The Good Wife of Bath

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The Good Wife of Bath Page 24

by Karen Brooks


  ‘But between Pa, Father Elias, the monks at the Abbey and you, Mistress Eleanor, my education is not lacking. I’ve other pupils too.’

  Whereas I didn’t feel jealous at the idea of Geoffrey having an attractive younger friend, the notion that I shared Jankin with others caused a sharp pain in my ribs that I was quite unprepared for. It wasn’t that I was attracted to Jankin, though apart from his youth, there was no reason why not, it was just that I so enjoyed our discussions, our exchange of ideas and stories. It reminded me of my correspondence with Geoffrey, only better, for here my confidant was in the flesh.

  The fact he was younger and prettier didn’t matter. Much.

  ‘Be careful, Eleanor,’ Alyson would warn. Again.

  ‘Of what? He’s but a child,’ I scoffed.

  ‘A child doesn’t look at you the way he does.’

  ‘Oh? How’s that?’

  ‘As if he might devour you.’

  I’d seen what she meant in his eyes, heard it in his tone. It was somewhere between loathing and desire. It was heady. I loved that I’d the ability to discommode this young man who would be a monk and a man of learning.

  Fool that I was, I thought I’d the upper hand. Once again, I was but a tool of Venus and Mars.

  It wasn’t until after the Feast of the Epiphany, in the third year of King Richard’s reign, that Mervyn’s health declined sharply. Each day Father Elias came to the house, half-expecting to be administering last rites. Along with Sweteman, Arnold and Drew, I’d taken to sleeping in Mervyn’s room, on a pallet at the foot of his bed so that, like the men, I could be there to meet his needs. I owed my husband, this clever, generous sodomite, so much.

  After making his final will and offering a last confession, three days after the Ides of January, on the Feast of St Marcel, Pope and Martyr, Mervyn Slynge received extreme unction and passed from the world quietly, surrounded by his priest, loyal servants and mostly loyal wife. It was a dismal day, the sky heavy and grey, the wind fierce, matching my sorrow.

  The world and my life would be diminished now Mervyn was no longer in it.

  In response to a note, Geoffrey arrived the following day, even though the London Road was snow-bound and difficult to traverse.

  We’d already washed and clothed Mervyn. It was the first time I’d seen him naked. Wrinkled and much reduced, he was like a child and man all rolled into one. I could see the span of his life in his ancient body. It was humbling and there was a strange beauty in the sagging, spotted and moled flesh of his face, arms and knees compared to the nearly flawless allure of his stomach and upper thighs. I wondered, as we ran the scented cloth gently over his limbs, his groin, how many lovers he’d had, and if he’d found forgiveness for his sins in the Lord’s arms. Or did the Lord refuse admittance to men who loved other men, even if every other action in their lives warranted a place in the Kingdom of Heaven?

  Alyson and I spoke on this during the night and though I couldn’t see her face in the dark, I heard the tremble in her voice as she tried to quell her sorrow. It was a question we’d oft pondered of late.

  We buried Mervyn beneath the chapel floor in St Michael’s Without the Walls. Though Mervyn could have afforded to be buried in St Peter’s, and indeed, the bishop had tried to persuade him, claiming that God would look kindlier if he chose that church, it had long been arranged with Father Elias where he would lie. Mervyn knew the bishop’s insistence had little to do with God’s attention and everything to do with what he bequeathed St Michael’s Without upon his death: enough to have masses said for many years and alms for the poor. Mervyn always said there were far more commons inclined to attend mass outside Bath’s walls and be welcomed than there were within.

  On returning to the house, we adjourned to the hall. The looms had been moved to the sides of the room and trestle tables erected. We had a splendid feast. Cook outdid himself. Ale and wine flowed and, as the night wore on, pipes, gitterns and drums played while folk danced. There were many merchants present, as well as Master Binder – who’d dragged himself from his sickbed – and Jankin. I also invited the servants to join us and remember their master.

  I concealed my sorrow beneath a facade of hospitality, but each reminder of Mervyn, of his kindness, his intelligence, quite undid me. I moved about the room, noting the grief on the faces of those present, listening to their memories of my husband, how his ability to see the best in folk allowed them to rise to be that – myself included. By St Sebastian’s ribs, what would become of me now he was no longer here? Instead of allowing my sadness to escape, the tears that had pooled in my chest to flow, I diluted them with wine.

