18TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Ulfrid, martyred for breaking up a statue of Thor with his axe
In the heart of winter when we eat for weeks on end porridge and beans, eggs and wrinkled apples, salted meat and dried herring, I think I will never again see peaches and plums, fresh fish and parsley and leeks. I have painted into the mural on my chamber wall a tree bursting with fresh fruit, dripping its juice straight into the waiting mouth of a golden warrior mounted on a black stallion, with my face (the warrior, not the horse).
19TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saints Marius, Martha, Audifax, and Abachum, a family of Persians martyred while on pilgrimage to Rome
Much activity about the manor as lambing started at the same time as a snowstorm. The sheep have all been driven to the pen in our yard, and the pregnant ewes will be put in our barn. Many are dropping their lambs on the way, and the shepherds with the newborn lambs stuck in their shirts look like fat bishops.
20TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Sebastian, who was shot with arrows, recovered, accused the emperor of cruelty, and then was clubbed to death
Edgar, the saddlers apprentice, is missing. He went outside to relieve his bladder in the middle of the night and never returned. William Steward and the villagers searched for him today but it has been snowing so hard since last morning that they have little hope of finding him.
21ST DAY OF JANUARY, Saint Agnes's Day
Another virgin martyred rather than marry a heathen. I wonder what is so bad about heathens. They couldn't be worse than Robert.
22ND DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Vincent of Saragossa, imprisoned, starved, racked, and roasted
I crept out last night hoping to help with the lambing. I am none too fond of sheep, for they are stupid and smelly and bad-tempered, but the new lambs are so sweet and soft. No one noticed me, so I sat wrapped in my cloak with lambs asleep in my lap and made a lambing song, which I misremember now, but I know it was good.
23RD DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Emerentiana, foster sister of Saint Agnes, stoned to death while praying at her tomb
Edgar was found. He lost his way back to his cottage in the storm and took shelter in an old shed, which was soon covered in drifting snow. By morning the snow was too heavy for him to shift, so he stayed trapped under it these four days. This morning one of the shepherds spied a stick that Edgar managed to force through the snow with a stocking tied on and he was dug out. Thanks to God, he had not really gone to the privy but was sneaking back to his cottage from our hen house with his shirt stuffed with eggs, so he had plenty to eat.
24TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Timothy, who was clubbed to death during the pagan festival of Katagogia
The only Latin we have for Perkin to learn to read from is documents and house accounts, so I made some simple stories in my best Latin and am teaching Perkin from them. He says he is certain a scholar has to be able to read more than Pater meus animalus est or Non amo Robertum. I am doing my best.
26TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Paula, a Roman widow who became a Christian, renounced all amusements, and went to visit the hermits in the Holy Land
Baron Ranulf will be back in two weeks time and Aelis will be with him. Her new husband is still in his mother's care. George is still in York. My guts still grumble. It is still cold.
28TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint John the Sage, an Irish philosopher who was stabbed to death by his students
Last night we had sleeping in our hall two monks from the abbey on their way to Rome. God, it seems, told their abbot that He wants the remains of two Roman martyrs brought from Rome to a new home in the abbey church. Brother Norbert and Brother Behrtwald are going to Rome to find them. Rome is so far away that they will not return until harvest.
I thought to go with them but this morning when they left the snow was so deep and the wind so fierce and the dark so very dark that I snuggled down into my quilt and decided to wait for an adventure on some warmer day.
29TH DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Julian the Hospitaler, who accidentally hilled both his mother and father and in his grief and remorse built a hospital for the poor. Patron of innkeepers, boatmen, and travelers
Peppercorn the dog is possessed of a demon. She howls and moans, digging at her head, running though the hall, rubbing her face on the straw. Morwenna has made a charm which I wet with spit and tied about her head (the dog's, not Morwenna's). I pray the demon leaves Peppercorn without entering anyone else.
31ST DAY OF JANUARY, Feast of Saint Maedoc of Ferns, who lived seven years on barky bread and water
We have taken all the Christmas greens down. The hall looks so gloomy and bare. It is still cold but thanks to God most of the lambs are still alive.
February
1ST DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Brigid of Ireland, who turned her bathwater into beer for visiting monks
Morwenna's charm did not help Peppercorn so we sent for Father Huw, but he refuses to work miracles on dogs. My father says he cannot stand the howling and running and digging, so he has sent Peppercorn to Rhys from the stables to be killed. I convinced Rhys to let Perkin take her. Dogs are much like goats—mayhap Perkin can help her.
3RD DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint la, who sailed across the Irish Sea on a leaf
I am locked in my chamber this day for my rudeness to Fulk, the fat and flabby son of the baron Fulk from Normandy. It was like this: Yestermorn my father received a messenger from Baron Fulk, saying the baron would be here by noon to discuss further betrothal arrangements between the younger Fulk and myself. By cock and pie, I swore, I will not be given in marriage against my will! But I again hid in the privy to watch their arrival since I thought not to refuse right away if the young Fulk seemed clever or funny.
