A letter to Master Geoffrey Chaucer from Mistress Alyson Bigod, in the year of our Lord 1386
After many and most dutiful commendations, I beg for your blessing as humbly as I can, dear Geoffrey. God knows, I need it.
Many months have passed since I last corresponded with you and then from the Tabard Inn in Southwark on our way here to Canterbury. I’ve been in receipt of your letters, the first which reached me at the Tabard Inn, the rest once we reached our lodgings in Canterbury. If not for the presence of Milda and, latterly, Arnold (who joined us, at your request—I offer thanks for that), I would have been rendered senseless as the reality of what has happened only struck me when my pilgrimage was complete and I stood once more in the mighty Canterbury Cathedral.
Before the shrine of Thomas à Becket, I couldn’t help wondering whether, had I remained in Bath, the outcome would have been different. If I’d listened to you when you cautioned another marriage. Would my beloved Alyso Eleanor still be alive?
I know what your response would be, my friend. All the same, I cannot help but ask, especially of the saint himself, but neither he nor God Almighty saw fit to answer my question.
It pains me sorely to understand I’ve lost not simply a member of my family, but a woman who was all.
Nevertheless, I can no longer remain in stasis. I have to forge ahead. Eleanor would want me to. This is the reason I’m writing, Geoffrey: it’s time to quit this place.
In preparation, I’ve a boon to ask and I do beg your forgiveness in advance as I’m aware that matters of state, the business with the Lords Appellant, the King’s own mischief, and the dreadful battles must be preoccupying your every waking moment. That, and the fact you’ve been forced to relocate. I pray you find Kent and being a member of parliament more convivial than Customs. Mayhap, the Lord has been guarding your back, for I’ve no doubt if you were still in your previous position and among those who now find themselves branded criminals, you might also be facing heinous charges.
All this aside, I do most humbly ask if you would please seek out some suitable accommodation for me. I’m uncertain exactly how I’ll occupy myself once I reach London since I cannot associate myself with Slynge House and benefit from its reputation as fine weavers. As you’ve reminded me many a time, I must invent a new past. But, since spinning and weaving are unlikely to be associated with Bath alone, I feel I can safely establish a fledgling business in London. I’m hoping you’ll use the connections you made while Comptroller of Wool etc. to aid me, even if your former colleagues are, from what we hear, most unpopular at present. The property I seek would need to have room for a couple of weavers to work in comfort, lodging for servants, as well as storage for wool and cloth and room for a cart to deliver and pick up same.
Other than considering how to start weaving and spinning again, I’ve done little. I’ve walked the streets of this benighted town. The journey here was one of the most somber I’ve had to endure. The confusion and sadness of past follies, of recent loss, made it impossible to enjoy.
If not for the affability and discretion of your friend the innkeep at the Tabard in Southwark, Master Harry Bailly, from whence our pilgrimage embarked, I might have changed my mind about going to Canterbury altogether, such was my misery. Master Harry gave me and Milda his best room, and shared many a fine story. He made it his purpose to shuck off my melancholy and provided us with excellent repasts, quality ale and wine, and ensured we weren’t disturbed. According to Master Harry, he received a note from you not only revealing the truth of my situation but a set of strict instructions, which he did naught but follow. While I understood he would likely recognize me as Eleanor from previous pilgrimages, I was greatly alarmed by your decision to reveal why both my name and circumstances were so drastically altered. Unnecessarily, it turns out, as you judged well, Geoffrey. Master Harry was the soul of circumspection. I’m once more in your debt.
I remained beneath the Tabard Inn’s roof for over a month while we awaited the arrival of the rest of the pilgrims. I wish you could have seen them, Geoffrey. A more motley bunch you’re unlikely to encounter. Unlike last time, when I threw myself among my fellow travellers, I remained remote, observing them through a veil.
We reached the walls of Canterbury in late April and Milda and I, after bidding the pilgrims adieu, made for our lodgings in Longmarket. From where we reside, I can count more spires than pricks. You were ever determined to set my mind upon higher things, weren’t you? Still, the beldame from whom we rent the rooms is inclined to leave us alone, and the place is clean, if not as quiet as I would have preferred. Our mules are stabled and Arnold’s horse as well. Convenient considering we’ve been here a goodly while.
By my count, it’s five months. Summer is spent and autumn has arrived, the season best known as the harbinger of death. Even so, I’ve heard naught of my beloved mistress. I pray you have news to share?
Death was something we were all fortunate to avoid when the imminent invasion by the French failed, praise be to God. We heard that in London, bastions were flung up against the city walls. While Canterbury didn’t go to those extremes, men were recruited to increase the size of the garrison and protect the walls. Everyone was afeared there would be war and the French would smite us in our beds.
It’s all moot now anyway. Praise be to God the winds proved contrary to the enemy fleet. The Lord was on our side, as the bishop said at mass a few weeks later. I think when he says “our” he means “men’s.” For there’s little to show in my experience that God takes the part of women.
You’ve always felt there’s much to love about this cathedral town, and there was a time I might have agreed with you. But not now. Everywhere I turn, I see Jankin Binder—Eleanor’s monster of a husband. The man who sought to persuade us that all women were wicked, yet was the embodiment of sin himself. A devil-sent Cupid.
When I’m not seeing Jankin in the faces of scholars, drunks stumbling out of an alehouse, or an argumentative merchant, I’m seeing her . . .
This is why I must go. It’s time for me to shuck off my cocoon of grief. Before winter sets in, I intend to hunker down in a new place. Make preparations so I might emerge the following spring renewed and ready to embrace life. Do you recall what you said to me, that dreadful night so long ago? You said that the best revenge was to become a better and stronger woman than anyone (including myself) thought possible. I’ve been weak; beholden to the specters of the past and the doldrums that trail in their wake. No more. I’m convinced of the wisdom of your words. For certes, living as I do does more harm than I would have reckoned. Reliving the what-ifs, the might-have-beens, tiny words with a mighty heft, is no way to exist. I would come to London and a fresh beginning. Something you’ve long urged and that I’m ready to act upon.
So, Geoffrey, expect me within the next few weeks. If you do not have room to accommodate us as we pass through on our way to the city, then I ask that you direct me to a suitable lodging until such time as I may move into my new premises.
May peace find you; God knows, it continues to elude me.
Written on the Feast of St. Jerome.
Yours, Alyson.