The Good Wife of Bath

by Karen Brooks

  By midsummer, the servants and tenants gathered fruit, began haymowing, weeding (we had terrible problems with dock, chicory and marigolds), then started their threshing, reaping and gleaning. We provided ale and food for the workers doing the boon-work on our behalf and for those we’d hired to get the crops harvested. Watching how much harder those who were being paid worked compared to those who were obliged, I decided to offer pay to our villeins as well. Only a small amount, mind, but the difference it made to their willingness was remarkable. Jermyn objected strongly and took my decision to Turbet. Much to my complete astonishment, Turbet told Jermyn to do what I said.

  I made sure to thank Turbet – not that he had a choice, but I liked to let him think he did.

  Never again did I expect the villeins to work for nothing, not when they attended to their tasks so well. But it was more than that. Conversations over dinner with the likes of Master Slynge, who kept his ear to the ground, and other landowners in the area, indicated things had changed. With each passing year, fewer tenants were doing boon-work for their lords, preferring to be paid cash. Papa always said if lords weren’t careful to look after their own tenants, then there would be others who would. Labour was scarce, and far better to pay those already leasing the land to work the fields than hire outsiders who weren’t invested – especially those who had fled the plague-ravaged northern counties. It made sense and, in the end, paid off in ways that cannot be quantified.

  On the last day of the harvest that summer, Lammas to be exact, after the final cart laden with corn was driven into the barn, a sheaf laid ceremonially atop, the sun was low in the golden sky, the birds were chirruping and floating in the warm breeze, the festivities began.

  A huge bonfire blazed in the courtyard. Some of the tenants brought their instruments and began to play. In the Great Hall, tables were laid with a veritable feast. Milda, Goody Babelot and the new cook, a man named Henry Bacon, had been busy. There were roast chickens, capons, mutton dressed with vinegar, apples aplenty, pottages of barley and herbs, steaming loaves straight from the oven. Ale flowed and Turbet even brought out jugs of wine. Suspicious of fancy French drink, most of the villeins avoided it, preferring ale. Not so the servants, who knew Turbet kept a fine cellar.

  That year, the mood was joyful, children, dogs, and even some startled chickens and pigs running underfoot as evening embraced us and the stars shone. The dancing grew wilder, the laughter louder, and singing began. Garlands of greenery and flowers were hastily made and flung around people’s necks, placed on heads. Someone, I think Alyson, put one on mine and, as I danced, my veil slipped off and my hair came unbound. It tumbled well past my waist, whirling around, sticking to my hot face as I twirled and passed from one set of brawny arms to another.

  Through the smoke and curtain of hair, Master Jon reached for me and drew me into his arms. My heart began to beat its own rhythm and my knees went weak. Sweet Mother Mary and all the saints, he was a lusty young man, with his golden hair falling over his face, those dark flashing eyes and teeth so white in his sun-brown face. I knew it was wrong to press myself into him, to squeeze the hand that held mine so tightly, enjoy how he pressed my bottom to his groin, but I couldn’t help it. Venus rose and my quentye and every other part of me burned more than the bonfire around which we spun. When he danced me into the shadows and bent and kissed me, I responded. It had been so long …

  The courtyard swam, the folk gallivanting about became devilish shapes, black and twisted against the flames. He released my lips and buried his face in my neck. ‘By God, you’re a sweet piece. Such a temptation.’

  By God. Bigod.

  As I shoved Jon away, laughing at his temerity, he threw back his head and chuckled deeply, winking.

  I thought of Fulk, about the way he would hold me, love me. I ached. I wanted to pull Jon back, lift my skirts and husbands be damned.

  I took a step forwards, when another pair of arms found me, and pulled me back into the light. A great cheer rose as Turbet Gerrish, my husband, drew me into the dance.

  Startled, my first instinct was to pull away, but he held me firm – as firm as Jon had. In the firelight, his thin, grey hair glinted, his eyes were unreadable, but when they met mine, they didn’t slide away.

  With one arm around my waist, the other entwined about my fingers, we danced through and around the others, my skirts flying, my hair too. I was panting hard, wondering why Turbet had not only seen fit to join us, but taken hold of me. Had he seen me with Jon? Had he witnessed our wild kisses? He’d shown no interest in me, never done anything so bold.

