‘I always thought it was to avoid fornication. He lectured me about it often enough. As though the sight of the bed would fill me with such lust that I’d hurl him upon it and seduce him into sin.’
‘I notice the glass in this window is whole,’ she remarks dryly. ‘No nasty draughts in here.’
I survey the room, its quiet comforts. ‘Perhaps he was right,’ I say. ‘Upon this bed I find myself seized with thoughts of passion.’
‘Do you indeed?’ she answers.
‘And fornication,’ I growl.
‘Oh, mistress Anne!’ she breathes. ‘How you lead me astray!’
She shoves my shoulder, half in play, half in earnest. I make a great show of toppling backwards, spreading my arms wide.
‘I am overthrown,’ I say. ‘My walls are breached and I lie open to you.’
She smiles, eyes full of dangerous strategies. She pushes my skirt up to my thighs and kneels between; bends over and presses her nose to the quivering spot between my legs. She inhales deeply, raises her head and smacks her lips.
‘You smell of bread.’
‘Oh. That sounds so – workaday.’
She lowers her head once more and slides her tongue into my cunny.
‘You are delicious,’ she murmurs.
I have never heard myself so described, having grown to accept myself as unremarkable as an unstirred pond. Nor did I ever think to be touched in this way.
As though she can hear my thoughts, she continues, ‘I’ll take you over spices and silk any day of the week.’
She smiles with more fondness than I have seen in the whole time she has been here. It is a door opened on to a room of hidden affection. She returns to licking wetness into what is already wet and I writhe with the bliss it brings.
She undoes the lace at my bodice and scoops out my breast, tugging the nipple, already hard and standing upright to meet the bite of her teeth. She browses there awhile, then draws out the other breast and shares her attention between the two, nipping first at one then the other, sending bright threads of delight through my body and straight to my quim.
Her fingers walk the soft skin of my thigh, higher and higher. I have never been so in need of the push of her fingers. She tortures me with slowness, circling, brushing the ready spot between my legs. I climb step by step towards the completion she has wrought in me before, only to have her withdraw at the very moment I need her the most. I am her instrument and she tunes me, plucks me; each string vibrates and hums the sweetest tune. I can do nothing but sing the chorus, Oh yes. Oh yes.
Over and over she does this until I am demented with need and can stand the delay no longer. She reads my body clearer than any words I might utter. She presses me further, pushing within me and I soar, my body clasping her fingers and squeezing with the fierce heartbeat of my joy.
I tumble slowly back to earth. I watch the room draw in its walls, the ceiling beams drop into place, the floor come up to meet the bed. Sounds creep in: the creak of her body beside me, the rasp of my breath, the pattering of rain on the window glass. I am gathered into my senses with the lassitude of a drunkard.
I want us to live in this instant and nowhere else. Nothing leading towards this moment or away from it has any significance. Even though I know this fancy of mine is a dream, I have no desire to wake.
I roll over to face her, my elbows sinking into the mattress. She smiles with understanding. I grin in response, trail my fingertips from her scuffed and grazed knee to the hem of her shift, slide my hand beneath and warm myself on the delicate skin of her thigh. There’s a rumble at the back of her throat. I proceed with great care, inching closer to the spot where she has wrung pleasure from me, for I wish nothing more than to light that delicious fire in her. But as I draw near she stiffens; the purr becomes a growl until at last she springs away, fast as a cat from a fire. She squats at the head of the bed, legs pulled up, arms wrapped around her bony knees. Her eyes are wide.
‘No?’ I say.
‘No,’ she grunts.
I am confused, for her pleasure is as dear as if it were my own. I stretch out my hand, to bridge the gap between us.
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘When the reward is so delightful?’
She shrinks from my touch. ‘I derive all the satisfaction I need when I bring delight to you. I watch it in your eyes, feel it in your body. I need no more.’
Her lips clamp together like Cat’s babe when he is in a contrary frame of mind and she is trying to feed him.
‘Do you think that because I am new to this that I am not capable of pleasuring you?’
