The Gentle Shining of a Lesser Light

Faith and Duty opposing Earthly Ambition - A Local Story

Introduction

Easter Sunday, 5 April 1461: exactly a week after the bloody field of Towton – news of which would not yet have reached all parts of the country.  In the furthest corner of north-east Suffolk, a girl in her early-mid teens had fallen into the deepest of sleeps. When she awoke, she bore the stigmata upon her body and gave an account of dreams she had had, showing her the after-life. She also found, within a short time, that she was possessed of the power to relieve pain and bring healing to those around her. This sudden awakening of abilities beyond the norm was to have a profound effect upon not only the maiden herself, but upon her family and upon the parish’s priest who, during the time of his incumbency, had developed a close relationship with all its members. This is the story of how he tried to support a young woman gifted with great, relieving virtue and keep her from exploitation by the opportunism of the lord of the manor, who had an eye always for means of increasing his revenues and extending his estates, both locally held and situated further afield.

All the characters featuring in the novel are fictional, but reference is occasionally made to real, historical figures. The topography of the area where events take place is still recognisable in places today, though much changed from that of more than 500 years ago. The parish church of St. Michael is not to be found anywhere, being a composite building created from the author’s imagination and his familiarity with certain places-of-worship in the area where he lives. Easily recognisable aspects of the local dialect (including use of the present tense of verbs, when the perfect is required, and omission of the final -g from words) are used to represent the everyday language of the common people in the novel, but no attempt is made to represent the mode of speaking in full. The vowel sounds particularly would cause problems for both author and reader alike in establishing phonetic accuracy. It is likely, at the time, that all social classes would have shared the same vernacular to a certain degree, but the decision was made to have the higher-station characters speak in what may be regarded (to use a modern term) as standard English.

The writing of historical fiction is not easy, as there is no fully reliable means of creating authenticity at a distance from any time-period chosen – except perhaps for the comparatively recent past, with its availability of copious documentary sources, sound-recordings and film. In the case of this particular piece of work, the time-frame can be trusted (even down to the phases of the moon) and key features of the local landscape are as accurately described as possible, using both what can be seen today and what is known from surviving evidence. The events of the story have to be taken as they are, based on matters of faith and practice in an age far different, in so many ways, from that of the present day. Even so, there may be things to be found in the narrative which can transcend the centuries and speak accurately of the human condition, revealing aspects of a common and shared humanity. 

Chapter 1 (Sunday, 5 April)

It was Spring, in name only. Winter sat heavily on the land in stiff defiance of its successor, gripping furrows with a cold hand. Clay hunched its ridges in the light of early morning, host to grey spears of couch-grass and to rusty docks refusing to be held back. Not so persistent, other vegetation. Leaf and shoot waited their time, tight-budded and close-curled, expecting eventual release. The hedges stood spiked and black against the sun, their leaders rising vertically from underlying plashes. No warmth in the air; just a sterile brightness in the east, emanating from a golden disc – both focus and repelling force of the cloud-layers surrounding it.

            A spiky breeze from the north-east began to raise itself, issuing from grey slabs of sky which would eventually encroach upon the early-April sun and blot it out completely. Any tree of height, old or young, leant away from the wind. Oaks and elms for the most part, their trunks were twisted and deformed, while the barren tops showed in anvil shape the blasting effect of salty air. For the sea was not far away, heaving its restless bulk against the foot of the cliff in endless surge and retreat. At one point, the land dropped away northwards into a shallow valley, revealing the polished, steely tones of chilled water beyond. But even without this small, inserted view it was easy to know the ocean’s presence by the dull roar and thump of waves upon the beach and by the pluck and rattle of shingle beneath the probing surf.

            Radulph Fyld, priest of his order, reformed Augustinian, knew the sounds well. He had lived in the parish for five years – a cure of souls he had originally no wish to take. But his Abbot had thought a move outside the walls would be beneficial for him, a way of opening his studious mind to the realities of life as the majority of people were forced to live it. Radulph had resented the change at first, especially as it had taken him from his manuscripts and books, yet the passage of time had served to diminish the loss he felt, and the demands made upon him by his flock had brought different perspectives in his thinking. There were still times when he wished for the ordered routine of communal life, but he was no longer sure that he would exchange his parish duties for it.

            The uncertainty began to shape itself, on this particular morning, into a positive feeling that he would not choose to return to his former situation. He could offer no explanation of why he felt this way; his words, even had they been available, could not have conveyed all that was within him. He knew that the people around him, his parishioners, had something to do with it. Not from any particular sense of priestly duty on his part, nor from a feeling of altruism towards them, because he saw his ministry very much in practical terms and the people themselves were not the sort to inspire inner flights of the spirit. Their main concern was to wrest a living from the heavy and unyielding soil – and from the lighter, stony patches as well – to the exclusion (it seemed) of almost every other feeling. And their God, if he existed at all, Radulph sometimes thought, stood somewhere up beyond the clouds, cursing his own team of oxen or horses through yellow clay.

Yet he liked them for their bluntness and their capacity for work. He admired their grip on the land and the way they shaped it to their needs. A number of them possessed their own holdings, small enough in terms of acreage but large enough in other ways to make a man feel sufficient in the world. They were their own masters. Not like the bond-tenants of the manor – some of whom, though more substantial in worldly terms, were obliged to be mindful of a lord to whom rent was due. And not only rent, Radulph reflected. There were other obligations laid upon them from time to time, varying degrees of loyalty to a master who was hot on litigation, but who sometimes sought to thrive by force when the law failed him. Just lately – or so it was believed – he had cast his eye towards the parish Common, wishing to establish rights upon it which his forbears had never enjoyed. Where would a priest stand, when matters finally came to a head? Where should he stand?

Such were some of the thoughts which passed through the mind of Radulph as he walked from the vicarage house that morning towards the church, in preparation for the Easter Sunday sacrament. The second hour had not yet run its course and the office was not to begin until the third, but it was ever his custom to be in the building betimes. St. Michael and All Angels was a small fabric, with round tower built of undressed flints, a thatched nave and chancel, and a later, imposing south porch. It stood on a knoll, to one side of a roadway of beaten earth which ran through a scatter of timber-and-daub cottages. This was all the village there was, but a number of other dwellings lay dispersed throughout the parish, standing on their own land. Then there was the manor house, with its range of offices, placed on a moated site not far from the church – as if reminding the spiritual power that temporal authority was also a force to be reckoned with. At least, this was what Radulph felt, because Sir Nicholas Bosard was a man who saw the religious establishment of the land as a rival when it came to building earthly empires. And as to what inner thoughts he had, regarding the state of his own soul, the priest could not begin to guess at.

Radulph went in through the gate and crossed the churchyard. About half-a-dozen yew trees, as dark-leafed as death itself, stood at random in the southern sector, their gnarled and knotted trunks presiding over the humps and mounds marking the resting-places of the parish’s recently deceased. Complementing them were a few spare and spindly thorns, whose thin scatter of blossom hung to the branches like a last flurry of snow blown against a hedge. A freshening blast of wind knifed into Radulph in the last few steps before the chancel wall, making him pull the heavy, white, hooded cloak more tightly round his shoulders. Then he put his hand on the iron ring of the small door, opening it before him and ducking his head beneath the arched and pointed hood-mould in a movement no longer requiring thought. The door closed behind him with a chime of metal, as the latch dropped, and he caught his breath for a moment in the shelter of the building. It was quiet inside and the sun’s rays flooded through the undecorated glass of the east window, making the whole of the chancel bright enough for a resurrection.

“Is that you, Father Radulph?” a young voice called from somewhere beyond the wooden screen which separated chancel from nave.

“Miles! What brings you here so early?” The priest stepped through the screen’s wicket and walked down the body of the church. “You could have had another hour helping your uncle.”

“He let me come, Father. He said the time would be better spent here on such a day. Besides,” and here the bright, eleven-year-old face, polished by the season’s breeze and topped by a thatch of dark hair, broke into a smile, “he said the gift o’ letters was worth workin’ for.” 

“Your uncle is a wise man.”

“An’ the other thing he said was that anyone who stay out in the lazy wind, without havin’ to, is in need o’ a new head.”

“The lazy wind?”

“Yeah. It don’t go round a person, but through ’em!”

“The priest laughed. “Yes, that sounds like a saying of Robert Denny’s! I have heard many an apt expression from him, since living here.”

“He’s a clever man, my uncle.” The boy’s voice contained a noticeable pride. “Mother an’ Father allus told me that afore they died.”

“Yes, he is. And a kind one, too, to take you in as he did.” There was no moralising in Radulph’s tone. It merely stated a fact. And the boy’s silence acknowledged the truth as well. “I know that you are happy under his roof.”

“Yeah, I am. I like my cousins.”

“And they, you. They tell me so, often. Will you miss them much when you go to the Abbey? If you still wish to go, when the time comes.” It did not escape even the clerical mind that a boy might well change his intention.

‘Oh, I think I’ll want to go, Father. I do now, at any rate.” Miles began to look up at the nave roof from where the two of them stood, beside the font. “Is the church there much bigger’n this one?”

“Much. But I think that I now prefer this one to it, in some ways.”

“Why, Father?”

“Because it feels less empty. Big spaces may appear grand, but they are very hard to fill.”

“Don’t folk go there very orften?”

“No. They have own building and their own priest. Only rarely do they go to the Abbey church.”

“Why is it so big, then?”

“Men say that it was built to glorify God. But it was probably made as it is to glorify Man also. People constitute the Church, not buildings – though there was a time when I believed otherwise.” Radulph saw the enquiring look on the boy’s face. “I shouldn’t trouble a young head with adult debate. Let’s use our time to prepare the Easter Mass.” He walked into the base of the tower, and the boy followed him.

There wasn’t a great deal of room in an eleven-foot diameter, so what space there was had been well organised. Nothing could be done about the ladder which rose almost vertically from the middle of floor to the rough-hewn timbers of the belfry floor, but the walls offered no obstruction and were therefore well employed. Most singular of the cavities cut into the masonry was the fireplace where holy wafers were cooked: a little blackened hole with a flue that threaded its crooked way through the rubble of the wall. Next to it was a tall, shallow recess, which contained a small number of linen banners. Radulph took hold of the stave of one and passed it to his altar-boy. “We will also hang this in the sanctuary today, Miles,” he said. “It is our gild-banner of Saint Michael. Take it, and I’ll bring the other one.”

The two of them passed down the aisle of the nave, through the door of the screen and into the chancel. They walked to the far end and each placed his banner in an iron bracket set in the wall on either side of the east window. The painted cloths hung stiffly from their ash poles: a golden angel with dawn sword, to the south, and a pierced and bleeding heart surmounted by a ring of thorns, to the north. Symbols of Man’s first fall and of his eventual redemption. Both priest and boy stepped back a pace or two and their moment of silence, as they looked upon the emblems, spoke of their satisfaction with the way the banners had been hung.

Radulph turned away first and Miles followed. They returned into the base of the tower, this time for tapers and candles. Not to illuminate a building during the light of day, but to indicate that the dark night of grief was over and the day of Resurrection come. Both rood and statues would have their attendant lamps, with flame drawn from wax that burned softly before the tabernacle set against the sanctuary’s north wall. Radulph knew the delight that fire held for the young and he asked his lad to kindle the various wicks which must burn but palely until even-time summoned forth their yellow and warming glow – the lights which shone in the darkness thereby having their small origins in the light of day.

Miles performed his task eagerly and effectively. Nothing, it seemed, was beyond him that morning and he succeeded in carrying out certain tasks before his mentor required him to. Radulph smiled as he watched the boy at work, remembering a similar enthusiasm nearly thirty years before in a building not unlike the present one. Would entry to the cloister lead this youngster on a similar course? Or would his stepping into the arms of Mother Church hold another destiny? Certainly, his mind was sharp and flexible, his zest for learning genuine, and there was in his writing already a clarity of hand and thought which promised well for the future. It might well be that this dark-eyed boy, Miles Gylman, would turn out to be a real scholar, capable of expressing his own thoughts in words of grace and beauty, and not just a mere page-turner intent upon the minds of other people.

It was as the two of them were vesting in preparation for the service, somewhere beyond the beginning of the second hour, that the boy said quite suddenly and without any prior hint of what lay in his head, “I don’t know if Uncle will be comin’ for the Easter Mass, today.”

“But why not, Miles?” It wasn’t the nature of the comment; the priest detected a note of unease in the lad’s voice. “Robert is always dutiful where days of obligation are concerned.”

“Well, my cousin Ann was sick this mornin’. An’ yisterday, too.” The boy knitted his brow slightly under the fringe of thick, dark hair.

“What do you mean, sick?”

“I don’t rightly know. But after I’d fed the pigs an’ fowls, I went back inta the house and called Uncle. To see if he needed me any more, afore I come here.” The explanation followed the first statement after a slight pause. And a longer pause then stretched itself between the man and the boy.

“Yes?”

“He didn’t say anythin’. So, I called louder. I heard him speak to someone above, then start comin’ down the ladder. When he got to the bottom, he told me that I could go to church, if I liked, to help you prepare for the Easter service.”

“He said nothing else?” The priest questioned closely, but not pointedly. 

“Only what I told you earlier about gittin’ my letters an’ the lazy wind.”

“I see. And did you say anything to him?”

“No. I thought it best not to. He looked worried. An’ he did not jest with his usual laughin’ when he spoke about the wind.”

“That is not like him, to be sure. Yet perhaps you misunderstood the situation. Perhaps there is no sickness in the house.”

“I hope there isn’t, Father.” Miles’s face clouded with unease. “I can remember how swift my parents an’ my brothers an’ sisters died.”

“And that could be why you fear the worst, on this occasion. You went through a great deal.” Radulph’s sympathy was real, not dictated by the tenor of the conversation. 

“I don’t think it’s just that, Father. I could hear someone cryin’ above. It sounded like Joan.”

“And what of Richard? Did you see him at all?”

“No. He’d gone down to the beach early, to clean his nets. There were herrin’ swimmin’ yester-evenin’, afore this wind set in.”

“Ah, yes! And when herrings rise, all other tasks must wait upon them. Is it not so?” The boy smiled appreciatively, by way of an answer. “And you yourself are a young man of the sea also, are you not?”

“I like goin’ out in the boat,” Miles replied. “An’ I like eatin’ the fish, as well.”

“It is likely that Our Lord’s first chosen ones felt the same when they were young,” remarked Radulph. “And I have often wondered why it was fishermen who were called rather than other mortals. It cannot just have been the need for a fitting image of spreading the word.”

“Father?”

“I will make you fishers of men.” There was a pause while the youngster thought about the metaphor. “You don’t mind me being obscure from time to time, do you, Miles?”

‘No, Father. It make me think about words an’ what they mean.”

“You are a good and willing helper. But I should not throw my fancies at you as much as I do. Especially at a time like this, when you are worried about your cousin.” Radulph’s strong right hand took the boy’s shoulder and their eyes met in an unwavering look of mutual regard. “Please forgive me.”

He said nothing more immediately, so the boy continued the exchange of words between them. “Could you call at our house, Father? After the service is over. I know that Uncle’d be glad to see you.”

“Yes, I will call upon him. As soon as we have cleared away the vessels and whatever else is necessary, we will both of us go together. Robert Denny is my good friend.” Quiet conviction was noticeable in Radulph’s tone of voice.

No further conversation took place between priest and altar-boy, other than what was necessary to have things in readiness for the people, when they arrived. And, indeed, it was not long before the early ones began to enter through the south door, neither in silence nor noise, but with the easy familiarity of long acquaintance with a building which served so many of their needs. Among the first of them was an old woman, who walked with the aid of a thumb-stick as brown and knotted as the skin of her face and hands. She wore a rough-spun woollen cloak, which seemed to weigh down her upper body, lying heavy as it did across the shoulders, and the dull greyness of the cloth contrasted strongly with the blue-whiteness of her hair as she flung back the hood under cover of the building.

She stood alone by the font as the other parishioners arrived, acknowledging some with a nod of the head, but ignoring the majority and preferring to look straight down the church to the east window. It was noticeable that some of the people who entered were at pains to avoid her – or so it seemed by the way they stepped wide, ushering ahead any children they had with them. The old woman saw all of this, even though her eyes appeared focused elsewhere, and a slight sideways set of her white head may even have suggested amusement. The only positive words that fell from her lips were for Miles, as he passed her on his way into the base of the tower to ring the lightest of three bells, whose pulls were cleated to the wall, in declaration that mass was about to begin.

“Well, boy, an’ how do helpin’ the priest suit you?”

“Very well, thank you, Mistress Hoberd. Father Radulph is teachin’ me many things.” He looked her straight in the eye. “He say that I’ll find much to occupy me when I go to the Abbey.”

“Perhaps, perhaps. I know nothin’ o’ such places. My cottage is my cell, the heath my cloister.” She paused a moment on a drawn breath. “Don’t let ’em shut out the sky, boy.”

“The sky?”

“Yeah, the sky, boy. Never lose sight o’ the sky.” The old woman turned from her position by the font and made her way down the nave to join the others near the screen.

Miles watched her slow and deliberate progress down the aisle, as he unwound the rope from its fixture and began to pull rhythmically down upon it, allowing the sonorous bronze cup somewhere above him to swing under its own momentum and catching the controlling line at just the right point in its upward course to guide it earthwards again. He was about to finish the bidding-call to service, when a woman and two girls came into the church, attended by servants. Their progress to the chancel arch was accompanied by a few extra pulls on the bell and a number of the people already assembled turned their heads at the sound of the late-comers’ approach. Miles then steadied the rope, secured it to its cleat and left the building by way of the south door. He walked the few yards along the length of the nave and re-entered by way of the priest’s door into the chancel. Radulph awaited him there against the piscina, impressive in chasuble, amice and stole above his alb. It was a show of white and gold, set against the boy’s plain surplice, but the two figures complemented each other in movement and intent.

Mass progressed without hiatus from the opening sentences to the canon; through the elevations of host and chalice to the receiving of the corpus and the blood by priest alone; and then, from there, the distribution of the host on this day of days to the congregation at large. Miles received his piece of wafer first, then rose from his knees to assist Radulph, who bade the people approach the sanctuary step. They were an attentive, if separated, congregation throughout the year and so they came through the doorway of the chancel screen without fuss or chatter, to stand before the altar. There was a sense of propriety immediately apparent in their bearing and in the way they seemed to know their place in the local order. The woman with the two girls (daughters, by their looks and carriage) led the way – they who had arrived at the end of the bell’s earlier summons to worship – and they were followed by all the other parishioners. There must have fifty or sixty souls in all and Miles caught a glimpse among them of his cousins, Richard and Joan, who had obviously come into church at some point during the mass. Last of all came the old woman: a combination, this, of choice and physical necessity.

At the sight of his kindred, Miles felt himself back in the house earlier that morning. He could hear a girl crying upstairs and he saw again a certain tightness around the corners of his uncle’s mouth. Radulph sensed the boy’s preoccupation and helped him through the remaining part of the ritual. First, the distribution of the wafers among all members of the congregation old enough to receive the body broken for them, with head-blessing for children, and then the ablutions at the altar. Paten onto chalice, corporas folded and inserted neatly into burse, burse placed to rest on paten and chalice, and the whole little pillar of faith and ritual finally covered with the veil.

Radulph turned to his flock. “Dominus vobiscum.”

“Et cum spiritu tuo.” The response sounded almost like a single voice. Oh, if only the words could be spoken in the native language!

The priest then recited the concluding prayers, drawing the service to an end with, “Ite. Missa est.” – his arms extended in a warming gesture. “Deo gratias,” came the reply. “Amen.”

A period of silence followed as the priest stood behind the altar, head bowed in prayer. Then, his near-silent recitation of the first fourteen verses of the primary gospel of St. John having been delivered, he walked the few steps necessary to join the congregation and wish all of them a joyful Easter. After a round of pleasantries, many of the people began to disperse and go their separate ways. A few, however, remained behind for further conversation. Noticeable among them were the woman and her daughters, whose servants now waited discreetly and patiently near the south door. The old woman stood by, too, as well-defined and imposing as she leant on her stick as the painted figure of St. Christopher on the north wall of the nave. 

Radulph turned to the mother and daughters first, for they were clearly placed above all others attending the morning service. “Lady Bosard, it is good to see you. And Mistress Eleanor and Mistress Agnes too. But is not Brother Henry present at the manor house to perform the Easter office?”

“He is,” replied Lady Bosard. “Yet we had as lief come here. The walk is but a short one and the girls and I have need of respite from the man.” She paused a moment and looked at her daughters, who smiled shyly and said nothing. “He is lengthy on duty, that one. Especially since my husband has found a match for Eleanor.”

“Such provision must gladden you greatly, my lady.” Radulph knew the importance in such families of marrying well.

“Not so greatly. I was wed at sixteen myself and would have welcomed a few more years under my father’s roof. Still,” and here she turned to the girls again, “we are as much property as sacks of grain and must be traded when our masters will. Daughters are not for mothers’ wishes, but for fathers’ designs.’

“It is often so. Yes,” Radulph agreed. He admired this fine, dark-eyed woman for speaking so frankly. “Nevertheless, a daughter married well must bring joy to a mother’s heart.”

“If it is well, Father, then it is a joy indeed. Good morrow to you.” She turned away, but was held from going by a question from Radulph, in which curiosity and courtesy made a perfect blend.

“Sir Nicholas is in good health, I hope?”

“I hope so, too. He is still away from home on my Lord of Norfolk’s matters.”

“Absence is ever the price that men of affairs must pay for their importance. The world is a busy place, my lady.”

“Are those words of comfort, Father?” She looked at him in amusement, knowing the answer to her question before he spoke.

“No. I merely make an observation. I saw much of the pursuit of land and titles in my own house at one time, though the emphasis changed when the present Abbot took charge.”

“I am pleased to hear it. Though no doubt all the gathering of soil was done under a vow of poverty.” The jesting tone in the words was obvious, but not contemptuous. “And what holds, I wonder, regarding poor chastity and obedience?”

Radulph thought for a moment before replying. “The argument, I suppose, in the case of the first matter, would be that institutions may be rich while the individual members remain poor.” He paused. “I hesitate to comment on the other two. I must leave them to others more qualified to speak.”

Lady Bosard laughed. “And that remark must be my signal to depart. Lest a priest be drawn to say more than he ought, or a lady utter what is unbecoming. It is time for us to go, daughters. We must exchange the freedom of a church for the confinement of a chapel. At least, until a major festival enables us to walk abroad once more.” 

The three of them left the chancel, walked down the nave and passed through the group of servants gathered dutifully near the door. A muted laugh of what sounded like approval came from near at hand and Radulph turned towards its source. “She’re got a mind o’ her own, that one,” remarked the old woman.

“Yes, she has. And that makes two such ladies in church this morning. It is not often that you come to hear mass, Mistress Hoberd.”

“I try to keep the special days, Father. My legs don’t allow me to do much else.”

“And yet you choose to live so far from the village.”

“I like it on the Common.” There was a finality of statement in the old woman’s voice that brooked no argument. “An’ the choice is no choice. Where else would I live?” 

“Why, with your son, of course. He would gladly have you, it is said.”

“Yeah, no doubt he would. But he live in another parish. An’ if I were to go, what would his master, Sir Nicholas, have then? No answer now, Father. The children there require you.” She pointed to Miles and his cousins. “I’ll bid you farewell. Call on me, if you wish, next time you’re passin’.”

Radulph acknowledged her departure, and her invitation, and turned towards the three young people who had waited for him to finish his end-of-service conversations and who were obviously pleased that he had done so. It was Richard Denny who spoke, a tall and powerfully-built youth of eighteen years or so, whose fair hair and eyebrows had darkened over the winter months but would soon begin to bleach again with the sun’s return. He contrasted greatly with his sister Joan, who was about the same age as Miles, and whose dark hair, white skin and black eyes told of the other parent being favoured. It would have been very easy to have taken Miles Gylman and Joan Denny as siblings – both of them sprung from mothers who had been sisters. 

“Father send his excuses, Father Radulph. Ann lays sick at home an’ he’d be glad o’ your comin’ to see her, if you can spare the time. We’d all be glad.” And here he turned and looked at his younger relatives.

“I will come, of course. But what ails your sister? She has always been a healthy girl.” The priest looked closely at Richard Denny’s face to see what he might read there.

“I’d rather not talk o’ her ailment here an’ now, Father, but leave you to form an opinion when you see her.”

“Very well.”

“An’ if you don’t think it lacking in courtesy, I’ll return home at once wi’ Joan.”

“Of course.”

“Miles will stay here to help you, I expect?”

“There is no need. He can go with you.” Radulph looked at the youngster. “I know where his wishes lie. Besides, there is not a great deal to do in the way of clearing up. I see that he has already shed his surplice. And I notice that the books are sitting tidy on the altar.”

“We’ll leave you then, Father.” Richard Denny and his younger charges shaped to depart. “An’ we’ll see you at the house when you’re finished here.”

“Yes, you will. And tell your father I shall not be long.”

The footsteps of the three seemed to linger in the church long after they had gone. So, too, did the heavy, closing thump of the door: iron-studded oak, two inches thick, pushed into the rebate of stone shaped to receive it. Radulph enjoyed all the after-sounds which the building possessed; and he was fond as well of the small noises of his own tidying-up routines. The splash of water against the scalloped dish of the piscina as he rinsed the chalice and paten; the scrape of the aumbry door as he put vessels and cruets away; and the various rustles and ripples of cloth while divesting. Sounds had always been an important part of his clerical life, with the deep echoes of a large building now exchanged for the sharper sounds of a smaller one. Adjustment of ear fell happily into place with adjustment of mind, even preceded it, and a contentment which needed no words to proclaim itself filled this one man’s being.

Chapter 2

After he had emerged from his small door in the south wall of the cancel, Radulph looked up at the sky. Whether it was the result of his leaving a man-made roof for the mightiest ceiling of all, or whether he was cultivating a farmer’s mistrust of what the heavens might contain, he wasn’t sure. It might have been either – or both. It could also have been a sense of the wind’s stinging reminder that, of four elements, it was most free of all. “The wind blows where it pleases and you hear the sound thereof, but you cannot tell whence it comes and where it goes. Thus, is everyone born of the spirit.” What sort of spirit was it that dwelt within a north-easterly, Radulph was tempted to ask? A chastening one, no doubt. A punitive force which flayed Man for his imperfections and did not spare animal-kind either, if the way a few sheep which grazed the churchyard, and which now huddled in the lee of the surrounding hedge, was anything to go by.

            Once he was through the gate, Radulph drew his cloak close to his body and lengthened his stride towards the house where he was expected. It lay well beyond the village and its detachment spoke somewhat of independence. It revealed, too, a later evolution than the small concentration of dwellings which had a nodding acquaintance with the street without actually aligning themselves along it, on either side, in any particular order. As he walked down the rutted track between the cottages, Radulph found himself drawn from within the cover of his cloak to respond to various greetings thrown his way by the villagers, who went about their domestic tasks with the same ease and familiarity as the fowls which nodded and scratched for any pickings which lay in the yards. Was there such a great difference between the two existences? When people were compelled to scrape and contrive, why should poor hens not search and scavenge alongside them? It did not require a bestiary to show similarity of situation and behaviour, even to a man whose learning had been elevated above the simplest level since he was ten years old.

            The houses of the village ended as they began, with no apparent purpose or design, and Radulph left the road, striking off to his left along a footpath. Its hard and beaten soil, with only the most persistent docks and plantains able to grow there, testified to regular use. A look at the landscape revealed why. The road itself held a close and parallel course with the edge of the cliff, linking a number of coastal settlements in an intention beyond the immediate comprehension of the parish’s inhabitants, who never travelled far enough to see it. But the footpath was different – it and its fellows that segmented the land – for any right of way established by common use was evidence of need. The line of trodden earth, packed down by the feet which passed, existed not so much as a privilege for any traveller as for an admission that the outlying homesteads and holdings had to have their connecting ways.

            As Radulph stepped briskly along that morning, he did so beneath a sky that had lost all traces of its earlier brightness. While Mass was being said, bands of cloud had edged up to the sun and gradually removed it from sight so that the endless vault overhead was uniformly grey, with just the odd streak or two of charcoal to give minimal variation. It was a cold sky, with chilled air beneath. The north-easterly blew with a constant and unrelenting velocity which swept the hedges and rattled the twigs, causing anyone out in it to bend from its blast and look for shelter within clothes alone. There were two walkers on the path that morning and the taller and less bent of them closed on the shorter and more stooped. Two grey figures under a dull sky, leaning from the wind like the dark-green tussocks of winter wheat that sprouted from their bed of clods. Small shapes in a vastness of landscape, their mobility measurable only by the changes in their position relative to that of the hedgerow trees, but with the taller one gaining on the shorter.

            With the gap between them no more than a few feet, the hunched and leading figure stopped and turned, not so much because of any following noise as from an inbuilt feeling that something or someone was on the path behind. And so it was that Bess Hoberd and Radulph Fyld faced each other again that morning. “This wind’ll slice us all in half, Father,” said the old woman. “So why do you walk abroad when sense tells a body to keep indoors?”

            “I am going to the house of Robert Denny,” replied Radulph, saying as much as truth required, but no more.

            “He weren’t in church, this mornin’.” The pause which followed the words invited a reply, yet it was not forthcoming. “Nor yit the girl, Ann.” Again, the pause. “Is anythin’ amiss?” 

            “This time the question succeeded where observation had previously failed. “Ann is sick,” said Radulph. “Though I don’t know what the sickness is. Robert has asked me to visit her.”

            “Yeah. The children were anxious for your attention after mass, but I hadn’t thought o’ the reason.” A yellowed and worn tooth, one of a pair in the upper gum momentarily scraped the lower lip. “Tell Robert if there is aught I can do, then he has only to ask.”

            “I will do that, Mistress Hoberd. It may well be that your knowledge of simples will be needed.” This acknowledgement of special skill was followed by a mild pleasantry. “Everyone testifies to Old Bess’s way with plants.”

            “Do they? An’ what else do they testify to?”

            “Mistress?”

            “Come, Father. There’s no need to spare the feelins of an ol’ woman. I know all about their talk!” She laughed. “Do you not fear one who’re got dark powers?” 

            The priest thought for a moment before answering. “I might, if I knew such a person. But I don’t see how a good action could have its root in wickedness.” 

            “Then why do so many people think that I have my bein’ in the great shadow?” A note of bitterness was plain to hear in the voice. “Why do they ask for my gifts, when they fear the reason for ’em so greatly? What they see as the reason, at any rate,” she added.

The feeling that these words engendered within Radulph was far stronger than his reply was able to convey. But the words, though falling short of deep sentiment, were adequate for a reasoned reply. “It is my experience that human creatures often consider the healing processes to be magic of one kind or another,” he said. “For where understanding falls short, what are mortals to do other than explain things in terms of powers beyond them?”

            “True, Father. But why do them powers have to be from the Devil?” Bess Hoberd set her head defiantly, as if daring an answer from the man to whom she spoke.

            “Because the unexplainable brings a problem of belief. And it is most easily accounted for by recourse to the old beliefs.”

            “The ol’ beliefs, Father?”

            “Yes. Those ancient tenets. Sprung from the old man before the new man was born.”

            “I know nothin’ o’ this.” The old woman’s voice was impatient almost. “I know only those things handed down to me by my mother.”

            “Which among superstitious people sometimes pass for magic. Though,” and here Radulph looked her straight in the eye, “the magic lies in the plant and its creation. Not in anything else.”

            “I won’t argue wi’ you there, Father,” agreed Bess. “And I can’t be arguin’ wi’ this wind much longer either, else it will cut me from my bones.” She drew the hood of the cloak closer to her head and held it beneath her chin with one hand, while the other gripped more tightly on her staff.” You git yourself to Robert’s place an’ leave me to make my own way. I shall be home soon enow.”

            “And glad to be there, no doubt. I will leave you, mistress. And I will tell Robert of your offer, should help be needed. Fare you well.”

            And so the two shapes separated themselves – the taller figure drawing away from the shorter one, with the wind gusting between the widening gap and prising them further and further apart. The final severance came when Radulph turned abruptly from the path and entered a small wood which was ditched around and stood like an island in the fields. It was a departure which, though sudden, was not without reason, for a track crossed the ditch in one place, running through the inner bank and into the coppices. Spaced pollard-oaks, interspersed with elm, maple and blackthorn, marked the perimeter of the wood, but large, standing timber within these margins was scarce. Instead, there were many stands of ash, hazel, chestnut and lime, cropped for the staves and poles which sprouted straight and true from the darkened soil beneath. And any notion that the area might be randomly planted was corrected by the heaps and cones of coppice-wood awaiting use.

A jay dropped suddenly from one of the outer trees as Radulph entered the plantation, flying fast and low across the space to the other side. The merest flash of a white rump was all there was to declare its presence and its silent passage contrasted strongly with the wing-smack of two pigeons which dropped heavily from their perches and beat away, outwards, across the fields. Inside the outer screen of large trees, the wind diminished in force and effect and Radulph stood a moment to experience the change fully and to take in the scene before him. There was little foliage in evidence anywhere, but yellow catkins dangled from the hazel clumps, trembling in the moving currents of air, and the furry palms of a goat-willow or two showed heavy with pollen. The dead leaves of winter lay in drifts, their periodic heaps concentrated by wind-swirl and obstruction, whatever the latter might be, and every now and then, the rotting remains of ancient coppice-stools declared their presence in the moss which grew upon them. And celandines, wood sorrel and anemones provided a contrasting surround of yellow and off-white.

            A suspension of time fixed itself on the stationary figure, hanging to it as closely and voluminously as the cloak which covered it. The great onward roll of growth, bowed like the sky and endless as the horizon, came to a stop, focused on a man within a wood. He stood there, pivot for a small segment of creation, which was for that particular moment the whole world and all worlds beyond. Then he moved and, in doing so, broke the fragile bubble of insight and understanding, giving way to the more pressing demands of the day. His steps through the dry, brown leaves and brittle twigs were the signal for more general movement. A blackbird flew before him, screeching its alarum, while a rustling underfoot told of a mouse or vole resuming its busy and vigilant quest for food.

            It did not take Radulph long to negotiate the coppice and emerge into fields on its far side. He walked along the boundary ditch for a time under shelter of the trees, until he came to the north-western corner. Another of the parish footpaths ran this way, holding closely to the western margin of the wood and then striking north-westwards from the salient. The track took an open, exposed course for the first two furlongs of its route, then it dropped into a green-way which followed a north-south alignment along the edge of the parish Common. A small cottage stood near the junction, the timber framing and daub infill exposed in a number of places where the outer plaster had fallen away, and the thatch too was in need of repair. The building and its yard stood perched above the green-way, abutting onto the common in a manner that suggesting some customary right of origin, and it was one of about five homes which held to the perimeter of this rough area of coarse grass, sedge, gorse, thorn, birch and bramble. Radulph glanced at the cottage as he stepped down into the sunken lane and wondered how much longer it would be before Bess Hoberd arrived home.

            As he went northwards along the pitted, irregular surface of the road (for such it was), his thoughts turned always to this bleak and exposed sector of the parish. It intrigued him greatly how two such different soil-types, sandy drift and heavy clay, could lie side by side without any real zone of inter-mixture. Each had its own kind of plants and each was equally useless for productive cultivation – but not for providing rough pasture and for the furnishing of material for building and repair. All of which made the Common a valuable resource for every working family in the parish. Heading in the direction he had taken, Radulph was now walking through a sandy section – a fact which was plainly seen in the spoil which cascaded down the side of the bank, from rabbit-holes beneath the clutching, claw-like roots of the hedgerow. The ancestors of these delving renegades had escaped from their warren long years before, but any damage done to crops by the descendants was partly compensated for by their availability as a source of meat to those local people who had a right to catch them.

            Eventually, the height of the banks on either side of the lane began to diminish and Radulph lengthened his stride in anticipation of his expected arrival at the house of Robert Denny. It lay just beyond the point at which the green-way came to field level and it gave an immediate impression of orderliness and efficiency. The dwelling was of moderate size, its plaster and thatch in good repair, and closed wooden shutters over the windows gave it a secure and finished appearance. An L-shaped range of buildings stood to one side and to the rear, single-storey for the most part but with a small barn incorporated, having an extra level. The outhouses backed to the north and east and gave shelter to the site – as did the stout hedge of hawthorn which had been planted around the whole, square plat. As Radulph entered its embrace that morning, he felt at once a sense of security and also of uncertainty at what might await him within. The wind still sang its high, unrelenting falsetto, but as a localised counterpoint came the low-frequency noises of cattle moving around within their byre.

Miles met Radulph at the front door, and the fact that he had opened it in advance of the latter’s reaching the house showed that he had been watching for the priest’s arrival. A brief greeting was exchanged and the door then closed. Inside, the passage in which they stood was poorly lit, a gloom that served mainly to accentuate the outline of a powerful figure which stood halfway along and which extended its voice in welcome. “Father Radulph, it’s good o’ you to answer my call. An’ at such short biddin’. Please to come this way.” And, with that, Robert Denny, turned to his right and opened a door into a room which lay to the side of the passage. Miles and Radulph followed. It was lighter inside than in the entry, though cool from the passage of air through a window, and the various utensils on a large table and on recesses in the wall (together with a cooking-hearth) declared it to be the kitchen.

“No doubt you know that somethin’ ails Ann, Father.” The words were solid and deliberate, issuing from a bedrock of jaw and mouth that conveyed the essence of the speaker. There was strength, too, in the prominent brow under its fringe of greying fair hair. “She’re got a condition that’s beyond my understandin’. Which is why I asked you to come.”

“My skill in healing is small, but I will do my best to be of help.” Radulph spoke quietly and unassumingly, for there was no wish on his part to claim an expertise he did not possess. Nor did he want to raise hope before he had had the opportunity to judge matters for himself.

“We know you will, Father. An’ we ask no more’n that.” The anxiety which Robert Denny felt did not disguise the warmth he felt for one who had arrived in the parish as much a collector of tithes as of souls, but who had become a friend within the year.

Radulph felt the tension in the words and tried to ease it by revealing that further help could be called upon, if required. “I met with Bess Hoberd on my way here,” he said, “and she bids me tell you that if there is aught she can do to help, then you have only to ask.”

“That was kind o’ her, an’ well meant,” said Robert. “Yet, I think my daughter’s condition may be beyond her craft an’ knowin’.”

“But the old woman is noted for her powers.”

“So she is. So she is.” The repetition was not so much agreement as an insertion of words where words were insufficient to convey what was felt.

“And in spite of the fear some folk have of her, she is well-disposed to her fellow creatures.”

“Father,” and here some real amusement did break through the layer of anxiety and restraint, “I think I’m well enough acquainted wi’ Bess Hoberd to know her nature.”

“Yes, of course, Robert. Forgive me. Saying what needs not be said has long been a fault of mine.”

“It’s one we all suffer from. Come, let’s go up to Ann. Her sister is with her at present.” He turned to a door in the back wall of the kitchen and opened it. “Miles, go you an’ help Richard in the barn. He’s preparin’ grain for spring sowin’.”

            The boy did as he was bidden and Radulph remarked as he left, “The season is late, this year.”

            “It’s allus late along this way!” The complaint was both a farmer’s grumble and an acknowledgement of the prevailing state of affairs. “Be careful as you come up. These steps are awkward.”

            They had passed into a good-sized space at the back of the kitchen which served as dairy and brewhouse. Keelers, fleeting-dishes, cheese-breds, mashing tubs, guile-vats, small casks and other items of equipment stood either on benches on the beaten clay floor. At one end, to the right of the door, some heavy wooden steps gave access to the upper storey. They were a halfway stage between a ladder and a staircase, with thick treads and a near-vertical drop, but with no attempt to make them an integral part of the building itself. The space between the ceiling-joists determined their width, for each upright was pinned to one of these and entry to the floor above was through a gap in its planks.

            The room they entered was the first of three constructed within the upper space of the original open hall, work begun by Robert’s father and finished by himself. It contained two simple single-beds and two chests and served as the quarters for Richard and Miles. Both men walked straight through it and went into the kitchen chamber, which Robert used, and passed from there into the into the main chamber above the hall. Again, there were two beds inside, as well as a great long chest against the far wall and a table and stool in the middle of the floor. One of the beds was placed lengthways along the front wall of the house beneath the shuttered window; the other stood similarly located against the opposite wall. A girl with dark hair lay in the one below the window and beside it, on a stool, sat another figure with the same dark tresses. At the sound of people entering, she turned her head and then rose from her seat to face her father and his companion.

            “How does your sister, Joan?” Robert Denny went straight to the bedside.

            “Same as when you last come up, Father. She’s still sleepin’.”

            “Has she awoken agin?”

            “No. But I thought she was goin’ to, a while back. Her eyes opened an’ she begun to sit up.”

            “Did she speak at all?”

            “No. Just sighed a little an’ then dropped back onta the pillow.” Joan Denny returned to her vigil at the bedside. “I can’t believe anyone could fall so far inta sleep.”

            “It depends on the cause, child.” Radulph came up to the younger girl and laid his hand on her shoulder. “You sister lies very still, yet she does not appear to be sick. See, there is no sweating or fast breathing.” He turned to Robert. “Had you noticed that?”

            “Yeah.” A father’s hand gently smoothed the brow, lifting the black hair from the white skin beneath and letting it fall into place again. “Nor is she hot to touch. I’re never seen the like afore.”

            “How long has she been this way?” Radulph asked.

            “Since Friday. She complained o’ a headache at supper an’ asked if she might go to bed early.”

            “Had she said anything at all before that time?”

            “I don’t rightly remember. Do you recall anythin’, Joan?” Robert straightened up from stooping over his older daughter and looked at the younger one. “You and Ann are close, for all the three years betwin you.”

            “Well, she did say somethin’ about pictures in her head.” A look of concentration tightened the skin around the dark eyes and drew the lips into small, sharp creases. “But I didn’t really understand what she was tellin’ me, at first.”

            “Pictures in her head?” Radulph’s voice was used more as a prompt than asking a question.

            “Yeah, Father Radulph. She said that she had bin seein’ pictures in her head.”

            “For how long, Joan? I heard nothing o’ this, from either of you.” Robert Denny spoke gently, as the situation required. 

            “She told me not to say anythin’, Father. Not to Richard or Miles. Nor to you. She was afraid you might think her foolish.”

            “What were these pictures, Joan?” Radulph was not only involved as a friend of the family; there was also, in his mind, an echo of things he had read years before in the cloister of the Abbey. “Did Ann describe them to you?”

            “No, Father Radulph. Well, not at first. She just told me that she kept seein’ pictures.”

            “Were they dreams, do you think, child?”

            “No, because she saw ’em durin’ the day. But she didn’t tell me much about ’em.”

            “And how long do you think she had been seeing them? The priest repeated and reinforced the parent’s earlier question.

The smooth white face was thoughtful for a moment, before the deep, bright eyes flashed in positive realisation of a fact not hitherto required, nor consciously known. “It was Sunday last, the day o’ palms, that she saw the first of ’em.”

            “You seem very sure.”

            “I am, Father Radulph. We were in the dairy. Ann was hangin’ cheese to drip an’ I was cleanin’ vessels.”

            “That is so,” agreed Robert Denny. “The girls ha’ helped in the dairy since their mother died. In fact, they manage it for me now – among the many other things they do.”

            “And Ann told you that she had seen pictures?” Radulph continued with his questions.

            “Yeah. She said, afore we went to church that mornin’, that she’d seen a lady dressed in blue and white clo’s smilin’ at her.” 

            “Where was this?” 

            “Here. In our bed chamber. Ann was tidyin’ the beds. I asked her if the lady was our mother, but she said no.”

            “Has she seen this lady again?”

            “Yeah. An’ other things, as well. But she didn’t tell me what they were. She said she would only do that when they stopped.”

            “I see.” Radulph turned from the girl to the father. “Has she slept like this all the time since Friday evening?”

            “Mostly. Yeah. She seem to wake every now an’ then, as Joan mentioned a while back. But she hasn’t raised herself from slumber now since the marks begun to appear on her hands. Not that I’re seen, anyhow.”

            “Marks? On her hands?” Interest and concern were apparent in the priest’s voice. “Could I see them, please?”

            “O’ course, you can.” And, with that, Robert Denny took his daughter’s left hand. It lay, knuckles uppermost, on the woollen blanket which covered her.” He turned it for Radulph to look at and a large purple bruise manifested itself on the base of the palm, spreading downwards to the wrist. Then he reached across and drew the right hand from under her coverings. It matched its fellow.

            “When did these marks appear, Robert?” Radulph asked.

            “We don’t know for certain,” came the reply. “But Joan noticed them this mornin’ when she woke. Is that not so, Joan?”

            “Yeah, Father. I went to see how Ann was farin’ and noticed her hands were blotchy an’ swollen.”

            “Would that have been about the time Miles left for church?” Part of a conversation earlier was now recalled.

            “About then, yeah,” Robert Denny affirmed. “He’d finished feedin’ the small stock an’ I told him he could leave early to help you, if he wished.”

            “And are there marks on Ann other than these on her hands?”

            “I’re got no idea, Father Radulph. Should there be?”

            “I don’t know, Robert. I don’t know. But may I see her feet?” The three of them moved to the bottom of the bed and Joan drew back the blanket from her sister’s legs. It took very little scrutiny to see that both insteps were discoloured and livid. Immediately, father and daughter drew in a sharp breath of air through pursed lips, but the priest showed no reaction whatsoever – other than bending over to look more closely.

“What do you make of it, Father Radulph? I’re never seen anythin’ like it!” 

            “I think I may have read something of it. Robert. Would you take it amiss if I asked to see Ann’s body.”

“Her body?”

“Yes. I want to look at her right-side ribs. Please don’t think it indelicate of me; I have a good reason for doing so.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment. Joan, go you and find something useful to do about the house.”

“Yes, Father. Please tell me if Ann wake up.” The girl left the room obediently and even, perhaps, a little gratefully at being spared the sight of any further blemishes on the skin of her sister.

“The girls must be a great help help and consolation to you since the death of your wife, Robert.” Radulph tried hard to say something which fitted the moment, yet which did not increase his friend’s anxiety.

“They are. An’ the boys, too. All of ’em mean a great deal to me.” He drew back the covers from his recumbent daughter. She lay on the bed as still and pale as the alabaster effigies which surmounted the table-tombs in the great abbey-church Radulph had come from. “If you lift her, then I can pull up her smock.”

The priest took hold of the girl, working his strong hands and forearms between her body and the feather mattress. His right hand gripped her further shoulder from beneath, his left cupped itself under the knees, allowing wrist and lower arm to act as a lever. Robert Denny worked the linen garment upwards, in folds and creases, exposing the rounded, maturing contours of his daughter’s thighs and abdomen. When the swelling line of her breasts was reached, he stopped. There was no need to unclothe her further. A large, elongated mark, the colour of a blood-blister, stretched itself along the right-hand side of the rib-cage, about midway. Both men looked at it for a matter of seconds, then drew down her smock and covered her over, as before, and straightened up from the bed.

“Is that what you expected to see?” Robert Denny asked.

“Yes,” replied Radulph.

“What do you make of it?” There was a pause. “What kind o’ illness is it, do you think?”

“No illness in the usual sense of the word, my friend. Yet your daughter has been afflicted in her body.” He looked at Robert, straight and unwaveringly in the eye. “Many people would say that she is greatly favoured for being thus stricken.”

“Favoured! I don’t understand your meanin’. What can be good about the poor girl’s condition?” A certain stiffening of the father’s powerful physique was detectable under his twilled doublet. “Look at her! She’s like a piece of carvin’.”

“Radulph followed the pointing finger’s line. “Yes, she is,” he agreed. “But have you no idea at all about what has happened to her?”

“None! An’ I don’t much care. All I can see is my daughter stretched out there, with them marks on her!”

“Yes, the marks, Robert. I can see that they trouble you. But have you not thought what they might indicate?”

“No, I haven’t. An’ I’m not sure why you think I should have!” There was enough increase in the level of his voice to show both the worry felt by the father and his irritation at what he felt to be an irrelevant line of questioning.

Radulph was sufficiently attuned to the needs of the moment not to continue in that particular way, so he adopted a different approach. “I am sorry if I appear to be insensitive, my friend,” he said, “because I can only guess at your feelings. And it is only my impulse of thought which drives me along so quickly.”

“Well, you’re known as quite a fast thinker an’ talker, Father, so perhaps I can find it in me to make allowances. There was a smile now on the broad, weathered face. “I’ll tell you one thing, though.”

“And what is that?” Radulph was pleased to go along with his companion now that the tension between them had eased.

“You’re a long way from gittin’ through mass as quick as old Father Laurence used to.” Once again, the smile, this time from the enjoyment of a specific memory.

“Yes, he was known for his rapid delivery of the words. I heard of him spoken of in the Abbey in that way.” Then he added, “It is good to see you with humour in your face again. May I go back to the matter of Ann and her condition?”

“O’ course, you may. What is it that you suspect ails her?”

“It is difficult to know how to say this, Robert.” He turned to look at the girl again. “But I think your daughter is carrying the stigmata.”

“Stigmata?”

“Yes. The marks of Our Lord’s five wounds.”

“What!”

“It is not as strange as you may think, my friend. There have been a number of examples down the years where people have undergone the experience.”

“What sort o’ people?”

“Young and old, male and female, rich and poor. There is no set pattern – though younger women do seem to have been the most common bearers.” He paused for a moment. “Saint Francis of Assisi – he who so loved God and his creation – is probably the best known.” A further pause. “Simple goodness of nature and nearness to God seem to be part of what takes place.”

‘Well, I can vouch for Ann bein’ good.”  The confirmation was not so much parental pride being voiced as a statement of fact which stemmed from certain knowledge. “But as for nearness to God, that I can’t speak about.”

“I think that she may be very close at this moment, Robert. See, there is a look of peacefulness upon her face. A troubled spirit would not be reflected in such manner.”

“That’s one thing I’re bin worried about all along: her – her distance from us.” He searched for the right word to deliver. “She’s like a piece o’ marble.” The fissured, leathery back-of-hand contrasted greatly with the smooth, pale skin of the girl as the gently touching fingers traced the contours of nose, cheek and mouth. “She seem so far away from us all. I’d begun to think of death, I don’t mind tellin’ you.”

“I can understand that, Robert. But I don’t think you need fear the Dark Angel on this occasion. I think, maybe, that Ann is seeing things far beyond our imagining. And it may well be that, when she wakes, that she will reveal these things and astonish us all.”

“What things?”

“That is not in my knowing. But you will send for me when she awakes, won’t you? I would like to hear an account of what she experienced.” 

“You’ll hear it, Father. That you will. I’ll send either Miles or Richard for you, as soon as she’s come out o’ her slumber. You’re sure that’s what it is?”

“Certainty is a thing we would all do well to be wary of,” replied Radulph. “And I don’t wish to make light of what the maid is going through. But, yes, I believe that Ann is sleeping, and I believe too that it may not be long before she is restored to us. Prepare yourself then for some strange and wondrous utterance.”

“I’ll be glad enow just to have her back in our ordinary, everyday carry-on. I’m not much o’ a thinker an’ I don’t find it easy to take in what you’re just told me.”

“About the things she may be seeing?”

“That’s part of it. Then there’s the business o’ the marks o’ the nails an’ spear. I find that hard to take in.”

“Of course, you do. You’re so close to the one who bears them. It is never easy to see and accept great change in someone who is well known to us – especially when that someone is kindred. Come, let us go down. We are serving no purpose here.” And, with that, Radulph took Robert Denny by the arm just long enough to draw him from the bedside and provide an impetus to leave the room. There was no resistance to the lead given and the two of them went out through the interposing chambers to the hatch, where the steps fell steeply to the ground-floor.

“Mind how you go,” cautioned the master of the house. “I shouldn’t like to have a priest’s leg on my conscience.”

Radulph laughed. “I don’t think you need fear that. These steps are but a short length compared with the ladder in the church’s tower. And I climb that more than once during the week.”

            When they reached the bottom, they walked through into the kitchen, where Joan was setting the table in preparation for the small midday meal. She looked at her father in a manner that questioned without words and which drew from him a smile of reassurance. “Ann is goin’ to be all right,” he said. “It is just a matter o’ time afore she wake up an’ is restored to us.” Then he spoke to Radulph. “If you’d care to stay an’ have a bite, Father, we’d all be pleased. We don’t eat much at noon-time; but what there is, you’re welcome to have some.”

            “I know that, Robert, and I thank you for the offer, but I had best be on my way. I am expected home and dare not, for my life, put Margaret’s arrangements out of step!”

            “I know what you mean, Father. But if you think Margaret’s on the fierce side, then you should ha’ met her mother! She was a beauty, I can tell you. Old man Jakks darsn’t speak!”

            “So I have heard people say.”

            “How they ever had children, I don’t know. I reckon she must ha’ been the one with the tool! That’s beggin’ your pardon, o’ course.” And Robert Denny also threw a quick glance at his younger daughter to make sure that she hadn’t heard.

            “Granted, as always, my friend.” Radulph laughed. “And the female domination continues in Margaret’s treatment of her brother.”

            “What, poor ol’ Simpkin! Well, he’s used to it by now. He’s bin told what to do for so long that he likely don’t think about it no more. That’s if he ever did!”

            “I know what you mean. He does things in his own way, in spite of what he’s been told. He’s like that with me.”

            “A good worker, though.”

            “Yes, he is. Slow but steady. He says that’s the way to get through a full day without it getting through you.”

            The conversation ceased at this point. Not because there was nothing more to be said, but because there seemed to be little point in saying it. Both of them stood looking at the girl, Joan, as he busied herself at the table. She was aware of their attention and continued to work under it without discomfort or self-consciousness. And, when she had completed her task, she spoke to her father. “The broth’s ready and I’re done layin’ the table, Father. Shall I call Richard an’ Miles in from the barn?”

            “Yeah. Go an’ tell them the food’s riddy, Joan. Likely enow, they’ll be glad to hear it.” Then he spoke to Radulph. “You’re sure you won’t stay an’ take somethin’ with us?”

            “Thank you again – but, no. It is time that I returned to my house. Be sure to tell me when Ann wakes up.” He moved towards the door and went through it into the passage. Robert Denny followed him and together they stepped out into the cold, grey light of day. The wind still blew unrelentingly, though less noticeably on the lee side of the building, where they now stood, than it had done when they were in the kitchen moments before.

            “I’ll say fare you well then, Father Radulph.”

            “Goodbye, Robert. And be sure to send for me.”

            “I will.”

            Robert Denny watched Radulph walk across the yard and pass through the boundary hedge, before returning indoors; the priest kept his eyes on the way before him, only looking back when he was beyond the hawthorn screen. There he stood a while, in the lane, with his eyes intent upon the upper levels of the various buildings. A little piece of Man’s creation, placed upon earth for who could say how long? Timber, daub, plaster and thatch giving a tenancy upon the land and security for those who lived there. And within it all, at the very centre for the Denny family, a sleeping girl in whose head might lie knowledge of things beyond human experience and understanding. Radulph continued to look at the farmstead until he felt the possibilities of the unrevealed mystery becoming too large for the moment. Then he turned away and walked back down the lane, retracing his earlier steps.

Chapter 3

When he reached home, the time was past the sixth hour; he had heard it ring from the manor house, where a hand-rung bell took its cue from Sir Nicholas Bosard’s own time-piece. The vicarage house stood a short distance from the church, on the south side, with a well-defined path between the two structures. Radulph was fond of his dwelling, a small aisled-hall without cross-wings, and of the ancillary buildings that went with it. They were not as extensive as his friend Robert’s, but they were solidly made of timber, wattle and clay, and they were in good repair. This had been the great surprise for him originally (other than the fact of his having to go outside the Abbey) – learning that he was to till the land, as well as exercising cure of souls. The church was endowed with thirty-two acres of glebe land and it was the custom of the incumbent to work it – or to see that it was done. Radulph had known little of agriculture when he arrived, but Simpkin Jakks, the vicarage servant, had introduced to him to the ways of farming and Robert Denny had been ready to advise if and when needed. That was what had established the real point of contact between them in the first place and their friendship had developed from it. There was much to be said for working the land; it acted as the glue which held men together in a common cause. Except, Radulph reflected, when there was dispute as to ownership and title.

            No such troublesome and vexatious matter existed where the church acres in the parish were concerned, but other areas more controversial in their standing did provide a focus of unease. The common land was one. Then there were holdings established under customary tenure that were attracting the attention of a lord less benevolent than the one who had originally granted the privileges. This hunger for land intrigued Radulph. It was feature of the world which he had known during his time inside the abbey, but which he had only seen at first hand on being taken from within walls and placed on the outside. The hunger varied. Small men desired to have enough land to live off and provide a surplus to trade with; the more substantial wished to extend their estates for the rents that could be collected. And that was not the end of it, for there were those who had no land at all of their own and had to rely on the favour of a master allowing them soil of his own to crop in return for their sweat. And for their loyalty. The way they sowed themselves into the earth and hoped to rise in the world thereby was harvest of a kind, but with the reaping more uncertain than for either wheat or barley.

            Radulph crossed his yard and went into the house. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the direct howl of the wind and reducing it to a reduced skirl around the eaves. The iron latch fell into place and he drew the cloak from off his shoulders and walked down the passage into the kitchen. A table was spread for three, with wooden bowls at each of the places and with wooden drinking vessels and spoons set in readiness. A fat, bulbous, iron pot steamed above the fire, responding both to the flames beneath and to the practised hand which stirred it with a long paddle. The woman straightened from her task and looked across the room at her master. She was tall, even impressive in appearance, but there was an angularity and spareness in her build which showed even through the loose folds of her working dress.

            “That smells good, Margaret. I hope that I have not spoiled it by returning home late. I was called away after mass.”

            “Yeah. Simpkin saw you leave the church an’ head away through the village, after we’d returned home. Is aught amiss?” The strong features, accentuated by an aquiline nose and a redness of complexion, had the cast of command in them – that imperious, female, family characteristic which Robert Denny had referred to earlier.

            “Nothing, really. Just a call to be made. Nothing of import.” Radulph thought it best to keep his visit to himself.

            “It took a fair while.”

            “Yes, it did, Margaret. And there’s nothing like a lengthy walk to create a good appetite. Is your pot ready?”

            “It is.” The affirmation was acknowledgement that further probing would serve no purpose. “Shall I call Simpkin? He is seein’ to the big sow.”

            “Has she farrowed yet?”

            “She hadn’t when I last went out. I’ll go an’ see how things are. Anythin’ that can make my brother late for his food always seem to be most welcome to him.” She left the room with straight back and long stride, passing into the backhouse and from thence out into the yard.

            Radulph smiled to himself as she went from the house. He enjoyed his little contests with Margaret – especially those where he emerged as victor. Though he knew that in the next exchange he might not have so easy a time. He looked at the table and, seeing it laid in the way it was, remembered one of their early skirmishes: the matter of meals and how they should be taken. He had come to the vicarage house intending that he and the servants should sit down together and eat. Not so much for egalitarian belief (which he did happen to hold) as for the fact that he was used to human company at meal-times and enjoyed the fellowship. He had consulted the abbot as to the advisability of such a course and had been told that there was no objection to it. Radulph, in his innocence, had even thought that such an arrangement might make his female servant’s domestic tasks just a little easier.

            He had soon been disabused of any such notion. Father Laurence, he was informed, had always taken his meals alone, in the parlour. It was a statement, not only of fact apparently, but of intention for any other incumbent who might enter the house. Radulph’s way of dealing with the rule (for such it was) had been to go along with it on the day of his arrival, and on the following day as well, then to put forward his own preference. This had been met with a disapproving ear and eye, together with a re-statement of what Father Laurence had always done. And so the parlour table had continued to be set at the appointed times for a number of days, until the continued arrival of the new priest at the kitchen’s well-used oaken board (together with utensils from the other room) finally convinced Margaret Jakks that at least one of her household arrangements was, of a necessity, going to require adjustment. Radulph was still smiling to himself at the memory, when the subject of his thoughts returned from the yard, her brother in attendance.

            “Ah, Simpkin. And how does our sow?” The priest took a brief and expedient turn at playing farmer.” Has she farrowed yet?”

            “No, not yit, Father. She’s keepin’ us all waitin’. Just like any other woman!” A loud sniff terminated the remark and a bony back-of-hand slid across the sharply pointed nose and removed the drop which hung there.

            “And what do you know o’ women?” Margaret turned on her brother, using a year or two’s seniority and a life-long’s dominance to make her point. “You’re hardly proven in such matters.”

            “True, sister. Yet I know somethin’ o’ one woman.” He spoke to Radulph again. “I don’t reckon she’ll be much longer now,” he said. “At least, I hope not. It’s fair draughty out there, in her pen.”

            “I don’t doubt that, for a moment. Well, sit you down, man, and get warm. Margaret, could we have your stew?”

            They took their place at the table and waited while the woman carried their bowls to the hearth. Neither of them spoke as she ladled the contents into the smaller vessels, but sat and looked around the room, each pair of eyes apparently finding new sights to observe in familiar surroundings. The master of the house received his serving first, then his manservant, and finally the woman filled her own bowl and brought it to the table. A squat loaf of coarse barley-bread sat in the middle and the three people took it in turns to pull off a lump for eating with the stew. Margaret fetched a jug of ale from the backhouse and set it down. Then she and her brother sat back from their steaming bowls and waited. “Benedice, Domine, nos et dona tua, quae tuae largitatae et sumus sumpturi, per Christum dominum nostrum. Amen.”

            It was the customary signal to begin a meal, and the three of them proceeded to eat what Simpkin always referred to as “death o’ year pottage”: dried peas and beans boiled up with an onion or two and some leaves of winter cabbage. The only saving touch, usually, was the addition to the vegetables of jointed pieces of rabbit or moorhen, which gave the mixture some interest and extra flavour. But not today, in respect for the Easter sacrifice. The meal was eaten quietly and such conversation as there was centred largely on the nature of the day itself. Both Margaret and Simpkin, without being overtly religious, were devout enough in their way and quite amenable to engaging in discussion with their master on matters of doctrine and practice. And so, various ideas on the nature of the Resurrection were exchanged, beginning with the Gospel accounts, progressing to each individual’s sense of the events of that day, and finishing with a few tentative notions of what lay beyond earthly like for mortals. Not only did his two servants show a sensibility and awareness that people of their kind were not generally supposed to have, but the usual warring exchanges between them were lost for a time in a more profound and worthy discourse.

            Eventually, when the meal had run its course and the reflections aired had settled into the inner folds of the mind, there to find either a peaceful obscurity or to be recalled at a later time, the three of them rose from the table. Simpkin left the kitchen to return to his pig; Margaret began to clear the utensils away; and Radulph stood a while, collecting his thoughts in preparation for Confession. It was his custom to conduct this particular office every Sunday afternoon and to follow it with Vespers. And he would do this today, even on the feast of feasts. The routine was one he had adopted early on during his incumbency and he liked it for its focus on the frailty of humankind. Old Adam was not simply the primal curse on Man’s condition; it was his birthright, too, and his ultimate salvation: the ancient weight of sin purchased and redeemed by blood. Thus, it was that shriving-time became an expression of common humanity, of the revealing and sharing of weakness, and of the acknowledgement of imperfection admitted through penance. For Radulph saw the ritual as no more than this – words which paid lip-service to recognised imperfection, but which were only words. For how could the counting of beads and the utterance of muttered prayers be anything other than a surface show, when true repentance could only lie within a person’s heart? And how much true repentance there was among his flock, he might only guess at.

            To begin with, it was difficult to penetrate the veil of imposed guilt which Mother Church cast around her children. The fixation with the sins of the flesh, Radulph had long decided, might well be the outward sign of an institution’s unease concerning the way so many of its members lived. Chastity had never posed many problems for him, but he knew of the vice within some walls (as well as that outside them) and wondered how much of great Paul’s teaching on celibacy was theological, how much the expression of personal opinion and how much the deliberate misunderstanding of subsequent generations of scholars. Augustine, too: how many of his pronouncements were reaction to an earlier way of life, so utterly and finally rejected when the time for conversion had come? Then again, there was the danger of presuming contrition to be measurable in terms of public show, such as standing white-smocked in a church porch for the eyes of all to light upon. Radulph was uneasy about the whole matter, which is why his penances might have been regarded as too lenient by those who took a more traditional view. There were parishioners who echoed this sentiment – but there were people also who realised that the words imposed were only a token and that the primary sense of shortcoming was for the sinner alone to experience within the silent confines of his or her own mind.

            Margaret Jakks, having cleared the table, then did the same with her throat – the prelude always to saying something important. “I should like you to hear my confession this afternoon, Father Radulph,” she said.

            “By all means, Margaret. And where would like me to hear it?” He already knew the answer. “Here at home? Or in the shriving-seat?”

            “I should prefer the shrivin’-seat, Father. “I wouldn’t feel that things had been done proper if I didn’t go inta church.”

            “I understand. Then I shall expect you at the appointed time?”

            “Yeah. I haven’t a great deal more to do here, but I wish to tidy myself somewhat afore comin’ across.”

            “Of course. Your sense of propriety is always most marked.” Radulph had not succeeded many times during his five years in overcoming this particular barrier.

            The woman looked hard at him for a moment before she replied. “My mother always taught me the way to act.” Then she added, “I’m afraid she had little success wi’ my brother.”

            “Well Simpkin is Simpkin, as they say.” It was as diplomatic an answer as Radulph was capable of devising and it had the effect he feared.

            “No! Simpkin is my Father! The livin’ image. To look at, an’ in his ways.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “An’ by the way, Father, when did he last go to confession?”

            “Radulph thought for a moment before answering. “I don’t believe that I have shriven your brother since – , since – . I can’t in all honesty remember,” he admitted.

            “I thought as much! Has he no regard for the state o’ his soul?” Which was as much as to say to the priest: “Have you no regard for the state of his soul?” The large hands, roughened and reddened by water and by weather, smoothed the folds of the dress over either hip-bone.

“I don’t think you need worry unduly on Simpkin’s behalf,” replied Radulph. “His soul is no more imperilled, I think, than those of folk who attend confession regularly.” Then, on noticing an expressively lifted eyebrow, he added, “I mean that as no slight upon yourself, my good Margaret.”

“No, Father, I’m sure you don’t. It’s just that there are times when I despair o’ that brother o’ mine!” Again, there seemed to be more in the words than the words alone suggested.

“And he is, in his way, equally concerned for you.” The rejoinder was given time to do its work. “He thinks a great deal of his sister.”

“I do o’ him, as well, may the good Mother Mary help me! I sometimes think we’re two strands o’ ivy twisted around the same tree-trunk. Hangin’ together. Without always wantin’ to. Getting tangled an’ in each other’s way. Always – . Always havin’ to – .” The words eluded her.

“Having to go the way set out for you?” suggested Radulph.

“Somethin’ like that. It’s a feelin’ that everythin’ which lies ahead is already decided upon.”

“Many people consider that it is so.”

“I do, at times. But there are other occasions when I don’t believe it. Such an idea seems too simple, really.”

“Yes, Margaret, I think that you are right. People are not so easily directed – even by God himself.”

“But, Father, you’re forever tellin’ us that, with God, all things are possible!” There was almost an element of protest in the way the words were spoken.

“So they are, Margaret.” The priest spoke quietly, but firmly. “So they are. But never make the mistake of assuming that possibility means certainty, especially where men and women are concerned. And never forget this, as well.” And here his voice became even more quietly emphatic. “That if God directs our every move, then we are nothing more than his play-things. We must, all of us, have the choice of adopting a good course or a bad one. And without that choice, we are nothing.” Margaret looked at him attentively and made no utterance. But she did allow herself and her master one enigmatic half-smile, before turning again to her household routines.

Before he left his dwelling for church, Radulph walked to the outhouse where Simpkin was attending to the sow. The wind had eased a little from its earlier velocity and there was a great yellow fissure in the grey rampart of sky, which might be taken to speak of better weather in prospect. Nevertheless, it was only a suggestion and, like so many suggestions, not worth a great deal until put into practice. Certainly, there was not a hint of it within the wattle building where Simpkin squatted beside a bony flank heaving with stiff red bristles, and the draught prised its way through the door’s badly lapping planks and underneath them, blowing the loose straw along to the far wall.

“And how does our tardy sow, Simpkin?”

“Much the same, Father.” The beak of a nose canted upwards, still with a droplet hanging to its end, and a pair of hooded eyelids drooped sardonically. “She’s no further forward. Not that I can see, anyhow. Or feel.” And here the strong, bony hands explored the pig’s abdomen. “Keep still!”

“Are we likely to lose her, do you think?” Radulph knew the dangers and uncertainties of giving birth where all living creatures were concerned.

“Not if I can help it!”  Simpkin sniffed emphatically. “She’s pigged afore an’ she’ll pig agin. Git you orf to church, Father. I can manage.”

“Very well. But be sure to tell me how things have gone when I return.”

“I’ll bring the news across to church, if you like,” came the swift reply. “Have you the font riddy an’ we’ll christen ’em!”

“Stay out of the draught, Simpkin!” laughed Radulph, as he stepped out through the door.

“An’ you do the same, Father,” came the reply. “All them windy whispers you’ll be gittin’ in your ear this afternoon!”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned in thought and in deed.” Radulph heard the prelude again and again as he walked towards the church. His building greeted him as it always did – squat and solid, its cobbled walls relieved only by the south porch’s mix of flint, limestone and brick, and by the buttresses on both corners of the chancel. The tower’s flint cylinder rose like some great tree-stump from the supporting earth, its parapet not so many feet away from its junction with the nave. Radulph took in St. Michael’s overall shape and mass as he passed through the gate into the churchyard. His trodden path threaded its way across the turf towards the chancel, edging its way round the little hillocks that hid the anonymous and important dead. As he followed its line, his motion assumed a gentle sinuosity which made him appear to be rising from the ground as much as walking across it. And thus he entered the church for the second time that day through the mall door in the chancel’s south wall.

The afternoon took its measured course in the usual way, with a handful of penitents assembling in the few rough benches which lay at right-angles to the north wall of the nave. These seats were matched by half-a-dozen other rows on the southern side, but no one sat there. The people passed through the chancel screen, one at a time, and each took his or her appointed place in the shriving-seat, sitting beside the priest. It was an arrangement that Radulph had devised not long after his arrival in the parish. His predecessor, Father Laurence, either in a mood of optimism or, more likely, of nostalgia for the community he had left, had introduced two small ranks of choir stalls, complete with misericords, immediately inside the screen – one on each side of the aisle. No choir had ever materialised, but Radulph had soon thought up a use for the seats. They made an excellent haven in which to hear confession; and so as to see each person approaching before the chancel step was reached, he placed himself on the northern side, immediately opposite a small, round-headed, deeply-splayed window. This was glazed with an image of Mary Magdalene, penitent and reformed, seen bearing her jar of precious ointment, and the dark blues and greens of her garment contrasted strongly with the whitish-gold of her face. But was this woman, from Magdala in Galilee (she, who had the truth of the Resurrection first revealed to her, alone), simply a convenient stereotype or something much more? What was her true part in the Christian story, much of which may well have been lost in the passing of centuries?

Radulph had reflected more than once on the possible inappropriateness of the glass image as one representing contrition, but he had not changed the location of hearing confession because of this. Every individual hearing was given the time it required. For personal unburdening might be accomplished in a headlong rush of words, or it might necessitate a slow and halting delivery heavy with self-consciousness. Radulph adjusted his role to fit the needs of each particular speaker, sitting alongside, bearing with some through their admissions and challenging others, albeit gently, with the facts of their failures. He was never harsh or sententious, but tried rather to bring about a quiet and honest recognition of personal shortcoming by stressing that sinfulness was an integral part of human experience and therefore to be understood rather than condemned. Not that such a sense was meant in any way to provide a quick and easy excuse for the sinner. Far from it. He hoped always that people would take their feeling of shortcoming away with them and try to amend themselves in what might be improved. The Ave Marias, the Paternosters and the Glorias placed upon them were simply a token exercise, a sequence of words that, if they had any use at all, served to focus the mind upon a devotional point and hold it there for the duration of the prayers. The counting of beads might or might not accompany the repetition; what mattered was concentration upon the words and, ultimately, the release they could bring from themselves and the transcendence thereby into self-knowledge.

Exactly how often a penance worked, Radulph could only guess at. Or even if it was gone through with. But the time of confession did at least allow him to reach some of his parishioners with something of himself. The reverse was true as well, and those of his flock whom he knew best tended to be the ones that attended confession regularly. And so he sat and heard them, young and old alike, through the stretched-out afternoon until last of all came Margaret Jakks for her minutes of formal unburdening. As always, her revelations were delivered in forthright manner, with the admission of anger being foremost among them. It was a statement which, on the face of it, seemed honest and accurate enough; yet built into it was an implied criticism of the people and circumstances responsible for such feeling. Radulph trod carefully with Margaret and, instead of making capital out of the sin of pride, tried to foster in her mind the idea that some of the things which proved so irritating might have a humorous side to them.

After Confession was at an end, Radulph prepared for Vespers. A few of the penitents stayed, others had departed for their homes, and the latter were replaced by a handful of new arrivals who came just for the service. Miles Gylman usually assisted Radulph in singing the office and that particular afternoon was no exception, with the boy arriving in time to take his part. There was no change in the condition of his cousin, he informed the priest. She was still sleeping. But as soon as there was any sign of her waking, his uncle would send word. And so Vespers was observed in the usual way – a quiet statement to fall in with the end of the day’s third quarter. Plainsong, reading and prayer to bring the congregation with quiet minds towards the closing of the day. At least, this was what Radulph liked to believe, and for the most part he was correct. Even without a great deal of understanding on the part of his audience (formal, literate understanding, that is, of the Latin words), there was sufficient poetry in the words and enough music in their delivery to instil a sense of calm in receptive minds, no matter how uneducated.

Once the people had gone, the church gathered its echoes unto itself and rested upon its silence. Radulph, having sent Miles home immediately after the service, sat for a while on the dropped-sill sedilia of the sanctuary’s south window and absorbed the feel of the building. It was his pleasure to do this, from time to time: to sit, to listen, and to let his thoughts take whatever flight suggested itself to them. The chancel was not well lit, for its windows were small (even that to the east) and the heavy tracery, though pleasing in silhouette, did not allow a great deal of the day to find its way within. Not that it mattered greatly on this occasion, for the clouds had closed ranks during vespers and the wind had lifted again to something approaching its strength of early morning. Radulph listened intently to its high note of passage around the walls within which he sat, and he was able to detect any infiltration on is part by observing which of the votive flames flickered erratically above their little pools of wax.

Eventually, he rose from his stone seat and went across to the aumbry in the opposite wall. He opened the door and saw the vessels inside, just as he and Miles had left them after mass. And though he had no need to do so, he checked that everything was in order. Beside the aumbry, in an arched recess, stood a tabernacle, gift of the little parish gild of St. Michael, in which the sacrament had been reserved for the Easter celebration – serving to represent the tomb from which the dead had risen to immortality. It would remain on its ledge throughout the duration of the festival, a wooden box of no great size, shaped like a house and with a cloth of gold and white tenting its gables. A simple thing in itself, but one which was rich in symbolism.

As Radulph rearranged the folds of the cloth, the noise of the door-latch lifting made him cease from his task. He turned and looked towards the end of the nave, as the main door was drawn outwards, revealing a segment of half-light through which a darker shadow passed. Then the resounding thump of heavy timber proclaimed the entrance shut once more behind whoever had come in. Radulph stood beside the tabernacle, his eyes sifting the gloom for some sign by which he might recognise the visitor. But he was unable to do so. The opposing figure, too, stood just as still, as if trying to ascertain whether anyone else were within the building or perhaps allowing his eyes to adjust to the change in visibility. After a matter of seconds had passed, it began to move, pushing its dark shape down the nave’s aisle towards the chancel arch. And as it approached, as strong, deep voice issued from its bulk.

“Father Radulph, is that you?” 

“Yes. Who is it that asks?

“Walter Crosse. Sir Nicholas’s man.” The shape threw back the hood of the cloak it wore and stood revealed at the chancel step. “I had difficulty seein’ you there, Father.” He stepped through the screen’s opening. “I hoped you’d still be here.”

“What do you want with me, Master Crosse? It is not often that you come within these walls.”

“I’d like you to hear my confession, Father. Sunday afternoon is your time for such things, is it not?”

“It is. But I thought those of you connected with the manor house were wont to declare yourselves unto Brother Henry.”

“So we are. But I have need of a change. The Friar sit upon a man’s conscience like a cockerel on a muck-heap.”

“Is that a comment on the conscience or the cockerel?”

“Both. The one’s filthy enough, an’ the other likes to git his claws dug in an’ then crow in your ear!” The florid complexion of Walter Crosse’s face took on a look of geniality, but the eyes remained narrow and sharp within their sockets.

“That would seem to go somewhat against the purpose of confession,” remarked Radulph., extending the conversation as skilfully as he could in order to find his caller’s motive in seeking him out at such a time. 

“No doubt. No doubt,” came the reply. “But we all know what friars are like, don’t we, Father?”

“There are folk who think badly of them,” agreed Radulph. “Yet I have known ones worthy of esteem.”

“Have you now?” Joviality still prevailed as a surface show. “Then you are indeed a lucky man.” A pause hung between the two of them like a thick curtain, until words broke the stillness. “However, I came not to speak o’ friars. Will you hear my confession now?”

“Of course.” Radulph came from the sanctuary and showed his suppliant into the seat of unburdening. “Sit there, Master Crosse, and ease yourself of what lies heavy on you.” He placed himself on the seat beside the man.

What followed was in no way exceptional, for the sins admitted were of a minor and venial nature. Radulph did not expect it to be otherwise and went through a perfunctory show of attentiveness that both he and Walter Crosse knew to be a mere façade. Each of them observed the conventions of the ritual until words ran out; then each sat quietly, apparently deep in his own reflections. It was a silence that stretched its bubble into every corner of the building and shouted to be broken. And broken it was when Walter Crosse, either by design or inadvertency, made the all-important utterance. “The wind blow extra keenly today, Father. Don’t you think?” The question was quietly spoken and, as if in answer, a blast of air threw itself against and around the thick-set walls of flint and mortar.

Radulph did not reply straight away, but allowed the gust to expend itself on the bulwark of the building and the great, surrounding mass of moving air. “It is certainly a day to be indoors rather than abroad, Master Crosse,” he said. “Your conscience must have pressed you sorely to seek me out in such weather. That, or the objection you have to your master’s chaplain.” He threw in the latter possibility as being likely to contain more truth than the former, yet knowing also that the two of them together went no way at all towards explaining the purpose of the visit.

The remarks had no apparent effect. Walter Crosse continued with his talk about the weather. “What do a priest do in such conditions, Father?” he asked. “When the wind blow, hard and cold?”

“Do, Master Crosse? Why, he does as other men do. He shelters. Else he goes abroad and shivers for his trouble.”

“Do he, now? The forefinger and thumb of the right hand cradled the greying stubble, which sprouted all along the jutting line of the jawbone, in a gesture of reflective quality. “An’ which do he prefer? To be within, or without?”. The narrow eyes watched closely for an answer.

“When the weather is extreme, walls and a roof offer great comfort. Yet,” Radulph added, “there are times when a man must go out and be discomforted.”

“But not without havin’ to?”

“No, indeed. It were best that a man stay indoors in unkind weather. He should stir himself only when he has to.”

“Then a priest is just as other folk?” asked Walter Crosse. “He has no more likin’ for the cold than me or the next man?”

“That is so. Yet you have ventured out this even-tide,” countered Radulph. “And the journey from the manor house is enough of a step to test the strength of the wind.” 

The thrust of the question was ignored and the line of conversation continued. “If a wind should rise more bitter than today an’ blow acrorss this parish, where would a priest stand?”

“In the shelter of his dwelling, I should think,” replied Radulph, “To wait for it to blow itself out.”

“Yeah. That would, indeed, be the wise course. How if that wind should blow acrorss the Common?” Again, the eyes narrowed in anticipation of an answer.

And the one word, “Common”, told Radulph all he needed to know of Walter Cross’s visit and its objective. “Why should a wind blow only over the Common, Master Crosse? Are there not other parts of the parish, too?”

“There are. But the Common is in need o’ a clearance.”

“Ah, I see. You’re sure that you don’t mean an enclosure?” The last word was gently emphasised.

“So our priest knows a little o’ the world!” Walter Crosse forced an appreciative laugh. “I see that you are not only a man for books. That’s good. So, where will you stand when the wind blow?”

“Where I know that I must.”

“O’ course. But that answer – forgive me, Father – is not absolutely clear.” Crosse’s tone was deferential.

“Sir Nicholas will not be surprised with me. You may be sure of that.”

“That’s good to hear, Father. An’ who knows what the end may be? A lamp-land or two, perhaps. Mayhap a parcel o’ glebe. Sir Nicholas is generous to them who understand his designs.”

“I know of his munificence,” replied Radulph. “And Mother Church is always ready to receive the gifts offered by her faithful children.”

“Quite so. I’m glad that we understand one another, Father.” He rose from the bench. “I must be keepin’ you from your supper.”

Radulph shifted himself where he sat. “If you are, I shall know it when I return,” he replied. “Yet I believe that I am still within my time.” He stood up and glanced over at the window above him, opposite, where the darkened saint still proffered her jar of salve. Then he followed Walter Crosse out of the stalls and back into the nave. “I have the feeling that Sir Nicholas is like to return before many more days have passed?”

“He purposes to be home, soon as my Lord o’ Norfolk’s matter is settled.” The speaker pulled his cloak more tightly round him, in preparedness for what awaited him outside.

“He is fortunate to have such a reeve as Master Crosse to manage his lands during the times that he must be absent.”

“I do what need to be done, Father. No one in my position would do less. I just grease the axle-tree so that the wheel move more smooth an’ free.” Sir Nicholas’s agent of lubrication secured his outer garment at the throat and then fastened the lower ties.

“And what of the ground beneath the wheel?” enquired Radulph. “Do you prepare that for the wheel’s unhindered passage?”

“Where it can be done, yeah.”

“And where it cannot?”

“Why. Then the ride is a rough one! But worry not, Father. A few jolts are neither here nor there. Besides,” and here his voice became authoritative, “once a thing is done, it’s done.” He walked down the aisle and paused at the door, feeling for the latch.

Radulph followed him and reached him, just as the exploring fingers of one hand found the roughly hammered iron bar and lifted it from its notch. “Endings are also beginnings, Master Crosse,” he suggested. “And that is not just the Easter message.”

“Not this one, Father! Not this one!” And the bailiff, surrogate of an authority at once both remote and potent, shouldered his way through the door out into the porch. “This endin’ will be an endin’. You can be sure o’ that!”

He walked to where his horse stood tethered to a wispy blackthorn, three or four paces from the entrance, its neck rigidly canted towards the ground, the strong, tapering head swinging from side to side on a loose rein as the lips gently located and plucked grasses pleasing to its taste. Walter Crosse untied the leather thong and swung himself expertly up into the wooden saddle, which say squarely on the stot’s broad back. As he turned the animal towards the churchyard gate, he looked down over his shoulder at Radulph, who stood framed in the porch’s outer archway. “And don’t worry about a few bumps, Father. Life’s made up o’ bumps!” The words were almost lost in the howl of the wind as man and mount, one shape from the skill of the rider and the familiarity of the animal, rode out from the lee of the building across the turf and through the gateway. Radulph watched the rider lean down from his steed to pull the gate sufficiently far open to allow for easy passage, and he continued to watch until horse and horseman had passed from sight. Then he stepped once more into the darkening emptiness of the church, closing the door behind him – glancing, as he turned, at the large, looming figure of Saint Christopher painted on the north wall, opposite, bearing the infant Christ on his shoulder, his staff and lower legs set in swirling water. A familiar figure, carrying his own legendary burden. 

