The King's Men

"You must leave!"

Cyrus, breathless and dishevelled, burst into the small cool room that stored produce. Brother Mathias was wrapping cheese and placing it on the shelf.

If Brother Mathias was startled by the village boy's abrupt arrival, it did not show in his measured movements. He conveyed an appearance of serenity and calm.

Cyrus however was showing his emotions all too clearly.

"Please, Brother! You must gather your brethren and leave! Before the King's Men get here! They have been seen and are less than a day away!"

Mathias continued about his task but looked at the boy before him when Cyrus sobbed in frustration.

"Cyrus." Mathias stopped and focused on him, grateful for the distraction of Cyrus' needs over his own rising fear. "Sit," he instructed. "Calm yourself."

The monk continued. He found comfort in the work as he tried to order his thoughts. He imagined the peace he had felt at morning's light, when he had kneeled beneath the vaulted ceiling built to the glory of God and praised his Creator as the eastern sun threw its golden stream through the altar window.

It was difficult to concentrate next to Cyrus as he heaved, displaying the emotion that Mathias was trying to contain.

"Cyrus," he finally said, the boy having stilled, exhausted by the toll taken from the task he had been given.

The boy looked up, sad but bright.

"Run to the other brothers and tell them the news."

Cyrus leapt up, all signs of fatigue gone.

"And the villagers? They want to help too. What do I tell them?"

Brother Mathias shook his head.

"Nothing, Cyrus. You must remain separate. This is matter between Kings, and God's servants only."

Cyrus went to protest but the monk pointed to the door and in a voice of iron stated "Go!"

***

Cyrus' face was blackened except for the streaks where the tears cleansed. The water of loss should have expelled Cyrus' grief but instead, it was compounding it, as he watched the abbey of his friends ransacked by the men of God's anointed one.

The fire created in the destruction of the house of God was not the only fire set that day.

***

366 words

A trip away has meant visits to historical sites and one of these was to a ruined abbey, the bones of which are still present and hearkens to a bygone era of prosperity and devotion, but which is now a sad relic, piles of rubble, supported by struts placed by well-meaning folk, perhaps Cyrus' ancestors.

Henry VIII, him of the many wives, was a British king and a tornado of destruction, intent on showing his might against that which would depose him: the Church. It held wealth, it held power, both of which Henry coveted for himself and which he resented being used in a way that would restrict him in what he wanted to do. And so, his answer to that was not to bow before the power of God but to threaten its earthly manifestation in the monasteries, abbeys and churches that prospered on his lands. No consideration was given to the people to whom these places were a sanctuary or place of worship or home. He wanted them dissolved and so, he made it happen.

I have trouble with the idea of kings being God's annointed ones when they do things like this.

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