by Karen Brooks
I looked out over the landscape, inhaling the clean, almost metallic smell of the snow, and listened to the snuffles and happy barks of the hounds. Mayhap, there was a way. It was cruel, it was dangerous, too, but if something bad achieved something good, was it a sin? Was it evil?
Alyson leaned against the stone wall and released a long sigh.
I rested next to her. ‘You were right. I’ve been thinking –’
‘God help us,’ she said, crossing herself.
I elbowed her in the ribs. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ I repeated. ‘I might have found a way to stop Turbet running up more debt and being so free with our inheritance. What’s left of it. Mismanaging the tenants and so on.’ I nodded in the direction of the empty cottages and thought of the wool contracts. ‘Racking up more and more debt.’
‘Isn’t it too late for that?’ she asked, shielding her eyes with her hands as she surveyed the area. Even though there was no sun, the snow gave off a powerful glare.
‘Mayhap. But for all that Turbet’s a profligate of the highest order, he’s not making the sort of money he needs to maintain his lifestyle. At least, he isn’t if this –’ my arm encompassed the land, ‘and his debtors are anything to go by.’
‘You know they are,’ said Alyson. ‘And to be blunt, Eleanor, I’m looking forward to just once going into town and not having some poor sod run up to us with a weepy story about how your husband owes them money.’
‘Me too,’ I sighed.
‘Milda told me the cordwainer and the grocer are refusing to serve us until the last bill’s paid,’ said Alyson dourly, examining the thin leather of her boots.
I looked down at my worn clogs. ‘Aye. They’re not the only ones. The miller and fishmonger said the same. In starting to pay off Turbet’s debts with the little coin I keep aside from weaving, I’ve made matters worse. There’s now an expectation they’ll all be paid before we can purchase anything else or ask for credit again.’
‘Have you told Turbet?’
I gave a dry bark of laughter. It echoed. ‘I’ve tried. But you know how he is. Things are so bad, even Jermyn’s tried to make him see sense. Mistress Emmaline. Father Elias. Turbet refuses to listen. Says it will all be fine once summer comes and the harvest is done and the wool sold. What he actually means is when the rest of the contract money is paid.’
Alyson made a harrumphing sound. ‘That’s months away.’
‘Exactly. And there’s no guarantees even then. Not after what he did last year, buying those bloody northern sheep. The flock’s reduced, the condition of their coats is not known. He sold those alien merchants an unknown quantity and quality. Worse, a false promise. And look at the tenants’ lands. Turbet made them plant all their strips instead of leaving every third one fallow. What if the wheat’s diseased? What if the rains are like they were a few years ago? The villeins have nothing to fall back on.’
‘He’s a fool.’ Alyson screwed up her eyes. ‘He’s unable to plan for more than his next fine paltock, fur, barrel of wine or ham hock.’
I clasped my hands together. ‘I tried to tell him that.’ I touched my breast. ‘But what would I know? You’ve heard him; doesn’t even matter the evidence is before his eyes, if I say it, then it’s foolish. I don’t know what I’m talking about.’
‘Pa didn’t feel that way,’ said Alyson quietly.
A wave of longing washed over me. ‘He did not.’ I kicked the snow about with my clog. One of the pups paused in her digging and cocked her head to watch me.
I continued wistfully. ‘As long as my husband listens to the likes of alien merchants, never mind bloody Kenton Haveton and that fop, Master Kit, who all agree women are wicked, stupid and prone to playing men false with all our wiles, he’ll not give consideration to anything I say.’ My hand described a broad arc. ‘Certainly not about this.’
‘Then how can you ever hope to make a difference?’ asked Alyson, watching the hounds galivant about.
I gave a grim smile. ‘By giving him no choice but to listen – to listen and do exactly as I say. After all, it really doesn’t matter who’s in control, does it? So long as the result benefits everyone.’
Alyson slowly turned to face me, her expression doubtful. ‘Really? That’s what you’ve been thinking about? That’s your words of wisdom?’
I laughed. It was genuine. ‘Nay, not mine, but Papa’s or, rather, someone called Toll-a-me. He believed it didn’t matter which sex is in charge, as long as good is done in the world.’
