The Anchoress of Shere, page 11
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…”
Marda stared at him in rage now. “I don’t want to be comfortable here,” she shouted. “I just want to get out. Please. Where am I? Is this some sort of prison? Am I in London? Who do you work for?”
“I work for no one but God.”
Duval’s words chilled Marda; not just the content, but the coldness of his tone, the deadly humourless conviction which so belied the smile. Duval seemed an embodiment of the belief that Christ never laughed. He spoke to her like a well-educated but bored post-office official helping a particularly stupid customer fill in a very simple form.
As he slid the grille across, the beam of light was removed; darkness reconquered the room and her soul.
She rushed to the grille to see if she could open it, but it was impossible from the inside. Putting her ear to the grille, she tried to catch some sound from the outside, and heard Duval say, “Hello, Julie. Hello, Denise. And you, Mary. Justine, you have company. And Dorothy, you used to be so lonely. You have a friend now.” As he said each name, Marda could hear a tap as if on separate doors.
So I am in some kind of prison with other women, she thought. Somehow that made her feel better. She was still terrified, but she was less alone.
VII. The Bonds
Duval returned to his desk. He wanted to write while his universe was in perfect equilibrium.
August 1331
Christine, on her knees, kissed the bishop’s ring, which was as opulent as his private chambers. The episcopal parlour was adorned with brightly coloured tapestries from Arras. Opus anglicanum embroidery, the handiwork of doting nuns, was displayed on a heavy carved oak table. This was some of the finest embroidery in Christendom, with workmanship so delicate and designs so very fine, threads of gold, yellow shading to green, and white to blue.
Christine had spent three days in the Dominican convent in Guldenford, where she had been starved of food and sleep and then forced to repeat a series of detailed confessions. In each the main theme had been that the step between ecstatic vision and sinful frenzy was very small, and she had willingly taken that fateful step to excommunication by abandoning her vows in order to follow the Great Tempter. Made public, against normal protocol, these confessions had been recorded on vellum and a summary presented to the dean, who had then summoned the bishop. It was his job to supervise petitions for Christine’s excommunication as punishment for the abnegation of her vows. Thereafter, she could be handed over to secular authorities for trial and possible execution.
The bishop, however, had more worldly fish to fry on this Friday. Alone except for a scribe, he addressed Christine with due solemnity: “My child, I have read the summation of your confessions and I have…” He stopped, seeing her strained face. “Please, look up from the floor and at me. You seem pale. Scribe, place that stool for our errant sister…Sit, Christine.”
Christine had been struggling, through her fear, hunger and exhaustion, to hold herself upright. “Thank you, my lord,” she said gratefully.
“By all the rights,” continued the bishop, “you should be before a court ecclesiastic. This may come, but I wanted to speak to you privily. To help. To counsel. To keep a sister in the faith. With due penance, perchance you can be absolved of your sins and avoid excommunication. But should you persuade the court to shrive you, then to be re-enclosed in St. James’s church will require the special permit of our Holy Father the Pope. Do you understand?”
“I understand, my lord,” Christine said meekly.
“Let me speak to you of God, and also of worldly things,” intoned the bishop as he stroked his heavily embroidered rochet. “Firstly, your miracles. Your claimed miracles. I pray that God has visited you, my child. Let me see your palms.”
Christine showed her open palms. He reached forward from his gilded chair and examined them carefully. “I see no stigmata, my child,” he said kindly. “Were it now to happen before my eyes, and extra witnesses I could summon, this proof might be hailed as saintly. But one claim, with none as witness, will not persuade this bishopric-let alone the Pope-to grant your pardon.”
Christine was silent. He pulled out a brocaded cloth of sarsenet and blew his nose into it, then he tried again to explain: “Saintliness, the desire for this lofty gift, may be the ultimate temptation. And your fasting to extremes…to die for our religion is much easier than to live absolutely for Christ. As you know now, solitude is a palace for the Beast.”
The bishop saw a tiny tear in Christine’s eyes, although she, who had suffered so much, now found it hard to cry. He wanted to take her mauled hands to comfort her, but knew he could not. “I believe in the truth of your vision which led you to enclosure in St. James’s church,” he said softly. “I sense your spiritual strength, my child, but let us leave the claim of miracles apart.
“I have read your extra deposition. You have accused Sir Richard of carnal violation of your virtue and that of your deceased sister, Margaret-God rest her soul. If true, this is devilish work. But your sister has gone to another place, and it rests upon your truth against your honoured master, Sir Richard. True, your calling to the anchorhold would give you extra worth, but you are a fugitive now from your cell.”
The bishop’s brow furrowed. “Fornication-especially by main force-is against God’s law, and the Church condemns accordingly, but our custom is that bonded and free men of the demesnes have few redress in matters carnal against their lord, especially when he has a strong sword-arm and the knights to follow him.
“But I myself have remonstrations with Sir Richard.” His voice dropped. “I will aid you to avenge your family’s wrongs, but you must return my favour. Later I will explain all to you. Meanwhile, I swear you to absolute silence. Rest quiet in the convent, where I have forespoken to the Abbess Euphemia and instructed her to treat you well.”
Duval was happy and the writing flowed, yet even though his story was materialising, he felt his thoughts were being seduced back into the twentieth century. The Middle Ages shimmered around him, but they did not envelop him with images. His imagination was not seized with irresistible force by thoughts of the 1320s. Previously, his female trophies had allowed him, on occasion, an almost perfect escape into the fourteenth century, but now he found that Marda’s face was assuming the likeness he had long ago invented for Christine. The more he tried to focus on the medieval Christine, the more he wanted to start his work on the living flesh and blood of Marda. This had not happened to him before and he found it unsettling, yet he could appreciate the delicious metamorphosis.