Stood within the quietness once more, just for a moment, he then returned to the tabernacle, flouncing the folds into an arrangement not a great deal different from the one he had reached at the time of Walter Crosse’s arrival. And whether the alterations were needed or not, they were made. The sanctuary light was the next object to receive his attention, where a little trimming of the wick might arguably have been thought of as necessary. And so it went on; small tasks provided for the hands, as the outward indication of a mind which had weighty things upon it. Where should a priest stand? What should he stand for? How should he stand against the world? Could he do so, even? Ought he to? And as the questions multiplied, so did the hands’ small tasks, until Radulph forced himself to break the cycle of repetition and seek his house beyond the churchyard’s southern wall.

The homecoming – for thus it seemed after the separation from normality caused by the revelations and assumptions of late afternoon – was welcome for its routine and order. Even the red sow had at last produced her litter and Simpkin had five piglets to report. Radulph went to view them, but not before he had first glanced at Margaret to see if it was convenient for him to do so. The meal was ready and waiting, but a certain flexibility was apparent, too – the result perhaps of confession and absolving – and so he was able to go and look upon the young animals. They lay side by side, each nuzzling up to the elongated, puckered teat allocated for nourishment. Simpkin commented favourably upon early feeders being good weaners, but Radulph did not reply beyond giving one single murmur of agreement. He was troubled by the picture of dependence he saw in front of him: the five, little, tender snouts aimed into the leathery belly of the mother. It was an image which came to him again and again during the course of the evening and which stayed with him long after he had retired to bed.

Where would a priest stand? Where should he?  

Chapter 4 (Monday, 6 April)

By the following morning, the wind (which had abated considerably after dark) was spent and gone. Radulph rose early, as was his custom, and went to the kitchen for a breakfast of bread, cheese and ale. The cheese was a particularly hard one and eating it was not so much an act of sustenance as a campaign of attrition fought by the upper and lower jaws against a worthy opponent. It was the product of frugality, manufactured from milk which had already had its cream removed to make butter and “best” cheese, and it was a proud declaration of Margaret’s housekeeping qualities. It was also among the items of food carried out to the houses of the needy and it was available, too, at the vicarage house’s door for anyone who might ask for victuals there. Unfortunately, or so Radulph was inclined to think at times, neither of these services was sufficient to use up all stocks of the stuff and so it appeared on the table from time to time. Remarking on its toughness had been one of his earliest mistakes where Margaret was concerned, so he said nothing and put his teeth to their task, exchanging every now and then (when it was safe to do so) eloquent glances with Simpkin.

            “It stay with a man, that cheese,” remarked the latter, as both of them stood out in the yard some time after breakfast was over. “I don’t know why I bother makin’ up clay-lump for walls an’ such, when there’s my sister’s cheese to hand!”

            Radulph laughed. “I can just see Margaret letting you have some to patch the neatus. By the way, have you finished it yet?”

            “Nigh on. The last lot o’ blocks is dryin’ out now. Soon as things are riddy, in they go.”

            “And what have you got planned for this morning?” It was a straightforward question, with the everyday world of work in mind, not the inquiry of a priest calculated to bring unease to someone who did not intend to go to mass.

            “Well, Father, bein’ as the wind’s dropped, I thought I might go an’ sow Starve-gut wi’ rye. I’re had the seed dressed an’ riddy for a day or two, now.” He paused. “And rye’s about the only thing as is any good on that field.” Radulph nodded in agreement. “Well, not good exactly, but it’ll grow after a fashion.” 

            “It is a bad field, to be sure.”

“Bad! It’s three acres o’ stone, sand an’ misery! Whoever give that to the church knew what he was doin’.”

“I’m afraid that I do not know the origin of the piece,” replied Radulph. “The glebe endowment here goes back many, many years.”

“Ah well, there was as many crafty folk about then as there is now, I daresay. And whoever it was, I reckon he bought a mass or two for his soul with a load o’ old stones and a north-facin’ slope.” A loud sniff drew back the droplet from the end of his nose and a hand that seemed to be all knuckles and veins scratched vigorously at a grizzled temple.

Men have always sought to buy their way into Heaven,” Radulph remarked. “Their disappointment must ultimately be great.”

Simpkin looked at him, eye into eye. “I never did hold wi’ bribes myself. I don’t reckon God do, either.”

It was a point ripe for debating; and while the moment was ripe, too, in some ways, there were other considerations to be taken into account. And so it was that Simpkin went to his sacks of rye, his seed-lip and his handcart, while Radulph walked to church to prepare for the Mass of the third hour (it being his custom to celebrate daily at this time). He found Miles already there and the boy had good news to tell. His cousin Ann had woken from her sleep late the previous night and seemed none the worse for her experience. The Denny family would be pleased to see their priest as soon as he was able to call on them. Radulph was greatly cheered to hear this and resisted a strong temptation to question the boy. Instead, he sent him across to the vicarage-house to seek out Margaret Jakks and inform her that she had best prepare food for just herself and her brother at midday as the master might not be returning home until later. Miles was also told to say why, for Margaret knew of Ann’s indisposition and would consider a pastoral visit to the girl and her family as only right and proper. Radulph expected his housekeeper to attend mass that morning, but it was not certain that he would be able to speak with her either before or after the service, and he had no wish to inconvenience her.

After the celebration of Mass was over, Radulph and Miles first performed the few necessary tasks of clearing up, then walked together from the church. Few words passed between them as they made their way through the village, along the footpath and across the plantation, and the boy had to exercise his legs vigorously to keep up with the fast-stepping cleric. When they reached the meeting-point of footpath and green-way, Radulph slowed his pace somewhat and then came to a halt as Bess Hoberd hailed him. She was spreading linen on the gorse bushes which grew beside her cottage and she shook the words from her mouth in folds of sound that matched the shaking and casting of the damp coverings. She knew without asking the destination of the two walkers, but not the reason for their going. She presumed that Ann was still sick, and so it was both pleasant and surprising for her to hear of the girl’s recovery.

Prominent among the things she requested, desired even, was that Robert Denny be told of her happiness at his daughter’s return to health and of her intention to call upon him soon. She also asked that her good wishes be conveyed to Ann and Radulph said that he would be glad to do so. He was well aware of the old woman’s fondness for the family and he knew, in addition, that the feeling was reciprocated. Further exchanges between them that morning were just for the sake of superficial conversation; the important words had been spoken. Thus, when convention and courtesy had run their course, the man and the boy continued on their way while the woman returned to spreading her washing out to dry. With the weather having fined down from the bluster of the previous day, a light breeze stirred foliage and blossom alike to a gentle flutter. Was it a lull before another blow, Radulph wondered? And what of the big blow when it came? The wind which sooner or later would scream across the Common. Where would it take Bess Hoberd and the other dwellers thereabouts? And where should their priest set himself at such time as the air began to stir? The green-way’s channel absorbed not only his person into its shaded overhang; it became a dark corridor for his thoughts, too, with no light at the far end.

Miles noticed the preoccupation in Radulph’s expression. He noticed, too, the change in walking-pace from that set earlier, for he was now having to hold back his stride from out-distancing his mentor. Their progress along the track was sufficiently slow for the boy to indulge himself in various little explorations of the margins, where the hollow stems of the previous season’s parsleys were ripe for shaking and snapping. Sooty black seeds held aloft on spiky umbrels were the dying of an old year and the dried promise of a new one. Darkness and death pelleted into a fresh hope. The young eyes saw only seeds perched on twigs and they guided hands which plucked and pulled. Brittle stalks cracked; dry pith crumbled; rooks flapped and tumbled in the air above their clusters of sticks in the high elms. Flight and fall; air and earth; elements meeting. A boy ravaging dead stalks and a man standing still, watching.

“Miles.” The boy ceased from his limited devastation as if caught unexpectedly in an act which merited punishment, but there was no reprimand in the voice. “Miles, your uncle’s land is held freely, is it not?”

The boy turned from his activity at the side of the greenway and walked back into the middle of the track. “I’m sorry, Father Radulph. I didn’t hear what you said.” He brushed some stray parsley seeds from his tunic as he spoke.

            “I gave no warning of being about to say something, child. It is I who should apologise.” The lips concentrated themselves momentarily into a tight crease to match the lines on his forehead. “I asked if your uncle’s land were held freely.”

            “I don’t understand what you mean, Father.”

            “Does he own his farm? Does the land belong to him?”

            “Yeah. He keep a sheet o’ parchment, in his big chest upstairs, which say so. It came down to him from his father.”

            “It is good that your uncle has such a document. There may be need of such things in the time to come.” Radulph looked at the boy, who had an expression on his face that spoke of ignorance concerning the world of men. “There is always need of such things, Miles. The written word has a strong hold on us.” The boy nodded in agreement. “Yet, perhaps some of us place too much importance upon it.” There was no reply. “Mikes, why did we set out together from church, this morning?”

            A bemused look crossed the boy’s features for a moment. Then he replied, “My uncle wished for you to come an’ see Ann.”

            “Yes, that is so. And what are the two of us doing at present?”

            An instant response, this time. “Standin’ an’ talkin’.”

            “Yes! And that we must remedy. Best foot forward, as they say”.

            Once more, then, the long stride stretched out over the remaining length of the green-way, with the shorter one doing its best to keep up. And there were no more words. No other sounds were heard from the walkers, other than that of their feet passing over rut and ridge – but verge and hedge alike stirred with anonymous paths of flight. A wavering of tall grasses declared the urgency of a vole’s retreat; the sudden shudder of lower foliage masked the spink’s quick hop into cover; and the barest glimpse of a white scut against the burrow’s black circle was all that there was to tell of a browsing rabbit’s sudden bolt home. Noise and movement along the track’s steep sides; movement and noise along its irregular surface. These muted sounds of withdrawal and of progress provided a counter-statement to the high sounds of the tree-tops, where small birds sang boldly in gratitude for a sky which was turning from grey to blue. And which was still turning as the two walkers emerged from the green-way onto field level, not so many paces from the dwelling they sought.

            Robert Denny was at the front door of the house before the planks had scarcely ceased vibrating from the striking fist. Radulph and Miles stepped into the passage-way, but the latter did not stay there. He went straight to his work somewhere in the yard behind the house. After a brief exchange of greetings, as well as the necessary questions and answers regarding Ann’s recovery, the two men went through to the kitchen. Both girls were there, Joan combing out some of the previous summer’s wool and Ann winding a hank of it onto a distaff. They looked up as their father and their priest entered the room, but their hands continued to work uninterrupted, with a dexterity born of long practice. Neither of them spoke, but their faces were friendly and welcoming.

            Radulph made the first utterance. “It is good to see you recovered, Ann. Are you feeling well?”

            “Yeah, Father, thank you. I am.” The voice was soft and low, a contrast to the speed and nimbleness of the moving fingers.

            “Is she feeling well, Robert?” Radulph turned to his friend. “She is not just saying that for my benefit, I hope.”

            Robert Denny allowed just the barest of smiles to edge across his lips. “No, I don’t think so. She’s taken over the runnin’ o’ the house agin. An’ she is tellin’ her father what to do!”

            A blush tinted the girl’s features, reddening the domes of her cheeks and spreading up to the roots of her blue-black hair. She said nothing, but stole a quick glance at her sister, who giggled discreetly in company with her. Then both of them turned their eyes to where their fingers plied so busily. Radulph watched them for a moment and then spoke again to his friend. “Has Ann eaten yet, Robert?”

            “She has. She had a supper o’ sorts after she awoke an’ she breakfasted this mornin’.” He watched his daughter winding the wool. “I daresay she’ll also eat somethin’ when we take our midday bait. Eh, Ann?” The girl nodded her agreement and continued working.

            “It is pleasing to hear this. Robert. A good appetite says much of a person’s weal.” Again, he looked at the girl, who felt his eyes upon her, but carried on winding as if she were unaware of any attention thrown her way.

            “Well, she certainly took to her food well enow, I can promise you.” A father’s relief at his child’s recovery was united with a degree of parental pride in a growing lass who did justice to the platter.

“And what of her sleeping?” asked Radulph, his voice dropping in volume, as he sought confidentiality. “Has she said anything of that?”

Robert glanced briefly at his daughters before replying. Then he, too, spoke softly. “A little. But I didn’t press her. I reckoned you were the one best suited to findin’ out what befell her.”

“And the marks? What of them?” The voice became even lower and more restrained. “Are they still there?”

Robert Denny nodded. “You can see for yourself,” he murmured. “We’ll go through inta the hall.” He lifted his eyes and his voice towards the girls and said, “Ann, Father Radulph would like to speak wi’ you. We’ll go into the hall. Joan, you can come too, if you wish.”

His daughters exchanged a few, quick, muted words before Ann replied. “Joan say she’ll stay here, Father.”

“Very well. I daresay that she already know the things you have to tell.” He looked at Radulph. “There’s nothing so close on this earth as sisters. Or as crafty,” he added, with a broad smile on his face.

Ann Denny rose from her stool and followed the two men through into the hall. Robert closed the door and pulled two, heavy oak chairs, the only ones of their kind in the house, over to the window. He placed them side by side, with an interposing space, and canted them towards each other. He indicated that one was for Radulph and the other for his daughter; and while they sat themselves down, he opened the wooden shutters of the window, throwing them outwards to illuminate the room. Then he, too, seated himself on a small settle which stood directly below the window. The two faces opposite both looked at him, using his head as the focus of their attention, and he felt their waiting upon him to speak first.

“Ann, show Father Radulph your hands.”

The girls turned sideways in her chair and offered them, palms up, to the priest. He took hold of them, gently, and ran his thumbs over the bruises, which did not seem as swollen as when he had last looked upon them. “Do you feel any pain at all, Ann?” he asked.

“No, Father Radulph,” the girl replied. “Just a little stiffness in the wrists.” She stretched one hand, then the other, into a star of flesh and sinew.

“And your feet? What of them?” He straightened up from leaning forward and aligned his backbone to the right-angle of the chair.

Ann Denny slipped the pattens from her feet and drew her kirtle up an inch or two above the knee. The insteps were still lived, but – as with the hands – they did not appear to be as swollen as when she had lain asleep, in bed. She wriggled her toes and the tendons grew rigid beneath the skin like peeled osier-rods. “They don’t hurt either, Father,’ she said. “But they’re a bit stiff, like my wrists.”

Radulph’s lips pursed and his brow rutted. Thought before speech; the way of the scholar, or of any person who valued reason before reflex. “Delicacy forbids me to ask to see your side, Ann,” he said, “and modesty would prevent you showing it in these circumstances, but does the mark there hurt you at all?” He watched intently for the answer, as well as listening.

“No, Father Radulph. Though my ribs do ache just a little.” She changed position in her chair slightly, as if prompted to do so by the statement. “What do the marks mean? Father said you would explain everythin’ to me.” She looked towards Robert for affirmation. “Didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did.” The words were measured and slow. “But perhaps you’d first better tell Father Radulph about the dream you had.” There was warmth in the voice and in the easy way he leant towards his daughter. 

“I don’t think I can,” she said. “Somehow, it frighten me to think of it.”

“But you’re told Joan about it, haven’t you?” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t tell her much.” She paused for a moment and considered her next statement. “Only a few things which I thought wouldn’t frighten her too much.” She paused again. “An’ which wouldn’t make her think I was tellin’ lies.”

“Joan wouldn’t have thought that, Ann,” said Robert. “She think the world o’ you. Besides, the two o’ them have always got on so well togither.” He addressed himself to Radulph. “Ever since their mother died, they’ve bin – well, you know how it is.”

Radulph nodded. Then he looked at Ann Denny and spoke softly to her. “You need not be worried about telling us what you dreamt, child,” he assured her. “Your father and I will believe you. And don’t be frightened of what you saw. Pictures in the head have been seen by others before you – sleeping and waking.” He caught her glance and held it. “And you have seen them waking, have you not?”

“Yeah, Father.”

“Perhaps you could tell us what you saw.” The girl looked at her father, who smiled his approval and encouragement. “You don’t have to go into great detail. Just say what your pictures were.”

Ann Denny drew a noticeable breath of air into her lungs and held it there before beginning. Her white face became intense in appearance and the dark eyes, pools without limit of depth, reflected nothing other than the absolute mystery of an individual human soul. Her voice, too, began in the hidden recesses of the inner self and gained only in volume as she felt the beauty of what she had seen start to overcome her sense of unease at the telling of it.

“I was tidyin’ in our bed-chamber two Sundays ago, when I looked out through the shutters inta the yard an’ saw a lady standin’ there. She was dressed in a rose-pink gown, with a blue mantle over it, an’ there was a crown o’ gold upon her head. She smiled at me an’, as I stood watchin’, she held out her hands to me as if to take mine. I didn’t dare move. I just stood at the window an’ watched. I beheld her an’ she beheld me. It seemed that I ought to know her, because I felt that she knew me. Yet I knew that I’d never seen her afore. I thought that I must be dreamin’, so I returned to what I was doin’ wi’ the beds. My eyes wanted to look out through the window agin, but I wouldn’t let them; I made them look at my hands. After a while, I had to see out agin, an’ she was still there. The pink an’ blue of her gown an’ mantle were so beautiful. An’ the crown shone like a circle of fire around her head. It made me feel so little an’ afraid. She smiled at me agin an’ I wasn’t afeared any more. I just felt like goin’ outside an’ lettin’ her hold me by the hand. I wanted that so much. But as I stood there an’ longed for the touch of her, she vanished from before my sight.” The girl paused and looked at the faces of the two men, who were intent upon her.

Robert remained silent; Radulph spoke. “This lady, Ann. You have seen her a number of times, I think?”

“Yes, Father. She’s bin wi’ me night an’ day. Even in the fields when I’m walkin’ abroad.”

“And has she spoken to you at all?”

“No. Her smilin’ at me an’ offerin’ me her hands serve for words.” There was warmth in the young face and in the voice, too, at the recollection.

“Joan says that you have seen other things besides the lady. Is that so?”

“Yeah. But the lady is always there, showin’ me them. Sometimes she hold a white rose in her hand, sometimes a red.” Ann waited for the question to follow, but it did not come. “She show me a land full of crops an’ trees, where everyone works hard an’ is contented. It is like our own land, in some ways, but much greener, an’ there is no sound o’ the sea or the wind.” Again, she waited, and this time the question came.

“And the other land she shows you? What of that?” The priest looked fleetingly at his friend, whose daughter had been to places beyond immediate understanding.

“That is a sad an’ stony country. No crops or flowers grow there. The trees an’ hedges are bent an’ crippled by a cruel wind. But that’s not the worst of it.” And here the girl shuddered at the recollection of what she had seen. “None o’ the people have faces. Where their eyes, their noses an’ their mouths should be is nothin’ at all. Just empty skin. Nor do they have ears on their cropped heads. An’, as they walk about, they bump inta things an’ inta each other.”

“Does the lady you are with say or do anything?”

“No. We just stand there an’ watch until all o’ the people have disappeared from sight.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yeah. They all go inta large holes in the ground. Then we don’t see any more of ’em.”

“And have you seen these things since you awoke last night?”

“No, I haven’t. I’m beginnin’ to think that my great dream was perhaps the endin’ of them. At least, for the time bein’.”

“That might be so,” commented Radulph. “Could you now tell your father and me what you saw while you were asleep. He let the impact of his request take its effect before continuing. “You do not have to relate everything, because I suspect there is so much that you have seen. Take your time, child, and say what you are able to.”

Ann Denny said nothing at first. She sat very still in her chair, looking out of the window at an unseen spot beyond the head of her father. Then her lips found a nearer focus and the words began to come. “I had a headache all day, Saturday, an’ went to bed early. I slept for a time, but when Joan come upstairs I woke up. We talked for a while, then Joan went to sleep. I lay in bed, listenin’ to her breathin’ an’ to the bumpin’ inside my head. There was a roarin’ sound in my ears as well, which kept gettin’ louder an’ louder till I had to shout out to break it. I was worried about wakin’ Joan, but she slept on. The second or third time I cried out – I can’t remember which – my father came up to me an’ asked if I wanted anythin’. I told him yes, but it was somethin’ he couldn’t give me: the gift o’ sleep. He sat on the edge of my bed for a while an’ held my hand. I think I must ha’ gone to sleep then, because I don’t remember anythin’ else about the bed-chamber or the house until I woke up, late Sunday evenin’.

“It seem to me that, while I was asleep, I went on a far journey through the stars. My feet brushed them as I passed along an’ my hands plucked at them as if they were ripe apples. None o’ them fell to me, but I didn’t mind; it was just somethin’ to pass the time as I went along. I was passin’ through darkness, so I reached for the silver lights. I knew that my eyes were as bright as they, so I wasn’t afraid to look on them an’ feel for them with my fingers. They sparkled all around me an’ I stretched my arms towards their brightness. I wanted my fingers to touch their points o’ white fire an’ purify my skin wi’ their chilled burnin’.

“I journeyed like this for – oh, I can’t tell how long, or how far I went. But, at last, I came to the end o’ the stars an’ stood on the edge of a great darkness, deeper than the one I had crossed. I darsn’t go any further because I couldn’t see my way an’ because I was afraid o’ fallin’ into the deep, deep trench which I could feel lay in front o’ me. I knew that I had to go forward, but I couldn’t think how to do it, so I stood there on the edge o’ that black an’ mighty cliff wonderin’ what to do. After I had stood there a while, I began to think I saw a light – no more’n a pale glow at first, but slowly growin’ into a golden shinin’. It was like the sun comin’ from behind storm-clouds, an’ in the midst o’ this great brightness I saw this Lady; an’ it was the Lady o’ my daytime pictures. She come acrorss the trench towards me an’ led me over it by the hand, tellin’ me not to be afraid an’ that no harm would befall me. They were the first words she spoke to me an’ I knew that I would be safe with her. Oh, yes, I knew! I knew that I would be safer wi’ her than wi’ anyone I had ever known or bin with. So I went wi’ her gladly as she took me from that black nothingness beneath my feet an’ brought me to the land of fields an’ orchards I had seen before.

“As we walked along the highways, folk turned from their work an’ greeted us warmly. Their faces bore no signs o’ toil an’ they turned readily to their labours once we had passed. It was like this throughout the whole o’ that country an’ I think I could have walked there for evermore with the Lady; it was so beautiful and cheerin’. We passed by a great city, where I supposed that the people who worked in the fields must live, an’ I marvelled at the size o’ it. The houses were beyond countin’ an’ the streets between them were straight an’ wide. I know this because the Lady took me to a hill beyond the city, from which I was able to look down on it all. Oh, it was a fair sight to behold. The houses were built o’ stone an’, every now and then, great towers o’ stone also, and spires, rose towards the sky. I don’t think I have ever beheld anythin’ finer.

            “As we stood there an’ looked at the city, the Lady an’ me, I could not help but think that there was somethin’ about it that wasn’t usual. I’ve never bin to a city afore, nor seen one, yet I knew that there was somethin’ different from all others. I tried to think what it was for a long time an’ then, quite suddenly, as a company of people approached it, I realised. My father had always told me that cities have walls about ’em, but this one had none. I asked the Lady why this should be and she told me that there was no need of any. She said that walls were only needed where there was an enemy to keep out or where fear imagined a foe to be. Their one enemy, she said, had been defeated many, many years before an’ would never return. Nor did fear exist in that land. Therefore, no one had need o’ walls. I said nothin’ to her, but I thought to myself how pleasant it must be to live in a land that was without fear.

            “We both stood there, above the city, for a long time. Then the Lady asked me if I had seen enough, because there were other things she wanted to show me. I said that I was ready to go wi’ her an’ we turned from the city an’ made our way down the other side o’ the hill. For a time, we passed through fields an’ orchards like the ones I had seen afore; then the fertile land turned to rocky ground, wi’ large stones scattered on the surface an’ wi’ low, thorny bushes sproutin’ from the thin soil. The area was flat an’, as we stood on its edge, I looked across it to another hill – smaller, this time, than the one we had stood upon above the city. There seemed to be three trees standin’ on it, the middle one taller than the other two, an’ all o’ the trunks thickened towards the top, where a pair of branches jutted outwards.

            “I didn’t understand this at first, but as we moved closer I saw what these trees really were, for there was a man hangin’ by his arms on each one an’ I realised for the first time that I was lookin’ upon the Crucifixion. I turned to the Lady an’ asked her what all this meant, but she only smiled at me an’ told me to have no fear. The she took me by the hand, as she had done earlier by the great trench an’ led me towards the crosses. I did not want to go, but she drew me on with her an’ I had no power to hold back. When we reached the hill, which men call Calvary or Golgotha, we stood awhile at the bottom. Then we walked to the place of execution. I felt a great dread upon me, but the Lady said there was nothin’ to be frightened of an’ she went an’ stood at the foot o’ the middle cross.

            “The Lord Jesus looked down at her and said, ‘Woman, behold your daughter.’ He nodded his poor, torn head towards me; the circlet of thorns scratched an’ plucked at his skin. Then he spoke to me. ‘Daughter, behold your mother,’ he said, an’ I knew then for the first time who the Lady was. It was Our Mother, Mary, an’ I had failed to recognise her in all the long time she had bin wi’ me. I turned to her an’ she embraced me. I was so happy that I began to cry; I never wanted to leave her an’ wished that I might stay with her for ever an’ ever. She held me closely to her an’ we both stood at the foot o’ the Cross, lookin’ upon the death o’ deaths. I trembled at the sight o’ the iron spikes driven through the hands an’ feet o’ the Lord Christ (an’ o’ the other two men with him) an’ at the gash in his side which trickled wi’ blood and water, an’ I asked what could be done to stop this flow. She said that nothin’ could be done to stop it. Nor should anythin’ be done, for with his dear blood had her son Jesus paid full price for men’s wickedness, an’ with the livin’ water o’ the Spirit had he provided a never-ending stream of grace for those who wished salvation. Blood an’ water, she said, had bought the fields an’ orchards through which we had walked earlier an’ kept them fertile. Blood an’ water were the foundations o’ the great city.

            “All her words held great wonder for me an’ the sweet sound of her voice was like music in my ears. I wished that such words could be heard by everyone on earth an’ I told Our Lady this. She said that they could already be heard by those who listen. All that people had to do was clear their hearts o’ hatred an’ mistrust an’ unstop their ears. She said that the sounds of the world were loud an’ false an’ should not be listened to; they blocked the hearin’ o’ things which should be marked. She said, too, that there were many deceivers abroad who were busy for Satan an’ were not easily recognised. All a person could do was look through their words into their deeds an’ see how great the difference was. Lies an’ deceit were the Serpent’s chief weapons, but the truth o’ the Cross was sufficient to defeat them. ‘Look again upon the Cross,’ she said, ‘before I take you to another place.’

            “I did as I was bidden. An’, as I looked upon the rough-hewn timber and the body which hung there, I saw how the hands an’ feet were bruised by the cruel spikes an’ how the blood had hardened an’ blackened around the piercin’ iron. The wound in his side was black, too, around the edges, but the blood which issued from it was red an’ livin’ an’ the water that flowed was clearer than the purest spring. I looked upon the face of Jesus then an’, though his expression showed pain, his eyes shone with what I could only believe was joy an’ triumph. I looked upon the two men, one on either side, who were crucified with him. One o’ them seemed already dead, but the other looked at me and said, ‘Only through him do we live an’ have our bein’.’

“I thought about this a great deal as Our Lady an’ I walked away down the hill, an’ I thought about it, too, as we crossed a rocky an’ thorny plain wi’ sharp, black mountains risin’ in the distance. We made our way towards these an’, oh, what a hard journey we had of it. Or I did, at any rate, for Our Lady had to help me over some o’ the stony places, lest I fell. It was very hot as we went along an’ the mountains held no prospect o’ coolness because they were barren. A heat-shimmer rose from them an’ the air seemed to be full o’ fiery tongues lickin’ the skies. I grew very faint at one point along the way an’ had to rest. Our Lady stood over me, spreadin’ her mantle and shelterin’ me from the sun’s heat, an’ so I sat a while in the shadow she cast. She asked me if I was thirsty an’ I replied that my mouth was drier than I had ever known it to be. At this, she dropped her arms an’ bent to the ground, pushin’ a big stone from where it lay, half-buried. The hole it left soon filled wi’ water an’ she invited me to drink. I did so an’ the water was both cool and good. Water in a dry an’ empty land. I thought of your story, Father Radulph, about Moses and his mighty, magic staff.

            “After I had satisfied my thirst, we moved on towards the mountains. The goin’ was difficult an’ stony, as before, but I was stronger for my rest an’ for the drink o’ water. When, at last, we drew nigh to the mountains, the quiverin’ heat-wall began to make the rocks jump an’ split before our eyes, but Mother Mary knew exactly where to go an’ led me through a dark an’ narrow passage. We climbed upwards for a while, then the way begun to level out beneath our feet an’ we had an easier time o’ it. I would have been frightened, though, had it not been for who was with me because everywhere was very dark. It had begun to dim as we entered the passage, an’ it got blacker an’ blacker the further we went along its tunnel. Our Lady’s hand upon mine led me safely through the darkness an’ it seemed to lift me up an’ give my legs strength where, else, my courage would ha’ failed. Eventually, I felt the rocky floor begin to fall away beneath my feet an’ knew that we must be on a descendin’ slope. This pleased me in one way, for I thought that we might perhaps be nearin’ the end o’ our long, long walk; yet I was somewhat afeared o’ what the darkness might hold within its cover.

            “As we took our downward path, the darkness began to diminish. First of all, we found ourselves in a twilight land o’ large stones an’ small, which lay scattered on the slopin’ sides o’ the mountains. A cold wind blew into our faces an’ I huddled within my mantle for warmth. It was no good, for the wind made its way through my clo’s an’ my body until I was forced to cling to Our Lady for protection. She supported an’ sustained me in in this cheerless place an’ I was glad o’ her gentle strength as we came down inta the lowlands. The light grew to the dullness of a winter’s day and then increased no further. Trees an’ hedges bent an’ twisted afore the wind, squirmin’ from the poor soil as if escapin’ from one prison into another. How sad it was to look upon two o’ life’s foundations in their direst form. Earth an’ air blightin’ growth instead of fosterin’ it. I thought back to the desert place of earlier an’ considered how the sun’s rays had dried an’ burnt all that was to be seen. But, at least, there was hidden water there to quench a person’s thirst. Precious water which rose from the liftin’ of a stone.

            “If there was any relievin’ force in the country where we now stood, I never saw it. The dullness an’ the cold were, I do believe, sufficient to overcome anything o’ kind inclinin’ – even if it existed at all. An’ it wasn’t long afore I recognised the place where we were standin’. It had seemed familiar to me on first descendin’ from those black and barren slopes, but it wasn’t until Our Lady an’ I had stood a while on the flat lands themselves that remembrance came to me. We were in that sad an’ blighted country o’ the faceless folk. And, sure enough, as we stood watchin’, a number o’ them emerged from the ground in different places an’ moved about in lost confusion. It was pitiful to see their lorn and blinded wanderins, an’ I asked who these people were an’ what this place was, where we stood unseen. Our Lady replied that we were lookin’ upon the lost-for-all-eternity an’ that where we stood was the edge o’ Hell itself. I shuddered at the thought, but Mother Mary told me there was nothin’ to be afraid of. The Queen of Heaven might go wherever she pleased an’, though this was Satan’s dead and blighted realm, that old an’ mighty Deceiver was mainly active in the world o’ mortal men.

            “I had always thought Hell to be a place of heat and burnin’, but I stood there among stones an’ shrivelled trees, watchin’ the faceless ones as they felt their blind an’ sorry way about. They walked into rocks an’ trees an’ bushes, an’ into each other, but there was no sound from them, nor any recognition o’ the things around them. They tripped an’ fell upon the ground, an’ they lay there without movin’ for some time before finally risin’ and blunderin’ on again. At last, they found their way inta one o’ the holes from which they’d risen earlier, or perhaps they stumbled inta them by chance – I don’t know which it was.  An’ even as they went from sight, others rose to take their place upon that plain o’ wretchedness. I have never seen anythin’ so woebegone an’ I turned to Our Lady to ask what all this signified. She knew the question afore I had time to utter it an’ told me that the faceless ones had perished through wickedness, which men call sin, an’ were condemned to wander for evermore without sense or feelin’ in that cheerless land. She explained to me that evil intentions an’ deeds destroy the soul, which is God’s most precious gift to each an’ every person. She said, too, that wickedness corrupts the five precious senses an’, through misuse, can only lead to their final destruction. I listened to her words an’ I understood the blank faces an’ the stumblin’. I understood the surroundin’ greyness an’ the desolation, too, an’ I wished to be far away from it all.

            “I think – no, I’m sure – that the Blessed Mother felt my desire to be gone, for she led me from that gloomy plain back into the hills from whence we had earlier descended. We did not return to the desert where I had thirsted an’ grown faint, but walked instead along the line of the mountains, following a murky, narrow an’ uneven path which led away eastwards (as I made it in our earthly terms) to a point where there was a pale glow just discernible beyond the black an’ jagged peaks. It took a long while to reach there, wi’ many stops along the way for my bodily weakness, but at last we drew near the source o’ light. The faint an’ rosy hue, as it had first showed itself to be, grew gradually in brightness as we made our way towards it. It changed from pink, to red, to orange, an’ finally to gold. I believed that we were headin’ towards the sun, but as we neared the final ridge I began to discern a great an’ lofty shape standin’ on a pyramid o’ rock and shinin’ with a brilliance which at first dazzled my eyes. Then, as I grew accustomed to the light, I was able to see the Archangel clearly an’ gazed upon his form wi’ wonder.

            “His wings were folded to his sides like those of a great beetle, an’ his hands were placed upon the hilt of a large and fiery sword whose point had scorched the stone on which it rested. He wore golden armour, which shone like the early-morning sea wi’ the sun new-risen above it, an’ around his head was a great band of gold surmounted by a cross. As we approached him an’ stood within his mighty presence, he turned his gaze down to us an’ bowed his head a moment in respect for the person o’ the Mother of Our Saviour. She spoke to him an’ told him that she had a duty for him to discharge, an’ he must have known already what it would be for he looked at me a moment an’ smiled upon me. She said that she wished him to carry me back to the world of men, God’s joy an’ own creation, an’ to place me there among my own people. Next, she turned to me an’ took her leave. She charged me never to forget what I had been shown, but neither to boast of it an’ seek to behave unseemly in the eyes o’ God an’ humankind. In partin’, she kissed me once on the forehead, held my hands in hers an’ flooded my eyes wi’ the light an’ purity o’ her countenance. Then she was gone. I watched her take the first few steps, but it was not given to me to see more because the rocks soon hid her from my sight. I felt a great sadness at her departure, but I was also gladdened by the thought o’ goin’ home and o’ how I had bin shown things which might help those I loved an’ cared for.

“Saint Michael sheathed his sword an’ bade me go to him. I did as I was told an’ stood before him in such wonder. He towered above me like a cliff an’, as he picked me up in his arms, it was like bein’ lifted into the tree-tops. I saw little o’ the heavens as we went, for he held me tightly to him, an’ I had no sensation o’ great speed as we flew across the firmament’s dark an’ endless depth. I caught glimpses, too, of bright an’ flashin’ stars as we passed along our way – the stars that I had reached for so eagerly an’ tried to pluck on my outward journey. Then, at last, I saw a star brighter an’ more beautiful than all the others, shinin’ before us in the blackness like a drop o’ purest dew hangin’ on a grass-blade’s end. It was blue an’ green an’ gold, all at the same time, an’ I desired it greatly. Not to possess for my own (for greatest beauty is the property o’ no one, nor should it ever be), but I longed to be near it an’ enjoy its colours.

“How great was my joy, then, as we approached it an’ it began to grow in size. I was so happy at the sight of it that I wanted to sing wi’ joy. I felt that I was part o’ this bright jewel an’ that it was part o’ me. The blue an’ the green an’ the gold all sparkled and blended together, an’ there was red and white in its roundness as well. Other points o’ light in the vast blackness around us winked in their sharpness an’ were gone, then reappeared an’ were gone agin; but the coloured ball increased in size an’ brightness. Beyond it, far beyond, hung a great golden lamp that burned without ceasin’; but as we approached the nearer star, this other disappeared from view behind it. We flew on towards the coloured one, but it now grew darker aginst its fellow an’ its colours faded from sight. Off to one side of us, a small silver orb threw some pale an’ gentle light upon the world (for such I saw it be) and I remember thinkin’ that I had seen a trinity of Sun, Moon and Earth. I rejoiced greatly in the gift o’ my eyes, and I rejoice still. The sun, you see, represents the Father, for without it there is no life; the earth stands for the Son, for without the Father it cannot exist an’ must draw its strength from thence; an’ the moon signifies the Holy spirit, for it radiates quietness an’ purity. I remember thinkin’ all this, as the Archangel carried me homewards, but I remember no more o’ any dream beyond it an’ eventually found myself sittin’ up in my bed, at night. There was a rush-light burnin’ by the window an’ Father was sittin’ there in its flicker.”

Ann Denny, dreamer of dreams, beholder of visions, ceased her account and sat back in her chair. Much vitality had gone into the recalling of what she had seen and into its re-telling; but besides the natural tiredness that showed in her face, there was also a look of peacefulness and deep contentment, which  sprang from the revelation itself and its attendant gift of insight into a world beyond earthly experience. Radulph Fyld looked in wonder at the girl and felt a touch of envy at the things she had been shown – she, with her lack of learning, knowing all; he, with all his book-lore, knowing so little. There was amazement, too, on the face of the parent, because Robert Denny, though proud of his children had never expected one of them to be given such profound discerning. Thus, both men sat looking at the girl in great awe, touched with a measure of unbelief, until an exchange of words became the only way of restoring anything like a normal relationship between the two of them. And, perhaps, between themselves and the maiden who had been so greatly favoured.

It was the father who began. “Ann was murmurin’ somethin’ about the Father, the Son an’ the Holy Spirit, just as she woke up,” he said. “I didn’t ask her about it, because all I cared about was that my girl had come out o’ her sleep.” He looked at her fondly. “Whoever would ha’ thought that she had bin seein’ such things!”

“Whoever, indeed,” replied Radulph. “It must always come as a surprise to those nearest a person when something wondrous has happened to that same being – be it man, woman or child.” He now turned his attention to the girl. “Ann, young woman of visions, have you yet been able to think what the marks upon your body might be?” 

Ann Denny did not reply immediately. She sat quietly, looking at the cupped hands resting on her knees, palms upward. Then, after a while, she spoke. “When I asked you earlier, Father Radulph, what the marks might mean, I didn’t really know. Not for certain. I had only a slight notion somewhere in the back o’ my mind, and it had been frightenin’ me a good deal so I tried not to think about it too much.” Her voice grew softer and her self-consciousness caused it to fade almost altogether in the last few words. 

“That is only natural,” Radulph assured her. “Your father and I would probably have done the same thing in your situation. It is hard to accept being specially chosen by so high a power.” He caught the look of understanding in the young eyes, saw the girl’s relief at being understood, and felt able on the strength of these two things to ask his vital question. “Do you now know what these marks are which you bear?” 

“Yes, Father Radulph, I think I do.” The voice was quiet, but firm. “I believe that they are the five wounds o’ the Lord Jesus.” She searched the inner chambers of her mind for the particular reference and for the words to express it. “Perhaps they were placed upon me because o’ what I saw upon the hill o’ Calvary in my dream.”

“It is possible. What I can tell you is that few people are chosen to carry them and that it is generally regarded as sign of great favour to be the bearer. Does it worry you at all?”

The girl’s face clouded slightly with concentration and concern. “I don’t know, Father,” she said. “I haven’t really thought about it. I hope that the marks won’t stay for too long. I’m a bit worried about what folk may think o’ my hands an’ wrists.” She turned the palms upwards again and looked at them.

Radulph knew that he could not, must not, give her reassurance, but he tried to be as considerate as possible in being honest. “There is no saying how long the blemishes may stay, Ann,” he said. “It might be a few days; it could be a good deal longer. Try not to worry about it too much and just carry on with your usual, everyday tasks.”

“I will.”

“There is strength and comfort to be had from the simple routines of life. So, apply yourself to your duties as diligently as you can. Indeed, as you are accustomed to doing.” Radulph looked across at Robert Denny. “That, I think, would also be your father’s advice.”

“Yeah, it would,” Robert agreed. “Father Radulph is right, Ann. Just try to carry on as normal. We’ll all do our best to help you as much as we can.” He paused, looked out of the window for a moment, and then continued speaking. “Whatever may come next lay ahead, an’ we mustn’t go guessin’ what it will be afore it happen.”

Perhaps the possibilities did not allow for speculation at that moment and in that place; or perhaps the girl’s vision required a great deal of thought and reflection not immediately available to them. Whatever it was, the three people said no more about it there and then, but sat quietly within their own individual selves. The images of Ann’s dream were full of power and, although it was too early yet for the mind to assimilate them properly, the mental upheaval which precedes real understanding was already hard at work upon them. Eventually Radulph broke the surging silence of the room by suggesting to his friend that Ann should return to her domestic tasks, and Robert Denny readily agreed. After she had gone, the two men felt some easing of the tension they had both experienced and it was the father who, again, spoke first.

“Well,” he remarked. “That’s got me fair stammed! I’re always said that Ann isn’t much of a talker.” 

Radulph responded not only to the ironic humour of the comment, much needed at that particular moment, but to the truth which lay behind its being made. “I know you have. But consider, my friend, what a mighty loosener her tongue has had.”

“I’m not sure that I want to. I reckon there’s a good deal about the whole business that’ll begin to frighten me if I think about it too much.” He shook his head two or three times, slowly and heavily. “What’s goin’ on inside o’ her head, for her to see things like that?”

“Who can say?” answered the priest. “But I think that we have to accept that she has been chosen to be shown a vision of Heaven and Hell, for some reason.”

“Chosen?” The word was loaded with caution. There might even have been an element of misgiving about it.

Radulph sensed this, and the feeling which had produced it. “I know it must be difficult for you to grasp, Robert,” he said. “The tie of kinship is strong and often prevents us from seeing things clearly. But you must accept the fact of Ann being – how can I say it? – not the same as you have been wont to think of her. This experience has placed her beyond us.”

“That’s one o’ the things which bother me,” replied Robert Denny. “We’re all bin content enow to be ordinary, up till now.” Then he added, “Especially Ann. An’ I can’t see her wantin’ to be any different – even after all these dreams.”

“I don’t say that she will consciously attempt to change herself,” the priest continued. “I don’t believe she will. But she can hardly fail to be influenced by the things she has seen.” He allowed some time for mutual thought to pass before continuing. “Certain people, you know, would be inclined to class your daughter as something of a saint because of what has happened to her.” 

“Would they now?” There was a noticeable challenge in Robert’s reply and his jaw set itself square, above the upward flexing of his throat. “An’ what do you reckon other folk might say?”

            “I don’t understand you.”

            “No? Don’t you remember me tellin’ you about the girl in France, when I was over there in the wars?” He waited for the question to elicit an answer and then continued before it had done so, or not. “The one we burnt at Rouen. You must remember. I’re told you about it more’n once.”

            “Of course. The Maid of Orleans. Joan.” Radulph indeed remembered the story and could see its parallels in the mind of his friend.

“Yeah, well, to the French she was a saint an’ a saviour, an’ to us English she was a witch. It’s about thirty year ago now since it happened, an’ I was only about eighteen or nineteen at the time. But I’re never forgotten it.” 

“It was certainly an unjust trial and burning, from what you have told me,” agreed Radulph. “But war and men’s ambition were the cause of it, if I correctly recall what you said.”

“That’s about the size o’ it. She was no more a witch than you or me. We burned the girl because she was better at the war-game. Or, at least, she made the Frenchies better’n we were.” Robert Denny was back in France again, a lad still on the right side of twenty. “I wasn’t at the execution, an’ I’m glad about that, but I was there at Patay when she defeated us. I was servin’ under Sir John Fastolf an’ he got the blame for us gittin’ beat. But it weren’t his fault. The Earl o’ Shrewsbury, Talbot, changed his plan o’ battle at the last minute an’ we got caught out – lorst a lot o’ our best archers to the French horse, afore they could git in position. We were back down the road an’ tried to git up to reinforce, but it was a lost cause, so we had to turn an’ run. Chaos! Well, you know how it is in war.” Radulph demurred at this last remark, shaking his head slightly and smiling at his friend’s reversion to distant-fought campaigns – and this caused Robert to laugh. “Sorry! Ol’ soldiers never die,” he said.

“Sir John Fastolf did,” ventured Radulph. “More than a year ago.”

“Yeah, so he did, God rest his soul. An’ a lawyer has his lands, now. Some, not so very far from here.” He paused a moment and thought. “He’ll do well to hang on to ’em.”

“That is so.” Radulph knew the truth of the comment. “We live in uncertain times, old friend.”

“Which is why I’m worried for Ann. We’re got a king that some men call a saint an’ others an idiot. An’ how much longer he’ll be king, with the other one – Edward – proclaimed last month, who can say?” Radulph said nothing, so he continued. “Joan o’ Arc saw heavenly sights, includin’ Saint Michael, an’ she heard voices. An’ look what happened to her! I don’t want any daughter o’ mine to be a saint. All someone has got to do is whisper, ‘Witch!’, an’ that’s loud enough to bring us all a load o’ trouble.” Then he added, “An’ where would you stand then, Father, if it come to such a pass?”

Radulph thought before replying. “I do not know,” he said. “But I would hope that it was by my friends.”

“That’s an honest answer, at any rate, because it admits o’ doubt.” Robert Denny’s long years on the land, dragging crops from unwilling soil, had not destroyed the thinker within him. “But you can see what I’m drivin’ at, can’t you? Miracles an’ the wrong sort o’ magic aren’t very far apart for some people!” He rose from his seat by the window, turned and placed his big hands flat upon the sill, and looked out into the distance beyond familiar fields and hedges.

Radulph rose, too, and went to stand beside him. “I understand your concern, Robert,” he said. “I think that I share it, as well. Ann has been shown things far beyond ordinary seeing, and it is frightening to think of one so close and one so young being given such a vision.” Then he added, “To say nothing of the marks upon her. But remember this, my friend, there may be more to come, as yet.”

Robert Denny said nothing at first. Then he spoke his inmost thoughts. “I hope not! This lot is enow to be goin’ on with. I’m so afraid o’ the girl bein’ used. Or misused. The two of them aren’t so very far apart, probably. You’ll do your best to help Ann, won’t you?”

“Yes, I will. And just bear this in mind, as well: the coming days and weeks may not be as difficult as you think.”

“Perhaps. Yit I can’t help feelin’ as I do. So much has happened durin’ the last couple or three days that I don’t really know whether I’m comin’ or goin’.”

Radulph felt the pertinence of the remark with regard to his own state of mind, but said nothing about it. Instead, he used the words to introduce the matter of his departure – the severance of himself from his friends, that morning, needing to be done quickly and cleanly. As he went from the house, leaving his farewells to the others in the mouth of Robert himself, Radulph felt the need to let his mind work upon the events of the last four-and-twenty hours without human aid or interference. Therefore, as soon as he had left the farm, instead of taking his accustomed way home, he walked on down the green-way in the opposite direction, before striking off north-eastwards towards the cliff.

Chapter 5

There was a place beside the sea which Radulph loved and which he sought out now. It lay beneath the sloping face of the clay cliffs, out across the denes – a shingle mound that rose just a few feet above the mouth of a river which met the ocean at this point. Before he reached it that day, he stood a while on the edge of the cliff, looking down at the flat, grey water caressing the beach with waves that were scarcely more than large ripples. Half a mile or so to the south rose the tower of his church, straight and regular – a contrast to the black and twisted, westward-leaning trees which grew too near the sea. In the absence of much foliage, he was able to see something of the village, and he noticed the blueness of the smoke rising from cooking-fires. The manor house was visible, too, its raised platform of earth and clay ditched about with a moat, the whole site clearly defined by an outer cordon of sapling oaks. His village, his people, Radulph reflected; and by turning himself to the right, he was able to take in the rest of his parish – either by seeing it directly or by interpreting the landmarks.

            Northwards it was different. Two small towers, square this time and not round, marked the cures of other priests. And beyond them, five miles or more from where he stood, he could see the outlines of two seabord towns – the further of them much larger than its neighbour. It was a thriving place, with a mighty parish church, religious communities and dwellings of all sizes, the whole of it bounded by a wall of brick and flint which embraced a busy little world of men. Silver herrings in the spring and autumn (especially the autumn) – together with the many and varied items of water-borne trade conveyed inwards and out around the whole cycle of a twelve-month – created wealth for some and sweat for a great many more. And thus it seemed destined always to be, decided Radulph: wealth in the hands and coffers of the few; hard work and scant reward as the portion of the labourer. The Kingdom of Heaven must needs be very different from the earthly realm if crowns of righteousness were to mean anything.

            Once he had let his eyes take in the landward panorama, Radulph walked down the score towards the beach. Many years before, this path had begun its life as a drainage-channel for the rainwater which spilt from the skies in times of downpour. Eventually, a secondary function had superseded the primary one. The trench cut in the face of the cliff had provided a convenient way for people to pass to and from the beach, and a combination of this popular and continuous use, together with the effect of regular erosion, had served to widen and deepen the incision. As he went down the slope that day, Radulph noticed how the dense, grey clay towards the bottom had cracked and crazed. It had even fallen away in great lumps in places, leaving the exposed coltsfoot roots, the docks and the horse-tails to atrophy in the wind and sun. Many and varied were the plants that helped to bind the cliff, but their hold was only a temporary one in the face of creeping water and slowly slipping earth.

            Yet the destruction of one entity helped to sustain another. For, as the soil collapsed and spread about the base of the cliff, it was broken up and sifted by the sea at times of high, flooding tides and mixed with sand and shingle to be spread across the denes. Radulph loved these flats that lay between the tide-line and the cliff. Their spiked and wiry grasses spoke of a world far different from the parish grazing meadows and walking across them was like no other walking known. The going was firm, yet there was a flexibility and springiness underfoot which transmitted itself through sole and instep to invigorate the muscles of the leg. Radulph always felt that he could walk for miles and miles, as soon as he stepped upon the denes, but it was only rarely that he went further than the furlong or so necessary to reach the shingle mound. Wild peas grew on the poor, thin soil thereabouts and were gathered in season and eaten by the parishioners. The creeping, blue-green stems formed thick mats of vegetation; and even where these had been pulled away by people’s searching hands and by the winter tides and winds, fresh growth was already pushing through the straw-like remains in the promise of regeneration.

            Radulph made his way across the last few yards before the mound and climbed its slope. It was a man-made feature, about forty feet in diameter around the base and some eight to ten feet high, constructed of clay, chalk and shingle, and heaped up as a marker for the big town’s harbour mouth – the quayside itself being located at the end of a long and winding channel. A stout post of chestnut, rough-hewn and adzed from a tree of sixty years age and more, stood on top. Its sharpened and fire-burnt lower end was set firmly into the banked material of the hillock. Much ingenuity had gone into its siting and construction, for it stood at a point protected from the sea’s erosive force by a bank of pebbles thrown up at times of highest tide, and its materials were bound strongly by the roots of introduced marram grass, horsetails and sand-sedge. The confluence of river and sea was kept partly clear of sediment by the scouring action of the tidal flow each day, at ebb-times, but there were also occasions when men had to take a hand with muscle-power and scuppit, digging in to the clogging sand and throwing it on to the other side of the channel. And thus was a passage for navigation maintained and this artery of commerce kept open and pulsating.

            As he sat upon the mound that day, his back square against the post, Radulph looked out over the calm, grey sea to the line of the horizon. This meeting of one element with another, two great profundities, was the focus of his attention for some time, though he would have been hard put afterwards to say what it was he had thought about. Eventually, his eyes left their distant point of seeing and came to the craft which lay at anchor in the roads. There were a small number of crayers there, which had come in close to land after riding out the previous day’s blow in deeper water, and which now awaited the whim of the wind and the turn of tide to carry them down to their port of destination. A degree of activity was visible on board, though whether it was necessary in maritime terms or merely a way of passing the idle hours the watcher could not say. He had no such doubt concerning the small figures discernible on the denes southwards. These were local men, who were now gathering their nets from the ground where they had been laid to dry the previous day after a night’s fishing was done. After being folded in the appropriate way, the lints went back into the boats ready for the next shoot and haul. No doubt Richard Denny was among those engaged in this activity and Radulph could imagine his father (a landsman, if ever there was) joking to the young man, when he returned from the beach, about the call of boats and fishing-gear being louder than the cry of the land and spring-sowing.

            Radulph let his eyes and mind wander freely like this for some time, diverting his mind from what he knew he had to think about. Eventually, though, when the surrounding panorama had been exhausted of new sights and quaint notions, he came to things of foremost importance. First, Ann Denny and her vision. Next, Walter Crosse’s broad hints about his master’s intentions regarding the parish Common. Things of Heaven and Hell; things of Earth. The spiritual world; the temporal one. They ought to have remained separate in the mind of the man who reflected upon them, but they did not. In spite of all that he could do to keep them apart, the two things he had heard kept running together and forming one prevailing idea – a belief that his parish was about to be shaken by forces beyond his control and that the gift of dreams might well become as desirable to some people as the possession of land. And as he thought upon the matter, he saw a girl with bruised hands and feet standing on the rough tussocks placed among gorse, briars and thorns. The image was a disturbing one. Yet, try as he might, he could not shift it from his head.

            He sat for a long while on the mound, letting his thoughts form fast swirls and slower eddies in the current of his mind. At last, he rose and stood looking out to sea. A pale sun was shining from somewhere off to his right and behind him, its light gilding the flat, grey surface of the water in places and throwing ragged patches of shadow in others where the inshore banks rose near to the ripples above them – especially at low-tide. Brightness and darkness, side by side, their large serrations interlocking in a pattern both complementary and opposed. Radulph had noticed this effect of sun and shadow very soon after first coming to the parish, and the demarcation was still as potent in his imagination now as it had been five years before. Was it, he wondered, an expression of the eternal conflict between good and evil reflected in natural phenomena? Was it possible for sun and clouds, and water and sand, to represent an analogy of truth? And was it even truth? He thought back to his early days in the Abbey, when his confessor had often warned him about embracing the ancient Manichean heresy. Many Christians had done so down the years and Brother Edward knew the attraction of the philosophy for those who liked to reflect upon the nature of good and evil – both in the world and in themselves. It may well have been that, in Radulph, he saw himself thirty and more years before when he, too, in true exuberance of mind had thrown himself into the many cranks and twists of controversy and debate. Whatever the cause, the two of them had grown close, despite the difference in age between them, and their mutual discourse had nourished them both down the years.

            The patches on the water, some light, some dark, affected Radulph strongly. Without any consciousness of their own, on a symbolic level, they most certainly could represent the old, eternal warring forces of the world. Good against evil; light against darkness. Such was the way of things. Thus, it would always be until an end was made by the Creator. But that was as far as Radulph went. Not for him the false belief that each individual person must purge himself (or herself) of the blackness within the soul by mortifying both sense and desire. For if it was possible to purify the essence of man merely by rejecting the call of the flesh, what need was there of God’s saving grace? If abstinence from meat and liquors and embracing was sufficient in itself to gain salvation, why had Christ submitted himself, even unto death, to pay the dearest ransom in all the world? Herein lay the real heresy – in the notion that a human creature was capable of winning soul’s weal through the practice of self-denial. What virtue was there in negative action alone? What did abstinence require of a person beyond rejection of things immediately pleasurable? Where was the “thou shalt” in all of it, rather than the “thou shalt not”?

            Light and dark patches on the sea; bruises on a girl’s hands, feet and ribs; a shadow of intention over land that grew no crops; blackness that was both seen and imagined. The mind of Radulph Fyld struggled with an intensity of opposites. And even though he knew that there were so many interposing tints of grey, all he could think of and see was the black and the white. The black worried him especially, for it had begun increasingly to blot out the white, just as surely as night did day. And when the darkness was complete, what would he himself then be? One of Ann Denny’s faceless creatures, perhaps, without the gift of eyes, ears and mouth, groping without hope in a world where stumbling was the only way forward and where holes in the ground offered the only way of – . Of what? There was no knowing, because whatever it was that lay beneath the surface had not been revealed. Yet it was likely that there existed in those tunnels of hopelessness a darker and more benighted futility than that which had been shown to the girl.

            Eventually, he returned from those far and twilight regions to his present place of standing, under a chestnut post, at the meeting-point of river and sea. How long he had stood, lost in his dark imaginings, he could not tell; but the sun had moved further to the west and the patches on the water, though still present, were of a different shape and configuration. The tide had turned and this, together with the bit of breeze which now stirred, provoked activity on the waiting ships. Anchors were being pulled inboard, sails unfurled, and the squeak of sheaves was plainly audible as the mariners hauled on the sheets. Southwards, across the denes, the fishermen’s work was done and, apart from just one or two late-stayers, all had returned to the village. Radulph descended the shingle mound and walked towards the boats. His great intensity of mood had gone, to be replaced by a feeling of unease in which sparks of hope kindled and jumped from the banked and smouldering heap of thoughts, but soon died away into blown and blackened specks. Yet, as long as the sparks leapt, one of them at least might find the fuel necessary to grow at last into flames.

            As he approached the boats, the last two men were making their way up the score to the top of the cliff. When they had reached halfway, one of them stopped and turned to look back down onto the beach. Radulph could see that there was a brief exchange of words between the figures, though he could hear nothing of what was said, and the gap between them then grew and widened as the lower one walked back the way he had come. Radulph recognised him before he had reached the foot of the cliff. It was Richard Denny. Nor was the recognition one-sided, for the young man hailed the priest as he came down the slope and the steps he took across the denes towards the boat were long ones. Radulph, standing now among the various longshore craft, acknowledged Richard’s greeting with a wave of the hand and waited for the son of his friend to reach him.

            “How are things wi’ you, Father?” The broad, open face, its skin chapped by wind and spray, broke into a smile. “I should ha’ guessed it was you on the mound”

            “Ah, my habits are, indeed, well known. I could have no secrets from anyone in this parish. And, to answer your question, things are – .” And here he paused for a while, searching for the right word. “Things are interesting.”

            Richard Denny looked at him shrewdly. “You’re seen my sister, then?”

            “I have.”

            “And what’s your opinion o’ the whole business?” A note of solicitude in the voice was apparent, though the way that the eyes and hands began to pick over the gear lying in the boat was casual enough. “I was out on Saturday evenin’, after herrins, afore Ann had gone to bed.” He continued to sort through the various items. “An’ I came down here to clean the nets on Sunday mornin’, after Easter mass, an’ once Miles an’ I had got some barley ready for sowin’.”

            “You knew that Ann had awoken from her long sleep?”

            “O’ course. Father come through from her an’ Joan’s chamber, Sunday night, an’ told Miles an’ me.         I didn’t see her this mornin’ because I was up early to git the barley sown an’ I put some food in a frail to take with me. Then I came down here after I’d finished, in order to fold my nets up. The wind was startin’ to git up Saturday night, as we come in, wi’ not a lot o’ fish to show for the time we’d bin out, so we bagged it up quick an’ laid the nets out to dry on the shingle here. Had to weight ’em down with beach-flints so they didn’t blow around overnight. I forgot that I’d left the frail in the boat here, which is why I was comin’ down the cliff just now.” He straightened up from bending over the vessel’s gunwale. “How is Ann? Really?”

            Radulph looked across at the young man. “I do not think she has taken much harm physically from her experiences,” he replied, “in spite of the marks upon her. But I believe that those marks make her special.”

            “The marks on her hands an’ feet?”

            “Yes. And the one on her side.”

            Richard Denny did not respond immediately, as he absorbed the information. “Father said nothin’ about that. Nor Joan.” He considered the matter further. “But how, special?”

            “Special in being chosen to bear the five wounds of the Lord Christ.” Radulph expected the look of surprise on Richard’s face, so he did not proceed further. Instead, he waited for the question which had to follow.

            “The five wounds o’ Christ! How can this be?” the voice was neither scornful, nor disbelieving, but simply that of a brother who could not relate the magnitude of the statement to the person of a younger and much-loved sister.

            “I believe that it had to do with the things which she saw while she was asleep,” said Radulph. “There is not time to tell you now all that Ann experienced – and I daresay your father will reveal matters to you when you return home – but your sister has had a vision of Heaven and Hell. Strange and beautiful it was, in the telling. Yes, and disturbing too, in parts. I have neither heard nor read the like of it before.”

            Richard said nothing at first. Then he spoke in the manner of one hard of hearing and seeking to be told again what he had heard imperfectly the first time. “Heaven an’ Hell? An’ you’re never heard or read the like of it before?”

            “That is so. I can’t begin to describe it to you here; it is so full of wondrous things that my words cannot possibly convey to you. Nor should I say anything,” he added. “It is only right that you should learn of the revelation from Ann herself, or from your father. May I walk part of the way home with you?”

            “O’ course, you may, Father Radulph. Though if I’m a bit stuck for words, you’ll have to bear with me. What you’re just told me about my sister has come as a real surprise.”

            “I received it no differently myself,” the priest assured him. “And even now I am wondering whether it really happened.” He looked over his companion into a far, indefinable distance. “That is the way of miracles, though. It is their very unbelievability which gives them power.” He continued to look into the sky for some time. “Then he turned his attention once again to Richard Denny. Who marked him fully with eyes and ears. “And what Ann has already seen may not be the end of her seeing. There could be more things yet to be revealed.”

            Richard said nothing in reply to this. He simply pursed his lips, nodded his head in something between acquiescence and understanding, and then doubled himself over the side of the boat and resumed his former search. Radulph watched him as he pulled nets and ropes around, and he could not help but reflect that it was probably such a man as this one before him, with added years’ experience, that Jesus had chosen for the first of his followers. Eventually, Richard found the missing basket. It was not even in the boat. It had got placed on the beach beside the vessel which, like its companion craft, had been drawn up the sand and shingle on flat, wooden skids, after the Saturday fishing, to above the high-water mark. During the stowing-away of the dried nets, it had heeled over to one side and half-buried the elusive rush-plaited container under its hull. He picked it up and shook it. Then he slung it across his shoulder by the strap, grinning slightly as he did so.

            “I’m always layin’ things down and not knowin’ where they are. If Miles had bin here, I’d ha’ probably said that he’d gone an’ put it somewhere.”

            “Younger relatives must be very useful,” remarked Radulph, drily.

            “They are!” replied Richard, and he laughed. “Father do the same thing to me, you know.” He thought for a moment and let the fancy take an airing in his head before uttering it. “Who gits the blame when a priest puts things aside an’ can’t find them? Not Margaret Jakks, I’ll be bound!”

            “I shall not rise to that bait, young philosopher.” Seriousness of tone was ever a favourite vehicle of humour with the cleric. “My silence must say all – and nothing. Are you ready to go now that you have found your basket?”

            “I am. An’ this lot’s all ready for the next time out.” Richard pulled up a handful of hempen meshes, for effect rather than for genuine inspection, and then let the net fall again.

            “And when will the next time be? Tonight, if I am not much mistaken.”

            “Maybe. As long as that north-easter don’t git up agin. There were a few about last night after it had fined down, so I was told. Tonight should be better.” Richard Denny canted his face upwards and looked around the sky. “Herrins are funny things. You never know if you’re goin’ to strike them, or not – though the gulls sometimes give you the nod.” He began to walk away from the boat.

            “Radulph fell into step beside him. “And are the fish any good this year?” he asked. “I notice that a number of you have been out after them.”

            “Well, they’re never at their best durin’ this season, as you know. Too many spents among ’em. Shotten stuff.”

            “Yes. I have heard you fishermen make that remark often enough.”

            “But they’re mainly the only ones about, an’ that makes ’em worth catchin’. If I do go out an’ git any tonight, I’ll send you some up. A taste o’ somethin’ fresh will make a change from cured ones.”

            “That is kind of you, Richard. My thanks.” Radulph was then surprised to hear the young man laugh suddenly and loudly, and his own countenance drew an instant apology and explanation.

            “Oh, I’m sorry, Father Radulph. It was talkin’ about herrins that did it. I suddenly thought o’ the first time you set foot on this beach, with all o’ us down here.” Both of them were now approaching the bottom of the score. “I shan’t ever forgit it. I can’t have been more’n twelve or thirteen at the time.” 

            “Thirteen,” confirmed the priest. “And I shall not forget it, either.” He laughed heartily himself. “Especially in view of what your father told me about the matter once we got to know each other. I wondered at the time why all the men stood and looked and said nothing.”

            “Oh, they were all sure that you were checkin’ up on ’em. It was ol’ John Colby who noticed you comin’ along the beach. And you know what he said, don’t you?” 

            “Yes! But I do not mind hearing you repeat it.”

It took a few moments for Richard Denny to recover from his second attack of amusement. “He said – . He said, ‘Look what’s comin’. White-hooded, like the Pale Rider! Bin in the parish no more’n a fortnight and he’s already sniffin’ out his tithes! That graspin’ Abbot is enough, without us havin’ the priest on our backs as well!’ He didn’t half go on.”

            “He still does,” said Radulph. “He has much to say about the great tithes, but not so much about the small ones.”

            “That’s only because you don’t bother too much about collectin’ the small ones,” replied Richard. “If you were as sharp at gatherin’ them as you are those on the grain an’ the timber an’ the hay, he’d have plenty to say.”

            “Well, as you know, Richard, I have no choice where the great tithes are concerned. They have to go to the Abbey, in kind or in coin.” Radulph broke off to take a deep breath or two on the steepest part of the score. “But, regarding the small ones, I live well enough off my glebe-land and off what I am given freely by my parishioners. I have enough fish brought to me as it is, without claiming Christ’s half-dole of herring and sparling.” They both paused a moment or two, before walking on to the top of the cliff and turning for a moment to take last look at the beach. Then they continued on their way.

“Miles says that he likes going out in the boat with you, after herrings,” Radulph said.

“That he do! He’s a good boy, as well. He soon pick things up.” The compliments were warmly expressed.

“Yes, indeed. I, too, find him an apt scholar. He so greatly enjoys his lesson of a Tuesday.”

“I know. He allus tell us about it.” Richard’s voice showed appreciation of the favour bestowed upon his young cousin. “It’s marvellous what he’s learnt in the time he’s bin comin’ to you. Though I daresay that isn’t all down to his instruction in letters alone.” Radulph made no reply to this compliment, so Richard continued. “How long will it be, do you think, afore he’s ready to go to the Abbey?”

“He’s ready now, in many ways,” replied Radulph. “and would probably benefit from more expert teaching than I can give him. But there’s time enough for all that lies ahead. Apart from which,” and here he spoke with feeling. “I am in no great hurry to lose him.”

“Yeah, we’ll all miss him when he do go. An’ I often wonder how he’ll git along without us.” Richard’s sense of family was strong. 

“It will be hard for him at first.” Experience was the basis for the words, rather than made-to-measure wisdom. “His heart will yearn for his uncle and cousins. Yes, and mayhap even for his priest, as well. His eyes will long for the familiar sights of his old home; his ears will strain for the sound of waves breaking upon the shore and his nostrils will catch at every scent for the smell of salt. And, in the darkness of night, he will lie in his bed, listening to the breathing of those who are sleeping beside him.” The flow of words ceased for a moment or two, as remembrance exercised its hold; then it continued, as before. “The bells in the night which ring for the first offices will startle him with their suddenness and will echo inside his head long after the chimes have ceased to roll up and down the passageways. He will long for the small kitchen table as he sits down to his food in the great refectory. And every time there is pickled herring on his wooden platter, he will think of a strong, good cousin who loves him dearly. Is there anything more that you wish to hear, Richard?”

“I don’t know, Father. What you’re said so far make it sound as if Miles is in for a pretty sorry stay.” 

“It will be so for him, at first – yes. But the passing of time will soothe the worst of his longing and reconcile him to his surrounds. Then he will begin, for the first time, to notice the things worth his attention; and he will start to find enjoyment in the things dear to him, other than his loved ones. He will get pleasure from the straightness of his writing upon the page; he will grow to love the wisdom of wise men, expressed in words which can never die, as he copies them for posterity; and he will fly heavenwards on the wings of plain-chant as its strains rise to the high stone ceiling of the church’s choir.” The voice softened in recollection, and Radulph slowed and came to a halt. “And there is more than that, Richard. Much more.”

“Yeah, I suppose there is.” The shallow admission was then redeemed by a comment which sprang from real feeling. “But it’s hard for people who know nothin’ o’ the life to imagine what it’s like. Will Miles stick to it, do you think?” 

“It is hard to say. I like to think that he will. I think, too, that he hopes he will be able to. But even if he does not, he still has his family to return to.”

“That’s certain, Father. Not much else may be, but that is.” Richard Denny nodded his head as he spoke.

“Not much else may be?” Radulph was quick to take up the point. “I should have thought that all was certainty in one of your years.”

“Yes an’ no,” answered the younger man. “What I know, I know. It’s what I sense and can’t explain which give me unease.”

“All people feel that way, at one time or another,” commented his companion. “And often without due cause.”

Richard did not respond to the point, and continued his line of thought. “I mean, take this business with Ann. Just because I didn’t say much about it down at the boat don’t mean that I haven’t pondered it. In fact,” and here he gave an abrupt, expletive laugh, “I’re bin talkin’ about all the other things, tryin’ to put it out o’ my mind.”

“I can see that it must be hard for you to understand.”

“That’s not the half of it! Nothin’ like! I’m a lot more worried about what’s to come.”

“It may be nothing at all, to warrant fear.” Radulph said the opposite of what was in his heart, for the best of reasons.

“Granted. But, on the other hand – . Oh, there’s no reason for me to go on! You git what I’m drivin’ at – an’ I’m probably wrong, anyway. But it’s not just to do wi’ Ann, why I feel the way I do. I’re had a darkness in my mind, for some time now.”

Radulph resisted the temptation to deliver a ready-made platitude. “Is it any use you tellin’ me about it?” he asked.

“Not really. Because I can’t pin it down myself. I wish I could.” 

The two of them resumed their homeward route, walking in silence, each deep not only in his own thoughts but present in the other’s mind as well. Soon, the village was before them, its cottages and yards thrown down beside the road like a scattering of pebbles. The church of St. Michael was prominent on its hillock above the earthen way and two palisades of trees beyond the church – the nearer one small and the further one substantial – marked the priest’s dwelling and the manor house. Radulph, expecting to walk home alone down the pitted track between the houses, stopped and prepared to take his leave of Richard. But the latter proceeded to reveal that his way, too, lay through the village and that he would walk a while yet in the direction they were taking. Radulph thought nothing of this at first, and he felt a certain ease and comfort as they both acknowledged the greeting from roadside and doorway alike. This communication, if he got no closer to his people, was acceptance of a kind: the seal of the day delivered to him freely and ungrudgingly as he passed. And he had the pleasure of knowing that it would have been his portion whether or not he was accompanied by Richard Denny. 

Once they had gone beyond the houses and come abreast of the church, Radulph again anticipated saying his farewells to Richard, because there was a path from this end of the village which ran to the southern extremity of the common and from thence near to the Denny farmstead. But he was wrong once more in his assumption and began to think of possible reasons for the young man going so far out of his way. There seemed to be only one explanation and it was probably best to come to it straight away.

“If you wish to stay at the house a while and talk matters over, you are very welcome to do so. Or are you expected at home?” They were not far from Radulph’s dwelling and could cut through the churchyard to it if they wished.

Both of them came to a halt and Richard looked at Radulph for a moment, with an expression on his face that contained a degree of surprise. Not at the priest’s invitation, but at what he now had to reveal concerning walking the route he had taken. “Father only expect me when he see me,” he said. “An’ I thank you kindly for askin’ me in. But the reason I’re come this way is because I’re bin sent for from the manor house.”

“Sent for?” Radulph was taken aback by the information. “From the manor house? I had thought that Sir Nicholas was away from home, with my Lord of Norfolk.”

“So he is. But I had word this afternoon that Master Crosse would like to see me afore I returned home.”

“I see. So, you are to go to his rooms next the gatehouse?” Radulph knew the lodging of Walter Crosse, for he had been there himself.

“Yeah. Though I have no idea what he want to see me about.”

“How did you hear of his wish?” Radulph was intrigued by the activities of the reeve during the last four-and-twenty hours.

“One o’ the kitchen-boys come down to the beach while we were stowin’ nets. It wasn’t all that long afore I noticed you on the mound.” Richard Denny saw the scene of two hours before with the utmost clarity. “He just come up to me an’ said that Master Crosse would like to see me afore I returned to my father’s house.”

“And did he say anything else?”

“No. He went soon as he had delivered his message.”

Radulph saw the scene, too, as Richard spoke: the boats, the fishing-gear, the men at work, and the youngster with the message. And he saw something else, as well – the reaction of those men, whose eyes would have found nothing exceptional in the boy being on the beach, until he went up to Richard Denny. And then, though their eyes would have been busy on nets and ropes, their ears would have been open and ready to catch the words which fell from his lips. Radulph could sense the way they would have listened and this concentration was foremost in his mind as he asked, “Did any of your fellows say anything after the boy had gone?”

“Oh, there was one or two jests about bein’ well in up at the big house. You know the sort o’ thing. I just passed it orf. I didn’t know any more than they did about why Walter Crosse should want to see me. Nor do I still,” he said. “It’s one o’ the things I’re bin turnin’ over in my mind since the boy appeared. What do you reckon’s afoot, Father?”

As soon as Richard Denny had mentioned Walter Crosse’s desire to see him, a dark and uncomfortable notion had come into Radulph’s mind. However, he revealed nothing of it and merely sad, “Who can say? Master Crosse is man that has much to do with people in the carrying-out of his work. I daresay he has requested to see folk before in the manner you were approached.”

“Perhaps. Yit my father an’ me have never had much to do wi’ the manor house an’ its servants. We have no likin’ for big places an’ the paid retainers who work there.”

“Because of the way big holdings have a habit of growing larger, perhaps?” asked Radulph.

“That’s part of it. An’ we don’t like the yes-sirrin’ and no-sirrin’ which go with ’em, neither! We’re got nothin’ aginst showin’ our betters the proper respect, but we’re neither of us got much of a taste for lickin’ arses – no matter how important the folk who sit on ’em.”

“I can understand that feeling,” said Radulph. “But do not let too much of it show as you talk to Master Crosse. He is a deep man and has, I think, a long memory.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. In fact, I’ll be so careful in what I say that he won’t even know I’m bein’ careful!” Richard laughed at the idea he had created. “I’ll surprise even myself wi’ such a dose o’ caution.”

“Nay, Richard. Jest not overmuch, for Master Crosse is a clever man and knows clearly his purpose in sending for you. Let your ears catch more than your tongue parts with.” That was near as Radulph came to revealing his misgivings and unease.

Richard Denny saw how much in earnest the priest was, and both his countenance and his words grew more sober. “I’ll heed your counsel,” he said. “I did but joke just now because this summons has me feelin’ uncertain as to its intent an’ because there’s no time for me to talk wi’ Father.” He reflected a moment before continuing. “I’m very glad to have met wi’ you this afternoon. You’ll stand as my adviser in Master Crosse’s lodgin’, even though you’re not there. Say nothin’ more.” He noticed that Radulph was about to speak. “Take you your way home through the churchyard. I’ll go from here an’ think about what you’re said.”

He raised his hand both in prevention and parting, walking off down the road and leaving his father’s friend, and his own, watching him until he had gone from view. 

Chapter 6

It was little more than an hour after they had parted that Radulph found himself talking to Richard Denny once again. The young man called at the vicarage house on his way home from the interview with Walter Crosse and what he had to reveal was surprising to the priest only in its detail, for the substance came as no surprise at all. The manor’s reeve had suggested that Richard should consider joining Sir Nicholas Bosard’s retinue – not as a full-time servant, but as an out-retainer whose assistance could be called upon as and when required. Sir Nicholas, he said, might be needing a young and reliable man in the Denny family’s sector of the parish, in addition to the Common’s bailiff, and there might be a field or two for the family to add to its holding if things worked out well. The manor was soon like to grow and any overseer of its new lands might expect to do well in its service. No decision was required straight away; the time for that lay ahead. First things had to come first. The matter ought to be discussed by Richard with his father and, if he wished, the priest as well because he was a friend of the family and might be able to advise. Then the conversation ended, as it had begun, with all sorts of talk regarding the weather, the season, the land, the sea, and whatever was of current interest in the village.

            Richard was full of questions within the walls of the parlour, where Radulph had taken him, but the priest kept his answers brief. Not to the point of leaving his friend’s son unsatisfied, however. What he did was to reveal his own suspicions (for so he termed them) regarding Sir Nicholas’s designs upon the Common and show how an extra servant living where the Dennys did would be advantageous. He pushed aside Richard’s outrage at the taking of the land and the attendant denial of long-established customary rights, counselling him to tread a cautious path and to say nothing of his conversation with Master Crosse. Beyond his father, of course. Robert Denny had to know. As for the offer of employment, the best answer would be to declare neither yes or no, but to say that a decision would only be made when the actual conditions and requirements of service were known. Walter Crosse could have no objection to that, and it would allow things to take their course without the family being involved in any way. Richard, with all the courage and honesty of youth, wanted to know what stand could be taken against the enclosure taking place and he bridled a good deal at being told that it would be prudent to do nothing. Radulph, for his part, resorted to bluntness and asked what good would come of directly opposing Sir Nicholas Bosard’s intentions? It would not help the people threatened with eviction and there might be more subtle and effective methods of countering the appropriation. The latter point was made, if not in desperation, at least as a means of filling a mental vacuum, for Radulph had no idea of what could be done to prevent the Common being taken. And not only did the words serve to cover his own impotence; they also appeared to take the edge off Richard Denny’s impulse to obstruct (in some physical way, most likely) any moves against the land and its peripheral inhabitants In any case, as Radulph pointed out last of all, nothing could be done until Sir Nicholas had made his move.

            Richard’s visit aroused no awkward curiosity on the part of Margaret and Simpkin, who assumed that he had called with further news of his sister. Radulph did nothing to disabuse them of this notion and merely provided a few details regarding the girl’s state over and above what he had already told them earlier on his arrival home. He said nothing specific, however, regarding Ann’s physical blemishes, nor about the flight of her spirit through a world beyond the one in which her body lived. All he chose to reveal was that she had had a deep and heavy sleep, during which she had dreamed things of wonder that he needed to reflect upon. And it was this very necessity which he used as the excuse, after supper, to draw aside from his servants earlier than was customary, cross the hall and shut himself within the parlour – a space created by his predecessor, by partitioning the main downstairs room. There were three oak chests which stood about the space and one of them contained, among various, small, personal items belonging to Radulph, such manuscripts as he had been able to bring with him from the abbey’s library. One or two of them were written in his own hand and he now drew out his particular favourite, The Cloud of Unknowing. The parchment sheets were bound within thicker sheepskin covers, his own work as well as the writing, and he held the volume in his hand a moment and regarded it thoughtfully. The he walked with it over to a small trestle table, on which a candle burned, and sat himself down on a simple, backed-chair. A moment or two of turning leaves brought him to the place he desired and he set to reading the words which lay in neat and regular lines upon the page.

            “For of all other creatures and their works – yea, and of the works of God himself – may a man through grace have fulness of knowing, and well can he think of them. But of God himself can no man think. And therefore I would leave all that thing that I can think and choose to my love that thing I cannot think.” Radulph allowed his eyes to move over the lines until he fixed upon his next point of reference. “And therefore, although it be good some time to think on the kindness and worthiness of God in special, and although it be a light and a part of contemplation, nevertheless in this work it shall be cast down and covered with a cloud of forgetting. And thou shall step above it stalwartly, but lustily, with a devout and pleasing stirring of love, and essay to pierce that darkness above thee. And thou shall smite upon that thick cloud of unknowing with a sharp dart of longing love, and go not thence for anything that befalls.” 

            He had not read for long, when he lifted his eyes from the book and straightened up on his chair. “And thou shall smite upon that thick cloud of unknowing with a sharp dart of longing love, and go not thence for anything that befalls.” The words were ones which had never left him since he had first read them as a young man, years before, and they seemed now to assume an appropriateness which had something prophetic about it. So he sat, his eyes fixed on a patch of darkness beyond the candle’s flame, allowing his mind to take a controlled path where any deflections were but facets of the theme and subordinate to it. In such a manner did he attempt to enter his own cloud of unknowing, aware that the gift of intellect alone was not sufficient to bring understanding, but uncertain that he was capable of the tide of selflessness, the upwelling spring of pure affection, the outpouring of himself for the love of his God and the whole of Creation, which seemed to be required of the real seeker after truth. And, as he sat and thought, his eyes and his mind came from their focus on the far wall’s shadow to concentrate upon the candle’s spearhead of yellow flame.

            “And the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness comprehendeth it not.” The Light of the world, once lit, could never die. How might a man’s individual fire burn when the world cast its shades about him? “And this is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light because their dreams were evil.” Where men’s love and leanings lay, could there be any amendment? “I am come a light into the world, that whosoever believeth on me should not abide in darkness.” If the belief were strong enough, then might a man be enlightened – but how to bring that spark to fellow-travellers on life’s rough road? Light and darkness; good and evil; the opposites which met and married in all people. Radulph looked from the fluttering candle to the darkness of the wall, and back again. Two sides of a single soul or being. A conflict which was part of every living person and which could only be resolved, in virtue, by throwing oneself unreservedly on the saving grace of God. There could be no salvation in self alone. The ancient heresies of Mani and Pelagius, different though they were in origin and in essence, came to the same thing in the end: a denial of God’s immeasurable forgiveness, born of love for his dearest creation. The denial inherent in each creed, stressing as it did poor Man’s deficiency, was born of pride. And pride had caused the first fall, when the Light-bearer had striven to shine more brightly than his Source and Master and had been cast down in consequence.

            It was because of his depth of reverie that, although Radulph’s ears heard the knocking on the door of the room in which he sat, his mind did nothing about acting upon the signals. Nor did he respond to the lifting of the latch and the creak of iron and timber as the door swung inwards on its hinges. He continued to sit looking both into the flame of his candle and also through it to the darkness beyond. The door was part of this darkness; but while its opening changed the density and arrangement of the shadows on wall and ceiling alike, it did nothing to bring the sitting figure of the man from his stillness. He saw a silhouetted form against the greyness of the doorway – but, again, though his eyes discerned the shape, there was no response in his conscious regions of his brain. Words issued from the shape, soft at first, but growing louder through the repetitions necessary to command the attention of the figure seated at the table.

            “Father Radulph. Father Radulph. Father Radulph! I’m sorry to disturb you.” The voice moderated as its effect was discerned. “But Bess Hoberd has come acrorss the yard, an’ called here at the house, an’ would have words wi’ you.”

            “Ah, Margaret. It is you. I was far gone into where my book had led me. Bess Hoberd, you say? At this hour? I wonder what she wants.” He rose from his chair and followed Margaret Jakks, through the hall, down the passageway and into the kitchen. Simpkin was sitting on a stool next to the fire, stitching a broken dutfin that belonged to the sorrel gelding, which performed draught-work on the glebe. He nibbled his bottom lip in concentration as he pushed an iron bodkin, threaded with waxed twine, through the leather and did not even bother to look up as his master and his sister came into the room. On the other side of the fire-place, and apparently watching him intently, stood Bess Hoberd. She was resting on her thumb-staff, grasping it with both hands and letting its slender length take the bodyweight from her legs. Her hood lay in folds across her shoulders and both fire and candlelight struck silver sparks from her hair.

“Good even to you, Mistress Hoberd. Margaret tells me that you wish to speak with me.”

The white head had not turned at the sound of the door, but the old woman reacted to Radulph’s greeting and she straightened her body as she answered. “Yeah, Father. I do. Forgive me for callin’ on you at such an hour, but I have somethin’ to tell.” She paused, looked around her, made as if to continue speaking, and then decided to say nothing more – at any rate, not until the priest had responded both to her statement and to the silence that followed it.

