The Good Wife of Bath

by Karen Brooks

  After all, that’s what I was now, not quite Eleanor nor quite Alyson, but as I smoothed the front of my dress, her dress, and felt a wave of sadness swamp me, I knew I was both.

  I swallowed, aware of Geoffrey and Milda, whose face was swollen from crying, watching me.

  Outside, the sky had lightened to a dull pewter. Heavy clouds sat low, threatening rain and possibly snow later. Good, it would hide our tracks, bury the bodies deeper.

  The bodies … I choked back a sob.

  Before we left, there was one last thing I had to do. I begged Geoffrey to fetch the book and all the quires Jankin had filled. Without questioning, he did. I held them briefly, shocked by the weight of all those pages, pages which listed the sins of womenkind: our sins according to men.

  With a grunt, I hurled them into the fire and watched with great satisfaction as they began to burn.

  ‘Make haste,’ said Geoffrey.

  A short time later, Milda and I mounted the mules. There was only Geoffrey and Oriel to bid us farewell. And the hounds. I buried my face in their fur. Tried to settle their whines, but it was as if they knew life would never be the same again and mourned for what they’d already lost.

  I took Oriel in my arms and held her tight. Her body shook with the effort not to weep. I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her forehead, wiped away her falling tears with my thumbs.

  ‘God be with you, dear, dear Oriel.’

  ‘And you, mistress,’ she whispered. ‘And you.’

  Geoffrey gripped my hand tightly, the pressure of his fingers telling me what he couldn’t say. I didn’t want to let him go, but I must. For all our sakes.

  Hunched in a cloak, I pulled a thin black veil over my face and looked at the world through a dark barrier. That’s how the future would seem to me from hereon in. One coloured in the meanest of hues.

  ‘God bless you and keep you, Mistress Alyson,’ said Geoffrey, his voice raised in case anyone heard. ‘Be sure to write and let me and Eleanor know how you fare.’

  Was it too late to tell Geoffrey that unlike me, Alyson had never really taken to her lessons and remained illiterate? It no longer mattered and mayhap, that was the one gift I could give my beloved.

  Not only the joy of words, but of writing a new life – as Geoffrey said, a better life for her, for us, no longer here in Bath, but in London.

  And so, Eleanor, formerly the Wife of Bath, both murdered and murderess, began a different kind of pilgrimage.

  This time, into an unknown future.

  PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY

  A letter to Master Geoffrey Chaucer from Mistress Alyson Bigod, in the year of our Lord 1386

  After many and most dutiful commendations, I beg for your blessing as humbly as I can, dear Geoffrey. God knows, I need it.

  Many months have passed since I last corresponded with you and then from the Tabard Inn in Southwark on our way here to Canterbury. I’ve been in receipt of your letters, the first which reached me at the Tabard Inn, the rest once we reached our lodgings in Canterbury. If not for the presence of Milda and, latterly, Arnold (who joined us, at your request – I offer thanks for that), I would have been rendered senseless as the reality of what has happened only struck me when my pilgrimage was complete and I stood once more in the mighty Canterbury Cathedral.

  Before the shrine of Thomas à Becket, I couldn’t help wondering whether, had I remained in Bath, the outcome would have been different. If I’d listened to you when you cautioned another marriage. Would my beloved Alyso Eleanor still be alive?

  I know what your response would be, my friend. All the same, I cannot help but ask, especially of the saint himself, but neither he nor God Almighty saw fit to answer my question.

  It pains me sorely to understand I’ve lost not simply a member of my family, but a woman who was all.

  Nevertheless, I can no longer remain in stasis. I have to forge ahead. Eleanor would want me to. This is the reason I’m writing, Geoffrey: it’s time to quit this place.

  In preparation, I’ve a boon to ask and I do beg your forgiveness in advance as I’m aware that matters of state, the business with the Lords Appellant, the King’s own mischief and the dreadful battles must be preoccupying your every waking moment. That, and the fact you’ve been forced to relocate. I pray you find Kent and being a member of parliament more convivial than Customs. Mayhap, the Lord has been guarding your back, for I’ve no doubt if you were still in your previous position and among those who now find themselves branded criminals, you might also be facing heinous charges.

