by Karen Brooks
I’d just brought Alyson up from below deck. The wind was sweet, the air clean. The sun shone and large fish were breaching the waters, almost dancing before us as we sped across the shimmering surface. I began to think of those stories of Odysseus and his crew carving through wine-dark oceans as they head home – before the gods intervene, that is. As we came on deck, my fellow pilgrims burst into a chorus of song, some fell to their knees, laughing with joy, throwing their arms about each other and pointing towards the distant shore and the low hills of Palestine – the Holy Land. Kisses and warm smiles were exchanged, and that night there was a feast and much drinking. The magnificent ululations of the crew echoed long into the night.
We’d arrived. Almost.
We docked in the port of Jaffa and were greeted (if you can call it that) by officialdom. Our papers were checked and rechecked and then, after a rather firm lecture, we were spirited away to some dark and gloomy accommodation where we waited for days to be given permission to travel to the Holy City. I thought England held the crown when it came to administration – nay, ’tis the Saracens. Finally, when I thought we may as well just board our vessel and sail back home, the guide, along with armed guards, arrived to lead us through Palestine.
Twenty men accompanied us, all heavily armed with swords that curved like a goat’s horn, which was just as well, because one night a group of Bedouins attacked. One of our guards was killed, along with three of the tribesmen. Put rather a damper on proceedings, let me tell you.
We were all eager to get to the Holy City and a degree of safety. When we first sighted those sacred walls, what can I say? Safety was not foremost in my mind. Geoffrey, you know I’m not one for displays – oh, alright, displays of religious devotion – but when I laid eyes upon the walls of Jerusalem, like the other pilgrims I slid off the donkey and fell to my knees. Jankin, Drew and Alyson also. My eyes swam with unshed tears, my heart sang. O Jerusalem!
We entered through Fish Gate and made our way to the church of the Holy Sepulchre. Much to my disappointment, we were forbidden to enter and had to simply look upon its facade. How one can truly appreciate great lumps of rock, even if they house a miracle, defeats me. Yet, when the English friar pompously declared this very place was worshipped by the entire world, you’d swear he’d said, ‘Oh look, there’s the Almighty!’ as the other pilgrims fell to the ground, began to weep and make the most terrible fuss. The abbess and nun bellowed like cattle in labour, our Spanish pilgrims lay unmoving with their faces in the dirt, arms and legs splayed. The rest knelt and began to pray. Loudly. What did I do, I hear you ask? Nothing, but watched in bemusement, as did Alyson, Drew and Jankin.
After a time (too long), we were taken to our lodgings. The friar and other priests were led up to a convent on Mount Sion while the rest of us ungodly ones had to make do with the hospital of St John, a place in dire need of improvements. There were great holes in the walls, doors missing and windows without shutters or hide to keep the swarms of flies and biting insects out, never mind prying eyes. A small group of Franciscans welcomed us and, the following day, along with our guide, a portly man of middling years who I think was called Shalom (at least, that’s what he and the Franciscans kept saying), we were taken to all the holy sites.
Now, Geoffrey, I’m all for visiting a shrine, as you’re well aware, but never in my thirty-odd years have I encountered so many as I did here. Not one to be sceptical, it nevertheless seemed that every ancient bough – especially if it was an olive tree – cairn of rubble, stone, pebble, doorway, broken step, chapel, church or narrow passage wending between rows of stalls selling devotions and badges, had some holy significance.
If it wasn’t Mother Mary’s tears or Christ Our Saviour’s blood, it was the stone upon which Peter stood denying his Lord (how they knew it was that particular one and not the hundreds of others, I couldn’t fathom), or where the Virgin waited while her Son was being tried. Or it was pus from Jesus’s wound or a piece of some saint’s foreskin. On it went, for days – places where someone was beheaded, whipped, prayed, had a shit, lost a tooth (I made those up), said ‘Hello, did you miss me? I’m back’. We saw them all.
