I watch him go and wonder what my life might have been if I had let him pass on the Saint’s Day all those years ago. I am surprised to discover I feel not one scrap of regret. If I had not gone to his house, I would not have met the Maid and my life would be immeasurably poorer. Not to say shorter.
I take a turn around the churchyard and find it scattered with strangers. I ask who tends the alehouse and hear an unfamiliar name. Likewise with bell-ringer, miller, steward, reeve: all are young folk with no memory of who came before them. It is a village with no old men, save Thomas. With a griping in my belly I make my way up the street to my father’s cottage. It stands empty, the thatch fallen in on one side so that the door is blocked. My mistress finds me there.
‘There is no holiness in this place,’ she declares. ‘What say you, Nan?’
She is the only one I permit to address me thus. ‘It is a tumbledown place,’ I reply.
‘Like so much of this land,’ she sighs. ‘Before the Great Dying this was quite the place to come on pilgrimage.’
‘So I have heard, mistress,’ I reply.
‘I have a nose for saints and there are none lying here,’ she says. ‘The villagers say that the Saint climbed out of his shrine one night and walked into the forest. He deserted the village because of some great sin, although no one knows what.’
‘Well,’ I say. ‘That is indeed a wonder, mistress.’
‘Are you done?’ she asks softly, for she is a kind woman.
‘I am done,’ I reply. ‘I have no desire to stay.’
She takes my hand and we take our leave.
I had the first word. I never thought to have the last. I cut my own path through this halting, hobbling, half-empty land. I am not broken. Not by men, certainly: their cruelty has not undone me. Not by God, for all Thomas’s ravings about sin. I am not struck down by Death, although he has sopped his bread in my dish and drunk from my cup. I never thought to be merry again, but the heart heals in its own time and not to our promptings. I stand straight and stride through this world. I dance over hills, through valleys, along beaches; treading light upon the sand, carrying the small bright lamp of my star.
About the Author
Born in London to a runaway teenager, Rosie has always been a cuckoo in the nest. She is an eclectic writer and performer, ranging from singing in Goth band The March Violets through touring with the Subversive Stitch exhibition in the 1990s, to her current incarnation as Rosie Lugosi the Vampire Queen, cabaret chanteuse, incomparable compere and electrifying poet. She has published five solo collections of poetry and her award-winning short stories, poems and essays have been widely anthologized. Her debut novel, The Palace of Curiosities won Book of the Year in the Co-op Respect Awards 2013 and was longlisted for the Desmond Elliott Prize 2013.
Also by Rosie Garland
The Palace of Curiosities
Copyright
The Borough Press
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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Published by The Borough Press 2014
Copyright © Rosie Garland 2014
Map copyright © Nicolette Caven 2014
Every effort has been made to trace and contact copyright holders. If there are any inadvertent omissions we apologise to those concerned and will undertake to include suitable acknowledgements in all future editions.
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover illustration © Lindsey Carr
Rosie Garland asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007492794
Ebook Edition © JULY 2014 ISBN: 9780007492817
Version: 2014-06-14
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