by Karen Brooks
I, the wanton Eleanor Cornfed, became Mistress Eleanor Bigod – wife to the most despised and dirty man in Bath. I married the monster.
Fulk was three score years and one.
I was twelve.
TWO
Bigod Farm
The Year of Our Lord 1364
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of Edward III
By mid-afternoon I was on my way to Bigod Farm, which lay between Bath-atte-Mere and the town of Bath. Two of Lady Clarice’s groomsmen, Ben and Dodo, accompanied us, as did The Poet. A grubby young woman, who’d hovered by the church door as vows were exchanged, trotted behind our small party. Older than me, she was a sorry sight, with greasy auburn hair that hung below her cap, a filthy apron and skirts coated in dried mud. Her face was hard to make out, it was so grimed with dirt. I hadn’t spied her before and wondered who she was. Mayhap, she’d never seen a wedding and been drawn by the pealing bells. For certes, some of the villagers were, lining by the road out of the village, mouths agape when they saw who was leaving and why.
‘I never,’ said old Goody Edith, pulling on the one tooth in her head. ‘That makes five for Bigod now.’
‘Wonder how long this one will last,’ said Goody Grisilda, chewing her tongue.
‘Hopefully longer than the last,’ added Goody Edith.
‘Always knew that Cornfed lass would find her level,’ muttered Widow Henrietta.
‘Can’t get much lower,’ replied Master Rohan the cobbler, sending the women into gales of laughter.
Not even a withering look quietened them. I heard references to ‘that poor bishop’s boy’, ‘whore’ and many more words besides, and knew that whatever reason was given for this hasty marriage, it wouldn’t be the truth. I met The Poet’s eyes and with a slight shock understood what I’d earlier thought was wariness, was in fact pity.
I didn’t want anyone’s pity, least of all his – the man who, I learned as I changed out of my old tunic and into the one my lady provided for the wedding, brokered this God-be-damned arrangement.
Forced me into marriage with a great lump of farting man-dung. Farting man-dung that owned a lot of land and sheep, apparently. Mistress Bertha babbled as she helped dress me. Said how Master Bigod had been given a sum of money to marry me, promised sheep as well. So, my husband (the word made me shudder) was not above a bit of bribery.
I glared at his broad back. Hopefully, he’ll disperish before I had to swive him; fall off his horse and never rise. Funny how the word ‘swive’ held ‘wive’ in its grasp. Yet it also had the power to transform a woman. If the swiving is successful, wife becomes mother. Was that what Fulk Bigod wanted? For me to give him children? I repressed a shiver and rubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes. Damn if I’d bawl. I took a deep, shuddering breath, sat up straight.
Of a sudden, Papa’s voice came to me. ‘You have to create opportunities where you can. No matter what life hurls at you, child, catch it. If it’s shit, turn it into fertiliser. If it’s insults, throw them back. Grip opportunity with both hands and ride it like a wild colt until you’ve tamed it. You’ve come from nothing, and unless you make something of yourself with what you’re offered, it’s to nothing you’ll return.’
Papa had made something of himself. The Botch had helped, killing so many folk the gentry had no choice but to accept workers they wouldn’t usually consider hiring. Papa said the disease turned society on its head, making the rich beholden to the poor for a time. Could I make something of this? Turn the shit I’d been given into something productive? As we drew away from Noke Manor and the only life I could really remember, this seemed impossible.
I tried to recall what Mistress Bertha had said. As she helped me dress for the wedding, she’d tucked and pulled, twisting me this way and that. She didn’t intend to hurt; she was rough so she didn’t cry. Nervous, I babbled the entire time.
‘There are people in the village saying he killed his wives and servants,’ I said. ‘If not deliberately, then through neglect. None stay. Some last only a day.’
Mistress Bertha stopped what she was doing and put her hands on her hips. ‘Rubbish,’ she said, and spun me the other way. ‘Fulk Bigod may be many things, but he’s not a murderer or a tyrant. It’s just nasty idle gossip. Though I’ll go as far to say the man’s an enigma.’
‘An enigma?’
‘Mystery.’
