by K. M. Grant
“Really?”
A red fork flashed in the goose gray. “Of course not really. It can’t be done. My father’s a peddler of lies and false dreams. He’s tried to teach me how to do it, but that was one lesson I refused to learn. Nobody should pretend they can make gold. It’s the worst deceit of all because it drives men to murder. He beat me, but I wouldn’t give in.” He didn’t look cowed by the memory of that beating; he looked livid.
“But isn’t anything possible through alchemy?” I asked. “Master Host says that alchemists cured lots of people of the plague.”
The red fork flashed again. “That’s what men like my father would have you believe, but it’s only through God that anything’s possible and, believe me, God’s as far from being an alchemist as I am from being St. Peter.”
I tossed my head. “You really believe in God’s power?”
“I believe in his power for good. He got me my job.”
“Your memory got you your job.”
“And who gave me my memory?”
“Your father.”
“And who gave me my father?”
“This is silly,” I said.
The red spark flickered and went out. Soon, dusk thickened into dark and the poppet and the eyeglasses smudged and disappeared. Somewhere across the river, a bell tolled for evening prayers. I held my breath. Six strikes. I let my breath out again. “If God really could do anything, he’d mend my father’s legs,” I whispered when I was sure my face was shadowed.
Luke caught the whisper. “What happened to him?”
“Has nobody at the Tabard told you?”
“I didn’t speak to anybody except my master.”
So I told him, adding nothing and taking nothing away, which is unusual for me, but he seemed to draw the truth out by listening with his whole self. When I finished, he was staring at me intently. “Do you believe in miracles?” he asked eventually.
“I believe God could have caused the bell to fall away from my father,” I said, “but the bones …” I could still see them, stained and sharp through the broken skin, and my father’s feet flopping like a couple of dead herrings. “I do believe in bargains, though,” I added, surprising myself, since I’d never admitted this to anyone before. “They seem more powerful than miracles.”
Luke touched my arm. “Come with us to Canterbury,” he said, and the moon came out, lighting his face like the church on Easter Sunday. “You never know what God can do.”
I wagged my finger. “Aha! You’ll not trick me like that, Master Monk-in-the-Making. I’m not promising to be a nun.”
“Even to give your father back his legs?”
A horrible coldness trickled down my throat. That was one bargain I’d never thought of. I began to edge away. “You’re a peddler in dreams just like your father. God’s never going to cure my father, whatever I promise. That’s my punishment.” I turned on my heel; then, I don’t quite know why, I turned back. “Remember, black rims for your new glasses.” After that I ran.
My father didn’t have a good night, nor did I. The widow muttered prayers and incantations and stoked up the fire. When necessary, she helped my father turn over and resettled him with surprising deftness. Only when she had to do the most intimate things was she silent, knowing her muttering would add to his humiliations. I couldn’t like her, but I couldn’t say she wasn’t thoughtful. And it was my fault we couldn’t do without her. I stared at the ceiling. Why had I moved sideways?
At dawn I rose, dressed, and went to the bedside. The widow was snoring noisily in her chair, her mouth wide. I lit three candles and sat down. My father’s face was ashy and mottled. Pain had made him old. “Well, Belle,” he rhymed, trying to banter. But his mustache drooped into his beard.
“Do you believe in miracles?” I asked him, straightening blankets that didn’t need straightening.
He closed his eyes. “What happened happened,” he said, “and what’s done is done. Time can’t be reversed.”
“What about miracles?” I persisted.
He made a tiny movement. “Life’s a miracle. A perfect peal of bells is a miracle. Your red hair’s a miracle.”
“You know what I mean.”
He suddenly opened his eyes. “Hope of miracles makes people mad,” he said, “and I won’t be mad as well as crippled.”
I took a deep breath. “I want to go to Canterbury with the pilgrims at the Tabard,” I said, gripping his hand. “I want to take a lock of your hair to St. Thomas’s tomb, and if God will cure you, I’ll … I’ll … I’ll stop living in my stories and become more like the son you should have had. I can be a bell founder—a good one. I know I can. If St. Thomas can persuade God to mend your legs, that’s what I’ll do. I swear—”
“You’ll swear nothing, do you hear me!”
