‘What does she do?’ calls out a brave fellow.
Every head turns to discover who has shouted so disrespectfully, even though all of us carry the same question on the tip of our tongues. I am pretty sure it came from the knot of lads leaning against the west wall. They display looks of the most sincere innocence.
‘The king commands. The queen must obey!’ shouts Thomas. ‘When a man commands, a woman must obey, even if she is a queen!’
‘Still, I would not,’ declares Margret under her breath. ‘It is a sin.’
I think briefly of her and John, and him a priest, and what sin means, but I say nothing.
‘No woman can refuse the command of a man,’ he growls. ‘Certainly not Solomon. Did not the Lord ordain that God is the head of man, and man is the head of woman?’
There is another muttering of agreement, louder from the men.
‘Sheba wrings her hands. Oh, she begs Solomon. Anything but this! But Solomon insists. He will be obeyed.’
The smaller boys are now sniggering openly, hissing coarse words at each other.
‘The Lord guides him to find out her secret sin! The foulness she hides underneath her robes!’
I do not care for the direction this is taking. Yet again Thomas fixes me with his stare, wilder than before. For all his strange words, he is a man and is looking at me. This time I am daring enough to stare back, even if only for a few heartbeats.
‘Lo!’ he cries. ‘She obeys! She grasps her skirt and raises it an inch so he can see her toes. How strange they look. But perhaps they are the outlandish boots worn by barbarians. Solomon must be sure. Higher! he commands. Weeping, she lifts her robe another inch. See how unwilling she is. Not from modesty. Oh, no!’
‘How does he know it wasn’t modesty?’ hisses Margret, angry now. ‘Was he there?’
As though he has overheard, Thomas glares at Margret.
‘This is the Word of the Lord,’ he says. ‘She is not modest. She is ashamed. Higher! cries King Solomon and another inch is uncovered. Higher! At last her foul secret is revealed.’
He pauses and we hold our breath.
‘She has the legs of a goat!’
There is a rumble of disbelief and amusement. I am not sure what I think. Relief that it is goat’s legs and not her cunny that is revealed to us? Perhaps. Thomas rounds off his sermon quickly, thumping home the moral that the path to hell is up a woman’s skirt, and that a great deal of monstrousness is hidden there.
Amen, we gasp, breathlessly. Amen.
I can only suppose that he means to horrify the lads, shame the lasses and thereby throw a bucket of cold water on licentious thoughts. But he holds up his hand against a tide, and the spring tide at that. Besides, by talking in such delicious detail about getting a woman to lift up her dress, he has stoked the fire of everyone’s thoughts and thrown dry wood upon the flames.
A woman would have found a way to dissuade him from such a theme. That he is so gullible sparks a flame in my breast: it feels a lot like pity, and I dismiss it. Pity is not something I want cluttering me up if I’m going to set my eye on this man. I wonder if he can truly be that stupid: yet again, I wipe that word away swiftly and replace it with innocent. Which is no bad thing. Innocence is a state that wants only for education. I do not share these thoughts with Margret. I do not know why, for my habit is to tell her everything.
We stroll arm in arm around the churchyard. The younger children are racing up and down in a shrieking game of catch me. Plenty of older ones join in, adding saucy touches of their own when they capture their quarry. More than once we come upon a man and maid sitting in the lee of the wall, engaged in a grown-up pastime inspired by the recent sermon.
A brace of stout lads leap on to the path before us and push back their hoods. Their faces glow with the goodness of Aline’s festival ale.
‘Ah, it’s you, Hugh,’ I say to one. ‘Good morning.’
‘And you, Robert,’ says Margret to his companion.
‘Halt!’ says Hugh, somewhat unnecessarily, for they stand in our way.
‘We are not moving,’ I say, waving my hand to indicate the truth of it.
‘Good,’ says Robert, and giggles. ‘You are obedient, which suits our purpose.’
Margret snorts and this sets them both off, sniggering into their hands.
‘We must examine you for goat’s legs,’ announces Hugh and makes a lunge for the hem of my kirtle.
