by Karen Brooks
We talked and talked. Truth is, we argued and I threw things. I thought what Turbet said was practical. So did Beton. Milda didn’t offer a view. Only Alyson wasn’t happy.
Beton and I bullied her into accepting the idea. And it was then that she shared her wild belief.
Her eyes brimming with unshed tears, her hands balled into fists, she’d leapt to her feet and screamed. ‘I don’t know how you, Beton, can work for that man, or you, you –’ she pointed at me, her finger a dagger, ‘can consider marrying the person who killed Pa.’
She shook like a wet cat. I was dumbstruck. Beton stared as if she’d grown horns and a tail.
Poor Alyson, Fulk’s death had affected her worse than I thought.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked finally.
Alyson drew closer, resting an arm on the table. ‘Didn’t you think it funny how Pa grew worse after Turbet gave him that gift?’
‘The blanket?’
‘Aye. Up until then, Pa was improving. The moment that fur was spread over him, he sickened – and not just him.’ She let her words hang.
My stomach roiled. Fulk had been showing signs of improvement before the Botch claimed him, Sophie, Theo and the others. I had briefly wondered if the Botch had been carried in the fur …
‘I was talking to some spinners in town,’ continued Alyson. ‘Some say the Botch came from London. That it was carried about the country in cloths. And what did Master Gerrish give Pa? Why, a lovely fur-lined cloth to keep him warm. That’s what killed him. Could have killed us, too. It was God’s good grace spared us or we’d be buried down by the brook and all.’
I stared at her. ‘That’s a terrible accusation. Anyway, not everyone who touched the fur died. And if what you say is true, what good would it have done Turbet for us all to die? He couldn’t inherit Fulk’s land.’
‘That’s true. But he could lease it cheap after, couldn’t he?’
Ready to challenge her, I stopped. She was right. Furthermore, only those who rubbed the fur against them died. Sophie had pulled it over Fulk and kept stroking it. Likewise, Theo had taken responsibility for bathing his father, lifted him to the jordan, pulling back the fur, wrapping it around him again and again …
What was I doing? I was allowing Alyson’s grief, her desire to find someone to blame for Fulk’s death, to influence me.
‘Listen to yourself, Alyson. This is madness. Even if the disease did come here as you suggest, you can’t think it was deliberate. Why, Turbet was as much at risk as Fulk and the carter. Did he not ride with the fur? With the other cloths too?’
‘He survived the Great Pestilence before, why not again?’ Alyson locked eyes with me. ‘Don’t forget, Turbet had been at Pa to sell some land. Sheep too. Now he doesn’t have to buy anything but your queynte and he has it and more besides.’
I slapped Alyson across the face. Hard.
The tears came then, and not just hers. With one hand pressed to her flaming cheek and a look of utter betrayal, she ran into the night.
‘Go after her, Beton,’ I whispered, sorrow and guilt thickening my words. ‘You know where to find her.’
With a grim nod, he did. Before he went out the door, he turned. ‘She deserved that, Eleanor. She’s wrong, you know. It’s the grief talking, fear of change.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know.’ My hand found the bench and I sank onto it. Milda came and sat beside me, holding my hand. ‘It’s love makes her say that, mistress. It’s love governs your choices, too.’ She added softly, ‘I don’t mean for Master Gerrish.’
I gave a bark of laughter and squeezed Milda’s hand, ever-grateful for her solid presence. She knew Alyson wasn’t the only one grieving. But I had to think of the future – not just mine, but Alyson’s and Beton’s, Milda’s too. Turbet, for all his shortcomings, could at least give us one. It wasn’t as if there was a queue of suitors lining up to offer for me, despite what I’d written to Geoffrey.
I buried my head in my hands, tears trickling down my cheeks and onto the table. Milda rubbed soothing patterns on my back. What if Alyson was right? What if Turbet had … Nay. Nay. No-one could be that … that … wicked. Could they?
The doubts she planted tried to sprout, especially once we returned from Canterbury.
None of these thoughts made for good company on the very first evening in our new home.