Finally, we were admitted inside that most sacred of places, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The first thing I noticed was how dark and cool it was, and I offered an immediate prayer of thanks for being able to escape the glare and scorching heat. We processed around what was more or less a giant cave with rooms, stairs to different levels, and shrines in many corners. Groups of other pilgrims offered devotions to the Lord in a cacophony of tongues. Candles glowed, giving the hollows and shadows of the interior an almost festive feel. Kisses were given to the many, many relics and indulgences collected (I’ve more than my fair share).
Finally, we came to Jesus’s tomb. Much to my disappointment, it was empty. Jankin said what did I expect, considering our Lord had long ago ascended into heaven above. I can honestly say I’m not sure, but more than a scraped-out rocky hollow reeking of incense, even if it did have a godly aura about it. This was swiftly ruined by us all being led to different corners and given a meal.
Before we left, I found a sharp rock and, like others before me, inscribed my name on the outside of Jesus’s tomb. For posterity, you understand.
We returned to the church of the Holy Sepulchre on two more occasions and, along with Shalom, went to Bethlehem and saw the site of the Nativity. The manger was made of pale marble, which, as I noted to Jankin, was unlikely considering Jesus was born to poor Mary and Joseph in a stable. What bloody stable has a manger made of white marble? We also went to the Jordan River where I dipped myself in the sacred waters. Alyson, Drew and Jankin preferred to fill our bottles with the stuff instead.
All up, I entered Jerusalem three times, Geoffrey. Three times. The same number as the Holy Trinity. The same as the number of days Jesus waited before arising. If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.
So now, as I write to you, I’m spending my final evening in this loud, reeking, holy city – a city that, when you consider all the wars and the blood shed in order to claim it, simmers with rage.
However, Geoffrey, I no longer do. This pilgrimage has allowed me (as you thought it might) time to reflect upon my actions. Not only my haste in marrying after claiming I wouldn’t, but my terrible dark drive to force my husband to capitulate and be true to me. Above all, I’ve learned that only once one is true to God can one be true to oneself. It’s in Simon’s nature to roam, to seek out other women. So be it. What’s become apparent is that it’s in my nature to care about what he does. When I return, I’ll lead my life in a godly way, taking care of those who rely upon me, working to better myself with Jankin by my side, reading and writing and expanding my knowledge. I will work to build the business. I will also work to build my relationship with my husband on terms that make us both content. Not that this will stop me praying to God for his death, because, for certes, that would gratify me. Jankin and Alyson both tell me asking such a thing of our Lord isn’t appropriate. There was a time I might have agreed, but frankly, after Jankin translated what some of these aliens were praying for, and in the holiest of churches, I think requesting your swiving pig of a husband be sent to hell to make the earth a better place is more than suitable. Praise be to God.
Thank you for your advice, Geoffrey. I’m forever grateful I heeded it and that the distance I needed to put between me and my husband will be my salvation.
I hope that God has blessed you and kept you in my absence. We’ve heard rumours that John Wycliffe is very ill, news that made Alyson quite distressed. I offered a prayer for his soul. I figure with so many different faiths here in the one city, God has room for Lollards too.
May peace find you, Geoffrey.
Written on the Feast of the Eleven Thousand Virgins (the irony is not lost on me).
Yours, Eleanor.
The Tale of Husband the Fifth, Jankin Binder
1385 to 1386
And Venus falls where Merc
ury is raised
And women therefore never can be praised
By learned men, old scribes who cannot do
The works of Venus more than my old shoe.
The Wife of Bath’s Prologue, The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, translated by Neville Coghill
TWENTY-SIX
Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1385
In the ninth year of the reign of Richard II
God, it seems, had a change of heart. He finally answered my prayers. Less than a month after returning from Jerusalem, in the middle of a bitter winter, my fourth husband, Simon de la Pole, was found dead, face-down in a puddle near his whore Viola’s residence.
I didn’t learn about this until the following morning when a chalk-faced sergeant knocked on the door and Oriel brought him to the solar.
