Bigod Farm
The Year of Our Lord 1364
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of Edward III
Woken by the loudest of shrieks, I sat bolt upright, my hand clutching the bedclothes. I blinked, looked about, wondering momentarily where on God’s good earth I was, before I remembered.
Then I saw him.
Directly across from the bed, at the top of the ladder, was a large rooster.
It locked eyes with me, its bold comb quivering as it lifted its beak to release another screech. Before it could, King Claude, who unbeknownst to me had been curled on the end of the bed, leaped. It was enough to send the bird flapping and squawking off his perch and out of sight. King Claude sauntered over to the doorway, really an opening in the wall against which a ladder leaned, before turning slowly and, with an elegant jump, returning to the bed. He completed a few circles then settled, raising his head to take my thanks, which I duly gave, along with a cautious pat on the head. I could hear the rooster scuttling about in the rushes below, clucking his indignation.
I slowly lay back down as the morning light revealed the room with its wide low beams and whitewashed walls, upon which hung a small cross and two sconces. A window had been cut into the wall to my right and I recalled leaving the shutters open as the smell of paint had been strong. Through the window I could see the day dawning. The air was moist, it had rained overnight, but it still carried the pungent odor of the refuse that surrounded the house. It really was intolerable. How like my lady I sounded. I wondered if she’d given me another thought. Had she asked The Poet how I fared? Had anyone? I wondered how long I might wait before I returned to Noke Manor for a visit. Would I even be welcome?
Trying not to think about that, I regarded the ends of the great wooden bed. I moved my feet, enjoying the feel of the soft covering, being careful not to disturb the cat, noting that the mattress was much more comfortable than my straw-filled one at Noke Manor. The sheets were clean, the coverlet appeared new. Altogether, a real effort had been made to prepare this room and, indeed, the house for my arrival. This was so contrary to what I’d expected, I still wasn’t certain what to make of it. To my left was a cloth-covered chair, upon which yesterday’s clothes were draped. I suppose I should rise and don them . . . Instead, I remained and thought about what happened yestereve after Alyson stormed out of the house.
It had been most uncomfortable, then Master Bigod set about being host. First, he sent one of the men, whose name I learned was Theo, to see if Alyson was alright.
“She’ll likely be down by the stream, near that tree where the coneys have a warren.” He gave Theo a pointed look.
Downing his mazer, Theo left immediately.
“Alyson oft goes there, ’specially after her mama died. She used to love casting stones into the brook, tickling the fish and such.” I was struck by both Master Bigod’s knowledge of his daughter’s pastimes and his consideration. Dear God, if I’d behaved like Alyson, not only Cook, but Master Merriman, Mistress Bertha, and my father (if he’d been alive) would have dragged me back by the ears—that was, when they weren’t yelling in them. Master Bigod didn’t even appear cross, just resigned.
Maybe this was something Alyson did on a regular basis? Nay. She was out of sorts for one reason and one reason only: me. I wasn’t used to that, either. The other maids had been my gossips, my friends. Never expecting to find someone close to my own age here, let alone a daughter, I wondered if I could make a friend of her. A mother, I could never be. How can one be maternal to someone older than themselves? And dirtier, I added ungenerously, smoothing my clean tunic over my knees.
Next, Master Bigod sent the other man, Beton, out to collect more firewood. With a polite bow, he left. He bore a very strong resemblance to Theo, both being in possession of unruly brown hair and pale blue eyes. Theo was much taller than Beton, who was of middling height, but with very broad shoulders. Neither spoke much, but like the hounds, were obedient. Yet they didn’t seem afraid of Master Bigod . . . on the contrary . . .
Master Bigod went to the kitchen, returning moments later. The dogs followed and, from the way they sat with straight backs and eager snouts, it was evident they expected to be rewarded.
“I’m guessing you’re hungry, wife,” said Master Bigod gruffly, and set down a lump of hard cheese and a loaf of bread on the table. After detaching a knife from his belt, he began to slice.
“Thank you.” I took what he passed me. I was famished. I was also confused. Thus far, the man mocked by the villagers and said to be at best a bully and at worst a murderer, had shown me nothing but consideration. The lack of cleanliness of his person and outside the house aside, he was trying very hard. Was this an act that, like the masked mummers, would be exposed when the curtain was drawn? I glanced up toward the loft bedroom. Or would he wait until we were alone?
Nibbling at the bread, which was coarse but surprisingly tasty, as was the cheese, I observed him as he absently fed the dogs bits of his meal, his eyes straying to the door.
Beton finished stoking the fire and, standing in the shadows, waited until Master Bigod not only beckoned him to join us, but insisted he help himself. Beton didn’t wait for a second invitation, but used his knife to cut himself a generous slab of bread and cheese.
