Perkin's granny says to put yarrow up their noses and spit, and Aelis and George will love no more. Corpus bones! I could more easily get dirt from a hundred graves than stuff yarrow up George's nose!
28TH DAY OF NOVEMBER, Feast of Saint Juthwara, who wore cheeses on her chest and was beheaded by her stepbrother
As Aelis and I passed George on the way in to supper, I threw a fistful of dirt at each of them, spattering us all. It was not really from a grave, but from the edge of the churchyard, yet it must suffice, for I am not venturing deep into any graveyard with this jealous evil in my heart. George and Aelis looked dusty, puzzled, and sore vexed.
I said the turn-love-to-hate chant under my breath so no one could hear me, for sure else I would be punished, cast away, locked up, or laughed at, no one of which I relish. I do not know how long it will take the spell to work. By supper's end they did not yet look like people whose love had turned to hate.
29TH DAY OF NOVEMBER, Feast of Saints Paramon and others, three hundred seventy-five martyrs killed in a single day
After supper yestereve George accompanied the baron's party back to Finbury Castle. George is now home again, ill-tempered and drunk. Corpus bones, all that men seem to know of doctoring is prescribing ale.
When will the curse work?
30TH DAY OF NOVEMBER, Feast of Saint Andrew, fisherman, apostle, and martyr, missionary to Greece, Turkey, and Poland
Three weeks and three days before Christmas comes in. I had it in my mind to make a Christmas song, but I can think of nothing to say except when will the curse work?
December
2ND DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Bibiana, beaten with leaden whips until she died
So troubled was I by events of yesterday that I did not write but sat long with my mother, who sang and stroked my hair as if I were a child. This is how it happened.
The sun looked likely to shine yestermorn, so Gerd the miller's son and I left our chores undone and went to Wooton village where they were to hang two thieves. Never having seen a hanging, I could only imagine the huge hairy bandits with cruel scarred faces, snarling and growling fearsome curses, while we onlookers shrieked and shrank back in fear. I thought it sounded better even than a feast or a fair. Perkin could not be found, so I made the clay-brained Gerd go with me.
It looked to be a gay occasion, even though the rain started before we were far along, which dampened our spirits a little and our shoes a lot. The sheriff had just constructed a new gallows, so the whole village turned out to celebrate. People were packed all around the church square, villagers and strangers, priests and children, peddlers and players, and hawkers selling every kind of food and drink. I bought sausages, bread, an onion, two meat pies, and an apple pastry and ate most of it, for it was my penny, not Gerd's.
We were all laughing and shouting when we saw the sheriff pull the cart in. I was calling "Dead bandits never rob again," which I thought quite clever, as the cart passed me by, carrying the two bandits, ropes already tied about their necks.
The sheriff dragged them from the cart and up the ladder to the gallows. Corpus bones! They were no more than twelve years old, skinny, frightened, and dirty. Their scared stupid faces knocked the jolly right out of me, and when one leaned off the platform and grabbed my sleeve, slobbering and crying "Help me, noble lady!" I turned and ran. I was near out of the village before the first was shoved off the platform, but I could hear the cheering and laughing behind me.
Gerd caught up with me and we left Wooton, the clodpole rubbing his eyes with his grubby fists in sadness for missing the fun. I vomited up my bread and sausage but Gerd kept his. All the way back to the Stonebridge road, we could hear the laughing and cheering of the crowd.
The wretched day grew worse still, for on our way home we saw a funeral procession ride down the road toward London. It was midday and the rain had slowed to a drizzle, but it was near as dark as dusk. Never have I seen so many men and horses so quiet, their bells and bridles muffled. The only sound was the thud of the horses' hooves on the wet ground.
First came a crowd of men wrapped in black cloaks. I could not tell who they were but the tall man in front had the saddest face I ever saw. Following them, two horses—one before and one after—carried a sort of litter with the coffin. And in the rear marched hundreds of soldiers in battle dress, without a smile or a wave for us, without a sound, except for the slow measured tread of their boots.
Gerd and I ran home, trembling with fear that the king had died, for who else would be taken to London with such a company, such pomp, and such grief? The king had been king as long as I had lived. How could we have another? What would happen to us? Gerd went to the mill and I burst into the hall as if the Devil were pulling my hair. My mother was there, getting spices for the cook from the locked cupboard, and I ran to her, crying for the king and myself.
"No, Little Bird," she said, "you weep for the wrong person. It is not the king who is dead, but Eleanor, his kind and gentle queen."
On her way to join the king as he warred against the Scots, the queen took ill and died. The king, broken of heart, came from Scotland to take her back to London. He built a towering stone cross to mark the place where she lay at Lincoln Castle and will have one built at every stop from here to London. I knew then who the tall sad-faced man was. I had seen the king, finally, for the first time, and there was no cheering or celebrating or glee, only grief. I had cried with the king.
I told my mother then about the little bandits and losing my sausage and seeing the sad procession, and she cooed and comforted me and forgot to scold me for running off. This made me feel some better, but what comforted me the most was the thought of telling it all to Perkin.
