by M. J. Trow
The face overhanging Chaucer’s withdrew from his limited field of vision. ‘Frivolity is a sin, Sister Lawrence,’ she snapped. There was more giggling and now the voice was positively acid. ‘That goes for all of you. You can all go … yes, now, do not tarry … go and say one hundred … no, two hundred Hail Marys. And don’t shirk them. I want them said properly, and with reverence. Send two of the kitchen men out, with a litter. We must take this poor traveller inside and tend to his wounds.’
Chaucer tried to get up. He didn’t want tending. In fact, he corrected himself, he did want tending. What he didn’t want was to waste time while a lot of nuns flustered around him bathing bits he would rather a nun didn’t see. ‘No, Mother, I …’
A hand as strong as a wrestler’s came down on his shoulder. ‘Now, now, traveller. Don’t try to get up. My serving men will be here shortly and we will take you to the hospice. You have clearly been injured. Tell me, were you set upon by footpads? We have a lot around here, sadly. Now …’ she looked up as the wicket gate sprang open and shut. ‘But wait, here they are. They will take you to bed and Sister Thomas will be with you shortly. She is very learned in the ways of herbs and tinctures.’
There was a rustle overhead and Chaucer heard her giving the men their orders. He briefly toyed with leaping into the saddle and riding hell for leather back to Clare, but the few cells in his brain which had not been shaken loose in the fall told him it was impossible. So he lay there, waiting to be lifted onto the litter and taken off for the tender ministrations of Sister Thomas.
SEVEN
He didn’t mean to sleep. But, what with one thing and another, it seemed like the sensible thing to do. He was laid on a bed in a whitewashed room, with a simple wooden crucifix above him. The soft spring sunshine came through the high window and made a square of gold on the rough woollen blanket over his legs. He listened to the birdsong outside and the soughing of the leaves. Somewhere, a long way away, a cuckoo called, hesitant and not yet ready to tell the world that spring had sprung. He closed his eyes again, soaking in the peace.
A door opened gently and he peeped from under his lids. A little nun came in, carrying a bowl and a ewer in her arms. Over her arm hung a bag and she brought with her a fresh smell, as of aired linen and lavender. She put the bowl down on a table by Chaucer’s bed and poured some water into it. She sprinkled herbs and powders into the water and mixed them round with her hand. She smelled the water and then added a pinch more of a pale powder that smelled of cut grass. Then she smiled and nodded to herself and, taking a cloth from her bag, wrung it out in the water.
‘There’s no point in pretending, traveller,’ she said. ‘You might be able to fool a couple of silly novices you are dead, but you can’t fool me.’ She flicked a couple of drops of water across his eyes and he flinched. ‘Come on. Open your eyes and tell me about yourself.’
Despite the flinch, Chaucer hoped he could carry it off. After all, she wasn’t a doctor of physick. How did she know whether a man was dead, unconscious or shamming?
She stood back, looking at him for a moment. Then she rolled up her sleeves and girded up her habit above her knees. She swept the wings of her coif back and pinned them behind her head. ‘In that case,’ she said to the empty room, ‘I suppose I must just wash the poor man and set him to rights before he meets his Maker.’
Before Chaucer could do anything, she had wrenched back the blanket, which was when he discovered that the nuns had undressed him at some point, hopefully when he was unconscious. He lay as naked as a jay in the bed and she slapped vigorously at his private fundaments with the wet cloth. He sat up with an alacrity he hadn’t managed for some time, covering his modesty with his bruised forearms.
The nun stepped back, hands in the air. ‘By the Holy Mother Mary,’ she carolled. ‘If it isn’t a miracle!’
She pushed him back on the bed, adjusted the small, straw-filled pillow behind his head and covered him up again.
‘Madam!’ he said, aghast. ‘Where are my clothes?’
‘In a box under the bed,’ she said. ‘And when I have tended your wounds and you have had some nourishment, you can put them on and go. I would confess, though, to the sin of being a nosy old woman with not enough to occupy my mind, and would ask you how on God’s beautiful earth you came by such bruises in a simple fall from a stationary horse.’
