Bigod Farm
The Year of Our Lord 1364
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of Edward III
I spent each and every day thereafter trying to win Alyson’s regard by allowing her to order me about as if I was her servant. Though there were some tasks I’d never undertaken (threshing grain, baking bread, brewing ale, and preserving meat, for instance), nothing was beyond my abilities—not that you’d know from the way Alyson bossed me about, speaking as if I was a child. My attempts were never good enough. Plain wrong, unfinished, had to be redone, tasted terrible, better tipped out, too bitter, too sweet, poorly constructed, too much, too little. On it went. I took her criticisms without complaint, my insides like a simmering pot all the while. In retrospect, pandering to her whims was the worst thing I could have done—it didn’t earn me anything but more contempt.
Not that the men ever saw this, as her manner altered the moment they came home.
Before none they’d stomp wearily inside and sit down to a bowl of pottage and some coarse brown maslin bread. One day Alyson even roasted a lamb Master Bigod had found dead in the field. It was delicious. We ate well, including the hounds and King Claude. The pigs and chickens not only had food scraps, but the draff left from making ale. Overall, Master Bigod kept a good table and we never wanted—not for meat, fish, eels, cheese, fruit, or nuts, nor the bread Alyson made each day.
The only thing I surpassed her in was spinning. She could card, but then so could a tinker’s monkey. What she lacked was my deftness with the spindle, and was confounded as to how I could roam about outside or even in the house, one hand stirring a pot or shooing King Claude off the table, the distaff tucked under one arm as I worked the spindle. Little did she know it was a craft I’d mastered from the cradle.
When I finished turning a sack of wool into fine thread, I asked if there was any way we could weave it. Astonished I knew how to work a loom, as he only knew male weavers in Bath, Master Bigod determined to acquire one. The following day, he returned home with an old one in need of repair.
Out in the barn, I examined it. Possessed of a strong upper beam, it needed a new tension bar below. I explained what had to be added or replaced, and Beton cut some rods that could be used for the heddle and batten, as well as to tie thread and create the warp. Theo, wanting to be part of something so exciting, carved me a shuttle. Once these were complete and the loom working, it was simply a matter of carrying it inside and setting it near the hearth so I could take advantage of the light and thread it.
When I began to weave, quickly catching the rhythm once I’d overcome the initial problems of a foreign loom, Alyson was dumbfounded. She could mend clothes as well as any goodwife, and her spinning was slowly improving, but weaving was an altogether different proposition. When Papa and I first arrived at Noke Manor, he’d convinced my lady there was a market for cloth to be plundered. English cloth, he claimed, made from Cotswold wool, was a product he believed would one day compete with the fine material being produced in Flanders and Brabant. He persuaded my lady to hire a weaver or two and train some servants in the craft. I was among them. At first I’d resented it, but after I became skilled, I found it relaxing.
The evening I commenced weaving at Bigod Farm, they all sat around passing comments and admiring the pattern that emerged. Even Alyson forgot to snipe. Delighted with their attention I preened, suggesting I weave cloth so they might have new clothes. Fulk smiled warmly, pleased his wife was so clever. Theo and Beton began talking about how they’d wear their fine threads to church, encouraging Alyson to add her wishes. Part of her wanted to throw my offer back, while the other longed for something fresh, something pretty. I discreetly studied her reactions, trying not to show my joy in the men’s praise or resentment at her lack of it. Slowly it dawned on me that here sat someone who’d never allowed herself to want much. Mayhap, because, in the past, it had been lost to her. At that moment I began to see Alyson in a kinder light.
I occupied those first few weeks not only cleaning away the shit and refuse from around the house, making it look and smell almost respectable, but managed to persuade my husband to hire men to repair the thatch and walls and rehang the doors. I’d quickly discovered that far from appearances, which suggested a man of very modest means, my husband, as Mistress Bertha had intimated, was reasonably well off for a freeman. For certes, he kept a locked box inside the chest in the bedroom from which he extracted coins to pay the help. Though I couldn’t open it, I did weigh it in my hands and it was very, very heavy. Did Lady Clarice and The Poet know when they married me to this man? A man who still hadn’t tried, thank God, to exercise his conjugal rights.
