The Atwelle Confession Read online

  Names, characters, places, and events described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual incidents and persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Joel Gordonson

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

  This edition published by SelectBooks, Inc.

  For information address SelectBooks, Inc., New York, New York.

  First Edition

  ISBN 978-1-59079-455-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Gordonson, Joel, author.

  Title: The Atwelle confession / Joel Gordonson.

  Description: First edition. | New York: SelectBooks, [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017006502

  Subjects: LCSH: Gargoyles—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3607.O5955 A95 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017006502

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To the memory of my sister Marilyn,

  who could find the good in almost everyone and everything,

  and would hold her tongue when she didn’t.

  “Disputes and delinquency leave a trail; the quietly effective does not.”

  G.W. BERNARD

  The Late Medieval English Church (2012)

  PREFACE

  WHILE THE STORYLINE AND CHARACTERS in this novel are fictional, the discovery of rare half demonic-half human wooden figures carved in the ceiling of the parish church of St. Clement is a true event. The carvings were “re-discovered” in 2012 by a good friend, a medieval historian from Cambridge, England, during her study of the unusual facets of the church in Outwell, Norfolk. BBC coverage of the discovery can be read at: www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-19077388.

  Told to me over dinner, her intriguing tale of unexpectedly peering through binoculars at something mysteriously unidentifiable in the dark ceiling of the church prompted my imagination and resulted in my rough outline of this book that same evening.

  Later, during my research and writing of the manuscript, she generously shared with me her comprehensive knowledge of the numerous remarkable facets and the history of St. Clement’s, including an ancient will of the prominent Beaupre family from the village.

  St. Clement’s is a unique collection of features and artifacts, especially for a church in a small village off the beaten path. Many of the descriptions in this book are taken from the diverse and fascinating aspects of the church. In addition to the carvings, the church houses an ancient wooden chest built with special compartments to hold important documents, an alms box with uncommon carving, monuments to influential families from the village, and a wonderfully worn spiral stone staircase leading to a porch and a parvis overlooking the nave.

  The church is being lovingly restored and preserved, despite daunting obstacles, through the efforts of a dedicated group of parishioners who deserve admiration, thanks, and our support.

  For information about the history of St. Clements, visit: www.norfolkchurches.co.uk/outwell/outwell.htm.

  For information and photos about the current restoration of St. Clement’s, visit: www.youtube.com/watch?v=azi7tSbG38c.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I AM GRATEFUL, AS ALWAYS, to have in my life the many people who are essential for transforming an idea into a manuscript and then a book. My sincere thanks go to my agent William Gladstone, to the wonderfully supportive people at SelectBooks, to Dr. Claire Daunton for her knowledge and expertise, and to “all the usual suspects” who were rounded up routinely for advice and support. And of course, to Jeanette, who cared through all of it.

  PROLOGUE

  Atwelle, a town in Norfolk, in the year 1532 Anno Domini, the 23rd year in the reign of Henry VIII, King of England

  THE TWO MEN WERE PALE from the scene they had just witnessed, though as younger men in armor they had seen death many times in battles long ago. One struggled to hold back unmanly tears. The other wiped from his brow the sheen of clammy sweat set by the shock. Neither could raise his eyes to meet the glare of the priest who stood under the full moon shining on the uncompleted stone walls surrounding them.

  “These are the most horrific and ghastly acts that humans can commit anywhere and under any circumstances. But such vile deeds done in the shadows of this unfinished church—this holy ground—can be matched in God’s eyes by no other sin.”

  The men kneeled on the ground in silence, unable to raise protest or defense.

  “There can be no doubt,” the priest continued, “that such abomination and heinous crimes shall be punished by excommunication through the pope’s edict and by execution on the King’s command. These are certain.”

  At this announcement, the shaken men looked up at the priest. One spoke with a plea in his voice. “Father, there must be some way mercy can be shown.”

  “Yes, Father,” agreed the other. “What can we do?”

  “You will do what any Christian who is responsible for sin must do,” the priest answered. “You will give confession and do penance for these evil works.”

  Both men nodded humbly. Yet the priest gave them another stern look.

  “And it will be public confession and penance.”

  “That will not happen, Father,” one of the men declared immediately as if the loathsome sight they had just experienced could be denied.

  “It cannot be,” confirmed the other. “It would be our doom, the end of our families.”

  “Hear me and make no mistake,” the priest glowered at them. “You will confess all in front of God and the world, and pay a dear price for God’s forgiveness if you are even to dare ask for His mercy.”

