Bath
The Year of Our Lord 1385
In the eighth year of the reign of Richard II
God, it seems, had a change of heart. He finally answered my prayers. Less than a month after returning from Jerusalem, in the middle of a bitter winter, my fourth husband, Simon de la Pole, was found dead, facedown in a puddle near his whore Viola’s residence.
I didn’t learn about this until the following morning, when a chalk-faced sergeant knocked on the door and Oriel brought him to the solar.
At first, I thought it a jest. How was it the man who’d caused me so much angst, whose death I’d prayed for the entire time I was heading to Jerusalem (I didn’t quite so much when homeward bound, being filled with the Holy Spirit), should have ceased to exist? If I could have fallen to my knees and offered thanks to the Almighty, I would have. I tried hard to school my face. Alyson, who’d been brought upstairs from the workroom, ran to my side and squeezed my hand so tightly, it was all I could do not to call out.
“Try not to look quite so pleased,” she hissed.
And here I was, thinking I was doing a fine job.
The sergeant explained that the coroner was with my husband’s body (strange, isn’t it, how a person in possession of a name, a life, family, history, enemies, a wife, and friends, is suddenly reduced to a mere corpse) and seeking any witnesses. At that moment Jankin staggered into the room.
His hair was unruly, his shirt tied incorrectly, and the marks of sleep were upon his face. There was a rather nasty cut on his lip and a reddened mark on one cheek. Had he been in another alehouse brawl? For a scholar, he was mighty ready with his fists, a notion that gave me an undue sense of pride and something else I wasn’t yet ready to acknowledge.
“I heard about Master Simon,” panted Jankin. “Peter told us.” Of course, the servants would know. Soon, all of Bath would. “I came over straightaway.”
In an effort to curtail the rumors my husband and his friends had started about my young tutor and the relationship we’d developed, upon our return from Jerusalem, Jankin boarded with Alyson next door. He crouched by my side and took my hand. “Are you alright, Mistress Eleanor?”
Have you ever tried to summon tears when the well is dry? I bowed my head and said something unintelligible, praying I looked the part of the grieving widow. I sniffed, screwed up my eyes. The sergeant blathered on about too much drink, Simon slipping and likely being knocked insensible and having the bad fortune to drown in less than a few inches of water. All the time my mind was screaming, how was this possible? Not the manner of death. The fact that Simon de la Pole, the man who had made my life a misery, was dead. Hallelujah!
The sergeant added the coroner would be in touch when his report was complete, which may take some weeks, and left as soon as was decent. Like most men, he couldn’t cope with tears—even fake ones. As soon as we were certain he was out of earshot and no other servants were about, Alyson, Jankin, and I huddled together, staring in disbelief.
“Simon is dead. Praise be to God,” I said, raising my eyes to the heavens and crossing myself.
“Praise the Lord,” said Jankin, grinning from ear to ear.
Alyson withdrew her arm from my shoulders. “You should both be ashamed of yourselves. It’s not right to be praising the Almighty for someone’s death.”
“Even though he was a lying, cheating scoundrel whose demise I’d longed for?” I dared her to defy me.
“Precisely because of that.”
Determined not to let her spoil my sense of the world being set to rights, I continued. “Regardless,” I said breezily, “I know the Lord will understand. That’s why—” I moved from the comfort of Jankin’s sympathetic presence and went to the sideboard to pour some wine, “I’m going to celebrate. Who will join me?” I held the jug aloft.
Alyson shook her head. “I’ve work to do—as do you, Eleanor. The servants need to be told. Formally. Irrespective of what you thought of your husband, the house has to be seen to mourn.”
“Oh, we will. I will. I’ll mourn that I was ever married to the swine.” I passed a goblet to Jankin. “Don’t look at me like that, Alyson.” I blew a kiss. “Rest assured, I’ll behave and perform my wifely duties one last time. It’s the least I can offer the roving prick.”
Alyson tut-tutted. “Be careful, Eleanor. It’s ungodly to talk in such a manner and He will punish you for it.”
“Not today He won’t.”
