Authors: K. M. Grant
“It’s all right, Walter. It’s all right.”
When the steward and Master Chaucer arrived, I
was holding Luke and Walter was busy taking off the armor. Master Chaucer was gray.
“No, he’s not dead.” Walter gave a bland smile. “But he’s hit his head hard. I don’t think he’ll ride again today, and we’ll have to hope his famous memory’s not impaired.”
When the stretcher came, it was Master Chaucer who held Luke’s hand. I think only I noticed that Walter had to turn away.
We continued on to Sir Jean’s tent. With his ransom saved, the French knight was generosity itself. No expense was to be spared to repair his gallant opponent’s injuries. Naturally enough, as Master Chaucer and Walter disappeared with the stretcher, the summoner was watching. There was one awful cry as Luke was stripped and checked for broken bones. I clutched the tent pole. Then there was nothing to do but wait.
The fiery dart of love so burningly
Thrusts through my faithful heart with deadly hurt!
It was the padding that saved Luke. Apart from bruising and mild concussion, he had suffered no lasting damage. Still, Sir Knight insisted on transporting him back to the town in the blue armor cart. I’d never seen Master Chaucer so thrilled. Not only was Luke a hero, but, so he whispered to me, the king’s ring could be sent with Sir Jean! Luke need have nothing to do with it anymore. “God works in mysterious ways,” he murmured as he climbed into the cart beside Luke. “So mysterious I doubt even he can follow all the twists and turns.”
I watched the cart lumber off. Walter was riding Arondel and leading Picardy. I mounted Dulcie and volunteered to lead Dobs. As good fortune had it, Sir Knight had cornered the summoner to discuss the nature of pilgrimage. Master Summoner would find it hard to escape. Walter and I rode side by side and the two led horses flanked us. That way we took up the whole road. For the first time since we’d met, Walter couldn’t look at me. I really didn’t know how to start, so I waded straight in. “Are you ashamed?”
He stared straight ahead. “Yes,” he said.
“Does your father know?”
“He knows and doesn’t know, if that makes any sense. Mostly, he blocks it out.” He paused. “It’s why my sister ran off. She guessed—I don’t know how because I swear to you, Belle, I’ve never touched anybody, man, boy, or girl, except once.” His face hardened, then softened unhappily. “But she seemed to know and one day asked me outright and I wasn’t quick enough to deny it. It was she who told my father. He’d never have guessed on his own. Whoa there, Picardy.” The horse snatched at a branch. “We lied, my father and I, about going to Canterbury to pray for my sister’s return. We’re going to Canterbury to pray for a cure for me. My father insisted on bringing Dulcie. I think she’s supposed to remind me that she’s the kind of pony people like me end up riding and also, of course, that because I’m not—well—not normal I drove my sister into the arms of our enemy.”
“How monstrous.”
Now he looked at me. “No, not monstrous,” he said. “What I feel’s a sin. It’s led to a blood feud.”
“Love’s never a sin,” I said stoutly. “What you do with love can be a sin, I suppose, but love itself can never be any such thing.”
Walter shook his head. “It makes me dishonest. I laugh and sing and flirt and eat and drink and serve and joust, but all the time it’s as if I’m a character in a story.”
I knew that feeling. It made me want to hug him. We had to part momentarily to allow a trail of pack-horses through. The peddler hailed Walter, with sidelong glances at me. “Flaming hair, flaming passion,” he chortled. “Send her my way when you’ve finished!” Walter responded as he always did, with a laugh and a posy of words. When we came together again, he was flushed. “You see,” he said. “When you’re like me, deceit becomes second nature. I even deceived you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, Belle, I did. When I saw you in the Tabard yard and learned you’d had no horse, I thought it would please my father to see a pretty girl in Dulcie’s saddle at my request. And it worked. He thought the cure had started already. He still thinks so.”
“That’s why he doesn’t mind me being a bell founder’s daughter?”
“Better a bell founder’s daughter than another knight’s son.”