“Would you care to step through into the parlour?” Radulph had judged, correctly, that Bess Hoberd wished to speak with him privately. “We can converse conveniently there. Come this way.” He waited for his caller to move towards him, then turned and walked back down the passage. Margaret Jakks stood aside to let them pass and then re-entered the kitchen, to join her brother near the fire. Simpkin was still stitching away at his dutfin, head down, intent upon the bodkin and thread. Once Radulph reached the parlour, he pushed the door open with a backward sweep of his stiffened arm and gestured for the woman to enter. Then he followed her in and closed the door.

“Sit you down, Mistress,” he invited, indicating the chair which he had lately occupied, while he himself went to the other side of the room and brought a stool up to the table.

“I thank you, Father. It will be pleasin’ to sit for a while and rest me. This late walkin’ is no                                                                                                                            good for an ol’ body.”

“You do very well, mistress Hoberd. I hope that I may be as active as you when I have attained your length of years.”

“Active. Well, Father, there’s a word to start this converse with.” Radulph said nothing, so she went on. “I’re bin active in the last few hours, I can promise you.”

“Oh?” One of the things Radulph warmed to in this woman was the manner in which she prepared the way for saying anything of note. “It must be of import for you to seek me out at home.”

“It is. You recall that you saw me this mornin’, as you passed by wi’ young Miles?”

“Yes. You were spreading your linen on the bushes, to dry.”

“Yeah, so I was. Well, you told me you were headin’ to the house o’ Robert Denny an’ it put me in mind o’ visitin’ the family later in the day. To see how Ann was farin’, you understand, an’ how the others were all gittin’ on, as well.”

“That was neighbourly of you.”

“Yeah, well, Robert has been good to me an’ I’m fond o’ them two girls, in any case. They put me in mind o’ my sister an’ me, when we were young. I’re told you about how our fam’ly fell on hard times, haven’t I?’ 

Radulph nodded. “You have. And it’s a story for the days in which we live. Or for any other days.” He observed the faraway look on the old woman’s face and waited for her to return to the present time.

“I still don’t understand how my father could ha’ got so far inta debt as to lose all. Though my mother did plead wi’ him not to buy that last farcost. She never liked him takin’ ships down to Iceland to fish for the cod. She said it was too far from home an’ too dangerous.”

“A mariner’s wife knows only too well the perils of the sea.”

“An’ she was right, wasn’t she, because he went an’ got drowned on that last voyage! They all did, poor souls. There was more than a shipwreck when the Anthony went down (that’s what he called her, you know). It must ha’ bin hard for my mother to have to sell up everythin’ in the way that she did. An’, o’ course, that’s when we moved from the town to here.”

“It cannot ever be easy to part with home and possessions,” agreed Radulph, feeling most uneasy as he spoke the words and anxious for a change of topic.

“It isn’t,” said Bess Hoberd bluntly. “An’ it isn’t what I came here to talk about, either! Father, look at my hands.” She laid her staff on the floor and thrust them towards him across the table, backs uppermost. “Do you notice anythin’ diff’rent about ’em?”

Radulph studied the blotched and leathery skin, taking particular notice of the swollen and misshapen knuckles, the twisted veins and rod-like tendons. And, while he looked, his visitor turned her hands the other way about. The candle threw more shadow than light and this collected in the cupped palms, making them pools of darkness, from both of which jutted five crooked sticks of varying length. Radulph found himself concentrating upon the bent and claw-like fingers to the exclusion of everything else. The question that had been put to him had gone from his mind. All he could see was the bones beneath the skin, poking out, pointing. It needed Bess Hoberd to repeat herself to bring him back to where he had been before the hands were pushed towards him.

“Well, Father. Can you see any diff’rence?” The palms tightened and the fingers spread outwards to the limit of their capability.

“In so far as I’m acquainted with your hands, Mistress – no, I cannot.”

“Nor I. But I can feel that they’re diff’rent.” Again, she flexed her fingers and spread them. “They move more easy than they used to.”

Radulph knew the old woman’s suffering where stiff and aching joints were concerned and expressed his pleasure at her improvement. “That must bring you some relief from your usual discomfort,” he said.

“Yeah, it do, Father. But would you like to know the source o’ the relief?” Again, there was something dramatic about the tone of voice, which seemed to be the preparation for a statement of significance.

“Yes, I would.” Radulph leant slightly towards Bess Hoberd across the table, partly out of genuine interest, but an answer was not immediately forthcoming.

“I don’t know how to say this, Father,” she said, “for fear o’ you not believin’ me an’ thinkin’ it an ol’ woman’s madness.” She looked straight into the priest’s eyes and Radulph saw no contrivance there, nor any sense of occasion. “I’m beginnin’ to think it would ha’ bin better if I hadn’t come.”

A pause ensued, which hung between the two of them like a heavy curtain, and neither seemed very willing to cross through the barrier. When Radulph did so, at last, it was more out of consideration for the lengthy walk which his visitor had taken than for any feeling that she had something significant to tell. And yet there was one small part of him which said that Bess Hoberd did not use words needlessly, nor make demands upon the time and attention of other people without due cause. So, he dragged himself from his shell of silence and leant across the table once more. “I would never deem you mad, Mistress Hoberd,” he said. “Speak on and have no fear of me thinking you any less of a person than you are.” The words were sincerely intended and spoken, and they had their desired effect.

“Well, then, Father,” came the reply. “What would you say if I were to tell you that Ann Denny was the cause o’ my loosenin’?”

The question had a profound effect on Radulph, but he managed not to let it show. “Ann Denny,” he said. “Robert’s daughter. She is the reliever of your aches and stiffness? How can this be?” 

“That’s what I’d be inclined to ask if I were you, Father,” Bess Hoberd returned. “An’ I’m still not sure whether I believe it myself.” Radulph said nothing, so she continued. “All I know is that my knuckles are freer than they were. So are my wrists and elbows. An’ my knees an’ ankles.”

“But what has this to do with Ann?” Radulph had grave misgivings about pursuing the matter, yet felt compelled to go on. “How can she have assisted your recovery from aging and stiffened joints?”

“By touchin’ me.”

“By touching you?”

“Yes. Can you believe it, Father? I find it hard, I can tell you, but I know that it is so.”

Radulph had a brief glimpse from earlier in the day of the girl’s bruised hands, and of the other blemishes, and he knew immediately that the sequence of events which Robert Denny feared had probably already been set in motion. “How did your – your – ” (he searched for the word) “your improvement come about?”

“Well, Father, when I reached the house – some time after noon, it was; an hour or two, mayhap (you know how time is wi’ me); but you’d bin an’ gone – I said that I’d called to see how Ann was gittin’ on. Robert took me through to the kitchen and the two girls were there, cardin’ and windin’ wool. There was a bite o’ food on the table, left over from their midday meal, an’ Robert asked if I’d like a mouthful or two. I said no, it wasn’t my custom to eat between breakfast an’ supper, so he left me talkin’ to the girls an’ went out into the yard somewhere.”

“No doubt to let the womenfolk talk unhindered,” suggested Radulph, with a smile on his face – even though there was also the thought that Robert Denny did not wish to appear over-protective of his daughter to one who was used to speaking to the girls without him being there.

“Oh, he’s very good, is Robert. He never git in the way o’ women’s chatter. Now, where was I?” She broke off for a moment’s reflection. “Oh yeah, I sat there in the kitchen, watchin’ the girls at their work an’ talkin’ about just any ol’ thing for the sake o’ sayin’ somethin’. I didn’t want to ask Ann straight out about her illness, so I thought I’d work round to it, slowly-like. When I did get to mentionin’ it, she told me about how she’d had this great sleep, long an’ deep, and how she couldn’t remember anythin’ about it – other than wakin’ up and seein’ her father near the bed.”

“Yes, that was the way of it, I believe.” Radulph felt bound to reinforce any impression that was wide of the mark regarding Ann’s real experience.

“Well, anyway, I said I was glad to see that she was now recovered,” Bess Hoberd went on, “an’ I told her that sleep was Nature’s great healer. I also said that I thought she might ha’ bin ailin’ in a way unknown to everyone an’ that the sleep had restored her.”

“Quite so,” said the priest. “Great cures have been wrought by slumber.”

“Anyway, she agreed wi’ me an’ thanked me for my concern for her health an’ well-bein’. Then we fell to talkin’ lightly again, as we had moments afore when I first sat myself down in the kitchen.” The flow of words dried up and Bess Hoberd sat silent in her chair.

“What kind of things did you speak of?” prompted Radulph, anxious not to lose the impetus of the conversation and yet equally anxious about what he might ultimately hear. “Just the usual kind of small things which mean nothing, I suppose, yet which keep us all in some kind of contact with each other.”

The old woman looked sat him with a wrinkle of brow and creasing of lip which had nothing to do with the lines placed permanently upon her face by age and by the weather. “I like the way you put things at times, Father,” she said. “It show a bit o’ the real man, inside the habit.”

“I had always hoped that the real man showed through the habit,” replied Radulph. “But I am glad, in any event, that you know a little of your priest.” He straightened himself upon his stool. “You were saying that you and the Denny girls were talking lightly of various matters.”

“Aye, so we were. An’ I happened to remark, somewhere along the line, that I’d done my share o’ cardin’ an’ windin’ wool over the years. Then I said to Ann an’ Joan how I envied them their young an’ nimble fingers, when mine were so crooked an’ stiff.” She paused to look at her hands and, once again spread the fingers, bending the knuckles slightly as she did so. “I didn’t expect no answer. I was only sayin’ somethin’, by way o’ converse. I’re had the screws long enough now to be able to live with ’em. But Ann took me up on what I’d said an’ replied that she’d like to be able to help me. I thanked her for her kindness an’ said that failin’ limbs were any ol’ person’s lot. An’ they are, Father. If you live long enough, you’ll begin to seize up.”

Radulph thought of aged brothers he had known. in the abbey’s infirmary, and nodded his head in agreement. “I believe you are right,” he said. “Old bones do not move easily or willingly.”

“No, they don’t.” Then Bess Hoberd continued her account. “Any rate, after I’d made that remark, Ann stopped turnin’ her distaff an’ put it down on the table. ‘I wish I could relieve your discomfort, Mistress Hoberd,’ she said. “An’ then she came to me, round the table. ‘Let me see your hands an’ hold them a while.’ Well, I could ha’ took the child an’ hugged her for her kindness, so I did as she asked an’ held my hands out to her. She took hold of them an’ began to squeeze them gently, workin’ her thumbs across the back in smoothin’ circles. I sat back at first an’ looked on in interest, as if the hands weren’t mine but someone else’s. Then I began to git the strangest feelin’.” The narrative ceased as the old woman strove to recollect exactly what she had felt and searched her mind for suitable words to describe the experience.

“A feeling of comfort, perhaps?” suggested Radulph, thinking of the lonely life Bess Hoberd led.

“Partly, yeah,” she agreed. “But there was more to it than that. My hands felt light, an’ they tingled as well – rather like when you warm yourself in front o’ a fire, after bein’ out in the cold.” She absorbed the sensation a second time before continuing. “In fact, I felt like that all over, while she held my hands. An’ for some time afterwards. It was a good feelin’, an’ I do believe it’s wi’ me yit.”

“Ann is a good girl,” observed Radulph. “Full of quiet concern for her fellow creatures. I am glad that you felt the warmth of her touch.”

“There was more to it than that,” replied Bess Hoberd. “That child has a power in her, a healin’ power, an’ it has already taken effect upon me.” She read the faint look of anxiety in Radulph’s face as disbelief. “It is so, Father. Believe you me, it is so. You can’t see any difference in the state o’ my hands, but they’re freer than they were. I can feel it. So I can in my other joints.”

Radulph responded to her with doubled caution. He had no wish to increase her zeal for a miracle of healing and he remembered Robert Denny’s fears about his daughter’s contact with things beyond the reach of most people’s understanding. “You are sure that this newly given movement is the result of Ann touching you?” he asked. “And not of some other cause you may not perhaps have considered?”

“Father, I’re been plagued wi’ the screws for nigh on thirty year!” There was a note of respectful forbearance in the voice, which was more damning than impatience could ever have been. “I’d long given up lookin’ for relief. Then I go an’ find it in the house o’ a friend, from a girl I’re watched grow up from the cradle. I can hardly believe it myself. Yit, it is so.”

Such conviction made it hard for Radulph to reply. He did not want to encourage the belief; nor did he wish to be seen as denying the possibility of restorative forces in the world. “Well,” he said, “you know what you know, Mistress, and I am glad that you have found some easing of your affliction.”

“So am I, Father. I tell you, that child has a healin’ power in her, wondrously strong. I felt it, an’ I know.” Then she added, “An’ she know it, too. Oh yeah, Ann know. That’s why she took hold o’ my hands in the first place.”

This development in the strange matter of Ann Denny was something which Radulph had not been prepared for; and while one part of him rejoiced at the miracle of Bess Hoberd’s new-found relief from stiffening of the joints, the other was apprehensive about possible ramifications beyond this one simple act of kindness. “You seem very sure of the gift in Ann,” he said.

“I am. An’ another thing, Father. When you called to see her today, did you notice them marks on her hands?”

The stigmata! It was no use for Radulph to dissemble any longer. Or, at any rate, maintain a lukewarm reaction to the old woman’s account of her experience. “Yes, I did,” he replied. “And I think I know you well enough to assume that you also know what those marks are.” He looked at her in anticipation of her reply.

“I think I do, Father. They’re not unheard of. St. Francis o’ the Animals bore them on his hands, feet and side.”

“So he did. And now we have someone in our own parish being visited with the same symbols of Our Lord’s suffering. Strange, is it not?”

“Aye. But marv’llous, as well, don’t you think? All that power in just a young mawther.”

“Marvellous – yes, in one way. But perhaps dangerous, in another.”

“Dangerous? I don’t follow you.”

“You ought to, Mistress Hoberd. Do you not recall what we talked of yesterday, after mass, when I met you on the footpath, as you were returning home from church?”

The reference did not take long for her to bring it to mind and Bess Hoberd pursed her lips in thought. “You mean that business about how certain folk believe that I possess dark powers?” she asked. “Yeah. I remember our words upon the matter, well enow.”

“Good. Then think how those same people might regard Ann Denny in the light of what she has done for you.” He let his point take full effect before continuing. “Did you say anything at all to Robert about what Ann had done?”

“No, I didn’t. I looked for him when I left, to say farewell, but he was still out in the yard or buildins, somewhere. Ann walked wi’ me to the door.”

“Ah, I see. And did she say anything at all?” One small fear had been allayed, but a number of other misgivings remained.

“Not a lot. I thanked her for what she had done for an ol’ woman, an’ she replied that it wasn’t much to hold a pair o’ poor, crooked hands for a minute or two an’ ease their pain – especially as the gift had been given to her to use.” 

“So.” Radulph took an audible inward breath and then exhaled as noticeably. “So, she knew that she had done you good,” he said, “and knew also that the healing gift was hers to employ.” He was speaking to himself as much as to the woman. “This is something I did not know about.” Then, addressing himself fully to Bess Hoberd again, “Have you spoken to anyone of what befell you at the Denny house today?”

The tone of voice in which Radulph asked the question had an element of foreboding about it and an inbuilt sense of suspicion, too. Bess Hoberd felt them both and the expression on her face was far from comfortable as she shaped to answer. “I never intended to say anythin’ about what happened there,” she began, “but I did let somethin’ slip.”

Radulph’s worst fears were realised. “Tell me about it, if you are able to,” he said. “It could prove to be important.” He gripped the sides of his stool, squeezed the wood hard with his hands as if bracing himself for physical onset, and remained thus in anticipation of the reply.

“Well, Father,” she began, “it was like this. When I got home from Robert’s place, I went out inta the yard to see if my washin’ was dry. It was, an’ I thanked God for it. While I stood there, gatherin’ it up from the bushes, who should come along but Jankyn Brock. He said that he’d called earlier, but I weren’t at home, and he wanted to know whether I’d finished yit with the bill he’d lent me to split firewood with (I’d put mine aside somewhere an’ couldn’t find it). I said that I had an’ that, if he liked to step up to the house for a minute, I’d git it for him.” Her brow furrowed a moment in recollection, and she paused.

“Is anything the matter, Mistress?” asked Radulph.

“Not really, Father,” she replied. “Except for thinkin’ how just a few words unwittingly spoken can give so much away.”

“Why, what did you say?”

“Well, Jankyn said to me, as we walked up to the house, that I seemed to be movin’ better than I was wont to o’ late. An’ me, not thinkin’, went an’ said that cures were sometimes to be found in unexpected places. Then he gave me that long-nosed look o’ his an’ said he’d heard that I’d been up to Robert Denny’s place. God know how he find out what other folk do! No one can go to the privy without him hearin’ about it!”

“Did you say anything to him after he’d mentioned you going to Robert’s house?” asked Radulph.

“No. I’d said enough alriddy.” There was noticeable self-reproach in the voice. “He wanted to know what I’d had that could unstick stiffened joints, but I told him nothin’. All he got was the bill he’d lent me. I could have swiped him with it for the way he leered at me as I handed it to him.”

Radulph was surprised by the vehemence of tone and by the flash of angry light in Bess Hoberd’s eyes. “Why, Mistress? The grin of a man, even an unpresentable rogue like Jankyn Brock, is only a grin when all is said and done.”

“It wasn’t just the grin, Father. It was what he said as I handed the bill to him.” She snorted, in disgust. “I don’t mind a bit o’ bawdry from folk o’ my own choosin’, but I can’t stand it from a maggoty knave like that!”

“Why, what did he say?” The conversation might be deviating from its central point, but Radulph was made sufficiently of flesh to want to know the quip that had fallen from the lips of Jankyn Brock.

“I’m not sure as I ought to repeat it, Father. Howsomever, since you ask – why, he said that simples and specifics were all very well for loosenin’ up an old woman, but there was nothin’ like a good tool to loosen a young one. Filthy devil! I told him I hoped his tool was better than his bill, for that was both blunt and rusty. He didn’t like it very much, I promise you!”

“And did he have anything to say after such a slight against his manhood?” Radulph enquired. “He can hardly have loved you for the remark.”

“Huh! Much do I care for that! I’ll see him orf any day you like to name.” Female pride was up. “No, he didn’t have too much to say as he left – just a typical, sneerin’ jibe about how the cure I’d taken for my bones seemed to ha’ done my tongue no harm, either, an’ how he’d best git himself up to Robert Denny’s farm an’ try to git hold o’ a draught o’ what was there.”

“Do you think he was in earnest?”

“Who can tell? He’s nosy enough to want to know what’s goin’ on an’ mischievous enough to cause trouble if he can.”

“True. But I think that Robert is more than capable of dealing with him, should he appear at the door. In any case,” and here Radulph spoke with knowledge of how his friend felt, “it would be wise to let things take their course, whatever that may be. The thing which the family needs least of all, at present, is to have people like you and me calling on them and warning of unwelcome visitors.”

Bess Hoberd concurred with this opinion, but still felt a degree of responsibility for what she might have set in motion. “I could kick myself for sayin’ what I did, Father, but there seemed to be nothin’ wrong when I said it. It was only when that blasted Jankyn started to nose out what had happened that I began to feel uneasy.” She interlocked her fingers and pushed the tips hard against the backs of her hands, making each nail blush pink, except for a band of white around the outer edge. “He’ll be up there at Robert’s house, sooner or later! I know he will. I can feel it.” The fingers unmeshed and she smacked the table hard with her palms.

“You may be right. But it will do no good for either of us to act in haste.” Radulph was aware that this was the second occasion during the evening on which he had advised caution. “We must wait and see what happens.”

“You’re right, Father.” Bess Hoberd took hold of her staff and rose from the chair in which she sat. “We may, both of us, be seein’ trouble where none is. It’s just that when I think o’ that mischief-maker, I begin to worry. He’s always pokin’ his nose into other folks’ affairs.”

“That is his task, of course. Or, at least, it is part of his duties.” Radulph was under no illusions concerning this particular one of the manor’s servants. “It happens to suit his nature as well, but remember than a Common-reeve is supposed to keep his eye on things.” Though, as the priest reflected to himself, it was an eye which would not apparently be sufficient for extra duties once the enclosure had taken place. “He is paid to watch comings and goings.”

“Aye, so he is.” Agreed Bess Hoberd. “And so he does, rot him! Him an’ his north eye.” She moved a pace or two from the table and began to take her leave. “But you’ve heard enow from me this evenin’, Father. I’ll be on my way.”

“Very well, Mistress. But, before you go, I would like to say something to you regarding Ann Denny.” Radulph rose from his seat, to stand facing his visitor. “I believe that the girl has been granted the gift of healing and that you are the first to experience it. I believed it, as soon as you told me of her touching you. I only pretended otherwise because I wished to test your statement. Forgive me for that. It was not that I doubted your word; I simply needed to hear the whole story unfold without encouragement from me.” The old woman nodded her understanding and he continued. “The other point was that I did not realise, until you told me, that Ann herself knew she possessed the gift. I ought to have realised, but I did not. I thought that it might have been bestowed upon her without her knowing. Oh, she would have soon found out, of course, but I assumed that the power would at first be unrevealed. I was wrong. She knew, all the while, that she possessed it. I wonder now just what the extent is of the whole of her knowing.”

“A great deal, I expect.” Bess Hoberd’s voice was level and quiet. “There is a depth there, Father, beyond my poor understandin’.”

“And mine, too. I have no doubt,” the priest and scholar responded. “Good mistress, may I tell you something?” The question required no answer. “I have two opposed feelings about Ann. The first is that I would love to see both her vision and her healing gift published abroad, for she has seen things beyond the scope of human understanding. She is – or she could be, I should say – a precious gift to a poor and troubled world. On the other hand, such is the ignorance of men that there are those among us who would brand the girl a witch and see her arraigned for her goodness. That is what her own father fears. And you, Mistress, of all people, must share his concern, since you know only too well how certain of the parishioners hereabouts regard you for your herb-craft.” There was a moment of silence between the two of them, which said more than words could ever hope to. “Believe me when I say that, while I rejoice inwardly at the miracle, I also fear the consequences. And not just the faggot and the stake. There are also those who would use any wonder of healing for their own narrow profit. Greed-of-gain, together with meed, its handmaiden, are old and powerful allies and I fear the way that Ann might be used to promote the worldly ambitions of those who see faith as a means of filling money-chests.”

“But Robert would never let that happen, Father! An’ nor would you!” Bess Hoberd spoke with feeling, based on her knowledge of the two men.

“Flattering though your belief in us is, we might have no choice.” Radulph’s words admitted not so much of shortcoming on his and Robert’s part, as of a sense of reality concerning the great world of affairs. “We are only as strong as we believe ourselves to be – or as other believe us to be. And that belief might not be sufficient to sustain us in the face of determined attempts to take the miracle of Ann’s power (of God’s, I should say) and use it for the glorification of Man. We live in difficult times, Mistress, and must pray that this matter will find its outward expression in charity and seemliness.” He broke off for a moment’s reflection. “Yes, we must pray and we must hope. We must hope that whatever happens will be God’s intent and that it will resolve itself for the weal of all concerned.” He paused again. “But there is, of course, no certainty that it will be so. No certainty at all.” A frown crept across his face and he stood looking down into the candle-flame.

“Well, I’ll take no more o’ your time, Father.” Bess Hoberd sensed that Radulph’s flow of words had come to an end and guessed that he needed to be alone in order to think upon not only what had passed between them, but all that had led up to it as well. “Thank you for receivin’ me so civilly and for listenin’ to me. I shall go home in a better mind than when I come here.” She began to make her way towards the door. “Though I’m still not completely easy inside o’ my head.”

“Allow me to see you out, Mistress Hoberd.” Radulph returned swiftly to the present moment as the old woman’s words and steps penetrated the veil of thought which had so readily fallen across his consciousness. “I was lacking in courtesy not to give you full attention.” He led the way out of the parlour, back through the hall, into the passageway and walked the few paces necessary to reach the front door of the house. As he opened it, he said, “I hope that you do not object to leaving by the front way, having entered by the back.” It was as near as he had come to any sort of levity since the beginning of their conversation.

“No, that’s all right, Father. I’m not superstitious in that way. An’ it’s a habit country people have, you know, callin’ at the back door.” She stepped out into the darkness and drew her cloak about her. “I’ll bid you goodnight. An’ I’ll pray for the girl – yis, an’ her fam’ly, too – as you suggest. Fare you well.”

Radulph returned Bess Hoberd’s valediction and watched until her stooping figure has been absorbed by the charcoal shades beyond his dwelling’s palisade of hedge-and-tree. Then he shut the door upon what lay outside the house and made his way back into the parlour. He did not enter the room, however. He just stood in the doorway and looked at what lay before him. There was a table with a book upon it, the grey and yellow tones from the wood and parchment thrown to the eyes of the beholder by the light of the dripping candle. Two seats were visible, as well – a chair and a stool – both of them pushed back from the table and left aslant where their occupants had risen from them. It seemed to the watcher at the door that he was looking upon a part of his being which had somehow been removed and placed apart, a portion of himself that had been severed from the whole and put there for his inspection. No figures occupied the seats, in his imagination, but he felt their late tenancy and he heard many echoes of the words which had passed between them. Most of all, he was aware of a distortion in the air that caused the words to vibrate and become discordant. He listed hard, in order to separate the jarring sounds, and the harder he listened the more distorted and fragmentary the sounds became. In the end, he had to step back from the doorway into the peace and shelter of the hall, and from thence into the passageway – there to allow his ears to clear themselves of the cacophony and receive the noises of ordinary hearing once gain. A minute or two of standing away from the parlour was sufficient to bring a return of normal response and Radulph then walked the few steps necessary to bring him into the kitchen. Simpkin was still stitching away at the dutfin and Margaret was busying herself on a repair to her brother’s spare work-tunic. They both looked up as their master entered and their lifted faces asked all the questions which their lips refrained from doing. 

“Bess Hoberd has gone,” Radulph informed them. “I showed her out by the front door She has a longish walk ahead of her, but she seems to have no fear of the distance and the darkness, in spite of her years.” He met and held the gaze of his two servants, one by one. “I shall return to my reading now. Should I go beyond my customary time, Margaret, do not trouble yourself to call me. I have much to think upon and would welcome no disturbance.”

And with that request for solitude, which was neither fully command nor plea, he closed the door of the kitchen upon Margaret and Simpkin and returned to the stillness of the parlour.

Chapter 7 (Monday, 6 April – Tuesday, 7 April)

As soon as he had closed the door behind him, Radulph went to the table and sat down once more to his book. Flexible time for quiet study and reflection was one of the luxuries of independence most enjoyed by him, but his period of contemplation was on this occasion fraught with anguish and therefore turned out to be not contemplative at all. His mind was forced to encompass a number of conflicting ideas and emotions; and, while he was capable of isolating each one individually and analysing it, he had no power to deal with the fusions and contradictions which flew at him with the speed of arrows. These darts of argument, these bolts, penetrated any defence which sophistry sought to offer and they also pierced the final barrier of conviction: that innate sense of what an individual person knew to be right and would therefore stand by. So relentless was the onslaught upon his consciousness that he was forced to bury himself in the pages of his book and read desperately for protection. But the very act of forcing his eyes and mind along the lines, to the exclusion of all else, meant that there could be no enjoyment of the words, nor understanding, and all he succeeded in doing was to tire himself with the effort. Even so, this brought him relief of a kind, for he eventually fell asleep across the table.

            When he awoke, sometime later, his light had almost burnt out on its iron spike and the drops of tallow hung to the stub like the last petals on a white dead-nettle stem. The house was very quiet and Radulph picked up the candle and walked through to the kitchen. His main reason for doing this was so as not to awaken his servants, who lay asleep upstairs, but he also had no real desire for sleep himself and thus went to sit bedside the fire-place. The stool he pulled up to the hearth offered little in the way of comfort, but there was residual warmth in the grey, banked remains of the fire and he bent towards them with a hunching forward that was as much reflex action as deliberate movement. A pink glow within the fluffy mass of ash showed that the fire remained alive and Radulph took hold of three large sticks, stirred the embers to life with one of them and placed it and its fellows upon the smouldering heap. Other pieces of wood lay on the hearth and these followed each other onto the fire in quick succession, so that a blaze was soon pushing itself up the flue constructed for it – an improvement of his own to the house, introduced not long after his arrival. Radulph looked into the pulsating tongues of flame and let his mind concentrate on their shape and colour. It proved to be a focus which allowed him to eliminate all the things which had lately troubled him and he fixed his mind on an abstraction in the manner beloved of old.

            One particular point in the fire took his attention. It was a small, triangular-shaped space resulting from the way that the first three pieces of wood had been placed together on being fed to the flames. Their outer surfaces had not yet been consumed, but the inner space behind them glowed with a fierce heat. It was rose-red in colour and it burned with a purifying intensity that demanded the watcher’s total concentration. As he bent himself to the red point of fire, Radulph felt first of all the warmth upon his face and then, as his thoughts focused themselves on the triangle, he passed through it into the redness beyond. He began by allowing his mind to encompass the whole of the incandescence there and then worked a reversal whereby the fiery, shimmering light invested the whole of his being and held him isolated from everything around him.

            This suspension of physical reality retained his inner being in a precious and fragile shell, within which thought could blossom and spread its petals. It was as if a bud long dormant, suddenly and unexpectedly, had the chance to open out and develop to the full extent of its beauty. And as the flower of realisation grew and spread, the whole of Radulph Fyld’s body was absorbed and taken into it so that there was no awareness for him beyond that of its inspiration – the fire. This surrounded him, held him, and consumed him utterly. He was part of the combustive force and he gave the rose of his meditation to the great and beautiful rose that the fire had now become. It was a bloom of majesty and power, and by the very purity of its being it demanded that the beholder of its perfection be no less than pure in his attention to it. And, this, Radulph was. He had no sense of the bodily husk which contained his indestructible self and his surrender to the fiery rose was total. Total. Not a clever trick of concentration learned and perfected in cloister, but a complete sacrifice of himself to acceptance of a cleansing virtue in the world. Time itself hung suspended. Suspended through having any sense of its passing temporarily removed, suspended by being hung between two concentric spheres of influence. One was the small circle of an individual consciousness; the other, the great surrounding compass of burning love, which lay both within the fire and outside it. And, as the two rings converged and met, their coalescence denied one dimension in creating another. The configuration had a logic and order of which the central figure was not aware, but which he would have appreciated had he been able to detach himself from the mystery of self-surrender and view the process from a point beyond.

            His sacrifice of himself, while it lasted, was absolute. But, in being so, its duration was always in question. Such was the complete annihilation of self that the unreality of total exchange, whereby physical being was replaced by a state of spiritual ecstasy and fulfilment, needed only a slight change of circumstance to shatter its fragility and bring a return to the world of mortal men. It was movement in the materials of the fire which caused Radulph to descend from the highest point he had ever reached in his spiritual development and perhaps was ever likely to reach again. He had seen the great rose of purifying power, had touched it and become united with it, and now it was taken from him. A simple collapse of the fire was what brought about the change, centring upon the triangle of wood that had produced the transfer of spirit in the first place. The bottom-most of the three sticks, having all but burnt through, broke in half and fell away from the other two. These, without a base to support them, fell across each other and formed a saltire cross. The noise of their fall, though slight, was sufficient to break the delicate structure of Radulph’s concentration. But even as he gave his hearing to the soft dropping of charred ticks, his eyes observed the diagonal configuration of the triangle’s erstwhile sides change yet again and become a crucifix. And, with this further movement in the composition of the fire, there stood upright before his eyes the real meaning of blood, fire and love.

            The vision faded with the final collapse of the sticks beneath the weight of the unconsumed wood above them. As they fell, new shapes replaced them and new patterns of flame threw light and heat into the room. Radulph drew back from the fire and sat straight up upon the stool. He stretched his arms and legs to relieve the aching caused by being set in one position for the time that his exaltation had lasted; then he arched his back and rolled his head around to bring relief to the muscles of his neck and shoulders. Finally, he stood up and walked from the hearth over to the window, where a faint greyness was beginning to seep into the firelit room through the partly open shutters. These had been closed by Margaret Jakks on her retiring to bed hours before, but the north-east wind had arisen (even as Radulph sat and looked into the fire) and it had forced the wooden panels apart. The flow of cold air through the aperture drew an involuntary shudder from him, but he set himself against it and opened the shutters fully to look upon one small part of his world edging towards dawn. A prospect lay before him of varying shades and shadows, of dark tones which ran the gamut from deep black to ashy grey. There were buildings in this murky panorama and there were trees, too; there was land and there was sky; and, most of all, there was upon the beholder of so much dim profundity the urge to leave the solid and familiar surroundings of the house and go out into the embryonic day. One perfect and burning rose had dropped its petals before the dark cross; there could be no other end. But, after endings, beginnings had to be looked for. Something called to Radulph from outside the house and he answered both it and the cry within himself.

            He left by the back door, drawing his cloak around him to fence out the probing fingers of the wind, and headed across his yard towards the church. The morning was still on the darker side of half-light, with the palest of waning moons entering its final quarter behind the driven clouds, and Radulph’s mind turned for a moment to the Abbey. In another hour or so his brethren would rouse themselves for Prime, having already sung the office of Matins and Lauds. It was a strict regime which prevailed in the house and the cycle of services, falling every three hours or so, had produced a rhythmical call-to-worship in Radulph, which still stirred within him though he had for some time now ceased to be part of the regular discipline. As he reached the cobbled walls of the church, the lower courses of stones laid in neat strata more than three hundred years before, he stood a moment and considered the insignificance of a single human span beside this pile of flints and mortar.

            Of the whole structure, only the nave windows and south porch were recent. Sir Nicholas Bosard’s father (also, Nicholas) had paid for new fenestration and a south proch, as an aid for the repose of his soul, while his son had had the porch raised in height just before Radulph was presented to the living.  It was a large structure in comparison with the rest of the building and reflected more than anything else one man’s glorification of himself. There were two pairs of set-back buttresses bracing it, one on either side of the entrance, and Radulph stopped by the right-hand ones. He patted the dressed limestone quoinings of their angles, admiring the regularity and finish of the masonry, and he ran his fingers over the knapped flint panels which lay within these outer blocks. The south-facing buttress of the two had a scratch-dial on it, about four feet from the ground, and Radulph felt the iron gnomon there, cold and rough. It was a pointing finger, as relentless and direct as that of any accuser, stiff and unmoving within its etched circle and able to perfom its function only when the sun shone. It would throw no shadow today if the wind was anything to go by, Radulph decided, and he left the shelter of his church for the open space of the burial ground. While he was crossing the humpy turf, the north-easter (as if to confirm his opinion of its nature) blew a particularly strong and icy blast which had him wondering just exactly what he was doing outside at such an hour.

            There might have been no specific purpose in his walking, but Radulph felt himself drawn to follow the route he had taken on the previous two days when he had visited the Denny family. Ann’s experiences had nothing to do with this, so it might have been force of habit, for the track was a customary one with him in normal circumstances, linking as it did an outlying sector of the parish to the village proper. It was a favourite walk with him, too, for its variety of scenery, though little of this could be observed at such an early hour and in such weather. Nevertheless, he knew everything that lay on either hand as he moved along his way, from the quiet cottages of the street to individual trees in the hedgerows beyond – especially the hedgerow which led down to the wood. It was here that he eventually found himself, standing before one particular elm not far from the entry-point into the coppices. Its trunk was pollarded, squat and massive, an appearance that was emphasised during daylight hours by the rugged and deeply fissured bark. Radulph had no need to see the feature clearly in order to know it, but his hands explored the ridges of the bole as if he needed to reassure himself that things were the same as always. Just above head height, a large and bulbous s excresence protruded from the trunk at the point from which one of the branches sprang. In the twilight of pre-dawn, it looked like a great black flower and Radulph stood and beheld it a while, thinking of the rose of fire which had opened its petals to him and taken him into its midst. A black cross had brought that vision to an end. How if a red cross should now begin a new one?

            Such a sign had no opportunity to form, beyond being a fleeting notion within the close and quiet convolutions of the mind. Even as the fancy presented itself to Radulph, a noise insinuated itself into his hearing from somewhere near at hand. It was a note or two lower than the howl of the air and it only found its way into his ear when the wind abated for a moment. There was a degree of unreality about it, for it seemed a noise which had no obvious connection with the surroundings from which it sprang, and its muted tone also made it difficult to establish exactly where it emanated from. Radulph set his ears keenly to catch any repetition of it, but he had to wait for a renewed blast of wind to have its mad, abandoned fling before he was able to hear anything other than the high-pitched skirl of driven air and the rattle of twigs and branches which opposed its movement. Then, in a short space of relative calm, he heard it again: a low groaning, as of someone, or something, in pain or distress. It was hard for him to be certain, but the noise seemed to be coming from just inside the boundary of the wood, and he had committed himself to seeking out the source of it there when the wind blew more furiously than it had done hitherto and sustained its force and velocity beyond hope of another early subsiding.

            Radulph crossed the dry ditch and passed through the outer line of trees into the coppices. The trunks, standing sentinel-like around the edge offered a degree of protection from the blast and he stood a moment, adjusting the hang of his cloak and allowing his eyes to adjust themselves to the ordered little world in which he now found himself. It did not take long for the coppice-stools to present themselves. Their poles bristled from the ground and Radulph was even able to ascertain which ones were hazel clumps. Faint, sinuous catkins dangled from these – free, it seemed, of their supporting twigs – and they bobbed jauntily in the circulating draughts of early morning. Much more direct and purposeful was the sudden scurry at his feet, through the dead leaves and mould of many autumns, which indicated the headlong bolt home of some small creature, alarmed at the threatening intrusion into its little kingdom. Radulph’s eyes followed a notional line of this hurried dash and, as they did so, his ears picked up the groaning sound again. By the increase in volume since he had last heard it, it was apparently not far away. More than that, it appeared to be most certainly of human quality.

“Who’s there?” The words startled Radulph as they left his mouth, for he had no real intention of saying anything. He had decided to stand and listen for a while longer, but speech had taken over before he had had time to adjust his ears properly to the sounds around him. “Who is it?” This time, the question was a deliberate one, formulated out of the sudden burst of its involuntary predecessor. “Speak if you can hear me.” There was a gradual increase in volume throughout the three separate stages of his addressing the unknown. No words came back to him by way of reply, but the low moaning repeated itself – and there was more than a hint of response in it, as well, in the way that the individual cadences increased in rapidity. 

“Who’s there? Answer, if you can.” The noises continued, as before. “I will try to find you by your voice.” His head turned from side to side in an attempt to fix a definite position for whoever was making the utterances. “Don’t be afraid. I wish to help you.” Again, the words were not planned. They came in response to a sudden feeling that some person, not too far away, was in need of assistance. And it was not very long before Radulph was able to determine where the groans were coming from. Twenty yards or so further into the coppices, from the place where he stood, there were not only guttural murmurings audible, of regular rise and fall in volume as if synchronised with breathing, but scratching and rustling sounds among the dry leaves and twigs which lay upon the ground. Certainty descended upon Radulph – the certainty that he would soon find whatever it was to be found, so he moved further into the wood, his steps neither slow nor hurried. As he placed one foot in front of the other, he put his eyes to the ground with them and just avoided stumbling over the large, dark heap which lay immediately before him.

Even as he came upon the recumbent form, he leant towards it and dropped to the ground beside, knowing that the head needed to be cradled first for comfort and then perhaps for questions. And with this preparation in mind, and with his body already given to a ministering posture, Radulph bent over the figure on the dead leaves and realised that it was Bess Hoberd. Bess Hoberd who, hours before, had in some way met with a fall on her way home from the vicarage-house and who had lain on the cold earth since, waiting to be found. It took a little time for her to realise who was kneeling beside and attending to her, but once recognition was established words began to replace the inarticulate sounds of pain and despair. True, the pain remained, but it was controlled now within a regular catching of the breath as the lungs filled and emptied, filled and emptied. Tightness in the chest was discernible in the way the old woman’s speech was delivered, but the utterances were now directed towards a purpose and no longer left to drift away half-formed upon the steely and unsympathetic wind.

“Mistress Hoberd, Mother Bess. What happened to you, that I find you, thus?” Radulph lifted her into a half-sitting position and eased himself behind her, allowing his kneeling form to act as a bolster. His fingers drew leaves and twiglets from her white hair as she answered him and he smoothed it down as best he could, cradling the head upon his shoulder.

“I fell, Father. Tripped over a root. I tried to save m’self with my staff, but it snapped when I threw my weight upon it.” She paused to draw breath and gather herself for the next statement. “No doubt you’ll find the pieces, if you look.”

“And did you hurt yourself, in falling?”

“Yeah. I stuck out my hand, like a fool, an’ tried to meet the ground afore it met me. I should ha’ known better. I think I’re broken my arm.”

“Your arm? Which one?”

“The right. It’s not much good, in any case, but it’s the one I mostly use.”

Radulph felt the limb carefully, drawing the mantle back and locating the sleeve of the woollen dress beneath. Bess Hoberd cried out sharply as his fingers found a slight misalignment of the inner part of the forearm, above the wrist, which caused him to apologise for his clumsiness – though, in fact, he was being extremely careful. “Forgive me, Mistress,” he said. “Is your arm giving you much pain?”

“I’m sorry to ha’ shouted so, Father. It was you touchin’ me on just the exact place which set me on edge.” She tried to make herself more comfortable against him and he, feeling the movement, attempted to adjust himself to it without causing her further discomfort. “I’re hurt some of my ribs, as well. The same side. They give me as much discomfort as the arm, when I crawled to here. I fell acrorss a stump.”

“You crawled to here?” Radulph was aware of playing echo, but found no other words to suit. “Where did you crawl from?”

“Just inside o’ the bank. I managed the holl all right, but I stumbled just after I’d cleared the rise. I reckon it was one o’ them ol’ elm roots as did it.”

“Very likely,” agreed Radulph.

“An’ I wanted to git a bit further into the wood, for shelter,” the old woman continued. “It was cold, bein’ laid there on the edge. That’s why I got some o’ these coppice-stools betwin me an’ that wind.”

Radulph murmured his approval. “You did wisely, Mistress. And now,” he began to plan ahead for the first time since hearing those low sounds of distress just inside the perimeter of the wood, “I think I had best go for assistance. Robert Denny’s dwelling lies not too far hence, and we both know that help will be given readily from that quarter.”

Bess Hoberd showed her pleasure at the suggestion. “That’s right, Father. Go to Robert. He an’ Richard won’t see ol’ Bess stuck in the woods like a ginned rabbit. Bring ’em to me.”

“I will.” Radulph began to rise from where he knelt. “Rest here as best you can. I will leave you my cloak, for some extra warmth.” He divested himself of the garment and, in spite of her protests, wrapped it around her.

Even as he turned away, to make for the far side of the plantation, she continued to protest at the consideration he had shown. “It won’t hurt me to bide here a little longer, Father. Take your cloak! It’s a bitter wind for them as to have walk about in it.” Then she added, “An’ why you’re abroad at this time, I just can’t think!”

“Priests keep strange hours, Mistress. I’ll say no more. You bide there. I shall run to Robert’s house, to keep warm!” He laughed at the idea. “You’ll not have to wait much longer.”

“You take your time, Father, do you’ll trip as well! Then there’ll be another needin’ help.” The advice was sound, and no less than sound for being given in the half-guise of a jest,

“You speak sense, as always, Mistress,” Radulph conceded. “I shall go as quickly as I can, without recklessness. Let that assurance be my best farewell to you.” And, with those words, he went deeper into the coppices, seeking their further side.

He had a strong sense of unreality in his head as he walked, and it had as its crowning touch the feeling that in some way he was nothing whatsoever to do with the set of circumstances determining his present situation. It was as if he were standing outside the little drama, watching it happen, yet having no connection with it. He had felt like this even while he ministered to Bess Hoberd as she lay upon the ground, and he had attributed it at the time to the surprise engendered in him by coming upon her in so unexpected a fashion – that, and the fact that he was feeling somewhat detached from reality because of his experiences during the night-hours. Now that he was removed by physical distance from the figure stretched out on its bed of dry, dead leaves, he was no longer sure that his sense of alienation (if that is what it was) could be due to something as predictable as surprise or so elevated as a vision. He began to believe, as he approached the far side of the wood, that it probably had much more to do with the grey, mysterious, smoky tones of the early morning, which had the effect of presenting the great world of nature, and the smaller world of men, in sufficient detail for recognition but without the clarity necessary for accurate observation. Which, therefore, resulted in the lack of a reference-point by which to know one’s place in the scheme of things.  Radulph felt this especially once he had entered the green-way that led to Robert Denny’s farm. The track was a tunnel of darkness beneath the lighter shades of the fields and the night-sky’s high retreat towards dawning; and, as he went further and further along it, he felt that he was cutting a single, isolated furrow, a channel of himself, into the surrounding landscape. And it was an act of incision which promised no end. For even with his reaching the house of his friend, and with the first approaches of morning proper, there remained the darkness of a day yet to unfold itself and a whole string of unrevealed tomorrows.

Just as he came up out of the hollow-way, Radulph perceived a cold, hard light just beginning to burnish the eastern skyline. It put the hedges and buildings of the Denny farmstead into black relief against it and gave them a quality of immutability. They seemed to be an upward extension of the supporting earth, and in one sense this was exactly what they were. He walked into the yard, glad to be near one end of his errand and hopeful of getting a few minutes’ respite from the wind. This had steadily infiltrated his reduced clothing over the whole length of his journey from the plantation (though diminishing in the green-way) and had caused him to set his muscles tight beneath the skin as a barrier to its progress through him. His jaws needed holding, too, lest the very teeth should start to rattle in his head; and it took a conscious effort on his part to release them, in order that he might hail the stooping figure he noticed making its way from behind the house across to one of the outbuildings. It, too, seemed to be an outgrowth of the ground beneath it, even though it was mobile, and he would not have seen it had he decided to go to the front door. Such was his normal practice, but the early hour at which he was calling had influenced him to seek the back, thereby bringing less inconvenience to the household.

“Richard, is that you?” Radulph sensed that it was the young man, in spite of the hunched body, and he raised his voice against the wind. “Is that you?” The repeat was shouted louder than the first hailing and the gap between them had narrowed, too, by a matter of yards, so that the figure stopped in mid-step and straightened in response to the words thrown in its direction. “I need your help. And your father’s, too.” 

“Help? What help, Father Radulph?” Richard Denny allowed the priest to come up to him. “Help – at this time o’ the mornin’!” He blew on his hands and looked up at the sky. “An’ what a mornin’, too!”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Radulph. “And that, in itself, makes my request more urgent than it might otherwise be.”

“How so?” asked Richard. “What’s the matter?” Then he noticed that the early-morning caller was wearing no outer garment. “Where’s your cloak? You must place great faith in the thickness o’ your skin to be out betimes without sufficient coverin’.”

“I had a cloak when I set out,” replied Radulph. “But I had to part with it. May we go within doors, Richard? I can better reveal there what I have to tell. Besides,” and here he shuddered noticeably, “I would welcome some respite from this lazy wind of yours!”

“O” course, you would! Come on in. There’s a fire goin’ an’ you can tell father what’s afoot.” Richard Denny turned towards the house and Radulph followed him. “The cows can wait a bit longer, or else Miles can go an’ milk ’em.”

They reached the back door of the house and went into the kitchen. Sure enough, a fire of dried hedge-wood was burning on the hearth and Robert bent before it, stirring an iron pot which hung from a hake set into the masonry of the chimney. He had just lifted a wooden spoon towards his mouth for a exploratory taste, when the noise of the door made him pause from his sampling of the broth and turn his attention to the sounds of entry from outside. The sight of Radulph, with his son, made him return the spoon quickly to the cauldron and move to the middle of the room. There, he set his hands square onto the table and leant forward above them, his face a mixture of surprise, pleasure and perhaps even a little amusement.

“A priest callin’ at this time o’ the mornin’!” he exclaimed. “Are we blessed by that, I wonder? Or the other thing?”

“Neither, Robert. I am here because I have need of your help. And of Richard’s.” Radulph came around the end of the table towards the fire. “Bess Hoberd lies hurt in the plantation. She needs to be moved within doors and receive proper attention.”

“Bess, hurt? How did that happen?” Robert left the table for the fire-side and stood near the other man. “An’ what got you up to find her?”

“That is of no importance,” replied Radulph. “But find her, I did. She came to see me yester-evening. She told me that she had visited you here earlier.”

“Yeah, that’s true. She came to see how Ann was farin’.” He looked into the fire and thought for a moment. “I didn’t see her when she left. I was out in the buildins, somewhere.’

“Yes, she told me as much. But that is all by the way.” Radulph felt obliged to keep strictly to the point of his calling. “What matters is that she fell and broke her arm. And some ribs as well, possibly.”

“Well, there’s no sense in us standin’ here, talkin’, then!” remarked Robert. “She needs shiftin’. Richard, go fetch a hurdle an’ we’ll take that to carry her on.” Then he turned to Radulph again. “I’d told the youngsters to have a bit o’ extra time in bed this mornin’, as it was so cold, but I’d best rouse ‘em now. We’ll be needin’ their help in a number o’ ways.” He went to the door which led into the dairy and opened it. “Miles! Git yourself up, there’s a good lad! The cows want milkin’. Richard an’ I have got to go out wi’ Father Radulph.” He paused, to hear if the words had taken effect, in the upstairs level, which some lumping sounds from above suggested was indeed the case. “An’, Miles, give Ann an’ Joan a shout as well. I’d like some food riddy when we get back.” He returned to the fire-side. “We’ll be away as soon as Richard bring the hurdle. I’ll just fetch my cloak. It’s goin’ to be cold out there, this mornin’.” He began to walk towards the passageway.

“Robert, I would welcome an outer garment, myself, if you have one to spare.” Radulph had no wish to lose the newly-acquired warmth which was beginning to spread throughout his body. “I left mine in the plantation, to cover Bess. Though I fear that it came rather late to do her much good.”

Robert Denny stopped at the door and turned around. “I knew there was somethin’ not right about you this mornin’,” he said. “I couldn’t think what it was. Now I know. No cloak, o’ course.” He stepped out into the passage and called back over his shoulder. “There’s one out here, somewhere, that’ll do for you.”

“Thank you. I will be glad of anything to hang about me and keep out this wind.” Radulph waited until Robert came back into the kitchen and took the covering offered to him. “I had not thought to be here under such circumstances this morning, I can tell you. Nor at such a time.”

Just as he said this, he heard the sound of feet descending wooden steps and turned towards the source. Miles came in from the dairy and addressed his uncle. “I’re called Ann an’ Joan, Uncle,” he said, “an’ they’re gittin’ up. Will you an’ Richard be out long wi’ Father Radulph?” He smiled his good morrow at the priest.

“Not too long. Bess Hoberd’s met with a fall in the New Plantation an’ we’re goin’ out to fetch her home, here.” He turned to Radulph. “I think that’ll be the best thing, Father. It’s not too far to bring her an’ the girls can look after her.” Then he laughed and added, “That’s if she’ll allow us to bring her here! You know what she’s like.”

“I have some slight notion,” answered Radulph, drily. “But I do not think that even Bess will argue this morning about where she’s taken.”

“Reckon you’re right,” Robert agreed. “But you know how stubborn she can be.” Then he canted his head, as he caught a particular noise from outside the back door. “Ah, I think I can hear Richard. We’ll git on our way. Tell the girls to have that broth ready, Miles, aginst our return. Once they’re up an’ about, you can go an’ see to the cows.” He and Radulph moved towards the outer door. “Fare you well. We won’t be long.”

The door closed behind them with a solid sound and the latch rang as it fell into place. Richard Denny had just stood the hurdle to rest against the wall of the house and was about to enter, when Radulph and his father emerged. “Good. You’re ready,” he said. “I was about to come in an’ give you a call.”

“Old heads must needs keep ahead o’ young legs,” observed Robert Denny. “Come. You an’ me can carry the hurdle. We’ll foller the man we’re allus told to foller.”

“Robert, I have caught you in a wanton humour, this morning,” laughed Radulph. “And I must consider how best I should respond to it.” 

The three of them left the yard and went down into the green-way. There was an increasing light in the eastern sky, but it brought no cheer with it, serving rather to emphasise the bleakness of the day. The clouds were low, blown overhead in great rags, their velocity too swift to allow for rain. Above them was a hard, unrelieved layer of lighter grey, a massive steely sheet which bound the firmament across the whole of its span and boded little good for the earth beneath. Rapid movement in the lower cloud, when set against this unshifting and unrelenting vastness, created a sense of disorder in the nearer universe; and the three small figures which inched along a narrow way in the emptiness of the early morning were a visual contradiction of everything around them. In a world of swirling vapours, rutted land and palsied trees, they were the only things which had any straightness about them. And even this had a degree of compromise about it, because closer scrutiny revealed a slight drooping about the shoulders of each man as he made his way down the track. The leading shape inclined forward solely in acknowledgement of the north-east wind, which was able to probe (albeit with diminished effect) even below the banks on either side; the other two felt the flow of cold air, and they too were slightly stooped, but they also had a cumbersome panel of split and plaited hazel wands to carry between them. This they accomplished by walking one at either end and holding the hurdle lengthways beneath the armpit, the fingers of each right hand stretching down and engaging the weft of riven sticks.

Few words were exchanged between the three men as they passed along the green-way, but at the entrance to the plantation they grouped for a moment or two and spoke among themselves. Then they struck off into the coppice-clumps on the last stage of their outward journey. They found Bess Hoberd lying where Radulph had left her, huddling close to the ground beneath the cover of his cloak, and they soon had her placed as comfortably as they might upon the hurdle. Robert and Richard Denny made fairly easy work of carrying her back to their farm, though they did stop from time to time in order to lay their burden down and rest themselves. It was during one of these halts, about halfway along the green-way, that Radulph had the feeling that all four of them were being watched.

The notion came upon him all at once. He had had no sense of it beforehand. And he was by no means sure that his eyes were to be trusted, let alone his imagination. The place where they had stopped was the narrowest and lowest part of the whole track, where the outgrowth of scrub vegetation crept towards the path from either side and where the ground was never really dry – even at the height of summer. Regular cutting and burning of the encroaching blackthorn bushes and hollow-stems only seemed to promote their tendency to thicken and overwhelm, and the dampness of the soil underfoot was vouched for by the deep wheel-ruts and hoof-marks that gouged and pitted the surface. Water lay in many of the holes – dull, dirty water, the colour of lead – and Radulph’s two companions had taken care to set Bess Hoberd down away from the worst of the wetness and the mire. She was commiserating with them about the weight of their load that morning and they were both denying any great inconvenience to themselves in carrying her.

It was while this conversation was going on that Radulph saw, or thought he saw – .Yes, what was it that he thought he saw? He was not sure. The words of his companions were loud and clear enough for him to hear, and he was content to stand and listen to them. They were a little piece of reality close to him, which he was able to share in without being directly involved. And if so be the words changed direction and reached out to him, then he would have no objection to surrendering his detachment and becoming part of the closer fabric of a conversation embracing four people. It was while he stood, half-listening to the voices of the three speakers, that his sense of hearing was nullified for a time by the paramount faculty of sight. Though whether what he saw was really seen, or not, proved hard for him to decide.

There was a particular clump of bushes and sapling trees, which all four of them had just passed, on the west side of the green-way. His eyes concentrated upon it, in the first instance, because of the distinct configuration of stem, branch and twig, which it was now possible to ascertain in the growing light. A large oak tree stood on the top of the bank, unpolled, and beneath its spreading branches, holding fast to the slope, grew a number of lesser shrubs. Radulph was familiar with this profusion of growth, even to the point of being able to recall the individual species without looking. But he looked this morning and fancied that he saw something extraneous. It was just below the top of the bank, where some greasy-barked elders, a crab-apple or two and a few blackthorns had been allowed to continue growing because of their fruit-bearing and herbal uses. The light below the oak was not good and the thicket some yards away, but Radulph felt that there was something wrong about the shape of the elders. They had a stoutness about them, low down, a width of bole which was not in keeping with his knowledge of the clump, close though the individual members grew. He even sensed a degree of movement there, beyond the effect of the wind (though he did not actually see it), and there was something about the murky shades of the bank which did not seem entirely natural. He was about to walk over and take a closer look, when Robert and Richard picked up the hurdle and began to move forward again. Radulph immediately turned to fall into step with them, turning from his preoccupation elsewhere. Bess Hoberd had noticed his shift of attention and called to him from her makeshift litter.

“They’re shakin’ my ol’ bones agin, Father!” she proclaimed. “I don’t know as I wouldn’t ha’ done better to ha’ stayed on the ground back there in the plantation.”

Robert Denny laughed. “If there’s one thing I like in folk I try to help, it’s gratitude,” he said. “I’ll stick to liftin’ sacks o’ corn in future. They don’t talk back!”

Radulph joined in the banter. “It is just as well we did not stop by your cottage, Mistress Hoberd,” he said, “else I do believe that you would have been up off that hurdle and into your own place.” Yet even though his tongue made a concession to the demands of the moment, he turned his head – and his eyes still sought for something in the group of trees and bushes which might confirm his feeling that all was not exactly as it should be. He was still looking over his shoulder as they left the wet part of the green-way, but nothing more than an indeterminate thickness around the trunks of the elder trees manifested itself, and even this disappeared from view as the little party drew further and further away. Once it had gone, leaving only footprints in the softened ground and the silence of their passing on the air, a shadow moved across the back of the thicket and drifted away into the fields beyond.

Drifted and was gone. And there were other shadows that morning, too – one of which lay across the mind of Radulph Fyld. For, as he walked ahead of the others, receiving their words from time to time and returning his own, he could not clear his head of the murky depths of the thicket and its oddly-shaped elder trees. There were times when he was inclined to attribute this unease to lack of sleep the previous night, to the force of the visions which had been thrust before him then, or to the events of the last two or three days. The possibilities came to him in various combinations and with varying strengths of conviction – but no satisfactory solution offered itself. Perhaps there was none. Perhaps solutions were too simplistic, too much the product of a naïve desire for order and reason in the world. Man’s small share of understanding, his most precious gift, was so limited and so fragile when compared to events that bled his vitality, challenged his belief, and flew in the face of his sense of justice. Oh, to be able to meet all calls upon the flesh and upon the spirit; to see all things clearly and know their significance; and to have the capacity to thwart material ambition on the part of the mighty for the weal of those lower in the world. Radulph’s skull, that morning encased a farrago of wishes and longings, becoming a vibrating cave of the echoes of years, as well as of days. And loud among those reverberating sounds was the hollow, threatening whisper of heresy. It was an insistent utterance, but it fell from no particular mouth and no one set of lips articulated its syllables.

Thus, did five minutes’ walking-time expand itself into an infinity of polemic and cross-proposition – at least, as far as the possibilities and ramifications of debate were concerned. Certainly, there was no unlimited span of time available for deep consideration of them, and the Denny farmstead coming into view brought an end to Radulph’s inner discourse. Miles had obviously been set to watch for their coming, or had set himself, because he moved quickly from the corner of the house as soon as he saw them and disappeared from sight around the back. There was movement, too, behind the people whose arrival he awaited – a dark shadow behind the hedge on the far side of the green-way, which stretched upwards above the top of the spiny twigs, held its position for a moment, and then was gone. Radulph let Robert and Richard pass him as they all approached the house and he stood for a moment or two, looking back the way they had come. But the shadow had passed. There was no sign of its presence whatsoever, except for discomfort of mind on the part of a priest and an uneasy feeling on the back of his neck. He had seen nothing, yet he sensed a good deal; and he was still sensing it when he reached the back door of the farmhouse, where Miles stood waiting for him.

They went into the kitchen together and Bess Hoberd was already off the hurdle and sitting on a stool beside the fire. She was in the process of shedding her outer garment (Radulph’s cloak having been removed from around her shoulders) and Robert Denny was assisting her as carefully as he was able, thereby minimising any pain and discomfort likely to be caused. Richard and his sisters stood watching, but they turned their eyes towards Radulph as he came through the door with Miles just behind him. The priest walked over to help Robert with the old woman’s cloak and the two of them soon had her free of it. The arm she had injured was badly enough impaired, but not as serious as might have been. The inner bone of the forearm was obviously broken, there was noticeable swelling above the wrist, and she complained of pain when she tried to move her hand. Her ribs were sore as well, but there were no obvious breaks there that Radulph could detect and he therefore expressed the opinion that perhaps the worst damage done was bruising of her side when she had fallen across the tree-stump. Painful enough, to be sure, but not so serious a matter as cracked or splintered bones.

“One thing’s certain,” commented Robert Denny. “You won’t be able to git about too well for a space o’ time an’ look after yourself. You’ll have to stay here until you’re well enow to go home.”

“I can’t put you to that trouble,” Bess replied. “You’re got enow to do without an extra body about the place.” Then she added, “An’ a useless one at that!” 

“You let me worry about that,” said the farmer. “You won’t be in the way unduly an’ the girls can look after you. They like someone to fuss round. We’ll make up the ol’ truckle-bed for you, down here.” He looked over to his son. “Richard, you can git it set up, later on.” Then he turned to Radulph. “We’d best do somethin’ about this arm, now, hadn’t we?”

“It needs binding as soon as possible,” confirmed Radulph. “And the wrist. Do you have any laths about the place? And some linen-strips?”

“I should think so. There’s linen here, in the kitchen. An’ there should be some laths outside, in one o’ the buildins.”

“I know where they are, Uncle,” Miles interposed. “I’ll go an’ fetch one.” And, with that, he left the room.

“Bless the boy!” remarked Robert. “He know this place better’n I do! I shall miss him when he eventually go to the Abbey.”

There then followed a discussion between the adults as to the merits of the lad, which was as much the result of their desire to have something to talk about until they could begin straightening and supporting the damaged arm as it was of any conscious wish to sing his praises publicly. The younger people sat quietly by, while this conversation took place, but Richard rose immediately when Miles returned and took the strip of wood from him. The boy had brought a single length of split hazel-rod with him, used for wattling walls or hurdles. Radulph indicated the length he wanted and Richard took it outside and cut four pieces to size, with a bill. The priest took them, approved their suitability and then asked Robert for some strips of linen. It was now the girls’ turn to oblige, and Ann and Joan not only brought stuff suitable for the purpose but cut it into the required lengths. Radulph took two pieces of the wood, demonstrated to Robert (who knew, anyway) how he wanted them held flat-side inwards against the broken arm, midway between the wrist and elbow. He tied the splints in place on either side of the forearm, countering the misalignment of bone as much as he dared and then reinforced his brace with the two other bits of hazel, placed on the inside and outside of the limb. Finally, he bound the wrist with the remaining strips of linen, as tightly as possible and with the interests of both comfort and circulation of blood allowed for.

“How does that feel, Mistress Hoberd?” he asked. “Not too tight, I hope. It is difficult to know sometimes.”

“No, Father. You’re done a good job o’ tyin’ me up. They taught you well, in that Abbey o’ yours.” 

Radulph did not reply immediately. He was thinking of a large upstairs room, in a detached range, with beds along one wall at right-angles to it and with a fire-place at the far end. Eventually, he spoke. “It is the custom of our order to encourage the brothers to spend a certain amount of time in the infirmary, assisting the brother in charge in caring for the sick and injured,” he said. “And I, like others, did various periods of duty there.” He considered his patient for a moment. “I won’t promise you full recovery from your hurt, Mistress, but I have bound your arm and wrist as well as I can.” 

“I know you have, Father, an’ I thank you for your attention. All of it.” The last three words were detached from the rest and spoken slowly.

“I am glad to have been able to help,” Radulph replied. “And I have no fears regarding your welfare here, in the midst of my adopted family.” He cast his eyes upon all of them in turn and came finally to the head of the house. “And that will be my parting note. Even though my good friend Robert here is about to ask me to stay and have some of the broth that has simmered on the fire against our return.” He reached down to the floor and picked up his cloak from, where it lay beside Bess Hoberd’s stool. “You may see me out, Robert,” he said. “And, if you can spare Miles, I shall be glad to see him later for Mass and for his lesson afterwards.”

“He’ll be there,” confirmed Robert. “He’ll be there.”

“Good. Margaret will be disappointed if he does not appear to clear his Tuesday platter.” Radulph threw his cloak around his shoulders. “Come shall we walk? A short distance for you, my friend. A longer one for me. Good morrow to you all.” And, with those words, he left the house, taking with him the echoes of the reciprocated farewells.

Outside, in the yard, he and Robert Denny stood for a few minutes in the lee of the dairy wall. Neither of them spoke at first, each waiting for the other to say something that fitted both the occasion and their expectation of what might properly be uttered. It was Radulph who began, making use of an omission on his part not so very long before as he was attending to Bess Hoberd. “I would suggest that comfrey poultices be applied to Bess’s ribs,” he said. “I never thought of it inside the house, but they are sovereign in cases such as hers.”

“We’ll no doubt find some growin’ about the place,” returned Robert. “The girls can see to it. They have their mother’s touch wi’ things like that.” He looked into the space ahead of him, seeing neither the outbuildings nor the great expanse of the grey and growing morn which lay beyond. “I wish I had her by me now, to talk things over with. There’s been so much happenin’ in the last few days that I can scarce begin to take it all in.” 

“I know how you must feel,” sympathised Radulph.

“An’ this last matter ha’ served to put the cap on things!”

“It is very good of you, under the circumstances, to take the old woman in. After all, she is no kin to you.” Not that such a consideration applied; Radulph knew what charity lay within the household.

Robert continued to gaze at some far, unseen point. “I’m not talkin’ about poor ol’ Bess,” he said. “It’s what Richard come home with yisterday which really bother me.” He paused for a moment or two. “This talk he had wi’ Walter Crosse – what do you make of it?” He turned and looked Radulph full in the face. “I wasn’t able to mention it afore now.”

“I think that you and I will live to see the Common enclosed, my friend.” The words were quietly and measuredly spoken. “All of it, or part of it. Sir Nicholas’s intention is clear.”

“Yeah, it is. But I’m not havin’ me or mine gittin’ involved wi’ his schemes.” The set of Robert Denny’s jaw spoke as eloquently of his resolve as the words themselves did. “What we have here was honestly got an’ we owe no man service for it. Besides,” and here his face clouded noticeably with the thought, “how can he justify taking away folk’s homes? To say nothin’ o’ denyin’ all o’ us our rights on the bruery!”

“I don’t think he would attempt to,” replied Radulph. “Beyond saying how the land could be put to better use.”

Robert snorted in disgust. “Better use! We all know what that mean! The ground’s no good for cultivation. Which leave sheep. That would be the way of it, too, I reckon – a sheep-run to go along o’ his others.”

“You are very likely correct.”

“I know I am! An’ what really anger me is the way Crosse was offerin’ to take on Richard as one o’ their hirelins. I can just see the boy workin’ wi’ Jankyn Brock, can’t you?” He enjoyed the ironic humour there might be in the idea, before continuing. “If Sir Nicholas do grab the Common, isn’t there anythin’ we can do?”

“Probably not,” conceded Radulph. “Sir Nicholas not only has the determination; he has the means as well.”

“Richard seem to think that you had a way, perchance, o’ stoppin’ such an enclosure takin’ place.” The level tone of Robert Denny’s voice revealed neither hope that this might be the case nor disbelief that it could be so. It merely reflected a statement, a passing-on of something he had been told.

Radulph had to think hard before replying.  Then he saw a young man’s face, full of outrage at a possible (no, impending) appropriation of the parish waste, and he remembered what he had said. “Ah, yes,” he nodded. “I did make a remark to that effect. Richard was all for taking the nearest instrument to hand and marching off to the manor-house. I had to think of a way of slowing him down.” He smiled at Robert. “He certainly does not lack courage, but discretion comes only with time.”

“True. He’s just like I used to be.”

“The other thing, of course,” continued Radulph, “is that I have no idea of what could be done to stop Sir Nicholas, and still do not have. Which means that I was expressing a hope rather than any positive intention.”

Robert nodded as he said this. “I guessed that was the case. An’ I don’t blame you, at all. I’d likely ha’ done the same thing myself.” He thought for a moment about the realities of the situation. “You’re right. There’s not much anyone can do – any of us, I mean.” He thought about it and added. “Then, o’ course, nothin’s happened as yit. And we can’t go – . Well, you know what I’m drivin’ at, Father.”

“Just so,” confirmed Radulph. “We can’t take any action until the others have made their move.” He laughed grimly. “What action? I know! There’s no need to say anything. In any case, nothing will happen until Sir Nicholas returns.” 

“Which give us time to consider what we can do in a matter where we can do nothin’! You’re given me that fine feel for words, Father, since I’re known you.” Robert Denny was quick to pay Radulph this compliment of a kind, both in truthfulness and in mollification of an unpalatable fact, and the priest received it in the spirit that the speaker intended.

“I hope that I may be able to give you more than that in the days ahead,” he replied. “But I would not care to make any promises. I fear for the people who may lose their homes. Yet beyond a direct appeal to Sir Nicholas himself (and I cannot see that serving much purpose), I have no idea of what action might be taken.” He looked beyond Robert Denny into his own unseen distance. “We must pray, my friend; pray that things may take a different and better course than the one which seems likely.” He turned his eyes once more upon Robert. “Go now into your family. You have much to do. I shall take my leave of you.”

“As you wish, Father. An’, like you, I’ll pray for things to take a better course.” Robert Denny walked to the back door of his house and placed his hand upon the latch. “Fare you well. I must talk further wi’ Richard about Ann an’ her experiences. We had a few words together, last night, but there’s a good deal yit to be said. So many things to talk about, Father. So many things.” And into the house he went, pulling the door shut behind him.

Radulph watched it close. He narrowed his eyes in concentration upon the graining and knots of the timber. Then he turned about and walked away into the light of a morning which, though poor, was sufficient to hold no more shadows of day’s breaking. 

Chapter 8 (Tuesday, 7 April)

Simpkin was crossing the yard as Radulph reached the vicarage-house. He had just milked the two cows that were kept and was returning from their byre with a half-full bucket in each hand. The staves on one had begun to spring and milk dripped from the container as he walked along. When he saw Radulph, he shouted a greeting and quickened his pace.

“Good morrer, Father! You’re up betimes.” His gaunt face poked out of the hood of an old, rough, waist-length garment, which was spattered with fresh, green cow-dung. It was an occupational risk which Radulph was familiar with.

“Yes, I took an early morning walk through the plantation and along the green-way. I hope that Margaret has not been unduly inconvenienced by it.”

“Not her,” replied Simpkin, falling into step beside his master. “She’s well used to your strange hours, by now. Beggin’ your pardon, o’ course, Father. But you know what I mean. Strange, to the likes o’ us.”

“No need to apologise, Simpkin. You are right.” Radulph reached out a hand to take one of the buckets, which was yielded to him. “If I were a labouring man, I should be fonder of my bed. Study is not the thing best calculated to lead to a sense of life’s realities.”

“If you say so, Father. I don’t know what you’re on about half the time, but it always sound as if it make sense.” He sniffed loudly and brushed the end of his nose with the back of his free hand. “I should ha’ thought this cold would ha’ bin gone by now. Yit, the rheum’s still bin dribblin’ out o’ my snout like thatch-drips, the last day or two!”

They had reached the back door of the house and Radulph opened it for his servant. “The onions have not worked on this occasion, then?”

“No. I’ve eaten ’em raw an’ boiled, an’ they’ve made no difference as yit.” Simpkin set his bucket down on the floor of the passage-way. “Nor has hot ale – an’ I like that better!” He took his master’s bucket, set it beside the other one. “Go you on in. There’s food in the kitchen aginst your return. I’re already eaten. I’ll just put these buckets in the back-house an’ leave my milkin’ coat there as well.”

Radulph waited until the task had been carried out and then went through the kitchen door, with Simpkin following. Margaret Jakks was standing at the table, her hands sunk into a small kneading-trough. She stretched and folded the dough in a rhythmical movement of the hands, which spoke of long practice, and she did not stop the manipulation as she turned her head at the sound of people entering the room.

“Your food’s riddy for you, Father,” she said, nodding to a place set at one end of the table. “Simpkin an’ me have had ours. We weren’t sure when you’d return.”

Radulph looked at the cold, dried beef and bread and acknowledged his house-keeper’s invitation. – if such it were. “Thank you, Margaret,” he said. “I am sorry to be late for breakfast, but I awoke early and felt the need to take a walk.” A sharp downward turn of the head towards the kneading-trough was all the answer he got, so he continued speaking. “It was fortunate that I did so, because I found Bess Hoberd lying injured in the New Plantation.”

“Bess Hoberd? Injured?” Margaret’s hands ceased their work and rested on the edge of the trough. But her eyes never rested for a moment as they searched the face of the priest. “How badly injured?”

“Enough to be going on with,” replied Radulph. “She has broken her right arm below the elbow, damaged her wrist and jarred her ribs.”

“An’ how did this all come about?” asked Margaret, turning her eyes for a moment from Radulph to follow the progress of her brother, as he walked from the doorway to strand in front of the fire. 

“She tripped and fell on her way home from here yester-evening, at the edge of the wood. Then she crawled a short distance into the coppices and lay there until I chanced upon her.”

“Then that’s just as well you took your walk, Father, else she might ha’ lain there a good deal longer.” Simpkin made an obvious show of warming himself as he spoke. “An’ this sort o’ weather’s not the kind to be layin’ around in”

“No, but it’s perfect for you to stand around in front o’ fires! Haven’t you got any work to do?” Margaret’s hand returned to their task in the kneading-trough.

Radulph came to Simpkin’s rescue. “He has finished the milking, Margaret, and come in with me as I returned. “A few minutes before the fire will not go amiss. Besides, he will be as interested as you to hear about Bess Hoberd and her mishap. Won’t you, Simpkin?” he enquired.

“Ah, that I will, Father. I’re known her since I was a boy.” He gave one of his characteristic sniffs as if in confirmation of the fact. “She’s a funny ol’ girl, but as straight a one as you’ll find anywhere.”

“An’ where is she, at present?” Margaret brought the conversation back to its main topic. “You won’t have left her on the ground.”

“No. I went and fetched Robert and Richard Denny. They carried her back to their home, and there she will stay until she’s well enough to return to her own dwelling.”

“That was a sensible thing to do.” Margaret nodded her approval. “She’ll be well looked after, if I know Robert as well as I think I do. His girls will see to her, an’ they’ll give her all the care she need.”

“Oh, they will, indeed,” Radulph concurred.” And Robert’s main problem will lie, I think, in keeping Mistress Hoberd under his roof until the time is right for her to leave. The idea she is likely to form of her recovery may not match the facts.”

“You think she’s likely to git over her fall then, Father?” It was Simpkin who asked the question. “Ol’ bones take a lot o’ mendin’, you know. An’ she’s likely a good deal shook up by the tumble she had.” He looked at his sister in anticipation of a reply, but received nothing beyond an acquiescent nod or two of her head. “You never can tell with ol’ folk. They can seem as right as rain one minute an’ ripe for a shroud the next.” 

“I do not think that Bess Hoberd is quite ready for a burial service, as yet,” answered Radulph. “Though I would certainly not want to make light of what she has endured over the last few hours. Her injuries are bad enough for one of her years, I grant you, but I believe that she has the strength and will to recover – and to recover in reasonable time.” He thought for a moment, then added, “And as you, Margaret, have observed, she will not be lacking in attention to her needs.”

This comment seemed to exhaust all that required saying at the time and Radulph, after first removing his cloak and draping it over one end of the meal-hutch, went to the table and sat down to the food which had been left out for him. After his experiences of the morning, the beef, the bread and the ale were both welcome and needed, and he set about them with enjoyment. Simpkin watched him from the hearth with an approving cast of his head, his large, bony hands fanned out behind him to catch the warmth radiating from the flames, while Margaret continued working away upon her dough at the other end of the table. Radulph felt their eyes upon him, but he also felt that the attention was kindly meant and he therefore ate his meal without discomfort. He even looked up from time to time and returned the glances thrown his way, until the silent dialogue was at last broken by Simpkin.

“Well, I mustn’t stand here all mornin’! I’d better git on wi’ my work.” He looked at his sister, expecting the inevitable retort, but she said nothing. She just pursed her lips and concentrated on the dough. “There’s a fair bit to see to – even on a small place like this.”

“Did you finish your sowing yesterday?” asked Radulph.

“No,” said Simpkin. “I’re still got the bottom bit o” Starve-gut to broadcast. I’ll git it done today, if this wind drops.”

“What else requires your attention?” The question was put as much in interest as for the sake of making conversation.

“Well, you remember me sayin’ the other day about that corner o’ the barn roof?”

“The one where the thatch is getting worn?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. It catch all the worst o’ the weather, just there.” Simpkin allowed the fact to re-establish itself in his master’s mind, whether there was need to or not. “I had another look at it this mornin’, afore I started the milkin’, and this ol’ wind has really pulled it about.”

“Which means it needs re-thatching, I suppose?”

“Well, it’ll keep for a week or two as yit, but I thought I’d git the reeds laid in while I could. There’s plenty o’ bundles stacked on the Common, down on the lows. They cut a good crop orf there, a month or two back, on the marshy bit, an’ the stuff is laid there, all ready to use.”

“But that reed belongs to the manor, surely?” observed Radulph.

“True. But Brock owe me a favour or two, so I reckon I can touch him for a few bundles.” Simpkin sniffed emphatically and there was the suggestion of a smile around the puckered corners of his mouth.

“I’m not sure that I dare guess how the Common-bailiff comes to be in your debt, Simpkin,” Radulph remarked.

“Don’t ask, Father!” Margaret interposed. “Else you might find out somethin’ to embarrass us all.”

“Stick to your dough, sister!” I’re done nothin’ wrong.” Simpkin then turned to address Radulph. “No, everythin’s all right, Father. It’s just that I know about one or two o’ Jankyn’s little catch-pennies.”

“Catch-pennies?”

“Yeah. He do one or two small things on the side which he wouldn’t want Walter Crosse to find out about.” Simpkin paused. “No cause for you to know what they are, Father, but they’re useful to have in hand for when they’re needed.” He laughed appreciatively at the degree of control he was able to exercise. “Like now, when I’m wantin’ a bundle or two o’ reeds to patch the barn with! No tithes on them, you know.”

“No. The manor exercises control,” observed Radulph, feeling far more weight in the words than Simpkin did. Then, sensing that his expression might be too serious for the occasion, he changed his tone. “I know! You have no need to remind me. You have told me oft-times before of the various rights and privileges upon that land. I ought to know by now that the reed-crop from the lows is the entitlement of the lord.”

“Not all of it!” laughed Simpkin. “Not this year. I’ll take the sorrel-horse an’ the little cart down with me to collect what’s needed.” And, with that, he moved from the hearth to the door. “Then, as soon as this wind drop a bit, I’ll git up on the barn roof an’ see to the thatch. Fare you well, together.”

The door opened and closed, and he was gone, leaving a space in the room which neither Radulph nor Margaret felt inclined to fill.

            Eventually, however, the silence became so intense as to need dispelling, and it was Margaret who broke it. “I hope he’s not gittin’ up to anythin’ foolish,” she said. “I don’t want him havin’ anythin’ to do wi’ the likes o’ Jankyn Brock.” She brought the dough out of the kneading-trough and slapped it onto an oak board. “You can’t trust a man like that.”

            Radulph had no wish to diminish her sisterly concern, but he also felt obliged to support Simpkin – even though his errand that morning was of a dubious moral nature. “I should not worry too much, Margaret. Simpkin is well able to look after himself in this matter. Besides,” and here he caught Margaret’s eye and held it, smiling, “does it not please you, just a little, to see someone who knows a thing or two about Jankyn Brock, when it is usually Jankyn Brock who knows everything about everyone else?”

            “Well, yeah, there is that about it, I spose,” admitted Margaret, pulling a handful from her heap of dough and shaping it into a small loaf. “But he’s a bad lot, that man. Always was. And so was his father, when he was alive.”

Radulph waited for the usual lesson in local genealogy to begin, such as was Margaret’s wont when she once got on to the subject of family pedigrees. But nothing followed her curt appraisal of Brock the Elder’s questionable character and he therefore changed the direction of the conversation. “Would it be possible for you, Margaret, to visit the Denny household at some time today?” he asked. “I have some dried simples that I would like taken over to help ease Bess Hoberd’s discomfort. If you are not too busy this morning, perhaps you would oblige me.”

Margaret continued rolling and patting the hand-sized lumps of dough that lay on the board before her. “I could walk over after Mass,” she said. “You will have Miles for his lesson, an’ Simpkin will be seein’ to them reeds, so there will time then afore our meal.”

“Thank you. Margaret. I am grateful for your help, and I know that Robert and his family will be glad to see you.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Father – though it’s kind of you to say so. Not that I’ve anythin’ bad to say about the Dennys. Robert’s a good, straightforward man an’ the childer have been well brought up – even with no mother for the last few years. Them girls especially seem like very proper young mawthers.”

Margaret’s estimate of the family’s general worthiness pleased Radulph and he rose from his place and walked to where she stood. “You are sure that I am not putting you to any trouble?” he asked. “I could have the simples sent by somebody else. Miles could take them, after his lesson.”

“No, that’ll be quite all right, Father. I’ll be pleased to take ’em.” She finished rolling out the loaves, arranged them neatly on the board, carried the whole lot across to the fire, set them down on the hearth and covered them with a clean cloth. “I’ll leave these to prove for a while,” she said, “an’ I’ll stick a faggot or two in the oven when I’re cleared away the breakfast things. Perhaps you could fire ’em, rake the ashes aside an’ put the loaves in, when you return from Mass.”

“I should be glad to, Margaret. “And I am honoured that you deem me capable of performing such an essential domestic task!”

Margaret caught the jesting tone and allowed herself to smile. “Ah, you may have your joke, Father Radulph, but bakin’ is a serious matter. So much to go wrong in the mixin’, the kneadin’ an’ the oven.” She looked at him slyly for a second or two. “But I daresay that you know that, don’t you?” She dropped her eyes, then looked at him again. “Folk always say that priests love a kitchen fire more’n they fear the fires o” Hell!”

Radulph had no appropriate and instant response to this remark, but he cultivated a tone of mock severity which he trusted would suit the demands of the moment. “Margaret,” he said, “I see that your tongue grows scandalous. I shall fear to let you go far from the house, lest you talk in such a vein to all whom you encounter.”

“Then you need not have too many fears about this mornin’, Father, for I doubt whether I’ll meet much company along the way to Robert Denny’s house.” Then she added, “Once I’m clear o’ the village!”

This answer struck a chord inside Radulph and, for a moment, he saw again the shadow within the thicket at the damp place in the green-way. The memory, although recent in terms of time, had about it a remoteness which seemed to push it back far beyond the early morning. It was as if the recollection had already shrunk in his mind to a small, dark spot on the very perimeter of stored experience – but it also had the capacity to loom large if, and when, the stimulus to summon it were delivered. Radulph had a number of such buried memories which had accumulated over the years and all of them had the habit of coming upon him from time to time and taking him by surprise. Incidents he had long forgotten, or thought he had, suddenly jumped into the forefront of his mind, to bring the past before him and to remind him of the dark side of life’s eternal conflict. There were times when he was tempted to believe that the only lasting memories were the ones which had their origins in darkness and shadow, so powerful was their effect upon him. But if he made the effort to think otherwise, then light began to filter through the gloom. And that, too, would then set him thinking: why should clear imaginings have to be striven for, yet the dark ones apparently have no difficulty in making themselves known? Or was the light in life taken for granted, leaving the darkness dominant by virtue of its contrasting nature? Were there two degrees of light in the world? The ordinary sweetness of life which surrounded man and embraced him, and the supreme intent that lay behind the gift. And did that intent itself encompass the darkness as well as the light? It was a question which Radulph would have liked to consider further had the dictates of the occasion allowed, but there were things to do and a person nearby who, through being part of them, represented their existence.

