An All-Consuming Fire (8 page)

“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.

A
ntony’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?

Antony sneezed explosively and realized that he was standing in water over his shoes on a chill winter evening. Whatever he did he wanted to get help fast. But first, he should preserve the record for the insurance company. He wouldn’t want a skeptical adjuster accusing him of tangling with a telephone pole and then claiming hit and run. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and did his best to get photos of the car and the scene.

Then, pulling his feet from the mire with a squishing sound, he scrambled up the bank, soaking his cassock in muddy water to the knees, and made for the relative warmth of the car.

Back in the car he considered. Did he have a duty to ring the police before moving the car? Surely there was nothing the police could do now. The hit-and-run vehicle was long gone and Antony could give no kind of a description. He had seen nothing but blinding lights. Of course, the other driver was at fault for leaving the scene of the accident—and for causing the accident by driving in the wrong lane. He was probably guilty of driving over the limit, but there would be no proof of that. Celebrating at a holiday party. That had to be the answer.

A simple accident. No one would have caused that collision on purpose. If Antony hadn’t instinctively jerked aside the crash would have been head-on. No one would knowingly put their own life in such jeopardy. And what could possibly be the purpose?

Antony heard the chug before he saw the lights. Then, from a field ahead a Land Rover rounded a clump of bushes and turned onto the road toward him. Antony jumped from the car, waving wildly. When the headlights caught Antony the driver braked and rolled down his window. “Ee, ye’r right mucky,” the farmer observed.

“Um, spot of bother. I wonder if you might be able to help me get my car out of the ditch?”

The farmer pushed his cap back and scratched his head. “How’d ye manage that?”

Antony sighed. “It’s a long story. If you could just—”

The farmer nodded. “It’s yer lucky day.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Tow rope in the back.”