Authors: K. M. Grant
“His eyes,” I said. “A kind of lightning fork in that goose gray.”
Walter nodded. “And his hands. Have you noticed his hands? If I could draw, I’d draw them. They’re fine hands, yet when they’re fists, they could crack a man’s jaw.”
“When did you know you loved him?”
He stared through Arondel’s ears. “It just crept up on me. Perhaps for certain after the horsely horse day. When he laughed.” His lips thinned. This was not easy for him. He turned to face me, suddenly filled with passionate intensity. “I meant what I said the night of the feast. You’ll never ever tell him, will you, Belle? Please promise me. No, don’t just promise, swear it.”
“He wouldn’t mind.”
“You don’t know that and anyway, it’s not the point. I don’t want him to know. There’d be either revulsion or pity and I couldn’t bear either. You must swear.”
I put one hand over the top of his and our reins got muddled. “I’m never going to see him again, Walter.” My chin was trembling.
“Swear anyway.”
“I swear.”
“Thank you,” Walter said. We didn’t speak much again that day, and after he’d salved my legs that night and we lay together, I found his cheeks were wet. I wiped them gently dry with Poppet, then held him against me until morning.
We pushed on. Never have I been so tired. Indeed, I was so tired that some days I noticed nothing at all and this frightened me. What if a magpie had crossed my path and I hadn’t saluted? What if things kept coming at me in fours? At night I would have worried myself sick except that I had Walter, and whenever I began to toss and fret, he’d stroke my hair and count all manner of nonsense in threes like a mother crooning a lullaby. During the day, he himself was often very preoccupied. One morning when I woke, he and Arondel had vanished. I stood uselessly by Dulcie, faintly alarmed. After ten minutes, I was terrified. Two mules ambled by. I waited in vain for a third. There was no third. Just when I was beginning to despair, there were hoofbeats and Dulcie whinnied a welcome. I ran to Arondel and beat Walter’s foot. “I thought you’d gone. I thought you’d left me.”
He leaped off. “Darling Belle! Of course I hadn’t. How could you think such a thing? I just went to get news and more food. You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you.”
I was ashamed of myself. “I’m sorry.” I tried a shaky grin. “I saw two mules.”
He shook his head in the most gentle of reprimands. “Two mules or two thousand, I’ll never desert you while you need me,” he said.
“Is that your promise?”
“It’s my promise.”
I couldn’t forget the twisted Canterbury “miracle” words. “And by ‘desert’ I mean you have to be alive, not a spirit like my mother. A flesh and blood Walter, a breathing—”
Though gray with exhaustion, Walter began to laugh and his eyes twinkled. “Flesh and blood, living and breathing, cross my heart three times, click my thumbs three times, stamp my feet three times.” He took my hands. “Dear Belle. You don’t need to bargain for me. You’ve got me. As much as I’m any woman’s, I’m yours. Now, let’s eat as we ride. The king’s only twenty miles away. If we hurry, we can reach him before he moves off again.”
We hurried, and after we’d overtaken two companies of mounted archers flying the king’s pennant, we hurried more, and it was still well before midday when at last we saw a small company of knights, some of whose badges and coats of arms Walter recognized. “We’ll follow them,” Walter said. “Our journey’s nearly over.” Though our blood was pumping, as we grew closer to the king’s camp, Walter turned nearly as white as Luke. This was a difficult moment for him. We were soon accosted by armed men. “Let me speak,” Walter murmured. I felt for the king’s ring in my wallet and nodded.
I don’t know what Walter said, but nobody really challenged us until we reached a large circle of nearly two dozen tents, some plain, some striped, pitched defensively
round a multicolored pavilion. Under an awning, three scribes seated on three stools were busy taking down names from a line of knights and men-at-arms. As each individual gave his name, he was handed a gold-colored badge and an embroidered white stag by a young man with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. At the badge giver’s touch, each knight fell to his knees as though brushed by the finger of God. I didn’t need Walter to tell me that the young man was the king.
We dismounted and handed the horses to two pages. Before we got into the line, however, Walter’s arm was seized by a burly baron who squinted at him as though he knew him but couldn’t quite place him. “Name.”
“Walter de Pleasance, son of Sir Lawrence de Pleasance.”
The man’s face cleared. “Walter de Pleasance! Of course. We haven’t seen you for a while, though I should have recognized the horse’s blue trappings. Now then.” He looked Walter up and down. “You’re hardly dressed for combat.”
“I’ve been on pilgrimage,” Walter explained.
“On the king’s behalf, I hope.” Walter inclined his head in a way that could have meant anything. The man squinted at me. “I see you’ve picked up a pretty ‘blessing’ on the way.”
Walter blushed. “This is Belle.”
“Indeed.” The man gave a rough bow.
“We need to see the—”
“WALTER!”
Walter’s face split into a huge smile, half of relief, half of genuine pleasure, as the king, dropping all the badges, launched himself toward us. “My lord!”
“None of that! Richard, just Richard to you. Where’ve you been? I’ve missed you!” The king’s boyish enthusiasm added luster to a flat but pretty face, which few lines had yet marred.
Walter responded to the embrace. “I’ve missed you too. Can I introduce you to Belle?”
Richard took a step back. “Belle?”
I curtsied. He eyed me with some curiosity and a smile of welcome that was a little more distant. He looked at Walter again, his pleasure clouding. “Is there something you want, Walter?”
“Want, sir? No, nothing.”
“Everybody wants something these days.”
“I want nothing except a moment or two of your time.”
The king threw back his head and his laugh was a little too loud. “Hear that, Robert?”
