The False Virgin (28 page)

Geoffrey was irritated by these references to ‘our master’, as if Banks were determined to show himself the perfect, diligent servant. Yet the steward was right to say that Gaunt was
preoccupied. His older brother, Edward, was very near to death, it could be only a matter of days. When that happened, and because of the infirmity of his father, John’s position in the
country would be all powerful. The last thing Lancaster needed was some scandal to do with a courtier from his wife’s company of foreigners.

Nevertheless Geoffrey tried to take things in a different direction.

‘Isn’t it possible that this de Flores was attacked by a stranger, by someone who has nothing to do with the Savoy Palace? Perhaps he was the victim of a robbery?’

‘No,’ said the steward. ‘For one thing, the only way down to the river shore where he was found is through the palace gardens. For another, not a thing was taken from his body.
His rings, his jewellery, everything was there. Including this.’

From a pocket Banks fished a thin golden chain. It was broken. There was a small ruby set in the chain. Banks laughed, a dry, humourless sound.

‘This ruby did not protect him from harm.’

‘May I have it?’ said Geoffrey. ‘I’d like to show it to someone.’

The steward shrugged, as if to say: do what you please. Now Chaucer picked up the copy of the Beornwyn story, which Banks had earlier presented to him as if it were evidence of some crime. And
it was evidence in a way. After all, there was blood on one end.

‘I suppose it is a coincidence de Flores had this with him when he was found?’

‘I do not think so, Master Chaucer.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of. I cannot see any reason why he should have it, though.’

‘Oh, I can help you there. I have a . . . witness . . . one who has a story.’

Banks left the room. Geoffrey thought about his predicament. He would have to talk to Philippa, at some point, about the man de Flores.

The steward returned with someone else. To Geoffrey’s amazement it was the red-capped person from the Tabard, the firebrand, the one he’d seen entering the Savoy several weeks
before. He remembered now that he’d intended to report on the man’s fiery words to Thomas Banks. Not necessary now since the two were obviously acquainted. The man was just as surprised
to see Chaucer. But Geoffrey seized the advantage in greeting him by name: ‘John Hall.’

‘Why, it is the man who says John of Gaunt is the issue of a dragon and a mermaid.’

Now it was Banks’s turn to look confused.

Chaucer said, ‘We have met, we two, and not under auspicious circumstances. The last time I saw you, John Hall, you were spouting seditious words against the Savoy.’

Hall did not reply. He looked at the steward.

‘The words you heard should not be taken at face value, Master Chaucer. This one is in my pay. By coincidence – yes, this is a genuine coincidence – it was his brother and
another man who discovered de Flores’s body yesterday. Hugh Hall is a member of this household. It gives brother John a pretext for visiting from time to time.’

‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, though he didn’t.

‘Explain yourself,’ said Thomas Banks to Hall. He returned to his seat. Chaucer had not left his. Hall remained standing. In his posture and tone was a mixture of defiance and
deference.

‘I am in the
secret
employment of this gentleman here,’ he said to Geoffrey, who noticed that he used the word ‘employment’ instead of ‘pay’.
‘My work makes for strange bedfellows, whether in the Tabard Inn or elsewhere. If you want an explanation for my “seditious words”, sir, it is because sometimes the discontented
and the treasonous have to be smoked out of their lairs. Pretending to be one of them is a way of doing it.’

Geoffrey observed how, as he was saying this, Hall’s eyes darted repeatedly towards Banks. Hall was definitely a spy of some kind but Geoffrey wondered whether the steward knew the real
force of Hall’s rants against John of Gaunt and the house of Lancaster. He wondered what the red-cap actually believed, whose side he was on. The uncertainty was not cleared up when Hall
continued: ‘Also, sir, I have been reporting to a gentleman in the Spanish party here in the Savoy.’

‘The dead man, de Flores?’

Hall ducked his head slightly in acknowledgement. ‘Yes. His death had nothing to do with me.’

‘No one said it did,’ said Geoffrey.

‘The Spaniard believed I was telling him things even while he was telling
me
things, all unawares. Things that I passed on to my employer here.’

‘Did you get paid by the dead man for your things?’

