Everyone in the household knew, of course. Brigit, who was never one to reproach me, just gave me a look and asked, ‘Are you tired this morning, my lady?’ while I could see the other thralls smirking at each other. Father Tim was sour, which was no surprise, as I’d seen the looks he’d give me when he thought I wasn’t watching. He had a good mind to tell the archdeacon, he said, but he never did, and though I had to say a hundred and twenty Hail Marys he gave me absolution. I knew what I’d done wasn’t righteous but I couldn’t think God would look on it so very harshly. After all, he was the one who’d made us and had given us the power to love and had made it so very sweet. Everybody said Walter was one of the devil’s chicks so how could God be angry with me for finding a brave protector? Once Everard had settled Walter I’d be free and the two of us could marry so I wouldn’t be adulterous any more. In the meantime, though I knew our being bedfellows wasn’t exactly right, at least it would make him more earnest to keep me safe.
Except that it didn’t, so I found out. The freer he was to visit my chamber in the night, the less troubled he seemed about guarding me. Now we were lovers he hardly ever went up to the battlements to keep watch, or toured the grounds, and when I asked him when he’d do so, he’d tell me, ‘In a little while, my Kitten,’ which was his endearment for me. ‘See how it’s raining? I’m sure Walter won’t come in this.’ Soon the only walking he did, aside from up to my bedchamber, was from his chair by the fireplace to the dinner table, where he helped himself so freely that he was already growing quite corpulent. If Walter does come, I thought to myself, I’m not sure Everard will still fit in his leather coat.
It was my next visit to the king’s court in Lincoln that parted us. When I told him, ‘You’ll come with me, of course,’ he screwed up his eyes like he had a headache. ‘I don’t feel well,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you next time, that I promise, Kitten.’ Being in no mood for honey I told him if he didn’t come then I’d throw him out of my house, and when he answered with more coaxing and excuses, that’s what I did. It was only after he took himself away, looking surly and hardly giving me a goodbye, that I discovered what he’d taken and what he’d left. A gold ring of mine was gone as well as a pretty necklace and two silver goblets. As for what he’d left, another thing that I missed was my bleed that month.
‘Look on the bright side,’ Brigit told me, trying to cheer me up like usual. ‘There’s nothing that will vex Walter more. Now the whole county will know that it wasn’t your womb that God made dry and barren but his sorry little member.’ Looking back, I suppose I shouldn’t be too angry with Everard. True, he was a liar, a thief, a coward and a glutton who gave me yet another cause to fight in the king’s court, which was to get my goods back, though I never did see the two silver goblets again. But he gave me my beautiful boy, Peter, which was the best gift I had in all my days.
And for that matter it was thanks to him that I met Fulke, who was the one I loved most dearly of all my husbands and paramours, at least for a time. It happened that Walter must have heard about Everard and me, and though Everard was gone from my house by then that didn’t stop the church court from accusing me of adultery. The archdeacon said I must walk barefoot to Humby church and back, I must pay sixty marks to the canons of Lincoln Minster for the roof, and I must stand all night in Little Hugh’s chapel in Lincoln Minster praying for forgiveness, holding a lighted candle and wearing only my underclothes. Though I wasted no time paying the canons and walking to Humby and back, I put off the night vigil till after little Peter was born. When I did finally go I brought Father Tim and all my thralls, from Alwyn my steward to Jack the cook, to awe any troublers, as the sight of a noble sinner shamed will always summon up a foul-minded crowd. It went well enough too, and though some jeered they kept to their places behind the screen and as curfew hour drew near they drifted back to their homes.
It was only when they’d gone that I took proper heed of the other one who was doing penitence in the chapel. I’d seen him before, which was no surprise, the gentle folk of Lincoln county being a small world. And though I couldn’t recall his name I liked the sight of him, as he was a strong fellow, no denying, and looked very comely standing there in his unders. Seeing as I was supposed to be praying all night I could hardly start gabbling with the fellow, especially with Father Tim frowning at me, but after a while, as I grew weary of repenting my unrights, which I’d done forty times over, it came to me that I might make a little chatter with him, not straightly, but through my prayers. So I said in a clear, loud voice, ‘Please, dear God, forgive me my wickedness and tell me, I beg you, who is this good fellow doing his penitence just beside me?’ God heard, or at least my neighbour did and he prayed back, ‘Dearest God, please forgive your poor sinner Fulke de Barnetby, and I beg you, tell me the name of the lovely dame confessing her sins here this night.’
