by Karen Brooks
I worried my lip as I regarded those who filled the room. There was my good lady mistress, her friend The Poet, the new steward Master Merriman, a number of servants – friends – who could scarce meet my eyes, and bloody, stinking Fulk Bigod.
Papa in heaven, help me.
Ever since it happened, I’d been kept in solitude and ordered to contemplate the shame my actions had brought upon my lady and my dead father. I was told to pray for forgiveness and my everlasting soul. Shocked by how swiftly my fortunes had undergone a change, as if the Fates had suddenly given Fortuna’s wheel a random spin, I didn’t comply. Not straight away.
When I was first confined to my room and Master Merriman latched the door, warning me I’d remain there until the lady decided how to salvage the situation, I banged on the wood and shouted myself hoarse. When no-one appeared to release or console me, and the celebrations outside continued as if nothing momentous had occurred, I did indeed drop to my knees and pray to the Heavenly Father – for a few minutes, then I grew bored. It’s hard to stay focused when there’s no reply. May as well talk to oneself. I crossed myself, leapt up and pushed open the shutters to see what I was missing out on.
Beyond the manor house, the sun cast a mellow glow over the May Day celebrations that were in full swing. The Queen of the May, Mariot Breaksper, the baker’s daughter, had been crowned. She looked mighty fine in her green kirtle, her golden hair unbound and a garland of flowers planted upon her head. Twirling around the maypole, holding the brightly coloured ribbons I’d helped attach, were my friends, their heads adorned with the greenery we’d woken early to cut from the nearby woods. There was clapping, stomping and much laughter, all accompanied by flutes, viols, pipes and drums. Fires were lit and, as the afternoon wore on and the smell of roasting meat carried into the attic to taunt me, I wished I was among it all. With a great sigh, I rested my elbows on the sill, my chin on my palms.
Movement in the courtyard below caught my attention. There was a gathering of horses and men and, in their midst, my lady herself. She looked regal in her blue gown, with a particularly lovely circlet of blooms atop her wimple. As I watched, she turned to converse with one of the riders. More soberly dressed than the others, having divested himself of his costume, was The Poet. He’d become a regular visitor over the last few years, and though I’d never really caught his name I always welcomed his presence. A relative of Lady Clarice’s – a distant cousin or such – he was employed as a lawyer’s clerk at Gray’s Inn in London while studying for the bar, or so I’d heard. Thought to be clever, it wasn’t his learning I anticipated – it was the stories he brought whenever he came, stories that transported all who heard them with their vivid descriptions of maidens in distress, knights on quests, lascivious friars, righteous monks, foolish millers, vain prioresses, gods, goddesses and mortals misbehaving or enacting deeds of marvellous courage. Whatever the tale, The Poet knew how to hold an audience captive.
Only the night before, on May Day Eve, The Poet had delighted us with the story of Cupid and Psyche. The beautiful young woman, Psyche, was to be married to a monster in order to protect the city. But when her wedding night came, the monster, who insisted they remain in the dark so his bride could not see him, was gentle and passionate. Asked to trust him and to never, ever attempt to look at him, the silly chit listened to her jealous sisters who, beset with envy at how their sister lived and how she described her lusty husband, persuaded her to break the vow. One night, Psyche held up a lantern so she could see who was sarding her. It was no monster. Taken aback by her husband’s beauty, she tipped the lamp and spilled some wax, which burned the beautiful winged god to whom she was really married. He fled, and she then spent years atoning in an effort to find him again. Everyone clapped and cheered when it was finished and called for more. All I could think was how the stupid girl almost lost a grand opportunity. Imagine, being married to a god! Who cares what he looked like? I would have happily remained in the dark if I was given endless coin to spend, a beautiful house in which to dwell, lavish clothes and food aplenty. Never mind a deity to swive me.
The Poet was talking earnestly to Lady Clarice from atop his horse. I’d been looking forward to hearing more of his tales that evening. Now, as a witness to my shame, I was glad it appeared he was departing. I leaned as far out of the casement as I was able, but couldn’t hear what was being said. The Poet nodded and touched his chest as if taking an oath. Lady Clarice passed him a purse, which he tucked into his tunic. I began to wonder if he would ever weave a story about me and what I’d done. It would be a good ’un. I forced a chuckle when all I really wanted to do was weep.
