by Karen Brooks
In summer, Mervyn struck a deal that increased his fortunes considerably. He managed to bypass English customs altogether and sell his wool directly to both Ypres and Ghent merchants. Earlier in the year, he’d invited a number to stay. Their second day under our roof – after a dinner that was a feast by anyone’s standards, filled as it was with many courses of meat, fish and wonderful subtleties that the cook, Master Quintrill, created, all of which looked like sheep, looms, or something else to do with the trade – he took them to visit his lands. Mervyn owned huge tracts outside the western walls. There he had two enormous flocks, which were well managed by a number of shepherds who had dedicated cottages. He’d also constructed three barns for housing the sheep in winter and for shearing them come spring. As a consequence, their fleeces were soft and white and, before they were even washed, cleaner than most. A further barn with a thatched roof and huge double doors so carts could be rolled in and out with ease was where sacks were stored until they could be sold, reducing cartage and potential weathering and damage. I’d never seen land and buildings designed just for the maintenance of sheep and wool production before. Neither had the merchants – not in this part of the world. That night, they agreed to work exclusively with him, enabling him to bypass many of the duties and excise imposed on English wool producers. It was these men who introduced us to a Venetian merchant who ended up buying a great deal of our cloth as well as that of the monks – under the same conditions. You might recall I said the King imposed better conditions and generous subsidies on alien dealers. It’s no wonder we took advantage. I couldn’t help but wonder what Geoffrey would think, being Comptroller and all. Needless to say, there was no mention of any of this in my letters.
Ah, my letters …
My husband was as good as his word when it came to finding me a tutor. We weren’t even married a week when he introduced me to an old friend of his, a scholar from Oxford who was a widower raising a young son and keen for work. Master Binder was a Hollander by birth who spoke Dutch, Latin, French and English. Long-limbed and thin, with a sunken belly and cheeks, he had pale blue eyes and a thick-lipped mouth that never smiled. But he was patient. Once a week, he would come to the house and teach me. First, it was to read (and what a trial that was), encouraging me to identify and pronounce letters he drew on his wax tablet. Eventually, I was allowed to write myself. He would even set me tasks to complete between our appointments. I wish I could tell you these skills came easily to me, but they didn’t. It was more difficult to unravel than a skein of northern wool, and I was besieged by knots and breaks. But, like a newly minted soldier, I was determined to emerge victorious from this battle.
When Master Binder brought his son with him, a fresh-faced boy who could nonetheless read and write fluently, my initial lack of progress shamed me. Here was a lad of twelve or so able to read and write in more than one language with ease. In all fairness, the boy never made me feel a fool. On the contrary, he tried to help.
The good news is, after a year of lessons I was able to read the documents Master Binder brought fluently. Ever since the old King made parliament and the law courts use English, there was a variety of poems, romances and other works for me to listen to and read for myself. There was a poem called ‘Piers Plowman’, about a man named Will who has dreams involving kings and paupers and wit and conscience. It wasn’t complete, but because Master Binder knew the poet, he’d been given a copy to comment upon. There were other works as well – romances with knights and fair maidens, sinners and the sinned against. I’d heard many of the tales from the bards in the markets or the mouths of jongleurs who visited Noke Manor. And, of course, from Geoffrey.
It was being able to read Geoffrey’s letters that gave me the greatest pleasure. The day I wrote my first letter to Geoffrey, I didn’t think I could be any prouder. When he sent it back correcting my mistakes, I wasn’t offended, not when I was able to read for myself how the new King had graciously added to the annuity granted by the old one and Geoffrey was now twenty pounds a year richer.
Mayhap, the Wheel of Fortune was turning in both our favours, God be praised.
Becoming educated and weaving was not all I did. As Mistress Slynge, it was expected that I would, time permitting, stroll about town like some of the other wealthier merchants’ wives. Keen to emulate the gentry living in Bath, these women would dress in their finest and, accompanied by a maidservant or two and sometimes a groom or small boy, strut about, throwing back their heads, laughing, chattering, and above all, being seen. To me, it was a complete and utter waste of time, but as Mervyn said, I’d a role to play and I couldn’t disappoint.
