‘I was set to make you pikelets, sir. A recipe of my mother’s, and very fine too. With butter.’
Despite himself, his tongue pokes out and draws a moist line along his bottom lip in anticipation of the treat.
‘Go to, mistress.’
I sigh disconsolately. ‘I would, sir. But I cannot.’
‘Why so?’
I hold up the frying pan and peer at him through the hole in its bottom.
‘Oh,’ he says, for there is no denying a pan you can stick your nose through. ‘Then you must fetch one from the upper room. Here.’
With the words, he unlooses the key from his chatelaine. It is as simple as that. I chide myself for not remembering a man’s belly is the path to all desires. I bob a curtsey, fetch the ladder and try not to scramble up it too hastily. The key trembles in my hand.
A frying pan is the first thing I clap eyes on when I unlock the room. Although tarnished from lack of use, it is of the finest quality: one of four cooking pots, all new and in a heap behind the door. However, I have no intention of being done with my adventure quite so soon.
‘Where do you think it might be, sir?’ I call, making my voice as dull as possible.
The pots are the least of the wonders. When I lift the shutter and prop it open, a cave of treasures reveals itself: a mattress that feels like an angel’s wing when I press my hand against it, a mountain of curtains, stacked wood with a fragrance so heady I am dizzy with the breathing of it. In one corner stands a fiddle, a crumhorn, a trumpet and a pile of tambours all higgledy-piggledy. Leaning against the eaves are half-a-dozen swords and a rusty pike, all surrounded by dust so thick you could roll it up and use it as a blanket. More enticing still than these wonders are two oaken chests, almost big enough for me to climb inside. I step towards them, but Thomas calls from below.
‘What are you doing up there?’ he shouts. ‘A pan cannot be that hard to find.’
I kick at the swords and they rattle.
‘I shall find it soon!’ I shout. ‘It’s so dark I can barely see,’ I lie.
‘Foolish woman, I must help you,’ he grumbles.
His foot thumps on the ladder.
‘Oh, no sir! I have found it!’ I cry, quick about it. ‘I shall come to you this instant.’
I grab the pan, dash out of the room and wave it so he can see. ‘There is no need to trouble yourself.’
‘About time too. I never met a stupider female.’
‘No, sir.’
If I dropped the pan, it would strike him on the top of his shining pate. If I threw it hard, it might crack that pate clean open.
‘Make sure you shut the door and lock it properly. Ach, you are so foolish, you will not be able to do it right. I will come and do it.’
He takes another step.
‘Do not worry,’ I say, slamming the door. ‘It is done.’ I twist the key in the lock and it makes a terrific grinding. ‘Can you not hear, sir?’ I continue to turn the key so that as well as locking the door I also unlock it again. ‘Am I not clever, sir?’ I simper, pulling a rude face he cannot see.
‘I can hear. I am not deaf. Come down.’
I descend the ladder and make a great show of pressing the key back into his hand. Next time he bothers to go up there, all I need do is make out that I am a silly girl who was sure she locked it, because of all the noise it made.
I make the pikelets, even managing to keep one back for myself, for he’d stuff himself with the lot if I did not. He makes what he thinks are kind remarks about how gifted I am to make such fine scones, and I seethe with the pleasure of what I have discovered. He will be mine, so will everything I have seen today. All it takes is time and patience. He’ll share all, and gladly, too, when I’ve turned him to my way of thinking.
It is a few days after the Feast of Saint Bede when Cat pays a visit, along with our cousins and her new babe. Thomas is bustling up the path as they come to the door, and stalks past with a grunted Good day.
‘Thomas,’ I say, my cheeks pinking at his discourtesy. ‘Sir. My sister is come from the Staple. With her baby. And Bet, and Alice, and Isabel.’
He peers at them as if they might be cows waiting to be milked. They bob and giggle.
‘Good day, I say,’ he repeats and passes into the house.
I dash after him and pluck his sleeve with enough determination to hold him still. ‘Sir,’ I hiss. ‘They have come a long way.’
‘The Staple? It is not so far.’
‘Sir. May I invite them in?’
He pauses and narrows his eyes in the way he does when he thinks he is being crafty.
