The Good Wife of Bath

by Karen Brooks

  I said I’d keep that in mind, and dragged Milda and Drew away.

  We strolled a bit further up the High Street, into the part known as Long Southwark, pausing to buy eel pies. While we ate, I studied the area. Most of the street corners were claimed. Upon reaching the tavern with a White Hart on its shingle, I suggested we return. There had to be somewhere suitable closer to the bridge, surely.

  We spent the next few hours talking to any of the women willing to share their stories. So many had run away from untenable homes, marriages, the brutality of brothers, uncles, men, sometimes their own mothers, grandmothers or sisters. Some fled just so they could choose their own fate. Others had been lured to London with promises of a ring, love and wealth, only to find once they’d sacrificed the thing all females should hold precious (oh, how I sound like the women of Noke Manor), they were abandoned – too often with a babe in their bellies.

  There were women not beholden to a bawd or a pimp, and those who came from the bathhouses. We chatted to a well-dressed trio who cautiously admitted their degree of wellbeing depended on who ran the business. Protected from the worst ravages of the profession, though not always from the violence and drunken expectations of men, they’d decent food, a roof over their heads and freedom to do what they wanted when they weren’t flat on their backs.

  ‘Better than slaving for a bastard husband who ruts like a pig and smells worse,’ said one.

  ‘Better than being in service to a man who thinks he’s entitled to your titties and queynte for nothin’,’ said another.

  ‘Better than being at the mercy of the Fathers at the priory,’ said yet another.

  And on it went.

  Not all were so fortunate. Bathhouse owners were mostly considered tyrants – especially the Flemish, and by their own.

  The way I saw it, there wasn’t much difference between these women and me. To them, their queyntes were a commodity they sold. What was marriage but an exchange of queynte and title: that of wife. Only, once the ring was on a woman’s finger and she gained respectability and, if she was fortunate, a home and possessions, ’twas the men had the best of the deal. A woman had not only to surrender her queynte but her entire body, will, mind, right to make decisions. Even her children were not considered hers, but her husband’s. She was like a piece of property, traded on the marriage market for a man’s profit; to ensure his name continued and his lineage was secured. The moment a woman married, her past was erased – even her name. All she’d been was forgotten when she became a wife. Mistress Husband, more like. Wives had as much value as a beast – less if they couldn’t breed.

  Whores had the right of it. Charge a man for use of their cunts and then tell him to piss off. There might be danger in such a profession, but wasn’t marriage also dangerous? Look at mine. And that’s before childbirth was considered. My arm fell across my soft stomach. Would I ever feel my womb quicken? I doubted it, not now. I was two score year and four or thereabouts (what did it matter?) and no babe had quickened inside me. Not from want of trying. A picture of Fulk rose, followed by the rest of my husbands – Turbet, and his unimpressive pole, Mervyn who used his for other purposes, and then Simon, named after his, which dominated his life and mine. Then there was Jankin. What a lover he’d been, gentle, passionate – yet also violent: hating, punching and bruising …

  No good dwelling on him. No good dwelling on any of them.

  ‘Isn’t the Tabard just ahead?’ asked Milda, interrupting my thoughts. She gestured towards Harry Bailly’s place, from where I’d undertaken at least three pilgrimages – two with Milda. Harry, the man who was also privy to my secret.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why don’t we call on him?’ She began to steer me towards it. ‘He’s right fond of you. He knows the area. Could give us advice.’

  ‘I’ve learned all I need.’ I resisted her efforts to turn me around.

  Milda regarded me curiously. Truth was, I didn’t want Harry to see me as I was – dressed in old scarlet, trawling Southwark for places my maudlyns could operate. I didn’t want him to see how I’d been reduced. Or Milda. As for Drew, he was like a returned soldier, injured from fighting my battles. The next time I met Harry, I wanted it to be because I’d succeeded. Because if I did, then we all did.

  ‘Anyhow,’ I said, heading back towards to the river, ‘I want to check what’s down this end of Southwark.’

