by Karen Brooks
I started. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘There’s a Jankin in the Wife’s Tale he wrote.’ She shrugged.
Told you she was clever.
Lowdy shuffled her feet. ‘He’s married, you know.’
‘Oh, I know.’
‘I saw his wife. She was very … timid. He said she was unwell, but no disease I know causes bruises on a face and neck like hers.’
‘Aye. It’s a particular sickness that some men carry, sweetling. They pass it to their wives.’
‘Is there a name for it?’
‘Cowardice,’ I said. ‘Comes from living in a state of constant fear.’
‘Of what?’ said Lowdy. ‘He’s a big man, that Master Jankin. What’s he got to be afraid of?’
‘That we women might get the better of him.’
Lowdy waited.
‘Better go to Sister Cecilia, sweetling. Blame me for your tardiness. I’ll see you this evening, hopefully with some good news.’ I kissed her brow.
To my surprise, she threw her arms around me, her face burrowed in my neck. ‘Be careful, Aunty Alyson, won’t you? There was something about him … I cannot put my finger on it. I don’t care how Master Geoffrey described him, but he reminded me of Ordric Fleshewer.’
She never called him father.
I inhaled the perfume of her – cinnamon, violets and a little musk – before pulling away. ‘I’ll be careful, Lowdy, never you fear. I know these types of men well. And I know how to handle them.’
I waited as she ducked down the side alley that would lead her to St Agnes. Sleet started to fall, fast and thick, covering the indentations her boots made. It would be a cold day for a cold reckoning. Even so, my blood felt hot, choler rising as I thought about what I had to say and do.
With a long sigh, I went back indoors to the kitchen. Time to make sure the house was empty when Jankin arrived.
As soon as Milda, Oriel, Stephen and Drew left – Milda and Oriel sent to Pander Lane to pick up a particular powder that aided megrims, which I’d declared I was suffering, while the other two visited the tavern – I went to my room and changed. It had been a long time since I paid so much attention to my dress. I put on my best kirtle, a tunic Lowdy had embroidered with butterflies and bees around the neckline and a fine leather belt. I attached my eating knife, a new purse, and then tidied my hair. It had a few more silver threads, making its former russet paler.
Vain, I knew I wasn’t the woman Jankin had wed, fed on a fine diet, with the best clothes and shoes, able to purchase whatever she pleased. I’d endured grief, hardship and hunger, worried endlessly about how to pay rent, put food on the table and the welfare of my girls, boys, men and women. What had Jankin to think about but himself? Still, though my face was tracked with the journeys I’d taken over the years, it wasn’t a bad-looking one. I’d only to recall the offers I still received from men to know that.
Appearing more confident than I felt, I waited in the solar, looking out through the ever-present gap in the shutters. The fire was stoked, the room warm. A jug of Rhenish and my best mazers sat on a tray on the armoire.
Lost in reflections, wondering how my marriage to a young, intelligent lad who’d doted on me had ended in such violence and betrayal, I almost missed Jankin crossing the square. He was wearing a hooded cloak and it was pulled so far over his head it obscured his features. Bent over, and not just against the wind, it was only his limp that gave him away – a legacy of the night he was left for dead in the snow in the middle of winter. Geoffrey had made a point of mentioning it and I’d never forgotten. It was the least of what he deserved.
Before he could knock, I opened the door. He entered without a word, mounting the stairs when I gestured, hesitating briefly on the threshold of the solar.
I went to close the door, but remembered there was no-one to hear or see us.
The first thing I did was pour wine. As I brought over the cups, he threw back his hood. Though I’d invited him into my house, believing it was an advantage to meet in my territory, like a soldier choosing where to make the last stand, I may have been in error.
Far from claiming the higher ground, I’d admitted the fox to the henhouse.
My hand shook as I passed a mazer to him. When he took it, he placed his hands over mine. Damn if my body didn’t shiver in response. I prayed he hadn’t sensed it, though the curl of his lip suggested otherwise.
‘So, Eleanor, we meet again.’ Without removing his cloak, he tipped the drink into his mouth.
I watched him drain it. Dear God, he might be many things, this man I’d wed, but he was still bloody handsome. Wealth aside, no wonder the poor chit he married thought she’d struck a fine deal. No doubt they’d make pretty children.