When you mix flour and salt and yeast and water to make the dough for bread and put it in a warm place, it swells, growing white and soft and spongy. That is what the young Fulk looked like. God's thumbs! No wonder the baron was willing to consider an alliance with a knight's daughter.
I stayed in that privy until Morwenna, seeking to rid herself of her breakfast ale before dinner, found me. Marched into the hall, I sulked through lamb cooked with raisins and two kinds of fruit tart. I frowned through the dancing. I scowled through the minstrel's songs.
After dinner, my father and the baron went to play chess, my mother to take a nap, Morwenna to the solar, the young Fulk to the stables, and myself back to the privy. Soon, though, I heard the rubbing and bouncing of too much flesh approaching and looked out. Young Fulk was coming. I sneaked out without being seen and he took my place on the privy seat. So I set fire to the privy.
By the bones of Saint Wigbert, I swear it was not intentional. Hoping to make flabby Fulk uncomfortable by filling the privy with foul-smelling smoke, I set afire a mound of wet hay nearby. Mayhap too nearby, for the privy soon was ablaze.
I did not intend the privy to burn. I did not intend the door to stick. I did not intend that the billowing smoke and Fulk's bellowing would bring most of the manor to help. I did not intend that when he finally did get out, it would be without his breeches. God's thumbs, his backside was the size of the millpond!
After the laughter and the joking and the dousing of the fire, I, of course, was caught and blamed. Morwenna and my father never even asked if I intended to do it. I was smacked and sent to my chamber. The two Fulks left without a betrothal. Rhys, John, and Wat must build a new privy.
4TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Gilbert of Lincolnshire, furniture maker and founder of monasteries
Peppercorn is back at home! Perkin found not a demon in her head but a candied fig in her ear. The fig is out and Peppercorn is herself again.
My mother took advantage of my merry spirits to speak of young Fulk and the privy fire. I knew it was coming. First was a lecture on courtesy to one's guests. Then obedience to one's father. Finally, the familiar talk about ladylike behavior—moderate in speech and laughter, discreet in word and deed. Corpus bones!
I said, "I am truly sorry, lady, that Rhys and John and Wat were put to the trouble of a new privy. I am sorry I disappointed you. But I would not wed the fat and flabby Fulk and would probably set him afire again."
"In truth," she said, "the baron Fulk left without a betrothal not because of your fire but because your father bested him at chess. I think your father would not humble himself before God Himself. Even to secure a baron's son for his daughter."
Then she sighed. I smiled. It is good to know that I have my father's pride as well as his beastliness to help me avoid this marriage business.
5TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Agatha, who refused to wed the consul Quintinian and so was tortured by rods, rack, and fire and finally bad her breasts cut off. I think I can understand a little her dilemma
My mother is with child again. My father smirks and pats her swelling belly and already toasts to his son.
It does not seem to me that we need another babe. My mother said children are gifts from God, even though they sometimes seem like penance, and that as God's gifts we must welcome them.
"I also like the sweet, milky way they smell," she said. "And how they twine their arms about your neck and leave sticky kisses on your cheek."
I myself like dogs better.
What if this time God takes her as well as the babe? I am sore afraid.
6TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Dorothy, a virgin martyr who sent hack a basket of fruit from the Garden of Paradise, and celebration of the founding of our village church, Saint Dorothy's, one hundred seven years ago
This might become my favorite feast day if we could celebrate it each year as we did today. First we heard a special Mass, which meant it was twice as long and my mind wandered twice as much and my knees got twice as tired.
After, we all gathered in the hall to eat, feasting on pig's stomach stuffed with nuts and apples, herring with parsnips, and a disgusting peacock, stuffed and roasted with his tail feathers stuck back on.
There was abundant wine as well as ale and cider and perry and we grew quite rowdy as we played Hoodman's Blind. The shallow-brained Lady Margaret, whenever it was her turn to be blindfolded, whiffled here and there around the hall and then wandered into the pantry, whereupon all the young men would follow her and none return to the game for minutes. Corpus bones! What an odd way to play!
Suddenly there was a commotion as two of my father's men pulled out their swords and started slashing at each other, each accusing the other of sneaking peeks over the blindfold. Everyone moved aside as Richard and Gilbert, cursing and grunting, swung their terrible heavy swords at each other. Up on the tables, where they overturned cups and goblets and stepped in and out of the plates of meat. Onto the benches, which splintered as they swung and missed each other. Over to the walls, where their sharpened weapons cut new rends in the already tattered hangings.
All afternoon they swung until finally they were near too tired to lift their heavy weapons again. Gilbert heaved one last swipe at Richard, which knocked him off his feet. Bellowing about who did what unfairly to whom, their friends joined in, shouting and cursing and grunting along. Then we all joined in, even the cooks and servers swinging their ladles and pothooks. I with no weapon hurled food at whoever was near, pretending I was a crusader battling the heathens with leftover pig's stomach and almond cream.
