might have one or two maid-servants and could entertain visitors. Some even kept pet cats, he said. Others gossiped with their friends through a grille which faced the street.
Christine, however, resolutely chose one of the most austere rules that Christendom had concocted: no meat or fat unless gravely ill; no visitation through her grille except on strictly spiritual matters, although she was permitted to speak to family members on mundane issues of daily sustenance; but no other contact except for food, water, change of vestment or participation in communion. The priest would shave her head four times a year. But she foreswore the hedgehog skins, spiked belts and thorn adornments to wear next to her flesh or sleep on, as some zealots chose. She refused to scourge herself with nettles or whips to drive away temptation. God, she knew, was love, not pain. She had known pain enough; it was His love she sought.
Christine chose to clothe herself in a simple cap with a white veil instead of a wimple, and a plain dress of coarse flax. Her family would provide her food and clothes, and some church alms would be granted to sustain her. A small cell was built on St. James’s dank north wall where the sun never shone, and William helped with such woodwork as was necessary. The squint and quatrefoil were placed in the wall, with a few stones left aside for the enclosure ceremony.
It would be some decades before Guldenford would be designated as a suffragan or subsidiary bishopric, and therefore the dean did not have sufficient authority to approve the enclosure. So the Bishop of Winchester’s final approval was sought, and granted: “On the fourteenth day of the Kalends of August in the year of our Lord 1329, and in the seventh year of our consecration…I have sought fit to grant licence to the said Christine that she may be enclosed in the church at Shere in the manner of an Anchoress, so that, aside from public and worldly sights, she may be enabled to serve God more freely in every way, and, having resisted all opportunity for wantonness, may keep her heart undefiled by this world.”
He attached his bishop’s seal. And the next day, the day after her eighteenth birthday, Christine was sealed within the northern wall for life.
The words did not flow with ease, and Duval struggled with the muse for weeks. His writing was sometimes becoming a task to hate, not a pleasurable outlet for his passions, as in the past.
Duval’s congregation in Guildford was becoming more disenchanted, complaining that he was cold and distracted even when he finally stirred himself to visit a sick or troubled member of his flock, and his penances imposed during confession raised more than a few hackles. They had become onerous, almost bizarre. The bishop summoned him twice to counsel him: “a self-improvement programme” was the bishop’s precise phrase. Bishop Templeton had recently been an enthusiastic participant in a church administration course in New York, and so he talked sociology, not theology; management, not morality. The prelate was a passionate advocate of modernising to preserve the best of the old traditions. Duval suspected that the bishop’s real love was not God but sport; that he worshipped at the altar of the Marylebone Cricket Club. And Duval despised him for it, even though he could accept Lord Mancroft’s famous argument that the English, not being a spiritual people, had invented the game to give themselves at least some conception of eternity.
The bishop was a short, portly man, and Duval interpreted his superior’s dedication to the manly world of sport, albeit as a passive spectator, as a symptom of the small- man complex; “a Wisden Napoleon” Duval was pleased to observe in his diary. The priest found Templeton’s obsessions trifling and endured the counselling sessions with poor grace. Templeton, he thought, might have made a good, self-indulgent Anglican bishop, but he rated him poorly as a Catholic. His superior talked about theological possibilities, not faith; religion had become mere philosophy. The bishop would thus never comprehend his subordinate’s sense of spiritual mission, even if Duval deigned to try to explain it.
Nothing mattered to Duval except Christine, and she was slipping away from him. Yet there was little he could do. Duval felt utterly compelled to recreate her history, and that compulsion spurred on his faltering steps towards his literary antiphon.
Christine’s first winter in her anchoress’s cell was the coldest Surrey had ever known. The oldest cottager in Shere, Ranulf the Miller, stiff with rheumatism at sixty-eight, swore to that. Yet despite the severity of the season, Sir Richard was not generous in granting permission for the villagers to gather kindling in the Hurtwood. Some of the sheep which had been brought from the North Downs perished from the cold, even when they were allowed to graze in the water-meadows of the valley. In January and February snow fell a foot deep on the hills and the Tillingbourne froze over. Even Christine accepted an extra coverlet and hide boots from her father, once Father Peter had given his leave.
