The Good Wife of Bath

by Karen Brooks

  It was so different to living in Bath or Canterbury. There was so much noise, so much dirt and smoke.

  When I’d first come to London at the age of sixteen, I’d been overwhelmed by its size, by the bustle and endless crowds. When I arrived from Canterbury, it had been with a different purpose and, therefore, with a different and older set of eyes. The grand houses of the nobles still made my mouth drop, none more so than the house of Geoffrey’s patron, John of Gaunt – the Savoy – burned by the rebels, a ghost of its former self. But over time, the various sights scarce raised a brow, whether it was a juggler defying reason by tossing numerous balls into the air or a bearded, reedy man issuing dire warnings to all sinners as he stood precariously atop a box on a corner or women with low-cut tunics and red pouting mouths beckoning callow youths and finely dressed gents into the shadows. Shouts, songs, bells, curses – many in alien languages – fights, embraces, arrests, cutpurses fleeing constables, weapons drawn, dead bodies rotting in ditches – I’d seen it all. Priests, lawyers, knights in armour, drunken sailors staggering from the docks, dark-skinned Moors, they’d all turned my head once and yet, now I lived here, they were commonplace. The only thing I hadn’t grown accustomed to was Geoffrey’s absence. I’d always thought, hoped, that if ever I came to London, Geoffrey would be my guide to this ever-changing city. But he had moved to Kent. Not long after, his wife had died, removing another reason for him to visit the city.

  London was now mine. It was Alyson’s.

  Only, it wasn’t really, just as I wasn’t really Alyson.

  But I was someone who needed to work, even if what I’d chosen to do was proving hard to sustain. While the house Geoffrey found was exactly what I requested in terms of size and location, his warnings regarding trading had proved prescient. It’s one thing to know how to operate a business and quite another to be allowed to do it. My efforts to sell what we made were swiftly quashed.

  Within a week of trading, the Guild of Weavers and Fullers sent two of their men to inspect my operation and close it.

  While both agreed upon the fine quality of the wool, thread and the small sample of cloth I gave them, it wasn’t enough. As Geoffrey had made clear, since I was neither the wife nor widow of a guild member, I was ordered to sell the looms and desist trading immediately.

  ‘All I want is to be able to conduct honest business,’ I objected.

  The older of the men, a Master le Brune, looked me up and down, a sneer forming. ‘Women aren’t put on this earth to conduct business, madam,’ he said haughtily, ‘but to help men with their work. As the good book says, “suffer not a woman to teach, nor to use authority over the man: but to be in silence”.’

  Furious he dared quote the sermon of the dumpy little priest from All Hallows last Sunday, I nevertheless bit my tongue.

  ‘As such,’ he continued, ‘you’ll be allowed to spin, but nothing more. Sell your thread to those who know what to do with it.’

  ‘I’ll scarce make enough to put food on the table.’

  ‘That’s hardly our problem,’ said Master le Brune, indicating for his colleague to precede him to the door. ‘This is your one and only warning, Mistress Bookbinder. Next time, there’ll be fines if not worse.’

  I guess I should explain the name I chose to go by. Geoffrey had urged me to think upon a name by which I’d be known in London. I’d thought long and hard about what to call myself. I chose ‘Book’ firstly to honour the learning I’d been given – not by bloody Jankin, but his dear father and the books he’d introduced me to that I relished. That learning enabled me to manage my own affairs. But I also chose to keep both Alyson and Binder so I’d never forget what and who had brought me here.

  Most of all, I chose it to pay tribute to the beloved woman who died for me and to whom I was irrevocably bound.

  When I told Geoffrey, much to my relief, he approved.

  While I publicly made a show of seeking out spinsters and doing what the guild told me, I made other plans. Damned if I’d allow those men to dictate terms.

  It took a few weeks, but I managed to hire three girls and two men. I would have loved more, but the space was too small, we only had two looms, and I needed to be discreet.

