by Karen Brooks
‘Which is what makes it so funny, Aunty Alyson.’ Lowdy smiled and then shrugged. ‘I know this is important to you, that you feel Master Geoffrey has betrayed you, but is that really the case? He says the Wife is an everywoman, just as the manciple is not one particular manciple, nor the parson anyone of his acquaintance.’ Lowdy leaned forward on her stool. ‘What if he’s defending you and all women by making the Wife so ridiculously bold and more than able to defend herself?’
‘Did Geoffrey tell you to say that also?’
Lowdy lowered her chin. ‘He might have …’
Amusement flickered. The man didn’t give up. I watched as the pink in Lowdy’s cheeks deepened. Dear Lord but she was a sweet one. Seventeen and a lovely young woman who’d earned the admiration of the nuns of St Agnes. Her mother couldn’t have been any prouder than I was.
‘Come here,’ I said and put my arms about her.
‘I hate that you and Master Geoffrey are at odds,’ she said softly, leaning into my embrace.
‘So do I, Lowdy, so do I.’
She pulled away slightly so she could see my face. ‘Then, why don’t you make up?’
‘Because that’s for him to initiate.’
‘But, he’s tried, Aunty Alyson. Over and over, many times.’
‘Not enough.’
Lowdy kissed me, and extracted herself from my hold, rising. ‘What I don’t understand is why it has to be one way or the other.’ She looked down at me, hands on her slender hips. ‘Can the Wife not be criticising men while also being criticised? Nobody’s perfect. If you consider it that way, then it might make it a bit easier for you to forgive him … till the next time.’
We both laughed.
Her footsteps retreated. A door closed. There was the low hum of chatter.
I picked up the spinning and contemplated her words, clever chit. Nevertheless, regardless of what Geoffrey intended, it still affected me deeply.
Thus far, no-one had associated me with the brash-mouthed woman searching for yet another husband to rule over. To many, I was nothing more than a widow, an old woman who happened to be a bawd, preoccupied, like everyone else, with a poet’s entertaining words. Even to Lowdy.
Unbeknownst to them, I was also grieving a friendship. I found a kerchief and dabbed my eyes. Dear Lord, I was the living embodiment of that old proverb: ‘God made women to weep, talk and spin.’
Suddenly, Geoffrey’s version of the Wife of Bath didn’t seem so unappealing.
Even with Master Stephen to protect them, there were times the girls were beaten. Men would wait until they’d lured them far enough away from Stephen before hurting them, usually because they refused to oblige a strange request or were simply furious at all women. Cut lips, black eyes, hanks of hair torn out and, once, a cut from a swung dagger (that man had his jaw broken by Master Stephen and a dunking in the Thames for his pains). Anger always filled me when they came home hurt, trying not to make a fuss as I daubed and strapped their wounds, Master Stephen offering apologies. But it wasn’t his fault. This was the work of brutish, weak men.
No matter where they were or who was there, the girls were in danger on the street. Mayhap, it was time to leave St Martin’s and find a place of my own, a place like those over in Southwark, where I could dictate who entered the premises, how long they stayed, and where Master Stephen could linger outside a door, ready to render assistance. A place where, if the men couldn’t adjust their vicious ways, they’d be shown out and banned from ever entering again. See how they liked having their movements controlled by a woman.
That made me smile.
In order to be more than a fool’s dream, we needed to save enough to pay for a lease and the overheads on a bathhouse. Unless I could find somewhere with furniture, there’d be that to think of, too. A bawdy house had to look and feel a particular way to invite custom, as did the girls, for that matter. There’d be clothes to consider, bedding, perfumes, soaps. I began to imagine what it would be like, what shape my very own bawdy house would take. How I’d decorate the entrance, the rooms. The rules I’d set, how I’d care for the girls. As I sat in the solar and did the sums one night, I realised we were still an impossibly long way from being able to afford that sort of freedom. Disappointment engulfed me.
Nevertheless, things started to improve slowly. Not only were my girls much sought after in Southwark, but orders for cloth from the Flemish at Bankside, who had noticed the lovely fabrics Leda, Rose and Yolande wore, grew.
