by K. M. Grant
“Oh, Belle, men do all manner of things for power. Thomas of Gloucester thinks he’d make a good king himself. Moreover, he’s a cantankerous fellow who loves war, just as Richard’s father did. It’s public knowledge that he thinks Richard disgraces both God and the kingly office by not being nearly keen enough on fighting.”
“But I thought God didn’t like fighting.”
“Only certain sorts of fighting. Apparently, if men fight in his name, he doesn’t mind that at all.” The Master’s mouth kinked into an unwilling grin that almost immediately vanished. “The truth is that a rebellion would have support. Richard did so well during his early years, but that’s all forgotten now. Many whisper that far from upholding his father’s memory, he’s turning into his great-grandfather.”
“What happened to him?”
“Deposed and murdered,” Master Chaucer said, and stared over the river as though trying to see into the future. “I don’t want Richard to suffer the same fate.”
I spoke slowly, filling in the gaps. “So you’re going to ask King Charles of France to send men-at-arms to England to help King Richard keep his throne.” As soon as the words were out I regretted them. “Don’t—” I began.
The Master spoke quickly and firmly. “Listen. Nobody with any sense wants to see Richard deposed, but not everybody has much sense. If Richard is to stop his uncle Thomas of Gloucester, the Earl of Arundel, and the Duke of Warwick seizing power—” I looked quite blank. “These names mean nothing to you, I know,” the Master said, “but believe me, Belle, they are powerful men and they seem quite determined to destroy the king and rule England themselves. They’ve even made up a—”
“Commission,” I said.
“A Commission of Government,” the Master corrected, frowned, then softened. “Yes, a commission, which they say is acting on the people’s behalf and to which men should rally.” He shook his head. “They’ve humiliated the king, demanding to see his household finances as though he were a troublesome child, and they’re unlikely to stop there. With enemies like this, is it really surprising that Richard has resorted to enlisting help from abroad?”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I want you to understand that whatever Seekum insinuates, I carry no letters or documents and I’m meeting nobody. I’m going to Canterbury for my wife just as you go for your father.” The Master’s voice was suddenly very tired. “Come. I’ve delayed everybody long enough.”
There were raised eyebrows when the other pilgrims learned that Master Chaucer was not going home to bury his wife, and, inevitably, we’d not gone half a mile before I found the summoner beside me. I didn’t bother to avoid him. Indeed, I told him, in as dead-pan a manner as I could, exactly what the Master had told me, except for the stuff about the Master being a trimmer and the compliments he had paid to the summoner himself. Nothing would drag those out of me. “That’s all,” I said. “The Master’s made it very clear that he’s carrying nothing and meeting nobody because he’s going to Canterbury to pray for his wife’s immortal soul. So, I’ve done what you asked and from here on, you’ve no reason to speak to me ever again.” I trotted smartly off. I wanted to ride with Luke, but it was clear he didn’t want to ride with me. He had sacrificed the rest of his life to be the Master’s confidante and scribe on this journey. He was not inclined to welcome a rival.
That night I dreamed of Luke and Walter, and we were all saving the hanging boy together. Only the hanging boy turned into the summoner, and after we’d cut him down he made three nooses with his fingers and hanged the three of us. It was a horrible, feverish dream and I was glad to wake early, even though what woke me brought complications all its own.
5
Quick-eyed, as horsely as a horse can be …
Despite Walter’s hose, the saddle had chafed the inside of my thighs and calves, and when that chafing was added to the damage left by my final, vicious pumicing, my legs were completely on fire. The moment they woke me, I could think of nothing but plunging them into cold water, so I ran down the stairs without even dressing properly and rushed to the brook behind the stables. It was full of stable boys filling buckets. Stifling a moan, I fought my way through undergrowth until the brook narrowed and cut deep banks between overhanging trees. It wasn’t far enough away, really, but I couldn’t wait any longer. Panting, I pulled off the hose, biting my lip as the scabs tore, and plunged into the water. Icy cold and running hard, it foamed above my knees and nothing had ever felt so good. It took several moments for the burning to ease. When it did the relief was so great I laughed out loud. I leaned against the bank and let my skirts billow about in the current.
