by Mary Luke
"This was left here this morning." Father Felix's tone was sad. "We are commanded to vacate Merton within six weeks, for the Priory will be dissolved."
"So soon!" Thomas gasped. "So soon—but where will we go, Father? What will happen to you? To the others? To the novices!" He felt an unholylike anger rising within him. "What do we have that the king wants?"
Father Felix read from the parchment in a voice that suddenly trembled. "'The inhabitants of Merton Priory are free to choose their place of abode and the King's grace and largess will see to their expense and subsistence in their move.' Of course, His Majesty doesn't seem to recall that there are fewer houses now than ever for the brothers to find refuge." He read further. "'All religious property, gold and silver plate, tapestries, copes, altar cloths, holy vessels and statues are to remain. All records must remain and will revert to His Majesty, King Henry VIII.'" Father Felix laid the parchment aside. "They even want the lead from the roof and the stone. . . ." Suddenly the prior looked old and ill.
Alarmed, the monk asked, "Father, are you all right?"
"This is only a reaction to anxiety, Thomas. We've waited a long time to know what the king would do. In a way, it's best to know . . . for sure. . . . But you, Thomas. This is why I wanted to talk with you. We must discuss your future."
Thomas was puzzled. There were more than a score of monks at Merton. Why single him out? Noting his dilemma, Father Felix rose and crossed the room. He was not normally demonstrative; his affection and efforts were for God, not man. Despite the lewd charges made by Cromwell's commissioners, there was little physical contact or favoritism on the prior's part toward his flock—or even with the monks toward each other. Therefore, Thomas was astonished when Father Felix stopped directly in front of him and
put two strong hands on his shoulders. He was impressed by their strength, for Father Felix had that look of frailty often seen in the religieux—ihe result of cold nights spent in prayer with tired knees and hands blue with cold.
"Thomas, our worst fears are now here. But no matter what the result—no matter where you go—you must promise me you'll remember your vows and you'll continue in the great devotion you've shown to your work."
Startled, Thomas nodded, though he was amazed at the prior's words. He had no record of great achievement at Merton. Father Felix had, at times, consulted with him on Priory matters and favored him with companionship occasionally here in this chamber. Yet he never thought he'd made any great impression.
As if sensing the monk's surprise, Father Felix said, "You are young, Thomas, and I have no doubt whatsoever that, given the true and normal course of events that might have passed, you would one day sit in my chair. You have great faith and ability— and the two don't often go together." He sighed and walked to the window. "You'll stay in the Order, Thomas?"
"Of course." Thomas was fervent. "Father, I know nothing else. I cannot—could not—live any other way." His face darkened for a moment. "I once gave it a . . . great deal of thought. Before I took my vows. Oh, yes, Father, I'll stay in the Order!"
"Good! I thought I'd chosen right." Father Felix smiled. "Thomas, I have two tasks for you. One for now. One for later. I must inform the others. A sad task—I don't relish it. But for now, would you go, please, to the manor house. Sir Richard and I must talk. Ask him to come here or ask if he'll see me—whatever he wishes." He waved his frail hands, attempting a false lightness. "And pray, Thomas. Your prayers are important. We're all going to need them."
Thomas left for Cuddington village immediately. He spoke with no one as he let himself out the back gate, knowing his voice would betray him. Anger, disappointment, frustration—all churned inside him as he set out on the dusty road over which the king had just passed. For four hundred years Merton Priory had educated, housed and trained many who'd gone on to distinguished careers or callings, including Thomas, the saintly Becket, who'd once tilted
with another King Henry. We need another Becket, Thomas thought sadly. We're all giving in to Cromwell too easily.
Soon, with the sun warm on the bare spot of his tonsured head and the air fragrant with the sweetbriar, whitethorn and privet that grew wild along the roadside, Thomas gave himself up to the pleasure of his surroundings. Ahead the road ran through a dense stand of oak and elm which sheltered the great coveys of partridge and pheasant and provided shelter for the deer and hare the king and his companions sought. Shading his eyes, Thomas watched the fleecy clouds sailing like great white galleons across an azure sky and, heady with the solitude, listened to the soughing of the huge cypress trees where the gentle rise of the land gave the wind free play. He'd always enjoyed the walk to the village. Never more so than today with the bitter knowledge such simple pleasure would soon be a thing of the past.
