The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  I walked between two outer slabs, three times the height of any man, to enter the circle. The giant stones in the middle were twisted, more misshapen, almost as if they were hurt. It came over me how protective the outer stones were in their circle. It resembled the priory, how we sisters cared for one another. The sick or the hurt or the infirm moved into the center, and the stronger ones made a chain, to heal and comfort. Our lives, our commitment, were celebrated here. We mattered.

  I knelt on the ground. The rising sun bathed my face. I began to pray. I had not gotten very far when I felt a foot nudge my knee. It was Brother Edmund, his mouth twisted.

  “We need to leave,” he said.

  “Now? So soon?”

  “There are no answers here,” he said. “Just enormous stones hauled up a hill by pagans, centuries ago.”

  “And Brother Oswald?” I glanced over at the chanting Cistercian.

  “He won’t learn anything here, certainly not why God has allowed the dissolution of the monasteries.” The friar’s voice was harsh. “The only way we can help him, help all of these poor lost men, is by finding the means to stop Cromwell.”

  Brother Edmund reached down and pulled me to my feet, his grip surprisingly strong. He trotted to the horses, never letting go of me. When we passed a large thicket, I walked too close and a branch raked my arm.

  “You don’t need to drag me,” I snapped. “That hurt.”

  “Did I just hear you lodge a complaint, Sister Joanna?” he asked. “Well, one memorable thing did occur this morning, after all.”

  I tore myself away from Brother Edmund. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Forgive me, I should not speak so. I just feel tremendous pain for these blameless men. And pity. On the way to the stones, Brother Oswald told me they have pooled the money of their pensions. They don’t intend to use it to live on for the years to come, or to pay for bookings to Europe, to seek out abbeys that will take them in. They refuse to leave their country, and they are spending all the pension money now, on this senseless wandering across England.”

  “Are you certain that they are the senseless ones, and not us?” I asked.

  He winced. “No, I’m not.”

  We walked in silence for a few minutes. Brother Edmund and I took one last look back at the monks, still praying and chanting and milling around Stonehenge. I mourned that I would never set eyes on them again.

  “They could yet find enlightenment today,” I said, thinking of my own revelation while standing within the stones. “You cannot see into another man’s prayers.”

  Brother Edmund’s lips tightened. “We must get to Malmesbury Abbey.”

  We mounted the waiting horses and rode away.

  Our direction was northwest. Luke was a great help—my cousin was right, he did know the land. He guided our journey, as we threaded through the barren farms and the cattle fields, going slowly because the roads were so narrow and poorly maintained. It did not seem possible that a large abbey, the burial place of a great king, would be found tucked away in this simple country. Brother Edmund kept looking up at the sun, as it reached its highest point, and then began its western descent. He spoke very little, except to say no whenever John or Luke suggested a rest.

  In the middle of the afternoon, I finally prevailed. “The horses must be fed. I want to get there as quickly as you do, but the animals will falter without food and water, and we don’t have a second string.”

  While the horses rested and I shared bread and apples with John and Luke, Brother Edmund stood apart from the rest of us, his fingers laced behind his back, staring at the trees along the side of the road. I could tell from the wary fashion that Luke glanced over at him how much he feared Brother Edmund.

  I took the last apple and marched over to the friar.

  “Please, Sister, don’t ask it of me—I can’t eat anything today,” he muttered. I spotted a bead of sweat rolling down his brow, despite the cold. His affliction was worse than ever.

  Suddenly, he pointed at a thicket of trees, far off the road, and scrambled toward them.

  “What is it, Brother?” I called. “Please, stop. Wait for me.”

  He just ran faster, and I followed, frightened.

  Behind the trees was a stone ruin. Only the foundation remained, and half of one wall. But at the far end of the square foundation rose a strange cross. It had a circle in the middle, the points of the cross extending just beyond. Faint markings ran up the base. It stood about four feet tall, with a center that was low to the ground—the cross seemed to be sinking into the earth.

  “This could be seven hundred years old,” he said to me, excited.

