I stare at the darkened glass.
Feel some kind of gaze, perhaps, but nothing like what I felt from Aurelia. There’s something wolfish perhaps. I have the sudden creepy sense that, if there is someone watching me now, they’re masturbating as they do so.
I do the cross and curtsy bit again, but no candle for you, Anthony, mate. Not that I exactly blame you for taking your pleasures where you can.
The fifth pane of glass. The blank wall. The empty niche.
I stare at the wall. A nail has been placed to take a picture.
Cyril murmurs, ‘We have prayed and we have chosen. In your case, the choice was easy.’
He settles a little icon on the nail. Mother Julian of Norwich.
He gives me a candle. Wants me to light it myself, but my hands are shaking too much to do so. Someone lights it for me and helps me settle it in front of my own little bit of darkened glass.
‘Mother Julian,’ Cyril murmurs. ‘Anchoress at the Church of St Julian in Norwich.’ Then, quoting her, adds, ‘“For I saw no wrath except on man’s side, and He forgives that in us, for wrath is nothing else but a perversity and an opposition to peace and to love.”’
I cross myself and curtsy. Curtsy so deeply, so shakily that this time I can’t get up. Need to be supported up, Brother Anselm on one side, Brother Thomas on the other.
I say, ‘May I please have something to eat? I feel very faint.’
Cyril: ‘Sister Julian, your first day will be a day of fast and penitence. There will be ample food thereafter.’
Brother Nicholas’s barley bread, and plenty of it.
But they bring me water and I drink it and the water helps.
I feel weak, but ready. I nod to indicate as much.
I’m escorted to the back of the church, where a little door leads into a vestry. Vestments and hymn books. Packets of communion wafers and cardboard boxes of candles. The room looks like just another version of the vestry at Ystradfflur. Smelling of plaster and damp and last Sunday’s incense.
But this room has a second door. One you hardly notice, stuck behind the angle of a cupboard.
They don’t do locks. That’s what I told Watkins, but I was wrong. You only need one lock, after all, and here it is. Brother Nicholas unlocks that second door and leads me through. Three monks passing ahead of me, three behind: an arrangement that is ceremonial but also carefully security-aware.
We enter the lean-to that runs the length of the church. This lean-to that has a woodstore at the far end and which, I’d always assumed, was simply storeroom or barn all the way along.
And it is a storeroom, of sorts.
It stores people.
Within the large room, there is a chain of smaller ones – cells – built up against the church wall. The cells have no doors. They have no windows. A small opening at the bottom of each cell allows food to be passed in and any waste to be passed out. Those openings are, for now, shuttered with thick iron plates, heavily fastened and bolted.
But it’s not the chain of four completed cells that claim my eye, but the one on the end. The one that currently stands open and incomplete.
Its walls are thick. Two feet at least, I estimate. Solid Welsh sandstone. A lime mortar mix with plenty of cement.
Most of the masonry work has already been done. The side walls come out and join at the front. The little food tunnel has already been constructed. The iron plate isn’t yet in place, but the fixings are there.
Above that, though, there’s a kind of ragged opening of unfinished stone. An opening that widens as it rises towards a half-domed, almost beehive roof.
The opening is big enough to admit a human. Particularly, a short-ish, slim-ish human wearing only a thin white dress and veil.
The monks, or some of them, are impatient for me to move forward. To enter my cell.
One of them, Thomas I think, touches my arm in the hope of nudging me forwards. But I shake him off. Angrily. My first outburst of petulance.
‘By. Choice,’ I say. ‘By choice.’
My voice is a useless thing. A broken toy. But the monk steps back.
I stare at that little stony opening. It stares back at me.
My legs, without any conscious volition from me, carry me over to the spot.
Inside: a stone cell.
About six foot square. The roof, when it is finished, will be perhaps eight or nine foot at its highest. The walls are unplastered. There is a low stone bed, with a thin mattress. Two grey blankets. No pillow. A small pile of clothes, neatly folded. A metal basin and ewer. A bar of soap. A tin cup. A little straw brush for keeping the cell tidy. A chamber pot.