With another noise of disapproval, Alyson left. I turned to Jankin and raised my goblet. “Here’s to my newfound and blessed liberty. Praise be to God. Or should that be the devil? I’m sure he’s got Simon’s soul now.”
“Praise be to God, to Satan,” said Jankin, his goblet kissing mine, “and to His agents here on earth.”
I arched a brow. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you think it odd a strong man like Simon died in a puddle?”
“Depends how much he drank, I guess. Or how deep the puddle.”
“Puddle implies it was shallow or—”
This is what happens when you keep company with a scholar; they dissect everything.
“That someone made sure he couldn’t rise.”
We clicked goblets again. “Then bless God’s agents too,” I said and laughed.
A few days later, Simon was buried inside the church of St. Michael’s Without the Walls, Father Elias presiding. I’d written to Geoffrey immediately and he’d come straight to Bath. It was good to see him, to know he cared enough to be there in my hour of triumph . . . I mean, need.
There was a respectable turnout. Merchants, neighbors, monks from the Abbey, our weavers, guild members, a few broggers, some traveling quite the distance to be there. I stood across from my husband’s shroud, hidden inside the coffin I’d bought. Geoffrey and Alyson stood beside me, the servants forming a protective arc. On the other side of the church stood a suspicious number of red-eyed women, including Viola, who even in her grief managed to look striking. There was a great deal of weeping, including from some merchants’ wives. Not even the stern looks of their husbands or the shocked faces of their children stemmed the flow.
My handkerchief was barely damp as I tried to squeeze out tears. Fortunately, the veil I wore hid my face, so I made sure my shoulders slumped and my feet dragged. I leaned against Alyson or Geoffrey, both of whom made a show of holding me upright. Geoffrey didn’t approve of my light-hearted attitude either, but being a friend, withheld judgment—this time.
“Just make sure if you marry again, Eleanor, you don’t rush.”
His words echoed in my mind as Simon’s coffin was lowered into the church floor. Instead of bowing my head while prayers were said, I took the opportunity to assess those attending—well, alright, the men. I started to imagine which among them I’d consider a fit husband. There was Master Attenoke, the mercer, who had bow legs but hands so delicate, they looked like a woman’s. Rumor had it he strangled his last wife and lusted after her daughters. I shuddered at the thought of those hands touching me. Then there was Master Monemaker, the silversmith. He was a secret Jew and evidently not very good at it. Master le Ould had outlived three wives and was so ancient, he made Mervyn seem a spring lamb. I glanced at Master Saper, a powerful merchant who was prone to threatening anyone who disagreed with him and was said to have killed three fellows last year alone. Master Clavynger was a decent, wealthy man as well as presentable but lived with his sister in a spacious house where only one bedroom was used. Enough said. My mind ticked over as Father Elias droned and the incense permeated my nostrils, kirtle, and cloak.
Geoffrey hissed at me to be still.
Right there and then, before God the Creator, and beneath the cross that bore His emaciated Son, who gave His life so we might have one everlasting, I made a solemn vow. If ever I married again, it would be for love—not lust, nor money or security—God knew, thanks to my first three husbands, well numbers one and three, I had those. I would allow my heart to dictate my future this time, not my queynte.
In answer to my silent communion, a beam of light struck Jankin. Curls of golden hair shone against the black of his paltock and cap and made his youthful face luminous. My eyes traveled, noticing anew how broad his chest, how chiseled his legs. How he bulged in his hose in a way that made my insides molten. Though I’d appreciated so many of his qualities before, only now, before my dead husband, did I appreciate the bits that made him so very, very manly. I swallowed.
Dear Lord, but it was hot in church. My heart began to beat erratically, my ribs expanded until my dress felt so tight, I found it difficult to breathe. I was like a virgin widow and me, all of thirty-three years. An aged woman by any standard, except in my head. Except in my heart. And, goddamn it, except in my queynte.
After the requiem, I invited everyone back to Slynge House. It was an opportunity to show those who’d believed Simon’s version of me they’d been gulled. I was not a termagant, or a common slut who shared my favors with any man.
