by Karen Brooks
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ he said, shifting uncomfortably. ‘What’s underneath them would be more to the point.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah, indeed. As you know, the church, the law, does not look … kindly upon men with my tastes. In fact, I believe there’s a special place in hell reserved for us.’ He released a weary sigh. ‘The thing is, ever since that scoundrel Kit … abandoned me, forgoing his rights as my ward, there have been those inclined to use his sudden departure to ponder why I’ve never wed. Kit’s leaving has unleashed an unwholesome curiosity among the townsfolk, my friends and business acquaintances. Normally, I could take this in my stride, but it’s beginning to have an impact on my dealings. Those able to turn a blind eye to what they don’t see, cannot unhear what’s being whispered or claim ignorance. I don’t like it. I’m quite prepared to do whatever it takes to put a stop to it.’
He rose from his chair and crossed to the hearth, his back to us as he stared into the flames. The walls of the room were thin and the noise from the taproom was growing as men entered The Corbie’s Feet and sought to down a midday ale and purchase some vittles.
‘I’ve thought about this for a while. Marriage is my only solution. For my business and legacy, whatever that may be.’ He turned around. I’d never really looked properly at Mervyn Slynge before. Age had begun to wither his legs, his shoulders were slightly slumped, his hair had slunk away from his scalp until only a few strands straggled across his pate. His brows were dark and thick, a pair of wings about to take flight. But his teeth were good, and within the folds of his face, his eyes were sharp. I knew he could be vicious, cruel even, but also loyal. He’d stood by me when few others would. There was an honesty about him I liked. Geoffrey had said he wasn’t what he seemed and while it would be easy to interpret that in terms of his … tastes, I liked to think of it in another way.
‘I find you’re someone I could tolerate sharing my life with, what remains of it anyhow, Mistress Eleanor. You too, Mistress Alyson, Mistress Milda, for if there’s one thing I’ve observed it’s that where one of you goes, the others follow. With you beneath my roof, I believe we will put paid to one type of gossip and replace it with another. What I gain by marrying you, Eleanor, will far outweigh whatever I have left to lose.’
He sat back down.
Turns out, my cunt was an asset after all.
‘And the truth is, I’m tired. Tired of resisting the pressures of this town to be what it insists I should be. What God insists. I am who I am, and I think, I pray, what I am won’t be objectionable to you.’ He stared at me. ‘Am I right in thinking this?’
‘You are,’ I said.
‘And you, Mistress Alyson? Do you object?’
‘It’s not for me to object, sir.’
‘Milda?’
‘Nor me, sir,’ said Milda.
‘Excellent,’ said Mervyn, slapping his hands against his thighs. ‘So, what’s your answer to be, Eleanor? Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife – to share the profits of our partnership and any losses that may incur? Shall we put paid to the prating of my neighbours and associates? To yours as well?’ He reached out his hand.
I took it. The skin was papery, dry. His fingers were long.
‘Before I answer, sir, there’s things I need to know.’
‘Ask away.’
‘Do you have any children or relations hidden away? About whom you do not speak?’
He chuckled. ‘Who might swoop upon you after my death and take what’s rightfully yours?’
No use pretending. I nodded.
‘Nay, my dear, and unlike Turbet, may God assoil him, I’ll make certain my will is most clear about what you’ll be entitled to. In fact, I give you my word, it will be written and witnessed before we even plight our troth.’
I studied his hand holding mine as I stood, one arm wrapped across my middle. I extricated my fingers from his. If I agreed to Mervyn’s offer, my desire to have a child would be put on hold, if not thwarted altogether.
Yet … this was no longer about my own desires. There were others who needed me, had once relied upon me and, due to forces beyond my control, I’d let them down. Mayhap, I could make amends.
‘If I agree, sir, would it be possible for me to include not just Milda, but some of my former servants in your household?’
Mervyn’s eyes crinkled beneath the folds. ‘Of course. For, once you become Mistress Slynge, it’s your household too.’
‘Oh, and three dogs, two are pups. Hera and Siren.’ I pointed towards the yard outside. In my absence, Titan’s bitch, Rhea, had given birth. I found them all shivering in the barn the night I returned to Laverna Lodge. I’d felt no guilt about taking them.
