connects with the stone wall to brace the ceiling. But I can’t quite make out whether that’s what we have here.”
He handed the binoculars back to her with a smile.
“We’ll have a look in a couple days when the scaffolding goes up. Would you like me to call you when we’re ready to mount the summit?”
“Yes, please,” she answered as she handed Don her card, which he took eagerly. “Phone me as soon as you can,” she called out over her shoulder with a wave as she exited through the large door of the church.
“That I will do,” Don affirmed under his breath as he tucked the card carefully into his wallet.
He took a few more minutes walking the length of the church to plan out the stages for placing and then moving the scaffolding on the side walls. As he turned to leave, he paused and looked up at the ceiling once again. His hand came to his chin as he puzzled over how an angel roof could have gone unnoticed in the church for five centuries. A thought came to him.
“This may not be a good idea, old man,” he warned himself after considering it briefly. But his curiosity led him on.
He walked over to a low door that had been used in centuries past to exit into the graveyard outside. Pulling out a ring of keys to every entrance in the church, he found a heavy iron key that he had used recently to check out the ancient door and its frame. With a shove from his shoulder, he pushed on the door until it gave way once again after some resistance. Outside he found what he was looking for in the untrimmed grass next to the base of the church wall.
Don reached into the blowing grass and lifted up a very long weathered wooden ladder that clearly was past its prime. He guessed that the ladder had been the main method of accessing the walls and the ceiling of the church for a long time. Ignoring the spider webs, dead grass, and dirt that clung to it, Don balanced the ladder with some difficulty on his shoulder as he carefully threaded it through the low door. With a dull thud, he banged his head hard against the stone at the top of the door frame.
“Ouch—damn!”
His curse echoed through the church. He paused and glanced about to see whether he had offended God, the Church, or anyone else who might have heard him. Fortunately, no one acknowledged his comment, allowing him to focus on the throbbing bump on his head.
“Sorry, God,” mumbled Don as he struggled to maneuver the back end of the ladder through the low door. Hea
ding over to the side wall, he hefted the entire ladder up above the pews. A clump of dirt fell off and shattered messily on the front pew.
“Da—,” he started to say once again until he caught himself. “I mean ‘dash it all!’” he corrected himself, again not quite sure to whom he was speaking. “I’ve got to work on some projects other than churches,” he concluded as he lifted the long ladder into position up the side of the wall.
Stepping back, he wiped his hands, rubbed the protrusion on his head, and swallowed hard.
“Right, this is the hard part,” he said out loud to buoy his courage.
Yet he knew the hardest part was yet to come. He looked up at the ceiling again.
“I love looking up at heights. Why is it that looking down from heights scares the hell out of me?” he thought, hoping that if he analyzed his fear it would go away. “Maybe this is a bad idea,” he started to argue with himself out loud once again. But his curiosity seized him once more when he looked up into the dark ceiling. “I’ll just go up a few rungs to start,” he compromised. “Maybe I can see something from there.”
Don stepped up to the ladder, took a deep breath, grabbed the side rails firmly, and placed his foot on the second rung.
“And perhaps I’ll feel like going even higher,” he encouraged himself with a hollow hope.
A loud snap echoed through the church as the second rung cracked under the weight of his foot. Don stepped back and surveyed the ladder cautiously.
“All right, that’s enough,” he said to resign from the effort and abandon his exploration.
But when he looked up again, he was struck by both the disappointment in himself and the lure of the mystery above.
“Come on, Lord Chickenheart. Buck up!” he mocked himself to meet the challenge.
Don tentatively placed his foot on another low rung and took hold of a rung at eye level. As he stepped up, the rung held.
Suddenly he felt a strong hand on his shoulder that firmly prevented him from moving any further.
“May I help you?” a deep voice asked.
FIVE
1532 Margaret was so excited she could hardly sit still in the carriage next to her father and Father Regis.
“Stone Sexton!” she exclaimed. “Can you believe it, Father? Stone Sexton is in Atwelle.
“Do hurry, John,” she called out to the livery servant driving the carriage. “We can’t be late to see Stone Sexton. He’s here all the way from London.”
DuBois was pleased at his daughter’s excitement, but also slightly concerned that she was so eager to see such a bloody spectacle. He remembered taking her to that first cockfight over his wife’s objection. It was a bit unusual for a young lady to be among the men shouting and gambling over the birds that were fighting to the death.
“It will be good for her—something different for the girl,” DuBois had told his wife. “And after all,” he added, “it’s good enough for the entertainment of the Royal Court.” He fully expected to bring Margaret home early once she became squeamish at the sight of blood, but surprisingly, she was fascinated by the battle. In fact, she was so enthralled that she took no notice of the men around her. It was as if only she and the fighting cocks were there.
DuBois admitted to himself now that taking her to view the blood sport reflected his desire to share that kind of experience with a son. He had sons, but they were still much too young for such pursuits. So he felt proud when Margaret next asked him to take her to the bull baiting. Once again, he was surprised at her reaction. The sight of watching a dying bull unsuccessfully fighting off a pack of dogs while chained to a post did not repulse her. Instead, it captivated her completely.
