Vanora Bennett

by The People's Queen (v5)

  But he’s not. De la Mare’s heart swells and sings as he rises again. The knights stir and murmur. They trust him. They know he’s done his preparation properly.

  ‘With my lord’s permission, I invite Richard, Baron Scrope of Bolton, the King’s former treasurer…’ he begins. His lips form the final words, ‘to testify’, but even he can’t hear them. The sound is lost in the roaring hubbub.

  With quiet joy, de la Mare watches the bewildered eyes of the men around the Duke. They know he means business now, because if anyone knows the truth about the government accounts, it’ll be Scrope. They just can’t see how he’s done it. He can almost see them saying: But Scrope’s gone home. North. Hasn’t he?

  Scrope, when he comes in from the antechamber, is grey-faced. He flinches at the approving calls and whistles from the knights. He turns his eyes away from the Duke, too; and once he’s standing by de la Mare, he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. It’s clear he’s hating this. But it’s clear, too, that he won’t shirk his duty.

  De la Mare is brief. He waits for silence. He can afford the time. All he says, once the room’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop, is: ‘Do the copies of the royal accounts that you have kept over the past year confirm the truth of these accusations?’

  All Scrope says, in return, is: ‘Yes.’ Still staring at the floor as the room goes wild.

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ de la Mare says, or mouths, through the noise.

  With an awkward bow at his own feet, Scrope sits down.

  Then de la Mare gets down to the detailed business of comparisons.

  First he reads out from the testimony of City merchants, some of them Florentines, the values written on several Florentine debt agreements that should have been exchanged at the Crown treasury, under the terms of the deal, for half their paper value. The testimony he reads states that the holders of this paper did, as agreed, receive only half the paper value of the debt agreements: £50 paid for every £100 of paper debt.

  Then de la Mare turns to the Crown’s accounts for the past two years. In the final version of these, as approved by Lord Latimer, the Crown does indeed appear to have paid out only £50 for every £100 of paper debt – the 50 per cent discount formally agreed.

  But in Scrope’s contemporaneous version of the royal accounts, things look very different.

  In Scrope’s version of the accounts, a full £100 in gold coin has left the treasury for every £100 of Italian debt paper presented. The total of extra money which has disappeared out of the final version of the accounts, over the past year alone, amounts to many thousands of pounds.

  ‘Who was that extra money paid to, my lord?’ de la Mare asks courteously, turning back to Scrope.

  The man rushes to his feet. Staring down, he says, ‘I can’t say, Master Forespeaker. I wasn’t present on any of the occasions on which money was paid out. All I can say is that the original entries were made in my lord Latimer’s hand. If you want more details, I can only suggest that you ask my lord Latimer himself. Alternatively, you might ask the London agent for the House of Bari, of Florence, who, as I understand, has also been closely involved. He may know.’

  ‘Ah – so the House of Bari still has an agent in London, does it, my lord?’ de la Mare asks in a velvety whisper. ‘All these years after closing down its offices in England?’ He smiles a little. An eyebrow rises delicately.

  ‘Only an informal one, sir,’ Scrope replies. ‘And I don’t believe he bruits the connection abroad. A Flemish merchant, sir, by the name of Richard Lyons.’

  There’s a stir in the room. From the throne, the Duke watches without moving, while his men buzz and whisper around him in what seems to be soundless panic.

  ‘When did these “corrections” start being regularly made to the treasury accounts, my lord?’ de la Mare resumes over the hum.

  Scrope hesitates, and then screws his eyes shut and plunges on. ‘Only about a year ago, Master Forespeaker…when you were first given the task of investigating losses from the treasury,’ he says. He opens his eyes. ‘Before that, if you go back to last year’s or the previous year’s books, you’ll see the amounts that were actually paid out all written down, plain as a pikestaff. But those books have been lodged in the archives; down in the cellars. They’re never brought out.’

  ‘And why do you think the accounting system was changed at that time?’ de la Mare asks gently, scenting sweet victory.

  Scrope’s face is a furious red stain; he’s never been so embarrassed. But he doesn’t stop now. ‘I believe your inquiries must have frightened the perpetrators of this fraud, Master Forespeaker,’ he says, giving his own toes a terrible stare. ‘I believe they wanted to cover their tracks. But I don’t believe they thought you’d do more than glance at the latest accounts. I don’t think they realised how deep you’d dig.’

