by M. J. Trow
‘She’s still there? Well, that’s wonderful. Why don’t we, when all this bother is over, go and visit her? It would be … oh, a week, would you say? We could take it steady. Why don’t we make it into a pilgrimage? The shrine of St Hugh …’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Chaucer shook his head. ‘I’ve already had to leave a lot of work on my table. I don’t know if I can manage another month or so away. Wool doesn’t comptrol itself, you know.’
‘I’ve often wondered what it was you did,’ Glanville said. ‘Is the work hard?’
Chaucer let his head fall back. ‘You really couldn’t imagine such work,’ he said. ‘It’s never-ending.’
‘Oh dear.’ Glanville was genuinely sorry. He had always rather liked Mistress Chaucer. ‘Some other time, perhaps.’
‘Yes,’ Chaucer smiled. ‘Some other time. Now, this girl from the town. Was she, in fact, with His Grace on the night he died?’
‘No one knows. She wasn’t there when I broke the lock, but she could have been and gone.’
‘Was the key still in the lock on the inside?’ Chaucer asked.
‘Well, I broke the lock, Geoff.’
‘All right, be pedantic if you must. Was the key somewhere inside the room?’
‘Yes. It was on the floor, just over by the window.’
‘So it could have flown there, when you battered the lock?’
‘Easily.’
‘The point I am getting to, Rich, is that if the door was locked, and the key was on the inside, then the lady in question – what is her name, by the way? – if she had been there, had gone when Lionel was still alive.’
‘Blanche. Her name is Blanche Vickers. Hugh carried a bit of a torch at one time … but that’s another story. Yes, as far as the lock is concerned, Blanche is obviously blameless. But’ – Glanville looked at Chaucer with a piercing eye – ‘do you believe it is possible to die of a broken heart, Geoff?’
Chaucer thought for a moment. There were currents beneath this seemingly simple death that he wasn’t sure he wanted to plumb. ‘I think you can, yes,’ he said. ‘I had my share of broken hearts when I was young and a couple of times asked death to take me, if I couldn’t have the love of my life by my side. But I was young and foolish and after half a day of pining, I was myself again. The other kind of broken heart, a heart which gives up beating because it is old and tired, that kind of heartbreak can kill, and quickly, too. I’ve seen it at the Bourse and in other places, where tempers run high. Did Lionel show signs of that?’
‘He was as strong as an ox,’ Glanville said, shaking his head. ‘He put most of the young men to shame. He came back from Italy a little peaky, but was soon well again, with good, hearty English food and good Suffolk air.’
‘Was there any food or drink in his room?’
‘Nothing.’
Chaucer leaned his chin on his chest and twirled his wine goblet between his fingers, letting the glint of the fire on the chased metal clear and calm his mind. The room was silent except for the settling logs and the faint calls of tradesmen in the streets beyond the castle walls, shouting their wares. After a while, he looked up. ‘The dog? Did you say that there was a dog howling?’
‘Yes. Ankarette, the wolfhound. Enormous damned great thing. Lionel let it sleep in his room; if he didn’t, it would howl all night.’
‘Didn’t it … you know … howl when Lionel had company?’
Glanville chuckled. ‘It was used to that.’
‘I see. When did it start to howl?’
‘I suppose we should say “she”. Lionel was very particular about that. He used to say she was the only female he could rely on. She had been howling for about half an hour when I broke the lock, which was mid-morning.’
‘So, she wouldn’t howl just because she was shut in. She would only howl when – not to put too fine a point on it – Lionel was dead.’
Glanville looked puzzled for a moment, then understood. ‘I see what you’re getting at. So, taking Ankarette’s howl as the point in time, we know when he died.’
‘To within half an hour or so. The dog might not have been aware at first; if he was lying still, she might have thought he was sleeping. Then, she wanted to go out, tried to rouse him and found he was dead. So we can put his time of death at around … what … an hour or so after dawn.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere!’ Glanville was sitting bolt upright, eyes gleaming. ‘I knew it was a good idea to bring you here, Geoff!’
‘Well, I’m glad you think so,’ Chaucer said. ‘But time of death doesn’t help us much, not with that locked door. And no food or drink, you say.’
