The Good Wife of Bath

by Karen Brooks

  I glanced at Father Elias.

  ‘Is Geoffrey saying what I think he is?’

  ‘What’s that, dear Eleanor?’ The good Father was relieved my pacing had ceased and my choler cooled.

  ‘That my husband is a thief?’

  Father Elias did his usual blushing and dissembling whenever I asked something he found difficult. The day I told him my husband’s prick was so small and inclined to withdraw in the face of womanly desire, and confessed that attempting sex was about as successful as trying to light a fire with a wet ribbon, he’d spluttered and turned such a shade of puce, I thought he was choking on the Host. I was quite ready to shout for the doctor. Instead, I threw holy water over him and he recovered faster than a drowned fish. He then had the gall to chastise me for wasting blessed liquid.

  I retorted God wouldn’t mind; it wasn’t like He drank it, was it?

  By the time Father Elias finished the letter, my temper had completely dissipated and aye, regret had taken over. I sank into a chair, not daring to look at Alyson as she clicked and clacked at the loom in the corner.

  God’s truth, the more I unearthed about Turbet, the more I wished I’d waited for Geoffrey’s reply, no matter how long it took. Guilt was not a cloth I wore lightly or well, yet it was one I donned daily. If my decision to wed Turbet had only impacted upon me, I might have been able to tolerate it – nay, that’s not the right word – to become reconciled to my choice. But with every passing day, each time I learned something about my husband, his dealings with others, the servants, the tenants, the reckless decisions he made, his overbearing manner towards those less powerful or fortunate, never mind his treatment of me, I felt a pressing weight upon my soul. I wanted to blame Geoffrey, lash out and scold him, hold him accountable for my lack of insight. But it wasn’t his fault. I’d closed my ears to Alyson’s warnings; worse, I’d made a mockery of her doubts and twisted them into something nasty that lived within her, when the opposite was true.

  Truth, ha. Geoffrey’s words, the kindness in the way he framed them, knowing I would have capitulated to the demands of those around me, been tempted by what Turbet appeared to offer, juddered the truth free so I was forced to face it once and for all.

  I’d married a sweet-smelling wastrel.

  Not even learning about Turbet’s past helped. Through Mistress Emmeline and others, I discovered that, as a child and young man, Turbet had been a disappointment to his domineering bully of a father and later, to his shrew of a wife. Married young and under the illusion that once he took possession of his wife’s fortune he’d be free to carve his own path, on the contrary, she managed both it and him. The children grew to despise their weak father as much, if not more, than their mother did. After their mother died, the children had nothing to do with him, which explained why he preferred not to discuss them.

  Still, I couldn’t understand what I’d done to deserve his public derision and private disregard. For months, I tried to pretend his actions didn’t hurt, to excuse them as the result of his upbringing and previous marriage. In the end, I could not. Instead of having sympathy for those who were weaker, Turbet took the opportunity to intimidate and browbeat. His targets were servants, workers, the young, the frail, and, of course, women.

  My forbearance came to an end the day he sat to nuncheon, having invited Master Kenton, and proceeded to boast about what he planned to do once the bill of sale on some land was finalised.

  ‘Excuse me, husband, but did you say the northern pastures were to be sold?’

  He paused, the knife halfway to his mouth, a piece of bloodied lamb skewered on the end. ‘Listen to her, Kenton. She talks as if she understands men’s business.’ He snorted and pushed the meat between his lips, casting an amused look in Master Kenton’s direction.

  Master Kenton sniggered.

  A rush of anger made me rash.

  ‘But, sir, the northern land is mine. There’s a flock dedicated to those pastures and they produce very good wool.’ Turbet continued to chew, ignoring me. Master Kenton slurped from his mazer. I was less than a gadfly for all the attention they paid me. ‘Surely, husband, this is something you should discuss … with me.’

  Turbet paused. He carefully put down his knife and then slammed his fist on the table. Such was the force, his mazer toppled, spilling wine. ‘Who do you think you are? Eh?’ One of the servants rushed to mop up the spill. Turbet half rose from his seat and, as the young lad attempted to wipe the table, shoved him aside. The boy staggered and fell on his arse.

