The Anchoress by Cadwallader Robyn

Author:Cadwallader, Robyn [Cadwallader, Robyn]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2015-05-13T07:00:00+00:00

I loved the story. And I wished I’d never seen it. I wanted a story too much to think about where it had come from, at least at first. I slipped off the soft covering Father Ranaulf had wrapped around it and sat for some time. The dull smell of parchment floated around me, and then the sharpness of ink. I saw a man bending toward the page, the quill in his hand moving back and forward, his head turning to the book nearby to read the next lines, then back again to the words he made, letter by letter. Now it lay still in my hands, and though it wasn’t heavy I felt its weight against my skin, and the slight dimpling of the pig’s hide. I thought of the stone ledge under my squint, worn smooth and curved as if to fit my body, the ripples of wood grain in my desk, the hard-baked clay of my oil lamp: I had begun to comprehend objects by the way they felt. The few books I had held in my old life had never touched my skin this way.

The first page with its lines of words and, above them, the title, its lettering slightly larger: Saint Margaret, maiden and martyr, the capital S largest of all, in red, and coiled around it leaves and flowers as if from a plant, and emerging from inside the bottom curve of the letter a dragon, its tail a sharp point, its mouth wide and lined with teeth. I touched it lightly with a fingertip, felt the slight ridges of ink that reminded me of the roof of my mouth.

I opened the shutters to the maids’ room, but I said nothing to Anna and Louise. They would be wondering what had happened with Thomas, and they would hear the story as I read it, but at that moment I wished to be at my desk, alone.

The story was happening in my cell: I could see the sheep in the fields, spots of white against the green, and Margaret nearby, tending them. The pagan sheriff Olibrius rides past on his fine black horse and notices her beauty, the way she shines like the sun, and decides he will have her. He offers her marriage and riches, the honour of his bed, but the faithful maid denies him, declares her love for Christ. At the sheriff’s command, soldiers with swords and ugly faces surround her, grab her roughly, bind her, and take her to the city. I could see people coming into the streets to look at the captive, chattering and pointing and sighing at the young girl’s beauty. Among the clamour there is one voice, clear and ringing. Margaret doesn’t seem to think about her safety; she argues with the sheriff, who snarls as he looks down at her from his horse.

Even after a night in a prison cell, alone among the threat of racks and wheels, of curved and sharpened metal, she denies the sheriff and his vicious bullying.

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