The house wasn’t kept nearly as well as I would have liked. Between us, Lowdy, Milda and I did what we could, but if the rushes weren’t changed as often and meals were bought from the local ordinary more than I would have liked, at least the spinning and weaving was becoming a little profitable. If I wanted it to remain that way, I’d have to consider hiring a housekeeper and even another maid to free me to spin more, Milda as well.
Once more, Fortuna turned her wheel in our direction. Before summer finished her annual dance, our household increased by two and a half.
First came someone I’d oft thought about but never dared to openly approach.
She arrived on the doorstep one miserable afternoon. The rain was relentless and everything was leaking and dripping. The girls and Master Stephen had come home early, Lowdy was busy with the nuns, making and distributing medic to monks who’d fallen ill due to the damp. Yolande had gone to fetch Wace from his tutor. We were sitting in the kitchen listening to the water dripping through the holes in the thatch, enjoying some ale and the warmth of the fire, discussing the death of John of Gaunt a few months before, when there was a resounding knock on the door.
‘Who could that be?’ asked Milda, half-rising.
‘An inmate of Bethlehem, if the weather’s anything to go by,’ I said, shooing her back into her seat. ‘Stay. I’ll answer.’
There was another knock. Louder. ‘By St Cuthbert’s hairy legs, I’m coming!’ I shouted.
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Master Stephen, raising his bulk from the stool where he was whittling an old stick he’d found.
Together we ascended the few stairs to the hall and wrenched open the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Time contracted. Once again, I was a woman in my prime, agreeing to marry Mervyn Slynge and being welcomed into his beautiful home. Then, I was the silly, lust-filled widow, delighted the handsome knave Simon de la Pole had asked me to be his bride. Finally, I was the giddy older woman, smitten in every way with her young lover. And through these men and marriages, the secrets, pain and blood, had been this woman.
‘Oriel,’ I said, and drew her into my arms.
‘Oh, mistress.’ She burst into tears.
Hours later, after Lowdy, Wace, Drew and the girls had gone to bed, and it was just me, Milda and Master Stephen (who wouldn’t leave my side except to take the girls to Southwark), Oriel revealed what had brought her, after all these years and my endless hints via Geoffrey, to London.
‘There’s two reasons. The first is Master Sweteman.’ She glanced at her hands. ‘He’s dead, mistress.’ She gave me and Milda a sorrowful smile.
‘How?’ I asked softly, my hand covering hers. Dear Sweteman. He’d been old when I left. It was no shock, but it was very sad tidings. He’d been like a father to Oriel. To many of the servants. It would hit Drew hard. I’d be sure to tell him first thing in the morning.
‘He’d been ill a long time,’ said Oriel, gazing at the window. One of the shutters was broken, refused to close, so we’d left it wide open. Rain still fell, thick drops that splashed on the sill. ‘Though he lost a great deal of weight, his stomach swelled like a woman’s with child. In his final days, he stopped drinking and was unable to use the jordan. It was a blessing when he passed away.’ A great tear swam down her cheek. I wiped it away gently, lifting her hand to my mouth and kissing it.
‘What’s your other reason, Oriel?’ I asked softly. ‘Before you answer, know my home is yours.’
‘Thank you, mistress.’ She took a deep
shuddering breath, the tension she’d carried loosening. ‘The other reason I’m here is Master Jankin.’
The room expanded then contracted to a tiny dark spot. I blinked, rubbed the back of my hand across my forehead, and everything, except my heart, returned to normal. Even after so much had happened, his name still had the power to disrupt me.
‘Why?’ I asked carefully. Milda’s eyes sought mine. I could feel my ribs tightening, a cord about my middle sucking the air from my body.
Oriel glanced at Master Stephen.
‘You may speak freely.’ Long ago, I’d revealed to him what brought me to London. He had my complete trust.
‘He’s married again.’
‘Oh.’ I waited to feel pain, anger, jealousy. I felt nothing except the cold hard satisfaction that comes with knowing that though he might have plighted his troth to another woman at the church door, I was still his wife in God’s eyes. ‘Who’s the … bride?’
‘Sabyn Horsewhyre.’
‘Sir Horsewhyre’s eldest?’ My. Jankin had set his sights higher than I’d have thought possible for a scholar’s son. Then again, he was a widower – and a wealthy one.
