Mother nods wearily as though expecting this outcome. "Yes, all that liquid had to pass through ye one way or another. Best take care of it quick now, outside where it won't foul our floor."
I bob my head obediently and slide off the bench, bare feet slapping against the dirt floor. The urgency in my loins brooks no delay. With awkward steps I scurry outside, scanning for the least offensive patch of earth on which to squat.
The fetid miasma of the livestock pen assaults my nose as I hurry barefoot past the dilapidated chicken coop towards our small garden. Spying a scraggly bush between the rows of vegetables, I quickly position myself over the bare earth, hiking up my coarse woolen skirts with fumbling fingers.
After what feels an eternity of humiliating maneuvering coupled with agonized moans, I finally manage to empty every last drop from my protesting organs. Nearly sobbing with relief, I quickly scan the area for anything remotely usable as toilet paper. But the only vegetation within reach consists of prickly weeds and thorny brambles.
With rising hysteria I frantically grab great handfuls of dry grass and fallen leaves, using the scratchy makeshift wipes to clean my still-unfamiliar nether regions.
This is utter madness! How can anyone survive without basic sanitation or toilet paper? I want to scream and claw my own skin off rather than endure another second crawling with vermin!
Fuck my life! Let me wake up from this filthy nightmare right now! I cannot endure this medieval torture chamber one moment longer! Please god, put me out of my misery.
"Lile! Are ye done out there yet, lass?" Mother's sharp voice cuts through the animal stench and smoke hanging low over the village. "Best hurry back inside now afore yer father returns!"
I scowl down at my muddy bare feet, caked with manure both fresh and days old mingling with the ever-present muck. Just the thought of returning to that foul, cramped hovel makes my stomach churn.
"Aye Mama, comin' straight away!" I holler back, swiping halfheartedly at my soiled legs before trudging toward the lopsided doorway.
I push open the warped wooden door, recoiling as the pungent miasma within assaults my nose once more. Mother glances up from slicing carrots, onions and potatoes into the bubbling pot over the smoldering hearth.
"There ye are, Lile! Come watch close now so I can teach ye how to prepare a nice pottage."
She beckons me nearer with her knife hand, weathered face smudged with ashes but eyes bright. "Yer nearly five years old now, high time ye learned the makin' of proper peasant fare to feed a hard workin' husband someday."
I wrinkle my nose doubtfully but obediently plop down beside her on a rickety three-legged stool near the meager warmth of the fire.
Mother gestures with her bone-handled knife at the motley collection of vegetables simmering over the fire, tendrils of steam rising to blacken the underside of the large iron pot hanging from a spit.
"Now ye'll want to peel and dice the carrots, onions, and potatoes nice and small so they cook up soft," she explains. "Start by cuttin' off both ends, then slicing down the length slow and steady so yer clumsy hands don't lose no fingers." To demonstrate, she expertly halves a potato and strips the dark skin away with deft flicks of her wrist.
"We add some garlic, cabbage, or leeks too if they're about," she continues, scooping the potato chunks into the pot where they plop and hiss. "And barley, oats or rye if we've any to spare once the crops are harvested."
She stirs the burbling concoction with a large wooden spoon blackened by fire and use. "Ye must tend the hearth flames right diligent now - too low and yer pottage will spoil afore it's cooked. Too high and it'll burn to a crisp."
To illustrate, she adds a few dry sticks from a pile beside the crude stone hearth, leaning close to blow gently on the embers beneath the pot. They flare brighter, emitting a cascade of sparks.
"There now, that's the trick of it!" Straightening with a satisfied nod, she resumes lecturing me on the subtle art of boiling peasant slop.
"This pottage be extra fine today thanks to that bit of salt pork yer father traded for," Mother remarks approvingly. She inhales the fragrant steam wafting up from the bubbling pot.
"Once Oisin returns from the fields, mayhap he'll have snared a rabbit or grouse for the pot too. The forests brim with game this time of year."
She glances toward the lopsided doorway as if expecting to spy her husband's hulking form lumbering up the lane with floppy carcasses slung over one broad shoulder...
The warped wooden door suddenly crashes open, stirred air gusting through the cramped hovel. Oisin looms in the entrance, his hulking frame casting long shadows across the dirt floor. In one meaty fist he clutches the hind legs of a plump rabbit, its head swinging limply.
With a derisive snort, he shoves past me and drops the carcass onto the crude plank table. "Here woman, gut this coney and add it to the pot straight away," he barks. "And stir some more barley in the pottage whilst yer at it. I'll not have it thin as piss-water again tonight."
Before I can react, Oisin's thick hand closes on my bony shoulder in a painful grip. Heedless of my cry of protest, he lifts me bodily from my perch and sets me none too gently on the dirt floor. I bite my lip to hold back angry tears as he folds his long body onto the rickety stool, the wood creaking ominously beneath his weight.
"Best tend the meal swift afore I take a strap to yer legs, woman," he warns Aislin with a malevolent glare. "I've half a mind to do it anyway after the slop ye tried feedin' me last night..."
