Kitabı oku: «Vixen», sayfa 3

‘Halt!’ says Hugh, somewhat unnecessarily, for they stand in our way.

‘We are not moving,’ I say, waving my hand to indicate the truth of it.

‘Good,’ says Robert, and giggles. ‘You are obedient, which suits our purpose.’

Margret snorts and this sets them both off, sniggering into their hands.

‘We must examine you for goat’s legs,’ announces Hugh and makes a lunge for the hem of my kirtle.

‘Oh no you mustn’t,’ I reply.

I step out of the way of his questing paw. It is not difficult, as his feet are unsteady.

‘Or pig’s trotters,’ hiccups Robert. ‘I’ll wager one of you at least has pink trotters.’

‘For shame, boys,’ chides Margret. ‘How much have you been drinking?’ They find this an amusing enquiry, but she continues to tick them off. ‘Go and play your silly games somewhere else. I am a married woman and am beyond such foolishness.’

Robert’s eyes squint into crafty folds, making him look uncommonly like one of the pigs he seems attached to.

‘Married?’ he slurs. ‘That’s not how we hear it,’ he adds, digging his elbow into Hugh’s ribs. ‘You might cover your head, but you’re no goodwife. You’re John of Pilton’s woman.’

‘What of it?’ she says, tilting her chin upwards.

‘A priest’s woman,’ says Hugh.

They are neither so drunk nor so disrespectful to venture further and they know it.

‘Here comes Father Thomas,’ I announce brightly. ‘This would be a good time to see our ankles, don’t you think? If you demand it, we must comply.’

‘You insisted,’ says Margret, smiling.

In truth, the man in question is not coming this way at all, engaged as he is in blessing pilgrims at the south door. Robert and Hugh are not to know this, as they are facing the opposite direction.

‘Yes!’ cries Margret, warming to the task. ‘Please demonstrate to our new priest how diligently you have hearkened to his words.’

‘He will be proud to have had such an effect on the two of you.’

The lads glance at each other, declare how thirsty they are and must be off, that we are very tiresome, and all manner of excuses.

‘That’s him,’ says a voice at my shoulder.

It is my mother. She grasps my elbow and shakes me, jabs her finger in the direction of Thomas.

‘Who?’ I ask, even though I know full well.

‘Him,’ she hisses with great weight and portent. ‘He is in need of a housekeeper. The village knows it.’

‘I am not sure if I wish to be a housekeeper.’

‘Don’t play with me, girl. You know exactly what he wants. And you’ll not get finer from any of these lads.’ She raises her eyebrows at the throng of village boys.

‘But a priest, Mother?’

‘What of it?’ she says sharply. ‘You stand with Margret, do you not? You girls were always perfectly matched in everything.’

I look at Thomas. His chin is not so small, when you look at him from a distance. Mother purses her lips thoughtfully.

‘I hear he lives on a diet of lentils, as though every day is a Friday. Gammer Maynard was there this week just gone, searching for her chickens, and she says the floor is strewn with old straw. Think of it. That big house, with him rattling around on his own. What a sin to let it go to waste. If you won’t take him, plenty will. And quick.’

‘Mother!’ I clap my hand to my bodice and endeavour to look shocked. ‘I am sure I do not understand,’ I add with becoming coyness.

‘That’s my clever Anne,’ she murmurs. ‘We understand each other.’ She smiles and touches her forehead to mine. It is a girlish sweetness I see in her rarely. Then her face crumples. ‘My little babe! My Anne!’ she warbles. ‘Surely it was only yesterday you were at my breast and suckling there.’

She lifts the hem of her gown and wipes her face. When she is done, she is pink about the eyes, the skin puffed up. I lay my hand on her arm. It is a strange feeling to be the one soothing my dam, not altogether unpleasant. I feel important, a woman on my own account. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a mother. I decide that I like it, and wish to have more.

‘Look at me,’ she says. ‘I declare. I haven’t got the sense of a pulled hen.’

