Authors: K. M. Grant
“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.”
“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.
“For the love of God!” Master Chaucer was outraged. He stood up in his stirrups. “STOP IT AT ONCE! I order it! It’s unseemly, with my wife not yet cold.”
This did have some effect. Both Walter and Luke scrambled to their feet. Walter’s jerkin was torn. Luke’s glasses had been knocked off. It was Walter who retrieved them. Luke snatched them from him. To need glasses was bad enough. To have them handed back by Walter was doubly humiliating.
“There, that’s better,” said the Master, though he could see from Luke’s face that it really wasn’t. “Get back into the saddle, both of you, and for goodness’ sake, remember that we’re on a pilgrimage. Sir Knight!
You tell them.” But Sir Knight just caught Arondel and returned him to Walter. The Master raised exasperated hands. “Listen to me then. You two boys are going to ride with Belle at the front of our party, and you’re going to ride like that until you can be trusted not to turn into a twist of ferrets whenever one says something the other doesn’t like.” Luke opened his mouth to object. The Master shook his head. “No argument. Just get on with each other. That’s what pilgrims do.”
Luke and Walter converged on me, each determined to help me mount Dulcie. Luke growled. “Master Wagoner!” called the Master sharply. “You help Mistress Belle to mount.”
Luke turned away and vaulted on to Picardy. Not to be outdone, Walter vaulted onto Arondel. We gained the front, with me in the middle. Behind us, the whole cavalcade began to rumble. I touched my cheek. “Have we hurt you?” Both Walter and Luke spoke together.
“I’ve still got all my teeth,” I said.
Five uncomfortable minutes passed. Walter snapped off a hazel switch and pretended it was a lance. “Shall I tell a story?” When he got no response, he started anyway. “There once was a noble king who had two sons and a daughter too beautiful for me to describe because I’m not a poet. Are you a poet, Luke?”
Luke’s hackles rose. “If you want to make fun of me, don’t be a coward. Do it where we can finish what we’ve started.”
“Please, Luke,” I begged.
“No, Belle,” Walter said. “Men should stand up for themselves.” He leaned across. “If I do want to make fun of you, I’ll do just as you propose. But I’m not making fun of you.”
Luke didn’t look convinced, but Walter’s expression was so guileless that he had to soften a little.
“It was the Ides of March.” Walter settled back into his saddle. “Mars was in Aries and the birds were singing, and the sun was shining quite strongly for the time of year. Actually, it was altogether—”
“Never mind about the weather,” I interrupted.
“Oh, don’t you want to know about that?” Walter asked.
“Best to get to the meat of the thing.”
“You’re so wise. So then, the daughter, who looked much like you—”
“Really?” I gave Luke a sidelong look, inviting him to return it. He nearly did.
“The daughter who, as I say, looked much like you,” Walter shook his curls, “was called Canace …”
I’ll not repeat the story. Suffice to say that it was rather long. Eventually we got to a bit about a horse.
“What did this horse look like?” I interrupted again.
“Was it a golden-winged Pegasus or a pretty peach like Dulcie?”
Walter pursed his lips. “The best I can say is that it was a very horsely horse. Never was there a more horsely horse. It was, indeed, the horseliest of all horses.”
Luke began to shift. I glanced at him, concerned. What now? Then, quite suddenly, Luke threw back his head and laughed. How my father would have loved that laugh. It was a glory of bells, all tumbling melody, perfectly pitched.
Walter, appreciating the bells, tried to remain serious. “I think horses can be horsely,” he said, his own lips twitching, “just as herons can be heronly and”—we passed villagers rolling thick oak logs—“fences fencely—”
“And grass grassly and trees treely—” Luke could hardly get the words out.
“And you yoully and me meely!” I began to dissolve.
“That’s it!” cried Walter. “We’ve cracked the great mystery of words!”
It was a miracle how Walter’s flowery good nature softened everything between us. Indeed, as we pressed Walter to finish his implausible tale, Luke, his hackles not completely flat but no longer bristling, both interrupted and egged Walter on as much as I did until, finally, we were all talking as easily as if we’d been friends for years. And as I rode and chattered, I realized
something very strange. For once, I didn’t wish to be someone else or somewhere else. I was still conscious of my father’s suffering, still conscious of my guilt, could still smell the summoner and was more than aware of Master Chaucer’s troubles. Yet far from diminishing my happiness, these troubles rendered it more precious, probably because I knew it couldn’t last. Extraordinary how rare it is to be happy in the here and now.