Catherine, Called Birdy (18 page)

22
ND DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Alexander of Alexandria, who died a martyr after suffering numerous agonies from scrapers and whips

It is Bartlemas Fair, easily the busiest and merriest days of the summer. After days of preparation, we left the manor gay and giddy and ready for play. And today we are here.

Before I left her, my mother gave me ten pence for spending. I bought her a string of jet beads—3 pennies, a wooden whistle for Perkin—2 pennies, a bone rattle for the coming babe—I penny, and four skins of parchment for my herbal—4 pennies. In one morning, all my money gone.

Still, I have yet to eat my fill of pork and pastries, cheer the fastest horses and the fleetest runners, wonder at the tumblers and magicians, laugh at the puppets and giants, and clap for every dancer and minstrel at the fair.

We are at an inn tonight in a room with seven people and seven thousand fleas.

23
RD DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Tydfil, killed by Saxons

I used to think the saddest sight in the world was an eagle I once saw in a baron's hall, wings clipped, chained to a perch from which it kept falling, flapping piteously until someone righted it again. But there is worse. Here at the fair is a dancing bear, moth-eaten and scrawny, anxious only to be taken home and fed and not prodded and pinched to do silly tricks for fairgoers.

The performance I saw was so clumsy and sad and brought the bear's owner so little profit that he announced a bearbaiting, planning to set a pack of dogs against the poor bear and see who cries and bleeds and dies first, all for the amusement of those wagering money on the outcome. How can we think ourselves made in the likeness of God when we act worse than beasts?

While Morwenna was pondering over willow bowls and iron pots, I argued with the bear's owner, trying to make him see the wrong in sacrificing a bear whose only crime is not wanting to dance for strangers. Finally he said, grinning, he would sell me the bear and I could do what I wished with it. There is the pouch of silver from Shaggy Beard, but if I use it to save the bear, I am chained to
both
beasts. Spending the silver will mean my consent. It will be a promise to God. I can be sly and crafty and false with my father and my suitors, but I fear to fool with God. What can I do?

24
TH DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Bartholomew, apostle, skinned alive. Patron of butchers, skinners, tanners, leatherworkers, and bookbinders

Corpus bones! I have talked to every rich or poor, young or old, fat or scrawny merchant at the fair, trying to persuade them that a dancing bear would improve their business, increase their earnings, and bring them great renown. They laughed at me, pushed me, pinched me, tickled me, tried to kiss and fondle and even tumble me, but no one listened to me. No one wants the bear, but I can not abandon him to the cruelty of men and dogs. The bearbaiting is set for tomorrow. What am I to do?

25
TH DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Ebbe, an abbess who allowed her nuns to spend their time weaving fine clothes, adorning themselves like brides, and neglecting vigils and prayers. Would I could find a nunnery like that

I have done it. I have promised the silver toothpick and half my pouch of silver in trade for the bear. I know that by accepting his gifts, I have accepted the giver, and I am Shaggy Beard's. For the sake of the bear, I am resigned. Deus help me, but what else could I do?

The owner has agreed to keep him for seven days while I fetch the silver from home and think on what to do with a bear. I would choose to let him live free in the woods and fields, but I know no village that would take kindly to a bear roaming its woods. Mayhap I can convince my father to keep him. He is gentle and good (the bear, not my father) and will hurt no one. He can sleep in the cow barn and I will share my food with him.

26
TH DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Ninian, apostle to the blue-painted Picts

We are home again. It dispirits me to think with what high
hopes I went to the fair and how I have come home bound to marry a stranger with a scraggy beard and meat caught between his teeth. I am dispirited, downcast, and dejected.

I have asked everyone here to help me fetch and keep the bear. My father refused to talk about it. My mother turned pale. Morwenna humphed and scolded. Perkin sighed and looked the other way. I am surrounded by unfeeling dolts and idiots. Then the largest dolt and idiot of all joined in. Robert came home. He teased me, saying mayhap I could marry the bear since I seem to like them big and hairy and stupid.