  By the time the bells rang for compline, I was stumbling about the place, throwing my arms around whoever stood nearby, alternately wailing and laughing. I remember sharing a dance with Jankin, who kept pressing his body into mine, not that I objected. Likewise, I was flung from one set of arms to another until the room whirled. I was breathless and more than a little bit ill. A group of merchants’ wives stood near one of the tables watching me, their faces carved into expressions of disapproval. Their censure aroused me to new heights and I found Jankin again and, in front to everyone, pressed a kiss upon him, a farewell as the lad was off to Oxford in a week. I also kissed the grocer, his daughter, five merchants and their sons. I would have kissed Father Elias as well had he not held up his cross to warn me away. It wasn’t until Geoffrey and another man, Simon de la Pole, a brogger who Mervyn had dealt with on occasion, sat me down and forced me to remain still that I began to take stock.

  The room was crowded and, despite the cold outside, the raging wind and sleet, I was sweating. A sea of slick, smiling faces swam before me; the odour of the rushes, dogs’ leavings and urine as well as greasy food made my stomach churn. I could smell sweat, ale, wine and smoke and not just from the man who remained by my side, Simon, while Geoffrey fetched Alyson and Milda.

  I tilted my chin, trying to see who it was that had been such a gentleman as to remove me from the floor before I fell and disgraced myself and Mervyn’s memory. Though I could imagine him laughing if I’d toppled face first into the rushes.

  ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ I said slowly, trying not to slur my words.

  ‘Indeed, we have, mistress,’ said Master Simon, touching his fine cap. In fact, all his clothes were rather fancy for a brogger. But then, I guess he’d know quality wool and the best spinners and weavers.

  I pinched his coat, my fingers rubbing the fabric. It was a deep blue with cream stitching along the cuff and neck. ‘This is mighty fine,’ I said, narrowing my eyes so I might see it better.

  ‘From your own workshop.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it,’ I said, a smirk appearing. ‘You’ve a good eye.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, with such a roguish smile and pointed look that even in my drunken state, I knew wasn’t just about the fabric. His eyes dropped to my breasts. As the night had worn on, my neckline had slipped, and my heavy breasts were bursting from their confines. Be damned if I didn’t experience a sudden rush of liquid heat between my legs. I returned his bold gaze. He’d a mop of dark brown hair upon which his hat sat jauntily. His eyes were the colour of burned chestnuts and his skin was weathered, but in that attractive way young men possess – before age destroys their complexions. How old was he? Thirty? Mayhap, a bit older. He was tall, but not too tall. And strong. Geoffrey was but a wisp compared to him.

  His eyes had dropped to my lips. I licked them. He began to lean into me but, before anything untoward should happen, Alyson and Geoffrey appeared.

  ‘Come, sister,’ said Alyson, glaring at Master Simon and slipping her hand beneath my arm and heaving me upright. ‘Time for bed.’

  ‘Allow me to help –’ began Master Simon.

  Alyson shoved him so hard in the chest, he fell onto a stool. I began to giggle.

  ‘You’ve helped more than enough. If you could but take her other side, Geoffrey,’ she said, draping my arm over her shoulders.
‘God, you’re a weight.’

  I mumbled something, trying to smile reassuringly at Master Simon. Already he was distracted by a merchant’s sister, a pretty dark-haired child of about fifteen. Evidently, his eyes strayed only slightly faster than his mind.

  My head was sluggish and slow and, as we wended our way through the hall, Alyson and Geoffrey explained to our guests that I was overcome with grief and going to retire. I recall thinking what they were saying wasn’t exactly untrue. The loss of Mervyn, while leaving me very well off, as I was destined to receive more than half his worldly goods, also left me feeling empty. Once more, I was a widow. A woman whose husbands died on her faster than flies in a castle kitchen.

  Mervyn was gone.

  All the life drained from me. Without further complaint, I went to bed. I said goodnight to Geoffrey, who promised to look after those still downstairs, and as Alyson and Milda helped me undress, I barely said a word.

  Milda left and Alyson tucked me under the covers, stoked the fire and, eventually, clambered in beside me, releasing a big sigh.

