by Karen Brooks
‘Call me Eleanor,’ I said. ‘After all, we are related.’
Master Geoffrey laughed uncomfortably. ‘Ah, indeed. It’s a very distant connection, through my grandfather.’
We smiled like simpletons. Odo whistled as he removed the blankets and saddles from the mules.
It wasn’t until Alyson gave me a shove and jerked her chin towards the house that I understood how remiss I was being. Of course, I was mistress. It was my duty to extend invitations to any guests. Bless her wrinkled apron; if I needed a sign things were going to be right between us, this was it. She was relinquishing her role as lady of the house to me. I reached for her hand and squeezed it.
‘Please,’ I said to Master Geoffrey. ‘Come inside and let’s have an ale. There’s also some cold coney and ham hock as well. Then you can share your news, and what’s brought you to Bigod Farm.’
With an elegant bow, Master Geoffrey followed me and Alyson into the fortunately clean, mostly tidy, house. Apart from King Claude who, as was his wont, lolled on the chest under the window, contentedly licking his balls, his fur floating around like a snowstorm.
Over a few mazers of ale, Master Geoffrey regaled us not just with stories of Noke Manor and the people within its walls, but London, where he was studying under a fusty old lawyer named Master Derman. The man was so short-sighted, he would oft be caught addressing a sword and shield hanging in the Great Hall of Inner Temple as if it were one of his peers. Master Geoffrey also brought news of the court and the spendthrift ways of Queen Philippa and King Edward. It struck me as odd that those, like myself, who could least afford to spend, always enjoyed listening to stories of others who did.
After a few more ales, he even admitted to having been in trouble for beating a Franciscan friar. Odo coughed politely and turned his head away, but not before I’d seen the flash of pride upon his face.
I could scarce believe that Master Geoffrey, this slight man of even temperament, had been roused not only to strike a man of God, but fined for the privilege. When he told us it was because he came upon the friar beating a skinny young beggar black and bloody with a rod for no other sin than blocking a doorway in Fleet Street, I confess Master Geoffrey went up in my estimation. I began to imagine him beating Layamon. The picture conjured gave me a very warm and happy feeling (forgive me, O Lord).
As the afternoon wore on and the sun disappeared behind dark clouds, the wind growing stronger, there was a lull in the conversation. I could hear a rat scrabbling in the walls, the goats bleating. There was so much I wanted to ask Master Geoffrey – about Fulk, about the whys and wherefores of our marriage contract, about why he chose such a man for me – yet it didn’t seem right with Alyson there.
Mayhap, she sensed this or, more likely, was driven by less noble intentions, for I’d noticed the looks she exchanged with Odo. Before long, she asked him to help her make the animals secure.
Finally, it was just me and Master Geoffrey. ‘Can I ask you something, sir?’
‘You may ask whatever you wish,’ said Master Geoffrey affably. He relaxed on the bench, resting against the wall. We were seated opposite each other at the trestle table, the remnants of our meal in front of us.
I took a deep breath. ‘I wish to ask about Father Layamon.’
Master Geoffrey wet the tip of a finger and carefully collected some crumbs from the table. He studied them before sucking and collecting more. ‘Two days ago, accompanied by Master Merriman, Father Layamon left Noke Manor bound for Bristol. From there, he will sail to France – where he’ll remain.’ He chuckled. I didn’t find it funny. I prayed the ship would capsize and drown Layamon. Everyone else was to be rescued, of course. I wasn’t a complete barbarian.
When I didn’t respond, but sat staring out the door, Master Geoffrey abandoned the crumbs and tapped the back of my hand. ‘A groat for your thoughts.’
My eyes slid to his. Up close, he looked younger than from a distance. His cheeks were unlined, the curls of his scant beard soft and thin. To think I’d once thought him ancient. Being with Fulk put that in a different context.
‘Why did you broker a marriage between me and Master Bigod? I thought at first you must either hate me or, following orders from Lady Clarice and Father Roman, seek to punish me. I couldn’t understand why you’d plight me to such an old, dirty man. But now …’ I glanced about. ‘Now I know you’re related, that you know Master Bigod and the family, I just wonder … why?’
