Laverna Lodge and Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1377
In the fifty-first and final year of the reign of Edward III
It didn’t take long for me to work out why my lord had been so eager to swive me that Lammas. It wasn’t that he’d suddenly had his eyes opened to my beauty, as I hoped, or found me desirable. It was the attention of other men. Turbet had a jealous streak as wide as the London Road. Upon seeing lusty Master Jon fancied me, he thought to stake his claim—or claim his stake as may be. In other words, it wasn’t until other men wanted what was rightfully his, handled his property, that he did too. Not that I’m complaining. Once I worked this out, I used it to my advantage as often as I could, and not just when my passions needed dousing.
Over the following years, I found that when I responded to the ogling, suggestive murmurs, caresses, and offers of other men, or spoke of how these overtures made me feel, my husband would bestow upon me a variety of gifts—from a lovely bolt of silk, to colorful ribbons, a sparkling bracelet, or a fine pair of slippers. For allowing Mervyn Slynge’s ward, Kit, to kiss me upon the lips three times in succession and squeeze my buttocks after dinner one evening, I was given a headdress that was the envy of the parish.
Why had it taken so long to discover this? First it was the power of my queynte, and now it was men’s need to triumph over their own sex when it came to women. It was so damn simple. When I said as much to Alyson, she frowned.
“Alright for some. You attract men the way a flower does bees or the pieman dogs. No one wants my honey.”
“That’s not true,” I objected. A number of men had tried to court Alyson, but she simply wasn’t interested. Said she was happy where she was and who she was with—meaning me. I couldn’t help but be flattered (and grateful), and while I wished her to know the love of a good man, they were in short supply. Truth be told, I was also afraid that should one come along, they might snatch her away, and then where would I be? I didn’t encourage her to pursue her swains as much as I probably should have. Worse, I made a point of always trying to find fault with any who did step forward.
Was I selfish? Aye, I was. And one day, I would beg God’s forgiveness.
Our fortunes continued to rise and our wool and cloth were in great demand. I was developing quite the reputation as a weaver, not that I deserved it. Those I’d trained outdid me. The best by far was Alyson. Not only was her weave tight and smooth, but she had a great eye for color. Alyson deserved all the kudos, but she was most content when I shone and she basked in my shade. Conceited wretch, I was content with that too.
Part of the reason I was happy to be lauded for weaving was because it meant no one paid too much attention to the other business I conducted—what by rights was Turbet’s to manage. People still noticed, said it was only since I married Turbet that his wool sales had increased and his cloth was sought after. Likewise, the tenants sang his praises and, of course, what he owed was paid almost as fast as it accrued. I continued to be harried each time I ventured to Bath, but whereas once it had been to settle my husband’s debts, now it was to make purchases.
Though I enjoyed the largesse of my husband—both in the gifts he gave and the various feasts he hosted, inviting his merchant colleagues and other acquaintances—I was quite thrifty and always made sure I kept coins aside—I never really trusted Turbet not to fall back into his old ways. I’d never forgotten how almost everything had been frittered away, and right beneath our noses. I didn’t want to risk that ever happening again.
But of all the folk who marveled at Turbet’s success and congratulated him upon it, there was one (apart from Jermyn) who knew the real reason. Master Mervyn Slynge revealed this one evening after we’d enjoyed a long and delicious repast in the Great Hall. I’d received a letter from Geoffrey that very morning. In it, he announced that his second child, Elizabeth, had become a novice at the Priory of St. Helen’s. The rest was filled with excuses as to why he had to deny my request for aid in selling wool. You see, when he’d returned from Genoa a few years earlier, Geoffrey had been given a new post—that of Comptroller of the Wool Customs. Comptrollers were generally loathed, as they made sure the correct taxes were paid on whatever goods were exported. That Geoffrey should be responsible for this was both amusing and offended my sensibilities as a producer. Everyone knew the King and his lackeys (of which Geoffrey was now most assuredly one) granted the alien merchants licenses willy-nilly and gave them such extraordinary concessions when it came to excise that they paid a fraction of the rate home-grown English wool merchants were levied. No wonder Papa had encouraged Lady Clarice to entrust her wool to smugglers and thus evade taxes and port duties. Turbet had tried to get Fulk to rely on the same avenues. I’d considered doing this with ours as well but thought, mayhap, with Geoffrey in the role, I wouldn’t have to . . . Would he turn a blind eye? Dismiss or lower our taxes? Record a lesser weight for our sacks so the duty wasn’t so high?
