Bath
The Years of Our Lord 1379 to 1380
In the second and third years of the reign of Richard II
In a matter of months, I learned some hard lessons. Among them was to think twice before putting your desires so far above others you fail to see their needs, and, when a male is offered queynte, it will be taken, even if the man already is.
The main lesson was also the most painful: in order to truly pay for your sins, you must allow others to set the price.
Whereas Father Elias demanded a succession of Hail Marys and dispensed a mountain of advice on how to avoid repeating my trespasses in the future, Mervyn merely smiled ruefully and more than a little mournfully at my confession. His hollow cheeks quivered, his shadowed eyes were pools of sorrow as he held my hand and drew me closer so Sweteman, Arnold, and Drew couldn’t overhear and said he wished he was both younger and inclined toward my sex. In which case he would have absolved me by reasserting his conjugal rights. He even attempted to thrust his brittle hips. I laughed as I was supposed to and all was forgiven. “I married a full-blooded woman, Eleanor. I’m surprised it took you this long to take another to your bed.”
I swore to my husband then and there I would never do it again, not as long as he lived. It was his turn to chuckle. “Glad you have the sense not to make promises that can’t be kept, lady wife, since I’m not long for this world.”
I’d hugged him then, shocked at how prominent his rib cage felt beneath his shift, his lungs battling to seize each breath. The thought he might die soon shook me to the core. Mervyn may not have met all my needs, but he damn well satisfied ones I never even knew I had: to be respected, listened to, spoken to as if I had a mind of my own, and supported. There’s a great deal to be said for that. Alyson had the right of it—Mervyn and I would never be lovers, but we were friends. And what saddened me the most that day was the realization my friend was dying.
When I told Durand we couldn’t see each other again, he merely shrugged. “I think you mean ‘swive,’ because unless you tend to blind me, you be hard to miss, madam.” Then, doffing his cap, he wandered away down the street. But it was Basilia whom I found hardest to approach. I was ashamed to admit what I’d been doing, I felt sullied and humiliated—I was her employer, supposed to be her better. But that was the point, wasn’t it? If it was easy to ask forgiveness, then everyone would. Most of all, I felt I was unworthy.
As it was, she had already worked out a way to forgive me. No doubt in cahoots with her philandering husband.
Displaying few of the signs of distress Alyson had described, a rosy-cheeked Basilia listened to my confession then calmly said if I paid her the sum of five pounds, all would be forgiven and forgotten. I was speechless at first then, as you’d expect, paid the money, even though it was a huge amount. She never came back to work and last I heard, she and Durand were living somewhere outside the walls of London. Afterward, I was able to see the funny side. That’s why, when I next wrote to Geoffrey, I included the tale of my lust and the various ways I had paid my penance, giving the greatest space to Basilia’s sudden transformation from hollow-cheeked cuckold to negotiator extraordinaire.
Call it serendipity, Fortuna, or the Hand of God, but just as Geoffrey would have been reading my letter and composing a very priggish one in return, full of reproaches for allowing the sin of lust to overcome my good sense et cetera et cetera (this from a man who wrote of love-sick knights slaying one another over a woman—the cheek of it), a new customer swam into our ken.
A young friend of Lady Frondwyn’s, her name was Cecilia Champain. Her stepmother was none other than the former King’s infamous mistress, Alice Perrers. Cecilia had come to Bath at Lady Frondwyn’s invitation. As I showed her the weavers at work in the Great Hall and she gushed her admiration for our cloth, she revealed we had a mutual friend—Geoffrey. From the way she said his name, all a-blushing and coy, I began to wonder what kind of “friend” Geoffrey was. The more she prattled, the less I listened as it dawned on me that I wasn’t the only one allowing a married man to dip his wick in my wax.
I took a good hard look at Cecilia. Slender, short, she had fine blonde hair and almost nonexistent eyebrows that had been plucked into such thin arches she looked constantly surprised. Mayhap, she was. The thought of Geoffrey, with his forked beard and little paunch, panting and pushing over this one, almost undid me. She would have been no more than twenty. Yet there was a sly look about her, the way she pursed her little rosebud mouth. That night, I admitted to Alyson I didn’t like her.
“You’re just jealous Geoffrey has another friend,” said Alyson, punching the pillow as she prepared to settle.
