by Karen Brooks
If there’s one thing I’ve learned (apart from not to share a bed with a nun – my God, her farts would put a soldier’s to shame), it’s that travelling afar brings you closer to home – not in the physical sense, which would make it both an irony and a terrible waste, but in the spiritual one. God may not have spoken to me quite as oft as I wished, but home has called to me almost every night of late and I miss it. I miss England. What I won’t miss is the English folk I’ve travelled with. That’s another thing I’ve learned – some of those who travel do so because they’re not tolerated at home. Dear God, it would be easy for others to believe we’re nothing more than a nation of moaners and tight-fisted arse-wisps.
Was it worth spending months on Via Francigena to get here? You might recall, we came via Boulogne, and saw Notre-Dame de la Mer, which was where King Edward II married Isabella of France, but I suppose you know that. Was it worth the badge, an image of the Virgin Mother and Child in a sickle of a boat? Worth the blisters, the swollen feet, the bedbugs, the snoring of the old women (and men) Alyson and I had to share beds with, their constant praying, tears, their judgey faces and words, the endless complaining of the two friars and their great clanking beads? Was it worth the dreadful food, the sickness in my belly and the subsequent squits? Was it worth the terrible drenching we received outside Langres? The freezing cold of Gran san Bernardo – even if the monks were good hosts? Was it worth the flies, the hot sun burning the back of our hands as we rode from Lucca to Siena (now that’s a city), the holes in my soles, thirst, the gnawing hunger when we couldn’t find a hostel to take us? Was it worth travelling with thirteen strangers (Alyson not included) to reach the Eternal City?
You’ll be pleased to know, Geoffrey, I have to say, once I stood on that hill on that cold day in November, and was able to drink in all that I’d seen and done in one fell swoop, I decided it was.
From where I stood, I could see not just the city, but beyond it to the glory of Christ and all His saints and apostles and all the blessed martyrs, and sing His praises and theirs. Mind you, all I really have to do to remember them is touch the souvenirs I bought – my cloak and hat (and Alyson’s too), now carry not just ampulla from Canterbury, but my badge with a key and sword and my small patch of cloth, my vernicle, which I’ve pinned to my cloak. And let’s not forget the whore’s hair. I tell you, Geoffrey, I spent a great deal on these holy trinkets, which prove where I’ve been. I’d rather part with pennies for these than the plenaries every dirty monk and his one-eared dog try to sell.
The scribe is growing weary and tells me he has run out of quills. I will draw to a close, my friend. Know that I’ve prayed for you at every blessed shrine and church. At St Peter’s and St Mary’s, I left a tiny wax image of a child in the hope that if not the Holy Mother or St Peter, then the Almighty might see fit to grant me my greatest wish. Though, if I grant Mervyn Slynge his and marry him, then my own may have to wait.
That’s the one question for which I still have no answer, my friend. Am I foremost a wife and business woman? Or do I wish to be, as God and almost everyone else commands, a wife and mother? Be damned if I’ll be a crone.
I hope God in His wisdom helps me find the answer before I reach home.
Written on the Feast of the Conception of Our Lady.
Yours, Eleanor.
The Tale of Husband the Third, Mervyn Slynge
1378 to 1380
Some say the tags we desire most are these:
Freedom to do exactly as we please,
With no-one to reprove our faults and lies,
Rather to have one call us good and wise.
The Wife of Bath’s Tale, The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, translated by Neville Coghill
NINETEEN
Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1378
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
My third wedding was a quiet affair – just me, Mervyn, Alyson, Milda and Geoffrey, all huddled around Father Elias at the church door. Instead of a feast, we had supper at Mervyn’s town house on the corner of Locks Lane and Cheap Street in Bath. Missing from the list of witnesses was Kit, who, not long after I left for Rome, ran away with a Scottish laird’s daughter, breaking Mervyn’s heart. He was now living somewhere north of Aberdeen, knee-deep in heath and haggis. Though I’d miss his kisses and caresses, I was glad I never had to listen to his gripes about women again. God help his poor wife.