‘Oh no you mustn’t,’ I reply.
I step out of the way of his questing paw. It is not difficult, as his feet are unsteady.
‘Or pig’s trotters,’ hiccups Robert. ‘I’ll wager one of you at least has pink trotters.’
‘For shame, boys,’ chides Margret. ‘How much have you been drinking?’ They find this an amusing enquiry, but she continues to tick them off. ‘Go and play your silly games somewhere else. I am a married woman and am beyond such foolishness.’
Robert’s eyes squint into crafty folds, making him look uncommonly like one of the pigs he seems attached to.
‘Married?’ he slurs. ‘That’s not how we hear it,’ he adds, digging his elbow into Hugh’s ribs. ‘You might cover your head, but you’re no goodwife. You’re John of Pilton’s woman.’
‘What of it?’ she says, tilting her chin upwards.
‘A priest’s woman,’ says Hugh.
They are neither so drunk nor so disrespectful to venture further and they know it.
‘Here comes Father Thomas,’ I announce brightly. ‘This would be a good time to see our ankles, don’t you think? If you demand it, we must comply.’
‘You insisted,’ says Margret, smiling.
In truth, the man in question is not coming this way at all, engaged as he is in blessing pilgrims at the south door. Robert and Hugh are not to know this, as they are facing the opposite direction.
‘Yes!’ cries Margret, warming to the task. ‘Please demonstrate to our new priest how diligently you have hearkened to his words.’
‘He will be proud to have had such an effect on the two of you.’
The lads glance at each other, declare how thirsty they are and must be off, that we are very tiresome, and all manner of excuses.
‘That’s him,’ says a voice at my shoulder.
It is my mother. She grasps my elbow and shakes me, jabs her finger in the direction of Thomas.
‘Who?’ I ask, even though I know full well.
‘Him,’ she hisses with great weight and portent. ‘He is in need of a housekeeper. The village knows it.’
‘I am not sure if I wish to be a housekeeper.’
‘Don’t play with me, girl. You know exactly what he wants. And you’ll not get finer from any of these lads.’ She raises her eyebrows at the throng of village boys.
‘But a priest, Mother?’
‘What of it?’ she says sharply. ‘You stand with Margret, do you not? You girls were always perfectly matched in everything.’
I look at Thomas. His chin is not so small, when you look at him from a distance. Mother purses her lips thoughtfully.
‘I hear he lives on a diet of lentils, as though every day is a Friday. Gammer Maynard was there this week just gone, searching for her chickens, and she says the floor is strewn with old straw. Think of it. That big house, with him rattling around on his own. What a sin to let it go to waste. If you won’t take him, plenty will. And quick.’
‘Mother!’ I clap my hand to my bodice and endeavour to look shocked. ‘I am sure I do not understand,’ I add with becoming coyness.
‘That’s my clever Anne,’ she murmurs. ‘We understand each other.’ She smiles and touches her forehead to mine. It is a girlish sweetness I see in her rarely. Then her face crumples. ‘My little babe! My Anne!’ she warbles. ‘Surely it was only yesterday you were at my breast and suckling there.’
She lifts the hem of her gown and wipes her face. When she is done, she is pink about the eyes, the skin puffed up. I lay my hand on her arm. It is a strange feeli
ng to be the one soothing my dam, not altogether unpleasant. I feel important, a woman on my own account. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a mother. I decide that I like it, and wish to have more.
‘Look at me,’ she says. ‘I declare. I haven’t got the sense of a pulled hen.’
She smoothes out her apron, all business once more, and is gone as briskly as she arrived. I continue my keen appraisal. Thomas: that is his name. Of Upcote: though where that place might be, I have no notion. Margret follows my gaze and examines him also.
‘His nose is a little thin,’ she says.
‘Yet his teeth are fine,’ I reply.
‘His hair has been cut with a hay rake.’
‘Then he must have a woman cut it for him.’
‘His shoulders strain to bear the weight of his gown.’
‘Then he needs good victuals to fill him out.’
So we prattle on in low voices, until Margret pauses. Her eyes are sad.