  ‘Sometimes, Eleanor, you’re such a trial. Of all the places to display desire, you choose your husband’s funeral.’

  I winced. I’d sobered enough to understand my behaviour was wanting. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to be sorry, hen. People will understand and if they don’t, then they’re not worth a pinch of …’ She searched for the appropriate word. ‘Spice.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s salt.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  I smiled. ‘I hope you’re right.’ We lay there in silence, the muffled noises of dancing and music reaching us through the floor. The window rattled as the wind shook the house.

  ‘We might have trouble convincing people to leave until the storm passes. I doubt we’ll get much sleep before then,’ said Alyson wistfully.

  ‘I don’t think I can sleep. Not yet. Despite all I’ve drunk. Too much to think about.’

  ‘Aye,’ sighed Alyson. ‘What are we going to do now you’re a widow again?’

  I found Alyson’s hand under the covers. ‘I imagine go on as we have. You know, weaving, selling our wool and cloth.’

  ‘There are those will make it difficult for you, despite your experience, your name and standing. You’re a woman alone – a feme sole.’

  ‘Aye. Even though I’m a widow and not really alone.’ I squeezed her fingers and rolled onto my side. ‘I’ll be pressed to marry again. Even tonight, there were men seeking my company, paying more attention than they ever have, though I’ve known them for years.’

  ‘Like Simon de la Pole.’

  ‘Exactly like him. How did I never notice how … how handsome he is?’

  ‘Never had cause.’

  ‘Nay. Don’t suppose I did.’ I traced patterns on the sheet.

  The fire crackled and the wood split, a shower of sparks brightening the room momentarily. I could see the outline of Alyson’s face, the lucent glow of her eyes, boring into mine.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about what Father Elias said at the funeral today.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Alyson wearily.

  ‘He said that we all, no matter whether popes, emperors, kings, queens, paupers or beggars, whether high born, low born, rich or poor, the one thing we all have in common is death.’

  ‘He’s right.’

  ‘Then he read that passage from his psalter: We have all come here to this world like pilgrims so that we are to leave it.’

  ‘And …?’ Alyson waited for me to say more. ‘Oh, nay. Eleanor …’ She half sat up. ‘Don’t tell me you have a mind to wander again. Look what happened last time we went away.’ She fell back on the pillow.

  ‘Last time,’ I said, ‘I went too far. This time, I don’t intend to travel quite that distance.’

  ‘I suppose that means Walsingham or Canterbury?’ Alyson sounded so despondent.

  ‘I was thinking maybe Cologne.’

  ‘Cologne?’ She turned to look at me in shock before burying her face in her hands and kicking her heels. ‘God, Eleanor.’ She removed her hands. ‘That’s miles away and over the sea! Have you gone entirely mad?’

  ‘Aye, Godsib. I have.’ I waited for her to calm down. ‘What say you? Fancy a trip through France?’

  ‘While we’re at war?’ Alyson threw her arms out and began to chuckle. ‘If it’s with you, Eleanor, then why the hell not? What could go wrong?’

  PILGRIMAGE TO COLOGNE

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

  My most meaningful blessings, et cetera, et cetera, upon you, Geoffrey.

  I know I should have listened when you warned that visiting the shrine of the Three Magi in Cologne meant not only returning to places I swore I’d never go again, as well as a journey by sea, but I didn’t. When you cautioned I was unlikely to encounter fellow Englishmen travelling to this part of the world and would struggle talking to anyone, I didn’t listen either. When you said I should take at least three of my own men to serve as guards, I ignored you. Why? Now I’ve had time to consider my stubbornness, my insistence on doing almost the complete opposite of what you recommended (I did take two men), I’ve fathomed the reasons. I was cross with you, Geoffrey Chaucer. Cross at your stubbornness, your refusal to acknowledge I was right regarding that doxy Cecilia Champain.

  But whereas I closed my ears to your prognostications of disaster – and rightly, as Cologne and the entire journey has been both entertaining and worthwhile – you, my friend, should have heeded me. Am I not a woman? Do I not possess a queynte? Do I not recognise in my kind the sort of habits, temperament and inclinations the good Lord and Father Elias say need to be mastered? The moment I set eyes on her, I knew what Cecilia Champain was, and I knew you were a fool to trust her.