Whereas a first wedding is generally a cause for celebration, and a second grudgingly accepted as necessary to maintain the social order and preserve or create a family, for a woman to be married thrice due to widowhood, and without a babe to call her own, attracts gossip the way rancid milk does flies. It hovers about, buzzing and wheezing before sticking and stinking. And not only because the new wife’s three-score-and-twelve latest husband is thought to be a sodomite. In the minds of many, Fulk’s and Turbet’s deaths were my fault – I’d killed them with my queynte.
Some might say, what a way to go.
Regardless, many prayed for Mervyn, while at the same time there was a great deal of envy directed towards me. In marrying a Slynge, I not only moved upwards in terms of wealth and status, but geographically. I went from lodge and land to a three-storey house inside the walls of the town.
I was now a wife of Bath.
And let me tell you, the other wives, prepared to tolerate me when I lived two or more miles away, out of sight, didn’t much like it.
Not that I cared. Not after what I’d been through to get to the altar again, to once more shore up a position and rebuild my life and wealth – the latter having been ripped away through the wiles of men and their progeny in my absence.
When Alyson and I returned from Rome that cold, snow-bound day in late January, the Feast of St Wolstan the Bishop, it was to find Laverna Lodge occupied.
While the servants, especially Milda, were happy to see me, they also conveyed, through awkward silences and long, knowing looks as they escorted us to the solar, a level of growing distress that made me deeply uneasy. Milda was fretful and shaking, but unable to say why in front of the other servants.
Seated in my chair by the hearth, one of the blankets Alyson had woven wrapped about her legs, getting familiar with my favourite goblet and wine, was a woman I didn’t know. Standing next to her, a possessive hand on her thin shoulder, looking every part the lord of the lodge, was a man of medium height with dark hair combed back from a pinched, pale face. Though I’d never seen him before either, he was not unfamiliar. Those shifting eyes, wide teeth and the heavy chin that jutted worse than the top storey of a goldsmith’s house, declared who he was. It was Turbet’s son, the never-to-be-talked-about Perkyn. The woman was his wife, Gennet. Their children, Nonce and Dunce (I don’t remember their names and neither do I care to) were in the nursery – my old bedroom it turns out – with their nursemaid.
While I was away seeking God’s guidance and paying my spiritual debt or accruing credit (depending which way you see it), Perkyn, learning of his father’s demise and my convenient absence, descended upon Laverna Lodge and staked his claim. Though my late husband had made many promises at the church door, he failed to enshrine his promises according to law. In other words, he never altered his goddamn will. A widow is generally entitled to at least a third (and often more) of her husband’s estate. My husband’s written wishes failed to acknowledge the wife he was married to for eight bloody years, and this combined with the power of Perkyn and his fancy London lawyers, saw to it that my portion was nothing more than my clothes, a horse, a bed, a loom, and a few other possessions.
Upon learning who I was, Perkyn ordered Jermyn to produce the documents that outlined my rights. A load of scribbles and flourishes with wax seals hanging off the end was flaunted. Fat lot of good. I couldn’t read and from the smirk on Perkyn’s immensely slappable face, he knew it. As if to compensate for the shock, I was invited to stay the night, along with Alyson – whom they barely deigned to look at �
� in the servants’ quarters.
I fought the will, of course I did, writing to Geoffrey. He sent the name of a lawyer, Master Abel le Dun, a squat little man who rode down from London. He would have been better named Un-Abel. In the end, it didn’t matter one iota that it had been my endeavours, my decisions, my negotiations, that carried Turbet out of debt and made Laverna Lodge and its wool a solvent, growing enterprise. It was as if I was invisible or, worse, had never been there. Everything belonged to Perkyn and his willowy, beak-nosed sister, Tamsyn, she of the protuberant brown eyes who also descended on the solar that evening. With their ability to cast my future, the pair put the Fates to shame.
