The Vision
On a brisk autumn morning in a time when the houses of York and Lancaster battled over the throne of England, two peasants appeared at the door of a nearby monastery with a young boy in tow. After a brief conversation, the monk led them to the abbey to meet with Father Ignatius, the abbot.
"Is he your son?" the cleric asked.
"No," the farmer answered. "He is an orphan, the child of my wife's brother who was killed at Towton."
"Before going off to battle," the woman explained, "my brother asked that we watch over the boy, which we've been doing ever since."
"And now you want him to come live with us?"
"Seems it's time to think about the lad's future," the man said. "To choose whether he should pick up the scythe, the sword or the Bible."
"And he chose the Church?" the abbot asked.
"That was my wife's decision. She thinks it best the boy devote his life to God."
Father Ignatius walked over to the young child, who had remained silent while the adults conversed.
He laid his hand on the boy's head and announced, "We can always use a fine lad here at the abbey."
After a few words of farewell and good wishes for the future, the farmer and his wife departed, leaving Matthias in the care of the monks. The youngster quickly adjusted to his life as part of the monastic community. It was a simple life, in which he divided his time between work and prayer. Also, in order to better serve God, he was taught to read and write.
During his studies, it was discovered that the boy had a pronounced artistic talent.
"We can't have you working out in the fields," Father Ignatius declared when he saw a drawing Matthias had made while studying one afternoon. "Come with me."
The abbot escorted the boy to a winding staircase that led up to the tower of the monastery where the scriptorium was located. A number of monks were sitting at desks placed beside windows to take advantage of the midday sunlight. Two of them were smoothing sheets of parchment by rubbing them with pumice stones while their fellow monks were carefully copying the Bible by hand.
Matthias looked questioningly at Father Ignatius and asked with disbelief, "You want me to be a scribe? But I am just learning to read and write."
"No, lad. Your brothers here will do the writing. I want you to embellish their tomes with artwork. Look here," the elderly cleric said, opening an illuminated manuscript that was to be presented to the Earl of Shrewsbury's son on his wedding day. "See the gilded drawings that compliment the text."
The young monk stared in wonder at a page of Gothic lettering with its margins elaborately decorated with Celtic knots, flowers and religious symbols.
"I don't expect you to be able to do this quality of work yet," the abbot explained. "For the time being, you will come up here every day and learn from Brother Crispin. He will teach you how to best apply your talent. Think of it as an apprenticeship."
Although Matthias had never objected to toiling in the garden, he much preferred using his hands to create works of art to picking vegetables.
Within three years of first ascending the steps of the monastery's tower, Matthias was a master of his craft. Although the two men still worked together, the younger monk was doing most of the detailed illustrations since Brother Crispin's eyesight, strained by years of close work in the scriptorium, was beginning to fail him. During the time they worked together, the student became close to his teacher and grew to love him as a man might love his father.
Then came the day when Matthias walked into the tower room after morning prayer and found Brother Crispin's stool empty. The absence did not alarm him. His mentor was getting up there in years and moving more slowly. It wasn't until Father Ignatius came into the room and Matthias saw the sad expression on his face that he knew something was amiss.
"I regret to inform you that we have lost a beloved member of our community," the abbot announced. "Brother Crispin died in his sleep last night."
Matthias was devastated. Orphaned at a young age, he could not remember either of his parents and thus had never experienced the death of a loved one before. Overcome by grief, he could neither sleep nor eat. Not even prayer gave him any solace.
Four days after Crispin was laid in his tomb, while the rest of the community was eating dinner in the refectory, Matthias sought solitude in the chapel. He wanted to talk privately to God and say a few words to his deceased mentor. He was on his knees, his hands clasped in prayer, staring up at the gold crucifix, when the candles on the altar flickered and dimmed.
Suddenly, the face of a beautiful woman appeared to him. Her brown hair fell in gentle waves over her shoulders and down her back, and her blue eyes looked at him with compassion. She spoke but two words before vanishing from his view: "my son."
