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 my face and I hold his gaze, careful not to be too bold.
‘Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes,’ 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.
