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,
