The Atwelle Confession

by Joel Gordonson

  “I’m sorry, Detective,” she replied, “but I really did not know Father Charleton well. I only started my research project here at the church just before his disappearance.”

  “I understand, Miss Wood. But I’d like to ask you a few questions about Donald Whitby.”

  EIGHT

  1532 Father Regis closed his eyes, and for a pleasant moment felt the autumn sun on his face as he waited by the market stall for the baker’s wife. The warmth of the sun would soon be gone in the late afternoon, he thought. He could hear people around him hurrying to finish their purchases so they could get home and cook supper while there was still light.

  “Father?”

  He opened his eyes. The baker’s plump wife was holding out a large loaf of bread that she had saved for him.

  “Bless you, Lizzie,” he thanked her as he tucked the loaf next to the vegetables in his cloth sack. He handed her a coin.

  “That is yours, my dear.”

  “Why thank you very much, Father,” she answered, pretending once again that the coin was enough to cover the cost of the bread.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied. “Use it in good health for the Lord’s work.”

  As Father Regis turned to head back towards the church, he heard a familiar grunting yell and turned around. There was Peter pushing people aside, and ignoring their irritation as he ran to catch up with the priest.

  “Hello, Peter,” Father Regis greeted him with a welcoming smile as he arrived out of breath.

  Peter said nothing as he took the sack from the priest, put it over his own shoulder, and fell in behind Father Regis as proudly as a squire behind his knight. He followed the priest dutifully through the town towards the church. But as soon as he sensed the priest’s attention was elsewhere, he peeked into the sack to see what he might be eating that evening.

  “No meat,” he thought with a frown.

  When they reached the heavy wooden side door to the church under the shadow of the priest’s room that extended above them like an enclosed porch over the entrance, Peter stepped in front of the priest and pulled it open.

  “Thank you, Peter,” Father Regis nodded politely.

  Although they walked through the door into the church and were surrounded by tall, unfinished, windowless walls, they were essentially still out of doors. Father Regis paused and looked up at the sky in the late dusk light before stepping over to the small doorway of the narrow spiral stone staircase that climbed up to his cell. He ducked his head as he took a step up, with Peter following close behind. At the landing at the top of the curving stairs, he suddenly stopped.

  A tall figure hooded in black stood there waiting for Father Regis, his hands folded calmly in front of him.

  “Father Cuthbert, welcome.” Father Regis tried to sound pleased to see him.

  “Father Regis.” The flat voice came from inside the hood of the black cowl. A boney hand came up to pull the hood back. Father Regis saw the familiar long crooked nose on the long thin face that never smiled. Wispy strands of hair floated around the crown of his bald head.

  “Are you here with a message from the Bishop of Norwich?”

  Father Cuthbert gave a questioning look over Father Regis’s shoulder at Peter peeking at him from behind.

  “Tis all right,” Father Regis assured him. “This is Peter. He is a . . . simple person,” Father Regis said. “He will not understand that of which we will speak. Come in.”

  Father Regis led the tall monk into the small room with a gesture. Peter squeezed in behind them.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I am fine,” answered Father Cuthbert. “To answer your question, I have come from the Bishop. That is what I do. God speaks to all of us in different ways. He speaks to me through the Bishop of Norwich.”

  “And what the Bishop of Norwich knows from God is only what you care to tell him,” thought Father Regis as he took from Peter the cloth sack containing his purchases from the market.

  With a gesture at one of the two stools, Father Regis invited Father Cuthbert to sit. But he remained standing after Father Regis seated himself. The sight of his black cowl made Father Regis uncomfortable. He was the only monk in the diocese of Norwich to wear the distinctive garb. While Father Cuthbert wore the black cowl on the authority of the bishop, Father Regis was thinking there was no doubt that the idea came from Father Cuthbert to give him the appearance of greater authority.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Father?”

  “My presence is not driven by any pleasure, Father Regis. I am here because matters are becoming serious between the Church in Rome and the king.

  “Do you recall when the king levied a 10 percent tax on the income of every priest who received over eight pounds annually?”

  Father Regis nodded with a frown.

  “And then the king ‘requested’—I use that term loosely—that the clergy lend him a quarter of their income and value of their goods.”

  Father Regis sat in silent acknowledgement.

  “And do you remember two years later when the king tried to increase the tax on the income of priests to a third, but then abandoned the tax in the face of the church’s opposition?”

  Father Regis nodded again. Peter sat in the corner, ignoring them while scratching at his arm.

  “Now there is talk that the king is going to ask Parliament to restrict how much land the church can receive under wills and bequests because the church has sworn a ‘foreign’ allegiance to the pope. There is even rumor of the king’s seizing the property of any monasteries he believes owes allegiance outside the realm.”

  Father Cuthbert lowered his voice.

  “The king is clearly constructing a campaign of fiscal intimidation to pressure the church to support annulment of his marriage to Catherine. It may go so far as to declare that anyone who claims that the pope has jurisdiction over matters of taxation or appointments to church leadership may be charged with treason. The monarch is beginning to act as though he is a servant of God ruling not just with divine approval, but at divine command.”

