Chapter 15 #2
Two women from the row in front of Avice squeezed their way out of the crowded pew.
An older mother and teenager, both smartly dressed in their Sunday best, coifs and wimples immaculate.
They each carried a basket in the crook of each elbow, covered with linen.
Avice chanced a sniff as they entered the centre aisle.
The unmistakable and mouthwatering smell of the fresh baked bread enveloped her.
She would normally look forward to a slice, but the unrelenting buzzing in her head made her feel nauseated, and instead, she swallowed back bile.
She peeked around down the aisle and watched as the women made their way up to the sanctuary where the pulpit stood.
The father lowered his gaze to them as they dropped to their knees and held up the baskets.
From above, Peter made the sign of the cross and mumbled something in Latin for an excruciatingly long time.
While she waited, Avice pressed her hands to her ears, the noise making her grind her teeth.
God’s cock! Stop!
Once the prayer over the bread had been completed, the women stood and began distributing it amongst the congregation. The repetitive sound of ripping bread and chomping mouths woven into the relentless noise of bees in her head had her scrunching her face in silent agony.
“Miss Avice?” Nell whispered, clutching at her elbow and gently pulling her hand from her ear. “Are you alright?”
“Shush!” scolded the woman on the other side of the girl.
“Do you not hear that?” Avice hissed.
“Hear what?” Nell asked.
“I said, be quiet!” the woman repeated, her face stern under her brown head covering.
Nell snapped her mouth shut, and her lips tugged down at being scolded.
The midwife crushed her hand back to her ear. Nell has the sight, but she cannot hear it. What about John?
She stood on the tips of her toes and strained her neck to see the back of his head.
The shock of his red hair obvious against the browns, blacks and greys that were more common amongst the men in Lamorna.
He stood straight, seemingly unbothered, and stooped only to take what Avice assumed to be the blessed bread.
I know there are different sensitivities of the sight and clearly the Fisher’s cannot hear it.
Finally, one of the dwindling loaves arrived to the row Avice sat in.
From gloved hand to gloved hand the bread was ripped and eaten, until finally, the very end of the crust landed in Avice’s lap.
She peered down at the pathetic piece and wrinkled her nose at its mangled appearance.
The unrelenting noise still twisted her stomach, and she had no desire for anything to pass her lips.
Avice felt eyes on her, and she flicked her gaze up. She met the face of Father Peter, who glowered at her from the pulpit. He gave the slightest nod of his head.
Silent.
Commanding.
Eat.
Avice’s heart thumped and she dropped her hands from her ears, letting the full force of the hum penetrate her skull.
Grimacing, she plucked the crust from her lap and held it in front of her face.
Bracing herself, she opened her mouth and shoved it in.
The bread was hard by the time it reached her and tasted of the many hands that touched it.
After chewing it for what felt like an eternity, she forced it down, the sensation making her think of swallowing sand.
When it finally fell down her throat, Avice dropped her gaze back to the floor, focusing only on her boots. Nell’s hand once again found hers, and she tilted her chin up to give the girl a false smile.
“I am alright,” she whispered, trying desperately to ignore the unrelenting noise.
Father Peter dismissed his flock. Avice stepped into the centre aisle, still hand in hand with Nell.
They waited behind the pews while the other women and children filed out.
She briefly met the eye of John’s former lover, Samuel Smith, the blacksmith’s son.
He was now married with a wife. As he walked past, he swept down to gather his toddling son from his spouse’s arms.
She recalled the Goodwife’s name. Beatrice. Avice watched them as they exited the church. Easy birth, sweet baby.
She waited as the numbers within the church dwindled to a trickle. Finally, Father Peter strode down the length of the nave. Avice shivered as each footfall echoed into the now empty church.
“Go to your brother, tell him not to wait for me, and get him to take you home,” Avice whispered, releasing Nell’s hand, not wanting the girl to hear or witness her discussion with the priest.
“But Miss—”
She rubbed her ear, the infuriating noise not giving her a moment of peace. “Do not argue with me!”
Nell’s lips tugged down, and she stepped away from Avice. The girl bolted out of the arched doorway, and the midwife felt a pang of regret at her harsh tone.
I will apologise to her later.
To her surprise, Father Peter did not stop to speak to her and instead strode outside.
Avice rose her eyebrows and tiptoed over to the entrance.
She peeked outside, and watched as Peter spoke to Lucille, the useless young woman who attended Matilda’s birth.
Avice watched as the priest lowered his head, lips moving quietly.
The furious buzzing in her ears blocked anything being said between the pair, but her mouth dropped as she watched Peter’s ringed fingers push strands of hair back under her coif.
So that is the man she is marrying in early Spring?
The volume in her ears increased.
Avice stepped back from the doorway and shook her head from side to side.
What is that?
She growled and pushed her hands under her coif, scratching her fingers along her scalp.
Avice had had enough. She stomped down the centre aisle of the church, headed boldly towards the pulpit.
As she approached, the buzzing grew louder and louder.
Something wet trickled from Avice’s ear.
When she reached up and drew her fingers back, the tips of her gloves were stained red.
It is coming from the cross. I am sure.
She swallowed as she stood at the bottom of the steps that lead into the pulpit. She could only reach the cross, and closely inspect it, if she climbed. Avice willed herself upwards and placed her boot on the first step.
“What do you think you are doing?” a voice growled from behind her.
Avice startled as a hand landed on her shoulder and gripped.
Hard.
“I—”
“Midwife Avice!” Peter spun her around and dug one hand into each shoulder. “You have no right! The pulpit is for men of the church only. A woman, particularly one like you, should never touch it.”
One like me! Avice growled internally. “I am sorry, Father. But can you not hear that?”