She smoothes out her apron, all business once more, and is gone as briskly as she arrived. I continue my keen appraisal. Thomas: that is his name. Of Upcote: though where that place might be, I have no notion. Margret follows my gaze and examines him also.

‘His nose is a little thin,’ she says.

‘Yet his teeth are fine,’ I reply.

‘His hair has been cut with a hay rake.’

‘Then he must have a woman cut it for him.’

‘His shoulders strain to bear the weight of his gown.’

‘Then he needs good victuals to fill him out.’

So we prattle on in low voices, until Margret pauses. Her eyes are sad.

‘What ails you, my sweet?’ I say.

‘Be careful, Anne. Have great care before you take this step. Once the road is chosen, there is only one direction you can walk, and that is forward.’

‘Oh, Margret. How dour you make it sound.’

‘Anne, you are as close as a sister. I speak as one who loves you as dearly.’

‘Well?’

‘Be sure of this man.’

‘I am decided. I will have him,’ I reply somewhat snappishly, for it seems she wishes to pour sand upon the fire of my happy plans.

‘Anne—’

I round on her. ‘What is it, Margret? Do you wish to deny me your good fortune? I did not think you so ungenerous. I took you for my friend.’

‘I am your friend, and dearer than you know for telling you this hard secret.’

I will have none of it, and am angry with her. ‘So, a fine bed and a heaped board are right for you but not for me, is that it?’

‘Of course not.’

I know not whence comes my peevishness and spite. In my venom I hear an unhappy, jealous woman and I do not like her one bit. I would snatch back the words, but it is too late. The hag who has taken the reins of my tongue will not permit it.

‘It seems to me that you want to keep all finery to yourself and fear a rival.’

‘No, sister! How can you think this of me?’

‘I can think it easily. Do you take me for a fool? Is this your revenge for our childish games, where I was your queen? Is this your plan, to pay me back?’

‘Anne, do not speak like this.’

‘Why should I not? Anne is below, and Margret is raised up. That’s how you wish things to remain. You above me, now and for always.’

‘Anne, no—’

‘Anne, yes. You are no sister. A sister would rejoice.’

I see my words strike Margret, the poison of their cruelty mark her face as clear as the slap of a hand. She fiddles with her headpiece, a contraption of wire and linen that makes her look like a nanny goat.

‘Perhaps I should return to Pilton,’ she remarks. ‘John and Jack will be waiting for me.’

Her face softens as she speaks. In a dark corner of my soul, a serpent flicks its heavy tail. Suddenly I am very tired of Margret prattling about her darling son, her precious John. Up spring more sharp words, and I cannot stop them from bursting out.

‘Your son, your son,’ I snap. ‘The way you talk, Margret. It is quite tiring. I wish you would speak of something else.’

‘Anne?’ she says. Her face shifts, the gentle smile sucked back into her mouth. ‘What do you mean by this?’

‘You dare ask? How you crowed when you went to John. Me, the dunnock against your peacock. How very grand you have become.’

‘I am blessed,’ she replies, with dignity.

‘I’m sure it is not sufficient. Not for a duchess like you.’

‘I would not test the Lord by asking for more joy than is my portion.’

‘You are no more a lady than I am, Margret. Be careful you do not climb so high you lose sight of the earth.’

At last I run out of nastiness. It is though I bore a sack of bile in my belly and had to spew it up. She stares at me; I stare at her. I have a great desire to hug her close and say sorry for my selfishness.

‘Margret—’ I begin.

At that moment the lady Sibylla, wife of our Lord Henry, approaches and enquires after our health. We fluster, curtseying and murmuring at being noticed by a person of such high degree. After a moment she moves on to make her gracious good morrows to the rest of the congregation, setting up a flutter like a fox in a chicken coop. The venom has been sucked from my meanness, but there remains a prickling unpleasantness.

‘The Saint is truly powerful if he can make great ladies pass the time of day with peasants,’ Margret remarks.

