by Karen Brooks
Late the following year, we lost more of the household. Just before the snows fell in mid-December, Megge surprised me by announcing she was to be wed. When all we’d known for so long was sorrow and penny-pinching, hard work for poor returns, unbeknownst to me she’d been stepping out with a baker, a man in his twenties named Jon Brown. Jon came to St Martin’s in spring because his master forced him to add chalk to the bread. When that was uncovered, the master blamed his journeyman and promptly sent him to the pillory.
‘After they released me, I fled here to avoid paying the fine, mistress,’ he admitted, cap in hand, eyes on the floor. He was confessing all his sins before asking permission for Megge’s hand. I’d no intention of withholding it. I was overjoyed for her – for them – for all of us that we’d finally something to celebrate.
‘I also reckon the master would have had me done for if I’d shown me face again. Everyone knew he’d put me up to adding chalk, but the authorities took his word I acted alone.’
‘Took your master’s coin more like,’ added Megge loyally.
Jon nodded. I’d no doubt.
‘He was forced to leave the city,’ said Jon. ‘Take his business elsewhere.’
I liked this slight man with clear blue eyes and a toothy grin. It was clear he adored Megge; her past made not a whit of difference to him.
‘Far as I be concerned, mistress,’ he said to me earnestly, over a few ales, ‘and I told this to my Megge,’ he patted her leg as she sat beside him, her cheeks not quite so thin, her eyes shining with love, not defiance, ‘what happens outside the walls of St Martin’s stays out there. Ain’t that right?’
It wasn’t strictly true; still, I wasn’t going to argue.
The marriage was performed by Father Malcolm on the kalends of December 1391, at the church door of St Agnes.
Jon and Megge shared a house around the corner with an alien mercer, his wife and their two small children. Jon had been living there since he arrived and had built an oven in the outdoor kitchen so he could bake bread. He was one of the more popular bakers in the precinct, but by no means the only one.
From that day forth, bread was something we rarely paid for, which made life a bit easier. When it came to other necessities, we traded where we could, offering if not cloth or thread, then our mending services. Milda, Yolande and Leda were the neatest seamstresses around and both Rose and Lowdy could manage to alter or patch a tunic or shirt to make it respectable again. We also turned our hands to dyeing tunics, shirts, breeches and kirtles, Milda taking charge and imposing a small fee to breathe new life into old garments. It went down a treat with the bawds.
From being a household where both sexes dwelled, we’d become a house of mainly women – Drew and Wace excepted. Though, with his golden curls, chubby cheeks and rosebud mouth, Wace could be mistaken for a chit as he ran about and demanded attention. Whereas Drew, weakened by the attack on him, then lack of food and sunshine, never fully recovered. He carried scars both external – the knife wound, but also a deep ridge along his jaw and an eyelid that drooped – and internal. It was a trial for him to chop wood, though he was able to collect scraps, answer the door and deliver messages. I taught him to spin to help pass the time.
It’s understandable that newcomers to the precinct – and there were admissions all the time, as well as people leaving the safety of its walls – mistook us for a house of ill-repute. Upon seeing Drew, the men who called would start negotiating while looking the rest of us over, as if we were apples brought from the country and ripe for tasting. It would have been amusing had it not been dangerous. I knew soliciting was ignored within St Martin’s, but that was because the women either left the grounds or conducted their affairs swiftly and privately. There was no house dedicated to whoring. Not that I knew of, at any rate. Having been accused once of tarnishing the reputation of an entire parish by simply trying to run an honest business with mainly women workers, it was no surprise. Women weren’t regarded as serious craftsmen or capable of trading unless it was on their backs. When it was explained we sold thread and cloth, not our queyntes, many offered more coin. Especially when they caught sight of Leda or Rose. We turned away disappointed men (and a couple of women seeking work). The fortune we could have made didn’t bear thinking about.
By the time summer arrived in 1394, we were making ends meet. If we didn’t manage to earn more so we could buy extra wool to make more thread, then even the small bits of cloth I managed to weave on the ancient loom the nuns had given us wouldn’t be sufficient. But without the cloth to make the coin to buy the wool, we’d no thread. It was a perplexing circular problem, a serpent digesting its tail, and I could see no way out of it.
