Laverna Lodge
The Year of Our Lord 1371
In the forty-fifth year of the reign of Edward III
I was married to Turbet for over a year before I finally heard from Geoffrey. It wasn’t that he’d ignored me, as I’d begun to believe, but rather that my letters had chased him across various countries, always arriving just after he’d departed.
The King had sent his newly minted diplomat to France, and from there to accompany Prince John of Gaunt, the King’s third son, to Aquitaine. My letter found him on the day Gregory XI became Pope. Geoffrey had sat down in his lodgings at Avignon immediately to respond.
He wrote two letters that day—one to the King informing him of the outcome of the Papal elections, and another to me, which arrived via Father Elias.
By the time Father Elias came to the lodge to read it to me, winter was once more on the wane. Yuletide and the Feast of the Epiphany had been the most miserable I remembered. Not only had my husband arrived home drunk on Christmas Eve with a bunch of merchants he’d invited from London, but that duplicitous brogger, bloody Master Kenton, tagged along. The only welcome person as far as I was concerned was Mervyn Slynge. I tried not to let the fact Kit accompanied him affect me. That laughing popinjay could go to hell and stay there as far as I was concerned.
Immediately after Christmas, my husband left on a long trip, which was just as well, for I was heartily sick of his constant barbs.
But back to Geoffrey’s letter.
Apart from his travails and service to the King, Geoffrey thought to answer my question of whether or not I should marry Turbet Gerrish. Though he knew his response would arrive much too late to be of use, in typical fashion, he still saw fit to proffer advice, such is the way of men that they must be heard even when what they have to say is beyond useless.
Naturally, he warned me against wedding Turbet.
When Father Elias relayed that bit, Alyson arched a brow and gave me a pointed look. I ignored her. May Geoffrey’s balls rot in his breeches. What was the point of saying anything if not to arouse my ire? My regret? To prove himself right and me wrong?
I stormed about the solar, and if there’d been something to throw, apart from a decorative crucifix upon the wall or one of Turbet’s cherished armaments, I would have hurled them out the window.
When I’d finally calmed enough to hear the rest of Geoffrey’s missive, he also said if I did marry Gerrish, then I would make the best of it and seek to learn what I could from a man who knew how to extract the most from those around him. Did he know the man extracted coin the way a pardoner did confessions?
I glanced at Father Elias.
“Is Geoffrey saying what I think he is?”
“What’s that, dear Eleanor?” The good Father was relieved my pacing had ceased and my choler cooled.
“That my husband is a thief?”
Father Elias did his usual blushing and dissembling whenever I asked something he found difficult. The day I told him my husband’s prick was so small and inclined to withdraw in the face of womanly desire, and confessed that attempting sex was about as successful as trying to light a fire with a wet ribbon, he’d spluttered and turned such a shade of puce, I thought he was choking on the Host. I was quite ready to shout for the doctor. Instead, I threw holy water over him and he recovered faster than a drowned fish. He then had the gall to chastise me for wasting blessed liquid.
I retorted God wouldn’t mind; it wasn’t like He drank it, was it?
By the time Father Elias finished the letter, my temper had completely dissipated and aye, regret had taken over. I sank into a chair, not daring to look at Alyson as she clicked and clacked at the loom in the corner.
God’s truth, the more I unearthed about Turbet, the more I wished I’d waited for Geoffrey’s reply, no matter how long it took. Guilt was not a cloth I wore lightly or well, yet it was one I donned daily. If my decision to wed Turbet had only impacted upon me, I might have been able to tolerate it—nay, that’s not the right word—to become reconciled to my choice. But with every passing day, each time I learned something about my husband, his dealings with others, the servants, the tenants, the reckless decisions he made, his overbearing manner toward those less powerful or fortunate, never mind his treatment of me, I felt a pressing weight upon my soul. I wanted to blame Geoffrey, lash out and scold him, hold him accountable for my lack of insight. But it wasn’t his fault. I’d closed my ears to Alyson’s warnings; worse, I’d made a mockery of her doubts and twisted them into something nasty that lived within her, when the opposite was true.
Truth, ha. Geoffrey’s words, the kindness in the way he framed them, knowing I would have capitulated to the demands of those around me, been tempted by what Turbet appeared to offer, juddered the truth free so I was forced to face it once and for all.
