Vixen

by Rosie Garland

  ‘Yes, indeed, it is true,’ I mumbled, for I reckoned that every man desires agreement.

  He seemed surprised. He waved his hand and my cup was filled once more. This would be my last draught, I said inwardly. I was not a carouser.

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘I took you sometimes for a harder man.’

  I wondered what I had agreed to. I laboured to draw my thoughts together. ‘John: this painting of the Virgin. It is why I am come to the Staple. What of it?’

  He peered at me closely as a woman examines her yarn for breaks. ‘We were just talking of it. I thought you heard me. Unlettered men need to throw their hopes upon something they can see; we bring them thus to God. This picture satisfies the hunger of unlearned men. You agreed.’

  ‘I did not. I do not.’ A little of my wine spilled onto the floor. ‘You break the Commandments, John. It is idolatry.’

  ‘Thomas. Brother. Calm yourself. Men do not worship the picture. They are comforted by the Virgin, and Her great power to work miracles. It is succour for fearful men.’

  ‘Are you saying there is no holiness in it? Did you paint it yourself?’

  The room was suddenly quiet. John and the woman flicked their eyes at each other.

  ‘No, Brother Thomas.’ His voice was tight. ‘The holy icon of which we speak was found on the banks of the river after the storm on the feast of the Blessed Augustine. It was brought here straightway by William Godeby the carter, and the carrying of it cured him of a bloody flux he suffered this past six months. We pray daily that the power of our most Blessed and Holy Mary may protect and save us from the coming storm.’

  The female stabbed tiny holes in her embroidery.

  ‘But the storm passed,’ I said. ‘Surely we shall have no other.’

  ‘I mean the storm of this foul corruption.’ He raised his hands and let them fall. ‘We hope for miracles. We have never been in such great need for them.’ He took a deep breath. ‘God is punishing the world,’ he whispered.

  ‘Then the sinless have nothing to fear,’ I said, and smiled at my clever reasoning.

  ‘Brother Thomas, I fear you are not listening to me. Have you not heard the tales of this Great Dying?’

  ‘No.’

  I kicked my heels together and showered dried mud onto the floor. I must bid Anne clean my boots and oil them on my return.

  ‘You must have. The whole world talks of little else.’

  ‘In the Staple, perhaps. In Brauntone we are poor village folk. We are not distracted from wholesome work and humble worship of the Lord.’

  ‘Thomas; men are dying.’

  ‘Then we must hold fast to all that is godly,’ I cried. ‘Not the vanities of the world.’ I pointed my eyes at the tapestry hanging on the wall opposite me. Two men on horseback pursued a stag through a forest. ‘Or idol-worship,’ I added, hoarsely.

  ‘Do you dare call the Mother of God an idol? The Bishop has given us his warrant. I am your Brother in Christ, but have a care that you do not blaspheme.’

  I chewed upon my lip, the better to fence in my words. ‘No. She is not an idol. But I observe that her image is treated as such. And I note that you are dressed and fed better than you ever were, John.’

  ‘The better to serve God and my flock. Do you fall into the sin of covetousness, Thomas?’

  ‘I covet nothing of yours. I never have done.’ I spoke with a heart that waxed ever more fiery, his words serving to fan the flame. My breath came in gasps. ‘You have a thing of wood,’ I continued, my soul blazing with faith. ‘We have been sent a miracle made flesh.’

  John leaned on his fist and smiled at me. ‘The green girl?’ he said. ‘Ah, Thomas, do not be so out of humour. The whole Staple talks of her. There is not one cott, one vill between here and Exeter that has not heard of her. Is it true she is scaly, like a fish?’

  I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly packed tight with stones. ‘No, she is not. She is bright as an angel. She came up out of the marshes on the night of the great storm, just as your icon did. God sent you a picture; how much greater to send us an angel.’

  ‘Out of the marshes? Her feet are webbed like a goose, then?’

  He was smirking, and I could see the woman’s mouth turn up at the edges. I would not let them mock me.

  ‘This is God’s work. At first she displayed the behaviour of a beast, but turned miraculously into a girl, just like the story of our Saint. He turned a wolf into a man. It is as though the Holy Brannoc is among us again.’

