by K. M. Grant
“We’re saving the king,” I said fiercely, “and the king will save my father.” Neither he nor I asked whether the king was worth saving. His value was a matter for others.
Luke would now be at St. Denys. The abbot would have heard the coded message but when he didn’t find the king’s ring where he was expecting it, he would have discounted it. Better safe than sorry, he would have thought. If King Richard was serious, another message would come. I wondered if Luke was tonsured yet, all that lovely hair shorn into a ruffle around a hideous bald circle. I saw his eyes reflected in his spectacles. I saw them looking at me. I blotted them out. Thinking of him would cause madness … or pumicing. The pilgrimage already seemed like another life.
As soon as we reached London’s straggling outskirts, I hid the book in the one place I thought nobody would look. Borrowing a needle and thread from a tinker, I sewed it inside Poppet. It was an unimaginable thing to do but I couldn’t think of anywhere safer. After I’d sewn her up again, she looked much the same, only slightly fatter, but a lump arose in my throat. It was like filling her with excrement.
We entered the city proper on a wet afternoon and Walter insisted that our first job was to purchase clean clothes, and richer ones for me than I’d ever had before. I protested. This was extravagant nonsense, but he knew what he was doing. Appearances count for a great deal, as was evident as soon as we began our visitations. When we arrived at a palace, an abbey, or a house and asked to see the named man, it was our clothes and the horses that secured us entry. Even though I was a girl, if I adopted my haughtiest expression, we looked just the kind of affluent and influential people the archbishop, abbot, priest, or guild master would want to see. The named man always greeted us quite warmly—Walter’s whole demeanor encouraged that. But the warmth lasted only a moment, for we didn’t indulge in small talk. I would first name the place listed in the tally book, or sometimes the amount of money. That alone was enough for a rapid cooling. A pattern emerged. The man would carry on smiling, but blink and usually raise his hand. I would stop. Any retainers or servants would be dismissed. Walter and I would wait patiently and then, in a flat voice, I’d continue. The man would keep blinking, then bluster denials, expostulate about my wickedness, and threaten us both. We would listen. Eventually proof would be demanded. Walter would say that we had proof, written proof, but it was hidden. The man would begin to grin, sensing an advantage. His tone would become patronizing. I would then repeat the name of a sworn witness, sometimes two. After that, though it might take a little time, there would be a general collapse. Blustering would tail into silence. Curses would erupt, then dissolve. Less often, there would be tears and pleading. All of the named, from greatest to least, asked us how we had come across the information. We didn’t answer that. All of them wanted to murder us, but without first finding and destroying the proof, we knew they wouldn’t dare.
Then Walter would offer a proposition. You have influence over the city, he would say. You have at your command armed men. You could do your bit to ensure the king’s safe and, indeed, triumphal return to London. If you do that, our proof may well vanish, though if we hear of any reprisals against the witnesses we’ve revealed, our proof will mysteriously reappear. We didn’t wait to hear their agreement. We knew we’d won when we left their yards unmolested.
After our third visitation, we were followed. At first it was easy to get lost in the crowds, but after four days and ten visitations, we had to part with the horses. Walter left them with a cobbler and paid him well to keep them safe. I hated leaving them, Dulcie whinnying after us.
Now we did our visitations in the dark, like thieves, and slept in a different hostel every night. Our reputation preceded us. Nobody refused to see us. The visitations became vile in a way I hadn’t expected. Wielding power over people is chillingly seductive. Watching those big men quail and quiver, as squalid in their pleading as they were in their depravities, excited and sickened me simultaneously. I, a girl of no account, held these men’s reputations, indeed their very lives, in the palm of my hand. I felt like God. When you have power like this, you don’t have to count to three or pumice your legs. You are invincible. Afterward, I was filled with self-loathing. Perhaps I was no better than these men after all.
It was a relief when, in the end, we were simply met at the door with a nod. But I insisted we continue to visit. Richard’s return to London must be more than a passing triumph. It must be solid and unshakable. If I was making myself the summoner’s deadly enemy, the king’s writ must run so completely that my father would be safer than the Tower of London.
