TERCE
1349
From Saint Swithun to Saint Neot
THOMAS OF UPCOTE
‘This is the House of God,’ I declared, pushing open the south door and shaking the water from my shoulders.
I held out my hand to the girl, but she hunched her wrists into her chest. I was not concerned: it was fitting that a maiden should shrink from a man’s touch. It would be different when she learnt the depth of my chastity. I walked down the nave and heard her feet slap the flagstones behind me.
‘This is the font,’ I said, and was seized with a fine idea.
However often I said a blessing over her head, nothing seemed to bring her any closer to the Lord. But if I baptised her, the holy water was bound to soak into her soul and lighten her load of witlessness. I did not know why I had not thought of it before. I smiled and winched up the cover: the bowl was full. The water threw my face at me; her features swam alongside as she peered over my shoulder. I plunged my hand within, lifted it over her head.
‘I baptise you,’ I boomed, ‘in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.’
At first I feared she might bolt, but she licked at the liquid trickling down her face, uttering small exclamations of surprise. I dipped my hand once more, and sprinkled her a second time.
‘The blessing of God be upon you,’ I roared. ‘May He bless you and keep you.’
I trembled, awaiting a sign from the Lord. She could make sounds. All that was needed was to shape those sounds into words. Surely I would be the one to do it. With God’s grace. Today might be the day when the light of comprehension broke through the darkness swamping her mind. I snapped my fingers and she looked at them, drooling slightly. I pointed to myself.
‘I am Father Thomas,’ I said. ‘I am a man of God. A priest. Thomas. Yes?’
Her eyes danced about the roof-beams. I would not be dismayed so easily. I clicked my fingers again.
‘Now, listen,’ I said, with firm intent. ‘Thomas.’ I slapped my chest. ‘Say it. Thomas. You have heard it over and over.’
She gulped a great throatful of air, and threw it at me in a rough bark. It was as though the noise came from a great distance and she was in fear of it, for she started back and looked about her, wondering whence came the racket. I sighed and made my way to the altar to say the Office. It was not much of a miracle, but it would have to do. She followed me into the chancel, her feet leaving damp prints on the steps.
‘This is the altar,’ I said, for perhaps the presence of the Lord would awaken this beast. ‘Here I bless the bread and it becomes the body of our Saviour Jesus Christ, who died for our sins. Bread? Bread?’
I pointed to my mouth, chewing the air, for all men understand what it is to eat. I rubbed at my stomach, shoving it out through my cassock. She tipped her head to one side, features smooth.
‘And this is the shrine,’ I continued, feeling a little embarrassed at my antics. ‘Here lies the body of Saint Brannoc. He worked many miracles. He made animals lay aside their savage way of life. His wolf became a man.’
You could do that, also. If God willed it.
My words were silent, but she cocked her eyebrow so knowingly it was as though I spoke aloud. Heat bloomed in my face as we stared at each other, man to beast.
The light slanting through the east window stippled her with colour, but it could not hide the plumage of scratches feathering her arms and legs. Who knew what malice she had suffered. She would know no cruelty in my house, I thought, most determinedly. I left her in contemplation of the shrine and stood at the altar, where I said the Office of Sext.
I thought of the scars upon my own flesh from my father and brothers, the injuries left by the clerks at Exeter that no man knew of but myself. I had survived all of that, and worse. I had been born into famine, watched the wasting of my little sister. Mother would take the baby upon her knee, holding its tiny paw and shaking it up and down, whispering. The arm hung like a strip of unbaked dough, the wizened fingers swallowed up in my mother’s fist.
She took a long time to die: such is the way of slow starvation. She squalled at first, as we all did, confused by the lack of food in her belly and being too young to understand. My mother pressed her breast against the tiny mouth, watched it gape, too exhausted to suck. She would never stop crying; that small noise you get when you squeeze a kitten about its throat.
