First she told of an old man named Abraham who actually argued with God and had great adventures in the desert. Then Moses, who I recognized from the Bible but forgot was a Jew. The woman said Moses led the Jews from a land of slavery to freedom, just as they were going to find freedom in Flanders, riding in tall ships with billowing sails, pushed on by the breath of God.
Then she told a story about this man who was so stupid that he forgot how to get dressed in the morning. Where was his shirt? Did it go on his legs or his arms? And how did it fasten? Such trouble it was every morning. Finally he decided to hire the boy next door to come in each day and tell him, "Your shoes are there and your cloak is here and your hat goes on your head." The first day the boy comes in. "First," he says to the stupid man, "wash yourself." "That's all very well," says the stupid man, "but where is myself? Where in the world am I? Am I here? Am I here? Or am I here?" And he looked under the bed and behind the chair and in the street, but it was all in vain for he never did find himself.
As she spoke, the children stopped their snuffling and chanted with her, "Am I here? Or am I here?" And then shyly they began to shove each other and giggle, wiping their runny noses on their sleeves and skirts.
"Listen to me, my children," said the old woman then, "do not be like the stupid man. Know where you yourself are. How? By knowing who you are and where you come from. Just as a river by night shines with the reflected light of the moon, so too do you shine with the light of your family, your people, and your God. So you are never far from home, never alone, wherever you go."
It was a wonder. She was like a minstrel, or a magician spinning stories from her wrinkled mouth. And then she pulled from the sleeves of her gown bread and onions and herring and boiled cabbage and they ate. One tiny little girl with soft eyes brought me an onion and some bread. Mayhap I wasn't hidden as well as I thought. It smelled like our food and I was hungry from hearing of the adventures of Moses, so I ate it. I did not die nor turn into a Jew. I think some stories are true and some stories are just stories.
4TH DAY OF OCTOBER
I was unhappy to see the Jews leave this morning until I got it in my mind to travel with them and have an experience, mayhap even find my own way in the world and never return to old Spinning and Sewing Manor. I wore an old tunic and leggings of Edward's, stuffed my hair into a cap, swaggered and spit, and looked much like a boy, except that I was curiously flat between the legs. I had thought to stuff the leggings with straw but feared that would make it hard to walk, so I went as I was. I could hear my nurse Morwenna calling for me as we left, but she never thought to look at the boy in the wool cap.
I walked with them all the way to Wooton-under-Wynwoode, hoping to hear more stories, but the old woman was silent. Instead I told her about my life and the boredom of sewing and brewing and doctoring and how I would rather go crusading like Uncle George or live with the goats like Perkin. Then, stroking my face with her rough hands, she said, "Little Bird, in the world to come, you will not be asked 'Why were you not George?' or 'Why were you not Perkin?' but 'Why were you not Catherine?'"
What did that mean? She said no more, so finally, confused and more than a little sad, I left them for the Wooton harvest fair. It was not much of a fair, but they did have a ribbon seller, an ale tent, a stilt-walker, and a two-headed goat.
I had never been so far from home without Morwenna. It felt like a bit of an adventure. I examined a wagon with copper-banded barrels, knives, ropes, and needles for sale. I watched two men argue over the value of a cow who just looked tired and puzzled and ready to go home. I saw three small boys stealing mouthfuls of ale from a keg behind the ale tent, laughing and spluttering and pretending to be drunk.
Down behind the horse auction was a small stage where a little wooden Noah and his wife danced on strings, while God ordered Noah to build an ark and Mrs. Noah, pulling angrily at her husband's coat, scolded him about finishing his chores and not expecting her to get on that flimsy boat.
Finally Noah wrestled his wife, grown quite peevish, to the ground amid shouts of "Cry mercy, I say!" and "Never! I say nay!" until finally they lay in a heap of tangled strings.
