Bigod Farm
The Year of Our Lord 1364
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of Edward III
I was still in shock when The Poet, Ben, and Dodo departed a short time later. They weren’t offered refreshment, or invited into the house. After untying my burlap and greeting two young men who appeared from indoors—one to lead the donkey away and the other to take my belongings—there was naught for the others to do. They loitered, trying to strike up conversations, but when no invitation was forthcoming, they’d no choice but to leave. The Poet took my hand and muttered some kind of consolation or words of hope, I knew not which. I didn’t say anything. I was too stunned with the idea I was wife and mother—and mother to a dirty doxy some years older at that—to really note they were going until it was too late. When I saw the eddies of dirt being kicked up by their horses and their silhouettes disappearing up the track, I followed, waving and calling, but it did no good. They were gone.
I was all alone with my present. With my future.
I turned to face it. My husband and his daughter stood outside the doorway that only a short time ago had framed pigs.
If I’d thought Master Bigod and his daughter filthy, it was nothing compared to what I gazed upon. Not even the rich palette of the setting sun cast it in a favorable light. Animal ordure as well as piles of rotting vegetable scraps lay all over the yard. Nothing could hide the holes in the thatched roof, the splintered window and door frames, nor the weeds and flowers choking the walls and the nearby sheds, bursting through the wattle and daub, springing from the roof; nor could one ignore the green vines holding the shutters captive. There was an overgrown herb garden to the left of the main house and I could see an old tub and a few bushes over which some washed linen had been flung. Chickens pecked the dirt around a rusty wheel, a cow was tethered to the nearby shed, chewing its cud, while a milking pail rolled back and forth. Trees cast welcome shade over one side of the house and in these birds fluttered and chirruped. At least someone was happy.
Beyond the house was more pasture with neat drystone walls enclosing a large flock of sheep. They ambled over the ground, tugging at the plentiful grass, lifting their heads to watch as first Master Bigod’s horse, then the donkey, were released into their field. The beasts bobbed straight over to a wooden trough and drank deeply. There were laden fruit trees and a scrappy vegetable garden. I could see evidence of kale, onions, beet, and herbs besides. I wondered who was responsible for that, and the neatness of the drystone walls, which, unlike the house, were in good repair. It was such a contradiction.
“What are you waiting for, wife, come, come inside,” said Master Bigod. His voice was deep and gravelly, as if dry from lack of use. His words were accompanied by a smile. Much to my surprise, he had a nice one, despite having so few teeth. But so did the ale-conner and he was well known for beating his wife and taking bribes from the brewers.
Slapping me on the back as if I were a friend rather than his new bride, I almost tripped over the doorstep as he moved aside for me to pass.
“Alyson tells me she introduced herself,” he said, following so closely I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck.
“She did.” I wondered what else the sullen girl had said and when. There was no sign of her. Master Bigod dragged a stool closer to the central fire, striking its wooden top. A cloud of dust rose. He used his sleeve to swipe it clean. “Here, sit, sit and let’s have a bridal ale to celebrate. It’s not every day I get to bring a wife home . . . well, not lately anyhow. Alyson!” he bellowed, looking about. “Get some ale.”
Walking slowly to the stool, I tried not to think about the other women he’d brought here, nor their fates. Instead, I took in my surroundings. It was fairly dark, even though weak light struggled through the windows. The smoldering fire made the air quite smoky and left a haze sitting beneath the broad rafters. I coughed a few times. Noke Manor had a chimney in the Great Hall, so I wasn’t accustomed to fighting for my breath indoors. I wondered what it would be like in winter with everything closed up.
Nevertheless, the style of the house was not unfamiliar, as it was very like some in the village, only longer and wider and not so well kept. I’d seen worse. Compared to the outside, an effort had been made indoors. One vast room, the house was divided by the fire in the center; a screen down one end concealed a kitchen. I could hear the sound of mazers clanging and a bung being removed from a barrel. Closer to the screen, there was a trestle table, stools, a bench, and even a sideboard upon which a few utensils rested—cups and spoons mainly. Some chipped jugs. A mean-looking weaving hung from one wall, its picture unclear in the poor light. Sconces with unlit candles were screwed into the smoke-stained walls. Above the central hearth hung a huge pot, some gridirons, smaller pots, ladles, an iron fork, and trivets. A chest sat beneath one window, and the ginger cat atop it paused in its grooming to stare at me with wide yellow eyes. Master Bigod waved toward it. “Don’t mind King Claude. He thinks he owns the place.”
King Claude. Well, I liked cats and would make sure to pay fealty soon.
It was just as well I was fond of animals, because the other end of the room had a compact dirt floor scattered with beds of hay. On one, a large sow reclined, piglets suckling sleepily at her teats, while two goats chewed contentedly next to her. Against the far wall, more chickens roosted. Together, they accounted for the smell and the shit.
Unable to stay still, my husband was pacing, clearly as nervous as I was, even though he’d been married many times before. He was the master of this domain. A domain that, as his wife, I would be excepted to manage. Oh, how I wished I’d asked more questions about how to keep house, how to be a wife, of Mistress Bertha, Lady Clarice, of anyone at the manor, even The Poet.
What should I do? What should I say?
My heart began to somersault and beads of sweat broke out along my forehead and between my breasts. Hot tears welled. I wouldn’t cry, I wouldn’t.
