by K. M. Grant
My defenders rose as one. “Shame on you for tainting her with witchery!” called Dame Alison. “The cloud was alchemy. The alchemist told us himself, and he’ll tell you if you’ll hear him.” Luke got up. No, I thought, no. Luke must have nothing to do with this.
Happily, Gloucester intervened. “Silence!” he barked. “We want nothing about clouds here. Enough of this foolery or I’ll clear the court.”
To my great relief, Master Chaucer made Luke sit down.
“Of course, my lord,” said the summoner unctuously. “As I said, discounting everything else, it’s really what the girl has done since she came to London that proves beyond doubt that she’s the spawn of Satan.” He coughed portentously and waited until he had the complete attention of the whole hall. My father had no idea what was coming next, nor did Master Chaucer or Luke or any of the pilgrims. But the people sitting opposite did. I knew from the nervous hum amongst them that they were people Walter and I had visited.
“I can hardly go on,” the summoner said. “I will because I must. Her fellow pilgrims attest to this girl’s sanctity, kindness, and purity, but let me tell you that this witch has lodged in her imagination sexual deviances unknown to Lucifer himself.” There was a bubble of noise. “Yes,” said the summoner, “and she’s seen fit to repeat her filthy imaginings to many of the people in this hall, usually not in daylight hours, no, in the dark, when the devil can ride unnoticed on her shoulder.”
I could hear my father’s breath rasping. I was glad he was sitting again.
“Let me tell of one,” the summoner said, “just as an illustration.” He crooked a finger at a man sitting on the edge of a bench. Reluctantly, the man stepped forward. I recognized him as a guild master, the benefactor of a home for orphaned children on whom he practiced his particular vice on a weekly basis. The summoner began his description. The Duke of Gloucester shifted uncomfortably. “Do we really need to hear the details, Master Summoner?”
The summoner stopped mid-sentence. “Perhaps not, my lord. Suffice for me, perhaps, to name all those the girl has tainted with her lurid allegations.” He proceeded to list everybody Walter and I had visited. When he had finished, nobody knew where to look.
The Duke of Gloucester was clearly appalled—not by the names but by me. “Do you deny this accusation?” he asked. “You’d better if you can.”
I said nothing.
The summoner tapped his foot, was it three times or four? I didn’t count. I was trying to think, but my brain had turned to porridge. “Let’s not prolong this horror,” the summoner said. “All the judges need to know is this: did you visit these people and accuse them of these repulsive practices? Remember, God is watching.”
I was silent.
“You must speak, girl,” said Gloucester.
I waited as long as I dared. Then I said, “I did.” What else could I say? My father groaned. Master Chaucer was gripping the bench. Behind his glasses, Luke’s expression was unfathomable. Now I’d broken my silence, I wanted to say more. “My lords, I didn’t make up the sins and nor did the devil.”
“No?” asked Gloucester. “Then where did you find them?”
“In the summoner’s tally book,” I said.
The summoner gave a harsh laugh. “Indeed I have a book, my lords.” He fumbled in his pouch and produced one. “Every summoner has a book.” He flicked it open. “James Burrows, priest, to be brought before the archdeacon on the charge of keeping a concubine. Anne Fuller, to be brought before the archdeacon on a charge of falling asleep during Mass.” He looked up. “Shall I go on?”
“No,” said Gloucester. He wanted this case to be over. “Never mind about the treachery. The girl’s a liar of extraordinary depravity and also clearly a witch. No decent girl would be able to concoct such viciousness as we’ve heard today without the devil’s help. Nor does she convincingly deny the charge. Only her sentence remains.” He and the other judges drew close to confer.
The summoner planted himself in front of me. He was bubbling with triumph and I saw, with a kind of idiotic clarity considering my position, three boils on his nose, three buttons straining over his stomach, and three tassles on the flap of his new pouch. His pouch. I suddenly rose. “My lords, I can prove that I didn’t make up these sins. I can.”
Four pairs of hands were raised in reproof. “I can,” I cried with all the conviction of hope. “I can.”