The Poet kicked his horse and, as he signalled for his squire to follow, looked straight to where I was watching and saluted me.
I leapt away from the window lest I incur more of my lady’s anger. She’d been in a white-hot rage when she ordered Master Merriman to lock me away. With a deep sigh I sank onto the bed and thought about the reason I was banned from the celebrations.
Father Layamon.
He’d arrived at the manor a few weeks earlier and caused quite the stir among the household. Father Layamon had come to assist our priest, Father Roman. Rumour had it that Father Layamon was the bishop’s bastard son. Not only was having him at Noke Manor a huge honour for my lady and Father Roman, but his presence brought great prestige to the village. Not that I or the other maids cared about any of that.
Young, tall and ridiculously handsome with his jet-black hair, long lashes, twinkling dark eyes and soft pillow lips, Father Layamon was like the heroes of The Poet’s tales. I could have admired him all day – and listened to him. Alas, Father Layamon of the honey pipes was rendered mute during mass, doomed to assist boring old Father Roman, who delivered Latin like a series of insults. In less time than it took to say two Pater Nosters, that windbag of a priest had warned the young Father to keep his distance from all the maids, especially me.
’Twas my hair that made me the target of Father Roman’s injunction. Red was the colour of passion, blood and whoredom. According to our priest, I’d been conceived when my mother should have abstained, and was therefore doomed. ‘As St Jerome wrote,’ the priest would thunder, ‘flame-haired women are hell-bound.’
Anyone with half a mind knew the worst thing to say to a young man – or woman for that matter, especially one with Venus as her ruler – was to forbid them to keep company. Cook should have known better when she urged me to keep my eyes off the young priest and eat my pottage. But how could I fasten my eyes upon grey gruel when there was a delicious alternative to feast on at the high table? And what about Father Roman? Why, he was drooling over the lad as if he was the goose Cook fattened for the Epiphany feast.
Cook’s words – and the bloated Father’s – fell on the deafest of ears. Ever since my courses began a few months back, I’d taken a particular interest in men. Actually, it would be more accurate to say I was interested in the effect I had on them. Previously ignored as a rude girl with too much to say for herself, suddenly men of all ages and ranks sought to catch my attention, exchange words, and, mostly, to fumble and steal kisses. Washing my face and neck carefully each morning, brushing my clothes and tying my apron so it accentuated my newly acquired waist, I would spend more time than ever ensuring my cap lay just so upon my locks, and my laces were undone enough to hint at growing bosoms. My face was nothing extraordinary, I was practical enough to admit that. I was in possession of big eyes, an even bigger mouth (so Father Roman kept telling me) with full lips and large teeth that had a generous gap between the front ones. Angry freckles scattered across the bridge of my nose and in other places besides. I did possess a set of dimples that were the envy of the stablehand’s little sister and I made good use of those.
When I first came into Lady Clarice’s service, there were those among the servants and villeins who remembered my mother and would say they saw little of her in me. They would remark what a beauty she was, breaking off mid-sentence when they r
ealised they were talking about Melisine de Compton. With pinking cheeks, they’d drift away or change the subject. Not because they feared they’d offended my sensibilities. Nay. It was because, coming from a good home with a good name, it was felt my mother had lowered herself when she married my father, Wace Cornfed, a brogger. That was before the pestilence struck. I oft wondered if people would think differently about her choice now, since the world had transformed so. Well, because of that and other things, mostly Papa’s hard work, luck, and the benefice of Lady Clarice and the fact there were no more de Comptons around – except me, I guess – Wace Cornfed had risen in the world. Not much, but, as Papa said, you took what opportunities you could and made them better.
Unless your name was Eleanor Cornfed, in which case you trampled all over them until they were nothing but a pile of shitty dirt.
You’ve probably guessed by now what happened. I lay with Layamon. It would be funny if it wasn’t so serious.