  I went to help, horrified Turbet would behave in such a manner.

  ‘Sit down!’ he bellowed.

  The boy leapt to his feet and scurried away. With great reluctance, I resumed my seat.

  Turbet stood over the table. His face was slick and red, his eyes bloodshot. ‘You will remember your place, woman. Just as you will remember that the lands are no longer yours, they’re mine. It’s not for you, a mere servant’s get, to question your husband’s decisions – not now, not ever, am I clear?’

  Dear God, I wanted to rise up and slap his face. I wanted to shout him into submission. But, what he said was true. The lands were no longer mine.

  Satisfied with my silence, Turbet sat back down, signalling for a servant to refill his goblet. As the wine was poured, I noted how shabby the boy’s shirt was, how frayed the collar. Yet there sat my husband in his fine wool, with his bejewelled hands and velvet coat. The other servants’ attire was also worn and tired.

  ‘Forgive that display, Kenton, would you?’ said Turbet, picking up his knife. ‘My wife is but young, unschooled in the ways of her betters.’

  ‘Then, it’s just as well she has you to teach her, sir.’

  The lack of sincerity in Master Kenton’s words was breathtaking as was the sycophantic look he gave Turbet. My husband preened.

  Sweet Jesu, my husband was not only mean in every way, he was a bona fide fool.

  ‘If you cannot keep the peace, Eleanor, you can leave,’ said Turbet smugly.

  I should have left. Should have picked up what remained of my dignity and departed. But I knew if I did, either I, Alyson, or one of the other servants would pay for my boldness. I remained. But I also made up my mind that I would discover the fate of my lands and sheep.

  As I listened to the banter between Turbet and Master Kenton, it was clear the only reason Turbet wooed and wed me was because he thought I’d be malleable.

  Thus far, keen to be a good wife, to make something of our marriage, keep accord, I’d been that. Look what it had cost me. Me, Alyson and Beton.

  Shame on me.

  Over the next few weeks, I found that not only had my husband sold much of the land I’d inherited from Fulk, but he’d persuaded Beton to entrust him with his portion as well. Then he’d sold it to buy more sheep. This might have worked but he’d gone to markets in York and purchased unwisely, spreading disease among the flock.

  It was only because I went behind my husband’s back and ordered the shepherd remove any healthy sheep to a separate foldcourse, pretending to speak with Turbet’s authority, that the entire flock wasn’t affected.

  After we’d culled the sick sheep, the remainder were moved to another pasture and enclosed. I told Beton to ensure any sheep the tenants ran or that strayed from the monks’ lands were kept clear of Turbet’s. In this way, the rest were saved.

  When he found out what I’d done, Turbet didn’t thank me, of course not. He levelled blame for the losses at Beton.

  In the end, all that was left of our inheritance was a mere few acres. The new resident at Bigod Farm, a freeman from the Cotswolds (to whom, it became apparent, Turbet owed money), ploughed some of Alyson’s lands, planting them with his crops. Surreptitiously, he shifted the boundaries, taking more than was his right. When Beton tried to argue on his sister’s behalf and even took the matter to manor court, he was fined for affray and told to back off or else.

  Sickened by the gross injustice, I couldn’t ignore what was happ
ening any longer. Alyson and Beton didn’t deserve to lose the little that their father had worked so hard to provide.

  Bursting into Turbet’s office, I found him deep in discussion with Jermyn.

  When he saw who’d entered, and without knocking, his face darkened.

  ‘What do you want?’ he growled.

  ‘And a God’s good day to you too, husband,’ I said with false cheer.

  ‘God’s good – et cetera.’ He flapped a wrist. ‘I ask again, what do you want? Can’t you see we’re busy?’ He gestured to the pile of scrolls on his desk.

  ‘I want to talk to you about Bigod Farm, about Beton,’ I said swiftly.

  ‘Beton? That lazy, good for nothing drunk,’ said Turbet.

  I was taken aback. Surely he was talking about a different person.

  ‘Aye, your stepson, nephew, whatever he is, has proved to be a right burden.’ Jermyn passed his master a piece of paper. ‘One has only to look at this to see his record-keeping is atrocious. How can anyone judge what crops belong to whom let alone animals and equipment when nothing is written down? When there’s no proof? How’s a court or bailiff to pass judgement? It’s one man’s word against another’s.’ He shoved the paper in my direction.