As my skin cooled, so did the fever of my dream. I’d done what the summoner asked. He had no hold on me anymore. Now I had to get on with praying for my father—that, and repairing the rift with Luke I had never meant to cause. I spread my palms to the water’s bubbles. Luke. What was it about him that intrigued me? Certainly, Walter was much easier to talk to. And anyway, it was silly to be bothered by Luke. In less than a month he would be a monk, and he was already committed to those awful promises: poverty, chastity, obedience. I shuddered and rolled the soles of my feet over the pebbles. What must it be like for a man to swear never to know a woman as a man should know a woman? I couldn’t imagine, and for a moment held a picture of Luke in my head that was decidedly unmonkish. On impulse, I bent my knees and dunked my entire self.
I heard nothing in the water’s gurgle, but suddenly I was fighting something. Dreading the summoner, I kicked and kicked. My attacker and I broke the surface together and I came face-to-face with Walter. “Jesus Mary!” I choked. “You nearly frightened me to death!” I tried to stop my skirts swirling. Walter mustn’t see my legs now. They were far worse than the glimpse he had caught in the Tabard yard. “What on earth are you doing? How dare you sneak up on me!”
Water streamed from Walter’s hair and beard. There was a moment when his eyes were unfathomable. “You vanished, Belle. I thought—I thought—”
“How dare you! How dare you! I suppose you thought you’d see something to give you a thrill.” My skirts seemed determined to show off my terrible legs. The more they swirled, the more incandescent I became.
“It must seem like that. It’s not like that.” Walter wiped his eyes. He looked so stricken that my nightmares returned and for the most awful of moments I thought he might have the same kind of news for me as Master Chaucer had received. “What’s wrong? Tell me quickly.”
Walter shook himself and spray flew like teardrops. His eyes were quite light again. “Wrong? Only that I was up with the lark and now I’m wet as a duck.” He splashed me. “And so, dear Belle, are you. That’s what’s wrong.” He seized a low branch and hung from it. “Now I’m a fish on a line. Come and join me. We’ll be a pair of kippers.”
“For God’s sake, Walter.” Relief made me snappish. “I came here to wash. Leave me be.”
“You’ve no soap.”
“The water’s enough.”
He dropped beside me again and the water swirled merrily around us both. “I’ve brought you something.” He nodded toward the bank. There was a bag and his face was suddenly very tender and very serious. “I know about wounds,” he said. There was a pause. I pretended I still had water up my nose. Walter found my hand. “You say nothing. I say nothing. Just let me help with your legs. Dulcie will be so disappointed if you have to ride in the wagon.”
Many objections bubbled up. None got further than the back of my throat. I could not—ever—tell him about my pumicing. Slowly and firmly, I was lifted onto the bank. What happened next should have been mortifying, but Walter settled my skirts to preserve my modesty and worked so swiftly and deftly that I could almost pretend he wasn’t there. True to his word, he asked no questions, just dabbed and patted before producing a small jar of salve, the contents of which he worked in with three fingers, never prying where he shouldn’t, never pressing harder than he needed, never interfering
where he was not welcome. When he’d finished, instead of another pair of woolen hose, he produced silk bandages, which he dextrously wound and fastened firmly, then handed me a pair of silk trousers with some kind of felt backing. I put them on when he turned to wash his hands, and by the time he climbed out of the river himself, my legs were hidden under my skirt. We gathered everything up and began to walk. It was Walter who broke the silence. I braced myself. Now he’d want to know how my legs had got so raw and give me a lecture.
“I’m sure you know all your letters?” he said.
“My letters? Of course I do.”
“My mother taught me,” Walter said, “and she taught me a game. It’s called I Spy and is perfect for journeys. Do you know it?”
I shook my head.
“It works like this. I tell you that my eye spies something beginning with a particular letter and you have to guess what that something is. I’ll start. So, I spy with my little eye something beginning with”—he looked about—“g.”