  All this aside, I do most humbly ask if you would please seek out some suitable accommodation for me. I’m uncertain exactly how I’ll occupy myself once I reach London since I cannot associate myself with Slynge House and benefit from its reputation as fine weavers. As you’ve reminded me many a time, I must invent a new past. But, since spinning and weaving are unlikely to be associated with Bath alone, I feel I can safely establish a fledgling business in London. I’m hoping you’ll use the connections you made while Comptroller of Wool etc. to aid me, even if your former colleagues are, from what we hear, most unpopular at present. The property I seek would need to have room for a couple of weavers to work in comfort, lodging for servants, as well as storage for wool and cloth and room for a cart to deliver and pick up same.

  Other than considering how to start weaving and spinning again, I’ve done little. I’ve walked the streets of this benighted town. The journey here was one of the most sombre I’ve had to endure. The confusion and sadness of past follies, of recent loss, made it impossible to enjoy.

  If not for the affability and discretion of your friend the innkeep at the Tabard in Southwark, Master Harry Bailly, from whence our pilgrimage embarked, I might have changed my mind about going to Canterbury altogether, such was my misery. Master Harry gave me and Milda his best room, and shared many a fine story. He made it his purpose to shuck off my melancholy and provided us with excellent repasts, quality ale and wine, and ensured we weren’t disturbed. According to Master Harry, he received a note from you not only revealing the truth of my situation but a set of strict instructions, which he did naught but follow. While I understood he would likely recognise me as Eleanor from previous pilgrimages, I was greatly alarmed by your decision to reveal why both my name and circumstances were so drastically altered. Unnecessarily, it turns out, as you judged well, Geoffrey. Master Harry was the soul of circumspection. I’m once more in your debt.

  I remained beneath the Tabard Inn’s roof for over a month while we awaited the arrival of the rest of the pilgrims. I wish you could have seen them, Geoffrey. A more motley bunch you’re unlikely to encounter. Unlike last time, when I threw myself among my fellow travellers, I remained remote, observing them through a veil.

  We reached the walls of Canterbury in late April and Milda and I, after bidding the pilgrims adieu, made for our lodgings in Longmarket. From where we reside, I can count more spires than pricks. You were ever determined to set my mind upon higher things, weren’t you? Still, the beldame from whom we rent the rooms is inclined to leave us alone, and the place is clean, if not as quiet as I would have preferred. Our mules are stabled and Arnold’s horse as well. Convenient considering we’ve been here a goodly while.

  By my count, it’s five months. Summer is spent and autumn has arrived, the season best known as the harbinger of death. Even so, I’ve heard naught of my beloved mistress. I pray you have news to share?

  Death was something we were all fortunate to avoid when the imminent invasion by the French failed, praise be to God. We heard that in London, bastions were flung up against the city walls. While Canterbury didn’t go to those extremes, men were recruited to increase the size of the garrison and protect the walls. Everyone was afeared there would be war and the French would smite us in our beds.

  It’s all moot now anyway. Praise be to God the winds proved contrary to the enemy fleet. The Lord was on our side, as the bishop said at mass a few weeks later. I think
when he says ‘our’ he means ‘men’s’. For there’s little to show in my experience that God takes the part of women.

  You’ve always felt there’s much to love about this cathedral town, and there was a time I might have agreed with you. But not now. Everywhere I turn, I see Jankin Binder – Eleanor’s monster of a husband. The man who sought to persuade us that all women were wicked, yet was the embodiment of sin himself. A devil-sent Cupid.

  When I’m not seeing Jankin in the faces of scholars, drunks stumbling out of an alehouse, or an argumentative merchant, I’m seeing her …

  This is why I must go. It’s time for me to shuck off my cocoon of grief. Before winter sets in, I intend to hunker down in a new place. Make preparations so I might emerge the following spring renewed and ready to embrace life. Do you recall what you said to me, that dreadful night so long ago? You said that the best revenge was to become a better and stronger woman than anyone (including myself) thought possible. I’ve been weak; beholden to the spectres of the past and the doldrums that trail in their wake. No more. I’m convinced of the wisdom of your words. For certes, living as I do does more harm than I would have reckoned. Reliving the what-ifs, the might-have-beens, tiny words with a mighty heft, is no way to exist. I would come to London and a fresh beginning. Something you’ve long urged and that I’m ready to act upon.