Cuddington lay at the foot of the North Downs, a few hours' ride from London. Thomas remembered how absorbed he'd been when, as a novice, he'd first read its history. The village had been inhabited since ancient times, and the Merton monks often exhibited— with unmonklike pride—a document almost 900 years old, a copy of a deed dated a.d. 675 in which a sub-king of Surrey, Frithwald, and the then Bishop of Erkwald, gave some dwellings, "apuud Euuelle cum Cotintone" to the nearby Abbey of Chertsey. Cuddington was mentioned in the Domesday Survey of 1086 as "the manor of Cudy-ton or Codington," and for centuries, the descendants of that family —the Cuddingtons—had existed side by side with the Merton brethren. Often the monks helped the lord of the manor, Sir Richard Cuddington, at harvesttime when labor was short; as often, Sir Richard sent his laborers to repair a Priory wall or barn. Father Felix frequently mentioned how fortunate they were that Sir Richard lacked the very real arrogance of many of his class. He was genuinely interested in his tenants' welfare, possessing an abiding love for the land of his ancestors and regarding his inheritance as a moral means for dispensing his many responsibilities.
Thomas slowed his pace, for the village lay just ahead. Beyond its center, he knew, was the manor house of Sir Richard and Lady Elizabeth, enclosed by its great brick wall. He felt his anxiety and frustration lessen and turn to joyous anticipation. Immediately a little prayer formed on his lips. Still that feeling! Would he never quench it? How many years had it been now—three, four? Stub-
bornly, he sought to quiet his mind and deal rationally, in true holy fashion, with this tingle of excitement. It was, he knew, no more than a lust of the flesh—and a thorn in the fabric of his faith. And he'd thought it subdued! In the quiet of the cloister, in the glorious chapel, listening to the monks' mellow chant, the feeling never assaulted him. There he was complete and whole and one with his God. But here, on the road to Cuddington, with the fresh fragrant breeze whipping his coarse brown woolen habit around his bare sandal-shod feet, he felt young, free and almost light-headed. The temptations of the flesh and the world still found him a willing vessel, it seemed. He sighed. Father Felix should know . . .
Just before the village, the Church of St. Mary the Virgin came into view, and Thomas was reassured. Here were stability and strength. It, too, had a history as long as the village, for its records, kept at the Priory, went back to the twelfth century. It was a larger building than the small village required, but of handsome flint with stone dressings, still retaining its Norman tower. Richard Cuddington had recently made a gift of a new floor of ornamental tile, more than an inch thick, that reached to the ancient font overlooking the chancel. Thomas thought longingly of the cool interior, of the spacious nave, crossed by aisles that entered from wide arcades on each side. The soft breeze would be whispering through the open windows, the gilded statues gazing timelessly from their niches. He might, perchance, stop and pray to the Virgin that all temptations be removed from his flesh.
Then, looking at the sun's height, Thomas realized there was no time for prayerful intercession. If he must deal with earthly allurements, then he must deal with them himself. He'd taken longer than usual on this walk, absorbing the beauty of the fragrant green countryside and reveli
ng in his solitude. He passed through the church courtyard, where trees, identical kin to those of the great forest, cast long shadows over the tombstones and crosses of the little graveyard. There he felt a measure of returning peace and invoked a silent thankful prayer that he might be strong in the difficult time ahead.
The home of Sir Richard Cuddington lay at the western end of the village, separated from the church by the long, flat graveyard where Cuddingtons and villagers alike had been buried for cen-
tunes. The early fourteenth-century house had been enlarged until it had grown to a substantial home about a small courtyard. It was approached by a long circular drive along a green area dominated by a handsome young beech tree. It now consisted of three parlors, lavishly wainscoted, and other living chambers for gentry and servants alike, a pastry house, three larders, a kitchen garden, dovecote and well. Richard Cuddington had recently erected a timber tithe barn on the eastern slope near the stables; the handsome tiled roof had caused the villagers to comment for days. In the distance were four working farms, stables, barns and a fishpond, separated from the house by spacious gardens and orchards.
