by Karen Brooks
Once in bed, I prayed to God like never before. I swore that if He allowed Alyson to live, I would journey to a shrine, become a pilgrim, and give thanks to Him, His saints and all their glorious works.
Once the sickness had passed, I promised I would also give thanks to Turbet Gerrish. A man I hoped one day to be able to repay.
It was a long time before we felt secure enough to venture beyond our land, and more weeks still before we were allowed to return to the village and town. While there’d been a huge number of deaths in London and the north, mostly children, other areas were more fortunate. Bath-atte-Mere only lost one family, and Thom Crease, the carter who’d been moving back and forth between the major ports and London.
Father Roman had been besieged by offerings and gifts – mainly food and ale. No wonder he looked plumper. I’d a suspicion his surplice was not only new, but had been decorated with jewels. According to Lord Hugh, the priest devoted all his sermons to reminding people about the might of God’s judgement, ensuring that donations and offerings continued. Folk may not have understood Latin, but they did understand God’s wrath.
Bath had more casualties. Within the walls, forty people died, the freshly turned earth of their graves a stark reminder of what we’d survived. Folk remained cautious, the older ones recalling what it had been like when the Great Mortality swept the land, asking God for clemency and offering prayers, coin and gifts to the Abbey and the other chapels within and without the city walls. Funny how something like the Botch made those more oft inclined to ignore the harsher directives of the Lord disinclined to gamble with His mercy. I should know, I was one. God even answered my pleas: Alyson’s recovery was slow, but her health, praise be, was restored.
Along with Beton, Alyson, Milda and Warren (who’d returned), I made a great show of attending mass each Sunday – preferring to listen to Father Elias Without the Walls than to pompous Father Roman in the village.
Once it was evident no-one else was going to succumb to the pestilence, those who’d fled the town returned and trade resumed.
Our supplies had all but disappeared and though we picked fruit and vegetables, and harvested what we could of our grain, we’d been forced to leave a great deal to rot in the fields. What we’d managed to collect would mostly suffice as fodder for the animals. I just hoped once we sold the cloth I’d woven – I’d been busy and so had Alyson once her health was mended – we’d be able to purchase necessary stores and maybe even replenish the flock.
We were quiet in those early days. Looking inward, not just to each other, but to our thoughts. I don’t know what I would have done without Milda. Throughout those long weeks, especially while Alyson was ill, I came to really know her. The way she’d wrap her slender fingers firmly around my shoulder, giving it a squeeze, when she’d pass by; her soft humming when the moans of the ill threatened to engulf me. The evening hours when she sat beside me, spinning, offering naught but her quiet companionship, a posset to soothe my fractured soul and, later, when Alyson joined us, hers too. I found myself studying her by the dying light of the candles. When had her golden hair ceded to so much grey? When had her stoutness transformed into a wiriness that reflected her inner strength? Were they recent things, attributable to the Botch? Or had I not noticed, just as I hadn’t noticed the mole on her neck, the way one side of her mouth lifted when she was amused, or how she rapidly blinked when she disapproved of something? The Botch and our weeks of solitude brought me an appreciation of my maid who I would never again take for granted.
I knew Geoffrey had survived, a letter arriving not long after we were able to venture out again. Father Elias delivered it and read it to me. This missive prompted me to do something I hadn’t done before: write to Geoffrey – well, not myself, but to have Father Elias scribe on my behalf. He’d volunteered many times, but I didn’t like having to rely on someone to shape my words. How did I know they were writing what I said?
Now, I didn’t care.
As soon as it was safe to do so, I made a special trip to St Michael’s Without the Walls and, sitting beside the Father, began to dictate. I’d thought long and hard about what to say. Father Elias sat at his desk, a piece of parchment stretched before him, an inkhorn and sharpened quill at the ready, together with some sand for blotting. I looked upon these tools with wonder. They allowed us not only to communicate with each other but, through them, with God – after all, what was the Bible but God’s holy words? Never before had mine been recorded. It was hard to sit still as my insides lurched with excitement.
‘How would you like to begin?’ asked Father Elias, quill poised just so, a drop of ink swelling at the tip.
