A letter to Master Geoffrey Chaucer from Mistress Eleanor de la Pole, wife
After dutiful commendation, I beg for your blessing as humbly as I can, dear Geoffrey.
I pray you received the missives I sent from Venice, and know we reached that marvel upon the water in relatively good health, despite the journey being rudely interrupted. Unlike my earlier letters, when I was still raw and angry from the manner in which I left Bath, in a fury with my husband and telling him, and anyone else outside the church that last Sunday, I wished him dead, I’ve had time to reflect upon my actions (and his) and reach an inner accord . . . of sorts.
When I boarded ship in Southampton with Alyson, Jankin, Drew, and Arnold, Fortuna smiled upon me by including among our merry group a very affable priest with a wonderful sense of humor prepared to listen to a recounting of my many sins. Of course, he cannot speak a word of English, nor me of Spanish, but that hardly matters because God knows all—no matter what language it’s spoken in—and it is He who listens and intercedes. The priest is merely His earthly medium and mouthpiece. I do recall both you and Father Elias saying this often. Do not accuse me of failing to listen.
Your advice to leave Bath and, indeed, English shores was both wise and well-timed, Geoffrey, because I fear if I hadn’t, I may well have acted upon my threat and struck my husband dead where he stood—with his prick inside the little milkmaid. God forgive me.
While my newly found peace is good news, the bad news is, we were forced to leave Arnold in Venice. He failed to recover from the fever he caught just before our arrival. The captain of our vessel wouldn’t allow him to board for fear of contagion, memories of the Botch large in his mind. I left enough coin that he might be accommodated in a modest palazzo, and acquired the services of a kind dottore to care for him. He’s under instructions that once he’s well enough, he can either wait for our return or head home on his own.
As a consequence, only Alyson, Jankin, and Drew made the journey with me to the Holy Land. Milda, as you know, deemed herself too old to set out with us, and I’ve promised to offer many prayers to the good Lord on her behalf. I will for you also, my friend.
Though you expressed concern about Jankin accompanying us, for reasons you failed to disclose, he’s proven his worth over and over. His ability to speak foreign tongues has proved a boon and prevented many a misunderstanding. Not being able to correspond so frequently, I’ve found him to be a keen and discreet confidant. Of course, Alyson is her usual reliable self, but I also value gaining a male perspective, particularly from someone not inclined to hold me to account all the time. I’ve said to him on a few occasions, if ever I were a widow again, I would wed him.
And so, back to our journey. We boarded ship again in Venice, a cramped vessel filled to the brim with other pilgrims and so many animals it was impossible not to step in shit either above or below deck.
As part of our fee for sailing, the Venetian captain, a strapping fellow named Alessandro de Mare, has included ale, wine, brackish water, and any port taxes. It’s all very convenient. Our papers, which we acquired before leaving (and once again, I thank you for your assistance) were in order, unlike a gentleman from Assisi who was left at our first stop, Rovigno.
After Rovigno, we sailed to Methoni (dull) then on to Crete (a small mountain arising out of the sea with a bottomless lake). I should add, the moment the ship raised anchor, Alyson became ill and was forced to lie in our cabin for days, unable to keep down anything but the tiniest bit of wine. I was most concerned, but the smell of vomit and shit in the cramped quarters made it hard to remain any length of time. I ended up sleeping on deck, among a number of my fellow travelers, which wasn’t a bad way to while away time. For certes, it meant I was among the first to catch sight of each new town or city and marvel. It’s so beautiful here, Geoffrey, a tad hot—I find myself tempted to remove my shift and wear just a kirtle, but know that wouldn’t be wise, especially not as the further south we go, we come closer to Mosselmen country, where such liberties are frowned upon. And that’s before I discuss the liberties some of my fellow passengers might take come nightfall if they knew my flesh was but a layer of linen away.
In Crete, our only choice of accommodation was a brothel. There were very few objections from the priests—only the nun and abbess (the only other women on board—and they don’t really count) were vocal, but the proprietor, a Belgian woman named Gerta, cleared the house. Alyson was so relieved to be in an unmoving bed, she even tolerated the fleas.
