Love Conquers All

A romantic tale

The world was a crisp, white wonderland; a linen cloth of snow covered the hill and meadows stretching beyond St Mary’s churchyard. Old Mrs Frodingham wiped her rheumy eyes with one handkerchief corner then hunched her shoulders against the biting February wind, and accepted her companion’s arm to hobble down the path curving round the church, the stick she carried clicking purposefully on the cobbled path.

“Amor Vincit Omnia, Mr Ingles. Ever heard the term?” Her companion shook his head. She smiled. “It’s an old saying, about love. Oh, I know it’s terribly old-fashioned to talk of such things, but it saved my life, as did the man who introduced me to it. That’s why I want to build this lychgate in his memory, so there’ll be a testament to that love for all time.”

She stopped to look at the space in the long south wall where her gate would go. Beside her, Ingles shivered.

“And a fine notion it is, ma’am. But let us move inside. It’s too cold for you to linger here.”

Mrs Frodingham followed him into the church and to the family’s boxed pew by the altar where, protected from the worst of the draughts, he unrolled a set of drawings to show his client.

“I’ve included all the elements you requested. The lychgate will be roofed, of

“Such HAPPY days, filled with love, no matterwhat TRIALS WE had to face”

course, but with a newer sloped design and tiled, so it’s more durable. Entwined ivy, symbolising fidelity, eternity and affection, will be carved around the connecting posts, and the Frodingham coat of arms will feature in four shields mounted in the centre of each side of the roof.” Mrs Frodingham nodded her approval. “My Arthur would have loved it. Ah, what a man he was! He married me in the teeth of all his fine family’s opposition, you know; turned his back on those in high society that wouldn’t accept me for ‘smelling of the shop’, did everything he could to make my days happy, and they were, Ingles, oh yes! Such happy days, filled with love and laughter, no matter what trials we had to face.”

The old lady had recourse to her handkerchief again.

“Build him a fitting monument, Mr Ingles. For he was brave enough to step off the conventional path and follow his heart, all in the name of love…”

It was a beautiful midsummer’s eve, when the world slumbers in a golden glow and birds sing a sweet velvet serenade. The verdure and vivid wildflowers dancing among the tombstones were wasted on Reverend William Claife, however. His heart was too heavy to allow softer feelings any room.

With a sigh, he skirted the slumbering grounds of St Mary’s on his usual evening walk, stopping as he always did in the

shadow of the lychgate, the handsome memorial to Sir Arthur Frodingham built by his widow as a mark of her everlasting love. Ironic that the reason for Claife’s helpless mood was also love – in his case, denied.

Resting his black-clad form against the gate, he reached out, tracing the twining ivy etched in the posts, his thoughts on the service he’d conducted and the face, so dear to him, now forever lost.

Earlier, he’d joined the hands of two parishioners in marriage and so bade farewell to his dreams for a future with the girl he loved. She’d wed the doctor, and he, Claife, had performed the ceremony.

“Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” he repeated softly.

A snuffling over his shoulder grew into a plaintive whine. Plunging into the bushes to the right of the lychgate, he parted the foliage hugging the wall to reveal a furry black-and-white bundle, wet eyes blinking piteously. Claife dropped to his knees.

“Well, hello, little one,” he murmured, holding out his hand for the creature to sniff. “What might you be doing here?”

That he’d been left there on purpose, the Reverend had no doubt, for a blanket swaddled the little body. Not abandoned, either; on closer inspection, he recognised the runt of the litter the Ashridge Farm collie had just whelped. No good as a working sheepdog in farmers’ eyes, but perfect, Dora Ellam had obviously thought, for a lonely rector and his empty vicarage. Claife smiled in spite of himself. “What do you think?” he whispered. “Care to come home with a dull cleric?” The pup gave his hand a tentative lick. Tucking the warm bundle under his arm, Claife walked carefully through the lychgate and up the path to where the red-brick vicarage sat bathed in mellow evening light.

It may not have been the way he’d dreamed of, but thanks to a kind farmer’s wife, William Claife was bringing home a heart to love…

The churchyard wasn’t as still as Tom had expected. A blackbird trilled its liquid song perched on a precarious yew branch, crows chattered raucously around the tall spire and in the bushes, something scrabbled on the hunt for second breakfast.

Yet it was quiet, St Mary’s residents enjoying their forever slumber. Tom said a silent prayer for fallen friends and hoped their rest was as tranquil.

The wisps of morning mist had faded, and the sky stretching endlessly overhead glowed with sweet September sunshine, just as Gracie had wanted. Tom turned his back on the peaceful scene. Perhaps it would be better if it rained.

