by Karen Brooks
I ground my teeth. ‘I’m no exotic bird to echo men’s utterances, husband, not even good Father Elias’s. I did read of Lamach, sir, as well as of Abraham who took several brides, in the Wycliffe Bible.’
Raising his goblet, my husband chuckled. ‘You certainly aren’t exotic, my dear. But a solid – very solid – common woman. An attribute some appreciate, isn’t that so, Geoffrey?’
See what I had to contend with?
But when Geoffrey defended Simon, I knew I was losing the battle.
Come autumn, I changed tactics. Showing Simon how much his behaviour upset me hadn’t worked, so I strove to make him jealous.
I sent invitations to the men who’d once been eager for my hand. Whereas it took some persuasion to convince them to come – my new reputation making them cautious – they did. Simon had no choice but to be present, as discussion of business was often the pretext for their visits. Over a fine meal, I made sure to flirt outrageously, my breasts positively bursting from low-cut kirtles, letting my fingers linger on the arms and even the thighs of those next to me. When Master James Roberts followed me into the passage after a long meal, staggering from the number of drinks he’d downed, I allowed him to free my breasts and squeeze my buttocks, praying the whole time Simon would find us. He did, just in time to see James extract his hand from beneath my dress. What did he do? Clap the man around the shoulders, tell him he’d do better digging in a ditch than in those regions, and escorted him back to the table.
Later, when we were alone, he said he’d observed how I lost all sense when I was in my cups, and, if I wanted a grubby merchant to fondle me, I’d be better off with Harold Foysdyck, who at least had clean fingers.
Unlike Turbet, the attention of other men wasn’t going to work with Simon. What if he couldn’t see what I was up to? His imagination would fire and he’d think the worst and seek to at least parley. For certes, my imaginings went awry when I didn’t know what he was doing.
I reduced the amount I drank, took more care with my appearance. The moment my husband returned home, I would leave, neither informing him of where I was going nor when I’d be back. I would make the rounds of various houses, watch processions, applaud the loudest at a play, weep the most at weddings, purchase all sorts at shops. Did I have dalliances on those days? Those evenings? Sometimes. Never with a married man. But those I had only served one purpose – a purpose that ultimately, like all my efforts, failed.
My sadness knew no bounds. I forgot to smile. To laugh. My dignity was in tatters and I didn’t know how to repair it.
One year passed into another and time dragged.
On the upside, the weaving business was doing well – in no small part due to Alyson. Between them, Milda, Sweteman, Drew, Hob, Arnold and Oriel saw that the flocks and the house ran smoothly. Wy cared for the hounds, hens and other domestic animals. I continued to write to Geoffrey, albeit a bit more frequently. I was in need of a friend, someone outside the household, and as much as Father Elias was a marvellous confidant, outside the town. Bath could feel very, very small.
Recognising my despair, Geoffrey organised for Jankin, who’d finished his studies and was biding his time before taking the cloth, to return to Bath and live in Slynge House so I could continue my lessons. Since I’d gone to Cologne, I’d neglected them. At first, I was resistant. But as Geoffrey reminded me, in the past I’d found much solace in learning, and there was no reason to believe I would not do so again.
Jankin arrived in the spring and at first I didn’t recognise him. The lad who’d first accompanied his father to the house all those years ago, and later taken over my lessons, had matured into a very fine young man. Possessed of broad shoulders and legs that could have been the work of an Italian sculptor, he was an unexpected pleasure. For my senses, you understand. He was still a child in so many ways, please don’t think me one to prey on the vulnerable. But his smile lit a room, his melodious voice plucked at my soul, his patience and praise were a welcome balm for my ills. Not at first, mind. At first, I used him as a pawn in my never-ending battle with Simon, whining and moaning about my wayward husband, pleased to have such a handsome advocate under my roof. To my satisfaction, Jankin would rouse to anger at my stories, his usually sweet face twisting into an alarming rage. On those occasions, I would swiftly counter Simon’s dark deeds with other tales. Jankin’s choler would cool and I was content.
