Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1385
In the eighth and ninth years of the reign of Richard II
England was at war. Again. Tired of all the skirmishes and border raids of the Scots, the King and John of Gaunt put together a rag-tag force and marched north. Men were called upon to serve his Grace. This time, Drew, Hob, and a few others begged leave to go, taking the bows and quivers they practiced with each week, keen to test their skills in battle. Though my heart was heavy, I gave permission—what choice did I have? I prayed to God they would return unharmed. Arnold remained with Wy—we were afraid Wy would follow the army if he didn’t. War was no place for someone like him.
A part of me wished my husband would join up as well. Alas, Jankin didn’t. Instead, while Alyson and I worked the looms, supervised the making of cloth, its sale and distribution, and I negotiated with the guild and various merchants and broggers over sacks of wool, he locked himself in his study and buried his head in books.
My humble library now numbered over forty volumes. Jankin had brought papers with him from Oxford as well as a number of treatises in Greek and Latin. Inspired by Geoffrey’s poetry and translations from the continent, which were garnering praise in certain circles, Jankin had made the decision to devote himself to translating the work of the Roman poet Ovid into English. He began to go regularly to the Abbey, befriending one of the librarians there, Father Alistair Durling.
Grateful my husband was distracted and unlikely to be moping around or staring balefully in my direction as if I’d suddenly sprouted horns and cloven feet, I was also curious about what he was doing.
Curiosity had always been my undoing.
After that dreadful night when he’d lost control and beaten me and Alyson, there’d been an uneasy truce. For days after, Jankin treated us both with such consideration, it was easy to believe he was genuinely remorseful and that the vicious side of him was an aberration brought on by the shock of the coroner’s report.
Yet in the back of my mind, I kept wondering why he had disappeared for an entire day only to come home and lash out? When he said I’d caused him to sin, did he mean sin by desiring a married woman or by killing her husband? I was too afraid to ask for clarification; afraid what the answer would do to me, to all of us.
People would stop me in the street to comment on my fine husband, his manners, and the respect with which he spoke of me. I would bow and smile, and thank them prettily. Wives whom I’d once have been delighted to make envious, I avoided, lest I inadvertently revealed my sadness and confusion.
I invited the bishop, his senior monks, and just about any merchant in town to dine. Jankin would emerge from his study and become, for a few hours, the most perfect of hosts. I would watch with a mixture of pride and trepidation, but at least I wasn’t alone with him. That would be much later, when he’d come to our bedroom and slip beneath the covers. Sometimes he would seek me out, and I came to him willingly, even if my mind was filled with broken shards. Most oft, however, he would curl up with his back to me and fall into a fitful sleep, sometimes crying out. On more than one occasion, I could have sworn he yelled Simon’s name. My heart would pound and I’d lie unmoving in case he mistook me for the demons he was wrestling.
I felt it was just a matter of time before the fury erupted again. I prayed that when it did, neither Alyson nor I, nor any of the servants, were victims of it.
When Hocktide came, I encouraged Alyson to renew the lease on the house next door, this time paying for it out of my own purse. It was telling that she didn’t argue.
Jankin and I danced around each other, full of courtesies (especially when there were others present). I made every effort to please him. Once more, I grew pale, and my clothes began to hang.
My appearance must have undergone a considerable alteration because one day when I was at the market with Milda, trying to choose some leather for new shoes for Aggy and Rag, a nearby grocer mistook me for Alyson. Taken aback, I’d forgotten that once upon a time Fulk had thought we looked alike.
As I wandered home, stopping to buy some eggs from a farm maid, I asked Milda if she thought there was a resemblance.
“Oh my word, aye. I’ve always thought you two could be sisters, what with your hair being so similar, the freckles and your eyes. And, forgive me, mistress, but lately your gowns are as loose as Mistress Alyson’s have always been. Aye, it’s easy to mistake you, one for the other.”
I studied Alyson more closely than usual as she worked the loom that afternoon, taking note of the way her shoulders stooped, how the lines around her eyes creased when she smiled. Was I so old-looking? If she kept her mouth shut, concealing her missing teeth, and one ignored the slightly misshapen nose, then I suppose we did appear similar. We both had dimples, and my cheeks and eyes bore faint furrows. Her neck was ringed with lines, the flesh growing loose. I noted how her breasts sagged. Vain, I raised a hand to my head. My hair had darkened over the years, but was it threaded with as much white as my dear sister? Did my bosoms sit so low, did my neck have a wattle?
