St. Edmund Wood

by Caitlin Luke Quinn

  And since the woman was Mary Burnley…

  Nathaniel shoved the book of poetry toward Erland. “You would have better use of this right now in your present mood.”

  Nathaniel lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, studying the patterns of broken plaster and water stains on the ceiling, listening to the drone of the summer rain. The clock chimed: one. . .two. . .three. . .four. . .five. Nathaniel burrowed into his pillows deeper and deeper still, but sleep would not come. He ruminated over pastoral calls he’d make after morning prayer, the text for his sermon, but thoughts of Mary replaced daily matters until he was sweating and finally cried out in agony for the woman he wanted in his bed and whose face and form were shadows in his monastic bedroom of the vicarage. He saw her dressed in a gown made of diaphanous linen, saw how every curve and sinew of her body was made known, and watched in his mind’s eye how he stripped her naked between their hot kisses and they lay together in a castle bedchamber in a different time and world…

  “Christ help me!”

  He rose violently and threw on his clothes, went out and found himself on the path leading into the wood. To the east he could see the pale orange ribbon of the sunrise not far away.

  Birds escaped from the trees as Nathaniel kept on the path, the lowing of cattle and sheep bleating in nearby pastures answering. He didn’t know how tired or cold he was until he saw the park and chimneys of Hazelwick.

  Slowing as he approached the hedgerows that served as fencing, Nathaniel stared at the third storey windows, spotting the honey-colored light in one. The silhouette of a woman reflected on the curtains and he waited breathlessly, hoping.

  No, it was a servant.

  Nathaniel spun round with every intention of going back to the vicarage when he found himself face to face with Mary Burnley.

  “Mr. Godwin!” she exclaimed, genuinely surprised to see him. “That you are so far afield from the village—is it my mother? Were you called?”

  “Your mother?” Nathaniel stammered. “Oh, no, no; I couldn’t sleep and so I found myself wandering through the wood and came upon this house.”

  “You’ve found my home,” Mary commented as she slipped past him to unlatch the gate and go through. She turned and smiled. “How strange that on the same night we should both find ourselves restless, Mr. Godwin.”

  “Pardon?” Nathaniel was distracted by the perfection of her eyes and mouth; the eyes uncommonly bright for so early in the day, the lips rosy and tempting.

  “I too, could not sleep…” She lingered there at the gate, alternately watching the horizon and if Nathaniel‘s assessment was close to truth, him. “I cannot understand why of late it has been such a trial to fall to sleep,” Mary continued.

  For myself, I know why, Nathaniel mused silently. He looked over at her and offered a shy smile. “I often think that there are times when we are visited by our hopes and fears, late at night; that it is for a purpose—that God requires from us only our unconditional love and acceptance of what has been ordained for us, according to those gifts bestowed at our births. We are given this quiet time, the most silent time of day, to ponder what we must do.”

  Mary’s face brightened and she nodded thoughtfully. “Of course. In truth, I have been pondering my future here.”

  “And what have you divined?”

  She watched the flight of two sparrows as they soared and dove between the branches of sycamore and yew trees and lit together, chirruping as the sun started to glow in the wood. “There is nowhere I belong, sir,” she said quietly, sadly.

  Nathaniel leaned over the gate and raised her lowered chin with a finger so that he could see her eyes and the perfection of her face. Close enough to kiss. He smiled, a tender offering, when she met his gaze.

  “What if I managed to find a place for both of us?”

  The bells of St. Ælfgyva’s rent the morning silence. Both looked in the direction of the alto chime. “It‘s Sunday morning!” Mary remarked, as if startled by the fact.

  “Then unfortunately I must go.” Nathaniel replied, but took no steps.

  “Is it so onerous a duty, your calling?”

  “At times; but today I would rather spend the time with you.”

  Mary lowered her face so that he couldn’t see her blush or smile. “And I you,” she said quietly, “but you may not. You look so sad! I have it: I‘ll join you at church. Perhaps I will shock the good people of Knowstone - there‘s no doubt of that!” she laughed. “I‘ll come to show my support for your ministry. Ah, how the bells ring! You must be on your way, sir.”

