So she’s surprised when, after a moment of blushing and nodding and agreeing with everything she’s saying, he leans right over to her and mutters in her ear, worriedly, without a trace of the bashful flirtatiousness she’s just seen on his face, ‘Madame Perrers, may I tell you what I heard with my master in the City this morning?’
‘Of course…?’ she breathes back, looking encouragingly into his eyes.
As the story comes hesitantly out – he feels uncomfortable repeating other people’s conversations, she sees, but he does, suddenly, terribly want her to know – she feels so overwhelmed, so close to shaky, that she’s glad she’s seated.
For what John de Stafford has to say is this. Warde, the Mayor, made it clear this morning during his meeting with the Duke that he’s getting a City plot going against Alice Perrers. Apparently the man’s managed to get the London merchants to forget their usual squabbles with each other over money and join forces in a financial investigation. On the face of it, it sounds like just the usual London viciousness towards foreigners – the grocer said they were planning to bring a legal case at the Guildhall against the Italians who’d been benefiting from getting part of their loans repaid. For usury, he said (as if they weren’t all usurers themselves). But Warde was half mad with excitement – far too excited for an everyday bit of Italian-bashing. Rubbing his hands, gleeful looks: ‘I can tell you right now, my lord, that it’s not going to end well for anyone who was involved in setting up the debt swaps, either.’ When the Duke asked, ‘And who do you mean by that, Master Warde?’ Warde wriggled with pride. ‘Well, the trail leads to Richard Lyons, for one thing…’ he said happily, as if he really thought the Duke would care, one way or another, whether the money-grubbers of London turned on a money-grubber from Flanders. Then he fixed Duke John with a still more significant gaze: ‘It may even lead to court, and formal punishment. For him. And for others too.’ The Duke knows, of course, that Alice Perrers thought up that debt exchange; he’s been grateful to her for the past year for her clever idea. His household knows, too. So he asked, ‘You’re not suggesting…’ and: ‘…Madame Perrers?’ There was no answer direct, just more noddings and excited wrigglings. And John de Stafford can’t swear to it, but he thinks that, for a moment, the City man even had the unspeakable temerity to wink.
‘They want to destroy you,’ he says sadly, shaking his head. ‘They really do. You should watch your back.’
Alice shakes her head too. The shock’s passing, and with it the cold dread. After all, she’s known for so long there’s something brewing. Some attack, some ambush. This confirmation is – almost – a relief.
‘But why?’ she wonders aloud, allowing herself to sound helpless. She wants a little comfort from this man with strong shoulders; a little reassurance.
John de Stafford, who’s better at accounts books than he is at the human heart, is naive enough to think Alice might genuinely not know the answer to her rhetorical question. ‘Because you’re so powerful,’ he says earnestly. ‘And because you’ve made your own power, and your own money. They don’t like someone beating them at their own game. Especially a woman.’ He’s embarrassed himself now. Hastily, he adds, sketching a little bow, ‘Especially a beautiful woman.’
Slowly, she nods. It’s the comfort she wanted.
Yet how strange it is, she’s thinking as she gives the anxious man at her side a pitiful wounded-lapdog look. She still so often thinks of herself as small, an ant or mouse or shadow, some unnoticed creature shifting crumbs no one sees or needs off to its hole. It was only the other day, at Gaines, watching her family laughing at things she can’t find funny any more, that she got a first real inkling of how far she’s moved from her early days of insignificance. She’s part of a bigger landscape now, and a bigger beast in it. It’s hard to grasp, even for her, how close to power she is, and should continue to be – look at her just now, murmuring together with the King’s son, who may become the next ruler of the land, who eats out of her hand…It’s difficult to realise how large she seems to loom, especially since she’s never been one for titles and visible attempts at grandeur. Yet there it is. People notice her. Perhaps they’ve been noticing her more than she realises for years. And oh, what an irritant she must be to all those who’d like the world to have stayed the way it used to be, with people in their proper places. Or those who’d like to have done what she’s done, but don’t know how.