  As I spoke the words, I felt their truth fill me with certainty. My body sang.

  ‘So, Thomas,’ said John. ‘Is she miraculous?’

  I could not understand how my cup was empty again. I looked about my feet to see if I had spilled any, but the mat was dry. He twitched his hand and the serving-man appeared at my elbow and slopped liquid into my cup. It had been refilled three times. Or was it four? John held his hand over the mouth of his glass. I could not understand why he did not drink with me; it was unmannerly. I would drink with him if he came to my house. And I would hide Anne away; not parade her like an object to be admired.

  My throat was packed with straw. The wine soothed it and my faith glowed again. I strove to seek out the words to explain to John what she was, what I had witnessed in my vision.

  ‘Yes! God sent her to us. You say men are dying all over the earth? Well, our village is not sickening. Not one man or woman has died since she came. Is that not a miracle?’ I sighed.

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ murmured John. ‘So: you have informed my Lord Bishop of this great marvel?’

  I stared at him.

  ‘You have not? We had a commission in the Staple to examine the icon; it was deemed holy by the Bishop himself. I would not dare to claim powers for something which might not be from the Lord. Has no one examined this girl? My Lord Bishop has not given his approval?’

  ‘I have been very busy.’

  ‘Of course. The Lord’s work is labour indeed. Let me help you, then, Brother. I shall collect together some goodmen of this parish and we shall visit you presently. We shall examine this creature and send a report to my Lord Bishop. He will then decide what is to be done. He may well attend you himself, and test these miraculous happenings with the full rigour of his office. As he did to the icon.’

  Once again, words fled me. I should welcome his help, but a dark bundle of fear hung suddenly upside down in my head, slowly unfolding damp wings.

  ‘I must …’ I began. Must what? I wanted to say, Ask Anne. I did not know whence came such a thought.

  ‘You must?’

  ‘I must open the door of my house in welcome. When shall you come?’

  ‘I do not know.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I will ask Master Nicholas Fuller the physician. And Master William Sneaton, from the school. They are as vexed with hard work as we are. When I know the date, I will send word to you. I would not have you inconvenienced.’

  ‘No.’

  John stood, and patted away the wrinkles in his lap. Margret continued to prick at her sewing. I noticed she wore a tiny stall of silver over the end of her finger, and with the help of it she pushed the needle through. Some fancy from London, no doubt. John cleared his throat.

  ‘I must go and say Terce. I am sure you are eager to return and do the same.’

  I stood quickly. The cup fell to my feet and lay there.

  ‘You are a godly man, Thomas. A lucky man. Be sure you convey our warm greetings to Anne.’

  At first I thought he raised his arm in farewell, but saw that he was merely directing me to the door. My boots crunched the reeds. My cloak was thrust into my arms. Before I was two steps down the path, the door closed.

  As I came to the outer door of my house I heard low whispers: two voices, one of which I was sure was Anne. I knew the flow of her words from overhearing her babble many a time.

  The other voice I did not know at all. I wondered if it was butcher or baker or simply one of her gossips, for which I mos
t certainly had not given permission. But I had heard this voice before: it hissed and crackled like green wood thrown on a fire. I stepped forward quickly. However urgent the matter, I had not given Anne leave to invite guests. I must chide her. We had spoken of this and I did not relish disobedience.

  I laid my hand upon the wood and paused. It was as though I heard my sour thoughts for the first time and was taken aback at how little I liked them. Was I truly so unbending? Did charity have so precarious a foothold in my soul? My hand trembled. Was my wrathful and unforgiving nature the cardinal vice which might bring down the fury of the Mortality upon my flock?

  I stood rooted to the threshold, quaking like a whipped pup. I would not chastise Anne. She was lonely and no doubt affrighted by the chattering about this pestilence. It was rumour made the people sick, not the fever, I counselled myself. We would stay healthy. We had the Saint, and now the blessed Maid.

  I lifted the latch, pushed open the door and stepped into a silent room. Anne was seated quietly beside the hearth, sorting the stones from a dish of dried peas. She looked up as I entered and bade me good day, eyes meek as a lamb’s. I looked about. The door to the garden was open and I fancied I had seen it swinging as I entered; now it was still.

