A Burnable Book (19 page)

Chapter xxv

The palace of Windsor

O
n the evening following the Feast of St. George the palace was lit like a box of polished jewels, the guests just as gaudy. Simon and I had arrived from Southwark late that afternoon and were staying at the mill inn by Windsor Bridge, and had joined the crowd streaming through the west gate. The secretive St. George’s festivities on the eve and the feast day itself had been restricted to the twenty-four knights and twenty-odd ladies of the Order of the Garter, as custom dictated. Over the last four years, though, and at King Richard’s initiative, an additional, much larger feast had been thrown on the morrow, largely to show off the extensive renovations at Windsor. Each of the order’s lords and ladies was permitted ten guests for the closing feast, though the size of the crowd indicated that the figure had been interpreted rather loosely.

That year and the last I had been the guest of Sir Lewis Clifford, a knight of the Garter who had happily approved the addition of Simon to his list. Next to Gaunt himself, Clifford was perhaps Chaucer’s greatest supporter in these high circles, a friend to poets of diverse quality and fortune, and it was Geoffrey who had introduced us years before during my time at the Temple. Clifford and I had an interesting history: a missing shipment of Lyonnaise silk, a discovered bribe, a quiet conversation about one of his crooked associates. In gratitude he became my entrée to these circles, a trusted source when I needed him, and a fount of unending courtesy when I did not. When we entered the great cloister I saw him near the grange, speaking to Nicholas Brembre, mayor of London and one of numerous royal and civic officials present at the annual gathering.

“A stew of bureaucrats and secretaries,” I mused to Simon.

“Generously spiced with aristocrats,” he said quietly.

The Windsor steward had opened up the tower at the top of the Spicery Gatehouse to the guests, who moved up and down the stairs as sconced torches lit the darkening sky. The tower commanded a vast panorama of the surrounding countryside, which was settling into dusk. Outside the walls and far below, the commons were already ankle-deep in mud, enjoying the order’s bounty: casks of beer and ale, spiced cider, roasted mutton by the score. The lower tables stretched into the night, the nearby hamlets and villages emptied of their residents as the king purchased their goodwill toward himself and the Garter. We descended to the hall for Richard’s entrance. Despite the deepening factionalism in the realm, for these few days the cream of English chivalry was to set aside its squabbles and resentments and unite for a festival of prayer, unity, and reconciliation. A charade, of course, though always a useful one.

“Why are you smiling, John Gower?” Katherine Swynford, sidling up as Simon wandered off. She wore an uncharacteristically modest dress, a taffeta of deep purple cut just below her neck, an arched and almost coiflike hood covering all but the frontmost span of her hair. With her stood Philippa Chaucer, also dressed down, though where Swynford wore modesty as a peasant wears ermine, on Philippa this understated attire looked natural. Chaucer’s wife had a prominent chin below a pleasant, honest face, and eyes that sparkled with a wit whose quickness she shared with her sister. “Plotting some nasty satire, I suppose?”

I bowed to the sisters. “Simply admiring the royal view, my lady, and appreciating the feel of the royal stone beneath my humble feet.”

Swynford tightened her lips and dismissed me, looking around for someone more important. Not difficult at Windsor. Everyone knew that Gaunt’s mistress aspired to the order, and these occasions gave her the opportunity to win favor with the knights in hopes of getting her name put before the king once Lancaster was in a position again to ask for royal favors. Swynford’s attention was on the terrace doors and the duke’s coming entrance. She stood several feet in front of us, showing no interest in our talk.

“You are looking well, John,” said Philippa, her soft voice patterning a warm familiarity.

I inclined my head. “Nice to see you down from Lincolnshire, Philippa.”

“Have you heard from Simon? How is he faring?”

I was used to hearing this question from Chaucer’s wife, who had no knowledge of my son’s dark past. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

She looked surprised. “Simon is back in England?”

“Right there, talking with Ralph Strode.” I nodded at him, standing nearby with the common serjeant. “Geoffrey hasn’t mentioned it to you? Perhaps he hasn’t heard either.”

“The things Geoffrey Chaucer fails to mention to his wife would fill an ocean, John.” She did not say it bitterly, though her eyes hinted at her sadness. Over the last two years Philippa had been spending more and more of her time at Kettlethorpe Hall with her sister rather than in London with her husband. “But I’m glad to hear you are reunited with your son, especially now.”

“Thank you, Philippa.”

“Has he brought a wife back from the south?”

I hesitated. “Actually he had been betrothed. The young woman died. Fever.”

Philippa put a hand to her neck. “And Simon so young!”

“Though I must say, she seems to have changed him for the better.”

“What was her name, the poor dear?”

“Seguina. Seguina d’Orange.”

As if a keg of powder had exploded behind her, Katherine Swynford’s nose traced a swift arc through the air until she faced me, her torso twisted in the effort. She glanced at Philippa, then our eyes locked, and for an instant hers scorched me, a loss of composure so uncharacteristic of the Swynford I knew it left me breathless. Her gaze lingered another instant, then, recovered, she spun from me and walked toward the gate.

