by Mike Ashley
After decades of skirmishing, Genoa defeated Pisa in the Naval Battle of Meloria in 1284. The campanile, as of this writing, is still leaning.
The Duke’s Tale
Cherith Baldry
We all remember Geoffrey Chaucer as the author of the Canterbury Tales, composed during the 1380s, but it’s easily forgotten that in his youth he was an agent for the King, some might say spy, and served throughout Europe, in particular France, Flanders and Italy. He is thus an ideal candidate for a genuine historical sleuth and Cherith Baldry first put this to good use in “The Friar’s Tale” in Royal Whodunnits and again in “The Pilgrim’s Tale” in the previous Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits. This is Chaucer’s third outing.
Cherith Baldry is a former teacher and librarian who has turned to writing children’s books and other fantasies. Her most recent offerings include a series of historical mysteries for young adults set in twelfth-century Glastonbury, which starts with The Buried Cross (2004).
Jean Froissart rubbed his temples, trying to banish a pounding headache, and let the mild airs of the castle garden flow over him. He felt as if he had been sitting for a lifetime in the ante-chamber, while priests and physicians came and went on soft feet, and the last drops of Duke Lionel’s life trickled away. Froissart could not hope any longer that his lord would recover.
He stood by the open door of Duke Lionel’s apartments, screened from the rest of the garden by a rose trellis. The flowers were withering now that summer was over; a few dark crimson petals scattered the grass like gouts of blood. Laughter came from somewhere beyond, and instinctively Froissart drew back. He had no stomach just now for these Milanese, who could laugh while a man was dying. He wished there was something he could do, save write the letter he had been struggling with all morning, to tell King Edward in England that his son was no more.
He started at the sound of a brisk step coming from the passage that led to the main castle courtyard, and stared incredulously at the man who paused under the archway.
“Master Chaucer!” His voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat and tried again, hurrying forward the few steps that brought him to the newcomer’s side. “Master Chaucer, I thought you were in England.”
“Master Froissart, well met.” Geoffrey Chaucer gripped his hand. His neat blue cottae and the brown cloak over it were dusty from the road, and he looked tired, but his eyes were as bright and his look as alert as when Froissart had known him in the English court. “My lord Edward sent me with letters for the duke. I travelled to Milan first, then to the court at Pavia, and they directed me here to Alba.” He let out a faint puff of relief. “But now I see I’ve caught Duke Lionel at last.”
Froissart shook his head. “No. Nor will you. He goes out on that last long road where none can follow.”
Chaucer stared at him, his expression changed to consternation. “Dying?”
“Yes, he –”
Froissart broke off, turning towards the renewed sound of laughter. From this vantage point he could see past the rose trellis to the open space beyond. Autumn sunlight gilded the hair of the young man who sat with negligent grace on a marble bench beneath a tree. His companion, dark as he was fair, had just plucked a rose from the trellis beside them, a late bud, half-opened, as deeply crimson as a gout of heart’s blood. The same colour smouldered in a ruby on the hand that held the flower, glinting in the warm light. Both men wore velvet doublets, tight-fitting in the latest fashion, with chains of gold and pearl that spoke of their nobility, or at least of their wealth.
Unable to restrain a soft sound of contempt, Froissart stiffened as both faces turned towards him. Their scrutiny was not hostile, but curious, he thought, the look of a cat before her paw flashes out to pin the mouse.
Chaucer bowed; reluctantly Froissart did the same, murmuring, “The fair sprig is Gian Visconti, son of Duke Galeazzo. The other is Ottone, Marquis of Montferrat, lord here at Alba.” His private opinion of the pair of them he left unspoken.
“Duke Galeazzo?” Chaucer’s voice was soft as his own. “That is the father of Duke Lionel’s bride? The Duke of Milan?”
Froissart nodded. “With his brother Bernabo. The story is that they rule jointly – though Bernabo is keen enough to thrust his brother out of Milan to the lesser court in Pavia.”
