A letter to Master Geoffrey Chaucer from Mistress Eleanor Gerrish, widow
I send my greetings from Rome, Geoffrey, and God’s and all the saints’ blessings, and mine.
When I first trudged down the Godforsaken hill and into this damned city, I was cursing you from here to Bath and back again. Forget my aches and endless pains, forget my swollen feet. I thought at least when we got to Rome, we could repair our physical selves as well as our souls. That’s what I kept telling Alyson and our fellow travellers, who, let me tell you, make my whining sound like a chorus of angels.
How can one repair oneself when all about, everything is broken? There’s not a building standing that doesn’t have blocks of stone or rubble strewn about like some giant’s game of dice, nor a street where the cobbles haven’t lifted. Street is a generous word. Not only are they narrow and higgledy-piggledy (with few exceptions, the ancient Romans knew what they were doing, but they’re long gone), but when you eventually get to the church, monument, shrine, or whatever other marvel we’re being asked to ogle (and leave coin at), stumbling into these large open spaces they call piazzas, it’s as if we’ve come upon a farmyard, what with all the goats, chickens, and pigs roaming about.
Ancient wonder? The place is in bloody ruins. Wolves come out at night and vermin rummage everywhere. Speaking of vermin, on almost every corner there’s a Roman shouting at us to buy their wares. Or they’re trying to drag you into this shop, to that stall, or some place that passes for an inn. I thought Alyson and I were going to be kidnapped and sold in some exotic flesh market (not that I’d mind too much if some of the gentlemen I’ve seen around here bought me—they might be loud, these Romans, and not very tall, but my God, Geoffrey, they’re big where it counts, if you know what I mean).
Every time I turn around it’s to find some Roman pissing in a corner or in the middle of the street, up against one of the bleeding arches or columns that pop up out of nowhere. Or it’s a wretched beggar having a shit just where you’re about to step. Horse’s droppings, goats, pigs, sheep, turkeys, geese, human—you name it—it’s everywhere.
Then there’s the robbers—worse than those we encountered getting here, I tell you! They’ll cut your scrip clean off your body if you’re not vigilant, steal your purse, never mind the bread from your mouth. Worse, they’ll sell you what they swear on Mother Mary’s tits is a genuine relic for a vast sum only for you to discover that what you thought was a bit of Jesus’s five loaves is really dried horse dung. That’s what happened to the silly manciple who’s part of our group. Mayhap, you know him? Says he knows you. Bit into the stuff, didn’t he, hoping for a miracle. He got one alright—a mouth full of shit. Alyson couldn’t stop laughing, since she knows what that’s like (I’ll tell you that story another time).
Just when you think you can bear it no longer, your guide leads you up another bloody hill, along a never-ending path, and orders you to look. And what happens? The heavens part, sunlight beams down, and glorious soft light, like God’s breath, illuminates everything. All those bits of rock and broken stone suddenly take on the wisdom of the ages, the stories of all those who have lived, breathed, loved, wept, fought, and walked these winding, squeezy streets and straight wide roads, pour into your head. The river, usually a thick green sludge, is transformed into a vein of beauty that carves a path through the city and gives it succor. The trees, which are the most peculiar shapes, become majestic sentinels on the crests of the hills. The church spires rise to the heavens, God’s spears in salute. From this magisterial vantage point, our guide points out all the places he’s taken us. Finally, he turns to us with shining eyes and a wide, cavernous smile, moves his arm in a great arc and says, “St. Peter’s.”
We all gasp as our eyes alight on the glory of Rome, sacred home of the Veronica. Aye, we went there too. Peter’s tomb lies there also. They even let you poke your head through a small opening and speak to the saint himself, which I did. How he heard me above the wailing, hair-tearing, and weeping of the other pilgrims, I’m uncertain, though I did give my lungs a good working. Some of the pilgrims put on a show with their hysterics and devotions. I was forced to slap one woman who wouldn’t stop howling and tossing her head around. She ceased immediately and, as I was receiving the gratitude of others who were equally annoyed by her performance, she punched me in the head. God’s truth, Geoffrey. I had to pull Alyson off her, as my Godsib pummeled her furiously. Made me laugh to see Alyson so outraged—and in one of the holiest of places. We were forced to leave after that, but not before Alyson pulled a great hank of the woman’s hair from her head. “Cheaper than buying one of them bloody relics,” she said, twining it into a switch. We’re telling folk it’s Mary Magdalene’s tresses—for certes, the woman fought like a whore.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned (apart from not to share a bed with a nun—my God, her farts would put a soldier’s to shame), it’s that traveling afar brings you closer to home—not in the physical sense, which would make it both an irony and a terrible waste, but in the spiritual one. God may not have spoken to me quite as oft as I wished, but home has called to me almost every night of late and I miss it. I miss England. What I won’t miss is the English folk I’ve traveled with. That’s another thing I’ve learned—some of those who travel do so because they’re not tolerated at home. Dear God, it would be easy for others to believe we’re nothing more than a nation of moaners and tight-fisted ass-wisps.
Was it worth spending months on Via Francigena to get here? You might recall, we came via Boulogne, and saw Notre-Dame de la Mer, which was where King Edward II married Isabella of France, but I suppose you know that. Was it worth the badge, an image of the Virgin Mother and Child in a sickle of a boat? Worth the blisters, the swollen feet, the bedbugs, the snoring of the old women (and men) Alyson and I had to share beds with, their constant praying, tears, their judgey faces and words, the endless complaining of the two friars and their great clanking beads? Was it worth the dreadful food, the sickness in my belly, and the subsequent squits? Was it worth the terrible drenching we received outside Langres? The freezing cold of Gran san Bernardo—even if the monks were good hosts? Was it worth the flies, the hot sun burning the back of our hands as we rode from Lucca to Siena (now that’s a city), the holes in my soles, thirst, the gnawing hunger when we couldn’t find a hostel to take us? Was it worth traveling with thirteen strangers (Alyson not included) to reach the Eternal City?
You’ll be pleased to know, Geoffrey, I have to say, once I stood on that hill on that cold day in November, and was able to drink in all that I’d seen and done in one fell swoop, I decided it was.
From where I stood, I could see not just the city, but beyond it to the glory of Christ and all His saints and apostles and all the blessed martyrs, and sing His praises and theirs. Mind you, all I really have to do to remember them is touch the souvenirs I bought—my cloak and hat (and Alyson’s too), now carry not just ampulla from Canterbury, but my badge with a key and sword and my small patch of cloth, my vernicle, which I’ve pinned to my cloak. And let’s not forget the whore’s hair. I tell you, Geoffrey, I spent a great deal on these holy trinkets, which prove where I’ve been. I’d rather part with pennies for these than the plenaries every dirty monk and his one-eared dog try to sell.
The scribe is growing weary and tells me he has run out of quills. I will draw to a close, my friend. Know that I’ve prayed for you at every blessed shrine and church. At St. Peter’s and St. Mary’s, I left a tiny wax image of a child in the hope that if not the Holy Mother or St. Peter, then the Almighty might see fit to grant me my greatest wish. Though, if I grant Mervyn Slynge his and marry him, then my own may have to wait.
That’s the one question for which I still have no answer, my friend. Am I foremost a wife and businesswoman? Or do I wish to be, as God and almost everyone else commands, a wife and mother? Be damned if I’ll be a crone.
I hope God in His wisdom helps me find the answer before I reach home.
Written on the Feast of the Conception of Our Lady.
Yours, Eleanor.