Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1379
In the first and second years of the reign of Richard II
Summer bid adieu and autumn took the stage before winter announced itself with icy flurries that blew the ever-present smell of the tannery away and scattered the morning mists. By now, Alyson, Milda, the dogs, and I were a regular sight around Bath. In a dress made especially for me by Goody Brown, the best seamstress in town, I would oft be seen on market day, trying to strike a bargain with the vendors. My kirtle would attract admiring glances and even comments. Alyson said they weren’t looks of appreciation but consternation at my ridiculous hat. I’d had a few made, modeled on the ones I wore to Canterbury and Rome. Broad-brimmed, they protected my face from the sun, thus preventing more freckles forming. Until I married Mervyn, I’d only ever owned a small number of dresses and almost all of those were made by me, Alyson, and Milda. All that changed when my new husband insisted I avail myself of some new kirtles, tunics, shifts, gloves, cloaks, hats, and hose, and that Alyson should do so as well. He also gave me enough coin to ensure all the servants were well-clothed and that the Slynge coat of arms (earned on the battlefields of France) was embroidered over their breasts.
When summer came around again, not only was I part of the town and parish, but I declared proudly to Alyson and Milda that it would take a catastrophe to pry me from it.
Milda crossed herself, Alyson stared at me in dismay. “What possessed you to say that? Now you’ve done it.”
“Done what?” I asked carelessly, biting into a delicious pastry Master Quintrell had made. Crumbs flecked my décolletage and I picked them up carefully, slipping them into my mouth. Waste not. I pulled at the laces, trying to create more room. Seemed Goody Brown had made this tunic a bit small. Of late, a few had been cut to a different measure.
“Tempted Fate,” sighed Alyson.
“If Fate finds me tempting, who am I to quarrel?” I declared and, before Alyson or Milda could decry my rash words, flounced out of the room.
I’d taken to visiting Mervyn each morning. More and more of late, he preferred to remain abed until the sun was high in the sky and he’d had a few mazers of small ale and some coddled eggs and bread. Ably assisted by Drew, who along with Arnold had joined the household, both now manservants, Sweteman, Mervyn’s squire, would see to it that he was comfortable against his pillows, dressed in a shift and the fire blazing—even on warm days. Mervyn was so thin, despite what he ate. He was forever complaining of the cold.
Perched on the edge of the bed, I would break off bits of bread and dip them in the eggs, feeding him and discussing how many ells of cloth were ready to sell and where they were going, how the flock was faring, the price of wool and anything else of interest. I would keep him abreast of gossip (something both Sweteman and the lads also did) and even read to him. I was very proud of my prowess. He particularly enjoyed Geoffrey’s letters.
I’d received one a few months back written from Milan, where Geoffrey had gone to conduct business for the King. In it, he said he’d finished a work on Saint Cecilia and was writing a poem entitled “The House of Fame.” Similar to that Plowman one I liked, it was about a vision. What was it with poets and dreams and visions? Couldn’t one write about real people and events? He should consider writing about people who weren’t inclined to fantasies but were just like me, Alyson, Father Elias, Drew, Arnold, Wy, Rag, Oriel, and Milda. He was also writing about a couple of love-struck knights. Well, maybe that was more in line with what I meant. Any knight I’d met only ever thought about two things—war and sarding—and not necessarily in that order.
Sadly, Geoffrey rarely wrote about his wife or children. I didn’t suppose there was much to say what with Philippa being in Lincolnshire ensconced in one of Prince John’s many houses. His daughter, Elizabeth, was shut away in that nunnery. No wonder the man wrote about dreams and love so much. Mayhap, I wasn’t the only one missing out on a good swiving. As I heard one traveling merchant whisper drunkenly to another one night, “Absence doesn’t make the heart ache as much as it does your balls.”
Aye, and my queynte and all.
Geoffrey prayed we’d escaped the latest outbreak of the pestilence in England that had spread from Bristol and ravaged the countryside. Towns in the north had suffered terribly, many lives being lost, but thus far, praise God, Bath had been spared. Only those carrying certificates of good health were admitted through the gates. No doubt there were unscrupulous doctors growing rich issuing those.
I’d folded this particular letter and placed it my placket, then taken Mervyn’s hand. While this latest outbreak of the Botch hadn’t struck down my husband, he was nonetheless suffering. Didn’t matter which physician or doctor came, or prescribed bloodletting, read his charts, or gave him fancy stones to put under his pillow, or ghastly concoctions to drink that combined everything from flowers and herbs to fish heads, kitten’s tails, and horseshit (alright, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t far off), he never improved. Fortunately, though his body was failing and his lungs wheezed like overworked bellows, his mind was sharp and he’d send the quacks away with fleas in their ears and refuse to pay them.
