The Good Wife of Bath

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Oh, my dear, it was nothing personal. Ask the others. They say the same about all women.’ He laughed at the expression on my face. ‘But whereas there are some who deserve their … opprobrium, you, my dear, don’t. You’re something entirely different. Just what, I don’t know … Yet.’

  ‘I’m merely a wife.’ I lowered my eyes and tried to appear demure.

  Master Mervyn stood. ‘Ha!’ he said and drained his drink. ‘You may be a wife, but there’s nothing mere about you.’ He went to leave, then changed his mind. ‘In fact, someone like you would be enough to convince me to venture into wedlock. At my age too. Mayhap. One day.’ He shuffled out of the room, pausing at the doorway. ‘Let me know if you ever become available.’

  Aye, I thought, and lambs might fly south.

  I thought I was the only one privy to the conversation, one which I repeated to Alyson that very night, but I sometimes forget the Almighty is also listening, as is Fortuna. Though I dismissed Master Mervyn’s offer as cupshotten nonsense, knowing by then his predilection for young men, I should have understood that God the all Great and Powerful also has a mighty sense of humour.

  Too soon, I was to feel its full force.

  Geoffrey didn’t only write letters. He even came to visit on two occasions. The first was back in September 1374. The weather was still very warm, the ground dry. Alyson was abed with sickness, though improving. Some of the villeins were ill and two had even died. I hoped it was because they were elderly, though, when I went to their funerals, I was shocked to learn they were younger than Turbet.

  But I was telling you about Geoffrey.

  We spent the morning together, walking about the grounds, and I showed him the weavers busy in the Great Hall, the pastures, yellow stubble rather than green, but dotted with healthy looking sheep. As we wandered, we talked. Conversation was never a problem and I so enjoyed his company and hearing his news. He was comfortably ensconced in his London house, an apartment above Aldgate, one of the busier entrances to the city. From its windows, he could see people making their daily pilgrimage to and from the city, carting and carrying their wares, herding animals. Soldiers were oft escorting prisoners, while noblemen and women would ride out en route to their great estates. He could also see the river, and his office, which was at Wool Quay, was only a short stroll away. He invited me to come and visit one day. I said I would. I said a lot of things I meant back then.

  I asked about his wife and children. When the old Queen died, Philippa had gone to serve John of Gaunt’s new wife, Constance of Castile.

  He shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I barely see them.’

  I stopped in my tracks. ‘What do you mean? Now that you’re back in England, in London no less, I thought you and your family would be under the same roof. Philippa must have missed you greatly …’

  The expression on his face told me all I needed to know. My heart tripped. ‘Philippa is accustomed to being her own woman,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’m sure you of all people understand.’

  Did I? I was hardly my own woman, I belonged to Turbet, and before him, Fulk, and before him, Papa. What woman could really be called ‘her own’? What did that even mean?

  Unaware of my ruminations, Geoffrey continued. ‘The apartment is not really suitable for young children, what with the noise of the street and such. It’s also quite dark and damp. Anyhow, Philippa has a lovely suite of rooms at the Savoy and, when the family aren’t there, they’re at Kenilworth or one of Gaunt’s other palaces.’

  ‘That sounds like excuses, Geoffrey.’ In the harsh light of the sun, I could see his skin was lightly pocked, the lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened. Tiny veins scattered his cheeks. Only his eyes retained their familiar brightness, their shining hope. But, the more I looked, I saw what I’d failed to notice before. A blight that could only be sorrow. ‘Oh, Geoffrey, what is it?’ I clasped one of his hands in both of mine and drew them to my breast.

  He sighed and looked at his shoes. ‘I don’t know, Eleanor.’ He shook his head, as if to clear it. ‘For all that I read and write about love, devotion, hope, I seem to be unable to salvage any for myself.’

  I squeezed his hands.

  He returned the gesture. ‘Did I tell you I’m writing again? I’ve ideas for a poem about what goes on in parliament, about the crowing and chest-beating and ridiculousness of our representatives.’

  ‘Father Elias did mention it,’ I said. ‘You’re embracing your other self. Remember, we used to call you The Poet.’

