Vixen

‘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.