‘Hate you?’ Master Geoffrey’s eyes widened. ‘Dear God, child, how could you think that? I scarce know you.’ Perturbed, he tugged his beard, his mind working. I had the strong impression that far from struggling to answer my question, Master Geoffrey was juggling with the idea I might dislike him.
‘Please don’t tell me you’re unhappy, Mistress Eleanor,’ he said, sitting up straight. ‘For as God is my witness and Jesus my Saviour, that was never my intention. Nor is it the impression I have. Not only do you and Alyson appear to have struck up a friendship, but I can see your influence everywhere.’ His arm drew a semi-circle.
‘I’m not unhappy –’ I began.
‘Thank God and all the saints.’ His head dropped into his hands.
‘But I am curious … How did you know?’
‘Know what?’ He raised his face.
‘That Master Bigod, my husband, was not like everyone said. I mean, it clearly wasn’t just because you’re related –’
‘Distantly.’
‘Distantly.’ I smiled. ‘You knew, didn’t you? You knew he wasn’t what people said. You knew that once you look beneath the gruffness, the dirt, once he was in his own home, on his own land, he was a different man.’
Master Geoffrey paused, then held up his mazer, nodding at the jug. I topped it up. ‘Aye, I knew.’
Drinking deeply, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and then tried, most unsuccessfully, to stifle a belch. Straddling the bench, he drummed his fingers on the table, thinking, thinking. Swivelling back to regard me, he appeared to come to a decision.
‘I’ve known your husband for as long as I can remember and, during that time, I’ve seen him suffer and endure more than anyone has a right. Understand this, Eleanor.’ He waggled a long finger. ‘No matter what those shrews and prating old men say in the village, Fulk Bigod is not and never has been a bad man. He’s simply a sad one. Just because some dunderheads can’t tell the difference doesn’t make them right.’
My heart, which had been knocking against my ribs, began to settle. From the outset, I’d never sensed anything evil in my husband, but sadness? Aye, now I put it to mind, it oozed from him like the mist over the millpond at Noke Manor in autumn. It reminded me of Lady Clarice, how sometimes when she thought you weren’t looking, she’d be staring out the window with her needlework untouched in her lap, sorrow rearranging her face into pools of shadow and deep lines. As soon as she sensed a presence, her expression would transform and you’d swear you imagined it. Papa had been the same. Instead of going to the trouble of reorganising his face for folk, my husband hid his sorrow beneath layers of dirt and gruff silence.
‘How are you and Fulk related?’ I asked quietly.
‘My grandfather was a man named Robert Chaucer –’
‘Is that your name, sir?’
‘Aye. I’m Geoffrey Chaucer.’ He rose and gave a brief bow, staggering slightly. The ale was strong and, like me, he was becoming affected. Collapsing back onto the bench, he leaned over the table conspiratorially.
‘Robert Chaucer hailed from a village on the outskirts of London, a village Fulk also hails from. Fulk’s grandfather and mine were cousins. My grandfather was a mercer. My grandmother came from a reasonably well-to-do family, the de Comptons –’
‘Wait,’ I said, sitting bolt upright. ‘Your grandmother was a de Compton? So was my mother.’
‘Aye, Eleanor, we’re also very distantly related – by marriage. Cousins removed so many times –’ He circled his hand in the air.
‘But that m
eans Fulk and I must be too.’
‘That was one concern regarding your marriage – consanguinity. But when I asked, the bishop said there were enough degrees of separation and approved it.’
Here I was thinking I’d no family, not since Papa died, when the truth was, I’d an abundance of relations – by marriage. I stared at The Poet – Geoffrey – my cousin, with fresh eyes and a slightly dreamy half-smile.
‘But I digress,’ continued Geoffrey, unaware of the strange mood that had descended on me. ‘From the moment my grandmother married Robert, who’d been apprenticed to her first husband, his fortunes changed. Not only did he become the owner of the business his wife had inherited when she was widowed, but he became deputy to the old King’s butler. After a time, he was made Comptroller of Customs for wine levies. From mercer’s apprentice to holding royal appointments, and all in one lifetime.’ He chuckled, and not without pride. ‘He used to say if he can do it, anyone can. Likewise, Fulk, a farmer by birth, married the daughter of a gentleman who held considerable land towards Bath. Upon her father’s death, his wife, an only child, inherited a good percentage, including what you see here. Suddenly Fulk went from being a landholder of minor means to one with a modest amount of property. But whereas my grandfather prospered, for Fulk it was a different story.
