The Maids of Biddenden

The Maids

of

Biddenden

1106

1

Avicia knelt and prayed. Prayed for wisdom, to know what action would be righteous and true. For strength, to cope with the horror of what she would shortly be forced to witness. Above all, for compassion towards the unfortunates now in her care; compassion sufficient to displace any revulsion her face might betray when she saw them for the first time.

She stood up and looked around the abbey chapter house. Mid-morning prayers were over and the room had been decorated with wildflowers to celebrate her arrival. Celebrations could wait, however. She had felt elation at her appointment ­– for the first time, Malling Abbey would have its own prioress – but later, Bishop Gundulf had told her of the abbey’s dark secret. And, since then, the thought of it had accompanied her every waking moment. Today she would see it in the flesh. It. She. They? What was best? Soon she would know.

The door opened and a sturdy-looking woman bustled in. She gave a curtsey, her eyes on the floor as she spoke.

‘I bid thee welcome, Mother Avicia,’ she said. Her words had a cold formality that belied the greeting. ‘I am Sister Margaret, the senior obedientiary, here to see you are well. I trust your journey was not too taxing?’

Avicia’s smile was lost on the nun, who continued her downward stare. The prioress presumed the woman was a widow, like her, who had turned to the Church after bereavement. She strode over, took the nun’s hands and clasped them together, forcing an upward glance.

‘Most uneventful, Sister Margaret,’ Avicia said, her pious smile broadening into what she hoped was a friendly grin.

The nun looked down again and started picking the sides of her fingernails. Avicia looked around the room.

‘You have prepared well for my arrival. Will the other sisters be joining us soon?’

‘They are awaiting my call, Mother Avicia. Shall you greet them now, or do you first need to perform your ablutions?’ Sister Margaret eyed the door leading out to the cloisters, like a trapped church mouse planning a dash to freedom.

‘I think it best to see them now. How many sisters have we at present, Sister Margaret?’

‘Seven and twenty, Mother Avicia, including the novices.’

‘And how many others?’

A chill breeze crept into the room, causing the candles to flutter. Sister Margaret made the sign of the cross and clenched the crucifix around her neck.

‘Others?’ She tightened her grip on the plain wooden cross.

‘Yes,’ Avicia replied. She tried to keep the reproach from her voice.

‘There are only a score and seven of God’s souls doing His work here,’ Sister Margaret said, her body tensing. ‘It would not be God’s will to count the abomination.’

‘It is not up to us to judge God’s will, Sister Margaret. And this “abomination” of which you speak. They have names, do they not?’

Sister Margaret nodded, her cheeks burning red, her chin trembling. ‘Forgive me, Mother Avicia. I cannot conjure the sight of it into my mind without reflecting why God has chosen to bring such a thing into this world. But when in its presence we do not speak of it in these terms. May God forgive us, we speak the names with which they were baptised. Eliza and Mary. Eliza and Mary Chulkhurst, from that respectable and God-fearing family, the Chulkhursts of Biddenden.’

Sister Margaret’s voice choked with tears and Avicia decided it best not to probe any further. ‘I will meet them in short order and form my own view,’ she said, clapping her hands in an effort to clear the air. ‘But I should not keep the sisters waiting. Bring them forth. Other matters can wait until after I have made their acquaintance.’

Within minutes, the nuns were all assembled. Avicia greeted every sister in turn, repeating their names despite the impossibility of remembering them. Each woman, according to custom, was dressed in an identical floor-length tunic, with a wimple covering her entire head bar the face. It should have been a joyous occasion, but a pall of gloom hung in the air. The obedientiaries, the senior nuns, were introduced first, strictly in order of their length of service. Then she met the oblates, or novices – young girls in their mid-teens sent by their parents to gain an education by the only means available to them. Throughout the whole process, there was no glimpse of a smile, no flicker of excitement in recognition of this key moment in the abbey’s history.

Avicia recognised a darkness had to be lifted. ‘I will see my chambers now, Sister Margaret. Please lead the way.’ Without valediction to the others, Avicia followed Sister Margaret out of that chamber of despair.

They arrived at her quarters – a spartan cell with one small window high in the corner. Dust particles danced in a shaft of light that shone onto a bedside table. Avicia picked up her Bible and placed it in the light. Sister Margaret muttered a request to depart, but Avicia stepped past her and closed the door.

‘I have met all my charges now, save for those we talked of before. There is deep pain in this house of God and I need to see the reason without further delay.’ Avicia walked back to touch the sunlit Bible with the tips of her fingers. ‘Take me to meet them.’

Sister Margaret looked at her with dull eyes, then spoke in a monotone: ‘If that be your desire, Mother Avicia. I bow to your command. They are ready for the day and should be at play. Come, follow me.’

