Belle's Song (9 page)

Authors: K. M. Grant

I should have refused, but his fame and his grief
made me naturally deferential. “We’ll be watched,” I said rather hopelessly.

“I know. Walk with me anyway.”

“I’ll get Luke.” I felt hysterically anxious.

“Do you have to? Luke believes nothing but good of me.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “And I don’t?” Then I was walking. “Whatever you do, it must be for a reason,” I said, more to reassure myself.

“That’s kind.” The Master knotted his fingers behind his back. We got to the river. “Do you know what a trimmer is?” he asked, turning his full gaze on me.

“No.”

“Can I tell you?”

It was so odd that the Master should ask permission. “I suppose so,” I said in the end.

“Thank you. A trimmer, Belle, is the worst kind of person. A trimmer’s somebody who doesn’t want to end up on the wrong side.” He gave me a very frank look. “In my public life, that’s what I’ve always been, and very successfully so.”

“Nobody wants to end up on the wrong side,” I mumbled.

He unknotted his fingers and reknotted them again. “In some ways, you know, Summoner Seekum’s a braver man than I am.” He shook his head when I tried to disagree. “No. It’s true. Seekum may be lecherous and scab
ridden, but he’s run his colors up the mast and doesn’t care who knows it. Did he tell you that he’s joined those who have declared themselves the king’s enemies?” I looked at my feet. “Yes,” said the Master, “I can see he did. And it’s brave, Belle, because he knows that if the king wins, his own life may be forfeit. I, on the other hand, who have been in Parliament and should disapprove of the king, at the same time take the king’s wages, thus neatly keeping a foot in both camps.” He paused. “It’s also a matter of public record, as Seekum must well know, that I’ve occasionally undertaken private missions in royal service.”

My mouth opened.

The Master waited until I shut it again. “If that disappoints you, I’m sorry. Perhaps I should add, though, that the summoner’s wrong if he imagines I believe our present king to be a good king. I don’t. That’s the truth and you can tell him I said so.”

“I’ll tell that toad nothing at all,” I declared with more conviction than I felt.

“Oh, you will if you have to, I daresay.”

I glanced back. Luke was standing beside Dobs, hands on hips. I had usurped his place and his hurt was palpable, even from a distance. I wanted to run to him, to explain, but the Master hadn’t finished. He bent down, plucked a reed, and held it in the breeze. “Look how it bends,” he said. “That’s how it withstands the wind that snaps an oak’s fat branches.” He let go and the reed
curved a graceful descent. “I bend, just like that reed.” He grimaced. “You see, Richard shouldn’t be king yet, and wouldn’t be if his father had lived. It’s one of God’s poorer jokes that we’re ruled by a mercurial boy. Have you uncles, Belle?”

“None,” I said, wondering if grief had made the Master lose his reason. What had uncles to do with anything? “I’ve no relations except for my father.”

“King Richard has uncles, some good men amongst them. Unfortunately, he also has friends, and friends and relations are an unhappy mix. The king listens to his friends when it might be wiser to listen to his family, particularly his uncle John, Duke of Lancaster, who has been very kind to me.” The Master plucked another reed. “He’s quarreled with Duke John and behaves very high-handedly with all the great lords whose support he needs. Now he’s made his other uncle, Thomas, Duke of Gloucester, so angry that a rebellion is threatened.”

“The king’s uncle is going to rebel against the king? How dare he!”

“Oh, Belle, men do all manner of things for power. Thomas of Gloucester thinks he’d make a good king himself. Moreover, he’s a cantankerous fellow who loves war, just as Richard’s father did. It’s public knowledge that he thinks Richard disgraces both God and the kingly office by not being nearly keen enough on fighting.”

“But I thought God didn’t like fighting.”

“Only certain sorts of fighting. Apparently, if men fight in his name, he doesn’t mind that at all.” The Master’s mouth kinked into an unwilling grin that almost immediately vanished. “The truth is that a rebellion would have support. Richard did so well during his early years, but that’s all forgotten now. Many whisper that far from upholding his father’s memory, he’s turning into his great-grandfather.”

“What happened to him?”

“Deposed and murdered,” Master Chaucer said, and stared over the river as though trying to see into the future. “I don’t want Richard to suffer the same fate.”

I spoke slowly, filling in the gaps. “So you’re going to ask King Charles of France to send men-at-arms to England to help King Richard keep his throne.” As soon as the words were out I regretted them. “Don’t—” I began.

The Master spoke quickly and firmly. “Listen. Nobody with any sense wants to see Richard deposed, but not everybody has much sense. If Richard is to stop his uncle Thomas of Gloucester, the Earl of Arundel, and the Duke of Warwick seizing power—” I looked quite blank. “These names mean nothing to you, I know,” the Master said, “but believe me, Belle, they are powerful men and they seem quite determined to destroy the king and rule England themselves. They’ve even made up a—”

“Commission,” I said.

“A Commission of Government,” the Master corrected, frowned, then softened. “Yes, a commission, which they say is acting on the people’s behalf and to which men should rally.” He shook his head. “They’ve humiliated the king, demanding to see his household finances as though he were a troublesome child, and they’re unlikely to stop there. With enemies like this, is it really surprising that Richard has resorted to enlisting help from abroad?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I want you to understand that whatever Seekum insinuates, I carry no letters or documents and I’m meeting nobody. I’m going to Canterbury for my wife just as you go for your father.” The Master’s voice was suddenly very tired. “Come. I’ve delayed everybody long enough.”