Yet, the more I gazed at her, taking into account the signs of age, the tiny mole on her jawline, the more I saw her beauty, her strength. Each and every line told a story. They were maps that charted a life. Those fingers that deftly moved the shuttle and twisted the threads were clever, experienced, and gentle when they needed to be. They could weave, dress hair, slap an errant servant, pet hounds, wring chickens’ necks, and so much more. They’d held my hand in excitement when we first saw Thomas à Becket’s shrine, and clutched me as she vomited over the deck of Captain de Mare’s ship on the way to Jerusalem. That mouth had laughed when she learned I’d bedded the lusty friar in Rome, and tightened in disapproval when I agreed to marry Simon de la Pole. It had kissed and offered words of comfort when Fulk died, and shouted abuse at me when I first arrived at Bigod Farm. Dear God, how she’d hated me. And I’d been so afeared of that fine chin and those flashing eyes that lit from within. I watched her now as she nodded at something Aggy said. When she smiled, which was less often these days, it was as if the sun had burst forth. If I was a man, I’d find her desirable (and I knew this thought was as much as a salve to my own vanity as it was an assessment of Alyson), yet she’d never, to my knowledge, lain with one. Any suitors who had come forward, and there’d been a few over the years, she’d gently rejected, preferring, as she always insisted, to share her bed with no one, and her life with me and those we’d gathered about us.
I studied them, my workers, my servants . . . nay, they were so much more. They were family. What would I do without Milda’s quiet, calming presence? The woman who would appear by my side ready to offer an ale, a cloth, soothing words, or arms to fall into. She was like the aunt I never had, organizing, caring, unfussy. Then there was craggy Aggy, with her crippled husband and two little boys. I’d known her since she was a young girl, uncertain and nervous in Gerrish’s big house, but keen to learn to weave. Dear God, what a burden she had, but she never complained, just worked hard, took her coin, remained loyal and constant. Or funny Ragnilda, Rag, slender as a reed, her fair hair and fierce intelligence hidden beneath a silence that only a fool tried to disturb. She’d been stepping out with that lovely young ostler, Hugh Strongbow. Aware of my scrutiny, she flashed a shy smile that warmed me to my very toes.
As for Oriel, she was a serious woman, but a loyal one. A good worker, able to preempt your wishes and fulfil them. Above all, she was tolerant and kind. They were the reasons Mervyn had adored her. Me as well.
The other women chatted or hummed, keeping the rhythm of their looms, their shuttles like stiff little birds flying between and beneath the threads, building our beautiful cloth strand by strand as Arnold counted the ells, and Wy and the ever-present hounds flitted between them.
How did this happen? This marvelous workshop of color and quality—of bonds tighter than the weave itself? I couldn’t take all the credit. It had been a combined effort. It had started with me, Alyson, and Fulk, but every husband, every household, had added its own ingredients—coin, wool, skills, but above all, people. Contributions that ceased with the arrival of Jankin. Unlike my other husbands, he never showed an interest in the workers, the business, or came to the workroom. His life was with books and words, not wool, weft, and weave.
It was better that way.
That night, as Jankin lay next to me quietly snoring, I wondered, as I did every other night, why he married me. A woman almost twice his age. Why did I marry him? Was it because, just as I could see the beauty and strength in Alyson’s aging body, he enjoyed mine? Was that why I kept him? Because a younger husband maintained my own sense of youth? Draining him of vitality to ensure my own?
* * *
June came and the town emptied as the shearing proceeded at a furious pace. Those who didn’t work with wool were called upon to weed the fields in preparation for the harvest next month. I’d spent the last few days out on the pastures, along with Sweteman, Arnold, and Wy, supervising the shearers and ensuring the wool sacks were tied and stored properly. We’d filled more than ever before and, despite news that the campaign in Scotland was proving to be a disaster—I prayed that Drew, Hob, and the others would return to us—I was feeling very satisfied.
Over the last few weeks I had gradually relaxed my vigilance around Jankin. I began to believe his attack those months ago was just the consequence of shock. And while I had my own views on how and why Simon died, and even notions about who killed him, I refused to admit them even to myself. After all, what did it say about me, unnatural woman that I was, that I could sleep with the man I thought might be Simon’s killer?
