Bigod Farm, London, and Bath
The Years of Our Lord 1364 to 1369
In the thirty-eighth to the forty-second years of the reign of Edward III
The seasons passed, summer relaxed into a cool autumn followed by a freezing winter and Yuletide. On Bigod Farm, more transformations were slowly wrought.
Alright, I wrought the changes and sometimes, I admit, not so slowly.
One of the first I insisted upon was maintaining the interior of the house and ourselves in a state of cleanliness. With Alyson’s support, I refused to listen to objections and excuses as I first asked, and later demanded, that bathing was to happen at least once a month, more frequently if someone fell in shit or helped with birthing animals. Or if their lice or fleas were troublesome. If Theo, Beton, or even Fulk refused to adhere to this schedule, they were to sleep in the barn (Theo and Beton did a couple of times, until they decided it wasn’t worth it). Likewise, the rushes were now changed fortnightly and were spread throughout the main room.
Though my husband was initially reluctant to abide by what he called my unnatural obsession with water, claiming his skin would slough off or he would catch any number of diseases, when I threatened to withhold sexual favors, he soon came around. I also knew part of my husband’s reticence was fear that without the dirt to keep people away, he would be forced to endure society. What he gradually learned was that I would be by his side—at least until we’d turned those nasty rumors on their head.
For our first Christmas, I presented the family (how that word made me fizz with delight) with new clothes I’d woven and Alyson had sewn. Theo, Beton, and Fulk strutted about the house like peacocks and, when I suggested we hitch the cart to Pilgrim and attend mass in the chapel at the manor, were willing. The gratification I felt when the villagers didn’t recognize Fulk is hard to describe. When Alyson, Theo, and Beton—the suspicious, grubby children the folk of Bath-atte-Mere had whispered about—entered the chapel beside their adopted father in fine woollen tunics and surcoats, clean, bright hose and boots, draped in cloaks lined with sheepskin, delicate embroidery tracing the edges, I couldn’t have been prouder.
Lady Clarice was so taken aback, she made a point of not only welcoming us as she stood next to Father Roman when we left the chapel, but inviting us to the Great Hall for some wassailing and feasting. I sat with the other wives at a decorated table, served by young girls who, less than a year before, I’d worked beside. Whereas once I would have been most uncomfortable, expecting to be ignored, I was beset with questions and barely disguised comments—many flattering. I answered those I wished and pretended not to hear those I didn’t. I also made sure I remembered my friends, wrapping May and Joan in my arms and disappearing briefly to visit Cook, as well as sitting with Mistress Bertha and Master Merriman. There were a few times I wanted to snap and scold a gossip, repeat back words she’d once used against my husband. But that was no way to secure a fresh place in this little community. Instead, I smiled a secret smile, shook or nodded my head, or bowed it in false modesty. For certes, I wasn’t feeling the slightest bit humble.
I was bursting as I watched Alyson whirling about the floor with Odo, looking happier than I’d ever seen her in a lovely russet kirtle and golden surcoat. Theo and Beton were a fine sight, clean-shaven, their thick dark hair tamed. But most of all, I was proud of my husband. He stood to one side in the Great Hall, between Master Geoffrey and Lady Clarice, his mazer constantly filled, men in a tight circle about the three of them. He smiled on occasion, listened intently to what was being said, and kept me in his line of sight. Fulk, Geoffrey, and I shared many a look that night—the kind that comes from mutual understanding and more than a little bit of hard-earned triumph, tinged with rich irony.
In less than a year, circumstances had undergone an enormous change. Mine from serving girl to sinful wench to farmer’s wife, and Fulk and his family from reclusive outsiders to folk in the thick of the village. Fulk raised his mazer in my direction. Aye, I deserved a toast. We all did.
That was just the beginning.
The following year, as our fleeces sold well and Fulk invested in more sheep, I persuaded my husband that if we wanted to make more money, we needed to diversify (a word Papa had been fond of using) and one way of doing that was by putting me and Alyson to work as well. We not only needed to invest in another loom for Alyson to work upon, but bigger ones. In order to make that kind of purchase worthwhile, we needed to be freed from daily household chores. That meant hiring servants.
Fulk had many positive attributes, and when it came to love and understanding, he was the most generous person on God’s good earth. He was also a splendid listener and acknowledged the sense of my suggestions. But when it came to parting with coin, unless it was for the sole purpose of increasing the size of the flock, he became the worst of misers. That was, until I learned that once more, all I had to do was withhold my queynte—until he saw fit to give me what I wanted.
He held out for three days.
