The Anchoress, page 2
‘My grandfather William carved that squint, Sister.’
I gasped with fright.
‘Oh, ’scuse me, Sister, but I brought your food and saw you looking.’
‘Louise, what of the women enclosed in this cell before me? I know of Sister Agnes, of course; she was such a holy woman. And Sister Isabella was enclosed here more lately, I think. You were here, in the village with them. Were they—?’
‘Oh, yes, Sister Agnes was a very holy woman. As you say, she was well known all hereabouts and stories are still told of all she did. I came to her for counsel when my little girl died, and then when my Rob died. She said as how we all suffer, just like our Lord did, and she said she’d pray for me. I could feel her holiness, I could.’
Holiness. I hoped the village would speak of my holiness.
‘It was sad when she died,’ Louise said, ‘but we were glad for her going to heaven. What she always longed for, to be with our Lord. She’s buried here in this cell; her bones lie there, just where you’re kneeling now. You’re blessed, Sister, if I may say, to have the bones of such a holy woman to comfort you.’
I stood up and stepped back. Buried deep down, I thought, now just part of the dirt and stones, nothing more. Still, the hairs on my head lifted, the skin on my knees prickled.
At the maids’ window I took the water and pottage from Louise: a mush of cabbage and parsnip. The smell turned my stomach so I put the food on my desk, thinking I might nibble at it later. I drank some water. ‘And the other woman? Isabella?’
‘I don’t know so much of Sister Isabella. She came from the convent at Challingford and she was only here about five years or so. She was a widow, young, and I never had cause to visit her. But I did talk to Sister Agnes; strange to think, but I sat in the parlour, the other side of this wall, and now it’s my duty to watch for those as want to visit you, especially those as would annoy you and interrupt your prayers. That’s what Bishop Michael said, “It’s your special duty, Louise.” And don’t you worry, I can see out my door here to be sure of those as come.’
I moved to the parlour window, only a few steps away from the maids’ window and set a little higher, but low enough that I would be able to sit at my chair to speak with visitors. I opened the shutters that covered it, though it revealed only a black cloth curtain. I touched it, felt the ridges of the white cross sewn onto it, and remembered Bishop Michael’s words on the day he examined my request to be enclosed: ‘The black cloth signifies that you’re worthless to the world, and it to you. The white cross stitched on top is a sign of your virgin purity.’
He had stepped close, his voice low; I felt the hem of his robes brush against my shoes. ‘Remember, child, your virginity is your fragile treasure, your jewel, the blossom of your body offered to the Lord. In your cell it is sealed, kept whole.’ His words made my face redden. ‘Enclosure is the only means by which your virginity may be assured.’
I felt again the heat in my face and thought instead of the curtain between my fingers. Despite its thickness, the folds were smooth. Close weave, I thought, well combed and new; Sir Geoffrey had bought good cloth for my window, if not for my bed. Had he ordered it from my father? Pa was furious about my enclosure, and even more that Sir Geoffrey was my patron, providing my living in this place, but I knew scant of what had passed between the two men: cloth, money, talk of loans and marriage, the bodies of women. The old anger at my father rose hot in my throat.
I pulled back the cloth, the only real opening between the world and me, though I knew the windows were not there for me to look through. Bishop Michael had told me severely that only women might look in on me, and only if needed, when I counselled them. ‘There is to be no looking out and no letting men look in.’ He stood tall and tipped his head back, in that manner he had. ‘Lust prowls, it prowls,’ he said roundly.
Anxiety curled in my belly at the thought of counselling women. Perhaps I knew more of prayer and reading than they did, but how would I, with my seventeen chaste years, speak to village women of their troubles, of husbands and babies and bodies? God had called me here to leave all that behind.
I held up my lamp to see into the gloom of the parlour and noticed a small opening cut into its door, enough to let in some light.
‘That parlour ain’t all it should be, Sister, and I be sorry for that.’ Louise couldn’t see me, but she must have guessed what I was doing. ‘That door drags most of the time, and the little opening there lets in light, but when the wind gusts it blows through like a knife. I thought a village man might come and fix it, as it’s Bishop Michael’s custom to sit in comfort and some warmth. When he visits I can bring in a grander chair from the church, but that’s all. And a man like that, he expects better.’
