Читать книгу Vixen - - Страница 16

I lie on my mattress in the outer room that night and every night after, listening to his snores shake the wall. The weeks pass, and every month my blood comes and goes also. Even the moon is less regular. I yearn for Thomas with a hunger that pricks me with wakefulness. Of course, I’ve seen rams tup their ewes and stallions cover their mares, but never guessed the eagerness to be about their labour. I burn for him: he should burn for me. He’s no old dodderer, far from it. All young men have this fire: as the sun rises each morning, so men rise up with it. I do not know why he will not rise up for me.

In the meantime, I want for amusement and I take it where I may find it. Boredom is a dangerous estate for a woman, and I blame Thomas for thrusting tedium of the mind upon me. I cannot accuse him of sparing the labours of the body, for there is no end to the chores he discovers to occupy my hands. I scrub linen, bake bread, spin and a hundred other tasks. Not that any of this drudgery diverts me from wifely passions. But feeling sorry for myself will get me nowhere, nor will trying to fathom the workings of a man’s wits.

I watch him in and out of the house, to the church and back. And most interesting to my way of thinking, he goes to his storeroom, tucked beneath the eaves. The way he scoots up the ladder fast as a weasel pricks my interest, and when he comes down he’s carrying some treasure: a fine knife, a pair of embroidered slippers or a shirt so crisp I could shave his beard with it. More’s the point, he has an air of guilt that fires my curiosity and sets it burning. I know a secret when I smell one.

He never permits me to go up there, even though I come up with plenty of reasons, from clearing out mice to opening the shutter and letting new air chase away the old. I bustle below, and the room breathes in and out above my head. As the tale says, there’s nothing like the curiosity of a woman who is forbidden to do something. It is his fault. If I were not so bored, then I would have no need for distraction.

It is three weeks past Easter before I find the path up that ladder, and it is all due to his refusal to have good pots and pans. I clear my throat and begin with my latest stratagem.

‘I was set to make you pikelets, sir. A recipe of my mother’s, and very fine too. With butter.’

Despite himself, his tongue pokes out and draws a moist line along his bottom lip in anticipation of the treat.

‘Go to, mistress.’

I sigh disconsolately. ‘I would, sir. But I cannot.’

‘Why so?’

I hold up the frying pan and peer at him through the hole in its bottom.

‘Oh,’ he says, for there is no denying a pan you can stick your nose through. ‘Then you must fetch one from the upper room. Here.’

With the words, he unlooses the key from his chatelaine. It is as simple as that. I chide myself for not remembering a man’s belly is the path to all desires. I bob a curtsey, fetch the ladder and try not to scramble up it too hastily. The key trembles in my hand.

A frying pan is the first thing I clap eyes on when I unlock the room. Although tarnished from lack of use, it is of the finest quality: one of four cooking pots, all new and in a heap behind the door. However, I have no intention of being done with my adventure quite so soon.

‘Where do you think it might be, sir?’ I call, making my voice as dull as possible.

The pots are the least of the wonders. When I lift the shutter and prop it open, a cave of treasures reveals itself: a mattress that feels like an angel’s wing when I press my hand against it, a mountain of curtains, stacked wood with a fragrance so heady I am dizzy with the breathing of it. In one corner stands a fiddle, a crumhorn, a trumpet and a pile of tambours all higgledy-piggledy. Leaning against the eaves are half-a-dozen swords and a rusty pike, all surrounded by dust so thick you could roll it up and use it as a blanket. More enticing still than these wonders are two oaken chests, almost big enough for me to climb inside. I step towards them, but Thomas calls from below.

‘What are you doing up there?’ he shouts. ‘A pan cannot be that hard to find.’

I kick at the swords and they rattle.

‘I shall find it soon!’ I shout. ‘It’s so dark I can barely see,’ I lie.

‘Foolish woman, I must help you,’ he grumbles.

His foot thumps on the ladder.

‘Oh, no sir! I have found it!’ I cry, quick about it. ‘I shall come to you this instant.’

I grab the pan, dash out of the room and wave it so he can see. ‘There is no need to trouble yourself.’

‘About time too. I never met a stupider female.’

‘No, sir.’

If I dropped the pan, it would strike him on the top of his shining pate. If I threw it hard, it might crack that pate clean open.

‘Make sure you shut the door and lock it properly. Ach, you are so foolish, you will not be able to do it right. I will come and do it.’

He takes another step.

‘Do not worry,’ I say, slamming the door. ‘It is done.’ I twist the key in the lock and it makes a terrific grinding. ‘Can you not hear, sir?’ I continue to turn the key so that as well as locking the door I also unlock it again. ‘Am I not clever, sir?’ I simper, pulling a rude face he cannot see.

