“I’m only the third owner,” he told her. “The first was a colonel in the army. Awarded some medal for something or other. The second was a librarian who was rumored to be part owner of a brothel. Then I learned the colonel was the other owner and they were lovers.
“But come look at the engine,” he invited Margeaux as if that was far more interesting than the story of the owners. They walked around the front of the car, which seemed to extend forward forever. Margeaux looked at a narrow strip of chromed metal that wrapped around Sally below her headlights.
“Is that really the bumper?” Margeaux asked.
“It is.”
“What could that stop?”
“Doesn’t it look good on her though?” was all Don replied as he opened the bonnet to show Margeaux the engine.
Margeaux had to admit the engine was an impressive sight. Its shiny metal looked clean enough for a tea setting.
“With all that engine, where did my legs fit?”
“I don’t know where mine go either,” Don answered. “And they’re even longer.”
Don stood there some time, admiring the engine.
“What’s in the boot?” asked Margeaux as she wandered to the back of the car.
“I’ll show you,” he answered, moving to join her.
When he flipped open the boot, another shiny chrome spiked wheel filled the place for a spare tire. Two neatly folded blankets filled the remaining space next to it.
“Where do you put the luggage?” she asked.
“Luggage?” he asked in return as if her question was a bit silly.
He stood there another minute admiring his car.
“That’s my Sally,” he said finally with a fond look.
“I’m not at all versed in these matters, but may I suggest one small addition?” Margeaux asked.
What’s that?”
“Paint.”
Don nodded his head thoughtfully, giving her suggestion serious consideration before turning to her.
“By the way, are you French? I noticed a bit of an accent.”
“Yes, on my mother’s side. I lived and studied in France most of my life. But my Father is English.”
“I parlez a little French myself,” said Don. “Just enough to get in and out of trouble when I spent a couple of summers in France in my teens.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a workman who came out of the church and approached them.
“Don, you’ve arrived,” he greeted the architect with a handshake. “Good to see you. How’s Sally?”
“Doing fine, Nigel. Just fine.
“Margeaux, meet Nigel Green—a fine contractor and a fine man with a fine new baby boy.” Don slapped the man on the back in congratulations.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Green.”
“And you, ma’am,” he responded with a respectful nod and the proud smile of a new father. He turned back to Don.
“The scaffolding is old, but solid as a rock. You should have no problem. But do take care going up and down.”
“Thanks, Nigel,” said Don. “You’re a sport.”
“And you should find it very interesting at the top,” the workman added with a wave as he walked briskly to his truck like a man in a hurry to return to the new responsibilities in his life.
Their eyes had to adjust as Margeaux and Don entered the dim interior of the church from the bright sunlight. Walking over to the back left corner of the nave, both of them strained to see the dark ceiling above the scaffolding.
“Let’s go,” said Don with pretended eagerness as he grabbed the metal ladder built into the levels of scaffolding pipe. A voice behind them stopped Don.
“Here! What’s this all about?”
“Ah, Squeaky,” Don stepped off the ladder and addressed him. “We’re about to go up and have a look at the ceiling. Would you like to join us? You might discover something special up there.”
Squeaky’s hand came out of his tattered sleeve and scratched the whiskers on his chin as he looked warily up at the scaffolding. The excitement in Don’s voice did not persuade him.
“I think not, Mr. Whitby. I’ll leave it to you.” As he turned to leave, Squeaky slipped a look at Don that confirmed he thought the architect was completely crazy.
This time Don stepped back and offered Margeaux the chance to go up first.
“After you,” he insisted, using politeness to cover up his queasiness at the prospect of climbing the ladder.
With a nod of thanks, Margeaux grabbed the sides of the ladder and took steady rhythmic steps as best she could. Her skirt and shoes were not made for climbing. A moment later, Don followed slowly with his stare focused straight ahead, afraid to look up or down.
When he caught up with Margeaux at the top, he was surprised how dark it was despite the daylight coming through the windows and illuminating the floor far below. Margeaux grimaced at the dust, spider webs, and acrid odor of creosote as Don fiddled with a flashlight he had fished out of his coat pocket. He finally turned a beam of light on the wood above.
The two of them did not move for what seemed a long minute.
“Remarkable!” whispered Margeaux, her gaze transfixed.
“I’ve never seen such a thing,” Don added, reaching up to touch it.
SIX
1532 The sergeant reined in his horse to a stop before the gate of the Lanham manor house. As his passenger slid from the seat behind him on the horse down to the ground, the sergeant noticed that the young man in the monk’s cowl had already cut his hair into the traditional tonsure of a monk with the top of his scalp shaved in a bald circle.
“You know, I just dropped off Father Regis here recently. Seems like my civic duties now include the transport of clergy.”
“I am not yet a monk, sergeant,” the young man responded.
“Close enough, Christopher,” the sergeant said as he smiled down at him. “When do you take your vows?”
“That has not been decided,” the young man answered with an unhappy look. “But in the meantime, I offer you God’s blessings along with my thanks.”