  ‘Is the Maid in here?’ I asked.

  Anne made a show of looking about with great curiosity. ‘No, sir. She is not,’ she said, after a longer search than was necessary.

  ‘I heard voices.’

  ‘Sir?’ She stretched her eyes so wide that the arch of her brows was lost beneath her coif.

  ‘Were you talking to someone?’ I continued.

  ‘No one is here for me to talk to, unless it be myself.’

  I snapped my fingers. ‘Do not address me thus, woman. I heard whispering. There were voices. You and another.’

  ‘Sir, there is none other,’ she said politely, then brightened, seized with the answer to the conundrum. ‘Perhaps it was this you heard?’

  She dug her fingers into the peas, lifted a palmful and dropped them. She scooped up a second and a third, the beans swishing against each other.

  ‘Was it like that?’

  ‘No,’ I grunted. ‘It was not like that at all.’

  She wore a look of such innocence that I was not able to be angry for long. I stood a while, observing her pick out pieces of grit so tiny I could not see them, although I would notice them soon enough between my teeth. I complimented her on her careful work and, rubbing my hands together, said I must say the Office. I had no need to tell her of what had passed in the Staple. There would be plenty of time for that.

  ‘God be with you,’ she said, not looking up from the bowl.

  I forgot this incident, caught up as I was in the Lord’s service, and the misfortunes that were to befall the village, but I had cause to reflect upon it later.

  ANNE

  ‘You know I can’t stay here,’ she blurts, voice rough round the edges.

  ‘Oh?’

  I lay the carding paddles in my lap where they lie, knotted with lumps of wool. The Maid stands at the door with her back to me, scratching at the threshold with a grubby toe.

  ‘You have found out what I am. It is never safe when that happens.’

  There is a pause. I consider picking up the combs and resuming my task, but my hands are as motionless as wood. The pile of fleece sags at my feet, exuding its particular odour of wet sheep. When I think the silence cannot continue a moment longer, she lets out a long exhalation and turns. The light is behind her and I cannot read her eyes.

  If she’s half the girl I think she is, begging her to stay will be like pouring water down a rat-hole. I command my hands to move and they obey. I pick up the paddles and scrape them one against the other until the oily scent rises to my nostrils. Only then do I speak.

  ‘Where will you go?’ I ask.

  She draws close enough to see her face clearly. ‘The next place,’ she says. I see a flicker of uncertainty, stamped out before it has a chance to set a fire. ‘I never know where that might be until I am there.’

  ‘It will have to be a long way off. Somewhere folk have not heard of the Holy Maid of Brauntone.’

  ‘That won’t be difficult. I won’t be this Maid when I’ve gone. I’ll be someone else.’

  ‘Ah. That is indeed clever.’ I pause to pluck out a leaf trapped in the wool.

  ‘You’ve been combing that same piece for a long time.’

  ‘Since when were you the expert? The fleeces delivered to the reverend Father take twice the coaxing to deliver half the yarn. Full of breaks.’ I scratch the pins roughly to prove my point. ‘Have a care when you leave,’ I continue. ‘You’ll be dodging a lot more than curious folk. There’s the pestilence to consider.’

  The nervousness tarries on her features for the space of a breath.

  ‘It surrounds this village like the iron collar on a mastiff,’ I muse. ‘That’s what I’ve heard.’ I lift the comb to examine the wool more closely. It’s as good as it’s ever going to be. I scrape off the pad, set it aside for spinning and scoop up the next piece. I have to pick out a dead beetle and even a few pellets of dung before I can start. I do not look at her. ‘Then again, I rarely step an arrow-shot from this village. You’ll know the truth of it better than me.’

  I draw the paddles back and forth, back and forth. The rhythm of brush and pause and the shushing of the pins reminds me of waves upon sand.

  ‘You’ve already run away, or tried to,’ I continue. ‘You came back, but my wits tell me it was for lack of money, not love of this place. If you must go, you must. My heart will be heavy, more than you know. But I can’t hold the wind in my arms.’