‘Stop being a fool.’ She sees my face fall, stung by her words, and relents a little. Her mouth works up and down. ‘Can you not be happy with what we have?’ she says, and there is sadness in it.
‘I am happy. I would have thought that was clear.’
‘Then be content with what I can offer.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘No. You do not; and you are lucky that it is so.’
The air thickens between us. I know not one whit of her time before now. I have asked, over and over, and all she has given me are grunts and refusals. I have lived my whole life within twenty paces of this house. Who knows where she has been, what she has done. What she has had done to her.
‘I am sorry,’ I say. ‘It is true; I understand nothing. Teach me about yourself so I do.’
‘I can’t. You’d throw me out.’
‘Is that what has happened before?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are my Maid. I will never do that.’
‘You will, whatever you say.’
I want to drag her close and cover her face with kisses, lift away her clothes and continue to sprinkle those kisses across her stomach. But she says nothing more.
‘Very well,’ I say. ‘I shall not argue back and forth. When you are ready, I will listen. Know this.’
My flesh has lost its heat and I am uncomfortable with my nakedness; the way my breasts slide into my armpits. The salty smell from between my legs seems to fill the room, all the way up to the ceiling. I slip my hands through the armholes of my shift and pull it over my head and she watches. I wonder if she will stop me now that I am concealing the flesh that only a few moments ago she declared so delectable. She stares at me as if my body holds as much interest as the stable door. I drag my gown over my head and thrust my arms into the sleeves.
‘Here,’ I say. ‘Help me to tie the laces at my wrist.’
She tugs the ribbons until all fits snugly. The air between us is fragile and could break with the slightest knock.
‘I am sorry for my sharpness,’ she continues after a long space that I manage not to fill with chatter. ‘I permit no one to touch me. Even when I desire it. And I desire it with you.’
My soul swells, aching to cry out, Then let me! But some preserving influence stays my tongue.
‘This is not your fault,’ she says.
I know it is not. But I resist saying so, contenting myself with a small murmur of agreement. It is all I shall get from her today. It will profit me nothing, making a to-do about it, for she is as immovable as Lundy when she sets her mind to it. I sit up and re-braid my hair.
‘There has been great sweetness here today,’ I say, calmly. ‘Let us not spoil it with bitterness. When you are ready to open to me, I will be here.’
‘Even if I never do?’
‘Even then.’
Thomas continues to shrink into a shadow that passes across the wall of my days, darkening the room but for an instant. The moment passes, he is gone and the day grows bright once more. If he notices the change the Maid has wrought in me, he says nothing. In faith, he remarks on very little: not the food I hurl into his dish nor my long absences. It seems I am become the mistress of my own house. I like the taste of it. It is no lie: I am mistress, and not merely of the house, but of my life. I stand straight and tip up my chin.
I complete my household chores hastily. When Thomas a
sks for his sheets to be washed I say, There is linen in the attic room. A chest full of it. I stare at him until he turns and goes to collect the ladder. If he notices the unlocked door and the many things disturbed, he does not remark upon it. We grunt good day and good evening as we pass and I hear the sounds rolling empty in my mouth. I should be grateful for this merciful change in my daily circumstances, but a perverse part of me misses our hurling back and forth of angry words.
I have the sensation of waiting. It is only with the Maid that I feel any semblance of animating breath. She speaks little: rather, she sparks me into flame with her hands and mouth. Her fingers write stories upon the blank page of my flesh till I am illuminated more brightly than the Saint’s book chained up in the church, woven into a woman far lovelier than any Sheba.
The idea of leaving the village with her grows stronger with each day, until the notion becomes a wish and the wish swells into desire. Yet it is at odds with my fear of the pestilence lying in wait and ready to spring upon us the moment we step outside the bounds of the village.
It is the Feast of Saint Wulfhilda when I find her in the stable as usual; brushing, combing, and chattering away to the mare as though it can understand her. She nods when I enter, but is busily engaged in feeding the beast a thin gruel, far more water than oats. I twist my apron between my fingers until she pauses and peers at me more intently.
