by Karen Brooks
‘Arnold! Drew!’ I cried and then doubled over coughing.
‘Hera, Siren!’ Their empty ropes were still tied to the shed. That gave me hope, even as the ominous silence signalled doom. The door to the shed was ajar, a black chasm that beckoned me forward. I hesitated.
It took a moment to become accustomed to the darkness, the thin slats of light that severed the black. Smoke swirled, surrounding me. I was an apparition.
It was the smell that caught me first. Sharp, metallic. Afraid what I’d find, but knowing I must search, I continued forward, arms outstretched. It was my toes that discovered them. My boots struck something soft. I bent ever so slowly, a mole finding its way. My fingers landed on Arnold, then Drew, before they slid in blood.
So much blood.
Suddenly, the blood I’d seen on Bianca’s husband made a dreadful sense.
I lifted my hands until a thin ribbon of light illuminated them. Ripped from my aching throat, the scream was like no sound I’d ever made before.
Some time later, when the fire was extinguished and the neighbourhood engulfed in a pall of reeking grey smoke, I sat before Father William’s hearth wrapped in a shawl, a mazer of ale in my shaking hands.
Upon finding Arnold and Drew in the yard, about to release the hounds, the men struck the boys with the hilts of their knives, their fists and boots, before they cut the dogs free. Scared, the dogs had bolted. Or that’s what one of Ordric’s men claimed in a tavern later that afternoon. Under no circumstances would the dogs have fled. They’d have fought to the death to protect Arnold and Drew. In my heart, I feared Houndsditch had two more bodies in its clogged waterway. As for Drew and Arnold, the blessed nonces had fought back, unarmed. There were scores to be settled. Had not Arnold and Drew, two servants, drawn knives on these same men weeks back when the girls left to join us? Arnold had taken a killing blow to the chest. In and up the knife had gone. He’d died quickly. Drew had sustained a wound to his shoulder and slashes, abrasions, bruises from boots and fists, and the greater pain of loss.
Upstairs in Father William’s bedroom, he was being tended by a physician who could be relied upon to be discreet. The same physician had sent to an apothecary for unguents to treat Pieter, Conal and Milda’s burns. My hurts were not visible, but I knew they would never, ever heal. Like the wound of Alyson’s death, they would scar my soul.
There’d been some talk of raising a hue and cry, but what was the point? I was afraid if we involved the law there’d be too many questions. Didn’t matter that a pimp and his rascals had caused untold damage and death. Nothing would come of opening up an investigation, not when I’d so much to hide. Anyone who thought otherwise was a fool.
I said as much.
When Milda, Leda and the others tried to disagree, it was Father William who stood by me.
‘Mistress Alyson is right. ’Tis best to let sleeping dogs lie.’ He looked at me meaningfully and I knew what he meant. No amount of seeking justice would prevent those able to administer it from turning against me and my illegal weaving trade.
Instead, I asked for pen and parchment and wrote to Geoffrey. Aye, I know what you’re thinking and don’t for a moment believe I didn’t think the same thing. He’d warned me that starting a venture as a feme sole, unmarried, not even claiming the status of a widow, would be a problem. When I boasted about rescuing the girls and how I was a godmother, he’d offered more cautions, saying my actions could be misread. My pride meant I ignored him. And look where that led.
I glanced around at what remained of my household. A few pallets had been erected in the sacristy. Lowdy was curled up beside Milda, Yolande shared another with Megge, while Rose, Leda and Wace lay under covers on a third. Donnet was upstairs, sharing Drew’s care with me and Milda. We were a sorry-looking lot. The earlier gaiety was like a distant dream. The clothes on our backs and the few objects I’d managed to salvage were all we had left, those and the few coins I’d donated for Leda’s churching, which Father William generously refunded. He and his elderly housekeeper, Mistress Glenford, also fed us – not the fine fare we’d been anticipating, but a tasty pottage with maslin. I was beyond grateful.
Conal offered to take my letter directly to Geoffrey. Pressing the river fare into his palm, I bade him take care. Mistress Glenford bundled leftover maslin and some cold coney into a kerchief for him.
