It happened quickly. The Maid’s jaws opened, clamped about the girl’s wrist and stayed there. Suddenly everyone was shrieking and squalling; battering her with their small fists, calling her vixen and beast and all manner of cruel names. She unlocked her teeth and began to howl, clawing and kicking against the assault.
‘Stop,’ I said. ‘Now. This is unseemly.’
There was the crack of tearing linen, and blood sprang up across my girl’s cheek.
‘Stop!’ I roared.
They did not hear me. Then Anne was at my side, quick as if she had formed out of the air. She hurled the girls aside.
‘Get away from her,’ she growled. ‘Go. Before I show you the meaning of a beating.’
She flourished my staff at them. The Maid hawked noisily and spat, then lifted her leg and aimed a stream of piss at her attackers. They melted away until the orchard was empty save for the three of us.
‘What were you doing?’ Anne barked.
‘The Maid should have companions.’
‘And fine ones you chose. Look at her.’
The Maid dug into Anne’s skirts, grizzling.
‘They were foolish,’ I said. ‘They did not understand.’
‘They were foolish? Girls have a right to be so. Priests do not.’ Her breathing slowed. ‘Here is your stick. Sir.’
She took the Maid, and left me in the orchard. I searched for the ball, but one of the lasses must have taken it. I noticed that the storm had blown away a lot of the blossom. There would be little fruit this year.
I returned to the house on my own. I was not to blame for this: if I erred, it was to expect wisdom from young females. I should have known better. Woman is the seat of unreason, unwilling or unable to perceive godliness even when it is as clear as the sun at midday. I would not be turned aside so easily. No more games. The Word of the Lord would establish the Maid in the minds of the villagers. I knew what must be done.
‘We must have a procession of the holy relics,’ I said to Anne the next morning. ‘And the play of the Saint’s Miracles. With the Maid. To show the people she is sent from God, and must not be harmed.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said meekly. ‘I shall prepare her.’
‘I can do that.’
‘You have many duties, sir. There is the church to make ready. The men to carry the Saint’s bones. The costumes to prepare. Edwin must ring the bell.’
By the time I was returned, Anne had cozened the girl into a fine dress. She glowed within the crisp cleanliness of the linen, and I hoped she would not take it upon herself to roll in the dirt before I presented her to my flock.
‘We are ready, sir.’
‘Then we will go to the church. I will take the Cross.’
I led the way around the bounds of the village, announcing the play and the procession as we went. The cottages emptied out their store of human souls, men ran from the plough. All the world followed me, and I delighted in it. By the time we trod the track back to the church, the whole congregation was gathered there, bustling in and out of the churchyard, chattering excitedly.
‘We are to have a play!’
‘The Saint is coming out of his house.’
‘Surely that is earlier in the year?’
‘No! This is a special celebration!’
They were very merry and it cheered my soul to see them so, until it occurred to me they were far more interested in dusting off the players’ outfits, dressing up and smearing grease all over their faces than engaging in sober meditation upon the miracles of Saint Brannoc. I strove not to chide them, and dedicated an hour to drawing them back to more devout prayer and contemplation. It was like trying to fold cider.
It took me from Prime to Sext to gather together sufficient men to carry and boys to sing, for they all declared they would prefer to take one of the parts in the play. In the end I persuaded enough. I gladdened to see them dressed neatly in their cottas and copes, so much more becoming than the rustic pomp of the costumes. I took every taper out of the treasury and found hands to bear them; commanded Edwin to ring the bell to announce the beginning of the procession.
I unlocked the heart of the shrine, and bade the men haul out the iron coffer containing the sacred bones. Help me, Holy Brannoc, I prayed. With God’s grace, send me the strength I need. They mounted him on his oaken sledge, hefting it onto their shoulders and bore him, staggering, down the nave.
‘Careful, he is sliding off!’ I cried. ‘Lift up the back there.’
After the time it would take to say the Pater Noster, he was steady, and the boys swung the censers without spilling very much incense. I raised the Cross and led the way with Anne directly behind me, the girl hanging onto her hand. We came out of the west door and I led the way through the mob, smiling. Their twittering washed its tide against my ears.
