Vixen. Rosie Garland

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СКАЧАТЬ women wrapped roasted lamb in their aprons and men stuffed half-loaves down their shirts. I wondered how much would survive the crossing of the ford. I pressed them to take more, so they would also carry away the tale of my generosity. In the end it was Joan who stopped them, smacking the greediest of hands, and declaring that some must be left for the two who remained. She was the last to go, nodding a brisk farewell to her daughter.

      The cloth on the table was stained with gravy and splashes of ale, the floor crunching with bread crusts and mutton bones. A bowl of pottage had been tipped into the fire: I noticed the smell of burnt peas only now. I held the door open to clear away the breathed-out air. The rain was now coming down steadily, but it seemed nothing could dampen my guests. I could hear them singing in the darkness, as though the heat of their happiness might dry up the downpour. I sucked in the clean breath of the night.

      There was a small cough at my back. Of course, Anne was here. We faced each other, listening to the laughter grow fainter. When it was quiet enough to hear my own thoughts, Anne took her skirt in each hand and lowered herself to the floor in such a deep curtsey that her knees brushed the straw.

      ‘No, mistress; there is no need to kneel before me.’

      I grasped at her elbow to pull her upright, but she toppled sideways and I staggered with her: I would have fallen if I had not wrenched the both of us upright. Her giggle snapped off in a yelp.

      ‘I am sorry, mistress. Are you hurt?’

      ‘No, sir,’ she said between her teeth. Her eyes wrinkled as she rubbed her shoulder.

      ‘I am a gentle man, mistress.’

      ‘Yes, sir. I stumbled. It is my fault.’ She yawned, and a yeasty belch escaped.

      ‘Are you tired?’

      Her eyes sprang open. ‘Oh no, sir. I have eaten well, that is all.’ She looked about, as though seeing each thing for the first time: the hearth, the benches, the table still dressed with trenchers and dribbled ale. ‘Shall I clear it, sir?’

      ‘Yes, mistress. That would be a good thing.’

      She looked surprised, and it came to me at last what she expected and feared. That I was a beast like other men; a corrupt priest who wanted her only to slave beneath me in my bed. I could have wept at her innocence; thinking herself trussed up and sacrificed to me. I started to undo the gaudy ribbons binding her waist; plucked out the wilting blossoms tucked into her looped hair. She panted a little.

      ‘Do not be afraid, mistress.’

      ‘I am not, sir. My name is Anne.’

      ‘I know it.’ I folded the ribbons neatly, for I understood and forgave the hunger of common girls for pretty things. ‘There: you are free now.’

      ‘Free, sir?’

      ‘You owe me no debt, Anne.’ I folded my hands together. ‘You know I am a priest?’

      ‘I do, sir.’ Her breath furred the air between us.

      ‘You know a priest can never be married to a maid.’

      ‘I do, sir.’

      ‘I am a chaste man, Anne. A kind man. I will never insult you.’

      ‘Sir?’

      I smiled at her virgin simplicity. ‘I will never give you cause to rebuke me. You will never be dishonoured in my house. You will never be hungry.’

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘Our companionship will shine like a jewel at the heart of this community. We shall show everyone the meaning of marriage in Christ.’ I leaned forward and pressed my lips against her cheek. ‘Goodnight, mistress. I give you the kiss of peace. You are safe here.’

      I went to the solar and closed the door behind me. The floor and bedcover were sprinkled with petals frilled with rust.

       ANNE

      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, СКАЧАТЬ