It was probably around this time I first began to notice the husband of one of the weavers we’d hired. I’d like to think it was because, unlike my husband, he was so healthy. But it was a great deal more than that. A maker of looms, his name was Durand Slaywright, and his wife, a skinny wench with lank mousy hair and a chin that collapsed into her neck, was Basilia. She wasn’t particularly good at weaving, but she tried so very hard and at first I didn’t have the heart to set her to spinning (which any nonce can do). But the day Durand arrived at the house with a freshly carved loom ready to have the warp strings tied, I suddenly found myself very interested in everything Basilia was doing.
A large man, and by that I don’t mean fat, Durand was tall, broad-shouldered, possessed of arms that looked fit to burst from his shirt like an overripe fruit its skin. His vest barely laced across his chest and his thighs, well, they looked like nuts in casings, they were so defined. He’d a thick head of barley-colored hair and the darkest eyes. But it was his smile that captured me. God’s truth.
Basilia rose when he entered and shyly introduced us. I barely remember what I did or said, all I know is that when those lips pulled back to reveal white, even teeth and I looked into those onyx eyes, my center turned to liquid and I became very chatty and conscious of the state of my veil, my face, the stains on my old tunic. Dear Lord in Heaven, my fingers fluttered like butterflies cavorting over blooms. When I tripped over the edge of another worker’s loom trying to get to the other side of the one Durand was moving into place, he caught me around my waist to prevent me toppling. He pulled me close and I breathed in the very maleness of him. My head spun, my breathing became difficult. I giggled, thanked him prettily, and slowly untangled myself from his firm grasp.
“Madam, madam!” Basilia had fussed, pulling over a stool for me to sit upon. Milda fetched me an ale. “Are you alright?”
“Aye, I am,” I managed to say, not looking at Basilia, but at her husband.
Was he aware of the effect he was having? I’m sure he was, for when he took his leave, he stood in the doorway, out of sight of his wife, and waited until our eyes met. In that silent conversation much was promised.
It wasn’t until I was returning to my loom that I was doused with the equivalent of a bucket of river water. “That’s a mighty handsome man,” said Alyson, moving her shuttle across the strings.
“Was he?” I said, flicking a strand of hair and taking my seat. “I barely noticed.”
“Aye. I saw how little you noticed him.”
I pulled a face.
“Lest you forget, hen. He’s Basilia’s man.”
Bloody Alyson. She was right. I had to put him out of mind. But like a devilish sprite, he’d dance through my dreams.
When I encountered Durand unexpectedly a few days later, it was on the road to do my weekly visit to the flock and report back to Mervyn. I’d been doing this since early spring when he became too ill to make the journey himself. At first, I’d protested. Not that I couldn’t do it, as I was very familiar with what was required—had I not taken over from Turbet? But that was the precise reason I didn’t want to usurp Mervyn’s position. I’d plenty of authority and didn’t need to wrest it from him. What would people say?
It was a conversation I’ll never forget.
“Since when do you worry about what people say?” Mervyn smiled, head tilting to one side like a bird.
I blinked. “I’ve always had a mind to what others say. Being a man, you wouldn’t understand, but us women are at the mercy of others’ tongues—most often, those of our own sex.”
Mervyn nodded sagely. “Mayhap, you’re right.” Then he beckoned me closer and took my hand. “Listen, Eleanor. You’re not to worry about what others say about you or me—not anymore. Wait,” he said, “let me finish. You’re no longer a Noke Manor lackey, a farmer’s wife, or the hidden talent behind Laverna Lodge’s short-lived success. You’re someone. You train and employ people, you deal with servants, merchants, wives, gentry, priests, and bishops. You’re my wife and I won’t have you tolerating anything you don’t have to, which includes twisted tongues and rumor-mongering. You stood up to Fulk, you stood up to Turbet. It’s time you trusted who you are and stand up to anyone else who would try to belittle you. And that includes me. Do you hear me? Use your voice, woman, use it for yourself and for those who don’t have one. And use it well.”
If I was a lantern, I would have glowed. I never thought I could love Mervyn Slynge, but in that moment, I did.
Alas, it wasn’t my voice I was thinking about when I spied Durand driving a cart on his way back to town; he’d been collecting wood to carve another loom. Milda was upon a mule beside me, Peter on a pony the other side, while Drew and Arnold rode ahead, axes slung across one shoulder, bows on the other. Brigands were known to sometimes rob travelers, so I always brought protection.
