A letter to Master Geoffrey Chaucer from Alyson Bookbinder, feme sole
I send my greetings from London, Geoffrey, and God’s and all the saints’ blessings, and mine, and that of my grateful household.
While I know the brief journey to St. Martin’s Le Grand hardly counts as a pilgrimage, being as it’s in London, it’s the best I can do for now. This sanctuary within a city renowned for its sinners and churches—a mighty contradiction if ever there was one—has proved to be a blessing indeed. When you first suggested I move here, while we were still camped in All Hallows, telling me it was not only exempt from the usual laws governing London but offered a haven for felons and those with a reason to hide, I wondered why you were telling me this. What reason could I have for not rebuilding Honey Lane? Why would I want to live like an exile in the city I wished to call home? (Apart from the obvious, but we’ll remain mute about that.) I was a victim of thuggery and criminals, not a perpetrator. I didn’t set fire to my own house or destroy my own property.
Unlike you, what I hadn’t counted on was the resentment and anger directed toward us by the parish. Whereas once I could have reckoned many of the residents of Honey Lane, and within the church, as friends, less than a month after the fire we’d become pariahs, as likely to be abused and shunned as greeted. Oh, Geoffrey, it was difficult to hold my tongue and not let forth. You’d be proud of me. Only once did I call Widow Carter a leper’s get with nugs not even Satan’s brood would suckle. And while I may have punched Master Godfrey, the cordwainer, in the jaw for putting his hand up Leda’s skirt, the next time he did it, I restrained myself so well, I only twisted his balls. The cry he issued did, however, cause Anthony Dun’s mule to kick Sergeant Fenkirk in the chin, dislodging two teeth. It was hardly my fault the man had squatted behind the beast to have a shit. If he hadn’t been so lazy and had bothered to stick his ass over the Fleet, well, none of it would have happened.
But I digress . . .
When Father William showed me the petition to have us evicted from his church, accusing me of inviting danger, disturbing the peace, and bringing the parish into disrepute by procuring, I was speechless. When folk threatened to bring the authorities down upon us, I was left with little choice but to follow your advice.
And so here we are, relocated to St. Martin’s Le Grand, this town within a city. Even though I’ve lived in London a while, I’d no idea this place existed. Yet, here it is, abutting Grayfriars to the west, Aldersgate to the north, and Faster’s Lane and a great many cordwainers’ properties to the east. We entered from the south, the stink and noise of the Shambles escorting us the entire way.
As you’d be well aware, cousin, within the walls are not only many people, but churches, canons’ houses, a college, and all the other places and spaces one would expect in a religious precinct, including a nunnery. There’s a huge courtyard as you enter, filled with stalls, shops, a couple of rowdy taverns, and two- and three-storey houses with tenants from all walks of life. This astonished me the most, for living here, side by side with the clergy, are so many cutpurses, thieves, brigands, and felons, all escaping the law within St. Martin’s dun-colored walls, I doubted Newgate (which isn’t far away) held more. There are also bawds, though most of them seemed to be without pimps and looked a darn sight happier for having shed that costly burden.
Before the Dean, your friend, and the Commissary—a lugubrious man with the largest chin I’ve ever seen—and a ruddy-faced scribe, I explained the reason I was seeking sanctuary (I had to swear it wasn’t due to treason—not even St. Martin’s can save a soul from that), and promise that my household would uphold the rules governing this place. It was explained the gates shut at compline and opened at matins. The Dean said something about ensuring anything brought into St. Martin’s belonged to us lawfully. Then there were numerous regulations about not committing crimes within the precinct or bringing in stolen goods. By now I wasn’t really listening. I was looking around the room and thinking that from the amount of gold and silver—whether it was candlesticks, plate, goblets, and even a small hammer and block, not to mention the huge fire that was such a welcome respite from the freezing weather—the priests here did very well from the crooks they housed. No wonder they all looked well fed.
I also had to divest myself of weapons. When I explained I needed my tongue and wouldn’t be handing it over, no one laughed. Well, they were warned.
After that, I signed my name (I could see they were impressed I knew how to wield a quill and make more than a mark). Then I was assigned a house. Now, here is where I’m sure I owe you extra thanks. Not only did you smooth my passage into this place, but the lodgings we were given, and for such a reasonable sum, are more than adequate.
A novice named Malcolm ushered us back into the large square, which, despite the snow falling thickly, was filled with vendors. People milled about and molten sparks danced from burning braziers. There were children playing, animals squawking, bleating, and honking.