‘If you find Master Chaucer,’ I said, ‘I’ve asked him to accompany you back. If he’s not home, then return and we’ll seek him elsewhere.’
I prayed he’d be in Kent. Parliament wasn’t sitting and while he’d made no mention of travelling, who knew where his role as a member took him.
Before the city gates closed that night, Conal was gone; Pieter went with him as far as the river.
It was a long time before sleep claimed me, and then it was brief, broken by Drew’s cries and my own nightmares. Once again, someone had lost their life through my wilful blindness.
And then there were the hounds …
I swore then and there it would never, ever happen again. In the flickering light of the candle, the huddled shapes of my girls, of Milda, Lowdy and little Wace, were like monuments to my failures. Failures that were, if I was honest, mostly my fault, but also facilitated by men who couldn’t face a woman treading on what they perceived as their ground.
One day, I swore, I would find a place – a home, a business – for us all. I would build something that was mine and mine alone. Where we would all be safe and which could never be torn down by the spiteful actions of bitter men.
The irony that I turned to a man in my time of need was not lost on me; but I could no longer depend on my own judgement. Anyway, Geoffrey was hardly a man, not in the way others were to me. Did he not say he was foremost a poet?
Well, I was relying on those skills now, for, as a poet, he was capable of great feats of imagination. God knew, if I was to survive this city with my household intact, that was exactly what I needed.
PILGRIMAGE TO ST MARTIN’S LE GRAND
A letter to Master Geoffrey Chaucer from Alyson Bookbinder, feme sole
I send my greetings from London, Geoffrey, and God’s and all the saints’ blessings, and mine, and that of my grateful household.
While I know the brief journey to St Martin’s Le Grand hardly counts as a pilgrimage, being as it’s in London, it’s the best I can do for now. This sanctuary within a city renowned for its sinners and churches – a mighty contradiction if ever there was one – has proved to be a blessing indeed. When you first suggested I move here, while we were still camped in All Hallows, telling me it was not only exempt from the usual laws governing London but offered a haven for felons and those with a reason to hide, I wondered why you were telling me this. What reason could I have for not rebuilding Honey Lane? Why would I want to live like an exile in the city I wished to call home? (Apart from the obvious, but we’ll remain mute about that.) I was a victim of thuggery and criminals, not a perpetrator. I didn’t set fire to my own house or destroy my own property.
Unlike you, what I hadn’t counted on was the resentment and anger directed towards us by the parish. Whereas once I could have reckoned many of the residents of Honey Lane, and within the church, as friends, less than a month after the fire we’d become pariahs, as likely to be abused and shunned as greeted. Oh, Geoffrey, it was difficult to hold my tongue and not let forth. You’d be proud of me. Only once did I call Widow Carter a leper’s get with nugs not even Satan’s brood would suckle. And while I may have punched Master Godfrey, the cordwainer, in the jaw for putting his hand up Leda’s skirt, the next time he did it, I restrained myself so well, I only twisted his balls. The cry he issued did, however, cause Anthony Dun’s mule to kick Sergeant Fenkirk in the chin, dislodging two teeth. It was hardly my fault the man had squatted behind the beast to have a shit. If he hadn’t been so lazy and had bothered to stick his arse over the Fleet, well, none of it would have happened.
But I digress …
When Fa
ther William showed me the petition to have us evicted from his church, accusing me of inviting danger, disturbing the peace and bringing the parish into disrepute by procuring, I was speechless. When folk threatened to bring the authorities down upon us, I was left with little choice but to follow your advice.
And so here we are, relocated to St Martin’s Le Grand, this town within a city. Even though I’ve lived in London a while, I’d no idea this place existed. Yet, here it is, abutting Greyfriars to the west, Aldersgate to the north, and Faster’s Lane and a great many cordwainers’ properties to the east. We entered from the south, the stink and noise of the Shambles escorting us the entire way.