“We usually have butter too,” said Master Bigod, his mouth full. “Alyson churns it regular like, but she was too busy sweeping out the house and preparing it for you, wife, and then coming to witness our marriage, to get that done.”
“We all were,” said Beton, spraying some crumbs. “Trying to get it nice for you, like the master wanted. We’ve been doing all sorts—cutting, polishing, hammering, even painting and washing.”
The two men beamed. Washing? Not themselves.
I found a smile. “Ah, well, I’m grateful.” I glanced about. “It’s . . . um . . . er . . . very nice.”
As the shadows grew longer and evening wrapped its velvet arms about the house, the flames of the hearth throwing dancing shadows against the walls, Master Bigod rose and lit the candles, bringing one to the table.
Unasked, Beton began to close the shutters and then went outside and led the donkey back into the other part of the house. It pootled in and then dropped onto what was clearly its bed. The remainder of the chickens went to their roosts, which were on wooden shelves off the ground, their quiet clucks pleasant.
When Theo returned, breathless from running, he had another drink, gathered up some bread and cheese in a cloth and, after a brief and quiet exchange with Master Bigod, doffed his cap and left again. At a nod from Master Bigod, Beton closed the door. Almost immediately, the smoke, which had been swirling outside, began to congregate around the hearth, spreading about the room.
“Alyson has decided to stay down by the stream tonight,” explained Master Bigod. “There’s a little hut she can sleep in. Theo will keep an eye on her.” He sat down across from me. “Forgive her, wife. This has been a shock. I didn’t know she’d followed me to the village till after we were wed.”
I shrugged. Who was I to complain? If Alyson was shocked, it didn’t hold a rushlight to what I was feeling. A wave of empathy for the angry young woman engulfed me. She was right, I’d no business being here, being married. But what choice did I have? I was but a girl, a commoner too, and thus beholden over and over to the whims of my betters. Unbidden, a tremor racked my body.
“Are you warm enough?” asked Master Bigod, concern etched on his features. “Would you like more to eat?” He topped up my mazer. The ale was going to my head. It was stronger than the small ale I was accustomed to drinking.
“I am, Master Bigod. Thank you.” Hot. Cold. I was all and everything.
“You can call me husband,” he said. “Or Fulk, if you prefer. I might be your master in God’s eyes and the church’s, but under this roof, you also be my mistress.”
What a strange thing to say. Papa was the only person I knew who thought that while a man might be considered above a woman in every regard according to God and the law, only a foolish one cared who was in charge.
“A woman might be a man’s helpmeet, but far better we meet in the middle and help each other,” he would say.
“Is that what you and Mamma did?” I’d ask.
“As best we could,” he’d answer.
Master Bigod asked Beton to play some music and the young man went to a pallet bed on the other side of the hearth and rummaged about, extracting a flute. Soon the room was filled with the plaintive notes of his pipe. Hereward and Wake sat up, their large heads tilting first one way and then the other. It was funny and I wasn’t the only one amused.
My husband watched them, his eyes sparkling, his mouth curved in a warm arc. For the first time, I had the chance to really look at him, to see beyond the dirt and the rumors. There was no one to whisper in my ears this night and cast aspersions.
I studied him as Father Roman did his psalter. I really only knew Fulk Bigod by the reputation others had given him. Taller than The Poet but shorter than my father, he was lean, spare in the body except for the beginnings of a paunch, which not even his tunic could disguise. His arms were long and sinewy, his fingers, as they drummed on the tabletop in time to the tune, were knobbly and large. A farmer’s hands, the backs speckled with spots and corded with veins. The skin was dry, like parchment. His legs, stretched out and crossed at the ankles, were well shaped. His face, hollow in the cheeks, was riven by deep wrinkles. His mouth was upturned and more generous in repose, his eyes deeply hooded. Yet, as he raised them to meet mine, surprisingly pale in color. Almost colorless, like rain on glass. They were hard to read in a face that told a hundred stories, none of them the kind to lift the spirit—or so I’d thought.
Had the man been read wrong? After all, he’d shown me nothing but kindness. I knew he was a freeman, a loner who made a living raising sheep and selling their wool; he leased lands from the monks at Bath Abbey and cared for their flocks as well. But what about his other wives? What about the daughter no one knew about? What about the vanishing servants?
“You needn’t worry.”
He caught me unawares. The entire time I’d been studying him, he’d been appraising me. My cheeks burned. “Worry? About what?” The quiver in my voice belied my words.
“’Bout doing your wifely duty. I can see by the expression on your face it is concerning you. But you need not dwell on that. Not tonight. Not till you’re ready.”
