Belle's Song

by K. M. Grant

  I swallowed. I couldn’t ask more. I didn’t want to know more. I rushed on. “What happens if he doesn’t like what we tell him?”

  “Then I’ll be executed for guessing a truth Richard doesn’t want anybody except for Master Chaucer to know,” Walter said. “I mean, Richard can’t allow me to live if I know that he’s asked the king of France to send soldiers over here to kill Englishmen, can he? I expect my execution will be long and slow.”

  “Jesus Mary, don’t!”

  “It would be in a good cause, and you’d be safe. I’d say I led you astray.” He gave a hollow laugh. “That at least would please my father.”

  I’d never heard him sound bitter before. It didn’t suit him.

  “If the Master’s still got the ring, where might he have hidden it, do you think?” Walter mused.

  “It’s not in his writing box,” I said, “or at least it wasn’t. It’s possible he’s put it back in there, thinking that the summoner wouldn’t look in there again.”

  “It’s possible,” Walter said. “Can you look when we get back?” I nodded. “And can you look in his baggage and in his ordinary clothes when he changes for the feast? Of course he could have it around his neck or in his pouch. You’ll have to get close to him. We really need the services of a pickpocket.” I grimaced. “Yes, I know,” Walter said, “it’s not nice, but remember if we find it, he can’t give it to Luke. If the Master hasn’t given the ring to Sir Jean, that’s what he’ll do.” He pursed his lips. “If you can’t find it, though, I’ll have to find a way of searching Sir Jean and his belongings. I’m not sure how I’ll do that but the ring mustn’t go to France. It absolutely mustn’t.”

  “What about the summoner?” I reminded him anxiously. “His threats are quite real and if he guesses what we’re doing, my father …”

  Walter frowned. “Whatever we do, we need to be quick.”

  The road filled up as we neared the town walls and we had to ride in single file. Dulcie blew hard through her nose as we passed a slaughtered pig. The smell of baking bread rose even above the smell of the sewers. Sir Jean had sent word already. A feast was being prepared.

  I dismounted and patted Dobs. Walter and I began to walk toward the inn. Then something echoed. “Wait,” I said, and ran back to Dobs. “Head up for a moment,” I ordered, and ran my hand over the top of his crest, pressing down. All I could feel was hair.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Walter had followed me.

  “Just wait,” I said. I began at Dobs’s withers, parting the hair, my fingers searching. I moved methodically up his neck, to where the hair tangled further into a veritable thicket of knots and braids. You could hide a library of stories in there and nobody would ever find it. Wasn’t that what I’d said the first day of the pilgrimage? I’ll remember that, the Master had replied. And perhaps he had. He was always with Dobs and hadn’t I heard him give the horse to Luke to take with him? It wasn’t impossible. I squeezed and parted, forcing myself to go slowly. Just below where the bridle’s headpiece sat, inside a knot that was really no different from any of the others, I found what I was looking for. “No need to riffle through the baggage,” I said to Walter, and guided his hand.

  He was thunderstruck. “How on earth … ?”

  “A lucky guess,” I said.

  “The luckiest,” Walter agreed. The page returned. It was too difficult to get the ring out now. Walter and I looked at each other. “At least it’s safe,” Walter murmured.

  “Do you think he’ll give it to Sir Jean this evening?” I was anxious.

  Walter considered. “Actually, no. If I know Sir Jean, and I do, he’ll be drunk, so it would be too dangerous. He might forget or repeat very loudly whatever Master Chaucer says to him.” He frowned. “Perhaps he won’t hand it over at all.”

  “If he doesn’t, can we be sure he’ll wait until we get to Canterbury to send Luke on his way? I mean, he knows the summoner suspects.” I began to panic. “Even if you and I stole the ring tonight, I can’t not go to St. Thomas’s tomb. I can’t break that promise to my father.”

  Walter was quick to reassure me. “I think he’ll wait. It would look too suspicious, wouldn’t it, Luke disappearing early, particularly with the Master’s horse. If he doesn’t hand it to Sir Jean, nothing will be done until after Canterbury.”

  “It’s such a relief to share a secret.”

