Authors: K. M. Grant
“He’s a toad,” I said with some feeling. “I’ll bet he prizes out everybody’s secrets and then stores them as little jars of poison.”
Master Chaucer’s foxy smile vanished. He leaned hard on his box and aged twenty years before my very
eyes. “You think so?” he said. “What do you make of Summoner Seekum, Luke?”
“He asks too many questions,” said Luke.
The Master blinked. “He does? What about?”
“He wants to know everybody’s business,” Luke said. “I mean, he asked why you were going to Canterbury and what you were writing. The effrontery!”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Why, the truth, of course.” Luke gave me a look of small triumph. Then his face became grave. “But you should be careful, Master.”
“I should?”
“Yes,” Luke went on. “I’ll bet he’d not hesitate to steal your ideas.” He gestured to the box. “Make sure you keep them locked up.”
“Ah, my ideas,” said the Master, and some of his foxy look returned. “He’s already tried that. He writes poetry, or what he imagines is poetry, and, most gratifyingly, he copies my style. We both sang our own works to the king a little while ago.” He paused as the humility of the pilgrim battled the pride of the poet. “It would be dishonest of me to say that laughter didn’t greet both our efforts.” Another struggle. “I think it would also be dishonest not to say that the king laughed
with
me but
at
our friend, whose performance, if I remember correctly—and I do—he compared to the brayings of an ass.” Though the
recollection clearly pleased Master Chaucer, it can hardly have pleased the summoner.
Luke relaxed. “His hat’s pretty asslike too.”
“Asslike as mine?” the Master teased.
Luke’s tongue again twisted into knots. “No, I didn’t mean—I really meant—I mean yours isn’t—”
“Calmly, boy, calmly!” Chaucer admonished, laughing. “If we’re to get on, you must learn that I’m seldom looking to take offense. Untie your tongue. I was just about to remark that hats tell a great deal about a person.”
“You’re right,” I said, pointing ahead. “Just look at Pardoner Bernard. He’s warbling away, so dignified and holy. Yet by sewing that enormous bulgy thing on the top of that quite fetching little cap, he’s turned himself into a clown.”
“It’s supposed to be St. Edmund’s knucklebone,” Luke said, at which the Master hooted like a naughty schoolboy, making Luke and me smile at each other. In moments, though, the hoots had gone and the Master closed his eyes, the years pressing down on him again.
The road grew too narrow for the four of us and there was a bit of barging. I wanted to continue to ride by Master Chaucer. Luke didn’t want to give up his place and a skinny cleric persisted in pushing between us. In the end, I admitted defeat, gave Dulcie her head and caught up with Walter. He was countering the boredom of the walking pace on which his father
insisted by braiding small bows into Arondel’s mane and was very pleased to see me. When Summoner Seekum and his friend stopped to draw breath, he and I settled on singing a roundel my mother had taught me.
Summer is a-coming in, merry sing cuckoo,
Bloweth mead and groweth seed and merry sing
cuckoo.
Sing cuckoo!
Ewe bleateth after lamb, loweth after calve coo
.
Bullock sterteth, buck averteth, merry sing cuckoo
.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Now sing we all cuckoo
,
Never swick thee never noo.
“What a pretty voice you have,” Walter said.
Such
a gallant lie. I sing like a strangled cat. Even Walter didn’t suggest an encore and instead told me of a tournament in which he and his father had taken part. After he had described the maneuvers of his third encounter, lance by lance, and exactly which tunic he’d chosen for each new joust, I began to wonder what kind of silken favor I would give a man who wanted to fight for me. Would I make a virtue of my red hair by reflecting it or would I simply dye it raven black, perhaps, or sun gold? What color was Guinevere’s hair, or Sir Galahad’s? I’d tried not to think of King Arthur’s court since my father’s accident and now I couldn’t
remember. Walter tapped my arm gently. He’d stopped talking. “I’m afraid I was boring you,” he said, and grinned, “though your poppet’s still listening.”
