Authors: K. M. Grant
“And why shouldn’t he? Whatever his faults, the king’s set above us by God,” I retorted.
“A
good
king is set above us by God,” the summoner contradicted, “and a bad one by the devil.”
“You’re calling the king the devil?” My terror increased rapidly because only a true madman would dare to make such an accusation.
The summoner pressed so close I could feel the end of his nose. “King Richard certainly takes the devil’s advice.” He squeezed my waist again. “He also forgets the law, and where once he met with his people, now he flees from them. The commission, on the other hand, meets with everybody. It speaks for the people. It speaks for England. It speaks for me and it should speak for you. The king cares only about being king. That makes him a very bad king—an unworthy king, a king we cannot trust.” His knee lodged in a place no knee should lodge. I grew faint. “But you knew all that, my pealing Belle. Of course you did. You’re not a fool and you’ve got two pretty ears which, I’ll warrant, hear more than they should.” I felt something sticky. His tongue! It slimed over my earlobe. Now I tried shoving violently. He enjoyed that too, for he easily contained me. “You may also have heard, since you’re such a fan of his, that Master Chaucer has occasionally been a royal messenger boy.” His tongue was right in my ear. “
And I believe he still is
.” I tried to think of myself as a statue. “He’s on a royal mission to ask the king of France to make sure the commissioners don’t tip King Richard from his throne.”
That was so ridiculous that I couldn’t help myself.
“Nonsense,” I burst out. “King Richard won’t have anything to do with the king of France. How could he? The French king’s our enemy.”
The summoner withdrew his tongue. “Good for you! You’ve at least grasped that! The king of France
is
our enemy—at least he’s the enemy of the commission and all real Englishmen. But to keep his throne, Richard may choose to make him a friend.” He wiped the spittle from my chin with his thumb. What kind of man wears a ring on his thumb? Oh, where was somebody to rescue me?
“You’re saying the king’s not loyal to his kingdom?” I said, terrified that if I remained silent I would feel that tongue again.
“I’m saying that King Richard would prefer to see England overrun by French knights than have to submit himself to the will of an English parliament.” He shifted his knee down a little.
I breathed. “Well, the French king’s not in Canterbury,” I said, “so it would be a funny place for King Richard to send Master Chaucer to find him.”
He raised his knee again. I sprang onto my tiptoes. “Of course the French king’s not in Canterbury,” he said, snarling, “but Canterbury is stuffed full of French pilgrims, or at least people pretending to be pilgrims. It’s the perfect place for conspirators to meet. Once we’ve arrived, Master Chaucer’ll pass on a message inviting
King Charles to send French knights to help King Richard keep his throne, even though they both know that King Charles wants the English throne for himself.”
I made a last bid. “French pilgrims, English pilgrims! French kings, English kings! French knights, English knights! What does any of this matter to me?”
“Your father matters to you,” the summoner said.
My blood drained to my toes. The summoner could feel it. At last he stood back. He knew I wouldn’t run. “Now you’re listening, eh, Miss Belle Who Thinks She’s So Clever.” He placed his hands either side of my shoulders. His pouch swung away from his belt and, inside it, something shifted and rattled. One hand shot down to silence whatever it was and then was back, stroking my left cheek. “Are you listening properly?” I didn’t nod, which made him click that horrible tongue and stroke harder. “I’ve a little job that needs doing and I think you’re just the person to do it.” Stroke, stroke, stroke, those dirty fingernails scraping my skin. “I’ve been watching you. You’re a clever minx. Set your mind to it and you could get any man to trust you. The job’s hardly difficult. All you have to do is pluck out the Master’s secrets as we travel and deliver them to me.”
I flattened my palms against the tree. My legs were jelly. “Why pick on me? Why not get Luke to do your dirty work?”
“Because he’d refuse.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s that sort.” He spat over his shoulder, then grinned. “And his father doesn’t frequent that hotbed of treachery, the Tabard.”
