by Karen Brooks
TWENTY-EIGHT
Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1385
In the ninth year of the reign of Richard II
To think a few words on a page could turn one’s life upside down, inside out and scatter it into eternity. From the day the coroner’s report was delivered, everything changed.
Jankin changed.
From a loving, caring husband he became a caustic-tongued, violent man who would first slay me with his clever words and arguments and then, when I argued back, became a pugilist who used both me and Alyson to vent his rage.
And Simon had been the one to tell me it was women who altered the moment the ring was placed on their finger.
Let me tell you what happened when I confided my worst fears about Jankin to Alyson. She ceased what she was doing and stared at me as if my head had begun to rotate on my neck.
‘I thought him too young for you, Eleanor, too impressionable, I admit that. I never thought for a moment he was capable of murder … I still don’t.’ She pressed her lips together and folded her arms. ‘Why, the man’s a scholar, not a brute.’
‘But what about all the scraps he’s in?’
‘What young man trying to prove his worth isn’t?’ she countered. ‘It’s more important for Jankin to fight precisely because he’s a man of words. He needs to show he’s also one of action.’
I dissolved into tears as all my pent-up emotions released in a torrent. ‘I want to believe you, on both counts,’ I wept. ‘Only, I’m afeared I’ve made a bad impression on Jankin by constantly harping about Simon and all his faults, building him up to be the greatest of sinners and myself a saint. Not once did I present a fair portrait of the man. If Jankin did kill Simon, then there’s no-one to blame but me. It’s my fault. My fault. He was a puppet and I his puppet master.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said ever-loyal Alyson, gathering me in her arms, rocking me back and forth. ‘You’re not to blame. For all I called Jankin a child, he’s still a man who has his own conscience. He’s answerable for his actions, to God and the law. If you’re right, and he did murder Simon, it was his choice, not your doing.’
We argued as I tried to take the burden of blame and Alyson refused to let me. Finally, we sat holding hands.
‘Eleanor, even if you’re right and Jankin killed Simon,’ said Alyson softly, ‘what then? Simon can’t be brought back from the dead.’
I made a noise of protest.
‘Exactly.’ She tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear. ‘I may not have approved of your latest marriage, but I know you love him.’
I sniffed loudly. ‘I did.’ I stared over Alyson’s shoulder, out the window, watching the way the endless mizzle fell from the sky, tiny droplets of moisture. Tears from heaven; tears from my soul. ‘Nay, I do. God help me, even if he’s guilty of murder, I still do. What does that make me, eh?’
I turned to her, fearing what I’d see. There was nothing but understanding and love on her face.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ I said, before she could answer. ‘It makes me a fool, enslaved to my heart – and my c—’
‘It makes you a good wife,’ she interjected. ‘Prepared to give your husband the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Good wife?’ A dry, bitter laugh escaped. ‘I should be by now. I’ve had plenty of practice.’
Alyson released my hands. She rose, dropped a kiss on my head, and went to fetch ale from the jug on the sideboard.
‘Will you confront him with your suspicions?’ she asked.
My stomach lurched. Would I? I should. A part of me was afraid; afraid that if he confessed to killing Simon then I would be obliged to do something. I was a coward. I preferred wilful ignorance to dire knowledge.
‘Nay. I will not. I cannot.’
Alyson passed over a brimming mazer. ‘It’s not our place to prosecute and judge, hen. If Jankin is guilty, he will answer to God. Some day.’
If Jankin was guilty, then I’d have to own my part in his crime. I took the drink from Alyson and sipped it gratefully.
‘When you’re ready, dry your eyes. Wash your face,’ she said. ‘We’ve work to do and you can’t appear before Milda, or Oriel and the weavers, like that.’
‘Like what?’ I asked, using my apron to wipe my eyes.
‘Like a child who’s lost her favourite toy.’
I choked back a sob. Not lost it – broken it.
