by K. M. Grant
After an anxious half hour, we found shelter in a village. The inn wasn’t big enough to accommodate us all, so we pitched camp in a pasture behind its back wall. As the ale flowed, we relaxed a little and Luke was pressed to reveal more alchemists’ tricks. I slipped in beside him.
“Not nothing and nobody now. You’re a hero.”
“So it would seem,” he said, and added with a slightly bitter stab, “my father would have been proud.”
“You saved me from those men,” I said. He raised his cup and offered it to me, and as my lips touched where his lips had been, I imagined what it would be like to kiss him.
I had only a moment to wonder, for Master Summoner, half ironically and half sincerely, chose that moment to raise his own cup in a toast, and the Master, who was holding a piece of bread in his right hand, raised his own cup with his left. It was the absence that shrieked. Where once the king’s ring had sat solid, there was now only emptiness. Master Summoner’s gaze fixed on this emptiness. He frowned at first, not quite comprehending why an emptiness should have caught his eye. Then suddenly he understood and his toast, when it came, was triumphant.
8
I know the service of my love is vain,
My recompense is but a bursting heart.
It’s odd how two lives can run simultaneously. On the one hand, once you’ve begun to think about kissing somebody, it’s quite difficult to stop. On the other, Master Chaucer, the summoner, and myself were now caught in an odd triangular standoff to which the rest of the party, whose only anxiety was to reach Canterbury as quickly as possible, was completely oblivious. I never asked Master Chaucer where the ring was. I didn’t want to know.
Luke and I rode together. Making gold had blown away all the chemical pastiness from his skin, and the hint of sulfur too, leaving him smelling of ordinary things like soap and warm leather, horse and earth. But his effect on me was far from ordinary: now, his every movement and every expression began to burn itself into my soul, making it harder and harder for me to behave naturally. I knew I’d fallen in love. I found this curiously upsetting. As you may imagine, I’d been in love before, but in the past my beloved had always been a mythical hero and I was always in control. Now I’d fallen in love with a real person, I wasn’t in control at all. How my legs itched. How my heart twisted and turned. How I longed for an elegant nonchalance that completely eluded me. I wanted to speak easily; every word seemed clumsy.
Nevertheless, there was something I wanted to do. When we stopped for refreshment near a small river, I was determined. “Luke,” I said, hoping my voice sounded more normal to him than it did to me.
“What?”
“Can I cut your hair?”
His eyebrows shot up. “Why?”
“It gets in your way, and look,” I held up a lock, ignoring his flushes, “it’s good hair really, only you’ve let it grow so long it’s gone all lank and reedy. Let me cut it! Do!”
Though he took some persuading, I sensed he was not really unwilling. If I found a stool, he would sit down. I found one. He sat. I was used to cutting my father’s hair, and Dame Alison, while winking at Walter at what she called my “youthful fickleness,” lent me some scissors. I didn’t look at Walter myself. I was too busy measuring and cutting until Luke’s rat’s tails were around his feet and he was left with a thick, tidy mop. He got up. “Wait,” I said, “I haven’t finished.” I fetched a few things. “Follow me.” He obeyed and I led him to the river, made him kneel down, and removed his eyeglasses.
“No,” he said, rising. “If my hair’s to be washed, I’ll wash it myself.”
“Don’t be silly,” I retorted. “You won’t wash it at all well. Men never do. Come on. I always wash my father’s.” That was a lie. The widow washed my father’s. But Luke’s hesitation was his undoing. I quickly filled a bowl and he had either to bend forward or get completely drenched. He bent forward.
It was an odd experience and though conducted in full view of everybody, more intensely intimate than I had expected. Both of us felt it, which was why the silence became more and more marked as I whipped up the soap and then worked it right into his scalp, my fingers learning the shape of his head and kneading the tender knots between crown and spine. Several times, he tried to interrupt and push me away. But I would not be pushed away. Nor did I know how to stop, so after I had rinsed the soap off, I started all over again. The audience, bored now, retreated. When I couldn’t draw things out any longer, I took a towel and knelt down in front of him to rub his hair more easily. He raised his head. Without his eyeglasses, with his hair tousled and his skin rosy from the chilly water, he reminded me of Lancelot before his great deceit gnawed his beauty away. I couldn’t stop myself. I inclined toward him and closed my eyes. I’d no idea what it would be like to kiss a boy, since I’d never done it before, but I knew I wanted to more than anything.
