A letter to Master Geoffrey Chaucer from Mistress Eleanor Slynge, widow
My most meaningful blessings, et cetera, et cetera, upon you, Geoffrey.
I know I should have listened when you warned that visiting the shrine of the Three Magi in Cologne meant not only returning to places I swore I’d never go again, as well as a journey by sea, but I didn’t. When you cautioned I was unlikely to encounter fellow Englishmen traveling to this part of the world and would struggle talking to anyone, I didn’t listen either. When you said I should take at least three of my own men to serve as guards, I ignored you. Why? Now I’ve had time to consider my stubbornness, my insistence on doing almost the complete opposite of what you recommended (I did take two men), I’ve fathomed the reasons. I was cross with you, Geoffrey Chaucer. Cross at your stubbornness, your refusal to acknowledge I was right regarding that doxy Cecilia Champain.
But whereas I closed my ears to your prognostications of disaster—and rightly, as Cologne and the entire journey has been both entertaining and worthwhile—you, my friend, should have heeded me. Am I not a woman? Do I not possess a queynte? Do I not recognize in my kind the sort of habits, temperament, and inclinations the good Lord and Father Elias say need to be mastered? The moment I set eyes on her, I knew what Cecilia Champain was, and I knew you were a fool to trust her.
You may thank me and apologize when we see each other again—in any order.
I won’t dwell on the painful matter anymore, except to say I was shocked when Alyson, Milda, Drew, Arnold, and I arrived in London to join the pilgrims and called upon your residence in Aldgate to learn, firstly, you weren’t there and secondly, that the little bitch had accused you of raptus. You! A rapist! I can only assume it’s either a case of mistaken identity or you’re not the honest man you appear to be. Then again, one cannot write the things you do, Geoffrey, and deny the lustful inclinations that come naturally to your sex. I quite understand that on occasion your desires must overcome you—especially in the absence of your wife—but with Cecilia Champain? That loathsome serpent? I shudder at the thought. I’ve always said, never trust a person without brows, a maxim that has proven true on more than one occasion. (Remember Father Roman?)
I can only urge you, if you haven’t already, to use the advantage of your friendship with Alice Perrers to seek redress. Is she not Cecilia’s stepmother? I’m aware Mistress Perrers has fallen out of favor since King Edward’s death, but surely the woman still has enough influence to mitigate what promises to be a disastrous outcome for you. Not to mention the influence of your other important connections in London.
If I thought it would have done any good, Geoffrey, I’d have remained in the city and shouted from the rooftops about your gentilesse, talents, and kindness, and how unlikely it was that you would force a woman into your bed. As it was, we’d booked passage on a ship from Southampton, and these captains wait for no man, or woman, once the tide has turned. I did leave a note with your fellow, and pray he passed it on. Forgive my lack of correspondence in between, there’s been little time to write, and less confidence any letter will reach its destination before I do.
As my eyes once more turn toward home, I pray it’s to find the matter resolved. If not, then I offer my services and voice once more. My late husband once told me to use it to help others, and it would give me no greater pleasure than to use it on your behalf.
If you were right about one thing, Geoffrey, it’s the kind of pilgrims we’d encounter on this journey. From the moment we disembarked at Boulogne and met our guide, a portly man with a mustache that looked like he’d detached it from a besom, Herr Wolfram von Kühn, we were thrust together with a group of rough-looking men who, if they didn’t have yellow crosses dangling down their fronts and backs, were wearing knives, axes, staves, and other sharp-looking instruments around their necks. When I asked Herr von Kühn, who could communicate in what he thought was English but was a mixture of Latin and some sort of London parlance (I did come to understand him—eventually), why these men were so adorned, he explained the crosses were worn by accused heretics while the other men were murderers. Murderers, I tell you! Their punishment was to walk to whatever number of shrines the judge sentencing them saw fit. Whether they were put to death after begging forgiveness and seeking indulgences, I didn’t dare ask. I was apoplectic when I understood who and what were to accompany us on our journey. Until Alyson pointed out that at least while we traveled with criminals we were unlikely to be set upon by the same. It was solid reasoning, and that was before I learned that armed guards were also traveling with us. (As it was, we had only one brief incident, which saw the brigands turn tail the moment our worthy murderers wielded their various weapons and shouted like berserkers. It was thrilling!)