‘See! The Saint!’
‘And there’s that wild maid, pulled from the marshes.’
‘The Saint, yes: but why the Vixen?’
‘We need all the help we can get.’
‘I still say she’s a gypsy.’
I heard the muttering against her, but would not let it cast me down. Rather, it served to strengthen my resolve to conquer their doubts. God lifted my voice in song; we passed once around the churchyard, entered the church and the folk followed. The men returned the Saint to his dwelling place and I locked the door. The people began to leave, eager to start their play, but I called them back. I raised my hands in prayer and God rushed to fill my mouth as soon as I opened it.
‘Who holds the thunderbolt in His hands? Who chooses to cast down the rain, or hold it close? Who sent the storm?’
I waited until I heard them give the correct response, God.
‘Who protects us?’
God. God protects us.
‘Who also? Who?’
The Saint protects us.
‘And who sent the girl in the storm?’ At this there was a hesitation. I filled the gap. ‘God!’ I roared. ‘Say it again. Who sent us this Maid?’
God. God.
They spoke agreement. Yes. This was God’s answer. For the first time my words harnessed them truly, and I was made giddy.
‘Will she not also protect us?’ Again they paused. I would brook no disobedience. ‘Answer the Lord!’ I cried. ‘Will she protect us?’
Yes, amen. Yes.
God planted fire in my soul: I burned in my desire to honour Him.
‘When God sent His only begotten Son amongst men, did He wear satins and fur? Did He feed upon honey-cakes and wine? Did He?’
No, oh God, no.
‘No. Christ came amongst fishermen; farmers. Common folk. Like you. Not merchants or kings. And is Christ to be prized?’
Yes, oh yes.
‘Were there some who reviled Him? Spat on Him?’
Yes!
‘Tore His clothes and beat Him and crucified Him?’
Yes!
‘Are they not damned?’
Yes!
‘Now God has sent us this Maid. At this time of need.’
There was a flurry of hands as they crossed themselves. I pointed to the shrine where Anne stood, holding on to the girl’s wrist. All turned to stare. I prayed she would not run, and God rewarded me yet again.
‘He has sent her to humble farmers. She does not wear fine clothes. She eats plain food like you. Must we not prize her?’
Yes, they said, still a little uncertainly for my liking.
‘Will we revile her, spit on her?’
They moaned, No.
‘Let there be no more harm done to this girl. This jewel at our heart. Forgive us now.’
I glared at a clutch of girls by the south door. I was not sure if they were the ones who had attacked my girl, for they looked the same as any young females, but they served my purpose. They dropped their heads, blushing. The people twisted in their direction and hissed.
Forgive us, wailed the girls.
‘Bless and forgive us, oh Lord!’ I cried, and m
y flesh sang. ‘We must tend her, love her, protect her. Then shall she keep us safe.’ I had meant to say, God shall keep us safe, but the words spilled out differently. ‘When she was pulled from the marshes, she was dirty. But she is not foul. This maid is fresh and innocent. Not a beast. Not a vixen.’
It came to me as I spoke. I would not let them continue to call her Vixen, nor any other beastly name. Nor would I name her, for there was none to give. I would not pen her in with common words. I was not Adam, instructed by his Maker to name all creatures. For Adam fell, and I would not fall. I smiled at my new cleverness.
‘She is our Holy Maid,’ I cried. ‘Let all call her such. God has spoken.’
Amen, amen.
I had said enough. I gave the kiss of peace with a good heart, and said Pax to share with them the joy of God’s gift to us. They shouted Deo gratias and my heart turned over. My whole body was wet beneath my garments. Outside the church they clasped my hand, one after the other, so much that I thought they would shake it asunder.
‘Ah, Father. We shall be safe.’
‘Now we have the Vixen,’ said another. ‘The Maid,’ he corrected himself swiftly.
‘We are always in God’s care,’ I replied.
‘But especially now, is it not so? With the Great Mortality so close upon us.’
‘Death is ever waiting for us,’ I replied.
He frowned. ‘But never more so than this year.’
‘The fever is come to Hartland,’ said another.
