Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1386
In the ninth year of the reign of Richard II
There was great rejoicing when Geoffrey Chaucer arrived at Slynge House. It was an icy, snowbound St. Valentine’s Day. He came on horseback, a young squire in tow upon a mule, laden with luggage. Forgetting all propriety, I ran from the house and flung my arms around him. I hadn’t known I’d be so overcome. My heart swelled, and tears banked as I held him in a tight embrace, showering kisses upon his cold, bristly cheeks. As if nothing had caused a chasm in our friendship, he apologized for not coming sooner.
Delighted by my evident affection, he placed an arm around my waist. It was all I could do not to wince as together, Alyson bobbing by his side, having also given him a loving welcome, we entered the house. Jankin was at the Abbey visiting Father Alistair. They shared drafts of works in progress and, I was convinced, encouraged each other to uncover more and more female vices. As you can imagine, I didn’t hold Father Alistair in very high esteem.
Geoffrey, however, was another matter and, as we walked through the house, servants and workers who’d known the man almost as long as I had offered greetings.
When we finally made it to the solar, Geoffrey was all smiles. Standing before the hearth, holding his hands out to the flames, he shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“Ah, Eleanor, how wonderful it is to see so many familiar faces. You’ve always been one to ensure your workers are looked after—not just in coin, but in the ways that count.”
I nodded at Milda, who was holding up a jug with a question on her face. Time to celebrate.
As she offered around brimming goblets, I took the opportunity to study Geoffrey. The time we’d been apart had not been kind. Pouches hung heavily under his eyes and the lines between his brows had deepened. What remained of his hair was as much white as the burned umber I remembered. Still, his eyes twinkled merrily and I’d no doubt he didn’t miss a thing, including the fading marks and scars upon my own, older face.
If I wondered what he saw when he looked at me, I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“You’re fading away, Eleanor. Is that the price you pay for wedding a younger man? You struggle to keep apace?”
“Not in the bedroom,” I grinned, hoping to embarrass him. But this was Geoffrey I was talking to, the poet who made amore his subject.
Geoffrey laughed heartily, while Alyson rolled her eyes. “I note,” he continued, “that age hasn’t been kind to either of us, my dear. You look . . . troubled, as if whimsy is your master.”
I flashed a warning look at Alyson. “Not whimsy—” How could I explain that Mars and Venus fought for mastery in this house? Sadly, what I was slowly learning was where Mars rises, Venus doesn’t just fall, she leaves. I may have loved bedding my husband, but I was no longer persuaded I loved him. “No more than usual, Geoffrey. Winter is a season of woes. Like the grand old trees and fragrant flowers, I burst into bloom come spring.”
“But not as you once did.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” I chuckled and raised my goblet. Were my problems really so evident? In preparation for Geoffrey’s arrival, I’d donned my scarlet, a deep crimson kirtle with emerald tunic and hose. Milda and Oriel had helped style my hair, and my veil was of the finest fabric. Alyson looked splendid as well in blue scarlet and a gold tunic. In contrast, Geoffrey’s breeches and paltock bore signs of the road—muddy clothes that had been damp and dried, the hair peeking beneath his cap stringy and in need of a comb. Not that I cared about any of that. My friend was here. With me.
It was as if nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
We sat by the hearth in the solar, the light coming through the window behind me dim as snow sighed against the thick glass. Milda propped herself in a corner, ready to serve if needed, but also keen for Geoffrey’s news, which we didn’t have to wait long to hear.
He regaled us with stories of his life in London, which, ever since the revolt of a few years earlier and the Good Parliament, had settled into a mixture of feasts, celebrations, plays, and pageantry, all of it, he said, serving to disguise (but not hide) the dirt, death, deceit, and barbarism of some or the discontent at the King’s profligate ways. In this regard I had the distinct feeling he didn’t just mean the commons.
He went on, moaning about the Wool Customs and the undue pressures being brought to bear upon him by leading London merchants such as Nicholas Brembe and John Northampton, both of whom had been known to Mervyn and to Simon.
“I should let you know, dear Eleanor, that I finally took your wise advice.”
Lost in thoughts about these powerful men with whom my Poet dealt daily, I took a moment to respond. “My advice?” Wise. Dear Lord but I wished my husband was around to hear him.
“You might recall, some years back, you said that instead of writing about knights and damsels and folk from myth all the time, I should write about real people.”
I sat up, interested and flattered. Alyson gave me a look of approval.
“When I wrote Troilus and Criseyde—I’ve a copy here somewhere for you—” he patted his satchel, “I set it in the famed city of Troy, which was also a thinly disguised London. Too thinly, I fear. It made me think. You were right and it was time to leave the mythic past behind and explore the types who swirl about me, for I have to tell you, living in Aldgate, so close to the Tower, and being at the Customs House, I see my fair share of the commons. The kind of people who, as you said, are often overlooked when it comes to stories. I intend to change that.”
“Stories? There’ll be more than one?”
He nodded.
“Have you started?”
“I have. I’m using the idea of a pilgrimage to tie the tales together.”
I slapped my thigh in delight. “I’ve been on many of those!”
“Aye, and your letters have been most entertaining. Inspirational too. ’Twas you who gave me that idea as well. As you’ve so often noted, a pilgrimage brings together all manner of people in a shared adventure.”
