The Anchoress of Shere, page 19
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.”
XI. The Testament
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.
Bishop Templeton was already sitting at a reserved table when Duval arrived promptly at one. Duval’s superior indulged himself, while sipping sherry, in a zestful diatribe about cricket for twenty minutes before moving on to Church matters.
Templeton launched immediately into his views on the liberal trends in the American Church, complaining that the papacy was using its strength to downgrade the role of theologians and fill vacant bishoprics with yes-men. “Rome,” he said, in his nasal version of received pronunciation, “is trying to reverse all the progressive developments we have made on the Pill, on marriage annulments and upon attitudes towards sex, including homosexuality.”
Duval’s energetic views on the principle of individual relationships with God made him a natural opponent of the over-centralised, over-dogmatic Church, but like all zealous converts he was at heart a traditionalist. Besides, he felt he had to engage the bishop in Church matters beyond Guildford, if only to distract him.
“Surely, Your Grace, the papacy is by definition authoritarian.” Duval’s voice was not as confident as his words. “There is a very long history supporting the papal right to appoint bishops. Christ did not form a subcommittee of apostles, did He? He did not take a vote on the subject of His own crucifixion.”
Bishop Templeton raised his eyebrows slightly, and recommenced his tirade: “Maybe not, but recently cardinals have been treated like altar boys. There is a culture of fear, a culture of passivity…Rome is out of touch, especially with the Church in the Third World. Take the ‘liberation’ theology in Latin America. We can’t stand against it because if we do so we’ll lose the people. We have to understand the constant conflicts between authority and conscience. And we must be on the side of conscience.”
“But where do you stop?” Duval asked with some passion. “The history of the Catholic Church has depended on its unity, its uniformity. It has survived all other empires in history because of its centralising strength. If you start saying that Latin America can do this, Africa can do that, there will be another schism. You have to hold the line…”
“Against the tide of moral relativism?” The bishop bestowed upon his words a smug smile.
“Yes. Absolutely,” Duval said indignantly.
“And so Rome becomes as rigid as Moscow?” countered the bishop. “QED, I’d say.”
Duval had recently said as much to Marda. He was losing the argument, so he switched to another tack: “Perhaps, your Grace, it’s not a question of papal dogma. I accept the Pope’s infallibility on matters spiritual. I think some of the errors made, and there have been many, relate more to personal factors-old age, tiredness and stress. Clearly the cardinals and bishops should support the pontiff more wholeheartedly, not add further problems.”
“What further problems?” Templeton tilted his head quizzically, and looked directly at the priest.
“Well, I mean specifically abandoning the old rites and rituals,” Duval said. “The liberal position often regards these shibboleths as meaningless gibberish. They say they have to ‘dump’ Latin services for the sake of the worldwide flock. I know that few could understand the liturgy, but it is not mumbo jumbo. In word and form Church Latin is beautiful, the crystallisation of fifteen hundred years of intellect, of a love of God and a healthy terror of His divine anger.”
Duval was into his stride now: “Trendy guerrilla priests in South America or folksy fathers in New York strumming guitars will not create a populist, or popular, Church, but will destroy the authority built up over centuries.”
Duval examined the bishop’s expression to see whether he should continue. He did not see a stop sign. “I do not deny the need for Rome to be flexible, but this…this… sociological Church will no longer stand as a beacon against evil. Soon anything will go. The brightest and most sincere priests will leave and soon there will be few male priests, celibate or not. You will have to ordain women, God forbid! Why not make the Pope a woman? That’s the logical conclusion to liberalism.”
The bishop smiled; he thought they were both now debating for the sake of it, not from principle. None of these things was likely to happen. He couldn’t quite accept that Duval was in deadly earnest.
Over dessert, Templeton came to the point of the lunch: “Michael, I know we’ve had our difficulties in the past, and I’ve always tried to, er, smooth them over and find a way forward. But it would seem that, in spite of not inconsiderable effort on my part, some of the problems are coming to a head.”
Duval looked only slightly pained: “You are referring,” he said, “to complaints from my congregation, I presume.”
“Yes and other little sundries that keep occurring. I don’t need to rehearse them again. The Lord knows, I’ve tried to help you: you’ve been given reduced responsibilities for some three years now. You are almost sine cura, although admittedly partly at your own request so you can complete your, er, book. How’s it coming along, by the way? Have you found a publisher yet?”
“It is almost completed.” Duval was guarded.
“When may I see something of it?” asked the bishop politely. “You have always been so reluctant to let anyone see it.”
