Vixen

by Rosie Garland

  Thinking of Adam makes me melancholy, so I concentrate on finding the tenderest pieces I can. I push away the uncomfortable thought that I am the one who is now left with all the work, while my childish self runs laughing along the water’s edge, chased by the memory of her brother.

  In my search I come upon a broad mass of seaweed caught in a shaft in the stone. I open my mouth to call the others, but some force holds a finger to my lips. It is spread thick as a meadow, a rich green splashed with purple, glittering gold where the sun strikes. I cast a glance over my shoulder, I know not why, then shove my fingers into coolness.

  I mean to draw out a handful, but instead thrust deeper until I am halfway to the elbow. Still I have not touched the bottom. I churn it about, and it stings my nostrils with the smell of the shadows at the bottom of the sea. It should be terrifying, but I revel in its moist cling, its heavy odour. It is as though I can plumb the ocean and touch the bottom with my fingertips.

  There is a giggle behind me and I spring back.

  ‘I am filling my basket,’ I say loudly, before turning to see the Maid grinning, head on one side. ‘I was about to call them over,’ I add, blushing at being caught in such whimsy. Not that there is any reason to feel shame, for the Maid understands nothing.

  I pick till my fingers are dazed. When we’re done, we share our cheese and bread, tossing morsels to the Maid. However high we throw, she catches each one and this provides much amusement. For a short while even I forget the hard-working woman I have become.

  ‘Still no sign of one of your own?’ says Alice, taking me by surprise. ‘A babby, I mean,’ she adds, for my confusion is writ clear.

  ‘I have the Maid,’ I reply.

  ‘Of course you do,’ says Alice, and chuckles.

  It is not a kind sound. I make a silent pact that if she continues to look at me so pityingly I shall smack her face sideways. She turns to Bet and raises her eyebrow: Bet ignores the mean gesture and for that I could kiss her. I think of the smug voices of the village women when they wave their infants in my face and ask if I want one like it, filling the room to the eaves with their boasts. Isn’t he fine, the best boy in the shire, the best boy who ever drew breath?

  ‘She is no baby,’ I say. ‘But the Saint in his goodness has seen fit to deliver her into my care. Who am I to question his gifts?’

  There’s no arguing with this, not even for Alice, so we all cross ourselves and give thanks to the Saint and the mysterious ways of God. The Maid rubs herself into my skirt and purrs with deep contentment. I smile despite myself.

  We make our farewells at the edge of the Great Field and I continue homewards, the Maid at my side. I see no reason to hurry her along. Her clumsy frolics add bright splashes of colour to the afternoon. I knew there was a blackthorn at the turn of the path, but never noticed how it spread its branches just so. I never looked at the way sunlight glances off puddles, transforming them into silver plates laid along the path. The hedgerows are thick with old man’s beard. I sigh.

  ‘It flowers in spring. By autumn its beauty has fallen away. The story of men and women down the ages.’

  She pauses in her games and peers at me, tongue lolling out of the corner of her mouth.

  I laugh. ‘Listen to me! I’m quite the wise woman, doling out her proverbs. For all the good it does,’ I add less cheerfully, for what will I become other than another old gammer with hair sprouting from her chin.

  Her hand reaches out and I take it without thinking that this is the first time she has touched me willingly. Her fingers are so bony it is more like catching hold of a chicken’s foot. She gurgles, the strings in her neck clenching and loosening, and barks a single word. It might be Anne. It might be ham. Or hen, or any number of words. I crow with delight and clap my hands. I am sure Thomas would give me a sermon about sober comportment, but he is not present. She has spoken her first word, or half-word, to me. Not him.

  ‘Yes, Anne,’ I repeat, for I decide that is what she meant. ‘What a clever girl. You warm Anne’s heart, so you do.’

  I throw my arms around her and squeeze. For an instant, she softens. But just as swiftly she is transformed into a block of wood.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I croon. ‘Won’t you give Anne a little cuddle?’

  She holds her breath and does not yield.

  ‘You’ll go blue in the face,’ I say, tickling her ribs to make her laugh.