Not too many took advantage of my hospitality, but enough to make a slow difference. Their condolences were mixed with compliments on the fine repast and promises to extend invitations in due course, once my mourning was over. I didn’t admit it already was.
Along with the servants, Alyson, and Jankin, I donned black, and out of respect for Simon’s memory, we ceased to work for two days.
Geoffrey remained for that period. Together with Jankin and Alyson, we threw on our warmest cloaks and walked in the fields outside town, away from others. There was something about the cold, the snow, the defiant buds pushing through the layers as spring tried to make its presence felt, that gave me hope; the notion I could and would start again. We spoke of the future, of maintaining the business, mayhap even expanding it a little. We talked about the trip to Jerusalem, all the places we visited, sights we saw, and people we met. The only subject we didn’t discuss was Simon’s death, yet its specter haunted our every step. Still, I managed to laugh, link arms with my friends, one-up a story and joke.
Throughout these jaunts, our daily interactions, Geoffrey watched me as a hawk does a fieldmouse. I knew he was biding his time to say something, no doubt something I’d not want to hear.
He waited until our last evening together. We’d had a lovely long supper in the solar. When the bells tolled for vespers, Alyson and Jankin (who were still living next door, as the lease hadn’t yet expired) made to leave. They were giving me and Geoffrey some time together. As a widow, I’d no need for a chaperone.
“Eleanor,” Geoffrey began once we were alone. I knew that tone and resisted the urge to sigh. “I pray I’m wrong here, but I get a strong sense you have designs on young Jankin.”
“Jankin?” I gave a forced laugh. “Why would you think that? The lad is young enough to be my son.”
“Grandson. Why, you’re two score years to his one.”
“I am not!” I was most indignant. “Alyson is coming up to two score years, I’m nowhere near her age.” I was six years younger—that was eons. “Anyway, so what if I have? I’m free to desire whom I want.”
“Desire, aye . . . but what I’m sensing from you goes beyond that.”
Damn if Geoffrey wasn’t right. I’d been having dreams about being with Jankin. “What if I am? He’d make a fine husband. And being so much younger, he’s not likely to die on me, is he?”
“Eleanor,” he said softly. “You know I care about you deeply, that as your friend, your family, I’ve only your interests at heart. And it’s the heart I want to talk about. I understand you must be flattered by the attention the boy gives you. Why, he worships you like a son. Did you not say he has no mother?”
My mind was reeling. Surely no son kissed their mother the way Jankin had kissed me over the last two days. Geoffrey couldn’t know about those stolen kisses, could he? The fumbles we’d enjoyed. Why, Jankin might be young, but those hands, those lips, and that tongue knew what they were doing. The boy aroused such a heat in me, it turned my body into a furnace.
“His mother died when he was a babe.”
“Well, that explains it,” said Geoffrey, sinking back into his seat, a satisfied look on his face.
“Explains what?”
“The lad’s unnatural attraction to you.”
“Unnatural?” I virtually shrieked. “What’s wrong with me, eh?” I dared him to speak. Alas, Geoffrey, for all his writing about women with such insight and knowledge, was utterly clueless.
“Look at you, Eleanor. To him, you’re an old woman. Your hair has threads of silver, and while you have a slim waist, not having been blessed with a child, you’re wide in the hips and large in the breasts.”
“I’ve had no complaints,” I muttered, wishing for the umpteenth time my waist had thickened.
Unabashed, Geoffrey continued. “You’re not exactly a beauty—though I find you beautiful,” he added hurriedly. “But I know you, Eleanor.” He studied me, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on the fingertips. “Mayhap, Alyson is right and the lad feels a sense of pride because he taught you to read and write.”
“You’ve discussed me with Alyson?”
“Of course.”
I tried to appear indignant and failed. “’Twas his father taught me.”
“The lad’s continued the lessons.” He frowned. “Was I mistaken to advise you to resume? It might have been better if Jankin had remained in Oxford.”
