by Karen Brooks
Geoffrey remained for that period. Together with Jankin and Alyson, we threw on our warmest cloaks and walked in the fields outside town, away from others. There was something about the cold, the snow, the defiant buds pushing through the layers as spring tried to make its presence felt, that gave me hope; the notion I could and would start again. We spoke of the future, of maintaining the business, mayhap even expanding it a little. We talked about the trip to Jerusalem, all the places we visited, sights we saw and people we met. The only subject we didn’t discuss was Simon’s death, yet its spectre haunted our every step. Still, I managed to laugh, link arms with my friends, one-up a story and joke.
Throughout these jaunts, our daily interactions, Geoffrey watched me as a hawk does a fieldmouse. I knew he was biding his time to say something, no doubt something I’d not want to hear.
He waited until our last evening together. We’d had a lovely long supper in the solar. When the bells tolled for vespers, Alyson and Jankin (who were still living next door, as the lease hadn’t yet expired) made to leave. They were giving me and Geoffrey some time together. As a widow, I’d no need for a chaperone.
‘Eleanor,’ Geoffrey began once we were alone. I knew that tone and resisted the urge to sigh. ‘I pray I’m wrong here, but I get a strong sense you have designs on young Jankin.’
‘Jankin?’ I gave a forced laugh. ‘Why would you think that? The lad is young enough to be my son.’
‘Grandson. Why, you’re two score years to his one.’
‘I am not!’ I was most indignant. ‘Alyson is coming up to two score years, I’m nowhere near her age.’ I was six years younger – that was eons. ‘Anyway, so what if I have? I’m free to desire whom I want.’
‘Desire, aye … but what I’m sensing from you goes beyond that.’
Damn if Geoffrey wasn’t right. I’d been having dreams about being with Jankin. ‘What if I am? He’d make a fine husband. And being so much younger, he’s not likely to die on me, is he?’
‘Eleanor,’ he said softly. ‘You know I care about you deeply, that as your friend, your family, I’ve only your interests at heart. And it’s the heart I want to talk about. I understand you must be flattered by the attention the boy gives you. Why, he worships you like a son. Did you not say he has no mother?’
My mind was reeling. Surely no son kissed their mother the way Jankin had kissed me over the last two days. Geoffrey couldn’t know about those stolen kisses, could he? The fumbles we’d enjoyed. Why, Jankin might be young, but those hands, those lips and that tongue knew what they were doing. The boy aroused such a heat in me, it turned my body into a furnace.
‘His mother died when he was a babe.’
‘Well, that explains it,’ said Geoffrey, sinking back into his seat, a satisfied look on his face.
‘Explains what?’
‘The lad’s unnatural attraction to you.’
‘Unnatural?’ I virtually shrieked. ‘What’s wrong with me, eh?’ I dared him to speak. Alas, Geoffrey, for all his writing about women with such insight and knowledge, was utterly clueless.
‘Look at you, Eleanor. To him, you’re an old woman. Your hair has threads of silver, and while you have a slim waist, not having been blessed with a child, you’re wide in the hips and large in the breasts.’
‘I’ve had no complaints,’ I muttered, wishing for the umpteenth time my waist had thickened.
Unabashed, Geoffrey continued. ‘You’re not exactly a beauty – though I find you beautiful,’ he added hurriedly. ‘But I know you, Eleanor.’ He studied me, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on the fingertips. ‘Mayhap, Alyson is right and the lad feels a sense of pride because he taught you to read and write.’
‘You’ve discussed me with Alyson?’
‘Of course.’
I tried to appear indignant and failed. ‘’Twas his father taught me.’
‘The lad’s continued the lessons.’ He frowned. ‘Was I mistaken to advise you to resume? It might have been better if Jankin had remained in Oxford.’
‘Why on earth would you say that?’ I leapt to my feet. ‘You of all people know what a comfort he’s been to me. When you, Geoffrey, refused to believe the kind of man Simon was, took his side, Jankin at least supported me.’ I prodded my breast. ‘Jankin listened and protected me – here and when we went to Jerusalem.’ I downed the rest of my drink. ‘Which is more than I can say for some.’