Whenever Geoffrey visited, he would bring what he could spare from his own larder and purchase firewood and other provisions for us. He was unable to loan money as his own situation was again dire (don’t ask me why or how – I didn’t know then). It was never enough. Not with seven mouths to feed.
Milda began to work miracles making the provisions we did have stretch as summer bowed to autumn. Suddenly, there was some meat in the pottage and the fire was more often lit in the solar as well as the kitchen. Salt and other spices, usually a luxury, began to flavour the food (as well as preserve it). I thanked God for that woman’s talents.
Memories of the previous winters and the one when the Botch struck, were still vivid, wounds that hadn’t quite healed. Though we conserved what coin we could, and began to preserve and stockpile food and wood in preparation for the cold months ahead, it wasn’t going to be easy. Even with our reduced numbers.
Something had to change – and soon.
Just before the first snows fell, Leda and Yolande came to see me in the solar.
I was sitting beneath some thin blankets, almost on top of the fire, trying to work the distaff and thread with stiff, frozen fingers. I couldn’t bear to sit in the kitchen anymore and listen to the others, their refusal to succumb to the misery of our safe but beggarly existence. To think this is where five marriages had led.
To think Jankin Binder was likely warm, well-fed and enjoying the cumulative spoils of them. If I dwelled on that subject for too long, I would unravel.
As was her habit, Milda sat with me, spinning. She knew when to speak and when to remain silent.
‘What is it you want, girls?’ I asked, concentrating on making the spindle turn.
They didn’t answer at first, but came forward and placed some coins on the small table where a pile of wool rested.
‘What’s this?’ I asked, looking suspiciously at the money, halting the spindle and lowering the distaff.
Milda remained focused on her thread.
‘What it looks like, mistress,’ said Leda. ‘Some coin so you can buy what we need.’ She folded her arms defiantly.
‘There’s more where that came from,’ said Yolande.
I put the equipment down and leaned forward, one finger shifting the coins apart. It had been a long time since I’d seen so many pennies, let alone a few shillings.
‘Where did you get these?’ My heart felt heavy, an anchor holding me to the floor.
Yolande nudged Leda. ‘Before you say anything, mistress,’ said Leda, clearly the spokeswoman, ‘we only did it with priests. They’re cleaner than the others and, as you can see, they pay well.’
‘We didn’t do it where anyone could see us either, but went to their cells,’ Yolande added.
‘And inside the church,’ added Leda helpfully.
Dear God.
I fixed my eyes on the coins, which began to shimmer and lose shape as my thoughts flew in a thousand different directions at once, gulls fleeing a storm. What had possessed them? I hadn’t taken these girls in to put them back on the street. Hadn’t freed them from a ruthless master to take his place.
Outside, bells began to ring. There was a cheer from somewhere and the faint bellow of a cow. Below, I could hear laughter followed by a shriek of joy.
‘That’d be Lo
wdy,’ said Yolande. ‘She’s found the haunch of meat we brought.’
‘You bought meat?’ My head flew up.
‘Nay, mistress,’ said Yolande. ‘Father Runcible gave it to me. As a token of his … what’d he say? Appriestiation.’
I swallowed a smile. ‘I see.’ I didn’t correct her. The term was apt.
There was silence. Yolande shifted uncomfortably.
‘Others do it,’ said Leda, finally. ‘Why shouldn’t we? It’s what we’re used to and, frankly, mistress, we bring in more swiving than we do spinning.’
Words flew from my mouth. ‘This isn’t about money –’ Panic, a need to tell them I didn’t want them to do this, made my voice shrill.
‘Well, what’s it about then?’ demanded Leda. ‘Don’t tell me you disapprove? You, who’s been wed more times than John of Gaunt, and swives who you fancy beneath our noses.’ Her face hardened. She thought I was angry with them. I wasn’t. How could I be? It’s just that this was never how it was supposed to be – the women supporting me, using their queyntes to keep us solvent, fed and warm. Disappointment in myself swamped me.
