Forsaken Soul

by Priscilla Royal

  Now hearing men’s voices in the distance, he knew his time by old Tibia’s side was almost over. If her soul still hovered nearby, perhaps with a lingering regret for the loss of earthly things or even some fondness for a man she sometimes called son, he had best dismiss it.

  “Go in peace,” he whispered. “If you were acting on God’s behalf, you need no mortal blessing. If He did not make you into His avenging angel, I have given you absolution. Wherever your soul may go now, I beg you to pray for me as you did your murdered boy. I shall miss you.”

  Then he bent down and kissed old Tibia’s cool cheek, took hold of her hand for the last time, and wept like a son who had just seen his mother die.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  A few days later, in the tiny cell of the anchoress, Juliana, two women knelt together in front of the small, plain altar and prayed silently. When they had done, each opened her eyes and turned to the other. Neither spoke, nor did either doubt the other had finished her talk with God. Their smiles suggested a mutual understanding that words were sometimes mortal things, best left unspoken owing to their imperfection.

  Prioress Eleanor opened her arms and embraced the anchoress. “Am I forgiven?”

  “Am I?” came the reply.

  “It is up to God to decide the severity of each of our sins. Yet He is merciful.”

  “Mine led to murder.”

  “As did mine.”

  Eleanor rose, then helped the anchoress to her feet, and the two went to the small opening in the wall that provided entry for light from the world. Eleanor pushed aside the curtain and peeked out. “The earth still sings with joy, and the sun brings warmth to all creatures,” she said. “Despite men’s sins, God’s handiwork finds ways to rejoice overall.”

  “My heart believes that is God’s message of hope, my lady.”

  While the birds turned their babble of voices into a unique but strangely appealing polyphony, the two women fell silent and enjoyed those gifts of creation.

  Eleanor turned at last to Juliana. “When I told my aunt in Amesbury that I wanted to take my final vows in our Order of Fontevraud, she asked whether I longed only for the sequestered life of prayer. Being yet a child, I must have answered with predictable eagerness, although I have no memory of my exact words. She put her hands on my shoulders, pushed me to my knees, and said, ‘You must pray daily that God gives you the strength to do whatever He requires.’ I have had cause of late to remember her advice and regret that I have failed, until now, to follow it.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “The nuns and monks of Tyndal, with some few exceptions, spend their days praying for souls in need. Had I stayed in Amesbury Priory with my aunt, I might have remained like them, but God had other trials for me and inspired King Henry to appoint me leader of Tyndal.”

  “Your friends and family rejoiced at the honor given,” Juliana replied with a rare smile.

  “As prioress, I must deal with worldly matters and even more worldly men. If our house does not prosper, our religious will lose the roof that shelters them, the altar before which they pray, and the food that gives them strength. In guaranteeing wealth and prominence enough to provide all this, I know I serve God’s purpose well.”

  The anchoress nodded agreement.

  “Nonetheless, my duties bring temptations, and I was led away from righteousness by concern with worldly reputation. Fearful of men’s censure, because I allowed you to welcome tortured souls at night, I stopped my ears to the words of warning you wished to speak. Had I listened, I might have prevented the blacksmith’s death.” She knelt and bowed her head. “I have begged God to pardon all my sins in this matter. He demands that I humbly seek your forgiveness as well.”

  Juliana said nothing for a long while, her eyes sad as if she had seen or heard something in the prioress’ gesture of humility that troubled her. Finally, she spoke: “My lady, whatever forgiveness you have been commanded to seek from me is most heartily given, whether or not you ask it.”

  A high color may have risen from Eleanor’s neck and spread over her face, but she did not reply.

  “God has read our hearts, yours and mine, but He promises solace for our sorrows and forgiveness for our weaknesses. When we show our strengths, He praises us.” The anchoress knelt as well and took her prioress’ hands. “Like any mortal, we have longings held secret from other men. Seek His guidance.”

  Eleanor nodded.

  “Will you forgive the grief I have brought this priory, my lady? Believing that God may have chosen me as His vessel blinded me with pride. I failed to see the evil I let loose. If you blame yourself for one murder, I bear the burden of three.”

  “This priory has not suffered from your presence, nor did your advice cause the Evil One to dance. When the herb woman sought solace for the tribulations she had suffered, she surely closed her ears when God spoke and instead beckoned Satan to come nigh. He urged revenge. Thus her soul bears the weight of the crimes she committed in his name.” Then the prioress kissed the anchoress’ hands. Her smile twitched with a hint of mischievousness. “There is only one sin of which you are guilty and must seek forgiveness from me. Will you hear what it is and the penance you must bear?”

  “Tell me and I shall perform it.”

  “It is the intolerance with which you greet all women who serve you.”

  “We have spoken of that…”

  “And I promised to find you a maid who would do honor to your calling.”

  “You have discovered such a person?” Juliana’s words may have been spoken with submissive enough acceptance, but they most certainly did not sing of happiness at this prospect.

  “Not yet, but I shall. In the meantime, I have discovered something that may teach you forbearance.” Eleanor rose and walked over to a covered basket she had placed near the door when she arrived. It was a small thing, of a loose and open weave.