A few feet below the thick stone floor on which Duval’s writing desk stood, Marda was desperately banging on the door again. Why hadn’t the women Duval had spoken to said a word? Maybe their cells were too well sound-proofed. But surely they could hear her banging? Perhaps they were locked in another part of the prison? For several hours she had been consumed by an almost mindless rage, but some small part of her knew that others were suffering as she was, and she needed to speak to them.
She shouted a few of the names she had heard: “Denise! Dorothy!”
Maybe they were gagged or drugged? Not all of them, surely? How many people were in this hell-hole? Was her gaoler working alone or was he part of some bizarre and insidious organisation? There had to be other people involved, captors and captives.
She wanted her fellow-prisoners to help her, at least to tell her what was happening: knowing would make it easier. She could then survive whatever she had to go through to be released, or to answer whatever questions were needed to pass the test that would enable her to leave.
She tried banging on her door again, to no avail. She tried to estimate how long she had been in the dungeon. Fifteen hours? Sixteen?
Although she was only a light, social smoker, she suddenly felt the craving for a cigarette. A few puffs might relieve the tension cramps in her stomach, but she would not beg him for nicotine. Food and water were more important.
The heaviness of time became increasingly unendurable. In the darkness she was lost. Only the light-and his face on the black-and-white TV screen of the grille-would help her to gauge the passage of time. She felt as if she were being swilled around like a goldfish in a tiny polythene bag on the back of the rickety horse and cart of the rag-and-bone man. Tom-that was his name. He would shout “Rag-Bonnnn-er. Scrap metaaaal.” He used to give her balloons when she was a little girl, but she had wanted a goldfish. She had felt sorry for the trapped fish, so she asked her father whether they ever suffered from seasickness. Were goldfish aware of water? She was beginning to feel the same about the concept of time. The hours, she suspected, would become meaningless; she could only measure time by her feelings. And all she felt now was fear.
Marda heard again the muffled opening of a second door and then a lower tone of the thudding closure of a door and a metallic click. She presumed he was locking the door into the corridor outside her-their-cells. Perhaps it wasn’t “Michael.” Perhaps it was a female warder or kidnapper. But by now she had begun to discount the kidnapping theory. That didn’t make sense if five or six girls were all locked up together. For a fleeting moment she thought that it was all some elaborate practical joke. But that would be crazy, she realised, especially as she could have choked to death on whatever it was “they” had used to knock her out. Maybe it was illegal, criminal…or political. No, he was mad-as simple and as horrifying as that. If only she could make contact with the other women, she could find out what on earth was going on.
Unexpectedly, the grille slid open and the light flooded in. She heard his deep, cultured voice say with mock subservience, “Toast with marmalade, mademoiselle, and some more herbal tea. Please tell me if you would prefer coffee next time.”
She had dreaded his coming, but, oh, the light. And food. And some kind of company. Even his. And that voice. It was almost comforting despite its terrifying chill.
Duval passed her a small plate with two pieces of toast and a mug. As he went to close the grille, Marda begged, “Please, leave it open a little, just so I can see what I’m doing.” There was no response. “And please may I have my clothes?” she pleaded. Still he said nothing, but before he walked back up the corridor he left the grille open a few inches.
She crunched her way through the toast and gulped down the scented tea, desperate for nourishment. Only when she finished did she look to see if there was anything she could spot in the cell. The single feature she had missed was a small air vent which fed from the corridor into the inner wall of the cell.
Drinking the tea made Marda realise how much she needed to urinate. She wondered why she hadn’t felt this need before. Was it shock, or perhaps she had been in the cell for less time than she thought? However long it was, she knew she had to respond to the call of nature immediately. Was Duval still there? She had not heard the outer door.
“Michael, are you there?” she called. She thought how best to placate him. “Thank you for the tea and toast,” she said, trying to sound sincere. “But please can you let me go to the lavatory? I haven’t been since before you…you…brought me here. Please.” The panic in her voice was rising. “There is already a mess in here with my being sick. Please let me go to a bathroom, and then may I put some clothes on before I die of pneumonia?”
She heard him open the outside door. She couldn’t see much out of the grille even when she stood on the wooden bench, and her attempts to push the grille open wider were futile. She could just make out what looked like another cell door opposite, and a stone and timber ceiling with an unusual light fitting.
“Hey! Hey!” she half-shouted, half-whispered. “Hey, is there anyone there? Can you hear me?” Her voice echoed a little in the corridor.
“I can hear you,” Duval suddenly said, though she couldn’t see him. “I will introduce you to the rest of your companions later. For the moment, you can use this.” He appeared carrying a small porcelain chamber-pot, and proffered it through the grille.
“I can’t use that thing,” Marda snorted in disgust. “Please let me out to use a proper toilet.”
Duval let the chamber-pot crash to the ground. The impact made Marda jump, then instinctively cower into a ball as she tried to avoid the flying shards and the noise so monstrously amplified in the confined space.
“You should do what I suggest,” said Duval quietly, as the echoes died away. “Now you must wait.”
“I can’t wait,” sobbed Marda. “And, oh God, please don’t shut the light out.” But there was total darkness, and then the noise of the closing of the outer door. And all Marda could think of was which corner of her cell she would use to relieve herself.
She squatted in the corner and felt her muscles relax, even as tears stung her eyes. There was nothing with which to dry herself. Later, sitting on her wooden bench, she felt her bowels churn. How could she live alongside her own faeces? She felt as though she had reverted to childhood. Faced with soiling herself, she would have to use the floor. He would control even her toilet habits.