  Father Regis shifted uneasily on his stool.

  “But we are not without the power to respond,” Father Cuthbert went on. “We will arrange for a Bill of Liberties to be introduced into the Parliament that preserves the prerogatives of the church. And while the pope has always approved the king’s recommendations for appointment of bishops and archbishops within the realm, the pope may choose not to move on those recommendations.

  “Our lawyers have crafted means of getting around the restrictions on wills and bequests of land and wealth to the church by creating legal trusts in which the land and money are held by an overseer who ensures that the wealth is used for the benefit of the church. There may even be a Papal Bull forbidding clergy to give money to the king without papal approval and that only the pope can agree to financial demands on the church. The church would be claiming that it is exempt from taxes levied by the king.

  “And further, for every penny that the king taxes the church and its clergy, there will be a levy of Peter’s pence collected under papal authority from every person in the parish to offset the levies exacted by the king against us. That tax imposed by the pope and collected in the churches,” Father Cuthbert concluded with a firm voice, “will mean there is a war of fiscal battles between the church and the king.

  “And with the unspoken declaration of war, the first thing that will be eliminated by the royal defender of the faith will be the immunity of priests and monks against charges of certain crimes—the ‘benefit of clergy’ defense. Our clergy will have no defense against a charge of treason brought against them by reason of their allegiance to the church and the pope.”

  Father Regis felt sick to his stomach. Father Cuthbert seemed to tower over him, turning his world as black as the monk’s cowl.

  “So I am here, my brother, to remind you, as I am reminding all our brothers, that we repute and take our obedience of laws grounded only upon
the scripture of God and the determination of the Holy Church. Though humble subjects of the king, we do not submit to the execution of charges and duty against us that are not prescribed by God, regardless of the crown’s dissent.”

  Father Regis stood up. “I understand, Father Cuthbert.”

  A long dark sleeve extended out from the black cowl as Father Cuthbert placed his hand on Father Regis’s shoulder. “I was certain you would. As you know, the bishop has seen fit to remove seven from the priesthood already this year. They will be excommunicated from the church and deprived of God’s mercy.” Father Cuthbert gave him a hard look. “I know you are not of that character.”

  He pulled the black hood back over his head and moved to the door. “And how are the funds and construction going for the new church building?”

  “They are progressing,” Father Regis answered in a weak voice. He hoped Father Cuthbert would not notice how pale he had become.

  “Good. The bishop eagerly looks forward to the church’s completion.”

  “May God be with you,” was all Father Cuthbert said as he departed and began descending the spiral stairs.

  Father Regis stood there staring at the floor while Peter watched closely to see if it finally might be time to eat. The priest looked up as two figures appeared at the open doorway to his room.

  “Father Regis. A word with you, if I may.”

  The man who spoke looked familiar, but the distracted priest could not place him or recall his name. From the man’s worn clothes, Father Regis knew he was a working tradesman. His shoulders were stooped as if he were still at work carrying some sort of heavy load. The priest also noticed the man’s rough hands, which were clasped low in front of him as if he were a weary supplicant too tired to raise them in prayer. A woman stood beside him, carrying a small baby in her arms. Father Regis could sense her anxiety as she rocked the infant as though she feared it would start crying at any moment.

  Peter gave them a disapproving look. They stood between him and his supper.

  “Of course, my son,” answered the priest. “What is it you wish to tell me?”

  “Father, my name is Bittergreen, Robert Bittergreen. I am a wood-carver working on the church.”

  “Very good, Robert. Your work is important to the Lord and the worshipers of Atwelle. Your skills will stand in this church and be admired for hundreds of years.”

  “If my work is important, Father, why am I not being paid for it?”

  The priest watched an anguished look cross the man’s face.

  “Father, I have a wife and a newborn son who need to eat. The church may be here for a thousand years, but I must feed my family tomorrow.”

  Father Regis said nothing.

  “I do good work, Father. And I am told daily that I will be paid, but nothing is given to me. I show up faithfully to carve the wood we have, even while the others who are not paid are going back to their villages.”

  The baby started to whimper. Father Regis looked down at the floor.

  “Father?” The man waited for an answer.

  “What am I to do?” he asked as the baby started crying.

  Father Regis turned and grabbed the loaf of bread out of the sack on the floor.

  “Here. Take this for now. You will be paid,” the priest tried to assure him.

  The wood-carver gave Father Regis an unhappy look and took the bread. Then he grabbed his wife’s arm and steered her and the crying baby to the stairs.

  “Come to work on the church, Robert. The wood needs to be carved,” the priest called to him as he disappeared down the spiral of stairs. “You will be paid soon!”

  The words echoed around the walls of the church. Peter looked unhappy at the loss of the bread as Father Regis handed him a broom to sweep.

  “You have seen my problem, Peter. If I don’t acquire funds for the construction of the roof and windows soon, the building of the church is in serious jeopardy.”

  “Church!” repeated Peter in the same somber tone. As he swept the floor, he watched the priest put a few vegetables into a small cauldron full of water and start the fire underneath it.