Two weeks later we welcomed first one maid, Milda, then another, Sophie, into the house. Milda was a poor widow of about thirty odd years of age from the other side of town. Her children had either died or left home to find their fortunes elsewhere. A stout woman with honey-colored hair, permanently rosy cheeks, and smiling hazelnut eyes, she had a quiet way about her that I liked immediately. Grateful for the work, she was respectful of my position, only offering advice when asked (which wasn’t often, even though, mayhap, it should have been).
Sophie was a young girl of about ten from Bathampton, who came from a large villein family having trouble feeding everyone. She was delighted not to have to share a pallet.
Over summer we’d extended the house, building walls, and partitions, making private rooms for Alyson and the men. While Milda and Sophie first slept on pallet beds near the hearth, before long I used my usual methods of persuasion to get Fulk to build another room for them, at the opposite end of the house to ours and above Theo and Beton’s.
If only I’d known it was so easy to have my wishes met! I could have deployed this strategy from the beginning. After we’d swived and Fulk was lying on his side snoring, I would lie awake and wonder. Was this the great secret all women knew? The power their queynte possessed to overcome even the strongest, stubbornest men and thus get their own way? Is this why God didn’t want Adam to eat the apple? Because He knew the moment a man bit into its sweet flesh, instead of obeying God, he would obey woman, in thrall to her chamber of Venus?
Regardless, I began to use my power freely. I like to think wisely and well—mostly to benefit others. I became gatekeeper to my heavenly postern. My husband could only enter after paying a fee—submission to my will.
Nevertheless, there were times I felt Fulk was laughing at me and my demands. Not in a demeaning way, you understand, but as if I was a child he was indulging. I suppose, in retrospect, that’s exactly what I was.
After two years, Bigod Farm was a growing concern when it came to sheep and pasture, our wool sought after by English merchants. Better still, alien merchants came from Flanders, Venice, and Brabant to purchase our fleeces. These men were not only prepared to pay good prices, but to hand over very large sums in advance for wool our flock had not yet grown. It took a bit of convincing to persuade Fulk to agree to terms, even though it advantaged us. This time, it wasn’t my queynte that made him capitulate (I didn’t even try), but Master Gerrish and a local brogger named Master Kenton, who explained these kinds of advance contracts were being offered and accepted by the biggest monasteries and sheep farmers throughout the south and west of England. Master Gerrish offered to lease a portion of our land and buy some of our flock, so keen was he to take the aliens’ coin. I think that persuaded my husband more than the brogger’s words. It wasn’t the first time Master Gerrish, or Turbet, as I now called him, tried to buy our land and sheep. It wouldn’t be the last.
As a consequence, the wool Alyson and I wove (Alyson long ago surpassed my skills on the loom, she was such a fast learner) was also much sought after. But this is where we struck a problem. The Guild of Weavers and Fullers in Bath caught wind of what we were about and objected. Oh, we could have our wool dyed by the local fullers and make cloth—providing we only clothed ourselves. As we weren’t guild members and neither was Fulk, we were forbidden to sell it, even though the demand was there.
It wasn’t fair.
When Fulk objected, the guild presented a compromise: we were allowed to sell our cloth to a merchant in Bath for a fair price (when you’re dealing with merchants, you swiftly learn that “fair” is a synonym for “low,” the lower the better). In turn, the merchant would sell the cloth himself for inflated prices and pocket the profits. The merchant suggested to us turned out to be the brother-in-law of the head of the guild.
Once again, it was Master Gerrish who persuaded us to ignore the rules. He convinced Fulk, who passed the task to Beton or Theo, to take our cloth to the bigger markets in Brighton, Divizes, Stow-on-Wold, and even, once, to London. There, though stillage was paid, we kept every coin earned. As a consequence, we had to produce greater quantities of cloth and more quickly (and secretly). We hired maids from the village to card and spin so Alyson and I might concentrate on weaving.
Our reputation not only as producers of fine wool, but as weavers, began to grow. It would have been easy to increase our output further, but something in me (and Fulk agreed) knew that if we kept our enterprise small, just me and Alyson, then not only were we less likely to be caught, but we maintained the quality and could thus ask better prices.
It was a risk that paid off.
At unexpected moments, Fulk would reach over and drop a kiss on my brow, or cup my face. Usually, when I was at the loom. “Little did I know when I married you, Eleanor, that the pretty head beneath that glorious hair contained such a clever mind.”
Alyson would arch a brow then concentrate on weaving, but not before I saw the smile that crinkled her eyes.
