Vixen. Rosie Garland

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

      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