Nay. He would not. Geoffrey was as honest as the day was long. No wonder the court appointed him. He was likely to make sure the Wool Collector—the man who operated in partnership with the Comptroller and was despised even more—didn’t swindle the royal coffers any more than they already did.
Unsurprised that he had declined (and secretly filled with admiration), I was sitting in the solar, thinking over what Geoffrey had written and wondering what to write in reply (knowing Father Elias kept my friend abreast of what went on in Bath and at the lodge), when who should enter but Master Mervyn.
“Good sir.” I went to rise, slightly annoyed my peace was disturbed. I’d drunk quite a bit at dinner and felt a megrim starting. “If it’s my husband you seek, you’ll find him in the office. I believe he’s taken Masters Godfrey and Bevan there to show them his new seal.”
Master Slynge waved for me to sit and, accepting a goblet of wine from one of the servants, dragged a chair closer. “It’s not him I wish to speak to.”
“Oh?” I looked about for his ever-present ward to find he was nowhere to be seen. Though a spoiled young man when I first met him, Kit had matured over the years into a fine-looking fellow, even if he still adopted airs and graces to which he had no right. “And why would that be?”
Mervyn sank into the seat, his eyes never leaving mine. Being accustomed to a husband who still had difficulty returning my gaze, I found it both refreshing and unnerving.
“How old are you now, Eleanor? Twenty-two? Twenty-three? Younger? I know you married Bigod while still a maid.”
In every sense, I thought.
“I’m twenty-five . . .” I answered cautiously. What did my age have to do with anything?
“Excellent, excellent.” He studied the room, his eyes alighting on the new arras I’d had made depicting a sylvan scene. There was also a lovely silver box and a burnished bowl atop the cabinet. He took in the new ornaments and I was pleased to see an expression of approval. Why I cared, I’m uncertain. Mayhap, an awareness of my humble beginnings, beginnings that I liked to think were no longer so apparent.
Finally, he faced me. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you for a while. Actually, what I wish to do is tender an apology.”
“Apology? What for, sir?”
“You see, my dear—and this isn’t easy for me to admit—I’m a man who likes to think he’s a good judge not only of character, but prospects. But, when it came to you, my judgment failed.”
“You were blinded by natural male prejudice, sir,” I said, smiling prettily.
Mervyn Slynge’s eyes narrowed and I worried I’d gone too far. Then, he laughed. “You’re right. I was too much of a bigot to believe a woman could possess a mind let alone a good head for business. But you, my dear, contradict everything I thought to be true.”
I didn’t want to say that if I contradicted it, then how many other women might? Either way, it made his premise false. “How have I accomplished such a remarkable concession, sir?”
He put his elbows on his knees. “I’ve known Turbet since he was in breeches and if there’s one thing I can confidently say, it’s that he lacks any sense for commerce. In fact, if he hadn’t married well the first time, he’d be in hock right up to his neck. Instead of investing and trying to increase his wealth, the fool spent his wife’s inheritance faster than the King does ransom money. It was good luck, not good sense, that anything was left. Even then, when he met you, he’d been living off goodwill and the largesse of acquaintances—” He tapped his chest to indicate he was one. He sighed. “But goodwill only goes so far, and when his offers of marriage to other well-endowed women came to naught, he set his sights closer to home. Frankly, I thought he’d lost his mind when he wed you. Why, your beginnings were very humble, regardless of the fact you inherited lands that abutted Turbet’s and came with a decent flock. He was risking his reputation, his social standing, wedding so far beneath his station. But he was wiser than anyone knew. He saw in you what Fulk must have.”
“Oh? And what might that be, sir?” My mind was racing. Do I deny everything and attribute all the decisions being made to Turbet as I’d promised?
“A cash cow. Or should it be, sheep?”
My eyes widened. The rude bastard. “I beg your pardon?” I said, my voice slightly shrill.
Master Mervyn chortled and held up his hand in a sign of peace. “Stay. Stay, good lady. I don’t mean to offend, though I know the words do. But this is me you’re talking with—”
Was I? Seemed to me he was the one doing all the prating.