Three weeks later, the outside of the house was transformed. The inside had been prinked as well. I’d replaced the rushes with fresh ones and found some rosemary, lavender, and rose petals to scatter through them. The house and its surrounds may have improved, but the same couldn’t be said for me. I smelled like the shit I’d spent days clearing (and still did daily, after all, the animals were like eager parishioners, generous with their offerings). I also began to resemble the family of which I was now a part. My hair was lank beneath the stained cap. My apron and tunic, despite my efforts to beat them clean each night and air my linen shift, had become so dirty, it was hard to distinguish between them. The only positive thing to come out of this was I could no longer smell my husband, Alyson, or the men.
When Alyson said I should accompany her to market the Wednesday after I arrived, I made an excuse not to go. I didn’t want to be seen. Likewise, when Master Bigod offered to take me to visit the manor when he’d business to conduct, I declined. While what had led to me being evicted from the manor and catapulted into this new life still rankled, it wasn’t the only reason. Call me childish for not wanting to face Lady Clarice (though I doubted she’d deign to see me), much worse was the thought I might see May, Joan, Cook, Mistress Bertha, Master Merriman, and Father Roman. Or Layamon. I knew the servants would press me to tell them what Master Bigod was like. They’d be expecting me to add to the terrible tales about his uncleanliness, his bullying, the dead wives and disappearing servants. God forgive me, I wasn’t ready yet to defend him—but nor did I want to embellish stories I now doubted. Was I a coward? Was I disloyal? Aye, both those things. But I was also so very young. I hadn’t yet learned the power that can come from telling the truth and standing by it. Nor did I want my friends to guess the lengths I was prepared to go to in order to make a friend of Alyson—a woman who, to May, Joan, and the others, was beneath their notice. Was I not her mistress?
Aye. But I was also her stepmother. How could I admit to that?
What finally caused a shift in my relationship with Alyson was the shit.
Things reached boiling point the week after I was finally satisfied the yard was clean and tidy. I’d dragged fallen branches from the brook, used some old barrels that were rotting at the back of the barn, a rusty wheel, and other bits to form a makeshift fence—just enough to deter the donkey (whose name was Pilgrim, after the person Master Bigod bought it from), the sow and piglets, and any sheep that escaped, so they were confined to the rear of the house. The only exception was a rough path which directed them into the house or barn. I determined to persuade Master Bigod to relocate all the animals (Hereward, Wake, and King Claude excepted) there one day soon. My idea was, if the animals were going to shit, then it was going to be where I could control it. So far, it was working.
I was admiring how golden the compacted dirt was, having enjoyed a good drenching from the rain the last two days before drying in the sun when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught Hereward and Wake chasing Pilgrim. Confounded by the fence, the donkey veered at the last minute and, instead of taking the path into the house, fled into the relative safety of the barn. The hounds, startled by Pilgrim’s maneuver, pulled up short and began barking. I ignored them, that was until they went quiet. Turning to see why, I was horrified to find them rolling in the pile of shit I’d made, a huge mound Theo and Beton were meant to have spread over the fields.
“You filthy bastards!” I yelled, half-laughing, half-wanting to weep as I ran toward them, brandishing the besom above my head. “Stop that!” Both dogs leaped up, shook themselves, their tongues lolling and then, thinking a game was on, ran straight at me. They knocked me off my feet and began licking my face and, God’s ass, rubbing their shit-covered fur all over me.
I was shouting at them to cease, pulling their ruffs, when I heard someone screaming. Not at the dogs, but me.
“What are you doing? Leave them alone, you bitch!”
Before I knew it, Alyson flung herself on top of me. Snatching the broom out of my hand, she threw it aside, and began slapping me. Hard.
Stunned at first, it took two blows to my cheek and a couple to my chest before I reacted.
