The Good Wife of Bath

by Karen Brooks

  The next few hours were a blur of cries, blood, bodily fluids, and Leda’s oaths and screams, which rang about the house. Chatter rose and fell, advice was kindly given and bluntly spurned. Day dawned, wet and cool, the rain steady upon the roof, some coming in through the window. When Yolande leapt up to close the shutters, Mistress Ibbot shouted at her to leave them open.

  ‘You want this baby to come, don’t you?’

  The entire time Mistress Ibbot remained with Leda, ignoring her threats, the foul language spilling from her mouth. She rubbed a fragrant oil into Leda’s back, her legs, pressed her ear to her stomach, and ordered me about as if I were her servant. She kept up a stream of words.

  ‘These men who say bawds can’t get pregnant because their queyntes are slippery with too much seed, or clogged with the dirt of sin, need to be silenced. No doubt you thought you were free to swive whoever you pleased. Foolish girl. Look at the price you’re payin’.’ She tut-tutted. ‘It’s always the woman; never the man, ain’t it? Even though Adam took the apple of his own free will. Eve didn’t force-feed it to him, did she? I’ll bet the bastard relished every mouthful, knowing he’d never be held to account.’

  I liked this woman.

  Finally, when all colour had fled from Leda’s face and a sizeable crowd was gathered both in the room and in the lane below, the babe made its entrance.

  Squatting over some rushes, Leda pushed and pushed, as if she had the worst dose of squits. The babe’s head crowned, a slow emergence that was greeted with a cheer from the women and a river of words that don’t bear repeating from Leda (but impressed me mightily). Wrapped in a thick caul of white, it hung suspended above the floor before, as Leda’s stomach rippled again, the child escaped in a spurt of blood and fluid. Mistress Ibbot caught it before it hit the rushes. I held onto Leda, whose knees gave way.

  The caul was torn from the baby’s face, the midwife pushed her finger into its mouth then put her lips over its tiny ones and sucked. She turned and spat.

  All at once, a welcome cry followed. Timid at first, like a young rooster learning to crow, it soon filled the room. There was laughter, tears, and more curses (that might have been me).

  With experienced hands, Mistress Ibbot tied the cord, leaving a small nub. She washed away the blood then rubbed the babe’s body with salt and honey. Then she swaddled it tightly, muttering the words every lay person attending births was trained to say lest the babe die before it was baptised.

  ‘Ego te baptizo –’ She looked at Leda. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘He? I have a son?’

  The midwife gave her a curious look. ‘Dear God, girl, I’d have thought you’d held enough pricks in your life to recognise what was hanging between his legs. Aye, you have a beautiful boy.’

  Leda choked back a sob and her eyes filled. She turned to where I sat on the edge of the pallet, sweat dripping as if I’d just given birth myself. Impatient to have a hold, Milda came and whisked the baby from the midwife, all the other women gathering about her, cooing like a dovecote in the gloaming.

  ‘What shall I call him?’ asked Leda, one eye on the child.

  The question took me unawares. ‘Can you name him after the father?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll not name him after that bastard.’

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘Nor him,’ she said, her eyes growing harder than flint. ‘He was not … a good man.’ She regarded me strangely. ‘Was your father?’

  I hadn’t thought of Papa in so long. ‘He wasn’t bad, I guess.’ He worked hard, was loyal to a fault. By all accounts, he’d loved Mama and I’d loved him.

  ‘What was his name?’ Leda asked.

  ‘Wace. His name was Wace,’ I said, recalling the last time I saw him, standing with a group of broggers, enjoying an ale, throwing his head back to laugh at something one of them had said. A wave of sorrow swept me.

  ‘Wace,’ said Leda, glancing at her baby who was being held by a delighted Lowdy. He began to mewl. ‘His name is Wace.’

  I gasped. My heart swelled. ‘You can’t –’ I began, even while an inner voice was shouting at me to be silent. ‘Why –?’

  ‘I can call him whatever I want,’ snapped Leda. ‘I like your father’s name. I like you.’