  The first was Rose, a young thing who’d come from Essex way, escaping a bullying older brother. I’d found her begging on Cornhill, not too far from the conduit. Two strumpets, whose occupation was evident by their lack of aprons as well as their shorn heads – indicating someone in authority had ensured they were publicly punished – were talking to her, trying to convince her to go with them. From the expression on her face, she was none too keen.

  Part of me thought, walk away, fool, while another voice (and I swear it sounded like my Alyson’s) whispered, ‘Come on, hen, if anyone can help this chick, it’s you.’

  I went up to the girl, grabbed her wrist and hauled her upright, almost pushing the two women over in my eagerness.

  ‘Been looking for you!’ I said loudly. Afraid the girl would deny me or, worse, cry for help, I dragged her away, talking over the top of any protests. My performance must have been convincing because the women didn’t stop me; nor did anyone else. As soon as we’d put some distance between us, I pulled her close. ‘Now, I’m going to get you one of those hot pies, and then we’re going to find somewhere to sit, mayhap the churchyard –’ I pointed to St Thomas of Acon, ‘and you can tell me your story.’

  It was both sad and familiar. I mentioned I was looking for maids, spinsters and dyers.

  ‘I can spin,’ she said, her entire face lighting up, crumbs from the pie dotting her lips. ‘Oh, mistress, I can spin real well. And as for maiding, I’ll be the best you ever had.’

  ‘Well, Rose,’ I smiled at her enthusiasm, ‘providing it’s not a tale you’re spinning, then I think you best come home with me.’

  And that was how Rose joined the household.

  The second was Donnet. I found her one evening close to Yuletide, hunkering down for the night in a small, neglected alley off Russia Row, the street behind us. I’d been hovering outside the Mercer’s Hall, hoping to find an alien merchant or two who might be interested in buying the ells of cloth I’d made, with no success. I’d cut through the back alleys to avoid the crush on Cheap Street.

  Huddled beneath a pile of rags, Donnet was filthy and so very hungry. It was also evident she hadn’t long given birth. Her stomach was still swollen, her breasts as well. Barely able to summon words, she allowed me and Milda to bring her back to Honey Lane. After a bath, a cup of steeped herbs, some watery pottage and bread, she told us her tale. She’d come to London from Deptford, desperate to escape a brutal husband who, when their child was born dead – a son – had taken to her with fists and boots. It was only when he fell over drunk and struck his head that she was able to get away.

  ‘God must have been looking out for me, mistress,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, like my little boy, I’d be dead too.’

  I kept my opinion about God to myself and, quashing the painful memories her story evoked, offered her a place. Room, board and a small wage for helping with chores and spinning. Over the weeks, with decent food and without fear to chase away sleep, Donnet transformed from a grubby, emaciated woman who could have been someone’s grandmother, into a person who turned heads in church or even wandering through the markets. She had rich brown hair and large pale eyes fringed with dark lashes and, when she smiled, dimples impressed her cheeks. I confess, her smile undid me, it was so like Alyson’s.

  Donnet and Rose were great investments. Donnet especially, who could both spin and dye the thread.

  My third girl was brought to me by one of the women who’d been trying to persuade Rose to become a bawd. A banging on the door early one morning roused us. It was snowing heavily and the air was so cold, you could have cut it with a knife. Outside stood an older woman and a greasy-haired young girl with bony wrists and the largest, softest brown eyes I’d ever seen. Her name was Lowdy. The bawd was Megge.

  I br
ought them straight inside lest a constable pass and think I was a house of procurement. As I was rapidly learning, a feme sole couldn’t be too careful. Before a crackling fire in the kitchen, Megge, who despite her bruised cheeks and the sward of hair growing back, had eyes that sparked defiance and courage, told us Lowdy’s tale.

  Lowdy’s mother, a harlot, had been beaten to death outside a tavern in Soper Lane. Her pimp had sent her to two soldiers, men who’d been knocking down all the houses, shanties and tumbledown shops without the walls. This destruction had been ordered by parliament in case the French fleet that was gathering around Sluys invaded, and many souls had been brutally displaced, making the soldiers deeply unpopular. Of course, the French never came; the houses and shops were never rebuilt either. These so-called brave men at arms took out their anger and frustration at the way the now-homeless locals treated them on a whore.