‘Was he a eunuch?’
I laughed harder. ‘Mayhap.’ My laughter died. ‘But if I can gain control over everything, including paying off debts properly, then we might be able to make something of this. I mean, look at what’s here, Alyson. There’s so much land, fine land, and that’s before you include ours. Yet it’s being mismanaged. The house too.’ I turned and leaned back against the wall, facing it. Alyson did likewise. The lodge looked rather imposing with its two storeys and chimneys. ‘We could do so much. We just need to be considered, thrifty. All I need is for Turbet to give me authority to make changes, even for a while …’
Alyson frowned. I could tell she wasn’t convinced. ‘And young Gaunt there,’ she said, pointing to the larger of the pups who was busy chasing his tail, ‘might transform into a dragon.’ She spun back around and rested her elbows on the wall. ‘How, in God’s name, do you propose to make this miracle occur? How are you ever going to make Turbet Gerrish listen to you, a hapless, hopeless woman?’
‘Like this,’ I said, and there by the drystone wall that separated the pasture and villeins’ lands from the lodge grounds, with no-one but the hounds, the sheep, the wind and dazzling light to hear us, I outlined my plan.
SIXTEEN
Laverna Lodge
The Year of Our Lord 1371
In the forty-fifth year of the reign of Edward III
Three nights later, I put my plan into action. I knocked on my husband’s bedroom door, took a deep breath and entered.
Turbet didn’t acknowledge me. Seated on a chair near the window, a blanket over his lap and another around his shoulders, he was reading. A candle flickered on the table before him and a few melted in sconces on the walls. Every time I came to his room (which wasn’t often), I was overwhelmed by the tapestries. Every single one depicted knights bearing down on distressed naked maidens, swords drawn. They froze my blood. Sweet Jesu. Imagine going to sleep with those images in your head. Mayhap, that’s the kind of sport my husband enjoyed; I wouldn’t know as he never drew his sword from its sheath in my presence. I shuddered, closed the door and joined him.
A goblet in one hand, Turbet’s other sat atop a document unfurled in his lap. His gaze was fixed outside. Snow brushed against the mullioned window, its gentle touch a beckoning whisper. Behind him was the huge bed, the curtains drawn to keep in any warmth. An empty pallet was made up beside it. Good, Nicholas wasn’t there.
I’d almost reached his side when he spoke. ‘I don’t recall summoning you.’ Wine stained his lips, made his words thick. He’d consumed a few. Whether this would work in my favour, I’d soon learn.
‘You did not, sir. But I need to speak with you.’
‘Well,’ he said, putting his goblet down, winding up the document and flinging it on the table. It struck the top, rolled a few times then came to a halt against the jug. ‘I don’t need to speak to you. And I certainly don’t want to hear you prate. Begone.’ Without even looking in my direction, he flicked his fingers.
Heat rose up my neck, ignited in my chest.
I raised my voice. ‘I’m not certain, sir, who it is you think you’re addressing, but I’m your wife and you will hear what I have to say.’ I stood behind the chair opposite, gripping the top.
‘I don’t care for your tone,’ he said loudly. ‘Out, I say. You’re not wanted.’
‘Oh, you’ve made that more than evident from the moment we married. To be exact –’ I paused, ‘since our wedding night.’
Hi
s top lip curled in a snarl. ‘And whose fault was that, eh?’
‘As I recall, you were the one who had difficulty ah … how shall I put it, standing to attention.’ His eyelids fluttered. ‘Fulk Bigod never had such problems and he was older than you by at least ten years.’ My heart was slamming against my ribs, I was standing on my tiptoes, ready to flee.
‘You dare to say such things to me?’ He began to rise from his seat then changed his mind. I wasn’t worth it. ‘The reason I couldn’t … I didn’t …’ he searched for words, spit gathered in the corner of his mouth, ‘was because I find you physically repulsive –’ His hard eyes met my steady gaze. ‘And your freckles abhorrent.’