Then came the grand procession of the animals—two by two—on a painted scroll, unwound by the puppeteer and his apprentice so the animals looked to be crossing the stage, full alive and lively, as Noah called,
Lions come in, and leopards, and dogs,
Barnyard creatures, goats and hogs,
Chickens, turkeys, all feathered fowl,
Hairy beasts that bark and that howl!
When the ark was loaded, it rode out a silver gilt rain on a sea of blue-green satin until the dove descended on golden strings to promise land and life to all. It was a glorious spectacle, even though I could see the puppeteer's apprentice throughout, pulling strings and banging pots and wiping his nose on the curtain.
It was then that William Steward, at the fair to purchase barrels, saw me and threatened to pull me by my hair all the way home. Being right hungry, I went with him most willingly, in exchange for his promise to say nothing about my adventure. On our way out, we passed baskets of cocks for the cockfight. Looking as innocent as I was able, I kicked the baskets over and the cocks escaped. Deus! I thought I was Moses leading them to freedom and home to their wives and baby chicks. Instead, they flew at each other with their terrible sharpened claws, shrieking and slashing in a storm of feathers.
I had had enough of that fair and was ready to go home. I told my mother and Morwenna that I'd spent the day sulking in the dovecote. They believed me. It is something I would do.
5TH DAY OF OCTOBER
The cook's boy told me today of a miller's apprentice in Nottingham who can fart at will. That, I think, is a useful and notable talent, to the Devil with spinning. I purposely ate too much dinner and tried to see if I had the talent. I don't.
6TH DAY OF OCTOBER
This being Saint Faith's day, Morwenna and I chased the cook out of the kitchen so that we could bake a Saint Faith's cake. I passed pieces of it through my mother's ruby ring and have hung the ring from my bedstead. Tonight Saint Faith will send a dream of who my husband will be. I should be pleased if he is a prince or a knight with golden hair. Or a juggler in ruby silk tunic and purple tights. Or a wandering minstrel with music in his throat and mischief in his eye.
7TH DAY OF OCTOBER
Dreamed of the miller's farting apprentice. This morning I stomped the cake into the rushes on the floor and threw the ring into the pig yard. I will never marry.
8TH DAY OF OCTOBER
Searched the pig yard for my mother's ring until dark. Have definitely decided not to be a pig boy.
9TH DAY OF OCTOBER
I am well pleased with the events of today and have celebrated with a handful of blackberries and the rest of the pork pie from supper. As I eat, I will recount the day so as to relive the pleasure. This morning, from the window of the solar, I could hear the villagers singing and shouting as they went about building a cottage for Ralph Littlemouse, who lost his in the Michaelmas celebrations. Poor me, I thought. Trapped inside again. Missing all the merriment. But then my mother, who was looking a little green in her face, curled up on her great bed and pulled the curtains close about her. And Morwenna went to the kitchen to argue with the cook about dinner. So down the stairs I went, skidding through the hall and across the yard, down the road to the village, tucking up my skirts and pulling off my shoes as I ran.
Already this early they had the framework of the cottage up, and Joan Proud, Marjorie Mustard, and Ralph's children were weaving willow sticks through to make the walls.
Nearby, in a hollow in the ground, my favorite part of building was beginning and I jumped right in, mucking about to mix the puddle of mud, straw, cow hair, and dung into daub for covering the walls. The slop felt delightful, squishing through my toes. The sun was shining, breezes blowing, the blackberries were ripe, people were singing "Hey nonny nonny" and "There was a maiden good and fair," and I
had muck between my toes. Oh, to be a villager.
Then I had my first good idea. I scooped up a handful of muck and flung it in the air, watching it land plop and sloop on the faces, arms, and shoulders of my fellow muckers. Handfuls of the gray and stinking stuff came back at me and I had to fling more and they had to fling more until we all looked like plaster saints and not like people at all.
Suddenly everything stopped—no singing, no flinging, no weaving of willows. All eyes were on a young man standing in the road, holding the bridle of the most beautiful horse I've ever seen. The young man was beautiful, too, with golden hair and golden eyes and a tunic of gold and green velvet. No one spoke, but as I was right curious, I walked up to him.
