by Mary Luke
Oh, Thomas, where will you go?" The tears slipped from her eyes as the monk sought to console her. Yet there was so little he could say, for there was so little he actually knew. Her tears also recalled that unhappy time that would haunt his memory forever. He remembered the scalding wetness on his neck as Chloe had lain sobbing in his arms. Then he'd fought that sinful battle in which only the knowledge that Merton, Father Felix and his Saviour lay at the end of his dreams had prevented him from dishonoring the girl he loved and the parents who'd trusted him as implicitly as one of their own.
Gently, Thomas set down his wineglass and prepared to leave. "My good wishes to your mother, Chloe," he said, hiding his hands in the ample folds of his habit. He didn't want her to take his hand again. "Please don't distress yourself further. There's nothing we can do about Merton—the king was explicit about that. I'm sure your father will be a great help to Father Felix. But now I must go. I'm needed there—we have much to do, and only a little time. . . ."
"Thomas! You'll not leave without saying good-bye?" Chloe's large gray eyes, still tear-filled, looked wounded. "You will come to say good-bye—and let us know where you're going?" Suddenly, her eyes were downcast. She, too, remembered that once before she'd said almost the same exact words. Suddenly, she covered her eyes with her hands. "Oh, Thomas, I'm such a fool! You must hate me so! Begone with you now—Father Felix will be waiting." Quickly, she gathered up her flowing skirts and, without a backward glance, fled the room.
Heartsick, Thomas let himself out the front door. It would always be the same. They could not be together. Brother Thomas of Merton Priory and Chloe Cuddington had little to offer each other but pain. How often he'd hoped—since that day three years ago—that their lives and personalities would change. Change so that once outside his cloistered home, his mind did not automatically revert to the past—to the years of growing up when a silver-haired girl had been the dearest thing in the world to him. He'd hoped that she, too, would find someone worthy of her beauty, charm and lineage, that she'd have many sons to help administer her inheritance and daughters to enhance the family with their loveliness. Memories struck at Thomas as he walked, plodding now and ignorant of the beauty around him, toward the Priory. And soon even that would be no more! Bitterly, he thought: another home lost At ten
he'd lost his parents and the warmth of the comfortable cottage where he'd felt safe and loved. Now, thirteen years later, he was to lose the only other home in the world that mattered.
As he walked, further memories assailed him—of the many times he and Chloe had ridden over her father's vast lands. Even at twelve or thirteen, no one could touch her on a horse. She was as one with the wind. For years, they'd been together, climbing fences, stalking the barnyard animals, racing up hillocks and copses, paddling in the stream that filled the fishpond and looting the larder when the cook wasn't looking to feed the fat carp and trout that swam in its shimmery green depths. They'd been as close as brother and sister, and the Cuddingtons had taken pleasure in the relationship, realizing how intolerably lonely for both boy and girl it would be otherwise. Thomas had loved Chloe Cuddington with the simple, strong affection of a country boy, well aware she was above him in rank, and unattainable. She was his lodestar-gleaming and distant, yet fixed forever in his youthful firmament. He'd shared her intense thrust of joy and pride whenever they rode over her father's acres. She knew every stream and pond, especially those with flocks of geese. Every meadow, thicket, heath, copse, every small upland covered with furze and gorse were as familiar to her as the view from her window. She knew—even better than he did—where to find the patches of glorious honeysuckle and sweet-briar, where the vast clumps of beeches were breathtaking in silhouette against the sky. More than once she'd opened Thomas' boyish eyes to the beauty of nature that he accepted as mundanely as he accepted the sun would be there in the sky each day. Not so Chloe. She had an affinity with all nature that Thomas knew he lacked. Riding in the woods, she always knew where the animals were—the great herds of deer roaming at will, or the hare and pheasant, even the vixen and her cubs. Thomas remembered the day she'd tracked the shy, elusive fallow deer. He'd sat, taut and wondering, on a rock as she sighted the deer and noiselessly moved toward them. They let her come quite near. Several, braver than most, had stood—quivering and quiet—as she laid a hand on a furry back or stroked a velvet nose. Regularly, she brought home stricken animals who, if she ministered to them herself, seemed to recover overnight. She was known throughout the village for her "way with animals."
