‘I already have a position,’ grunted Kemp; and then it occurred to him that since he had to ask directions, he might as well ask this man. ‘Do you know where I can find the house of John Chaucer?’
‘Do I know…?’ the man exclaimed. ‘Well now, here’s a fine coincidence. I was heading that way myself when I saw the cut-purse trying to rob you. You must have passed it already: it’s back this way.’ The man set off and Kemp followed him, heading back the way he had come down Thames Street, passing Three Cranes Wharf in Dowgate, where square-rigged cogs from Bordeaux and Antwerp unloaded barrels of Gascon and Rhenish wine.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Kemp. Martin Kemp.’
‘I’m John Curtis,’ said the man, extending one hand as the two of them walked side by side.
Kemp ignored the proffered hand. He had already taken a dislike to the man, with his outlandish style of dress and rather effete manner. Curtis seemed momentarily put out by Kemp’s lack of manners, but then shrugged.
They did not have far to walk. The house was a large one in the more fashionable west end of the city, abutting the culvert where the Walbrook carried a foul variety of effluvium down to the Thames. Three storeys high, it had a steeply pitched roof of tiles and bay windows of leaded glass: an unmistakable display of wealth that could not fail to impress Kemp. Curtis seized the brass door-knocker and rapped it boldly.
The door was opened after a few moments by a bearded man, dressed in robes that were sober of hue but of costly cloth. He stared at Kemp’s companion for a moment, and then rushed forward. For a moment Kemp thought the man was about to attack Curtis, but instead he seized the younger man in a huge bear-hug, lifting him clean off the ground and squeezing all the breath from his body, before depositing him back on the cobbles.
‘Jack Curtis! You God-damned rogue, I’d heard you were killed!’
Curtis was grinning. ‘Which just goes to show you shouldn’t believe all you hear.’
‘I never said I believed it, you dog! Well, don’t just stand there,’ chided the bearded man. ‘Come in, come on in. I’ll let you try some of that claret you brought me last time.’
‘I told you it was good, didn’t I?’
‘Aye, but I never know whether it’s the truth you’re telling me, or if you’re just giving me the hard sell.’
‘Have you ever known me to give you the hard sell?’ protested Curtis.
‘When have I ever known you not give me the hard sell?’ chuckled the older man, and indicated Kemp. ‘Who’s this?’
Curtis turned to glance at Kemp as if he had forgotten all about the archer. ‘By God that sits above, how remiss of me! I thought you two were already acquainted.’
‘Not that I am aware of,’ said the man, peering at Kemp from beneath bushy eyebrows.
‘Perhaps I misunderstood. The young man gave me the impression that he was already in your employ…’
‘I am seeking work, Master Chaucer. Sir Thomas Holland said you were thinking of hiring a bodyguard. I have a letter of recommendation.’ Kemp took out the letter and handed it to Chaucer.
Chaucer and Curtis exchanged glances as the former broke open the seal before perusing the letter’s contents. While he read, Curtis produced an apple from somewhere beneath his cloak, polished it on the sleeve of his chemise and munched it noisily.
‘Have you read this?’ Chaucer asked at last, wagging the letter at Kemp.
‘I don’t read,’ Kemp replied boldly, as if challenging either of the two men to pass comment on his peasant education.
‘Good for you,’ said Chaucer. ‘Agnes insisted that I pay for our Geoffrey to attend Saint Paul’s school, and now I never see the lad but he’s got his head stuck in his primer. Well, I’ll tell you, Sir Thomas speaks very highly of you; and I’ve no cause to misdoubt him. So, you want to live in London for a year and a day? Get away from your lord’s manor and become a freeman?’
Kemp nodded.
‘I’ve no quarrel with that,’ said Chaucer. ‘I’ll pay you tuppence a day until such time as I find your conduct unsatisfactory, though if what Sir Thomas says is true, I doubt it will come to that. You’ll get board and bed and a roof over your head as well.’
It was a generous offer – less than he could earn as an archer, but with the Truce of Calais in force there was little call for archers, and it was the year’s residence in London he was truly interested in.
‘You’re agreeable?’ asked Chaucer.
