Читать книгу Vixen - - Страница 12

For three days, we are a city. The world comes to our hamlet and brings its finery, its marvels, its smells, its terrors, its tragedies. For three days I stretch my eyes wide open and do not close them once, not even to blink. A handful of days, but crammed with a year’s worth of new sights and sounds, fresh riddles and do-you-remembers unsurpassed. These days supply me with every tale with which I’ll entertain myself for the remainder of the year.

The churchyard is too small to encompass these wonders, so the field behind Aline’s alehouse blooms thick as daisies with tents, blankets, fires. Every trestle for five miles about finds its way there; tables spring up and are loaded with bread and cheese. The air is riotous with the scent of bacon, for John the butcher always has a pig fat and ready for the Saint. In return the Saint makes sure his purse is heavy afterwards, and the world carries away the memory of the best pork in the shire.

So tumble in the girdlers, purse-makers, skinners, tanners, cap-makers, smiths, pewterers, glovers and net-makers; behind them the scullions, reeves, nuns and shoe-makers, brewers, cooks, archers, glass-blowers, knights, goldsmiths, silversmiths and gem-polishers.

Next come in the ploughmen, the sailors, the sea-captains, fishermen, pig-men, shepherds, dairywomen, alewives, spinners, weavers, high ladies and low women. Here are the barbers, the saw-bones, men of physic and midwives, wise women and charlatans. We have fools, clerks, schoolmasters, pullers of teeth, bone-setters, knife-grinders, matrons, virgins, peddlers, tinkers and trench-diggers.

It is a small Heaven upon earth: a lion of a soldier fresh from the war comes to thank the Saint for his deliverance and lies down with the lamb of a carpenter come to pray for the soul of his son, who was not so lucky. The crook-legged man upon his wheeled tray prays for the straightening of his limbs. He slumbers chastely beside the beautiful young wife, who aches for her husband’s seed to take root in the parched earth of her womb. For three days no one is troubled by lustful dreams.

Margret and I walk through the crowd. Heads turn, but I am grown enough to know that none of them turn for me. Margret is the lady now and I am the wench dragged in her wake. There is whispering also, and not all of it kind. I catch snatches of it, sticking to our skirts like teasels.

That is John of Pilton’s woman.

A priest’s woman is no goodwife, but a harlot.

You hold your tongue in check, Edwin Barton. You are the bell-ringer. Have some respect. This is the Saint’s day.

Mama, what is a harlot?

I hear it; Margret hears it. When the sneering grows too loud to ignore, Margret stops and stares down the man who called her harlot.

‘Why, Edwin,’ she says, all kindness.

‘Good day,’ he mutters.

‘How fares your mother, Edwin?’ she enquires.

‘Well, missus. Well,’ he mumbles, tugs his cap so hard it slips over one eye. But there’s no hiding from the press of Margret’s courteous questions.

‘And your brothers?’ she continues. ‘How fare they?’

‘All well, to be sure, missus.’

‘The Saint be praised.’

Margret’s smile is so sweet I am surprised butterflies do not alight upon her head and lick her with their coiled tongues. But it is too early in the year for butterflies. ‘Let me see,’ she muses. ‘Tell me if my recollection falters. There’s Arthur?’

‘Yes, missus,’ he says.

‘Bartholomew? Sam? Peter?’

He bobs his head at each name, declares each brother hale and hearty.

‘I have forgot none, have I, Edwin?’

‘Oh no, missus. None.’

‘All of you so different in looks. By the Saint, who would have thought one father could bring to bear a redhead, a black-haired lad, one tall, one short.’

Her face is all concern for the welfare of Edwin’s brothers. Yet I know the truth of their parentage, as does every man and woman here, their mother being an accommodating woman. Edwin grows red in the face, so dark a hue I think he might burst. Margret pauses for a long moment, her eyebrow lifted. Then she picks up the corner of her skirt and folds it over her arm. It is fine kersey, more shillings to the yard than I could hope to afford in a year, and exceeding beautiful. She bows her head politely and Edwin bows in response. She walks on without another word.