At first, I thought it a jest. How was it the man who’d caused me so much angst, whose death I’d prayed for the entire time I was heading to Jerusalem (I didn’t quite so much when homeward bound, being filled with the Holy Spirit), should have ceased to exist? If I could have fallen to my knees and offered thanks to the Almighty, I would have. I tried hard to school my face. Alyson, who’d been brought upstairs from the workroom, ran to my side and squeezed my hand so tightly, it was all I could do not to call out.
‘Try not to look quite so pleased,’ she hissed.
And here I was, thinking I was doing a fine job.
The sergeant explained that the coroner was with my husband’s body (strange, isn’t it, how a person in possession of a name, a life, family, history, enemies, a wife and friends, is suddenly reduced to a mere corpse) and seeking any witnesses. At that moment Jankin staggered into the room.
His hair was unruly, his shirt tied incorrectly and the marks of sleep were upon his face. There was a rather nasty cut on his lip and a reddened mark on one cheek. Had he been in another alehouse brawl? For a scholar, he was mighty ready with his fists, a notion that gave me an undue sense of pride and something else I wasn’t yet ready to acknowledge.
‘I heard about Master Simon,’ panted Jankin. ‘Peter told us.’ Of course, the servants would know. Soon, all of Bath would. ‘I came over straightaway.’
In an effort to curtail the rumours my husband and his friends had started about my young tutor and the relationship we’d developed, upon our return from Jerusalem, Jankin boarded with Alyson next door. He crouched by my side and took my hand. ‘Are you alright, Mistress Eleanor?’
Have you ever tried to summon tears when the well is dry? I bowed my head and said something unintelligible, praying I looked the part of the grieving widow. I sniffed, screwed up my eyes. The sergeant blathered on about too much drink, Simon slipping and likely being knocked insensible and having the bad fortune to drown in less than a few inches of water. All the time my mind was screaming, how was this possible? Not the manner of death. The fact that Simon de la Pole, the man who had made my life a misery, was dead. Hallelujah!
The sergeant added the coroner would be in touch when his report was complete, which may take some weeks, and left as soon as was decent. Like most men, he couldn’t cope with tears – even fake ones. As soon as we were certain he was out of earshot and no other servants were about, Alyson, Jankin and I huddled together, staring in disbelief.
‘Simon is dead. Praise be to God,’ I said, raising my eyes to the heavens and crossing myself.
‘Praise the Lord,’ said Jankin, grinning from ear to ear.
Alyson withdrew her arm from my shoulders. ‘You should both be ashamed of yourselves. It’s not right to be praising the Almighty for someone’s death.’
‘Even though he was a lying, cheating scoundrel whose demise I’d longed for?’ I dared her to defy me.
‘Precisely because of that.’
Determined not to let her spoil my sense of the world being set to rights, I continued. ‘Regardless,’ I said breezily, ‘I know the Lord will understand. That’s why –’ I moved from the comfort of Jankin’s sympathetic presence and went to the sideboard to pour some wine, ‘I’m going to celebrate. Who will join me?’ I held the jug aloft.
Alyson shook her head. ‘I’ve work to do – as do you, Eleanor. The servants need to be told. Formally. Irrespective of what you thought of your husband, the house has to be seen to mourn.’
‘Oh, we will. I will. I’ll mourn that I was ever married to the swine.’ I passed a goblet to Jankin. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Alyson.’ I blew a kiss. ‘Rest assured, I’ll behave and perform my wifely duties one last time. It’s the least I can offer the roving prick.’
Alyson tut-tutted. ‘Be careful, Eleanor. It’s ungodly to talk in such a manner and He will punish you for it.’
‘Not today He won’t.’
With another noise of disapproval, Alyson left. I turned to Jankin and raised my goblet. ‘Here’s to my new-found and blessed liberty. Praise be to God. Or should that be the devil? I’m sure he’s got Simon’s soul now.’
‘Praise be to God, to Satan,’ said Jankin, his goblet kissing mine, ‘and to His agents here on earth.’
I arched a brow. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you think it odd a strong man like Simon died in a puddle?’