So, though it was all done by way of our Lord, we had a good long chatter. I learned he was a widower with no heirs, as his wife and baby had both died in childbirth, poor creatures. He’d just come back from the Welsh war where he’d fought several skirmishes and had been given a shilling by his captain for cleaving a Welshman’s head in two with one blow of his sword. Fighting was certainly his way and his penitence was for battling three churls who’d reviled him in an alehouse and whom he’d wounded, all three of them, though he’d fought them alone. He may not be rich, I thought, which was true, as he told me himself that he was a second son, with no land to his name and not even a thrall to ride at his side, but he’s a true Lancelot. Better still, when I told God I was seeking a divorce from Walter de Kingerby and why, Fulke let out a jeer. Then he prayed to God to say that he was a near neighbour of Walter’s and that they’d got into a bad dispute over a horse and that he hated the man with all his heart. Nor did he like Everard. At dawn, when I felt light-hearted from praying all night, the two of us walked out together and down to the river where, very suddenly, so it seemed like it was something willed by God himself, we kissed. Fulke vowed to avenge me for all the ills I’d suffered at Walter’s hands. Then we kissed once again and he was gone.
After my dealings with that worthless dastard Everard I was doubtful anything much would come of Fulke’s words, but how wrong I was. A week later he came to visit me at Ropsley and, full of gladness, he told me his news. He’d found Walter in a hostel in Lincoln, he said, where he was staying as he plotted to make more trouble for me in the king’s court. Fulke had challenged him to a combat for insulting the honour of my name and they’d fought. Walter, soon seeing himself beaten, had turned and run and Fulke had cut him right in his buttock. ‘He won’t sit down easily for a good long while,’ he told me, laughing. For good measure he’d then found Everard who, as chance would have it, was also in Lincoln, staying in a cheap tavern, where Fulke had beaten him black and blue with his fists. That night, in spite of Father Tim’s sour looks, it seemed only right to show Fulke all my thanks, seeing as I’d given them freely to Everard, who’d done nothing.
But I didn’t have to put up with Father Tim’s scowls for long. Walter wasted no time setting the courts at us. In the king’s court he sued Fulke for wounding him in the arse, which was false, as Fulke had challenged him rightfully and Walter had accepted his challenge. Then he set the church court on me. The archdeacon ordered me to go as a sister to Stixwould nunnery to repent my adultery with Fulke. As if I’d give myself to life with a lot of crabbed sisters? The two of us fled Ropsley and became outlaws. Uncle Marmaduke and Aunt Juliana kept us for a time and so did other kin and friends, and every week or two we’d move to a new hiding place. I well remember our night-time journeys, riding by the light of the moon, just the four of us – Fulke, me, my dear little baby boy Peter, and another in my womb, who was Fulke’s.
Strange to say, it was when my flight came to an end that my troubles truly began. Uncle Marmaduke knew one of the clerks at the church court and with the help of a few shillings a new judgment was given. If I walked barefoot again to Humby an
d back and gave another sixty marks to Lincoln Minster, I’d not have to go to the nuns after all. I was joyed at that news. But poor Fulke wasn’t so lucky and had to stay in hiding. There were plenty of lurking places in Ropsley manor house so I said he should stay there and that was where sorrow struck us. First God took my baby, who came too soon. She was a girl, poor little lamb. God nearly took me too, as I bled and bled, and afterwards it seemed like everything in the world was grey and sorry. I looked to Fulke for comfort, which he gave for a few days but then it was like his compassion leaked away. I suppose he wasn’t the kind to be penned. Instead of showing me love he’d get vexed over small things, and would fall into a great rage if he didn’t like the hay his horse was fed, or how his clothes had been washed. I brought a minstrel to stay for a week and play for us, thinking that would cheer him up, but it made things worse. Fulke said I’d couched with the fellow secretly and though I told him that was false, as all I’d done was talk with him, and that only because the minstrel showed me more pity than my paramour had, it did no good, as by then jealousy had got into Fulke’s heart and wouldn’t leave him be. He said the minstrel had stolen his boots and he beat him half to death, though of course the boots were found later. Then, the very next evening, Fulke got drunk on ale and put his hand to my face.