  “What language is that?” I pointed at the markings.

  “I’m not sure—Celtic, perhaps,” he said. He reached out and caressed the cross, reverently, and began praying.

  When we returned to the others, he asked Luke whether he’d seen any such others in the countryside.

  “Aye, sir,” he said. “This be the oldest part of England.”

  “ ‘Oldest’?” the friar repeated sharply. “In what way?”

  Luke shrugged, uncomfortable. “It’s just what people say, sir. This road we’re on, Kingsway, it was built many, many years ago. My grandfather called it ‘Alfred’s Road.’ ”

  Brother Edmund and I exchanged a look, and he strode to his horse.

  “Come—let us be off again,” he called out, his brown eyes blazing.

  John and Luke exchanged their own worried looks as they trudged to their horses. I tried my best to pretend to the men that all was well.

  Sundown drew near. The day should have been getting colder. But instead, as we rode north, going as quickly as the road allowed, the air grew milder. It was unnerving. I did not share Brother Edmund’s affliction, the part that made him sweat, so what reason could there be for this? Then I noticed John loosen his outer clothing as well.

  It was as if something rose up from within the earth to warm us.

  At a crossroads, Luke lifted up in his saddle. “Malmesbury ahead,” he called. A flat hill stood against the western horizon. Atop it, a wall ran around a tight cluster of roofs. This was far more than a market town.

  I heard a rushing noise. To the left ran a river, tumbling over smooth rocks. It curved around the city on the hill. An ancient stone bridge crossed the river. The river split, the other arm encircling Malmesbury. Then the road made its ascent, climbing up to a town that was almost an island between the rivers.

  “Look—do you think that’s it?” asked Brother Edmund, pointing at the largest building atop the hill. I saw towers and a long slanted roof.

  “But that’s as big as a cathedral,” I said, awed.

  He kicked his horse to clatter over the bridge. “Where is the abbey?” I heard Brother Edmund shout to a man walking on the side of the bridge.

  “The north end of town, sir,” the man said, fingering his cap.

  Brother Edmund surged ahead, at a full gallop through the gates of Malmesbury. My horse was exhausted—I did not want to whip her to go fast up a hill, so I trotted behind with John and Luke.

  When we reached the main part of town, I could see him ahead. Brother Edmund slowed and jumped off his horse, so quickly he stumbled and then righted himself. He ran to a high brick wall on the right of the street and then froze, like a statue.

  “No!” I heard him scream, as if he’d been run through.

  By the time I’d reached him, Brother Edmund was openly weeping. A small crowd gathered: two women, an old man, and a boy, all concerned for the distraught stranger.

  I ran to Brother Edmund. “In the name of the Savior, what is it?” I pleaded.

  “Malmesbury has been destroyed,” he choked.

  I peered through the archway. A long and magnificent abbey stretched behind the wall, with sweeping towers and columns, but its enormous spire lay on the ground, leaving a gaping hole in the structure. It looked as if the front of the abbey were being taken down, piece by piece. A m
ountain of bricks lay next to it. Two carts were piled with bricks. A hole had been dug nearby.

  “We’ve come too late,” said Brother Edmund.

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  One of the women in the crowd nudged me. “But the abbey has not been destroyed, mistress,” she said.

  Brother Edmund heard her. “What do you mean? Isn’t this the work of the king’s commissioners?”

  “No, sir,” she said. “The commissioners have come to make a report, but they’ve not yet dissolved our abbey. The spire collapsed in a terrible storm many years ago, before I was born. They are finally taking down all the damaged parts; they don’t have the money to make repairs. But in the back section, the abbey is intact. There’s a prior, and monks, and all of our memorials.” She paused. “Can’t you hear the singing?”

  “I don’t hear anything,” Brother Edmund said, despondent.

  The woman pleaded with everyone to be quiet. That’s when we heard, from behind the wall, a beautiful sound. The lilting harmony of many voices, proudly singing the offices of Vespers.

