by Karen Brooks
I shook my head fiercely, then buried it in his chest once more. He smelled of horses, musk and smoke. His arms were comforting. I thought of Papa and all the times I wished he’d held me tight like this.
The longer I cried, the more I came to realise I was no longer howling for sorrow’s sake, but with relief. I was glad to be on Bigod Farm. I was glad I was married to such a good man, such a kind man, even if he was old. And wrinkly. At least he didn’t stink anymore. If I had my way, he never would again.
If I had my way. God, I sounded like a real wife.
Only, I thought, as my tears ceased to fall and I snivelled and tried to breathe, I wasn’t a real wife, was I? Here I was, months later, still a child-woman and, until I bedded my husband, I would remain one. Sweet Jesu, that was something I had to ensure happened lest the marriage be annulled.
I freed myself from Master Geoffrey’s embrace, wiped my face and downed some ale he’d poured. Then I took his hands and kissed first one and then the other.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ His skin was soft. A writer’s hands, not a worker’s.
‘For what?’ he said, though I could tell he damn well knew.
‘For this –’ I gestured about me. I meant more than just the house.
‘You’re very welcome, cousin.’ We both smiled.
After that, we sat quietly, asking each other questions that had nothing to do with the past, and everything to do with today and tomorrow.
When the rain began to ease, Master Geoffrey rose. ‘I hope that in future, you’ll allow me to visit from time to time? See how you’re faring?’
‘If you don’t, I’ll find you and demand to know why.’
He grinned. ‘If I can’t visit, I’ll write. I know you can’t read, and nor can Fulk, but you can ask Father Elias at St Michael’s Without the Walls in Bath to read my missives. He’s an old friend. You can trust him.’
‘You’ve a few of those, don’t you?’
‘Aye. Friends are what make life worth living.’ He took my hand in his. ‘I also hope that with you, I’ve not only a cousin, but a new friend as well.’
‘You do.’
We grinned.
He let go of my fingers, stretched and faced the door. The rain ceased, though dark clouds approaching from the west suggested another deluge. Alyson’s and Odo’s voices grew louder as they returned to the house.
Master Geoffrey pulled me to my feet beside him. ‘Let’s have a toast,’ he said, putting a mazer into my hands and picking up his own. ‘To new friends. To family. May we always see the good beneath the surface and –’ He moved his mazer out of the way as I went to clink it. He hadn’t yet finished.
‘May we always have the heart to give those requiring a second chance the opportunity to take it.’
We struck cups and drank, not knowing then how much those words would come back to haunt us.
That night, as Geoffrey shared a bed with Theo below, I welcomed my husband to ours and became Mistress Fulk Bigod in every way.
And, in case you’re wondering (and you are), my husband may have been old, but he was no monster … Nor was he the divine Cupid; not that I’m complaining – too much. Even so, as I shut my eyes and waited for it to be over, I comforted myself with the thought this was what women and wives had done since time began, young, old and in-between – willing and unwilling. It was a duty, another expectation placed upon us by God and man. Gradually, I came to see my body, my queynte, as a tool, which, over time, I learned to wield to my advantage.
It was some years before I discovered I too could take pleasure from it. That, truth be told, was the beginning of my undoing.
EIGHT
Bigod Farm, London and Bath
The Years of Our Lord 1364 to 1369
In the thirty-eighth to the forty-second years of the reign of Edward III
The seasons passed, summer relaxed into a cool autumn followed by a freezing winter and Yuletide. On Bigod Farm, more transformations were slowly wrought.
Alright, I wrought the changes and sometimes, I admit, not so slowly.
One of the first I insisted upon was maintaining the interior of the house and ourselves in a state of cleanliness. With Alyson’s support, I refused to listen to objections and excuses as I first asked, and later demanded, that bathing was to happen at least once a month, more frequently if someone fell in shit or helped with birthing animals. Or if their lice or fleas were troublesome. If Theo, Beton or even Fulk refused to adhere to this schedule, they were to sleep in the barn (Theo and Beton did a couple of times, until they decided it wasn’t worth it). Likewise, the rushes were now changed fortnightly and were spread throughout the main room.
