by Karen Brooks
She rose unsteadily, fell back down before trying again; until she stood straight. She studied the state of her clothes, lifted the heavy strands of hair from her shoulders, then regarded me and laughed harder.
Her laughter was so bubbly, something I never thought to hear, that I began to giggle. She staggered towards me, doubled over with mirth, and threw an arm about my shoulders, whether to keep herself upright or drag me into the dirt again, I wasn’t sure. But when she simply continued to laugh uproariously, tears pouring down her cheeks, I joined her.
How long we stood there, I’m uncertain. By the time we’d drained the merriment from our bodies, things had altered between us.
‘You, step-mamma,’ she said, hiccoughing, ‘stink.’
‘So do you, my child.’
For some reason we found this hilarious and began laughing again.
Hours later, after we’d taken the dogs to the brook and washed them, stripped off every last stitch of clothing and scrubbed it and the worst from ourselves, we returned stark naked to the house. There, we boiled water, filled a tub and cast handfuls of herbs and petals into it. Then, we helped each other wash the last of the stench from our bodies, paying careful attention to our nails, ears, between our toes, passing the soap to and fro, pointing out where we’d missed. We even washed and brushed each other’s hair.
The water only needed changing three times, but by the time we’d finished, we were cleaner than a churched mother.
Sitting in front of the hearth, we shared an ale and studied each other anew. Apart from her cut and swollen lip where I’d punched her, and the lump on her forehead which matched the one on mine, Alyson’s face wasn’t the least bit ratty or toady. On the contrary it was a very nice face with plump cheeks, large eyes and even creamy teeth set in a generous mouth above a small chin. Her skin was also very white and, like mine, had a smattering of freckles, something all the dirt had hidden. Her hair was the most glorious shade of auburn, like the leaves as they turned in autumn. It was also quite long and curly. Her eyes, a dark shade of blue, were intelligent and warmer than I would have ever thought from the glacial stares she’d given me.
‘You pack a mean punch for a mother,’ she said.
‘You pack a mean one for a daughter,’ I replied.
We giggled. This had been going on all afternoon.
‘You look better smeared in shit than no mother I’ve ever seen,’ she said.
‘You make eating shit look tastier than any daughter I’ve ever known.’
That started us off again and it was how Master Bigod and the men found us a short time later.
‘What’s going on here?’ asked Master Bigod, coming into the house and staring, Theo and Beton right behind him. Hereward and Wake bounded over, almost tripping him up as he joined us. ‘What’s so funny? How come the dogs look so … clean? How come you both …’ He paused and took in the swollen lips, the scratches, the rather prominent lump on Alyson’s forehead. He thought better than to pass comment. ‘… Do as well? Are we expecting the King?’
‘Nay, Papa,’ smiled Alyson. Sweet Jesu, she was a girl transformed. I prayed with all my might this alteration might be a lasting one, not a fleeting thing born of our furious, revolting tussle. I prayed the cleansing we’d undertaken together was of more than just our bodies. As if reading my thoughts, Alyson met my eyes and nodded, her smile widening. ‘We – Eleanor and I – just decided that since we were cleaning the house, it was time to look to our persons as well.’
Clever girl. The fight was to be our secret.
‘Why, the resemblance between you both is quite striking,’ added Master Bigod, looking from one of us to the other. ‘You could be sisters.’
I stared at Alyson in bewilderment, as she did me. Strange to think only a few hours ago, I would have been appalled by such a comparison. Not any longer. We shared a long, slow smile.
Before any more could be said about that, and not one to miss an opportunity, I stood. ‘We thought you, Beton and Theo might also like to partake of washing. Look, husband, the water is still there and we have more warming on the fire.’ I pointed to the brimming tub, the water not too grey as it had been changed before we’d finished with it.
Hands in the air, Master Bigod began to back away. ‘I don’t need a bath. I had one afore Yuletide and not due another for a few months yet.’
Theo and Beton began to skulk towards the door.
Damn. So much for thinking that upon seeing and smelling us, the men would be keen.