With this new bond between them, DuBois took Margaret to London to see Stone Sexton, the bear that all of England was cheering. The two of them wound their way through the seedy streets and busy brothels of the Bankside in Southwark to the Paris Garden, which for five years had been the most famous bear-baiting arena in the country. For the one penny admission and an additional two pence to sit in the tiers of seats directly above the pit where the animals fought, they were among a thousand people who watched the fabled Stone Sexton, chained to a post but standing proud, as it deftly fended off waves of attacks by the snarling English bulldogs. The crowd rose at the end with deafening shouts for the bloodied bear who stood up and roared at the last dog that whimpered away among the dead bodies of all the other dogs. DuBois remembered Margaret standing up with the crowd, but simply staring silently with fascination and admiration at the bear.
“Will it be like London, Father?” Margaret’s question brought DuBois’ thoughts back to the present as the carriage lurched to a stop. She quickly climbed down from the carriage without waiting for him to help her.
“No, Margaret. This is Atwelle, not London. They have built only a wooden fence around the area for the contest. We will have to stand, I fear.”
He stepped down from the carriage after Margaret. Father Regis looked around uncomfortably as he stepped down from the carriage, hoping that no one would notice him.
“Papa, do you think they will let Stone Sexton off his chain? I’ve heard that they have been releasing him to chase the dogs.”
Father Regis winced at this prospect. She headed straight toward the gathering crowd.
“And Papa, do buy us some hazelnuts,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried past the men exchanging wagers and the jugglers without paying them any notice.
For a few extra pence, they eventually found themselves installed right up against the fence of the small arena. Standing next to them was the sergeant with a great smile below his prominent moustache. DuBois studied the fence with a dubious look. It did not seem much of an impediment to the force of the formidable bear and dogs he had witnessed in London.
“Some hazelnuts, Sergeant?” DuBois turned to the large man and offered him the sack of the hazelnuts traditionally sold at these events.
Reaching into the sack, the sergeant grinned his thanks. Father Regis declined the similar offer when DuBois held out the sack to him. Dubois smiled at the priest’s obvious discomfort and then turned back to Margaret to hand her the sack.
“Here you go, my dear.”
“Thank you, Papa,” she answered. Turning to the man standing next to her, she kindly offered him some nuts as well.
“Why thank you, young lady.” The man smiled at her as he took a few nuts from the sack. The audience quickly returned their attention to the center of the enclosed circle where a man raised his arms for attention.
“Good gentlemen and faire ladies,” the master of ceremonies called out. He was unshaven, and his long greasy hair reached the shoulders of his bright red jerkin, which was frayed on its edges. “Welcome to our contest in the fine town of Atwelle.
“Is there not a more splendid way to spend a Thursday afternoon in the realm of our King Henry than attending a bear-baiting battle pitting the courage of this country’s finest mastiffs against the fabled beast that has not only the strength of Taurus, but also the cunning of Ursus and the fangs and claws of the devil himself? I ask you again, is there not?”
The crowd comprised of almost every man in Atwelle answered with applause of anticipation.
“Then with your permission, and with great pride and special delight, I give you the legendary—Stone Sexton!” The ringmaster gestured grandly to a gate in the fence.
Loud cheers broke out as the large bear was led into the arena with a chain around its neck and another chain around a back leg. Two men with heavy sticks watched him warily as they held the chains and paraded the bear around the arena for everyone to see. But the bear did not seem much of a threat to anyone. It walked wearily with a slight limp and glazed eyes. Scars covered its face and body.
DuBois saw that the many battles that had brought fame to the bear and fortune to its owners in London clearly had taken their toll on the animal. It was apparent to him that the bear’s owners were now bringing the bear out to the town
s where its reputation could still draw paying customers to watch the end of the animal’s illustrious career.
After circling the arena, the bear was led over to a heavy thick pole that was planted like a tree trunk in the center of the small circle. There the men fastened the chains to the pole. The bear sat down stiffly on its haunches and waited with a blank look for what it knew would come.
“Look, Papa. They’ve attached a pretty pink rosette of ribbons above his nose.”
DuBois nodded. “If a dog is able to rip the rosette off the bear’s face and escape unharmed, it is a prized possession for the dog’s owner.”
“It may look pretty to you,” commented the sergeant, “but it’s not pretty to the bear. It’s there to impede his vision so that he’s not so skillful in killing the dogs.”
Both Margaret and Father Regis frowned at this information.
“Good gentlemen and ladies faire,” the master of ceremonies called out once more, “Now I give you the bravest, most loyal and true, our own—English bulldogs!”
Four men, each with a leashed dog, entered through the gate. The dogs were stocky and well-muscled, with large, flat heads and wide, strong jaws. At the sight of the bear, the dogs started snarling and lunged so hard they pulled the men off balance at the end of their taut leashes.
“Remarkable beasts,” said the sergeant. “Once they lock those jaws on an animal, they never let go unless they’re killed first. I’ve seen four like these take down a buck elk that had a large rack of antlers sharp as knives.”
“Stone Sexton!” the ringmaster announced once again as he gave a nod to one of the men pulling back on the leash of a lunging dog.
When the man allowed his animal to approach the bear, the dog began a series of thrusting jumps that almost pulled the man off his feet. His boots slid against the bare ground when he leaned back against each advancing leap of the dog’s hind legs. As it grew closer to the bear, the dog began barking and snarling viciously.
The bear took no notice of the dog until it gave the smaller animal a desultory look when the dog drew close enough to threaten it. The man looked back and forth from his dog to the bear and tensed for the moment when the dog’s attack would bring out the large animal’s claws and teeth. Everyone in the audience leaned forward for the bloody confrontation.
The Atwelle Confession Page 5
