Bigod Farm
The Year of Our Lord 1364
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of Edward III
Call it the will of God, the hand of Fate, the Wheel of Fortune turning in my favor, whatever you choose, but a few days later, while we were still basking in the goodwill produced by shit, soap, and water, we had not one but two unexpected visitors.
The first was our neighbor, Master Turbet Gerrish.
I’d heard Master Gerrish’s name a great deal since I arrived. Not only had he supplied my husband with the broken loom, but his lands abutted ours. The men would oft meet to discuss sheepfolds, repairs to drystone walls, storm damage, and who was to blame when sheep or lambs were unaccounted for.
When he appeared at the house bright and early one summer morning, before the men had left for the fields, Master Bigod invited him to join us, albeit with some reluctance. His squire and another man remained outside with the horses. At the time, I put my husband’s aloofness down to his dislike of people in general, which just went to show how much more I’d yet to learn about him.
Master Gerrish reminded me of the gentry and bishops who occasionally graced Noke Manor. It wasn’t just his practiced manners, but his fine clothing as well. It looked so out of place at Bigod Farm. Despite the efforts we’d made, before Master Gerrish with his fancy embroidered paltock, parti-colored hose, and leather boots, we looked like peasants. Back then, I didn’t understand this was how we were meant to feel.
Gorgeously attired for a freeman, Master Gerrish strode into the house as if he owned it. On seeing me rising from the table, he demanded an introduction and, taking his time, took my hand and kissed it, then proceeded to shower me with compliments. I was overwhelmed, and for many reasons. It was partly his scent, which hovered about him as bees do flowers. It was exotic, wild, and very, very strong. It made me want to discreetly sniff my person and sprinkle myself with rosewater (I didn’t). I was initially lost for words because it was the first time I’d met someone of his rank as a wife. I was shown a level of respect I’d only ever seen offered to Lady Clarice, the clergy, and sometimes Papa. I liked it. A lot.
Oh, alright I admit it. My head was turned. I was only twelve. It didn’t take much.
Keeping a hold of my hand, Master Gerrish examined the house appreciatively, his eyebrows arched. He waved a beringed hand in the air.
“And I suppose you’re the . . . woman responsible for this wondrous transformation?”
The child in me responded.
Alyson made a noise deep in her throat.
“Oh, not me alone,” I said swiftly. I wouldn’t risk our newfound accord for anyone, not even for this stranger who called me a woman. “Alyson had already done a great deal before I arrived. Since then, we’ve been working together to make some improvements.”
“Some? Why it’s positively . . . altered.” Master Gerrish squeezed my fingers then released them. “You’ve done very well for yourself, haven’t you, Bigod?” he said with an exaggerated wink at my husband, who scowled and plonked himself on the bench. “Found yourself a proper, obedient, and very young wife. Someone you can train. I like that.”
Alyson rolled her eyes. I resisted the urge to sit on my haunches and bark.
“And I have to say, Mistress Bigod—” he cast another appreciative eye over me, “you’re not what I expected, not at all.”
Without thinking, I was about to ask what he did expect, when my husband intervened.
“What brings you here, Gerrish?”
“Ah, well,” said Master Gerrish, taking the proffered place on the bench, forcing Theo to slide along. He grasped the mazer of small ale Alyson passed him and drank before answering. “Apart from wanting to meet your lady wife, something I’ve been remiss about doing, though with good reason, as I’ve been in London. That’s why I’m here. I thought you’d like to know what’s happening in Calais now that it’s operating as the Staple port for the wool trade.”
“I would,” said Master Bigod. “But it won’t change my position, Gerrish. If we can’t resolve our problems honestly then we’re as bad as those we accuse of fleecing us.”
Master Gerrish laughed and faced me. “You’ve married an honest man, Mistress Bigod, for better or worse.”
I didn’t see how being honest could ever be worse, but kept my peace. Rising, my husband touched Master Gerrish’s arm and gestured to the door. “How about we take this conversation outside? The women don’t need to be bothered with this.”
