A letter to Master Geoffrey Chaucer from Mistress Eleanor Bigod, widow
Right worshipful sir, I commend myself to you.
May it please you to know that once more I’ve sought the services of your dear friend and mine, Father Elias, in order to tell you of the latest events to have overtaken me. I’m most perplexed that you’ve not replied to my earlier letter seeking your urgent advice regarding a marriage proposal from Master Turbet Gerrish. I can only assume this missive went astray.
As noted previously, after the death of my husband, Fulk Bigod (I don’t know why Father Elias insisted on writing his name in full, as if he were a stranger to you instead of a relation, for Godsakes—and aye, in case you’re wondering, I made him write that too), I fulfilled my promise to my Lord Jesus Christ if He would spare the life of my Godsib, Alyson. That is, to undertake a pilgrimage.
My chosen destination was Canterbury and I was accompanied by Alyson and Milda. Truth is, I didn’t really care where I went, I just knew I didn’t want to leave England nor go very far. Turned out, the road to Canterbury is much traveled and easy to negotiate. Nevertheless, I was at first reluctant to set out. Not only was I anxious to know your thoughts on Turbet’s offer, but I was worried about leaving the farm in the hands of Beton, who, though older, does not possess a wise head, especially when it comes to business. I also feared something may happen to him in my absence, even while I was on a holy mission, God being inclined to overlook me and those I love.
Father Elias and Master Gerrish promised to keep an eye on Beton and the farm. After Master Gerrish proved himself so helpful while sickness raged, I felt somewhat reassured, even as I understood he had other motives. He was looking to shore up potential assets, after all.
There were other reasons for me to go, so I did not tarry awaiting your reply. Fulk’s death cut deep, Geoffrey. I found myself prone to bouts of sudden weeping. The death of a goat, a sheep mauled by wild dogs, Fulk’s favorite goblet unused on the sideboard—these things could plunge me into deep sadness from which it was difficult to rise. Alyson coped slightly better. Milda, for whom grief is a familiar companion, felt leaving the farm awhile would remind us both how fortunate we still are, despite our grievous losses, and help us look to the future.
Master Gerrish believes that future lies with him.
Since I wrote to you, I’ve been besieged with offers, which I know will make you smile when you consider how hastily my first marriage was arranged. The same men who once decried me as whore and harlot now seek to make me wife (Father Roman, for obvious reasons, being an exception). I’m no longer so foolish as to think I’m the attraction rather than the lands and sheep, the house and all its comforts, to which I am one-third entitled. Alyson kindly suggests it’s also my youth (I am but seventeen) and, possibly, my wide hips. For certes, no one except Fulk has ever mentioned my pretty face.
Truth is, Master Gerrish’s offer is not unappealing, even though he too is long in the tooth (the lines and crevices on his face would match my Fulk’s), inclined to snore (he’s fallen asleep at our table on occasion), and has a rather melancholic temperament (for all he pretends otherwise). So, in the absence of a response from you, I used the trip to Canterbury to consider him and the other offers I have received. Once I reached the shrine of Thomas à Becket, I addressed my conundrum to God and to the good saint himself, but, as I fully expected, they both ignored my pleas as if I were the greatest of sinners, not a woman who had just dedicated weeks of her life to riding miles, prayer, feasting, fasting, and making new friends among my fellow pilgrims. (I especially enjoyed the company of a monk named Oswald. It was a fine way to experience God’s love here on earth. I wish you could see Father Elias’s blushes.) Not to mention my bleeding feet, sore ass, and peeling nose. Anyhow, I’m now forced to ask for your wise counsel (again), my cousin and friend. Since you saw fit to organize my first marriage, I’m asking you a second time: should I wed Master Gerrish? Does not the Lord say to love thy neighbor?
Written on the Feast of St. Katherine, the Virgin and Martyr.
Yours, Eleanor.
Postscriptum: I thought Canterbury a crush and the ampullae filled with the saint’s blood overpriced. I bought one each for me, Milda, and Alyson. I had to queue to purchase them and couldn’t help but wonder how one person, even a saint, could have so much blood in them. I also bought a badge to pin upon the gray cloak I purchased. And a staff to aid walking. Brother Oswald said one is not a real pilgrim unless one is in possession of a staff. Ever tried to hold one while on a donkey? Almost impossible. The badges prove I’ve visited the shrine (and you’ll be pleased I also offered prayers for Queen Philippa, may God assoil her). What’s the point of going if one cannot prove one has been? At least it saves me prating endlessly about it as some are wont to do; I just flash my badge and the story is told. As for all the gold and silver plate surrounding Becket’s tomb, and the great garish ruby the French king presented—why, it was almost the size of a goose egg! It was tasteless, and that from a woman who years ago almost lay with a priest. I’d sooner give my coin to the beggars milling outside the cathedral. Which I did.
But, apart from Oswald—oh, and the manciple, a Frenchman, oo la la!—it was an unremarkable journey to a dirty, crowded, expensive town, keen on gulling the unwary and charging for the privilege.
Needless to say, I plan to return soon. Or at least, to make another pilgrimage, it was such an adventure. I’m thinking mayhap Jerusalem.