‘I can hear. I am not deaf. Come down.’

I descend the ladder and make a great show of pressing the key back into his hand. Next time he bothers to go up there, all I need do is make out that I am a silly girl who was sure she locked it, because of all the noise it made.

I make the pikelets, even managing to keep one back for myself, for he’d stuff himself with the lot if I did not. He makes what he thinks are kind remarks about how gifted I am to make such fine scones, and I seethe with the pleasure of what I have discovered. He will be mine, so will everything I have seen today. All it takes is time and patience. He’ll share all, and gladly, too, when I’ve turned him to my way of thinking.

It is a few days after the Feast of Saint Bede when Cat pays a visit, along with our cousins and her new babe. Thomas is bustling up the path as they come to the door, and stalks past with a grunted Good day.

‘Thomas,’ I say, my cheeks pinking at his discourtesy. ‘Sir. My sister is come from the Staple. With her baby. And Bet, and Alice, and Isabel.’

He peers at them as if they might be cows waiting to be milked. They bob and giggle.

‘Good day, I say,’ he repeats and passes into the house.

I dash after him and pluck his sleeve with enough determination to hold him still. ‘Sir,’ I hiss. ‘They have come a long way.’

‘The Staple? It is not so far.’

‘Sir. May I invite them in?’

He pauses and narrows his eyes in the way he does when he thinks he is being crafty.

‘Is this not the day you wash the linen?’

‘I have done it all. It is dry enough to hope I may gather it in later. There is bread made, and a white porray simmering for you.’

‘The Lord is good,’ he mutters unhappily. ‘Is there enough to feed them?’

‘You do not need to concern yourself about food. Each has brought something for the board.’ I eye him levelly. If boldness can’t move him, softness might. ‘Oh, sir,’ I add, ‘it would be such a charitable gesture.’

‘Very well,’ he says, grudgingly. ‘They are welcome.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I say carefully, and curtsey.

They enter at last, pretending they have not heard a word and each making a neat compliment about his benevolence. Cat waves her boy in Thomas’s face and the infant stares at him with blank intelligence.

‘God is good. He makes us fruitful,’ he remarks.

Alice elbows me in the ribs. I busy myself with setting up the trestle so that I do not slap her. We drag the bench to the hearth, for in truth it is a cold day for May. We unpack the victuals and Cat offers Thomas a cup of ale. He refuses, as I guessed he might.

‘You are not like Father Hugo,’ says Cat.

‘Holy Mary, how that man could drink,’ said Alice.

‘And eat,’ adds Bet.

We know the tales, having had them since childhood. The French and Spanish wines, costly spices; how he bought in barrels of almonds and figs, even during Lent.

‘But he did not forget his prayers,’ Thomas reminds us.

‘Oh no! He bellowed out the fame of the Saint,’ agrees Cat.

‘Ah, the crowds of pilgrims.’

‘And the gold that came to the church.’

‘How his stomach swelled!’

‘Further and further!’ I laugh, cupping my hands around an invisible stomach and blowing out my cheeks.

Cat raises her eyebrows and it occurs to me that I could also be imitating the belly of a woman with child, so I stop and tuck my hands behind my back. Thomas takes the action for contrition.

‘To be a servant of the Almighty is not a cause for idle merriment,’ he counsels. ‘It is to be of sober and calm temperament.’

We point the tips of our noses at the floor. I hear Alice and Isabel stifling giggles with little snorts. If Thomas notices, he says nothing.

‘Yes, sir,’ I say, biting my lip.

Bet starts to chant rhymes to the baby and Thomas makes good his escape, scuttling away to the church. Free at last, we settle to eating and drinking and playing with the lad. He is so grown in the past two months I barely know him. He grabs for the edge of my kerchief and drags it askew. Alice and Cat wink and cast saucy looks upon me until I am vexed with their intimations.

‘So,’ drawls Cat. ‘How is life with your man?’

‘Quiet,’ I grumble.

‘But not at night, I’ll wager,’ titters Alice.

‘Hush now,’ says Isabel. ‘See how she blushes. Be gentle.’

‘Is that what you say to Thomas?’ says Cat, and they collapse into raucous laughter.

‘Thomas does not come to me,’ I mutter when they’ve finished hooting.

‘Why ever not?’ asks Alice, face writ with disbelief. ‘Do you anger him?’

‘My Henry came to me quick enough after we were wed,’ twitters Cat, with a salty laugh. ‘A fine and upstanding man he is, too.’

‘Oh, cousin!’ snickers Alice, hiding her smile behind her hand. ‘How you talk!’

‘My Henry pays his marriage debt delectably often,’ Cat continues. ‘All our little Anne needs is a good firm man to take to hand, don’t you?’