‘Under normal circumstances, having land should have been a boon. But the weather was colder than usual, the rains heavier, and year after year crops failed. I’m too young to recall, but talk to anyone of a certain age and they’ll tell you how hard it was to put food on the table; to feed the animals. How entire villages starved, babies died, their cattle and sheep, too. If they weren’t slaughtered for food, they were left to perish in the fields. Floods and then famine ravaged the land, killing thousands.’ Geoffrey’s face darkened.
I’d heard snippets from the old people in Bath-atte-Mere, and those at the manor, but never like this. It was as if people’s memories could not go back further than the Botch, the deadly pestilence that struck over sixteen years ago, causing untold deaths and changing everything.
‘But this is where your husband came into his own,’ continued Geoffrey. ‘Many people wanted to sell their land, move away. Fulk remained and took over their leases. Some said he was mad. That he was destined to fail. The land, they warned him, was dead and it would be the death of him. Nothing would grow. He would have been better off burying his coin and trying to grow his fortune that way.
‘Only, instead of continuing to plant crops, Fulk dug them up and turned the land over to pasture. With the last of his wife’s dowry, he bought sheep. Alas, she never survived to see how his decision succeeded – beyond anyone’s expectations. She died in childbed – the babe too – and it broke Fulk’s heart.’
Master Geoffrey drank. ‘Anyhow,’ he said, putting the mazer down. ‘As you know from the villagers’ tales, he went on to marry three more times. Despite what’s said, he never killed his wives. Two he lost to pestilence, another to childbed. There were twins. They only lived a year before sickness took them as well. In the end, Fulk Bigod, the man with land and sheep aplenty, had no wife, no children from his loins, but he did have family.’ He tilted his head, waiting for me to respond.
‘I know about Alyson, Theo and Beton,’ I said. ‘I also know there are – were – others. I just don’t know whose children they are.’
Master Geoffrey nodded sagely. ‘Tell me, is that something a bad man does? A murderer? A miser and bully? Takes in the children of his fallen sister and raises them like his own.’
‘Sister?’ This was the first I’d heard of a sister. ‘Where is she?’
Master Geoffrey considered his next words. ‘Swear on your everlasting soul that you’ll never reveal what I’m about to tell you.’
God’s boils. A shiver ran from the back of my neck to the soles of my feet. ‘I swear.’
Master Geoffrey lifted his rump off the bench and bent so far over the table, I thought he was intending to kiss me. ‘Fulk’s sister,’ he whispered, though there was nobody but King Claude to overhear, ‘a woman named Loveday, was once happily married, boasted a fine house in Bath, a husband of means, and was herself a capable merchant, selling cloth and other fripperies to fine ladies. That was, until the Botch swept the town. Her husband died, and she found that not only did customers cease to call, but debtors came a-knocking. Once she’d paid them off, but was still owing lease-monies on the house, she’d no choice but to leave with her two boys. She was too proud to take Fulk’s offer of a roof over her head, or his money. Instead, she went to London to try and make her fortune. She had some ells of cloth, a few coins, letters of recommendation from women too scared to darken her door but wanting to help in any way they could. Most of all, she had a great deal of pride.’
He hesitated. I waited.
‘It wasn’t enough.’ He sighed. ‘It never is. Remember that, Eleanor. All too soon she was frequenting Gropecunt Lane, selling the only thing left to her once her cloth and coin were no more.’
I frowned.
‘Her queynte,’ explained Geoffrey.
‘Oh.’
‘She became a meretrix, a whore. That’s where my father found her and, when he saw the conditions she was living in, he brought her sons to Fulk.
‘After that, there were other children. Theo and Beton and, finally, Alyson. Fulk refused to say whose they were. Likely in vengeance for his secrecy and success, folk spread rumours. How the children were here for other, less godly reasons –’ He paused. ‘It didn’t help that when he tried to hire servants, they took one look at the children, at the state of the farm, and ran away. I imagine for the city, as many young folk do.’
