by M. J. Trow
‘Best of three, Master Chaucer?’ Ifaywer suggested.
‘I really don’t know how to …’ the comptroller began.
‘Come, come, sir,’ the Queck Master thumped him on the lamb. ‘You’ve been watching play for a while now. It’s so simple, that little sheep of yours could do it. Apt costume, by the way, for a Comptroller of Woollens.’
‘Thank you,’ Chaucer smiled, not taking one eye off Visconti for a moment. ‘I think it works.’
The carpenter produced a coin from his purse. ‘Father?’ he called to a Dominican standing nearby. ‘Would you do the honours?’
The monk checked the coin and bit it, showing it to Chaucer to prove that it was not loaded. ‘A fair likeness of His Late Grace King Edward III, sir?’ he asked.
‘Undoubtedly,’ Chaucer agreed and the priest spun it in the air.
‘Call,’ he said.
Ifaywer gestured to Chaucer.
‘Heads,’ the comptroller said.
The coin clattered onto the queck board.
‘Bad luck,’ Ifaywer crowed. ‘It’s tails.’
There was a groan of disappointment from the crowd. David Ifaywer was nobody’s favourite. He had virtually invented this game and was obsessed with it. To see him toppled by a novice now, that would be marvellous. It would also be a miracle. The carpenter raised his queck piece and slid it sideways, knocking the other pieces to one side.
The monk bent over the board. ‘That’s nearly a queck in one,’ he announced.
The crowd cheered and bellowed in equal proportion. Now, it was Chaucer’s turn. He flicked his piece, feeling it warm and clammy in his hand, and realized how difficult this game was with your arms pinioned in a lamb-carrying disguise. The crowd roared with delight and Chaucer had no idea why.
‘Queck mate,’ said the monk and the comptroller wondered what sort of priory was being run just up the road.
There were claps and whistles; Chaucer was pleased to see the Italian boy joining in the fun. All was still well. Ifaywer was smiling. ‘As I thought, Master Chaucer,’ he said. ‘You’re a natural. Queck ho!’ he shouted and flicked his piece again. This time, it spun in the air for what seemed an eternity before landing on the edge of the board. Howls and applause again.
‘Leaning queck,’ the monk said, apparently impressed. ‘You’ll have to go some to beat that, sir.’
Chaucer was sure of that, but exactly how he had no clue. He flipped the piece and the crowd went wild. Ifaywer was still smiling and he extended his hand. ‘Well quecked, Master Chaucer,’ he said. ‘You’ve played this before.’
‘No, I …’
‘Well, there it is,’ the carpenter said, resetting the board. ‘Second round.’
‘One up to the fat shepherd!’ somebody shouted, and Chaucer couldn’t help noticing that money was changing hands in the crowd. And the whole farce began again. This time, although Chaucer couldn’t see anything different, the mob became quieter, if a little more mutinous.
‘Queck in four,’ the monk observed.
‘Never!’ somebody shouted and a little Suffolk jostling broke out.
‘Replay!’ somebody else demanded.
‘No, no,’ the monk said, holding up his hand to calm the situation. ‘Arbiter’s decision.’
There were still murmurs of discontent, but only the most inebriated would go up against a man of the cloth at the Clare pageant; it just wasn’t done.
‘He’s lost it,’ someone commented, ‘the shepherd. Concentrate, man!’
Chaucer was trying to do just that and flicked his piece. It rattled down the board’s edge, jumping onto the table and back again. Howls of derision and groans of disappointment. Ifaywer’s hand was out again. ‘Bad luck, Master Chaucer. That’s queck evens. Third round, now. The big one.’ He closed to his opponent. ‘Er … you wouldn’t care to put some money on this, I suppose?’
‘Um … well, I …’
But the crowd was more than insistent, patting Chaucer on the back and thumping him on the lamb. Ifaywer’s bulging bag of coin was already on the table.
‘I’m not sure I can match that,’ Chaucer said.
‘Whatever you have,’ the carpenter beamed, magnanimous when it came to somebody else’s money.
The comptroller retrieved his purse from under the lamb and put it alongside Ifaywer’s, with a feeling akin to saying goodbye to someone very dear.
‘Quecker’s friend!’ a female voice rang through the mutterings and everybody looked up. Joyce stood there, scowling at Ifaywer.