  There was no point debating the issue. We both knew I couldn’t read or write and Beton was illiterate. As Turbet had known when he’d appointed him to oversee the farm. He’d assured me and Beton that either Jermyn or his squire, Nicholas, would aid him in that regard. The help had never been forthcoming, both men always being too busy. Unable to manage, it’s no wonder Beton started to drink.

  Before the year was out, Beton disappeared. He told Father Elias he was heading to London to seek his fortune. He didn’t even say goodbye. Was it shame that prevented him farewelling us? Or worse, did he believe Alyson and I endorsed his shabby treatment?

  Did not a husband speak for his wife? The very thought Turbet was regarded as my mouthpiece mortified me. But, by not speaking up, hadn’t I been complicit?

  Debt mounted and it became impossible to venture to Bath without being followed by the cries of those to whom Turbet owed money. How could I pay? Turbet controlled the purse strings.

  If it hadn’t been for our weaving venture, I don’t know what we would have done. Alyson and I worked hard to train the servants – two girls, Aggy and Rag (Ragnilda, but she only answered to Rag) and, much to my surprise, a big, gangly youth with a mop of thick hair, wide-spaced blue eyes and lovely long fingers, named Hob. Even with the extra coin the weaving brought, it didn’t bode well for the future; not the way my husband spent.

  I worried that in order to meet our obligations, obligations my husband had incurred by his poor business sense and lavish lifestyle, and the contracts he’d signed with Meneer van Haarlem, which meant most of our wool was sold before it was even grown, weighed or the quality assayed, I might have to put off some of the servants. Since Turbet refused to discuss the manor records and ensured that when he was away, Jermyn didn’t either, I was never sure. To those who came to the house seeking to have bills settled, I played ignorant, as much as it pained me. Fulk could never abide debt, and I know Papa didn’t approve of people living beyond their means, not when it was at the expense of those who scraped to survive.

  I was nobody’s fool (except when it came to my choice of second husband) and knew if something didn’t change and soon, then the life I’d foisted upon Alyson and Beton and Milda would turn out to be like one of those mirages in an exotic tale, and would disappear in a shimmer of remorse.

  FIFTEEN

  Laverna Lodge and Bath

  The Year of Our Lord 1371

  In the forty-fifth year of the reign of Edward III

  ‘So, hen, what’re you thinking?’ Alyson didn’t even look up from the spindle. A few of us were in the solar spinning. It was a freezing cold day. The windows were sealed with frost, a bitter draught managed to ease its way through the cracks and crevices, diluting the warmth of the fire that we practically sat upon. Hereward and Wake were curled at my feet. Part of me wished I could lie beside them or borrow their thick coats a while.

  Trust Alyson to notice I was preoccupied. I watched the thread growing between her experienced fingers. She was waiting patiently for an answer.

  I glanced at the servants. Hob and Aggy had just come in from finishing their chores and were preparing to work the loom. They were pretending not to listen while soaking up every tidbit to share it in the kitchen later. Milda and Rag were in the barn fetching more wool to spin. Though I trusted Hob, Rag and Aggy, and Milda of course, I couldn’t risk what I had to say being heard, let alone repeated. For Alyson was right. I’d spent weeks wool-gathering until, this very day, I believed I’d finally found a way to deal with my spendthrift husband.

  ‘Why don’t we walk in the garden?’ I abandoned the spinning and stood.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Alyson, recoiling in horror. ‘Outside? In all the snow and wind and freeze our bloody tits off?’

  I jerked my head towards Aggy and Hob.

  It was easy to forget the servants. I know that sounds callous and cruel, but when I was a servant at Noke Manor it was our God-given duty to blend in, to become all but invisible. We used to pride ourselves on not being noticed. If we were, then we’d failed in our duties. Worse, we’d have nothing to gossip about.

  ‘Now you mention it,’ said Alyson, rising, ‘a walk in the fresh air is just what I need.’

  ‘The hounds too,’ I added. ‘We’ll take them.’