Though my husband was initially reluctant to abide by what he called my unnatural obsession with water, claiming his skin would slough off or he would catch any number of diseases, when I threatened to withhold sexual favours, he soon came around. I also knew part of my husband’s reticence was fear that without the dirt to keep people away, he would be forced to endure society. What he gradually learned was that I would be by his side – at least until we’d turned those nasty rumours on their head.
For our first Christmas, I presented the family (how that word made me fizz with delight) with new clothes I’d woven and Alyson had sewn. Theo, Beton and Fulk strutted about the house like peacocks and, when I suggested we hitch the cart to Pilgrim and attend mass in the chapel at the manor, were willing. The gratification I felt when the villagers didn’t recognise Fulk is hard to describe. When Alyson, Theo and Beton – the suspicious, grubby children the folk of Bath-atte-Mere had whispered about – entered the chapel beside their adopted father in fine woollen tunics and surcoats, clean, bright hose and boots, draped in cloaks lined with sheepskin, delicate embroidery tracing the edges, I couldn’t have been prouder.
Lady Clarice was so taken aback, she made a point of not only welcoming us as she stood next to Father Roman when we left the chapel, but inviting us to the Great Hall for some wassailing and feasting. I sat with the other wives at a decorated table, served by young girls who, less than a year before, I’d worked beside. Whereas once I would have been most uncomfortable, expecting to be ignored, I was beset with questions and barely disguised comments – many flattering. I answered those I wished and pretended not to hear those I didn’t. I also made sure I remembered my friends, wrapping May and Joan in my arms and disappearing briefly to visit Cook, as well as sitting with Mistress Bertha and Master Merriman. There were a few times I wanted to snap and scold a gossip, repeat back words she’d once used against my husband. But that was no way to secure a fresh place in this little community. Instead, I smiled a secret smile, shook or nodded my head, or bowed it in false modesty. For certes, I wasn’t feeling the slightest bit humble.
I was bursting as I watched Alyson whirling about the floor with Odo, looking happier than I’d ever seen her in a lovely russet kirtle and golden surcoat. Theo and Beton were a fine sight, clean-shaven, their thick dark hair tamed. But most of all, I was proud of my husband. He stood to one side in the Great Hall, between Master Geoffrey and Lady Clarice, his mazer constantly filled, men in a tight circle about the three of them. He smiled on occasion, listened intently to what was being said, and kept me in his line of sight. Fulk, Geoffrey and I shared many a look that night – the kind that comes from mutual understanding and more than a little bit of hard-earned triumph, tinged with rich irony.
In less than a year, circumstances had undergone an enormous change. Mine from serving girl to sinful wench to farmer’s wife, and Fulk and his family from reclusive outsiders to folk in the thick of the village. Fulk raised his mazer in my direction. Aye, I deserved a toast. We all did.
That was just the beginning.
The following year, as our fleeces sold well and Fulk invested in more sheep, I persuaded my husband that if we wanted to make more money, we needed to diversify (a word Papa had been fond of using) and one way of doing that was by putting me and Alyson t
o work as well. We not only needed to invest in another loom for Alyson to work upon, but bigger ones. In order to make that kind of purchase worthwhile, we needed to be freed from daily household chores. That meant hiring servants.
Fulk had many positive attributes, and when it came to love and understanding, he was the most generous person on God’s good earth. He was also a splendid listener and acknowledged the sense of my suggestions. But when it came to parting with coin, unless it was for the sole purpose of increasing the size of the flock, he became the worst of misers. That was, until I learned that once more, all I had to do was withhold my queynte – until he saw fit to give me what I wanted.
He held out for three days.
Two weeks later we welcomed first one maid, Milda, then another, Sophie, into the house. Milda was a poor widow of about thirty odd years of age from the other side of town. Her children had either died or left home to find their fortunes elsewhere. A stout woman with honey-coloured hair, permanently rosy cheeks, and smiling hazelnut eyes, she had a quiet way about her that I liked immediately. Grateful for the work, she was respectful of my position, only offering advice when asked (which wasn’t often, even though, mayhap, it should have been).