Goddamn his patched hose. This is precisely what I did want to be bothered with. As a brogger’s daughter, I knew all about the Wool Staple, how it had been moved from Bruges, then to a number of ports and places in Britain before being established at Calais last year and thus back onto English territory. How the King made certain all the wool our country exported went through the one port, where subsidies were paid and the sacks were measured and weighed before they went onward to international buyers. Its purpose was to prevent alien merchants from cheating English buyers or wool growers. There was an uproar when it became evident the only ones doing the cheating (or the main ones) were the twenty-six English merchants based in Calais who not only charged excessive fees—even to their own—but bought land there and demanded exorbitant rents, basically manipulating the market by forcing small producers out so those remaining profited at everyone else’s expense. Master Merriman had been furious, claiming it an outrage.
Apart from owning a large flock and leasing good pasture as well as a few acres to grow crops, I was still to learn Master Bigod’s level of involvement in the wool trade, exactly how many sheep he ran and what sort of coin he earned. If he was interested in the Staple and what was going on, then he must be exporting some wool as well.
I watched the two men talking outside. They were out of earshot, but the tone of their conversation and their facial expressions were clear. My husband was sour and angry, a contrast to Master Gerrish, who was a great deal . . . lighter. Slightly younger than Master Bigod, he appeared to have an altogether different disposition. I said as much to Alyson.
“Don’t be fooled by appearances,” she said, standing beside me, arms folded. “His smile is like the sun on an overcast day—it shines all too briefly, giving a false impression of warmth. Come on.” She nudged me in the ribs. “Let’s make a start on the barn.”
Yesterday I’d managed to persuade her we should shift the animals out of the house altogether. Enjoying her newfound freshness as well as our equanimity, Alyson had been swift to agree. I wanted to make sure we acted quickly, lest she change her mind.
Nonetheless, I looked back at the men as we went out the door. Master Gerrish waved and smiled. Master Bigod grunted. If Master Gerrish’s grin was insincere, there was no denying it came in an attractive, if somewhat over-scented package.
I don’t know when the men departed, or the boys, just that Alyson and I worked hard all morning preparing the barn. We moved the brewing equipment to one side, swept the stables and, of course, shoveled more shit, and brought in some new hay.
The bells for sext tolled faintly in the distance as we moved the hens’ nesting boxes out of the house, many of them clucking as they tottered after us, the rooster scratching at the dirt, pecking and following to see what we were about. We’d have to ask Master Bigod to repair the barn doors, but they weren’t in bad condition for something that had been neglected so long. We created an area for Pilgrim, and one for the sow and her piglets as well. The goats could be partitioned near the door and the geese we’d corral with the ducks and hens at night.
When we broke for some bread and ale, I almost fell off the bale when Alyson suggested we go to the brook to bathe and wash off the sweat and dirt of our labors—and the fleas, she added. What? Two baths in as many days. I readily agreed, the memory of Master Gerrish’s heady perfume still in my nostrils. I too would be glad to get rid of the wretched fleas and any lice that may have burrowed into our hair since the last wash.
An hour later, we were walking back to the house, and I was thinking how relieved I was that the resentment Alyson had borne me appeared to have evaporated. All it had taken was some shit. Papa would laugh. What was it he always said to me? If you’re given shit, turn it into fertilizer. Hopefully, this is exactly what I’d done.
We heard the jangle of harness and the sound of voices. Alyson stopped. “Don’t tell me Master Gerrish is back.”
I shielded my eyes with my hand. “They’re riding mules, not horses.” Whoever it was, I was grateful they hadn’t arrived earlier when we were covered in muck and straw.
“Well, the devil take my soul,” I muttered as they drew closer. A favorite curse of Cook’s.
“Can you make out who it is?” asked Alyson, squinting.
It was The Poet. Fear prickled my spine, made my innards liquid as I wondered what brought him here. Was there to be more trouble over what happened with Layamon?
Deep down, what worried me most was that he’d come to take me away. I may have only been at Bigod Farm a short while, but already I’d grown accustomed not just to the way things were, but my new position. Here, I wasn’t a servant, but able to make decisions and have others do my bidding. To my surprise, I wasn’t ready to relinquish the little authority I had. Nor put at risk the burgeoning friendship with Alyson.
Little did I know that, though unremarkable at the time, both our visitors that day had roles to play in my future.