Gian had inclined his head in response to their marks of respect, but except for that single glance, half amused and half contemptuous, the young Marquis ignored them entirely. Speaking a few words in his own tongue to his friend, with a derisive tone that needed no translation, he turned and lounged away, sniffing delicately at the rose as he went.
Gian waved a hand in dismissal; Froissart took Chaucer along the path and through the door which led to a stair and then a tapestried ante-chamber. It lay empty as when he had left it, but he could hear the murmur of voices from deeper within the suite of apartments. Quietly pushing open the far door, he entered a larger room where a knot of courtiers were muttering together in a corner. At his entry with Chaucer they fell instantly silent, their gazes swivelling round to take in the new arrivals, then fell to their urgent muttering again. The door of Duke Lionel’s bedchamber was still shut.
“Tell me what is happening,” Chaucer asked, worriedly fingering the leather wallet he carried. “Is Duke Lionel truly not well enough to read these letters – or have them read to him? News from his father might cheer him.”
“He’ll never be well again in this world.” Froissart lowered his voice, casting a glance at the group of courtiers. “He has lain in a fever for days now, and he grows ever weaker. These Milanese doctors are fools.” He indicated another closed door. “Duke Bernabo’s personal physician has been in the bedchamber with Duke Lionel these last three hours – for all the good it will do.”
“The duke is so close to death?” Chaucer’s voice was shaking.
Froissart nodded grimly. “I fear only God can save him now.”
“I must consult the physician,” said Chaucer. “King Edward will want to know – but I don’t speak their tongue,” he finished, sounding exasperated with himself.
“Nor I,” said Froissart. “But they are not quite barbarians. You will find they speak quite adequate French. They –”
He was interrupted by a shivering wail from the bedchamber, a woman’s voice raised in a paroxysm of grief. “Morto! È morto!”
Froissart and Chaucer stared at each other; Froissart felt the breath catch in his throat. In any language there was no mistaking what that cry meant.
The bedroom door was flung open; a young girl stood on the threshold. Her cloud of dark hair was wildly dishevelled, and as Froissart watched in consternation she tore at the heavy pearl collar she wore, snapping the threads and sending pearls bouncing to every corner of the room. “È morto!” she repeated.
An older woman came up behind her, dressed in the russet gown and white wimple of a servant, and put an arm around the girl’s shoulders, murmuring words of comfort. The girl began to pull away, then suddenly clung to her, burying her face in the old woman’s shoulder and breaking into noisy sobs. The woman led her away, still hushing her gently, and the group of courtiers, stark dismay in their faces, hurried out after them, ignoring Froissart and Chaucer.
Froissart felt as if the floor beneath his feet was about to give way, as if the world itself was skidding out of control, like one of the scattered pearls. All his memories of Lionel showed the duke in motion: on horseback, or wrestling a practice bout, or leading a lady into the dance. Impossible to imagine him in the stillness of death. “Why did we come to this accursed land?” He drove one fist into the other palm. “Are there no women left in England, that he must cross the sea to wed?”
“That was his lady – Violante?” Chaucer nodded towards the door where the distraught girl had left.
Froissart muttered assent. “No wonder she grieves,” he added. “To wed a son of the King of England, and a decent, clean-living man at that – and handsome, as women reckon these things
– and then to lose him, after no more than four months. I pity her.” He spoke abruptly, half-ashamed to admit it. Running his hands through his hair, he went back to his work table in the window alcove and stood frowning down at the blank piece of parchment he had been staring at all day. “And now what am I to write to his father?”
Chaucer did not answer. Stooping, he began to gather up the pearls, collecting them in one cupped hand. “You still have not told me how it happened that the duke fell ill,” he said after a moment.
Froissart sighed, not wanting to remember. “We stayed in Milan after the wedding,” he began. “These Milanese . . . no extravagance is too much. Duke Bernabo poured out gold like water. Then we moved to Duke Galeazzo’s court at Pavia – more feasting and ostentation. I thought it would never end, but at last Duke Lionel decided to take his leave and turn for home.”
Chaucer trapped a large and lustrous pearl that was almost hidden by the edge of the tapestry. “This town isn’t on the most direct route,” he said.
