Vixen

by Rosie Garland

  ‘For telling me. It was difficult to hear. But far more difficult to speak, I think.’

  ‘I am sorry. I have made you miserable.’

  She raises her hand to my face and it comes away wet. She licks my salt from her fingers.

  ‘Anyone would weep, to hear such cruelty,’ I say. ‘That, or be made of stone.’

  ‘I am stone then, for I do not weep.’

  I blow my nose on my apron. ‘You are not. Your stone is the wall you have built around yourself. Stone walls are an excellent remedy against enemies.’

  She gives me a look that is half wonder that I see it, and half anger to have been so easily discovered.

  ‘Is that what you want?’ she snaps. ‘To breach me, leave me defenceless?’

  ‘I want nothing if you do not want it first yourself.’

  She throws me that look again, although this time wonder is battling powerfully against rage and doing well. Her mouth opens. There is a crackling from the back of her throat, as of twigs burning. At first I think speech has deserted her and she is being transformed into the witless girl we all thought she was at the start.

  ‘My love?’ I murmur.

  Her face twists, the sound grows louder, and she lets out a throttled yelp. It might be no; I cannot tell. Then she jumps to her feet and is away and I watch her grow smaller and smaller along the track towards the forest. The part of my soul that was left me after Adam died quits my body and races after her.

  VIXEN

  I run without seeing where my feet are heading and am deep into the forest before I stop and it breaks out of me.

  At last, I weep: for everyone I’ve lied to, stolen from, sneered at, tricked, cheated, crushed, kicked, used, fucked, run from, spat on. I vomit out my hatred and watch it coil at my feet, slick as an eel. Then I retch some more.

  When I am emptied of remorse, I find what’s left of myself at the bottom of the well: I am a lump of wizened meat with snapped teeth and broken claws, shrinking, black and shit-filled. This ugly monster stirs, unglues an eye and squeals. I weep for it also. It is a long time before I am done.

  I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes until green stars blur my vision. If I was the same creature of a quarter-year ago, I would keep running and not stop. I would find a new village, a new Thomas, a new Anne. But there is no other Anne, and I am not the same woman. There is only one place I wish to be.

  I turn and pick my way back through the trees towards the village, and it is only by chance that I come upon the ruins of Knot-Beard’s camp. Their fire is cold, the ashes wet and half-covered with earth, the hearthstones scattered. They have not been here for days, perhaps weeks. I tell myself they have been captured. But I know the truth: it was not the Sheriff who caught up with them. On one of their farming raids they found more than food. The pestilence snatched them away. I shall not see them again.

  Above my head a magpie sets up a clack-clacking. It sounds uncommonly like Death rattling His jaws as He laughs at the joke: I’ve been saving money to pay men long gone. I could have run away weeks ago.

  I stop at the well and wash my face in the cistern. I wait for the water to settle and peer at my reflection. I look the same and yet am different; not that I am sure what I looked like before.

  I find her in the stable, soaking rags and folding them neatly to distribute to the villagers. It makes my heart clench, my breath halt. She looks up as my shadow fills the doorway. Neither of us says a word. I hold out my hand. She rises, approaches. I lead her to the back, where the hay is heaped for winter forage and I draw her down on top of me. I cannot say love. It is a foreign tongue and I do not know if I will ever be able to speak it. But I can say her name, and I do so softly.

  ‘Anne.’

  I kiss her face with the same gentleness. I hope she can hear the words I cannot say in the touch of my mouth and hands. She says nothing, still, and I am grateful. I draw her hand between my legs and hold it there. At first she does not move.

  ‘Yes?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and close my eyes.

  ‘Keep your eyes open, my love,’ she murmurs. ‘Know it is Anne who touches you and makes your body sing.’

  She moves her fingers, slowly at first and my belly lifts into the caress. Despite the sweetness that trembles my body, I do not cry out her name, nor tumble the stable walls with shrieking.

  ‘Am I too quiet?’ I whisper.

  ‘You are who you are, which is all I wish. I need no fancy show to dazzle my ears.’