Sophie was a young girl of about ten from Bathampton, who came from a large villein family having trouble feeding everyone. She was delighted not to have to share a pallet.
Over summer we’d extended the house, building walls and partitions, making private rooms for Alyson and the men. While Milda and Sophie first slept on pallet beds near the hearth, before long I used my usual methods of persuasion to get Fulk to build another room for them, at the opposite end of the house to ours and above Theo and Beton’s.
If only I’d known it was so easy to have my wishes met! I could have deployed this strategy from the beginning. After we’d swived and Fulk was lying on his side snoring, I would lie awake and wonder. Was this the great secret all women knew? The power their queynte possessed to overcome even the strongest, stubbornest men and thus get their own way? Is this why God didn’t want Adam to eat the apple? Because He knew the moment a man bit into its sweet flesh, instead of obeying God, he would obey woman, in thrall to her chamber of Venus?
Regardless, I began to use my power freely. I like to think wisely and well – mostly to benefit others. I became gatekeeper to my heavenly postern. My husband could only enter after paying a fee – submission to my will.
Nevertheless, there were times I felt Fulk was laughing at me and my demands. Not in a demeaning way, you understand, but as if I was a child he was indulging. I suppose, in retrospect, that’s exactly what I was.
After two years, Bigod Farm was a growing concern when it came to sheep and pasture, our wool sought after by English merchants. Better still, alien merchants came from Flanders, Venice and Brabant to purchase our fleeces. These men were not only prepared to pay good prices, but to hand over very large sums in advance for wool our flock had not yet grown. It took a bit of convincing to persuade Fulk to agree to terms, even though it advantaged us. This time, it wasn’t my queynte that made him capitulate (I didn’t even try), but Master Gerrish and a local brogger named Master Kenton, who explained these kinds of advance contracts were being offered and accepted by the biggest monasteries and sheep farmers throughout the south and west of England. Master Gerrish offered to lease a portion of our land and buy some of our flock, so keen was he to take the aliens’ coin. I think that persuaded my husband more than the brogger’s words. It wasn’t the first time Master Gerrish, or Turbet, as I now called him, tried to buy our land and sheep. It wouldn’t be the last.
As a consequence, the wool Alyson and I wove (Alyson long ago surpassed my skills on the loom, she was such a fast learner) was also much sought after. But this is where we struck a problem. The Guild of Weavers and Fullers in Bath caught wind of what we were about and objected. Oh, we could have our wool dyed by the local fullers and make cloth – providing we only clothed ourselves. As we weren’t guild members and neither was Fulk, we were forbidden to sell it, even though the demand was there.
It wasn’t fair.
When Fulk objected, the guild presented a compromise: we were allowed to sell our cloth to a merchant in Bath for a fair price (when you’re dealing with merchants, you swiftly learn that ‘fair’ is a synonym for ‘low’, the lower the better). In turn, the merchant would sell the cloth himself for inflated prices and pocket the profits. The merchant suggested to us turned out to be the brother-in-law of the head of the guild.
Once again, it was Master Gerrish who persuaded us to ignore the rules. He convinced Fulk, who passed the task to Beton or Theo, to take our cloth to the bigger markets in Brighton, Divizes, Stow-on-Wold and even, once, to London. There, though stillage was paid, we kept every coin earned. As a consequence, we had to produce greater quantities of cloth and more quickly (and secretly). We hired maids from the village to card and spin so Alyson and I might concentrate on weaving.
Our reputation not only as producers of fine wool, but as weavers, began to grow. It would have been easy to increase our output further, but something in me (and Fulk agreed) knew that if we kept our enterprise small, just me and Alyson, then not only were we less likely to be caught, but we maintained the quality and could thus ask better prices.
It was a risk that paid off.