That very night, Alyson and I waited in the solar for Jankin to come home, trying to act as if all was well. He’d been gone all day, God knows where. We’d spent the day weaving, Alyson doing her utmost to ensure I wasn’t disturbed. What a pity she couldn’t protect me from my thoughts as well.
It was well after vespers before Jankin swaggered into the room. I’d dismissed the servants, given Oriel and Sweteman the night off. Peter, Arnold and Drew we’d sent to Alyson’s house with a few jugs of ale as a reward for their work. They didn’t question us, but took the offering gratefully, as we’d hoped. Milda, sensing something was afoot, went next door to make sure Aggy and Rag were occupied as well. Wy, as was his preference, shared the stables with the hounds and horses. We were alone in the house.
Jankin had been drinking, the smell of ale and wine was strong on him, as was woodsmoke. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright. His face was unreadable as he glanced first at Alyson before settling his gaze upon me.
‘Where have you been, my colt? We’ve been concerned,’ I said softly. ‘You dashed away as if the hounds of hell were snapping at your heels.’
He grimaced. ‘Mayhap, they were.’ Casual as you like, he went to the sideboard and poured himself some wine. Shadows from the candles and the hearth danced across his back. He took a long draught and then turned.
‘If you must know, wife –’ Where was the endearment? The love that so often enveloped my title? ‘I went away to think. God knows, it’s impossible in this house with the constant stream of people, the clatter of looms, the ceaseless chatter. A man cannot focus his mind.’
‘And pray, husband –’ I made sure to imbue the word with affection, ‘where did you go?’
‘Goody Parson’s alehouse.’
‘All that way?’ Goody Parson had an establishment on the road to London, about three miles outside the walls of Bath. It was popular with couriers and merchants. ‘And did you manage to do your thinking there?’
‘Some. After that, I went to the Abbey.’
‘And what did you think about there?’
‘For Godsakes, wife,’ shouted Jankin. Alyson and I leapt in fright. ‘If you can keep your thoughts private, then the least you can allow is your husband to do the same.’ He lobbed his goblet down on the sideboard. A chip of wood flew across the room.
My heart slammed against my ribs. Never before had he raised his voice, let alone damaged a piece of furniture. Alyson ceased spinning, her brow furrowed with concern.
Before I could say anything, Jankin continued. ‘You who sees fit to keep a coroner’s findings from your husband, express sympathy for your dead spouse, dares to ask me what I think?’ He laughed. It was dark, forced. He ran a finger over the gouge he’d made. ‘I thought about many things. And then, as I’m wont to do when disturbed, read.’ He moved to the chair opposite mine and waited.
‘What did you read?’ My throat was so very dry.
‘I read about the nature of marriage. About husbands and wives. But most of all, wife, as I read I thought about you.’ His tone told me the colour of those thoughts.
‘I should have known,’ he continued, stretching out his legs before him. ‘You women are all the same, whether your husband is duplicitous and a philanderer, or whether he is honourable and true. You are secretive, disloyal.’ He waved his goblet. ‘It’s all written down for any man of learning to find – the warnings, the examples. The Romans, priests, the ancient wordsmiths had the right of it. Women play men false, you lure us into believing you’re one thing when really you’re another.’
I tried not to sigh. It
wasn’t as if I hadn’t heard these things before. I just never expected to hear them tumble out of my sweet Jankin’s mouth.
‘Oh?’ I said, gently, but defiantly. ‘And how do we do this, sir?’
‘As easily as breathing.’ He held up a finger. ‘Look at Eve. Did she not tempt Adam to eat the apple, exiling mankind from Paradise, from God’s Grace? And what of Delilah? She seduced the mighty warrior Samson into her bed before shearing off his locks, taking all his strength, rendering him weak and pitiful. She turned him into a slave to her sick desires.’
Dear Lord, but these men sang from the same hymn sheet, regardless of their age.
‘Treacherous, lustful, greedy – there’s a veritable roll call of wicked women, wicked wives. And today, after the many revelations, I took myself away to contemplate their meaning. Afterwards I spoke to the librarian at the Abbey. Now I understand something I’d been blind to.’