“G?”
“Yes, g.”
I swallowed. How could I have thought he was going to pry and moralize? I looked around. “Goat,” I said. There was one tethered near a pile of sticks.
“No.”
“Grass.”
“No. Do you give up?”
“No. God.”
“Glory, Belle! Can you see him?”
“No, but he’s supposed to be all around.”
“I’ve never liked that thought,” Walter said, and his sunny mood momentarily vanished. “Not God.”
“Goose?” I said quickly.
“No, not goose either. It’s girl!” He twirled a stick. “You’re it and you couldn’t see it!”
“Well,” I said with a certain spark, “I spy with my little eye something beginning with h.”
“Hair.”
“No.”
“Horse.”
“No.”
“I give up,” he said.
“Horizon,” I told him.
He laughed. “Ah, I see you’re going to be good at this!”
We played all the way back to the inn and, quite naturally I very quickly began to spy things in threes. Walter thought this a great addition.
We reached the yard. “My turn,” I said. “Can you have six letters?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“K, a, t, w, d, p,” I said.
Walter frowned. “K, a, t, w …” He hummed. “No, don’t know at all, but there again my spelling may not be of the best.”
“Kind and thoughtful Walter de Pleasance,” I said.
I thought he’d be pleased, and I think he was, though his face closed and he put up his hands to ward off the compliment. “The salve’s yours,” he said after a moment. “You must put it on every day and rebind your legs with new bandages. It’s very important the bandages lie flat and that they don’t come undone. Will you let me help you?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes,” I said.
He gave the tiniest of nods, then was looking over my shoulder. “I spy with my little eye someone beginning with L.”
“Luke!” I cried, and Walter and I were suddenly both laughing.
We might have been able to explain our laughter and the state of our clothes had not the mountainous dame appeared and taken it upon herself to dig Luke in the ribs. “Look at them, Brother Luke, look! Love on a pilgrimage!” She wriggled a podgy fourth finger and waggled bushy eyebrows. Sir Knight also emerged. I thought he’d be shocked at seeing his noble son with a commoner like me, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. Indeed, his main concern was that we were wet.
“We’ve been in the river, sir,” Walter said in answer to his query.
“Is that what they call it nowadays?” The mountainous dame winked, digging Luke in the ribs again. “In our day, Sir Knight, we called it something quite else.” Luke gave a throaty exclamation.
“Ah, yes, indeed, Dame Alison. In our day.” Sir Knight waved his hand at Luke. “Now then, Master Scribe, thank you for getting Dulcie ready. My little page has not been at his most efficient this morning. Walter will need to have words with him.”
“Oh, leave young Walter to his loving,” boomed Dame Alison.
Luke turned his back. I tried to say something to him on my way inside but he was closed against me. I tried again once we were all mounted and on the road, but he deliberately positioned both himself and the Master so that I couldn’t get anywhere near. Eventually, after being rebuffed for the third time, I became angry. How dare Luke sulk because the Master wanted to speak to me? How dare he make assumptions because Dame Alison had a dirty mind? If he could ignore me, I could as easily ignore him. I jogged beside Walter. But somehow, the more I decided to ignore Luke, the more I couldn’t stop myself glancing back. It wasn’t even as though Luke was riding in silence. At that moment, he was doing his best to interest the Master in church steeples and oddly shaped clouds. It was the Master who was silent. “Would you mind, Walter?” I made a small gesture.
Walter smiled. “You want to pour your gentle balm on the Master’s troubled soul,” he said.
At once the nightmare gurgled up. “What do you know about the Master’s soul?” I asked rather sharply.
Walter took no offense. “I imagine the soul of a man who’s lost his wife is like a rose that’s shed its petals,” he said.
I was ashamed of my suspicion. “What a nice way you have of putting things,” I said.
“Do I? Too nice, perhaps.”
“No, Walter, just the right niceness.”
“What a nice way you have of putting things,” he answered softly.