‘You’re wrong, Eleanor. I knew exactly what kind of man your husband was. And I warned you. The point was, you chose to marry him and, as a wife, as a woman, it’s not your place to object to what your husband does.’
‘Not my place? As a wife? As a woman?’ My voice was getting louder. ‘Nay,’ I said, suddenly flopping back into the seat. ‘You’re right. We women have no rights, no place but beneath a man in every regard – bed, home, business. We must obey all his commands, as if he were a god and it’s him we worship.’
‘That’s blasphemy.’
‘But it’s men who’ve made it that way. What is a husband to a wife but a false idol? Tell me that, Geoffrey Chaucer. Why did God give women queyntes, desires, if not to have us fulfil them? Why are your needs, your wants, more important than mine just because you have a prick?’
‘Eleanor, calm down.’
‘Nay, I won’t. Nor will I listen anymore, Geoffrey.’ I put my goblet down hard on the table. With a straight back, I faced him. ‘All my life, you’ve given me advice. Sweet Jesu, you arranged my first marriage to a man old enough to be my grandfather and now you’re telling me I cannot marry a man young enough to be my son. What’s that if not hypocrisy of the highest order? Let me finish.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve heeded your words, Geoffrey – mostly – and sometimes they’ve brought me great happiness and other times they have not. Sometimes, your advice has been tardy and I’ve had to abide by my own choices, but at least they were mine. So, thank you for giving me counsel I never asked for. But I’m no longer twelve nor twenty. I’m no longer a maiden, nor a mother, but a widow. Four. Times. Over. Be damned if I’ll be a lonely old one. I no longer need your guidance, especially when I don’t ask for it. I don’t even need your approval. What I do need is your friendship. A friendship that’s given unreservedly. Can you give me that?’
Geoffrey put down his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. ‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘What you do next.’
I sighed. ‘Once again, you seek to control me. To reward me for doing what you say or punish me for disobeying you. You’re not my husband, Geoffrey.’
He shrugged. ‘That’s not what I meant. Rather, like Alyson, I cannot stand by and see you make a ruin of your life, a life you’ve a chance to make something of – with the right choices.’
‘Jankin won’t ruin it!’ I said. ‘He’ll complete it.’
‘If you think that, then you’re a bigger fool than I ever took you for.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘At least I’m my own fool.’
This was a threshold moment. I could either stay one side of the line I’d drawn, or cross it and be damned.
You know what I chose.
Geoffrey didn’t try and talk me out of my decision. He simply stood, smoothed out his paltock, tugged his sleeves, then embraced me long and hard. In that moment, I was taken back to the first time I smelled him – damp wool, old books, ink and musty but not unpleasant sweat. Without another word, just a wistful smile, he left the room.
He was gone from the house when I woke next morning.
Despite my sending him an invitation, he never did come to my wedding to Jankin. Few did, but then, unlike my previous marriages, I kept this one very quiet.
Four weeks to the day after Simon was buried, I became Eleanor Binder. For a few weeks, I was blissfully happy, blissfully unaware of what I’d done.
The day after the wedding, I received a visit from the coroner. Out of courtesy, he came to the house. Jankin happened to be next door, packing up the l
ast of his belongings to shift into Slynge House.
Master Reyngud, the coroner, was an officious, cold man. He sat in the solar and delivered his verdict, uncaring of the effect it would have on me.
Simon didn’t drown as we’d first been told. According to the coroner, he was already dead when he fell in the puddle. A blow to the head and a broken neck caused by the vicious stomp of a large boot extinguished his life. I decided not to share this news – not with Alyson nor with Jankin. I didn’t want to spoil what should have been a joyous occasion. I would have told Geoffrey, only I’d made a point of steering my own course.
Instead, I pushed what the coroner said to the back of my mind: the fact that my bastard husband, Simon de la Pole, was murdered and the killer, whoever he was, remained at large.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1385
In the ninth year of the reign of Richard II
The first few weeks of my marriage to Jankin were everything that, as a young girl, I’d dreamed. He was attentive, kind, and courteous to me and the servants. Better still, he appreciated my humour, laughing with rather than at me. It was so refreshing, so different to life under Simon’s baleful eye. At first, I was on tenterhooks, waiting for the barb to strike, the cutting remark to score, the bitter whisper in the ear. There were none.
