Bath, Kent, and London
The Year of Our Lord 1381
In the fourth and fifth years of the reign of Richard II
There’s not much to tell about my marriage to Simon de la Pole, not for the first years. It was exactly as Geoffrey and Alyson, and anyone else who possessed the courage to try and warn me had predicted: I worked and increased our wealth, while my husband not only strayed continuously, but kept a paramour.
What everyone implied, but I’d been too caught up in the fairytale of romance to see, was that he’d had a woman for years, long before he met me. A whore in a brothel in the center of town. She had a hold over him that nothing, not two marriages and numerous other affairs, could break. She went by the name Viola, though I was told her real name was Agatha Brown. Dressed like a lady (a wardrobe my coin contributed to after my marriage to Simon), she was a harlot, albeit a clever one. A lord’s by-blow was the story, who, years earlier, had come to Bath after following the King’s army and even, it was whispered, abandoning a baby.
Winsome, with long, dark curls, she was a beauty. Creamy flesh, long, delicate fingers, and a mouth even I wanted to kiss. I was eaten up with jealousy. I would sometimes hover outside the whorehouse just to catch a glimpse of her. Many times, I spotted her with my husband. It was a dirk driven into my heart, painful and enraging. This didn’t stop me seeking them out. I was a glutton; I couldn’t get enough. Each time, Alyson would grip me by the elbow and steer me back home, into the workshop, and sit me at a loom with a goblet of wine. Only weaving calmed me. Weaving and the solace of stories.
The one thing wealth, even modest wealth, allows you is books. With the help of Father Elias and Geoffrey, as well as the books Mervyn had left, I now had a small library of fifteen tomes. If it hadn’t been for the tales of Ovid (which Father Elias read to me), the epics of Homer, Virgil, and the ancients, I don’t know how I would have got through those early months as I reeled in shock from having my eyes opened to my husband’s ways.
Of course I confronted him. He simply laughed.
“I never tried to hide Viola, you fool,” he said, and wrapped his arms around me. “Whatever made you think I’d be satisfied with just one woman?”
“You married me.”
Simon kissed the top of my head, then placed a long finger against my lips. “Aye. And that should be more than enough . . . for you.”
That night, he made love to me the way I’d prayed he would on my wedding night. Instead of relishing it, all I could do as he kissed my breasts, ran his hands up and down my body, parted my legs, was wonder if he was thinking of her. When that wasn’t distracting me, I was wishing I was her and that my russet-colored hair was dark, my teeth not quite so large and gapped, and that my freckles would vanish.
Never one to doubt myself (too much), as the months went past and spring arrived sending forth tiny, perfumed blooms and sweet gambolling lambs, I began to drink to forget. Night after night, I downed ales and wine, settling in the solar, trying not to think about who my wayward husband was swiving or where he went until well past curfew. The servants learned not to bother me; Oriel and Milda too. Only Alyson stayed by my side, dismissing the others and keeping me and my misery company. Everyone knew what my husband was and where he went on those long nights. The pitying looks at church were more than I could bear, so for a while I stopped attending, preferring to pay a fine.
Worried for my welfare, likely encouraged by Alyson, Father Elias visited, popping over most evenings and even some mornings, forcing me to rise from my stupor and my megrims to entertain him. Soon the loom ceased to provide any sort of comfort, and even reading or being read to held no joy. I began to replace the people in the tales with Simon and the sluts he bedded.
At the beginning of June, Geoffrey arrived. The news he brought was enough to rouse me from self-pity for a time. While I wallowed and my husband jabbed his fleshy spear in countless women, not only had Geoffrey been blessed with another son, Lewis, but around the country, rebellion was fomenting.
We sat in the solar, the full light from an overcast day streaming in the window. Milda and Oriel had brought ale and vittles. I merely picked. For certes, my kirtle and tunics were starting to hang. We ate and exchanged pleasantries—well, Alyson and Geoffrey did—as I wondered whether, if I continued to starve myself, I would resemble the slender Viola more . . .
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard—” Geoffrey was saying.
“Heard what?” I asked, absently.
“That men from Bath Abbey lands have joined the rebels.”
“Joined who?” I couldn’t imagine Simon wanting any male company in the boudoir.
“I told you about this,” said Alyson. “See, Geoffrey, you can’t get through to her anymore. She’s dwelling on another plane. That man will be the death of her.”
Moving his seat closer, Geoffrey gathered my hands in his. “Listen carefully, Eleanor, lest what is happening beyond your walls starts to impact upon you.”
I made the effort to sit up and focus. “I’m listening.”