Without asking, he refilled his goblet. I sat by the window, not too far from the hearth. The cold draught coming through the gap kept me alert, even while the fire warmed me.
Jankin threw himself into the chair opposite. ‘Your note said you needed to see me urgently –’
I nodded and went to speak.
‘It also threatened me. Me and my wife.’
‘I’m your wife.’ Mother Mary and all the saints. What did I blurt that for? I was planning to build up to that point, to present my case until it was irrefutable and Jankin had to concede to my demands. He’d thrown me off-kilter with his candour.
His eyes narrowed. He took a couple of gulps of wine and put the cup down on the small table between us. I still hadn’t drunk a drop.
‘Ah. I see. That’s the way of it, is it? You intend to claim you’re my wife.’
‘But I am.’
He threw back his head and laughed. Forced as it was, it was still charming. I remember how much we used to amuse each other. Our trip to Jerusalem, how we’d make fun of the Saracens and the Jews and their peculiar ways. How we’d mock our own when we thought no-one could hear. What had happened to that easy camaraderie?
Death. That’s what happened. Simon. Alyson.
‘You cannot come back from the dead, Eleanor – or, what do you call yourself now? Alyson?’
That he could utter her name and not bat an eyelid.
‘Why not?’ I said, refusing to be goaded. ‘You did.’
‘That was God’s will, Eleanor. Whereas your resurrection, this is your will.’
His gaze was unnerving me. It was a combination of disdain and something else, like a hungry animal.
‘It could be my will, Jankin. It doesn’t have to be.’
‘Ah. Straight to the heart of the matter.’ He reached for his drink and finished it, looking over his shoulder at the jug, deciding whether or not to refill once more. He decided against it. ‘What will it take for you to remain dead? That’s the real reason you asked me here, isn’t it? To extort money from me.’
‘Well, Jankin, since we’re getting to the bones of it, let’s pick that one clean. It’s actually my money.’
Jankin’s eyes narrowed and he grinned like a rabid dog sizing up a coney. ‘Your money? How can it be, Alyson? What I inherited was within my rights as a husband – it was Eleanor’s wealth, not yours.’
I could no longer sit. Rising to my feet, I stepped away from the hearth, away from him, and stood in front of the shutters. ‘My wealth, Jankin. Let’s not forget, though years have passed, there are still many who would remember me – some of them dwell beneath this very roof. One word from Father Elias would confirm my identity.’
‘The man is in his dotage. No-one would credit what he says.’
‘There are others in Bath. Not that much time has passed. Why, I’m sure your wife’s father, Sir Robert Horsewhyre, would recall me. I remember him very well.’ I gave a saucy smile so he was in no doubt of what I meant.
He leapt to his feet, knocking his mazer to the floor. In two strides, he’d closed the distance between us and grabbed me by the shoulders.
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
We stared into each other’s eyes
as he pressed his fingers into my flesh. I’d forgotten how very blue his eye was. The other, hidden behind the patch, had once been that colour too. Now, pale pink, puckered skin surrounded the cloth. The imperfection simply enhanced his looks, made him appear so very dangerous.
He was, I thought, as his fingers crawled upwards, circling my neck.
‘I could stop all this now,’ he whispered, pressing his forehead to mine. Our noses touched. His mouth hovered over my lips. ‘I loved you, you know. Really loved you. So much, I would have done anything. I did.’
‘You killed Simon,’ I gasped.
‘No, my love. I did not. You did that. Like everything else that happened, everything I did – to him, to you, to her. You made me do it. Simon, your pale shadow, Alyson. They were your doing. Even when I strike my lovely new wife, I hear your voice; see your face. It’s you, Eleanor, my beldame, even after all this time, it’s you who force me to act against my better self. You always have.’
He began to increase his hold, pressing tight, digging his thumbs into the hollow at the base of my throat. I began to struggle. He pushed me against the sill, leaning against me with his entire body. The shutters protested, began swinging open. He lifted me from there and slammed me against the wall. I tried to pull his hands away, gouge his eyes, but he ducked and dodged, laughed in my face as he stared into it.