Turbet found us a short time later, staring into our goblets, a dog lying upon my feet, another upon Alyson’s, not speaking. In response to his unanswered question, Beton simply shrugged and said ‘women’. Unperturbed, Turbet topped up our goblets, sat and regaled us with what he’d seen and heard at our wedding feast.
As I listened and watched, I felt so conflicted. He was so … so … affable, so solicitous, if dull. As I reached down to stroke Hereward’s ears, I thought, if only I could put Alyson’s words aside, I could manage. This could be a good life. One where my husband was part of merchant circles, knew about sheep and wool, went out of his way to be generous to my family – including the dogs (King Claude and the weaned pups could not be shifted from the farm, but Beton would keep an eye on them). A life of comfort. How much more did I want?
An image of Fulk chuckling rose in my mind.
Alyson would come around, I thought as I gulped the heated malmsey, burning my throat. Beton laughed at something Turbet said. I smiled, aware of my husband’s eyes upon me. With remarkable restraint, Turbet had insisted we wait until our wedding night before consummating our union. I remembered how his lips felt upon mine at the church door, how his hand roamed along my back and cupped my buttocks before giving them a resounding slap, making me jump.
We could have a good life here. I repeated it like a mantra.
Couldn’t we?
TWELVE
Laverna Lodge
The Year of Our Lord 1370
In the forty-third year of the reign of Edward III
For all Turbet acted as if he could barely contain his ardour prior to our vows, what with his hot kisses on my hands, as well as cheeky pinches and slaps, when it came to sarding on our wedding night, God’s truth, he was unable.
Upon seeing me naked on the bed, an inviting smile upon my face, my warm and willing queynte on display, his spindle retreated into the grey thatch guarding his loins like a felled tree in a forest. Except a tree is at least firm. His prick was more like a hooked worm before the gaping mouth of a fish – cowering to the point it couldn’t even be swallowed.
Frustrated beyond measure his rod wouldn’t harden, despite his own efforts, he demanded I pleasure him. So, I rose to my knees, crawled across the bed and set to with gusto. After a time, I began to grow both weary and cold – I was unclothed, the covers had slipped from my shoulders. Still nothing happened.
I was like an old person given slops instead of a bone to chew.
Unsettled, he began to hiss – grabbing a fistful of my hair to keep me in place. I was ordered to suck harder, nay, softer, use my teeth, pull and pull with my fingers but gently, nay, more firmly. To spread my legs, close them, bend over, stand up straight. Keen to please, and aware his hand in my hair was beginning to hurt, I complied. He began to sweat, his face growing so very red. I could feel his rage boiling like a kettle. I half expected him to lash out and strike me, which made me both nervous and clumsy.
I accidentally bit him. He leapt back with a sharp cry and struck me hard across the face. I fell backwards on the mattress in shock. The imprint of his hand burned my slick flesh. Tears gathered – not from sorrow, but from embarrassment.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’ I began to crawl towards him so I might inspect the damage.
He slapped my hands away and pushed me aside. ‘Get away, doxy,’ he shouted and turned his back so he might examine himself in private.
‘I really am very sorry, sir.’ Repressed laughter made my voice high.
He spun around, eyes blazing. ‘You think this is funny?’ His mouth twisted into a leer as his eyes roved over my body. ‘
It’s no wonder I couldn’t … er … perform. Look at you! This is your fault.’ His hand swept towards me. ‘When all is said and done, you’re an ugly little bitch.’
He drew his shirt over his body, picked up his tunic, paltock, hose and boots and, without another word, stormed out of the bedroom.
I fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. My fault? Ugly little bitch? How dare he, the maggot’s cock. Fulk never had problems sarding me. On the contrary, as I’d grown older, we’d enjoyed many a romp between the sheets. How could it be my fault? I did everything and more, but still my husband’s pole would not stand to attention. The fault lay with him, not me.
Ugly little bitch.
Was I? I know my hair was an uncommon colour, being more red than brown, and my freckles were like speckles of dark paint splashed across my body, the gap in my teeth pronounced, but Fulk had thought me beautiful and said so often. Many of the merchants and carters in Bath and at the village market admired me as well. And what about Layamon all those years ago?