‘They will be companions to my dog, Bountiful.’
But there was still one last matter. Never again did I want to be in a position where I didn’t possess full knowledge of what my husband or anyone else I had to deal with was planning. I would remain in ignorance no longer.
‘I wish to hire a tutor who will teach me to both read and write. Alyson too, if she desires. I’ll need your approval to proceed.’
Alyson pulled an extraordinary face – whether in pleasure or pain, I couldn’t tell.
‘And you have it,’ said Master Mervyn. ‘Furthermore, I know just the man.’
‘Then,’ I said, rising to my feet, ‘I accept your proposal.’
I held out my hand. He placed his in it.
‘You will be my wife?’ He stood and looked me in the eyes. His were a dark blue. A large mole sat under the right one.
‘I will.’
Alyson fell back in her chair with such relieved force, I swear it would have been felt in the catacombs of Rome. Milda released a long, happy sigh.
Mervyn was as good as his word. A will was drawn up and witnessed. Geoffrey even made himself available to read it on my behalf and both he and Father Elias authenticated the contents.
My husband-to-be gave me coin to refresh a tired wardrobe and outfit myself in a manner becoming to Mistress Slynge and her beloved companion, nay, her sister, Alyson. Milda too. We moved into the best room at The Corbie’s Feet and enjoyed good food, ale and wine. Rhea, Hera and Siren also joined us.
A few weeks later, after the banns were read, we were wed.
And so began my brief, happy life as Mistress Eleanor Slynge.
TWENTY
Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1378
The first year of the reign of Richard II
Unlike my previous two marriages where I had met some resistance and even resentment, I was welcomed into Slynge House. The main reason, I was to discover from the very chatty housekeeper, the widow Oriel, was because the servants were so relieved their master had finally married.
They too knew the rumours that abounded but, unlike Mervyn, who had wealth and the power that came with it, they were sorely affected. Excluded, judged, life hadn’t been easy for them, especially when, as they described it, the ‘young master’ – Kit – lived there. ‘I prayed every Sunday the master would find someone with whom to share his life,’ admitted Mistress Oriel, crossing herself, her eyes welling as she welcomed us. ‘God took His time, but you came, mistress.’
She couldn’t have been more grateful if I’d arrived on the doorstep with pots of gold. Alyson screwed up her face in an effort not to say anything. I merely nodded and smiled.
The servants weren’t the only ones to pass comment. For all it was a town, Bath was a small place.
‘Funny, I’d always thought he wasn’t one for the ladies,’ was a constant refrain around Market Cross.
‘Always preferred male company,’ said some gentleman outside the Mercers’ Guild one day.
‘Who doesn’t?’ mumbled his whiskered companion.
‘Never thought old Slynge would plight his troth. Used to call women the Blight of Wrath, remember?’ said a tall thin man with a blue birthmark upon one cheek.
‘Was young Kit said that,
if I recall,’ said the merchant beside him. ‘Not that Slynge corrected him.’
‘That’s because the lad was right,’ grumbled blue-face.
Folk spent hours trying to work out what I had that other women didn’t. I could have told them – a mind that was regarded as an asset. Not that anyone would have given this credence for a moment.
These snippets were only what I overheard. In the first few weeks after we wed, people would generally stop talking when I approached, either turning away or obsequiously congratulating me. Mervyn was right about marrying a Slynge, it gave you status. The power of money to make people ignore what would otherwise make you a pariah – your birth, your past, your tastes in the bedroom. It never ceased to amaze me, or Alyson.
We’d oft sit up late at night talking about men and marriage. How, through my three very different husbands, I’d found myself living such a varied life. For certes, it was not one I ever imagined.
‘Can I ask you something, Eleanor?’
We were in our bedroom. Though we both had our own rooms, we preferred to share a bed. It wasn’t as if Mervyn would complain. We gave Milda Alyson’s room. Though it was considerably smaller, she’d never had a real bed or her own space before and was forever thanking us. It was the least she deserved.
