There was a scuffling within, and a face swam into the dark square. I took it for a woman, for a dirty kerchief was bundled about its head.
‘Greetings, mistress,’ I said warmly, so all would hear and be comforted. ‘Be of good cheer.’
Her mouth opened and closed and she made the sign of the Cross.
‘I am the priest in Brauntone: Father Thomas. You know me.’
Her lips continued to pop open and shut, without speech.
‘Brauntone. The shrine of the Saint and healer, Brannoc,’ I smiled again.
‘Healing?’ she cawed, and her voice snapped in the middle. ‘You are too late,’ she moaned, and the room ate her up.
I raised my head to see if anyone else had come out. There must be someone to greet me: I had spoken loud enough. Nothing. There was little to do but continue to the Staple, so I clucked at the horse and we made our descent into the town. I reflected on the coarse manners of some folk, and thanked God for the friendliness of my parishioners.
I would have known myself at my destination even if my cap had been pulled over my eyes. The stink of the tannery brought me rudely to my senses. The air was threaded about with smoke from uncountable cooking fires and I wondered that men did not go about coughing the whole while. I wrapped the tail of my hood round my mouth and it gave me some respite.
The way was clotted with all manner of carts, the potholes so deep I had to guide the mare with great care. At last I was at the church, and it seemed I came at the time of some great event, so thick was the huddle of people about the door. I tried to reckon what it might be. I grasped the shoulder of the man closest to me.
‘Greetings, good man; is the Bishop come here?’
He looked at my boots, my cloak, my cowl. I was strangely glad it covered my tonsure.
‘You’re not from about here, are you?’
‘No, from Brauntone. The shrine of the Holy Brannoc.’
‘You all come here,’ he snorted. ‘Sooner rather than later, and all. Doesn’t say much for your Saint, does it?’
‘Ours is a holy and blessed healer.’
‘If you say so. I am going now; I want to get a good place.’
‘Where?’
‘In the church, fool. They show us the icon this morning. God’s Bones, why else are men here?’
He shook off my hand, and the mob swallowed him whole. I hugged my hood close and entered the church with the rest. We shuffled forward one tiny step at a time. I could not understand why those at the front did not walk more hastily, and opened my mouth to say so. Another stole my words.
‘Move your feet, I say! We are kept standing at the back here.’
He was hushed straightway and I was pleased I had held my tongue. At last I passed beneath the arch of the door and came into the nave, the walls and roof falling away from me. There was such a quantity of men that the stone pillars seemed to be growing out of a field of human flesh. I wondered how we might all fit into the church, for there was still a crowd eager behind me.
My eyes squinted against the darkness. There was whispering to my right and I twisted my neck to discover what was happening. The wall of bodies opened, making a narrow path that a man strode down. Although he looked too coarse to be one of God’s servants, he brandished the deacon’s staff of office and pushed us back like dogs.
A child’s voice squawked once, and was throttled into silence. More people came into the church and we were rammed closer and closer together. I could have lifted both of my feet from the floor and been held up. Then, the west door slammed shut. We swayed quietly together, a sheaf of human cornstalks reeking of garlic and stale beer. No one coughed, or spat, or chattered. When I endeavoured to look about and admire the painted glass, I felt fingers pinching the flesh of my arms.
‘Be still,’ wheezed an onion voice in my ear.
I was motionless. But I wondered why were there no candles, no lamps. The window shutters were drawn together. All was shadow and unnecessary dimness. Then I heard it: the voice of a boy, singing:
He bowed the heavens and darkness was under His feet;
His pavilion around Him were dark waters
And thick clouds of the skies.
I could not believe it was an earthly voice chanting the words: I must be dreaming such sweetness. My throat bunched into a fist and my eyes leaked water. The man next to me sniffed loudly, wiping his nose on his hand. The psalm curled over and about our heads and too soon it was over. I had a great hunger for more.