"Well woman? What have ye and the whelp occupied yerselves with today 'sides boiling peasant slop?"
Aislin carefully sets aside her skinning knife before replying deferentially. "Why, I were teachin' Lile the womanly arts, husband - sewing, mending, tending the chickens and garden..."
I pipe up eagerly from my spot on the dirt floor, "Aye Papa! I helped Mama pull weeds and even sewed a little without prickin' myself once!"
Oisin's wandering gaze swings to assess me, eyes narrowing. "Is that so, girl?" His tone holds a note of skepticism. "Then why ain't ye assistin' yer mum prepare our meal instead of lollygagging useless on yer arse?"
He takes another long swig before adding crudely, "Mayhap I ought to sell ye to a neighbor what needs a scullery maid since ye fail at every task here."
I gape up at him, cheeks flaming as anger and humiliation roil inside me.
Oisin narrows his bloodshot eyes at me, thin lips twisting in displeasure beneath his unkempt beard. "Useless girl can't even gut and joint a coney proper," he grumbles.
He shakes his head bitterly before spearing Aislin with an accusatory glare. "Bad enough ye whelped this worthless lass instead of a son. Now I'll be forced to take another wife what can breed me proper heirs."
He slams a meaty fist onto the crude plank table, making the weathered wood jump. "The magistrate's steward were by this morn, said Lord Eamonn demands each household supply two boys for soldiers or face harsh penalties."
Oisin spits on the dirt floor. "Failin' that tithe will mean floggings or worse. All thanks to yer useless womb!"
Aislin stands frozen beside the hearth flames, knife trembling in her clenched fist. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten on the scarred wooden surface before her.
"Husband, I tried!" she whispers desperately. "Two babes in my belly and none lived to draw breath cept Lile here. Have mercy, my time for bearing is near done!"
"Mercy?" Oisin barks a harsh laugh. "The Lord shows none to those what fail their duty to him." He pounds the table again, causing Aislin to flinch. "Mark me, woman - either ye birth me a son this next year or I shall take another wife to breed!"
"Useless woman, mayhap I've no need to divorce yer scrawny arse when I can just take me another wife," he sneers.
Aislin pales, her weathered hands trembling as they shred cabbage leaves. "But husband, the priest said—"
"Damn the priest!" Oisin slams his fist down, making the bowls jump. "Our Lord himself had multiple brides, eh? What's good for the shepherd is good for his flock."
He takes another long swig, eyeing Aislin's slender frame with contempt. "Once I get a new young wife breedin' proper, you and the whelp will have to earn yer keep other ways."
Aislin's knife slips, bright blood welling from her gashed finger. She grabs for a filthy rag, stanching the crimson flow, fear widening her eyes. "Husband, whatever could ye mean?"
Oisin barks a cruel laugh. "A scrawny sow like you? Why, ye ain't fit to stand a field hand's long days no more. But I reckon them honey-words might still earn a copper or two if ye spread yer legs behind the alehouse."
"No!" Aislin whispers, ragged voice breaking. "Ye cannot mean...to make me a whore?"
"And why not?" Oisin sneers. "Yer womb's near useless now cept for pleasurin' the odd lonely goat herd from time to time."
He pounds the table again, causing Aislin to cower. "So either birth me a son by next harvest or start earnin' coin on yer back! Else you and the brat can starve for all I care."
Aislin sinks to her knees, clutching the symbol of her faith with one blood-smeared hand. "Sweet Jesus, have mercy..." she whispers desperately. "I cannot endure this torment..."
What the everloving fuck did that slack-jawed shitweasel just spew from his crusty cum-catcher? This walking bottle of piss wants to peddle my mother's body out to random passersby once he acquires newer, tighter holes to plow? And I'm supposed to whimper gratefully when it's my turn getting passed around like a flagon of ale for his drinking money? Over his bloated corpse!
I'd rather shove a flaming torch up my own twat and do a jig in the pig trough before letting that bastard whore me out too. Where does Oisin get off acting so goddam high and mighty when he clearly blew every functioning brain cell out his asshole years ago guzzling homebrewed diarrhea? The fucking nerve treating us like disposable breeding stock because his shriveled raisin testes can't squeeze out one measly son.
I bet his gnarled babymaker is drier than month-old dog turds baking in the sun. No amount of quaffed tonic can revive that dead worm between his legs to do anything but dribble stale piss. But sure, let's blame the "barren" woman who's spent the past decade getting her womb pulverized by this unwashed troglodyte! Maybe if he didn't finish every conjugal visit by taking a steaming shit on Mother's chest while chugging fermented turnip juice, her shoddy medieval healthcare wouldn't end with dead runts getting yeeted straight from the womb into the bone pit.
But hey, why interrupt his daily hummer behind the chicken coop just for minor details like CONSENT? After all, we've got souls less than livestock according to dear old dad. Guess that means my maidenhead should sell for a prime price once he auctions it off to the highest bidder! Hope you choke on that silver, you shit-eating peasant fuck! Let the plague cart take you squealing into hell where demonic hordes can spend eternity using your empty skull as an outhouse while crows feast on your maggot-riddled bowels, you wretched piss-gargling bastard.
