by Mike Ashley
Margery went off with an offended sniff, and the host followed her downstairs. Sir John gave his attention to the dead man.
He was young, a little too plump, with a florid complexion. His hands were folded on his breast and his limbs were decently composed. The only sign of his violent death was a thin red line running around his neck, where the bowstring had dug into his flesh.
“Damn Mistress Margery!” Sir John said. “No one should have touched the body.”
Chaucer murmured agreement. He was bending over Master Buckton, examining him carefully, and prodded with one finger a fat purse that hung from his belt.
“His body was not robbed,” he said.
Sir John grunted. For some reason, the little poet did not believe the Breton mercenary was guilty, and the more Sir John saw, the more he began to think that perhaps he was right. If theft was not the motive, then more likely Master Buckton had been murdered by someone who knew him than by a chance some Breton who had never set eyes on him before.
All the same, Sir John resolved, he would keep tight hold of the mercenary until he was sure of the fellow’s innocence.
While he pondered, Chaucer had been examining the room, but he found nothing.
“The murderer took his weapon away with him, no doubt,” he said.
Sir John let out another noncommittal grunt. He could, he supposed, have everyone searched, but what point, when a bowstring was so easily tossed into a fire and destroyed.
“There’s no sign of struggle here,” Chaucer said, surveying the room again.
“Maybe Mistress Margery righted it,” said Burley.
“If he had struggled and cried out,” said Chaucer, “someone would have heard him. Maybe he trusted his murderer, let him come behind him . . .”
“He would not have trusted the Breton,” Sir John admitted.
Carefully and quietly, for he did not want any interruptions from the pilgrims down below, he searched the room, and the two others on the same floor, looking for weapons. He found two swords, one of superbly forged steel that he guessed was the property of the young aristocrat, one rusty with a jagged edge, that might have belonged to anyone. But Buckton had not been killed with a sword. He had been strangled by a bowstring, and there were no bows.
Returning to the first bedroom, where Chaucer waited for him, Sir John stared down at the body for a moment longer, frowning as if the name of the murderer might appear written on the dead forehead. Then he led the way downstairs again.
In the common room, Master Marley and a couple of potboys were handing round mugs of steaming Hippocras. The pilgrims seemed to have relaxed, as if their stunned calm at word of the murder was wearing off.
“Sir Simon!” someone called. “Give us a tune on your lute!”
The young nobleman tossed back golden curls and looked the speaker up and down, an expression of disdain on his handsome features. “Not in a house of mourning,” he said.
He got up, took his lute, and fitted it into its case, while Master Marley himself came over to offer the hot, spiced wine to Sir John and Chaucer.
“Master Marley,” said Sir John, “have you weapons in this house?”
“I’ve longbows, sir. Me and the lads practise at the butts, as is our duty.”
“And where are the bows kept?”
Master Marley grinned. “In a room over the stables, sir. Locked up safely, and the key kept here.” He patted the bunch that dangled from his belt. “I’ll not risk some fool of a stable boy getting drunk and shooting someone. Whoever used that bowstring brought it with him.”
“It might be well to search the inn,” Chaucer suggested.
For a second Sir John felt irritated that a poet should presume to tell him how to do his job, but Chaucer had spoken courteously, and there was sense in the idea after all.
He gave a grunt of agreement, and went out to look for his men. When he had found them, and made sure that they had the Breton safe behind a good, stout door, he set them to the search and returned to the common room.
By this time, Geoffrey Chaucer had joined the little group beside the fire, and was speaking to Mistress Buckton. Sir John came up to hear the last of what he was saying.
“. . . anyone who was your husband’s enemy?”
Mistress Buckton had stopped crying, and took a sip from her cup of Hippocras before she replied.
“James had no enemies. Everyone liked him.” She appealed to the young man beside her. “Isn’t that true, Francis?”
The young man hesitated, flushing awkwardly as if he was reluctant to agree, and then said, “No one had cause to kill him, truly.”
Looking more closely at Francis, Sir John could see a distinct resemblance to Master Buckton, though he was younger, and thinner, with a scholar’s face and hands.