  I watch as she tends to the desires of my body and those of her heart; see my pleasure bloom in her eyes, hear her breath catch in tune and rhythm with mine. As the joy begins to mount, I am struck with a sudden terror that I will fly away, as I have always done. I look into her eyes and they hold me steady. I ascend, not out of myself but into a shuddering brightness. Delight seethes through my flesh and bursts my body into light and I am in that light and of that light and—

  I may not draw down the sun and stars, but I fall further than I thought possible into the rapture of another’s touch. Afterwards, I lie against the warmth of her body and could not run even if I wanted to, not that I want to at all. Gradually I gather myself together, not into the hardness of stone but something far more malleable. I run my hands over my limbs. It would not surprise me to find I am a different shape, just as beeswax forms to the shape of a new mould.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asks drowsily.

  ‘I feel different,’ I say. ‘I wonder if some great alteration has been wrought while we have been lying here.’

  ‘Perhaps you are changed.’

  She gazes at me with the tenderness I have seen before, but even that is changed. She is in possession of herself. I should like that also, and not merely to be in possession of clever disguises.

  ‘You are right, Anne. All those masquerades – they were better than being my own vile self. They were my protection. I have played so many parts that I am unsure where they end and I begin. They are become as much a part of me as my own skin. Who am I if I strip them all away?’

  ‘You are this woman, lying beside me. You are my beloved.’

  I chew the flesh on the inside of my cheek. ‘You say you love me.’

  ‘I do not say it. I live it. I breathe it. That is far more than words.’

  ‘How can I know?’ I say.

  I hear my voice, so small I wonder if I am still a child. Perhaps all the years between my childhood and now are a dream, and in a moment I shall be shaken awake and find … No. I speak again, voice so husky it could be the scratching of the paddles when she is carding wool.

  ‘I will try to be myself, Anne. I wish to try.’ I swallow, past the anger, past the fear. ‘I am yours.’ It is a terrifying confession. ‘I cannot promise,’ I say, more boldly, for breaking promises is what I am used to. ‘I promise nothing.’

  For the first time in my life I have stopped running. It may mean death, but I was never more alive.

  COMPLINE

  1349

  From Saint Justina to Saint Wilfrid

  THOMAS OF UPCOTE

  I instructed my legs carry me to the house, but they were unwilling. My heels scuffed the bare floor. I had not spread new rushes. I would only have to replace them. I wondered why Anne had bothered, every week. Then I remembered how I commanded her to do so. How I commanded her to wash my linen. How many tasks I bade her do, and every single one of them meaningless.

  The wind had picked up and was casting rain through the windows, so I shuttered them and secured the door. I wandered to the kitchen, to the solar and back again to the main room. It was cold and the hearth gaped, waiting to be filled with wood. I went again to the kitchen. A half-loaf lay on the shelf, furred with mould. I could not sit. I could not stand still. Neither could I lie down. I had no desire to be there, but there was nowhere else to go. I spent the day in uneasy wanderings, never settling in one place for more than a few moments.

  I was so caught up in the swirl of my
own thoughts that I did not see the light coming from the stable until I was almost upon it. At first I thought a sheaf of straw had caught fire within. The door was open, but blocked by men with backs turned. I knocked one upon the shoulder, and he jumped.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Father,’ he announced, very loudly.

  There was a sudden quietness, which only then made me realise there had been sound before.

  ‘God’s blessing on you this evening,’ I said. ‘You are Adam the carter, are you not?’

  ‘I am not,’ he answered, and crossed his arms. I could not see past him.

  ‘This is my stable,’ I whined.

  ‘Let him through, brother,’ said Anne’s voice.

  At once his face unfolded into a smile and he stood aside. The smell of damp wool buffeted me first, then I saw the source of the brightness: a half-circle of candle-stubs pressed into the dirt and potsherds filled with mutton fat, wicks spitting. The dust was speckled, as though light rain had fallen upon it. On this side of the flames huddled the men, women and children of my flock. Beyond the candles sat Anne and the Maid, the light quivering against their faces.

  A man stood, pushed back his hood and stepped to the edge of the marked space. He placed a small parcel on the ground.