  Suddenly, the babe was thrust into my arms, as if I knew how to soothe his plaintive whimpers. I looked down at his little bunched face, his wrinkled, downy skin, the way the grey light from the window sat like an aura about him. His darkling eyes stared at me, or so I liked to believe.

  God had denied me the joy of motherhood and, until this moment, I thought myself reconciled to that. If ever I felt the pinch of sadness that all my husbands and swiving had led to naught, I’d remember the babe I saw born on a ceaseless tide of crimson, draining his mother of life, or the one born with no face, one arm, and twisted like a sailor’s knot. Those cut from a womb or born violet and cold, not breathing. And now here was this sweet little creature. A boy who would bear my father’s name. A yearning rose in me, followed by a glow, as if I was a blacksmith’s furnace kindled for the day’s labour. Only, this fire would never be doused.

  ‘Aye. It’s a strong name,’ I whispered. I stroked his downy cheek as his screwed-up pinkened face swam before me. I sniffed. ‘A good name.’

  In that moment I knew I would do anything to protect him. I dropped the lightest of kisses upon his rosy brow, inhaled his scent, which came not from this stinking earth but from the abode of angels.

  ‘Wace –’ continued Mistress Ibbot as if my world hadn’t just expanded. ‘In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ we repeated.

  Strictly speaking, she didn’t need to baptise the babe – it should only be done when there was a chance of imminent death. One had only to look at Wace’s sturdy feet, hear his lusty cries, to know he was secure in this world. Still, we women had so few opportunities to assert our authority – especially over the church.

  Then we set to welcoming the baby as one should – with ale, song and much cheer.

  My joy in little Wace was, however, short-lived. Among those outside waiting to hear the result of the birth was Wace’s father – none other than Ordric Fleshewer.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Honey Lane, London

  The Year of Our Lord 1389

  In the thirteenth year of the reign of Richard II

  Wace was baptised eight days after his birth, and to my great pleasure, I was named godmother. The lad was mine twice over now. Because Leda knew so few decent men, and Wace needed two as godparents, she asked our weavers Pieter and Conal to step in.

  When Leda was churched weeks later, in mid-November, it was a merry procession that went to All Hallows, bedecked in our Sunday finery, chattering and laughing as if it were Yuletide Eve. Followed by those in Honey Lane who could tear themselves away from work, as well as some curious passersby, we wended our way. Leda, carrying Wace, looked particularly lovely in a pale apricot kirtle and bronze tunic, her hair carelessly gathered under a cap, most tumbling down her back in golden cascades. Lowdy skipped beside her, reaching up to stroke Wace’s cheek. Directly behind us were Milda, Arnold, Drew, Pieter and Conal, smiling and waving like they were part of a royal procession. Megge, Yolande, Rose and Donnet brought up the rear; their joy and lively chatter made my heart sing.

  To think, only a couple of months earlier they’d been selling their bodies. Now, they worked for me. They were all adept spinners and, as the amount of thread we produced increased and the range of colours used in the dying grew, we sold more. We weren’t making a fortune, but we were more than covering costs and able to feed ourselves. The girls looked so much better for eating regularly and not living with the constant fear of being beaten by violent customers or their pimp. I even managed to weave some cloth so the girls could make new tunics and Wace had fresh swaddling.

  The sun struck our heads, and made the rapidly drying pools of water on the cobbles shine, addin
g to the notion that God was sending His beneficence our way. Distracted by my pleasant thoughts, I narrowly dodged two shrieking hens running away from a stalking cat, almost colliding with a maid leading a donkey. I sang out an apology. Nothing would spoil this glorious day.

  We crammed into the church. Father William invited us to light candles and place them before the altar of Our Lady. Once that was done and we assembled for him to say mass, we became impatient for the prayers and blessings to end as a great feast awaited us back at the house. Hips were nudged, arms pinched. Arnold reached over Leda’s shoulder to tweak the baby’s chin. Padre was a tolerant man and as keen to indulge in fine ale, Rhenish, the roast goose and eel pies, sweetmeats and other delicacies as we were, so rushed the mass – nobody complained.