  I liked it.

  When he kept hold of my hand after the dance ended, and pulled me away from the others, there were a few knowing shouts of encouragement and much laughter. When the music started again, he led me towards the side door and I didn’t object. After all, was he not my husband? From there, we went up a narrow, winding staircase to his bedroom. Without a word, he shut the door and brought me to the bed, pushing me onto it.

  Taken aback, before I knew it he flung himself down. Not on top, but lying next to me. Then, gently and with great clumsiness, he began to undo my tunic. I pushed away his fingers and did it myself, ordering him to do the same with his own clothes.

  Half-expecting a protest, he grinned. Dear God, he shed ten years when he smiled, really smiled like that. I said as much.

  His surprisingly gentle mouth met mine. ‘Don’t talk,’ he said. ‘Just let me do this.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘What I should have done long ago.’

  And he did.

  It wasn’t as good as being with Fulk, but it wasn’t all bad either. At least his prick stayed hard, till it didn’t.

  When he’d finished and rolled away, keeping a hand on my thigh, I twisted so I could see his face.

  ‘Well, my lord, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not half as much as you’ve turned out to be, wife.’

  I found a perverse pleasure in him calling me that. At least I truly was now his wife.

  ‘Not so bad for an ugly little bitch, am I?’

  He winced, his body stiffening. I leaned over and kissed his cheek to take the sting out of my rebuke.

  ‘Aye, you’re not, my hedge-born Jezebel, my Hadean Lilith,’ he sighed. ‘Is it some cruel cosmic joke, that all I had to do to truly be the master of my domain was surrender the role to you? Little did I suspect that a brogger’s child, a former servant and goodwife would possess such know-how.’

  For once in my life, I remained silent. God be praised.

  He let out a contented sigh, folded his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Outside, the celebrations continued, raucous and merry. Part of me wanted to rejoin them, but another part knew I had to remain. I tried to read Turbet’s face in the moonlight, but it was inscrutable. All I could see was his straight nose, the rise and fall of his chest, the cobwebs of silver hair that veiled it.

  ‘I can imagine God is having a good laugh,’ said Turbet finally. ‘Not just at me, but at all men.’

  Well, if not Him, I certainly was.

  EIGHTEEN

  Laverna Lodge and Bath

  The Year of Our Lord 1377

  In the fifty-first and final year of the reign of Edward III

  It didn’t take long for me to work out why my lord had been so eager to swive me that Lammas. It wasn’t that he’d suddenly had his eyes opened to my beauty, as I hoped, or found me desirable. It was the attention of other men. Turbet had a jealous streak as wide as the London Road. Upon seeing lusty Master Jon fancied me, he thought to stake his claim – or claim his stake as may be. In other words, it wasn’t until other men wanted what was rightfully his, handled his property, that he did too. Not that I’m complaining. Once I worked this out, I used it to my advantage as often as I could, and not just when my passions needed dousing.

  Over the following years, I found that when I responded to the ogling, suggestive murmurs, caresses and offers
of other men, or spoke of how these overtures made me feel, my husband would bestow upon me a variety of gifts – from a lovely bolt of silk, to colourful ribbons, a sparkling bracelet or a fine pair of slippers. For allowing Mervyn Slynge’s ward, Kit, to kiss me upon the lips three times in succession and squeeze my buttocks after dinner one evening, I was given a headdress that was the envy of the parish.

  Why had it taken so long to discover this? First it was the power of my queynte, and now it was men’s need to triumph over their own sex when it came to women. It was so damn simple. When I said as much to Alyson, she frowned.

  ‘Alright for some. You attract men the way a flower does bees or the pieman dogs. No-one wants my honey.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I objected. A number of men had tried to court Alyson, but she simply wasn’t interested. Said she was happy where she was and who she was with – meaning me. I couldn’t help but be flattered (and grateful), and while I wished her to know the love of a good man, they were in short supply. Truth be told, I was also afraid that should one come along, they might snatch her away, and then where would I be? I didn’t encourage her to pursue her swains as much as I probably should have. Worse, I made a point of always trying to find fault with any who did step forward.