‘Cat! This is a priest’s house,’ I say, hearing Thomas’s priggishness in my voice and disliking it intensely.

‘Perhaps we should not talk so boldly if you are still a maid,’ she smirks, with a keen edge to the blade of her words. ‘For you are, are you not?’

‘Not for lack of trying,’ I sneer.

‘Maybe there is some fault in you,’ chirrups Alice, enjoying every minute.

‘You need a babby of your own,’ declares Cat with great wisdom. ‘That’ll put a smile back on that sour little face of yours.’

‘You are not ugly, my dearest,’ Bet simpers. ‘You could have any man.’

I nod at this morsel of flattery. I never before found their chatter annoying, yet today all I can think of is how I should like to smack the smiles off their faces.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I demur. ‘I am a cabbage compared to my beautiful sister.’ I lift the heavy boy from Cat’s lap. ‘Aren’t I, my little man?’ I coo, tickling him gently. ‘This is the way the farmers ride,’ I sing and jiggle him on my lap.

He twists his square head round to gawp at me and vomits curdled milk over my bodice.

‘What a lad!’ crows Cat, patting me with a napkin and smearing the puddle in a broader circle. ‘He does that if you bounce him too hard.’

Alice sweeps the child from my hands and cradles him on her lap, where he shrieks happily, seemingly done with spewing now that I am covered. He lets out a fart of such sonorous depth that he scares himself and begins to yowl, which of course only serves to make Cat and Alice laugh the louder.

‘A true man,’ crows Bet.

‘My own little man,’ adds Cat.

I know they do not mean to hurt me with their talk of adoring husbands and babes. I give myself a moment’s respite by going to fetch bread. They have brought cakes, a jug of fresh ale and more besides, for which I am grateful. I am shamed by the empty cupboard I am housekeeper to. At least I have platters to spread before them, cups into which to pour the drink.

‘Well now. It’s early days. I’ll bring Thomas to me soon,’ I say, with a great deal more confidence than I feel.

‘If it is help you need …’ says Alice, a great deal more kindly. ‘Even the loveliest of maidens needs a little—’

‘Encouragement?’ suggests Cat.

‘Help,’ says Isabel.

‘Assistance,’ adds Bet.

‘Inspiration,’ says Alice.

‘Don’t be cast down just yet,’ murmurs Isabel. ‘There are many ways to bring savour to your bed.’

‘See, Anne,’ says Cat, with unexpected tenderness, and pats me with a dimpled hand. How she keeps it so soft, what with cleaning up after a husband and her baby, I do not know. ‘We are your loving friends. Isabel, show her.’

Isabel dips into her bodice and draws out a tiny packet wrapped in linen. She places it in my hand, still warm from her breast. I look at them in turn. Alice raises an eyebrow and Bet guffaws as though something very naughty is about to take place. I undo the folds to reveal a pinch of dark powder. Although a mere sprinkling, the scent of spices fills the room with delight. I lift it to my nose.

Cat glances about the room nervously. ‘Careful!’ she hisses. ‘Don’t sneeze over it. It cost more than you can guess.’

I hold my tongue. I must be polite, for she means well. Bet sniggers and I glare at her until she quietens.

Isabel pats my arm. ‘Don’t you mind her, cousin. This cannot fail. Put these spices in a glass of wine and Thomas won’t be able to take his eyes from you.’

‘Or his hands,’ snorts Alice.

‘Or his kisses,’ says Bet. ‘He won’t sleep for dreaming about you,’

‘Dreaming’s not what Anne needs,’ sneers Cat.

‘There is no wine in the house,’ I say. ‘Thomas is not—’

‘You mean he’s a tight-fisted—’

Isabel’s eyes widen. ‘Cat,’ she breathes. ‘Kind words. We must help our little cousin.’

‘Why must we?’ protests Cat, raising her eyebrows until they disappear beneath the folds of her kerchief. ‘Anne wants this, Anne wants that. It’s all I’ve ever heard, from the moment the spoilt brat was born.’

‘You’re upsetting the baby,’ says Alice, jiggling him up and down.

His fat features gather themselves together, lips pout. He looks on the verge of a good long squawk.

‘Anne wants a man, Anne wants a baby, Anne wants a king and golden crown,’ continues Cat in a sing-song voice, ignoring her son. ‘Here we are, running around after her like we always did.’

I sniff the spices carefully. ‘Delicious,’ I sigh.

Their heads swivel like owls spying a mouse and I realise I’ve spoken out loud.

We set to preparing the drink, Isabel sprinkling the spices into the jug of wine, for she has brought that also. My eyes prick at her kindness. We chatter some more, and even Cat speaks warm words when we part. She kisses me and calls me her silly little goose, but not unkindly. There are lines drawn at the corners of her mouth and eyes, which I’d never noticed before.

