by K. M. Grant
“Then me,” said Toad Seekum.
The reeve stopped short. “You?”
“I believe so.” The Toad rocked, and his mangy horse rocked too, with the weight.
“I entirely disagree.” The reeve swung his rusty blade.
“You may be in charge of hauling sinful wretches before the church court, but you’re nothing but a paid official.”
The Toad pushed his roan behind Arondel’s rump. “I, as the archdeacon’s summoner with jurisdiction over immortal souls, clearly take precedence over somebody who simply oversees worldly accounts. Ask the squire.”
Walter and the reeve exchanged glances. “Very well,” said Master Reeve, “but watch out for Arondel’s heels. The horse isn’t as polite as its master.”
The summoner scowled. “I’ll have my friend next to me,” he announced. “Pardoner Bernard, ride alongside.” Pardoner Bernard, long-nosed and with hair like yellow dribbles, was thrilled to be the summoner’s friend. He kicked his shaggy pony smartly in the ribs.
“Excuse me,” said the reeve, “but since when did a pardoner, even a pardoner of Bernard’s standing”—the irony in his voice was palpable—“take precedence over an apothecary or, indeed, a franklin, who we also have amongst us? Master Franklin does, after all, own enough land to represent a shire in Parliament and is a justice at the court sessions. A pardoner just sells pardons, and in my experience, not always for the right price.”
“The apothecary’s a woman and Master Franklin’s not at the Parliament or in the courts now,” said the summoner, stubborn jawed. “And are you suggesting that Pardoner Bernard’s a crook?”
“I’ve never met a pardoner who wasn’t,” the reeve muttered.
The pardoner caught that. “Take care, Master Reeve.”
He wagged a crooked finger. “I’ve a piece of Our Lady’s veil about my person that’s been known to slice like an ax.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” The knight suddenly exerted himself. “Squabbling before we’ve even set out? And over rank? Shame! Let each man choose his place, and each woman too, according to his fancy. If Master Summoner wants to ride with his friend, and if both are willing to risk Arondel’s heels, let them do just that. God doesn’t stand on precedence and, during a pilgrimage, nor should we.”
“Why are you still at the front then?” somebody shouted. I think it was the cook. “Let’s see you give up your place.”
“Gladly,” said Sir Knight, drawing Granada to the side with a gesture simultaneously grand and humble, and signaling for Walter to do the same. “Whosoever wishes to lead the procession, let him make himself known right away. I shall gladly hand over the responsibility of finding the way and of being the first to cross swords with any enemies we may meet.” There followed a long minute during which nobody moved. Without further comment, Sir Knight remained in the place he thought rightly his. It was, indeed, the reeve who gave up. Muttering into his chin, he mounted his plump stallion and used his spurs unnecessarily. “We’ll stay at the back, Scot,” he said to the horse, and the animal’s dappled ears flattened as its master’s irritation flowed down the reins.
Storing all this away to amuse my father on my return, I managed to avoid being corralled with the other ladies by a thick-necked, honey-tongued friar but then risked being swept up by a mountainous dame of some age whose deafness caused her forever to clack, “What? What?” like a garden crow. What with her, the wailing of the mother over her baby’s lost rattle, the trilling of Sir Knight’s page, the cries of an escaped hawk, and the yapping of those silly dogs, we were really more traveling circus than journeying penitents.
“May I ride with you?” I asked, slipping Dulcie between Luke and his master. Luke glared at Dulcie through his glasses. I knew he was thinking of Walter, and not fondly. My heart gave a small flutter. Nobody had ever been jealous on my behalf before. “The black rims suit you,” I said before he could open his mouth, “and here I am, all because of you, seeing if dreams can come true.” I didn’t want him to glare the whole way to Canterbury.
He pushed back his hair though he refused to smile. “This is Belle,” he said by way of introduction to the man at his side, “and Belle, this is Master Chaucer.”
“Master Chaucer?” I grasped Dulcie’s reins so hard that she squealed. “Geoffrey Chaucer?” Master Chaucer gave a nod, those quick eyes missing nothing. “Jesus Mary! You never told me your master was famous.”
“Would it have been important?”