“Why on earth would you say that?” I leaped to my feet. “You of all people know what a comfort he’s been to me. When you, Geoffrey, refused to believe the kind of man Simon was, took his side, Jankin at least supported me.” I prodded my breast. “Jankin listened and protected me—here and when we went to Jerusalem.” I downed the rest of my drink. “Which is more than I can say for some.”
“You’re wrong, Eleanor. I knew exactly what kind of man your husband was. And I warned you. The point was, you chose to marry him and, as a wife, as a woman, it’s not your place to object to what your husband does.”
“Not my place? As a wife? As a woman?” My voice was getting louder. “Nay,” I said, suddenly flopping back into the seat. “You’re right. We women have no rights, no place but beneath a man in every regard—bed, home, business. We must obey all his commands, as if he were a god and it’s him we worship.”
“That’s blasphemy.”
“But it’s men who’ve made it that way. What is a husband to a wife but a false idol? Tell me that, Geoffrey Chaucer. Why did God give women queyntes, desires, if not to have us fulfill them? Why are your needs, your wants, more important than mine just because you have a prick?”
“Eleanor, calm down.”
“Nay, I won’t. Nor will I listen anymore, Geoffrey.” I put my goblet down hard on the table. With a straight back, I faced him. “All my life, you’ve given me advice. Sweet Jesu, you arranged my first marriage to a man old enough to be my grandfather and now you’re telling me I cannot marry a man young enough to be my son. What’s that if not hypocrisy of the highest order? Let me finish.” I took a deep breath. “I’ve heeded your words, Geoffrey—mostly—and sometimes they’ve brought me great happiness and other times they have not. Sometimes, your advice has been tardy and I’ve had to abide by my own choices, but at least they were mine. So, thank you for giving me counsel I never asked for. But I’m no longer twelve nor twenty. I’m no longer a maiden, nor a mother, but a widow. Four. Times. Over. Be damned if I’ll be a lonely old one. I no longer need your guidance, especially when I don’t ask for it. I don’t even need your approval. What I do need is your friendship. A friendship that’s given unreservedly. Can you give me that?”
Geoffrey put down his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“What you do next.”
I sighed. “Once again, you seek to control me. To reward me for doing what you say or punish me for disobeying you. You’re not my husband, Geoffrey.”
He shrugged. “That’s not what I meant. Rather, like Alyson, I cannot stand by and see you make a ruin of your life, a life you’ve a chance to make something of—with the right choices.”
“Jankin won’t ruin it!” I said. “He’ll complete it.”
“If you think that, then you’re a bigger fool than I ever took you for.”
I narrowed my eyes. “At least I’m my own fool.”
This was a threshold moment. I could either stay one side of the line I’d drawn, or cross it and be damned.
You know what I chose.
Geoffrey didn’t try and talk me out of my decision. He simply stood, smoothed out his paltock, tugged his sleeves, then embraced me long and hard. In that moment, I was taken back to the first time I smelled him—damp wool, old books, ink, and musty but not unpleasant sweat. Without another word, just a wistful smile, he left the room.
He was gone from the house when I woke next morning.
Despite my sending him an invitation, he never did come to my wedding to Jankin. Few did, but then, unlike my previous marriages, I kept this one very quiet.
Four weeks to the day after Simon was buried, I became Eleanor Binder. For a few weeks, I was blissfully happy, blissfully unaware of what I’d done.
The day after the wedding, I received a visit from the coroner. Out of courtesy, he came to the house. Jankin happened to be next door, packing up the last of his belongings to shift into Slynge House.
Master Reyngud, the coroner, was an officious, cold man. He sat in the solar and delivered his verdict, uncaring of the effect it would have on me.
Simon didn’t drown as we’d first been told. According to the coroner, he was already dead when he fell in the puddle. A blow to the head and a broken neck caused by the vicious stomp of a large boot extinguished his life. I decided not to share this news—not with Alyson nor with Jankin. I didn’t want to spoil what should have been a joyous occasion. I would have told Geoffrey, only I’d made a point of steering my own course.
Instead, I pushed what the coroner said to the back of my mind: the fact that my bastard husband, Simon de la Pole, was murdered and the killer, whoever he was, remained at large.