  Just before the pillory, which was in the middle of the High Street, directly in line with the entrance to the bridge so those being punished could consider the heads of traitors rotting on the poles above them, the perfect spot presented itself. Just after Mart Place was the courthouse. Not one strumpet or suspicious-looking person dared loiter there. It was crowded with regular folk – traders, lawyers, knights, shoppers as well as farmers, travellers, diplomats, and all sorts going to the city from Kent, the countryside and beyond. Why, I’d trod this very road en route to Canterbury. If the girls stood outside the church, they’d catch traffic from the main road and the courthouse. A wide alleyway running along the back of the courthouse was the ideal place to take customers. Cleaner than most, only two doors faced onto it. There were even trees and what appeared to be a bench. A beldame sat there feeding a coven of cats. Here was a situation where the law, such as it was, might work in our favour.

  ‘I’ve seen enough,’ I said suddenly, striding back to the High Street. ‘The girls can start as soon as I’ve organised one last thing.’

  ‘What’s that, mistress?’ asked Drew.

  I hesitated. I didn’t want what I was about to say to make Drew feel unworthy or think that I didn’t value him.

  ‘I need to hire someone to accompany the girls; look out for their welfare when they walk the streets. I’ve been remiss not organising it sooner. It’s clear many here have protection. Mine will have no less.’

  Drew stopped suddenly, doubling over and clutching his knees, forcing the crowd to go around him. There were curses and some dark looks. A man in black robes stumbled.

  ‘Are you alright, sweetling?’ I bent over, one hand on his back.

  He slowly straightened, sucking in the air. ‘Oh, mistress. For a while there, I was afraid you were going to order me to do it! I’ve been afeared since we got here.’

  I hid a small smile. ‘Oh. Well. Who’d look to our welfare in St Martin’s if you were over here?’

  Drew squared his shoulders. ‘Exactly. That’s my job.’

  ‘Damn right,’ I said, cuffing his shoulder.

  The entire trip home, Drew couldn’t stop grinning. We discussed the right sort of person needed to safeguard the girls and look out for us in Southwark. Whoever we chose would need to live with us, so would have to be accustomed to being in a small tight-knit household and play his part. He’d have to have good instincts, be discreet, not be swayed by a heavy purse and, above all, able to take orders from a woman.

  Where on God’s good earth were we going to find that kind of man?

  As luck would have it, he found me.

  FORTY-ONE

  St Martin’s Le Grand, London, and the banks of the River Thames

  The Year of Our Lord 1396

  In the twentieth year of the reign of Richard II

  A month later, we still hadn’t found anyone suitable to escort the girls to Southwark and watch over them. In the meantime, they continued to work where they could in London, avoiding not just over-zealous constables and bailiffs, but also the wrath of other maudlyns and their pimps. Milda and I put aside spinning and weaving and took to accompanying the girls. It didn’t stop them or us getting abused, bitten, scratched, shoved to the ground and kicked occasionally, but it did prevent the violence escalating – and not just because the other whores were up for a fight. My girls, bless ’em, were prepared to defend themselves. Milda and I carried big sticks. They worked as both a deterrent and defence, that is, when you knew the attack was coming. There were days we returned with swollen eyes, sore ribs and grazed knuckles. We all lost s
ome hair, ripped from our scalps. Yolande even lost two teeth after being punched.

  On the ides of November, after seeing Wace safe with his tutor and Lowdy to the nunnery where she was newly apprenticed to the apothecary, Sister Cecilia, Leda, Rose, Yolande, Milda and I decided to venture further afield, out towards Moorgate. A fair was being held that not only attracted locals, but travellers as well. There should be enough customers to satisfy even the lustiest of whores and the most demanding of pimps. Drew remained, looking after the house and spinning to ensure we had enough of the thread we intended to sell at the little stall we’d leased in the Cheap. We had to keep up appearances, after all.

  We were heading up Coleman Street, mingling with the crowds going to the fair, when I was knocked to the ground. By the time I found my feet, I’d not only lost my stick, but couldn’t find the girls or Milda. Heartsick, I searched for them, pulling on shoulders, pushing men, women and even children aside. I tripped on a barrow, brushed aside the pleading hands of a beggar woman, all the while shouting for Milda, Leda, Yolande and Rose. Heads turned, but not the faces I wanted to see.