After all, no one, and certainly no woman, has ever climbed as high as she has, from a starting place so low (not that any of them know quite how low she started). She’s got more energy than any of them. She’s a winner: queen of the climbers, and a queen from the humblest of the people, too.
So perhaps she can understand why Walworth’s merchants, no strangers to self-enrichment themselves, would hate and envy her, just like the Princess, and half the court; why they’d all want to bring her down.
Suddenly feeling tough, invincible, almost, she dimples mischievously up at the worried John de Stafford. ‘Well, I’m not going to let them beat me,’ she says with utter calm, assurance. ‘You’re very kind, but you mustn’t worry. They’re not going to win.’ She means it, she thinks as she picks up her embroidery again, and says, with composure, ‘Now do tell me about the Duke’s wonderful building project at Kenilworth…’
She’s not going to let them bring her down, and stop her enjoying the fruits of her success.
She’s not going to let them stop her children enjoying those fruits either, she thinks a moment later. That’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it?
The Duke doesn’t stay long with his father. What would be the point?
He comes quietly back into the antechamber, soundlessly moving the curtains aside.
Alice Perrers has been busy in his absence. She’s given his men refreshments, and they’re standing around looking pleased and licking cake crumbs off their fingers. And there’s a steaming bowl of food on a table, and a flagon of drink waiting for the King. She’s sitting by it, head bowed dutifully over her sewing. Waiting, as a good royal servant should.
The sight of this modest virtue cheers him a little.
It also reminds him that loyalty obliges him, too. He’d meant to warn Madame Perrers about something earlier, but he’d been thinking mostly about how his father would be, and it slipped his mind.
Now it’s back. Something Warde-the-grocer said in the City. A plot in the offing, against her and her friends. She should know. Forewarned is forearmed.
When she looks up, humbly, and her face softens into pleased excitement at his presence, he’s ready to tell her.
‘My lord,’ she says, rising to her feet, putting aside her needlework, bowing her head. He clears his throat.
But before he can say a word, she’s started talking herself. And there’s something wheedling, beseeching, even, in the little smiles she’s giving him as the words rush out. A favour, then. He knows that look. He composes himself, ready to nod, to listen, to understand, and, probably, to grant it. He owes her so much.
Self-preservation is urgently on Alice’s mind, now she’s talked to John de Stafford. When she sees the Duke come through the door, she finds herself – can’t stop herself – separating him from his men, waiting till they’re streaming off out of the room to wait in the corridor, so she can whisper in his ear, and ask him to intercede with Edward, and get Johnny knighted with the next crop of boys who are honoured. By that time, Johnny will be…better. And the Duke is so efficient at getting granted the favours that the King promises, but forgets. Always was.
Even before she starts, she’s expecting his brow to shadow for a moment. She’s expecting the fretful question, ‘But whose son…?’ But she’s thought it all out in these last few heady minutes. He won’t remember what she was before Edward. And he won’t want detail. She knows that. That’s the beauty of asking him. So…
‘Oh, long ago,’ she replies with vague charm. ‘My first husband. Long before…’
She’s
not expecting this thunderous look deepening and darkening on his face.
There’s blood pounding through the Duke’s head.
Knighthood is glory, he’s thinking, not just grace in the saddle and at swordplay, but courage enough to give your life to defend what you hold dear. A noble reward, for noble men. A badge of honour.
He’d never ennoble a merchant. Even Chaucer, whom he admires, but knows to be a fool on a battlefield. Not Chaucer’s fault, that; just his merchant blood.
Knighthood’s not for the likes of these people; for Madame Perrers’ brood. He thought she knew her place. But she’s overreached herself; she’s as grasping as the rest of them, after all. Do these people think they can buy or steal everything?
Alice falters. Her eyes drop. His are so angry. She doesn’t understand why.
‘Madame Perrers,’ the Duke says, and his voice is as steely as his gaze. ‘Knighthood is a mark of nobility.’