“No.” Froissart sniffed disdainfully. “Lord Ottone, the Marquis of Montferrat, invited Duke Lionel to be his guest. God, but he’s a vicious young rogue! I’d hopes Lionel would refuse, but no, he thanked the wretched little viper for his courtesy, and everyone – Bernabo and Galeazzo and all their retinue – came here to Alba.”
“And when did Duke Lionel fall ill?” Chaucer asked.
“Almost as soon as we arrived. There was a feast to welcome him on the first night. On the following morning he complained of feeling heavy and feverish –” Froissart clenched his hands at the memory “– but he rose and went riding with the dukes and the marquis. They brought him back on a litter made of green boughs, and he never rose from his bed again.” For all his efforts, he could not stop his voice from breaking, and he stood with his back to Chaucer, a hand shading his eyes.
He heard the rattle of pearls as Chaucer deposited his collection tidily on the work table, then felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Froissart whipped round to face his friend. “There was treachery here,” he whispered. “These Milanese are serpents all. Duke Lionel was poisoned!”
Chaucer swung round as he spoke, staring at the outer door. Froissart felt his stomach lurch with apprehension as he saw young Gian Visconti standing in the doorway, with two other men behind him. One of them was his father Galeazzo, tall and slender like his son, with the same red-gold hair and sleepy eyes. The other, a shorter, burly man with close-cropped dark hair and beard, was Galeazzo’s brother Bernabo.
As Gian turned to his father to pour out an agitated stream of words, Duke Bernabo pushed past him and strode across to Froissart, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a rough shake. “Poison?” Rage made his voice so thick that his words were scarcely intelligible. “You dare say poison? Falsità! Spergiuro!” He lapsed into his own language, his face suffused with anger.
Froissart struggled vainly to free himself, visions flitting through his mind of his body broken and cast aside, or strangled under the furious duke’s blunt hands. Chaucer stepped forward with a word of protest; at the same moment Duke Galeazzo snapped out a few words to his brother in his own tongue. Bernabo let out a roar of rage, but he released Froissart and pushed him contemptuously into a chair.
Shocked out of his usual languid affectation, Gian crossed the room to Chaucer and Froissart, and spoke quietly. “You have made an accusation. Our honour is tainted. My uncle says that if there was poison it was an English hand that gave it to your duke. There must be a traitor in his retinue, and here we have punishments for traitors – the strappado, the rack, the gouging of eyes –”
“Stop!” Chaucer exclaimed, looking sickened. “Until just recently, I was myself in Duke Lionel’s household. He was a good lord to all of us.”
The young man’s lips twisted cynically. “And so powerful a man has no enemies? Truly the English must all be angels!”
Meanwhile the brother dukes confronted each other in the centre of the chamber. Though Froissart could not understand a word they said, their hostility was palpable, Duke Bernabo growling like a hound, his head thrust forward aggressively, while Duke Galeazzo spoke sharply but kept his temper under control. Eventually he grasped his brother by the arm and thrust him into Duke Lionel’s bedchamber, tossing a few words over his shoulder to Gian as he went.
“My father is angry,” Gian said unnecessarily.
Froissart could understand why. Duke Galeazzo had gone to much trouble, and spent a mountain of gold, to ally the Visconti family with the Crown of England, and with Lionel’s death both effort and gold were wasted. If any man might be accused of poisoning Duke Lionel, it was surely not Galeazzo Visconti.
“My uncle wishes to have the whole of Duke Lionel’s entourage put to the rack until one of you confesses,” Gian went on. “For the moment my father restrains him, but if my uncle should prevail . . .” He shrugged, hesitated for a moment with an anxious look, and followed the two dukes.
“These Visconti!” Froissart exclaimed when he had gone, quivering with a mixture of fear and anger. “Tyrants!”
Chaucer signed to him for silence, his brow ridged in thought. Froissart realised that his unguarded accusation had brought this trouble on them; if he had known that their hosts could hear him he would have kept silence.
