The Abbey

By Lizzy Lloyd

The sound of drawn swords and mailed feet shatter the peace of the Abbey. While Maud cowers in the roof space, the Battle of Tewkesbury resounds all around her. Maud only wanted her lover, Thomas, to rescue her from an arranged marriage, but murder is on his mind. Set in 1471 this tale of lust and sin between a virgin bride and an adulterous nobleman plays out amid the Wars of the Roses.

Meanwhile, in 1983 Louise, conservation volunteer, cheerfully takes the place of an injured student cleaning the Faith Chapel within the Abbey. She also is swayed by passion into an affair with the married professor who oversees the project to preserve the Abbey. But who can she hear whispering her desperate prayers through the Abbey wall? Drawn into Maud’s tempestuous world she finds her own life playing out alongside Maud’s and her own desires lead her to lose her own path.

Once again Lizzy Lloyd cleverly intertwines the lives of two young women of the present and past who share the same dilemma. Which will be happy and which will despair?

“Author of The Whyte Hinde awarded Purple Star of Excellence in the Pacific Review.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728381558

Lizzy Lloyd

Lizzy Lloyd, author of The Whyte Hinde, finalist in the Eric Hoffer Prize, Purple Star of Excellence in Pacific Review.

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© 2019 Lizzy Lloyd. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   01/17/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8156-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8155-8 (e)

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

L izzy Lloyd grew up in Surrey in the 1960s. Surrounded by ancient woodland she had a magical childhood where reality and fantasy melted into one. This rich, creative spirit was soon realised in stories, poems and songs. Her education spanned art school, couture houses and photo editing before a career in social justice for 35 years. Her experience of ancient places, buildings and nature and an increasing insight into spiritual matters enabled her to develop novels which tantalise with their almost reachable possibilities. Influenced by the great imaginers such as Nigel Kneale, Daphne DuMaurier and William Shakespeare she found the books almost wrote themselves as if an invisible hand drove her own.

Her first novel, The Long Man, sees Colin drawn through the veil after an emotional breakdown to join the lives of a British tribe living exactly where his home stood 2000 years later. His adventures with Pagans, a new love and eventually the Romans, allows him to develop his character and discover talents he did not know he had.

Her second novel, The Whyte Hinde, sees Amber, drawn to buy an ancient house that exists half in the past and half in the present, descend into a mysterious world where she is compelled by passion to follow a handsome but cold man who reappears throughout the story. Deep and dark in its psychic links her destiny is driven by the forces emitted from the house.

The third novel, The Worsley Plague entwines the Restoration period Suzannah, who seeks to elevate herself in society, with a 1980s outbreak of the plague in a small Gloucestershire village and the detectives trying to solve two mystery deaths. How does the fate of a young girl in 1688 link with the demise of Jake, the pied-piper of Worsley?

Read any of Lizzy Lloyd’s books and be wholly enchanted.

CONTENTS

About The Author

Chapter 1     The Fall

Chapter 2     Maud’s Story

Chapter 3     The Climb

Chapter 4     Trysts

Chapter 5     The Whispering

Chapter 6     Maud’s Fall

Chapter 7     Conquest

Chapter 8     Innocence abandoned

Chapter 9     All Passion Spent

Chapter 10   Betrothal

Chapter 11   Deceit

Chapter 12   The Tower

Chapter 13   Lull Before The Storm

Chapter 14   Treachery

Chapter 15   Betrayed

Chapter 16   Retribution

Chapter 17   Resolution

CHAPTER ONE

The Fall

T he work party were breezily setting about their tasks; up ladders, up scaffolds, kneeling on the ancient stone slabs. One thousand years of history in their charge, when, crying out from near the ceiling, they heard Alan’s voice in terror, No, no, get away from me, stop, please….. As they turned, each from their own precarious perch, they watched, as if in a dream, Alan, his out flung arms and legs, akimbo, like a long flying squirrel, fall from the ceiling of the Faith Chapel to the stone floor below. Only a canvas dust sheet diminished the rapid impact on his shoulder blades and ribs; only a layer of dust to cushion his fragile skull from a tombstone, inlaid with brass.

For an instant there was silence, the combined gasps of a dozen people, then they began to scramble down, shouting for their project manager, calling to each other to call an ambulance. Louise, who had been on a ladder on the other side of the Abbey, heard and saw last. She arrived as one of the workers, a first aider, felt for Alan’s pulse and vital signs.