  Walter gave a half smile. “Particularly when you live a lie.”

  Now I hugged him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to do.

  Though Sir Jean had won his joust, the French knight decreed that Luke should be given a place of honor at the feast. Not to be outdone, Sir Knight declared that Luke should keep Granada. Upright again, though not yet completely steady on his feet, Luke declined. What would a monk want with a warhorse? Sir Knight was insistent. Warhorses were valuable. Luke could give Granada to the abbot of St. Denys. Such a gift would ensure a most generous welcome. Eventually, when Sir Knight wouldn’t give up, Luke accepted and, to reciprocate, gave Picardy to Sir Knight. “He’s not much to look at,” Luke said, “but he’s solid.” He paused. “And his temper is more even than mine.”

  Everybody laughed and applauded, especially the Master. All the while Luke was looking around. When he saw Walter and me standing close, his lips tightened. He touched my pendant, seemed undecided, then chose to keep it. My heart rose. So long as he had my favor, he was still the Helmetless Knight, and a Helmetless Knight might do many things a monk might not.

  It took me only a moment to wash my face and shake out my dress. I had nothing else to wear. I couldn’t sit still, though, so to stop myself brooding, I walked about the town. Smoke was rising high above the spits in the square, and every householder was busily placing color-shaded candles in their windows. Such a simple device. Such a magical transformation. The streets were rumbling with barrels of wine and ale rolled by boys standing aloft, feet slithering. Three rolled past me, followed by three girls spinning hoops. The visiting knights and ladies were also trickling in, their baggage trundling after them. One of the French ladies, exotically plumed, recognized me as Dulcie’s rider. “You! Mistress Firehair! Aren’t you going to dress for the feast?”

  “I’ve no other clothes,” I called back regretfully.

  She put her hands on her hips. “Ladies!” she cried, “our redheaded pilgrim has no feasting clothes!”

  Three of the ladies circled me. I remarked that they seemed to have a lot of baggage for the wives of prisoners. Did they leave nothing at home? They smiled at my naivety. “Oh yes,” they said, “plenty.” There was a general consultation. “We can spare something, if you’d like.”

  It seemed odd, being offered clothes by the enemy, but with my pendant still around Luke’s neck, I felt a sudden, wild surge of vanity. “I would like that,” I said. “I’d like it very much.”

  They flocked to the tavern with me in their midst, fussing and bickering half in French and half in quaint, heavily accented English. They wanted to give me a bath in rosewater. That I did decline. I don’t know what they made of my silk-covered legs. I expect they thought I’d been burned. As they squeezed and buttoned and gathered and sewed, I was asked many questions about the Helmetless Knight, and I obliged as the occasion demanded, constructing a whole knightly persona for Luke, most of which I lifted from stories of the Round Table. He had jousted, so I declared, with Black Knights and Green; he had consorted with enchantresses; he had once saved a damsel from a boiling cauldron. By the time my hair was dressed as fancily as my feet, Luke was a complete work of fiction.

  But then I was too, for the ladies had turned me into a creature of Parisian refinement. In a dark green, close-fitting gown of green velvet, with a sea-green underskirt of fine-meshed gauze peeping through a slit up to my waist, I was both sylph-thin and softly rounded. My sleeves were tight to the elbow where the velvet widened to reveal an inner sleeve of gauze the same color as the skirt. This gauze tapered into a cuff at the wrist and i
nto it, as well as into a sea-green ribbon tied round my neck, were stuck tiny diamonds of glass. There were diamonds too, in the soft green calfskin shoes bottomed out with a small heel that showed off my ankles. The effect would have been greater without my silk bandages, but at least they were better than Walter’s woolen hose or multicolored scars.

  After various discussions, the ladies piled my hair high, securing it with threads and bows and small steel clips. My neck felt very bare and my head so heavy that I dared not even nod. Chalk for my cheeks, kohl for my eyes, and pale salve for my lips finished their work and when they showed me my reflection, quite unexpectedly I caught a glimpse of my mother. It was the first time I realized she’d been beautiful.