A sting and my eyes snapped open. Luke was up and flying off as though I were the devil. It was the edge of the towel that had stung me. Unbalanced, I toppled over and my throat and stomach filled with something horrible. Then, just as quickly as he had departed, Luke returned. “I’m sorry,” he said, and I could sense his blood fizzing. “You can’t know how sorry I am, Belle. But I’m already known to some as Master Monk, and even if I wasn’t, wouldn’t it be the worst kind of cheating, just before I renounce the world, to behave like—” He stopped.
“Like what?” I could barely speak.
“Like the lover I can never be,” he said flatly, and the fizz fizzled out.
“It was only going to be a kiss,” I whispered.
He came closer and reached for his eyeglasses. “To you maybe, but not to me.”
“Luke,” I said.
He swallowed. “God kept his promise, Belle. He made me Master Chaucer’s scribe. Don’t you see? I’m honor bound to keep my side of the bargain, and kissing you, when I’ve already really renounced women, would be—”
“Have you kissed a girl before?” Embarrassment made me rude.
“No.” He blushed.
I addressed him very coldly. “I don’t count it much to give up something you don’t even know you’ll miss.”
His hand was six inches from my cheek. His fingers hovered. He wanted to touch me. I know he did. “Believe me, I know what I’m missing,” he said, and his sorrow was so heartfelt I couldn’t be cold any longer.
“It’s not fair. How can I compete with God?” My voice was all cracked.
“It would be better to ask how God can compete with you,” Luke said, and his voice was echo deep.
I clung to the echo. Surely God wouldn’t mind? But Luke stepped back, and that was the moment I ran away, wishing I’d never seen that red spark in his eyes, never felt our hearts hammering together, never felt his scalp under my palms. I bumped straight into Walter. He caught me up and twirled me around. “A dance!” he crowed. “Let’s dance!”
“Yes, that’s it, let’s dance!” I cried, my arms wide. I would dance until I was too tired to care and too breathless to cry. I would dance until I’d danced Luke right out of my head and out my heart and out of anywhere else he was lurking.
If Walter was surprised by my crazy abandon, he didn’t say so. Instead, he called for a tune, and when the skipper obliged with the buzz of a Jew’s harp, swept me along. Soon, the sergeant was thumping a rhythm on a cartwheel and the wagoner was clanging two iron shoes. In the end, the skinny cleric, swelling like an angry gander, clapped two saucepans together and cried, “Enough! Enough! We’re pilgrims, not peasants.”
“For shame!” Dame Alison admonished, her feet tapping. “They’re young. We’ve just had a merciful release. Let the girl be merry now, for as soon as she’s hooked a husband, the dancing will be of quite a different kind.”
“Shame on you, madam,” the cleric retorted, and snatching the Jew’s harp from the skipper’s lips, he smashed it underfoot.
“There,” said Dame Alison when the music stopped. “Now we must all be miser
able.”
Walter kept hold of my hand and walked me back to the river. I steered him away from the place where I’d washed Luke’s hair, heading to where the bank flattened out. Here Walter knelt down, cupped his hands, and offered me a drink. His hands shook a little. Then he carefully dabbed my face with a white linen square he had tucked in his belt.
Some devil made me say it. “You can kiss me, you know.” I wanted Luke to be watching. “You really can. I shan’t mind at all.”
Walter dropped the cloth. “You’re too beautiful to kiss,” he said, quickly adding, “you see, kissing’s for earthly, ordinary love and my love for you is mystical and courtly.”
“Oh, Walter! How can you say that? You’ve seen my legs!”
He stood, drew me up, and tucked my arm under his. “Beautiful Belle, your legs will soon be as perfect as the rest of you. But you must understand that though earthly love needs kisses and all that stuff, courtly love mirrors the love of God, and he doesn’t go around kissing people. A kiss between us would ruin everything.”