‘Depends how much he drank, I guess. Or how deep the puddle.’
‘Puddle implies it was shallow or –’
This is what happens when you keep company with a scholar; they dissect everything.
‘That someone made sure he couldn’t rise.’
We clicked goblets again. ‘Then bless God’s agents too,’ I said and laughed.
A few days later, Simon was buried inside the church of St Michael’s Without the Walls, Father Elias presiding. I’d written to Geoffrey immediately and he’d come straight to Bath. It was good to see him, to know he cared enough to be there in my hour of triumph … I mean, need.
There was a respectable turnout. Merchants, neighbours, monks from the Abbey, our weavers, guild members, a few broggers, some travelling quite the distance to be there. I stood across from my husband’s shroud, hidden inside the coffin I’d bought. Geoffrey and Alyson stood beside me, the servants forming a protective arc. On the other side of the church stood a suspicious number of red-eyed women, including Viola, who even in her grief managed to look striking. There was a great deal of weeping, including from some merchants’ wives. Not even the stern looks of their husbands or the shocked faces of their children stemmed the flow.
My handkerchief was barely damp as I tried to squeeze out tears. Fortunately, the veil I wore hid my face, so I made sure my shoulders slumped and my feet dragged. I leaned against Alyson or Geoffrey, both of whom made a show of holding me upright. Geoffrey didn’t approve of my light-hearted attitude either, but being a friend, withheld judgement – this time.
‘Just make sure if you marry again, Eleanor, you don’t rush.’
His words echoed in my mind as Simon’s coffin was lowered into the church floor. Instead of bowing my head while prayers were said, I took the opportunity to assess those attending – well, alright, the men. I started to imagine which among them I’d consider a fit husband. There was Master Attenoke, the mercer, who had bow legs but hands so delicate, they looked like a woman’s. Rumour had it he strangled his last wife and lusted after her daughters. I shuddered at the thought of those hands touching me. Then there was Master Monemaker, the silversmith. He was a secret Jew and evidently not very good at it. Master le Ould had outlived three wives and was so ancient, he made Mervyn seem a spring lamb. I glanced at Master Saper, a powerful merchant who was prone to threatening anyone who disagreed with him and was said to have killed three fellows last year alone. Master Clavynger was a decent, wealthy man as well as presentable but lived with his sister in a spacious house where only one bedroom was used. Enough said. My mind ticked over as Father Elias droned and the incense permeated my nostrils, kirtle and cloak.
Geoffrey hissed at me to be still.
Right there and then, before
God the Creator, and beneath the cross that bore His emaciated Son who gave His life so we might have one everlasting, I made a solemn vow. If ever I married again, it would be for love – not lust, nor money or security – God knew, thanks to my first three husbands, well numbers one and three, I had those. I would allow my heart to dictate my future this time, not my queynte.
In answer to my silent communion, a beam of light struck Jankin. Curls of golden hair shone against the black of his paltock and cap and made his youthful face luminous. My eyes travelled, noticing anew how broad his chest, how chiselled his legs. How he bulged in his hose in a way that made my insides molten. Though I’d appreciated so many of his qualities before, only now, before my dead husband, did I appreciate the bits that made him so very, very manly. I swallowed.
Dear Lord, but it was hot in church. My heart began to beat erratically, my ribs expanded until my dress felt so tight, I found it difficult to breathe. I was like a virgin widow and me, all of thirty-three years. An aged woman by any standard, except in my head. Except in my heart. And, goddamn it, except in my queynte.
After the requiem, I invited everyone back to Slynge House. It was an opportunity to show those who’d believed Simon’s version of me they’d been gulled. I was not a termagant, or a common slut who shared my favours with any man.
Not too many took advantage of my hospitality, but enough to make a slow difference. Their condolences were mixed with compliments on the fine repast and promises to extend invitations in due course, once my mourning was over. I didn’t admit it already was.
Along with the servants, Alyson and Jankin, I donned black, and out of respect for Simon’s memory, we ceased to work for two days.