“Them simples you wish me to take to Robert’s house, Father Radulph,” asked Margaret, “shall I git them from you after church or will you give ’em to me, now, afore you leave?” She was still standing at the hearth. “You’ll be leavin’ shortly to prepare for Mass, won’t you?” This last question was really a statement of fact and Radulph was obliged to acknowledge its pertinence. The third hour was indeed beginning to exercise its call, not in any sense of imminence, but simply by the fact of routine which required his presence in church well before the office began. It was a regime that he had, through choice, imposed upon himself on first arriving in the parish and which, though still voluntary in one way, had also laid upon him the stern, unyielding hand of custom. Hence it was that he shifted himself from where he stood against the hearth, selected the herbs which Margaret was to take to Robert Denny, and walked across to the church – there to sacrifice himself, in one small sense, in the greatest sacrifice of all. 

After Mass, Radulph returned with Miles Gylman to the vicarage-house, to spend the forenoon tutoring the boy. He had decided, some time before, that an appropriate lesson for the Tuesday of Easter week would be to study and discuss the first fourteen verses of the gospel of St. John the Divine. True, the words constituted the reading for main mass on Christmas Day, yet Radulph felt strongly that they were as suited to Easter as to Christmas for the one Supreme Birth had to have its end in the Death of Deaths. And just as birth was a passing from darkness into light, so too was death. Light coming into the world, in the depths of a night so long ago, had awaited its time to shine. It had then shone brightly for three years or so throughout a land where many had failed to see the brilliance, before being extinguished beneath a cloud which covered that land at the sixth hour. Yet, even at the point when it seemed to have been snuffed out for all time, it had burst and blossomed into a radiancy which had illuminated the world of thought and action ever since. Thus, had the road from Bethlehem to Jerusalem unwound itself.

Once within the house, Radulph and Miles went through to the parlour. The boy sat himself at the table in readiness, while his mentor opened the window’s shutters so far as to allow sufficient light to enter, then went to a chest which stood against the wall and produced a most valued possession – the missal which had been given to him by his confessor when he had left the abbey to become a parish priest. He held it in his hand and considered it as moment, before turning about and walking to the table. Then he sat beside the boy, placed the book before them and thumbed through the pages until he came to the place required. The parchment sheets required some careful pressing and smoothing with fingers and palm to get them to lie open and obedient for perusal. Once ordered, however, the very regularity of the lines of writing invited a closer inspection, to say nothing of what meaning might lie in the phrasing of the words. Yet, having prepared the book for study, Radulph proceeded no further. Instead, he pushed his chair back from the table and stood up purposefully, leaving his expectant pupil wondering what cause of such a sudden movement could be.

“The light is very poor in the house this morning, Miles Let us move the table to the window, in order to see the better.” They both made the necessary adjustments of position to the item of furniture and sat down again. “I hope that you will not feel too much of as draught from outside.”

“It’ll be all right, Father. We’re on the sheltered side o’ the house, here.”

“Ah, yes, that is so.” Radulph smiled at the boy. “There is not much that I can tell you about weather-sides and lee-sides, is there?” Miles blushed at the compliment, but said nothing in reply. “Very well, then. Let us begin. We will see how your reading is, to start with.” He smoothed the pages of the missal down once more and pointed to the place. “It is the Holy Gospel for Christmas Day, which you have heard before. See, now, how you are able to deliver it to me.” He straightened himself in his chair and waited for the boy to begin.

Miles made himself comfortable on his stool and spent a moment or two easing his hand over the leaf, before he began – a touch that was both warm and respectful. “In principio erat Verbum,” he began. The opening statement was a little tentatively spoken, but his love of words upon a page, and the magnificence of these words in particular, soon dispelled any nervousness. And so, the passage of Scripture began to flow forth. “Et Verbum erat apud Deum, et Deus erat Verbum. Hoc erat in principio apud Deum. Omnia per ipsum factum sunt. Et sine ipso factum est nihil, quod factum est. In ipso vita erat, et vita erat lux hominum. Et lux in tenebris lucet, et tenebrae eam non comprehenderunt.” Radulph closed his eyes and let the words lap over him. “Fuit homo missus a Deo, cui nomen erat Iohannes. Hic venit in testimonium, ut testimonium perhiberet de lumine, ut omnes crederunt per illum. Non erat ille lux, sed ut testimonium perhiberet de lumine. Erat lux vera, quae illuminat omnem hominem venientem in hunc mundus. In mundo erat, et mundus per ipsum factum est, et mundus eum non cognovit. In propria venit, et sui eum non receperunt.” Oh, the blindness of people looking so hard for something to fit their own most limited conceptions. “Quotquot autem receperunt eum, dedit eis potestatam filios Dei fieri, his, qui credunt in nomine eius: qui non sanguinibus, neque voluntate carnis, neque ex voluntate viri, sed ex Deo nati sunt. Et Verbum caro factum est, et habitavit in nobis, et vidimus gloriam eius, gloriam quasi Unigeniti a Patre, plenum gratiae et veritatis.” The young, clear voice articulated the last ten syllables with a measured emphasis and left the sound of the words hanging in the room well after lip and tongue had ceased to move.

Radulph sat very still. He had been taken far away by the words into the expanding spaces of his mind, to the point where knowledge began. To where intent filled the void and gave it form. To where the formlessness of chance was given shape and moulded to a purpose. To where an individual will, far from being controlled in all it wished, was given freedom of expression. To where that freedom could best be expressed only in obedience to the Divine Will. To where will and intent were one. It was a point which, having been reached, Radulph might have continued to dwell upon, but he was brought back to the immediacy of the moment by Miles’s young voice sounding close beside him.

“I am sorry, Miles. I was transported by the words you read. What did you say?” 

“I asked if you wanted me to read the passage agin, Father.”

“No, no. You delivered it extremely well. There is no need for repetition. Let us now turn to discussing its content and meaning.” He bent forward over the text, bright-eyed, his finger eager to point them both across the page. “Of all the many fine and wondrous words to be found within the covers of this book, these lines of great John remain my favourites.” If only they could be read, and heard, in England’s native tongue, through Wyclif’s forbidden translation!

There then followed catechism of a sort. Not a mere mechanical question-and-response, but the distillation of one man’s belief into a dialogue which he shared with his pupil. It was, moreover, a true sharing of experience, for the older participant found his knowledge and his certainty valued by the younger one; while the boy, in his own turn, brought the precious gift of eager seeking to the man. Each drew from the other his own respective strength and the exchange between them burgeoned with dedication and with faith. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. This same was in the beginning with God.” Two parts of the eternal Trinity, with the third as yet unrevealed because the gift was only given in, and after, the Crucifixion. Radulph explained the doctrine to Miles as a triangle of perfect symmetry, where three different points were one and the same in their unity and their origin, yet stood also as individual parts of that integrity. It was carved in stone on one of the octagonal font-bowl’s faces, in church: the pater-filius shield. 

“All things were made by him, and without him was nothing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shone in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.” The all-embracing arm of creation extended by the Creator himself, engendering and gathering his own to him – and, in the gift of life, the offering too of enlightenment should man choose to receive it. Only the darkness of ignorance stood between God’s fairest creation and true knowledge; and the choice, once made for the better, stood against the works of ignorance for all time. Thus, was the true nature of light and darkness in the world revealed as a matter of choice, not of inherited forces being present in all things in equal (or disproportionate) measure. Radulph thought again of the pull which this latter belief had once had on him, but he said nothing of it to his charge as he presented the eternal conflict in terms of choices.

“There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. This man came as a witness, that he might bear witness of the Light, in order that all men might believe through him. He was not that Light, but came in order to bear witness of it. That was the true Light, which lightens every person coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world did not know him. He came into his inheritance, and his own people did not receive him.” Miles loved the story of John the Baptist, that wild and stirring figure who came from out of the desert places to bring folk to a truer understanding of things and prepare the way for his greater kinsman in both blood and mission. And of Jesus Christ himself, what did the boy feel? Ah, what indeed! Nothing more nor less than an unreserved acceptance that that light must always be preferable to darkness and that any failure to recognise truth, especially truth in its purest and most perfect form, was a denial of God’s intention in the world and of what Christ himself stood for.

“But as many as received him to themselves, to them he gave the power to become the children of God – they who believe in his name. Who were born not of blood, nor of the desire of the flesh, nor of the will of men, but who were born of God. And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. And we saw his glory, the glory as of the only-begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.” That one act of belief and commitment could bring so much with it! It seemed, in a way, almost impossible to believe – yet, in another way, it was so easy. Even the matter of being born again was no problem for the boy to accept, for he was able to see the distinction between mind and body and he had none of Nicodemus’s limitation when applying himself to the concept. The rebirth of Man was aided, too, and given meaning by God’s great gift of himself – his uttermost bounty finding its expression in the frailty of a human form. Miles wondered at the particular combination of might and weakness, and he was guided into seeing that an omnipotence which fails to encompass weakness (nay, even admit it as part of its own strength and being) is impressive only. It lacks warmth and compassion. It has the capacity to terrify, but not to inspire love. In God’s suffering through the Son lay the real beauty of his power; the truth of his concern for his dearest creation; and the grace he offered, and offers still, for liberation of the spirit.

It was a busy hour that the two of them spent together, but the intensity of study and the earnest exchange of words had their reward. Not only did understanding emerge from the disciplined black lines upon the page; there was also the feeling of mutual interest inherent in their interpretation and the comfort of knowing that one’s thoughts corresponded with those of another living person. Radulph felt both of these things strongly, for his discourse with Miles at such times was by no means one-sided. Granted he was the dominant figure of the two, in that he chose the portions of Scripture to be read and then proceeded to direct the discussion emanating from them. But the boy possessed an intellect worthy of respect and his questioning of his teacher was uncomplicated and clear, suffering from none of that sophistry into which learning can ultimately degenerate. And if Miles felt grateful for the tuition and was enriched by it, Radulph was equally in the former’s debt for bring to the debate an honesty of approach not always to be found in those for whom reading was an end in itself and not a gateway to a deeper understanding of the world and its mysteries.

The discussion had run its course and the two participants had been indulging in a lighter dialogue for some little while (for it sometimes required an effort on Radulph’s part to remember that his scholar was only eleven years old), when the sound of the back door opening and shutting cut across their conversation. There was a moment or two of intense silence, as there always is when a house has had its inner peace disturbed by the violation of entry, then came the sounds of someone moving about in the kitchen. Radulph got up from his chair, walked down the passage-way and went into the room. Simpkin was there, stirring up the fire to renewed activity and feeding it with a lump or two of wood from the heap which lay to one side of the hearth.

“Ah, Simpkin. You have finished your business with the reeds. How did it go?”

“Well enow,” grunted the vicarage servant. “I had to spend longer gittin’ ’em than I bargained for, though.” He continued poking the fire with a thick piece of stick, making the sparks jump and fly like hot grains of sand.

“How did that come about?” asked Radulph.

“Well, Jankyn asked me to help him shift some small timber which he’d got laid up at his place, so I stopped an’ give a hand with it. It was worth it for the reeds, though,” he added. “They’re good quality ones. I made sure o’ that.” He stopped poking the fire and straightened up. “Where’s Margaret? There aren’t many days when she’s not here at this hour.”

“I asked her to take some simples over to Robert Denny’s house for me, after Mass,” replied Radulph. “They were sent to ease Bess Hoberd’s hurt. I expect that Margaret has stayed a while to talk to her, and to the girls as well.”

“She’s a tough ol’ woman, is Bess,” remarked Simpkin. “I hope she pull round all right from this lot. But, as I said earlier, you never can tell wi’ olduns. They can seem all right, then – . Well, I don’t need to tell you, Father. You see enow o’ what I’m talkin’ about.”

“Yes, I do,” admitted Radulph. “But I think you may be wrong about Bess.”

“I hope I am! I hope she’ll live for a year or two yit an’ keep her little bit o’ the parish open. Because she’s only got that boy o’ hers to foller her,” he said. “An’ the house has a lot o’ custom hangin’ to it: beast-goings an’ the like. Not that she’s got any beasts, o’ course – just a few fowls. But what’ll happen to the place when her boy git hold o’ it? There’s one fair guess, I reckon, bearin’ in mind who he work for!”

Radulph heard the words of Walter Crosse re-echo once more within his head and thought again of the wind which might blow across the Common a lot sooner than Simpkin suspected. But he said nothing beyond a non-committal “We must wait and see what happens. We may be holding false fears.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Simpkin. “Perhaps. But it’s a funny ol’ world we live in. Very funny.” He began to move towards the door. “I shall have to be gittin’ on. There’s things to be done.”

“Would you like Miles to give you some help?” asked Radulph.

“Miles?” Then remembrance took hold. “Oh yeah, o’ course, it’s Tuesday. Yeah, he can help me unload the reeds from orf the cart an’ stow ’em in the barn. There’s one or two other things he can do as well, if he’s a mind to.”

“I shall call him, then. He’s in the parlour.” Radulph turned from the hearth towards the door he had come through not long before, but was prevented from summoning his pupil straight away by Simpkin speaking further.

“He’s a good boy, that one. He learn quick.  He’d make a good farmer one day, if you didn’t have other ideas for him.” There might have been an element of criticism in the words, but for the most part they were Simpkin’s perception of the facts of the matter – nothing more. And it was in the latter connotation that Radulph received them.

“He may well get the chance. The Abbey has much land and it requires good husbandry. Not all farmers are to be found in the ranks of the laity, you know!” He laughed as he said this. “Besides, what if he should eventually be presented to a parish such as this one, where there is glebe-land to be worked?” 

Simpkin thought about the possibility for a moment, before commenting. “Well there’s one thing about it, Father,” he said. “He’ll come to it knowin’ a bit more’n you did when you arrived here! No disrespect meant, o’ course.”

“None taken.” Raduph knew his shortcomings where agricultural skill was concerned. “But you must admit that I have improved under your tuition. I am not as ignorant as I was.” He returned Simpkin’s friendly grin with a smile of his own and moved towards the passage-way. “I will call our young friend for you. Miles! Miles! Step this way into the kitchen, will you, please?” There were a few moments’ silence until the boy appeared. “Ah, Miles. Would you help Simpkin to unload some bundles of reed?”

“Yis, Father Radulph.” The readiness of the reply was matched by the eagerness of expression in the young face. “Is there anythin’ else that you’d like me to do?”

“Oh, I daresay something else can be found. And when the tasks have been taken care of, it will no doubt be getting towards the time to eat.” He was anticipating Margaret’s return before much longer. “Wrap yourself against the cold. There’s an old jerkin hanging on the back of the door which you can have. Simpkin will see to it. I have more urgent things to attend to, for I see that I have forgotten to bake the bread!”

“Yeah, I wondered what the loaves were doin’ agin the fire,” remarked Simpkin. I lifted the clorth just now to see what lay underneath.” 

“Margaret asked me to fire the oven after I returned from mass – but I forgot to do so.” Radulph spoke a little ruefully. “I must now make shift to get the baking done – albeit somewhat belatedly.”

“Ah well, I won’t git in your way, Father. Come you on, young Miles. Grab hold o’ that there jerkin an’ come along o’ me.” Miles did as he was bidden and, just before following Simpkin through the door, turned to glance back at Radulph, who smiled at the boy and raised a hand in parting.

Then he turned to the immediate and serious matter of firing the oven, which was a brick-lined recess in the wall to the left of the fireplace, some four feet above hearth-level. He opened the heavy iron door, saw a couple of dried furze bundles already placed within, and picked up Simpkin’s brand from where it burned in company with the billets it had not so long before prodded into activity. He held the stick before him a moment, watching the yellow flames flicker and jump from its charred and fissured end. Heat was there, and so was light – and both of them sprang from an apparent deadness. For what could be more inanimate than a dry and brittle hedge-stick? Yet, there was within its composition matter sufficient and suitable for combustion – and, once the flames had taken hold, it required much to extinguish them. Thus, did Radulph’s thoughts run for a moment or two, before he placed the stick inside the oven and watched its fire ignite the faggots. There was a brief time of sporadic crackling and sparking, then the fuel took hold properly and was engulfed in a great and furious blaze. Radulph shut the door upon this lesser inferno and sat himself down before the fire. He knew, from watching Margaret perform the ritual of baking bread, roughly how long it would take for the flames to die down and leave the embers suitable for cooking dough, so he set himself comfortably upon a stool and waited for the furze to be consumed.

When he judged that sufficient time had elapsed, he went once more to the oven and opened it, first taking care to wrap a piece of cloth around the handle. A flow of hot air met him as he stooped to look within the cavity, making him recoil momentarily before bending forward again and ascertaining that all was as it should be. Then he reached down and grasped a blackened wooden peel, which rested against the wall. With this, he pushed the fluffy grey ashes to either side of the oven, together with any red embers that glowed still in testimony of the blaze. Having done this, and having looked carefully also to see that the ashes were properly disposed, he picked up the batch of loaves and placed them carefully into the oven with the peel – one loaf at a time, working from the back of the chamber to the front. He was just closing the door, when the sound of someone entering the house made him turn – and there, within seconds, was Margaret Jakks, standing in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry to ha’ bin such a long time, Father.” She removed her mantle and laid it on the meal-hutch. “Are the loaves fit to be taken out, yit?”

Radulph looked at her for a moment, before replying. “No, Margaret, they are not. I have only just, this minute, put them in.” He paused, in order to find the right words. “I regret to say that I forgot to do it, on returning from church. I hope that the error will not prove too serious.”

Margaret pursed her lips, but not in a reproachful way. “Well, I didn’t need the bread for today,” she said. “An’ as long as it hasn’t taken harm from being in front o’ the fire too long, it’ll bake well enough.”

Radulph took advantage of this statement to turn the conversation in a different direction, and one which he wished to pursue in spite of loaves or any other domestic matter. “How did you find Bess Hoberd?” he asked.

“Not so bad,” replied Margaret, “all things bein’ as they are.” She reflected a while on what she had said, before continuing. “Very well, really, I suppose – considerin’ what she’s bin through. We sat an’ had a good ol’ talk together, us an’ the girls. Robert an’ Richard were right glad they had work to do outside, I reckon!” She laughed as she made this last remark.

“I am pleased that you found your visit enjoyable,” Radulph said. “And I am sure that you will be equally welcome there, should you choose to call again in the next few days.”

“Well, I don’t exac’ly know about that, Father. I daresay that I’m not everybody’s idea of a welcome visitor.” She looked at him as she spoke and held his eyes with her own. “If I do have a reputation in the parish, it’s for somethin’ quite diff’rent.” She let the words take effect. “Margaret’s day for bein’ honest,” she said. “An’ there’s no call for you to say anythin’ kind by way of an answer, Father, because I know my fame hereabouts an’ reckon it’s well deserved.” There was something of the real Margaret in the last sentence, for it brooked no denial.

Radulph said, “I will utter nothing complimentary, Margaret. But, please, tell me more about your visit. As you well know, there is no one more hungry for news than a priest!”

“So people say. But hunger will have to be this priest’s master, I fancy. On this occasion, at least.” She paused a while. “There’s not much to tell, Father. In sooth, I found Bess Hoberd in a much better state than I expected – but that’s about all. Unless you wish to hear a lot o’ women’s talk!”

Radulph demurred. “Perhaps not,” he conceded. “Not all things which pass among women are meant for the ears of men. Or so I am told!”

“Oh, our chatter this mornin’ was harmless enow. Idle, like as not – but harmless.” Margaret smiled to herself, as if in recollection, then changed expression as a more serious thought came to mind. “Ah me, Father Radulph. I was forgittin’! Both Robert an’ Bess thank you for the herbs you sent. It would ha’ been wrong of me to ha’ forgotten that”

“I’m glad they were well received. There’s not a great deal else I can do. Tell me, how were the girls?” The question was one natural enough under the circumstances, but one of the sisters interested Radulph rather more than the other.

“They both seemed well, Father. Ann was a little quiet, I thought, but Joan made up for her. My, how that child can talk when she’s a mind to!” Margaret broke off and moved to the table. “An’, talkin’ o’ talk, I’d better start thinkin’ about our meal. Is Simpkin about anywhere?”

“Yes. He and Miles are unloading the reeds. They went out not long before you returned.”

“So, my brother managed to git his load o’ thatch, did he?” asked Margaret. “I did wonder about that, on the way home.” Her face took on a thoughtful cast. “What put it in my mind was that I thought I caught a glimpse o’ Jankyn Brock hangin’ about in the fields near Robert’s place.” Radulph said nothing, so she continued. “I’m sure it was him. He was behind the hedge, near where the green-way level out. What could he want, snoopin’ about round there?”

“Who knows?” replied Radulph. “He’s a long-nosed fellow, Brock. He might have had some business, thereabouts.”

“Well, if he did, then it was most likely knavish business!” Margaret began to clear one end of the table. “Ugh! I can’t even talk about the man, with dinner approachin’. It fair put me orf my food to think about him.” There was a clatter of wood and metal as she began to arrange utensils. “I hope you won’t think it rude o’ me, Father, if I don’t converse wi’ you a great deal more, but I’re got several things to be gittin’ on with now. If we’re to eat at the usual time, that is.”

“Of course, Margaret. I will leave you to your work and take myself off somewhere else.” Radulph picked up his cloak from where he had put it on returning from mass and walked to the door.” I think I will go and see how Simpkin and Miles are faring,” he said. And, without allowing any time for his woman servant to reply, he stepped outside.

It was cold in the yard, and the invisible movement of the wind was given a visible form by the twigs and branches of the naked trees which dipped and rattled in the currents of moving air. The interior of the barn, however, was still by comparison, if not exactly warm, and Radulph was amused to find Simpkin and Miles squatting among the sacks and skeps at one end, playing jack-stones. There was a short space of silence between the three of them, a little suspension of time which hung on the separate reactions of discoverer and discovered, but it was soon dispelled by jests and laughter on all sides. Indeed, a third player joined the other two in their pastime, finding that one small part of a half-forgotten boyhood was able to provide genuine diversion at a time when it was most needed. Thus, did the rising and falling of five small pebbles, the thrust and turn of quick-catching hands, and the scuffling of feet in the dust of the barn’s floor serve to fill in the time before dinner.

Late that night, in his bed, just before sleep brought its gift of withdrawal from the realities of life and living, Radulph turned his mind again to the game of jack-stones in the barn. He heard re-echoed, in the hollow chamber of his head, the laughter of Simpkin, of Miles and himself. He heard, too, the clicking of pebbles as they bounced against each other. And he dwelt with some warmth on the world of thirty years before, and of a week ago, where the dreams of young women, if known at all, reflected only the lighter fancies of the mind; where the taking of someone else’s land was always a parish or two away; and where kitchen fires produced shapes within their embers no more mystifying than the faces of beasts and people, known or imagined.

Chapter 9 (Wednesday, 8 April – Thursday, 9 April)

Each new day breaks with the possibility that its waking hours may hold something in prospect different from all previous days. The hopeful man will see this potentiality in terms of fair promise, but his darker-minded brother may well consider it a threat. Radulph awoke on the Wednesday morning in a state of mind somewhere between these two leanings. His opinion would not stretch to allowing him any belief that the problems of the last few days would suddenly resolve themselves by an agency unthought of; but nor did the cold hand of pessimism chill him with a conviction that events must soon take a sudden and uncontrollable turn for the worse. His inclination was drawn to neither extreme of feeling, but hung instead on a finely balanced point between the two. This was not due to any positive intention on his part. No concentration of will was required to achieve such a neutral position. It was as if his mental and spiritual strivings of late had sapped him, had for the time removed his capacity to feel and think at all deeply. Hence, that Wednesday held for him a deep reservoir of peace within himself – peace which the passing hours did nothing to dispel.

There were times, that day, when Radulph experienced vague stirrings of unease, but these were directed against the calmness within himself, not at anything which sought to threaten from outside. He felt that there ought to be something inside him that was able to respond to the calls upon his sensibility and he was inclined to attribute its absence to a deficiency in his own moral awareness. But the feeling did not trouble him seriously; his neutral reaction had temporarily removed the ability he normally possessed of putting his everyday experience into an ethical context. It had also weakened his response to the influence of words upon a page (usually, such a strong thing with him), so that as he said mass that morning at the rock of the third hour his part in the commemoration went but a little way beyond mere, mechanical uttering of the sentences. He recognised the imperfection of this, but again did not feel greatly troubled by the shortcoming, knowing that true forgiveness allowed for human frailty chiefly by acknowledging it. And he was able to allow himself a smile at the reaction his confession would bring. Father Peter, in the next parish, whom Radulph visited every month or so for unburdening himself, was advanced in years but not in theology. He would see little to object to in a mass said without feeling and commitment, believing that if this was not exactly the norm at the outset of priesthood then years of repetition must make it so. “Credo in unum Deum…” Set prayers and sliding beads – a way to absolution of a kind.

But there were other ways, too. Radulph found one that morning after Mass. For the first time in many hours he had no pressing calls upon his time, because all was well in the Denny household. Miles had told Radulph this as they made preparation for the office, and the presence a little later of his two female cousins at the service seemed to attest the fact. Radulph spoke to the girls afterwards and learned from them, too, that Bess Hoberd was in good spirits. There was a great deal else he would have liked to ask, but the occasion allowed for little more than a few pleasantries and Ann kept the answers of her hands concealed within her mantle. After the congregation had all departed and Miles was gone, too, Radulph walked from the church to the village and spent the morning meeting and talking with his charges as they went about their everyday work.

It was a contact which he enjoyed and which the people themselves seemed not to object to. They were prepared to stop and pass the time of day with their priest, letting him enter a little way through the door of themselves and revealing to him such small details of their working and domestic lives as it pleased them to. Radulph knew that they were only parting with as much as they chose to, but he saw this as being no different from what any other person might do, and the way that they couched everything in terms of understatement appealed to him greatly. There were practical considerations to be weighed, as well, for he learnt many useful things from them in the way of predicting the weather, arranging his planting and, if the need arose, extracting a third brew from the same mashing of malt. True, he had in Simpkin and Margaret two servants of great experience and resourcefulness in all domestic matters, but it was pleasant for him at times to be able to talk with them on apparently equal terms – even though he lacked the practical experience concerning many of the topics that came up for discussion. It had not happened immediately on his arriving in the parish and, if asked, Radulph could not have put a firm date upon it – but there had come a time when he realised that his parishioners probably took as much pleasure in instructing him as he did in teaching them. And though the time when the realisation occurred could not be specifically fixed, it was nevertheless an important point in his ministry.

By way of contrast with his conversations of the morning, Radulph spent the afternoon finding another, more expressive means of sustaining his freedom from himself. In company with Simpkin, after they had both eaten their midday repast, he sowed the bottom stretch of the field named Starve-gut with rye-seed. The wind had dropped sufficiently to allow the work to be done and the two of them walked the thin, stony soil together, casting the grain outwards with alternating movements of the hands and achieving an overlap of fall as they kept abreast of each other. Radulph loved the rhythmic sensation of broadcasting seed-corn – hand and foot functioning together in such perfect harmony that the eye was needed only to keep the progress down-furrow straight and true. There was no need to look for even falling of the grains upon the land, for that was taken care of by the co-ordination of two sets of four limbs. Each of these was its own unit, independent of the other (in a sense) but also reliant upon it for balance – especially where the ground was uneven and required adjustment of step. Starve-gut was a field of many inconsistencies of surface, but Radulph had learned his trade well and was able to cope with its irregularities almost as well as Simpkin. Indeed, the measure of his proficiency was that both he and his partner emptied and refilled their seed-lips together throughout the afternoon, and they stood together in the bottom-most corner when the task was done.

Simpkin stirred the clods and pebbles with his foot. “That’s a job worth gittin’ done. How anythin’ ever grow on this land, the good Lord alone must know! I’ll put the harrow over it tomorrer, all bein’ well, so the birds’ll not have too much of a feed.” They went home then, with fewer words than had passed between them on the ploughed land, each man content within himself and needing no words to proclaim it. Radulph called to mind the gospel of St. Matthew, chapter 13, and wondered what the yield would be of the seed which had fallen on such stony ground. After supper, he sat in the kitchen with his servants, on the periphery of their evening tasks, yet in the centre of their conversation. He went to bed, that night, still feeling himself suspended between the two great alternatives, but glad of the middle-ground afforded him by the speech of two people who, if they knew the extremities of existence, did not let that knowledge weigh too heavily upon them. He woke up once during the night, sensing that it was some time beyond the dividing-point of one day with another, but he quickly returned to sleep again within the surrounding shell of peace and darkness.

There was a last-quarter moon showing in the great black depth of heaven, whose waning crescent hung suspended behind stripes of light grey cloud. Around it – far, far beyond – the stars jinked and glinted in that scatter of vast munificence which was Creation itself. Fixed for Man in the seventh and outermost sphere, they remained in truth the free and revolving agents of one mighty plan. And to have them set and, in a sense, immobile was to deny the beauty of their being. Radulph had often pondered the rigidity of such a notion and had in the end accepted it without being entirely convinced of its truth. There was always too much movement in the skies, by day and by night, to accept that ordered concentricity could be the structure of the universe. And that night was no exception – though he was not awake to see it. Even with so little wind, the cloud-formations slid and shifted across the sky, giving it not so much a sense of their own motion as that of the moon itself. It seemed to float upon a running tide of vapours, checking or hurrying its pace according to the unseen current. Sometimes it rode high upon the flood; at others, it sank low into the ebb. There were even periods when it hung isolated and still in its own endless depth of darkness. But the cloud always returned and carried it across the sky to meet the dawn, which was waiting its turn below the far horizon. The point of meeting was an indeterminate, fragile thing for two such mighty agents – the slow touching of opposites which had no desire to come together, yet which had perforce to acknowledge each other in their contact. No obvious line of demarcation declared it, but it happened nevertheless. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a greyness seeped from behind a great rampart of black cloud above the sea, spreading itself further and further into the sky and giving notice that the day had come. Daylight itself, true daylight by which men work and set their seal upon the earth, was some time yet behind this dull forerunner, but the ocean had already exchanged its polished, moon-splashed surface for the leaden shades of embryonic morning.

Thus, Thursday dawned; and, somewhere about the turning-point of early twilight, Radulph himself awoke. He lay awhile in his bed, looking at the ashen square which was the window and his thoughts focused somewhere beyond it, on what the approaching hours might hold. As with the previous day, he felt himself balanced on a fine and tenuous divide between opposing forces. But this time, too, he sensed that there loomed before him the possibility of events moving in one or other of two directions. His inclination to think so was reinforced later, just before Mass, when Miles (arriving later at church than was customary) informed him that Bess Hoberd was to leave the Denny household that morning and return to her own home, accompanied by and Ann and Joan. The boy had no further information to impart, or if he had he did not choose to reveal it. But, when Robert Denny entered the church as the canon was about to begin, Radulph knew that there were matters afoot beyond what his altar-boy had told him. He was uttering the words of the Sursam Corda when he saw his friend approaching the chancel screen; and, as Robert joined the folk gathered there, Radulph and he held each other’s gaze for a moment at the point of Vere dignum et justum est. They exchanged looks again at the Ter Sanctus. But Radulph had his back to the congregation thereafter, as he celebrated the Eucharist at the altar. He felt Robert’s eyes upon him, however, as much as upon his ritual gestures, and he wasted no time in seeking him out after the service had ended. He incorporated his greeting within those he dispensed to the various people present and Robert then drew aside until they had all gone. Once the last of the faithful had departed, the two men went and sat in the stalls opposite the shriving-bench, their only company the boy Miles, who was busy with his after-service duties in the sanctuary.

“It is Ann that brings you here this morning, my friend?”

“Yeah.” Robert bit heavily upon that single word and turned, for a moment, to glance at the glass image of Mary Magdalene in the window above – the jar she carried held out in offering. Then, he turned to Radulph and spoke earnestly. “She’re laid her hands upon Bess Hoberd an’ the ol’ woman say that she’s now able to go home.” He paused. “No doubt Miles ha’ told you that last bit.” 

“He has,” Radulph replied. “But what has Ann managed to perform upon her?”

“Well,” said Robert, “she hasn’t mended her arm. That’s certain enow. What she’s done (so the old woman say) is to take all the pain away from her bones so that she’s able to move about wi’ some measure o’ ease.”

“Did you ask Mistress Bess how this was done?”

“Yeah. An’ she said that Ann had laid her hands upon her. This was yisterday I’m talkin’ about, Father. Durin’ the forenoon, when Richard an’ me were outside, about the place, doin’ somethin’ or other.” 

“And when did Bess tell you what had happened?”

“Yisterday evenin’, after supper. She said there’d be no need for her to put upon us any farther, because she was much better an’ would return to her own house on the morrer.” He paused for a moment or two. “There was only Richard an’ me in the kitchen with her. The younkers had already gone to bed.”

“Would you like me to come and speak with Ann?” asked Radulph, guessing what was in Robert’s mind, but not certain by any means what he could do to allay his friend’s misgivings.

“Yeah, I would. There’s somethin’ about her, now – somethin’ that’s happened in the last day or two – that bother me mightily.” He turned his gaze from the chancel window to look directly at Radulph again. “Do you recall what we spoke of the other day, when you came to see Ann after she’d woken up from that long sleep of hers?”

“You mean the problems of sainthood?” Radulph knew that this was what Robert was referring to. “The thin line there is for many folk between the acts of God and those of the Devil?”

“That’s it,” Robert replied. “An’ I told you about the Maid o’ France. Well, I’re had her in mind agin an’ the feelin’ isn’t a comfortable one.”

“Would you care to tell me about it?”

“Not here and now, Father. It’s like enow plain, ordinary foolishness that’s in my head. An’, in any case, you know the greater part of it alriddy.” He paused a while, to brood upon the admission. “Howsomever, I’d take it kindly if you’d call on us an’ talk to Ann agin.”

“I will do as you ask, Robert. Of course. When shall I come?”

“Well, I wasn’t expectin’ to name the time, Father. I’ll wait on you.” 

“Very well. How would this afternoon suit you?” The look on Robert Denny’s face was answer enough. “Good! Consider it arranged I will be over some time after the midday meal.” Radulph and Robert both turned their heads at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was Miles. Her had finished his duties in the sanctuary and was carrying a lighted taper in his hand. 

“I thought that I’d just see that all the lights on the candle-beam were burnin’, Father,” he said. “I forgot to look at ’em afore the service.”

“Thank you, Miles. And when you have done that, I daresay your Uncle Robert will be ready to take you home.” He smiled as he spoke, his voice and glances taking in both his listeners. “Or perhaps you will then be ready to escort your uncle hence.” It was the right thing to say at the time. The three of them all laughed together and the humour acted as an avenue by which the two adults could pass from the topic which had previously occupied them. Indeed, the talk now turned to the subject of young lads and their habitual fascination with fire. Both men kept their voices low so as not to be overheard, but they allowed themselves an audible chuckle when Radulph remarked, in accompaniment to the scraping of footsteps close by, overhead, in the rood-loft, “Truly, Robert, there are times when I am tempted to believe that there was a boy behind the bush of Moses. A boy with a taper in his hand!”

It was not an inappropriate thing to have said, Radulph decided, in more ways than one – for he, like the great leader of old, might also be seen as living in the land of Midian. Certainly, he had felt this to be the case on first arriving in the parish and he had continued to feel it even after he had adjusted to his new situation. Now he was experiencing the sensation strongly again, owing to the events of the last few days, and he was at a loss to know either from where his guiding-light would come or whence he should hear the strengthening voice so mighty in its stillness. As he walked over to the Denny farmstead that afternoon, he realised that his mind had begun to stir from the state of neutrality so lately imposed upon him and that he must now prepare himself for whatever lay ahead. He had no way of knowing what might befall and, as he was capable of seeing more than one possibility, he decided that he must continue to expect any outcome. An equivocal attitude need not mean weakness of intent, as one of his old tutors had been so fond of telling him, and he had long decided for himself that there was ultimately greater strength to be found in flexibility than in too rigid an insistence on one set of likelihoods.

Robert received him at the front door of the house, jesting as always that until he called at the back he could never look upon himself as a true countryman – to which Radulph replied that no amount of pretence on his part could make him what he was not and that, besides, the front door was the nearer of the two as he came in from the green-way. The kitchen was empty when they entered it, but the noise of voices and utensils from the adjacent room declared some sort of activity therein. Richard and Miles, it seemed, had gone chasing herrings on the fair promise of a fining-down in the weather and a suitable tide, but the two girls were busy within the dairy and responded to their father’s call. There was a moment or two of awkwardness as they first came into the room, but Radulph soon dispelled any potential reticence on the part of either parent or children by asking Robert’s daughters how their morning’s task of accompanying Bess Hoberd home had gone. They answered his questions willingly enough, Joan especially, and it was the younger girl who also revealed that the three of them had met with Jankyn Brock as they reached the cottage.

“Master Brock? enquired Radulph. “Did he say what he was doing there?”

“Yeah, he did, Father,” replied the girl. “He said that he’d bin loadin’ up some timber, in his yard, to cart away later an’ thought he would just walk over from his house to keep an eye on Mistress Hoberd’s place.”

“That was very neighbourly of him,” observed Radulph.

“Mistress Hoberd didn’t think so,” said Joan. “She scolded him for nosy rascal, who would do well to mind his own place.” The girl giggled and looked at her sister. “She soon told him what he could do!”

“Yeah,” agreed Ann. “Master Brock was angry beneath his smile. I could see that plain enow. He said he was glad to see Mistress Bess so much recovered – but he didn’t mean it.” Ann Denny looked first at her father, then at Radulph. “He watch everyone so close. He was still hangin’ about when Joan an’ me left.”

The two men exchanged the most fleeting of glances, but neither of them said anything regarding the common’s bailiff. Instead, Radulph kept the conversation centred firmly on Bess Hoberd. It became obvious that the old woman was greatly recovered in everything except the mending of the injured arm and that, given her determination, she would no doubt do well enough back in her own home. Robert said that he and his family would continue to keep an eye on her and Radulph expressed his intention of calling on her regularly in order to treat the fracture and check upon her general welfare. This mutual declaration of aid and support having been made, there then followed a silence – which was not so much the result of the discourse having reached a natural conclusion as of an unwillingness on the part of any of the participants to take up the next, inevitable matter. And so the restraint hung like a heavy cloth upon them, until Robert Denny’s voice cut through its folds with a forced cheerfulness.

“Well, Joan, you an’ me had best be gittin’ on with our work! Father Radulph an’ your sister ha’ got things to talk about.” The girls looked at each other in a way that said much about their feelings for each other. “Where would you like to go, Father?”

Radulph thought for a moment before replying. “If it meets with Ann’s agreement,” he said, “I should like to take a walk around your fields. It is as pleasant a day as we have had for some time and I would welcome the gift of good, fresh air.” He looked at Ann for her reaction.

Robert looked at his daughter also. “How do you like the Father’s suggestion?” he asked. “You needn’t be afeared o’ sayin’ so if you don’t.”

Ann looked first at her parent, then at her priest. “I like it very well. I’ll be ready to go, as soon as I’re put my mantle on.”

While the girl attired herself, her sister returned to the dairy and the two men stood quietly by, each thinking what was there in his mind to reflect upon. Very soon, Radulph was accompanying Ann Denny out of the back door of the house and across the yard, but not before he had given it as his opinion to Robert that the two of them ought not to be long about their business. “Folk say that to come in by one door and leave by another brings ill-fortune,” he remarked to Ann, as they walked towards the barn, “but we will hope for better things.”

“You’re always told me that our fortunes are in our own hands, Father Radulph,” she replied. “Best if directed by God, but to be found in our mastery of ourselves, even so.” Ann looked at Radulph as the two of the passed between the barn’s western gable-end and a line of one-storey buildings which housed the farm’s pigs and cattle at such times as indoor accommodation was required. Beyond this latter range a large muck-heap hunched itself, the ground about it spread with dried dung sand straw and grown through with nettles.

“Thus is the teacher taught!” conceded Radulph. “I shall remember in future not to be so prescriptive in what I say.” The entered the farm’s first close, by a hurdle gateway in the hedge and began to cross the pasture: improved land which, long ago, had once been waste. A score or so of ewes were grazing, along with their lambs – the latter a month, or more, old and knowing as much as they would ever need to. Radulph commented on their quality as he and Ann walked across the little meadow, its grass cropped close to the roots, and the girl replied that her father was well pleased with them.

“He say that they should shape up well.” She glanced about her as they passed on, her fondness for the young animals showing plainly in her face. “I think it’s a pity they have to grow up at all.” 

They reached the hedge and, having passed through a wicket like the one which had given them access to the first field, came to stand in another close. It was much the same in size and shape as its fellow, compact and square, with the only noticeable difference being the length of its grasses. These were ankle-deep, with thicker and darker clumps that sprouted to mid-calf and higher. It was apparent that this was the pasture which the sheep would live off next – though with some risk of getting blown if they ate too much of what grew there – and the two walkers stood a while, taking in its undisturbed luxuriance. The hawthorn hedges which bounded it looked very bare by comparison and, within easy range of the eye, showed clearly the cuts made in winter by the blade of billhook and scrogging-iron. Every so often, a stock had been allowed to develop into a tree, each twisted and fluted trunk an upward extension of the spiny, interlocking twigs below. As with all the area’s trees, the north-east wind and the salty air had pushed growth to the westward, giving a distinctive wedge-shape to the tops and making them seem to point towards sunset. There was no suggestion anywhere of the profusion of white, honey-scented blossom which would cover both hedges and trees in a month’s time. Nor was there on the few stunted crabs which huddled together in the south-western corner of the meadow. It was towards these latter the Radulph and Ann Denny now made their way.

“I hope my suggestion that we should sit awhile does not go amiss with you, Ann,” the priest said.

“No, Father. O’ course, not.”

“It seemed to me that we might talk more easily sitting together, rather than walking abroad.” He indicated the trunk of a single, old birch (survivor of an earlier landscape) which had been felled some months before and left where it had fallen. A number of the branches had been lopped for firewood and carried away, but there remained those that had snapped like broken bones beneath the fall of the tree, their splintered ends piercing and gouging the soil beneath its thin cover of starved grass. Ann sat down on the flaking bark of the trunk, while Radulph settled himself, half-facing her, onto the springing of a bough from the parent stem. The branch was one which had been cut away, but the length of its stub was sufficient to allow for comfortable sitting. He looked at the girl for a while, not quite knowing how to begin, and she for her own part dropped her glance in deference – not only in awareness of his authority, but in recognition of his unease as well. The heavens above were a pale, hard blue, with strands of fine, white cloud stretched tight across the immensity – except for the sector below, where the afternoon sun hung suspended. Here, there was a creamy opaqueness about the sky which contrasted noticeably with the clarity of the rest and spoke of eventual rain from the western distances. Beneath such vastness the two seated figures on their tree were as nothing, but in their own world they had a measure of being by which they might know both themselves and their purpose.

“It is hard for me to know exactly how to begin, Ann.” Radulph thought it best to start with this admission. “You father has already told me of how you have brought relief to Mistress Hoberd, but that is not what I wish to ask you about. Not immediately, at any rate.” He paused for a moment or two, looking far beyond the girl to somewhere only he could see. Then he focused his eyes upon her and continued speaking. “Have you had any dreams of late? Dreams of the kind you described to me when you had awoken from your long sleep?”

“No, Father.” Ann Denny’s voice was quiet and even in tone. “But I’re seen our Holy Mother since then.” She looked him straight in the eye and awaited his response.

“Seen Our Lady? How seen, Ann? And when?”

The girl’s forehead creased slightly as she felt for the words she should use. “I’re seen her standin’ before me, Father, at various times. I’re seen her durin’ my sleep an’ durin’ my wakin’ hours, as well. She stand before me an’ beckon me to her.”

“And do you go to her?” Radulph decided to keep his questioning in sympathy with the girl’s revelation, believing this to be the best line of approach and the one least likely to bring her any doubts or self-consciousness concerning what she had seen.

“Yeah. I walk towards her.” She stopped a moment and looked down at her hands. They were clasped and resting on her lap, and a quick crossing and uncrossing of the thumbs gave notice of a certain activity within her mind. “When I reach her, she hold out one hand to me an’ point the way forward wi’ the other one.” Again, Ann paused and briefly considered her hands, before carrying on. “I don’t know where it is that she’s pointin’ to, or what it is, but I feel that there is somethin’ ahead o’ us in the distance, which I can’t see.”

Radulph knew instinctively the meaning of the gesture, but he resisted the temptation to reveal it there and then, felling that he must first find out more about Ann’s recent experiences before drawing her attention to what apparently lay ahead. “And does Our Lady say anything to you?” he asked. “Does she speak, in any way, at all?”

“No, Father. She just beckon to me an’ point ahead.” Then her face brightened with a recollection not remembered hitherto. “Oh yeah, an’ she smile at me, as well – just as she did in my great dream.” Ann said no more, but waited for the next question to be out to her. 

It did not come immediately, however. Radulph, in deciding to change his line of approach, needed a few moments in order to consider his next question. He recognised that directness was required, yet a degree of tact was needed also lest the girl feel assailed by his probing. “These acts of comfort that you have worked upon Mistress Hoberd,” he began. “Did you perform them as a friend?” He allowed his words to reach Ann. “Or were you moved by some compulsion beyond mere feeling for a fellow-creature?”

“Compulsion, Father?” Ann’s eyes moved from her hands to Radulph’s face. “Compulsion? I don’t understand you.”

“Let me put it another way, child. Did you feel a power upon you? A power which made you want to lay your hands upon Mistress Hoberd.” He watched for the effect his question had and knew the answer even before the girl replied.

This, she did quickly, unclasping her hands and spreading them, fingers splayed and palms down, upon her knees. Simultaneous with this loosening gesture was a swift uplifting of her eyes to meet those of the priest, and with this elevation of the head came her admission. “I placed my hands upon Mistress Hoberd ’cause I felt that I should use my gift.” A blush coloured her face. “But I also did what I did ’cause she’s a friend.” Radulph nodded his understanding and allowed her time to say more, should she wish to. “I think her bein’ a friend was the thing what mattered most, at the time, Father, but I’re thought since that usin’ the gift for any who need it may well be what I have to do.”

“You talk of a gift, Ann. Your healing power is a gift?”

“Yeah, Father. At least, I feel that it is so.”

“And who has made you this gift, child? Who has called you to use it?”

“God has, Father.” The burden of belief showed in her face. “It frighten me at times to think of it, but I know that the power is there within me.”

“I, too, believe that it is.” Radulph tried to show his understanding. “I do not doubt that a great and wondrous gift has been bestowed upon you.” He leant towards the girl and took her hands into his own, turning them upwards as he did so. “See, the marks are there, yet.” They both looked at the purple blotches. “Are your feet and side still so figured?”

“Yeah, they are, Father.”

“Thus, do the marks of murdered goodness translate themselves into a saving agency.” Radulph spoke the words abstractedly and to no one in particular. Then he turned his attention to the girl again, having released his gentle hold upon her. “And do the marks cause you any pain or discomfort?”

“No, Father. Though I sometimes feel a tinglin’ in my skin where they’re placed.” Ann kept her hands spread out upon her knees and considered them with a detachment which might have been reserved for someone else’s. “My hands are tools. But the skill I have in usin’ ’em come from above.”

“And you are content that this should be so? Many would find it a heavy load to bear.” Radulph was anxious to ascertain her reaction to the charge which had been laid upon her.

“I can’t help but be content, Father. It’s not for me to ask why such a thing’s happened to me.” There was resignation in Ann Denny’s tone of voice and the expression on her face.

“Yet, you must have asked. It can hardly have been otherwise.” The statement was not so much a denial of what the girl had said, as a recognition that such responsibility must be contrary to the usual wishes and inclination of so young a person.

“I did, at first.” Ann dwelt upon her admission for a time, then continued. “But seein’ the Holy Mother standin’ afore me, like she do, make me feel that I have someone to share my burden with.”

“The Mother of God herself had a great duty, not of her choosing, laid upon her,” commented Radulph. “Perhaps she appears to you in order to point the way you are to follow.”

“An’ the way is forward, Father. Is that what you’re sayin’?”

“That would seem to be one possible interpretation.” Radulph could give the girl no certainties. “But what lies beyond seeing, I cannot guess at.”

“Nor can I, Father. Though I’re tried hard enow.” The expression on her face changed from seriousness to something which spoke a little more of hope. “Perhaps I’re bin tryin’ too hard. Perhaps I should just allow myself to be led.” She paused, waiting for confirmation that this might indeed be the proper course. 

“I do not think that Our Lady would indicate a path undesirable to tread,” remarked Radulph. “So, yes, it likely would be best for you to go the way that you sense is shown to you.” Then he added, lest the girl should feel that her way must be without nearer and more human direction, “I shall, of course, do all I can to help you in what you must do.”

“I know that, Father.” The whole of Ann Denny’s trust in her priest manifested itself in this one brief declaration. “An’ I thank you.”

There followed then, between the two of them, a silence born of the recognition that little more could easily and usefully be said. Allied to this was an acknowledgment, on the part of each of them, that nothing in the way of certainties could be voiced when so much remained unrevealed. Thus, it was, that the two of them sat in the full light of day, aware not so much of the sun’s bright and limitless depth as of the closer gloom which had a marked path stretched across its breadth like a long, dark ribbon. There was no particular sense of foreboding in this image, just the fact of ignorance placed there like a curtain; another cloud of unknowing to be entered and experienced, by each of them.

Eventually, Radulph broke the silence. “Before we return to the house, Ann – and I think it best that we go back soon – I have one more thing to impart to you.” He reached out into his mind for a way of saying what he wanted, could not find one exactly to his liking, but felt compelled to continue because of the attention he had demanded of the girl. “It is hard for me to know just how I should say this, but I have to tell you that what you may be called upon to do could cause your father great anxiety. It might even raise his opposition – though I do not think so.”

Ann’s response was not immediately forthcoming, but when it did come Radulph was impressed and surprised by the depth of its perception. “I know that my father wish for all of us to live ordinary lives,” she said. “An’ I know, too, the fears he’ll have if there’s a mission for me to carry out.” She smiled briefly to herself, then continued speaking. “One o’ his favourite stories to us at home is about the Maid o’ France. Why, he even named our Joan after her!”

“I did not know that,” murmured Radulph. “Though I might perhaps have guessed.”

“Oh yeah, he admired her greatly,” continued Ann. “He still do. He’s often said how wrong it was to burn her for a witch, even though she was fightin’ aginst us. All that youth and goodness goin’ skywards in smoke an’ flames – that’s how he’s wont to describe the burnin’.”

“I can imagine him saying such things,” Radulph remarked. “He has spoken of the incident to me, from time to time. I assumed from his words that he held Joan of Arc in esteem – though not to the degree you have mentioned.” He let a recent memory take hold of him. “We were talking about her only the other day, as I was leaving the house after you had revealed your great dream to me. Your father was saying how easily people – .” He broke off abruptly, realising that his line of thought might not be at all appropriate, and it was a matter of seconds before he could look Ann in the eye again.

“There’s no need for you to stop, Father Radulph.” The girl regarded him calmly and spoke with a voice to match. “I expect my father was sayin’ how quick people start shoutin’ witchcraft about things they don’t understand. Even if them things be good,” she added, smiling.

“How can you know that?” asked Radulph. 

The girl continued smiling. “For one thing, I know my father well,” she said. “An’, for another, remember that we’re had Mistress Hoberd in our house for the last day or two. Father has spoken more than once (though not within her hearin’) o’ how some folk in the parish regard her skill with herbs an’ charms as proof o’ her havin’ dark powers.”

“I see.” Radulph felt that he had to speak, yet he wanted to say as little as possible.

“So, I don’t have to be much good at guessin’ to know that my father would be worried about my dream an’ the blemishes on my body.” She stopped speaking and looked down once more at her hands. “Perhaps I should tell him that these holy marks can have nothin’ o’ the Evil One about them.”

“Yes, that might be a good thing to do, Ann.” Radulph felt impotent in the face of such power placed in one he knew so well, unable to advise beyond the dropping of platitudes.

“Yet, the Bible tell how Jesus himself was accused o’ doin’ good in the Devil’s name.” The remark had the impact and penetration on the priest’s mind that an arrow would have had upon his body. 

“It does.” He tried desperately to find something quick and easy to say, but discovered nothing. Then remembering (or thinking that he remembered) the last occasion he had used the third chapter of St. Mark’s Gospel to preach a public sermon, he said, “But the Jewish rulers saw Our Lord as a threat to their whole way of life.”

“An’ I can’t be that to anyone hereabouts, Father, can I?” There was such simplicity in the response as to give the flavour of a jest about it, somehow, and Radulph smiled in recognition of the girl’s wit.

“No, Ann. I do not think you can.” He rose from where he sat upon the birch-trunk. “Come, let us return to the house. I told your father that we would not be away long.” He held out his hand to her and she took it momentarily in getting to her feet. The two of them then walked back the way they had come, pausing for a short time in the pasture which held the sheep. Inevitably, or so it seemed, their conversation turned once more to the lambs and Ann used them as an example of her own situation.

“I said earlier about how it’s a pity that these lambs have to grow up.” She moved her eyes from the young animals to a point in the sky far beyond them, concentrating her sight where the sun would later sink to its place of rest. “I wonder if the same’s true o’ me. I used to look forward so much to the time when I become a woman.” Her voice was quiet, yet very clear. “I couldn’t wait for the years to go by quick enow.”

“That is a common sentiment among the young, I believe.” Radulph was glad of the opportunity to be both supportive and truthful.

“Now, I’m no longer sure whether I wish to reach full womanhood (though my time towards it ha’ begun), or whether I even will.” She turned from looking into the distance and regarded the animals again. “Joan an’ me used to play at bein’ mothers when our own mother was alive. I wonder, now, if the game will ever come true.”

“It should,” said Radulph. “There’s certainly time enough for it to. You are young, yet, to be thinking of marriage and families.”

“Not so very young, Father.” Ann’s reply was both corrective and factual. “Not so very young.” Then she smiled, more to herself than to him. “Besides, is not the love betwin a man an’ a woman an honourable thing?”

“It is. Or, can be.” The slightest of pauses was discernible between the two statements. “With or without Mother Church’s sanction.” Again, he paused. 

Ann listened to his pronouncements and then continued speaking. “I’re long thought how pleasant it must be for folk who love each other to be bedded. Even the beasts fall to their couplin’ with enjoyment.” She blushed as she uttered that last remark and turned her eyes away. “Forgive me, Father. It’s wrong o’ me to say such things.”

“No, Ann. Not wrong. Nor even imprudent, when it is me you’re speaking to.” Radulph felt himself warm towards the girl’s essential honesty.

“Thank you for sayin’ so, Father. But how can someone as good as Our Lady appear to someone as bad as me?

“You are not bad, Ann. And remember also that the Mother of God knew an earthly husband after her great work was done. Yes, and bore him children, too, as the fruit of their embracing.” Radulph was aware how much his words went contrary to the teaching of the Church – or, at least, to its reservations concerning Mary’s humanity – but he felt bound to speak his mind here and now, even if he never did so again. “We must never forget that the Queen of Heaven was a girl herself who, as I said to you not all that long ago, had a great and heavy responsibility laid upon her. Which, to the joy and health of us all, she took upon herself in acceptance of God’s purpose.”

Ann Denny listened attentively as Radulph spoke and his words seemed to be at least partly what she needed to hear. “I know that I, too, must take upon me what is intended,” she said. “An’ I ask you, once again, to stand by me.”

“You have no need to ask again, Ann. I shall help and support you as best I can.” He gestured the remaining part of the way back to the house, the extending of his right arm expressing the same thing as his words. “Let us go to your father, now. I must speak with him ere I return home and we have kept him waiting long enough, I think.”

When they returned to the house, Ann returned to her domestic tasks. Robert took Radulph through into the parlour, where the two of them sat and talked over what had passed between the priest and the older daughter not long before, in the near closes. The exchange was predictable enough. The father was concerned for the well-being of his child and (as on the previous occasion) worried about where any overt show of her powers might lead her; the priest, on the other hand, did his best to allay such fears without attempting to disguise the fact that the girl had a sense of mission which could not now be turned aside. There was a time when their conversation took exactly the same course as it had on the Monday, except that this time Radulph was able to repeat Ann’s earlier remarks regarding Joan of France – comments which drew from Robert Denny an appreciative reaction towards his daughter’s awareness and an ironic piece of self-appraisal into the bargain. Yet, in spite of the humour to be derived from this particular example of how well a daughter knew her father, he was not able to overcome his sense of unease.

“It’s no good, Father Radulph,” he said. “I can’t clear my mind o’ the whatever-might-be. But if Ann feel that she has somethin’ to do, then I won’t stand in her way.” He thought for a moment, before continuing. “We’ll need your help and advice, though,” he added. 

“What I’m able to do, I will,” replied Radulph. “But, like you, I feel myself uncertain about what may happen. No, Robert, do not take my meaning wrongly.” He had detected a look of apprehension in his friend’s face. “What I am trying to say is that I have no knowledge of what Ann may be moved to – beyond exercising her healing gift, that is.” Then, to reassure Robert, he said. “I do not share the fears which you have concerning how people may regard her doings.”

“I believe you, Father. You’re not the sort to speak words o’ false comfort in order to keep a person happy.” Robert looked his friend straight in the face and let his next words cross on this bridge between them. “Tell me, when are things likely to start movin’?”

“Radulph felt around his answer, before delivering it. Then he spoke. “In one sense, Robert, they already have. Bess Hoberd has felt the benefit of Ann’s touch, and doubtless others will do so as well.” He paused again, for reflection. “Who those others will be, however, and when the work will begin, I am not able to say. I am as much in ignorance as you, my friend.”

“I see.” Robert pursed his lips, as he considered what he should say next. “Put like that, it could happen any time.” Radulph nodded in agreement. “Well, we’ll just have to hold ourselves in readiness, then.”

“That is the only thing we can do, Robert.” A suitable text came immediately to mind. “Continue in prayer and watch in the same, to use the words of the Apostle Paul. We can do no more, and we should do no less.”

There was a finality about the words which would have terminated the conversation even had there been things left unstated. But, as it was, nothing more remained to be said (or needed to be) and the two men parted at the front door of the house, each contending with his own idea of what lay ahead and doing his best to imagine where he would stand in the sequence of events. Much later on, when the sun had long surrendered its golden brightness to the violet bands of twilight and the dusk itself had blackened into night, they both sat late in their kitchens, well after everyone else around them had retired to bed. And each of them thought hard on what had happened thus far and on what might yet befall.  

Chapter 10 (Thursday, 9 April – Friday, 10 April)

Later that night, Radulph was awoken by far-off reverberations which came to him through the depth of his sleeping. They reached him in the manner of ripples caused by the casting of a stone into still, deep water, lapping against the bank of his unconsciousness until he began to shake himself free of slumber. He sat up in bed and absorbed the sounds that came from somewhere downstairs and to the back of the house, allowing their dull rhythm to penetrate his head and bring him to full wakefulness. Then he brought his revived sense of hearing to bear upon what seemed to be noises of movement from nearer at hand, within the house itself. As he listened, the effect of the darkness and of the silence inside his room was such as to cause a sense of isolation, even of detachment from his surroundings, and it was only when a loud human voice let out a yell that he felt he should stir himself. When he got downstairs, the banging on the back door (for such it was) continued. Radulph stood a while at the doorway into the kitchen and let his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness within the room. As he did so, he became aware of a shape hunched by the fire-place – a shape which grunted words at him.

“Go back to bed, sister. I’ll see to whoever it is.”

“Simpkin? What’s afoot, man?”

“Oh, it’s you, Father Radulph. “The figure straightened up from bending over the hearth, and as it did so a flickering taper illuminated the space around it, without reaching the whole of the room. “The noise woke Margaret an’ me up, an’ I come down to see what all the knockin’s about.”

“I thought I heard someone call out,” said Radulph.

“You did. I tripped an’ fell over a stool as I bent down to light this taper.” Simpkin sniffed and wiped his nose in the usual way. “There was ember enow in the fire to git it goin’, but not enow to show me the stool!” He paused. “Sorry I woke you up, Father. Shall I go an’ let in whoever it is.” The knocking on the door had stopped for a short time, then resumed again.

“You did not wake me, Simpkin. And, yes, you had better attend to our caller.” Radulph went and stood by the hearth as his servant moved to the back door of the house. “Whoever it is would seem to be on business of some urgency.”

Before opening up to the person outside, Simpkin first ascertained who it was that called so late and loudly. Radulph heard the questions plainly enough, but the replies not so clearly, and he was surprised to learn that it was the gatekeeper from the manor-house. “It’s Will Sowle, Father. From the manor house. Shall I let him in? He say he’s come to see you an’ the matter’s important, so please you.”

“Yes, let him in.” Radulph stood facing the kitchen door as Simpkin shot the bar of the outer one and opened up to admit the caller. Will was a man of few words at the best of times and, on this occasion, delivered his message with extra terseness. The reason for his coming was that Lady Bosard’s younger daughter was sick and he had been sent by his mistress to request that Radulph attend her – begging his forgiveness for the lateness of the hour. “I shall come at once, Will,” said Radulph. “Hurry back now and tell Lady Philippa that I will be there as soon as I have attired myself in a manner more befitting than the one you see at present.”

Once he had dressed himself in his daytime garb and pulled his white cloak around him, Radulph left the house. As he went out of the back door, he told Simpkin to go back to bed, adding that he hoped his errand would not take too long and that he should return by daybreak. Out in the yard, the air was very still, but there was enough cloud in the sky to obscure the stars and throw a milky vapour across the moon’s white, diminishing crescent. It was not sufficient to eliminate all the light from earth’s little sister, however, and the vicarage-house and outbuildings were able to establish their outlines in varying shades of black and grey against the steely depth of heaven. Radulph had no trouble at all in making his way quickly to the manor-house, for the twilight enabled him to see clearly. But all the familiar landmarks presented themselves to his vision in a manner which seemed a stage or two removed from reality. This began with the buildings in his own curtilage and it continued every step of the way (via churchyard, lane and footpath) until he reached his destination. On arriving at the outer cordon of trees, he felt that he had walked three furlongs of shadow, with himself possessing no more substance than the landscape he had crossed. And he stood and looked about him, for a time, in an attempt to know what it was that had the power to make familiar things such abstract copies of themselves.

It was not just the opaque and filtered light of the declining moon. Of that he was sure. He was well used to the vagaries of the dark hours and the tricks able to be played upon the faculty of vision. There was something beyond seeing which gave this particular night its essence of unreality, but the oaks, elms and ashes revealed nothing except a certain suspension of their being, whereby the whole barrier of trunks and interlocking branches gave no impression of having anything to do with growth and living. Radulph walked on through the trees, still searching his mind for an answer, and he came to the edge of the moat. He looked at the water, and it was dark – very dark. Darker even than on a night without a moon, for there was sufficient light behind the cloud to blacken and burnish the surface, making the depth seem immeasurable. Radulph allowed his eyes to play upon the top, looking for movement that is always on or within water. Not the slightest ripple stirred. Not a fish rose. He listened for the sounds associated with water, and there were none. And, in that one moment of deep concentration, he knew what it was that had given the night its strange and distinctive feel. There was no movement anywhere because there wasn’t the slightest breath of wind to cause it. And, without movement, the clouded moon was able to produce a landscape of static silhouette and half-tone, within which the motion of anyone afoot only served to accentuate the surrounding stillness.

“Is that you, Father Radulph?” The words were spoken from within the gatehouse arch opposite, stretching the quiet and splitting it.

A moment or two elapsed before the priest replied, though he had heard the question well enough. “Yes, Will, it is me.” He walked across the causeway of pounded earth and rubble towards the tall grey walls that surrounded the manor-house itself. The porter stepped from the shadows and Radulph paused briefly to glance at the embrasures of the gatehouse as both of them passed beneath the arch, through a small door set within the large, main doorway itself. A licence to crenellate his residence had been granted to a forbear of Sir Nicholas Bosard a hundred years before, in recognition of military service abroad, and the protective curtain then raised was still impressive. So, too, was the fine, new house of timber-frame and brick built by Sir Nicholas’s father, which stood in the north-west sector of the inner court and to which Radulph and his guide now hurried. They had all but reached the front door, when a powerful figure stepped from the shadows of the outer wall of flint and stood before them.

“I’ll take the father up to Lady Bosard, Will. You may return to your lodgin’.” It was Walter Crosse. “Good even to you, Father, or perhaps ’tis even morn,”

“You are quaint with words tonight, Master Crosse. But doubtless you are correct. It must be morn, or something near to it.” Radulph decided, then, to steer the conversation in the direction he desired. “You are up late, Master. Or perhaps I should say betimes. In either case, your diligence does you credit.”

“I thank you for your courtesy, Father. This is a worryin’ time for us, wi’ the little mistress so sick. It was good of you to come this quickly.” He placed a restraining hand on Radulph’s left elbow as the latter made to go into the house. “Have you thought further upon my words with you, last Sunday?”

“I have, Master Crosse. And I am ready to discuss the matter with Sir Nicholas when he returns.” The answer had to mean everything and nothing.

“That’s good. I have young Denny in mind as an overseer o’ the new lands. I sent for him a day or two ago to discuss the matter. He heard me out attentively enow, but as yit I’ve had no reply from him.”

“It is a heavy responsibility for a young man to take on,” ventured Radulph.

“Perhaps.” Walter Crosse thought for a moment.” If you could find it in your heart to advise him, Father, I should be obliged to you. I’m in no hurry for an answer, but Jankyn Brock won’t live for ever.”

“None of us will, Master Crosse,” Radulph replied. “And, at the risk of being thought impertinent, perhaps it is time that you took me to Lady Bosard and the child.”     

“O’ course. I’ll lead you there, now.” Crosse opened the door of the house and entered. “I didn’t want to lose the opportunity of speakin’ further with you, when I had the chance.” He walked on down the passage, talking over his shoulder as he went, and passed through another doorway which led off left into the great hall. Radulph followed him through and waited while the reeve pulled a tallow light from its iron spike on the wall. Then the two of them walked to the far end of the great room, mounted the dais where the ceremonial dining-table stood, and climbed the flight of stairs which led from the back of the platform to the gallery above, thus giving access to the upper rooms. Walter Crosse went straight to the nearest of these and knocked on the door.

“My lady has had the child brought into her an’ my master’s bedchamber,” he explained, “so as to have her near an’ give comfort.”

The door was opened by an elderly female servant of the house, who bobbed her head as a mark of respect when she saw Radulph standing there with Walter Crosse. Radulph acknowledged her courtesy with a smile and then looked beyond her into the room. He saw Eleanor and Lady Bosard sitting near to the fire, watching over a truckle-bed and its restless, turning occupant. The flames from the wood billets which burnt in the hearth lit their faces more brightly than the candles did, for these were set high in iron sockets on either side of the chimney-breast and threw their flickering light mainly across the moulded timbers of the ceiling. Lady Bosard got up from where she was sitting and came over to the door. Her weariness and anxiety were clearly visible in the lines of her face, but she managed a smile for her visitor and it was not just given out of politeness.

“Thank you for coming at such an hour, Father Radulph. I crave pardon for calling you from your rest. Do, please, come in.” Lady Bosard returned to her daughter’s bedside and Radulph followed her, unfastening his cloak as he did so and laying it over the back of a chair.

“If there is anythin’ else you need, my lady?” Walter Crosse had stepped into the doorway and stood framed there, awaiting an answer.

“Oh, it is you, Master Crosse. I am sorry that I paid you no heed.” Lady Bosard rose again from her stool and went towards the door. “No, there is nothing more for you to do. The father is here now. Go back to bed. I will see you in the morning.”

“Yes, my lady. I’ll bid you goodnight. And goodnight to you, too, Father Radulph.” The reeve closed the door after him and the sound of its shutting sent vibrations through the quiet confines of the bedchamber.

The words of parting between Crosse and his mistress took no more than a few seconds, but in that interval Radulph felt as if a much greater expanse of time had elapsed. During the exchange of words, his eyes had taken in the spectacle of a young, tired face watching over a sister who lay sick upon the bed before the fire, and it reminded him of a similar scene, not so many days before, in another house where sister had watched over sister. The great difference, however, in the two situations was that where in the latter instance Ann Denny had lain so cool and still, the stricken form of Agnes Bosard was hot with fever, winding and unwinding itself inside the sheets with involuntary movement. There were drops of sweat on the girl’s face and her hair was damp and matted. A tide-line of dried saliva marked each of the parted lips and the cheeks were flushed and blotchy. Radulph had moved to the bedside to make a closer observation and he lifted one of the small hands which had bunched itself around a ruck of coverlet. It, too, was hot and his forefinger felt the pulse twitching rapidly beneath the skin of the wrist.

“The blood in the child’s body runs hot and high,” said. “How long has she been ill?”

Lady Bosard came and stood beside him. “A day or so. Though she did complain of a headache and soreness of throat earlier in the week.” She looked across at her other daughter. “Eleanor, you have gone without sleep for too long. Go to your chamber, now. You have helped me greatly today.”

Both she and Radulph watched the girl out of the room before resuming their converse. The old woman servant, who had answered the door earlier, was settled now upon a stool against the far side of the fireplace, near the foot of the bed, and had dropped into a timeless pose somewhere between sleeping and waking. Radulph observed the hands folded upon her lap, the forward cast of the head and the rounding of her shoulders. It was, he decided, almost as if the body were without bones; yet he realised that such posture was the result of advanced years and the knowledge of how to achieve the maximum comfort possible from any seat available.

“Has anyone else in your household shown signs of feverishness?” he asked.

“No,” Lady Bosard replied. “At least, not to my knowledge. But we have people from outside coming and going on all kinds of matters, even when my husband is away from home, so there is always the chance of sickness being introduced.” She paused for a moment. “My great fear now,” she said, “is that Eleanor, too, may fall sick. Yet, with she and Agnes sharing the same bedchamber, I saw no harm in letting her tend her sister.” She paused a moment in reflection. “Besides, I do not believe I could have kept her from the bedside, anyway.”

“The bond of sisterly affection is strong between them,” commented Radulph. “You say that the child complained of a headache and sore throat earlier in the week?”

“Yes. It was on Monday, I think.” Again, she paused. “Yes, Monday. Because we came to mass on Easter Sunday and it was the following morning that she spoke of feeling a little unwell.”

“And when exactly did she fall into this fever?” Radulph took hold of the girl’s hand once more and placed a forefinger against her fluttering pulse.

“Late, on Wednesday. Well beyond supper-time, it was. Eleanor called me up to the bedchamber because Agnes was so discomforted.” Her voice became more urgent as the child twisted suddenly in the bed, pulling her hand free of Radulph’s. “At first, she was just very hot and flushed. But then, this morning (yester-morning, I should say!), she started having these convulsions.” She looked from her daughter to the priest and then back to her daughter again. “Perhaps I should have called you sooner, Father, but I saw no need.”

“It is often difficult to judge the degree of infirmity,” Radulph averred. “And children are more difficult to assess than their elders.”

“That I know, to my cost,” replied Lady Bosard. “I buried a young son, before you came to the parish. He would have been eight years old now, had he lived.”

Radulph pictured at once the small grave-slab of dark, polished stone in the floor of the chancel, with its inscribed orate paia Eduardus Bosard, and nodded his head in understanding. “Yet your two older sons grow nearer to manhood,” he ventured. “And both are well, I trust?”

“Well enough. Nicholas is still in my Lord of Norfolk’s household and John with my cousin Daubeney.”

“It must be hard for a mother to say goodbye to her sons so early and not see much of them until they are young men.”

“It is. That is why the little one was so precious to me.” She smoothed some strings of wet hair from her daughter’s forehead and rearranged the ruttled coverlet. “That is also, perhaps, why the girls mean so much.”

“I daresay that they are also important to you, in their own right,” observed Radulph.

“Of course.” Her hands continued to re-arrange the coverlet of the bed, though the rucks and folds were gone. “Would you take a look at Agnes for me, Father? I know that you have some skill in these matters, and that is why I sent for you.” 

She rose from where she was sitting and drew the bedclothes off her daughter. Radulph stood a while, looking intently at the legs of the girl, which were exposed as far as mid-thigh where the shift she was wearing had ridden up from the constant turning to and fro beneath the covers. There were red patches plainly visible on the skin, and they were in evidence also on the stomach and chest as further manipulation and loosening of the garment revealed. When he had re-attired the girl as well as he was able, and pulled the bedclothes over her once more, he drew his hand across her forehead, allowing his fingertips to become moistened with the globules of sweat which congregated there. The he withdrew his hand, wiped it abstractedly on the covers and turned to Lady Bosard.

“It is a little early to know for certain, as yet, my lady,” he said,” but your daughter has some signs of the black fever. I hope that I am wrong. But I am bound to give you an honest opinion.” Radulph looked Lady Bosard steadily in the face.

“I welcome that, Father,” she replied. “Is there anything especially to be done?”

“Beyond seeing that the child is attended to – no.” He thought for a moment. “Though you may, of course, give her drinks to cool the fever. Agrimony is good in such cases. We used it a good deal in the infirmary.”

“I will see if there is any to be got in the house. We had been giving her draughts of feverfew.”

“That, too, possesses virtue, but agrimony is the more sovereign potion. I will let you have some, if it cannot otherwise be obtained.” He pondered a while on how he was to say what he now felt he had to, and the woman knew by the creases around his eyes and mouth that he was looking for the words to express something unequivocal. “You realise, of course, that it will cure nothing in your daughter, but merely sooth her somewhat in her discomfort.”

“Yes, Father. It was the same ailment which killed my little boy.” Lady Bosard looked at her daughter and saw two children where only one lay. “I am therefore ready, if it should happen, to lose another child.” 

Radulph was taken with the calmness and fortitude of the woman; she had such depth of character. “We must pray that it will not come to that,” he said. “Miss Agnes is generally a healthy child and may be strong enough to withstand the fever.” 

Lady Bosard continued to look at her daughter. “She may be, or she may not. But I will surely pray for her well-being.” She had been bending over the bed, but now she stood upright and addressed herself directly to the priest. “You believe greatly in the power of prayer, Father, do you not?”

“It has been known to perform great wonders,” said Radulph.

“And is that the only reason you esteem it so highly?” She watched him closely.

“It can help people understand themselves and their God,” he answered. “If they will allow it to.”

“Even at a time, like this, when things are far from well?” Her eyes continued to take in the details of his countenance, and he knew it.

“Yes. There are often lessons to be learned in adversity.” He returned his interlocutor’s gaze steadily and unselfconsciously. “If we are able to discern them.”

“And what am I to learn from my daughter’s sickness?”  The question was barbed. “How am I to be instructed?”

Radulph realised that the bitterness (if indeed it was such) was not directed at him personally. “I cannot say, my lady. Only you yourself can answer that, and the answer may not yet have come to you.” He smiled and dropped his eyes.

Lady Bosard did not reply immediately. She turned her attention to the bed once more and performed a few abstracted and unnecessary adjustments to the coverings. These accomplished, she addressed herself to Radulph once more. “No, it has not, Father.” All the weariness she felt was visible in her face, yet it was not enough to render her expression completely desolate. “But I will look for it, as well as I am able to.” She broke off for a moment. “At least, you have not told me to bear my difficulty with patience and see God’s chastening hand therein.”

“Ah, we all have our own notions of the role of suffering.” Radulph knew immediately to what and to whom Lady Bosard was referring. “And where is Brother Henry tonight? I had, without question, thought to have seen him.”

“Did you, so?” A smile came to Lady Bosard’s face – an unforced and ironical smile, which said much about her opinion of Sir Nicholas’s secretary and confessor. “Well, I sent him from me this morning with a letter for my husband, telling him of Agnes’s plight and beseeching him home.” Again, she smiled. “He likes to be the carrier of letters, our chaplain, and he is no lover of disease either – in spite of seeming to be a man who fears nothing.”

Radulph neither asked nor said anything further regarding the friar, but turned instead to the communication between Lady Bosard and her husband. “Think you that Sir Nicholas will return ere long?” he asked.

“I am hopeful that he will. I shall feel the better for him being here.” Her eyes bent momentarily to her daughter and then returned again to Radulph. “I had news from him, on Tuesday, and he said that my Lord of Norfolk’s matter was all but at an end and that he should soon be able to return. He has been acting for his lordship, in his absence serving with Edward of York’s army.”

“Ah, yes, the wars,” remarked Radulph, before returning to the main subject of discussion. “Nevertheless, it will be perhaps six or seven days, at least, before you see him. And that is if Brother Henry goes with all haste and Sir Nicholas is able to leave at once.”

“You do not need to remind me of the time that journeys take, Father,” Lady Bosard said. “I have already made up my mind that it could well be a burying my husband attends, and not a sickbed.”

“My lady, it may not come to such a pass. You must hope and pray for the best outcome. We all must.” He looked at the old servant, nodding on her stool beside the hearth. Her face was in shadow, a contrast to the hawk device on the spandrels of the stone fireplace, which both caught and reflected the light of the flames. “Above all, we must pray. If the fever gets no worse, the child may live.”

“And if it does get worse?” The expression on the mother’s face would have been sufficient to ask the question, even if she had not articulated it with her lips.

“She may still live.” Radulph took Lady Bosard’s hands and held them for a brief time in his own. “I cannot say that she will.” He released the hands, but maintained his flow of words. “Nor would I say it to such a one as you. For you are a person who has no need of comforting lies and who values the truth, no matter what the circumstances.”

“Perhaps, Father. Perhaps.” Lady Bosard shook her head slowly, wistfully. “But I am not sure that I would not gladly believe a small lie spoken to raise hope for my young, sick one there.” She drew a deep and audible breath, and Radulph wondered what this could possibly presage. “Father Radulph, as you pray for Agnes, pray also for me.”

“That will I, my lady.” The words were spoken softly, but firmly. “And would have done, without your asking.”

“I know that, you honest man.” She noted his embarrassment at the compliment and smiled. “Yet I felt the need for you to know that I wish to be included in your intercessions.” There being no answer from him, Lady Bosard was compelled to continue speaking. “I shall not impose upon you much longer, Father, but I do have another question to put to you. One that I may have no right to ask – or, very little, at least.”

“My lady?” Radulph was at a loss to sense what might follow. And if he was in a position of not knowing what was to come, Lady Bosard herself was in the more difficult one of not knowing how best to phrase what she had to say. Thus, she remained silent for a time, until the urgency of the silence between them forced her into speaking.

“I know that he is not the most reliable informant in the world, Father,” she began. “Or even in this parish. But Jankyn Brock came to see me this morning. He had heard that Agnes was ill and desired to have words with me regarding the matter.” She stopped for a moment or two and her tongue ran the circuit of her lips before she continued. “I have no great liking for the man. To me, he seems overfull of petty mischief, like one or two others of Master Crosse’s choosing. However, I decided that I would hear him out, wishing to do no one discourtesy who had called about my daughter’s sickness.” She stopped again as Agnes Bosard began to roll her head upon the pillow and throw her body to and fro beneath the covers. But the spasm ended even as she and Radulph turned to witness it, and with a noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan the girl rolled over on to her side. Both adults went to her immediately. But the sleep she had fallen into, though deeper than before and less fevered, was not the ultimate sleep of all. After a minute or two of reassurance that this was so, a little intense time of touching and looking, Radulph and Lady Bosard stood together again beside the bed, as they had done before, and resumed their conversation.

“You were saying that Jankyn Brock called on you this morning, my lady.”

“Yes. He came about Agnes. And he told me that – ”. She turned her head from side to side, sending her eyes into the two top corners of the wall opposite, where firelight and candle combined to create deep triangles of shadow. “It is difficult to know how to say this, Father.” Her scrutiny found some point on which to fix itself. “He said he believed that Robert Denny’s older girl – Ann, is it? – had healing powers. Powers which might be of service to my daughter, if her sickness did not amend itself. She stopped looking into the shadows and turned her gaze directly on Radulph. “I tried to find out more from him, but all he would say was that the father knew all about it. ‘Ask the father. Father Radulph.’ That was what he kept saying. I went no further with him in the matter. Indeed, I sometimes wonder if he is right in the head. What did he mean, Father?” She paused briefly, before continuing. “Father?”

But Radulph was beyond hearing. He had turned away and was seeing instead a dark, undefined shape in the scrub on a bank-side; he was seeing a loiterer in the fields through a servant’s eyes; and he was seeing a watcher in a cottage yard, meeting with two girls and an old woman. The three pictures merged, changed, and formed a single one: an image in his head of a girl with bruised hands reaching out to a younger girl who lay hot and weak upon a truckle-bed. And, as he looked upon this scene in his imagining, its creation became strong enough for it to be placed before his eyes.

“Father Radulph? Are you all right, Father Radulph?” It was the repetition of his name, spoken loudly and close to him, that brought the priest from his reverie back to the present moment.

“My lady?’ He turned to her, searching her face for some clue as to the urgency of her speaking. “Forgive me, but I did not hear all that you said. You were talking about Jankyn Brock and how he told

you that Ann Denny possesses a healing gift.”

            “Yes, Father, I was.” Seeing that Radulph was fully receptive, once more, to what she was saying, Lady Bosard continued with her enquiry. “And I was wondering what he meant by such a claim – especially after he suggested that you would know.”

            A silence followed. And, during this time of casting around for a suitable way to frame an answer, Radulph looked at the woman before him so intently that she was not able to stand the concentration of his eyes upon her and canted her head slightly so as to avoid feeling so closely scrutinised.  Eventually he spoke. “My lady, it is very hard for me to know how much to say to you, or how I should begin to say it.”

            The words caused her to turn her head again, though in truth her attention had never left him. “I do not wish to press you, Father,” she replied. “I only wondered if you could enlighten me as to what Jankyn Brock meant.”

            “I can. And must, perforce, since word is abroad.” He looked over to where the old servant was still slumped on her stool beside the fire. “But I would rather speak to you alone. Would it be possible for you to have your woman leave the room?”

            Lady Bosard looked across to where Radulph’s attention was focused. “Of course,” she said, and walked over and stood before the seated figure. “Angela, old friend, are you awake?” The hushed tone of voice gave its own answer. Then the mistress leant forward, took the old woman gently by the shoulders and eased her into wakefulness. “Angela, old friend, old helper – wake up.” There was a moment or two’s pause as words and hands took effect. “Time to rest now, Angela. You have watched long and well. Go to bed. I will call you if need arises.” Lady Bosard helped the old woman from her stool and led her to the door, one supporting arm around her shoulders, the other holding an elbow. As they passed Radulph, the old woman bowed her head again in acknowledgement of his calling and left the room, assisted and embraced even by her employer and superior. There were a few moments of quiet communication in the passage-way beyond the door, then Lady Bosard returned to the chamber and allowed the manner of her leaving it to build a bridge across the gulf of interruption.

            “She was my nurse, too, you know.” Her face was warm with memories. “She has been with me, and me with her, ever since I was baby. She came with me here when I wed Sir Nicholas. Part of the dowry, he said it was – and we laughed.” She enjoyed the particular memory. “Oh, but I’m so fond of her, Father. I really can’t imagine life without Angela.” She thought for a moment and the smile crept from her mouth. “Though I suppose I needs must think of the time when she has gone from this earth, simply on account of her age.”

            “She may be with you some little while, as yet,” observed Radulph. “It never fails to amaze me how strong old folk can be. They have such a hold on life. A far tighter one, I sometimes think, than the – ”. He checked himself, biting off the end of his sentence and yet knowing that the harm was done.

            “You need not be afraid of saying what was in your mind to say, Father.” Lady Bosard spoke quietly and sympathetically, seeing his unease. “I was thinking the very same thing, myself. And it is doubtless true that the longest-lived among us were, in their own turn, the strongest children of their generation.”

            “Or the most fortunate, perchance.” Radulph felt compelled to say it. “For I certainly do not believe, as some clerks do, that illness is sent upon us by Almighty God as punishment for our sins and wickedness.” He turned emphatically towards the bed and continued speaking. “I have never accepted that, and I never will.”

