An All-Consuming Fire Page 6

  Less than an hour’s drive brought him to the tiny village of Hampole which was really little more than a cluster of houses. Father Peter, priest from a nearby parish, his cassock blowing in the breeze, was waiting for Antony at the end of a narrow, wooded, lane. Antony leaned across the seat to open the door for him to get in the car, but the priest waved him onward. “Two more vehicles to arrive, I’m told. Don’t want them to miss the turning, it’s easily done.” So Antony continued on to the village green where Mike, Lenny and the other technicians were setting things up for the days’ shoot.

  Antony found Fred sitting in a canvas chair under a winter-bare tree, his wrapped ankle elevated. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll do. Got Ginger repaired, that’s the main thing.” Antony quizzed him in more detail about the accident, but couldn’t learn anything of seeming importance.

  A short time later the last vehicles rolled up and parked at the top of the lane. Tara approached, make-up kit at the ready. Harry began barking directions and everyone jumped to attention. Except Fred who more hobbled. Father Peter was first to come under the camera’s gaze. As the local expert he directed attention to a broken, stone gatepost in an overgrown field and a few scattered stones. “I’m afraid that’s all that remains of the medieval priory where the prioress invited Richard Rolle to come be their spiritual director in 1340.”

  Father Peter walked across the rough ground, followed by Lenny, who had temporarily abandoned his lighting panel to Simon. With a camera balanced on his shoulder, a mic on a boom and a heavy power pack slung over his shoulder, Lenny stooped to get close-up shots of the stones as the narrator continued.

  “St. Mary’s was a Cistercian nunnery, very small and probably very poor. And life would have been uncertain. Here in the border country it would have been exposed to the back and forth forays of the Scots and English armies. At any moment the nuns might have to flee before a raid, and their lands were constantly ravaged. Although Hampole was not on a direct battle line of the Scots wars, it would have received fugitive nuns from other sacked nunneries.

  “Richard came to live in a cell on the grounds of the nunnery. Here he could maintain his solitary life of meditating and writing and also serve as spiritual adviser to the nuns. It was here that he wrote his masterpiece The Fire of Love.”

  Now it was Antony’s turn. At Harry’s direction he took his stance under the bare branches of the tree in the centre of the tiny green. “And so we come to the story of Margaret Kirkby who was a young nun when Richard came to Hampole. Perhaps through the influence of Richard, who served as her spiritual director, Margaret left the community and became an anchoress. She lived in a sealed cell attached to the side of a church where she spent her days in prayer, meditation, writing and reading, and counseling those who came to her window for guidance. This was a fairly common practice in those days and some scholars think Margaret’s actions might have influenced Julian of Norwich to take up a similar life a generation later.

  “We are told that Richard was wont to instruct Margaret in the art of loving God. Richard has been called ‘the English St. Francis’ and some suggest that Margaret was a friend and inspiration to Richard such as Clare was to Francis.”

  Having set the stage, Antony could now abandon his memorized text and take up the narrative style he so preferred for his lectures. He knew the producers would use most of this narration as voice-over with robed actors pantomiming the action as he described it.

  His head filled with heavenly music, Richard was going about his joyful task of preparing for the Maundy Thursday service the parish priest would be celebrating for the sisters when the messenger arrived. Mud-spattered and drenched with the early April rains, the man squelched his way into the tiny church.

  Antony followed his own words with pictures in his mind, the dripping rough cloak, the mud-caked boots leaving prints on the stone floor of the church. “Ye the priest friend o’ our holy woman?”

  “And what holy woman would that be, my good man?” Richard was shocked by the man’s rough appearance and abrupt approach, but all were welcome in the house of God.

  “Our Margaret o’ Kirkby. Ye are. I’ve seen ye at ’er window.” It was more an accusation than an identification.

  “Yes, I am.” Richard had no thought of denying it in spite of the man’s tone. After all, if he had ridden twelve miles from Margaret’s cell in this weather it was little wonder he looked like a drowned rat.