Along with Alyson, Jankin and I would sometimes wander about town, making purchases. Then we’d take a picnic into the surrounding hills and lie beneath the trees, talking about all manner of things from God, a passage in the Wycliffe Bible, and even ourselves. Sometimes our hands would meet, our fingers stroke, our laughter meld. More oft, we enjoyed blessed silence. Birds would sing, butterflies dance and lambs gambol. When I was with Jankin and Alyson, away from the house and the town and the curious and judgemental stares, I could forget my husband’s antics and the turmoil they caused.
Simon and I continued to argue and play games with each other. I’m not sure why I was so desperate to gain his attention. I didn’t love him. Oh, I wanted his admiration, for him to admit desire, but it became like a competition I had to win. Problem was, Simon wasn’t even aware there was one.
What finally began to shake me out of my reckless behaviour was Alyson. She came to my room one morning when I was struggling to rise. Simon hadn’t come home again and I’d fallen into bed in a drunken stupor, anything to blot out images of what he might be doing.
She sank onto the side of the bed and waited.
I opened first one eye, then the other, and pressed my fingers into my forehead. Another day, another megrim. My tongue was furry and sour. ‘How can you look so good so early?’ I moaned. She smelled good too. Roses and violets.
‘Eleanor, I need to speak with you.’
‘If it’s about Simon, I don’t want to hear it.’
Alyson released a long, long sigh. So long, it was enough for me to haul myself up the pillows. ‘What is it, chick?’
She stared at me, chewing her lip, her hands in a ball. A great tear rolled down her cheek. That undid me. Alyson never cried.
I reached over and collected it on the tip of my finger, a veritable jewel. ‘Out with it. If someone or something has upset you, I want to know. I will run them through with a sword, shout at them until their ears bleed. I will throw them from the house.’ Tears continued to fall. ‘Come on, chick. You can tell me anything.’
‘I used to think that was true. What’s not so certain is whether you will listen.’
I threw myself back on the pillows with a groan. ‘Please, Alyson, it’s too early for another scolding.’
‘It’s not a scolding I’m here to give.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I’m here to tell you I’m leaving.’
I sat bolt upright. ‘Leaving?’ The room spun.
‘I’ve taken a lease on the house next door, the small cottage next to the apothecary’s. You need time to sort things out with that husband of yours.’
I rubbed my face. I stared at Alyson. Surely, I’d misheard. ‘But, whatever’s going on between me and Simon, there’s no reason for you to leave.’
‘My dearest Godsib … you haven’t a clue, do you?’
‘About what?’ I’d endured enough insults from my husband, I didn’t need Alyson to start.
‘From where I stand, sit, sleep, work, there’s every reason.’ She wriggled closer, waiting for me to meet her eyes. A great weight began to crush my chest. The megrim that greeted me transformed into something larger, something that encompassed my entire being. My limbs refused to cooperate.
‘I can no longer bear to see you contorting yourself into so many shapes. I’ve forgotten, nay you’ve forgotten, what the original was.’ She paused and stared at her hands. ‘This marriage, this set you have against your husband, your desire to quash him and emerge the victor, it’s changed you, Eleanor. I don’t deny for a minute the man’s a scoundrel, a scoundrel who can charm the birds from the trees, bu
t you’re destroying yourself, your beautiful, worthy self and for someone who, frankly, doesn’t deserve you. I can’t stand it. And, Eleanor –’ she raised her eyes to meet mine. I’d never noticed before how many other colours were in the blue – there was emerald, a touch of honey. Most of all, there was the colour of sorrow – deep, striking and unbearable to see.
‘I cannot stand what you’ve become. I fear if I don’t go, then the love I bear you will also change into something horrid …’
‘Hate?’ I whispered, doing my utmost not to cry.
‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head, her eyes welling again. ‘Something much, much worse, hen.’ She leaned towards me until our foreheads were touching. ‘Indifference.’
Then, she pressed her lips to mine, rose, and without another word left the room.
With my blessing, Milda went with her until Alyson could hire someone. Arnold as well. Aggy also moved in, coming to work at Slynge House each day. Drew, Peter and a few of the others would wander between the houses, the hounds likewise. And, while I still saw Alyson, it wasn’t the same. There was a hollow in my heart that only having her beside me could fill.