‘No . . .’ Then seeing the expression on Geoffrey’s face, he said: ‘Not much anyway . . . not enough . . .’

‘You had a disagreement over payment. You had a fight.’

‘We had a falling out,’ said the man, choosing his words with care. ‘But I did not kill him, I say.’

‘No one said you did, John Hall. What did you learn from this de Flores?’

‘The Castilian was interested in causing a division here in the Duke’s court. He talked of a poem.’

‘A poem?’ said Geoffrey, feeling a chill that was not caused by the dank chamber.

‘A poem about a lady who was not what she seemed. I didn’t understand what he was talking about.’

‘You were not dispatched on any errands by de Flores?’ said Geoffrey. ‘For example, you did not visit a house in Aldgate to – obtain an item – through
deception?’

Either the look of bafflement on the other’s face was genuine or John Hall was a fine player. But Chaucer did not believe that he was the one who’d stolen the Beornwyn piece anyway.
Nor did he seem to have any notion of why the Castilians might wish to get their hands on the poem. Geoffrey nodded at Thomas Banks as a sign that his man could go. The steward waved the spy away
and Hall moved out of the room in his stiff-gaited way.

When the door had closed, Banks stood up, arms akimbo.

‘Well, Master Chaucer, I must confess that I am not much the wiser.’

Geoffrey shrugged as if he too were in the dark. But an idea was beginning to take shape in his head. He rose.

‘You will excuse me, steward. I have to visit my wife.’

‘I did not care for that poem about the saint, Geoffrey,’ said Philippa.

She spoke regretfully as if she would like to have liked it. Husband and wife were sitting in Philippa’s apartment, the one where Chaucer had encountered John of Gaunt and Katherine
Swynford together a few weeks earlier. The most uncomfortable part of the conversation was over. Geoffrey had asked Philippa directly about her friendship with Carlos de Flores. She didn’t
seem put out by his words. Perhaps the man’s death made such questions seem necessary, instead of painful or impertinent. Philippa replied that the Castilian was a friend to all ladies, and
that she was not such a fool as not to see what kind of a man he was. Besides, she added, he was interested in her more on account of her sister, and that not because
he
was such a fool to
believe he could have Gaunt’s woman for himself but for some other reason. And de Flores also asked several questions about him, Geoffrey, her husband.

It was now that Geoffrey started to talk about the Beornwyn poem, the one Philippa didn’t like.

‘I wrote down the account of a saint, which I heard first at Bermondsey Priory. As I was writing it I found that the picture of the woman, Beornwyn, began to change in here –’
Geoffrey tapped his temple, ‘– and I wondered if she was as pure and holy as she’d been reputed. I meant no harm in what I did. The woman was long gone, and her life and her death
were rich but faded like an old tapestry. Why not add another thread to the picture? I did not reckon on the audience at the Savoy Palace being so . . . so . . .’

‘So pure, so holy?’ said Philippa, with amusement. ‘You must remember, Geoffrey, that though all of us might be educated and sophisticated people we also have regard to the
proprieties. My sister is a devout woman.’

Geoffrey nodded. That was true. He continued: ‘I believe that the Castilians, or some of them, want to create a division between your sister and the Duke of Lancaster. They do not like the
fact that she lives in the same house as their queen. I think they plan to use my poem to help open up the division by suggesting that Katherine is like Beornwyn, devout and pure in the eyes of the
world, but . . .’

‘Like all women,’ said Philippa. ‘Someone with her own wishes and desires.’

‘Just so,’ said Geoffrey, grateful that she had put the matter in her own way and, in his gratitude, thinking that he ought to keep company with her more often.

‘But none of that explains why de Flores was killed,’ said Philippa. ‘If he
was
killed, that is.’

‘What happened on the night when I read the poem?’ said Chaucer. ‘Later on, I mean. Did you catch sight of Carlos de Flores?’

Geoffrey himself had not remained long in the audience chamber. He could see the recital had not gone down well. He had no wish to stay and receive tepid compliments. By the late light of the
summer evening he returned to Aldgate by himself, just as William the porter was about to close the city gates.

