by Karen Brooks
If I wondered what he saw when he looked at me, I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
‘You’re fading away, Eleanor. Is that the price you pay for wedding a younger man? You struggle to keep apace?’
‘Not in the bedroom,’ I grinned, hoping to embarrass him. But this was Geoffrey I was talking to, the poet who made amore his subject.
Geoffrey laughed heartily, while Alyson rolled her eyes. ‘I note,’ he continued, ‘that age hasn’t been kind to either of us, my dear. You look … troubled, as if whimsy is your master.’
I flashed a warning look at Alyson. ‘Not whimsy –’ How could I explain that Mars and Venus fought for mastery in this house? Sadly, what I was slowly learning was where Mars rises, Venus doesn’t just fall, she leaves. I may have loved bedding my husband, but I was no longer persuaded I loved him. ‘No more than usual, Geoffrey. Winter is a season of woes. Like the grand old trees and fragrant flowers, I burst into bloom come spring.’
‘But not as you once did.’
‘Isn’t that the truth,’ I chuckled and raised my goblet. Were my problems really so evident? In preparation for Geoffrey’s arrival, I’d donned my scarlet, a deep crimson kirtle with emerald tunic and hose. Milda and Oriel had helped style my hair, and my veil was of the finest fabric. Alyson looked splendid as well in blue scarlet and a gold tunic. In contrast, Geoffrey’s breeches and paltock bore signs of the road – muddy clothes that had been damp and dried, the hair peeking beneath his cap stringy and in need of a comb. Not that I cared about any of that. My friend was here. With me.
It was as if nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
We sat by the hearth in the solar, the light coming through the window behind me dim as snow sighed against the thick glass. Milda propped herself in a corner, ready to serve if needed, but also keen for Geoffrey’s news, which we didn’t have to wait long to hear.
He regaled us with stories of his life in London, which, ever since the revolt of a few years earlier and the Good Parliament, had settled into a mixture of feasts, celebrations, plays and pageantry, all of it, he said, serving to disguise (but not hide) the dirt, death, deceit and barbarism of some or the discontent at the King’s profligate ways. In this regard I had the distinct feeling he didn’t just mean the commons.
He went on, moaning about the Wool Customs and the undue pressures being brought to bear upon him by leading London merchants such as Nicholas Brembe and John Northampton, both of whom had been known to Mervyn and to Simon.
‘I should let you know, dear Eleanor, that I finally took your wise advice.’
Lost in thoughts about these powerful men with whom my Poet dealt daily, I took a moment to respond. ‘My advice?’ Wise. Dear Lord but I wished my husband was around to hear him.
‘You might recall, some years back, you said that instead of writing about knights and damsels and folk from myth all the time, I should write about real people.’
I sat up, interested and flattered. Alyson gave me a look of approval.
‘When I wrote Troilus and Criseyde – I’ve a copy here somewhere for you –’ he patted his satchel, ‘I set it in the famed city of Troy, which was also a thinly disguised London. Too thinly, I fear. It made me think. You were right and it was time to leave the mythic past behind and explore the types who swirl about me, for I have to tell you, living in Aldgate, so close to the Tower, and being at the Customs House, I see my fair share of the commons. The kind of people who, as you said, are often overlooked when it comes to stories. I intend to change that.’
‘Stories? There’ll be more than one?’
He nodded.
‘Have you started?’
‘I have. I’m using the idea of a pilgrimage to tie the tales together.’
I slapped my thigh in delight. ‘I’ve been on many of those!’
‘Aye, and your letters have been most entertaining. Inspirational too. ’Twas you who gave me that idea as well. As you’ve so often noted, a pilgrimage brings together all manner of people in a shared adventure.’
‘Where are your pilgrims venturing?’
‘I’m thinking Canterbury. Why the face?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘It’s so … so … ordinary. There are far more interesting places you could have them go – Santiago, Rome, Normandy.’
‘Aye, there is. But sending them there defeats the point.’
‘Which is?’
‘I want my pilgrims to venture somewhere those who read my poem might also have been, or one day visit themselves. I want it to be an English story.’