I pause for a moment, less time than it takes to pour a cup of beer, but time enough to hear the giggles begin. I watch them, helpless with the need to keep respectful silence within sight of the church door, yet burdened with the equally pressing need to void their laughter at Edwin’s expense. John the butcher chokes on his mirth and must be thumped on the back.

‘She’s got you there, Edwin, and right enough,’ he splutters, to much cheerful agreement.

Edwin smiles as best he can. He is not a bad man. It is only his tongue that runs forward and escapes his mouth. I quicken my pace to catch up with Margret.

I find her within the church, gazing up at the painting of the Saint. He is planted on his knees before the Virgin and wears a look of avarice. Mary is the size of a child’s poppet. She floats on a cushion just out of the Saint’s reach, throwing sticks out of the ends of her fingers and aiming them at the Saint’s head. I know they are supposed to be shafts of heavenly light, but they look like the poles you set up for beans. When I share these thoughts with Margret, she smiles again.

‘Shh,’ she whispers. ‘That is the Virgin.’

‘I do not insult our blessed Mary,’ I hiss, curtseying as I say her name. ‘I insult the hand of Roger Staunton, who imagines he can capture her on a cob wall. He is not as good a limner as he thinks.’

Margret heaves her shoulders up, then down.

‘I hear those words wherever I go,’ she says, and I know she speaks of Edwin Barton, and not the painting. ‘Most of the time, they keep their foul opinions quiet, although I know what they are saying. It is like the sea: however far the tide is out, you can still hear it murmuring, waiting for the hour to turn so it may come back to land.’

Margret was always the poet. I have as much poetry in me as a pound of pickled pork. She shakes herself, as a horse does when plagued by insects.

‘The tide of harsh words is high today, yet I prevail.’ She straightens her back and tips her chin at the wall. ‘I thank you, blessed Virgin, for your blessings.’

‘Blessings?’

‘She has given me two. Greater than I could ever hope for. My dear son Jack, my dear John. He is a pearl of a man. I have not met a kinder, Anne, unless it be your father.’

I nod my head and do not disagree, for my father is the sweetest man ever to break bread.

‘John serves God and man, and declares he does far better with me at his side. If God did not bring us together, then it must have been God’s mother. It is to her I shall turn on Doomsday to pray for forgiveness. I have great hope for mercy,’ she says firmly. ‘John and I may not be chaste, but we love each other with a fidelity I defy anyone to condemn.’

My heart swells. At that moment, I would take up sword and buckler to defend her honour.

‘It is strange,’ she muses. ‘They envy me my gowns, my furs, the cup from which I drink, yet they scorn me at the same time.’

‘It is jealousy,’ I say.

I do not tell her that I am envious also. Since she left for the Staple, there has been a hole the size of a door in the wall of my life. I guard that door. I did not know her love brought such comfort until she took it away and gave it to another. I see her seldom and the wind blows leaves into my empty heart. Today, she is by my side. For these few hours the breach in my soul is filled.

She clasps my hand and leads me through the pilgrims to a spot where we might have the best view of the Saint as he passes by on his wagon. He is carved from oak, face battered as a gate that has been swung on by a lifetime of rowdy boys. But he is ours, and we will have none other; not even the new one made of pear-wood and so beautiful he could make a cow weep. Our Lord Bishop gifted it to us, told us it came from Germany, and very costly too. But he’s too pretty to be a man who yoked stags to a plough. So he stands on a pedestal in the north corner and bides his time, while our beloved tree trunk of a Saint protects us and favours us with miracles.

The new priest passes by, a hop in his step. He is nothing like Father Hugo, who could scarce pass through an alehouse door save sideways and whose voice could be heard in Hartland. His chin is unshaven and I wonder when he last took the razor to it. He takes his place on the chancel steps and clears his throat, which bobs with a sharp Adam’s apple. We fall into a respectful silence, the better to hear the sermon. He lifts his arms.

‘I speak of Solomon,’ he begins. ‘And the Queen of Sheba.’

There is a rumble of surprise, for we are expecting a tale of the Saint. Father Hugo always told a fine tale about one miracle or another and most amusing they were too.

‘Wise King Solomon,’ he continues. ‘A lion amongst men.’

‘What’s this new man talking about?’ murmurs Margret. ‘Where is our Saint?’