The pain of his loss lifted from his shoulders, and Matthias left the chapel in search of Father Ignatius. He found him in the cloister.
"Brother Matthias, are you feeling well?" the abbot asked when he saw the monk's pale complexion and the feverish glow in his yes.
The young man fell to his knees.
"I had a vision, Father!" he exclaimed with an emotion akin to ecstasy.
"What did you see?"
"The Blessed Mother herself!"
Father Ignatius knew of Matthias's deep affection for Brother Crispin and feared the latter's death had affected the young man's mental state.
"During times of grief, we often imagine ...."
"I did not imagine her! I saw her in the chapel."
"What were you doing there? Why weren't you in the refectory with the others?"
"I felt more in need of prayer than of sustenance, Father."
"And now you believe the Virgin Mother appeared to you in answer to your prayer?"
"Yes, Father," Matthias replied with excitement. "I was feeling—forgive me, Father—but I was beginning to feel doubt. The Blessed Mother appeared to me and spoke of the savior."
"What did she say?"
"She said, 'My son.'"
"Is that all?"
Matthias nodded his head and replied, "The vision then faded."
The abbot knew he must tread carefully. While the Mother Church wanted its followers to believe in the existence of God, Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, he knew that all too often those who claimed to actually see or speak to one of the Holy Family suffered from a diseased mind. For the moment, Father Ignatius was spared having to make a difficult decision by the sound of the bells calling the monks to vespers.
"It's time to pray," he told Matthias. "We will speak more of this tomorrow."
* * *
Although it pained Father Ignatius to send Matthias away, he believed doing so was in the young man's best interest. Perhaps with rest and a change in his daily routine, the monk would recover his senses. After morning prayers, the abbot asked to speak to him in private.
"I have been thinking about what you told me yesterday," Father Ignatius began.
"You mean about my vision of the Blessed Mother?"
"Yes. It occurred to me during the night that it must have been a sign from God."
Matthias's eyes widened with amazement. What could the Almighty want of him?
"I learned several months ago that our generous benefactor, the Earl of Shrewsbury, wants to build a chapel in his castle in honor of the passing of his beloved mother. It is his desire to grace the walls of that chapel with religious frescoes. When he first told me of his plans, I did not offer your services because I selfishly believed they were of greater need here in the scriptorium. In light of your vision, however, I've come to reconsider."
"Father, I fear your faith in my talent might be too great. I am used to doing small drawings in the margins of manuscripts. I have never attempted anything as large as a fresco."
"It is not a question of my faith in you. I was not the one who blessed you with your talent."
"You are right, Father. I was given my artistic ability for a reason: to glorify God!"
Later that day, after Matthias took his leave of his fellow monks, Father Ignatius watched him as he set out on foot in the direction of Tidworth Castle. His few meager possessions as well as food and drink for the journey were in a sack that he wore slung over his back. As the abbot prayed for the young man's safety, he could not help wondering if he would ever see the monk again.
* * *
When Matthias arrived at Tidworth Castle, he discovered with a good deal of relief that he was not the only one charged with painting the earl's chapel. Thaddeus Hoglan, an artist who had painted many portraits of England's nobility including a number of Plantagenets, had already begun work on the frescoes.
"I have a confession to make," Matthias told Thaddeus when the two men sat down to supper on the night the monk arrived at the castle.
"There's a fine thing!" Thaddeus exclaimed with boisterous laughter. "A man of God making a confession to me! I thought hearing people's confessions was your line of work."
The monk smiled at the older man's good-natured jest and continued, "The only art I've ever created has been to embellish the pages of manuscripts."
If Matthias had thought the painter would be disappointed by this revelation, he was mistaken.
"Don't worry about anything," the artist reassured him. "The only difference between illustrating a book and painting a fresco on a wall is the scale. I have a few old canvasses in my workroom. You can practice painting portraits on them. Meanwhile, until you feel comfortable enough to attempt your first fresco, you can act as my assistant."