Leda confessed she thought the place “bloody marvelous” and I think that sums up the general feeling quite well.
The novice led us across the square toward a row of rather ramshackle two-story houses. Dark-eyed women sat on the stoop of one, peeling vegetables and throwing the scraps into a bucket. A couple of men were playing a game of dice on another and stopped to watch us pass. There was no hostility, which we were expecting, just curiosity and appraisal. A barrel filled with water sat outside one house, a lone glove languished at the bottom of a step. Someone called a name and a large black dog ran past, its tail wagging.
Malcolm stopped outside the seventh house. Our new home.
It’s small, Geoffrey, and there were holes in the thatch and slats missing on a couple of the shutters. Nevertheless, the area outside had been swept clean and was in reasonably good condition—at least until a few houses along, where it deteriorated into a cesspit. The house tilted against its neighbor like a drunken friend. I found this reassuring.
By the time the sun was setting that first day, casting filaments of pale rose and violet clouds about a golden sky, I sat with everyone in an upstairs room, entertaining our first visitors. The curious neighbors had invited themselves over. They weren’t empty-handed either, bringing food and ale to share. As you can imagine, they were most welcome.
Chatter washed over me and I enjoyed the way the light entered, highlighting the worn wooden mantel over the hearth and making the whitewashed walls glow, soot-stained as they were, with their rusty sconces and melting candles.
I couldn’t relish it too long, Geoffrey. In the faces around me, in Milda’s and Lowdy’s especially, the reason for this change of abode was all too apparent. Arnold dead and buried and Drew still with Father William until he’s well enough to join us. Not even the angry parish could persuade the priest to release him, bless.
As for the hounds . . . my beautiful dogs, I don’t want to think about them. It hurts more than I can bear.
I’m not writing to pour out my sorrow, though I confess it does help and beg you’ll forgive my indulgence, but to let you know that, despite what’s happened, the upheaval, despair, and grief, and the ongoing worry about coin, it hasn’t taken us long to settle. The house was partly furnished when we took it over, with a long, narrow table in the kitchen, a few stools, as well as some pallet beds and pillows. At the novice Malcolm’s insistence, and with a note to give to the proprietor, Conal, Lowdy, and Yolande went to a secondhand dealer in the square to borrow blankets and other necessaries. They were given more than they asked for and I was touched by the generosity, though I suspect there will come a time we’ll be asked to repay.
We’ve managed to purchase some wool, so most of our days are spent spinning, and we sell what we’ve made in the markets at St. Martin’s, or barter it for food and ale. In the evenings we tell each other stories and I find yours are much in demand. I know I don’t do them justice, but when I share your wonderful tales, I feel you close to me.
The favorite one at the moment is the two knights who loved the same woman and fought to the death for her. It’s such a sad, beguiling story of the fragility of life, how the cost of victory often far outweighs the spoils. And yet, every time I tell it, I’m struck by the fact these men sacrificed their mutual love, their friendship, to win a woman. Surely true love isn’t a competition, a sport in which one emerges the victor and the other the loser? It’s a shared intimacy that grows over time. Passion comes in all forms. The love I bear my Godsib is an example. So is the love I bear my household. And the love I bear for you.
You asked about my plans for the future. Spinning is a way forward but it’s a mighty slow one. Eventually, I hope, we’ll make enough coin to contract the services of a carpenter to either restore or build a loom. If we can do that, then, mayhap, I can weave again, Milda too. Sadly, Pieter has left us. Who can blame him? He has a young family and cannot wait for our fortunes to recover. I can scarce wait myself. It will be much easier to operate as a weaver from within these walls, where those deemed felons by the authorities, whatever the reason, are at liberty to at least try and make a life for themselves.
You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve also taken your advice not to correct folk when they assume I’m a widow. At least that way I won’t be continually asked for my husband’s or employer’s approval when striking deals. Thus far, it’s worked.
So, Geoffrey, this is how things stand. We’re poor, and hungry most of the time. Drew is healing, Wace is growing, Lowdy too—I’m teaching her to read and write, and when Wace is old enough, I’ll give him lessons. We spin, talk, eat, laugh, sometimes weep, and shiver in our damp little house. But we’re safe.
What I’ve come to realize in the short few months we’ve been here is that if thieves, counterfeiters, forgers, strumpets, pimps, and so many other men and women (and too many children) have fallen so far they’re left with no choice but to flee city justice and make a new life here—from all accounts, a good one—then what’s stopping me?
May peace be with you.
Written on the Feast of St. Patrick.
Yours, Alyson.