Come summer, I’d buried those thoughts beneath more pleasant memories. Once more, I enjoyed my young husband and the admiration being wed to him brought. If Jankin said that he would never hit me again, then I had to believe him. He’d been confused, upset. Hadn’t we all? As God is my witness, there’d been truth in his cruel words. He had coveted another man’s wife. Why? Because she’d made certain that he did. Just as the Lord had created Adam, I’d taken the clay that was Jankin and fashioned him to suit my purpose. He wasn’t responsible for his actions. That rested with me.
I had to put what happened behind us and start afresh. For all our sakes.
* * *
Midsummer arrived with a blaze of storms and cloying heat. All day long, folk had been passing through town atop carts laden with hay; the harvest was in full swing. It had been exhausting just seeing the men, women and children covered in bits of wheat, their sweaty clothes clinging to them, their arms weary from swinging a scythe or the backbreaking work of gleaning. Dear God, but I remembered how much I loathed doing that.
I was nursing my second goblet of wine. Alyson, never able to sit idle, was spinning. There was something so comforting about the steady pace, the way the thread appeared between her practiced fingers, the cloud of wool floating at the top of her distaff being transformed into something so fine and yet so hardy below. One of our cloths was draped over the back of her chair, and I couldn’t help but marvel we were responsible for such beauty.
I began to stroke my kirtle, also a product of our labors. Outside, the day was slowly going to bed, the rosy clouds pale ribbons across the sky. Though it was far from being dark, we’d lit candles, enjoying the cozy feel they bestowed upon the room. Someone below us was playing a fiddle, joined by a pipe; the tune was merry and laughter as well as a song enveloped us. Some of my weavers had asked permission for their men to join them for a drink in the workshop after harvest.
Thus it was, as I was resting on my laurels, Jankin joined us. He entered the room, gave us his blessing, then poured himself wine, the servants having been dismissed. Milda and Oriel had gone to visit the sick daughter of one of the weavers, taking some medicants and fruit for her.
Jankin sank heavily into a chair, released a long sigh, and patted the sheaf of pages in his lap.
“Is that your work on Ovid?” I wanted to include him in my benevolent mood. Dark rings circled his eyes and his cheeks were gaunt but very flushed. He’d been working ceaselessly on this project. I’d known him since he was a lad and felt a responsibility beyond that of wife. One can’t help how one feels, nor the maternal instinct even when one has not borne children.
“Nay, wife,” said Jankin slowly. “This is not my work on Ovid, but something much, much more important.”
The air between us crackled. Alyson cast an anxious look.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you’d ceased work on your translation. What’s it about?” I pointed at the bundle.
Jankin untied the pages and stroked the first one with great affection. “You once told me, wife, that your friend Geoffrey wrote a book about good women?”
“It was incomplete last I heard, but he read portions of it to me. It was quite . . . challenging.”
Jankin nodded as I spoke.
“Excellent work should stretch the mind.”
What I didn’t mention was the argument Geoffrey and I had about it. I told him the title was misleading, as for a book purporting to be about “good” women, he spent far too much time praising men. “What’s all of myth and history if not paeans to bloody men?” I’d said. I’d held my ground. After all, if women couldn’t be celebrated in a poem whose very title suggested that purpose, what hope did we have?
“I’m writing it in order to set the scales in balance,” said Jankin, interrupting my recollection. “To offer a counter to your Geoffrey’s words—”
Since when was he my Geoffrey?
“I’ve been collecting stories which prove, beyond doubt, the wickedness of women.”
Alyson put down the distaff. I choked on my drink, striking my chest a few times to help me swallow. Memories I’d worked hard to banish batted the edges of my mind.
Jankin waited to see if I’d comment. His hand clenched and unclenched. I kept silent.
“I would you listen to what I’ve written, wife. You too, Alyson.”
My heart was a bell in a tower, clanging, clanging. A trickle of sweat coursed down the side of my face. My seat, so comfortable before, became a bed of thorns.
At that very moment, Jankin scared me. Nay, he terrified me.
“Very well,” I said, clearing my throat. “Please, husband, proceed.”
With a lopsided grin, he detached the topmost page and held it close to a candle.
From before vespers until almost compline, Alyson and I listened to stories about a range of women who all, without fail, betrayed their husbands. The first was Eriphyle, a woman who, for the price of a gold necklace, persuaded her husband to fight in a battle she knew would end in his death. Eriphyle was later murdered by her son. Then there was Xantippe, the wife of Socrates, a shrew who poured a piss-pot over his head. Next there was Lucilia, who hated her man and murdered him in cold blood. All the women were punished for their sins.