Duval shifted in his seat. “Well, Bishop, it is rather unorthodox. It is, as I explained in the synopsis, a modern interpretation of the role of contemplation in the fourteenth century. It is not a scholarly work as such, but rather an attempt to interest modern, by which I mean popular, readers in this neglected area of Church practice. That’s my concession to populism, if you like, and it is mainly aimed at women readers. I think sometimes we tend to neglect the largest group within the Catholic community, don’t you?”
The bishop ignored the diversionary cue: “It’s a pity, then, that it’s women who’ve complained about you, but I shan’t dwell on the details because we have discussed this already. However, I do look forward to seeing your book. And I would expect you to show it to your superiors before it’s published, especially if, despite your conservatism, it’s perhaps a mite unorthodox-but don’t let me put you off. You know that I’m trying to move the Church forward as fast as I can, without undermining her sacred tenets, of course.”
The bishop patted the small golden cross that hung from his neck. “What I really wanted to talk to you about was a change of direction for you. In the light of the flurry of criticisms, I don’t want you to suffer any possible scandal…”
“But…”
“Hear me out, Michael. I want to do what’s best for you, and this is what I’ve decided. I think a period of missionary work in South America might suit you.”
“Bishop, I must object…”
“You can see some of this newfangled liberation theology at first hand. With your intellectual gifts I’m sure you will begin to understand the new theories and you will certainly master Spanish quickly. In fact, I’ve arranged a language course for you for three months in a seminary near La Paz.”
“Bolivia?” asked Duval, unable to conceal his astonishment.
“Indeed,” continued Templeton firmly. “After that there are two missionary stations in rather more remote parts of the country which would benefit from your talents. Once you’re there you can decide which one is suitable. After all, you have shown a great interest in anchorites, so you can hardly object to being cut off from the busy world for a while, can you? Consider it not as the back of beyond, but as God’s front-line. It would provide precisely the right sort of spiritual refreshment.”
Duval’s face clouded, while Templeton fiddled with the stem of his wineglass before continuing. “Some of the women in your congregation find your behaviour decidedly odd. I have already cautioned you informally and in writing. Sometimes you seem to be behaving as if the outside world does not exist. I have to pull you out before anything untoward happens. I will simply not tolerate a scandal in my diocese. Need to nip things in the bud and all that. Frankly, Michael, Guildford needs a change from you, and you need a change as well. A fresh challenge.”
Duval was fuming, but there was little he would be permitted to say, especially after his little disquisition on the need for authority in the Church. Intellectually, he had boxed himself in, and both he and the bishop knew it.
“When do you plan to send me?”
The bishop inhaled deeply. “I shall give you time-say, four to six months-to wind up your affairs. I shall release you, with immediate effect, from all your remaining duties to allow you the chance to prepare, perhaps start on some Spanish, and to sort out your house. Yours by inheritance, is it not?”
“Yes, yes,” Duval said distractedly. “I don’t want to sell it. I had always wanted to retire here. Rather sentimental, really. Belonged to an aunt. It’s a sort of family association.”
“Quite, quite. I understand.”
“And my dog?”
“Ah, these encumbrances you have on your ministry, Michael. I’m sure someone can be found to care for the poor creature while you’re away.”
Templeton has never owned a dog, thought Michael.
The bishop coughed politely as he cleared his throat for the disagreeable details. “I don’t want to order you to go to South America, Michael. The Church doesn’t do that any more. I don’t want to do that, but I fervently believe that it’s right for everyone, for you, for the Church.”
Michael wanted to say, “And for you, you patronising old soak.”
“Just think about it for a while. My assistant will provide you with all the details. Think about it very seriously, Michael.”
By this time Bishop Templeton was enjoying his third glass of wine, and was more inclined to return to the state of English cricket. Duval had no interest in the subject, but was obliged to nod and smile in the right places until lunch had finished, promptly at 2:15 p.m., and the bishop elegantly dismissed him.
Duval drove his old Morris at full speed on his return to Shere, realising his life had just been altered forever. He considered his alternatives: theoretically he could leave the Church, but it was his whole life. All that he owned was his house, although Duval had never thought of himself as materialistic. The house meant nothing to him in terms of pounds, shillings and pence, but his work in Shere, his writing, and now Marda-these were not things, they were tools of his spiritual work, not material goods. They were his vocation, they were not shameful worldliness.
And Marda was at home waiting for him. He was finally achieving what he had worked on for years, and now it was all threatened by a sanctimonious sports obsessive who believed he was a trendsetter. Duval wanted to get drunk and then resign from the Church, but he could do little except curse the bishop.
Unconsciously, his vanity had propelled him into believing that the Church needed him as much as he needed it. He was altering reality to preserve his sanity. He was afraid of being alone, not least alone and without the Church; regardless of how much he railed against it, he would be lost without her mantle of protection.
