Catherine, Called Birdy: September

Today the sun shone and the villagers sowed hay, gathered apples, and pulled fish from the stream.

I may forego spinning as long as I write this account for Edward.

What follows will be my book—the book of Catherine, called Little Bird or Birdy, daughter of Rollo and the lady Aislinn, sister to Thomas, Edward, and the abominable Robert, of the village of Stonebridge in the shire of Lincoln, in the country of England, in the hands of God.

Today I chased a rat about the hall with a broom and set the broom afire, ruined my embroidery, threw it in the privy, ate too much for dinner, hid in the barn and sulked, teased the littlest kitchen boy until he cried, turned the mattresses, took the linen outside for airing, hid from Morwenna and her endless chores, ate supper, brought in the forgotten linen now wet with dew, endured scolding and slapping from Morwenna, pinched Perkin, and went to bed.

Something is astir.

With Robert and Thomas away in the king’s service and Edward at his abbey, there are fewer people about for my father to bother, so he mostly fixes upon me.

Here in my prison my mother works and gossips with her women as if she didn’t mind being chained to needle and spindle.

If I had to be born a lady, why not a rich lady, so someone else could do the work and I could lie on a silken bed and listen to a beautiful minstrel sing while my servants hemmed?

I am being punished for impudence again, so was not allowed to go.

My life is barren.

My mother seeks to make me a fine lady—dumb, docile, and accomplished—so I must take lady-lessons and keep my mouth closed.

What makes this clodpole suitor anxious to have me?

I am no beauty, being sun-browned and gray-eyed, with poor eyesight and a stubborn disposition.

And my suitor is but a wool merchant from Great Yarmouth who aspires to be mayor and thinks a wife with noble relations, no matter how distant, will be an advantage.

And my suitor is but a wool merchant from Great Yarmouth who aspires to be mayor and thinks a wife with noble relations, no matter how distant, will be an advantage.

He was also a mile high and bony as a herring, with gooseberry eyes, chin like a hatchet, and tufts of orange hair sprouting from his head, his ears, and his nose.

And all his ugliness came wrapped in glorious robes of samite and ermine that fell to big red leather boots.

I thought first he spoke in some foreign tongue or a cipher designed to conceal a secret message, but it seems only that his nose was plugged.

My father’s crack still rings my head but Master Lack-Wit left without a betrothal.

Near twenty years ago he went crusading with Prince Edward.

I would much prefer crusading, swinging my sword at heathens and sleeping under starry skies on the other end of the world.

They are scorched and sheepish but unhurt.

My father gloats and thinks he is getting the best of Perkin, but Perkin always winks at me as he leaves.

He is sore afflicted with wind in his bowels, so I regularly make him a tonic of cumin seed and anise to unbind his liver and destroy the wind.

He is sore afflicted with wind in his bowels, so I regularly make him a tonic of cumin seed and anise to unbind his liver and destroy the wind.