“Are you related to Master Buckton?” he asked.
“His brother, sir.”
“And his heir?”
Francis half rose, opened his mouth to utter a protest, and sat down again with the protest unspoken. He muttered, “Yes.”
“Your brother was a wealthy man?” Sir John persisted.
“He owns . . . owned a manor in Hampshire,” Francis said. “Good land – prosperous. But I didn’t envy him!” His voice rose shrilly. “I’m to be a priest!” He shook his head, baffled, and went on, “The manor’s mine now, and it’s the last thing I want. And I had no bowstring . . . I carry no weapons, but a knife for meat. I –”
“Keep calm, lad,” Sir John said. “No one has accused you.” Yet, he added silently. Turning back to Mistress Buckton, he asked, “You know of no one else who might have wanted your husband dead?”
“No!” Tears welled up in Mistress Buckton’s eyes. “He was a good man, a kind husband . . . Oh, Dame Cecily, what shall I do without him?” She dissolved into sobs again and rested her head against the elderly nun’s shoulder. Dame Cecily, her sweet, wrinkled face framed by her white wimple, put an arm around her and gently smoothed the tumbled chestnut curls,
Half embarrassed, half annoyed that he could not go on questioning her, Sir John drew back, to find Nicholas Henshawe at his shoulder again.
Softly he said, “Sir John, don’t take too much heed of the sorrowing widow.”
“Oh?” Chaucer was there, too, surveying Henshawe with bright-eyed interest. “Was James Buckton not a good man and a kind husband?”
Henshawe bared his teeth. “We’re told not to malign the dead, but when he was alive he was an arrogant young snot. And he quarrelled often enough with Mistress Isabel. Now he’s dead, she canonizes him.” He coughed. “For all that, he didn’t deserve to die.”
“And Master Francis?” Chaucer inquired.
“Wears out his knees with praying,” Henshawe said. “From all I’ve seen, what he says is true. He talks of nothing but his priesting.”
“And you know of no one else who –”
A tap on his arm distracted Sir John. Beside him was standing another of the pilgrims, a wizened elderly man with grey hair and a neatly clipped beard.
“A word with you, sir.” His voice was unexpectedly deep.
Sir John inclined his head. “Speak.”
“My name is William Warton. I am a doctor of physic. I carry a chest of my remedies, and on the road I treated anyone who fell ill.”
“That was charity, sir,” Burley said.
Master Warton waved the praise away irritably. “Sir, a vial of poppy syrup is missing from my chest.”
Sir John’s eyebrows shot up. “And Buckton complained of sleepiness after Mass,” he said. “Did someone drug him?”
“It makes you think, does it not?” Warton said sardonically. “But he didn’t die of it,” he added. “He died of strangulation.”
Sir John exchanged a glance with Chaucer.
“Sleepy . . . unaware . . . unable to struggle,” the poet murmured. “Thank you, Master Warton. This is weighty news indeed.”
The doctor nodded and withdrew, looking pleased with himself
.
“Master Henshawe,” Sir John asked, “after Buckton went upstairs, did you see anyone follow him? Or did you notice if anyone was absent for any length of time?”
Henshawe shrugged, smiling. “Who can say? We were all moving around. And before you ask, Sir John, I didn’t see anyone put poppy syrup in Buckton’s wine, either.”
Sir John grunted. He had to admit, it would be impossible to work out where everyone had been, between the time Buckton withdrew and the time his wife went to look for him.
The door to the kitchens opened and Thomas Marley reappeared with a huge platter of roast fowl. His potboys followed with bread, pasties, fruit and more wine.
“Sit, sirs, be my guests.” Master Marley gestured Burley and Chaucer to a small table a little apart from the others. “I’ll be grateful all my life if you can come to the truth of this, and prove it was none of my doing.”
“No one blames you, Master Marley,” Sir John said, taking the offered seat.
Marley shook his head. “A death on the premises is bad, sir.” He set food on the table, and departed.
