The Good Wife of Bath

by Karen Brooks

  If I was a lantern, I would have glowed. I never thought I could love Mervyn Slynge, but in that moment, I did.

  Alas, it wasn’t my voice I was thinking about when I spied Durand driving a cart on his way back to town; he’d been collecting wood to carve another loom. Milda was upon a mule beside me, Peter on a pony the other side, while Drew and Arnold rode ahead, axes slung across one shoulder, bows on the other. Brigands were known to sometimes rob travellers, so I always brought protection.

  Durand and I drew alongside and exchanged polite greetings. The dogs gambolled about the horses’ hooves. I barely recall what was said with our mouths, it was the secret conversation we had with our eyes, hands, the unspoken, that held me in thrall.

  Two days later, he came upon me in our small garden where I’d gone to collect some herbs to put in a drink for Mervyn. Without a word, we scuttered behind a hedge and fell upon each other, tugging and pulling at our clothes, mouths hot, fingers burning. We didn’t just sard once, but twice, collapsing on each other, sated. His kisses were the stuff of legend, his pole – a barge pole – was like his body, hard and thick in all the right places.

  Being used to old men’s bodies, which had their own particular beauty – or at least, Fulk’s had, I barely saw Turbet’s, and Mervyn’s was mostly a mystery to me – I’d never enjoyed a younger man’s before. Oh, I’d seen Layamon’s, years ago, but he was a mere boy compared to Durand. Thirty-two years old and a worker, Durand was built for pleasing. And I, a woman of twenty-seven, was built to be pleased. His hands could span my waist when he lifted me onto his prick. I would wrap my legs around him and ride till he bucked and shouted and I joined his cries with blissful ones of my own.

  Durand became my lover and for a few weeks, I was deaf to anything but our whispered words, the looks we exchanged; I was blind to anyone but him. No space was safe from our swiving – the back of his cart, the small yard, the secret space beneath the stairs. Often, we would race to the solar when no-one was there. One time, when I was certain everyone was either in the hall weaving, kitchen cooking or tending Mervyn, I took him in my bedroom.

  That was the beginning of my undoing, that and the air of distraction I carried. A glazed look that showed all too clearly what was going on in my head. I started to forget to visit my husband, or when I did, I was vague about the flock, the fabric we wove, sales. I was keen to get away lest Durand be waiting. I drifted off in the middle of conversations, my dreams were filled with heaving bodies, hot lips and a prick that, like a magic wand, cast a spell over me. Thinking back on it, I’m appalled. My selfishness, my unkindness in sarding another woman’s man. For allowing him to take up space in my head and heart that others deserved more. I didn’t love him. I didn’t know him. I just knew his body and the way it made mine feel.

  For certes, we barely spoke. There wasn’t anything for us to say – we’d nothing in common, not really. It was his pole and my queynte did the talking. Whatever lay between us was purely carnal, a desperate sating of mutual appetites. I never doubted he loved his wife, but it was me he wanted.

  The madness came to an end when, firstly, Alyson confronted me after Durand and I had spent the afternoon in my bedroom, naked and bold as you like. She found a lace from his shirt, torn when I ripped it from his body. She could also smell him, smell us. I didn’t deny it, how could I? And what would be the point?

  ‘You must cease this folly now, sister,’ she said sternly.

  Like a child, I became angry, defensive. ‘Why? Do I not deserve love? Do I not, a young woman who’s been married to old men, deserve to enjoy what other wives know?’

  I should have stopped. The hurt on Alyson’s face was raw. Fulk was so much more to her, to me, than an ‘old man’. But I didn’t. The devil stole my tongue. ‘Be with someone who can transport me to bowers of bliss?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Alyson hissed, throwing the lace at my face. ‘And what of Basilia? Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do to her?’

  ‘She doesn’t satisfy him.’

  ‘How do you know? Has he told you that?’

  I was about to bark a retort when I realised he’d never said anything of the kind. All he’d ever done was pant and express joy at feeling and seeing my various body parts – especially my quoniam. ‘Not in so many words.’