Next was Rhodes, a floating fortress by any other name, filled with magnificent-looking knights, raucous markets crammed with teetering baskets of fruit, fish, lumps of meat, bolts of glimmering fabric, and so much more besides. Beggars missing limbs sat with bowls and the piteous expressions they all wear, regardless of where they hail from, and I did divest my purse of much coin as I cannot bear the sight of such suffering.
Then we sailed to the isle of Cyprus (lots of white sand), the birthplace of Aphrodite, under whose sign, as I believe I’ve mentioned, I was born. I did honor the goddess by leaving an offering. What do you think the chances are that she might heed my prayers, since God Almighty has failed to thus far?
Once we left that island, the mood on board underwent a transformation. Those who’d made this journey before were filled with eagerness, a kind of desperation. They would spend each day leaning over one side of the ship, eyes fixed on the horizon. I wondered if they too had been overcome by fever, and they had, in a way.
I’d just brought Alyson up from below deck. The wind was sweet, the air clean. The sun shone and large fish were breaching the waters, almost dancing before us as we sped across the shimmering surface. I began to think of those stories of Odysseus and his crew carving through wine-dark oceans as they head home—before the gods intervene, that is. As we came on deck, my fellow pilgrims burst into a chorus of song, some fell to their knees, laughing with joy, throwing their arms about each other and pointing toward the distant shore and the low hills of Palestine—the Holy Land. Kisses and warm smiles were exchanged, and that night there was a feast and much drinking. The magnificent ululations of the crew echoed long into the night.
We’d arrived. Almost.
We docked in the port of Jaffa and were greeted (if you can call it that) by officialdom. Our papers were checked and rechecked and then, after a rather firm lecture, we were spirited away to some dark and gloomy accommodation where we waited for days to be given permission to travel to the Holy City. I thought England held the crown when it came to administration—nay, ’tis the Saracens. Finally, when I thought we may as well just board our vessel and sail back home, the guide, along with armed guards, arrived to lead us through Palestine.
Twenty men accompanied us, all heavily armed with swords that curved like a goat’s horn, which was just as well, because one night a group of Bedouins attacked. One of our guards was killed, along with three of the tribesmen. Put rather a damper on proceedings, let me tell you.
We were all eager to get to the Holy City and a degree of safety. When we first sighted those sacred walls, what can I say? Safety was not foremost in my mind. Geoffrey, you know I’m not one for displays—oh, alright, displays of religious devotion—but when I laid eyes upon the walls of Jerusalem, like the other pilgrims I slid off the donkey and fell to my knees. Jankin, Drew, and Alyson also. My eyes swam with unshed tears, my heart sang. O Jerusalem!
We entered through Fish Gate and made our way to the church of the Holy Sepulchre. Much to my disappointment, we were forbidden to enter and had to simply look upon its facade. How one can truly appreciate great lumps of rock, even if they house a miracle, defeats me. Yet, when the English friar pompously declared this very place was worshipped by the entire world, you’d swear he’d said, “Oh look, there’s the Almighty!” as the other pilgrims fell to the ground, began to weep and make the most terrible fuss. The abbess and nun bellowed like cattle in labor, our Spanish pilgrims lay unmoving with their faces in the dirt, arms and legs splayed. The rest knelt and began to pray. Loudly. What did I do, I hear you ask? Nothing, but watched in bemusement, as did Alyson, Drew, and Jankin.
After a time (too long), we were taken to our lodgings. The friar and other priests were led up to a convent on Mount Sion while the rest of us ungodly ones had to make do with the hospital of St. John, a place in dire need of improvements. There were great holes in the walls, doors missing and windows without shutters or hide to keep the swarms of flies and biting insects out, never mind prying eyes. A small group of Franciscans welcomed us and, the following day, along with our guide, a portly man of middling years who I think was called Shalom (at least, that’s what he and the Franciscans kept saying), we were taken to all the holy sites.