She is not the only one to be asking that question. Some of the bolder lads shuffle towards the door muttering thirsty excuses, when Father Thomas raises his voice.

‘Solomon had a hundred wives. A hundred to one man.’

Those halfway gone pause. Their heads turn: perhaps this sermon is not so disappointing after all. I look about. He has everyone’s attention.

‘Each as beautiful as a rose. But more beautiful by far was Sheba.’ His eyes shine as he describes her. ‘Behold! She was fair. Her teeth were white as a flock of sheep fresh from the washing.’

The congregation nod their approval, for all men know nothing is whiter.

‘Her hair was like a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead!’

My opinion is that goats are inclined to stink, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I look about. Every man is open-mouthed, every woman drinking the nectar of his words. More than one damsel raises a hand to her hair and smoothes it from the crown of her head as far as it will go, in imitation of Sheba.

‘Her cheeks were like pomegranates.’

I spy one lass raise a hand to her face and pinch blood into her cheek.

‘Her lips were like a thread of scarlet.’

Even I primp myself and nibble my lips to redden them.

‘Her neck a tower of ivory, her stature like to a palm tree.’

At this, each girl stands up straighter, shoulders back. I have never seen a palm tree, but it cannot be very different from the ones in the forest. Father Hugo preached many a fine sermon, but not like this. I still recall his telling of Noah’s flood and how we cheered when the rainbow appeared and all the dragons were drowned for ever. This affects me in a different way.

‘The joints of her thighs were like jewels, her two breasts young does, feeding among the lilies.’

There is a drawing-in of breath. I appraise this new priest keenly. He must be very bold to speak thus. The blood of young men and maids needs little prompting to come to the boil, and he is stirring us as skilfully as a cook stirs batter for pancakes. He ploughs on, telling us of grapes and gazelles and temples and vineyards till I am giddy.

‘Hear how she spoke to Solomon! A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts.’

I have never had a man lie between my breasts, let alone all night. It is an arresting notion. I catch Thomas’s eye: it does not slide away in that way of priests who look at everyone and no one at the same time. He looks directly into my face and I hold his gaze, careful not to be too bold.

‘Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes,’ he says, chin bobbing, eyes bright with excitement.

My mouth drops open, and it takes a moment before I remember to close it. He does not look away, nor does he stop talking. His voice soars; as it does so it squeaks somewhat, but there are worse things of which a man can be accused. I flutter my eyelashes, venture a coy smile and am rewarded with a beaming grin that cracks his face open.

‘How Sheba tempted the king!’ he cries, spreading his arms, his gaze flying away into the roof. ‘Come, she said. Let us go early into the field, she said. There will I give thee my love.’

I hear sniggering. It is hardly surprising. We all know what those words mean.

‘But,’ he says loudly, and cuts the merriment short. ‘But,’ he continues, and we hang on what is to come. ‘Solomon was a clever man,’ he says. ‘He did not believe what he heard, nor what he saw. Our ears and eyes can be deceived, can they not?’

There is a murmur of assent, and not a little prompting from some quarters to say more of what went on in the field.

‘He placed no trust in this queen’s seeming beauty. Not for all her jewels and crowns, not for her fine robes, nor her flashing eyes and pretty smile. Oh no!’

I suck on my teeth, find a piece of pea-skin wedged there. I wiggle my tongue, trying to dislodge it, and when I fail, stick my finger into my mouth and have another try at digging it out. It reminds me that I am hungry. As though it needed my permission, my stomach rumbles. I’m not distracted for long. What Thomas says next is enough to make a bawd catch her breath.

‘Solomon has a test for this woman,’ he cries. ‘He commands: lift up your skirts!’

‘Does he indeed!’ I murmur in Margret’s ear.

‘The shame of it!’ she replies quietly. ‘I would not do that; not even for King Solomon.’

‘Or King Edward,’ I add. ‘No king could make me show off my parts.’

There is a commotion of murmuring, like a hearth full of steaming pots, all of them boiling over at the same time. Matrons clamp their hands to their mouths. Goodmen blush, trying not to catch the eye of their friends for fear it will set them giggling. Only the bravest lads and lasses steal glances at each other and wink knowingly. This man is unlike any priest I have heard before. Even when Father Hugo came into the alehouse the worst I ever heard was the old joke about the new bride farting in her husband’s lap. Still he is not finished.