There were raised eyebrows when the other pilgrims learned that Master Chaucer was not going home to bury his wife, and, inevitably, we’d not gone half a mile before I found the summoner beside me. I didn’t bother to avoid him. Indeed, I told him, in as dead-pan a manner as I could, exactly what the Master had told me, except for the stuff about the Master being a trimmer and the compliments he had paid to the summoner himself. Nothing would drag those out of me. “That’s all,” I said. “The Master’s made it very
clear that he’s carrying nothing and meeting nobody because he’s going to Canterbury to pray for his wife’s immortal soul. So, I’ve done what you asked and from here on, you’ve no reason to speak to me ever again.” I trotted smartly off. I wanted to ride with Luke, but it was clear he didn’t want to ride with me. He had sacrificed the rest of his life to be the Master’s confidante and scribe on this journey. He was not inclined to welcome a rival.

That night I dreamed of Luke and Walter, and we were all saving the hanging boy together. Only the hanging boy turned into the summoner, and after we’d cut him down he made three nooses with his fingers and hanged the three of us. It was a horrible, feverish dream and I was glad to wake early, even though what woke me brought complications all its own.

Quick-eyed, as horsely as a horse can be …

Despite Walter’s hose, the saddle had chafed the inside of my thighs and calves, and when that chafing was added to the damage left by my final, vicious pumicing, my legs were completely on fire. The moment they woke me, I could think of nothing but plunging them into cold water, so I ran down the stairs without even dressing properly and rushed to the brook behind the stables. It was full of stable boys filling buckets. Stifling a moan, I fought my way through undergrowth until the brook narrowed and cut deep banks between overhanging trees. It wasn’t far enough away, really, but I couldn’t wait any longer. Panting, I pulled off the hose, biting my lip as the scabs tore, and plunged into the water. Icy cold and running hard, it foamed above my knees and nothing had ever felt so good. It took several moments for the burning to ease. When it did the relief was so great I laughed out loud. I leaned against the bank and let my skirts billow about in the current.

As my skin cooled, so did the fever of my dream. I’d done what the summoner asked. He had no hold on me anymore. Now I had to get on with praying
for my father—that, and repairing the rift with Luke I had never meant to cause. I spread my palms to the water’s bubbles. Luke. What was it about him that intrigued me? Certainly, Walter was much easier to talk to. And anyway, it was silly to be bothered by Luke. In less than a month he would be a monk, and he was already committed to those awful promises: poverty, chastity, obedience. I shuddered and rolled the soles of my feet over the pebbles. What must it be like for a man to swear never to know a woman as a man should know a woman? I couldn’t imagine, and for a moment held a picture of Luke in my head that was decidedly unmonkish. On impulse, I bent my knees and dunked my entire self.

I heard nothing in the water’s gurgle, but suddenly I was fighting something. Dreading the summoner, I kicked and kicked. My attacker and I broke the surface together and I came face-to-face with Walter. “Jesus Mary!” I choked. “You nearly frightened me to death!” I tried to stop my skirts swirling. Walter mustn’t see my legs now. They were far worse than the glimpse he had caught in the Tabard yard. “What on earth are you doing? How dare you sneak up on me!”

Water streamed from Walter’s hair and beard. There was a moment when his eyes were unfathomable. “You vanished, Belle. I thought—I thought—”

“How dare you! How dare you! I suppose you thought
you’d see something to give you a thrill.” My skirts seemed determined to show off my terrible legs. The more they swirled, the more incandescent I became.

“It must seem like that. It’s not like that.” Walter wiped his eyes. He looked so stricken that my nightmares returned and for the most awful of moments I thought he might have the same kind of news for me as Master Chaucer had received. “What’s wrong? Tell me quickly.”

Walter shook himself and spray flew like teardrops. His eyes were quite light again. “Wrong? Only that I was up with the lark and now I’m wet as a duck.” He splashed me. “And so, dear Belle, are you. That’s what’s wrong.” He seized a low branch and hung from it. “Now I’m a fish on a line. Come and join me. We’ll be a pair of kippers.”

“For God’s sake, Walter.” Relief made me snappish. “I came here to wash. Leave me be.”

“You’ve no soap.”

“The water’s enough.”

He dropped beside me again and the water swirled merrily around us both. “I’ve brought you something.” He nodded toward the bank. There was a bag and his face was suddenly very tender and very serious. “I know about wounds,” he said. There was a pause. I pretended I still had water up my nose. Walter found my hand. “You say nothing. I say nothing. Just let me help with
your legs. Dulcie will be so disappointed if you have to ride in the wagon.”

Many objections bubbled up. None got further than the back of my throat. I could not—ever—tell him about my pumicing. Slowly and firmly, I was lifted onto the bank. What happened next should have been mortifying, but Walter settled my skirts to preserve my modesty and worked so swiftly and deftly that I could almost pretend he wasn’t there. True to his word, he asked no questions, just dabbed and patted before producing a small jar of salve, the contents of which he worked in with three fingers, never prying where he shouldn’t, never pressing harder than he needed, never interfering where he was not welcome. When he’d finished, instead of another pair of woolen hose, he produced silk bandages, which he dextrously wound and fastened firmly, then handed me a pair of silk trousers with some kind of felt backing. I put them on when he turned to wash his hands, and by the time he climbed out of the river himself, my legs were hidden under my skirt. We gathered everything up and began to walk. It was Walter who broke the silence. I braced myself. Now he’d want to know how my legs had got so raw and give me a lecture.

“I’m sure you know all your letters?” he said.

“My letters? Of course I do.”

“My mother taught me,” Walter said, “and she taught
me a game. It’s called I Spy and is perfect for journeys. Do you know it?”

I shook my head.

“It works like this. I tell you that my eye spies something beginning with a particular letter and you have to guess what that something is. I’ll start. So, I spy with my little eye something beginning with”—he looked about—“
g
.”

“
G
?”

“Yes,
g
.”

I swallowed. How could I have thought he was going to pry and moralize? I looked around. “Goat,” I said. There was one tethered near a pile of sticks.