Just then, Alyson reappeared, a bunch of wooden mazers balanced under one arm, while in her other hand she carried a large jug. She thumped them all on the table and began to pour haphazardly, her face set in a deep, resentful frown. It was a wonder any of the ale went into the cups.
“Oy, you pair,” Master Bigod called to no one in particular. The two young men I’d seen earlier reappeared. “Come and meet your mistress and share a drink. Oh, and find Hereward and Wake, would you?”
Squinting into the shadows, I could see there was another floor above the one we currently occupied. The bedroom must be there. Dear God up in Heaven, I hoped so. Mind you, the sow might not be so bad to curl up next to . . . she likely smelled better.
A volley of barks distracted me as two huge hounds burst in, followed by the young men.
“Hereward, Wake,” cried Master Bigod, dropping to one knee and enfolding his arms around the two hairy mutts. The dogs, brown, long-legged things with wiry fur and big, slavering jaws, clearly adored him, putting their paws on his shoulders and licking his face and ears. Mayhap, that sufficed for a wash. Master Bigod chuckled and ruffled their heads. Standing, he pointed at me.
“Meet your new mistress,” he said.
The hounds almost knocked me off my stool. Their great black noses nudged my legs, before they licked me with their velvet tongues. Their wagging tails struck my thighs, my arms. I didn’t know where to put my hands, how to stop them, how to enfold them and kiss them back. Why, these dogs were adorable. Such affection, such obedience too, I thought as Master Bigod shouted a command and they immediately dropped to their haunches.
Not everyone earned such admiration. Nor had it returned with such ease. “Which one is Hereward and which Wake?” I asked.
It was the daughter, Alyson, who answered. She nodded at the smaller of the two dogs. “That’s Hereward, and her brother is Wake.”
“Blasted nuisances, the pair of them,” growled Master Bigod, his hand chucking Hereward beneath her chin, belying his words. She tried to lick him. “Never mind them,” said Master Bigod. “Let’s raise a toast to the new Mistress Bigod.” Lifting his mazer, he waited until the two men, Alyson, and I hefted ours. “Welcome to our home, Eleanor.” His eyes flickered and he gulped nervously.
“Welcome,” said the two young men and, along with their master, drank deeply. Alyson turned away, a sour look upon her face. She didn’t drink, but I did. I was parched. Much to my astonishment, the ale was delicious. Much nicer than what the manor’s brewer, Goody Allsop, made. I said as much.
Master Bigod wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Aye. Isolde taught Alyson how to brew, didn’t she, may God assoil her. Isolde was my second wife. My girl does a mighty fine job of it.”
I raised my cup in her direction. “You do. You could sell this and make a fortune.”
For a mere moment, Alyson met my eyes and there was no resentment, only surprise at the praise, before it was replaced by a hard, suspicious look. Then, her father waved his arm, almost striking her. “Don’t you go putting foolish notions in her head, wife. Who’d buy our ale out here? Anyhow, Alyson’s been busy keeping house.” He looked about, smiling again, then his face transformed. “Only, now she don’t have to anymore. That’s what you be here for, ain’t it, wife?”
“I . . . I . . .”
“But . . . Pa,” protested Alyson. “That’s my job. I look after the house.”
“Not anymore you don’t,” began Master Bigod, his face growing red. “Not on your own. Don’t worry. You’ll do as the mistress bids or we’ll find something else for you.”
Alyson jumped to her feet. “I don’t want to do anything else. I’ve always done this. Always. I like looking after things.” Her arm swept the room. “I like looking after you and the boys. She . . .” she spat. “She has no right to take that away. She’s no right to be here.”
Damn if my eyes didn’t burn. I buried my face in the mazer.
Master Bigod forced a chuckle. “There, there.” He flapped a hand, indicating she should sit. “No need to make a fuss. Come on, Alyson love. Sit down. Have a drink to my new bride. A bride who has every right to be here. Who knows? Mayhap, one day soon, we’ll find you a husband and then—”
“I don’t want a husband!” screamed Alyson. I almost dropped my mazer. Hereward and Wake whined, Wake lowering himself onto the floor. “I never want one. I don’t want her here either, lazy little gap-toothed slut. Only reason she’s here’s because she’s a sinner what swived a priest and no one else’d have her. Why’d you take her, Pa? Spoil everything. Couldn’t you have left well enough alone? Left her alone?” She stood, her feet apart, hands on hips, eyes blazing. “Why don’t you go back to your manor and la de da ways, eh? I don’t need you or your help. Pa doesn’t need you either, so why don’t you just piss off?”
“Now, now.” Master Bigod rose and reached out, whether to thump her or offer comfort wasn’t clear. “No need to speak to your new ma like that.”
“Ma?” screeched Alyson. “Why, she’s younger than me. A child. A spoiled, stupid, ugly hog-child. She belongs in the sty.” Fighting back tears, the look of betrayal on Alyson’s face wrenched my heart. I turned to offer solace, anything, but she slapped my hand away and, with a great sob, turned on her heel and ran out into the evening.
The four of us sat unmoving, not speaking as the sound of her boots grew fainter and fainter.
The croak of frogs could just be heard, the house creaked, and a shutter whined before the cow bellowed, breaking the spell. I knew how it felt.
Master Bigod slowly sank back down on the stool, hitched up his breeches, and cleared his throat. He gave a crooked smile.
“All in all, I’d say that went very well, wouldn’t you, wife?”