  He chuckled. ‘As I recall, it was said to mock me.’

  I couldn’t argue.

  ‘I’m also in the middle of writing about good women. It’s something you inspired – not because you are one, mind,’ he added with a grin when he noticed my chest puffing up.

  ‘Ah. So I’m a muse now, am I?’

  ‘You certainly amuse me,’ he said.

  I punched him gently on the shoulder.

  ‘I find that even my best intentions are thwarted. I want to write about good women, but all I can think about is how, like a unicorn or a dragon, a good woman is a mythical creature that we men search and search for and fail to find.’

  ‘Oy,’ I said. ‘Speak for yourself.’

  ‘I am, my dear. I am.’

  As usual, Geoffrey had taken a roundabout route to get to the point.

  ‘You’re not happy with Philippa?’ I prompted.

  He shrugged. ‘How do I even know when we’ve barely lived under the same roof? Barely shared a bed?’

  ‘You must have shared one at some stage. You’ve two children after all,’ I exclaimed.

  Geoffrey gazed skyward, squinting. ‘Philippa has two children.’

  After that, we meandered back to the house where ale and rabbit awaited. I never did ask Geoffrey what he meant and swiftly dismissed his words.

  The next time he visited was three years later. It was the day after my conversation with Mervyn Slynge.

  A great deal had happened since. Not so much at Laverna Lodge or in Bath, where time seemed to march on the spot. Apart from another outbreak of the Great Sickness a year after Geoffrey last graced our door, people came and went, died, were born, fell ill, recovered or didn’t. But in Geoffrey’s world, the world of merchants, politicians, court and words, everything changed all the time. I wondered how he could bear it, spinning around and around like a dizzy girl on a maypole.

  Sitting in the solar, I listened as he shared his news. Much I knew already, but it was so different hearing it from someone who lived and breathed it, felt its impact, saw its consequences. Though he’d been to Calais and back since we’d last been together, the biggest news by far was the death of Edward of Woodstock, the King’s eldest son and heir to the throne, the hero of Poitiers and other battles besides. It had been a long, lingering death that Geoffrey said no-one would wish on their worst enemy. Services had been held, the country plunged into mourning – even here in Bath we’d grieved. Geoffrey said it was a tragedy that the King, already frail, would never recover from.

  The parliament had created its first Speaker of the House of Commons, which Geoffrey said meant ordinary folk like him and me, like my villeins, now had a greater say in how we were governed. Alyson snorted loudly.

  ‘That’ll never happen until we rid ourselves of the monarchy and elect a leader,’ she said.

  I stared at her in horror. ‘Have you been listening to those preachers at the cross in Bath again?’

  She pursed her lips.

  Geoffrey arched a brow. ‘I didn’t know the ideas of John Wycliffe had spread beyond Oxford.’

  ‘Spread might be an exaggeration, but they’re discussing them hereabouts,’ admitted Alyson when she understood she wasn’t going to be shouted at. Turbet wouldn’t tolerate any mention of the scholar Wycliffe and his followers. Called Lollards, they decried the authority of the Pope and priests and the rituals of the church and believed that anyone could have a relationship with the Lord without a priest to be their interme
diary. Alyson had told me about them, but I didn’t much care. Not then.

  With Geoffrey a willing audience, she continued, ‘They say the bread they give in church isn’t really Christ. That we don’t need to have that to know Him.’

  ‘I hope you don’t repeat such things around Father Elias,’ I said.

  ‘Or anyone else,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘They’re dangerous words, Alyson. Dangerous ideas.’

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ she said.

  Nay, she wasn’t. Just inclined to listen to those she shouldn’t. I half-suspected she’d taken a shine to one of the young preachers.

  We moved on to discuss the King’s failing health and how his mistress, a woman named Alice Perrers, was making enemies faster than a London merchant chips his silver coins. I wanted to know more about this woman. We’d heard of her, of course, how she’d turned the good King’s ageing head, was lavish with his money, buying clothes and jewels and properties for herself in his name, ruining the exchequer in the process. Part of me admired her gall, most of me envied her. She’d risen from low beginnings, been a servant, too – admittedly, in the dead Queen’s chambers, but still a servant. Made my accomplishments pale in comparison. I said as much.

