by M. J. Trow
‘And you believed that?’ Chaucer checked.
‘I did. I’ve locked horns with the toughest and best, Chaucer. I believe I am a good judge of character. Lionel of Antwerp told me the truth that morning, even after I’d put my dagger away. All a bit of an anticlimax in a way. But it had to be done.’
‘And Marco Blanco?’
‘Died,’ Hawkwood told him. ‘Some two weeks after Christmas.’
‘Pestilence?’ Chaucer hardly dared ask.
‘War hammer,’ the mercenary said. ‘through the right … no, I lie … left eye.’
‘Which Pope did you say excommunicated you?’ Chaucer asked.
Hawkwood broke the habit of a lifetime and laughed out loud. ‘Both of them,’ he said. ‘Oh, I know, when my time comes, I’ll be facing the Lord of Wrong and his legions, but I think I’ll give the old bastard a run for his money.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Chaucer said.
‘Was there anything else, Chaucer?’ Hawkwood asked.
There was a lot, but Chaucer didn’t want to push his luck. However, there was one thing. ‘How did you know it was Ifaywer the carpenter dressed up as Lord of Misrule who told me?’ he asked. ‘Was it the smell of pine? Did he have sawdust adhering to a sleeve? Was it the shape of his mouth, from holding nails in it all day long?’
Hawkwood looked at the man and shook his head. ‘You people with brains,’ he said, ‘make everything so difficult for yourselves. Afterwards, when I went to tell the Lady Violante that Lionel had not after all killed her father, I asked her. I had sworn all the others to secrecy.’
Chaucer was crestfallen. What a tediously humdrum answer. ‘Well,’ he said, getting up, ‘you’ve been most helpful, Sir John.’
Hawkwood grinned. ‘That’s a myth, Chaucer,’ he said. ‘A bit like the travels of John Mandeville. I’m not a knight and never will be. Popes and kings and nobles have need of men like me, but they don’t make us knights. It’s plain John Hawkwood.’
‘I find that hard to believe,’ Chaucer said. ‘You are, at the very least, Giovanni Acuto.’
‘Ha!’ Hawkwood scoffed. ‘They don’t come any sharper, it’s true. By the way, how are the quarterstaff bruises?’
Chaucer looked down at his hand and at the marks, now fading to yellow. ‘It was the doorframe,’ he insisted.
‘Yes,’ Hawkwood smiled. ‘And I am John of Gaunt’s left bollock. See yourself out.’
As Chaucer turned the second twist in the stair, plangent lute music filled the air behind him, followed by a screech, a plunk and a low chuckle.
Pippa Chaucer had often told her husband about the days of the week and the planets which ruled them. She believed in it implicitly and, on one memorable occasion, had refused to give birth to the baby who turned out to be her son Thomas until midnight struck, because she didn’t want him born on a Wednesday. Chaucer had often applauded her strength of will, but as the last minutes of the day ticked away and the midwives had stopped shouting and begun crying, he had wished she were otherwise. Although he scarcely listened, some of it had sunk in. So he knew that Friday was ruled by Venus and, on that day, all things to do with love, money and possessions would take centre stage. He wasn’t sure whether any of that had been true but, one way and another, it had been one hell of a day. As had Thursday, come to think of it, but Chaucer was trying his best to live in the present. And he had designated Saturday, the day ruled by Saturn, a day of rest, against all astrological teaching. He didn’t intend to rush about or indeed do anything beyond, possibly, a gentle amble around the orchards of Clare.
Setting out for just such, he kept his eyes peeled and his wits about him. By this method, he managed to avoid Hugh Glanville, striding ahead with his hand – ready for anything – on the hilt of his sword. He sidestepped Richard Glanville and Lady Violante walking through the physick garden, bending occasionally to examine a plant here and there. John Hawkwood didn’t need avoiding; unless he wanted to see you, he would walk straight over you and not even break his stride. Even so, Chaucer slipped inside a dark doorway as the man swept past, cloak cracking in the breeze of his passing.
A hand coming down on his shoulder almost made him swallow his tongue.
‘Master Chaucer,’ a voice hissed him his ear. ‘I have been looking for you.’
