The Anchoress

“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.”

[…] Bishop Michael had told me severely that only women might look in on me, and only if needed, when I counseled 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.

The next days fell into one, cold and prayers and reading, memories of Thomas that crept through the cracks, the moans from the church, the grunts and sighs, shudders in my chair, scratches at my ankles, weary light from my oil lamp.

The spark that flies up does not set the house on fire straight away: it lies still and nurses the flames and grows larger and larger until it sets the whole house on fire, before it is in the least suspected.

The words of my Rule. I had chosen four walls, but the spark was not gone, a sin I needed to confess.

I ran my fingers along the edge of my desk, flicked at a stray piece of straw on my robe, kicked at the wall. My mind was like a bird in a cage, wings flapping, unable to stop even though it is futile. How could I have prevented Thomas from seeing me? My cell was not sealed, though they’d told me it was. My body was whole, but I felt undone, violated. Was it because I had looked out at the women, and let them look in? I opened my Rule and scanned the careful lines; Father Ranaulf did not decide on the words, but he copied them, and told me to obey them. What did he know of women? What did he understand of my life? I paused, surprised; I sounded just like Emma.

Later, Ranaulf looked through the Old Testament, eventually found the verse in Hosea.

Let her remove the adulterous look from her face and the unfaithfulness from between her breasts. Otherwise I will strip her naked and make her as bare as the day she was born; I will make her into a desert, turn her into a parched land, and slay her with thirst.

Ranaulf sat back and set down his quill. […] She had sinned, no doubt, asking to leave after making vows. The bishop had a right to be angry with her inconstancy. Penance was appropriate, certainly, but violence? And they were villagers’ words only, accusations against the bishop. What was he doing, talking to villagers who’d been sworn to silence […] it was the worst disobedience. He would stop. No, he’d come too far to stop.

He picked up a piece of pumice stone and rubbed it gently over a new piece of parchment. It was a mercy the pages of the chronicle weren’t bound, so he could keep the account separate. He could add the dates of Isabella’s enclosure to the main document—that would be suitable—but he would include the full story of her departure only if he decided it was necessary.

He looked up toward the window. An anchoress with a pregnant maid. How could he speak of her devotion? She had shamed herself and him. He put the pumice stone down on his desk without looking and it slipped, fell to the floor, and shattered quietly. A thousand tiny gray shards, a pile of dust. Shame. He thought of Maud’s words: She were angry, Father, not shamed.

“She’s in my charge and I’m in your charge, so Anna must be in your charge, too, at least in part.”

“They’re slippery words, Sister. Sophistry.”

That word was new to me, but I understood what he meant.

“I’m a scribe, a monk, and your confessor. That is all.” His words might have cut the curtain hanging between us. “Anna has sinned, not only against God, but against you, and brought shame on your calling.”

“Yes, Father, so you’ve told me. I’ve spoken to Anna. And now we have to show forgiveness and mercy. Surely. Anna and the baby are just as much my care and duty as before.”

“I agreed when you said the maid was too sick to be moved, but I thought that as for a short time only. Now you say she still cannot leave. The sinner must pay for her sin.”

Sarah, you tell stories to the stones. Tell them about St. Margaret.

St Margaret; her story seemed so long ago, I could hardly remember, but I began. “There was a woman in a dark cell who wanted to fly away, and a man who hurt her. He was important and powerful, and said she would have jewels. But he shouted at her and hit her, pulled at her clothes because he thought she should always do what he wanted. When she didn’t, he punished her. I remember the smell of straw, a door with nails. A wall, too, just like this one.” I hesitated, looked around. I’m confused. Is that St. Margaret’s story?”

Yes, it is. And your story. And mine.