I wait for Thomas to return. I unbraid my hair. I braid it again. I loosen my bodice laces. I tie them again. Never before has he been gone to the church so long. When he returns at last, I declare I am worn out with the waiting. His nostrils flare with the scents perfuming the house. As well as the wine, they have left a neat dish of food: lardons of pork, fried crisp; buttered peas with sippets; two honey-cakes so small you could swallow them both in one mouthful; a humped bun of wheaten bread studded with raisins.

‘This is very fine,’ he remarks, with a true note of pleasure.

I stand by the table, hands gathered behind my back so he cannot see my fingers wringing with nervousness. My face glows with the thought of him speaking as kindly from this day on.

‘It is for you, Thomas. A gift from my cousins.’

‘I must thank them.’

‘They know you for a good man. They offer you this also.’

I heft a glass of the wine and hold it to his nose. The dark spot at the centre of his eye blooms with delight.

‘It smells strong,’ he remarks.

‘It smells tasty. It is for sweetness in this household. Come.’

‘Yes, that is a good toast,’ he says, and once again his voice is soft. ‘We live sweetly, do we not?’

He takes the cup and drains it off so fast that he coughs and water leaps into his eyes. I pour him another glass, and begin unwinding my coif until I stand before him bareheaded. He stares with his mouth open as I shake out the binding of my braids. I dip one of the sweetmeats into the wine and push it between his half-open lips. He pauses a moment, as though he has forgotten what you should do with a cake in your mouth, then begins to chew. I take the other and eat it myself, slowly. It is so luscious my eyelids droop.

‘Are you tired?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I am never tired.’

This seems to be a great jest for I start to giggle, then laugh and cannot stop. Suddenly neither can he. I pour another glass of the wine; he swigs half of it and offers the other. I smile and take a tiny sip, putting my lips over the wet spot where he laid his.

‘No, I shall share all with you. You are my companion,’ he says, pushing the cup into my face.

I take a mighty gulp. I am springing fire: throat tight, breath rushing and a stabbing, almost painful, between my legs. However, his eyes are closing and opening slowly. If my needs are to be met I must get him before he falls asleep, which won’t be long by the look of him. I slip my chemise from my shoulders and draw his hands to rest upon the bare skin. He sucks in a sharp breath as I take his hand and guide him further down, to the breast. My nipple rounds into his palm and his head lowers as though he is about to suckle.

‘Yes, Tom,’ I gasp, and his head jerks up at the calling of his name.

He pulls his hand out of my bodice so quickly that he rips the laces; shoves me hard and I stumble backwards, falling onto the floor.

‘No. No. It is not right,’ he moans.

‘It is. It is,’ I cry, hanging on to his ankle as he walks away.

‘I am not a fornicator; they couple like rats in straw.’

‘Please, Thomas,’ I beg. I cannot lose him now, not when I am so close to my goal.

‘They fly from one woman to another like flies from one dungheap to the next!’ he cries, his voice rising into a shout.

The room holds its breath. I pick myself up, smoothing down my apron.

‘A dungheap?’ I say. ‘Is that what you think of me?’ I raise my eyes and fix them boldly on to his. ‘Am I so low in your estimation?’

‘No, I do not mean that,’ he mumbles. ‘I am not one of those priests who think women filthy. Women are the mothers of boys who grow to be men. As such we should honour them.’

‘Yes, sir.’ I tuck away my breast and fold my arms, hiding the torn fabric.

‘Would you have me bring the shame of a bastard child upon you?’

‘My beloved Margret is a priest’s woman, in Pilton. They have a boy; no one calls him bastard.’

‘It is a sin. It is written.’

‘Father Hugo sired a girl.’

‘I know this. He was lecherous.’

‘She married a merchant of the Staple with no shame.’

‘Best she is gone there, and swept clean from this place!’ His voice rises into a squawk.

‘You do not need to shout; I am standing beside you.’

‘Woman, show your master respect.’

I press my lips together and glare at him.

‘Would you have me sin?’

‘No, sir,’ I sigh and give up the fight. There is no point trying to boil a pot of wet ashes. He lowers his voice and pats me upon the cheek, petting me as you would do a cat. Or a child. Something harmless, stupid and of no significance. I writhe beneath his touch.

‘I shouted at you. I should not do that,’ he says. ‘I shall not talk of this matter again. I will never rebuke you for it. No one need know.’

I leave the house and am through my mother’s door in moments.

‘Mother, I must speak with you,’ I begin, and the words parch upon my tongue.

She pauses in her chopping of turnips and raises her head. ‘Come now, Anne. What is it? Tell your mother. I have a week’s worth of work to do in an hour.’

