Authors: K. M. Grant
Then, God be thanked, there was a roar. “Foulness! Utter foulness! This tale’s unfit for pilgrims’ ears, or anybody else’s for that matter! And you, a girl,
a girl
, think it right and proper to repeat it? Cover your ears, Madam Prioress!” The skinny cleric, hovering behind us, almost burst out of his jerkin. He brandished his whip. Believing the whip was meant for her, Dulcie bolted.
The cleric could never have guessed how grateful I was. Thank the Lord not to have to finish the tale! My cap flew off. My hair erupted like an autumn storm, and in the thunder of Dulcie’s hooves, the last of the summoner was blown away. We flew, Dulcie and I. Out of habit, I turned myself into Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine speeding toward the tower at Châlus-Chabrol to see her favorite son, King Richard the Lionheart, as he lay dying. It was wonderful, being somebody else. “Will we be in time?” I cried. “Faster, Dulcie, faster, faster.” She flattened into a streaming arrow.
Only when I had left everybody at least a quarter of a mile behind did Queen Eleanor fade and panic set in. What would happen if Dulcie swerved? If I was thrown and hurt, my father would suffer further. “Enough, now, Dulcie, please steady!” I shouted, but she, still dreaming her own dreams, sped on. I clung to the saddle. Not being a magic horse, she would tire
eventually. But when? My gut and my leg muscles were already beginning to dissolve. Soon I would be as easy to shake off as a leaf in a breeze. I couldn’t turn around. I couldn’t look ahead. I couldn’t do anything.
But others could, and I was suddenly aware, as was Dulcie, that we had company: on our right Picardy, Luke’s workmanlike bay, and on our left Walter’s blue-clad Arondel. Arondel, long-legged and oat-fueled, was barely trying. Picardy, however, was struggling, and Luke had to force him on. Dulcie, sensing a race, galloped faster. Walter was shouting instructions. “Take her rein and pull her around until she’s galloping in a large circle.”
“No,” cried Luke, “she’ll fall if you do that. She’s going too fast and the ground’s too slippery.”
“Aim toward the river, then.” Walter’s face was shining. He was finding the speed as exhilarating as I had.
“No,” cried Luke again. “Dulcie’ll jump in.”
“She can’t gallop in the river!” Walter was almost singing.
“I can’t swim,” I yelled.
Now Walter took things much more seriously. He grasped the rein and dragged it over Dulcie’s head, then, by unlucky accident, dropped it. Flapping dangerously, it threatened to loop her forelegs and bring her down. I screamed, Walter cried out, and Dulcie galloped joyfully on.
Luke wasted no more breath. He forced Picardy to gallop faster and when he was a little way in front, threw something into the air. At once a mist arose and Dulcie, surprised and disconcerted, faltered. With some dexterity, Walter leaned over and flicked the reins back over her head. When I took hold of them, Dulcie no longer set her elegant neck against me. The mist, now thickening and swirling, disoriented her, and she was grateful for a guiding hand. Within minutes we were all cantering, then trotting, then walking, the horses’ flanks billowing. As quickly as it had arisen, the mist dissipated until you could believe it had never appeared. I wiped my eyes and nose and felt for my pendant. Thank God it was still there.
“Idiot clerk.” Walter was furious. “Poor Dulcie, and poor you, Belle. How could a man brandish a whip when there are ladies in the company! It was monstrous.” He glared behind him. We could hear Master Cleric still expostulating. “Did you hear her story? I did what any decent man would have done. Where are this creature’s parents? They should be ashamed.” He waved a small wooden crucifix in which, so he boasted, was embedded a relic of the true cross, brought back by a warrior uncle from the Holy Land.
The company was noisily divided, those who hadn’t overheard the story supporting me, those who had supporting Master Cleric. Walter, who would certainly
have been appalled had I finished the tale, politely avoided mentioning it at all.
“It was a miracle that God sent the cloud so low,” he said. “He must love you very much, Belle, if he directs the weather to help you.”
Luke raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth, and then shut it again. I would have smiled at him had my lips not still been clamped together.
