Priscilla Royal - Tyrant of the Mind

“Fear not! I am Brother Thomas of Tyndal. I came with Prioress Eleanor and Sister Anne. Will you come inside for some spiced wine to chase away this cruel chill?”

She continued to look at him in silence. Although the falling snow obscured her features, her eyes glowed black amidst the pale flakes and Thomas felt uneasy under their unbroken gaze. Shifting his weight to keep his feet from growing numb, he found himself thinking that the woman could not be possessed, for surely Satan preferred fire to this ice when he tortured souls.

“Wine?” she asked at last in a tone that suggested his offer was some fantastic thing.

The snow continued to whirl in the wind. Thomas watched one snowflake, delicate as lace, land on his sleeve and slowly blend with its fellows. Beauty can be so fragile, yet so deadly, he thought, remembering how the snow had nearly frozen Anselm to death last night.

“If you will come inside,” he said, stepping forward with hand outstretched to pull her from the castle wall if need be, “we have much to discuss.”

“You wish to question me on my desire to enter Tyndal as an anchoress,” Juliana said as she started to walk slowly toward him.

“Aye,” he replied, “and perhaps more.”

“If you wish to speak of death, we should remain here, brother, where we are closer to it.” She stopped and gestured toward the parapet.

She was quite mad. Thomas was now sure of it.

Then she smiled with such warmth that even her grim words were melted into a jest. “I will come with you, brother,” she said as she pulled her cloak more closely around her and hurried to his side. “You have no need to stand in the cold waiting for this foolish woman to come out of it. I did not mean to make you suffer for your courtesy.”

***

Despite the warmth of the hearth and the heaviness of his borrowed garments, Thomas could feel his hands and feet just now begin to sting with returning feeling. The woman who sat on the other side of the table with a cup of spiced wine looked untouched by her time in the freezing storm.

“You say you wish to enter Tyndal as an anchoress, my lady,” Thomas began, his teeth still chattering. “There is no enclosed cell for you next to the church. Would you not come to us as a nun instead?”

“I do not require a hermitage enclosed with stone, brother. I know of no rule, beyond current custom, that requires someone of my stern calling to anchor in a space surrounded by stone and mortar. A cave or hut in the forest would suit me as well as it did men and women in times past. Amongst God’s verdant gifts, He has given us many quiet places where we may find the solitude to contemplate and hear His voice with greater clarity. It has never mattered whether those who seek Him retreat into the burning wilderness of the desert fathers or England’s dark woods.”

“My lady, please understand that it is not I who will decide whether or not to approve your plea or the details thereof. The bishop and our prioress will do that.” Thomas poured more hot, spiced wine into her cup as well as his own. Perhaps women did dwell in forest huts long ago, he thought, but such a request by members of the weaker sex was quite unusual now. Still, she was right about one thing. Removal from the joys of London to the more austere East Anglian coast had given him more time for contemplation, as had the new joys of his work in a hospital and listening to the novice choir’s simple lyricism whenever he wished. His new sea-scented residence might not be as dour as a desert, the wind-pruned forest near Tyndal might not match the grim darkness of others less buffeted, but surely the reek of fish and rotting seaweed held some position of merit in God’s eyes.

Thomas glanced up and caught Juliana smiling at him. The look was not mocking, but it unsettled him. “Since I am the confessor to the nuns of Tyndal,” he quickly explained, “your welfare would be my responsibility; therefore, Prioress Eleanor thought it wise that I question you on the basis for your decision to become an anchoress.”

“Ask what you will, brother.” Juliana crossed her hands and leaned back in her chair.

Indeed, Thomas had little to ask, but when his prioress requested that he question Juliana on her vocation, he had had no good reason to refuse. Surely he was the least qualified to judge if someone were suited to any form of monastic life since he had not chosen such himself with whole-hearted willingness. On the other hand, some might say that the choice of life over being burned at the stake by an admirer of that exquisite punishment , a concept regaining strong popular support amongst clerics, might be deemed whole-hearted enough. Perhaps he should be flexible about her reasons for finding her vocation as well.

Thomas cleared his throat and asked the obvious first question: “Why do you want to enter a monastic life?”

“You ask me an easy question first.” Juliana smiled. “The simplest answer is that I feel called to it.”

The change in Juliana from the person he had coaxed from the castle parapet was dramatic. Unlike that deathly pale creature with eyes like burning coal, this woman positively glowed with a most womanly warmth. Had he been wrong to think her mad? Might she not be that rare creature who was filled with grace, perhaps even gifted with visions? “Why?” Thomas asked. Indeed, he truly wanted to know.

Juliana leaned forward. This time her steady gaze comforted rather than unsettled him. “I think we might understand each other in this, brother. I feel called to it because worldly things no longer give me joy. In my case, I have enjoyed the love of good parents. My brothers were a happy trial when I was growing up.” She laughed and Thomas watched a memory dart across her eyes. “In addition, I have felt the pain of lust, and, if I may repeat a secret I told in confession, I have experienced the joy of it as well.” Her brown eyes twinkled with a comfortable sensuality.

Thomas realized his bones no longer ached with cold. “Our Lord…”

“…does not require virgins as brides. As I recall, he not only saved the life of Mary Magdalene but also honored her. It was to her, after all, that Jesus announced his resurrection at the tomb, not to Peter or John.”

“I was about to say much as you did.”

“Then you are wiser than many priests.” Juliana fell silent for a moment, her eyes unashamedly examining the auburn-haired monk. “Not to say I questioned the choice of Tyndal for my hermitage, but knowing that you are there is further sign of its merit.”

Thomas felt his face flush.

“Be at peace, brother. I have no more designs on your very fine body than I believe you have on mine.” She shook her head. “Do not protest, for you did think that was my meaning. But do answer this for me: am I right that you did not come to the monastic life as a child?”

Thomas nodded, deciding it was best to see where her questions led before saying anything further.

For a moment Juliana said nothing, then closed her eyes as if profoundly weary. “I find comfort in the knowledge that I shall confess to a priest who had a full taste of the world but was wise enough to reject its corruption for a peace that only God can bring.”

He waited.

“Forgive me, Brother Thomas. Please continue to ask me your questions, and I shall reply, as is meet, with more modesty. Playing the hare to your hound is contemptible in a woman who longs to become an anchoress.” Juliana’s face paled as her smile disappeared. “Although that day of peace seems as far away as the softness of spring is from this bleak winter.”

As he watched the light fade from her eyes, Thomas felt the unease returning that he had experienced with her on the walls. “You have wearied of this world then?” he asked with a gentle tone.