For weeks, Layamon had been meeting me in the shadowy depths of the church, darkened hallways and even the stables. The fact he singled me out from all the other, much lovelier options about the manor fair turned my head. It gave me boasting rights I’d never owned before and a shipload of envious glances. We’d kissed, oh, aye, we’d done that many a time and I’d been delirious, flooded with hot, liquid sensations that burned my loins. I’d never felt that way before, even when that grizzled but handsome knight, Sir Roland, hoisted me off my feet and kissed me deeply. After I’d overcome the shock of his tongue slipping into my mouth, I’d been more amazed that he could lift me when he only had one arm, as if I were made of straw. Mind you, he’d dropped me right quick when his wife found us, walloping him so hard across the face I thought his neck would break. Then she’d kicked me in the arse, ruddy cow. I’d a bruised rump for days. But Layamon, his kisses were different – he was different. I melted into his arms – both of them – and he pulled me against him as if he would solder us together the way the blacksmith did iron.
He was forbidden fruit and, when I was with him, it was Paradise.
Over the days, I managed to resist his increasing demands to plough my field, to storm my heavenly gates. Even I, the brogger’s lass, a servant, knew not to surrender my maidenhead to just anyone. Lady Clarice’s words were lodged in my mind.
But Father Layamon wasn’t just anyone, was he?
When he appeared from under the heavy boughs of a willow as I was picking gillyflowers to make myself a garland on May Day morning, I felt giddy. He dropped to his knees, calling me his princess. Overcome as he pressed his face into my tunic, his breath hot against my queynte, which was, I confess, becoming rapidly heated as well, it wasn’t until he drew me down on the soft grass and lay atop me, pressing kisses against my mouth, my neck and my breasts, which he rapidly freed from my shift, that I began to feel uneasy. Why, anyone could come upon us. I asked him to stop. When he didn’t, I asked again. When he began to lift my skirts and his robe at the same time, exposing his fleshy prod, my quiet asking became loud demands.
Instead of heeding me, he threw my skirts over my head, using his arm to press them into my mouth so my voice was muffled. I could feel his engorged prick poking my thigh. Kneeling upon my legs and slapping them hard to keep them open, he was about to batter down my postern gate when we were discovered. Lady Clarice, The Poet, Father Roman, monks from the nearby abbey, some more respectable of the villagers, such as the reeve, the ale-conner and the sheriff, heard my cries and, diverting their walk, came upon us.
There were gasps, much laughter and then shouting. Father Roman pulled Layamon away, taking care to cover his cock, leaving me to fight my way from underneath my linens. I sat up to see people gathered in a semi-circle staring, pointing, smirking and chattering. Layamon was being struck about the shoulders and head. I landed one swift kick to his exposed skin-plums, enjoying the cry he expelled. Sadly, I’d no time to fully enjoy his pain as I was wrenched away by Master Merriman. Immediately, my lady began to strike me across the neck and cheek using the rod she oft carried when she walked. Leaving Layamon aside, Father Roman also began to add blows, using words instead of birch.
‘Filthy whore, temptress, how dare you! Try and force a son of God into sin? The devil take your soul, you corrupter of innocence, you foul weed in God’s garden; you traitor of the tree.’
Cue the chorus.
‘You dirty little slut! You foolish wench. What would your mother say? What would your father?’ cried other voices.
I learned a harsh lesson that day. Didn’t matter that Layamon was primed and caught in prize position, it was all my fault.
I tried to defend myself, protest, but Layamon added accusations, stabbing a trembling finger in my direction and forcing tears, the spawn-cursed coward. Calling me a doxy, a meretrix, he began to describe how I lifted my skirts and begged him to take me. Unable to resist, he was simply doing what his weak flesh demanded. All the time he was blathering, Lady Clarice wouldn’t stop hitting me. My attempts to offer the truth were reduced to squeals and, very soon, weeping. It was only when The Poet stepped forward and said something that my lady ceased to wield her rod. Layamon and Father Roman both fell silent.
Amidst tears and loud sniffles, I tried to fix my clothes. I remember little more beyond asking God to curse Layamon so his balls shrivelled and his maypole shrank and dropped off.