            Lady Bosard moved a step or two, so as to stand beside him and face the way he faced. “Nor have I, Father,” she said. “Nor have I.”  Then she lowered her voice in the urgency and demands of the moment, resuming the subject of their discourse prior to her accompanying the old servant from the room. “You were going to tell me what Jankyn Brock meant concerning the Denny girl.”

            The words hung a while upon the close, confined atmosphere of the room and Radulph’s answer, when it came, seemed to grope its way towards an inevitable, yet not entirely welcome admission. “I was,” he agreed. “And I will do so, now. Please to sit, my lady.” His right hand indicated one of the stools beside her daughter’s bed. “And I will do the same myself.” He took hold of the other stool, drew it into a position to his liking and placed himself upon it. “As I told you, it is very hard for me to know how much to say and how to begin.”

Lady Bosard used his reticence as a means of reassurance and encouragement. “I know that the Dennys are your good friends, Father,” she said, “and I will do nothing to harm the bond between you. 

Just tell me, in plain and simple words, what Jankyn Brock meant when he spoke to me of the girl’s gift of healing.” The tone of voice was level and controlled, but the eyes revealed an intensity of feeling which reflected the inner self.

Radulph observed this dichotomy of being within the woman. He saw the fervour of an unspoken despair reaching out for an unexpressed hope, and his heart went out to her. Moreover, he recognised integrity, where it lay. The compulsion on her to prevail upon him at this time of greatest need must have strong almost beyond resisting. Yet, resisted she had. When every living fibre of her must, of a necessity, have been calling out for some appeal to a healing agency, no matter how unlikely or obscure, she had remained in control of herself. In asking nothing for her daughter, she had asked nothing for herself; and it was this restraint, above all else, which convinced Radulph that he need have no fears about revealing what he knew of Ann Denny and the things that had befallen her. And so, after first requesting Lady Bosard that she say nothing until he had told all he had to tell, he began to recount the occurrences of the last few days.

He spoke, first, of Ann’s long sleep and of the great journey her mind had undergone while her body lay so still and so close, it seemed, to death. He described, too, the marks upon her body and the visions of the Holy Mother during her waking hours. He spoke of the power within the girl – the result, assuredly, of her seeing wondrous things beyond imagining – and of how she had already used it for the relief of one in need. He then referred to his conversations with her, saying how well she bore the burden thrown upon her and how she was prepared to answer the call which she felt had been made to her: a call to employ the healing touch for the good of anyone who might need it. And, lastly, as a debt to friendship and because he knew that not all fathers’ fears were either predictable or apparent, he talked of Robert Denny’s misgivings about his daughter’s experiences and how she might be regarded if and when she put her power to wider use – though he would not seek to prevent her from doing so.

Lady Bosard listened quietly and intently throughout the whole of Radulph’s narration, the only evidence of her reaction during the course of it being slight movements of her head and slight creasing of the skin in the hollows of her face. The one time that any pronounced effect was plain to see came towards the end, when the priest talked about a father’s concern for the well-being of his child – concern which sprang from acts of love which, if too far removed from what was customary and explainable, might be otherwise interpreted. She nodded her head noticeably, then, and her body leant towards Radulph in an unconscious gesture of understanding. Understanding of what he himself was saying and understanding, too, of a parent’s plight whereby acts alleviating human misery and distress might well bring dark suspicion down upon the performer – who happened to be that parent’s child. Two such great responsibilities, she thought, in the same location and at the same time – how strange! Here was she, in one part of the parish, anxious beyond telling for a daughter who lay sick with fever. There, in another, was a man whose girl had undergone things beyond easy understanding and who was even now perhaps at the point of committing her innocence and purity to the uncertainties of the world. Which of the two predicaments, she thought, was the less enviable? And what if the destinies of a sick girl, near at hand, and of a recovered girl, further afield, were to be intertwined? Such notions were the stuff for sitting and reflecting upon; the themes for thought, not conversation. Other considerations were more pressing: the means, if any, of bringing relief and restoration to a sick child, and how those means might be obtained. Yet, Lady Bosard’s first question to Radulph, when he had finished his account of Ann Denny’s experiences, was anti-climactic and seemingly irrelevant.

“But how did Jankyn Brock get to know of all this?” she asked, preferring to abandon, if only for a short time, the things nearest her inclining.

Radulph did not answer straight away, but sifted through what he knew for a measured reply. “It depends, my lady, on what you mean by ‘all of this’.” He dwelt upon the phrase for a second or two, before continuing. “Jankyn knows nothing of what Ann has seen, nor of the wonder of her seeing it. All he knows is that – ”. He broke off, in order to re-shape what he was saying. “No, he may not even know! Not for certain, at any rate.” His voice grew softer and his attention, as it had done some minutes before, began to find another focus.

“Not know what, Father?” Lady Bosard asked, and she repeated the question to ensure that she 

was heard. “What is it that Jankyn Brock does not know for certain?”

            The reply came slowly, deliberately, as the weight of what the priest was saying lay heavy upon him, for all his having resigned himself to revealing what he knew. “I do not believe that he is absolutely sure how Bess Hoberd came to be relieved of the hurt she had received,” he said. “There is no way that he could know.” He finished speaking and awaited the next question or questions.

            “Bess Hoberd? The old woman who lives by the common? What has she to do with this?” The introduction of a person beyond the terms of the conversation, up till then, had obviously taken Lady Bosard by surprise.

            Radulph was prompt and positive in his reply. He outlined briefly, yet evocatively, the episode of Bess’s fall within the plantation and her subsequent stay at Robert Denny’s house. He referred to the suspicions he had had of a watcher observing the hurdle-bearers and their burden in the green-way and to positive sightings of Jankyn Brock in the vicinity of the farm. And he recounted the earlier incident, as told to him by Bess herself, of the bailiff’s calling to see her about the return of the hedge-bill she had borrowed. “It seems clear to me,” he said in closing, “that Jankyn knows Mistress Hoberd has found some ease of her afflictions under Robert’s roof, but has no definite idea of how such relief was received. Or, for that matter, how it was given.” He reflected a moment or two, before proceeding. “The man feeds upon rumour and the half-knowing of things and that, I suspect, is sufficient for him.” 

            Lady Bosard nodded her head in understanding. “Yes, I think you are probably right, Father. As long as he feels that he knows something other people don’t, then he is content. The underlying causes are of lesser concern to him.”

            “But there may come the time when he feels the need to know more.” Radulph was extending his line of thought. “And leaving him aside, I think in any case that Ann’s gift is likely to have wider recognition. She has already declared to me her sense of mission.” 

            “Her sense of mission, Father?”

            “Yes. She believes that the power of healing has been conferred upon her, to use for the benefit of her fellow creatures. “His eyes followed those of the mother to the sick child lying in the bed. “I know what you are thinking, my lady, but I cannot give you an answer to the question.”

            Lady Bosard turned her head back to him and smiled fleetingly and sadly. “I am also thinking that I ought not to ask the question. I know how I would feel if I were Master Denny.” She allowed the mutual pull of parenthood to exert its influence on her. But I wonder if he would not mind his daughter coming here to – . Oh, Father Radulph, have I any right to be asking such a thing?”

            “Need has a way of determining its own rights. I suspect,” remarked Radulph. “And if you would have me ask the question on your behalf, then I will do so. Only – ”. And here he drew a heavy breath. “Only, I would be glad if you did not require me to call at the Denny farm, at this time of night.”

            “Of course, not, Father. I am wondering if I should expect you to call there at all. If anyone goes, it ought to be me.”

            “No. your place is here with the child. It is appropriate that I should go, because I have been connected with Ann and her experiences for some – ”. He checked himself, realising that his sense of the length of time involved was a good deal longer than the actuality. “Since she fell into her deep sleep,” he said.

            “And how will Master Denny regard your request for his daughter’s help? She asked. “You have already spoken of his fears for her well-being.” 

            Radulph was silent for a little while; then he made his reply in firm, measured tones. “Robert is aware of how great and heavy is the burden which has been laid upon Ann, but he realises, too, that it has been laid upon her for a purpose. Much as he may fear the consequences – and he fears them less now, I believe, than he did at first – he will not (as I said, a short time ago) stand in the way of her using the gift she has been given to bring healing where it is needed.” 

            “Then you think that he will allow the girl to come here and see Agnes?” The question was a combination of hope, expectancy and relief.

            “Yes. But I cannot offer you any firm promise of her being able to effect a cure. This fever that your daughter has is of a strong and fearful nature, as you know only too well – and I have never heard of a sudden recovery from it. Besides,” and it was his knowledge of the sickness which led him to say what he did, not the desire to forestall any premature belief on the mother’s part that her child would be restored by a miraculous intervention, “there may be some time yet before the crisis-point is reached.” As he said this, he stooped over the bed and felt the girl’s forehead and neck. “See, she is cooler and calmer now than was earlier, though the fever could well arise again within the hour.”

            Lady Bosard joined him at the bedside and her hands followed his across her daughter’s face. “When do you think the Denny girl might come, Father?” she asked. “I have no wish to press myself upon you, nor upon her, but I hope that it may not be too much longer.” 

            Radulph drew back from the bed, walked a pace or two from it and picked up his cloak from the chair. “I will call upon Robert after mass,” he said, putting the garment around him with the ease and familiarity of long wearing. “And, if I am not wrong in my estimation of him, I shall be returning here at about noon, or earlier, and Ann with me.” He fastened his cloak about the neck. “In the meantime, continue ministering to your daughter as you have done until now.”

            He had reached the door and lifted the latch, before Lady Bosard fully realised that his departure was much closer than the mere putting-on of a cloak suggested. “Oh, forgive me, Father. Here you are, ready to go, and me not at all ready to bid you a proper farewell.” She came across from the bed. “I will see you down to the courtyard.”

            “There is no need, my lady.” He raised a courteous, preventing hand. “I am well able to find my way out. Your place is here, with your daughter. Though,” and here both his face and his voice showed more of his concern for the mother than for the child, “I think that you should try to sleep for at least some of the time you spend beside her.”

            “I will try, Father.” She smiled in appreciation of the thought. “And I will remember you hereafter as my good physician. Goodnight. And thank you for coming so promptly in answer to my call.”

“Goodnight, my lady. I shall see you at noon, or thereabouts.”

Radulph stepped quickly through the door, closed it upon a little world of ills and grief, and passed out into the greater world beyond. The house was full of sounding silence and throbbing shadow as he left it, heavy with the expectancy of a sudden meeting at either a passageway’s turning or the profound darkness of a doorway. But a meeting never occurred and he soon found himself out in the open space of the courtyard, its gravel surface grey and black by turns in the light of a moon which had temporarily broken free of the night-cloud’s hold upon it. The pebbles eased themselves into their matrix of sand beneath his steps and this downward pressure was punctuated every now and then by the hissing of small stones which flew along the surface in front of the feet that sent them skimming. The sound of his movement across the courtyard seemed very loud to Radulph and he felt himself to be the centre of disturbance in an otherwise still and silent world,

As he approached the gatehouse, he sensed the figure in the shadows even before he saw it and prepared himself for another exchange of words with Walter Crosse. However, the hoarse voice which greeted him with a loudly whispered “Is that you, Father?” proclaimed itself as belonging to Will Sowle and Radulph, replying in the affirmative, went forward to meet the porter, who was standing by his lodge. There was a brief word or two between them regarding the condition of Agnes Bosard, then the priest stepped through the little wicket set in the iron-studded planks of the great, main gate. It closed behind him, cutting off both Will Sowle’s farewell and his own reply with the heavy sound of wood meeting wood, and its shutting placed him in a greater and wider space than the one which had crossed but a minute or two before.

There was movement beneath the night-sky, now. Radulph had felt a small wind stirring as he left the house and walked towards the gate. Now he was able to observe it from the causeway across the moat: a breath moving on the face of the water and causing the reeds to tremble. The wind was from out of the north-eastern quarter and, as such, gave no promise yet of Spring – true Spring, beyond the name only. But it served to re-animate the unreal, shadow-world through which he had moved earlier that night and the three-quarter moon shone clearly now in its own unquestioned domain. What cloud there was remaining had been driven down to the extremity of heaven furthest from the wind, hanging there like a dark wall against the approach of day.

Radulph was able to observe this feature on the way back to his house, once he had walked through the belt of trees surrounding the manor-house site. It formed a barrier by virtue of its position in the sky, and it was one which defied thinking as much as seeing. Radulph felt that it should symbolise something or other – not out of superstition, but because he believed that the signs of Nature were able to give instruction, by analogy. Try as he might, though, he could attach no firm significance to the cloud-bank; nothing definitive. It stood before him, even against him perhaps, but it gave him nothing more than a sense of unease – a feeling which stayed with him right into his back-yard. Just before entering the house, he stood a while and looked at it, and only then did the idea come upon him that what he might be considering was the dark cloud of his own unknowing, his personal depth of ignorance and failure. When would he enter it? Had he already done so? Had he always been within its gloom and never really been aware of the fact? The questions weighed heavily upon him as opened the back door and went inside. He would have welcomed either of his servants, or both, awaiting his return, but the kitchen was empty sand silent. Radulph broke the stillness as little as possible in taking himself to bed and, as he lay down and pulled the covers around him, he was prepared for further discomfort of mind. Yet, in the very moment of deepest expectation, weariness of body came to his rescue and carried him off into deep, saving sleep.

A little later on, towards dawn, the wind raised itself in strength and blew with a more pronounced vigour. As its velocity increased, so too did the blackness of night begin to give way to the grey tones of early morning. The moon had sunk low in the sky, presenting itself now as a flat, white ellipse and lacking its clarity of the true nocturnal hours. Day proper was still some time away, an emptiness yet to be filled with its complement of hopes and disappointments. But just as the last hour of sleep represents a time of stirring and awakening within the human form, even without a person always knowing it, so too does the time of dawning mark a transition upon old parent Earth. It came, as always, on this particular morning – a slow expansion of sound and seeing towards the point when the hours of daylight seem never to have been absent. Who is it that can fix the turning of one world to another? The sleeper, or the one awake? No ready answer offers. Yet, the land has passed from darkness into light, and back again to darkness, for centuries beyond counting. And all that while the sea has done the same, and more, for it has eaten at the land by night and by day, finding a consummation in the dragging of sand and shingle down with its waves’ retreat.

Chapter 11 (Friday, 10 April)

As it turned out, there was no need for Radulph to call upon the Denny family when the Friday-morning Mass was over. Robert and the two girls attended service and made it possible for him to make his request, on Lady Bosard’s behalf, of father and daughter afterwards. He did not broach the matter directly, there and then, in church, but asked Robert if he and Ann could spare a few minutes to speak with him in his house. Joan could come, too; there was no exclusion of her. Nor of Miles, should he wish to walk across. After all, Radulph thought to himself, what he had to say concerned all of them – though Ann was the principal figure involved and, next to her, her father. After he had spoken to Robert and the girls, they drew themselves discreetly aside, allowing their priest to move among his congregation gathered in the nave. It was ever his custom to follow the words of the sacrament with the more mundane ones of everyday greeting and acknowledgement, and that day was no exception. Once the parishioners had departed and Radulph was again within the sanctuary, attending to various, small after-service details, he mentioned to his helper that both uncle and cousins would be going over to the vicarage-house very soon, in order to discuss a matter appertaining to them all.

“You may come as well, if you want to, Miles. Your uncle has no wish to exclude you. And nor have I.” 

            “Is it about Ann, Father?” asked the boy, knowing the answer in advance.

            “Yes, it is. Something has happened of late which looks likely to involve Ann. And your uncle, too,” he added, for good measure.

            Miles thought for a moment, before answering. Then he gave his reply. “They’ll tell me about it later, Father,” he said. “I’ll go home. I told Richard I’d help him wi’ marlin’ one o’ our fallow fields – the sandy one, down along the green-way from the house.”

            “It is heavy work, I imagine?” Radulph had once thought of marling Starve-gut, but Simpkin had said that the land was not worth the bother.

            “Heavy enow,” the boy agreed. “But spreadin’ the stuff is easier than diggin’ it. An’ Uncle Robert an’ Richard have dug plenty this winter, with the weather bein’ quite dry an’ all.”

            Not long after this exchange of words, all the necessary ritual of clearing away the eucharistic vessels and ordering the sanctuary was at an end. Miles returned home to help his cousin work the land, while Robert Denny and his daughters accompanied Radulph to his dwelling. Margaret Jakks was busy at the kitchen table when they entered and she showed both pleasure and surprise at this unexpected show of visitors. However, there was no more than a brief exchange of words between her and the Dennys because Radulph took them through to the parlour there and then, judging this to be the best thing to do, under the circumstances. As he said, once they were inside the room, Margaret and Simpkin would soon have to know of the mysteries surrounding Ann, but he did not think that the right time had quite arrived – not in view of what he had now to ask of her and her father. The response of the Denny family to this admission was immediate, but silent. Their faces all showed the surprise and interest to be expected, but no words came from their lips to declare it. Instead, they waited on their priest and adviser to ask what he had to ask, and their attentive faces were a stronger compulsion upon him to begin than any questions could have been.

            Before Radulph began, however, he invited them all to be seated. Then, when they were all as comfortable as they could be, given the circumstances, he himself sat down. There were no preliminary remarks; no attempt to approach what he had to say by way of circuitous preamble. He knew that directness was the only way. The expectation of his listeners demanded it and so did his own desire to be unequivocal and forthright. In the event, he even surprised himself with the relatively small number of words required to describe what had happened during the night. It was a case of where much that had happened, in personal terms, did not take a great deal of recounting when facts alone were required. So, there was economy of expression implicit in what needed to be said, as well as in the speaker’s desire to be brief. After he had finished, he looked from to another of his audience, trying to judge the effect upon them of what he had said. As had been the case before he had begun his disclosure, their faces revealed a great deal, but their lips gave away nothing.

            Eventually, Robert Denny broke the silence. “I don’t really like the thought o’ Ann goin’, Father, I can tell you. What if she go an’ catch whatever it is that the Bosard girl’s got?” He looked at Ann for a moment, then continued speaking. “I haven’t got as many daughters as I can afford to go losin’ ’em to fever!” 

“I understand your fears, my friend,” Radulph replied. “But the black fever is one which does not always seem to be transmitted from person to person. I have had contact with it myself, ere now, but have never become infected.”

“That’s as may be. I still don’t like the idea o’ Ann goin’ where someone is sufferin’ from it.” Rpobert’s face clouded over with a sudden thought. “I’re got a lot to thank Jankyn Brock for! Like as not, I’ll do it in the next day or two!”

“Don’t become angered, Father.” It was Ann Denny who spoke. “We talked yisterday, after Father Radulph had gone, o’ what I might have to do – an’ you agreed wi’ me, then.” She looked at him affectionately, yet with strength in her eyes. “The way which lie ahead is already there. How I come to step on it is of no great importance.” She paused. “What I do need is your support.”

“You have it. You know you do.” Robert then turned to Radulph. “An’ I know that we have yours, as well, Father. When would it be best for Ann to go, do you think?”

There was no immediate answer. The question had come, if not unexpectedly, at least somewhat sooner than the drift of the conversation had indicated. And, as if to maintain the atmosphere of surprise (or, at least, of things happening quickly), Radulph said nothing. Not for a time, at least. The last thing he wished to do was give any of his visitors (Robert, especially) a sense of premeditation on his part. For his reply was ready. It was already formulated in his mind. It had been there since the Denny family had come into church that morning and thereby removed the need for him to call upon them after he had celebrated mass. And, after a carefully felt and measured space of time had elapsed, he spoke.

“Seeing as you are all here now, old friend, perhaps we could go at once. Lady Bosard would be greatly beholden to you.”

It did not take Robert long to come to a decision. “You’re right, Father. Now is the time. The boys can carry on wi’ the marlin’, without my help. What do you think, Ann? You’re the one who matter in all this.”

“I’ll go now, father. It’s the best time. For everyone.”

Nothing more needed to be said, so they left the house at once. Radulph spoke briefly to Margaret as they went, telling her that he and Robert had business to attend to at the manor-house, but that he ought to be home again by noon. When they were all outside again, in the yard, Joan Denny said that she would go back to the farm. She had work there, which she could be doing, and she thought it best that she should return. Robert made no attempt to influence his younger daughter in either going or staying; he allowed her to make her own decision and depart for home. After she had gone from them, the three others moved purposefully and with good speed along the same route as that taken by Radulph, alone, by night. Few words passed between them as they stepped it out, which gave the priest time to reflect upon how different this walk was from the one undertaken during the hours of darkness. Not with regard to intention, because that (in one sense) was the same. Or similar, at least. No, what occupied his thoughts (and it resulted as much from design, on his part, as it did from the effect of memory) was how moonlight and stillness had made something unreal out of surroundings so familiar. There was no such transformation, that morning. Granted the light was dull beneath the hurrying tatters of grey cloud overhead, but it was the stuff of day at least – and the trees and hedges bristled their twigs in acknowledgement of the wind’s passage. Nothing will grow when a cold wind blows, but things do move in testimony of its presence.

And some things do not move. Faced walls of rubble, for one. They stand, if well built, against all gales and breezes and will usually succumb only to the destructive energies of the men who raise them. The brick and flint curtain of Sir Nicholas Bosard’s manor-house stood straight and tall before the three walkers, that morning, as they came through the outer rectangle of trees, and the rampart of solid masonry contrasted noticeably with both their spacing and their movement as the stream of cold air passed through the branches. There was a stir, too, upon the surface of the moat. The ripples moved not in slow, outward-growing circles, as when a stone is cast, but were driven in tiny waves across the water, losing themselves in the reeds which grew along the outer edge and which dipped and straightened to the wind’s command. Every now and then a moorhen or two could be seen swimming along close to the reeds and then disappearing into them, leaving only an impression of a small, jerking head and flash of white tail. As the three people stepped onto the causeway across the moat, the noise of their feet on its roughened surface startled a pair of mallards, which were huddling down against the rubble base, right under the lee of the outer wall. A loud crack of wings proclaimed the birds’ presence as they leapt from one familiar element into another, pushing themselves upwards and away, climbing steeply, turning on the cold currents of air with necks as stiff as the wind which carried them over the tree-barrier and threw them far, far beyond seeing.

Will Sowle (“Watcher Will”, as he was sometimes known, in the neighbourhood) came out from his gatehouse lodge to greet the visitors. To say that they were unexpected would convey a wrong impression because a porter, by the very nature of his work, expects all-comers. However, Will was a little surprised to see this particular combination of folk arriving at the manor-house – and curious, too. Unfortunately for him, his curiosity had to go unsatisfied. He had not even managed to ask a preliminary question by way of welcome – a “Hello, Father. What bring you all here, this mornin’?” – before Radulph had asked him to go and inform Lady Bosard that they had arrived. Off he went, on his errand, while the two men and the girl walked into the open entry-way itself and awaited his return, standing within the width of the gate-house. They said nothing to each other as they held close to the stonework, for they had no wish individually (or collectively) to make themselves conspicuous, and all of them were heavy with the knowledge of what they had come there for. When Will Sowle returned, he told Radulph that his mistress had said they were to go to her in the solar, where she would receive them. There was no need for him to escort them, because Father Radulph knew the way.

That was indeed the case. But the getting there, although not long in terms of distance, was of some considerable length in another way. Any servants of the house, who happened to be in the courtyard, looked at the visitors as they crossed the space and gave them the seal of the day – greetings which had, out of courtesy, to be acknowledged and returned. Nor was it any better inside the house, for the dwellings of the rich have much to be done within walls that requires attention. Once they had walked the length of the great hall, however, and gone up the stairway beyond the dais, they were subjected to no more people. Yet, even here, their relief was only fleeting, for the tension imposed by eyes and voices soon gave way to a newer apprehension concerning their mission itself. The feeling was especially strong upon Radulph as he passed the door of the bedchamber he had entered the night before and continued down the passage to the solar. It lay at the end, inevitable and waiting.  But, before knocking to announce their arrival, Radulph turned to Robert and Ann and said softly, “We are here. At least, we will no longer be the object of curiosity.” And, having spoken thus, he bunched his right hand into a fist and struck the door with the middle ridge of knuckles. The sound of bone against wood rang hollow and strong in the silence, hanging about the three visitors in the closeness of the passage, until relieved and altered by the lifting of a latch. As the door opened, light from the room fell into the narrow confines where they stood and threw the panelling of the walls into clearer and sharper relief.

It was Eleanor Bosard who answered the door, and her face smiled in greeting as she looked upon the little group of three. Her mother rose from where she was sitting in the bay of the room’s large, oriel window and came towards the door as well. She had watched Radulph, Robert and Ann coming across the courtyard, though they had not seen this, and she received them into the room with a friendly countenance and words which showed her pleasure at seeing them. Her gratitude was also in evidence, for she had not expected quite so prompt a response to her request for help, and it manifested itself most of all in the way that she stood a moment after the initial words of welcome and let her kindly beholding of the three of them show in her face.

“It is so very good of you to come,” she said. “I could hardly believe what I was hearing when Will Sowle came to me just a few minutes ago.” She motioned them into the room. “Please sit down a while and rest yourselves. I watched you from the window as you approached the house.”

“Thank you, my lady.” The three voices combined their varying tones in a single reply, but it was Radulph who continued speaking afterwards.

“It is a fine vantage-point for sitting and seeing,” he said. “And no doubt very healthful in catching what sun there is during the dark months.”

“Yes, that is so, Father,” agreed Lady Bosard. “My husband had it built for me, and for our daughters. He is often away from us, as you know, but he does what he can to make up for his absences.” She turned briefly towards the window, then continued speaking. “We are very fond of sitting here, all three of us. Very fond.” Her voice became soft and low as the missing member of the family suddenly came to mind in a manner unexpected, the memory of happier times serving to reinforce the anxiety felt for the one who now lay sick.

“How is Mistress Agnes today?” asked Radulph, deciding on behalf of Robert and Ann, as well as himself, that the point of their coming would be best gotten to without further delay.

“No better than when you last saw her, Father.” The mother’s face had lost its fragile look of cheer. “Indeed, I am inclined to think she may be worse.”

“Then we had best go an’ see the maid.” It was Robert Denny who spoke and his chair scraped the elm boards of the floor as he rose from it. “Beggin’ your ladyship’s pardon, o’ course, because it’s not for the likes o’ me to go tellin’ such a one as you what to do in your own house.”

Lady Bosard went across to Robert and stood before him. “Master Denny,” she said, “it is hard for me to express to you just how much I feel myself in your debt for allowing your daughter to come here on such an errand.”

Robert was affected by the intensity of her eyes and voice, and he replied in the way that he felt was best. “You needn’t thank me that much, your ladyship,” he said. “Besides, you know what daughters are. One word from a parent an’ they do as they like! Ann would ha’ come, whether I wished it or no.”

“It is kind of you to jest so, Master Denny.” Lady Bosard’s voice was warm with appreciation. “But I know of your fears for your daughter. Father Radulph has told me of them.” She paused a while, casting her eyes towards Ann. “They would be my fears, too, if I were in your place,” she said.

The silence which then ensued could have been no more than a few seconds, at the most, but it seemed much longer. It was silence of parts – five individual ones making up the whole. And each of the people in the room knew exactly where he or she stood in the midst of his or her own quietness, but was uncertain of any such fixed and definite point in the greater stillness that invested everything. Any possible point of reference in the room itself, be it floor, ceiling or wall, item of furniture, or even one of themselves who stood without speaking, surrendered its reality and became a thing abstract and removed when eyes fell upon it. It was a silence which, from the moment it was created, cried out to be broken. And broken in the same way that it had begun.

“Let’s not talk only o’ fears at such a time, Lady Bosard.” It was Ann who spoke. “Let’s talk also o’ hope.” The words were quietly uttered, but with a steadiness and strength which came from deep reserves of virtue in the girl. “Bring me to your daughter, so that I may see her.”

“I will do so. But before I do,” and here Lady Bosard moved towards Ann and stood before her, looking kindly down upon her as she sat shyly on a stool, “I must tell you how grateful I am for the way you have come to help my poor, sick child. Father Radulph has told me of the gift you possess. But even if it fails to restore Agnes, I shall never forget how you came so willingly and swiftly to offer your powers of healing.”

Another silence came upon the room. Not the silence of isolation, this time, but the natural, desirable pause between words of thanks and the response to them. “Not my powers, your ladyship. The strength o’ God above, rather, brought to me by our Holy Mother herself.” Ann rose from her stool and stood before the older woman, slighter in stature and shorter, to be sure, but grown far beyond her in the knowledge of worlds vastly removed from the one nearest and dearest to men. “Come, take me to your daughter.”

No more words were spoken between the two of them. No more were needed. Lady Bosard turned to each of the other three people in turn and exchanged with them a look of understanding. Then she walked to the door, smiling at Ann and gesturing her to follow. The movement of the hand and slanting of the head were not exclusive, however – or, at least, were not taken as being so – and Robert, Radulph and Eleanor made their own way out of the room behind the two principals. It was not far down the passage to the bedchamber where the sick girl lay and the party of visitors became one again as Lady Bosard went into the room first and then stood holding the door for the others, while they entered. Once they were all inside, she closed the door and moved through them towards the truckle-bed, holding her hand out to Ann Denny and bidding the girl to follow her. At the foot of the movable cot, the old woman, Angela, sat in attendance upon her young mistress. She made as if to rise when people began to enter the room, but Lady Bosard bade her remain seated. As on the previous night, a wood fire was still burning upon the hearth, only this time the billets were all but consumed. They had settled into a heap of soft, white ash, though with a redness retained within the heap – a live burning, which showed through in places and smouldered in eagerness for renewal. Agnes Bosard lay as before, except the fever upon her was stronger, and she squirmed and twisted beneath its heat. Her head, with its strings of wet hair and its dark eye-pits, rolled around on the pillow. Sounds issued every now and then from the crusted lips, but they made no real sense as words, and they changed even as they were uttered into deep moanings and sighs within the throat. Lady Bosard and Ann went to the bedside; Radulph moved to the foot of the bed so as to observe the more easily what would happen; and Robert and Eleanor remained where they were, just inside the doorway.

Ann Denny bent over the sick girl and gently touched the damp and feverish brow with the fingertips of her right hand. Then she brought both hands to bear upon the neck, massaging it softly but strongly with a regular and rhythmic manipulation. Thumbs to throat, moving from jawbone down to collarbone and back up again; fingers pressing against the muscles from shoulder to head. As she put her hands to work, Radulph saw Ann’s lips move, too, though he could catch no sound from them. And he noticed something else, as well: Agnes Bosard seemed to be growing less feverish where she lay, no longer coiling herself into the bedlinen with involuntary and spasmodic movements, but resting calmly beneath the covers. Ann stopped massaging her neck and went back to touching her forehead. Then she took hold of the girl’s hands in her own, clasping them tightly as she changed position and knelt beside the bed. Her lips still moved in silent utterance; and they continued to do so even when she lifted Agnes’s hands from time to time and pressed them to her mouth. There was great intensity in everything she did – an outpouring of her spirit in answer to another creature’s need. But there was a peacefulness about her, too, and a detachment from everything around her except the one thing which mattered. Radulph felt as if he were standing on the edge of a deep, dark pool, watching ripples widening from the middle towards his feet but never quite reaching him. There was no noise at the centre, no disturbing splash, just a steady outward flow from a source unseen and mighty. He glanced at the other people in the room and could see at once that they, too, felt as he did. They were, all of them, on the edge of something as far beyond comprehension as the stars were beyond touching.

It is certain that where greater understanding cannot be had, a lesser knowledge must of necessity suffice. When, at last, Ann Denny rose from her knees and returned to the little world about her, five other people in the room had his or her own idea of what had happened. Ann walked to Lady Bosard first of all and spoke to her. The words, though quietly uttered, were audible enough. “The fever have almost gone from your daughter, my lady. She ought to grow strong agin, now.” There was a moment between them of immeasurable silence as the mother looked towards the bed where her child lay; then her attention returned once more to the instrument of restoration. She made as if to speak, but no words were forthcoming, so she simply took Ann Denny’s hands within her own and gave them a single, expressive squeeze of gratitude. After this, she moved swiftly to the bedside, while Ann went to her father. “I’m tired,” she said to him. “Tired.” And she let him draw her into the strength and comfort of his arms.

By now, Lady Bosard was perched on the truckle-bed beside her daughter. “Come, Eleanor,” she said. “Come and see your sister. Look how still she is, who was wont of late to be so troubled.” The older girl went across and stood by her mother and, as she did so, Radulph moved forward too. He placed himself near the foot of the bed, not far from where old Angela sat, her face lit with amazement at what she had seen. “See, Father.” Lady Bosard was addressing the priest now. “The fever has nearly gone. Judge for yourself if it has not.”” Her hands spread themselves expressively in the air above where Agnes lay, emphasising the words spoken and inviting a closer inspection of the girl. Radulph went to the other end of the bed and bent over it. He laid a hand on Agnes Bosard’s forehead and felt a tepid dampness where all before had been heat. Then he drew one of her arms softly from under the sheets and, as he had done on his first visit, put his forefinger across the veins and sinews of her wrist. The pulse was much slower than before and beating now with a measured strength. And there was something else, too, which he now noticed: the red flush of fever, angry-looking and blotched, had begun to disappear from the face and neck, leaving the skin to revert to something nearer its normal flesh-tones.

“Your daughter seems noticeably recovered, my lady. Of that there can be no doubt.” He placed the girl’s arm back beneath the covers and straightened up from the bed. “We must all pray for her full restoration to health and vigour.”

“I shall be glad of any prayers so kindly meant, Father Radulph,” Lady Bosard replied. “But I know where my greatest debt lies.” She turned to look at Ann and Robert Denny, who were still standing close together, each giving to the other necessary strength and support. “I know it, and I shall never forget it.”

“Ann don’t wish you to be beholden to her, my lady. I’m sure o’ that.” Robert looked down into his daughter’s face, and the girl smiled and nodded her head in confirmation of what he had said. “See? I knew how it’d be.”

“Nevertheless, Master Denny,” Lady Bosard rose from where she was sitting and approached him and his daughter, “I am beholden to her. Greatly beholden. And to you, too.” She looked back to the bed for a moment. “What has happened here may have matched my furthest hoping, but it has gone well beyond my imagining. Just how can I ever repay you, child,” she spoke directly to Ann now, “lies not within my head at present. I doubt if it ever will.”

“I expect no repayment, my lady,” said Ann. “Nor do I want none. I only did what I know our Holy Mother would have me do. Any thanks owin’ must go to her – and to our most precious Saviour.”

The measured delivery of this response struck everyone present with its note of high recognition. There was a finality about it, too, which required no answer other than a quiet acceptance of its pronouncement.

            Lady Bosard, on whom the weight of a reply rested, spoke but a few words. “I shall thank them with all my heart, child,” she said. “And I will also remember you in my prayers.”

            No further talk was necessary – except such small conversation as was to be found in the leaving of a room where a young girl lay quietly in bed, purged of high fever. Muted voices edged softly against each other, in acknowledgement of rest that asked for no disturbance. Simple, safe expressions of wished-for and expected recovery were made on behalf of the sleeping Agnes, for no one had it in mind to comment on the marvel witnessed in that room. It was too close to all of them to be given verbal form. Each person, except for Ann herself, needed time for reflection on what had passed – and Ann needed the blessing of their silence on the matter, if only to adjust to some kind of normality. Though, there again, Radulph thought to himself on leaving the room, who was to say what constituted normality for someone who had experienced so much within herself over the last two or three weeks?

            Once they were all back inside the solar, Lady Bosard asked her visitors if they would care to take any food and drink to refresh themselves. Eleanor would soon run down to the kitchen, she said, and arrange for something to be brought up. The offer was politely declined by all three of them, for none had any real need of sustenance and each wished to return home for his or her own reasons. Lady Bosard understood this – but, before allowing anyone to depart, she once again expressed her gratitude for the healing work performed upon her younger daughter. The sincerity of her words, and the excellence of their choosing, broke down any barriers which might have existed between herself and the people she addressed. There was no awkwardness or embarrassment on either side, because what happened a few paces further down the passageway had nothing at all to do with human agency – except in so far as a girl had been used to transmit a saving power sent from on high. And it was the source which mattered, because God’s miracles are his alone, granted and performed for his glory only. The knowledge of this bound all of them together tightly, though each of them would have expressed the fact very differently had there been cause to. But there was not. What is known has no need to be declared. And, apart from this consideration, the significance of what they had all seen still sat heavily upon them. As in the bedchamber not long before, they were still too close in terms of time and distance to discuss with any sense of detachment (and thus, perhaps, of reality) what they had all witnessed and been part of.

            Not one of them, however, was under any illusions as to the mighty nature of the deed and of the difficulty now of preventing it from being noised abroad. There was general agreement among the three adults that any attempt within the household to suppress knowledge of what had happened would only fuel the fire of rumour. Better to reveal the truth, if and when it was required, than to attempt to conceal it. Lady Bosard said that she and Eleanor would not deliberately publish news of Agnes’s recovery, which was in any case neither certain nor complete as yet, and that old Angela would be requested to keep her own silence (which could be relied upon). If direct questions were to be asked, then she thought it best to give honest and appropriate answers. Radulph agreed with this, and so did Robert Denny and Ann. Sooner or later, in an establishment such as the manor-house, folk would get to know by one means or another what had occurred.

            “Well, things are on the move now, Father,” said Robert, as the three of them crossed the moat, the farewells exchanged with Will Sowle hardly lost upon the morning air. “Though I do appreciate her ladyship’s promise not to say anythin’ more’n she has need to.”

            “We may judge further how things are shaping,” replied Radulph, “after I have been back here this afternoon to see how the child is. Do you wish me to call upon you once my visit is over?”

            Robert thought for a moment, then looked at his daughter. “What do you think, Ann? Should the Father call, or not?”

            “It’s up to him,” the girl answered. “We’re allus glad to see you, Father Radulph. Come by all means, if you think it needful.’

            “That I will do. But only if I think it really needful. You have undergone a great deal already today, Ann.  I will not trouble you or your father again, unless I have to.”

            “I’m not so tired, now that I’m outside agin,” replied the girl. “The air within the bedchamber was thick an’ warmin’, an’ I also had to think an’ pray very hard.” She looked around her as they passed through the cordon of trees beyond the moat. “I’m sure that Miss Agnes will recover now,” she said, “an’ live to see these trees in leaf.”

            Radulph and Robert both murmured their agreement, but neither of them articulated what was really in his heart to say. Instead, they turned the direction of conversation to the old, safe, familiar things which serve to make a point of contact between one person and another without ever meaning much at all. They talked about the weather (the north-east wind, in particular), about late seasons, and about the drawbacks of living in the place they did. They might even have got on to the advantages, but they had reached the vicarage-house by then and both Robert and Ann declined Radulph’s offer to step within doors for a few minutes. They were eager to get home themselves and, in a way, Radulph was glad of their refusal. It meant that he could perform at least one necessary task without further encumbrance. When he got into the kitchen, he found that he would only have to perform it once, for Simpkin was there as well as Margaret: the former re-studding a headstall down on the hearth, the latter at the centre of her universe – the table – grinding dried peas in a hand-quern.

            “I told him to do that outside, Father,” she said, as Radulph entered. “All that hammerin’ an’ bangin’! It’ll chip them flagstones to bits.’

            “It’s a sight warmer in here than it is out there!” Simpkin retorted. “An’ I’m workin’ on a piece o’ wood so the flags won’t chip.” He bent to his task again, with renewed vigour.

            “If you can both spare me a moment,” said Radulph, “there is something I have to tell you.” This departure from what seemed to be up for discussion, at least for a sentence or two, made Margaret and Simpkin stop work and look at him. “If you would both sit at the table, then I will do likewise. We might just as well be at our ease.”

            The servants had no idea of the irony of this particular remark, and it only struck Radulph after he had made it. Nevertheless, he remained outwardly in command of himself, and of his words also, as he recounted what had happened at the manor-house that morning and what had led up to it in the days preceding. Margaret and Simpkin were astounded by what he told them, almost to the point of disbelief. The only thing which prevented their complete incredulity was the knowledge and assurance of their master’s truthfulness. Even so, they found it very hard to fully comprehend what he had told them, and this difficulty manifested itself in their seeking points of reference in familiar and everyday events – especially matters pertaining to the Denny family, and to Ann in particular.

            “I can’t git over it!” Margaret kept saying. “Why, I’re known Ann since she was a baby! I knew her mother. To think she should ha’ had such things happen to her. An’ to think that I sat with her in Robert’s house just the other day an’ never knew nothin’ o’ what was afoot!”

            “Well, I’re never heard the like, I must say!” remarked Simpkin. “Never.” He sniffed a couple of times, in his characteristic way. “Still, Robert’s a reg’lar enough man to have a daughter cut out for special things.”

            “The special things are his particular worry,” said Radulph. “I would be grateful if both of you said nothing as yet to other people. Ann’s power will become well known ere long, I fancy.”

            “An’ where will you stand in the midst o’ all, Father?” asked Margaret. “I can’t see that you’re got any choice but to be involved.”

            “I shall stand by Ann,” Radulph replied, “and hope to be guided aright and do what I know to be best for her.” He looked from one to the other of his two servants. “And I may well have need of both of you to stand by me,” he said. “Cure of souls can be a lonely duty at times and may lead a man into not always seeing ahead very clearly.”

            Simpkin and Margaret glanced at each other momentarily, surprised and yet warmed by their master’s reference to the help he seemed to think they were able to give him. “We’ll do what we can, Father.” The words came from them both, simultaneously, which caused a degree of self-consciousness on their part – the very unanimity of their reply coming, perhaps, as a surprise to them. They who were so frequently in verbal opposition to each other. Radulph thanked them for their support and, from there, the discussion between the three of them drifted back (inevitably, almost) to Ann Denny. As it had done previously, the conversation fell once more into a cycle of platitude and reminiscence, a course which Radulph went along with until he felt that no more benefit was to be derived from continuing. At this point, he took the opportunity of declaring that he had one or two things to attend to at church – a statement which had the merit of absolute truthfulness only in that a number of small tasks could always be found there, whether they needed doing or not.

            He returned home for the midday meal and, once it was over, told Margaret and Simpkin that he would visit Bess Hoberd that afternoon. After this particular call, he would then probably stop by in the village and talk to his parishioners there, before going once more to the manor-house to see how Agnes Bosard was faring. In the event, it was a round of visits which he managed to carry out in not a great deal more time than he had originally hoped would suffice. He expected to be some little while at Bess Hoberd’s house and this proved to be an accurate estimation on his part. The old woman had a good deal to tell him of her improved condition and then much else to say when she had been informed of Ann Denny’s latest act of healing. “I cannot say for certain that the Bosard girl will recover,” Radulph began, “and I will not know any more until I have called at the manor-house, later on. But, in my heart, I seem to know already that she will grow strong again.”

            “O’ course, she will!” said Bess. “Bless us all, Father, if that girl o’ Robert’s won’t prove to be the wonder o’ the age!” She smiled at the prospect, then changed her expression to one of seriousness. “But how did Lady Bosard find out about Ann’s power?” I’re said nothin’ to anyone about what she did for me – exceptin’, o’ course, for that time when Jankyn Brock come after his bill an’ I let slip about how – . That’s it, isn’t it, Father? Jankyn Brock told her, didn’t he?”

            “Yes, he did,” conformed Radulph. “But it isn’t as simple as you think. That first visit of his to you here was only the beginning – and an accidental one at that. He did a fair bit of watching (and listening, too, I have no doubt – where he could) in between calling for the return of a tool and ultimately going to Lady Bosard.” He noticed how set and grim the old woman’s face had become. “Do not blame yourself for what happened, mistress. Our friend Jankyn was determined to sniff something out, and he succeeded.”

            “He would! He’s a stirrer o’ green ponds an’ mischief!” Bess Hoberd’s eyes flashed vehemently. “If he ever show his face around here agin, I’ll have a thing or two to say!”

            “You need not become so angered, mistress.” Radulph not only wished to bring some degree of equanimity to her, but desired to point out, also, the inevitability of Ann Denny’s gift eventually becoming more widely known. “There was little any of us could do to prevent word from spreading. Why, you said it yourself only a short time ago, mistress, when you talked of Ann becoming the wonder of the age.”

            “Yeah, that’s true enow.”

            “And, in any case, the girl wishes to use her powers for the benefit of all who stand in need of her help.” He was encouraged to continue by the old woman nodding her head. “Sooner or later, she was bound to draw the eyes and ears of folk towards herself.”

            “What you say is likely enow, Father.” The admission came after a moment or two of thought upon the matter. “But it don’t excuse that pocky rogue Brock for startin’ the whole thing orf as a piece o’ mischief-makin’. Nor do it make me feel any better about bein’ the cause o’ givin’ him somethin’ to stick that long snout o’ his into.”

            There were further exchanges along these lines, but at last Radulph was able to take his leave of the old woman and pursue his intended course to the village. Among the calls he made upon various people, as they went about their everyday work, was one to the village ale-house. The keeper of this vital establishment, Goody Pryscott (known vulgarly as “Good Ol’ Pisspot” – but never to her face) had a husband who worked on the manor’s lands and the two of them, together, knew most things that happened within the parish, to say nothing of events further afield. Radulph was accustomed to stopping, from time to time, for both pastoral and educational purposes, and nor was he averse to the drink purveyed there. A change of ale from that which Margaret Jakks brewed was not unwelcome and he had, for some time, also developed a taste for beer – paler in colour than its near-relative and given a longer life by the use of mugwort in the brewing process. The fact that Margaret herself had lately begun to produce it for him, he regarded as a favour of some proportions.

            No one was in the place when he went in. Not even one of the village’s male ancients, whose custom it was to break the monotony of home at any time of day and take a draught in different surroundings. Goody Pryscott was as forthcoming as usual, however. Empty house or full, it made no difference to her love of chatter. Indeed, she was probably more contented with a single customer than with a dozen, for she had no need then to divide her attention (“An’ don’t you worry, Father. I know well enow what they all call me!”) And Radulph, as always, was a good listener. In fact, he was an even better listener than he was normally, though the ale-wife had no way of knowing it. No clue was to be found in his demeanour; the increased sharpness lay inside his head. It was a heightened awareness which gave an extra edge and flavour to the drink he consumed. But his giving himself more intently to what she said, and sifting carefully through the words she threw at him, did not result in his hearing what he half-expected he might hear. Goody Pryscott knew only of Agnes Bosard’s fever; she had not learned of her recovery.

            Eventually, he left the hostelry and, after one or two more calls within the village, made his way towards the manor-house. Will Sowle welcomed him warmly at the gate, imparting the news he had had from someone who worked “inside”, as he put it, that the little mistress had come through her fever and looked likely to recover. He said no more than that and Radulph did not attempt to elicit anything further from him, wishing more than anything else to get into the house as quickly as possible. There were one or two servants coming and going in the courtyard, but they offered nothing beyond the customary greeting due to their priest and so he reached the front door without any further delays. As he stood there, debating whether to knock upon it or simply open it and enter without any kind of prior announcement, his dilemma was solved for him by the thing opening from inside. It was one of the young scullions who, lump of tallow in hand, was obviously about to dress the edges of the door with the substance, thereby easing the stiffness of fit against the frame. He was as surprised to see Radulph as the latter was to see him, but he recovered sufficiently to make a proper and courteous acknowledgement of the visitor and then to carry news of the visitor’s arrival to his superiors in the kitchen. From there, the hierarchical structure of the household took over and, after a short time of waiting within the entrance passage, Radulph was asked by the under-steward to go up to the solar, where Lady Bosard would receive him. 

            When he arrived there, she was standing in the doorway, awaiting him. The friendliness of her words and of her face were as they had been on the previous occasion, but there was also a relaxation of countenance this time, a peacefulness, which had not been in evidence before. This told Radulph, even before the words began, that Agnes Bosard was shaping to recover. Nevertheless, he listened to the mother’s account of her child’s restoration and rejoiced with her at the gift of healing brought to one in need. There was no need for him to step within the solar, for even as she spoke of her daughter’s improved condition Lady Bosard made it plain by turn of phrase and shift of eye that her centre of attention lay within the bedchamber. And, in fact, before she had really ended what was in her to be said, she was already moving along the corridor, motioning the priest to go with her.

            As soon as they entered the room, Radulph was struck by the change there. The afternoon light was poor, the wind having drawn a grey veil over the clear sky of the earlier part of day, but the impression within the bedchamber was one of brightness and cheer. Agnes Bosard was sitting up in bed, bolstered by pillows, and her sister was sitting beside her with her back to the door. A fire was burning on the hearth, but burning vigorously with fresh billets and throwing its yellow flames boldly up the chimney. And there was movement, too, for the ear to catch, in the sound of young voices engaged in conversation, where previously the room’s atmosphere had been weightened with an aura of sickness. Sickness, and the silence that it imposed upon anyone who entered. Both girls looked towards the door as their mother and the priest came in, breaking off their dialogue and waiting for any words their elders might deliver.

            Radulph and Lady Bosard did not remain in the room for very long, but during the time they were there it became apparent to the former that Ann Denny’s precious touch had saved for the world one who might well have left it. And saved her, hopefully, for as long as it was possible to say that anyone would live a given span. He did not quiz the child too closely, but asked a few simple questions regarding how she felt and what she thought of the prospect of being up and out of bed before very long. By doing this, he hoped to be more than just another adult (and a priest, to boot) standing in silence over the young and thereby maintaining an authority that was the more compelling for being silent. Agnes Bosard was a quiet child, and a shy one, but she answered Radulph’s questions readily enough, albeit blushing a little as she spoke. The pink colouring which crept across her face was very delicate and gentle compared with the red fever-hue, and Radulph marvelled greatly within himself at the change wrought in her condition.

            “I should like to thank Ann Denny, Father,” she said. “Mother has told me how she came here when I was sick, and what she did.” Radulph nodded his head as a means of acknowledging what she said, without actually having to speak. “She is not much older than me, I have been told.”

            “That is true. Eighteen months or so would be about the difference, I would think.”

            “Yes, that’s what mother said. But just think how old she must be in power.” Agnes looked at her sister. “Eleanor says that she is highly favoured.”

            The older girl glanced towards her mother and, either catching some slight look of disapproval there or imagining that she did, spoke in defence of her sister. “We have said nothing to anyone else. We were only talking between ourselves.” She looked at Radulph. “I, too, would like to thank Ann Denny for what she did. And I thank you too, Father, for bringing her here.”

            A few minutes later, outside the bedchamber, it was Radulph who was playing down the significance of a conversation which had been bound to take place between the two sisters. As he pointed out to Lady Bosard, the driving out of the fever was a remarkable occurrence and one which the girls could hardly help but talk about. He believed Eleanor’s statement that they had discussed it with no one else. And even if they had, why, that would be but the beginning of what must happen sooner or later. He understood Lady Bosard’s concern for the fears Robert Denny had concerning Ann’s well-being, but he also pointed out that Robert himself knew that the whole sequence of her experiences and doings must soon become more widely known. The girl’s sense of mission alone was sufficient to accomplish that. What she would need more than anything else, when the time came, was people who would support her in what she knew she had to do. And much of that support would be best provided by helping her to retain her sense of identity as Robert’s daughter. She already had an inspiration beyond earth to lead her; what she needed to accompany it was the prop of normality. Folk enough would regard her as wondrous and special. She had to have at least a few people around her who saw her as an ordinary girl – one granted both insight and power beyond normal understanding, yes, but a girl for all that. The thing she had least need of was everyone treating her as something wholly beyond flesh and blood. Sainthood was all very well for the dead, but it must be very hard for the living to bear. And many who saw sainthood readily might just as easily fall to seeing darker forces at work in one they knew so well. Notions of good and evil could lie very close together in the minds of men, and that was what Robert Denny particularly feared.

“My heart is with him,” said Lady Bosard, just before she and Radulph took their leave of each other. “And I consider my anxiety of recent days the lesser worry. I think that I would rather have a sick child than one visited with such mighty dreams and granted the gift of health-bringing. Such a blessing is, indeed, a heavy one.” 

Chapter 12

“A heavy blessing.” The expression stayed with Radulph after he had left the manor-house and begun his homeward walk. He turned it over in his mind as he went along, throwing the words about inside his head with the skill acquired in formal dispute, as a student, years before. But, this time, there was a seriousness of purpose for him which went far beyond the mere love of jousting with fine points and fair phrases. This time, there was a reality in the words. They described events involving people known to him and they had been uttered as a summary of how he saw the situation himself by a woman of sympathy and understanding. As she had said, a heavy blessing, indeed, and one where any contradiction seen in the term contained an essential truth. The afternoon was drawing on, but Radulph did not feel inclined to return home. He needed time to sit and think a while of all that had befallen and of what might yet occur. Fact and possibility were disturbing to contemplate, if only because the former was the way that the latter had chanced to develop. Or was there a pattern to it? He knew of only one place nearby which could give him the opportunity to consider all that was in his mind, and he went straight to it. The south porch of the church had a small upper room, resulting from its having been raised by Sir Nicholas Bosard to provide extra storage (and also, no doubt, to grandify its appearance) – the tower’s internal space being so restricted. Not long after his arrival in the parish, Radulph had had this fitted out as a chapel and cell for private devotion, finding other places to house what was kept there. He climbed the narrow staircase to it now, the steps largely constructed within the inner part of the nave wall, and brought himself thankfully into the stillness of the place.

It was very plain inside. The walls were whitened over and the plaster infill of the ceiling was whitened, too – except for the three small oaken tie-beams of the roof. The timber of these had been left in its natural state, but some small concession to decorative effect was apparent in the chamfering which ran along the meeting-angle of face and edge. Beneath these members, and supported by the lower storey’s beams, the riven elm planks of the floor contrasted with the whiteness of the room and provided a patch of their own distinctive light when the sun was sufficiently high to shine down from a single window on the south side. But that was for the summer, and for the midday hours. This was another time. Another time, when the only distinctive patch on the floor was a square of plaited rushes set before a small stone altar. It jutted from the east wall and painted above it was a Crucifixion scene, which Radulph had had put there in accordance with his intentions for the room. He looked at it now, as he entered and sat down on the one item of furniture in the place: a low, wooden bench which stood against the western wall. It rocked slightly as his weight came upon it, for the floorboards were a little uneven in places and would not accommodate the squared cut of the legs, but a practised shift or two soon got it to set. Radulph pushed his shoulders back against the plaster of the wall, folded his hands across his lap and began to consider the painting before him.

The limner had done his work well. Both line and colour were apt, the composition good. The painting’s main subtlety lay in the manner that the Cross itself, with Christ upon it, was able to dominate the scene without overwhelming the other constituents. The two smaller crosses, each with its burden, stood one to either aside of the central tree, while just in front of the latter were placed a woman and a man. For the purposes of symmetry, each of them had been depicted one to either side – the woman on the beholder’s left, the man on the right. Each stood in in a sideways pose so as to be looking upon the Crucifixion and out into the room as well. “Mulier, ecce filius tuus.” Radulph heard the words clearly. “Ecce mater tua.” People’s responsibility for one another; God’s responsibility for all. The picture contained everything that a person needed to know. And if ever there had been a heavy blessing to be borne, it was presented there on the wall. Sin’s burden; a mother’s grief; a friend’s sorrow; a son’s agony; a father’s sacrifice. All were there. All were part of the total mystery. All demanded the attention of whoever looked upon the scene.

Radulph had not been sitting for very long, when he heard footsteps beneath him. The iron latch of the door rang as it was lifted and the weight of the door itself, the thick planks studded with large, hand-forged brads, caused the hinges to groan as it swung inwards. It closed with a hollow and resounding strike of wood against stone, and the latch sounded again as it dropped back into place. Radulph stiffened upon the bench and listened for sounds of movement below, but none were to be heard. Not immediately, that is. There was just the intense, expanded stillness which always follows a loud noise within an empty building. Then came the sound of footsteps again – heavy ones, three or four of them – as the person walked a little further into the nave. It was movement which was matched from above, as Radulph stepped quietly and carefully over to the squint cut through the north-western corner of the room. The aperture was deeply splayed on either side, but it gave the priest no indication of who had entered the church because whoever it was had not yet moved sufficiently far into the building so as to be visible. However, he was able to catch the sound of a person breathing a little heavily; and, as his ears concentrated on this, his eyes travelled further down the church. It was the rood-group which caught his attention most of all – a scene worked in wood and lit by candles, paralleling the one on the wall of the room in which he stood – but he noticed too, as always, the softness of the sanctuary light shining beyond it like a star at evening.

A cough sounded below, followed by footsteps. A large and powerful figure came into view and, even before it had turned and looked about, Radulph recognised it as the form of Walter Crosse. “Father Radulph?” The voice rolled around the inside of the building. “Father Radulph, are you in here?” The speaker allowed the words to take what effect they might have and then moved further down the nave. Radulph stepped back from the squint and went to the door. He paused there a moment, drew a decisive breath, then eased himself carefully down the stairway. As he came out of the lower doorway, the noise of his descent and his emergence caused Walter Crosse to turn hastily about, and the two men stood facing each other rather in the manner of adversaries.

“Ah, Father. I knew I saw you go inta church. I was returnin’ homeward from the Common an’ thought to take the opportunity o’ speakin’ to you.”

“I was in my room above the porch,” Radulph replied, indicating the wall above him. I heard someone enter, but could not see who it was at first. Then I discerned it was you, once you had gone a few steps further down the nave.” Walter Crosse said nothing, but he looked somewhat bemused. “A squint reveals things other than the high altar, Master Crosse.” 

“O’ course. O’ course.” Walter Crosse’s eyes followed the line of the priest’s extended arm. “Holes through walls can be very useful.”

“They can.” Radulph paused briefly, before taking up something which the manor’s bailiff had said in his opening remarks. “You mentioned that you were returning from the Common. Am I permitted to ask why?”

“By all means, Father. I had to go over there, to see Brock about some matter, an’ on the way back I stopped at Bess Hoberd’s house.” His face, already genial, developed a broader smile. “I’d heard about the ol’ woman’s mishap in the plantation an’ decided to pay my compliments to her.”

“And did you?”

“Yeah, I did. Though she weren’t over-pleased to see me, I can tell you! She’s never forgiven me for gittin’ her son to throw in his lot with the risin’ tide an’ become a Bosard man.” He locked the fingers of both hands together and raised the double ridge of knuckles to his chin. “It’s marv’llous how recovered she is, really, when you consider what she’s bin through.” His eyes watched Radulph from underneath the slab of forehead. “What are we goin’ to do about her, Father, when the time come?”

“When the time comes, Master Crosse? When the time comes for what?” The question was not a genuine one, because he who asked it already knew the answer.

“Why, what we spoke of, the other day, in this very place! An’, agin, at the house, last night.”

“Ah, that.” Radulph nodded, as if in remembrance. “Shall we sit, Master Crosse? Things can be said as well sitting as standing, and a deal more comfortably.” He indicated the wall-seat as he spoke, and the two of them went and placed themselves upon it. Whether either of them found a greater ease than he had had standing seemed to be in doubt, however, because each had to half-turn from his position against the nave’s south wall so as to face the other. “You were speaking of Mistress Hoberd and what is to become of her, at such time as Sir Nicholas decides to enclose the common.” 

“Yeah.” The word was allowed to have its full measure of effect. “Do you think she’ll accept any provision which might be made for her?” 

“Who can say?” returned Radulph. “You know how singular she is. Like as not, she would rather stay where she is at present than shift herself elsewhere.”

“True.” Again, the single word said far more than meaning alone allowed for. “Is it possible that you might be able to persuade her where her best interests lay? After all,” and here Walter Crosse looked hard at Radulph, “a priest should advise his people regardin’ their well-bein’. Should he not?”

“He should. But whether or not they take his advice is a different matter.” Radulph returned the bailiff’s look without flinching, forcing the latter to avert his gaze. “I do not think that any words of mine are likely to influence Mistress Hoberd very greatly, one way or the other.”

“Maybe not. Maybe not,” conceded Crosse. “She’s not the kind to be persuaded o’ anythin’ easily, is she? She didn’t half let go at me this afternoon when I called, I can tell you!” 

“Perhaps she sees you as a threat,” suggested Radulph.

“No doubt she do.” Crosse laughed at the notion. “I’m used to that, Father. Even though I’m only the one who carry out the orders.” He returned immediately to the subject of Bess Hoberd. “I had thought to find her somewhat, er, softened by her mishap, but it was quite the opposite.”

“Some of our old folk are very strong,” ventured Radulph.

“Yeah. An’ Mistress Bess certainly found strength enow in Robert Denny’s house, from what I hear,” remarked Crosse, and a sly look crept over his face, pulling down the skin around the corners of his mouth and eyes. “An’ my mistress’s younger daughter looks to have benefited from the same direction.”

“We must be glad of the child’s recovery from fever,” Radulph countered, “and give thanks unto God, from whom all strength derives.” He was doing as much as he was able to in this contest of words, but he knew that his opponent had the advantage. “Any praise that is due must go to him.” 

“A good priestly answer!” exclaimed his adversary. “But what about the praise due to a girl wi’ the healin’ touch? Shouldn’t she git her share o’ gratitude, also?” His voice held back for a moment or two, then returned with emphasis. “What’s happened is down to Ann Denny, isn’t it, Father?”

Radulph looked steadily into the face of Walter Crosse, thereby showing a good deal more resolution than he was actually feeling. “You seem to know much of what has happened, Master Crosse,” he said.

“I should!” the other man replied. “It’s my business to. Besides,” and here he became almost patronising in tone, “how can you hope to sit upon miracles (even small ones) in a place like this an’ keep ’em quiet?” 

“Those of us involved saw no particular need to publish them abroad,” said Radulph. “But I see now that any wishes we had in the matter have been overtaken by events. “How came you to know as much as you do?”

“Well, Brock begun it all, a day or two ago. He kept on about Robert Denny’s older girl havin’ the power o’ healin’. I didn’t take much notice of him.” He spent a moment in assessment of his underling. “Well, you know how full o’ idle talk he is!” He paused again. “But then there was this business, this mornin’, at my master’s house. That struck me as diff’rent altogether.”

“You are very well informed,” commented Radulph, neither willing nor able to say anything else. “Very well informed, indeed.”

“I have to be,” Crosse replied. “An’, in any case, Father, you know what a big house is like. You lived in an abbey before you come here. You know what it’s like when a number o’ folk live close together,” He took Radulph’s nod as a cue to continue talking. “Whispers have a way o’ travellin’, don’t they? A big house is a livin’ thing. It has many rooms an’ passages. They breathe an’ they echo, Father. Words travel along stone an’ timber like heat do along an iron left in the fire.” He smiled at Radulph, as if well pleased with his analogy. “An’ who can say where it all start, Father? Who can say where it all start?”

“Who indeed?” murmured Radulph. “But start it always will.”

“That’s certain.” The bailiff, in agreeing with the other man’s observation, merely confirmed his own opinion. “An’ now that the story’s out, Robert Denny look likely to have people enow callin’ at his door for relief from coughs, itches, ague an’ the like!” His brow wrinkled as a thought occurred to him. “An’ talkin o’ Robert, I haven’t heard from him or the boy regardin’ the proposition I made the other day.”

“That is not surprising, perhaps.” Radulph spoke with a quiet emphasis and held Walter Crosse’s attention for a space of seconds, during which time the silence between them allowed for more communication than could be guessed at. Then he went on, without wholly needing to. “He has had much to occupy his mind, of late, Master Crosse.”

“Yeah, I daresay he has. Still, no matter; there’s time enow yet for his answer.” He rose from where he sat. “I’m in no hurry to press either him or his son. What I have in mind will keep for a bit longer.” 

Radulph stood up, too, thinking that the conversation might be drawing to a close. “It seems possible that sir Nicholas will be back again before another week is out,” he said. “Lady Bosard sent yesterday for him to return, I understand.”

“Yeah, she despatched the Friar to fetch him home from London, thinkin’ that Miss Agnes was goin’ to die.” He reflected a moment, then carried on speaking. “I think it likely he’ll return. My Lord o’ Norfolk’s business was comin’ to an end, in any case.”

“His Grace finds Sir Nicholas a good friend and ally, I daresay?” The question was both conversational and functional. Radulph was interested, from an ethical point of view, in the doings of the mighty. All human activity was instructive, both as fact and metaphor, and a duke was no less accountable (morally, at least!) for his deeds than the meanest labourer.

“He do. But, then it’s as well for a knight o’ the shire to attend the best interests o’ the most substantial man in the area – even if he don’t live here.” Walter Crosse was ever the practical man. “Gratitude has many ways o’ showin’ itself, an’ my Lord o’ Norfolk is not ungenerous to them as give him their support.”

“Quite so. Yet, there must be times when Sir Nicholas finds the weeks he spends away from home somewhat tedious.”

“No doubt there are. This last matter ha’ certainly dragged on for long enow. But you know how lawyers are, Father. They like nothin’ better than to git their teeth into a bit o’ land an’ pull at it like dogs do at meat thrown from the table.”

“Land. Always land,” smiled Radulph.

“Indeed, it is, Father!” Crosse’s face became enlivened. “How else is a man to measure hisself, if not in land?”

“All men do that eventually, Master Crosse. Even dukes. The birthright of everyone is to have his or her own length of soil.” Radulph looked straight into the eyes of his visitor.

“An’ there you have us, Father. I know!” Walter Crosse was determined to be jocular. “But even Mother Church is not content to have churchyards only.” 

“No. She has lands enough, I agree. Too many, some think, for her to carry out God’s work in the way she ought.”

“No one can have too many lands, Father,” came the reply. “No one.”

“Which is why Sir Nicholas has cast his eyes towards the Common?” Radulph knew that he was saying much more than simply asking a question, but felt that he could no longer dissemble.

“In part, yeah,” agreed the bailiff. “But my master is also a far-sighted man an’ he see ways o’ usin’ the area beyond what’s done with it, at present. An’ should not good husbandry be encouraged?”

“Of a certainty, it should. And do not curly backs yield much profit with but little looking after?” 

Walter Crosse looked sharply at Radulph for a second or two. Then he laughed aloud in appreciation of what he had heard. “Why, I do believe you’re gittin’ to be somethin’ of a farmer!” he said. “That abbey had best recall you before you lose all your innocence.” The laughter died away from his lips and he set his head just a little on one side. “Where do you stand in all o’ this, Father? I feel less sure o’ you now than I did when I left here, last Sunday.”

“I feel less sure of myself,” remarked Radulph. “But, in any case, I guess that what I think and do will have little effect in the matter.”

“Correct, Father. Or half-correct, I should say. What you think do not signify greatly in itself, but what you do might prove, er – how can I put it? – inconvenient.” Both the phraseology and the tone of voice were those of a man experienced in the ways of the world. “Though, there agin, Father, it could be said that whatever you do we gain advantage from.”

“How so?” Radulph was intrigued not only by the statement, but also by the matter-of-fact way in which it was uttered. 

“Well, look at it this way, Father.” Yet again, the voice was heavy with the wisdom accumulated from having to handle men as just another of a lord’s commodities. “If you support us, then you’re only doin’ what everyone expect: one authority backin’ another. An’, if you oppose us, folk will at least feel that God’s on their side – or his representative, at least! Either way, we gain some usefulness from you, whether as ally or adversary.” He laughed loudly. “I really mustn’t take any more o’ your time, Father. I’re said all I came to say – an’ more.”

“The conversation has been most illuminating for me, Master Crosse.” Radulph was able to speak the truth, though without qualification. “But I can give you no answers, at present, about what I may or may not do.”

“Then don’t, Father. Don’t.” Crosse was geniality itself. “Don’t be in a hurry to do anythin’. Have a talk wi’ Sir Nicholas when he return an’ see where you go from there.” He walked to the south door, opened it and stepped across the threshold, one hand still laid upon the latch. “Why, look how the afternoon draw on! I’d best be on my way.”

Radulph had followed him to the door. He looked out through the porch into the churchyard and saw the greyness of the day-sky just beginning to assume the denser shades of darkness. “It is not many minutes’ riding back to the manor-house, Master Crosse,” he observed.

“Very true, Father. But it’s a few more when walkin’!”

“You are without your horse, Master?” enquired Radulph, unable to conceal his surprise, for Walter Crosse was accustomed to ride as much for the sake of his position, as bailiff, as of his legs.

“It’s got a sore hoof, Father, an’ I thought it wise to rest the animal for a day or two.” He moved out into the porch. “The walkin’ won’t go amiss with me. It’s not only a priest who’s able to cover the ground on foot.”

“No, indeed. It would seem that our paths have run close, this afternoon.”

“Close in direction. Not so close in time.” The bailiff was now standing in the outer doorway. “You were an hour or two ahid o’ me at the old woman’s place, Father. Fare you well.”

He walked away towards the gate, not even turning to receive Radulph’s responding valediction, but acknowledging it with a single wave of his right hand. The priest found the gesture interesting not only for its finality in visual terms, but also because it was the reversal of the flourish anyone might expect to have by way of greeting when a separating distance made words inaudible. He walked to the porch’s entrance, watched the manor’s bailiff make his way down to the gate, saw him pass through it out onto the roadway, and then returned into the church. His original intention in coming there that afternoon had left him, so he did not go back into his room above the porch, but made his way instead down the nave and into the chancel. The air around him was still, and the stillness itself of that fragile kind where every passing second seemed likely to disturb it.

It came as no surprise, then, to Radulph when he heard a fluttering sound off to his right and above him. He looked up, but could see nothing, and even as his eyes traversed wall and roof the noise stopped. He continued to scan the wide stretches of plaster, however, and the timbers high above him – even after he had begun to wonder whether he had heard anything at all. Then his ears once again told him that he had. The sound was louder this time and more protracted. It was sufficiently loud to enable him to define the place from where it emanated, though he could still not see what was making it. Then, as his eyes began to search the small window above the shriving-seat, he saw a dark vibration upon the image of The Magdalene.

The sight drew him to the stalls and he climbed onto the seat itself, to behold a butterfly quivering against the dark folds of the penitent’s gown. Even as he brought his gaze to bear upon the creature, it ceased to move, bending its wings downwards on either side of its small, dark body. A pretty roundel of gold, black, chestnut and azure blue showed in the corners of the upper tips – not with the brightness which sunshine which sunlight would have brought, but still with sufficient colour to show that Nature’s pigments surpass anything that can be devised by the eyes and hands of humankind. Fair wings spread on painted glass. Two orders of beauty in the world reflected thereby. Creation and imitation. And, as Radulph looked upon both, he could help thinking how each had its dark side hidden from the beholder.

After a time (which was long in his imagining, but much shorter in the units by which men measure), Radulph stepped down from the seat and made his way out of the church. The afternoon was declining, as Walter Crosse had noted, but it had not yet reached the point where folk would begin to speak of evening, and Radulph knew that he had one more call to make before returning home. Hence, he made his way to Robert Denny’s farm as swiftly as possible. A few drops of moisture fell upon him as he walked, for the wind had gone round into the south-westerly quarter and the air had therefore become milder and damp. However, even in the poor light of the hour, it was still possible to see the hard, steely sky of the laggard season above the lower drift of the rain-cloud, and Radulph could read enough of weather-signs by now to ascertain that the respite was but a temporary one.

As he came along the last stretch of the green-way towards Robert’s yard, the raindrops freshened to a shower. They splashed upon his face in a manner not unpleasing and thus he made no effort to pull the hood of his cloak over his head. Indeed, as he walked up to the house, across the yard this time, he threw back his head and shoulders and accepted the rain upon his cheeks and forehead as some people like to receive the sun’s rays upon their faces on a fine, warm day in summer. He stood in such a posture even as he knocked at the back door and, as he did so, he could see little clear globules of water hanging onto the cut ends of the reed thatch above him. Every now and then, they increased to a size where they could no longer hang onto the hollow stalks, but fell quickly to earth and were absorbed into the soil. Such was the regularity of their dropping that Radulph’s eyes began to follow their downward way and he was engaged in watching them even as the door opened.

“Why, Father Radulph! Come in.” It was Richard Denny who had answered the knocking. “I didn’t expect it to be you.”

“Thank you, Richard. I’ve come to speak with your father. Though what I have to say concerns you all.” He followed the young man down the passageway. “How did the marling go today?”

“Well enow. Miles was quite a help, but there’s a fair bit remainin’ to be done.” He laughed as he walked ahead. Enow to keep him busy for a day or two!” He opened the kitchen door. “I’re brung a visitor for us all. Joan, go an’ fetch Father.” He held the door for Radulph to enter. “An’ where’s Ann? She was here when I went to answer the door.”

“She’re just gone upstairs,” relied Miles. The boy was kneeling by the hearth, splitting cow-hoof for lantern shades. “She went to put away some hose she’d bin mendin’.”

Richard nodded in acknowledgement of what his young cousin had said and went out of the kitchen into the dairy-room beyond. He climbed some way up the ladder there and called his sister, then descended sand returned to the kitchen. “Father won’t be too long. He’s out in the cart-house, patchin’ up a wheel. One o’ the felloes ha’ bin split for a long while, but it got worse today when we were cartin’ the marl. Ol’ Gilbert’s a good craftsman, but he’s very, very slow, these days.”

“That is the portion of us all, eventually,” smiled Radulph. “Only the young can do things in haste.” He looked down to the hearth where Miles was busy with his bill and mallet. Though a boy near to us is taking good care not to cut his fingers.”

“He’ll be all right!” laughed Richard. “As long as you notch good an’ deep, an’ tap down gently, you can’t go far wrong. Why.” He continued, “it’s not much harder than splittin’ firewood. Is it, young cousin?”

“I’d rather do firewood,” replied Miles. “I still remember what you said to me the last time I tried this – an’ got it wrong.”

There was no time for further explanation of the matter because, just at that moment, the noise of Ann descending the ladder took the attention of all three of them. She paused in the doorway a moment or two, then came further into the kitchen and stood at the end of the table. Radulph met her with a few words, saying that the family must feel its home to be an extension of the priest’s lodging, and the girl smiled just enough in returning his greeting to show that she appreciated the pleasantry. Then she remained quietly where she was, saying nothing further. Her silence had the effect of imposing a restraint upon any more conversation and thus the four of them held their voices in check and assumed an attitude of preoccupation with other things. To be specific, the three of them who were standing focused their attention on the young lad at the hearth-side, who at least was genuinely occupied. If he felt their eyes upon him, he did not show it and he continued tap-tapping away with his mallet at the blade set deeply in the cow-hoof.

The silence in the kitchen had just reached the point of being uncomfortable when Robert Denny came in through the back door, followed by Joan. After the initial exchange of greetings between the two men, Radulph passed immediately to what had brought him to the house, that afternoon. “I know that I can say what I have to in the company of you all,” he began. “And, therefore, I will make no delay in saying it. Word is out concerning the act which Ann performed this morning upon my Lady Bosard’s younger daughter.” He looked around the room at all of them, before bringing his eyes back to rest upon Robert. “Master Crosse sought me out in church not an hour ago and made it plain that he knew all about the fever being driven from the girl.”

Robert said nothing immediately, but looked towards Ann. She reciprocated her father’s attention, but did not offer to speak. It was as if each was waiting upon the other to make a reply. Again, the room became a network of individual silences and, this time, even the tapping on the hearth stopped. Then Robert spoke and, in the prevailing stillness, his voice seemed louder than it actually was. “Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later.” He set his teeth together and blew through them. “Though I was hopin’ it might be later. Yeah, that I was!”

“You are not alone, my friend.” Radulph was quick to identify with Robert’s feelings. “But events often have a way of out-running our wishes. And men like Master Crosse seem to have the gift of knowing things even before they have happened. Or, at least, in this case, very shortly afterwards.”

“Did that ol’ bag o’ bones, Brock, have anythin’ to do with it?” The question came from Richard Denny.  “I’ll warrant you he did! He’s an extra nose an’ pair o’ eyes for Crosse.”

“O” course he is, boy! We all know that. But let the father continue his tellin’ o’ the story. That’s what he’s come for.” There was a degree of irritation in Robert Denny’s voice, but it was not directed solely at his son.

“Richard is partly right,” said Radulph. “Jankyn Brock did have a hand in things, but not directly. At least, not where spreading news of what happened at the manor-house this morning is concerned. Master Crosse found out about that from someone in the house. Our friend Brock, of course, had already told him of Bess Hoberd and her stay beneath this roof.”

“But this mornin’s business,” Robert asked, “how did Crosse manage to latch onta that? None of us who were there said anythin’ about it – did we? Things ha’ happened at such a pace, this last week, that I’m beginnin’ to wonder if they’re real.”

“Real enough. Just as rumour is real.” Radulph searched his memory for the words that his visitor at church had used earlier. “What is it that Master Crosse said about a large house? It is a living thing; words move along its stones and timbers.”  He looked quickly around him. “He is right, of course. Yet, he would say no more than that. He wished me to know enough, and no more.”

“No doubt he did. That’s his way.” Robert’s face clouded as the predominant though came into his mind. “But what’ll happen to Ann now that news o’ her deed is out an’ abroad? Will the whole parish be lookin’ for a healer?” Even though he had done his best to prepare himself for what eventually might (or, even, must) occur, Robert Denny could still not overcome his anxiety for his daughter.

“You mustn’t worry yourself about me, Father.” Ann spoke quietly, but with firmness and conviction. “A vessel, once lifted, can’t help but pour in the direction it’s tipped. An’ if I know that you are constantly fearin’ for me, then I will not be able to tread my path as boldly as I need to.” She walked from the table and stood before him. “There can be no harvest without a sowin’. Even I know that.”

“You ought to!” laughed Robert. “You’re a farmer’s daughter.” He allowed his amusement to be seen by those around him. “See, there must be some hope left for me. I can still make half a jest, if not a whole one.” He put his arm around Ann and she stood close to him, just as she had done in the bedchamber at the manor-house some hours before.

“I think that I should really begin to feel concern for you, Robert, if you were not able to summon up half a jest.” Radulph saw the need to reinforce his friend’s turning to humour as a means of fortifying the mind. And he was glad, too, that in spite of the circumstances which weighed upon him, Robert was still prepared to look for something which might be turned to smiles. “But as long as you continue to find even a half, then I shall know that all is well with the inner man.”

“Then you know more’n I do, Father.” Robert reflected a moment before continuing with his line of thought. “Still, as you’re supposed to be aware o’ things beyond the understandin’ o’ ordinary folk, I reckon I shall have to believe you.”

“You can see, I hope, that all is well with a father and an uncle!” Radulph turned to no one in particular, but looked straight at Robert as he spoke. “Come, my friend, walk with me to the door. It is time that I returned home.”

Thus, did Radulph take his leave of the family, though not without also bidding them farewell individually. Sturdy Richard, honest and tall in his coming to manhood; young Miles, shaping as a scholar but without any of the arrogance which learning so often raised in devotees; bright Joan, a little woman of the house, whose every wish was to please those she loved; and Ann, so much like her sister (other than in looks) and yet so far transcending ordinary, everyday existence by virtue of a power, which she had neither contemplated nor sought, being sent upon her. Radulph spoke to them all in turn and made to leave by the way he had come. The back door of the house was the nearer means of exit, but Robert indicated with a nod of the head that he would have him would have him depart by the front way, so Radulph walked down the passageway with the other man following him. He opened the door and stepped outside, with Robert close behind him. It was still raining and the droplets fell from the thatch faster and heavier than when Radulph had stood and knocked for entry not many minutes before. The priest had turned about on crossing the threshold, preparing to bid his friend farewell, but he was not surprised when the latter pulled the door to and remained on the outside of it.

“Look like we’re in for a bit o’ rain,” said Robert. “The wind ha’ got round. Though I doubt it’ll stay long in that quarter.” 

“Long enough to wet you thoroughly if you stay out of doors too long,” remarked Radulph. “I have my cloak about me, but you have no outer garment on.”

“I won’t be here long enow to git wet,” insisted Robert. “An’ skin’s water-tight, in any case. Father, what I wanted to ask you was whether Walter Crosse said anythin’ else to you – apart from what he told you about Ann.”

“You’re thinking about that other matter, are you? The one concerning the Common lands?” He waited for an answer. Robert said nothing, but nodded his head. “Well,” continued Radulph, “he did mention it, but not to say that he wanted a reply from you or Richard. No, in fact, he said that he was in no hurry for either of you to commit himself.”

“That’s just as well,” said Robert,” because I’re got things enow on my mind at present without bein’ forced into givin’ him my yea or nay on that partic’lar score.”

“Which is what I told him.” Radulph could hear the words that had passed between himself and the bailiff. “And to be fair to Master Crosse, difficult though that may be, he did seem to understand your situation.”

“Did he now?” Robert looked up into the rain for a brief interval of time. “I’m not sure whether that should raise him in my opinion or not. I think I might rather have his reckin’ naught than his understandin’. That man know too much o’ things in this parish, already.”

“Oh, I don’t think that he cares much about what has befallen Ann and you – not where any fellow-feeling is concerned.” Radulph knew the man well enough to be able to say this. “No, there is not any call here upon his humanity. His interest in Ann’s healing power lies in what he regards as its novelty – and I sense he may also have some notion, at the back of his mind, that such a gift may one day have some usefulness for him.”

“Usefulness! What usefulness?” Robert showed a degree of vehemence as he spoke. “Walter Crosse is healthy enow. What use could Ann’s touch have for him?”

“Men like Master Crosse see all folk as a commodity, my friend. There are many ways in which acts of mercy might be turned to gain.” Radulph noticed Robert’s face darkening. “I don’t say that he will actually do anything to interfere, but he will certainly think of ways whereby Ann could be used to his advantage.”

“Will he, now?” Robert’s voice became loud and threatening. “Well. I can’t stop him thinkin’. But, if it go any further’n that, then me an’ him will really have somethin’ to chew on!”

“I understand how you feel. But don’t be in haste to show too much of yourself. A step sideways when dealing with Master Crosse is better than taking a pace forward.” Radulph rested on this advice.

“I know that, Father. I’ll tread easy, until I have to do otherwise. I don’t imagine things’ll start to git interestin’ until Sir Nicholas return.” The last remark was almost as much question as statement.

“That could be quite soon. My lady, his wife, sent for him yesterday when the child lay so sick with fever and looked like to die.”

“Did she? An’ will he come, do you think?”

“He might well do.” Radulph recalled what else he knew. “My Lady Bosard told me that the Duke’s matter was all but settled. So did Walter Crosse.”

“I see.” Robert ran his tongue around his lips two or three times. “Then we must be prepared for whatever may happen.” 

“In as much as anyone can be prepared for the unknown – yes,” agreed Radulph. “Tell me, Robert, had you thought to hear Mass tomorrow?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it either way, Father, to tell the truth,” Robert turned things over in his mind for a moment or two. “Richard an’ me really ought to git that marlin’ done, if the weather will allow. It’ll be no good if the stuff’s too wet – which it might be, if this rain keep up. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if you and the girls might be coming to church.” Radulph said no more than that, but he watched his friend carefully, without the latter being fully aware of it.

“Well, the girls can go on their own, if they wish,” said Robert. Then he realised how intently the priest was looking at him. “Ah, I see what you mean. Ann!” He thought for a while about what he should say next. “What do you think will happen if she do go, Father?”

“It is difficult to say.” Radulph was trying to convey both the uncertainty of events which lay ahead and the uncertainty which lay in his own foreseeing. “Nothing at all may come of it. On the other hand, the power of healing might be wished or asked of her. I doubt whether she can go abroad much longer without someone making a call upon her gift.”

Robert did not reply immediately. He pondered for a time on these opinions which, if they did nothing else, served to reflect his own thoughts. Then, after due consideration, he spoke. “I doubt it too, Father, but I won’t seek to stop her doin’ what she feel she has to. If healin’ is hers to perform, then perform it she must. We, none o’ us, asked for this to happen, but it has done an’ we’re all part o’ it.”

“That is the truth,” agreed Radulph. “And we can only follow where Ann leads. It is not our task to turn her aside from her appointed mission.”