  Her mouth hardens. ‘What? So now you’re saying you want me to leave, are you?’

  ‘I do not need to. You are telling yourself, so loud you cannot hear a word anyone else is saying.’

  ‘You can’t wait to be rid of me,’ she mutters, as though I’ve not spoken.

  I slap the combs into my lap. It occurs to me a game is being played here, one she has played before.

  ‘By all the saints, the Virgin and the Babe besides. Now you put words into my mouth. I do not know who spoke thus to you, but it was not me.’ Her face reddens. My arrow has found its mark. I speak more kindly. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she grumbles.

  ‘Who did say that to you?’

  She glares at me, angry at being found out or at the recollection, I cannot tell. ‘Everyone,’ she snaps. ‘Every person I have ever met. You’ll do the same.’

  ‘Will I now?’

  ‘You all do. You’ll betray me. You’ll swear on a heap of holy bones to stay quiet, but you won’t. The secret will sear its way into your heart like you’ve spilled a bowl of porridge down your bodice. It’ll slip out in front of Thomas. Or you’ll gabble to your ma, your sister.’

  ‘We shall see. I shall not waste my breath swearing if you have already decided not to believe me. But I tell him nothing. Nor do I have streams of companions to while away the hours over cups of ale and sweetmeats.’

  She throws me a wide-eyed look and chews her lip. ‘I must leave. But I cannot,’ she says in a small voice. ‘I have nothing, save the shift I stand in. Which will get me precisely nowhere.’

  My smile grows, slow but strong. ‘Then I believe I can help. Come. I shall furnish you with what you need to quit this place. The rest is up to you.’

  She watches as I set up the ladder to the upper room and beckon her to climb after.

  ‘Well? Are you coming or not?’ I say from halfway up the rungs.

  She laughs. It is not a pretty sound, but in its creak I hear a door squeak open and let in a crack of light.

  I never met a wight who wasn’t dazzled by treasures: I’ve spent my life observing folk gawp at the shrine. The delights in the attic are not as grand as those belonging to the Saint, but they caught my attention quick enough and I’ll wager they’ll capture hers. I throw back the door and show of
f the treasures as proudly as though they are my own possessions and I am displaying them to impress a wife.

  She is on the first chest like a starving man on food, tossing back the lid. She picks up each item and examines it minutely, working her way through with the efficiency of a sheep that will crop a meadow bald if left to itself.

  At first I think she is enraptured by the sheets, for she takes out each one, shakes it firmly and runs her fingers along every seam. I realise that she is searching through the folds for items of greater value. Whenever she finds a copper coin she grunts with pleasure, until one by one they grow into a small heap. She selects hose, tunics, caps and any number of men’s garments, turning up her nose at the gowns and kirtles, although some of them are very fine. I’d wear them fast enough if it wasn’t for the fact that Thomas would know where I found them and lecture me on women’s vanity.

  She is deft, confident, nimble. Everything about her is so different that I can hardly believe this is the girl who dribbled and hobbled only a few days ago. I was completely hoodwinked. If she can dissemble so well before the world – and that included me – am I a fool to trust her now? A chill creeps down the back of my neck.

  She opens the second chest and picks up the fox. I wait for her to hug it to her breast as I did, but she wrinkles her nose and hurls it at the wall. It sprawls in the dust, patchy and balding.

  ‘Have a care,’ I snap. ‘All these things must be put back. Thomas may be a fool, but if he comes up here and finds this disarray, he’ll work it out.’

  She looks surprised: either forgetting that I am there, or that I am able to make a good suggestion.

  She shrugs. ‘Go to, if you would have it tidy.’

  With that, she returns to her search and I am dismissed. My anger flares. I grasp her arm and squeeze tightly enough to make her squeal.

  ‘So. I have your attention,’ I growl.

  Her mouth forms a slack circle of shock. ‘Mistress?’ she squeaks, and arranges her lips coyly.

  ‘You can stop calling me that,’ I say. Her false smile is replaced with something far craftier. ‘Make cow’s eyes if it pleases you,’ I add. ‘You may think I am one of a hundred women who can be wrung like a wet rag. In my case you would be making a mistake.’