As you’d be well aware, cousin, within the walls are not only many people, but churches, canons’ houses, a college and all the other places and spaces one would expect in a religious precinct, including a nunnery. There’s a huge courtyard as you enter, filled with stalls, shops, a couple of rowdy taverns, and two- and three-storey houses with tenants from all walks of life. This astonished me the most, for living here, side by side with the clergy, are so many cutpurses, thieves, brigands and felons, all escaping the law within St Martin’s dun-coloured walls, I doubted Newgate (which isn’t far away) held more. There are also bawds, though most of them seemed to be without pimps and looked a darn sight happier for having shed that costly burden.
Before the Dean, your friend, and the Commissary – a lugubrious man with the largest chin I’ve ever seen – and a ruddy-faced scribe, I explained the reason I was seeking sanctuary (I had to swear it wasn’t due to treason – not even St Martin’s can save a soul from that), and promise that my household would uphold the rules governing this place. It was explained the gates shut at compline and opened at matins. The Dean said something about ensuring anything brought into St Martin’s belonged to us lawfully. Then there were numerous regulations about not committing crimes within the precinct or bringing in stolen goods. By now I wasn’t really listening. I was looking around the room and thinking that from the amount of gold and silver – whether it was candlesticks, plate, goblets and even a small hammer and block, not to mention the huge fire that was such a welcome respite from the freezing weather; the priests here did very well from the crooks they housed. No wonder they all looked well fed.
I also had to divest myself of weapons. When I explained I needed my tongue and wouldn’t be handing it over, no-one laughed. Well, they were warned.
After that, I signed my name (I could see they were impressed I knew how to wield a quill and make more than a mark). Then I was assigned a house. Now, here is where I’m sure I owe you extra thanks. Not only did you smooth my passage into this place, but the lodgings we were given, and for such a reasonable sum, are more than adequate.
A novice named Malcolm ushered us back into the large square, which, despite the snow falling thickly, was filled with vendors. People milled about and molten sparks danced from burning braziers. There were children playing, animals squawking, bleating and honking.
Leda confessed she thought the place ‘bloody marvellous’ and I think that sums up the general feeling quite well.
The novice led us across the square towards a row of rather ramshackle two-storey houses. Dark-eyed women sat on the stoop of one, peeling vegetables and throwing the scraps into a bucket. A couple of men were playing a game of dice on another and stopped to watch us pass. There was no hostility, which we were expecting, just curiosity and appraisal. A barrel filled with water sat outside one house, a lone glove languished at the bottom of a step. Someone called a name and a large black dog ran past, its tail wagging.
Malcolm stopped outside the seventh house. Our new home.
It’s small, Geoffrey, and there were holes in the thatch and slats missing on a couple of the shutters. Nevertheless, the area outside had been swept clean and was in reasonably good condition – at least until a few houses along, where it deteriorated into a cesspit. The house tilted against its neighbour like a drunken friend. I found this reassuring.
By the time the sun was setting that first day, casting filaments of pale rose and violet clouds about a golden sky, I sat with everyone in an upstairs room, entertaining our first visitors. The curious neighbours had invited themselves over. They weren’t empty-handed either, bringing food and ale to share. As you can imagine, they were most welcome.
Chatter washed over me and I enjoyed the way the light entered, highlighting the worn wooden mantel over the hearth and making the whitewashed walls glow, soot-stained as they were, with their rusty sconces and melting candles.
I couldn’t relish it too long, Geoffrey. In the faces around me, in Milda’s and Lowdy’s especially, the reason for this change of abode was all too apparent. Arnold dead and buried and Drew still with Father William until he’s well enough to join us. Not even the angry parish could persuade the priest to release him, bless.
As for the hounds … my beautiful dogs, I don’t want to think about them. It hurts more than I can bear.
I’m not writing to pour out my sorrow, though I confess it does help and beg you’ll forgive my indulgence, but to let you know that, despite what’s happened, the upheaval, despair and grief, and the ongoing worry about coin, it hasn’t taken us long to settle. The house was partly furnished when we took it over, with a long, narrow table in the kitchen, a few stools as well as some pallet beds and pillows. At the novice Malcolm’s insistence, and with a note to give to the proprietor, Conal, Lowdy and Yolande went to a second-hand dealer in the square to borrow blankets and other necessaries. They were given more than they asked for and I was touched by the generosity, though I suspect there will come a time we’ll be asked to repay.