“Oh, Walter.”
“Yes. You won’t want to ride with me now.”
“On the contrary,” I said, “I want to ride with you very much.”
There was silence for a little while. I broke it again, this time without a question. I began to talk about myself. I told him about my mother, how my father’s accident haunted me, about my life-in-the-head, my
hopeless housekeeping, my three-figured compulsion—“Ah, the three-skip mounting bounce, the threefold I Spy,” he said—and my pumicing—“Ah, the legs,” he said. I nodded. I really felt I could tell him anything. No, more than that. I wanted to tell him everything. I drew the line only at Master Chaucer’s secret. Now wasn’t the right time.
“You must be very lonely,” he said unexpectedly when my words trickled away.
I considered. “I’ve never thought I was lonely, but I suppose I am,” I said. “You get used to it.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“But you must have lots of friends,” I said.
“Do you?”
“No.”
Dulcie and Arondel skipped simultaneously over a pile of dung.
“It’s quite odd how similar we are,” I said. “We’ve both injured our fathers and we both love Luke. We were bound to be friends.”
“Or enemies,” Walter said.
“Dear Walter,” I said warmly, “you could no more be my enemy than … than … Poppet.”
He steered Picardy past a trio of drunken masons. “I wish I could do something to make my father proud, or do something to make me proud of myself.”
“Weren’t you with him in France?”
“Yes, but we never fought a real battle. Remember the bloodstain in his book?”
I nodded.
“It’s from his thumb. He cut it on a meat knife when we were sitting comfortably at our own table. It’s true we’ve been to France, and, two years ago, we did go on campaign to Scotland. But the only blood we saw was when villagers tried to stop us from taking food without paying. They were barely even armed. Perhaps if I fought in a real battle, I’d be different. I don’t know because I never have.”
I sat very still. Perhaps now was the right time after all. “Well,” I said tentatively, because I had no idea what he might think, “I can’t offer you a battle with swords and blood, but I can offer you this.” Before I could have second thoughts, I told him about Master Chaucer, the king, the ring, and the summoner. He listened intently. “You see we’re all deceitful in our ways,” I said nervously when I’d finished.
“Except for Luke,” he answered at once.
“Except for Luke,” I said. “Turns out an alchemist is the most honest of us all.”
He gave the ghost of a smile. Then the full import of what I had told him sank in. “Where’s the king’s ring at this moment?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and the sense of relief at not carrying all this stuff alone made me a little light-headed.
“I don’t even know if the Master still has it. He might have given it to Sir Jean when they took Luke into the tent.”
“If he didn’t, we can’t let Luke be sent on some errand for King Richard. Not when it could condemn him to death.” He was horrified, but also glad to think about something else. “We’ll find the ring. If Sir Jean does have it, he won’t be leaving for home at least until the morning, and he’ll be in the town tonight.”
“To inquire after Luke?”
“No, because there’s always a feast after a tournament, and if Sir Jean’s got anything to do with it, this tournament will be no exception.”
“Have you met him?” I asked.
“Who?”
“The king.”
“I have,” said Walter shortly. There was another pause. “We were together quite a bit when he was a boy. He only arrived in England when he was four, you know, and my father’s lands lay next to those of the royal manor at Berkhamsted, where Richard lived with his mother. We shared a tutor. Not the two of us alone,” he added hastily, “there were others. We all had special places in the coronation procession. Some are still his friends.”
“Do you think he deserves to be king?” I asked.
“Deserves? That’s not the right word. Nobody deserves
to be king. He certainly wasn’t meant to be king. His brother Edward was, but he died, so Richard just
is
king, and if people go pitching kings off their thrones, I’m not sure where we’ll end up. But to ask for help from the king of France! It’s not—it’s not—”
“Not kingly,” I said, and was relieved when Walter laughed.
“Absolutely right, Belle. It’s not what a properly kingly king would do.”
“What shall
we
do?”
He became very serious again. “Are you sure you want to do anything with me?”
“Very much,” I said.