There was a muttering from the pilgrims’ benches. “If she can, you must allow it. That’s the law.” It was Master Chaucer’s voice.
The judges did look up then. There was a pause. “Very well,” said Gloucester. Neither he nor the others bothered to draw their chairs back into line. They weren’t expecting anything.
I walked toward the dais. The two judges who had been visited retreated. Oh, how fastidious are the truly repellent! “The proof’s right in this room,” I said. “Tell Master Summoner to turn out his pouch.” The summoner looked embarrassed but not alarmed. “Tell him to turn it out,” I repeated.
“My lords—”
“Oh, Master Summoner, for God’s sake, just turn it out.” Gloucester had had enough.
The summoner opened his pouch. He was too slow for me. I ran to him and plunged both hands in. It was filled with little things he couldn’t resist: a doctor’s pestle, a twist of salt, a woman’s brooch, a pair of baby’s shoes, a shepherd’s whistle, a pony’s bit, an odd goose-feather hat. Right at the bottom was Poppet: squashed, damp, but Poppet nonetheless. I pulled her out.
“A doll,” said Gloucester, in tones of disgust.
I went to the clerk’s table and picked up the little paper knife. I flourished it, then cut Poppet’s stitches. As I tugged out the stuffing I heard the summoner begin to hiss, but I never stopped until I had that vile book in my hand, the crumbs still lodged in the spine and the cover speckled white where some of Poppet’s stuffing stuck to it. I didn’t give it to the judges: I took it straight to Archdeacon Dunmow. “Whose writing is this?” I asked.
“Why, it’s Master Summoner’s!” he exclaimed without thinking.
“Are you sure?”
“Do you think I’m stupid, child? I see his writing every day. I’d not mistake it.”
“And what’s next to the names and the crimes?”
“Why, amounts of money—quite large amounts. Oh dear.” He sank back, a dog whose dinner has made him queasy.
Now I approached the judges and gave Gloucester the book. He took it rather unwillingly, read the first page and the second and the third. At first all the color drained from his face, then he blushed red, then scarlet. He snapped the book shut and regarded one of his fellow judges with stark dismay. “You? How could you? And for a silver crown?”
The summoner was frozen. Only when Gloucester spoke did he leap onto the dais with the agility of desperation and snatch the book back. At the sudden violence, Gloucester felt for his sword. The summoner didn’t care, his only thought now was to destroy the book, with all that carefully collected information and all those witnesses’ names. If he didn’t, he’d not be alive very long: two tainted judges would make sure of that. They might make sure of it anyway. He began to tear out the pages, fluttering them into the flame of one of the sconces until they caught and flew about like ashy birds. Nobody tried to seize them. Both the sinner and the collector of sins wanted these transgressions forgotten.
However, the summoner didn’t burn all of the book. He kept two pages. His eyes were blazing. “I’ll read these out because they’ll interest you, my lords,” he declared, “if I may.” He was not seeking permission. If this was to be his end, he’d perform one last act of malice. I guessed what was coming, so was not surprised when he began: “Master Geoffrey Chaucer, the crime of rape against Cecily Champain, dated—”
“You know that came to nothing,” interrupted Gloucester. “The Master was officially acquitted years ago. The lady herself acknowledged a document releasing him from all further actions.” The judges began to get up.
The summoner coughed. “Try this then, my lord.” He spoke very clearly and very loudly. “Walter de Pleasance, unnatural relations with two fellow squires, 15 May 1386: crime witnessed by Edward Farrier, who was shoeing the squire’s horse, and Agnes, laundress. Here’s her thumbprint.”
There was an awful gasp. I think it came from Sir Knight. The judges sat down again. I had to hold on to the table.
“As everybody knows,” the summoner continued, “this is a crime not just against God but against nature. In Italy, such men burn. Are we less moral in England?”