In the bedroom, he was a fine lover, an ardent one, and I was sated in a way I’d never been. On our wedding night, I was initially coy, so aware of the differences in our ages, of his physical beauty and the shortcomings of my well-worn body, which Geoffrey had cruelly pointed out. Shocked I was so modest when he thought me the contrary, Jankin insisted on learning the origins of this new-found shyness. Reluctant to admit the cause lest in pointing out my flaws I drew attention to them, when I finally whispered what Geoffrey said, Jankin solemnly sat astride my naked body and slowly, with sensuous deliberation, lathed every single part of me with his tongue.
Never before have I been transported to such heights – except when I did the same for him, taking intense pleasure from his deep moans and groans and the shudders that racked his body.
We made excuses to meet in the bedroom, our sanctuary, stealing what hours we could from the day for lovemaking. He called me his beauty, his joy, and dear God, I wanted to believe that’s what I was to him because, for certes, he was that to me and more.
Even Alyson started to relax, unable to ignore the happiness I exuded, and spoke of moving back as soon as the lease on her cottage expired come Hocktide. Likewise, the servants and workers basked in the glow of our serenity. Oriel hummed, Milda sang. The only blight on my otherwise perfect days, filled as they were with weaving, managing the house, being welcomed back into Bath merchant society, and my beautiful husband’s youthful arms, was Geoffrey. We hadn’t communicated since he failed to attend the wedding. I wanted to believe it was the demands of his role that kept him away. Then I heard from one of the many London wool merchants he’d been given a deputy to help with his onerous workload.
As the days went past, I thought of Geoffrey less and less, and instead enjoyed my husband.
It was the best of times.
I should have known they wouldn’t last.
At the end of March, the coroner’s report arrived. Until that moment, Jankin could do no wrong. But, instead of passing the letter to me, the addressee, he broke the seal and read it. I was about to give him a drubbing, when I saw his face pale.
‘My colt, my darling, what is it?’
‘It says here Simon’s death was unnatural.’
He thrust the letter towards me as if it were a burning coal. I scanned the contents. ‘Aye, I know. Terrible business. I’ve found myself dwelling on it occasionally. Wondering if Simon was afeared in his last moments, if he knew his killer …’
‘You knew about this?’ he said.
‘The day after we wed, the coroner informed me.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ His eyes glinted darkly.
‘Tell you?’ I raised my voice. ‘Why should I? Anyway, I didn’t want to spoil our happiness.’
‘I’ve a right to know what’s being claimed.’
My brows became perfect arches. ‘Pray, why is that?’
‘Because … I’m your husband.’
‘Aye, now. But this –’ I shook the report, ‘is about my former husband. This happened prior to our marriage. Ergo, it has nothing to do with you.’
‘It has everything to do with me,’ said Jankin. His voice was strained, his cheeks red.
‘Why is that?’
‘You always said what would make you happiest was Simon’s death. Now I find out you think upon the scoundrel in a sympathetic way, the man who caused you so much pain.’
‘I’m not a complete scold.’ I forced a laugh. ‘He was murdered, Jankin. I’d be heartless if I didn’t spare him a thought.’
‘But you wanted him dead!’
‘I wanted him out of my life – aye, dead, if that’s what the good Lord decided. But not even I wished him murdered. That would be a terrible sin.’
‘But you toasted God’s agents on earth – you drank to them, with me.’
‘I wasn’t serious. Sweet Jesu, you cannot for a moment have thought I was.’
Jankin stared at me. Sweat beaded his forehead and he was gulping in a most peculiar fashion.
‘Frankly, I hope whoever is responsible hangs.’ I flicked the letter. ‘No doubt, they’ll uncover the culprit. There’s to be an investigation.’
Jankin rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I don’t understand how you can be so … so … changeable, Eleanor.’