  Was I selfish? Aye, I was. And one day, I would beg God’s forgiveness.

  Our fortunes continued to rise and our wool and cloth were in great demand. I was developing quite the reputation as a weaver, not that I deserved it. Those I’d trained outdid me. The best by far was Alyson. Not only was her weave tight and smooth, but she had a great eye for colour. Alyson deserved all the kudos, but she was most content when I shone and she basked in my shade. Conceited wretch, I was content with that too.

  Part of the reason I was happy to be lauded for weaving was because it meant no-one paid too much attention to the other business I conducted – what by rights was Turbet’s to manage. People still noticed, said it was only since I married Turbet that his wool sales had increased and his cloth was sought after. Likewise, the tenants sang his praises and, of course, what he owed was paid almost as fast as it accrued. I continued to be harried each time I ventured to Bath, but whereas once it had been to settle my husband’s debts, now it was to make purchases.

  Though I enjoyed the largesse of my husband – both in the gifts he gave and the various feasts he hosted, inviting his merchant colleagues and other acquaintances – I was quite thrifty and always made sure I kept coins aside – I never really trusted Turbet not to fall back into his old ways. I’d never forgotten how almost everything had been frittered away, and right beneath our noses. I didn’t want to risk that ever happening again.

  But of all the folk who marvelled at Turbet’s success and congratulated him upon it, there was one (apart from Jermyn) who knew the real reason. Master Mervyn Slynge revealed this one evening after we’d enjoyed a long and delicious repast in the Great Hall. I’d received a letter from Geoffrey that very morning. In it, he announced that his second child, Elizabeth, had become a novice at the Priory of St Helen’s. The rest was filled with excuses as to why he had to deny my request for aid in selling wool. You see, when he’d returned from Genoa a few years earlier, Geoffrey had been given a new post – that of Comptroller of the Wool Customs. Comptrollers were generally loathed, as they made sure the correct taxes were paid on whatever goods were exported. That Geoffrey should be responsible for this was both amusing and offended my sensibilities as a producer. Everyone knew the King and his lackeys (of which Geoffrey was now most assuredly one) granted the alien merchants licences willy-nilly and gave them such extraordinary concessions when it came to excise that they paid a fraction of the rate home-grown English wool merchants were levied. No wonder Papa had encouraged Lady Clarice to entrust her wool to smugglers and thus evade taxes and port duties. Turbet had tried to get Fulk to rely on the same avenues. I’d considered doing this with ours as well but thought, mayhap, with Geoffrey in the role, I wouldn’t have to … Would he turn a blind eye? Dismiss or lower our taxes? Record a lesser weight for our sacks so the duty wasn’t so high?

  Nay. He would not. Geoffrey was as honest as the day was long. No wonder the court appointed him. He was likely to make sure the Wool Collector – the man who operated in partnership with the Comptroller and was despised even more – didn’t swindle the royal coffers any more than they already did.

  Unsurprised that he had declined (and secretly filled with admiration), I was sitting in the solar, thinking over what Geoffrey had written and wondering what to write in reply (knowing Father Elias kept my friend abreast of what went on in Bath and at the lodge), when who should enter but Master Mervyn.

  ‘Good sir.’ I went to rise, slightly annoyed my peace was disturbed. I’d drunk quite a bit at dinner and felt a megrim starting. ‘If it’s my husband you seek, you’ll find him in the office. I believe he’s taken Masters Godfrey and Bevan there to show them his new seal.’

  Master Slynge waved for me to sit and, accepting a goblet of wine from one of the servants, dragged a chair closer. ‘It’s not him I wish to speak to.’

  ‘Oh?’ I looked about for his ever-present ward to find he was nowhere to be seen. Though a spoiled young man when I first met him, Kit had matured over the years into a fine-looking fellow, even if he still adopted airs and graces to which he had no right. ‘And why would that be?’

  Mervyn sank into the seat, his eyes never leaving mine. Being accustomed to a husband who still had difficulty returning my gaze, I found it both refreshing and unnerving.

