An All-Consuming Fire (11 page)

“I really liked his mother. But I don’t think his father was very happy to be here. He seemed to enter into the service, but I had the feeling he would rather be back on his farm.”

Antony nodded. “Poor Corin, it must be hard with his father so determined that his son become a sheep farmer.” Then he added, “And hard for Stanton, too, I suppose. It seems the land has been in their family for well more than a hundred years.”

“That must be a lot of pressure on Corin, especially since he’s an only child. It probably explains why he’s so moody and rather awkward at times. Too bad he doesn’t have an older brother to take the family land and leave him free for the Church in the old tradition.”

“You’re right, darling. This wine is absolutely lovely!” Cynthia rejoined them. “We must serve it at your reception.” She took another sip then rushed on. “And while we’re on the subject, I’ve been thinking about the cake. I know you said you wanted a traditional English wedding cake, but, darling, you can’t seriously expect your brothers to travel all this way to be served
fruit cake.
You know Charlie doesn’t like anything but chocolate. And what will Judy think? You know how beautifully your sister-in-law’s family always entertains.”

Felicity was delighted to see Father Anselm approaching. “Ah, Father Antony, how is the television series coming?” he asked.

Antony gave a vague answer, then presented his future mother-in-law to the Superior of the Community. It was hard to tell who was the more charmed by the introduction, Cynthia or the elderly monk, but they were immediately absorbed in one another’s company as Cynthia enthused about her rapture of spending Christmas in a monastery and asked about the history of the community, then hung on every word of his reply.

Felicity could only shake her head in amusement as she watched. That was her mother in good hands. Now she was free to steer Antony into the corridor for a good night kiss thorough enough to put irritation with her mother, concerns about Corin’s family and worries about the success of the pageant entirely behind her.

And she awoke the next morning still wrapped in the euphoria of that kiss and the thought that soon she would waken wrapped in Antony’s arms.

Some time later Felicity picked up her hairbrush, wondering whether or not she should waken her mother for church. She had heard nothing from Cynthia’s room and the community bell would be ringing soon.

She jumped when her door flew open and a fully dressed Cynthia strode in. “Oh, good, darling. You are awake. I was thinking you must have overslept.” Cynthia took the brush from her daughter’s hand and began brushing the long blond tresses with smooth strokes. “You weren’t thinking of braiding it this morning, were you? It’s so beautiful. Do leave it loose over your shoulders. Like an angel.” Cynthia kissed Felicity’s cheek, then pulled back and looked at her. “What a beautiful bride you’ll make. Just the thought of it takes my breath away. I wonder if Antony has any idea what a lucky man he is?”

“Almost as lucky as I am, Mother.”

The bell rang out across the crisp December air as they made their way up the hill. A pallid sun shone bravely turning the drops of moisture clinging to bare branches into chains of diamonds. On a morning like this Felicity could almost forget her exasperation with her mother. In fact, she renewed her determination to do so. This was the last Sunday of Advent. Only two days before Antony would be going to Blackpool to spend Christmas with his family. She couldn’t let anything spoil this time.

She took in a deep invigorating breath. Yes, love, joy and peace. That was what the season was all about. And Felicity resolved to exemplify it. She took her mother’s arm and they entered the purple-draped, incense-filled church together.

At the end of the service Felicity’s warm glow of affability swelled to its fullest as they sang her favorite Advent hymn for the recessional:

Lo! He comes with clouds descending,…

Thousand thousand saints attending,

Swell the triumph of His train:

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!…

God appears on earth to reign.

Felicity didn’t think her good will toward her mother could possibly rise any higher but then Cynthia topped it all by preparing a traditional Sunday dinner for the three of them at the Nab Lane cottage. Felicity gazed in wonder at the perfectly browned roast beef surrounded by Yorkshire puddings and a platter of three vegetables. She blinked, trying to remember when she had last eaten such a meal prepared by her mother. Throughout Felicity’s growing-up years Cynthia was always entombed in her office, working on her latest legal brief, to be summoned forth at the last minute when Felicity’s civil servant father had everything on the table and Felicity and her brothers were already gathered awaiting Cynthia’s arrival.