‘But isn’t going on a pilgrimage an English thing to do?’
‘Not entirely.’
I thought of those I’d encountered on my travels. He was right. ‘And who are these pilgrims you’re sending to Canterbury?’
‘Ah.’ Geoffrey took a long drink. Quick as a starling, Milda was up and replenishing his goblet. ‘Thus far, I have a knight –’
I pulled a face.
‘And his squire. There’s a prioress, a nun, manciple, cook, miller and … I cannot recall. All I know is that there’ll be a large party who, on their way to Canterbury must relate one tale and, on the return journey, another. The best will be voted upon by their host, another ordinary chap who happens to be a Southwark innkeep I know.’
‘What about a wife?’ asked Alyson. ‘You need a wife.’
I gave her a gratified smile. ‘I’m not sure how many women are upon this imaginative journey apart from those who call themselves Christ’s brides. But on every pilgrimage we’ve undertaken, there’s been at least one wife.’ I thumped my breast. ‘Me. If you want to be authentic, speak to the everyman, then you need an everywoman.’
‘Funny you should say that,’ said Geoffrey. The twinkle was back in his eye. ‘That’s what my friend John Brynchele says as well.’
I smiled. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing this tale one day. Or should I say tales?’
‘You should.’
‘Well, here’s to your pilgrim poem, may it amuse and bemuse.’ I clinked my goblet against his and drank.
After that, we spoke of the young King and his wife, how John of Gaunt was putting together an army to go to Spain and claim the throne of Castile. We discussed the price of wool, the weather, what we’d deny ourselves come Lent and so many other things besides. Below us, the rhythmic noise of the looms continued unabated. Horsemen rode past outside, slow in the growing drifts of snow. Voices penetrated the walls, as did a loud whistle and the ever-tolling bells. Someone must have died, I thought, as they made the house quiver.
We broke briefly for a meal before I took Geoffrey on a tour of the workshop. We paused to speak to the workers and he admired their craft and asked so many questions, I wondered if he intended to include a weaver in his story. I hoped so. We even braved the cold so Alyson might show him where she lived, pausing to enjoy a mulled wine.
The bells for none rang. The day was growing darker when we returned to the warmth of the solar. I was so enjoying having Geoffrey about. We sat in companionable silence, drowsy after our efforts and our many, many ales and wine.
When Jankin entered a short time later, I was startled. I’d quite forgotten my husband, lost as I was in reminiscing and the joys of reuniting with my oldest friend. He barrelled in the door, his cap sodden, his boots too. Oriel had managed to take his cloak or I’m sure he would have still had that on.
‘Master Geoffrey!’ he declared and strode to the chair, hoisting Geoffrey to his feet and clasping his hand in greeting. ‘May God give you good day, sir. You’re a treat for sore eyes and heart.’
‘Sore heart?’ said Geoffrey, returning the welcome, taken aback by Jankin’s boisterousness (for certes he was like a puppy bounding into a pack of elderly hounds) but smiling all the same. ‘Must be because it’s so full of love for your lady wife.’
Jankin appeared to notice me for the first time. ‘Quite,’ he said unconvincingly. Oh dear, we had a guest, someone he’d alway
s been keen to host, and he wasn’t even trying.
Discommoded for a moment, Jankin threw his arm around Geoffrey. ‘Come, sir, let’s leave these old gossips to themselves and retire to my study. I’m working on something I’m very keen to share with you –’
‘Jankin, dear –’ I began, half-rising out of my chair. ‘Geoffrey has had a long ride and a busy day, mayhap it would be better if –’
‘I said –’ Jankin’s eyes flashed. I knew the signs, the warning. I quickly sat back down. Geoffrey’s brows knitted. ‘I’ve work I wish to share and I know Geoffrey will want to see it.’ Jankin bestowed a brilliant smile upon my friend. ‘Is it too much to ask that you attend me, sir?’
Geoffrey looked from Jankin to me. I fixed a smile and gave the barest of nods. Then, he looked to Alyson, whose face was not yet guarded. ‘Nay, sir,’ he said with great jollity. ‘’Tis not. Lead on, please. May God give you good evening, ladies.’ He leaned over and brushed his lips against my cheek. ‘We’ll talk anon,’ he whispered.