‘Mistress Horsewhyre – I mean, Binder – had no need of me any longer. At least, that’s what Master Jankin said. I think the real reason he dismissed me was he was frightened I’d say something to his new wife about … about … what he did.’
I released her hands and stood. ‘Nay, Oriel, I think he could worm his way out of that. What he was really afraid of was you’d make mention of me. His living, breathing wife.’
Her mouth formed a perfect O.
‘Never mind,’ I said quickly. ‘You’re here now, where you belong.’
I went to the sideboard and poured some ale. When I’d passed the mazers around, I returned to the hearth and studied Oriel.
In the years we’d been apart, she hadn’t changed much. She was thinner, willowy and tall, her hair the rich brown it had always been. Yet there was a heaviness about her, a seriousness I didn’t recall. It was no wonder, with the secrets I’d begged her to keep. It was a great burden for anyone. Jankin’s return must have been such a shock – a shock and relief.
I thought about the sacrifices she’d made, Sweteman too, all for me. For me and Alyson. I owed this woman so much. Through Oriel, I learned the fates of those I’d left behind – how Peter had gone to the monks at Bath Abbey and become a novice. Aggy and her family had moved north after her husband inherited a farm and was doing very well. As for Rag, she’d married Hugh Strongbow, who’d been courting her back in my day, and they’d a brood of children. Father Elias was yet preaching at St Michael’s Without, older, frailer, but still in possession of a sharp mind and a big heart. I’d thought about them all so often, it warmed my soul to know they’d thrived; that my actions had not hurt them.
Naturally, Oriel took on the role of housekeeper, delighted she’d real duties to keep her occupied. If she was appalled to learn how we earned a living, it never showed. After all, this was the woman who’d managed the house of a sodomite for years, keeping his secrets and then mine. The girls loved her and Master Stephen worshipped her, falling over himself to do her bidding.
By the time autumn’s chill made the mornings brisk, another person joined our household – well, another person and her son.
Her name was Letitia Frowyk. She’d been a bawd in the Cardinal’s Hatte on Bankside – the house I thought had a sign that looked like a tower. She’d worked for a Flemish couple there for five years. But when they learned about her son, Harry, they threw her out on the streets.
‘’Twasn’t their fault,’ said Letitia, her first night with us. We were in the kitchen watching as she and Harry, a lad of about three, gulped down a rich pottage and some maslin. ‘Whores aren’t meant to have children, let alone keep ’em. If the bailiff, Master Fynk, found out –’ she ruffled Harry’s hair, ‘they’d cop a huge fine, which would have fallen to me. I’m better off gone. They weren’t good people, not really. And I’d kept my son hidden for so long. He needs to find his place in the world.’
Wace was delighted to have a smaller boy to play with, and Lowdy another child to boss around. I heard her teaching Harry his letters before a rushlight had even burned. Wace was correcting him, smart fellow. It made me chuckle. When I was speaking to Geoffrey again, I must ask him if he’d talked to Gower about an apprenticeship for Wace. We’d been discussing finding the boy a position, even with Geoffrey’s scrivener, Adam Pinkhurst.
For certes, the future was looking bright for my Lowdy and Wace. There was no reason it couldn’t for little Harry Frowyk as well. I fluffed his unruly cap of dark hair and was rewarded with a happy grin.
I smiled and sat beside him.
The child pushed a fingertip into my mouth, resting it against my front teeth. ‘You got a big hole there,’ he said, staring in wonder at the gap.
I tickled his finger with the tip of my tongue. He squealed and pulled his finger away, laughing.
His mother rose and gave him a clap across the ear. ‘Mistress, I’m sorry. You rude little beggar! You say sorry, y’hear?’
‘It’s alright, Letitia. The boy only speaks true.’
‘But, Ma,’ said Harry, his eyes drowning as they filled. ‘The old lady has teeth like mine.’ He indicated where a front tooth was missing.
‘Less of the old, thanks, Harry,’ I said. ‘Or next time it’ll be me clipping your ears.’
‘So much for speaking true,’ murmured Milda.
After we’d put Letitia and Harry to bed, Leda, Rose, Yolande and Master Stephen told me they’d found Letitia and Harry hunkered down in the alley adjacent to where they worked, Foule’s Lane, being picked upon by a group of youths. One had broken a jug and was threatening to tear out Harry’s throat if Letitia didn’t comply with his demands.