We’ve managed to purchase some wool, so most of our days are spent spinning, and we sell what we’ve made in the markets at St Martin’s, or barter it for food and ale. In the evenings we tell each other stories and I find yours are much in demand. I know I don’t do them justice, but when I share your wonderful tales, I feel you close to me.
The favourite one at the moment is the two knights who loved the same woman and fought to the death for her. It’s such a sad, beguiling story of the fragility of life, how the cost of victory often far outweighs the spoils. And yet, every time I tell it, I’m struck by the fact these men sacrificed their mutual love, their friendship, to win a woman. Surely true love isn’t a competition, a sport in which one emerges the victor and the other the loser? It’s a shared intimacy that grows over time. Passion comes in all forms. The love I bear my Godsib is an example. So is the love I bear my household. And the love I bear for you.
You asked about my plans for the future. Spinning is a way forward but it’s a mighty slow one. Eventually, I hope, we’ll make enough coin to contract the services of a carpenter to either restore or build a loom. If we can do that, then, mayhap, I can weave again, Milda too. Sadly, Pieter has left us. Who can blame him? He has a young family and cannot wait for our fortunes to recover. I can scarce wait myself. It will be much easier to operate as a weaver from within these walls, where those deemed felons by the authorities, whatever the reason, are at liberty to at least try and make a life for themselves.
You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve also taken your advice not to correct folk when they assume I’m a widow. At least that way I won’t be continually asked for my husband’s or employer’s approval when striking deals. Thus far, it’s worked.
So, Geoffrey, this is how things stand. We’re poor, and hungry most of the time. Drew is healing, Wace is growing, Lowdy too – I’m teaching her to read and write, and when Wace is old enough, I’ll give him lessons. We spin, talk, eat, laugh, sometimes weep, and shiver in our damp little house. But we’re safe.
What I’ve come to realise in the short few months we’ve been here is that if thieves, counterfeiters, forgers, strumpets, pimps and so many other men, women (and too many children) have fallen so far they’re left with no choice but to flee city justice and make a new life here – from all accounts, a good o
ne – then what’s stopping me?
May peace be with you.
Written on the Feast of St Patrick.
Yours, Alyson.
Spinning the Bawd’s Tale
1390 to 1401
And so I tell this tale to every man,
‘It’s all for sale and let him win who can.’
The Wife of Bath’s Prologue, The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, translated by Neville Coghill
Go a pilgrim, return a whore.
Common saying in the Middle Ages
THIRTY-EIGHT
St Martin’s Le Grand, London
The Year of Our Lord 1390
In the fourteenth year of the reign of Richard II
We hadn’t been living within St Martin’s’ stony embrace long before we realised that just about all the rules I’d agreed to obey were more to reassure those living outside the walls than to be followed within. Curfew was regularly broken, fences were kept busy buying and selling stolen goods, forgers were conspicuous, their work snuck out in the coats and paltocks of knaves and knights. Gambling was rife, as was counterfeiting. Likewise, bawds earned good coin operating inside St Martin’s and in the streets beyond. We’d see them each day, either leaving the confines to ply their trade or openly soliciting men and priests, beckoning them into the shadows between buildings or even the nave and aisles of the churches.
The months flew by, folding into each other like ells of cloth. Our second winter was far worse than the first, which, though bad, had at least been shored up by some coin Father William had given us. It came early, fierce and bitter and grew worse as the new year rolled on. Sleet-filled winds lashed the house and heavy snow coated the grounds, driving folk out of doors to sweep the square so vendors could still function and others conduct their mainly illicit affairs. Most of our days were spent spinning the little wool we’d been able to purchase, mainly through altering the second-hand clothes we’d been so generously given, washing, then selling them outside the walls. Down to our last kirtles and tunics, they were difficult to keep clean, especially since the aprons we wore – often simply to keep warm – were so patched and thin anything spilled upon them seeped straight through. No-one complained – not about their clothes, the lack of food or warmth – to my face at any rate. What I couldn’t credit was that everyone remained. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve such loyalty. It shattered my heart into little shards but kept it whole as well. I was like a riven vase, full of cracks and threads pasted back together, threatening to break at the least prompting.