He walked clumsily down the uneven path, still unused to his false leg, then leaned gratefully against the lychgate, glancing at the clock above the church door. She was late, as always.

Idly, he considered the dove and dagger on one of the four shields affixed to each

corner of the lychgate roof. The Frodingham crest, a monument to the life of a loving, generous man whom village history remembered with affection.

A strange thing, love, he mused. A gift we so often take for granted, until lost or denied to us.

“It’s bad luck to see the bride on her wedding day.”

Tom turned sharply at the sound of that soft voice, grimacing at the pain the instinctive move had caused. Grace came to a halt on the gate’s other side, the natural glow in her coffee-coloured eyes slightly dimmed. “Or so they say.” “I had to see you before the service,” Tom began, clearing his throat to dislodge a sudden lump there. “Grace, it’s not too late to change your mind, to go to London with your aunt. No-one would blame you, me least of all. In fact, I order you to leave. I’m not fit for marriage, not in mind…” I struck my shattered leg. “Or in body.”

She lifted the latch and stepped through the gate, gazing round the churchyard.

“We used to have adventures here,” she murmured on a sigh, breathing in the scene. “All through the village, over the hills and far away. Do you remember what I told you then?” She turned to him, her face set in that stubborn mask he knew of old. “I said, ‘I’m going to marry you one day, Tom Allard, just as soon as we’re old enough’.” “Gracie…” “And that vow still stands today. So whatever ridiculous notion you have of not being man enough for me, bury it, because I’m done with waiting.” She lifted her hands to his face, her smile setting his heart alight. “I’ve loved you, my Tom, since the day you bathed my scraped knee in the duckpond. When you went away to war, I thought I’d die. I prayed here, every single day, ’til God brought you home again.

“Darling, we are the lucky ones, and I will spend whatever’s left of our lives convincing you of that. So will you meet meat the altar, three pm sharp?”

Tom bowed to her. “I will.” He was smiling as she moved into his arms, where with her close against his chest, Tom was whole again. She’ll be late, he thought. As always…

It was a cold night, the stars dazzling in the crisp December sky and the frost icing every branch, stone and blade of grass with its silvery kiss. Elle had hung back while the rest of the village went into church, needing the peace of the sleeping cemetery to gather her thoughts before she could join the festivities.

Sheltering beneath the lychgate, she

“I’m going to MARRY YOU, Tom Allard, just AS SOON as we’re old enough”

breathed in the brisk atmosphere, letting her eyes wander over the beautiful carving round the Frodingham monument, whose rafters were now hung with hollyberry and green garlands in celebration of the season. “I knew I’d find you here.” Elle’s breath hitched as Matt ducked under the lychgate roof, his overcoat collar turned up against the cold.

“You’d never miss the Nine Lessons and Carols service.”

Elle sighed as the sweet sound of a lone chorister drifted to them on the breeze. “It seems everything is different now.” “Come on, Elle!” Matt, his face pinched with concern and cold, edged closer. “I know things haven’t been great lately, what with my job and my sports, and then Mum breaking her ankle. It was always going to be difficult without Dad around.”

“She has other children, Matt. They could help, too! Then maybe we’d get some time together, decide as a couple how we spend our Christmas. Not one year married and I barely see you, let alone take part in any decisions on how we live our life.”

An awkward silence fell. Within the church, the choir’s song broke through the cold. Above thy deep and dream less sleep, The silent stars go by…

Matt was moving a gloved finger round the carved ivy of the lychgate, pausing at the words engraved along one post.

“Amor Vincit Omnia. Do you know what that means?” Elle bit her lip. “Something about love.” “Love conquers all. I proposed to you under this roof, remember? You so adored the story behind it.”

“You promised me their happy-everafter,” whispered Elle. “It’s already gone.” Matt gathered her into his arms. “Never! Elle, I’ve been an idiot, but that changes from now on. You come first. I’ve arranged for Mum to go to her WI women for Christmas dinner, so we can spend the whole day together, just me and you. And here’s a New Year’s resolution – we’ll take up a hobby of your choice, together.” “Anything?” “Well, as long as it’s nothing flowery.” Elle gave a watery laugh and snuggled into him.

“It’s a lovely thought, but we must have your mum for Christmas dinner. Whoelse can save me from burning the spuds?”

Matt tilted Elle’s chin to the Frodingham shield, from where a posy of creamy berries was suspended. “Look. Mistletoe.” Elle frowned. “Isn’t that a pagan plant?” “All I know,” Matt murmured, “is what you’re supposed to do beneath it.”

He claimed her mouth as the voices of St Mary’s rang out in the night. Yet what can I give him? Give my heart…