‘Ah, Margret,’ I say. ‘Let me—’

‘I declare,’ she interrupts. ‘I see Mistress Aline. I will greet her. God be with you, Anne.’

She tightens her mouth, turns and strides off. She does not glance back. I quiver with the desire to run after her, push aside the holiday crowds and beg her forgiveness. But shame and guilt have the governance of me and will not permit me to bend. So I stand and watch my friend walk away. By and by her sun sets in the distance and my world fades into a dimness of my own making.

I have said what I have said. I have set my eye on this Thomas, a man to hook and bring to shore. I must set my eye on ambitions greater than girlish friends. I tell myself I have no further need of Margret. I will see her at the next festival. But by then, everything has changed.

VIXEN

I strike south-west, outskipping Death. Only when I pause for breath do I realise how hectic has been my dash from the Great Mortality. My feet are worn out from dancing, my tongue a clapper of wood from all the jokes I’ve had to tell.

I stand at the gate of the forest and beg safe passage.

‘Oh, grandmother, let me in, and I’ll bring you the head of a charcoal-burner!’ I cry.

She opens to me straight away, for wood-burners are her greatest enemy.

‘Show me the path away from clever folk, and into the arms of simpletons,’ I add, for it pays to be specific when asking favours from powerful persons. ‘Do this, and I’ll steal a hundred axes, and throw them into the sea.’

She shakes her branches and a swish of laughter ripples overhead. She knows it is a brazen boast, but my heart’s-wood is behind it.

‘Lead me away from Death,’ I say, and she falls quiet.

I take it as a good sign. She makes no promises, nor does she make merry at my fear. It’s as good an answer as I’ll get from trees, so I content myself with it and press further into her labyrinthine belly. She draws me into her arms and I let her rock me. Death tries to follow, but her shadows conceal me from His eyes. I am safe under the swing of her cloak, for she is fearsome only to those who do not know her.

The forest is my song, the best kind: no words, but all manner of music. I tune my ear to her particular melody and she rewards me with all I need to know. I listen for clues, for knowledge, for information, for the sheer pleasure of it. Overhead, boughs rustle; dead leaves crunch underfoot and warn of pitfalls that can swallow your foot and snap it sideways. She guides me more clearly than any gazetteer, instructs me better than any primer, delights more than any gold-splashed psalter.

Most of all, she is peaceful. Where there are people, there is greed. Thievery. Falsehood. Murder. When beasts kill each other, they do so simply to eat. What I have seen of men is that they kill to clear a bigger space at the world’s table for themselves.

I pick my way with the tiptoe step of a deer, so delicate that when I come upon a herd, they lift their heads without fear. Some of the does are heavy-bellied, flanks quivering as the fawn within stirs in its wet sleep. In me they see a cousin crippled with two legs instead of four, not someone come a-hunting. I am to be pitied and not scurried from, so they bend their necks and return to the more important business of grazing.

I almost trip over a fawn. He lies still as a stone dropped from Heaven and marked with the thumbprints of the angel who threw him. I stare at him; he stares at me, eyes bigger than my fist and blacker than the bottom of a well. His nostrils flare: he catches my scent and presses his nose into the fork between my thighs. If he is seeking milk, he finds nothing but the scent of the sea.

‘You won’t hurt me, will you?’ I ask, and he trembles his answer.

His dam crashes through a bush and glares her jealousy. He droops his head, guilty for falling in love with another so fast, him not even weaned and her not gone five minutes.

‘And you,’ I say to her. ‘You’ll shake your head and stamp your hoof, but that’s all.’

She answers by doing both. The fawn sighs and takes her teat. Her envious glare melts into satisfaction. She’s not yet lost him to another female.

‘There are arrows far more deadly than those of love,’ I whisper, but she is deep in her trance of milk-giving and does not hear my warning. ‘Rest easy,’ I say. ‘I’m away.’

I’m as good as my word. With beasts there is no need for lies.