"Good morning, sir. Can I assist you?" I asked, very nicely for me.
He stared at me long without speaking, while his forehead furrowed and his mouth grew small as a mouse's turd. Finally he replied, "My God, the stink! Is there no water for washing or scent for covering up in this village?"
I said nothing. I didn't think he really wanted an answer.
He went on, "Is that ahead the manor of Rollo of Stonebridge?"
"What do you want with the lord Rollo?" I asked.
"It be none of your business, maid, but I am inspecting the family with an eye to marrying the daughter Catherine," he replied, taking a piece of scent-drenched linen from his sleeve and holding it to his nose.
Corpus bones, I thought. To be wedded to this perfumed prig with his mouth in a knot and a frown always on his face! That is when I had my next very good idea.
"The lady Catherine," I repeated, trying to sound like a villager. "Oh, good fortune to ye, good sir. Ye sorely will need it."
"I will? Is aught amiss with the lady?"
"No, sir. Oh, no. She is a goodly lady, given that her wits are lacking and her back stooped. Mostly she is gentle and quiet, when she is not locked up. And the pits on her face are much better now. Truly. Please, sir, never say I suggested the lady Catherine was lacking. Please, sir."
I made then to grab his arm but he twisted away, leapt onto the back of the beautiful horse, and was off on the road toward the manor. Bones! I thought. He is still going on! But as I watched, the beautiful horse with the beautiful young man left the road, made a wide turn in the field, trampling the carefully seeded furrows of Walter Mustard, and tore off away from the manor, away from my father, and, thanks be, away from me.
All during supper my father watched the door, finally pondering aloud about the whereabouts of someone named Rolf which I of course did not know. So this is why I am pleased with today, and pork pie seems not great enough celebration for what I have saved myself from.
10TH DAY OF OCTOBER
Just three days to the feast of Saint Edward, my brother Edwards saint's day. When Edward was still at home, we celebrated this day each year with feasting and dancing and mock battles in the yard. Now our celebrations include my father's face turning purple, my mother tightening her eyes and her mouth, and the cook swinging his ladle and swearing in Saxon. The cause of all the excitement is this: On this day each year, since Edward went to be a monk, my mother takes wagons full of gifts to his abbey in his honor. My father shouts that we may as well pour his precious stores in the cesspit (one day his angry liver will set him afire and I will toast bread on him). My mother calls him Pinch-Fist and Miser. The cook boils and snarls as his bacon and flour and Rhenish wine leave home. But each year my mother stands firm and the wagons go. This year we send:
460 salted white herring
3 wheels of cheese, a barrel of apples
4 chickens, 3 ducks, and 87 pigeons
4 barrels of flour, honey from our bees
100 gallons of ale (for no one drinks more ale than monks, my father says)
4 iron pots, wooden spoons, and a rat trap for the kitchen goose fat for the making of everyday candles and soap (lots of candles and little soap, I wager, seeing that they are monks)
40 pounds of beeswax for candles for the church
a chest of blankets, linens, and napkins
horn combs, for those who have hair
goose quills, down, and a bolt of woven cloth (black)
My mother longs to see Edward on this day each year. He is her favorite child. No small wonder. Robert is abominable and I puzzle that she had any more children after bearing him first. I would have exposed him by the river. Thomas has been gone so long with the king that we hardly know him. I am stubborn, peevish, and as prickly as a thistle. So by default alone Edward would be her favorite. And mine.
11TH DAY OF OCTOBER
Last night my mother lost the child she carried, the fifth I have seen die without ever having a chance to live. If God intends for me to be her last, I wish He would stop quickening her and then taking the baby away. She mourns so. I do not believe God means to punish my mother, who may not be learned or clever but is mostly good. I think He is just not paying enough attention.
