But when the dog finally came close to the bear’s leg, the fabled Stone Sexton merely reached out with a lame swat at the hound while still sitting against the pole. The dog instinctively jumped back though the bear’s paw came nowhere close to striking. It immediately dove at the bear again, but fell back once more when the bear waved its paw in the dog’s direction.
The master of ceremonies quickly signaled to another man for a second dog to enter the fray. It too pulled hard at its leash to get at the bear and, alongside the other dog, snapped at the sitting bear’s back paws on the ground. Though the bear seemed half asleep and remained leaning against the pole, it managed a well-timed wave of a single paw to fend off every one of the uncoordinated attacks of the frenetic dogs. The pink rosette slid from the top of the bear’s nose to the underside of its jaw where it looked pathetically like a comical pink beard.
Some boos eventually came from the crowd. A sleepy sitting bear and a couple of dogs scurrying about at the end of their leashes were not the paying customers’ idea of a blood sport. The ringmaster pointed at the two remaining men and their dogs to enter the contest. In an instant the bear was surrounded by four barking dogs.
The bear sensed the increased threat from uncontrolled bloodlust in the dogs and lumbered to its feet. The dogs, straining against their leashes, instinctively began to work together, lunging in two or three at a time so that the bear could not fend off all their attacks, while a remaining dog waited for an opening to attack.
Though not ferocious, the bear’s movements were still effective from years of battle. It moved with remarkable coordination to swipe a paw at one dog while moving its bared teeth in the opposite direction to scare off another dog. At the same time, the bear would shift its hindquarters out of the reach of the third dog, with an uncanny sense of how far the dog could move on its leash. The repeated attacks by the dogs drew no blood.
All the while, the bear defended itself without making a sound and created a power that seemed to compel the audience’s silence as well. While the dogs lunged with their masters shouting and sweating and playing their dogs in and out on the end of their leashes, the crowd stood without moving or speaking.
Finally, a few jeers came from the crowd. The absence of blood in the blood sport they had paid to see was now intolerable. They eventually booed and loudly demanded their money back, drowning out the barking of the dogs. The ringmaster tugged nervously at the dirty cuffs on his sleeves until a disgusted look came over his face.
“A blood sport with no blood,” he muttered with disapproval. “Unchain the bear and unleash the dogs,” he ordered his men as he turned and walked away. “The bear is history anyway.”
The crowd cheered the men as they slid along the flimsy fence and cautiously slipped up behind the bear to loosen its chains from the pole. When the other men unleashed the dogs, the crowd roared their approval as their unsatisfied lust for a killing took over. The sergeant looked uncomfortably around the crowd. Margaret dropped the bag of hazelnuts and grabbed her father’s sleeve in excitement.
The fury of the dogs was fired by their freedom. Yet they did not attack immediately. They slowly circled the bear in a low crouch, growling until they sensed their best opportunity to kill. The bear stood still. Wondering whether the bear realized the danger, the crowd tensed with the threat of death.
On a silent command given thousands of years ago from primal instinct, all four dogs attacked at once. Two of them were able to sink their teeth in the bear’s hind legs. Another went directly for the bear’s throat while the fourth circled behind for a delayed move to the back of the bear’s neck.
The pain from his hind legs awoke the bear. With a frightening roar, he rose up on his hind legs to a towering height. A sudden powerful wave of his paw knocked away the dog leaping for his throat. The crowd cried out as the dog flew to the ground and lay still from the death blow. The other dog held off its attack when it saw the bear rise up. The two dogs with their jaws locked on the bear’s hind legs shook their heads violently to tear at the flesh. Reaching down to one of the dogs on his leg, the bear clawed the hound with both paws and pulled it away, immobilizing it with deep wounds from his claws.
“It will take that dog a month of licking to heal!” the man standing next to Margaret exclaimed.
The sergeant turned to look at the man, but his eyes fell on Margaret. Unlike the others who were cheering and yelling, she made no noise. She leaned forward, her face slightly flushed with small beads of sweat on her upper lip, as she was riveted on the mayhem.
When the bear turned to the dog on his other leg, the dog who had laid back jumped for the bear’s neck and locked its jaws onto the back of the bear’s shoulder. The bear roared and tried to reach for its new attacker. While the bear reached back unsuccessfully, the dog on its leg let go to leap for the other side of the bear’s neck.
With the jaws of both dogs locked on each side of the back of the bear’s neck, the bear roared with pain as blood appeared in the fur of its shoulders. Stumbling about the ring, the bear tried repeatedly without success to reach back to dislodge the dogs. He shook his body and shoulders to throw the dogs off, but they hung on while being thrown about by the bear’s jolting moves. Finally, the bear fell forward to the ground on all fours, breathing heavily while the dogs hung off his shoulders.
The people in the crowd were shouting when suddenly the bear stood up tall on its hind legs once again. The sergeant watched the tip of Margaret’s tongue slip between her lips and move to moisten them before she swallowed. After a few staggering steps, the bear stumbled to a stop before the fence in front of the sergeant, DuBois, Margaret, and the horrified priest.
