The Nun's Tale (25 page)

Owen cocked his head to one side. ‘You cannot mean for me to think you are still an archer in those clothes.’

‘Nay. Bertold cuffed me on the head once too often and I took up the Duke’s offer to serve as one of Master Geoffrey Chaucer’s escorts to Spain this winter.’

‘Spain?’

Ned noted his friend’s sudden interest. ‘We will speak of that by and by with my lord Duke. Now we must fill our tankards and toast to old friendships.’

‘Agreed.’

Owen was escorted to the high table as promised, seated between Louth and a little round man with lively, alert eyes that seemed to take in everything round him.

‘Geoffrey Chaucer,’ the man said lifting his cup of wine to Owen in greeting. His dull dress did not fit his cheerful demeanour.

‘Chaucer? Lancaster’s ambassador to Spain?’

A laughing bow. ‘And I know something of you, Owen Archer.’ He chuckled at Owen’s surprise. ‘There are few well-spoken Welshmen with eye patches at the high table this evening, Captain.’

‘Sometimes there are several?’

Chaucer feigned surprise at the question. ‘Why, quite frequently, to be sure.’

Owen wondered whether the man was silly on wine or his own wit, but he liked him. He played with conversation like a Welshman.

‘I know that you were blinded in that eye by the leman of a Breton jongleur whose life you had saved. Such a poetic blinding, but I can see you do not share my view.’

‘How can I, with but one eye?’

Chaucer clapped. ‘Splendid.’

‘Tell me, Master Chaucer, have you any Welsh blood?’

‘Alas, no. A terrible lack for a poet, but it is my unfortunate lot. I must work all the harder.’

Owen looked more closely at the man. The bards and poets he had met usually looked more imposing. ‘You are a poet?’

Chaucer shrugged. ‘I play with words. It helps me while away the dull hours envoys spend on benches at the edges of great halls, awaiting audiences.’

‘You have an intriguing variety of skills. I should think it hard to compose poetry while sitting amidst the courtiers who clamour for attention.’

Chaucer nodded. ‘But a dabbler must live. And a wife must have money to set up a household.’

‘You are newly married?’

Chaucer nodded, but his eyes were on the tapestries behind the high table. The company in the hall fell silent as the duke came through them and took the centre seat at the high table. John of Gaunt looked much as he had when Owen had last seen him, at his grand castle of Kenilworth. Lancaster was in his mid-twenties, tall, broad in the chest, with a forked beard and full lips, a Plantagenet in his regal bearing, his height, his fair colouring. Owen wondered whether his temper was also true Plantagenet, quick to laugh, quick to take offense.

‘Now there is a man blissfully married to the most beautiful woman in God’s creation,’ Chaucer murmured, his voice full of yearning.

Owen looked at the poet with interest. A complex little man.

Lancaster did not linger over his food. He was the last to arrive at table, the first to leave. Owen, Chaucer, and Louth were soon summoned. They were led up a flight of stone stairs to a parlour. The Duke of Lancaster stood at a table, studying maps.

‘Come, gentlemen,’ he called, beckoning them close. With a silver knife he pointed to the west coast of France. ‘Gascony, gentlemen, where Don Pedro is at present a guest of my brother, Prince Edward.’ Moving the knife to the right, he stopped at Castile. ‘Castile, where he should sit enthroned.’ The Duke snapped his fingers and a servant took up the map and backed away into the shadows. Another servant brought forth a chair. Lancaster sat, tucking the knife into a jewelled sheath at his waist. Three more chairs appeared. His guests sat.

‘Sir Nicholas,’ Lancaster said, nodding to Louth, ‘it is good to see you. If you are able to tie up your concerns in Beverley by autumn, the Prince wishes you to sail with me.’

‘I hope that I may do so, my lord Duke.’ Louth gestured towards Owen. ‘Captain Archer accompanied me to Leeds at my lord Thoresby’s request. We spoke with Matthew Calverley, the father of the woman who has concerned us, Dame Joanna of St Clement’s Priory. Owen is a skilful questioner.’

Lancaster studied Owen closely. ‘You are a man of many talents, Owen Archer. You have done well by me – the archers you trained hit the mark every time. Your service to me will not go unrewarded.’

