by Karen Brooks
I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand how he survived.’ Once more, I felt the knife entering his flesh, the slight resistance before it gave way. The dreadful sucking sound, the blood, the viscous fluids.
‘I’ve seen it before,’ said Geoffrey, looking inward as he spoke. ‘In battle. Ghastly wounds that you’d think would force a soul to flee a body, only the man lives. I think Jankin was unconscious, not dead, when he was buried. The snow must have slowed the bleeding, even staunched it …’ He shrugged. ‘Matters not the how, only that he is alive. His speech is slightly slurred, he bears reminders of that night –’ He touched his face. ‘But otherwise, he’s in rude health. So much so, he’s enjoying the attentions of local women, keen to look after the injured widower …’
‘The wealthy widower, you mean. From poor scholar to gentleman of modest means in one fell swoop …’
Or knife thrust. Dear God, why didn’t you direct my hand to drive the blade further?
I rested my elbows on my knees, cupped my chin and brooded. Women swooning over him. Of course they would, a one-eyed Adonis in their midst. My heart was doing somersaults, my thoughts scrabbling like chickens’ claws in dirt. I had to stay calm.
I sat up. ‘Why has he taken so long to reappear?’
‘Ah,’ said Geoffrey, throwing his cap on the table. ‘That part I can answer. The story is on everyone’s lips.’
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Milda, do you think you can fetch some wine for me and Master Geoffrey? The one Meneer Mendelsohn brought.’ I turned to Geoffrey. ‘A Hanse merchant gifted us the wine.’ I didn’t explain it was after we’d spent a very pleasurable night together. ‘Bring a goblet for yourself as well, Milda. And not a word of this to anyone.’
Milda shuffled out of the room.
As soon as she was out of hearing, I swung back to Geoffrey. ‘Are we in danger? I mean, is Jankin a threat? To me? To us?’ My gesture encompassed him and the entire house.
Geoffrey tugged his beard. ‘I’m not sure. For certes, he’s a threat to who you are now –’ He jerked his chin in my direction. ‘After all, he knows you’re not Alyson.’
‘Surely it’s in his best interests not to expose me? The truth would out.’
Dear God, the thought of being returned to Jankin as his wife … I might be able to reclaim my wealth but …
It occurred to me then that had we known Jankin survived, I would never have had to become Alyson, a woman with an invented past and uncertain future. We could have called the sheriff, had Jankin arrested and put on trial for murder. Not only would my actions be understood as self-defence, but with so many witnesses, surely, the King’s Bench would have seen him hanged.
By seeking to cover up my crime, all I’d done – we’d done – was cover up his, turning ourselves into felons in the process. In effect, we’d become his accomplices. If I exposed him now, then my role – not in attacking him, but in not reporting what he’d done – would see me hang too. Mayhap, all of us.
I would never allow that to happen. Damn Jankin. Damn his putrid soul.
The room became close, stuffy. Sickened to the core, I jumped up and threw open a shutter, leaning on the sill and gulping the air like a fish brought to land.
A warm hand began tracing circles on my back. I kept my head bowed, enjoying the comfort of Geoffrey’s touch.
‘I gather you’ve worked out why we have to tread with great caution. If we expose him, we’re all at risk.’
I nodded.
‘Any thoughts of revenge, of confronting him, must be put aside,’ urged Geoffrey. ‘It’s better he thinks you gone, out of reach.’
‘Only, I’m not.’
‘Eleanor is,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘He will have been told what happened to his wife, the story everyone believes. Of course, he knows it’s not true. But, should he counter it, then his own role will come to light. He cannot afford that, not if he wants to remain in Slynge House. He must play the role of widower, wherever it takes him, whatever it gives him. Including your wealth. And, Alyson –’ he bent so his lips were near my ear, ‘you must allow him to. As much as it offends your sense of justice and mine. We all must.’
I dry retched. Geoffrey held my shoulders as my body lurched and spasmed.
Once more I’d had my hard work flung in my face, and the work of everyone who’d put their faith in me, including Alyson – and by the man who murdered her. Tears burned in my throat, behind my eyes.