She tries not to cringe or look crestfallen. She stares at the floor. She’s given offence. Her short-lived sunny relief is replaced, instantly, by quiet dread.
So much for her power and visibility. All that’s not hers, not really, is it? It’s this man’s, to whom she’s linking her future, or hopes she is. She’s just a shadow dancing behind him, not a person of the stature to bask in the light of power herself. One frown from this man, and she’s back to being a crumb on the floor.
She squeezes anxious hands together till the knuckles go white and she can feel half-moons of fingernail burn into the backs of fingers.
He’s being pompous, of course. She can think of half a dozen rich merchants who’ve retired to country estates with knighthoods; whose sons will be noble. No harm in that. Why not her, and her son?
She didn’t mean anything bad. She didn’t think…Surely he can see that?
But he’s still staring accusingly at her, as if her words were so outrageous that they’ve robbed him of the power of speech.
She swallows, and then nods. Best agree. Best drop it, quick. ‘I understand,’ she mutters appeasingly, thinking: What can I say next, to make him forget I asked?
But he’s not staying for more. He’s off towards the door.
There’s a game children play, cutting away flour from a heap, slice by careful slice, trying not to let the coin perched at the top of the flour fall. The loser is the one whose hands start to shake, and whose cut finally topples the coin. Alice feels she’s playing that game now. She sees the thin column of flour wavering after an injudicious cut, with the coin wobbling precariously at the top. She’s made a few bad plays recently.
‘You made a good Lady of the Sun,’ he adds bitingly over his shoulder. ‘But leave it at that.’
Alice shuts her eyes. As the door shuts, she’s trying to visualise that coin. It’s still up there, she tells herself. It hasn’t fallen yet.
NINETEEN
They’re waiting for him. They’re all at the Customs House, perched on the sides of the big table, companionably chatting, when Chaucer walks in.
Brembre has that muscular sun-kissed bronzed look, Philpot is bald and smooth, and Walworth, relaxed now he’s no longer having to perform the daily duties of Mayor, seems taller and paler and more angelic than ever. Chaucer looks at these three, his father’s friends, his own mentors, and wonders at the slight dislike in his heart.
Their eyes light up as he comes in. The big beaming smiles come out.
It makes him uncomfortable. He’s spent an hour writing this morning, only remembering to rush over here when he saw how high the sun was in the sky. He knows what his father would have said about slacking, when his job is so responsible. He wishes now that he’d stopped to get his cheeks shaved, at least.
Walworth clears his throat. Chaucer sees he’s got a roll open on the table.
‘My dear Master Chaucer,’ he says kindly, and his gold hair shimmers above pale eyes. ‘We’ve been looking at your work. We wanted to talk to you about this.’
He puts a clean slim finger on the parchment. Peeping forward, Chaucer can see where it’s fallen: on the name John Kent, one of the many caught trying to export wool without paying customs. Kent has had the entire cargo, worth £71 4s. 6d., confiscated. It’s in the warehouse now.
Chaucer isn’t sure what he’s done wrong, but he can’t help it. The finger stabbing at the parchment is making him feel guilty. He feels sure they think he’s done something wrong.
Anxiously he says, ‘Master Walworth’ – for they’ve settled on formality in the ways they address each other – ‘we talked about this. You remember, don’t you? You agreed that the cargo had to be impounded.’
Walworth looks carefully at him – the others do too – then they all begin to chuckle reassuringly.
‘You misunderstand me, dear boy,’ Walworth says. ‘You did absolutely the right thing.’
There’s a little pause. It’s Walworth who breaks the silence. Still smiling, he says, ‘As a matter of fact, dear boy, we were just saying how very well your appointment is turning out…’
Philpot chimes in: ‘…and how we’ve come to depend on you. Reliable and hard-working; quick to spot errors, like this one.’
They all nod, and twinkle. But it’s Walworth who makes the offer.
‘In fact,’ he says merrily, ‘we think it’s time we offered you a reward for all your unremitting labour and diligence.’