  I paused at the sign of the crocodile, an apothecary’s shop, trying to get my bearings. My knees had been hurt in the fall, my damned pride as well. Though I stood on tiptoe, there was no sign of the girls, or where they’d gone. How was I supposed to find them among so many people? Had they been snatched? Who’d take them? Why? Where? I turned back in the direction I’d come, my eyes narrowing.

  Of course! I plunged into the crowd, forcing my way against the tide of flesh. I ducked into the first alleyway, Trystrams. It was quieter here, gloomy with shadows. It was then I heard a scream, followed by shouting.

  ‘Leda!’ I picked up my skirts and ran, leaping over a foul-smelling ditch, dashing past a bundle of rags tucked against a door that stirred as I flew by.

  Around the corner, trapped in a doorway were Leda, Yolande and Rose. Leda had a swollen, torn lip and a cut beneath one half-closed eye. Yolande’s cap was missing, her hair had come undone and her shift was torn. Rose had a swelling on the side of her face and blood trickling out one ear. Milda was nowhere to be seen. Surrounding them were Ordric and his men. As I reached them, Ordric drew back his fist and punched Leda in the stomach.

  She doubled over, gagging and retching. Rose and Yolande went to help, but Ordric thrust a knife in their direction. The other two men laughed.

  Fury ignited within me. ‘How dare you,’ I bellowed.

  Ordric spun around, his wicked dagger aloft. Upon seeing who it was, and that I was alone, he began to smirk. His men leered.

  I marched towards him. ‘You sorry excuse for a hound’s prick, you shrivelled piece of monkey turd, human excrement dressed in a knave’s coat. Leave my girls alone.’

  ‘So, the Whore of Honey Lane dares to show her face after I told her what I’d do if she set up shop again. Worse, she brings my missus –’

  ‘I ain’t your wife, Ordric, and you know it.’ Leda spat blood.

  ‘Shut up, bitch.’ He lashed out, the back of his hand striking her so hard, she stumbled. Rose caught her.

  ‘You leave her alone, leave us all alone or else –’ I kept one wary eye on the knife.

  ‘Or else what?’ muttered one of the other men and sniggered.

  That was it. ‘Don’t you speak to me, you hedge-born, flea-bitten bastards. You should be ashamed of yourselves, doing the bidding of this levereter whose sole purpose is to harm women. Why? Because he’s afraid. And you know what that means?’ Without thinking, I stepped right up to the first man and pushed my face into his.

  ‘Nay, mistress,’ he squeaked.

  ‘You are too.’ I slapped him hard across the cheek.

  ‘Oy,’ said the other. I turned and struck him. By God, my palm burned worse than hellfire, but I didn’t let them see that. A demon possessed me, a female demon with horns, sharp teeth, giant nugs and cruel fingers.

  They stared in shock, uncertain how to respond.

  Before Ordric could react, I knocked the knife from his hand. ‘As for you, you lily-livered, scum-eater, why don’t you go back to the cesspit you crawled from. The only reason you pick on us, and bring extra men –’ the word meant something else on my lips, ‘is because you don’t have the balls to fight us. That’s not a pair of hairy turnips you’re keeping in your breeches, but a hairless queynte, you coward.’

  By now, the shouts and insults had attracted a small crowd. Shutters flew open, doors were cracked so eyes could spy what was going on. More spilled from nearby alleys and lanes, congregating behind and beside us. Damn, but they were blocking my intended escape route. I’d no choice but to brazen this out. A pisspot was emptied, the stinking contents narrowly missing the girls. I gestured. They ran to me. I pushed them behind me.

  A chant was taken up. ‘Cowardly queynte, cowardly queynte.’ I began to laugh. Ordric’s face grew red, his eyes colder than the Queen’s jewels. He gathered up his knife, his shoulders heaving.

  ‘You stupid old gabbing bitch. Don’t you ever get tired of hearing yourself? You think your words can hurt me?’

  ‘Nay, Ordric. I don’t. You don’t possess the sense to understand them.’

  ‘Then why bother, you pus-filled slut?’

  ‘Because they make me and those who do understand –’ I gestured to the crowd, ‘feel better. They give us a laugh … at you.’

  There was an appreciative roar. Caught up in the applause, I took a bow, taking my eyes off Ordric. It was enough. With one solid punch, he felled me.

