The Knight's Tale

by M. J. Trow

  After that, the meeting had broken up in disarray and the more sensible Guilds had gathered outside the inn where they had all met and had drawn lots. Thus it was that anyone wanting to learn something of Bible lore from watching the Clare pageant that year would have been hard pressed to know what exactly was happening to whom, and when. But then, the Old Testament was so full of begetting that perhaps Bob Whitlow had been right. By chance, though, the first wagon through the gates would be difficult to beat. It was not the biggest, by any means, but all jaws dropped as it rumbled under the archway and turned to present its best side to the dais. Chaucer, with his lamb still in place, had climbed onto the dais, helped by Moderata, who was worried about her stitching. She smiled to see everything still in place and patted the seat next to her. So Chaucer had a bird’s eye view.

  The women of the laundry, with little time and no money, had come up with a simple but ultimately spectacular float. Across the top, picked out in bunches of dried herbs, was a stanza from Psalm 51 – ‘wash me, and I shall be whiter than the snow’. Under it, a row of half-barrels had been bolted down to the bed of the wagon and filled with water and much soap of the kind that gave the most bubbles. A small boy was standing on a platform behind the yoked oxen and, in the voice of an angel, he was intoning the psalm, every note as clear as crystal. The women each wore a simple shift, the badge of their craft, and were furiously slapping a cloth in their barrel so that the suds flew and the water splashed them and any watcher unwise enough to step near. It was a simple and beautiful sight, certainly not marred – as far as the men in the crowd were concerned – by the fact that the water and soap moulded the shifts to the women’s torsos, outlining every contour and detail. Mothers covered their sons’ eyes – and their husbands’, if they had a spare hand – and the spontaneous applause made the women grin and wave to the crowd. This made things even more spectacular and when the wagon trundled on to make room for the next, there were sighs of regret from everywhere in the bailey, not least from Chaucer, who had had eyes only for Joyce, looking to him as she had in the hayloft so many years ago, fresh, beautiful and innocent. Violante reached down and tapped Chaucer’s shoulder, smiling and nodding towards the float. Chaucer smiled back, though he had hoped that the old gossip had not reached quite everywhere.

  As the last strains of the psalm died away, the next wagon was pulling into position. The Serpent clung to his tree as Eve stood nearby, fig leaves at the ready. The Serpent’s mother nudged those next to her and pointed out how every scale had been individually attached by her own hand. Moderata and the other embroidering women nodded approvingly to each other. Excellent sewing skills were all too rare at the Clare pageant. Chaucer sat cradling his lamb, watching the stories unfold. In and around the floats, devils danced and pranced. Some held small torches and the more daring occasionally threw them in the air, catching them with deft hands. Their leather costumes gleamed and shimmered and Andrew Trumpington of the Guild of St Agnes stood to one side, beaming with pride.

  The bailey was like a melting pot of every Bible story Chaucer had ever heard of and it was hard to know where to look next. He was trying to keep his eyes away from the laundresses; he was not as young as he was and the lamb was an encumbrance. Besides, he had a murderer to catch and, as he scanned the crowd, he constantly watched for Giovanni Visconti, his paramour and – hopefully – not far behind them, Hugh Glanville. He couldn’t spot them, but wasn’t worried; in such a press, it would be almost impossible to slip anyone poison.

  At the edge of the light, at the edge of his vision, he kept seeing a figure he thought he knew. It was indistinct, dressed in black from head to toe, the robes not unlike those of the Saracens of the desert, enveloping and yet easy and flowing. Sometimes, light from a dancing torch would pick out a glint of silver, as of a blade held above the figure’s head. It seemed to Chaucer that the harder he stared, the less he could see. He rubbed his eyes and closed them for a moment against the glare and, when he looked again, the figure had gone.

  Finally, the last float was inside the bailey and the Guild of St Augustine, featuring the whole family of a very proud Nicholas Straits the dyer, delivered themselves of the Feeding of the Five Thousand. As crowd scenes went, it was perhaps a little short on numbers, but they made up for it in verve and got a huge round of applause. It was also a very serendipitous final offering as, just as the oxen took the strain and moved the float over to the side of the bailey to join the others, the Lady Violante stood, clapping her hands and asking for silence for a moment.