  So, Geoffrey, expect me within the next few weeks. If you do not have room to accommodate us as we pass through on our way to the city, then I ask that you direct me to a suitable lodging until such time as I may move into my new premises.

  May peace find you; God knows, it continues to elude me.

  Written on the Feast of St Jerome.

  Yours, Alyson.

  PART TWO

  Feme Sole

  1387 to 1401

  There is no real difference at all

  Between a lady-wife of high degree

  Dishonest of her body, if she be,

  And some poor wench, no difference but this:

  That if so be they both should go amiss –

  That since the gentlewoman ranks above

  She therefore will be called his ‘lady-love’,

  Whereas that other woman, being poor

  Will be referred to as his wench or whore.

  The Manciple, The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, translated by Neville Coghill

  Weaving A New Life

  1387 to 1391

  Advice is no commandment in my view.

  He left it in our judgement what to do.

  The Wife of Bath’s Prologue, The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, translated by Neville Coghill

  THIRTY-THREE

  Honey Lane, London

  The Year of Our Lord 1388

  In the twelfth year of the reign of Richard II

  Much had happened in the year or so since I came to London that cold wet day in November, taking up residence in a rather dilapidated house in Honey Lane, Cheap Ward.

  Despite its pretty name, Honey Lane, located towards the centre of the city, was a dark mish-mash of run-down buildings with jettied upper storeys in such a state of disrepair, they resembled a mouldy loaf of bread. The lane was narrow, with lifted cobbles and a shallow ditch down the centre that tended to overflow. The home of beekeepers and honey sellers as well as some chandlers, the lane also housed a carpenter, scrivener, an ordinary, a tavern, cordwainer, lacemaker and, most recently, a small illicit spinning and weaving business. The church of All Hallows squatted at one end; Cheapside markets were just around the corner. There were, I’m reliably told, worse places to live. Not that I thought so the day we arrived. Not when we saw the state of the house. No wonder the lease had been affordable.

  The moment we were settled, I’d written to Oriel and Sweteman, notifying them of our change of abode, and asking them to send Drew (who, unlike Hob – may God assoil him – returned safe from the war) with the hounds. Drew had been entrusted with my deadly secret – our deadly secret – and was promised that as soon as we shifted to the city, he’d be reunited with Arnold. He just had to be patient and maintain a facade of grief and ignorance until then. As I anticipated, Drew has proven his loyalty. I keep asking myself, what have I done to deserve this?

  While I’d once imagined I could magnanimously invite all my workers to come and spin and weave for me, that wasn’t going to be possible. If any of my former workers saw me, the ruse would be up. There’d be uncomfortable questions. I had to let the past go in more ways than one – including not only Oriel and Sweteman, who remained in Bath to ensure the story we put about was believed, but also any chance of benefiting from my will.

  As Geoffrey said, I had to face facts: coming forward to claim the proceeds of my will was as good as admitting to murder. Unless I wanted to hang by the neck, then I had to accept my wealth was lost to me. Even if there were those who would swear I was Alyson, they’d be committing perjury and I wouldn’t ask anyone to do that.

  I determined to live off my wits and earn a living by setting up a spinning and weaving business. Geoffrey warned me that unless I was married or claimed widowhood, I’d struggle to be allowed to trade as a feme sole, especially since I wasn’t a citizen of London. The very idea of marrying again was an anathema to me. I’d railed at Geoffrey at the mere suggestion and swore I’d prove him wrong.

  And priests might sprout angels’ wings.