  ‘I’m surprised he’d know any. The man’s thicker than a tile. Nay, that’s not fair on tiles.’

  I threw myself on the bed, pretending an indifference I didn’t feel. ‘It’s none of your business who I swive.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Eleanor.’ She stood before me, hands on hips, little bolts of lightning flashing from her eyes. ‘When your actions affect the business, and, worse, the workers you profess to care about, then it is my bloody business. It’s yours too.’

  I rolled over and raised myself on my elbows. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Have you even taken one look at Basilia? Nay, of course not, you’re too busy gazing at her man to notice the impact your bloody assignations are having on the poor woman.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Her eyes are permanently swollen, she’s thinner than a river reed, and so pale she puts the moon to shame. When she thinks no-one can see, she weeps and weeps and refuses to eat or drink.’

  I went to reply, but what could I say? I hadn’t noticed. I hadn’t really given Basilia a thought. My stomach became heavy. I sat up.

  Alyson plonked beside me on the bed. ‘And then there’s Mervyn. You haven’t been to see him for days. When you did, you were so keen to get away, you neglected to feed him.’

  ‘There are others to do that.’

  ‘But he wants you.’

  I leapt to my feet. ‘I don’t know why. He’s made it perfectly clear he’s not interested in women.’

  ‘Not in that way. You’re more than a woman to him, Eleanor. You’re his wife; you’re his friend.’

  That stopped me in my tracks. I ran my fingers through my hair. It was true. ‘Do you think he knows?’ I asked Alyson.

  ‘About Durand?’

  I nodded, biting my lip.

  ‘The entire household does.’

  I felt a strange urge to cry.

  ‘Mervyn would hardly care if I swive another man. Why would anyone else?’

  ‘He might not care about the swiving, but he does when you make yourself the subject of gossip. And when you hurt one of your workers, you should.’ She joined me at the window, lifting my hand from where it hung limp by my side and placed it between her two cool ones. ‘I never took you to be a bitch, Eleanor. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did when I first met you.’ She half-smiled. ‘You were a right little one then.’

  I began to feel heat travel up my neck. My eyes began to swim.

  ‘But, as I came to know you – to love you – I knew you to be kind, loyal, someone who gave people a chance. I never thought you’d turn into the kind of woman who coveted another’s husband. Nor did I ever think you’d be the kind of woman who was indifferent to the hurt and pain she caused others. And, you know what makes it so much worse? You’re not even doing it deliberately. You’re doing it uncaringly, because you’re thinking only of yourself.’

  She was right. I hadn’t given a tinker’s cuss about anyone but me and my needs. I hadn’t even noticed Basilia or her suffering. As for Mervyn – dear God. The man had given me, us, so much and how did I repay him? By doing everything I could to either avoid being with him or, when I’d no choice, getting away as swiftly as possible.

  ‘And what if you were to make a child with this man, eh?’ added Alyson quietly. ‘Then what would you do? What would we do?’

  My insides flickered, I felt lit from within. My hand pressed protectively across my stomach before the truth struck me with all the weight of a church bell, tolling a warning against my worst instincts.

  Alyson’s words echoed. What would we do?

  I tried to extract my hand from hers, but she held me tighter.
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  ‘I don’t know how you can bear me,’ I said hoarsely. ‘You’re right. I’ve been so goddamn selfish. Oh, dear God.’ I sank to the floor. The tears came thick and fast. Aye, I was sorry for myself, sorry to hear the truth and see what I’d become through others’ eyes. Know that the goodwill I’d worked so hard to earn, the good name I’d struggled to achieve, was on the cusp of being ruined by my own thoughtless, wicked actions. I was nothing but a worthless whore.

  ‘I don’t deserve you,’ I breathed, and fell into her arms.

  I wept for what seemed a long time. Gathered in Alyson’s lap, she held me tight, stroked my hair, murmuring words not so much of comfort, but acknowledgement of what I blathered and sobbed. I determined then and there to end it with Durand, to try and make it up to Basilia, to all the servants. But mostly, to Mervyn.

  And to Alyson.

  ‘They must ha … ha … hate me …’ I choked and sniffled.

