The Good Wife of Bath

by Karen Brooks

  I shrugged. ‘Matters not what you do. Word will still escape. Do you think I’ve kept this to myself?’

  His eyes bulged, his cheeks paled.

  ‘All too soon,’ I went on, lowering my voice, making it sinister, ‘all of Bath will know what I’m accusing you of. How long before your fine friends, Master Mervyn, the bishop and your fellow merchants, learn what you’ve done? Master Kenton? Then where will your reputation be, husband? You’ll be known as a levereter – corrupt to the core. Do you think people will keep giving you credit, buying your wool, your cloth, if there’s even a whisper of doubt attached to it? If someone is just a tiny bit anxious that what they’re buying might, just might, be infected not only with pestilence but with the sins of the man who used such a method to dispatch his enemies?’

  ‘Enemies? But Fulk wasn’t my enemy, nor those poor souls who died from the sickness. I don’t have any enemies.’

  ‘Everyone has enemies, husband,’ I said carefully. ‘Especially those who work hard to cultivate the esteem of others but never repay them – in coin or kind. Fancy dinners and promises only go so far – ask the King, ask the princes. And what about your arrangement with the monks and other merchants? What if a whisper of your business with Master Kenton or the Hollander merchants was to escape? What would the guild do to you, your business? Other merchants? What damage would such knowledge do to your standing then?’

  Turbet shook his head in horror. ‘Dear God. I’ve married a hedge-born Jezebel.’ He stared about in dismay, his cheeks ashen, his eyes sunken in the half-light. ‘No-one’s going to believe you,’ he said hoarsely.

  I leaned back in my chair and put on my best smirk. ‘Oh, husband, I thought you understood. I don’t need anyone to believe me. I just need them to listen, something you’ve failed to do for a long time.’

  Turbet was listening now. I could almost hear the whirring of his mind as he calculated the damage such a rumour would do. Whether it was true or not, made not a whit of difference. To a man who prided himself on his reputation, who did everything in his power to maintain a facade of wealth, business acumen, congeniality, popularity, this would be a death knell.

  His hands began to shake. ‘This … this … it would ruin you as well.’

  ‘What do I care about my position? What is it, anyhow? I’m hardly a wife. You keep reminding me I’m nothing.’

  ‘I … I can change that.’

  ‘Even though you find me physically repulsive?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it that way, I –’

  ‘I don’t care whether you did or not.’

  ‘Wife, Eleanor, I want –’

  I held up my hand to prevent him saying more. ‘I don’t care what you want, Turbet Gerrish. It’s my turn to tell you what I want, what you must do if you don’t want this nasty rumour to spread … like a personal pestilence.’ I lowered my hand.

  ‘Go on.’

  Better than ‘begone’.

  ‘You’re to give me control of not only the household, but all your business interests that involve the sheep, pastures, villeins and their lands.’

  His eyes became so round, I thought they would roll out his head. ‘Surely, you jest? You? The household is already yours, the villeins, I can concede, but the sheep? By them you mean wool production.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Never!’ he exclaimed, flinging himself backwards in his chair, fist thumping the arm. ‘Why, it’s men’s business, my business. It’s what I do. I can’t have a woman running my affairs. I’d be a laughing stock. I’d be seen as a loiter-sack, a weak man who allows his woman unnatural authority.’ He heaved himself out of the chair, the blankets pooling in a heap on the floor.

  He began to pace, words tripping out of his mouth.

  I had to put a stop to this. I leapt up and grabbed a hold of his arm, wrenching him around to face me. ‘I haven’t finished.’

  ‘Oh, I think you have.’

  ‘No-one can call you a cumberworld or whatever else you’re imagining if they remain ignorant of our arrangement.’

  He halted.

  ‘If they don’t know I’m managing your affairs, how can they say anything? Cease your pacing. Sit. Listen to me, Turbet Gerrish.’ I led him back to the chair, poured him another drink, pushed it into his hand. I piled the blankets over him once more, fussing like a real wife, as if there was affection when facts were, I didn’t want him so cold he couldn’t focus. I knelt before him, my hands gripping either side of the chair. He was a captive audience. ‘How do you think Fulk’s fortunes improved once he married me?’

