Chapter 15
Avice
Four days later, a loud banging at her door had Avice groaning from her pallet. She was warm and toasty beneath her furs. She cracked her eye open and studied the dim, dawn light that cut through the shutters. The midwife grumbled and pulled her blanket over her head.
“Avice!” John shouted from outside. “You promised you would come with us!”
No.
Her limbs were as heavy as cauldrons and eyelids puffed up like pastries. Avice rolled from the pallet, the shock of the cold floor through her thin nightgown had her jolting awake.
“Avice!” John called.
Bramble stuck his wet nose through the hair that covered her face. Wake up, you know he will not leave. You made him a promise.
“God’s blood!” she cursed, shoving herself to her feet.
She stomped over to the door and threw it open. Her attention snapped to how flushed and rumpled John looked: his red hair hung loose from its fastening, his usually smart cloak was partially open and mis-tied, and his green eyes were bright as Spring shoots.
A smirk cut across Avice’s face. “What have you been up to Mister Fisher?”
“Shush!” he hissed, glancing over to Nell, who was lingering by the holly bushes, chatting to the Pillywiggins.
“A new dalliance?” she continued, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Avice!” He pushed the loose curls from his face.
“Who is the lucky man?”
She knew he preferred the company of men.
She had caught a younger Jonathan and the blacksmith’s son in the fields a few turns of seasons after she moved to Lamorna.
At the time, she had let out a shocked gasp.
The two men had quickly pulled up their hose and rushed to explain.
Avice did not care that they preferred the company of each other.
She was happy that they found comfort being together.
More, she was envious. Of their frantic touches, their moans, and the pleasure they found in one another’s bodies.
She wondered what that was like.
“Another fisherman,” John muttered, face pointed to the ground.
Avice’s lip quirked up. “Good! I am happy for you.”
Bramble pushed past the pair and trotted out to Nell, tail wagging.
“Now, please get ready for church,” he begged.
Avice’s skin screamed in her Sunday best. Over the top of her linen chemise and stockings, she wore her brown, long-sleeved dress, and over that she wore her beige cloak.
Her silky hair scratched against her neck under her coif and wimple.
Her fingers twitched to rip them off, and she balled her fists to fight the impulse.
Avice, John, and Nell trudged double-time through the woods to Lamorna, where a handful of cottages, the church, and a cobblestone square marked the central village.
She chewed her lip as she glanced over at the stocks and the gallows.
While the stocks had been used abundantly since she had moved to Lamorna – mainly to punish disobedient wives – the gallows had not.
Like death’s fingers, its columns gnarled up from the icy stone.
The sight of it sent a skitter of terror up her spine.
Iron-barred cages leant up against the planked deck of structure, the clinging frost giving it a deceptively attractive sheen.
A tug at her gloved hand had Avice glancing down. Nell laced her fingers through hers. The midwife gave the girl a comforting squeeze. The stocks and gallows were a constant reminder to the villagers of what would happen if they pushed too far with any small resistance.
The trio joined the end of the queue to file into the church.
About fifty men, women, and children stood ahead of them, dressed smartly and all ready to offer their thanks and prayers to God.
They had come from the surrounding fields, hills, and cliffs, their cottages near their occupations.
Most villagers did not actually live at the centre of Lamorna, but on the outskirts, so each Sunday they would make their journey to the church and scurry home again afterwards.
She tapped her boot and let out a huff. Avice considered the looming, granite building ahead.
It towered above everything else. Wolf-grey and crowned with a wooden belfry, the brass bell within shone.
The bell was both well-loved and polished.
The women of the village took turns cleaning it, except for Avice, she made a point to never do it.
She sighed again as they shuffled forward, and John gave her a scolding look.
His expression screamed at her to behave.
Finally, they were at the threshold of the grand wooden door.
Avice lowered her head, as was customary for the women and children when they entered the church.
