The Abbey and the Yews
Hello all. I hope everyone is enjoying the holiday season and looking forward to a blessed New Year. Recently I had the pleasure of discovering the On The Tudor Trail blog. This blog is dedicated to uncovering the rich history of Tudor England. Each entry provides a glimpse into day to day Tudor living. I too am infatuated with this time period as this is when the infamous King Henry VIII reigned. Please click on the link above to check out this great site.
As I also subscribe to the author’s Facebook page, I became aware of the annual Tudor Ghost Story contest. I entered a story and though it did not win, I am posting my entry here for you all to enjoy. Thank you for reading and for further reading please click on the Tudor Ghost Story link to enjoy the winning entries — they are both very well written.
“The Abbey and the Yews”
an original shorty story by Benny Hill
My name is Charles Michael and I am a freelance writer for a more than mediocre but less than exceptional occult magazine The Spirit Within. I am often given assignments to follow up on claims of ghost sightings or anything that may pertain to the supernatural. The work can be tedious and the rewards often slim for I have yet to encounter a genuine spirit or be amazed by anything that cannot be explained by common logic. That aside, it is a decent job when it comes to pay and hours so I stick with it.
One very convenient benefit is I work in a home office. This old desk built from solid oak has been with me since I was a child and over the years has absorbed my eclectic personality. Antique leather books are stacked neatly in the small cubbies and I find myself taking them out now and again just to engage my sense of smell with the musty odor these treasures provide. I reach for a framed newspaper article and grin at the younger version of myself staring back at me. I was twenty in this photo and ready to take on the world. The headline Sedalia’s Own Charles Michael Wins National Writing Award has faded a bit over time along with the youth of the young man in the photo. Still, it brings back wonderful memories and since I am not one to live in the past I am content to leave that young dreamer there in his moment in a frame on a shelf.
Beyond all of my writing paraphernalia lives an old fashioned answering machine with a red light that has been blinking incessantly for hours. I stretch my finger to the play button and attempt to mentally prepare for the inevitable trip to small town USA to stay in a haunted room or something similar. Beep “First message, left today at 5:45 a.m.” (You were up early) “Hi Charles, this is Kristen…. How are you this morning?!” (You are way too cheery to be an editor of an occult magazine.) “Anyway, you are probably still in bed.” (Yep, I was) “So, yeah, I got a call from a good friend who lives in England and it got me thinking.” (England? This could actually turn out to be interesting) “We have not done any pieces on English ghosts for a while now. I would like it if you could head to a place called York. Apparently, Queen Catherine Howard’s ghost – you know one of Henry VIII’s wives – can be seen in a place called King’s Manor! Isn’t that so cool?” (Cool?) “Anyway, go check it out will ya? You do have a passport right?” (Yes) “When you arrive in York and get settled in, give Ian Heworth a call. His number is 01904-542 – 034. Did you get that?” (Yes, but I know you will repeat it again) “I will repeat it again. 01904-542 – 034. Thank you Charles and let me know how it goes! Have fun; take in some sites while you are there. Talk soon! Bye!”
Well this certainly is different than the Middle America trip I usually take. I have not been to England in years nor have I ever managed to make it to York or anywhere in the north. Yorkshire is meant to be quite wonderful. A mental checklist of all I would like to do during this trip begins to form as I wait on hold with British Airways. If a writer ever needed quality inspiration, England should definitely provide it. I must make the most of this trip and considering the flight is ten hours, I can load up my Kindle with everything regarding the history of York and particularly the lovely Tudor Queen Catherine Howard.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have started our descent and will soon be landing in London Heathrow.” (Oh, how I do love the British accent) “The captain has turned the fasten seat belt sign on and we ask at this time you stow away any portable electronics you may have been using during the flight.” (Off goes the Kindle and I am disappointed at how little I ended up reading. Too much excitement to concentrate I suppose) “We thank you for flying British Airways.” The vast expanse of green comes into view along with the clusters of houses. It sure does beat the dull brown I left behind. The landing is smooth and before I know it I am standing in the queue (best get used to saying things as the Brits do) to get my passport stamped. Now outside I am delighted that Kristen booked a car for me. She may have too much energy for my taste but she does look after me. With a slam of the car door, I am now on my way to York.
The trip is nearly five hours and I am thankful to finally arrive at my little bed and breakfast. Kristen insisted I should stay at the Royal York Hotel but I had to respectfully decline. After reading in the online brochure that the hotel was originally built to accommodate the aristocracy of the North, I knew it would not be for me. A simple bed and breakfast was more down to earth and more my style. As I was checking in I grabbed a few of the pamphlets of places to visit while in York. A photo of one destination captured my attention – Fountains Abbey. With the keys to my room, I scooped up the brochure along with a couple of others and settled in for the evening.