  ‘Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor,’ said Geoffrey. ‘All I have to do is look around to see what miracles you’ve wrought, what your common sense has done. Turbet couldn’t be happier. Just ask him.’

  I beamed and fluttered my beringed fingers. ‘Mistress Perrers isn’t the only one who knows how to extract largesse from a man.’

  ‘I can see that as well,’ laughed Geoffrey.

  ‘Even so,’ I said, suddenly wistful, ‘I’d give it all away if I could have a child.’

  Alyson slowed her spindle, looking anxiously at me. She knew how much the lack of a baby pained me. For Turbet, who already had two children (whom I’d still never met), it wasn’t such an issue. But for me, it was a constant feeling of failure.

  ‘Oh, Eleanor,’ said Geoffrey and took my hand. ‘You’re young. There’s still time.’

  I snatched my hand back. ‘Young? I’m twenty-five. I know next to Turbet I’m a babe in swaddling, but truth is, I’m an old matron, sir. No pretty words or sympathy will change that, certainly not while I’m married to Turbet.’

  Geoffrey dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Mayhap, with your next husband?’

  Cheeky bastard. Discussing such things while my husband was somewhere about the house, living and breathing (and wheezing and struggling to mount his horse, let alone me). It was then I told Geoffrey about Mervyn’s strange proposal.

  ‘If it’s a child you’re a wanting, you’ll not be getting one with him,’ said Geoffrey, smirking and accepting the drink Alyson poured him.

  ‘That’s what I said.’ She clinked his goblet with her own. They drank.

  ‘Still, if it’s riches and a fancy house in town, then mayhap Mervyn is your man. You’ve a fine head for business, Eleanor, and what’s marriage if not legitimate women’s business – one where, if she’s canny, she can profit.’

  ‘Aye, that, or whoring,’ I added quietly, before quickly changing the mood and begging a story.

  Was it a cruel irony that, two days later, the same day beloved King Edward passed from this earthly realm to sit at God’s side in heaven up above, my husband also died? King Edward perished in bed, they say, his wily mistress by his side, pulling a large sparkling ring off his finger as he drew his final breath and claiming it as her own.

  That very morning, a grey day in June, my husband managed to mount his horse without aid. Intending to ride down to the Abbey, he told his squire, Nicholas, to remain and attend to other duties. Less than a mile from the house, he fell. He was found late that evening, his neck broken.

  Was I sorrowful? Only at the manner of his death, and that a way of life I’d grown accustomed to would be altered. I didn’t shed tears, though my heart was heavy.

  Geoffrey was still with us when they brought the body back. I can’t remember whether what I decided over the following weeks was at his suggestion or my own idea. But, in the wake of Turbet’s death and the inevitable sorrow and fears for the future that followed, and with Mervyn Slynge immediately reminding me of his offer, I did the only thing I could.

  Not content to seek God’s wisdom alone over such an important question (though I did ask Father Elias and pray), and after first seeing Turbet buried and making sure everything was in order at home – my will written, debts paid, tenants looked after – I applied for a passport and papers to allow me and Alyson to leave England for a time.

  Geoffrey and Father Elias helped, both putting in a word with the bishop and relevant people in officialdom.

  After permissions were granted and I had the relevant documents, I packed enough clothes to last a long journey, told Alyson to do the same and, digging out my pilgrim’s cloak, hat, scrip and staff, set off.

  I told you I’d rather fancied another pilgrimage.

  I took one and dragged Alyson along. Milda begged to remain behind.

  It occurred to me that in order to ask the Almighty about any new marriage I might make, I needed to be as close to Him as I could without leaving earth.

  So, I went to the next best place: I went to Rome.

  PILGRIMAGE TO ROME

  A letter to Master Geoffrey Chaucer from Mistress Eleanor Gerrish, widow

  I send my greetings from Rome, Geoffrey, and God’s and all the saints’ blessings, and mine.

  When I first trudged down the Godforsaken hill and into this damned city, I was cursing you from here to Bath and back again. Forget my aches and endless pains, forget my swollen feet. I thought at least when we got to Rome, we could repair our physical selves as well as our souls. That’s what I kept telling Alyson and our fellow travellers, who, let me tell you, make my whingeing sound like a chorus of angels.

