St. Martin’s Le Grand, London
The Year of Our Lord 1399
In the first year of the reign of Henry IV
News that King Richard had been overthrown by his cousin Henry Bolingbroke barely caused a stir within the household. While part of London celebrated, we were wreathed in sorrow. The days since Lowdy’s terrible death passed in a fugue. We drifted about the place, barely talking, eating little. If not for Wace and Harry, I would have scarce stirred from my room. Routine was all that kept us from falling into despair; the girls’ insistence on going to Southwark, bringing in coin, the counting of it when they returned before curfew, meals, and sleep.
When the sheriff arrived that bleak, dark day, and saw that young Lowdy Fleshewer, daughter of Ordric, had been brutally murdered, he had Jankin arrested. Though Jankin protested it was an accident, there were witnesses to swear to the contrary. For once, his wealth and the fact his father-in-law was titled mattered not a whit. Ordric, rightly or wrongly, wielded great influence in parts of London. For once, our interests aligned.
Ordric came to visit in the days after Lowdy’s death, dragging along a coroner, demanding a full recount of what happened. We obliged, Milda and Oriel adding their statements, as did the neighbors. After that, Ordric ensured Jankin received no privileges from the turnkeys at the jail.
No doubt, money exchanged hands to make Jankin’s life a misery; no doubt he paid, futilely, to try to improve his conditions as well—a windfall for the jailers. I thought of it as money he should, by rights, have paid me. Though it would have meant liberty from London, from walking the streets of Southwark and putting my girls in danger, I was glad of any coin spent ensuring his torment. Danger hadn’t come from the streets as I’d feared, but risen up snarling from my past to destroy us.
Destroy Lowdy.
Guilt ate my soul, gnawed my bones. After Ordric explained that nothing and no one could save Jankin, that even the coroner had stated the trial was just a formality, it was as if my life force dimmed. Was it relief? Was it the realization it really didn’t matter anymore? None of it, the trial, the punishment. Not even the fact that with Jankin’s death, I could claim what was rightfully mine—Slynge House, the lands and flock. I was his lawful wife, after all, and with the proceeds from the sale, I could finally lease a place in Southwark, start afresh. I didn’t care. It wouldn’t bring Lowdy back, just as nothing had brought Alyson back, either. Oh, I went to the funeral, comforted the boys, Milda, Oriel, Drew, and the girls, and then crawled into bed. I said nothing of the land and property in Bath.
Geoffrey came in the immediate aftermath of Lowdy’s death; of course he did. I refused to see him. By then, his poem was inconsequential. I refused to see anyone—Father Malcolm, Sister Cecilia, both of whom were crushed by Lowdy’s death, as we all were. I didn’t see it at the time, but grief can make one selfish. Forced to stay with John Gower, Geoffrey nonetheless called a few times a day in the hope I’d change my mind.
Then, I was summoned, along with Milda and Oriel, to give evidence at Jankin’s trial. A courier came to the house and said we were to present ourselves at Westminster in seven days. He left an official document. I couldn’t bring myself to read it.
He also explained that Jankin’s trial had been delayed because the judges who were part of the Court of the King’s Bench were traveling throughout the country to try other criminal cases. In the meantime, the perpetrator had been moved, locked away in the King’s Bench Prison, a miserable establishment in Southwark. In a street called Angel Place. The irony didn’t escape me.
I sank into a melancholy as dark as the endless rain-filled nights. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to speak. Judas’s balls, I didn’t want to relive those bloody moments or see Jankin again.
I remained beneath my covers, unwashed, unkempt, staring at the official letter ordering me to take part without reading it. Until, four days before I was due in court, I forced myself. The words blurred, then reformed. There was my name, the names of the others who’d borne witness, and Jankin’s. Then, in bold letters, was the crime he was accused of committing:
That Jankin Binder did murther one Lowdy Fleshewer in a cruel and unjust manner, ending her life without care or thought.
Unjust. Cruel. Without care or thought. Jankin Binder.
It’s hard to describe what came over me at that precise moment. Mayhap, it was seeing what he’d done set out in bold brown script. Memories coalesced, emotions too. All the anger I’d harbored, the need for revenge that had roiled in me ever since Alyson’s death, stilled. All the wrath, blame, guilt, and self-loathing, calmed. The feelings were there, but they weren’t frothing and bubbling.
Heat coursed through my veins, galloping up my chest and into my throat. I opened my mouth and roared. The sound struck the ceiling, bounced off the walls, and traveled through all the gaps and cracks in the room, the shutters, through the floor. One long, plaintive sound that went on and on, until like a spinning top, it gradually ceased.
The silence that followed was deafening. Slowly, I became aware of other sounds. Labored breathing and a heaving chest. My heartbeat thudding in my ears. Rain coursing down the thatch and striking the puddles below. Chairs scraping, a babble of voices, then the slam of boots on the stairs.