‘What does wise King Solomon see?’ he cries, voice climbing further up its perilous ladder.

‘What indeed?’ I whisper to Margret.

She hushes me so piercingly I worry that Thomas will hear and look at me again, less smilingly this time. But I am not the only one to have spoken, judging by the waterfall of shushing. Either Thomas does not hear us, or chooses not to remark upon it.

‘What does she do?’ calls out a brave fellow.

Every head turns to discover who has shouted so disrespectfully, even though all of us carry the same question on the tip of our tongues. I am pretty sure it came from the knot of lads leaning against the west wall. They display looks of the most sincere innocence.

‘The king commands. The queen must obey!’ shouts Thomas. ‘When a man commands, a woman must obey, even if she is a queen!’

‘Still, I would not,’ declares Margret under her breath. ‘It is a sin.’

I think briefly of her and John, and him a priest, and what sin means, but I say nothing.

‘No woman can refuse the command of a man,’ he growls. ‘Certainly not Solomon. Did not the Lord ordain that God is the head of man, and man is the head of woman?’

There is another muttering of agreement, louder from the men.

‘Sheba wrings her hands. Oh, she begs Solomon. Anything but this! But Solomon insists. He will be obeyed.’

The smaller boys are now sniggering openly, hissing coarse words at each other.

‘The Lord guides him to find out her secret sin! The foulness she hides underneath her robes!’

I do not care for the direction this is taking. Yet again Thomas fixes me with his stare, wilder than before. For all his strange words, he is a man and is looking at me. This time I am daring enough to stare back, even if only for a few heartbeats.

‘Lo!’ he cries. ‘She obeys! She grasps her skirt and raises it an inch so he can see her toes. How strange they look. But perhaps they are the outlandish boots worn by barbarians. Solomon must be sure. Higher! he commands. Weeping, she lifts her robe another inch. See how unwilling she is. Not from modesty. Oh, no!’

‘How does he know it wasn’t modesty?’ hisses Margret, angry now. ‘Was he there?’

As though he has overheard, Thomas glares at Margret.

‘This is the Word of the Lord,’ he says. ‘She is not modest. She is ashamed. Higher! cries King Solomon and another inch is uncovered. Higher! At last her foul secret is revealed.’

He pauses and we hold our breath.

‘She has the legs of a goat!’

There is a rumble of disbelief and amusement. I am not sure what I think. Relief that it is goat’s legs and not her cunny that is revealed to us? Perhaps. Thomas rounds off his sermon quickly, thumping home the moral that the path to hell is up a woman’s skirt, and that a great deal of monstrousness is hidden there.

Amen, we gasp, breathlessly. Amen.

I can only suppose that he means to horrify the lads, shame the lasses and thereby throw a bucket of cold water on licentious thoughts. But he holds up his hand against a tide, and the spring tide at that. Besides, by talking in such delicious detail about getting a woman to lift up her dress, he has stoked the fire of everyone’s thoughts and thrown dry wood upon the flames.

A woman would have found a way to dissuade him from such a theme. That he is so gullible sparks a flame in my breast: it feels a lot like pity, and I dismiss it. Pity is not something I want cluttering me up if I’m going to set my eye on this man. I wonder if he can truly be that stupid: yet again, I wipe that word away swiftly and replace it with innocent. Which is no bad thing. Innocence is a state that wants only for education. I do not share these thoughts with Margret. I do not know why, for my habit is to tell her everything.

We stroll arm in arm around the churchyard. The younger children are racing up and down in a shrieking game of catch me. Plenty of older ones join in, adding saucy touches of their own when they capture their quarry. More than once we come upon a man and maid sitting in the lee of the wall, engaged in a grown-up pastime inspired by the recent sermon.

A brace of stout lads leap on to the path before us and push back their hoods. Their faces glow with the goodness of Aline’s festival ale.

‘Ah, it’s you, Hugh,’ I say to one. ‘Good morning.’

‘And you, Robert,’ says Margret to his companion.

‘Halt!’ says Hugh, somewhat unnecessarily, for they stand in our way.

‘We are not moving,’ I say, waving my hand to indicate the truth of it.