  She does no such thing. Teeth clenched, eyes clamped shut, hands balled into fists, arms rigid, stiff as a plank. Wherever she has gone, it is a long way off. Her face is frozen in a rictus of misery and I am making things no better. I release her.

  ‘There now. All gone,’ I coo. She cracks open an eyelid. I waggle my hands, to show I have let go.

  The eye opens completely, followed by the other. Her shoulders relax a little, but she is still as taut as a bowstring and would fly if I touched her again. My heart swells with the desire to cradle her in my arms. It takes no small effort to resist.

  ‘Come now. Have a bite to eat.’ I untie the corner of my apron where I’ve kept a crust, pinch it between my fingers and hold it to her lips. Her face remains stony. ‘Thirsty?’ I try. I mime drinking, complete with glugging sounds, but to no effect.

  ‘What is it you want, my chick? A star from the sky?’ I stretch my hand upwards, close my fist around a handful of air, lower my arm and hold it under her nose. Slowly I uncurl my fingers. ‘Look. A star. For you.’

  Her furious stare melts away and she gives me the oddest look. For the space of an eyeblink I am looking at a woman as clever and sinful and peevish and lonely as myself. Then it passes and all is as it was: her face shuttered, eyes blank as those of a sheep.

  I cannot read the words in Thomas’s books, but I can read her broken body. She reminds me of the trees around the coast, roots clinging to the brackish soil yet determined and unbowed. Kindness never touched this girl. I catch myself: this woman.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I say. ‘I shall not cuddle you. Nor coddle you, for that matter. You are no babe.’

  I do not know if I feel sorrow for her alone, or for us both.

  Even I know I have made a good batch of laver cakes. For once I succeed in rinsing out most of the salt and neither burn nor undercook them. I set the plate before Thomas and watch him screw up his mouth at the first taste. He forces himself to take two more small bites, pulling a face like a pickled walnut.

  It is a mercy when he lays down his knife and declares himself full; although he proceeds to sniff around my ankles for the remainder of the hour, asking if there is any pottage left over from breakfast, and is morose when I say no.

  ‘There is plenty of laverbread,’ I say mischievously, for I have a great desire to press him into admitting what he truly feels. ‘It will do for tomorrow, also,’ I add.

  ‘I wonder,’ he says, wrestling with politeness and honesty. ‘You have not had leisure to visit your mother recently, have you?’

  ‘Not these past three weeks, sir,’ I say, being careful not to let my rancour show.

  ‘No,’ he muses. ‘Perhaps I could spare you this afternoon.’

  ‘But there is wool to be carded …’ I let the words trail off and wait for him to pick up the dropped thread, which he does.

  ‘Plenty of time for that tomorrow. You can do twice the carding then.’

  ‘But I must scour the pots,’ I continue.

  ‘They will wait a few hours for your attentions, I believe,’ he smiles, thinking himself very clever.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ I reply, with exceptional sweetness.

  ‘It is meet and right for a girl to visit her mother. We must honour our fathers and mothers, must we not?’

  ‘Indeed we must.’

  ‘Then go to, with my blessing.’

  ‘Now, sir?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. They will be much fortified by your kind words.’

  I am partway through the door when he adds, as if an afterthough
t, ‘Your mother relishes laverbread, does she not?’

  ‘As do all my family,’ I add.

  I know where this conversation is headed, but I have no wish to make his path any smoother.

  ‘Why not take it with you? As my gift.’

  ‘But I made it for you. What will you eat tomorrow?’

  ‘I am sure you will prepare something even more tasty.’

  ‘More tasty?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, nervously. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You are too generous.’

  It matters not what he stuffs into his mouth. There’s enough laverbread to feed Ma, Da and the neighbours, I tell myself as I pack the cakes in a basket. I wrap my shawl around my shoulders and am out of the door before he changes his mind.

  What I hear at my mother’s hearth sparks me afire with indignation. She counsels me to say nothing to Thomas, but I cannot hold my unruly tongue. All the way back to the house I bear the weight of the injustice done to him. I stamp up and down, waiting for him to return from Vespers. The words flame from my lips as soon as he steps through the door.

  ‘Sir,’ I say, as he kicks off his clogs. ‘I must speak with you.’