If he thought his words would hurt, then he was mistaken. Not only had I heard them before, I knew they weren’t true. I’d caught the looks he gave me when he thought I wasn’t watching. I knew he’d told Fulk on many occasions he was fortunate to have such a pretty and willing wife. The men he invited to the house made it clear they found me desirable. The only exception was Mervyn Slynge, but his ward, the obnoxious Kit, made up for that. Why, every time I saw him he undressed me with his eyes. Lest you think me vain, I knew I wasn’t everyone’s mazer of ale, but I also suspected my husband was insulting me to mask his own failings. Part of me felt pity, part of me felt fury I was cheated of my wifely rights, the comfort and pleasure of sex. But this wasn’t the moment to be thinking about that. It was the last thing I wanted from this man.
With a sneer, his eyes raked me from top to toe. ‘Why, you’re covered in the huckery things.’ His wrist flipped in the direction of my breasts. ‘They’re all over your chest, your great heavy nugs – why, a babe would crawl over iron nails to escape from those things. They’re like overstuffed cushions and just as likely to suffocate any soul who comes near them.’
I curled my hands into fists at my side. I wouldn’t bury them beneath my arms, hide the bosoms he dreaded, as much as I wanted to. Instead, I thrust them forward.
‘They’re even on your quoniam, I’m sure. Marks of the devil, placed there to sap a man’s seed, his desire.’ He began to make dark, hollow sounds that might have been laughs. They ceased as quickly as they began. ‘If I couldn’t perform, the fault’s not mine, but yours, you Satan-sent daughter of a whore-son.’
His lungs were spent bellows as he wheezed and puffed, staring at me, waiting for me to collapse under the weight of his contempt. When had he become so very old? So very cruel?
I let the torrent wash over me and, instead, leaned over the chair so my heavy nugs swung, and exposed my gapped teeth by giving him a huge smile. Even if Turbet Gerrish hated my body, it had afforded my first husband and me much joy.
I willed my heart to cease its wild percussions, my breathing to slow.
Turbet grabbed his goblet and sank further into his seat.
Below, the sounds of the house continued. Low voices, footsteps, a shout. A door closed, another opened. Wind whistled through the window, making the candle gutter before it took hold again. A strong flame, firm. A trickle of sweat made its way from the corner of my brow, down my neck and disappeared beneath my shift. I held my ground; watched my husband. His brows knitted, his hooded eyes roved back and forth, back and forth from window to table, to his lap, with a mere flash in my direction. Without a nightcap I could see how thin the hair on his head had become, his scalp gleaming. It made him look frail. Aye, weak. Easy to control … I knew this was what his first wife had done – dominated him and the household, forcing him to cede to her will through the withholding of not just sexual favours, but money, his children’s affections, hers. It had been a savage thing to do, whatever her reasoning, but that didn’t give him the right to inflict the same punishment upon me. Nor was it an excuse for me to deploy her tactics to have my way. But since my queynte didn’t work as it had with Fulk, I wasn’t left with much choice. I inhaled and prepared to go into battle.
Before I could, he spoke. ‘You forced me to say that. You wouldn’t leave when I insisted. But there it is, you have the truth. I find you –’
‘I know,’ I said, walking around the chair and sitting down. ‘I know.’ I clasped my hands in my lap. I was afraid if I didn’t, I’d lean over and punch him in the face. ‘I’m not deaf. I heard you clearly along with the rest of the household. You’ve said it before. Many times. Lest you’re forgetting, I’m also an ugly little bitch. It’s not slipped my memory.’
Did he flinch?
‘I’ll have you know,’ I said softly, ‘I’ve been called worse.’
(Just for the record, I hadn’t – not then.)
He glanced at me.
‘They’re just words.’ (I was yet to learn the power they had to inflict injury – The Poet taught me that.) ‘But none of that matters,’ I continued. ‘And nothing you say, no crude insults or unkind words will prevent me from speaking tonight. All I ask is that you listen very carefully.’
He released a long, weary sigh, drained his goblet then quickly refilled it. He didn’t offer me any.
‘You’re a stubborn bitch, aren’t you? I knew that already, of course. Fulk used to say much the same, only he found it endearing.’
My heart swelled.
‘Funny, I thought I might too,’ said Turbet wearily. ‘Very well. If it’s the only way I can get you to quit my sight, have your bloody say and leave.’