I would not cry, I would not.
God in Heaven, why do you punish me so?
The door behind us opened. Milda. I took a goblet, downed the contents swiftly, almost bringing them straight up again. Geoffrey watched, eyes filled with disquiet.
‘Do we know why Jankin took so long to reveal himself?’ I asked, finally, watching as Milda lit some candles.
‘A little of it. Again, there are rumours and stories aplenty. From what I gleaned, he was found not long after he was … buried. Taken by a hunter to the friars at Laycock who cared for him. They didn’t expect him to live.’
I scratched my cheek. ‘Why wait until now to return?’
‘Apart from needing to heal?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Because, initially, he’d no memory of who he was. Conveniently, that meant he also didn’t remember he was married either. He remained at Laycock until a priest visiting from Bath recognised him, and the moment he heard his name, everything miraculously came back.’
‘So he says …’ I didn’t believe it for a second. Neither did Geoffrey.
‘Aye. He was asked what happened to his wife, since she was missing. He claimed ignorance, of course. The sheriff ordered men to return to where Jankin was found – thus, Alyson’s body was recovered. By that time, though the snows had long melted –’ he hesitated.
‘Go on,’ I said thickly.
‘Well, it was difficult to recognise who or what she’d been. The animals, you understand.’
I did. One didn’t grow up on the land, let alone make a living from sheep, without knowing how swiftly creatures and the weather transformed a corpse into something else. How pleased Jankin must have been to discover any evidence of his crime was, like Alyson … spoiled.
Geoffrey continued. ‘For now, he’s holding to what Sweteman and the others say – that you and he were set upon by brutal bandits en route to the coast. He organised your burial, has spoken with Father Elias, paid respects to your grave, had mass said for you – for Eleanor.’
‘Christ’s prick on a cross.’ I sank back into the chair. I was literally dead and buried. ‘This changes everything, Geoffrey. Everything.’
‘I know,’ he said, resuming his seat.
Below us there was a burst of laughter. Hera gave a volley of barks and Lowdy squealed in delight.
‘I’ll have to tell the others,’ I said.
‘Why, mistress?’ said Milda.
My brows rose.
‘Well, forgive me, madam, sir.’ Milda sat straight-backed, her fine-featured face serious. ‘But I don’t see the point in alarming everyone. We’ve worked hard to set up a new life, put what happened behind us. If you tell the boys that Jankin’s alive, what will it do but make them fret? As you said yourself, they’ve been hiding a crime. The last thing you want is for them to be looking over their shoulders lest Master Jankin come knocking to shut them up or wanting justice.’ She laced her hands together. ‘I think you’d best do what you told me, keep this to yourself. Between the good master here and me. That way, you can still be Mistress Alyson who’s training weavers … I mean spinners –’ she flashed a weak smile, ‘and doing her best to make ends meet.’
Trust Milda to offer a solution that smacked of common sense. When had she not?
Geoffrey nodded, all smiles.
I rose and kissed her soundly on both cheeks. When I had good folk like this in my corner, what did I have to worry about? She was right. We must continue on as we were and pray that Jankin didn’t seek us out. But it was in his best interests to leave us in the past.
Once Milda finished her drink and refilled ours, she left to attend to the tasks of the day. As the sound of her footsteps receded on the stairs, I turned back to Geoffrey, my face expectant.
Geoffrey heaved himself out of the chair. ‘Alyson, Eleanor.’ He knelt before me. ‘I know that look. If you have ever valued our friendship, ever held me in esteem, then listen when I say: let this be. I know you’d like nothing better than to make Jankin pay for what he did, what he’s still doing. Remember, revenge is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ He put a finger under my chin, forcing me to look at him. ‘Promise me, you won’t do anything rash.’
I took a deep breath, wrestling with my desire to set things right. ‘I promise,’ I said finally.
We kissed farewell. Geoffrey assured me he’d be in touch soon. He had to return to Kent, but would keep an eye on what was happening in Bath. ‘We can discuss this matter further, once time and distance have allowed you to see this as the blessing it is rather than a curse.’