  Filled with a pervading sense of goodwill, we spilled out of All Hallows, pausing to accept tokens for Leda and the child, stopping at the nearest tavern to enjoy a drink. I insisted on carrying Wace, holding him tightly. Careful not to overindulge (there was time for that), I was pleased to see Leda relishing being in the community she was yet to discover, and the other girls not only enjoying themselves after all their hard work of the last few weeks, but being accepted by locals. I’d been concerned about how folk on Honey Lane would feel about having former bawds living among them. It wasn’t as if we could keep it a secret. Seems one couldn’t fart in this place without someone smelling it. But so far, apart from one or two beldames lifting their noses and crossing themselves, and a few men knocking on the door, pennies in fists, seeking comfort, there’d been naught to concern me.

  The general air of jollity wrapped us in its arms like the rare sunshine, so it took a moment to notice that not far past the tavern, our way was blocked.

  A wall of backs brought us to a halt. Gradually, the laughter and general chitter died. It was replaced by the sharp crack of wood breaking, the ring of crockery smashing and the wet sounds of something tender striking something hard.

  ’Twas then I heard Milda and my heart lurched. Along with Lowdy, the old woman had gone ahead to ensure the feast was ready.

  ‘Nay! Nay! Not the yarn!’

  I passed Wace to Leda and began to push through the bodies, then they suddenly gave way, parting like stalks before the plough.

  On the road before our house was what was left of the looms. They’d been hewn with an axe. Huge, broken splinters, shards really, reached to the heavens, like the fingers of a dying man. The warp threads were separated from each other, drowning in shallow pools of filth in the central ditch. But it was the sight of all the thread and beautiful woven cloth that almost broke me. Torn from the loom, severed from the lower beam, it had been trampled into the muck. Yards and yards of thread were scattered, a field of scythed wheat that no-one would ever gather.

  Beside me, a child held a shuttle in his hand, still twined with yarn. I resisted the urge to tear it from him and fling it at the thugs who, even as I watched, were throwing our belongings onto the street – jugs, mazers, decorative plate, bedding, a tapestry that had disguised a damp stain on a wall in the solar. Our clothes, shoes, pattens. Trays of food lovingly prepared by Milda and the girls were hoisted out the door. Ribbed dogs darted forward to grab a haunch of meat and run, pigs snuffled their way forward, ignoring what flew overhead or landed with dull thuds about them.

  People whispered, others shouted.

  At our appearance, and our evident distress, the mood shifted. Some began encouraging the men, raising their fists, pointing at me and the girls.

  ‘Whores, they are. Not spinsters.’

  ‘Sinners, the lot of them.’

  ‘You should be ashamed to stand with them, Father,’ shouted a burly man from the other side of the debris. ‘They are bawds and maudlyns, devil-spawn.’ To his credit, Father William put an arm about my shoulders. I couldn’t speak. I feared if I did, it would unleash the rage burning in my breast and only cause more damage.

  Folk began to dart forward and take whatever wasn’t completely destroyed. The goose carcass was swiftly removed, a swathe of cloth only partly dirtied in the ditch. A lone boot. The torn curtain from my bed. The goblets brought from Slynge House had already been pocketed by the men. Held back by Father William and Master Bordwrygt, Pieter and Conal, who knew better than to try and stop the brutes, nevertheless struggled against their captors. The girls began to weep.

  Geoffrey had warned me something like this could happen. That as a feme sole who was neither widow nor wife, I would pay a hefty price for attempting to do business, for taking in women deemed sinners. I’d ignored him, thinking I knew better. I’d be inconsequential, I said, overlooked. What I didn’t reckon with was that my good intentions and small illegal business would be mistaken for another kind.

  Once more, I’d gambled and lost.

  My knees gave way and I slowly sank to the cobbles. Not even Father William could support my weight. Milda squatted beside me, her arms enfolding me. On the other side, Lowdy wrapped her thin arms around my neck, weeping. More bodies pressed against me. Leda, Rose, Donnet, Yolande and Megge.

