Catherine, Called Birdy

by Karen Cushman

After dinner Aelis and I walked about the castle yard for a few minutes, but it was too cold, so we ducked into the kennels to see her new hounds. A stable boy not more than ten years old sleeps there to see to their needs—how thin and cold he looked. The dogs were cleaner and better fed. I gave him some cheese and bread I had concealed in my sleeve for later, for I did not relish crossing the yard in the middle of the night to steal food from the kitchens the way I do at home.

  Aelis, now that she is married, wears her hair tied up in bunches over each ear but she still gossips like the old unmarried Aelis. She wanted to talk about George but I was pricked with guilt and tried to talk about anything else. She said she sent him a message and although he never responded, she will love him until she dies. Prick. Prick.

  19TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Odran, who was Saint Patrick's chariot driver

  The night sounds in a castle are so different from home. I could barely sleep for the clanking and calling of the guards as they passed one another in the night, the laughter and shouting of the guests still drinking in the hall, and the loud, sharp sound of footsteps on stone, unmuffled by dirt and rushes.

  The castle was abustle early this day with cooking and sweeping and the mucking out of privies. A messenger had arrived to say that the king's cousin, Madame Joanna, will stop here to rest on her way from York to London. She is but two or three days away!

  Aelis and I have been hiding from all the activity so that no one will think of something for us to do. We are guessing what the great lady is like. Aelis imagines she is tall like the king, slender as a weasel, and white as whale's bone, dressed in cloth of gold and sea-green velvet, with jewels instead of keys hanging from the belt at her waist. So says Aelis.

  I think she is clever and funny and writes songs. And that she will grow to love me and not wish to be without me and will take me with her to London to the king's palace where we will dance every night until morning and have adventures and many knights will love us and even wish to die for us, but we will have none! If we wish to be puppeteers at a fair or skate on the ice or be strolling players, we will, for who could refuse the cousin of the king and her beloved friend? And I will never again have to spin or weave or comb wool or stir boiling vats of anything! And no one will be able to marry me off for silver or land. I cannot wait until she arrives, friendly and kind and beautiful as summer.

  I have brushed and smoothed my best green gown and Aelis will let me wear her lavender surcoat over it to hide the worst stains. I washed my hair and near roasted my backside at the fire trying to get it dry. My shoes are cleaned and my fingernails also. I must be at my best for this opportunity.

  20TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Wulfric of Haselbury, a hermit who doused himself frequently with cold water for penance

  All is ready but Madame Joanna has not yet arrived. Aelis and I are huddled beneath the bed covers trying to keep warm while I write. There are icicles on the walls of her chamber, on the side away from the fire. I thought great barons and their families lived in luxury, but this castle is much wetter and colder than Stonebridge Manor. The fleas are the same as at home, although the wine is better.

  Two villagers and a goat froze to death last night.

  Where is my dear Madame?

  21ST DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Peter Damian, monk, cardinal, poet, and maker of wooden spoons

  Madame Joanna arrived this day while we were at dinner. The baron hurried out of the hall to greet her and bring her in. I was taken greatly by surprise. She is a hundred years old, gray and puny, smaller even than Robin Smallbone's sister, who is not yet eight. Her face is all wrinkled and brown and covered with gray hairs, her eyes are round and red, and she is missing all her teeth but the front two on top. God's thumbs, I thought, Madame Mouse.

  I watched her closely during dinner. Her veil and wimple were crooked and stained with crumbs and gravy from her attempts to straighten them. When she talked or ate, which she mostly did at the same time, she lisped and whistled so no one could understand her at all. A tiny dog who looked like a hairy beetle sat on her lap all through dinner. She fed him the best pieces of meat picked from the serving bowls. Sometimes the dog sniffed or licked a piece of meat and then would not eat it, so she'd put it back in the bowl. No one dared chide her, her being the cousin of the king!

  Was this the beloved friend, beautiful as summer, who would rescue me and take me to court where we would dance and frolic? Disappointment grumbled my guts and made my breath sour.