To make matters worse and rub salt into a festering, pus-filled wound, part of the reason I’d no grounds for contesting the will was entirely my fault. When I’d made Turbet the promise that everyone would believe he was in charge of business, I shot myself with a quiver full of arrows – and not just once. No-one would consider it was me, a woman, an ignorant illiterate servant and farmer’s wife who’d turned the Gerrish fortunes around. Jermyn wouldn’t speak on my behalf because to do so would not only reflect badly on him, working for a woman, but as steward, he was seen as Turbet’s right-hand man and therefore partly to credit for his master’s success. For the first time in his life, Jermyn was held in some esteem.
‘Good luck maintaining all you’ve done,’ I hissed at him as I left the courtroom after the pompous judge upheld the will.
The only person to offer testimony for me was Mervyn. But even with his connections, it wasn’t enough.
Knowing it didn’t matter what I said or what the truth was, knowing that everything I’d endured, including bloody Turbet, had been for naught, sent me spiralling into darkness. The last fifteen years meant nothing. Nay, it was worse than that, because somehow, I’d also managed to lose everything Fulk had worked for, which meant Alyson had nothing to show for her loyalty and graft either. She’d hitched her cart to mine and I’d broken both. I was sickened, enraged and heartsore. Beton had made the right decision when he fled to London. If he’d been a night carter, he couldn’t have fared worse than we did.
And what of poor Milda? When I’d travelled to Rome, she’d a home and position. Now, she was the unpaid servant of a destitute woman.
After the judgement was given, I retreated to The Corbie’s Feet in Bath, where we’d taken rooms. I lay in bed for a week, unable to move or eat, staring at the walls, going over everything and plotting ways to kill spineless Perkyn and his greedy sister.
The only good thing to come of the entire mess was that when they learned I wasn’t returning to Laverna Lodge, Rag, Aggy, Drew, Arnold, Wy, Hob and Peter left. They said they’d rather labour at anything else than remain with that man and woman.
Young Peter came to where we were staying and, with his cap screwed up tightly in his hands, announced, ‘I’d prefer to put me hands in piss for the rest of me life than stay out there with ’im, mistress.’ I learned later that Perkyn was fond of whipping the servants – the men with his crop, the women with his bare hands.
The entire time I wallowed in self-pity, Alyson remained by my side. Just as she shared the room, she shared my self-recrimination. She didn’t cast blame – not a word of anger or judgement passed her lips as I whined, raged, planned and surrendered. How she tolerated this, I cannot fathom. She sat in a corner, her distaff and spindle twirling, her hands busy as she hummed. She would organise medicants, for any messages to be sent. She’d insist I dress and meet with Father Elias in the taproom when he came, Master Un-Abel as well. A spring of goodwill and determination – I don’t think I ever thanked Alyson enough. I doubt I’d have survived if she hadn’t been there to pick me up and dust me off each day, let alone encourage me to grasp opportunity when it finally presented itself again.
As for Milda, she took responsibility for our meals and laundry, ensuring we were mostly undisturbed and kept her ear to the ground. Out of the room most days, she’d return and fill us in on general gossip. We’d been the talk of the town for a few weeks, but eventually another event pushed us to the periphery of the public mind.
I never thought I’d have cause to be grateful to the Pope. But when Pope Gregory died a huge row erupted over his replacement, an Italian named Urban VI. There were some unhappy with Urban, so they elected another Pope – this time, a Frenchman named Clement VII who hotfooted it to Avignon. Now there was one Pope in Rome and another in Avignon. Imagine it. Two bloody Popes. How the Almighty was meant to know which one to listen to – after all, wasn’t the Pope God’s messenger on earth? – let alone us poor souls, was anyone’s guess. It was all folk were speaking about, according to Milda. While it was good to know we weren’t the subject of tittle-tattle anymore, I couldn’t help but be offended that our Pope (England was for Urban – we’d never back a Frenchie) was in the city I’d just spent months travelling to! Think how many dispensations walking in the same footsteps as His Holiness would have earned, how much spiritual surplus that would have given me. God knew I needed it, what with all the twisted, murderous thoughts filling my head.
Just when I thought I’d have no recourse but to go to London and sell the only thing I had of any worth, even if it was slightly used, who should come to me with an offer I was in no position to refuse but Mervyn Slynge.