Kemp nodded again. ‘Aye.’
‘Then we’ll shake on it,’ said Chaucer, and they clasped hands. ‘Wat will show you to your garret,’ he added, and turned away to call for his apprentice. ‘Wat? Wat! Damn the lad, where is he? Well, never mind; you have no baggage?’
‘No, Master Chaucer.’
‘Then take off your cloak and join me in the hall. It will be time for supper shortly. If I know Master Curtis here at all, I dare say he has a few tales of his adventures with which to regale us; and if you’re just back from the war in France, I’ll wager you can likewise keep us entertained.’
During the course of that evening it quickly dawned on Kemp that there were none of the master-servant attitudes in the Chaucer household that he had known on Stone Gate Manor. John Chaucer was a self-made man, easy-going enough not to have been made proud by the wealth he had gained in life. It was true he had married into most of it; but that which he had married he had invested wisely and, from the friendly relationship between Master Chaucer and Mistress Agnes, it was quite clear he had married for love before money.
The servants dined with the family in the hall, treating their employers with respect but without subservience. The family was a small one: Master John; Mistress Agnes; young master Jankin, Agnes’ son by her first marriage; Geoffrey, the first child they had had together, now somewhere in the vicinity of his eighth year; little Kate, Geoffrey’s younger sister; and Chaucer’s apprentice, Wat, only a little younger than Kemp himself.
They sat down to eat, and Kemp tucked in, biting off a mouthful from a hunk of bread and chewing it for some time before becoming aware that everyone was staring at him. Realising that they all had their hands clasped to say grace, he blushed and swallowed the bread as discreetly as possible, clasping his own hands while little Geoffrey said grace, a Latin prayer recited by rote out of his primer. It was strange to be back in the bosom of a God-fearing family, albeit one other than his own, after so many months in the king’s service.
The food likewise caught Kemp off-guard. It was richly spiced, either to hide the fact the meat was past its prime or to advertise the fact the Chaucers were wealthy enough to afford such spices. Either way, Kemp was used to eating his meat unspiced and, in chewing his first mouthful, he almost choked, forcing Curtis to cover for him by remarking that perhaps Chaucer’s cook had over-done it with the pepper – whatever that was – and obliging Chaucer himself to agree out of politeness.
Curtis dominated all the conversation during supper with outrageous tales, not only of his own escapes and escapades, but also of thunder below the ground in far-off Cathay, of purple clouds that struck down the heathens in the east by the thousand, of mermaids and witches, oliphaunts and pirates. Kemp was sceptical of many of Curtis’s stories, not least the ones wherein Curtis himself was the hero, and when Chaucer pressed him to tell some of his own experiences at Crécy, Calais and Saint-Omer, he made light of his own deeds, not wanting to seem boastful.
After supper, while Curtis and Chaucer retired to the withdrawing room to talk business – Curtis wanted to borrow money from a number of wealthy merchants to finance his next voyage, and Chaucer was high on his list – Wat showed Kemp up to the garret at the top of the house where the servants slept. Kemp was not entirely happy about the arrangement. Not because he would have to share a bed with four other people; there was nothing unusual in that, his entire family had shared a single – albeit large - bed in the bower of their two-roomed cottage in Knighton. But Kemp intended to take his dutie
s as Chaucer’s bodyguard seriously, and he felt he should sleep immediately outside his new master’s bedchamber on a straw-stuffed pallet stretched across the threshold so that no one could enter without waking him. It took the combined efforts of Wat and the servants to convince him that Chaucer’s life was in no way under threat. He was a member of the Guild of Vintners, and popular and respected enough to have no real enemies. Kemp had been employed because all merchants of any standing employed bodyguards to protect themselves against thieves and brigands, although such attacks were rare enough; it was just another way for merchants to display their wealth. Only the richest merchants could afford to employ bodyguards in addition to all the other servants necessary for the smooth running of a large and wealthy household.
Too tired to give proper answers to the hundred and one questions the other servants had to ask about the war in France, Kemp turned away and closed his eyes to sleep, reflecting he would rather be a bodyguard in the Chaucer household than a villein slaving in the fields of Stone Gate Manor. In a year and a day’s time he would be a freeman, free to do as he pleased, free to return to Knighton to be reunited with Beatrice.
