Vixen. Rosie Garland

is all concern for the welfare of Edwin’s brothers. Yet I know the truth of their parentage, as does every man and woman here, their mother being an accommodating woman. Edwin grows red in the face, so dark a hue I think he might burst. Margret pauses for a long moment, her eyebrow lifted. Then she picks up the corner of her skirt and folds it over her arm. It is fine kersey, more shillings to the yard than I could hope to afford in a year, and exceeding beautiful. She bows her head politely and Edwin bows in response. She walks on without another word.

      I pause for a moment, less time than it takes to pour a cup of beer, but time enough to hear the giggles begin. I watch them, helpless with the need to keep respectful silence within sight of the church door, yet burdened with the equally pressing need to void their laughter at Edwin’s expense. John the butcher chokes on his mirth and must be thumped on the back.

      ‘She’s got you there, Edwin, and right enough,’ he splutters, to much cheerful agreement.

      Edwin smiles as best he can. He is not a bad man. It is only his tongue that runs forward and escapes his mouth. I quicken my pace to catch up with Margret.

      I find her within the church, gazing up at the painting of the Saint. He is planted on his knees before the Virgin and wears a look of avarice. Mary is the size of a child’s poppet. She floats on a cushion just out of the Saint’s reach, throwing sticks out of the ends of her fingers and aiming them at the Saint’s head. I know they are supposed to be shafts of heavenly light, but they look like the poles you set up for beans. When I share these thoughts with Margret, she smiles again.

      ‘Shh,’ she whispers. ‘That is the Virgin.’

      ‘I do not insult our blessed Mary,’ I hiss, curtseying as I say her name. ‘I insult the hand of Roger Staunton, who imagines he can capture her on a cob wall. He is not as good a limner as he thinks.’

      Margret heaves her shoulders up, then down.

      ‘I hear those words wherever I go,’ she says, and I know she speaks of Edwin Barton, and not the painting. ‘Most of the time, they keep their foul opinions quiet, although I know what they are saying. It is like the sea: however far the tide is out, you can still hear it murmuring, waiting for the hour to turn so it may come back to land.’

      Margret was always the poet. I have as much poetry in me as a pound of pickled pork. She shakes herself, as a horse does when plagued by insects.

      ‘The tide of harsh words is high today, yet I prevail.’ She straightens her back and tips her chin at the wall. ‘I thank you, blessed Virgin, for your blessings.’

      ‘Blessings?’

      ‘She has given me two. Greater than I could ever hope for. My dear son Jack, my dear John. He is a pearl of a man. I have not met a kinder, Anne, unless it be your father.’

      I nod my head and do not disagree, for my father is the sweetest man ever to break bread.

      ‘John serves God and man, and declares he does far better with me at his side. If God did not bring us together, then it must have been God’s mother. It is to her I shall turn on Doomsday to pray for forgiveness. I have great hope for mercy,’ she says firmly. ‘John and I may not be chaste, but we love each other with a fidelity I defy anyone to condemn.’

      My heart swells. At that moment, I would take up sword and buckler to defend her honour.

      ‘It is strange,’ she muses. ‘They envy me my gowns, my furs, the cup from which I drink, yet they scorn me at the same time.’

      ‘It is jealousy,’ I say.

      I do not tell her that I am envious also. Since she left for the Staple, there has been a hole the size of a door in the wall of my life. I guard that door. I did not know her love brought such comfort until she took it away and gave it to another. I see her seldom and the wind blows leaves into my empty heart. Today, she is by my side. For these few hours the breach in my soul is filled.

      She clasps my hand and leads me through the pilgrims to a spot where we might have the best view of the Saint as he passes by on his wagon. He is carved from oak, face battered as a gate that has been swung on by a lifetime of rowdy boys. But he is ours, and we will have none other; not even the new one made of pear-wood and so beautiful he could make a cow weep. Our Lord Bishop gifted it to us, told us it came from Germany, and very costly too. But he’s too pretty to be a man who yoked stags to a plough. So he stands on a pedestal in the north corner and bides his time, while our beloved tree trunk of a Saint protects us and favours us with miracles.

      The new priest passes by, a hop in his step. He is nothing like Father Hugo, who could scarce pass through an alehouse door save sideways and whose voice could be heard in Hartland. His chin is unshaven and I wonder when he last took the razor to it. He takes his place on the chancel steps and clears his throat, which bobs with a sharp Adam’s apple. We fall into a respectful silence, the better to hear the sermon. He lifts his arms.

      ‘I speak of Solomon,’ he begins. ‘And the Queen of Sheba.’

      There is a rumble of surprise, for we are expecting a tale of the Saint. Father Hugo always told a fine tale about one miracle or another and most amusing they were too.

      ‘Wise King Solomon,’ he continues. ‘A lion amongst men.’

      ‘What’s this new man talking about?’ murmurs Margret. ‘Where is our Saint?’

      She is not the only one to be asking that question. Some of the bolder lads shuffle towards the door muttering thirsty excuses, when Father Thomas raises his voice.

      ‘Solomon had a hundred wives. A hundred to one man.’

      Those halfway gone pause. Their heads turn: perhaps this sermon is not so disappointing after all. I look about. He has everyone’s attention.

      ‘Each as beautiful as a rose. But more beautiful by far was Sheba.’ His eyes shine as he describes her. ‘Behold! She was fair. Her teeth were white as a flock of sheep fresh from the washing.’

      The congregation nod their approval, for all men know nothing is whiter.

      ‘Her hair was like a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead!’

      My opinion is that goats are inclined to stink, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I look about. Every man is open-mouthed, every woman drinking the nectar of his words. More than one damsel raises a hand to her hair and smoothes it from the crown of her head as far as it will go, in imitation of Sheba.

      ‘Her cheeks were like pomegranates.’

      I spy one lass raise a hand to her face and pinch blood into her cheek.

      ‘Her lips were like a thread of scarlet.’

      Even I primp myself and nibble my lips to redden them.

      ‘Her neck a tower of ivory, her stature like to a palm tree.’

      At this, each girl stands up straighter, shoulders back. I have never seen a palm tree, but it cannot be very different from the ones in the forest. Father Hugo preached many a fine sermon, but not like this. I still recall his telling of Noah’s flood and how we cheered when the rainbow appeared and all the dragons were drowned for ever. This affects me in a different way.

      ‘The joints of her thighs were like jewels, her two breasts young does, feeding among the lilies.’

      There is a drawing-in of breath. I appraise this new priest keenly. He must be very bold to speak thus. The blood of young men and maids needs little prompting to come to the boil, and he is stirring us as skilfully as a cook stirs batter for pancakes. He ploughs on, telling us of grapes and gazelles and temples and vineyards till I am giddy.

      ‘Hear how she spoke to Solomon! A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts.’

      I have never had a man lie between my breasts, let alone all night. It is an arresting notion. I catch Thomas’s eye: it does not slide away in that way of priests who look at everyone and no one at the same time. He looks directly into