  As the two men started to object once again, the priest silenced them with a raised hand.

  “Hear me out, for you have no choice in the matter. Your wealth and power will proffer no immunity. But your families and fortunes will not be destroyed if you listen well and follow my instructions.

  “These words, written under your signature and seal, will state the manner by which you shall do your public confession and penance. . . .”

  Atwelle, in the year 2017 Anno Domini, the 64th year in the reign of Elizabeth II, Queen of England, Head of the Commonwealth and Supreme Governor of the Church of England

  The old vicar hastily signed the letter under the low light of the desk lamp in his church study. After sealing and addressing an envelope, he searched his desk for as many stamps as he could find. The village post office was long closed at that late hour. He had no idea of the postage required for the envelope’s distant foreign destination.

  His arthritic knees complained as he rose from his desk and hurried outside down the dark wet street. Without his hat or coat, he felt the drizzle flatten his thin gray hair and trickle uncomfortably under his clerical collar. An unpleasant taste from licking the envelope glue still sat on his tongue. Slightly out of breath, he looked cautiously over his shoulder a few moments later as he approached the mailbox that stood like a silent sentry below a dim light at the entrance to the post office.

  After carefully sliding his letter safely into the mailbox, his fingertips lingered on the slot momentarily during a desperate prayer. He drew in a deep breath and after the briefest pause exhaled a whispered “Amen.” Turning to leave, the old man was startled by a figure standing behind him.

  “Good lord, you gave me a fright! Tha
nk heavens it’s you,” he said.

  The vicar saw the familiar hand reach toward him and extended his arm to shake it in response. His open hand remained untouched—and then clenched—as a long knife slid smoothly between his ribs and through his heart.

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  1532

  To the Church Wardyns of St. Clement’s in the Parish of Atwelle,

  I bryng to you God’s blessings with this account of the progresse of the building of the new Church of St. Clement upon the consecrated grounde of our olde church in accordance with your dutys for accounts of the church.

  By the Grace of God and the gyfts of many, the walls are but finished. Through the gyfts from the wydow of John Hukesley from his estate, the beams of the roof are partially secured for carving when all mony required for the ceiling is gyven.

  Chapels honouring the two great and venerable families of Atwelle are pledged.

  Much is yet to be done without prospect of sufficient mony from accounts of the churches bee hives and annual gyfts of sheep from those who worshipp. For the roof, window glass, tower, bells, bell ropes, and pews, great sums remain without account.

  As our parish may be benefytted by riches over poverte with the King’s grant of a porte opening from this lande through our waterway out to the sea, we pray for magnanymyte not penurye that our welth myght be ediffyed to build once again this obedient church as our predecessors were wont to doo.

  Let us pray for pease within our Realme, without stryffe or contencyon, debatte or grudge, and with no sense of warre between His Majesty and the Holy Catholic Church, that well we in our church myght not be lefte wher we begann.

  Father Regis Hollowell

  2017 Margeaux Wood’s stunning green eyes glanced nervously up and down the walls of dark wooden bookshelves that surrounded her with leatherbound books from floor to ceiling. The office of the Master of Maryhouse Hall was as intimidating as the man who occupied it, the head of one of the oldest of the ancient colleges of Cambridge University.

  “We are certainly pleased to have you as a colleague and research fellow at Maryhouse Hall, Margeaux,” said Master Hodges as he leaned forward with his hands folded on the massive oak desk between them. “But there is some concern about your research and how it remains unfunded.”

  Tall and handsome, with distinguished gray sideburns, the master wore a well-tailored dark blue suit and silk college tie. He looked to Margeaux like the veritable patrician who had just completed a stint in the cabinet and the House of Lords before becoming master of a Cambridge college, because that’s precisely what he was. She tried to summon some self-confidence.

  “Master Hodges, I assure you my research is exceedingly unique from an academic and historical standpoint. Though a small church in Norfolk, St. Clement’s in Atwelle presents a variety of important questions that cry out for answers.”

  The master’s right eyebrow rose in a dismissive response far worse than if he had laughed out loud.

  “Margeaux, your credentials and work at the Sorbonne are impressive. Your publications in French academic journals are indeed noteworthy. But in this case, your interest in a collection of odds and ends in a rather undistinguished church on the edge of a remote Norfolk village is hardly the standard of research to which we aspire at Maryhouse Hall.”

  His smooth baritone voice sounded as if he had pronounced an indisputable verdict of “guilty” from the judge’s bench.

