Bigod Farm
The Year of Our Lord 1364
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of Edward III
By mid-afternoon I was on my way to Bigod Farm, which lay between Bath-atte-Mere and the town of Bath. Two of Lady Clarice’s groomsmen, Ben and Dodo, accompanied us, as did The Poet. A grubby young woman, who’d hovered by the church door as vows were exchanged, trotted behind our small party. Older than me, she was a sorry sight, with greasy auburn hair that hung below her cap, a filthy apron and skirts coated in dried mud. Her face was hard to make out, it was so grimed with dirt. I hadn’t spied her before and wondered who she was. Mayhap, she’d never seen a wedding and been drawn by the pealing bells. For certes, some of the villagers were, lining by the road out of the village, mouths agape when they saw who was leaving and why.
“I never,” said old Goody Edith, pulling on the one tooth in her head. “That makes five for Bigod now.”
“Wonder how long this one will last,” said Goody Grisilda, chewing her tongue.
“Hopefully longer than the last,” added Goody Edith.
“Always knew that Cornfed lass would find her level,” muttered Widow Henrietta.
“Can’t get much lower,” replied Master Rohan the cobbler, sending the women into gales of laughter.
Not even a withering look quieted them. I heard references to “that poor bishop’s boy,” “whore,” and many more words besides, and knew that whatever reason was given for this hasty marriage, it wouldn’t be the truth. I met The Poet’s eyes and with a slight shock understood what I’d earlier thought was wariness, was in fact pity.
I didn’t want anyone’s pity, least of all his—the man who, I learned as I changed out of my old tunic and into the one my lady provided for the wedding, brokered this God-be-damned arrangement.
Forced me into marriage with a great lump of farting man-dung. Farting man-dung that owned a lot of land and sheep, apparently. Mistress Bertha babbled as she helped dress me. Said how Master Bigod had been given a sum of money to marry me, promised sheep as well. So, my husband (the word made me shudder) was not above a bit of bribery.
I glared at his broad back. Hopefully, he’d disperish before I had to swive him; fall off his horse and never rise. Funny how the word “swive” held “wive” in its grasp. Yet it also had the power to transform a woman. If the swiving is successful, wife becomes mother. Was that what Fulk Bigod wanted? For me to give him children? I repressed a shiver and rubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes. Damn if I’d bawl. I took a deep, shuddering breath, sat up straight.
Of a sudden, Papa’s voice came to me. “You have to create opportunities where you can. No matter what life hurls at you, child, catch it. If it’s shit, turn it into fertilizer. If it’s insults, throw them back. Grip opportunity with both hands and ride it like a wild colt until you’ve tamed it. You’ve come from nothing, and unless you make something of yourself with what you’re offered, it’s to nothing you’ll return.”
Papa had made something of himself. The Botch had helped, killing so many folk the gentry had no choice but to accept workers they wouldn’t usually consider hiring. Papa said the disease turned society on its head, making the rich beholden to the poor for a time. Could I make something of this? Turn the shit I’d been given into something productive? As we drew away from Noke Manor and the only life I could really remember, this seemed impossible.
I tried to recall what Mistress Bertha had said. As she helped me dress for the wedding, she’d tucked and pulled, twisting me this way and that. She didn’t intend to hurt; she was rough so she didn’t cry. Nervous, I babbled the entire time.
“There are people in the village saying he killed his wives and servants,” I said. “If not deliberately, then through neglect. None stay. Some last only a day.”
Mistress Bertha stopped what she was doing and put her hands on her hips. “Rubbish,” she said, and spun me the other way. “Fulk Bigod may be many things, but he’s not a murderer or a tyrant. It’s just nasty idle gossip. Though I’ll go as far to say the man’s an enigma.”
“An enigma?”
“Mystery.”
“One wrapped in sheep dung,” I mumbled.
Mistress Bertha slapped me on the ass. “You’ll need to learn to curb that tongue, girl, or it will land you in more trouble.”
“How can I be in more trouble?” I buried my face in my hands. “Why do I have to marry anyone? We didn’t do anything, I swear.”