‘Are there rules?’ I asked.
‘Well, it would be usual to commence it with “Right Worshipful Mastership”, or something like that.’
I pulled a face. ‘Really? So many honorifics? Mastership? Geoffrey’s not the King. He’s just a poet. He’s my friend.’
‘And in showing him such respect you acknowledge that and more.’
‘Oh, very well, then.’ I waved my hand. ‘But maybe just Right Worshipful. Or sir. He’s not my master, after all.’
Father Elias tried not to smile. The scritch-scratch of the quill was a pleasant distraction. I was fascinated by the form my words took on the page. Whenever I paused, craning my neck to watch the letters he made, Father Elias urged me to continue.
After a while, he stopped. ‘You can’t say that, Eleanor,’ he said.
‘What? Goddamn?’
‘Aye. You cannot take the Lord’s name in vain.’
‘I can if I choose. And I’m goddamned madder with Him than I am with a baker who cheats the measures.’
Father Elias’s cheeks reddened and he coughed into his fist. ‘I understand, Eleanor, but I think another word might be better.’
‘Whose letter is this? If you choose my words, then it’s hardly mine, is it?’ I stabbed a finger at the page. ‘I’m paying you to write what I say. Right?’
Father Elias gave a deep sigh. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘May the Lord forgive me.’
‘If He doesn’t,’ I added, ‘I will.’
He chuckled. ‘That’s a relief.’
After that, I had him read back each completed part and, true to his word, he wrote everything I said, even when it caused him vexation.
The letter marked an alteration in my relations with the Father. From that day forward, I knew I could not only trust him but mayhap even call him friend. In fact, seeing Father Elias was one of the few bright spots in what were dark, sad times. Keeping busy also helped.
Attempts to ease my sorrow through work were often interrupted by Turbet. Every other morning, he’d arrive at the house. Early, he would shout through the door, then enter. Never empty-handed, he brought bread from his ovens, cheese, ale, jugs of wine. Then he’d ask if we needed anything, as if we weren’t able to bake, churn or brew (which we could, we just were too tired managing everything else and stores were scarce) before relaying any news.
Quarantine was only just over when Turbet saw to it our wool was packed and sold, going so far as to take a quantity to the markets in Burford himself. Upon his return, he deposited a purse of coins on the window ledge. It was this that enabled us to hire the help we needed to get back on our feet again. I employed two extra men and a young girl to help Milda. Turbet also brought me a contract to supply wool to the Datini Company in Prato, a city near Florence. Stunned he could be so generous as to share such a lucrative contact, let alone encourage these businessmen to look to us to part-supply their wool, I didn’t know how to repay him.
As a consequence, though we’d lost animals, trade, and, most of all, people, we were not as poorly off as we might have been. Our losses were of the heart, the spiritual kind. These were much harder to recover from, and nothing that has happened since has persuaded me otherwise.
I half-expected to see Geoffrey before summer ended, especially when a lawyer from Bath sent a summons for me to appear in his o
ffices. I had to ask Father Elias, who I’d asked to read it, what business a lawyer wanted. It was to make me cognisant (I asked the Father what that word meant) of my late husband’s will.
‘Would you like me to accompany you?’ he asked.
‘Aye, I would.’
If Father Elias hadn’t been with me I might have fallen off my stool when the lawyer, Sir Ormat le Lene (who, despite his name, was fatter than a butcher’s dog), informed me that, even after Fulk’s lands and all his possessions were divided three ways (it would have been four, but Theo’s death reduced it to three) and taxes paid, I was a woman of means. I wasn’t rich like Lord Hugh’s wife, or Mistress Tiffany, whose husband was a goldsmith in Bath, but I’d more to my name than I’d ever believed possible for a – what was it Father Roman used to call me? Oh aye, ‘a peasant brogger’s slutty get’.
Mayhap, that was why, after I floated out of Master le Lene’s office, leaving Father Elias a generous donation towards the church, and rode the cart back to the farm, listening to Milda who chatted the entire way but about what, I couldn’t have said, the last thing on my mind was Turbet Gerrish.