Stone Sexton stood there silent and still, the dogs hanging stubbornly on the bear’s shoulders, until the crowd grew quiet with anticipation. It was then that the priest saw the anger come into its eyes. Its anger was not at the dogs or the pain. The priest sensed an anger burning in the bear’s eyes at all the injuries and indignities it had been forced to endure to make men rich.
The bear reached up with its claws to cut away the wretched pink rosette and ribbons hanging from the side of its mouth. Once its glazed eyes saw the rosette fall on the ground, Stone Sexton slowly reached his right paw across his body over his left shoulder and his left paw over the right side of his neck. With a single powerful move, the claws of each paw were thrust into the body of a dog and pulled down along each of their bodies tearing both of them almost in half. The blood of the dogs spurted over Margaret and the man standing next to her before the animals slumped to the ground with the life seeping out of them.
Stone Sexton looked up into the sky, reeled unsteadily, and then fell forward, crashing across the fence on Margaret and the man beside her, who was completely covered by the bear’s body. Margaret’s arm was pinned under the bear along with the man. Before the stunned crowd could even react, the sergeant unsheathed his sword and pushed DuBois aside. He reached over and with a powerful thrust stabbed the bear. Margaret felt the hot stench of Stone Sexton’s last breath on her face.
The sergeant and DuBois pulled the bear’s body off the man and Margaret’s arm. The man was dead, his skull and chest crushed from the weight of the bear. Father Regis kneeled down next to the man and began giving last rites.
DuBois was horrified to see the blood of both the man and the beast on his daughter’s sleeve and hand. “Are you all right, Margaret? Tell me you’re not hurt,” DuBois pleaded with a fearful look.
Pale with shock, she nodded to him. DuBois picked her up in his arms to carry her back to their carriage.
“Make way!” ordered the sergeant to clear the crowd. When DuBois began to move through the surrounding people, Margaret looked back once more at the bear and the man. A path quickly opened up. Father Regis rose from the side of the dead man and hurried after them.
“I am taking you away from here,” DuBois tried to comfort her as he carried her toward the carriage, “You are safe now, Margaret.”
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br /> Both DuBois and the priest saw the blood covered fingers of her hand that bounced with each step. DuBois wanted to wipe the horrible red stain off her delicate hand right then and there, but hurried on for fear of greater injury. Reaching the carriage, DuBois laid Margaret on the seat and Father Regis gently brushed her long hair away from her face. Her face, which had been white from the shock, was now flushed.
“Are you hurt, my darling? Can you move your arms and legs?”
“I am all right Papa. I am not hurt.”
With Father Regis looking over his shoulder, DuBois looked up and down her body to confirm her words.
“Thank God!” he said, taking her in his arms once again. “My poor sweet daughter.”
He rocked her back and forth gently. “Are you certain you are all right?” he asked after a moment. Seeing her quiet nod, DuBois with grateful tears pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the blood off her hand. His eyebrows pressed together in puzzlement. Father Regis also looked surprised.
Her moist fingers were strangely clean of the blood.
2017 The midday sun streamed through the glass panes in the garret window of Margeaux’s office study in Maryhouse Hall. She looked out at the eclectic assortment of spires and chimneys rising above the other Cambridge colleges along the River Cam as she listened to her student read the conclusion of an essay prepared for the tutorial.
“Thus, the popularity of blood sports, especially the displays of bull and bear baiting for the royal family throughout the Tudor period, along with the documented use of these blood sports to entertain visiting diplomats and even royalty from other countries, were actually a reflection, if not an intended portent, of the concerted use of violence as a fundamental instrument of governance in both domestic policy and foreign relations.”
Even after the student finished reading, Margeaux continued gazing thoughtfully out of the window for a moment before turning back to her student. Margeaux did her best not to show any reaction to the young woman’s unusual appearance.
Standing out below her short, spiked hair—dyed jet black—the student’s ears were pierced with so many studs and earrings that there was as much metal showing as flesh. Studs stabbed the sides of both her eyelids, which were painted completely black with heavy mascara. A fake diamond pierced the side of each nostril, and a metal stud punctuated the center of her left cheek. A painful looking silver ring exited from the top of her lower lip over black lipstick and looped into the skin below.
Margeaux resisted the thought of where else on her student’s body there might be similar hidden adornments. Sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch were all symbolically under attack. That was enough to contemplate for now.
“Well, Miss Weatherby.” Margeaux tried to sound positive. “How can I put this? Your extremely detailed and rather graphic descriptions of blood sports lay an extensive groundwork for your interesting thesis.”
“Thank you Miss Wood,” her young student responded. “But if I may be honest, I am a bit concerned about all the essays I’ve been assigned on the late medieval and early Tudor periods.”
“How so, Miss Weatherby?”
“Well,” the young student tugged at a nose ring for courage, “the historical analyses I’m given to do always seem centered on rather dark elements of the times. I mean, the essay subjects have been satanic rituals, exorcisms, and punishment of heretics. They’re all such dark and gruesome subjects, Miss Wood.”
Margeaux looked at her with a bit of surprise, thinking that her personal style suited that course of study quite well.