“And I refuse to pretend. I’m too old for that. Have seen too much.” He paused and took a long drink. “Turbet was in dire straits and doing everything he could to pretend otherwise. Then you, Mistress Business-Head, come into his life and turn his fortunes around. Why, the man who could scarce tell the difference between a wether and a weaner now has one of the finest flocks, is producing wool of such quality it’s fought over by alien merchants, is weaving marvelous patterns, and, furthermore, has happy villeins who, unlike those on neighboring lands, remain put. This is not the work of Turbet Gerrish, nor his man, Jermyn, who I know does what his master tells him. Nay, my lady, this is down to the one thing that has changed in Turbet’s life. This is down to you.”
I should have objected.
“Nay. Do not insult me by pretending this isn’t the case.”
I wasn’t.
“I’m no fool either. And that’s why, I wish to offer you something—”
I held my breath.
“If ever you find yourself in need of an ally, someone whom you can rely upon to give you an honest opinion about a venture, a business decision, then I’m at your disposal.”
I released my breath in a rush of disappointment. “I find this odd considering you’ve spent the last few years listening to others insult me.” Never mind the last few minutes . . .
“Oh, my dear, it was nothing personal. Ask the others. They say the same about all women.” He laughed at the expression on my face. “But whereas there are some who deserve their . . . opprobrium, you, my dear, don’t. You’re something entirely different. Just what, I don’t know . . . Yet.”
“I’m merely a wife.” I lowered my eyes and tried to appear demure.
Master Mervyn stood. “Ha!” he said and drained his drink. “You may be a wife, but there’s nothing mere about you.” He went to leave, then changed his mind. “In fact, someone like you would be enough to convince me to venture into wedlock. At my age too. Mayhap. One day.” He shuffled out of the room, pausing at the doorway. “Let me know if you ever become available.”
Aye, I thought, and lambs might fly south.
I thought I was the only one privy to the conversation, one which I repeated to Alyson that very night, but I sometimes forget the Almighty is also listening, as is Fortuna. Though I dismissed Master Mervyn’s offer as cup-shotten nonsense, knowing by then his predilection for young men, I should have understood that God the all Great and Powerful also has a mighty sense of humor.
Too soon, I was to feel its full force.
* * *
Geoffrey didn’t only write letters. He even came to visit on two occasions. The first was back in September 1374. The weather was still very warm, the ground dry. Alyson was abed with sickness, though improving. Some of the villeins were ill and two had even died. I hoped it was because they were elderly, though, when I went to their funerals, I was shocked to learn they were younger than Turbet.
But I was telling you about Geoffrey.
We spent the morning together, walking about the grounds, and I showed him the weavers busy in the Great Hall, the pastures, yellow stubble rather than green, but dotted with healthy looking sheep. As we wandered, we talked. Conversation was never a problem and I so enjoyed his company and hearing his news. He was comfortably ensconced in his London house, an apartment above Aldgate, one of the busier entrances to the city. From its windows, he could see people making their daily pilgrimage to and from the city, carting and carrying their wares, herding animals. Soldiers were oft escorting prisoners, while noblemen and women would ride out en route to their great estates. He could also see the river, and his office, which was at Wool Quay, was only a short stroll away. He invited me to come and visit one day. I said I would. I said a lot of things I meant back then.
I asked about his wife and children. When the old Queen died, Philippa had gone to serve John of Gaunt’s new wife, Constance of Castile.
He shrugged. “I’m afraid I barely see them.”
I stopped in my tracks. “What do you mean? Now that you’re back in England, in London no less, I thought you and your family would be under the same roof. Philippa must have missed you greatly . . .”
The expression on his face told me all I needed to know. My heart tripped. “Philippa is accustomed to being her own woman,” he said stiffly. “I’m sure you of all people understand.”
Did I? I was hardly my own woman, I belonged to Turbet, and before him, Fulk, and before him, Papa. What woman could really be called “her own”? What did that even mean?
Unaware of my ruminations, Geoffrey continued. “The apartment is not really suitable for young children, what with the noise of the street and such. It’s also quite dark and damp. Anyhow, Philippa has a lovely suite of rooms at the Savoy and, when the family aren’t there, they’re at Kenilworth or one of Gaunt’s other palaces.”