We waited until the door shut and their footsteps retreated as Jankin gave orders for Oriel to bring wine. Another door opened then clicked closed.
‘What do you suppose Geoffrey will think of Jankin’s Woes?’ asked Alyson, reaching for her distaff. That’s what we’d taken to calling his work. It went some way to softening the impact it was having on our lives.
‘Knowing Geoffrey,’ I said, nursing my wine, ‘he’ll either love it or use it for fodder in one of his poems. It’s what Jankin’s work deserves.’
Alyson bit her lip. ‘Aye. One man in the house preaching women’s sins is enough of a cross for us to bear, don’t you think, sister?’
‘Amen to that,’ I said.
THIRTY-ONE
Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1386
In the tenth year of the reign of Richard II
The next morning Geoffrey suggested we go for a walk. Alyson and I donned cloaks, boots, gloves and all manner of protection, for it was bitterly cold and a light snow was falling. Geoffrey was determined to leave the house, so we obliged, taking the hounds. Jankin had not yet risen; no doubt he had worked until dawn again.
Once outside the walls, we trudged along the verge of the River Avon, admiring the ducks floating upon its slow-moving surface, waving to the few bargemen poling their goods to distant towns. Only when we drew parallel to Bathwick Mill did Geoffrey ask how I found my new husband. There were not many who would ask such a bold question and even less to whom I would give an answer. But this was Geoffrey.
I spared him the worst details, but admitted there’d been difficult times. Very difficult. Though Alyson didn’t say much, just gave little splutters and sighs to punctuate my responses, they served to put across her points clearly enough.
‘Does he beat you often, Eleanor?’ asked Geoffrey after a while.
I sucked the icy air in hard. ‘As often as I deserve it – or not.’
‘He’s a man.’
‘Does that excuse or explain it?’ I posed the question I oft asked myself.
‘It’s enough.’
‘He’s hardly a man, Geoffrey, as you have pointed out. A choleric man-child more like.’
‘Though he’s within his rights to maintain order in his household –’ he halted, plucking a twig from a bush and twirling it in his fingers, ‘the sacrament does not permit him to be cruel.’
‘He does not strike me through cruelty.’
Geoffrey glanced at me. ‘Why then? Do you not pay the conjugal debt?’
I gave a lopsided grin. ‘Frequently.’
He studied the ground, lost in thought. ‘He cannot love you if he strikes so hard he damages you, Eleanor. I can see from the marks upon your face, the way you hold your middle and from your limp that you have sustained much injury to your person. Alyson too.’
She touched her nose.
‘It is because he loves me that he does this, sir,’ I said.
‘Loves you? How do you know this?’
‘Because if he didn’t, he would not strike me.’ God’s bones! Why was I defending my husband? Because I had to defend my poor choice.
Alyson harrumphed.
Geoffrey shook his head sorrowfully. ‘This is not what I wished for you, Eleanor.’
It’s not what I wished either.
We walked in silence a while. The snow had ceased to fall, leaving the countryside blanketed in a glistening, pristine caul. Siren and Hera rolled and played in the freshly fallen snow, Rhea and Bountiful watching disdainfully. A lone child sat in a tree observing. Her bright cap and ruddy cheeks stood out in the bleak landscape. Up ahead, the monks’ fulling mill loomed. There were a few novices working, some common folk as well. Inside the open doors, we could see the cloth being stretched on the tenters, straining at the hooks. Others pounded the wool, eliminating the dirt and grease. They were so focused on their work, they failed to see us drifting past.
‘I know in law and, indeed, in God’s eyes,’ said Geoffrey once we were out of earshot, ‘a man may beat his wife providing the instrument of his punishment is not too big, but I think there are better ways to exact cooperation and, for certes, better ways to demonstrate love.’
Alyson made a small sound of agreement. I’d no reply. He was right. But what was I to do? I didn’t know how to stop Jankin, nor how to stop myself. It was as if, as Alyson once said, he appealed to a darkness within me.
