Catherine, Called Birdy (11 page)

The morning started out gray and drizzly, with a mist that wet our faces and our clothes and made the rushlights hard to fire, a poor omen for a wedding. We dressed the bride in her second-best gown (Morwenna let the seams out) and on her hair put a small veil held with a golden band.

The musicians came at dawn, yawning and scratching, smelling of the sour wine they had drunk half the night. On bagpipe and crumhorn they played us to the church.

Robert and his bride exchanged vows at the church door and we all went inside for Mass, a lengthy affair with priest droning and candles hissing and flickering. The loudest sound was the musicians snoring. I think Robert fell asleep himself but was jostled awake by my father's sharp elbow.

I watched the early morning light pass over and through the windows of colored glass, leaving streaks of red and green and yellow on the stone floor. When I was little, I used to try to capture the colored light. I thought I could hold it in my hand and carry it home. Now I know it is like happiness—it is there or it is not, you cannot hold it or keep it.

We walked back to the manor for the ale feast, showering the bride with rose petals, the musicians playing and tomfooling. Gerd the miller's son fell into the river as we crossed, but Robert waded in and pulled him out so his wedding day would not be ruined.

The dark and smoky hall looked festive for the feast. The rushes on the floor were last year's but were new strewn with mint and heather. Tables were laid with our best linen cloths. Torches blazed in iron brackets on the wall and their light gleamed off the gilt and silver goblets, candlesticks, and spoons. I have seldom seen these—what has not been sold is usually locked up.

After dinner, the men all danced with the bride. She looked smaller and paler as the day wore on but bravely let every man there step on her feet and call it dancing.

I was partnered for the feast with an ugly shaggy-bearded hulk from the north. My father sought to honor him because his manor lies next to my mother's, and my father lusts after it. I fail to see how sitting next to me and sharing my bowl and goblet honored him—and it certainly did me no good. The man was a pig, which dishonors pigs. He blew his red and shiny nose on the table linen, sneezed on the meat, picked his teeth with his knife, and left wet greasy marks where he drank from the cup we shared. I could not bring myself to put my lips to the slimy rim, so endured a dinner without wine.

Worse than this, he proved himself near a murderer. As the dogs burrowed under the rushes for bones and bits of the wedding meat, Rosemary (the smallest and my favorite but for Brutus) mistook his skinny foot for a bone and nipped it. The shaggy-bearded pig howled and kicked the dog, who, of course,
defended herself by biting. Then Shaggy Beard, pulling his knife from the table, tried to skewer the dog as if she were a joint of meat.

Robert left his wine cup long enough to knock the knife away with his. "The dog belongs to Lord Rollo," he growled, "and is not yours to kill."

The bearded pig sat down, shamed before our guests, and began to eat and drink again, smiling at me with meat stuck between his horrible brown broken teeth. I think he ate too much, for he made wind like a storm and sounded like a bladderpipe left out in the rain played by a goat.

The worst part is that now I must be beholden to the abominable Robert. As we passed later, I thanked him—prettily, I thought. He pinched my rump and grinned. "So I am none so bad as you thought me, little sister?"

I said, "Even the lowest of beasts is not vile all of the time."

I felt better. We are now back on the old footing—hate.

27
TH DAY OF
F
EBRUARY
,
Shrove Tuesday and the Feast of Saint Alnoth, serf and cowherd

Today my father questioned me about the bearded pig. I said he affected my stomach like maggoty meat and my father laughed and said, "Learn to like it."

It bodes not well. Shaggy Beard has a son, Stephen, whom he spoke of with loathing, calling him "Sir Priest," "the clerk," and "the girl," because the boy thinks and bathes and does not fart at Mass. I fear they are planning a match between me and Stephen. I will not. To be part of Shaggy Beard's family and have to eat with him every day! If my father does not drive him away, I will, as I have done the others.

28
TH DAY OF
F
EBRUARY
,
Ash Wednesday

First day of Lent. We are but dust and to dust shall return. I tried to be thoughtful and morbid on this day but spoiled it by skipping in the yard after dinner from pure joy. I am not dust yet!