The following morning, when Matthias had the benefit of a good night's sleep after his journey, Thaddeus took him to the chapel where he had set a blank canvas on an easel. The artist then handed him a palette and a handful of brushes.
"I've mixed quite a few colors," he said, pointing to his paints. "And in my workshop, I've got whatever other pigments we might need."
Holding the brush in his right hand and the palette in his left, Matthias stared dumbly at the white canvas.
"What's wrong?" Thaddeus asked.
"I don't know what to paint," the monk replied, his face red with embarrassment.
"We don't have any models here, so it will have to be something from your memory. Can't you think of a face you've seen at some point in your life that stuck in your mind?"
Matthias's countenance was immediately transfixed as he recalled his vision of the Blessed Mother. Thaddeus watched as the monk dipped the tip of the brush into the paint and then applied it to the canvas. Although ready to give him advice, it soon became apparent that the young man needed no guidance. It was as though he were born with a paintbrush in his hand.
Three weeks after the monk's arrival, Thaddeus sat on the wooden scaffolding working on a scene of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Occasionally, his eyes wandered to his assistant who, despite his inexperience, seemed to be having no difficulty painting a portrait. Early in the afternoon, Thaddeus took a break, but Matthias continued working.
"You've been standing in front of that easel all morning," the older man said. "Why don't you sit down for a while, rest your legs and have something to eat. The venison is delicious."
Matthias paused for a moment to assess his work. Although the features were there, something was missing. As he stared at the portrait, trying to determine what that something was, a wave of dizziness came over him. He stumbled and nearly fell.
"Are you all right?" Thaddeus asked.
"Yes. I just felt a little faint. That's all."
"You're working too hard. A little rest and some food, and you'll be as good as new. Come have something to eat."
The monk did as he was told. Although he had little appetite, he forced himself to nibble at the venison. As the two men ate, Thaddeus appraised his helper's portrait.
"You certainly don't need to practice anymore. I hate to admit it, but you're a better painter than I am."
Unused to compliments, Matthias blushed at the artists' words.
"There won't be too many hours of sunlight left," Thaddeus observed. "I think I'll have you start work on Moses and the Ten Commandments tomorrow."
"But the portrait ...."
"You've already proven to me that you're capable of working at a larger scale. I can't have you wasting valuable time when we have so much to do here. As it is, with both of us working every day, it will take years to complete."
"I want to finish what I started," Matthias said, asserting his will for the first time in his life.
"I suppose I can spare you for an hour a day, but that's all."
* * *
Matthias proved to be not only a gifted artist but also a diligent laborer. The earl and his lady, who made regular visits to the chapel, were more than pleased with the progress that was being made.
The portrait of the Blessed Mother, however, was still far from completion—at least as far as the painter was concerned. Thaddeus did not agree with him.
"Put the brush down," he told the monk late one evening when he noticed the pale, sickly look of the younger man's complexion. "The portrait is finished."
"It's missing something."
"No, it's not. You have created a true work of art. There's not a painter I've ever known who wouldn't be proud to call this work his own."
"It still doesn't look like her."
"Who? Is this a portrait of a woman you know?"
Although Matthias had worked at Thaddeus's side for more than a year, he had never told the other man about his vision until that evening.
"You're saying you saw the Virgin Mary and that this is what she looked like?"
"Almost. There is something about her face, her eyes perhaps, that is not quite right yet."
Thaddeus, who had spent a good portion of his life painting religious subjects, never stopped to examine his own beliefs. If he had, he might have realized he thought of Christ, Mary, the Apostles and the saints as mere images created with paint, their faces simply products of his imagination. To Matthias, however, the Madonna in the portrait represented a real person.
Perhaps if I had been raised in a monastery, I would believe in mysterious visions, too.
"Keep at it, then," he told the monk. "I'm sure you'll get it right eventually."
Months went by, however, and Matthias continued to insist that the portrait was no closer to completion. Thaddeus came to the conclusion that it was the act of painting the Virgin Mary and not the portrait itself that drove the monk. It was more than likely his way of holding on to his vision, of maintaining the tenuous link between himself and the mother of Christ.