  Wrapped in a shawl, Megge risked her life bringing Lowdy to Honey Lane – not just because an officious constable might shave her head again or put her in the stocks for being out of her parish, or because the murderous soldiers might track her down, but because someone had to replace the dead mother. Didn’t matter Lowdy was seven years old. As far as the pimp was concerned, he’d waited long enough. She was his whore’s get and therefore his property.

  ‘Take her, mistress, please,’ Megge said. ‘Her mother, may God assoil her, never wanted a maudlyn’s life. We saw you take those other women; mayhap you’ll do the same for Lowdy.’

  Women had so few choices; this kind even less. How could I refuse? And so, Lowdy began by helping Milda keep house and spinning. One day, I promised, I would teach her to weave.

  An old Flemish weaver named Pieter, who had bent shoulders and a mellow, sing-song voice, and a young fellow from Cornwall way named Conal, also joined us. Only Conal lived with us and I made him Pieter’s apprentice.

  Before long, I sold some cloth to Hanse merchants who, being detested in London because they received special treatment (less excise and fees) from the King, were my only option. At least I was dealing in alien markets. There was something about the Hanse men. Mayhap, it was their direct way of speaking – if they cared they were dealing with a woman, it didn’t show. More likely it was their brawny arms and broad chests and their appreciation of large-breasted wenches with gap-teeth.

  Whispers soon spread that there was a weaver in Cheap Ward whose prices were better than guild members. Careful only to fill a few private orders, sniffing out those the guild sent to spy on me, I’d enough business to get by. Just.

  But if I didn’t find a proper buyer for my cloth, and soon, I’d not only have to reduce the household (which would break my heart), but think of another way to make money.

  A sharp rap on the door broke my reverie. There were voices. Dear Lord, but I’d let the morning slip away. Geoffrey was coming for a much-anticipated visit, a scrawled note delivered by his flustered squire only the day before all the notice I’d been given. I’d been busy cleaning, ensuring the house looked its best. I quickly untied my apron and shoved the rag in a corner, smoothed my tunic, tucked my hair beneath my hood. Footsteps resounded on the stairs, then the door swung open.

  The smile that had formed quickly faded as I saw the expression on Geoffrey’s face. He’d not been the same since his former colleagues, Nicholas Brembre among them, had been put to death earlier that year. For a while, the city had gone mad, the King and the Lords Appellant accusing each other of treason and recruiting armies to their causes. But that had all been settled, hadn’t it?

  ‘What is it?’ I moved towards him, hands before me. He placed his within mine, squeezing tight. His kiss lacked its usual warmth.

  ‘Alyson, I must speak with you, in private.’

  ‘Anything you have to say can be said before Milda, Geoffrey, you know that.’

  He inhaled sharply. ‘Very well, but shut the door.’ He led me to a chair as Milda did as he ordered, a frown furrowing her brow.

  ‘You’re scaring me,’ I said, sinking onto the seat.

  ‘Good,’ he said, sitting opposite. ‘Because what I’m about to tell you is terrifying.’

  Without letting go of my hands, he drew himself so close, our knees touched. ‘I’ve learned something most unsettling.’

  My heart gave a flutter. ‘What?’

  ‘The heir to Eleanor’s fortune is still alive.’

  I gave a bark of laughter and extracted my hands, crossing them over my heart. ‘Dear Lord but you scared me! Of course she is. She’s sitting right in front of you.’

  ‘This is no laughing matter, Alyson. I’m not referring to you.’

  I blinked. ‘Who then?’

  He took my hands again and locked eyes, willing me to understand.

  Slowly, what he was trying to tell me dawned. ‘Nay –’ My shoulders began to shake, my knees too. I glanced at Milda, whose mouth had fallen open. I tried to withdraw from Geoffrey’s grip. ‘It cannot be –’

  ‘I’m afraid it is.’ He drew in a breath. ‘Against all odds, Jankin Binder lives.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Honey Lane, London

  The Year of Our Lord 1388

  In the twelfth year of the reign of Richard II

  Judas’s balls in a vice. Just like the blessed Saviour, Jankin Bastard Binder had come back to life.