  Turbet gave a half-shrug. ‘I never asked …’

  ‘It was me. I was the one who advised him about increasing the flock, hiring extra servants so I might weave. It was me who trained the others, just as I am now. And I was doing it well before Fulk’s illness. But I can do so much more. Nay. Your task is to listen,’ I said sternly, when he tried to interrupt. ‘I know you’ve sold my land to the Abbey, well, most of it, that you lease other parts and demand the villeins do boon-work. But, just as you have with your lands, you haven’t given them enough to be self-sufficient, you’ve given too much over to pasture. Aye, I know you intended the villeins would card and spin and maintain our wool supplies, but that idea went to hell in a hand-basket when they up and left, didn’t it?’

  He had the grace to look uncomfortable.

  ‘Increasing the size of the flock the way you did, without selecting which sheep to mix with those we already had, brought disease. We’ve lost almost half. Thus the villeins were not only deprived of land they needed to grow food, they lost the extra income from spinning fleeces as well.

  ‘What did you do about that? Instead of making concessions so they remained, cultivating and strengthening the sheep we kept healthy – and that was only because I insisted they be kept apart – you sold more land to buy more sheep, sheep that have a poor quality coat which no-one wants to buy.’

  ‘Aye, but in time, with inter-breeding, the quality will improve. The flock will be fine.’

  ‘The flock might be, eventually, but what about your tenants? My tenants? Those who haven’t left to seek better conditions? They’re hungry and sick. Do you know they’ve been out working the fields in the snow? Aye, shovelling it away so they might till the soil, tend whatever they’ve planted. Do you think they’ll remain once the snows melt and they find the crop has failed? Nay. They’ll be off to find a better master. Somewhere they can at least earn a living. It isn’t hard these days. Masters are prepared to pay well for good labourers. How will you maintain your lands when there’s no-one left to work them? How will you make money when you’ve been forced to sell all you own?’

  I didn’t add, all I own as well.

  Turbet considered my words, then pouted. ‘And what would you have me do, eh?’

  I sighed. How could he not see what to me was so obvious?

  ‘What you should have been doing in the first place: buying wool from the markets, from the God-damned monks if you have to, and giving it to the villeins to spin on our behalf. Alyson and the others can weave it. As can I. In the short term, we can raise the prices of our cloth to cover the cost of buying in and still make profit. As it is, we’re adding to our debts, watching any earnings being pissed against the wall.’ I hefted the jug. ‘After it has been drunk.’

  I sat back on my haunches.

  ‘Unless you let me make some much-needed changes, Turbet Gerrish, cede control to me, I swear on God’s bones I will take us all down. At least if I do it, it will happen quickly instead of the long drawn-out way you’re going about it. At least my way will only impact those it deserves to.’

  ‘I don’t deserve it,’ he whimpered.

  I could barely stand the sight of him. How could I have once thought this man husband material? He wasn’t worthy to lick Fulk’s boots, covered in cow shit and all.

  I rose. ‘Think on what I’ve said, Turbet. I’ll give you until the morrow. Remember, no-one need ever know it�
�s me behind the decisions. It will appear as if it’s all you. Your reputation won’t be harmed, I assure you.’

  ‘Won’t it?’ he asked. ‘Seems to me whichever way I decide, it is. If not my reputation, then my life. What man gives his wife authority?’

  I was heading to the door when he spoke. I turned. ‘A man who has no choice.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Laverna Lodge and Bath

  The Years of Our Lord 1371 to 1375

  In the forty-fifth to the forty-ninth years of the reign of Edward III

  Over the following years, much to the amazement of everyone in Bath and the surrounding villages, but mostly Turbet Gerrish, my husband’s fortunes underwent a dramatic reversal. The only ones not surprised were myself, Alyson, Milda and Master Geoffrey.

  The morning after I gave Turbet my ultimatum, he summoned me to his office and ceded control to me. The proviso that no-one knew was emphasised, with the intention we revisit the arrangement within the year. I agreed.

