Pale grey fur fills the interior. At first, I think a wolf is crouching within and jump back, a cry escaping my lips. The beast does not stir, and I recover my composure. I stretch out my hand and lay it upon the creature, half expecting it to stir with warm breath. But all is quiet.
It is the softest thing I have ever touched. Softer than the down on a day-old chick, softer than my mother’s breasts, than the breath of my sister’s babe upon my cheek. I plunge my fingers deep and am lost up to the wrist. I haul it from its resting place.
It is too small to be a wolf, yet too large to be any fox from hereabouts. Its head is gone, but the tail is still attached and bushy as a heap of teasels. The colour is unlike anything I’ve seen: pale as the moon, a misty grey save for a darker stripe down the spine. My mind spins with the notion that somewhere, far away from here, live white foxes.
I stick my face deep into the nap and it tickles any remaining pain into sweetness. I drape it around my neck. It is supple as velvet and possessed of a fresh scent despite the long sojourn in its oaken prison. I parade across the boards, making a broad trail through the dust, grand as a duchess.
I turn it over so that the hair lies against my skin. As I do so, heat springs between my shoulders as though a bonfire has been lit at my back. I let it slip from my shoulder to the wrist and my body sparkles with the fire of a hundred tapers. I examine my arm, half expecting it to be singed. Every hair is pricked and upright, my dreary flesh called to life by this pale beast.
I do the same with my other arm and experience the enchantment afresh; a tingling so delicious my knees quiver. I want to sit down, but the floor is so dirty I’d cover my skirt in smuts, yet another thing to conceal from Thomas. So I return to the first chest, drag out the topmost sheet and spread it over the floor.
I lie down and hug the fur close; draw it to and fro across my limbs, trembling with each caress. Never before have I felt so encumbered by my clothes. They chafe, they itch, they demand to be off. I obey the command and unfurl my body across the sheet, naked except for my beastly cloak, animal fragrance rising around me like a mist.
I take the fox to my breast and writhe beneath the press of its body, my belly lifting and falling. It melts me as surely as a flame melts a candle. My flesh cries out and for the first time I hear its call. I do all I can to draw closer to its promise, pulling the pelt firmly between my thighs. The fox rubs me, teases me, smoothes me, tempts my body into flight. My legs quake like those of a foal wet from the belly of its dam, knees knocking together. I never tasted anything so wonderful, so strange.
Yet it is not enough.
However tightly I grip the fur, however loud I pant in the race towards my own body, I fall short. Completion dangles out of reach from my groping fingers and I am left empty.
VIXEN
I’ll not stay in this village a moment longer than I must.
But I have scrapes to heal, a belly to fill and their money to lay my fingers upon. I see clear enough how things are between her and the priest and my task is to reason out how to use that knowledge to my best advantage. So I hold up my paws, loll my tongue, and act the goat. Dear God and all the saints, how it chafes. It is the same every day, and I wonder that neither of them are driven out of their meagre wits with the tedium of it. Time passes and I itch with the desire to go, the present need to stay.
He blesses me so often I am surprised that angels do not fly out of my arse. At first I’m happy enough to trot behind him, for all priests are rich and he must have a barrel of coins squirrelled away somewhere. I can sniff out gold like a dog can sniff out meat. Or so I think. While he’s away in the church whining for God’s attention, I hop about, peering into every hole I can find. I might as well use the time to pick my nose. He keeps nothing of use or value under his roof.
But I have eyes, and soon enough I see that she knows far more than she lets on. She gets as tired of his blether as I do and sends him scuttling off, only then letting out the laugh she has been hiding.
‘Don’t pay any mind to that fool,’ she says. Her smile does not live on her lips more than a moment. ‘Listen to me,’ she sighs. ‘Calling him the simpleton, when it is topsy-turvy.’
I roll my eyes. She is prone to prattling, but I prefer it to his incessant holiness.
‘I thought I was so clever,’ she continues, twirling the spindle.