  ‘It is a knife,’ he said. ‘A good one. My son’s.’

  The mob sucked him back and a female was next, with a jug.

  ‘Milk,’ she said. ‘I boiled it as commanded. I pray you send back the pitcher.’

  Anne nodded thanks. I watched as bread was offered, then a piece of green cheese, a boiled egg, coins, a slice of standing pottage. The Maid’s arms were heaped with scraps of wool, linen and homespun russet, and these she sifted through her fingers. Occasionally she paused at a rag that caught her eye, lifted it to her face and kissed it. Each time she did so, a gasp escaped one of the people crouched about her.

  See! She kisses mine!

  And mine also!

  And mine!

  Anne put her hand behind the bundle of hay that was her seat and drew out a leather bucket covered with rush matting. She placed it between the girl’s feet and took away the lid. The Maid cast a smile across our candlelit faces. A voice sputtered out, ‘Oh, good Maid!’ and fell into weeping. The girl’s gaze hovered in the direction of the sound until it was comforted into quiet snuffling. Then, piece by piece, she dipped the strips into the bucket, leaned out of the circle and placed each into the hand of its owner.

  Thank you, Maid; thank you, Maid babbled the people. They swayed like cornstalks, tying the rags around their ankles and tugging down their clothes to cover them. At last her arms were empty. She patted her hands together.

  ‘It is finished,’ said Anne.

  The Maid swept her eyes over each in turn, and at last fixed upon me. Everyone in the stable followed suit, and stared. I felt blood flame in my cheeks, and knew it for wrath that Anne indulged these fools in such heathen fiddle-faddle.

  ‘Hold fast to your faith in the Lord!’ I cried. ‘You must believe!’

  There were a few raised eyebrows, wearied agreements. One man close by muttered, ‘Yes, yes, we’ve heard that one before.’ I glared: he held my stern gaze unflinchingly. I was first to look away, but only because I had more important things to attend to than play a staring game. The Maid would never commit these acts alone. I seethed that Anne used her so.

  ‘We must keep faith in the Maid!’ I added.

  Ah, yes! They replied, with greater passion. Our Maid! They nodded at each other, sighing the Maid, the Maid, the words rippling back and forth with many signs of the Cross and touching of ribbons at throat, wrist and ankle.

  ‘You must believe in her holiness! Sent from God to protect us from the pestilence!’

  ‘Of course we do, Father!’ declared a woman.

  ‘What makes you think we do not?’ said another.

  ‘She is our own dear Maid!’

  I found some courage. ‘I will not have this – blasphemy. You must turn to God for comfort.’

  ‘Where was God when my baby died?’ a man asked. ‘Where were you? If it wasn’t for the Maid, my son would have perished.’

  ‘But this is idolatry!’ I blustered, waggling my hand. ‘A show for peasants to gawp at.’

  I got no further, for they crowded upon me so thick I thought the air would be stolen from my mouth. Hefty shoulder touched hefty shoulder and even though I stood on tiptoe, I could not see the Maid through the mass of bodies.

  ‘Peasants?’ growled the man I thought was the carter.

  I cudgelled my brains to serve up his name, and by some miracle was obeyed. ‘You are James!’ I said, and heard the desperation in my squeak.

  He ignored me. ‘The Maid looks after us right enough, so she does.’

  ‘Don’t tell us how to treat our blessed Maid.’

  ‘We’ve heard what the Staple men did to her,’ sneered a female with beer sweltering her breath. ‘You brought them down upon us.’

  ‘Me?’ My voice quailed with disbelief. I wished it could have been fury.

  ‘They brought the pestilence in with them. Because you stood by.’

  Despite the heat in the stable, my body grew cold. ‘They did not touch her!’ I cried.

  ‘If a man let that happen to my daughter, I’d – priest or no priest.’

  ‘How do we know he’s a priest?’ piped up a woman. ‘How do we really know the Bishop sent him?’

  There was an unpleasant muttering, as they considered this question.

  ‘So, whoever you say you are, you keep your paws off the Maid,’ growled James. ‘She’s ours, not yours.’

  ‘No!’ I shrieked ‘The Maid is mine! She is, she is!’

