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Treasures: Visible & Invisible

By Amanda Lauer, Theresa Linden, Susan Peek, Antony B. Kolenc, Carolyn Astfalk, Leslea Wahl, T.M. Gaouette, Corinna Turner

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LUCKY AND BLESSED
by Amanda Lauer
Honora dropped to her knees in the shadow of Fountains
Abbey, a blanket of clover—or shamrocks, as they were
called in her mother’s homeland—cushioning her fall. Her
mam, Margaret Thompson, had talked of the beauty of
Ireland so often that Honora could picture every cliff and
bog in her mind, even if she had never set foot on the
Emerald Island herself. As a matter of fact, she’d never
been more than a day’s ride away from the Yorkshire
estate upon which she’d been born.
When her mother was a child, she expected she’d live
out her life out in Bray, County Wicklow, but a chance
encounter on her way into Raheen-a-Cluig when she was
sixteen, just shy of Honora’s age now, changed the course
of her life. Lester Thompson, First Baron of Markington,
accompanying The Earl of Surrey, Thomas Howard—who
had been sent from England to Ireland in 1520 to regain
control of the island for King Henry VIII—happened to
catch a glimpse of the blue-eyed, raven-haired lass as she
stepped into the stone church.
In the words of Honora’s parents, Cupid’s arrow hit its
mark. Regardless that England sought to subjugate the
Irish and that the young man and young woman should
have been sworn enemies, love won the day. With their
Catholic faith as common ground, the couple married soon
after—in that very same church where Lester had first
spied Margaret—and then settled at the Thompson estate
in Yorkshire, along the western coast of Great Britain.
Honora let out a sigh as she surveyed the groundcover
beneath her. She ran her fingers over the feather-soft
foliage, searching as she always did for the elusive fourleaf clover. Despite weeks of diligently hunting—and
praying to Saint Anthony—she had yet to find one.
Seeing as none of the prayers she had offered up for the
primary concerns in her life had been answered, she held
out hope that this tiny request would be fulfilled. She was
desperate for the luck that a four-leaf clover was said to
bestow on the person fortunate enough to find one.
Suddenly, the hairs on Honora’s arms stood on end. She
felt someone’s eyes on her. Trying to maintain a casual air,
she surveyed the area around her. From her spot on the
ground, all she could see was the abandoned shell of the
abbey.
Remaining perfectly still, she listened for a few
moments as a doe would when sensing danger nearby.
Hearing nothing, she relaxed a bit. Perhaps the tales she’d
heard were actually true and some of the monks escaping
during the Dissolution of the Monasteries had indeed
turned into fairy folk.
“Is it thee, fairy folk?” she whispered. “Have you come
back to visit your monastery?” Honora turned her ear
toward the abandoned building, listening for a response.
And a response was precisely what she got. Laughter.
But not the trill of a fairy giggle as she’d expected. More of
a muffled guffaw, as a human voice would produce. Make
that a human male voice. Immediately, Honora gathered
her items, jumped to her feet, and backed away from the
stone structure.
Ambrose clenched his teeth together. He hadn’t meant
to be heard. But the sweet voice from that enchanting
young lady had caught him by surprise. Judging from
what she’d said, it was obvious that she hadn’t spent the
last four years of her life living with monks. Otherwise,
she’d have known beyond a shadow of a doubt that those
men had neither the inclination nor—for a number of
them—the build to transform into fairies. A stout fairy
would never be able to clear the ground.
He’d noticed the girl as she’d approached the
monastery minutes before. Crouching behind the tumbled
wall, he observed her to see what she was about. Ambrose
had been tucked in this spot for the last day, and she was
the first human that he’d seen. And a fine specimen of a
human she was. After living exclusively with monks since
the age of fourteen, she was a sight for sore eyes.
“I heard you. Show thyself,” commanded the lass in
what Ambrose imagined was meant to be an authoritative
voice. The shakiness of her tone gave her away though.
With his position breeched, he considered finding an
escape route through the back of the ramshackle structure,
but something urged him to face his adversary, if that’s
what she proved to be.
Ambrose peeked over the half-tumbled wall, and seeing
no one accompanying the girl, stood to his full height,
which was a head taller than the fair lass, who he guessed
to be around his age, maybe slightly younger.
“State your name and your business on this property,”
the girl stuttered out, pointing a wooden spoon at him
menacingly.
Biting his lower lip to keep the smile from his face, he
dutifully replied, “Ambrose, m’lady.”
“Mister Ambrose . . .”
“Technically, it’s Master Ambrose. I shan’t be eighteen
until next month.”
“Noted, Master Ambrose,” she replied with a bit less of
an edge to her voice. “This land is private property. Why
are you here?”
“Seeing that this land belongs to the Church, or did,”
Ambrose noted, surveying the missing interior walls, “I
could be asking you the same question.”
“Don’t try weaseling your way out of answering,” the
girl shot back. “I’m the one making the inquiries, not you.
Come out with it now, or I’ll be notifying the authorities.”
Authorities? Highly unlikely, but in the interest of
keeping the conversation going, Ambrose acquiesced and
gave her an abbreviated explanation.
“Under His Majesty’s orders, Byland Abbey has been
dissolved. In the chaos of his troops ascending on the
building to begin dismantling it, the brethren scattered,”
he said. “I was hoping that King Henry—not wishing to
further distance himself from His Holiness—would spare
Fountains Abbey, as it’s the largest Cistercian community
in Yorkshire. So, I took my chances and made my way
here.”
The girl’s sapphire blue eyes widened. Perhaps she had
not heard the fate of Byland Abbey?
Her consternation was revealed a moment later.
“You’re a monk?”

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