‘Out with it,’ she says. ‘You burn with questions.’
I huff out the breath lying heavy upon my breast. ‘How did you stay safe?’ I ask. ‘Out there. From the pestilence.’
‘I am a good dancer,’ she says, and laughs with more than a hint of bitterness. She sees my confusion. ‘It is nothing. A private joke between Death and myself.’
I chew the inside of my cheek. ‘I want to come with you.’ Her eyes widen with something that looks a lot like pleasure. ‘But I am afraid,’ I add.
‘Of course you are. Only a simpleton wouldn’t be.’ She rubs the mare’s nose and sets down the empty bowl. ‘Perhaps I have been lucky. But I believe it is more than luck. I have a shield. Against the pestilence.’
‘Tell me,’ I cry. ‘Not just me. You should tell everyone.’
She shrugs. ‘I have tried. No one wishes to learn.’
‘I do.’
‘Then watch,’ she says, and that is all she will say.
She rubs the mare’s neck, whispering words of a calming nature, much as fell from my lips when she was first given to me after the great storm. I can scarce believe it was but a quarter-year ago. It seems that half my life has been gladdened by her presence. My thoughts meander in this agreeable direction as she pummels the animal’s belly with her small fists. The beast snorts, its eyes swimming with a delight I know only too well, for I feel that same animal bliss when she lays her hands upon me.
The Maid’s attention does not waver, and for the strangest moment it is as though she is alone with the mare, communing as one creature to another. It is foolishness, yet I am jealous that this animal has captured her attention, leaving none for me. I cough. Her head darts up, wondering if I am warning of Thomas’s approach. When she sees I am not, she casts a smile at me. Her smile, the one she keeps for me alone, and I am content once more.
‘Now,’ she says. ‘This is my talisman against the fever. She is ready.’
The mare lifts her tail sideways and lets go a fountain of piss. The Maid makes no attempt to step out of the way: on the contrary, she sticks first her hands and then her arms into the flow. It is the oddest thing I have ever set eyes on, and I have seen some queer things when folk declare themselves cured by the Saint.
‘Well, I never did,’ I say, for lack of anything better.
She reaches into the manger and draws a sheet from beneath the straw.
‘From the attic?’ I ask.
She winks. ‘From the attic.’
‘I did not see you.’
‘No, you did not.’
We grin at each other. She holds the sheet under the mare’s backside. Just when I think she must be done, she steps under the waterfall herself. The stream dwindles to a feeble trickle, then ceases. She wrings out her hair, and tosses the sheet over a roof-beam.
‘You wanted to know my secret. I have shown you.’
She tips her chin, pressing her lips into a thin line as if waiting for me to call her disgusting. I do no such thing.
‘I am curious,’ I say. ‘Not critical,’ I add hastily. ‘But I must know: why horse piss? You’ve washed everything in it, and the floor is soaked.’
‘The simple answer is that I do not know. No one instructed me. As I told you, I have kept one step ahead of this fever almost a year. I have observed the creep of its shadow. How it hides in ships for sailors to bring onshore.’
She shakes her head as though her ears are full of wasps. She busies herself tearing strips of linen from the edge of the sheet, knuckles white with effort.
‘I will not waste time telling you nasty tales. I have watched who and what it touches, and it won’t approach horses. Why, I have no idea. Would that I could be a horse, but even my skills won’t stretch that far.’ She lets loose a laugh, one that dies as soon as it is out. ‘Nor can I wrap myself in a horse hide, for they are inconvenient garments. In faith, I cannot afford to ride a horse, let alone buy one and skin it. So, I am left with the essence of the beast. While I clothe myself in that, I am safe.’
She hangs the wet rags neatly around the stable wall, where they drip onto the tamped earth floor. She keeps back two and wraps them around her ankles; I follow suit, adding one round each wrist for good measure. However foul the smell, it’s a fool who turns down help against disaster. When I am done, I heap a basket with the damp linen.
‘Anne?’ she asks.
‘No point in wasting a moment. I am going straight to my sister,’ I say.