“It will happen soon enough, I suppose,” replied the sergeant. “Give my greetings to your father now.”
With a wave and a gentle kick to his horse, he tugged on the reins to turn his horse back toward the town. Christopher Lanham hurried through the gate and into the manor house, where he headed directly to the dining hall. He was hungry. It seemed to him that he was always hungry these days from living in the monastery.
Richard Lanham rose from the table with his arms open.
“Christopher, my son! Welcome home. Come and eat. You must be famished from your journey.”
As they embraced, Lanham looked with displeasure over his son’s shoulder at the rough material of the cowl and the cut of the young man’s hair. Lanham regained his smile as he stepped back and gave his son a friendly slap on the back before steering him to a seat at the table. Calling out for the servants to bring another plate and a mug of ale, Lanham resumed his seat at the head of the table.
“Tell me, son,” he asked as he grabbed a chicken leg, “how are you faring with things?”
Christopher noted that his father did not specify what things or where. He responded in kind.
“They are well, father.”
A servant placed a plate and mug of ale before the young man with an affectionate look.
“Good to see you, Geoffrey,” said Christopher to the servant. “How are you and your good wife?”
“We are well, we are, Master Christopher. Thank you for asking,” replied the servant, grinning with gratitude at the young man’s question. “Is there anything else I can bring you, Master Christopher?”
“No thank you, Geoffrey. As always, you are very kind to me. Please give my blessings to your wife and tell her I look forward to seeing her.”
“I will, sir. I will. Do come to visit us,” the servant said with an appreciative nod and a slight bow as he backed out of the dining hall.
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“A good man,” said Lanham after the servant left the hall. “How long have he and his wife been here at the manor, I wonder?”
“My whole life, father,” Christopher answered after his hands unfolded from a prayer of thanks before the meal. “At least nineteen years.”
“Yes, indeed, your whole life.” Lanham reflected on the statement. “What about your life now, Christopher? Do you still intend to take your vows and live in the monastery?”
His son stiffened, and the hand that was raising bread to his mouth stopped. “Father, I have completed my time as a novice. I have studied at one of the finest teaching monasteries on the continent. I am ready and the abbot is considering me for the service of the Lord. I plan to take my vows of obedience, poverty, and chastity for a simple life of service to my brothers and Christ as soon as I am deemed worthy.”
Lanham frowned.
“Son, far be it from me to thwart God’s plan or obstruct your desires. But can you forgive me if I express some fatherly concern about your choice?”
“Father, we have discussed this before. I have made my decision.”
“Well if you are certain, what harm is there if I ask some practical questions?”
Christopher looked down and took a deep breath as if he were inhaling the patience he would need for the coming discussion. He pushed his plate away.
“Go ahead, father. Ask your questions of me.”
“Do not take this wrongly, my son, but when it comes to a vow of obedience, I have to point out that since your mother died, you have done only what you wanted and no less. And no amount of caution or discipline has come close to dissuading you from doing your will and your will only.”
“Father, my vow and my obedience will be to God. That will need no caution or discipline.”
“Your obedience, Christopher, will be to your superiors in the friary. What makes you think you can subvert your strong opinions to follow their will? You have not tolerated that kind of authority in others.
“Even your own father,” he added with a stern look.
“And the vow of poverty,” Lanham continued. “You have had the best of everything since you were born. Again, what makes you think that by simply saying a few words in your vows that you will be happy living without all the creature comforts you have taken for granted your entire life?”
“As a novice, I have lived the life of a monk for over two years,” Christopher retorted. Lanham pursed his lips.
“And most of that time was spent in a teaching monastery in Bavaria where the wine cellars and kitchens were better than King Henry’s. If that’s what a vow of poverty entails, every peasant in the parish will be more than happy to take their vows as soon as they can sign up to join the monks.
“I am afraid, Christopher, that you have not the faintest idea of what poverty is and will be in the life you are vowing to live. And I daresay, without any doubt, you will not like it once you experience it.”
Christopher took another deep breath and held his tongue.
“As for the vow of chastity, you are nineteen years old. How does that vow feel so far? Is it working well for you?”
Lanham paused for a moment to give Christopher a chance to think about the inevitable struggles of a healthy young man facing a chaste life.
“If that vow has been difficult for you the last three years, consider trying to keep to it for the rest of your life. Living in isolation with a handful of frustrated boys and shriveled old men will bring no great delight or comfort. But that, my son, will be your life.”
Lanham waited for the young man to reply. After a long silence, Lanham carried on speaking.
“Now consider this, Christopher. A decision not to take these vows does not mean that you are embracing a life of sin or abandonment of God’s will. What you would be doing is taking on the life and responsibilities that God intended for you. I know that because He would not have given you your life as a Lanham in this manor house if that were not so.