‘Papa,’ said Alyson, raising a warning finger, before, quick as a flash, she bolted to the first door and closed it. Then, she raced to the second. ‘None of you –’ she pointed to the men one by one, ‘are leaving this house until you’ve bathed. Properly. That means taking off all your clothes and getting in that tub. Now, who’s first?’
There were furious objections and any number of excuses as we helped the men remove their clothes, me modestly averting my gaze when they took off their shifts and braes. (I confess, I did peep when Master Bigod undid the cord on his and stepped out of them. He may have been a humble farmer but there was nothing humble about his plough, if you get my meaning.)
Together, Alyson and I boiled more water, helped the men wash their hair and backs and scurried to and fro fetching clean shifts, breeches, shirts and hose. Master Bigod complained that the only other set he had was his Sunday best, but as Alyson pointed out, what did that matter when he so rarely went to church anyhow. I silently vowed that I would weave enough cloth to make all the men extra sets of clothes.
We sat by the hearth that night, the hounds and Claude curled about us, the other beasts snoring and snuffling, and drank, ate and told stories through the thick smoke. Beton played his pipe, Theo beat a drum. Outside, the rain fell and thunder growled in the distance, causing Hereward and Wake’s ears to twitch, but not to disturb them enough that they raised their weary heads. Nor did I as the rain lashed the roof when I went to bed, my husband, at my insistence, sleeping beside me. He didn’t touch me, but I found his presence a great comfort and, with his fresh odour in my nostrils, slept more soundly than I remembered in a long, long time.
SIX
Bigod Farm
The Year of Our Lord 1364
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of Edward III
Call it the will of God, the hand of Fate, the Wheel of Fortune turning in my favour, whatever you choose, but a few days later, while we were still basking in the goodwill produced by shit, soap and water, we had not one but two unexpected visitors.
The first was our neighbour, Master Turbet Gerrish.
I’d heard Master Gerrish’s name a great deal since I arrived. Not only had he supplied my husband with the broken loom, but his lands abutted ours. The men would oft meet to discuss sheepfolds, repairs to drystone walls, storm damage, and who was to blame when sheep or lambs were unaccounted for.
When he appeared at the house bright and early one summer morning, before the men had left for the fields, Master Bigod invited him to join us, albeit with some reluctance. His squire and another man remained outside with the horses. At the time, I put my husband’s aloofness down to his dislike of people in general, which just went to show how much more I’d yet to learn about him.
Master Gerrish reminded me of the gentry and bishops who occasionally graced Noke Manor. It wasn’t just his practised manners, but his fine clothing as well. It looked so out of place at Bigod Farm. Despite the efforts we’d made, before Master Gerrish with his fancy embroidered paltock, parti-coloured hose and leather boots, we looked like peasants. Back then, I didn’t understand this was how we were meant to feel.
Gorgeously attired for a freeman, Master Gerrish strode into the house as if he owned it. On seeing me rising from the table, he demanded an introduction and, taking his time, took my hand and kissed it, then proceeded to shower me with compliments. I was overwhelmed, and for many reasons. It was partly his scent, which hovered about him as bees do flowers
. It was exotic, wild and very, very strong. It made me want to discreetly sniff my person and sprinkle myself with rosewater (I didn’t). I was initially lost for words because it was the first time I’d met someone of his rank as a wife. I was shown a level of respect I’d only ever seen offered to Lady Clarice, the clergy, and sometimes Papa. I liked it. A lot.
Oh, alright I admit it. My head was turned. I was only twelve. It didn’t take much.
Keeping a hold of my hand, Master Gerrish examined the house appreciatively, his eyebrows arched. He waved a beringed hand in the air.
‘And I suppose you’re the … woman responsible for this wondrous transformation?’
The child in me responded.
Alyson made a noise deep in her throat.
‘Oh, not me alone,’ I said swiftly. I wouldn’t risk our new-found accord for anyone, not even for this stranger who called me a woman. ‘Alyson had already done a great deal before I arrived. Since then, we’ve been working together to make some improvements.’