He smiled to himself. He was convinced that everything was going to work out just fine.
* * *
The walls of the hall of Stone Gate Manor House were decked with wreaths of holly at the approach of Yuletide, but there was nothing festive about the gaze that Sir John Beaumont turned upon the dark-haired villein who stood cowering before him, twisting his cloth cap in his hands.
‘You sent for me, Sir John?’ stammered the villein.
‘You are Michael Kemp?’ asked Beaumont. Unlike his youngest brother, Michael Kemp had always made a habit of keeping his head down whenever the lord of the manor was present, and thus his face was less familiar to the knight.
‘Aye, Sir John.’
‘Master Croft informs me that your brother Martin has not yet returned from France,’ Beaumont said neutrally.
‘That is so, sir, aye,’ Michael replied uncertainly.
‘Yet all the other men from the county who went to fight for the king in France have returned. I myself have been back for two months now. Martin has had ample time to return, has he not?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Have you any thoughts as to what may have delayed his return?’
‘Nay, sir.’
‘He has not tried to get word to you? And I suggest you think very carefully before answering.’
Michael shrugged helplessly. ‘I’ve heard nowt, sir.’
Beaumont essayed a benevolent smile, but it was so out of place on his harsh features that it only made Michael shudder. ‘You do not think, then, that he may be staying in some borough town for a year and a day, in order to win his freedom?’
‘He might be, sir, aye.’
‘And he has made no attempt to let his family know? You expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s the truth, Sir John; I swear it, as God’s my life.’
Beaumont leaned back in his chair. ‘Of course, if Martin were seeking to gain his freedom, I would expect his eldest brother to lie for him anyway.’
‘Not me, sir,’ Michael said hurriedly. ‘If Martin’s getting ideas above his station, he’ll get no help from me.’
‘Well said; but no more than you would say if you were trying to protect him. Are you certain you do not seek to deceive me?’
‘I wouldn’t dare, sir,’ Michael said truthfully.
‘No, you would not,’ agreed Beaumont. ‘I am certain you are mindful of the fact the cottage you inhabit is my property, and you only live there on my sufferance.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘How is your mother, Michael? She must be advanced in years by now. I understand that the exposure of Martin’s crime hit her badly.’
‘She’s never recovered, sir, and that’s a fact,’ said Michael. ‘Me, I blame Martin. He may be my brother, but he’s a bad one, sir, and I’ll be the first to admit it.’
‘I do hope so. Winter is drawing on, the weather growing cold. I would hate to be forced to evict you and your mother with the snows of January just around the corner.’
Michael nodded miserably. ‘Aye, Sir John.’
‘If you hear anything from your youngest brother – anything at all – you will let me know, won’t you?’
‘Aye, Sir John.’
Beaumont made a dismissive gesture, and Michael allowed himself to be escorted from the hall by his master’s steward. Once Michael was seen on his way back to the village, the steward returned to the hall where he found Beaumont pouring himself another cup of mead spiced with ginger and nutmeg.
‘I cannot allow anyone from this manor to gain the status of a freeman, Treroose,’ said Beaumont. ‘It sets an unfortunate precedent. A bad example, you understand.’
The steward inclined his head. ‘Aye, Sir John.’
‘Martin Kemp must be made an example of. A painful example. He has escaped my vengeance too many times for my honour to permit his life to continue.’ The case of a villein running from his lord’s manor was one that could be dealt with in the manorial court, where Beaumont had the power of life and death over his villeins. ‘I want him found, Treroose, no matter what the cost. Send out men to seek for him; you can start with London.’
‘London is a big city, Sir John,’ Treroose pointed out. ‘A very big city.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Beaumont. ‘A man can lose himself in London, and that’s precisely what Kemp will be seeking to do. I want him found. Discreetly, mind. When you have found out where he is hiding, I want you to send word back to me. I shall come in person to see him dragged back to the manor in chains.’ Under the level of the table at which he sat, Beaumont clenched his fists so tightly that his nails drew blood from his palms. ‘And when that has been done, I shall personally mete out the punishment he has avoided for so long.’