And, of course, that one-way glass.
From where I am, I can’t see the church altar, but I know that if – when – I kneel in front of that glass, my gaze will be directed, through the light of the candle, to that golden cross on its snowy altar.
On this side of the glass, there is a little step, equipped with a tiny cushion, on which to kneel.
Also: a palm cross, a Bible, a string of beads.
I stand at the threshold, gazing at my future.
Saint Aurelia. Fifty-five years in the service of her Lord. And, dear God, I’m young enough and healthy enough that I might live that long.
I step right up to the opening, resting my hand on the rough stone.
There are loose blocks here. Some of them small enough that I could carry them in one hand. If I were Lev, perhaps that would give me enough of a weapon. But even he, I think, might struggle, one against six. And I’m a pretty feeble one.
I move my hand. It comes away with a little grey dust, which I brush off. A hand-washing movement. A cleansing.
I put my hand up to my head and find the little comb that secures the veil to my hair.
Look at Cyril, who gives me a tiny nod.
I remove the veil and fold it, taking care that the lace hem shows properly, that it’s folded, not crumpled. I take my time, not because I am ordinarily careful about such things but because the veil is, in its own idiot way, a beautiful thing and I may not see many more such things.
It is hard to hand the veil over to Cyril, but I do.
By choice.
I will do this by choice.
Shoes next. Those are still harder to relinquish, because their lace and satin curves, their tiny flirty kitten heels, those adorable foolish bows have a hold on me that I can’t quite describe. I’m not a shoe girl, never have been, but this pair seem now like the loveliest objects in the whole universe.
But I relinquish them. Trembling, but I do.
The next step is to cross that stony threshold. To surrender this dress, so white and pretty. To don whatever clothes lie folded on the bed. To do that – and what? – kneel? pray? scream? fight? – as these men wall me in, stone by everlasting stone?
I crumple. A full-on, legs-give-way crumple. I end up kneeling, if only because it’s all my body now seems able to do. Knees on the bare stone floor. Head on the ragged open wall.
‘I can’t do it, Father. Sorry.’
‘You can. You have done so well already. The others, they were not – they were not like this.’
I bet they weren’t. I try to imagine those rudely abucted kids. Rich kids, moneyed kids. Perhaps – who knows? – selfish and brattish kids. Imagine them as they saw these walls for the first time. Understood their purpose.
I hope those kids fought and swore and kicked and screamed.
I hope they hurt someone.
But that was them and that was then. This is me and now and here and inescapable.
‘I don’t know how to pray. I’ve never learned.’
‘The Lord will teach.’ I think the abbot wants to dish out more of the tempested/overcome stuff, but something tells him now isn’t the time.
He waits. We all wait.
I shake again. Not just my head, but my whole body. A long, shuddering no of refusal. ‘I’m sorry.’
The word is a mouse that skitters a foot
or two across the floor, no more. A whisper’s echo.
Am I faking this resistance?
I don’t think so. I feel it as real and as hard as a stone in my belly.
Again, I think one of the monks comes towards me, intending some form of physical compulsion. Thomas, I expect. Or Nicholas. I never liked those two.
But again, some signal from Cyril, perhaps also Anselm, heads off whatever was about to happen.
More waiting.
I say – the scratch of an echo of a murmur – ‘This first night, this first day. May I have guidance? Someone with me? Support?’
That sends a ripple round the group. I don’t know what form this ceremony of enclosure takes, but not this. Their whole ordered life has just hit a little obstacle. A tiny boulder just peeping above the current.
Thomas starts to say, ‘It is not—’
But Cyril, bless him, bless his monkish wisdom, cuts the man off. He says, ‘My daughter Julian, if that is what enables you to make this a choice of the heart, then so be it. This first night only, one of us will keep vigil with you. In the morning, we will celebrate matins, then complete the Enclosure. Is that acceptable?’