Chaucer twisted his head and saw the Italian seneschal, Niccolò Ferrante, standing there, bent over, as always, in his slightly deferential pose. The smell of garlic was enough to make Chaucer’s beard curl. ‘Master Ferrante,’ Chaucer said, trying not to breathe in. ‘I was … I was, umm …’
‘Do not worry yourself, Master Chaucer,’ Ferrante said, in a conspiratorial hush. ‘You want a quiet day, a day of rest after a busy and distressing time.’ His voice dropped lower. ‘You find the priest, I hear.’
Chaucer nodded.
‘Not a nice thing to find,’ Ferrante remarked. ‘No, not at all.’ He waved an eloquent, continental hand which Chaucer took to be a gesture of sympathy. ‘I have spoken with my kitchen and they have come up with a suggestion to make you happy, Master Chaucer. They say, why do I not cook you a special meal, one which would make the angels cry?’ He leaned back, beaming. ‘Would that please you, Master Chaucer? Hmm?’
Chaucer was about to refuse when he realized that actually, yes, yes it would please him. He nodded, with a smile.
‘Then, it is settled. If you would like to bring Sir Richard …’ Ferrante held up his hand. ‘I know, I know, I will not forget the worms in vomit for a while. In fact, for a joke, I have named a dish such, but in Italian, no one will know. Vermin el vomito.’ He clapped his hands and laughed.
Chaucer was about to say that, in fact, it didn’t take a linguist to guess the joke, but Ferrante had moved on. ‘Come to my chambers at midday and I will cook you a feast such as you have never had before. And Sir Richard will never scoff at my pasta again!’
Chaucer smiled. ‘We’ll be there,’ he said. ‘But I can’t guarantee Sir Richard’s response, I’m afraid.’
Ferrante laughed. ‘I can. Wait and see.’
Chaucer had not reckoned with Glanville being quite so averse to giving Italian food another try.
‘Whenever I have lunch with Vio … with the Lady Violante,’ he protested, ‘we have normal food. Being Italian doesn’t mean eating that muck.’
‘Has it occurred to you,’ Chaucer wheedled, ‘that the Lady Violante might be longing for a nice plate of pasta, for a taste of home, but she eats food she considers to be foreign muck but which she knows you like, just to be polite?’
Glanville looked staggered. It had never occurred to him that boiled hare could be considered foreign muck. ‘Do you think so?’ He wasn’t convinced.
‘How lovely would it be,’ Chaucer continued, in his guise as devil’s advocate, ‘if one day you asked her to share a meal with you and it was something that reminded her of home? I’m sure there is something in Ferrante’s repertoire which would be suitable for both your tastes.’
Glanville never liked to give in. His friends said he had a will of his own. Those on the other side of the divide said he was a cussed old bugger. His son often said both. ‘We’ll see,’ he said, eventually. ‘But if I don’t like it, I won’t eat it.’
‘Agreed,’ Chaucer said. ‘Now, which way to Ferrante’s chambers? He is entertaining us there.’ He lifted his nose and sniffed. ‘Are they nearby? I believe I can smell sautéeing garlic.’
Glanville sighed. ‘Just up this stair,’ he said, leading the way. ‘Good God, Geoff, it’s only just along the passageway from you. Oh, and down a bit. And, remember …’
‘You don’t have to eat it, Rich, if you don’t want to.’ Chaucer had a momentary pang of loneliness. It seemed many years since he had said that to one of his children and he missed those days. Especially little Elizabeth, though he knew he shouldn’t have favourites. But before he could sink too far into familial misery, they were at Ferrante’s open door, with delicious smells emanating from within.
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Ferrante stood at the fireplace, which had been fitted, by a very bemused blacksmith, with a cooking device of Ferrante’s own design. A flat area, not unlike Joyce’s smoothing table, stuck out into the room, with various perforated areas spread across it. Below it, pans and skillets rested on bars made to measure. All of it was radiating an intense heat which made the air above it wobble.
‘Come in, come in!’ Ferrante was in expansive mood. He loved to cook and did all too little of it these days. He wore a smith’s leather apron to shield him from the heat and his hair was tied back in a cloth. ‘Excuse my attire, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘but the heat of my …’ he struggled for the word – ‘fornello, my cooking device, is quite uncomfortable in my usual garb. This is also why the door is open – I hope you don’t mind.’
Chaucer and Glanville were grateful for the slight breeze coming up the stone stair. Without it, the room would have been stifling.
