The Knight's Tale

by M. J. Trow

  As Chaucer bolted for the stairs, Richard Glanville let his head drop back. If this was to be the end, it was a good day to die. He knew that Violante loved him and he knew men who had died for less; he was content. But a spark at the back of his head told him that it would be better to live loved by Violante than to die; he hugged that thought to him and hung on to life by a thread.

  Chaucer had no light with him and no poignard at his hip. He knew who was at the top of the stairs and he knew he was armed. What happened now was in the lap of God.

  A dark figure stood in the shadows.

  ‘Master Seneschal.’ Chaucer didn’t risk a bow. He couldn’t afford to be caught off balance.

  ‘How did you know?’ Niccolò Ferrante emerged into the half-light from the brazier at the turn of the stair. ‘How did you know it was me?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ the comptroller admitted. ‘Not at first. It had to be someone familiar with the castle, able to come and go unnoticed. That ruled out the guildsmen and Peter Vickers. It had to be someone who knew his herbs – not the apothecary or his lovesick assistant but a man quietly obsessed with the haute cuisine of his own country, if I’m not mixing my languages there. And of course,’ he edged forward, ‘that wasn’t your only obsession, was it? I saw it on your face tonight.’

  ‘What?’ Ferrante sneered. ‘What did you see, Fat Comptroller?’

  ‘The look of hatred when Richard Glanville and the Lady Violante shared a kiss. Oh, the others were obvious. Lionel of Antwerp had to die because he had bedded the woman you loved and was cruelly demeaning her by sleeping with a harlot. Father Clement because Violante had come to rely on him, telling him her innermost thoughts that she should have been sharing with only you. With them dead, the lady naturally sought comfort from her little brother. So, it was the hemlock for him.’ Chaucer stopped. He saw Ferrante’s stiletto tip pointing towards him in the half-light.

  ‘But tonight, it all got away from you, didn’t it? You hadn’t reckoned with Richard Glanville’s love for Violante – and, I suspect, her love for him.’

  ‘No!’ the Italian roared. ‘She doesn’t love him. She only has eyes for me!’

  His dagger flashed, ripping Chaucer’s lamb, wool and a glass eye flying in all directions. The seneschal jerked back, ready to try again.

  ‘So,’ Chaucer’s hands were raised in supplication, more of Moderata’s stitches ripping in protest. He’d struck lucky that time, but Ferrante knew about the padding now and he wouldn’t miss again. ‘There was no time for clever poison. You had to revert to simpler methods; older, probably. But tell me, Master Seneschal, what would have become of the girl if Giovanni had shared his special morsel with her?’

  ‘She would have died,’ the man said, without emotion. ‘But that selfish child had never shared a thing in his life; he was spoiled by his father and then by his sister. He never left her side. He was a leech, a leech she could never remove. She should be glad he is dead. And I did it. But you are right, Master Chaucer, to assume I am an expert with a blade. I am good at everything I do. You should not have interfered, Comptroller; I had no quarrel with you.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Chaucer was desperately playing for time. ‘Didn’t you know about Violante and me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘God, yes.’ The comptroller was trying to catch the man off guard. The Italian was younger, faster, armed. ‘Did it never make you wonder, when Violante accompanied Lionel to the court, what she did with her time in London? It is a very simple answer – she was with me. You know what she likes, particularly?’

  Ferrante screamed and lunged, the dagger driving through Chaucer’s lamb and slicing his left forearm, blood pouring over the tatty smocking and the fleece. The Italian drew back for the coup de grâce, but a voice in the darkness stopped him.

  ‘Signor Ferrante,’ it said, ‘ora tocca a te. You’ve done enough.’

  Chaucer turned, despite himself, to see Death himself standing on the stair below him. The black shadow he had sensed all night was in the open at last. His body was that of a skeleton, bones hanging on a black cloth like those damned souls of Chaucer’s dreams, the people of the Pestilence dragging him to Hell. The skull gleamed a sickly ivory in the dying light, shadowed by the deep cowl of the cloak. There were bright eyes, though, peering out from the depths of Hell, blue, piercing and unmistakeable. They spoke of Purgatory for anyone who was trapped in their glare.