  “Ye need t’ come.”

  “Come? Now?” Richard held his hand out to indicate the prepared altar. He had only to fill the basin for the foot washing. “Father Ailred will be here soon. We are about to celebrate our Lord’s institution of Holy Communion.”

  “Sick unto death, she is. Thirteen days now, not able t’ utter a word. Ye’d be best to make ’aste if ye care t’ see ’er in this world.”

  Richard turned instantly to fill his scrip.

  Again, Antony saw it all: the tall, thin figure in hermit’s garb, carefully placing the needed objects in a small leather pouch: a crucifix, his beads, prayer book and most important of all—a reserved host from the tabernacle.

  His inward songs of burning love seemed but a distant echo as Richard rode through the grey drizzle. Lord grant that he be not too late. No man could enter the cell of an anchoress, not even her spiritual director, so Richard took up his familiar position outside her window. The window was small, but low enough for the anchoress to be able to converse with her visitors sitting down. The heavy woven drapery kept the chill winter winds out as well as providing for her privacy. “Margaret? It is I. I’ve come to bring you the comfort of our Lord.”

  Her low moan told him that she was still alive. “Pains and prickings” his summoner had described Margaret’s sufferings and, indeed, he could hear the rustle of her tunic as she thrashed about on her straw-filled mattress.

  Even as Richard prayed for Margaret’s healing he was aware of the rich interplay of love and death, sickness and healing. He lifted his soul and was caught up into the music of heaven.

  “Richard? Is that you? Have you come to me?”

  “Aye, to plead for your healing. In this world or the next, as our Lord sees fit, but I would leif it be in this world as I can ill spare my soul friend.”

  He did not hear her move, but he felt warmth surge through him as she clasped his hand resting inside her window.

  “I have brought the body of our Lord. Are you able to partake, Margaret?”

  “Aye, let us keep the feast.”

  They shared the sacred meal, then Richard heard Margaret yawn and felt her head droop against his shoulder leaning on the window frame. Richard shifted his body to provide more support and returned to his customary internal prayer.

  Margaret slept thus for only a short time when suddenly an acute convulsion seized her. Richard cried out at the violence of the attack and tried to hold her, fearing she would injure herself.

  The seizure woke her and she proclaimed, “Gloria tibi Domine.” Glory be to thee, O Lord.

  Her voice faltered and Richard finished the verse she had begun, “Qui natus es de Virgine,” For Thou wast born of a Virgin. Together they continued on through the Compline hymn.

  Margaret now seemed fully recovered so Richard gave her a final blessing and admonition, “Now thy speech is restored to thee, use it as a woman whose speech is for good.”

  A few days later Richard returned to her cell and he and Margaret shared a meal at her worldside window. As had happened before, Margaret relaxed and became sleepy. She fell asleep leaning against Richard.

  This peaceful scene was shattered, however, when Margaret’s convulsions returned. Richard was alarmed. She became seemingly mad as she was shaken by extraordinary ferocity. Richard struggled to hold her but in spite of his efforts she slipped from his grip. The fall shook her out of her sleep.

  Appalled that he had let her drop, Richard apologized, then gave the promise that remained her security. “I give thee this
word of comfort, that as long as I shall remain in this mortal life you shalt never again suffer the torment of this illness.”

  And Margaret was healed.

  Antony paused for breath. Throughout his recital the camera had rolled and Harry remained still, although Antony suspected much—if not all—of the footage would wind up on the cutting room floor, even though it was recorded history.

  He finished the story with a quick summary. “Later, however, in September of 1349, the seizure returned—all the same symptoms except that Margaret could still speak. She sent for Richard, and a horseman rode off to Hampole.

  “The messenger returned with the news. Richard Rolle was dead. He had gone out from his hermitage to minister to victims of the Black Death that was raging in Yorkshire and so had met his death.