That was it. A red veil descended, and the loudest of bellows erupted. It was enough to give Alyson pause as she sat upon my torso, straddling me.
I did what I’d wanted to do ever since she’d first spoken to me. I hit her back. First slamming my forehead into hers, I pummeled her arms, her shoulders, slapped her spiteful, ratty face.
Fists flew, screeches followed. We tugged and pulled each other’s clothes, trying to find a grip, rolling around, kicking, biting, scratching. I grabbed a hold of her greasy hair and yanked. She yelped. Reaching around, she caught hold of an ear and began to twist it. I yelled in pain. The dogs, wanting to join in, flung themselves on us. Alyson and I came apart and tumbled to one side and into the shit the hounds had begun to spread.
Horrified I’d landed in the stinking, rain-soft dung, I tried to lever myself up, but Alyson had other ideas. She picked up a handful and smeared it all over my tunic and then drew back her filthy hand and slapped me hard, streaking my cheek. My mouth filled with blood as I bit my tongue.
I let out a yowl of rage. It was so long and loud even the dogs gave pause. I was disgusted by what was on my clothing, in my hair, and on my face. White-hot fury filled me. I lunged and, before she could duck, twined her greasy hair through my fingers and around my fist and, using strength I didn’t know I possessed, swiped her feet out from under her at the same time as I pushed her face deep into the shit pile. I held her there as she kicked the earth and scrabbled with her hands.
Aye. I made her eat shit.
When I was certain she’d gained a mouthful, I let her go, leaping away, eyes fixed on her, my chest heaving and heart beating faster than a soldier’s drums. I raised my fists like a pugilist, ready for another bout.
She lay face first in the muck, unmoving.
I was just starting to get worried when she stirred. Ever so slowly, she lifted herself onto her elbows. The dogs, perhaps sensing something, also retreated, taking refuge in my stinking skirts.
Already, I was beginning to regret what I’d done. I wondered how I’d explain this to Master Bigod, Theo, Beton. The thought of what Alyson would do to get her revenge made the heat of our encounter turn to frost in my veins.
She turned and blinked. Her face was coated in dark brown muck. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, to the sides of her face. Her mouth . . . oh dear God. I wanted to be sick just looking at her. The smell was already in my nostrils; the cause of that stench was quite literally filling hers. She spun to one side and spat, spat again, then retched a few times, loudly. She held a finger against first one side of her nose, then the other, and blew out sharply.
Gorge rose in me. Gorge and a deep, deep fear. I rested one hand against Hereward’s head. She whined. I almost did too.
Then, Alyson did what I never, ever expected. She took one look at me, and began to laugh.
She rose unsteadily, fell back down before trying again; until she stood straight. She studied the state of her clothes, lifted the heavy strands of hair from her shoulders, then regarded me and laughed harder.
Her laughter was so bubbly, something I never thought to hear, that I began to giggle. She staggered toward me, doubled over with mirth, and threw an arm about my shoulders, whether to keep herself upright or drag me into the dirt again, I wasn’t sure. But when she simply continued to laugh uproariously, tears pouring down her cheeks, I joined her.
How long we stood there, I’m uncertain. By the time we’d drained the merriment from our bodies, things had altered between us.
“You, step-mamma,” she said, hiccoughing, “stink.”
“So do you, my child.”
For some reason we found this hilarious and began laughing again.
* * *
Hours later, after we’d taken the dogs to the brook and washed them, stripped off every last stitch of clothing and scrubbed it and the worst from ourselves, we returned stark naked to the house. There, we boiled water, filled a tub, and cast handfuls of herbs and petals into it. Then, we helped each other wash the last of the stench from our bodies, paying careful attention to our nails, ears, between our toes, passing the soap to and fro, pointing out where we’d missed. We even washed and brushed each other’s hair.
The water only needed changing three times, but by the time we’d finished, we were cleaner than a churched mother.