‘Your Grace,’ Owen said with a little bow. ‘You have two able men in Gaspare and Lief.’

Lancaster nodded. ‘Indeed. It was you who trained them . . . But now I would hear you and Sir Nicholas on your visit to Leeds. Master Chaucer attends because I believe his business with me touches on this. He has read your letters, Nicholas, you need not begin from the beginning.’

As Louth recounted the interviews with Matthew and Frank Calverley, Owen noticed an exchange of looks between Lancaster and Chaucer at the mention of the seal of St Sebastian. When Louth was finished, Lancaster said nothing, but sat quietly, elbows on the table, fingertips pressed together, his brows drawn down in thought. At last he said, ‘Now, Master Chaucer, tell them of your mission.’

Chaucer looked surprised. He smiled apologetically. ‘I pray your patience, gentlemen. As one who is more at ease writing down his thoughts and then worrying them into a digestible form, I feel ill-prepared.’ He paused, studied his hands momentarily. ‘Shortly after the festivities of the Christmas court, I received orders to sail to Gascony and thence to Navarre. You know how King Charles, desperate to find an occupation for the ever growing Free Companies, was using them to support Enrique de Trastamare’s claim to the throne of Castile. What you may not know is that five Englishmen of renown were said to be planning to march with King Charles – or rather with Bertrand du Guesclin – against Don Pedro. It was a matter of misguided chivalry. They protested Don Pedro’s rumoured cruelty. In December, King Edward sent letters to these men warning them that they would be punished if they proceeded. The letters failed to reach them. Hence was I sent to win the King of Navarre over to Don Pedro’s cause, obtain from him a safe conduct, and travel into the mountains to intercept the Englishmen.’

‘A dangerous mission for a poet,’ Owen said.

Chaucer smiled. ‘Dangerous for any man, Captain. The mountains themselves are unfriendly in winter, and the soldiers who had hidden in them were ravenous and wild, full ready to march into Castile and slaughter Don Pedro’s men.

‘But God was with me. I found four of the five English captains and delivered the letters. They were not eager to give up the fight, but when I assured them that there would be fighting aplenty on our side, with Prince Edward at their head in his glorious black armour, they agreed. Well, two of the captains agreed only when the prospect was sweetened with gold . . .

‘But the fifth captain had disappeared. Three of his fellows believed him to be in France, conferring with du Guesclin. One thought he had returned to England for more men. This fifth captain is the one called Sebastian.’

Owen leaned forward. ‘Sebastian?’

Lancaster gave a lazy smile.

Chaucer nodded. ‘Sebastian and Will Longford fought together under the Prince at once time, before Longford lost his leg. Sebastian uses his patron saint on his seal. About the time Longford returned to England, Sebastian joined du Guesclin’s company of
routiers.’

Owen rubbed the scar under his patch. ‘Longford was of low rank, too low for the Crown to pay his passage home in peacetime. Having lost a leg and become unfit for soldiering, what are the odds that he suddenly had the money to return to England and establish a comfortable home in Beverley?’

‘You have a good mind, Archer,’ Lancaster said. He paced the room, hands behind his back. ‘Go on.’

‘There’s the letter with du Guesclin’s seal that Louth found in Longford’s house. And earlier, the Percies learned that a Frenchman had been carrying one of Sebastian’s seals to someone in Beverley.’

Chaucer sat back, content. ‘Longford will lead us to Captain Sebastian.’

Louth and Owen shook their heads. ‘Longford is missing.’

‘Surely you will find him?’ Chaucer looked naïvely confident. But was he actually baiting them?

Owen did not like it. ‘I was not aware that was our task.’

‘Indeed,’ Louth said. ‘What does Dame Joanna have to do with all this talk of
routiers
?’

Lancaster turned on his heels, stopped in front of Louth. ‘Come now, surely you see the tie.’

Louth shook his head. But Owen saw it. ‘Longford must have remembered her, remembered Hugh Calverley, perhaps knew that Calverley was in Scarborough working for the Percies, a family seeking to stop the English soldiers from sailing out of Scarborough to du Guesclin. He used her to get to her brother?’