  After dinner Madame Joanna told fortunes. It was hard to know what she said, for she talked in riddles and proverbs while lisping and whistling, but those who thought they heard of love left blushing and giggling and those who thought they heard of riches grinned, so most seemed pleased.

  My turn came and I near fainted when she said, "Come closer, Little Bird." How could she know that name? She peered intently into my face, her mouth so close her whistling tickled my chin.

  Finally she said, "You are lucky, Little Bird, for you have wings. But you must learn to master them. Look at the barons hawk there on her perch. Just because she doesn't flap her wings all the time doesn't mean she can't fly."

  I was impressed with her knowing Little Bird but could make little sense of the soothsaying. I went to bed.

  22ND DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Baradates, called The Admirable, it does not say why

  The sun came out fiercely this day and warms the world. After dinner the baron took a party out hawking although it is early in the year, for they said they could not waste this glorious day. They will spend the afternoon setting birds to hunt and kill other birds. You can imagine what I think about that. Aelis has gone with them.

  After dreaming in the sun a while, I wandered into the hall and found Madame Joanna there, eating boiled cabbage and bacon at the great table, all alone except for her dog. She called me over, bade me sit, and fed me bits of bacon just as she did the dog. She said I reminded her of her youngest daughter, who is now a queen in some German country, so we talked about her children. She tries to be kind to them, she said, but on the whole prefers her dog.

  And we talked about me. I told her about Stonebridge and Perkin—she agreed he sounds quite superior for a goat boy—and Morwenna and my father and the endless business of learning to be the lady of the manor, the spinning, embroidering, hemming, brewing, doctoring, combing, marrying, and on and on. I told her of my dreamings about her and going back to court with her where we would have adventures and do exactly as we pleased.

  "Adventures!" she squeaked. "I am a woman and cousin to the king. Do you truly think I could be a horse trainer or a puppeteer or even be friends with a goat boy? Do you think I have adventures instead of duties? There are many worse chores than spinning, Little Bird.

  "But, my dear," she went on, "I flap my wings at times, choose my fights carefully, get things done, understand my limitations, trust in God and a few people, and here I am. I survive, and sometimes even enjoy."

  She smiled then, a lovely smile except for the cabbage stuck between her only two teeth. "You," she added, "must learn about wings, my dear."

  And then, before I could ask what she meant, the bird killers returned, tables were laid for supper, and my time to charm the king's cousin was over.

  24TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Matthias, who preached to cannibals

  I did not see Madame Joanna again, for I was called home all unwilling to celebrate the marriage of the abominable Robert to the little heiress of Foxbridge. They have been hand-fast for two years and were to have been married in two more when she reached fourteen. Robert promised not to bed with her while she was of such a tender age, but from the looks of her, he paid no more attention to his promise than a cow at Mass. Either the girl has overfed herself on honey cakes or the child is with child.

  Her father is too angry with them to risk letting them go to Foxbridge, so we will have the wedding here. My father, Sir Nip-Cheese, objects to the cost, saying it is obvious they ar
e already husband and wife. My mother in her quiet way does as she wishes. Robert and his bride will have a hasty but real wedding and we will get all the meat eaten before Lent begins.

  26TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Ethelbert of Kent, first English king to become a Christian

  The wedding feast still rollicks below, but I have had my fill of merriment and have escaped to my chamber to write this account of the day's events.

  The morning started out gray and drizzly, with a mist that wet our faces and our clothes and made the rushlights hard to fire, a poor omen for a wedding. We dressed the bride in her second-best gown (Morwenna let the seams out) and on her hair put a small veil held with a golden band.

  The musicians came at dawn, yawning and scratching, smelling of the sour wine they had drunk half the night. On bagpipe and crumhorn they played us to the church.

  Robert and his bride exchanged vows at the church door and we all went inside for Mass, a lengthy affair with priest droning and candles hissing and flickering. The loudest sound was the musicians snoring. I think Robert fell asleep himself but was jostled awake by my father's sharp elbow.