‘Good,’ says Robert, and giggles. ‘You are obedient, which suits our purpose.’

Margret snorts and this sets them both off, sniggering into their hands.

‘We must examine you for goat’s legs,’ announces Hugh and makes a lunge for the hem of my kirtle.

‘Oh no you mustn’t,’ I reply.

I step out of the way of his questing paw. It is not difficult, as his feet are unsteady.

‘Or pig’s trotters,’ hiccups Robert. ‘I’ll wager one of you at least has pink trotters.’

‘For shame, boys,’ chides Margret. ‘How much have you been drinking?’ They find this an amusing enquiry, but she continues to tick them off. ‘Go and play your silly games somewhere else. I am a married woman and am beyond such foolishness.’

Robert’s eyes squint into crafty folds, making him look uncommonly like one of the pigs he seems attached to.

‘Married?’ he slurs. ‘That’s not how we hear it,’ he adds, digging his elbow into Hugh’s ribs. ‘You might cover your head, but you’re no goodwife. You’re John of Pilton’s woman.’

‘What of it?’ she says, tilting her chin upwards.

‘A priest’s woman,’ says Hugh.

They are neither so drunk nor so disrespectful to venture further and they know it.

‘Here comes Father Thomas,’ I announce brightly. ‘This would be a good time to see our ankles, don’t you think? If you demand it, we must comply.’

‘You insisted,’ says Margret, smiling.

In truth, the man in question is not coming this way at all, engaged as he is in blessing pilgrims at the south door. Robert and Hugh are not to know this, as they are facing the opposite direction.

‘Yes!’ cries Margret, warming to the task. ‘Please demonstrate to our new priest how diligently you have hearkened to his words.’

‘He will be proud to have had such an effect on the two of you.’

The lads glance at each other, declare how thirsty they are and must be off, that we are very tiresome, and all manner of excuses.

‘That’s him,’ says a voice at my shoulder.

It is my mother. She grasps my elbow and shakes me, jabs her finger in the direction of Thomas.

‘Who?’ I ask, even though I know full well.

‘Him,’ she hisses with great weight and portent. ‘He is in need of a housekeeper. The village knows it.’

‘I am not sure if I wish to be a housekeeper.’

‘Don’t play with me, girl. You know exactly what he wants. And you’ll not get finer from any of these lads.’ She raises her eyebrows at the throng of village boys.

‘But a priest, Mother?’

‘What of it?’ she says sharply. ‘You stand with Margret, do you not? You girls were always perfectly matched in everything.’

I look at Thomas. His chin is not so small, when you look at him from a distance. Mother purses her lips thoughtfully.

‘I hear he lives on a diet of lentils, as though every day is a Friday. Gammer Maynard was there this week just gone, searching for her chickens, and she says the floor is strewn with old straw. Think of it. That big house, with him rattling around on his own. What a sin to let it go to waste. If you won’t take him, plenty will. And quick.’

‘Mother!’ I clap my hand to my bodice and endeavour to look shocked. ‘I am sure I do not understand,’ I add with becoming coyness.

‘That’s my clever Anne,’ she murmurs. ‘We understand each other.’ She smiles and touches her forehead to mine. It is a girlish sweetness I see in her rarely. Then her face crumples. ‘My little babe! My Anne!’ she warbles. ‘Surely it was only yesterday you were at my breast and suckling there.’

She lifts the hem of her gown and wipes her face. When she is done, she is pink about the eyes, the skin puffed up. I lay my hand on her arm. It is a strange feeling to be the one soothing my dam, not altogether unpleasant. I feel important, a woman on my own account. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a mother. I decide that I like it, and wish to have more.

‘Look at me,’ she says. ‘I declare. I haven’t got the sense of a pulled hen.’

She smoothes out her apron, all business once more, and is gone as briskly as she arrived. I continue my keen appraisal. Thomas: that is his name. Of Upcote: though where that place might be, I have no notion. Margret follows my gaze and examines him also.

‘His nose is a little thin,’ she says.

‘Yet his teeth are fine,’ I reply.

‘His hair has been cut with a hay rake.’

‘Then he must have a woman cut it for him.’

‘His shoulders strain to bear the weight of his gown.’

