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‘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.
ANNE (#ulink_c613ea21-6b04-575b-a00c-f3026cf94757)
I lie on my mattress in the outer room that night and every night after, listening to his snores shake the wall. The weeks pass, and every month my blood comes and goes also. Even the moon is less regular. I yearn for Thomas with a hunger that pricks me with wakefulness. Of course, I’ve seen rams tup their ewes and stallions cover their mares, but never guessed the eagerness to be about their labour. I burn for him: he should burn for me. He’s no old dodderer, far from it. All young men have this fire: as the sun rises each morning, so men rise up with it. I do not know why he will not rise up for me.
In the meantime, I want for amusement and I take it where I may find it. Boredom is a dangerous estate for a woman, and I blame Thomas for thrusting tedium of the mind upon me. I cannot accuse him of sparing the labours of the body, for there is no end to the chores he discovers to occupy my hands. I scrub linen, bake bread, spin and a hundred other tasks. Not that any of this drudgery diverts me from wifely passions. But feeling sorry for myself will get me nowhere, nor will trying to fathom the workings of a man’s wits.
I watch him in and out of the house, to the church and back. And most interesting to my way of thinking, he goes to his storeroom, tucked beneath the eaves. The way he scoots up the ladder fast as a weasel pricks my interest, and when he comes down he’s carrying some treasure: a fine knife, a pair of embroidered slippers or a shirt so crisp I could shave his beard with it. More’s the point, he has an air of guilt that fires my curiosity and sets it burning. I know a secret when I smell one.
He never permits me to go up there, even though I come up with plenty of reasons, from clearing out mice to opening the shutter and letting new air chase away the old. I bustle below, and the room breathes in and out above my head. As the tale says, there’s nothing like the curiosity of a woman who is forbidden to do something. It is his fault. If I were not so bored, then I would have no need for distraction.
It is three weeks past Easter before I find the path up that ladder, and it is all due to his refusal to have good pots and pans. I clear my throat and begin with my latest stratagem.
‘I was set to make you pikelets, sir. A recipe of my mother’s, and very fine too. With butter.’
Despite himself, his tongue pokes out and draws a moist line along his bottom lip in anticipation of the treat.
‘Go to, mistress.’
I sigh disconsolately. ‘I would, sir. But I cannot.’
‘Why so?’
I hold up the frying pan and peer at him through the hole in its bottom.
‘Oh,’ he says, for there is no denying a pan you can stick your nose through. ‘Then you must fetch one from the upper room. Here.’
With the words, he unlooses the key from his chatelaine. It is as simple as that. I chide myself for not remembering a man’s belly is the path to all desires. I bob a curtsey, fetch the ladder and try not to scramble up it too hastily. The key trembles in my hand.
A frying pan is the first thing I clap eyes on when I unlock the room. Although tarnished from lack of use, it is of the finest quality: one of four cooking pots, all new and in a heap behind the door. However, I have no intention of being done with my adventure quite so soon.
‘Where do you think it might be, sir?’ I call, making my voice as dull as possible.
The pots are the least of the wonders. When I lift the shutter and prop it open, a cave of treasures reveals itself: a mattress that feels like an angel’s wing when I press my hand against it, a mountain of curtains, stacked wood with a fragrance so heady I am dizzy with the breathing of it. In one corner stands a fiddle, a crumhorn, a trumpet and a pile of tambours all higgledy-piggledy. Leaning against the eaves are half-a-dozen swords and a rusty pike, all surrounded by dust so thick you could roll it up and use it as a blanket. More enticing still than these wonders are two oaken chests, almost big enough for me to climb inside. I step towards them, but Thomas calls from below.
‘What are you doing up there?’ he shouts. ‘A pan cannot be that hard to find.’
I kick at the swords and they rattle.
‘I shall find it soon!’ I shout. ‘It’s so dark I can barely see,’ I lie.
‘Foolish woman, I must help you,’ he grumbles.
His foot thumps on the ladder.
‘Oh, no sir! I have found it!’ I cry, quick about it. ‘I shall come to you this instant.’
I grab the pan, dash out of the room and wave it so he can see. ‘There is no need to trouble yourself.’
‘About time too. I never met a stupider female.’
‘No, sir.’
If I dropped the pan, it would strike him on the top of his shining pate. If I threw it hard, it might crack that pate clean open.
‘Make sure you shut the door and lock it properly. Ach, you are so foolish, you will not be able to do it right. I will come and do it.’
He takes another step.
‘Do not worry,’ I say, slamming the door. ‘It is done.’ I twist the key in the lock and it makes a terrific grinding. ‘Can you not hear, sir?’ I continue to turn the key so that as well as locking the door I also unlock it again. ‘Am I not clever, sir?’ I simper, pulling a rude face he cannot see.
‘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.
