The Atwelle Confession

by Joel Gordonson

  As Margeaux approached the top, a rung cracked loudly under her foot. The ladder shuddered awkwardly as Margeaux quickly shifted her weight off the rung to regain her balance.

  “Are you all right?” Don called up to her.

  “Yes,” she answered in a voice that sounded far away. “It didn’t break.”

  He could feel the side rails of the ladder tremble as Margeaux climbed the last few rungs at the top. All he could see was the silhouette of Margeaux’s head as she pointed the flashlight up at the roof beam.

  Margeaux said nothing. A moment later, Don could stand it no longer.

  “Margeaux, what’s up there?”

  She still remained silent.

  Very slowly, Margeaux started to make her way down the ladder. The flashlight scanned about in random jerks as her hand went from rung to rung.

  “What did you find?” he demanded when she reached the bottom.

  “You had better look.”

  He looked unnerved.

  “You want me to go up on the ladder?” His face paled.

  “Don, I think you should see what’s up there,” Margeaux insisted once again.

  He swallowed hard, took the flashlight from her, and stepped over to face the ladder. He tried to take a deep breath, but his breathing became faster and shallower. Feeling lightheaded, he heard only the distant din of the wind outside as he started to climb.

  Haltingly at first, Don climbed up into the darkness rung by rung. Then, despite the occasional creaking complaint from the ladder, he started to feel a rhythm in his steps until he realized how high he had climbed. He could not help but glance down. Margeaux seemed miles below him. He closed his eyes to stop the dizziness that came over him. After a couple attempts to breathe deeply, he was relieved to feel the dizziness pass and opened his eyes to start climbing again.

  There in the beam of his flashlight, on the rail of the ladder, was a dark crimson stain.

  “Squeaky’s blood,” he thought.

  “Don!” Margeaux shouted as she saw him sway from the center of the ladder. “Maybe you should come down.”

  At the sound of her voice, Don managed to steady himself. With a determined shake of his head, he carefully placed his hand above the blood stain and began climbing again. His heart skipped a beat every time he felt the length of the ladder flex and sag under his weight as he neared the top. The pungent odor of wood preservative mixed with the chalky smell of dust made his queasy stomach churn. He stopped when his eyes finally came level with the worn ends of the ladder’s rails.

  Gripping the top rung as hard as he could with one hand, he pointed the shaking flashlight in his other hand up at the roof beam.

  “No,” he groaned as he shut his eyes and turned his face to the side. When he could, he forced himself to look back up.

  The wooden gargoyle’s constant smile appeared jubilant as the long nailed fingers of one claw clasped the ankles of a delicately sculpted infant hanging upside down with its blood carved in furrowed streams flowing from its heart into the other cupped claw of the elated demon.

  FIFTEEN

  1532

  To the Church Wardyns of St. Clement’s in the Parish of Atwelle,

  Upon the dethe of Peter, born of this parish to parents unknown, I gyft to the Church in his name the account of £10, mony saved from my own accounts as my needs are few and my requirements are humble, so that he may be beryd in the Churchyard of the parish he served and be remembered with the purchase of two sylver candlesticks to be placed on the altar of the Church remade to the Glory of God.

  He is not but a corps with an arme mysteriously mangled. He is my frynde whose soul rests in heavyn.

  Seculum seculi Amen.

  Father Regis Hollowell

  2017 “More bills to pay,” grumbled Miss Daunting as she leaned over to pick up from the floor the small pile of envelopes that the postman had slipped through the mail slot of her front door. Standing up stiffly, she tossed some of her long gray tresses back over her shoulder before heading to the kitchen where she dropped the mail on the table.

  “Bills, bills, and more bills as usual, I suppose,” she mumbled as she carefully poured hot water from the tea kettle into the pot, delicately replaced the chipped lid and covered the pot with a tea cosy stained from decades of use. Setting the teapot on the table, the old woman sat down to start working her way through the pile by picking up each invoice, acknowledging it with a disapproving grunt, and placing it unopened on a new pile to the side.

  “Here—what’s this?”

  She held up and studied an envelope with her name and address handwritten on the front. Instead of placing it with the other mail, she set the letter on the table in front of her before pouring herself a cup of tea. Stirring her tea absentmindedly, she picked up the envelope and examined it once more.

  “Maryhouse Hall,” Miss Daunting read out loud as if there were people sitting around the table waiting to hear her announcement of the return address. Ignoring her tea, she slid the blade of a letter opener into the envelope and after a few tugs upward had torn it open. She carefully removed and unfolded the fine heavy stationery. Holding it in both hands, Miss Daunting read the letter with her lips moving silently with each word:

  Maryhouse Hall

  Cambridge

  Dear Miss Daunting,

  I thought it might be nice for the two of us to take the opportunity to get to know each other better since we’ve both been working in the church these few months. So I’d like to invite you to be my guest next Friday to dine at Maryhouse Hall. I thought you might enjoy the experience and privilege of dining at High Table with the fellows of a Cambridge College.

