An Unholy Communion Page 7

  Felicity blinked. Gwena? Oh, yes, Antony spoke so seldom of Gwendolyn, his sister, but she suspected he missed her. “Oh, yes. I do hope she’ll be able to come to our wedding. And your aunt and uncle.” They were all that was left of Antony’s family after his parents had drowned in a sailing accident when he and his sister were young.

  “And your brothers,” he added, then shook his head. “It hardly seems real, does it? Our families getting together from such a distance. And your mother. And father. Have you heard anything?”

  Felicity shook her head. “Mother decided not to take the transfer to Los Angeles and is definitely staying with the law firm in Boise. I guess that’s hopeful. But I haven’t heard much from her. I keep hoping they’ll get back together.”

  They sat in silence for several moments. Bees buzzed around the mock orange bush outside the lattice and a thrush sang from a tree further away. At last Felicity got her thoughts together. As much as they would come together sitting in such an idyllic spot with the man she loved. “But Antony, I didn’t ask you to come here to talk about wedding plans. Actually, I need to tell you something.”

  In her breathless, headlong way she recounted the eerie feeling of being wakened by a voice—his voice—in the dark hall. “At first it was comforting—hearing your voice. No, more enticing, maybe. I can’t really describe it… Anyway, there was no question, I just untangled from my sleeping bag and groped my way across the floor. It was pitch black. And cold. And there you were, sleeping like—well, I don’t know what like. Just really soundly. I thought of waking you and asking if you wanted anything, but that would have been silly, wouldn’t it?

  “And then I looked around. Well, listened mostly because I couldn’t really see anything. And everyone was totally flat out. Sounded like a room full of steam engines, or something. I don’t really know what a room of steam engines would sound like.

  “And then I felt sort of, I don’t know—claustrophobic, I guess. Anyway, I really needed some fresh air. And then I found out not quite everyone else was asleep.” She repeated the snatches of overheard conversation the best she could recall. The whole affair was more and more taking on the indefiniteness of a dream. At least her glimpses of the mud-caked spade were more definite. Then she told him about her conversation with Michael that morning, and her attempts to explain it all in a reasonable light. She held her breath for his reaction.

  To her relief, Antony didn’t rebuke her for her mild bit of probing. Nor did he dismiss the whole thing as overactive imagination. Surprisingly, the thing he seemed most concerned about was her dream. “You’re certain it was my voice?”

  “Absolutely. I’m not likely to fail to recognize those plummy vowels in your beautiful tenor voice.”

  As her flowery compliments always did, this caused him to duck his head and swallow a chuckle. “Er—right. And you were soundly asleep? Dreaming?”

  “I’m not aware that I was dreaming. I think I heard you call my name three times. Twice to waken me. Then again after I was awake.”

  Antony became very still and turned more directly toward her. “You’re certain? You were awake?”

  She thought carefully. “As certain as one can be when they’ve been wakened from a sound sleep in a strange place.” She closed her eyes to relive the experience. “It was spooky. So silent. The darkness was, well—thick.

  “It was like being alone on the edge of a cliff. And then the voice. Calling me over.”

  “Over the cliff? And moments later you were aware of all the snoring and deep breathing in the room?”

  “That’s right. It wasn’t silent at all. And I didn’t have any sense of crawling over a cliff. I was going to you. How strange.”

  Antony was silent for several moments, squeezing the hand he still held in both of his. “Felicity, be careful.”

  “Why—”

  The bells began ringing from the Abbey Chapel at the side of the grounds. Antony looked at his watch. “Five minutes. Better go see that the troops are organized.” He gave her a peck of a kiss, then stopped to make a proper job of it.

  “I’ll meet you there.” Felicity watched him go, but she didn’t want to leave this tiny, golden shelter. Telling Antony about last night’s experience had sharpened it in her mind, and yet made it all the harder to understand. The sense of being outside time, outside reality. Easy enough to explain for a dream. But the sharper consciousness was from when she was awake. She touched the wooden slats of the bench she sat on. Cool in the shade. But nothing like the chill of the floor she had touched last night. Yes, she had definitely been awake.