“Mind you,” Walter went on blithely, “even without God, a low cloud can sometimes be very useful.” He patted Arondel’s sweating shoulders. “Once, during a foggy tournament in Ghent, two knights chalked up their horses to make them invisible. Then it rained and how we laughed. As bits of the chalk were washed away, their horses looked just like ghosts in need of darning.”
I coughed and loosened my lips. “Holy ghosts,” I said.
“Indeed! Indeed! Holy ghosts!” Walter crowed. “Belle’s quite brilliant, Luke, isn’t she?”
“Brilliant,” Luke said abruptly, and dropped back to find the Master. I turned, wanting him to stay, and instead found Summoner Seekum closing in. I was lucky. Sir Knight pushed past him, fussing, and, though he could see I was unhurt, insisted that I ride close beside him until he could be certain Dulcie would not bolt again.
Like his son, Sir Knight was also much too well bred to mention my story, and the general chatter now
was the miracle of the cloud. When Luke, resuming his place next to the Master, tried to explain that it was a trick and no more miraculous than the dew, he was shouted down. This was a pilgrimage. They would have their miracle.
Only Master Chaucer remained quizzical. “Clouds are clouds,” he said, “and miracles are miracles.”
Summoner Seekum pushed his horse’s nose against the Master’s leg. “Indeed, Master Chaucer, indeed. Yet not everything is always as it seems, I find. Is that not right?” Master Chaucer said nothing. As he passed me, Summoner Seekum made a noose with his reins. I saw the hanging boy again.
We spent that night in a barn with the farmer’s cattle and pigs, which Sir Knight’s horse didn’t like at all. Shortly after we left the next morning, there was a rumpus over the priest’s crucifix. He’d been boasting of it to the half-witted swineherd and now it was gone. It seemed that even pilgrims weren’t safe from villainy. This diverted attention from yesterday’s goings-on, but the delay meant we’d only been going about an hour before a messenger shouted for us to stop. The summoner had made me so nervous that my heart leaped into my mouth. But the message was not for me. It was for the Master, and it was a very gloomy message indeed. The worst, in fact. His wife had died. I know I should have been sorry, but since I’d never met her, all
I felt was relief. With Mistress Chaucer dead, the summoner’s plans were quite foiled. Even if the Master was up to something, which I didn’t believe for a minute, I couldn’t find out because he would have to return home.
The messenger didn’t tarry and when he had gone, the Master dismounted. He handed Dobs’s reins to Luke. Respectful of death, we all dismounted too. The Master unstrapped his writing box, tucked it under his arm, and wandered off the road toward the river. For all his bright clothes, he was a shrunken, melancholy figure as he settled himself on a stone and set out his writing tools. “Looks like we’ll be here for a bit,” said the wagoner, loosening the carthorses’ traces. Sir Knight, with Walter and the page in attendance, took the opportunity to fly his hawk. I hooked Dulcie’s reins over a tree and went to Luke. “I don’t think he expected her to die,” Luke said, never taking his eyes off the Master, “at least not while he was away.”
“You’ll be setting off back to London very soon.”
Luke’s lips tightened. “No need to sound so pleased.”
How could I explain? “Has he got children?” I asked.
“Two that I know of, but the oldest, Thomas, is with the Duke of Lancaster in Spain, and I don’t know where the younger one is.”
The Master was hunched over a parchment, his quill trimmed and poised but no words coming. It was a miserable sight and it suddenly struck me hard that if God had
let good Master Chaucer’s wife die, he was never going to do anything for my father’s legs. The seed of miraculous hope that Luke had sown in my soul outside the oculist’s shop began to wither. I bit my pendant. “God doesn’t seem to have listened to the Master’s prayers.”
At first Luke thought I was being pert and he stiffened against me. Then, just as quickly, he melted, and I saw myself reflected in two milky irises, not so much gray today as violet and deep enough to drown in. This wasn’t without its discomforts. Drowning eyes are all-seeing eyes, and there was plenty about me that I didn’t want Luke to see. Without Poppet to steady me I had difficulty keeping my chin from wobbling. “Luke?” It came out as a gurgle.
“Yes?”
“Will you pray for my father? God will listen to you, I’m sure. After all, you’re practically a monk.”