‘One wrapped in sheep dung,’ I mumbled.
Mistress Bertha slapped me on the arse. ‘You’ll need to learn to curb that tongue, girl, or it will land you in more trouble.’
‘How can I be in more trouble?’ I buried my face in my hands. ‘Why do I have to marry anyone? We didn’t do anything, I swear.’
‘It matters not what you did,’ said Mistress Bertha, wrapping me in her arms, stroking my hair. The tears flowed then, and not just mine. ‘It’s what you were perceived to be doing. Hush now,’ she said as I began to protest. ‘It’s not all bad. Think of it this way: Fulk Bigod is a man of moderate means, but he’s also old. At worst, you’ll have a short period of pain followed by a lifetime of comfort. It’s up to you.’
Her words reminded me of Papa’s.
As the sun sank beyond the horizon and the sky began to transform into a palette of blush, violet and gold, I dwelled on those words, even as I latched onto the swaying backs of The Poet and my husband a few paces ahead. We rode in silence, well past the next village now, following the stream along a track better suited to feet than beasts. There was a thick wood to one side, a drystone wall encasing parts of it before it opened onto green hillocks dotted with creamy sheep. A lone shepherd and two panting dogs sat beneath a huge oak. It wasn’t until they leapt to their feet as we drew closer, acknowledging Master Bigod, that I understood these were his lands I was admiring.
After a time, we rounded a bend and there, in a narrow valley not far from a chuckling creek, was a long, low building, whitewashed with a thatched roof. Smoke poured out of a hole somewhere in the middle. Shutters were open to allow air into the house. Two wooden doors at either end were ajar; the furthest one had chickens pecking around the threshold. Coming through the other door was a large sow followed by some piglets.
‘God’s boils, Alyson,’ bellowed Master Bigod, spinning on his mount to glare over his shoulder. ‘You forgot to lock up the fecking pigs!’ It was the most I’d ever heard him say.
I jumped as he continued to shout, wondering why he was hurling such invective when it slowly dawned, it wasn’t me he was abusing, but someone else. I looked around only to see the filthy drab from outside the church. Had she been there the entire way? Well back from the last horse, she’d frozen in her tracks.
With a growl, Master Bigod kicked his horse to quickly cover the final distance to the house.
I waited until the girl caught up with me. ‘May God give you good day.’ I tried not to stare. Up close, she was a wretched creature. She must be a serving girl or farm maid. They hadn’t all left. For certes, she looked right hedge-born. Lady Clarice would never have allowed her servants or villeins to appear in such a way.
Instead of answering me, the girl picked up her pace, lifting her skirts to expose bare and grimy ankles in worn clogs, and stormed past. She shot me a look of such loathing, it was as if I’d been struck.
Indignant, sick of being unjustly treated, frightened of what lay ahead, I kicked the donkey and followed her. ‘Now, just you wait a minute …’ What was her name? ‘Alyson,’ I barked. ‘You can’t go treating me like that. Don’t you know who I am?’
The distance between us was growing. The louder I called, the faster she walked, her back to me, her shoulders up around her ears.
An unnatural anger possessed me. The stubborn donkey was incapable of speed. I halted and slipped off its back and ran. I grabbed the girl by the shoulder and forced her to turn around, nearly making us both lose balance.
We faced each other, panting. We were of a height. She was frowning, I was glaring.
‘I
don’t know who taught you manners, girl, but I won’t accept being treated like that by you or anyone else. I saw you at the church. Your master wed me. You will show the respect I deserve!’
I sounded just like Mistress Bertha or even, I tried to persuade myself, Lady Clarice. I drew myself up, raised my chin and gave her the look I’d been told could freeze the millpond. In summer.
The girl stared brazenly, then muttered something, her lip curling in a sneer.
‘What did you say?’ I leaned closer so I might hear her forced apology.
‘I said,’ she repeated slowly, ‘he’s not my master.’ There was no remorse.
I began to suspect I’d been right all along. She was a by-blow, a tinker’s get, or someone who’d fled their lord’s lands to avoid paying chevage and was searching for work. A wave of pity swept me. Times were tough enough, especially for a woman on her own.