After a blessing from a ridiculously indifferent bishop, we set off from Boulogne, twenty or so of us, Alyson, Milda, and I the only women flung together with cutthroats, thieves, heretics, two monks, a franklin, a widower-shipman from St. Omer, a knight, Sir Jacques, who’d been to Jerusalem, and, of course, our guide, the portly Herr Wolfram von Kühn. I couldn’t have asked for more interesting companions if I’d ordered them straight from the Almighty Himself.
For all your blathering about my being unable to speak the tongue of the natives, what you, Poet, a man of words no less, appear to have conveniently forgotten is the common language men and women all speak, particularly when flung together, night and day. What language is that? Why love, of course. And, trust me when I tell you, Geoffrey, not only did Herr von Kühn, mein liebe, speak the same tongue, but so did one of the monks—Italian, and we know they’re experts in amore. Between them and one of the thieves who stole my heart and whose name eludes me, the journey afforded many pleasures. And then there was the rugged farmer near Bruges who killed his wife’s lover with his staff. He almost killed me with it too, if you know what I mean.
Before you rush to judge, Master Raptus, explain this: if we’re meant to turn our minds toward the spiritual, why are there constant reminders of the pleasures of the flesh? Even the monks have damned badges shaped like women’s quoniam pinned to their cloaks, while all along the way, the churches are decorated with statues shaped like men’s pricks, and any number of reliquaries and souvenirs shaped like cocks and cunts are everywhere to purchase. After a few days, I stopped pondering the whys, and determined to enjoy my widowhood and the freedoms that come with being my own woman. I’ve encouraged Milda to do the same, Alyson too—though, in her usual fashion, she keeps to herself and shuns the offers made, preferring instead to ensure I’m only bothered to the degree I want to be. On this pilgrimage, it’s been more than I ever knew I would.
I can feel your blushes, Geoffrey. The way you pretend not to be amused, turning your chuckles into hollow coughs. Dear God, man, if I cannot share my intimate thoughts with you, The Poet who captures the very heart of lust and love, of a woman’s part, then with whom?
Rest assured, being away has done me the world of good. Cologne is a sacred town—it has to be with so many bloody churches (twelve at last count)—the cathedral notwithstanding. The Hanseatic League are here, a canny mob of merchants and traders if ever there was one and, if I had mastery of German and French and all the other languages from which these men seem to borrow, I would strike up negotiations with them here and now.
As I walk, admiring the stone houses, cobbled streets, and enter the grand cathedral, or the Dom, as it’s called, I find myself strangely disappointed. It’s not properly built. It’s crawling with scaffolding, builders, stonemasons, workers of all stripes, and you should see the state of other parts—the twin spires everyone’s boasting about look more like the nubs of goat horns. It will be centuries before the damn thing is finished. This hasn’t prevented us admiring the beautiful golden reliquary containing the remains of the Three Wise Men, which glows like honey beneath an enormous arched window and is what everyone really comes to see. It was worth the entire trip just to lay eyes upon it.
Alyson and I had many nights in hotels and monasteries when we could discuss what I should do with all the offers for my hand that flooded in before I left Bath. Whether it was old Sir Percy, that down-on-his-luck merchant Richard de Angle, or the mercer Henry Makeward, I’ve decided that three husbands is more than enough. I’m happier being free of men and marriage. As a widow, I’ve the liberty to love where I choose and without judgment—even yours—well, not as much. I’ve control over my own destiny, and Fortuna can decide how far to turn her wheel on my behalf without the burden of a husband beside me.
That is what I wanted to tell you, Geoffrey. I’m foreswearing marriage. From hereon, I wish to be known as the Widow of Bath. I will enjoy the fruits of my labors. As will Alyson, Milda, and my workers.
Alyson asks that I send you her blessings and we both ask you to do the same on our behalf to Father Elias, Oriel, Sweteman, Wy, and young Jankin should you be in Bath any time soon. I was so sorry to learn of Master Binder’s passing. I’m relieved Jankin is doing well in his studies and that these will go some way to being a much-needed distraction in his time of sorrow.
I hope to be home before winter, Geoffrey, by which time I pray this matter with Cecilia will be put to bed (a poor choice of words). Just importune the Almighty there’s no child that will bind you forever to that termagant.
Written on the Feast of St. Swithun.
I remain your constant friend—whatever the verdict,
Eleanor.