One group of fighters stumbled into the fire, scattering the burning brands and smoldering ashes into the rushes, which burst into flame. Suddenly the hall floor was ablaze, as the dry rushes caught fire. Even William Steward's shoes were smoldering. William and Gilbert grabbed flagons of wine to pour over the blazing rushes while Richard stamped on the stray sparks and my father, the genius, pulled down his breeches and pissed most of the fire out. The hot fire seemed to cool our tempers, so everyone sat down to drink again amidst the ruins of the table and argue over which side got the better of the other. If I become a saint, I would like my day to be celebrated in just such fashion.
8TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Cuthman, a hermit and beggar who took bis crippled mother everywhere with him in a wheelbarrow
I spent yesterday doctoring ale head, grumbling guts, and various cuts, gashes, scratches, and burns—including my own. Then just before dinner we found Roger Moreton lying unconscious in the black soggy rushes near the buttery. He sustained a grievous injury in the fight and lay untended all night while we slept. Now he lies in the solar in my parents' bed, still asleep, with cobwebs packed about his wound, his fever raging.
9TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Apollonia, who relieves those suffering from toothache
Roger's wound has grown black and smells bad. My mother and Morwenna and I do all we can, but his head is no better and his fever no less and his eyes still closed.
10TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Scholastica, the first nun
Roger died this morning. He never woke up. He was seventeen.
11TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Gohnet, virgin and beekeeper
Today is Roger's funeral ale, and our hall rings with noise and music and fighting and eating and drinking just as it did the day our brawling killed him. This will go on all night until the funeral Mass tomorrow after which there will be more feasting. I am in my chamber, for my head aches and my heart grieves, and I have no appetite for food, merriment, or company.
13TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Modomnoc, who first brought bees to Ireland
I told Morwenna that my hands were too cold for embroidery. She now watches me like a chicken hawk to make sure they are also too cold for writing. No more now.
14TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Valentine, a Roman priest martyred on the Flaminian Way
Today being the day birds choose their mates, I watched my birds all morning to see if I could spy them pairing off but they are acting just the same as always, so I must have missed it. Mating is definitely in season, however. Meg from the dairy giggles as she carries the milk pails and leaves a trail of spilled milk from here to there. The cook spent the forenoon teaching Wat's yellow-haired daughter to stir a porridge. Half the kitchen boys have disappeared with half the serving maids. And my father stopped blustering long enough to lay a kiss on my lady mother's head.
As we wove cloth this day, Morwenna and I talked of mating, love, and marriage. I told her I thought it all silly and a waste of time and if I were king I would outlaw it.
"Even the king would have trouble enforcing that law, Birdy," she said, "for one stick won't make fire, and God's creatures dearly love to warm their hands on a fire."
She laughed and snickered so to herself then that I could not get a word of sense out of her. God's thumbs. Mating season has soddened even Morwenna's wits.
16TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Juliana, who argued with the Devil
I am to go to Castle Finbury to visit the duchess of Warrington—the lady Aelis that was. She is there at home while she waits for her husband to grow up. I will be with her for fourteen days! My belly is quivering with excitement and a little still with remorse. I will take with me plenty of remedies.
18TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, Feast of Saint Eudelme of Little Sodbury, about whom nothing is known except that she was a saint and I do not know how we even know that
Just before dinner, Morwenna and I and our escorts arrived at Aelis's castle. Clattering over the moat bridge, we passed through the main gate into the castle yard. The castle seemed like a small stone city. Huddled against the great curtain wall with its stone towers were buildings of all sizes—a slope-roofed storage shed, a kitchen with a chimney like a church steeple, the great hall, a brewhouse, thatched barns and stables, a piggery, a smithy, and the chapel.
The yard teemed with sights and sounds. Great snorting horses coming or going or just milling around stirred the rain and snow and dirt into a great muddy slop. Peasants held wiggling, squawking ducks and chickens by their feet, shaking them in the face of anyone who might buy. Laundresses stirred great vats of dirty clothes in soapy water like cooks brewin
g up some gown-and-breeches stew. Bakers ran back and forth from the ovens at the side of the yard to the kitchen with great baskets of steamy fresh bread. Masons chipped stones and mixed mortar as they continued their everlasting repairs. Everywhere children tumbled over each other and everyone else, stealing bread, chasing dogs, splashing and slopping through the mud.
As we drew near to the great hall, the smells overpowered even the noise—the sour smell of the sick, the poor, and the old who crowded about the door, waiting for scraps of food or linen, the rotten sweet smell of the garbage and soiled rushes piled outside the kitchen door, and above all the smell of crisping fat and boiling meat and the hundreds of spices and herbs and honeys and wines that together make a castle dinner.
The great hall seemed larger than our whole manor at Stonebridge, and the tables were laid with enough golden plate to make my father die of greed were he but to see it. Dinner was festive, with wine and musicians and minstrels and much laughter. And food such as we see at home only for a feast, and never in winter—eels in quince jelly, hedgehog in raisins and cream, porpoise and peas, spun sugar castles, boats, and dragons—but I noticed that many of the dishes had snow on them, for the kitchens are outside in the yard and food must be carried through the snow to the hall.