‘Well, if he’s not your master, then who is he to you?’ I folded my arms and gave her a stern but benign look.
Her lips twisted as her eyes met mine. They were the colour of slate. ‘He’s my pa,’ she said.
My eyes widened, my mouth dropped open.
‘Which, if I’m not mistaken,’ she continued, ‘makes you me mam.’
THREE
Bigod Farm
The Year of Our Lord 1364
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of Edward III
I was still in shock when The Poet, Ben and Dodo departed a short time later. They weren’t offered refreshment, or invited into the house. After untying my burlap and greeting two young men who appeared from indoors – one to lead the donkey away and the other to take my belongings – there was naught for the others to do. They loitered, trying to strike up conversations, but when no invitation was forthcoming, they’d no choice but to leave. The Poet took my hand and muttered some kind of consolation or words of hope, I knew not which. I didn’t say anything. I was too stunned with the idea I was wife and mother – and mother to a dirty doxy some years older at that – to really note they were going until it was too late. When I saw the eddies of dirt being kicked up by their horses and their silhouettes disappearing up the track, I followed, waving and calling, but it did no good. They were gone.
I was all alone with my present. With my future.
I turned to face it. My husband and his daughter stood outside the doorway that only a short time ago had framed pigs.
If I’d thought Master Bigod and his daughter filthy, it was nothing compared to what I gazed upon. Not even the rich palette of the setting sun cast it in a favourable light. Animal ordure as well as piles of rotting vegetable scraps lay all over the yard. Nothing could hide the holes in the thatched roof, the splintered window and door frames, nor the weeds and flowers choking the walls and the nearby sheds, bursting through the wattle and daub, springing from the roof; nor could one ignore the green vines holding the shutters captive. There was an overgrown herb garden to the left of the main house and I could see an old tub and a few bushes over which some washed linen had been flung. Chickens pecked the dirt around a rusty wheel, a cow was tethered to the nearby shed, chewing its cud, while a milking pail rolled back and forth. Trees cast welcome shade over one side of the house and in these birds fluttered and chirruped. At least someone was happy.
Beyond the house was more pasture with neat drystone walls enclosing a large flock of sheep. They ambled over the ground, tugging at the plentiful grass, lifting their heads to watch as first Master Bigod’s horse, then the donkey, were released into their field. The beasts bobbed straight over to a wooden trough and drank deeply. There were laden fruit trees and a scrappy vegetable garden. I could see evidence of kale, onions, beet and herbs besides. I wondered who was responsible for that, and the neatness of the drystone walls, which, unlike the house, were in good repair. It was such a contradiction.
‘What are you waiting for, wife, come, come inside,’ said Master Bigod. His voice was deep and gravelly, as if dry from lack of use. His words were accompanied by a smile. Much to my surprise, he had a nice one, despite having so few teeth. But so did the ale-conner and he was well known for beating his wife and taking bribes from the brewers.
Slapping me on the back as if I were a friend rather than his new bride, I almost tripped over the doorstep as he moved aside for me to pass.
‘Alyson tells me she introduced herself,’ he said, following so closely I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck.
‘She did.’ I wondered what else the sullen girl had said and when. There was no sign of her. Master Bigod dragged a stool closer to the central fire, striking its wooden top. A cloud of dust rose. He used his sleeve to swipe it clean. ‘Here, sit, sit and let’s have a bridal ale to celebrate. It’s not every day I get to bring a wife home … well, not lately anyhow. Alyson!’ he bellowed, looking about. ‘Get some ale.’
Walking slowly to the stool, I tried not to think about the other women he’d brought here, nor their fates. Instead, I took in my surroundings. It was fairly dark, even though weak light struggled through the windows. The smouldering fire made the air quite smoky and left a haze sitting beneath the broad rafters. I coughed a few times. Noke Manor had a chimney in the Great Hall, so I wasn’t accustomed to fighting for my breath indoors. I wondered what it would be like in winter with everything closed up.