Somewhere in the house, something was dropped, the sound reverberated. A hound barked and the others joined. There was a scurry of feet, low voices, something being dragged, then silence. I said two Ave Marias in my head and, just when I thought my husband’s patience would expire, began.
‘I know you killed Fulk Bigod.’
There was a beat. Turbet blinked, then sat bolt upright. ‘I what? Wait. What did you say?’
‘I said,’ speaking coldly, ‘I know you murdered Fulk.’
Honestly, the look on his face was beyond priceless.
‘Murdered him? Are you mad, woman?’
‘Aye, mad, bad and ugly, ask my husband. God’s truth, I know you’re responsible for Fulk’s death and nothing you or anyone else says will persuade me otherwise.’
It was the longest he’d ever held my gaze. Then he drank. When he’d wiped his mouth, he began to shake his head. ‘I’d nothing to do with your late husband’s death and you know it. You’re non compos mentis. Evil spirits have deprived you of your senses. Thank God and all the saints I never sarded you lest a child result.’
‘I’m in perfect health, thank you, husband, and my mind is sound. I think when I agreed to marry you, it was a little unhinged. That’s why it’s taken until now to know that what I suspected all along is true: you killed Fulk.’
‘Repeating it over and over doesn’t make it so, woman. But, alright, I’ll play your little game. Tell me how I killed him.’
‘By gifting him with a fur that was infected with pestilence.’
‘What?’
‘Aye. The moment my husband was covered with the fur you brought to the house, he sickened. He died swiftly and painfully, thus leaving his widow and her inheritance at your disposal. Those lands you’d been trying to acquire, which he refused to sell, were in your grasp. It was a cunning, wicked plan but it worked.’
His jaw dropped, he started forward in the chair, his goblet forgotten. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples. He opened one eye, then the other. ‘You’re really quite mad, aren’t you?’ He pulled the blankets around his shoulders and tucked another around his legs. ‘In the morning, I’ll have Jermyn make arrangements for you to be sent to St Bethlehem’s in London. You’ll be better off there. We all will.’
Ignoring his threat, I continued. ‘You went out of your way to purchase a fur that arrived on a vessel from Kaffa, where the pestilence was raging. You placed it among the other cloths you’d imported and delivered it straight to our door. Straight to my husband. You never touched the fur – or the other cloth for that matter, not even when they were unloaded in Bath. I know, I asked.’
‘Why would I touch it? Touch them? There’s no reason. I’ve servants to do that for me. The carter –’ He pressed his lips together as he remembered. The carter had died. ‘It was God’s will, a great misfortune.’ His voice quivered, his fingers curled around the edges of the blanket.
‘Not only did you kill my husband, but you infected at least four other families in Bath, causing the deaths of thirteen people. Not that you cared; you got what you wanted. Fulk’s land and sheep to sell and thus maintain your extravagance – as anyone in town will admit, you didn’t use it to pay your debts.’
Turbet stared at me for a long, long time. ‘What utter rubbish.’ He began to chuckle. ‘Oh. My. They’re going to love you in Bedlam. You do know that people pay to stare at the loons through the gates each day? What entertainment you’ll provide. Why, I’d pay a groat to listen to your fabulations. Your friend Geoffrey must be proud.’ His laughter died suddenly. He poured more wine, regarding me with amusement over the rim of his goblet. ‘You stupid little fool. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life!’
I stood, smoothing my shift, pressing it into the contours of my body. I fetched another goblet and helped myself to the jug. I took a long draught. It was good.
‘Neither have I,’ I said and sat back down.
Ready to contest, to argue further, Turbet was momentarily lost for words. ‘Did I hear alright? You admit this is nonsense.’
‘Aye, I do. It’s a complete and utter fabrication. To you. But, imagine this, dear husband. Tonight, the moment I leave this room, I start to tell the servants this version. I whisper in Jermyn’s ear, Milda’s, the blacksmith’s, all of the household, including your unhappy tenants.’
Turbet sat up straight. ‘I won’t allow it. I’ll call for Jermyn this moment and have you gagged.’