The lazy smiled reappeared. ‘Enough for tonight, gentlemen. We shall talk more tomorrow.’

Owen did not like that. ‘Forgive me, my lord Duke, but I planned to leave for York early tomorrow.’

‘You are not to leave quite yet, Captain Archer. I have further need of you.’

*

The next morning, bristling with impatience, Owen sat on the bottom of the steps to one of the outer towers, glumly nursing the fist he’d put to a post in the stables. He had meant the pain to distract him from thoughts of Lucie’s silken hair, the curve of her hips, her white breasts. It was not working. He was ready to put the other fist into someone’s face.

‘I should not like to cause such a dark look on so obvious a fighter,’ a voice said.

Owen focused his good eye on the approaching man, backlit by the sun. He recognised the short, round figure before he could clearly see the face. ‘Master Chaucer.’

‘Captain.’ He gave a little bow. ‘May I join you?’

Owen shrugged.

The little man settled on the step above Owen, bringing his line of sight even with Owen’s. ‘Is it your beautiful, accomplished wife you are missing?’

‘How do you know of her?’

‘Sir Nicholas is a talker.’

‘He is a chattering jay.’

Chaucer chuckled. ‘And Ned told me of her background, how you met. A fascinating story.’

Owen frowned still. ‘I am attempting to forget my longing at the moment, Master Chaucer. Pray tell me something of your wife.’

The poet gave a little bow. ‘Fair enough. You should know as much of me as I of you. Let me see. Something of my wife. We wed shortly after my father died this spring. She is Phillippa de Roet, an attendant of Queen Phillippa’s chamber. Her father was a Flemish farmer, knighted on the battlefield. He died shortly thereafter and his daughters were taken in by our Queen, kind-hearted and loyal to her fellow Flemings. My wife’s sister, Katherine, young and sickly, was sent to the convent of Sheppey, but Phillippa already showed signs of formidable tidiness and practicality, so the Queen found her useful. Phillippa is round and plain like myself.’ He shrugged. ‘And she has little patience with my poetic endeavours. That is all there is to tell.’

Owen did not detect much affection in the summation. ‘Do you yearn for your Phillippa on your journeys?’

Chaucer considered it. ‘I was about to say that I am married too recently to answer that; but, now you ask, I do miss her – when a button goes astray or I misplace something. And the bed sport is to my liking.’ He slapped his thighs. ‘Faith, I nearly forgot my mission. I am to bring you to my lord Duke. He made note of your desire for haste and wishes to give you your orders and send you off.’

Owen was surprised to find Ned sitting with Louth in the Duke’s parlour, looking very pleased with himself. ‘We are to travel together, old friend.’

‘You are coming to York?’

Ned grinned. ‘I look forward to meeting your fair Lucie.’

Owen glanced at Louth, but could read nothing in his expression.

The Duke entered the room, looked round. ‘All present. Good. I shall be brief. This matter of Longford and Sebastian being tied together with your nun . . . I think it timely that you travel together to Scarborough, stopping in York to see whether anything new has been learned from the nun. Master Chaucer is needed back in London, so it must be just the three of you. Sir Nicholas will carry the King’s letter for Captain Sebastian in case you learn something that leads you to the rogue. He will also carry money with which to bribe the captain.’

‘I am to go to Scarborough?’ Owen asked.

‘Indeed. I should think you will have more luck in ferreting out the weasel Sebastian than Master Chaucer. He is a poet, better at asking questions than finding answers. Eh, Chaucer?’

The poet smiled and shrugged amiably, but Owen noted the man’s heightened colour. He was embarrassed by his failure, fool that he was. If Owen had failed more often he would be quietly measuring out medicines in York at Lucie’s side.

S
ummer was in full song. The lavenders were sending up flower stalks; on some the tightly closed buds were already visible. Both valerians were blooming, the delicately scented pink blossoms of the garden valerian and the intense, cloying white clusters of the true valerian. Melisende sprang out from the bushy balms and caught a butterfly drinking nectar from the pink blossoms. The comfrey bells trembled with bees, the starry borage blossoms bobbed in the gentle wind.