  Death pointed at Ferrante, his skeleton hands encased in tightly fitting doeskin gloves. He beckoned him with the index finger of his right hand. From his left, a poignard hissed through the air, missing Chaucer by a lamb’s whisker and embedding itself in the Italian’s chest. The seneschal jerked backwards, dark blood bubbling from his nose and mouth, the stiletto clattering on the stone. He slid down the wall, his eyes crossing as they closed.

  Death pulled off the skull and hood and breathed in gratefully. ‘Thank God for that,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t see a bloody thing with that hood on.’

  Chaucer stood as well as he could on legs that had turned to jelly. His own blood was dripping onto the step, but that was no consequence. ‘John Hawkwood,’ he said. ‘I owe you my life.’

  Hawkwood crossed to the lifeless Italian and jerked the knife free. ‘Death’s dagger,’ he said, wiping the blade on the dead man’s sleeve. ‘That’s rather good, isn’t it? I expect that phrase to be in one of your God-awful poems one day, Chaucer.’

  ‘Count on it,’ the comptroller said. Then he remembered the wounded man on the lower level and turned, wincing at the pain in his arm. ‘Richard!’

  ‘Glanville is safe,’ Hawkwood said. ‘He’s also lucky. An inch or two to the left and young Hugh would be wearing the Glanville bear tomorrow. Any chance of a drink, Chaucer? Even the moat looks pretty inviting at the moment, if I’m honest.’ And he smiled one of his rare smiles.

  And Chaucer smiled too – nothing became a smiler quite like a knife.

  FIFTEEN

  The morning of the day after May Day seemed to come all too soon for everyone in the town of Clare and its castle. The guildsmen were lucky – at one of their usually vituperative meetings more years ago than any could remember, someone had suggested the day after May Day should be a holiday for all guildsmen, and it was the only proposal which had ever gone through on the nod. However, the rider added the following year pointed out that this did not apply to anyone working for a guildsman; otherwise, what would they do for food, for shelter and for general care for a whole day more? May Day itself was difficult enough, having to lace your own points and find your own fodder; two days could prove fatal.

  Even so, there were a lot of huddled sleepers-out in the inner bailey of Clare that morning. There was birdsong, to be sure, but only when it could be heard over the groans. Even the church bells had been a little unsteady. From certain dark corners, there were sounds of slapped cheeks and outraged shrieks; what was acceptable on May Day was certainly not acceptable the day after. Robert Whitlow was the first person to stagger into the centre of the bailey, both cheeks marked with the tattoo of the man who has gone too far, too often. He lurched out of the gate, heading home, calling a cheery good morrow to the guard at the wicket. He was a hard man to keep down, in almost every way.

  In the kitchens of Clare, all was chaos. The fires were lit and ready to cook a breakfast fit for kings. The old cook, who had been at the castle since he was a lad, was standing dumbfounded, his ladle dropping glooping lumps of oatmeal onto the table in front of him. Bread, fresh from the ovens, was waiting on a long trestle table to be hacked into slices and taken in to the Great Hall, where a much smaller, quieter crowd than usual was waiting to break its fast. Something was wrong and it wasn’t just because everyone was nursing a head still mazy with cuckoo-ale. The cook was uneasy, like a man tethered to a tall tree waiting for the lightning to strike. He turned to his under-cook, a stripling of sixty-five, who looked, if anything, more ill-at-ease than his superior. He usually had the job of stopping th
e cook from going for the Italian cook – who went by the title Il Cuoco – with a meat cleaver. It hadn’t been too bad until the old man found out that this meant The Cook, and then the atmosphere in the kitchen was always that of a moment before the thunderhead breaks.

  But today, nothing. Not an Italian to be seen. No silly little dishes of figs seethed in inferior Italian honey. No stinky loaves with herbs and olives in them. No pitchers of warm wine with yet more honey in it – fit for girls and lovesick boys only, as far as the old cook was concerned. Good English ale was good enough for Englishmen, in his opinion.

  The scullions clustered, wide-eyed and silent, against one wall. A few of the smaller maids of all work were whimpering, some with regret at what they had allowed last night, some with fear for what might happen next and some with an uneasy mixture of both. All ears were cocked for the thud of many Florentine-leather-clad feet in the passageway, the raised voice of Niccolò Ferrante urging them on. But it never came.