I was as paralyzed as my father. I’d no idea Walter was in the book because I hadn’t read it all. I felt sicker than sick. Yet again, my carelessness was going to cost a man his life. I was the shadow of death. I looked into the benches where my fellow travelers sat. Sir Knight was sagging. Luke looked utterly bemused. He’d not guessed at all. To him, Walter was still his rival for me. Everybody else, including Master Chaucer, had their hands over their mouths.
I balled my skirt in my palms. “That’s a lie,” I said.
“How on earth would you know?” The summoner was holding the pages high so that everybody could read them.
“My lords, I was alone with Walter for at least three weeks after the pilgrimage. We were together during the day, and—” I stopped. My voice must be strong and true. “And we were together during the night.”
“Together?”
“We shared a bed,” I said. “We were—close. As close as two people of different sexes can be.”
“You’re saying you had sexual relations with Walter de Pleasance?”
I had to go the whole way now. “I am,” I said.
“That’s no proof at all,” cried the summoner.
“Silence, Master Summoner!” The Duke of Gloucester addressed me carefully. “Is this true? Do you swear it, on God’s oath?”
“I swear on God’s oath that we love each other,” I said, “and that we are as close as two lovers can get.”
Gloucester made me repeat this. I did so.
Luke had taken off his spectacles and was staring straight ahead. Master Chaucer was watching, to see if I was believed. He knew everything. Of course he did. He wasn’t the Master for nothing.
The four judges stood up. Gloucester took in the whole scene, with the pilgrims and the Londoners, then struck his sword against the table. “These trials have been a shambles and must be struck from the record,” he said. He glared at the summoner, as though wondering whether to arrest him instead, then decided against it. “Come, my lords,” he said, curling his lip, “we have wasted enough time here already. I, for one, have better things to do. Usher! Open the doors!”
The widow and I helped my father out of the hall. I wanted to explain to Luke. I wanted to reassure Walter. I wanted to thank the Master. But I knew what, above everything else, I had to do at this moment. Without hesitation, I got into the cart that the widow had commandeered and sat close to my father. As we set off for Southwark, I did allow myself a last look back. I didn’t see Walter or Luke or the Master. All I saw was a man with a brush. Under the clerk’s direction, he was sweeping the remains of the summoner’s tally book out of the hall and into the gutter, where it floated, sewage on sewage, before being slowly washed into the river.
17
And thus she kept her father’s heart aloft
With all the obedience, all the diligence
By which a child can show her reverence …
Being home was strange, and not just for me. My father must also have found it difficult. I’d been away about two months, he imprisoned for a fortnight, and during our absence, Widow Chegwin had scrubbed and cleaned and mended. The house we had always known was disconcertingly spotless and unnaturally tidy. When she learned that God had performed less of a miracle on my father than Peter Joiner, the widow expressed no disappointment. “God works in mysterious ways,” she cooed as she inspected the hinged calipers Peter had so cleverly constructed. Nor was she resentful that it was Peter’s wife rather than herself who’d been commissioned to create my father’s concealing trousers. She admired the workmanship as she folded them, only pointing out one fault in the stitching.
There are, perhaps, lots of women like the widow: irritating, unlovable and unlovely, provoking gratitude and dislike in equal measure. I knew my father would never marry her, and so did she. If she minded, we never knew. For the most part, she carried on as if nothing had happened. She still managed my father, answering questions for him in her nervously interfering way and dealing with his intimate necessities. She didn’t know what to make of me anymore, though, now I knew things that no child should know and had admitted freely in open court that I’d slept with Walter. This last, at least, she greeted with some cheer. The dashing squire would have to marry me. I would be Lady de Pleasance. All was well that ended well. My father made no comment. She took Poppet to clean and mend too and I didn’t stop her, although, just as I suspected, when I got Poppet back, she seemed to have no connection left with my mother. I contemplated giving her a martyr’s end and burning her. In the end, I couldn’t do that, so I put her in a chest. She’s there still.