  I watched the early morning light pass over and through the windows of colored glass, leaving streaks of red and green and yellow on the stone floor. When I was little, I used to try to capture the colored light. I thought I could hold it in my hand and carry it home. Now I know it is like happiness—it is there or it is not, you cannot hold it or keep it.

  We walked back to the manor for the ale feast, showering the bride with rose petals, the musicians playing and tomfooling. Gerd the miller's son fell into the river as we crossed, but Robert waded in and pulled him out so his wedding day would not be ruined.

  The dark and smoky hall looked festive for the feast. The rushes on the floor were last year's but were new strewn with mint and heather. Tables were laid with our best linen cloths. Torches blazed in iron brackets on the wall and their light gleamed off the gilt and silver goblets, candlesticks, and spoons. I have seldom seen these—what has not been sold is usually locked up.

  After dinner, the men all danced with the bride. She looked smaller and paler as the day wore on but bravely let every man there step on her feet and call it dancing.

  I was partnered for the feast with an ugly shaggy-bearded hulk from the north. My father sought to honor him because his manor lies next to my mother's, and my father lusts after it. I fail to see how sitting next to me and sharing my bowl and goblet honored him—and it certainly did me no good. The man was a pig, which dishonors pigs. He blew his red and shiny nose on the table linen, sneezed on the meat, picked his teeth with his knife, and left wet greasy marks where he drank from the cup we shared. I could not bring myself to put my lips to the slimy rim, so endured a dinner without wine.

  Worse than this, he proved himself near a murderer. As the dogs burrowed under the rushes for bones and bits of the wedding meat, Rosemary (the smallest and my favorite but for Brutus) mistook his skinny foot for a bone and nipped it. The shaggy-bearded pig howled and kicked the dog, who, of course, defended herself by biting. Then Shaggy Beard, pulling his knife from the table, tried to skewer the dog as if she were a joint of meat.

  Robert left his wine cup long enough to knock the knife away with his. "The dog belongs to Lord Rollo," he growled, "and is not yours to kill."

  The bearded pig sat down, shamed before our guests, and began to eat and drink again, smiling at me with meat stuck between his horrible brown broken teeth. I think he ate too much, for he made wind like a storm and sounded like a bladderpipe left out in the rain played by a goat.

  The worst part is that now I must be beholden to the abominable Robert. As we passed later, I thanked him—prettily, I thought. He pinched my rump and grinned. "So I am none so bad as you thought me, little sister?"

  I said, "Even the lowest of beasts is not vile all of the time."

  I felt better. We are now back on the old footing—hate.

  27TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Shrove Tuesday and the Feast of Saint Alnoth, serf and cowherd

  Today my father questioned me about the bearded pig. I said he affected my stomach like maggoty meat and my father laughed and said, "Learn to like it."

  It bodes not well. Shaggy Beard has a son, Stephen, whom he spoke of with loathing, calling him "Sir Priest," "the clerk," and "the girl," because the boy thinks and bathes and does not fart at Mass. I fear they are planning a match between me and Stephen. I will not. To be part of Shaggy Beard's family and have to eat with him every day! If my father does not drive him away, I will, as I have done the others.

  28TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Ash Wednesday

  First day of Lent. We are but dust and to dust shall return. I tried to be thoughtful and morbid on this day but spoiled it by skipping in the yard after dinner from pure joy. I am not dust yet!

  Shaggy Beard is with us still. When I see him, I call "Hoy!" as if I were calling a pig. His face gets even redder. I am hoping he will burst and we can sweep him out with the soiled rushes.

  March

  1ST DAY OF MARCH, Feast of Saint Dewi of Wales, who drank no beer or wine hut only water

  Robert is wedded and bedded—again—and he and his bride have left for her own manor at Ashton, not long ahead of her father, Robert fears. My mother and her women like it not that Robert's pale puny bride, so far gone with child, is jouncing and bouncing over the fens, but Robert thinks her father in his anger will try to keep the new-wed couple from the manor promised to the girl. So they race across Britain in the rain.