  ‘The workers? Our servants? Nay, hen, they don’t hate you. How could they? You’ve done so much for them, given them lives, wages, hope and a future. They’re just confused that the woman they trust to be better has proven, in essence, to be just the same as them.’

  ‘The same?’

  ‘A sinner.’

  I cried for a little longer, then ceased abruptly. I heaved myself upright and took the kerchief Alyson passed me, wiped my eyes and cheeks and blew my nose.

  She kissed me on the forehead. ‘I’ll get you some wine to drink and water to wash your face. We’ll fix your hair up and make you presentable.’

  ‘What for?’ I’d no intention of leaving my room ever again. Well, not for a few days at least. Until I had Durand out of my blood, and this could all blow over.

  Alyson dragged me to my unwilling feet. ‘So you can do what all sinners must.’

  I shook my head, confused.

  ‘Ask forgiveness.’

  ‘Oh.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Alright. I’ll go and see Father Elias.’

  ‘You’ll see him alright and make a confession. But I don’t mean him.’

  I stared at her in horror. ‘If you think I’m going to go and ask forgiveness of everyone, then you’re very much mistaken.’

  ‘Am I? If you don’t, then you’re not who I think you are, Mistress Eleanor Slynge.’

  I searched for excuses. Rubbed my nose, hiccoughed and straightened my damn tight kirtle. Bloody Alyson was right. I had to apologise and ask forgiveness from all those I’d wronged. If I didn’t, then I was no better than the likes of Layamon, or Turbet and his pox-ridden family. And be damned if I’d be compared to them. I was Fulk’s Bigod’s widow, Alyson Bigod’s Godsib, Eleanor, Mistress of Slynge House and a wife of Bath.

  I would make my penance and pay, in whatever way I must, for my lusty, selfish ways.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Bath

  The Years of Our Lord 1379 to 1380

  In the third year of the reign of Richard II

  In a matter of months, I learned some hard lessons. Among them was to think twice before putting your desires so far above others you fail to see their needs, and, when a male is offered queynte, it will be taken, even if the man already is.

  The main lesson was also the most painful: in order to truly pay for your sins, you must allow others to set the price.

  Whereas Father Elias demanded a succession of Hail Marys and dispensed a mountain of advice on how to avoid repeating my trespasses in the future, Mervyn merely smiled ruefully and more than a little mournfully at my confession. His hollow cheeks quivered, his shadowed eyes were pools of sorrow as he held my hand and drew me closer so Sweteman, Arnold and Drew couldn’t overhear and said he wished he was both younger and inclined towards my sex. In which case he would have absolved me by reasserting his conjugal rights. He even attempted to thrust his brittle hips. I laughed as I was supposed to and all was forgiven. ‘I married a full-blooded woman, Eleanor. I’m surprised it took you this long to take another to your bed.’

  I swore to my husband then and there I would never do it again, not as long as he lived. It was his turn to chuckle. ‘Glad you have the sense not to make promises that can’t be kept, lady wife, since I’m not long for this world.’

  I’d hugged him then, shocked at how prominent his rib cage felt beneath his shift, his lungs battling to seize each breath. The thought he might die soon shook me to the core. Mervyn may not have met all my needs, but he damn well satisfied ones I never even knew I had: to be respected, listened to, spoken to as if I had a mind of my own, and supported. There’s a great deal to be said for that. Alyson had the right of it – Mervyn and I would never be lovers, but we were friends. And what saddened me the most that day was the realisation my friend was dying.

  When I told Durand we couldn’t see each other again, he merely shrugged. ‘I think you mean “swive”, because unless you tend to blind me, you be hard to miss, madam.’ Then, doffing his cap, he wandered away down the street. But it was Basilia whom I found hardest to approach. I was ashamed to admit what I’d been doing, I felt sullied and humiliated – I was her employer, supposed to be her better. But that was the point, wasn’t it? If it was easy to ask forgiveness, then everyone would. Most of all, I felt I was unworthy.

  As it was, she had already worked out a way to forgive me. No doubt in cahoots with her philandering husband.