  When all eyes were turned on her, she spread her arms and smiled with the smile that had captured hearts the length and breadth of Italy before she had followed her husband to this tiny corner of Suffolk. And now, she captured their hearts too. ‘I have lost a lot this year,’ she said, in her warm voice which seemed to be underscored by the bees in the lemon blossom of her native Pavia. ‘But’ – and she leaned forward as if she would scoop them all to her bosom – ‘I have gained much, too. New friends’ – she indicated Chaucer who blushed and bowed as far as Arthur the lamb would allow – ‘and old’ – she extended a hand to Richard Glanville, standing to her left – ‘have helped me through this very difficult time. And now you, the townsfolk of Clare, have brought the joy of your Pageant to soothe me. As you know, my husband always gave a token of his esteem to the best float in the Pageant, in the shape of a gold coin for every participant, and this year the prize goes to …’ a serving woman handed her a fat purse and the crowd held its breath. Violante took a step forward and lowered her voice so that the crowd had to strain forward, ‘Just to tell you, this float was chosen by the gentlemen of my company, but I agree with them, if only for the beauty of the charming child’s singing – the prize goes to … the women of the laundry of Clare, with their Fifty-first Psalm. Simple and beautiful and very well done.’ Again, she extended her arm, to where the laundresses dimpled and waved, their shifts still damp enough to warm the coldest heart.

  Violante stepped back as the applause swelled, then stepped forward once more. ‘I forgot to say,’ she said, ‘that the food is now also ready for you all. Buon appetito – a good appetite to you all; eat, drink and be merry. And,’ she blew the crowd a kiss and everyone went wild, ‘goodnight.’

  There was a surge towards the trestles and Ferrante and Butterfield urged on their people from their vantage points. The seneschals had different ways to please when it came to serving food. Butterfield stood back, staring balefully at anyone who looked askance at his fritters. Ferrante darted here and there, tempting anyone who wasn’t sure, bolstering up the shaky pronunciation of his lads, wrapping a tempting bit of this in a delicious piece of that and popping it into mouths as eager as a baby cuckoo’s. Butterfield’s staff were like him. In their view there were always two options; take it, or leave it. To Ferrante it was take it or try it another way, dipped in something delicious. The crowd in front of his trestle grew at an extraordinary rate and Butterfield’s depression deepened by the mouthful.

  Lady Violante turned to Chaucer and handed him the purse. ‘Please give this to Joyce and her women, Geoffrey, if you would. I … I am tired. I need to rest.’ She smiled at him and stroked his lamb. ‘Richard told me that you were a friend in a thousand and so you have been. Even if you never find’ – she choked on tears and looked down, fingering the lambswool – ‘the person, it has been good to have you here. I shall be sorry to see you go. I don’t suppose …’

  Chaucer held her hand gently. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I am Comptroller of the King’s Woollens. I have already been away too long.’

  ‘I understand.’ She turned away. ‘Richard?’

  Glanville had been looking at the food laid out before him and was realizing how hungry he was. ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘Could you escort me to my rooms? I need to … I need to be alone for a while.’

  Ferrante, who thought of everything, had made sure that the dais was constructed in such a way that the door into the
Great Hall was immediately behind it and the two slipped away and no one was any the wiser.

  FOURTEEN

  Chaucer looked over the edge of the dais and knew that he would never make it through the throng, so he cut round through the hall. He found Joyce and her women drying off as best they could behind their wagon and handed her the purse.

  ‘That’s the second one to come your way today,’ he said. ‘Please keep this one.’

  She weighed it in her hand and smiled. ‘I earned this one, Master Chaucer,’ she said, keeping it formal. ‘We will all be grateful for this.’ She reached behind her and pulled the small singer forward. ‘I don’t believe you have met my Wilfrid, have you? Come on, Wilfrid, don’t be shy. Say hello to the gentleman. This is Master Chaucer.’ She gave him a gentle shove. ‘Say good evening, Master Chaucer.’

  The boy looked at Chaucer with eyes like organ stops. ‘G’d evenin’, Master Chaucer,’ he muttered, and bolted towards the food. Joyce watched him go, fondly.