“Please,” I begged, though to beg stuck in my craw, “my father’s not a plotter and as for Master Host, his opinions about everything from the king to boiled eggs change all the time.”
“Ah! So you do admit that the Tabard’s a center of gossip?”
“I admit nothing of the sort.”
“But Master Host talks about the king. You just said so.”
“I said Master Host talks about everything—”
“Everything includes the king. And your father listens.”
“He
hears
, but that doesn’t mean to say—”
“You’ve said enough.
Questio quid juris?
”
“What?”
“Never mind. Have you ever seen a cripple hanged?”
We stood in awful silence. Then suddenly the summoner was gasping. Pale fingers had wound themselves around his thick neck, and through the garlic I smelled brimstone. “Master Summoner?” Luke’s voice was ice-cold. “What on earth are you doing?”
The summoner choked.
“Oh, thank God!” I was so relieved I almost cried.
“Has he hurt you?”
Seekum’s eyes were bulging, but even in the dark, the threat they contained was strong and clear. He retracted not a word. “No. He hasn’t hurt me.”
Luke held on a second longer before letting go. The summoner gurgled and spluttered. “We were simply passing the time of day,” he said, a picture of aggrieved innocence.
“At this time of night?” Luke was completely disbelieving.
“Is there a law against it?” Seekum wiped his face on his sleeve. “And is it not the truth, Belle?”
“Yes.” I stared at my feet.
“And was it not so pleasant that we’ll speak again?”
I didn’t reply.
“Sweet dreams to you both.” The summoner made a crude pout with his lips. “Very sweet dreams.”
We waited until he’d gone. “He followed me out here,” I said. “You know the type. He’s just an old lecher taking advantage. Believe me, I’ve dealt with worse.” I sounded too bright.
“So I needn’t have come looking for you?” The leather thongs that were supposed to keep his glasses firm had loosened. Luke had to keep pushing the glasses up.
“I didn’t mean that,” I whispered.
We began to walk back to the inn. I wanted to feel
him against my shoulder. I just felt the need. But he didn’t invite me to get that close, and anyway, I felt defiled and deceitful. I was glad of the dark.
“Walter would doubtless have challenged that animal to a contest.” He kicked an abandoned wooden stool in the yard. “I wish—”
“Walter didn’t notice I was missing.”
We reached the ladies’ chamber. “I always know where you are,” Luke said.
The water in the pitcher was cold, but I turned the posy of night herbs the prioress had placed on my pillow into a scraper and scrubbed myself from head to toe. Even after I’d scraped and scrubbed until I was sore I felt dirty. I couldn’t get the feel of saliva out of my ear. Only when the water ran out did I kneel in front of my bed, saying three Our Fathers on one knee, three on the other, and three on both. Then I pulled on Walter’s woolen hose, buried myself under the blankets, and curled myself into the tightest ball possible.
The other ladies were already snoring but I remained awake a long time, scrunching Poppet into my neck. I’d once seen a man hanged—not even a man, just a boy, about the same age as the king. It had been the year of the great revolts, the year of my mother’s pox. I was nine, the king thirteen. There had been riots over a poll tax and the king had been brave. I never knew the details. All I knew was that for days and days the air
was full of howling and ash as people were dragged from their beds and London burned. Because the victims were mainly people of position, I don’t think my father feared for us particularly, so we didn’t flee as others did. Anyway, my mother was dying, so the outside world seemed unimportant.
The day my mother was taken from us, I went to buy corpse candles to burn beside her body. Outside the shop a crowd had gathered around a boy, a gentleman’s son by the look of his clothes. I don’t know what he was doing in Southwark or what he had done to annoy them, but the crowd attacked him violently. Without any warning, so it seemed to me, they rose like wild animals, plucked him from his horse, and strung him up with his own belt. He kicked and kicked, his arms jerking up and down, and he wet himself. That seemed worse than everything else. As the stain darkened his silk leggings, I hurried away.