  “The messenger made careful inquiries and, truly, Richard Rolle’s promise had held. Margaret’s illness had not returned until shortly after the hour of Richard’s death.”

  Joy Wilkins, her sleek cap of blond hair shining above the red muffler wound around her neck, stepped forward to ask Antony about Richard Rolle as a writer.

  “Rolle was perhaps the most prolific English writer of the fourteenth century. He has been called ‘the father of English prose.’ He had remarkable versatility and ease, whether writing in Latin or English, in prose or verse. It is said that he could give cogent, even inspired, spiritual guidance verbally while continuing to write in his mellifluous Latin.”

  Antony paused and considered whether he should continue. Then, looking straight at the camera, he took a breath. “But ultimately, it is his passion, the fire of his love that shouts through the ages, singing through eight centuries, ‘Fall in love with Jesus—burn with love for him, be overcome with his sweetness, sing his praises.’ Richard Rolle was a great mystic because he was a great lover.”

  “Cut.” Even though Antony had been expecting it, Harry’s bark was startling. Unfortunately, the command was not followed by the comforting “wrap.”

  “Lunch,” though, was almost as welcome a direction.

  Antony, however, would have little time to enjoy the delights of the catering van. Harry Forslund strode across the green, his heavy eyebrows knit. “Right, lad. Cut it in half next time. What do you think we’re making—a blooming saga?” He stumped off shaking his head and muttering about academics. Just before he reached the catering caravan he tossed back over his shoulder, “But keep that last line. It has sex appeal.”

  Sylvia approached with her clip board. “Excellent information, Father Antony, and I do like your narrative style, but I’ve made a few notes.” The notes extended to three pages and Joy, whom Sylvia invited to join them, had more.

  After lunch, of which Antony managed time for about three bites, the pale sun stayed firmly hidden behind a looming cloud bank, requiring Lenny to set up more lights for the afternoon’s retakes. The expedited version of the story was declared a wrap just before darkness descended mid-afternoon.

  Antony heaved a great sigh and felt his shoulders relax as he started the engine on his borrowed community car and turned on his headlights. He wasn’t sure whether his relief was for the fact that he had completed the first segment of his assignment without totally embarrassing himself or because he now had a weekend ahead free of make-up, cameras and shouting director. Or was it because they had gotten through the day without a major mishap?

  Looking back, Antony realized he had been metaphorically holding his breath in fear of another accident and had been keeping firmly at bay the deeper, dreaded question of whether Fred and Ginger’s fall had truly been an accident.

  Now as Antony drove along the nearly deserted country lane he slipped a CD of Advent carols into the player and sang along with the hymn, “Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus, born to set thy people free…”

  The headlights played on the hedgerows as the narrow road curved up the side of a hill. Felicity had asked him to come to the bungalow for supper and, free from the worries of filming for two whole days, he could relax and even give some thought to Cynthia’s plans for their wedding. Antony smiled. He had a greater indulgence for his American mother-in-law-to-be than Felicity had for her own mother. Antony could sense Cynthia’s vulnerability under the protective shell she had built up over the years and he was aware of her desire to make up for the time she had lost with her daughter by being so distant throughout Felicity’s childhood.

  And Antony was aware that he and Cynthia had the same goal: They both wanted to make Felicity happy. Although, Cynthia’s way of going about it was counterproductive at the least. Felicity and her mother had made great strides forward last Easter when Cynthia had confessed her own pain and guilt over the death of Felicity’s brother that had precipitated Cynthia’s withdrawal from her family. But there were still years of mother-daughter bonding to be made up. Perhaps he could help as something of a mediator. Or at least bring a bit of perspective to Felicity’s brittleness.

  At the foot of the hill the road straightened out and Antony could speed up. He returned to his hymn, “Dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing hea—”

  Seemingly from out of nowhere the glare of headlights from an oncoming car caught Antony full in the face. His eyes dazzled, causing him to fling up a protective arm even as he jerked the steering wheel to the left and slammed on the brake.