  Unfortunately for me, Nathaniel thought as he smiled, nodded, and started back, then wheeled about. “Mary!” he called and was relieved when she returned to the gate, her brows raised in question. “Will you meet me by the stream in the wood? After church, three o‘clock?” When she looked at him quizzically he added, “To continue our conversation, of course. You and I seem to be outcasts; lodgers in a greenwood hell.”

  “How perceptive of you, Mr. Godwin.” A moment passed and she nodded. “I should be glad to keep you company this afternoon. Good morning, sir.”

  Nathaniel went back the way he came, looking behind him only once. She was smiling and waving.

  “…for in the night in which he was betrayed, he took bread; and when he had given thanks, he brake it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, ‘Take, eat, this is my Body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’”

  Nathaniel elevated the Host and while doing so, was distracted by a sudden disturbance in the nave. As his back was to the congregation, he couldn’t see and glanced nervously at Talbot standing to his left, his eyes questioning, brows raised.

  “The Burnley woman’s come to church!” Talbot hissed.

  Rather than keep their reverence, the congregation turned and whispered, nudged and gawped. Mary Burnley took a seat in the back near the door. The usher nodded politely in her direction and took a few cautious steps away.

  The church was crowded and uncommonly warm for this, his first Eucharist. No doubt that was the reason for the press of curious parishioners. Nathaniel felt sweat on his forehead and dabbed it gently with a handkerchief after his reverence to the transubstantiated wine.

  “Likewise, after supper, he took the cup; and when he had given thanks, he gave to them, saying, Drink ye all of this; for this is my Blood of the New Testament, which is shed for you, and for many, for the remissions of sins. Do this, as oft as ye shall drink it, in remembrance of me.”

  The chalice quaked as Nathaniel elevated it and set it again on the altar. Talbot frowned disapprovingly—frowned as Nathaniel consecrated the bread and wine, gave the invitation to Communion, frowned when Mary Burnley knelt at the communion rails and when Nathaniel approached with the consecrated bread.

  “The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on Him in thy heart by faith, with thanksgiving.”

  His hands trembled as he brought the bread to Mary’s mouth and felt the warmth of her breath on his hand. Their eyes met and Nathaniel saw a hint of a smile on her lips. In his mind’s eye he saw them together in bed, sharing the divine moment, sweet words and sweeter kisses exchanged…

  Nathaniel dropped the consecrated bread, the Body of Christ, and watched, horrified, as it fell to the sanctuary steps. An urchin snatched it up midst scandalous gasps. His wails echoed through the silent church as his mother dragged him out threatening her retribution and not God’s. Afterwards, Nathaniel avoided the stares and whispers when the service was over, but he couldn’t dodge Talbot’s wrath. He was putting away his vestments in the sacristy when Talbot entered and thumped the Bible on a cabinet top.

  “Caught the Miller boy trying to take the Bible,” Talbot groused. “One wonders if he thought he’d get two and seven for it in the market! Miserable brat! His father brings home enough to feed them.”

  “E
veryone knows it’s the property of St. Ælfgyva’s,” Nathaniel muttered, smoothing the wrinkles out of his cassock before hanging it up. “A shilling a week for carting wood doesn’t buy bread and ale for six children and a wife.”

  “The poor we shall always have with us, yes, yes, I know. How would we preach if we’ve no scripture to read from? That’s what I want to know!”

  “Go out and preach the Gospel, and if we must, use words?” Nathaniel quipped. When Talbot frowned deeper, added, “Saint Francis?”

  “And forget the sins, I suppose? Forget their own lack of discipline and morals, leading less than godly lives? Blaming their poverty on God?”

  Nathaniel ignored the look and the comment, saying, “Intolerably warm today; I think I’ll go for a ride if you have no need of me after I make the rounds.”

  “I have no need of you whatsoever!” hissed Talbot.

  “I’m sorry; it’s been a while since I celebrated the Eucharist; I was never placed on the rota while at the cathedral—”

  “And why should you? The Archbishop’s lap dog! Now I suppose you’ll close your eyes and ears to the smirks and sniggers. You were doing well enough until that slut entered the church!”