I climbed out of bed, smoothed my shift. The door burst open and there they were: Leda, followed by Yolande, then Milda and Oriel. The boys squeezed past, stopped and stared. Last was Master Stephen, a great brooding hulk standing over them. They looked upon me with wide, frightened eyes.
“Are you alright, Alyson?” asked Milda, approaching uncertainly, her voice quavering.
“Should we call Sister Cecilia or Doctor Thomas?” asked Oriel.
“Should we call a priest?” asked Wace in his tiny voice, staring back at his mother.
“Whatever for, lad?” I asked.
“To cast the devil out.”
“Oh dear Lord.” I gave a grim laugh. “The lad has been spending too much time at the college.” I came forward and stroked his hair, pulled him, then Harry, into my arms. “I’ve no need of a priest.” I sniffed. “Only a bath. Milda? Oriel? Can you see to it?” No one moved. “I’m fine. Truly. I’m sorry I was cause for such concern, but I won’t be any longer. I’ve a duty to Lowdy, to my Godsib, to you all, to see justice served and I can’t very well do that from my bed, can I?”
Milda and Oriel exchanged wary smiles.
Leda folded her arms. “Well, thank the Lord you’re back among us, mistress. Forget a priest, I thought we’d have to put you in Bethlehem, and I’m not the only one.”
Master Stephen lowered his head. Yolande scraped the floor with her toes a few times.
“I’ll see to that bath, shall I?” she said, tugging Stephen’s shirt.
Milda remained while I washed, the others returning to the kitchen to discuss the miracle of my return, no doubt.
Was it a heavenly intervention? God speaking to me with his burning breath? Was it the power of words to stir the soul, make even the most unlikely or unpalatable of truths real? From that moment on, I was filled with purpose. Purpose and courage.
“I blamed myself,” I told Milda as she poured more hot water into the tub.
Milda said nothing. She didn’t have to.
“It wasn’t until I saw Jankin’s crimes written down in ink that I understood—none of this was my fault. It doesn’t matter what Jankin said, what I know he’ll tell the court. He chose to kill, to wield the knife that ended Alyson’s life and to hurl Lowdy out the window. Just as he chose to beat me and his new wife and God knows who else. It wasn’t God’s will that made him do it. It wasn’t mine or anything I said or did—nor Alyson, nor Lowdy. It was his. His will, his choice, his actions. And, as God is my bloody witness, I’ll see him pay.”
The spiraling cloth was as soothing as Milda’s presence. The water changed color as days of grime sloughed off my skin. My flesh was rosy in the firelight; like me, renewed.
“If I continued to burden myself with guilt, then Jankin wins—they all do.”
“Who, mistress?” she asked quietly.
“The men who continue to make us women pay for their sins; who have done so since Eve offered the apple to Adam. But—” I twisted around in the tub so I could look Milda in the face. “Remember Mistress Ibbot? Wace’s midwife? She said—and I’ve always thought—Eve didn’t make him eat the bloody fruit. She offered Adam a choice and he made one. So whose sin is it really? Who is really responsible for the Fall of mankind? Is it her or him? Or are they both equally culpable?”
Milda smiled. Pushing the cloth into my hand, she dropped a kiss on my wet head and, groaning, rose to her feet.
“You don’t need me to answer that.”
“Nay,” I smiled. It had been so long since I last did that. “I don’t.”
* * *
Four days later, after short testimonies from me, Milda, Oriel, and even a few more people whose names I didn’t know but who spoke eloquently about Jankin’s propensity for violence—toward their daughters, maids, tavern wenches, and maudlyns—he was charged with Lowdy’s murder.
The scribes sat at their big table, the rolls upon which they recorded the names of witnesses and their statements unspooling. Their quills quivered as they wrote at speed, ink splattering. Filled with a sense of rightness that Jankin’s brutal acts would be recorded for posterity, but also sadness for the clever lad he once was, I sat quietly. Would that things had been different. But as I said to Milda, it’s the choices we make that define us. Words—written or spoken—can inspire, wound, fill us with passion or despair, but it’s what we do that will determine how we are judged. How we are remembered.
This is something Geoffrey knew and it was why he expended so much effort writing and rewriting. I needed to revisit his words and soon. To think about how I would act upon them.
In the end, despite Jankin’s spit-filled denials and accusations—at me, his wife, at Alyson (the court understandably confused her with me), and what were interpreted as the ravings of a madman as he declared his dead wife was sitting among us—he was led away. Sir Horsewhyre, who’d attended in lieu of his daughter, spied me among the crowd, his eyes widening. When he sought me out in the immediate aftermath of Jankin’s sentencing, I was unprepared as he steered me into an alcove just outside the courtroom.