Durand and I drew alongside and exchanged polite greetings. The dogs gamboled about the horses’ hooves. I barely recall what was said with our mouths, it was the secret conversation we had with our eyes, hands, the unspoken, that held me in thrall.
Two days later, he came upon me in our small garden where I’d gone to collect some herbs to put in a drink for Mervyn. Without a word, we scuttered behind a hedge and fell upon each other, tugging and pulling at our clothes, mouths hot, fingers burning. We didn’t just sard once, but twice, collapsing on each other, sated. His kisses were the stuff of legend, his pole—a barge pole—was like his body, hard and thick in all the right places.
Being used to old men’s bodies, which had their own particular beauty—or at least, Fulk’s had, I barely saw Turbet’s, and Mervyn’s was mostly a mystery to me—I’d never enjoyed a younger man’s before. Oh, I’d seen Layamon’s, years ago, but he was a mere boy compared to Durand. Thirty-two years old and a worker, Durand was built for pleasing. And I, a woman of twenty-seven, was built to be pleased. His hands could span my waist when he lifted me onto his prick. I would wrap my legs around him and ride till he bucked and shouted and I joined his cries with blissful ones of my own.
Durand became my lover and for a few weeks, I was deaf to anything but our whispered words, the looks we exchanged; I was blind to anyone but him. No space was safe from our swiving—the back of his cart, the small yard, the secret space beneath the stairs. Often, we would race to the solar when no one was there. One time, when I was certain everyone was either in the hall weaving, kitchen cooking, or tending Mervyn, I took him in my bedroom.
That was the beginning of my undoing, that and the air of distraction I carried. A glazed look that showed all too clearly what was going on in my head. I started to forget to visit my husband, or when I did, I was vague about the flock, the fabric we wove, sales. I was keen to get away lest Durand be waiting. I drifted off in the middle of conversations, my dreams were filled with heaving bodies, hot lips, and a prick that, like a magic wand, cast a spell over me. Thinking back on it, I’m appalled. My selfishness, my unkindness in sarding another woman’s man. For allowing him to take up space in my head and heart that others deserved more. I didn’t love him. I didn’t know him. I just knew his body and the way it made mine feel.
For certes, we barely spoke. There wasn’t anything for us to say—we’d nothing in common, not really. It was his pole and my queynte did the talking. Whatever lay between us was purely carnal, a desperate sating of mutual appetites. I never doubted he loved his wife, but it was me he wanted.
The madness came to an end when, firstly, Alyson confronted me after Durand and I had spent the afternoon in my bedroom, naked and bold as you like. She found a lace from his shirt, torn when I ripped it from his body. She could also smell him, smell us. I didn’t deny it, how could I? And what would be the point?
“You must cease this folly now, sister,” she said sternly.
Like a child, I became angry, defensive. “Why? Do I not deserve love? Do I not, a young woman who’s been married to old men, deserve to enjoy what other wives know?”
I should have stopped. The hurt on Alyson’s face was raw. Fulk was so much more to her, to me, than an “old man.” But I didn’t. The devil stole my tongue. “Be with someone who can transport me to bowers of bliss?”
“Oh, aye,” Alyson hissed, throwing the lace at my face. “And what of Basilia? Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do to her?”
“She doesn’t satisfy him.”
“How do you know? Has he told you that?”
I was about to bark a retort when I realized he’d never said anything of the kind. All he’d ever done was pant and express joy at feeling and seeing my various body parts—especially my quoniam. “Not in so many words.”
“I’m surprised he’d know any. The man’s thicker than a tile. Nay, that’s not fair on tiles.”
I threw myself on the bed, pretending an indifference I didn’t feel. “It’s none of your business who I swive.”
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Eleanor.” She stood before me, hands on hips, little bolts of lightning flashing from her eyes. “When your actions affect the business, and, worse, the workers you profess to care about, then it is my bloody business. It’s yours too.”
I rolled over and raised myself on my elbows. “What are you talking about?”
“Have you even taken one look at Basilia? Nay, of course not, you’re too busy gazing at her man to notice the impact your bloody assignations are having on the poor woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her eyes are permanently swollen, she’s thinner than a river reed, and so pale she puts the moon to shame. When she thinks no one can see, she weeps and weeps and refuses to eat or drink.”
I went to reply, but what could I say? I hadn’t noticed. I hadn’t really given Basilia a thought. My stomach became heavy. I sat up.
Alyson plonked beside me on the bed. “And then there’s Mervyn. You haven’t been to see him for days. When you did, you were so keen to get away, you neglected to feed him.”
