Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

She saw this as a psychological breakthrough, even though he locked the door on the way out.

It was ten o’clock in the morning when she started to read. She had seen his watch; normally it was covered by his shirt or jacket. Perhaps that, too, was a concession.

He was obviously pleased with her progress when he came back at two o’clock-he announced the time-carrying a tray with a large cooked meal in a scrubbed wooden bowl. He also gave her a pack of Gitanes, for which she thanked him profusely. Duval made some small talk, but avoided asking her opinion before he left. She ate her meal, smoked two cigarettes and continued with her reading.

Later, he brought her coffee, and this time he couldn’t contain his curiosity: “How far have you got with it? You don’t have to read it in one go, but I’m pleased that it’s held your interest for so long. Well, my child?”

Marda had been planning her response. She had been terrified by the story. Despite her rapid religious training she had not understood all its meaning, but it told her much about his state of mind and revealed even more about his plans for her. Although she was heartened by Christine’s escape, Duval’s ideal of spiritual fulfilment through life incarceration within a wall chilled her already cold and pained body.

She had practised over and over what she would say. A bad response could be dangerous, she knew. She realised what his writing meant to him. It was more than an obsession: he was acting out a deadly fantasy.

She did her very best to smile, a simulation of deep contentment. “It’s fascinating, Michael. Truly.” She realised that the “truly” was too quick, too desperate, too gushing. “No, I have to be a little careful because I haven’t finished it yet. I am up to the bit where Christine meets the bishop in Guildford…I didn’t know that it used to be called Guldenford…Please let me finish the book. I will have some questions because I don’t understand everything, and I do want to understand it all.”

She tried to be convincing. Marda had a naturally kind disposition, but it was extremely hard for her to applaud a prospectus for her own premature burial in stone.

Duval’s face beamed with pleasure. “No, don’t rush it. I value your opinion. There is no one else I would show it to.”

Marda was cautious now: “Did you show this to your other…guests?”

“Good Lord, no. I told you, you are special. And to be honest I have rewritten a lot since you’ve been here. Since I met you the first time in Shere, I’ve done a great deal of work on it. If it’s ever published…of course I don’t know if it’s good enough. Sometimes I think it’s too personal to publish. Too important. I don’t know much about publishers, agents…all that London business…but, yes, if it is ever published, I would like to dedicate it to you. With your blessing.”

Marda often found it hard to follow her captor’s logic, but she recovered quickly from this surprise. “Michael, no one has ever asked whether they could dedicate a book to me before. I don’t know what to say.”

Now Duval had become the child of their relationship. “Well, I’m jumping the gun a bit. You’ll have to finish reading the draft there. I mean you don’t have to, but if you would, then I have to polish up the whole thing. You know, then get it looked over by a proper editor, et cetera, et cetera .”

Marda sensed the power reversal again. He seemed like a schoolboy, her captive for the moment, but she had learned how volatile he could be. She was afraid of uttering a fatally incorrect phrase. “Michael, please let me finish your”-she almost said “masterpiece” but wisely refrained-“book. I want to see what happens next.”

That was the correct reply.

“I’ll leave the main door open and your grille a little way open, if it’s not too cold, then you can shout if you want some coffee or something. How is your cold?”

She couldn’t resist a cliche: “A day in bed with a good book is what I needed.” She attempted a wan smile.

He was not generally susceptible to flattery, except about his book. He was well on his way to believing himself to be an author.

“Thank you for your support. I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said enthusiastically.

Marda returned to the hardships of the Middle Ages; they helped her forget a little of her own suffering.

February 1333

Simon was not quite as tall as the woman he had loved all his young life. Broad-shouldered and very strong, he worked hard in the fields as well as long hours on his delicate task of making clothes. Christine had shunned him, told him to forget, but he could not. His father had warned him: “Ne’er go within three arrow-shots of the carpenter’s home,” but Simon could not help his feelings. He called upon William the Carpenter from time to time.

William was fashioning two benches for Simon’s cottage in exchange for some woven fustian.

“’Tis good to labour in oak; they be the monarchs of the forest,” said William.

Simon did not reply, but then said, “Is she in goodly health, Master William?”

William sighed heavily. “Aye, the many months in the world, despite the trial, have granted some rosiness to her cheeks, just as when she was a girl in the fields. Done her well, indeed. I doubt that she would have lived, being alone in the wall, if the death of her sister were brought to her there.”

“I am well pleased at those tidings, sir, but I wish her rude health would allow her to speak with me.”

“So still she denies you, Simon?”

“Aye. She will not speak to me; she just prayed aloud over my pleas. Then she began to act like a mummer, as if I were not there-that be some weeks ago.” Simon spoke with infinite sadness.

William put his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “You know she cannot speak of earthly matters with you. Her rule is strict: she can speak to her family, but briefly, about her daily needs-all else is to be spiritual. She means not to hurt you. I know she does it to make you forget. It is some years since we did make preparations for the nuptials, so ’tis time you married another, though I would gladly have taken thee as my son.”

Simon walked towards the open fire and stared into the flames. He was lost in thoughts which William did not interrupt. When finally he spoke again Simon’s voice was tinged with a slight tremor: “I did tell my heart that once my Christine had left the cell, she would not go back. Her leaving gave me hope again, the hope that I had buried for two years.”

“Simon, I have told you this oftentimes: you must not tarry. You are a handsome lad, the wish of many a maiden in this parish. Go: take another. With my blessing.”

“Sir, I cannot. While Christine lives, I cannot.” Simon’s face was full of emotion.

“This is foolishness,” said William. “Life is short and hard; you need sons and daughters to care for you when strength departs from your limbs. And if you do not heed me, then for your own sake take yourself away: you are a craftsman, and strong to labour. Escape this demesne or seek permission of our new lord, if you must.”

“My father who did not become my father, you have seen into my thoughts. I shall take my love away. Perhaps in foreign lands, I can forget your daughter, sir.”

Duval was pleased with both his writing and his guest. As he had always hoped, his interests were coalescing because they were mutually inspiring. His relationship with the Bishop of Guildford, however, was deteriorating, if it were possible for it to become any worse. It reached a nadir during lunch the next day: the bishop, surprisingly, had invited Duval to a meal in the Napier Hotel, an ornate red-brick Edwardian edifice near the River Wey. Duval was a little taken aback by the written invitation, but it was the kind of gesture the Americanised cleric might make. “A good public relations move, as they would say in the US of A,” Duval said aloud in an exaggerated southern drawl. The invitation worried him-he realised that it would be more than a friendly chat over good wine.