Before I could open my mouth, he hissed in my ear. “I know who and what you are. If you dare to come forward as Binder’s wife, I’ll destroy you and all you hold dear.” He looked back to where Milda, Oriel, and the girls stood, his meaning clear.
His grip on my arm grew tighter.
“My daughter will not be classed a whore for the sake of one, do you understand? She is that man’s lawful wife and I won’t allow anything else to be said—not even a whisper. Slynge House is hers. The land, the sheep. You forwent it a long time ago, Eleanor. I can guess why. Leave it that way, or else.”
With one last rough shake and a look that would have struck a knight’s steed dead, Sir Horsewhyre strode away. Part of me raged that he dared to threaten me, while another part knew it was the guilt he felt for allowing his daughter’s marriage, and his likely encouragement of it, that prompted him to deprive me of what was rightfully mine. Yet another, calmer, part, honed by experience, understood this was meant to be. With my new identity, new life, and the passing years, I’d waived my rights. Sabyn didn’t deserve to suffer for Jankin’s actions, nor mine.
At least one of us would gain materially. With a deep, deep sigh of resentment, but mostly, I like to think, acceptance, I went and joined the others. My advantage would have to take other forms.
Though I’d seen enough death and bloodshed to last me into eternity and the hell I’d no doubt was awaiting me (and Satan better watch his sorry arse when I get there), I owed it to Alyson, Lowdy, and my girls to watch the bastard hang. I owed it to Sabyn and all wives who’d been forced to endure their husbands’ insults, fists, and worse.
Jankin was led to the scaffold in sackcloth, accompanied by two priests. A group of soldiers and constables surrounded the cart carrying him as a large crowd, keen to see any felon hang, became a noisy procession. Rope was tied loosely about his wrists and neck, and he stared at his bare feet, shutting out those baying for his blood. I’d insisted Wace and Harry remain at home. A kindly neighbor stayed with them. Everyone else had been with me in court and were by my side as we were jostled across the bridge and through the city to Tyburn Tree. With every step, we were joined by more and more people. Shops and barrows were abandoned as folk became part of the throng ready to see the man foolish enough to kill Ordric Fleshewer’s daughter hang. Every time Lowdy’s name was uttered, I would add “and Alyson” under my breath.
Rather than feeling jubilant, when we paused so an innkeeper might offer the condemned man refreshment, I felt ambivalent. At first, Jankin refused the drinks, but as the crowd grew larger and louder, he took what was offered and before long was swaying from their effects.
It took over three hours to reach Tyburn. Ordric and his men led us to the front of the scaffold, a large triangle that could accommodate at least eight condemned on each side. Beneath the Tree, I had second thoughts. Did I really want to be here, glorying in death? Nay, but I did want to see justice served. To let Jankin, God up above, Alyson, and Lowdy know that I had seen it as well. I sent a swift prayer heavenward for strength. It’s quite one thing to imagine you can witness a hanging and another to actually be there.
There were thirteen more condemned men joining Jankin that day. There was no one exceptional, just felons being punished for their crimes.
One by one, they were brought to the noose, offered the chance to confess and beg forgiveness. Most did. As they performed the last jig they’d ever dance, the stink of piss and shit filled the air. I covered my nose and mouth with a perfumed kerchief and blessed Yolande for her forethought.
“He’s up next,” Ordric leaned down to tell me. Lowdy’s death had made strange bedfellows. While I grieved, I wasn’t sure what Ordric felt. He’d barely known his daughter. Mayhap, his outrage was based on a sense of ownership. Jankin had destroyed his property and must pay the price. Whatever, I was grateful for his presence, and what he’d done to ensure Jankin got to this point.
Or I thought I was.
Up until the moment the noose was placed around his neck, Jankin hadn’t uttered a word. He’d refused prayers and the opportunity to ask forgiveness. In his silence, he condemned himself further. The executioner put a sack over his head.
“Leave it off,” shouted Ordric. “I want to see the bastard die. So does she.” He gestured to me beside him.
Only then did Jankin spy me. He had seen me in court, of course, which had prompted a fit as his eyes bulged and he began to scream and spit. The executioner obeyed Ordric, stepping back, ready to heave Jankin heavenward and break his neck.
Just before he did, Jankin finally spoke. He leveled his gaze at me. “This is all your fault, you whoring bitch.”
Without hesitation, I shouted back, “And don’t you forget it, you Satan-cursed lump of camel-dung.”
Before he could say anything more, his feet left the ground. Jankin squirmed and twisted, his bound ankles jerked, his face grew red, then a mottled blue. His eyes bulged, his cheeks appeared to swell. Then his body merely swung back and forth, back and forth, a huge pendulum on an unforgiving rope.