‘As you see, our table has been set for us already and is under the window. After this week, I doubt I will be able to cook again until the winter – this room is really too small, but I do love to cook so much and the castle kitchen is no place for an artist.’ He tried to look suitably humble but failed. ‘Ecco … here we are!’ He extended a hand to his guests. ‘Take your seats and help yourself to wine. This dish is one I cannot make until my guests are arrived.’
Chaucer approached the fire and was driven back by the heat.
‘Charcoal,’ Ferrante explained. ‘The only way to cook, in my opinion.’
Chaucer nodded. He had seen street vendors use it at home in the Aldgate.
Glanville didn’t go near the business end of the room. He was already apprehensive about what might turn up on his plate and had his nose in a goblet of wine before Chaucer could even sit down. Poison could always be on the menu in Sir Richard Glanville’s view, and everything was all the better for having had a good sniff first. No smell of mice, so it should serve.
Ferrante had a small, flat pan in his hand, held with a folded cloth by the handle. ‘You will see that I am using a part of my cooking place away from the flame. This is because I will be slowly adding fresh eggs to new cream and I must be gentle,’ he explained. ‘Then, I will lightly coat my strozzapreti and then – we dine.’
Chaucer was struck again by how similar and yet how different Latin and Italian were from each other. He did a rough translation in his head, as far as he could. His eyes popped. ‘Priest strangler?’ he asked.
Ferrante laughed and held out a handful of pasta to him. ‘They look like collars such as country priests wear in Italy,’ he said and stopped, suddenly. ‘I am so sorry. What a very thoughtless choice! Poor Father Clement!’ He looked around wildly. ‘I have no other pasta prepared!’
‘Don’t worry,’ Chaucer said. ‘It was a surprise, but … it all tastes the same, so it makes no difference.’
Ferrante glowered. Why did all these English clods say that? But he had made an error in judgement, charmingly deflected, so he let it go. He broke six eggs into a bowl and beat them furiously with a bunch of twigs. Then, he added cream, pouring it from a great height. ‘It incorporates air,’ he said to Glanville, who was looking somewhat askance. ‘It makes the sauce as light as a lady’s kiss.’
Glanville looked even more uncomfortable. Ladies and their kisses were not subjects for general conversation, in his view.
‘I have already made lardons of fat bacon,’ Ferrante said. ‘They will be added at the last moment. Along with my signature addition, which I will reveal as we eat. Now, you must excuse me – I must concentrate on the food.’
It was certainly something to watch. Ferrante’s brows wrinkled and he bent to his task, beating the eggs and cream for all they were worth over the hotplate and adding small pinches of this and that, tasting as he went. Finally, he was satisfied and leaned perilously close to the fire to reach for the pan of bacon. He took a bowl of pasta from beneath the plate, keeping warm furthest from the fire, and mixed it into his pan. Finally, he added the bacon, tossed the whole thing in the air, catching it effortlessly on another dish he had snatched from a handy shelf and he brought it to the table with a flourish.
He took off his apron and discarded the cloth around his head and sat at the third place. ‘Shall I serve, gentlemen, or will you take your food yourself, as is the Italian custom. Not in great houses, you understand, but when we invite friends to dine, as I hope I have done today.’ He smiled at the two men and seemed a different person to the self-possessed and somewhat oily seneschal to the Lady Violante.
Chaucer’s mouth was watering too much to wait and he dug into the creamy, velvety mass with his spoon. The smell was wonderful, savoury and with an underlying sweetness. He gestured at Glanville.
‘Take some, Rich. You saw it cooked. Cream and eggs and bacon – you eat all those daily.’ He took a mouthful and rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘This tastes like …’
‘Nothing else on earth, probably,’ Glanville muttered, but took some anyway. He had been brought up at Clare to be honourable and a gentleman and he could eat a plate of foreign slop if he had to. He licked his spoon tentatively and Chaucer and Ferrante waited, breaths bated, for his decision. ‘Mmm,’ he said, and mumbled on a morsel of bacon. ‘It will serve, I suppose. If a man is hungry enough, he could eat it.’ He took a mouthful. ‘Cream and eggs, you say.’ He washed it down with a mouthful of wine. ‘And bacon.’
Ferrante nodded.
‘And what else?’ Glanville was always suspicious when it came to food but especially so now.