‘Then the bishop’s visits to me will be few and short,’ I said, and let the curtain drop. I felt a creep across my skin when I thought of him sitting in my parlour, the words he would say. The flame from my lamp flickered and I looked around my cell. This would be all I knew now. I leaned on my desk, then pulled at my chair and sat down as my knees gave way. Louise must have heard the gasp I tried to stifle.
‘Sister, are you all right? Sister, can I—?’
‘Thank you, Louise, it’s just weariness and an empty stomach. I’ll be … I’ll spend some time in prayer now.’
I closed and bolted the shutters and walked the nine steps to my altar, back to my desk, then there and back again, reciting my psalms. The words and the steps settled me and I breathed more calmly. I was alone, enclosed; the world would not reach me here.
I opened my Rule and read, but my eyes slipped from word to word, page to page, wanting what was to come before I had contemplated what was in front of me: these words written for me, words that understood my need. Then a passage made me pause because it was so serious, and also because I had heard it spoken:
I would advise no anchoress to take a vow except regarding three things: obedience, chastity, and stability of place; that she must never leave that place unless absolutely necessary; for example, if she were under threat of violence or fear for her life, or in obedience to her bishop or his superior. For whoever undertakes something, and vows to God to do it, binds herself to it and commits a deadly sin if she breaks it of her own free will.
The day Bishop Michael examined my calling, his questions were many, and close. He needed to be sure of my faith, and also that I had a patron who would support my daily needs. Finally, satisfied with my answers, he had agreed, but with a warning.
‘It is a laudable decision, Sarah, but you must know that whoever vows to God to be enclosed within four walls binds herself for the remainder of her earthly life. In that cell you become Christ’s beloved, and it would be grievous sin against our Lord, and grievous sin against the Church, if you were to break that vow.’ He spoke slowly, stressing each word. ‘If you doubt that you can remain in your cell, Sarah, it were better that you did not enter at all.’ He looked into my face. ‘We must be grateful the people have agreed to welcome another anchoress to their village.’
I was certain I would remain; of course I would. But the warning frightened me. And here it was again. This was what I had longed for, to be alone in my cell, to love Christ and to share his suffering. I would pray for the people of the village, and in time, I hoped, counsel and comfort them. There was nothing the world could tempt me with anymore.
Something deep in my belly fluttered and lifted. Four stone walls to hold my body. I left my desk and pressed my hands against the stone beneath my parlour window. It was hard and solid.
FOR THOSE FIRST DAYS it was only me, the dull darkness, and my prayers. I felt I could finally let go the breath I had held for so long. I must have eaten and spoken with Louise, but it was as if my head was always bowed, seeing nothing beyond my altar or the words I read, hearing nothing but my prayer and the whisper of parchment. Christ listened to me, wrapped me in his love, kept my heart quiet. And the walls held me tight.
The walls began to crack the day my new maid arrived. I was at my desk reading and rose at the sound of Louise’s muffled voice, her sharp knock on the shutter of the maids’ room. She kept speaking as I undid the bolt.
‘… And I’ve told her, Sister, we thought as she’d be here these past days.’
I could make out the shape of a young girl standing behind her, shadowy in the gloom. Warmth flushed through me; it was Emma, curling black hair straggling out from her cap, her head tilted, one hand on a hip, sighing loudly. Emma, my little sister, who lay cold and white in the ground. My fingers tingling with shock, I sat down on the end of my bed.
The girl spoke. ‘I’ve said already as they wouldn’t let me come till they found another to help in the kitchen.’ She paused, looked back at Louise. ‘And I’m Anna. Case you wanted to know.’
Louise refused to back down. ‘Well, Father Simon said as you’d be here—’
‘Like I said, they told me I was to wait,’ Anna insisted. ‘The steward Gwylim, he said as he was coming here from Friaston, and he’d get word to the priest here. Isn’t that Father Simon?’