  Displaying few of the signs of distress Alyson had described, a rosy-cheeked Basilia listened to my confession then calmly said if I paid her the sum of five pounds, all would be forgiven and forgotten. I was speechless at first then, as you’d expect, paid the money, even though it was a huge amount. She never came back to work and last I heard, she and Durand were living somewhere outside the walls of London. Afterwards, I was able to see the funny side. That’s why, when I next wrote to Geoffrey, I included the tale of my lust and the various ways I had paid my penance, giving the greatest space to Basilia’s sudden transformation from hollow-cheeked cuckold to negotiator extraordinaire.

  Call it serendipity, Fortuna, or the Hand of God, but just as Geoffrey would have been reading my letter and composing a very priggish one in return, full of reproaches for allowing the sin of lust to overcome my good sense et cetera et cetera (this from a man who wrote of love-sick knights slaying one another over a woman – the cheek of it), a new customer swam into our ken.

  A young friend of Lady Frondwyn’s, her name was Cecilia Champain. Her stepmother was none other than the former King’s infamous mistress, Alice Perrers. Cecilia had come to Bath at Lady Frondwyn’s invitation. As I showed her the weavers at work in the Great Hall and she gushed her admiration for our cloth, she revealed we had a mutual friend – Geoffrey. From the way she said his name, all a-blushing and coy, I began to wonder what kind of ‘friend’ Geoffrey was. The more she prattled, the less I listened as it dawned on me that I wasn’t the only one allowing a married man to dip his wick in my wax.

  I took a good hard look at Cecilia. Slender, short, she had fine blonde hair and almost non-existent eyebrows that had been plucked into such thin arches she looked constantly surprised. Mayhap, she was. The thought of Geoffrey, with his forked beard and little paunch, panting and pushing over this one, almost undid me. She would have been no more than twenty. Yet there was a sly look about her, the way she pursed her little rosebud mouth. That night, I admitted to Alyson I didn’t like her.

  ‘You’re just jealous Geoffrey has another friend,’ said Alyson, punching the pillow as she prepared to settle.

  I stared at the ceiling. ‘Nay. I’m not. Truly. I’m more annoyed that if he’s sarding her, he had the gall to accuse me of peddling Eve’s wares and risking the salvation of heaven. What’s good for gander is not for goose to ponder. There’s something about the woman I find … false. False and more than a little avaricious. Did you note the expression on her face when she told us that Geoffrey’s been forced to hire a lawyer to defend an accusation of trespass and contempt?’

  ‘Aye. I did. She was delighted. She we
nt on and on about how he might have to pay a fine but how it was well within his means.’

  ‘Exactly. Ten pounds, wasn’t it? What sort of person finds glee in another’s misfortune?’

  ‘Not a friend.’

  ‘Nay. Either an enemy, or someone who enjoys revenge.’

  Alyson ceased to strike her pillow and, turning on her side, considered me. ‘What has Geoffrey Chaucer done that a young woman like that would seek revenge?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Alyson. But I like it not.’

  As it turned out, my feelings were right. But, before I could write to Geoffrey and warn him (as well as point out that sanctimony only works if you’re a saint), events overtook me.

  After the Great Apology (as I came to think of it), life in Slynge House and Bath continued as normal. I resumed my daily visits to Mervyn, weekly ones to our pastures and flock, as well as to mass. Father Elias was a regular at dinner or supper, as were some of the older merchants, Mervyn’s long-time friends and colleagues. We oft took the meal in Mervyn’s bedroom for, as autumn segued into winter, he became completely bed-bound.

  I also continued my lessons with Master Binder, who, when he developed a terrible cough, asked his son to take his place. Jankin, by now fourteen or thereabouts, was tall, learned and becoming very, very handsome. I’d grown quite fond of him. He took almost as much pride in my accomplishments as I did. After our lesson was complete and he’d set me tasks for the following week, we’d sit in the solar, drink wine and either read to each other or simply talk. Jankin was going up to Oxford, following in his father’s footsteps, becoming a scholar and, likely, a monk. He quite fancied the Benedictine Order, and though he should have joined them by now, his father’s declining health kept him close.