‘The wind blows it up and down the coast.’
‘I hear that in Bristol the bodies rot in the streets for lack of men to bury them.’
I shook my head to clear out their bothersome words. ‘There is nothing to fear. Do not despair of the Lord. Are we not healthy?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘We were nothing,’ I cried out, for it seemed I was inside the church again and preaching. I must turn their minds from such dreadful imaginings. ‘We were cast down. Now we are raised up. Filled with hope, for God has smiled upon us. This Holy Maid has come to succour us.’
‘I hear the Virgin has come to the Staple,’ said one fellow with great eagerness.
My words dried up. ‘What is this?’ I asked.
The man stared at his thumbs. ‘I mean no disrespect, Father. All are talking of it. They pulled the Blessed Virgin out of the harbour.’
‘Not the Virgin, fool,’ said William. ‘Her image.’
‘Yes,’ breathed another. ‘The picture painted by Saint Luke, the very one.’ He crossed himself, and his fellows did likewise.
‘What is this foolishness?’ I said.
‘It is no foolishness, Father. The storm sent us this Maid; it sent the Virgin to the Staple.’
‘She swam up the estuary.’
‘Right to the harbour.’
‘It is true. I have seen it. Her.’ He pulled a scrap of lead from inside his shirt and waved it in my face. Crudely stamped with the face of a woman.
‘Do you desert your Saint?’ I rumbled.
‘I do not.’
‘Do you believe the Maid is sent to us by God?’
‘You have told us it is so,’ he said carefully. ‘Then it is so.’
‘Yet you take yourself away from your rightful labour and dance to the Staple.’
He lifted his chin. ‘I work as hard as any man here, Reverend Father,’ he said. ‘I am not the only one who has gone.’
‘The road is deep with ruts for carts go back and forth in such number.’
‘There are miracles already, as I hear it.’
I waved away their buzzing voices.
‘Father,’ said William. ‘We have such need of protection. From wherever we can find it. Against the fever.’
‘The fever, the fever. All this clucking about fever. I see no sickness here. Put your faith in the Lord. And the Maid. She will protect us. We need nothing else.’
They bowed, and turned their attention to the play.
Never before had I received any sign that the Lord noticed me. He had always been detained on more important business than the travails of a poor parish priest. I knew myself to be unremarkable before God, and indeed man. I had seen the yawning during my sermons, had heard the emptiness of my prayers. All that was changed. Like Job, God had tried my faith with seeming indifference; now He blessed me with the Maid.
My faith, so tossed about and storm-battered, stood firm and shone its light into my soul. My piety lifted its strong hand, holding back the tide of the pestilence. I would not fail; I could not, with the Maid at my side. The people would love her. They would love me. The Maid was Jonah come out of the whale, Margaret springing from the belly of the dragon, sweet as the honey from Samson’s lion. I had won.
ANNE
For once, Thomas is right. His words establish the Maid in the people’s hearts, and I pray he can hold her there. The miracle play is a welcome diversion: a rest from toil, and not merely scrubbing and spinning. For an afternoon I forget how dull I am become, how cramped the life that pens me in.
Although I dash from the church, I am too late to join in the carole. Men and maids are holding hands, circling to the left then skipping to the right. Alice stands in the middle, quacking the words and pounding out the rhythm with her foot. Very pleased with herself she looks, too.
Everyone joins in the chorus and I sing also, even though I stand on my own. Bet catches my eye as she swings past and reaches out her hand, breaking the ring for a moment. I grab her with more gratitude than I care to admit and am drawn into the dance. I catch up quickly. It is a simple pleasure of the body to lift my feet, fill my lungs with sharp breath and sing.
I am surrounded by smiling faces, cheery voices in my ears. This is where I belong. I am reminded how easy a thing happiness can be, and how tangled up in misery I have become. I am tired of being so.
Bet is to my right and Michael the miller’s son to my left. He grasps my hand, glances at me long and slow as honey poured out of a pot. I gaze back. He is stripped to his under-tunic, the hair on his chest showing crisp through the slashed neckline. His hose are rolled down to the knee, revealing the hams of his thighs. I wonder if I couldn’t have made a better match with him. In faith, I could have made a better match with a barn door.