He’s alive, he’s knocked himself out, but he’s breathing: we’d better not move him in case he’s done his spine in. They crowded round shocked and confused. What was he saying before he fell? Who was he talking to? He sounded really scared, like there was someone there with him, but he was on his own. The first aider was testing his eye reflexes. Cover him up, he’ll be suffering from shock and concussion at least. At that point, running up from the great abbey door at the far end of the building came Mike Spence, Professor of medieval history, Northampton University, specialist advisor to the work party. What’s happened? Who is it?

The group were beginning to feel the anxiety, some of the girls sobbing, the men looking tense.

It’s Alan. He suddenly called out, as if he was talking to someone and then fell off the scaffold, flat on his back.

Another member of the group hastily came up. I’ve called the ambulance, but it’s coming from Cheltenham so it could be 10 or 15 minutes. How is he? There was no apparent injury, no twisted limbs or blood, but they knew that internal injury could be so much worse and needed a fast response to deal with. There was nothing they could do, not move him, not wake him, just wait, keep him warm and keep testing he was still alive. Mike asked for more information knowing that after the rescue questions would be asked by the authorities.

Who was nearest to him? Tariq stood forward. He was in the Faith Chapel just as normal. I was next door. He’d just said to me that he wanted to finish the ceiling today, how pleased he was at the difference. I was answering, saying mine was much more damaged and I had to be careful so it took longer. Suddenly he said, ‘No, get away from me’, but there wasn’t anyone else there. I don’t know who he was talking to!

Did anyone see anything? asked Mike.

Jessica said she was across the apse and could see Alan but he had been on the scaffold all morning. He was very nimble for all his height and had been up and down the ladder several times. She did not recall him being about to climb down, he was in the middle of the floor space, not hanging off the edge.

After another four minutes they heard the siren of the ambulance and three paramedics entered the great space of the Abbey. Their feet echoed like soldiers as they rushed up with the stretcher, head supports and a medical kit.

They again tested his vital signs and could only find that he was unconscious with a serious bruise to the head and no fracture. They put on the neck brace and carefully lifted him onto the stretcher, securing all his limbs as gently as possible. The group watched him being carried out into the ambulance and Mike Spence got in with him.

The project manager, Donald Tuck of the charity, Christian Conservators, came at the last moment having been speaking to the curator of the museum just in the road and hearing the ambulance stop outside the Abbey entrance, went to find out what was going on.

He consoled one or two of the girls and reassured them, then went to look at the site of the accident. He advised the others not to come near in case the police were called in, his mind in a turmoil of insurance, responsibility and consequences. Donald looked at the ladder still clipped to the corner of the scaffold. He gingerly climbed up its twelve foot height and looked over the edge at the floorboards at the top level. All were intact. A safe space of nine foot square, flat solid boarding with no extraneous tools or things to trip over other than Alan’s bucket of sugar soap, a sponge and a brush. The bucket was still upright, the wet sponge where he had dropped it. The patterned stone tiles of the Faith Chapel ceiling were intact, nothing had come loose - there was no evidence to show Alan had tripped or slipped before falling. Donald quietly climbed down again.

I think, out of respect to Alan, we might take an extended break, at least for the lunch time period. I need to think if there is any other action to take before we continue. Please, if you could stop your tasks, clear up for the time being and go and get some lunch. We’ll meet again at 2.30 by the camp.

Donald felt torn between consoling the weeping girls and doing his duty. He needed someone to discuss this with and Mike had now gone off in the ambulance. He made his way round to the Dean’s lodging, a grand 16th Century hall house to one side of the Abbey in search of Father Dennis. He and Mike Spence were lodging at the Dean’s while the work party camped on the Abbey field at the back. They were there for eight weeks, to clean and renovate where possible, the interior of the Abbey. Donald had organized this every other year for twelve years and they had never had any trouble before.

He rang the doorbell before entering the vast medieval hall, open to the roof, its polished mahogany boards intermittently covered with rich but precarious Persian rugs. Dennis could be anywhere in this labyrinth of domestic rooms off the hall and ringing the bell was the surest method of summoning him. He came.

Dennis, the most awful thing. One of the students has fallen from the scaffold onto the stone floor and been seriously injured, they’ve taken him to hospital in the ambulance, knocked clean out. Mike’s gone with him. Dennis motioned for him to be seated. He muttered a short prayer then looked up.