  And so with my husband’s blessing – oh alright, that’s an exaggeration – reluctant cooperation, I began to make changes. The only thing I hadn’t considered was that in order to make it work, Jermyn had to be informed.

  The first time I went to see the steward and told him to move the foldcourses and check the boundaries marking the villeins’ properties, he had conniptions.

  ‘I’m sorry, mistress, but until the master tells me, I’m not doing nothing. I don’t take orders from a woman, I don’t care who she’s married to.’

  I almost stamped my feet in frustration. ‘I’m speaking with your master’s voice,’ I insisted.

  ‘Well, I’m not hearing it,’ the stubborn goat replied. He even had the gall to put his fingers in his ears.

  There was no help for it, I dragged Turbet from where he was still sulking, and demanded he tell Jermyn that he was not only to obey my orders, but keep me abreast of the lodge’s affairs – the tenants’ rents, tithes, sheep losses, wool prices, markets, broggers’ offers, merchants as well.

  Jermyn fell into his chair when the words were dragged from Turbet. I swear his face went a sickly shade of yellow. I poured him wine and waited until he’d drunk it all.

  After that rocky start, over the years Jermyn and I developed a workable relationship. Though he doubted my judgement to begin with, insisting upon checking everything I said with Turbet. (I even caught my husband undermining me a couple of times. When he did, I simply uttered the word ‘fur’ – I even sang it loudly on one occasion – regardless of who was within earshot and that quickly put a stop to his efforts.) Over time, once Jermyn saw the results, his initial reserve turned into a grudging respect.

  One of the first things I embarked upon was suspension of the villeins’ tithes. If they didn’t have enough to feed themselves, how could anyone expect them to give up a tenth of their grain, vegetables, livestock and anything else they’d grown to the church? Or to us? That caused a stand-up row with Jermyn, but I had my way and in doing so gained the eternal gratitude and loyalty of our tenants. When summer arrived, only one family left to live elsewhere, but three more came to replace those who’d gone (including a very handsome young man named Jon). By the following year, when word about the better conditions, extra land and coin spread, we had full occupancy.

  I ordered the boundaries between the villeins’ plots be remeasured and marked, their ploughs repaired and oxen be bought and shared. We could also lease the beasts to the Abbey’s tenants and even those at Noke Manor. The same with ploughs and other farming equipment. I asked Master Ironside to make tools that could be shared among the tenants – scythes, hammers, shovels, spare parts for the plough and such. With good equipment, it meant it was easier and quicker to work the land. I also insisted the foldcourses be moved across the tenants’ fields, including those left fallow, so they might benefit from the sheep’s droppings. The yield that summer was the best it had been in ages, and so a system began to develop.

  Likewise, the flock, which had been badly reduced from the murrain, in addition to the effect on their coats when Turbet foolishly introduced a different breed, were separated. After a season, the thinner, coarser-coated sheep were sold, taken back north, where that breed of sheep thrived. With the money made, we were able to buy more of the curly-haired type preferred by the alien merchants. The first year, though we were obliged to meet the contract my husband made with the Hollanders, we kept aside a small portion to sell ourselves. Through Father Elias, I wrote to Geoffrey to see if he could use his connections and recommend any alien merchants who weren’t swindlers to purchase some. We received a good price when one buyer from Flanders, and another from Genoa, began to haggle.

  With the money received, we bought more sheep, allowing some to remain on the tenants’ land and for them to benefit from their milk. The wool we’d kept aside was spun into thread, employing the female villeins to spin as well. While Alyson, Hob, Rag and Aggy weaved our thread, I trained some of the cottagers and even a couple of the young novices from the Abbey. It was a good skill to have and the pay would tide the villeins over in winter. There were some days when the Great Hall was more like a weavers’ workshop, it was so full of carders, spinners and clicking and clacking looms, women and men chatting and even, at times, singing.