“No, it isn’t. An’ if she wish to attend church tomorrow, then she will.” Robert’s voice was level and controlled. “I’m still worried for her, Father, but I know that from here onwards she has to go her own way without interference from me. I can only watch what she’s doin’, an’ stay a yard or two behind.” He gave an abrupt, cathartic laugh. “She’ll set a good example to all the younkers hereabouts an’ no mistake – leadin’ her poor ol’ father about, like a packhorse!”

Radulph showed his appreciation of the jest. But he used it also to end the conversation, for he felt that there was nothing more to be said. Moreover, the rain was increasing in strength and, as he observed, old packhorses ought not to stand about in the wet too long, lest they took a chill. “Until we next see each other then, my friend – farewell,” he said. “Neither of us can tell how matters will develop, so perhaps neither of us should try to. Doubtless, I shall see you at Mass on Sunday, if our paths don’t cross before.”

Minutes later, within the dripping, bare skeletal coppices of the plantation, Radulph found himself standing at the place where Bess Hoberd had fallen. The furrow she had made, in dragging herself to some kind of shelter, was still partly visible in the dead leaves and twigs, and so were the foot-churnings of those who had come to her aid. A few, thin catkins hung drily and flimsily from the hazel poles left uncut the previous season, but the only real sign of growth thereabouts was to be seen in the clumps of celandine. The golden, star-like flowers of these contrasted strikingly with the dark-green, heart-shaped leaves and, as Radulph’s eyes came upon them, he knew that he was yet again looking upon the two sides of creation. Even in one small plant did light and darkness co-exist. Co-existed and harmonised, he was inclined to think, but with the gold dominating the green. Dominating it, yet not complete without it. Needing it, to complement its own brightness. Dark hearts for bright stars. Dark earth below. Clear air above.

Radulph stood a long while within the circle of his thoughts – assailed by them at times, in command of their arrangement at others. Threatened or dominant, though, he remained at centre. There was nowhere else for him to be. He held his place in a world of two forces. Each pulled against the other and, in doing so, pulled at him. To keep his being intact, he had to recognise that both existed – but he also knew where his loyalty must lie. The light would guide him and, in following it, there was no need of vain and conscious abstinence from the substances of evil. He had no need to purge the flesh falsely in order to attain purification. God’s grace was what counted, not any mortifying actions of his own. Light and darkness were part of creation, to be sure – but they were choices. They were not something organic. Man might well be drawn to evil, as the easy and pleasurable course, but he had the capacity to withstand the attraction by exercising his will in the contrary direction. The way shown was that leading to a hillside, where a cross stood with two others. On it hung a body, impaled to the wood at three points, stretched and twisted with its own weight and exhaustion. The wounds in hands, feet and side betokened great suffering, but they stood for liberation, too – and more. For now, on the fair skin of a young maiden, they showed a saving spirit still at work upon the earth. 

There were dead leaves on the ground, the dried relics of the previous year’s new growth, and they themselves covered the growth of other seasons. But, even at the very point of separation, a promise of spring was to be seen, for new buds sat in every bract ready to thrust their spikes out from twig and branch as soon as earth and air should dictate. It had been a long winter and the glad season was slow in coming. Would it be the sweeter for being late, Radulph wondered? Or would one, cold, hard spread of months be followed by another? – the latter distinguishable only by the length of days, as up till then. He turned from the coppices and walked the short distance to the plantation’s edge, pausing briefly on the outer bank to gaze back upon the regulated stools of brush and small wood. The hand of man was clear in their arrangement, and the intent that ordered the hand also. Would the intent of a more sublime creator be as explicit and discernible when the hands of a young girl were used to transmit greater healing than physic alone could achieve? Would people look beyond the spectacle into the nature of the miracle? Radulph walked the last part of his homeward way in both fearfulness and hope, knowing that each sentiment was part of the other and that both were part of a whole. The only certainty for him, until events had run their course, was the uncertainty of wishfulness and expectation.

Chapter 13 (Saturday, 11 April – Sunday, 12 April)

Nothing occurred on the Saturday to give any indication as to what might develop from Ann Denny’s restorative act upon the person of Agnes Bosard. Ann and her sister attended Mass at the third hour, but their presence in church did not create any obvious stir among the other members of the congregation. Radulph was able to sense this, as he celebrated the sacrament before the altar, because the noise among the people gathered at the chancel screen was much the same as usual. So were their silences and responses at the appropriate times. Miles had thrown them one or two backward glances during the first part of the service, but he had ceased to do so when satisfied that nothing exceptional was to occur. After the office had been performed, Radulph moved from the sanctuary to the nave more quickly than he was accustomed to in order that he might gauge any reaction to incipient rumours which might be starting to circulate. But he saw nothing indicative, and nor did he hear anything. There were, to be sure, looks cast in the Denny girls’ direction, but he had no way of discerning whether these were in any way out of the ordinary. Certainly, the words thrown their way seemed normal and predictable enough, so he lingered among his charges until Ann and Joan had departed, then stepped through the rood-screen to re-join Miles in the sanctuary.

It was just as he was turning to close the wicket that he saw a figure emerge from the tower arch and move quickly out through the south doorway, taking with it the slightest suggestion of a muffled snatch of infant discomfort. Whoever it was wore a loosely fitting cloak of coarse, grey stuff, with the hood drawn over the head – both of which factors allowed no opportunity of assessing any personal characteristics. All that was apparent in the brief time it took to walk the few yards out of church was that the person, whoever he or she might be, was of small stature and somewhat stooped about the shoulders. Radulph’s first reaction was to pass into the nave once more and follow the mysterious visitor outside, but there were members of the congregation remaining yet within the building and he had no wish to draw their attention either to himself or to what had caused him to leave. Accordingly, he drew the gate of the screen shut behind him and made his way up the chancel. He had almost reached the sanctuary, when he turned to the right and opened the priest’s door sufficiently far to be able to see out into the churchyard. What he hoped he might glimpse, however, was not visible, so he pushed the door to and eased the latch back into place. Miles stood looking at him, for the sound of the door opening had taken the boy’s attention, and though no question fell from the young lips one was clearly asked in the expression on his face. 

“There is cloud coming up, over the sea,” said Radulph. “I hope that the weather stays dry enough for your uncle and Richard to finish their field.” He walked to the altar. “I know that Robert is anxious to get the task completed. Farming is ever a race against the weather, is it not?” He smiled as he spoke, and the boy smiled in return and nodded his head. The two of them then went through their usual procedure of clearing away the eucharistic vessels and accessories. Not much conversation passed between them – nothing more than was relevant, in fact, to the task in hand. Each had his own thoughts to dwell upon, and foremost in Radulph’s mind was the small grey form which had slipped so quickly from tower to porch and was gone.

He thought a good deal about what he had seen. Indeed, the sight stayed with him for much of the day. The grey figure became so powerfully imprinted on his mind that there were times when he was inclined to attribute what he had seen to his imagination rather than to his eyes. The impression was reinforced by the fact that the day itself made no great demands upon him – even his obligatory visit to the manor house. Here, he found Agnes Bosard well on the return to normal health (at least, as far as he could see) and pursuing her round of small domestic tasks. The delight her mother had in this recovery was no less than it had been when the fever had first been driven out. If anything, it was greater, for the initial relief at seeing impending death turned aside had now developed into a more reflective and balanced state of mind. The real significance of what had happened had now had sufficient time to mature in her thoughts, and the very wonder of it was made the more remarkable by such a sudden and unexpected return to ordinary, everyday living on the part of one who had lain so close to her ending of earthly life. This, in many ways, was the most remarkable thing of all. Not only had the fever been expelled; there had been no need for the careful and wary convalescence which generally followed such sickness. Radulph was impressed by this as well, for he too had expected a longer and more gradual second stage of recovery after the initial expulsion of the delirium.

As he and Lady Bosard talked, his mind kept returning to the little shadow earlier in church that day. For this is what the figure had become – a small, grey shadow which occupied a shifting place within the circle of his consciousness. Sometimes it was central, sometimes peripheral; but it was always there. It did not disappear from his thoughts when Lady Bosard passed from her daughter’s state of health to a topic which must have been well to the forefront of her mind, if not actually in first place. She was anxious that Radulph knew of the talk that was in the house among the servants regarding the cure and the way in which it had been brought about. “There is little I can do to stop them talking, Father,” she said. “Though they do not, of course, speak directly of the matter in front of me.” Radulph nodded his head in understanding and proceeded to tell Lady Bosard of his conversation in church with Walter Crosse the previous afternoon. “So, you see, my lady, the matter is out – whether we would have it so, or not. I have already spoken with Robert and he is prepared for whatever may befall.”

Whatever may befall. The phrase stayed with Radulph throughout the remainder of the day. The words which formed it developed into an echo that resounded within the great, hollow cave of his consciousness. Sometimes, the reverberations were faint; on other occasions, they declared their presence loudly in the frontal regions of his head. They formed their own kind of picture, too, for the emptiness around them became shaped like a dark archway, from out of which a small grey figure would steal towards a lesser portal only feet away. So powerful did the image become that Radulph was awakened from sleep by it, during the night. He sat up in bed for a long time, the pillows at his back, and stared at the far wall of his chamber. It was a pit of great darkness and depth, and from out of its black profundity came the echo. That first utterance of the phrase had become like a large stone dropped from on high into a still, deep pond, and the ripples spread now to encompass the speaker. Detached from their point of origin somewhere within him, his words had now become extraneous and directed at him. He felt their force, their close and throbbing persistence, and he wished that he might shout aloud in order to break their hold upon him.

No words, however, emanated from his lips because, although the desire to make some sort of exclamation was strong within him, the ability to do so was lacking. He remained the prisoner of his own utterance, the slave of its possibilities. And, even as he sought freedom through a clearer understanding of what these latter might be, he found that he was unable to marshal his thoughts sufficiently well. The reverberations inside his head, and inside the darkness of the room, would not allow it. In an environment that was supposedly ideal for concentration of the mind, there was only diffusion. The scholar and thinker who had often sought this particular combination of darkness and quiet in the house of his order was now unable to focus his attention on any clear and individual line of thought. In the end, he made no further effort to do so, but allowed sleep to come upon him for the second time that night – an uneasy slumber, shallower even than the first one had been, and fraught still with those images and echoes which had so beset him. When, at last, he woke in the pale light of an unwilling dawn, he was still in a half-sitting position, bolstered by pillows, and his neck and shoulders ached with the unfamiliarity.

The stiffness remained with him after he had risen from bed and his posture drew comment from both his servants as they breakfasted with him in the kitchen. Later on, in church, Miles enquired whether he had hurt his neck. Radulph and the boy were preparing for the Low Sunday Mass and the latter noticed that his mentor was not moving with customary ease. By the time that the service was ready to begin, a larger than usual gathering had assembled at the chancel screen and the celebrant, attired in his amice and chasuble, appeared to the people as he always did – a figure clad for ritual movement, in ritual clothing. No stiffness was visible to them. The vestments concealed it and the formal gestures of the Eucharist tended, in any case, to be of a studied and somewhat deliberate nature. Ann and Joan Denny were numbered among the congregation; so were their brother and father. Lady Bosard and Eleanor were present, and there was also a slightly higher than usual number of servants from the manor-house accompanying them. Radulph took what opportunities came his way during the service to look for a small figure clad in grey, but he could not see it anywhere among the people standing at the screen. There were also occasions when he directed his eyes above his flock to the dark outline of the tower-arch, but again he was unable to detect what he was looking for.

When, at last, the Mass came to an end, Radulph went from the sanctuary into the nave. He spoke first to Lady Bosard and her daughter, as precedence demanded, then to the other members of the congregation. It was both a duty and a pleasure for him to seek such converse and he liked to think that, in some small measure, the people themselves valued it. The one thing he did notice, this particular morning, was that no one seemed to be in much of a hurry to return home. Granted it was the Sabbath, not a weekday – but, even so, young and old alike showed less than their usual desire to be gone. Perhaps it would have been an overstatement to talk of an air of expectancy, yet there was something in the atmosphere which smacked a little of anticipation. Radulph noticed that the Denny family was attracting its full measure of glances and that these increased when Lady Bosard and Eleanor went across to speak to its members. The exchanges seemed to be in no way exceptional, but nor was there any denying the amount of interest shown in them, and those who tried hardest to conceal their curiosity only made it the more obvious.

Eventually, Lady Bosard decided it was time for herself and her daughter to leave. As they went, some of the servants who had accompanied them took it as their cue also to depart and fell into step an appropriate distance behind them. The other retainers then followed their fellows and there was drift towards the south door of quite a proportion of the congregation. Robert Denny and his children began to move as well, and so did the rest of the parishioners. It was a quieter exodus than usual and one that was, therefore, the more effectively disturbed by what subsequently occurred. Radulph was prepared for something to happen, even something of the kind which actually did. The initial stage, then, came as no surprise – though what developed from it had considerably more impact and unexpectedness. 

Just as the Denny family was approaching the door, on its way out of church, a small figure in a grey cloak came from within the base of the tower and stood before them. Radulph caught his breath, not so much in surprise as in anticipation. But that was as far as any sense of fore-knowledge went, because what ensued took him and all the other people present completely unawares. All, that is, with the exception of Ann Denny, for it was her to whom the mysterious being now stepped. “I crave pardon, young mistress,” a cracked voice said, “but I had it, of a dream, that my poor child should find relief here through your touchin’ him.” With that, a hand came from inside the folds of the cloak and threw back the hood. It revealed a woman of no greater age than the burden of living was able to produce, one whose span lay somewhere along the way to middle-age and whose face combined the elements both of earlier years and of the ones added since. The hand then moved again, unfastened the garment about the throat and flung it open. A baby lay cradled in the crook of the right arm. It whimpered as it was eased from its comfort against the mother’s body and was held up in suppliance. The mother herself, relieved of carrying the infant so close to her, grew an inch or two in height, and was glad to do so if the way she arched her back were anything to go by. Radulph moved quietly down the nave, so as to get nearer to the group of people. The way they stood had a sculpted quality about it, so that they might almost have been figures on limestone panels, such as those which backed the altar.

He took up a position which enabled him to see and hear everything with ease, but which did not allow him to obtrude. The strange woman repeated what she had said and it soon became obvious that Robert Denny had recognised her. And not only him, for some of the people who had stopped within the doorway and the porch had the look of remembrance on their faces and were exchanging hushed remarks. They were joined in their observation by others who had begun to cross the churchyard and who now returned to view the spectacle. And, last of all, came Lady Bosard and Eleanor, her daughter, to join the company assembled in and around the entrance. Radulph was completely engrossed in the drama, so much a part of it, that he felt a portion of himself to be present in each of the principals as they stood facing each other. 

“Please, young mistress. Please look upon my child.” The voice continued as hoarsely as it had begun. “His eyes are much afflicted.”

Ann Denny took the infant from the woman and held it to herself. She looked down into the little face and gently touched the forehead with her fingertips. From where he stood, Radulph could see that the child’s eyes were red and swollen, and not with anything as natural as tears. Some blighting influence was at work, for the lids were puffed and heavy, allowing only narrow slits for seeing through. Ann considered the baby for a while, but said nothing, and this prompted the mother to speak again.

“Work upon his eyes, young mistress. You have the power to cure him.” She then turned her attention to the people around her. “The lady in my dream (our most Blessed Mother, it was) told me how I should find healin’ for my child in the parish where I was born. An’ she told me, also, who it was I should look to.” Her eyes came to rest upon Ann once more, searching keenly for the effect of this statement upon the girl.

Ann maintained her silence and continued to stroke the baby’s forehead. Then she moistened the end of her left hand’s forefinger with her tongue and applied the dampness to the swollen eyelids. The little one blinked at the sudden contact and, restricted though it was, the blinking continued for a period of time beyond the pressure of the finger being laid upon its lids. For Ann did not keep her finger there long. She soon withdrew it and stood watching for the effect of her touching. Once the blinking had eased, the eyes began to open wider and wider, almost as if in wonder at the mystery of their soothing. And, with the reduction of the swelling of the lids, the inflammation had diminished as well. Amidst the whispering and nudging of the onlookers, Ann handed the child back to its mother. “Your baby is well again,” she said. “Go with God, as you return to your home.”

The woman smiled and uttered her thanks as she took the child, looking fondly upon it and lightly touching its eyes. Then she cradled it, as before, using a combination of her arm and cloak for comfort and support. When the work was done to her satisfaction, she drew the garment around her and fastened it at the throat with a deft movement of fingers and thumb. Once the fastening was accomplished, she looked around her for a moment before beginning to address those who stood in silence now on all sides. The voice in which she spoke still had its quality of hoarseness, but it increased now in volume and trembled with emotion. “I come here as I was directed an’ my little one is well agin. Some o’ you will remember me from when I lived among you. Kathryn Sturrman. You will all remember what you’ve seen here today, that I do know. A healer o’ great power has come among you an’ I thank her wi’ all o’ my heart! Love her an’ use her well. I’ll return now to my place o’ dwellin’. One night in the porch’s chamber is as much as I desire!” She looked around her, taking in the faces and forms of the people and bringing her eyes to rest upon Ann, last of all. Then she turned towards the door and made her way out into the churchyard.  

No one followed her, other than with the eyes, and these showed but limited pursuit. Once she had disappeared from view, the attention of everyone assumed a new focus. People were eager to speak about her, if only the magnitude of what Ann Denny had performed was too near them both in terms of time and person and they were glad, therefore, to have another subject on which to converse. Those to whom the strange visitor was unknown and unfamiliar (not as numerous as those who remembered her) were quite content to stand and listen to the talk concerning her. In this way, they were at least able to fit her into the local pattern and see her as having to do with the parish, though no longer connected with it. Radulph himself had always felt how important antecedents were and he listened with fascination as the woman’s earlier history was recalled.

It seemed that she had lived in the village as a child, had lost the immediate members of her family in an outbreak of sickness and had been taken into service at the manor-house. After some years of working in the kitchens and bake-office there, she had married a retainer of the old Sir Nicholas Bosard, towards the end of his time of lordship, and had moved way with her husband to a parish further down the coast. The man had managed to put a little money by, from his years of soldiering in the French Wars, and now decided to take a younger bride with whom to seek the domestic comforts so long missing from his life. The girl, for her part, had accepted him readily enough and left with him to start a new life for herself, miles away to the south. Which had been the last anyone had seen or heard of her, until she had appeared so strikingly in church but a few minutes before. Radulph said nothing of having glimpsed her the previous day. He was content to remain outside the exchanges of information, though he did smile and nod his encouragement to those of his people who chanced to look his way as they were recounting what they knew.

The discussion appeared to last longer than was actually the case for, though a good deal of the woman’s history was revealed, the time taken to divulge it was not great. Once the words of recollection had run their course, folk’s attention turned to Ann Denny. She met their several gazes modestly, but warmly, and she stood closely to her father and the other members of her family. Robert was at a complete loss for words, Richard too, and Radulph was about to break the silence one way or another, when Lady Bosard spoke. She was standing on the south doorway’s threshold and her voice was that arresting blend of restraint and clarity. What she had to say did not take long, but it far outweighed anything which Radulph could have produced in that particular situation. She told of how Ann had saved her younger daughter, and she took good care to relate matters in such a way as to discourage rumour and superstition. The healing gift was glorified neither for the sake of itself, nor of its bearer, but attributed to the source from whence it came. And, in talking of the source, Lady Bosard spoke too of the burden placed upon the members of a family which had suddenly had one of them so specially honoured. “Give them your support, good people, as well as making your demands,” she said. “They are well deserving of it.”

It was those last two sentences which gave Radulph the sure knowledge of what he must say, for he had had no clear notion up until then. “Brothers and sisters,” he began. “Hear me.” He made his way to the font and stepped up onto its raised plinth. “This maiden is especially favoured. You have seen for yourselves an example of the power of the gift bestowed upon her. It has not been lightly granted and nor is it lightly borne.” His eye caught Robert’s for a moment and he felt his friend’s approval, though he knew also the anxiety which must lie within a father’s breast. “What has been laid upon her weighs heavily, since duty is ever a burden and becomes no lighter through being discharged.” He paused a while and looked about him. “Furthermore, our young sister in Christ has seen things, these last few days, which are almost beyond describing. Heaven and Hell have been brought within her compass; the Mother of God has appeared to her; and she bears the stamp upon her of Our lord’s suffering and triumph.” He stepped down off the plinth, took Ann gently by the arm and led her to stand beside him at the font. “See, the marks of the nails are upon her hands!” He held each one up, in turn, for the people to see. The swelling and discolouration were more pronounced than when he had looked upon them in the field four days previously. “Her feet are bruised also and she has the thrust of the spear staining her side.” He looked about his audience and saw that many of them were crossing themselves devoutly and that some were already on their knees. “Remember this girl in your prayers, good people, and remember also, through her, whom it is that you worship. She is but the vessel chosen for great things. The glory due is for God Almighty alone.” He looked about him again.” It is time now for you all to return to your homes. Much has been both done and seen here, this morning. There is likely much remaining to be done and seen in the days ahead. Go, and God go with you.”

The closing sentence was both blessing and command, and the people responded to it. They left the church in a manner quiet and becoming, though it was noticeable that a few of them who had to pass the font took the opportunity of touching Ann’s mantle. It was the slightest of contacts at best, a brief rubbing of the cloth between thumb and forefinger, yet the gesture was symptomatic of the way that two worlds were met that morning in one young girl. Met for all to see. The two inheritances of each and every living soul given expression in one person especially favoured. Touching was for the flesh, for reality. The belief behind the touching spoke of a life beyond the flesh – or, at least, the hope that this existed. And all the worshippers went from church with hope, that morning, taking themselves to their homes in a mood of wonderment and cheer. Lady Bosard and her daughter moved out of the doorway and allowed them to pass. Indeed, her ladyship indicated to those who were her servants that they should go and not wait upon her. Once the building was clear of folk, she walked to the entrance of the porch and watched until the last person was gone from the churchyard. The she retraced her steps into the main building itself.

“Well, Master Denny,” she said. “We have all seen things today we shall not easily forget. What wonders you and I have witnessed, these last two days!” She approached the font and took hold of Ann’s hands. “And you, dear child, what times these are for you! Do you not flinch a little from such high responsibility?”

“Yis, my lady.” Ann blushed a little, as she replied. “But I have my fam’ly an’ Father Radulph to support me, an’ I know that I have you as well. With all o’ that, an’ with our Blessed Mother pointin’ the way, I think I’ll be able to meet whatever may befall.”

“God remain with you, child.” Lady Bosard kissed the healing hands and turned to Radulph. “You did right to say what you did, Father. Is it not so, Master Denny? There could have been no other way of speaking.”

“No, there couldn’t.” Robert was quick to agree and his voice was decisive in tone. “I want to thank you, Father, for sayin’ them words. All o’ you know how worried I’re bin about Ann an’ her powers.” He looked at the others as he spoke. “Well, now things are in the open. The way ahead’s no clearer to me than it was afore, but at least it don’t seem to threaten so much. I’m still worried inside o’ me, I can’t help it, but seein’ Ann do what she’s bin called to will help me git over that.”

“It will strengthen us all, my friend,” Radulph said. “It is a sign upon the earth that we have, indeed, not been left comfortless.”

There were other words, beyond those ones – but only of fond parting. Radulph watched his friends go out of the door, then returned to the sanctuary. Miles had watched all that had happened from just within the chancel screen and he stood there, now, as the priest approached. No words passed between them because there was no need of talk, but each knew that a light had been lit in church that morning which would burn more brightly, by far, than any wax-lights smoking for the souls of the departed.

Chapter 14 (Monday, 13 April – Friday, 17 April) 

The act of mercy performed that Sunday morning, on one small child, was all that was required to change a softly spoken and limited rumour into a loud and published reality. Those who had seen it had no need to improve upon the facts, no need even to try. The event itself was able to match the most demanding imagination.  Those who had been present would never forget it, and the people who had not been there heard such graphic accounts of it that it would have been easy for them to feel that they had seen and heard everything. It was destined to become a day to measure things by, a fixed point from which time might be calculated and considered. Thus, a man or woman might say, “It happened a week afore Ann Denny healed that baby.” Or, “Let me see, now. It was a day or two after Robert Denny’s girl give that infant its sight back.” People who draw their living from land or sea often reckon time by memorable aspects of the weather, good or bad. But, if there is one thing which will change this custom, it is a fellow-creature acting in an unexpected and extraordinary manner.

            And this Ann Denny had most certainly done. If the rose of her virtue had been budding from the time of her first visions and had begun to blossom by holding Bess Hoberd’s hands and leaning over Agnes Bosard’s sick-bed, it had achieved its full flowering that Sunday morning.  At least, this was what Radulph believed and felt. He called upon the family during the afternoon, taking a different path from his usual route – one which allowed him to spend a limited time of reflection upon the shingle mound, with its wooden post, marking the way along a shallow and sanding channel to the sea-port itself. When he reached the house, Ann was not there. She had gone into the village to bring her gift to any who had need of it. “I offered to go with her,” said Robert. “But she told me that she’d as soon go alone an’ that I wasn’t to worry about her. Didn’t she, Richard?” The young man nodded in assent. “My sister was very firm wi’ all of us,” he remarked. “We shall have to git used to a new way o’ life from now on, I don’t doubt.” Radulph stayed with the four of them (for Joan and Miles were there, too), talking about anything they wished to raise by way of conversation, but there was only one matter in their minds and speaking of other things simply served to emphasise it. Eventually, Radulph came to feel that his presence was inhibiting freedom of discussion rather than promoting it, something he had never sensed before with these, his closest friends. So, he took his leave of them – but not before he had promised Robert to return home by way of the village.

            He would have gone this way without any promising, though what he expected to find had no clear definition in his thoughts. Ann was standing at the common-place when he approached, talking to the company assembled there – a modest gathering largely of women and children, together with a few ancients of either gender. This particular meeting-place was very much the focal point of the village at any time of day, for three small springs all emerged from the ground within a few feet of each other and combined their clear waters in a single pool. Even the severest drought was unable to stem the flow and, with such a source of supply guaranteed them, the villagers had long regularised the water and its use by building a cistern of brick and stone to provide storage. Some of Ann’s audience were sitting on the low, surrounding wall of this, while others stood to attend her. Removed from all of them, not so much in distance as in preoccupation, were the young children of the village who stamped their feet busily in a little runnel which seeped away from the well on the land’s downward slope. None of the company seemed to notice Radulph’s approach, until he was all but one of the assembled – at which point, his presence served to create a shift in everyone’s attention, and even Ann looked in his direction.

            There was a moment or two’s hesitation on all sides; a sense of unexpectedness, all round; a feeling of interruption. After it had softened, Radulph put everyone at ease with a few well-chosen words of greeting and moved towards Ann. She smiled at him and stated briefly and modestly what she was about. He listened to her carefully, before turning to address his parishioners in a place and manner not familiar to him. What he had to say took little time – only as much as was required to convey that the girl wished to offer her gift to anyone who felt the need of it. The invitation was accepted in as seemly a manner as it was given and the people drawn together around the communal source of water received the hands of Ann Denny upon them quietly and respectfully. Some of them had the need for her attention stamped upon their faces and bodies, while others showed no obvious physical shortcomings at all. Nevertheless, all received this outpouring of herself and took away with them something of her warmth and goodness. It was, as far as the village was concerned, her first public act on its behalf – not as expressive and spectacular, perhaps, as the healing within church of Kathryn Sturrman’s infant, nor as striking as the reduction of Agnes Bosard’s fever, but valuable all the same and something to be remembered and thought upon.

            Possibly it was the thinking wherein at least part of the healing lay, for as the week wore on more and more people declared themselves the beneficiaries of Ann Denny’s free offering of herself. She was present at Mass each morning, responding to any calls made upon her after it had ended, and she attended also to the callers who came knocking at the door of her father’s house. Though not large in number, there were among these visitors people from neighbouring parishes, who had heard of Ann’s power and come to try its effectiveness. Radulph stayed with the girl for as much of the time as he was able to manage, his presence beside her being only partly in answer to her father’s request and her own asking. He was desirous of being with her for reasons of his own. One was to be near an individual light burning brightly in a darkling world; another, his chance to witness things performed of a kind he had only read of hitherto. There was even one small part of him which continued to play the priest and believe that his presence would authenticate the acts performed and give them credence. For Radulph knew his mighty parent well. He knew that the Church had to have its miracles regularised in order for their true nature to be recognised. Unorthodoxy could not be countenanced because heresy lay therein, with all that such lack of conformity implied.

            Ah, heresy! That unacceptable flying in the face of what authority proclaimed to be without argument. And, yet, with both shades of opinion usually based upon the same set of facts. Consider the one perfect life spent upon earth: to those who lived by the law and by the accretion of ritual, it was blasphemy, final and unforgivable; to those who longed for a new hope and a new way, it was the opportunity not only to take the crown of life here, in the present time, but to wear it for all eternity. Not that such equivocality regarding the life of Ann Denny existed in the minds of the people healed by her, as she went among them. They were cured of their ailments and that was the end of it. There was no debate among them as to whether the touch of her hands was orthodox or not, approved or unapproved. What she had to offer was readily received, and as many thanks were given to her personally for help offered as were granted to the source of her inspiration. Radulph watched with interest those who came seeking aid. Some bore the marks of their afflictions visibly, while others had maladies less easy to detect. Young and old alike, Ann gave them fully of herself and brought them all relief of one kind or another. Even those whom Radulph suspected of carrying illness about with them as an attitude of mind, rather than a physical reality, claimed to have found a cure. And that, in his opinion, was no less a miracle in its way than the healing of genuine ailments. Before the week was out, there were few families (if, any) in the parish which did not have at least one of its members who had sought and found comfort at the hands of Ann Denny.

A variety of humankind, Radulph reflected – excepting its station in life, for that was fixed for the most part. A variety, too, of illness and affliction. Itching and inflammation of the skin, sore places which would not heal, dimness of the eyes and deafness of the ears, aching and swollen joints, pains within the body, lameness and falling sickness. There were even a few individuals who, in suffering from a number of these ailments all at once, had no real disease other than old age. Yet they, too, found ease of their pains and their years, and they saw also a brightness in the world such as they had often hoped for, but never found. Among the old ones visited, that week, was Bess Hoberd, and Radulph and Ann found her in good spirits.

“You’re bin busy the last day or two, I hear,” she said. “I had thought to come to Mass afore the week was out, an’ I may do so yit.” She looked at Ann intently. “What things ha’ come to pass, my young maid! An’ to think that ol’ Bess was the first to receive your precious gift.” She pulled back the sleeve of her dress to reveal the injured arm. “The bindin’ you put on is still in place, Father, an’ I haven’t done nothin’ I shouldn’t wi’ the limb. Like as not, I’ll be usin’ it agin afore long.” It was pleasing to see the old woman in such a cheerful frame of mind, and the three of them sat and talked for a while of the things which drew them together. And which separated them, too, for they recognised the value of each other in individual terms and saw that the composition of their little world was nothing without its component parts. When, at last, it was time for Radulph and Ann to leave, the girl took hold of Bess Hoberd’s hands in a spontaneous gesture of warmth and affection and touched them with her lips. The old woman squeezed back a tear or two as she bade her visitors farewell and she stood watching at the door of her cottage long after they had gone.

On the Friday of that week, Sir Nicholas Bosard returned home from London. A servant called at the vicarage house late that afternoon to inform Radulph of the fact and ask if he would be so good as to call upon the master after supper. “I just hope he’s grateful for what you did for his daughter,” Margaret Jakks said pointedly. Then, in response to the quizzical look upon her employer’s face, she added, “Well, it was you what got Ann to attend the girl, wasn’t it?” Radulph agreed that this was the case and gave it as his opinion that Sir Nicholas would, in his own way, be thankful for Agnes’s recovery from fever. When he arrived at the manor-house, having first been greeted by the inevitable Watcher Will, he was conducted to the solar, where Lady Bosard had received Robert, Ann and himself a week previously. Sir Nicholas and Brother Henry were sitting at a table with vellums spread before them. Candles burnt to assist their work in the dying light and, when Radulph was shown into the room, the friar began to clear the documents away into a large leather satchel. When he had finished, he rose from his seat at the table and left the room. It was only on passing Radulph that he uttered any word of greeting to the priest. “This has been a most pressing week, Father,” he said. “For all of us.” And he went through the doorway without giving the object of his remark any chance to reply.

“Well, Father, it is good to see you.” Sir Nicholas’s tone of voice was cheery. “Come, let us sit by the window. There’s a small drop of daylight left yet and I’m tired of candle-shadows.” He showed Radulph to a chair in the oriel and brought over another for himself. “Always the documents, Father. Always the documents!” He was a powerfully built man, of medium height, and he sat down heavily, creating as much comfort as he was able to in the tight fitting of his gown. It was of fine stuff, black, and edged with squirrel, and it served to accentuate the greyness of his hair.

“I trust that my Lord of Norfolk had a satisfactory conclusion of his business,” said Radulph, thinking that this would be as suitable an opening remark as was available to him.

“It went well enough,” Sir Nicholas replied. “Especially with him not being there, but away up north with his levies.” He paused. “Bodily infirmity caused him to him to miss the greatest of victories.”

“A battle has been fought?” enquired Radulph.

“Yes, indeed – on Palm Sunday. We had news of it a few days later. King Edward scattered his enemies on Towton’s field and secured the throne.”

“And, so, His Grace has had double good fortune,” Radulph observed. “The House of York victorious and success in his own affairs.” 

Sir Nicholas thought for a moment, before replying. “The lawyers probably did as well where the latter are concerned.” His deep-set eyes hooded over and the particular inclination of his head, accentuating as it did the pronounced curve of his nose, made Radulph think suddenly and irresistibly of the hawk’s head device, which was the Bosard family badge. It was to be seen all over the house, carved in wood and in stone. It was there, in the very room where they sat, sculpted on the spandrels of the fireplace and painted as a roundel in the great window.  “Lawyers do well whatever the outcome of any matter,” Sir Nicholas continued. “Where other men grow thin, the men of law wax fat! Is it not so, Father?”

“That does seem to be the way of the world,” agreed Radulph.

“It is, I can assure you. But there are other ways I find less easy to understand. One particularly, this very day, has set me thinking.” He stopped speaking and looked at Radulph carefully and closely.

“And what is that, Sir Nicholas?” the priest asked, though he suspected he knew the answer to the question already.

“Why, the way I came home today, expecting to find a daughter dead, or dying, and finding her in almost as good health as when I left.”

Radulph did not reply immediately, even though he had it in mind what to say. He returned the other man’s gaze and spoke only when he felt sure that he was holding Sir Nicholas’s scrutiny. “If I may make so bold to say so, it is much more a way of Heaven than of the world.” He waited for the words to take effect and then allowed the fixed attention between the lord of the manor and himself to terminate.

“Say you so?” Sir Nicholas pursed his lips and drew breath through them audibly. “I am glad, in any event, that my daughter is well again – but is it possible that Denny’s girl has this healing touch?”

“It is not only possible,” said Radulph. “It has been bestowed upon her from on high and she has used it freely. Doubtless, Lady Philippa has told you of all that has happened. She knows as much of Ann’s gift as anyone.”

“Aye, I have heard a great deal since I returned. My wife has spoken of little else, apart from Ann Denny.” He reflected a moment, then continued. “I have heard all about the dreams in her head and the marks upon her body.  And I know, too, of her works performed this last week in the parish.”

“Her ministering to the sick and infirm has been a marvel to us all,” said Radulph. 

“That I can well understand. It is not often that such a wonder comes to pass.”

“And the news of it has spread beyond these fields and lanes of ours, so that people from other places are beginning to come and avail themselves of what God has offered through this, his handmaiden.”

“Quite so. And was it not a remarkable thing how Kathryn Sturrman returned to the village after all these years and brought her child for healing?” Sir Nicholas framed his question carefully and looked for its effect.

“It is a thing which will be spoken of for years.” Radulph’s eyes grew bright, as he recalled the scene about the font. “There is nothing so strong upon human imagining as the return of a person long departed.” He smiled to himself in further recollection. “And the manner of her leaving after the babe had been eased of its affliction was more rare than her appearing.”

“The whole business has been rare, from start to finish. Friar Henry and I were discussing it earlier. He suggested that the Denny girl’s doings should regularised in some way or other for the benefit of everyone concerned.” Again, he looked carefully at Radulph. “I think he may be right, as well.”

“Regularised?” Radulph did his best to hide the concern he felt at hearing the word. “What did he have in mind? How can such acts as Ann’s be regularised?”

“Well, look at this way, Father.” The knight’s voice was relaxed and persuasive. “Here she is, going hither and thither at all hours, or having folk go to her. Would it not be better to keep to a certain time and place, in order to make things more, er – ordered? More efficient?” These last few words were delivered with emphasis. “It would be less tiring for the girl herself, I am sure. And less of a nuisance to her family.” His face, which tended somewhat to floridity of complexion, beamed warmly.

“The energy that Ann expends, she expends freely,” replied Radulph. “And her family is reconciled to the inconvenience caused it.”

“Besides,” continued Sir Nicholas, as if the other man had not spoken, “It would also be as well to bear in mind that your Abbot might expect matters to be conducted in a manner proper and befitting. I know that my Lord Bishop of Norwich would look for such orderliness in his diocese.”

Authority! Administration! It was something which Radulph had considered as a possible complicating factor in a ministry such as Ann’s, but he had not expected such an encumbrance to be met with so soon. Nevertheless, it was something which had to be faced and it was best met in the present situation with a direct question. “What exactly are you thinking of, Sir Nicholas?” he asked.

Such an enquiry could not have come as a complete surprise to a practised man of affairs, but the artifice gained through experience demands that what the mind has conceived the tongue should phrase as appropriately as possible. “I am thinking, Father,” said Sir Nicholas, “that this girl might eventually be a candidate for sainthood, for all that you and I know, and that any holy acts performed by her should be sanctified by a proper ritual and conducted in a proper place.” He sat back and looked Radulph straight in the eye.

“I suppose that you have our church in mind?”

“Just so. St. Michael’s is only a small building as churches go, but it would serve well enough for what I envisage might befall. And just think, Father.” He tilted his head back and considered something far beyond that part of the ceiling on which his eyes rested. “Just think, if our little church became a place of healing, what that would mean in terms of money for its embellishment. Nay, even of its rebuilding!” The last words fell loudly from his lips and rolled around the room. “If only we can get this thing properly organised, it will afford us considerable revenues.”

“It is a possibility,” I suppose.” Radulph was loth to consider it, but found himself forced to. And, in any case, Sir Nicholas’s eyes were upon him once again and expecting a favourable response.

“Would you not like a grander building in which to offer praise to God?” The face of the knight was shining with a zeal which was not entirely spiritual. “Would you not like a place worthy of its naming, where the great Prince of Angels himself would not think it unseemly to step among the congregation?”

Even as he spoke, Radulph’s thoughts turned to words known so well, from the Gospel of St. Matthew, chapter 18: “Ubi enim sunt duo vel tres in nomine meo, ibi sum in medio eorum.” And, as that text passed, another from St. Matthew, chapter 4, took its place: “Iterum assumpsit eum diabolus in montem excelsum valde; et ostendit ei omnia regna mundi et gloriam eorum, et dixit ei: Haec omnia tibi dabo, si cadens adoravis me.” First Sunday in Lent and words, if ever there were, to stay in the mind. He sat in his chair and said nothing and Sir Nicholas, encouraged by his silence, repeated his question.

“Well, Father? How does the prospect strike you?”

“It appeals to one part of me,” said Radulph. “But there is rather more of my nature which cries out against it. I have to say that to you, in all honesty.”

“It is a large undertaking to consider, Father!” Sir Nicholas assumed this impediment to be the cause of the priest’s lack of wholeheartedness. Then he added encouragingly, “But you will receive all the assistance you need. And just think of the end result, man!”

“I am,” Radulph replied.

“Well, just keep thinking of it. Have it in mind always as something to strive for.” He paused a moment or two as a fresh thought came into his head. “I think I had best write to your abbot in the next day or two.”

“I was thinking of writing to him myself,” said Radulph. “He will have to know of Ann’s works sooner or later.”

“That he will!” Sir Nicholas smiled in confirmation of the fact. “Do you write to him, Father, and I will do the same. Two letters will serve better than one, for between the pair of us we’ll cover both sides of the matter: you, the spiritual; me, the practical.” He smiled again in satisfaction at his neat assessment of the situation. “What could be more regular than that?” Radulph said nothing in reply and Sir Nicholas ventured further into the plan that was shaping in his mind. “If all goes well – .” He stopped and looked for the words he wanted. “If all goes well, do you know, Father, I believe that we might have our own version of Walsingham or Bromholm – right here in the midst of us!”

The mind of man, once winged, can fly to heights beyond measure. But Radulph allowed his thoughts neither to rise in accord with Sir Nicholas’s fancy nor to soar in alarm against it. “That would be a thing to see,” he said, and then remained silent.

“Yes, it would!” The statement was more exclamation than anything else. “And it is something that I think we may begin to work towards, right soon.”

Inwardly, Radulph did not respond with any great enthusiasm to Sir Nicholas’s vision, but he saw it as the opportunity to introduce another topic into the conversation – one which he knew would have to be broached sooner or later. “Does this new interest mean that you will have less time to consider other projects locally?” he asked.

“Other projects, Father? To what do you refer?” Sir Nicholas’s eyes hooded again, as they had done earlier, but their focus was sharp and unblinking. 

“Well, it is noised abroad that you have intentions regarding the Common.”

“Ah, the Common.” He laughed as he said it. “Yes, Master Crosse has told me, only today, that he was not certain of your attitude towards enclosure.” He leant back in his chair and seemed to enjoy some sort of private jest. “You may rest easy for a while, Father. My intentions, as you call them, are no longer firm – if they ever were. Besides, this late affair of my Lord of Norfolk’s has been worth a holding or two, so I have land enough at present for new ventures.”

“Then you did have it in mind to fence off the Common?” Radulph was not sure how far to proceed with his probing, but he felt obliged to ask even so.

“Oh, I’d thought of it, at odd times,” Sir Nicholas admitted. “Who wouldn’t have, in my position? But any clearance would have led to a deal of trouble one way and another.” He shifted himself in the chair and sought to find some slackness in the cut of his gown. “No, it is Master Crosse who is the eager one where enclosing the common is concerned. He seems to regard it as his own special project.”

“But why should he?” asked Radulph. “He has no direct interest, has he?”

“No. Other than impressing the one who pays his wages.” The man of authority was confident in his assessment of this particular situation. “Servants are never happier than when they are planning success for their masters.”

“Then Master Crosse is like to be disappointed on this occasion,” Radulph observed.

“He is,” said Sir Nicholas. “But he will learn to live with it. Crosse is a good man to have, but he knows enough not to step above his station. He realises that I can find another as good as him, if I care to look!”

“Nevertheless, it is hard to see a cherished scheme come to nothing.” Radulph had the capacity to feel some sympathy for Walter Crosse, even though he was happier to hear that the people who lived around the edge of the common were in no immediate danger of being driven from their homes.

“That is something we must all learn to accept.” The remark was heavy with worldly wisdom. “Besides, if we are to go ahead with any founding of a (what shall we call it?) shrine of healing, it would not look well if the manor’s lord were helping himself to the parish Common. Now, would it, Father?” He laughed in appreciation of the point. “There are certain proprieties to be observed in such a matter, are there not?”

“Your assessment would seem to most apt,” remarked Radulph. “How soon do you intend that your plans become known, here, within the parish?”

“Not immediately.” Sir Nicholas’s voice was quiet, yet emphatic. “I need time to think upon the matter. It is but an idea, as yet, and requires much consideration as to how it can best be put into operation. Then there is the question of the girl’s doings. No doubt they will need to be authenticated.”

“I believe that is the customary procedure,” replied Radulph, fearing in anticipation for Ann and her family at having to undergo examination, no matter how kindly meant, but fearing rather more the successful conclusion of any such enquiry. 

“And one which the Abbot of your house must be involved in.” Sir Nicholas spoke as if he were thinking aloud. “To say nothing of my Lord Bishop of Norwich, in whose diocese we are.”

“There is no way of avoiding the ruling authorities in such a matter,” said Radulph. “Much care has to be taken to ensure that any miracles reported are indeed genuine.” He felt as if he were disparaging Ann in saying this, but he knew also that he was making a plain and inescapable statement of fact. 

“As these ones most certainly are! My wife has no doubt at all, in her mind, that the Denny girl has been blessed with a power far beyond ordinary possessing.”

“I, too, believe that,” confirmed Radulph. “But the blessing is of a mixed nature.” He paused a moment, remembering what Lady Bosard had said a week before when she had stood talking with him outside the room where her two daughters sat together – the room which had so nearly seen a death. “Lady Philippa called it a heavy blessing.”

“Aye. She said something of like nature to me.” His face wrinkled a little at the recollection. “She said that Denny himself was worried about the attention such deeds might attract. And she mentioned, too, that he thought some people might see the Devil’s hand in what the girl was doing.” 

“That is not without precedent,” said Radulph. “Robert was out in France when the Maid of Orleans was arraigned as a witch and burned.”

“Yes, of course, he was,” agreed Sir Nicholas. “So was my father.” He considered things for a moment. “I see what point you are making. My father said that Joan of Arc was no more guilty of witchcraft than he was of drinking water!” He laughed loudly. “And I can assure, you, Father Radulph, that he never touched the stuff.”

“Then, in view of his remarks concerning the Maid, perhaps you can see why Robert Denny is concerned for his daughter.”

“Of course, I can! But if the girl is well looked after and supported, what harm can befall her? Besides,” and here his face lit up with the relevance of the point he was making, “there are no politics involved in this matter. No national prejudices to take account of.”

“That may be so,” countered Radulph. “Yet try to put yourself in Robert’s position. Would you like to be him? Suppose that it was one of your daughters who was the bearer of such a weighty responsibility.” 

Sir Nicholas said nothing for a while, but he sat and looked hard at the priest. His face was stern, but there was no animosity discernible in either the mouth or the eyes. “I will not admit the relevance of that point, Father,” he said. “It is not a daughter of mine who is involved, and there’s an end of it.”

“But supposing it were?” Radulph persisted in his line of argument.

“It is not, Father. And there’s an end of it.” His voice grew quiet and achieved great emphasis by its softness. “I have no wish to dispute with you over something which has no bearing on what we have talked of, so let that be that!”

Radulph saw that he would achieve nothing by pursuing the point, and he therefore abandoned it and turned the conversation another way. “Would you have any objection, Sir Nicholas, to my telling Robert Denny of the idea you have regarding some sort of shrine for his daughter and her acts of healing?” He noticed a wrinkling of the brow upon the other man, as he spoke. “Bearing in mind, of course, what you said earlier about not wishing your plans to become known too soon about the parish.”

“That is so,” Sir Nicholas replied. “I do not want the matter spread abroad as yet. But,” and he seemed to ponder hard, “Denny is the girl’s father, so perhaps he should be told. After all, he is not likely to go round telling everybody!” Then another thought crossed his mind. “Will he mention it to the girl, do you think? After all, she will have to be told, some time.”

“Robert will know the best time to reveal to Ann what concerns her, most of everyone. And it is his right alone to be the one who tells her.” 

“Quite so, Father. I will leave it to you to speak with him whenever you judge the time to be right.”  His eyes studied Radulph’s face as he formulated another question which he had in mind to ask. “Do you think that the girl’s experiences and ministering to the sick will be of any duration? Or will everything have finished within another week or two?”

“That I have no way of predicting,” Radulph replied. “I have read of instances where such miracles, as we are wont to call them, have continued for many weeks. Months even. On the other hand, there have been individual visions, seen only the once, which have proved to be of great and lasting effect.” He stopped speaking and waited for Sir Nicholas to respond, but the latter said nothing.” I think we must accept that, where the works of God are concerned, it is not possible for humankind to lay down too many of its own expectations.”

A silence followed this comment. A silence which was long enough for Radulph to feel uncertain of his words’ effect. Then Sir Nicholas made reply. “Well, Father,” he said, “I daresay there is a message for my enlightenment contained in that last remark. I shall search my mind for it after you have gone.”  He rose from his chair, pulled the set of his gown into a hang more compatible with standing and made his valedictions. “I am indebted to you for coming to see me. And for your part in my daughter’s recovery, of course. This matter may, if all goes well, work out to the great satisfaction of many people.” He walked to the door and held it open. “Do not forget to write to your Abbot. I shall set Brother Henry to penning a letter for him the first thing tomorrow morning.”

Radulph bettered that particular intention by several hours, for as soon as he reached home he took himself straight into the parlour and sat down to correspondence with his superior. 

“Right trusty and well beloved Father in God,” the letter began, “I commend me to you and send you God’s blessing and mine.  There has arisen of late, within this parish, something which compels me to inform you of, for the matter must ultimately concern you, and I have need of your counsel therein. A girl from among my congregation has had strange and wondrous dreams, including sightings of Our Lady, and has moreover begun to perform works of healing upon folk distressed in body and in mind, bearing the while upon her person the five wounds of our Saviour. These happenings are beyond my experience, and my competency to judge them is limited. However, I do believe them to be genuine, for the girl comes of a worthy family and is herself a maiden of pure and innocent being. So great is the power of her Heavenly seeing and her earthly doing that news of them is already beginning to be noised abroad and her acts must perforce become more widely known. I believe that Sir Nicholas Bosard, lord of the manor hereabouts, and a man known to you in reputation at least, intends to communicate with you regarding the girl – Ann Denny, by name. His younger daughter, Agnes, was most marvellously raised from a dire fever through her agency. I have written because I have need of your good counsel concerning these things. No more at this time.

Once again, I commend me to you. May Almighty God have you always in his keeping. 

Written on this, the 17th day of April, being the feast of St. Stephen Harding, 

By your obedient son in Christ, Radulph Fyld.”

After he had finished writing, Radulph folded the sheet of parchment, addressed it to the abbot and affixed the abbey’s seal. Then he went through into the kitchen, where Margaret and Simpkin were sitting. “Simpkin,” he said, “I should like you to go on a journey for me tomorrow morning, after we have breakfasted, and deliver this letter to my Lord Abbot. You may take the mare; she should see you safely to the Abbey by mid-afternoon, at the latest. There is no need for you to return overnight, and I guess in any case that my superior may need to reflect upon the matter contained herein.” He held the letter up and Simpkin nodded in something between agreement and understanding. “If you start back before noon, on Sunday, you should be home for supper in the usual way. There is nothing which needs doing here about the yard, is there, which will not bear you going? If anything has to be done, tell me, and I will see to it.”

“There’s little as won’t keep, Father,” replied Simpkin. “A place o’ this size an’ sort don’t require that much work, wi’ the ploughin’ put out an’ some o’ the land rented. Besides, I’m fairly well up wi’ most tasks.” Then he added, “There’s one or two little things we can talk about, afore I go.”

“That is good. Then you can set off first thing tomorrow morning.”

“An’ I can pack you a bite o’ food, brother.” Margaret was quick to offer her domestic skills. “I know how hungry you can git!” All three of them laughed, because Simpkin’s appetite was proverbial. Then Margaret changed the mood completely by articulating the thought that was obviously uppermost in her mind. “Excuse me askin’, Father,” she said, “but is the letter you’re sendin’ anythin’ to do wi’ Ann?”

“Yes, it is.” Radulph had no hesitation in declaring the fact. “The time has come when the things she has seen and the things she has done are bound to be revealed to more folk than have first-hand knowledge of them.” He looked sat both his servants individually, then continued speaking. “In a world hungry for miracles, there is no possibility that someone as favoured as Ann can remain in obscurity for very long. From the very first time she saw Our Lady, a path was shaped for her – and she must walk it, wherever it takes her. Remember her in your prayers this night and in the nights which follow. She is worthy of your intercession and she has need of it.”

Chapter 15 (Saturday, 18 April – Monday, 20 April)

Early on Saturday morning, Simpkin set out on his journey to the Abbey. Radulph remarked how fine he looked, sitting on the mare, and Simpkin replied that his skill as a horseman would have better befitted riding the old sorrel horse. After he had gone and Radulph had seen to a few routine things which his servant had said could be done about the place, the priest decided that he would call on Robert Denny before saying Mass. When he got to the farm, he found that Robert had a handful of people staying in his barn. “They arrived yisterday evenin’,” the farmer said, “an’ they’re come from farther afield than any others, up till now. They’d even got food with ’em. I put some barley straw in one o’ the goafs an’ let them cover themselves wi’ that. It’s not the last word in comfort, but it’s warm enow. Ann’s out there with ’em, if you’d like to go an’ take a look.” He stopped for a moment, as if not quite certain of what he would say next. “There’s somethin’ else as well, though, Father, afore you do go. This lot haven’t come for healin’.” He paused again. “No, they’re pilgrims, makin’ for Walsin’ham. They met with Kathryn Sturrman along the way an’ ha’ stopped by to see the miracle-worker they were told about. I suppose they must ha’ asked in the village where to find us. Come wi’ me; I’ll take you to ’em. I thought they were nothin’ like the other callers when they arrived. Then it all come out as to who they were an’ what they were doin’ here.”

Radulph did as he was bidden and followed Robert to the barn. Miles and Joan were there, as well as Ann, and the three of them were listening to a small, wizened man who was talking of his journeys in distant lands. His face was as dried and wrinkled as a seed-pea, but his eyes were bright and alert and his voice strong and expressive. He was a traveller of great experience and he drew Radulph and Robert within the compass of his discourse as easily and commandingly as if they, too, were youngsters. When an opportunity offered itself, Radulph uttered his hope that the pilgrims might hear Mass that morning in the village church, but the invitation was declined because the company wished to be on its way before too much longer. “We heard the office yesterday on our way here, in the Chapel of the Good Cross,” said the old man. “And we have accomplished what we came to do in this place. We would all hope to reach Walsingham by even-tide tomorrow. I thank you, my friend, for giving us shelter.” He turned to Robert now. “And, also, for allowing me to converse with your most rare daughter. God go with you, child. I shall say a special prayer for you when we reach the place of our Most Blessed Lady. I have not been there for some years and it is good to be going once again.” He picked up a wide-brimmed leather hat, which had a scallop-shell stitched onto the front, and held it out expansively before him. “Who knows, but that I shall not be coming to this village again, some time. On pilgrimage!”

The words struck Radulph most forcibly and he noticed that Robert, too, was affected by them. Yet he was glad that they had been spoken, for they would make his task the easier when he came to tell his friend of the conversation he had had with Sir Nicholas Bosard the previous evening. And he did not delay unduly in revealing what had passed. As soon as the two of them were back in the house (Ann, Joan and Miles having gone with the pilgrims as far as the green-way), he told Robert what thoughts had come into Sir Nicholas’s mind since his return from London. And he told him, too, of the letter which Simpkin was carrying to the Abbey, that very morning. Robert took the news as well as Radulph had hoped he might, but had not necessarily expected him to. “The ol’ man said it all out there, didn’t he? – though he’s on the other side o’ it from Sir Nicholas. Or from your Abbot, for that matter. I don’t see as how I can stand in the way o’ such things, once they start movin’.” He released an abrupt, ironic laugh. “An’ do you know, Father, they’re bin movin’ so fast just lately that I haven’t had time to worry about what’s happenin’! Really worry, I mean. Perhaps that’s still to come. Perhaps when you’re gone an’ I start to think hard about what you’re told me, I’ll begin to worry right enow!”

“I think that we need to regard any such scheme with caution,” said Radulph. “I have a certain suspicion of places of organised pilgrimage and the way they function. King Edmund’s shrine, at Bury, comes to mind.” He thought of the central figure in their discourse, as he spoke. “Will you tell Ann about this?” he asked. “Or shall I?”

“No, I’ll tell her. She’s my daughter, after all!” Robert looked at Radulph warmly, even sympathetically. “An’ if there is to be shrine in this parish, Father, you’re the one I feel sorry for. I honestly believe that, whatever happen now, Ann won’t be touched by it. Not inside her head, that is. She has grown so much these last few days that I feel sometimes as if she’s the parent an’ me the child. She’ll just go on doin’ whatever she feel called to do. You’ll be the one who has to sit in the middle an’ try to keep everyone happy.”

Radulph considered this analysis for a moment, before replying. “Perhaps not,” he said. And then, before the other man was able to throw in a question which could not be easily answered, he carried on speaking. “Besides, old friend, we may all be looking too far ahead. Let us take things as they come. It has served us well enough up to the present, has it not?” 

“Yeah, I suppose so. At least, I’ve stopped fearin’ the worst with each new mornin’ that sheds its light on me.” Again, Robert released the sharp little laugh of a short time before. “You must think that comical when you think o’ how I carried on to you about the Maid o’ France, just after Ann had told us all about her dream.” 

“It was a natural and understandable fear, Robert. And it is one, moreover, which I hope you will not lose entirely, for there is safety in it.” Radulph paused. “Yes, safety. And a sense of proportion. Hold on to your solid, down-to-earth view of things, my friend, especially when there is compulsion upon you to abandon it.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me for sayin’ this, Father.” Robert Denny’s voice was deferential, yet not without an element of ironic appreciation. “But we seem to be goin’ in opposite directions from where we started out! Here’s me gittin’ more an’ more used to the way things are an’ here’s you seemin’ly gittin’ more an’ more at odds wi’ everythin’.” 

“I do not quarrel overmuch with that judgement,” said Radulph. “At least, as far as some things are concerned. But I have to admit that there is one matter wherein even I have received new hope.”

“Oh?” said Robert. “An’ what’s that, Father? If I’m allowed to ask.”

“You are, indeed,” Radulph replied. “It concerns the Common. Sir Nicholas has told me that he has no immediate plans to enclose it. Walter Crosse, it appears, was a good deal more forward in the matter than his master.”

“Was he, now!” exclaimed Robert. “I daresay he an’ Brock looked to make somethin’ out o’ such a move.”

“I do not think it was that, quite so much as him being able to impress Sir Nicholas with a scheme of his own devising. Remember to tell Richard when you see him.”

“That I will!” Robert was most emphatic. “He’s out in the boat agin, this mornin’. Bin out most o’ the night, in fact. Herrins don’t have much on ’em this time o’ year, but they’re good enow to eat when there’s not much else about. I’ll send you some up when he gits back. Oh yeah, an’ there’s a spare codfish or two an’ some whitins he had on his lines yisterday. Would you like to take ’em with you when you go?”

“Need you ask, Robert! The fish is always most welcome. Margaret has such a good way with the cooking of it.”

“So she ought to! She was brought up in the right fam’ly. Her father was one o’ the best half-an’-half fishermen in these parts. In fact, many folk reckoned he was part-fish hisself.” He allowed his mind to go back over many years, before returning to the present time. “When they’re fit, I’ll also let you have half a cade o’ this season’s reds. They’re nothin’ like as good as the autumn ones, o’ course, but a week or two in the smoke give ’em a decent flavour.”

It was an offer which had far more to it than just the taste of well-cured fish and Radulph went from the farm, as he always did, feeling warmed by the friendship he found there. As he crossed the yard, he met with the two girls and their cousin returning to the house; and, as he came to the green-way, he saw the small company of pilgrims already heading off northwards in the opposite direction to the one which he had to take. The rest of the day unfolded in the normal way, which he would not have considered at all normal not so very long before, but which recent events had served to make customary. There was morning Mass, as usual, at the third hour, and Ann Denny moved among the congregation afterwards, attending to the needs of any person who required the laying-on of her hands. Each daily service seemed to bring a few more people from outside the parish and it was their presence, on that particular morning, which served more than anything else to give Radulph his keenest sense yet of what Sir Nicholas Bosard envisaged. He saw, too, that there were, among his own flock, a handful of people who had already presented themselves to Ann for the benefit of her restorative power on more than one occasion. And he suspected that this might not be due quite so much to the failure of a cure for illness on their part, real or imagined, as to the desire for being directly involved once more in the exhilaration of miraculous healing. That Ann noticed their presence, he had no doubt. Perhaps she recognised their motivation, too. Yet it made no difference to the free giving of herself, and she was as solicitous of those who offered themselves again as of the ones who had appeared for the first time.

On the Sunday morning, there were considerably more visitors from neighbouring parishes, with people free of their weekly labours and able to travel some little distance in search of what might lie behind the stories they had heard. Some came for healing and others just for the seeing of it. Radulph stood aside and beheld the concourse about Ann, feeling once more the force of Sir Nicholas’s idea, the compulsion of its imagining. Lady Bosard was present also, but unattended by her daughters, and she joined Radulph and watched with him as the asking and receiving of aid proceeded. She said nothing, beyond uttering a muted request to speak with him after the company had dispersed and gone their several ways. Then she, too, gave herself over to beholding the scene before her and to thinking whatever was in her head to be thought upon. The demands made upon Ann had a visual and dramatic quality about them that reminded Radulph of the great painting of the Seven Acts of Mercy blazoned along the north aisle wall of his abbey church. He saw two of the separate components of this: healing the sick and visiting the prisoners. He saw them clearly, but he knew that the only gaol present in his church that day was each individual dungeon of the self. The only incarceration lay within the fetters of the flesh. Ann Denny had been chosen to break them, and to show others also the way they might be broken. In her release from the binding forces of human limitations lay the real source of her power. The marks upon her body were those of bondage and degradation by which a new immortality had been released into the world. They were the frailty of Man’s body made glorious by the Resurrection of God’s Son.  They were the scars which brought healing by the sacrifice of self.

There was great generosity in the way Ann Denny gave her attention and her virtue to those who approached her. She welcomed them all with warm smiling and kind words, and she made the offering of herself with modesty and fair-seeming. Radulph was quick to notice the way she adjusted her own response to the particular demeanour of the individual suppliants, sensing the mood of each one and drawing that person to her in a way wished for, but not taken for granted. One or two, old and broken on life’s hard wheel, took hold of hands which touched them, turned the palms upwards for inspection and kissed the bruises. Radulph looked towards Robert Denny when this happened. Richard and Joan were standing with their father, so they could also be observed at the same time. The faces of all three showed a mixture of pride in Ann’s actions, wonder at her capacity for doing what she was, and apprehension that a member of their family should have committed herself so utterly to a course of action that had no predictable end. Radulph guessed that Miles was probably experiencing much the same feelings, but he did not turn to look at the boy, whom he knew was watching form his vantage-point just beyond the chancel screen.

Once the acts of healing for that morning were accomplished and the people had slowly begun to drift away, Radulph turned to Lady Bosard and said, “We can talk quietly and without disturbance in the chancel, my lady. After I have said my farewells to folk.” And this he then proceeded to do. He gave no more attention to the Denny family in these parting words than he did to anyone else, thinking it not appropriate to do so, given the time, the place and the situation. But he noticed Lady Bosard (having dismissed her sole, accompanying servant) talking to them for some little while and he was heartened by their converse together, even though he did not know what was passing between them. Once Robert, Richard and the girls were on their way, Radulph went back into the sanctuary and told Miles that he might return home early that morning with his family. He stood watching, as the boy walked down to the tower to hang his surplice on its hook, and he stood watching him as he ran from the church to catch up with his uncle and cousins. The sound of young, clouted footsteps on the flagstones of the nave and porch floors echoed around the building and seemed to hold in the air awhile beneath the timbered roof. Then, just as they were fading from ear and mind, softer and closer steps sounded and Lady Bosard came into the chancel from where she had been waiting. Radulph showed her into one of the stalls on the north side and took his place beside her.

“I think I may know what you wish to speak to me about,” he said. “Does it have to do with what Sir Nicholas revealed to me, yester-evening?”

“Yes, it does.” Lady Bosard was swift and certain in her reply. “I was glad of the opportunity to come church alone this morning, Father. My husband and Friar Henry are busy with their affairs, and I made my daughters attend an early office in the chapel so that I could come here by myself.

“How does Mistress Agnes?” asked Radulph. “I trust that she is well.”

“Very well, I thank you. And it is her recovery, of course, which has been chiefly instrumental in giving my husband his idea of establishing a shrine in this very place. That, and all he has heard concerning Ann Denny’s visions and the help she has given to others.” She frowned as she spoke. “I wonder now if I did not say too much to him in describing all that happened prior to his return.”

Radulph immediately sought to reassure her. “I do not think you should attach any blame to yourself,” he said. “It would have been very hard to conceal the truth. I am certain, also, that it would have been wrong.” He saw her face begin to look a little less troubled. “Besides, if I am any judge of men, I guess that it was Friar Henry who first put the idea into your husband’s head. Why, Sir Nicholas as good as told me it was so!”  

“I am aware that what you say is true, Father. Yet I still feel responsible in some measure for the way this whole matter seems like to go.” Lady Bosard proceeded to explain her reason for the admission she had made. “I do not, in any way, regret getting you to bring Ann Denny to my daughter. How could I? But I do worry somewhat about this most recent development and am compelled to see myself as one who has done much to bring it about.”

“You are not alone in that, my Lady.” Consolation and fact, offered and presented in one statement. “There are certain other of us who must confess to having played a part, be it great or small.”

“I suppose so. But what does poor Master Denny think of it all? I have thought of him a great deal since we were all together here, last Sunday. Is he really as fortified in mind as he seems to be, I wonder?” 

“Yes, I believe that he is,” said Radulph. “Knowing Robert as well as I think I do, I am sure that he would not openly admit to being worried, in the way that he once did, if he really were deeply troubled. He would affect an air of – . Not unconcern. That is not the word I want. But he would not let any of us see his anxiety.”

“That may be so. You are doubtless the better judge. Does he know yet of what my husband and the friar have it in their heads to do?”

“I told him of it, yesterday,” said Radulph. “I called upon him before mass. There were pilgrims at the farm, who had arrived the evening before. Robert gave them shelter in his barn.” He thought of the old man in the leather hat as he spoke. “They were journeying to the shrine of Our Lady, at Walsingham, and had met with the woman who appeared so strangely here last Sunday.” The surprise in Lady Bosard’s face fed the story-teller within him. “They had altered their course by some distance, in order to see another wonder!”

“Poor Master Denny.” The woman’s sympathy was spontaneous and genuine.

“Not so,” said Radulph. “Robert seems to have found great strength in coping with the strains upon him. He not only said that he would tell Ann of what Sir Nicholas had conveyed to me; he actually remarked that I was the one he felt sorry for in all of this. Yes, me!” There was another look of surprise on Lady Bosard’s face to provoke the exclamation. “He seemed to think that I would be beset on all sides if any such scheme were begun.”

“You will certainly have to satisfy many people if it is ever is.  What does Ann herself think about it all?” 

“I have not had the opportunity to find out, yet,” said Radulph. “But I intend calling on Robert and his family again, this evening – unless I should chance to see them, before then.” He allowed a small silence to interpose for just the right amount of time. “I take it that Sir Nicholas really does intend to establish some sort of shrine here? It is not just a passing thought which will fade from mind as time goes by?”

“I do not think so, Father. No.” Lady Bosard drew on her knowledge and understanding of the man to whom she was married. “The time when he makes up his mind quickest is the time when he is most certain about a thing and about his own course of action.” She smiled a little ruefully to her herself. “And my experience teaches me that his most successful ventures have been those when he has made swift decisions. At least with this one, he will not be contesting some prickly claim to land or property. Do you think that disloyal of me, Father?”

“No.” replied Radulph. “A wife may love her husband without being under any illusions as to his nature and leanings. Besides, Sir Nicholas may well hope to derive some material advantage from his promotion of a holy place. Shrines do bring in revenues for the operators. And even though my Abbot will be the one who has ultimate responsibility for its running, the local lay-lord will be well placed to share in the wealth which any sizeable number of visitors will create.” 

“I believe that my husband and Friar Henry intend to write letters, this very morning, to both your Abbot and to my Lord Bishop of Norwich. Indeed, they may already have done so, by now.” She calculated how master and secretary might well have used the time which she had spent in church.

“When I spoke with him on Friday evening, Sir Nicholas declared his intent to write to my Abbot yesterday morning, so something must have delayed him. I penned a letter as soon as I reached home. I sent Simpkin off with it, early yesterday morning, and am expecting him back again later today.” He laughed as he recalled his servant setting out. “He looked a fine sight, sitting on the mare!”

Lady Bosard laughed, too, partly at the thought of Simpkin thus elevated and partly at seeing Radulph amused. She also sensed that it might be a good point at which to end the conversation and so she rose from where she sat. “It is time that I was going, Father Radulph.” The priest also raised himself from his seat, to stand beside her. “But, at least, I am returning home in a happier frame of mind than the one I came here with.” Her face became serious again, but not excessively so. “I shall do my best to see that Ann and her family are not oppressed by too much company if ever my husband’s plans come to anything.”

“That may be difficult,” said Radulph. “Especially where Ann herself is concerned. But it is good to hear you promise to support them. I, too, will attempt to do what I can to be of help – though it may be little enough that I’m able to do once the thing is set in motion. I have thought much upon your husband’s intention since he first told me of it, but am unable to see whether or not it corresponds with the will of God. Men are quick to claim this fair agreement, but it only makes me the more suspicious of such convenient harmony.”

On that note, they parted. Lady Bosard made her way home from church, while Radulph cleared away the eucharistic vessels, set the altar in order, divested himself of his mass vestments and saw to any lights which needed tending. Then he, too, took himself back to his house. After a few routine tasks in the yard and its buildings, which he had said to Simpkin he would see to, he sat and ate a quiet meal with Margaret Jakks, during the course of which they both speculated as to what time Simpkin might return, and then he went into the parlour to read for a while before going back to church to hold Confession. Among the penitents, that afternoon, were the members of the Denny family. They all came together, very near to the end of the time allotted to shriving and they were obviously looking to unburden themselves to their priest when everybody else had gone. It was an intention which proved over-optimistic, for a handful of people followed them into church, and among the latter were one or two individuals who had only just made their declarations. Radulph got up from where he sat beneath The Magdalene and went out into the nave. He asked the little company to leave the building in order that the family might have the privacy desirable at such a time, and the people acceded to his request. Then the hearing of confessions began. Joan Denny went first, followed by Miles, Ann, Richard and Robert, each of them coming from the far end of the nave as the previous one emerged from the chancel and then returning to the back of the church when the time of his or her time of unburdening was over.

At the end of it all, Richard, Miles and Joan made their way home, while Robert and Ann remained behind to speak with Radulph. The priest was aware that their staying within the church while the others returned might arouse the interest of those curious ones who were doubtless waiting outside to see Ann emerge.  Therefore, he suggested that the three of them should go to his room above the porch, where they might talk unseen and undisturbed.  Once the father and daughter were seated on the bench against the wall, Radulph himself went quickly downstairs and came back with an oak joined-stool which was kept, among other things, in the base of the tower. This, he sat upon himself so as to face Robert and Ann; then he let the discourse between them begin. It was predictable enough, in the way things shaped, because Robert wished to discuss Sir Nicholas’s idea of founding some sort of shrine based on Ann’s visions and healing acts. He had spoken to her about it the previous morning and he now wished to reveal what the girl’s reaction had been, as well as allowing her to speak for herself regarding the matter. “There’s not a great deal I can do about it, either way, Father,” he said. “But I’re talked to Ann about the whole business an’ the best thing is to let her tell you what she think about it. Is that all right, Ann?” He looked at her closely as he put the question.

The girl returned the love and concern of her parent’s scrutiny, smiling reassuringly at him. Then she turned to Radulph. “When father told me about what you had said to him yisterday mornin’, I wasn’t really surprised,” she said. “It was because o’ talkin’ to the ol’ pilgrim, I think. He was such a marv’llous man. I’d never met wi’ someone who had bin so far an’ seen so much. What he said in the barn while you were there, about his comin’ agin, perhaps on pilgrimage, worried me at the time. But when we stood by the green-way, just afore we all parted company, he said somethin’ which prepared me for what father was to speak of when Joan an’ Miles an’ me got back to the house.” She dwelt a while on the memory of that moment of parting, then continued speaking. “What he said was that no matter how men might try an’ use it for their own advantage, any place that was founded for healin’ an’ relief kept somethin’ of its worth. He had asked me, you see, what I thought about the possibility o’ somethin’ bein’ built or raised because o’ my gift an’ because o’ the sights I’re had o’ things beyond this world. An’ I had been thinkin’ about that very matter. It had bin in my mind for quite some time. Yeah, long afore he asked me – though I had said nothin’ to anyone else about it.” She turned to her father and then transferred her attention (her visual attention, at least) to Radulph once more. “I know that I lack fulness o’ years an’ understandin’, but I’re heard o’ Walsin’ham an’ other holy places, an’ I had guessed some while ago that what I’re seen an’ done might lead to people wishin’ to use my experiences for the makin’ of a shrine.” 

“And what do you think of such a possibility?” asked Radulph. 

“I don’t much care for it, in some ways. It’ll put a great strain on our fam’ly. Much more’n now.” Ann’s face grew more serious as she considered the implications of this.” “Besides, aren’t most shrines started when the person behind them is dead?”

“Not always,” replied Radulph. “The Lady Richeldis built the Holy house at Walsingham during her lifetime, we are told.” The girl nodded her head in response to this. “Does our Blessed Mother still appear to you and give you guidance?”

“Yeah,” said Ann. “I see her standin’ an’ pointin’ the way forward every now an’ then. Both sleepin’ an’ wakin’, I see her. Which is why I’ll agree to what Sir Nicholas, or your Abbot, or the Lord Bishop may wish to do. Besides,” and here she turned to Robert again, “Father an’ me have talked about the matter an’ we both think that there’s not a great deal we can do to stop it.” She spread her hands before her, on her lap, and looked at them. “It seem to me that, as long as I have the holy marks upon me, I must go in the direction I’m sent.”

“Few would envy you that, child,” said Radulph.

“I know, Father. But it’s what’s bin chosen for me an’ I must go where I’m led.” She smiled gently, a little sadly even, at each of the men. “I want you both to know how grateful I am for the way that you help to sustain me. People can be very wearisome when they are always about me. I just hope that I’m not bearin’ too heavily upon the pair o’ you.”

Thereafter, the conversation took a different turn, with both Radulph and Ann feeling that no more could usefully be said on the topic which they had been obliged to discuss – and with both of them wanting to involve Robert in some kind of lighter discourse. It was Radulph who began the process by saying how much had happened over the previous two weeks and how it seemed but yesterday that he had set foot in the parish. Ann was quick to take up the theme of reminiscence and she recounted her first impressions of how the priest had seemed to her after old Father Laurence. This brought Robert in with memories of his own and very soon the three of them were talking happily of old times and of those not so very old. Eventually, the moment came (and they all sensed when it had arrived) for them to end the pleasant looking-back and return to their respective houses. There was no one waiting in the churchyard when they came out of the porch, something which rather surprised them all, and they parted company with each other at the gate in good heart: Radulph to walk his short step to the vicarage-house and Robert and Ann to make their way homeward by street, footpath and green-way.

When he got into his yard, Radulph noticed that the mare was back in her stall. He walked across to the building and looked in over the half-door, but Simpkin was not there. The animal had been rubbed down after her journey and she was muzzling happily in the feeding-trough where a mixture of grain and middlings had been put for her. Radulph smiled to himself in recognition of his servant’s diligence and expertise with livestock and set off across the yard to the house. He went through the back door and into the kitchen, to find Simpkin and Margaret in conversation over the table, with the former doing more of the talking for once. Both of them looked up as Radulph came in and Margaret forestalled anything that either of the men might have said by first greeting her master and then referring to the words which had passed between her brother and herself.

“Ah, Father Radulph,” she said. “You’re back from Confession. I had thought to perhaps come myself this afternoon, but then Simpkin arrived home. He’s bin tellin’ me all about his journey to the Abbey.”

“Of course,” Radulph replied. “And how did you find it, Simpkin?”

“Simpkin sniffed. “The travellin’ went well enow – both ways. Quicker returnin’ than goin’. It’s good to see other folks’ bits o’ the country an’ the way they farm. I wouldn’t mind makin’ the ride agin, some other time.” Her stopped speaking and seemed to be going over parts of the route within his mind.

“And what did you think of the Abbey itself?” asked Radulph. 

“Well, it’s fine place, right enow, with all them gret buildins.” Again, Simpkin seemed to be experiencing some of the things he had seen. “Oh, an’ afore I forgit, Father, the Abbot has writ you this letter.” He reached into a wallet which lay before him on the table, produced a folded sheet of parchment, handed it across to the person for whom it was meant and then straightened up on his stool.

Radulph took the missive, turned it over to glance at the familiar seal of an abbot holding a crozier in his right hand and a book in his left, and laid it on the table. “I will read it in a little while,” he said. “Tell me. How did they receive you at the Abbey? Did they look after you well?”

“That they did!” replied Simpkin. “There was no shortage o’ victuals or ale. An’ I slept well enow where they put me: in along o’ some o’ the servants.”

“And what about my Father Abbot?” asked Radulph’ “How did you find him?”

Simpkin thought for a moment before answering. “It’s hard to say, really. I didn’t see that much of him – except when I arrived, an’ told him o’ my errand, an’ when he gave me the letter to bring back to you.” He deliberated again. “I will say this, though. He seemed a fair-speakin’ man for one who give out so many orders. Still, he can afford to be, can’t he?”

“Can he?” Radulph was interested to hear the reasoning behind the remark. “Tell me what you mean.”

“Well, let me put it this way, Father.” Another pause. “I reckon that your abbot has to shit, just like we all do. But I don’t reckon he’s the one to fye out his own privy.” There was a loud sniff, then silence.

“Brother!” Margaret was obviously scandalised; the tone of censure in her voice was plain to hear. “Hold your tongue! How can you think to speak in such a way?” She turned to Radulph. “You mustn’t mind him, Father,” she said. “I don’t know what git inta him, at times.”

“There is no need for you to apologise for your brother, Margaret,” Radulph said. “He just has his own way of putting things. Besides, he is right in what he says. One of the privileges of those in authority is to stay nicely distanced from some of the realities of life, as they might be called.” He turned to Simpkin again. “Did you attend Mass in our fine church while you were there?” 

“I did. We went in for a service somewhere betwin the third an’ sixth hour.” Simpkin pictured the scene again. “All that stonework an’ coloured glass,” he said. “An’ that roof! High as heaven itself, like as not.”

“It certainly is a fine building,” agreed Radulph.

“Ah! An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else, Father.” Simpkin’s mind had obviously been stirred by the questions his master had asked him. “Them brothers o’ yourn, or whatever you call ‘em – they can’t half sing!”

“They can, indeed,” said Radulph. “It is one of the things I miss most through being put out to a parish. But there are compensations, too!” He looked at both of his servants as he spoke. “One of them is living more freely than the cloister allows, and another – .” His eye went towards the letter lying on the table. “Another is receiving letters from afar! I will go and read this one now and join you later for supper.”

On entering the parlour, Radulph walked across to the window and opened the shutters. Then he sat down against the sill to read his letter. He managed to open it without breaking the seal, for it seemed a pity to destroy an impression so perfectly formed, and he enjoyed the crackle of the parchment as he unfolded it in the stillness of the room. The creases divided the sheet into four equal portions and across them ran lines of a handwriting which was familiar to him, but which he had not seen now for some time and which he thought more laboured in the formation of its letters than hitherto.

“Right worthy and faithful son in Christ,” the letter began, “I commend me to you and ask for God’s blessing upon you. You did well to write to me so speedily, for the matter you described is doubtless one of a most singular and interesting kind. Suffice it to say that I am unable to make adequate comment upon what has happened in your parish, for I am not well enough informed concerning it – even with what you have told me and with what I have learned from your man. Nor am I able to advise. Advice requires depth of knowledge and of insight, and I have neither to call upon. I think it best that you come hither to the Abbey, not with all haste, but as soon as you can manage to with due convenience. Then we may speak together regarding these things which have come to pass and perhaps decide upon some course of action.

“Written this, the second Sunday after Easter, being also the feast of St. Alphege of Canterbury, by your Abbot and Father in God. Thomas de Dersham.”

Radulph sat for some minutes, looking out of the window. The view was southwards, but the sky’s light cloud was nevertheless coloured by the pink and yellow hues of the sun’s dropping to the west. After a while, he turned to the letter and read it again; then he closed the shutters on the parlour window and went back into the kitchen. There was a good deal of talk, over supper, concerning the Abbey and Radulph was happy enough to let the conversation take this course, before eventually revealing that he would have to go away from home for a day or two in order to visit the place. “The Abbot wishes to see me,” he said. “He wants to hear about Ann and her works of virtue. That was the tenor of the letter you brought, Simpkin.” Both of his servants seemed to understand the logic of this, so Radulph went a stage further and told them it was possible that some sort of shrine might be established in the village – a venture which would most likely involve using the church, either in its present shape or in a rebuilt form. Simpkin and Margaret listened to his account with serious faces, but there was a certain amount of pride evident too on the part of the latter. After all, was she not directly connected with the incumbent of the parish, to say nothing of having known the principal character literally from birth? Simpkin’s reaction was different; he saw things simply in utilitarian terms. It was all a matter of money-chests and high ceilings, as far as he was concerned. “There’ll be somethin’ in it for Sir Nicholas, I daresay,” was the remark he made. “An’ your Abbot will no doubt look to weigh the ground down wi’ big lumps o’ stone!”

Radulph did not contest this analysis (feeling that one part of it, at least, was accurate), but neither did he go out of his way to concur with the sentiments expressed. He simply took a middle line and agreed with his servant that any place of worship seemed to have the capacity for generating a certain amount of money. Even their own little church, as it stood and operated at present, did so. Later on, as he lay in bed and thought back over the events of the day, he began to feel less in command of what was happening about him than he had done at any time since the whole strange sequence of occurrences had been set in motion. And at no point had his sense of control been strong. In the quietness of his chamber, and with his body recumbent, he experienced a sudden and overwhelming sense of disorientation and unbalance. He felt a total ignorance of how or where to stand, let alone know in which direction to move, and he made an almost complete surrender of himself to emptiness and despair. He lay suspended in isolation and in fear. Indeed, it was the isolation which fed the fear. For the room was dark and still, with just a suggestion of light from a waning moon leaking in through cracks in the window’s shutters, and even the familiar outlines and angles of walls, ceiling and furniture became strange in the absence of an acceptance of their normality. True, they were blacker than the darkness itself, yet they held no real depth of their own. They only seemed to. It was the transom of the bed which threatened most, becoming a pit immeasurable in both extent and profundity, shaping to draw the wide-eyed man into its vortex. He felt himself being lifted up and drawn into the unfathomable void of his own insecurity, but then a soft voice spoke clearly from somewhere inside his head: “I must go in the direction I’m sent.”

“I must go in the direction I’m sent.” Radulph repeated the words aloud. “I must go where I am sent.” He sat up as he spoke, jerking the coverlets away from him with one hand and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet touched the floor and the cold roughness of the riven elm-planks came as the final restoration of his person to the normality of the room. He sat a while and observed the now familiar shadows, no longer under the influence of the greater one, and began to make plans for his tomorrow. He had decided earlier that he would go the abbey on Tuesday, using the Monday to inform as many people as possible of his departure and making preparation for the journey. Everything became clearly outlined in his mind as he sat there, on the edge of the bed, and when he finally laid himself down again to rest the darkness held no further disturbance for him – only sleep.

In the morning, after they had all breakfasted, Radulph told Margaret and Simpkin of his intention to go to the Abbey early the following day and advised them that they had best expect him home again on either the Thursday or Friday. He informed his congregation after Mass was over and he also asked Miles to see that his uncle was acquainted with the fact, there being no one else from the family present in church that morning (he also apologised to the boy for having to cancel his lesson for that week). “I shall call to see Robert later on, in any case,” he said, “but he may as well know as soon as possible.” The fact that neither Robert nor his children had attended mass was not exceptional; the morning following the Sabbath was customarily a busy time for all of them. 