A wall was built between the main room, now more like a hall, and the kitchen. A chimney breast was inserted and an oven installed in the kitchen, reducing the smoke that used to fill the entire house. Once that was no longer a problem, we hired men to plaster and whitewash the walls, which lightened the inside of the house considerably. I also persuaded Fulk to extend the house a room’s width the entire length. This was then divided into three rooms: a new bedroom for us, so we no longer had to ascend the ladder to go to bed (our old room was turned over to much-needed storage); a solar, so the family and servants might sometimes retreat if there were guests (usually other merchants, Turbet, and twice in two years, Geoffrey); and a garderobe or necessarium as Fulk insisted on calling it. That was at the opposite end to our bedroom and the kitchen and, despite the deep pit dug, and the wide plank with the hole that sat over it, it was a small space that, no matter how hard the maids cleaned or how often the boys buried the waste, exuded a terrible stink. Still, it was better than throwing the contents of the jordan about the yard.
I should add we didn’t spend all our time moving the shuttle back and forth and clacking on the looms. Nor did we remain on the farm day after day. As Fulk’s confidence (and mine) grew around others, we would take occasional trips into Bath, about an hour’s cart ride away. By now Pilgrim had companions in the form of three other beasts, including one old nag named Philippa, or Pippa for short, because she acted as though she was the Queen. We would joke that she and old Claude were a right royal pair. Unlike the real King and Queen, they could barely stand the sight of each other.
Each trip we made into Bath-atte-Mere seemed to last longer, as invitations for ale or food were proffered, everyone wanting to hear news from the farm or further afield.
On one occasion, I accompanied my husband to London.
I hadn’t long turned sixteen. The city was everything I expected in many ways, but in others, it was better. My head just about swiveled off my neck, and, if I hadn’t been warned about the crush, the noise, and how thieves were on the lookout for fresh faces, I doubt my purse would have survived. I know my pinched ass and ringing ears almost didn’t. But I loved every second, and as we traveled home, weary yet bursting with excitement at what we’d seen, bought, and done, I couldn’t wait to return.
It would be many, many years before I did, and then in very different circumstances. But I’m running ahead of myself.
* * *
It was a much-altered Eleanor Bigod who met The Poet when he dismounted from his horse. For a start, I was seventeen, a matron by anyone’s standard with five years of marriage under my belt. Still my womb hadn’t quickened. It was a very sore point and, while Fulk never made an issue of it, he watched me like a limpid cow whenever my courses came and I pushed him away for the few days. He couldn’t school his face, and not simply because he couldn’t sard me. No one was more aware than me that he was growing older, slower, frailer, and time was running out.
What purpose did I serve if I didn’t transition from wife to mother? I’d grown taller, was large-breasted with a slim waist and rounded hips. The epitome of womanhood, Fulk called me (I had to ask Father Elias what “epitome” meant and, when he asked how it had been said to me, blushed a shade of crimson I’d only ever seen on a wealthy Bath lady’s kirtle). My skin was even more freckled from the work I did outside, and my hands, while callused from weaving, were also softened from the grease of the wool and the fact I rarely did the laundry or washed dishes. Nor did I sweep or shovel shit—those tasks were now assigned to one of the three girls and two extra boys we hired. Not all of them worked in the house. The boys helped with the sheep, or drew the plough and planted the fields, along with additional help from the village during harvest. They also maintained our two horses and four mules. Pilgrim died the same year as Lady Clarice. I know which I missed more.
When Master Geoffrey dismounted, brushing off his clothes and throwing the reins of his rather fine mount to his squire—no longer Odo, who had run off to war and broken Alyson’s heart—the first thing I noticed was the insignia on his clothes. The insignia of the royal house.
Seems I wasn’t the only one to ascend the Wheel of Fortune.
“May God give you good day, Geoffrey!” I exclaimed, walking into his open arms and kissing him roundly on the mouth.
“You too, Eleanor. Why, you’re the picture of health.”
I slapped his arm. “Look. Here comes Alyson.”
Where the years had been kind to me, to Alyson they’d been less generous. After Odo ran away, she forswore men. I’d laughed, which just seemed to make her more determined. There were plenty of young men keen to attract her interest. Not only was she known as the daughter of a successful wool producer and farmer, but she was comely after a fashion. True, her skin was coarser than it had been, and she dedicated herself to the loom in what might have been considered an unhealthy way, except that what she produced was so intricate and fine, it put weavers in Ypres and Ghent to shame. I tried to encourage her outside, to enjoy the sun when it shone, even to stand in the rain or snow when it didn’t, but she couldn’t be persuaded. Wan of face, her hair lacked the luster it once had. I kept hoping time would lift her spirits, but nothing thus far had worked. Nevertheless, she was pleased to see Geoffrey.
We escorted him inside, showing him the additions that had been made since his last visit. The maids quickly took his cloak, brought over a jug of ale and some food to the table—a larger trestle. In what was rather a boastful gesture, I asked the girls to remove the food and drink to the solar.
