Duval returned to his desk. He wanted to write while his universe was in perfect equilibrium.
August 1331
Christine, on her knees, kissed the bishop’s ring, which was as opulent as his private chambers. The episcopal parlour was adorned with brightly coloured tapestries from Arras. Opus anglicanum embroidery, the handiwork of doting nuns, was displayed on a heavy carved oak table. This was some of the finest embroidery in Christendom, with workmanship so delicate and designs so very fine, threads of gold, yellow shading to green, and white to blue.
Christine had spent three days in the Dominican convent in Guldenford, where she had been starved of food and sleep and then forced to repeat a series of detailed confessions. In each the main theme had been that the step between ecstatic vision and sinful frenzy was very small, and she had willingly taken that fateful step to excommunication by abandoning her vows in order to follow the Great Tempter. Made public, against normal protocol, these confessions had been recorded on vellum and a summary presented to the dean, who had then summoned the bishop. It was his job to supervise petitions for Christine’s excommunication as punishment for the abnegation of her vows. Thereafter, she could be handed over to secular authorities for trial and possible execution.
The bishop, however, had more worldly fish to fry on this Friday. Alone except for a scribe, he addressed Christine with due solemnity: “My child, I have read the summation of your confessions and I have…” He stopped, seeing her strained face. “Please, look up from the floor and at me. You seem pale. Scribe, place that stool for our errant sister…Sit, Christine.”
Christine had been struggling, through her fear, hunger and exhaustion, to hold herself upright. “Thank you, my lord,” she said gratefully.
“By all the rights,” continued the bishop, “you should be before a court ecclesiastic. This may come, but I wanted to speak to you privily. To help. To counsel. To keep a sister in the faith. With due penance, perchance you can be absolved of your sins and avoid excommunication. But should you persuade the court to shrive you, then to be re-enclosed in St. James’s church will require the special permit of our Holy Father the Pope. Do you understand?”
“I understand, my lord,” Christine said meekly.
“Let me speak to you of God, and also of worldly things,” intoned the bishop as he stroked his heavily embroidered rochet. “Firstly, your miracles. Your claimed miracles. I pray that God has visited you, my child. Let me see your palms.”
Christine showed her open palms. He reached forward from his gilded chair and examined them carefully. “I see no stigmata, my child,” he said kindly. “Were it now to happen before my eyes, and extra witnesses I could summon, this proof might be hailed as saintly. But one claim, with none as witness, will not persuade this bishopric-let alone the Pope-to grant your pardon.”
Christine was silent. He pulled out a brocaded cloth of sarsenet and blew his nose into it, then he tried again to explain: “Saintliness, the desire for this lofty gift, may be the ultimate temptation. And your fasting to extremes…to die for our religion is much easier than to live absolutely for Christ. As you know now, solitude is a palace for the Beast.”
The bishop saw a tiny tear in Christine’s eyes, although she, who had suffered so much, now found it hard to cry. He wanted to take her mauled hands to comfort her, but knew he could not. “I believe in the truth of your vision which led you to enclosure in St. James’s church,” he said softly. “I sense your spiritual strength, my child, but let us leave the claim of miracles apart.
“I have read your extra deposition. You have accused Sir Richard of carnal violation of your virtue and that of your deceased sister, Margaret-God rest her soul. If true, this is devilish work. But your sister has gone to another place, and it rests upon your truth against your honoured master, Sir Richard. True, your calling to the anchorhold would give you extra worth, but you are a fugitive now from your cell.”
The bishop’s brow furrowed. “Fornication-especially by main force-is against God’s law, and the Church condemns accordingly, but our custom is that bonded and free men of the demesnes have few redress in matters carnal against their lord, especially when he has a strong sword-arm and the knights to follow him.
“But I myself have remonstrations with Sir Richard.” His voice dropped. “I will aid you to avenge your family’s wrongs, but you must return my favour. Later I will explain all to you. Meanwhile, I swear you to absolute silence. Rest quiet in the convent, where I have forespoken to the Abbess Euphemia and instructed her to treat you well.”
Duval was happy and the writing flowed, yet even though his story was materialising, he felt his thoughts were being seduced back into the twentieth century. The Middle Ages shimmered around him, but they did not envelop him with images. His imagination was not seized with irresistible force by thoughts of the 1320s. Previously, his female trophies had allowed him, on occasion, an almost perfect escape into the fourteenth century, but now he found that Marda’s face was assuming the likeness he had long ago invented for Christine. The more he tried to focus on the medieval Christine, the more he wanted to start his work on the living flesh and blood of Marda. This had not happened to him before and he found it unsettling, yet he could appreciate the delicious metamorphosis.