He put his glasses back on. The purple dulled. “Of course I’ll pray for your father,” he said. “I’d be honored.” His touch on my shoulder was light as a butter fly. “Now, take Dobs. I must see to the Master’s baggage.”
I held the reins, wiping my tears on the cob’s sturdy shoulder. Why hadn’t I been born a horse? They were afflicted by neither conscience nor nightmares. Then I felt disloyal. If I were a horse, I’d want to be pretty Dulcie, not loyal Dobs, though Dobs was easily the more useful and dependable. I was rather disgusted
at myself. How could I be daydreaming
now
? Dobs sighed. I patted him. “You’re a better horse than I am a girl,” I told him. One ear twitched, but not for me. He had eyes only for his master.
“We’re all ready,” Luke said when Master Chaucer returned to us. “I’ve got your baggage and the lady apothecary has lent us her pack pony.” He took the writing box and reattached it to the saddle. Master Chaucer leaned heavily against Dobs’s flank. “You’ll feel better when we’re on the move,” Luke said, trying to comfort him. “Here, use my hands as a stirrup.”
The Master grunted, keeping both feet on the ground.
“Are you unwell?” Luke asked anxiously, as minutes passed and the Master still made no move to mount.
Master Chaucer slowly shook his head. “I’m going on to Canterbury,” he said.
“Yes,” Luke said. “We’ll set off again after the funeral.”
“No, I’m not going back for the funeral.”
“Not going back?”
I noticed how Master Chaucer avoided Luke’s eyes as he spoke. I couldn’t believe anything bad of the Master, but I felt a chill. “My wife’s friends can bury her just as well as I can,” he said too quickly. “And that would be more fitting. I’ve not been a good husband but I’ll be a better widower and start by praying to St. Thomas for her immortal soul.” His tongue clicked. His mouth was dry. Mine was too.
“But won’t people expect—I mean, wouldn’t she want—?”
“She’s dead, Luke. She wants nothing now except heaven. Anyway, the messenger said her body was not in a good state, so even if I gallop back as fast as Dobs can carry me, she’ll most likely be in the ground before I get home.”
“If we hurry, we could be there in a day—less.” Luke couldn’t abandon what he thought was right.
Master Chaucer slapped his hand hard against the writing box. “You’re my scribe, not my inquisitor.”
Stung, Luke walked the pack pony back to the wagons.
Master Chaucer caught me staring. “What’s the matter with you?” He fussed with his sleeves. I was acutely aware of the summoner lounging against a tree, observing. I hung on to my pendant and took a deep breath. My legs were jelly again.
“Why must you go on, Master Chaucer? What’s the rush?” My voice sounded strained and false. The Master’s features settled into stone.
“I don’t inquire into your business.”
I swallowed. “That’s because I have no business.”
“And you think I do?” His top lip twitched. Such a tiny movement, but my legs jellied further. Our eyes met. I don’t know what mine were full of but whatever it was it made him blurt out, “Oh dear! I’m good at stories but so bad at—” He stopped and was very discomfited.
Sickness rose in my throat. Master Chaucer was just a pilgrim. He must be. The summoner’s suppositions must be nonsense. They must. I fixed my eyes on Luke and bargained frantically.
If Luke turns around before he takes another three steps, I’ll … I’ll do what? I’ll get on Dulcie and gallop home? I’ll do as the summoner wants? I’ll … I’ll …
Luke took two steps and hesitated.
What will I do? What will I do?
Then somebody called and he turned. I spoke very fast, not knowing before I spoke what words were going to emerge. “Please say nothing more, Master Chaucer. Summoner Seekum suspects you’ve other business apart from the pilgrimage and he wants me to be his spy. But I can’t tell him anything you don’t tell me so don’t tell me anything. Please.”
The Master raised his head wearily. “Ah yes. The summoner. I suppose I’d really guessed.”
“Don’t look at him!”
The Master drooped. “I’m so sorry, Belle. The summoner had no business to involve you.” There was an awkward silence.
“Look, Master Chaucer,” I said, “I don’t care what you’re doing. I just want to pray for my father and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Quite right.” There was another long pause, then, just as I was about to go back to Dulcie—“Walk with me,” the Master said.