The Anchoress, page 1
DEDICATION
For Anneliese
EPIGRAPH
’Tis not that Dying hurts us so —
’Tis Living — hurts us more
— But Dying — is a different way —
A Kind behind the Door —
The Southern Custom — of the Bird —
That ere the Frosts are due —
Accepts a better Latitude —
We — are the Birds — that stay.
Emily Dickinson
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Begin Reading
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
I HAD ALWAYS WANTED to be a jongleur, to leap from the shoulders of another, to fly and tumble, to dare myself in thin air with nothing but my arms and legs to land me safely on the ground. An acrobat is not a bird, but it is the closest a person can come to being free in the air. The nearest to an angel’s gift of flying.
But that was as a child, when my body was secure, like that of a boy, and I felt myself whole and able to try anything. That was before my arms and legs grew soft and awkward and my woman’s body took away those strong, pliant surfaces of skin, before I knew I could bleed and not die or, worse still, carry a life inside me and die because of it.
In spite of my body, the dream remained. It was the idea that I loved; I understood enough of the world to know that I could never be a jongleur.
I remember Roland especially, though in my child’s fancy I called him Swallow. He was part of a travelling troupe that visited our town one market day and began to perform in the middle of the crowd, the music and the colours of the costumes nudging us to stop and watch. A circle formed, with Swallow as its centre. His costume was grey striped with red, his face painted with blue on his cheeks and forehead and red on his nose. He balanced the hilt of a sword in each hand, the blades standing tall above him, and danced, lifting his knees, pointing and scooping his feet in front and behind. When he stopped, his confrère gently placed an apple on the tip of each blade. Making sure they were still, the balance certain, Swallow stepped right then left, forwards and backwards, a slow and graceful single carole, smiling at us all. Finally he threw the swords up and caught them in one hand — though someone shouted, ‘Blunt, you fraud’ — and gathered the apples with the other. He bowed deeply and ran to join his companions who were building a tower, three on the bottom then two on their shoulders. With dancing feet, Roland climbed from leg to arm to leg to arm and onto the shoulders of the men on top. He stood still for a moment, arms in the air, stretching out to the heavens, face tilted up, then leaped and tumbled. I gasped to see him swoop like a swallow in the grey sky beyond. He landed surefooted and still on two slippered feet and the six men formed a line, bowed deeply, then turned around, pulled down their breeches and farted at us, one at a time. The crowd laughed and cheered but I was still leaping in the air with Swallow.
When I saw him later that day with his face cleaned of colour, I saw his nose was not at all like a swallow’s beak, but sat to one side of his face as if it had been dough flattened by a rough hand. He told me he had fallen when learning to tumble; his own knee had broken his nose as he landed.
The day after I was enclosed I thought of Swallow. I’d thrown away everything in this world and leaped into the air, lighter than I’d ever been, flying to God, who would catch me in his arms. Here, like Swallow, I was a body without a body. Even inside the thick walls of my cell I felt I could see the sky all around me, blue and clear, and I thought I had what I wanted.
I didn’t know then that I had landed on hard ground and broken my bones with my own body.
The Church of St Juliana
Hartham, English Midlands
St Faith’s Day, 6 October 1255
SARAH
I WAS NEAR THE door, where women should stay. The floor was hard, refusing me, though I lay face-down, my arms outstretched, embracing it, wanting this life, this death. I knew there were people nearby, those from the village who had come to look or pray, but I saw none of them. Voices in the sanctuary that seemed so far away sang a dirge, a celebration of loss, prayers for me. I knew the words: I had read and reread them, memorised them, prayed on them, but now they were nothing but sound. The dank cold of stone crept into my bones; I did not feel the drops of water on my back, their chill blessing. I had become stone.
The bishop lifted me to my feet, my legs leaden, and guided me toward the altar. I took the candles they gave me; now a flame glowed in each hand and I could see nothing beyond them. From somewhere outside my ring of light, the bishop’s words implored me: ‘Be fervent in love of God and your neighbour.’ I knelt and prayed.
Then words, paper and more words: I signed to all I had asked for. The clinking of the thurible’s chain and the bitter-sweet smell of incense drifted close, quietly wrapped around me like a shroud, like arms that loved me.
They led me through the front door, away from the gathered light of candles and people, and out into the night, black and chill. We walked through the graveyard, wet grass under my feet, the dead all around me. Singing came from the darkness, ‘May angels lead you to paradise’; this was the hymn we’d sung for Ma when she died, and later for Emma, too. At the cell we stopped and the warm hands that held my arms let go. I shivered. The bishop’s voice commanded, ‘If she wants to go in, let her go in.’
The dark mouth stood open. I took a breath and stepped inside. Blackness yawned around me, damp on my face. But voices were nearby, sweet ones, singing, ‘Be of good courage, thy desire from God is at hand.’ They laid me down on the floor, scatterings of dirt and words falling on me, into my mouth and eyes. Death desired me and I accepted: ‘Here I will stay forever; this is the home I have chosen.’ I could feel my bones, white and still in the black soil; worms wove among my ribs like wool on a loom. Deep in this darkness I am dead. My body dissolves, crumbles, turns to earth. They turned and walked away, left me alone.