I’d married a sweet-smelling wastrel.
Not even learning about Turbet’s past helped. Through Mistress Emmeline and others, I discovered that, as a child and young man, Turbet had been a disappointment to his domineering bully of a father and later, to his shrew of a wife. Married young and under the illusion that once he took possession of his wife’s fortune he’d be free to carve his own path, on the contrary, she managed both it and him. The children grew to despise their weak father as much, if not more, than their mother did. After their mother died, the children had nothing to do with him, which explained why he preferred not to discuss them.
Still, I couldn’t understand what I’d done to deserve his public derision and private disregard. For months, I tried to pretend his actions didn’t hurt, to excuse them as the result of his upbringing and previous marriage. In the end, I could not. Instead of having sympathy for those who were weaker, Turbet took the opportunity to intimidate and browbeat. His targets were servants, workers, the young, the frail, and, of course, women.
My forbearance came to an end the day he sat to nuncheon, having invited Master Kenton, and proceeded to boast about what he planned to do once the bill of sale on some land was finalized.
“Excuse me, husband, but did you say the northern pastures were to be sold?”
He paused, the knife halfway to his mouth, a piece of bloodied lamb skewered on the end. “Listen to her, Kenton. She talks as if she understands men’s business.” He snorted and pushed the meat between his lips, casting an amused look in Master Kenton’s direction.
Master Kenton sniggered.
A rush of anger made me rash.
“But, sir, the northern land is mine. There’s a flock dedicated to those pastures and they produce very good wool.” Turbet continued to chew, ignoring me. Master Kenton slurped from his mazer. I was less than a gadfly for all the attention they paid me. “Surely, husband, this is something you should discuss . . . with me.”
Turbet paused. He carefully put down his knife and then slammed his fist on the table. Such was the force, his mazer toppled, spilling wine. “Who do you think you are? Eh?” One of the servants rushed to mop up the spill. Turbet half rose from his seat and, as the young lad attempted to wipe the table, shoved him aside. The boy staggered and fell on his ass.
I went to help, horrified Turbet would behave in such a manner.
“Sit down!” he bellowed.
The boy leaped to his feet and scurried away. With great reluctance, I resumed my seat.
Turbet stood over the table. His face was slick and red, his eyes bloodshot. “You will remember your place, woman. Just as you will remember that the lands are no longer yours, they’re mine. It’s not for you, a mere servant’s get, to question your husband’s decisions—not now, not ever, am I clear?”
Dear God, I wanted to rise up and slap his face. I wanted to shout him into submission. But, what he said was true. The lands were no longer mine.
Satisfied with my silence, Turbet sat back down, signaling for a servant to refill his goblet. As the wine was poured, I noted how shabby the boy’s shirt was, how frayed the collar. Yet there sat my husband in his fine wool, with his bejewelled hands and velvet coat. The other servants’ attire was also worn and tired.
“Forgive that display, Kenton, would you?” said Turbet, picking up his knife. “My wife is but young, unschooled in the ways of her betters.”
“Then, it’s just as well she has you to teach her, sir.”
The lack of sincerity in Master Kenton’s words was breathtaking as was the sycophantic look he gave Turbet. My husband preened.
Sweet Jesu, my husband was not only mean in every way, he was a bona fide fool.
“If you cannot keep the peace, Eleanor, you can leave,” said Turbet smugly.
I should have left. Should have picked up what remained of my dignity and departed. But I knew if I did, either I, Alyson, or one of the other servants would pay for my boldness. I remained. But I also made up my mind that I would discover the fate of my lands and sheep.
As I listened to the banter between Turbet and Master Kenton, it was clear the only reason Turbet wooed and wed me was because he thought I’d be malleable.
Thus far, keen to be a good wife, to make something of our marriage, keep accord, I’d been that. Look what it had cost me. Me, Alyson, and Beton.
Shame on me.
Over the next few weeks, I found that not only had my husband sold much of the land I’d inherited from Fulk, but he’d persuaded Beton to entrust him with his portion as well. Then he’d sold it to buy more sheep. This might have worked but he’d gone to markets in York and purchased unwisely, spreading disease among the flock.
