Southend U3A

September 2023

I Never Thought I Would See Him Again - Jan Norman

It was 1536; two years after Henry VIII had declared himself Supreme Head of the Church of England and began the dissolution of the monasteries.

I, Prior Cuthbert Lumbarde knelt on the altar steps of my beloved Priory, St James of Bristol, praying for God’s guidance, as I had done many times before, with little real hope that He would answer me. He had remained silent whilst Monasteries had been closing at an alarming rate. A few exceptions, those with status or rich patronage, would survive but my little priory had nothing special to offer the king or Abbott Giles Mortimer of Tewkesbury Abbey, our mother house.

One by one the Benedictine monks living under my benevolent care had been found places in larger monasteries; besides me Brother Ambrose was the only other creature in this cold and lonely house of God, but not for long I thought.

Sighing deeply and shifting my weight to lessen the pain in my knees I tried to empty my mind of sinful misgivings about a God who seemed to have abandoned his faithful servant and let it be filled with only praise for my Maker whom, I thought glumly, I would see soon enough.

The cold whisperings of the night air sighing through the church began to increase, stirring wisps of hair on my tonsured pate and then whipping the hood of my rough woollen habit against the back of my head. The altar began to shake and the cross fell to the floor with a crash. This unholy wind was now in my head. The pitch of it was causing me to clasp my head in agony and the wind scoured my body with the rough cloth of my habit. Through closed eyelids I could see a fearful bright light growing in front of me and I began to pray for my soul as I had never prayed before.

Suddenly everything went still and quiet. Unable to retain my balance as the wind abated I dropped to the floor on all fours panting hard, unable to look at the apparition that I knew had just appeared before me. A deep resonant voice filled my head. ‘Rise up child and look upon the face of Michael, a messenger from heaven sent to save you and this house. Come. You have nothing to fear.’

Dazed I pushed myself to my knees and dared to gaze into the face of God’s highest, the Angel Michael. The figure was huge and wavered before me as if in water. Illuminated from above both visage and gown shimmered and the outer feathers of His folded wings ruffled as if caressed by the very breath of God.

‘As one of God’s faithful you have been chosen to undertake a dreadful ordeal. In its successful performance lies your salvation and that of this holy h

ouse and order. Do you promise to do all that is asked of you, Prior Cuthbert, and ask no question? Answer!’ Overawed and terrified I shrieked out, ‘Yes, yes. For the love of God I will do anything, anything!’

Smiling beatifically Michael outlined my mission. I was to commit sacrilege. I was to open the tomb of the late Earl of Somerset who had been, by all accounts, a hell-raiser; an ungodly man. I was to find and remove a weighty tome that had been buried with him then deliver this sacred book to the Abbot of Tewkesbury. Did I understand? Failure meant Satan’s resurrection! No-one was to know of this, not even my fellow Brother Ambrose. I swore on the Word of God. I would complete my mission without question.

The Holy One seemed to raise his hand in benediction at my words and then in a frigid blast of air and impossibly bright light vanished into the ground leaving a ring of cracked and charred tiles.

This was too much! I flung myself onto the floor, arms and legs spread as an oblate in penance, and prayed. For minutes or hours, I know not, I stayed this way until breath stilled and reason returned and I left to plan the execution of my sacred task.

For three nights I forsook sleep and sustenance and, fuelled only by my love of God and a bottle of whiskey from the cellar, dug and prised my way into the Earl’s final resting place. Forbidding Ambrose to leave his dormitory during the long hours of the night, even for the celebration of Prime, I laboured on. I knew he thought I had finally had taken leave of my senses but he did as he was bid for the love he bore me.

There it was, beneath the rotting corpse of the Earl in a hollow in the stone sarcophagus, a wooden box wrapped in oilskins. Inside was a large metal bound book with pages made of some animal skin. Written in Latin the work seemed to relate to the works of Satan. Shaking with the horror of the deed and excitement at accomplishing God’s will I stopped only to wash the stench of corruption from my body and don a clean robe. Mounting our donkey I bade Ambrose farewell and headed for Tewkesbury Abbey.

When at last granted an audience with Abbot Giles Mortimer I spilled out my miraculous encounter with God’s highest envoy and the task entrusted to me. He listened with interest and a gleam of what I would call unholy joy lit his face at the sight of the book and he fairly snatched it out of my hands. Trembling with excitement he perused a few pages then snapped it shut and hid it away in its box.

Fervently embracing me he cried, ‘Cuthbert, you have succeeded above all men; here before you lays the sacred book circumscribing the Heavenly spells needed to cast Satan once and for all into the Abyss. Once Satan’s grip has loosened his hold on His Majesty, King Henry VIII, we are sure all monasteries will be reinstated and our country made Catholic once more.’ As reward for your devotion to God I insist you accompany me to the ceremony when Satan is banished.’

My joy knew no bounds. Gladly accepting I was given a room and told to rest until the ceremony later that evening. Nearer the time I bathed and was given sumptuous robes to wear. The Abbot came in and poured out a goblet of wine for me that he said would steady my nerves for the ordeal to come.

Feeling more than a little out of things I stumbled down the winding stone staircase, barely feeling the pain as I scraped my arm on the wall. His voice had diminished to a faint drone and I was not prepared for what I was to see as he fairly shoved me into a room. Here splendidly dressed acolytes were swirling hypnotically around a stone altar chanting Latin. A frisson of alarm surged into my consciousness as many hands lifted me to lay me on its polished surface but my limbs were paralyzed.

A hush ensued and a masked figure approached holding a dagger. My bleary eyes watched uncomprehendingly until I heard the distinct voice of the Abbot invoking Satan’s henchman Azazel. I was not prepared for the apparition. In very much the same way as before it appeared with shattering sound and vibration. The audience gasped and then fell silent and my heart stopped. The face of the Angel Michael was before me. I never thought I would see him again. As I spoke his name His beautiful smile twisted into an ugly sneer. In fact his whole image changed. His face became demonic and flames flickered from his wing tips.

‘Fool that you are, I am Azazel, the right hand of Satan himself, one of the fallen Angels. It was I that appeared before you and charged you with finding the Book of the End of Time. It is God who will be banished into the Abyss along with His Angels when the dagger stills your heart. Giles stepped forward, the raised dagger glinting in the glow of the torches, ready to plunge into my heart.

My mind cleared in an instant and I reached out to God and his choir of Angels. From deep within me burst forth a Latin phrase of unknown words. Azazel screamed his fury as the ground opened up to take him back to Hell. Fire spurted from this abyss and soon a maelstrom of flames and hideous demons filled the chamber. Everyone was on fire; screaming and running in every direction tearing at burning hair and clothes and clawing demons. The chamber and its horrors began to recede. The love of God surrounded me. The inferno had not touched me at all. Once in the cool night air outside the Abbey I wept tears of joy. God had seen all and forgiven me – his by now well and truly devoted servant.