Sitting in front of the hearth, we shared an ale and studied each other anew. Apart from her cut and swollen lip where I’d punched her, and the lump on her forehead which matched the one on mine, Alyson’s face wasn’t the least bit ratty or toady. On the contrary it was a very nice face with plump cheeks, large eyes, and even creamy teeth set in a generous mouth above a small chin. Her skin was also very white and, like mine, had a smattering of freckles, something all the dirt had hidden. Her hair was the most glorious shade of auburn, like the leaves as they turned in autumn. It was also quite long and curly. Her eyes, a dark shade of blue, were intelligent and warmer than I would have ever thought from the glacial stares she’d given me.
“You pack a mean punch for a mother,” she said.
“You pack a mean one for a daughter,” I replied.
We giggled. This had been going on all afternoon.
“You look better smeared in shit than no mother I’ve ever seen,” she said.
“You make eating shit look tastier than any daughter I’ve ever known.”
That started us off again and it was how Master Bigod and the men found us a short time later.
“What’s going on here?” asked Master Bigod, coming into the house and staring, Theo and Beton right behind him. Hereward and Wake bounded over, almost tripping him up as he joined us. “What’s so funny? How come the dogs look so . . . clean? How come you both . . .” He paused and took in the swollen lips, the scratches, the rather prominent lump on Alyson’s forehead. He thought better than to pass comment. “. . . Do as well? Are we expecting the King?”
“Nay, Papa,” smiled Alyson. Sweet Jesu, she was a girl transformed. I prayed with all my might this alteration might be a lasting one, not a fleeting thing born of our furious, revolting tussle. I prayed the cleansing we’d undertaken together was of more than just our bodies. As if reading my thoughts, Alyson met my eyes and nodded, her smile widening. “We—Eleanor and I—just decided that since we were cleaning the house, it was time to look to our persons as well.”
Clever girl. The fight was to be our secret.
“Why, the resemblance between you both is quite striking,” added Master Bigod, looking from one of us to the other. “You could be sisters.”
I stared at Alyson in bewilderment, as she did me. Strange to think only a few hours ago, I would have been appalled by such a comparison. Not any longer. We shared a long, slow smile.
Before any more could be said about that, and not one to miss an opportunity, I stood. “We thought you, Beton, and Theo might also like to partake of washing. Look, husband, the water is still there and we have more warming on the fire.” I pointed to the brimming tub, the water not too gray as it had been changed before we’d finished with it.
Hands in the air, Master Bigod began to back away. “I don’t need a bath. I had one afore Yuletide and not due another for a few months yet.”
Theo and Beton began to skulk toward the door.
Damn. So much for thinking that upon seeing and smelling us, the men would be keen.
“Papa,” said Alyson, raising a warning finger, before, quick as a flash, she bolted to the first door and closed it. Then, she raced to the second. “None of you—” she pointed to the men one by one, “are leaving this house until you’ve bathed. Properly. That means taking off all your clothes and getting in that tub. Now, who’s first?”
There were furious objections and any number of excuses as we helped the men remove their clothes, me modestly averting my gaze when they took off their shifts and braes. (I confess, I did peep when Master Bigod undid the cord on his and stepped out of them. He may have been a humble farmer but there was nothing humble about his plough, if you get my meaning.)
Together, Alyson and I boiled more water, helped the men wash their hair and backs, and scurried to and fro fetching clean shifts, breeches, shirts, and hose. Master Bigod complained that the only other set he had was his Sunday best, but as Alyson pointed out, what did that matter when he so rarely went to church anyhow. I silently vowed that I would weave enough cloth to make all the men extra sets of clothes.
We sat by the hearth that night, the hounds and Claude curled about us, the other beasts snoring and snuffling, and drank, ate, and told stories through the thick smoke. Beton played his pipe, Theo beat a drum. Outside, the rain fell and thunder growled in the distance, causing Hereward and Wake’s ears to twitch, but not to disturb them enough that they raised their weary heads. Nor did I as the rain lashed the roof when I went to bed, my husband, at my insistence, sleeping beside me. He didn’t touch me, but I found his presence a great comfort and, with his fresh odor in my nostrils, slept more soundly than I remembered in a long, long time.