I didn’t need Simon, it turned out. I needed her.
More than ever, I had to loosen the unnatural hold he had over me.
This time, it was Geoffrey who showed me the way.
It was late autumn, 1384. Geoffrey came to visit when Simon was away in Bristol or Dover, wherever it was business took him. I pretended not to care. When Geoffrey settled down in the solar, asking after Alyson and Simon, Jankin, who was with us, coughed and asked politely if he should leave the room. I said it wasn’t necessary. I’d nothing to hide. Not anymore.
I told Geoffrey where Alyson was and even the why of it. After all, I’d shared my triumphs with Geoffrey, why not my failures as well?
He sat still, neither drinking nor talking, for some time. When he spoke, it was quietly. ‘If what you say about your husband is true, Eleanor –’
My face grew red. I opened my mouth to let forth a stream of invective. How dare Geoffrey doubt me. But then he said something that vanquished the insults.
‘Then I think the time has come for you to leave as well.’
‘Leave?’ I sputtered. ‘As if I’m not shamed enough. If I leave, not only will it be admitting defeat, confirm what he says about me is true –’ I gave Geoffrey a pointed look, ‘but what will people say?’
‘Wait. Let me finish. If you go on a pilgrimage, then they will say nothing but words filled with esteem for your ability to admit your mistakes, to seek penance and praise your piety. If ever you wanted a way to avenge yourself on your husband, to reclaim the person you were, then you need to put space between you, between your carnal desires and mishaps in that direction –’ his cheeks filled with colour, ‘and seek out more spiritual ones. What better way to do that than on a pilgrimage?’
Stunned, I fell back in my chair. Holy Moses in a hay cart. A pilgrimage. A romp in God’s name. It was a solution of sorts. A trip would give me time to think. Wherever I chose to go, over land or sea, not only would I discover unfamiliar people and places and have adventures, more importantly, I might find someone who was once familiar to me and who I’d lost.
I might find me.
Warmth burst in my chest and my eyes gleamed. ‘Why, Geoffrey, that’s a grand idea. But, where would I go? I would have to seek my husband’s permission and …’ I frowned. It was not done for wives to go traipsing about without it. But who was I kidding? Simon would sign anything to have me gone a while, to be free to pursue his … interests. I would also have to ask for Father Elias’s blessing, mayhap the bishop’s as well. I couldn’t see that being a barrier.
‘I think, my dear,’ said Geoffrey, smiling at the evident delight on my face, ‘that you should consider going to the one place you’ve always expressed a longing to see.’
My eyes widened. ‘But … that would take months and months! I’ll be gone forever.’
‘Not forever, but a goodly time. Time enough to mend what is broken both within this house –’ he nodded in the direction of first, my bedroom, and then the house next door, ‘and much more importantly, within you.’
I glanced at Jankin. ‘Would you accompany me?’
Jankin sucked in his breath, his chest puffing out. ‘I would accompany you anywhere, mistress,’ he said gallantly. Then, he paused. ‘May I enquire where it is we’re going?’
I grinned, my face shining. ‘Where else, but the holiest of holy cities?
‘You don’t mean –’ Jankin began.
‘Aye, I do. We’re going to Jerusalem.’
PILGRIMAGE TO JERUSALEM
A letter to Master Geoffrey Chaucer from Mistress Eleanor de la Pole, wife
After dutiful commendation, I beg for your blessing as humbly as I can, dear Geoffrey.
I pray you received the missives I sent from Venice, and know we reached that marvel upon the water in relatively good health, despite the journey being rudely interrupted. Unlike my earlier letters, when I was still raw and angry from the manner in which I left Bath, in a fury with my husband and telling him, and anyone else outside the church that last Sunday, I wished him dead, I’ve had time to reflect upon my actions (and his) and reach an inner accord … of sorts.
When I boarded ship in Southampton with Alyson, Jankin, Drew and Arnold, Fortuna smiled upon me by including among our merry group a very affable priest with a wonderful sense of humour prepared to listen to a recounting of my many sins. Of course, he cannot speak a word of English, nor me of Spanish, but that hardly matters because God knows all – no matter what language it’s spoken in – and it is He who listens and intercedes. The priest is merely His earthly medium and mouthpiece. I do recall both you and Father Elias saying this often. Do not accuse me of failing to listen.
