The Anchoress of Shere, page 14
Marda shook her head, completely confused. Her intuition told her that she would survive only by pretending to be much less intelligent than she really was, and then making Duval feel superior by appearing to learn quickly what he wished her to. She had indeed read about Leary and had discussed his ideas with friends, but she knew that “no” would be the correct answer to the question. Somehow she sensed that he wanted, as did all men, or certainly all men with diminished egos, to explain things to her. Let him go ahead, then.
“Dr. Timothy Leary experimented with drugs in America,” lectured Duval. “LSD-‘acid,’ it’s called-can make a person explore their inner mind, he claims. Silly, really. The religious mystics had better, safer and more sustained visions without this ‘acid.’ Religion, approached properly, can give you a real ‘trip’”-Duval waggled two fingers on each hand to provide the quotation marks-“if you want it enough.”
“And when I have learned your religious course properly, I can go?” asked Marda hopefully.
“If you reach the level of attainment of which I think you may be capable, you will not only learn a new philosophy of life, but you will also be free to decide whether to stay or go.” The lie came easily.
Marda forced a lopsided grin for Duval, then looked thoughtful. “How long will I take to pass your…exam, your examination?” she asked seriously.
“Historically speaking, a few-very few-people have reached the mystical stage in weeks. Others take a lot longer.”
“What about those who fail?”
“As long as you are sincere and you try”-Duval’s eyes glanced heavenwards-“God helps you to try and try again.”
Marda’s knees felt weak, but she struggled to stay engaged in this sinister tutorial. “But some fail, perhaps like the girls in the other cells?” She was not sure if she wanted him to answer this.
Through the grille, Duval looked at her kindly. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to look after you. Ensure you eat properly. Make sure you are warm. In return I merely expect you to listen to me and to answer me openly and honestly. We will start with a little Sunday school-Bible classes, if you like-and then as we progress and study and gain spiritual depth, I will try to explain why I have chosen you.”
By now Marda was convinced she was dealing not only with a homicidal religious maniac but also a patronising bastard. The only course was to placate him and wait for an advantageous occasion to escape. Meanwhile, appeasing him meant food. Obviously the first lesson.
She took a deep breath. “The sooner we start, then, the better,” she said brightly. “Is that OK with you, Michael?”
Duval looked at her with a slightly quizzical expression. “Indeed,” he said thoughtfully.
Shifting his standing position, he composed himself to begin the lesson. “Let us talk about faith,” he began. “My first definition of faith was provided by my old theology tutor. He told me that a philosopher is a blind man in a dark room looking for a black cat that isn’t there, and a theologian is the man who finds it. I thought it was amusing the first time I heard it, but I soon realised that faith depends upon doubt. Believing in God unquestioningly sometimes, yes, but at other times doubting him. Doubt isn’t the opposite of faith, it’s a crucial element. Religion may be morally useful without necessarily being intellectually sustainable. So you could say that a believer is happier than a non-believer. Perhaps that’s as valid as saying that a drunken man is happier than a sober one.”
Marda wondered yet again whether he was merely trying to impress her or whether he wanted genuinely to engage her in conversation. Intuitively, she grasped that he wanted questions from an eager pupil.
“What is God like?” was Marda’s first question, as she assumed an attentive posture on her bench.
“So you believe in God?” replied Duval, peering through the grille.
“Yes,” she said. But what she really wanted to shout was, I cannot believe in God because long ago he would have destroyed evil men like you. How could God allow such an unspeakable evil? In other circumstances she might have wanted to discuss the holocaust, but for now she was keeping it simple.
“I can tell you that God is alive, Marda, because I spoke to Him this morning,” said Duval smugly. “Perhaps you are surprised by such direct communication. You mentioned, I recall, that you are not a Catholic.”
“No, I’m not,” she replied defensively, “but that doesn’t mean I’m hostile.”
She started to cough suddenly, as the nauseating taste of bile rose in her mouth. She was shivering from the horror and unreality of her interrogation, but she knew she had to try to disguise her disgust. She patted her chest and coughed again. “Please excuse me; the cold is getting to me.”
Duval waited for her to continue. The coughing fit gave Marda time to select her words. “I’m interested in religion but not really inspired by it. I told you, I think, that I was christened in the Church of England and then didn’t really bother. I went through a period of doubting God’s existence. You know how it is. Well, maybe you don’t. That was a stupid remark,” she said, feeling awkward.
But Duval answered her seriously. “I hope I am not an unthinking Catholic. My early conversion changed me. You don’t know how much less tolerant I would be if I hadn’t become a Catholic…” He paused, waiting for a response. Marda did not move a single muscle on her face, and there was silence for a few seconds. Then he continued, as though he was discussing the weather: “But I have my healthy scepticism. In some ways I tread my own path. I have my doubts about big organisations such as the Church. They grow bureaucratic, the arteries become sclerotic. They insist on absolutes. You know, the Curia in the Vatican is a bit like the Politburo in Moscow. Both Catholics and communists are alike in assuming that an opponent cannot be honest and intelligent. But I digress…”
He stopped, peered through the grille, and turned his gaze directly to Marda, “All right, let’s start at the beginning. Who made you?”
“Well, God, I suppose.” Marda was somewhat taken aback by the question.
“You are not sure.”
“No,” Marda paused, “but maybe there are various gods.”
“No.” Duval started to recite: “There is the one God, who is three-with His Son, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost, the Holy Spirit if you like. Again, who made you?”
“God.” Marda felt like a chastened schoolgirl.
“And why is there a God, do you think?”