She is spinning wool and a poor job she is making of it too, for the yarn breaks every other moment and she must start again.
‘Imagine, that, my chick? Even you, mud-brained as you are, can see that I’m the most wooden-headed of women. What a choice I made in this man!’
She laughs again. It is a sound that has been plucked naked. The yarn snaps and she sighs.
‘Look at me. I ended up with a skinned reed of a fellow who keeps a meaner table than a beggar. I sleep on a straw mattress the mare would turn her nose up at. I spin wool that is more knots than good thread. That’s the tale of silly Anne.’
She hurls the spindle to one side, claps her hands, chanting silly Anne, silly Anne. I slap my knees and honk like a goose. She tickles me under the chin.
‘My little bird. You make this dried-up pullet merry. We make a fine pair; silly Anne and silly Maid.’
I point my fingers at my open mouth, mewing piteously, and finally she leaves off her cooing.
‘You’re hungry? Bide there and I’ll fetch something good to eat. Or what passes for good under this roof.’
She bustles away. I sigh and stretch my cramped legs. All this lurching about bent over like a hunchback is making me ache. I wager she’ll bring back a bowl of gruel. Not that it’s bad – it’s hot and I’ve eaten far worse – but my belly groans for a bit of meat. The salt pig hanging from the roof beam is driving me to thoughts of climbing the wall and biting off a chunk or two. I’d even eat a plate of eggs, though the thought of anything out of a bird’s backside still turns my stomach.
She returns all smiles. I contort my body into its twisted shape and not for the first time curse myself for choosing such an uncomfortable disguise. Not that I had much time to think up anything better. She pokes porridge into my mouth and I slurp each spoonful. I wonder if I could trust her. If she was in on my deception, I could tuck into a trencher heaped with bacon and gravy. The thought makes me groan, and she peers at me closely.
‘Gulping it down too hastily, are you? Slow down.’
I do just that. I’ll not let my belly be my god. You can’t trust these people, even when you think you’ve got them round to your way of thinking. You imagine you’re safe, then bang: middle of the night you’re running for your life with all the hue and cry of a village at your back. Not again. A kind hand makes a fist in a moment; a kiss is waiting to turn into a bite.
Yet all I have from this woman is affection. It is a trick; it must be. Her caresses are to make me lower my guard. She is waiting for me to slip up. There is no other reason for such sweetness.
When I see him strike her, I feel – pity? Anger? I know not what, except that I feel and I hate it. I’ve seen hundreds of men raise their fists at hundreds of women and have not even blinked. I have no idea why this small beating should affect me, but it does. How dare she do this to me? How dare she slip under my walls so? I must get away. Money or no money, I must be gone.
It’s time. I’ve let her feed me up a bit. My bruises have healed. I’ve strangled all I can out of these pullets. This is a priest’s house, and if the best household in this flea-ridden hole offers nothing better than a dish of lentils, then there’s no point looking anywhere lower. I steal a cloak, a tunic, and pull on a pair of hose besides. I learned many years ago that a lad travels this world safer than a lass.
I race to the forest with a clean pair of heels, my shirt stuffed with bread and cheese. I left money, clothes and a good knife in my comfortable tree. Not much, but enough to carry me as far as the next purse I can cut from some man’s belt. I must head westwards, along with everyone else who has a mind to livin
g, and that costs money.
Each step I take away from the village and towards the forest weighs less. At the head of the path, just before it climbs past the well and into the trees proper, I turn about and see where I’ve come from: the squat cottages thatched with sodden reeds; the squelching filth between them; the church, graceless as a toppled cow. The priest’s house might be grander than the huts surrounding it, but it is still a yokel dwelling for a yokel priest of a yokel flock. I think of the woman, her milk-whey face simpering. She does not matter, no one ever has. The day I respond kindly to kindness is the day hell freezes over so hard the Devil himself can go skating.
I spit on the ground.