“That sounds like excuses, Geoffrey.” In the harsh light of the sun, I could see his skin was lightly pocked, the lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened. Tiny veins scattered his cheeks. Only his eyes retained their familiar brightness, their shining hope. But, the more I looked, I saw what I’d failed to notice before. A blight that could only be sorrow. “Oh, Geoffrey, what is it?” I clasped one of his hands in both of mine and drew them to my breast.
He sighed and looked at his shoes. “I don’t know, Eleanor.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “For all that I read and write about love, devotion, hope, I seem to be unable to salvage any for myself.”
I squeezed his hand.
He returned the gesture. “Did I tell you I’m writing again? I’ve ideas for a poem about what goes on in parliament, about the crowing and chest-beating and ridiculousness of our representatives.”
“Father Elias did mention it,” I said. “You’re embracing your other self. Remember, we used to call you The Poet.”
He chuckled. “As I recall, it was said to mock me.”
I couldn’t argue.
“I’m also in the middle of writing about good women. It’s something you inspired—not because you are one, mind,” he added with a grin when he noticed my chest puffing up.
“Ah. So I’m a muse now, am I?”
“You certainly amuse me,” he said.
I punched him gently on the shoulder.
“I find that even my best intentions are thwarted. I want to write about good women, but all I can think about is how, like a unicorn or a dragon, a good woman is a mythical creature that we men search and search for and fail to find.”
“Oy,” I said. “Speak for yourself.”
“I am, my dear. I am.”
As usual, Geoffrey had taken a roundabout route to get to the point.
“You’re not happy with Philippa?” I prompted.
He shrugged. “How do I even know when we’ve barely lived under the same roof? Barely shared a bed?”
“You must have shared one at some stage. You’ve two children after all,” I exclaimed.
Geoffrey gazed skyward, squinting. “Philippa has two children.”
After that, we meandered back to the house where ale and rabbit awaited. I never did ask Geoffrey what he meant and swiftly dismissed his words.
The next time he visited was three years later. It was the day after my conversation with Mervyn Slynge.
A great deal had happened since. Not so much at Laverna Lodge or in Bath, where time seemed to march on the spot. Apart from another outbreak of the Great Sickness a year after Geoffrey last graced our door, people came and went, died, were born, fell ill, recovered or didn’t. But in Geoffrey’s world, the world of merchants, politicians, court, and words, everything changed all the time. I wondered how he could bear it, spinning around and around like a dizzy girl on a maypole.
Sitting in the solar, I listened as he shared his news. Much I knew already, but it was so different hearing it from someone who lived and breathed it, felt its impact, saw its consequences. Though he’d been to Calais and back since we’d last been together, the biggest news by far was the death of Edward of Woodstock, the King’s eldest son and heir to the throne, the hero of Poitiers and other battles besides. It had been a long, lingering death that Geoffrey said no one would wish on their worst enemy. Services had been held, the country plunged into mourning—even here in Bath we’d grieved. Geoffrey said it was a tragedy that the King, already frail, would never recover from.
The parliament had created its first Speaker of the House of Commons, which Geoffrey said meant ordinary folk like him and me, like my villeins, now had a greater say in how we were governed. Alyson snorted loudly.
“That’ll never happen until we rid ourselves of the monarchy and elect a leader,” she said.
I stared at her in horror. “Have you been listening to those preachers at the cross in Bath again?”
She pursed her lips.
Geoffrey arched a brow. “I didn’t know the ideas of John Wycliffe had spread beyond Oxford.”
“Spread might be an exaggeration, but they’re discussing them hereabouts,” admitted Alyson when she understood she wasn’t going to be shouted at. Turbet wouldn’t tolerate any mention of the scholar Wycliffe and his followers. Called Lollards, they decried the authority of the Pope and priests and the rituals of the church and believed that anyone could have a relationship with the Lord without a priest to be their intermediary. Alyson had told me about them, but I didn’t much care. Not then.
With Geoffrey a willing audience, she continued, “They say the bread they give in church isn’t really Christ. That we don’t need to have that to know Him.”
“I hope you don’t repeat such things around Father Elias,” I said.
“Or anyone else,” warned Geoffrey. “They’re dangerous words, Alyson. Dangerous ideas.”