  ‘Now? It is late,’ he grumbles.

  ‘Now. It concerns Edgard. Your shepherd.’

  ‘I know his name. You do not need to tell me what I already know. What of him?’

  ‘I have heard troubling words against him.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  He shakes rain off his cloak and drops it to the ground. I look at it and fold my arms. He looks also, irritation spreading across his features. We stare a good while longer, the silence grinding its whetstone. In the end I pick up the discarded garment and hang it on its hook. He makes a grunt of satisfaction that the world is set back in order.

  ‘You should not listen to tittle-tattle. Or spread it,’ he continues, sharply.

  ‘How do you know it is mere tittle-tattle if you have not heard what I have to say?’

  ‘Be careful how you address me, woman.’

  ‘Sir.’ I stand my ground.

  He sighs. ‘Well, well. What nonsense is buzzing around your head?’

  ‘Edgard is not honest with you.’

  ‘How so? Let me tell you what a pearl he is, mistress. Edgard cares for my sheep as tenderly as his own. They overwinter with his beasts: he feeds them, tends to their every need, tells me which ones have died, which have come into lamb, how many lambs are born, how many survive. I am blessed to have such a diligent man.’

  I chew the inside of my cheek. ‘He does all this for the love of God?’

  ‘I believe he would if I asked it. When he first suggested the idea, he declared he would not take a penny.’

  ‘He brought the idea to you?’

  ‘Yes, and it took me some time to persuade him to take any payment. I had to remind him that his family would go hungry if he did this out of charity. At last I was able to make him agree to a reward.’

  ‘I’m sure you were.’

  ‘Then there is the winter forage. Of course, I must pay for that. Last season it cost more than expected. When he told me the price I thought he would break a rib, he pounded his breast with such grief.’

  ‘Thomas, you are a fool.’ His mouth falls open. ‘Edgard is laughing at you when your back is turned. Plenty of times when it is not, but you do not see.’

  ‘What evil is this you speak?’

  ‘It is not evil, Thomas. It is sense, and of the common sort. He is cheating you – the whole village knows it.’

  I will not name my mother as the bearer of this news.

  ‘This is a lie,’ he says haughtily. ‘You speak of a stranger, not the obedient and humble man of my acquaintance.’

  ‘Then wake up. How many lambs did he tell you were born?’

  He considers the question. His eyes roll up a little and his lips move as he recollects. I tap my foot. A man either knows how many lambs he has or he does not.

  ‘Seven,’ he declares brightly.

  ‘Seven?’ I cannot hold back the shock.

  ‘Yes, seven. What ails you? Why do you insist on questioning me so? I have fifteen sheep. Ten were in lamb.’

  He smirks, proud of his memory and how he is able to rattle off the figures. I do not point out that I could have baked an oatcake in the time it took him to remember.

  ‘Fifteen sheep, ten in lamb?’

  ‘That is what I said. You do not need to repeat everything I say. I’m not a simpleton.’

  ‘Yes you are!’ I cry.

  ‘Woman,’ he growls, his voice dark with warning.

  I do not, or will not hear its knell. I snort and fold my arms. ‘You have twenty sheep. This is the word in the alehouse, whatever he tells you.’

  ‘That cannot be. I had twenty. They were Father Hugo’s before me. But there was the murrain—’

  I wave his words away. ‘Did he tell you only your sheep were unlucky enough to fall victim to this disaster? Did you ask how many of his were carried off?’

  ‘Why should I ask? His sheep are of no concern to me.’

  I ignore him and his stupidity. ‘In truth, you had sixteen lambs this spring. I have heard it.’

  His mouth falls wide again. Then his eyes grow crafty. ‘You heard these stories in an alehouse. How do you know they are not the wicked words of his enemies?’

  ‘Because the words come from Edgard’s own mouth. He boasts of it to anyone who will listen. And your congregation do listen.’

  ‘No! The people would tell me if anything like this was afoot.’

  ‘Would they? Edgard grows fat on your mutton, Thomas. He makes sure he gives enough away to still wagging tongues. No one likes you enough, respects you enough, or cares about you enough to tell you the truth and put an end to his cheating. Until now.’