“Not at all,” I said, quickly tucking Poppet into my sleeve. “I was just wondering what kind of a favor would suit me, with my red hair and all.”
“Oh,” he said, happily nodding. “Yes, yes. Red can be a problem. Let’s see, though. We can either be brave and go for orange—make a virtue of the clash—or perhaps green would be safer?”
“Can you remember what color Guinevere’s hair was?” I asked.
“I can’t remember Guinevere’s, but I do remember that Arthur’s hair was yellow.” He twisted in his stirrups. “Let’s see. I have it very exactly in my mind. Yes. Arthur’s was the same color as Master Chaucer’s scribe’s if his were clean and properly cut.”
It was true. Luke’s hair, which had seemed so dull, suddenly seemed full of possibilities. “You’re quite right,” I said, and before I knew it, we were talking about hair fashions, the new vogue for belted tunics, and trying to decide whether tapering points on shoes made men’s feet look elegant or ridiculous. I thought what a kind person he was, particularly since I was sure he preferred talking about swords and battles. It was nice, too, that for now at least I could live in a fairy tale in which famous writers, rich squires, alchemists’ sons,
and bell founders’ daughters could get along as easily as cows at cud.
At dusk we headed for the glow of a town and walked in procession through the gate amongst a trickle of laborers who had been clearing out an overgrown moat. Set amongst the stone houses of the town’s merchants and officials we found an inn that could put up all of us for the night. It was quite a grand place, considering. How I would manage to pay my bill I had no idea. I told myself that if Dulcie sneezed three times before I dismounted, something would turn up. Though I dismounted as tardily as possible, she only sneezed twice.
I thought of pretending I was fasting and refusing dinner, but I was starving, so let myself be seated between Walter and Sir Knight and opposite Luke and Master Chaucer. Though Luke said little, the conversation flowed, and, from those who opened their souls, it turned out that there were not two people amongst us who had the same reason for making the pilgrimage. St. Thomas was going to be very busy.
Walter carved for his father, and then, slightly to my embarrassment, for me. He set meat on my plate with a little jeweled dagger and cut it neatly into three. “We don’t want to see any of your silver, Belle. For this journey, you’re Dulcie’s guest,” he whispered. Walter wasn’t a fool. He must have realized that I had no money. I thanked him and then I sneezed, which was a relief.
We ate too well for pilgrims, Sir Knight and Walter with the carelessness of those who have only known plenty, and the poorer pilgrims with the enthusiasm of those who’ve never been sure of enough. The friar simply speared something from every platter that passed him, often cramming his prize straight into his mouth, while Master Reeve cut all his food into tiny pieces and darted at them with long fingers. Everybody’s patience was tried by the prioress, whose dogs, at her insistence, sat at the table like drooling empresses. The prioress herself refused all food, but though her plate was always empty, I noticed her mouth always full. The Toad, of course, ate hugely and messily, and scarcely concealed his fascination with the lady apothecary’s hideously scarred face. She had only three teeth and when people spoke to her, drew her gaze back from some place beyond the walls and answered so sharply that nobody addressed her twice.
After the plates were cleared, we settled ourselves around the room and Sir Knight read a long account of a battle from a little book whose cover, so he told us, was splotched with blood from one of his own wounds. The blood was much more impressive than the story, which was dull enough to send a sheep to sleep. It was then that the trouble started, because Walter asked the Master if he’d ever witnessed a battle and when the Master said that he hadn’t, remarked that it must be much nicer
to write about war than fight in one. I’m sure Walter didn’t mean to imply any cowardice on the Master’s part, but Luke chose to take offense on the Master’s behalf and sprang up, red fork flashing again in those goose-gray eyes, skin like molten silver. Our Christian monk had a very pagan temper. Some of the pilgrims sniggered. But I didn’t. Walter sprang up too, hands up, palms out. “I’m so sorry. I meant no harm, I really didn’t.” He offered a conciliatory smile but it was only at the Master’s insistence that Luke slowly unclenched his fists. By the time he sat down he was just an angry, lank-haired boy again.