‘What’s that?’
Jankin curled his lip. ‘I’ve a woman, God help me, a wife, who, with her wily whispers, evil intent, lusty mouth and body, tempted me to commit the most heinous of crimes.’
Alyson and I exchanged a swift look. My chest grew tight. ‘What crime might that be, Jankin?’
There was a beat. ‘I coveted another man’s wife.’
The breath I was holding released. I searched for Alyson’s hand. I needed to touch her.
But Jankin wasn’t finished. ‘I coveted you, you devil-sent temptress, Satan’s whore, and you forced me into sin.’
I ask you, how is a woman supposed to respond to that? Before tonight, Jankin had never referred to me except by delicious, loving titles. I thought he must be jesting. I began to laugh.
I didn’t see the blow coming. My head slammed into the back of the chair. Sparks of light danced before my eyes. There was a cry. As my vision cleared, Jankin had Alyson’s hands imprisoned in one of his. Her face was a rictus of fury, she was shouting, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying for the ringing in my ears.
Then he smashed his forehead into her face. Blood exploded as he connected with her nose. She fell to the floor. He began to kick.
I roared and threw myself at him, knocking him sideways. He might be a large young man, but I was a good size and I’d righteous anger propelling me. How dare he strike us. What on God’s good earth possessed him? I rained punches on his back, into his ribs. He tried to dodge the blows, then with a bellow of rage, swung his arm and his elbow hit my temple.
Pain was an explosion of white, before everything went black.
Warm, comforting arms enveloped me. My head throbbed. I could smell fusty fabric, sweat, a tinge of orris root and leather. My eyes fluttered open. Across from where I lay, Alyson sat on the floor, a vermillion kerchief pressed to the middle of her face. Her eyes, shot with red, were swollen and discoloured. When she saw me staring, her mouth opened and she crawled towards me. What happened?
Then I remembered. I tipped my chin, wincing that such a slight movement caused spears to lance my head. I was in Jankin’s arms, hauled into his lap and he was showering me with tender kisses.
I tried to twist and push him away, but he wouldn’t let me. He was telling me something, but it was difficult to hear.
It was only because he kept repeating the same thing over and over that I finally understood. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. My beloved, my heart’s core, my angel on earth. I’m sorry. Forgive me, Eleanor. God, forgive me. The devil was in me and enslaved my tongue, my fists, my boots.’ He buried his head in my chest and wept like the child he was.
What did I do? The only thing I could. I stroked his hair, his shoulders, pressed kisses upon his head and stared blindly at Alyson, who regarded me with confused, bright and purpling eyes.
Dear God. Of all my husbands, I thought Jankin the least likely to turn upon me. I recoiled at the blood on Alyson’s face and hands, the blood that stained my tunic. He was like tinder to dry leaves, he just burned with anger. An anger that was now, please God, spent. If he was capable of such wrath, of striking us poor women, what else could he do?
What else had he done?
More importantly, what did I do now? What if he’d kept beating Alyson? Beating me? But he’d ceased, and admitted the error of his ways. Listening to him as he cried into my bosom, as I felt the trembling in his limbs, heard the words he kept murmuring, I knew his regret was real. His fury had frightened him as well.
I rested my hand on his hard shoulder. The hand that had so recently struck me gently found mine. He was both child and husband. I was doubly responsible. If he’d coveted another man’s wife, it was because I made him do it.
But I was also responsible for Alyson. My sister, cousin, Godsib and my stepdaughter all rolled into one. He would not hurt her again.
As I bled over my weeping husband, Alyson and I spoke over his head. We decided that no-one must ever know what had occurred this night. It wouldn’t change anything and it certainly wouldn’t bring Simon back – thank the Lord. Nor would we confess to Father Elias lest he make our sins – real or imagined – known by a change of manner towards us. Should anyone ask, we would find excuses for our injuries. We must take the events of this night, this horrible, horrible night, to our graves.