Still kneeling. Still breathing into the soft mortar dust and cold stone, I say, ‘Yes.’
‘Can you make the choice?’
‘I can.’
Someone helps me stand. I am cold and shaky. Long waves of fear that ride through me leaving me breathless.
I take the abbot’s hands. Both of his in both of mine.
‘Peace be with you, Father.’
‘Peace be with you.’
Each of the others, the same, except that I call them Brother and they me Sister.
I stand at the opening, bare-headed, bare-footed. ‘Pray for me, Brothers,’ I say, and step through into my cell.
Outside, a couple of the monks put some kind of board up over the opening. A piece of ply they’ve been using to mix their mortar on, I think. I use the privacy to step out of my dress. Explore the clothes on the bed.
There’s a loose linen shirt. I put it on.
Then some kind of dress. Long, loosely gathered at the waist, sleeveless. The kind of thing that needs something underneath. The dress is heavy, woollen, scratchy. I search my memory for the right term. A kirtle, perhaps. Pale grey. Chaste, but also plain. No temptation here to vanity.
I put it on. It ties up at the front with a cord almost like a bootlace. Thick enough, perhaps, for me to hang myself, except that there’s no place to tie the other end. The skirt reaches almost to the floor.
Grey woollen stockings. Warm and thick. Sandals.
Then, great heavens, something that is surely a wimple, a headcovering. I try to figure out how the thing works, but can’t, so I tap at the board and say, ‘I am clothed.’
They move the board. Through the gap, I hand them my white dress, neatly folded.
‘The wimple. I’m sorry. I don’t know . . .’
Brother Thomas who, I am increasingly sure, gets a savage, sadistic and – I’ll bet – sexual pleasure from this thing, ties the thing tight over my head and neck as I lean forward. I loosen it as I withdraw.
My cell, my rules, buddy.
There’s one more item of clothing too. A short cloak. Also grey. Also coarse. A crude tie at the throat, but the damn thing is heavy and warm and my chilly arms are happy to welcome it.
I put it on.
Not a cloak. A mantle, or perhaps a mantelet. That’s the right term, I think.
Fully dressed now, prepared and fitted for my new life, I turn to the men.
To my surprise, they kneel. Cyril speaks some Greek prayer, honouring me, I think, for my holy vocation. I don’t know what to say. What response is called for. But when they rise, I curtsy.
Wimpled, kirtled and mantled, I curtsy. An anchoress who has stepped, of her own volition, into this cell, these clothes, this life.
When, behind me, they start to build my cell’s walls, I don’t watch.
When, behind me, they start to chant the funeral service that marks my ceremonial death, my death to the world, I hardly listen.
I just kneel at my little pane of glass. My eye fixed the only place it can: on the golden cross burning on an empty altar.
Kyrie eleison.
Lord have mercy.
Christe eleison.
Christ have mercy.
And all the time, behind me, the stone walls rise.
44
Stonework is a physical business, of course, and these walls are thick.
But the mortar is already mixed. There are six men gladly at work. The stone lies ready. And, of course, these monks are practised at this work and the wall flies up.
When the opening is closed all the way up to head height – more than, more than my height – I turn from my prayer and throw a desperate look up at Cyril.
He wipes sweat and building dust from his face and says, ‘I haven’t forgotten. We keep our word.’
The walls rise to eight foot. Most of the ceiling is completed too. An arch that leans up against the church wall. The gap that’s left is about the size of the little loft hatch that led to Lev’s attic. Wider than some of the tunnels in that damn cave.
And Cyril keeps his promise. Asks me who I would like to accompany me, this first night of the rest of my life.
I don’t know. I should have an answer, but I don’t.
Thomas, the little bastard, is nasty, but I’m nasty too and I reckon, with the power of surprise and desperation, I might, just might, win a physical contest with him. But Cyril is a wise old sod and he hasn’t been running this game so cleanly and for so long without plenty of operational savvy.
‘Anselm,’ he says. ‘You have always got on well with Brother Anselm.’