We heard of my father’s arrest from a laundress. She was full of gossip, as laundresses are. London was turning against the commission, she said, because God was leaving messages in churches that he was on the king’s side and London never wanted to be on the wrong side of God. I forced myself to hear her out. There were those who said that the messages had been planted by a bell founder who pretended to be crippled and then flew about at night, disguised as a crow. Now I cried aloud. “There, there, dear,” the laundress said, completely misunderstanding. “They’ve got him in Archdeacon Dunmow’s dungeons, so he’ll not be flying anymore. He’s to be tried and he’ll be condemned. Pretending to be crippled, indeed! The cowardice of it!”
I grabbed Poppet and struggled into my clothes, wet as they were. “I’ve got to go to him. He won’t know what on earth’s going on, although he’ll guess it has something to do with me. What happens if he’s tried and condemned before the king comes to London? What happens if our blackmail doesn’t work or it’s all too late?” I rushed blindly into the street. Walter flung coins at the astonished laundress and rushed out behind me. “We’ll go straight to Archdeacon Dunmow’s house,” I shouted. “We haven’t visited him yet. Now’s the moment.”
“Wait!” Walter cried. “That may not be the wisest thing to do.”
I wouldn’t wait and Walter could do nothing but follow me.
It was roughly two miles, I reckoned, to the Dunmow residence. We wound through the streets, half running, half walking, dodging the throng until I ran slap bang into Sir Leather Strap. I hardly recognized him at first, he looked so disheveled. His nose had been broken. He knew me, though. “Ha! I knew I was right,” he cried. “I saw you yesterday and I’ve been following you. Where’s your bespectacled friend? I’ve a bone to pick with him! Several, in fact.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Get out of my way.” I couldn’t bear a moment’s delay.
“You know full well what I mean. I was duped. Base metal into gold! That elixir was nothing but dog dirt and dust. Look at me! It’s been my ruin and somebody should pay.”
“You’re mistaken,” I shouted at him. “I don’t know who you are.”
He pointed at my hair. “Oh, you’re unmistakable, and I’ll be paid well for your miserable carcass because I know somebody who wants it. But I don’t care about you. I want that white-faced, lying alchemist.”
“He’s where you can’t find him.” I tried to push past.
“Well then, you’ll have to do.” He grabbed my hair.
“Walter!” I couldn’t help shrieking.
But Sir Leather Strap had a knife. “Get away, squire. I’ll not be done out of my dues twice,” he said. “I got into big trouble because of your friend. He kept the real elixir for himself and palmed me off with rubbish. I know he did. But my men, cretins all of them, wouldn’t believe it. Not at all. They beat me within an inch of my life and called me a liar and a thief. I only managed to stop them murdering me by saying that I’d find that damned alchemist and get that elixir if it was the last thing I did. I was on my way to Canterbury to find him but guess who I met journeying home? Your very own party! Your father’s very angry with you”—he stabbed the knife momentarily at Walter—“and Summoner Seekum’s very angry with you.” He jabbed the point of the dagger into my neck. I felt the ooze of blood. This seemed to alarm Sir Leather Strap, who spat on his thumb and dabbed. �
�They said the boy had gone overseas. I didn’t believe them. Then the summoner said if I brought you to him unharmed, he’d give me gold. And here you are.” He began to shove me forward, holding me so close I could barely breathe.
“Let go. I won’t run away,” I said. “I want to go to the archdeacon’s house.”
“Oh, don’t think I’ll be fooled twice. I know your sort. Tricksters all.” He held me closer, as though he thought I might use some magic spell to evaporate. Walter followed helplessly as I was pushed up and down streets both familiar and unfamiliar. At last we arrived at an extensive stone building with a new front door of thick oak and thicker iron bars. Half palace, half hovel, the archdeacon had obviously taken it over from somebody rather grander than himself who’d fallen on hard times. Sir Leather Strap kicked at the door, which was opened eventually by a servant in a stained apron.
“Get Seekum,” Sir Leather Strap said.
The servant had barely stepped back into the dark when the summoner himself appeared. I think he’d been waiting. He scarcely looked at me to start with, just chewed on a chicken leg as Sir Leather Strap made his demands. Then he gestured with his head to the servant, who brought a bag. The summoner crunched the chicken bone and weighed the bag in either hand before tossing it to Sir Leather Strap. “I’ll hold on to her until I’ve counted it,” Sir Leather Strap said, when he had the bag secure.
