An All-Consuming Fire Read online

  Felicity gave a sniff and raised her head. “What will happen now? Do you think we’ll be able to go ahead with the pageant?”

  “I’ll ask Nosterfield, but I expect we can use the quarry again when his men have finished searching for clues. You didn’t have another rehearsal scheduled in here until Saturday, did you?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, day after tomorrow. Will you be free to go ahead with your filming tomorrow?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Nosterfield’s men finished getting statements from the teens and he dismissed them all with a wave of his hand and a barked order to be sure everyone gave their contact information to the sergeant. And let me now if you’re planning to leave town.” Antony wasn’t sure a drive to Ampleforth constituted ‘leaving town’ but he gave the inspector his filming agenda for the following week. He didn’t mention their honeymoon, though. Surely everything would be cleared up by then. Please, God. They couldn’t have all this hanging over their wedding.

  They walked back to his college rooms in silence, then he stopped. “Felicity, will you be all right to go on with your mother and Gwena? I need to go through my notes before I face those cameras again tomorrow. I’m afraid I rather put it all out of my mind over Christmas.”

  She smiled. “Don’t sound so apologetic. Of course I’ll be fine. And I’m sure a break was good for you. Come down for supper?”

  He assured her he would and they kissed. He couldn’t believe how hard parting was—even for such a short distance for a couple of hours. Ten days until their wedding… He took a deep breath and swiped his card to unlock the door on the deserted dormitory.

  Inside his room he turned on the lights and shivered. He turned up the knob on the radiator and switched on his tiny electric heater. Still the space felt cold as a—he rejected the word that sprang to mind and substituted ‘monk’s cell’. That should help him get in the mood for swotting up a work written by a medieval Carthusian monk who lived as a hermit.

  Without taking his coat off Antony settled at his desk and opened a drawer. He pulled out his file on The Cloud of Unknowing and flipped it open. Then stared. The file was empty. What could he have done with his notes? Surely he hadn’t taken them out to study and forgotten? Oh, maybe he had misfiled them with one of the monasteries associated with the author. But they were in neither his Ampleforth nor Mount Grace files.

  Nothing for it but to look in every file to see what he could have done. He found them at last in his Rievaulx file. But that made no sense. And he was certain they weren’t there when he prepared his notes for filming that segment of the series.

  He leaned back in his chair and took a closer look at his desk. The lid was secure on his carved wooden pencil box, his anglepoise lamp was exactly in the position he always liked it. His computer mouse just at the angle to fit his hand. Or was it? The question flitted through his mind to wonder if he should ring Inspector Nosterfield and ask him to dust it for fingerprints.

  Surely that was the height of paranoia. After all, nothing was missing. And why would anything be? He kept nothing of value in his room. Concentrate, he told himself and turned to his notes. Still, he didn’t touch his mouse. He preferred to work on paper anyway.

  But his notes seemed such a jumble. Or was it his mind that was a jumble? He put his notes aside and took from his shelf a well-worn paperback edition of The Cloud of Unknowing. He let the volume fall open as it would and he began reading near the front where the author advises his reader on how to approach a God who is hidden under a cloud of darkness.

  Antony gave a little half-smile. Darkness, indeed, he thought. Little surprise God seemed veiled from sight when human behavior was so shrouded. Antony began reading where the author sought first to define this cloud. “When I speak of darkness, I mean the absence of knowledge. It is a darkness of unknowing that lies between you and your God.”

  Antony closed the book with a sigh. Internal blindness. That was exactly what he was dealing with. Groping forward as one would grope one’s way across a dark room. And stumbling over dead bodies in the process. He pushed the thought away. The police were handling that. The cloud he needed to find his way through at this moment was: how could he best introduce such an obscure work to a twenty-first century television audience in a way that would keep his viewers from switching over to the football?