“Dark and gruesome subjects are a part of all people and a part of life, whether we approve of them or not,” she answered. “And they take us to places not everyone likes to go and most people prefer not to see. These places are not lit for all to observe easily. They must be discovered by someone who can recognize them and is willing to share the darkness.”
“Yes, quite,” answered Miss Weatherby who didn’t know what else to say. Unable to think of anything in response, she was relieved when Margeaux’s phone started ringing.
“I’ll see you next Tuesday. We’ll discuss your next essay topic then,” Margeaux concluded as she answered the call in the same breath.
“Hello.”
“Margeaux, it’s Don Whitby. I just got word that the first scaffold is up to the roof in the back of the church. The workman said I would be very interested in what he found. Can you come?”
“I’m leaving now,” said Margeaux. “I can be there in an hour.”
“Me too,” he answered. “See you then.”
Grabbing her purse, she bounded down the three narrow flights of worn wooden stairs out into the sunlight where she walked briskly across the lawn to the gate at the Porter’s lodge.
“There’s a letter for you, Miss Wood.”
The head porter, still in the black coat and bowler hat he wore to make his afternoon rounds, handed her a brown envelope.
“Thank you, Gerald.”
She saw the return address and hurriedly started ripping it open.
“Not good news, I’m afraid, Miss. Your research funding request has been rejected by the government.”
Margeaux stopped tearing the envelope and looked at him.
“How do you know that, Gerald?”
“It’s a thin envelope. I’ve seen quite a few of them in my time, Miss Wood. There’s no additional paperwork that goes with a grant of funds.”
Margeaux frowned as she took out the letter and read the confirmation of Gerald’s deduction.
“Sorry, Miss Wood.”
“It’s quite all right, Gerald. I’m sure my research will get funded.” After her lie, she hurried through the college gate to her car.
The drive to Atwelle was becoming pleasantly familiar. Once Margeaux reached the outskirts of Cambridge and started winding her way through the villages and past the farms along the two-lane road, she relaxed. Her eyes often strayed from the road to the orderly fields, which were once low fen marshes and bogs that had been drained to create the farmland. She knew the real origins of the fields were belied by the settling of the roads on the soft ground underneath, and she quite liked the gentle rocking in the quiet of her car as it rose and fell along the wavy roads toward her now-familiar destination.
As Margeaux pulled into a parking space near the church and got out of her car, the first thing she noticed was the unusual activity around the building. Trucks were lined up on the road next to the church. Workmen were busily moving the pipes and boards for the scaffolding.
Don drove up briskly in a low, sleekly shaped sports car with the top down. He waved at Margeaux as he pulled on the hand brake with a jerk.
“That’s quite a car,” she said, complimenting Don as he climbed out. “What model is it?”
“It’s a 1956 MGA 1500,” he answered proudly. “Said to be the first mass production car capable of doing one hundred miles per hour. I’ve been restoring her for a while.”
“Really? How long?”
“Oh, let’s see. About . . .” Don’s right thumb drummed along his fingertips as he added up his digits. “About fifteen years.”
Margeaux gave him a funny look.
“Let me introduce you to her,” he said. “This is my Sally. I’ve worked on her quite a bit, but she’s pretty much original. Never been mucked with. You know,” he added, looking as if he’d just sucked on a lemon, “like adding modified parts.
“Well except for a modified oil cooler,” he admitted. “She doesn’t like hot weather. Cold and wet is her preference. But the heater’s great—at least on your feet. The rest of your body, not so much.”
“So everything is original just like it was built in 1956?”
“That’s right. Except I rebuilt the engine, the transmission, the front and back suspension, the gearbox, the differential, and the electrical harnesses. And I replaced the spoked wheels and all the nuts and bolts.”
“That’s original?” Margeaux said with a raise
d eyebrow.
“You bet. Except the leather on the seats is new, of course. Nothing’s too good for my Sally. Go ahead, climb in and try out the seats,” he urged her.
Margeaux walked up to the door, but then gave Don a puzzled look.
“There’s no handle to open it.”
“Just reach on the inside of the door.”
Her fingers felt a wire running along the width of the door at the top.
“There’s just a wire.”
“That’s right. Pull down on it.”
When Margeaux gave the wire a tug, the door clicked open.
“Original?” she asked.
“You bet,” confirmed Don.
“How do you lock the doors?”
“You don’t. I guess in 1956, one didn’t worry about that.”
Margeaux climbed into the low-slung car. Surprisingly, her legs were able to stretch out their entire length with room to spare. She smiled as she looked into the tiny rear-view mirror on the dash.
“I think my mobile phone screen is bigger than this.”
Don shrugged.
“In this car, where you’re going is more important than where you’ve been.”
“Very philosophical,” replied Margeaux. “I can’t be more than a foot off the ground,” she commented, looking down.
“A bit less actually. I know my car,” he replied with pride.
Margeaux surveyed the gauges and knobs on the dash.
“What’s this knob for?”
Don climbed into the driver’s seat and gave a frustrated look at the knob to which she pointed. “Not really sure what the hell that’s for,” he admitted.
“But it’s original,” Margeaux said.
“Of course it is,” he responded with conviction.
She noticed that as he sat there, his head stuck up over the top of the low windscreen.
The Atwelle Confession Page 6