“It matters not what you did,” said Mistress Bertha, wrapping me in her arms, stroking my hair. The tears flowed then, and not just mine. “It’s what you were perceived to be doing. Hush now,” she said as I began to protest. “It’s not all bad. Think of it this way: Fulk Bigod is a man of moderate means, but he’s also old. At worst, you’ll have a short period of pain followed by a lifetime of comfort. It’s up to you.”
Her words reminded me of Papa’s.
As the sun sank beyond the horizon and the sky began to transform into a palette of blush, violet, and gold, I dwelled on those words, even as I latched onto the swaying backs of The Poet and my husband a few paces ahead. We rode in silence, well past the next village now, following the stream along a track better suited to feet than beasts. There was a thick wood to one side, a drystone wall encasing parts of it before it opened onto green hillocks dotted with creamy sheep. A lone shepherd and two panting dogs sat beneath a huge oak. It wasn’t until they leaped to their feet as we drew closer, acknowledging Master Bigod, that I understood these were his lands I was admiring.
After a time, we rounded a bend and there, in a narrow valley not far from a chuckling creek, was a long, low building, whitewashed with a thatched roof. Smoke poured out of a hole somewhere in the middle. Shutters were open to allow air into the house. Two wooden doors at either end were ajar; the furthest one had chickens pecking around the threshold. Coming through the other door was a large sow followed by some piglets.
“God’s boils, Alyson,” bellowed Master Bigod, spinning on his mount to glare over his shoulder. “You forgot to lock up the fecking pigs!” It was the most I’d ever heard him say.
I jumped as he continued to shout, wondering why he was hurling such invective when it slowly dawned, it wasn’t me he was abusing, but someone else. I looked around only to see the filthy drab from outside the church. Had she been there the entire way? Well back from the last horse, she’d frozen in her tracks.
With a growl, Master Bigod kicked his horse to quickly cover the final distance to the house.
I waited until the girl caught up with me. “May God give you good day.” I tried not to stare. Up close, she was a wretched creature. She must be a serving girl or farm maid. They hadn’t all left. For certes, she looked right hedge-born. Lady Clarice would never have allowed her servants or villeins to appear in such a way.
Instead of answering me, the girl picked up her pace, lifting her skirts to expose bare and grimy ankles in worn clogs, and stormed past. She shot me a look of such loathing, it was as if I’d been struck.
Indignant, sick of being unjustly treated, frightened of what lay ahead, I kicked the donkey and followed her. “Now, just you wait a minute . . .” What was her name? “Alyson,” I barked. “You can’t go treating me like that. Don’t you know who I am?”
The distance between us was growing. The louder I called, the faster she walked, her back to me, her shoulders up around her ears.
An unnatural anger possessed me. The stubborn donkey was incapable of speed. I halted and slipped off its back and ran. I grabbed the girl by the shoulder and forced her to turn around, nearly making us both lose balance.
We faced each other, panting. We were of a height. She was frowning, I was glaring.
“I don’t know who taught you manners, girl, but I won’t accept being treated like that by you or anyone else. I saw you at the church. Your master wed me. You will show the respect I deserve!”
I sounded just like Mistress Bertha or even, I tried to persuade myself, Lady Clarice. I drew myself up, raised my chin and gave her the look I’d been told could freeze the millpond. In summer.
The girl stared brazenly, then muttered something, her lip curling in a sneer.
“What did you say?” I leaned closer so I might hear her forced apology.
“I said,” she repeated slowly, “he’s not my master.” There was no remorse.
I began to suspect I’d been right all along. She was a by-blow, a tinker’s get, or someone who’d fled their lord’s lands to avoid paying chevage and was searching for work. A wave of pity swept me. Times were tough enough, especially for a woman on her own.
“Well, if he’s not your master, then who is he to you?” I folded my arms and gave her a stern but benign look.
Her lips twisted as her eyes met mine. They were the color of slate. “He’s my pa,” she said.
My eyes widened, my mouth dropped open.
“Which, if I’m not mistaken,” she continued, “makes you me mam.”