He’d been keen enough to swive me. Fulk, too … But he was no longer here.
My eyes began to burn.
Ugly little bitch …
Across the ceiling, shadows thrown by the candles looked like a phantom crowd cheering. I touched my cheek. It was on fire from the blow. Then, I ran my hands over my body. My skin was soft. I’d grown plump under Fulk’s attentions, only to become thin immediately after he died. In the last month or so, Turbet, mayhap to woo me, ensured our table at Bigod Farm was always laden, and so my flesh had begun to fill out again. I touched my breasts. They were large, full, my nipples pink and, as I pulled upon them, quick to harden. My stomach was nicely rounded and my thighs too. The hair that sat atop my quentye was soft as lambswool and, Fulk used to say, as inviting as a shepherd’s sunset. I smiled, wishing he was here now. The man who found me beautiful. I rolled over onto my stomach, grabbed a pillow and lay upon it, making sure to drag the blankets over me.
After a while, I rubbed my eyes and moved my face only to place it straight on a damp patch.
Tears did no-one any good, I thought, crying harder.
I didn’t hear the door open, I only felt the covers rise, and a body slip in next to mine. A pair of arms drew me close.
‘Don’t you listen to him, you hear? It’s him who’s ugly.’
I couldn’t answer, words were banked up in my throat. I clung to Alyson and waited for her to say ‘I told you so’. I cried and cried, and not just about what Turbet had (or hadn’t) done and what he’d said, but because I’d wilfully ignored Alyson’s warnings – not what she said about Fulk’s death and Turbet being a potential murderer. I didn’t believe that for a moment. It was her other concerns I’d dismissed, convincing myself they were simply uttered out of spite or envy.
I also hadn’t listened to her because a part of me wanted to live a more comfortable life, to enjoy the privileges that came with having extra coin, being married to a man of standing in both the village and town. Prove Father Roman and his ilk wrong. Grasp opportunity, as Papa always said. When I began to sense that mayhap Alyson was right and Turbet was not all he appeared to be, I’d deliberately kept myself blind to the truth.
Now it was too late.
Ugly little bitch.
‘No matter what happens,’ said Alyson softly, ‘no matter what I say to you or you throw back at me, I want you to know, hen, I’ll always be here for you. We’re in this together, you and me.’
My throat clogged; my eyes swam and the room dissolved. She’d called me hen, our little joke that I, the younger one, was the hen and she the chick. It made my heart swell. I didn’t deserve her.
She began to stroke my hair. ‘Turbet drank too much tonight, hen. He’ll be sorry in the morning and make it up to you. Just you wait. We all say things we regret at times, as you and I have cause to know.’ She chuckled. I cried harder. ‘Hush, hush. It will be alright.’ She squeezed me tight. ‘If anyone can make it work – and I don’t only mean his prick –’
That raised a short sharp laugh from me.
‘– then it’s you. Look how happy you and Pa were. Who would ever have thought? A young thing like you and my grizzled old father? Mayhap, all Turbet needs is a chance.’ She paused. ‘Another one. And you, with your big heart, your big smile and let’s not forget your big nugs –’ She gave them a squeeze. ‘You’ll give him that and everything will be fine.’
What was it Geoffrey said? Oh, aye. Everyone deserves a second chance.
Mayhap, even Turbet.
We lay there in silence, interrupted only by my snuffling. Moonbeams sliced through the thick glass, throwing puddles of argent light on the covers. Curled in each other’s arms, we watched them creep across the bed. Outside, an owl hooted and one of the dogs barked, joined by the other soon enough. I wondered what had disturbed them. Had Turbet ventured outside to cool his temper? To think upon his words?
Somehow I doubted it. A man like that didn’t dwell upon such things. To do so would be to admit fault and he was very clear the problem wasn’t his.
I rammed my fists into my eyes. Alyson was right. I was married to Turbet and he to me. If I was to stay married, then I had to make it work – including swiving. We needed to make a child. Otherwise, what was a wife but a whore with a ring on her finger? God knows, I’d love to have a babe. My fingers ran lightly over my belly.