I wasn’t to be stopped. “I swear it, I swear it, I swear it,” I said. “There. As you say, what’s done’s done.”
My father’s head fell back. “You shouldn’t have sworn. You know you’ll break your word and then what’ll God do with you?”
“I won’t break my word.” I was on my feet. My skirt against my pumiced legs. I didn’t wince. “I won’t. If the boy can become a monk, I can become a bell founder.”
“What boy? What are you saying?”
“Never mind,” I told him. “I just need a lock of your hair.”
“For God’s sake, Belle.”
I snipped a lock before he could stop me and put it in a hinged pendant. I fastened the pendant around my neck with a leather thong. “Isn’t it worth a try, Father? Isn’t it?”
He raised his hands, then dropped them. “If you want to get away from this sickroom, at least be honest enough to say so. Don’t hide behind the pretense of miracle seeking.”
“For once I’m not pretending,” I said, and hoped this was true. “I’ve made a promise.”
“How many times did you promise your mother to keep the house tidy? How many times did you promise to learn to bake? How many times did you … ?” His voice petered into nothing. “I don’t want another argument. I haven’t the strength.”
“Listen,” I said as the bell that had been the cause of our misfortune tolled. “What do you hear?”
“I hear the end of my life drawing near,” he whispered.
I was suddenly terribly afraid. “Father!”
He turned his face to the wall. “Go to Canterbury, Belle. I can’t stop you. But don’t pray for me, pray for yourself.”
“There’s no rule to say I can’t do both,” I said. He didn’t smile, but at least he looked around so that I could kiss both his cheeks and his forehead. Then I patted the blankets and picked up my belongings. I held the pumice stone tightly before, with an effort, putting it down. I should have left Poppet behind too. I know I should. Pilgrims don’t take toys. But I didn’t feel strong enough for that, so with my pendant swinging and clutching my doll under my arm, I said three Our Fathers and left my father to the widow’s mercies.
3
Some nine and twenty in a company
Of sundry folk happening then to fall
In fellowship …
The Tabard yard was heaving with horses, mongrels, chickens, tradesmen, servants, squabbling pages, itinerant hawkers, and pilgrims fussing over their baggage. It was still early but already I could smell the sewage. The day would be hot. Three pigs had joined the melee, snuffling about between the pack mules’ hooves and upsetting the better-bred palfreys. I stood with my pack on my back and felt a fool. My father’s horse had been sold. Was I going to be the only pilgrim walking? And how was I going to pay for food and lodging on the way? I had brought no money. I couldn’t see Luke. Summoner Seekum pounced. He’d not forgotten my jibe about his boils. “Ah,” he said, oozing greasy malice, “you’ve come to atone for your wicked carelessness? Last evening, I learned how you crippled your father. There’ll be a very particular place in hell for you.”
This morning he was less toad and more snow-spattered
volcano, for he had pasted his eruptions with cream of tartar using the back of one of Master Host’s horn spoons. I could see the top of the spoon sticking out of the large leather pouch attached to his belt. The spoon wasn’t of value, but I knew Master Host would miss it because it was one of a set with unusual pigtail stalks. For a man of means like a summoner, it was a strangely petty thing to take. “Stay out of my business,” I said. “It’s nothing to do with you.”
His eyes bored into mine, crafty and inquisitive. “When times are troubled, no man’s business is just his own, nor woman’s neither.”
“Well, troubled times don’t trouble me,” I said, standing my ground. He moved closer in, his many rings flashing in the sun, and before I could move, pressed a sweaty palm against the swell of my shift. I leaped back into two strong arms. A voice lively as a flute exclaimed, “Whoa there, my lady! You don’t want to be kicked.”
Though I had never seen him before, I recognized my rescuer at once. This must be the squire, the knight’s son, and I could see why the widow had been so taken. On the cusp of what was obviously going to be a magnificent manhood, his handsomely bearded face was fresh and open and his eyes full of romance. My pack slid from my back and Poppet to the floor. “Whoops!” he said, dusting her down and replacing her under my arm. “The poor poppet.” It was impossible not to twinkle at him, for his eyes were the twinkliest I ever saw.