Then one afternoon—three years, six months and four days since Thaddeus began work on the chapel walls—the Earl of Shrewsbury paid the artist a visit.
"You're almost finished," he noted with surprise.
"We have only to complete the crucifixion scene on the wall behind the altar, and we will be done. It shouldn't take us more than a few weeks."
"It's magnificent!" the earl exclaimed as he stood in the center of the chapel and stared up at the frescoes on the ceiling.
When Matthias entered the chapel from the adjoining workroom, the smile left the earl's face. The young monk was obviously in poor health.
"May I have a word with you, Brother Matthias?" he asked.
"Certainly, your lordship."
"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. I've received word from the monastery that Father Ignatius has passed on."
Although the abbot's death did not affect him as strongly as Brother Crispin's had, Matthias still grieved.
"If you would like to attend his funeral mass, I can have my carriage take you to the monastery."
"Thank you, your lordship, but I have work to do here."
"Thaddeus tells me all chapel will be finished in a few weeks. You can take some time to ...."
"Thank you, again, but no. I prefer to stay here."
"Very well," the earl said, wondering if it was a question of his poor health that prevented the monk from undertaking the journey.
Just as Thaddeus had predicted, three weeks later, he and Matthias put the last details on the crucifixion scene. After his final brushstroke, the artist sat down and picked up a goblet of wine.
"That was quite an undertaking," he declared. "I hope my next job is a simple, one scene fresco that will take me a couple of months to complete. Or, better yet, maybe I can get a commission to paint some wealthy nobleman's portrait. Speaking of which, how's yours coming?"
"It's not finished yet."
"I suppose you're going to have to take it back to the abbey with you and finish it there."
A look of dismay appeared on the monk's face.
"I wasn't planning on returning to the monastery."
"What are you going to do then?"
"I assumed I would remain here. The earl has a chapel; he will no doubt have need of a confessor."
"His lordship has his own priest. No. You were brought here with the understanding that when the work was completed, you would return to your order."
"My portrait," the monk sobbed as though his heart were broken.
"I have some spare brushes and pigments you can take with you, and I'm sure whoever the new abbot is will let you paint in your spare time."
"There is no spare time at a monastery. When I'm not up in the tower illustrating manuscripts, I'm either in the rectory eating or in church at prayer."
Not knowing what to say to comfort his young assistant, the artist raised his goblet to his lips and drank his wine in silence.
The following morning, with work on the chapel completed, Thaddeus enjoyed the luxury of sleeping past daybreak. He took his time dressing before walking down to the dining hall where he would have a long, leisurely morning meal before setting out for London where he hoped to find work.
"Has Brother Matthias left already?" he asked one of the earl's servants.
"No. He hasn't come down yet."
"I dare say he could use a good sleep. He looks like he's at the point of complete exhaustion."
By the time Thaddeus had finished his meal, the sun was nearly overhead, yet there was still no sign of Matthias. While preparing for his departure, the artist again inquired about the cleric.
"There's been no sign of him yet," the servant replied.
"I hate to disturb him while he's sleeping, but I don't want to leave without saying goodbye to him."
Thaddeus climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of the small room that had been assigned to the monk. There was no answer.
"Matthias? Are you awake yet?"
When there was still no response, Thaddeus pushed on the door. He found Brother Matthias on the floor in front of his easel, dead, his paintbrush still clasped between his fingers.
The artist's first instinct was to call for the servants to help remove the body, but when his eyes fell on the portrait of the Blessed Mother, he was far too amazed to act. In his last moments, Matthias had finally completed the painting, and it was more breathtakingly beautiful than anything Thaddeus had ever seen before.
* * *
The Earl of Shrewsbury himself accompanied the body of Brother Matthias back to the abbey. Father Adelbert, the new abbot, made quite a fuss welcoming the nobleman.
"Your lordship," he cried humbly, "we are honored by your visit."