Disgustedly, Sir John stabbed his belt knife into a slice of roast capon. “Come to the truth!” he said, repeating the host’s words. “I feel the truth is hidden so deep we’ll never come to it.” Wryly he added, “If only you had let me hang that damned Breton!”
“The truth may yet come to light,” Chaucer said tranquilly.
“Then tell me how! If we believe Master Henshawe – and I see no reason not to – Francis would not have murdered his brother. And who else had reason to want James Buckton dead? He might have been stabbed in a quarrel, but this – drugging and strangling – means forethought. What did Buckton have, apart from the estate that his priestly brother inherits?”
Chaucer eyed him across the table with a trace of amusement in his face. He said, “A beautiful wife.”
Burley brought down his fist on the table, and then glanced round in embarrassment as he realised that several of the pilgrims had turned to look at him.
“You’re out of your mind!” he said. “True, she’s beautiful, but is she stupid enough? If any man here asked to wed her, she must guess that he killed her husband.”
Chaucer nodded, and applied himself to stripping neatly a wing of capon.
“Then why would he take the risk?” Burley went on, struggling to keep his voice down when what he really wanted was to shout. “Unless . . .”
“Unless she had already consented,” Chaucer said. “Unless she knew.”
Burley could not help swivelling round for a look at the widow. Mistress Isabel was still seated between Francis and Dame Cecily, prettily dabbing her lips with a napkin before she sipped from her wine cup. Sir John had to admit to himself that she did not look grief-stricken.
His gaze roved over the rest of the pilgrims. “Supposing you’re right,” he said grudgingly. “We’re looking for a man who might have been tempted by Mistress Isabel – but damn you, that’s every man here, excepting the priests, and maybe some of them as well!”
“You mistake, Sir John,” Chaucer said softly. “We are not looking for a man who would be tempted by Mistress Isabel. We are looking for a man who would have tempted her.”
Sir John took in a mouthful of air and did not know what to do with it. Chaucer’s eyes were levelled at the handsome young aristocrat.
“I have seen him at court,” the poet said. “His name is Sir Simon Havering. An old family, and an honourable one . . . his grandfather died at Crécy. But Sir Simon is a younger son, and his patrimony is small. As Master Buckton’s widow, Mistress Isabel has the right to a third of his estates.”
Sir John gaped, a venison pasty half way to his mouth. “And she . . .”
Chaucer gave a slight shrug. “She would be ‘my lady’.”
Burley could hardly keep his eyes off the young knight as he drained his wine-cup and pushed his chair back from the table.
“God’s nails!” Sir John said. “I can almost believe you. But he has no bow. Where did he find the weapon?”
“I think I can tell you that,” Chaucer murmured. “With your leave, Sir John . . .”
Burley hesitated, and then gave a curt nod. At once Chaucer rose to his feet and attracted attention by banging his wine cup on the table.
Everyone in the room turned to look at him. Their voices died.
The little poet permitted himself a faint smile. “I will tell you a tale,” he said, “for tales are good to while away the hours of a pilgrimage. Forgive me that this tale is a tragedy, for it tells of the death of Master Buckton.”
A stifled sob from Isabel punctuated his words.
“Not long ago,” Chaucer went on, “someone in this room now went upstairs and strangled James Buckton while he was drugged with poppy syrup and unable to resist.”
“But how could they?” Nicholas Henshawe called out. “None of us has a bow.”
“But Master Buckton was not strangled with a bowstring,” Chaucer said. “Not a bowstring,” he repeated. “A lutestring.”
A chair crashed over as Sir Simon sprang up. “You point at me? How dare you!” His voice was outraged.
“Strings break,” said Chaucer. “A lute-player always carries spares. And with one of them you followed Master Buckton upstairs and strangled him.”
Sir Simon looked scornful. Snapping his fingers, he said, “I know you. Master Geoffrey Chaucer, so-called poet. God, I’ll destroy you for this!”
“I think not,” Chaucer said calmly. “Not when Sir John examines the string you fitted to your lute just now.”