‘The Staple?’ she says.
‘Yes, and don’t try to argue me out of it,’ I declare.
‘Would I succeed?’ she says.
‘No.’
‘Then I shall not waste my words.’ She places her hands upon my shoulders and pulls me into a kiss.
We do not see him till he is almost within the stable; only the brief darkness of his shadow falling across the door alerts us. We exchange startled looks and I breathe relief that it is Geoffrey and not Thomas.
‘Good day, Geoffrey,’ I declare. ‘Have you brought the Reverend Father one of your fine cheeses?’ My words are overloud, but he does not notice the artifice.
‘The Maid. I have—’ he begins, falters, and halts.
His eye roves from me to the Maid. I think that she will start playing her idiot part and am surprised when she does not. Instead, she turns very slowly to face the open doorway and takes a step forward. Sunlight strikes her, clothing her with a semblance of gold. Pale yellow liquid drips from the hem of her shift.
With great deliberation she raises her arms and holds them out to Geoffrey, stiffly as though they are made of wood. At first I wonder why she is making such a strange gesture, then I see how the light catches the fine hair on her arms in a quivering halo. Even though I know this is one of her tricks, my breath still gathers tight.
If I am affected, Geoffrey is far more so. His mouth dangles open as though he means to greet us, but no sound emerges. He presses his hands together, wringing them so fiercely I am afraid he might break a finger. I draw in a breath to bid him good day once again and startle him out of his swoon, but the Maid fires a glance at me. She holds her ground, glowing in the sunshine and the smallest part of me wonders if in fact she might truly be sent from God to save us. At the very moment I think she cannot possibly hold his attention any longer, she speaks.
‘I know why you are here.’
It is the voice of an angel, so soft it seems to speak for Geoffrey alone and straight to the ear of his soul. He makes a throttled noise and with no further prompting falls to his knees with a thump.
‘Maid!’ he squawks. ‘Dear God an
d all the saints! Save me!’
He sucks in a hurtling breath and begins to weep, loud and wild as a girl. While he is thus distracted, the Maid catches my eye and tips her head in a meaningful gesture. I see what she needs: the sun is moving across the stable door and taking its light from her. I move out of the way so that she may keep up with its movement, shuffling into the path of its beams. She flicks another glance at the pieces of linen displayed around the stable and nods.
I take one and with a grave expression offer the sopping scrap to Geoffrey. He looks at it and then at me, unsure what he is meant to do. I wait for him to guffaw, What manner of trickery is this? It is wet through. But he gapes ardently at the Maid. She smiles and speaks once more with that cunning stillness of her lips.
‘Geoffrey. God sends this gift. Take it, and be well.’
‘What about my mother? My father? Can they be saved also?’
She heaves out a heavy breath. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Mark my words. Tell everyone: sweep the straw from your houses. Soak the floor with the stale of horses. Bind this cloth around you. It will keep you safe.’
‘I will tell everyone!’ he cries, glowing with a zeal I never thought to see in his dull eyes.
‘No!’ roars the Maid. ‘No,’ she adds, with greater serenity. ‘Not the priest.’
‘Not Father Thomas?’ he stutters.
The Maid glances at me and I step forward.
‘You heard what the men from the Staple did to our Maid,’ I say, and surprise myself with the venom that spills from my tongue. ‘That was all the doing of the Reverend Father. Would you have him poke his nose in again?’
Geoffrey gulps. ‘No!’ he cries, clutching the rag and cradling it to his chest.
The sun has climbed higher and half the Maid’s body is in shadow.
‘Go,’ she says, with force behind the word.
I take his hand. ‘Come now, Geoffrey,’ I say, raising him up and bustling him out of the stable. ‘Would you weary the Maid?’
‘No!’ he gulps. ‘Oh, it is true! Father Thomas said she was sent by God!’
I will not echo the blasphemy, for I know the truth he does not. I lead him away and it takes far longer than it should, for he is forever twisting his head round to get a last look at the Maid through the stable door, even though she has slipped out of sight.
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