Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

Marda was beyond caring what Duval thought of her. She grabbed the frame of the grille and brought her face close to the priest’s. “Maybe my stomach can survive on bread and water,” she shouted at him, “but my bare feet won’t last much longer. Will you, please, give me the shoes and stockings you mentioned? The ones that are appropriate for this nun’s habit.”

The afterthought, more calmly expressed, was well targeted, but Duval ignored her, closed the grille and walked away.

Marda sat in the absolute silence, the absolute darkness, feeling proud of herself. A short time before she had been a quivering mass of abject terror. Now she had somehow managed to engage a maniac in a sustained philosophical discussion. She could pretend to play according to his rules. He wanted to control her mind and body, but he could control only her body. Her mind was hers, and she would beat him at his own game. Let him think he had the power; she would somehow discover how to use it against him. Meanwhile, she would survive. She resolved not to allow herself to be foolishly flippant again, no matter what she felt like saying. In the lonely blackness she would train her body and her mind. No matter how her stomach was knotted in agonising fear, she would not show it. She would not be humiliated. That was how she would win.

And yet doubt and despair sapped her bouts of confidence. She wondered whether she could continue to subdue her intelligence, to get the balance right between her assumed mantle of dedicated student and docile victim. Her life teetered along a razor’s edge every time he asked a question, so she would have to think hard and plan her words more carefully. She had plenty of time to think. She would use this time to her advantage, no matter how cold and desperate she was.

An hour later, Duval opened the grille without a word and threw in a brown paper bag. The grille was slammed shut and she heard his footsteps echo angrily down the corridor.

Marda tore open the bag and found clean woollen stockings, and shoes. They were a little large, but it made no difference to her feet, aching with cold.

Two days passed, and Duval opened the grille twice without speaking. Each time he handed in a clay jug of water and half a loaf of dark bread. Marda started to beg for some light on the first occasion, but the grille crashed shut before she could get the words out.

When it opened the second time, Marda said in rush, “Please give me a Bible so that I can read.”

Duval still said nothing, leaving her standing in the darkness.

On the third day, he silently brought a wooden tray with strange, rather gritty coffee, a fruit she did not recognise and cold venison, heavily larded with horseradish. As soon as he passed the narrow tray through the grille, Marda seized it and began to devour the food.

The priest watched her gorge, then said in a clipped voice, “I have brought you a Bible. I will permit you light for one hour.”

He flicked on a switch in the corridor.

“You can also have this tallow candle so that you can study as they did in olden times.” She heard the now familiar sound of his heavy tread disappearing down the hall.

Spiritual and physical food, thought Marda. She scanned the cell, her first chance to see it in proper light. As she chewed greedily, she flicked open the first pages of the Bible: the Catholic Douay version. It was unfamiliar. She would have preferred the King James Bible, the one she had used at school, but realised it was ridiculous to worry about that.

Wiping her hands on her habit, she began to read the first line of the first book: “And in the beginning God created the Heavens and the Earth…”

“What am I beginning?” she asked herself. “And can I prolong the beginning to avoid the end?”

November 1332

For over a year Christine waited at her home. The bishop’s court did not summon her, but Father Peter informed her that the bishop, true to his word, had petitioned the Pope for her re-enclosure. These months she spent in caring for her nephew, the child she had helped bring into the world. She watched tenderly as the wet nurse suckled him. It was, she knew, the last intimacy she would share.

Although the rhythms of the village embraced his household, William was subdued, despite the fact that the justification of his word and the restoration of his self-respect had been important to him. His wife Helene was sad, but pleased to have her family around her. Christine’s brother was a support, too. But, above all, Christine loved the baby, and William hoped deep in his heart that she would stay. He did not want further change in his life. True, the new lord displayed due respect by ordering furniture to be made for a bedchamber at Vachery Manor, but the outside world had intervened too much in his once well-ordered life.

It was raining hard when Father Peter came to the door. The priest seemed to be full of his own self-importance because he was bearing a very important letter, although the essence of its content had been unofficially sent from Guldenford a few days before.

William welcomed him warmly. “Come in, Father Peter, and dry yourself by our hearth.”

“Thank ’ee, Will,” said the priest, letting his sodden hood fall on to his shoulders. Sitting on a stool by the open fire, despite his excited state he could not resist casting a covetous eye over the pork roasting on the spit.

William did not ignore the silent request. “Will you honour this home and join us in our meal?”

“I will most gladly, but pray let me read to you all this letter.”

The whole family assembled within the minute to hear the first letter William had ever seen.

The priest looked with concern and affection at Christine, while playing to the gallery in his hour of triumph. “Aye, Christine. Good it be to see you in a womanly robe, but I can tell you that your habit should be readied.”

The family members all stood while the priest raised the document in the air.

“I have here a copy of the response to the bishop’s petition on your behalf. It is in best Church Latin.”

“Tell us in our speech,” said William impatiently.

The priest assumed a self-important stance, holding the letter with both hands, his arms fully extended. Allowing a few seconds for a dramatic pause, he said, “It begins thus: ‘John, by divine permission Bishop of Winchester, to the Dean of Guldenford; we greet ye with grace and blessing.’”

He explained in detail rather than translated the intercession of the Bishop of Winchester with the Pope.

“This part of the letter speaks of our Christine. This is from our Holy Father. Heavens be praised, a letter from the Lord Pope about a humble villager here in Shere.”

The priest was clearly relishing his role as papal emissary.

“Read it, Father,” said Helene, almost unable to contain herself.

The priest nodded with exaggerated dignity. “‘Our sister Christine, an anchoress of Shere, in your diocese, has by humble confession shown us that whereas at one time, as is known to ye, choosing enclosure in the life of an anchoress, she made a solemn vow of continence, promising to remain in that place. Now forswearing’-that is ‘leaving,’ William,” he said with a gentle smile as he looked up at the frown on the carpenter’s face-“‘forswearing this life and conduct that she assumed, she has left her cell inconstantly and returned to the world. Now, with God’s help, she has humbly petitioned us that she may be treated mercifully by the Apostolic See.’”

The overawed family looked at each other and, in turn, Father Peter glanced individually at each person in the room before continuing. “Her transgressions have been forgiven, William. Aye, Christine, the Pope himself has given you absolution.”