  The bell began again with more insistence this time, forcing her to race across the garth, through the small side gate in the wall, and across the gravel path to the church beside the convent. The cool sanctuary slowed her rush. It was beautiful with its ceiling and sunburst corona soaring above the stone altar in the apse. The stained-glass window behind her, representing the hills and valleys of Wales beneath sun and sky, sent glowing swirls of rainbow that warmed the space with color.

  Felicity chose a pew behind the rows of beige-clad Sisters, next to Nancy, who was kneeling in prayer. The sacristan Sister Florence lit the candles on the altar, her veil falling softly over her face as she made a solemn bow, and returned to her seat. Felicity was aware of the other pilgrims straggling in, the newly arrived Evie and Kaylyn the last, with Antony behind them. One of the Sisters began a hymn on the organ in the loft at the back. Father Giles took the pot of holy water from the credence table and walked up and down the aisle, flinging drops of water over the worshipers to remind them of their baptism as all stood to sing on this, the Sunday after Ascension, “Let the earth rejoice and sing, alleluia!/At the triumph of our King, alleluia!/He ascends from mortal sight…”

  Felicity should have been comforted as the melody soared upward with the angelic voices of the nuns and light from the stained-glass window pooling around her. She should have been rejoicing, as Nancy beside her obviously was. But instead her mind filled with the horrifying image of a black-cassocked figure arching over the edge of a high stone tower, seeming to soar for a moment like a great, black bird, and then plummeting to earth.

  She looked at the pool of green light at her feet and almost screamed as a shadow seemed to roll over it. “…Thou didst shatter Satan’s might,/Rising glorious from the fight…” She gripped the back of the pew in front of her and concentrated on the words of the hymn. Focus on the candles, their flames reaching upward, spreading the light.

  Father Giles stepped forward and held out his arms, making his white chasuble unfurl like angels’ wings, “Let us pray. God our Father, make us joyful in the ascension of your Son, may we follow him into the new creation…”

  Felicity’s breathing steadied. She relaxed, and the service swirled around her with its familiar, comforting rhythms. Everything was fine. She was overwrought. She needed to relax. Have faith.

  Felicity’s complacence grew as the mass continued in its stately order through readings, homily, prayers. The only jarring note came when Felicity’s gaze, seeking a comforting look at Antony’s serene profile, fell instead on Kaylyn. She might not have noticed if the girl hadn’t been so stiffly expressionless before, but the glittering intensity of her face made Felicity catch her breath. There should be nothing discordant about a worshiper looking triumphant at Eucharist, especially on a feast day, but somehow Kaylyn’s look chilled Felicity.

  Concentrate on the liturgy, she told herself. Everyone rose as the organ began a hymn and Sister Florence stepped forward to present the gifts of bread and wine to Father Giles. The priest, on his side of the altar, took the elements from her hands and gave a nod as if to say, “Thank you.”

  Sister Florence returned the bow, her veil shifting forward.

  Felicity cried out as the nun’s veil ignited.

  Sister Florence became a giant paschal candle.

  Father Giles grabbed the pot of holy water he had used for the asperges and dumped it on
the blaze.

  It was all over in seconds. The entire congregation gave a sigh of relief. The Reverend Mother took the trembling Sister Florence aside to tend to her singed hair and veil.

  “I hope it’ll not be taken amiss if I comment that Pentecost is next Sunday.” Father Giles’ comment quelled the alarm. Even Sister Florence managed a weak smile. The service continued.

  All was well. It had been a simple accident.

  Felicity could have convinced herself of that if she hadn’t seen the candle flame leap sideways as if blown by unseen lips to grab the nun.

  And if she hadn’t caught the gleam of satisfaction on Kaylyn’s face.

  Chapter 8

  Monday

  Llantarnam to Llandderfel

  Feeling refreshed and energized after a good night of sleep in a real bed, a shower, a solid abbey breakfast and brief morning prayers with the Sisters, they set out early the next morning. Antony strode along the path through the abbey grounds toward the little town of Llantarnam. Sheep baaed softly in the pasture and birds called from fir trees on the far side of the field. The sun played hide-and-seek with the fluffy clouds overhead and the fresh morning air grew alternately warm and cool accordingly.

