been over-ambitious. I hear tell his politicking within the court sits badly with the king. His manner with his bonded men, or his applying, here in England and to you, the droit du seigneur, matters not a fig to the royal court, but his taking of disputed land in other demesnes has made many enemies, not least the Dean of Guldenford, who claims Sir Richard has taken properties which the Church has been bestowed in legal writs. To have king and Church agin you is not fitting for a lord.”
Christine was not reassured: “But Sir Richard is cunnin’ like the fox. I do not portend his fall so quick, Father. And I worry still that Margaret be ill-used. She has not paid visit to me for two months or more, and my father shows hurt in his face when I ask of her, though he hides that hurt, or so he does attempt.”
“There is naught you can do but pray,” said Father Peter lamely.
“Father, women may only pray, but men may do bold acts. I am a weaker vessel which I shall pray God fills with purpose, hope and grace.”
The next morning, after Matins, William visited his daughter to speak to her of Margaret, prompted, thought Christine, by her priest. She saw the lines of worry and fatigue etched in his face and knew in her heart that the news was bad. William hesitated, and when he spoke there was a catch in his voice.
“You have often spoken of your sister these weeks, and now I must tell you fairly. She has taken herself to Peaslake to be with our cousins there.”
“Has she been by force compelled to leave the manor? By Sir Richard?” asked Christine.
William sighed. “Aye, that she has.”
Relief coursed through her. “Then that is for her good to be away from his evil hand…” She saw her father’s face. “Unless there be some crime or wrong done by her? Or, God forbid, to her?” The pain in her father’s face seared Christine’s heart.
“She is with child, Christine.” He could not look at his daughter. “She says she was taken and forced by Sir Richard from near the start of her time at the manor. She was too fearful to speak to me.”
William put his shaking hands to his face and tried to continue: “On the night of St. Reuben’s feast day, she stumbled home all cuts and welts. She fell at my knees and told me all. That she were with child by Sir Richard and had just told him so. Thereupon he beat her, and took again of her, and his son Edward has taken of her too, when she lay terrified and barely knowing what day or month or year it be. She told me all in tears when she came home that night-those weeks ago-all bruised, and cut, and sore…”
William started to cry. Christine pulled aside the edge of her curtain and wiped the tears from his cheeks. She leaned through the outer grille and touched the tip of her head against his as their tears joined in shared pain.
Christine wanted to shout at her father, and demand to know why her family had kept the dreadful secret to themselves, but the agony on his face made her control her anger.
“Father, why did you not tell me of this before?” she asked gently.
“I wanted to, my child, but I have worried so much about your health; I dared not add to your privations here in this cold cell. I had delayed telling you, from fear…from love… searching to find good words for such terrible deeds. I ordered your mother to keep silent. When Father Peter told me of your constant prayers for Margaret, I was driven here by guilt. I am sorry to tell you all this now…”
“I forgive you, Father, but tell me, please, what has become of Margaret? How does she fare now? What did you do when she came home so defiled by those monsters?”
William could not answer; his shoulders shook uncontrollably as he tried to fight his anguish. Eventually he composed himself enough to speak: “I asked the reeve to arrange for me to see the lord. He made me wait eighteen days, saying he was conducting duties in London. Finally, in the great hall, Sir Richard spake to me with witnesses all around; before I could speak, he shouted that my daughter had shamed his house. That she was with child and so must depart. That there would be no bastardy in his household. He told me to send her away to furthest kin and let the child be raised in more Godly ways than I had raised thy sister.
“I was so angry I could not stop myself. ‘Sire,’ says me. ‘I must speak out now, without your leave. My daughter tells me she was taken by main force, and by members of your household. This is not justice…’
“‘Hold your insolence in my house,’ Sir Richard did roar at me, his face all aflame. ‘I have conducted enquiries full into your daughter’s fall and ascertained that it were a village lad not connected with this house. Were you now to gainsay my word, here in front of witnesses, I will summon her to court ecclesiastic for the sin of childwrite. And if you persist in this calumny she will by Church courts be judged for fornication and bastardy. If one word more you utter against me in my house, you will also be sent from my sight and land. Leave me now whilst I have the patience not to draw my sword against your insults to me and to mine. Be gone, man, and avoid my face in case I lose my mercy. Next time I see your snivelling features, I will hang you in a cage as we do to Scottish rebels.’ Then he started to scream: ‘Out with you, you lying cur! Out, I say!’”
