We feasted this day in honor of my brother Thomas, whose saint's day this is. We had oceans of fish and acres of dried apples, and musicians and jugglers and tumblers, and so many guests there were no benches for the young men, who had to sit on the soiled rushes and grab at food as best they could. I am still dazzled by the acrobats and the magician who carried fire in a linen napkin and pulled roses from my ear!
22ND DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saints Chaeremon, Ischyrion, and other Egyptian Christians, who were driven into the desert and never seen again
My chamber is full of visiting girls here to celebrate Christmas. They twitter and chatter louder than my birds, but it does not sound like music to me. I cannot think so I cannot write. No more to say. I miss Aelis. I worry for George. Did the curse work?
23RD DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Victoria, a Roman virgin stabbed to death for refusing to sacrifice to idols
The abominable Robert has arrived for the Christmas feast. He brought no gifts, as did my uncle George, and no tales of court, as did Thomas, but only his gross yellow-toothed self. He sows turmoil everywhere. Pinched me where I sit and threatened to roast my birds for Christmas dinner. Made one of the maids cry. Set the dogs to fighting until my father threw them out into the snow. Teased Thomas about his obvious passion for the daughter of Arnulf of Weddingford. Robert told him that every man needs a horse, a sword, and a woman, but he should love only the first two.
24TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Eve of Christmas Day and Feast of Saint Mochua of Timahoe, an Irish monk who was once a soldier
Another bright clear day so we were able to search the woods for mistletoe, holly, and ivy to hang in the hall. Thomas and his friend Ralph acted out the battle of the holly and ivy, arguing over who God loved best, bickering in high voices and shamming a tournament of plants. We all laughed and cheered them. It was a treat to be without Robert, who now that he is twenty thinks our games childish and beneath him.
As I write this, I can see from the open window the parade of villagers leading a cow, an ox, and an ass to the manger in the church. Soon fires will be lit upon the hills, Wat will bring in the yule log, and Christmas will begin.
25TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Christmas Day
Waes hail! The hall was overstuffed today for the Christmas feast, with villagers and guests and Thomas's friends from court. Even my nip-cheese father forebore to complain about the cost, today being Christmas Day. We ate, of course, boar's head, which the cook's assistant carried about the hall on a platter decorated with apples and ivy. We also had herring pie, fried milk, onion and mustard omelette, turnip soup, figs stuffed with cinnamon and hard-boiled eggs, mulled pear cider, and more.
We had hardly finished eating when we heard "Please to let the mummers in," and the Christmas play began. Perkin was a wise man, of course. Thomas Baker was Joseph, and Gerd the miller's son played the evil King Herod, although, like Gerd, Herod seemed more stupid than evil. Elfa the laundress was the Virgin Mary; it was to be Beryl, John At-Wood's daughter, but since Michaelmas she is breeding and no virgin in real life or in mumming.
I was very stirred when John Over-Bridge carried in the gilt star on a long pole, which the three wise men and the shepherds followed to the Holy Manger. The villagers who played the shepherds thought to make the play more lively by leading real sheep to the cradle where the Christ Child lay. One began to eat the rushes off the floor and two others, frighted by the dogs, ran off, knocking into each other, the shepherds, the other players, the table, the torches. We all joined in a great chase about the hall after the bawling and kicking sheep. Finally Perkin used his best goatherd voice to calm the sheep and lead them outside, and the play finished with just two wise men. The shepherds were right. It was much more lively.
After the play we played Snapdragons. William Steward burned his hand trying to snatch a raisin from the flaming pan. I anointed it with a paste of sow bugs, moss, and goose grease, although he said he suffered more from the stink than from the pain of the burn. My mother then bade us play a game where no one gets burned, so we changed to Hot Cockles, where people only get smacked.
The hall is full of sleeping bodies tonight. I had to step carefully over those on the floor so I could snatch more figs from the kitchen. If there is sticky on these pages, it is from figs. I love them well.
26TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Stephen, stoned to death for blasphemy. First day of Christmas
Perkin was chosen the Lord of Misrule, so he is Master of the Christmas Revels and we must obey him until Christmas is over. We made him a scepter wound with holly and a crown of pig bones, ivy, and bay and are hilariously following his orders. Even my father laughed at Perkin's fantastic fooling.
He knighted the dogs and led them on crusade against the barn cats. He made me fetch him ale and pinched me for all the times I've pinched him. He sat Morwenna on his lap and ordered my mother to bring them hot wine. Then he set us to making riddles, promising a reward for the best. I won for my riddle: What is the bravest thing in the world? The neckband of my brother Robert's cloak, for each day it clasps a beast by the throat. I was quite proud until I learned the reward was a kiss from Perkin, so I pouted and left. Robert pinched me as I passed him.
27TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Saint John's Day. Second day of Christmas
Thomas, his friend Ralph, my father, two kitchen boys, and Gerd the millet's son all came to me seeking a cure for excessive wassailing. I doctored them with a tonic made of anise and betony and advised them to drink less and vomit mote.
28TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Childermas, the Feast of the Holy Babes and Sucklings, killed by King Herod. Third day of Christmas
Morwenna says today is the unluckiest day of the year. She made me stay inside my chamber and won't let me sew or embroider for fear I will prick myself, so for me it is not so unlucky.
It is also Perkin's birthday and I think he is not unlucky. He never sews or weaves or goes to bed when someone else says. On summer nights he sleeps outside with the goats, who love him but never tell him what to do. I think Perkin is the luckiest person I know.
29TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Saint Thomas of Canterbury's Day. Fourth day of Christmas
Our Lord Perkin declared a tournament for us and the chickens. Although the chickens had silver gilt helmets and twig swords, we won. Chicken for dinner.
30TH DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Egwin, bishop of Worcester. Fifth day of Christmas
More laughter and singing and arguing and shouting and noise tonight. I have come to my chamber to escape the constant chattering, although even here I am not alone. I am crowded by the visiting girls and their words, words, words.
31ST DAY OF DECEMBER, Feast of Saint Sylvester, the pope who cured the emperor Constantine of leprosy. Sixth day of Christmas
It is not snowing today, so I took my mare Blanchefleur for a ride through the frozen fields. I felt great need of solitude and quiet. The manor is so crowded that the privy is the only place I can be alone, and it is too cold to stay there for long. Besides, with so many guests it is the busiest place on the manor.
I brought Blanchefleur back to the barn before supper and stumbled over Robert and Elfa the laundress snuggled into the hay. It appears they will have to get another Virgin Mary for the Christmas play next year.
January
1ST DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of the Circumcision of Our Lord. Seventh day of Christmas
Perkin wants me to teach him to read. He dreams of being a scholar but most likely will just be a goat boy who can read. My Latin is none so good—I wish Edward were here to help. But Edward is not here, and Robert and Thomas cannot read or write. Robert can barely talk. Too bad Perkin doesn't want to learn how to skewer an enemy on a sword or tumble a laundress in the barn.
2ND DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Abel the Patriarch, son of Adam killed by his brother Cain. Eighth day of Christmas
New snow today. We had a snowball fight and everyone joined in. Even my lady mother was giddy and gay, laughing and blushing and acting much like
a girl although she must be over thirty. William Steward grew smitten and made flowery speeches to her, but we put snow down his pants to cool his passion.
3RD DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Genevieve, who through fasting and praying kept Attila the Hun from Paris. Ninth day of Christmas
My head aches from the cold, the smoke, and the noise of too many people drinking too much ale. At supper, grown angry with the puppies nipping at my food, I swept them off the table onto the floor. Later in remorse I smuggled them all into my bed for the night. Good thing Morwenna sleeps heavy and never knows what she has been sleeping with until morning.
4TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saints Aquilinus, Geminus, Eugenius, Marcianus, Quinctus, Theodotus, and Tryphon, a band of martyrs put to death in Africa by the king of the Vandals. Tenth day of Christmas
The eels in their tub in the kitchen froze last night, so we had an eel feast for dinner and eel pie for supper. I fear more eels with our breakfast bread and ale tomorrow.
5TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Simeon Stylites, who lived for thirty-seven years atop a pillar, praising God. Eleventh day of Christmas
I will not be sorry to see the Christmas days end, for I have been spending excessive time curing other people's ale head, putrid stomach, and various wounds, cuts, and bruises sustained in drunken fights. I have near run out of mustard seed and boiled snake.
6TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of the Epiphany. Twelfth day of Christmas
The end of Christmas. Mayhap I will soon have my chamber and my bed to share with only the usual residents.
At dinner today my mother found the bean in her Twelfth Cake and chose my father to be king. I found the pea and was queen. My father and I had to sit next each other for the mumming and lead the dancing and eat together at supper. I could hardly swallow from being so near the beast for so long. I wish I had just eaten the pea and told no one.
The best part of the day was when the mummers came in all wigged and masked, donkeys and kings and giants, singing and stomping and clashing their wooden swords. They hardly looked like the villagers I know, although I recognized Sym by his enormous feet and John At-Wood by his red hair, which poked right through his Father Christmas wig.
Spoke John: "In come I, Old Father Christmas, welcome or welcome not. I hope Old Father Christmas will never be forgot."
And the play began, with knights and dragons and battles and the wondrous rebirth of Saint George. Perkin was Saint George—"Here come I, Saint George. I am called Saint George for Saint George is my name"—and he looked golden and beautiful, like a saint and not much like a goat boy, even when his golden wig fell off and Brutus ate it. The dragon he battled was fearsome and bellowed so convincingly that I forgot it was but paper and wood and gears from the mill: "I am the iron dragon which no sword can undo. I eat the small, the pure, the young, and spit their bones at you!" It was gruesome and ugly and will give me nightmares. Perfect.
7TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Lucian of Antioch, leader of the Lucianists
I had not a nightmare last night but a dream. Again my uncle George came to rescue me from a dragon. The dragon threw at George a handful of dirt, which turned into a bolt of lightning, and George died at my feet. Has the curse then worked? Is George in danger? What does it mean?