At once the light of Heaven shone out. A host of lads in white filed in through the north door, carrying tapers. At their head walked John of Pilton, swathed in a cope that glittered like blood in the candlelight. I crouched behind my neighbours, though it was foolishness to think he would spy me in this horde. I had not spoken to him since we were ordained. He climbed the steps to the chancel screen, turned and lifted his hands in prayer.
‘Oh sinners!’ he bellowed. ‘You have chosen to scorn God’s laws. Disaster is at hand. The Great Dying is fast upon us. Your sins have brought down this calamity!’
A terrible groan swept through the church. I staggered and would have fallen were it not for the multitude of bodies pressed tight about me.
‘Who can say that he is clean of sin? Is there one amongst you?’
There was a stopping-up of breath straightaway. Even the infants quietened their customary squalling. I gulped. It was as though he sought me out especially and found me lacking. But it could not be so: God had chosen to send the Maid to me. Surely He would not charge a common sinner with this great task. John continued to bluster.
‘Who are you to presume that you may drop your pitiful words direct into the ear of God? To whom may we pray? Oh brothers and sisters, to whom can we turn in this time of travail?’
My neighbour began to weep; it was picked up by the man at his shoulder, and the next man, and the next.
‘Who has always held sinners in Her lap? Who intercedes for us, unworthy as we are? O Star of Heaven, who bore the Lord, and rooted up the plague of death that Adam planted! O Mother of Mercy, save us from this Pestilence! Shelter us under Your cloak!’
John swept his hand through the air as though turning a page of the Gospels.
‘O most blessed Mary, O Consolation of the Desolate!’ he cried.
I was clustered about with souls wailing repentance, their rapture so passionate that even I was drawn into its toils. ‘Forgive me, Mary,’ I keened. ‘I am steeped in sin. Forgive me.’ I was helpless; tossed about on a torrent of fear and hope and sorrow all mingled together. Suddenly, John’s voice dropped from entreaty into gentleness.
‘We kneel before You. We beg at Your most holy feet.’
At that moment he flung his hand towards the north porch: a boy raised his candle; a curtain fell away. Out of the darkness the image of the Virgin flared into life. The light wavered the shadows and the face of the Woman wavered also. Although I knew it to be the agency of the flame, I saw Her lips move. I could not stop my hand from making the sign of the Cross on my brow.
A man to my left shrieked, ‘Look at her mouth; she speaks!’
A fearsome moan tore from every throat at the same instant. My neighbour fell to his knees and cried out, ‘Blessed Mother forgive me!’ I wondered if he called upon the Virgin or the woman who bore him, for his voice was as desperate as a child’s. He was not alone. All around me men and women tottered and were struck down. I stood firm, despite the hissing of, ‘Kneel, man!’ in my ears. John let the uproar continue a short while, but after the time it took to say the Pater Noster he shouted out again.
‘Yes! Let us pray to our Holy Mother! Only She is our shield against death. O Gentle Mother of God, turn Your gaze from our sins; wash away our iniquities and make us clean so that God may show mercy to us at last.’
John paused: slowly the snuffling and snorting ebbed into something approaching quiet. The people struggled back to their feet, helped by their fellows. He waited for us patiently.
>
‘Oh, most dearly beloved, let us not be like beasts, but let us rather hold up our hands and beg for mercy from our tender Mother: for who else will have mercy on Her stumbling children?’
He paused again: waited until the mob murmured Mary, O Mary with one voice.
‘The coming pestilence is just payment for our sins. Let us embrace prayer so that God’s Mother might spare us from this evil death. Whatever you seek with prayers, believe that you will receive it, and be it done for you. Amen, I say to you. Amen. O, praise and glory to our Holy Mother for ever, amen.’
For an instant there was peace, and then the weeping began. I felt wetness upon my own cheeks, and heard my own voice cry out for forgiveness, and I was angry.
I was still angry when I found my way out of the church, for it took as long to come out as to go in, however hard I shoved. It was raining once more, and I felt water inch its way down the back of my neck. I was making my way to find the horse when I heard the pounding of footsteps behind me.
‘Brother: stop.’ A man’s breath sounded heavily. ‘Did you not hear me calling you?’