As Jankin read, my mind raced. Was this a warning? Were these tales to alert me that Simon would be avenged? That I would pay for it? That would only work if the killer knew the hopes I’d so wickedly expressed. Who but my own Jankin did? Who but my own Jankin could enact vengeance?
My nails dug into my palms. I fixed my gaze upon my husband and smiled. I would not let him see the impact his stories were having, even though every part of me longed to shout at him to stop. I began to imagine taking the wool from the top of Alyson’s distaff and shoving it down his throat.
Next, he told the story of Clytemnestra. I could have wrested the parchment from him and told it myself, I had heard it so often, Alyson too—the tragic story of Agamemnon. Always, the men spoke of his wife’s treachery, how she dared to take a lover during her husband’s long absence, and then lure him into a bath and slay him when he finally returned to her. Not once did anyone speak for Clytemnestra. I knew her story—Geoffrey made sure of that. She was not just a murdering queen, but a grieving mother whose youngest daughter had been slain by this same husband (Agamemnon, who sarded another woman the entire time he was away—ten bloody years) in order that his fleet of ships might sail to a futile war. He tricked his wife into sending their youngest daughter to him, saying she was to be wed to a great hero. When Agamemnon finally returned with his pregnant mistress in tow (Cassandra, another wronged woman), what did he expect his wife to do? Forgive his many sins? Bah! He was a murderer of children; all she did was swive another man—and seek revenge for the death of her daughter. Does she get understanding? Nay. She’s remembered as a fornicator and murderer for men to judge.
Well, I judge her remarkable.
All this was running through my mind as Jankin read. His face was puffed with pride at this catalogue of female sins.
How dull. How tiresome.
Just as I was wondering how many more tales I’d have to listen to, he finished.
“That’s all for tonight,” he said, and replaced the pages he’d read. He’d barely made an impression upon them. My heart sank.
“What do you think?”
I should have guarded my tongue. “I think you would do well to address the men in these stories if it’s balance you’re seeking. Make a sport of their faults as well.”
One minute Jankin was in his chair, the next, he’d hurtled out of it and struck me hard across the face. I sat, stunned. Not certain what had happened, Alyson began to rise. I waved her to remain seated.
“You hit me,” I said quietly, my hand against my hot cheek.
He boxed the other side of my face. “There, now your color is even.”
I leaped to my feet and, before he could duck, punched him as hard as I could in the mouth. Unprepared, he staggered back a step or two then found his footing. He was about to level another blow, when Alyson shouted.
“Stop! Stop, both of you. For the love of God, stop.”
My eyes were brimming with tears—not of sadness, but fury.
Jankin touched his mouth. My ring had torn his lip. He licked the blood. “If I’d known you could hit so hard, wife, I might have been more cautious.”
“Well, now you do, sir. Have it on advice.” My breath came in spurts, my breasts heaved. I was ready to swing again. He eyed me warily, raised his fists.
Just when I thought he was about to clobber me, he swooped and crushed me in an embrace, fastening his lips onto mine.
I resisted at first, fury and confusion warring within me until my body took over. My insides melted and my knees grew weak. When he pulled away, I could taste his blood, coppery and sharp.
“I love you, my fiery wife, my flame-haired beauty,” Jankin murmured. “That was quite the haymaker you leveled.”
I wanted both to pull away and to cleave to him. Uncertain, more than a little unnerved, I went limp in his arms.
“Tomorrow, or mayhap the next night, I’ll read some more.” He dared me to protest.
I stifled a moan.
He grinned. His teeth were stained with blood. “I wrote it for you. For both of you.” He forced me to stand by myself. “It’s taken months, but now I understand what God intends. As a man, as a husband, it’s my duty to teach you women, to tame and shape your weak, feeble minds. For too long, I’ve allowed you mastery, Eleanor—this isn’t right. It defies the natural order. From hereon, I will take my rightful place as head of this household, and you will take yours as my helpmeet and subordinate. While you, Alyson, will simply be subordinate. Whatever happens, my women will obey me. Am I clear?”
Believe me when I say I wanted to slap his smug young face, even while I understood he was trying on his manhood.
“If it pleases you, husband,” I said, my eyes urging Alyson to agree. She nodded.
“Come, wife, we’ll away to bed. God give you good evening, cousin,” he said to Alyson, who still hadn’t moved. His arms about me, Jankin led me from the room.
It took many more months for my burning anger at his foolish pride to explode and when it did, it was no match for his.
As it turned out, none of us were.