  Bright lights flashed as a sharp pain lanced my temple and shot out my right eye. My ears rang. There was a swell of voices, like those you hear when you dunk your head in a basinful of water, deep, distorted, uncanny. Another pain exploded on my side. I opened my eyes as Ordric’s boot descended for a second kick. I threw my arms up over my head.

  The boot never connected. I moved my hands in time to see a huge man with enormous shoulders and even larger arms lift Ordric off his feet and, with a mighty bellow, fling him against a wall.

  Ordric hit the ground like a tinker’s rag doll. He didn’t move.

  Once again, a huge cheer rose and the colossus lumbered towards me, the people parting like the sea before Moses to let him through. Beside him was Milda, her face red and damp with tears. She crouched beside me.

  ‘Oh, Alyson. What’s he done to you?’

  The girls brushed off my hair and skirts, gently touching where Ordric had struck, dabbing at the blood. Looming over them, keeping the onlookers at bay, was the giant.

  ‘I’m alright,’ I said, sweeping their hands and kerchiefs from my face. ‘Take more than that streak of dog shit to hurt me,’ I lied. ‘But,’ I winced, blinking at the enormous shadow above, ‘who is it I have to thank for coming to our aid?’

  The giant bent over and with astonishing gentleness, helped me rise. ‘The name’s Stephen atte Place, mistress.’ His voice rumbled like a laden cart upon stones. ‘At your service.’

  Forced to tilt my head, he was older than me by a few years, and had the grizzled look of a world-weary sailor: the weathered skin, the calloused hands and scars that came with running the rigging. If that wasn’t enough, he wore an earring in one lobe. Not his Grace’s navy then, but a merchant’s ship. Mayhap, even a pirate’s.

  The ringing in my ears that oft defeated me commenced again. ‘What did you say? What’s your name?’

  ‘I said –’ He leaned closer. He smelled of salt, sweat, smoke and wild spices. ‘My name is Stephen atte Place, and I am at your service.’

  I cocked an eyebrow at Milda, looked at the girls, then back at Master atte Place with a wide grin. ‘Good. You can start immediately.’

  Master Stephen settled in well and was more than happy not only to work under a woman, so to speak, but to protect the girls as they went about their business.

  ‘My mother always said, a man who has to strike a woman is no man at all.’

  I liked the sound of Stephen’s mother
; a woman of sense who raised a fine fellow. Not even the work we did perturbed him. ‘If you knew what I’ve seen, mistress, let alone done,’ he’d say, a mazer of ale and huge trencher of meat before him as he sat at the kitchen table, Wace, Drew and the girls drinking in his every word (he was a man of few, so gained an audience when he did speak), ‘you’d know I’ve no right to judge. That’s for God and Him alone.’

  With Stephen escorting the girls to Southwark, finding a biddable innkeeper to allow him to pass the time in his premises, I thought I’d be able to focus more on the spinning and weaving side of the business.

  But as Fortuna would have it, something else occurred that caused a great distraction and turned my life upside down again.

  It was Geoffrey’s fault. Him and his damn scribbles.

  FORTY-TWO

  St Martin’s Le Grand, London

  The Year of Our Lord 1396

  In the twentieth year of the reign of Richard II

  I recall clearly the first time I heard mention of a wondrous poem written by a gentleman of Kent who had the patronage of John of Gaunt. Like half the city, I’d made my way to London Bridge in the hope of catching a glimpse of the new Queen, King Richard’s child bride, Isabella of France. The poor chit was only six or seven, barely out of the nursery, but her parents saw fit to send her to a foreign country and give her over to a man who, by all accounts, was still grieving his last wife. Needs must, I guess, especially when the weight of the kingdom sits upon your shoulders – or, more accurately, the child-queen’s womb.

  The girls and Master Stephen had departed for Southwark before dawn. The day promised good takings with so many coming to the city. Whereas at first I’d thought lining up on the bridge would be a fine thing, the moment I saw the number of people pressing to cross, squeezed like fish in a barrow, I whispered to Drew and we adjusted course, Milda and Oriel complaining as they were jostled and bumped. Lowdy and I kept firm hold of Wace. Like Lowdy, he’d been given the day off schooling.