‘Is this not the day you wash the linen?’
‘I have done it all. It is dry enough to hope I may gather it in later. There is bread made, and a white porray simmering for you.’
‘The Lord is good,’ he mutters unhappily. ‘Is there enough to feed them?’
‘You do not need to concern yourself about food. Each has brought something for the board.’ I eye him levelly. If boldness can’t move him, softness might. ‘Oh, sir,’ I add, ‘it would be such a charitable gesture.’
‘Very well,’ he says, grudgingly. ‘They are welcome.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I say carefully, and curtsey.
They enter at last, pretending they have not heard a word and each making a neat compliment about his benevolence. Cat waves her boy in Thomas’s face and the infant stares at him with blank intelligence.
‘God is good. He makes us fruitful,’ he remarks.
Alice elbows me in the ribs. I busy myself with setting up the trestle so that I do not slap her. We drag the bench to the hearth, for in truth it is a cold day for May. We unpack the victuals and Cat offers Thomas a cup of ale. He refuses, as I guessed he might.
‘You are not like Father Hugo,’ says Cat.
‘Holy Mary, how that man could drink,’ said Alice.
‘And eat,’ adds Bet.
We know the tales, having had them since childhood. The French and Spanish wines, costly spices; how he bought in barrels of almonds and figs, even during Lent.
‘But he did not forget his prayers,’ Thomas reminds us.
‘Oh no! He bellowed out the fame of the Saint,’ agrees Cat.
‘Ah, the crowds of pilgrims.’
‘And the gold that came to the church.’
‘How his stomach swelled!’
‘Further and further!’ I laugh, cupping my hands around an invisible stomach and blowing out my cheeks.
Cat raises her eyebrows and it occurs to me that I could also be imitating the belly of a woman with child, so I stop and tuck my hands behind my back. Thomas takes the action for contrition.
‘To be a servant of the Almighty is not a cause for idle merriment,’ he counsels. ‘It is to be of sober and calm temperament.’
We point the tips of our noses at the floor. I hear Alice and Isabel stifling giggles with little snorts. If Thomas notices, he says nothing.
‘Yes, sir,’ I say, biting my lip.
Bet starts to chant rhymes to the baby and Thomas makes good his escape, scuttling away to the church. Free at last, we settle to eating and drinking and playing with the lad. He is so grown in the past two months I barely know him. He grabs for the edge of my kerchief and drags it askew. Alice and Cat wink and cast saucy looks upon me until I am vexed with their intimations.
‘So,’ drawls Cat. ‘How is life with your man?’
‘Quiet,’ I grumble.
‘But not at night, I’ll wager,’ titters Alice.
‘Hush now,’ says Isabel. ‘See how she blushes. Be gentle.’
‘Is that what you say to Thomas?’ says Cat, and they collapse into raucous laughter.
‘Thomas does not come to me,’ I mutter when they’ve finished hooting.
‘Why ever not?’ asks Alice, face writ with disbelief. ‘Do you anger him?’
‘My Henry came to me quick enough after we were wed,’ twitters Cat, with a salty laugh. ‘A fine and upsta
nding man he is, too.’
‘Oh, cousin!’ snickers Alice, hiding her smile behind her hand. ‘How you talk!’
‘My Henry pays his marriage debt delectably often,’ Cat continues. ‘All our little Anne needs is a good firm man to take to hand, don’t you?’
‘Cat! This is a priest’s house,’ I say, hearing Thomas’s priggishness in my voice and disliking it intensely.
‘Perhaps we should not talk so boldly if you are still a maid,’ she smirks, with a keen edge to the blade of her words. ‘For you are, are you not?’
‘Not for lack of trying,’ I sneer.
‘Maybe there is some fault in you,’ chirrups Alice, enjoying every minute.
‘You need a babby of your own,’ declares Cat with great wisdom. ‘That’ll put a smile back on that sour little face of yours.’
‘You are not ugly, my dearest,’ Bet simpers. ‘You could have any man.’
I nod at this morsel of flattery. I never before found their chatter annoying, yet today all I can think of is how I should like to smack the smiles off their faces.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I demur. ‘I am a cabbage compared to my beautiful sister.’ I lift the heavy boy from Cat’s lap. ‘Aren’t I, my little man?’ I coo, tickling him gently. ‘This is the way the farmers ride,’ I sing and jiggle him on my lap.
