Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

1331

The second winter of Christine’s entombment in the wall was not as hard as the first. Slowly, she had grown accustomed to a cell which was not much larger than a cupboard, and no more did she have to suppress the desire to run, for just one brief minute, in the fields, to let the wind race about her body, or to feel the freedom of rain on her face. She stored these sweet memories and embroidered them into her prayers and savoured them in her contemplation of God’s gift of Nature. There was no doubt that she had diligently applied herself to her devotions: her reading had improved, and she could understand most of the Latin in her single book, while the Church Latin of the services was almost perfectly comprehensible. Father Peter continued with whatever extra education he could master himself before passing on his new learning to his dutiful pupil.

Even in her confessions, the subject of Sir Richard was never broached, not with Father Peter, her regular confessor, nor with the bishop, nor the visiting archdeacon who occasionally counselled her, received her confession or conducted Mass. Yet through her long isolation and his guilty kindness, Father Peter had become a confidant, no longer the accomplice to a crime, and he was the only person Christine could turn to on the matter of her sister:

“Father,” she said one day, as he knelt in front of the quatrefoil, “year-long I have prayed hard for my sister. For six months now she has laboured in the manor for Sir Richard. Days she works at table and in the scullery, nights she returns to our cottage. My father tells me all is well, but I fear for her soul, and for her life. I know that I should be torn apart by the hounds of Hell were I to let her fall to Sir Richard’s lust. He might treat her e’en worse than me. I spake to my father to guard her well, but naught can he do, ’ceptin’ sendin’ her away. Besides, she is now contracted to the lord, and he might rebuke my father were she to leave his demesne.”

The priest understood her fears and tried to calm her. “Have you warned her of your own fate at Sir Richard’s hands?” he asked plainly.

“I have told her to be beware, but I did not, I cannot, speak of my defilement,” said Christine, shuddering.

Father Peter moved closer to the opening in the wall. “I will inform you very privately that Sir Richard has been over-ambitious. I hear tell his politicking within the court sits badly with the king. His manner with his bonded men, or his applying, here in England and to you, the droit du seigneur, matters not a fig to the royal court, but his taking of disputed land in other demesnes has made many enemies, not least the Dean of Guldenford, who claims Sir Richard has taken properties which the Church has been bestowed in legal writs. To have king and Church agin you is not fitting for a lord.”

Christine was not reassured: “But Sir Richard is cunnin’ like the fox. I do not portend his fall so quick, Father. And I worry still that Margaret be ill-used. She has not paid visit to me for two months or more, and my father shows hurt in his face when I ask of her, though he hides that hurt, or so he does attempt.”

“There is naught you can do but pray,” said Father Peter lamely.

“Father, women may only pray, but men may do bold acts. I am a weaker vessel which I shall pray God fills with purpose, hope and grace.”

The next morning, after Matins, William visited his daughter to speak to her of Margaret, prompted, thought Christine, by her priest. She saw the lines of worry and fatigue etched in his face and knew in her heart that the news was bad. William hesitated, and when he spoke there was a catch in his voice.

“You have often spoken of your sister these weeks, and now I must tell you fairly. She has taken herself to Peaslake to be with our cousins there.”

“Has she been by force compelled to leave the manor? By Sir Richard?” asked Christine.

William sighed. “Aye, that she has.”

Relief coursed through her. “Then that is for her good to be away from his evil hand…” She saw her father’s face. “Unless there be some crime or wrong done by her? Or, God forbid, to her?” The pain in her father’s face seared Christine’s heart.

“She is with child, Christine.” He could not look at his daughter. “She says she was taken and forced by Sir Richard from near the start of her time at the manor. She was too fearful to speak to me.”

William put his shaking hands to his face and tried to continue: “On the night of St. Reuben’s feast day, she stumbled home all cuts and welts. She fell at my knees and told me all. That she were with child by Sir Richard and had just told him so. Thereupon he beat her, and took again of her, and his son Edward has taken of her too, when she lay terrified and barely knowing what day or month or year it be. She told me all in tears when she came home that night-those weeks ago-all bruised, and cut, and sore…”

William started to cry. Christine pulled aside the edge of her curtain and wiped the tears from his cheeks. She leaned through the outer grille and touched the tip of her head against his as their tears joined in shared pain.

Christine wanted to shout at her father, and demand to know why her family had kept the dreadful secret to themselves, but the agony on his face made her control her anger.

“Father, why did you not tell me of this before?” she asked gently.

“I wanted to, my child, but I have worried so much about your health; I dared not add to your privations here in this cold cell. I had delayed telling you, from fear…from love… searching to find good words for such terrible deeds. I ordered your mother to keep silent. When Father Peter told me of your constant prayers for Margaret, I was driven here by guilt. I am sorry to tell you all this now…”

“I forgive you, Father, but tell me, please, what has become of Margaret? How does she fare now? What did you do when she came home so defiled by those monsters?”

William could not answer; his shoulders shook uncontrollably as he tried to fight his anguish. Eventually he composed himself enough to speak: “I asked the reeve to arrange for me to see the lord. He made me wait eighteen days, saying he was conducting duties in London. Finally, in the great hall, Sir Richard spake to me with witnesses all around; before I could speak, he shouted that my daughter had shamed his house. That she was with child and so must depart. That there would be no bastardy in his household. He told me to send her away to furthest kin and let the child be raised in more Godly ways than I had raised thy sister.

“I was so angry I could not stop myself. ‘Sire,’ says me. ‘I must speak out now, without your leave. My daughter tells me she was taken by main force, and by members of your household. This is not justice…’

“‘Hold your insolence in my house,’ Sir Richard did roar at me, his face all aflame. ‘I have conducted enquiries full into your daughter’s fall and ascertained that it were a village lad not connected with this house. Were you now to gainsay my word, here in front of witnesses, I will summon her to court ecclesiastic for the sin of childwrite. And if you persist in this calumny she will by Church courts be judged for fornication and bastardy. If one word more you utter against me in my house, you will also be sent from my sight and land. Leave me now whilst I have the patience not to draw my sword against your insults to me and to mine. Be gone, man, and avoid my face in case I lose my mercy. Next time I see your snivelling features, I will hang you in a cage as we do to Scottish rebels.’ Then he started to scream: ‘Out with you, you lying cur! Out, I say!’”

William shivered as he recalled the awful scene. “His armed men forced me from the house and I have sat with rage at home. With all my righteous hurt what can I do agin so strong a lord? I tell you true, but there is naught you can do except to pray His justice be done on earth.” William pointed up to heaven.