“Oh,” I said. At the back of mind, I had been preparing myself for a bedding. I’d been imagining how long I could hold my breath, shut my eyes. Whether it would hurt. How I could tolerate his old hands touching me, that mouth kissing me . . . I’d tried not to let it come to the forefront lest I pick up my tunic and, like Alyson, run away as fast as I could. Though, unlike Alyson, I’d nowhere to hunker down.
“I want a son,” he continued quietly. “But I’ll not risk a demon-child by taking you against your will, wife. All I ask is that you don’t wait too long. I not be getting any younger.”
Or cleaner, I thought.
He was waiting. “Ah. Er. Thank you . . . husband.”
He grunted and drank some more. The fire crackled, the music played on and the tightness that had kept my back stiff, my neck held just so, began to abate. I hadn’t realized how coiled I was, like a tumbler before they leap and cavort.
I stared at the fire, then at my husband again. “May I ask you a question?”
“I’ll not stop you.”
“Why do you need a son? Cannot Alyson be your heir? It’s not unheard of, you know, a woman inheriting.”
“Aye, I know. And I have sons, wife.” He gestured to Beton.
“Beton is your son?”
“Aye, and Theo. There were others too, but they left to seek their fortune in the city or to soldier for the King. Some are dead, some . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry.” Sweet Jesu! The man bred like a coney.
He bowed his head. “My problem is, they’re not my sons—or my daughter—in God’s eyes. They’re sons of my heart.”
“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”
Master Bigod gave a sad smile. “Not many do, wife. But the truth of the matter is, while they’re not children from my loins, they are blood all the same and I love them like they’re my own. And while I’ll make sure to do right by them when I die, I’ve always wanted a child I had a hand in making, if you get my meaning. A son, if, God be praised, He blesses me so. A daughter I won’t complain about. Not too much anyway.” He winked.
I was so taken aback, it was a long moment before I responded. Why, this was an act of great kindness, raising another man’s child. Children. But if they weren’t his blood, then whose were they? Did he have brothers? Sisters? How many Bigods were there? Where were they? I wanted to ask but sensed I would learn in time.
“My father,” I began, “never complained about having a daughter. Cook at Noke Manor always said that made him a rare breed.”
“Been called many things in my time, many true, many not, but never a rare breed.” His smile broadened.
He stroked Wake’s ears and I couldn’t help but think of all the things I knew he had been called. I began to wonder how many were false.
“Anyhow, breeding’s not the only reason I brought you here.”
“Oh?”
He nodded toward the door. “Alyson needs a friend. Someone near her own age. It’s not right, her being here day in day out with only me and the lads for company. You’ll be good for her.” He drank the last of his ale, stifling a belch. “And I know she’ll be good for you.”
Of that, I wasn’t so certain.
We retired soon after. Me, upstairs to the loft and its huge comfortable bed and fresh linen, with herbs strewn over the wooden floor, clean water in the basin, and my burlap atop the chest in the corner. My husband, Beton, and the dogs took the pallets between the fire and the other animals.
I heard their quiet whispers, the contented noises of the creatures, the hushing sound as the ceramic fire-cover was placed over the smoldering flames, before falling into a deep sleep.
Voices and the shutters being opened broke my reverie and sent me from bed. Using the water in the jug, and a stained but clean cloth, I washed my neck, face, and hands and donned my shift. My burlap still lay unpacked—not that it held much. Sitting on the end of the bed, I undid my plaits and tidied my hair before redoing them and, as a married woman should, tucking them beneath my cap. The last thing I did was tie my apron then, with a deep breath, I descended the ladder.
“Greetings, wife,” said Master Bigod. Sunlight streamed through the open windows, the fire was crackling, and the animals had been let out into the yard. A basket of eggs sat on the table, fresh baked bread, and a lump of very white butter as well. Alyson had evidently returned and been busy. My mouth began to water.
Before I could take a seat, let alone help myself, in swept Alyson carrying a basket on her hip. “Oh,” she said, stopping in her tracks. “You’re still here.”
“Alyson—” Master Bigod raised a warning hand.
“Nay, husband,” I said. “It’s alright.” It was anything but alright, but I made up my mind there and then I wouldn’t let this chit intimidate me. Mayhap, the villagers had it wrong—it wasn’t Fulk Bigod who was a bully but his daughter. Being the former steward’s girl and having certain privileges within the manor, I’d sometimes been a target for malice among the other servants. At first, I’d give as good as I got, but I slowly learned that sometimes the way to vanquish a bully was not by being a bigger one, but by trying to befriend them. It didn’t always work, and when it didn’t, I just gave the offender a bloodied lip. Don’t mess with a daughter whose father came from peasant stock. While part of me wanted to slap that smirk off Alyson’s filthy face, the more reasonable part of me—the godly part, some might say—thought to try and make her an ally.