“To guide us?” she hazarded.
He prompted her: “To provide moral limits, moral goalposts perhaps?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, “that’s a good way of putting it.” Marda gathered her thoughts. “Um, I don’t believe in organisations, either. Yes, I suppose I should know my Bible better, but I try to act according to my own conscience. I try to develop my talents-if I have any-to the best of my own ability, without hurting anybody else.”
She paused to wipe her runny nose with the edge of her finger.
“I don’t need an organisation to tell me what to do,” she continued, “but I suppose that God’s word has been interpreted over the centuries-by the Catholic Church and others-and that provides me with the essence of what I believe, as an individual. So, I suppose, God has provided us with morality.”
Duval waited for her to finish, then said “I don’t know if you understand the philosophical implications of what you have just said, but you are developing the theory of moral relativity.”
“I don’t have a theory; I just try to do what is right.”
“Perhaps,” replied Duval, shifting from one foot to the other, “but if we become too relative, too individualistic, then we might as well decide whether the earth is God’s plaything, His golf ball if you like, or rather-to turn the argument on its head-maybe our role is not to worship God but to create him…that black cat which isn’t there in the pitch-black room. But we do need God, whether we feel Him intellectually or emotionally. And so we are back to faith again.”
He changed tack. “Let me play devil’s advocate: if God cannot make us become better, then perhaps it’s time to get rid of Him. No God, no faith, no nothing…God, however, is necessary for the human condition.”
He sighed, enjoying flexing his intellectual muscles, but felt that at this stage it was probably rather in vain. “Why did God make you, Marda?”
Not to listen to you, you monster, Marda thought, keeping her face neutral.
“Take your time, Marda. I like a considered reply. Not just something flippant, off the top of your head, just to please me. I want the truth at all times. God will know if you lie, and we can hide nothing from Him. So let us try that again: why did God make you?”
“We both make the assumption that there is a God. Then His purpose would be for us to live on earth and be good Christians…or Muslims…or Buddhists, if that’s what you believe. That’s my first thought. But I know that some people want to live in heaven. I’ve never fancied the idea of harps and clouds and all that. I might when I’m sick and old, but not now. As for good Christians, what is ‘good’? Presumably priests are supposed to be good.” She bit her lip slightly, but Duval ignored her ironic parry.
“I am not good,” he said, trying to sound humble, “but in my own small way I try to bring people to God.”
Yes, thought Marda, you put the fear of God in people, but she continued to play along. “And, Michael,” she asked, “are people who are not Christians not good? Can a Buddhist be a good person? Or a Jew? At least by our”-she emphasised the “our”-“definition, as Christians, I mean.”
“Excellent, Marda,” smiled Duval, “you are thinking about God. I suppose you have thought more about Him in the last few days than in all your life.”
Marda’s big eyes flickered nervously, but Duval carried on excitedly. “Let’s try to learn the basic rules and then we can move on to debate. We can discuss good and evil later. I do believe there is evil, I must say. It is tempting to deny the existence of Satan since it removes the need to fight Him. It is so easy to slip back into moral relativism. You might know the saying: kill one person and you are a murderer, kill millions and you are a conqueror. But if you kill everyone, you are God.”
Marda nodded politely, completely appalled.
“I enjoy talking to you, Marda,” said Duval expansively. “I feel very confident about you, but we are running before we walk. Let us get back to God’s purpose.”
Duval stopped and stared at her for a moment, then continued, “Of course there is the classic dilemma. If God is perfectly loving, He must by definition wish to avoid evil, and if He is all-powerful He is able, also by definition, to abolish evil. But evil exists-I suppose you think me evil, Marda? — and therefore, God cannot be both omnipotent and perfectly loving. Do you see?
“Or take our situation here. Even if you think me evil, and let us agree that in some circumstances I may be evil-no one is perfect of course-then let me suggest that even here good can come from evil, that new life can come from old. Christ’s crucifixion was an utterly despicable historical act, but from this sacrifice emerged the New Testament, Christianity and the possibility of redemption on a world scale. So what seems a bad action may actually be good. Do you understand?”
Marda frowned, and deliberately did not answer.
“I shall give you a Catechism to read and learn,” Duval continued, not really having expected an answer. “Initially I shall allow you to have one hour’s light a day to read the Catechism and a Bible which I shall also give you. If you use this period fruitfully, I shall extend the reading time. Later, if your studies go well, I shall give you some paper so you can make your own notes.
“When I go I want you to think about your soul.”
Marda thought he was about to leave, but Duval rambled on about the soul and its immortality. She came to realise that often he wanted to indulge himself in long monologues. Despite his excellent memory, he would sometimes repeat himself.
When he touched on faith again, he suddenly asked Marda, “Where is God?”
Her mind had been wandering and she was not prepared for the question. “I’m sorry, I don’t know,” she stuttered.
“Ubique. The answer in the Catechism is ‘God is everywhere,’” he said confidently.
“Well, He’s not bloody well here, is He?” she blurted out, unable to hold back the tears any longer.
Duval stood back, disappointed. “Ah, Marda, you were doing so well until now. I don’t like this kind of facetiousness-which, by the way, is also blasphemous. Since this is just the start, and you have had a difficult few days, I shall be lenient on this occasion. For two days you will have no light, and you will have only plain bread and water. Now I know you do need more nourishment, and I was about to add, for example, some cardamom to your coffee and put some fenugreek seeds in the bread; that is so good for your digestion. But if you insist on being a poor and recalcitrant pupil, you have only yourself to blame.”
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?”
IX. The Inquisition
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.