Alyson was in a chair near the hearth, a candle burning by her elbow as she worked her distaff and spindle. She’d spent most of the day on the loom, weaving. She only left it to eat, and to demonstrate how to work the shuttle and tighten the weave for some of the new people we’d hired. Including Aggy and Rag, we had seven weavers set up in the hall downstairs. From Bath mainly, they were mostly women, though Hob was there, and an older man as well. Those who didn’t show quite the skill needed, Alyson and I put to carding and spinning. We’d need to find extra weavers, as more looms were being built and there was room to fit at least a dozen in the space comfortably.
I watched Alyson for a moment, the way she didn’t even have to look at what she was doing. It was like second nature to her. ‘You, chick, may ask me anything,’ I said. It still amused me, our private joke, that I called her chick and she referred to me as hen. ‘You rule the roost,’ she’d say.
‘Do you miss sarding?’
Her question so caught me by surprise, I choked on my wine. Without missing a turn, she leaned over and slapped me on the back.
‘It’s not like I don’t know you enjoy being swived, hen. By St John’s ears, I used to hear you and Pa at it all the time, worse than when we hired a ram to service the sheep. I’ve never been so bloody grateful when we extended the house and me, Beton and Theo had our own rooms – at the opposite end.’ A flash of sorrow crossed her face. ‘I used to give them wool to stuff in their ears.’
Caught between hot embarrassment and laughter, I wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘If I’d known …’ I began.
‘Wouldn’t have changed a bloody thing.’ Alyson dared me to contradict her.
We both burst out laughing. I took another drink and considered her question.
‘Your pa was the kind of lover every young wife needs. Considerate, undemanding …’ I began to lose myself in memories of his soft kisses, the way Fulk would worship my body. How, as I grew older, I learned to take pleasure from what he did …
A different kind of heat began to distract me.
‘I didn’t bloody miss it until you made me think about it, wench!’ I gave her a shove.
‘So, was Turbet a decent lover?’
Grateful we had moved on from discussing her pa, I gave her question serious thought. ‘He wasn’t anything like your father. Decent? That might be a stretch. He swived me to prove to himself and others he was a man. There was no thought for my satisfaction.’
‘But you sarded him anyway.’
‘A wife has no choice, Alyson. It’s part of our vows. It’s why God put us on this earth, to marry and do our duty, which includes allowing husbands to bed us. Doesn’t matter whether we wish it or not, if he’s got a distaff –’ I nodded towards hers, ‘a flagpole, or a baby turnip. We can’t choose the size of his prick or how he wields it.’
‘What size was he?’ I knew she wasn’t asking about her father.
‘One day you’ll learn, chick, it’s not the size that matters, but how it’s deployed.’ I waited. ‘But since you ask, beanpole size.’ I waggled a finger to indicate. ‘And he was clumsier than a novice in a whore house.’
We fell about.
‘Even so,’ I continued, ‘I took gratification from him. He wasn’t allowed to cease until I said.’
After we’d wiped our eyes and Alyson found her rhythm again, she asked one final question.
‘For all that this … arrangement with Mervyn is working, how are you, Eleanor, a woman of passions – born under the sign of Venus no less – going to cope without someone to love you?’
‘But, I do have someone.’
Alyson raised a brow.
‘I’ve you.’
She gave me one of her beautiful smiles, the kind that make you feel like melted butter. ‘Aye, you do, hen.’ A wistful look crossed her face. ‘But you be a woman who needs a man.’
I let out a long, heavy sigh. Truth be told, the thought had crossed my mind more than once. ‘Mayhap, I don’t need them in my bed.’
Alyson guffawed. ‘Aye, right. And I be a Moor’s spawn.’
I glanced towards the window. The candle flame was reflected in the thick glass, turning it molten gold. I feared Alyson was correct and that my desires would lead me into dangerous temptation.
‘Nay, you wait,’ said Alyson. ‘One day, you’ll be swept off your feet, a prisoner in love’s shackles. Then you’ll do what all those in thrall to Venus and who have a fine instrument needing to be plucked do.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘Take a lover.’