  De la Mare lets those words sink in across the chamber. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ he says sweetly.

  De la Mare’s having a job suppressing the smile that wants to come to his own face. He’s done it. He’s proved his knights have the truth with them. He’s got the Lords on the run. From his litter, with closed eyes, the dying Prince allows the corners of his mouth to turn up, just a little. For a moment, he even opens his eyes and glances at de la Mare. De la Mare half closes his eyelids and bows his head: the closest he’ll allow himself to a celebration. A shared moment of quiet triumph.

  It’s only later, as the crowds start pushing out through the doors, and the tide of emotion recedes with them, that de la Mare feels his hands begin to shake with delayed emotion. Other men would feast and sing, maybe. But he’s tired, so tired. He’s longing to be off his feet. Tonight, he tells himself, I’ll sleep soundly tonight.

  The next morning, with Latimer and Lyons impassive before them, the knights try Latimer and Lyons before the lords of the land. The next morning, after a night at Stury’s, Chaucer sneaks back west with him as an extra, unofficial member of the Duke’s entourage.

  In the chamber, Latimer is accused of all kinds of supplementary crimes, as well as stealing profits from the debt deal. He’s accused, among other things, of profiting from the recent unsuccessful military campaign in Brittany by extorting excessive ransoms from a number of Breton towns whilst at the same time surrendering others to the enemy – including Bécherel and Saint-Sauveur – in return for bribes. He is also accused of cruelty to the people and cities of that land.

  Lyons is accused of massive tax evasion, of various forms of customs-farming skulduggery in the ports of southern England, and of trying to corner the market in imported foodstuffs – legally the preserve of the pepperers and grocers – by confiscating, stealing and hoarding enough cargoes to force up prices.

  The commoners gaze at Latimer and Lyons hungrily, full of their seething commoners’ resentment that the treasury’s pockets have been picked by the court and the court’s creatures. Peter de la Mare’s phrase hangs over the commoners’ heads, ‘the kingdom impoverished, the Commons ruined…for the private advantage of some near the King’. Do justice to these crooks, the Commoners are all thinking, as Peter de la Mare’s interrogation begins, and there’ll be no need for us to pay you a tax, too.

  Chaucer and Stury, likewise, gaze at Latimer and Lyons. But what the pair of them are looking for, in those two faces, is the calm knowledge that this will pass, because Chaucer and Stury are now too rattled to have confidence in what they’re telling the Duke.

  To Chaucer’s relief, it’s there, on the faces of the accused, that golden self-assurance. A little comforted, Chaucer thinks: Well, they don’t look bothered, at least. He’s never seen Latimer ruffled, come to that. And Lyons – it’s hard to imagine him looking anything but smooth and smug.

  It is in Latimer’s silky, leonine nature to argue. With his long tawny eyes flashing in his long golden face, the noble lord growls out a demand to know what person accuses him. The Commons, who have sworn vows of secrecy and mutual support, answer, through the mouth of Peter de la Mare, that
they make all their charges ‘in common’.

  Latimer is disconcerted. But not for long. After a moment he says, with the knowledge of triumph dawning in his eyes, ‘Ah, but all my actions had the approval of the King and his ministers.’

  ‘Ah,’ replies de la Mare, with the knowledge of a different triumph dawning in his, ‘but your actions nevertheless evaded the law of the kingdom, and were against the provisions of the statues made in Parliament, and statutes made in Parliament must be followed as written.’ And he brings out the book of statutes he just happens to have about his person, opened at the right page to prove Latimer has broken the law, and he reads out the relevant paragraphs, to howls of approval from his men.

  It is also in Latimer’s nature to inspire fear by displaying his power. So, after the midday break, he sends his son-in-law, Sir John Neville, the King’s seneschal, to defend him to the Commons. Grandly, Neville tells the little hedge-knights from nowhere that it’s unseemly for low persons such as themselves to persecute a peer of the realm, privy councillor, and knight of the Garter.