  When I marry it will be no cheap rag-tag hurry-up affair as Robert's was. I will have silks and music and lights and important guests from foreign lands with musical names. I will braid my hair with silken threads and wear a gown of saffron silk with a red cloak and purple leather shoes embroidered with gold and silver threads. My belt will have bells on it and thin pieces of gold beaten into the shape of leaves and flowers. My betrothed, in a cloak of scarlet silk, will meet me at my father's house. His horses will have flowers and ribbons woven into their manes and their saddles draped with silk. Musicians, sober and well shod, will lead us to the church playing on silver flutes and gitterns, on timbrels and cymbals and lyres. It will sound like angels laughing and spring rain.

  2ND DAY OF MARCH, Feast of Saint Chad, whose dust taken in water cures men and cows of their infirmities and restores them to health

  The weather has warmed and the fleas have come to visit. This morning I gathered alder leaves with dew on them and strewed them about my chamber to discourage the black soldiers. I have forty-three bites, only twenty-seven of them in places I can easily scratch.

  3RD DAY OF MARCH, Feast of Saint Cunegund, wife to the emperor Henry. The little hook of saints says that Cunegund once slapped her niece for frivolity and the finger-marks remained on her face until death. I am fortunate that no one in this household is a saint or I would he marked like a spotted horse, especially my cheeks and my rump

  No further words from my father about Shaggy Beard, so mayhap the trouble has passed and these plans, too, come to nothing.

  4TH DAY OF MARCH, Feast of Saint Adrian (the Irish one, not the African)

  We heard Mass this morning, or rather did not hear it, for the raindrops pounding on the church roof made a noise like drummers in a funeral procession and I heard nothing else. The church seems strange, undressed as it is for Lent. Father Huw wears plain robes with no silver gilt threads. The cross and statues are covered with veils. There are no flowers and no music. It is meant to make us feel sad, but mostly just makes me bored.

  Edward has sent to us three holy books from which he says we must read each night during Lent to put us in the proper morose and holy mood. I was excited to have them, thinking they must be like the lively colorful little book of saints from the abbot. But then William Steward began to read, droning and stumbling over the Latin. Tonight's book is Saint Jerome. It is not lively or colorful. I hope it is short.

  6TH DAY OF MARCH, Feast of Saint Cono
n, martyr and maintainer of irrigation canals

  I have been gathering violets to make oil of violets against attacks of melancholy. Since I turned thirteen last year I have used a great amount of oil of violets.

  7TH DAY OF MARCH, Feast of Saint Perpetua, who turned into a man and trod on the Devil's head

  I hate Lent already and it has only been a seven-night.

  8TH DAY OF MARCH, Feast of Saint Duthac, who had miraculous powers to cure ale head

  Thomas of Wallingham and his family are stopping here on their way to London for Easter. His daughter is dull and proper and I would ordinarily shun her, but Lent is so dreary, I welcome even Agnes as an amusement.

  Perched on the edge of my bed, Agnes, with her little black eyes and pointed nose, looked like a weasel in blue silk. But remembering the boredom that is Lent, I tried nicely to engage her.

  Gossip she would not. Too hurtful.

  Tell stories she would not. Too fanciful.

  Dance she would not. Too frivolous.

  "Let us then," I said, "go watch John Swann unload kegs at the alehouse."

  "Why?" she asked.

  "Because he is beautiful as summer and his arms ripple like the muscles on a horse's back and the rain plasters his shirt against his chest."

  "The beauty of men and women is but the devil's work," she said, pinching her mouth like a fish. "A snare and a delusion. A trap for the innocent."

  Innocent? Me? I was insulted by the thought. I who have seen a hanging, chased young Fulk from the privy, seen my birds in mating season and Perkin's goats!

  When I got to the goats, Agnes covered her ears and ran squealing from my chamber. I miss Aelis.