Master Geoffrey’s voice was slow and sad. ‘I only caught a glimpse of the old Fulk – the man before all the tragedy – when my family stayed here, on the farm, while the pestilence ravaged London.’
‘You were here?’
‘Aye. I was but a lad. But I clearly remember the moment his beloved Evelot died. He changed, Eleanor, and with every loss he kept changing, until he rejected everyone, even those with his interests at heart.’
‘You?’
‘Aye, even me.’ Geoffrey turned away, but not before I’d seen the tears swimming in his eyes. He passed his sleeve casually over his cheek, then continued in a low voice. ‘Father made me and my mother promise we would keep an eye out for Fulk. When I was made a page in Prince Lionel’s house, I tried, not that it did much good. He refused my offers. When the chance came to study at Inner Temple, learn the legal process, I thought, why not? It would hold me and my family, including Fulk, in good stead. Why do you think I make a point of coming to Noke Manor, of asking to manage Lady Clarice’s legal affairs? The manor is close, yet far enough not to arouse Fulk’s suspicions that someone might be watching over him. He would loathe that, especially when he goes to so much trouble to keep everyone away.’ He gave a small smile to ensure I understood what he meant. I did.
‘The grubby, gruff exterior,’ I sighed.
‘It was his armour, his shield against the world. He used dirt and filth to ensure no-one came near him ever again.’
My soul swelled and ached. Heavy drops of rain began to fall. They struck the roof with a series of dull thuds that echoed on the ground, exploding the dirt. Aye, even the skies were weeping for Fulk Bigod. This was beyond terrible. It was tragic. How could I have thought so poorly of him? Listened to those ghastly people whose twisted minds turned a good man into a bad one, ensuring he’d no friends with whom he could unburden himself. The man was a veritable saint. People should be beating a pilgrimage to his door, buying cockle shells and ampullae filled with his essence.
‘What happened to Loveday?’ I asked, dabbing my cheeks with the ends of my apron.
Master Geoffrey shut his eyes and tilted his face towards the ceiling, before opening them again. ‘She worked for a few terrible years before she was beaten to death. Her body tossed into the Thames. Father had to go and identify her.’ He g
lanced out the door. The rain had become a thick watery curtain. Master Geoffrey was forced to raise his voice. ‘From the talk of Bath to a line in a coroner’s record. She’s buried here, you know –’ He pointed out the door. ‘Under some tree by the brook. Alyson oft sits there – in the branches. All Loveday’s children do …’
So that was where Alyson had run the night I arrived. Not to the coneys, as my husband had me believe, but to her mother. Fulk’s sister. I couldn’t hold back anymore, I buried my head in my hands and wept. Master Geoffrey rose from his side of the table and slid onto my bench, taking me in his arms. As I cried, he stroked my hair.
‘You see, Eleanor. Rightly or wrongly, what happened between you and that sorry excuse for a priest was going to make you an outcast. Misunderstood, maligned. Any plans for a good marriage your father or Lady Clarice had made were ruined – hush, hush, not by you, child. Not by you. The moment I saw what was going on, caught wind of what the bishop and Layamon intended, which was to have you sent away, likely to serve someone cruel and unforgiving, I had to do something; find someone who wouldn’t judge or punish you. It helped that you were of an age to be wed and I happened to know a man in need of a wife.’
I sobbed harder.
‘I also knew that Fulk could do with someone like you.’
‘L … L … Like me? But you said yourself, you don’t know me,’ I wailed.
Master Geoffrey laughed; it wasn’t unkind. ‘Ah, but from my visits to Noke Manor, I grew to know your father and those who worked with you. I know you’re headstrong, clever, stubborn, and prefer to make up your own mind. Someone who, despite your tender years, wouldn’t be swayed by hearsay and gossip.’
I pulled away from him, aware that his chest was wet, that my nose was running, my hair had started to unravel and my scarf slip off.
‘But … I listened. I even added to it …’
‘Mayhap,’ said Master Geoffrey, smiling so gently it made me cry more. ‘But I doubt you’ll make that mistake again. Will you?’