Thomas recalled the day Sir Richard and Lady Elizabeth had taken Chloe, then about thirteen, and himself, a manly sixteen, to Ewell Fair. Returning, they'd come upon a stranger savagely beating his horse. Too weak to ward off the blows, it had crumpled, inert and emaciated, to the ground, while the man hammered away, shouting a stream of obscenities. Chloe had flung herself from her horse, almost receiving a blow as she pounded on his back with her strong fists and screamed at him to stop. It had taken both Thomas and her father to pull her off before the drunken man struck her. They'd grappled with the stranger and angrily denounced his brutality, though Thomas noticed the unfortunate animal had closed its eyes and ceased to breathe. They'd taken the sobbing child home as Richard assured her he'd have the man chastised by the authorities and the horse removed from the road.
The scene was still vivid in his mind as Thomas emerged from the forest road and saw the outline of the Priory directly ahead, its bulk heartwarming and substantial against the sky. The afternoon sun glinted on the great golden cross, and almost as if in welcome, the bells pealed, their silvery sound rolling across the Surrey countryside to echo lingeringly in the distance. The sight and sound recalled for Thomas his earlier years at the Priory—joyous years when he'd learned his letters and knew instinctively that he'd chosen the right life. His love for and joy in his faith had nothing of the love he had for the Cuddingtons. Chloe was, by then, almost seventeen—a beauty already and showing signs of a sensitivity and a deep mystical love of nature that grew with each year. They'd complemented each other so well: if Chloe Cuddington was all that was beautiful, warm and gracious in his life, he was all that was eager, compassionate and trusting in hers. Yet she'd always be above him, and soon, he was sure, a marriage—arranged or otherwise—would separate them forever. His calling was to be the church. He remembered, smiling now at his naivete, how he'd framed it all in his mind—the melodramatic posture in which he sacrificed an unattainable love for the greater love of Christ. At Merton, he was sure, the memory of those glowing childhood years with Chloe would fade and become only cherished memories.
He hadn't counted on the young woman herself.
Even as he remembered the day, his body was consumed by the same warmth and joyous tingle as he'd experienced that morning v/hen Father Felix had asked him to walk to the manor house with
his sad message. He'd put it from him all day, but now—before he took such carnal thoughts into the Priory—he'd recall it all once more, then put it from him forever. In a few weeks he'd be gone from Merton, he hoped to build another life in some other holy house. Chloe Cuddington, her love and her tears, would then have no further place in his mind and heart.
It had happened just before Chloe turned seventeen while he was still a novice at the Priory. They'd ridden past old Priest Hill-always a marker for them—for it was a good distance from the manor house. It had been a long day, one of the few he'd had away from his Priory duties. They'd taken a picnic and looked for plovers' nests in the upland area. After eating their food, they listened to the chatter of the woodpeckers, magpies and jays, while throwing out crumbs and laughing at the birds' antics. Skylarks swooped, dashing into hiding as the wild kestrel sought its prey. Off in the distance the manor house chimneys were barely visible, while the Priory was out of sight, beyond the great forest and Ewell Marsh. As the sun sank lower, Thomas rose, brushing crumbs from his woolen jerkin. "Come, my girl. It's late, and we have a ride yet."
> Chloe refused to budge. Her blue velvet riding clothes were wrinkled and burr-stuck, her silvery hair in wild disarray; the upland wind was strong. "I don't want to leave, Thomas, not now—not ever," she said imperiously. "Oh, don't be such a clod! We've plenty of time, and Father will send a servant to the Priory and explain you're spending the night. They don't own you body and soul —not yet, Thomas!" She sighed. "And all because they taught you to read and write!" Her tone was scornful, even as she smiled up at him and motioned him to sit down beside her.
Thomas could never quite resist the appeal in those dark-gray eyes. They were close to him now; the long lashes made tiny black marks against the pink and white skin where the fair hair blew wild. Her mouth was invitingly close, and he could see her tiny white teeth and feel her warm breath against his cheek. "Thomas, don't be such a clod." Before he knew what was happening, she laid that full pink mouth against his, and Thomas felt a sharp jolt of fire in his loins. Her lips parted, and her tongue sought his. The fire only increased, and suddenly, without knowing how it happened,
they were lying, straining against each other on the hard ground that felt softer than any feather bed because of the miracle of having her in his arms.