“We must ride for England,” he said edgily, cursing himself for the indiscretion. Lionel’s household could find themselves tortured or put to death for an imagined crime. He had no confidence that the milder Duke Galeazzo would prevail for long over his bloodthirsty brother.
His spine pricked with apprehension as Chaucer shook his head. “No, my friend. Duke Lionel’s whole retinue could not pack up and leave without alerting the Visconti. That would be an admission of guilt. Our best hope is to stay for Duke Lionel’s funeral ceremonies and take our leave in the usual way.”
“And wait to be dragged into the dungeons?” Froissart made a wordless sound of contempt.
“Or,” Chaucer added thoughtfully, “we could discover ourselves who did this deed.”
Before Froissart could reply, the bedchamber door opened again and all three of the Viscontis emerged. They had not taken long to pay their respects to the dead man; probably they had only wished to make sure that he was truly dead. They did not speak as they crossed the ante-room, though Duke Bernabo fixed a glare on Froissart and Chaucer that promised retribution.
Chaucer followed them to the door and waited until their footsteps receded. Then he turned back to Froissart. “Perhaps we should see whether Duke Lionel’s body can tell us anything.”
He went into the bedchamber; Froissart stared after him, immobile for a moment, then with an effort flung off his paralysis and followed. Here the shutters were closed, the air heavy with the smell of herbs, blood and sweat. Chairs and benches were strewn with robes of silk and velvet, heavily embroidered with gold. A surcoat bearing Lionel’s arms was wadded up on the floor. A plumed, gilded helmet stood on the table beside a gold cup encrusted with rubies that winked in the dim light.
A priest was kneeling at a prie-dieu by the door, muttering his prayers. In the shadows of the bedcurtains, a tall, greying man bent over the body of Duke Lionel, as if he had just finished composing it. Chaucer drew nearer to look down at the man whose servant he had been; Froissart stood at his shoulder, half afraid of what he would see. Lionel’s handsome face looked pale and waxy. His jaw had dropped; his springing golden hair was dull as straw and dark with the sweat that had soaked it. Froissart shook his head. His lord had departed, leaving only this shell.
If Chaucer felt the same sense of loss, he showed it only in an increase of gravity as he faced the man by the bed. “My name is Chaucer; I have come from the duke’s father in England,” he said. “You are the physician?”
The man bowed his head in assent. “I am Master Jacopo, physician to Duke Bernabo. I assure you that nothing more could have been done.” He took from the chest beside the bed a jar with a giant leech clinging to the insid
e, clicking his tongue in vexation as if it was somehow responsible for the death of his patient. “All the aspects were evil,” he added with a sigh of resignation. “His death was written in the stars.”
“And what was the cause of it?” Chaucer asked.
“A fever struck him down. He overtaxed his body and unbalanced the humours,” Master Jacopo explained disapprovingly.
Froissart was not sure how far they could trust this man. He reflected that Duke Bernabo’s personal physician would hardly talk of poison, especially if Duke Bernabo had any hand in administering it. Brought up short by the thought, he wondered whether Bernabo might really have murdered Duke Lionel; he was violent enough. Yet like Duke Galeazzo, Bernabo would have valued the alliance between Milan and England, and would have done nothing to destroy it.
Master Jacopo had turned away to fiddle with the electuaries in his chest. Chaucer gave Froissart a thoughtful glance, and spoke in a voice too low for the physician to hear. “Is he an honest man? Could he have given poison in the place of physic?”
Froissart shrugged. “Honest but incompetent,” he replied bitterly. “Duke Lionel fell ill almost as soon as he arrived in Alba. The doctor had no reason to attend him before that.”
“Then we must acquit Master Jacopo,” Chaucer murmured.
Froissart let out a faint sigh. When the king had sent him with Duke Lionel on this mission to Milan, he had looked forward to the fabled splendour of the court, to the music and especially the poetry that poured from this land. The great Petrarch himself had attended Duke Lionel’s wedding, though he had not deigned to speak to an obscure clerk. Chaucer must have felt the same, Froissart realised, remembering his friend’s scribbled verses. Now he was faced with his lord dead, and the shadow of treason over all the English retinue.