After a pause, Philippa answered him: ‘I saw de Flores talking to someone, a man. They were standing close together in a corner by a window. The chamber was not so full by then, John of
Gaunt had already left and my sister followed shortly afterwards. I recall thinking it was unusual. If de Flores was going to be discovered talking quietly in a corner, I’d expect a woman to
be involved. He and the man did not know that they were being observed. It was growing dark outside. There was some dispute, I think. De Flores suddenly strode out and the man seemed to go off in
pursuit of him.’

‘You know who the man was?’

‘No, and I have not seen him here in the Savoy before. But he had a battered countenance – and, Geoffrey, now I remember that you were talking to him before you read out your
poem!’

‘Then it must be Edward Jupe, the knight. The knight of the battered countenance describes him well. He was in company with a lady, a demure-looking lady.’

‘Oh, it is Alice Osterley. She is one of the Queen’s demoiselles, like me, though I scarcely know her.’

‘Where was she when this dispute was taking place?’

‘I don’t know. She was not in the corner with the men.’

‘Was it possible the argument was over her?’

‘Geoffrey, I cannot say for certain. But, yes . . . Carlos de Flores had been . . . paying attention to Alice, I believe . . . as he paid attention to several of Constance’s
women.’

Now Chaucer stood up. It was obvious who should be questioned next.

He thanked Philippa, and noted the slight disappointment on her face as he left. He turned back and they kissed. Yes, he really must keep company with her more often.

He returned to the cell-like office, wondering where and how he would lay hands on Sir Edward Jupe. The answer proved easier than he’d expected once he talked to Thomas Banks. He began by
asking what Banks observed on the evening of the Beornwyn reading before leading the conversation round to Sir Edward. The steward explained that he quit the audience chamber shortly after his
master, John of Gaunt. But Banks was able to tell Geoffrey Chaucer a little about the knight’s history.

Although Jupe came from a family that could hardly count itself as noble, a family that possessed nothing more than some desolate acres in Lincolnshire, the knight had done a great service to
John of Gaunt on the borders of Aquitaine several years ago. He protected the Prince during a fierce skirmish with an advance guard of the French, protected him almost at the cost of his own life.
Of course, any knight would have done the same, willingly laid down his life for his liege lord. But, said the steward, something about the way Sir Edward bore himself after the attack, together
with his modesty and meekness in response to Gaunt’s gratitude, caused the Duke to take Jupe to his heart. He seemed to the Prince the very model of what a knight should be: courteous,
courageous and chivalrous. He might not be as well-born as some but he had an innate nobility. He became a friend of Gaunt’s, as far as a king’s son may have friends. Chaucer nodded. He
knew that the Duke of Lancaster was loyal to his friends.

Then, after the French war, Sir Edward dedicated himself to other causes, even campaigning in the cold northern countries near the edge of Russia. Always he wore his lady’s favour. This
was the opening Geoffrey was looking for. Almost casually, he asked Thomas Banks about Sir Edward’s lady. Was she in the court of Savoy? Indeed, said the steward, he believed that the knight
was favoured by Alice Osterley. In fact, she too had been present on the evening of the Beornwyn reading. Yes, said Chaucer, pretending to remember, I saw them together!

Not a single word that Thomas Banks said indicated he was aware of any unhappiness between the knight and his lady. Any unhappiness, any dispute or jealousy. Chaucer had that knowledge only from
Philippa. But then his wife was likely to be better informed than the men in the household.

‘Tell me, Geoffrey, you surely don’t suspect Sir Edward of having a hand in this matter?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ said Chaucer, reflecting, not for the first time, how easy he found it to tell a lie. ‘It is only that he may have some information about Carlos de
Flores. I would like to speak to him. Do you know where I might find him?’

‘I believe he and his page lodge somewhere south of the river. He is often to be found in a tavern on that side, though its name escapes me.’

The Tabard in Southwark?’

‘It may be.’

This was enough for Geoffrey. Within the hour he found himself once more back inside the Tabard. He was greeted cheerfully by the host, Harry Bailey. He even took a drinking cup of the Rhenish
wine that Bailey had been pressing on him. (It was as good as the inn-keeper claimed.) There was no thin-lipped, red-capped firebrand to disturb his drinking with talk of reducing the Savoy to a
pile of ash. There were no pilgrims assembling to begin their journey to the shrine in Canterbury.