Catherine, Called Birdy (16 page)

21
ST DAY OF
J
UNE
,
Feast of Saint Leufred, forty-eight years an abbot

Old Tarn, the father of Meg from the dairy, finally has three pigs, so Meg will marry Thomas Baker's oldest son, Alf, as soon as they have a cottage. Alf is puny and sneezes all summer, but still I would be Meg, about to marry the choice of my heart, rather than the lady Catherine, promised to a pig. I am desolate.

22
ND DAY OF
J
UNE
,
Feast of Saint Ebbe the Younger, who cut off her nose to protect her virtue from marauding Danes

This afternoon was flea-catching. I spread a white cloth on each bed so even my weak eyes could see the little black fleas as they jumped. I then caught each one and crushed it between my finger and thumb. It is tedious and leaves me bumpy and red with bites, but does not overvex my brain, so I can think and wonder while I work.

Today I thought about ways the shaggy-bearded oaf who wishes to marry me might die and leave me free. He might be eaten by wolves or struck by lightning or explode from eating too much. He might encounter a dragon bigger and meaner and more evil even than he or be disemboweled by a Turk or a
jealous husband. Mayhap all his teeth will fall out and he will be unable to eat and so will starve to death. Or he might jump off a roof in a drunk, thinking he could fly. He could be run over by a peddler's wagon full of heavy iron pots or have corrupt and rotten ulcers eat away his body. I could put deadly thorn apple or monkshood in his soup or train my birds to fly north and peck him to death. Or a giant hand might reach down and pinch him between its thumb and finger. Life is full of possibilities. If only something would happen soon.

23
RD DAY OF
J
UNE
,
Midsummer Eve and Feast of Saint Ethelreda, who died of a tumor on her neck, divine punishment for her vanity in wearing necklaces in her younger days

All of the world is celebrating Midsummer Eve, eating and drinking and dancing in the fields. I cannot, filled as I am with dread over this marriage business. If only the bonfires lit throughout the shire this night to drive demons and dragons away would drive unwelcome suitors away as well. I am going to bed with the sounds of singing in my ears but not in my heart.

24
TH DAY OF
J
UNE
,
Midsummer Day and Feast of Saint John the Baptist, Our Lord's cousin, whose head King Herod gave to Salome as a reward for her dancing

Where will next Midsummer Day find me?

25
TH DAY OF
J
UNE
,
Feast of Adalbert of Egmond, about whom we know nothing but who works miracles at his tomb

Last night Ralph Littlemouse dreamed he saw Perkin's granny sitting by the side of the road with blood on her clothes.

This morning he ran to her cottage but she was already dead. He thinks she must have been elf-shot, for there are no
marks on her, so we all are carrying bread in our pockets to protect us from the fairies.

Glynna Cotter and Thomas Baker's wife, Ann, washed and dressed the old woman and laid her on the table in her cottage. Tonight all the villagers will watch. I do not know why they call it watching when it is really singing and games and drinking, but at least she will not be alone.

They have sent to the high meadow for Perkin to come home. My heart breaks for him.

26
TH DAY OF
J
UNE
,
Feast of John and Paul, Roman martyrs, who were buried in their garden

We took Perkin's granny from her cottage to the church in the dark, although I could see a sliver of silver light to the east and knew dawn would soon be upon us.

Father Huw said Mass and a lot of things about sinners and hellfire and how this should be a mirror to us all for we all shall die and none know when—but nothing about how she had the merriest eyes I ever saw. Or how although she was no bigger than Ralph Littlemouse's youngest, she always had a lap big enough for a crying child. Or how she made the best soul cakes in the village.

I tried to convince Perkin to sleep in our hall tonight but he said no, he will spread his bed by the fire in his granny's cottage as he always does when he is not in the high meadow with the goats, and will do so every night until he leaves to be a scholar.

