The Good Wife of Bath

by Karen Brooks

  My appearance must have undergone a considerable alteration because one day when I was at the market with Milda, trying to choose some leather for new shoes for Aggy and Rag, a nearby grocer mistook me for Alyson. Taken aback, I’d forgotten that once upon a time Fulk had thought we looked alike.

  As I wandered home, stopping to buy some eggs from a farm maid, I asked Milda if she thought there was a resemblance.

  ‘Oh my word, aye. I’ve always thought you two could be sisters, what with your hair being so similar, the freckles and your eyes. And, forgive me, mistress, but lately your gowns are as loose as Mistress Alyson’s have always been. Aye, it’s easy to mistake you, one for the other.’

  I studied Alyson more closely than usual as she worked the loom that afternoon, taking note of the way her shoulders stooped, how the lines around her eyes creased when she smiled. Was I so old-looking? If she kept her mouth shut, concealing her missing teeth, and one ignored the slightly misshapen nose, then I suppose we did appear similar. We both had dimples, and my cheeks and eyes bore faint furrows. Her neck was ringed with lines, the flesh growing loose. I noted how her breasts sagged. Vain, I raised a hand to my head. My hair had darkened over the years, but was it threaded with as much white as my dear sister? Did my bosoms sit so low, did my neck have a wattle?

  Yet, the more I gazed at her, taking into account the signs of age, the tiny mole on her jawline, the more I saw her beauty, her strength. Each and every line told a story. They were maps that charted a life. Those fingers that deftly moved the shuttle and twisted the threads were clever, experienced and gentle when they needed to be. They could weave, dress hair, slap an errant servant, pet hounds, wring chickens’ necks and so much more. They’d held my hand in excitement when we first saw Thomas à Becket’s shrine, and clutched me as she vomited over the deck of Captain de Mare’s ship on the way to Jerusalem. That mouth had laughed when she learned I’d bedded the lusty friar in Rome, and tightened in disapproval when I agreed to marry Simon de la Pole. It had kissed and offered words of comfort when Fulk died, and shouted abuse at me when I first arrived at Bigod Farm. Dear God, how she’d hated me. And I’d been so afeared of that fine chin and those flashing eyes that lit from within. I watched her now as she nodded at something Aggy said. When she smiled, which was less often these days, it was as if the sun had burst forth. If I was a man, I’d find her desirable (and I knew this thought was as much as a salve to my own vanity as it was an assessment of Alyson), yet she’d never, to my knowledge, lain with one. Any suitors who had come forward, and there’d been a few over the years, she’d gently rejected, preferring, as she always insisted, to share her bed with no-one, and her life with me and those we’d gathered about us.

  I studied them, my workers, my servants … nay, they were so much more. They were family. What would I do without Milda’s quiet, calming presence? The woman who would appear by my side ready to offer an ale, a cloth, soothing words or arms to fall into. She was like the aunt I never had, organising, caring, unfussy. Then there was craggy Aggy, with her crippled husband and two little boys. I’d known her since she was a young girl, uncertain and nervous in Gerrish’s big house, but keen to learn to weave. Dear God, what a burden she had, but she never complained, just worked hard, took her coin, remained loyal and constant. Or funny Ragnilda, Rag, slender as a reed, her fair hair and fierce intelligence hidden beneath a silence that only a fool tried to disturb. She’d been stepping out with that lovely young ostler, Hugh Strongbow. Aware of my scrutiny, she flashed a shy smile that warmed me to my very toes.

  As for Oriel, she was a serious woman, but a loyal one. A good worker, able to pre-empt your wishes and fulfil them. Above all, she was tolerant and kind. They were the reasons Mervyn had adored her. Me as well.

  The other women chatted or hummed, keeping the rhythm of their looms, their shuttles like stiff little birds flying between and beneath the threads, building our beautiful cloth strand by strand as Arnold counted the ells, and Wy and the ever-present hounds flitted between them.

  How did this happen? This marvellous workshop of colour and quality – of bonds tighter than the weave itself? I couldn’t take all the credit. It had been a combined effort. It had started with me, Alyson and Fulk, but every husband, every household, had added its own ingredients – coin, wool, skills, but above all, people. Contributions that ceased with the arrival of Jankin. Unlike my other husbands, he never showed an interest in the workers, the business, or came to the workroom. His life was with books and words, not wool, weft and weave.