I pulled my arm away. “Just tell the truth, Walter. I’m not good enough for you.”
He blushed. “That’s not the truth.”
“Yes, it is,” I said, fighting to keep control. “I’ve been living in one of my stupid stories.” Tears poured down my cheeks. I was an idiot. I had ruined everything.
“Belle!” Walter called as I ran away, but I didn’t stop until I’d got to the baggage carts and found Poppet. And I didn’t stop with her. Suddenly, I was pulling apart somebody else’s luggage, I didn’t care whose, and then somebody else’s again as I searched and searched. When I found what I wanted, I ripped off Walter’s careful bandages without even an attempt at privacy. “Perfect legs! Perfect legs! What’s the use of those?” I spat at myself as I began to rub. The pain from the pumice provided instant relief. I stopped crying and concentrated. Up and down, side to side, starting on a new patch when flowing blood made the stone glide instead of scour, I did my shins first, then my knees, then my ankles—both legs. I don’t know how long it took. I don’t know if anybody saw, because from the first tingle to the last torment I was in the world of harm, a world I controlled, a world with no room for anybody else. As long as I could pumice, I didn’t need Luke. As long as I could pumice, I didn’t need Walter. As long as I could pumice, I didn’t need anybody or anything except that small gray scraper. Eventually, sated, I repacked the baggage I had upset. I kept the stone. It was mine now, and as I rolled the bandages round my tattered legs, I swore that I would never be without it again.
When it was time to move off, I mounted Dulcie with difficulty and rode alone until the summoner decided to engage me in conversation. However, I heard nothing except the scolding of my own internal voice until the whole company was startled by the thunder of hooves and men crying out in distress. We faltered to a fearful halt. Flying directly toward us, and riding as though the devil was snapping at their heels, were the bandits, though this time minus their leader. Sir Knight and Walter drew their swords. Granada and Arondel reared. But the bandits had no intention of stopping. We were of no interest anymore. “The French are here! The French! England’s lost!” they shrieked, then vanished in a cloud of dust.
9
Bright shields and trappings, headpieces and charms,
Great golden helmets, hauberks, coats of arms,
Lords on appareled coursers, squires, too,
And knights belonging to their retinue …
We couldn’t vanish. We couldn’t even run without leaving behind the mother and her children, to say nothing of our belongings. All we could do was speedily make for the protection of the nearest town. I couldn’t look at Master Chaucer. If he was responsible for the French arriving so soon, that would mean he’d lied to me again. It was a dismal thought. More than dismal: it turned him into an enemy. Nor could I look at the summoner, for fear that he had guessed everything. My father! My father! Nor could I look at Luke, or ride with Walter. I was glad to concentrate on the rush. The nearest town was half-derelict. “Plague’s been here,” Dame Alison said as we hurried over the tumbled stones. “Better the plague than the French,” Mistress Midwife gabbled. “At least that’s what I’ve heard.” Everybody crossed themselves madly, and I began to count chickens, sheep, travelers, the pots on a peddler’s back, clouds, leaves, and even dewdrops, forcing everything into multiples of three though many didn’t want to go. I didn’t bargain. I didn’t know what bargain to make.
The townsfolk in their terror were openly hostile. They agreed to let us stay if Walter would find out for certain how many of the enemy were likely to attack. When he came to say good-bye, I was more than aloof. Even in the face of this great danger, the refused kiss rankled. But by nightfall, when he still hadn’t returned and we were forced to negotiate rates at the tavern, I tortured myself. How could I not have said a warm good-bye, after all he’d done for me? Why shouldn’t he refuse to kiss me? He had his position to think of. And anyway, I was only using him to get at Luke. Even on pilgrimage I was utterly selfish. I pumiced my legs again, but for the first time, it disgusted me and I threw the pumice away. Much later, I lay rigid in my bed, seeing only Walter maimed, Walter chained and tortured, Walter hanging from a tree, his legs kicking, his eyes sightless. Every time I heard a horse, I rushed to the window. It was never Arondel.