I startled, fright hot and sharp in my chest. Blows shuddered the door. I stood and pressed my hands against it, felt nails splintering wood, the sound sharp in my ears, then echoing inside my head. These hammer blows that sealed my door were the nailing of my hands and feet to the cross with Christ, the tearing of his skin and sinew. The jolt of each blow pushed me away but I strained to feel it, the shiver of resistance humming in my body.
When she was dying, Emma had opened her hand for mine, held on to me, held on to life. Another nail, and another, the judder running through my arms and into my chest, through my jaw and into my teeth. The taste of blood sharp on my tongue. Christ made no noise, his face tight with pain; Emma didn’t speak, just looked at me, her eyes fading. Blood dripped, then ran.
The hammering ceased but still my arms throbbed and silence rang in my ears. Then scuffling, tools clinking, the church door banging shut, the dull click of its latch, low and serious voices fading. I stepped away from the door, incense floating up from my robe to touch my cheek.
Two candles burned on my altar; they must be the ones I had carried in the church. I took two or three steps toward the bed and sat down delicately, as if not to disturb someone else’s sleeping place; the straw rustled. I stood up again and peered into the gloom. Of a sudden my body came back to me: my heart was beating hard, my legs were shaking, and my belly ached. I needed to piss, now. I looked around for the bucket, found it at the end of the bed, pulled up my robe, and squatted. The ache in my belly lessened and I felt calmer. I reached out, touched the cold stone wall, rough and gritty on my hand. The clotted smell of dampness, the earthy smell of moss. This was to be my home — no, my grave — for the rest of my life.
I knelt at my altar and began Compline: ‘The Lord Almighty grant us a quiet night and a perfect end …’ but my words ran out. I’d prayed these words each night since I was a child; they were part of me, like breathing, and now they had deserted me. But this was my life, to pray. I began again, my breath fast and shallow, hoping that the thread would catch and the words be pulled along. Nothing; they would not return however much I concentrated. It was as if I’d never learned them. My first night alone and I had no prayer. I snatched at some lines: Iesu Criste, Fili Dei uiui, miserere nobis … Domine, labia mea aperies … I sang Veni creator spiritus over and over until my heart settled and slowed. My head drooped. I blew out the candles and crawled over to my bed, crossed myself and closed my eyes. It was done.
THE CLANG OF A bell, loud and close by. I started awake, opened my eyes but everything was black. Fright pounded in my head. The bed was hard, the blanket rough, and as I sat up, stone grazed across my hand. My cell. Letting out a long breath, I crossed myself and began my day as always: Veni creator spiritus, mentes tuorum visita … To my relief the familiar rhythm of the prayer settled into me, and I let myself move beyond its forms and words to the memory of candles and darkness, to the vows I had made the night before, giving all to God.
This life meant that I was to pray all day, as I woke, as I dressed, as I ate, as I read. I wanted to light my oil lamp, but I had no idea where my maid had left my flint and tinderbox, so I fumbled for my shoes, pulled on my robe and buckled my belt, reciting my Pater Noster, then fumbled for my shoes, saying the Credo.
I stood in the darkness. The things of my old life made no sense now. I touched my lips; there they were, but when I moved my hand away, my mouth was gone. A flicker of light nearby. It must have come fro
The church door banged as Martin left, but I stayed on my knees, listening to my breath going in and out. The familiar ache was still there in my chest: Emma gone and in the ground, my little sister’s life dragged from her body. Her wails of pain, then her whimpers that terrified me even more, the desperate grip of her hand that weakened and finally let go. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Here, inside these walls, Christ would heal me of my grief, help me let go of my woman’s body, its frailty and desire. I would learn to love him above all others, to share his suffering.
Patches of dull light glimmered through gaps in the thatch and a soft golden glow came from somewhere above me. I looked up. Over my altar, and just below the roofline, was a window covered with strips of horn that kept out the wind but were thin enough to let through some light. I could see only dimly, but found my flint and lit the oil lamp on my desk.
Next to it was a book, simply bound and without a clasp, my Rule of Life. I picked it up and held it between my hands, felt the smooth leather of the cover. Inside were page after page, row after row of letters, here and there a simple red capital. Plain words, no illuminations such as I had seen in Books of Hours, not even a flourish around a capital, or a curl of leaves. I had thought there would be something. Even the bishop said that mine was a calling few could undertake. If I was to read this book each day, look to it for guidance about how to live this hardest of lives, surely I deserved better.
I moved nearer the lamp to read the first page.
You, my dear sisters, have begged me for a Rule for many a day and so I have written down these words for you, that you may be encouraged in your love for Christ as you hang with him.