‘What ails you, my sweet?’ I say.
‘Be careful, Anne. Have great care before you take this step. Once the road is chosen, there is only one direction you can walk, and that is forward.’
‘Oh, Margret. How dour you make it sound.’
‘Anne, you are as close as a sister. I speak as one who loves you as dearly.’
‘Well?’
‘Be sure of this man.’
‘I am decided. I will have him,’ I reply somewhat snappishly, for it seems she wishes to pour sand upon the fire of my happy plans.
‘Anne—’
I round on her. ‘What is it, Margret? Do you wish to deny me your good fortune? I did not think you so ungenerous. I took you for my friend.’
‘I am your friend, and dearer than you know for telling you this hard secret.’
I will have none of it, and am angry with her. ‘So, a fine bed and a heaped board are right for you but not for me, is that it?’
‘Of course not.’
I know not whence comes my peevishness and spite. In my venom I hear an unhappy, jealous woman and I do not like her one bit. I would snatch back the words, but it is too late. The hag who has taken the reins of my tongue will not permit it.
‘It seems to me that you want to keep all finery to yourself and fear a rival.’
‘No, sister! How can you think this of me?’
‘I can think it easily. Do you take me for a fool? Is this your revenge for our childish games, where I was your queen? Is this your plan, to pay me back?’
‘Anne, do not speak like this.’
‘Why should I not? Anne is below, and Margret is raised up. That’s how you wish things to remain. You above me, now and for always.’
‘Anne, no—’
‘Anne, yes. You are no sister. A sister would rejoice.’
I see my words strike Margret, the poison of their cruelty mark her face as clear as the slap of a hand. She fiddles with her headpiece, a contraption of wire and linen that makes her look like a nanny goat.
‘Perhaps I should return to Pilton,’ she remarks. ‘John and Jack will be waiting for me.’
Her face softens as she speaks. In a dark corner of my soul, a serpent flicks its heavy tail. Suddenly I am very tired of Margret prattling about her darling son, her precious John. Up spring more sharp words, and I cannot stop them from bursting out.
‘Your son, your son,’ I snap. ‘The way you talk, Margret. It is quite tiring. I wish you would speak of something else.’
‘Anne?’ she says. Her face shifts, the gentle smile sucked back into her mouth. ‘What do you mean by this?’
‘You dare ask? How you crowed when you went to John. Me, the dunnock against your peacock. How very grand you have become.’
‘I am blessed,’ she replies, with dignity.
‘I’m sure it is not sufficient. Not for a duchess like you.’
‘I would not test the Lord by asking for more joy than is my portion.’
‘You are no more a lady than I am, Margret. Be careful you do not climb so high you lose sight of the earth.’
At last I run out of nastiness. It is though I bore a sack of bile in my belly and had to spew it up. She stares at me; I stare at her. I have a great desire to hug her close and say sorry for my selfishness.
‘Margret—’ I begin.
At that moment the lady Sibylla, wife of our Lord Henry, approaches and enquires after our health. We fluster, curtseying and murmuring at being noticed by a person of such high degree. After a moment she moves on to make her gracious good morrows to the rest of the congregation, setting up a flutter like a fox in a chicken coop. The venom has been sucked from my meanness, but there remains a prickling unpleasantness.
‘The Saint is truly powerful if he can make great ladies pass the time of day with peasants,’ Margret remarks.
‘Ah, Margret,’ I say. ‘Let me—’
‘I declare,’ she interrupts. ‘I see Mistress Aline. I will greet her. God be with you, Anne.’
She tightens her mouth, turns and strides off. She does not glance back. I quiver with the desire to run after her, push aside the holiday crowds and beg her forgiveness. But shame and guilt have the governance of me and will not permit me to bend. So I stand and watch my friend walk away. By and by her sun sets in the distance and my world fades into a dimness of my own making.
I have said what I have said. I have set my eye on this Thomas, a man to hook and bring to shore. I must set my eye on ambitions greater than girlish friends. I tell myself I have no further need of Margret. I will see her at the next festival. But by then, everything has changed.