After a very lively conversation with Kristen and a more formal one with Ian Heworth, I was able to finally relax and think about the days ahead. Ian wanted to meet in the town center in the morning and go over the game plan for the story but I put it off. I love to immerse myself into a story completely and what better way to do that than to discover the area and get to know some history first. After all, if the story is to be of Catherine Howard, a trip to Fountains Abbey would certainly be a great tie in considering this is one of many abbeys destroyed during King Henry’s Dissolution of the Monasteries. Of course I did not know that until now as I read through Wiki pages and fan pages devoted to this period of time. Perhaps it is the jet lag, lack of sleep or over excitement but I felt something odd and peculiar come over me as I drifted off to sleep. The room was no longer warm and inviting and the décor faded in and out from modern to something from a period drama. In the end I put it down to drifting in and out of consciousness for the next thing I knew I was indeed in the comfort of the B&B with a clock radio announcing it is 7:00 a.m. and time to get up.
I often heard about how quaint and proper English bed and breakfasts were but now I can fully appreciate the concept. My breakfast was already being cooked and as I inhaled the tantalizing aroma of bacon and eggs, my stomach harshly reminded me that I have not eaten since the small meal on the plane. The plate of food was so welcome I greedily devoured it. As my plate is taken away, Chris, the owner informs me that my cab to take me to the bus terminal is waiting for me. With a last swig of juice, I am out the door and looking forward to my bus trip to Ripon and then a second bus to Fountains Abbey.
With the rolling hills and so much green, Yorkshire is a nature and history lover’s dream. When I finally arrive at Fountains Abbey I am taken aback by the sacredness of where I am standing. This abbey has been around since the twelfth century – 1132 to be exact as prominently printed on the guidebook. I had no idea there were different types of monks. I was familiar with the Benedictine monks but until now never heard of Cistercian monks.
Each step I made within the grounds and among the ruins felt like a step back in time. As I attempted to take it all in, it occurred to me why I took the job of writing for an occult magazine. I have always been in tune with the spiritual realm. It is my belief that there are worlds beyond our current time far reaching into the depths of the universe. Despite this I have recently found myself closed off to these worlds in favor of the commercial aspect of “ghost hunting”. Being here now has renewed my faith and respect for all that cannot be explained in our modern times.
There are not many people here today which suits me fine. There is a majesty to the ruin that not only captivates but humbles and it amazes me how anyone could possibly destroy such a place as this. As I approach the outer walls an eerie stillness envelopes me. My hand reaches toward the ancient stone and the cold air from last night returns. I am not that tired so what could be happening? My hand has not moved from the stone and the sun that had once blanketed the world around me disappeared. I was no longer standing in the grass gazing upon a ruin but in the middle of a room. Judging by the shape of the room and considering where I was standing before, I believe I was standing in the middle of the warming house. I have passed out during a tour of Fountains Abbey I thought to myself. I really need to wake up before I make a spectacle of myself.
An ember from the fireplace escaped and landed on my foot. This should do it I thought. Not only was I not jolted awake but I was now in pain from my foot being burned from the hot ember. I brushed it away and all at once was frightened and confused. My hand was touching a wall and now I have… gone… back…… in…. time? “I brought you here.” The deep rich voice from behind me broke my spell and though I knew I should turn around I was frozen. Sensing this, the man walked in front of me. “Do not be afraid. My name is Brother Francis Hill and I am one of the monks here at the abbey.” “Sure you are. Come on, what is happening here?” “There is not much time. Hurry!” Dream or no, I did not want to remain in this room so I promptly followed Francis.
Where once there was no sound and stillness, there was now tension and the loudness that accompanies a scene of panic. Men were running everywhere, orders were being shouted. “Gather this! Don’t let them get that!” Francis was disappearing into the mix and I had to hurry to catch up. Through a small door we exited the abbey and soon were near a river. “Sit here quietly and I will explain.” I could not wait to hear this. If this was part of the dime tour, I was very impressed.
I gazed at Francis in the hope I could memorize every feature. I was still convinced this was a dream despite it all and I felt it integral to catalog every detail. It was rather disarming to see the mortal fear in his eyes and his inability to gain composure. Try as he might to pull himself together, he soon collapsed to the ground, brought his knees to his face and wept. I felt if I stared I would take away from what dignity he had left so I canvassed the area surrounding the abbey. My eyes rested on the outer wall where only moments ago my hand was resting on a ruin. Tourists were replaced by robed men and then it happened.
