The Knight's Tale

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Richard,’ he said, slapping himself on the forehead. ‘I know where the bottle is.’

  ‘You do?’ Glanville looked around. ‘You mean, it’s here? You’ve found it?’

  ‘No,’ Chaucer hissed. ‘I mean I know where it is … except, I don’t, really. Because I can’t work out where the door is.’

  Glanville looked at his old friend kindly. The years spent poring over ledgers had softened his brain. He pointed to the door, as if explaining to an idiot.

  ‘Not that door!’ Did the man have no brain at all? Why couldn’t he follow the simplest train of thought? ‘The back door to the room behind the laundry.’

  ‘There’s a room behind the laundry?’ Glanville was learning a lot this night. He was still chewing over the word inspeximi.

  Chaucer sighed. He had hoped this might be easier. ‘Yes. The laundry leads into a little room where they stretch and smooth the linen for the Lady Violante’s table. She is very particular, apparently.’

  Glanville nodded. He had been present many a time when a wrinkle on the table linen had sent the woman into a rage.

  ‘Joyce is particularly good at smoothing. She has a stretching table and a glass thing,’ he mimed the size and shape with his hands, ‘about yay long and … but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that she is really the only one who uses that room and if she wanted to have some time with the dog and perhaps give her a draught of her master’s wine to try and cheer her up, it would be there. But we just need to find it.’

  ‘Can you give me any more clues,’ Glanville said. ‘I don’t walk the walls as often as I should. What’s outside the room?’

  Chaucer closed his eyes. ‘There’s a low wall. And … some trees.’

  Glanville rolled his eyes. ‘That could describe the curtain walls of almost the entire castle. Anything else?’

  ‘The trees are old. They’re’ – again, Chaucer’s hands came up to mime in the air – ‘really old. Gnarled.’ He smiled and held up a finger. ‘They’re fruit trees. It’s an old orchard.’

  Glanville smiled and clapped the man on the back. ‘I know where that is,’ he said. ‘We used to scrump there when we were lads, remember?’

  Chaucer had no recollection, but it would be rude to say so. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t recall at once.’

  ‘It’s down here,’ Glanville said, setting off at a steady pace down a dark passageway, with Chaucer in hot pursuit. The passages seemed endless and occasionally Chaucer lost the knight in his headlong flight, but eventually, a door was thrown open and silver moonlight flooded in. The knight stepped outside and round to the left, skirting a tower looming overhead. To the east, the faintest touch of dawn was brightening the sky and both men knew they must hurry.

  The trees were gilded with the moonlight, their blossoms almost glowing in the unearthly light. The sweet smell of last year’s meagre crop, rotting to oblivion in the neglected grass, came to them on a faint morning breeze. It was overlaid with a hot, dry smell of lye and soap. This was the place.

  The little door was in the shade of a deep lintel and the latch clicked up with nothing to stop it. No one bothered to lock this door; there was nothing beyond it of any value and, in any case, there was someone in the laundry day and night, making sure the fires never went out.

  Chaucer could hardly believe his eyes. On the now-empty stretching table, outlined by a shaft of moonlight as if posing deliberately, was a bottle which had once contained the duke’s favourite Gascony. The men looked at each other, each unwilling to be the one to step forward and take it from its place.

  Chaucer broke the spell first and took the bottle by the neck. It still carried strands of sticky web around the bottom, gathered in the wine cellar deep below the castle. Otherwise, many hands had wiped the dust away and no one would think now that the wine within had cost the pay of several foot soldiers putting their lives at risk for God in a faraway land.

  Chaucer sniffed the neck and wrinkled his nose. Holding the bottle low against his flank, he turned his head and sniffed the air.

  ‘What do you smell here?’ he asked his companion.

  The knight inhaled extravagantly. ‘Lye.’ He inhaled again and his moustache positively rippled. ‘Soap. Clean linen … that’s it, I think.’

  ‘Not mice?’

  ‘Mice?’ The man was puzzled, ‘What in the name of all that’s holy do mice smell of?’ Sir Richard Glanville knew, of course, that there were such things as mice. He had heard servants speak of them as somewhat of a nuisance. He had seen mice, usually in the jaws of a cat. But as for getting close enough to smell one – why would anyone want to do that?