I slide into the forest and feel her shield me. I am grateful as a boy falling into the arms of his lover. I breathe in her scent and she sparkles in my lungs, heady as a draught of powerful cider. Hoof-prints of sheep the size of stars light my way, coupled with the two half-moons of goats, dwindling as I press deeper into her shadow. Birches embrace me with their clean white limbs; even the oaks bend creaking backs to brush my hair as I pass. A crow hops ahead, tempting me from the path. When I grow tired of its misleadings, I shoo it away. It flaps awkward wings, flies into the branches of the nearest tree and glares.
‘Don’t think to fool me twice, you blackguard,’ I shout, and laugh.
I find myself skipping, and only reel in my giddiness when I come upon my particular tree. I scramble up the trunk. It is empty.
I know the scabby hands of thieves when I see them, being acquainted with thievery myself. I slide back down and sit at the root, considering my next step. No money, no clothing other than what I have on my back. Everything is gone and I have nothing. I can go on and starve, or return to the village and run the risk of bumping into Death. It takes far longer than it should to reach a decision.
It is only while I am berating my lack of choices that I hear them. A deaf man could do so, for they are making such a commotion: singing, crying out to each other; that and the smell of roasting venison and the tangy smoke of their fire. No attempt to hide themselves; no skulking from the Sheriff and a swift kick and dangle from the nearest oak.
They’re as filthy as ever: hands and faces greenish black with ground-in dirt, their clothes of a matching hue so that they look like earth-men, shaped of the heavy clay they lounge upon. They might have a doe fat enough to feed four families roasting in their midst, but their belts are notched tight and their faces betray long famishment. They gobble the meat, tearing it off the bone and cramming it into their maws as though they fear someone will take it away from them.
I saunter to the fire boldly, as though I belong there. One man begins to rise, but is pulled back. I see the glint of blades drawn. The only sound is the crackle of deer fat dropping into the flames; that and my thundering breath. I tear away a small piece of the meat and shove it into my mouth. It is tough, for the idiots do everything too hard and too fast, but I nod my head and hum with appreciation.
‘My compliments, gentlemen. You keep a good table,’ I say.
I must not look at them too closely, or they will read my fear and that will never do. I place one hand on my hip and suck grease from the fingers of the other. A laugh rumbles from somewhere to my left.
‘Good day to you, young sir.’
I turn slowly in the direction of the voice. A tall man, his beard twisted with red ribbon into a stiff horn that sticks out from the end of his chin. It’s him, of course, and the less said about him the better. I smile companionably and sweep away my hood. They’ll find me out sooner or later and this way I am the author of my own revealing. They’re at my throat in an eye-blink, waving knives under my nose and growling all kinds of imprecations. I affect an air of boredom. It is the best part I have ever played, for I swear my bowels are water.
‘You little bitch,’ roars Knot-Beard. ‘I swore if I ever saw you again I’d split you down the midparts like an apple.’
‘With good reason,’ I say, and incline my head. ‘I left certain debts.’
He shoves the point of his weapon into the coat and I am glad of its thick folds.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ he grunts.
‘Then how shall I pay you what I owe?’ I sigh, being mindful to skate away from the ice of sarcasm. That would not be a wise move with a skewer between my breasts.
‘I’ll take it out of your liver and lights,’ he grimaces, hoping to frighten me, which he does not. He is far more terrifying when he does not try.
‘Wouldn’t you rather have gold?’ I enquire.
The pressure of the knifepoint eases a very small amount.
‘You, cough up money?’ he cries. ‘You never handed out a penny unless you were strung up by your ankles.’
His companions snicker at the engaging picture this presents. I spread my hands to take in their camp. I smile also. It seems polite.
‘You’re bold enough to roast a deer within a bowshot of a village. I’m bold enough to pay a visit and settle old business. These are interesting times.’
Knot-Beard withdraws the knife a quarter-inch and slackens his grasp enough for me to see the handle and recognise it for the one I stowed in the tree. I nod towards it.
‘Besides, I’d say from that knife that you found my belongings. Let us call it a small down payment against the settlement of what is owed.’