  Less than two weeks after I sent the letter to Bath, Drew joined us. I’d half-expected Wy to accompany him and been concerned how we’d explain my presence and his need to maintain the deception. Drew brought not only Siren and Hera (Bountiful and Rhea remained in Bath – they were getting on in years) and some household items I’d asked for, but terrible news. Before the harvest had been brought in, Wy was killed when a laden cart rolled over him, crushing his thin chest. I held Drew, Arnold and Milda tightly, crying softly against their shoulders.

  Hera and Siren provided some solace. They bowled into the house, throwing themselves at me and Milda before snuffling into every flea-ridden corner, burrowing among the filthy rushes in the rooms we hadn’t yet cleared, dislodging rats and other vermin. Out in the garden, they’d left no stone or weed unturned, squatting and marking their territory.

  Together, Milda, Arnold, Drew and I rolled up our sleeves and, begging, borrowing and even, on two occasions, stealing buckets and besoms, and tearing our oldest shifts into rags, set to and cleaned the place top to bottom. All three storeys were in dire need not just of thorough washing and sweeping, but repairs. I’d some coin remaining, and acquired the services of a glazer, a mason and a thatcher. We whitewashed the walls ourselves and Drew and Arnold dealt with the other repairs.

  If there was one thing I learned over those months, it was that a shared secret, especially a terrible one, bonded people in ways that blood, marriage vows and other kinds of agreements could not. The four of us became a family, united by shocking loss but also a dark knowledge that, if revealed, would unravel more than our tight-knit union. With one exception, my eternally missed Godsib, never before had I felt so trusted or able to depend on others. It was a revelation in so many ways.

  I was rather careless with money in the beginning, adopting a devil-may-care approach. Apart from repairs, we’d often order food from the local ordinary. Ale we had a-plenty, as every second house had a woman brewing. Not that they were able to hang a shingle, or the usual broom to let passersby know a beverage was ready. London’s Mystery of Brewers had strict laws about who could brew, where and when, and unless women were married to a brewer or their man paid his guild dues, she was forbidden to trade. The women sold ale regardless, whether in their own houses or on the street. Many a time you’d find a bailiff or over-zealous ale-conner tipping out what had been fermented to the shouts and insults of neighbours.

  It was these women who inspired me to defy the rules and spin and weave. I was yet to learn the power of the London guilds and how they could make or break a business; make or break a woman, too, if you l
et them.

  In that regard, once again Geoffrey had been right.

  Curious about the new residents in Honey Lane, where they were from and what they were doing, our neighbours asked questions, so I swiftly invented a story. I was from Canterbury – which was true. The story became embellished over the weeks – there were dead sisters and missing brothers (I thought of Alyson and Theo and Beton), uncles (Fulk and Mervyn), unscrupulous merchants and priests who, recognising my talents, sought to profit from them by forcing me into marriage. I fled. Women mumbled empathetically, if a little disapprovingly that I would defy nature and refuse wedlock; men would appraise me as if to ascertain my worth. Always careful, Milda, Arnold, Drew and I told the same tale. It would be easy to believe we’d wiped the events of the recent past from our memories, but the nightmares that woke me said otherwise. I would lie tangled in damp sheets, drenched in sweat, seeing images of Alyson bloodied and pliant in my arms. The sensation of driving the knife into Jankin’s eye and watching him keel over dead would wrench me from sleep.

  I kept seeing them – Alyson and Jankin. Crowds swirling about the Poultry or Cheapside would be reduced to one woman with auburn hair and dimples. My breath would catch in my throat and I’d freeze on the spot, to the curses of the shoppers milling around me. At other times, I swore I saw Jankin’s profile, those long limbs, that walk. Then he’d merge with the mob and I’d persuade myself it was all in my head.

  For all that our street was filthy and stank night and day, it was friendly enough. We’d oft share an ale or two with the Bordwrygt family opposite. On one side of us were two beldames and their scribe grandson, a thin hunchbacked man who blinked like an owl whenever he was outside. They mostly kept to themselves, while on the other side was a beekeeper and his family – the Pollits. Regular churchgoers, they adhered to all the feast days and were strict about Lent, but also willing to lend a hand if we ever needed it. They also supplied us with sweet-scented rushlights and candles.