  The anchoress watched with a puzzled but curious frown.

  The prioress lifted the cover off the basket, reached inside, and pulled out two small objects.

  Juliana stared in amazement.

  Eleanor gestured for the anchoress to stretch forth her hands. Then she carefully placed two sleeping female kittens in them. “These shall help teach you the sweet nature of good women,” she said, “and how to accept service from our sex.”

  With that, the prioress kissed the anchoress on her cheek and quietly left the cell, pulling the heavy door shut behind her.

  Sister Juliana looked down at the soft, purring creatures resting easily in her palms, and then held them gently against her face. Although she now began to weep, these tears were most certainly born of joy.

  Author’s Notes

  This story takes place in the summer of 1273, a reasonably peaceful time in England—at least in retrospect. King Henry III had died on November 16, 1272, and his son, now King Edward I, was on his way back from the Holy Land. When he received word of his father’s death, he was in Sicily but took his time getting home and did not arrive in England until August of 1274. One of the reasons for this delay may have been his slow recovery from the wounds suffered from an assassination attempt before he left Acre, although he did participate in a tournament in Chalons during which, once again, he found himself in danger of either losing his life or receiving a serious wound.

  In the meantime, the English government was run by a council under the direction of his clerk, Robert Burnell. While the new king visited in Rome and Paris, his mother’s family in Savoy, and handled a crisis in Gascony, that council dealt with the ongoing aftermath of the Simon de Montfort rebellion. Not only were there rumblings from the former rebels, assessed huge fines for the recovery of their lands, but there were also droves of pilgrims from all social classes coming to Evesham to venerate the dead Simon. Fear of the renewal of this civil war was certainly a legitimate one, added to which was the lack of any money to fight another.

  It seems that Edwar
d had full confidence in his council, and his journey home was hardly a pleasure tour. A far more astute politician than his father, Edward was carefully renewing and building alliances while settling disputes on his continental lands. To the grief of the Welsh, he also met in Savoy the master mason and architect, Master James of St. George, a man he later invited to join him in England to design and build such famous castles as Beaumaris and Harlech.

  Anchoresses are both fascinating and often misunderstood. Although some were bricked up in their cells, most were not. In the early 13th century, Ancrene Wisse (Guide for Anchoresses) was written in England for a group of anchoresses living in individual cells, with servants, and sharing common space for meals. Many decades earlier, Aelred of Rievaulx wrote his guide, a work the author of Ancrene Wisse knew well, for his sister who seems to have been a solitary anchoress in the mid-12th century.

  An anchoress (or anchorite, if a man) was a person who did not necessarily belong to any Order or take vows other than chastity, obedience, and fixity of place—although, like Juliana, a few might choose to do so. Many of these women, but not all, lived in a building attached to a church. If the anchoress was alone, her space was small (one such cell measured twelve feet square) with three windows: one, called a squint, opened into the church interior so services and Mass could be observed; another was used to pass food and waste; and a third, curtained, let in light from the outside and allowed villagers to visit for comfort and advice.

  Within this cell, the anchoress had a bed (often made of stone), an altar, and a crucifix. Some cells did have space for a maid or two. Many also held a coffin, or else a grave already hollowed out from which the anchoress dug up earth daily with her bare hands to remind herself of death and her hopes for life thereafter. Although these women might be buried in their cell, the anchorage was often passed on to another.

  The anchoress might have wished for more solitude, but she was not alone in fact. Practicality demanded some human contact. According to legend, the desert fathers were fed by birds and beasts, but, by the 12th and 13th centuries, the animals seemed to have wearied of the task and turned the duties over to humans. Even solitary anchoresses usually had one indoor servant (who cooked, mended, and attended to other physical needs) and an outdoor attendant (who carried wood, did laundry or other heavy work). Both maids were expected to be modest in behavior, above reproach morally, and plain of dress. Their wages consisted of the glory they received for service given to these holy women, plus food and shelter. Many of these servants moved into the cell after their mistress’ death and became anchoresses themselves.

  Although the practice was discouraged, some anchoresses received visitors in their cells. A few taught young children, although Aelred made plain his dislike for this activity. Needless to say, contact with men was pretty much forbidden. An elderly, sober priest of unquestioned reputation could visit for confession and counseling. If a prior or abbot wished, he might do so as well but only rarely and in the presence of a third person. In the company of any man, the anchoress heavily veiled herself.

  Setting apart her particular jealousy, Prioress Eleanor had good reason to be outraged when Brother Thomas visited Juliana because tongues did wag about improprieties. Both the author of Ancrene Wisse and Aelred of Rievaulx talk about the dangers of touch between the sexes (even if hands met only in the act of alms-giving), sexual imaginings after innocent meetings, and how some anchoresses enlarged the outside window so a lover could slip into the cell. If the building was made of stone, the latter must have required quite the dedicated effort.