‘Out of the question,’ the carpenter said. ‘Round three. Play on.’
‘Father?’ Joyce stood her ground.
The Dominican blinked. He wasn’t often called upon to play Solomon, except every year in the Clare queck championships. Even so, he had never encountered quite this situation before. He turned his back while he fished under his robes and produced a little, leather-bound book. He flicked through the pages. ‘She’s right, Queck Master,’ he said. ‘It says here, on page sixteen “In the event of a stranger taking part in the championship, he shall be allowed a quecker’s friend to advise”.’
‘Don’t quote that to me, you idiot,’ Ifaywer snapped. ‘I wrote the damned thing.’
‘Well, then …’ Joyce stood like an ox in the furrow, hands on hips. Chaucer was suddenly very glad she was there.
‘Doesn’t apply to women,’ the carpenter snapped.
‘Father?’ Joyce wanted confirmation.
The monk flicked the pages backwards and forwards. ‘There’s nothing here about the … gender … of the friend,’ he said.
‘Even so …’ Ifaywer said, getting flustered, ‘when I wrote that, I …’
Joyce fixed him with her special glare. ‘When you wrote that you … what, Master Ifaywer?’ she asked. The carpenter tried to stare her down, but failed. Only she knew what he was about to say and perhaps it wasn’t for mixed company, some of them her children. ‘Father?’ Joyce now swivelled her special glare to the monk. Chaucer had never seen this side of her; he was impressed. Solomon quaked a little, then he remembered that he was one of the greatest kings of the Old Testament as well as a Dominican and pulled himself up to his full height.
‘There is nothing to preclude the lady,’ he said. ‘Round three. Play on.’
Ifaywer was furious, but he saw a metaphorical noose swinging in front of his eyes if he crossed a man of God and the baying mob in one petty move. He sat back in his chair.
Joyce pushed her way through to Chaucer and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘The Ipswich Deferential,’ she whispered, miming with her fingers what Chaucer’s attack should be. He flicked the piece as she indicated and it clattered in the centre of the board. The crowd became hysterical but settled down for Ifaywer to make his play. He did, with consummate skill, and the mob roared.
‘Hm, he’s tried the Colchester Malfeasance,’ Joyce whispered in Chaucer’s ear. ‘Clever. Very clever. Happily for you, he has missed a perfect CM by a whisker. That means … now, careful here, Geoff; he’s not called the Queck Master for nothing. Try …’ she was wrestling with the tactics in her head, gnawing her lip, ‘try the Bungay Straight,’ and she mimed the action, ‘but be very steady with your aim or you’ll have somebody’s eye out.’
The sweat was forming on Chaucer’s moustache. What possessed him to play this stupid game with a lamb clamped to his chest? And why were half his life’s savings sitting in an inviting heap on the table to one side of him?
‘Go for it, Signor Chaucer,’ Visconti shouted and his girl reached up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, flinging her arms around his neck. Chaucer glanced up; at least that was one worry off his mind, the Italian was still visible and going nowhere fast, to judge by the crowd at his back.
Chaucer quecked, straight and true, and Ifaywer thumped the table in annoyance.
‘Rule Thirty-Eight,’ the monk said, the book still in his hand. ‘“Any examples of bad temper that affect the balance of the board, or—�
�’
‘Yes! Yes!’ The carpenter cut him off. ‘Play, Chaucer, if you can, after this.’
Ifaywer’s piece spun in the air, clattering along the board and sliding into the corner. There was a silence, followed by a deafening shout. Chaucer heard Joyce breathe in. ‘The Saxmundham Speculation.’ Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘I’ve only ever seen that done once. It didn’t end well.’
The carpenter was beaming like Nicholas Brembre’s cat with the cream. ‘Nobody comes back from the Saxmundham Speculation,’ he said, smugly.
Chaucer believed that. He had had no idea what he was doing for the past half-hour. He had no idea what he was doing now, but a look at Joyce’s stricken face warned him he would be saying goodbye to his money any second. For all her skill, Joyce had no answer this time. He squared his shoulders, making sure that his right arm was as free as the lamb would allow and quecked for all he was worth. The piece soared through the air, slicing everything in its path, bouncing on the board rim and ricocheting past Ifaywer’s piece. The little town of Clare had never heard a noise like it. Chaucer’s shoulders and back were pounded with congratulatory slaps until he was black and blue. The girl and Visconti embraced. The Dominican put away his little book. ‘I believe we have a new Queck Master,’ he said, and shook Chaucer’s hand.