Brother Thomas was very familiar with his surroundings. They had once been his home. He'd been born into one of those very farms to a simple yeoman family whose forebears had served the Cuddingtons for generations. After his parents had been carried off in the plague of 1524, when Thomas was ten, another farmer had taken him into his home to bring up with his ample brood. He remembered how astonished his benefactors had been when he'd asked to attend the Priory school so he might learn to read and write. The Cuddingtons, however, impressed with the boy's ambition, had given their blessing, and a year later Thomas had gone—a raw, gangling youth, his hair hanging about his ears, in homespun jerkin and pants, thick boots and one long heavy cloak—to Father Felix. He carried with him his hornbook and quill pen, some books, gifts of the Cuddingtons, and his parents' Bible. Sir Richard, noting the boy's nervousness, had clapped him on the back and whispered that if he found the Priory routine other than he'd thought, he was to let him know; the cottage would still be there. Sir Richard had no son and had always treated Thomas with affectionate regard and concern. It had made his going easier.
As if in answer to his thoughts, the door opened, and Sir Richard emerged. He was an extremely handsome man. He wore rough work clothes that hardly suited his station, but his predilection for helping in the barns and around the vats and hogsheads in the dairy and brewery was tolerated indulgently by villager and farmer alike. Even in the simple clothes, his long, sinewy body moved with a lithe, easy grace. His face was very square, with the prominent cleft chin of all the Cuddingtons. His blond hair—almost silver and striking in one just turning forty—was hidden under a battered hat
considerably older than his clothes. As the door slammed behind him, he glimpsed the approaching monk and smiled.
"Thomas! Good day to you! Have you come to help? We can use every hand." Then, noticing the monk's expression, he said, "Is something wrong?"
Thomas explained what had happened at the Priory. Richard Cuddington tensed, and his face took on a taut, almost concerned look. "Dissolution for Merton ... I can't believe it." He gazed off in the distance and said quietly, "And confiscation of the land. Those acres the king is taking adjoin mine. The land belongs to my family. Some of it's owned by the church and some by village families. The common land belongs to the people. In God's name, what does the king want with the land? If he dissolves the Priory, what will he use the land for?"
They both turned at the sound of the door opening behind them, and a young girl stepped out into the sunlight. Again Thomas felt the tingle of joyous expectation that always accompanied his first glimpse of Chloe Cuddington. In other, less anxious moments, he'd often marveled at God's expertise in duplicating Richard Cuddington in this child-woman. The great dark eyes—alight now with pleasure at seeing him—were fringed with heavy lashes. The sun glinted on the whitish hair, making a silvery halo enveloping her beautifully shaped head. "Thomas!" She spoke in a low, caressing voice. "I didn't know you were here." Her cheeks were flushed with pleasure and as deeply pink as the ripe lips parting in a welcoming smile. She held out a soft, ivory-tinged hand, its nails cut neatly across, giving a blunt look to long, shapely fingers. Then, noting her father's expression, she said, "Father? Is something wrong?"
"Chloe, love, go to your mother. Tell her I'm off to Merton and ask that Domino assemble the workers to wait upon my return!" With that he strode toward the stables, and seconds later, they heard the pounding of hooves as Sir Richard rounded the wall and set off for the Priory.