A few feet below the thick stone floor on which Duval’s writing desk stood, Marda was desperately banging on the door again. Why hadn’t the women Duval had spoken to said a word? Maybe their cells were too well sound-proofed. But surely they could hear her banging? Perhaps they were locked in another part of the prison? For several hours she had been consumed by an almost mindless rage, but some small part of her knew that others were suffering as she was, and she needed to speak to them.
She shouted a few of the names she had heard: “Denise! Dorothy!”
Maybe they were gagged or drugged? Not all of them, surely? How many people were in this hell-hole? Was her gaoler working alone or was he part of some bizarre and insidious organisation? There had to be other people involved, captors and captives.
She wanted her fellow-prisoners to help her, at least to tell her what was happening: knowing would make it easier. She could then survive whatever she had to go through to be released, or to answer whatever questions were needed to pass the test that would enable her to leave.
She tried banging on her door again, to no avail. She tried to estimate how long she had been in the dungeon. Fifteen hours? Sixteen?
Although she was only a light, social smoker, she suddenly felt the craving for a cigarette. A few puffs might relieve the tension cramps in her stomach, but she would not beg him for nicotine. Food and water were more important.
The heaviness of time became increasingly unendurable. In the darkness she was lost. Only the light-and his face on the black-and-white TV screen of the grille-would help her to gauge the passage of time. She felt as if she were being swilled around like a goldfish in a tiny polythene bag on the back of the rickety horse and cart of the rag-and-bone man. Tom-that was his name. He would shout “Rag-Bonnnn-er. Scrap metaaaal.” He used to give her balloons when she was a little girl, but she had wanted a goldfish. She had felt sorry for the trapped fish, so she asked her father whether they ever suffered from seasickness. Were goldfish aware of water? She was beginning to feel the same about the concept of time. The hours, she suspected, would become meaningless; she could only measure time by her feelings. And all she felt now was fear.
Marda heard again the muffled opening of a second door and then a lower tone of the thudding closure of a door and a metallic click. She presumed he was locking the door into the corridor outside her-their-cells. Perhaps it wasn’t “Michael.” Perhaps it was a female warder or kidnapper. But by now she had begun to discount the kidnapping theory. That didn’t make sense if five or six girls were all locked up together. For a fleeting moment she thought that it was all some elaborate practical joke. But that would be crazy, she realised, especially as she could have choked to death on whatever it was “they” had used to knock her out. Maybe it was illegal, criminal…or political. No, he was mad-as simple and as horrifying as that. If only she could make contact with the other women, she could find out what on earth was going on.
Unexpectedly, the grille slid open and the light flooded in. She heard his deep, cultured voice say with mock subservience, “Toast with marmalade, mademoiselle, and some more herbal tea. Please tell me if you would prefer coffee next time.”
She had dreaded his coming, but, oh, the light. And food. And some kind of company. Even his. And that voice. It was almost comforting despite its terrifying chill.
Duval passed her a small plate with two pieces of toast and a mug. As he went to close the grille, Marda begged, “Please, leave it open a little, just so I can see what I’m doing.” There was no response. “And please may I have my clothes?” she pleaded. Still he said nothing, but before he walked back up the corridor he left the grille open a few inches.
She crunched her way through the toast and gulped down the scented tea, desperate for nourishment. Only when she finished did she look to see if there was anything she could spot in the cell. The single feature she had missed was a small air vent which fed from the corridor into the inner wall of the cell.
Drinking the tea made Marda realise how much she needed to urinate. She wondered why she hadn’t felt this need before. Was it shock, or perhaps she had been in the cell for less time than she thought? However long it was, she knew she had to respond to the call of nature immediately. Was Duval still there? She had not heard the outer door.
“Michael, are you there?” she called. She thought how best to placate him. “Thank you for the tea and toast,” she said, trying to sound sincere. “But please can you let me go to the lavatory? I haven’t been since before you…you…brought me here. Please.” The panic in her voice was rising. “There is already a mess in here with my being sick. Please let me go to a bathroom, and then may I put some clothes on before I die of pneumonia?”
She heard him open the outside door. She couldn’t see much out of the grille even when she stood on the wooden bench, and her attempts to push the grille open wider were futile. She could just make out what looked like another cell door opposite, and a stone and timber ceiling with an unusual light fitting.
“Hey! Hey!” she half-shouted, half-whispered. “Hey, is there anyone there? Can you hear me?” Her voice echoed a little in the corridor.