I turned to face the voice I knew so well. We had been clerics together; now we were priests, and apart. He was still a head taller than me, still built like a cattle-drover, though softer about his belly. He panted a while longer, then raised his arm. I flinched from the blow I thought was coming, but he slapped me on the shoulder in friendship.
‘Dear Brother in Christ. My dear Thomas: welcome. It gladdens my heart to see you here. It has been too long a time. Were you in the church just now?’
I nodded.
‘You came to hear me preach.’
I watched his face glow: with pride or exertion, I did not know. He patted his breast, gathering himself into calmness. Raindrops sparkled on his naked scalp.
‘It has indeed been a long time,’ I said. ‘Brother John, greetings.’ My arms hung from their hinges.
‘A hearty good greeting indeed. You will come to my house. You are getting wet; so am I. Let me refresh you.’ He laughed at the pleasurable thought.
‘My horse is tied up.’
‘Then let my man untie it and bring it also. There is plenty of hay in the stable.’
‘I cannot stay long.’
‘You labour as hard as you ever did, Brother,’ he grinned. ‘How do you keep?’
‘Well, by the grace of God.’
‘And Anne?’
My tongue shrivelled. What did he wish to imply about the chastity of my house? How had he heard about her?
‘My housekeeper is well also, thank God.’
‘Good. Good.’ His eyebrows lifted and he grinned, although I had said nothing amusing. ‘You are the same man, Thomas.’
‘I am the same man, Brother John. Steadfast and true, as ever. And you?’
‘The Lord blesses us daily.’
A smile flowered in his face. It came to me that he was a happy man. He laid his arm across my shoulder and hugged me to him, and would not release me until we walked over the threshold of his house.
A man opened the door to us and took John’s cloak and mine, shaking away the shower and greeting us cheerfully. As he laid off his outdoor clothes, John revealed himself dressed as grandly as a lord in fine blues and russets. I was clad in homespun cape and cassock. I praised my judgement for wearing my old boots. It seemed no one in his household could keep from showing their good humour: neither John, nor his servant – not even his dog, which flapped up to welcome us and thrashed its tail against my leg when John bent to tickle its ragged ears.
I was led, with much good cheer and stroking of my upper arms, questionings about my comfort, and was I warm enough? into the solar. I struggled to stop a gasp escape my throat, and I believe turned it skilfully enough into a cough.
The room was almost the size of my whole house. Tapestry draped three of the walls, and the one without boasted a window of many lights, each of them glazed with the clearest of glass. The rain tapped politely at the panes. Woven mats of straw covered the floor from side to side; but the greatest wonder was the fireplace set into the wall, all smoke sucked up a sturdy brick chimney. The hearth was littered with fire-forks, and tongs, and bellows, and andirons, and a heaping wood-basket.
I could not help but thank God for my poorer dwelling, secretly pleased for the fire in the centre of my own home. Everyone knows a smoky room is the best medicine to keep a goodman from the quack. I must have become lost in gazing at all the worldly riches about me, for the next thing I knew was John plucking at my arm again.
‘Please, drink with me, dear Brother. You must be thirsty. I know I am after all that speaking.’
His man brought us each a cup and into them he poured an inky liquid that smelled of spices. I wrinkled my nose, yet tasted it for civility’s sake. There was such a delight about it that it melted my tongue straightway, and cosseted my shoulders into restfulness.
Then the female came into the room. I had heard talk of her, of course. How they lived as a man and wife do; and not one man in the Staple judged them for it, not even for the bastard child they had between them. Her long skirts brushed against the rush matting, so that she approached as a breeze through trees. Her under-dress was fitted tight as a second skin over her breasts and arms, and the loose over-tunic was of some deeply figured yellow stuff that caught the light and flickered as if those trees were shedding their leaves in autumn. A fist of keys swung from her girdle and the kerchief of a wife enveloped her head. She walked directly to John and he took her hand in his great paw.
‘My dear Margret, let me welcome you to my Brother in Christ, Thomas of Upcote, who is priest at Brauntone.’
She arched her body in brief courtesy.