‘I don’t know what it is about you, Eleanor – God knows, you’re no beauty, and you were old even when I wed you. But you have – had – something I wanted. Vitality, boldness, the courage of your beliefs, your cleverness. I thought if I could win your heart, then you’d give some of that to me. Even after I committed the greatest of sins for you, all you did was make a mockery of me, my manhood. You refused to cast aside thoughts of your former husband, ridiculed my learning, my writing and in doing so, you derided all men. I couldn’t have that.’
My throat grew thick, my eyes began to water, tears flowed down my cheeks. Lights danced. Jankin’s face, his flushed cheeks, his bloodshot eye circled and doubled before becoming one. Dear God, he was going to kill me.
‘You’ll not get one groat, you hear? This time, you will die. Sabyn is my wife, my only wife. You’re just a swiving old whore, a witch, who doesn’t know better than to stay dead.’
The jug shattered as it connected with Jankin’s head and his knees buckled. He collapsed and fell backwards, blood streaming. Standing there, the handle in her grip, was Lowdy. Behind her stood Oriel and Milda. Their eyes were round, their faces ashen.
‘Aunty Alyson,’ cried Lowdy, and casting aside the handle, threw herself into my arms. Just as swiftly, she pulled away and began checking my throat, my face, my lips. I’d bitten my tongue and it had swollen and filled my mouth with blood, making it difficult to speak.
I needn’t have worried. Ignoring Jankin’s bleeding form collapsed on the floor behind her, Lowdy chattered as she found a kerchief and, leading me to the window, she pushed the shutters ajar so she could use the light. She dipped the fabric in the wine spilled on the table and began to dab my face.
‘I didn’t trust him, Aunty Alyson, God forgive me. When I left you, I pleaded sickness and came back home. I hid in the kitchen. When I saw him enter, I knew he was up to no good. I ran as fast as I could and got Milda and Oriel.’
I looked at the two women. Milda’s face had folded into grey creases as she looked from Jankin to me and back again. Oriel was picking up pieces of the jug and putting them on the table. No-one tended to Jankin.
‘Where’s Master Stephen? Drew?’ My voice was croaky.
‘Still at the White Hart. The last thing we needed was for Drew to find Jankin here,’ said Milda. She came to my side, held my hand.
‘Or Master Stephen,’ said Oriel.
They were so concerned with my state, relieved at my timely rescue, none of us paid attention to Jankin. Part of me hoped he was dead.
Alas, he wasn’t.
With what must have been the last of his strength, he rose unsteadily to his feet. With a cry like a raven, he lunged.
I couldn’t scream, my throat was so torn, but my mouth opened, my eyes widened.
‘Get out of my way, you little bitch!’
He grabbed Lowdy, lifting her off her feet. Then, he threw her at the window. She struck the edge of the sill, forcing the shutters wide apart, then tilted backwards. For one brief moment she was frozen in the opening, her eyes stark in terror. Off-balance, her arms wheeled. Too late, she’d nothing to hold her in the room, not my reaching hands, my twisting body, not my will which escaped in a shrill scream; not Jankin’s coat which she desperately tried to clutch.
Her cry as she tumbled out the window was a sound that haunts me still. A hoarse sigh of utter disbelief.
There was a dull thud.
I pushed Jankin aside as I almost hurled myself after Lowdy. Only Milda’s arms prevented me from following. Limbs akimbo on the ground below lay my beautiful girl, her dark hair spread like a fan about her sweet face, blood pooling around her head.
‘Lowdy!’ I screamed. Folk flew from their houses, ran from the square, slowing in disbelief as they reached her twisted frame. They looked from me to her and back again, confused, shocked.
Lowdy’s eyes locked onto mine. Her mouth opened and closed a few times; one arm flailed uselessly by her side.
I spun, desperate to reach her, when there was a shout below. Jankin staggered out the front door. He paused, and upon seeing Lowdy and the people crouching over her, trying to staunch the blood, offer comfort, he tried to run.
‘Stop him!’ I bellowed, pointing. ‘That bastard pushed Lowdy.’
There was an almighty growl from the gathering crowd as they came running to block Jankin’s escape. Some thrust tools and other makeshift weapons at him.
Milda followed as I ran downstairs. Of Oriel, there was no sign.
Assured Jankin wouldn’t get away, I dropped next to Lowdy, pushing people aside. Milda kept them away. Uncertain what to do, I gazed upon Lowdy, willing her to wake, to look at me. Her eyes fluttered open. There was so much blood, blood and something else.