  How ironic, that this book which deals with the difficulty of knowing God was by a completely unknown author. Scholars were ninety-five percent certain the author was male; ninety-five percent agreed he was a Carthusian monk. From internal evidence in the manuscript, primarily the east Midlands dialect in which he wrote, it was often assumed he was from Nottinghamshire and very likely that he knew Walter Hilton.

  Antony drew a line through that last phrase. They wouldn’t be talking about Hilton for a week yet. Mentioning him now would just confuse his viewers. Yet, for all the difficulty Antony was having getting hold of his subject, the Cloud author was a practical mystic. He had produced a straightforward handbook of how to do what Americans called centering prayer, but was more widely known as contemplative prayer. In Carthusian monasteries across Europe the monks had practiced this wordless prayer for half an hour following their corporate worship every day, so this practical hands-on book became extremely popular in the fourteenth century.

  And with that thought, Antony knew how to approach his audience. Not with a handbook on mystical prayer, but with today’s newspaper. He would show current headlines to parallel the turmoil which had served as background for the writing of this ancient book: The Hundred Years War, schism in the church, the Black Death… Did times never change?

  And yet the cloud writings show it is possible to possess peace in one’s soul. Through it all it was possible to live above the turmoil.

  Chapter 16

  Feast of St. John the Evangelist

  “Oh, how good to get away from that place. A change of scenery is exactly what we needed.” Antony murmured agreement with Cynthia’s words, but didn’t release his grip on the arm rest as Cynthia swung the car around yet another curve in the narrow road bordered by hedgerows and tall grasses and swept on across the moor past Thirsk.

  “I can’t imagine why Felicity would prefer to go to that youth centre with your sister than come with us.”

  “I don’t think she felt she had much choice. Sending Gwena off to deal with that lot on her own would be rather throwing Gwen to the wolves.” He had been disappointed at Felicity’s choice, too, but he understood her sense of responsibility. He wasn’t sure, though, whether her protective instincts were for Gwena or for the teens. Felicity had said a few things that made him think she was developing quite a fondness for some of her young charges.

  “So what’s the topic today?” Cynthia asked.

  “The Cloud of Unknowing, one of the masterpieces of English mysticism. Today we look at the book; Monday we do the man. Well, not the specific man because we don’t know who he was, but we’ll go to a monastery very much like the one we believe he lived in.”

  “I thought we were going to a monastery today.”

  “We certainly are. Ampleforth is one of the largest, best-known monasteries in England. The community have been here since the early eighteen hundreds, but they claim descent from the pre-reformation community at Westminster. They are widely known for their scholarship and they run one of the top colleges in England.”

  “But you’re just going there to look at books?”

  “Yes, Ampleforth has the earliest manuscripts of The Cloud. I think Harry is hoping to attract scholars to his viewing audience and to make it all seem a little more concrete and—um, maybe even relevant by showing the books.” Wondering what Harry’s chances of success were, Antony sank into silence as Cynthia sped on across the north Yorkshire moors.

  A few minutes later, though, she jerked him out of his reverie with a cry. “Duncombe Park. That sign said Duncombe Park. We must be going in circles. That’s right by Rievaulx, isn’t it?�
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  Antony agreed it was. He was rather surprised himself. He hadn’t realized they were this close. But he returned to his earlier worry as his statement about making the mini-series concrete and relevant spun in his mind. He was all-too aware that much of the burden was on him. If his narrative was boring even stellar camera work and cutting wouldn’t carry the day.

  When they turned off High Bank Road to Ampleforth Abbey and the impressive breadth of the golden stone buildings set on the edge of sweeping green fields spread out before him he at least had no worries about picturesque subject matter. Nor did he when Sylvia lead them from the reception area to the church. “Midday prayers first,” she said. “I got permission to film—as long as we’re unobtrusive. Should provide great atmosphere.”

  And a few minutes later Antony mentally applauded the visual wisdom of the producer’s choice. Two long rows of black-robed monks processed in before them, the lines curving around each side of the gray stone altar, chanting the introit for the day, the feast of St. John, apostle and evangelist. “In medio ecclesiae aperuit os eius.” In the midst of the Church he opened his mouth. The Gregorian chant rose to the tall, gothic vaulting overhead and swirled around the nearly empty sanctuary which would have been full to bursting with students during term time.