At unexpected moments, Fulk would reach over and drop a kiss on my brow, or cup my face. Usually, when I was at the loom. ‘Little did I know when I married you, Eleanor, that the pretty head beneath that glorious hair contained such a clever mind.’
Alyson would arch a brow then concentrate on weaving, but not before I saw the smile that crinkled her eyes.
A wall was built between the main room, now more like a hall, and the kitchen. A chimney breast was inserted and an oven installed in the kitchen, reducing the smoke that used to fill the entire house. Once that was no longer a problem, we hired men to plaster and whitewash the walls, which lightened the inside of the house considerably. I also persuaded Fulk to extend the house a room’s width the entire length. This was then divided into three rooms: a new bedroom for us, so we no longer had to ascend the ladder to go to bed (our old room was turned over to much-needed storage); a solar, so the family and servants might sometimes retreat if there were guests (usually other merchants, Turbet, and twice in two years, Geoffrey); and a garderobe or necessarium as Fulk insisted on calling it. That was at the opposite end to our bedroom and the kitchen and, despite the deep pit dug, and the wide plank with the hole that sat over it, it was a small space that, no matter how hard the maids cleaned or how often the boys buried the waste, exuded a terrible stink. Still, it was better than throwing the contents of the jordan about the yard.
I should add we didn’t spend all our time moving the shuttle back and forth and clacking on the looms. Nor did we remain on the farm day after day. As Fulk’s confidence (and mine) grew around others, we would take occasional trips into Bath, about an hour’s cart ride away. By now Pilgrim had companions in the form of three other beasts, including one old nag named Philippa, or Pippa for short, because she acted as though she was the Queen. We would joke that she and old Claude were a right royal pair. Unlike the real King and Queen, they could barely stand the sight of each other.
Each trip we made into Bath-atte-Mere seemed to last longer, as invitations for ale or food were proffered, everyone wanting to hear news from the farm or further afield.
On one occasion, I accompanied my husband to London.
I hadn’t long turned sixteen. The city was everything I expected in many ways, but in others, it was better. My head just about swivelled off my neck, and, if I hadn’t been warned about the crush, the noise and how thieves were on the lookout for fresh faces, I doubt my purse would have survived. I know my pinched arse and ringing ears almost didn’t. But I loved every second, and as we travelled home, weary yet bursting with excitement at what we’d seen, bought and done, I couldn’t wait to return.
It wo
uld be many, many years before I did, and then in very different circumstances. But I’m running ahead of myself.
It was a much-altered Eleanor Bigod who met The Poet when he dismounted from his horse. For a start, I was seventeen, a matron by anyone’s standard with five years of marriage under my belt. Still my womb hadn’t quickened. It was a very sore point and, while Fulk never made an issue of it, he watched me like a limpid cow whenever my courses came and I pushed him away for the few days. He couldn’t school his face, and not simply because he couldn’t sard me. No-one was more aware than me that he was growing older, slower, frailer, and time was running out.
What purpose did I serve if I didn’t transition from wife to mother? I’d grown taller, was large-breasted with a slim waist and rounded hips. The epitome of womanhood, Fulk called me (I had to ask Father Elias what ‘epitome’ meant and, when he asked how it had been said to me, blushed a shade of crimson I’d only ever seen on a wealthy Bath lady’s kirtle). My skin was even more freckled from the work I did outside, and my hands, while calloused from weaving, were also softened from the grease of the wool and the fact I rarely did the laundry or washed dishes. Nor did I sweep or shovel shit – those tasks were now assigned to one of the three girls and two extra boys we hired. Not all of them worked in the house. The boys helped with the sheep, or drew the plough and planted the fields, along with additional help from the village during harvest. They also maintained our two horses and four mules. Pilgrim died the same year as Lady Clarice. I know which I missed more.
When Master Geoffrey dismounted, brushing off his clothes and throwing the reins of his rather fine mount to his squire – no longer Odo, who had run off to war and broken Alyson’s heart – the first thing I noticed was the insignia on his clothes. The insignia of the royal house.
Seems I wasn’t the only one to ascend the Wheel of Fortune.
