Vixen

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I hear tales about punishment for sins, the wrath of the Lord. As for God’s anger, I’ll say nothing: not for fear of Heaven striking me down, but for the anger of men, who fear the fragility of their faith so keenly they would burn a child who spoke one small word against it.

I dance down the coast, from village to village. The first time, I tell the truth and say I am come from Bristol. They smell trouble and I escape with my skin, racing from hurled rocks and cudgels, only stopping when I am in the forest and they will not follow. I spit on the path that leads back.

The next place I am wiser, but still am chased off. I run: not only from their fists but also from the fever I smell on their breath, the roses blooming in their throats. I avoid villages, sniff out the stink of men and keep away. I use their fields for my larder; learn to move quickly. And all the while I keep one step ahead of the fearsome dancing partner whose breath rots the road behind.

We make a good pair, Death and I. As long as I can pique His interest, amuse Him with a merry expression and fancy riddles, He does not bid me stop. As long as I am more valuable alive than dead, He does not draw me into His most intimate and final of embraces. Each morning I devise a fresh amusement and play it out, ear cocked for His approving chuckle. Poised for dangerous silence.

I point to a man and say, This one?

He nods, and I start my game: steal a string of sausages from under the butcher’s nose, piss on the blacksmith’s fire, throw sand between the miller’s stones, spit on my lady’s poached halibut. I watch them fume and shake their fists, so consumed with anger they do not see the towering darkness behind them till He taps on their shoulder and there’s no time for hand-wringing and pleas for mercy.

I boast, hoping he cannot hear my desperation.

See how light I can make your labour?

Did you ever have such fun before?

What diversions. What amusements! Do I not garland your workaday world with wonders?

It’s a thin path to tread: I must not get so close that He gathers me into His arms and presses His stinking lips to mine. I must not strike a bargain, their lives for mine; nothing so dangerous as spare me and I will make you laugh. I am not so stupid as to spit on my palm and shake Death’s hand. I’ll keep myself well clear of His claw.

I am a jolly-man, a wooden-head; not everyman, but every-fool. I dance, I sing, turn cartwheels and weave my body into knots. For Him I flit between boy and girl, between dog and vixen; so fast that I lose sight of what I am, submerged in the swirling, glittering soup of my creations.

I am exhausted. So very tired of all this labour, this hanging on to life.

MATTINS 1349 (#ua9fbb700-2dba-51c4-ba73-13f764e6f689)

The Feast of Saint Brannoc

THOMAS OF UPCOTE (#ua9fbb700-2dba-51c4-ba73-13f764e6f689)

Because I could not hear the voice of God, I went to the fields.

I woke early, hoping to find a small corner of quiet in my church, but there was none. Before dawn I knelt at the altar, straining to hear the Lord but instead heard some farmer bawling for his cow. By first light this solitary cry had swelled into a wild congregation of yawning and farting and belching and pissing and wailing and sneezing and hawking and cracking of stretched limbs and banging of doors and no chance to hear the boldest cock crow over the dreadful racket.

So I went into the meadow. The morning was brisk: crisp bracken, brown as crumbled horse-bread, curled into itself as though trying to keep warm. Holly thickened the hedgerow, beside thorn bushes and grey-skinned ash with its black fists of buds. Small birds fluttered alongside, keeping pace with my steps.

I strode to the centre of the field. The earth spread its cloak beneath my feet, prickly with barley stalks cut close as stubble on a man’s chin. The breath of the dawn rose in a mist. Drops of water hung at the tips of the grass stems, catching the new light. Rooks splashed in the rutted puddles that lay athwart the fields. Over the sea to the west the sky was dark; the brightness of coming day showed itself to the east.

I shook my head of these distractions, pressed on, dropped to my knees. The dew came straightway through my hose and chilled me awake. I listened: nothing but my own happy breath. I pressed my palms together and spoke the beautiful words of the Office under the roof of God’s sky. No one bothered me with, Father Thomas, are you sick? I did not have to snap, No; I am at prayer. I am your priest. I pray. It is what we do. It was delightful.

For a moment only. A crow cawed, emptying its throat of sand. Its fellow answered from three fields away, echoed by the clattering of magpies. A cow mourned for her calf, taken at the last harvest. Bullocks steamed, sheep coughed at the sparse winter grass. All I asked was a little peace. If Hell was unimaginable pain and Heaven was unimaginable bliss, then the bliss I sought was humble silence. I shook my head, tried to retrieve the silence I tasted when I first knelt.

But here was a fox crying with the voice of a whipped boy, the dit-dit-swee of the titmouse, the rattling chatter of robins, the twee-twee of dunnocks, the bubbling of blackbirds. Seagulls cackled at some private joke. I pushed away the thought that it was myself they found so amusing.

I prostrated myself upon the earth and inhaled the reek of its dark breath, rolled over and lay on my back, stared upwards into the bowl of the heavens: the half-darkness unrippled by clouds, the stars closing their bright eyes one by one as the approaching daylight spread itself across the sky.

Can you not pray, my son? Am I so difficult a master?

I groaned. My disobedient senses were drawing me away from God. I shut my eyes tight, shoved my fingers into my ears till all I could hear was the hissing of the fire in my head.

‘Oh God!’ I bellowed, to drown out the world around me.

My heart slowed. Oh Lord, behold Your servant. That was the sum and total of my prayer, for the hour of the Office was done. It was time for me to spit upon my hands and labour for God. The pilgrims would come today and I would be ready.