  A man or woman who chose this life was expected to emulate the suffering of Jesus. For this reason, the wearing of rough clothing, flagellation, and significant fasting were common. That noted, moderation was recommended and urged. The author of Ancrene Wisse particularly advises against the wearing of hairshirts and says that diet should be meager but most certainly adequate for maintaining strength. He also recommends bathing (filth did not please God) and says that a cat was the only suitable animal to keep—unless otherwise advised.

  Some suggest that the Celtic Church, known for its solitary religious, had an influence, but Britain seems to have had a larger number of anchoresses than the continent, especially in the 13th century. Two of them are especially famous: Christina of Markyate (c. 1097 to sometime after 1155) and Julian of Norwich (1342-c.1416).

  Christina probably wanted to be a nun, not an anchoress, but Roger, the hermit, helped to hide her from her family who wanted the young woman to marry and produce children. For four years, she suffered incredible agony and deprivation from remaining motionless in a tiny space during the daytime, the effects of which probably shortened her life. Roger willed his anchorage to her in Markyate when he died.

  For a woman who wanted to live a chaste life, she suffered much from lust and the lust of others. One unnamed cleric, friend to Archbishop Thurstan of York, was so driven by his passion that he visited her naked. Nor was she immune to his pleas. Mary Magdalene finally had enough and ordered him in a dream to quit the nonsense. To cool her own ardor, Christina ate only raw herbs, scourged herself, and prayed instead of sleeping. Finally, she seems to have entered into a chaste but loving relationship with Geoffrey, Abbot of St. Albans, a man who was amazed when she, like most saints and not a few ordinary women, read his thoughts.

  Julian of Norwich probably took her name from the St. Julian of the church to which her anchorhold was attached. A woman of middle age when she entered this new life, she was not a nun but did dedicate herself to seeking God’s voice in the silence of her small enclosure. Her particular findings were written down and published as The Revelations of Divine Love, a most interesting work in which she discusses the compassionate and feminine nature of the Divine. During the Reformation, her cell was destroyed, and, although the church survived, it was almost obliterated by a bomb during World War II. When the church was reconstructed, the foundations of what was believed to have been Julian’s cell were discovered. Although many such cells were built on the north side of churches, to deprive anchoresses of any joy from the sun’s light, Julian’s was placed on the south. I’d like to think that the man who built her cell believed that she, as an author, was worthy of a bit more comfort.

  On the other side of the chastity issue lived the prostitutes. Prostitution is an ancient profession, albeit not always called an honorable one. How it is viewed has changed from era and culture and locale. Many have considered it part of the religious experience or a rite of passage; others condemn it as immoral and/or degrading to women. Whatever the point of view, the profession has always been supported by society in fact, either openly and legally or covertly but just as enthusiastically.

  Both the Church and secular authorities in the medieval period were as uncomfortable and conflicted about the business as we are today—with a slight shift in emphasis. The commercial aspect of prostitution did not define who was or who was not a “whore” in Prioress Eleanor’s time. That concept seems to be our inheritance from industrialization and the rise of the mercantile class. Rampant female sexuality (and the obligation to control it) balanced against the need for unmarried men to find an outlet (literally for the good of their health) were the prime concerns in the 13th century.

  Unlike good Victorian women, who supposedly closed their eyes and thought only of England, all medieval women were believed to suffer from such lust that they were often driven to seduce otherwise decent men into bed. Virginal nuns, who vowed chastity, were deemed more virtuous than monks because of their greater struggle to honor that oath, and repentant prostitutes were especially venerated, in part because they knew what they were giving up. As one man’s property, wives and women in monogamous/ longtime relationships were of less danger to social order than an unattached single woman. The husband or “significant other” was expected to keep them sexually satisfied and thus unlikely to tempt innocent men with their wiles.

  As a single woman, Signy had good r
eason to fear for her reputation. Since men and women of the lower social classes in England often married later for financial reasons, premarital sex was common and even reasonably accepted. As long as she was discreet and limited her affairs, the single woman could hope that the community (defined as men of authority in a village) would opt to ignore what she was doing. In this way, she might escape legal action as well as the inability to follow any remunerative occupation besides prostitution should she be publicly accused of “whoredom”.

  Of course the Church found prostitution reprehensible, but they and the secular authorities both decided it was socially necessary. Despite believing all men should be chaste, they also assumed that public order (protection of another man’s wife, daughter, or female servant from lewd activity) and a man’s health (release of “seed” was needed to keep a man in trim) required the availability of “common women”. With prostitutes, unmarried men such as priests, students, and apprentices could find necessary relief, although no one liked to admit that this went on. Like modern officials who think the problem of the homeless is eliminated by shooing them off somewhere less visible to tourists, the medieval authorities justified their uncomfortable acceptance of prostitution by limiting the women to sections or streets in a town where “honest folk” didn’t have to see them.

  Most of us know that the term “common woman” does not have the same origin as “common man”. It may be a more ancient one, however. In the medieval period, the concept meant any woman who was sexually and publicly available to many men (not a series of husbands), including priests. Pay was often involved but volume business was more significant in defining who was and was not an official “whore”. As is true now, that particular term could and was used casually as an insult against any woman for any reason and often had little to do with any sexual activity.