They walked across the abbey courtyard to the stables. At the last of them, the half-door had been replaced with a sturdy wooden door haphazardly studded with wrought-iron roseheads. As Sister Margaret slid back the bolt, Avicia felt a wave of nausea. She closed her eyes briefly to compose herself.

The door opened and Avicia stepped inside and gasped. Not in horror, but at the normality of what was before her. A windowless room, ten feet square; reeds for sleeping, scattered on the floor to the left; a latrine trench to the right. Gaps in the wooden-plank wall let light into the room and in the centre, two young girls faced them, sitting cross-legged side-by-side, each playing with a small rag doll. Their skin was pure white, like an alabaster statue come to life. Their dark brown hair reached down to the same point on each of their shoulders, but the symmetry was spoiled by one being plump, the other much thinner. As they moved their arms to play with the dolls, each anticipated the other’s actions, an unconscious dance performed between them.

They glanced up and chanted in unison, ‘Good morrow, Sister Margaret.’ Then they spotted Avicia behind her. Each squeezed the rag doll they were holding, one cradling hers to her chest, the other staring with a probing gaze. They untangled their legs, and simultaneously, without communication between them, shuffled backwards to the farthest wall.

Avicia cleared her throat and spoke softly.

‘Good morrow, young maidens. I am Mother Avicia, and I have travelled from Rochester to come and live with you in this fine place. Will you tell me your names?’

The girls looked to Sister Margaret for guidance.

‘Speak to the good prioress,’ she said, her voice harsh and insistent, like that of an authoritarian schoolteacher. There was silence. One of the girls started fidgeting and the other stroked her hair to comfort her. They had pushed themselves hard against the wall, and held their knees and legs tightly together. Sister Margaret’s face tightened as she shook her head in exasperation. ‘I’m sorry, Mother Avicia, they are not used to strangers. Speak, girls!’

‘Hush, Sister Margaret, it is we who are disturbing their play.’ Avicia knelt beside them. ‘Can I see your doll?’ She held out her hand towards the one closer to her.

The girl turned, causing the other to grab her shoulder to keep her balance, and Avicia noticed their clothing for the first time. Two calico smocks, much too big for them, sewn together at the side-seam. They disguised what was beneath, but when the children moved together they remained perfectly aligned, side-by-side but facing slightly away from one another. Avicia forced herself not to stare, instead focusing on looking the girl straight in the eye.

The girl who had comforted the other thrust her doll into Avicia’s hand and the prioress detected the smallest of murmurs from her lips.

‘Pardon?’ she said, continuing to gaze into the young girl’s eyes. ‘Were you saying your doll’s name?’

‘Edith.’ A little stronger this time.

‘Edith. What a lovely name.’ She looked over to the other girl. ‘And what’s your doll called?’

The girl bit on her hand and started shaking her head vigorously. The action caused them both to shake.

‘Stop it, Mary, stop it!’ the first girl cried. She turned to Avicia. ‘Her doll’s called Maud. But it’s stupid, like her.’

‘I don’t think she’s stupid, just shy,’ Avicia replied. ‘So, if your sister is Mary, you must be Eliza.’

Eliza bit her bottom lip. Avicia spoke again, more crisply this time. ‘Well, girls, I would like to stay and talk, but I have a busy day ahead.’ She clenched her teeth, and her smile, she felt sure, turned into a grimace. ‘Enjoy your playtime. I will …’

Unable to finish, she hastened from the room, Sister Margaret following behind.

Outside, Avicia closed the door and leant against it. Then she began to sob – silently, reluctantly. Inappropriately. She caught Sister Margaret’s look of concern and it gave her the resolve she needed.

‘I shame myself with this display of weakness. You will not see the like of this from me again.’ Avicia inhaled deeply, holding her breath for a few beats of her heart before breathing out. Then she spoke in a steady, low-pitched tone. ‘I have many questions that need to be answered. What is the nature of their predicament? Are they in good health? The quiet one – is she an imbecile?’

Sister Margaret waited until they had crossed the courtyard and entered the cloister before replying. ‘They are a hand’s length joined together. Their corporeal selves are hale and hearty, and they are of sound mind. Mary is the quiet one. She lets Eliza do the talking for her. But when they are alone, we hear them converse, often with striking animation. Their minds are wholly separate, but they are destined to be together until God has mercy on them. We pray every day for their release into Heaven.’

‘And until that day? What life do they have here?’

‘They pray six times a day. They are made comfortable in their confinement. They want for nothing.’ There was a long pause, as though Sister Margaret was willing herself to speak further. ‘Gundulf says we must do nothing to hasten the end.’ Her eyes darted back, towards the locked door of the children’s cell. ‘But he has never set eyes on them since their arrival here. I hope that you will be more merciful, that you will petition Gundulf to let us assist them in their journey to God’s side.’