I knew what I had to do. Having been married first to a rabbit and then to a wolf, and then taking a thieving idler into my bed, I’d found love – despite of all he’d done I loved Fulke still – and I wasn’t going to let it be ruined by the devil. It must be undone so it could be kept alive forever, if only in my own remembrance. It so happened that Brigit had a cousin in Ryhall who knew the lore that I needed, so Brigit paid her a visit and the next morning the two of us went together for a long walk in the woods, and then to Lincoln, to collect all that we needed. Late one night when the others in the household were fast asleep, we went down to the kitchen and boiled it all into a potion that came out like Brigit’s cousin said it should, being thick and dark like black gravy. After that I told Fulke I’d heard word that the sheriff’s men would come looking for him so he must stay in the cellar. I brought him his stew and sops myself, adding just a few drops of the potion, like Brigit’s cousin had said. Sure enough before long he was spewing and squirting like he had dysentery, or a canker in his bowels, and though it pained me to see him so, I was joyous too, because as he grew weaker his rage eased away and my love could flow once more. I’d kiss his cheek and stroke his fevered head and tell him I’d made a special medicine to cure him, and of course I’d always add a few more drops of the black gravy. Being the dear he was, he drank it all down without complaint, answering my smile with one of his own.
One rainy April afternoon, after the physician had come for the seventh time and had left as confounded as ever, I knew it was almost done. I had the thralls carry Fulke up to my bedchamber, I sent Brigit away so we were alone and it couldn’t have gone more sweetly. By then Fulke was so weak that he could hardly murmur a word. I slid into the bed and when I climbed on top of him, feeling how frail he was as he struggled to breathe beneath me, it was a curious thing, because the touch of him, all bones and no flesh, made me think of my dear little Pepin. ‘See,’ I whispered, giving him a smile, ‘now our love will live forever. Now nothing can ever spoil it.’ I saw his eyes open wider as he finally understood, but I was quick and before he could ruin things I reached out with my fingers and squeezed his nostrils closed, and then I gave him my kiss. And though he tried to bite me, poor dear, he was so gone by then that his teeth just trembled around my tongue.
Afterwards I had to confess it. Seeing as what it was, I imagined Father Tim would tell his bishop, which would mean a nunnery for me, or even hanging. He might have, being a veritable man, except that he’d always hated Fulke. He said my sin was grave indeed but was lessened because Fulke had been so wild of nature, which meant I’d done it not from malice but to preserve my own life. Then he gave me fasting twice a week for six months and praying all night in our chapel four times. After that Fulke’s older brother came knocking on the gate, which I feared would be the end of me, but he hardly asked about Fulke. All he wanted was his horse and the rest of his things.
After that came sorry days. Though I had no regrets as to what had been done and I’d certainly have done it again, the house seemed sad and empty with him gone. And I had fears. At night I’d dream that Walter and an army of men were climbing the walls of the house on ladders, or that he was already inside and was creeping his way towards my chamber. Most of all I was scared for my little boy, Peter. Though he was always kicking up a noise asking to be allowed to play in the wood I wouldn’t let him outside the manor house wall. I dreaded paying my visits to the courts and Lincoln and I’d take every thrall I could. Though this gave me another fear, that Walter would come to Ropsley while I was away, and I’d return home to find it burned to the ground.