They were so proud. Their chins raised defiantly, their eyes glittering. They’d done what I’d failed to do.
‘Milda? You’re remarkably quiet.’ I faced her.
Milda coloured and then gave a shrug.
‘You knew about this.’ All of a sudden, the recent improvements in our larder made terrible sense.
‘Knew might be too strong a word,’ she said. ‘Guessed. How do you think we came by the extra food? Through prayer?’ She brushed her silver hair out of her face.
Leda stepped forward. ‘You didn’t force us out there, mistress. You didn’t beat us or take our wages.’
I flicked my hand at the coins. ‘And I won’t start now.’
‘They’ve given those to you,’ said Milda, raising her voice. ‘You can’t reject them.’
The expression on her face was hard to read. A mixture of pride in the girls, relief we wouldn’t starve or freeze, but also guilt. Moses in a basket, I knew that feeling.
‘If you’re so worried about what we’re doing,’ said Leda, ‘then set rules. Make it we can only swive, suck or tug priests. God knows, there’s plenty of them prepared to pay. From the day we got here, they’ve been begging for it and offering plenty if we would. Until a few weeks back, we refused.’
‘There’s no shame in doing what’s needed so we might have food in our stomachs, clothes on our backs, and a few faggots for the kitchen hearth,’ said Yolande. ‘Drew feels the cold mighty bad and I didn’t want him sickening again – nor the children.’
A bolt of shame sent me back against my chair. ‘I’m so sorry –’ I began. Sorry that they were reduced to this, that my attempt to save them from that life had failed. I buried my face in my hands.
‘Sorry?’ scoffed Leda. ‘What for? We wouldn’t have done it if we didn’t want to. If we didn’t think it worth it.’
I raised my head.
‘We know you look out for us, mistress, that you wouldn’t see us come to harm. We just thought it was about time we looked out for you.’
The back of my eyes began to itch.
I stared at the coins. They were dull, scratched, used. Just like the girls had once been. If I took them, I was no better than Judas, betraying all I stood for, all I wanted to give these women.
‘Nay!’ I leapt to my feet. ‘Nay. I’ll not have it.’
Yolande stepped back, hands flying up to protect herself. The action shocked me. I’d never strike the girls, never. I moved to reassure her at the same time as Leda moved between us.
‘You’ll not have it?’ she hissed, thrusting her face into mine. ‘You once promised you’d never tell us what we could and couldn’t do.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Just ’cause you don’t like it, don’t give you the right to tell us nay. If we’ve learned anything from you after all these years, it’s that. You’ve plied your trade despite the men who try and stop you; why shouldn’t we ply ours? God knows, yours, the spinning and cloth-makin’ you trained us to, isn’t getting us anywhere.’
I sank back into the seat. My stomach roiled. The urge to be sick was strong. Muddy images swirled like an overflowing ditch in my mind. Leda was right. I had said those things. Told them I’d never seek to control them … not allowing them to be whores – it wasn’t control, but protection … Wasn’t it?
I studied the women. Leda was twenty now, Yolande older. They’d regained a little of the weight they’d lost during the Botch year, but were still slender. By God, they were beauties. Leda’s was the obvious kind – golden tresses, pink cheeks and ruby lips with those large pale blue eyes. Yolande’s was more subtle – the dark ringlets, the deeply-hooded hazel eyes and thin mouth that could break into a wide smile without warning. They weren’t girls, but women grown. Leda was a mother. Yolande had seen death, survived it beneath this very roof. Made choices that changed her life. Why did it matter so much to me that she was making one more? Leda too? Was it because I hadn’t made it for them?
I wasn’t like that, was I? I didn’t want authority over these girls. Just over my life. But if I wanted it, I who’d had husbands, wealth and opportunity, why shouldn’t these girls want it too? To take control of their destiny, spin Fortuna’s wheel as they wanted? If it was a poor choice, so be it. At least I would be there to set it to rights again.
If that is what they wanted.
‘This isn’t what I wanted …’ I said softly.