“I can hear you,” Duval suddenly said, though she couldn’t see him. “I will introduce you to the rest of your companions later. For the moment, you can use this.” He appeared carrying a small porcelain chamber-pot, and proffered it through the grille.
“I can’t use that thing,” Marda snorted in disgust. “Please let me out to use a proper toilet.”
Duval let the chamber-pot crash to the ground. The impact made Marda jump, then instinctively cower into a ball as she tried to avoid the flying shards and the noise so monstrously amplified in the confined space.
“You should do what I suggest,” said Duval quietly, as the echoes died away. “Now you must wait.”
“I can’t wait,” sobbed Marda. “And, oh God, please don’t shut the light out.” But there was total darkness, and then the noise of the closing of the outer door. And all Marda could think of was which corner of her cell she would use to relieve herself.
She squatted in the corner and felt her muscles relax, even as tears stung her eyes. There was nothing with which to dry herself. Later, sitting on her wooden bench, she felt her bowels churn. How could she live alongside her own faeces? She felt as though she had reverted to childhood. Faced with soiling herself, she would have to use the floor. He would control even her toilet habits.
Marda was cold, frightened and sickened by the stale smell of urine and vomit. For a fleeting second she thought of death: I would prefer suicide to suffering in this hell on earth. Then she became angry at such a thought. Damn you, whatever you are, I will survive, I will sort this out and get myself out of here. If I think like a victim, she told herself, I will become a victim. Her defiance, too, was only a passing impulse. She felt so weak, so vulnerable. She wanted to stay alive, and to stay sane.
Part of keeping sane was keeping time. It seemed that she’d been his captive for many hours, but she wasn’t sure how many. If only he hadn’t taken her watch. She also wondered where she was. How can it happen, she asked herself, that you have no idea which part of the country you are in?
Then, suddenly, the noise of the outer door. The footsteps. The sliding of the grille, the light. That face, the power in it. The voice, its innate sense of command.
“I hope you will do what I suggest this time,” he said sternly. Clearly pleased with himself, he stood back and held up a large round canister for Marda to see. “I have brought you a portable lavatory. It’s what they use in caravans, I believe. I have also brought you some cleaning materials and a rubbish bag so that you can tidy your…your room. To give you the toilet, I need to unlock your door. If we are to avoid unpleasantness, you will have to do as I ask. I am going to pass you through a pair of handcuffs. Please attach one manacle to your left wrist and the other to the small metal loop at the end of your bench. I am not going to harm you. I had a very alarming experience with one of the other ladies here who caught me off guard. This will not happen again.”
More degradation, thought Marda. “Please don’t expect me to handcuff myself,” she beseeched him. “Can’t you see I’m cold and sick and frightened. How could I attack you? You’re twice my size.”
“Here are the handcuffs,” he said, undeterred. “Please do what I say.”
Marda knew she could not stand the indignity of defecating on the tiny bit of floor space. Reluctantly, she took the cuffs, found the small loop on the bench and clamped one manacle to it, then encircled her left wrist with the cold metal of the other. Once Duval was sure she was secured, he unlocked the door and stepped in. The metal toilet was dumped on the floor, without ceremony. Marda, shivering in her bra and pants, handcuffed to a bench, could not have presented a more pitiful tableau.
Pity did not seem to be part of Duval’s psychological make-up, however. He merely wrinkled his noise in distaste and said, “You’d better clean this room up. It doesn’t smell very healthy in here. I’ll return in fifteen minutes or so. If it’s clean, I shall provide you with some clothing. I do appreciate that you may be cold.”
He left the cell, locking the door behind him, then through the grille he offered her the key to the handcuffs. She could only just reach with her right hand. After she had undone the cuffs, he asked her to return them, with the key, through the opening. “This procedure we will observe carefully-until I can trust you. As I said, I shall be back in fifteen minutes. It would be to your advantage to make good use of this time by cleaning up.”
He sounded like a headmaster, thought Marda.
Duval soon returned. The handcuff procedure was repeated and he removed the broom and cleaning bucket. Then he produced a shapeless black garment which he laid on the bench a few inches from Marda’s bare thighs, goosepimpled with fear and cold. He did not touch her and he avoided her eyes. Quickly, he locked the door and handed her the key again through the grille. After undoing the manacles, she dutifully placed them in his cupped hand protruding through the grille.
“That is something for you to wear,” he said pointing. “Please, it’s warm, put it on.”
Marda examined the coarse black wool.
“What’s this?” she said, trying her best to humour him. “It looks like something someone graduated in.”
“You have not graduated yet, Marda,” said Duval, no amusement in his voice. “This is a garment that novice nuns must wear in the order of Saint Benedict.”