It was only because I went behind my husband’s back and ordered the shepherd remove any healthy sheep to a separate foldcourse, pretending to speak with Turbet’s authority, that the entire flock wasn’t affected.
After we’d culled the sick sheep, the remainder were moved to another pasture and enclosed. I told Beton to ensure any sheep the tenants ran or that strayed from the monks’ lands were kept clear of Turbet’s. In this way, the rest were saved.
When he found out what I’d done, Turbet didn’t thank me, of course not. He leveled blame for the losses at Beton.
In the end, all that was left of our inheritance was a mere few acres. The new resident at Bigod Farm, a freeman from the Cotswolds (to whom, it became apparent, Turbet owed money), ploughed some of Alyson’s lands, planting them with his crops. Surreptitiously, he shifted the boundaries, taking more than was his right. When Beton tried to argue on his sister’s behalf and even took the matter to manor court, he was fined for affray and told to back off or else.
Sickened by the gross injustice, I couldn’t ignore what was happening any longer. Alyson and Beton didn’t deserve to lose the little that their father had worked so hard to provide.
Bursting into Turbet’s office, I found him deep in discussion with Jermyn.
When he saw who’d entered, and without knocking, his face darkened.
“What do you want?” he growled.
“And a God’s good day to you too, husband,” I said with false cheer.
“God’s good—et cetera.” He flapped a wrist. “I ask again, what do you want? Can’t you see we’re busy?” He gestured to the pile of scrolls on his desk.
“I want to talk to you about Bigod Farm, about Beton,” I said swiftly.
“Beton? That lazy, good-for-nothing drunk,” said Turbet.
I was taken aback. Surely he was talking about a different person.
“Aye, your stepson, nephew, whatever he is, has proved to be a right burden.” Jermyn passed his master a piece of paper. “One has only to look at this to see his record-keeping is atrocious. How can anyone judge what crops belong to whom let alone animals and equipment when nothing is written down? When there’s no proof? How’s a court or bailiff to pass judgment? It’s one man’s word against another’s.” He shoved the paper in my direction.
There was no point debating the issue. We both knew I couldn’t read or write and Beton was illiterate. As Turbet had known when he’d appointed him to oversee the farm. He’d assured me and Beton that either Jermyn or his squire, Nicholas, would aid him in that regard. The help had never been forthcoming, both men always being too busy. Unable to manage, it’s no wonder Beton started to drink.
Before the year was out, Beton disappeared. He told Father Elias he was heading to London to seek his fortune. He didn’t even say goodbye. Was it shame that prevented him farewelling us? Or worse, did he believe Alyson and I endorsed his shabby treatment?
Did not a husband speak for his wife? The very thought Turbet was regarded as my mouthpiece mortified me. But, by not speaking up, hadn’t I been complicit?
Debt mounted and it became impossible to venture to Bath without being followed by the cries of those to whom Turbet owed money. How could I pay? Turbet controlled the purse strings.
If it hadn’t been for our weaving venture, I don’t know what we would have done. Alyson and I worked hard to train the servants—two girls, Aggy and Rag (Ragnilda, but she only answered to Rag), and, much to my surprise, a big, gangly youth with a mop of thick hair, wide-spaced blue eyes, and lovely long fingers, named Hob. Even with the extra coin the weaving brought, it didn’t bode well for the future; not the way my husband spent.
I worried that in order to meet our obligations, obligations my husband had incurred by his poor business sense and lavish lifestyle, and the contracts he’d signed with Meneer van Haarlem, which meant most of our wool was sold before it was even grown, weighed, or the quality assayed, I might have to put off some of the servants. Since Turbet refused to discuss the manor records and ensured that when he was away, Jermyn didn’t either, I was never sure. To those who came to the house seeking to have bills settled, I played ignorant, as much as it pained me. Fulk could never abide debt, and I know Papa didn’t approve of people living beyond their means, not when it was at the expense of those who scraped to survive.
I was nobody’s fool (except when it came to my choice of second husband) and knew if something didn’t change and soon, then the life I’d foisted upon Alyson and Beton and Milda would turn out to be like one of those mirages in an exotic tale, and would disappear in a shimmer of remorse.