  Antony joined in the antiphonally chanted psalms, but it was the midday prayer that most spoke to his own concerns: “All-powerful and ever-living God, with you there is no darkness, from you nothing is hid. Fill us with the radiance of your light: may we understand the law you have given us and live it with generosity and faith…”

  Back out in the narthex Harry approached with a gaunt, bespeckled monk in tow. “All right now Father Antony, Father Theobald here will take you on down to the archives so you can get organized for explaining the manuscripts to our viewers. We’ll be outside, getting some footage of the grounds. Great place you’ve got here, Father.”

  Theobald ducked his head in assent, but Antony caught a gleam of amusement behind the spectacles. The monk led the way through a long corridor of the monastery, then around back to the monastery library which he unlocked with a key from a large ring he pulled from his cassock pocket. “I hope you will be comfortable here, Father Antony. This is the room we make available to what we call externs—people who come from outside to read our holdings.”

  He ushered Antony into a white-walled room filled with a long table scattered with a variety of periodicals and artifacts. Antony thanked him, then asked, somewhat diffidently, “So then, this isn’t the room where… Er—I’m so sorry about Father Paulinus.”

  Theobald removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and pinched the bridge of his thin nose. “Mmm, yes. Thank you. Terrible shock, it was. The fire inspectors still haven’t figured out how it happened. Terrible.” He shook his head. “But, yes, you’re quite right. Paulinus had a study retreat at the back of the community grounds. Rather in emulation of the hermits he admired. The accident occurred there.”

  “So he didn’t have the manuscripts with him?” Antony was afraid it would sound callous to say that, at least, was a blessing when a life had been lost.

  “No, we must be thankful for small mercies. Although I’m afraid his notes are irreplaceable. He was a fine scholar and had covered some quite new territory for his book. Still, we must be thankful for what is spared to us.” He indicated a chair for Antony to take at the end of the table.

  “We actually have two early manuscripts.” He pointed to the volumes in sturdy white archival boxes on the table. “I imagine you’ll be most interested in this one, as it’s the oldest. And I’ve also pulled some other things you might like to take a look at. I know Father Paulinus spent some time with them.” He opened a box containing four slim volumes. Antony reached for the top one labeled: “SECRETUM SIVE MYSTICUM, containing an Exposition of the Book called the Cloud:” It was dated 1678.

  Expositions. Not the manuscripts themselves, Antony noted. If only Father Paulinus had left a sheet of his notes tucked neatly inside. Antony opened the book hopefully, but no revelatory sheet fell out. Apparently he would have to do his own spadework.

  “I’ll leave you to get on with it then.” Father Theobald moved toward the door. “Toilets just there.” He indicated a door at the back of the room. “If the place catches fire leave by that door.” He pointed in the opposite direction.

  Antony winced. He supposed that was the standard health and safety notice, but in the light of what had happened to his predecessor he didn’t find it comforting. The fire that destroyed Paulinus and his papers, though, had taken place in a remote part of the monastery, not in this secure inner sanctum to which one must have a pass and a guiding monk with a sturdy ring of keys for access. If the conflagration had been anything other than the accident it was assumed to be, however, its isolated location would have certainly made it more accessible to intruders.

  If that were the case the fire inspectors would find the answer. Or would they only find more questions?

  He turned to the boxes in front of him and opened the first volume. It was approximately nine inches by seven inches and an inch thick, bound in a rich, golden calfskin. Seventeenth century. One of the earliest—perhaps the earliest extant copy. Antony felt a small tingle of excitement to be holding such a treasure. It was inscribed “Be ye humbled under ye mighty hand of God. 1 Pet.15 A Brief Treatife called The Cloud in which are contained many high points of Divine Contemplation, gathered by the Author thereof…”

  Ampleforth’s ornate library stamp of a medieval monk bearing an oversize quill pen filled the rest of the page. Antony turned a few of the carefully preserved parchment pages. A note in the front had told him that the scribe of this manuscript was Dom Wilfrid Reeve who made the copy in 1677 and died in 1693. Dom Wilfrid had written in a tidy flowing hand that was still easily read today. But time was getting on.