  It was better that way.

  That night, as Jankin lay next to me quietly snoring, I wondered, as I did every other night, why he married me. A woman almost twice his age. Why did I marry him? Was it because, just as I could see the beauty and strength in Alyson’s ageing body, he enjoyed mine? Was that why I kept him? Because a younger husband maintained my own sense of youth? Draining him of vitality to ensure my own?

  June came and the town emptied as the shearing proceeded at a furious pace. Those who didn’t work with wool were called upon to weed the fields in preparation for the harvest next month. I’d spent the last few days out on the pastures, along with Sweteman, Arnold and Wy, supervising the shearers and ensuring the wool sacks were tied and stored properly. We’d filled more than ever before and, despite news that the campaign in Scotland was proving to be a disaster – I prayed that Drew, Hob and the others would return to us – I was feeling very satisfied.

  Over the last few weeks I had gradually relaxed my vigilance around Jankin. I began to believe his attack those months ago was just the consequence of shock. And while I had my own views on how and why Simon died, and even notions about who killed him, I refused to admit them even to myself. After all, what did it say about me, unnatural woman that I was, that I could sleep with the man I thought might be Simon’s killer?

  Come summer, I’d buried those thoughts beneath more pleasant memories. Once more, I enjoyed my young husband and the admiration being wed to him brought. If Jankin said that he would never hit me again, then I had to believe him. He’d been confused, upset. Hadn’t we all? As God is my witness, there’d been truth in his cruel words. He had coveted another man’s wife. Why? Because she’d made certain that he did. Just as the Lord had created Adam, I’d taken the clay that was Jankin and fashioned him to suit my purpose. He wasn’t responsible for his actions. That rested with me.

  I had to put what happened behind us and start afresh. For all our sakes.

  Midsummer arrived with a blaze of storms and cloying heat. All day long, folk had been passing through town atop carts laden with hay; the harvest was in full swing. It had been exhausting just seeing the men, women and children covered in bits of wheat, their sweaty clothes clinging to them, their arms weary from swinging a scythe or the back-breaking work of gleaning. Dear God, but I remembered how much I loathed doing that.

  I was nursing my second goblet of wine. Alyson, never able to sit idle, was spinning. There was something so comforting about the steady pace, the way the thread appeared between her practised fingers, the cloud of wool floating at the top of her distaff being transformed into something so fine and yet so hardy below. One of our cloths was draped over the back of her chair, and I couldn’t help but marvel we were responsible for such beauty.

  I began to stroke my kirtle, also a product of our labours. Outside, the day was slowly going to bed, the rosy clouds pale ribbons across the sky. Though it was far from being dark, we’d lit candles, enjoying the cosy feel they bestowed upon the room. Someone below us was playing a fiddle, joined by a pipe; the tune was merry and laughter as well as a song enveloped us. Some of my weavers had asked permission for their men to join them for a drink in the workshop after harvest.

  Thus it was, as I was resting on my laurels, Jankin joined us. He entered the room, gave us his blessing, then poured himself wine, the servants having been dismissed. Milda and Oriel had gone to visit the sick daughter of one of the weavers, taking
some medicants and fruit for her.

  Jankin sank heavily into a chair, released a long sigh and patted the sheaf of pages in his lap.

  ‘Is that your work on Ovid?’ I wanted to include him in my benevolent mood. Dark rings circled his eyes and his cheeks were gaunt but very flushed. He’d been working ceaselessly on this project. I’d known him since he was a lad and felt a responsibility beyond that of wife. One can’t help how one feels, nor the maternal instinct even when one has not borne children.

  ‘Nay, wife,’ said Jankin slowly. ‘This is not my work on Ovid, but something much, much more important.’

  The air between us crackled. Alyson cast an anxious look.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you’d ceased work on your translation. What’s it about?’ I pointed at the bundle.

  Jankin untied the pages and stroked the first one with great affection. ‘You once told me, wife, that your friend Geoffrey wrote a book about good women?’

  ‘It was incomplete last I heard, but he read portions of it to me. It was quite … challenging.’