  It is the first time he strikes me.

  I only know it has happened when I find myself on my arse, halfway across the room. Only then does the pain wake up in my cheek and flare its hot insistence. I touch my fingers to the bone, but he does not appear to have broken anything. I prod more deeply and lightning forks into my flesh. With great care I move my jaw from side to side. Slowly, cupping my chin as though it might fall to the floor, I stand.

  I look at him. His face flowers scarlet and I consider telling him that excess of choler will upset his stomach. But I do not trust my mouth to make such complicated movements. His breath swells in and out between us, and sour it is too. I continue to stare at him; but there is nothing to be gained so I shrug, none too energetically as it engenders another stab of pain, and turn to leave.

  ‘I have not dismissed you, woman!’ he shrieks, voice shrill as a piglet when you cut off its nakers.

  I stop and move no more, not even to turn around and face him. My chin grumbles. I stand a while longer, listening to him wheeze. Now he has arrested my departure, he seems to have forgotten what he wanted to say. I begin to wonder if I’ll be here at Judgement Day when he barks: ‘You have plenty of work. Go to it.’

  I walk away with studied slowness. As I pass out of the room I find the Maid crouching in the lee of the doorpost, eyes wide. I say nothing, nor need to. She chews her lips as though deciding what to do, then bolts from the house with the wind behind her. Thomas is not long after, railing about collecting tithes from his loyal parishioners. I listen to him kicking stones down the path.

  My jaw aches. If I do not set a cold towel upon it quickly, the whole world will see the scarlet banner he’s slapped on my face, but the only dishclouts I can find are filthy. Then it occurs to me how much clean linen lies unused in the attic room.

  The ladder is up in two breaths, and I am up it faster. I believe it eases the sting to know that I am going to use something from Thomas’s precious store to soothe the hurt he has caused. My hand trembles on the door. I wince with a sudden fear that he crept up here while I was at my mother’s and locked it: but he would have been un
able to keep that morsel to himself.

  I lift the latch: the door swings back with a creak. At first I think the room is a void, for it is dark as the inside of a mouth. I am seized with the even crueller idea that I only dreamed the treasures. Slowly, my eyes accustom themselves and I see that all is exactly as I left it, down to my footprints in the slut’s wool on the boards. I pick up one of the swords and lunge at a heap of curtains, imagining it is Thomas’s scrawny backside that I am piercing, but it reminds me of Adam and how he may have died. I throw the sword as far from me as I can and wipe my hands on my apron.

  I lift the lid of the nearest chest. It brims with fine garments, both men’s and women’s. I smirk at the reason why Father Hugo needed to clothe a woman, and so beautifully. Thomas would no more dress me in such finery than wear the gowns himself. But these thoughts curdle my excitement and I have no desire to feel more resentment towards the sapless goat than I already do. Besides, smiling hurts.

  Beneath the clothing is sheet after sheet of linen, each with folds sharper than the sword I was playing with. I’ll wager not one has ever been spread across a mattress. I lift out the uppermost piece and press it to my throbbing cheek. Its coolness is almost enough to soothe the pain away. It is of such a tight weave you could carry water in it. If I took it – just this one – I could lay it upon my narrow plank of a bed and wrap it round me, brushing my skin from neck to ankle.

  Thomas would notice. Even if I stowed it under my skirt he would discover it somehow. I do not know how I can be so sure, but I am. I return it to its nest, close the lid and move to the next chest. It is even more stoutly built than the last, and is locked. This fills me with a passion to uncover what is within. My jaw is forgotten. In my mind’s eye I see pearls, rubies, a king’s crown, gold coins. Not that I would have the slightest idea what to do with any of them.

  I consider kicking the lock, but have no desire to break my toe, whatever the reward. The sword I discarded is a better choice. I wedge it into the narrow slot where the lid bites down, but only succeed in snapping the blade in half and cutting my thumb, though not deeply. I suck on the wound while I search for a stronger tool. Amongst the pile of weapons is the head of a pike. It is a fierce-looking thing, even without its shaft, which either broke away or was fixed to a rake in more peaceable times. It splits the lock as easily as if it was made of cheese. The lid flies back.