Preview of The Good Wife of Bath
Preview of The Good Wife of Bath by Karen Brooks
PART ONE The Marriage Debt
1364 to 1386
No sooner than one husband’s dead and gone Some other Christian man shall take me on.
—The Wife of Bath’s Prologue, The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, translated by Neville Coghill
The man is not under the lordship of the woman, but the woman is under the lordship of the man.
[Another writer has added in the margins: “Not always.”]
—From the thirteenth-century regulations of the poulterers of Paris, edited by GB Depping, Réglemens sur les arts et métiers de Paris rédigés au 13e siécle et connus sous le nom du Livre des métiers d’Étienne Boileau, 1837
The Tale of Husband the First, Fulk Bigod
1364 to 1369
Wedding’s no sin, so far as I can learn Better it is to marry than to burn.
—The Wife of Bath’s Prologue, The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, translated by Neville Coghill
ONE
Noke Manor, Bath-atte-Mere The Year of Our Lord 1364
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of Edward III Istared in dismay at the old man standing in the middle of the room who, as the steward announced me in the coldest of tones, looked as out of place as a whore in a priory. On second thoughts, knowing some of the local sisters, mayhap not. What on God’s good earth was that pariah, Master Fulk Bigod, doing here at Noke Manor, let alone in her ladyship’s solar? His reputation as a peculiar loner who grunted rather than spoke followed him like the stench of his person. A farmer and wool grower, he lived on the outskirts of the village. With four wives already in the grave, it was said he bullied folk until they sold him their daughters or their sheep. Papa never had time for him—not that he was alone in that respect. The man was despised and mostly avoided. By everyone. By me. Until now.
Dear Lord, was this to be my punishment? Was this how I was to pay for my sin? I was going to be sent away and made to work for this man. It was said no servant he hired remained long. They fled the coop once they saw what roosted there. God help me. Though what was I doing requesting aid from the Almighty? It was a priest who got me into this mess in the first place. A mess that saw me locked away in my bedroom and now, days later, dragged before my betters. I worried my lip as I regarded those who filled the room. There was my good lady mistress, her friend The Poet, the new steward Master Merriman, a number of servants—friends—who could scarce meet my eyes, and bloody, stinking Fulk Bigod. Papa in heaven, help me.
Ever since it happened, I’d been kept in solitude and ordered to contemplate the shame my actions had brought upon my lady and my dead father. I was told to pray for forgiveness and my everlasting soul. Shocked by how swiftly my fortunes had undergone a change, as if the Fates had suddenly given Fortuna’s wheel a random spin, I didn’t comply. Not straight away.
When I was first confined to my room and Master Merriman latched the door, warning me I’d remain there until the lady de-cided how to salvage the situation, I banged on the wood and shouted myself hoarse. When no one appeared to release or console me, and the celebrations outside continued as if nothing momen-tous had occurred, I did indeed drop to my knees and pray to the Heavenly Father—for a few minutes, then I grew bored. It’s hard to stay focused when there’s no reply. May as well talk to oneself. I crossed myself, leaped up, and pushed open the shutters to see what I was missing out on.
Beyond the manor house, the sun cast a mellow glow over the May Day celebrations that were in full swing. The Queen of the May, Mariot Breaksper, the baker’s daughter, had been crowned. She looked mighty fine in her green kirtle, her golden hair unbound and a garland of flowers planted upon her head. Twirling around the maypole, holding the brightly colored ribbons I’d helped attach, were my friends, their heads adorned with the greenery we’d wo-ken early to cut from the nearby woods. There was clapping, stomp-ing, and much laughter, all accompanied by flutes, viols, pipes, and drums. Fires were lit and, as the afternoon wore on and the smell of roasting meat carried into the attic to taunt me, I wished I was among it all. With a great sigh, I rested my elbows on the sill, my chin on my palms.
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