William could see his daughter succumbing to the cold, and shared his concerns with the priest.
“The Holy Spirit can warm the heart, but not always the feet,” Father Peter told William. “She is attendant to all her devotions, but her health is not as strong as her will.”
“Cannot God’s mercy be extended to my child?” pleaded William. “The mercy of just one visit to our hearth, where fire and meat can heal her soonest? Margaret, my daughter at home, cannot bear to see her sister freezing in the wall.”
“Leave she cannot, William,” said Father Peter earnestly. “To permit her to leave her cell-unless to see a doctor when she is nearest death or for me to give a final sacrament-is beyond me, and the bishops. Were she to leave, only our Holy Father the Pope could grant her rights of return. You know that she cannot break her solemn vows. Would you have her excommunicated and her soul consumed in the fires of Hell? But she should take meat.” Father Peter’s face betrayed his concern for his charge. “She fasts without my leave and I have told her this.”
William replied sadly, “My wife or I do attend her every day after Matins. She takes her drege, the best mix of barley and oats that her mother can make. Some cheese, too, and pease porridge. And buttermilk she enjoys. Her salted beef she refuses. Fruit she asked for in the summer…such unhealthy food…and now she begs us bring roasted nuts. Speak to her, Father, on this matter. She will parley but little with me except to know a word or two of her brother and sister. I speak of matters spiritual, as is right, but sometimes her voice is weak…” William broke off, his anxiety about his daughter and yet his desire to do right by the Church all too evident.
The priest patted William’s hand. “I pray for her each day, Will, but she is in God’s heart. I must confess to you that she is much near to Him. I could not reach that grace that she possesses.”
“But, Father, must she die of cold to prove her grace?”
“If she dies, Will, no purgatory waits for her. See the Doom painting, the Final Judgement, painted there above our church door? Ascend she will to God’s right hand. She will be free of our earthly cares.”
“Aye, Father,” said William, “and free of one mighty care-Mistress de Kempis of Peaslake.”
Father Peter smiled. Anna de Kempis, a wealthy widow, was renowned in the villages of the Hurtwood, and beyond, because she claimed to have the “gift of tears,” the ability to feel and share Christ’s final agonies on the Cross. At any time this gift might be bestowed, and she would howl and scream and writhe on the floor. Her frequent holy fits did not endear Mistress de Kempis to others. She had recently journeyed to a holy shrine in France and, it was said, nearly all her fellow pilgrims tarried in Dover for a week awaiting another ship to avoid the screamer. And when she was not travelling, she sought out holy men and women in her locality.
“Anna de Kempis is touched by God even when she roars. It is not for us to judge His ways,” Father Peter said mildly.
“Forgive my blasphemy, Father.” William humbly lowered his head. “But I judge her touched by the moon. She wails and splutters to my Christine, and quotes scripture by the hour at her grille. The Devil can tempt us in holy guise, for the fallen angel knows his Bible well. This brings harm to Christine’s mind and her devotions, I fear. How can she contemplate when the howlin’ of Mistress de Kempis fills church and village? This is purgatory at our door!”
“Hush, Will.” Father Peter’s hand now returned to his distraught parishioner. “Do you want to be dragged to the bishop’s court or be burnt, when livin’, in the pit for heretics? Go speak to Christine, while I attend to Mass. It is too cold to speak for long in this yard.”
William stomped his feet to regain some warmth and trudged through the snow to the north wall of the church. Stopping at the bulge in the wall which was the cell, he tapped on the small trapdoor.
“’Tis I, William. Please slide the grille.”
Christine pushed the grille open and looked through the black cloth with a white cross in the centre which protected her from the prying eyes of those who sought her counsel.
“Pull the curtain aside, Christine,” William said, a little more sharply than he had intended. “I need to see