  I’d been so caught up in my own sin, the horror of Alyson’s death, and protecting my sorry arse by taking on her identity, I never thought to check Jankin was actually dead. We had dumped his body (and Alyson’s) and run.

  ‘Do you understand what this means?’ said Geoffrey, studying me with concern.

  ‘Oh, I understand alright. That stinking piece of cow shit has got away with killing my most beloved friend and now the buzzard’s cock will get to live off my wealth as well.’

  I heaved myself out of the chair and went to the window. Across the way, Master Bordwrygt was shutting his workshop. Upon seeing me, he waved. I think I responded. Curls of wood shavings tumbled about, pushed by invisible stirrings of air until the rain quashed them. A mottled cat sitting on a window sill watched with half-closed eyes. Already, the lane was growing dark. The thin band of sky above was slate, heavy. Just like me. I closed the shutter, making the room suddenly darker. It seemed apt.

  I spun around and saw Milda’s arms wrapped around her middle. I folded her in a tight embrace.

  We stood clutching each other like twins in a womb. ‘How did he survive?’ I asked over the top of Milda’s head. ‘I mean …’ Jankin’s cruel, blood-spattered face swam before me as he gloated over Alyson’s death. ‘I drove the knife in so hard … He was dead, I swear. Sweteman, Arnold, they took him into the fields, buried him …’

  Had they lied? Nay, nay. They would never do that. Would they?

  ‘And what of Alyson?’ My lips started to tremble. ‘Is it possible she too …?’

  Geoffrey was swift to douse my hope. ‘She’s dead, my dear. That’s beyond doubt. They found her body – what remained of it.’ He paused, swallowed and rested his forehead on the tips of his fingers and sighed. It was weary, long. How pale he was. His tunic and coat were stained, he looked dishevelled, as if he were wearing his thoughts. I wasn’t the only one turned inside out by this news. No wonder. Was not Geoffrey complicit in the crime? Milda? Dear God: Arnold, Oriel, Sweteman – even Drew. Hadn’t we all sought to hide the truth?

  Even Harry Bailly …

  On the up side, I was no longer a murderer. Just a woman living under a false identity who’d covered up a brutal crime. Covered up for that piece of pus, Jankin.

  What do we do now? The stinking arse-wisp lived and as long as he did, we were all in danger.

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked finally. ‘What’s he doing? Is he in Bath? I mean, he can’t very well go to the sheriff, can he? Report what happened …’

  ‘I don’t know everything … yet,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But you’re right. If he makes mention of your attack on him, then his part would be revealed.
There are too many witnesses.’ He removed his cap and raked what remained of his hair with his fingers. ‘I received a brief note from Sweteman over a week ago, telling me Jankin had returned to Slynge House, bold as you like. I could scarce countenance it.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Milda softly.

  I led her to a stool and returned to my own seat. I didn’t think my legs would hold me any longer.

  ‘I set out from Kent immediately,’ said Geoffrey, his cap dangled between his knees.

  ‘You’ve come here from Bath then?’ He nodded. That explained the hasty note. ‘Why didn’t you tell me as soon as you heard?’

  ‘I wanted to see for myself. There was no point alarming you otherwise.’

  There was both sense and kindness in his gesture.

  ‘Well, I’m alarmed now.’ I waited. ‘And? What did you find?’

  ‘Jankin was there, at the house. I made sure he didn’t see me. I managed to have a quick exchange with Sweteman, Oriel too. Before you ask, they’re both fine. Shaken, but fine. But before I could ask anything further, they were summoned. Didn’t matter, I learned what I needed just by walking the streets. Jankin’s been parading around town like the prodigal son returned, him and that monk friend of his.’

  ‘Father Alistair.’ I’d never liked that holy mumbler.

  ‘He wears a patch over one eye, but you can see a terrible scar spilling from the edges. A beard mostly hides the bite on his cheek.’ Good. Alyson had left her mark.