I can recall a scene from the movie Braveheart where Mel Gibson was explaining the threat of ‘heavy horse’. Though the film did a good job of depicting the intensity of a heavy horse attack, I realize now that it is one hundred times more impressive in real life. These were King Henry VIII’s men. Well, actually, they were Cromwell’s men carrying out the order of King Henry. They surrounded the building and made several announcements that struck terror into the hearts of these poor monks. “King Henry is dissolving this monastery and anyone that opposes shall be put to death.” This they believed with fervor for they had heard what happened to the deposed abbot William Thirsk who joined the Pilgrimage of Grace. “Now leave!”
Francis’ face grew pale, the tears streamed slowly down his cheeks and his eyes carried sadness like I have never seen. He rose and walked slowly away until we came to a group of yews and he sat again. “I brought you here as I said before. I do not know or even why but I was able to see you. I knew what was coming and the vision of you standing outside this great abbey and the intensity of your touch called out to me. I did not know what I was gazing upon. I thought perhaps you were the answer to a prayer and perhaps one who could save us and this monastery but you are not, are you? They came and seized the abbey just as they have done elsewhere. Why then? Why were you there? Who are you?”
This was becoming far too real for me now and I could not very well speak the truth. I knew there would be no acceptable way of explaining it. Francis’ eyes were pleading. I do not know how the ghost of this man was able to reach into a time 472 years into the future. Ghost? I had no answers. “I… ummm.. I… perhaps I… You said you brought me here? How did you bring me here?” This question took Francis by surprise and fear again struck his face. “I was praying. I was praying for a miracle. For something, anything, anyone to save us. I prayed like I had never prayed before. I closed my eyes and for a moment it seemed I was asleep. I could see the abbey broken apart and in ruin. Ghostly figures walked on this sacred ground where my brothers were studying, worshipping, gardening.” Francis’ voice became more frantic and tears again formed in his eyes. I tried to comfort him but it was in vain. Forcing each syllable he continued. “We… we… we heard of the dissolution but could not believe it. We are…. We were a devout order but we…. “ His voice began to taper off and through sobs he managed to say “We lost our way.”
Francis started having difficulty catching his breath. “I …………. Thought…………. I thought if I prayed hard enough we could be saved.” Again he pressed, “WHO ARE YOU?” If I reveal the truth I may shake his faith further. I tried my best to appease this poor, broken man. “Perhaps I am just a messenger. In the realms of dream and reality there is sometimes a convergence. I may be existing in this convergence and represent one who can set your mind at ease brother. You have done a great service to your fellow man and to God. There is no blame and this is not a punishment. Your prayers reached far beyond your time and fell upon this man who stands before you now. I did not come to stop the evil but to comfort the man affected by it. You will find a new home and rejoin those who have survived this senseless atrocity.”
Francis began to breathe easier and soon even stopped crying. I continued. “King Henry has been ill advised and history may reflect that one day. The ghost of this abbey and even the ghosts of those men who so willingly gave their lives to God may very well continue to reside here for eternity. My being here at your beaconing is a representation of something beyond both of our comprehension. Know this though. When I return to where I belong and you remain here I will carry with me the story of this day as will you. You can share your story and perhaps rekindle a faith that had once died in favor of complacency and greed. Coincidentally, I could do the same.”
Francis rose and put his hand upon my shoulder. “I shall make my leave now but as you say I shall carry with me the events of this day. The abbey is but a mass of timber and stone and does not represent what or who we are or were. Our energy shall remain long after our bodies return to the earth and souls to heaven. There is great comfort in that. I thank you.” As Francis walked away I began to walk toward the river and lay down to gaze at the sky. The rain began to fall and I opened my eyes. The abbey was once again a ruin and now I am left wondering. I could not have dreamed all this. As my mind raced I turned around just in time to catch a glimpse of a man looking very much like Francis disappearing in the distance. I turned the other direction to see a once proud abbey transform into the ruin we all see today.
These events have been captured as I remember them and long may they be a message to all through the ages. In closing, I leave you with these words from Fountains Abbey : the Story of a Mediaeval Monastery by George Hodges:
Only the yews look down from their gentle hill upon the broken walls. There they were when the monks came, a little adventurous company, to begin their life of seclusion and prayer. Their leaves were green when the Abbey rose in splendour, and mitred abbots walked in their shadow. They saw the expulsion of the convent and the ruin of the monastery. They are a symbol of the persistence of the quiet, elemental forces amidst our human chance and change.