Morwenna says that fairies have the faces of beloved dead and that some people who have seen fairies recognize their faces. I think I would not be afeared to meet a fairy with the queens face, God save her.
3RD DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Birinus, apostle of Wessex, first bishop of Dorchester, and builder of churches
George was drunk again all day. Aelis has been taken to London for the king's Christmas court. He never says her name. Is it the curse?
4TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Barbara, said to have been martyred in Nicomedia, Heliopolis, Tuscany, and Rome
My brother Thomas has come from serving the king to spend Christmas with us. Because of the rain he arrived so sodden and beslombered with muck that I did not know him. He is near a stranger to me, as he is much with the king, but does not seem as abominable as Robert, so I shall not overly vex him.
Thomas says the king, still on his way to London with the queen, does not weep but rides with a face of stone, so deeply does he grieve. I wonder if the mothers of the two boy bandits hanged at Wooton grieve for them. I find I prefer fairs and feasts to hangings.
5TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Crispina, who was shaved bald to humiliate her before she was beheaded
Thomas, very lordly in his patterned hose and pointed shoes, played the child long enough to coach the village boys in their fighting games. As I sat in the sun with my eyes closed, I could hear the thud of wooden swords on wooden shields, the screams of the dying and joyous shouts of the victors, the furious whinnying of those boys doomed to be horses instead of knights, and I pretended I was on crusade. I shall not tell George this.
6TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Nicholas, who loves children, pawnbrokers, and sailors
There are no Jews left in England today, Thomas says. By order of the king they have all left the country. I find it hard to believe that the old lady and the little soft-eyed girl who stayed in our hall could be a danger to England. Is it blasphemy to ask God to protect Jews? I will ask Edward.
Or maybe not. Mayhap I will whisper it just to God and trust it is all fight. God keep the Jews.
7TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Ambrose, proclaimed bishop of Milan before be was even a Christian
Thomas says the king and the people of his court have chos
en each his own special profanity so that they don't have to say "Deus!" or "Corpus bones!" or "Benedicite!" as we ordinary folk do. The king says "God's breath!" His son says "God's teeth!" Thomas says "God's feet!" I, not being ordinary, shall choose one also. I will try one on each day and see what fits me best. Today it is: God's face!
8TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Budoc, who was born at sea in a barrel
God's ears, it is cold! The sun shines on a fairy world carved from ice. No one stirs outside. I think all of creation is huddled in our hall, so I have sneaked into my chamber. The fireplace is not lit, but I can pull the feather bed up to my chin and write in peace, even though the candle flame spits and sputters in the wind and I have twice overturned the ink.
The magpie's water was frozen over this morning, so I have covered all the cages with kirtles and gowns and mantles to keep my birds warm. Mayhap they will think it night until God warms the world again.
9TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Wolfeius, first hermit in No folk
God's knees! A person can only wear one gown and one kirtle at a time, so why are my mother and her ladies making such a fuss about my covering the bird cages with their spare ones! I cannot believe they would want my poor birds to freeze to death.
I will have plenty of time to think on this, for I am imprisoned in the solar, brushing feathers and seed and bird dung off of what seems enough clothing for the French army. I see no deliverance. Perkin is busy with his grandmother. Aelis is in London with the king. George and Thomas are from home much these days, riding and drinking and amusing other people and not me. God's knees, I might as well be an orphan.
10TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Eulalia, virgin and martyr, who spat at her judge and was burned alive
God's nails, Morwenna is in a sour temper today. Every time I open my mouth, she cracks my knuckles with her spindle.
11TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Daniel, who lived thirty-three years atop a pillar
Morwenna threatens to truss me like a goose and dump me in the river if I continue in my quest for the perfect profanity. God's chin! She treats me like a child.
12TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saints Mercuria, Dionysia, Ammonaria, and the other Ammonaria, holy women killed by heathens
I have chosen. God's thumbs! What a time I have had in deciding. I chose God's thumbs because thumbs are such important things and handy to use. I thought to make a list of all the things I could not do without my thumbs, like writing, plaiting my hair, and pulling Perkin by his ear, but now it seems to me to be a waste of paper and ink, for I can think of no purpose for such a list unless some heathen Turk came from across the sea and threatened to cut off my thumbs with his golden sword and I was able to convince him to spare my thumbs by reading him my list of how important thumbs are, but since it seems unlikely both that a Turk would threaten my thumbs and that a list would stop him if he did, I shall save the time and the ink and not make a list.
13TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Judoc, whose hair and heard grew after his death and had to he trimmed by his followers
Storm again today. George and Thomas are still gone, but we are cooped up in here like chickens in a hen house. I stayed out of Morwenna's sight so she would not set me to some lady-task. I used the time to wonder and have made a wondering song:
Why aren't fingers equal lengths?
What makes cold?
Why do men get old and bald
And women only old?
When does night turn into day?
How deep is the sea?
How can rivers run uphill?