When I could lie still no longer, I went to Dulcie, tethered with the others by a crumbling barn on the edge of the town. Though it was barely dawn, I could hear the complaints of a gang of forced laborers digging a defensive ditch at double speed.
Dulcie wasn’t grazing. She too was waiting for Arondel. I folded my arms around her neck. By the time I returned to the inn, windows were being boarded up and shutters locked with iron bars. No news was bad news. The town was girding itself. Sir Knight, grim faced, was waiting by the inn door. He was fully armed and that terrified me more than anything else. “Where can Walter be?” I cried. He shook his head.
The day passed second by second, minute by minute. In the afternoon, exhausted and feverish, I went back to bed. I thought I’d lie awake, but I must have drifted off because I was awakened by a great clattering. Hope and fear erupted in equal measure. Clutching both Poppet and my locket, I peered out. Please God, please God, let it be Walter. There was a flash of blue leather. I hardly dared believe it. I leaned so far out of the window it was a wonder I didn’t fall. Arondel was whinnying, Walter was upright, but he was making an extraordinary noise. My heart quailed. Then it came to me. The noise was—couldn’t be—was—laughter. I launched myself down the stairs.
By the time I reached the yard, Walter had already flung himself out of the saddle. Everybody was crowding round. “It’s all perfectly fine, perfectly fine,” he was exclaiming, and as though to illustrate just how fine everything was, he hitched one of the town’s urchins onto Arondel and allowed him to hold his sword. The boy swung it about. Walter grinned, though the grin was strained. “Hey now! Take care with that thing! It’s sharp and Arondel’s head is quite valuable.”
“Never mind Arondel’s head!” Sir Knight, who had sweated in fear and impatience all day, couldn’t even pretend to be calm. “How many French knights?”
Walter retrieved his sword before Arondel lost his ears. “Quite a few, Father, quite a few.” The townsfolk groaned. Walter waved his arms. “Wait! Wait till you hear the best of it! These knights aren’t enemies at all! Well, they are,” he corrected himself, “but not at the moment. They’ve been captured and brought over here to wait until their ransoms are paid. There’ll be no battle! There’ll be a tournament to keep the knights amused. The jousting field’s only a few miles away and they’ve invited us to go. Isn’t that fun!” I was overwhelmed with relief. This was not the Master’s doing. I thanked God most sincerely for that.
Luke, however, was up in arms. “Fun?” He confronted Walter directly, hands on hips. “You think we should be having fun with Frenchmen?”
Walter spun roun
d and round. He began to laugh again, and though I didn’t want to admit it, something about his laughter didn’t ring at all true. I glanced at Sir Knight. He was chuckling. “Stop spinning for a moment, Walter, and tell me who’s to fight,” he said, happily divesting himself of his armor.
“Sir John Savage”—Walter continued to spin—“and for the French”—the spinning jerked a little—“Sir Jean d’Aubricourt.”
Sir Knight’s chuckles were cut off at their source. “Sir Jean d’Aubricourt?”
“Yes. He was captured by Sir John Savage and the tournament’s really to celebrate his release. His ransom’s paid and he’s about to go home.”
Sir Knight stood quite still. “Did you speak to him?”
“I did.”
Father and son exchanged glances. My nerves shredded. I ran to Walter. “What’s the matter?”
But Luke had already seized Walter’s shoulders. “Wait! I can hardly believe it. Everybody’s been up all night frantic with worry about you and all the time you’ve been discussing plans for a tournament?”
“Were you worried about me? Really?” Walter seemed oddly taken aback.
“Of course we were worried!” Luke was exasperated.
“I’m sorry for that,” Walter said, “very sorry.” He gave a small shake. “I really am. Still, the tournament will make a perfect end to our pilgrimage.” Luke was not satisfied, and he and Walter began to argue until at last the Master had to intervene. Master Summoner observed Master Chaucer with the unblinking gaze of a viper.
Walter took Arondel to the stables. I followed and, just as I suspected, found a very different, much graver Walter. When he saw me, he tried to smile again. I shook my head. “Don’t pretend. There’s something wrong.”