27
TH DAY OF
J
UNE
,
Feast of Saint Cyril of Alexandria, fierce enemy of the Novations, Neoplatonists, Nestorians, and the imperial governor Orestes

Before light this day I awoke with an inspired notion. I
slipped out of my bed and into my clothes and was at the dairy before light. Meg was already there, trying to coax milk from an unwilling cow.

"Meg, I have an inspired notion," I said. "You and Alf need a cottage. Perkin's granny does not. I think God sent Perkin's granny's cottage to you."

Meg's eyes lit as though I had set a torch light to them. "A cottage," she sighed. "Married," she sighed. "Me and Alf," she sighed.

We jumped around the dairy a bit and then Meg stopped, biting her lip and scowling. "Your father, my lady. Would he? Could we? Could you?"

I knew what she was trying to ask. While Meg finished coaxing the cows, I went to coax my father.

I found him in the hall with his breakfast bread and ale, frowning at the snoring lump that was Odd William, lying between himself and the warmth of the fire.

"Sir," said I. "The morning dawns fair. I hope it finds you well."

"Slurp," said my father.

"For certain," I continued, "Perkin's granny is in Heaven this day, watching over us all. I know God would want her with Him, so good she was, and so generous. God ever rewards the generous."

"Slurp," said my father again.

"Generous as she was, I know Perkin's granny would want to share what she had with those of us left behind. Her warmest mantle with the miller's wife, her extra stockings with Ann Baker. And," I said, taking a big breath, "her empty cottage with young about-to-weds who have none of their own."

My father stopped in mid-slurp. His brain woke up. He understood. Greed blossomed in his tiny eyes, and he bargained with me for the cottage. Finally he agreed to let Meg
and Alf have it in exchange for one of Meg's dowry pigs and my willingness to consider the Shaggy Beard marriage.

So I told Meg, and Meg told Alf, and they will be married on Sunday and have Perkin's granny's cottage. Perkin will still have his bed by the fire when he is not in the high meadow with the goats, and someone to see he eats a hot meal on cold days. And his granny in Heaven will smile at me and all will be well.

28
TH DAY OF
J
UNE
,
Saint Peter's Eve and Feast of the martyrs Saint Potamiaena, who had boiling pitch poured over her body, and Saint Basilides, a soldier who was kind to her

I had good reason to hide from Morwenna today, for I had the notion to make a picture for Perkin of his granny in Heaven and did not wish to be stopped and made to sew or weave or practice walking with my eyes down. I used my best inks and brushes and a new whole sheet of vellum taken by night from the stack William Steward uses for the household accounts. In my picture the sun shines, for Perkin's granny suffered greatly from the cold. She is gaily dressed in a new green kirtle and dances in a meadow with Perkin and goats, for I think Heaven would be no Heaven for either of them without goats. She is smiling and has all her teeth.

Perkin leaves in two days to return to the high meadow, so I will leave the picture in the cottage where he will be sure to find it.

30
TH DAY OF
J
UNE
,
Feast of Saint Theobald of Provins, hermit, patron of charcoal burners

Perkin has gone, but first brought to me his thanks, his granny's earthenware cup, and a kiss. My insides are very warm although the morning is cool.

1
ST DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saints Julius and Aaron, British farmers, who suffered horrible physical tortures at the hands of the Romans

I was at Meg's father's cottage before light this day to bring her the gift of my second-best blue kirtle, her only one being old and patched and green, a color sure to bring bad luck to a bride. I then went to the church to await everyone at the church door, where William Steward and I would represent my father on this occasion. Meg said it would bring them great honor and great luck. I think the luck is that my father did not come himself.

Soon I heard the sound of laughter and singing and the strumming of gitterns as Meg and Alf led the villagers up the path to the church. Meg's yellow hair, usually tightly plaited and pinned up so as not to hang in the milk or become tangled in the butter churn, fell loose in a river of gold to her knees. A circlet of bluebells and cowslips and day's eyes crowned her shining head. My blue kirtle matched her eyes. Morwenna says beauty and rainbows soon pass away, but I know for the rest of my life when I look at Meg I will see her like this.