Brigit tried to give me comfort. ‘You have your boy, you have a fine house and everyone in your household would do anything for you. It could all be a good deal worse.’ Which was true, as I saw twice over a few weeks later when a visitor came knocking at the gate. It was Eleanor, though it took a moment or two to know her, as she was changed even more than the last time. She’d always had a pretty plumpness to her but now her face was drawn, while her clothes, though not rags, were worn and threadbare. ‘Dame Lucy,’ she greeted me with a sorry smile. ‘I stand here shamed before you. I’ve come to ask if you might lend me two shillings.’
So she told me her news, which was worse even than before. Life had treated her well at first. Her father had found her a husband, George, who’d been a good man just as she’d hoped, kindly and lovesome, and she soon gave him three healthy, noisy babies. When her father died it turned out she wasn’t an heiress after all, as he’d gambled away his little fortune, but Eleanor wasn’t too troubled, being happy with George, who made enough as a trader to keep them. Then one day a writ came from the church court. A brewster woman from Grantham named Susan said she’d lain with George before he’d married Eleanor and that she’d had his child. None of this was a surprise to Eleanor as George, being honest and goodly, had told her all about it when they’d first met. It had all been drunken foolishness, he said, and he and Susan had only couched a few times. He knew it had been wrong and he’d shrived it all to the priest and done his penance.
Now, though, Susan claimed that George had promised her marriage before he swived her, and in front of witnesses too, which was enough to make her and George lawfully wedded in the church’s eyes. George tried his best and he told the church court Susan was telling lies but it was no use and the archdeacon took her word against his. So Eleanor’s marriage was nulled and, though she and her husband were sobbing, the court ordered her from his house and told George he must take the brewster woman into his bed. As for his three children, who were to go with their mother Eleanor, they were all named bastards. ‘George and I were both in tears,’ Eleanor told me. ‘Even Susan the brewster was sobbing and she told us none of it had been her wish, but that the church had demanded it be done so righteousness could prevail. As if this is righteous?’ The only one who’d take Eleanor in was a seamstress cousin of hers, though her home was very small and it wasn’t easy for her and the children. They all helped out with the stitching and mending but it hardly brought in a farthing. ‘I didn’t want to come,’ Eleanor said, trying to keep herself proud, though I could see she was close to tears. ‘But if I don’t do something my children will go hungry next week, and I’d rather be shamed than endure that.’ I gave her six shillings and I was glad to.
Poor Eleanor’s tale helped me decide what road I’d take next. That evening I knelt down in our little chapel and prayed: ‘Dear God, I know I’ve not always been as righteous as I should have. I choked my first husband to death, though that was only an accident, and I left my second, creeping out at dawn. I was adulterous with Everard and had his child, and I urged Fulke to do harm to both men, and then I
took Fulke’s life with the black gravy and my kiss. But it was all done only from love, which is a goodly thing that you yourself put in my heart. So I beg you please, kindly God, let me live quietly now with my dear boy. And give me my divorce so I can get my lands back and throw Walter out of Bourne Castle, as I can’t abide the thought of him strutting about my home.’
But the clamour must’ve been too loud again. True, I was left in peace. I did my lordly duties and when there was new trouble in Wales from another traitor, Lord Merrydud, I raised a troop to send and I made sure all who didn’t go paid their dues. I cared for my wards and had them schooled by Father Tim and I found wives for the older two of them. That was work I much loved and I did well by those two lads. Though they each had only one manor due to them, I scoured the land and didn’t settle till I’d found them brides who’d please them, which they seemed to. But all the while instead of growing nearer, my divorce drew ever further away. The archdeacon of the church court at Lincoln died and his place was taken by one of Walter’s kin, distant kin but kin still, which would set everything further against me. It seemed like I’d never be free of Walter. And so it was that I, who’d hardly once been outside Lincolnshire, found myself pondering a great journey. The advocate who’d spoken for me in my causes had only one idea remaining. ‘You must make a plea to the pope,’ he said. ‘But not by letter this time,’ which I’d tried before, just as I’d tried everything else. ‘No, you should go to Rome and plead yourself.’ He’d heard that if one went there and made one’s plea and paid fees in one’s own person it could help a good deal.
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