‘Or let us not,’ he replies. ‘What’s to stop me gutting you now and nailing your hide to that tree?’
‘Nothing,’ I shrug. ‘Then you’d have the shabby cloak off my back and not one whit more.’
‘I’ll have the bird in my hand.’
‘Maybe I can bring you two in the bush.’
‘Why should I trust you?’ he drawls. He squints his eyes half-shut, as men do when they wish to show themselves sharp-witted. To my mind it looks more like they are straining to void their bowels.
‘No reason. Save these are changed times.’
‘And?’
‘And I need to get through the forest. Safely.’
‘Which will cost you dear.’
‘I’m sure it will.’
He sheathes the knife in his belt and I breathe more easily. I take off the cloak and hand it over. It may be undyed murrey, but it is a great deal cleaner than anything they’ve seen this side of Candlemas. In his vast paws it looks particularly threadbare. I’m about to remove my hose, when he stops me with a laugh.
‘You can keep your arse covered. I’ve no desire for a skinny rump like yours. I like my women shapely.’
He waggles his hands in a memory of curved hips and bulging breasts and his followers take up the game, slapping their thighs and cackling obscenities. For all the bluster, it’s a long time since anyone here tasted a woman and when it’s dark there’ll be a lot going on behind these trees. I’ll wager they’ve all felt Knot-Beard’s bristles tickle them between the shoulder blades.
‘What else have you got to offer?’ he guffaws when he’s finished.
I think of the rubbish in the house: pots, pans, her straw mattress, his prayer book and cross. No use unless you live under a roof. And I can’t see these men taking up holiness any time soon. There’s no point promising them church treasure I can’t lay my hands on. I squeaked through on falsehoods with these men the once: I’ll not be that lucky again.
The answer comes so clear and bright it is as though the branches draw back their curtain to let the sun shine in. In my head I see them taking each other to satisfy lust. The silence they keep, the shame they feel.
‘I have a gift of unusual and unexpected value,’ I say.
He snorts disbelievingly.
‘A woman,’ I say, and let the word rest awhile. ‘Pretty, too. She’ll come willingly.’
‘Some hobbling old crone,’ cackles Knot-Beard, but his eyes are bright.
‘You can test the truth of it for yourself,’ I reply, casually. ‘But this I declare: she’s ripe, she’s young and she’s a virgin.’ The knob of his Adam’s apple bobs up and
down. ‘When did you last have one of those? Take me to the coast and she’s yours.’
‘Bring her,’ he croaks. ‘And some money. Then we’ll see.’
I walk away with the heat of their eyes branding holes in my tunic. I have never been one to return to a place I have left, and I want to go back to the priest’s rat-hole less than any. But with Knot-Beard barring the way forward, I have no choice.
Perhaps I shan’t have to give Anne to them. Perhaps it won’t come to that. But if it does, so be it. I could coax her here with no trouble, for she follows wherever I lead, like a lamb after its dam. Besides, she’d do the same to me. Many have done, all smiles and then a change like the weather: sunny, then rain with plenty of hailstones thrown in for good measure. She is like the others. Or would be, if I granted her the smallest opportunity. Which of course I shall not.
Yet she is the only one in this crippled world to have dealt with me fairly. A chill settles upon me, greater than the fear of Knot-Beard and his men. A rushing of waters begins to roar between my ears; green stars dance behind my eyelids. I stagger, lose my footing and fall to my knees. Rooks rattle their beaks, and in that sound I hear an old friend clattering His jaws.
‘That’s my girl,’ he chuckles. ‘You only sell the good ones, and so cheap.’
My stomach rocks like a kicked gate and I hurl its contents on to the path, spewing until I can do so no more.
I will not let myself be tangled in her sticky net. It will hold me back, hold me down, hold me under until the bubbles cease to rise. I shall get my blow in first. That’ll teach her to show me kindness. I can’t be trusted. I am cruel. I shall not soften, not for her, not for anyone. If I soften, I am lost. She shall not be my undoing. I shall stay hard and harsh, and live.
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