I gave a small curtsey. She read something in my face, because as I approached, she took a couple of quick steps back, thrusting the basket between us. When she saw I wasn’t going to attack, she resumed her casual but hostile pose.
“Truth be told, I thought you’d be gone before cock crowed,” she said.
“Truth be told, so did I. Instead, the King exiled him from my domain.” I nodded toward Claude.
There was a guffaw behind me.
Alyson tried to stare me down. I stood my ground.
Closing the small distance between us, she hissed, “You know nothing about running a house, looking after Pa and the boys.”
I glanced over my shoulder; the men were pretending not to listen. “You’re right. I don’t. But then, I’m only twelve years old.”
“Twelve?” Alyson shot a disbelieving look. “I’ve six years on you. You sure you’re only twelve? You look older.”
“So I’m told.”
“You act older too, all uppity.”
“Aye, been told that too.”
Was that a grin Alyson swallowed?
“You had fancy clothes.” Alyson jerked her arm toward my tunic and apron. “People say you carry the favor of Lady Clarice. She bore witness at your wedding, even though you’re a slut.”
If carrying my lady’s favor landed me here, she was welcome to it. “Mayhap. But I was, still am, a servant.” I omitted the slut part. “You’re right, I don’t know the first thing about running a house.” I hesitated. “I was hoping you’d teach me.”
“Teach you?” Alyson’s mouth dropped open.
“Aye.”
“What?”
“What my tasks are, how I can help. I just want to do the right thing by you.” I turned to include the others. Sensing something afoot, Hereward and Wake trotted over, thrusting their faces at me and Alyson, demanding petting.
“Is that so?” said Alyson, ruffling Wake’s head while I scratched Hereward’s. A sly look crossed her features. “Some of the work is dirty.”
“I’m not afraid of a little dirt.”
“It’s hard.”
“Nor hard work neither.”
Putting the basket down on the table, Alyson made up her mind. She broke off some bread and ripped a piece of meat from a haunch. She shoved them in my hands. Over her shoulder, I could see Master Bigod grinning fit to split his face. I took the offering, trying to ignore the grime of her fingers.
“That’s my girls,” he said.
“Well, eat up,” said Alyson. “If you’re serious ’bout wanting to learn, I’ll show you. But you have to promise to do exactly as I say.” The aggressive note returned and she frowned, daring me to back away from my commitment. I didn’t like where this was going, but I’d baited the hook, thrown in the line, I had to take whatever I caught.
“I will.”
Alyson gave me, then her father, a smug look. After that, we ate in silence while the men discussed chores. There were sheepfolds to move, trees to prune, and sheep to milk and check. The shepherds would meet with them at sext to discuss the flock, while Master Bigod had appointments in the afternoon, first with the monks, then with some merchants interested in buying wool. Before the men left, three others arrived, help Master Bigod hired over the season.
They left without introductions. Master Bigod nodded to me and whispered something in his daughter’s ear before leaving.
I felt strangely bereft when he left. Bereft and more than a little anxious about being alone with Alyson.
Rising, she picked up the utensils and took them to the kitchen. Gathering up the jug and empty mazers, I followed. The kitchen consisted of little but a bench, some sharp knives, other tools for dissecting meat, sacks of grain and legumes, a quern for grinding corn, vials of herbs, and a pile of wood. Above the bench hung rabbit and lamb carcasses, a decent-sized hock, and bunches of dried flowers. Already, flies had settled on the rabbit. Maggots crawled across the surface. My face must have given away my disgust, for Alyson snickered. “Better get used to it.” She strolled out.
“Shouldn’t we fetch water and wash the mazers and such?” I called.
“We won’t be fetching water. I will.”
“Oh. What should I do?”
A wicked grin appeared. “You’re going to clean.” She indicated the far end of the main room. “All that shit. And, after you’ve done that, you can go outside and shovel up the cow, donkey, chicken, and other shit as well. Papa wanted it done before you arrived. Since you’re so eager to learn what it takes to run this house, you can do what I didn’t have time for.”
She stood, arms folded, waiting for me to defy her.
I wanted to shout and rail and tell her she could clean the shit since she already smelled like she’d rolled in it. But I didn’t. Sweet Mother Mary, I bit my tongue, smiled, and said, “Then tell me where the shovel is, and I’ll make a start.”
My only satisfaction was seeing the look of astonishment on that scummy, toady face. A face I swore that, one day, I’d make eat shit, if it was the last thing I did.