Ifaywer slumped back in his seat, a beaten man, and said nothing as the monk slid his ample purse across to his conqueror. Eventually, he recovered something of his composure. ‘I’ve never seen a move like that,’ he murmured, ‘and I invented the game. What do you call that, Master Chaucer?’
Chaucer would have called it a miracle if it wouldn’t offend the monk, but the poet in him took over. ‘That?’ he said, getting to his feet with difficulty as Arthur the lamb had got caught in the trestle leg. ‘That old thing? Surely, you know the Clare Clarification?’ He turned to Joyce. ‘Madam,’ he said loudly, ‘I don’t know who you are, but may I thank you for your help today?’ and he placed Ifaywer’s purse in her hands. Her eyes widened at its weight. She looked at him.
‘I don’t know who you are either, Geoffrey Chaucer,’ she smiled and loosened the purse’s strings. With a glance at Ifaywer, she threw the purse into the air, the coins cascading down on the hysterical crowd, struggling with each other to catch the tinkling silver as it fell on them like manna from heaven.
But Giovanni Visconti, who from his cradle had never had to worry about money, was leading his new conquest by the hand, striding up towards the castle. And, at a suitable distance, the fat shepherd turned Queck Master, walked that way too.
The slope from the town up to the castle was not very steep, but it was long and before very many minutes had elapsed, Chaucer was lagging. The day was drawing to a close and the sun was low behind the castle and the air was cooling. Even so, Chaucer could feel the sweat beading under his moustache and he would have given his hard-won purse to be rid of the lamb riding on his chest. He could see Giovanni Visconti and the girl ahead of him, the white flash of her kerchief sometimes disappearing as the lad wrapped her in his arms. From time to time, they leaned on a tree by the side of the road and Chaucer could stop to catch his breath.
Standing with his hands on his hips and flexing his aching back, Chaucer looked up to the high crenellations of Clare and saw the unmistakeable outline of Hugh Glanville silhouetted against the sky. His costume for the day was an even more outrageous version of what he wore usually, so he was an arresting sight, with frills, furbelows and floating plumes to further order. He waved and saw the boy’s head turn towards him. Hugh put his hands on the stone, still warm from the sun of the day, and leaned forward, to be sure. He was confused at first; the comptroller seemed to have put on a great deal of weight during the afternoon, but when the man on the road waved to him, pointing in front of him in dumb show, he was sure he wasn’t mistaken. Closer to the castle, stepping out of a patch of deep shade into the twilight, was Giovanni Visconti, entwined, it would seem, with a girl from the town. Hugh was as red-blooded as the next squire but had been nicely brought up and thought that this behaviour was perhaps a little coarse. But he had not had the advantage of being the brother-in-law of the uncle of the king, so perhaps things were different for such as Visconti. He waved back to Chaucer, to tell him he had seen and understood and, within a minute, Visconti and his conquest had disappeared under the black shade of the castle gate.
Chaucer, his charge handed safely over, sat on a log at the side of the path and lifted the weight of his lamb away from his stomach and chest, letting his sweat cool and dry. He made himself a promise that the next time such an occasion arose, he would choose a lighter costume. Perhaps he could go as a poet, a simple couplet on the lip, a quill behind his ear. Perhaps a line or two of doggerel pinned to his chest; I wol nat letten eek noon of this route; Lat every felawe telle his tale aboute; And lat se now who shal the soper wynne; And ther I lefte, I wol ayeyn bigynne – it needed work, but it was a start. Smiling at his own thoughts, he looked up at the castle again, hoping that Hugh had understood and was watching Visconti. For a moment, his heart leapt – a figure still stood there, looking down. Chaucer squinted into the dying day; it wasn’t Hugh. It was taller, for a start, broader in the shoulder. His father, perhaps, waiting to let Chaucer know that Hugh was on watch. He squinted again. No, not that; this was a bigger, stronger man altogether and he was wearing a loose garment, not Glanville senior’s tight-fitting borrowed garb. As he watched, the man – it couldn’t possibly be a woman, it was far too tall – seemed to look straight into his eyes. The right arm extended in greeting and, above the noises of the town, of oxen bellowing and wagons beginning to rumble forwards, crushing the cobbles under their iron-shod wheels, he heard the Marshal at Arms’ ‘Hoo!’ ring out. He raised an arm as best he could and returned the call. The figure gave a bow and, as quick as a blink, was gone.
