Catherine, Called Birdy

by Karen Cushman

  The crowded city swarmed with dogs, cats, roosters, geese, pigs, horses, merchants, travelers, housewives hurrying to market, children running with their buckets to the well, serving maids emptying chamber pots, and all manner of busy, bustling creatures. Near the market square we passed a man with his head and hands held tight in stocks, being pulled through the streets in a wagon. Caught selling spoiled fish, he had some of his stinking goods hung round his neck like a necklace, and the wagon was followed by hundreds of cats, hungry and hoping. Children and even some vengeful housewives followed along, throwing sticks and mud and garbage at the wagon. One old woman threw rotten carrots and onions while another gathered them up in her apron and hurried off to make soup.

  When we reached the tooth puller the beast roared again, but the tooth is now out. His jaw is black and swollen—I thought perhaps my mother was right and evil spirits had entered, but he roars no louder and swears no more and stinks no worse, so mayhap all is well.

  The next day being Corpus Christi, we heard Mass and then followed a procession of priests and merchants into the cathedral yard to see them play the story of the Last Judgment. A two-tiered wagon held Heaven on its upper story and Earth below. At the side was the mouth of Hell, smoke and flames belching out, and the awful cries of the damned, suffering every kind of beating, roasting, and grilling. I hope to have nightmares from this for months!

  Heaven was remarkably crowded, considering how few people we are told are good enough to get there. Angels with golden skin and golden wings flew about on golden straps, playing on golden harps. One angel caught on the branches of an apple tree. The angel struggled and cursed devilish curses but finally climbed down unhurt, and the play went on, with God and the saints singing and dancing and blowing on golden horns, calling each man to answer for his deeds.

  Below on Earth, demons bristling with horned horsehair masks tried to drag sinners into the mouth of Hell, while behind their backs the Virgin Mary pulled the poor souls out of the hellfire with her own hands. Then the Devil himself appeared, hoofed, horned, and tailed, clad in a wolf skin, bedecked in bells, shaggy and awful and smelling like last weeks herring. In a deep ringing voice he called, "Foul-tempered wives, who cause men to grieve, murderers, thieves, my welcome receive!"

  If he had called for disobedient daughters, I think I would have repented my sins and cried for mercy right there in the cathedral yard!

  One clumsy devil knocked over the ladder to Heaven, smashing it to bits and stranding players up above. While someone built another, God and the angels entertained us with songs and bawdy stories. Then the new ladder went up, we all cheered, God came down waving to the audience, and the play was over.

  20TH DAY OF JUNE, Feast of Saint Alban, beheaded by a soldier whose eyes then fell out. Saint Alban is buried near here. At Saint Albans

  We returned in the midst of furious housecleaning. The courtyard and the orchard were bedecked with wet linen, hanging from ropes and walls and trees, while kettles bubbled with strong-smelling soapy water. Tonight my body will rejoice—clean linen!

  Home can never match the excitement of Lincoln, but I was happy to see my mother again. She is well and the babe she carries too, God save us all.

  21ST DAY OF JUNE, 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.

  22ND DAY OF JUNE, 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.

  23RD DAY OF JUNE, 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.

  24TH DAY OF JUNE, 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?

  25TH DAY OF JUNE, 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.

  26TH DAY OF JUNE, 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.

  27TH DAY OF JUNE, 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 coax
ing 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.

  28TH DAY OF JUNE, 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.

  30TH DAY OF JUNE, 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.

  July

  1ST DAY OF JULY, 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.

  2ND DAY OF JULY, 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.

  4TH DAY OF JULY, 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.

  5TH DAY OF JULY, 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.

  6TH DAY OF JULY, 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.

  7TH DAY OF JULY, 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.

  8TH DAY OF JULY, 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.

  Meg offered me some of the parsnip and mutton but all sorts of sad and happy feelings were stuck in my throat like a lump and I knew I couldn't swallow. So I went home alone to the hall.

  10TH DAY OF JULY, Feast of the Seven Brothers of Rome, martyred with the encouragement of their mother, Saint Felicity, who was also martyred

  I am overhot and as limp as dirty linen. This heat promises a good harvest but sore distresses my mother. I sit each day with her, embroidering tiny clothes for the coming babe and telling stories to take her mind from her body. I fear for her.

  12TH DAY OF JULY, Feast of Saint Veronica, who wiped the face of the suffering Jesus with her veil, where His image remains to this day

  It is too hot to write. Too hot even for the cats to chase mice.

  13TH DAY OF JULY, Feast of Saint Mildred, who became a nun to escape the attentions of an unwelcome suitor. There must be a better way

  In this heat my mother suffers much from swelling of her legs, which means the baby likely will be a girl. I applied a paste of bean meal, flour, vinegar, and oil, but the dogs kept trying to eat it. So I washed her off and have been rubbing her legs with sweet-smelling oils and singing her sweet songs and it seems to help.