My brothers and I were sent into the woods to hunt for food. I picked amongst the beech mast to find scraps of nuts left behind by others, for we were not the only ones searching. I chewed shelves of fungus from trees, plucked snails from under stones, berries from hedges. Devoured all of it, swore to my father I could find nothing, pinched myself to make tears come. It was filth and creeping stuff in my belly, but it was something like fullness. Each night we ate grass boiled into gruel. I did not die.
Still my sister mewed. My mother tried to spoon some porridge into her mouth, but she swung her head from side to side, fists clenched, eyes spitting tears. I had not eaten anything that wholesome for as long as I could recall.
‘I will eat it, Mother,’ I said, ‘if she does not want it.’
My mother struck me on the side of my face with the spoon. I felt blood settle about my cheekbone. A smear of oatmeal lay across my face and I wiped it carefully away, licked my fingers. I can still recall the sweetness.
Mother placed her back against me. I pressed myself into the wall, but did not leave. The hearth smoked. The pot sat at its edge. Mother rocked backwards and forwards, groaning like an old door. I wanted to ask why my sister would not eat when we were all so hungry; wanted to know why there was no food; when food was coming; why father was so angry. But I was already six years old and had learned that the answer would be another beating. I stayed silent.
I took a step towards the pot. The rushes under my bare feet were soft and made no sound. The rocking continued; forwards, back. I took another step and felt my face flare, although I was not close to the fire. I could smell the simmering oats: it was the savour of kindness, of nestling in the crook of my mother’s arm, the memory of her kissing me, singing lullay and kissing me again.
These days she was angry all the time. Any fear was smacked aside by my hunger. Not caring if I made a noise, I stuck my hand inside the pot, swept up a palmful of porridge and sucked it into my mouth. Mother did not turn around. I stole another. I ate this more slowly, letting myself delight in the taste. I sucked my fingers clean and drew them out with a pop. I froze. My mother continued to rock the baby, keening softly, unable to hear me.
I took more, feeling it warm my gullet, reaching deep into my centre. I peered into the pot. There was very little left. My mother might forget how much was there, but she would remember there was something. I must not empty it. I paused, staring at the pale glister at the bottom, then at my mother’s swaying bulk. I dropped my hand and scooped out the last of the gruel. It would be worth any amount of thrashing not to be hungry. I was warm inside and out, my right hand pink from its labour. I closed my eyes and belched.
My father flogged me first; then my brothers took their turn. Mother cheered them on. I was able to stand upright again by the time my sister died. Mother would not leave the grave and I was sent to find her there.
‘Mother, you still have me,’ I said.
She stood up and came back to the house, hands tucked into her armpits. I held onto the side of her skirt, rubbing the fabric between my thumb and forefinger, and sniffing the musk of the lap where I was no longer allowed to sit. When I was seven they gave me to the clerks in Exeter. I was now a man.
The Office was over, and I realised I could not recall one word I had said. It did not matter, for the girl had noticed nothing amiss. She was rattling the door to the inmost part of the shrine, grunting with frustration as if she wanted to break into it. Perhaps she was nothing but an idiot abandoned by its mother. I did not want to believe that. God had sent the storm. Surely He sent her also.
‘You are
no demon,’ I roared, loud enough for God to hear and take note. ‘You are a daughter of Eve.’ She screwed up her nose and sneezed. ‘You do not understand what I am saying, but it matters not. If you are a sign from God, and I believe you are, then must I find out why you have been sent to me. To us.’
She raised her eyebrow once more. Then she was off, galloping out of the south door.
There was something in this child to read of God’s glory. She had to be part of God’s plan and vouchsafed to my safekeeping. Yet despite my confident declarations, my soul remained perturbed. If the Lord had delivered this child into my keeping, then why could my wits not find out the godly part of her? I must not fail Him, and refuse to learn His lesson. I would learn from her. God would teach me. I knelt and locked my hands together.
‘Oh Lord,’ I prayed. ‘Cast away all doubt. Guide me aright with this girl. Lead me.’