“You can live a life of obedience and simplicity in your devotion to God and His creatures while you carry on the family name and manage the holdings of the Lanham manor. It is the most honorable thing a man can do for his father. Without it, our name, our estates, and our family legacy will end. The benefits of living in isolation and reciting prayers all day cannot outweigh the good of preserving and fostering the gifts God has given you already.”
Lanham paused a moment, but received no reaction from his son.
“Christopher, let me speak practically about a consideration that your life as a novice has not allowed you to appreciate. Your joining the order and living in the monastery is not necessarily a life of sanctuary. In fact, you may be walking into the middle of a great conflict that could put your life in peril.
“You may not know the extent to which King Henry is in a direct and serious conflict with the Holy See. The pope is refusing to annul the king’s marriage to Catherine. And if the king is forbidden by the pope to remarry and take a wife who will bear him a male heir to the throne, His Majesty will effectively be at war with the Holy See.
“His Majesty does not treat with mercy those whom he thinks are his enemies. If Cardinal Woolsey can lose everything when the king questions his loyalty, the Church and all its servants could well lose everything as well.”
Christopher looked skeptical.
“Do not think I am exaggerating on this point,” Lanham emphasized. “If the pope levies taxes on the king’s subjects while he denies the king the ability to preserve the realm under his son, there will be a war on the Church. And the life of your monastery and your own safety could be among the casualties.
“Imagine a legion of monks and nuns who have been chased from their abbeys and convents wandering hither and thither in misery seeking means to live. If you think such a thing cannot happen, you do not understand the depths of the king’s antipathy to those who impede his will, including the Church.”
Lanham looked at his son earnestly. “Christopher, here is the point about your decision that you should consider most seriously.”
The son finally looked at his father to hear his last words on the subject.
“The only thing worse than making a vow you should not have made, is breaking it. If you do that, your respect for yourself is lost for the rest of your life.”
Christopher looked back down at the food on the table. He no longer had any desire to eat.
“Thank you, father,” was all the young man said before he stood and left the hall.
Lanham sat in deep thought, his cheek resting against his fist. He had no idea what his son was thinking. After a few minutes, he rose from the table, threw his cloak over his shoulders, and left the manor house. Once outside in the cool evening air, he walked resolutely toward the town.
With his long strides, it did not take long for Lanham to reach his destination. He stopped at an alley, where he looked about cautiously. Seeing no one, he stepped into the narrow lane, walked down a slight hill, and came to a low door in an ill-kept two-story house. As he raised his hand to knock, he heard voices inside approaching the door. Lanham quickly stepped into the darkness between two buildings next to the house.
The door opened to reveal the silhouette of a man against the candlelight in the room. Lanham watched the man reach out to put something in the hand of a woman and then kiss her before turning with a laugh to leave. The man walked right past Lanham, who pressed against a wall to remain hidden.
There was no mistaking him. It was Francis DuBois.
When Lanham was certain DuBois was out of sight, he walked back to the door and knocked. After a moment, the woman opened the door and eyed Lanham up and down.
“May I come in?” Lanham asked.
She took his arm and with a big smile pulled him in through the door.
“Of course, kind sir. You are very welcome here.”
At opposite ends of the alley, two people watched Lanham enter the house. Peter sat on a stone stoop in t
he darkness of a doorway where he observed with mild interest all the comings and goings at the woman’s house. Unseen at the other end of the passage, the sergeant followed Lanham’s movements closely. After the door closed behind Lanham, the sergeant’s hand tightened around the handle of his sword.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Lanham said to the young woman as she took his cloak.
“Like I said, sir, you are very welcome. My name is Molly, but I’m sure you know that.” She patted the ribbons in her blonde hair to make sure they were in place.
“I know your name,” Lanham replied.
“I must say, sir, I never expected to see you here. But I am pleased to welcome you.”
She sidled seductively up next to Lanham and pressed her breast against his arm.
“And is there something I can do to make sure that you are pleased to be here?”
Lanham’s face took on a slight blush before it became serious once again.
“I am not here for myself,” he said. “I am here about my son. I believe you know him well.”
2017 “Ouch!” exclaimed Don as he quickly drew his hand back. He gave it a great shake to try to get rid of the pain. A throb immediately started around the sliver of wood under his fingernail.
Margeaux paid him no notice as she stepped behind him on the scaffolding to look up at the roof beam from a different angle.
“Here, let me have the flashlight,” she suggested, taking it from Don to point the light upward from her new vantage point. Don, sucking on his injured finger, leaned over next to her to look where the light now fell. Another minute passed without words. Their fascination continued as their raised eyes kept moving over the mysterious being in front of them.
Eventually Don mumbled something unintelligible because of the finger in his mouth.
“What?” Margeaux looked over at him. When he didn’t move, she pulled his hand away from his face. He hardly noticed, his gaze fixed on the roof beam.
“Well it certainly is not a roof angel,” he repeated.
“Definitely not,” she replied. Their eyes did not leave the object until they sensed at the same uncomfortable moment that the thing they were staring at was now staring back at them.
The Atwelle Confession Page 7