Chapter Eight
Sir Thomas Holland removed his robes, stripping down to his chemise, and then allowed his squire to help him don his armour. First he pulled on a pair of leggings, over which he fastened cuisses of brigandine construction – gilt-headed rivets securing small metal plates between a fabric cover and a leather foundation – to protect his thighs. Then he clipped a pair of steel greaves over his calves, before pulling on a pair of leather shoes. Next came his gambeson, a quilted undercoat worn under his armour to prevent chafing and to act as a shock-absorber against any blows he might receive.
Over this he pulled a chain-mail habergeon, with sleeves long enough to protect the backs of his hands, leaving only his palms free so that he could be sure of getting a good grip on whichever weapon he wielded, and a chain-mail coif. Plate-steel rerebraces and vambraces were clipped around his arms. Then the squire helped him buckle a breastplate of cuir bouilli – hardened leather – over his torso. He ducked his head so the squire could put his jupon of azure silk, patterned with fleurs-de-lys and emblazoned with a white lion, over his armour.
The squire buckled Holland’s jewelled sword-belt around his hips, the broadsword hanging in its ivory-covered scabbard. Next he fastened Holland’s articulated sabatons over his shoes, and then gauntlets made of latoun, an alloy of bronze and tin resembling brass. Finally the squire handed his master his bucket-shaped great helm, with its ornate crest in the shape of a white lion rampant, which Holland lowered over his head until it rested on his shoulders. Despite the pattern of tiny holes in the lower half of the front of the helm, his breath was thrown back against his face, warming it in the cold air of a grim April afternoon. He could hear his breath rasping noisily within the close confines of the helmet. All he could see through the eye-slit was a wide but narrow strip but he knew from experience that this would be enough for his purposes.
Both knight and squire left the blue and white striped, bellshaped tent, walking across to where another squire nervously held the halter of a white Percheron destrier, a massive eighteen hands in height, caparisoned in azure and white clot
h, its harness covered in jingling bells. Holland put one foot into the stirrup – his armour, made specifically for him by a skilled craftsman, was light and easy to move in – and swung himself up into the high- seated saddle with its pommel and cantle raised so that there was less chance of him losing his seat if he should receive a powerful blow.
The squire handed him his heater-shaped shield, made of stout wooden boards nailed together and bound with casein glue, covered with a heavy hide surrounded by a metal rim. A metal boss in the centre protected the knight’s hand. He gripped the shield in his left hand along with the destrier’s reins, holding out his right hand. The squire handed him his steel-tipped fourteen-foot lance, carved from cypress wood and painted in blue and white spirals. Holland carried it upright, resting it on the felt butt on his saddle bow as he urged his horse into a gentle trot.
His opponent already awaited him, similarly armed and armoured, his white surcoat emblazoned with a crimson wyvern, the same wyvern represented by the crest on his great helm, his bay destrier caparisoned in crimson and white. The two of them faced one another on horseback, separated by about ninety yards of open ground strewn with sand and sawdust.
A herald sat astride a black palfrey to one side, dressed in a tabard decorated with the king’s livery – not the quartered arms of England and France that the king wore into battle, but the dragon of Uther Pendragon and the great King Arthur. He raised the jewelled gilt baton in his right hand. Holland watched him out of the corner of his eye-slit. The herald brought down the baton with a sharp motion, at the same time shouting: ‘Laissez aller!’
Both knights dug their rowel spurs into their horses’ flanks and the two destriers launched themselves forward. The horses’ powerful haunches accelerated them at once into a gallop, their iron-shod hooves thundering against the packed earth, throwing up clumps of soil in their wake. Holland pressed his feet down against the stirrups, squeezing his legs tight and allowing his body to go with the rhythm of the steed’s movement. He couched his lance, levelling it at his opponent, the weight of it resting on his, carefully balanced to ensure that it remained parallel with the ground. He kept his eyes and attention focused on his opponent, allowing his destrier – a veteran of almost as many courses as he was himself – to worry about following a path just to the left of the oncoming horse.
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