“The commons are rising against parliament. Against the poll tax and other duties. It’s more than they can tolerate. In Fobbing, there was an attempt to kill a steward when he tried to collect his lord’s dues. He escaped, but three of his clerks were beheaded. The men rioted, carting the heads about to impede anyone who tried to stop them.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “The commons are rebelling? But . . . they’ll be arrested and put to death.”
“It’s no deterrent,” said Geoffrey. “The numbers joining the cause are growing. There’ve been riots in Kent, Gravesend, Maidstone, and around London. In the north of the country too. Men have picked up their tools and joined the rebellion—including men from here: the Abbey, lands owned by the Gerrish family—”
I gasped.
“And many more besides. They’re refusing to pay any more taxes.”
“You can’t blame them for that,” I said. The heavy taxes had long been an unfair burden, and not only on the poor. “The demands made by our lords, the King, have always been too much.”
“And with the wars in France and Scotland, they’re set to increase as his Grace looks to fund more battles.” Geoffrey dragged his fingers through his hair.
I shook my head. “King Richard is only a boy—it’s not him seeking war, but his advisors.”
“That’s true—especially Simon Sudbury, who is now both Archbishop of Canterbury and Chancellor. He sees this as his opportunity to make his mark.”
I looked through the open window and, for the first time in weeks, actually saw what was out there. The streets were bustling with activity. There were carts laden with fruit, vegetables, and fish; men and women shouted to draw customers; mules and horses meandered in an orderly fashion down the middle of the street, and close behind them strolled elegantly dressed women, who paused to examine the vendors’ produce. Shop fronts were open and inviting, their smiling owners beckoning people inside. Two milkmaids balanced yokes on their slender necks, stopping to fill a jug here, a beaker there. Urchins dashed between hooves and skirts, whether to pick pockets or beg coin, or even chase a stray dog for sport, I could not tell. A group of nuns scurried through the crowd, heads bowed, hands hidden in voluminous sleeves. A lone monk, his hood flung back to enjoy the weak sun, laughed uproariously with the owner of The Corbie’s Feet, who was standing on his stoop. Funny that all this went on outside while I not only sat indoors, but inside my own head, brooding. Papa would be ashamed. But no more than I was myself. I’d let life go on while I stopped.
No man was worth this . . . Not even a husband.
I sat up properly.
“What do you think will happen, Geoffrey? With the rebels. Are we in danger?”
Geoffrey sighed. “Have you lost any workers yet?”
Much to my embarrassment, I didn’t know. Me, who’d always prided myself on caring about my workers’ well-being.
Alyson leveled a look of such compassion, it made me feel worse. “Young Damyan didn’t show for work yesterday or today. I heard his father didn’t go to the mill either. Other than that,” she shrugged, “everyone else is accounted for.”
Geoffrey grunted. “Confirms what I suspected. You’ve not only been generous to your servants, workers, and tenants, Eleanor, but in their minds, you’re one of them.”
I raised a brow.
“Common.”
Aye, well, I was.
“Common-born doesn’t mean common of mind or heart.” I thought of Jankin and Alyson. Milda, Arnold, Drew, Wy, Oriel, and Sweteman too.
Geoffrey nodded. “John Ball, a priest from Essex, would agree. He’s part of the rebellion and has everyone chanting lines from that song you hear in every inn and alehouse, When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?”
“There’s great truth in that,” said Alyson. “God didn’t differentiate when he made us. Adam was born of the earth, and Eve of his body. He didn’t bestow titles or riches upon them and deny those who followed. That’s something we did. Something the church enforces as well.”
“Hush, Alyson,” I said. “Enough of your Lollardy, even if I happen to agree.” I turned back to Geoffrey. “What do you think is the purpose of this uprising? Apart from abolishing taxes? It’s unprecedented.”
“In England, aye. But it’s no accident it’s started when the King’s armies are fighting on different fronts, when London and his Grace are without defenses.”
“You think the commons will overthrow the King?” My heart began to pound.
“The rebels keep saying they’re for King Richard.”
“But don’t they understand that the King represents the nobles and his court too?”
Geoffrey didn’t answer at first. “The rebel leader, an archer who fought in the French War, I believe, has the commons persuaded that if they can just parley with the King, he’ll come around to their way of thinking.”
“Which is?”
“To abolish villeins, reduce taxes; allow men to rent land, to work it of their own free will, not in boon to a lord. To treat all men as equal.”
“But,” I stared at Geoffrey in disbelief, “that’s impossible. We’re not all equal. As Alyson said, we haven’t been since we were expelled from Paradise.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t be again,” said Alyson hotly. “At least by giving men free will—to work, to pray—they have a kind of equality; the equality of choice.”
“You’re sounding like one of these rebels yourself, Alyson,” said Geoffrey, not unkindly.
