The False Virgin

by The Medieval Murderers

  Geoffrey’s first response was one of alarm. He asked what was wrong and then, when Banks put a finger to his lips as a sign for quiet, asked again more loudly. The steward was prevented from replying by the opening of the door behind him. A long face looked out. A long body followed. At once the gaggle of men drew right back as if they were trying to sink into the rich hangings on the walls while Banks himself bowed deeply. As did Geoffrey Chaucer, for the man who had emerged from Philippa’s chamber was none other than John of Gaunt, the Earl of Richmond and Derby, of Leicester and Lincoln, as well as the Duke of Lancaster and the King of Castile.

  ‘Geoffrey! How very pleasant it is to see you again. May I entreat you to enter your own wife’s quarters.’

  Chaucer was conscious of Gaunt’s retainers looking at him with respect – that warm, almost eager welcome from their master! – perhaps tinged with amusement. Was anything mischievous intended by that remark about his wife’s quarters? Gaunt himself held the door open for Geoffrey to go in. He did it with a touch of mock servility. He was in a good mood. The reason became apparent the moment Geoffrey got inside his wife’s chamber. On the far side of the room, close by the windows overlooking the Thames, stood Gaunt’s mistress, Katherine Swynford. She smiled to see him. Her smile warmed his heart in a way that his wife’s did not, even though the women were sisters.

  ‘Philippa claims that the view from here is even better than the one from my apartment,’ said Katherine. ‘The Duke of Lancaster decided to see for himself.’

  ‘You may not believe it, Geoffrey, but there are rooms in the Savoy that I have never entered,’ said John of Gaunt.

  Since there were hundreds of rooms in the palace, most of which Gaunt would never dream of visiting, this was hardly news, but Chaucer put on a face suggesting mild surprise. He understood that it might be useful for Katherine and Gaunt occasionally to meet out of the public eye – if you disregarded all those retainers waiting outside. What place more convenient than Philippa’s chamber, at the other end of the palace from the area reserved for Constance of Castile and her party? Gaunt was lately returned with his duchess from Bruges, where he had concluded a peace treaty with the French. He had been parted from Katherine for some time. Not that anything improper had been occurring just now. The two lovers had evidently been chatting and laughing together, like any couple at ease in each other’s company. Gaunt was dressed in a dark blue jupon, sparsely tagged with gold buckles and hangings, quite informal. Katherine was likewise clad in blue, a tight-fitting gown that emphasised her full figure.

  ‘Where have you come from, Geoffrey? You look as though you’ve walked a distance.’

  ‘I’ve come from Aldgate, my lord, and before that I was at Bermondsey Priory.’

  Gaunt picked up on the priory reference, as Geoffrey perhaps intended he should. He started asking questions, staring hard at Chaucer. An aquiline nose – his father’s legacy – separated penetrating eyes. As always when he was talking to Gaunt, or rather being talked to, he was conscious of the Duke’s height. The questioning continued. What had Chaucer been doing at Bermondsey? Writing. Ah, yes, of course he had been writing. His subject? A poem about a saint. Who? Beornwyn? No, I have not heard of her.

  ‘That’s because she is known for her virginity,’ said Katherine to John, and gave a small laugh. Her laugh was one of her most attractive features. She added: ‘And St Beornwyn is chiefly known for the fact that her violated body was shrouded by butterflies.’

  Gaunt and his mistress were curious now. Geoffrey was encouraged to produce this latest offering, encouraged to distribute the poem, to read it aloud to his friends and admirers at court. Geoffrey put up the tiniest show of reluctance and, secretly delighted, agreed to produce the copies as soon as possible. Then they seemed to remember why he was here in Philippa’s chamber. Katherine said: ‘If you are looking for your wife, Geoffrey, she is walking outside on the terraces. The day is a pleasant one for exercise.’