The harvest is finished. The villagers brought in the last sheaf with their usual merriment and the whole village joined us for a harvest supper in the hall. I had no appetite. Instead I sulked and wept, slapped Morwenna and was slapped right back, kicked my father in the leg and Peppercorn in her tail, and was sent from the hall in disgrace. My mother came later to my chamber and tried to talk gently to me about dignity and duty and obedience. She said I put her in mind of a beast in a cage, hurling and pounding its poor body against bars that will not give. I listened meekly, but my whole self shudders at the thought of belonging to the despicable Shaggy Beard.

Thinking on it, I feel much like this bear. We can neither of us live alone and free and survive in this world, but we might wish for a cage less painful and confining. Deus help us both.

27
TH DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Decuman, a Welsh monk beheaded while at prayer

William Steward told me of an abbey west of here whose abbess keeps a menagerie—lions and wolves and eagles. Would that she might take my bear! I begged William to ride to her, but he cannot leave the manor. Nor Perkin nor Sym. My father will not. Thomas and Edward are away. Robert rode off this
evening looking for mischief. I have only five days in which to solve this.

28
TH DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Augustine of Hippo, who was a rake and a drunkard before he was touched by God and became a saint and a writer of boring holy books

No one will help me. I argued again with my father. I said I would wed Shaggy Beard if he would keep the bear. He said I would wed Shaggy Beard and to Hell with the bear! I stamped my feet, he cracked me, I said I was going to the abbey, he locked me in my chamber. God's thumbs. Our every meeting ends the same way.

30
TH DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Fiacre, a hermit who bated women but loved plants

I am still locked away, still helpless. What will happen to the bear?

31
ST DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saints Quenburga and Cuthburga, sisters and nuns

My mother has been here. She said: "He whom you call abominable rode all night to the abbey by the sea. He charmed the abbess into taking your bear. They sent a wagon and two men to the fair to trade your silver for the beast. In thanks, Robert also gave the abbess silver—his own. You are to stay in your chamber and think on this."

So the bear is safe! Thanks to Robert. Robert? This is not the brother I know. I am confounded.

1
ST DAY OF
S
EPTEMBER
,
Feast of Saint Giles, patron of cripples, lepers, nursing mothers, and blacksmiths

More lady-lessons. I let my mother instruct me but once I leave her I plan to do as I please. The pig who wishes to wed me liked me well enough when I did not walk with my eyes cast down and hands clasped. God's thumbs! If he doesn't like me to grab up my skirts and run, he can send me back. Oh that he would!

T
HE HOUR OF VESPERS, LATER THIS DAY:
I once had a nightmare that I was lost in the woods in the fog and I could not find my way out and I could hear a boar rutting in the bushes, coming closer and closer. When I woke, I found it was no dream but true and I was lost in the woods. This day is like that. I have been walking in a bad dream since Robert's wedding when the pig first laid his eyes on me, and now I wake to find it is true.

A messenger arrived this noon. Shaggy Beard will be here before September is over. We will be formally betrothed and will ride north together to be married in the church at Lithgow. I accepted his silver. I consented. The bear is safe and I am doomed.

2
ND DAY OF
S
EPTEMBER
,
Feast of Saint Stephen of Hungary, a king who commanded ail his subjects to marry

My father rode to London yesterday but will not be gone long, wanting to be back before the baby is born. My mother is so thin and frail to heave her heavy load around. If it would not make her sad, I would wish this baby away.

4
TH DAY OF
S
EPTEMBER
,
Feast of Saint Ultan, who founded a school, educated and fed poor students, illuminated manuscripts, and wrote a life of Saint Brigid

My mother has labored for two days to birth her child but it will not come. Morwenna is with her now. She sent me to rest but rest I cannot while my mother suffers so.

Her torment began Sunday morn when all were in church except my sleeping mother and me left to tend her. Suddenly her pains began. I comforted her as best I could and then ran for someone to send to old Nan from the village. Nan drinks and stinks and stumbles but her babies mostly live.

