by K. M. Grant
In keeping with his forthright manner, Master Host didn’t skirt around my father’s helplessness as others did. He called Father “the Emperor” and, when he heard the grinding of the chair’s wheels, would shout, “Make way for the imperial chariot!” When he could see my father struggling against the deep gloom into which he had sunk, he devised entertainments, one of which was using a row of tankards as skittles and seeing how many my father could down with a stuffed goat’s bladder. It pained my father to throw, I know, but the host whispered that the exercise would make his back stronger. Nor was any money accepted, for as you may imagine, money was now short. “You can pay for your liquor when you’re back on your feet,” Master Host declared, sweeping the proffered coins into Father’s lap. Though the phrasing made me wince, he didn’t apologize. “There’s more ways of standing than on a couple of flat soles,” he said, looking my father directly in the eye. It was a robust approach, certainly.
This day, the host was busier than usual. Having heard of its fine food and clean wines, a whole party of persons had arranged to meet at the Tabard. When I went to fetch Father home for his dinner, the place was so busy I could scarcely push my way through, and when I did I found him being berated by a man whose face was so red and warty he could, without disguise, have played Lucifer in the mystery play. “Questio quid juris?” the wart man kept repeating amid a glaze of spit and breakfast remains. “What’s the point in law?”
When I appeared, Father seized me. “This is my daughter, Belle,” he said. “She’s come to take me home.”
The man took no notice. “I ask you again, my crippled friend. Questio quid juris?” he bellowed. Only when he looked at me properly did his voice descend into a tomcat purr. “Your daughter, you say? Legs still working when you conceived her, I would imagine.” He winked outrageously. My father’s face set like stone. The man belched. “Well, as I say, a very creditable daughter, to be sure, though I prefer more flesh in those places a man looks for it.” He belched again. “Tell me, little lady, do you call the color of your hair ‘warning sunset’ or ‘moldy pumpkin’? Never mind. You’ve eyes pretty enough to make up for it. Let me kiss your hand. The name is Aristotle Seekum.” He wiped his mouth and leered over my fingers. “I’m Archdeacon Dunmow’s summoner.”
His title was meant to impress, but since he was clearly a toad, I pulled my hand away. “Dinner’s ready,” I said to my father and tried to push the chair out.
But Master Toad stood his ground, smacking thick lips. “Not so fast, my fine mistress, for your father’s sake. You see, I’ve been trying to root out who was to blame for his accident. He tells me it’s a personal matter and I say nonsense to that! There may be a point in law! And if there is, he may be entitled to some redress. What man doesn’t want money for his pain? Just because your father lacks the will to pursue the point himself doesn’t mean somebody more knowledgeable can’t pursue it for him. Indeed, there is amongst our company a sergeant from the Inns of Court personally known to me. For a small fee, I’m certain he’d gladly take up this worthy cause.” He flicked my locks with a pointed fingernail. “Compensation is always useful. You’d like more ribbons and silks, would you not, poppet?” He peered about, trying to find the sergeant in the crowd.
Every hair on my father’s head bristled, and mine too. I should have been more circumspect, but how was I to know all that was to follow? “The accident was my fault,” I said loudly, “and I prefer parchment and pen to ribbons and silks. By the way, I’m sorry for your boils. Who’s to blame for them? Do you get more compensation if even your mother won’t kiss you?” The summoner’s mouth still agape, I shoved past.
Sitting near the door, slightly apart from the crowd, sat a quick-eyed older man and a youth with skin white as whey. They’d not heard the exchange with the summoner, but when they saw me struggling and my father being uncomfortably jostled, the youth—really just a boy—got up. He was tall, for all that he stooped like a strand of windswept barley, and he wore hinged eyeglasses cracked in lens and frame. His arms must have been strong, though, for my father’s no feather and the boy lifted him clean out of his chair, hoisted him above the melee, and carried him into the street. It was much easier to manage the chair without my father in it and though I clobbered a few shins, I maneuvered out of the inn without further difficulty. The boy carefully lowered my father back onto his cushion, awkwardly accepted some equally awkward thanks—being rescued was hard for Father—and quickly turned away, leaving a smell of something pungent but not unpleasant that I couldn’t quite place.
Dinner, which Widow Chegwin had cooked and sat with us to eat, was taken in silence. She’d made the house neat as a new pin, my father’s bed all fluffed up and inviting. She’d even untangled the knots in the wool for the three-sided cushion I was clumsily trying to embroider. I’d been furious with her in the morning because, can you believe it, she’d washed Poppet. Washed her! Of course Poppet was dirty and of course I only imagined she still carried Mother’s scent, but the widow, thrilled that Poppet now smelled of violets, simply couldn’t grasp that inside the doll’s worn and battered body had nestled dust from happier times. As long as the dust was there, some of that happiness remained. Now it was all gone. As a consequence, I’d spent much of the day pumicing my legs. Yet even as I’d bitten down on a piece of leather, for the pain was very great, and cursed the widow in the language of the gutter, I’d been ashamed. For all her inconsequential cooing and dementing interference, what would my father’s life be like without her? I gave him nothing: not a clean house, not a decent meal, not even an embroidered cushion. Even now, as we were sitting at supper, a meal which, naturally, I’d had no hand in preparing, I wasn’t concentrating on being considerate. Instead, I was telling myself a salty tale in which the milky fish on my plate was going to eat me rather than me eat it.