‘Nothing. He sometimes took wine to his room, to give him … you know … strength.’
‘I see. So Blanche – if she had visited his room that night – might have taken the bottle away?’
‘That doesn’t sound like her,’ Glanville said, doubtfully. ‘She’s not a girl who does little odd jobs for no reason. And since Lionel took her to his bed, well, she does nothing but give orders.’
‘What will happen to her now?’ Chaucer asked.
Glanville shrugged. ‘It may have happened already, for all I know. Out in the street, bag and baggage, I would imagine. Except that Lady Violante will make sure that it is just the bag and baggage she arrived with, if I know anything.’
‘I see. She had received gifts, had she?’
Glanville rolled his eyes. ‘Gifts! That’s an understatement. She had been showered with gifts, from clothes to jewels and money. Lionel gave many pieces of plate to the church in her name. She had servants of her own – more than Lady Violante, as a matter of fact. That rankled, especially with the servants. They didn’t think she was worthy of their servitude, but what choice had they? Lionel was besotted and would hear of no argument.’
Chaucer was an observer of men and he could often see beyond subterfuge to find the man beneath the mantle, but he didn’t need those skills now. Glanville’s face was set in a mask of disapproval. Chaucer thought he would check, though, nevertheless. ‘You don’t like Blanche?’ he hazarded.
‘No, I don’t like Blanche,’ Glanville replied. ‘She and Hugh had an understanding. More, they were betrothed. I can’t say I was delighted – her father is a corn merchant. He has premises in the town and a manor at Borley; he has plenty of money, but no breeding – but she is a beautiful girl and Hugh was head over heels in love. In lust, perhaps, but he thought of little else. Then, he brought her to the castle, to meet Lionel before their wedding and … well, the rest is history.’
‘It sounds to me as if Hugh had a lucky escape,’ Chaucer offered. ‘No one likes a gold-digger.’
‘True. It was better that it happened before the wedding, but a betrothal is bad enough. Her father is saying now that Hugh must honour his pledge. Her father says that because he doesn’t want Blanche back in his house, with sin on her head. Well, we don’t want her either. I suppose I will have to petition the Pope or something. It’s not as if it’s something a father has to sort out every day of the week. Do you know the drill, Geoff?’
‘I can’t say that I do,’ Chaucer said.
‘But you did study law?’ Glanville made it a question, but he knew he was right.
‘I studied it,’ Chaucer said. ‘But I never practised. I never had a single person ask me to represent them. Except that pig, that time, but I really couldn’t see my way clear to helping some mad village clear out the skeletons in its belfry, if I have that right. No, I have no idea – but I’m sure Father Clement can help you.’
‘The less said about that, the better,’ Glanville said, darkly. ‘But we’ve got off the subject, Geoff. It’s time we had something to eat. I’ll point everyone out to you while we dine and then I’ll leave you to it. Lady Violante likes to go for a ride in the late afternoon now the days are getting longer and she needs me to go along, for protection.’
Chaucer opened his eyes wide. He had heard about the giant pigs, true, but surely not in the st
reets of Clare.
‘I know,’ Glanville chuckled. ‘It’s all for show, really, but I don’t mind it. She’s a clever woman and makes me laugh.’ He blushed a little. ‘I’m not too old to appreciate a pretty woman, I hope.’ He sounded a little defensive and Chaucer made a mental note of it.
Chaucer drained the dregs of his goblet and put it down on the table. Standing, he realized just how stiff riding had made him and he had to straighten up in stages. ‘I’m out of practice, Rich. That boy of yours sets a cracking pace on that courser of his.’
‘I know. He doesn’t always think of us older folks.’ It was the first thing close to a criticism of his lad that Chaucer had heard him utter.
‘He’s a good boy, Rich,’ Chaucer said. ‘You should be proud.’
‘Oh, I am,’ Glanville said, ushering his friend out onto the top of the spiralling staircase. ‘I am. And you’ll see him in all his finery in a minute, at table.’