Everyone was still at Mass, except for Odd William snoring by the fire like a pig in the sun. I woke him roughly and told him how to find Nan. He refused to go, saying he was just writing of how the great King Arthur led the Britons against the barbarian invaders and was not at a stopping place. Corpus bones! I slapped him so hard I spilled his ink but still he sat by the fire talking of the dead Arthur while my living mother labored upstairs. The knotty-pated, clay-brained clodpole!

I went back to my mother and sang and bathed her face until Mass was over and the manor came alive again and old Nan could be fetched.

My mother labored all day and night and day and night again with no result, but this morning we could see the top of
a tiny head. Nan, fearing for the child's life, baptized it while the rest of it stays stuck in my mother. Although I made her a drink of wallflowers in warm wine and untied all the knots and unstopped all the jugs in the manor, no more of the child has come forth yet and I am terribly afraid. Dear Saint Margaret, who watches over women in childbirth, help my mother. She is gentle and good and does the best that she can with the beast my father and her difficult children.

5
TH DAY OF
S
EPTEMBER
,
Feast of Saint Benin, French abbot and farmer

Our baby was born last evening, a dear beautiful scrawny little girl. I cleaned the spittle from her mouth and the blood from her body, wrapped her in clean linen, and laid her next my mother, who wept from joy and exhaustion.

Since then my mother suffers greatly with a fever. I rubbed her back with an ointment of wild poppy and oil of violets and gave her some in a goblet of honeyed wine. She rests now.

The baby sleeps in a cradle near my bed and I pretend she is mine. I have hung garlic and rowan about the cradle to ward off witches and am watching her closely to make sure she breathes. She does. She lives.

6
TH DAY OF
S
EPTEMBER
,
I don't know whose day this is

My mother's fever is worse. O dear Saint Margaret, who cares for women in childbed, dear Blessed Virgin, most especially dear God, please save my mother! Nan has gone back to the village, saying there is nothing more she could do, but I will not stop trying. Morwenna and I bathe her face with cool linen and pour goblets of wine down her parched throat. We have stopped all the windows and built up the fire but still her fever rages.

7
TH DAY OF
S
EPTEMBER

I do not know how she can be so hot and not consume herself and the bed linen and the whole manor in flames. I have not slept nor Morwenna since the baby was born. Bess from the kitchen has taken her and feeds her with the same milk and the same love she feeds her own babe. Dear God, I can do no more for either of them. Morwenna will not let me back in my mother's chamber until I rest and eat, so I am pretending to do so while really I write this and pray.

8
TH DAY OF
S
EPTEMBER
,
Birth of the Virgin Mary

My mother worsened and we sent for Father Huw to ease her dying. And then my father came home.

He threw Father Huw down the stairs, opened the window in the solar, cast all of us out, and stayed there with her pacing and whispering and shouting until dark. He came out then, face gray but eyes shining, to say she lives. And will live. I thank you, God, and the Virgin Mary, whose birthday this is, and my father, the most unlikely agent of a miracle that I know. I think he just battled the devil and won.

9
TH DAY OF
S
EPTEMBER
,
Feast of Saint Ciaran of Clonmacnoise, an Irish abbot who used a fox to carry his papers until it ate them

She still lives. And the baby also. My mother demanded that the cradle be moved back into her chamber, so I have made a bed on the floor near them. I must keep them safe. We will call the baby Eleanor Mary Catherine.

10
TH DAY OF
S
EPTEMBER
,
Feast of Saint Frithestan, bishop of Winchester

Now that I am about to leave, I feel how dear this place is to me. I sat in the field next the village this morning, trying to
memorize the sounds—the squeal of cart wheels and the bawling of babies, the shouts of children and peddlers and cross old women, the hissing of the geese and the roosters' crow. The dogs were barking, the water wheel splashed, and the smith's hammer rang like a church bell. I took it all into my heart so I can play it like music whenever I need to.