Nevertheless, the style of the house was not unfamiliar, as it was very like some in the village, only longer and wider and not so well kept. I’d seen worse. Compared to the outside, an effort had been made indoors. One vast room, the house was divided by the fire in the centre; a screen down one end concealed a kitchen. I could hear the sound of mazers clanging and a bung being removed from a barrel. Closer to the screen, there was a trestle table, stools, a bench and even a side board upon which a few utensils rested – cups and spoons mainly. Some chipped jugs. A mean-looking weaving hung from one wall, its picture unclear in the poor light. Sconces with unlit candles were screwed into the smoke-stained walls. Above the central hearth hung a huge pot, some gridirons, smaller pots, ladles, an iron fork and trivets. A chest sat beneath one window, and the ginger cat atop it paused in its grooming to stare at me with wide yellow eyes. Master Bigod waved towards it. ‘Don’t mind King Claude. He thinks he owns the place.’
King Claude. Well, I liked cats and would make sure to pay fealty soon.
It was just as well I was fond of animals, because the other end of the room had a compact dirt floor scattered with beds of hay. On one, a large sow reclined, piglets suckling sleepily at her teats, while two goats chewed contentedly next to her. Against the far wall, more chickens roosted. Together, they accounted for the smell and the shit.
Unable to stay still, my husband was pacing, clearly as nervous as I was, even though he’d been married many times before. He was the master of this domain. A domain that, as his wife, I would be excepted to manage. Oh, how I wished I’d asked more questions about how to keep house, how to be a wife, of Mistress Bertha, Lady Clarice, of anyone at the manor, even The Poet.
What should I do? What should I say?
My heart began to somersault and beads of sweat broke out along my forehead and between my breasts. Hot tears welled. I wouldn’t cry, I wouldn’t.
Just then, Alyson reappeared, a bunch of wooden mazers balanced under one arm, while in her other hand she carried a large jug. She thumped them all on the table and began to pour haphazardly, her face set in a deep, resentful frown. It was a wonder any of the ale went into the cups.
‘Oy, you pair,’ Master Bigod called to no-one in particular. The two young men I’d seen earlier reappeared. ‘Come and meet your mistress and share a drink. Oh, and find Hereward and Wake, would you?’
Squinting into the shadows, I could see there was another floor above the one we currently occupied. The bedroom must be there. Dear God up in Heaven, I hoped so. Mind you, the sow might not be so bad to curl up next to … she likely smelled better.
A volley of barks distracted me
as two huge hounds burst in, followed by the young men.
‘Hereward, Wake,’ cried Master Bigod, dropping to one knee and enfolding his arms around the two hairy mutts. The dogs, brown, long-legged things with wiry fur and big, slavering jaws, clearly adored him, putting their paws on his shoulders and licking his face and ears. Mayhap, that sufficed for a wash. Master Bigod chuckled and ruffled their heads. Standing, he pointed at me.
‘Meet your new mistress,’ he said.
The hounds almost knocked me off my stool. Their great black noses nudged my legs, before they licked me with their velvet tongues. Their wagging tails struck my thighs, my arms. I didn’t know where to put my hands, how to stop them, how to enfold them and kiss them back. Why, these dogs were adorable. Such affection, such obedience, too, I thought as Master Bigod shouted a command and they immediately dropped to their haunches.
Not everyone earned such admiration. Nor had it returned with such ease. ‘Which one is Hereward and which Wake?’ I asked.
It was the daughter, Alyson, who answered. She nodded at the smaller of the two dogs. ‘That’s Hereward, and her brother is Wake.’
‘Blasted nuisances, the pair of them,’ growled Master Bigod, his hand chucking Hereward beneath her chin, belying his words. She tried to lick him. ‘Never mind them,’ said Master Bigod. ‘Let’s raise a toast to the new Mistress Bigod.’ Lifting his mazer, he waited until the two men, Alyson and I hefted ours. ‘Welcome to our home, Eleanor.’ His eyes flickered and he gulped nervously.
‘Welcome,’ said the two young men and, along with their master, drank deeply. Alyson turned away, a sour look upon her face. She didn’t drink, but I did. I was parched. Much to my astonishment, the ale was delicious. Much nicer than what the manor’s brewer, Goody Allsop made. I said as much.