  It also occurred to me that I might able to be of some help to you. You’ve mentioned several times that you sometimes have difficulty making ends meet on your pensioner’s income. As it happens, there may be some funds related to my project at St. Clement’s that could be used to compensate you for assisting me in my project. It would not be difficult work and it might be quite helpful to you financially. Perhaps we can chat about this when we get together.

  I’ll happily pick you up in Atwelle, and then we can drive to Cambridge, have sherry in my study, and dine in Hall. You’ll be home by bedtime, I promise.

  I do hope you can make it. Just ring me and let me know if you can join me.

  Yours,

  Margeaux Wood

  Miss Daunting set the letter down with a surprised and pleased look.

  “Thank you very much, dearie,” she said, looking over at the pile of unopened bills. “Thank you very much indeed.”

  SIXTEEN

  1532 The Greene Man Tavern had served ale to the residents of Atwelle for as long as anyone could remember. Through wars, plagues, storms, fires, and every lean time for the villagers, The Greene Man had survived. For centuries, year in and year out, men with tankards of ale had ducked their heads under the heavy beams in its low ceiling to make their way to the stones of the great hearth that were fired warm in winter and shaded cool in summer.

  “Good sirs, as you ordered,” said a slightly nervous publican as he set two tankards of ale on the table separating two men who had never before been seen there together. “This should do to refresh a parched throat.”

  Grabbing the flagons before them, Francis DuBois and Richard Lanham ignored the man as they cautiously eyed each other with a mixture of longstanding familiarity and current distrust. DuBois thought Lanham’s plain cap without jewels or feathers matched his unimaginative personality. Lanham on the other hand looked disapprovingly at the colored fabric and furs worn by DuBois that were not permitted under the sumptuary laws for a mere gentleman who was not of a higher rank. After a long draft of ale, the men set down their tankards and resumed their scrutiny of each other.

  “Lanham,” DuBois finally spoke after drinking again and wiping the ale from his mouth, “you are as tight as a frog’s arse underwater.”

  Lanham’s eyes narrowed as he glared back at DuBo
is.

  “And you couldn’t hold onto a coin if it were sewed into your glove.”

  The exchange was like the first clash of blades by two wary swordsmen who were feeling each other out.

  “All right,” said Lanham, “the priest wanted us to talk. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Look, Lanham,” DuBois made the first thrust. “We have the chance for ships to drink from the water of an inland port in Atwelle that will make us both wealthier men. And you have managed to piss in the well with your bumbling politics and communications to the lord chancellor.”

  Lanham glowered in return. “I don’t think you mind one whit that having no access to the sea prevents me from sending the salt from my mines to very profitable markets while the pope ponders what the Bible says about who can marry whom. And your pope has managed to mire the Royal Court in a swamp of theological claptrap that prevents anything from happening for the benefit of the realm.”

  Lanham emphasized his words by throwing back a quick swallow of ale and banging his mug firmly on the table.

  DuBois scowled back at him. “Do you not think that I, too, would like to have ready access to those markets for my wool and grain?”

  They were silent, both with jutting jaws. Retreating from their impasse, they sat back and took an aggressive swig of ale and then another. There was a lull in their thrust and parry while both men seemed to be reflecting into their tankards.

  “More?” DuBois looked up and asked Lanham.

  Lanham nodded. DuBois beckoned to the attentive publican who hurried over with two more flagons of ale. Both men took another deep draught and set down their tankards without speaking. The tension between them finally seemed to ease.

  “He’s not the same king now,” remarked Lanham a moment later with sorrow in his voice. “Do you remember our last battle in France?”

  When a wan smile appeared under DuBois’ beard Lanham continued, “The king was right there with us. He was a man of action. He did not hesitate for a moment in deciding to do battle.”

  “And a good thing for us,” replied DuBois. “Kings going to war have made our families a fortune for centuries.”

  Lanham’s chest rose and fell with a small sigh. “Now the king will not even go to the royal privy without consulting the lord chancellor or seeking the pope’s permission.”

  “Richard,” DuBois responded as if they once again were colleagues in arms, “you must not discount the power of the Church. The land holdings of the churches and monasteries are significant. Its wealth continues to grow. And the people are as close to the Church as they are to the king. If anything, their loyalty is greater to the Church’s power over the hereafter than to His Majesty’s power over the here and now.”

  DuBois leaned forward and looked Lanham straight in the eye. “If the king and the pope are at odds, it is imperative that you and I not war with each other.”

  After a moment, Lanham nodded in agreement. “Only if we act together is there a chance of the king granting the rights to the port and its revenue.”

  DuBois made the next move.

  “I need to act to show my allegiance to the king and alleviate his concerns about my relations with the Church. And you need to show the king that his grant of rights and revenues will not fall into the hands of the Church through your inheritance to your son.

  “And yet we must do nothing to harm our relations with the church, for if the pope concedes to a new marriage, the Church and the king will continue to act in concert.”

  The men pretended to puzzle over the dilemma as they sipped at their ale until they simultaneously interrupted one other with the same solution.

  “Our children must marry.”

  “We must marry our children.”