“It would have been something,” I said nippily. “I’m so glad to meet you, sir.”
“Are you indeed,” said Master Chaucer, and I was conscious of a sharp appraisal. I was sure he could see straight into my head, which made me nervous. I was also very aware that Dulcie was hardly the right mount for a girl who had crippled her father.
“Walter de Pleasance, the knight’s squire, lent Dulcie to me,” I explained. “She really belongs to his sister but the sister’s run off with a Frenchman and they’re going to Canterbury to pray for her. I didn’t like to refuse because I didn’t have anything else to ride.” There followed a silence too awkward to leave unbroken. “Luke told me that your wife’s ill,” I blustered on. “I’m sorry.” I wanted to say something brilliant. After all, Master Chaucer was the most famous person I’d ever met. I could think of nothing beyond the horribly ordinary.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re quite welcome,” I replied.
Master Chaucer rode his gray horse carefully, mindful both of its feelings and the safety of the writing box strapped firmly behind him, to which his hands—clean and not ink stained, I was surprised and a little disappointed to see—kept straying. The horse, one ear permanently forward and one back, seemed as mindful of its burden as Master Chaucer himself, and also rather conscious of its saddlery, which was blue, like Arondel’s, though not as exuberantly so. I think it had been chosen to match the bonnet that grew from the Master’s head like a large mushroom, a short tail flapping behind to protect his neck from the sun. All in all, he did not look as I expected a writer to look, which was yellow as a dusty parchment and with no care for clothes at all. This, I decided, was because he wasn’t only a writer but also a man of business and politics, and I scolded myself for not having listened more carefully when my father and the host had spoken of the famous trial at which Master Chaucer had given evidence. Had he also been a Member of Parliament? Was he still? I struggled to remember so that I could impress him with my knowledge. I failed.
“I’m on pilgrimage for my father,” I said. “I expect Luke has told you.”
“Luke’s the soul of discretion,” said Master Chaucer, letting go of the writing box for a second and patting Luke’s hand. “He learned early that I like people to tell their own stories in their own time.”
“Stories that Luke writes down?” I couldn’t help sounding envious.
The Master scrutinized me again, and then, touching his box, said, “I’m not doing too well with my stories at the moment. I must be getting old.”
“Nonsense. It’s because your wife’s sick,” I said. I know it was impertinent, since we had only just met, but I didn’t want the conversation to end. “It’s hard to write when you’re worried.”
He shot me another look. His horse stumbled. I wasn’t surprised. Its mane was so thick it must have weighed almost as much as a fleece. I tried to make a little joke. “You could hide a library of stories in there and nobody would ever find them,” I said.
“What? Oh. Yes. Very amusing,” the Master said. “Are you on a special pilgrimage?”
I began to explain and the Master seemed to be listening. “The truth of it is that wives are curious creatures,” he suddenly interrupted. “I don’t know that I even liked mine much until she became ill. Only now, when I may lose her, do I find that the prospect of life without her makes me gloomy.” He glanced apologetically, not at me but at Luke. “Even for a man who’s made monkish promises, I’m afraid I’ll be dreary company.
”
Luke’s return glance was full of affection. “You don’t know how to be dreary.”
“Dear, dear.” Master Chaucer shook his head. “That sounds very exhausting.”
“I didn’t mean—I mean—I don’t—I just—” Luke tied his tongue in such knots it was a wonder his spectacles didn’t steam up.
“Easy, boy, easy.” Master Chaucer patted his hand again. “It’s just my way of taking a compliment.”
Luke met my eye by mistake and shifted in his saddle, hitting his head on a low-hanging branch. It must have hurt, but his expression was so funny and I was so nervous that I laughed. Master Chaucer jumped as though he’d forgotten I was there, and his hand sprang back to his writing box. I noted the gesture and thought I’d copy it myself when I was a writer.
“So, flame-haired Belle on the horse of a girl who has run off with a Frenchman, what do you like to do with yourself when you’re not looking out for bell ropes?” he asked, giving me his full attention.
I flushed. “I like to make up stories, just as you do,” I said. It was arrogant, I suppose, but the truth.
“Do you indeed. And do stories come readily to you?”