“Solar?” exclaimed Geoffrey, his eyes widening. “Well, well, well, aren’t you the fancy lady?”
“You don’t know the half,” I said, laughing. “And speaking of fancy,” I said, flicking the insignia on his tunic. “What’s this? Lancaster colors if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not,” said Geoffrey, collapsing into one of the two fabric-covered chairs. I took the other as Alyson dragged over a stool and sat at my feet, her distaff and spindle already busy. “Since I was last here, much has happened. But tell me, cousin, when might I see your good husband?”
I explained Fulk was in the fields. October was when we planted our wheat and rye, and though Theo and Beton were perfectly capable of overseeing this, heavy frosts had made the ground so hard, and the process so time-consuming and difficult, Fulk had insisted on supervising. Theo and Beton were sent to check the flock. After I’d assured Geoffrey that Fulk would be back for nuncheon, I filled him in on what we’d been doing as we drank ale and picked at white bread and slices of goose left over from the Feast of St. Francis.
“Now, your turn, tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Reluctant at first, Geoffrey revealed that not only was he in service to the King, but he was now married.
“Married!” I exclaimed. My face grew hot and it took all my composure not to wriggle in my seat. Alyson ceased to spin and shifted her gaze from Geoffrey to me and back again. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him being wed. It wasn’t jealousy exactly . . . But what was it?
Was it not our lot to marry, to go forth and multiply?
“Praise be,” I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “What’s she like, your wife?”
Geoffrey considered his answer. “Her name is Philippa de Roet. I’m told she’s remarkably like her sister, Katherine Swynford, who’s considered quite the beauty.”
To his credit, he didn’t preen. My hand crept to my cap, then to my cheek.
“She hails from Hainault, where the Queen is from,” continued Geoffrey. “In fact, she arrived with the Queen’s entourage.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t really care about that. I wanted to know if Philippa had nice eyes, teeth, a sparkling wit, breasts, hips. Was she bold, was she kind?
Geoffrey stared into his cup. Our drinking vessels were no longer made from wood, but silver. I wondered if he noticed. This was Geoffrey, of course he did.
“Come on,” I said finally. “Out with it. It’s clear you’ve something else to tell and don’t know how. What is it you’ve done? From your letters, I know of the annuity the King has granted you. Congratulations. We heard Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster, died and that you wrote a tribute to her.” He nodded. “I hope the Duke appreciated it.”
Geoffrey shrugged. “I’m not persuaded John of Gaunt appreciates anything but himself.”
Alyson stifled a giggle. I snorted. “And . . . what else?”
Geoffrey raised his head. “I wanted to let you know, I not only married, but I’ve a son.”
My hand flew to my stomach; the pain that flared was so acute, it was as if all the children Fulk and I had been praying for had fallen over, unborn, in my womb.
Unable to hide my envy at this news, I was aware Geoffrey knew what a blow this was, that he who had never really sought to make a child should have one, and with such ease in so short a time. He had not only gained a bride but a family. Nevertheless, he should rejoice—and we should on his behalf. What would Fulk say? By telling me, Geoffrey had not only relieved himself of the duty, but was allowing me to break it to my husband when the time was right.
I pushed aside my grief for something I’d never had and smiled. It was genuine. I was happy for him. “God be praised. When did you welcome him? What is he named?”
“Thomas,” said Geoffrey, relaxing a little. “His name is Thomas and he was born last year.”
“Last year . . .” That hurt more. It had taken Geoffrey a long time to summon the courage to tell me. That wasn’t fair. The man loathed to hurt me and I loved him for it. Or would again, once I’d thought upon this.
“I guess that means I’ve another cousin.”
“Me too,” added Alyson.
Geoffrey’s face brightened then. “I guess it does. Lucky lad to have such a family.” You’ll recall I mentioned Geoffrey had a way with words.
We were interrupted by the arrival of Fulk and, soon after, Theo and Beton. Insisting Geoffrey stay and showing him to our guest room (the latest addition to our ever-expanding house), I occupied myself discussing with Milda what should be prepared for supper and making sure the ale was drinkable. We’d made a batch a few days earlier.
I filled the jugs and passed them to Sophie, listening to the voices of the men as Fulk showed Geoffrey about. He was so proud of what we’d accomplished. While I knew a great deal of it was due to my bribes and demands, my insistence things be done or bought or redone a certain way, something Fulk boasted about, I also knew in my heart I’d denied my husband in the worst possible way.
I might have made him richer in coin, but I had failed to give him what his heart truly desired. Not just a child of his own, but a son to whom he could leave all that he’d labored so long to achieve.
I waited until Sophie left the kitchen and then, sitting on a stool, watched through tears as darkness crept in the open door, spread across the floor and, bit by bit, shrouded my barren body.