‘It is Thomas.’ I whimper. ‘He is – difficult.’

‘All men are so. That’s how the Lord made them,’ she says, and returns her attention to the turnips. In an hour there will be a fine stew bubbling on the hearth. For some reason, the notion of eating turnips in my mother’s house seems a feast.

‘But,’ I start again. ‘He does not – things are not as they should be.’

She sighs, lays down the paring knife. ‘By the Saint, girl. Can you not play him right?’

‘I try, so hard. Nothing I do is enough,’ I whine. She gives me a blank look. ‘He moans, he complains,’ I add, in case she does not understand.

‘Daughter,’ she says, and there is no softness in her voice. ‘What did you imagine happens between a man and a maid?’

‘Ma!’

‘Not that,’ she snorts. ‘Did you have it in your feather-head that he would sigh, and weave you caplets of apple-blossom whilst composing pretty riddles praising your smile?’

‘No,’ I say uncertainly.

‘It’s hard work, and do not mistake me. If he’s not what you hoped for, then make the most of it. You’re not starved, you’re not badly treated, and you’re surrounded by more gewgaws than I could shake a stick at.’

‘I have tried sweetness; I have tried meekness, cheerfulness, hard work, speaking, silence. He is wood. There is no pleasing him.’

‘There is a way, daughter. There is always a way and if anyone can find it, it is my pretty Anne.’

I pause, so that she thinks I am meditating upon her words. ‘Mother, can I come home?’

She gives me a long cold stare. ‘You are home. And I am busy.’

‘I mean, come home to stay.’

‘You most certainly cannot,’ she snorts. ‘The very idea! That would be a fine business. First you’re his woman, then you are not. The shame of it.’

‘I want a proper husband.’

‘You are spoiled, my girl. If I ever sinned, it was in being too soft with you. You wanted him; you have him.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘It is. You shall stay where you are.’

‘I don’t want him any more.’

‘A man is not a brass pot, to be tossed aside when tired of.’

‘I am not tired. I—’

‘Hold your tongue and listen, for once. What man will take the leavings of another?’

Never before did my mother speak to me so harshly. I feel tears rise in my eyes and am determined not to let them spill over.

‘Thomas has never touched me!’

‘So you say.’

‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘I believe you want to be away from a house that half a year ago you begged to be in. You cannot change your man in the same way that you change the ribbons in your hair. I asked you if you were sure, and you swore you were. Heed me now. You will stay, and there’s an end to it. I have done with this conversation.’

I do not know what shocks me more: the force of her words or that it is my mother who speaks them. She wipes her hands and wraps her kerchief around her head.

‘I’m going to fetch your father from the alehouse,’ she announces.

‘But can we not talk some more?’

‘You do not want to talk. You want to twist me to your way of thinking. It will not work any more. By the Saint, Anne, I thought you would have stopped hanging on to my skirts by now.’

‘Mumma!’

‘That is a child’s word. You are not a child.’

I follow after her, for the last place I wish to go is Thomas’s house. My house. She looks down her nose at me.

‘Have you nothing better to do?’ she says.

‘Clearly not,’ I growl.

She sniffs, but does not shoo me away. As we walk, she takes my arm.

‘Come on, lass,’ she says with greater warmth. ‘If any woman can bring him round, it will be you. A man is an instrument and can be played. All he wants is to hear a sweet song, and a woman with her wits about her can sing it afresh every day. Even your father is this way, although I declare I am blessed with my Stephen, for he is the most agreeable of melodies. All you need do is find the tune to make this man dance.’

She pats my hand. I know she means to fortify me.

Stepping through the alehouse door is to enter a dream filled with delightful scents and sounds, and I am stabbed by a sensation that feels a lot like happiness. A cloak of laughed-out air lays itself soft around my shoulders, and I taste the moist kiss of Aline’s brew on the halloas that greet us as we step under the lintel. Mother goes straightway to my father. They embrace each other and he clears a space for her on the bench next to him.

I sigh, imagining Thomas’s sour expression when I return late to the house. It is hardly a sin for me to dawdle awhile and be merry for this one night. I resolve to stay.

The men are engaged in playing a game with a pig’s bladder, which is already the cause of much mirth. Joseph the drover puts his lips to the hole and blows, then lays it upon the bench with a great deal of ceremony. He strolls about with his thumbs hooked behind his back, whistling, inviting us to sit.

‘Come now, Mistress Aline,’ Joseph cackles. ‘Take the weight off your feet! You must be tired after a day making such a fine brew.’

He is interrupted by drinkers raising their cups and shouting huzzah. Aline nods her thanks and laughs.

‘Oh no, not me. All these thirsts to quench and rushed off my feet already!’

