Vixen. Rosie Garland

he says, chin bobbing, eyes bright with excitement.

      My mouth drops open, and it takes a moment before I remember to close it. He does not look away, nor does he stop talking. His voice soars; as it does so it squeaks somewhat, but there are worse things of which a man can be accused. I flutter my eyelashes, venture a coy smile and am rewarded with a beaming grin that cracks his face open.

      ‘How Sheba tempted the king!’ he cries, spreading his arms, his gaze flying away into the roof. ‘Come, she said. Let us go early into the field, she said. There will I give thee my love.’

      I hear sniggering. It is hardly surprising. We all know what those words mean.

      ‘But,’ he says loudly, and cuts the merriment short. ‘But,’ he continues, and we hang on what is to come. ‘Solomon was a clever man,’ he says. ‘He did not believe what he heard, nor what he saw. Our ears and eyes can be deceived, can they not?’

      There is a murmur of assent, and not a little prompting from some quarters to say more of what went on in the field.

      ‘He placed no trust in this queen’s seeming beauty. Not for all her jewels and crowns, not for her fine robes, nor her flashing eyes and pretty smile. Oh no!’

      I suck on my teeth, find a piece of pea-skin wedged there. I wiggle my tongue, trying to dislodge it, and when I fail, stick my finger into my mouth and have another try at digging it out. It reminds me that I am hungry. As though it needed my permission, my stomach rumbles. I’m not distracted for long. What Thomas says next is enough to make a bawd catch her breath.

      ‘Solomon has a test for this woman,’ he cries. ‘He commands: lift up your skirts!’

      ‘Does he indeed!’ I murmur in Margret’s ear.

      ‘The shame of it!’ she replies quietly. ‘I would not do that; not even for King Solomon.’

      ‘Or King Edward,’ I add. ‘No king could make me show off my parts.’

      There is a commotion of murmuring, like a hearth full of steaming pots, all of them boiling over at the same time. Matrons clamp their hands to their mouths. Goodmen blush, trying not to catch the eye of their friends for fear it will set them giggling. Only the bravest lads and lasses steal glances at each other and wink knowingly. This man is unlike any priest I have heard before. Even when Father Hugo came into the alehouse the worst I ever heard was the old joke about the new bride farting in her husband’s lap. Still he is not finished.

      ‘What does wise King Solomon see?’ he cries, voice climbing further up its perilous ladder.

      ‘What indeed?’ I whisper to Margret.

      She hushes me so piercingly I worry that Thomas will hear and look at me again, less smilingly this time. But I am not the only one to have spoken, judging by the waterfall of shushing. Either Thomas does not hear us, or chooses not to remark upon it.

      ‘What does she do?’ calls out a brave fellow.

      Every head turns to discover who has shouted so disrespectfully, even though all of us carry the same question on the tip of our tongues. I am pretty sure it came from the knot of lads leaning against the west wall. They display looks of the most sincere innocence.

      ‘The king commands. The queen must obey!’ shouts Thomas. ‘When a man commands, a woman must obey, even if she is a queen!’

      ‘Still, I would not,’ declares Margret under her breath. ‘It is a sin.’

      I think briefly of her and John, and him a priest, and what sin means, but I say nothing.

      ‘No woman can refuse the command of a man,’ he growls. ‘Certainly not Solomon. Did not the Lord ordain that God is the head of man, and man is the head of woman?’

      There is another muttering of agreement, louder from the men.

      ‘Sheba wrings her hands. Oh, she begs Solomon. Anything but this! But Solomon insists. He will be obeyed.’

      The smaller boys are now sniggering openly, hissing coarse words at each other.

      ‘The Lord guides him to find out her secret sin! The foulness she hides underneath her robes!’

      I do not care for the direction this is taking. Yet again Thomas fixes me with his stare, wilder than before. For all his strange words, he is a man and is looking at me. This time I am daring enough to stare back, even if only for a few heartbeats.

      ‘Lo!’ he cries. ‘She obeys! She grasps her skirt and raises it an inch so he can see her toes. How strange they look. But perhaps they are the outlandish boots worn by barbarians. Solomon must be sure. Higher! he commands. Weeping, she lifts her robe another inch. See how unwilling she is. Not from modesty. Oh, no!’

      ‘How does he know it wasn’t modesty?’ hisses Margret, angry now. ‘Was he there?’

      As though he has overheard, Thomas glares at Margret.

      ‘This is the Word of the Lord,’ he says. ‘She is not modest. She is ashamed. Higher! cries King Solomon and another inch is uncovered. Higher! At last her foul secret is revealed.’

      He pauses and we hold our breath.

      ‘She has the legs of a goat!’

      There is a rumble of disbelief and amusement. I am not sure what I think. Relief that it is goat’s legs and not her cunny that is revealed to us? Perhaps. Thomas rounds off his sermon quickly, thumping home the moral that the path to hell is up a woman’s skirt, and that a great deal of monstrousness is hidden there.

      Amen, we gasp, breathlessly. Amen.

      I can only suppose that he means to horrify the lads, shame the lasses and thereby throw a bucket of cold water on licentious thoughts. But he holds up his hand against a tide, and the spring tide at that. Besides, by talking in such delicious detail about getting a woman to lift up her dress, he has stoked the fire of everyone’s thoughts and thrown dry wood upon the flames.

      A woman would have found a way to dissuade him from such a theme. That he is so gullible sparks a flame in my breast: it feels a lot like pity, and I dismiss it. Pity is not something I want cluttering me up if I’m going to set my eye on this man. I wonder if he can truly be that stupid: yet again, I wipe that word away swiftly and replace it with innocent. Which is no bad thing. Innocence is a state that wants only for education. I do not share these thoughts with Margret. I do not know why, for my habit is to tell her everything.

      We stroll arm in arm around the churchyard. The younger children are racing up and down in a shrieking game of catch me. Plenty of older ones join in, adding saucy touches of their own when they capture their quarry. More than once we come upon a man and maid sitting in the lee of the wall, engaged in a grown-up pastime inspired by the recent sermon.

      A brace of stout lads leap on to the path before us and push back their hoods. Their faces glow with the goodness of Aline’s festival ale.

      ‘Ah, it’s you, Hugh,’ I say to one. ‘Good morning.’

      ‘And you, Robert,’ says Margret to his companion.

      ‘Halt!’ says Hugh, somewhat unnecessarily, for they stand in our way.

      ‘We are not moving,’ I say, waving my hand to indicate the truth of it.

      ‘Good,’ says Robert, and giggles. ‘You are obedient, which suits our purpose.’

      Margret snorts and this sets them both off, sniggering into their hands.

      ‘We must examine you for goat’s legs,’ announces Hugh and makes a lunge for the hem of my kirtle.

      ‘Oh no you mustn’t,’ I reply.

      I step out of the way of his questing paw. It is not difficult, as his feet are unsteady.

      ‘Or pig’s trotters,’ hiccups Robert. ‘I’ll wager one of you at least has pink trotters.’