The Anchoress of Shere, page 5
Duval’s sigh in the hushed church was audible. I would rather not do again what I had to do before, he thought. But this contact with living females was the only way he could reinvigorate his writing and his research. And after every experience the voice of Christine had returned. It was a worthy sacrifice to his anchoress. It had worked before, but, he asked himself, what if Christine’s soul had left the wall for ever?
He touched the cold stone, seeking to sense her presence. He ran his fingers around the mouth of the quatrefoil, sensually, like a man caressing a woman’s body. Duval had tried to understand himself, to probe his true motivation. He knew that he was in the grip of an obsession, almost Dantesque in the absolute purity of its near-impossibility-like the search for the Holy Grail. Dante’s beloved Beatrice had been alive at the same time as Christine, but a modern equivalent of Beatrice, a tangible Christine, would add flesh to his literary chimera. And the quest was noble in itself.
Despite its original apostasy against Rome, this church in Shere was Duval’s conduit to the true spiritual world, a conduit in some mysterious way to both his inner and outer vision. And the stern but persuasive voices inside his head explained that he could serve God directly, just as his anchoress had. It was Christine who held the key, and it did not merely provide access to his muse. No, his writing, he knew, was just a part of his mission. His fundamental calling was to prove that even in the decadent 1960s a woman could be brought to God, just as Christine had been. She could be helped, but in the end she would have to make a free choice.
Duval prayed for the strength of Christine’s presence. He did not need a Church that had blockaded the highways to heaven with obfuscation, dogma and hypocrisy. “I have suffered, I have sinned,” he said to himself, “yet it is I who will bring female sinners to God.” Not just those who display their new hats on Sundays in a Catholic church, but those who will offer everything up to Him-completely.
“I am merely a tool of God. O Lord, your willing manservant,” he said aloud.
Duval walked out of the church, untied his dog’s leash from a tree and marched up the hill at a rapid pace. When he reached Hillside, he did not make his customary cup of herbal tea, nor take his habitual bath. He perched on the seat in front of his great desk, eager to see if it were possible to write without Christine’s presence whispering in his ear.
September 1327
A curtain had been erected in the bay of the bedroom to afford Christine privacy. She had not spoken for days, but stirred a little when the priest entered with the oils. Christine’s brother peeped briefly around the curtain before the priest shooed him away.
Father Peter raised the cross above Christine’s head. With due solemnity, he said, “My dear daughter in God, it seems that you are fast leaving this life and ascending Godwards. Sister, are you glad that you shall die in the Christian faith? Do you in all good faith repent of your sins? If you cannot speak to confess, nod if you can, and I will grant you absolution. Then I will say the Viaticum.”
Without opening her eyes, Christine managed to move her head slightly. “I have brought to you the likeness of our Maker and Saviour. Look upon it, if you can, and draw comfort from the Holy Cross.”
Christine managed to open her eyes and unclench the jaws that had been clamped shut. Her whole body was coursing with pain, and death beckoned as a magnificent release. She was impatient for her life’s last hours, even these last minutes, to be over.
Yet, as she peered into the gloom, a light-dim at first-seemed to emanate from the cross, which glowed ever more strongly, and the light, so strong now, flowed in waves from its holy form into her body. Warmth engulfed her feet and her lower body, easing and then dissolving her pain. Gradually, the relief spread to her chest, her neck and finally her head. Above all, the rays pierced her heart, purifying it of all her past ways, making her new. She felt light, as though she could float from her bed and dance with angels.
And then she saw a vision.
A small but breathing Christ appeared on the cross, and then it seemed to grow to full size. The wounds were real, and the blood a vivid scarlet. The pain on His face suddenly disappeared and, looking up, He drew her eyes to the ceiling, which had opened up to present the bluest sky on earth. It seemed an opening to eternity, endless years of bliss, of oneness with the Almighty. She was transfixed by the radiance. An intense ball of light swooped down and beckoned her to fly away into a tunnel of the sweetest and most soothing whiteness…but then a figure dressed in purple, a woman with the most peaceful smile she had ever seen, appeared in the tunnel. The figure, floating on a cloud of blue flashing light, summoned her, and yet, at the same time, raised her hand as if to say, “Go back.”