William shivered as he recalled the awful scene. “His armed men forced me from the house and I have sat with rage at home. With all my righteous hurt what can I do agin so strong a lord? I tell you true, but there is naught you can do except to pray His justice be done on earth.” William pointed up to heaven.
Father and daughter sat silently. Then William stood suddenly, unable to endure his humiliation. “I must take my leave straightway,” he said, not able to look into Christine’s eyes. “Your mother needs more comfort than I.”
“Comfort her well and tell her I do love her,” said Christine through her tears. “And send word of my love to Margaret, too,” she called out as the sound of her father’s footsteps diminished.
Christine sat on the cold stone bench, then fell to her knees. She would intensify her rigorous devotions and pray for a sign to come at last.
She prayed all night, asking for God to guide her in how to avenge her family’s wrongs. She knelt for hours, and stared and stared intently at the altar, willing some holy tears of blood to fall from the crucifix, but her Christ did not answer her. Drained and frustrated, she fought off sleep.
The long night became a day of prayer and fasting, but still Christ did not respond. Throughout the second day and night of prayer, she took no food nor water, and her thin frame shook uncontrollably. The lice and fleas roamed her body and she was too distracted to scratch or search them out.
Usually she needed to pray in seclusion, but she was interrupted that morning by a visit from Anna de Kempis. For once, she was welcome. “Perhaps you are the sign of God, Mistress de Kempis. I have prayed for guidance to leave my cell for urgent business to save the life if not the soul of my sister. Let us pray together and, then, please help me by unlatching the bolts of my door so that I can leave my cell.”
Anna de Kempis’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh, I cannot, holy anchoress, you are tempting me and God is tempting you. Were I to sin thus, I would be excommunicated, and tortured on the rack. I know God will strengthen you, just as when He gave fortitude to His Son on the Holy Cross. I know the pain, the terrible pain…”
She threw herself on the ground and started to kick her legs in the air and wave her arms and scream, and sob, and whimper, and then scream again. Christine had seen her share the agony of Christ on previous occasions and waited for her passion to pass, but Mistress de Kempis wailed for longer than before, and louder. Father Peter heard her cries and came to the north wall. He kneeled to comfort her and she threw her arms around him, sobbing more piteously.
The priest rocked her gently. “Ah, the Holy Spirit is leaving you for a while, Mistress de Kempis. Peace be with you now. Hush. Go and pray in the church, and I will speak to you after the Mass.”
The wailing woman staggered off, and Father Peter spoke to Christine: “God works in strange ways with strange people.”
“Father,” moaned Christine, “God is ignoring my earnest supplications. He has not answered my prayers. Please undo the bolts. I must leave to help my sister.”
The priest looked at her in amazement. “After all our devotions together, I cannot throw you to the Devil! What can you do that your father here in Shere and our Father in Heaven cannot? This is worse than foolishness, it is vanity. This is Satan’s temptation-you must know that. You do know that, don’t you?”
Not a little anger suffused his face. “I must be off to Mass, before Mistress de Kempis causes mayhem in my congregation,” he said with unaccustomed terseness. “I shall pray for you. But I shall return soon to confirm that your resolve… and the bolts…are firm.”
An hour later she heard her priest rattle the bolts, but he did not speak to her. Self-loathing, fear and doubt engulfed her, and she cried in long choking sobs until night fell upon the church.
At the end of the second day, a fever crept upon her, but she did not feel the touch of death. On the third night of her intense devotions, she felt the flood of warmth embracing her whole body. Through the mist over her