Chaucer looked at her and couldn’t help but smile. The nun was small and soft looking but obviously was as strong as a whip. Her face was creased with smiling and her blue eyes almost crackled with fun. He couldn’t imagine what had brought her to the priory unless it really was for the love of God; not necessarily a given, in his experience. ‘Sister Thomas?’ he checked.
‘The very same. Now, are you going to let me look at those bruises? And, perhaps more important, are you going to tell me how you came by them? Because if it was from a little fall from a horse, you need to go and see a physician quickly, traveller.’
Chaucer looked at her. There seemed no way out. She was going to wield her cloth come hell or high water and, if he didn’t tell her how he got the bruises, he would be kept in this bed and dosed until his pips squeaked.
‘I was beaten by Peter Vickers and his men,’ he said.
The nun looked thoughtful. ‘The oaf was here yesterday,’ she remarked, flicking back the blanket and covering Chaucer’s bits and bobs with a cloth in one fluid movement. She caught his eye. ‘I have no more desire to look at them than you have for me to see,’ she said. ‘So let’s ignore them, shall we?’ She patted her cloth over the worst of Chaucer’s bruises, tutting as she went. He was surprised to find that he felt almost instantly better.
‘What is that stuff?’ he asked.
‘Nothing much. Spring water, arnica, valerian root. It will cool and soothe the bruises, make you able to leave before nightfall. Unless you would rather stay. Where are you bound for?’
‘Clare.’
‘Clare? That’s quite a ride. Perhaps you had best stay.’
‘No. They’ll worry. I’ve already been too long. Perhaps if one of your servants could come with me?’
‘I’ll speak to the Mother Superior. I’m sure that can be arranged. But … Vickers. Why did he beat you? Apart from the fact that he is a pig and a bully, of course.’
‘Do you know him well?’ She seemed to have the measure of the man as far as Chaucer could tell.
‘No. I saw him yesterday, just briefly. I was on the gate when he came with his daughter. But I have seen her since and from that I conclude that he is a pig and a bully. She is deeply shocked. And also, though I perhaps shouldn’t say it, covered in bruises.’
Chaucer held his counsel. With Blanche, there was no certain way of telling how she came by those.
‘And I know what you’re thinking, traveller … what is your name, by the way? We need it for the ledger.’
‘The ledger?’ Chaucer was somewhat taken aback.
‘We keep a ledger, of course, of all the poor souls we have helped. We send it to the bishop once a year, to show that we are doing our work for the Lord.’
‘Goodness.’ Chaucer now felt less like a treasured guest and more like a number in some holy quota.
‘Indeed.’ The nun decided to take him at face value. ‘Goodness is our work. So, your name …?’
‘Chaucer. Geoffrey Chaucer. Comptroller of the King’s Woollens.’
‘Of Woollens, you say? That sounds important.’ She twinkled at him and dabbed away with her cloth. ‘That would explain the king’s seal, then.’
‘You went through my bag?’ Chaucer was having his view of nuns somewhat turned upside down by this little woman.
‘Of course. In case you died, we needed to know who to tell. But you don’t have anything in your bag to help. We would have gone to the king, in the end, I suppose. But now we don’t need to, Master Chaucer. But, as I was saying, nun I may be, but I know when a bruise is the result of a strap at the hand of an angry father or some lovemaking that g
ot out of hand. And hers are the former.’
‘He beat her?’ Chaucer was both aghast and unsurprised.
‘Indeed he did. And not just now and again. The welts are fresh and also scarred. No wonder she sought comfort with men. She was looking for someone to take her away from her father.’
She put her cloth back in the water and turned the blanket back over him, reaching under it to remove the cloth she had put there for modesty.
‘Oh!’
‘My apologies, Master Chaucer. I rather overreached myself there.’ She smiled at him and he couldn’t help but smile back, through the tears. ‘What I would suggest is that you rest for half an hour. We will be at None soon and if you want to dress then, you won’t be disturbed. I will arrange a man to travel with you. I think that is your best plan. Get away from here, before Master Vickers gets any ideas into his head and wants to beat something weaker than himself again.’
‘I can’t leave until I have spoken to Blanche … er … is that still her name?’