I hitched my cassock and splashed through the ford into the village, slapping warmth into the cold meat of my thighs. Rain slanted down onto the thatch, gathering itself together for another busy day. There had been no frost all winter, only this steady river falling from the sky and making the fields swim. But the rain must stop soon: it was almost spring.

William stood at the lychgate collecting donations from the gathered pilgrims. He was a fine steward, and I could not fault him for the wholehearted way he displayed his stave of office with its clubbed head of brass. He stopped short of affrighting people, as a rule. Lukas stood at his side, arms folded, eyeing the crowd keenly for anyone who might try to slip in without payment. He grinned, tying up a sack of candles ready to be hauled away to the treasury.

‘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 idea for my sermon. I let it bloom in the soil of my mind, planted there with God’s grace. It came to me that a honeycomb with its many cells was like a psaltery, each of the cells a psalm dripping with the treacle of God’s word. The hive was the community of this church, the congregation bees who laboured for their queen, bringing tithes of nectar and offering them freely.

I was delighted with these clever notions. Here was a fine Saint’s Day sermon to instruct as well as dazzle the people. But a worm twisted in my mind: if the priest was the queen, then that made me a female. If I saw it, so would they. I imagined them snickering behind their hands and my enthusiasm stumbled.

I revived myself hastily; the remainder of the idea was sound, especially the part about the tithes. Then I remembered that bees had stings and used them on whoever tried to take the honey. Also, they were as like to desert a hive and fly to a better place if they had a mind to it. My idea, so clever, crumbled. Perhaps God did not speak to me after all. I shook off the prick of disappointment.

An idea would come to me. The pilgrims were here. They had heard of the pious priest who tended the relics. I would make them love me, would take the leaden blank of this day and stamp my impression upon it. I wanted them to carry away a clear picture of their new priest, not Father Hugo. I was tired of hearing how bold he was, how strong, how jolly, how wild. I wanted them to return home with my name on their lips and in their hearts. Oh, that Father Thomas, they would say round their hearths. You should have heard him preach! Not like Father Hugo, and that’s a good thing. Next year, I would be greeted like an old friend.

I sighed. I could delay no longer. I climbed back down, pulled open the great west door and turned to greet the pilgrims with a broad smile.

Straightaway, they swarmed towards the shrine: clawing the stone, kissing and licking and begging to be cured of the itch, the flux, the ague, the earache, the falling sickness, the fever. All of them weaving their limbs in and out of the openings until the shrine could barely be seen for the bodies wriggling upon it, the onion reek of their breath so strong it heaved my stomach.

One man, very grandly dressed, approached the shrine on his knees. It was only when he passed that I noticed that the flagstones behind him were smeared with blood. Exhaustion had ploughed deep furrows upon his face. When he reached the chancel steps he paused and lifted one leg in an effort to climb the step. I approached and took his arm. He shrank from the contact.

‘Don’t touch me!’ he growled, only then noticing my liturgical garments. ‘I beg forgiveness, Father,’ he moaned, balled his hand into a fist and clouted himself on the side of his head.

‘My son,’ I said. ‘I offer succour. It is Christian charity.’

‘I said, do not touch me,’ he replied, only a little less angrily. ‘I have vowed to undertake this pilgrimage with no help from any man. Do not thwart me when I am so close.’

Tears rose in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks into the grim stubble of his beard. I made the sign of the Cross over his head.

‘The Lord forgives you, my son.’ I spoke most earnestly, for his pain had moved me.

‘How do you know?’ he snapped. ‘How dare you speak for God?’

I gasped at his intemperate speech, only to gasp louder when he tore away his tunic. The flesh of his back was raked with gashes. Where they had scabbed over they had been torn afresh so that new scars lay atop the old. Now I understood why the ground about him was smeared with blood.

‘This is too much, my son,’ I said gently. ‘The Lord does not demand such—’

‘Such what? Such shows? How do you know what God has demanded of me?’

The cause of his wounds was clear: about his middle was a girdle of iron, tight-fitting and barbed with teeth that pierced his skin every time he breathed in. Fresh blood soaked into his hose. As I watched, he removed this cruel belt and struck himself over the left shoulder: once, twice, thrice; then over the right, tearing fresh wounds. There were gasps of wonder from those standing around. He uttered not the smallest sound, teeth gripped together, face set like stone.

‘You have no idea what sins I have committed,’ he grunted. ‘What God and my priest have ordered as repentance.’

When he finished flogging himself, he fastened the belt once more and put on his over-tunic. Without so much as a glance at the shrine, he turned and, still on his knees, dragged himself back down the nave. I walked at his side. No one else would stand close to him and I grieved for his loneliness.

‘Absolution awaits all who truly repent,’ I said.

‘Do you presume to see into my heart?’

‘I am a man of God,’ I declared. ‘Be careful how you address me, however noble you may be.’ I strove to make my voice tender again, for he was a soul in torment. I had never seen one so undone by his sin. ‘Surely you may stand now that you have completed your pilgrimage?’ I said quietly.

‘Completed?’ he said, bitterness dripping from the word. ‘I am but a quarter way through.’

‘My son—’

He interrupted me. ‘I am charged to visit every shrine in England, on my knees. Then Wales, then Ireland. Then Saint James at Compostela.’

‘God grant you peace,’ I said.

He turned empty eyes to mine and hauled himself away, huffing and puffing, swinging the stumps of his legs one after the other. All heads turned to follow him on his painful journey out of the church. Two servants awaited him, a grim-faced old man and one much younger of the same stamp: I guessed father and son. When they saw me they bowed their heads with the precise amount of reverence due an insignificant parish priest and not one whit more. It was difficult to tell if they succoured their charge or watched to see if he reneged on his vow.