  I hurled myself at them, but could not break through the wall of flesh. A man grabbed me by the throat and shoved me away.

  ‘How dare you!’ I spluttered, rubbing my neck.

  I knew the truth. I had seen it: the Maid, bright as the sun, sent to me as a sign of God’s bounty. I would not lose their respect. I was their priest. They would kneel. They would pray. The force of my will would make it so. The force of God’s will, I corrected myself. They would cleave to my words. God’s words. The two were the same thing. The Maid would never desert me, never. The people would believe.

  Even though you no longer believe it yourself, said the voice of my soul.

  ‘No!’ I shrieked, and the world grew dark.

  ‘Reverend Father, are you well?’

  A woman’s face hovered over mine, pale and bloated as a corpse rising from a pond. I could not understand why I was lying flat on my back.

  ‘What?’ I shouted. There was a fearsome buzzing in my ears. ‘Why are there wasps? Get them away!’

  ‘Father Thomas?’ she repeated.

  I knew her face. Aline, that was it. Aline: a contentious drunkard. I hoped I had not spoken out loud, but her expression of concern did not alter and I reasoned that I had managed to hold my tongue.

  ‘What do you want?’ I whined, holding my hands before my face to defend me from blows, which did not come.

  It was all I could do not to hold my nose. The stench of ale, mixed with womanish odours, rolled off her in a sick tide. A man’s face appeared at her shoulder. His name danced out of reach. Once I would have sworn it was William my steward, but was sure of nothing tonight. Names, names, names. I did not know why I bothered with them. Hubert, James, James, Hubert. All were fodder and the Lord would fork us into the common pit sooner or later.

  ‘Let me help you, Father,’ the man grunted and not unpleasantly, which seemed a great wonder.

  What kindness have you ever shown him? My soul’s memory offered nothing. I felt close to weeping. His hands slipped beneath my shoulders and he hefted me upright with as little difficulty as a bag of peas. He patted straw from my gown.

  ‘Upsy-daisy, Father,’ he cooed, in the way you might to a child who has tripped and fallen.

  The woman gave a small smile that barely lifted the corner of her mouth
and patted me on the shoulder. ‘There now. Right as rain, aren’t we?’

  I peered at her again. Her eyes bore a great emptiness and I knew that a calamity had fallen upon her house. It had to be death, for there was nothing else on people’s minds; but who had died, I could not recall.

  ‘The Lord comfort you in your loss,’ I croaked.

  She glanced at the man. Their eyes met but they said only, ‘Bless you, Father.’ My feet were unsteady and my knees loosened once more.

  ‘Let me help you, Father.’

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ I screamed. ‘Help me, Anne!’ I wailed, and by God’s grace she spoke.

  ‘People, enough!’ she said. ‘Let the Reverend Father depart in peace. I am sure he needs to go to the church. It is high time we were all about our business, isn’t it?’

  My head bobbed wildly. The bodies drew away and air rushed back into my lungs. Every face smiled sweetly, as though I had dreamed the past few moments. The Maid gaped her mouth exceedingly wide and yawned. Anne smiled and raised her hand in what might have been a blessing, or a gesture of farewell. The folk gathered themselves together and made their way out with many a polite goodnight Father. I mumbled goodnight in response, for it seemed strange to stay silent.

  As soon as the place was empty the Maid leapt up, seemingly not tired at all, and began to sweep the floor with a fistful of haystalks. She then took the bucket and sprinkled droplets until all was wetted. Afterwards, she scooped the liquid over herself, rubbing furiously from ankle to calf to thigh, briskly, as if all must be done in a great hurry. She then lifted up her shift and Anne stood before me.

  ‘Will you allow the Maid no modesty, Father Thomas?’

  ‘Of course, yes,’ I stammered.

  She stood so close I could smell the tang of lavender in her hair. She stared at me boldly, and tipped her head to one side.

  ‘Well then, Father. We will say our own goodnight to you.’

  ‘Anne,’ I said, my voice breaking like a boy’s. ‘You cannot use the girl so.’

  ‘I do not. If anyone has used her, it is you, sir.’