Catherine, Called Birdy (2 page)

Perkin the goat boy holds no land either, but pays a goat each year as rent for his grandmother's cottage. For weeks before Michaelmas, Perkin tells everyone in the village, "I will pay him any goat, but not the black one" or "not the gray one." William Steward of course hears and tells my father, and come rent day my father insists on the black one or the gray one that Perkin did not wish to part with. My father gloats and thinks he is getting the best of Perkin, but Perkin always winks at me as he leaves. And each year the goat my father demands is the weakest or the meanest or the one that eats the laundry off the line or the rushes off the floor. Perkin is the cleverest person I know.

30
TH DAY OF
S
EPTEMBER

Morwenna says when I have done with writing, I must help with the soap-making. The bubbling mess stinks worse than the privy in summer. Therefore I plan to write abundantly.

First, I will say more about Perkin. Although he is the goat boy, Perkin is my good friend and heart's brother. He is very thin and goodly-looking, with golden hair and blue eyes just like the king, but is much dirtier than the king although much cleaner than the other villagers. He is sore afflicted with wind in his bowels, so I regularly make him a tonic of cumin seed and anise to unbind his liver and destroy the wind. It mostly does not work.

One of his legs is considerably shorter than the other, so as
he walks he seems to be dancing some graceless dance, with his head bobbing and arms swinging about to keep his balance. Once I tied a bucket on my foot so I could walk like Perkin and we could dance together, but my arms and legs quickly grew tired. Perkin must be tired all the time, but it doesn't make him ill-tempered.

He lives with the goats or his granny, depending on the season, and is mostly wise and kind when he isn't teasing me. It is Perkin who taught me to name the birds, to know the weather from the sky, to spit between my front teeth, to cheat at draughts and not get caught, all the most important things I know, the Devil take sewing and spinning.

I am frequently told not to spend so much time with the goat boy, so of course I seek him out whenever I can. Once I came upon him in the field, chewing on a grass, saying some words over and over to himself.

"What spell are you casting, witch-boy?" I asked.

"No spell," said he, "but the Norman and Latin words for apple, which I lately heard and am saying over and over so I do not forget."

Perkin likes things like that. He would like to be learned. When he discovers new words, he uses them all together: "This apple
/ pomme / malus
is not ripe" or "Sometimes goats /
chevres / capri
are smarter than people." Some people have trouble understanding Perkin, but I know always what is in his heart.

My hand grows tired and I am out of ink and Morwenna is sending me black looks. I fear it is the soap-making for me. Am I doomed to spend my days stirring great vats of goose fat when not writing for Edward?

I wonder why rubbing your face and hands with black and sandy evil-smelling soap makes them clean. Why doesn't it just make them black and sandy? There is no more to say.

1
ST DAY OF
O
CTOBER

My father's clerk suffers today from an inflammation of his eyes, caused, no doubt, by his spying on our serving maids as they wash under their arms at the millpond. I did not have the mother's milk necessary for an ointment for the eyes, so I used garlic and goose fat left from doctoring Morwenna's boils yesterweek. No matter how he bellowed, it will do him no harm.

I can stand no more of lady-tasks, endless mindless sewing, hemming, brewing, doctoring, and counting linen! Why is a lady too gentle to climb a tree or throw stones into the river when it is lady's work to pick maggots from the salt meat? Why must I learn to walk with a lady's tiny steps one day and sweat over great steaming kettles of dung and nettle for remedies the next? Why must the lady of the manor do all the least lovable tasks? I'd rather be the pig boy.

3
RD DAY OF
O
CTOBER

There are Jews in our hall tonight! On their way to London, they sought shelter from the rain. My father being away, my mother let them in. She is not afraid of Jews, but the cook and
the kitchen boys have all fled to the barn, so no one will have supper tonight. I plan to hide in the shadows of the hall in order to see their horns and tails. Wait until Perkin hears of this.

T
HE HOUR OF VESPERS, LATER THIS DAY:
Bones! The Jews have no horns and no tails, just wet clothes and ragged children. They are leaving England by order of the king, who says Jews are Hell-born, wicked, and dangerous. He must know some others than the scared and scrawny ones who are here this night.

I hid in the hall to watch them, hoping to see them talk to the Devil or perform evil deeds. But the men just drank and sang and argued and waved their arms about while the women chattered among themselves. Much like Christians. The children mostly snuffled and whined until one woman with a face like a withered apple gathered them about her. At first she spoke to them in the Jews' tongue, which sounds much like horses talking, but then with a wink in my direction she changed to English.

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.

4
TH DAY OF
O
CTOBER

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.

5
TH DAY OF
O
CTOBER

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.

6
TH DAY OF
O
CTOBER

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.

7
TH DAY OF
O
CTOBER

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.

8
TH DAY OF
O
CTOBER

Searched the pig yard for my mother's ring until dark. Have definitely decided not to be a pig boy.

9
TH DAY OF
O
CTOBER

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.