The others nod again. Chaucer’s hardly breathing.
‘So we’ve decided. We’re going to make over the value of this confiscated property to you,’ Walworth finishes.
Chaucer can’t believe it. Seventy-one pounds! It’s more than seven times his year’s pay – more than enough to pay Elizabeth’s bride-price to the Church, if she does go to St Helen’s, without having to dip into his savings. His heart expands in his chest until it feels he might burst.
‘Thank you,’ he stammers. ‘Thank you.’
He senses, rightly, that there’s more to come.
He wants to believe that this isn’t a bribe. He doesn’t think of himself as buyable. He once told Alice he’d never taken a bribe. He wants to believe they really are just thanking him for his exceptionally good work. Only he isn’t sure it has been so exceptional.
So he thinks there will be more, because, if they are buying him, they’ll have to explain why.
‘You’re a loyal man, Chaucer,’ Walworth adds warmly, after giving him a moment for his piece of good fortune to sink in. ‘Always have been. We didn’t quite know what to expect when you came back from court, in all your glory…’
Chaucer translates in his head: ‘As the protégé of Alice Perrers and the Duke.’ Suddenly watchful, he stands a little straighter.
‘But you’ve done us proud. Your father would be proud of you.’
For a moment, the mention of his father’s pride brings grateful tears prickling into Chaucer’s eyes. But then he realises they knew that would happen. And it makes him more watchful still. He smiles, a sentimental smile, to show how he appreciates the compliment. But inside, he’s on his guard.
‘You understand better than most that sometimes it pays to keep your head down and your mouth closed, and just get on with the job,’ Walworth finishes. He leans closer, gazing hypnotically into Chaucer’s eyes, as if willing him to nod along with Walworth’s own beautiful head, which is already going up and down.
‘Whatever else is going on outside,’ Chaucer agrees tactfully. ‘Yes indeed.’
‘Now,’ Brembre says briskly. ‘There’ll be a lot of commotion for the next few months, what with the Parliament and everything else. People’s eyes wandering; work left undone; who knows what trickery being swept into corners.’
Is that it? They’re bribing me to keep quiet during the Parliament? But why, when I wouldn’t have anything to do with Parliament anyway? Chaucer’s puzzled. He’s heard the rumours. Everyone in town is suddenly talking about how the City aldermen are about to go after the Italians over the debt scandal – and, if they can, drag
Lyons and Alice and their friends at court into admitting complicity, too. He can see that these three might easily want him to keep clear of Alice while that’s going on. They know Alice is his benefactor. They wouldn’t want Chaucer coming up with clever defences for her.
He could understand they’d try to buy him to keep his nose out of the aldermen’s courtroom at Guildhall. But why Parliament?
‘You want me to keep my head down and keep concentrating on my work,’ he says, and he makes his voice extra docile. ‘During the Parliament.’ He needs to be sure it is actually the Parliament he’s being told to keep his nose out of.
Walworth laughs cosily and claps him on the back. ‘Yes indeed,’ he replies, all bonhomie and charm. ‘Though you must do as I say, not as I do, of course, because I’ll be at Parliament myself, as you know. One of the two men for London. Forgetting my normal work. Sweeping things under the carpet. You’ll have to keep an eye on me!’
The future parliamentary representative for London laughs. They all laugh. They all clap Chaucer on the back. They leave together.
After they’ve gone, and he’s alone with the clerks, Chaucer sighs.
He knows they’re out to get Alice. He just can’t quite yet see how Walworth plans to drag the case to Parliament.
It pains him, the rank injustice of it. He knows (who better than he?) that Alice is, or has been, greedy, and venal, and out for herself. But it also seems clear to him that Alice is just a symptom of all the troubles England’s gripped by, not the cause they’re going to make her out to be. Greed is in the air. Who doesn’t take a little, or a lot, if there’s no one to say no? If it’s so easy that saying no seems madness? He can’t think of anyone in the land who hasn’t, these last years…even he, now…
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