by Karen Brooks
Truth is, Master Gerrish’s offer is not unappealing, even though he too is long in the tooth (the lines and crevices on his face would match my Fulk’s), inclined to snore (he’s fallen asleep at our table on occasion), and has a rather melancholic temperament (for all he pretends otherwise). So, in the absence of a response from you, I used the trip to Canterbury to consider him and the other offers I have received. Once I reached the shrine of Thomas à Becket, I addressed my conundrum to God and to the good saint himself, but, as I fully expected, they both ignored my pleas as if I were the greatest of sinners, not a woman who had just dedicated weeks of her life to riding miles, prayer, feasting, fasting, and making new friends among my fellow pilgrims. (I especially enjoyed the company of a monk named Oswald. It was a fine way to experience God’s love here on earth. I wish you could see Father Elias’s blushes.) Not to mention my bleeding feet, sore arse and peeling nose. Anyhow, I’m now forced to ask for your wise counsel (again), my cousin and friend. Since you saw fit to organise my first marriage, I’m asking you a second time: should I wed Master Gerrish? Does not the Lord say to love thy neighbour?
Written on the Feast of St Katherine, the Virgin and Martyr.
Yours, Eleanor.
Postscriptum: I thought Canterbury a crush and the ampullae filled with the saint’s blood overpriced. I bought one each for me, Milda and Alyson. I had to queue to purchase them and couldn’t help but wonder how one person, even a saint, could have so much blood in them. I also bought a badge to pin upon the grey cloak I purchased. And a staff to aid walking. Brother Oswald said one is not a real pilgrim unless one is in possession of a staff. Ever tried to hold one while on a donkey? Almost impossible. The badges prove I’ve visited the shrine (and you’ll be pleased I also offered prayers for Queen Philippa, may God assoil her). What’s the point of going if one cannot prove one has been? At least it saves me prating endlessly about it as some are wont to do; I just flash my badge and the story is told. As for all the gold and silver plate surrounding Becket’s tomb, and the great garish ruby the French king presented – why, it was almost the size of a goose egg! It was tasteless, and that from a woman who years ago almost lay with a priest. I’d sooner give my coin to the beggars milling outside the cathedral. Which I did.
But, apart from Oswald – oh, and the manciple, a Frenchman, oo la la! – it was an unremarkable journey to a dirty, crowded, expensive town, keen on gulling the unwary and charging for the privilege.
Needless to say, I plan to return soon. Or at least, to make another pilgrimage, it was such an adventure. I’m thinking mayhap Jerusalem.
The Tale of Husband the Second, Turbet Gerrish
1370 to 1377
It is an uncomely couple, by Christ, so me thinks
To give a young wench to an old feeble
Or wed any widow for the wealth of her goods,
That never shall a bairn bear but if it be in [her] arms.
William Langland, The Vision and Creed of Piers Plowman, c.1370–1390
ELEVEN
Laverna Lodge
The Year of Our Lord 1370
In the forty-third year of the reign of Edward III
I’ve heard it said that a January bride will know only cold because the frost will get in her veins and cool her husband’s ardour. If my marriage to Turbet Gerrish was anything to go by, this was no old wives’ tale.
We were married by Father Elias on the threshold of St Michael’s Without the Walls on the Feast of St Agnes the Virgin. Unlike my first wedding, there were invited guests, as well as many onlookers, who were there to admire Master Gerrish’s new bride, the Widow Bigod, as I was called. Though I suspect most of the admiration was reserved for my new husband, who looked magnificent in a deep blue paltock with silver dragons embroidered around the collar, matching bonnet, cloak, elegant crimson hose and fine black boots. Until I saw him I thought I looked resplendent. Alyson had organised for some of our wool to be dyed a deep shade of cramoisy, and though I knew the colour would likely run when and if I ever washed it, despite the alum-water used to fix it, it occurred to me that once I became Mistress Gerrish, I would never have to do laundry again. It was that thought and not, as Alyson later suggested, the snowflakes swirling around, that froze a big grin on my face as I rode atop our old palfrey, Pippa.