“Quite readily,” I said. “Sometimes I make up my own and sometimes I hear one and make it more … more—”
“More colorful?”
“Yes,” I said. “More colorful, because it’s God’s honest truth that God’s honest truth can be a bit dull.”
Master Chaucer’s mouth curled in a delightfully foxy smile. “Not a bad reply, child. I myself often exaggerate, or even change things a little. Why not, so long as the purpose is entertainment and not malice. Do you agree, Luke?”
“I agree when you do it,” Luke replied, still pulling twigs from his hair, and then added pointedly, “but beginners must be careful.”
I bridled at being thought a beginner. “Stories have their own kind of truth,” I pointed out. “And there’s not much story if you don’t make things up. I mean, you can’t be a writer and just write about real life.”
“Why not?” Luke snapped a twig.
I was amazed he even had to ask. “Because real life’s only bearable if you don’t have to live in it all the time,” I said.
“Amen to that,” Master Chaucer echoed. Two red spots dimpled the pallor of Luke’s cheeks and he fiddled with the handle of the small meat knife he kept at his waist. Perhaps it was fortunate that at that moment a caterwauling arose, a duet between what sounded like a billy goat and a trumpet. “Come hither, love, come home!” I recognized the billy goat and so did Master Chaucer. “Ah!” he said, “so our summoner’s a songbird!”
“He’s a toad,” I said with some feeling. “I’ll bet he prizes out everybody’s secrets and then stores them as little jars of poison.”
Master Chaucer’s foxy smile vanished. He leaned hard on his box and aged twenty years before my very eyes. “You think so?” he said. “What do you make of Summoner Seekum, Luke?”
“He asks too many questions,” said Luke.
The Master blinked. “He does? What about?”
“He wants to know everybody’s business,” Luke said. “I mean, he asked why you were going to Canterbury and what you were writing. The effrontery!”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Why, the truth, of course.” Luke gave me a look of small triumph. Then his face became grave. “But you should be careful, Master.”
“I should?”
“Yes,” Luke went on. “I’ll bet he’d not hesitate to steal your ideas.” He gestured to the box. “Make sure you keep them locked up.”
“Ah, my ideas,” said the Master, and some of his foxy look returned. “He’s already tried that. He writes poetry, or what he imagines is poetry, and, most gratifyingly, he copies my style. We both sang our own works to the king a little while ago.” He paused as the humility of the pilgrim battled the pride of the poet. “It would be dishonest of me to say that laughter didn’t greet both our efforts.” Another struggle. “I think it would also be dishonest not to say that the king laughed with me but at our friend, whose performance, if I remember correctly—and I do—he compared to the brayings of an ass.” Though the recollection clearly pleased Master Chaucer, it can hardly have pleased the summoner.
Luke relaxed. “His hat’s pretty asslike too.”
“Asslike as mine?” the Master teased.
Luke’s tongue again twisted into knots. “No, I didn’t mean—I really meant—I mean yours isn’t—”
“Calmly, boy, calmly!” Chaucer admonished, laughing. “If we’re to get on, you must learn that I’m seldom looking to take offense. Untie your tongue. I was just about to remark that hats tell a great deal about a person.”
“You’re right,” I said, pointing ahead. “Just look at Pardoner Bernard. He’s warbling away, so dignified and holy. Yet by sewing that enormous bulgy thing on the top of that quite fetching little cap, he’s turned himself into a clown.”
“It’s supposed to be St. Edmund’s knucklebone,” Luke said, at which the Master hooted like a naughty schoolboy, making Luke and me smile at each other. In moments, though, the hoots had gone and the Master closed his eyes, the years pressing down on him again.
The road grew too narrow for the four of us and there was a bit of barging. I wanted to continue to ride by Master Chaucer. Luke didn’t want to give up his place and a skinny cleric persisted in pushing between us. In the end, I admitted defeat, gave Dulcie her head and caught up with Walter. He was countering the boredom of the walking pace on which his father insisted by braiding small bows into Arondel’s mane and was very pleased to see me. When Summoner Seekum and his friend stopped to draw breath, he and I settled on singing a roundel my mother had taught me.