  Antony took the other volume from the box, this a dark brown calfskin stamped with a gold chrysanthemum design. Inside, the cover revealed colorful end papers swirled in red, gold, white and blue and a bookplate stating the name of the donor of the volume to Ampleforth Abbey. But the thing Antony found far more interesting, were the copious doodles that filled every corner of the pages. Random letters and figures danced across formerly blank pages at the beginning and the end of the volume, as well as several copies of the alphabet. Here, A to p, leaving out the letter j and on another page A to q, omitting I. And yet another page of alphabet practices, this with many A’s and then the letters A to r, again, omitting the j.

  Antony briefly pondered whether or not this could be some kind of a code. He knew, however, that the letter j was one of the last to be added to the English alphabet. So the only clue this held was to when the owner of the book lived.

  Only one scrawl seemed to give any indication that the owner understood anything of the contents of the volume he apparently found most valuable for its blank pages. “If you expect to conquer this vaine airs your working mind must largely surrender” he had written.

  Although shocked by such treatment of a priceless treasure, Antony couldn’t help but be drawn to the exuberance of the scrawls. And then he discovered the perpetrator of the graffiti. “John Ward Book” it said, and on the next page John Ward had written his name three times as if practicing his penmanship. But most of John Ward’s energies had gone into creating animal figures. On one page a rambunctious fire-breathing dragon stood on his hind legs and clawed the air.

  But by far John Ward’s favorite subject was peacocks. One fine male cock seemed in danger of having his speckled tail feathers set alight by the fire-breather while five peacocks looked on from across the page.

  Antony considered. Had Master Ward simply been taken with the beauty of these strange birds? Or perhaps been attempting sketches of pets on his family property? Or was there a larger meaning here? In heraldry the peacock was a symbol of resurrection and immortality and was also used to represent beauty, power and knowledge. An association with John Wa
rd’s own family crest?

  But that was idle speculation and the film crew would be upon him soon. Antony started to close the book, then a scramble of letters caught his attention He turned the tome around in an attempt to decipher it and the book slipped form his grip. Horrified that he might have damaged the ancient volume, Antony picked it up and turned it over carefully. Then breathed a sigh of relief. No damage done. He put it back in the box.

  That was when he noticed the sheet of paper that had fallen from between the pages. It was on modern paper and in a much more modern handwriting than the pages it had dropped from. Several columns, each one a list of names. And, interestingly a small doodle that looked like one of John Ward’s peacocks by the last and shortest list.

  Could Father Paulinus—surely it was his work—have been on the track of identifying the Cloud author? What an academic coup that would have been. Or was he tracing the lineage of the scribe who made this copy? Or of the scribbulous John Ward? Whatever it was Father Theobald might have an idea—or at the very least, be interested to see it. Antony returned the paper to the box. He must remember to tell the Archivist when he returned.

  Antony turned to one of the treatises on the Cloud from the other box, this one by Maurice Chauncey, a monk of the Charter House in London who fled to Flanders under Henry VIII, but before he could tuck into the reading Father Theobald entered again, this time followed by a most unmonastic entourage.

  “Right now, camera in that corner.” Harry pointed to Fred, unaccompanied by Ginger. He was obliged to use a handheld camera in these tight spaces. “Lenny, we need lights. Sylvie, our good father here is looking peaky. See what you can do with him.” It seemed that under the pressure of a shooting schedule Harry was capable of forgetting that his wife was the producer of this series, which technically made her his boss.

  In a few minutes all was ready and Antony faced the camera holding the small rectangle of golden calfskin. “I hold here a book of mysteries. Who wrote it? When? Where?