  Good English hobnails rang out instead and the door crashed back. One of the grooms stood there, straw still in his hair and his points unlaced. His eyes were wide with untold news and he took a deep breath. ‘You’ll never guess what!’ he announced, and was immediately enveloped in a clamouring throng.

  Sir Richard Glanville lay pale and still on his bed in his sunny solar in the castle of Clare. He had opened his eyes just the merest slit to check how many of his nearest and dearest were sitting in solemn vigil around him and was somewhat disheartened to find he was alone. Someone had been there, it was clear. Chairs had been gathered around and then pushed back and, by opening his eyes more widely, he could see who had been sitting where. A wisp of gauze, black as night and fine as a film of a tear, showed that the Lady Violante had sat near his head and if he cast his mind back, he could recall a soft hand in his and a warm voice muttering sweet nothings. He smiled to himself; whether he lived for another minute or another twenty years, he would never be happier than he was in that moment.

  The chair on the other side had clearly held his only child, Hugh, squire of the castle. A hat, rakish with feathers and velvet though looking rather the worse for wear, was hanging from a carved protuberance on the chair’s back. Richard Glanville smiled again as he remembered his boy saying, ‘Pa? Pa?’ over and over and then, in a voice full of tears, asking all and sundry whether his father would live. Glanville closed his eyes for a moment on his own tears – he loved that boy more than words could say and he made himself a promise to tell him so; it was easy to forget, sometimes, what needed to be said. A tear ran down from his closed eyes and ran into his ear – he reached up to wipe it away and was pleased that he seemed to be able to move at least one arm.

  The third chair was further down the bed, almost at the foot and, for a moment, Richard Glanville thought he might actually have lost the use of his mind. A one-eyed lamb sat there, leaning on the bed. Its head was at a somewhat rakish angle and it really didn’t look at all well. Then he remembered; Geoffrey Chaucer had spent a very long day wearing the creature across his stomach in his guise as the Shepherd and the Lost Sheep. Someone had obviously helped him out of his costume and Glanville, in his new-found role as Lover, hoped it was done discreetly, so as to not upset his Lady.

  And that seemed to be all the chairs. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Glanville had a memory of a dark shape, leaning against the wall between the two tall windows which faced the bed. He seemed to be a man of few words but he did remember – memories were coming back to him randomly, piecemeal snippets coming and going, insubstantial as fog – Lady Violante going up to the figure and curtsying low, only to be pulled to her feet and enveloped in black arms. Richard Glanville’s heart gave a sudden double beat and his stomach muscles twitched – he would kill the rogue; although perhaps he would leave that until the fire currently coursing through his body stopped burning.

  He raised his head as much as he could and looked down at the coverlet of the bed. As far as he could judge, he seemed to have everything in the right place. He wiggled his toes and the covers moved. He knew his left arm worked and he tried to move the right, but it seemed tethered to his side. That was a worry, but as he explored with his left hand, he realized that it was because bandages encased him from chest to hip, his right arm swaddled close to his side. He was beginning to remember now. It was dark. There had been people … so many people. Then, no one, although he knew that ahead there had to be someone. Then a knife in the dark and … nothing, until now.

  Richard Glanville cleared his throat and called.

  Nothing.

  He cleared his throat again and called. ‘Hoo!’

  Out in the passageway, scurrying feet. Then, a soft hand in his, soft lips on his. His eyes fluttered and he thought to himself – I love him like a brother, but I do hope this isn’t Geoff Chaucer.

  Chaucer and Hugh Glanville sat in the room opposite where Sir Richard Glanville lay. Lady Violante, they knew, had taken a hard chair into the passageway and sat there, still as a statue, waiting for signs of life. The apothecary, when first found and then roused from a cuckoo-ale stupor, had tended to the knight, with the help of Joyce and her soft linens and had told them that, were he to last the night, it would only be with the help of total peace and quiet. The Angel of Death would come for him whether they were there or not, but sleep would only come if he were left in the dark and total silence. So, reluctantly, they had filed out, John Hawkwood, Chaucer, Hugh and finally, with tears, Violante.

  Hugh wouldn’t sit still and Chaucer was coming to the point where he would have to snap at him or hit him upside the head. He knew the boy was worried, but the constantly jiggling knee, the sighing, the deep breath betokening a coming question but then nothing but another sigh, were all beginning to wear out his patience.