  Equally grandly, de la Mare replies, tapping the mountain of parchments in front of him, ‘Cease, my lord, to intercede for others. We have not yet discussed you and your misdeeds. You may have enough to do in your own case.’

  Latimer leaves the chamber when his part of the hearing is over with his usual slight smile. He looks as though nothing has gone wrong. But Chaucer, lurking in the shadows at the back of the room, is no longer convinced.

  It’s too much for Stury. He’s outraged, that night, by the downfall of his friend Neville, who was also indicted at the end of his testimony and will have to answer charges of his own. Stury drinks himself maudlin. ‘You know what this is leading to, don’t you, Chaucer?’ he keeps asking, looking out at the quiet of the black river with red eyes.

  Chaucer keeps his peace. ‘Don’t take it too much to heart. We’re observers, don’t forget,’ is all he says, in the manner of a man to a child. ‘We can offer the Duke advice, if he wants it. But we’re not part of it ourselves. We want to keep it that way.’

  But Stury only shakes his head and pours himself more wine, and goes on muttering, ‘Rebellion, rebellion; this is rebellion.’ Stury’s getting too close to it all, Chaucer thinks privately. Worried; distancing himself in his mind.

  When Lyons’ turn comes to face the knights, it emerges that bribery is more his weapon than persuasion or intimidation. He is cynical enough to believe there is no point in trying to bribe Peter de la Mare, that deluded nobody with his gassy talk of justice. Lyons goes straight to the master. He fills a fish barrel with a thousand pounds in gold coin, tops it off artistically with a few choice sturgeon, and has it sent to the Prince of England. Disgusted, the Prince sends the bribe on to the King, in his bed at Havering, to show how low the creature Lyons is. But he counts without his father’s sense of humour. King Edward, who’s feeling a little better now that he doesn’t have to face this Parliament, is said, in the crowd, to have accepted Master Lyons’ gift with amusement. He’s taking the bribe, he tells his son, with a cheerful cynicism to match Lyons’ own, because, after all, it appears to be money that’s been stolen from him. ‘He offers us nothing but what is our own’, men in taverns quote him saying. With approval, too. They’ve always loved the King.

  Neither arguing or bribery works for the accused men. Both Latimer and Lyons are found guilty, as are four subordinates, including Neville. They are dismissed, fined, and imprisoned. The sentences are pronounced by the Duke, who, apparently stunned at the turn events are taking, lets de la Mare hand him the paper on which they’re written, and then reads them out in a monotone, without changes. Chaucer, in the shadows, watches Latimer, Lyons, Neville and the others bundled off. They can’t believe it either, he sees. Latimer manages a disdainful look for the heavy pushing him. But he sees fear on Lyons’ smooth jowl.

  The crowds pour into the taverns to celebrate. Stury, hungover and shocked, has hardly spoken all day. Like him, Chaucer feels anxious for the arrested men, even though it was stated in court that they’ll be kept in accommodation suitable to their rank, not some fetid cell. Still, Chaucer also senses that the worst is over. ‘De la Mare’s had his day,’ he says as they ride home, thinking to comfort his friend. ‘There’ll be no more shocks now, Stury. He’s done what he came to do, don’t you think?’ Silence. ‘The knights will go home soon…it will all be forgotten…And perhaps Latimer and Lyons will even learn a few lessons; or the next people in their places be more honest.

  ‘We should count this a success, not a failure,’ Chaucer tries more weakly. ‘You kept the Duke calm; I played my small part, too…’ and he pauses, allowing Stury an elegant space in which to thank him for his time and eloquence. But Stury’s tweaking at his reins. He’s not listening. A hundred or so yards later, Chaucer adds, with rather less warmth, ‘I should go back to work tomorrow. I should go home tonight.’

  Back at work in the Customs House, from the next morning, Chaucer finds relief in the calm comparison of weights, the minute calculations of pennies and shillings. He drops in at one tavern or another, on his way home, for a Westminster update. But he’s lost the urgent need to do nothing but live and breathe the parliamentary sessions. The Duke’s still treating the knights with kid gloves, thank God. Alice has wisely gone to ground, and they’ve passed her by. With luck, it won’t be long now before it all peters out.

  Over at Westminster, the Parliament grinds on, through April and May. But its flash and energy is wearing low.