  ‘Well …’ Chaucer wafted the bottle towards him. It was at that moment that he knew that a gulf had grown between him and his childhood friend that could never really be bridged. He lived in the midst of a permanent state of war with mice. There were mice in his clothes press. If he were not careful, there were mice among his papers and his books. He could blush to this day when remembering the time he had unfurled a complex document which had taken him months to prepare and have properly sealed and accredited, only to have a mother mouse and her eight babies fall at the king’s feet. All he could do was shrug and, luckily, Edward III had become just a threat gaga by that time, so he probably didn’t notice. ‘Mice. A kind of … acidy, dampy, old leafy … mousey smell.’ He held out the bottle. ‘Sniff that.’

  Glanville advanced his nose, cautiously, to the bottle and gave a delicate sniff. He recoiled, his hand over his nose. ‘What in the name of God is that?’ he said, screwing up his face. ‘Oh, God, oh, God, it’s in my moustache.’ He rubbed his hand over his face, desperately trying to dissipate the smell. ‘It’s …’ He was lost for words.

  ‘Mouse,’ said Chaucer, complacently. ‘Or, in the absence of the actual rodentia themselves, it’s something else.’

  ‘What?’ Glanville was spitting discreetly and still wiping his moustache.

  ‘Hemlock. Sneaky plant in that it looks like others that are totally harmless. Do you remember, when we were lads, making pea-shooters from the cow parsley in the lane?’

  Glanville smiled. ‘I do. Keck, we used to call it.’

  ‘That’s right. Well, from what I have learned since, we were lucky. If we had accidentally come across hemlock, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. It can kill even by touching it. Or, as seems to be the case here, drinking it in your favourite wine.’

  ‘If I may say so,’ Chaucer looked at Richard Glanville as he came into the hall for breakfast the next day, ‘you look like shit.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Geoffrey,’ the knight said. ‘That would be because I spent half the night chasing my tail around sneaking guildsmen and poisoned bottles.’

  That may have been too loud and he and Chaucer both looked up as servants came and went. Chaucer caught the eye of John Hawkwood a few places along the table; mercenaries never missed a free meal if one was on offer.

  ‘The rest of the night,’ Glanville was whispering now, ‘I spent compiling this.’ He pulled a piece of parchment from his doublet and unrolled it on his lap, under the table and away from Hawkwood’s glare.

  ‘What is it?’ Chaucer asked.

  ‘Well, I can’t pretend it’s complete, but it’s a list of people who might have wanted to see Lionel of Antwerp dead.’

  ‘Mother of God,’ Chaucer muttered. ‘This is nearly as long as the book of Leviticus.’ He suddenly caught the eye of Father Clement who was making his way to Hawkwood’s side. ‘Charming custom this,’ the comptroller said loudly, ‘breaking fast.’

  ‘Italian custom,’ Glanville said, equally loudly. ‘Lady Violante insists on it, although she takes hers in her chambers.’

  Hawkwood belched.

  ‘Very wise,’ Chaucer said, helping himself to the bread and cheese, being careful to cut some from an already started piece – a man could not be too careful. And although sharing food with the rest of the table was not a certain way to
be safe by any means, at least they could all die in agony together, a small but real comfort. ‘Is this in any order of priority?’ He was whispering again.

  ‘No. That’s a step too far for me, Geoff. That’s why you’re here. Er … pass me that flagon, would you?’

  Chaucer reached across to the flagon of ale and sniffed it before passing it to the knight. A few scandalized faces turned to him; what a knarre, going around sniffing his food and drink.

  Glanville was a little startled too, and then remembered. ‘Mice?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Just ale, if a little’ – he sniffed again – ‘yeasty.’

  ‘Too young, that’s the trouble. Hard to keep up with demand in a place this size.’ Butterfield’s voice from just above their heads made both men jump. ‘I do apologize, gentlemen. Shall I call for another?’

  ‘No, no.’ Chaucer was quick to reassure him. ‘I just have … I just have this habit of sniffing my food and drink.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’ve done it since childhood. Do you remember, Rich,’ and he gave the knight a savage dig in the ribs with his elbow, ‘how His Grace used to take me to task?’

  Glanville nodded, laughing loudly. ‘Do I?’ he said, hoping that was the right thing to say.

  ‘I try not to do it but, sometimes, it all comes flooding back. So, no, Butterfield, thank you. This ale will suffice.’

