Lighten my load: a tale from the past

Thomas Gunter sat hunched at the table set by the window to catch every glance of light. Tears snail-traced down his face unchecked and unheeded. This time of year, with its bonfires and burnings of Guy Fawkes, pierced him with memories of the damaging hatred towards people like him who kept the Old Faith.

He reflected miserably on what had happened, what was it now, six years ago? If he closed his eyes, he could see Father David in this room, celebrating mass with the small group of local people. Father David returning to this house having comforted his flock with a visit, a sympathetic ear and a blessing. Father David recommending charity and support for the poor, or for the recently bereaved, or for those in difficult circumstances. Even now, his own fury and feelings of incredulity were still as fresh as they had been when he heard the news that Father David had been arrested by that fanatic John Arnold, revelling in his clever action and his anti-Catholic hate.

Thomas had felt able, secure in the protection of the family name of Gunter, to visit Father David while he was imprisoned at Usk and give money to pay the goaler for his comfort. He pushed away his anger, shaking his head at himself, recalling Father David’s words of forgiveness. Father David and other priests had been taken all the way to London to be questioned about the Popish Plot – but how could they know about something that was all a lie, a fabrication?

He shook his head in disbelief. They were brought back to further imprisonment while most people had hoped that it would just blow over. He had forced himself go to the execution and, with the local people, held back the executioner until the hanging was complete. But he could not bear to stay for the rest of the ritual punishment for treason. Unable to contain his rage and anguish, he had pushed his way through the crowd. Some touched his arm in sympathy, others were too busy trying to see what was happening to even notice him.

He found his horse and returned, with eyes stinging and lips compressed, back home to Abergavenny. It was thanks to God that he had not fallen on the journey as he could hardly see where he was going and his horse, sensing his distress, had shied at every waving branch. The days, weeks and months that followed had seemed endlessly filled with dark despair. So many of their priests were killed, through the legal punishment for treason, or from fleeing through the malign weather of winter. Their flocks left to their own resources in the long years that followed.

It was hopeless to try and concentrate on business today. He pushed at his papers and some fell to the floor with its wide floorboards. If only King Charles had died a little sooner…but that was a treasonous thought leading to the same death as Father David. Now there was a Catholic King, James the second, on the throne. Perhaps now, under King James, he could seek to support a priest again and welcome him into this room at the top of the house. The last six years had been so hard with no priests daring to come into Monmouthshire after the priests had to flee from the Cwm, the blessed centre for their training, just over the border in Herefordshire.

He looked around the bare attic room, lit by the window overlooking the busy entrance road through the south gate of the town into Cross Street. The room looked mean, neglected, and needed painting. He sat upright, feeling invigorated by looking forward with hope. He would have the walls painted, have an altar piece of the Adoration – that would be an excellent painting for a chapel here. He could welcome a new priest here with the chapel as a memorial to those martyred. As he planned for a better future, he could feel enthusiasm and eagerness replacing his former heaviness and blackness of soul.

Cousin James at Priory House would know where to find the best workmen. James had many contacts with people of high estate and, as a Member of Parliament, mixed with those who had the best of everything. James would disapprove, of course. James, like the rest of his family, was all in favour of ‘worshipping as the King commands’ and currying favour with those who could advance his wealth and influence, but he would help, while pulling a face.

The men would have to be discreet, too, men who could keep the work to themselves and not spread abroad what he was doing to those people opposed to Catholics. Thanks be to God, that sort were few in this part of the world. Most people locally were tolerant of how people wanted to worship, whether it was his own faith or those strange new beliefs of men who felt that they could interpret the Holy Word for themselves. He had heard that these non-conformists, who appeared so driven by certainty, were going to open a chapel of their own persuasion on Cross Street. He had to believe that, under a Catholic King, there would be a relaxation of the anti-Catholic laws and he must make plans for the future.

He stretched himself up and looked around. As he did so, the sky lightened and a misty shaft of sunshine reached in through the window as the clouds rolled back to show pale blue sky. There. It was an acknowledgement from heaven that this was what he must do. He must make haste. He was no longer a young man and his son, an attorney like himself, was frail and often ill. His wife, yes, of course, his wife, steadfast in the Faith herself, would be delighted. He left the disarray of his papers to go downstairs to tell her of his plans.