There I was, heading towards a house of God, committing the sin of pride in my brightly coloured kirtle. My hair, apart from some curls escaping around my forehead and cheeks, was hidden by a fine veil into which we’d sewn some beads bought from a tinker (we couldn’t afford jewels – not then). My surcoat, a gift from Turbet, was a deep golden hue, and lined with marten. Marten! I also wore a woollen cloak, but rather than fold it around me, in a fit of vanity, I threw it over my shoulders so all might see my new outfit. Was I cold? Satan’s tits, I was colder than a duck’s arse in December, but I basked in the warmth of folks’ approval. I, Eleanor, who had first married in a hurried and shameful fashion. What a difference being a respectable widow made. Heads turned, women who’d scarce paid me attention pushed others out of the way and stood on tiptoes, craning their necks so they might catch a glimpse. I tilted my chin, smiled harder and waved like I was royalty.
When the horse halted, Beton helped me dismount. Alyson, riding behind on one of our donkeys, brought me my old pattens so I wouldn’t ruin my new slippers or muddy my garments.
Whispers rose to a crescendo. People pressed forward, but not so close they prevented me approaching Father Elias, who waited patiently by the church door. For the first time in weeks, the sun tore a hole in the canopy of grey clouds, clouds that, if we weren’t fast, promised to mend the heavenly puncture and spit all over proceedings. The snow had been swept away so there was a half-decent path. I gripped Beton’s arm on one side and Alyson’s on the other. I’d insisted we were in this together, every step of the way (if I didn’t slip over on my arse).
Vows were exchanged, rings too, and before God I married a second time. A great cheer erupted, then the bells rang to alert all and sundry that a troth had been plighted.
I was eighteen; my husband was two score years older. A spring chick compared to my last one.
Turbet paid Father Elias and we retired to The Corbie’s Feet, an inn just inside the walls. Many joined us – the opportunity to wine and dine at someone else’s expense too tempting to resist. Who could blame them, especially after the famine and the Botch last year? On the table were platters of mortews, froys, meat jellies, even a peacock and huge sturgeon drowning in a pale aspic. There were fruit sauces aplenty, green sauces, brown ones and sweetmeats. And there was bread. When I wasn’t drinking and smiling, I was eating.
I can’t tell you how many times I was kissed and congratulated, tickled, pinched, had indecent suggestions put to me, nor how many ales I downed. Thrown from one pair of arms to another when the dancing started, it was all very jolly. When I stumbled back to my new husband, he was very solicitous, ordering more ale be fetched. Some of the women cast glances in my direction. Envy, no doubt. I wasn’t above feeling a warm tingle at the notion.
Finally, as the church bells rang the hour, we left the celebrations amid blessings and more leers and drunken suggestions, mounting the horses and donkeys and riding to our new home. Snow fell steadily and evening was closing in. Assured it wasn’t far, I hoped it wasn’t, for now that the heat of the inn and the dancing was gone, I was chilled to the bone. Alyson’s teeth chattered as she rode beside me.
When Turbet ordered our party to halt and found blankets for me and Alyson, I marvelled at my good fortune. What a considerate husband. I caught Alyson’s eye and raised a brow. Ever sceptical, continually expressing doubts as to the wisdom of the union, going out of her way to point out Turbet’s faults and repeating rumours, she had to acknowledge this was an act of kindness. When I said as much, she leaned over and whispered, ‘He’s just making sure the goods he’s bought aren’t frozen on arrival.’
I burst out laughing.
Turb
et’s grooms rode ahead with lamps to ensure we didn’t ride off the path. Turbet had seen to it our belongings were collected from Bigod Farm and delivered to his house, the prettily named Laverna Lodge. As yet, I’d not seen it. Turbet had insisted that I not cross the threshold until we were wed. I found his insistence odd, but also quite quaint.
What I didn’t expect as we rode the mile or so from Bath’s walls and turned off the main road, was the huge house rising above the trees. Why, there was a small tower and at least three chimneys. As we drew closer, the whole of Laverna Lodge was revealed. There were two storeys and an outer courtyard crowded with servants – most shovelling and sweeping. They ceased work as we entered, laying down their implements and coming forward. Propped against the walls were empty carts, stacks of barrels, bundles of hay, buckets, chopped wood, a plough, and so much more. Don’t think for a moment it was disorderly. It wasn’t. Everything was neatly arranged, protected by the overhanging roof, so covered only by a light dusting of flakes.