I bow my wimpled head in acceptance.
Anselm is indeed my favourite of the monks. He has an easy kindness and earthy humour, which is, I think, real enough, for all that I don’t share every last one of his religious beliefs.
But he’s also the strongest. He’s late thirties, perhaps, or early forties. Not huge. Not one of those sixteen-stone rugby types who could walk through a brick wall and not notice the difference. But he’s strong, all the same. I’ve seen him lifting one of those big hay bales and tossing it, actually tossing it, onto a handcart. Seen him working on the dry-stone walls in the fields and he picks up stones, even big ones, with a single powerful hand.
They drop a ladder down from the roof. Anselm squeezes through the hole and climbs down. They hoist the ladder back up. When they were working on the wall, a couple of monks stood on my side, building the cell up from within, tidying up the pointing. When they left, they left a couple of small bags of lime and cement. Those things and a trowel.
Metal-bladed. Pointed. Long enough.
Anselm chuckles at me. Winks. Corrects a few places in the wall where he’s not happy with the pointing – he loves his stonewalling – then tosses the little trowel up through the gap in the roof. We hear it tinkling down the other side.
He scrunches his eyes up at me. Friendly. A laugh, only part suppressed.
We sit beside each other on the bed.
‘I have never prayed.’
‘You will learn.’
I pick up the chain of beads. ‘This? It’s a rosary?’
‘Yes.’ He starts to explain it. One prayer per bead. Each set of ten – a ‘decade’ – preceded and completed by a different prayer. He tells me of the Joyful Mysteries, the Sorrowful Mysteries, the Glorious Mysteries. ‘But there are no rules. You will find your own rhythm. Your places of peace.’
We start.
I kneel at the little window. He kneels beside me.
We recite prayers – simple ones, short ones, things that I can quickly pick up. We recite prayers and the beads click round. A decade first, then five decades, then fifteen.
We pause. I take some water. The church clock above us chimes midnight as we pass over into the last day of December. The last day of this ex
piring year.
I offer water to Anselm but he says no.
I ask if there’ll be any chance of getting any reading matter in here. ‘Devotional texts, I mean,’ I add hurriedly. ‘To support my reading of the Bible.’
He nods. ‘Of course. To start with, we do encourage a devotion of the heart, not the brain. But after a year or two, if all goes well, there might well be writings that would support your journey.’
He tells me that some anchoresses used to embroider things. ‘Perhaps when you enter mid-life,’ he says placidly. ‘You are still very young. It would not be wise to be too distracted by things of the eye.’
Oh sweet Lord. Two years before I get something to read. Fifteen or twenty before I get to distract my eye with a little holy embroidery.
‘I would like to sew kneelers,’ I say. ‘For the church.’
He smiles at me. In fifteen years, I might get my wish.
We pray again.
And it’s true. The strange thing is that it’s perfectly true. These prayers, this repetition, even the knowledge of this long, strange anchoritic tradition – these things help stabilise me. Bring a kind of uneasy peace.
We complete another fifteen decades, but we go round again. Then round again.
I pause for rest.
Sit on the bed.
‘If the others call to me, can I hear them?’ The people in the other cells, I mean. My fellow anchorites and anchoresses.
‘We encourage silence and silent contemplation. If you need counsel in matters spiritual, you can speak to any of us when we bring your food and water. If you need to make confession, we will always accept that, of course.’
‘But if they call, will I hear?’
Anselm smiles. ‘We place a high value on silence. If they are noisy, and some of them have been, we place a bale of straw in front of their hatches.’ He looks at me and, with gentle eyes, says, ‘No, you will not hear them.’
We rest a bit more. Then pray again.
Two o’clock.
‘Anselm, will you always tell me about the pigs? I want to know they’re happy.’
He laughs. ‘I will always tell you about the pigs.’
Rest a few minutes, then kneel again.
Three o’clock.
The Dead House: Fiona Griffiths Crime Thriller (Book 5) (Fiona Griffiths Crime Thriller Series) Page 33