Nell let go of her hand and followed John into the church before Avice, so the midwife was the last to enter.
“Ah!” A nasally, yet commanding, voice drew Avice’s attention. She snapped her gaze up to Father Peter’s pale, smooth face before dropping it again. “Midwife Avice, how delightful to see you.”
The priest’s nauseating perfumes penetrated her nostrils, balsam and something oily she did not recognise. She forced herself to swallow back the bile that stung her throat.
She kept her face pointed down. “Thank you.”
“After my sermon, wait behind once the other villagers have left; I need to speak to you.”
Panic clawed at Avice’s chest at the thought of being alone with the young priest. She had not been alone with any man, besides John, since moving to Lamorna. She particularly did not want to be alone with this one. He made her skin crawl with his too wide smile and shiny, pointed nails.
No.
Avice wished she could say it. She wanted to raise her head and give him a piece of her mind for demanding she attend all services, for making her wear a covering, and for the general long-armed treatment she received from those in the community.
She imagined tearing off her wimple and coif right in front of Peter, stomping off, and returning to her cosy pallet.
Or having another meal with Trewoofe. The Knucker had planned on visiting her that afternoon, and her lips plucked up at the thought.
Just get through this Avice, then you have an afternoon to yourself.
You might even get to make meat stew. Trewoofe had, after all, promised to bring her some of his kill, and her mouth watered at that thought.
Avice took a deep breath before replying, “Of course, Father.”
Bramble appeared in her periphery, for her eyes only. I will be there, as well.
Bolstered by her familiar’s support, Avice stepped into the stone building with a shiver.
The walls of the nave – the central chamber were the congregation gathered – were grey but punctuated with bright, colourful tapestries.
She guessed they featured stories that the priests told from the book they read from during services, but Avice did not know with certainty.
She shivered beneath her many layers of clothing.
It was cold inside, despite the squash of bodies in the rough wooden pews.
Avice joined Nell, along with the other women and children at the back of the nave.
The men, as always, occupied the front rows.
She watched as Father Peter strode up the centre aisle in his golden finery and furs and stepped up into his towering pulpit.
The new giant cross was behind him, the wood so lacquered it gleamed in the gentle candlelight that illuminated the room.
Avice followed everyone as they lowered their heads and closed their eyes as the priest recited something in a language she did not understand. Latin, from what she remembered being told.
Once he had completed the prayer, the congregation rose their heads, and his burning gaze swept over them.
It rooted Avice to the spot, her heart in her throat, and the rest of the villagers had sat before she finally dropped to her pew.
The contact of the harsh wood sent a jar up her back.
Peter ran his hands over the text in front of him, the rough sound setting her teeth on edge.
“This endless Winter,” he began, “is not just in the area of Penzance, or greater Cornwall. It dominates all of Wessex. The King, after consultation with his ealdormen and priests, has concluded that it is a test of faith from God…”
Something nettled in Avice’s ear. She rubbed at it, but it did not help. Instead, the buzzing increased its tempo and spread through her, even rattling her teeth. She slipped her hand under her coif, searching for the wasp or bee that must be in there, but she found nothing.
As Father Peter droned on, Avice quietly fidgeted.
She was desperate not to draw attention to herself, but unable to keep still.
By this point, she felt like a needle had been shoved into each ear and wriggled around, a thousand tiny pricks bringing tears to her eyes.
She blinked them back and lowered her head.
“As such, what is expected of a village in Christendom to pass such a test?” Peter asked, gaze sweeping over his silent audience.
“Obedience, discipline, silence, and submission. Every man, woman, and child must dedicate themselves to God to pass this test of faith and bring Spring into fruition. Then, and only then, will we have seen ourselves worthy in the eyes of the Lord.”
“Amen!” called a man from the front.
Father Peter grinned and nodded down at his enthusiastic parishioner. “And now, we share the Holy Loaf, a symbol of Christ’s body and his sacrifice to save us from sin.”