  In the end, he could bear it no longer. ‘Hugh,’ he said, in his kindest voice, ‘all this stress and strain will not make an iota of difference, you know. You heard what the apothecary said.’

  ‘He was drunk,’ Hugh snapped. ‘I don’t know why we listened to him.’

  ‘Joyce wasn’t drunk,’ Chaucer reminded him. ‘And she said the same.’

  ‘What does she know about anything?’ Hugh rounded on Chaucer. ‘A trollop who all the castle could have if they were minded. She’s well known for having no use for the word “No”.’ He looked at Chaucer suddenly, eyes wide. ‘Oh. Geoffrey. I’m so sorry. I forgot you and she were … friends.’ He bit his lip.

  ‘We are friends,’ Chaucer said, keeping his temper by a short margin. ‘We were lovers and now we are friends and it would do you good, Hugh Glanville, to remember that love comes in many forms. So keep a civil tongue in your head!’ It did him good to have a flash of temper. It would save him later having to go out and find a cat willing to allow a damn good kicking.

  ‘But … Pa. He will be all right, won’t he? You’ve seen people … you’ve seen people die.’ He struggled to go on.

  Chaucer sighed. ‘I’ve seen people die,’ he said. ‘Two in the last twelve hours, to be sure. But I haven’t seen your father die. I don’t know what you’re asking.’

  Hugh bowed his head. He needed to ask the right question to get the answer he sought. ‘Does my father … does my father have a look of death on him, Geoffrey? Is he going to die?’

  Chaucer marshalled his thoughts. He was an honest man, but above all, a kind one. He didn’t want to give the boy false hope, but, again, he didn’t want to dash those hopes either. Before he could answer, the door opened and a black shape entered, silent as nightfall.

  ‘Don’t ask questions which have no answer, squire, and you’ll have more breath for sensible things.’ John Hawkwood was not known to mince his words. ‘There is no look of death and those who tell you so are fools. Death comes when death comes, soon or late, and if he has you in his sights, you can be gambolling like a lamb or snatching your breaths as best you can, he will still take you. Master Chaucer and I have seen battlefields, we have seen Pestilence.
’ He turned to Chaucer and clicked his tongue. ‘What about Milan, eh, Master Chaucer? We saw some sights there, didn’t we?’

  Chaucer nodded and dropped his head to hide his smile.

  ‘So, lad,’ Hawkwood said, ‘stop worrying. What will be, will be. Or que sera, sera, as the wife often reminds me.’ He squinted up through the window, assessing the sky. ‘It’s time I was off, Master Chaucer. My White Company are assembling on the other side of town and we need to run an errand before we head for London.’

  ‘Errand?’ Chaucer had never taken Hawkwood for anyone’s lackey.

  ‘Oh, a private one. A little visit to a man in Borley. It won’t delay us long.’

  ‘Borley …’ the snarling, angry face of Peter Vickers flashed into his mind. ‘Oh, not on my account!’ Chaucer flexed his fingers, remembering his bruises, but carefully. His knife wound had been just a scratch, but it was not very comfortable, bandage or no.

  ‘Oh, no, Master Chaucer, not on your account. Indeed, I don’t think you could afford me.’ And with that, John Hawkwood was gone.

  Hugh watched him go and then turned to Chaucer. ‘I should thank him. I should … join his Company. What he did last night … well …’ He half-stood, to follow.

  ‘You thanked him last night,’ Chaucer said. ‘And his Company would eat you alive.’

  Hugh looked disdainful. ‘I don’t see why. They’re just farm boys from round about and I have been in training for years.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Chaucer told him. ‘And they have been brought up brawling in the furrows since before they could walk. I repeat – they would eat you alive and throw the bones to the pigs. He knows you’re grateful – don’t embarrass him with flowery thanks. He’s not that kind of man.’

  ‘He hugged Violante.’ Hugh was still sulky.

  ‘Well, of course he did. I didn’t say he wasn’t a man at all.’ Chaucer laughed and punched the boy lightly on his arm. ‘Your father is a tough old devil – if anyone can make it to fight another day, it’s him. And now, I refuse to speculate any more. Let’s talk of something else.’