I laid my face against the flank of the shrine and as I breathed my prayer into the stone, the stone breathed back. I stopped, and it stopped. I breathed again, felt holy air brush my cheek. My flesh shivered. At last, I was answered: God was with me. A breeze began to stir the carved leaves and branches, setting all into a quiver like true greenery. From a great way off I could hear the piping of birds.
Out of this heavenly forest the girl came towards me, light dancing about her head like the wavering of air above a pot of seething water. Through her flesh her bones blazed with gold.
I am what you seek, she hissed into my ear, and I knew she was the answer to all the questions I had dared ask God. She touched me and my limbs swelled with divine fire, peeling away gross humanity. She pushed her hand into my belly and stirred me, faster and faster until I churned into buttermilk.
I will be your beast made tame. Your wolf made miraculously into man. Just like the Saint himself.
‘Oh Lord!’ I panted. ‘Oh, Holy Maid, yes!’
I returned to myself gasping. It was true: the Lord had sent her to this place, at this hour of need. I saw His light about her. This, then, was God’s message: if we took this rough creature to our hearts, we would be spared the scourge of the pestilence. Just like the Saint himself, she was come to preserve, to heal, to lead us back like lambs into God’s fold. Only a fool could not see it and I had been that fool, until now.
‘I crave pardon, Lord, that I did not perceive Your glorious gift straight away,’ I cried.
I knew I was forgiven. The vision was proof. Throughout my life, God had tested me, and sorely too. Now I was rewarded and it tasted sweet, far sweeter than any earthly honey. I alone would guard the child’s holiness. I was chosen: she was to be my relic, my creature, my possession.
I carried the flame of my revelation out of the church. Rather than go directly to the house, as was my habit, I felt the Lord guide my feet past the stable. I paused at the door. I did not hear God’s voice telling me to be away, so I stepped inside, balancing on the tips of my toes. The Maid lay stretched out beside the mare. I prayed again, and God bade me approach.
‘You are safe with me,’ I said. ‘You are my miracle. None shall harm you.’
Although I spoke very softly, she raised her head at the sound and grunted. I knew she wanted me to stand some way off. I obeyed.
‘God sent you,’ I breathed. ‘A miracle to preserve us when we most need it. He has revealed this to me, for I am a man of God.’
She stretched out her arms and legs and yawned. Then she stood and slid her arms about the mare’s neck and licked the nap of its nose, nibbling at the long whiskers. Its nostrils gawped. I feared she would be bitten, for the animal was contrary; but it shook its spit-stringy muzzle and they whinnied together in pleasure. The girl rubbed the mare from front to back, and back to belly; tickled the fur within its ears, all the time humming a wordless lullaby. The black square at the heart of the mare’s eye gaped and clenched, and it swung its head to and fro.
The girl continued, fisting its belly and sniffing the sour-bread reek of the beast’s breath. The mare swayed, slowly turned its backside to me and raised its tail, showing the velvet twist of its arse. The Maid placed herself between its legs: I worried afresh that she would be kicked. The flanks quivered, and it commenced pissing. The girl crouched in the thunderous flow; rubbing herself from wrist to shoulder, unpeeling her soaking shift and waving it like a flag. She sopped her head, washing her armpits, belly, thighs; all the time hopping from foot to foot.
At last the mare twitched shut and the downpour ceased. Its head drooped slowly into a drowse. The Maid threw her shift over a roof-beam; drops from it punctuated the dirt. She stood before me naked. I watched, unable to move. She smiled, fists on her scrawny hips and shoved out her chest. I could see the buds of breasts beginning to show themselves. I should leave, but God would not permit it.
She cocked her leg and showed me the place between her legs. Even in this I told myself that the Lord was revealing more of His wonders, for she was not like common women, rank with estuary smell and slack breasts after child after child has taken suck. The Maid was clean and whole, smooth as a piece of pork fat, her slit the shallowest of knife cuts.