  It was a polite dismissal. Bowing to Gaunt and Katherine, who were now standing side by side, Geoffrey withdrew. The retinue outside the door relaxed when they saw it was only he who was emerging from the room. Geoffrey nodded at the steward, Thomas Banks. As he was threading his way through yet more corridors and cloisters, he remembered that he’d intended to tell someone about John Hall, the man in the Tabard. Yet, inside the Savoy and its vast precincts, the firebrand’s words seemed rather puny. To attempt anything against the palace and its inhabitants would be like kicking against the side of a mountain.

  Once outside, he paused to admire the view. Geoffrey knew that Gaunt took a well-informed interest in the Savoy gardens, an interest that accounted for their colour and their order. Rose gardens and borders of flowers were interspersed with orchards, while each end of the terraces was given over to herb and vegetable plantations, together with a couple of well-stocked fish ponds. In between were paths and gently graded steps leading down to the low wall fronting the sweep of the river

  There were quite a few people outside, apart from the gardeners, strolling singly or in pairs and small groups. Shading his eyes against the sun, Chaucer glanced about for Philippa, without expecting to see her so soon. Indeed, he nearly missed her because she was in company and not female company either. She walked past almost directly below where he was standing on the topmost terrace, about three levels down. He did not recognise the gentleman deep in conversation with his wife. The man was elegantly dressed but not in the English style. Their heads, when they could be glimpsed through new foliage and branches, were close together. The couple reached a clear space at the end of a walk, turned round and paused before retracing their steps. Chaucer heard Philippa’s laugh, distinct, louder than her sister, Katherine’s. Her companion grasped her by the upper arm. Or perhaps he simply touched her there. Geoffrey couldn’t be sure at this distance. He stood in thought, undecided what to do, before a bell sounding twelve, from one of the newly installed clocks in the palace, brought him back to himself.

  He went down the nearest flight of steps until he reached the terrace where Philippa and her friend were strolling. Except that they were no longer together. Coming towards him along the walk between trees and shrubs was the well-dressed individual. He was handsome with a neatly cut beard. Definitely not English, and so probably part of the Castilian company. He was moving rapidly and scarcely looked at Chaucer as he passed. At the far end of the walk Philippa was standing motionless.

  Geoffrey went towards her. When he was close enough, he called her name and raised his hand slightly in greeting. She did not smile as her sister had done. She looked neither pleased nor displeased to see him. Instead she looked preoccupied. Perhaps it was something the Castilian had said to her. Chaucer didn’t ask. He gave no indication that he had been watching her, let alone asking who it was she had been walking with.

  Philippa and Geoffrey Chaucer talked cordially enough. He asked about the children. She asked what he had been doing at Bermondsey Priory. He explained that he had encountered the Duke of Lancaster and Katherine in Philippa’s chamber. And so on . . .

  If Geoffrey had turned and followed the Castilian instead of going on to speak to his wife, he might have discovered something more interesting, even worrying. Carlos de Flores was walking fast because he had suddenly remembered that he was due to meet someone. It was the same sound of the noon-day clock bell that Geoffrey heard that prompted him to leave Philippa in a hurry. He walked up the gardens on a diagonal slant and then through the palace. Much of the Savoy was still a maze to him although he was familiar with parts of it, such as the route to the stables. Waiting for him in a shaded corner of the large, high-walled yard was the red-capped individual whom Chaucer had encountered in the Tabard Inn. No courtesies were exchanged between the two men, they fell to talking straight away. Anyone observing the two – the Castilian and the Londoner – would have realised that they had business together, and that something about their postures suggested that it was confidential.

&nb
sp; The red-cap did most of the talking, while de Flores nodded from time to time. Then they must surely have had some sort of disagreement for red-cap started to raise his voice, as he had in the tavern. There was no one about, only some liveried grooms keeping to the sunny side of the great yard, but the foreigner put his hand on the other’s shoulder, to soothe him or control him. The hand was angrily shrugged off and red-cap stalked away with that stiff gait that Chaucer had already observed. He went off in the direction of the gate on the Strand. De Flores stared after him for a while before retracing his steps to the more refined area of the palace.

