The Good Wife of Bath

by Karen Brooks

  We wended our way to Heywharf near the Stilliard in the hope of catching a wherry and watching the Queen’s arrival from the river.

  Alas, others had the same idea, so, instead of watching from the water, we were forced to witness the momentous occasion from the shore. As it turned out, this was a sensible move. Unable to see the tiny Queen, we nonetheless caught the moment the royal procession reached the bridge and began to cross. Pennants flapped, the silver buckles, shining weapons and glistening armour of the knights astride their liveried horses stood out. The procession was slow, the cheering raucous. Along the banks, folk clapped, jumped and cried out blessings along with those atop the bridge. From the river, people stood in boats, barges and wherries, some using instruments to trumpet their approval, waving ribbons and expressing their joy.

  I’d hoisted Wace into my arms so he might see over the two esquires in front of us, nicely dressed men who nevertheless refused to cede their places. Angry at their selfishness, I moved as close to them as possible, uncaring that Wace’s toes occasionally struck their velvet paltocks and coats, ignoring their pointed looks.

  Their conversation was loud, deliberately so, as they spoke of those they recognised – esteem by association – and pointed to spots on the bridge that not even an eagle could have distinguished. It was both tiresome and amusing. But it wasn’t until I heard them discussing the wondrous poems of the gentleman from Kent that my attention was seized.

  ‘They’re all the court talk about,’ said one with a large, flat cap and trim red beard.

  ‘Over in Tower Ward it’s the same, let me tell you,’ said his smooth-cheeked companion. ‘Why, when I dined with Lord Lumpton the other night, he’d a bard recite some.’

  A rush of pride and pleasure washed over me. I knew exactly who they spoke of, though I wasn’t aware Geoffrey had finished any new poems. Why, this was cause for celebration. But he hadn’t made any mention of it.

  ‘I found the Man of Law’s Tale very amusing,’ said Red Beard.

  Smooth Cheeks laughed and slapped his friend on the back, uncaring that this action almost caused me to topple. ‘You would, considering your profession. Though I enjoyed all the pilgrims’ stories. The Miller’s Tale stood out. I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in a long time. Noah’s Ark, the lusty wife, the farting scholar.’ He began to chuckle.

  The pilgrims’ stories. These must be the Canterbury poems Geoffrey spoke about so long ago. I cocked my ears. ‘And what’d you think of the Wife’s part?’ asked Red Beard.

  At first, I thought he was referring to the Miller’s bride.

  ‘The brazen Alyson and her insatiable cunt?’ clarified Smooth Cheeks.

  Hoarfrost spread throughout my body before it was melted by a blaze of heat so fierce, I broke out in a sweat. Wace twisted, frowning at me. I brushed the hair out of his eyes and gave him a reassuring kiss. He turned back to the river.

  ‘Quite vulgar, really,’ said Red Beard. ‘And too much to say for herself. Experience gives her authority? Bah! Is it any wonder men seek pleasure away from their wives when they’re scolds like that?’

  ‘Indeed. Boasting about lying to her husbands, scorning them. Five? I doubt she had one, the deceiving, garrulous wretch. Who’d marry her kind?’

  ‘Those without the will to live.’

  They both shared a laugh.

  I wanted to cry.

  ‘The only course is to take a woman like that in hand,’ said Smooth Cheeks, driving his fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘Show her who’s master. Surely that’s what Chaucer’s saying. For all the Wife claims a man ceding control to a woman is what makes a good marriage, the lesson there is the opposite is true.’

  I couldn’t bear to hear any more and determined to leave, when a shrill scream rent the air. It was drowned by a roar, followed by shouts.

  Our heads turned towards the bridge. There, the masses were being impossibly compressed. As we watched, there was a great surge; people were forced against the wooden railings. The crowd bulged like a canker about to burst. There were more screams, cries of utter distress. A bonneted man, lanky and bearded, was pressed hard against the side of the bridge. There was a sharp crack. The railing broke and he overbalanced. With a hoarse cry, echoed in the shrieks of witnesses, he plummeted towards the rapids below, arms circling wildly. Blood exploded as he struck the great footings, then rolled into the white waters.