Night had fallen. Light from behind the mullioned windows (windows!) cast little wells of brightness, making the banks of snow glisten invitingly. Two women ran out of the house with furs that had been warmed by a fire and threw them over my shoulders and Alyson’s. Some men led the horses and donkeys off into a large barn to my right. There was a faint whiff of animal ordure and the sounds of low snuffles, bleats and stamping hoofs. The barn was almost as big as Bigod House – after the extensions. I was agog. While I knew Turbet was a man of some means, I’d never considered his home before.
At the front door, I paused beneath the portico while Turbet issued orders. People had sprung into action, running here and there, crunching through the snow, murmuring, ‘Welcome, mistress’, ‘May God bless you, mistress’, ‘Congratulations, master, and may God bless you’. A young man carrying a tray filled with steaming cups of mulled wine appeared at my elbow.
It was all too much. Alyson, Beton and Milda were staring about with wide eyes. ‘Holy Jesus in a basket,’ said Beton, almost dropping the goblet placed in his stiff hand.
It wasn’t until Hereward and Wake came bounding out of another doorway, a lad panting after them, that I began to relax. Something familiar and loved. The dogs threw themselves against us, making us spill our drinks and dissolve into laughter as we petted and fussed. Now, this was a welcome I was accustomed to receiving.
It was only later I recalled the boy who’d been tasked with managing the dogs running towards Turbet and throwing himself on the ground, uncaring of the cold and the snow.
‘Forgive me, master. Forgive me, master,’ he said over and over.
The mayhem stopped, or maybe it was my imagination, as everyone focussed on the boy and Turbet.
Turbet bent down and pulled the lad to his feet, brushing his tunic and coat. ‘What are you worried about, boy? They are big hounds and you but a wisp. You’ll not be looking after them again, will he, Jermyn?’ The last comment was directed to a man of middling years supervising the activity, who I learned was Turbet’s bailiff.
‘Nay, my lord,’ said Jermyn, gesturing for the boy to get back inside.
Everyone returned to their tasks, the hounds settling beside me and Alyson. But there was an undercurrent. The joy manifested with our arrival was most definitely dimmed.
We were taken through the entrance into a small room that held a wooden table, some candles and a mighty arras depicting an ancient battle. We shuffled down a short passage. To our right was another room, and beyond that, through a doorway, I caught a glimpse of a huge hall. We then passed through a room in which my loom and Alyson’s had been placed, before we ascended some stairs and moved into a warmer one and were invited to sit. Extra drinks and more food were swiftly delivered. Turbet left us briefly to have a word with his housekeeper, Mistress Emmaline.
I removed my gloves, my cloak having already been taken by one of the maids. Unlike the other rooms, which were quite barren and cold, this one was small and cosy. Turbet had declared it the solar. It was certainly an improvement on my last one. A proper hearth held a blazing fire that gave out a great deal of warmth and light. Sconces with burning candles sat at intervals along the walls, lodged between tapestries, most depicting bloody battle scenes. Leather shields and swords also provided decoration. Turbet’s family made their fortune fighting the King’s campaigns – his father being rewarded with lands. Turbet himself had fought in the Battle of Sluys, but this room was almost like a shrine to war. Does not Venus fall where Mars is raised? I pressed my lips together and tried to dismiss the little voice tolling a warning in my head. There were two fabric-covered chairs, one of which I was enjoying, as well as three lovely carved ones with arms, and a stool. Of the two small tables, one held a silver jug and some goblets, and a bureau with enamel insets along the top sat against one wall. Upon it were some books. Alyson put down her drink and went to examine them.
‘Jesus wept,’ said Beton, gazing around with wide eyes. ‘You’ve struck it lucky, Eleanor. Turbet must be richer than we thought.’
‘In debt more like,’ said Alyson dryly. ‘Did you notice who was at the wedding feast? Not one of the Bath gentry. Just a bunch of merchants and shopkeepers.’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ sniffed Beton.