Ferrante laughed. ‘Oh, no, Sir Richard,’ he said, taking a mouthful himself. ‘When we have finished eating, then and only then will I disclose my secret ingredient. Unless you guess it, of course.’
Chaucer looked at his friend and had to stifle a smile. Glanville was shovelling the food in as if his life depended on it, the silky sauce running down his chin. The wine was also of the very best, brought from Lady Violante’s private cellar and, before that, from the hills of Tuscany. It slipped down like honey, and soon all three men were on the very merry side of merry. After the pasta came a plate of fresh cheese and fruit, figs from Lady Violante’s fields in Italy, seethed in honey and bottled in the sun. Several empty wine flagons were under the table and the three men leaned back in their chairs and surreptitiously loosened their belts.
‘Well, Sir Richard,’ Ferrante said, after a suitable pause for recuperation. ‘What was my secret ingredient, do you think?’
Glanville closed his eyes and, after a few minutes, Chaucer began to wonder whether his friend had fallen asleep. But no.
‘There was a warmth, there,’ he said, ‘which eggs and cream could not give. Was it …’ he licked his lips reminiscently, ‘unless I miss my guess …’
Chaucer and Ferrante leaned forward, intrigued to hear his answer.
Glanville held up a finger. ‘It was … horseradish!’
Ferrante leaned back and applauded. ‘Meraviglioso, Sir Richard! Wonderful. What a palate you have.’
Glanville bowed as well as his full stomach and position would allow, belched and fell fast asleep.
ELEVEN
‘Time, as the guildsmen would say, to put our quecks on the table.’ Richard Glanville leaned back in the chair in his solar and closed his eyes. He hoped that his companions would assume he was thinking, but in fact all he wanted was for the flashing lights to stop. ‘I must confess, Geoff, I am none the wiser now than when you came to Clare.’
Chaucer looked at the Glanvilles, father and son. He knew them both, trusted them both, loved them both, but although they were beacons in a world of chaos and storms, both of them, in their different ways, were out of their depth. The solar was still swimming a little in Chaucer’s vision and he realized that he should not be drinking the senior Glanville’s Gascony wine after the amount of Tuscan wine he had drunk at his midday meal. His history was not at its best at the moment, but he did wonder whether the two regions had ever fought e
ach other – their wines certainly did. Still, drinking yourself under the table was sometimes the only way to face the demons of the night. And facing them, they were.
‘Lionel of Antwerp,’ the comptroller said. ‘Young Hugh, you first brought me the news of His Grace’s death. Your views?’
A squire’s role was to be polite, obedient, loyal and, above all, silent. But Hugh Glanville had not been brought up that way. If he lacked the wise counsel of his father, he more than made up for it with the exuberance of youth. ‘He was poisoned,’ he said, ‘by persons unknown, with a concoction, perhaps in his wine, composed of hemlock.’
‘Who served the wine?’ Chaucer asked.
‘The serving woman, Joyce,’ Hugh told him, blissfully unaware of Chaucer’s history with the lady in question. ‘She seems to be everywhere you look, at table, in the laundry – suspicious, if you ask me.’
‘And she did subsequently kill Ankarette the hound,’ Glanville chimed in. His moment with his eyes closed had refreshed him and the next stage would be loquacious.
‘Not intentionally.’ Chaucer hurried to Joyce’s defence. ‘She was very upset.’
‘No, no, not intentionally, of course not.’ Richard Glanville shook his head and instantly regretted it. ‘No one is suggesting …’ He caught Hugh’s eye. ‘I think, saving Geoffrey’s blushes, Hugh, that you ought to know that Joyce and Geoffrey were very much an item back in the day. He’d have been younger than you are now and she—’
‘I don’t think we have to wander down young love’s lane, Richard,’ Chaucer interrupted.
‘No, no, quite.’ Glanville looked suitably chastened.
‘All the same, Geoffrey,’ Hugh slapped the comptroller’s shoulder. ‘Good man!’ And he winked.
Time to turn the tables, Chaucer thought. ‘Who was the last person to see Lionel alive?’ he asked.
‘Blanche Vickers,’ Richard said and, in the interests of fairness, added, ‘She and Hugh were very much an item not so long ago.’
‘Thanks, Pa,’ Hugh winced. ‘For the record,’ he pulled himself up in the chair as straight as the wine would allow. ‘I have come to realize the error of my ways. I was young and shallow …’