  My fellow pilgrims were gathered together, drinking. Summoner Seekum was in an evil mood. I didn’t care. Walter knew everything. We’d found the ring, and from the gossip of the ladies, I learned that Sir Jean would certainly be in no fit state to receive either it or Master Chaucer’s confidences. My clothes meant that I was both myself and not myself. Tonight I could live a fairy tale rather than make one up. Morning would come soon enough.

  The moment I saw Luke, I knew that probably through the Master’s contrivance, Walter had had a hand in dressing him, because only Walter could have chosen clothes for a Helmetless Knight and only Walter would have chosen like a lover. Over a clean white undershift, cuffs and collar billowing like drifted snow, Luke wore a russet jacket, tailored at the waist and speckled with gold embroidery. His usual workman’s trousers had been exchanged for woolen hose of the same russet hue, and he wore them inside his own black boots, cleaned and expertly patched. His hair was washed. That gave me a pang, but only momentarily. Through the glass of his spectacles Luke’s eyes shone like two burnished shields, and when I moved forward to greet him, they looked straight into mine without any confusion or uncertainty. Just like me, tonight he too was both himself and not himself. I don’t know whether he even noticed what I was wearing. All I know is that we were both exactly where we wanted to be.

  I can’t, or perhaps don’t want to, describe the details of that evening. If you’ve ever been in love, and been loved, and had an evening when you both feel suspended an inch above the ground, you’ll understand that descriptions either flatten or exaggerate. The evening did have details, of course, such as the moments when dances ended and Luke would raise his palms and I would raise mine and he would press his whole weight against them. And the moments when we shared tumblers of wine and he deliberately placed his lips where mine had been. I don’t remember anything we said, though I suppose we must have spoken. I do remember that Luke didn’t cling to me, nor I to him. Some of the magic, you see, was in seeing him paired with gowns of dawn red and rose pink, daffodil yellow, and deepest damson, yet knowing all the time that he was only really conscious of sea green. And I think some of the magic for him was seeing me dance, even with Sir Jean d’Aubricourt himself, all the while knowing that I was longing to return to him. I had imagined many times how such love would feel: like strong mead on an empty stomach or a shiver of lightning. It was like neither of those. It was simply a feeling of utter wholeness. That’s all.

  When the minstrels stopped for bread and beef, different entertainment was called for, and Luke and I formed part of a cozy circle round a small brazier near the middle of the square. Master Chaucer sat nearby with Walter on one side and the ever-vigilant summoner on the other. The summoner was trying to speak to the Master and the Master was irritated. He turned to Walter. “Sing for us,” he said.

  “What song would you like to hear?”

  “The first that comes to mind.”

  Obediently, Walter stood, looked about, and saw his father. Quiet fell. He blinked, and then, with his eyes fixed on Luke and me, he began:

  Your two eyes will slay me suddenly

  I see their beauty but cannot play my part

  So I must travel with a wounded heart.

  Unless I can perform a hasty healing

  My heart will open and be too revealing,

  Your two eyes will slay me suddenly.

  Upon my word, I say this in good faith,

  That you are of life and death the king

  One day the real truth shall be what I sayeth

  Until that time I am content to sing.

  The Master, who I don’t think had intended to pay much attention, was transfixed. The song’s form, at least to start with, was his, but by changing some of the words and supplanting the major with a minor key, Walter had turned a lightweight tease into something quite else. I was terrified at the risk Walter had taken. What would happen if everybody realized to whom this song was really directed? I tried to catch his eye, but Walter was in his own world. I saw that Luke’s face was full of shadows. He had guessed, but guessed entirely wrongly. “Walter loves you,” he said to me. “Don’t deny it. And Sir Knight approves.” It was true that Sir Knight was nodding.

  That was the moment we bumped back to earth. Clothes or no clothes, after Walter’s song Luke couldn’t stop himself thinking about the time, very soon to come, when he would be Brother Luke, while Walter would be Sir Knight’s heir and free to marry. I ached for him but I also ached for Walter, though I didn’t know how to tell Luke why. “He does love,” I whispered in the end, “but he doesn’t love me.” It was probably a good thing that Sir Knight chose this moment to ask Luke if he’d seen his book. He’d brought it out to show Sir Jean and put it down somewhere. Luke hadn’t heard a word I’d said. When the minstrels started up again, though, Luke didn’t ask me to dance. Instead, he walked to one of the bonfires and gazed into it. I found Walter behind me, grasping my shoulders unusually firmly. “You haven’t told Luke. Please say you haven’t.”