"Oh, Thomas! I thought you'd never. . . . You are such a clod." She laughed up at him, beating his chest with small fists in simulated anger, and then, half closing her eyes, she put both hands behind his head and drew him to her once more. "But such a beloved clod. Oh, God, I do love you, Thomas! Didn't you know— don't you care?" And again he felt her soft lips against his. The fervor of her lass and the warmth of the soft rounded body beneath his made Thomas forget everything except the hot, tearing, undreamed-of ecstasy. The girl was his for the taking, he knew, hating himself for the thought that kept recurring even as he rained kisses on her cheeks and throat. Unbuttoning the velvet jacket, he found one soft breast in its rough muslin shirt and, caressing it, was astounded at her reaction. It seemed to rouse her even more, and she moaned, "Oh, Thomas! Thomas . . . let's never go back."
Reliving that moment now, Thomas felt his body again consumed with the fire that Chloe's love had kindled. His eyes were on the Priory gates straight ahead. God, he was unfit to enter that holy door! His self-disgust bordered on loathing. He ought to strip naked and scourge himself in his cell, even though he knew Father Felix disapproved of flagellation. He'd almost taken the girl then and there, indeed might have, if there hadn't been an interruption. Would he have done so—dishonoring her and the trust her parents placed in him? He'd never know.
The interruption had been slight at first. A small rustling sound, not unlike the noise an animal might make, and in their ecstasy, the two figures, arms intertwined, hardly heard. It was the laugh that made them pull apart, Chloe hastily buttoning her jacket and Thomas running fingers through his rumpled hair. He sat up, his eyes sweeping the vicinity. Pulling Chloe to her feet, he'd said, "Someone's here, girl. We must leave. Take the cloth and leave the food." Suddenly the laugh came again, and they both turned.
Just above them, looking down in great amusement, was a tiny man, wiry, with sharp, pointed features twisted in a leer that showed broken teeth. His hair, straggling and greasy, blew in the wind. It was Hurst, the Cuddingtons' undergardener. He jerked a thumb toward them. "Your mother know you're here—with him?" He took a few steps toward them. "Your father—he wouldn't like
what you're doing"—the lewd smile deepened—"wouldn't like who you're doing it with either." Hurst spat on the ground.
Thomas started forward, but Chloe pulled at his sleeve. "Leave well enough alone, Thomas!" Her tone was authoritative, and the boy obediently pulled back; he'd always taken her lead. Since no horse other than their own was in sight, she knew Hurst must have walked to the site—had he followed them? Their progress up the hill would have been visible from the manor house grounds. He'd struck out after them and had, undoubtedly, been watching her at one of the most intimate moments of her life. And laughing. Chloe felt her body burn with anger, shame and frustration.
"Keep going, Thomas!" she whispered as they mounted their horses, attempting all the while to muster as much dignity as she could, aware her burr-stuck clothing and tousled hair were highly compromising. Thomas rode close beside her and, at one point, reached out to clasp her small hand. They did not look back or speak until Hurst had disappeared from sight. They knew he was standing still, watching them make their way down the hillside. When they reached the bottom, he laughed again, loud and long, and the sound echoed evilly in their ears as they rode in the direction of the manor house.
Once out of sight, Thomas pulled close to Chloe, holding her hand as they stopped on the road. "Chloe, you're afraid of him? Has he bothered you?"
