Vixen. Rosie Garland

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СКАЧАТЬ is not our doing,’ hissed one of her companions, before I had even had a chance to open my mouth.

      ‘She has been moved by the spirit of repentance!’ cried a stranger from a few yards away.

      The noisy woman’s friends looked at each other doubtfully, weighing up if this might be the case.

      ‘Let me kneel!’ the woman yelled. ‘I beg forgiveness!’ She tore at her coif and a long strand of hair tumbled out, a fat black worm sprinkled with salt. ‘I am a sinner!’ she gargled, sinking to the floor.

      Her companions glanced at each other over her head and frowned.

      ‘Come now, mistress,’ I said sternly. ‘The Saint does not demand that you shout. He can hear the quietest of prayers.’

      One eye flipped open and peered at me. It looked me up and down, testing the weight of my words. Then it closed and she began to bemoan her sins even more fervently. I arched my eyebrow at her friends, who caught the significance of my gesture. They picked her up by the armpits and dragged her towards the shrine with as much grace as a sack of beets, her blubbering the whole while.

      A number of pilgrims muttered complaints that she was carried to the front of the queue while they had to wait patiently. I made pious comments about the Saint’s ears being dinned in by the screeching, and how it would be a shame if he grew deaf to the prayers of others as a result. They saw sense straight away and helped her up the chancel steps.

      She had fainted clean away by the time they brought her down; exhausted by her exertions or some kind miracle, I could not tell. She was carted out of the west door with much flapping of kerchiefs in her face.

      Her bothersome performance infected the pilgrims: some fell to their knees at the west door, some as far back as the lychgate. Most contented themselves with dropping at the rood screen and made the last few yards of their journey grunting and puffing. An uncharitable part of my soul wondered if they thought the Saint could only see them after they passed through its thick gateway.

      I told the first ones that it was not necessary; the Saint did not demand it of everyone. I was given looks of disbelief that a priest should ask for fewer penitent gestures rather than more. In the end I left them to it and counselled myself that if God willed this, then so be it.

      I wondered if word would get around and at the next festival the whole lot of them would approach thus. Perhaps leaden tokens in the shape of knees would be sold; perhaps Brannoc would garner a reputation as a healer of ailments of the leg and there would be a rush of pilgrims afflicted with diseases of the ankles.

      These were distracting thoughts. What might happen next year was in the hands of the Almighty. I sighed and rubbed my fingers on the point where my brows met. The commotion was driving a nail into my brains. William strolled by.

      ‘Why are you not at your post?’ I asked.

      ‘Clearing out a piece of rubbish,’ he laughed, clapping his hands. He dipped inside his tunic and drew out a small leather bag. ‘See?’ he said, waving it in my face.

      ‘What should I see?’

      ‘The ties are cut,’ he replied, slowly, and I had the strong sense he was speaking as you would to an idiot. ‘I found a lad lightening a gentleman of his possessions. Scabby little snip of a – begging your pardon, Father.’

      ‘Where is the boy? I must counsel him.’

      ‘He doesn’t need any more of that, Father. I’ve given him a right good counselling.’ He laughed again. ‘He’ll not be back.’

      He sailed out of the west door, tall and straight as a mast. He waved the money bag above his head and bawled for its owner to claim it. I leaned against the rood-screen to gather my tattered senses together. I still had no sure theme for my festival sermon and there was very little time left.

      Two young women giggled and clutched their kerchiefs to their noses as they passed. For a moment I wondered if I was giving off a noisome smell, but it was only the silly shyness of girls when faced with a man.

      ‘Do not jostle me so, Margret,’ hissed one of them. ‘Father Thomas,’ she cooed, dropping a curtsey.

      The female called Margret cupped a hand round her friend’s ear and whispered something too quiet to overhear. Whatever it was, it earned a fierce glare from her companion.

      ‘Father Thomas,’ said Margret. ‘We should like to welcome you to this parish. Shouldn’t we, Anne?’

      ‘Yes,’ agreed the maiden named Anne, in a flurry of further curtseying.

      ‘The new priest is a blessing, is he not?’

      ‘Yes,’ twittered Anne. Her cheeks flushed so pink it was little wonder she attended the shrine. Such an excess of choler was not healthy in a woman. Much as I applauded their modest blushes, I wearied of their chatter, so with a polite God be with you, I stepped away. But the encounter had not been without value: modesty in women was the perfect subject for a sermon.

      Finally, I had my theme, and not before time, for I must be quick and deliver the Mass. I hurried to the treasury. A boy was there, William’s son, I didn’t doubt. He held up the festival cope with as much grace as you would a day-old herring.

      ‘Higher, boy,’ I said. ‘I can’t get into it if you drag it across the floor like that.’

      He huffed, hoisted it and I poked my head through the narrow opening. I declare I staggered under the sudden weight, although I hid it well and he did not notice.

      ‘You are an idiot,’ I muttered. ‘You may as well send your sister next time. She’d do a better job.’

      He bore my terse words meekly, but his lips were tight, and angry spots reddened his cheeks. No doubt he would grumble about me to his companions.

      ‘Go to, go to,’ I commanded in a kinder voice, for he was not a bad child, merely untutored. ‘Tell the choirboys we are ready.’

      I smiled, but of course the lad did not understand such niceties. I wondered briefly if he might be worth instructing; he seemed attentive. He could hardly be worse than the previous boy, who sang in the bell-tower and was found in the churchyard with his hand inside a girl’s bodice.

      I wriggled inside the fussy cope. It was ballasted with gold stitching and pearls, heavy as a stack of logs. I did not hold with all this panoply. If I had the choice, I’d leave that to peacock priests. But I did not have a choice: the Bishop made that clear when he heard – I know not from whom – that I conducted my Christmas Mass in plain shirt and hose. I endeavoured to explain I meant no disrespect: I wished to emulate the simple dress of our Lord, not to ape my poor flock. He lectured me with some force that I had no idea how Christ clothed himself and I would dress as commanded. Grandly, as befitted my station.

      He told me that I insulted my parishioners by pretending to be the same as them. You’re a priest, by God, he thundered. Act like one. I could not believe he should so mistake my humble intentions. So today, I sweated in gold and garnets. I contented myself with the knowledge that God saw my inner humility. If men needed pomp to bring them to penitence, so be it. I was commanded, therefore I would obey, uncomplaining as a lamb.

      The procession began. The choirboys tumbled in through the СКАЧАТЬ