‘I’m not saying there is, unless they came to do an accounting. From the look of this –’ her arm swept the room, ‘the man lives like a lord – or pretends to. I’ll guarantee any room that isn’t public is wanting. Why, take this room. Never seen such threadbare cushions and wall hangings in my life.’
‘At least he has some,’ I said.
She sniffed. ‘The man is about making an impression. You wait, all those servants scurrying about – they’ll be gone come morning. Hired to bedazzle is my guess.’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ I said, echoing Beton. ‘We hire servants when there’s extra work. What’s a wedding if not that? What are we but additional mouths to feed?’ I tried not to let my temper take hold. Didn’t matter what Turbet did or said, Alyson would not budge in her low opinion. Yet, the only reason I was married to him was because Fulk, the only man she ever knew as a father and who she’d loved dearly, was dead. Uprooted from her old life and ways, I’d forced her into this. I just prayed she’d grow accustomed to Turbet. I prayed we all would. God knew, this bitter night, I thought I could.
‘You need to give the man a chance, Alyson,’ I snapped. ‘You’ve taken a set against him.’
‘Have not,’ she replied with indignation. ‘Not without reason. My judgement is made from what I’ve observed and heard.’
‘Well, I’ve only observed my husband being generous and kind. As for hearing anything, not one whiff of scandal have I been told aside from your whispers.’
‘Who’d dare tell you?’ scoffed Alyson. ‘Once you agreed to marry him, no-one was going to say anything, were they?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you would have bitten their bloody heads off, as you do mine.’
‘You’re one to talk –’
Milda began to blink; high colour filled her cheeks.
‘Ladies, ladies,’ said Beton, holding up his hands as if to fend off an attack. ‘Remember what day it is and where you are. For God’s sake, cease your muck-spouting. Let’s start as we mean to go on. Anyhow, it’s too late to change anything. Eleanor is a Gerrish now. And, because we’re family, we’re all stuck with him, whoever and whatever he is.’
It wasn’t often Beton talked sense.
I brooded, even as I liked that Beton called us family. Alyson turned the pages of the book she couldn’t read and shook her head, muttering, ‘I never wanted to come here. I’d have been content to stay at the farm.’ She snapped the book shut. A cloud of dust hit her in the face and she coughed. ‘But you two talked me out of it.’
Beton and I had worked hard to persuade her that the rent monies she received as her share of the farm would go some way towards increasing her dowry and give her some independence. Not t
hat a woman ever really had any.
If I’d been feeling more charitable, I would have reminded her that I wanted her here, with me. I wanted Beton and Milda, too. I hadn’t been all that keen to leave the farm, but once I accepted Turbet’s proposal, I’d little choice. It didn’t help that Geoffrey never wrote back to me. Despite dictating two letters to Father Elias, one before my pilgrimage and one after, he never replied. It reached a point where I had to give Turbet an answer or lose him. Lose his lands, more like. Lose all this, I thought, looking around.
In the end, I’d capitulated. I was young, I needed a man’s guidance. That’s what Father Elias said. It’s what Beton, Milda and Mistress Bertha said as well. It’s what they all said.
Except Alyson.
She pointed out I’d been the one to guide Fulk; I’d increased his prosperity. I could manage on my own. With her, Beton and Milda beside me, I didn’t need to rush into marriage. Not that I listened.
To make matters worse, Beton was remaining at Bigod Farm. Oh, he was with us for the wedding feast and the morrow, making sure we had everything we needed from our old life at the farm. Turbet convinced him (and me) it would be better if Beton stayed at Bigod Farm as a bailiff and, with a goodly wage, oversaw the serfs and the rents and generally looked after the place on our behalf.
‘Our’, of course, included Turbet. What was mine was now his and what was his remained so.
At first I’d objected to leaving Beton behind, even though I could see he was taken with the notion of having a title, some authority (and who could blame him for that) and money. When Alyson argued that whoever rented the farm would be the only tenant and would sublease the cottages so there was no need for a bailiff, Turbet smiled – the kind of smile someone gives you when you’re being naive, if not downright stupid.