  A boatman tried to steer towards where the body disappeared, his passengers yelling and pointing as the craft rocked wildly. Above them came more bellows and wails as people fought not to fall, clutching anything in desperation. A woman was hauled back onto the bridge, a child as well. Two more fell. Wails filled the air – human and animal.

  In the centre of the bridge, the royal party crawled to a halt.

  It was only later, as we walked subdued back to St Martin’s, we learned what had happened. In the excitement to glimpse the Queen, people had rushed forwards. There’d been no room and many had been crushed to death. On both sides of the bridge, people had fallen to their deaths. Others had been trampled by horses, donkeys, panicked boots. Dozens died for their little Queen. An ignominious beginning to her reign. Already people were muttering about bad omens on what should have been a celebration.

  It was a terrible tragedy. All the same, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d heard, what those men had said about Geoffrey’s poem. What they said about me. It was evident who the five-times-married wife from Bath was. He’d even given her my name.

  Worse. Alyson’s name.

  But why were the men so harsh? What exactly had Geoffrey written? I had to get hold of a copy. For good or ill, I had to see for myself.

  Less than a week later, Father Malcom tracked down a copy of the tentatively titled The Canterbury Tales. There were a few quires doing the rounds, but not one contained the entire poem. Among what Father Malcolm found were the General Prologue, The Miller’s Tale (with which I was already familiar), the Knight’s and Pardoner’s tales, and then what was called The Wife of Bath’s Tale. This was in two parts: an introduction or prologue, followed by a story. Eager to discover what Geoffrey had written, I locked myself away and read first the General Prologue to the entire poem, in which a detailed description of the Wife is given, before reading the preamble she gives to her own tale.

  By the time I’d finished these, I’d no appetite for more. The Wife’s actual tale I set aside, unread. My cheeks burned, I felt hollow, empty. While the wind roared outside, shaking the house and making even the thatch whine, I stared into the fire burning in the hearth, doing my best not to weep. I was alone. I’d sent Milda and the others to bed. I’d been wise not to share Geoffrey’s words, the shame they aroused. The blistering hurt.

  How could he portray me so? For certes, this Wife was everything Red Beard said with her scarlet and finery, her bold gap-toothed grin and wide hips. Geoffrey got those right. Dear God, he even had her boasting of her many husbands – five of them.

  And what of the Wife’s expressed desire for mastery? Over the years, we’d talked so much about authority, about a woman’s part in marriage – a man’s as well. I’d oft complained to him, poured out my heart, my secret longings.

  This is how he repays my trust? Misrepresenting what I confessed in moments of despair, of triumph or grief? Making a mockery of my youthful desires?

  Surely Geoffrey, of all people, knew my views had modified somewhat over the years. Oh, I still wanted the right to bed and wed whomever I wanted, to make my own choices, that hadn’t changed. The fact that mastery eluded me wasn’t due to lack of ability or a poor mind, but simply because of my sex. Denied access to learning, to knowledge, and treated like children at best, property at worst, women were deemed weak and incapable. It still caused me great consternation. As I’d said to Geoffrey, if we females could but exercise our minds as we did our bodies, then we could give birth not just to babes, but ideas, and be valued for more than our queyntes and our wombs.

&n
bsp; Did he write that? Nay.

  I wanted authority, aye, but not over my husbands. That made me no better than them. What I really wanted, what I’d learned through experience, was authority over myself. I wanted respect. I thought Geoffrey understood. I thought he approved.

  But, if he did, why make me such a bold figure of reproach and mockery? Why make me so damn crude?

  My head dropped into my hands.

  Even Jankin made an appearance. My Alyson too, albeit as an Alice.

  Is that all our friendship was to him? Was my life simply fodder for his quill? Then why not write about murder, deceit, sorrow and guilt?

  Why write about any of it?

  Or is that what writers did? Sacrifice their friends, make public their secrets and desires, their innermost fears, all for personal gain?

