The Ill-Made Knight (3 page)

She curtsied again. ‘Sixteen, my lord.’ Despite the hand on her arm, or perhaps because of it, she was as tense as a hunting dog with a scent.

‘And your father asked you to wait on me?’ Sir William asked.

She curtsied a third time.

‘By St John! That is hospitable,’ Sir William said, and his eyes sparkled in a way that made the young woman blush. ‘Listen, ma petite. Serve the wine and don’t linger at table, and no one can reproach you – or grab you. Yes? I served a table or two. A hand reaches for you, you move through it and pretend nothing happened, yes?’

She nodded. ‘This is what my father says.’

‘Wise man. Just so. On your way, ma petite.’ Sir William’s odd green eyes met hers before she could look down.

Later, she told a friend it was like looking into the eyes of a wolf.

The knight got to his feet as she moved away and bowed. ‘Ah, Master Chaucer, the sele of the day to you.’ He offered a hand. ‘You are a long way from London.’

Chaucer had a narrow face and a curling beard that made him look like the statues of Arabs in the cathedrals, or like a sprite or elf, to the old wives. He took the knight’s hand and they exchanged a kiss of peace – carefully.

‘The king’s business,’ Chaucer said. His answering smile could have meant anything.

Sir William nodded. ‘Of course. As always, eh?’ He turned to the other man – a tall, blond man, almost gangly in his height, with golden hair. ‘You are a Hainaulter, unless I miss my guess, monsieur.’

Chaucer indicated his companion. ‘Monsieur de Froissart.’

Sir William offered his hand and Froissart bowed deeply. ‘One is . . . deeply moved to meet so famous a knight.’

Sir William shrugged. ‘Oh, as to that,’ he said.

‘You
must
know he’s writing a book of all the great deeds of arms of our time,’ Chaucer said.

Froissart bowed again. ‘Master Chaucer is too kind. One makes every attempt to chronicle the valour, the prowess. The . . . chivalry.’

Sir William’s green eyes strayed to Chaucer’s. ‘Not your sort of book at all,’ he said.

Chaucer’s eyes were locked on Sir William’s. ‘No,’ he said. ‘If I wrote such a chronicle, it would not be about valour. Or prowess.’

The two men looked at each other for too long. Long enough for John de Blake to move, worried there might be violence; for Aemilie, the innkeeper’s daughter, dressed in her very best clothes, to flatten herself against the plastered wall, and for Monsieur de Froissart to worry that he had said something out of place. He looked back and forth between the two men.

‘We could sit,’ Sir William said. The room had fallen quiet, but with these words, games of cards and dice sprang back into action and conversations resumed.

‘How have you kept, Geoffrey? When did we last meet? Milan?’ Sir William asked.

‘The wedding of Prince Lionel,’ Chaucer said. ‘No thanks to you.’

Sir William laughed. ‘You have me all wrong, Master Chaucer. I was not against you. The French were against us both.’

Chaucer frowned. ‘Perhaps.’ He collected himself. ‘What takes you to England?’ he asked.

Sir William smiled, eyes lidded. ‘The King’s business,’ he said.

Chaucer threw back his head and laughed. ‘Damn me, I had that coming. Very well, William. I promised Monsieur Froissart that you were the man to tell him about Italy.’

Froissart leaned forward like an eager dog. ‘My lord will understand that one collects tales of arms. Deeds of arms – battles, wars, tournaments. At the court of the young King, one hears many tales of Crecy and Poitiers and the wars in France, but one hears little of Italy. That is,’ – he hurried on – ‘that is, one hears a great deal of rumour, but one has never had the chance to bespeak a famous knight who has served—’ he paused. ‘My lord.’

Sir William was laughing softly. ‘Well, I love to talk as I love a pretty face,’ he said.

‘By our lord, that’s the truth,’ Chaucer observed.

‘What is your name, ma petite?’ the knight asked the serving maid.

‘Aemilie, my lord,’ she said, with another stiff-backed curtsey.

Sir William had begun to turn away, but he froze and his eyes went back to hers, and she trembled.