A tall man, only a little older than the king but with an air of calculation about him, stepped forward. He nodded at Walter with neither dislike nor warmth. “I do, my lord.”
“Remember Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford, now Duke of Ireland?” the king said. “He’s had more than
a few moments of my time.” The earl just stood. “But you’re worth every grant of land and every privilege,” the king added hastily, then dismissed the earl, who bowed, picked up the scattered badges, and, without seeking permission, gave them out himself. Richard watched him for a moment, clearly unsure whether or not to take umbrage at this breech of etiquette. He decided not. Instead, he linked arms with Walter and drew him along, leaving me trailing behind. “Well, here I am. Have a moment of time and then dine with me, though we may have to get you some clean clothes, and Belle too.” He tossed my name over his shoulder.
“I’ve been on pilgrimage,” Walter said, then added, as if it were a matter of no importance, “with Master Geoffrey Chaucer.”
The arm tucked into Walter’s involuntarily tightened. “Indeed! Come. We’ll speak in my tent where you can sit in comfort.”
I think he’d have happily forgotten about me, but I wasn’t going to let him.
As soon as the tent flap was shut behind us and we were alone, the king was urgent. “You’ve a message for me from the Master?” He was almost whispering, his eyes never leaving Walter’s. He was trying to gauge how much Walter knew. He gave up. “Give me the message quickly.”
Walter coughed, gestured backward to me, and I came forward holding the king’s ring. The king took
it, at first with some bemusement, then with increasing excitement. “The King of France has sent this back already? He’s coming to help me?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
“King Charles never received either the message or the ring.”
The king froze. “But Master Chaucer promised.” His face contorted. “
He promised
.”
“He—”
The king wasn’t interested in listening. “He promised and he’s let me down. There’s a word for people like that.”
“Richard!”
“My lord, to you.”
Walter winced. “Please listen to me, my lord. Master Chaucer hasn’t let you down. There were complications. I learned of your message—it doesn’t matter how—I learned of it and took it on myself to bring the ring back.”
“But, you idiot, without the ring, my message has no authority, and without my message I’m likely to lose my throne.” The king spoke slowly, every word iced with fury.
“The interference of the King of France will lose you your throne.” Walter’s voice trembled. “Listen, sire. You’re the King of England. You must look to Englishmen to help you.”
“But they don’t help me, Walter.” He spoke as if
Walter were a half-wit. “They conspire against me. The commission! My loving uncles! All those so-called faithful nobles.” He almost spat. “I can rely on nobody except those like the Earl of Oxford, who owe everything they are and are ever likely to be to me.” His face dissolved like a small child’s. “I thought Master Chaucer was on my side.”
“My lord, it’s not a question of sides. It’s a question of what’s right.”
“My throne’s my right! Now get out! Get out! I’ll find another courier, send another message, and this time I’ll choose somebody more competent than a dull-witted old poet.”
Walter gestured helplessly and began to retreat. To annoy the king further would only make things worse. I felt faint. This couldn’t be how everything ended.
The king suddenly shifted. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve nothing else to say, my lord.” Walter looked beaten.
“So you think I’ll let you spread the word that I’ve been looking for support over the sea?”
“I’ll say nothing, my lord.”
“‘I’ll say nothing, my lord,’” the king mocked. “No, indeed you won’t. Robert!” He moved purposefully toward the tent flap.
I put my hand on his arm as he passed. He flinched, as though I’d hit him. “Take your hands off the king!”
I removed my hand. “Sir,” I said quickly. “Your throne
is
your right and we can help you secure it.”
“You?” He didn’t even look at me.
“Yes,” I said. “Walter and I. We can deliver the support of Londoners to you.”
Walter gave a small exclamation. The king made no noise at all. I thought he hadn’t heard. He was almost out of the tent when he stopped. “How?”
I was careful not to step toward him because even now he could barely look at me, and he was so near the tent flap he could have slipped through in an instant. “I can’t tell you, sir. You’ll have to trust me.” He turned away. “But it can be done!” I said more loudly. “It can be done.”
He hesitated, took hold of the flap, then let go. Now he scrutinized me from top to bottom. “Why should you want to deliver London’s support? What have I ever done for you?”
He was so close that I could see something of what Master Chaucer had seen. King or no king, Richard was just a boy, and though care and worry had left no outward lines, anxiety bit at him like the midge. He seemed less unkind than slightly unhinged. Hemmed in by his position, his character, his advisers, and his youth, the most powerful man in the country held less mastery over his own fate than I over mine. Had he been me, of course, he’d have used a pumice stone. As
it was, he just floundered, complete control over anything, even his own person, always out of reach. I felt sorry for him.
“You’re the king,” I said, and looked at him candidly. “You should be in control.” I knew instinctively that I shouldn’t mention my father. Richard must believe that everything we did was for him.
There was a long pause. “What did you say your name was?”
“Belle.”
He stepped back. “Well, Belle,” he said, in unconscious imitation of my father’s rhyme, “deliver London to me. With the support of the capital, I’d have no need of Charles of France. It’s September. I’ll give you until November. I want to be king of my own country in more than just name well before Christmas. Can you make sure of that?”
He expected me at least to gulp. I didn’t. “November, then, sir.”
“A triumphant return.”
My heart quailed slightly. “A triumphant return.”
“And what surety do I have?”
“My life,” said Walter at once.
“Walter—no …” I couldn’t say more. I had to exude confidence.
The king rocked on his heels. “Your life, Walter de Pleasance? Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, sir,” Walter said.
“Shouldn’t Master Chaucer suffer for his failures?”
“Master Chaucer is a great man, sir.”