  “But Master Hodges, my conversations with the former vicar of the church have suggested several possible intriguing historical explanations that could explain and tie together the wide array of disparate and unusual features of the church. And I believe from his comments that there could be even more mysteries in this church.”

  “Is the former vicar Father Charleton? The chap who disappeared a few weeks ago without explanation?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s him,” replied Margeaux.

  He gave her a serious look.

  “Very bad business, that. As it happens, Margeaux, I am familiar with the church and some of its unique features.”

  “Really? I thought your field was law,” she replied.

  “In legal matters, one’s responsibilities can lead to the unlikeliest of places.”

  “What sort of legal matter?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you. Solicitor/client privilege, I’m afraid,” he demurred politely. “But in any event, I am not alone in questioning your research. It’s surely borne out by the lack of any interest in funding your project.”

  “Well I admit I have had several grant applications denied, but there are more pending. And,” she quickly added, “I also have some private funding in the works, Master Hodges.”

  His eyebrow raised doubtfully once again.

  “There is something special about this church. I know it,” she insisted. Both her French accent and the natural pretty pout of her lower lip became more pronounced with the conviction of her words. “I have no doubt that this undistinguished little church, as you call it, actually has important historical significance and that my efforts there can reap great rewards.”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied curtly as he stood up and gestured at the door. “How nice to see you again, Margeaux. Do keep me informed about the funding of your research.”

  Behind her smile and courteous nod, Margeaux was fuming.

  TWO

  1532 Father Regis picked his path cautiously around the puddles in the mud of the main road through Atwelle. Watching each step he took in his plain leather shoes, the priest considered with equal care the three men he planned to engage. Two of them were the wealthiest and most powerful men in the town. The third was the village idiot.

  The priest focused his thoughts first on Richard Lanham, toward whom he was treading carefully for his first encounter. Next he would talk with his friend Peter over dinner to review his progress and to plan his meeting on the morrow with Francis DuBois.

  He stepped aside as a horse approached from behind, its hooves pulling up out of the mud with a sucking sound. When he heard the horse stop, the priest looked back over his shoulder. The long sword and a broad smile below a thick, drooping red mustache left no question about the identity of the horse’s rider.

  “It looks a bit damp down there, Father. Can I give you a ride somewhere so you do not muddy yourself too terribly?”

  “Aye, Sergeant. You can,” answered the priest as he took the man’s gloved hand to pull himself up on the horse.

  The sergeant noticed that the hair coming out from under Father Regis’s black cap was beginning to match the gray of his cassock as much as the black of the open woolen gown resting on his shoulders. The large silver cross hanging from his neck clanged against the hilt of the sergeant’s sword as the priest slid up onto the horse.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Atwelle is in good hands and its peace well maintained under your protection as sergeant at arms.”

  “As the parish is in your hands, Father, as it always has been,” the large man replied. “Where will you be goin’ today then?”


  “To the Lanham manor house,” he answered.

  “To visit another king’s man, like myself,” the sergeant noted with an approving point at the Royal Badge of the Tudor rose and crowned “H” on his cap. “And what would your pope be thinkin’ about that, if he knew?”

  “Any disagreements between King Henry and the pope are no concern of a humble priest in this parish.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, Father. The disagreements between the king and the pope are starting to affect a great many people, humble or not. And that cross hanging around your neck puts you humble parish priests who live under the king’s protection right in the middle of those disagreements, I would think.”

  The priest’s brow furrowed as he looked into the mane of red hair on the back of the sergeant’s head. With each rocking step of the horse, droplets of dewy mist fell from the thick red locks to the sergeant’s leather jerkin over the green doublet on his wide shoulders. Each man pondered his position in the political tensions of the times as the horse plodded on, taking little notice when its path led through the middle of a small herd of longhaired sheep being driven down the road toward the market.

  “Has the weather slowed construction of the new church?” the sergeant asked.

  “Some. All the stones to finish the walls have been delivered from the quarry. But the workmen are waiting until drier weather to hew the timber for the roof beams.”

  “And until you’ve got some money to pay for their work,” the sergeant thought to himself.

  “Here you go then, Father,” he said as he pulled up before the large handsome manor house of Richard Lanham.

  With a hand from the sergeant, Father Regis slid off the horse’s back. “Thank you, Sergeant. I shall pray for you.”

  “Thank you, Father. But I don’t know that prayin’ will do any good for me—unlike some other things,” he answered with an affectionate pat on the intimidating sword resting against his thigh. “Do you know what this is called, Father?”