Celebrating our good fortune and thanking dear Fulk and the good Lord that we would be alright, Alyson, Beton, Milda and I began to make plans.
These were all thrown awry when Turbet arrived unannounced. It was his second visit for the day. He had covered himself liberally in scent. I could detect sandalwood, musk, rosewater and few other perfumes besides – ones that really shouldn’t be mixed if you wish your companions to breathe.
I welcomed him and poured a goblet of wine from one of the jugs he’d brought. I hadn’t considered why he might be here again, and so was unprepared when, sitting opposite, his eyes glinting in the candlelight, he asked me to marry him.
Turbet Gerrish, wealthy landowner, my husband’s neighbour and business colleague, asked me, Eleanor Bigod, to be his wife before God and man. It was by anyone’s measure, hasty – Fulk had only been in the ground six weeks or so – but this was motivated by material concerns, not amorous ones.
Alyson dropped the shuttle. Milda paused in her carding. Beton, who was playing a game of One and Thirty with two of our labourers, rose slowly, his eyes on me then Turbet.
I prudently drank the wine.
‘Well, what say you, Eleanor? Will you make me a happy man?’
I stared into Turbet’s eyes, or tried to. As usual, they were darting about, trying to fix on something behind me. I wasn’t such a fool I didn’t know marriage to me, just like his generous presents of food, his unsolicited help, was a way of getting what he wanted – the land and sheep, only in much greater quantity. But he wouldn’t be the only one to profit from such an arrangement. As his wife, I’d be entitled to at least a third, if not more, of all our conjoined assets should anything happen to him. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he wasn’t an ugly one either. He was old and lined, but I was accustomed to a weathered face and knew it wasn’t necessarily a sign of dotage or ill-health. When asking for my hand, he hadn’t affected a smile, but been serious. He smelled good, had nice manners and, for all his flaws, had been kind – even with intent.
All I could think about was God and His bloody lousy timing. For with Fulk’s estate, He’d just given me the gift of liberty. Hours later, He throws Turbet in my path, and potentially takes it away. Upon marriage, my property would become my husband’s.
Though, if I wed, there was a chance I could have what I’d always wanted – not just respectability and stability, but a child. I could be a mother.
Why do you do this to me, O Heavenly Father?
It was then I recalled the promise I made weeks ago. I’d sworn that if God allowed Alyson to live, I’d make a pilgrimage.
Sweet Jesu. The last thing I wanted to do was traipse about with a bunch of religious zealots determined to prove their godliness.
But it would give me time to consider Turbet’s proposal.
Also, if word got out about the will and that Turbet, a man with decent holdings, had asked for my hand, well, who knows what other offers might come my way.
I lowered my eyes lest Turbet see the schemes forming behind them – though he’d have to look at me first. I pressed my hands together in an attitude of prayer and raised my eyes to the heavens.
After a while, Turbet cleared his throat. By now, Alyson had resumed working the loom, and Milda, one corner of her mouth twitching, started spinning. The men were focused on their card game again.
‘Well?’ he pressed, less confident. His squire coughed into his fist.
‘I’m overwhelmed,’ I said. ‘While it would be an honour to be Mistress Gerrish –’ His face lit up, even his eyes ceased to rove. ‘There are those whose consideration must be sought before I give you my answer.’
Anger flashed, though he quickly schooled it. ‘You mean, your family.’
‘Oh, aye, aye,’ I said quickly. ‘And the Holy Family, too.’
His eyebrows rose.
‘You see,’ I explained quickly. ‘I’ve long planned, well, since Fulk died, to go on a pilgrimage and thank God for our salvation from the Botch.’
‘And where do you intend to go?’ His words were thin and sharp. ‘For how long?’
I racked my brains. Where did one go on pilgrimages? I knew the kings of old went to Jerusalem, but I’d no desire to venture all that way – the place was full of sand and bloody Saracens. Then there was that Compost place in Spain. What about somewhere closer? Ely? Was that far? What about Lincoln? Mayhap, that wasn’t far enough. Then it occurred to me.