Geoffrey and I had no more conversations about Jankin that day, though I suspected he and Alyson did. Invited to join her for supper that night, he begged pardon and left me and Jankin alone. Jankin wasted no time and retreated to his study. I spun for a short while, then, dismissing Oriel and asking her to take the weary dogs back to Wy, allowed Milda to ready me for bed.
The following night Jankin, who no doubt felt he’d showed great restraint previously, brought his work to the solar. We’d had a busy day. Geoffrey had spent it writing, while Alyson and I returned to the looms. We’d large orders to fill and were keen to get them done before the merchants from Brabant and Ypres returned once the winter storms receded. Jankin had given over his study to Geoffrey and gone to the Abbey.
The evening began well with many wines and Geoffrey regaling us about an incident at his local tavern involving himself and his friend John Gower.
We all laughed heartily before, with a dramatic clearing of his throat, Jankin begged our ears. I signalled for Milda to pour more drinks. God knew, we’d need them. My heart began to skip and my throat grew tight. Alyson picked up her spinning. Geoffrey appeared relaxed until you looked at his intertwined hands. His knuckles were white.
Jankin began with the story of a man named Latumius who owned an orchard. In that orchard grew a tree from which three of his wives had hanged themselves. His friend, a scoundrel named Arrius, instead of expressing sorrow or lamenting the man’s grief (assuming he felt any) asked for a cutting, so he could grow a like tree in order that his wife might meet the same fate.
Geoffrey laughed politely. I couldn’t even summon a smile.
Jankin then regaled us with stories of wives who, having killed their husbands as they slept, swived their lovers all night long, some beside their husbands’ corpses.
‘A pretty woman who sards men is akin to a pig with a golden ring in its snout – she’s still a sow, no matter how she decorates herself,’ he said smugly. ‘Imagine what an ugly old one must be like.’
I gripped the arms of my chair. Geoffrey gestured to Milda to top up his goblet, believing the recital over.
My husband wasn’t finished. Next, he gave a roll call of bad women – disloyal, deceitful murderesses, those who made cuckolds of their men. He declared wives made a deliberate effort to hate what their husbands liked, just to make their lives a misery.
‘Why, look to mine as an exemplar. Eleanor loathes my work, don’t you, love? Yet it’s my duty to both educate and tame her, is it not?’
I begged Geoffrey not to respond. He coughed, which Jankin, t
hank God, took as agreement.
But when he started on that damn story of Clytemnestra again, something happened. White-hot indignation filled my head, made me clench my fists, clouded my vision. When he reached the part about her stabbing Agamemnon in the bath, I swear, a Lilith-sent imp possessed me. I leapt from the chair. Alyson lunged, but I tore my tunic from her hands.
I grabbed Jankin’s book and swiftly tore three pages from its midst. He called out in fury and shock. I pulled back my fist and punched him hard in the side of the face.
‘That’s for Clytemnestra and all the other women you wrong with your poisonous words!’ I screamed.
Holding the pages I’d removed out of reach, as he reeled from my blow, I ripped them into shreds then tossed them in the air. They fell, a poor parody of the flurries tumbling from the heavens outside.
There was silence. The fire crackled. Dancing shadows filled the room. I stared with wild eyes, my breasts heaving, my face a furnace. Jankin’s cheek was red where my knuckles had connected. It was beginning to swell.
My entire focus was upon him, daring him to act. It was as if no-one else was in the room.
With a strangled yell, he propelled himself out of the chair, lifted his book high and brought it down with such force upon my head, I fell to the floor and rolled towards the fire.
Bright sparks exploded. My ears rang. I was vaguely aware of movement to my right.
Like a wild tiger, Alyson leapt on Jankin, her hands transforming into claws and raking his face. ‘You cowardly bastard!’ she shrieked. ‘You’ve killed her. You’ve killed my Eleanor.’ She grabbed him by the ears, bit his cheek. Blood spurted and Jankin’s legs buckled, bringing her down on top of him. She’d twined her fingers through his hair and began to beat his head repeatedly against the floor.