Orders were quickly given to prepare a room and a meal for the distinguished guest.
"I must leave soon," the earl explained. "But before I go, I would like to attend the funeral service for Brother Matthias and pay my respects to Father Ignatius' grave."
"Of course, your lordship."
"Also, I've brought with me a portrait of the Virgin Mary painted by Brother Matthias. It is beautiful beyond words. At first, I had intended to keep the painting myself. However, Thaddeus Hoglan, who worked with Brother Matthias in painting the frescoes in my chapel, told me how much the portrait meant to him. I believe it should hang in the abbey in memory of his brief life."
When the portrait was unpacked and revealed to Father Adelbert, the abbot was moved to tears by its magnificence.
"Thaddeus told me that Brother Matthias claimed to have had a vision of the Blessed Mother, and this portrait is a depiction of her countenance."
"I would not doubt it," the abbot said, his eyes taking in every detail of her face. "Surely, no earthly woman could look so transcendent."
The portrait was placed in the Lady Chapel where all those who came to the abbey could admire it. There it remained through the end of the War of the Roses and the reign of the first Tudor king, Henry VII. His son, Henry VIII, in order to divorce his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, and marry his mistress, Anne Boleyn, broke ties with the Catholic Church in Rome and declared himself head of the Church in England. In 1536, he began a five-year period known as the Dissolution of the Monasteries, during which time all monasteries, convents and priories were disbanded and the buildings seized by the Crown.
When Thomas Cromwell's men were sent to evict the religious community from the abbey, Brother Wilmott was tasked by the abbot with seeing to the safety of Matthias's portrait. The monk covered the canvas to protect it from the elements, and under cover of darkness, made his way to the English Channel and then sailed to France. The painting remained safe, hidden in a barn of a French farmhouse for the remainder of Henry's reign as well as that of his son, Edward VI, and the ill-fated Lady Jane Gray who was queen for only nine days.
When Mary Tudor, a staunch Catholic, assumed the throne, Brother Wilmott set sail for England with the portrait. Upon returning to the monastery, however, he found all the buildings had been destroyed. Seeking temporary shelter from the cold, the monk, burning with fever, huddled shivering in the ruins of what was once been the Lady Chapel.
I must take the painting someplace where it will be safe, he thought, but where?
The illness he had contracted before leaving France grew steadily worse. He doubted he had the strength to go much further. Wilmott suddenly remembered that the Earls of Shrewsbury had long been benefactors of the monastery. In fact, the portrait had been donated to the abbey by one of the earls back in the time of Edward IV. If he could just make it to Tidworth Castle, he could present the painting to the current earl. Despite his poor health, Wilmott managed to complete his mission. However, within hours of arriving at the castle, he succumbed to his illness.
The earl had heard tales of the Blessed Mother painting from his grandfather but had never seen it himself. When he removed the protective covering, he caught his breath. The portrait was even more beautiful than he had imagined. After considering and then rejecting several locations for the placement of the artwork, he finally decided to return the painting to the chapel where Matthias had first begun work on it.
With religious reforms continuing to sweep through Europe, there was to be no peace between Catholics and Protestants in England. When Mary I died, her sister Elizabeth, a Protestant, was next in the line of succession. After several plots were discovered to remove her from the throne, severe steps were taken against the Catholic plotters. Priests were forbidden to celebrate the rites of their faith under threat of imprisonment.
In 1591, a commission authorized to interrogate and monitor known Catholic households sent a group of men to Tidworth Castle. Sufficient warning had been received for Father Percival to gather his vestments and Bible and take refuge in the "priest hole." He also took with him Brother Matthias's portrait of the Blessed Mother, for he would not have such a treasure fall into the hands of the Protestants. Once the priest hunters departed, Father Percival emerged from his hiding spot, but he left the painting there should they come back.
In view of the events that took place during the following week, Father Percival believed divine providence had a hand in his decision. Three days after leaving Tidworth Castle, on a dark, moonless night, the men returned on foot. They clandestinely entered the castle and found Father Percival at prayer in the chapel. The cleric was arrested and imprisoned. Not wanting to put anyone else in danger, the earl sealed the entrances to both the chapel and the priest hole.
