A Finer End

Faith came to her due date, only a few weeks away now at the end of October, the more concerned Winnie became about her.
    Although Garnet had assured her that Faith was doing well and the pregnancy seemed normal, Winnie sensed that Garnet was holding something back — and that both Faith and Garnet were avoiding her. Had she unwittingly alienated them by her efforts to reunite Faith with her parents?
    Nor had the tension between Nick and Garnet abated, as their mutual concern for Faith only seemed to increase their antagonism.
    And as far as Winnie knew, no one in the group seemed to have gained any true understanding of what it was that Edmund wanted of them.
    Sighing, Winnie set down her empty cup and rubbed her face. Tired, but no closer to sleep, she couldn’t shake the feeling that things were building to some sort of climax, and she found no comfort in the passage from Ephesians that came suddenly to mind. For our struggle is not against enemies of flesh and blood... hut against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Could there be some truth in Garnet’s dire forecasts of doom and dark forces?
    No, surely not. That was absurd. But whatever the cause of the foreboding she felt, she must protect Jack as best she could — and she could only do that if she knew exactly what she was up against.
    As much as she disliked the idea, it was time she had a confrontation with Simon Fitzstephen... and she mustn’t let herself forget that it was she who held the upper hand.
    With a decision made, she rinsed her cup in the sink, switched off the lamp, and climbed the stairs. Diving under the covers, she snuggled up to Jack’s solid warmth and fell instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep.
     
    *
     
    We who watch... rue the day of Thurstan’s coming .. Darkness came upon us then...
    Simon Fitzstephen sat next to Jack Montfort at the round table in Fitzstephen’s sitting room, translating aloud what Montfort had just scrawled on the page in his notebook. A fire crackled in the grate, John Rutter’s arrangement of William Byrd’s Miserere mei played softly on the stereo, and they had drawn the heavy velvet curtains against the coming of evening.
    Having invited Jack on the pretext of continuing their genealogical research, Simon had encouraged him to try asking Edmund for information once more. Fitzstephen was convinced that the presence of the others in the group hampered the automatic-writing process: it looked as though the results of this session might prove him right.
    Thurstan had been the first Norman abbot at Glastonbury, brought from Caen in France by King William after the Conquest to succeed Aethelnoth. By Simon’s reckoning, Edmund must have been in his early teens when Thurstan became abbot in 1077.
    Jack’s hand again moved across the paper. The church was never finished... it was cursed. One day the Abbot went into the Chapter House and spoke against the monks. He sent for his men and they fell upon us fully armed. We scattered in terror. Some fled into the church, thinking to be safe there. But evil... that day ... the Frenchmen broke into the choir... Some shot arrows towards the sanctuary so that they stuck in the Cross that stood above the altar. Many... monks were wounded… three were killed. Blood came from the altar on to the steps, and from the steps onto the paving stones...
    ‘Where were you?’ Simon asked softly.
    I hid in the scriptorium, among the books. But I saw… afterwards. I washed the bodies of the dead... and wept for them. I weep still for what the Abbot stole from us that day.
    ‘What was that? What did the abbot take?’
    But Jack’s hand rested unmoving on the paper, his fingers slack, and after a moment he blinked.
    ‘Get anything?’ he asked, laying down the pen and stretching.
    ‘See for yourself.’ Simon paced while Jack read, for while Jack’s translations had improved, he still didn’t think as easily in Latin as Simon did.
    Jack came to the end of the page and looked up. ‘There’s something here I don’t understand. Why did Thurstan ”speak against” the monks? Had they done something wrong?’
    ‘No. Although Thurstan was a godly man, and a builder, like all the Normans, he made the monks stop the Gregorian chant that had been part of the Abbey’s tradition from time immemorial, substituting a French chant by William of Fecamp. When the monks protested, Thurstan attacked them. You