“Where are your pilgrims venturing?”
“I’m thinking Canterbury. Why the face?” asked Geoffrey.
“It’s so . . . so . . . ordinary. There are far more interesting places you could have them go—Santiago, Rome, Normandy.”
“Aye, there is. But sending them there defeats the point.”
“Which is?”
“I want my pilgrims to venture somewhere those who read my poem might also have been, or one day visit themselves. I want it to be an English story.”
“But isn’t going on a pilgrimage an English thing to do?”
“Not entirely.”
I thought of those I’d encountered on my travels. He was right. “And who are these pilgrims you’re sending to Canterbury?”
“Ah.” Geoffrey took a long drink. Quick as a starling, Milda was up and replenishing his goblet. “Thus far, I have a knight—”
I pulled a face.
“And his squire. There’s a prioress, a nun, manciple, cook, miller, and . . . I cannot recall. All I know is that there’ll be a large party who, on their way to Canterbury must relate one tale and, on the return journey, another. The best will be voted upon by their host, another ordinary chap who happens to be a Southwark innkeep I know.”
“What about a wife?” asked Alyson. “You need a wife.”
I gave her a gratified smile. “I’m not sure how many women are upon this imaginative journey apart from those who call themselves Christ’s brides. But on every pilgrimage we’ve undertaken, there’s been at least one wife.” I thumped my breast. “Me. If you want to be authentic, speak to the everyman, then you need an everywoman.”
“Funny you should say that,” said Geoffrey. The twinkle was back in his eye. “That’s what my friend John Brynchele says as well.”
I smiled. “I’ll look forward to hearing this tale one day. Or should I say tales?”
“You should.”
“Well, here’s to your pilgrim poem, may it amuse and bemuse.” I clinked my goblet against his and drank.
After that, we spoke of the young King and his wife, how John of Gaunt was putting together an army to go to Spain and claim the throne of Castile. We discussed the price of wool, the weather, what we’d deny ourselves come Lent and so many other things besides. Below us, the rhythmic noise of the looms continued unabated. Horsemen rode past outside, slow in the growing drifts of snow. Voices penetrated the walls, as did a loud whistle and the ever-tolling bells. Someone must have died, I thought, as they made the house quiver.
We broke briefly for a meal before I took Geoffrey on a tour of the workshop. We paused to speak to the workers and he admired their craft and asked so many questions, I wondered if he intended to include a weaver in his story. I hoped so. We even braved the cold so Alyson might show him where she lived, pausing to enjoy a mulled wine.
The bells for none rang. The day was growing darker when we returned to the warmth of the solar. I was so enjoying having Geoffrey about. We sat in companionable silence, drowsy after our efforts and our many, many cups of ale and wine.
When Jankin entered a short time later, I was startled. I’d quite forgotten my husband, lost as I was in reminiscing and the joys of reuniting with my oldest friend. He barreled in the door, his cap sodden, his boots too. Oriel had managed to take his cloak or I’m sure he would have still had that on.
“Master Geoffrey!” he declared and strode to the chair, hoisting Geoffrey to his feet and clasping his hand in greeting. “May God give you good day, sir. You’re a treat for sore eyes and heart.”
“Sore heart?” said Geoffrey, returning the welcome, taken aback by Jankin’s boisterousness (for certes he was like a puppy bounding into a pack of elderly hounds) but smiling all the same. “Must be because it’s so full of love for your lady wife.”
Jankin appeared to notice me for the first time. “Quite,” he said unconvincingly. Oh dear, we had a guest, someone he’d always been keen to host, and he wasn’t even trying.
Discommoded for a moment, Jankin threw his arm around Geoffrey. “Come, sir, let’s leave these old gossips to themselves and retire to my study. I’m working on something I’m very keen to share with you—”
“Jankin, dear—” I began, half-rising out of my chair. “Geoffrey has had a long ride and a busy day, mayhap it would be better if—”
“I said—” Jankin’s eyes flashed. I knew the signs, the warning. I quickly sat back down. Geoffrey’s brows knitted. “I’ve work I wish to share and I know Geoffrey will want to see it.” Jankin bestowed a brilliant smile upon my friend. “Is it too much to ask that you attend me, sir?”
Geoffrey looked from Jankin to me. I fixed a smile and gave the barest of nods. Then, he looked to Alyson, whose face was not yet guarded. “Nay, sir,” he said with great jollity. “’Tis not. Lead on, please. May God give you good evening, ladies.” He leaned over and brushed his lips against my cheek. “We’ll talk anon,” he whispered.
We waited until the door shut and their footsteps retreated as Jankin gave orders for Oriel to bring wine. Another door opened then clicked closed.
“What do you suppose Geoffrey will think of Jankin’s Woes?” asked Alyson, reaching for her distaff. That’s what we’d taken to calling his work. It went some way to softening the impact it was having on our lives.
“Knowing Geoffrey,” I said, nursing my wine, “he’ll either love it or use it for fodder in one of his poems. It’s what Jankin’s work deserves.”
Alyson bit her lip. “Aye. One man in the house preaching women’s sins is enough of a cross for us to bear, don’t you think, sister?”
“Amen to that,” I said.