In the inner bailey, all was bustle. At the far end, opposite the big double door, a dais had been set, with a short row of chairs for Violante and some honoured guests. They could watch the wagons arrive and see a brief recreation of each show, best bits only. Flanking the dais were two long trestles, with chafing dishes along their lengths and sweating kitchen boys behind each one. A lad had been given the job of delivering glowing coals to each as they needed it and he was trundling a heavy cart to and fro, in answer to the calls from the cooks. Behind one trestle stood Butterfield, arms folded and eyes everywhere. Cooking was demeaning; he did not intend to get himself covered in flour and grease, but if his boys didn’t beat that Italian in the battle for hearts and stomachs, heads would roll. He had been tasting and sipping all afternoon, making sure that every posset, fritter and dumpling was the peak of perfection. Because of this, he was now feeling very much less than his best. His head ached and his stomach was very rebellious, growling and gurgling and doing its best to let him know that the odds against the evening ending well were small.
Niccolò Ferrante also stood to the rear of his people, arms folded and eyes everywhere. But not for him the flurried tasting and worry that was ruling Butterfield; he knew that his food was the best and had, for that reason, little boys waiting on the customer side of the table to load up plates and – for the great unwashed – explain what the dishes were. He had already reduced six of them to tears over their pronunciation of cozze impanate and was prepared to go to any lengths to make his buffet table something to delight and amaze the clods of Clare in a way that mutton dumplings and lampreys could never manage. He had positioned himself in such a way as to be able to watch the dais to make sure Lady Violante had everything she needed before she knew she needed it and also watch Butterfield as he careened off into the depths of despair. Ferrante was not by nature much of a smiler, but he smiled that night in the inner bailey of Clare, surrounded by the smells of home and bathed in the warmth from the old stone and the newly lit braziers, still a little smoky but festive and bright. This evening would go well, of that much he was certain.
The noise of the wa
gons drew nearer and the Lady Violante and her women stepped onto the dais and curtseyed politely to the townsfolk as they poured in through the gates. The smell of food was almost deafening, but they waited, as they had for years without number, to see the Guilds all strut their three minutes upon a stage. To those on the dais, it all seemed to be going like clockwork, but they didn’t know how much wrangling, shouting and – on at least one occasion – physical injury had gone into working out the pecking order of the wagons’ arrival. The saner counsel was that they should arrive in chronological order, starting with Adam and Eve and ending with stories from the Gospels. The Corpus Christi Guild, very naturally, agreed with this and cast their votes accordingly. All the other Guilds complained that in the natural order of things, tapicers were the lowest of all of them, making things which any competent housewife could achieve with both eyes shut and one hand behind her back, so they should not enter first. The Goldsmiths, who always considered themselves the major Guild, stepped forward and offered their Magi as the leading wagon, Alban the apothecary standing in their lee and ready, as clearly the most intelligent man in Clare, to speak up as required. All the other Guilds had shouted the Goldsmiths down – what was the point of having the leading wagon telling the story of an event almost at the end of their story? Whitlow the haberdasher had slithered to the front and the thought rose in more than one breast that he would make a better Serpent than that daft lad whom the Tapicers had chosen.
‘I think,’ Whitlow said, portentously, ‘that the woman taken in adultery should come first. It’s got a lot to say to any crowd, especially on May Night when,’ he chuckled and many husbands’ blood ran cold, ‘let’s be honest, gentles, men and women have been known to …’ and another chuckle said it all.
A member of the Guild of St Brigit, a midwife of the town, took umbrage and lashed out at Whitlow with a birthing stool. ‘You vile knarre!’ she shrieked. ‘Demeaning and debauching, that’s all you do. I’ve lost count of the babies I’ve delivered with your vile nose and single eyebrow. The Nativity should come first, with its message of hope for the world.’