“Mother, where on earth did you learn to cook like that?”

“Well, really, darling. I
can
read. And how hard is it? You put the beef on a pan and stick it in the oven. I did it when I first got up this morning. Can you believe you can just buy the Yorkshire puddings off the shelf here? And the veg come in bags ready to steam.”

Felicity was still shaking her head an hour later when Cynthia had sent Felicity and Antony into the front room, insisting, over Antony’s objections, that she would do the washing up. “I can’t imagine what’s come over Mother. But I hope it lasts.” Felicity paused, deciding whether to mention the topic preying on her mind. “Dad won’t believe it either.”

Antony touched her cheek. “You’re still hoping your parents will get back together, aren’t you?”

Felicity hadn’t quite realized how fervently she was hoping just that until Antony put it into words. Yes. She was fully aware of how much she wanted him to be here to perform his Father of the Bride role. But it was so much more than that. Antony’s parents were dead. Her parents would be the only grandparents their children could have. Would they have a grandfather in their lives? And the whole family thing—that wonderful, messy, inexplicable conglomeration of people called a family. She didn’t want hers to be forever broken. She didn’t want to think of her mother growing old alone. She bit her lip, then merely nodded and opened a book.

A few minutes later she turned to Antony who had picked up his notebook and pen, but sat motionless, staring at the blank paper. “Writer’s block?” She asked.

He sighed. “Tomorrow is our last day of filming before we break for Christmas. I need to get this right. People aren’t going to be amused if I delay their Christmas hols.”

“Where are you filming?”

“Rievaulx.” It was a statement, yet there was a tone of doubt in his voice.

“Really? Which one of the English Mystics was there?”

“That’s the problem. None, really. Aelred was their most famous abbot—the leading religious figure in all of England in the twelfth century. And he wrote profoundly influential books on spirituality at the request of Bernard of Clairvaux.

“But having said that, Aelred was not a mystic. He was an extremely energetic administrator. He constructed many of the buildings we see at Rievaulx today—you see my problem.”

“So why are they filming there?”

“I think Harry, or Sylvia—whoever makes those decisions—likes the romantic look of the ruins.”

“And it’s up to you to make it fit into the story.”

“Precisely. That wouldn’t be so bad, I could quote from some of Aelred’s writings or something like that, but Harry wants me to do an historical perspective piece. ‘Make it an allegory of the age,’ he said. ‘Time of religious upheaval, Cistercian reforms, flowering of the monasteries, while at the same time Lollards planting seeds of the Protestantism that was to bring it all down.’”

Felicity nodded. “I can see that. It sounds like good drama. What’s the problem? Can’t you tie it in with Richard Rolle?”

“No, that’s the easy bit. Ironic, really, because Rolle’s reaction against scholasticism and his insistence on an individual relationship with Christ, even his unorthodox actions of robing himself and becoming a hermit without the approval of a bishop, paved the way for the rise of the Lollards half a century later.”

Felicity closed her book, leaving her finger between the pages as a bookmark. “Um, Lollards. Remind me.” Then she added, “Odd name.”

Antony nodded. “Translates ‘mumbler’ from the Old Dutch. The term had been used on continental groups who combined pious goals with heretical belief.”

“Were they heretics?”

“By the standards of their day. Today many consider them pioneers, martyrs, heroes. Like most things—depends on your viewpoint.” He paused and grinned. “Would you forgive me if I said they were men of burning faith?”

Felicity groaned appropriately before he continued more seriously, “They believed in a lay priesthood, an individual approach to God and the primacy of the Scripture. They especially promoted making the Bible available in the vernacular. They were followers of Wycliffe who translated much of the scripture into English.”

“So, nonconformist, but hardly apostate, then?” Felicity’s observation was interrupted by Antony’s ringing phone. She returned to her reading, but her attention was soon drawn to Antony’s vehement protests.

“What? You can’t be serious!… But it’s Sunday… Surely an early start in the morning—”

“What is it?” She asked when he rang off.

Instead of answering her, however, Antony went to the kitchen to inform Cynthia. “I’m awfully sorry, but it seems I’ll be needing your chauffeur services sooner than we’d realized. Harry says a dazzling sunset is predicted. The cameras roll in two hours. It’s the exact image Sylvia wants for this scene and we might not have another for weeks.”