“Am I in the cellar of a convent?” Marda asked quickly, thinking he had given her a clue.
“No,” said Duval coldly. “Any more questions?”
“Have you got something that I can wear underneath this?” She fingered the heavy cloth. “It will be very rough and itchy next to my bare skin.”
“It is usually worn by nuns without an undergown, so that is how you will wear it. It is not worn for pleasure. You have a choice. Wear it or not. It depends on how cold you get.”
Marda’s eyes narrowed and she gritted her teeth, but she did not say anything. And she was very cold, embarrassed at being in just her underclothes and still in shock; so she pulled the heavy black garment over her head and shuddered with the roughness. She stood stiffly, to try to keep the coarse gown away from her skin.
She still would not give in. “If you won’t give me back my own shoes, may I ask whether there are witches’ shoes to match this outfit?” she enquired sarcastically.
“Normally stout black boots, with extended laces, are worn with dark leggings,” answered Duval with pedantic dignity. “I am sure something similar can be provided. What size shoe do you take?”
“Size…five,” Marda replied guardedly.
Duval thought a moment. “I think one of the other girls has shoes that size. I will check.”
Marda seized on this. “May I meet the ‘other girls,’ Michael?”
He smiled coldly and said, “Why not? As I told you, until I trust you, you will have to use these handcuffs.” He handed them through the grille. “This time you will cuff both your hands together.”
Reluctantly, and with difficulty, Marda did so. Duval opened the cell door and led her blinking into the light of the corridor. Her heart leapt and she even attempted to laugh: “This is not a good way to meet people. A barefoot nun in handcuffs.”
Duval did not smile.
Once her eyes had accustomed themselves to the direct light, Marda saw that she was in the middle of a long hallway. Three doors-all with the same grilles-stood on either side. A total of six cells. In front of her was a short wooden staircase leading to a trapdoor. At the other end of the passage stood a large, well-lit crucifix attached to the stone wall.
“Is this a church?” she asked when she noticed the crucifix.
“In a way, yes,” said Duval uncomfortably. Marda’s eyes swept her newly enlarged world.
“Are you really a priest?” she dared to ask.
Duval looked at her sharply, then tried to dismiss her with a feeble laugh. “So many questions, young lady. You said you wanted to meet the other girls. Are you sure?”
Marda was suddenly uneasy at his tone. “Well,” she said carefully, “I heard you speaking to other people. You spoke to Denise, and Dorothy, and some others. So I wondered about them. One gets a little short of company down here.” She tried to shrug her shoulders, one of her mannerisms, but realised that the loose black shroud she was wearing tended to drown out such subtle gestures.
“All right, Marda.” Duval’s shrug was more obvious. He banged on the nearest door with the side of his fist. “This is Denise’s room. I met her-let me think-about five years ago.”
Marda’s face froze: “She has been in there for five years?”
Duval met her stricken eyes, five inches below his. “Yes.”
“Why are you doing this to her? Please let me see her…” Marda stopped herself. “Why isn’t anyone answering? Have you gagged them? Or are they all well trained?” Marda tried to suppress her panic with a touch of mock sarcasm.
Duval knocked again on the door. “Denise, may we come in to see you?” He called out: “Speak up, my dear, I can’t hear you. Ah, she has always been difficult,” he said almost fondly. “Here, Marda, let me presume to open the door without her permission. Then I shall introduce you.” Duval pulled out a ring of keys from his trousers and fiddled with the lock.
Marda wondered what Denise would look like after four years in his care, and tried to steel herself to stay calm, whatever she found. As Duval opened the door, an unpleasant smell burst upon her nostrils and she could not prevent herself from stepping back.
“Denise,” said Duval, amused. “Never good at housekeeping, I’m afraid. Rather spoiled young lady.” He opened the door wide and stepped into the cell.
“Denise,” he said expansively, “say hello to Marda. Marda, this is Denise.”
Duval gestured to Marda to follow him.
Marda did so, screamed and collapsed to the floor.
When she regained consciousness in the dark of her cell, Marda thought for a joyous second that she was in her bedroom in Woking. She remembered her big brown teddy with the torn ear. That memory could not keep the horror at bay, and the most awful image she had seen in her short life came back. She saw again the light flooding into the cell. A quick movement in the corner: a rat had been sitting on the bench, and had scampered into some dark hole when the door opened. Then the light had fallen on Denise. Her ankles had been tied to the base of the bench. She had no clothes. Her hair had grown so long it fell over her face and down towards her waist. She was gripping a wooden crucifix with both skeletal hands. Hands that had been frozen in death for over four years.