“They’re pilgrims, all,” the widow warbled, watching me cut my fish carefully into three, “and on their way to Canterbury so I hear, each wanting a miracle at the tomb of St. Thomas.” At mention of St. Thomas she crossed herself. She was a firm believer in keeping the saints sweet. “Such a diverse company! There’s a knight amongst them and a cook! Fancy that! A knight and a cook traveling together. Times are changing, are they not, Master Bellfounder? Even the king’s going to have to accept that. The knight’s brought his son as squire”—her little eyes blinked at me. She couldn’t help herself. Matchmaking was in her blood. “A handsome boy by all accounts, full of accomplishments. He’s interested in books too, I’m certain.”
I cut my three pieces of fish into another three and threw half to the cat. “I think we may have met the squire already,” I said politely. I wanted to show my father, who had witnessed the morning’s row, that my fury had abated. “Would you like more bread, Father?”
“He only eats one piece,” said the widow.
I clenched my teeth and gave Father a slice anyway.
“The squire helped us out of the Tabard. He’s not particularly handsome. Thank you for unknotting the threads in my cushion. I’ll try to get it finished.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” the widow twittered more kindly than I deserved, “but you do get the colors mixed up. I wonder whether all your reading hasn’t weakened your vision? A wife needs sharp eyes, you know, not just for sewing but to make sure she’s not cheated by her servants.”
“We don’t have any servants,” I pointed out, all my good intentions dissolving.
“No, dear, not now, but who knows …” She chattered on. I pushed my plate away. “I think you’re right about my eyes,” I said, “and there’s no time like the present. I’ll find the oculist.”
“Don’t go out,” said my father at once. “It’s not safe. Even you must know that with the king and Parliament still at loggerheads, mobs form out of nothing.”
“The king’s squabbles don’t bother me,” I said, “and it’s months since there was any trouble around here. Why, we’ve even given up setting the window bars
at night.”
“We’ll start setting them again right away,” said my father shortly. “Please see to it, widow.” He rapped his fork on the table, making her jump. “Anyway, it’s a silly time to go. The oculist will be at his dinner.”
My father was not really worried about a mob or the oculist’s dinner. He was really railing against his own inability to escape the domestic hearth. I just had to get out, though, so I got up, crossed myself three times while the widow intoned the grace, then collected Poppet, lest I should come home and find her lips and eyes reworked. When I stepped into the street, I saw a girl balancing three jugs of milk. She dropped one. I didn’t help her pick up the pieces because I needed to pretend it hadn’t happened.
2
Then people long to go on pilgrimages
And palmers long to seek the stranger strands
Of far-off saints …
I never went to the oculist’s house, but so as not to be entirely deceitful, I wandered to his shop and stood outside the window gazing at the frames and stoppered vials. “No better spectacles in all Southwark! Curative drops for all conditions!” declared curly writing set above a wooden puppet sporting two rondels joined with a rivet. I leaned my head against the open shutters. This evening I wasn’t Belle Anything Nice, I was Belle the Rude.
My father was right. The shop was closed, but somebody was knocking tentatively on the door around the other side. I moved. It was the stooping boy from the inn and he peered at me, lank hair flopping over his face. In the thinning light, he looked not so much interestingly pale as unhealthily pasty. If I had not seen him carry my father with my own eyes, I would have said such an effort was beyond him. Immediately, my compulsion kicked in. If he didn’t speak before I’d counted to three, I’d walk away. One, two, thr—
“Do … do … do you know when the shop will be open?”
His voice was deeper than I’d expected. “In the morning,” I said. “That’s when shops usually open.”
His face fell. “Of course. Stupid of me. And we’re off at dawn.”
“You’ll not be off at dawn,” I said. “Tabard breakfasts are famously long. You’ll be up early but the shop’ll be open by the time you pass.”
He looked relieved. “Th–thanks.” It struck me that he was very tongue-tied for a squire—not that I had met many squires, but in stories they were always full of easy words.
I thought he would shuffle off, but when I went back to the window his reflection was beside me. “My spectacles are broken and I’d better choose new frames now. I don’t want to be messing about tomorrow,” he said.
I looked at him and then at the eyeglasses on display. “Black rims,” I said, “so that people can see you. You look as though you might vanish.”
He smiled nervously. “Perhaps I shall.”
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
I faced him properly. “Why then?”
He twisted long fingers. “I may be a bit fermented.”
I laughed and this encouraged him. “My father’s an alchemist,” he explained, “and I’ve spent my whole life breathing in vapors from his experiments.” Now he stood a little straighter and pushed his hair back.
“Oh,” I said. “Of course.”