Then, announced by the sound of a trumpet, the holy woman spoke: “Return, and all will be well. Follow me in everything, for all your life.” The words were repeated, slowly and very deliberately.
And in this vision Christine saw herself turning back, eager to obey the woman, who was, she knew, the Mother of Christ, and yet she was reluctant to leave the incandescent presence.
Then she seemed to be flying over the earth, seeing below many prosperous villages and towns, with golden turrets and marble spires, and also a large white castle, which she knew was made of parchment. All creation was like a ball in her hand, for understanding had replaced the pain and she could see with different eyes. All her sins had been turned into blessings by God’s love, a love sanctified by the vision of Mary, the Holy Mother. Love and understanding had been given to her.
All this she saw so clearly, but then darkness fell upon her, and the vision was replaced by the cruel earthliness of her room. Her vision appeared to have lasted but a second of time, long ago. The memory of the light and the peace, she feared, would fade as well.
Christine felt she was strong enough to raise herself a little. The priest quickened his prayers. As he raised the still-glowing crucifix, higher and higher, Christine was drawn up, too, as though sucked by some irresistible force.
The priest knelt and put his hand behind her head to support it and enable her to drink a little ale. She coughed as the pungent liquid stung her throat.
“Gently, my child,” he whispered, cradling her head as her eyes closed and she slept. Father Peter sat by her bed, waiting and praying.
An hour or so later she awoke, and managed to eat a little wheaten bread, her first food for many days. Her eyes were large as she stared at Father Peter and they looked at each other in fear and hope. The priest had shared her pain and her shame, the proof of his weakness. Guilt showed on his face, yet her face was bright for the first time since Sir Richard’s abomination.
Minutes passed before she spoke, although serenity still suffused her face. Then, forcefully, she said, “I have suffered, as you can attest, but I believe I have done worse to my family and my once-betrothed. I was so confused…I hated my earthly body…I wanted death, even prayed for it…that is my greatest sin…But now our God has spoken to me…”
The priest smiled and said, “Our Saviour almost granted your wish, but He must have wanted you to live on this earth to do His will. My child, I brought with me the unction of the final sacrament…our prayers, though, and your pain…and His will…have brought God’s blessing. So I must hope…”
Christine interrupted him, her voice urgent and hoarse with suffering: “I must now confess what I saw. God’s power has come here, to Ashe Cottage. When you raised the Cross, I saw blood, real blood, seep down from beneath the thorns…” She coughed and sipped a few more drops of ale, then retched.
Alarmed, Father Peter tried to calm her: “Sleep, Christine, sleep. And strengthen yourself some more…”
“Nay, Father, speak I must.” Christine was sitting up now, the words tumbling out. “Truly, I saw blood flow from the crown of thorns. It was hot and fresh and in full flow, just as in His Passion when the crown of thorns was by evil men pressed on His blessed head. The blood flooded down like the drops of water that fall off the eaves of a house after a great rain. He who was both God and man and suffered for our sins. I saw all this.”
The priest was overwhelmed with joy at her recovery. It was only natural she would turn to our Lord in such a mortal crisis, he thought. “Christine,” he said softly, brushing back the damp hair on her forehead. “You saw God perchance, and He works miracles still. Or perchance it was your sickness. But, thank God, whatsoever it be, you are stronger. Much stronger. Now sleep a little more and then eat. I will tell all to William and then I will pray at Mass for the deliverance of your body and your soul.”
After three more days in bed, Christine was able to rise and break bread with her family at table. She still shivered a little, even though she wore her father’s cloak and sat near the open fire to ease the autumn chill.