  “He wouldn’t—”

  “You mustn’t. Please, Belle. I’m begging you.”

  “All right, Walter, I won’t, I won’t.”

  When I turned back to the fire, Luke had vanished. He still had my pendant, though.

  At midnight, my hair finally tumbled down, and by the time I heard a distant bell for morning prayers, I had to admit that the feast was over. Now everything was as it had been, only somehow worse because the evening had started so perfectly and ended so cloudily. I calculated the number of dances I danced with Luke. Nine. Then I found I had three hairpins left. Even with these good omens and even dividing the stairs into three equal sets of three, I was very downhearted when I finally took off my green gown. Tomorrow we would be at Canterbury.

  Not wanting to sleep, I wandered out. The roads were littered with congealing pig bones, heels of bread, and snoring revelers. With the colored lanterns extinguished and rats fighting in the rubbish carts, the town was dismal.

  Luke was standing by the well, his arms crossed, still wearing the russet jacket. My stomach knotted. He moved forward when he saw me but expressed no surprise that I should have appeared. “I want to return this,” he said, and held out the pendant.

  I didn’t take it at once. “Don’t go to St. Denys.”

  “I promised,” he said, and held the pendant out again. A little magic flickered as our fingers touched.

  “The feast,” Luke said, closing my fingers into a fist and keeping hold of it for a moment.

  “Yes?”

  He hesitated. “You looked so different in those clothes.”

  “In what way different? Nicer?”

  “Nicer?” He seemed puzzled. “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t think I looked nice?” I was upset. I wondered if I had misunderstood everything. My legs itched.

  “No—I mean yes.” His old confusions returned. “What I mean to say,” he said, recovering a little, “is that I don’t know how to describe how you looked.” He thought. “You looked like a song,” he said finally.

  “The Helmetless Knight and a song,” I said softly. He took the pendant back and I bent my head as he fastened it round my neck. I could feel his breath in my ruined hair.

  “There.” He touche
d the pendant for a last time as it swung. “We had an evening, didn’t we? Just the sort of evening people dream about. I’ll remember it all my life.” The muscles in his cheeks were working very hard. “And if I have to think about you with anybody, I shall be easiest thinking about you with Walter. He and Sir Knight have security and money. They don’t need to try and win a ransom to help your father. And Walter’s a good man, I think.”

  “Break your promise!” I urged. “Stay with me!”

  He shook his head. “No, Belle. I won’t be a promise breaker. What kind of person would that make me? A charlatan, like my father. Just the sort of person I don’t want to be.”

  “I wouldn’t care,” I said.

  “Yes, you would,” he said flatly. “You’d not break a promise. You’re like the Master. You may make things up for stories, but I’d trust you with my life.”

  “Oh, Luke …” I was half crying for his perfect faith. “Don’t! The Master and I, we’re just like everybody else. We do what we must to get by.” He wasn’t listening. He was fighting something in himself. “What is it?” I asked, half-hopeful, half-fearful.

  “I want to kiss you right this moment,” he said without any confusion at all. “I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. I want to kiss you and for you to kiss me. I’ve been thinking about nothing else for hours.”

  “Don’t think about it, Luke, just do it,” I whispered.

  He put both hands on my shoulders. I could feel each finger pressing tight. He hurt me, though he never knew it. He was trembling. Then he let go, one finger at a time.

  “I can’t!” The words dragged themselves out. “If I kiss you, I’ll be lost. Don’t you see that?” The last finger pressed, then rose.

  “I wish I’d never met you,” I sobbed.

  He let go of me entirely. “I don’t wish the same,” he said, his voice hard and tense. “When I’m lonely in my cell, I’ll recall every conversation, every swing of your waist, every tint in your hair. I’ll forget nothing.”