  And I’d encouraged him …

  My breath was loud in my ears; my heartbeat a war drum that made pain flare in my chest. I was numb, a statue, unable to move. I was a feather, about to twirl and float into the heavens. I was a giant wave, about to crash and dissolve upon a boundless shore.

  I stared at the offensive quire. Is this how he really saw me? Clever, loquacious, lying, deceitful? Funny, oh aye, his Wife was all that and more. But did we laugh with her or at her? Or both?

  Was she – was I – an object of scorn, not to be taken seriously? Or were folk meant to regard his Wife’s recollections of marriage, the experience she claimed (as I did) as giving her the right to speak as she asserts? Was it wisdom or foolishness that guided her tongue?

  Dear Lord, my mind was spinning in circles. My concerns, my hurt, had to be voiced. He’d risked our entire friendship by writing this and not warning me.

  Worse, he’d forsaken all there was between us.

  I was betrayed. Wounded by a quill and parchment. In writing me in such a way, Geoffrey had killed the real Eleanor/Alyson and given birth to his own creation. Geoffrey had murdered me. Again.

  What if I was recognised? I’d be a laughing stock, a pariah. And after I’d worked so hard to shed my old self and establish a new life.

  But then, if those who read the tales thought that the Wife was a real person, they’d have to think all the characters were real, wouldn’t they? While Harry Bailly appears in the Prologue to the entire poem, and Geoffrey himself, people wouldn’t seek out a real parson or knight to match them to the fictitious ones he’d invented, would they?

  Mayhap, no-one would know. No-one except me.

  The thought did naught to ease my pain.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, tears drying before falling afresh. The fire guttered, the light outside, cold and still, began to grow grey as dawn approached.

  Whatever else I thought, I knew one thing to be true. This was not the work of a friend. I’d no room for someone like that in my life – not anymore.

  It didn’t take me long to find parchment and quill. Before I could change my mind, I wrote.

  Authority, eh? Mastery, eh? If that’s what he thought I wanted then, by God, I’d show him mine.

  And I did. I wrote I never wanted to see such a false friend, a wayward, wicked wordsmith who both deceived me and abused my trust, ever, ever again.

  Amen.

  FORTY-THREE

  St Martin’s Le Grand, London, and Southwark

  The Years of Our Lord 1397 to 1398

  In the twentieth and twenty-second years of the reign of Richard II

  With Stephen to take care of the girls and ensure the likes of Ordric Fleshewer and his men kept their distance and angry maudlyns sheathed their claws, we managed to establish a presence in Southwark and make good coin. On top of what the girls earned whoring, Milda and I made extra spinning and weaving. Together, we slowly rebuilt our lives, not just in terms of material comforts, but pride. Aye, I felt proud of what we were doing, for it was our labour, our choices; we were beholden to no-one.

  Not even Geoffrey; not anymore.

  Ever since he’d received my letter, he’d made numerous attempts to see me. First, there were messages (which I ignored), then came long missives which I burned unopened. Finally, he came to the house, begging Milda, Yolande and Drew to admit him, even speaking to Lowdy and Wace – to no avail. He asked the Dean of St Michael’s to intercede. That didn’t work either. Nor did sending Father Malcolm with a copy of both the Wife of Bath’s Prologue and Tale for me to keep. Though I didn’t burn them, I didn’t read them either. I stowed the quire in a chest, swearing to God, the Virgin and all the saints they’d never see the light of day.

  One evening, he stood beneath my window and shouted, telling me and all the neighbours how sorry he was, and if he could just explain, I’d cast aside my anger and admit him once more.

  ‘Tell him,’ I instructed Milda, when his voice had grown hoarse and the folk next door had shouted for him to cease, ‘Satan would have a better chance of ascending to the Kingdom of Heaven than he has of being admitted to my house.’

  He left shortly after, sending my faithful Milda upstairs with a message of his own.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh, Alyson?’ she asked. Whenever she used my first name, she was appealing to our years together, the bond that cleaved us.

