Vixen. Rosie Garland

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.

      ‘That’s right. Let him out for a bit of fresh air.’

      ‘Bit of colour in his cheeks.’

      ‘And a pint in his belly!’

      I consider explaining to them that Thomas would no more sit on a pig’s bladder and pour ale down his throat than he would bare his backside at the high altar. However, Aline would sooner believe that than believe in a man who does not drink beer. It occurs to me that I do not understand Thomas either.

      I am surrounded by folk I have seen each day of my life, as much a part of me as my hair and my hindquarters. Yet it is as though I am hovering above their heads like a hawk. Like a glamour wearing off, I see them for the first time, small and terrified as voles, swilling ale to drown out their fear of the pestilence, which prowls around the village like a starved wolf.

      I wonder if this is how Thomas sees us, and if he has made me like himself. Perhaps I am becoming used to him, and his coldness is rubbing off on me. It is not a pleasant idea. I shake myself like a dog shakes off water. Ma is right. I need a bit of fire in my belly. I have been doused far too quickly. Alice can have Geoffrey and his dripping cheeses. I have a man and I shall bend him to my will.

      As I leave, Ma presses a jug of ale into my hands. ‘This’ll set Thomas right,’ she says, and winks.

      She links her arm through mine and accompanies me back to the house. We splash through the ford, lifting our skirts and giggling like children, for the ale has made us clumsy.

      ‘That’s better, my little Nan. A smile on your face and this good brew. That’s all that’s needed.’

      She squeezes my cheek. We reach the door, although it takes longer than it ought, and the latch is slippery in my fingers. At last I get it open and we tumble inside with much hushing of each other, so as not to waken Thomas.

      ‘What a quiet place!’ Ma says, in the sort of whisper that can be heard three fields away.

      We kiss goodnight and she bustles away. However carefully I try to close the door, it slams so hard the house shakes. After she has gone the room seems emptier than it should. When I turn, Thomas is there, fingers laced over his privates.

      ‘I did not see you, sir,’ I say for lack of better greeting. ‘Were you asleep?’ I add, rather weakly.

      ‘I was,’ he says, with considerable weight upon the second word.

      ‘I beg pardon, sir. My mother saw me safely home.’

      He makes a harrumphing sound, as though the idea is a foolish one. ‘Mistress,’ he says. ‘Must you have visitors so often?’

      ‘Often, sir? It was my mother. Not a visitor.’

      ‘Comings and goings. All hours.’

      ‘I beg pardon, sir. It is a little late—’

      He continues as though I have not spoken. ‘Every day my house is …’ he ignores me and purses his lips, ‘… overturned.’

      ‘Every day?’

      He raises his hand and flaps my words away. ‘Day, week.’

      ‘Or month, perhaps?’

      ‘Too often. I am a man of God. If it’s not your mother, tramping in and out in the middle of the night, then it’s your – sister, friends, silly women filling my ears with bothersome chatter. I have had enough of it.’

      Dear Lord in Heaven, I think. Here he goes. I bow my head and let the sermon roll over the top of my head. To help pass the time I consider how I shall get up early tomorrow morning and set myself to sifting the barley to make a white porray. Every now and then I mutter, Yes, sir, to keep him happy. I swallow a yawn.

      ‘So we are agreed.’

      ‘Sir?’ I say with a start, for I was a long way off.

      ‘You will give proper notice of visits and seek my permission.’

      ‘Shall I?’

      ‘You shall.’

      ‘Very well.’ I bob a curtsey. I think quickly. ‘Sir, may I be permitted a visit from my mother in one week’s time?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Then,’ I begin carefully, ‘in two weeks?’

      ‘No,’ he says, more loudly.

      ‘What of my sister?’

      ‘No!’ he cries.

      ‘Please, Thomas.’ I hear the plaint in my voice and hate it.

      ‘I said no, woman. And stop calling me Thomas.’

      ‘It’s your name, you fool.’

      ‘I am sir. Don’t you forget it.’

      ‘Little chance of that, sir,’ I sneer. ‘You can’t cut me off from my family. My sister has a new baby,’ I add desperately. ‘My nephew. I am his godmother.’

      ‘Very well. At the feast of Saint Eadburga.’

      ‘That’s past next quarter-day! He’ll be pushing a plough by then.’

      ‘Do not exaggerate. He’ll still be spewing up all over your clothes, I’m sure.’

      ‘What of it? I’m sure the blessed Virgin had her fair share of baby sick to wash out,’ I growl.

      His face turns so pale I declare I could knock him over like a ninepin. I leave him to his spluttering and go to my pallet before he can gather his wits and call me a blasphemer. When Christ was a child he’ll have puked like one. And farted like one also, although I do not press my luck by drawing this to his attention.

      ‘Mistress,’ he calls after me.

      I raise my eyes to the roof, for he is not done with me. I wait for the accusation of speaking against God, but instead he looks me up and down.

      ‘Why is your head covered?’ It is such an unexpected question that I gawp at him for a long and silent moment, wondering whither his brains have taken him this time. ‘You are unmarried,’ he continues. ‘You do not need to do so.’

      I hold his gaze and say nothing. I stare boldly enough to earn a slap, or words of caution at the least; but after a while a red spot appears on each cheek. He lowers his head and scurries back to his bed. Perhaps if I had chased him then, if I had asked him why he blushed, demanded to know what he felt for me, perhaps things would have been different between us.

      However, nothing is different, and everything is the same. I thought I would grow fat on meat in the house of a priest. But porray is my portion, day in and day out: green, white and red I eat it. I am not starved. I have enough to satisfy hunger, but nothing more. I am no glutton, but I ache with the tedium. So many turnips my belly aches for an onion to brighten my plate, let alone a bit of bacon, fried crisp.

      A few days after the Feast of Saint Boniface, John the butcher brings a rabbit.

      ‘For