My dreams are always fitful now, disturbed by the turbulent roaring of the dragons as they fly past. The dragons have strange lettering burned into their flesh: Avanti West Coast and London Northwestern Railway. They have worn a path that has cut me off from the village to the east, and I am lonely much of the time.

Lately, I have been dreaming of stern Prior William de Loughton, and of how he put Brother Bertram to work in the chapel. The monk was one of the youngest, a dreamer, slight of build and awkward, unable to pull his weight in the kiln or the malt house.

Bertram was susceptible to strange visions.

‘One day there will be a shining city here,’ he said fervently, to anyone who would listen. ‘The green fields and hamlets that surround us will be gone. Instead, there will be row upon row of wondrous dwellings, dwellings for a quarter of a million people…’

The other monks rolled their eyes.

‘A quarter of a million people!’ they scoffed.

‘He’s good for nothing,’ William muttered darkly as he made his rounds through cloister, dormitory, chapter house, great barn and beyond. But he had the sense to recognise the artistic talent deep in Bertram’s soul. ‘Let him do something with St Mary’s Chapel.’

The little chapel had recently been built to house the statue of Mary. Many pilgrims were starting to come to the priory because of the statue’s healing powers, bringing much-needed revenue. But its walls were bare. William realised that a beautifully decorated chapel would attract even more visitors.

For many days and for long hours, Bertram worked on the walls – sometimes into the early hours by flickering candlelight. Here, the hovering angel Gabriel revealed to Mary that she would bear the son of God, an expression of pure joy on her face. There, images of the visiting pilgrims took shape, Betram delighting in capturing their likenesses and the votive offerings they brought: a crutch, a wax head, a wooden figurine kneeling in prayer.

Then, Bertram’s task almost fulfilled, with only one patch of white plaster remaining, the plague came.

Terrible aches, vomiting, diarrhoea, chills, fever and worse – so many monks succumbed. And yet Bertram continued his work, alone in the chapel, crowding the white space with images.
After a final brush stroke, he staggered back to the dormitory and collapsed onto his pallet.

The remaining monks, cowled and bent over with worry, gathered round like question marks.

‘I see a shining city,’ Bertram said softly. He lay there calm, serene. ‘A growing city, with diverse people, crisscrossed with pathways…’

The monks whispered amongst themselves. He is delirious now, they thought.

Bertram died soon after. William de Loughton too.

*

The angry King’s men came from London.

They sent the remaining monks away and carted off anything that might be valuable.

But as the days depart like ghosts, I look around now and smile. The chapel survived, Bertram’s vision has become reality, and I endure.