I am safe here; safe as anywhere on this unreliable earth. There are rabbits to snare, raven’s nests for my larder. Death cannot reach me. Perhaps I could hide in the trees and wait for Him to pass over.

But Death wants for amusement and so do I. I stuff my belly with eggs, laugh at the birds as they flap useless wings. Their blunt beaks cannot hurt me. What next for me? Who shall be my next fool? Where can I find me a dupe? So do I lie, sucking yolk from my fingers, head blooming with dangerous fancies. I ought to know better. I should be careful of what I wish for.

LAUDS 1349

From Saint Alphege to Edward the Martyr

THOMAS OF UPCOTE

‘A man should not do the work of women.’

The man filled the mouth of my door, rain streaming off his woollen cloak. I scrabbled in my mind. Was this piece of wisdom a line from a psalm?

‘Even less a man of God,’ he continued.

‘Indeed,’ I agreed, wondering who he might be.

‘You have let your needs be known, Father.’

‘My needs?’ Some agency sent heat into my face.

‘A priest needs a housekeeper.’

‘Yes,’ I spoke hastily. ‘I need a housekeeper.’

‘Indeed, Father. My Anne would be a good housekeeper.’

‘Anne?’

‘I am her father. Stephen.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘The carpenter.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘You know her.’

‘I do?’

‘By my head; you smiled at her on Relic Day.’ Water dripped from his muzzle onto his clogs.

‘I did?’ Again, I searched my memory but found the face of each female as unremarkable as the next.

‘Indeed you did, Father.’

‘I smile at all my flock.’

‘But her in special.’ He gnarled his eye shut and I realised he was winking. He spat on his hand, shoved it into mine. ‘I will send her mother.’

I opened the door to loud knocking. Three women shadowed the light: a matron and at her back two younger females who flicked at the ends of their braids. My face asked the question.

‘I am Anne’s mother, Joan.’ She aimed a broad thumb over her shoulder. ‘These two are her gossips, Alice and Isabel.’

‘Greetings, Mistress Joan. Ladies.’

They pressed their way past me and walked directly to the hearth. They peered into the butter-pot one after the other, held up the frying pan and tested its weight, counted out the knives, the dishes, the pitchers and the pewter plates, banged their knuckles against the great pot on its hook over the fire.

The two maids sighed, scowling at each item as though it was wanting in some way I could not comprehend. Joan strode into the solar and stared at my bed awhile, mercifully without comment. She flipped up the lid of the chest as though it were only the weight of a penny, and straightway began filleting the sheets folded within.

‘Good linen,’ she clucked, ‘what there is of it. Surely you have more?’

‘It is stored. I have little need for—’

‘Good, good.’ She peered at me, from my uneven tonsure to my clogs. ‘Your glebe, Father.’

I realised it was a question. I had the uncomfortable feeling of being a clerk standing before a strict schoolmaster and not knowing the answer.

‘I have an orchard,’ I gabbled. ‘Apples and medlars, six cherry trees besides. Fifteen healthy ewes at the last count, tended for by Edgard. A tup-ram, a milk-cow and calf, many fowls for eggs. A mare in her own stable. My Lord Bishop is generous.’

She hummed and swept back into the hall, dragging us in her formidable wake. She kicked at the reeds on the floor, clicking her tongue at one of the maidens, who nodded and said in need of fresh rushes to her companion. She tapped at the oilcloth set into the window, tested the shutters.

‘No glass?’

‘It is warm enough. There is much vanity—’

‘With the shutters open it is too cold. With them shut it is too dark,’ she said as brisk as you would to a boy. ‘How can a woman see clear to bake your bread?’

I had not thought that far ahead. One of the maids sniggered: Joan quenched the sound with a glare.

‘I will pay for a glazier,’ I gulped.

‘And curtains?’

‘Yes. I have some. Stored with the linen.’

‘Fine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. A tapet for the bed?’