THREE
‘Finery’ was an understatement. The squire was wearing what Chaucer had heard described as the Devil’s clothes. His doublet was glowing with cloth of gold in twirling tendrils, his shoulders, elbows and wrists dripping with tippets laced crimson and his arse was encased in satin, the silver ties bound to the doublet, front and back. His collar was up to his earlobes and his cuffs were massive, dangling almost to the ground. Chaucer couldn’t see how the lad could walk in his pointed shoes, but he minced along, negotiating chairs, tables, dogs and servants adroitly. His hair was curled over his ears, shorter at the back so that his collar was on permanent display. Nicholas Brembre was the best-dressed man Chaucer knew; he’d have to rethink that now.
Hugh took his place at the next-to-highest table. He had not won his spurs yet and, what with the duke’s passing, all that was on hold. The ladies fluttered around him and one hapless maidservant poured wine all over herself, lost in adoration of his curls.
The women sitting near to Hugh Glanville were at a clear disadvantage, but the only one in the room who mattered was the Lady Violante. She sat at the head of the table and was dressed in deep black, with just a thread of white linen edging her ramshorn wimple, worn in the Italian fashion. Her hair was as black as a raven’s wing, shot through with blue lights from the sunlight filtering through the window to one side. The panes of coloured glass lit the table linen spread in front of her, which stopped two places down. No use wasting good linen, she always said, on oafs who would only besmotter it with gravy. Her platter was silver, her knife handle chased ivory. Her horn goblet was as thin as a promise and held a wine whose ruby hints shone through its translucency and gave another splash of colour to the white linen. She sat so still she could have been a painting, her eyes downcast and her mouth thoughtful. Chaucer thought she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen; if he had been surprised to hear the ring of love in Glanville’s voice, he was no longer. Chaucer had been very fond of the duke’s first wife, Elizabeth, but she had been a dowdy frump by comparison, and he crossed himself at the indecency of that comparison, the lady in question being a long time dead.
Glanville led Chaucer to the head of the table and touched his lady’s arm. She started and flinched as if his touch had been red hot, then relaxed when she saw who it was. She bowed prettily in greeting and touched Chaucer’s hand briefly, with a hand as cold as ice.
‘Sir Richard has told us of your impending arrival, Master Chaucer,’ she said, in a low voice laced with a slight accent. ‘It was good of you to come, though I fear it is for no reason. My poor husband died of a surfeit.’
‘A surfeit, madam?’ Chaucer had to ask. He knew there was no such thing, but he feared the reply, nonetheless.
‘Yes,’ she said, with a smile. ‘A surfeit of flesh, young and unschooled. At his age, it is important to be temperate and he would overindulge. As Sir Richard has doubtless told you.’
Chaucer was covered in confusion. Had Richard been given permission? Had he spoken out of turn? He was framing a suitable answer when she helped him out of his quandary.
‘Don’t mind me, Master Chaucer. Sir Richard will explain everything and with my blessing. Meanwhile, if you will excuse me …’ and she rose from the table, waving down the lesser folk further down the board who rose with her. ‘Please,’ she said, louder so the least page at the far end would hear, ‘go on with your food.’ And with another bow, she had gone, the black fur trim of her court piece shimmering out of sight.
Chaucer looked after her as she made her way across the room, stepping around and over the dogs lounging everywhere. Once the door was closed behind her, he turned to Glanville. ‘You didn’t say …’ he said.
Glanville looked down. ‘She’s hard to describe,’ he said. ‘It sounds like hyperbole.’
Chaucer felt behind him for his seat and sat down heavily, immediately regretting it as his saddle sores sent daggers of pain up his spine.
Glanville took the recently vacated seat at the top of the table. ‘It’s easier for me to direct your eyes from here,’ he said. ‘There are some at this board who you need to know.’ He looked around and nodded discreetly in the direction of some rather portly gentlemen sitting about halfway down and looking as if they expected to be further up the board. ‘Those four … no, five … are from the Guilds. Corpus Christi, St Augustine, St Peter, the Blessed Virgin and John the Baptist.’
‘Ah, the usual suspects,’ Chaucer smiled. ‘Quite.’
‘I’ll introduce you all later. The one furthest from you is Blanche’s uncle.’