Tonight I could see him again, only he wasn’t a boy, he was my father, unable to kick of course, but with that spreading stain. “God help me,” I whispered as the ladies snored on and the dogs snuffled, only there seemed no reason why he should. I got out of my bed and said another nine Our Fathers, then nine more. I made three circles of the room. I looked out of the window until I’d seen three rats. I missed my pumice stone. When I shut my eyes, I could see the summoner, and he was
pushing me and my father into an abyss. Only when I remembered Walter’s kindness and Luke’s jealous concern did I find something to cling to. It was only then that I slept.
Take counsel ere you speak, let nothing slip.
My son, too often by some babbling speech
Many are blasted …
The cock crowed early, and though the room was muggy from the sleepy heat of so many bodies, I shivered as I pulled on my dress. The joy of yesterday morning had vanished. I ate no breakfast. Walter again helped me to mount and made no comment when I increased my usual three compulsive skips to six. I tried to smile at Luke but he was not looking. As I passed the summoner, he wagged his thumb, which made Pardoner Bernard smirk, though I’m sure he knew nothing of last night’s encounter. I shrugged. I did not go near the Master. In the light, it was easier to convince myself that if God didn’t protect my father, he wasn’t worthy to be God. I tried to be nonchalant.
Dulcie welded herself close to Arondel. As we jogged back onto the road, Walter began to describe the pennants of each Knight of the Round Table and, with his father’s obvious approval, followed this with a highly intricate but not altogether fascinating assessment of the defensive benefits of a great helm over a basinet,
the essential nature of an aventail, the development of the fauld, the discomfort of a besegew, and the possible blistering potential of ill-fitting sabayons. I had no idea what any of these things were, but I didn’t care. The boredom was comforting, and Walter’s bobbing curls and lark’s voice shone a light on last evening’s dark nightmare until, after an hour or two, I gave myself a stern lecture. The summoner was just a summoner, not the Lord Chief Justice. He had no power over life and death. His threats were horrible but they were just threats. Master Chaucer was a pilgrim on a pilgrimage. I was a pilgrim on a pilgrimage. The king, the commission, and France were nothing to do with either him or me. As for my father, he had friends, some in high places. If anybody came to take him, he would have his protectors.
After passing three vagrants locked in the stocks, I was calm enough to note the neatness of Walter’s eyebrows and the suppleness of his waist. With those pearly teeth, he was really quite perfect.
“How do you keep them so white?” I broke in during an exposition of the benefits of chainmail against plated armor.
“And so plate is really—keep what white?”
“Your teeth?”
“Oh,” he said, abandoning armor in an instant, “I mix up mint and chalk in a mortar, and of course I’m
never without a twig to pick out bits of food. Nothing nastier than a mouth full of leftovers. The smell!
Brrrrr
.” He flashed a smile. “Luke’s got white teeth too. Have you noticed? I wonder what his secret is.”
“We could ask him,” I suggested.
This made Walter uncomfortable. “No, I don’t think we should ask something like that.”
“Why ever not?”
“Well, you could ask. But it’s not the kind of thing men ask each other.” He changed the subject. “What’s the worst story you know?”
“That’s easy,” I answered, and without further ado began to tell not a tale of my own, but one I’d heard Master Miller tell to make my father laugh. To this day I don’t know why I chose it. Perhaps because I was upset. Perhaps I knew Summoner Seekum was listening and thought, in some way, to show that his threats had not cowed me. Perhaps I wanted Walter to realize how worldly-wise and sophisticated I was. Honestly, who knows why we do things that, in the cold after light, are clearly silly. Anyhow, the story I began was a thoroughly bawdy one involving an idiotic carpenter; his neat, sweet, lecherous wife; a lovesick parish clerk; and a sly student. The miller had told it when he thought I was asleep and only realized I was awake when, at the very rudest point, I had giggled. My father had been furious. Now, even as I began, I knew I’d made a bad
choice, and as the story got bawdier and bawdier, I became more and more flustered.