Warning of mention of violence

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. 

Previously: The monks have been threatened by the King with complicity by the Pope, that they must close the monastery. We begin to see the consequences. 

“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 go into 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. 

*******
I want to put my hands over my ears and over my heart. Why do I feel like this is some sort of ‘good-bye’? I am very sad giving this report. I keep telling myself, you are having your last gaze into their beautiful soul for this lifetime. You know there will be others. You’ve been there. You will get there again.

The ramming and splintering has ceased. They are through.  Ashen Abbot Richard, softly weakly, with tears in his eyes, says, “You might as well rise and make ready for our impending doom and imminent death. I’m not sure how they will carry this out. They have won. They will have our monastery and all of our money.

At first all I saw were black boots ‘til I shakily raised myself from the floor. Then all I saw was red. 

A deep gruff voice echoes throughout the halls. “We are the soldiers commissioned by His Majesty King Henry VIII to take control of this monastery which will be no more.

“We command these three to come forward and kneel. John Thorne… Roger James…and Richard Whiting” 

I’m sure their knees were shaking so badly, after being helped forward, they almost tumbled. Then to have the strength to bend their knees to kneel. All three had to hold on to each other so as not to tip over once down on their knees.

Then they receive their sentences. The king is making a public example of them to deter any more resistance from any other monasteries.  I saw this happen with first-time drug dealers in the 21st century. The judge wanted to make an example of them to deter any other one-time newbies.

“On this cold November’s day in 1539, you Richard Whiting will be declared the last Abbot of Glastonbury. You are accused of and have  been found guilty of taking 20,000 crowns [about £5000] from the abbey funds.”

As if the Abbot stole money for himself. The money belonged to the monastery, He probably used it to purchase those expensive shears I talked about. Or just maybe he used it for our care. What a concept.

I tune back into the bellowing voice of the lead soldier, still giving the sentence of our three leaders. “You will be carried up through the High Street on a horse-drawn hurdle and then up to the summit of the Tor.”

I barely have time to put it together. Now I know why there was inner turmoil in the 21st century every time we saw the Tor on our trip here. This is why there were repulsive responses among us. I remember the descriptions of our impressions of the journey through the town of Glastonbury as we headed toward the Tor. It was all one big foreshadowing.

The head soldier is not finished ringing the death knell with his condemnations.  “Richard Whiting, you will be hung on a gibbet with John Thorne and Roger James hanging on either side of you." That was just like the two thieves, in the scene at Calvary.

Large heavy grain sacks are placed over their heads encompassing their bodies. As they are dragged out through the giant door splinters and down the primitive steps to some carriage, terror sets in. I am so filled with panic I’m experiencing difficulty breathing. I’m fighting back tears. I avoid looking at my friends for fear I will break into loud sobs. 

Early on here, it was as if I’d been transported into a world free of air pollution and noise pollution, hatred and violence. Or so I believed. I thought I had my feet on the threshold of opposites. 

I perceived this to be a placid silent environment, fully aware people kill each other where or rather when I’m from. I had not brushed up on the history of this era. Had I known I would be zooming into here and now, I would have been more prepared and more terrified.

The imposing soldier reappears all in red, sword at his side. He is dressed in a peculiarly shaped black hat and white pants of all colors and is just a little more daunting holding a rifle. Are we going before a firing squad?  

Soon comes my answer. “We will not hang you. We will only take your holy heads.”  We are herded into our gathering room. Benches are thrown into one corner along with tables shoved aside and knocked over. The plan is to clear the floor space and have us kneel.

The executioner is making ready with his axe, a chopping block waits for each of us. Kneeling on the stained stones, I am next in line. He is so close, I can feel the heat of his bulking body.  As he stands behind me, I wonder if the hand on my shoulder is to steady me from listing to the left. 

That firm hand moves and begins tapping, that familiar tapping I had so longed for. My vision and hearing begin to blur. I can sense the hammering of my heart and loud buzzing in my ears. Nothing else. I do not hear her.

"Madeline, Madeline." It was Cordelia gently tapping and shaking my shoulder. "Madeline, hello."