They talked of minor family matters: Helene’s new chickens, the way Margaret had plaited her hair into looped braids, how young William caught a hare. Christine loved her family and all its squabbling intimacy, but she felt herself removed. She knew in her heart that she had been reborn in Christ, but she nodded and smiled inside at all the little family mishaps and adventures that she had missed during her fever.
After a few days spent regaining some of her strength, her father turned to a subject she dreaded. William spoke of marriage: “Sweet Christine, will you now see your intended to speak of nuptials?”
Christine did not speak until William repeated his question. “Father, I tell you plainly. I cannot marry. I have told you of my showing, the showing of the Cross. My life is marked for God so I cannot marry a man. I am now betrothed to Him.” She joined her hands in prayer and looked up to the heavens.
William sensed his daughter’s own Calvary, even though it was far beyond his imagination and understanding. He had gently and privately asked her to explain her vision, to tell him what had prompted her fit, but Christine would talk only of the power and glory shining from the cross and the words of the Blessed Mary. Christine would shed no light on what had befallen her in the manor house.
A week after her recovery, as if from death, Christine ambled along the path that led from her cottage to St. James’s church for her first confession with Father Peter. Stepping lightly through the leaves that carpeted the graveyard, she stopped to gaze at the church. She had worked and played beside it since she could walk, but she had never really looked at it as she looked at it now. She had lived, and almost died, in its shadow; now she knew she had to be reborn to her church.
Father Peter was waiting at the great west door, smiling despite the guilt that gnawed at him now whenever he saw Christine. “Are you ready for your confession, child? If so, I would confess to you, outside this church. Come, let us walk to the Queen’s glebe meadow, and ponder on God’s will.”
Christine felt the security that comes with knowing one’s path. “Father, I comprehend your hurtin’. There is no need. Instruct me rather in the makin’ and meanin’ of this church, for I know you are learned in its long story.”
As they walked slowly through the heavy autumn leaves in misty sunshine, they talked of St. James’s history since the Norman days. The priest interspersed his simple lecture with apologies: that he understood how cruel Sir Richard had been; that no authority would accept her word against their lord’s; that he had not witnessed anything except her distress, but could imagine a little of what she must have endured; and that he felt ashamed. It was left unsaid, but understood, that he was too cowardly to give up his living, sacrifice his stipend, for the truth.
“The rector, Mathew de Redemayne, cares naught but for the money from this parish.” Father Peter’s words were agitated. “The Abbot of Netley, what cares he? The Dean of Guldenford cares only for power, not for souls. I am half-wicked, perhaps all wicked, but were I to protest on your behalf, I would be removed. Then I would grieve for myself, but also for you, Christine, your people…my people. For all my faults I do try to follow the righteous path when I am permitted.”
Christine cut short his pleas: “What is, is. I am new. Without my sufferin’ I would not have seen the Cross in my vision. I had thought to kill myself when I escaped from Sir Richard. God punished me for the contemplation of this mortal sin with fever and, on edge of death, he has shriven me to be reborn, but I will talk of more in my confession. Let it please you to tell me more of our St. James’s.”
They strolled back to the church, the priest explaining how Sir Richard had granted monies for the recent restoration. He detailed how the church had frugally used old Roman tiles, but nonetheless had sorely needed further renewal. Sir Richard had paid for the latest Chiddingfold glass in the south aisle, and contributed to the repair of the grisaille ornamentation in the east window. Around the spire a wooden scaffold lashed with ropes still remained, after twelve years or more of intermittent building.
“That is now the finest spire in England, for the size of it,” Father Peter said, proud of his church and also calm in the knowledge that, at least, very little of the building funds had gone into his own pocket.
“Should be the fairest in the land, the time that has passed with the buildin’ of it,” Christine said with a smile, the first outward smile since that awful night. She felt at peace and knew her mind-the vision of the Cross had strengthened her will as well as her faith.