Aislin's weathered hands tremble violently, causing the bone knife to slip and slice into her finger again. She hisses softly through clenched teeth but continues working in tense silence to strip the fur from the rabbit's carcass. As she saws off the head and feet with sharp jerky motions then slits open the belly to remove the slimy innards, tears begin trickling down her smudged cheeks despite tightly pressed lips.
Oisin notices the quiet sniffling and barks scornfully, "Enough blubbering, woman! Any other wife would be grateful her husband provides meat for the pot after long hours toiling. But ye dare weep over a damned coney?"
He spits on the dirt floor. "Useless sow can't even joint a rabbit without bawling. I ought to make ye choke that fuzzy head down for disgusting me so."
Aislin flinches at his cruelty, sawing faster until the skinned carcass separates into sections. She swipes an arm across her wet face, leaving grimy streaks on the faded linen sleeve. "F-forgive me, husband. I just...I cannot bear the thought of losing Lile when she's all I have left."
Oisin sneers, taking another long swig from his clay jug. "Can't lose what ye never truly had, woman. The whelp belong to me until I get my bride price for the brat."
He belches loudly, wiping his scruffy beard with the back of one meaty hand. "Now quit sniveling and finish jointing that coney afore my stomach eats itself!"
Aislin bows her head submissively over the mutilated rabbit pieces. "Yes, husband," she whispers, sawing mechanically at sinew and bone, the rhythmic scrape echoing hollowly off the cramped mud walls.
Aislin dumps the rabbit chunks into the bubbling pot with hands still unsteady before turning to Oisin. "Husband, might ye consider negotiatin' with the healer Colm on our Lile's behalf?" At his quizzical look, she adds hesitantly, "Why, with her yellow eyes and moon-pale skin, she could near pass as his lost Brigitte reborn..."
Oisin barks a scornful laugh. "Ye truly are addled, woman! What use has a freeman for cursed peasant stock like ours?" He pounds the crude plank table, making the weathered wood jump. "The girl's barely worth her weight in turnips to me, let alone a proper bride price from foreign folk."
Aislin presses her cracked lips together anxiously. "But husband, if ye could convince him the uncanny resemblance means she's the ghost of his dead wife returned new-grown..."
"Enough!" Oisin roars. "I'll not have ye spoutin' more foolish woman nonsense in my own home!" He lurches upright and deals Aislin a backhanded blow, sending her reeling.
"That's for yer idiocy, ye damned harridan!" He aims a kick at her cringing form. "Now get back to yer duties afore I take a strap to yer hide too!"
Aislin cowers on the dirt floor, cheek swelling darkly as she clutches the symbol of her faith. "Yes husband," she whispers, defeat etched in every line of her gaunt frame...
Aislin keeps her gaze averted submissively as she gathers the mangled rabbit pieces and drops them into the bubbling pot. Wiping her bloodied hands down the front of her faded skirts, she dares another timid plea. "I know 'twas foolish fancying, husband, but I must insist ye speak to Colm still about Lile... For three silvers he could have her."
Oisin narrows his eyes, still simmering with drunken rage. He looks set to cuff Aislin again but finally grunts, "Three silvers just for that scrawny get? A stiff breeze would knock her flat!"
Oisin barks another harsh laugh. "Ye truly are a naive fool, woman! What use has a wealthy Norse trader for cursed peasant stock like ours beyond plowin' every hole for a quick rut?"
He pounds the crude plank table again, making the weathered wood jump. "Bad enough when men plow young ones barely flowered. But babes still sucklin' their mam's teat?" He spits contemptuously on the dirt floor. "Only the most lust-mad degenerates hunger for unripe quim."
Aislin presses her cracked lips together anxiously. "Husband, the healer Colm ent a degenerate! He were a goodly man by all accounts before his woman passed birthing their stillborn."
She dares another timid plea. "I know 'twas foolish fancying Lile might replace his Brigitte. But if he'll not have her, what of Brogan the smith from Two Trees village? His wife cannot conceive and he offered two coppers..."
Oisin narrows his eyes, still simmering with drunken rage. "Brogan? That poxy bastard tried rogering every tavern wench from Drumlin to Glenmorgan!"
He sneers, taking another long swig. "Think I'd let some syphilitic plowboy near my property?"
Pfhah, he has 'standards' for who goes near his property? What in the everloving fuck?!
Oisin takes another long swig from his clay jug before wiping his scruffy beard with the back of one meaty hand. As he lowers the vessel, I dare to pipe up eagerly. "But Papa, if this healer Colm lost his wife, don't he need a new one to be happy? Why not let him have a look at me in case I can replace his Brigitte?"
I widen my eyes beseechingly. "You said yourself my yellow eyes is strange. So maybe he'll think I'm magic somehow and want me for his bride!"
I bounce on my bare heels, clasping my hands under my chin. "Oh please Papa, won't you speak to him about me when next he's in the village? I promise I'll be the best wife ever!"[...]