  The seneschal bowed over their heads and slid away, to find a servant to berate.

  ‘Was he looking at the list, do you think?’ Chaucer asked.

  ‘No. He’s just … well, he’s just a very good seneschal. He watches every part of the castle’s life and you had criticized his ale, that was all. I’m sure he wasn’t …’ but even so, the knight leaned back and scanned the servants for the seneschal’s groomed and busy head. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Chaucer looked down at the list in his lap and pointed to a name. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Oh, scratch him out. He was Bishop of Ely, but he died the other day, before Lionel, I mean. Just heard now, as I came through the yard.’

  ‘This one?’

  ‘Norfolk, Duke of,’ Glanville said. Clearly Chaucer’s eyes were not what they had been. ‘Tricky lot, the Norfolks.’

  ‘He’s six,’ Chaucer reminded him.

  ‘Oh, is he?’ Glanville had been wrongfooted. ‘Well, never mind. He’s got people. You can’t be too careful.’

  Chaucer scratched the precocious lad out in his mind.

  ‘Whitlow?’ he hissed.

  ‘Quite.’ Glanville was sipping his ale, yeasty or not.

  ‘The haberdasher?’

  ‘Well, I was going to put all the guildsmen in, but then I remembered; Whitlow’s Blanche’s uncle, Peter Vickers’ brother-in-law.’

  ‘We’ll need to talk to both of them,’ Chaucer said.

  There was a sudden guffaw from Hawkwood’s table as the freebooter and the chaplain rocked at some bon mot.

  ‘I didn’t know Hawkwood could laugh,’ Chaucer muttered.

  ‘Nor I,’ Glanville agreed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. You know he’s staying on, don’t you?’

  ‘Really?’

  Glanville nodded. ‘John of Gaunt’s off today, so we won’t be stumbling over his heavies filling the baileys, but Hawkwood’s staying to recruit, apparently. Wants a few more for his White Company. There’s another campaign in the wind, Geoff, for sure.’

  Chaucer looked at his old friend. ‘Will you go?’

  ‘France?’ The knight stroked his luxuriant moustache, dislodging crumbs as he did so. ‘I don’t know. Du Guesclin’s a tricky bastard – and I’m not talking about Violante’s falcon. Maybe it’s time to hang up my sword. Ah, Hugh, my boy.’

  The squire half-bowed to his father and Chaucer. ‘Masters,’ he beamed. ‘I could eat a horse.’ He sat himself down, pointing to Glanville’s plate. ‘Are you going to eat that, Pa?’

  SIX

  ‘Out towards Sudbury way’ was all very well. Actually finding the manor house of Peter Vickers was something else entirely. Chaucer set off at first light, declining the company of Richard Glanville, who had spent much of the previous day seeing John of Gaunt off the premises at Clare. He had stood in the castle’s outer bailey with Butterfield, the seneschal close to tears at the mess that Gaunt’s rabble had left behind. Then, it had been all clash and carry, rubbish to be collected, horseshit to add to the marling, cess-pits to be dug and filled. That was no job for a knight of the shire, but Richard Glanville was ever a man of duty and he stayed behind to supervise.

  ‘Even so, Geoff,’ the knight had held out his sword, still in its scabbard, ‘I fancy Peter Vickers will still be nursing a sore head after what Hawkwood did to that crony of his. Better go prepared.’

  Chaucer smiled, laying the flat of his hand on the hilt as he reached down from the saddle. ‘All that was a long time ago, Rich,’ he said. ‘I’d only drop the damned thing on my foot,’ and he wheeled the grey away.

  The comptroller took the low road that wound its way through Belchamp St Paul and Belchamp Otten. The villages were aptly named; the fields, green with spring shoots, were indeed beautiful. Smocked peasants pruned the fruit trees and bent their backs in the rich earth to plant the peas and the beans. One or two of them looked up at the horseman plodding by. Vintner, thought one. Tapicer, another reckoned. On the other hand, he could be a prelate without his robes; he was plump enough.