  Nathaniel frowned as he pulled on his coat and tried to push past the man, but was held back with a ham fist. “It was an honest mistake, borne of inexperience. And you do the lady disservice by calling names,” Nathaniel said quietly.

  “If you’re going to be seen in public with her and champion the girl so shamelessly, you’d do well to encourage her to leave once and for all. She’s not wanted here!”

  “Neither am I.”

  Talbot said nothing to that, for he’d no desire to see the satisfaction in Nathaniel’s smile if he disagreed. Talbot knew who was unwanted and unnecessary.

  Nathaniel retrieved the baskets from under the table in the sacristy and then opened a hamper beside the door, taking out clothes and bundles of food. His favorite task of the day was going to Bottle Street, the poor neighborhood of Knowstone, and distributing alms, listening to the stories of the woodsmen and laborers. There he was received for who he was: a man who listened, a man who cared. He wasn’t given long, disapproving glances for what many considered failures.

  Mrs. Tynemere pulled him inside for a cup of tea. She was a weathered woman of indeterminate years whose beauty was still reflected in her large, dark eyes and the dimpled smile that showed teeth. The hair bound up in a cap was streaked with gray, but the golden strands stood out. Nathaniel was led into a shabby but neat little parlor where two large-eyed girls were busy at their needlework while a little boy struggled with a psalter, lisping the verses of Psalm 139 from a gap in his teeth. The children stood obediently when they saw their visitor.

  “Now children, here’s Mr. Godwin come with the bread and apples,” Mrs. Tynemere announced.

  “Sara and Polly,” Nathaniel greeted as the girls bobbed in curtsies. “Michael, you improve every day. Soon we shall have you preaching, eh?” The girls giggled at this and little Michael threw them a hateful glance, muttering about silly girls.

  “I wanted a word, Reverend,” Mrs. Tynemere said low and waited until the children were settled again before pouring two cups of tea and sitting at the table across from where she’d put Nathaniel. She pushed a cup towards him and smiled, nodding. “It’s about Michael. Perhaps you know that Mr. Talbot has offered to pay for Michael’s schooling in Ludlow?”

  “The parish has a discretionary fund to pay for the education of those who cannot afford the cost,” Nathaniel answered.

  “But Ludlow sir? Charnel House School?” Mrs. Tynemere whispered and when Nathaniel gestured that he did not understand, she continued: “The boys go to a work house! The school is but a disguise. The boys are made to work in the churchyards and there is an arrangement between the headmaster and Mr. Talbot. Money is exchanged for other purposes.”

  Nathaniel ruminated on what the other purposes would be and nodded slowly. “What may I do for you, Mrs. Tynemere?”

  “Speak with Mr. Talbot, sir! I do not want my boy going to Ludlow. I would never have agreed if Mr. Talbot hadn’t been so insistent.”

  “We shall have words. I will bring you my report on Tuesday next.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  Tea enjoyed and conversation moving on to more pleasant topics, Nathaniel made a promise to come to Sunday dinner next week, and then visited the other houses in the street. He was appalled to hear other similar tales. He would have to do something. The bells of St. Ælfgyva’s rang two o’clock when Nathaniel returned home. He had another appointment and one that would surely be more pleasant; one that he’d looked forward to all morning. He took his horse from the stables, and rode out towards St. Edmund Wood, glad to be free if only for a short while from the claustrophobia and darkness of Knowstone.

  There was a stream deep in St. Edmund Wood, far back from the road into Wales. Nathaniel had found it some months before when he’d gotten lost on one of his first adventures. A clearing where the stream cut through the wood, an oasis, became a sanctuary in troubled times. He always found it easier to pray and confess his sins in such a place, find solace in creation when humanity was left wanting.

  Nathaniel drew up rein when he saw Mary seated on a blanket with a picnic supper spread before her. A shawl was cast aside and she’d let down her hair. A book was open in her lap, but she seemed to be interested in something at the stream and his approach was unnoticed until the horse whinnied.