I didn’t care much about these women or what they thought, but I didn’t want to upset Mervyn. For all I believed him a nice if somewhat strange man when I first met him, after we married and he grew older and more frail, happy to oblige me in almost every regard, I knew him to be, as Geoffrey had anticipated, much more than that. He was thoroughly enjoying the talk our marriage and now the weaving business generated; talk I precipitated. I’d no idea my every move and action were being so carefully scrutinised and debated – in dining halls, solars, farmhouses and inns. The day I crossed the street when I spied Tamsyn Gerrish in town, determined to ignore her, became the subject of gossip for days after. Geoffrey even heard about it in London.
And so, I learned to read, write, perambulate without purpose, weave, teach, run the household and look after my increasingly poorly husband. Indulgent, Mervyn would insist I wore the best tunics and hose, all made from scarlet and dyed my favourite crimson. My handkerchiefs and veils were made of gossamer-thin materials, and I began to wear rings on my fingers and little gold spurs on my kid-boots – the latter a gift from Mervyn and a complete affectation.
Did I begin to take my new position as a wife of the town too seriously? Mayhap, a tad. But when you come from nothing, to be given something can make one vain and more than a little greedy.
Something else that came with marrying Mervyn was a better position in church. When I’d been a servant at Noke Manor, it was all I could do to squeeze into the back of the chapel. If I hadn’t been held upright between the other maids and servants, I would have keeled over with boredom. Once I became Mistress Bigod, I was at least able to stand without being pushed and buffeted. Still relegated to the back when communion was given, it wasn’t until I married Turbet that I earned a place halfway down the nave. As Mistress Slynge, I was reserved a spot towards the front, only slightly further back than Lord and Lady Frondwyn and their brood. Most importantly, I was above the Gerrishes, and thus if I didn’t want to pay them attention, I bloody well wouldn’t.
When Father Elias came to see me later that first week and I told him this, he was most displeased by my lack of Christian charity.
‘I’m only showing the Gerrishes exactly the kind of Christian charity they showed me,’ I said.
He made the sign of the cross.
When, the following Sunday, Master Perkyn and his wife dared to approach the altar right behind Lady Frondwyn and before me, that flat-chested nonce of a sister in their wake, I rose to my feet and shoved them aside so hard, they fell against each other like skittles. A cry went up in the church as folk sought to prevent them falling (and, to my great delight, failed), while others simply tut-tutted. Not so much at me, but at these upstarts who ignored the hierarchy. Be damned if I’d allow them to remind me of my origins; they were no better than thieves.
Thrusting out my bosoms, I took my time approaching the altar, Father Elias too busy conferring with God to notice the commotion behind me. After that, no-one dared to precede me. Did I enjoy my rapid ascent to the almost top? By God, I did (and he would’ve too – Fulk that is, not the Almighty).
After that Sunday, when I put Perkyn and his petty family back in their place, I knew that nothing and no-one would ever wrest me from mine.
Was I tempting Fate with such thoughts? Of course.
But temptation, and answering its siren call, w
ere swiftly becoming my hallmark.
TWENTY-ONE
Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1379
In the first and second years of the reign of Richard II
Summer bid adieu and autumn took the stage before winter announced itself with icy flurries that blew the ever-present smell of the tannery away and scattered the morning mists. By now, Alyson, Milda, the dogs and I were a regular sight around Bath. In a dress made especially for me by Goody Brown, the best seamstress in town, I would oft be seen on market day, trying to strike a bargain with the vendors. My kirtle would attract admiring glances and even comments. Alyson said they weren’t looks of appreciation but consternation at my ridiculous hat. I’d had a few made, modelled on the ones I wore to Canterbury and Rome. Broad-brimmed, they protected my face from the sun, thus preventing more freckles forming. Until I married Mervyn, I’d only ever owned a small number of dresses and almost all of those were made by me, Alyson and Milda. All that changed when my new husband insisted I avail myself of some new kirtles, tunics, shifts, gloves, cloaks, hats and hose, and that Alyson should do so as well. He also gave me enough coin to ensure all the servants were well-clothed and that the Slynge coat of arms (earned on the battlefields of France) was embroidered over their breasts.