  ‘How old are you now, Eleanor? Twenty-two? Twenty-three? Younger? I know you married Bigod while still a maid.’

  In every sense, I thought.

  ‘I’m twenty-five …’ I answered cautiously. What did my age have to do with anything?

  ‘Excellent, excellent.’ He studied the room, his eyes alighting on the new arras I’d had made depicting a sylvan scene. There was also a lovely silver box and a burnished bowl atop the cabinet. He took in the new ornaments and I was pleased to see an expression of approval. Why I cared, I’m uncertain. Mayhap, an awareness of my humble beginnings, beginnings that I liked to think were no longer so apparent.

  Finally, he faced me. ‘I’ve been meaning to speak to you for a while. Actually, what I wish to do is tender an apology.’

  ‘Apology? What for, sir?’

  ‘You see, my dear – and this isn’t easy for me to admit – I’m a man who likes to think he’s a good judge not only of character, but prospects. But, when it came to you, my judgement failed.’

  ‘You were blinded by natural male prejudice, sir,’ I said, smiling prettily.

  Mervyn Slynge’s eyes narrowed and I worried I’d gone too far. Then, he laughed. ‘You’re right. I was too much of a bigot to believe a woman could possess a mind let alone a good head for business. But you, my dear, contradict everything I thought to be true.’

  I didn’t want to say that if I contradicted it, then how many other women might? Either way, it made his premise false. ‘How have I accomplished such a remarkable concession, sir?’

  He put his elbows on his knees. ‘I’ve known Turbet since he was in breeches and if there’s one thing I can confidently say, it’s that he lacks any sense for commerce. In fact, if he hadn’t married well the first time, he’d be in hock right up to his neck. Instead of investing and trying to increase his wealth, the fool spent his wife’s inheritance faster than the King does ransom money. It was good luck, not good sense, that anything was left. Even then, when he met you, he’d been living off goodwill and the largesse of acquaintances –’ He tapped his chest to indicate he was one. He sighed. ‘But goodwill only goes so far, and when his offers of marriage to other well-endowed women came to naught, he set his sights closer to home. Frankly, I thought he’d lost his mind when he wed you. Why, your beginnings were very humble, regardless of the fact you inherited lands that abutted Turbet’s and came with a decent flock. He was risking his reputation, his social s
tanding, wedding so far beneath his station. But he was wiser than anyone knew. He saw in you what Fulk must have.’

  ‘Oh? And what might that be, sir?’ My mind was racing. Do I deny everything and attribute all the decisions being made to Turbet as I’d promised?

  ‘A cash cow. Or should it be, sheep?’

  My eyes widened. The rude bastard. ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said, my voice slightly shrill.

  Master Mervyn chortled and held up his hand in a sign of peace. ‘Stay. Stay, good lady. I don’t mean to offend, though I know the words do. But this is me you’re talking with –’

  Was I? Seemed to me he was the one doing all the prating.

  ‘And I refuse to pretend. I’m too old for that. Have seen too much.’ He paused and took a long drink. ‘Turbet was in dire straits and doing everything he could to pretend otherwise. Then you, Mistress Business-Head, come into his life and turn his fortunes around. Why, the man who could scarce tell the difference between a wether and a weaner now has one of the finest flocks, is producing wool of such quality it’s fought over by alien merchants, is weaving marvellous patterns and, furthermore, has happy villeins who, unlike those on neighbouring lands, remain put. This is not the work of Turbet Gerrish, nor his man, Jermyn, who I know does what his master tells him. Nay, my lady, this is down to the one thing that has changed in Turbet’s life. This is down to you.’

  I should have objected.

  ‘Nay. Do not insult me by pretending this isn’t the case.’

  I wasn’t.

  ‘I’m no fool either. And that’s why, I wish to offer you something –’

  I held my breath.

  ‘If ever you find yourself in need of an ally, someone whom you can rely upon to give you an honest opinion about a venture, a business decision, then I’m at your disposal.’

  I released my breath in a rush of disappointment. ‘I find this odd considering you’ve spent the last few years listening to others insult me.’ Never mind the last few minutes …