‘Some? Why it’s positively … altered.’ Master Gerrish squeezed my fingers then released them. ‘You’ve done very well for yourself, haven’t you, Bigod?’ he said with an exaggerated wink at my husband, who scowled and plonked himself on the bench. ‘Found yourself a proper, obedient and very young wife. Someone you can train. I like that.’
Alyson rolled her eyes. I resisted the urge to sit on my haunches and bark.
‘And I have to say, Mistress Bigod –’ he cast another appreciative eye over me, ‘you’re not what I expected, not at all.’
Without thinking, I was about to ask what he did expect, when my husband intervened.
‘What brings you here, Gerrish?’
‘Ah, well,’ said Master Gerrish taking the proffered place on the bench, forcing Theo to slide along. He grasped the mazer of small ale Alyson passed him and drank before answering. ‘Apart from wanting to meet your lady wife, something I’ve been remiss about doing, though with good reason, as I’ve been in London. That’s why I’m here. I thought you’d like to know what’s happening in Calais now that it’s operating as the Staple port for the wool trade.’
‘I would,’ said Master Bigod. ‘But it won’t change my position, Gerrish. If we can’t resolve our problems honestly then we’re as bad as those we accuse of fleecing us.’
Master Gerrish laughed and faced me. ‘You’ve married an honest man, Mistress Bigod, for better or worse.’
I didn’t see how being honest could ever be worse, but kept my peace. Rising, my husband touched Master Gerrish’s arm and gestured to the door. ‘How about we take this conversation outside? The women don’t need to be bothered with this.’
Goddamn his patched hose. This is precisely what I did want to be bothered with. As a brogger’s daughter, I knew all about the Wool Staple, how it had been moved from Bruges, then to a number of ports and places in Britain before being established at Calais last year and thus back onto English territory. How the King made certain all the wool our country exported went through the one port, where subsidies were paid and the sacks were measured and weighed before they went onwards to international buyers. Its purpose was to prevent alien merchants from cheating English buyers or wool growers. There was an uproar when it became evident the only ones doing the cheating (or the main ones) were the twenty-six English merchants based in Calais who not only charged excessive fees – even to their own – but bought land there and demanded exorbitant rents, basically manipulating the market by forcing small producers out so those remaining profited at everyone else’s expense. Master Merriman had been furious, claiming it an outrage.
Apart from owning a large flock and leasing good pasture as well as a few acres to grow crops, I was still to learn Master Bigod’s level of involvement in the wool trade, exactly how many sheep he ran and what sort of coin he earned. If he was interested in the Staple and what was going on, then he must be exporting some wool as well.
I watched the two men talking outside. They were out of earshot, but the tone of their conversation and their facial expressions were clear. My husband was sour and angry, a contrast to Master Gerrish who was a great deal … lighter. Slightly younger than Master Bigod, he appeared to have an altogether different disposition. I said as much to Alyson.
‘Don’t be fooled by appearances,’ she said, standing beside me, arms folded. ‘His smile is like the sun on an overcast day – it shines all too briefly, giving a false impression of warmth. Come on.’ She nudged me in the ribs. ‘Let’s make a start on the barn.’
Yesterday I’d managed to persuade her we should shift the animals out of the house altogether. Enjoying her new-found freshness as well as our equanimity, Alyson had been swift to agree. I wanted to make sure we acted quickly, lest she change her mind.
Nonetheless, I looked back at the men as we went out the door. Master Gerrish waved and smiled. Master Bigod grunted. If Master Gerrish’s grin was insincere, there was no denying it came in an attractive, if somewhat over-scented package.
I don’t know when the men departed, or the boys, just that Alyson and I worked hard all morning preparing the barn. We moved the brewing equipment to one side, swept the stables and, of course, shovelled more shit, and brought in some new hay.