‘And from there, to hell,’ said Jankin finally. He’d been listening after all. He twisted so he could look at me. He ran his fingers through my hair then along my cheek, tracking more blood onto my face.
How long we remained on the floor in that terrible tableau of tears and blood, I cannot recall. It seemed an eternity.
Eventually, Jankin ceased to weep. Alyson’s nose stopped bleeding, leaving it strangely misshapen. My ears no longer rang, but my head ached. We all ached.
When we retired to our beds that night, Alyson creeping into her house long after the servants had gone home, Jankin and I made tender love. With each thrust, he whispered, ‘I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry, I love you.’ When we’d finished, he simply held me again, sated, remorseful.
‘I swear, Eleanor, I will never lay a hand upon you again.’
Fool that I was, I believed him.
TWENTY-NINE
Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1385
In the ninth and tenth years of the reign of Richard II
England was at war. Again. Tired of all the skirmishes and border raids of the Scots, the King and John of Gaunt put together a rag-tag force and marched north. Men were called upon to serve his Grace. This time, Drew, Hob and a few others begged leave to go, taking the bows and quivers they practised with each week, keen to test their skills in battle. Though my heart was heavy, I gave permission – what choice did I have? I prayed to God they would return unharmed. Arnold remained with Wy – we were afraid Wy would follow the army if he didn’t. War was no place for someone like him.
A part of me wished my husband would join up as well. Alas, Jankin didn’t. Instead, while Alyson and I worked the looms, supervised the making of cloth, its sale and distribution, and I negotiated with the guild and various merchants and broggers over sacks of wool, he locked himself in his study and buried his head in books.
My humble library now numbered over forty volumes. Jankin had brought papers with him from Oxford as well as a number of treatises in Greek and Latin. Inspired by Geoffrey’s poetry and translations from the continent, which were garnering praise in certain circles, Jankin had made the decision to devote himself to translating the work of the Roman poet Ovid into English. He began to go regularly to the Abbey, befriending one of the librarians there, Father Alistair Durling.
Grateful my husband was distracted and unlikely to be moping around or staring balefully in my direction as if I’d suddenly sprouted horns and cloven feet, I was also curious about what he was doing.
Curiosity had always been my undoing.
After that dreadful night when he’d lost control and beaten me and Alyson, there’d been an uneasy truce. For days after, Jankin treated us both with such consideration, it was easy t
o believe he was genuinely remorseful and that the vicious side of him was an aberration brought on by the shock of the coroner’s report.
Yet in the back of my mind, I kept wondering why he had disappeared for an entire day only to come home and lash out? When he said I’d caused him to sin, did he mean sin by desiring a married woman or by killing her husband? I was too afraid to ask for clarification; afraid what the answer would do to me, to all of us.
People would stop me in the street to comment on my fine husband, his manners and the respect with which he spoke of me. I would bow and smile, and thank them prettily. Wives who I’d once have been delighted to make envious, I avoided, lest I inadvertently revealed my sadness and confusion.
I invited the bishop, his senior monks, and just about any merchant in town to dine. Jankin would emerge from his study and become, for a few hours, the most perfect of hosts. I would watch with a mixture of pride and trepidation, but at least I wasn’t alone with him. That would be much later, when he’d come to our bedroom and slip beneath the covers. Sometimes he would seek me out, and I came to him willingly, even if my mind was filled with broken shards. Most oft, however, he would curl up with his back to me and fall into a fitful sleep, sometimes crying out. On more than one occasion, I could have sworn he yelled Simon’s name. My heart would pound and I’d lie unmoving in case he mistook me for the demons he was wrestling.
I felt it was just a matter of time before the fury erupted again. I prayed that when it did, neither Alyson nor I, nor any of the servants, were victims of it.
When Hocktide came, I encouraged Alyson to renew the lease on the house next door, this time paying for it out of my own purse. It was telling that she didn’t argue.
Jankin and I danced around each other, full of courtesies (especially when there were others present). I made every effort to please him. Once more, I grew pale, and my clothes began to hang.