In the afternoon, Radulph walked over to the manor-house, to inform Sir Nicholas Bosard of his being called to the Abbey. Sir Nicholas, however, was not at home. He and Walter Crosse had gone to Norwich to attend an inquisition on some piece of land or other and were not expected back until the Wednesday. Radulph therefore imparted his information to Lady Bosard and came away with her good wishes. Then he went to the adjoining parish north of his own and called upon the priest there, to tell him that he would not be attending confession the following day (each man visited the other at monthly intervals, as was mutually convenient) because he would be away from home for a few days, at the Abbey. “I’ll hear it now,” offered Father Peter. But Radulph declined, saying that he would take the opportunity of declaring himself to his old confessor, a man whom he was greatly looking forward to seeing once again. “These are strange carryings-on in your parish,” remarked Father Peter. “Half my congregation seem to be paying your church regular visits to see that girl!” Radulph smiled at the exaggeration, acknowledging the reason for it at the same time, and replied that the girl was the very reason for his going away. 

On the way back to his house, he called at the Denny farmstead to speak with the family regarding his departure. His primary concern was with Ann and with Robert, but he recognised the necessity of the other members of the family being informed as well, so he was happy to find all five people at home. He revealed to them the details behind his visit; he spoke of his own feelings concerning it; and he asked for their prayers while he was absent from the parish. There was discussion, too, as to what Ann should do during his absence, the question being asked by Richard Denny, who expressed concern that his sister would not have the support and guidance of her priest for a period of three or four days. Radulph looked at both father and daughter before replying, then turned his attention to the young man and answered that a mere priest was a poor prop and director compared with the one which Ann had to sustain and lead her. “Do as you feel bidden to do,” he said to the girl. “You have little need of me now, beyond knowing that I stand as your true friend and your imperfect adviser.” Ann began to demur. “It is true, my child. You are in the care of a mightier force than any devised by man and it will hold you in safe-keeping. The real you. And remember this, also: it is very likely that men will seek to use you and your gift for their own advantage, and you will be able to do very little to prevent them. What you can do is continue to bring relief to those in need and keep yourself unsullied by the ambition that will doubtless shadow you.”

Chapter 16 (Tuesday, 21 April)

Early on the Tuesday morning, towards the end of the first hour, Radulph set off for the Abbey, riding the mare. He commended Simpkin on the way the animal had been groomed and made ready, and he thanked Margaret for the food which she had prepared for him – though, in all truthfulness, it would have sufficed for a journey five times as long. The farewells of the three of them were briefly and simply spoken, but none the less well meant for all that, and once the exchanges were over Radulph rode out of the yard. He reined in briefly at the gateway and looked over his shoulder to catch a last glimpse of his two servants, raising his hand in parting to them as he did so and feeling warmed by their reciprocating his gesture. Then, with a light pull on the reins and touch of his heels, he turned the horse to his left and went from their sight. He was in the full glare of the early morning sun now, as he rode towards the cliff, by the shortest route, and a long black shadow lay out on the ground behind him. The sky was cloudless, a hard, pale blue in colour with threads of fine white cloud stretched upon it, and there was the slightest under-breath of cold air upon his face as he came nearer and nearer to the sea. For ease of riding, he wore a loose, twilled jacket over his habit, and he was glad of the chance to be free of his cloak for once. The day held fair promise of good travelling and, as he came onto the clifftop path, Radulph felt the easy trot of the mare beneath him and took pleasure in the steady rhythm of her moving forward.

            The sea was at half-water and the slackness of the tide, combined with the absence of any real wind, created a flat-calm. Even the very edge of the ocean, where the waters met the beach showed no real disturbance, and there was only the most tenuous line of white foam to declare any motion whatsoever through deeps and shallows alike. All was still. Still and grey, with the grey in two shades. A pale, blued expanse wherever any depth of water was present, darkening to charcoal where the sandbanks rose to just beneath the surface. Great dark rags they seemed, these shoals, spread on a finer backing and with a touch of menace about them. Menace seen from the clifftop as jagged shadows on the eye, but without any real threat this morning because of fine weather and a calm surface. Some of the local boats were out, riding to their nets, and Radulph wondered if Richard Denny was among the fishermen. As always, they had to work around the trading vessels lying at anchor in the roads or go out into deeper water beyond them – these crayers and cogs engaged in either legal traffic with the head-port to the north or in illicit commerce with its upstart competitor a couple of miles away to the south. All craft, of whatever kind, were immobile and, where they sat above a bank, extensions almost of the darkness of the water. Indeed, the only thing to animate the scene was the occasional flashing dive of a tern as it arrowed down into the sea, entering its second element with hardly a splash and rising again as steeply as it had dropped.

            On the top of the cliff itself, the gorse was in the first full blaze of its spring glory, with dazzling yellow flowers a visual contradiction of the sharp green spikes from which they sprang. The bushes were alive with small birds, prominent among which were numbers of linnets – the males especially noticeable with their sweetly piping song and with the red flush of summer already showing on their heads and breasts. There were skylarks, too, walking about the grass with half-raised crests while their adventuring fellows, already airborne, called to them with trilling runs of notes from somewhere near the top of heaven. Radulph felt his ears and eyes drawn upward by their song, searching the clear blue of the sky for any little black dot which was the point of melody, and while he was so engaged he missed the sudden, twisting flight of two cock yellowhammers as they flew just above ground-level before his mount. They had been disputing the right to claim a little brown female, which had hopped quietly aside into the bottom of the bushes at the vibration of approaching hooves and left it to the brightly coloured suitors to fly flamboyantly across the short, spiny grasses.

            Two or three miles to the south of Radulph’s village stood a town, a burgeoning place known to him and rival to the larger one to the north, whose harbour-entry marker was so beloved by him. Like so many other places along the coast, it drew its living from land and sea and the fact was reflected in its layout. A single street followed the line of the cliff, with substantial dwellings on either side of the roadway. At the bottom of the sand-and-clay escarpment stood an extended rank of tiled wooden sheds and larger, barn-like buildings: the former, places where herrings were cured, and the latter where the gear which caught them was serviced and stored. There was a smell of smoke on the air as Radulph rode down the street that morning, some of it from the fireplaces of the poorer cottages which lay to the west of the main street in an area of cross-alleys, and which had their yards merge into rough pasture and farmland. A number of people were already going about their business and they looked up at the rider as he passed along on his way, some of them giving him the seal of the day in a cheerful manner, while others acknowledged his calling (identifiable by the white habit he wore) in a more restrained manner.

            At its southern end, the street dropped quite steeply towards an area of low, scrubby land and the concentration of houses ended suddenly – a surrender, it appeared, on the part of man to the configuration of the landscape, though half-a-dozen or so spaced-out crofts lay to the landward side of the road. Radulph held his mount back against the slope and looked back over his shoulder to the right.  The square tower of a church, under construction, thrust heavenwards about a mile away and its flint facings caught the early morning sun. It had been started well over a hundred years before, the work brought to a halt by the Great Plague, and now resumed with the town recovered and growing. To the east of it, a mighty new church was being raised around a smaller predecessor and Radulph was acquainted with its erudite priest, John Manyngham by name, who had taken up his cure of souls at about the same time as himself and performed his duties diligently in spite of labouring under the handicap of a withered left arm. As the sun reflected from the dressed flint-work that morning, Radulph was reminded of the abbey and he searched his mind for a more specific memory of the place where he was heading – a full recollection of its strong, square church-tower and the gables and buttresses of its connected buildings.

            Beyond the lower ground on which the town’s last dwellings stood, and before the land rose southwards to become a cliff again, lay an area of sour marsh. It was the meeting-place of salt water and fresh, for at periods of spring-tide the waves were apt to rise over a separating shingle-bar and mix themselves with the brackish shallows of the lake that lay behind.  The wayside Chapel of the Good Cross stood not far from the bar and was a place of resort for those attracted to its holy relic, though Radulph was moved to reflect upon just how many pieces of Christ’s tree were authentic – if any. A little further on from this building, a causeway of sapling trees and brushwood had been laid across the shifting sands and stones and he eased the mare over it as skilfully as he was able, for he was no practised horseman. There were one or two moments when he considered dismounting and leading the animal, but she had more confidence in her own ability to cross than the rider had in his, and this sureness of attitude and of foot compensated for the lack of direction given through the reins and bit.

            Once the other side had been reached, Radulph felt the comfortable, steady, walking rhythm of his mount beneath him as she approached rising ground and he was able to enjoy the view in all directions as he looked around him. The town lay well behind him now, slightly hazy in the diffusion of morning light, dampness from the marsh and fumes from the fish-houses, while up ahead two separate awaiting clusters of dwellings marked the next couple of villages along his way. Prominent in each was a square church-tower, the nearer of which had four pinnacles upon it – one at each of its topmost corners. Behind him, and to his right, the lake lay black and quiet in the moist morning air, its waters given a depth they did not possess by both distance and the angle of the sun, while over to his left the coarse grass and scrub of the denes eventually gave way to the beach.  Radulph reined in his horse, eased himself in the saddle and let his eye travel all about him. Eventually, his attention came to rest upon a distant half-built ship, which was propped up on its stocks below the southern sector of the town. From where he sat and watched, Radulph knew that the vessel was set just above high-water mark and he was just able to make out the firm, uncompromising way that the oak ribs jutted upwards from the level which the planking had reached. There were two tiny figures working on the hull that Radulph could see and he assumed there must be others within the body of the boat, for a faint sound as of hammers striking wood and iron carried to him through the stillness.

            It was a morning for sights and sounds along the whole of his route and, with the mare maintaining the same, easy pace, he was able to enjoy them. The countryside unrolled itself before him like a great embroidered cloth and the thought struck Radulph that this was the first occasion, that spring, he had really noticed any real brightness of colour and felt any sense at all that a new season was once again upon the land. It had been a slow start to the year, slower than any he could remember, but each leaf now seemed to be breaking the pointed tightness of its bud and unrolling itself in the sunlight. At least, this was what a close scrutiny revealed, for at a distance most of the larger trees still looked dark and bare. Not so the hawthorns and the elm stakes of the hedges; they were most definitely green and burgeoning. And so was the young corn of autumn-sowing, sprouting from among the clods and gilded by a sun which grew ever higher and warmer in the sky. The banks and ditches were verdant with new growth, as well, and the open heads of dandelions, coltsfoot, celandine, primrose and cowslip spangled the sheltered places with varying shades, heights and shapes of yellow, orange and gold. There were flowers which bloomed as brightly in his own parish, but not in such profusion, and Radulph had tended not to notice them with all his other preoccupations. It was only now, as he passed through other stretches of countryside, that he observed how effectively spring was at last beginning to counter the winter’s long hold.

            The further south he went, the further the road turned inland from the cliff-line, until at last he was well beyond sight or hearing of the sea. In one place, he had to cross a substantial stretch of saltmarsh and reclaimed pasture on a causeway raised above the flats and grassland. It was built of heaped earth and flints on a base of chalk and faggot-wood, and it had a space in it about halfway along. This had been left to accommodate a small river, which discharged its waters into a maze of runnels and silty humps, and the gap was bridged by a stout structure of timber. The mare’s hooves sounded hollow on the planks as she made her way over and Radulph was able to see the dense, criss-cross pattern which the feet of wading birds had made upon the side of the channel. Even as he looked, a number of sea-snipe were busy probing the mud, running from place to place in their never-ending search for food, and he heard the yelp of a redshank as it rose into the air from under the bridge itself. It flew away eastwards and Radulph soon lost the white bar of its wings against the brightness of the sun. Even as it went from view, his eyes picked up something else to concentrate upon: what looked, for all the world, like a misshapen black stump of wood sticking out from the bank, but which Radulph knew for the hunched and waiting harnser, its beak ready to strike and grasp the eel or frog which came too close.

            He carried the image with him until something else occurred to dominate his thoughts. It came three miles further on, just where the road dipped into a shallow depression which might once have been a narrower stretch of marsh like the one previously encountered. The land was given over to pasture and there were sheep and cattle grazing on it that morning. At first glance, each animal appeared to be absolutely still, fixed to the particular spot where it stood, and it was only if the attention held to an individual that the head at least could be seen to be moving. Away to his right, beyond the livestock, Radulph could see a small church standing on the edge of the little valley. It occupied a shoulder of ground which protruded sufficiently far into the lows to be a noticeable feature of the landscape and it had a round flint tower like Radulph’s own church at home. A single bell rang in summons from the steeple and there were people going in at the door of the south porch – not a grand structure like the one on St. Michael’s, but a simple, one-storey, gabled addition to the main body of the building. Radulph knew from the resorting thither that Mass was about to be said (or perhaps even the office of Terce, with its psalms) and, with it being the morning of the feast of Anselm of Bec, he uttered a suitable bidding as he passed by for bishops who found themselves in conflict with temporal authority.

            Eventually, the road brought him to another stretch of saltmarsh and mudflats – one that was greater in area than the other he had crossed earlier and which had the stamp and smell of the sea about it. There was a great open vista of sky and half-low-water to his left and, though he could not see the ocean, he knew it was there. Gulls flapped idly above the banks and creeks, wading birds were busy in the mud, and small buntings hopped and bounced about the reed-beds that edged the flats. It was not the world of Nature, however, which took Radulph’s attention this morning so much as the works of Man. For there, commanding the skyline in front of him as he came across the dam, was a mighty church, beside which the houses and cottages of the township itself were dwarfed. It stood on a bluff above the estuary, just to the inland side of the causeway, and it resembled nothing as much as a great ship thrown up by the highest of tides and left stranded upon the land. Nave and chancel ran in a continuous, unbroken line and there were great windows along the whole length of the south aisle (complemented no doubt, Radulph thought, by a matching scheme on the northern side), which would make the building eventually appear to be formed as much from glass as from masonry. Work was still in progress on it, just as it had been when Radulph had passed in the opposite direction five years before on the way to begin his incumbency, and he wondered just how much of the foundation was glorification of God and how much the pride of Man. Whatever the ethos, the structure was superb, with only one thing to diminish the nobility of its overall design. This was the west tower, which had been raised more than a hundred years before on an earlier building. Its mass, which had been impressive enough in its time, was now completely out of proportion with the rest of the structure – just like the one appended to the new church, which was a-building in the town near where he lived. Radulph wondered, as he crossed the marsh, if this steeple would eventually be taken down and rebuilt on a grander and more fitting scale.

            With the church occupying both the skyline and his thoughts, he also took in the buildings of a small priory of Augustinian practice which was situated close to the road, ahead of him and to his right. The brothers there had their origins in the life and teachings of the same great Doctor of the Church as himself, but without the reforms introduced by Norbert of Prémontré – and they wore black habits instead of white. It was believed that an early king of East Anglia, slain for his Christian faith in battle nearby, was buried somewhere within the precinct – a legacy from the minster which had once occupied the site. Radulph uttered prayers for both the living and the dead as he passed, noticing also the wharf which lay to his left where the causeway ended and the roadway began to rise above marsh-level. The wood pilings were black and fissured by the action of salt water and there were places where they had rotted away and required replacement. A couple of small crayers lay half heeled-over on the mud beneath the quay, waiting for the next high tide to float them off, and there were men lifting and stacking casks and bales ready to load on board as soon as the water level would allow this to be done. One of them hailed Radulph as he rode by and the priest returned the greeting in an equally cheerful manner. He was on an upgrade now, advancing into the township itself, and he lost sight of the great church along the first part of the street owing to some fine, timbered dwellings to his right. No one else spoke to him as he rode through the place, but he was aware of people’s eyes on him as he passed by and he reflected to himself that no one arouses so much curiosity in folk as the traveller. 

Towards the top of the street, the houses grew smaller and were more irregularly spaced, and he was not very far out of the town when the countryside changed quite suddenly to heathland. He was quick to notice that there were sharp stones lying on the sandy surface of the trackway and he knew all about the pain and discomfort caused to a horse by a flint spiking it in the frog, so he drew his mount aside from the road and let it make its way along the verge.  The grasses here grew close to the ground and were densely interwoven with each other, and both animal and rider felt the ease of such going after the roughness of the common way. After another mile or so, Radulph decided that he would halt and rest for a while, so he looked for a suitable place to stop. Not so much for himself as for the mare. The grass over which they were moving was excellent for stopping on, but no good for eating. Therefore, as soon as he saw the first damp place with any real lushness about it, beside a large clump of broom, he pulled the animal up and dismounted. He unslung his scrip and costrel from the saddle-bow, turned the mare loose to graze and looked for a comfortable spot where he might rest and take his bait. The edge of a brake caught his eye, where a certain hollowness about the way the dead stems lay suggested a contour to suit the type of sitting required by someone who did not ride regularly and who had just spent some time in the saddle. Just as he was about to ease himself down onto the ground, a certain rustling in the bracken caught his attention. He looked quickly to where the noise came from, just in time to see the sinuous form of an adder disappearing from view.

Radulph studied the ground carefully before he sat down, repeating to himself as he did so, “Upon your belly shall you go and dust shall you eat all the days of your life.” Then he sat down and set to work on some of the bread, cheese and onions which Margaret had provided for his midday meal. The food was simple fare, but wholesome, and eating it under a clear sky added to the flavour. So did the draughts of beer from the costrel. Radulph preferred the bitterness of the drink (the “bite”, as Simpkin termed it) to the sweetness of ale and would not have exchanged his two quarts of it that day for a gallon of the best Gascon wine. After he had eaten and drunk to his satisfaction, he sat a while and took in the scene around him. The gorse burnt brightly in a myriad of candle-points, while every now and then his eyes would fix themselves upon a thorn tree hanging out its cloud of white blossom above the prevailing yellow. A slight breeze was blowing from the south-west and Radulph felt the first real warmth of the season’s touch. Not the warmth of the sun’s rays in a sheltered place, but a real breath of spring from a favoured quarter. The priest did not share the common suspicion of the south as the origin of disease. He looked to it as the source of the two things most necessary for growth, and he wondered that morning if rain were coming. There had been much cold rain of late from the east sand north, but the drops stung everything they touched and had no nurture in them. The breeze which blew this day held a different promise and Radulph thought how good life was in a world where there was such a wind on the heath.

Eventually, perhaps later than he intended, the time came to be moving on. He rose from where he was sitting, picked up his scrip and costrel, shook and pulled the creases from his habit, and walked over to his horse. She had grazed long and well, the area of grass around the broom shrub having been cropped down almost to its white roots, and she submitted quietly to the weight of her rider as he mounted again. They set off together across the heath with the same easy motion of the morning, with the animal even breaking into a gentle trot for a time, and Radulph was amused to see certain and venturesome members of the local coney population dash for cover at the sound of approaching hooves. A flash of white tail marked the disappearance of each creature down its bolt-hole; and every one of these was distinguished by a small heap of sand at the entrance, whether its siting were beneath a gorse bush or under one of the many raised clumps of purple ling. It was light-soil country and even where the heath finally merged into farmland, the sandy nature of the ground was still much in evidence. Radulph’s eye was practised enough to recognise autumn-sown rye and barley when he saw them and he noticed, too, the bare patches where even these crops had not been able to root themselves successfully.

He came to a well-built village, set around a spacious green (along one side of which the roadway ran), and he knew from the size and type of dwellings which stood there that a range of occupations sustained the local population and rewarded them (or otherwise) with varying levels of income. A small pond was located at the further end of the feature, to water the livestock allowed to graze there, and he dismounted beside it and gave the mare her head. She drank readily from the pool, lifting her muzzle from time to time, taking in air and flicking droplets from her lips. “Look like she’re got a thast on, Father,” a voice from behind Radulph said, and he turned to see a man with a wheelbarrow, loaded with peg-tiles, pushing it in the same direction as the one he was taking. “Still, you ent far from the Abbey now.” Radulph acknowledged this cheerful greeting with an appropriate reply and remounted the mare. One or two other people also spoke to him, on his way out of the village, and he felt lifted by their friendly demeanour. Another settlement lay about three-quarters of a mile ahead of him, on his right, but the road passed it by and the high hedges on either side allowed him little sight of it. A similar distance, and a sharp turn to the left, brought him to final stage of his journey. Again, a village (of no great size) stretched out before him on either side of the highway, its church and yard a prominent feature on his left hand, being raised above the level of the road. It had a thatched roof and the round tower had had an octagonal upper section added at a later date, which was now being extended further upwards by a crenellated top – work which had not begun when Radulph left the abbey five years earlier.

He was close to his destination now and he experienced a slight unease at what might await him, matched by a modest optimism at seeing old friends again. These feelings increased as he came within sight of the Abbey and he also experienced a strong sense that his first beholding of it was much the same as his last sight had been when he had left and had pulled up the very same animal, on which he now sat, and turned for a parting glance at what he had so long regarded as home. And so was it that he now, once more, reined in his horse and looked upon the scene before him. A crop of young oats was gently rippling in the large field which abutted onto the road, the uneven surface of the ground reflected in irregular patches of light and shade, and beyond it was the strong, angular mass of the Abbey’s buildings: moated about to the north, south and east, and dry for much of the area excavated, even though drainage had been the main reason for its creation. Radulph was looking at the complex from a north-easterly direction and his eye took in the well-remembered lines of the church, with its squat central tower. He noticed, too, the dormitory-range, with chapter-house, sacristy and warming-house below the brothers’ sleeping-quarters, abutting onto to its south transept, and he was also able to define the refectory (with undercroft beneath) set at a right-angle to this particular part of the complex and with the kitchens detached, close by. The cloister lay within the three defining masses of masonry, its enclosure completed (but unseen) on the western side by the cellarer’s range. Running westwards from the dormitory building and extending beyond it, was a structure which perhaps appeared to be something of an afterthought compared with the rest of the abbey’s compact layout. But, just as bodies require limbs to be whole, so did the Abbey need this particular leg, the reredorter, to complete its integrity. Detached from it, and set parallel with it, stood the infirmary.

After he had sat a while and allowed the intervening years to fall away, Radulph quietly urged the mare into action once more. He continued to look at the buildings as the animal trotted down the final stretch of road (as if it, too, remembered its former home) and the profile of the whole complex changed as they rounded a long, sweeping bend, revealing much more of the eastern and southern elevations. The sun shone brightly upon the flushwork of the buttresses of both church and refectory and Radulph turned in at the track which led to the Abbey, glad that his journey was now at an end. The mare seemed to sense that her work was nearly over and she had covered the last furlong or so at a livelier pace than she had risen to all day – though, in truth, her rider had not once sought to extend her. They were almost up to a small gatehouse, built out from the cellarer’s range, when a man stepped out from within. He shielded his eyes against the sun and waited for the objects of his attention to approach. Radulph did not recognise the face, but it seemed friendly enough and was therefore a worthy successor to the one which had been accustomed to welcome visitors when he was resident within the community. After the initial words of greeting had been spoken between them, Radulph introduced himself to the gate-keeper and said that he had come in answer to a summons from the Abbot. Then he dismounted and waited while the other man went off to announce his arrival. It was not long before the porter returned with one of the brothers, left the two clerics to speak with each other and led Radulph’s horse away to the block of stables and byres, with its smithy, on the north-western perimeter of the abbey.

“Well, Brother Radulph, it is good to see you again after such a length of time. How goes it in the great world beyond walls?”

“Much the same as it does within them, I daresay!” laughed Radulph. “In some ways, at least. And, by the by, it is also good to see you, Brother James.” 

The two of them walked together through the gateway into a vaulted passage beyond and, from thence, into the cloister. A half-dozen or so of the canons were either sitting on the edge of the garth or walking around it under cover of the arcade, and all of them came to hail the new arrival when they saw him. There was an exchange of greetings all round, followed by enquiries as to what had brought the visitor from his parish, and just as Radulph was beginning to think it might be difficult for him to preserve the confidentiality of his mission without being thought discourteous a growing silence among his fellow clergy proclaimed the arrival of the master of the establishment. The Abbot approached slowly. He was a tall man, of spare frame, advancing towards his later years, but a fine countenance and a keen eye helped him to appear younger than he was. The silvery greyness of his hair provided both complement and contrast to the white habit he wore, and so did the blackthorn stick that he held in his right hand. He leant heavily on this as he walked and the stiffness of his gait spoke all too readily of rheumatic bones and hardening muscles.

“Radulph, my son. This is fair beholding, indeed. And you have come sooner than I expected. You must have your parish and your glebe very well ordered.” His free arm held Radulph strongly for a moment or two in a welcoming embrace. “How would it suit you to walk for a while with a slow, old man?”

“Well enough, Father Abbot. It will relieve the discomfort of riding.”

“Ah yes, your journey. It must be thirty miles or so that you have covered today, and here I am thinking of my own convenience! Have you eaten and drunk anything along the way? We finished our midday repast not long ago, but there are victuals enough left in the kitchen to refresh you.”

“And I have sufficient here, I think, to last my stay with you!” laughed Radulph, holding up his scrip. My woman servant provided for me most generously.” He turned to his brother clergy. “Those of you who have a taste for bread, cheese and onions, speak now and you may share this among you!”

The jest went down well if the laughter generated was anything to go by, with the Abbot as amused as anyone else. “It is good that you have fed the hungry man,” he said, “because I need have no conscience now at keeping you from your dinner. Give your wallet and your bottle to one of the brethren. You will have opportunity to speak with them later, and they with you. In the meantime, I intend to claim you all for myself. Come, let us walk.”  And, using his free hand to indicate the way, he gestured Radulph to the passage through which the latter had but lately come. “I thought it best that we take ourselves out into the air together, as if for old times’ sake,” he said, when they had both emerged from the gatehouse arch. “It will arouse less interest and comment than the two of us being closeted in my own apartment.”

Radulph nodded his agreement. “Do you still reside in the same lodging?” he asked.

“No. I have a different space now from that above the chapter-house.” He gestured with his free hand in a south-easterly direction above the cellarer’s range, as he spoke. “I have a room next to the refectory, with its own hearth within, so I am able to take all meals with my brethren and have warmth of fellowship and body – which is no bad thing when you reach my age!

Radulph smiled sympathetically at the remark. “Do your joints give you much trouble?” he enquired. “Your knuckles certainly seem more swollen than I remember them.” 

“Advancing years, advancing stiffness!” laughed the Abbot. “But enough of my bodily ailments, son Radulph. Shall we walk to the fish-ponds? I seem to recall that it was ever a favourite place with you.”

Radulph acquiesced with the proposal and the two of them made their way round to the north-eastern sector of the abbey grounds. Among the things they discussed as they went along was Simpkin Jakks, the refined and educated Abbot de Dersham having obviously been impressed with the vicarage servant considering how brief their acquaintanceship had been. “A blunt-speaking fellow, to be sure,” said the cleric. “But as honest a heart, I should say, as beats in all England.” A short silence ensued as Radulph smiled to himself in ironic appreciation of this opinion, recalling Simpkin’s remarks concerning the Abbot’s privy arrangements, but he concurred with all that his superior said and praised Margaret also. “Brother Laurence always found her difficult during his incumbency,” reflected the Abbot. “But he was an older man than you and more set, perhaps, in his ways.” Radulph had to make no admission either way regarding this particular comment, because the fish-ponds were now in sight and his companion was already harking back to the time when a certain member of the community seemed happy to divide his time between them and the cloister.

“There was never any problem in finding Brother Radulph,” remarked the Abbot. “He was either at his books or down here among his scaly charges.”

Radulph smiled in appreciation of the reference. “Study has always given much pleasure,” he replied. “And as for the other thing – why, I have always liked water and the creatures that dwell therein.” A thought struck him as he spoke. “Which is why it has been so interesting to go and live by the sea. Salt water is very different from fresh and its denizens run beyond counting in both number and type.” 

“No doubt they do.” Abbot de Dersham looked about him as he spoke, using his stick to poke the ground. “I think that the grass is dry enough to allow our sitting upon it. Would you help me down?” Radulph obliged immediately. “Now, my son, come sit by me and tell me all that you have to say about this maiden and her works of healing. I have never been so blessed myself as to come near such wondrous acts and I want to hear about them.” 

Radulph did as he was bidden. He sat down beside his superior and began to relate all that had happened over the past two weeks, beginning with Ann Denny’s deep sleep and graphically describing the events which had developed from her visions. His account had not gone very far beyond the great dream itself, when he began to tell of Ann’s first act of ministration, to Bess Hoberd and her stiff and crooked fingers – at which point, Abbot de Dersham interposed briefly to remark that he himself could well do with such relieving. Then he apologised for interrupting and encouraged Radulph to continue with his narration. The priest resumed as if there had been no hiatus and recounted the various things which had happened involving the girl. And, as he spoke, he surprised himself with the amount of detail he was able to recall and he felt, too, that he was actually re-living the recent past. So totally committed was he to telling his story, and so much a part of it, that he did not notice the keen scrutiny he was under from his Abbot – even though their eyes met frequently. But while the latter beheld him closely, it was not doubt which directed the fixing of his gaze. Rather, it was the conviction that what he was listening to constituted the truth. If everything on earth could only be believed when capable of explanation in earthly terms, then where did it leave belief itself? Where, faith? Thomas de Dersham was glad to hear of the giving of such a sign, for he felt that he had lived long in a world where little of the true light shone.

“Do you not count yourself fortunate and favoured to have seen such things, son Radulph?” he asked. “Or does the noising abroad of this girl’s power begin to trouble you?”

“I find that both considerations weigh with me,” said Radulph. “I thank God for the miracle he has performed through his young handmaiden, but I fear what men may try to make of it.”

“You do well to have such fears. I received a letter yesterday from Sir Nicholas Bosard concerning the things which you have described to me.”

“He told me that he intended to write,” said Radulph.

“Did he so? Then you can perhaps guess the tenor of what he wrote.”

“I think I may be able to. I daresay he began by drawing your attention to the works performed by Ann Denny (especially that upon his daughter) and ended by suggesting that the building of some sort of shrine be considered as a tribute to such wondrous doings.”

“You are well acquainted with his intentions, I see.” Abbot de Dersham looked intently at his brother-in-Christ. “And what do you think of such a proposal?”

“I think that the works of God should be duly acknowledged,” replied Radulph. “But I am not sure that a shrine is the best way of doing it. Besides,” and here he paused just for a moment, “I am worried for the girl should such a thing come to pass. It will place a great burden upon her.”

“Of that there is no doubt,” confirmed the Abbot. “What does she herself think of it all?”

“She faces everything with fortitude of mind,” said Radulph. “The Holy Spirit is strong upon her and she will meet whatever comes, firm in the conviction that she must go wherever she is led.”

“Well, there are occasions when the ways of God and men coincide,” observed de Dersham. “Though I am not saying that this is one of them.” He hung awhile on his next thought. “Of course, Sir Nicholas’s motive in all of this is plain enough. He hopes for revenues from of some sort from the founding of a shrine. He holds nearly all the land around the church and looks to turn it to advantage.”

“And what is your own opinion as to the desirability of such a venture, Father?” asked Radulph. “It would help me greatly if I knew your leaning.”

“I suspect that you know it already, if you know me at all.” A smile played about the lips and there was a degree of sparkle in the clear, grey eyes. “I am no great lover of shrines and the resorting thither, which is why I have always resisted moves to bring relics of one kind or another to this house – especially with so many of them being of doubtful origin.” His face grew thoughtful. “True worship lies in the direct contact between man and God by means of prayer and contemplation. That, and the performing of good works in His Name and to His glorification through the agency of Christ Jesus.”

Radulph listened carefully to this reply. “I thought perchance that such might be your answer,” he said. “And it makes me much easier in my mind.”

“Do not let it, my son,” warned the Abbot. “It may well be, in this instance, that I cannot stop events from following a course that you and I would shun.”

“How so, Father? Surely you have the authority to prevent a thing you do not approve of from happening?” Radulph had always attributed considerable authority to the master of his house.

“It is not as simple as that. I only wish it were.” Thomas de Dersham’s face showed his sense of dilemma. “For one thing, Sir Nicholas is a churchwarden, is he not?” Radulph nodded in affirmation. “Well, that will make anything he may want to do difficult to resist entirely. Then there is another point, more potent by far, which we have to consider.”

“And what is that?” Radulph asked the question more for the sake of maintaining a flow or words than because it was absolutely necessary to enquire.

The Abbot looked at him for a while before replying, though what he had to say was already formulated in his mind. “It is best described, I think, as weight of opinion.” His eyes held Radulph’s as he spoke. “In other words, what action I might have to take if enough people begin to desire some sort of visible and lasting symbol of Heaven’s power as seen in the girl. Nay, and not only desire it, but begin to call for such.”

“Do you think it likely to happen?” asked Radulph.

“I think it very likely,” replied the Abbot. “People in every age are hungry for signs and for miracles. And I daresay that my Lord Bishop of Norwich will not be averse to having another centre of pilgrimage in his diocese.”

“I suppose not. Sir Nicholas told me that he intended to write to him. Indeed, he may already have done so.” Radulph recalled his conversation with Lady Bosard after mass on Sunday morning.

“He has.” The confirmation was brief and to the point. “He informed me of the fact in his letter to me. Now I must wait to hear from Walter le Hart, I suppose.”

A great pyramid of human striving and ambition was building up in Radulph’s mind as words passed to and fro between the Abbot and himself. “The girl’s father is fearful of her deeds being taken for the work of the Devil,” he said. “He will not put himself in the way of anything she does, but he believes that there is only a thin line in people’s minds dividing wholesome acts from the works of darkness.”

“He is wise to be wary.” Thomas de Dersham approved of this parental caution. “Human opinion is so changeable. But what you have told me of Ann Denny prompts me to recall what Our lord said to those who accused him of casting out devils in the name of Beelzebub.” He smiled sat Radulph and looked upon him with affection. “I know of a certainty that I have no need to examine the girl,” he said. “Though I hope that, one day, I may meet her.”

“It looks from the way things are going that it may not be a great deal longer before you do,” commented Radulph.

“Perhaps. Perhaps.” The tone of voice was reflective and the grey eyes very slightly hooded over. “And there is one more thing I feel compelled to say concerning all that we have talked about here this afternoon.” Radulph asked no needless question at this point in the way he had done a little earlier; he sat quietly until the older man put into words what was in his mind to utter. “It is this: the fact that you and I have no real liking for the public show of praise and adoration which shrines seem to generate does not necessarily make them undesirable.” The way he spoke and then refrained from speaking further required an answer.

“I suppose so,” conceded Radulph. “We would be wrong to allow our personal taste and inclination come in the way of something from which folk might benefit.”

“Quite so. And while the hand of Man will doubtless be very busy in any such founding, we can try to ensure that the hand of God is seen to be at work in the girl herself and in the wonder of her visions and performing.” Thomas de Dersham set his lips in a tight line of determination and intent. “In any case, I shall not proceed with undue haste in the matter. It requires much prayer and careful thought.” He looked at Radulph appreciatively. “The girl and her family are fortunate, I judge, to have had you as their friend and adviser thus far.”

Radulph blushed a little at the compliment. “I deem myself a poor helper beside the Holy Mother,” he said. “I am sure that as long as Ann continues to see her guiding hand, then all shall be well.”

“We must hope so. You are indeed favoured, my son, to have been so close to such rare occurrences. Nothing like them has ever come within my particular experience.” 

This particular declaration on the part of Abbot de Dersham closed discussion on the specific matter of Ann Denny and her notable acts, but he was eager to hear about the members of her family. Especially Miles. Radulph had mentioned the boy in letters he had written, commenting on his exceptional promise, and now he was able to give his superior an opinion of him at first hand. Thus, did the two of them sit under the afternoon sun, the only near sound (other than their voices) being the occasional slap of a fat, rising carp or bream on the surface of still water. The conversation led from one thing to another, its time-scale covering the whole period of Radulph’s life in orders and a good deal of Thomas de Dersham’s too. There was comment upon the communal living within walls and the less formalised life outside, for the Abbot himself had experience of both and he remarked how the five years in a parish seemed to have matured Radulph and given him increased stature. This was what he had hoped for, he said, and Radulph was in the middle of defining his especial conception of the priestly function when Brother James came hurrying towards them.

“I am sorry to interrupt your converse, Father Abbot,” he said. “But Brother Edward has gone deeper into his falling-fit and seems like to die before a great deal longer.”

Radulph started suddenly at the mention of this particular name and looked from one to the other of the two men for further explanation. He asked no questions by word of mouth, but his eyes were full of enquiry and their expression was more eloquent than words could ever hope to be. Abbot de Dersham saw the concern written in his face and immediately sought to inform him of what had happened to this one member of their community and to apologise for not having mentioned it.

“Our oldest and dearest brother fell victim to an apoplexy but yesterday,” he said. “He fell to the ground in a corner of the herb-garden and was taken to the infirmary. I had forgotten that he was your confessor, else I should have told you of his collapse.”

“I was hoping that he would hear my confession during my stay here,” said Radulph. “Seeing him once more was something I was greatly looking forward to.”

“You must see him, of course.” Thomas de Dersham was reminded strongly of the bond between the two men.” I will go to the infirmary now and judge his condition for myself. If he indeed seems about to die, then I will send for you. But if he seems like to live a while longer, then you may go and sit with him after compline. Come, help me up, son Radulph, and we will return to the buildings. And you, Brother James, return to the Infirmarer and tell him that I am on my way.”

Radulph gave the Abbot an assisting arm, as requested, and the two of them made their way back towards the gatehouse. “Just as a matter of interest, who was it that brought Sir Nicholas’s letter hither?” asked the priest. “I am curious to know.”

“I forget his name now,” replied Abbot de Dersham. “He only stayed long enough to deliver it, then he departed. It was strange, really.” The Abbot rested a moment upon his stick.” I only met him because he would not hand the letter over to the gatekeeper. He insisted that his orders were to give it to me personally.”

“What did he look like?” asked Radulph.

“Ah, that I have not forgotten!” The Abbot began to move forward again. “He was very thin; a rogue, if ever I saw one. His clothes hung upon him like linen airing on a hedge. He had a long nose and a bristly chin, and there was a turn in one of his eyes which gave him a most rascally look.” He dwelt a moment upon his description.” If he is an honest man, then he is most ill-favoured.”

Radulph nodded in recognition as Jankyn Brock’s appearance was so accurately described. “I know the man,” he said, “and would trust him no further than I am able to throw him! He has had a part to play in the events which have happened in my parish. A sneaking one, to be sure, but important nonetheless.” A whole sequence of occurrences passed swiftly through Radulph’s mind. “His name is Jankyn Brock and he is Sir Nicholas’s bailiff of the parish’s Common-land.”

They went on together towards the gatehouse, entered the passageway and emerged on the inner side, into the cloisters. Abbot de Dersham took his leave of Radulph here and turned off to the right, to make his way through the refectory out to the infirmary. Radulph himself walked towards a small gathering of his brethren in the north-western corner of the enclosure. They had collected there to catch the afternoon sun and consisted, for the most part, of the men who had greeted him earlier on his arrival. Once again, salutations were exchanged, and a pleasant and unmeasured time was spent recalling the days five years before, when he who now came as a visitor was part of the abbey’s population. The conversation had two sides to it, with the resident canons wishing to hear of the outside world and with their priested brother desirous of catching up on as much of the inside news as possible. With such disparity of intention on the respective sides, it was remarkable that any real dialogue took place. Yet the conversation continued happily enough until the sudden chiming of a bell brought an end to the words and drew all of the small company into church.

Vespers! It had always been Radulph’s favourite office of the daily cycle. Indeed, he would have readily admitted, if asked, that the reason for his observing it from time to time in the parish where he lived was as much to do with his own personal preference as with any thought for the parishioners’ weal. But he had no doubt, either, that its reflective mood and quality of calm (transmitted through the medium of plain-song) did possess the power to bring a sense of peacefulness to those who lived in a hard world – even though they did not understand the language being used. Now he was to enjoy the service again, in the church where he had first learned to love it. It was only a short step from the cloister to the south transept door and he made his way there with his fellows, gladdened in spirit and feeling that his homecoming (for such it was) was now complete. 

Once inside the building, the canons made their way to the wooden stalls in the quire and took their places – each man to his appointed seat. Radulph went straight to his old position and sat down under the crocketed hood. He knew that he was able to do this without impediment, for it was the custom in the Abbey to leave empty those stalls belonging to brothers who were serving as parish priests. By doing this, each absence was able to become a presence during the times that services were held. As Radulph sat there, his eyes drawn upward to the ceiling’s ribbed vaulting, embellished with sculpted bosses at the intersections, the rest of the community’s members came into church, some by the door from the cloister, others by the various entrances into both nave and chancel. Last of all came the Abbot himself, slowly, impressively, upon his stick – and, with his approach, all the seated figures rose from their misericords. There was the creak of metal hinges and the thump of timber as the seats were tipped back and everyone stood waiting for the leader to take his place. Then, with his delivery of the opening sentence, the office of Vespers began.

The ebb and flow of the chanted words inside the great hollow body of the church had a profound effect upon Radulph as he stood there in his stall, half-resting against the heavy wooden seat. It had been five years since he was part of the measured cadences which rose and fell with the subtlety and effortlessness of breathing, and he now became completely absorbed again. The voices of those present wove a tapestry of sound as disciplined and well-proportioned in its fabrication as the flights of stonework overhead. And to stimulate the sense of vision there were the wide shafts of sunlight which angled down through the southern clerestory of the nave, splashing the colours of the glass in puddles on the floor. Late afternoon was ever a time for balance, lying quietly as it did between the activity of the working day and the restfulness of evening, and the mixture of controlled singing and diffused sunlight was the perfect way to celebrate its equilibrium. 

With Vespers at an end, the clergy left the church by way of the south transept door and walked along the east corridor of the cloister towards the refectory. Abbot de Dersham and Radulph were at the back of the company and the former spoke of his visit to the infirmary. Brother Edward, it seemed, had rallied a little after his deep sinking towards death and was judged to be in no immediate danger of falling into his last sleep. Indeed, he had seemed to respond to well to the news that Radulph had arrived at the Abbey during the afternoon and would visit him later. The brethren entered the refectory and each man took his place at one of other of the four, rectangular, oak tables set individually across the width of the room. Radulph went with the Abbot and stood next to him while grace was said. Then everyone sat down to a simple meal of bread and dried beef which had already been laid in readiness. As the canons ate supper, one of their number stood in a pulpit in the south-east corner of the room and delivered a sermon deemed to be appropriate for the time and place. He was a young man, one whom Radulph did not know, and he stood above his associates on his overhanging platform of stone and gave his exposition with both fluency and force. He took as his text a verse from St. Matthew’s Gospel, chapter 6: Quaerite ergo primum regnum Dei, et iustitiam eius; et haec omnia adiicientur vobis. “Seek first therefore the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be given to you.” Radulph listened carefully as he ate his food and he was impressed by the cogency of thought and expression shown by the preacher. He was further impressed when, at the end of the meal, the young man remained in the pulpit and led a shortened form of Compline by acting as precentor. One the adjustments made to the order of services by Abbot de Dersham, years before, had been to combine the act of worship in eating with the final office of the day and, for a short time, at least, to make this most domestic of buildings an extension of the church. It was an expression of belief in man’s wholeness and a suitable preparation for the hours of sleep.

After Compline was over, Radulph went to the infirmary. The Abbot did not accompany him, but said that he might stay as long as he desired – all night if necessary. A bed had been prepared for him in the ante-room and he could make use of it if he wished. It was certain that Brother Edward would be greatly cheered to see him – and that, in itself, was as much physic as could realistically be deemed to be effective. When Radulph arrived at the building (which lay a short distance removed, to the east of the refectory), he promptly mounted the exterior flight of steps to the upper storey, where he knew that the chronically sick were housed. He entered the ante-chamber first and then passed through to the long, narrow room, where the Infirmarer walked towards him. They were easy in their salutations, for Radulph had often assisted with tending the sick, and they now greeted each other with smiles of renewed acquaintance and with a firm clasping of hands. “He will be glad to see you,” said the Infirmarer. “It will do him far greater good than any cupping is able to achieve. He has even managed a few words since our Father Abbot told him of your arrival. Come, let us go to him.”

They went down to the end of the room, to the furthest of six cots projecting neatly from the western wall. It was the only bed occupied and within the covers lay a small, frail man, his head seemingly over-sized for the little neck and shoulders and his skin the hue and texture of old vellum. At the sound of approaching footsteps, the head rolled sideways on the pillow, moving to the left to see who came, and the eyes grew lively with recognition as the two figures moved into focus. There was other movement discernible also, for the fingers of both hands plucked at the creases of the top blanket and the sinews rippled beneath the glossy tightness of the skin. “See, he recognises you,” the Infirmarer said softly to Radulph. “I will leave you with him for a while. I have not yet eaten and will go to the kitchen for my supper.” Radulph nodded in acknowledgement of this and made his reply. “I will be happy to sit with my old friend and recall the time that we once spent here together.” 

There was no further word of parting, just the sound of the Infirmarer walking across the wooden floor and the noise of the door opening and shutting as he left the room. Then came the fainter sound of another door beyond the first one after which the silence of the room itself invested the man who stood alone there, holding him immobile within its fragile, yet restraining, bubble. A sound from the bed in the further right-hand corner burst this lightest and most tenuous of canopies, but not immediately. At first, silence itself exercised a stronger pull on the sense of hearing. Then, after a moment or two, the repetition of a single word became identifiable. “Rad–ulph. Rad-ulph.”

The bearer of that name answered the summons and went and sat on a stool which was placed beside the top of the bed. He reached out his hands and took hold of those which lay spread upon the covers, clasping them firmly and lengthily in a gesture that went far beyond mere greeting. The bright eyes in the large head before him expanded and shone, accentuating the impression that it was detached from the rest of the body, and the lips twitched vainly for an utterance which was beyond the capability of the mouth to articulate. Radulph released the hands and bent towards his old friend. “It is good to see you again, Brother Edward,” he said. “I have come to sit with you, a while.” He allowed his words to take effect and waited for the stricken man’s response.

“Why – have – you – come?” The question sprang to mind readily enough, but the asking of it was a more laborious matter altogether. Radulph paused for a moment or two, then proceeded to disclose the reason for his visit, keeping the explanation as succinct as possible. yet without omitting too many of the essential details. He could see that Brother Edward’s interest had been aroused and so he allowed intervals of silence to interpose periodically in order that the latter might absorb fully what was being recounted. The old man asked no questions during the account, but at each pause Radulph sensed what was in the listener’s mind and therefore resumed his story with information that he felt was what was expected. When he had reached the end of his narration, he sat quietly, waiting for the quivering mouth and throat to find the necessary co-ordination which would lead to speech. Eventually, there came the brief moment of articulation, which had been so determinedly striven for.

“Mir-a-cles – are not – for – selling.” The words, though disjointed in sequence, were plain enough. “Stand – by – the – girl.” Radulph gave an affirming nod of his head. “I will,” he said. “Whatever befalls, I will do that.” And, even as he spoke Brother Edward’s eyes closed and his mouth and hands grew still. For a moment or two, Radulph sat and looked sat the immobile figure before him. Then he reached forward, took hold of the nearer wrist and felt along the underside with the tip of his index finger. He found the pulse almost immediately – fast and faint, to be sure, but beating nevertheless in defiance of the impending and inevitable summons. Its tiny pressure fascinated Radulph and he sat there, absorbing the weakened throb, wondering how such a small strand of life could possibly thread its way through such a mass of inertia. How long he remained thus, he had no sure way of knowing; but while he watched and thought and waited, the light went through all its declining shades of grey until it reached the deep charcoal tone which precedes true darkness. A scratching sound from somewhere outside came faintly to him, but he did not realise what it was until he heard the opening and shutting of a door. From this, he knew that someone had ascended the outer steps and he rose from his stool to await whoever it was. He heard the latch lift and saw the faint outline of the door of the room swing inward like a shadow, then the voice of the Infirmarer carried to him through the stillness.

“It is very dark in here, Brother Radulph. Do you wish for a light?” He left the door open behind him and walked a few paces towards the standing figure.

“I had not really thought about it, to speak truly,” replied Radulph. “Brother Edward is sleeping and I have been sitting by him.” He moved from the foot of the bed into the space beyond. The time just seems to have slipped away.”

“It has been a good hour since I left you,” said the Infirmarer. Then he laughed. “Kitchen talk is always more interesting than what passes in the chapter-house!”

“Few would deny that,” agreed Radulph. “But I hope that you found more in the kitchen than just words! I hope that victuals were not lacking, either.” 

“Oh, I fed well enough, thank you.” A pause ensued. “Do you wish to go to bed now? If so, I will come and sit by brother Edward.”

“No, I will stay with him,” said Radulph. “You take the place prepared for me in the ante-chamber. If I get tired, I can lie down for a while on the next bed here. He pointed as he spoke, not even considering whether the other man could see his gesture or not. “And, if there is need of your good offices, I can easily come and wake you.”

“Very well. Let it be as you wish. But first let me go and fetch a taper. You may have need of some light before the dawn comes. I should have thought to bring one with me.”

Radulph acceded to this suggestion and went back to his stool while the Infirmarer returned to the kitchen for the taper. He was not long about his errand and came into the room once more, but this time with a ball of yellow flame held before his face. It threw blacker shadows about the walls and ceiling than darkness could ever achieve. “The wind is getting up,” he remarked. “I had to shield this under a wooden bowl to stop it going out.” He handed the slender rod of tallow over to Radulph. “You’ll remember the cresset over there, between the two windows. I expect. Call me if you have need of me. I will bid you good night.”

Radulph thanked him and wished him fair sleeping. Then, when the door had closed, he walked to where a corbel projected from the infirmary’s southern wall and applied his taper to it. The stone was on a level with his face and had two large holes bored into it, each of which was filled with tallow. He stood tiptoe to locate the wicks and watched with satisfaction as each of the charred ends caught alight and sent up its own individual spiral of unctuous black smoke. Then the spear-heads of flame grew in size, feeding upon the grease beneath them, and the whole room became cavern-like in its hollow configuration and in the black depth of its four corners. Radulph blew out the taper and went back to his stool. There was no change in Brother Edward, but the effect of the light falling upon his sleeping face was such as to burnish the skin and to make dark pits of his eye-sockets. His head reminded Radulph of nothing so much as a piece of sculpted stone and, in concentrating upon its incisions and abrasions, he dozed a while in that strange, halfway world between sleeping and waking.

Chapter 17 (Tuesday, 21 April – Friday, 24 April)

He had heard the sound for some time before he had fully awoken. It came to him mutedly, remotely, like a distant memory of childhood trying to find its way into the adult mind through all the intervening years. Radulph shifted upon his stool in response to the call from within his deeper self, but the physical exertions of the day weighed upon him and would not let him rouse himself. There was a conflict within him of opposing claims upon his senses, and who is to say which of them would have proved the stronger? In the event, neither prevailed because he was awakened by the noise of rain falling on the tiles of the roof. He sat up and listened to its descent, the fall accompanied by the underlying sound of water splashing to the ground from a lead spout on a guttering somewhere or other. Then he heard the first sound again, the half-remembered summons of his weariness, and he realised that it was Brother Edward speaking to him. Immediately, he turned his ear and his mind from the rain and bent his face towards the incapacitated man who lay beside him. In the restrained light of the cresset, he could see the effort of will prompting the utterances by the way in which the muscles of the face tightened and twisted with the attempt to form a syllable, but it was some time before he could understand what was being said.

            “Bo-dy – Bo-dy – of Chr- Chr-.” The throat and mouth stuck upon a difficult sound. “Bo-dy of Chr-.” The old man’s eyes grew large in their sockets, his mouth opened, and his tongue rested just behind the few worn and discoloured tooth-stumps in his lower jaw. Then, and just in that instant, Radulph had a sudden and striking picture in his mind of suppliant figures kneeling before an altar and knew what it was that Brother Edward was asking for. “You wish to receive the Body and Blood of Our Lord?” he asked. And a nodding of the frail, old head, followed by a smile and by a closing of the eyes, gave him all the answer he needed. “I will bring them to you, dearest of friends. Rest a short while until I return.”

            Radulph took great care to ensure that his leaving the infirmary was as quiet as possible. He was especially at pains to avoid waking the Infirmarer and managed to negotiate both doors without undue noise. The rain spattered upon him as he descended the outside steps, thereby giving an answer to the question he had asked himself earlier that day as he sat on the heath. But he had not far to walk along the west wall of the reredorter (whose function, he could not but help reflect, far surpassed the sanitary arrangements at his own vicarage dwelling) before he reached the shelter afforded by the passageway between refectory and warming-house. Here, he stood a moment, absorbing the stillness of the corridor and thinking of those who slept above him. Then he walked along the eastern length of the cloister-arcade, into the church by the door of the south transept and past the day-stairs he knew so well – even in his absence from them. The building echoed softly to his steps and the various lights within winked and guttered in the darkness like so many stars. 

            Radulph went straight through the choir to the south chapel, dedicated to Saint Michael, genuflected in deference to the small flame which glowed upon the altar there and opened an aumbry in the north wall. He took two glass cruets from it (one containing water and the other holding wine), a parcel-gilt chalice and paten, and a piece of consecrated host. The last item was put carefully into the chalice and the paten placed over it as a lid. Then Radulph closed the door of the aumbry with the back of his hand, genuflected again to the altar and retraced his steps. He was part of the way along the cloister’s arcade, when a sudden thought struck him and he turned back, into the sacristy. He set his vessels down upon a table there and allowed his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. After a while, he was able to make out some shelves on the wall and his fingers reached for a small chest which stood on one of them. It was made of metal and felt cold to the touch as he placed his hands on it. A moment or two of exploring, then he allowed a quick gasp of satisfaction to escape his lips as he located the key. He turned it, lifted the lid back on its hinges, felt inside for some little while and eventually drew out a small container. Then he closed the lid and locked it. With four vessels to manage now, his dexterity was well tested, but he contrived to hold both cruets in his left hand, hugged the chalice and paten against his breast with his left forearm and managed to retain the little brass oil-stock in his right hand as he opened and shut doors on his way back. The greatest test came when he reached the infirmary, but he succeeded in getting to Brother Edward’s bedside without disturbing the Infirmarer, who slept on soundly beneath the noise of the wind and rain.

            Radulph set the vessels down upon the stool and turned to Brother Edward. The old man lay there peacefully and the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a show of contentment (the best that he could manage) as his friend leant over him. “I have brought the elements,” said Radulph. “Now we may share the Eucharist together.” He removed the host from the chalice and laid it on the paten, uttering a short prayer over the bread. Next, he poured wine and water into the cup, again with an appropriate blessing. And, finally, he spoke a few well-remembered words over the Communion he had prepared: “Veni, sanctificator, omnipotens et aeterne Deus, et benedicite hoc sacrificium, tuo sancto nomini praeparatum.” It was a shortened offertory and there was no canon as such to follow, but Radulph trusted that any omissions would be acceptable in the sight of Him who cared most for the devotion of human hearts and least of all perhaps for the accretion of ceremonial practice which had built up over the centuries. He was about to take up the paten and begin the rite, when a thought crossed his mind and he turned again to the bed.

            “Brother Edward,” he said. “I have a request to make of you before we share the bread and wine which have been prepared.” He saw the attention written in the face before him as he spoke. “I would like you to hear my confession. You are still the one to whom I look for earthly shriving, even after so long a time. Will you grant me absolution?” He knelt by the bed and took hold of the two, stiff, bony hands which lay flat upon the covers. A slight pressure communicated itself upon his fingers, betokening consent, and the frozen mouth whispered a barely audible yes. 

It was not a long statement of shortcoming by Radulph. The circumstances demanded that this should be a brief admission and he was as direct and explicit as he could be. He dispensed with venialities and went straight to a more profound consideration: namely, his sin of pride. Pride in his idea of himself as a parish priest and in the way he ministered to his people; pride in his success as a teacher, when all the credit most likely lay with the pupil; pride in being close to a miracle of God’s; and pride in being asked by the embodiment of that miracle to stand as her earthly helper. There were times when he had to allow his eyes free passage around the infirmary room while he looked for words suitable to express his admissions, but the eyes of Brother Edward never deviated for a moment and watched him all the time he spoke. The tallow lights in their bracket on the adjacent wall lit parts of the leathery, wrinkled face and threw others into deep shadow. Deepest of all were the eye-sockets; but within each of them, in either depth, was a point of light where the yellow flames of the cresset concentrated their lambence and were reflected from the curved mirror of the eyeball. It was obvious, when Radulph had ended his confession, that Brother Edward wished to say more than he was able to. The expression of his face declared it, and so did the movement of his fingers. He lay there in his bed, trying to co-ordinate his disrupted faculties until, finally, by a supreme effort of will, he managed to speak four halting words. “Dom-i-nus – tibi – indul-gen-tiam – tribuat.”

Radulph bent down to him and kissed his forehead. “Thank you, old friend,” he said, in a voice which remained even in tone only with the greatest of difficulty. “Now, let us receive the body and blood of Our Lord together.” He took the wafer from the paten and held it up before them both. “Ecce Agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi.” He broke the bread and gave a piece to Brother Edward, placing it carefully on the tongue. The rest he consumed himself. “Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi sit nobis peccatoribus via et vita. Amen.” There were a few moments of silence, then he took up the chalice and elevated it as he had done the host. The pale yellow of the metal caught the cresset-light and coloured his hand with the reflection. “Ecce Sanguis Agni qui pro nobis effunditur in remissionem peccatorum.” He bent down to the bed, put his left arm behind Brother Edward’s shoulders and lifted the old man into a position where he could drink with some degree of ease, then gently lowered him to the pillow once he had sipped the wine. After which act of ministration he proceeded to drain the chalice. “Sanguis Domini nostri Jesu Christi prosit nobis peccatoribus ad remedium sempiternum in vitam aeternam. Amen.”

“Amen.” The response came quietly, but audibly, from the bed as Radulph turned to the ablutions. First, the paten was inverted above the chalice and gently tapped. Next, a measure of wine and water was poured from the cruets into the vessel, with care being taken that both liquids trickled over the fingers of the left hand, which were placed to overlap the rim. Radulph had brought no purificator to dry either fingers or cup, but he trusted that the omission was not too grievous a one as he swilled the contents of the chalice round and round and watched the eddy he had created. Finally, he drank the mixture and placed the paten on top of the receptacle once more. He had just ordered the vessels to his liking on top of the stool, when Brother Edward began to say something from the bed.

“Rad-ulph. Rad-ulph.” The name was clear enough and its subject turned his attention to the speaker. “Ask – for – the – book. The book.” There was the attempt at another word, or maybe more than one, but as the eyes dilated and the muscles of the throat stretched and quivered, all that came out was a great sigh. It dissipated itself on the emptiness of the room and the mouth which had given birth to it remained open for another utterance. This never came, for even as Brother Edward struggled with his incapacity and sought to communicate with the one who had arrived unlooked for in his hour of greatest need, another apoplexy smote him within the head and killed him where he lay. Radulph knew immediately that he was dead. The feeling of wrist and neck for any throb of life was gratuitous. It was done automatically, almost without thought – more a means of confirming death than a search for any possible signs of life. Nor was Radulph particularly sorrowful at the passing of his old friend and mentor – at least, once the initial sense of loss was allowed for. Rather, he was glad that the time of suffering had not been long and that the dead man’s spirit was now released into a freedom inconceivable to those who remained imprisoned in their earthly bodies.

Yet, even as one part of Radulph’s consciousness operated on this higher level, another remained on a lower, mortal plane and compelled him to look upon the dead man’s face. He leant towards the corpse and closed the mouth and eyes, then reached to the stool and picked up the little brass oil-stock. There was no self-congratulation on his having brought this with him, but he was glad that he had done so and set about anointing the mouth, the nostrils, the eyes and the ears. Four senses out of five, with the fingertips to make up the last. Thus, was the old Adam consigned to its decreed mortality and Brother Edward’s earthly remains given unction. After he had performed this last ritual, Radulph wiped his fingers on a corner of the bed-covering and felt for the purse which hung from his girdle. He pulled it towards him as far as the thongs would allow, loosened the draw-string which held it closed, took two silver groats out and placed them on the dead man’s eyelids. Then he pulled back the covers, set the legs straight and the arms crossed ready for the shroud and, having done that, went and threw himself down on the next bed. He lay there for some considerable time, flat on his back and with his hands clasped behind his head, reaching out into the darkened corners of the room and of his mind for memories of the many things he had shared with the friend whose body was growing cold and stiff only touching distance away.

Eventually, he fell asleep, but his reminiscences continued in the form of dreams. They were dreams, too, like so many others, where the experiences of the sleeper become mixed together to form scenes and situations which only reveal their impossibility if sleep is broken before the sequence of events has run its course – or if the person who is dreaming comes close to waking while the dream is still in progress. Radulph could not have said what was the cause of his arousing, but he sat up in bed quite suddenly with a picture fresh in his mind of Ann Denny lifting the body of Brother Edward with her healing hands. It seemed only a passing thought as he remembered it in waking, but he knew that it must have been one of the many pictures which the unconscious hours bring and he began to wonder, too, what could have aroused him from sleep. The question was soon answered as the Infirmarer called softly, just a few paces from him. “Brother Radulph. Brother Radulph. Are you awake?”

“Yes,” replied Radulph. “I am. It must have been the sound of your voice that woke me. Have you been calling long?”

“No.” The Infirmarer spoke rather more loudly. “I have only just woken up myself. It is time for Matins and Lauds, and I was wondering if you wished to attend. I am sorry if I disturbed you. I ought to have come closer begore saying anything. I could see you lying there, but I wasn’t sure whether you were just resting or had fallen asleep.” 

“It is of no consequence,” said Radulph. “I am no great sleeper, at the best of times.”

The Infirmarer walked into the room. “I thought that you might like to go to the service and that I could sit awhile with Brother Edward.”

Radulph got up from the bed. “The time was,” he said, when I would have arisen just as you did, at the appointed hour. But parish work has long replaced old routines. In any case,” and here he indicated the adjacent bed, “there is no need for you to sit and watch on my behalf. Brother Edward died earlier tonight. I did not wake you because I saw no real need to. Everything that required doing has been performed – except for our Father Abbot being told. And that we can do now, for no doubt he still attends the early office, just as he always did.” 

“Indeed, he does,” the Infirmarer replied. “He never misses. I have heard some of our younger brothers envy him his ability to rise at such an hour.” He glanced towards the bed where the dead man lay, and then towards the stool beside it. “You must have moved very quietly for me not to have heard you.”

“I did my best,” smiled Radulph. “Come, let us go to the church and we can tell the Abbot of Brother Edward’s passing. I’ll return the communion vessels used for his last eucharist, later.”

They left the building together. It was still raining as they descended the steps and walked towards the refectory, but the drops fell more lightly than earlier. The wind had dropped, too, and Radulph was of the opinion that the coming of daylight would see fine weather once more. There were patches of black sky behind the grey cloud-layers and, in one of them, the bright section of a half-moon rode comfortably in its anchorage. The two of them made their way to the passage between refectory and warming-house and passed from here into the cloister along its eastern walkway. When they reached the southern transept of the church, they met with various members of the Abbey’s community making their way down the dormitory’s night-stairs into the building. Questions were asked concerning Brother Edward and news of his decease was heard with sadness. Yet, at the same time, the sorrow felt at his passing was tempered with gladness at the quick release of a good servant called home. Abbot de Dersham was not among the company; he was already present in the stalls as Radulph and the others entered the choir. On being informed of Brother Edward’s death, he closed his eyes briefly and signed himself with the Cross. Then he said, “It is good that he was released so quickly. We will pray for his soul at the beginning of this office and lay his body to rest after the daily chapter has been held.”

The pronouncement was as measured and ordered as the arrangement of the Abbey’s day, and so was the manner of Brother Edward’s committal to his parent earth. He who had lived by institutional hours and intervals for much of his life was laid to rest in the little cemetery, to the east of the dormitory-range, some time before noon. Radulph had assisted with the shrouding; he helped to lower the heavy stone coffin into the grave; and he stayed behind to help fill the hole and heap the soil which would mark the spot where Brother Edward lay buried. Once the earth had settled, turves would be laid upon the mound which would then, in time, become just another of the grassy undulations whose natural appearance belied the rawness of their origin. Before the burial rite took place, a requiem mass had been held in the church, with Thomas de Dersham and Radulph officiating. It had been a moving experience for both of them, for each had known and loved the old man in differing relationships and each would miss him now that he had gone.

“How long had you thought to stay with us, my son?” asked the Abbot, as the two of them walked the cloister together after the midday meal. 

“I have no firm idea, Father,” Radulph replied. “But I told my people to expect me home on either Thursday or Friday. I did not envisage that my visit need take a great deal longer.”

“No, it need not,” agreed Abbot de Dersham. “Yet, I am glad that you allowed for more time than just a journey straight here and then home again the following day.” He saw the question written in Radulph’s face. “Allow an old man his little vanities. There are things which have happened here since you left us, which I would like you to see. Come, let me show you the best of them.” And, with that, he began to walk to the chapter house’s entrance, which lay a little more than halfway along the eastern side of the cloister.

Radulph went with him and together they entered the Abbey’s meeting-place. They did not go into the place of assembly itself, however, but climbed a stairway to the storey above. Abbot de Dersham led the way and Radulph was impressed with the speed at which the older man negotiated the newel – one foot at a time up the risers to the treads, with a brief rest on each step before the next one was attempted. He remarked on this efficiency of ascent and the Abbot laughed at the compliment. “It is a poor enough shuffle compared with your free going, my son. But it serves me well enough. Even old bones can learn a new trick or two!”

“Only if the will to make them do so is there,” remarked Radulph. They had reached the top of the stairs now and stood on a small landing-space. 

“It has to be there in a place with so many steps!” Thomas de Dersham laid his hand upon the latch-ring of the door before them. “Come and see what you think of the use we have put my former lodging to.” He opened the door and went in. Radulph followed. “I hope that you approve,” he said, with a flourish of his free hand.

Radulph looked around him. The room had been shelved for the storage of books and manuscripts along the left-hand and end wall opposite, and there were volumes and rolls of varying shape and size placed there. On the right-hand side were a number of carrells, built for the purpose of study and transcription, and each was lit with its own little window set above the cloister’s pentice. There was also a large window above the door, drawing on a source of light from the south transept of the church, so that as long as the sky was not too densely overcast there was sufficient daylight to work by. There was limited shelving on this wall also, on either side of doorway. 

“I could have wished for a library such as this when I was resident here,” said Radulph. “It must be of great benefit to my brother canons.”

“Yes, it serves them well.” The Abbot was obviously pleased with his creation. “It is doing much more good now than when it was just an old man’s lodging.”

Radulph said nothing in reply to this observation, but allowed his eyes to run over the volumes standing on the shelves. It was the legacy of more than two hundred years of work and he himself had created his own small part of it. “Brother Edward’s last words to me were about some book,” he said.

“A book? Did he say which book, or what kind?”

“No. He simply said, ‘Ask for the book.’ Though what I have to ask for, or whom I have to ask, is unclear to me.”

“But not to me, my son.” Thomas de Dersham had known instantly what Radulph was talking about. “One of the tasks Brother Edward carried out, after you had left us, was to transcribe Julian of Norwich’s account of her visions. He produced three copies altogether: two for the Abbey and one for you.”

“For me!” Radulph’s surprise and delight showed clearly. “I had no idea that he was engaged upon such a work. And to produce a volume for me was goodness on his part beyond my deserving.”

“Brother Edward thought otherwise,” said the Abbot, smiling. “And he knew you best of us all, I think.” He gave Radulph a long and kindly look. “I have the book in my chamber. It was put there for safe-keeping, against your return, some day. He hoped to be able to give it to you himself, but the falling sickness decreed otherwise. I will hand it to you later.” He allowed a time of silence to come between the two of them. “Well, I am pleased that you approve of our library. You must look at its contents more closely before you return to your parish.”

Radulph murmured his acquiescence to this suggestion and they then left the room. At the bottom of the stairway, they met with three of the brothers who were obviously intending to spend their afternoon in study and who, having heard the sounds of descent above them, were waiting for whoever it was to reach ground-level. A few words of greeting were exchanged and Abbot de Dersham then took Radulph through into the church to show him a new Flemish retable that had been bequeathed to the Abbey for use in the Lady Chapel. It was in three pieces, with hinged panels on either side of the middle one, and Radulph was impressed by the quality of the limner’s work. The main feature was the Assumption of the Virgin, a wondrous scene of Heaven about the central figure, while to either side were represented the Annunciation and the Crucifixion. Both men stood, north of the choir, in the space dedicated to the Mother of God (opposite that, on the southern side, honouring St. Michael the Archangel) and looked at the altarpiece for some considerable time, and their silence was the greatest tribute to its excellence that there could possibly have been. That, and the way each of them felt himself so completely absorbed by the work as to be hardly aware of the other’s presence.

“I do not think I have ever seen anything so beautifully painted,” said Radulph, as they left the building by the great west door. The triptych had been as dazzling to his mind as the sunshine now was to his eyes.

“I know that I have not,” stated the Abbot. “And I have been on this earth for longer than you, my son. The Master of Flémalle is, I am told, without compare for that particular kind of work.” He guessed at a question which Radulph might well have in mind to ask. “The retable was left to us under the terms of Sir Geoffrey Aldrynghame’s will. He came by it originally as part of a ransom payment for a captured French nobleman during the long conflict between our countries and installed it in the chapel at Hammes Castle. He was lieutenant there for many years.” Abbot de Dersham seemed to be looking as far as France while he spoke, narrowing his eyes against the sun and fixing them on a point beyond the horizon. “When he eventually returned to England, he brought the retable home with him and put it in the chapel at his manor house. I saw it there, some years ago, when I had occasion to visit him on business. Little did I think,” and he now turned directly to Radulph, “that it would ever grace our church here at the Abbey.”

“It is indeed a gift to rejoice in,” remarked Radulph. “And I am glad that you have shown it to me. The sight of it, as well as of the library, has enriched my day.”

“I have another thing to show you as yet,” said the Abbot. “A more – how shall I say? – earthly sight. But one that will not be without interest to one who farms his own land.”

“Simpkin handles the farming!” laughed Radulph. “I merely assist him in what he does and seek to learn from his store of knowledge.”

“A wise principle at all times, to look to experience. Nevertheless, you have enough of the farmer about you, I think, to appreciate what I am going to reveal. Come, walk a while with me.”

The two of them pursued a north-westerly course beyond the buildings, on this occasion, out-distancing the place where they had sat and talked the previous day and approaching a belt of pine trees and birches. On the other side of this were arable fields and Radulph gave an involuntary gasp of surprise when he saw them. It was a reaction which pleased the Abbot mightily and he turned to his companion, barely able to conceal the pleasure he felt at seeing the expression on the latter face.

“But this was mostly a warren when I lived here among you!” Radulph said, amazed to see the whole area put down to corn. 

“It was! And now it bears crops.” The Abbot gazed upon the new creation. “This is the first year it has been sown and we are not disappointed with the results. It needs a lot more marling yet before it is good land, and some folding with sheep, but at least a start has been made.” He turned to Radulph. “I believe that we should make the best use of everything that God gives us. And we still have the far warren for conies.”

“Marling is practised in my parish,” observed Radulph. “I shall have to try it on the glebe’s worst field. Where did you find your clay?”

“Not far from here,” replied Thomas de Dersham. “But it was an accident. We were looking for brick-earth in order to carry out some alterations to the Abbey, but the mason and his men dug into chalk and clay before they found what they were seeking. It was a happy find,” he added, “and we have been able to profit from it.

The conversation that afternoon did not stay with husbandry, however. Much that was philosophical in nature was discussed on the return walk to the Abbey and the debate was continued in the Abbot’s lodging afterwards, right up until the time of Vespers. The subject of Ann Denny and her miracles of healing inevitably raised itself again and Radulph found himself able to reveal things about the whole affair which he had not recounted previously. Thomas de Dersham had an interest in the matter which went far beyond his being controller of the advowson of the parish where such remarkable events had taken place. He was greatly interested in the whole question of how the restorative power of God Almighty wrought its saving work upon the bodies and minds of Men. It was hard to for him to believe, he said, that it operated purely from without. There must be that within a person which allowed it to function, even assisted it perhaps.

“Our Lord himself refers to it,” he observed. “There are the statements made, on more than one occasion, that it was the faith of those whom he helped which brought about the cure.” He reflected a moment on what he had said, then continued speaking. “I am intrigued by this partnership of the divine and the earthly, this meeting of the spiritual and the physical – for such, I am convinced, it must be. And when a human agent is used as the intermediary between two worlds, which seems to have happened in the case of your young maiden, then my interest grows even deeper.” He looked at Radulph thoughtfully and with intent. “I shall not do anything willingly or lightly which would destroy such a rare and delicate flowering. Of that you may rest assured. In which case,” and here he smiled whimsically to himself, “I must write a letter to Sir Nicholas Bosard, which will say everything and nothing concerning his idea about a shrine. I shall sit myself down after Compline, so that if you wish to return tomorrow you can take it with you.”

“I think that I may stay tomorrow,” replied Radulph, “and leave early on Friday. Part of me worries about Ann. But I know that my presence or absence ultimately has little bearing on what she will do – or, not do. She is in the keeping of a power mightier by far than men can dream of or devise.”

The Abbot was pleased to hear of this decision to bide another day, and he said as much. Before they left his lodging to attend Vespers, he gave Radulph the book, Revelations of Divine Love – which had not only been so carefully and devotedly transcribed by Brother Edward, but also stitched by him into its vellum covers. Radulph opened it briefly and he was able to recognise the distinctive handwriting style in the formation of certain capital letters and in the serifs which embellished particular consonants at periodic intervals in the text. “I shall value this book, always,” he said, “for it embodies within it two people with whom I have always felt an affinity. Dame Julian died before I was born, yet I have been close to her for many years through knowing her writings. Brother Edward was – .” He paused for a moment and smiled to himself, reflectively. “No, Brother Edward is a very part of me. There can be no other way of saying it.”

Such definitiveness of recognition and of statement required no further comment. The two men made their way to the church for Vespers, where the office was sung this afternoon to commemorate the Feast of Seven Angels. Supper and Compline followed, a while later, and on this particular occasion Radulph occupied the refectory pulpit while his fellow canons sat at the tables below and ate their meal. Abbot de Dersham had asked him earlier that day if he would preach the sermon, thinking it a suitable way to mark his visit, and Radulph had readily agreed to the proposal. He took as his text verses twenty-five and twenty-six from the eleventh chapter of St. John’s Gospel. “Ego sum resurrection et vita: qui credit in me, etiam si mortuus fuit, vivet; et omnis qui vivit et credit in me, non morietur in aeternum.” It was one of his favourite pieces of Scripture, something that the sheer amount of repetition could never diminish. Indeed, its frequent use only served to strengthen him in his love of the words and he never tired of hearing them uttered. There was a simplicity of statement about them and a measured authority in their cadences, both of which served to epitomise the certainty of the promise. “I am the Resurrection and the Life. He who believes in me, even were he dead, will live. And everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

The words stayed in his head that evening after he had gone to bed. He lay in the dormitory with the other members of the community, physically in their company and yet alone. The breathing of the sleeping forms about him served, at one and the same time, to remind him of a brotherhood and to make him aware of his separation from it. Abbey and parish; two worlds in one man. Different spheres of existence, but both with a strong hold upon him. One way of life exchanged for another, and with part of the earlier one gone from him now through the agency of death. The death of an old friend. Gone from earth and into earth, but also gone from a vile body into a glorious one. “I am the Resurrection and the Life.” Sleeping and waking; two sides of a total experience beyond people’s capacity to know and fully understand. Death seen as a doorway whose opening could never be foretold. Thoughts from the day’s events and from those of a life-span running together in one man’s mind, yet still retaining their individuality. And, at last, when that same mind had gone over many memories many times, it answered the demand which the body had sought to impose upon it for some considerable while – and Radulph fell asleep. It was a sound slumber, too, unbroken by dreams (unlike that of the previous night). So sound, in fact, that when he was awoken to attend the first office of the day, the process of this assumed the nature of a dream and he tried at first to ignore its summons.

On the way to church, Brother James apologised for having had to use physical means in order to raise him. “I would have let you sleep on,” he said, “had you not specifically instructed me to wake you. I crave your pardon for having shaken you as I did, but I could not think of any other means of achieving my object.”

“There is no need to ask forgiveness,” replied Radulph. “Though, I must confess, it is a long while since I slept so deeply. Even in my own chamber, at home, I still find myself partly attuned to the hours of service.” He paused for a moment’s reflection. “Not that I respond to them every day, you understand, but the old pattern still asserts itself from time to time.” He laughed as he spoke. “It is not without some sense of personal shortcoming that I should sleep through the bell in the very place where I first became accustomed to its call!”

Perhaps so. But bodily fatigue is no observer of such subtlety. Its demands are simple and basic, and Radulph found himself having to stave them off during the combined office of Matins and Lauds. It had been his wish, before leaving the abbey once more, to follow the routine that had been clock and almanac to him for so many years of his life, but he found the early service hard going this time round. Terce and morning Mass ran their course, then came the daily chapter. The latter proved to be of special interest to Radulph because, among the things discussed was the acquiring of an advowson not far from his own parish – though no decision was taken as to whom should be presented to the living. After the meeting had finished, Radulph went to the library-room above and spent some time there, looking through the collection of books and manuscripts. A number of the volumes were familiar to him, but there were also items which had been added since he had left the Abbey. Some were the gifts of benefactors, others the result of long hours of careful and painstaking work on the part of the men who had transcribed them.

He was still looking over the collection when the bell rang for the offices of Sext, High Mass and None. It was the longest period of sustained worship in the whole horarium and a time that Radulph was especially fond of, consisting as it did of a potent combination of words, ritual and plainsong melody. The Abbot came and sat next to him in the refectory for the midday meal and asked him how he was finding re-acquaintance with the canonical day. Radulph replied that it was as if part of him were awakening after a long sleep and that he was more aware now, than he had ever been, of the logic and order which had led originally to such regulation of time. The division into alternating periods of worship and work had been known to him in principle, but he had never really felt its original intent while he had been resident in the community. With his return to Abbey, however, he had come to a new understanding of the routine and realised the great strength inherent in its cyclical pattern. Parish work, by comparison, he said, seemed a very disordered affair. The Abbot smiled at his analysis and commented that he himself would prefer to use the word flexible.

After the meal was over, Radulph returned to the library and continued his perusal of its contents, remaining there until it was time for Vespers. The office was drawing to an end when, in the very midst of the final respond, he experienced a vague yet strong feeling that all was not well. It was the vagueness which troubled him most, for the undefinable always holds more threat than the specific, and a sense of ill is much more potent in its way than certain knowledge of the same. Radulph searched his mind for a possible source of the notion that had come so suddenly and strongly upon him; but apart from the one thing whose very obviousness caused him to reject it, he was unable to do so. The darkening of his consciousness was paralleled by a growing dimness within the church as a large black cloud came up across the sun and quenched the golden fire which radiated from the great west window. Stone mullions and transoms asserted their hard, grey lines, the brilliance gone, and they threw up a grid against the outside world. Radulph’s eyes took in their uncompromising lines as he looked up from his missal and the spectacle served to reinforce his sense of unease. Such foreboding did not go unnoticed and, after the service was over, Brother James commented on his air of preoccupation during the closing stages. Radulph admitted that a certain heaviness had weighed upon him, but he also said that he could produce no good reason for feeling this way. He was inclined to attribute it, he thought, to the death of his old confessor and to the fact that he had not had much sleep the previous night.

After supper and Compline had run their course, Abbot de Dersham spoke briefly with Radulph in the refectory before each of them went to his respective place of rest. “I shall be there to see you off, on the morrow,” he said. “When do you intend to leave?” Radulph replied that he would like to be on his way after the office of Prime and his superior concurred with this intention. “I shall have a letter for you to take,” he said. “For Sir Nicholas Bosard. I put the words upon the parchment yester-evening. Whether or not it will satisfy him remains to be seen. Much depends, I suppose, on how skilfully I am able to say everything and nothing.” He looked at Radulph in a penetrating but kindly way as he spoke the words he had previously used. “You will be glad to return to your parish, I expect. The coming weeks are likely to make great demands upon you.”

Radulph agreed that this was so and felt again the unease he had experienced in church. But its most potent expression was to come later, during the hours of sleep. He had a dream that night as he lay in the dormitory, which in its very nature seemed to be without substance and without form, but which troubled him greatly nevertheless. He saw himself standing at a cross-ways, completed hemmed in by large, twisted, overhanging trees. It was dark, and the darkness was made deeper by the densely interlocking branches overhead, so that it was not possible to see where the roads came from or went to. A light wind then threaded its way through the spiny and barren twigs, chilling him around the neck and shoulders and carrying with it something of the desolation of the surrounding forest.  He shivered where he stood and drew his cloak more tightly to him about the shoulders, but there was no warmth or comfort to be had from this reaction and the cold and darkness bore down heavily upon him. It seemed to him as if a quiet, insistent voice were trying to communicate with him from somewhere within, or even beyond, the trees – but he was not able to distinguish any words and wondered if the sound were but a variation in the noise of the wind. When he came to full consciousness in the darkness of the dormitory, he listened still for the whispering. But he was only able to hear the stertorous sounds of those of his fellows whose breathing laboured either under the handicap of respiratory ailments or of just lying awkwardly in bed. He got no further sleep that night, and an eventual greyness about the shuttered windows and inside the room itself told him that midnight had gone and that time was advancing towards the first office of a new day.

A few hours later and the renewed contact with his governing institution was all but over. He had said his farewells to his brother canons and stood now before the gate-house, the mare harnessed and ready for travelling and apparently looking forward to a pleasant journey home, if the way she shook her head and stamped the ground were anything to go by. Radulph’s leather scrip and costrel were slung around the saddle-bow, stocked with food and drink (though not on the scale that Margaret Jakks had sent him off with) – the former also containing his new book and the letter which Abbot de Dersham had written to Sir Nicholas Bosard. The Abbot himself was standing with Radulph, both hands set squarely on the knopped end of his stick as he took his leave of the younger man.

“God go with you, my son,” he said. “I hope that it will not be another five years before we have the opportunity of conversing with each other again. You have grown much in stature since you left us and it is plain for all to see that I was right to send you out into parish work.”

Radulph murmured his appreciation of the compliment. “It is kind of you to say such things, Father in Christ. I, too, hope that it will not be another five years before I come this way again.” He swung himself up into the saddle. “I have the feeling, in any case, that it could be a great deal sooner.” He patted the scrip which lay in front of him.

“What you say is likely to prove true” agreed the Abbot. “I may well require you to bring the maiden here before the matter is resolved one way or the other. In the meantime, stand by her and support her as you have done up until now.”

“That I shall.” Radulph’s voice was level and strong. “Coming here has reinforced both my faith and my will. May God go with you also, Father.”

He drew lightly on the right-side rein and tapped the mare’s flanks with his heels. She responded to the touch and started briskly away, glad to be on the move after her stabling. Radulph turned in the saddle and raised a hand in parting, waved two or three more times in acknowledgement of the Abbot’s own gesture of farewell, and set off down the trackway towards the road. He turned again at the junction with it, lifted his arm once more to the figure before the gate-house and then let the mare perform her willing and homeward work. There was bright sunshine that morning, as there had been on his arrival three days before, but the sun was in a different quarter now and much lower in the sky. The southern façade of the Abbey buildings lay largely in shadow and, as Radulph rode by, the slightest strain of a whisper seemed to emanate from the darkened walls. He received the sound as a faint echo somewhere in his head and felt just a little disturbed by it – something which even the prospect of a journey home in fine weather did not, or could not, remove.

The road now bore round to his left, before dropping gently downhill between high hedges on either side, and he had his last view of the Abbey. It was the eastern extremity which he looked upon now, a series of walls, setbacks and buttresses whose stone quoins and flint panels reflected the sun in different shades and with varying degrees of intensity. Above the whole mass rose the square tower of the church at the focal-point of nave, transepts and chancel, its crocketed pinnacles reaching skywards. Radulph lifted his eyes to follow their line and as, he did so (unseen by him), a tall figure somewhat stooped about the back and shoulders turned from its posture upon a stick of seasoned thorn and walked slowly towards the gate-house arch.