I stared at her for a while before finishing my drink and climbing into bed. If people knew the truth of my marriage, they could hardly blame me, could they?
But if I was led into temptation, who’d deliver me from evil?
Living in Bath was very different to visiting it on market days. Gradually, I became accustomed to its quirks, finding beauty in the strangest places. The hardest thing to get used to was the smell. It grew worse as the afternoon wore on unless a wind blew from the south and carried it away. Some days, if we were lucky, you barely noticed it, except in summer, when the heat was at its worst. Then it trapped the town in its pungent embrace. In terms of physical space, Bath wasn’t very big, but in other ways – the river, the gardens, the bridge, abbey, churches, towers and gates – it contained a world of different folk. There were black-garbed monks and veiled nuns. There were elegantly dressed gentry and local and foreign merchants. Servants, paupers, knights, fisherfolk, even people who lived on the barges that drifted by, all made up the population. Then there were the farmers and those outside the walls, the merchants, tinkers and vendors who, as I once had, came for business, increasing the town’s size each day. It was like a tiny country.
Filled with a mixture of wood and stone houses, many of which tilted to one side or the other like a group of exhausted shearers, it also had large gardens in which anyone could walk – if they were prepared to dodge sheep, geese, chicken and pigs, who also shared the grounds. Birds would swoop and glide, singing prettily on fine days, chirping their misery on the many wet ones. Spring flowers provided a cavalcade of colour and their heady scent battled with the usual miasma.
Mostly comprised of a few wide streets, Bath also had lots of little compacted earthen lanes piled with refuse and the usual assortment of dogs, cats, chickens and hogs rummaging about, if not orphans and beggars as well. Two- and three-storey houses shared plots of land in which grew a variety of vegetables and herbs; meaner houses had no garden but would open onto courtyards. By the river were ramshackle dwellings with rickety wharves that jutted over the water, many with small craft moored alongside. Shops and inns lined almost every street
, crowded with customers who would lean on the hinged counters, wander inside the open doors, or prowl the carts and barrows of the street vendors. Calls of ‘hot pies’, ‘fresh eels’, ‘fine shiny apples’, ‘silk ribbons’, ‘lovely lace for the ladies’ echoed most days.
By far the biggest attraction in Bath, apart from the thermal waters that bubbled up from under the ground and were enclosed in pools called variously Kings, Hot, and the Balneum Leproforum (for lepers), was St Peter’s. A huge church near the east wall, it had soaring towers and what Geoffrey called flying buttresses (why, I don’t know, as they always stayed put). Much like the cathedrals we saw in France and Italy, it was magnificent, but didn’t quite match their grandeur. Still, I didn’t correct the other wives when they’d boast about it. Wasn’t their fault they hadn’t set foot outside the borough, nor that their husbands hadn’t died (yet) leaving them free to explore this marvellous world if they were so inclined. Made me realise how fortunate I was.
I also became a regular at St John’s Hospital. Call it penance for Turbet’s past activities, or salving my own conscience. I would bring the monks any leftover pieces of cloth, clothes that were no longer being worn but could be reused with some patching, as well as small donations of coins. I never went to the Abbey. I left that to Mervyn, who knew the bishop. I walked past it many a time, admiring its grace and sturdiness, catching glimpses of the monks and novices within its walls, the general air of busyness, but it was not a place where women were welcome.
Mervyn managed to broker an excellent deal with the monks whereby they not only bought some of our wool, but wove the cloth according to patterns Alyson designed. One day a week, a group of monks came to Slynge House and sat with our ever-growing workforce, helping us train them in return for introductions to the alien merchants Mervyn and I dealt with.
It hadn’t been hard to recruit more weavers, for the new lord of Laverna Lodge, Perkyn Gerrish, proved to be as astute at business as his father. Forced to use broggers to sell his wool, he lost a small percentage. This was made worse when he recruited spinners to turn the wool he kept into thread. Because they were his villeins, he refused to pay them, considering it boon-work. Naturally, the villeins left – first the lodge, then the lands. Now he had no tenants and no spinners and, because Rag, Aggy and Hob had left to work for me, no weavers either. Served the rapacious fool right.
