First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women Read Free

engraved in the arch above the sanctuary: AN EYE FOR AN EYE . No clergyman presided in the building any more; but people still liked rituals, and the Provosts of Stroven decided the old Church was a perfect place for the performing of the three civil ceremonies: marriages, funerals and the naming of children.
    This morning, the people stood in awkward, silentgroups till a small door squealed open at the front. Provost Hawse appeared; then my mother, carrying my sister; then my aunt, carrying me. My father came last.
    The Provost led the way to a circle of white marble tiles in the floor at the middle of the Church. The tiles were all that was left of an even older building. In the middle of each tile was a small blue gargoyle head. The townspeople stood on the fringe of this circle and made sure they didn’t bring bad luck upon themselves by stepping on the tiles, or staring at the gargoyles.
    Provost Hawse was a small, thin man. His back was stooped too, but in a different way from the miners’. He looked more like a sick rat and had little almond-shaped eyes. He wore a bronze medallion of office round his neck, and he hobbled as he walked, as though the medallion was too heavy.
    My mother was taller than any of the other women. Her green eyes were clear and confident. Her age wasn’t easy to tell. Her face might have been that of a very young woman who’d seen a lot; or of an older woman who’d led a sheltered life. In her arms she held my sister, fast asleep in a white, knitted shawl.
    My aunt was a shorter, heavier version of my mother, with a similar face, the same eyes. She held me wrapped in another white shawl. Unlike my sister, I was awake and watchful.
    As for my father: he walked last to the marble circle. He was in his mid-thirties, a plumpish man of average height. His thinning fair hair was sleeked sideways to cover his baldness. Now and then he’d pat it nervously. He hadn’t removed his black leather gloves.
    Everyone was quiet.
    The Provost checked a slip of paper he’d taken from his jacket. He looked at my mother with his little eyes.
    “You are Sarah Halfnight, the mother of this child?” His voice was loud for such a slight man.
    “Yes.” She spoke quietly.
    “Is this the girl?”
    “Yes.”
    The Provost again checked the slip of paper, then looked at my sister. He put his veined hand on her forehead. She already had a head of silky brown hair.
    “By the power vested in me, I name this child …” He looked again at his paper, “… I name this child … Johanna Halfnight.”
    My sister had opened her eyes when he touched her head. Her face slowly contorted and purpled. She began to howl bitterly. My mother soothed her, and she sobbed for a while then was silent.
    The Provost faced my aunt, who was still holding me. He seemed puzzled. He checked his paper again then turned to my father.
    “You’re the father—Thomas Halfnight?”
    My father nodded.
    “Then the father must hold the male child at the naming,” said the Provost.
    My father was about to say something when my mother spoke.
    “We’ve agreed my sister, Lizzie, should hold him.”
    Provost Hawse’s face was a maze of tiny intersecting lines. He looked into her unflinching green eyes for a moment, then shrugged his thin shoulders.
    “So be it,” he said.
    He looked at his piece of paper again. Then he put out his hand. It was light and dry on my forehead, like a spider. I shut my eyes.
    “By the power vested in me,” he said, “I name this child Andrew Halfnight.”
    Everyone was silent. I opened my eyes again and saw the Provost stuff the paper into his pocket. He looked round the assembly.
    “It’s over,” he said. “The ceremony is ended.”
    And that was how I received my name.

Chapter Two
    T HE TOWNSPEOPLE WENT back outside. The heat made even the familiar unfamiliar. The usually delightful smell of fresh bread from MacCallum’s Bakery was now mingled with the smell of something slightly putrid. Things