Catherine, Called Birdy (17 page)

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.

10
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
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.

12
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
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.

13
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
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.

15
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Swithin, who wept in Heaven and caused forty days of rain

As I rubbed my mother's legs late into the night, she talked again about her first meeting with my father. I am amazed how soft and sweet her voice grows when she speaks of that big, dirty, rude, greedy, drunken beast. I told her it is as if we see two different men. She said marriage can do that.

"Marriage," I said to her, "seems to me to be but spinning, beating children, and weeping."

Smiling, she said, "Marriage is what you make it, Birdy. If you spit in the air, it will fall on your face. Patience, gentleness, and a willing heart will make the most of any union. It helps,
of course," she added softly, "if the man you marry is the fine kind of figure that your father..."

God's thumbs, enough of this talk of my father's virtues. She must have caught warble fly from the cows and it has gone to her brain.

17
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Alexis, who lived as a slave in his father's house and slept under the stairs

I met Aelis this day in the meadow. She is giddy and relieved to be married no longer. She says when she married the baby duke, her father promised her that if she ever married again she would have more choice about the man. Now that the baby duke is dead and Aelis a widow, she is determined to love and be loved as well as wed. I know she is speaking about George, but I do not know what will come. My aunt Ethelfritha may be a bit mad but she is definitely alive.

18
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feasts of Saints Edburga of Bicester and Edburga of Winchester hut not Edburga of Minster

The northern shaggy-bearded pig has sent me betrothal gifts, which I, of course, refused since I will not consent to marry him. He sent me a silver toothpick, a sewing kit, a gauze headdress in a stinking green that is my least becoming color, and a pouch of silver. Corpus bones! His gifts are as unromantic and as unwanted as he is.

His son Stephen sent me a bronze knife engraved on the blade with vines and leaves and the words "Think well on me," a most excellent gift.

20
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Margaret of Antioch, eaten by a dragon who then exploded. Protector of women in childbirth

O dear Saint Margaret, protect my mother when her time
comes. She is old—over thirty—and delicate. But you were strong and stubborn and I can be as tough as boiled bear, so mayhap together we can sustain her.

21
ST DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Victor, Roman soldier and martyr

George and my aunt Ethelfritha have come again. He still does not smile and his eyes no longer flash green fire. He drinks too much ale and closes his eyes whenever someone mentions Aelis's name. I could feel his pain as if we shared one heart, so I left the table and went out to pester Perkin.

22
ND DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Mary Magdalene, who was betrothed to John the Apostle

Morwenna, Meg, and I have been gathering summer herbs and flowers for tonics. I love walking the fields in the morning sun, the smells in the stillroom where the herbs hang to dry, the wondrous glass vials and leather bottles arranged on the shelves, the old book where my mother's mother and her mother wrote recipes and hints and warnings for the doctoring.

Many of the older remedies call for lark's wing or boiled raven. I will not use them but use instead fish bones or nail trimmings or extra rue and sneezewort. No one here at the manor has died since I have been doing so and I expect my remedies doctor just as well as the originals. And they are much kinder to the birds.

24
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Gleb, stabbed in the throat by his cook

I have begun an herbal, a book of remedies and drawings that I can have with me always wherever I go.

26
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary

I have noticed lately how many male saints were bishops,
popes, missionaries, great scholars, and teachers, while female saints get to be saints mostly by being someone's mother or refusing to marry some powerful pagan. It is plain that men are in charge of making saints.

27
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of the Seven Sleepers, early Christians who were walled up in a cave by pagans, awoke two hundred years later to find their entire city Christian, and died

A traveler sleeping in our hall last night said Brother Norbert and Brother Behrtwald, the monks sent to Rome to find the remains of saints for our abbey, have returned. The holy relics they found will be installed with great ceremony in the abbey on Sunday. My father being from home and my mother too big with child for traveling, George, Ethelfritha, and I will appear for our family. I am rapturous with holy feelings to think I will see pieces of actual saints, whose souls must be with God although their bodies lie in Croydon Abbey.

We leave at dawn tomorrow.

28
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Samson, Welsh bishop, whose arm and staff are at the monastery at Milton Abbas

After dinner in the abbey guesthouse, I looked for Brother Norbert so I might hear more about the saints he found in Rome and his adventures on the way. Brother Norbert, I was told, was weeding the herb garden. Brother Norbert, I discovered, was sleeping between the lavender and rosemary bushes. I cleared my throat several times loudly and soon he awoke.

The relics the monks brought from Rome, it seems, are the earthly remains of Felix the Roman and his brother Projectus. They were tax collectors, converted to Christianity by a bath attendant and betrayed to the authorities by their evil servant, Polycarp, who was later struck by lightning.

Ordered to sacrifice to Roman gods, Felix and Projectus agreed, in fear for their lives and those of their families. A sudden rainstorm, however, put out the sacrificial fire. The Romans were enraged, thinking the brothers had lied to them and doused the fire deliberately by magic.