  Yet this meeting had not gone unobserved. A woman had been keeping a distant eye on de Flores for the last half-hour or more. She had already witnessed his deliberate encounter in the gardens with Philippa Chaucer and his abrupt departure from her. The expression on her face as she saw the Castilian and the Englishwoman was not difficult to read. It was one of anger. She scurried to keep up with Carlos de Flores as he strode through the palace and then, keeping in the shadows, she watched the Castilian meet the man with the red cap. She had distinctive features, this woman in the shadows: a hawk-like nose, black eyes, a smile that could quickly be replaced with an angry baring of the teeth. But it would have been difficult to interpret her reaction to what she had been watching for the last few minutes, Carlos de Flores in conversation with a red-capped man. Neither pleasure or displeasure, but curiosity perhaps.

  IV

  So things went on quietly enough for a couple of months. Spring turned into summer. Philippa Chaucer continued her sojourn at the Savoy Palace. Geoffrey spent most of his time at Aldgate and at Wool Wharf, down by the river, attending to his duties as Controller of Customs. But things were not so quiet for Geoffrey’s patron, John of Gaunt. With the King’s oldest son, Edward, close to death and the King himself in a decline that was scarcely less steep, John was forced to attend Parliament to hear charges that the King was burdening his people with too much tax, and – although these accusations weren’t made so explicitly – that the money raised was being wasted or used for corrupt purposes. Geoffrey Chaucer heard from Philippa and other insiders reports of Gaunt’s fury at the insolence of the Commons. Yet however much Gaunt might storm and vow to crush the upstarts, for the moment the tide of events was against him and his family, and so he was compelled to make concessions.

  It was perhaps for the sake of diversion from all these troubles that Geoffrey was encouraged to recite his latest work, the story of St Beornwyn, to the cream of the Savoy court.

  Thomas Banks himself passed on the word. ‘My master – our master – would be glad to hear your tale of the saint and the butterflies,’ he said. The steward was obviously in the confidence of the Duke of Lancaster. Perhaps there was more to him than there appeared.

  Chaucer visited the St Paul’s copier to whom he had entrusted his original script and, after paying the two marks agreed on, he received three copies in return. Back in Aldgate, he checked through the manuscripts for accuracy. They were neat and clean, though in no way decorated or ornate. Geoffrey remained pleased with his invention in the story of St Beornwyn, the way he had subtly cast doubt on the truth of the legend. Now he intended to send two of the copies to the palace in advance of his public reading. It helped if a handful of his audience was familiar with what he was about to say. It was like seeding the ground in the hope of a good crop of applause and praise.

  Late one sunny morning a couple of days afterwards, Chaucer was returning from his office at Wool Wharf. His head was full not only of wool but of wine, or rather the columns of figures, weights, bales, tuns, shipping rosters and commissions that made up most of his reading at work. It was only as he got to the front door of his Aldgate lodgings that he noticed, to his surprise, that the door was ajar. This was unusual because the flow of traffic through the nearby gate, which was the principal route in and out of this eastern part of the city, made it unwise to leave the place open or unguarded. Geoffrey pushed at the door. Inside was a sparsely furnished lobby, with one spiral flight of steps leading up to Geoffrey’s set of rooms, which straddled the gate itself, and another, smaller flight going straight down to a cellar. The only illumination came through a narrow, barred slit in the stone wall beside the front door. But now, by the sunlight streaming in from the street, Chaucer saw Joan bending over a diminutive figure who was slouched on a bench against the wall.

  To his alarm, he realised that it was young Thomas. His mother was using a cloth to try to stanch blood dripping from the lad’s head. Alerted by the sound of the door and the increase of light, Joan looked round. The fear on her lined face was replaced by relief.

  ‘Thank God it is you, sir.’

  ‘What’s happened? Is he all right?’

  The boy himself raised one hand slightly in response but said nothing.

  ‘I need to get water and a poultice.’

  ‘Go on, Joan. I’ll stay and look after him.’