The bells for sext tolled faintly in the distance as we moved the hens’ nesting boxes out of the house, many of them clucking as they tottered after us, the rooster scratching at the dirt, pecking and following to see what we were about. We’d have to ask Master Bigod to repair the barn doors, but they weren’t in bad condition for something that had been neglected so long. We created an area for Pilgrim, and one for the sow and her piglets as well. The goats could be partitioned near the door and the geese we’d corral with the ducks and hens at night.
When we broke for some bread and ale, I almost fell off the bale when Alyson suggested we go to the brook to bathe and wash off the sweat and dirt of our labours – and the fleas, she added. What? Two baths in as many days. I readily agreed, the memory of Master Gerrish’s heady perfume still in my nostrils. I too would be glad to get rid of the wretched fleas and any lice that may have burrowed into our hair since the last wash.
An hour later, we were walking back to the house, and I was thinking how relieved I was that the resentment Alyson had borne me appeared to have evaporated. All it had taken was some shit. Papa would laugh. What was it he always said to me? If you’re given shit, turn it into fertiliser. Hopefully, this is exactly what I’d done.
We heard the jangle of harness and the sound of voices. Alyson stopped. ‘Don’t tell me Master Gerrish is back.’
I shielded my eyes with my hand. ‘They’re riding mules, not horses.’ Whoever it was, I was grateful they hadn’t arrived earlier when we were covered in muck and straw.
‘Well, the devil take my soul,’ I muttered as they drew closer. A favourite curse of Cook’s.
‘Can you make out who it is?’ asked Alyson, squinting.
It was The Poet. Fear prickled my spine, made my innards liquid as I wondered what brought him here. Was there to be more trouble over what happened with Layamon?
Deep down, what worried me most was that he’d come to take me away. I may have only been at Bigod Farm a short while, but already I’d grown accustomed not just to the way things were, but my new position. Here, I wasn’t a servant, but able to make decisions and have others do my bidding. To my surprise, I wasn’t ready to relinquish the little authority I had. Nor put at risk the burgeoning friendship with Alyson.
Little did I know that, though unremarkable at the time, both our visitors that day had roles to play in my future.
SEVEN
Bigod Farm
The Year of Our Lord 1364
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of Edward III
The Poet and his squire trotted up the track, heads swivelling like hawks as they took in the changes. Ambivalence warred within me. I couldn’t forget the part The Poet had played in my marriage – a man I barely knew i
nfluencing my fate.
I lifted my skirts and strode to meet them, Alyson on my heels.
The men drew their mules up outside the house.
‘God give you good day, Mistress Bigod,’ said The Poet in that mellifluous voice of his. ‘You too, Mistress Alyson.’
Wait. What? He knew Alyson.
‘And you too Master Geoffrey,’ said Alyson, dipping a curtsey.
Master Geoffrey?
‘And God’s good day to you, Master Odo,’ added Alyson, addressing the squire and grinning from ear to ear. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling. The squire touched his cap and shyly returned her smile.
‘You know this man?’ I whispered incredulously as they dismounted and led the animals to the water trough.
‘Oh, aye. That’s Odo atte Elme; we’re old friends.’
‘Not him,’ I snapped. ‘Him!’ I pointed at The Poet.
‘Master Geoffrey? Aye. Known him my whole life. He’s a cousin of some sort. Papa says he’s destined to come up in the world.’
‘Does he?’
‘Aye. So mayhap you did better than you thought marrying Papa. If a relation rises, so does the whole family.’ There was no rancour in Alyson’s tone. She bumped shoulders with me, smiling.
‘Mayhap, I did,’ I said, suddenly thoughtful. The Poet … or, as I must now think of him, Master Geoffrey, had brokered this marriage, which now turned out to be to one of his relatives; someone I was beginning to realise had been unfairly maligned. I recalled the day I was locked in my bedroom. I’d seen Lady Clarice handing The Poet a purse before sending him on his way. Was it to present his relation with the dowry she offered?
As he approached, Master Geoffrey seemed uncertain about the welcome he’d receive. He took my hand cautiously and bowed, before releasing it and placing a kiss on Alyson’s lips.
‘You’re looking very well, Mistress Alyson, and you too, Mistress Bigod.’