  When someone struck a flint and threw smoking tinder onto what was now a pyre, I cried out. The men laughed, some cheered. Folk folded their arms and shook their heads. Whether at me or the wreckage, I couldn’t tell.

  The men behind the demolition of my household poked the fire, pushing everything that was left into the flames.

  ‘Who are these men?’ I asked.

  I couldn’t be heard above the crowd, the crackle of the fire. The heat was fierce, my cheeks burned.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I shouted at the nearest fellow.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious, Alyson?’ murmured Milda. ‘They are the guild, or sent by them.’

  I struggled to my feet. ‘Nay. Nay,’ I said, shaking off Milda’s arm as she tried to prevent me getting closer – not just to the growing conflagration, which would soon prove dangerous to the surrounding houses, but the invaders.

  My fingers latched onto an arm. ‘Who sent you?’ I demanded. A pimply lad with broad shoulders spun at my touch. In his hand was a rake – Drew’s by the look of it. ‘Are you from the guild?’

  The lad’s eyes were small, hard, like river stones. He looked me up and down and sneered. ‘The guild? No, but they know what we’re doing. Done with their blessing.’

  ‘Then who sent you?’

  He pursed his lips and shook his head, but not before I saw the look he cast into the crowd at a tall, bald man with a scar running across his cheek and over his chin. A man, who, when he knew I’d seen him, saluted and threw back his head and laughed.

  It didn’t need Leda’s gasp or to see Lowdy, Megge and Yolande cowering for me to know who it was. Ordric Fleshewer. Behind him stood Bianca’s husband, his face triumphant. Blood marred his cheeks.

  Fury washed with sorrow swept over me. Before I could do or say anything more, Ordric signalled his men. The youth before me threw the rake in the fire. Men turned and vanished into the crowd. Already people began to back away as the flames rose higher, threatening the house and its broken shutters, from which so much had been thrown to the ground.

  Dismay changed to cries of fear as tongues of flame came too close to the thatch.

  The call went up. ‘Fire!’

  Master Bordwrygt, bearing a great hook, shoved his way forward. From the opposite direction, folk appeared with sloshing buckets of water.

  What was first a spectacle involving the destruction of a wanton’s property became a matter of life and death. The crowd swiftly dispersed, but most returned with hooks, blankets, besoms, anything to beat the flames. More buckets appeared, a line was formed and wound all the way out to the conduit on Cheapside.

  The joy of the morning was forgotten. My wits returned and I ordered Leda and the other girls back to the church, entrusting their care to Father William.

  ‘But, Wace’s crib, his swaddling –’ began Leda, her eyes larger than ever, her beautiful skin covered in smuts.

 
‘It’s too late for that. Go. Go,’ I demanded, pushing her in the back. ‘Make sure Wace is safe. Lowdy too.’

  ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘You cannot mean to stay.’

  ‘Not for long,’ I said, determined to salvage something, anything. Already flames were licking the lower window, crawling up the front of the house to tease the shutters.

  I studied the house, wondering if it was possible they’d overlooked something, that they hadn’t destroyed everything.

  It was only then, God forgive me, that I thought about Drew, Arnold and the hounds. Why, the boys had returned with Milda and Lowdy, promising to untie the dogs. We’d secured them before going to church.

  ‘Milda,’ I grabbed her hand. ‘Where are Arnold and Drew? Hera and Siren?’

  Her eyes shifted to the rear lane. ‘I haven’t seen them since we got here –’

  I flew from her side, pushing through the line of buckets, past the men using their hooks to grapple down the thatch of the surrounding houses and ours. The dull thuds as huge sections struck the cobbles was both reassuring and sickening. Already the bonfire was a smouldering mess. It was the house that posed the greatest danger – to the entire lane.

  Smoke obscured my vision, tears filled my eyes as I coughed my way inside, holding my apron over my mouth. The rear gate was open. I rushed through. The fire hadn’t taken here … yet. In fact, apart from the dense smoke and the noise of the flames and shouting men, it would be easy to believe it was someone else’s problem, that fire was a distant threat.