‘Blessing?’ I stared at him in disbelief. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Because, unless you choose to return to Jankin –’
‘No house or coin is worth that,’ I said hastily.
‘Exactly. Well, then, you’re a free woman once more – albeit poorer.’ He looked about the room. ‘At least you no longer have murder on your conscience.’
I didn’t want to tell him it never had been.
I accompanied him to the door. ‘Remember your promise, my friend,’ he said. ‘Revenge is a destructive way of grieving.’
I kissed him by way of an answer and waved as he set off down the lane. Drew and Arnold accompanied him to the river lest a footpad or cutpurse lurked. I watched their retreating backs, noting Geoffrey’s was more bowed than I remembered, his gait slower. Drew and Arnold matched their pace to his.
Noise from a nearby alehouse surged. The creaking wheels of a cart that came to a sudden halt, lodged between the cobbles, caught my attention. Two lads ran to help the poor man free it, holding out their hands for recompense, hurling abuse, then shit, when the man revealed an empty purse. A pig squealed, a goose honked loudly. Master Bordwrygt hailed me as he exited his house, carrying something under his arm. Sleet began to fall, landing on backs, coating upturned barrels, the laneway, and a broken shovel abandoned outside the scribe’s house. Cold as it was, I waited until Geoffrey and the lads rounded the corner, then shut the door and leaned against it.
I intended to keep my promise to Geoffrey, even though he was wrong. Revenge wasn’t a destructive form of grief.
It was the only way to give it meaning.
Though it went against all my instincts, I would follow Geoffrey’s course. There were others involved, others I cared about and who cared enough about me to keep my deadly secret. And what would happen to Rose, Donnet, Conal Pieter and dear, sweet Lowdy if I satisfied my desires? They relied on me to protect them too.
God’s bones, I would do that, whatever it took – even letting go of what I wanted more than anything else on heaven or earth.
To see Jankin Binder in his grave. A grave he would never crawl out of again.
THIRTY-FIVE
Honey Lane, London
The Years of Our Lord 1388 to 1389
In the twelfth and thirteenth years of the reign of Richard II
The looms thumped and clinked. Distaffs twirled, spindles spun and thread rained from the clouds of wool hovering over thin shoulders. The spinsters had joined me at the back of the house for company so we only needed to light one fire. Quiet chatter hovered like butterflies about the room, flitting here, alighting there. There was something soothing about the repetitious movements and quiet chorus.
Lowdy was sitting beside Donnet, learning how to repair a broken thread. Conal and Pieter were finishing off a piece of cloth. Rose had just sat down after completing the chores Milda had given her.
Outside, near the shed, I could hear Arnold whistling as he mucked out straw, the dogs rumbling under his feet. Drew was chopping wood so we’d have fuel for the fires. Milda was near the gate bartering with someone selling eels and ribbons. I must remind her to watch our coin – and wash the ribbons.
We’d been lavish over Yuletide as, distressed by Geoffrey’s news, I’d thrown caution to the wind, needing to take my mind off both Jankin and how to shore up a viable future in London.
Geoffrey sent a brief note mid-January apologising for not returning yet, but he was busy. As it was, I’d much to keep me distracted.
What had once seemed a grand notion, weaving and then selling our cloth, was revealed for what it was – a woman’s folly. After buying a few ells, the Germans, either deterred by dealing with a woman or because they too were afraid of drawing the wrath of the Guildhall, ceased to buy. Meneer Mendelsohn, too. Seems my charms weren’t so … charming after all. We still had a few private orders here and there but the truth was our tiny workshop would never keep me and Milda, let alone the rest of us.
Anytime I attempted to approach a merchant, offering a sample of our cloth and allowing the quality to speak for itself, the first thing I was asked was could they speak to my husband or the man in charge. When I explained there wasn’t one, just me, their interest evaporated faster than snow on hot coals. Others assumed I was a widow. Damn my pride if I wouldn’t allow that assumption to continue – not then.