Shaggy Beard is with us still. When I see him, I call "Hoy!" as if I were calling a pig. His face gets even redder. I am hoping he will burst and we can sweep him out with the soiled rushes.

1
ST DAY OF
M
ARCH
,
Feast of Saint Dewi of Wales, who drank no beer or wine hut only water

Robert is wedded and bedded—again—and he and his bride have left for her own manor at Ashton, not long ahead of her father, Robert fears. My mother and her women like it not that Robert's pale puny bride, so far gone with child, is jouncing and bouncing over the fens, but Robert thinks her father in his anger will try to keep the new-wed couple from the manor promised to the girl. So they race across Britain in the rain.

When I marry it will be no cheap rag-tag hurry-up affair as Robert's was. I will have silks and music and lights and important guests from foreign lands with musical names. I will braid my hair with silken threads and wear a gown of saffron silk with a red cloak and purple leather shoes embroidered with gold and silver threads. My belt will have bells on it and thin pieces of gold beaten into the shape of leaves and flowers. My betrothed, in a cloak of scarlet silk, will meet me at my father's house. His horses will have flowers and ribbons woven into their manes and their saddles draped with silk. Musicians, sober and well shod, will lead us to the church playing on silver
flutes and gitterns, on timbrels and cymbals and lyres. It will sound like angels laughing and spring rain.

2
ND DAY OF
M
ARCH
,
Feast of Saint Chad, whose dust taken in water cures men and cows of their infirmities and restores them to health

The weather has warmed and the fleas have come to visit. This morning I gathered alder leaves with dew on them and strewed them about my chamber to discourage the black soldiers. I have forty-three bites, only twenty-seven of them in places I can easily scratch.

3
RD DAY OF
M
ARCH
,
Feast of Saint Cunegund, wife to the emperor Henry. The little hook of saints says that Cunegund once slapped her niece for frivolity and the finger-marks remained on her face until death. I am fortunate that no one in this household is a saint or I would he marked like a spotted horse, especially my cheeks and my rump

No further words from my father about Shaggy Beard, so mayhap the trouble has passed and these plans, too, come to nothing.

4
TH DAY OF
M
ARCH
,
Feast of Saint Adrian (the Irish one, not the African)

We heard Mass this morning, or rather did not hear it, for the raindrops pounding on the church roof made a noise like drummers in a funeral procession and I heard nothing else. The church seems strange, undressed as it is for Lent. Father Huw wears plain robes with no silver gilt threads. The cross and statues are covered with veils. There are no flowers and no music. It is meant to make us feel sad, but mostly just makes me bored.

Edward has sent to us three holy books from which he says we must read each night during Lent to put us in the proper
morose and holy mood. I was excited to have them, thinking they must be like the lively colorful little book of saints from the abbot. But then William Steward began to read, droning and stumbling over the Latin. Tonight's book is Saint Jerome. It is not lively or colorful. I hope it is short.

6
TH DAY OF
M
ARCH
,
Feast of Saint Conon, martyr and maintainer of irrigation canals

I have been gathering violets to make oil of violets against attacks of melancholy. Since I turned thirteen last year I have used a great amount of oil of violets.

7
TH DAY OF
M
ARCH
,
Feast of Saint Perpetua, who turned into a man and trod on the Devil's head

I hate Lent already and it has only been a seven-night.

8
TH DAY OF
M
ARCH
,
Feast of Saint Duthac, who had miraculous powers to cure ale head

Thomas of Wallingham and his family are stopping here on their way to London for Easter. His daughter is dull and proper and I would ordinarily shun her, but Lent is so dreary, I welcome even Agnes as an amusement.

Perched on the edge of my bed, Agnes, with her little black eyes and pointed nose, looked like a weasel in blue silk. But remembering the boredom that is Lent, I tried nicely to engage her.

Gossip she would not. Too hurtful.

Tell stories she would not. Too fanciful.

Dance she would not. Too frivolous.

"Let us then," I said, "go watch John Swann unload kegs at the alehouse."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because he is beautiful as summer and his arms ripple like the muscles on a horse's back and the rain plasters his shirt against his chest."