Summer is a-coming in, merry sing cuckoo,
Bloweth mead and groweth seed and merry sing
cuckoo.
Sing cuckoo!
Ewe bleateth after lamb, loweth after calve coo.
Bullock sterteth, buck averteth, merry sing cuckoo.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Now sing we all cuckoo,
Never swick thee never noo.
“What a pretty voice you have,” Walter said.
Such a gallant lie. I sing like a strangled cat. Even Walter didn’t suggest an encore and instead told me of a tournament in which he and his father had taken part. After he had described the maneuvers of his third encounter, lance by lance, and exactly which tunic he’d chosen for each new joust, I began to wonder what kind of silken favor I would give a man who wanted to fight for me. Would I make a virtue of my red hair by reflecting it or would I simply dye it raven black, perhaps, or sun gold? What color was Guinevere’s hair, or Sir Galahad’s? I’d tried not to think of King Arthur’s court since my father’s accident and now I couldn’t remember. Walter tapped my arm gently. He’d stopped talking. “I’m afraid I was boring you,” he said, and grinned, “though your poppet’s still listening.”
“Not at all,” I said, quickly tucking Poppet into my sleeve. “I was just wondering what kind of a favor would suit me, with my red hair and all.”
“Oh,” he said, happily nodding. “Yes, yes. Red can be a problem. Let’s see, though. We can either be brave and go for orange—make a virtue of the clash—or perhaps green would be safer?”
“Can you remember what color Guinevere’s hair was?” I asked.
“I can’t remember Guinevere’s, but I do remember that Arthur’s hair was yellow.” He twisted in his stirrups. “Let’s see. I have it very exactly in my mind. Yes. Arthur’s was the same color as Master Chaucer’s scribe’s if his were clean and properly cut.”
It was true. Luke’s hair, which had seemed so dull, suddenly seemed full of possibilities. “You’re quite right,” I said, and before I knew it, we were talking about hair fashions, the new vogue for belted tunics, and trying to decide whether tapering points on shoes made men’s feet look elegant or ridiculous. I thought what a kind person he was, particularly since I was sure
he preferred talking about swords and battles. It was nice, too, that for now at least I could live in a fairy tale in which famous writers, rich squires, alchemists’ sons, and bell founders’ daughters could get along as easily as cows at cud.
At dusk we headed for the glow of a town and walked in procession through the gate amongst a trickle of laborers who had been clearing out an overgrown moat. Set amongst the stone houses of the town’s merchants and officials we found an inn that could put up all of us for the night. It was quite a grand place, considering. How I would manage to pay my bill I had no idea. I told myself that if Dulcie sneezed three times before I dismounted, something would turn up. Though I dismounted as tardily as possible, she only sneezed twice.
I thought of pretending I was fasting and refusing dinner, but I was starving, so let myself be seated between Walter and Sir Knight and opposite Luke and Master Chaucer. Though Luke said little, the conversation flowed, and, from those who opened their souls, it turned out that there were not two people amongst us who had the same reason for making the pilgrimage. St. Thomas was going to be very busy.
Walter carved for his father, and then, slightly to my embarrassment, for me. He set meat on my plate with a little jeweled dagger and cut it neatly into three. “We don’t want to see any of your silver, Belle. For this journey, you’re Dulcie’s guest,” he whispered. Walter wasn’t a fool. He must have realized that I had no money. I thanked him and then I sneezed, which was a relief.
We ate too well for pilgrims, Sir Knight and Walter with the carelessness of those who have only known plenty, and the poorer pilgrims with the enthusiasm of those who’ve never been sure of enough. The friar simply speared something from every platter that passed him, often cramming his prize straight into his mouth, while Master Reeve cut all his food into tiny pieces and darted at them with long fingers. Everybody’s patience was tried by the prioress, whose dogs, at her insistence, sat at the table like drooling empresses. The prioress herself refused all food, but though her plate was always empty, I noticed her mouth always full. The Toad, of course, ate hugely and messily, and scarcely concealed his fascination with the lady apothecary’s hideously scarred face. She had only three teeth and when people spoke to her, drew her gaze back from some place beyond the walls and answered so sharply that nobody addressed her twice.