At the south porch, Father Peter explained the finer points of the late Norman decoration, bolstered with marble shafts from Petworth. After pushing open the heavy oak door, studded with brass, they passed the treasury coffer donated by Sir Richard, after Pope Innocent III had ordered each church in Christendom to place a chest for coin and gifts to support the Crusades. Near the confessional bench and screen stood the font. Christine stared at the marble with its stern central stem, angle shafts and foliated capitals. She knew no child of hers would be blessed there, and yet felt no regret.
Sitting upon a very low bench on one side of a simple carved wooden screen, her long glistening hair dangled nearly to the floor; half-nervously, with both hands, she flicked up the hair on the crown of her head, pushing aside the fringe over her forehead. Composing herself before declaring her sins to her priest, Christine fluently confessed to vanity and pride. And she expressed contrition at having hurt her innocent and loving husband-to-be. Above all, she confessed to rage and to a desire for revenge against the cruel and hypocritical Sir Richard.
“For all the wrongs he has done to you, I cannot say how Sir Richard has confessed to me,” the priest said with heavy resignation in his voice. “But he will atone or face the hounds of Hell and the fires of eternity. And spending his money on adorning our church is no atonement to me; no, it is almost blasphemy…but the church needs his help, for all that I say.”
“Father, I know that God will judge his evil, but I know also that Sir Richard’s foul impurity has taught me to be pure…for all time. I have told you something of my showing of the Cross, our Lord and our Holy Mother, such rich blessings for one as lowly as me; there is so much more…but I cannot, dare not, use my blundering tongue to speak of what belongs solely to God. But I can say, as God is my witness, that I wish to be closer to Him, perhaps-if He thinks me befittin’-in holy orders, but I do not wish to be sent away from here. In this church I am safe from Sir Richard, and others like him-if there be such other monsters in our shire. I want to be with God alone, not with other penitents seeking His guidance.” With a last spurt of emotion, she ended her utterly heartfelt speech with a plea: “Although I am unlettered, Father, I beg you to teach me.”
Father Peter was moved almost to tears. “Truly, I will aid you in all I can,” he said, his voice thick with remorse. “It is but a portion of the penance I owe to you and to God. To be God’s daughter in full vows is a purchase of paradise.”
And so it was. Her father eventually came to understand the girl’s desire to become a nun; it was a high calling, especially for someone from a simple family, but only Father Peter could comprehend her gradual insistence on becoming an anchoress, a solitary, rather than a member of an established holy order. William did, however, persuade Father Peter to counsel Simon, her once-betrothed, and Christine, both together. The priest, although he felt it to be a thankless task, summoned them to his humble cottage.
Simon arrived very early and, since there was only one chair in the room, he sat on his haunches, fidgeting, and blinking in the thick smoke of the wood fire. The priest tried to comfort him, but the conversation faltered in the face of Simon’s truculent silence. An hour later, Christine walked very slowly into the priest’s home. At once the lover jumped up and pleaded with all his heart: “A nun, perhaps, I can believe, but a recluse entombed, all that beauty, that energy, encased in cold grey stone!” Normally Simon was a man of few and simple words, but passion empowered his speech. “Delay your plans for a year or so…please think of me-us, then, the little ones we oft talked about.”
Christine’s face grew red and tears welled up in her eyes, but she took command of her emotions from the past. Her voice was firm: “Simon, I do still love you…but I must beseech you to find another woman. Many others there be far more suited for the unborn children I see in your eyes. I beg you to avoid my sight; please spare me the hurt. You shall be for ever my only earthly love.” Her voice started to break. “I ask Father Peter to request you to go in God’s peace. Please, please…I cannot bear the pain…” And she banished him from her presence, though never from her thoughts.
In contrast, Christine’s mother and her sister Margaret soon perceived the power of her vision. Although Margaret affected to be the most worldly of the family, she loved her sister and accepted with her whole heart that Christine had a different calling. Finally, so did her father, but her decision cut deep into his belief of what his family should be. He cared not what the village said of the strange honour bestowed upon the home, and he despaired of the lonely years his first-born would endure.