The Toad quickly lowered his hand and coughed. “I’m attending to this girl, which is only fitting, since she’s coming to Canterbury to atone for sin.”
“As are we all, are we not?” The squire’s response was so quick and his manner so pleasant that the Toad was left floundering. “Now, sir,” said the squire, “as summoner, your office naturally means you’re an important person on our journey. I believe you’ll be required to ride up front. One who summons sinners before the archdeacon carries enough responsibilities without cluttering himself up with the rest of us.”
The squire’s tone was firm and the Toad allowed himself to be flattered. “I suppose so,” he said, spraying spittle. “I shall take my place as you suggest.” His fingers twitched to chuck me under the chin, but in the end he left us, closing his pouch over the stolen spoon and waggling his thumb in a gesture both childish and obscene.
The squire released me. “Now,” he said, rather absent-mindedly straightening the crush of my clothes and picking up my pack. “Where’s your packhorse?”
“Right here,” I said. Tucking Poppet into my belt, I held out my arms.
He laughed, showing very white teeth. “No, really.”
“Really. I’ve no horse, neither to ride nor to carry my pack. But I’ve two sturdy legs and I’ll manage perfectly well.”
When he saw that I was serious, he cocked his head to one side, sizing me up. I must have passed muster. “Wait right here,” he said, and disappeared, taking my pack with him.
The yard became a little more orderly as somebody shooed the pigs out and the pilgrims began climbing into their saddles, though some, having taken full advantage of the host’s liquid hospitality, found this quite difficult. The widow was right. They really were a disparate lot, as was clear from mounts ranging from two high-stepping warhorses, clearly belonging to the knight and the squire, to a stumpy pony more used to pulling a plow than having the plowman as jockey. There were, all told, eighteen men if we count Sir Knight’s page and the wagoner and his boy, and nine women, including myself and a lady who traveled in a wagon with her daughters, one a baby and the other just walking. There were also two lapdogs wearing pilgrims’ cockleshells on their collars, but I’m not counting them. Twenty-seven, being nine times three, is the number I prefer.
I strained my eyes for Luke and eventually spotted him, already mounted and waiting by the gate. When he saw me, his face lit up and he bent to speak to his master. His master glanced over, frowned, asked a question, then nodded. Luke vaulted neatly off his horse and made his way toward me. He had his new glasses. They were black rimmed. It was, I suppose, a little unfortunate that he reached me at the same time as the squire. There was a tinderbox moment as Luke clenched his fists, and I was conscious of an explosive energy that was decidedly unmonklike. But he held back as the squire shook his curls and bowed.
“I’ve brought the lady a horse,” the squire said.
“So I see,” said Luke without enthusiasm.
A horse! That was like calling a silk dress a rag. The horse was nothing like the workaday, thick-legged animal my father had kept. Round-flanked, dish-faced, and soft-muzzled, this palomino sweetheart was a creature from myth. Unlike the other horses, even the warhorses, her coat was not thickening in early anticipation of winter, but retained its summer sheen of waxed cherry wood. She carried her tail high, as a princess carries her head.
“She’s beautiful!” I exclaimed.
The squire was delighted. “Yes, isn’t she? She belonged to my sister. She has no more need of her.” His lips puckered slightly as he checked the girth and made sure the bridle was properly fitting.
“Is your sister sick?” I ventured.
“No,” he said. He patted the mare. “I’m sorry. That was rude. The truth is that my sister has run away with a French knight, damn his black hair and dirty fingernails. We’re making a pilgrimage to pray for her return. My father wanted to bring the pony because she is—was—so fond of it and for some reason he thought—well, he just thought.”
My spirits rose. Of course, at the same time, I asked myself the question you may be asking. Was it sinful to feel cheerful on pilgrimage? I didn’t know. All I can say is that when the squire handed over reins of soft red leather, I pinched my wrist to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. “That is not a sidesaddle,” he said. “Can you ride astride?”