  The woman turned to Brother Edmund. “Be of good cheer, sir,” she said. The others also moved forward to comfort him. “We still have our fine monks here,” said the old man. “You will not be disappointed with Malmesbury Abbey.” I had not seen such compassion from strangers for a long time. Nor had Brother Edmund; he was greatly touched.

  “Oh, thank you, good Christian people, thank you,” said Brother Edmund, and made the sign of the cross. He walked through the archway and onto the abbey green.

  I hurriedly gave John and Luke some coins and told them to find supper and to provision the horses. “See if there is an inn here, in town, and return in three hours,” I said.

  “But it will be night by then,” said John. “What will we do if there isn’t an inn?”

  I didn’t answer. I turned to follow Brother Edmund, striding across the green. The fallen bricks were hard to see in the dwindling light. I fell over one and hurt my right knee. I could feel the spreading warmth of blood but ignored the pain.

  “Wait for me, Brother!” I said.

  He’d made it to the open doorway, on the side of the abbey, and hesitated. The second I reached him, he quietly removed his hat, revealing his tonsure. “I won’t play a false part here, before God,” he said.

  “We don’t know this prior, if we can trust him,” I warned.

  Brother Edmund closed his eyes and listened to the song, as it echoed from deep within the abbey. “Isn’t it beautiful, Sister Joanna?” he said. “Don’t you feel as if we’re coming home?”

  “It is good to hear the offices again,” I said carefully. There was something about this elegant, half-ravaged abbey that disturbed me.

  “I wish I could make confession while I am here,” he said, peering inside. “It has been too long, and my sins are great.”

  “Surely not, Brother Edmund.”

  He reached out to grip the abbey wall, as if he needed it to strengthen him. “I have something to say to you, Sister Joanna.”

  “Yes?”

  Looking away, at the side of the door, he said, “I wanted to lie with you last night. I have never been with a woman in my entire life, but in that room I felt great temptation. I have to say this before we go inside the abbey.”

  I looked at the side of his thin, sensitive face.

  “That is why I left the room and why I treated you so coldly this morning,” he continued, haltingly. “Which was unfair. You did nothing wrong. I am a very weak man—you and I both know this. Yet it is your faith and your belief in me that have sustained me these many weeks. I pledge to you, with my life, that I will never violate your trust.”

  Words swelled in my throat. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. But I couldn’t speak.

  The song of the Vespers reached a crescendo inside: “Come, let us sing to the Lord, our God . . .”

  Brother Edmund turned to look at me, his eyes both proud and sad. “Shall we go in now, Sister?” he asked.

  “Yes, Brother.”

  The singing led us to the Benedictine monks of Malmesbury. We passed through the wrecked portions of the abbey to the back section, which was intact. Their church was large and old. The columns, the pews, resembled those of other places of worship. The apse rose in a pointed arch, filled with stained glass of exquisite beauty. The flickering of the candles danced off the many faces in the glass.

  Brother Edmund and I waited, respectfully, at the back of the church, for Vespers to be finished.

  The prior spotted us. He stepped down from the apse and walked down the nave to meet us.

  Brother Edmund did not move. He did not shrink away. But I was afraid. What would the prior make of a man with a tonsured head who did not wear a monk’s or friar’s habit, and was accompanied by a woman?

  The prior, a tall man with striking green eyes and high cheekbones, about forty years of age, stopped a few feet from us. He raised his hands to heaven in exultation.

  “You have come!” he cried. “God be praised, you have come.”

  Brother Edmund started, confused. “Do you know us?” he asked the prior.

  “We all of us know you; we see you every day,” answered the prior.

  I edged closer to Brother Edmund. This was all wrong.

  “Prior, we have never been to this abbey in our lives,” said Brother Edmund gravely.

  He smiled. “I am Prior Roger Frampton, and I welcome you to the place where you’ve been expected, and on this very night.”

  The prior turned and beckoned, to lead us up the aisle, to the apse of the church. There were about twenty monks seated in their boxes. They broke into joyful smiles as we passed, as if we were prodigal children returned. It frightened me even more; I stayed close to Brother Edmund. As we passed the first box, I saw a single monk, a thin, graying man, who did not smile but glared at us with fear and distrust.