I shake my head. Today I will not dwell on considerations of what might have been. Still, my desire quivers that he has looked at me. However sinful, I think of Michael’s handsome face, his long clean limbs. Even though he is humble, he has two arms to clasp about me, a mouth to gasp my name, and between his legs that thing I burn for.
The dance reaches its end, and it shocks me how swiftly my heart begins to plummet back into unhappiness. But I am saved by a shout going up at the lychgate.
‘Prepare the way! The Saint approaches!’
The players stride into the churchyard, the Saint leading his beasts. I glance over at Michael, who has placed himself where I can see him, by the church wall. I wonder how easy it might be for us to slip away to the forest without anyone noticing. I am alone: Thomas is busy bothering God, the Maid with him. Michael tips his chin. It is as though a thread tugs me, for my feet carry me to his side.
‘Well, pretty Anne,’ he smirks.
‘Well, Michael,’ I reply.
‘Do you remember how I carried you over the ford to the priest’s house?’ he smirks.
‘I do.’
‘Remember how you gave me a fair old kick when I pinched your thigh?’
‘I do.’
‘You wouldn’t look at me then. But you’re looking at me now, and hungry enough too.’
‘Hungry?’ I say, but fail to make it sound light and uncaring.
‘Yes. And so am I. Let’s be about it, then.’
He starts to untie his braies, which show bulging evidence of his haste.
‘Here? Against the church wall?’ I swat away his groping fingers.
‘Why not? You let the priest up there – the Bishop too, for all I know. I’ll h
ave a piece of the pudding as well.’
‘You will not.’
I slam my heel down upon his foot. He yelps and hops about, the linen drooping off his bare backside. I don’t loiter to laugh at the sight, although I’d be merry enough if it wasn’t happening to me. I straighten my kerchief, shake out my kirtle and am back in the crowd in less time than it would take to pour a cup of ale. I am sticky with a feeling like wasps crawling over marchpane. I glance about to see if I have been missed, but everyone is applauding the players. My breast is heaving and I watch the play while I wait for my blood to settle.
Roger the blacksmith plays the stag, a fine set of horns upon his head. He rushes into the crowd, roaring at the maids, and the Saint has to call him three times before he bends the knee, receives the yoke on his neck and pulls the plough. It is no mean feat, for the ploughshare is heavy. The ropes in his throat stand out hard and stiff; he grunts with the weight and when he succeeds everyone cheers.
I join in the applause as he drags it around the church, shake off the dirty memory Michael has smeared over me and concentrate on the spectacle. Next, wicked King Magnus steps out of the west door, face painted red, and we boo and hiss and shake our fists at him as he steals the Saint’s favourite bull, played by Aline’s man James. I know him straightaway, even though his face is blackened with charcoal and he has a cow’s hide slung around his shoulders. As he steps into the pot, he makes a pretty speech about how he is not afraid because the Saint will save him.
But the Saint does not come in time, and we gasp when King Magnus chops off the bull’s head and blood spurts out. It is only a bunch of scarlet ribbons fluttering on the breeze, but it is most chilling. The smaller children cry, which of course upsets the babies, who bawl with one voice till we are all weeping, one way or another.
The Saint appears! Too late, we moan. King Magnus cowers, throwing his sleeve across his face to shield himself from the Saint’s stern words. We pelt the king with cabbage stalks until he falls to his knees, wrings his hands and begs the Saint to pray for his soul. He repents all wickedness, thumping his chest with many exclamations of contrition, not to mention telling us to lay off with the cabbages, for they hurt him.
The Saint strides about, rubbing his chin. We shout encouragement and our cries persuade him, for he raises his hands and calls upon God to look down on the sinful king with mercy. There is a rattle of tambours, which sets the babies off again. Even I jump, though I see this play every year and know what is coming. An angel appears, Aline’s eldest boy, in a tunic I’ll wager his mother washed three times to get it so clean. He speaks his celestial message and almost gets it right. We do not care if he trips over the words, because King Magnus is saved from the pit.
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