* * *
For three hundred and fifty years, the Earls of Shrewsbury continued to call Tidworth Castle their ancestral home. During that time, the Tudor era came to an end, and the Stuart dynasty began. The Civil Wars followed. The Parliamentarians executed Charles I, and a commonwealth and protectorate under Oliver Cromwell was established. The monarchy was later restored, and Charles II was placed on the throne. England established colonies in the New World only to lose them in the American War of Independence.
Through those three and a half centuries of sweeping political changes and historical milestones, Brother Matthias's portrait remained hidden in the sealed priest hole. Not even the Great War of 1914 disturbed her solitude. It was the German Luftwaffe that eventually liberated her when they bombed the area around Tidworth Castle.
When Geoffrey, the thirty-five-year-old Earl of Shrewsbury, journeyed from London by train to see what damage had been done to his family home, he was relieved to discover that, for the most part, the castle was unscathed. Fortunately, only the south wing was affected by the bombing. The earl considered himself lucky since that part of the castle consisted of the old chapel, and former guest rooms that were used mainly for storage.
"Do you think it's wise to go in there?" his wife asked when the earl entered the ruins of the south wing. "It might not be safe."
"I promise I'll turn around at the first sign of danger."
Geoffrey was glad to see that the walls and ceiling of the chapel remained intact. Unlike his ancestors, he was not a religious man, but he valued both history and art and hated to see anything so old destroyed. As he stood looking up at the fresco of Mary Magdalene encountering Christ after his resurrection, the earl heard what he thought were footsteps behind him.
"Maybe you should wait outside, dear," he said, believing his wife had followed him. "Just in case something happens, you can call for help."
He turned and saw that no one was there.
Maybe what I heard were rats.
Geoffrey took one final look at the chapel. Should the Luftwaffe eventually succeed in destroying it, he wanted to remember how breathtaking it was.
"For nearly five hundred years, this inspiring artwork has graced these walls," he said, the echo of his voice coming back to him. "It has managed to survive the Reformation, the Civil Wars, the Restoration and the Great War. If I were a believer, I would pray it survives the Nazis, as well."
A sudden movement near the altar caught the earl's attention. He saw a man dressed in a simple tunic tied at the waist. A scapula with an attached cowl was worn over the shoulders, giving the stranger the appearance of a monk from the Middle Ages.
"Who are you?" Geoffrey demanded to know. "And why are you dressed like that?"
The intruder said nothing but indicated with a hand gesture that the earl was to follow him.
"Where are you going?"
Again, there was no answer, but Geoffrey was compelled to follow his silent guide through a maze of hallways and staircases. Finally, the monk stopped in front of what appeared to be a doorway, one that had been walled in during the Elizabethan Era. When the hooded figure pointed to the room behind the partially collapsed stone barrier, the earl was leery of peering inside, fearing it might be the skeletal remains of someone long ago buried alive inside the walls of Tidworth Castle. The monk was insistent, however, and the earl felt he had little choice but to follow his silent command.
"Well? What's in there?" he asked, exhibiting a brave front.
When he leaned forward, Geoffrey was surprised to discover that the small room was empty except for a painting covered in dust.
"It's just a picture!" he exclaimed with relief.
The monk continued to point.
"You want me to get it for you; is that it?"
When the head beneath the cowl nodded, the earl stepped over the pile of stones. With one foot in the former priest hole and the other in the hallway, he reached for the portrait.
"Here you are," he said, handing the painting to the monk.
Brother Matthias grasped his masterpiece with both hands. Geoffrey removed a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to the monk, who then removed the layer of dust from the surface of the canvas.
"What an exquisite work of art!" the earl exclaimed. Then several questions came to his mind. "Who are you? Whose painting is that? What was it doing inside the walls of Tidworth Castle, and how did you know where to find it?"