  Jankin nodded as I spoke.

  ‘Excellent work should stretch the mind.’

  What I didn’t mention was the argument Geoffrey and I had about it. I told him the title was misleading, as for a book purporting to be about ‘good’ women, he spent far too much time praising men. ‘What’s all of myth and history if not paeans to bloody men?’ I’d said. I’d held my ground. After all, if women couldn’t be celebrated in a poem whose very title suggested that purpose, what hope did we have?

  ‘I’m writing it in order to set the scales in balance,’ said Jankin, interrupting my recollection. ‘To offer a counter to your Geoffrey’s words –’

  Since when was he my Geoffrey?

  ‘I’ve been collecting stories which prove, beyond doubt, the wickedness of women.’

  Alyson put down the distaff. I choked on my drink, striking my chest a few times to help me swallow. Memories I’d worked hard to banish batted the edges of my mind.

  Jankin waited to see if I’d comment. His hand clenched and unclenched. I kept silent.

  ‘I would you listen to what I’ve written, wife. You too, Alyson.’

  My heart was a bell in a tower, clanging, clanging. A trickle of sweat coursed down the side of my face. My seat, so comfortable before, became a bed of thorns.

  At that very moment, Jankin scared me. Nay, he terrified me.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, clearing my throat. ‘Please, husband, proceed.’

  With a lopsided grin, he detached the topmost page and held it close to a candle.

  From before vespers until almost compline, Alyson and I listened to stories about a range of women who all, without fail, betrayed their husbands. The first was Eriphyle, a woman who, for the price of a gold necklace, persuaded her husband to fight in a battle she knew would end in his death. Eriphyle was later murdered by her son. Then there was Xantippe, the wife of Socrates, a shrew who poured a piss-pot over his head. Next there was Lucilia, who hated her man and murdered him in cold blood. All the women were punished for their sins.

  As Jankin read, my mind raced. Was this a warning? Were these tales to alert me that Simon would be avenged? That I would pay for it? That would only work if the killer knew the hopes I’d so wickedly expressed. Who but my own Jankin did? Who but my own Jankin could enact vengeance?

  My nails dug into my palms. I fixed my gaze upon my husband and smiled. I would not let him see the impact his stories were having, even though every part of me longed to shout at him to stop. I began to imagine taking the wool from the top of Alyson’s distaff and shoving it down his throat.

  Next, he told the story of Clytemnestra. I could have wrested the parchment from him and told it myself, I had heard it so often, Alyson too – the tragic story of Agamemnon. Always, the men spoke of his wife’s treachery, how she dared to take a lover during her husband’s long absence, and then lure him into a bath and slay him when he finally returned to her. Not once did anyone speak for Clytemnestra. I knew her story – Geoffrey made sure of that. She was not just a murdering queen, but a grieving mother whose youngest daughter had been slain by this same husband (Agamemnon, who sarded another woman the entire time he was away – ten bloody years) in order that his fleet of ships might sail to a futile war. He tricked his wife into sending their youngest daughter to him, saying she was to be wed to a great hero. When Agamemnon finally returned with his pregnant mistress in tow (Cassandra, another wronged woman), what did he expect his wife to do? Forgive his many sins? Bah! He was a murderer of children; all she did was swive another man – and seek revenge for the death of her daughter. Does she get understanding? Nay. She’s remembered as a fornicator and murderer for men to judge.

  Well, I judge her remarkable.

  All this was running through my mind as Jankin read. His face was puffed with pride at this catalogue of female sins. How dull.

  How tiresome.

  Just as I was wondering how many more tales I’d have to listen to, he finished.

  ‘That’s all for tonight,’ he said, and replaced the pages he’d read. He’d barely made an impression upon them. My heart sank.

  ‘What do you think?’

  I should have guarded my tongue. ‘I think you would do well to address the men in these stories if it’s balance you’re seeking. Make a sport of their faults as well.’

  One minute Jankin was in his chair, the next, he’d hurtled out of it and struck me hard across the face. I sat, stunned. Not certain what had happened, Alyson began to rise. I waved her to remain seated.

  ‘You hit me,’ I said quietly, my hand against my hot cheek.