Born under the sign of Venus meant love was my speciality. But Mars was also my patron. For certes, Turbet didn’t stand a chance if I decided to go to battle – and I would. For my marriage, my honour, the hope of a child, and for Alyson.
Did she sense I was thinking about her? Did she know how much it meant that she’d come to me and offered solace?
‘Thank you, Alyson. Thank you.’ My voice was raspy.
‘What for?’ she asked sleepily, tightening her arms about me.
‘For being here. Caring.’
‘Who says I care?’ she chuckled. ‘Nay, this is what sisters do, isn’t it? Look out for each other. Love one another – even when no-one else does.’ There was a heaviness. ‘Especially then.’
‘Well, I love you, chick,’ I said. I meant it. I really did.
‘I know.’ She kissed me and, moments later, was breathing steadily.
I shut my eyes and, moving so she was curled around my back, tried to sleep. Visions of Turbet’s prick retreating into a forest of grey haunted my dreams as did his ice-cold rebuke followed by his insult, ‘Ugly little bitch. This is all your fault.’
As it turned out, for once in my life, it really wasn’t.
THIRTEEN
Laverna Lodge
The Year of Our Lord 1370
In the forty-third and forty-fourth years of the reign of Edward III
In those first few months, any attempts to consummate the marriage were unsuccessful. They more often resulted in Turbet striking me, hurling abuse and thundering away. Or, worse, me laughing. I didn’t mean to be cruel, I really didn’t, but the sight of him with his breeches lowered, his wrinkly knees and his fleshy worm curled amidst that thatch of grey hair became a source of hilarity. Looking back, I think mayhap I laughed because if I didn’t, I would have wept. No woman wants to be blamed for murdering her husband’s desire. Before long, Turbet made excuses not to come to my room, the solar, or even to be in the house. If I’d time to think about his increasing absences, I might have been more concerned. As it was, I’d other duties to occupy me.
When I was married to Fulk, it was understood I would learn how to manage the household and then help him in every way a woman possibly could with the farm. Due to Alyson’s diligence and patience (our first few weeks together not withstanding) – Fulk’s too – I’d not only come to master what was required of me, but made improvements.
But nothing and no-one prepared me for life at Laverna Lodge. Whereas Fulk and I worked in tandem, like an oxen and the plough, with Alyson, Beton, Theo, Sophie and Milda providing additional help when required, m
aking a team, things worked very differently here.
First of all, the place was more than three times the size of Bigod Farm and, though not as big as Noke Manor, nor possessing that number of servants, it still had a few. They all needed supervision (even if most knew what to do without me looking over their shoulders). Then there was the lodge itself. There weren’t only rooms for sleeping and eating, but a decent-sized kitchen and a room attached to that with an oven for baking. Every other day, the villeins and free-tenants on Turbet’s lands (and some from nearby villages outside Bath) would queue to have their bread baked.
There were two tiny rooms for the live-in servants, who slept practically one on top of the other, and two huge barns, the animals being more spaciously housed than their masters. There was even an area for smoking meat and a buttery. Despite the convenience of such rooms, there was little food being stored. In the immediate grounds, there was a rather small vegetable garden that needed a good weeding, some straggly fruit trees, a pond – currently iced-over but apparently filled with fish – as well as chickens, ducks, geese and three cows.
Fortunately, the housekeeper, Mistress Emmaline, a large woman with low-slung breasts (over which she’d fold her arms when displeased), who carried a great clank of keys about, was content to show me what was what – mainly because it gave her the opportunity both to complain about the extent of her duties, and to show off her accomplishments. I knew enough by now to pander to her and praise her handsomely, even if I didn’t feel it was entirely deserved. I mean, how could one have so much help yet still have an untended garden? Being winter was no excuse. How could she allow her apron to be so grubby and her maids’ shifts torn and poorly patched? The rooms were filled with furniture and objects but appeared neglected. I’d learned from my first weeks with Alyson not to make an enemy of someone who might turn out to be my only ally, so said nothing. Alyson and Milda kept their silence too, thank the Lord, though I could see Milda cataloguing what needed to be done. Emmeline was also a great source of stories about the former Mistress Gerrish and the few visitors who called here. I would get to meet them soon enough.