  I lowered the distaff. ‘Not as harsh as his words, Milda.’ I’d summarised what I’d read of the poem for her not long after it arrived. Milda had been shocked.

  ‘He says it’s not you; not exactly. His Wife is meant to be everywoman, an example of what foolish men think women are.’

  ‘Mayhap, but he didn’t need to base his design so particularly on me, did he?’

  Milda had no argument with that.

  Next, he deployed innocent Lowdy in his campaign.

  ‘But, Aunty Alyson, think on this,’ said Lowdy, her brow puckered, her eyes serious. ‘In his other poems, and in the one that features the Wife, he has all these crusty old scholars being quoted, men who can’t even put their own learning into good moral practice. His point is, if they cannot, why should women have to?’

  ‘Since when do you parrot others’ words, Lowdy?’ I said coldly.

  I could be stubborn.

  Whereas once I might have given in, I was afraid to. What if Geoffrey’s explanation didn’t satisfy me? Hurt had poured into the cracks his words had created. I was scared that if there was more to come, I’d be torn asunder. I couldn’t risk it.

  Unable to help myself, I kept an ear to the ground for any discussion of the poems. Mayhap, I was as vain as Geoffrey’s Wife after all; I liked to hear what other people thought – or didn’t, as was more often the case.

  If I raised the subject, someone always offered an opinion – mostly about the Wife, who folk either loved or loathed.

  ‘Why, there was a minstrel in here the other night,’ said the ruddy-faced owner of the White Hart, ‘he recited a piece. Had the whole place enraptured.’

  ‘Shows wives up for what they are,’ said one ancient drinker with two teeth in his head, scratching his crotch. ‘They talk too much, fail to obey their masters, suffer the sin of pride, and deceive.’

  ‘Aye, the Wife proves what men have always known,’ said a constable who’d popped in for a quick ale.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked in a tone that should have told him he’d be wise not to answer.

  ‘Men who surrender mastery to their women do so at great peril to their souls.’ He drained his mazer, smacking his lips noisily. ‘And their cocks.’ There was merriment. ‘Women are but children, should be seen and not heard. They be good for one thing and one thing only. Nay, two things.’ He made a crude gesture with his hands then smacked his swollen belly.

  When Lowdy raised the matter with me again, as by now she’d read the tales, I sat very still, thinking. Possessed of a quick mind and kind heart, Lowdy was considerate, weighing her words carefully.

  ‘I know you think he’s modelled his Wife on you, Aunty Alyson. There’s no doubt, she carries your name and certainly bears a striking physical resemb
lance. And while she’s also very clever –’ Lowdy wasn’t above flattery, ‘there’s many points of difference. For a start, she’s from Bath. He even calls her the Wife of Bath. You’re from Canterbury.’

  Milda cleared her throat.

  ‘Furthermore, while I know you don’t discuss your past, we know you’ve been married before. But five husbands is excessive, don’t you think?’

  Milda coughed. I found my spindle very interesting all of a sudden.

  ‘I mean,’ continued Lowdy, ‘Master Geoffrey is being preposterous simply to make his points.’

  ‘I’ll concede five is excessive, aye.’ Bless her ignorance. This wasn’t her fault. I cast a warning look in Milda’s direction and modified my tone. ‘But his Wife could have arisen from the Dead Sea or tumbled from the heavens, and I’d still recognise her – as he no doubt intends.’

  Lowdy sighed. ‘But surely, it’s not all bad? Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, Master Geoffrey’s defending our sex? After all, the men in the Wife’s story come off looking very poorly. She leads them about as if they’re swine with rings in their noses. Even Jankin –’

  The mention of his name caused me to stiffen. Milda stopped what she was doing.

  ‘… is so contrite after he beats her, he surrenders everything – gives her full control.’

  ‘Not every husband is so … willing, Lowdy,’ I said, as steadily as I could. ‘One could also argue that the Wife condemns herself out of her own mouth by demanding mastery, by eventually controlling … her last husband. She’s everything she accuses men of being, if not worse.’