  He boxed the other side of my face. ‘There, now your colour is even.’

  I leapt to my feet and before he could duck, punched him as hard as I could in the mouth. Unprepared, he staggered back a step or two then found his footing. He was about to level another blow, when Alyson shouted.

  ‘Stop! Stop, both of you. For the love of God, stop.’

  My eyes were brimming with tears – not of sadness, but fury.

  Jankin touched his mouth. My ring had torn his lip. He licked the blood. ‘If I’d known you could hit so hard, wife, I might have been more cautious.’

  ‘Well, now you do, sir. Have it on advice.’ My breath came in spurts, my breasts heaved. I was ready to swing again. He eyed me warily, raised his fists.

  Just when I thought he was about to clobber me, he swooped and crushed me in an embrace, fastening his lips onto mine.

  I resisted at first, fury and confusion warring within me until my body took over. My insides melted and my knees grew weak. When he pulled away, I could taste his blood, coppery and sharp.

  ‘I love you, my fiery wife, my flame-haired beauty,’ Jankin murmured. ‘That was quite the haymaker you levelled.’

  I wanted both to pull away and to cleave to him. Uncertain, more than a little unnerved, I went limp in his arms.

  ‘Tomorrow, or mayhap the next night, I’ll read some more.’ He dared me to protest.

  I stifled a moan.

  He grinned. His teeth were stained with blood. ‘I wrote it for you. For both of you.’ He forced me to stand by myself. ‘It’s taken months, but now I understand what God intends. As a man, as a husband, it’s my duty to teach you women, to tame and shape your weak, feeble minds. For too long, I’ve allowed you mastery, Eleanor – this isn’t right. It defies the natural order. From hereon, I will take my rightful place as head of this household, and you will take yours as my helpmeet and subordinate. While you, Alyson, will simply be subordinate. Whatever happens, my women will obey me. Am I clear?’

  Believe me when I say I wanted to slap his smug young face, even while I understood he was trying on his manhood.

  ‘If it pleases you, husband,’ I said, my eyes urging Alyson to agree. She nodded.

  ‘Come, wife, we’ll away to bed. God give you good evening, cousin,’ he said to Alyson, who still hadn’t moved. His arms abou
t me, Jankin led me from the room.

  It took many more months for my burning anger at his foolish pride to explode and when it did, it was no match for his.

  As it turned out, none of us were.

  THIRTY

  Bath

  The Year of Our Lord 1386

  In the tenth year of the reign of Richard II

  There was great rejoicing when Geoffrey Chaucer arrived at Slynge House. It was an icy, snow-bound St Valentine’s Day. He came on horseback, a young squire in tow upon a mule, laden with luggage. Forgetting all propriety, I ran from the house and flung my arms around him. I hadn’t known I’d be so overcome. My heart swelled, and tears banked as I held him in a tight embrace, showering kisses upon his cold, bristly cheeks. As if nothing had caused a chasm in our friendship, he apologised for not coming sooner.

  Delighted by my evident affection, he placed an arm around my waist. It was all I could do not to wince as together, Alyson bobbing by his side, having also given him a loving welcome, we entered the house. Jankin was at the Abbey visiting Father Alistair. They shared drafts of works in progress and, I was convinced, encouraged each other to uncover more and more female vices. As you can imagine, I didn’t hold Father Alistair in very high esteem.

  Geoffrey, however, was another matter and, as we walked through the house, servants and workers who’d known the man almost as long as I had offered greetings.

  When we finally made it to the solar, Geoffrey was all smiles. Standing before the hearth, holding his hands out to the flames, he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  ‘Ah, Eleanor, how wonderful it is to see so many familiar faces. You’ve always been one to ensure your workers are looked after – not just in coin, but in the ways that count.’

  I nodded at Milda who was holding up a jug with a question on her face. Time to celebrate.

  As she offered around brimming goblets, I took the opportunity to study Geoffrey. The time we’d been apart had not been kind. Pouches hung heavily under his eyes and the lines between his brows had deepened. What remained of his hair was as much white as the burned umber I remembered. Still, his eyes twinkled merrily and I’d no doubt he didn’t miss a thing, including the fading marks and scars upon my own, older face.