  Striking the flint over the tinder, Father Regis shook his head in discouragement.

  “Neither Lanham nor DuBois will see their way clear to contributing to the church’s construction until there is no risk to them from the dispute between His Holiness and His Majesty.”

  He blew softly on the glowing tinder until smoke began to rise.

  “And even then, neither of them may be in a position to give money to St. Clement’s until their battle for control of the inland port is resolved and one of them has secured great riches from his struggle.”

  Peter decided not to say anything because of the words he did not understand.

  “Sadly, Peter, with the bill in Parliament and the competing taxes, the conflict between the Pope and the Crown has become worse. The realm will be filled with even greater controversy.”

  Peter swept the floor with harder strokes as he became more frustrated with the conversation. “Controversy” was another word he did not know. He was not even sure he could say it.

  “Oh no,” exclaimed Father Regis as he held an empty mug below the spigot in the ale cask. “There is no more ale. We’ll have to do with water I’m afraid.”

  Now Peter was completely frustrated. No meat. No bread. No ale. And he still had no words to repeat for his part of the conversation.

  “Father Regis!”

  The two of them looked up as they heard the priest’s name called out from below. They stepped out onto the landing and looked down the length of the church. Surrounded by the tall bare walls under the darkening sky, the imposing silhouette of the sergeant stood in the center of the church with his feet spread wide under his broad shoulders and his gloved hand resting on the handle of his sword.

  “Father Regis!” the sergeant called out again, not seeing them in growing darkness.

  “I’m here, sergeant,” answered the priest. “Won’t you join us for some supper?”

  Peter gave Father Regis a critical look as the sergeant approached the spiral staircase with his long stride. Father Regis smiled as he heard the sergeant’s long heavy tread turn into delicate steps on the tiny stone stairs. Peter hurried back into the room and sought safety by resuming his sweeping.

  “Come in, sergeant. Come in!” Father Regis welcomed him at the top of the stairs.

  The sergeant nodded his thanks as he ducked and squeezed his large frame through the door into the priest’s compact quarters. He acknowledged the frightened man who was cleaning the floor with a harsh look. The sergeant took up so much of the small space in the room that Peter was forced to stand nervously next to the intimidating sword and was only able to sweep repeatedly the space right in front of their feet.

  “We’re having a light supper of vegetables in broth, sergeant. But you’re welcome to join us.”

  The sergeant gave a dubious look at the small boiling cauldron in which a few odorless items were bobbing about.

  “No, thank you. I have other plans for supper,” he responded, trying not to belittle the priest’s invitation. “But do not let me keep you from your meal.”

  “It can wait,” answered Father Regis. He offered one of the two stools to the sergeant. The two of them sat while Peter continued sweeping the same space in the corner. “How can I help you?”

  “Father, I wanted to talk with you without anyone taking notice.” The sergeant gave a side look at Peter.

  “I am sure you understand that you have little to worry about on that account. You may speak freely,” Father Regis replied.

  The sergeant glanced again at Peter and nodded at the priest. “There is talk about the levy by the Holy See of a Peter’s pence. A pound for the pope from every hearth, I’ve heard.”

  The large man stroked his massive moustache waiting for a response until Father Regis finally spoke.

  “Taxation by the Crown or the Holy See is not my business or
within my knowledge.”

  “But Father, I am afraid it most certainly is. You will be asked to announce it, collect it, enforce it, and report for excommunication anyone who does not pay it.”

  “And what if I must?”

  “Father, there is talk of a bill in Parliament laying punishment for exactions paid to Rome.”

  The sergeant paused to let the implications of his words sink in.

  “You do not want to be on the side opposite the king, and I do not want to be on the side opposite you.”

  “What is the risk to those who pay the tax?” asked Father Regis.

  “I have no idea what would happen to DuBois or Lanham, if that is what you are asking,” the sergeant answered. “Our king is no longer tolerant of the pope and his stubbornness. His impatience is showing itself in harsh ways. He could seize the property of anyone who pays the tax, if he chooses not to do worse.

  “All my moustache knows is that anything to do with this Peter’s pence would not be a good thing for you, the families of Atwelle who pay it, or your church.”

  Father Regis remained silent. The sergeant let out a frustrated sigh.

  “Look, Father. I am at the point where I am no longer even sure who I take orders from. DuBois wants me to do one thing and then Lanham wants me to do another because they both want to own every pence that moves through Atwelle and that precious inland port that they each want to control. And the king? Does he obey the church or go to war with the church? Where will his orders go in the end? I just want to do my job without having to take heads or losing my own.”

  Father Regis still said nothing.

  Finally, the sergeant put his hand on his knees and rose carefully so that his sword did no damage.

  “Well, there is that then,” he said, trying to end diplomatically their inconclusive discussion. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  As the sergeant started to move to the door, he turned to Peter.

  “And you.” He gave Peter a hard stare. Peter bent his head. “I’ll not have you hanging about the lane to Molly’s house any more. Do you understand?”