“I’ve never ridden any other way,” I told him, “though I’ve only ever ridden over harness, never with a saddle. Does your sister always ride astride?” The squire linked his hands to make a step for me to mount, his silence polite but eloquent. I bit my lip and performed my three-skip mounting bounce. If this flower of chivalry didn’t wish to tell me about his sister, I shouldn’t pry. To make up, I tried to make myself as light as possible, but in the end I scrambled because the mare wouldn’t stand still. It was mortifying when my skirts rode up, revealing the scabs on my legs. I knew what to expect: the squire would flinch first and then comment. He did neither, only laughed as the pony danced about, and his laugh was like music.
“Could you hold her still while I tighten the girth?” he asked Luke. To tell the truth, I’d forgotten Luke was even there. As soon as the girth was fixed, Luke retreated.
The squire called his father’s page. “Fling a leg over so that you’re sitting sideways,” he ordered when the page had gone. He produced a pair of the softest woolen hose. “Shuffle into these,” he said, meeting my eyes with unexpectedly sympathetic candor. “They’re fashionably tight, so they should protect your legs from saddle sores. Here. Use my shoulders as footrests.” He stood with his back to me. When I was ready, he placed my feet carefully into the stirrups. “There,” he said, smoothing my skirts. “You and that poppet look very fine.”
“I don’t really know how to thank you,” I said, rubbing Poppet’s threadbare head hard against my crimson cheeks. I knew he understood what I meant. “I’ll pray that it’s not long before your sister sits in this saddle again.”
He bowed. “The pony’s name is Dulcimer,” he said. “My sister called her Dulcie. And I’m Walter de Pleasance.”
“Belle,” I said.
“Ah! Une belle jument pour une belle dame. A beautiful mare for a beautiful girl.”
I blushed. Nobody had ever paid me such a compliment before, or in such a voice, and I never thought somebody would, particularly after they’d seen my legs.
“I’ve taken the liberty of stowing your pack in our armor cart,” Walter said. “It’s the one painted blue—I do like blue—and it’s drawn by a spotted riding horse. I thought of painting him blue too
, but I don’t think he’d have appreciated it much. Now I must go and tend to my father. Will you manage? Dulcie’s high-spirited but I think she’ll carry you well.”
I nodded, happily bemused by the blue and the spotted horse and the kindness of this new friend. “Please thank your father,” I called out.
“The pleasure’s entirely ours,” he answered, and doffed a ribboned cap. Altogether it was a most unexpected start to my journey.
When the whole company was ready, the priest blessed our venture: “May our prayers be answered according to our just deserts. May St. Thomas of Canterbury bless us, and may God keep us together in a pilgrim’s pact of friendship.” Three invocations. We all began to say Amen. The summoner called out, “And may God’s blessing fall only on loyal Englishmen.” My fellow pilgrims shifted uneasily. “We’re just pilgrims,” somebody murmured angrily. “There should be no politicking here.” I wasn’t angry about politicking. I was angry because the summoner’s invocation knocked out the symmetry of three and cast a shadow over a shadowless morning.
We were off very quickly after that, and many envious looks came my way because of Dulcie, particularly from the lowly nun acting as the prioress’s secretary. It was the prioress who owned the traveling lapdogs: two yappy, woolly bundles who really had no place on a pilgrimage at all. Poor Sister Secretary, who was riding an ugly mule with one of the yappers perched in front, could hardly go two paces without the prioress exhorting her to take care. I’d have been tempted to strangle both prioress and dog, but with pretty Dulcie beneath me and Walter swinging himself onto a dashing bay, I couldn’t but think there had been a small miracle already.
The reeve, charged with bringing order to the group, chivvied us into a column. “Now,” he called, pecking like a crow with indigestion, “I don’t want to see a gaggle. We’re pilgrims, not geese. Come along! Come along! Sir Knight, you should be first, for you can protect us, and Walter—goodness, Arondel’s decked out like a maypole but never mind, never mind—will you go behind your father? At least Granada still looks like a warhorse. Good. Then—”