Then she seemed to be flying over the earth, seeing below many prosperous villages and towns, with golden turrets and marble spires, and also a large white castle, which she knew was made of parchment. All creation was like a ball in her hand, for understanding had replaced the pain and she could see with different eyes. All her sins had been turned into blessings by God’s love, a love sanctified by the vision of Mary, the Holy Mother. Love and understanding had been given to her.
All this she saw so clearly, but then darkness fell upon her, and the vision was replaced by the cruel earthliness of her room. Her vision appeared to have lasted but a second of time, long ago. The memory of the light and the peace, she feared, would fade as well.
Christine felt she was strong enough to raise herself a little. The priest quickened his prayers. As he raised the still-glowing crucifix, higher and higher, Christine was drawn up, too, as though sucked by some irresistible force.
The priest knelt and put his hand behind her head to support it and enable her to drink a little ale. She coughed as the pungent liquid stung her throat.
“Gently, my child,” he whispered, cradling her head as her eyes closed and she slept. Father Peter sat by her bed, waiting and praying.
An hour or so later she awoke, and managed to eat a little wheaten bread, her first food for many days. Her eyes were large as she stared at Father Peter and they looked at each other in fear and hope. The priest had shared her pain and her shame, the proof of his weakness. Guilt showed on his face, yet her face was bright for the first time since Sir Richard’s abomination.
Minutes passed before she spoke, although serenity still suffused her face. Then, forcefully, she said, “I have suffered, as you can attest, but I believe I have done worse to my family and my once-betrothed. I was so confused…I hated my earthly body…I wanted death, even prayed for it…that is my greatest sin…But now our God has spoken to me…”
The priest smiled and said, “Our Saviour almost granted your wish, but He must have wanted you to live on this earth to do His will. My child, I brought with me the unction of the final sacrament…our prayers, though, and your pain…and His will…have brought God’s blessing. So I must hope…”
Christine interrupted him, her voice urgent and hoarse with suffering: “I must now confess what I saw. God’s power has come here, to Ashe Cottage. When you raised the Cross, I saw blood, real blood, seep down from beneath the thorns…” She coughed and sipped a few more drops of ale, then retched.
Alarmed, Father Peter tried to calm her: “Sleep, Christine, sleep. And strengthen yourself some more…”
“Nay, Father, speak I must.” Christine was sitting up now, the words tumbling out. “Truly, I saw blood flow from the crown of thorns. It was hot and fresh and in full flow, just as in His Passion when the crown of thorns was by evil men pressed on His blessed head. The blood flooded down like the drops of water that fall off the eaves of a house after a great rain. He who was both God and man and suffered for our sins. I saw all this.”
The priest was overwhelmed with joy at her recovery. It was only natural she would turn to our Lord in such a mortal crisis, he thought. “Christine,” he said softly, brushing back the damp hair on her forehead. “You saw God perchance, and He works miracles still. Or perchance it was your sickness. But, thank God, whatsoever it be, you are stronger. Much stronger. Now sleep a little more and then eat. I will tell all to William and then I will pray at Mass for the deliverance of your body and your soul.”
After three more days in bed, Christine was able to rise and break bread with her family at table. She still shivered a little, even though she wore her father’s cloak and sat near the open fire to ease the autumn chill.
They talked of minor family matters: Helene’s new chickens, the way Margaret had plaited her hair into looped braids, how young William caught a hare. Christine loved her family and all its squabbling intimacy, but she felt herself removed. She knew in her heart that she had been reborn in Christ, but she nodded and smiled inside at all the little family mishaps and adventures that she had missed during her fever.
After a few days spent regaining some of her strength, her father turned to a subject she dreaded. William spoke of marriage: “Sweet Christine, will you now see your intended to speak of nuptials?”
Christine did not speak until William repeated his question. “Father, I tell you plainly. I cannot marry. I have told you of my showing, the showing of the Cross. My life is marked for God so I cannot marry a man. I am now betrothed to Him.” She joined her hands in prayer and looked up to the heavens.
William sensed his daughter’s own Calvary, even though it was far beyond his imagination and understanding. He had gently and privately asked her to explain her vision, to tell him what had prompted her fit, but Christine would talk only of the power and glory shining from the cross and the words of the Blessed Mary. Christine would shed no light on what had befallen her in the manor house.
A week after her recovery, as if from death, Christine ambled along the path that led from her cottage to St. James’s church for her first confession with Father Peter. Stepping lightly through the leaves that carpeted the graveyard, she stopped to gaze at the church. She had worked and played beside it since she could walk, but she had never really looked at it as she looked at it now. She had lived, and almost died, in its shadow; now she knew she had to be reborn to her church.
Father Peter was waiting at the great west door, smiling despite the guilt that gnawed at him now whenever he saw Christine. “Are you ready for your confession, child? If so, I would confess to you, outside this church. Come, let us walk to the Queen’s glebe meadow, and ponder on God’s will.”
Christine felt the security that comes with knowing one’s path. “Father, I comprehend your hurtin’. There is no need. Instruct me rather in the makin’ and meanin’ of this church, for I know you are learned in its long story.”
As they walked slowly through the heavy autumn leaves in misty sunshine, they talked of St. James’s history since the Norman days. The priest interspersed his simple lecture with apologies: that he understood how cruel Sir Richard had been; that no authority would accept her word against their lord’s; that he had not witnessed anything except her distress, but could imagine a little of what she must have endured; and that he felt ashamed. It was left unsaid, but understood, that he was too cowardly to give up his living, sacrifice his stipend, for the truth.
“The rector, Mathew de Redemayne, cares naught but for the money from this parish.” Father Peter’s words were agitated. “The Abbot of Netley, what cares he? The Dean of Guldenford cares only for power, not for souls. I am half-wicked, perhaps all wicked, but were I to protest on your behalf, I would be removed. Then I would grieve for myself, but also for you, Christine, your people…my people. For all my faults I do try to follow the righteous path when I am permitted.”
Christine cut short his pleas: “What is, is. I am new. Without my sufferin’ I would not have seen the Cross in my vision. I had thought to kill myself when I escaped from Sir Richard. God punished me for the contemplation of this mortal sin with fever and, on edge of death, he has shriven me to be reborn, but I will talk of more in my confession. Let it please you to tell me more of our St. James’s.”
They strolled back to the church, the priest explaining how Sir Richard had granted monies for the recent restoration. He detailed how the church had frugally used old Roman tiles, but nonetheless had sorely needed further renewal. Sir Richard had paid for the latest Chiddingfold glass in the south aisle, and contributed to the repair of the grisaille ornamentation in the east window. Around the spire a wooden scaffold lashed with ropes still remained, after twelve years or more of intermittent building.