Then I was shut away. It wasn’t the first time I’d been punished in that manner. God’s teeth, trouble was my middle name, or that’s what Mistress Bertha always said, whether it was stealing kisses, bread, eggs, skiving off for an afternoon or making up stories about my past. If I hadn’t been so good at spinning and weaving, she’d threaten, the twinkle never really leaving her eye, I’d be out on my plump arse. But I hadn’t done anything wrong this time, not really – well, apart from lying half-naked with a man. His pike hadn’t breached my defences, though not from want of trying. Why would no-one listen? I was innocent – ish – in all this. God’s boils, Layamon better be suffering. If his hairy nuggins weren’t being roasted over hot coals right this moment, I wanted to know why.
But as the days went by, and no-one came (except the other maids, Joyce and May, to bring me bread and water, and they knew nothing), I wondered if it was because I was caught with a man of God that was the problem. Even so, priests lay with women (and men) all the time, and while they couldn’t exactly marry them, everyone knew many kept wives in all but name. Layamon was the bishop’s son and it was said Father Harold from St Michael’s Within the Walls in Bath had a veritable herd of children with Goody Miriam.
I found the answers to some of my questions the day I was led into the solar.
I’ve already described who was present. The Poet was behind a large desk, a huge piece of parchment in front of him and writing implements all lined up like soldiers about to go into battle. He regarded me with something akin to wariness on his face. Was he afraid I was going to pounce and seek out his spindle? Not likely. For a start, he was old. Why, he’d be twenty-five if he was a day and, apart from his soft brown eyes and voice like burnt butter, he was ugly.
Then I saw Fulk Bigod. The fact he was there caught me by surprise. While everyone knew who he was, including me, we’d never exchanged a word. I often saw him standing on the edge of the Green on market days, or waiting by his horse. Drinking ale over near the well, or loitering near the manor gates, he’d watch as we maids did our daily chores. He’d been on the edge of the Green when we first danced around the maypole and played games on May Day morning. We’d nudge each other, laughing and nodding towards him, the man with no friends, knowing his mission to find servants, another wife, would fail. Ever since his last wife died a few years ago, the story was he’d been desperate to remarry. But the villagers kept their daughters away and refused his increasing offers in exchange for another bride. Silly old fool. I’d dismissed him from my mind then, just as I always did, but the tiny teeth gnawing away at my peace told me this time was differe
nt. My heart began to quicken. Nausea gathered in the pit of my stomach, rising to catch in my breast. I touched my tunic. It was cleaner than it had been only an hour earlier. My gown had been brushed and I’d been brought washing water and a fresh shift. A new scarf was found for my hair. My hand stroked it.
‘Master Bigod,’ said Lady Clarice, rising to her feet and addressing the farmer. ‘It’s been a long time since you graced these halls. I believe you know everyone, with one exception.’ Fulk Bigod did what he always did. Grunted.
Lady Clarice turned in my direction. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Mistress Eleanor Cornfed.’
Never before had she called me ‘Mistress’. I liked it not.
Master Bigod gave a small bow. I wish he hadn’t. It fanned the flames of his odour. I took a step back and screwed up my nose.
‘Eleanor,’ said Lady Clarice, stepping wide of Master Bigod and coming to my side. ‘Allow me to introduce Master Fulk Bigod.’ I lowered my head as I’d been taught. ‘Now,’ continued my lady. ‘Do you have anything to say before we proceed?’
‘My lady?’ My voice was small, dry. I cleared my throat. ‘I don’t understand. Proceed with what?’
‘Today, all things considered, is your lucky day, Eleanor.’ Lady Clarice gave me a small push in the back, sending me closer to Master Bigod.
‘Lucky, how?’ I resisted the urge to press my nose into my arm.
‘Today, my dear, you plight your troth to a husband.’
‘A husband?’ My ears began to ring. ‘Me?’
‘In less than an hour, we’ll meet at the church door and there, before Father Roman and Father Layamon, you will marry.’
‘Who?’ I asked, my voice a whisper. I already knew the answer.
‘Master Fulk Bigod.’
Cold enfolded my body, colour drained from my face and with a sharp scream I tumbled dramatically to the floor.
Made not a whit of difference.
Before the bells rang for sext that day, the plans Lady Clarice, The Poet and Fulk Bigod had made while I’d been locked away in the manor tower like a princess in a fairytale, came to pass.