When summer came around again, not only was I part of the town and parish, but I declared proudly to Alyson and Milda that it would take a catastrophe to pry me from it.
Milda crossed herself, Alyson stared at me in dismay. ‘What possessed you to say that? Now you’ve done it.’
‘Done what?’ I asked carelessly, biting into a delicious pastry Master Quintrell had made. Crumbs flecked my décolletage and I picked them up carefully, slipping them into my mouth. Waste not. I pulled at the laces, trying to create more room. Seemed Goody Brown had made this tunic a bit small. Of late, a few had been cut to a different measure.
‘Tempted Fate,’ sighed Alyson.
‘If Fate finds me tempting, who am I to quarrel?’ I declared and, before Alyson or Milda could decry my rash words, flounced out of the room.
I’d taken to visiting Mervyn each morning. More and more of late, he preferred to remain abed until the sun was high in the sky and he’d had a few mazers of small ale and some coddled eggs and bread. Ably assisted by Drew, who along with Arnold had joined the household, both now manservants, Sweteman, Mervyn’s squire, would see to it that he was comfortable against his pillows, dressed in a shift and the fire blazing – even on warm days. Mervyn was so thin, despite what he ate. He was forever complaining of the cold.
Perched on the edge of the bed, I would break off bits of bread and dip them in the eggs, feeding him and discussing how many ells of cloth were ready to sell and where they were going, how the flock was faring, the price of wool and anything else of interest. I would keep him abreast of gossip (something both Sweteman and the lads also did) and even read to him. I was very proud of my prowess. He particularly enjoyed Geoffrey’s letters.
I’d received one a few months back written from Milan, where Geoffrey had gone to conduct business for the King. In it, he said he’d finished a work on Saint Cecilia and was writing a poem entitled ‘The House of Fame’. Similar to that Plowman one I liked, it was about a vision. What was it with poets and dreams and visions? Couldn’t one write about real people and events? He should consider writing about people who weren’t inclined to fantasies but were just like me, Alyson, Father Elias, Drew, Arnold, Wy, Rag, Oriel and Milda. He was also writing about a couple of love-struck knights. Well, maybe that was more in line with what I meant. Any knight I’d met only ever thought about two things – war and sarding – and not necessarily in that order.
Sadly, Geoffrey rarely wrote about his wife or children. I didn’t suppose there was much to say what with Philippa being in Lincolnshire ensconced in one of Prince John’s many houses. His daughter, Elizabeth, was shut away in that nunnery. No wonder the man wrote about dreams and love so much. Mayhap, I wasn’t the only one missing out on a good swiving. As I heard one travelling merchant whisper drunkenly to another one night, ‘Absence doesn’t make the heart ache as much as it does your balls.’
Aye, and my queynte and all.
Geoffrey prayed we’d escaped the latest outbreak of the pestilence in England that had spread from Bristol and ravaged the countryside. Towns in the north had suffered terribly, many lives being lost, but thus far, praise God, Bath had been spared. Only those carrying certificates of good health were admitted through the gates. No doubt there were unscrupulous doctors growing rich issuing those.
I’d folded this particular letter and placed it my placket, then taken Mervyn’s hand. While this latest outbreak of the Botch hadn’t struck down my husband, he was nonetheless suffering. Didn’t matter which physician or doctor came, or prescribed bloodletting, read his charts or gave him fancy stones to put under his pillow, or ghastly concoctions to drink that combined everything from flowers and herbs to fish heads, kitten’s tails and horse shit (alright, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t far off), he never improved. Fortunately, though his body was failing and his lungs wheezed like overworked bellows, his mind was sharp and he’d send the quacks away with fleas in their ears and refuse to pay them.