He twists his square head round to gawp at me and vomits curdled milk over my bodice.
‘What a lad!’ crows Cat, patting me with a napkin and smearing the puddle in a broader circle. ‘He does that if you bounce him too hard.’
Alice sweeps the child from my hands and cradles him on her lap, where he shrieks happily, seemingly done with spewing now that I am covered. He lets out a fart of such sonorous depth that he scares himself and begins to yowl, which of course only serves to make Cat and Alice laugh the louder.
‘A true man,’ crows Bet.
‘My own little man,’ adds Cat.
I know they do not mean to hurt me with their talk of adoring husbands and babes. I give myself a moment’s respite by going to fetch bread. They have brought cakes, a jug of fresh ale and more besides, for which I am grateful. I am shamed by the empty cupboard I am housekeeper to. At least I have platters to spread before them, cups into which to pour the drink.
‘Well now. It’s early days. I’ll bring Thomas to me soon,’ I say, with a great deal more confidence than I feel.
‘If it is help you need …’ says Alice, a great deal more kindly. ‘Even the loveliest of maidens needs a little—’
‘Encouragement?’ suggests Cat.
‘Help,’ says Isabel.
‘Assistance,’ adds Bet.
‘Inspiration,’ says Alice.
‘Don’t be cast down just yet,’ murmurs Isabel. ‘There are many ways to bring savour to your bed.’
‘See, Anne,’ says Cat, with unexpected tenderness, and pats me with a dimpled hand. How she keeps it so soft, what with cleaning up after a husband and her baby, I do not know. ‘We are your loving friends. Isabel, show her.’
Isabel dips into her bodice and draws out a tiny packet wrapped in linen. She places it in my hand, still warm from her breast. I look at them in turn. Alice raises an eyebrow and Bet guffaws as though something very naughty is about to take place. I undo the folds to reveal a pinch of dark powder. Although a mere sprinkling, the scent of spices fills the room with delight. I lift it to my nose.
Cat glances about the room nervously. ‘Careful!’ she hisses. ‘Don’t sneeze over it. It cost more than you can guess.’
I hold my tongue. I must be polite, for she means well. Bet sniggers and I glare at her until she quietens.
Isabel pats my arm. ‘Don’t you mind her, cousin. This cannot fail. Put these spices in a glass of wine and Thomas won’t be able to take his eyes from you.’
‘Or his hands,’ snorts Alice.
‘Or his kisses,’ says Bet. ‘He won’t sleep for dreaming about you,’
‘Dreaming’s not what Anne needs,’ sneers Cat.
‘There is no wine in the house,’ I say. ‘Thomas is not—’
‘You mean he’s a tight-fisted—’
Isabel’s eyes widen. ‘Cat,’ she breathes. ‘Kind words. We must help our little cousin.’
‘Why must we?’ protests Cat, raising her eyebrows until they disappear beneath the folds of her kerchief. ‘Anne wants this, Anne wants that. It’s all I’ve ever heard, from the moment the spoilt brat was born.’
‘You’re upsetting the baby,’ says Alice, jiggling him up and down.
His fat features gather themselves together, lips pout. He looks on the verge of a good long squawk.
‘Anne wants a man, Anne wants a baby, Anne wants a king and golden crown,’ continues Cat in a sing-song voice, ignoring her son. ‘Here we are, running around after her like we always did.’
I sniff the spices carefully. ‘Delicious,’ I sigh.
Their heads swivel like owls spying a mouse and I realise I’ve spoken out loud.
We set to preparing the drink, Isabel sprinkling the spices into the jug of wine, for she has brought that also. My eyes prick at her kindness. We chatter some more, and even Cat speaks warm words when we part. She kisses me and calls me her silly little goose, but not unkindly. There are lines drawn at the corners of her mouth and eyes, which I’d never noticed before.
