Vixen. Rosie Garland

      Robert’s eyes squint into crafty folds, making him look uncommonly like one of the pigs he seems attached to.

      ‘Married?’ he slurs. ‘That’s not how we hear it,’ he adds, digging his elbow into Hugh’s ribs. ‘You might cover your head, but you’re no goodwife. You’re John of Pilton’s woman.’

      ‘What of it?’ she says, tilting her chin upwards.

      ‘A priest’s woman,’ says Hugh.

      They are neither so drunk nor so disrespectful to venture further and they know it.

      ‘Here comes Father Thomas,’ I announce brightly. ‘This would be a good time to see our ankles, don’t you think? If you demand it, we must comply.’

      ‘You insisted,’ says Margret, smiling.

      In truth, the man in question is not coming this way at all, engaged as he is in blessing pilgrims at the south door. Robert and Hugh are not to know this, as they are facing the opposite direction.

      ‘Yes!’ cries Margret, warming to the task. ‘Please demonstrate to our new priest how diligently you have hearkened to his words.’

      ‘He will be proud to have had such an effect on the two of you.’

      The lads glance at each other, declare how thirsty they are and must be off, that we are very tiresome, and all manner of excuses.

      ‘That’s him,’ says a voice at my shoulder.

      It is my mother. She grasps my elbow and shakes me, jabs her finger in the direction of Thomas.

      ‘Who?’ I ask, even though I know full well.

      ‘Him,’ she hisses with great weight and portent. ‘He is in need of a housekeeper. The village knows it.’

      ‘I am not sure if I wish to be a housekeeper.’

      ‘Don’t play with me, girl. You know exactly what he wants. And you’ll not get finer from any of these lads.’ She raises her eyebrows at the throng of village boys.

      ‘But a priest, Mother?’

      ‘What of it?’ she says sharply. ‘You stand with Margret, do you not? You girls were always perfectly matched in everything.’

      I look at Thomas. His chin is not so small, when you look at him from a distance. Mother purses her lips thoughtfully.

      ‘I hear he lives on a diet of lentils, as though every day is a Friday. Gammer Maynard was there this week just gone, searching for her chickens, and she says the floor is strewn with old straw. Think of it. That big house, with him rattling around on his own. What a sin to let it go to waste. If you won’t take him, plenty will. And quick.’

      ‘Mother!’ I clap my hand to my bodice and endeavour to look shocked. ‘I am sure I do not understand,’ I add with becoming coyness.

      ‘That’s my clever Anne,’ she murmurs. ‘We understand each other.’ She smiles and touches her forehead to mine. It is a girlish sweetness I see in her rarely. Then her face crumples. ‘My little babe! My Anne!’ she warbles. ‘Surely it was only yesterday you were at my breast and suckling there.’

      She lifts the hem of her gown and wipes her face. When she is done, she is pink about the eyes, the skin puffed up. I lay my hand on her arm. It is a strange feeling to be the one soothing my dam, not altogether unpleasant. I feel important, a woman on my own account. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a mother. I decide that I like it, and wish to have more.

      ‘Look at me,’ she says. ‘I declare. I haven’t got the sense of a pulled hen.’

      She smoothes out her apron, all business once more, and is gone as briskly as she arrived. I continue my keen appraisal. Thomas: that is his name. Of Upcote: though where that place might be, I have no notion. Margret follows my gaze and examines him also.

      ‘His nose is a little thin,’ she says.

      ‘Yet his teeth are fine,’ I reply.

      ‘His hair has been cut with a hay rake.’

      ‘Then he must have a woman cut it for him.’

      ‘His shoulders strain to bear the weight of his gown.’

      ‘Then he needs good victuals to fill him out.’

      So we prattle on in low voices, until Margret pauses. Her eyes are sad.

      ‘What ails you, my sweet?’ I say.

      ‘Be careful, Anne. Have great care before you take this step. Once the road is chosen, there is only one direction you can walk, and that is forward.’

      ‘Oh, Margret. How dour you make it sound.’

      ‘Anne, you are as close as a sister. I speak as one who loves you as dearly.’

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Be sure of this man.’

      ‘I am decided. I will have him,’ I reply somewhat snappishly, for it seems she wishes to pour sand upon the fire of my happy plans.

      ‘Anne—’

      I round on her. ‘What is it, Margret? Do you wish to deny me your good fortune? I did not think you so ungenerous. I took you for my friend.’

      ‘I am your friend, and dearer than you know for telling you this hard secret.’

      I will have none of it, and am angry with her. ‘So, a fine bed and a heaped board are right for you but not for me, is that it?’

      ‘Of course not.’

      I know not whence comes my peevishness and spite. In my venom I hear an unhappy, jealous woman and I do not like her one bit. I would snatch back the words, but it is too late. The hag who has taken the reins of my tongue will not permit it.

      ‘It seems to me that you want to keep all finery to yourself and fear a rival.’

      ‘No, sister! How can you think this of me?’

      ‘I can think it easily. Do you take me for a fool? Is this your revenge for our childish games, where I was your queen? Is this your plan, to pay me back?’

      ‘Anne, do not speak like this.’

      ‘Why should I not? Anne is below, and Margret is raised up. That’s how you wish things to remain. You above me, now and for always.’

      ‘Anne, no—’

      ‘Anne, yes. You are no sister. A sister would rejoice.’

      I see my words strike Margret, the poison of their cruelty mark her face as clear as the slap of a hand. She fiddles with her headpiece, a contraption of wire and linen that makes her look like a nanny goat.

      ‘Perhaps I should return to Pilton,’ she remarks. ‘John and Jack will be waiting for me.’

      Her face softens as she speaks. In a dark corner of my soul, a serpent flicks its heavy tail. Suddenly I am very tired of Margret prattling about her darling son, her precious John. Up spring more sharp words, and I cannot stop them from bursting out.

      ‘Your son, your son,’ I snap. ‘The way you talk, Margret. It is quite tiring. I wish you would speak of something else.’

      ‘Anne?’ she says. Her face shifts, the gentle smile sucked back into her mouth. ‘What do you mean by this?’

      ‘You dare ask? How you crowed when you went to John. Me, the dunnock against your peacock. How very grand you have become.’

      ‘I am blessed,’ she replies, with dignity.

      ‘I’m sure it is not sufficient. Not for a duchess like you.’

      ‘I would not test the Lord by asking for more joy than is my portion.’

      ‘You are no