The first shock had passed, but heat still ran down into my fingers. She was so much like Emma: her way of standing untroubled in her own place; her edges not sharp but clear.
‘Well, it be past time you arrived, girl,’ Louise went on. ‘Father Simon said nothing of you coming late. All he told me was that the anchoress should have a girl to do the fetching and cooking, specially as how he knew me as a good and faithful woman and I should have more time to pray.’ She looked at me hopefully, wanting me to speak.
‘Did he?’ was all I could manage.
‘You doubt that, Sister, that I’m known as good and faithful?’
‘No, Louise, of course not. Now let me speak with the girl. Sit down, Anna.’
She answered my questions in single words. Yes, she would cook and carry, and yes, she would pray with us, and yes, she would be chaste and obedient.
‘And Anna, will you be content to live here and to serve me?’
‘Content, ma’am? I do as I’m told, don’t I? What’s content?’ She looked into my eyes for a moment, then down. Emma would have used different words, but the tone, the angle of her head, were the same.
‘’Tis Sister to you, girl, and mind what you say to Sister, and how you say it,’ Louise said from somewhere behind her. ‘It’s a blessing for you to be here; you can learn from such a holy woman. Beginning with manners.’
The way Anna lifted one shoulder, as Emma used to, made me want to bring her into my cell and tell her all, as I would have told my sister: to whisper to her that I didn’t much like Louise; to complain about the rough blanket on my bed, the plain pages of my Rule, the dull food — and then to say no, no, that Louise took good care of me, that I was grateful I could pray and read, that I wanted to please God, to stay here, closed from the world. Emma would have listened to me and tried to understand.
But all that was gone. When they hammered in the nails, I left the memories behind. Who had planned this, to send this girl to me, to bring back my dead past? This was my new life, this cell. I couldn’t do it; I wanted to send her out the door, away from me.
‘Louise, you will tell the new maid her duties. She will join us for reading from my Rule, and for prayers at Prime, Terce, and Compline.’
I closed the shutters: I had found these walls and I would stay.
However many times I read them, the words always said the same thing.
There are many kinds of rule, but I shall speak of two: an inner rule that is love and directs the heart, and a second, the outer rule that teaches how people must behave outwardly: how they should eat, drink, dress, sing and wake. The first is like a lady, and this second one like her maid. Now, you ask which rule you anchoresses should keep. You should in every way, with all your might and strength, preserve well the inner rule and the outer, which may vary for the first’s sake.
I read it again, knowing that it was merciful, but wanting clear directions that I could obey, that would bring back the calm of my first days here. Memories of home nagged at me now, old griefs and horrors and desires that I thought had quietened; they interrupted my prayers, walked through the pages of my Rule. If only someone would tell me how to behave, surely my heart would follow.
One part of my outer rule was clear, at least, and I knew the pattern of prayer from my months with the nuns when I was a child: Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, Nones, Vespers, Compline. The rhythm like sunrise and sunset, the beat of a heart. I was to rise each day in the dark for prayers at Matins, but the church bell would not ring to wake me. Martin, Father Simon’s assistant, was diligent to ring all the other hours, but because Matins prayers were required only of religious houses, he slept until dawn, when he rang Lauds.
‘The priory at Cramford rings the bell for Matins, and even though it’s behind Cram Hill, you should be able to hear it,’ my confessor told me during my period of instruction. ‘But it doesn’t matter if you miss Matins in the first weeks; simply wait for it to become a part of you, and you’ll be waking before the bell rings. The body knows, eventually.’
But I wanted to wake on time every day; how could Father Peter tell me it didn’t matter? For the first weeks I slept fitfully and sometimes rose to pray not long after I’d fallen asleep, part of me alert and listening for the priory bell. After a time, when it didn’t ring, I’d lie down again and sleep on, so tired that I wouldn’t hear the bell for Matins when finally it tolled, and would start awake near dawn at the heavy clanging for Lauds in the tower just above me. Some nights when I woke too early for Matins the time was empty, left me unguarded, and my dreams seeped into my waking, dreams of holding Emma’s hand, the pain clenching her fingers. When I opened my eyes into blackness, sure I was awake, I would see her hand in mine, as clearly as in daytime. No body, just a hand fading into darkness. I would will the priory to wake then, and ring the bell, to fill the night with prayer, to chase away my dreams. Only with the murky light of morning would they sink back into the cracks in the walls, leaving me shaking.