It was an awkward moment—one Thomas had hoped to avoid. He'd not been alone with Chloe since—his body recoiled from the memory. It was, he decided, nearly three years. Then she'd been an innocent seventeen-year-old, precocious beyond her years, sensitive, warm and intensely loving. And he, a few years older, thinking himself complete now that he'd followed the rigorous spiritual as well as physical exercises by which the Merton monks lived out
their days. He'd learned his lessons well. He wrote a beautiful hand, and his exquisite lettering of the Priory's manuscripts would have been envied if that sin had been tolerated there. He was happily active working in all Priory functions—in the garden, the dairy, the stillroom—and whole-hearted in observing monastic routine. In the oratory or chapel where the monks gathered for psalmody and antiphon, Thomas participated vigorously in the Morning Office, in Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline. He had visited the sick and dying in the village and served the pilgrims en route to Canterbury. At Merton he was whole and complete. Yet now, here with the glowing figure of Chloe Cuddington before him, it almost seemed as though that satisfyingly rewarding life were a mere spiritual "overlay" that kept him from the side of this beautiful creature who'd once told him she loved him, would never love anyone else and had fiercely cried that she'd "wait until the end of time.''
The memory of that unhappy occasion enveloped him, and Chloe, sensing his mood, said, "Thomas, do come in. Mother will want to see you. We still speak of you often—we all miss you. I must give her Father's message, but please wait for me!" She sped off toward the rear of the house, and Thomas, still ill at ease, went into the room that, he remembered, had been the scene of their unhappy farewell.
It was a large, comfortable chamber, its noble dimensions enhanced by elegant furnishings. There were family portraits on the wall—a new custom replacing the wall murals painted by itinerant artists. They were hung above the great fireplace, a new addition to the room as signified by the carved rose of the Tudors and the pomegranate, the device of the unfortunate Catherine of Aragon. Opposite was a glorious tapestry with biblical scenes hung over a heavy intricately carved chest, upon which lay a rich cushion of embroidered "Flemish work." The great Turkey carpet lit the room in an amber and red glow as the sun played among its patterns.
Thomas walked to the window and seated himself in its embrasure bench, savoring the stillness inside and the splendor of the magnificent trees in the park outside. He could see the king and his party off in the distance, emerging from a gully and riding up the promontory in the direction of the church. They'd ridden a good distance and were now obviously returning the way they'd come-undoubtedly, he'd meet them on his return to the Priory. Observing them, he felt a small presentiment of fear invade the quiet beauty
of the surroundings. The king was on Cuddington land now, not Priory land. Obviously, he was hunting—but what was his quarry? The party did not appear interested in the area's ample game. Thomas remembered Father Felix's words: "He's gone to look at the land." Again, the monk felt that anger, fear and resentment which had enveloped him that morning. He watched the royal party near the large forest of oak and elm. The king, erect and tall in his saddle, had stopped and, with a sweeping gesture, turned almost full circle as he pointed out various directions to his companions.
Thomas could see the royal party was impressed with the beaut
y of the manor house, its buildings and the park outside. He remembered his pleasant walk, and the fragrant scents. It was all Cuddington land, just as Sir Richard had said. Was the king merely admiring the rural splendor one of his subjects possessed? Or was there a deeper motive in his appraisal? Thomas remembered the words of a neighboring landowner that Father Felix had repeated when the man had been in danger of losing his farm. "The day that a man might have my lands or my goods, that day he would have my life also." Suddenly, the brilliance of the park and trees and sun smote Thomas' heart. In a way he couldn't explain, he knew as well as he knew that God was in his heaven and the devil below, that the land Richard Cuddington loved and served so well was in great danger.
Soft footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and Chloe Cuddington entered, followed by a maid carrying a tray with biscuits and a small carafe of wine. "Mother sends her excuses, Thomas. She's busy in the stillroom, but desires you to have some cheer before you go." As the maid left, she handed him a glass and said with that wisdom beyond her age, "Thomas, you're upset. I hope it's not because of me. You mustn't blame yourself for something you couldn't help. Please put it from you. I am happy, content with my parents, I have full days. I know you're in the right place for you, Thomas, at Merton."
Sipping his wine, Thomas explained why he'd come to Cuddington. And why her father had ridden so quickly to Merton. Chloe grew pale. One slim hand covered her breast, and tears formed in her eyes. "Thomas! The king wants Merton? Where will you all go?