“I’m not stupid,” she said.
Nay, she wasn’t. Just inclined to listen to those she shouldn’t. I half-suspected she’d taken a shine to one of the young preachers.
We moved on to discuss the King’s failing health and how his mistress, a woman named Alice Perrers, was making enemies faster than a London merchant chips his silver coins. I wanted to know more about this woman. We’d heard of her, of course, how she’d turned the good King’s aging head, was lavish with his money, buying clothes and jewels and properties for herself in his name, ruining the exchequer in the process. Part of me admired her gall, most of me envied her. She’d risen from low beginnings, been a servant too—admittedly, in the dead Queen’s chambers, but still a servant. Made my accomplishments pale in comparison. I said as much.
“Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor,” said Geoffrey. “All I have to do is look around to see what miracles you’ve wrought, what your common sense has done. Turbet couldn’t be happier. Just ask him.”
I beamed and fluttered my beringed fingers. “Mistress Perrers isn’t the only one who knows how to extract largesse from a man.”
“I can see that as well,” laughed Geoffrey.
“Even so,” I said, suddenly wistful, “I’d give it all away if I could have a child.”
Alyson slowed her spindle, looking anxiously at me. She knew how much the lack of a baby pained me. For Turbet, who already had two children (whom I’d still never met), it wasn’t such an issue. But for me, it was a constant feeling of failure.
“Oh, Eleanor,” said Geoffrey and took my hand. “You’re young. There’s still time.”
I snatched my hand back. “Young? I’m twenty-five. I know next to Turbet I’m a babe in swaddling, but truth is, I’m an old matron, sir. No pretty words or sympathy will change that, certainly not while I’m married to Turbet.”
Geoffrey dropped his voice to a whisper. “Mayhap, with your next husband?”
Cheeky bastard. Discussing such things while my husband was somewhere about the house, living and breathing (and wheezing and struggling to mount his horse, let alone me). It was then I told Geoffrey about Mervyn’s strange proposal.
“If it’s a child you’re a wanting, you’ll not be getting one with him,” said Geoffrey, smirking and accepting the drink Alyson poured him.
“That’s what I said.” She clinked his goblet with her own. They drank.
“Still, if it’s riches and a fancy house in town, then mayhap Mervyn is your man. You’ve a fine head for business, Eleanor, and what’s marriage if not legitimate women’s business—one where, if she’s canny, she can profit.”
“Aye, that, or whoring,” I added quietly, before quickly changing the mood and begging a story.
* * *
Was it a cruel irony that, two days later, the same day beloved King Edward passed from this earthly realm to sit at God’s side in heaven up above, my husband also died? King Edward perished in bed, they say, his wily mistress by his side, pulling a large sparkling ring off his finger as he drew his final breath and claiming it as her own.
That very morning, a gray day in June, my husband managed to mount his horse without aid. Intending to ride down to the Abbey, he told his squire, Nicholas, to remain and attend to other duties. Less than a mile from the house, he fell. He was found late that evening, his neck broken.
Was I sorrowful? Only at the manner of his death, and that a way of life I’d grown accustomed to would be altered. I didn’t shed tears, though my heart was heavy.
Geoffrey was still with us when they brought the body back. I can’t remember whether what I decided over the following weeks was at his suggestion or my own idea. But, in the wake of Turbet’s death and the inevitable sorrow and fears for the future that followed, and with Mervyn Slynge immediately reminding me of his offer, I did the only thing I could.
Not content to seek God’s wisdom alone over such an important question (though I did ask Father Elias and pray), and after first seeing Turbet buried and making sure everything was in order at home—my will written, debts paid, tenants looked after—I applied for a passport and papers to allow me and Alyson to leave England for a time.
Geoffrey and Father Elias helped, both putting in a word with the bishop and relevant people in officialdom.
After permissions were granted and I had the relevant documents, I packed enough clothes to last a long journey, told Alyson to do the same and, digging out my pilgrim’s cloak, hat, scrip, and staff, set off.
I told you I’d rather fancied another pilgrimage.
I took one and dragged Alyson along. Milda begged to remain behind.
It occurred to me that in order to ask the Almighty about any new marriage I might make, I needed to be as close to Him as I could without leaving earth.
So, I went to the next best place: I went to Rome.