  You may thank me and apologise when we see each other again – in any order.

  I won’t dwell on the painful matter anymore, except to say I was shocked when Alyson, Milda, Drew, Arnold and I arrived in London to join the pilgrims and called upon your residence in Aldgate to learn, firstly, you weren’t there and secondly, that the little bitch had accused you of raptus. You! A rapist! I can only assume it’s either a case of mistaken identity or you’re not the honest man you appear to be. Then again, one cannot write the things you do, Geoffrey, and deny the lustful inclinations that come naturally to your sex. I quite understand that on occasion your desires must overcome you – especially in the absence of your wife – but with Cecilia Champain? That loathsome serpent? I shudder at the thought. I’ve always said, never trust a person without brows, a maxim that has proven true on more than one occasion. (Remember Father Roman?)

  I can only urge you, if you haven’t already, to use the advantage of your friendship with Alice Perrers to seek redress. Is she not Cecilia’s stepmother? I’m aware Mistress Perrers has fallen out of favour since King Edward’s death, but surely the woman still has enough influence to mitigate what promises to be a disastrous outcome for you. Not to mention the influence of your other important connections in London.

  If I thought it would have done any good, Geoffrey, I’d have remained in the city and shouted from the rooftops about your gentilesse, talents and kindness, and how unlikely it was that you would force a woman into your bed. As it was, we’d booked passage on a ship from Southampton, and these captains wait for no man, or woman, once the tide has turned. I did leave a note with your fellow, and pray he passed it on. Forgive my lack of correspondence in between, there’s been little time to write, and less confidence any letter will reach its destination before I do.

  As my eyes once more turn towards home, I pray it’s to find the matter resolved. If not, then I offer my services and voice once more. My late husband once told me to use it to help others, and it would give me no greater pleasure than to use it on your behalf.

  If you were right about one thing, Geoffrey, it’s the kind of pilgrims we’d encounter on thi
s journey. From the moment we disembarked at Boulogne and met our guide, a portly man with a moustache that looked like he’d detached it from a besom, Herr Wolfram von Kühn, we were thrust together with a group of rough-looking men who, if they didn’t have yellow crosses dangling down their fronts and backs, were wearing knives, axes, staves and other sharp-looking instruments around their necks. When I asked Herr von Kühn, who could communicate in what he thought was English but was a mixture of Latin and some sort of London parlance (I did come to understand him – eventually), why these men were so adorned, he explained the crosses were worn by accused heretics while the other men were murderers. Murderers, I tell you! Their punishment was to walk to whatever number of shrines the judge sentencing them saw fit. Whether they were put to death after begging forgiveness and seeking indulgences, I didn’t dare ask. I was apoplectic when I understood who and what were to accompany us on our journey. Until Alyson pointed out that at least while we travelled with criminals we were unlikely to be set upon by the same. It was solid reasoning, and that was before I learned that armed guards were also travelling with us. (As it was, we had only one brief incident, which saw the brigands turn tail the moment our worthy murderers wielded their various weapons and shouted like berserkers. It was thrilling!)

  After a blessing from a ridiculously indifferent bishop, we set off from Boulogne, twenty or so of us, Alyson, Milda and I the only women flung together with cutthroats, thieves, heretics, two monks, a franklin, a widower-shipman from St Omer, a knight, Sir Jacques, who’d been to Jerusalem, and, of course, our guide, the portly Herr Wolfram von Kühn. I couldn’t have asked for more interesting companions if I’d ordered them straight from the Almighty Himself.

  For all your blathering about my being unable to speak the tongue of the natives, what you, Poet, a man of words no less, appear to have conveniently forgotten is the common language men and women all speak, particularly when flung together, night and day. What language is that? Why love, of course. And, trust me when I tell you, Geoffrey, not only did Herr von Kühn, mein liebe, speak the same tongue, but so did one of the monks – Italian, and we know they’re experts in amore. Between them and one of the thieves who stole my heart and whose name eludes me, the journey afforded many pleasures. And then there was the rugged farmer near Bruges who killed his wife’s lover with his staff. He almost killed me with it too, if you know what I mean.

 

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