‘Nay,’ I croaked.
It was Alyson all over again.
I stroked her hair back from her face, blood painting her forehead, her cheeks. ‘Oh, Lowdy, Lowdy.’ My voice cracked. ‘It should’ve been me …’ I began to sob, great tearing cries that resembled howls.
‘No, Aunty Alyson,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not your time.’
‘It’s not yours either, chick,’ I wept. ‘Sweetling, sweetling, stay with me. Look at me, oh, my darling, clever girl. I’m not worthy –’ I pressed my lips to her cheek. She sucked in her breath.
‘Not worthy?’ she gasped. ‘You’re worth more than you know.’ Her teeth were stained red. Her eyes rolled and began to lose focus. ‘I heard what he said, Jankin.’ She struggled to breathe. ‘He’s wrong. You are a good woman. The best.’ Her voice was a mere sigh, a fading whisper. ‘Master Geoffrey says you are, a good wife too …’
‘Lowdy.’ I slapped her face gently. ‘Lowdy. Please, God, don’t let her die. Don’t you dare take her. Don’t you dare … Not my chick. Not my chick …’
But God, as was His wont, didn’t listen.
I like to think the last thing Lowdy felt, that she saw, was the love bursting from my torn heart, flowing from my drowning eyes, from Milda’s too, as we lamented this woman-child, this beautiful soul who was so cruelly ripped from our lives.
It wasn’t until Jankin shouted that I remembered him. When Oriel ran, she’d gone to fetch the authorities. With a sergeant on the scene, the neighbours, who were ready to commit murder, were ordered to lower their weapons and tie up Jankin. The plan was to hold him until the sheriff and his men arrived. Thank goodness for Oriel. She’d done what neither Milda nor I in our distress thought to do – ensure that this time, at least, justice would be served.
FORTY-SIX
St Martin’s Le Grand, London
The Year of Our Lord 1399
>
In the first year of the reign of Henry IV
News that King Richard had been overthrown by his cousin Henry Bolingbroke barely caused a stir within the household. While part of London celebrated, we were wreathed in sorrow. The days since Lowdy’s terrible death passed in a fugue. We drifted about the place, barely talking, eating little. If not for Wace and Harry, I would have scarce stirred from my room. Routine was all that kept us from falling into despair; the girls’ insistence on going to Southwark, bringing in coin, the counting of it when they returned before curfew, meals and sleep.
When the sheriff arrived that bleak, dark day, and saw that young Lowdy Fleshewer, daughter of Ordric, had been brutally murdered, he had Jankin arrested. Though Jankin protested it was an accident, there were witnesses to swear to the contrary. For once, his wealth and the fact his father-in-law was titled mattered not a whit. Ordric, rightly or wrongly, wielded great influence in parts of London. For once, our interests aligned.
Ordric came to visit in the days after Lowdy’s death, dragging along a coroner, demanding a full recount of what happened. We obliged, Milda and Oriel adding their statements, as did the neighbours. After that, Ordric ensured Jankin received no privileges from the turnkeys at the gaol.
No doubt, money exchanged hands to make Jankin’s life a misery; no doubt he paid, futilely, to try to improve his conditions as well – a windfall for the gaolers. I thought of it as money he should, by rights, have paid me. Though it would have meant liberty from London, from walking the streets of Southwark and putting my girls in danger, I was glad of any coin spent ensuring his torment. Danger hadn’t come from the streets as I’d feared, but risen up snarling from my past to destroy us.
Destroy Lowdy.
Guilt ate my soul, gnawed my bones. After Ordric explained that nothing and no-one could save Jankin, that even the coroner had stated the trial was just a formality, it was as if my life force dimmed. Was it relief? Was it the realisation it really didn’t matter anymore? None of it, the trial, the punishment. Not even the fact that with Jankin’s death, I could claim what was rightfully mine – Slynge House, the lands and flock. I was his lawful wife, after all, and with the proceeds from the sale, I could finally lease a place in Southwark, start afresh. I didn’t care. It wouldn’t bring Lowdy back, just as nothing had brought Alyson back, either. Oh, I went to the funeral, comforted the boys, Milda, Oriel, Drew and the girls, and then crawled into bed. I said nothing of the land and property in Bath.