  Antony’s car rocked and the rear end slewed crazily. A sickening crunch of metal made his stomach clench. He gripped the steering wheel as the impact sent his little car into a spin. With a thud it came to an abrupt stop that made his head snap. Then silence and dark.

  Chapter 6

  Antony’s eyes flew open just in time to see the tail lights of the other car fading to dim red dots as it sped away over the crest of the long hill. Where had it come from? He was certain there had been no approaching headlights as he drove down the hill. Could it possibly have borne a resemblance to the car that seemed to follow him a few days ago? There was no telling. His heart pounding so hard he thought his chest would explode, Antony struggled to clear his thoughts and remember what had happened. But it had all happened so fast. Had he been preoccupied, too absorbed in his own thoughts to avoid danger rushing at him? Yes, he had been thinking about Felicity and singing along with his CD… He suddenly became aware of the music still issuing from the steeply raked dashboard:

  By Thine own eternal Spirit

  Rule in all our hearts alone;

  By Thine all sufficient merit,

  Raise us to Thy glorious thr—

  Antony extended an unsteady finger and stabbed the player into silence, then flicked the key to turn the engine off, but left the headlights on. He did not want to be engulfed by the total darkness of the English countryside.

  He took a deep, unsteady breath. He needed to think clearly in spite of the fact that his head was spinning and his pulse racing. No, he was certain he had not been guilty of inattentive driving. That car had not been approaching normally. So where had it come from? Could it have entered from a farm track? In spite of the dark, Antony had been aware that the hedgerow lining the eastern slope of the hill had given way to intermittent bushes on this side of the slope. In such an open area surely he would have seen the lights of a vehicle approaching even from the side.

  Had it been resting in a lay-by and just pulled onto the road at that moment? Right into Antony’s path? But if the collision had been due to mere inattention on the part of the other driver, how had he reached such a furious speed so quickly? And why had he sped on?

  Surely the other driver had felt the impact of metal on metal as Antony had.

  Antony unsnapped his seat belt, pulled a torch from the glove-box and, unsure that his legs would support him, opened his door. In spite of his wobbly knees he forced himself to stand up. The cold winter air sent shivers over his body but did wonders to clear his head. He turned to focus on the task at hand.

  He needed to see the extent of the damage. The speeding car had clipped his right wing
, spinning his front tires into the drainage ditch running alongside the road. Holding to the side of the car for support and moving slowly over the uneven ground, Antony shone his light on the sadly crumpled wing. He bent down, braced his feet on the firmest ground he could find, and tugged at the deepest crease. It moved only a fraction, but that was enough to keep it from rubbing against the tire.

  Standing upright again he observed the bonnet. The impact had knocked it askew, but thankfully, the engine appeared to be unscathed. And thank goodness the community were careful about such matters as keeping up insurance. What Father Anselm would say about the damage to a community vehicle, however, Antony couldn’t imagine. And how would he get to the rest of his filming appointments? CT, as the Community of the Transfiguration referred to itself, owned three people carriers as well as this little runabout to enable them to transport the community or student groups to pilgrimages such as the annual national gathering at Walsingham, but Antony would hardly have the nerve to ask to borrow one of them. Especially after this.

  He moved forward and squatted down to examine the depth of the ditch. Perhaps two feet? Stepping into the trench for a better assessment he was instantly ankle deep in muck the tall weeds had obscured. Would the weeds give his tires enough purchase to back out? He shone his torch on the steep wall of the ditch and his heart sank. It didn’t look like there was anything for it but the delay, cost and inconvenience of having to ring for a breakdown lorry.

  Or should he ring the insurance company? Or even the police? He shuddered, thinking of his past run-ins with D I Nosterfield. Not that the West Yorkshire police would send out a Detective Inspector for such a small incident. Where was he even? If he rang 999 would the emergency services come from Dewsbury in West Yorks or Doncaster in the south? Was it even an emergency?