Avicia shook her head. ‘Gundulf has given me no counsel as to what the fate of these children should be. He bade me come here, see their predicament for myself, and with that knowledge take the path that is the most just and righteous. I do not know yet what that path should be, but I saw nothing of the Devil’s work in this first encounter. I will talk more to the Maids, then convene a council of the obedientiaries.’

They had reached the door of Avicia’s quarters. Sister Margaret stood to one side, her pose submissive, betraying no reaction to Avicia’s words.

‘I will listen to all views with an open mind,’ Avicia said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘There is much I need to learn about this terrible responsibility that has been thrust upon us. I will talk to the physician who treats them. It may well be that God will decide for us.’

‘No physician has set foot in their chamber since they arrived in their swaddling clothes,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘That was six summers ago. Sister Agnes is our infirmarian, and she is skilled at laying balm on them, to cure them of any childhood ailments. No outsider has ever been told of their existence.’

‘And for six years, the girls have flourished? Save for the normal afflictions all growing children have to bear?’ Avicia did not wait for Sister Margaret’s confirmation. ‘Then we have two robust children in our care, who seem to be of sound mind and body. Let me dwell on that fact. My destiny may be to create some joy out of the misery that seems to surround us all in this place.’

Sister Margaret’s silence eloquently conveyed her view of Avicia’s optimism.

‘I will take my leave of you now,’ Avicia said eventually, reining in her words to hide her frustration. ‘We will talk again, when I’ve reflected on the events of this day.’

With that, she entered her chamber, closed the door behind her and collapsed onto her bed. She replayed these last few minutes over and over again in her head. Nothing she had been told by Gundulf could have prepared her for what she had encountered. Nothing she had experienced in life could tell her what actions to take. But she must decide what to do next – and decide wisely.

The lives of these young maids depended on it.

2
Eliza

Mary is the most boring, annoying and stupid person in the world.

Why do I have to be joined to her? She cries all the time and she never talks to anyone but me. I have to speak for both of us, and I always say something wrong and get into trouble. Mary never gets punished, even though it’s usually her fault. It’s not fair.

And she always gets the hiccups. They’re even more annoying. They go on and on and she doesn’t even try to stop them. I punch her in the stomach to make them go away, then she burps and they sometimes stop. If they don’t, I hit her again and then she cries because she says I hurt her. And that makes the hiccups worse. It’s not fair!

Sometimes I get so angry at being joined to her that I pull her hair and scratch her with my nails. It serves her right for being so annoying. I only do that when I’m really, really angry, because the scratches make her ugly face bleed and then Sister Margaret sees them and hits me with the broomstick and tells me it’s a sin and I’ll go to Hell if I do it again and I say I’d like to go to Hell if it means I don’t have to be joined to Mary and Sister Margaret says that is blasphemy which is an even bigger sin and she hits me even harder. And all because Mary is so annoying.

But I know I’m not going to Hell because I talk to God six times every day. It’s different when you talk to God, it’s not like talking to a normal person. You have to pray to God, which means saying exactly what the nuns tell you to say, and it’s all about thanking God for things and asking him to look after us and forgive us for our sins. So that means I’m not going to Hell, no matter how many times I hit Mary.

But I want to ask God other things. Like what is on the outside and what Heaven is like. And most of all, I want to ask God to make it so I don’t have to be joined to Mary anymore. He does it for everyone else, so why won’t He do it for us? Sister Margaret tells me to be quiet when I say I want to make my own prayers to God, but Sister Agnes explains that I can only say the prayers the nuns tell me to say. God is very busy hearing prayers from people all over the world and so we can only say the ones that Jesus tells us to say. Jesus is God’s son.

Sister Agnes is the nice nun. When she saw a bruise on my arm after Sister Margaret hit me with the broomstick, I heard her tell Sister Margaret that we only fight because we are bored and frustrated. Frustrated must be the same as bored, because the next day Sister Agnes brought two dolls for Mary and me to play with. I chose the pretty one and called her Edith and Mary had to take the ugly one. That gives me a nice tingle in my chest and I feel all puffed up.

The new nun who came to see us yesterday hasn’t been back today. She said that Edith was a lovely name. That’s because I thought of the name. Mary called her doll Maud but the new nun didn’t say that was lovely.

‘I wanted to tell her more about Edith,’ I say to Mary. ‘But you were so stupid. I couldn’t before she ran away. You always spoil everything.’

‘Her name is Mother Avicia,’ Mary replies. ‘And she said I wasn’t stupid, just shy. And being shy isn’t a sin.’ She crosses her arms, holding Maud against her chest. ‘I can be shy if I want to.’

‘Nobody will want to be friends with us if you’re stupid and boring. And you are boring.’

‘She didn’t say I was boring.’

‘But you are. Boring.’

‘Am not.’

‘Are. Boring, boring, boring!’