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ she said. ‘A lot like his father, as I recall.’

  Chaucer nodded. There didn’t seem much else he could do. He looked around him, his hands tucked away inside his smock; he had been forgetting to do that lately and had frightened quite a few small children into fits by apparently having four arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black figure slip away behind the nearest float. ‘Did you see that?’ he asked Joyce.

  Joyce looked about her, spread her arms and laughed. ‘See what, Geoff? All the town is here, most of them dressed as something they are not. Be a little more specific, please.’

  Chaucer sighed. How to describe a shadow? ‘It’s a man … I think. Tall, but broad in the shoulder. Dressed in black. Seems to have something silver over his head.’

  ‘It’s not daft old Hubert, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Chaucer said. ‘What does daft old Hubert look like?’

  ‘Bit taller than you. Bit hunched.’ Joyce leaned forward and her shift bagged at the front, making Chaucer suddenly a little short of breath. ‘No, perhaps not. He’s not really tall or broad. Ummm … it’s not Death, is it?’

  ‘Death?’ Chaucer’s eyes popped.

  ‘Yes. There’s usually one or two Deaths in the Pageant. I think … yes, I think I see one over there. It’s the one off of the Lazarus float, I reckon. His scythe’s only made of wire and paper and it’s a thought bent now. Look – over there. Is that him?’

  Chaucer peered into the crowd. ‘It’s similar, but …’

  Joyce’s Wilfrid was back at her side, carrying handfuls of food; dumplings and fritters jostled fried rice balls and hunks of bread dotted with rosemary and olives.

  ‘Wilfrid!’ She looked at his savoury haul. ‘You’re not eating all that! You’ll make yourself sick! Now, give it to me. Come on!’ She held out the front of her shift to make a pouch. ‘In it goes. All of it, now.’ She looked sideways at Chaucer. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘He’ll have me up all night if he eats all this.’ She took the sting out of his dismissal with one of her most special smiles. ‘I’ll see you later, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ he said, realizing not for the first time how much he would like to stay, to bathe in the warmth of Clare and Joyce’s smile. He reminded himself of his Pippa and tried to be strong. ‘One thing, though,’ he said. ‘I was wondering about those herbs on your float. What are they?’

  Joyce looked up. ‘Blessed if I know,’ she said. ‘Just this and that from the hedgerows. Meant to be hyssop, of course, but we couldn’t get hold of that. Old stalks of keck, I suppose, bits and pieces we could find.’ She smiled proudly. ‘They look quite good, if I say so myself.’

  ‘Indeed they do,’ Chaucer said and ruffled Wilfrid’s hair. ‘That food smells good. I think I’ll go and see if there’s any left.’

  ‘There’s a lot left on Master Butterfield’s stall,’ Wilfrid piped up. ‘That Master …’ he looked up at his mother, who mouthed the word he needed, ‘That Master Ferret, his food has almost all gone.’ And he dived into the mixture in his mother’s skirts with the aplomb of a born gourmand.

  Chaucer made his way to Butterfield’s trestle with reluctant steps. Wilfrid was right; Ferrante’s people were beginning to bring on sweetmeats and wine to replace their chafing dishes. The crowd still seethed around the table, their mouths full and fingers slick from the delicious dishes. Butterfield’s trestles were far from full – a crowd the size of the entire town of Clare takes some feeding – but his food had been picked at rather than demolished at a stroke and his dumplings and hunks of grey mutton were not that enticing. Even so, Chaucer had a kind heart and a stomach empty enough to eat anything.

  As he walked towards the table, he noticed that Butterfield was sitting on a barrel, his head sunk into his hands. He looked the picture of dejection and Chaucer felt another pang of compassion. He approached the table and stood looking for a moment, then spoke the man’s name, in as gentle a tone as he could. Butterfield looked up and saw a miraculous sight. A shepherd, cradling the Lost Sheep, was looking at him with gentle eyes. He was outlined by a light from behind him that seemed to dazzle.