I swallowed, loudly. She let out a series of harsh coughs that might have been laughter. Then she shook herself, turned on the earth in three small circles, curled up beneath the horse, and closed her eyes. I left, my feet staggering all the way back to the house. She could not have been laughing. Blessed creatures sent by God do not laugh.
I went directly to the solar, fell to my knees before the Cross, and prayed again. Was she godly or godless? She seemed entirely animal. But God had vouchsafed her to me, so this could not be so. My vision happened in the church so it must have been from God. Surely it was not the work of the Tempter. Yet I had looked at her naked flesh; I had not looked away. But God prompted me to observe: it could not have been lasciviousness on my part. I quaked at these doubts. My chest was a barrel of fish pulled freshly from the sea. I felt my faith waver. No. This way of thinking would not do. This was between God and myself. I did not need to tell anyone what I had seen. My belief in the Maid would prevail.
The next morning, I was calmer. Since we had fished her from the marshes, her only human company had been myself, and of course Anne and her gossips. She should be with maids her own age. That would coax her out of animal darkness and into the light of humanity. My soul breathed relief.
The next morning after Terce, when I reasoned that the morning chores would be completed, I called on some half-dozen cottages I knew to have daughters of a right age. They came willingly enough when I said it was not for any labour that I wanted them, but for play; and I smiled at the brood of maids that followed me to my orchard.
They were much alike, in that way of unmarried girls; hair bothered with ribbons, and giggling at every second word I spoke. I clapped my hands as we walked, and sang Maris stella. They laughed to begin with, but noticed that they soon joined in the refrain. A grey sky washed over the meadow, and the grass was pearled with daisies. I prayed earnestly it might not rain.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘See what I have for us.’
I waggled the fingers of my right hand while my left dug into my shirt and drew out a rag-ball of twisted scraps from one of Father Hugo’s discarded vestments. I tossed it skywards, heard their breath catch as the gold thread sparkled.
‘It is pretty, is it not?’
‘It is, Father,’ said the boldest.
I threw the ball to her and she caught it neatly. Our faces bloomed with smiles. They were nimble, and devised many clever ways of throwing high and low, with handclaps, and hopping on one foot or the other, and never dropping the ball. I made a valiant attempt to copy them, but I was a poor pupil and the source of much merriment. I cared not, for Christ instructed men to become like children to enter His Kingdom.
‘Wait,’ I said, after a few rounds. ‘I shall return right quickly.’
I ran to seek out the girl. She was in the stable, scooping at the dirt with the flat of her hand and examinin
g the sweepings very carefully.
‘Come,’ I panted. ‘I have a more pleasurable pastime for you.’
She blinked, lifted one side of her mouth into a half-smile, but raised herself from her haunches when I pointed out of the door. The girls stared as we came through the gate; the ball fell.
‘See, I have a new friend for you,’ I smiled. ‘She would like to play.’
She twisted up the hem of her shift, revealing bony knees. One of the girls gasped, another hid her mouth behind her hand. I picked up the ball and threw it gently to the nearest lass. She clutched it; casting her eyes about as if unsure what to do.
‘Come now,’ I said. ‘Throw it. You were clever enough before.’
The ball passed slowly around the circle until it came to my girl. She made no attempt to catch it and it rolled between her ankles.
‘Let us try another game,’ I piped, trying to remember any.
I undid my hood and pulled it up and down over my eyes, playing I can see you until I had coaxed them back into cheerfulness.
‘Ah, yes,’ I said. ‘That is better. Let us play hoodman blind. It is merry. And simple.’
I shoved my hood over the head of the nearest. She squealed at first, but did not cast it off. She staggered about, hands patting the air before her, laughing at each tree she came up against, each pinch her companions dealt her.
The Maid did not stir, watching them as a cat observes chicks. Soon she would understand our pleasure and join in. At last the blindfolded lass stumbled into her and held on to her arm, squeezing hard.
‘I have you!’ she squeaked.
The girl sprang back, slapping at the small hand.
‘No! You shan’t escape me! It’s your turn now!’ her captor laughed, dragging off the hood.
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