‘That is a name of great value to me, ma petite. I have loved a lady
par amours
, and that is her name.’ He nodded. ‘Fetch us two more of the same, if you will be so kind.’

She curtseyed and walked away, trying to glide in her heavy skirts.

‘If you want Italy, then you will not want France,’ he said. ‘How do I begin?’

Froissart shook his head. ‘When talk turns to feats of arms, one is all attention,’ he said. ‘One is as interested in Poitiers as any other passage of arms. It was, perhaps, the greatest feat of arms of our time.’

Sir William glared at him. ‘So kind of you to say so,’ he snapped.

Froissart paled.

‘Don’t come it the tyrant, William!’ Chaucer said. ‘He means no harm. It is merely his way. He’s a connesieur of arms, as other men are of art or letters.’ He put a hand out. ‘I saw your sister a week or more ago.’

Gold smiled. ‘In truth, I cannot wait to see her. Is she well?’

Chaucer nodded. ‘I cannot say she’s plump, but she had her sisters well in hand. She was en route to Clerkenwell to deliver her accounts, I think.’

Sir William turned to Froissart. ‘My sister is a prioress of the Order of St John, monsieur.’ He said it with sufficient goodwill that Froissart relaxed.

‘I would be most pleased if you would share with me your experiences at Poitiers,’ Froissart continued. ‘Another knight’s account would only help—’

Chaucer and Gold laughed together.

Aemilie appeared at the table with her father and two men, and they began to place small pewter dishes on the table – a dish of sweet meats, a dish of saffroned cakes, and a beautiful glazed dish of dates, as well as two big-bellied flagons of wine.

Sir William rose and bowed to the master of the house. ‘Master, your hospitality exceeds anything in Italy; it is like a welcome home to England.’

The innkeeper flushed at the praise. ‘Calais is England, my lord,’ he acknowledged.

Sir William indicted his companions. ‘I’m going to bore these two poor men with a long story,’ he said. ‘Please keep the wine coming.’

Chaucer rose. ‘William, I’m for my bed. I know your stories.’

‘I’ll tell him all your secrets,’ Gold said.

Chaucer smiled his thin, elven smile. ‘We’re in the same business,’ he said. ‘He
knows
all my secrets.’

Again, the silence.

This time, Chaucer broke it. ‘Will I see you in London?’

Sir William nodded. ‘I shall look forward to it. Will your business be long?’

Chaucer shook his head. ‘I hope not,
par dieu
. I’m too old to be a courier.’ He gave a sketchy bow and headed for the stairs.

Froissart, left almost alone with the knight, had a little of Aemilie’s look. John de Blake watched his master. ‘Shall I withdraw?’ he asked.

Gold gave a half-smile to his squire. ‘Only if you want to go, John.’

De Blake settled himself in his seat and poured himself more wine.

Aemilie crossed from her counter to the wall and stood against it, ready to serve.

Sir William drank some wine and glanced at the young woman. Then he turned back to Froissart. ‘Do you really want to hear about Poitiers, monsieur?’ he asked.

Froissart sat up. ‘Yes!’ he replied.

Gold nodded. ‘I wasn’t a knight then,’ he said.

Poitiers 1356

Men trod on their own guts and spat out their teeth; many were cloven to the ground or lost their limbs while on their feet. Dying men fell in the blood of their companions and groaned under the weight of corpses until they gave out their last breath. The blood of serfs and Princes flowed in one stream into the river.

Geoffrey le Baker
,
Chronicon

You want the story of Poitiers, messieurs? Well, I was there, and no mistake. It was warmer there – I fought in the south for several years, and I can tell you that the folds of Gascony are no place to farm, but a fine place to fight. Perhaps that’s why the Gascons are such good fighters.

Par dieu
. When I began the path that would take me to chivalry, I was what? Fifteen? My hair was still red then and my freckles were ruddy instead of brown and I thought that I was as bad as Judas. I played Judas in the passion play – shall I tell you of that? Because however you may pour milk on my reputation, I was an apprentice boy in London. And in the passion plays, it’s always some poor bastard with red hair, and that described me perfectly as a boy: a poor bastard with red hair.