‘I am as joyful as John to be in your company, Brother Thomas,’ she said. ‘John talks of the time you studied together with happy recollection. I pray you have brought news of my dearest friend Anne.’
‘News?’ I croaked, throat parched.
My cup was unaccountably empty. When I drained it I did not know. The woman raised her eyebrows at my continued silence, but I could not think of a response. At last she sighed, turned from me and seated herself at the window. She drew out a piece of fabric from beneath the bench, and commenced sewing.
‘Another cup for our dear brother,’ said John. ‘Please, Thomas, sit. Sit. I beg you be comfortable.’
My head bounced like a spindle. My backside found the nearest bench, which was so loaded with cushions and coverings there was no bare wood to be seen. John’s man poured more wine. I must drink more temperately, I thought.
John placed himself upon the chair at the head of the room and rested his elbows on its arms. It was so carved about with vines and flowers that I had a great desire to kneel before it and run my fingers over the fanciful work, counting all the different varieties of plant: rose, lily, primrose, violet. But I gripped the edge of the bench and gazed into the dark eye of my cup.
‘It is an honour to receive you into our home, Thomas,’ said John. ‘It is so many months since I saw you last. Your company is most pleasing to us.’
The mud on my boots was beginning to dry. I knocked my heels together and lumps of it fell onto the mat. I nodded my thanks: my head seemed to take a long time to stop bobbing up and down. At last I was steady.
‘We do not see you in the Staple, Thomas. You are always welcome at our board.’
I bent my neck again: once, twice.
‘I sent diverse writings and messages,’ he said. ‘But never had an answer back.’
‘It has been a busy time. I do not keep servants to wait on me.’
‘Ah. Yes.’
I raised my cup and took a small sip; another, larger mouthful, then dragged it away to rest at my knee before I could swallow the lot.
John coughed quietly. ‘You are pleased with the wine?’
I wanted to cry out that my senses had never been so enraptured, that my eyes swam, that my belly rejoiced. ‘It is good,’ I said carefull
y. ‘Very pleasing.’
‘I have it from France,’ he said, as though France were as near to him as his shoe. ‘But it is Margret who mixes the spices so elegantly.’
I was astonished that he talked of her so boldly, with no embarrassment. She lifted her head and smiled. Their mutual tenderness was as apparent as a delicate ribbon tying one to the other. I could not believe John insulted me by parading his whore. I thanked Christ he had enough shame to hide his bastard lad.
‘I have had enough wine,’ I grumbled, hearing the ashes in my voice.
‘Come, Thomas,’ said John. ‘Be merry. We have not talked as brother to brother for so long. There are only six miles between us. My heart is glad that you crossed them to come to me this morning.’
‘I did not come to see you. Or your woman.’
His eyebrows jumped. He darted a swift glance at the female where she sat in the light from the window, embroidering a long strip of watery fabric. She winced, no doubt from shoving the needle into her thumb. When John returned his gaze it seemed as though his eyes were darkened with fear; but it was gone so swiftly I must have been mistaken, so dazed was I by drink. I sucked at my cup. I did not wish my words to pinch, but it seemed I could not blunt the edge of my sharpness. Maybe the wine would cozen my angry humour into something more loving. Many men are snared by women. God is the Judge; I am not.
‘I came to see the icon, as it is called,’ I said more reasonably.
‘Yes, it is so called,’ John sighed. ‘The people are terrified. Every day I watch for signs of this pestilence: at the quayside, in the men who come off the ships. How we have been spared, I do not know. Bristol has been scourged, and all the coast running south. I hear it is as close as Combe Martin. Perhaps closer.’
His voice quaked. He ran his hand over his new-shaved head. My own scalp prickled. I should have commanded Anne to shave me before I left. I did not know why I had forgotten such a simple task. My cup was nearly empty. I tipped what was left down my throat. At a distance, I could hear John’s voice asking me a question. I tried to remember what he had been talking about, and how much of his conversation I had missed, but all I could think of was how neatly his hair was trimmed.
Vixen Page 16