I couldn’t reveal to anybody, not even to my father, that not everything was over. Indeed, since Walter had pledged his life against Londoners rising in support of the king, he was in more mortal danger. Perhaps, now that the summoner’s book was destroyed, all those creatures we had visited would feel safe enough to ignore our threats. Perhaps they’d tell their supporters to forget the king and line up behind the commission. Perhaps the Duke of Gloucester would bring pressure of his own. As October drifted toward November, I became very tense, particularly as I had no idea where Walter even was, or Luke, for that matter, whose expression, when I’d said so boldly that I’d been Walter’s lover, haunted me.
You may ask why I didn’t go to find them. Obviously, it wasn’t because I no longer cared. Nor was it because my father forbade me to leave the house. The plain truth is that on the first evening after the trial, my father asked me, seriously and kindly, to remain at home. Forced to accept the widow’s help in many things, he wanted me to help him perfect his walking. How could I refuse? And somehow, as we moved to and fro in the house, him leaning ever less heavily on my shoulder, we never spoke about the pilgrimage: he asked nothing and I told him nothing.
One evening, when he could walk around the kitchen on his own, we opened up his old workshop for more space, and the next morning, before I opened my eyes, I heard a muffled grating sound and a gentle musical echo. For one perfect second, I was transported back to a time when my father testing a bell was as familiar a sound as my mother calling his name. I dressed and went to him. The widow was baking. As I passed, she handed me some fresh bread. I thanked her.
My father was sitting in his wheeled chair, his legs sticking out to the side. He had dusted the bell with his sleeve, making a million motes dance. The bell was a very small one. Before the accident, it had been waiting for its tone to be refined. Now, hunched in concentration, my father was fixing the clapper with a piece of leather. He didn’t acknowledge me until he was finished, and when he sat back, though the room was cold, he was sweating. “I’m going to give it to Master Host,” he said, “to thank him for everything. I’ll inscribe his name on the inside. He can ring it when it’s time for people to go home.”
I ran my finger round the bell’s crown. My father regarded me candidly. “Don’t be worried,” he said. “There was no miracle about my walking, so nobody’s going to hold you to the promise you made before you disappeared. You’re not cut out for bell founding. We both know that.”
I rang the bell. The clapper didn’t hit true at once. It needed to settle on its thong. I rang it again. The sound it made was pretty as a stream in summer. I rang it again. “I just said walking, I didn’t say how. I swore before God and St. Thomas.”
“Indeed,” my father agreed. There was a certain irony in his voice. “But St. Thomas, like all
other priests, held that we’re all made in God’s image, and if we’re made in his image we must have some of God within us. I’m using my bit of God to release you from your promise. Is that convoluted enough for you?”
“It’s not so easy, Father,” I said, and knelt down, avoiding his legs.
He took my hands, though the angle was awkward. “I think it’s something else that’s not so easy. Am I right, sweetheart?”
He hadn’t called me that since the accident. Tears pricked my eyes. “Life’s just one terrible bargain after another,” I whispered. “I’ve said things—done things—I don’t know how things will end.”
He stroked my hair. “You think God keeps a tally like the summoner?”
“Or the devil does.”
He drew my hands to his heart. “Belle, Belle, Belle. You think you’re so important that there’s a tally book just for you?”
I felt his palms for the calluses that my mother used to count with pride. “I’ve never thought of it like that.”
He removed one of his hands and rang the little bell again. He was pleased with it. “Well, Belle,” he said, blowing away the last of the dust, “it’s time you did.”
We remained together, my father and I, until he grew chilly and uncomfortable and my knees began to hurt. Then I got up, opened the workshop shutters, raked out the fire, and fetched a broom. My father made no comment as the widow and I worked together. By midday the room was clean.
It was 9 November when my father strode into the Tabard. His upright appearance was not, of course, a complete surprise, because it was impossible to keep things secret on our street. Peter Joiner, perhaps with the widow’s connivance, had organized a party of people to welcome him. Everybody was there: the miller, six prostitutes, a bargeman or two; the usual crowd. They shook his hand. Some brought their children for him to touch, convinced of a miracle despite my father showing off his calipers and calling Peter “God’s joiner.”