  He watched Felicity walking at the head of the crocodile of marching pilgrims and gave thanks that she seemed in good spirits in spite of her fright over yesterday’s mishap with the candle. Ryan, the official map-bearer, followed closely behind her, his tread measured by rhythmic swings of his hiking pole, and the others straggled along the narrow brown line through the green.

  It would be easy to get overconfident on such a pleasant morning. But that would be the worst thing one could do. He didn’t know what they were dealing with here; whether the disturbing events of the past days had been simple human action caused by the malice and greed one encountered on an almost daily basis—especially in his business—or whether they were threatened with something—well, something less normal.

  Nosterfield had been very right to be skeptical of any such suggestion. But Antony’s training and experience had taught him that it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Constant vigilance. And prayer. That was Antony’s job.

  As they crossed the A road and walked along a village street, the square, sharply crenelated tower of St Michael’s Church came into view. Built by the Llantarnam monks for the use of the local community, this had been the official starting point for pilgrimages like theirs for ten centuries. The massive, arched wooden door stood open. Felicity led the little band up the wide walkway through the churchyard dotted with lichen-covered tombstones leaning at various angles.

  The minibus which had been obliged to take a longer route around the fields crunched into the gravel parking space. And Michael got out, alone. “Where’s Jared?” Antony asked, pleasure in the freshness of the morning receding. “His email said he would be at the abbey no later than ten o’clock.”

  Antony had been concerned about this final addition to their group. As if what Felicity had told him about Kaylyn’s strange attitude wasn’t enough to worry about, Stephen’s notes informed him that Jared’s lengthy, consistent record of troublemaking had caused him to be excluded from school. He was now in a special program where he did very abbreviated school days. At the request of his single mother and his grandmother’s priest, Jared had been entrusted to Father Stephen—and now passed over to Antony—to participate in this experience for “therapeutic” reasons. Antony could only hope it would be therapeutic for the group as well as for Jared; if he deigned to show up. Surely Antony or the Ecumenical Council wouldn’t be held responsible if the boy had done a bunk.

  Michael held up his mobile. “He rang. Said he’d been delayed. He’ll meet us here.”

  This was not an auspicious start to Jared’s “therapy.” And Antony did not want to be delayed. His perusal of the route had already told him that they had many miles to walk today. Over some exceedingly rough terrain. He didn’t want to be looking for their accommodation after dark tonight.

  “All right, everyone inside,” Antony called to those who were wandering over the churchyard. He gave them a few minutes to look around the historic church. The stone walls were cool and the small windows limited the light, and yet the golden oak pews and gleaming golden altar cross seemed to give off a light of their own. The massive tomb bearing the arms of the Morgan family bore silent testimony to the patrimony of the area.

  “Let’s gather at the back.” The little band filed obediently into the rear pews. This was his time to set the tone for the coming days, to lay out some ground rules, to let them know what he expected of them. Nine pairs of eyes met his. Lydia and Michael to his right. Was it only happenstance they sat together, or was Felicity correct to suspect a budding romance? If so, Antony hoped it wouldn’t distract either of them. Michael as driver and Lydia as nurse were both key to the success—survival, even—of the pilgrimage.

  Colin, the budding archeologist, was talking nonstop to Ryan, the geography student. Their interests should keep them focused on the terrain and hopefully not too bored by his lectures.

  Kaylyn and Evie sat in the farthest corner. Evie’s magenta hair looking brighter than ever next to the scarlet shirt she wore today, while Kaylyn was swathed in her ritual black with silver studs. Odd that this pair would have chosen—or at least consented—to join a pilgrimage. Perhaps they were looking for answers to questions they didn’t want to admit, or didn’t realize, they were asking. If so, God give him wisdom.