I stared at the ceiling. “Nay. I’m not. Truly. I’m more annoyed that if he’s sarding her, he had the gall to accuse me of peddling Eve’s wares and risking the salvation of heaven. What’s good for gander is not for goose to ponder. There’s something about the woman I find . . . false. False and more than a little avaricious. Did you note the expression on her face when she told us that Geoffrey’s been forced to hire a lawyer to defend an accusation of trespass and contempt?”
“Aye. I did. She was delighted. She went on and on about how he might have to pay a fine but how it was well within his means.”
“Exactly. Ten pounds, wasn’t it? What sort of person finds glee in another’s misfortune?”
“Not a friend.”
“Nay. Either an enemy, or someone who enjoys revenge.”
Alyson ceased to strike her pillow and, turning on her side, considered me. “What has Geoffrey Chaucer done that a young woman like that would seek revenge?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, Alyson. But I like it not.”
As it turned out, my feelings were right. But, before I could write to Geoffrey and warn him (as well as point out that sanctimony only works if you’re a saint), events overtook me.
* * *
After the Great Apology (as I came to think of it), life in Slynge House and Bath continued as normal. I resumed my daily visits to Mervyn, weekly ones to our pastures and flock, as well as to mass. Father Elias was a regular at dinner or supper, as were some of the older merchants, Mervyn’s long-time friends and colleagues. We oft took the meal in Mervyn’s bedroom for, as autumn segued into winter, he became completely bedbound.
I also continued my lessons with Master Binder, who, when he developed a terrible cough, asked his son to take his place. Jankin, by now fourteen or thereabouts, was tall, learned and becoming very, very handsome. I’d grown quite fond of him. He took almost as much pride in my accomplishments as I did. After our lesson was complete and he’d set me tasks for the following week, we’d sit in the solar, drink wine, and either read to each other or simply talk. Jankin was going up to Oxford, following in his father’s footsteps, becoming a scholar and, likely, a monk. He quite fancied the Benedictine Order, and though he should have joined them by now, his father’s declining health kept him close.
“But between Pa, Father Elias, the monks at the Abbey, and you, Mistress Eleanor, my education is not lacking. I’ve other pupils too.”
Whereas I didn’t feel jealous at the idea of Geoffrey having an attractive younger friend, the notion that I shared Jankin with others caused a sharp pain in my ribs that I was quite unprepared for. It wasn’t that I was attracted to Jankin, though apart from his youth, there was no reason why not, it was just that I so enjoyed our discussions, our exchange of ideas and stories. It reminded me of my correspondence with Geoffrey, only better, for here my confidant was in the flesh.
The fact he was younger and prettier didn’t matter. Much.
“Be careful, Eleanor,” Alyson would warn. Again.
“Of what? He’s but a child,” I scoffed.
“A child doesn’t look at you the way he does.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“As if he might devour you.”
I’d seen what she meant in his eyes, heard it in his tone. It was somewhere between loathing and desire. It was heady. I loved that I’d the ability to discommode this young man who would be a monk and a man of learning.
Fool that I was, I thought I’d the upper hand. Once again, I was but a tool of Venus and Mars.
It wasn’t until after the Feast of the Epiphany, in the third year of King Richard’s reign, that Mervyn’s health declined sharply. Each day Father Elias came to the house, half-expecting to be administering last rites. Along with Sweteman, Arnold, and Drew, I’d taken to sleeping in Mervyn’s room, on a pallet at the foot of his bed so that, like the men, I could be there to meet his needs. I owed my husband, this clever, generous sodomite, so much.
After making his final will and offering a last confession, three days after the Ides of January, on the Feast of St. Marcel, Pope, and Martyr, Mervyn Slynge received extreme unction and passed from the world quietly, surrounded by his priest, loyal servants, and mostly loyal wife. It was a dismal day, the sky heavy and gray, the wind fierce, matching my sorrow.
The world and my life would be diminished now Mervyn was no longer in it.
In response to a note, Geoffrey arrived the following day, even though the London Road was snowbound and difficult to traverse.
We’d already washed and clothed Mervyn. It was the first time I’d seen him naked. Wrinkled and much reduced, he was like a child and man all rolled into one. I could see the span of his life in his ancient body. It was humbling and there was a strange beauty in the sagging, spotted, and moled flesh of his face, arms, and knees compared to the nearly flawless allure of his stomach and upper thighs. I wondered, as we ran the scented cloth gently over his limbs, his groin, how many lovers he’d had, and if he’d found forgiveness for his sins in the Lord’s arms. Or did the Lord refuse admittance to men who loved other men, even if every other action in their lives warranted a place in the Kingdom of Heaven?