  “Mr. Godwin! You’re early!”

  “Am I?” he asked, dismounting. “I thought I was unpardonably late. I had pastoral calls to make in Bottle Street, and you’ve brought tea!”

  “I could not resist. I had Cook put up a basket. She is more curious about my afternoon than a cat who espies a mouse-hole in the wainscoting,” Mary laughed. She extended a hand towards the picnic. “Please.”

  He fell on his knees at the edge of the blanket and watched as she poured two cups of tea, offering one and then holding the other, waiting until he drank before she did. They dined in silence for a long while, enjoying one another’s company and the idyll around them. “I don’t remember when I’ve had a more pleasant day and company,” Nathaniel spoke up.

  “I think if you searched back into your memories you‘d find a day or two, surely?” Mary said lightly as handed him a biscuit from a tin.

  “Not particularly; I am expected to be sober and all seriousness and forsake pastimes. I should never be the country squire.”

  Mary studied his appearance, noting how well he looked in plain white shirt and trousers, the riding boots. He looked like a country squire, a look he wore easily. “More’s the pity, Mr. Godwin, for if you were a country squire, you would be unlike your peers. Your tenants would have good cottages and livings, if what I’ve heard about your work in Bottle Street is any indication of the truth.”

  Nathaniel now came round and sat beside her on the bank. He began tossing pebbles into the stream, watching the rings wander out and disappear one by one, how the water turned to glass and reflected the clouds in the sky, and became still as it reflected Mary’s beautiful face. “I do what I must because there is little I can do,” he said.

  “Have you so little regard for yourself? Mr. Godwin, there are those who would think otherwise. Your kindness and generosity to the neighbors in Bottle Street is known throughout the village.”

  “Time will tell. Nevertheless, it’s not my duty to judge. There’s too much of this world I know little of.”

  “Ah, you’ve gone from school house to cloister.”

  “It’s readily apparent?”

  “But nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “And neither have you anything to be ashamed of.”

  “Do you know me, then?”

  “You found that you loved another man and forsook one to have the other. Other than your excellent charge of needle and loom, that is all.”

  “Oh no; it’s more than that.”


  “You needn’t tell me.”

  “Your office gives you leave to listen.”

  “Mistress Burnley, I don’t—”

  “My name is Mary.”

  She was looking at him now. It was in a friendly way, but Nathaniel felt much as he had the night before, and the night before that. Would this longing and dread not go away?

  Mary reached down to gather the flowers that had fallen from her basket and Nathaniel noted the graceful curve of her neck and shoulders escaping from the décolleté, the breasts barely hidden by her frock. This lady was not meant for widowhood…

  She smiled up at him. “If I am to confess my sins, let me confess them to one I know will listen and not pass judgment until he has heard all.”

  “If by listening I give you some comfort, then, Mary.”

  “Justin Burnley, a professor of history at Oxford came to Knowstone two years ago, on his way to Monmouth. He was writing a history of the marches and stayed a while to undertake research. We met by accident, at the book shop. He was beautiful and I was in love instantly. He was penniless out of youthful frivolity: he’d been to Paris and kept company of the worst kind from artists to whores. But he was good of spirit and heart, and soul, and he proposed marriage and I accepted.”

  “And did you marry of your own free will?”

  “Of course! He would not have it otherwise. I went with him in secret to Ludlow, where we were married. But when we returned…” Her voice fell, and Nathaniel thought he heard a painful sigh. “I was called a whore by my mother and Mr. Talbot. It was assumed that I married in secret because Justin had taken my maidenhood and got me with child before the marriage. Mr. Talbot preached sermons how the Whore of Babylon was in the midst of Knowstone. And then Justin discovered the church records and the history of my family, which my father wanted kept secret. There was more whispering and conjecture, more unkind talk. And so we left. We went to Oxford and lived happily there. And then for Christmas, we went to London.”

  Her voice trailed off and Nathaniel marked the tears starting to wet her lashes and glisten on her cheeks. “Mary, don’t trouble yourself—”