The summoner didn’t bother to answer. He had no more interest in Sir Leather Strap: his eyes were fixed on me. I didn’t know how to appear: defiant? submissive? terrified? bold? “I want to see my father,” I said, in a mixture of all four emotions.
With exaggerated courtesy, the summoner opened the door wide. I pulled away from Sir Leather Strap, held my head up, pressed Poppet to my side, and went in. There was a kerfuffle behind me. “Not you,” I heard the summoner say. Walter was frantic. “I’m going with her.”
“You’re going nowhere, squire. If you want to see her again, you’ll need to come to Westminster Hall. That’s where treason trials take place.”
“Belle! Belle!”
The door was slammed in Walter’s face.
The summoner neither touched me nor spoke to me as I was hurried along damp corridors. At last we came to a line of cells, most of which were empty, though the smell told me they had recently been full. A fat-legged, sunken-cheeked woman was sitting on a stool right at the end of the line, supping from a tankard. When she saw the summoner, she wiped her mouth on her hand and, with some difficulty, got up. The summoner gestured with his head and she opened one of the wooden doors. I walked swiftly inside. I didn’t want to be pushed. “Father?” It was empty. The summoner filled the doorway. “Give me my book and I’ll put you in with your father,” he said.
I shook my head.
“Tell me where it is, and once I’ve fetched it, I’ll let your father go.”
I shook my head again. Without the book I had no weapon at all. “I couldn’t give you the book even if I wanted to,” I said. “We saw Master Chaucer’s name in it, so we destroyed it. Please. Leave my father be.”
The summoner froze. “Destroyed it? All that work! God’s work! Gone?” He could scarcely absorb the enormity of his loss. “I make few mistakes,” he said, cracking his knuckles, “but I made a mistake with you. I thought you cared for your father. I thought you were loyal to England. No matter. You see, you think you’ve been clever.” He came very close. “The truth is, when bumptious girls like you take on somebody like me, they never win.” Those eyes raked me up and down, lingering where men’s eyes linger. He was tempted to take a very personal revenge. Sweat prickled my back. He touched my breast with the flat of his hand. The woman jailer coughed. His hand turned into a fist and I thought he was going to hit me. Instead, with a wily twist, he jerked Poppet away. I screamed. “Give her back! Give her back!” He dangled her by one leg upside down. I couldn’t bear it. “Give her to me!”
“People who play at politics can’t play with dolls.” He twirled Poppet around. She looked so helpless. I lurched forward and tried to rescue her. “What a poppet it is,” he said, and, with a ghastly smile, lumbered backward, bidding the woman lock the door behind him.
I tried everything with that woman: kicking and shouting; bribery (though I had nothing with which to bribe her); praying softly as though I were a saint; crying; pretending I was ill; declaring I was dying; threats and pleading, sometimes on my knees. I begged for news of my father. I begged for Poppet back. In the end, there was nothing to do but curse God that I’d ever got involved with a pilgrimage that had led to this disaster.
I was not ill-treated. Food and water were passed through a flap and the small bucket left in the cell for my waste was removed three times a day. Though the cell was windowless, I always had a candle. Three blankets were left so I wasn’t cold. Nor did the summoner come back to taunt me, though since I didn’t know he wasn’t returning, I hardly dared sleep.
Yet it was awful. It wasn’t just that I was terrified for my father. It wasn’t just that I missed the physical warmth of Walter or the comfort of Poppet. It wasn’t even that I thought the summoner would find the book, or that, despite our efforts, London would not rise for the king, though both those things were likely. The worst was that as the days dragged on, everything became unreal in the extraordinary silence of the place. There was literally nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to do. Nothing dripped. Nothing rustled. Nothing sighed. The woman didn’t sit outside my cell. She came and went and I couldn’t even count her footsteps because I never heard them. It was like being buried alive. After the first two days, I tried to fire my imagination. I closed my eyes and was in a cloud, whirling through time. I held the candle close and was a fire-breathing witch. I even stood straight, arms by my sides, and tried to be Excalibur again. That, surely, would at least provoke guilt-ridden remembrance. But I remained only me, in this place, with nothing. After a while, the urge to count in threes became almost overwhelming, even though there was nothing to count. I fought against it. If I started to count, I’d never stop.