  At first, a smile came over their faces. Then, raising their tankards in an unspoken toast, they laughed out loud and drank like old comrades. When their flagons fell back to the table, they hunched forward to plan the order of battle.

  “We have two problems,” began DuBois. “Your son intends to become a monk.”

  “Yes, that seems to be the case,” said Lanham. “But I am taking steps to change those plans.”

  “I am aware of this already,” replied DuBois.

  “And the second problem?” Lanham asked.

  “A marriage to my daughter will require a financial payment from you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just as I have said. If you want my leave to allow your son to marry my daughter, you will have to pay for the privilege.”

  “Now hang on. It is you, the bride’s father, who should be paying a dowry to the groom.”

  “And I am happy to do so,” replied DuBois, “out of your payment to me.”

  “That is preposterous!” Lanham angrily exclaimed. “What do you think you are doing, turning the dowry on its head?”

  “I seek simply to settle the arrangements for our mutual desire to have our children marry,” DuBois responded matter-of-factly.

  Lanham studied DuBois for a moment as if he suspected something more, some cunning behind DuBois’ demand perhaps. “How much do you seek?”

  DuBois calmly stated his price. Lanham’s mouth dropped open.

  “Surely you jest, sir!”

  “There is no jest in my terms, Richard. That is the price of my partnership.”

  “You would bargain with the flesh of your own daughter?” There was scorn in Lanham’s voice.

  “My only daughter,” DuBois clarified. “So I won’t bargain. You have heard my terms.”

  Lanham’s face grew red with anger. DuBois looked at him calmly.

  “And what about you? You seem perfectly willing to trade the desire of your son’s heart for the money that will go into your pocket from shipping the salt of our earth. The price of my daughter’s body—in exchange for your son’s soul. That seems a fair bargain.”

  Lanham considered the offer for a moment. His agitation gradually eased.

  “What assurances do I have on this arrangement?” he asked.

  “Once you sort out the saving of your son from the Church and using him for your own ends, you have my daughter in a marriage to him without recourse. She is effectively a hostage.

  “And what assurances do I have?” DuBois retorted.

  “You’ll have your money. And is my son in marriage to your daughter not your hostage?”

  “And what of the grant of rights for the port and its revenues?” DuBois leveled the question at Lanham like a crossbow armed with an arrow.

  “We shall combine our petitions to the king.”

  “And if one of us falls out of favor because of any action by the pope to support or oppose the king?”

  “If the king will grant the petition to one of us only, then you and I agree between us to divide the revenues from the port through our united families,” answered Lanham.

  After a moment’s silent deliberation, the two men looked each other in the eye. Lanham lifted up his tankard.

  “DuBois, you are as tight as a frog’s arse underwater.”

  “And you, Lanham, could not hold onto a coin if it were sewn into your glove.”

  The two men laughed, drank, and rose to give each other a hearty handshake.

  2017 “More tea, Margeaux?”

  “No thank you, Master Hodges,” replied Margeaux.

  The Master of Maryhouse Hall poured himself another cup of tea and walked back over to the large desk in his office. He sat down to face her.

  “Tell me, how is your research going?” he asked in his deep voice.

  “It’s going well, thank you,” she answered, trying to sound convincing.

  “Tell me about your funding situation,” he said as if finally reaching his agenda.

  “Well, Master Hodges, I have some private funding in the works. But that’s too preliminary at this point to comment upon,” she hastened to add.

  “Very well, then.” The master did not look encouraged. He looked at his desk calendar
for his next appointment.

  “Master Hodges,” she took back his attention, “there is one more thing that I thought I should bring to your attention as it may affect my project funding.”

  “Yes?”

  “There have been some rather unfortunate incidents at St. Clement’s of late. Rather horrible, actually. Two murders of staff and the disappearance of a baby in the town.”

  “Yes, I read about them in the papers,” he frowned. “Mutilated bodies. Very bad business.”

  Margeaux looked slightly surprised.

  “How is it that you know details about the bodies?” she asked. “There’s been no description of the bodies in the press. The police have been keeping very quiet.”

  The master glanced away with an uncomfortable look and cleared his throat.

  “I have some sources of information in that area.” He paused and then looked at her with a serious expression. “Do you fear for your safety at all, Margeaux?”

  “Well, I confess that dealing with this situation is disconcerting. I’m a little unnerved maybe, but at the moment not so frightened as to leave my project.”

  “Yes, well I’m glad to hear that.” He glanced again at his calendar as he rose to end the meeting. “But you must let me know if you become afraid for your well-being at any point.

  “By the way,” the master said as he led her to the door, “that was a rather interesting-looking guest you had at High Table last week. Her hair was most . . .” he paused for the right word, “unique—for a woman of her age, that is,” he tried to end diplomatically.

  “Yes,” Margeaux responded in agreement. “She’s actually from Atwelle, a volunteer at St. Clement’s.”

  “You two seem quite good friends,” he commented as he opened the door.

  “Yes, we are now. We’ve surprisingly managed to become quite supportive of one another,” Margeaux answered with a pleasant smile.