8TH DAY OF JANUARY, Plough Monday and Feast of Saint Nathalan, farmer
Today the villagers celebrated what would have been the first day of work since before Christmas if they weren't celebrating instead. I walked down to the churchyard and watched the village boys dancing and fooling. I wonder which is the day when ladies dance and fool.
9TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Fillan, ancient Irish abbot, whose bell and staff and arm still survive
Now that Christmas is over, we are putting the manor to rights again. Morwenna made me help the kitchen boys dig out the pits and bones and dog droppings from the rushes on the hall floor. We found a silver gilt belt with jeweled buckle, three shoes, a lady's stocking, a wad of fake hair, a rat skeleton, and two silver pennies. I also found Ralf Emory's knife that he accused Walter of Pennington of stealing. Walter is going to the king to complain and there may be a joust between them at the next tournament, though no one stole it after all—it fell into the rushes. Should I tell? I would dearly love to see that joust.
This afternoon we sprinkled dried mint and thyme and gillyflowers over the cleaned rushes. The hall smells much better, but that may be because Robert is not here today.
10TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Paul of Thebes, the first hermit. He lived to be one hundred thirteen and two lions dug his grave
A very special holiday—Robert has left. He took with him Brutus, my favorite of the pups, even though I cried and argued and thumped him on the chest with my fists. As they were riding out the gate, Brutus made water in Robert's lap and now I have him back. I think the little creature is bruised and frightened so he will sleep in my bed tonight. Morwenna and the Eternal Guests will just have to make room. Thomas leaves tomorrow. I will be sorry to see him go.
11TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Hyginus, pope and martyr
The ice on the river has finally frozen hard enough to walk on. Perkin and Gerd the miller's son came to the kitchen for bones that they will polish and fasten to their shoes so they can glide on the ice. I begged my mother to be allowed to go, but she had a headache and would not speak of it. I made her a potion of peony root and oil of roses to soothe her head. Being angry, I wanted to add spurge and deadly hemlock to it, but mostly I love her, so I didn't. Instead I thought to make a list of all the things girls are not allowed to do:
go on crusade
be horse trainers
be monks
laugh very loud
wear breeches
drink in ale houses
cut their hair
piss in the fire to make it hiss
wear nothing
be alone
get sunburned
run
marry whom they will
glide on the ice
12TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Benedict Biscop, who collected books
I have heard that a cloth merchant in Lincoln has a privy not in the yard but inside his house, in a little room built out over a stream so that the stream washes the waste away. Such a wonder! I have it in my mind to go to Lincoln and see for myself. I would sit in the privy and piss and think about my water flying through the air, sailing on the stream to the river to the sea and across to wondrous foreign lands. If I cannot go to faraway places, I would like to think my water went.
13TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Kentigern, called Mungo, grandson of a British prince
It appears the curse has worked. George returned last night from York to say that Aelis has been married to the seven-year-old duke of Warrington. After the ceremony, the duke had an attack of putrid throat and had to go home to his mother to be nursed. His new wife remains at court.
I am sorry that Aelis was sold at auction to the highest bidder like a horse at a horse fair, but I am gladdened to have my uncle George back.
14TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Felix of Nola, tortured but not martyred
I tried to talk to George. He will not hear Aelis's name. He will not speak it. He does not listen, will not play, and his eyes that once flashed mischief and joy now glow dark with pain.
I thought to write a song about his doomed romance, but he said to save it for his betrothal to Ethelfritha, the very rich widow of a salt merchant from York. I asked him if he loved her. He said he loved her money, her business, and her good heart, and that was enough.
I think my curse was cursed. Aelis is gone from here, wedded to a baby. George sighs and suffers. And still he is not mine but marries some fat Saxon widow. God's thumbs. I might have done better to fail. My guts are grumbling. I hope it is but a cold in my liver, but I fear it is guilt and remorse.
15TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Ita, foster mother of the Irish saints
George has
left for York again. My guts still grumble.
16TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Henry, who became a hermit rather than marry
It is none so bad sometimes to have a pig for a father. This day it served me well. There were guests at dinner but I had no forewarning of danger so I acted like myself, some good and some bad, like always. I told the story of the time Perkin and I dressed his smelliest goat in his granny's other shift and let it loose in the church while a visiting friar was preaching about the terrors of Hell. The villagers in the church, convinced that the preacher had loosed the Devil on them, stumbled over each other trying to escape the fiend. Perkin's granny recognized her shift and started chasing the goat to get it back, swinging at him with a candlestick. The frightened goat loosed its bowels in the middle of the church, bawled frantically, and leapt into Perkin's lap. It was wondrous sport, but the story did not seem to amuse my listeners at dinner. We finished eating in quiet.
Later I discovered that one of the guests was another suitor, who was pleased with me and even my story but so offended by my father's burping and farting and scratching his chest with his knife that any hopes for a marriage died. I shall never tell my father that I am grateful to him.
17TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Antony of Egypt, gardener and mat maker
A freeze. My ink froze and I had to thaw it over the fire so I could write. But now I have nothing to say.