‘Then he needs good victuals to fill him out.’

So we prattle on in low voices, until Margret pauses. Her eyes are sad.

‘What ails you, my sweet?’ I say.

‘Be careful, Anne. Have great care before you take this step. Once the road is chosen, there is only one direction you can walk, and that is forward.’

‘Oh, Margret. How dour you make it sound.’

‘Anne, you are as close as a sister. I speak as one who loves you as dearly.’

‘Well?’

‘Be sure of this man.’

‘I am decided. I will have him,’ I reply somewhat snappishly, for it seems she wishes to pour sand upon the fire of my happy plans.

‘Anne—’

I round on her. ‘What is it, Margret? Do you wish to deny me your good fortune? I did not think you so ungenerous. I took you for my friend.’

‘I am your friend, and dearer than you know for telling you this hard secret.’

I will have none of it, and am angry with her. ‘So, a fine bed and a heaped board are right for you but not for me, is that it?’

‘Of course not.’

I know not whence comes my peevishness and spite. In my venom I hear an unhappy, jealous woman and I do not like her one bit. I would snatch back the words, but it is too late. The hag who has taken the reins of my tongue will not permit it.

‘It seems to me that you want to keep all finery to yourself and fear a rival.’

‘No, sister! How can you think this of me?’

‘I can think it easily. Do you take me for a fool? Is this your revenge for our childish games, where I was your queen? Is this your plan, to pay me back?’

‘Anne, do not speak like this.’

‘Why should I not? Anne is below, and Margret is raised up. That’s how you wish things to remain. You above me, now and for always.’

‘Anne, no—’

‘Anne, yes. You are no sister. A sister would rejoice.’

I see my words strike Margret, the poison of their cruelty mark her face as clear as the slap of a hand. She fiddles with her headpiece, a contraption of wire and linen that makes her look like a nanny goat.

‘Perhaps I should return to Pilton,’ she remarks. ‘John and Jack will be waiting for me.’

Her face softens as she speaks. In a dark corner of my soul, a serpent flicks its heavy tail. Suddenly I am very tired of Margret prattling about her darling son, her precious John. Up spring more sharp words, and I cannot stop them from bursting out.

‘Your son, your son,’ I snap. ‘The way you talk, Margret. It is quite tiring. I wish you would speak of something else.’

‘Anne?’ she says. Her face shifts, the gentle smile sucked back into her mouth. ‘What do you mean by this?’

‘You dare ask? How you crowed when you went to John. Me, the dunnock against your peacock. How very grand you have become.’

‘I am blessed,’ she replies, with dignity.

‘I’m sure it is not sufficient. Not for a duchess like you.’

‘I would not test the Lord by asking for more joy than is my portion.’

‘You are no more a lady than I am, Margret. Be careful you do not climb so high you lose sight of the earth.’

At last I run out of nastiness. It is though I bore a sack of bile in my belly and had to spew it up. She stares at me; I stare at her. I have a great desire to hug her close and say sorry for my selfishness.

‘Margret—’ I begin.

At that moment the lady Sibylla, wife of our Lord Henry, approaches and enquires after our health. We fluster, curtseying and murmuring at being noticed by a person of such high degree. After a moment she moves on to make her gracious good morrows to the rest of the congregation, setting up a flutter like a fox in a chicken coop. The venom has been sucked from my meanness, but there remains a prickling unpleasantness.

‘The Saint is truly powerful if he can make great ladies pass the time of day with peasants,’ Margret remarks.

‘Ah, Margret,’ I say. ‘Let me—’

‘I declare,’ she interrupts. ‘I see Mistress Aline. I will greet her. God be with you, Anne.’

She tightens her mouth, turns and strides off. She does not glance back. I quiver with the desire to run after her, push aside the holiday crowds and beg her forgiveness. But shame and guilt have the governance of me and will not permit me to bend. So I stand and watch my friend walk away. By and by her sun sets in the distance and my world fades into a dimness of my own making.

I have said what I have said. I have set my eye on this Thomas, a man to hook and bring to shore. I must set my eye on ambitions greater than girlish friends. I tell myself I have no further need of Margret. I will see her at the next festival. But by then, everything has changed.