Sometime during what I think was the fourth night, I unwrapped my legs. I missed the salve but it had done its work. In the soft glow, you might have thought I’d just had some bad scrape, perhaps falling off a horse. A horse! I thought of Dulcie. And then I thought of Arondel and of Granada and then, by association, of Luke, who was never far from my thoughts anyway. I made myself breathe very slowly and deeply until I was dizzy, then, swaying and humming, tried to relive our dances. That worked until I crashed into the wall and fell, almost extinguishing the candle. I didn’t dance after that.
Only later did I learn that I was imprisoned for twenty-one days. If somebody had said a week or a year I’d have believed them, since I lost all sense of everything. Had I been left much longer, I expect my willpower would have crumbled and I would have started on the one, two, three; one, two, three. They’d have got a surprise, when they came for me, if I’d emerged jibbering. As it was, I learned something in that cell that I never forgot. Fear, hope, and despair can all be banished if you simply retreat so far into yourself that you no longer really exist. After I’d failed to turn myself into a cloud or a witch or Excalibur, I turned myself into nothing. I was just a shell. Nothing could hurt me because there was nothing to hurt, and if there was nothing to hurt, there was no need to count. It was, in its way, a release.
It was not the summoner, but two smartly dressed upper servants who eventually unlocked the door and told me to follow them. They were armed and marched on either side of me. In the corridor, we met another man. He was carrying parchments: clearly a clerk. I asked no questions; nobody volunteered information. I gestured that I’d like to wash. That wasn’t allowed. We proceeded to the door through which I’d entered, and, squinting in the sudden sun, my world quickly darkened again as I was lifted bodily into a closed cart. I heard a peal of bells. It was a triple peal but somehow this didn’t reassure me. Indeed, after the silence it was loud enough to brea
k my shell. Though I fought against them, feelings started to creep in. I could hear people talking when the cart stopped at crossroads and wondered if anybody was concerned for the wretch inside. Most would give the cart a cursory glance and forget it. That was the best policy until the cart came for you.
We traveled for about an hour. We didn’t cross the river. I would have heard the echo of the steel-rimmed wheels. I told myself that my father would be dead, Walter would have fled, and Master Chaucer would have disappeared. Wherever we were going, there would just be me, and if there was just me, I could tie myself in a knot so tight that whatever the summoner did or said couldn’t hurt me. That was the only way to keep my fear contained.
When we halted, I was bundled into the closed courtyard of a grand palace with glass windows, thin as a cathedral’s. Westminster. I tightened the knot. Somebody was waiting, holding the salve bag in one hand and a purse stuffed with coins in the other. Walter! The clerk glanced inquiringly at the doorkeeper, who took the coin, slipped it under his tunic, and shrugged.
Walter ran to me, frowning at the guards until they moved away. He forced me to sit on the cart’s running board. His cheeks had lost their bloom but he was not gloomy. “I bribed my way down here. It wasn’t hard. I said you might die without the salve and they didn’t seem keen on that.” He opened the bag and took out the jar. His hands were shaking. “I’ve tried to get in every day to see you. They wouldn’t arrest me because my father begged them not to.” He swallowed his mortification and shook his head. “Never mind about that. You’re to be taken to the hall. Your father’s already in there. It’s a show trial, Belle, but you’ve got the book in your poppet.” I stared only at my legs. “There’s something else.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Luke’s in there too.” He went back to my legs and rubbed the salve in hard. I couldn’t speak. “Yes,” Walter said. He was the babbler now. “When the Master was sure the summoner had lost all interest in Luke, he went to St. Denys himself. He wrote a song and left it in the guesthouse. It was a rather naughty song about a spectacled youth who followed the Rule of St. Benedict so closely he dried up, like parchment. Of course it was found, just as Master Chaucer meant it to be, and the monks teased Luke mercilessly. Guess what happened next?” Walter answered for me. “That’s right. There was a fight, and then another and another, until the abbot told Luke to leave, and when Luke said that God would never forgive him if he broke his vow, the abbot said that God would never forgive him if he kept it. At least that’s how Master Chaucer tells it. So Luke was sent back to England. Master Chaucer never told Luke of course. Luke just thinks that somehow God intervened on his behalf, though he’s not sure exactly how. The Master’s a genius. I’d never have thought of such a trick.” He wiped his hands. As he pulled my skirt back over my ankles his expression became very dark. “Did that man hurt you, Belle?”