I MET AN ANGEL

“The Age of Miracles is past;

Men as Angels now must minister.”

No Angel I, there was no way I could recognize the Angel sent me in that crisis of my life.

All three great monotheistic religions acknowledge the existence of angelic beings. My own Christian belief recognizes them, not only as part of its inheritance from Judaism but as part too, of its own tradition. My Angel, however, conformed to none in the Bible: neither those described by Ezekiel and the Apocalypse— four headed, four winged beings moving on wheels covered with eyes, nor the more human-seeming beings announcing to Mary the Incarnation, or to that other Mary the Resurrection of the Lord. No: my angel was a plain, poor, rather dirty peasant woman.

The crisis of which I write occurred some fifty year ago now— 1538 to be precise. Henry VIII was plundering the monasteries of England in the name of reform. God knows, some abbeys needed reform, many did not. But let a rapacious monarch discover new sources of wealth and there is no end to his cause for reform. My own monastery had been 'listed' and we monks feared the worst. Our Abbot, good and prudent man, had foreseen this and taken us aside to determine what we each intended on our abbey's dissolution, making for each of us some provision against that evil day.

Sure my life’s calling was a monastic one, I could see no alternative but escaping to France and rejoining a monastery there. The Abbot had foreseen my determination and organized a means of escape. Passed along by a network of sympathisers to the coast, there a fishing boat would take me to France. So it was that I left our monastery taking medicines and herbal remedies to a distant village. There supposedly I was to stay the night, returning next morning; instead, I slipped away during the night with a ‘guide’. Early next morning, dressed in my habit, another would return the horse.

Thus began my fugitive journey. On foot, it was painfully slow. I had to be extremely careful: my tonsure, my relatively educated speech and manners, my awkwardness round women, my ignorance of the customs and geography of the areas through which I passed, could easily discover me. Nor could I make use of horse or donkey: that would be at odds with the crude clothes I wore. I affected to be dumb, relying on gestures and my companion. At various isolated farms I was passed over to yet another ‘guide’, sometimes after the delay of a few hours, sometimes two or three days. We avoided small towns and hamlets where we would be remarked. We hoped my disappearance from the monastery would be unreported for many days. My journey took me north rather than the more logical south-east.

So the first two week passed, slowly and uneventfully. Early the third week a replacement ‘guide’ failed to appear. Had we been discovered? You can imagine my fear: taken as a recusant fugitive, my end would be short, sharp and not pretty. I could but press on alone with the vaguest directions from my latest ‘guide’, he as ignorant of my future way and contacts as I myself. I was provided with such food as I could carry, of which I must need be frugal.

Before long I was hopelessly lost. It is hard to imagine that in our England there could be such vast tracts of woodlands and empty countryside. I dared not risk approaching the very occasional village or hamlet: a lone mute would surely be noted. Similarly I avoided clearly marked paths and ways. To make matters worse, bad weather set in for several days. Hungry, soaked and cold I blundered on sometimes, I fear, not always in the right direction. Eventually I stumbled on the ruin of a hut where I determined to shelter and regain some strength. It was as well I did: I was on the point of collapse from worry, exhaustion and hunger. I found a sheltered corner and sank down to sleep.

It seems I slept for many, many hours. When eventually I woke the weather had somewhat improved, but I was still very cold and desperately hungry. I had prayed many times along the course of that journey, at no time so desperately or with so little hope as at that moment. However, I gained a modicum of extra strength from the additional rest and from the comfort of the familiar, hopeful words.

Almost reluctantly I got to my feet. I must press on were I ever to reach the coast and a boat to France. I had not gone far when, in a somewhat dazed state, I stumbled and fell. How long I lay there, I don’t know. When I came to my senses, I found myself gazing into the eyes of a peasant woman, crouching over me, eyes not unkind or unfriendly. She sat me gently up and pressed a crust of bread into my hands. I nibbled it gratefully while she went down to a nearby brook and brought in cupped hands a mouthful or two of water. She waited patiently some time then helped me to my feet. She said nothing this whole time, but I understood that we must walk on. Evening fell and we found ourselves at what I took to be her hut. At last there was food, warmth from the fire she lit and a sacking pile on which to sleep. Still nothing was said. Next morning I rested whilst she went out to her small garden. Four horsemen armed went urgently by. She paid them no heed. I cowered back in the shadows of the hut. Surely they were pursuers. Passing, they scarce gave her a glance.

Next day she packed bundles of food and motioned for us to start. She walked a few steps ahead and I followed, completely trusting her. At times we would stop and rest. Once or twice we came upon travellers who probably took us for peasant man and wife, too poor to bother. We continued thus several days. At last we looked down on a tiny cove. Here we saw a fishing boat and its two man crew.

Taking most of the money the abbot had given me, she approached the men. I watched amazed as she put aside her servile manner and, almost regally, demanded they make the crossing to France, a crossing for them worth several weeks’ fishing. They were as putty in her hands. Returning, she spoke to me for the first time. “Go with them. Once you are safely landed tell them: ‘The man is now again a monk’.” I took this to be some kind of password. I boarded the boat. The woman refused to come, merely commanding the leader that he be mindful of fulfilling his bargain. I realised she must have kept back some payment till they had returned.

The sail was raised and the boat steered into the swells. I turned to wave this strange woman a grateful farewell; there was no one to be seen. A voice only sounded loud in my ears: “I have given my angel charge over thee.”

Abbey of Solesms, France, the year of Our Lord, 1589.