  Fortunately, the monks and the guild never found out about either the contract my husband made or the fact we were selling our cloth or, if they did, they were too worried about making enemies of the alien merchants who we were all beginning to rely upon to raise the matter. What’s that saying Papa was fond of? The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  In just over two years, we’d paid almost all of Turbet’s debts, and without sacrificing too much of our quality of life. Some of the servants left. Two of the men joined the army to fight in France. After they left, I went into Bath specially to hunt down young Peter, the lad who’d been unable to control Hereward and Wake the night I arrived at the lodge. A small lad of nine, he was miserable working at a local tannery. Once he overcame his disbelief I was actually offering him a place in the household, one that meant he never had to dip his hands in piss again, he was grateful. I put him to work in the house. He even managed to make friends with Hereward, Wake and the constant brood of pups.

  A couple of the female servants married. Rather than hire live-in servants to replace them, I asked the mother of one of the cottagers, Goody Babelot, a grandmother nine times over with a wealth of stories and experience, to come in daily and help in the kitchen and assist Mistress Emmeline about the house. She also happened to be an experienced spinner.

  Don’t think for a moment every year was good. There were frosts that killed the crops; wild dogs tore into the sheep, and that was the same year the murrain returned and decimated one-third of them. We’d only just shorn them, so while we gained from their wool, we lost the beasts. It was a horrible way for them to die, and I confess, I wept as the men dug a huge pit for the carcasses. The new tenant, Master Jon, threw an arm over my shoulders, an action that caused a few brows to raise and, God forgive me, my heart to quicken.

  ‘Be alright, mistress. They be with God now.’

  If heaven was one big pasture where sheep frolicked for eternity, what would they do with all that wool?

  ‘Make gowns for the angels, of course,’ said Alyson, when I posed the question. We laughed at the notion. From then on, every time we went to church, we’d find an image of an angel on the walls or in the brilliant windows and try to guess which breed of sheep was responsible for their gown.

  Then there was the year summer was never-ending and so very dry and hot. I was twenty-two. Crops withered in the ground, animals perished and their corpses rotted where they fell. The harvest was scant and folk went hungry. They became sick as well. Alyson fell ill for a time, coughing and spewling, her flesh aflame and sweaty. I nursed her carefully and, after a week or so, she came good. I went to church to thank the Lord.

  That was also the year Mistress Emmeline died. It
was midsummer. She started vomiting, shitting herself and was unable to drink even a small ale. Goody Babelot and Milda made special potions for her, but to no avail.

  Hereward and Wake, after giving us many years of joy, also died. One day apart. I swear they couldn’t live without each other. I cried more over their deaths than I did Fulk’s. After that, I imagined them in heaven rounding up the sheep, sitting at Jesus’s feet the way they used to mine, scratching their fleas so hard they made heaven’s foundations shake. I liked that idea. They left behind their grandchildren for us to remember them by. I visited their graves by the drystone wall on occasion, just to say hello.

  Mayhap, God smiled upon what we were doing, mayhap, Fortuna decided it was time my fortunes rose, but slowly, the wheel turned and we gained more than we lost.

  The following spring, just as rumours of plague in the north reached us, the sheep were shorn and the wool washed and dried. That summer, we spun the wool into thread, and welcomed women from nearby villages, those too old or young to work the fields and whoever else could turn a distaff and work a spindle, to join us. It was a merry sight that would attract the attention of the workers when they had cause to visit the barn or lodge. When Master Jon arrived, I’d oft spy him leaning against a doorway, his big arms folded across his brawny chest, chewing a piece of straw, his eyes drifting towards me. I grew a little clumsy under his gaze, a bit warm. Alyson would nudge me and nod in his direction.

  ‘Someone’d like you to thread his needle, hen,’ she’d chuckle.

  When Turbet happened to be home, I’d sometimes see him standing in the main doorway of the Great Hall. If he noticed Master Jon, he didn’t say, mayhap because Jon would make himself scarce. The women would curtsey and call out blessings to Turbet. After all, here was their generous master who gave them work and allowed them to contribute to their families. Gracious, he would wave and sometimes even smile and doff his hat.

  ‘You be a lucky one, my lady,’ the women would say, bestowing knowing looks. I accepted them with a smile. Alyson would snigger. ‘If only they knew,’ she’d murmur.