I felt very warmly indeed toward him as I reined Dulcie in. I half wondered why I wanted to go to Luke when Walter offered such uncomplicated charms. Both the honey-tongued friar and an elderly barber converged on the Master, urging their mules close and pressing him with unwanted chatter. “You should rescue the Master from these dung beetles,” I hissed at Luke.
Luke gave me a look. “Sir Walter Squire would pull out his sword, I suppose.”
I returned his look. “You’ve got a pair of fists, haven’t you?”
Luke’s eyes darkened and quite suddenly, he issued two mighty whacks to the mules’ rumps. Braying and bucking, the two creatures lumbered off.
Master Chaucer roused himself. “That’s no behavior for one about to take Orders,” he said, “though don’t think I’m not grateful to you, boy.” He saw me. “Perhaps you and Belle could ride tight to Dobs’s flanks? I’ve had quite enough sympathy for one wife.” I loved the way he could do that: make a little pun even in the midst of trouble. I tucked the end of his cloak under his saddle. At last, Luke and I were riding together, though still in silence.
Within half a minute, however, an argument flared between Madam Prioress and a sturdy midwife over whether the day of the week on which you were born dictated your character. The midwife said it did and the prioress said it didn’t. “Turn around, girl,” I heard myself ordered. Mistress Midwife scrutinized me. “What day did your mother give birth?”
“Monday,” I said.
“You’re lying. Girls born on Monday are pure and chaste, and nobody pure and chaste would be gallivanting around on such a”—her lip curled—“frilly pony.” I interrupted but she was not to be stopped. “What’s more, Monday’s children have a blemish on their eyebrow or mouth. Have you such a blemish?”
“She has no blemishes.” Walter appeared beside me. “Her skin’s quite perfect.” It was a beautiful lie.
“No, it’s not,” Luke said. “She’s got a small mole—underneath her left eyebrow, about a third of the way along.”
“She hasn’t,” Walter objected.
“Well, actually I have,” I said crossly. Although what Luke said was true, there was no need to draw attention to that particular blemish.
“Of course you have,” said Luke, “because you’re not a liar. If you say you were born on a Monday, you were born on a Monday.”
&nb
sp; “Bravo!” Walter raised his cap.
Luke couldn’t bear that. “Don’t raise your cap at me.”
Walter settled his cap back on his head. “I didn’t mean—”
“No,” Luke said, “squires never mean, they just do.”
“You mean I’m mean?” Walter asked.
The midwife laughed uproariously. “The squire’s as good at punning as Master Chaucer!”
Luke’s countenance was black. “There’s no comparison between a squire and a writer.”
“Quite right,” said Walter. “I’m a fighter, not a writer.” He said it mechanically, as though he’d said it many times before. The midwife decided to goad Luke further. “A fighter, not a writer! What do you say to that, Master Monk?”
I really thought Luke might take his knife and stab her. “Luke’s not a monk,” I retorted quickly.
The midwife cackled. “Ho-ho! As good as, my dear, as good as.”
She pointed slyly down to Luke’s crotch, then equally slyly drew a woman’s shape in the air. “He may not be tonsured yet, but there’ll be no wetting of the whistle for him, however charming the sugared plum on offer. Sir Squire, on the other hand, can have all the plums he wants, eh, Belle Bellfounder! I’m told he’s already had a taste!”
I blushed to the roots of my hair. Luke drove Picardy straight at Arondel and tipped Walter off.
“A brawl! A brawl!” shrieked the midwife as Walter crashed to the floor and Luke flung himself on top of him.
I couldn’t think what to do, so I leaped off too and somehow took a glancing punch aimed by Walter at Luke’s chin. “You’ve hit Belle!” cried Luke, and now they were wrestling properly, like men do at the fair. The whole cavalcade halted.
Master Chaucer was furious. “God alive, Luke!” he shouted. “This is not becoming. Sir Knight! Sir Knight! Control your son!”
But Sir Knight was gazing at the scene with some satisfaction and when at last he did speak, his tone was indulgent. “Walter. Do behave yourself.” His words had precisely no effect.