  Prior Roger beckoned to a panel of stained glass, to the far left. It was centuries old. There were two stark figures side by side: a man and a woman. The man was blond, his hair cut in an unmistakable tonsure; the woman, shorter, had long dark hair. At both of their feet glittered a golden crown.

  Brother Edmund and I looked at each other, dumbfounded. Our coming to Malmesbury had been foretold, and immortalized in blessed glass.

  “Then you know why we are here?” I managed to ask.

  The prior nodded. “You are here to serve him.” He lifted up both hands, to honor the largest figure, in the central panel of glass. The man wore golden armor, a red cape hanging off his broad shoulders, and wielded a shield and a sword. Long flaxen hair hung to his shoulders. His face was young and strikingly handsome, but unsmiling. He had one foot raised, as if were about to step out of the glass window and stride into the church.

  “King Athelstan,” I breathed.

  “Athelstan the Glorious, the first king of all England and our abbey’s benefactor.” The prior’s voice rang out across the church; a wave of fervent murmurs answered him. “Strong and fearless, yet wise and fair in all his actions. A man of the greatest purity.”

  “His tomb is here, in the abbey?” asked Brother Edmund.

  The prior nodded. “I will take you to him.”

  He lit a candle himself and led us down a winding stone staircase off the side of the church. It opened to a hall and we moved toward a heavy rounded archway. I wondered if we were below the altar of the church.

  The prior lit candles as we walked into the plain stone room. He ushered us to stand before the massive carved figure of Athelstan. It was a majestic memorial, yet stark, unadorned. The king was stretched out on a rectangular block, facing upward, wearing long robes and a simple crown. I felt as if I were plunged into the soul of a lost Saxon kingdom.

  Prior Roger knelt before the tomb, and we took places on either side of him. The floor was worn, from the humble knees of so many other people prostrating themselves. At the corner of the monument was carved ATHELSTAN, 895 TO 939, ANNO DOMINI.
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  He recited: “Holy King Athelstan, renowned through the whole world, whose esteem flourishes and whose honor endures everywhere, whom God set as king over the English, sustained by the foundation of the throne, and as leader of earthly forces.”

  Something stirred in the air. I glanced over my shoulder. I had the impression of a man entering the room. But I saw no one. My right knee throbbed from my fall on the green; I prayed I would not bleed on the floor.

  I turned back to the marble figure of the king and tried to find my prayer, but I was distracted by an oppressive sense of being watched, and not with kindness but with judgment. I remembered being in the passageway off the cloister of Dartford and running in terror from this same feeling. I peered up at the carved face of Athelstan, his face sterner than in the stained glass. This was a king who, when still very young, forced his own brother into a boat with no sail, no food or water, and cast him out into the sea.

  The prior crossed himself and rose to his feet. We did likewise.

  I ached to escape from this room, but Brother Edmund did not appear disturbed by any presence. He scanned the tomb with great interest. “I have studied history my whole life, but I know little of this king. I have no explanation for why I am so unfamiliar with his reign. Did he have a queen, a family?”

  “Oh, no,” said the prior with a shudder, as if such an idea were distasteful. “Athelstan never knew the touch of woman. He dedicated himself to God.”

  “Did he take vows?” asked Brother Edmund. “Was the king a monk?”

  “No, he was something else. Something not seen before his ascension or since his death. A king of utter purity.” The prior smiled. “We have many documents honoring him in our library, which is undamaged. The writings of William of Malmesbury, our esteemed historian, are collected there.” He ran his hand along the corner of the monument. “I fear though that in our country, history is written by the conquerors. Few come to visit the library anymore. Since the family of Alfred, Edward, and Athelstan died out, no truly English king has held the throne. They have all carried the blood of the foreign conquerors, the Normans and the Plantagenets.” He paused again. “Sometimes I think a mist was sent out by Athelstan to obscure his memory, to help protect his sacred relics from the touch of those who have proven unworthy, who would misuse them.”