Was there any reason for it - larking about perhaps? Not at all. The other students said he was pleased to be getting on well and intent on his task. But it was so odd. He suddenly cried out just before he fell ‘No, stop, get away from me’, as if someone else was there. Dennis looked taken aback. What do we know of this young man?" said Father Dennis.

He was keen, enthusiastic, one of the characters if you like - always the first with an opinion, but not brash or loud, just exuberant about life. He had made some suggestions at the beginning of the week about allocating the work. I think after all these years I’ve got the tasks sorted well enough but I am always keen to let others have a little responsibility. It motivates them, you know. Dennis nodded sagely. But was there anything about him; someone who would imagine too much, did he drink or take drugs? No more than the others did, probably less if anything. He was a steady sort, sensible for his age. He’d never mentioned anything odd up ’til now, then he’s saying ‘get away from me’ to nobody at all! Dennis looked glum.

I’m afraid it’s all too common with young people who take mind bending drugs these days. Sometimes the symptoms come in flashbacks. I’ve been to several conferences these few years about drug abuse. People who have only experimented with LSD can have flashbacks years later. We wouldn’t know that about him, he wouldn’t necessarily tell anyone.

Dennis, could you console the other students if necessary? I need to call his next of kin and see what our insurers have to say and it always takes a long time. Don’t let anyone into the Abbey to work until I get it all clear. I have put tapes up to keep the public out. It might be a crime scene for all we know.

Donald went off to Dennis’ study to make phone calls. Dennis went out round the rear side of his house to visit the students in their camp. Most were heading for the town pubs or cafes as it was nearly lunchtime, ignoring the cheese rolls and slices of cake put by for their lunch. Some of the girls were sitting on camp chairs handing round hankies and commiserating. They at least we’re pleased to see Father Dennis.

Whilst he was happy to blandly offer platitudes he kept his ears pricked for any comments that could enlighten him to the state of mind of the victim. Surely the boy must have been clumsy or dizzy or something. Nothing the girls said made him suspicious though. They thought Alan was decent and nice. He did not seem to be in a relationship with anyone, although one girl was at college with him.

I think his mother is a widow. They live in Wolverhampton, shall I call her? No, no, Dennis calmed her. Donald will be doing that now. His mother may want to go straight to the hospital to see him and may need assistance getting there.

The girl continued to chatter on, a mild shock having overtaken her, we used to go on walks together, us and three others, in the Cotswolds. Alan was good at planning walks. He was very careful about safety. Always had a map and compass and telephone numbers of emergency services. He was like that, you felt safe with him. I bet his mother depended on him too. Dennis consoled her and spoke words of wisdom to the others. To support and offer comfort was his role, not to subscribe to circumspection and gossip. After half an hour he returned home to find Donald still talking with Christian Conservators about risk and blame and insurance.

No, he wasn’t doing anything stupid, he’d complied with all the safety regulations and he wasn’t drunk. Donald felt it was unfair they should try and find fault with Alan just to cover themselves. It wasn’t Alan’s fault and it wasn’t Donald’s fault either. No, he didn’t have mental problems either. Just because he said ‘get away from me’, it could have been a wasp round his face or something. Nothing we could avert by being more careful. No, I don’t know if he was allergic to bee stings! Be reasonable please.

He put the phone down, mouthing goodbye to you in silence to the mouthpiece. Dennis patted him on the shoulder, being a bit reactionary then? Donald smiled glumly. It’s his mother I feel sorry for. She’s a brave woman, did not react at all. Said she’d get her brother to drive her down to the hospital straight away but she wouldn’t be there until about 2.30 to 3.00pm at the earliest. We should know how badly he is injured by then.

The phone rang again and it was Mike Spence. Hello Dennis, is Donald with you? Good. They’ve started tests on Alan. It doesn’t look like a spinal injury, thank God, but severe concussion and possible haemorrhaging inside the brain. As far as they can tell, probably a broken arm and ribs. No sign of internal bleeding. He was a muscular young man, thank goodness. I’ll stay with him until his mother comes. I don’t think we should work the students for the rest of the day, do you? Dennis nodded.

Yes Mike, in respect to Alan we could have a short prayer service after lunch and hopefully you will be back by teatime to give them a morale boost. Mike rang off and Donald prepared to go and further Dennis’ work at the campsite.