What will become of me?
14TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Hybald, abbot of our own Lincolnshire. I wonder if he is a relative
I am in disgrace today. Grown quite weary with my embroidery, with my pricked fingers and tired eyes and sore back, I kicked it down the stairs to the hall, where the dogs fought and slobbered over it, so I took the soggy mess and threw it to the pigs.
Morwenna grabbed me by the ear and pinched my face. My mother gave me a gentle but stern lecture about behaving like a lady. Ladies, it seems, seldom have strong feelings and, if they do, never never let them show. God's thumbs! I always have strong feelings and they are quite painful until I let them out, like a cow who needs to give milk and bellows with the pain in her teats. So I am in disgrace in my chamber. I pray Morwenna never discovers that being enchambered is no punishment for me. She would find some new torture, like sending me to listen to the ladies in the solar.
15TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Off a, king of the Fast Saxons, who left his wife, his lands, his family, and his country to become a monk in Rome and die
I was seated at dinner this day with a visitor from Kent, another clodpole in search of a wife. This one was friendly and good-tempered, and had all his teeth and hair. But he did not compare with George or Perkin, so I would have none of him. Our talk at dinner went like this:
"Do you enjoy riding, Lady Catherine?"
"Mmph."
"Could we perhaps ride together while I am here?"
"Pfgh."
"I understand you read Latin. I admire learned women when they are also beautiful."
"Urgh."
"Mayhap you could show me about the manor after dinner."
"Grmph."
So it went until I conceived my plan, after realizing that the only thing my father would want more than a rich son-in-law is not to part with one of his pennies or acres or bushels of onions. So I grew quite lively and talkative, bubbling with praise for our chests of treasure and untold acres and countless tenants and hoards of silver and for the modesty that prompted my father to hide his wealth and appear as a mere country knight. My suitor's eyes, which had already rested kindly on me, caught fire, and he fairly flew over the rushes to talk with my father in the solar.
The storm I expected was not long in coming. Poor Fire Eyes tumbled down the stairs from the solar, hands over his head, and rolled across the hall floor to the door and out while my father bellowed from above, "Dowry! Manors! Treasure! You want me to pay you to take the girl? Dowry? I'll give you her dowry!"
And as the comely young man ran across the yard on his way to the stable and freedom, a brimming chamber pot came flying from the solar window and landed on his head. Farewell, suitor. Benedicite.
Even now as I pity the young man in his spoiled tunic, I must smile to think of my dowry. No other maiden in England has one like it.
16TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Bean, lakeside hermit of Ireland
My breath stinks, my gut grumbles, and my liver is oppilated. It must be all this fish. Would that Christmas come soon and bring an end to fasting. I am turning into a herring.
AFTER VESPERS, LATER THIS DAY: My uncle George is leaving Stonebridge. He does not eat but only drinks his meals. His cheeks are dusky with unshaved whiskers. He has no stories or winks or grins for me anymore. Is it the curse? Do I have powers?
17TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Lazarus, who was raised from the dead by Jesus and later went to France
George has gone to York. He did not say goodbye, so I do not know if he will be back for Christmas. I do not know if the curse worked. I will miss him but I liked him better before he loved Aelis. I think love is like mildew, growing gray and musty on things, spoiling them, and smelling bad.
18TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Mawnan, an Irish bishop who kept a pet ram
The cold has trapped us inside again and I am grown full restless. This is how I have spent my day: I was awakened at dawn by Wat dropping the wood as he lit my fire. I put on my undertunic and stockings while still under the covers for warmth and then, breaking the ice in the bowl, splashed water on my face and hands. I dressed in my yellow gown with the blue kirtle over, my red shoes, and my cloak, even though I was not going outside. Morwenna helped me plait my hair, which we trimmed with silver pins.
We could not hear Mass for we could not get through the snow to the church, so I breakfasted wit
h bread and ale. The next two hours I hemmed sheets in the solar while I listened to my mother's ladies chatter about the Christmas feast. We ate dinner very quickly, for the snow falling through the smoke-hole in the hall kept dousing the fire. I then hurried back to the solar where it was noisy but warm, and here I am now, writing and wishing I were outside on the meadow and Perkin was playing the pipes and the goats were nuzzling one another and me. It is many hours until supper and bed.
19TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Nemesius, acquitted of theft but executed for being a Christian
The little book of saints never disappoints me. I have kept it with me since the abbot sent it. I showed it once to my mother, who exclaimed over the pictures, listened to a story or two, and then forgot about it. I therefore consider it mine. Or almost mine. Or near enough, for here it is in my chamber.
20TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saints Ammon, Zeno, Ptolemy, Ingenes, and Theophilus, soldiers martyred by the Romans
Too dull for writing.
21ST DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Thomas the Apostle, the shortest day and longest night of the year
The snow has stopped. Life begins again.
Last night I tucked a pin into an onion and put it under my pillow so I would dream of my future husband. I dreamed only of onions and in the morning had to wash my hair. It near froze before it dried.