I wait for Thomas to return. I unbraid my hair. I braid it again. I loosen my bodice laces. I tie them again. Never before has he been gone to the church so long. When he returns at last, I declare I am worn out with the waiting. His nostrils flare with the scents perfuming the house. As well as the wine, they have left a neat dish of food: lardons of pork, fried crisp; buttered peas with sippets; two honey-cakes so small you could swallow them both in one mouthful; a humped bun of wheaten bread studded with raisins.
‘This is very fine,’ he remarks, with a true note of pleasure.
I stand by the table, hands gathered behind my back so he cannot see my fingers wringing with nervousness. My face glows with the thought of him speaking as kindly from this day on.
‘It is for you, Thomas. A gift from my cousins.’
‘I must thank them.’
‘They know you for a good man. They offer you this also.’
I heft a glass of the wine and hold it to his nose. The dark spot at the centre of his eye blooms with delight.
‘It smells strong,’ he remarks.
‘It smells tasty. It is for sweetness in this household. Come.’
‘Yes, that is a good toast,’ he says, and once again his voice is soft. ‘We live sweetly, do we not?’
He takes the cup and drains it off so fast that he coughs and water leaps into his eyes. I pour him another glass, and begin unwinding my coif until I stand before him bareheaded. He stares with his mouth open as I shake out the binding of my braids. I dip one of the sweetmeats into the wine and push it between his half-open lips. He pauses a moment, as though he has forgotten what you should do with a cake in your mouth, then begins to chew. I take the other and eat it myself, slowly. It is so luscious my eyelids droop.
‘Are you tired?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I am never tired.’
This seems to be a great jest for I start to giggle, then laugh and cannot stop. Suddenly neither can he. I pour another glass of the wine; he swigs half of it and offers the other. I smile and take a tiny sip, putting my lips over the wet spot where he laid his.
‘No, I shall share all with you. You are my companion,’ he says, pushing the cup into my face.
I take a mighty gulp. I am springing fire: throat tight, breath rushing and a stabbing, almost painful, between my legs. However, his eyes are closing and opening slowly. If my needs are to be met I must get him before he falls asleep, which won’t be long by the look of him. I slip my chemise from my shoulders and draw his hands to rest upon the bare skin. He sucks in a sharp breath as I take his hand and guide him further down, to the breast. My nipple rounds into hi
s palm and his head lowers as though he is about to suckle.
‘Yes, Tom,’ I gasp, and his head jerks up at the calling of his name.
He pulls his hand out of my bodice so quickly that he rips the laces; shoves me hard and I stumble backwards, falling onto the floor.
‘No. No. It is not right,’ he moans.
‘It is. It is,’ I cry, hanging on to his ankle as he walks away.
‘I am not a fornicator; they couple like rats in straw.’
‘Please, Thomas,’ I beg. I cannot lose him now, not when I am so close to my goal.
‘They fly from one woman to another like flies from one dungheap to the next!’ he cries, his voice rising into a shout.
The room holds its breath. I pick myself up, smoothing down my apron.
‘A dungheap?’ I say. ‘Is that what you think of me?’ I raise my eyes and fix them boldly on to his. ‘Am I so low in your estimation?’
‘No, I do not mean that,’ he mumbles. ‘I am not one of those priests who think women filthy. Women are the mothers of boys who grow to be men. As such we should honour them.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I tuck away my breast and fold my arms, hiding the torn fabric.
‘Would you have me bring the shame of a bastard child upon you?’
‘My beloved Margret is a priest’s woman, in Pilton. They have a boy; no one calls him bastard.’
‘It is a sin. It is written.’
‘Father Hugo sired a girl.’
‘I know this. He was lecherous.’
‘She married a merchant of the Staple with no shame.’
‘Best she is gone there, and swept clean from this place!’ His voice rises into a squawk.
‘You do not need to shout; I am standing beside you.’
‘Woman, show your master respect.’
I press my lips together and glare at him.
‘Would you have me sin?’
‘No, sir,’ I sigh and give up the fight. There is no point trying to boil a pot of wet ashes. He lowers his voice and pats me upon the cheek, petting me as you would do a cat. Or a child. Something harmless, stupid and of no significance. I writhe beneath his touch.
‘I shouted at you. I should not do that,’ he says. ‘I shall not talk of this matter again. I will never rebuke you for it. No one need know.’
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