Alyson and I spoke on this during the night and though I couldn’t see her face in the dark, I heard the tremble in her voice as she tried to quell her sorrow. It was a question we’d oft pondered of late.
We buried Mervyn beneath the chapel floor in St. Michael’s Without the Walls. Though Mervyn could have afforded to be buried in St. Peter’s, and indeed, the bishop had tried to persuade him, claiming that God would look kindlier if he chose that church, it had long been arranged with Father Elias where he would lie. Mervyn knew the bishop’s insistence had little to do with God’s attention and everything to do with what he bequeathed St. Michael’s Without upon his death: enough to have masses said for many years and alms for the poor. Mervyn always said there were far more commons inclined to attend mass outside Bath’s walls and be welcomed than there were within.
On returning to the house, we adjourned to the hall. The looms had been moved to the sides of the room and trestle tables erected. We had a splendid feast. Cook outdid himself. Ale and wine flowed and, as the night wore on, pipes, gitterns, and drums played while folk danced. There were many merchants present, as well as Master Binder—who’d dragged himself from his sickbed—and Jankin. I also invited the servants to join us and remember their master.
I concealed my sorrow beneath a facade of hospitality, but each reminder of Mervyn, of his kindness, his intelligence, quite undid me. I moved about the room, noting the grief on the faces of those present, listening to their memories of my husband, how his ability to see the best in folk allowed them to rise to be that—myself included. By St. Sebastian’s ribs, what would become of me now he was no longer here? Instead of allowing my sadness to escape, the tears that had pooled in my chest to flow, I diluted them with wine.
By the time the bells rang for compline, I was stumbling about the place, throwing my arms around whoever stood nearby, alternately wailing and laughing. I remember sharing a dance with Jankin, who kept pressing his body into mine, not that I objected. Likewise, I was flung from one set of arms to another until the room whirled. I was breathless and more than a little bit ill. A group of merchants’ wives stood near one of the tables watching me, their faces carved into expressions of disapproval. Their censure aroused me to new heights and I found Jankin again and, in front to everyone, pressed a kiss upon him, a farewell as the lad was off to Oxford in a week. I also kissed the grocer, his daughter, five merchants, and their sons. I would have kissed Father Elias as well had he not held up his cross to warn me away. It wasn’t until Geoffrey and another man, Simon de la Pole, a brogger who Mervyn had dealt with on occasion, sat me down and forced me to remain still that I began to take stock.
The room was crowded and, despite the cold outside, the raging wind and sleet, I was sweating. A sea of slick, smiling faces swam before me; the odor of the rushes, dogs’ leavings, and urine as well as greasy food made my stomach churn. I could smell sweat, ale, wine, and smoke and not just from the man who remained by my side, Simon, while Geoffrey fetched Alyson and Milda.
I tilted my chin, trying to see who it was that had been such a gentleman as to remove me from the floor before I fell and disgraced myself and Mervyn’s memory. Though I could imagine him laughing if I’d toppled face first into the rushes.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” I said slowly, trying not to slur my words.
“Indeed, we have, mistress,” said Master Simon, touching his fine cap. In fact, all his clothes were rather fancy for a brogger. But then, I guess he’d know quality wool and the best spinners and weavers.
I pinched his coat, my fingers rubbing the fabric. It was a deep blue with cream stitching along the cuff and neck. “This is mighty fine,” I said, narrowing my eyes so I might see it better.
“From your own workshop.”
“Ah, that explains it,” I said, a smirk appearing. “You’ve a good eye.”
“I know,” he said, with such a roguish smile and pointed look that even in my drunken state, I knew wasn’t just about the fabric. His eyes dropped to my breasts. As the night had worn on, my neckline had slipped, and my heavy breasts were bursting from their confines. Be damned if I didn’t experience a sudden rush of liquid heat between my legs. I returned his bold gaze. He’d a mop of dark brown hair upon which his hat sat jauntily. His eyes were the color of burned chestnuts and his skin was weathered, but in that attractive way young men possess—before age destroys their complexions. How old was he? Thirty? Mayhap, a bit older. He was tall, but not too tall. And strong. Geoffrey was but a wisp compared to him.
