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Authors: Donna Fletcher Crow
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rough cloak, the mud-caked boots leaving prints on the stone floor of the church.
“Ye the priest friend o’ our holy woman?”
“And what holy woman would that be, my good man?” Richard was shocked by the man’s rough appearance and abrupt approach, but all were welcome in the house of God.
“Our Margaret o’ Kirkby. Ye are. I’ve seen ye at ’er window.” It was more an accusation than an identification.
“Yes, I am.” Richard had no thought of denying it in spite of the man’s tone. After all, if he had ridden twelve miles from Margaret’s cell in this weather it was little wonder he looked like a drowned rat.
“Ye need t’ come.”
“Come? Now?” Richard held his hand out to indicate the prepared altar. He had only to fill the basin for the foot washing. “Father Ailred will be here soon. We are about to celebrate our Lord’s institution of Holy Communion.”
“Sick unto death, she is. Thirteen days now, not able t’ utter a word. Ye’d be best to make ’aste if ye care t’ see ’er in this world.”
Richard turned instantly to fill his scrip.
Again, Antony saw it all: the tall, thin figure in hermit’s garb, carefully placing the needed objects in a small leather pouch: a crucifix, his beads, prayer book and most important of all—a reserved host from the tabernacle.
His inward songs of burning love seemed but a distant echo as Richard rode through the grey drizzle. Lord grant that he be not too late. No man could enter the cell of an anchoress, not even her spiritual director, so Richard took up his familiar position outside her window. The window was small, but low enough for the anchoress to be able to converse with her visitors sitting down. The heavy woven drapery kept the chill winter winds out as well as providing for her privacy. “Margaret? It is I. I’ve come to bring you the comfort of our Lord.”
Her low moan told him that she was still alive. “Pains and prickings” his summoner had described Margaret’s sufferings and, indeed, he could hear the rustle of her tunic as she thrashed about on her straw-filled mattress.
Even as Richard prayed for Margaret’s healing he was aware of the rich interplay of love and death, sickness and healing. He lifted his soul and was caught up into the music of heaven.
“Richard? Is that you? Have you come to me?”
“Aye, to plead for your healing. In this world or the next, as our Lord sees fit, but I would leif it be in this world as I can ill spare my soul friend.”
He did not hear her move, but he felt warmth surge through him as she clasped his hand resting inside her window.
“I have brought the body of our Lord. Are you able to partake, Margaret?”
“Aye, let us keep the feast.”
They shared the sacred meal, then Richard heard Margaret yawn and felt her head droop against his shoulder leaning on the window frame. Richard shifted his body to provide more support and returned to his customary internal prayer.
Margaret slept thus for only a short time when suddenly an acute convulsion seized her. Richard cried out at the violence of the attack and tried to hold her, fearing she would injure herself.
The seizure woke her and she proclaimed, “
Gloria tibi Domine
.” Glory be to thee, O Lord.
Her voice faltered and Richard finished the verse she had begun, “
Qui natus es de Virgine
,” For Thou wast born of a Virgin. Together they continued on through the Compline hymn.
Margaret now seemed fully recovered so Richard gave her a final blessing and admonition, “Now thy speech is restored to thee, use it as a woman whose speech is for good.”
A few days later Richard returned to her cell and he and Margaret shared a meal at her worldside window. As had happened before, Margaret relaxed and became sleepy. She fell asleep leaning against Richard.
This peaceful scene was shattered, however, when Margaret’s convulsions returned. Richard was alarmed. She became seemingly mad as she was shaken by extraordinary
“Ye the priest friend o’ our holy woman?”
“And what holy woman would that be, my good man?” Richard was shocked by the man’s rough appearance and abrupt approach, but all were welcome in the house of God.
“Our Margaret o’ Kirkby. Ye are. I’ve seen ye at ’er window.” It was more an accusation than an identification.
“Yes, I am.” Richard had no thought of denying it in spite of the man’s tone. After all, if he had ridden twelve miles from Margaret’s cell in this weather it was little wonder he looked like a drowned rat.
“Ye need t’ come.”
“Come? Now?” Richard held his hand out to indicate the prepared altar. He had only to fill the basin for the foot washing. “Father Ailred will be here soon. We are about to celebrate our Lord’s institution of Holy Communion.”
“Sick unto death, she is. Thirteen days now, not able t’ utter a word. Ye’d be best to make ’aste if ye care t’ see ’er in this world.”
Richard turned instantly to fill his scrip.
Again, Antony saw it all: the tall, thin figure in hermit’s garb, carefully placing the needed objects in a small leather pouch: a crucifix, his beads, prayer book and most important of all—a reserved host from the tabernacle.
His inward songs of burning love seemed but a distant echo as Richard rode through the grey drizzle. Lord grant that he be not too late. No man could enter the cell of an anchoress, not even her spiritual director, so Richard took up his familiar position outside her window. The window was small, but low enough for the anchoress to be able to converse with her visitors sitting down. The heavy woven drapery kept the chill winter winds out as well as providing for her privacy. “Margaret? It is I. I’ve come to bring you the comfort of our Lord.”
Her low moan told him that she was still alive. “Pains and prickings” his summoner had described Margaret’s sufferings and, indeed, he could hear the rustle of her tunic as she thrashed about on her straw-filled mattress.
Even as Richard prayed for Margaret’s healing he was aware of the rich interplay of love and death, sickness and healing. He lifted his soul and was caught up into the music of heaven.
“Richard? Is that you? Have you come to me?”
“Aye, to plead for your healing. In this world or the next, as our Lord sees fit, but I would leif it be in this world as I can ill spare my soul friend.”
He did not hear her move, but he felt warmth surge through him as she clasped his hand resting inside her window.
“I have brought the body of our Lord. Are you able to partake, Margaret?”
“Aye, let us keep the feast.”
They shared the sacred meal, then Richard heard Margaret yawn and felt her head droop against his shoulder leaning on the window frame. Richard shifted his body to provide more support and returned to his customary internal prayer.
Margaret slept thus for only a short time when suddenly an acute convulsion seized her. Richard cried out at the violence of the attack and tried to hold her, fearing she would injure herself.
The seizure woke her and she proclaimed, “
Gloria tibi Domine
.” Glory be to thee, O Lord.
Her voice faltered and Richard finished the verse she had begun, “
Qui natus es de Virgine
,” For Thou wast born of a Virgin. Together they continued on through the Compline hymn.
Margaret now seemed fully recovered so Richard gave her a final blessing and admonition, “Now thy speech is restored to thee, use it as a woman whose speech is for good.”
A few days later Richard returned to her cell and he and Margaret shared a meal at her worldside window. As had happened before, Margaret relaxed and became sleepy. She fell asleep leaning against Richard.
This peaceful scene was shattered, however, when Margaret’s convulsions returned. Richard was alarmed. She became seemingly mad as she was shaken by extraordinary
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