Vixen. Rosie Garland

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      ‘It is a good take today, Father,’ he said, squeezing rain from his beard. ‘There’s two bags of tapers put by already and we’re barely past breakfast.’

      ‘The people turn to the Lord in earnest,’ I replied soberly. ‘That is what matters.’

      ‘Numbers are up,’ said William, gloating.

      I would speak with him, another time. ‘The Saint’s intercession is most powerful,’ I said. ‘He has never failed us.’

      ‘Indeed, Father,’ he said. ‘Very good to us, he is. And don’t these folk know it,’ he roared, sweeping his arm in a gesture encompassing the company. ‘Come for a piece of his goodness, every one of them.’

      ‘It’s a fine thing he’s so generous,’ added Lukas.

      Aline bawled a greeting and pushed a wooden mug into my hands.

      ‘There you go, Father! The Saint’s ale itself. Fresh this morning and I never brewed a better, if I say so myself.’

      Her face was red. I decided to take it for hard work rather than hard drinking. I sniffed the pot, not discourteously, and took a mouthful.

      ‘It is good, mistress.’

      She grinned. ‘Bless you, Father!’ She turned round, took a deep breath and bellowed, ‘He likes it! Good enough for the Saint’s man, more than good enough for us, so it is!’

      There was an answering cheer from the multitude, many a cup raised. I picked my way through the field of folk, spread thick as daisies upon the grass. They regaled me with tales of how the Saint saved them from drowning, healed broken arms and broken hearts, planted healthy sons in barren wombs, cured this sickness and that sickness till my head spun and my arm wearied from pumping up and down in blessing.

      A man laid on the ground stretched out his arm and grasped my ankle. Though his shoulders were broad and muscular, his legs were so thin they could not bear his weight. The bones of his knees were as big as cabbages.

      ‘Father,’ he croaked. ‘Can your Saint save us from the pestilence?’

      With the speed of a bucket of water hurled onto a fire, the pilgrims fell silent. The burden of their glances heaped on my shoulders.

      ‘My son,’ I said, making the sign of the Cross upon his brow. ‘Pray to the most holy Brannoc. God have mercy upon you.’

      The man shook his head petulantly. ‘The pestilence, Father. Are his relics proof against the Great Dying?’

      The crowd hissed through their teeth at the dangerous words. Inch by inch they drew back, clearing a circle of mud around him. One old female muttered under her breath and made the sign of horns with her fingers. I glared at her for indulging in such heathen tomfoolery. She ignored me and spat at my feet. I closed my eyes and called upon the Lord to plant the right words into my mouth.

      ‘Only God knows the workings of His will.’ There was a groan, and not a little sucking of teeth. ‘The pestilence is His will. It is punishment for our sins,’ I continued, gathering strength.

      ‘God forgive me!’ sobbed a man from somewhere in the mob.

      He was hushed swiftly, and for once all ears turned to me with full attention.

      ‘But,’ I cried. ‘But,’ I repeated, for it was a good word and had captured them. ‘The Saint is a strong protector. Not one goodman or goodwife of this village has perished since the Great Mortality came to this land.’

      My words stirred up a hubbub of excitement: they hung on to my coat, pawing at my arms, heaping thanks upon my head and calling down the blessings of the Saint for some miracle they thought had taken place. I wriggled free of their clinging and hurried to the church, its hulk looming out of the drizzle like a monstrous bull. I patted its flank and let myself in by the small north door; laid my back to the wood, closed my eyes, stretched out my hand and brushed the plaster of the wall, warm and soft as a child’s cheek. Oh Lord, behold Your servant.

      What a dungheap you go to, John had said when the Bishop divided up the parishes between we new priests. He was given the Staple with its fine harbour and cobbled streets; its church with silver and gold and paintings on wood and wall. I had laughed then, and I laughed now, joyful in my heart to be amongst simple, unlettered folk. Did Our Lord not do the same? My church boasted no pillars, nor aisles, nor benches. A barn of a place rather, fit for gathering a harvest of souls who offer fruits of praise. I smiled at the neat thought: perhaps that would suit today’s sermon. The Lord had not seen His way to giving me a theme as yet.

      Besides, my church had its own prize: the shrine of the Saint, hallowed with his bones. My feet whispered a path to where it swamped the chancel, pinnacles piled up like sugar loaves nibbled by greedy children, pierced with windows through which could be seen the plain grey hulk of the tomb. I spat on my sleeve-end and rubbed at a thumb-mark, no doubt left by a careless pilgrim.

      ‘Guide me, oh Lord,’ I prayed. I heard God knock at the door of my soul once, twice, and I shouted, ‘I am here, Master!’

      ‘Father?’

      I twisted about. A man stood at the rood-screen, banging his knuckles against the wood.

      ‘Father!’ he bawled. ‘Shall I ring the bell? It is time.’

      I blinked myself back into this world, waited until I was sure my voice was steady.

      ‘Edwin, you do not need to ring the bell. I am content to do it myself.’

      ‘I am the bell-ringer. Father Hugo chose me. I cannot be unchosen. Do I not do it well, Father Thomas?’

      ‘Yes, Edwin, you do it very well,’ I sighed.

      He folded his arms. ‘You have chosen no deacon yet, Father? You have been here this quarter-year.’

      ‘No deacon, Edwin.’

      ‘Not even a chaplain? A priest needs a chaplain.’

      ‘I strive for God,’ I said. ‘It is my joyful duty to be about His work, however humble.’

      ‘Father Hugo had a chaplain. And two church-wardens.’

      ‘That Reverend Father was content to let others toil for him,’ I said. And he did many other things I would not, I thought privately. ‘I will not set myself above you.’

      ‘But you’ve made William your steward. And Lukas. Do you favour them?’

      ‘I do not,’ I sigh.

      I had had little choice in the matter, although Edwin did not need to know about those colourful discussions.

      ‘You work too hard, Father,’ he muttered; disappeared up the tower steps and the bell clanged out its welcome.

      Soon, I must open up to the pilgrims. I propped the ladder at the west window and peeped out. Even through the glass I could hear them, buzzing like bees in a pot. Like bees to the hive for the honey of the Saint and his sweet miracles. Perhaps this was the right СКАЧАТЬ