"The beauty of men and women is but the devil's work," she said, pinching her mouth like a fish. "A snare and a delusion. A trap for the innocent."

Innocent? Me? I was insulted by the thought. I who have seen a hanging, chased young Fulk from the privy, seen my birds in mating season and Perkin's goats!

When I got to the goats, Agnes covered her ears and ran squealing from my chamber. I miss Aelis.

9
TH DAY OF
M
ARCH
,
Feast of Saint Bosa, monk of Whitby, bishop of York, and great-great-great-grandfather of Elfa the laundress

Like a weasel, Agnes of Wallingham snorts in her sleep. She took all the covers and her feet are cold, her knees and ankles sharp as stones. And she does not leave until tomorrow.

It rained this day, so I could not escape outside. I spent the afternoon in the kitchen with Cuthman Cook, who was chopping eel for pies. He was telling me of the time he seduced the miller's daughter and had to hide in a barrel of flour and how the angry miller followed him home by following his floury footprints and I was laughing loudly when the heavy curtain was pushed aside and there was The Weasel, having sniffed me out.

"Your noise is offensive to well-mannered ears," she said. "It is said, 'A silent woman is always more admired than a noisy one.' "

"It is also said, A woman's tongue is her sword,' " I countered, " 'and she does not let it rust.' "

" 'Maids should be mild and meek, swift to hear and slow to speak,' " said Agnes.

" 'Be she old or be she young, a woman's strength is in her tongue,' " said I.

Agnes pointed her nose at me. " 'One tongue is enough for two women.' "

Having run out of sayings to argue with, I pushed her and she sat hard in the eel pie. Am I at fault because she has no balance? Being sent to my chamber at least meant I did not have to see her at supper.

As Morwenna led me out by my ear, The Weasel snuffled and said, "Violence, Catherine, becomes you as ill as that dress you are wearing," and then began to argue with the cook about the pie crust. God's thumbs, the girl would quarrel even with the breeze.

10
TH DAY OF
M
ARCH
,
Feast of the Forty Martyrs of Sebaste, soldiers of the Thundering Legion, who were killed by being stranded on a frozen lake

Thomas of Wallingham and his family continued on their way to London today. I think on the whole Agnes is more dreary even than Lent.

11
TH DAY OF
M
ARCH
,
Feast of Saint Oengus the Culdee, an Irish bishop who genuflected frequently and recited the psalms while standing in cold water

At Mass today I wondered instead of listening to the sermon, but they were wonderings about holy things, so I trust God was not offended. First I wondered why, after Lazarus was raised from the dead, people did not ask him about heaven and hell and being dead. Were they not curious? Indeed, this may have been our only chance to find out without dying.

Then I wondered why Jesus used his miraculous powers to cure lepers instead of creating an herb or flower that would cure them so we could continue to use it even now when Jesus is in Heaven. When we are on the road, I hate to hear the bell of a leper hiding in the trees until we pass. I know priests say
lepers are paying for their great sins, but I know plenty of great sinners who still have their fingers and noses.

And I wondered about how long it took Noah to gather up two of everything for the Ark. The rain was pouring down and his family were driving bears and dogs and horses aboard and old Noah was in the garden catching flies and gnats, digging for worms and dung beetles and maggots. Why did he bother? Did he worry that he got all of them? Were there some disgusting slimy creeping things that Noah never found and so we do not have anymore?

13
TH DAY OF
M
ARCH
,
Feast of Saint Mochoemoc, called also Mo-Chamhog, Kennoch, Kevoca, Pulcherius, and Vulcanius, an abbot who could raise the dead to life

I have been two days locked in my chamber. How it happened was this: In these dreary, deadly dull days of Lent, are we not told to make our own humble amusements? I therefore declared a contest to see who could spit the farthest: Rhys from the stables, Gerd the miller's son, William Steward's youngest son William, or me. I did not think to be left out just because I am a girl.

I did not win, Rhys did. His front teeth being loose since a fight with John Swann at the alehouse, he can spit between them at great distance and with deadly accuracy. We did not intend that my mother's ladies should be passing at that very moment or that they should mind spit so very much.