"He's done nothing. Nothing I can complain of, except I feel him watching me sometimes when I'm working outside in the garden or near the kitchen." Chloe's voice trembled. Hurst was Domino's helper she said, and had been at the manor for more than ten years. The aging gardener considered him indispensable, for he took complete responsibility for the kitchen gardens and orchards. True, the man possessed a spiteful temper, and there'd been several scenes involving Hurst that had caused her father to rage and swear. For all his small frame he possessed an unusual strength, and those who'd made sport of his size usually found he could, in a few rapid moves, flatten them to the ground. Hurst was vicious to the young boys and girls from the village who came to help at harvesttime. Once Domino had pulled him from one of the farmers' lads who'd taunted him. Hurst had knocked the boy down and was angrily encircling his neck with strong fingers when Domino came upon them. A scene had followed, with Domino angrily cuffing Hurst
about the head until he released the young lad. Both Richard Cud-dington and Domino had chastised Hurst, telling him one more such display and he'd have to leave the manor. And they'd see to it that nobody else in the village hired him. Neither Chloe nor her mother could understand why Richard and Domino put up with the man; he was the single troublemaker about the place. Richard, however, said Hurst was Domino's responsibility and didn't wish to interfere; he was a good worker. But, said Chloe, he had an odd sense of power—an evil power. Her mother put it more simply, saying, "He's bad, bad, bad. . . ."
That had been nearly three years ago, Thomas recalled, his eyes still on the Priory buildings ahead. And only once since then had Hurst shadowed their day with his evil presence. It had been the day he and Chloe had said their last farewell, before he took his final vows. The remembrance was too much for Thomas. He'd recalled too much already. His duty lay ahead. Surely Father Felix was wondering what had happened to him? He'd been slothful on his walk to Cuddington and slack in his return. And there was so much to be done! Hurrying forward, thrusting the everyday world from his mind, Thomas remembered he was a man of God with God's work to do. As he let himself in the back gate, he said a small prayer of gratitude that the serenity and tranquillity of Merton was still there for him to share.
Qhapter ^fifteen
Several weeks later, as the fateful day for the departure from the Priory drew nearer, Thomas worked in the scriptorium, sorting and labeling precious folios and parchments, wrapping the valuable books and records to be given the king. As he finished the last of the work and prepared to return to his cell, he saw Sir Richard Cuddington ride in the back gate. Soon Father Felix came from his chamber, and the two settled on a cloister bench in deep conversation. Fondly, Thomas watched them both.
To the casual observer, the Prior of Merton and the lord of the manor seemed to have little in common. But Thomas was not a casual observer; he knew their many similarities. Both were dedicated men—Father Felix to his faith and its ensuing responsibilities, Richard Cuddington to his family and land and to the tenants and villagers who lived on its abundance.
Each might have advanced to more prominent positions in the church and at court. Thomas had often heard Father Felix abhor any yearning for a bishop's miter, and he knew Richard Cuddington well enough to know that life at court
with its waste and hypocrisy would be stifling. Richard had lived too long in the open, delighting in the change of seasons, the almost profligate abundance of the land, in the great sweep of wind that came off the fine meadows surrounding his house. He often rode in the morning before the rising sun had lightened the horizon to the east. Heading homeward, a solitary figure, straight and tall atop his favorite mare, he might see the frail figure of Father Felix as he emerged from a cloistered hour of prayer. Richard would raise an arm in greeting to his friend, who bowed in return. Each recognized the
other had been observing a form of worship: one on his knees at the altar, the other in the saddle, his eyes alert for the lightening rays of the sun that brightened and blessed the trees, meadows, the gullies and streams he'd known since childhood.
Richard Cuddington had been of invaluable assistance in the past difficult weeks as the Priory prepared for its dissolution. He'd written numerous letters attempting to find homes for the brethren and had been helpful in assessing the worth of the Priory's possessions. Father Felix's estimate was invariably one of spiritual—not commercial—worth. He'd also promised to provide food and other assistance to several of the indigent villagers who were unable to take care of themselves.
The sound of horses' hooves in the courtyard brought Richard and Father Felix to their feet and Thomas to the open window. He winced as Richard uttered a great oath and Father Felix cried, "It's your daughter, Sir Richard!"
Suddenly, Chloe, her face pale and stricken, came into view. "Father!" She raised her hand, beckoning. "Father! Come at once! Mother says you're to hurry—we have visitors at the house! They say they are from the king!"
"Begone with you, child!" Richard's voice was firm. "I'll be right behind you." He made no further farewell. Instead, as his daughter turned toward the arched gateway, he spurred his horse forward. Passing her, he raced down the road and disappeared in the clouds of dust that engulfed the frightened girl.