‘Canterbury,’ I said. ‘I’m going to Canterbury.’
Rising from the bench, Turbet drained his goblet and, pulling out a kerchief, dabbed his mouth. ‘Know this, Eleanor. If I do not have an answer by the end of the year, then I’m afraid my offer will be withdrawn.’
Marriage was a business proposition, but most people weren’t so obvious about it. My vanity took a blow. I thought Turbet might have desired me, even a little bit. It was Fulk’s lands he wanted after all.
Not Fulk’s lands. Mine. Mine and Alyson’s and Beton’s.
‘You’ll have my answer as soon as I’ve one to give you,’ I said, and walked him to the door.
He pressed a kiss to my hand, turning it over so it was my palm that received it. I resisted the urge to wipe it on my kirtle.
‘I hope God gives you the guidance you seek and the response I desire. And don’t forget, if you don’t want to marry me, the offer for your lands and flock still stands.’
I stared at him. ‘How can I resist.’
Alyson coughed. Milda juggled the spindle.
I waited until Turbet and his squire were mounted before closing the door and joining the others.
What Turbet didn’t know was, it wasn’t God I needed to seek advice from. Since when had He been helpful? The person I wanted to ask was someone I’d written to only a few weeks earlier – the man who organised my first very happy marriage.
I would write to The Poet. To my friend and confidant, Geoffrey Chaucer. If he said to marry Turbet Gerrish, then by God, Eleanor Bigod would.
PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY
A letter to Master Geoffrey Chaucer from Mistress Eleanor Bigod, widow
Right worshipful sir, I commend myself to you.
May it please you to know that once more I’ve sought the services of your dear friend and mine, Father Elias, in order to tell you of the latest events to have overtaken me. I’m most perplexed that you’ve not replied to my earlier letter seeking your urgent advice regarding a marriage proposal from Master Turbet Gerrish. I can only assume this missive went astray.
As noted previously, after the death of my husband, Fulk Bigod (I don’t know why Father Elias insisted on writing his name in full, as if he were a stranger to you instead of a relation, for Godsakes – and aye, in case you’re wondering, I made him write that too), I fulfilled my promise to my Lord Jesus Christ if He would spare the life of my Godsib, Alyson. That is,
to undertake a pilgrimage.
My chosen destination was Canterbury and I was accompanied by Alyson and Milda. Truth is, I didn’t really care where I went, I just knew I didn’t want to leave England nor go very far. Turned out, the road to Canterbury is much travelled and easy to negotiate. Nevertheless, I was at first reluctant to set out. Not only was I anxious to know your thoughts on Turbet’s offer, but I was worried about leaving the farm in the hands of Beton, who, though older, does not possess a wise head, especially when it comes to business. I also feared something may happen to him in my absence, even while I was on a holy mission, God being inclined to overlook me and those I love.
Father Elias and Master Gerrish promised to keep an eye on Beton and the farm. After Master Gerrish proved himself so helpful while sickness raged, I felt somewhat reassured, even as I understood he had other motives. He was looking to shore up potential assets, after all.
There were other reasons for me to go, so I did not tarry awaiting your reply. Fulk’s death cut deep, Geoffrey. I found myself prone to bouts of sudden weeping. The death of a goat, a sheep mauled by wild dogs, Fulk’s favourite goblet unused on the sideboard – these things could plunge me into deep sadness from which it was difficult to rise. Alyson coped slightly better. Milda, for whom grief is a familiar companion, felt leaving the farm awhile would remind us both how fortunate we still are, despite our grievous losses, and help us look to the future.
Master Gerrish believes that future lies with him.
Since I wrote to you, I’ve been besieged with offers, which I know will make you smile when you consider how hastily my first marriage was arranged. The same men who once decried me as whore and harlot now seek to make me wife (Father Roman, for obvious reasons, being an exception). I’m no longer so foolish as to think I’m the attraction rather than the lands and sheep, the house and all its comforts, to which I am one-third entitled. Alyson kindly suggests it’s also my youth (I am but seventeen) and, possibly, my wide hips. For certes, no-one except Fulk has ever mentioned my pretty face.