It shouldn’t have been that way. My parents were properly wed. My da’ had a coat of arms from the King. We owned a pair of small manors – not a knight’s fee; not by a long chalk – but my mother was of the De Vere’s and my father was a man-at-arms in Wales. I needn’t have been an apprentice. In fact, that was my first detour from a life of arms, and it almost took me clear for ever.

I imagine I’m one of the few knights you’ll meet who’s so old that he remembers the plague. No, not the plague. The Great Plague. The year everyone died. I went to play in the fields, and when I came home, my mother was dead and my father was going.

It changes you, death. It takes everything away. I lost my father and mother and all I had left was my sister.

I’ll tell you of knighthood – and war, and Poitiers, and everything, but with God’s help, and in my own time.

My father’s brother was a goldsmith. In my youth, a lot of the young gentry went off to London and went to the guilds. Everything was falling apart. You know what I’m telling you? No? Well, monsieur, the aristocracy – let’s be frank: knighthood, chivalry – was dying. Taxes, military service and grain prices. Everything was against us. I remember it, listening to my father, calm and desperate, telling my mother we’d have to sell our land. Maybe the plague saved them. I can’t see my mother in a London tenement, her husband some mercer’s worker. She was a lady to her finger’s ends.

My uncle came and got us. Given what happened, I don’t know why he came – he was a bad man and I was afraid of him from the first. He had no Christian charity whatsoever in him, and may his soul burn in hell for ever.

You are shocked, but I mean it. May he burn – in – hell.

He came and fetched us. I remember my uncle taking my father’s great sword down from where it hung on the wall. And I remember that he sold it.

He sold our farms, too.

I remember riding a tall wagon to London with my sister pressed against my side. Sometimes she held my hand. She was a little older and very quiet.

I remember entering London on that wagon, sitting on a small leather trunk of my clothes, and the city was a wonder that cut through my grief. I remember pointing to the sights that I knew from my mother and father – the Tower, and the Priory of the Knights at Clerkenwell, and all the ships . . . My uncle’s wife was as quiet as my sister. My uncle had beaten all the noise out of her – he bragged about it. My pater used to say that only a coward or a peasant hit a woman, and now I think he had his brother in mind, because Guillaulm the Goldsmith was a coward
and
a peasant.

His wife was Mary. She took us into her house. Her eyes were blank. I can’t remember what colour they were – I don’t think she ever looked me in the eye.

Before the sun had set a finger’s width, I discovered that we were to be servants, not children.

It wasn’t the end of the world. I had waited tables for gentlemen visiting our house –my mother was trying to bring me up gently, even though we lacked the money or influence to have me placed as a page. I could carve and I could serve, so I hid my dismay and did my best.

It’s a long time ago, but he beat me before the day was out, and he liked it. I remember his breath, his face red. Licking his lips. I took it. I think I cried, but I took it. But later on he tried to beat my sister, and I bit him.

I had years of it. I doubt a day went by when he didn’t hit me, and some days – some days he beat me badly.

Bah. This isn’t what you want to hear.

I went to the church school – he did that much for me – and the monks liked me, and I liked them. Without them, I think I’d be a much worse man. They doctored me when he beat me too badly, and they prayed with me. Praying – it’s always helped me. I know there’s men-at-arms who spit at God. I think they’re fools.

I learned some Latin. Saved my life later.

I also learned to cook. My uncle wasn’t just a bad man, he was a nasty-minded miser who wouldn’t buy good food or pay a cook. He bought old meat and the last vegetables in the market. It was like a compulsion for him, not to spend money. And his poor wife was too broken to do more than throw it all in a pot and boil it. I was tired of this, and hungry, and when I complained I was beaten. Well, I’m not the only boy to be beaten for complaining about food, but I may be one of the few who decided on the spot to learn to cook. I asked men in pot houses and taverns, and women who worked in great houses, and I learned a few things. As you will see. The path of arms, for me, included many beatings, a little Latin and cooking.