White-faced, she lies in her big bed in the solar while Morwenna gives her goblets of garlic and mint and vinegar to cleanse her womb, and soothes her with "Oh my poor lady"s and clucking sounds. I must go with the wagons in her place and see Edward tomorrow—more learning to be the lady of the manor. Deus! The road is rough, the weather hot, the monks old and smelly. We leave after breakfast and hope to be well on the way before the sun finds us.
12TH DAY OF OCTOBER
No more sewing and spinning and goose fat for me! Today my life is changed. How it came about is this: We arrived at the abbey soon after dinner, stopping just outside the entry gate at the guesthouse next the mill. The jouncing cart did my stomach no kindness after jellied eel and potted lamb, so I was most relieved to alight.
A tall monk with a big nose greeted us and led us from the guesthouse through the abbey gate, past kitchens and dormitories and vast storehouses, to the abbot's office behind the chapel.
The abbot received us kindly and sent to my mother gentle words and a marvelous small book of saints, their feast days, and their great works. Today, it says, is the feast of Saint Edwin, the first Christian king of Northumbria, whose head lies at York and body in the abbey at Whitby. I think there are too many words and not enough pictures, but since I read and my mother does not, I will try to seduce it from her.
Brother Anselm, the big-nosed monk, then escorted me to Edward's desk in the writing room. Women are not allowed in ordinarily, but I believe they think me not quite a woman yet.
Edward works in Paradise. Beyond the garden, near the el, is a room as large as our barn and near as cold. Shelves lining the walls hold books and scrolls, some chained down as if they were precious relics or wild beasts. In three rows sit fifteen desks, feebly lit by candles, and fifteen monks sit curled over them, their noses pressed almost to the desktops. Each monk holds in one hand his pen and in the other a sharp knife for scratching out mistakes. On the desks are pens and quills of all sizes, pots of ink black or colored, powder for drying, and knives for sharpening.
Some of the monks copy the words from one page to another. Others add fanciful designs to the first letter and decoration to the page. Still others punch holes in the pages and sew them together between wooden covers. Never have I seen books so beautiful or so plentiful.
The monks didn't talk to me much or even listen to me much, but they didn't send me away. I visited Brother William who was mixing colors and gave him some good ideas for inks—a rose the color of a newborn lamb's nose and the iridescent green you sometimes see in the film inside a fresh raw egg. He said nothing, only snorted, but I am sure he was grateful for these suggestions.
Another monk let me help prepare the vellum for the next day's writing, but I knew the skins came from our sheep and I was afraid I would recognize one. I have the same feeling when the cook stuffs swans and geese and lambs whole and sets them before us at special feasts. I preferred smoothing and powdering the vellum pages after they looked less like animals, even though the powder got into my hair and my nose a
nd my clothes.
Edward's passion is for the letters and the words, which he inscribes lovingly on the softened vellum. But for me—oh, the pictures! The birds and the flowers, the saints and angels rushing up the side of the page, climbing over the capitals and down the margin, the knights riding snails into battle against squirrels and goats, the many faces of the Devil as he scampers over the page, tempting the reader away from the holy words. To spend the rest of my life making pictures instead of mending and weaving would be Heaven indeed!
That is when my life changed. I decided to run away to an abbey. This is how I will live, making pictures in the scriptorium, although I wish the place were livelier. I know it will be difficult, given that I am a girl, but I am also stubborn and clever. The abbey cannot be this one, as much as I would love to be near Edward, for they know me here and know I am no boy. I must find another, close enough for visits from Perkin, with a writing room and mayhap an aged abbot who doesn't see too well.
Do brothers see each other naked? Who would know if a new brother were a maid and no brother at all? I must find out. Would Edward tell me? Tomorrow when I take my leave of him, I will ask.
Tonight we sleep at the guesthouse. It is near enough to the abbey so I can practice being a monk. I wonder what monks do.
13TH DAY OF OCTOBER, Feast of Edward, king and saint, and my brother Edward's saint's day
Catherine, Called Birdy Page 2