She winks at us: we cheer at her clever answer. He scours the room for a suitable fool and this time points at me.

‘You! Little Anne!’

‘Me?’ I squeak, and the folk roar at how tiny my voice is become. I clear my throat and repeat the word more resonantly, which, it appears, is even funnier.

‘Yes, you, my chick. A pretty bird like you should have a comfy nest on which to fluff up her feathers. Look! Here’s the very place,’ he cries, and points to the bench.

I search for a smart retort or I shall have to sit down and lose the game. I find nothing, shake my head and shrivel into the wall. I wait for him to coax me out of my shyness, but when I raise my head he is gone to the other side of the room and is chattering to Alice.

I am more disappointed than I expect. I wanted him to cozen me, so that I could make a big show of saying how I was too busy to play his foolish game. I have been denied the opportunity and it irks me. Alice bats her eyelashes and preens her hair with dainty gestures. Every gaze is upon her and she fair wriggles with the pleasure of it.

‘Oh la, sir!’ she pipes. ‘There are wolves in this very room.’ She looks about, stretching her eyes wide. One old fellow starts to howl, to the amusement of those gathered. ‘If I roost,’ she smirks, ‘one of them is sure to gobble me up.’

There is a thumping of cups and more huzzahs at her quick rebuff. My Da slaps me on the back.

‘Why didn’t you think of that?’ he chuckles.

Alice is casting coy glances at Geoffrey the cheese-man. He returns the look with a grin that lifts first one side of his mouth then the other; a smile that cannot believe its luck. I remember how he once set his cap at me; a short while only, for I looked down my nose at him and made no secret of it. I set my eye way above the head of a man who smelled of curds.

‘We should have Father Thomas here,’ declares Joseph. ‘He’s a man on his feet all day, wouldn’t you say so, Anne?’

At the sound of his name my heart drops.

‘He is not a man who takes much rest from his labours,’ I say as respectfully as I can manage.

This answer makes them roar lustily and I wish it did not.

‘I’ll bet our little Anne keeps him busy!’

‘Now now, he’s a man of God. Let’s keep it clean,’ chides Aline, to a volley of sniggers. ‘Haven’t you told him how good my ale is?’ she continues. ‘Father Hugo was always front of the queue.’ She gives me a look that has an edge of hurt.

‘Eager to get a bellyful, so he was.’

‘Father Thomas is not like Father Hugo,’ I say.

I look at her, raising my eyebrows and praying that she can hear what is behind my words, for I dare say no more. But Aline was never much good at riddles and does not understand my meaningful glances.

‘He’s a lot scrawnier, that’s for sure. Peaky, I’d say. You should feed him better, Anne. I’m not the only one thinks so. Have you got a headache, screwing your forehead up like that?’

‘Aline’s right,’ adds Joseph. ‘Fatten him up and tell him how good this ale is.’

‘You can’t keep him to yourself the whole time.’

‘What?’ I gasp.

‘A honeymoon’s a honeymoon, but you’ve had him cooped up over two months.’

‘You only let him out to go to church.’

My mouth falls open. ‘I do not—’

‘No need to be abashed, my love,’ chuckles Aline and plants a kiss on my brow. ‘I couldn’t let James out of my sight for a quarter-year, could I, now?’

The man in question grins lopsidedly as his companions slap him on the back and snort their congratulations.

‘That’s right. Let him out for a bit of fresh air.’

‘Bit of colour in his cheeks.’

‘And a pint in his belly!’

I consider explaining to them that Thomas would no more sit on a pig’s bladder and pour ale down his throat than he would bare his backside at the high altar. However, Aline would sooner believe that than believe in a man who does not drink beer. It occurs to me that I do not understand Thomas either.

I am surrounded by folk I have seen each day of my life, as much a part of me as my hair and my hindquarters. Yet it is as though I am hovering above their heads like a hawk. Like a glamour wearing off, I see them for the first time, small and terrified as voles, swilling ale to drown out their fear of the pestilence, which prowls around the village like a starved wolf.

I wonder if this is how Thomas sees us, and if he has made me like himself. Perhaps I am becoming used to him, and his coldness is rubbing off on me. It is not a pleasant idea. I shake myself like a dog shakes off water. Ma is right. I need a bit of fire in my belly. I have been doused far too quickly. Alice can have Geoffrey and his dripping cheeses. I have a man and I shall bend him to my will.

As I leave, Ma presses a jug of ale into my hands. ‘This’ll set Thomas right,’ she says, and winks.

She links her arm through mine and accompanies me back to the house. We splash through the ford, lifting our skirts and giggling like children, for the ale has made us clumsy.

‘That’s better, my little Nan. A smile on your face and this good brew. That’s all that’s needed.’