Gradually, my savings dwindled, our debts increased and we were forced to do what the guild demanded – spin and sell thread to scrape together enough to pay the lease and purchase staples. Relegated to a lavish pastime, weaving all but ceased. Our clothes became patched and worn, unbecoming in someone who wished to make a living from weaving. I used cloth we couldn’t sell to make new clothes for first Lowdy, then whoever else needed them most. I could tolerate my own falling into a state of disrepair, but to see that dear child running around with her wrists and thin ankles on display in a threadbare tunic and patched kirtle was more than I could bear.
I could hardly ask Geoffrey for a loan. Dear God, if things weren’t bad enough for him, his former friend, John Churchman, was threatening to sue him for debt. How Geoffrey managed to get himself into so much financial trouble defeated me. Clearly, losing Philippa’s annuity upon her death must have cost him more than I’d realised. He’d made it clear I wasn’t welcome to ask, so I hadn’t. Instead, I’d written to him about my plight and, swallowing pride, admitted he’d been right in his fears and asked if he’d any remaining contacts or advice that might help me overcome the insurmountable barrier of the guild. A barrier my sex created and compounded.
The irony was, if I’d access to my monies, I could have helped him, as well as myself. I’d promised as much once upon a time. Aye, I’d been free with promises, hadn’t I? Promises aplenty when I thought, mayhap, I could keep them. Resentment towards Jankin burned and some nights, when I lay awake trying to work out how to pay for the wool we bought, the food for our table, the general upkeep of the place, it was all I could do not to shake my fists at the heavens. At God the bloody Father, someone else seeking to undermine my efforts to achieve liberty and peace of mind.
They were all the same, weren’t they? Men. God or mortal, they took what they wanted when they wanted, and watch out if a mere woman stood in their way. The guild ensured I couldn’t sell my cloth in London, except to a few folk whose patronage wasn’t wanted, and then for prices that barely made a profit.
The shuttle fell from my fingers and clanked on the floor. None of the others missed a beat, God love them. I bent and picked it up, shaking my hand. What sort of fool was I to ever think I could best a system where men profited while women paid?
Winter didn’t so much melt into spring as give over grudgingly. Snow retreated in sulking stages, buds shyly blossomed on the once-barren trees and people swarmed into the city as the sun punched its way through the heavy firmament, spreading a bit of much-needed warmth.
We continued to spin thread and make small
amounts of cloth for less reputable seamstresses and tailors. It wasn’t enough. The thread was all that kept us from starving. I made the difficult decision to devote more time to spinning. It didn’t upset the guild, on the contrary, we were encouraged. The profit was minimal, but that was because of the quantity we were producing. I needed to increase our output – but how to do that without it costing us more?
It wasn’t until the day Lowdy refused to accompany me to market that a solution presented itself.
Throughout winter, Lowdy had made a point of joining me on market excursions. Rugged up, she would remain close, her cheeks pink, her eyes shining. As she slid her gloved hand into mine, I took pride in her burgeoning confidence, the way she was slowly filling out as a consequence of food and a safe roof to sleep under. She’d peer into various barrows piled with pots, pans or vegetables, or gaze into buckets of squirming eels, before she’d barter with the best for a hot pie or heel of bread. Together, we’d enter warm shops and she’d twirl about, touching the wares on display in wonder, whether it was leather for shoe-making, mounds of spices and herbs for medicinal purposes or cooking, lace and ribbons, or parchments and inks. When I’d occasionally order replacement parts for a loom, she’d sit by the smithy, watching wide-eyed as the blacksmith hammered a nail just so, or sit quietly next to Master Bordwrygt as he lathed a peg or made a fresh rod.
Folk went about their business, whether couriers, criers, pardoners with their indulgences, beggars or those just released from the pillory with their painfully crooked backs or missing limbs and empty bowls. Dogs scampered around barking, cats slinked and pigs snuffled through the snow and filthy ditches. On occasion, I would catch Lowdy waving shyly towards a shadowy doorway or the entrance to a lane. Afterwards she would cower in my skirts, peeping out. I didn’t think too much of it at the time.
It wasn’t until the weather grew warmer, and people started to pause for a chat, exchanging news, studying what everyone was wearing, eating, buying, gossiping, that Lowdy began to make excuses not to accompany me.
