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Authors: Pauline Francis
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glance around me and dig deep into my bag to find my rosary and crucifix. Then I place the rosary into Thomas’s hands, murmuring, “I resolve thee from thy sins.”
Suddenly I feel a priest’s power surge through me and I hold up my crucifix in the slanting light and pray out loud: “Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee. Blessed art Thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
From the corner of my eye, I see a movement in the trees. “Who is there?” I call out, hearing the panic in my voice.
There is no reply.
A flash of silver in the dying light. I recognized Ned’s hair at once as he knelt over a body on the ground. I moved forward, anxious to help. My eyes followed him as he sank back on his heels, pulled something from his bag and raised himself again onto his knees.
What was he doing?
Birds sang their evening song above my head as shafts of moonlight glinted on the crucifix in his hand. His words pierced my skin like arrows, each one sinking deeper than the one before… Holy Mary … Mother … sinners … death … Words of the old faith.
Anger replaced the pain and it raged through my body.
Why had he not told me?
Like a hunting hound mad with the scent of blood, I burst from the trees and ran towards him.
Her eyes blaze as she looks down at me. “You should have told me!”
“Told you what?” I ask. “That we worship the same God? Does it matter how we do it?”
“ We do not need all that clutter.”
Her cruel words shock me. “Do not call it that! What has made you so intolerant? You have no doubt just seen your cousin Mary.”
“And she repels me,” Jane says, “with her garish gowns and glittering jewels.” She sneers. “You would suit her very well. I do not need trinkets to speak to God.”
I get up to touch the ruby necklace around her neck. “And what trinket is this?”
“The Lady Mary said it would warm my cheeks.” She rips it from her neck and stuffs it in my pocket. “You should take it to her. She would make you very welcome.”
She flinches as I raise my hand in front of her face. “Is this scar not proof enough of my faith? Is it not enough for the Lady Mary to see how much I have suffered in this ungodly land?” She steps back and I move closer so that she cannot refuse to look at my palm of puckered silver. “It was for one of those trinkets, as you call it, that I have already faced the fires of hell.” I shiver in spite of my anger.
“You are not the only man to have felt the flames of hell,” she replies calmly, as if I were a child. “The Lady Mary lives in Hertfordshire. You will see the house easily from the road. It is the only one in Hunsdon with a tower. Yes, go to her !”
Her cold confidence enrages me.
“Is that all you have to say?”
She half buries her head in her hands. “I came here to forgive you.”
“Well, forgive me then! I accept your faith, Jane. So why can you not accept mine?” I reach out and touch her hair.
She does not stop me, but looks at me with softer eyes. “I do not know any other way, Ned. No painted saints, no incense, no candles. We Protestants have said no to all that. And the bread and wine of Holy Communion is just that. It does not change into Christ’s body and blood.”
“The Bible tells us what Jesus said the night before he was crucified: ‘ Take this bread in remembrance of me .’”
She sighs with impatience. “And where was Jesus when he spoke those words? He was alive, at a table, holding the bread in his hands. That is all, Ned. Bread – not body!”
“What if you reformed thinkers are wrong? Have you ever thought of that?”
I shall never forget the look on her face. She gazes straight back at me, her head held proud, her hair streaming over her shoulders, a light in her eyes I have never seen before.
“A Protestant can never be wrong.”
And she turns
Suddenly I feel a priest’s power surge through me and I hold up my crucifix in the slanting light and pray out loud: “Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee. Blessed art Thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
From the corner of my eye, I see a movement in the trees. “Who is there?” I call out, hearing the panic in my voice.
There is no reply.
A flash of silver in the dying light. I recognized Ned’s hair at once as he knelt over a body on the ground. I moved forward, anxious to help. My eyes followed him as he sank back on his heels, pulled something from his bag and raised himself again onto his knees.
What was he doing?
Birds sang their evening song above my head as shafts of moonlight glinted on the crucifix in his hand. His words pierced my skin like arrows, each one sinking deeper than the one before… Holy Mary … Mother … sinners … death … Words of the old faith.
Anger replaced the pain and it raged through my body.
Why had he not told me?
Like a hunting hound mad with the scent of blood, I burst from the trees and ran towards him.
Her eyes blaze as she looks down at me. “You should have told me!”
“Told you what?” I ask. “That we worship the same God? Does it matter how we do it?”
“ We do not need all that clutter.”
Her cruel words shock me. “Do not call it that! What has made you so intolerant? You have no doubt just seen your cousin Mary.”
“And she repels me,” Jane says, “with her garish gowns and glittering jewels.” She sneers. “You would suit her very well. I do not need trinkets to speak to God.”
I get up to touch the ruby necklace around her neck. “And what trinket is this?”
“The Lady Mary said it would warm my cheeks.” She rips it from her neck and stuffs it in my pocket. “You should take it to her. She would make you very welcome.”
She flinches as I raise my hand in front of her face. “Is this scar not proof enough of my faith? Is it not enough for the Lady Mary to see how much I have suffered in this ungodly land?” She steps back and I move closer so that she cannot refuse to look at my palm of puckered silver. “It was for one of those trinkets, as you call it, that I have already faced the fires of hell.” I shiver in spite of my anger.
“You are not the only man to have felt the flames of hell,” she replies calmly, as if I were a child. “The Lady Mary lives in Hertfordshire. You will see the house easily from the road. It is the only one in Hunsdon with a tower. Yes, go to her !”
Her cold confidence enrages me.
“Is that all you have to say?”
She half buries her head in her hands. “I came here to forgive you.”
“Well, forgive me then! I accept your faith, Jane. So why can you not accept mine?” I reach out and touch her hair.
She does not stop me, but looks at me with softer eyes. “I do not know any other way, Ned. No painted saints, no incense, no candles. We Protestants have said no to all that. And the bread and wine of Holy Communion is just that. It does not change into Christ’s body and blood.”
“The Bible tells us what Jesus said the night before he was crucified: ‘ Take this bread in remembrance of me .’”
She sighs with impatience. “And where was Jesus when he spoke those words? He was alive, at a table, holding the bread in his hands. That is all, Ned. Bread – not body!”
“What if you reformed thinkers are wrong? Have you ever thought of that?”
I shall never forget the look on her face. She gazes straight back at me, her head held proud, her hair streaming over her shoulders, a light in her eyes I have never seen before.
“A Protestant can never be wrong.”
And she turns
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