She squeezes my cheek. We reach the door, although it takes longer than it ought, and the latch is slippery in my fingers. At last I get it open and we tumble inside with much hushing of each other, so as not to waken Thomas.

‘What a quiet place!’ Ma says, in the sort of whisper that can be heard three fields away.

We kiss goodnight and she bustles away. However carefully I try to close the door, it slams so hard the house shakes. After she has gone the room seems emptier than it should. When I turn, Thomas is there, fingers laced over his privates.

‘I did not see you, sir,’ I say for lack of better greeting. ‘Were you asleep?’ I add, rather weakly.

‘I was,’ he says, with considerable weight upon the second word.

‘I beg pardon, sir. My mother saw me safely home.’

He makes a harrumphing sound, as though the idea is a foolish one. ‘Mistress,’ he says. ‘Must you have visitors so often?’

‘Often, sir? It was my mother. Not a visitor.’

‘Comings and goings. All hours.’

‘I beg pardon, sir. It is a little late—’

He continues as though I have not spoken. ‘Every day my house is …’ he ignores me and purses his lips, ‘… overturned.’

‘Every day?’

He raises his hand and flaps my words away. ‘Day, week.’

‘Or month, perhaps?’

‘Too often. I am a man of God. If it’s not your mother, tramping in and out in the middle of the night, then it’s your – sister, friends, silly women filling my ears with bothersome chatter. I have had enough of it.’

Dear Lord in Heaven, I think. Here he goes. I bow my head and let the sermon roll over the top of my head. To help pass the time I consider how I shall get up early tomorrow morning and set myself to sifting the barley to make a white porray. Every now and then I mutter, Yes, sir, to keep him happy. I swallow a yawn.

‘So we are agreed.’

‘Sir?’ I say with a start, for I was a long way off.

‘You will give proper notice of visits and seek my permission.’

‘Shall I?’

‘You shall.’

‘Very well.’ I bob a curtsey. I think quickly. ‘Sir, may I be permitted a visit from my mother in one week’s time?’

‘No.’

‘Then,’ I begin carefully, ‘in two weeks?’

‘No,’ he says, more loudly.

‘What of my sister?’

‘No!’ he cries.

‘Please, Thomas.’ I hear the plaint in my voice and hate it.

‘I said no, woman. And stop calling me Thomas.’

‘It’s your name, you fool.’

‘I am sir. Don’t you forget it.’

‘Little chance of that, sir,’ I sneer. ‘You can’t cut me off from my family. My sister has a new baby,’ I add desperately. ‘My nephew. I am his godmother.’

‘Very well. At the feast of Saint Eadburga.’

‘That’s past next quarter-day! He’ll be pushing a plough by then.’

‘Do not exaggerate. He’ll still be spewing up all over your clothes, I’m sure.’

‘What of it? I’m sure the blessed Virgin had her fair share of baby sick to wash out,’ I growl.

His face turns so pale I declare I could knock him over like a ninepin. I leave him to his spluttering and go to my pallet before he can gather his wits and call me a blasphemer. When Christ was a child he’ll have puked like one. And farted like one also, although I do not press my luck by drawing this to his attention.

‘Mistress,’ he calls after me.

I raise my eyes to the roof, for he is not done with me. I wait for the accusation of speaking against God, but instead he looks me up and down.

‘Why is your head covered?’ It is such an unexpected question that I gawp at him for a long and silent moment, wondering whither his brains have taken him this time. ‘You are unmarried,’ he continues. ‘You do not need to do so.’

I hold his gaze and say nothing. I stare boldly enough to earn a slap, or words of caution at the least; but after a while a red spot appears on each cheek. He lowers his head and scurries back to his bed. Perhaps if I had chased him then, if I had asked him why he blushed, demanded to know what he felt for me, perhaps things would have been different between us.

However, nothing is different, and everything is the same. I thought I would grow fat on meat in the house of a priest. But porray is my portion, day in and day out: green, white and red I eat it. I am not starved. I have enough to satisfy hunger, but nothing more. I am no glutton, but I ache with the tedium. So many turnips my belly aches for an onion to brighten my plate, let alone a bit of bacon, fried crisp.

A few days after the Feast of Saint Boniface, John the butcher brings a rabbit.

‘For Father Thomas,’ he says. ‘Once he tastes this he’ll send for my wares more often, eh?’

‘I wouldn’t set too much store on it,’ I sigh.

He coughs. ‘Thirsty morning, is it not?’

I bite my lip. ‘There is water,’ I whisper, my face so heated with embarrassment I can barely look at him.

He snorts. ‘Well, there’s a welcome. Have you been telling tales against me, Anne?’

