Vixen. Rosie Garland

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