I had no idea why she wanted my bed to appear grander than it was. It was an indelicate question, but I let it pass, for rustic folk have odd notions.

‘I shall not stint,’ I said.

‘That is a fine thought, Father. And for the feast?’

‘The feast?’

‘When she shall come to you. It is our way.’ She patted my hand. ‘There must be beer; the good brown, nothing sour.’

I felt myself suddenly in the sharp angle of a small room, its walls pressing hard upon my shoulders.

Ground almonds?

Green cheese and hard cheese?

White porray with saffron?

Wheat bread? Of sifted flour?

A dozen rabbits?

I quacked out agreement after agreement until I believe I could have given my assent to anything. Raisins. Lemons. Hot wine caudle. Nutmeg. Mace. Custards. A sugar-loaf. They were no longer requests but statements.

‘Eels and herrings for yourself. Two new lambs to roast.’

‘Two?’

‘Two. You shall not stint.’

I was dizzy with talk of pies, and spices, and boiled chickens, and stock-fish, and clapbread and havercakes and so much honey my teeth ached. At last she stopped; held out her hand. I fetched coins from my safe-box and counted them into her palm until she clicked her tongue a final time and closed her fingers.

Anne was brought to my house fifteen days later, on the Feast of Saint Perpetua, her mother eager to bring her before Lent. There was a fine dampness in the air, as barely noticeable as breath. Maybe this was the day the rain would cease.

Just before Prime the women arrived with my dishes, now filled with the food I had paid for. They looked to be bringing it the whole morning, so I took myself to the church and did not return till after Terce. As I walked down the path I heard laughter, the bleating of a pipe.

Her hair was glossy as an otter. It had been combed through and sheaves of it looped up in plaited trenchers over her ears, threaded through with sprigs of mayflower. She fluttered with a girdle of coloured ribbons, wound about her so tight it was a marvel she could guffaw so loudly. As they reached the ford she was hoisted like a log and carried on the shoulders of two young men who hung onto her knees. She kicked out her feet and showed red slippers.

One of her bearers began to sing, ‘I tell of one so fair and bright’, and all bawled the refrain, ‘Oh, bright and fair!’ She grinned and swung her head about to be so praised; but I saw her slap the lad’s fingers as he clutched her thigh too tightly, and knew her for a virtuous maid.

I was at my door to welcome them as they trod their last few steps. All were wet halfway to the knee save Anne, and there was much merriment as the women wrung out their underskirts and the men squeezed out their hose and came in bare-legged. They patted mud from their tunics, knocked dirt off their clogs. I resolved to be a cheerful host and not draw attention to this rudeness.

‘Welcome,’ I said. ‘Welcome all.’

I barely knew my own house. While I had been in the church it had been wreathed about with ivy and may, as though the Feast of Saint Lucy was come round again. The trestle shone with bright linen, and a great heap of logs glowed in the hearth, the embers studded with seething pots of green and white porray. The very air was foreign to me, thickened as it was with tickling spice. There was a roar as the ale was brought in.

‘It is the very finest,’ said Joan. ‘Made by our own Aline.’

The ale-wife dropped to her knees as I thanked her, drowned out by thirsty bellowing. Each man dug out a beaker from inside his shirt and polished it on his stomach, ready for it to be filled.

‘Good Aline!’

‘Happy woman and happier husband!’

The man spoken of cawed like a rook. ‘It is the spring!’

‘It is near!’

‘It will be a good spring,’ I said.

‘It will, God willing,’ a man declared, and ducked his head at me.

‘God is good,’ I continued, and they raised their cups in agreement.

‘And so is Anne!’ cried one voice, to answering cheers.

‘My death I love, my life I hate,’ sang one fellow. ‘All for a girl so fair; she is as bright as day is light, but she won’t look at me.’

‘So fair she is and fine,’ boomed another. ‘I wish to God that she were mine.’

‘Oh, Anne is a fine girl indeed,’ whispered Joan, close to me.