Chapter 18 (Friday, 24 April)

Radulph reached home during the middle of the afternoon and was met by Margaret Jakks as he turned into the yard. She walked towards him with an obvious show of haste, even before he had had the chance to dismount, and related to him in a great rush of words the reason for her urgency. Robert Denny had called that morning in a state of some agitation, asking whether the Father had returned. On being told no, he had left word that he would like him to go to the farm as soon as possible after arriving home, because Ann had fallen sick. He had given no details regarding her condition, except to say that she had dropped into a state of unconsciousness and was in the grip of a strange and unexpected malady.

“I will go at once,’ said Radulph. “Is Simpkin about the place that he may tend the mare? She needs rubbing down and feeding.”

“My brother’s gone to fetch a plough-coulter he took to the smith, the other day,” Margaret replied. “I’ll see to the mare. Do you git on to Robert’s house, Father. He seemed much distressed when he called here, this mornin’.”

Radulph got down from his horse and made his way towards the church. He cut across the yard and then pursued the quickest and most direct route to his friend’s holding – that which ran through the plantation and along the green-way. The coppices had one or two of the manor’s servants at work in them, that afternoon, nipping off side-shoots which were sprouting from the ash and hazel poles. He returned their greetings cheerfully enough, but it was a response more automatic than considered and his eyes took in very little of their persons. As he passed Bess Hoberd’s house, he half-expected the old woman to hail him from her garden above the track; but there was no sign of her. Nor was there any smoke issuing from the louvre in the ridge of her cottage’s roof. A feeling of isolation came suddenly upon Radulph then and he quickened his pace in the direction of Robert Denny’s farmstead. His journey to the Abbey already seemed a long way behind him and his main concern now was to get to the scene of the new and unexpected crisis.

Or was it entirely unexpected? Radulph remembered his dream of the previous night and the low whisper which had come to him that morning out of the shadow of the refectory wall. Had there been some kind of communication attempted via the deeper levels of his consciousness? He did not rule it out, for he had long held the belief that Man functioned on a number of levels of awareness and that the most subtle of all went largely unnoticed. Unnoticed, that is, until one spirit caught the cries of another in need and registered the pleading. And sometimes the call would be immediate and obvious, while at others it would cloak itself in obscurity and wait for the message to become clear through circumstances. Radulph increased his pace further, until there was more running than walking about his mode of going, and the voices he heard from the sides of the green-way were simply the pulsing of his blood and breath reverberating in time with his anxieties.

He emerged from the green-way and made his way into Robert Denny’s yard. Richard was there, checking over some herring lints brought up from the beach – searching for split meshes – and he dropped the net he was holding as soon as he saw the priest and walked briskly towards him. Some words were exchanged concerning the sudden and unlooked-for development in Ann’s state of bodily health. Then Radulph continued towards the house, leaving the younger man to inspect his fishing gear. Richard had told him to enter without first knocking to announce his arrival and Radulph did as he was bidden. The back door was open – not to its full extent, but with sufficient space nevertheless to allow a person to go in without having to turn sideways. Joan Denny was in the dairy, skimming the cream off some milk with a fleeting-dish, and she looked up in surprise to see Radulph standing only a few feet from her in the adjacent room. A gasp escaped from her lips and an involuntary movement of her hands caused a splash of milk to slop over the side of the bowl. But she was obviously glad to see him, for she returned the smile with which he greeted her and turned and shouted towards the gap in the ceiling which the ladder ran to.

“Father! Father! He’s here! Father Radulph’s come!” She turned back to the milk-crock, a pink blush colouring her usually pale complexion, and resumed her work. “Ann’s very sick,” she said. “Mistress Bess is with her. Father thought that her herb-lore might be o’ some use.”

Radulph murmured his acknowledgement of the old woman’s skill and was about to question the girl when he heard heavy footsteps on the ceiling above. A few seconds later and Robert Denny was descending the ladder. He walked up to Radulph and forced a smile through the lines of worry on his face. “I knew you’d come as soon as you could, an’ I thank you for it.” He then directed his thoughts around what was closest to him and made them take the path of convention and courtesy. “Did you have a good journey home from the Abbey?”

“I did,” Radulph replied. “And there will be time to talk later about the whole of my visit. Take me to Ann now. I find it hard to believe that she’s fallen from health to dire sickness since I saw her last.”

“It’s a shorter space o’ time than that,” observed Robert. “She begun to feel unwell afore supper yisterday an’ went to her bed early because o’ it.” He allowed himself to recall the details. “She become worse as the evenin’ wore on an’, by the midnight hour, she was thoroughly seized wi’ whatever it is she’re got.” He looked at Radulph with something of desperation in his eyes. “I don’t know what it is, Father. An’ it’s got Bess Hoberd beat, as well.”

He turned and made his way up the ladder. Radulph followed him. They went into the chamber where Ann Denny had lain before, but the difference this time was noticeable. The girl was twisting and turning within her ruttled covers, and her head rolled from side to side on the pillow as Bess Hoberd dabbed at it with a damp and cooling cloth.

“Ah, so you’re come, Father Radulph,” the old woman said. “There seem little enow that I can do for the poor child – an’ that, after all she’s done for me!” She held up the splinted arm and touched it expressively with her other hand.

Radulph went up to the bed and Bess moved aside for him. “Thank you, Mistress Hoberd,” he said and sat down on the stool she had occupied. He felt the girl’s face and neck and he noticed that, although they were hot, the feverishness was not inordinate. Then he pulled the coverlets away from the top half of her body and felt the shift she was wearing. It was dry and free of the moistening effect which any quantity of sweat would have created. “This is most strange,” he said, as much to himself as to the others present. “The ailment has the appearance of a fever without any of the signs you would expect from such unrest.” He took hold of a hand and turned the palm upwards, then repeated the process with the other hand. The marks had gone. He pulled the covers away and looked at the feet. They, too, were without blemish. So was the side of her body. He knew this without looking and drew the sheet and blanket over the girl’s restless form.

“Bess an’ me noticed that the marks had gone, Father.” Robert Denny came closer to the bedside. “But what’s that got to do wi’ the rest of it? The only thing I can think of is that Ann has gone an’ caught a sickness from Sir Nicholas’s girl.” He looked at his daughter as she continued to twist and turn in her delirium of body or mind.

“It is not the black fever which afflicts Ann, my friend.” Radulph’s voice reflected his certainty of judgement. “I think that Mistress Hoberd will bear me out on that.” He turned to receive confirmation of his opinion. “Will you not, wise woman?” She nodded in agreement. “I have never encountered anything like it before,” he continued. “It is as if the child were troubled by bodily pain or some disorder of the mind. Yet she is asleep. Did she perform any special acts of healing while I was away, or say anything further about her dreams?”

“No,” replied Robert. “Things ha’ bin fairly quiet over the last two or three days. We’re had a few people out to the farm, locals most of ’em – but that’s all. An’ she hasn’t bin goin’ to church neither, wi’ you bein’ away at the Abbey.” 

“I see.” Radulph took hold of the girl’s wrist and felt her pulse. It was beating quickly, but not with the high, fluttering intensity of a fever. “I do not know what to say. The whole thing is most strange.” He looked at Robert and Bess Hoberd as he spoke. “I begin to wonder if Ann is not seeing pictures again, but I cannot be sure. Her condition is certainly like no illness that I have ever seen.”

“Nor me.” It was Bess Hoberd who spoke. “Do you think it’s worth me stayin’, Father? I’re bin little enow help since I came, God knows!”

Radulph was about to reply, when Robert anticipated his answer. “You stay, Bess. What you’re tried to do for Ann won’t ha’ harmed her. And I’re bin glad enow o’ your comp’ny, in any case.”

“Robert is right, Mistress Hoberd. Your presence here is most helpful.” He got up from the stool and indicated that she was to sit down upon it once more. “I cannot stay a great deal longer, and I will be able to go from here knowing that Ann has been left in capable and caring hands.” He turned to Robert. “I have a letter from the Abbot for Sir Nicholas, which I must deliver. I take it that he is at home?”

“Yeah, he is,” Robert confirmed. “He sent here yisterday mornin’ for me to go an’ see him at the manor house. You can guess what for!” Robert let an abrupt, ironic laugh punctuate his words. “He was full o’ talk about how famous Ann was like to become. Well, I suppose he could see that it didn’t go down too good wi’ me, so he changed his tune somewhat then an’ spoke o’ how she would be taken care of, with all respect given to her in the light o’ her special gifts.”

An exclamatory grunt from Bess Hoberd prefaced Radulph’s reply. “Sir Nicholas may find that things do not proceed quite according to his expectations,” he said. “The Abbot is much concerned for Ann’s welfare and the sanctity of her experiences. He will not allow them to be exploited for one man’s advantage.”

“Won’t he? Well that’s worth hearin’, anyway,” said Robert.

“In fact, I imagine that Sir Nicholas will be quite disappointed by the content of the latter which I have for him. It smacks rather of, er – ” Radulph paused, choosing the word he wanted, “delay. Yes, I think that is the best way I have of putting it. Delay. Sir Nicholas is not going to find it at all easy to get his shrine established.”

“He’s a very determined man, though,” countered Robert. “We all know that. Once he’s set his mind on somethin’, he usually see it through.”

Radulph nodded in agreement with Robert’s analysis of the man. “What you say is true, my friend,” he conceded. “But there are many ways of deflecting determination, so that in the end it will waste itself and come to nothing.”

Robert looked doubtful about this, but he was glad to have heard what Radulph had said concerning the Abbot’s attitude. “I don’t think that Sir Nicholas will be headed orf all that eas’ly, Father,” he remarked. “But, at least, it’s good to hear what you say. Lady Bosard met me as I was leavin’ the house an’ told me she would do her best to stand by Ann, whatever might come to pass.” His countenance cheered noticeably at the recollection. “She couldn’t say too much – I realise that – but I believe she’ll try an’ do what she can.”

“She will,” confirmed Radulph. “She owes Ann a great deal, after all. But, apart from that, she is a woman of virtue and warm feeling for her fellow creatures. It is not in her nature to stand by and see Ann exploited – even by Sir Nicholas. Yes, you have a friend there. Just pray that we do not need her good offices too soon.” Then he added, “Or, better still, that we do not need them at all.” 

Radulph used this expression of hope as his cue to depart. He had Abbot de Dersham’s letter to convey to its recipient and he wished to delay no longer in carrying out his task. Furthermore, he wanted, if possible, to see the effect upon Sir Nicholas of what the Abbot had written and to inform him also of Ann’s present condition. He would hear of it sooner or later and it might be best to tell him there and then, if only to counter the effect of rumour. “I will call upon you later, this evening,” he said to Robert, quickly and good-humouredly putting aside the latter’s objection that all such “running about” was putting him to unnecessary trouble. “In the meantime, I know that Ann will be given the very best care and attention.”

He made his way out of the house alone, insisting that Robert stay with his daughter. Joan was still at work in the dairy and, in bidding her farewell, he also offered her what words of encouragement he was able to regarding her sister’s condition. Nor was his parting from members of the family over then, for Richard was still in the yard inspecting his nets, and a brief conversation had of necessity to take place before the priest could leave. When he was about three-parts of the way home, he saw Miles coming towards him down the footpath which led to the plantation. He had noticed the boy’s absence from the house, but had not thought to ask concerning his whereabouts. The reason for him not being there soon became clear: his uncle had no particular tasks for him to attend to, and his cousins did not require his help with theirs, so he had gone to the church and occupied himself there with various things. Most of them had already been done earlier, he said, for he had visited the building each day that Radulph had been away, as arranged, tended the lights and seen that everything was in its proper order. His reason for this gratuitous visit was that he had felt rather in the way of everyone at his uncle’s house and was worried, too, about Ann. In fact, after he had completed his unnecessary round of duties, he had knelt and prayed for her at the little Lady altar set against the north side of the chancel arch, beneath the rood-loft – matching this with similar supplication on the other side, where Saint Michael had his own dedicated space.

“Will Ann git better?” he asked?”

Radulph thought for a moment or two before answering. “I’m not sure that she is even sick,” he replied. “Not in our normal understanding of the word. But I, too, will pray for her recovery.” He took his leave of the boy, then, after having first spoken a few words about his visit to the Abbey and promising to say more about it when opportunity afforded. Just before he took the final bend of the footpath towards the village, he stopped sand turned about. Miles was heading slowly homewards, slowly as only a boy can, and Radulph stood a while and watched himself many years removed before he also made his way to the place where he lived.

Simpkin was there in the yard when he got back, busily fitting the newly mended coulter to the plough. He asked how Ann was, and not just because he felt he ought to, and he listened as Radulph told him. He had a question or two concerning his master’s stay at the Abbey, but there was not time for the latter to go into more detail. “I will tell you about it later,” said Radulph. “I have a letter from the Abbot to Sir Nicholas to deliver first.” A sudden memory struck him. “But I can say one thing, here and now: the Abbot was quite impressed by you.” He enjoyed Simpkin’s “Was he, though!” and was still smiling to himself as he entered the kitchen. Margaret Jakks looked up from the table as he came through the door. She was preparing food, as always – the table standing as the fixed centre of her universe, Radulph was sometimes tempted to think, around which everything else revolved. And that was no criticism of her. It was merely a statement of the way things were.

“Ah, Margaret, is my scrip here? It contains a letter which I have to take to Sir Nicholas.” He looked about him as he spoke.

His woman servant stopped chopping the herbs on the board before her and pointed with her knife. “It’s on the hutch over there, Father. I took the costrel out, but left the letter an’ the book inside. I wondered who the letter was for, with it havin’ the same seal on as things sent to you.” She resumed her chopping of the herbs. “Father Laurence used to git such packets, too, every now an’ then.”

Radulph walked over to the hutch, took the letter from the wallet, looked at both sides of it rather as if he were seeing it for the first time and moved towards the door. “I do not anticipate being long at the manor house, Margaret,” he said and then, having answered her enquiry as to Ann’s condition, he took his leave of her.

As he crossed the yard, he stopped and had a few words with Simpkin regarding the latter’s repair work on the plough, before making his way to the manor house. It was not far to walk, and there was an added impetus to his stride that afternoon which was due in part to the nature of his errand and the result also of what had befallen Ann Denny. When he reached the place and announced the purpose of his visit, Will Sowle sent a young lad (who happened to be nearby at the time) to go and announce his arrival, then suggested that Radulph follow the boy across the courtyard. This Radulph did and, on reaching the house, stood waiting at the door. It had not been a particularly long wait when the boy emerged in some degree of haste and started to run towards the gatehouse. He had gone a number of paces before realising that he had passed the object of his errand and he had, then, to check his progress and turn back on himself. Radulph smiled to see this one extreme of a lad’s response to adult command and he thanked the youngster for his diligence – once the message had been delivered with the staccato and puff-cheeked utterances of urgency. Then he opened the door, entered the house and made his way to the hall, as the boy had requested him to do. There, he found Lady Bosard waiting to receive him and she smiled in greeting as he approached.

“Father Radulph, it is good to see you! The boy said that you have brought a letter from the Abbey for my husband.” Her face took on a more serious expression as she said this. “I think I can guess what matter it concerns. Nevertheless, you have come at a good time. Sir Nicholas is not engaged upon business of any kind, at the moment. He is in the solar with our daughters.”

“I hope that they are both well,” said Radulph, “and that you are in good health, too.”

“Thank you. We are, all of us, faring well at the moment. And, do you know, Father,” she paused, just for an instant. “this afternoon really has been a pleasing time for us. It is so very rare, these days, that we seem to have opportunity to be all together as a family.”

“Sir Nicholas is kept busy with his estates,” observed Radulph. “And he spends much time nowadays on matters appertaining to my Lord of Norfolk.”

“So he does,” Lady Bosard replied. “And there are times when I wish that it were otherwise. Come, let us go to my husband. He awaits you and the letter you bear with some anticipation.”

She turned and led the way upstairs. There were no further words between them, but their respective thoughts were focused upon the letter – Lady Bosard speculating as to its specific content and Radulph wondering what effect this would have upon her husband. They entered the solar and Sir Nicholas rose from the chair he was occupying, in the oriel. The girls, Eleanor and Agnes, were sitting near him, each of them occupied with thread and needle upon a piece of damask. They lifted their eyes from the work for a moment to smile shyly at Radulph and incline their heads in acknowledgement of his cloth and calling. Sir Nicholas came across the room to greet him.

“You are welcome, Father. How did your visit to the Abbey go?”

“Very well, I thank you,” replied Radulph. “I have a letter for you from the Abbot, as you have been informed.” He handed it to Sir Nicholas and then looked around him. “I am sorry to have intruded upon your time together,” he continued, as his eyes came to rest upon the girls, who were now busily stitching away, as before.

“Oh, that’s all right, Father. We were only passing the time until supper.” He cracked the seal on the letter with a sharp, decisive twisting of the parchment between both thumbs and forefingers. “Eleanor, Agnes, take your sewing off down to bottom parlour. Or to your chamber, if you prefer that. Father Radulph and I have matters to discuss. You may stay, though, my dear. There is no need for you to go.”

Lady Bosard showed her daughters out of the room, said something to them as they went from her into the passage, and closed the door after them. Then she rejoined Radulph in the centre of the room and stood by him as her husband read the letter. Neither of them spoke. They were waiting upon Sir Nicholas to utter the first word and they were watching also for his reaction to what was written on the parchment sheet. This was hard to ascertain because he had his back to them, but Radulph thought that he detected a deliberate hunching of the shoulders either in concentration or controlled irritation. He had no way of telling which it was, however, and Sir Nicholas remained intent upon his missive – even to the point of a second and third reading. Eventually, he turned from the window and, holding the letter out before him in an expressive way, gave voice to his opinion.

“I am not sure what to make of this, Father. Your Abbot appears to spend several lines saying very little. Here, see for yourself.” He handed the letter to Radulph with a look in his face which showed perplexity as much as annoyance. “He is obviously in no hurry to respond one way or the other to what was written about in my letter to him.”

Radulph took the Abbot’s reply, bent it against its creases and held it into the light from the oriel. “Right worshipful son in God,” it began, “I recommend me to you and ask for God’s blessing on your house. Since receiving your letter, I have also heard directly about the things you described to me from the vicar of your parish, Radulph Fyld, and I shall send this reply to you by him when he returns. The tidings that you conveyed are of great interest and I deem you fortunate to have been near to such things, even though you may not have witnessed them yourself. A sick daughter thus raised is, indeed, a marvel of its kind. There are many in this world who look for signs and hope for wonders all their span of years and yet still end their days longing for some sight of heavenly power and goodness. I have no doubt that the maiden you speak of has indeed been visited by the spirit of God and that the acts she has performed are beyond the feat of human understanding and devising. Such works of merit and goodness can only spring from one source – and that is the power which has shaped us all in its own image.

“Nevertheless, even in acknowledging these special and wondrous acts, it would perhaps be unwise to proceed too hastily along the lines you suggest. The events themselves have but lately begun and need more time to unfold; there is the question of whether such a founding might not have a diminishing effect upon the girl’s healing virtue; and we must consider also the outcome upon her family of such a sudden elevation of her person in the world. I do not say that, in the course of time, it may not be possible to establish a place of resorting for those who seek ease of their earthly pain and tribulation, but as things stand at present I believe it would not be in Ann Denny’s best interests to act too speedily. 

“I hope that you will accept this opinion of mine with patience and understanding. If you wish to discuss matters further, please do not refrain from writing again. Or, if that is not convenient for you, visit me here at the abbey. We are always glad to see any of our lay-lords and can offer a guest adequate hospitality within our walls.

“The Lord have you and your family always in his keeping.

                        Written late upon the vigil of Saint George the Martyr,

                                    By your friend in Christ, Thomas de Dersham.”

When he had finished reading the letter, Radulph held it out to Sir Nicholas, but the latter held up a hand in refusal. The gesture was restrained, however, and not in any way ill-mannered. “No, thank you, Father,” he said. “You may give it to the Lady Philippa.” He then addressed his wife. “Read it through, my dear, and then the three of us may discuss together what we think of the Abbot’s reply to my communication.”

It did not take Lady Bosard long to scan what was written on the parchment and, having seen its contents, she handed it to her husband with a smile on her face. “It is a courteous and well-composed letter,” she observed. “And it would seem to admit that those things which have happened hereabouts are of divine origin.”

Sir Nicholas looked at his wife in a considered way, his eyes narrowing slightly within their hooded lids. “It does that of a certainty,” he agreed. “But it does very little in the way of entertaining my proposal that such works be given a more tangible and lasting expression.” He turned his attention to Radulph. “What do you make of such an equivocal response, Father?” he asked. “You know the man and can, perhaps, cast some light upon his thinking.”

Radulph thought for a moment or two before making reply. “I am not sure that I can speak for Abbot de Dersham,” he began and, as he spoke, saw the knight’s expression harden and his face grow more hawk-like, “but I will do my best to see into his mind. He paused and thought about how he should phrase what he had to say. “He is a man much given to contemplation and things of the spirit, a man who places great importance on nearness to God achieved through prayer and study. Which does not mean to say that he shuns or rejects the world outside his institution – though he does have a certain caution concerning it and he looks upon the affairs of men with a degree of wariness.”

“Does he, indeed!” Sir Nicholas’s face and voice were full of ironic observation. “And does he, then, neglect to take his tithes from this parish because of his caution?” The question was rhetorical. “Besides, is not what I proposed more to do with God than it is with the things of men?”

“That, I think, must depend on how a person regards the proposal,” replied Radulph. “There is more than one way of looking at it, as I’m sure you will agree.”

Sir Nicholas drew his lips into a tight line before making reply, and the thumb and forefinger of his right hand pinched his chin in what seemed to be an involuntary gesture of suppressed anger. “There is more to you than meets the eye, Father,” he said. “I have thought so for some time. So much of what you say can be taken to have more than one meaning. And I do not regard the trait as accidental. Not in any way.” The last four words were articulated individually and with emphasis.

“A priest lives by words, Sir Nicholas,” Radulph apologised. “And the love of using them and shaping them to fit particular circumstances can, I admit, become an end in itself. Nevertheless,” and here his face became very serious as his eyes fixed the other man’s and held them whether they would be held or not. “I am in no sense dissembling when I tell you that the central figure in your ideas for a shrine here in our parish lies in bed at this moment in a most strange state of being.”

There was no reply immediately, then Lady Bosard broke the silence. “Is Ann sick, Father?” she asked. “And is there anything I can do to help?”

“I am not sure whether she is sick, or not.” Radulph was quick to admit of his doubt. “Her condition has the appearance of a fever in some ways, but I do not believe that it is due to anything physical. I think that she may be undergoing some conflict of the mind. She looked so strange where she lay.” He recalled the scene of about half-an-hour before and saw something in Ann’s symptoms more clearly than he had at the time.

“Strange? How do you mean, strange?” It was Sir Nicholas who spoke.

“It is hard to explain. She was asleep, yet her expression was not like that of a person slumbering.” Radulph focused his memory on the face of the girl, thereby bringing it into sharper relief. “There was tightness of the skin about her eyes and mouth, as if she were in pain. Yet she made no noise at all and she was most certainly unconscious. Deeply so, I would say.”

“Can it be that she has been taken once again into the world of dreams and distant seeing?” Lady Bosard was quick to see the possibility.

“That is likely, I think,” answered Radulph. “Though what the child has seen on this occasion is far beyond my powers even to guess at.” 

“You’ll not need to guess, Father, when she wakes up!” Sir Nicholas was decisive in his own particular analysis of the situation. “And, if she has been having more visions, then perhaps it will help to stir up your Abbot to some show of interest!” He looked at Radulph a little belligerently, though the latter supposed that such feeling was not directed at him personally. At least, not wholly so. “I do not imagine that he will be able to slow things down for too long if Denny’s girl really is divinely favoured!” The words tumbled out in scorn.

“Do you doubt that she is, Sir Nicholas?” Radulph asked. “I do not. The things which she has had to endure thus far speak very much of a higher way than any of us would ask, or care, to travel.”

“The Father is right, my dear.” Lady went across to stand by her husband. “The child has borne a great deal during the past few weeks, and none of it is of her own choosing. I have tried to think of how I would feel if it were one of our daughters who had been chosen in the way that Ann Denny has.”

Sir Nicholas made no answer to this. He walked into the bay of the oriel and stood there, with his back to his wife and to Radulph. There quite a considerable period of silence while he looked out of the window, though what distances his eyes and mind were stretching to could not be calculated. Eventually, he turned back into the room and tersely gave expression to what was in his mind. “I do not see that we can go a great deal further in this matter, just at the present time, Father. I shall, of course, be writing to your Abbot again. In the meantime, please keep me informed of the girl’s condition.”

“I will. And, in the meantime, too, we should perhaps pray for her well-being.” Radulph spoke quietly, but with emphasis. “And for that of her family.”

“That can be arranged, Father. I shall instruct Friar Henry to include them in his daily supplications. And, Father, there is one more thing.” Sir Nicholas’s face brightened a little.” “I had almost forgotten. My Lord Bishop of Norwich was most interested to hear about the Denny girl.”

“My Lord of Norwich?” Radulph remembered the letter which Sir Nicholas had said he would have written and did not enjoy at all the satisfied look upon the knight’s countenance.

“Yes. He was present at the inquisition I attended earlier this week. It was most fortunate.” The smile grew in everything but warmth. “Not only was I able to deliver personally the letter I had for him; I had the opportunity also of discussing its contents with him.” A sly, sideways look crept into his eyes. “I think it possible that he may write to your Abbot before very much longer, Father – if, indeed, he has not already done so. Good afternoon to you.” And, with that, he turned about once more and stepped into the oriel’s bay.

“Fare you well, Sir Nicholas,” said Radulph. He left the room and Lady Bosard accompanied him downstairs. They stood together for a while on the dais of the hall, by the dining table, and they talked briefly of what had passed in the solar.

“My husband, I regret to say, seems to have set his heart upon a shrine,” said Lady Bosard. “But I do not share his zeal, in any way.”

“I am aware of that, my lady,” Radulph replied. “And, in the case of your husband, it is not his heart which worries me so much as his head. He has great determination and I fear it becoming centred on this one idea.” 

“It may well be that something else, as yet unknown, will occur to take his attention,” said Lady Bosard. “Though I have to admit that it is a long while since I have seen him so bent upon an object.” She turned certain thoughts over in her mind. “I think it is as much the challenge he sees in overcoming the resistance to such a scheme as the material benefit he may hope to derive from it.”

“You may well be right,” agreed Radulph. “And, in any case, you know Sir Nicholas far better than I do. It strikes me, too, that I should not be talking to you in this way about him. I would not have you, or him, think that I wish to encourage disloyalty between a woman and her husband.”

“I know that you have no such design, Father!” Lady Bosard was emphatic in her declaration. “Nor would it influence me if you had. I have my own point of view in the matter and would hope to have some effect ultimately upon my husband. In the meantime,” and here she drew a deep and reflective breath, “I will try to do what I can to act as a barrier between his intentions and the well-being of Ann Denny.”

“You commit yourself further on Ann’s behalf than I have any right to ask of you,” said Radulph. “And I am more beholden to you that I can say for the way you have pledged yourself in support of her.” 

“I owe her a daughter, Father. And what I can do for her in return is but a small price to pay.” She looked straight into his eyes as she spoke, yet there was a depth of vision in her gaze which penetrated far beyond the man who stood before her. “What that girl has seen and done may well merit a shrine of prayer and healing. But I would not wish to see it rise as a monument to human pride. My prayer from now on will be this: that if my husband is to proceed with his plan, he may be led by the influence of the Holy Spirit and not by the impulse of his own inclining.”

“I will utter a loud amen to that.” Radulph meant what he said. “There have been instances of things having their origin in worldly ambition and then becoming shaped to a worthier and higher consideration.”

It was a note of hope, at least, on which to end the conversation. Radulph went straight home from the manor house and ate supper with his two servants. Even though his mind was upon Ann Denny more than any other thing, he nevertheless made time to sit in the company of Margaret and Simpkin and tell them something of his sojourn at the Abbey. They were interested to hear what their master had to say, especially in the light of Simpkin’s own visit to the place, and they were not slow to ask questions about its buildings and its people.  Eventually, however, the thoughts of all three of them turned towards Ann. Radulph’s account of the passing of his old confessor had brought a sombre note into the exchanges between them and it was natural that their consciousness should embrace the girl and her present condition. The priest was in the middle of commenting on the apparent conflict between the forces of repose and unrest in her recumbent form, when a knocking on the back door of the house brought an end to his remarks. Simpkin went to answer the summons and opened the door to find Miles Gylman standing before the threshold, with all the signs of having come to the vicarage house in a great hurry.

Radulph got up from the table as Simpkin led the boy into the kitchen. “Why, Miles, what brings you here in such haste?” There was only one possibility and he already knew it. “Is it to do with Ann?”

The boy caught his breath, swallowed a couple of times, then urgently delivered his reply. “Uncle Robert say will you come straight away, Father? Ann is near to dyin’, he think. He say he need you there.”

“I will come at once. Run back to your uncle and tell him that I am on my way.” Radulph was tempted to question the boy, but he sensed that a real emergency had occurred and that time might well be too precious to spend it talking. “Go quickly and I will do my best to match your speed.”

He turned about, the sounds of the boy’s departure already fading upon his ear, and picked up his scrip from the hutch. Margaret and Simpkin were swift to offer him their assistance in any way that might be needed, but Radulph declined – if only because the demands of the situation were as yet unknown. “I can always send for one, or both, of you,” he said, “when I am able to see what may be required. Until then, stay here and carry on in your normal fashion.” He slung the scrip over his shoulder and walked from the house to the church. He entered the building and collected a silver pyx and an ampulla of oil. They went into the scrip, where they were cushioned against the copy of Mother Julian’s revelations and kept upright by a padding of folded cloth. Then, after a brief and wistful look around the familiar interior of Saint Michael’s, Radulph left for Robert Denny’s farm.  

Chapter 19

The sun was sinking westwards and he had almost reached the end of the green-way, where it sloped upwards to field-level not far from Robert’s boundary, when he became aware of a figure standing in against the bank. As he approached, it turned; and Radulph immediately recognised the large leather hat and the flowing, sun-bleached mantle of the old pilgrim who had called at the Denny holding some days before in the company of other travellers. He was on his own on this occasion and he negotiated the slope of the green-way side with an agility that belied his age, coming to stand in the middle of the track against the cleric’s approach. Radulph walked up to him and greeted him in a manner which seemed to fit the circumstances.

“Hail to you, brother pilgrim! I had not thought to have met with you again so soon.”

“My salutations to you as well, Father. I, for my own part, did not expect to come this way once more within so short a space of time.” The old man put his weight upon his staff and breathed deeply. “But I have been led here. I can see that you are hurrying along your way and will not therefore detain you long. Indeed,” and here he looked penetratingly into Radulph’s eyes, “I know the reason for your haste and can guess what those things are which you carry in your scrip.”

“Can you, old faithful one?” asked Radulph gently. “Then you will know it is a solemn mission which I am about.”

“Aye, it is. We are about to witness the fading of a bright star. I feel it and you, perhaps, know it.” The old head turned for a moment towards the Denny house.

“I was hoping against all hope that the call which has brought me hither might prove to be based upon a natural, but groundless fear.” Radulph knew how a parent’s concern for a child could lead to the greatest anxiety.

“You must prepare yourself for her passing, Father.” The words were spoken quietly, but with an assurance which reinforced their sincerity. “I had a sight of this most rare child at Walsingham – before the Holy House itself. The telling of it will not take long. I realise how urgently you are awaited; I have already seen the young lad go past.” 

“Yes, my errand is most pressing,” agreed Radulph. “But as you have so obviously become a part of it, then I must needs listen. And listen I will.” He looked warmly at the old man. “I feel certain that a few minutes more will make little difference.”

“All our minutes upon the face of God’s earth are precious,” remarked the old wayfarer. “Yet, they are as nothing when compared with the eternity that stretches out before us. I had just drunk a cup of water from the blessed well and was looking upon the image of Our Lady and her most beloved Child, when one of the many candles burning before the statue flickered and went out. I had noticed this among the other flames burning, as it dipped and guttered, and I felt a sudden chill as it was extinguished.” The old man shuddered slightly, either in remembrance or because he felt cold. “I looked to the statue again and I heard a voice say to me, out of a great depth and distance, ‘All lives are dear to me and one of the dearest must end soon. The girl you spoke with on your way here has burned brightly to my honour and glory, but her time of shining draws to an end. You have spent long years in searching for a sign and at last you have found it. Not in a place of pilgrimage, but in a quiet, unconsidered place along the way. Search no more, but go and seek your rest.’ Sweet words, Father, on which to end.”

“Who was it that spoke, think you?” Radulph felt compelled to ask.

“I have no doubt that it was Our Lady herself.” There was no hesitation on the part of the old man in coming to an answer. “Many are the years I have spent in search of her – not as an end in itself, but as an intercessor on my behalf with the Father and with the Son and with the Holy Spirit.” He crossed himself as he spoke. “And now, at last, she has shown me her favour. Blessed be the Most Holy Virgin and the maiden she has chosen as her instrument.”

Radulph did not make reply immediately, even though it was clear that the old pilgrim had nothing more to say. He allowed himself to be taken into the other man’s great expanse of silence and reflection, where even a brief space of earthly time assumed something of the limitlessness of eternity. Eventually, however, he had to speak. The compulsion of his own mission, and of a thought he had concerning it, made him give voice to what was in his mind. “Would you care to accompany me to the girl’s house?” he asked. “I do not think her father would object to your coming, and it might be fitting for you to be there in view of what you have told me.”

The old man considered the proposal, before replying. “Thank you for the offer, Father – but, no, I will not come with you. The next few hours will be a testing time for the family and they will have no need of a stranger in their midst. Sorrow will be their portion, and that should only be shared with friends. I came this way to watch and pray for a little while, and that I have accomplished. I shall go now and seek an anchorage until my own time comes.” He looked to the sky above. “It may not be long. I have been upon earth for many years and my wanderings are now at an end. The Mother of God has spoken to me at last and shown herself through another such as she once was – young and not expecting the burden placed upon her. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Gratia plenissima!”

Radulph looked closely at the pilgrim’s face as the words of praise issued from the dry and bristly lips. The husk of the man was dry and withered, yet the inner self was youthful and brimming with vitality. Radulph wished that he might stay and converse with this most travelled of men, but his errand of mercy and extreme unction, if such were needed, pulled at his awareness and urged him towards the farmhouse. “Old friend,” he said, “for such I feel you to be, even on so a slight an acquaintance, I must needs be gone from you. Take my good wishes with you, wherever you may happen to roam. And so, a last farewell.” 

“Aye, farewell it must be.” There was no regret in the admission, only the acknowledgement of necessity. “But, before we part, Father, take this for the child.” He felt into his wallet, which was slung across one shoulder on a long strap, and handed over a metal disc the size of a large coin. “I have collected a number of these over the years and it is fitting that the last of all should go to a true servant of Our Lady.”

Radulph looked at the token. It was made of lead, but had not yet dulled over with the effect of age, and was therefore somewhere between silver and grey in colour. There was a cross on the side uppermost and Radulph knew, without looking, what was stamped upon the reverse. Nevertheless, he turned the medallion over to behold the rose, before closing his hand over both images. “These symbols are, without doubt,” he said, “the two most potent symbols of our Faith.” 

“Indeed, they are, Father,” the old man replied. “For, without the flowering of the one, we could never have been ransomed by the suffering and sacrifice of the other. Go now about your mission, and the blessing of God go with you.”

“May it go with you also, true believer. I can see that it was meant for our paths to cross again.” He placed the Walsingham memento in his scrip as he spoke.

Thus, did the two of them part. Radulph moved on towards the Denny farmstead, his strides lengthening as he went.  Just as he reached the point where the green-way came on to the level of the fields, he checked his pace and looked over his shoulder. The old man was moving slowly along the track in the opposite direction, in the dimming light, and the only thing to give any real sign of movement was the regular rise and fall of his staff. He did not look back as Radulph had done; and the last sight that the priest had of him transmuted itself, there and then, into an impression of timelessness, whereby a shapeless cloak surmounted by a broad-brimmed hat represented the pilgrim in that or any other age. And there was a sense of pilgrimage to be had in another sense than that of the highway and the shrine, for the road of life itself required each and every person to venture out upon it and the hold that the aged sometimes seemed to have on the earthly way never ceased to impress Radulph with its strength and resilience.

He turned into Robert’s messuage and made his way across the yard. Richard’s herring lints still lay spread across the ground, but the young man himself was nowhere in sight. Thirty paces further and he was at the back door of the house (what made him now regard it, and not the front one, as the natural entrance to the dwelling, he wondered?). It stood open, he presumed, as a way of telling him to go straight in. He walked through the passage-way and turned right into the kitchen – passing from there into the dairy-room, where the ladder gave access to the upper storey. He had already climbed two or three rungs, when he heard a noise behind him and turned to see Miles standing in the kitchen doorway. The boy looked anxious and distressed, but he said nothing and Radulph, thinking that no kind of word was appropriate, merely gave a brief smile of recognition and continued on his way up. He had just got into the first chamber when he heard the sound of the lad’s own ascent and this served to emphasise in some strange way that the family would soon be all together in the middle chamber for a unification which none of them had desired or looked for.

When he entered the room, with Miles close behind him, his eyes beheld a scene which might have once overwhelmed him, but which he now embraced through necessity – yes, and even desire. The feeling came strongly upon that this was the hour of his greatest test. Not with any sense of destiny about it, for Radulph did not believe in destiny as such. Nothing in his reading or understanding of the Gospels so much as hinted at the conception, let alone justified such arbitrary belief. It was just that all people had certain occasions in their lives when circumstances seemed to follow a pre-ordained course, and when any others involved in the sequence of events could only do what they felt was correct under such circumstances. Yes, the daughter of his friend had been chosen, but he did not accept that it had been determined of old. Only one thing had that distinction: “Before Abraham was, I am.” And, in any case, where ordinary human existence was concerned, such a rigid fixing of the course of life gave no flexibility of action either to Creator or to creature.

The tension in the room was extreme. He saw it in the faces of the four people who looked who looked towards him as he came through the doorway. Robert Denny and Bess Hoberd were standing beside the bed, leaning over Ann and employing their hands in small tasks of soothing and comforting, which had the expression of futility in their solicitude. Richard stood to one side, looking grimly and doggedly out of the window. And Joan was sitting on a stool at the foot of the bed, quietly weeping into her hands. Radulph went straight to Ann, taking advantage of the space made for him by Robert and Bess moving aside, and sat by the girl. There was sufficient room for him to do this, for the bed was of good width and Ann lay right in the very centre of it. He drew the strap of the scrip over his head, laid the bag beside him on the elm planks of the floor, and looked long and hard at the motionless form in front of him. Ann’s eyes were open, yet apparently unseeing; her lips were apart; and it was as much as Radulph could do to feel the faint breath issuing from her mouth on the back of the hand he held before her. He moved the hand and touched her cheekbones lightly with his fingers and he noticed that the skin seemed cooler than it had on his previous visit. He then checked the girl’s pulse, feeling gently for the spot below the jawbone where the push of life could usually be detected. Nothing transmitted itself to his fingertip, so he reached down and studied her wrist. The slightest throb was just discernible upon the skin, its rhythmic beat much slower than before and with scarcely enough vitality to be felt. Radulph had turned from Ann to say a word or two to Robert, when the girl herself began to speak.

“The dark trees ha’ all gone.” The words were faintly uttered, but clear, and it was obvious that her eyes were seeing once again in the normal way, for she moved her head on the pillow and took in the six people ranged about her. “All of ’em, gone. They’ll trouble me no more.” She smiled as she spoke and settled herself down within the covers. “I kept seein’ ’em for so long, but help come to me in the end.”

“What have you seen, Ann?” Radulph leant towards her. “Where have your dreams taken you, this time? Tell us, if you are able to.”

“Oh, I’m able to, Father Radulph, an’ I will.” A sudden gleam of energy and determination came into her eyes and enlivened the whole of her face.

“I was lorst in a deep, black forest without paths or ways o’ any kind. The trees were hard an’ twisted an’ no leaves grew on the spiky branches. Great roots looped from the ground an’ caught at my feet as I walked along, an’ I fell among them in confusion o’ mind an’ body. Each time I tripped, it seemed that somethin’ or someone mocked me, for a distant laughter sounded – though from where it come I couldn’t tell. It might ha’ bin from beyond the trees, or it could ha’ bin from inside my head. There was no way o’ knowin’. Oh, Father Radulph, it was a terrible laugh – cruel an’ cold – an’ it frightened me far more than the trees an’ darkness did. I felt like a limed sparrow must feel just afore the bird-catcher finally appears to break its neck an’ throw it inta the bag.

“I could not say how long I was stumblin’ an’ fallin’ about among the trees, for the darkness robbed me o’ all sense o’ time.  Nor did I know where I was goin’, for all the trees looked so much alike in the gloom that there was no chance o’ pickin’ out one as bein’ diff’rent from another. Nor was there any way to follow, as I said afore, whereas even our thickest copses hereabouts have paths. I think I could ha’ withstood the darkness an’ the loneliness, though, if it had not been for the dreadsome laughin’ which followed me everywhere I went. An’, as it got louder an’ nearer to me, the more confused an’ frightened I become, until at last it boomed an’ crashed around me like the pealin’ o’ great bells. Just as I thought my very head must burst, it stopped – an’, for one short space o’ time, I thought that all was goin’ to be well.”

“Go on, child.” Radulph spoke softly to Ann, who had broken off her narrative and was now looking round the room as if trying to bring the people there into focus. “You are in the midst of your family and your friends. There is nothing to be afraid of when you are in the company of those who love you.” He took hold of her left hand, the one nearest him, and held it between his own two, cupping them around it and exerting a gentle and reassuring pressure.

           Ann turned her head slightly in the priest’s direction and slanted her eyes so as to see him the better. She beheld him thus for some little while and passed her other hand to him, to be held also. Then, with a perceptible creasing of her forehead’s pale skin, she began to speak once more. “I was wrong to think so. Somethin’ started then which was worse by far than the laughin’.” She shuddered in remembrance as she spoke and her fingers curled tightly within Radulph’s encircling palms. “A voice begun to talk to me from out o’ the forest somewhere. It was the same voice which had mocked me with its laughin’, but the words were more dreadful by far. ‘You are mine,’ it said. ‘There is no escape for you anywhere, because you are mine. There is nowhere for you to go. You cannot hide from me. You are mine an’ I will have you.’ Then the laughin’ begun again. Oh, there was such hatin’ in the voice that I ran blindly in my terror among the trees an’ tore my clothes an’ my flesh upon their spikes.” Ann shrank within herself as she recalled the experience and her face showed clearly the distress she was experiencing.

            “Father Radulph, is it right for her to go on like this?” It was Robert who spoke, with all the natural anguish of a parent in such circumstances plainly written in the lines of his face and the tightness of his voice. “She seem so fey, Shouldn’t she be allowed to rest?”

            Radulph was doing his best to frame some suitable answer in his mind, when Ann made her own reply. “I’ll be able to rest soon enow, dearest father. But, meanwhile, I must tell what befell me. There’s no gainsayin’ what has happened an’ you must allow me to discribe it. I realise it’s wrong for a child to tell a parent what to do – an’ you will forgive me, I know – but I have to say these things. There’s so little time left.”

            “Say on, my maid. None here will stop you. You do as you have to.” Robert was scarcely able to control the emotion within him and his voice quavered as he spoke. “We’ll listen to whatever you have to tell us.”

            “Thank you. The tellin’ of it should not take long.” Ann eased her neck and shoulders upon the pillow, then drew a deep and heaving breath before returning to her account. The inhalation spoke of both effort and determination. It was a summoning of physical and mental resources which had so much of finality stamped upon on it that not a single person about the bed doubted for one moment that an ending (of whatever kind) was near.

            “It was a cruel time for me beneath them trees. Everywhere I turned, there was thorns an’ roots to trip me. At last, I gave up runnin’ an’ threw myself down on the ground in dispair. ‘I told you there is nowhere for you to go,’ said the voice. ‘You cannot escape me because you are mine. Look there, before you, in the pool, an’ tell me what you see. Go on, look! You must learn to do as you are bidden, now that you are mine.’ I drew my hands from my face an’ looked down in front o’ me. Sure enow, there was a little pool o’ black water. Like a puddle, it was – a big puddle – but I sensed that it was very deep. It was very still, as well, an’ nothin’ stirred upon the surface. ‘Look at yourself,’ said the voice. ‘See what you are. Mine!’ An’ then the laughin’ begun to echo once more.

            “I darsn’t do other than what the voice had told me to, so I looked into the pool. It was strange, because everywhere was in darkness, yet there was still light to see by. I couldn’t understand this, an’ whoever the voice belonged to must ha’ seen into my mind because it said, ‘I have my own kind o’ radiance. Look into the pool. No, closer! See what you’ve become. See whose you are!’ I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help myself; somethin’ forced me to put my face down to the smooth, black water. An’, when I was like to touch it – or so it seemed – I saw before me a head, without a mouth an’ a nose an’ eyes.” Ann shivered as she faced her blank and threatening reflection once again, then recovered her composure. “It was a sight dreadful to behold an’ it told me where I was an’ who it was that mocked me. I realised then that I was in the domain o’ the Evil One an’ my fear become so great that that I weren’t able to move from where I knelt. I tried to say a prayer, but the words wouldn’t come; I could not bring holy words to mind. All that I could think of was my own distruction.

            “He, the Evil One, knew this. He knew my thoughts an’ he laughed at my despair. ‘Prayer is no use use here,’ he said. ‘We don’t recognise it. We never have done an’ we never will. An’ where are those you seek to turn to? They have deserted you. They do not care for you as much as I do. Turn to me. You are mine an’ I will receive you gladly. Baptise yourself in my pool o’ darkness. Receive my blessin’ as you give yourself to me. Go on, child. Do not be afraid. I am your true friend an’ your lord. Submit to me an’ you will be highly favoured.’ The voice had become almost kind an’ this frightened me more than anythin’, because I feared my will to resist the promise. I turned my eyes upwards from the pool an’ looked through the trees – or, rather, I looked ahead o’ me, for I could not see far into the darkness. It seemed to me that a clearin’ lay somewhere in front o’ me. I don’t know why I felt it to be so, but I sensed that the trees thinned out an’ that there was a way o’ escape from this hideous place. I even imagined that someone who might help me stood there, but the voice sounded again to crush my hopes. ‘Don’t dare to think o’ runnin’ from me, child,’ it said. ‘You cannot reach the place you’re imaginin’. It exists only in your mind an’ the one you look to as a helper is but a passin’ fancy. There is no one from that old world you once lived in to help you here. You are mine an’ I will not be robbed o’ you. Come to me.’ An’ here the voice grew gentle an’ comfortin’. ‘Learn of me. My yoke is easy an’ able to be borne. Folk never have trouble in takin’ my burden upon themselves. Cast off your fear an’ anxiety an’ turn to me.’ The words died away inta the darkness, an’ the silence which follored began to swallow me completely.

            “I crouched beside the pool, not able to move, an’ as I knelt there in my terror a black vapour begun to rise from the surface o’ the water. Up it went, like the smoke from a heap of damp, dead leaves – a great pillar o’ darkness liftin’ itself through the branches o’ the trees. I raised my head an’ watched it go. It begun to spread an’ broaden, until it hung above my head like some tempest-cloud, ready to burst. The was no partic’lar shape to it, yet it had form an’ bein’. I felt that it would descend upon me an’ consume me. It seemed hungry for my very soul. ‘You are mine, little one,’ said the voice again, an’ it come to me from out o’ the cloud. ‘Accept me. Receive me. I am your lord an’ your joy. Look how I long to take you to me.’ An’, as I looked, the great darkness above begun to fall upon me through the trees, thickenin’ the air an’ chokin’ me with its descendin’. I threw myself to the ground, face down, an’ tried to hide myself from the blackness. But to no avail. The more desperately I clawed at the earth, the more did the cloud oppress me. At the very last, I could seek refuge from it no longer, so I forced myself to stand up an’ meet my doom as it come upon me. This was not courage. It was simply not knowin’ what else to do.

            “Once I was on my feet, I stretched my arms out afore me, as if to fend orf the darkness. ‘Depart from me!’ I cried, an’ I drove my hands aginst an overhangin’ branch. I felt the spikes pierce my palms an’ the warm blood begin to trickle down – an’, in that instant, my feet too begun to hurt me an’ bleed, an’ my side throbbed with a great stabbin’ an swellin’. I do not know how long I stood thus, for time no longer had any meanin’, but out o’ the centre o’ the darkness a great light begun to grow. It was only a little speck at first, but it burgeoned an’ grew, blossoming into a mighty an’ fiery flower – a great, blazin’ rose which drove out the darkness an’ filled all that dire place wi’ radiance. At its centre, an’ shinin’ more brightly than even the rose itself, was a white cross – white in its purity an’ white wi’ the intensity of its burnin’. My eyes become fixed upon this an’, as I looked, the cross changed its form inta that of a man – a man wi’ blood on his hands an’ his feet an’ his side. Our Lord Jesus (for he it was, of a surety) begun to speak, an’ his words drove out my fear an’ filled me wi’ strength an’ hope.

            “‘Do not think to claim what is mine,’ he said. ‘This maiden has been dearly bought an’ has nothin’ to do wi’ you. You are allowed to pursue your course of evil in the world, but only as far as my Father wishes you to go. There must be a leaven of malice in order that men may be tested an’ choose what direction in life they will take. But this maiden has been called for higher things an’ has patiently an’ willingly taken upon herself a burden that few would wish to bear. Do not seek to prevail upon her with your flattery or your threatenin’. You shall carry her by neither. She is mine, not yours. You are but part o’ my Father’s plan. Nothin’ more. You exist only to exercise a necessary function. You have no real bein’ of your own. You create nothin’ but what is evil an’ you can have no delight in anythin’ that is not corrupt. The only strength you possess is derived from poor creatures who ha’ lorst their way. Your most bitter truth is that you are tolerated by the very force you seek to overthrow. Do not presume to make yourself mightier than you are. Your influence upon Man is strong only because you represent the easier o’ two choices an’ because Man is ever drawn to the easier course. The child you sought to carry has chosen the narrow way. She did not submit to your assaults upon her goodness. She resisted you an’ stood aginst you. Go now from this place an’ seek to darken it no longer. You have had your hour hereabouts, and now it is done. Go!’

            A silence ensued as Ann lay still, recollecting what she had seen and been part of and recovering too, in part, from the effort of her narrative. No one spoke. Everyone waited for her to resume the account of her latest seeing. A little smile came softly upon her mouth and served as the prelude to what she had still to tell. “The great shadow passed away,” she began. “The darkness lifted at the comin’ of a new an’ glorious day. But that was not the greatest wonder. Not for me, at least. No, what took my eye was the way in which the forest changed from a place o’ dread to one o’ beauty. The trees were no longer black an’ thorny, but full o’ leaves an’ blossom. A sweet smell filled all the air an’ the ground was covered wi’ grass an’ flowers. Many o’ the tree roots still bent an’ twisted above the ground, but no longer did they appear as snares an’ gins. Their loops had mosses growin’ on ’em an’ ferns sprang from the damp an’ shaded places in the earth beneath. I looked about me to enjoy the scene, for many birds an’ animals dwelt there, but at last my eyes came to rest upon the pool o’ water beside which I stood. It was here that the transformation was greatest, for instead o’ the black an’ evil well that had shown such a foul reflection, there was a spring o’ clear water bubblin’ from the ground.  The Lord Jesus himself stood there beside me, clad in a seamless robe o’ white clorth, an’ he looked kindly upon me an’ told me I had nothin’ more to fear. ‘The forest is become a garden,’ he said. ‘An’ the wounds you bore for me are gone. See, your hands an’ your feet are whole again, an’ so is your side.’ I looked at my hands an’ feet an’, behold, it was as the Lord had said. There was no mark upon them, where but a little while before the blood had run freely an’ there had been pain.

            “An’ as I stood lookin’ at my hands, partly in wonder at the healin’ an’ partly because I dared not look upon Our Saviour, he begun to speak to me again. ‘There is one who waits for you,’ he said. ‘One to whom you are very dear. See, she is by the rock yonder. Go to her, for she it was who drew me to your rescue.’ I looked in the direction that the Master pointed an’ I saw Our Lady standin’ there. She beheld me kindly, as she had always done, only there was a diff’rence this time in her bearin’ which at first I couldn’t call to mind. It come to me, soon enow, for hardly had I begun walkin’ towards her when I realised that she was no longer showin’ the way ahead. The was no pointin’ finger, this time, indicatin’ the direction I should take – but both her arms were held out to me in welcome. I quickened my stride, so as to be united with her, but at the very moment she received my hands into hers the vision faded from me. And there was no sorrow for me in its endin’.” Here, a look of great peace and contentment came upon Ann’s face. “My Holy Mother had taken me to her and I had felt her hands upon mine. Look, they are still whole an’ without blemish.” She withdrew them from Radulph’s grasp and held the palms up for all to see.” “An’, greatest an’ best of all, the Lord Jesus had come to my aid aginst the assaults o’ the Evil One an’ saved me from his malice.”

            Ann Denny had come to end of her narration. Her body relaxed after the effort involved in finding, first of all, the words to express what she had seen and, next, the strength required to sustain her account. She closed her eyes and withdrew into herself, this retraction of being reflected visually by an apparent diminishing of her physical stature as she settled within the bedclothes and withdrew her hands from Radulph’s. Those present within the chamber were in no doubt that she had breathed her last – an opinion which did not exclude Radulph himself because, although he was sitting close to her the girl, her utter stillness was sufficiently real in simulation of death to deceive him. It was only when he leant down very close to her that he could see that she was alive and he held up his right hand, fingers spread, as a gesture to forestall any sudden outbreak of grieving or movement towards the bed. He did not look up at all, himself; he merely sat there with his hand raised against the others while he studied Ann’s face at close quarters. And, even as he looked, the girl’s eyes opened and widened, taking in the priest first of all and then the members of her family and Bess Hoberd. She shaped to speak and her face creased delicately around the mouth as she formed her words. “It’s good to see you all here,” she said. “All the people I’m fondest of, upon earth.” Her voice was quiet, but it was also very clear and there was not a person at hand who failed to hear.

            “I have something for you, Ann.” Radulph picked up his scrip from the floor and laid it beside him on the bed. “The old pilgrim you spoke with the other day has brought you a gift from Walsingham. No, he is not here now. He has gone. I met with him as I approached the farm.” Radulph had seen the question written in the girl’s face and answered in anticipation of it. And, as he answered, he felt inside his bag. “Here is what he wished you to have.”

            Ann took the lead medallion and uttered her appreciation in a few softly spoken words. “I wish the old man was here himself,” she said, “so I could thank him for his kindness.” She rotated the token in the fingers of her right hand and turned it from one side to the other. “I should like to ha’ gone to Walsin’ham one day, myself.” She closed her hand over the disc and laid the loosely clenched fist upon the bedclothes. “But that’s not to be. All my earthly journeyings are at an end.”

            “No, my maid. Don’t say so.” Robert Denny came to join Radulph at his daughter’s side. “You have much to see an’ do in life, as yet.”

            “It would be pleasin’ in some ways to think so,” Ann said. “But my time among you is drawin’ to a close. Don’t seek to deny it, dearest Father, for it is so. Our several ways are ours to determine only in what we do, not in the length we may seek to place upon our lives.” Ann’s eyes closed for a moment, as if in thought; then she resumed speaking. “That we have no control over. It lays in the hands of another.”

            “But you’re healthy, girl! You’re strong! An’ you’re young, as well!”  Robert’s remarks were both encouragement and protest as he tried to find words to express one state of mind and contradict another.

            “My health an’ youth have little to do with it.” Ann’s voice was soft, but firm. “My time here among you is at an end an’ I must exchange this life for another.” There was no response to this statement and the girl let the silence bear upon the people in the room before continuing. “You must all prepare yourselves, as I must do also.” She smiled softly at Radulph then and turned her head towards him. “There’s one here who’s come in readiness for my passin’.”

            “I go whenever I am called for, Ann,” Radulph replied. “But I always hope and pray that the extremity has not been reached.”

“It has wi’ me, dear Father Radulph. An’ I think that you have that within your scrip which I have most need of, now.” Ann looked affectionately upon the priest as she spoke. “I know you well enow to be acquainted wi’ your ways. Shrive me an’ give me the holy bread afore I die. It will make my goin’ all the easier.”

“Of course, child.” Radulph opened the flap again and drew the pyx from inside. It contained a host, such as he used himself as celebrant in church, and he held the box out now before him in deliberation. “And, with your leave, I should like all of us here to participate in an act of sharing and take to our comfort the body of Our Lord.”

“I should like that, too, Father.” Ann was warm in her support of the proposal. “My fam’ly is here an’ so are two good friends – you an’ Mistress Hoberd. We have all shared life together an’ now it falls out that we must share death.”

“Better mine than yourn, sweet child!” It was Bess Hoberd who spoke. “I’re bin on this earth long enow to desire a rest from its ways. If I could change places with you, I would.”

“We know that, Bess,” said Robert. “But things are as they are an’ we must abide by ’em. Come, let us make ready for Father Radulph. Where do you want us to be, Father?”

“I think it would be best if you all came nearer to Ann. Yes, that is the way.” He directed them with his hand until they were all standing in a crescent around the foot and side of the bed. The he rose from where he was sitting and stood in the one place remaining. “Is this arrangement satisfactory, Ann?”

“Yes, Father, it is. Lift me up in the bed, please, that I may see you all the better.” Radulph laid down the pyx upon his scrip and did as he was requested – placing the pillows behind her back to support her in a sitting position. “Thank you. Now I feel that I am one o’ you agin, even if it is not for much longer.” She smiled at them all and rested against the pillows.

There was a great intensity of emotion in the room, as Ann spoke, and Radulph felt it as keenly as anyone. He knew how one thought, and one alone, was pushing all other considerations aside in the minds of everyone, and he marvelled at the serenity of the one to whom this same thought was directed and in whose mind it must be centrally fixed. The portal stood open and she who had shortly to pass through it was content enough. It was those to be left on the other side who were finding it hard to maintain their composure. Radulph reached down to the bed, removed the lid from the pyx and took out the wafer. He held it aloft in both hands, between forefinger and thumb, as if he were before his own altar in church, but that was the start and finish of any close similarity between the celebration of mass and the ritual now improvised for Ann Denny. He bent the wafer until it cracked in half. “This is the Lord Christ’s body broken for us all.” No need for this little canon to be spoken in the language of the Church. “Let us take and eat it in the knowledge that He died for us – died that we might have life eternal.”

Radulph lowered the wafer carefully and broke it into seven pieces – three from one half and four from the other. He considered them for a moment, then said, “We are commanded to do this in remembrance of Him who died for us. Let us therefore take this holy sacrament to our comfort. The body of our Lord Jesus Christ preserve my soul unto everlasting life. Amen.” He ate his own piece of the wafer and then administered five of the remaining ones to Robert Denny, to Bess Hoberd, to Richard, to Miles, and to Joan. “The body of our Lord Jesus Christ preserve your soul unto everlasting life. Amen.” The prayer was identical for each person (and in the spoken language of the land), until he came to Ann, and here circumstances demanded words of a different nature – at least, to begin with. “Inasmuch as we are born of the flesh, we are born into sin and remain always in the same. If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and deny the need of salvation for our souls. Christ is our only health and we must turn to him. Young sister in Christ, your sins be forgiven, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Radulph crossed himself as he uttered these last words and Ann Denny did the same. So did all of those who stood just beyond this ultimate rite.

With absolution now granted, Radulph held out the last remaining piece of consecrated bread and placed it upon the tongue of the girl. She closed her mouth upon it and her eyes closed, too, for a moment in response to the prayer which followed. “The body of our Lord Jesus Christ preserve your soul unto everlasting life. Amen. For all those who turn from the old way of darkness into the new way of light, there awaits a crown of glory. May the Almighty God bless us all and have us firmly in his keeping. Amen.”

“Amen.” Ann Denny repeated this last affirmation and opened her eyes once more, to look upon those assembled before her. “I am, even now, within that vast embracin’. Bury this with me.” And, here, she opened her hand to reveal the pilgrim’s token. “For the Rose blossomed that the Cross might be raised, an’ the Cross shows to us the only true flowerin’ o’ perfection. An’ so, are they both united.” She paused a moment, looking lovingly on her family and her friends, and then continued speaking. “My end is but a beginnin’. Pray not for my soul’s rest, if you pray at all, but pray rather that we who have loved each other so well on earth may be drawn together one day into the perfect love o’ Heaven.” She finished speaking and closed her eyes, as if with the effort of delivery.

No one spoke, though each and every person within the room doubtless uttered a private amen to Ann Denny’s last hope. And all of them expected her to say more, too, for they stood in silent anticipation of her continuing. But no more words issued from her lips and when, at last, Radulph responded to the increasing and tightening silence which seemed like to crush him with its intensity, he leant down towards the girl and saw that she was dead. How far the realisation had dawned upon the others he had no real way of telling, for he did not look about him. But he knew that their eyes were upon him as he felt both wrist and throat for any sign that the blood coursed yet along the veins. There was none. The skin was warm, but it would cool soon enough, and he turned from Ann’s body and stood up to face her father. No words were needed. His expression must have said everything, for Robert looked him full in the eye, nodded twice in understanding, and then drew a deep and heavy breath. It was the signal for the whole bubble of expectancy to burst, for uncertainty to be dispelled, and for the acceptance of hard fact to begin. A sob burst from the lips of Joan Denny and this sound struck Radulph as the saddest thing of all. “We should all weep at the loss of one who was so dear to us,” he said. “But we should rejoice also at the beauty and goodness of her living.” 

As he spoke, he drew the ampulla of oil from within his scrip and began to anoint Ann’s face. Then he touched her hands with the chrism and, finally, having first drawn back the bedclothes, he applied it to he her feet. “We do but sanctify with oil what God has already sanctified with the power of his Spirit. We do but place an earthly sign upon the mortal remains of one who returns now to her true inheritance. Let us all be thankful that we knew and loved her, for we shall not see her like again.”

“Amen to that, Father.” Bess Hoberd now came to the forefront, once she sensed that a change of emphasis was needed. “You’re spoken well for Ann an’ you will say good things about her agin, in Church. Now it is my turn to do somethin’ for the maid.” She turned to Robert. “Take the younkers down. There’s no purpose served by them bein’ here. An’ you go too, Richard. I’m goin’ to lay out your sister ready for her buryin’.”

“It’s right kind an’ neighbourly o’ you, Bess, but – .”

“You can save your buts, Robert. This is somethin’ I want to do – an’ can do, as well, even wi’ this arm.” The old woman’s voice was resolute of tone, yet gentle, as she held up the injured limb. “It’s little enow, after all the child did for me. Go on, git yourselves downstairs.” She addressed them rather in the manner of a mother commanding a brood of young children. “Perhaps you’d go down, too, Father Radulph. Likely, they’ll foller you – even if they don’t pay no heed to me!”

“I’m sure that we all respect your wishes, Mistress Hoberd,” the priest replied. And, even as he spoke, Richard Denny shepherded Joan and Miles out of the room. “Look, there is your proof. I shall follow after them. Remain here a while, if you wish, Robert – and if Mistress Hoberd permits.” He smiled as he said this and Bess Hoberd smiled in return. “I can stay with Joan and Miles. And Richard, too, if there is need.” 

Robert murmured his thanks and went and sat upon the bed, next to his daughter. Radulph glanced back at him as he left the room. He noticed how his friend had taken hold of the dead girl’s hands and bent low to rest his face upon them. It was a gesture of resignation rather than despair, and there was simple affection too in the touching of father and child – each now on either side of life’s great divide. Radulph stepped off the ladder into the dairy-room with the image firmly impressed upon his mind and, as he went into the kitchen, another symbol of family ties was before him. Richard Denny was sitting on a stool beside the hearth with his arm around his younger sister, comforting her. Joan Denny stood beside him, not a great deal taller than his seated form, and her whole body shook with sobs. Miles was weeping, too, but less obviously than his cousin, and he was looking resolutely into the fire for something to concentrate upon outside his grief. Radulph’s entry caused all three of them to look round and the younger ones made an obvious effort to compose themselves.

The priest walked up to the hearth-side and addressed Richard. I should go and finish seeing to your nets,” he said to the young man. “Your father will be down before very much longer and I can stay here with Joan and Miles until he comes.” Richard agreed with the proposal and left the house. He did not say much, but Radulph could see that he was glad of the opportunity to be alone and have something to occupy his hands and at least one small part of his mind. After he had gone, Radulph sat down upon the stool and drew the youngsters to him. He said that it was right and natural for them to cry at Ann’s decease, but that when the flow of tears began to grow less they should try to feel thankful for her life and for what she had meant to them. Then he went on to talk of her high and special calling, attempting to strike the fine balance between simplicity and condescension, and he had just finished his exposition when Robert Denny came down the ladder into the dairy. The priest rose from his seat beside the fire and turned to look into the room beyond. He saw his friend take hold of a small wooden bucket and draw a quantity of water from a large tub that stood in the corner. There was no mistaking his purpose in doing this, and the way he took an unused cheese-cloth from a shelf and tore in half also made its own statement as to what he was about. “I’ll be with you afore long, Father Radulph,” he said. “I’m just takin’ these things up to Bess, then I’ll be down agin.”

Radulph nodded his understanding and returned his attention to Joan and Miles as Robert climbed the ladder. He knew that he could say nothing further to the children (nothing that could serve any purpose), so he suggested that they take themselves outside and perform any task that they might find to do, even as the light was fading. “You can help best at this time by being useful,” he said. “Ann would not wish – nay, does not wish – any of us to let grieving control our every action.” He looked down and smiled at each of them. “And even though it draws towards dusk and you may find it hard to occupy yourselves, at least try to keep busy. I know that this is a time of tribulation for you both, but I know too that you are strong enough to meet your sorrow with courage and with patience.”

“Uncle Robert wanted them sheep behind the barn moved to another close, Joan,” said Miles. “We could go an’ do that. It won’t take long.” He took his cousin by the hand and led her out into the yard.

Radulph settled down upon his stool and waited for Robert to return. It was not long before the latter came down again and, though he raised a smile of sorts, his true state of mood was reflected in the way he placed himself heavily on the bench beside the table. He did not say anything straight away, but when he did begin to speak the words touched Radulph mightily with their unexpectedness and their depth of feeling. “She look just like her mother, layin’ up there on the bed. I’d forgotten that look until now. I allus used to think how much like Alice she was – used to say so – but it never struck me just how much till I saw her laid out like that, on the bed.”

“It is the way the features compose themselves,” said Radulph. “And we are also like to have our strongest recollections at times of great grief.”

“Yeah, that’s true enow,” agreed Robert. “Though it’s not as if I have so many daughters to spare that I can afford to be reminded too orften.”

Radulph accepted the point, but he also saw in the grim humour of its delivery that his friend had already come to terms with bereavement and was able to impose his own kind or realism upon the situation in which he found himself. Robert had not only lost his wife shortly before he had arrived in the parish, but also two children (a boy and a girl) earlier in the marriage before Richard had been born. A discussion developed, then, as to the nature of Ann’s death, but Radulph could offer no definite answer as to what had brought it about and both of them decided that any possible cause might lie somewhere in the same mysterious set of circumstances which had caused her elevation from normality in the first place. There were other desultory items of conversation which followed, but the talk turned inevitably at last to the subject of Ann’s burial.

“I’m in your hands, Father,” said Robert. “Whatever you think is best, I’ll go along wi’ it. She’ll lie here tonight now, whatever happen. Joan can come in along o’ me, just for the once.” He paused a moment. “She could be buried tomorrer, if you want. I’d like her to be put next to Alice, if that can be done.” 

“Tomorrow is a little too soon,” replied Radulph. “I’ll get Simpkin to dig the grave tomorrow, next to your wife’s, and then you can bring Ann to the gateway at evening time. I’ll have the bier ready for her there and she can rest overnight before her committal to the earth.”

“But that’ll be Sunday, Father,” Robert observed. “An’, pardon me for askin’ this: is such a thing right for a Sunday?”

“I can think of no more fitting day for your daughter to be laid to rest,” said Radulph. “And, with your permission, I will announce her passing at Mass tomorrow morning and give notice, too, of her burial. We’ll lay her to rest at the second hour.” He stopped speaking and looked sympathetically at this friend. “I know that you have been no great lover of the press about Ann during her time of mission, but I hope that you will accept one more throng at her going into ground. I think it best that as many people hereabouts as possible should know of her death, if only to spare you from the rumour and resorting hither which will inevitably result if nothing is said. Ann is – and I mean is, my friend – one of the most important things that has happened in this parish, and to it, in the whole of its existence. In the spiritual sense, she probably is the most important. Her like may never be seen again. That is why her funeral has to be more than just a family matter. Ann was your daughter, Robert, and remains so. There is no denying it. But the things she was shown and the things she was empowered to perform placed her apart from all of us. You number the joy of her in years; the folk of the village count it in days. The miracle of her birth and being is beyond reckoning. Let us just be thankful that she lived sufficiently long to bring a ray of light into this dark world. It shone but briefly, yet the brightness was plain for all to see.”

When he had finished speaking, Radulph felt rather as if he had delivered a sermon – and said as much. Robert gave a little ironic smile and replied that he had withstood a sermon or two in his time and would take no great harm from another one. Then he became serious and thanked Radulph for helping him to see the significance of Ann’s life – and not only in the words just spoken. “You’re bin a prop to me, Father, ever since the whole thing started. I don’t know as I’d ha’ coped with it but for you. An’ I’ll no doubt have need o’ your support in the comin’ weeks.”

“We shall support each other, then,” said Radulph, “for I have lost a dear sister in Christ and a member of my own special little family. I am going to miss her earthly presence greatly – though, in another way, she will never be gone from us.” The approach of footsteps and young voices was heard without. “And there are the children, yet, to enliven us. They have been moving some sheep for you. I will take their return as my signal to depart. No, it is quite all right, old friend.” Robert had begun to urge him to stay. “It is time that I was on my way. I shall call again tomorrow.”

Dusk was thickening into darkness as Radulph said farewell, slung his scrip over his shoulder and crossed the yard. He found Richard still folding his nets up into bundles and took his leave of the young man. “Go into your father as soon as you’re able to,” he said. “You’ll have seen Joan and Miles return and it will be good for you all to have a little time of quiet together.” He walked on out of the yard and entered the hollow-way which lay before him. Its concavity absorbed him and drew him along its length, until he was deep in a tunnel of both thought and landscape. Sudden rattlings and rustlings in the scrub-growth on either side of the track proclaimed the lesser alarm taken by small birds and animals at the approach of an unexpected walker, but their hurried activity went unnoticed by the one who caused it and he passed on into the gloom, deep in the labyrinth of his mind. The great, unchanging world encompassed him, but he was aware only of the nearer universe, now depleted and altered by the departure of one who had shone forth so suddenly and so brightly.

When, at last, he reached the village, Radulph did not turn towards his own dwelling, but headed straight towards the manor house. This was not the result of any predetermined intention on his part, but of a sudden impulse as the configuration of buildings around him served to act as a reminder of what Ann Denny had become for the people of the place. And, in thinking of ordinary beings, his mind also considered her whose greatest need had once cried out for the dead girl’s saving power. Lady Philippa Bosard must be informed of Ann’s passing, and it was this conviction which steered him in the direction of her home. On arriving there, however, he did not request to see either the lady of the house or Sir Nicholas (the later coming as something of an afterthought). Instead, he asked Will Sowle to convey the news of Ann’s death that evening to the mistress and the master – especially the former. The porter crossed himself as he received the information and shook his head in sadness and disbelief. “An’ there she was, doin’ folk so much good! Where’s the justice in her bein’ took? That’s what I’d like to know, Father!” A small part of Radulph was inclined to agree with the sentiment expressed by Watcher Will, but he knew also that there was much more to the girl’s life and death than such reasoning allowed for. Therefore, he replied that it was difficult sometimes to see the significance of things at the time they happened and that the ways of God were often beyond the scope of human understanding. Whether this answer satisfied the porter, or not, there was no real way of telling. But he did mutter a “Reckon you’re right, Father” and then went off to convey the news delivered to him.

Radulph turned from the high façade of the gatehouse and walked swiftly home. He imparted what he had to tell to Margaret and Simpkin in as simple and direct a way as possible. Then he asked them to join him in praying for the Denny family in the loss so recently sustained and for Ann in her release from one existence into another. The firelight played upon them as they knelt upon the beaten clay-and-chalk of the floor and made their faces a pattern of flickering light and shadow. A priest’s words hung in the stillness of the room, attempts at expressing the feelings of his heart and the thoughts of his head, and the man himself hoped, too, that something of what he was saying would reach his servants. He felt that it would, but a natural and desirable diffidence prevented him from knowing so. All three of them continued kneeling for some time after the words had come to an end and, in their mutual silence, was a stretching-out onto a world beyond the one they all knew and lived in.

Chapter 20 (Saturday, 25 April)

Radulph announced the passing of Ann Denny, after Mass had ended, the following morning – Miles, for once, not being with him at his own, specific command. He thought it best to say nothing until the service was over, judging that the news would have a marked effect on those present. He was correct. His words produced a noticeable reaction of surprise and concern among the various members of the congregation, which showed in the expressions on their faces and in the involuntary way they began immediately to question one another. The priest imposed his own voice upon the communal one before it became too difficult to so. He asked that the people respect the Denny family’s need for privacy that day and not resort to the farm out of curiosity or any other idle motive. “If you truly do have business there, then go.” The authority in his voice was plain to hear. “Otherwise, stay away and attend to your own affairs.” His tone then became gentler. “Ann, our great joy of late, and our inspiration, will be buried in the churchyard here tomorrow morning. Her requiem will be said about the second hour. The bell will inform you. Then is the time for you to come and honour her. Depart now to your homes and pray for our sister who has gone from us.” He had almost said “pray to”, but something prevented him, and he stood and watched his parishioners leave church.

After Mass, he called at the Denny farm, as he had promised Robert he would do, and stayed with the family for some time. On his return to the vicarage house, he busied himself about the place, having been somewhat surprised to learn from Margaret that Sir Nicholas Bosard had come to see him. It was not long before midday when the lord of the manor returned and Radulph had to be summoned from the barn by Margaret. Simpkin looked at him knowingly as he left and the priest reciprocated his servant’s glance with a nod and a smile. He had thought that Lady Bosard might possibly call that morning, yet her husband’s arrival did not come as a complete surprise either. The reason for the visit emerged soon enough, but it was not exactly what Radulph was prepared for.

“I came to see you about the matter of where Denny’s girl is to be laid,” Sir Nicholas said. “I daresay that you have given it your consideration, but I have a suggestion of my own to make.”

“Ann is to lie south of the chancel,” Radulph replied. “Simpkin will dig the grave this afternoon, in readiness for her burial tomorrow.

“You had not thought, I suppose, that the churchyard might be – how shall I put it? – rather a common place for one of her exceptional calling.” Sir Nicholas selected his words carefully and looked for their effect upon the priest.

“No, I had not.” The answer was measured and softly spoken. “Neither Ann nor her family thought of her experiences as setting her apart from her fellow creatures, in any sense of degree. One of the most attractive things about her was her humility.”

“Nevertheless, by the very nature of her visions and her gifts, she was set apart from the rest of us.” Sir Nicholas pursued his point with determination. “There is no possibility of her being thought ordinary.” He emphasised the last word, apparently relishing the stress laid upon it.

“None would consider her so in the spiritual sense, no,” agreed Radulph.

“Very good.” Sir Nicholas smiled at having won this concession. “And should not exceptional power of spirit deserve a more fitting place of burial than the churchyard? Are we to recognise a prodigy among us with nothing better than a grass mound?” There was a note of scorn in the knight’s voice as he delivered the last few words. “Why, I am prepared to pay for her to lie in a more seemly place within the building! And to have a proper tomb raised over her in due course. When is she to be buried?” 

“Tomorrow morning,” said Radulph. “About the second hour. She will be laid next to her mother.” He looked Sir Nicholas straight in the eye and held the other man’s gaze. “It is Robert’s particular wish.”

“It is, is it?” The eyes narrowed and hardened above the hooked nose. “That puts the matter in a different light. A father’s wishes must be respected.” His expression relaxed somewhat. “I was being a little hasty in my presuming, Father. Will she be placed in a coffin, do you know?”

“Not that I am aware of,” answered Radulph.  “It is not the way with the common people, as you know. A woollen shroud is all the covering she will have.”

“I could furnish Denny with a coffin, if he wanted one,” said the knight. “Made of elm boards. It would make the eventual task of moving his daughter much easier.” He set his jaw determinedly. “And she will be moved, Father – sooner or later.”

“Moved?” Radulph knew exactly what Sir Nicholas was driving at, but wished to hear it from him. “Why should she be moved?”

“I think you follow what I am saying, Father. You are a man of understanding.” The compliment was not warmly granted. “I mean to have my way over the girl’s elevation. Indeed, that matter may be easier to achieve now that she is dead than if she were alive. Good works have a way of becoming even better after their performer has passed from the earth, do you not think?”

It was a question which had no real answer, given the circumstances. Or it was one which demanded any answer that might be devised. Radulph parried as best he could, without aggravating an already strained relationship between himself and Sir Nicholas – which made the latter feel that he was perhaps beginning to win the argument. However, the priest was already looking further ahead, to the time when the clash of intentions must come to the point of real dispute. And it would not be just a mere exchange of words, but a testing of the attitudes which led to the words. Radulph had long been interested in the question of whether a man’s strength lay in the force of his speaking or in the power of his will. It might not be a great deal longer before he knew the answer where Sir Nicholas Bosard was concerned. Five years in the parish had created certain impressions within him regarding the man, these largely the result of the spoken witness of the parishioners themselves, but he himself had no direct experience as yet of the lord’s determination. When, he now pondered, would such experience become his own portion?

After Sir Nicholas had gone, Radulph had nothing further that day to distract him. During the afternoon, while Simpkin was digging Ann Denny’s grave, he placed the bier within the gateway ready to receive her body whenever it should arrive. The sky was beginning to darken over from the morning’s fair promise and low grey cloud was driven like smoke across the higher blue. Radulph knew instinctively what quarter the wind was shifting to and went to consult with Simpkin as to the likelihood of rain. The latter straightened from his work, leant upon his spade and sniffed loudly a couple of times.

“It’s a dry wind as yit, Father. But you know what it’s like if rain do set in from the north-east. Why do you ask?”

“Because of Ann lying overnight in the gateway. Perhaps it would be best if she were to rest in the porch until tomorrow.”

“I reckon it’s all one, as far as the poor maid’s concerned,” remarked Simpkin. “But, at least, the porch’ll keep everythin’ dry for tomorrer if it do come on to rain.”

“Yes, it will,” agreed Radulph. “I will move the bier in now, I think. How much longer are you likely to be digging?” He asked the question more for the sake of conversation than anything else, because he could see that the grave was three-parts finished.

“Not too long,” replied Simpkin. “The soil’s light enow, here. I’ll git down into it to cut the last bit out. That’ll give the poor maid her full yard, more or less.” He paused for a moment or two. “An’ I’ll lay some boards acrorss what I’re dug, just in case it do rain.”

The final measure of earth for everyone: just one good stride above ground. One full pace for the swift walker. How insignificant the human creature, when laid out beneath the sward. One stride deep and no more than two out-length. Such thoughts went through Radulph’s head as he carried the bier from the gateway into the porch and brought the hearse from the base of the tower to stand beside it. Both articles were made from oak and they had been in use for some considerable time. The colour of the wood was grey to behold and the handling of certain places over many years had produced a polish on the surface. Rasdulph ran his fingers over these smooth places, reflecting upon the effect of hands’ softness on the hardness of wood. Then he went into the body of the church once more, to fetch the pall and have that, too, in readiness.

A few hours later, just at the time when the earliest stage of dusk was drawing its fine and subtle line between day and night, Robert and Richard Denny came to the vicarage house, carrying Ann’s body upon a hurdle. Radulph walked with them to the church and together they laid the girl’s corpse on the bier. No words passed between them as they went about their task and the silence remained as the priest placed the cage-like structure of the hearse above the stiff, shrouded figure. It was only as he reached for the pall, which lay neatly folded upon the porch’s western wall-seat, that anything was said.

“I should like to keep a lyke-wake over Ann tonight.” It was Radulph who spoke. He picked up the purple cloth, shook it out and spread it over the hearse. “If that meets with your approval, Robert.” He pulled at the cloth to make it hang evenly and to get rid of any wrinkles.

“Yeah, o’ course, Father Radulph. If that’s what you want to do. Neither Richard or me intended to stop.” Robert moved to one end of the bier and rearranged the folds of the shroud about his daughter’s head and shoulders, beneath the arching of the hearse. “We both sat up, best part o’ last night, as it is.”

“It was the whole night in your case, Father,” said Richard. “I went to bed some time afore dawn.” 

“Yeah, so you did,” recalled Robert. “I was too tired to shift, so I stayed where I was. Joan went an’ slept in my bed.” He smoothed the strands of black hair away from the white forehead beneath his fingers, before drawing the end of the shroud over Ann’s face and tying it with a piece of twine. “She look just like a statue laid here. Strange to think it’s only a day since she died.”

Later, that evening, there were two statues present within the porch of the little church – though, had anyone been present to see it, he or she would have noticed the sitting figure shift its position from time to time on the wall-seat. There were occasions, too, when it rose to stand and even take a few steps to the entrance of the porch, before returning to sit once more by the bier. The wind blew hard, that night, forcing the cloud before it in headlong flight across a pale, watery, near-full moon. Flurries of fine rain, more like sea-spray than anything else in the way were thrown against the building, occurred every now and then. They made they watcher draw his cloak around him each time they came, and he would hunch his shoulders in an involuntary gesture of seeking warmth. The ear is a strong channel of the senses; and even though Radulph was out of the wind and had a roof above his head, he still shivered at each crescendo.

His night was one of watching, thinking and praying – yes, and of a little sleeping, too. The previous few days had made their demands upon both mind and body and there were occasions when, try as he might, he could not prevent his head from falling forward in weariness. Each time it happened, a small piece of his consciousness remained aware of the weight upon neck and shoulders. The larger part of him, however, slept on and knew nothing beyond the dark pit of weariness, where even great tribulation can be laid temporarily to rest. He awoke from the last of his drowsings at about that time when the earliest grey tones of morning begin to intrude upon the blackness of the night-sky. The wind and rain had died away; the sound of waves thumping against the beach’s shingle could clearly be heard; and stars glinted and shone in the outer firmament.

Radulph’s cardinal senses were so intent upon two elements that he did not at first notice the figure standing on the path, just inside the gateway of the churchyard. It did not move and he only became aware of it, right on the limit of his vision, as a column of darkness one shade deeper than that of the surrounding night – lit by the moon’s filtered light. He felt neither startled or threatened by the presence and, in bringing his attention to bear upon it, he knew the mantled form to be that of a woman. His instinct told him that this was so and his eyes confirmed the impression as they adjusted to a nearer focus. He rose from where he was sitting and walked into the archway of the porch, and as he did so he the figure stepped forward too. It was in the very moment of reaching the porch’s outer sill that Radulph lifted his eyes above the advancing shape to a point high in the sky’s great deepness. A star shone there, a star which was bigger and brighter than all others in that particular sector; and, as he looked, it expanded, burst and formed into a mighty cross. This burnt with a whiteness and intensity beyond describing, searing the imagination with its brilliance, until at last it exploded into a great ball of light which opened and spread into a flower of ultimate perfection. 

And thus, in a symbolism, which he had long reached out for, did the Fire, the Cross and the Rose finally become real. And, in that fulfilment of striving and of wanting, Radulph knew of a certainty (adjusting, slightly, those most memorable of words) that all would be well, and all would be well, and all manner of thing would be well – in his own, near world and in worlds beyond his imagining.  

CREDIT:David Butcher