Sister Thomas smiled. ‘She will remain Blanche until she takes her vows. I say “until” – I imagine, with a young lady like Blanche with her … needs … I perhaps should say “if”. But, why do you need to talk to her? Surely, you are not one …’
Chaucer couldn’t decide how to take that. He was years younger than Lionel of Antwerp, that he knew, though perhaps the difference of almost twelve inches in height, the lack of an enormous fortune and the fact that he was not related to the king might have been deciding factors in a straight fight. ‘I don’t know quite what you mean, Sister Thomas,’ he said, drawing his dignity around him like a cloak. She had, after all, had a handful of all Chaucer held most dear, so there was no need for levity. ‘I need to speak to her because she was … or may have been … the last to see a very dear friend before he died.’
‘Oh, dear!’ Sister Thomas quickly crossed herself. ‘She didn’t … kill him, did she?’
Chaucer frowned. For a nun, this woman had quite a mind with but one thought in it. He decided to tell her the facts, unadorned and simple. By the time he had finished, she had tears in her eyes. ‘He was a sinner, your friend,’ she said, ‘but he didn’t deserve that. And his poor dog.’ She leaned nearer. ‘We will be at None in a very short while. I just have time to see Blanche and send her to you. She won’t be expected at devotions yet. But, Master Chaucer, be quick and be discreet. I will have a man ready with your horse within the half-hour. Get dressed, get ready, speak to Blanche and then go. Will you do that?’
‘I will. Thank you, Sister Thomas.’
‘Pax vobiscum,’ she said. ‘God will go with you, Master Chaucer, of that I am sure. Whether you will go with him’ – she shrugged – ‘that is up to you.’ And with that, she crossed herself and slipped out of the door, silent as a shadow.
As soon as he was sure she had gone, Chaucer felt under the bed for his clothes and bag and dressed as quickly as he could. He was still doing up his final laces when there was a tap at the door and Blanche Vickers slipped in, closing it behind her with exaggerated care.
‘Sister Thomas said you wanted to see me,’ she whispered. ‘We need to be quick. Those black devils will be out of the chapel soon and I can’t be caught in here. They think I want to bed any man I see. They watch me like hawks with a mouse.’
‘Well, don’t you want to bed any man you see?’ Chaucer asked, quite reasonably in his view.
‘No!’ Her voice was a squeak. ‘I don’t want to bed you, for a start!’ She looked him up and down with contempt.
‘But young monks, young squires, old men with more money than sense – you will bed them?’ Chaucer sat on the bed, his feet decorously crossed at the ankles like a memorial brass, his hands folded in his lap. He looked as innocent as a child.
Blanche’s naturally pink cheeks turned scarlet. ‘What do you know of young monks?’ she asked, truculently.
‘I know he likes to be known as Sunex Amures,’ he said. ‘And you would be Marie Lairre, as I understand it.’
Her mouth was opening and closing like a fish.
‘Don’t think it’s witchcraft,’ he said. ‘I was put up at your father’s house last night, in a small room at the end of …’
‘Ratcliffe!’ the girl spat. ‘He knows I use that room! Oh, but … I won’t use it any more.’ And she burst into floods of tears, lifting her face and howling to the sky like a soul in torment. ‘I live here now.’ She dropped her head and then looked at Chaucer through tear-blurred eyes. ‘I live here now.’ And every word was like a stone dropping into the mouth of Hell.
Chaucer waited until she had collected herself but was aware that time was short. He patted her hand. ‘Blanche,’ he said, gently, ‘I need to know. Were you still with Sir Lionel when he died?’
She opened her eyes wide and more tears spilled. ‘No! How can you say such a thing? I would have fetched help.’
‘Would you?’
‘Of course. I know I am not … good, Master Chaucer. But I am not an animal.’
‘I didn’t think you were,’ Chaucer said, kindly. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’
Blanche looked horrified. ‘You mean …?’
Chaucer was quick to stop her. ‘No, no, not that. Let’s take that as read, shall we? No, I mean, well, how can I put it … what happened after.’ She opened her mouth to tell him, but he stopped her. ‘To make myself clear, I mean, some time after. Not the immediate … after.’ He realized he had used the same word to the point of redundancy, but he wasn’t writing poetry now, he was trying to avenge a man he knew and respected.