Alf looked much the same as always except he had no flour in his hair.

After exchanging vows at the church door, Alf gave Meg half a penny and kept the other half for himself so that, he said, they would always remember they were two halves of one soul. It was very pretty. Then Mass and, with church bells ringing, to the alehouse for the bride ale. Since the sky was the same clear blue as Meg's eyes, John Swann had set up tables outside, strewn with rosemary, bay, and the petals of the wild white rose.

The afternoon was gay with music and dancing and much ale-drinking, with the pennies paid for the ale to go to Meg for her new cottage.

Now it grows dark and I am in my chamber writing. The party continues and will all night—some will even have bride ale for breakfast—but Meg and Alf have gone home to the cottage God sent them, with help from Perkin's granny and me.

2
ND DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saints Processus and Martinian, Roman martyrs, whose relics cure the sick, reveal perjurers, and cure lunatics

I have been thinking about my own marriage. Once I dreamed of a handsome prince on a white horse decked in silks and bells. Now I am offered a smelly, broken-toothed old man who drinks too much. I would rather even Alf.' But it occurred to me that what actually makes people married is not the church or the priest but their consent, their "I will." And I do not consent. Will never consent. "I will not." I cannot be wed without my consent, can I? They cannot bind me with ropes and force my mouth open and closed while my father says in a high voice, "I will." I am told this has happened, but even my father could not be so cruel. I will not consent and there will be no marriage. Amen.

4
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Andrew of Crete, stabbed to death by a fanatical Iconoclast

I spent this summer evening lying in the field, watching stars come out in the sky. Free. Free. Free! After my harrowing days locked away, I rejoice to be free. It was like this:

The evening after Meg's wedding, I encountered my father near the buttery.

"Now we will get on with it, daughter," he said. "It is time to make good your promise and consent to marriage with Murgaw."

"Never," I said. "Your villagers are allowed to marry where they will, but your daughter is sold like a cheese for your profit! Never."

He blinked three times, opening and closing his mouth. Then his face grew purple and he choked out disconnected words: "Meg ... cottage ... promise ... marriage."

"I promised to consider such a marriage, sir, and I did," I said. "I considered it and I reject it. I will not consent."

So there was shouting and slapping and stomping away, which ended with me locked in my prison of a chamber without my inks in an attempt to break my spirit.

Earlier this evening he came to my chamber, the only person I had seen in two days except Morwenna and Wat.

Standing in the doorway, he said, "Your mother has prevailed upon me to let you out. You are to go down to supper. You will be quiet, agreeable, and obedient. And you
will
wed the pig"

He left the door open. I am free. And I will
not
wed the pig.

5
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Morwenna, an Irish maiden who worked miracles

This morning I strewed the bed with flowers for my
Morwenna, who irritates and torments me sometimes but whom I love. Hers is the first face I ever saw.

6
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Sexburga, wife of Erconbert, mother of Erkengota and Ermengild

Aelis's baby husband has died and she is a widow without ever really being a wife. Since she met him but seldom, I think mayhap she is none too sad. I wonder if George knows.

7
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Willibald, who wrote a book called
Hodoeporicon
about his travels to Rome, Cyprus, Syria, and the Holy Land

My father left this day for London. The manor is already quieter and cleaner, and I can breathe more easily.

8
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Urith of Chittlehampton, killed by jealous haymakers

After Mass this day I walked over to Perkin's granny's cottage, now home to Meg and Alf. Parsnips and mutton were boiling on a pot over the fire, making the July day inside the cottage much hotter than outside. The air was gray and smoky; the dirt floor was fresh swept but still dirt; the small straw bed, Perkin's mat on the floor, and the table where Perkin's granny served meals all her life and was laid out the day of her death were still the only furniture, but the small dark cottage seemed different, somehow lighter and smelling young rather than old. There was such a feeling of love in there, of Meg and Alf and their babies and their grandchildren to come, all together in this cottage, living their days together.