uncomfortable down here, too.” He seemed to be assessing how much he could show of himself.
He assumed again the role of kind uncle. “But all in good time. All right, you get back to bed-I know it’s still early-but if you feel weak, may I suggest a drop of corn spirit with a little milk, honey and lemon? A good old remedy for a cold.”
She nodded. “Thank you, that would be nice. Even nicer-although not conventional medicine-would be some Gitanes. Just one?” she said with an exaggerated wheedling tone.
Duval said nothing as he led her back to her cell, closing the door without locking it.
Marda sat on the bed and pulled the blankets over her clothing. She became more alert. He’s left the door unlocked and the light on, she thought. For the first time. And he touched me. He’s either going soft or he’s fattening me up…for something awful. She heard him unlock the main door to the cellar and come down the stairs.
After knocking on the door, he came in with a steaming glass of medicine.
“Here, sip this. I’ll turn up your heater. I’ve also brought you something different to read. My opus. It’s called
He paused; then, with a gloss of modesty in his tone, he said, “Great literature, they say, is the clever orchestration of platitudes. I hope I’ve avoided some of the platitudes even if I’ve been playing on a one-string fiddle. So few good books are written nowadays, because those who can write rarely know anything. I don’t really know how to write, but I do know the most important thing is man’s, or in this case woman’s, relationship with God.”
Duval appeared embarrassed by his explanation. His arms seemed disinclined to obey his own words, as though giving her his book was impossible. Reluctantly he offered her the text, and she politely received it with both hands. Duval would not let go of the manuscript until he had finished speaking. Later, in the utter darkness, when Marda was reflecting on this contrary behaviour, she thought it was like Dracula being forced to open up his coffin in daylight. Duval and the book were almost one.
A few minutes later, he returned to the cell.
“To me, writing has perhaps been a lonely substitute for conversation,” he said confessionally. “Talking to you means a lot to me, so I would like you to read my work and say what you think about it. I won’t be too hurt if you say you don’t like it. It’s not finished yet. I have to add the conclusion, and even the rest needs a lot of editing. The typing isn’t perfect, either… I’m being too defensive, I know, but you are the first person I’ve shown it to. I hope you are well enough to read it…Take your time.”
He looked at her face. He rarely looked straight into her eyes, but this time he did.
She smiled to give him more confidence. “I’ll make time, Michael.”
“Yes, I suppose you have lots of time. I’m sorry to have to detain you.”
She saw this as a psychological breakthrough, even though he locked the door on the way out.
It was ten o’clock in the morning when she started to read. She had seen his watch; normally it was covered by his shirt or jacket. Perhaps that, too, was a concession.
He was obviously pleased with her progress when he came back at two o’clock-he announced the time- carrying a tray with a large cooked meal in a scrubbed wooden bowl. He also gave her a pack of Gitanes, for which she thanked him profusely. Duval made some small talk, but avoided asking her opinion before he left. She ate her meal, smoked two cigarettes and continued with her reading.
Later, he brought her coffee, and this time he couldn’t contain his curiosity: “How far have you got with it? You don’t have to read it in one go, but I’m pleased that it’s held your interest for so long. Well, my child?”
Marda had been planning her response. She had been terrified by the story. Despite her rapid religious training she had not understood all its meaning, but it told her much about his state of mind and revealed even more about his plans for her. Although she was heartened by Christine’s escape, Duval’s ideal of spiritual fulfilment through life incarceration within a wall chilled her already cold and pained body.
She had practised over and over what she would say. A bad response could be dangerous, she knew. She realised what his writing meant to him. It was more than an obsession: he was acting out a deadly fantasy.
She did her very best to smile, a simulation of deep contentment. “It’s fascinating, Michael. Truly.” She realised that the “truly” was too quick, too desperate, too gushing. “No, I have to be a little careful because I haven’t finished it yet. I am up to the bit where Christine meets the bishop in Guildford…I didn’t know that it used to be called Guldenford…Please let me finish the book. I will have some questions because I don’t understand everything, and I
She tried to be convincing. Marda had a naturally kind disposition, but it was extremely hard for her to applaud a prospectus for her own premature burial in stone.
Duval’s face beamed with pleasure. “No, don’t rush it. I value your opinion. There is no one else I would show it to.”
Marda was cautious now: “Did you show this to your other…guests?”
“Good Lord, no. I told you, you are special. And to be honest I have rewritten a lot since you’ve been here. Since I met you the first time in Shere, I’ve done a great deal of work on it. If it’s ever published…of course I don’t know if it’s good enough. Sometimes I think it’s too personal to publish. Too important. I don’t know much about publishers, agents…all that London business…but, yes,
Marda often found it hard to follow her captor’s logic, but she recovered quickly from this surprise. “Michael, no one has ever asked whether they could dedicate a book to me before. I don’t know what to say.”
Now Duval had become the child of their relationship. “Well, I’m jumping the gun a bit. You’ll have to finish reading the draft there. I mean you don’t
Marda sensed the power reversal again. He seemed like a schoolboy, her captive for the moment, but she had learned how volatile he could be. She was afraid of uttering a fatally incorrect phrase. “Michael, please let me finish your”-she almost said “masterpiece” but wisely refrained-“book. I want to see what happens next.”
That was the correct reply.
“I’ll leave the main door open and your grille a little way open, if it’s not too cold, then you can shout if you want some coffee or something. How is your cold?”
She couldn’t resist a cliche: “A day in bed with a good book is what I needed.” She attempted a wan smile.
He was not generally susceptible to flattery, except about his book. He was well on his way to believing himself to be an author.
“Thank you for your support. I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said enthusiastically.
Marda returned to the hardships of the Middle Ages; they helped her forget a little of her own suffering.
Simon was not quite as tall as the woman he had loved all his young life. Broad-shouldered and very strong, he worked hard in the fields as well as long hours on his delicate task of making clothes. Christine had shunned him, told him to forget, but he could not. His father had warned him: “Ne’er go within three arrow-shots of the carpenter’s home,” but Simon could not help his feelings. He called upon William the Carpenter from time to time.
William was fashioning two benches for Simon’s cottage in exchange for some woven fustian.
“’Tis good to labour in oak; they be the monarchs of the forest,” said William.
Simon did not reply, but then said, “Is she in goodly health, Master William?”
William sighed heavily. “Aye, the many months in the world, despite the trial, have granted some rosiness to her cheeks, just as when she was a girl in the fields. Done her well, indeed. I doubt that she would have lived, being alone in the wall, if the death of her sister were brought to her there.”
“I am well pleased at those tidings, sir, but I wish her rude health would allow her to speak with me.”
“So still she denies you, Simon?”