  Nancy, her hands folded in her lap, her brown hair in a neat braid coiled atop her head, bent sideways to the diminutive Adam who sat beside her. The pale youth was such a scrap of humanity Antony wondered about his ability to accomplish their vigorous itinerary. But then, his sister was a nurse and he could always ride in the minibus.

  Ah, and in the corner nearest the door where the light shining through fell on her pale hair—his Felicity. They exchanged brief smiles as their eyes met, then he swallowed hard at the incredible thought that this amazing young woman was soon to be his. He cleared his throat. “Right then, just a few ground rules so we’ll all know what’s expected of us. First, order of march. The person carrying the map, which will usually be Felicity,” he looked at the large youth in front of him with the map case around his neck, “or Ryan, will stay toward the front. I’ll pretty much stay at the back with anyone who hits a slower pace. This isn’t to be a forced march, but we must stay together. There’s some rough terrain out there and we can’t have anyone going off and getting lost.

  “Michael will touch points with us every few miles. There’s no stigma attached to taking a break. Much better to ride a few miles now and then, than to overdo and not be able to finish.

  “Be sure you keep your water bottles filled. You can refill them from the minibus when we stop for breaks.”

  Lydia held up her hand. “And I’ve got sunblock for anyone who needs it.”

  “Thank you, Lydia. And we’re well supplied with plasters and anything else you might need in that line, so don’t be afraid to speak up.”

  Evie raised her hand. “Um, what about—er, facilities?” She swallowed the word in a giggle.

  Antony smiled. “A fair question. Rest stops are indicated on the route map. Other than that, I’m afraid you’ll have to find a bush.” Evie gasped and giggled again. It was probably an honest question, but if she’d asked it to embarrass him, it was clear that it had backfired.

  “I can’t stress enough that this is a community exercise. We’re in this together. It isn’t a race or an endurance contest. I’m sure you’ll all be good about helping each other. And as you walk, don’t just walk with your friend. Be sure you walk with different people, get to know each other. And no iPods or any such thing in your ears. That cuts against community.

  “Now, we’ll be saying the Stations of the Cross every day. It’ll be a good way to help mark the miles and to remember what we’re all about. Also, we have a cross to carry, which Father Stephen made
for us. We’ll pass it around. Again, it will remind us what we’re about and let others know as well.

  “We’ll start with the first Station out in the churchyard.” As the pilgrims filed back out into the midmorning, Antony looked at his watch. Jared was more than an hour late. He hated to walk on and leave the minibus to wait. It wasn’t good to get too far apart. Would they be stuck here all day? No wonder the boy had run afoul of authority if he was this irresponsible.

  The deep grass gave off its distinctive scent as they walked to the far side of the yard to stand in a ragged circle under a spreading beech tree. Michael brought the cross from the van, perhaps five feet tall, fashioned from rough tree limbs lashed together with heavy cord. A powerful symbol, indeed. Antony unfolded the paper he took from his pocket. “I’ve chosen a Stations service that follows the way of the cross through the thoughts of a Roman centurion. I thought it would be appropriate since we’ll be encountering some Roman sites on our walk, and those of you who were with us in Caerleon heard the story of two of Britain’s first martyrs who were Roman soldiers.

  “‘The first Station, Jesus is condemned…’ The brief scripture passage recalling Pilate asking the mob clamoring for Jesus’ crucifixion, ‘Why? What harm has he done?’ was followed by the centurion’s musing on Jesus’ demeanor: ‘He didn’t shout and rave like most of them; just took it all calmly…’”

  They knelt in the soft, unmown grass for the final prayer. “We praise you and bless—”

  The ending was ragged as they were interrupted by a cheery shout. “Halloo, sorry about being late. I mean, I coulda walked faster than that coach from Swansea.” A tall, lanky, redheaded youth strode across the churchyard, stepping over the lower tombstones rather than going around them. He wore a camouflage rucksack and carried a large, well-stuffed duffel bag as if it were weightless.

  Antony stood, and stepped toward the newcomer. “You must be Jared.” Recriminations over his late arrival dispersed at the young man’s wide, open smile that lit up his blue eyes.