‘Changeable? How? This doesn’t change what’s really important.’ I smiled and held out my hands to show him what I meant.
He locked eyes with me. ‘But it does.’
What a child he was being. No wonder I sought to protect him. I took a step, intending to cup his face, kiss those beautiful lips. ‘Come now, my colt. Any good Christian soul should care about murder, it doesn’t mean anything –’
He slapped my hands away. Hard. My flesh burned.
‘How dare you!’ I shoved my hands under my arms.
‘How dare you patronise me.’ He stamped his boot. ‘I’m not a child!’
‘Then stop acting like one!’ I cried.
He raised his arm. I held my breath, waiting for the blow to fall, wondering what I would do, how I would react, when he spun on his heel and marched from the room. Stunned, I sank into a chair.
I ran my fingers through my hair, which was not yet dressed. Jankin’s voice carried up the stairs as he ordered a horse saddled. I could hear the faint whir and clack of the looms and the low chatter of the workers below. Outside, mules and carts trundled past, vendors calling out their wares. It was still early, the morning was grey, dull. A brisk wind blew leaves and other debris down the street. What a start to the day. My mood, which had been light and filled with enthusiasm, was now wretched and heavy. Like the sky. Aye, it was terrible to learn that Simon had likely been murdered, but not a shock; not before, not then. The man dipped his wick wherever he pleased. I’d no doubt there’d be many a jealous husband keen to trim it and put a stop to his womanising. Then there was the drinking, gambling and God knew what else. What did it matter? Simon’s death was what brought us together. Why did Jankin react so?
Our first argument. Was that why I felt peculiar? Almost drunk, I felt so off-kilter. God knew, there’d be more. I tried to shuck off my sadness, my sense of terrible foreboding. I picked up the report, trying to bring the words into focus. Simon was punched a few times before being struck from behind and, while on the ground, jumped on. His neck was broken before, it’s believed, he was dragged and placed face-down in the puddle.
Even for Simon de la Pole, it was cruel way to die. A useless way. According to the report, Simon had grazes on his knuckles and a swollen eye. He’d been in an altercation. Not the first time. Jankin was right. I’d often wished him dead. Why, on the trip
to Jerusalem, I’d even told Jankin about a dream I had where Simon lay broken and bloody and how pleased that had made me. Remorse flickered in my chest. Truth was, I hadn’t dreamed it at all; well, I’d daydreamed it, Simon’s death. Many times. But never, in all my wildest imaginings had I meant for it to become a reality, please God …
Why did Jankin care so much? Was it the report or the fact I hadn’t shared the outcome that made him so angry?
Jankin would oft say he’d teach my husband a lesson and make sure he could never hurt me again. I’d laugh and chuck his chin, kiss his sweet lips. I’d never taken his earnest vows seriously. And yet, even back then, Jankin was no child to be pacified with a mere peck, a motherly stroke of the face. I’d hold him, sometimes for ages, crooning, soothing, enjoying the feel of his body curled into mine, his fine beard nuzzling against my breasts. When we’d returned from the Holy City, I’d kept him at arm’s length to staunch the rumours. Since then, he’d been in more brawls than I could count. The morning we were told of Simon’s death he’d evidently been in another. He had a cut lip, a bruised face. He’d been drinking and slept late as well …
My stomach lurched.
Was he God’s agent? Satan’s agent? Could Jankin have killed Simon?
I began to pace the room, my thoughts unravelling faster than a poor weave. The room grew smaller. Heat travelled through my body to be replaced by a river of ice. A thousand pairs of black wings took flight, battering the edges of my mind. What was it Geoffrey said?
Why, he worships you, but more like a son does a mother.
Alyson had made the same claim, many times. Only since we’d wed had she ceased her jibes.
A man would protect his love. But a son, a son would do anything to protect his mother. I was both to Jankin.
I rose unsteadily, one hand against my mouth, the other pressed to my stomach. I had to find Alyson, the only person I could confide in.
I had to ask her if she thought what I feared more than anything might be true.
That I’d not only married my husband’s killer – worse, I’d created him.