‘Fair was her bower,’ cried a third voice.

‘What was her bower?’

‘The red rose and the lily flower.’

The company laughed.

‘My turn now,’ cried a voice thick with ale. ‘When the priest comes in to pray, next day Death takes you away.’

‘Best not get the priest in, then.’

‘Hush now,’ said Joan.

‘No disrespect, Father.’

‘I can sing too!’ I smiled, and took a deep breath.

‘Jesus Christ, my darling Lord, That died for us upon the tree. With all my might I do beseech, You send your love to me.’

They coughed and stamped, and said, That is a good song, Father, and I was warmed.

‘We will be safe this year, Father,’ said Joan.

‘We are always safe in the Lord.’

‘But here, in special.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Against the pestilence. Is it not true?’

‘Our Saint protects us.’

I made the sign of the Cross over the victuals, and they fell to, picking at their teeth with their knives and spitting on the floor. The hours swam by in eating and drinking, and I began to wonder if they might stay the entire night. I could not leave them to go to the church, for it would show them less holy than myself. As I thought it, Joan left off gossiping and clapped her hands. The talking and laughter tumbled into silence.

‘Good people,’ she said, and I thought how loud her voice was, for a woman.

I had not yet heard Anne speak and I hoped her voice was milder than her mother’s. Someone cheered to hear himself called good, and there was jostling until Joan lifted the spade of her hand and dug it into the air. The noise was struck down.

‘Yes, good we are indeed,’ she continued. ‘And as such, we must be gone to our homes.’

The man roared again, wild enough to shout about anything. He stood up to assert his goodness, but his feet were unwilling to follow and he slipped to the floor. His companions hauled him upright and I saw his face made dark with ale.

‘I am sorry, Father,’ he said, the drink gone from him straightway.

The eyes of the room screwed themselves into me.

‘It is nothing; you are merry.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘It is a fine day to be merry, is it not?’

‘Yes, Father.’

He rubbed his face. Someone slammed me on the back. I was pleased at my cleverness not to chide him, for the word would be about that I was a forgiving man. Joan smacked her hands together, and the room was hers.

‘Let us say a good night to our priest. Our fine and right reverend Thomas.’

The people cheered and I burned with happiness. If I could pick out one instant in my life when I was entirely happy, it was then. A warm room; the company of innocents stuffed with food and smiling for me alone. But it was built of shadows. I did not know what was to follow, and when I look back, I cringe that I was so much a fool.

‘Let me bless you before you go,’ I cried.

‘Yes. It would be a fitting farewell, Father,’ said Joan.

There was a clearing of beery throats, the rustling of feet in straw. I must bid Anne sweep it out, for it was sticky with spilt victuals. It would wait until morning. Every chin dropped onto every breast.

‘Oh God, who created the earth and everything in it, look upon our simple feast. Bless us in our humility. Grant us health on earth as it is in Heaven. Comfort our bodies.’

Ah yes, comfort us.

The room rumbled its thanks. Joan began to shoo the company out of the door, encouraging them to bear away what food was left. Anne’s father grasped my wrist and gazed at me with a wandering eye.

‘Father Thomas, you are a good man,’ he hiccoughed. ‘She is a fine girl, Father.’

‘I do not doubt it.’

‘Clean.’

‘Yes,’ I nodded.

‘Willing.’

‘Yes, good.’

‘She could be meeker.’

‘I am sure of it.’

‘But bright in humour.’

‘I wonder you can spare her; she is such a jewel.’

‘My Joan fetches and carries well enough,’ he beamed. ‘I would rather lose a pig than send my Anne to a bad house.’

‘She will be honoured under my roof, Stephen. Have no fear of that.’

‘It is a good thing, Father.’ His eyes shone. ‘You are a better man than we thought.’

My heart leapt and thrust water into my eyes: at last they accepted me. I sheltered the thought in the soft nest of my soul.

Aline directed the steadier of the men to carry away the ale-pots: 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.