Blanche sniffed and then rummaged in her sleeve for a cloth to blow her nose. When she felt more composed, she settled herself in the hard bedside chair and began, like a child reciting a lesson.
‘Well, after … I must tell you, Master Chaucer, before I begin, that I did love Lionel. Li-li I called him, when we were alone. He was like a man of much fewer years. Why, he could—’
Chaucer lowered his brow. ‘After,’ he reminded her.
‘Yes. Sorry. Well, after, we talked of this and that. He liked my stories about the town, you know, and what my friends told me. He liked young people, Master Chaucer. He was tired of fighting and worrying about money and what would happen with the king such a boy and all of that. Well, after a bit, I asked him if … well, you know, if it was long enough after and he said not really, he was a bit tired, so I could stay if I wanted, but there wouldn’t be any … you know.’ She blushed again and Chaucer wondered whether she could do it at will. It was hard to tell through the tears, but she was only an average-looking girl when taken a feature at a time. It was what she did with it all that seemed to drive men to insanity.
‘So you left?’
‘Yes. I didn’t just want Li-Li for … you know, Master Chaucer. Please believe that. I loved him for his …’
‘Castle. Money. Position. Yes, I know. Go on.’
She breathed in hard through her nose and set her mouth. ‘If you’re going to insult me, Master Chaucer—’
‘You know it’s true, Blanche. And believe me, I’m not here to judge. But we are running short of time and I need to know. You left, you say …’
‘Yes. I couldn’t get home that night, so I stayed in the castle. There are so many rooms, there is always somewhere to lay your head.’
‘I’m sure you have no problem with that,’ Chaucer observed, with as straight a face as he could muster.
‘I slept with one of Lady Violante’s grooms, if you must know,’ she said, high on her horse. ‘He smells of the stables but …’
Chaucer coughed.
‘Yes, well, that’s where I was. I would tell you his name if I knew it. And I wouldn’t recognize him, before you ask. It all happened in the dark.’
‘Did you pour Sir Lionel any wine before you left?’ Chaucer tried to get back on point.
She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, concentrating. Her breasts strained at her newly modest gown and Chaucer k
new she would not be in the priory for long. ‘Yes, I did. The bottle was on the side, with a glass.’ She looked at Chaucer with a piercing stare. ‘Just one glass. I suppose that bitch Violante moved the other one. She was as jealous as a hell-cat.’
‘Did she not have every reason?’ Chaucer asked.
‘No, she did not!’ Blanche spat. ‘She would never visit Li-Li in his chamber. She spent all her time with that priest and that slimy seneschal of hers. Lionel often said how tired he was of it. He was getting rid of the priest anyway, and he would be shot of the seneschal as soon as he could arrange something.’
‘Getting rid of the priest?’ Chaucer’s ears pricked up.
‘Going to the bishop, or some such.’ She turned her big blue eyes on Chaucer and innocence poured forth. ‘I didn’t always listen, Master Chaucer, when Li-Li got going. He could be very dull, poor old … poor darling.’
‘But, the priest …?’
‘Hmm, yes. Well, Li-Li didn’t say, exactly, but I expect it was about what happened with that altar boy. There was quite a stink, but that Violante hushed it up.’
‘What happened with …?’
‘Nothing dramatic. Just the usual. Some pretty boy from the town, I suppose, got himself in difficulties with Father Clement. Some don’t mind it, others do, and I suppose this one did. He took a while to complain, though, so perhaps not.’
‘Blanche,’ Chaucer said with a sigh. ‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Well, I hope before you are much older, you will discover that not everyone is like you.’ Chaucer crossed himself, not something he did often, but it seemed to serve the moment. ‘I’ll let you go because Sister Thomas will be back shortly and she doesn’t want to find us here. Was the wine open or was it still sealed?’
She looked at him as though he were something unpleasant which had dropped from the ceiling. ‘Open, of course! Surely, you wouldn’t expect Sir Lionel to open his own wine!’ Clearly, this was the most appalling thing she had heard or seen for many a year.