Brother Matthias, in life a man of few words, had even less to say in death.
"It is mine," he replied. "I painted it."
"Oh? And how do I know you're telling me the truth? I've never seen you before. You might have stolen the painting and hidden it here while I was in London."
The earl suddenly remembered that Hitler and his henchmen were notorious art thieves, robbing Europe of priceless treasures. Perhaps the man in the monk's habit was about to send the portrait off to Berlin.
Matthias lowered his cowl. Geoffrey looked into the young man's blue eyes, which looked back at him with boundless compassion. He looked closer, and then his eyes shifted to the portrait.
"The woman in the painting," he said, "she's got your eyes."
Brother Matthias's mouth formed a sad smile. This Earl of Shrewsbury was much more astute than his ancestors. No one, not even Thaddeus Hoglan, had ever noticed the resemblance before.
"I had a vision once," Matthias said, wanting to unburden his soul after nearly five centuries. "I saw a beautiful woman who touched my heart like no one else ever had. Having been brought up in a monastery, I believed at the time it was the Blessed Mother I had seen."
"And it wasn't?"
"No. My earliest memory as a child was being told by my aunt that I was an orphan, that my father—her brother—was killed at the battle of Towton. That was the day before she took me to live at the abbey. She never told me how my mother died, and I never asked."
"She probably died in childbirth," Geoffrey said, as though conversing with a ghost from the past was a normal occurrence. "So many women did back then."
"But not my mother. Nor was she English; she was French. My father met her when he fought at the battle of Formigny. He was injured, and she took him in and cared for him. They fell in love, and he remained in France. I was only two years old when she was arrested."
"For harboring the enemy?"
"For heresy. My mother was burned at the stake for being a witch. After she died, my father made his way back to England where he left me with his sister before returning to the army. Locked away in my mind was the memory of my mother as I had last seen her. It was that memory, momentarily awakened, that I had mistaken for a vision of the Blessed Mother. I didn't realize it then, but I had so longed to see my mother that I died recreating her on canvas."
Suddenly, the ancient portrait began to glow with eerie phosphorescence. It slipped from Matthias's hands and fell to the floor face up.
"No! My painting!" the monk cried. "I mustn't let anything happen to it."
Before the startled eyes of the two men, the strange light formed a beam that grew to nearly five feet. When it reached the correct height, the apparition became opaque. It was the spirit of Matthias's mother.
She looked at him with eyes so like his own, only now they were filled with love rather than compassion.
"My son," she said, repeating the two words she had spoken to him back in the fifteenth century.
"Mother!" he cried.
Moments later the two spirits came together in a long-awaited embrace and then vanished forever from the earthly plane.
* * *
Lady Shrewsbury paced the floor near the main entrance of Tidworth Castle, frequently glancing at her watch.
Where the hell is my husband? she wondered anxiously. He's been gone for more than an hour!
She was about to call for help when the earl finally emerged from the ruins of the south wing.
"There you are!" she exclaimed with relief. "I was about to ring up Constable Mallinson."
"I'm fine, darling. No need to disturb the local constabulary."
"What have you been doing all this time?"
"I checked on the old chapel. I wanted to make sure none of the walls or the ceiling was damaged by the blast."
"It took you an hour to do that?"
Geoffrey's face reddened, and he smiled like a little boy.
"To be honest, after I left the chapel, I wandered down an unknown hallway; and before I knew it, I was hopelessly lost. It took quite some time to find my way back to you."
Lady Shrewsbury kissed her husband on the cheek and took hold of his hand.
"You're here now. That's all that matters."
Yes, the earl thought, remembering the look of happiness on Matthias's face before he vanished, being with loved ones is all that matters.
Then he and his wife drove to the station and boarded a train that would take them back to London.
Salem considered it an honor that a medieval scribe painted his picture into an embellished manuscription--that is until he learned that the book was the Malleus Maleficarum, the fifteenth century treatise on witchraft that may have led to the deaths of thousands of accused witches (and their familiars).