  How can one repair oneself when all about, everything is broken? There’s not a building standing that doesn’t have blocks of stone or rubble strewn about like some giant’s game of dice, nor a street where the cobbles haven’t lifted. Street is a generous word. Not only are they narrow and higgledy-piggledy (with few exceptions, the ancient Romans knew what they were doing, but they’re long gone), but when you eventually get to the church, monument, shrine or whatever other marvel we’re being asked to ogle (and leave coin at), stumbling into these large open spaces they call piazzas, it’s as if we’ve come upon a farmyard, what with all the goats, chickens and pigs roaming about.

  Ancient wonder? The place is in bloody ruins. Wolves come out at night and vermin rummage everywhere. Speaking of vermin, on almost every corner there’s a Roman shouting at us to buy their wares. Or they’re trying to drag you into this shop, to that stall, or some place that passes for an inn. I thought Alyson and I were going to be kidnapped and sold in some exotic flesh market (not that I’d mind too much if some of the gentlemen I’ve seen around here bought me – they might be loud, these Romans, and not very tall, but my God, Geoffrey, they’re big where it counts, if you know what I mean).

  Every time I turn around it’s to find some Roman pissing in a corner or in the middle of the street, up against one of the bleeding arches or columns that pop up out of nowhere. Or it’s a wretched beggar having a shit just where you’re about to step. Horse’s droppings, goats, pigs, sheep, turkeys, geese, human – you name it – it’s everywhere.

  Then there’s the robbers – worse than those we encountered getting here, I tell you! They’ll cut your scrip clean off your body if you’re not vigilant, steal your purse, never mind the bread from your mouth. Worse, they’ll sell you what they swear on Mother Mary’s tits is a genuine relic for a vast sum only for you to discover that what you thought was a bit of Jesus’s five loaves is really dried horse dung. That’s what happened to the silly manciple who’s part of our group. Mayhap, you know him? Says he knows you. Bit into the stuff, didn’t he, hoping for a miracle. He got one alright – a mouth full of shit. Alyson couldn’t stop laughin
g, since she knows what that’s like (I’ll tell you that story another time).

  Just when you think you can bear it no longer, your guide leads you up another bloody hill, along a never-ending path and orders you to look. And what happens? The heavens part, sunlight beams down, and glorious soft light, like God’s breath, illuminates everything. All those bits of rock and broken stone suddenly take on the wisdom of the ages, the stories of all those who have lived, breathed, loved, wept, fought and walked these winding, squeezy streets and straight wide roads, pour into your head. The river, usually a thick green sludge, is transformed into a vein of beauty that carves a path through the city and gives it succour. The trees, which are the most peculiar shapes, become majestic sentinels on the crests of the hills. The church spires rise to the heavens, God’s spears in salute. From this magisterial vantage point, our guide points out all the places he’s taken us. Finally, he turns to us with shining eyes and a wide, cavernous smile, moves his arm in a great arc and says, ‘St Peter’s.’

  We all gasp as our eyes alight on the glory of Rome, sacred home of the Veronica. Aye, we went there, too. Peter’s tomb lies there also. They even let you poke your head through a small opening and speak to the saint himself, which I did. How he heard me above the wailing, hair-tearing and weeping of the other pilgrims, I’m uncertain, though I did give my lungs a good working. Some of the pilgrims put on a show with their hysterics and devotions. I was forced to slap one woman who wouldn’t stop howling and tossing her head around. She ceased immediately and, as I was receiving the gratitude of others who were equally annoyed by her performance, she punched me in the head. God’s truth, Geoffrey. I had to pull Alyson off her, as my Godsib pummelled her furiously. Made me laugh to see Alyson so outraged – and in one of the holiest of places. We were forced to leave after that, but not before Alyson pulled a great hank of the woman’s hair from her head. ‘Cheaper than buying one of them bloody relics,’ she said, twining it into a switch. We’re telling folk it’s Mary Magdalene’s tresses – for certes, the woman fought like a whore.