VIXEN
I strike south-west, outskipping Death. Only when I pause for breath do I realise how hectic has been my dash from the Great Mortality. My feet are worn out from dancing, my tongue a clapper of wood from all the jokes I’ve had to tell.
I stand at the gate of the forest and beg safe passage.
‘Oh, grandmother, let me in, and I’ll bring you the head of a charcoal-burner!’ I cry.
She opens to me straight away, for wood-burners are her greatest enemy.
‘Show me the path away from clever folk, and into the arms of simpletons,’ I add, for it pays to be specific when asking favours from powerful persons. ‘Do this, and I’ll steal a hundred axes, and throw them into the sea.’
She shakes her branches and a swish of laughter ripples overhead. She knows it is a brazen boast, but my heart’s-wood is behind it.
‘Lead me away from Death,’ I say, and she falls quiet.
I take it as a good sign. She makes no promises, nor does she make merry at my fear. It’s as good an answer as I’ll get from trees, so I content myself with it and press further into her labyrinthine belly. She draws me into her arms and I let her rock me. Death tries to follow, but her shadows conceal me from His eyes. I am safe under the swing of her cloak, for she is fearsome only to those who do not know her.
The forest is my song, the best kind: no words, but all manner of music. I tune my ear to her particular melody and she rewards me with all I need to know. I listen for clues, for knowledge, for information, for the sheer pleasure of it. Overhead, boughs rustle; dead leaves crunch underfoot and warn of pitfalls that can swallow your foot and snap it sideways. She guides me more clearly than any gazetteer, instructs me better than any primer, delights more than any gold-splashed psalter.
Most of all, she is peaceful. Where there are people, there is greed. Thievery. Falsehood. Murder. When beasts kill each other, they do so simply to eat. What I have seen of men is that they kill to clear a bigger space at the world’s table for themselves.
I pick my way with the tiptoe step of a deer, so delicate that when I come upon a herd, they lift their heads without fear. Some of the does are heavy-bellied, flanks quivering as the fawn within stirs in its wet sleep. In me they see a cousin crippled with two legs instead of four, not someone come a-hunting. I am to be pitied and not scurried from, so they bend their necks and return to the more important
business of grazing.
I almost trip over a fawn. He lies still as a stone dropped from Heaven and marked with the thumbprints of the angel who threw him. I stare at him; he stares at me, eyes bigger than my fist and blacker than the bottom of a well. His nostrils flare: he catches my scent and presses his nose into the fork between my thighs. If he is seeking milk, he finds nothing but the scent of the sea.
‘You won’t hurt me, will you?’ I ask, and he trembles his answer.
His dam crashes through a bush and glares her jealousy. He droops his head, guilty for falling in love with another so fast, him not even weaned and her not gone five minutes.
‘And you,’ I say to her. ‘You’ll shake your head and stamp your hoof, but that’s all.’
She answers by doing both. The fawn sighs and takes her teat. Her envious glare melts into satisfaction. She’s not yet lost him to another female.
‘There are arrows far more deadly than those of love,’ I whisper, but she is deep in her trance of milk-giving and does not hear my warning. ‘Rest easy,’ I say. ‘I’m away.’
I’m as good as my word. With beasts there is no need for lies.
I am safe here; safe as anywhere on this unreliable earth. There are rabbits to snare, raven’s nests for my larder. Death cannot reach me. Perhaps I could hide in the trees and wait for Him to pass over.
But Death wants for amusement and so do I. I stuff my belly with eggs, laugh at the birds as they flap useless wings. Their blunt beaks cannot hurt me. What next for me? Who shall be my next fool? Where can I find me a dupe? So do I lie, sucking yolk from my fingers, head blooming with dangerous fancies. I ought to know better. I should be careful of what I wish for.
LAUDS
1349
From Saint Alphege to Edward the Martyr
THOMAS OF UPCOTE
‘A man should not do the work of women.’
The man filled the mouth of my door, rain streaming off his woollen cloak. I scrabbled in my mind. Was this piece of wisdom a line from a psalm?
Vixen Page 4