  De la Mare asks for, and obtains, royal permission for a nine-man council to share in the ruling of England. This, it is implied but not stated, will dilute the influence of John of Gaunt and his creatures. The council will contain old enemies of the Duke of Lancaster, including a former chancellor, William of Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, and John’s cousin, Edmund, the Mortimer Earl of March, who’ve both been very actively helping the Parliament.

  Once the new council is in place, Parliament, still meeting, starts to dissipate its energies in prosecuting lesser men on smaller charges.

  Among them is Chaucer’s friend Stury. Chaucer thinks, uncharitably: Well, it’s his own fault; he should have kept quiet, lain low…lived to fight another day.

  For Stury – the impulsive fool – seems to have given way to a better-to-do-something-than-nothing knightly impulse, and stuck his neck out. He’s ridden off to Havering and told the King, who seems to know nothing, how his friends are being persecuted at Westminster. Stury’s always been excitable. And he’s over-egged this story. He’s told the distressed, confused old man that the Parliament is seeking to depose him – to do to him what was once, long ago, done to the King’s father. Irritably, Chaucer thinks that he can just imagine the way Stury will have stood there repeating, ‘Rebellion…outright rebellion!’ When the King asked him, piteously, what he should do to avert the danger, Stury apparently said he should dismiss the Parliament at once. Or so the street talk has it, anyway.

  The result of that meeting is tavern talk for a good two or three days. Panicking, the King decides to stumble off to Westminster to consult his eldest son. He doesn’t know that Prince Edward of England has been fainting and fitting so much in the chamber that he’s retired home to his sickbed at Kennington.

  His litter comes into London, under Chaucer’s gate, with a troop of a hundred men. When they see the King’s insignia on the litter, clusters of people stop what they’re doing and form a thin crowd around the slowly jolting parade. It’s always been a pleasure to be near the King’s movements; he’s a man for a smile, and a joke, and leaning over to tip a boy with a coin or a girl with an appreciative kiss. But today the red-and-gold litter curtains remain closed all the way down to the Tower jetty. The King doesn’t get out, even then, even when it’s being awkwardly manoeuvred on to his waiting barge. Shaking their heads resignedly, as if pausing on the thought that things aren’t how they used to be, the goodwives of London put their baskets back on their sh
oulders and hurry about their business.

  There are betrayers everywhere. News of Stury’s mission to Havering reaches London before Stury gets back. Stury’s dismissal from the King’s Council is announced in Parliament. Men are posted at his house to arrest him on his return. Perhaps Stury knows. He vanishes. Gone to ground, like Alice. But the Parliament keeps on.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Chaucer has all but stopped bothering to drop in at the Burning Bush, or the Bear, or the Bull, on his way home from the Customs House, to get the very first of the news. He hears it all anyway, one way or another, sooner or later – at work, or on the street, or from the servants. There’s no tearing hurry.

  He’s not even that frightened for Alice when he hears that she’s been arrested at Pallenswick. She’s now staying, under guard, at Westminster.

  If she’s wise, and keeps quiet, she’ll be fine, he thinks. It’s passing.

  It’s at his workplace, at the beginning of June, that he hears, from one of his clerks, that there is, after all, a new development at Parliament. The man has glee written all over his face. He says, ‘You’ll never guess what. They’ve been talking about Alice Perrers again in Parliament. And she’s testifying this afternoon.’

  Chaucer lifts his face from the Counter-Roll. At the same time he feels his innards contract. He says, ‘What?’

  Then, trying to put an unconcerned grin on his face, he adds, ‘Why?’

  ‘Adultery!’ the man replies, rubbing his hands.

  ‘What?’ Chaucer says again, stupidly. His innards are tying themselves in knots. But Alice isn’t married. She’s a widow. The King’s a widower. No one would pretend that the pair of them weren’t lovers, but they haven’t been hurting anyone else with their private sin. In Church terms, what they did was only ever fornication, surely, not the graver sin of adultery that, say, the Duke is quietly committing with Katherine; bringing shame on his neglected wife. What sense can it make to label Alice an adulterer? ‘But…wasn’t it witchcraft…’ he stammers, ‘that they were accusing her of?’