‘What did you want, mistress?’ asked Yolande.
‘For you to have better lives.’
Leda dropped to her knees before me. ‘And that’s what we have, you old goose.’ She gave me one of her beautiful smiles. ‘Our lives, hard as they’ve been lately, are also the best they’ve ever been. One has only to look at Wace and Lowdy to see that. How can you not?’ She put a tentative hand on my knee. ‘Just because we choose to do something you don’t like, doesn’t make it wrong. It just makes it our responsibility.’
I choked back a sob; placed my hand over Leda’s. A memory came to me – the story of Fulk’s sister, Loveday Bigod. How she too had come to London, a feme sole with grand ideas. Look where that had led. I couldn’t let this happen to my girls. To me.
Leda squeezed my knee. I rubbed my face, staring at the coins, at what they meant. What we could do with them … with more. It didn’t bear consideration, did it? If the girls were willing, if it’s what they wanted and were safe, was it so bad? It was their first trade; one they knew how to ply. They weren’t innocent virgins being sacrificed to male desire and brutality.
This was their choice. Chosen because it helped me. Helped us all. There was no shame, no regret. The expression on Yolande’s face said so much. She wanted my approval – they both did. What would it make me if I gave it?
It need only be for a little while, until we had enough to mayhap weave again.
But how could I ask them to do this? Only, I wasn’t asking, was I?
‘Mistress,’ said Leda, as if she were a prognosticator, reading my mind. ‘We’ll do it whether you wish it or no.’
I rose slowly, uncertain if my knees would hold. I glanced at Milda. She trusted me to make the right decision. God bless her.
What if I were to offer my queynte as well? Would that salve my conscience? Would that lessen the pain of allowing the girls to sell theirs?
What if no-one wanted it? I was almost two score years. It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘If this is what you choose to do,’ I said, finally, ‘then do it. You’ll get no objections from me. Not today at any rate.’
Leda flew into my arms, Yolande gave a whoop of joy. Rose chose that moment to enter, or so I thought.
‘Then you’ll have no objection if I do the same,’ said Rose.
‘Now, wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Allowing Leda and Yolande to return to their old profession is very different to asking you to enter it.’
‘Enter it? Ha! Have y
ou forgotten where you found me, mistress?’ asked Rose. That shut me up. ‘Anyhow, I heard what you said. It’s my choice. I choose to do this. I’m also a woman, lest you haven’t noticed.’
I hadn’t. Why, slight as Rose was, she was buxom, with long, lithe legs and pert breasts. She’d be over twenty. How had I failed to see these changes – without and within?
I had to sit down again. The girls gathered around me, chittering like robins in excitement. Milda found my hand and held it tightly.
How had my desire to be in charge of my own life, to be my own master, come back to bite me on the rump so viciously? Well, it was hard to miss, being a generous arse and all. There’d be a price to pay for condoning this – I felt it in my ageing bones.
But another part saw the right of it too. What I’d desired for these women, good marriages, the promise of a life away from poverty, from debt and brutal men, hadn’t eventuated as I’d hoped. While Megge had found happiness with Jon, it was within a precinct where felons sought refuge. At least if the girls did trade their bodies, I could oversee it, ensure they came to no harm; that they were paid fairly for what they offered. Unlike Loveday, these girls, my girls, wouldn’t be left to fend for themselves, to give up their children. The girls had me. Me and Milda.
If it went well, and I prayed it would, trying not to consider Ordric and his kind, and we continued to spin and weave a little, we could slowly rebuild our original business. Better still, I could hire someone to protect the girls. Beneath this roof, I could look to their wellbeing, but beyond … well, I needed someone who could keep them from harm.
If we earned enough, I could shore up an education for Wace. I’d already spoken to Geoffrey about securing an apprenticeship for him when the time came. At thirteen, it was also time to seriously consider what to do with Lowdy. Though I’d taught her to read and write, I’d been negligent. There was no reason she couldn’t have an apprenticeship as well. That nun from St Agnes, the apothecary, was very fond of her …
Summoned by my thoughts, the children appeared in the doorway.