Your advice to leave Bath and, indeed, English shores was both wise and well-timed, Geoffrey, because I fear if I hadn’t, I may well have acted upon my threat and struck my husband dead where he stood – with his prick inside the little milkmaid. God forgive me.
While my newly found peace is good news, the bad news is, we were forced to leave Arnold in Venice. He failed to recover from the fever he caught just before our arrival. The captain of our vessel wouldn’t allow him to board for fear of contagion, memories of the Botch large in his mind. I left enough coin that he might be accommodated in a modest palazzo, and acquired the services of a kind dottore to care for him. He’s under instructions that once he’s well enough, he can either wait for our return or head home on his own.
As a consequence, only Alyson, Jankin and Drew made the journey with me to the Holy Land. Milda, as you know, deemed herself too old to set out with us, and I’ve promised to offer many prayers to the good Lord on her behalf. I will for you also, my friend.
Though you expressed concern about Jankin accompanying us, for reasons you failed to disclose, he’s proven his worth over and over. His ability to speak foreign tongues has proved a boon and prevented many a misunderstanding. Not being able to correspond so frequently, I’ve found him to be a keen and discreet confidant. Of course, Alyson is her usual reliable self, but I also value gaining a male perspective, particularly from someone not inclined to hold me to account all the time. I’ve said to him on a few occasions, if ever I were a widow again, I would wed him.
And so, back to our journey. We boarded ship again in Venice, a cramped vessel filled to the brim with other pilgrims and so many animals it was impossible not to step in shit either above or below deck.
As part of our fee for sailing, the Venetian captain, a strapping fellow named Alessandro de Mare, has included ale, wine, a brackish water, and any port taxes. It’s all very convenient. Our papers, which we acquired before leaving (and once again, I thank you for your assistance) were in order, unlike a gentleman from Assisi who was left at our first stop, Rovigno.
After Rovigno, we sailed to Methoni (dull) then on to Crete (a small mountain arising out
of the sea with a bottomless lake). I should add, the moment the ship raised anchor, Alyson became ill and was forced to lie in our cabin for days, unable to keep down anything but the tiniest bit of wine. I was most concerned, but the smell of vomit and shit in the cramped quarters made it hard to remain any length of time. I ended up sleeping on deck, among a number of my fellow travellers, which wasn’t a bad way to while away time. For certes, it meant I was among the first to catch sight of each new town or city and marvel. It’s so beautiful here, Geoffrey, a tad hot – I find myself tempted to remove my shift and wear just a kirtle, but know that wouldn’t be wise, especially not as the further south we go, we come closer to Mosselmen country where such liberties are frowned upon. And that’s before I discuss the liberties some of my fellow passengers might take come nightfall if they knew my flesh was but a layer of linen away.
In Crete, our only choice of accommodation was a brothel. There were very few objections from the priests – only the nun and abbess (the only other women on board – and they don’t really count) were vocal, but the proprietor, a Belgium woman named Gerta, cleared the house. Alyson was so relieved to be in an unmoving bed, she even tolerated the fleas.
Next was Rhodes, a floating fortress by any other name, filled with magnificent looking knights, raucous markets crammed with teetering baskets of fruit, fish, lumps of meat, bolts of glimmering fabric and so much more besides. Beggars missing limbs sat with bowls and the piteous expressions they all wear, regardless of where they hail from, and I did divest my purse of much coin as I cannot bear the sight of such suffering.
Then we sailed to the isle of Cyprus (lots of white sand), the birthplace of Aphrodite, under whose sign, as I believe I’ve mentioned, I was born. I did honour the goddess by leaving an offering. What do you think the chances are that she might heed my prayers, since God Almighty has failed to thus far?
Once we left that island, the mood on board underwent a transformation. Those who’d made this journey before were filled with eagerness, a kind of desperation. They would spend each day leaning over one side of the ship, eyes fixed on the horizon. I wondered if they too had been overcome by fever, and they had, in a way.