Cynthia’s response was immediate. “Oh, what fun. I’ll get my coat.”

Felicity had little choice but to attempt to match her mother’s equanimity. “Don’t worry, you can work on your script in the car,” she reassured Antony who was taking his director’s orders with anything but complaisance.

“Ready.” Cynthia reappeared in the doorway wearing hat, coat, scarf, gloves and carrying a handbag the size of a small suitcase.

“Mother, we’re going to north Yorkshire, not the North Pole.”

“Best to be prepared, darling. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?” Felicity gave her mother’s attempted witticism a stiff smile.

A short time later, though, as the little car sped northward along winding, hilly roads and through little stone-built villages Felicity had to admire Cynthia’s competent driving in response to the sat nav’s instructions. The sky to their left took on the first tinges of pink and gold and Felicity began to suspect that the resulting footage might well be worth the Herculean effort of calling a film crew out unexpectedly.

They turned off the A road onto a narrow lane sunk deep between the rising field on one side and a stone wall on the other. Around another curve and Cynthia gave what Felicity at first thought was a cry of alarm, but then realized her mother was gazing in rapture at the magnificent ruined structure set against the wooded hillside beyond them.

The deepening colors of the sky were turning the golden stones to flames of crimson, vermilion, amber and topaze. Little wonder Harry Forslund wanted to capture this.

Fred, with Ginger on her dolly, and Lenny, wielding the handheld camera, were already at work catching the play of light on the ancient stones and broken arches as Harry barked orders at them.

Felicity smiled in amusement as the voluptuous Tara, her magenta hair now edged in bright blue, pushed Antony into a chair and began applying make-up with deft touches. Felicity’s grin turned to a scowl, however, as the make-up artist’s low-necked shirt gaped when she leaned toward Antony. The glare turned to a chuckle, though, when Antony closed his eyes. It took Tara only a few deft strokes of her brushes. “There, you’ll do. Harry’ll have my guts for garters if I delay you.”

And she was none too soon. “Father Antony! Get yer cassock over here!”

Antony strode to the center of the green lawn to take his place before the towering Gothic arch at the west end of the ruined nave, gilded with iridescence. If only he could recall the words he had honed so carefully on the journey over. He took a deep breath and plunged. “This abbey was one of the most powerful centers of monasticism in Britain. At its peak in the mid-twelfth century it was home to 650 men, both monks and lay brothers.” He gave a few carefully selected facts about the work of the abbey, wishing he could somehow convey a picture of the hive of activity these now silent chambers and fields would have been as the monks maintained their round of eight services a day and the lay brothers went about the labors that supported the economy of what today would be a major corporation.

“Cut!” Harry broke the flow just as Antony felt he was hitting his stride. “Enough of that. Get on with the drama. Where’s the blood and guts? I have a series to sell to the big time. The BBC isn’t interested in pabulum. If this doesn’t fly I’ll be directing kangaroos on the Australian outback.

“Give us more conflict. Gore. Danger. That’s what sells.” He pointed. “Over there. By Joy.”

Antony moved to stand by the presenter whose cap of blond hair had been turned to a halo by the setting sun. “This is such a peaceful scene today, Father, but isn’t it true that in the fourteenth century much of England was torn by religious strife that resulted in grisly executions?”

Antony tried to hide his bewilderment. What did this have to do with the English Mystics? Still, all he could do was try to make the best of it. He gave his prepared background about the Lollards then segued to answer her question. “King Henry IV passed the
De heretico comburendo
in 1401, which did not specifically ban the Lollards, but authorized burning heretics at the stake.”

“Cut.” Harry Forslund stormed forward in his bull-like way. “‘Burned at the stake’ doesn’t do it. We’ve got a gibbet here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Antony turned to the structure behind him where Ginger’s round eye was pointing. He stared, unbelieving, at the sight. A gibbet, indeed.

But why? What on earth was a gibbet doing here? An obviously newly constructed one that had no relevance to the history of the place. It must have been set up on Harry’s orders. Antony shuddered to think what English Heritage would have to say about that.