  Then, Chaucer followed the winding road to the north-east, to Borley. The comptroller had stopped at a wayside inn at midday and had broken bread with the landlord, who, at the drop of several groats, was a mine of information, some of it useful. Yes, the Vickers family lived at Borley Manor. It had been the home of the Waldegraves for years, but old Robert Waldegrave had gone on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady at Walsingham and had never come back. As he was the last of a long line, the estate was broken up and Peter Vickers had acquired it. The landlord didn’t have much time for Peter Vickers. The landlord didn’t have much time for anybody, unless that anybody had coin in his purse. And that fact alone made Master Chaucer most welcome.

  The comptroller rode on, mellower now in the afternoon sun with some good Suffolk ale inside him. He saw the buttresses of the still-new Benedictine abbey away across the fields and heard the bells tolling for None. He spurred his horse, which ignored him; the journey had been long and hot enough without breaking into anything resembling a trot. He had taken the journey at too leisurely a pace and he still had much to do.

  The manor itself, tucked away in a valley, was pleasant enough. The Waldegraves had clearly had taste. There was a moat, dark waters dabbled with ducks and geese, and the bright new green of bulrushes in the shallower points carved out by time and weather along the edge. The gatehouse, like the rest of the building, was made of warm Suffolk stone. The walls were crenellated and the battlements looked new; perhaps Peter Vickers was expecting a siege. Chaucer reined in on the little drawbridge and waited, scanning the walls and windows for any sign of movement.

  Something in the orchard caught his eye. There. There it was again. A flash of black in the dappled sunlight under the trees. Chaucer’s horse snorted and snickered and he calmed it with a pat to the neck and whispered words.

  ‘Hoo, traveller!’ A voice from the gateway brought his attention to the front.

  ‘Hoo,’ Chaucer called back, giving the universal cry of the tournament. ‘Is the squire at home?’

  A solid-looking steward walked into the sunshine. He might have been one of the oafs at Vickers’ back at Clare when John Hawkwood scattered them, but Chaucer couldn’t be sure.

  ‘What business do you have?’ the steward wanted to know.

  ‘My own,’ Chaucer said, and nudged the horse forward. He tugged a seal from his purse. ‘You know the king’s device,’ he said. It was a statement, not a question. Everybody knew the king’s device. The steward scowled. His job was to keep out strangers, not let them pry into Vickers’ business. On the other hand, loo
king up at him from the rubbed red wax was the king’s badge; this was way above his pay scale.

  ‘Sir Peter is not at home,’ he said.

  Sir Peter; that was new to Chaucer. The man was a guildsman, albeit with ideas above his station. ‘Then I shall wait,’ he said. ‘Have you accommodation for a servant of the king?’

  The comptroller had used this ploy before and it had never let him down yet. The steward hesitated, then social divisions got the better of him and he ushered Chaucer in under the gateway into a small courtyard. He clicked his fingers and a lackey bobbed into view, rather old, rather infirm. ‘A room for this gentleman, Ratcliffe,’ the steward said. ‘Jackie boy, take the horse.’ A spotty groom who stank of horse liniment scrabbled up to catch Chaucer’s bridle and he led the animal away.

  ‘When do you expect Sir Peter?’ Chaucer asked the steward.

  ‘Tomorrow, sir,’ the man said. ‘Soon after cockcrow. Shall I send some minnow pie for your supper? Or lampreys?’

  ‘Minnows will be excellent,’ Chaucer said. ‘Thank you.’ And he followed the shambling minion, who creaked and puffed and groaned on every stair. It was now that he saw through the steward’s little game. He was not going to stay in the main house, but a tiny annexe along a high walkway. He could make out the abbey’s tracery tops from here, high above the trees, and he had rarely seen a room so small; it made his premises over Aldgate look palatial.

  ‘I hope as how you’ll be comfortable, sir,’ the old man said. ‘Fresh straw on the floor and the pisspot’s empty.’ He kicked it to prove that it was so and was rewarded with a dull clang.

  ‘Joy,’ Chaucer said. He held the man’s sleeve as he made to leave. ‘Tell me, er … Ratcliffe, is it?’

  ‘It is, sir,’ the old man wheezed. ‘Man and boy. I used to do for Sir Robert Waldegrave back in the day. Now I do for Sir Peter Vickers …’ It may have been coincidence, or a sign of contempt, but Ratcliffe suddenly coughed so that his whole body shook and his phlegm spattered onto the fresh straw.

  Chaucer already had half an angel in his hand. ‘Is Mistress Blanche about?’ he asked quietly.