Please refer to Author Notes to learn more about unfamiliar terms  or concepts 

Note: This story is beginning to follow the actual history of this place…not good. I experienced great sadness writing this.

Previously:
Abbot Richard is explaining how Brother Roger’s mission was to attend a meeting to express our monastery’s refusal to comply with the orders of King Henry VIII to close the monastery. 

*****
Abbot made a confession. “Had I realized Brother Roger would be hemmed in by Henry’s hateful henchmen, I would not have commissioned him to risk life and limb. I assumed there was room for negotiation. Obviously, I was mindlessly mistaken.” 

Abbot mentioned how he knew it was his responsibility to care for the monks and keep them safe and housed. He did not want to send them out to be homeless. 

I worry where I would go, as I don’t even know who I am as a non monk in the 16th century. As I have said I have no idea who I am, where I came from or who I might be related to here in England. I’m glad Abbot Richard recognizes the dilemma many of us would be in.

In a reassuring tone he said, “With no negotiating availed to us, we’re just going to hold our ground. Even though the Pope is in collaboration with the King we know the Lord wants us to continue, so continue we shall in His Grace.” 

OMG. Now I’m rapidly recalling what that sign on the wall in the front of this building said. This is not good. My friends and I have to get out of here. This information bodes no good end for us.

The Abbot stands to assure himself we are paying attention and cautions us with a commanding tone.  “Be absolutely careful if your job for the day is porter. You may only open the door to familiar donors.” 

I don’t think they had peek holes back in the 16th century, thus the mandate should be ‘do not under any circumstances open that door.’ However, that would mean no moolah coming in.

Mark my word, money will find another way to undo us. Someone will knock saying they have a donation and what they will be holding is not money, but trouble and a bell to ring our death knell.

As the tumultuous week wanes, the tension decreases. We go about our monkly duties, some more interesting than others. Borrowing an idiom from the 21st century, the plan for the action of retaliating against the initial experience of being shaken up is put on the back burner. This may or may not be a positive thing. When minds rest, alertness sleeps.

***********

During the winter we are working on the frugal method of our lighting source, the rush. Not the sort of rush we speak about or attempt to achieve but a natural reed. We gathered them last summer to dry out. After stripping them of their skin we soak them in animal fat to be used for lantern wicks.

The other need is for our personal candles. That procedure deals with the method of each of us dipping our individual candles into tallow. This requires something from two animals, one not so painful, the others is more melted down animal fat. 

We find great tediousness as we are to stand in silence speaking only to recite the rosary while continually dipping, a wick of John’s wool. Actually, our shepherd John’s sheeps’ wool.  After sheering the sheep we made pieces into wicks. The tallow candle burns longer and brighter than the rush one.

I wondered how we would ever shear a sheep in the 16th century. Well, I found out. The monastery must have spent a pretty pence to get those elegant shears, said sarcastically.  They weighed over a pound with some sort of spring-blade, not ‘sling-blade’ spring-blade. Uh huh.  

But they did the job and we gathered plenty for John to work with to direct us how to twist the wicks and comb the wool for him to prepare yarn for his creations, especially those Coptic socks. I want a dozen pairs of those to give out for Christmas presents. NOT. 

Although they might be quite a crowd pleaser we probably could get them on ebay. I’ll tell John/Cyndy they probably shouldn't plan on making a career out of that kind of knitting.

******

We are winding down from praying Terce at 9am and preparing for High Mass. Every one freezes when what we call ‘a policeman’s knock’ in the 21st century came at our front door. Who would be knocking at the door on a cold November day?

Many excuse it as an ordinary donor headed for some destination. As the porter marches toward the door I feel like reenacting the slow-mo scenes where someone in an attempt to stop the walker is running in slow motion shouting in deep drawn out tones, ’nnooooooo’ but as in the movies, I would have been too late and ineffective.

One of the older monks robotically rises from his wooden prayer bench, but someone puts their hand on his hip to halt him.  I take a breath of relief in and out as the blood pounds my temples and my throat grows dry.

The intruder knocks repeatedly, increasing the volume to an intimidating pulse. No donor would be this frantic and intent on relieving themselves of their hard-earned money. I fear the porter will weaken. He must remain steadfast in refraining from opening that door. Someone suggests he go consult the Abbot before responding to the knocks, if that’s what you can call them.

Just as Abbot Richard appears around the corner, the knocking which had morphed into pounding had suddenly evolved into banging with muffled shouting. The banging has turned into a ramming sound. OMG. They are using some sort of battering ram. They’ll be in here soon. Then what? That giant thick wooden door is splintering.

We have nowhere to hide.  We stand at the edge of the chapel, paralyzed. Abbott Richard directs us to turn inward toward the chapel to lay prostrate, possibly for the last time, upon this cold stone floor which seems even colder and fills me with chills. I worry about my friends. What will happen to us? I know we all make it to the 20th century sooner or later, so we will meet again.