Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

Despite the best ministrations by the midwife and Christine, Margaret began to bleed copiously after a healthy son was pulled out feet first, after much struggling. The loss of blood was too much for the sixteen-year-old girl. They tried to staunch the flow with all the herbal remedies known, but to no avail.

Ghostly white, Margaret found the strength to cradle her son for a few minutes, and even managed these words: “Shall we name him William Adam…after my father, and the kindness of cousin Adam?”

“Hush, now. Sleep. Restore your strength,” said the midwife with kind authority in her voice.

And sleep she did, for eternity.

William and Helene had been summoned; they arrived too late, just as a friar was conducting the final rites. After a few attempts at comforting words of Christian resurrection, the friar departed, his tonsured head showing sunburn as he ambled nonchalantly into the woods. What mattered a hasty funeral compared with his reward of a good meal?

After her own simple words of farewell, Helene cut her daughter’s nails and put the parings, along with a lock of her hair, in a small cloth bag. This she would keep with other relics from her parents and her grandparents, unconsciously honouring a pagan order from long before the message of Christ found its way to these islands. William busied himself with constructing a suitable wooden cross for the grave.

Christine prayed unceasingly for her sister’s soul, but also planned her words for the bishop’s court. She remained for another two days, hidden in the deepest wood, insisting that she would see her sister buried in Peaslake even though she had been warned that armed men awaited her. At the church, four soldiers stood guard, but they were Christian men, and allowed the funeral to be completed. Thereafter, without chains, she was taken to Guldenford.

Duval looked at his watch. It was five o’clock in the morning, and his mind wandered back to other times. His earlier selections had been made away from Shere, one removed from Weybridge, two from the Dorking area, and one from Reigate. The first one had been selected in London, but that had been a mistake. Too rushed. Duval now knew he needed time to gauge their suitability, yet he also needed his anonymity in Shere. It was much easier to lose people in bigger towns, but Shere was small, perhaps too small. Marda, though, had been easy prey.

He usually liked to leave his guests in the cellar for a day or so on their own; they were much quieter, easier to manipulate, after the initial panic had subsided, but this time his curiosity was getting the better of him. Marda was going to be different, interesting and compliant, he felt sure. Duval bathed, scrubbing himself extra clean, then brewed some camomile tea and poured two cups.

Despite the thickness of the door to her cell, Marda could hear a muffled sound of another door opening somewhere outside. She sat up, tense and alert.

It must be him. Her mind was racing. Has he come to release me? To explain some terrible mistake? She dared not think of the alternatives.

She could make out footsteps on a stone floor outside. Something metallic slid across the outside of the door, and a shaft of light entered her tomb. She had not noticed the fifteen-inch-square indentation in the door, shielded by a solid metal grille on the outside.

Instinctively she edged towards the back of her cell and huddled in the far corner of her wooden bench. The presence of light seemed both magnificent and ominous as it jabbed at her eyes. Her dark world had been transformed only for seconds, but her fear made them seem acute, long minutes.

Duval’s strong face peered in, transfixing Marda like a rabbit bewitched by a headlight. Not able to speak, she just trembled.

Duval spoke matter-of-factly: “I have brought you some herbal tea. You’ve had a difficult night. I am sure you need something.”

He handed her a cup through the grille. Desperate for something to drink to take away the acrid taste in her mouth, she stood up to receive it as Duval passed it through the hatch, but she could only stare at him.

“Drink it,” the priest said kindly, as though making small talk with a parishioner in his study. “It’s camomile tea; I have just brewed it. Milk spoils it, but I put sugar in for you. I don’t know if you take one or two spoonfuls, so I compromised by putting in one and a half. Sugar is good for shock.”

Duval saw her hesitate as she drew the cup to her lips. She was like a deer in the Hurtwood, thirsty, quivering at the edge of a stream, sniffing a breeze tainted by the scent of man.

He smiled at her overwhelming vulnerability. “See,” he said, “I am drinking mine. Take this one. It has just one sugar in it. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

He handed her his cup, half empty.

“You will need something. When your stomach has settled, I shall bring you some cornbread, if you like.”

Marda stared at him as she carefully sipped the aromatic tea. A part of her felt like throwing it in his face, but her throat and mouth were screaming for some liquid, anything to drown the sour taste.

After the first sip, she gulped the remainder. It made her feel warm, and she found her voice. “Please, Michael,” she said, breathing rapidly, “let me out of here. I don’t know why I’m here. I’m sure there’s been some terrible mistake. Just let me out with an apology, even without an apology, let me go home, and we can forget all about it.”

The words cascaded, but Duval said nothing. He merely looked at her and smiled. In another context it could have been interpreted as gentle charm.

“There’s no need for the police,” Marda continued, her voice catching. “You can apologise. Explain if you can and let me go. Please. It’s terrible in here, and it’s very cold. Please let me have my clothes back and let me out.”

Duval casually took a sip of his tea.

She watched him through the square in the door, bathed in the light from the corridor. It was almost as if she were looking at her own black-and-white television screen, except that she could see the deep penetrating blue emptiness of his eyes. Cold blue counterpointed against the dark metal frame of the grille, and then the yellow of the light, enhancing the brown of his jacket, and the colours of his checked shirt…She felt faint again, but willed herself to challenge him.

“Speak to me,” Marda pleaded. “Tell me why I’m here, and when you’ll let me out. Have I done something to you? What? Tell me. What? Have you confused me with somebody else? I’ve never done you any harm, so why did you kidnap me? Why? Please tell me.” She was crying now. “My family has very little money. But if you want some, I’m sure my father will give you what you ask. Please tell me you’ll let me go.”

Finally Duval spoke. “There is no mistake, Marda. You are the one I need, as I think you need me. You are assuredly not a kidnap victim. You have been brought here for your own good. Indeed, I could argue that you brought yourself here…You have manifested your destiny, and I am a mere catalyst. Trust me. You will even thank me…in time.”

“What are you?” Marda shrieked. “A Russian spy or something? I’ve got nothing to do with politics or anything. I simply work for a wine company. I’ve never been to any communist countries. You can check up on me. You’ll know I’m telling you the truth.”

“I have checked on you,” Duval said patiently. “I have chosen you because of your truth. Now, if you are cold, I will look for something to dress you in. In a few hours I will bring you some refreshment. It isn’t very nice in this place so, with your co-operation, we can perhaps…later…look for ways to make it more comfortable…”