It was a while before anyone could persuade me to leave. The crowds began to disperse. Milda, Oriel, and the others found a vendor selling ale and hot pies and, with Ordric and his men, sought sustenance. The wind picked up, bitter and cruel, biting my hands and face. I barely felt it.
Instead, I stared at Jankin’s shit-stained corpse, wondering how such a lovely boy had grown into such a cruel and dangerous man. More dangerous than most because he appeared to be the opposite. He lulled folk, women in particular, into a false sense of reliability. He was like those animals that make fake burrows to lure weaker creatures inside. He only revealed his true nature once the trap was sprung.
With a huge sigh, I left as the sky was darkening, thick purple clouds casting a doom-laden light on the hill. Scavengers appeared, searching the area for anything of value. There were coins, some mementos, not much to show for fourteen lives.
As we made our way back to St. Martin’s, Ordric’s men providing a welcome escort, I was quiet, listening to the conversation around me. It was Ordric who finally drew me aside. “So, mistress, I hear you’re wanting to move,” he said. “Over Southwark way.”
I glanced at him in astonishment. “How do you know?”
He tapped the side of his nose. “One hears things. Nah,” he smiled, showing his half-rotten teeth, “your friend Chaucer’s been asking around on your behalf. Word got back.”
Not surprised that Ordric’s network extended over the river, I was quietly pleased Geoffrey had involved himself. We still hadn’t spoken, not directly, though he’d written many letters, which I’d read—anything to distract me from my misery. I would thank him for that. If nothing else, the last few days had taught me it was time to forgive my oldest friend. As soon as I reached home, I would invite him over. From his missives, I knew King Henry had been demanding his time of late, going so far as to double Geoffrey’s annuity—and that after the previous king had been so mercurial in his patronage. He’d offered to come to Jankin’s trial, but I’d all the support I needed. Anyway, a trial wasn’t something you’d attend unless you had no choice. I prayed I’d never have to go to one again, or bear witness to someone’s death, even if you believed they deserved it. There was something barbaric about it; it stripped both felon and witnesses of humanity. Of dignity. I shuddered.
“Are you cold, mistress?” asked Ordric.
“It’s just—” I waved my hand in the direction we’d come. “You know. The day.”
“Aye.” Ordric looked over his shoulder. In the gathering gloom, he was even more sinister than in daylight. “Makes me want to down a few ales and find a lusty bawd to share my glee with.” He eyed me up and down. “Whatcha reckon, mistress?”
I almost tripped over. Dear God, the man was serious. How things had changed. I would no more swive him than the pig I could see snuffling among the refuse outside an ordinary. “You flatter me, sir. But back to Southwark. Aye, I’m looking to move. Why? Do you have objections?”
“On the contrary. I wanted to say, I can put in a word for you, if you like?” He nudged me and winked, jerking his chin in the direction of his men, leaving me in no doubt what form his “word” would take.
It was the last thing I needed. Even so, someone like me took friends where we could. “Thank you, Ordric, that’s very decent of you. If I have need, I’ll let you know.”
“Make sure you do,” he said, taking my arm as we neared the gate of St. Martin’s. He gave a bark of laughter. “No one’s called me decent in a long time. Fact is, there’s nothing decent ’bout me offer. I don’t want you here, taking business from my girls.”
I laughed and extracted my arm. “Why, Ordric, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re paying me a compliment.”
“I recognize competition when I see it.”
“Aye. And me as well.”
Just outside St. Martin’s, he stopped. “I also know a decent person when I see one.”
I arched a brow.
He lowered his voice. “You gave my Lowdy a proper life.” He cleared his throat, turned his face away. “And you’re good to my son, to Wace.”
I was speechless as we parted.
The bells had rung compline before the house settled. Wace and Harry, with the typical ghoulishness of the young, wanted to know the details of what we’d seen. When they learned that Lowdy’s killer had been hanged, they cheered. After that, we downed some ales, had something to eat, and determined, as we bid each other goodnight, that Jankin’s death marked the close of a chapter.
“Tomorrow, we’ll return to the usual, won’t we, mistress?” asked Leda, speaking on behalf of the others as was her wont.
I looked at their expectant faces, the sleepy ones of the boys. “Aye. Back to work, school, and planning our future.”
“And where’s that gonna be, mistress?” asked Yolande, stifling a yawn.
“One day, it will be over there.” I nodded toward the Thames. “On the other side of that great river. One day, we’ll have a house of our own and a thriving business where every maudlyn will want to work.”
Leda pushed back her stool. “Wouldn’t that be nice.” She deposited a kiss on my cheek. “But methinks you’ve been hanging around that poet friend of yours too much. You’re having an attack of imagination.”
As I sat by my window that night, watching the early snow fall, I wondered if Leda was right.
Not about Geoffrey, but if what I was planning—to be my own woman—was nothing but an unrealistic dream.