Order restored, the landlord banked up the fire and brought out cakes to dip in our wine. In the sweetness of it all I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, everybody was getting up to prepare for bed and I needed to relieve myself. There were internal latrines hanging over the stream that bypassed the inn, but since there was a line, I decided to go outside. As I straightened my skirt I was seized from behind, and I knew who it was from the stench of must and garlic. “Jesus Mary, Master Summoner!” I cried loudly. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Make a noise and it’ll be something you’ll not forget,” he hissed, and the pungency of his breath scattered the sweetness and peace. I could feel my skirt riding up and regretted bitterly having taken off
Walter’s hose before supper to give my legs an airing. The Toad pressed my back against a tree trunk, then squashed his chest hard over mine, squeezing my calves against the bark until my scabs tore. His lips were a greasy slash far too near my own.
“What do you want?” I tried not to breathe any of him in. I knew, of course, what he wanted. It was what all men want. But I was quite wrong. “I want to know what you were discussing with our famous Master Chaucer,” he said.
“Master Chaucer?” I was stupid in my surprise. “Nothing.”
His shins scraped my bare knees. “A whole day’s a long time to discuss nothing.”
I couldn’t imagine where this was leading. “We were talking about the pardoner’s hat,” I said rather desperately. A bead of his sweat dripped onto my neck.
“The pardoner’s hat?” He jolted, forcing my skirt up farther. His knee followed my skirt. “Very clever.”
“Please,” I said. I wanted to wriggle my skirt down, but instinct told me not to move. “Let me go. I’ve nothing of interest to you.”
His answer was to squeeze my waist until tears started in my eyes. His mouth was so close now that his spittle peppered my chin. I thought that if he kissed me I should be sick. I wished I hadn’t been rude to him when we first met. Perhaps this was my punishment
for that. But he never mentioned it. Instead, he echoed what he’d said in the Tabard yard. “Are you loyal to England, Belle the bell founder’s daughter?”
I thought maybe he’d gone mad, so I wrenched my head around, away from his mouth, although now his whiskers were like fleas in my ears. “What are you talking about? What on earth do you mean?” Why didn’t somebody come to rescue me?
“Come, lady. You know exactly what I mean. Do you take the side of the king or the commission?”
“Commission?” I really had no idea what he was talking about. “What commission?”
He squeezed harder. “I suppose you know who the king is?”
“Of course I do. King Richard II.” I had to get him off me. If I’d had a meat knife I’d have stabbed him.
“And you know that his taxes and fancy friends have brought England to near ruin?”
“I know as little of the king’s affairs as he knows of mine,” I replied with as much spirit as I dared. “I know that he finds your poetry laughable, though.” Such a stupid thing to say and had the summoner bellowed his fury, I would have been less alarmed. But he simply said, “Ah, Master Chaucer has been gossiping. Quite the writer. Quite the wit.
Quite the operator
.” He narrowed his eyes to slits. The memory of that unfortunate poetry performance clearly still made him seethe.
However, even this wasn’t what he was referring to. “We’ll come to the Master later. I want to talk first about the company your father keeps.”
My heart stuck in my throat. “My father keeps no company. His injury sees to that.”
“He keeps company with the host of the Tabard.” The summoner rolled the words around his mouth. “And Master Host’s not very loyal to England; not very loyal at all.”
His grip loosened a little. He knew he had me. I tried to recover some bravado. “My father’s just a bell founder,” I snapped, “and Master Host’s just a neighbor.”
“In times such as ours nobody’s ‘just a neighbor.’ Even a silly girl like you must know that the king’s mustering an army to use against those who object to the way he lives. Why do you think even this paltry little town’s busy restoring defenses that probably haven’t been used since the godforsaken days of King Stephen?” He shook me, and visibly enjoyed it. “A monarch should have the good of the realm at heart, and our king, God curse him, has only the good of the king.” He leered into my face. “Master Geoffrey Chaucer favors the king.”