corridor containing the sacristy and a couple of storerooms.
Thea picked up a small oil lamp and carried it down to the farthest storeroom. There she made her way through the collection of churchly odds and ends that had wound up in there. In the back, she found the manger she intended to use for the living Nativity scene on Christmas Eve and hauled it out. It was a simple feed box that stood on X-shaped legs, and though it had not been used in a few years, it seemed to still be in good condition. Grabbing a few tools, she blew out the lamp and set it back in the sacristy, before carrying the rest of the things to the outer vestibule of the church, near the front doors. Later, when she was finished decorating the church, she would take the manger outside and clean it.
Now, however, she went back into the sanctuary and began to adorn the church for Christmas. She made her way down the left wall, cutting and arranging the fragrant branches on the sills of the stained-glass windows. When she reached the short intersecting arms of the church, she turned into the left one, which contained the small chapel devoted to St. Dwynwen.
Separated from the main part of the church by a decorative wrought-iron screen, the chapel held only a few rows of pews facing the main altar in the center of the church. Against one wall was a prie-dieu, flanked by a small stand of votive candles. On the other side of the prie-dieu stood a statue of a female saint, the Dwynwen for whom the little side chapel had been named. At the far end of the chapel, on either side of the single window, were stone sepulchres of a knight and his lady, their effigies carved on the top of the stone slabs.
This part of the church had always been Thea’s favorite. It was dimmer than the rest of the church because it had only one stained-glass window, and the few flickering candles in their red-glass votive holders cast only a small, atmospheric light. The statue of St. Dwynwen, somewhat smaller than life-size, stood on a short, square pedestal of stone. The statue itself was simply, even crudely, carved out of wood, and it was faded and fissured with time. The saint looked out and down, smiling sweetly, her arms held out to the side.
From the time she was a child, Thea had liked to sit in the chapel. She loved the quiet, the light and scent of the candles, the aged statue. St. Dwynwen, she thought, looked to be a kind and understanding soul, not pretty perhaps, but loving. It was said that the knight entombed in the rear of the chapel had carried the statue back with him from his campaign in Wales. The story went that he had stopped at a small shrine to St. Dwynwen to pray for success in Wales, and afterward he had won not only the battle but also the heart of a beautiful Welsh lady. In gratitude, he had pledged his devotion to the saint and brought the statue back to his home, where he had given it and the funds for building the chapel to the convent as a gift in the name of his Welsh wife.
The tale had caught Thea’s imagination, and she had pored through her father’s books until she found the story of St. Dwynwen. Dwynwen, it was said, had been the daughter of a Welsh king and had fallen deeply in love with a man named Maelon. Her father would not let her marry Maelon, but insisted that she marry a wealthier lord. In a rage at being denied his love, Maelon forced himself upon Dwynwen. Heartsick, she fled into the forest, where she prayed for help. An angel appeared and, moved by her plight, gave her a potion for the treacherous Maelon to drink. When Maelon drank it, he was turned to ice as punishment for his cruelty. The angel told Dwynwen that God would grant her three prayers. From the deep love and purity of her heart, Dwynwen asked that Maelon be released from his punishment, that she herself not ever have to marry, and that God look after all true lovers. Maelon was restored, and Dwynwen retreated to Llanddwyn Island and spent the rest of her life in
Thea picked up a small oil lamp and carried it down to the farthest storeroom. There she made her way through the collection of churchly odds and ends that had wound up in there. In the back, she found the manger she intended to use for the living Nativity scene on Christmas Eve and hauled it out. It was a simple feed box that stood on X-shaped legs, and though it had not been used in a few years, it seemed to still be in good condition. Grabbing a few tools, she blew out the lamp and set it back in the sacristy, before carrying the rest of the things to the outer vestibule of the church, near the front doors. Later, when she was finished decorating the church, she would take the manger outside and clean it.
Now, however, she went back into the sanctuary and began to adorn the church for Christmas. She made her way down the left wall, cutting and arranging the fragrant branches on the sills of the stained-glass windows. When she reached the short intersecting arms of the church, she turned into the left one, which contained the small chapel devoted to St. Dwynwen.
Separated from the main part of the church by a decorative wrought-iron screen, the chapel held only a few rows of pews facing the main altar in the center of the church. Against one wall was a prie-dieu, flanked by a small stand of votive candles. On the other side of the prie-dieu stood a statue of a female saint, the Dwynwen for whom the little side chapel had been named. At the far end of the chapel, on either side of the single window, were stone sepulchres of a knight and his lady, their effigies carved on the top of the stone slabs.
This part of the church had always been Thea’s favorite. It was dimmer than the rest of the church because it had only one stained-glass window, and the few flickering candles in their red-glass votive holders cast only a small, atmospheric light. The statue of St. Dwynwen, somewhat smaller than life-size, stood on a short, square pedestal of stone. The statue itself was simply, even crudely, carved out of wood, and it was faded and fissured with time. The saint looked out and down, smiling sweetly, her arms held out to the side.
From the time she was a child, Thea had liked to sit in the chapel. She loved the quiet, the light and scent of the candles, the aged statue. St. Dwynwen, she thought, looked to be a kind and understanding soul, not pretty perhaps, but loving. It was said that the knight entombed in the rear of the chapel had carried the statue back with him from his campaign in Wales. The story went that he had stopped at a small shrine to St. Dwynwen to pray for success in Wales, and afterward he had won not only the battle but also the heart of a beautiful Welsh lady. In gratitude, he had pledged his devotion to the saint and brought the statue back to his home, where he had given it and the funds for building the chapel to the convent as a gift in the name of his Welsh wife.
The tale had caught Thea’s imagination, and she had pored through her father’s books until she found the story of St. Dwynwen. Dwynwen, it was said, had been the daughter of a Welsh king and had fallen deeply in love with a man named Maelon. Her father would not let her marry Maelon, but insisted that she marry a wealthier lord. In a rage at being denied his love, Maelon forced himself upon Dwynwen. Heartsick, she fled into the forest, where she prayed for help. An angel appeared and, moved by her plight, gave her a potion for the treacherous Maelon to drink. When Maelon drank it, he was turned to ice as punishment for his cruelty. The angel told Dwynwen that God would grant her three prayers. From the deep love and purity of her heart, Dwynwen asked that Maelon be released from his punishment, that she herself not ever have to marry, and that God look after all true lovers. Maelon was restored, and Dwynwen retreated to Llanddwyn Island and spent the rest of her life in
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