Wood scraping on stone, the drag of a door opening, scuffles, then … nothing. Was someone in the parlour? Someone wanting counsel? Where was Louise? More scuffling noises, then loud whispering.
‘Do you think she’s a witch?’
‘Nah, Ma says ’tis a holy woman and we’d best not get too near. Let’s go.’
‘Scaredy. That’s a story. I saw her just t’other day, an’ she has three eyes and scales like a dragon.’
‘Go away,’ I shouted. ‘I’m praying and not to be disturbed.’
Giggles, a sound of stumbling, a shout. ‘Told ya! A dragon.’ Then fading laughter.
Foolish children, but the silence in their wake was painful. A witch, a holy woman, a dragon: I was none of those, just a woman who chose to be alone. I cried, the tears burning my eyes.
I discovered quickly that the walls would not keep out the smell of food. It crept in through gaps in the shutters and lingered around me. And one day, not long after Anna arrived, the smell was particularly good. Vegetables, though I didn’t know what kind, and meat, even though I’d told the maids that my food was to be simple: turnips, cabbages, onions, and, sometimes, fish. Brother Alain carried much of our food, basic and sufficient, from the priory — so why was Anna cooking meat?
‘Folk about here brought it,’ Anna said and smiled. ‘Some food to share with you, to celebrate you coming: bread, milk, some eggs and peas, even dried meat. I’ve stored some, and I can cook—’
‘I won’t eat it and break my discipline.’ I saw Louise was about to speak, but Anna went on.
‘Sister, it be gifts, their way of saying welcome, to give alms. They say it’s the only way they have, with you shut away like this. You can’t—’
‘Anna, don’t presume to teach me. My Rule tells me to keep my body in some need; I’ve explained that.’
‘But, Sister, you read to us not two days back as we should be grateful for the gifts of others. I heard it.’
I felt my face redden. Anna was right.
‘Sister,’ Louise put in, ‘they’re gifts, but not as they mean to make you sin. They hope you’ll pray for them in return. An anchoress is special for the village and they want you to stay.’
I was ashamed; the village was welcoming me in the only way it could and I should be grateful. My confusion made me angry. ‘Stay? Well, of course I will. There are nails in that door. I chose to be enclosed, it’s what I want. They don’t have to make me stay.’
‘No, Sister, course not.’
‘You may eat the stew yourselves, but I’ll fast today, and pray for the villagers.’
I closed the shutters, bent down, brushed the straw away from beneath my squint and pressed my hands on the hard, bare soil. Agnes, wise woman, buried here in my cell, show me how to be an anchoress. Make me holy.
My knees prickled, the ground scratched at my skin, and a shudder ran through my hands and up into my arms. I flinched, fell to one side, pulled myself over to my desk and onto the chair. The sound of scraping bone followed me.
I shivered and touched my Rule. Looking for comfort, I turned to a page I often read, to words I knew almost by heart.
True anchoresses are like birds, for they leave the earth — that is, the love of all that is worldly — and, as a result of their hearts’ desire for heavenly things, fly upwards toward heaven. And though they fly high with a high and holy life, yet they hold their heads low in mild humility, as a bird in flight bows its head, and they consider all their good actions to be worthless.
Swallow had flown like a bird, his arms stretched wide and his legs straight, then tucked in, to tumble in the air. His clothes had flashed red and grey, the stripes spinning, his head curled into his body. I wanted to fly like him, like an angel, to let go of my body and the longing that held me to the ground.
The stewed meat smelled rich; the fragrance wound around my head and sank into my clothes. My belly twisted with hunger. I shut my eyes, refused it, and thought of Swallow’s leap. For a moment, it felt as if my narrow cell opened to the sky.