The fight left her. “Nay, I’m no rebel, but as a woman, I can sympathize with them.”
So could I. “We’ve no choice except those men give us.” Choice should be a right, not a privilege one was born to or granted because one was in possession of a prick. “What do you suggest we do, Geoffrey? What are you going to do? Are we safe here in town?”
“I think you should continue as you have, just be aware, be cautious. As for me, I’m going to return to London and pray that through some miracle this ends well. Only, I fear . . .” He stopped.
“What do you fear?”
“I fear it’s only just begun and won’t finish until blood is shed.”
* * *
Over the next few weeks, as more and more workers and servants left the outlying farms and Abbey lands, slipping away in the early morning, London-bound, news of the rebellion and the numbers involved grew. It was all anyone was talking about—some nervously, some with an unbecoming boldness that saw them being rude to the monks, to Lord and Lady Frondwyn, the wealthier merchants and shopkeepers, Father Elias and the other priests; all those they saw as their oppressors.
Even Simon ceased his nocturnal roaming, returning home still reeking of perfume and other scents, but keen to discover what we’d heard. He knew Geoffrey wrote and that Father Elias had connections that meant the news wasn’t very old by the time it reached us. I confess I enjoyed those evenings sitting in the solar, deep in discussion with my husband, Alyson, Milda, Oriel, Master Sweteman, Drew, Arnold, and Jankin, too, when he came up from Oxford.
On the ides of June, the young King sought to parley with the rebels, traveling by barge to Greenwich. Instead of landing and talking, he remained on board and returned to the Tower. From all over the countryside, men marched toward London, the greatest number pouring in from Kent. Upon reaching Southwark, they attacked a bathhouse run by Flemish women. When the mayor of London tried to prevent the now bloodthirsty crowd crossing the bridge, the mob, joined by men from all over Southwark, defied him and ordered the bridgekeepers to let them cross or be killed. They were admitted.
In fear of his life as Comptroller of Customs, Geoffrey locked himself in his Aldgate apartment, bearing witness to the hordes marching beneath him. When it was all over and he came to see us, he described the moment these angry, tired, and desperate men—among them farmers, lesser merchants, priests, soldiers, and landowners—swarmed through the gate.
“The building shook as they marched. The noise of their fury, their shouts and chants, the smell, was like the bowels of hell had opened. They swarmed through, uncaring of any in their path, and if they met someone of Flemish or alien origins, they slaughtered them then and there.”
Once news of the attacks on aliens reached Bath, the few Flemings and Italians in town—mostly merchants there for wool and cloth—hid indoors lest they too be punished for something our King and parliament had instigated.
Then, unexpectedly, news reached us the rebellion was over. Just as swiftly as it erupted, it was finished. Wat Tyler, the leader, was dead. Only later did we learn there’d been two meetings between the King and the rebels. At the first, the King ceded to Tyler’s demands. He promised to end serfdom and for justice to prevail. While this was happening, a group of rebels broke into the Tower and murdered Archbishop Sudbury and another monk. Whether that was the reason the King revoked his word, I don’t know. Upon the second meeting, the King was accompanied by the Lord Mayor of London, William Walworth. The mayor smote Wat Tyler with a dagger, grievously wounding him, and later cut off his head and mounted it on a pole. The King, sensing the rebels were about to retaliate, rode out to meet them at Smithfield and ordered his soldiers to do them no harm. He promised them everything again; even had it written down and sealed in a document.
The rebels, believing their sovereign, went home. We heard the story from those who returned to Bath, how the fourteen-year-old King was so brave, so bold. How bloody war nearly broke out between the commons and the King’s men on English soil. The returned rebels were full of praise for our ruler, excited by what he had promised and, most of all, about the future.
For a few weeks, so was I. What did this portend for our country? For relations between the nobility, gentry, and commons? Dear God, were we about to witness the impossible?
As with anything impossible, it didn’t happen. The King’s charter of equality and the general amnesty for the rebels were revoked and, come winter, parliament announced that the rebels were to be fined. Those who weren’t granted a royal pardon, among them the leaders, were put to death.
In the quiet of our home, we’d oft discuss what happened that day at Smithfield, when a rebel leader was killed and the King prevented a war by appeasing an angry mob. Was he lying when he agreed to their terms? Was he merely biding his time before he wrought vengeance? Or was he the puppet of his advisors? Not even Geoffrey had the answers.
In the meantime, as the rebellion reached its ugly conclusion, and Geoffrey continued to be estranged from his wife and children, my marriage was making me increasingly unhappy. Taking a leaf out of King Richard’s book, I made plans of my own.
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.
So does Eleanor de la Pole.