Their explanations were ignored and the brothers were condemned to be beheaded, but the soldier sent to carry out the sentence was struck by lightning. Finally they were set upon by a maddened bull, who, after goring them to death, was also struck by lightning. Other Christians collected their body parts and buried them on a farm outside the city.

This summer Brother Norbert and Brother Behrtwald met a soldier in an inn yard, who told them the story and then, for only twelve silver pennies, led them to the martyrs' grave on his mother's property. It was fortunate, said Brother Norbert, that they had the soldier to guide them, for the grave was hidden and unmarked in any way. The good brothers left Rome with the martyrs' bones, a fingernail clipping, and a thread from Felix's best tunic. Glory be to God.

29
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Lupus, a bishop who persuaded Attila the Hun to stop ravaging Gaul

This morning the relics of Felix and Projectus were carried from the abbot's office to the church by a great procession of monks in a cloud of incense fumes and the smoke from a thousand candles. The procession wound around the abbey grounds and into the church, where we all waited. After Mass, the abbot blessed us and we were allowed to come to the altar to kiss the holy relics. When it was my turn, I found that Felix and Projectus were two tiny glass jars of dust, set into large gold and jewel-encrusted holders. Felix's jar was much fuller; he must have been the taller brother. I said a prayer, asking the
Roman brothers to help me get free of Shaggy Beard, and then we left for home.

30
TH DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Tatwin, archbishop of Canterbury and maker of riddles

At dinner I saw my aunt Ethelfritha whisper something to George. He patted her fondly on her sleeve and smiled. My heart fell to my stomach, I was so distressed to see him love someone not me. But then I rejoiced to see him smile again. Thank you, God. Bless my aunt Ethelfritha and strike me dumb before I ever meddle with love again.

31
ST DAY OF
J
ULY
,
Feast of Saint Germanus, the only saint I know who was a lawyer

Tomorrow is Lammas. Harvest is near. My mother grows larger every day. I will not consent.

1
ST OF
A
UGUST
,
Lammas Day and Feast of Saint Ethelwold, monk, cook, and builder of the largest organ in England

This day the church smelled much like the bread stall at a fair from all the fresh-baked loaves brought in thanks to God for the good harvest. Since I had no breakfast, the smells made my mouth water and my stomach rumble like an ox-cart on a rutty road.

After Mass we feasted in the hall. Of the many dishes my favorites were the eel pie and the ginger wafers. My least favorite was the swan's neck pudding.

2
ND DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Sidwell, virgin, who died when her jealous stepmother incited the reapers to behead her

In the meadow the other day, I noticed how the trees stand bowed over, looking like old men with heavy burdens on their backs, hunched with worry. But what might a tree worry about? Mayhap about the young birds who are born amidst its branches and then fly out into the world where they could be caught by cats, stoned by boys, or snared and eaten, and never even say goodbye? About hot, dry summers and thirsty roots
that cannot call for water and are never offered beer? About whether its leaves will turn fiery shades of red and gold for all to admire or just shrivel and drop or be blown off by early wind and rain? About being cut down to make a house or a barn or, worse, siege weapons for war or a battering ram? About being chosen to hang a thief whose body would be left there to hang like putrid fruit and no young girl would lie beneath its branches and look up and wonder? Would I could ask one.

4
TH DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Sithney. God asked him to he the patron saint of girls but Sithney said he'd rather be the patron of mad dogs, so he is. I like to think of him as my father's special saint

My father returned today unexpectedly. There was no supper to his liking, so he kicked at the dogs and slapped the servers and bellowed, "Sweet Satan, why am I cursed with a cook who labors long in the kitchen yet produces nothing but farts and belches?"

I thought it was quite funny, but I laughed behind my hand. All is quiet now.

9
TH DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Romanus, Roman doorkeeper and martyr

My mother lies sore afflicted with a fever. I can write no more.

10
TH DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Laurence, who was roasted over hot coals and now is the patron saint of cooks. Sometimes religion is as mysterious as love

Her fever still rages.

13
TH DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Cassian, a severe schoolmaster who was stabbed to death by his pupils with their pen nibs. I will add this to my list of ways for Shaggy Beard to die

My mother is finally well, thanks be to God, and still carries the child. I might be made to marry by force, but I vow no one could make me have a child! Not only is it dangerous and uncomfortable, the child could grow into Robert. Or Geoffrey. Or Attila the Hun.

The beast my father has been even beastlier these days when my mother lay ill—at least with me and Morwenna and the servants. He is like a lamb with my mother, or at least a dog or a squirrel or some other gentler beast. God's thumbs! When he does not roar, I do not know who he is. Or just why I hate him.

15
TH DAY OF
A
UGUST
,
Feast of Saint Tarsicius, a Roman boy beaten to death with stones and clubs while protecting the Holy Bread

My mother has been ill again, and I have given over my days and most of my nights to nursing her. Sometimes I feel that she is the child and I the mother, as I bathe her face and sing her songs and cajole her into eating just a bit of this meat or that cheese.

In one week we go to Herringford to the fair, and for the first time I can remember she will not be with us.