My dear sisters. I was one of these dear sisters. The bishop told me the Rule had been written by a godly man for some anchoresses who had lived not far from here. God had blessed the diocese with more women like them, he said, and there were now many copies of the Rule. The one used by the women in this cell had been given elsewhere, so a scribe had made one more, just for me. I wondered about the man who had written out all these words, one by one, and drawn the plain red capitals. Just for me. Perhaps the other copies had been plain as well. This was my life now; I should not expect more.
The parchment whispered as I turned the pages, word after word.
A quiet knock, then a little louder, and a muffled voice.
‘Sister Sarah? ’Scuse me, Sister, for disturbing you. It’s Louise, your maid.’
I looked toward the rattling shutters. Louise would be standing at the maids’ window cut into the back wall of her room, the one adjoining my cell on its narrower side. I walked across to it, pulled back the bolt, and swung open the wooden shutters. They banged as they hit the stone wall and I winced. The window was low, just above waist height, and we both had to bend to speak.
‘Pardon again, Sister, but I’m Louise, as you’d remember from yesterday. It’s me as will be caring for all your needs till the second maid comes.’
‘Yes, Louise. I remember.’ I sat down on the end of my bed and looked through the window. In the light of her room, I could just see Louise’s face when she straightened, the shadows emphasising it cobweb of wrinkles. Her hands were folded across her belly in a stance that I would ever after connect with her voice, patient and longsuffering. ‘Your room is enough for your needs, I hope?’
‘Yes, Sister. There be enough room to cook and for two women to sleep, though if I may say, it be—’
‘Yes, Louise. I trust you understand your duties.’ I suddenly felt awkward; Louise was a maid, and I had dealt with servants, but most likely she knew more than me about this place, this cell, how I would survive. And now I was to teach and guide her path with God. ‘Can you read, Louise?’
‘No, course not, Sister. Where would I have learned to read? Me as was born here, in that house just over—’
‘Then I will read to you from my Rule and from my books. And you must pray and be quiet when you’re indoors, and modest when you go out.’
‘Yes, I will, Sister.’ I heard her make a clucking sound with her tongue. ‘And if I do say, Sister, that’s always been my way; that’s why Father Simon, he’s the priest here, he said to Bishop Michael as I would be most suitable to be maid to the new anchoress. “A pious widow of good life”, they were the very words Father Simon said of me.’
‘He said that to me as well. But you’re under my care and instruction now.’ I began to feel easier.
‘Yes, ma’am … Sister. I wonder, Sister, if you’ll be wanting some food after your long fasting, and after walking here all that way.’
Her words made my belly growl; I thought of roast venison and baked quince. ‘A little pottage and some water, I think.’
As Louise opened her door, early morning light hazed through the maids’ window and softened the darkness in my cell. I left open the shutters, stood and looked around.
You might think there would be nothing to tell about those four walls, two windows, a squint, and darkness, but the stones carried so many stories. And they would carry my story, every moment of my time here. My only witness.
A few steps to my left, in the same wall as the maids’ window behind me, was the parlour window with shutters like those to the maids’ room, though still closed. Two narrow eyes: one open, one shut. Nearby, along the outer wall, the few books I carried from home had been set neatly on my desk: my Breviary, my Psalter, and a collection of devotions, and now my Rule of Life as well. Tucked in close to the desk was a small chest where I could keep my clothing, and next to it was the fireplace with its rough chimney. In the far wall, opposite the two shuttered inner windows, was the door through which I had entered, the only way in or out, nailed shut. I shivered. It could be opened only by my confessor or by Father Simon, and only if I was in need. To its right was a simple altar with a wooden crucifix hanging above it, and a mere step or two past that, but in the church wall, were my squint and ledge. Farther along that wall was my bed, a pallet covered with coarse-weave blankets. I bent to touch them; my coverlet at home was fine linen damask worked with gold and blue flowers that shone in the sunlight. My father had bought the cloth from Italy especially for me. I was here to forget my old life and I had longed for this rough lodging, but all was so new, so different.
I walked the length of my cell from the wall with two windows to my altar, counting my steps — nine paces; then across the narrower side, from my fireplace to my squint — seven paces. This would be my world. I touched the squint, a thin window about the length of my two hands from fingertips to heel and as wide as my wrist. I knelt and looked through. It was so narrow, and cut on such a sharp angle in the thick church wall, that I could see only the church’s altar, its two lighted candles, and the crucifix above it. I remembered, from the day before, that there was an arch into the chancel with paintings of angels around its curve, and that I’d thought then how much smaller and plainer this church was than my old church in Leeton. But I realised now it made no difference; even if I moved closer to the slit or tilted my head, I would see nothing more than the crucifix and candles.
I crossed myself and rested my arms on the ledge below the squint, set deep enough into the wall to hold my prayer book. Lower again, a small square had been cut through the wall so I could receive the body of Christ at Mass. I rubbed my fingers across the stone ledge and thought of those who had knelt here before me.