Now, Geoffrey, I’m all for visiting a shrine, as you’re well aware, but never in my thirty-odd years have I encountered so many as I did here. Not one to be skeptical, it nevertheless seemed that every ancient bough—especially if it was an olive tree—cairn of rubble, stone, pebble, doorway, broken step, chapel, church, or narrow passage wending between rows of stalls selling devotions and badges, had some holy significance.
If it wasn’t Mother Mary’s tears or Christ Our Savior’s blood, it was the stone upon which Peter stood denying his Lord (how they knew it was that particular one and not the hundreds of others, I couldn’t fathom), or where the Virgin waited while her Son was being tried. Or it was pus from Jesus’s wound or a piece of some saint’s foreskin. On it went, for days—places where someone was beheaded, whipped, prayed, had a shit, lost a tooth (I made those up), said “Hello, did you miss me? I’m back.” We saw them all.
Finally, we were admitted inside that most sacred of places, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The first thing I noticed was how dark and cool it was, and I offered an immediate prayer of thanks for being able to escape the glare and scorching heat. We processed around what was more or less a giant cave with rooms, stairs to different levels, and shrines in many corners. Groups of other pilgrims offered devotions to the Lord in a cacophony of tongues. Candles glowed, giving the hollows and shadows of the interior an almost festive feel. Kisses were given to the many, many relics and indulgences collected (I’ve more than my fair share).
Finally, we came to Jesus’s tomb. Much to my disappointment, it was empty. Jankin said what did I expect, considering our Lord had long ago ascended into heaven above. I can honestly say I’m not sure, but more than a scraped-out rocky hollow reeking of incense, even if it did have a godly aura about it. This was swiftly ruined by us all being led to different corners and given a meal.
Before we left, I found a sharp rock and, like others before me, inscribed my name on the outside of Jesus’s tomb. For posterity, you understand.
We returned to the church of the Holy Sepulchre on two more occasions and, along with Shalom, went to Bethlehem and saw the site of the Nativity. The manger was made of pale marble, which, as I noted to Jankin, was unlikely considering Jesus was born to poor Mary and Joseph in a stable. What bloody stable has a manger made of white marble? We also went to the Jordan River, where I dipped myself in the sacred waters. Alyson, Drew, and Jankin preferred to fill our bottles with the stuff instead.
All up, I entered Jerusalem three times, Geoffrey. Three times. The same number as the Holy Trinity. The same as the number of days Jesus waited before arising. If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.
So now, as I write to you, I’m spending my final evening in this loud, reeking, holy city—a city that, when you consider all the wars and the blood shed in order to claim it, simmers with rage.
However, Geoffrey, I no longer do. This pilgrimage has allowed me (as you thought it might) time to reflect upon my actions. Not only my haste in marrying after claiming I wouldn’t, but my terrible dark drive to force my husband to capitulate and be true to me. Above all, I’ve learned that only once one is true to God can one be true to oneself. It’s in Simon’s nature to roam, to seek out other women. So be it. What’s become apparent is that it’s in my nature to care about what he does. When I return, I’ll lead my life in a godly way, taking care of those who rely upon me, working to better myself with Jankin by my side, reading and writing and expanding my knowledge. I will work to build the business. I will also work to build my relationship with my husband on terms that make us both content. Not that this will stop me praying to God for his death, because, for certes, that would gratify me. Jankin and Alyson both tell me asking such a thing of our Lord isn’t appropriate. There was a time I might have agreed, but frankly, after Jankin translated what some of these aliens were praying for, and in the holiest of churches, I think requesting your swiving pig of a husband be sent to hell to make the earth a better place is more than suitable. Praise be to God.
Thank you for your advice, Geoffrey. I’m forever grateful I heeded it and that the distance I needed to put between me and my husband will be my salvation.
I hope that God has blessed you and kept you in my absence. We’ve heard rumors that John Wycliffe is very ill, news that made Alyson quite distressed. I offered a prayer for his soul. I figure with so many different faiths here in the one city, God has room for Lollards too.
May peace find you, Geoffrey.
Written on the Feast of the Eleven Thousand Virgins (the irony is not lost on me).
Yours, Eleanor.