  Butterfield had not had the best day. He felt nauseous and bilious and just generally sick to his stomach, not to mention more than a little drunk. His good English food had taken a poor second place to that foreign muck on the other trestle. His people had largely deserted him in favour of mingling with the crowd, including the nice little serving wench he had had his eye on for months, waiting for May Night when all prayers were answered, if only once. He had things on his conscience no man should have to bear. The groats added here and there in the right column of his accounts books which found their way into his pocket; the wine which never reached the lips of Lady Violante and her household; the little bribes, nothing big, but a nice little extra, which he took from the merchants of the town. And, of course, the worst thing he had ever done, which was his last thought on sleeping and his first on waking. And now, look, the shepherd had come to find him, the most lost sheep in the whole of Clare. He looked up and the words tumbled out of his mouth.

  ‘I didn’t mean it, Lord. I didn’t mean to send Master Chaucer to the lions, just because he prefers foreign muck to the Lord’s Own good English fare. I am an evil, evil man and deserve to be punished.’ He bowed his head and waited for the lightning to strike him dead.

  Chaucer, rather startled, took a dumpling and a gobbet of the less gristly looking mutton with his spare hands and wandered softly away. Before he had gone far, a soft thump and a grunt made him turn. Butterfield had slumped bonelessly off his barrel and was lying prone behind his trestle. Matter-of-fact hands moved him out of harm’s way and the sweetmeats were brought out, hunks of jam tart and pease pudding drizzled with good English honey. Chaucer caught the eye of one of the scullions.

  ‘Don’t you worry, master,’ the lad said. ‘He’ll come to no harm down there. He’s a devil for the sack, is Master Butterfield.’ He clicked his tongue and deftly lifted a pile of plates, still laden with half-eaten food. He glanced at his burden. ‘If it wasn’t for Master’s own-recipe dumplings, there’d be some skinny pigs in Clare, without a doubt.’ And with a laugh, he ducked behind the dais and was gone.

  Chaucer, feeling faintly traitorous, went round to the other trestle and chose a fragment of pastry topped with marzipan and a glaze made of preserved lemon rind and something so delicious he could hardly believe it came from earth. He popped it into his mouth in one and let it explode there. He closed his eyes with the sheer pleasure of it and so missed the dark figure which slipped unseen and unheard round behind the dais and disappeared into the hall, the torches glinting off the scythe carried proudly above its head. Recovered from his trance, Chaucer turned back to the crowd, wandering this way and that, watching, watching, always watching for Giovanni Visconti and his follower, but it was hard to do, with so much colour, clash and clangour. Better to just let his eyes wander and see what they would see.

&nbs
p; The fireworks soared into the night, stars bursting over the battlements of Clare, taking Chaucer’s eyes skywards. The castle was alive tonight, for sure. It had not been this full since John Hawkwood’s White Company had camped in the baileys, inner and outer. Some of the crowd had dispersed, but many stayed, not wanting the night to end. Lovers frolicked in the orchards, children gambolled dangerously near the moat. Tumblers and acrobats cavorted among the crowds, pushing past the wagons and their tethered oxen, throwing their ribbon sticks in the air. Flutes and tambours and rattles filled the night with sound. It had been a perfect day – a day to be with friends and family, a day to laugh at adversity and to welcome May with all its hope and promise.

  But there was one celebrant of the day who walked alone. Chaucer stopped dead in his tracks. Wandering past the chapel, trailing a garland of wilted flowers, was the girl who had been with Giovanni Visconti all day. And if she was here, where was he? The comptroller scuttled over to her and bowed, as best he could.

  ‘Oh,’ she started, ‘it’s you.’ She had been dimly aware of the fat shepherd who had been in her peripheral vision for the best part of the afternoon.

  ‘None other,’ he smiled. ‘On your own?’

  She looked at him quizzically, the smock, the greying hair, the lamb stitched to his clothes, now wilting a little and shedding straw. One glove was gone and the subterfuge was less convincing; she wondered fleetingly where his hands were, because she might need to know that in the next few minutes. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘if it’s all the same to you …’

  A glance at her face told Chaucer all he needed to know about the sudden misunderstanding between them. ‘No, no,’ he reached out and patted her hand, answering her question without realizing it. ‘I was looking for Giovanni.’