It was probably around this time I first began to notice the husband of one of the weavers we’d hired. I’d like to think it was because, unlike my husband, he was so healthy. But it was a great deal more than that. A maker of looms, his name was Durand Slaywright and his wife, a skinny wench with lank mousy hair and a chin that collapsed into her neck, was Basilia. She wasn’t particularly good at weaving, but she tried so very hard and at first I didn’t have the heart to set her to spinning (which any nonce can do). But the day Durand arrived at the house with a freshly carved loom ready to have the warp strings tied, I suddenly found myself very interested in everything Basilia was doing.
A large man, and by that I don’t mean fat, Durand was tall, broad-shouldered, possessed of arms that looked fit to burst from his shirt like an over-ripe fruit its skin. His vest barely laced across his chest and his thighs, well, they looked like nuts in casings, they were so defined. He’d a thick head of barley-coloured hair and the darkest eyes. But it was his smile that captured me. God’s truth.
Basilia rose when he entered and shyly introduced us. I barely remember what I did or said, all I know is that when those lips pulled back to reveal white, even teeth and I looked into those onyx eyes, my centre turned to liquid and I became very chatty and conscious of the state of my veil, my face, the stains on my old tunic. Dear Lord in Heaven, my fingers fluttered like butterflies cavorting over blooms. When I tripped over the edge of another worker’s loom trying to get to the other side of the one Durand was moving into place, he caught me around my waist to prevent me toppling. He pulled me close and I breathed in the very maleness of him. My head spun, my breathing became difficult. I giggled, thanked him prettily and slowly untangled myself from his firm grasp.
‘Madam, madam!’ Basilia had fussed, pulling over a stool for me to sit upon. Milda fetched me an ale. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Aye, I am,’ I managed to say, not looking at Basilia, but at her husband.
Was he aware of the effect he was having? I’m sure he was, for when he took his leave, he stood in the doorway, out of sight of his wife, and waited until our eyes met. In that silent conversation much was promised.
It wasn’t until I was returning to my loom that I was doused with the equivalent of a bucket of river water. ‘That’s a mighty handsome man,’ said Alyson, moving her shuttle across the strings.
‘Was he?’ I said, flicking a strand of hair and taking my seat. ‘I barely noticed.’
‘Aye. I saw how little you noticed him.’
I pulled a face.
‘Lest you forget, hen. He’s Basilia’s man.’
Bloody Alyson. She was right. I had to put him out of mind. But like a devilish sprite, he’d dance through my dreams.
Wh
en I encountered Durand unexpectedly a few days later, it was on the road to do my weekly visit to the flock and report back to Mervyn. I’d been doing this since early spring when he became too ill to make the journey himself. At first, I’d protested. Not that I couldn’t do it, as I was very familiar with what was required – had I not taken over from Turbet? But that was the precise reason I didn’t want to usurp Mervyn’s position. I’d plenty of authority and didn’t need to wrest it from him. What would people say?
It was a conversation I’ll never forget.
‘Since when do you worry about what people say?’ Mervyn smiled, head tilting to one side like a bird.
I blinked. ‘I’ve always had a mind to what others say. Being a man, you wouldn’t understand, but us women are at the mercy of others’ tongues – most often, those of our own sex.’
Mervyn nodded sagely. ‘Mayhap, you’re right.’ Then he beckoned me closer and took my hand. ‘Listen, Eleanor. You’re not to worry about what others say about you or me – not anymore. Wait,’ he said, ‘let me finish. You’re no longer a Noke Manor lackey, a farmer’s wife, or the hidden talent behind Laverna Lodge’s short-lived success. You’re someone. You train and employ people, you deal with servants, merchants, wives, gentry, priests and bishops. You’re my wife and I won’t have you tolerating anything you don’t have to, which includes twisted tongues and rumour-mongering. You stood up to Fulk, you stood up to Turbet. It’s time you trusted who you are and stand up to anyone else who would try to belittle you. And that includes me. Do you hear me? Use your voice, woman, use it for yourself and for those who don’t have one. And use it well.’