“I’m not the kind of friend your father would want you to have.”
I wanted to say that Walter was exactly the kind of friend my father would want me to have, but I couldn’t. In truth, I had no idea what my father would make of Walter. “I choose my own friends,” I said in the end.
Walter gave a half smile. He understood perfectly. We explored various harebrained plans, from kidnapping Sir Jean, or Luke, or the summoner, or all three. Then suddenly Walter struck his saddle. “I know just what to do.”
“What?”
“We’ll find the ring and simply return it to the king.”
“Just like that?”
“No, not just like that. When we return it, we’ll make him see that if he asks the king of France for help, he’ll lose his throne, not keep it.”
“He thinks he’s going to lose it anyway.”
“And he might,” said Walter, “but if he asks for foreign help, no Englishman would ever forgive him, so he’ll never be safe. He must understand that.”
I was thoroughly skeptical. “Even assuming we find the ring, why on earth should the king see us, let alone listen to anything we have to say?”
There was a long pause. “He’ll see us,” said Walter, and looked away.
I swallowed. I couldn’t ask more. I didn’t want to know more. I rushed on. “What happens if he doesn’t like what we tell him?”
“Then I’ll be executed for guessing a truth Richard doesn’t want anybody except for Master Chaucer to know,” Walter said. “I mean, Richard can’t allow me to live if I know that he’s asked the king of France to send soldiers over here to kill Englishmen, can he? I expect my execution will be long and slow.”
“Jesus Mary, don’t!”
“It would be in a good cause, and you’d be safe. I’d say I led you astray.” He gave a hollow laugh. “That at least would please my father.”
I’d never heard him sound bitter before. It didn’t suit him.
“If the Master’s still got the ring, where might he have hidden it, do you think?” Walter mused.
“It’s not in his writing box,” I said, “or at least it wasn’t. It’s possible he’s put it back in there, thinking that the summoner wouldn’t look in there again.”
“It’s possible,” Walter said. “Can you look when we get back?” I nodded. “And can you look in his baggage and in his ordinary clothes when he changes for the feast? Of course he could have it around his neck or in his pouch. You’ll have to get close to him. We really need the services of a pickpocket.” I grimaced. “Yes, I know,” Walter said, “it’s not nice, but remember if we find it, he can’t give it to Luke. If the Master hasn’t given the ring to Sir Jean, that’s what he’ll do.” He pursed his lips. “If you can’t find it, though, I’ll have to find a way of searching Sir Jean and his belongings. I’m not sure how I’ll do that but the ring mustn’t go to France. It absolutely mustn’t.”
“What about the summoner?” I reminded him anxiously. “His threats are quite real and if he guesses what we’re doing, my father …”
Walter frowned. “Whatever we do, we need to be quick.”
The road filled up as we neared the town walls and we had to ride in single file. Dulcie blew hard through her nose as we passed a slaughtered pig. The smell of baking bread rose even above the smell of the sewers. Sir Jean had sent word already. A feast was being prepared.
I dismounted and patted Dobs. Walter and I began to walk toward the inn. Then something echoed. “Wait,” I said, and ran back to Dobs. “Head up for a moment,” I ordered, and ran my hand over the top of his crest, pressing down. All I could feel was hair.
“What on earth are you doing?” Walter had followed me.
“Just wait,” I said. I began at Dobs’s withers, parting the hair, my fingers searching. I moved methodically up his neck, to where the hair tangled further into a veritable thicket of knots and braids.
You could hide a library of stories in there and nobody would ever find it.
Wasn’t that what I’d said the first day of the pilgrimage?
I’ll remember that
, the Master had replied. And perhaps he had. He was always with Dobs and hadn’t I heard him give the horse to Luke to take with him? It wasn’t impossible. I squeezed and parted, forcing myself to go slowly. Just below where the bridle’s headpiece sat, inside a knot that was really no different from any of the others, I found what I was looking for. “No need to riffle through the baggage,” I said to Walter, and guided his hand.