‘Tales? Of course not!’

‘Then why does he not send for me?’

I have no answer. John stands on tiptoe, tugging his hood forward to hide his eyes and trying not to show how greedily he scans the room for goodness knows what stories of riches. His gaze swallows up the old rushes, the hard benches without so much as a cushion to ease your way, the plain walls, the single side of pork dangling from the roof beam, the dark embers on the hearth.

‘Well, now,’ he says and scratches his head. ‘Ah.’

I see the dismal interior through his eyes, as unkempt and unloved as every other thing of Thomas’s. This is not the house wherein I was toasted a handful of weeks ago. No table set for a feast, no bunches of herbs to sweeten the air, the door opened to him by a goodwife as dreary as the sodden reeds which should be swept out.

He holds out the rabbit, grinding its ankles together in his fist. My fingers brush his as I take the dead beast, less than a second, but it is enough to make my flesh quicken. For no good reason I see my braids caught in his firm hand, tugging my head back as he plants a kiss upon my lips. I slam the door in his face with a muttered word of thanks.

I set about skinning and drawing the coney. The aroma of cooking meat calms me. As I catch my breath, I talk to myself sharply for entertaining such brutish imaginings. I set up the trestle and spread a clean cloth. By the time Thomas returns from visiting a poor widow out beyond Saint Michael’s chapel, the stew has fragranced the whole house. Mother always told me that a good cook feeds her husband’s heart. Today might be the day I succeed. His nostrils flare as he steps over the threshold.

‘A fine smell, mistress,’ he says.

‘For you, sir,’ I grin, with a pretty curtsey. ‘John brought a rabbit.’

‘Another visitor?’ he asks darkly.

‘A gift, sir. A kindness from our butcher. I have made a stew.’

He grunts and kicks off his boots, scattering dried mud across the floor. It does not matter. I shall sweep it away later.

‘You may take it to the miller and his family.’

‘The miller?’

‘Yes.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Nathaniel? Simon? Martin?’

‘Simon.’

‘Yes, yes. I hear he is taken sick and I am tired out from walking all the way to the far side of the marshes,’ he mutters. ‘With God’s blessing,’ he adds quickly.

‘I could spare a bowl,’ I say, wondering if he truly means me to give away the whole lot and have nothing to eat myself. ‘But I made it for you.’

‘Then you have wasted your time, mistress,’ he says, shrugging off his cloak, which smells like a wet ewe.

It sprawls across the bench. He stares at it until I pick it up, shake it off and hang it on its hook.

‘Does the scent of rabbit displease you?’ I ask, knowing it does not. His eyes are glued to the pot, even if he thinks I am too stupid to notice.

‘Of course not. Your cooking is quite sufficient. But it is Thursday evening.’

‘Yes?’

I must sound truly confused, for he smiles. He always smiles when I do not understand what he has said. I wonder whether he does it on purpose.

‘So I cannot eat flesh.’

‘Thursday is not a fasting day,’ I say, a little uncertainly, for the good Lord may have changed His mind this morning and added Thursday to the dense thicket of days when meat may not be eaten.

‘It is past Compline. I did not think to be so late. But the widow would keep me …’ He draws in a steadying breath. ‘May the Saint bless her and keep her. So it is the eve of Friday. As a man of God, I must fast.’

I look at him. He looks at me. I am not convinced: he looks far too pleased with this act of piety for my taste. But there is nothing I can say. I return to the hearth and set to heating the porray left over from this morning. I consider adding a piece of the rabbit to it, but he would notice and I would get another sermon. I stir the mush so angrily some of it flies out of the pot and lands on the rushes.

I watch the spilled oatmeal dry out. I could scrape it off the floor and put it into his bowl. It is hardly a sin. He says neither a word of praise nor condemnation about the food I cook, whether it is the best dish I ever made or something I hurled into the pot without thinking. I doubt he’d notice if I seasoned his victuals with sheep dung. I know these thoughts come from the Tempter and I should pray, but today I am not in a prayerful mood. I continue to stir, feeling very sorry for myself.

When I first came here, I prepared victuals with the shy hand of a maid who loved and hoped for it to be returned. I thought my store of affection was enough to last many a lean winter, but I was wrong. It has shrivelled away so quickly. I look into the pot. Steam rises off the surface and warms my face with its gentle touch. I hover there a while longer, feel water pool beneath my tongue.

I shape my lips, part them slightly and watch spittle fall in a silver string. It rests on the surface of the pottage, the size of a small coin. I could pretend it is a mistake, one I did not intend to make. But I intend every bit of it. One movement of the ladle and it is gone. No, not gone: hidden. How I will smile if he praises his supper, tonight of all nights! Only I know it is there, and I will watch him eat.