  Just the word ‘hounds’ was enough to propel the dogs to their feet.

  Before long, with cloaks, gloves, and clogs over our soft boots, we were trudging about the grounds. Hereward, Wake and two puppies we’d kept, part of a fourth litter who’d grown fast, came with us, fanning out, snuffling and exploring, glad to be outdoors. The hoof prints of the horse of yet another creditor were stark in the snow.

  We walked in silence, watching the dogs, waving to Milda and Rag as they returned to the house, their breath escaping in torrents of white mist. The blacksmith’s shed gave us a welcome blast of warmth and we slowed our pace to enjoy it. Inside, we could see Master Ironside’s huge silhouette against the flames as he plunged a piece of molten metal into water, his leather-aproned apprentice beside him. Almost immediately, they were hidden by steam.

  We continued, coming upon another of the servants, a tall man with thin brown hair and stooped shoulders, chopping wood in a corner of the courtyard and moaning as pain shot up his cold arms. Drew and Arnold, a pair of young men who had six teeth between them, most lost in brawls, were raking up horse shit in the barn, whistling and shouting insults to each other in jest. Drew was as short and burly as Arnold was tall and lanky. Upon spying us, they stopped, doffed their caps – Drew exposing his already balding head and Arnold his mop of pale curls – and leaned on their rakes, curious to see us outside. Neither had family to speak of, just each other. We’d barely passed from sight when we heard them discussing the state of our minds. As far as they were concerned, we must be loon-mad to be out in the weather when we could be in the warm solar.

  Once beyond the courtyard, we set out towards the nearest of the drystone fences that marked the boundary between the grounds of the lodge and the pastures. Before us the land rose to the west, a cluster of charcoal trunks at the crest of the hill the only colour against the snow. Even the sheep were hard to see, but they were there, huddled beneath the trees, released from the barn for a brief time to forage and move about. A servant named Wy, who was training one of the other pups that had come to us, a big young hound named Titan, was responsible for herding them. Wy was a slight, shy man with a terrible stutter, a pronounced limp and scars on his hands from where the knife had cut him when he was first learning to shear. He was good with all the animals. Patient. Gentle. Mistress Emmaline said he preferred the company of beasts to folk. They never mocked his speech or asked why he limped. Milda heard that when he was younger, a group of boys beat him badly,
jumping on his leg and breaking it. If it hadn’t been for Drew and Arnold pulling him out of the ditch into which he’d been thrown and taking him to the barber in Bath to have the bone set, he might have died. The three had been close ever since. Drew and Arnold would not hear a word said against Wy, and were always watching out for him. I liked them a great deal for that.

  To the east, the land was flat, a huge expanse of snow broken only by drystone walls. Underneath the thick blanket lay a mix of pasture and the fields of the villeins. Men and women were abroad even today, shovelling the snow, trying to expose the topsoil. A few children tagged along, one throwing a stick for a rangy dog that bounded through the drifts, shaking its coat every time it returned to the child’s feet. Laughter and voices carried. The cottages were dark blots on the landscape, their coated roofs the only exception, grey smoke spiralling skywards. There were more houses without smoke to identify them. In the past months, once the harvest had been brought in, and excess stock slaughtered at Martinmas, the occupants had abandoned them. One day they were there, the next they were gone. Rents were owed, tithes too. My heart sank upon seeing them empty. At least four families had gone, two with small children. Not that I blamed them, not when the land they’d been given was so meagre and the expectations of their landlord so great. Mayhap, just mayhap, if I trod carefully, I could change that. Papa’s words from so long ago echoed. ‘Of men, the best and wisest don’t care who has control over what or who in the world.’

  What I could do with all this if I had control. If I had a say.

  To the southeast, the hills dipped into a shallow valley, the church spires of Bath spindly fingertips pointing heavenwards. A mixture of thick smoke and mist hovered over the town, marking its location the way a shingle does a shop. It was reassuring to know that a short ride away, there were people, trade, markets, Father Elias. Over the last few months, my reception in the town had been a great deal more welcoming as people understood I was working hard to pay off Turbet’s debts. If only I could prevent him from incurring more, we might actually inch into profit one day.