  Geoffrey took the sodden cloth and kept it pressed against the boy’s forehead. With his other hand he cradled the back of Thomas’s head. It did not appear that much damage had been done, only a nasty though superficial gash producing blood that was already flowing less freely. Joan disappeared up the spiral stairs. Chaucer made reassuring sounds to Thomas. He was fond of the lad. He allowed him to call him Geoffrey. He thought that he probably saw more of this Thomas than of his own son. He glanced round. The door was still half open. From the street came the rumble of carts and carriages and the constant shuffle of pedestrians converging on the gate. Chaucer wondered what had happened.

  Joan returned with a container of water, more cloths and other gear. Geoffrey was glad to hand back responsibility to her. He waited until she had cleaned up the boy’s wound and applied a poultice to his head before fastening the front door. Then together with Joan he assisted the lad up the steep steps to the first floor. The boy was shaky on his legs but otherwise seemed all right. He kept apologising to Chaucer for something he’d done – or hadn’t done – and muttering some words about a king, but Geoffrey waved it aside and was relieved when Joan dispatched him to lie down in the little chamber that mother and son shared.

  It took him some time to piece together everything that had happened. He had an account from Joan and, later, when the boy was almost fully recovered, from little Thomas. It seemed that a well-dressed individual had come knocking at the Aldgate door, which was opened by Thomas, his mother being occupied on the upper floor. The man explained that he was calling on the King’s business and that it was most urgent he should see Master Chaucer. Was the gentleman in? Thomas said not (and Geoffrey reflected that anyone knowing his routine would also know he was unlikely to be in at that hour of the morning). The stranger asked if he could wait for the master of the house in his office. The matter was very urgent, very important. The King’s business, the King’s business. He repeated this many times over. He waved some scroll with a big red seal attached. By this time Joan had appeared. She didn’t say so but Geoffrey guessed she was a little overawed by the visitor’s manner, by his talk, by the sealed scroll. He was shown up to Geoffrey’s domestic office, which occupied a central space over the gate itself. She did not think to ask the guest’s name. Besides, what harm could he do in a musty old room full of books? Joan didn’t say this either, but Chaucer was familiar with the housekeeper’s opinion of his room and his books.

  It was Thomas who did not trust the stranger or who became curious. After a few minutes, the boy crept to the door of Geoffrey’s room, which was not shut tight, and heard the sound of papers being rustled and the soft thud of items being shifted about. Thomas knew that something wasn’t right. He pushed his head round the door and saw the stranger bending over Chaucer’s desk, hurriedly pushing volumes and manuscripts to one side as if he wanted to be rid of them. Then he gasped and took a manuscript over to the window to look at it in a better light. He nodded to himself, went back to the desk and scooped up several more loose sheets of paper.
Then he glanced round and saw the boy standing in the doorway.

  All of this Thomas related in a clear, almost descriptive manner. He turned it into an exciting story. He even imitated the stranger’s sigh as the man realised he had found what he was looking for. Chaucer was proud of Thomas. He reassured the boy, who seemed more anxious that Geoffrey might not want to continue teaching him to read than he was concerned about anything else. Unlike his mother, he had a respect for the twenty-five or so handwritten volumes that had pride of place in the office and that Geoffrey regarded as his real treasure. Thomas had respect not only for vellum and paper but for the words written on them, even if he was not able to understand many of them yet.

  Maybe it was this respect that caused him to start forward in an attempt to intercept the thief as he sprang from the room, carrying the bundled manuscript and papers. The man lashed out with his free arm and knocked the boy aside, but Thomas succeeded in regaining his balance and pursued the man along the passageway and down the spiral staircase. At the bottom of the steps he tripped and landed on the rush-strewn flagstones of the lobby. His mother, alerted by the noise, was not far behind. By now, the stranger had unlatched the front door and vanished into the street. Joan helped Thomas to the bench and started to mop at his wound. Shortly afterwards Geoffrey arrived home.

  Thomas was not sure where he had received his wound. Geoffrey had noticed some drops of blood on the floor of the upper passage so he thought it might have been as a result of the blow from the man. Was he wearing any rings? he asked.