His eyes had dropped to my lips. I licked them. He began to lean into me but, before anything untoward should happen, Alyson and Geoffrey appeared.
“Come, sister,” said Alyson, glaring at Master Simon and slipping her hand beneath my arm and heaving me upright. “Time for bed.”
“Allow me to help—” began Master Simon.
Alyson shoved him so hard in the chest, he fell onto a stool. I began to giggle.
“You’ve helped more than enough. If you could but take her other side, Geoffrey,” she said, draping my arm over her shoulders. “God, you’re a weight.”
I mumbled something, trying to smile reassuringly at Master Simon. Already he was distracted by a merchant’s sister, a pretty dark-haired child of about fifteen. Evidently, his eyes strayed only slightly faster than his mind.
My head was sluggish and slow and, as we wended our way through the hall, Alyson and Geoffrey explained to our guests that I was overcome with grief and going to retire. I recall thinking what they were saying wasn’t exactly untrue. The loss of Mervyn, while leaving me very well off, as I was destined to receive more than half his worldly goods, also left me feeling empty. Once more, I was a widow. A woman whose husbands died on her faster than flies in a castle kitchen.
Mervyn was gone.
All the life drained from me. Without further complaint, I went to bed. I said goodnight to Geoffrey, who promised to look after those still downstairs, and as Alyson and Milda helped me undress, I barely said a word.
Milda left and Alyson tucked me under the covers, stoked the fire and, eventually, clambered in beside me, releasing a big sigh.
“Sometimes, Eleanor, you’re such a trial. Of all the places to display desire, you choose your husband’s funeral.”
I winced. I’d sobered enough to understand my behavior was wanting. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry, hen. People will understand and if they don’t, then they’re not worth a pinch of . . .” She searched for the appropriate word. “Spice.”
“I think you’ll find it’s salt.”
“That’s what I said.”
I smiled. “I hope you’re right.” We lay there in silence, the muffled noises of dancing and music reaching us through the floor. The window rattled as the wind shook the house.
“We might have trouble convincing people to leave until the storm passes. I doubt we’ll get much sleep before then,” said Alyson wistfully.
“I don’t think I can sleep. Not yet. Despite all I’ve drunk. Too much to think about.”
“Aye,” sighed Alyson. “What are we going to do now you’re a widow again?”
I found Alyson’s hand under the covers. “I imagine go on as we have. You know, weaving, selling our wool and cloth.”
“There are those will make it difficult for you, despite your experience, your name and standing. You’re a woman alone—a feme sole.”
“Aye. Even though I’m a widow and not really alone.” I squeezed her fingers and rolled onto my side. “I’ll be pressed to marry again. Even tonight, there were men seeking my company, paying more attention than they ever have, though I’ve known them for years.”
“Like Simon de la Pole.”
“Exactly like him. How did I never notice how . . . how handsome he is?”
“Never had cause.”
“Nay. Don’t suppose I did.” I traced patterns on the sheet.
The fire crackled and the wood split, a shower of sparks brightening the room momentarily. I could see the outline of Alyson’s face, the lucent glow of her eyes, boring into mine.
“I can’t stop thinking about what Father Elias said at the funeral today.”
“What’s that?” asked Alyson wearily.
“He said that we all, no matter whether popes, emperors, kings, queens, paupers, or beggars, whether high born, low born, rich, or poor, the one thing we all have in common is death.”
“He’s right.”
“Then he read that passage from his psalter: We have all come here to this world like pilgrims so that we are to leave it.”
s“And . . . ?” Alyson waited for me to say more. “Oh, nay. Eleanor . . .” She half sat up. “Don’t tell me you have a mind to wander again. Look what happened last time we went away.” She fell back on the pillow.
“Last time,” I said, “I went too far. This time, I don’t intend to travel quite that distance.”
“I suppose that means Walsingham or Canterbury?” Alyson sounded so despondent.
“I was thinking maybe Cologne.”
“Cologne?” She turned to look at me in shock before burying her face in her hands and kicking her heels. “God, Eleanor.” She removed her hands. “That’s miles away and over the sea! Have you gone entirely mad?”
“Aye, Godsib. I have.” I waited for her to calm down. “What say you? Fancy a trip through France?”
“While we’re at war?” Alyson threw her arms out and began to chuckle. “If it’s with you, Eleanor, then why the hell not? What could go wrong?”