It was 1983. Twenty students had volunteered to come and work on the Abbey in the school holidays. They were a mixture of historians, archaeologists and craftsmen but all had to be practicing Christians to be involved in Christian Conservators.

Some were allocated general cleaning duties dusting stone works, washing ceilings and polishing wood work. Some were repairing plaster work and painting woodwork and some were restoring ancient marble and statuary as part of their portfolio for art restoration. They were in tents erected on the Abbey field, four to a tent, eight women and twelve men altogether. Each day two of the women prepared the food and undertook domestic chores for the camp. They were committed to six hours cleaning daily - 10.00 to 1.00pm and 2.00 to 5.00pm and the rest of their time was their own. About half were local to the area, from Birmingham, Northampton and Banbury. Four were from other countries and the rest from around Britain.

Generally they were enthusiastic and sociable, having chosen to spend their free time in this way. Their expenses were all covered - accommodation, food, washing facilities at the leisure centre. All they had to do was pay for their travel to and from the site. They were free to go home at weekends if they wished and about half stayed on, including the foreign students. Tariq was from Israel studying world religion and Marianne from Rheims. Bonita was from Madrid studying art history and Sam was from Canada studying medieval history. He had met Mike Spence at a conference in Seattle and had been intrigued by the prospect of living in a still largely medieval setting.

It had been Alan’s first try at conservation work but he had worked on archaeological digs before, studying at Bath University. Louise was at Oxford studying medieval languages and had often been to Tewkesbury before and was very attached to the Abbey and the quaint, isolated community that formed the town.

Tewkesbury was built in very ancient times on a slight mound just where the Avon and Severn meet and had been founded back before the Romans. Just down the stream at Dewhurst in 1016 Cnut and Edmund Ironside had agreed a treaty to divide England into Danish and Saxon. It was a town of meetings, of borders of ley lines and boundaries.

The great Severn flowed down from the Snowdonia peaks and sometimes up during the annual ‘bore’, bringing vast quantities of melted snow in March which slowly rose over the meadows turning Tewkesbury into a Dutch landscape of endless water, pierced by lines of trees where hedges stood below the water lines or marked the banks of the rivers. Where cattle and sheep had grazed all summer youngsters skulled and rowed their way across familiar ground. The Abbey Mill restaurant stood high and proud, its feet well below the water line and its primary entrance on a walkway to the first floor from the rose garden. Clearly, the builders of Tewkesbury from its Roman origins to its Victorian descendants knew exactly how much land was safe from the highest flood and built accordingly. The vast Victorian flour mill was untouched, however much the Welsh mountains could throw at it. Behind the Abbey ran the Swilgate, a small river in summer almost fordable by foot but if a heavy rainstorm hit about the time of the March inundation, this too would cover all the playing fields and Abbey grounds leaving the great Abbey proud above the water. It was into this river, at the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471, the fleeing soldiers had fallen and the river turned to crimson with the blood of the fallen. Henceforth, the adjacent field was always called ‘the bloody meadow’. In latter days W.G. Grace had played on its cricket pitch and Walter Raleigh is said to have played bowls on its bowling green.

The town consisted of three streets, the A38 in a T junction with the high street and each branch was a hotch-potch of ancient, historical and vernacular building styles that spanned 600 years. It was most famous for its nodding gables in the high street, four storey 17th century houses, and the Georgian public houses interspersed between. Long gone was ‘double alley’ a festering fleapit of medieval housing knocked down after the war and replaced with an ugly post-Corbusier red brick shopping centre that made double alley sound attractive.

Tewkesbury had always been prosperous. Its combination of riverways, hence easy transport routes down to the Bristol Channel and up to the Midlands, meant all trade had come that way. Tewkesbury was the last ford of the Severn in days before the bridges were built. The local area was good tilth and supported both arable and stock farming and in its time had been the centre for mustard production, woollen stocking making and reeds for thatching. Its reputation for elvers was national and a good number of salmon were caught legally or by the locals once the weir was built across the fields.

Until the 16th century when Henry VIII was busy selling off the monasteries, their land and, more importantly, their gold and artefacts, the burghers of Tewkesbury were wealthy and resented losing their beautiful gold coloured church with its great square bell tower that rang out their wealth and good fortune, and they, being in favour with the King, arranged to purchase the Abbey for the town for 132 pounds and henceforth it has been its cultural centre,