On returning from my pilgrimage and learning of my penury, I’d refused to marry him. Rather than have him suffer the embarrassment of withdrawing his offer (a woman with property and prospects is a very different proposition to one with nothing – not even my private places were an asset with Master Slynge), I told him I couldn’t, wouldn’t be his bride.
When I didn’t hear from him – apart from when he spoke before the judge – we’d no more contact. I pushed him to the back of my mind. It was hard, because his house, a tall, pretty place with real windows, was across the way from the inn.
So, imagine my surprise when Milda announced Master Slynge was downstairs asking to see us.
I washed and dressed hastily and, clutching Alyson’s hand, went downstairs to a small room to the side of the noisy taproom. Mervyn knew everyone there was to know in Bath and had secured privacy. Over cups of wine, he laid out a plan for me, for us, with Alyson as witness.
What he proposed was that we marry but, to all intents and purposes, it would be in name only. He’d no desire to bed me, no desire to share a bedroom. He simply wanted to use my business head, my instincts for increasing profit when it came to wool and weaving and apply them to his commercial interests.
‘You will work for me by recreating what you did out at Laverna Lodge, only on a larger scale.’
‘You mean, weaving?’
‘Aye. I want you to set up a similar enterprise. As you know, I’m considered reasonably successful when it comes to producing fine wool and selling it. But the excise, duties, and regulations the King has imposed makes it nigh on impossible to enjoy much profit. Therefore, using a percentage of my wool, I wish to branch out into producing cloth. It worked for Turbet, and it will work for me. Rather, you will.’
Alyson and I exchanged a look. Milda beamed. A growing sense of anticipation, of lightness bloomed in my chest.
‘We will start on a small scale. I’ll have looms made, you will hire and train the weavers – oversee the production of the cloth.’
‘But the guild –’
‘Leave them to me.’ He made a steeple of his fingers, assessing me over the top of them. ‘Unlike Turbet, I wish to work with their blessing. With your talent for weaving and training, I’ve no doubt we’ll achieve that and the business will grow. I want our cloth to be the reason the alien merchants come to Bath.’
I was about to admit Alyson was a much better weaver and teacher than I ever could be, but she placed a warning hand on my arm and shook her head slightly. Inwardly, I sighed.
I missed what Mervyn said next, catching only the end. ‘Make no bones about it, Eleanor. I will work you hard. You too, Alyson.’
‘I’m not afraid of hard work, sir.’
‘Me neither,’ said Alyson. There was a sparkle in her eyes. Her dimples appeared.
‘I know,’ he said.
He then explained that by marrying him, not only would I gain the name, money and status that came with being a Slynge of Bath, but if I was discreet, he added, he would give me freedoms most women would envy.
I was puzzled. Surely, there had to be something I was missing. This was too good to be true. What, apart from setting up a weaving business, did this man want from me? What did I have that he was prepared to give me so much?
I asked.
Mervyn looked from me to Alyson, to Milda, and back again, choosing his words. The fire spat. Voices carried from outside. A pot was being struck with a spoon, a child was wailing for his mother. Someone emptied a jordan from a window above, their warning cry too late for some poor sod passing by who began abusing the thrower loudly. Because a shutter was half open, some of the stinking contents splashed over the window sill. Milda closed the shutters, plunging the room into semi-darkness but also reducing the noise. She kicked the rushes around until the herbs strewn within them released their scent, managing to mostly mask the stench. Satisfied, she returned to her place near the door. Not a word had been exchanged the entire time. The muffled cries of the child continued.
With a long sigh, Mervyn finally spoke. ‘I don’t think I’m mistaken in believing you’re all, as women of the world, aware that … how do I put it?’ He glanced at the ceiling, searched the room. ‘That my tastes don’t run to … that I’m not inclined to …’ His hands waggled in our direction.
‘Dresses?’ I supplied. Alyson coughed to cover a laugh. Milda’s expression revealed nothing. I knew damn well what he meant, but I wanted him to say it.