“There are others to do that.”
“But he wants you.”
I leaped to my feet. “I don’t know why. He’s made it perfectly clear he’s not interested in women.”
“Not in that way. You’re more than a woman to him, Eleanor. You’re his wife; you’re his friend.”
That stopped me in my tracks. I ran my fingers through my hair. It was true. “Do you think he knows?” I asked Alyson.
“About Durand?”
I nodded, biting my lip.
“The entire household does.”
I felt a strange urge to cry.
“Mervyn would hardly care if I swive another man. Why would anyone else?”
“He might not care about the swiving, but he does when you make yourself the subject of gossip. And when you hurt one of your workers, you should.” She joined me at the window, lifting my hand from where it hung limp by my side and placed it between her two cool ones. “I never took you to be a bitch, Eleanor. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did when I first met you.” She half-smiled. “You were a right little one then.”
I began to feel heat travel up my neck. My eyes began to swim.
“But, as I came to know you—to love you—I knew you to be kind, loyal, someone who gave people a chance. I never thought you’d turn into the kind of woman who coveted another’s husband. Nor did I ever think you’d be the kind of woman who was indifferent to the hurt and pain she caused others. And, you know what makes it so much worse? You’re not even doing it deliberately. You’re doing it uncaringly, because you’re thinking only of yourself.”
She was right. I hadn’t given a tinker’s cuss about anyone but me and my needs. I hadn’t even noticed Basilia or her suffering. As for Mervyn—dear God. The man had given me, us, so much and how did I repay him? By doing everything I could to either avoid being with him or, when I’d no choice, getting away as swiftly as possible.
“And what if you were to make a child with this man, eh?” added Alyson quietly. “Then what would you do? What would we do?”
My insides flickered, I felt lit from within. My hand pressed protectively across my stomach before the truth struck me with all the weight of a church bell, tolling a warning against my worst instincts.
Alyson’s words echoed. What would we do?
I tried to extract my hand from hers, but she held me tighter.
“I don’t know how you can bear me,” I said hoarsely. “You’re right. I’ve been so goddamn selfish. Oh, dear God.” I sank to the floor. The tears came thick and fast. Aye, I was sorry for myself, sorry to hear the truth and see what I’d become through others’ eyes. Know that the goodwill I’d worked so hard to earn, the good name I’d struggled to achieve, was on the cusp of being ruined by my own thoughtless, wicked actions. I was nothing but a worthless whore.
“I don’t deserve you,” I breathed, and fell into her arms.
I wept for what seemed a long time. Gathered in Alyson’s lap, she held me tight, stroked my hair, murmuring words not so much of comfort, but acknowledgment of what I blathered and sobbed. I determined then and there to end it with Durand, to try and make it up to Basilia, to all the servants. But mostly, to Mervyn.
And to Alyson.
“They must ha . . . ha . . . hate me . . .” I choked and sniffled.
“The workers? Our servants? Nay, hen, they don’t hate you. How could they? You’ve done so much for them, given them lives, wages, hope, and a future. They’re just confused that the woman they trust to be better has proven, in essence, to be just the same as them.”
“The same?”
“A sinner.”
I cried for a little longer, then ceased abruptly. I heaved myself upright and took the kerchief Alyson passed me, wiped my eyes and cheeks, and blew my nose.
She kissed me on the forehead. “I’ll get you some wine to drink and water to wash your face. We’ll fix your hair up and make you presentable.”
“What for?” I’d no intention of leaving my room ever again. Well, not for a few days at least. Until I had Durand out of my blood, and this could all blow over.
Alyson dragged me to my unwilling feet. “So you can do what all sinners must.”
I shook my head, confused.
“Ask forgiveness.”
“Oh.” I took a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll go and see Father Elias.”
“You’ll see him alright and make a confession. But I don’t mean him.”
I stared at her in horror. “If you think I’m going to go and ask forgiveness of everyone, then you’re very much mistaken.”
“Am I? If you don’t, then you’re not who I think you are, Mistress Eleanor Slynge.”
I searched for excuses. Rubbed my nose, hiccoughed, and straightened my damn tight kirtle. Bloody Alyson was right. I had to apologize and ask forgiveness from all those I’d wronged. If I didn’t, then I was no better than the likes of Layamon, or Turbet and his pox-ridden family. And be damned if I’d be compared to them. I was Fulk Bigod’s widow, Alyson Bigod’s Godsib, Eleanor, Mistress of Slynge House, and a wife of Bath.
I would make my penance and pay, in whatever way I must, for my lusty, selfish ways.