‘Oh?’
Leda’s eyes slid to Master Stephen, who coughed. ‘Wanted his cock sucked,’ said Master Stephen. ‘I offered to do it for him, but explained that with my careless ways and big teeth, I was more likely to bite it off.’ He gnashed a row of great grey tombstones. ‘Needless to say, the lad didn’t accept my offer. Neither did his friends.’
I couldn’t have loved him more in that moment if I’d tried.
‘We couldn’t leave her there,’ said Rose.
‘Nor the lad,’ added Leda.
‘Of course not,’ I said, reaching over and patting their hands. ‘Anyhow, timing couldn’t be better.’ I tried not to think of the expense of extra mouths. ‘Someone needs to help Oriel. I’ll invite Letitia and Harry to stay in the morning.’
The girls leapt from their chairs and threw their arms around me. Master Stephen hoisted himself off the stool and with a grunt added his embrace to theirs. Once more, my eyes felt hot and my throat developed a terrible tickle. Dear Lord but my family had the capacity to make my body do the most peculiar things.
As it was, Letitia didn’t become a maid but willingly replaced Rose when, a fortnight later, the latter accepted a marriage proposal from a farmer, Tom Adams, out Essex way.
It was a day of mixed blessings when we witnessed her being wed to her brown-bearded man who smelled of horses, the country and fresh air. Tom was a widower with four young children and willing to overlook how he’d met Rose and just make, as he put it, a goodwife of her.
‘Work’s work, ain’t it?’ he said when he asked for her hand. ‘Whether or not it’s honest is in the eye of the doer, it’s not up to others, except the Lord to judge. And how can He judge my Rose except by what’s in my heart?’
Where did my girls find these men? They were worth their weight in a Florentine merchant’s gold. Rose left us not only with her saved earnings, but a small dowry.
So, while Letitia worked in Southwark, I took charge of young Harry. What a handful he proved to be. Smart as well. Constantly dashing across the square when we delivered Wace to his tutor, he’d disappear into open doors only to emerge moments later with a slice of bread, an
apple or a burning hot ear. Few could resist him. He asked endless questions, was keen to help with the spinning or weaving, insisting on being shown what to do. His little fingers were deft, but also prone to getting threads tangled or snapping the wool, and his ability to stay focused on a task was worse than a puppy’s. Each day he’d come to the markets in St Martin’s or, when they weren’t being held, venture out into the streets, gawping at all the people and the stalls. Gradually, the vendors came to know him and would pass a ripe pear, a hot pastry, or give him a vegetable to feed their soft-eared donkey. The lad had more charisma than a royal child, and would hold court whether we were in Cheapside, the Shambles or down by the river.
When he turned four, just a couple of weeks after he’d arrived, I begged Father Malcolm to find a place for him with Wace’s tutor – all that inquisitiveness, that desire to soak up knowledge, it needed training. And, God knew, I needed a break.
Letitia couldn’t believe her good fortune when I told her Harry was to get lessons at the college.
‘Bless you, mistress,’ she said, dropping to her knees and taking my hands. ‘I don’t know what I done to deserve you – and the girls, and Master atte Place and Mistresses Milda and Oriel and Master Drew, but I must have done something good somewhere, sometime, for He is looking out for me and my son.’ I pulled her to her feet and she held me tightly, weeping for joy. Damn it, if those eyes and throat of mine didn’t become all scratchy again.
I swear I was sickening or something.
Alas, it wasn’t me who was sickening.
FORTY-FOUR
St Martin’s Le Grand, London, and Southwark
The Year of Our Lord 1399
In the twenty-second year of the reign of Richard II
Mayhap, it was living in the streets for the few weeks before Rose, Leda, Yolande and Master Stephen found her and Harry that caused Letitia’s illness. Mayhap, it was the fact that any bread or small ale she found or was able to purchase, she gave to Harry. Within a few weeks of coming to St Martin’s, just as the mornings became bitterly cold, the windows limned with frost and the house damper than a Thames privy, Letitia developed a wet, racking cough. Her body, already so slender, began to shrink. Her cheeks, once rosy from exerting herself hurrying up the hill from the river so she might see Harry before he went to bed, became fiery, her eyes unnaturally bright.