Chaucer followed the knight’s gaze and saw five men so alike as to be indistinguishable to a stranger. They all had bald or balding heads, paunches which almost stopped them reaching the table and rich but completely hideous clothes that no one in London had worn since the Flood. ‘Self-made man’ might as well have been stitched in gilt letters across each of their chests.
‘Nearer to us,’ Glanville said, out of the corner of his mouth, ‘are various members of Her Grace’s household, who came with her on her marriage and have managed to embed themselves here, much to their own benefit. Nearest of all is Niccolò Ferrante, her seneschal. Needless to say, he and Butterfield are at loggerheads most of the time, though as yet, no blows have been struck. Just as well; he looks the kind who can handle a poignard like you and I handle a spoon.’
Chaucer looked at the rather effete Italian sitting three seats down and on the opposite side of the table. If it came to a straight fight, his money was going on Butterfield, no question, poignard or no poignard; English oak against Italian cedar any time.
‘The boy he is talking to is Giovanni Visconti. He is Lady Violante’s brother and I suppose of all her entourage has most right to be here. He is considerably younger than her, as you can see, and was her ward when their parents died. If you can believe it, he was another suitor for Blanche; I think you will be expecting her to be more beautiful than the day, but to be honest, she seems a bit ordinary to me.’ He flashed a smile at Chaucer and the years fell away. ‘Perhaps she just isn’t my type.’
Chaucer grinned. ‘Perhaps not. Where can we find this girl? I feel I need to speak to her as possibly the last person to see Lionel alive.’
‘She is back at her father’s house near Sudbury, but I understand under sufferance. If I were a gambling man – and as you know, I am – I would say that that young lady has a convent in her very near future. And not the Priory of Clare, believe me.’
‘From what you tell me,’ Chaucer said, ‘that sounds like an extremely good idea.’
‘It sounds good in principle, I agree,’ the knight said. ‘Though from what I hear, there are more nuns giving birth in any one week than almost any other group of women one could name. However, let us not descend to scurrilous gossip. To leave the guests for a moment, let us look at the servants. Ummm …’ He raised his head to look around the room and found a face he thought Chaucer might remember. ‘Look, there, Geoff. Do you remember her?’
Chaucer followed his finger, no discretion no
w; a man could point at servants as much as he liked. In the crowd of women scurrying around the trestle at the end of the room, dirty platters were being returned at one end as fresh food was being distributed at the other. The lower sort at the end of the table were still chewing on their bread trenchers while the middling sort were mopping the gravy up with white, wheaten bread. But Chaucer wasn’t looking for differences such as those, if he even noticed them. He was scanning the faces for the raddled grandmother of his imagination. He didn’t see her there. ‘I was expecting to see Joyce,’ he said. ‘But I don’t seem to be able to spot her. Who are you pointing to?’
The knight laughed. ‘I’m pointing at Joyce,’ he said, poking Chaucer in the ribs. ‘She’s there, look.’
Chaucer looked, set his mouth and shook his head. ‘No. Sorry, Rich. No idea which is her.’
‘She hasn’t changed a scrap,’ Glanville said. ‘Look – there, with the ewer. Tall, dark hair. Look, for the love of God.’
Chaucer looked and his eyes nearly fell out of his head. ‘That’s little Joyce?’ he said, amazed. ‘I thought she’d be …’ He puffed out his cheeks and crossed his eyes. ‘Old. Fat.’
Glanville laughed again. ‘Just because you are, Geoff, doesn’t mean everyone is. She is a fine figure of a woman, I will give her that. She could be a grandmother, as a matter of fact. Besides, she’s not yet forty.’
‘Nor am I,’ Chaucer lied by two months. ‘But I don’t look like that!’
‘Granted,’ Glanville agreed. ‘But a green kirtle and a plait down your back isn’t really your look, Geoff, is it? And she’d look ridiculous in a beard. Shall I call her over? I could do with some more Romonye, anyway.’ He waved his empty goblet in the air.
Chaucer scrunched down in his seat, trying to be inconspicuous, in doing so, making several guests at the top end of the table assume he was a cripple. ‘No, don’t do that. I will need to speak to her, if, as you say, she was one of the first into the room after you broke the lock. But … I think I would rather make it in private.’