“Of course?”
“The widow who helps with my father said there was a squire staying at the Tabard. I thought it might be you, but then no squire I’ve ever read about wears eyeglasses, and even without your glasses you don’t really look like a squire.” It was clear at once that I’d hurt his feelings and I felt bad so I rushed on. “Was that your father, the man sitting beside you at the inn?”
He shook his head. “No, no. That man is my master and my mentor.” He blushed. “My savior, really, I suppose.”
I was surprised. “You need a savior?”
“Don’t we all sometimes?”
I thought of my father and myself and the years stretching ahead. I hugged Poppet hard. “You never introduced yourself.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry! I-I—”
“I’m Belle,” I said, cutting through his stuttering and stretching out my hand.
“Luke,” he said, avoiding my hand. “Belle. It suits you.”
I dropped my hand. “You think I’m shaped like a bell?”
“Not at all! I meant it as a compliment.”
“It’s all right,” I said, “I was joking. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. A man of letters should be able to pay an ordinary compliment.”
“You’re a writer?” Only now did I began to pay him properly serious attention.
“It’s what I’ve always wanted to be.”
“And that man—your master—is teaching you how?”
“Yes. I’m his scribe.”
“What’s he writing?”
“He’s got an idea but his wife’s ill, so he’s going on pilgrimage to Canterbury to ask St. Thomas to cure her. I heard that he was looking for somebody to help him write a report of the journey, and so I applied for the job.”
I was disappointed. “I thought you might be learning to write stories.”
He leaned his back against the wall. “My master writes tremendous stories,” he said with more confidence. “That’s why there was a line of people wanting my job.”
Jealousy stirred. “Why did he choose you?”
Luke bit his lip.
“I suppose you’re very, very clever,” I said, disliking myself for goading him but doing it all the same.
“No,” he answered at once. “I’m not very clever. I’ve got a very good memory.”
“Oh? For what kinds of things?”
“Pretty much anything.”
“All right,” I said, “what’s in the window behind you—and no cheating.”
He took off his spectacles and stared hard into the distance although his eyes seemed somehow turned inward. “Three shelves on the left, two on the right. The poppet in the middle with a sign above her.”
“I know the sign,” I said. “That’s easy.” I glanced across the road to make sure he was not staring at a reflection. He was not.
He went on. “On the top-left shelf there are six eyeglass frames, all round and of black leather, with ties. On the second shelf are four vials, two brown and two red, one with a pointed stopper, the rest pear-shaped. On the third shelf are fifteen—no, fourteen—sheets of horn. On the right-hand top shelf is a book entitled Of the Eye and All Its Ailments, and on the lower shelf are two boxes, with twenty pairs of spectacles in one and six crystal reading stones in the other.”
I pressed my nose to the window and began counting. “How many sheets of horn did you say?”
“Fourteen. The fifteenth is on the table farther back in the shop, with one pair of frames cut out of it. Next to it is a box of rivets but I can’t tell how many rivets there are because the box has a lid on.”
It was impossible not to be impressed. “It’s magic,” I said. Now I was nervous. Widow Chegwin was always warning about magic. I tapped my fingers together three times.
“Not at all. My father pretends it’s some kind of super natural power but it’s really just a trick. Anybody can learn to do it. I can remember words as well, and numbers, and it’s very useful because it means that my master can dictate as he rides and I write everything down when we stop. He tells me puzzles too, though he says not to write those down. I think it amuses him to test me. So far I’ve not forgotten anything.” He was nervously proud.
“What a useful person you are,” I said, not very nicely.
He was immediately bashful. “There are lots of people like me, I expect.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” I said.
“You’re just saying that.”
“Well, you got the job, didn’t you?” I said more gently. I was always losing friends by saying the wrong thing and though this boy would hardly qualify as a friend, I didn’t want him to dislike me. “You must have had something that the others didn’t have.”<
br />
“I did. I had God’s blessing. You see, I made a bargain that if the Master chose me as his scribe, I’d place my alchemist’s tools on the altar of St. Thomas at Canterbury and become a monk at St. Denys in Paris. God kept his part of the bargain, so now I’m really a monk. When I’ve delivered my tools, I’ll deliver myself.”
“Jesus Mary!” I was genuinely horrified. “A poor, chaste, and obedient monk, and in a foreign place! You must have wanted the job really badly.”
He gave an uncertain smile. “I did,” he said. “I wanted this job more than anything else. When you’re a monk you can write to your heart’s content. I’m looking forward to it, and if I’m out at sea, I’ll never have to go home again.”
“Is home that bad?”
“Have you ever met an alchemist?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Can you smell anything?”
I sniffed, recognizing the smell I’d noticed earlier. He removed his spectacles again and edged close enough for me to see that his eyes were goose gray and slanted at the corners. His skin was smooth as white lead. I sniffed again. “Sulfur,” I said, wrinkling my nose, “and brimstone.”
“That’s the alchemist’s smell. That and the smell of deceit. My father turns base metal into gold.”