For the first time, fear leapt into Sir Simon’s eyes. He turned to the door, but Nicholas Henshawe was in the way. Sir Simon drew his belt knife. “Stand aside.”
Henshawe glanced at Sir John, who had risen and was trying to shift unobtrusively behind Sir Simon to grab his weapon from behind. Sir Simon whipped round to face him. His face was feral, snarling.
At that moment, Sir John’s two men-at-arms tramped in from the yard. One of them started to say, “Sir, we’ve searched from cellars to attic, and –”
The other, a bit quicker on the uptake, launched himself at Sir Simon, and chopped the knife out of his hand. Chaucer darted forward and retrieved it while both the soldiers grabbed Sir Simon. He fought, cursing, but he could not break free.
“This was for you!” he spat at Isabel. “You led me into it. God, I was a fool to listen to you!”
Mistress Isabel was staring at him, her face white, her eyes huge with fear. “No – no!” she screamed. “I knew nothing about it, nothing!”
“You bitch!” Sir Simon said. “Who put poppy syrup in his wine so that he would feel sleep coming on him? Who made sure he would be upstairs alone, and too drugged to fight for his life?”
Isabel did not reply. Her screams spiralled up into a bout of hysterical shrieking. She clawed at her hair and face, and left red streaks down Francis’s face when he tried to restrain her.
“Damn you to hell!” said Sir Simon.
“Take him,” Sir John said to his men. “And release the Breton. Tell him to come here and collect his weapons.”
The men-at-arms went out, Sir Simon gripped firmly between them. After his first bout of struggling, he went with dignity, his head high. Dame Cecily managed to calm Isabel enough to coax her out of the room and upstairs to lie down.
“What will you do with her?” Chaucer asked.
“Nothing.” Burley let out a curse. “What can I do? She’s guilty as he is, but how to prove it?”
“There may be punishment,” Chaucer said quietly. “She will never be ‘my lady’. And if this story follows her to Hampshire – as assuredly it will – she might find men are less than eager to wed her.”
As he spoke, the Breton mercenary walked into the common room and stood surveying his surroundings with a faint smile on his swarthy features.
“And as for you . . .” Sir John turned on him. “Thank God and His saints that Master Chaucer was
here, or you’d be gallows meat by now. Take yourself off, or you’ll find my boot behind you.”
Bertrand moved to recover his weapons from the table by the door, but he showed no desire to leave.
“Sir John . . .” Chaucer sounded embarrassed. “Allow me to introduce Messire Bertrand du Guesclin, Count of Longueville and Constable of France. The King of France’s envoy.”
“What!” Sir John realised he was gaping, and shut his mouth with a snap.
Bertrand’s thick lips were twisted in amusement, and his eyes shone.
“You could have told me,” Sir John said accusingly to Chaucer.
Chaucer shrugged apologetically. “If I had, you would have freed my lord Bertrand from the charge of murder, but so many people would have known of it that his name and his purposes would have been quite uncloaked. Lord Bertrand himself gave me a clear hint right at the start that I should remain silent. To discover who killed the pilgrim was the only way to preserve the secret of his name and his mission here.”
“And to preserve the good will of the King of France,” Bertrand added. “I assure you, Messire Jean, my lord would have been seriously annoyed if an English Captain hanged me for murder.”
Sir John shuddered. “Heaven preserve me from the French!”
“No, mon ami.” Bertrand stepped forward and held out his hand. “For you are an honest man, and honest men of all nations should honour one another. Is it not so?”
Sir John stared at the offered hand, and did not move. He felt a powerful sense of injury, without knowing exactly why. If Chaucer had spoken out, the news would have spread through the Three Feathers like fire through corn, and then through Calais and beyond. The hoped-for peace would have been broken. God’s blood, the wretched fellow was right!
Chaucer clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, Sir John. Let us share a cup of Master Marley’s good Hippocras. And let us drink to an end to war and murder, and to peace on God’s earth.”
Slowly, Sir John nodded. Slowly, still with a shade of reluctance, he reached out and grasped his enemy’s hand.
And What Can They Show, or What Reasons Give?
Mat Coward