do not need to concern yourself about food. Each has brought something for the board.’ I eye him levelly. If boldness can’t move him, softness might. ‘Oh, sir,’ I add, ‘it would be such a charitable gesture.’
‘Very well,’ he says, grudgingly. ‘They are welcome.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I say carefully, and curtsey.
They enter at last, pretending they have not heard a word and each making a neat compliment about his benevolence. Cat waves her boy in Thomas’s face and the infant stares at him with blank intelligence.
‘God is good. He makes us fruitful,’ he remarks.
Alice elbows me in the ribs. I busy myself with setting up the trestle so that I do not slap her. We drag the bench to the hearth, for in truth it is a cold day for May. We unpack the victuals and Cat offers Thomas a cup of ale. He refuses, as I guessed he might.
‘You are not like Father Hugo,’ says Cat.
‘Holy Mary, how that man could drink,’ said Alice.
‘And eat,’ adds Bet.
We know the tales, having had them since childhood. The French and Spanish wines, costly spices; how he bought in barrels of almonds and figs, even during Lent.
‘But he did not forget his prayers,’ Thomas reminds us.
‘Oh no! He bellowed out the fame of the Saint,’ agrees Cat.
‘Ah, the crowds of pilgrims.’
‘And the gold that came to the church.’
‘How his stomach swelled!’
‘Further and further!’ I laugh, cupping my hands around an invisible stomach and blowing out my cheeks.
Cat raises her eyebrows and it occurs to me that I could also be imitating the belly of a woman with child, so I stop and tuck my hands behind my back. Thomas takes the action for contrition.
‘To be a servant of the Almighty is not a cause for idle merriment,’ he counsels. ‘It is to be of sober and calm temperament.’
We point the tips of our noses at the floor. I hear Alice and Isabel stifling giggles with little snorts. If Thomas notices, he says nothing.
‘Yes, sir,’ I say, biting my lip.
Bet starts to chant rhymes to the baby and Thomas makes good his escape, scuttling away to the church. Free at last, we settle to eating and drinking and playing with the lad. He is so grown in the past two months I barely know him. He grabs for the edge of my kerchief and drags it askew. Alice and Cat wink and cast saucy looks upon me until I am vexed with their intimations.
‘So,’ drawls Cat. ‘How is life with your man?’
‘Quiet,’ I grumble.
‘But not at night, I’ll wager,’ titters Alice.
‘Hush now,’ says Isabel. ‘See how she blushes. Be gentle.’
‘Is that what you say to Thomas?’ says Cat, and they collapse into raucous laughter.
‘Thomas does not come to me,’ I mutter when they’ve finished hooting.
‘Why ever not?’ asks Alice, face writ with disbelief. ‘Do you anger him?’
‘My Henry came to me quick enough after we were wed,’ twitters Cat, with a salty laugh. ‘A fine and upstanding man he is, too.’
‘Oh, cousin!’ snickers Alice, hiding her smile behind her hand. ‘How you talk!’
‘My Henry pays his marriage debt delectably often,’ Cat continues. ‘All our little Anne needs is a good firm man to take to hand, don’t you?’
‘Cat! This is a priest’s house,’ I say, hearing Thomas’s priggishness in my voice and disliking it intensely.
‘Perhaps we should not talk so boldly if you are still a maid,’ she smirks, with a keen edge to the blade of her words. ‘For you are, are you not?’
‘Not for lack of trying,’ I sneer.
‘Maybe there is some fault in you,’ chirrups Alice, enjoying every minute.
‘You need a babby of your own,’ declares Cat with great wisdom. ‘That’ll put a smile back on that sour little face of yours.’
‘You are not ugly, my dearest,’ Bet simpers. ‘You could have any man.’
I nod at this morsel of flattery. I never before found their chatter annoying, yet today all I can think of is how I should like to smack the smiles off their faces.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I demur. ‘I am a cabbage compared to my beautiful sister.’ I lift the heavy boy from Cat’s lap. ‘Aren’t I, my little man?’ I coo, tickling him gently. ‘This is the way the farmers ride,’ I sing and jiggle him on my lap.
He twists his square head round to gawp at me and vomits curdled milk over my bodice.
‘What a lad!’ crows Cat, patting me with a napkin and smearing the puddle in a broader circle. ‘He does that if you bounce him too hard.’
Alice sweeps the child from my hands and cradles him on her lap, where he shrieks happily, seemingly done with spewing now that I am covered. He lets out a fart of such sonorous depth that he scares himself and begins to yowl, which of course only serves to make Cat and Alice laugh the louder.
‘A true man,’ crows Bet.
‘My own little man,’ adds Cat.
I know they do not mean to hurt me with their talk of adoring husbands and babes. I give myself a moment’s respite by going to fetch bread. They have brought cakes, a jug of fresh ale and more besides, for which I am grateful. I am shamed by the empty cupboard I am housekeeper to. At least I have platters to spread before them, cups into which to pour the drink.
‘Well now. It’s early days. I’ll bring Thomas to me soon,’ I say, with a great deal more confidence than I feel.
‘If it is help you need …’ says Alice, a great deal more kindly. ‘Even the loveliest of maidens needs a little—’
‘Encouragement?’ suggests Cat.
‘Help,’ says Isabel.
‘Assistance,’ adds Bet.
‘Inspiration,’ says Alice.
‘Don’t be cast down just yet,’ murmurs Isabel. ‘There are many ways to bring savour to your bed.’
‘See, Anne,’ says Cat, with unexpected tenderness, and pats me with a dimpled hand. How she keeps it so soft, what with cleaning up after a husband and her baby, I do not know. ‘We are your loving friends. Isabel, show her.’
Isabel dips into her bodice and draws out a tiny packet wrapped in linen. She places it in my hand, still warm from her breast. I look at them in turn. Alice raises an eyebrow and Bet guffaws as though something very naughty is about to take place. I undo the folds to reveal a pinch of dark powder. Although a mere sprinkling, the scent of spices fills the room with delight. I lift it to my nose.
Cat glances about the room nervously. ‘Careful!’ she hisses. ‘Don’t sneeze over it. It cost more than you can guess.’
I hold my tongue. I must be polite, for she means well. Bet sniggers and I glare at her until she quietens.
Isabel pats my arm. ‘Don’t you mind her, cousin. This cannot fail. Put these spices in a glass of wine and Thomas won’t be able to take his eyes from you.’
‘Or his hands,’ snorts Alice.
‘Or his kisses,’ says Bet. ‘He won’t sleep for dreaming about you,’
‘Dreaming’s not what Anne needs,’ sneers Cat.
‘There