I turned to Philippa, who also looked unaccountably troubled. “Seguina d’Orange. What does that name signify to you and your sis—”

The trumpets sounded, and my question faded into the loud stir from the gates. Heralds stepped forth first, announcing the royal entry into the king’s cloister, eight trumpets blaring as the king and his queen, the duke and his duchess moved out among the kneeling crowd. The company fell into two double-deep ranks. I joined the second, all eyes on the young man whose life seemed so delicate as his subjects pressed around him. The king’s fair skin set off the feeble beard. His robes were pounced with heraldry, white harts in chase around his shoulders and waist. The queen, a tiny scrap of a woman who rarely spoke, wore a gown trimmed in a sable-silk brocade that she fingered absently as she paced.

King Richard walked slowly across the room, pausing before every third or fourth visitor to speak a few words. Lancaster and the duchess followed, the duke’s mouth fixed in a tight frown.

Behind them walked a large company of magnates, the most important among them the earls, including Thomas of Woodstock, Earl of Buckingham and Gaunt’s younger brother, and the Earl of Oxford with his burgeoning entourage, including Sir Stephen Weldon. Other knights of the king’s affinity followed—Philip la Vache, Nicholas Dagworth, John Clanvowe, Richard Abberbury, and Simon de Burley, all jostling for position in the press of bodies, cloth, livery, and banners as the throng slowly moved through the fawning crowd of lower gentry.

The last man out, appearing as the lines were already disintegrating, was Chaucer. He walked alone, his gaze on the spectacle before him bemused and authorial. Spying me with his wife, he raised his chin and approached.

“Philippa,” he said.

“Geoffrey,” she said, and walked away. Chaucer looked after her, resigned rather than offended.

“The height of courtesy, as always,” I said, his cruelty at the customhouse still on my mind. “What gives you license to treat her like that?”

The skin around Chaucer’s eyes creased. “There’s a fine line between license and licentiousness, John. I’ve crossed it more than most: to the stews of Rose Alley, to Gropecunt Lane and back again, mistresses taken with her full knowledge.” He looked away, a hint of regret in his stooped shoulders. “Philippa thinks our marriage is a pageant, nothing more. Since that Cecily Chaumpaigne mess she won’t let me touch her.”

Chaucer’s notorious troubles with women had sparked more than one unfortunate episode over the years, including a disturbing accusation of abduction and rape some time ago. The young woman, a baker’s daughter, had officially released him from the initial charge before things got too serious. I was away from London that season and had never learned the truth of the matter, though I had seen what he was capable of in other contexts and had long wondered whether the accusation were true.

“Candor suits you, Geoff,” I said. “Though you could have shown more of it earlier in your marriage.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But then, candor goes only so far, don’t you think? There must also be love.” A shadow passed over his face, a hint of longing or regret in that sad smile. “Ah,” he said, tripping past the admission, “and here is Weldon. What about
your
many loves, Sir Stephen?”

“Too numerous to count, and always more in line.” Weldon’s scar was at full jut. Ignoring me, he gave Chaucer a pointed look. “I need a word.”

“You can have a dozen or so,” said Chaucer. He turned to me. “If you will excuse us, John, a customs officer’s duty is to his dutifulness. Oh”—he stopped, his voice measured as Weldon strolled ahead—“and that surely wasn’t Simon I saw just now, having a chat with Ralph Strode?”

“It was,” I said, with a hint of defensiveness.

“I thought so.” He looked at me strangely, then turned away and strolled with Weldon toward the palace. I watched them recede into the crowd, then went to look for Simon. It took a while to find him, and by the time I did the bell had sounded for the feast.

As the ladies separated for the lesser hall, we retired into the St. George’s range, a space of opulent magnificence that seemed to be trying too hard to awe those who entered. There were a few courteous words from the king, a prayer from the archbishop, then the chatter resumed. Simon sat to my left, and to his left was Thomas Pinchbeak, who peppered both of us with news from Westminster and the Inns as we made our way through a roast piglet, the crackled skin slipping easily from the tender flesh. Chaucer was seated at the next table. I felt for the queen and the duchess, the only women remaining in the great chamber. They ate in gloomy silence next to their husbands on the dais. They never spoke to one another as far as I could see.

The extravagance of food and plate was distracting, and it was not until much later, with the serving of cakes, sweet wafers, and a spring pudding as minstrels and players filled the front of the hall, that I thought again of the book. It was Pinchbeak who did it, leaning before Simon to ask me the most peculiar question.

“And the blood, Gower?”

“Pardon?” I said, assuming I had misheard him. Simon was sitting back, trying not to interfere with our exchange.

“The blood, on the robes.”

I stared into Pinchbeak’s eyes as the words of the coroner’s inquest came back to me:
said woman was beaten in the face and struck on the head and bloodied, feloniously murdered by an unknown assailant.
“What about it?”

“Your son and I were debating the point. Are they using wine for the blood, do you suppose?” He nodded toward the front of the hall. I turned my head and realized Pinchbeak was referring to the pageant playing out before the dais. A play of St. George and the dragon, with one boy taking the part of the sacrificial virgin and four others bearing the painted beast on their shoulders. Two robed youths, bloodied, dead, trying not to wriggle, lay sprawled on the floor before the dragon.

My pulse slowed. “Beet juice, I’d guess.” Pinchbeak gave me a vague smile, then turned to the man on his other side with a comment about the cakes.

“Too dark to be sheep’s blood,” Simon mused.

It all came back then—the book, the murder, the play at Temple Hall, broken up by Pinchbeak and his fellow serjeants. As I looked around at the babbling guests I wondered how many of them knew of the
De Mortibus,
of the alleged French spy murdered in the Moorfields, of the king’s prophesied death. The exchange reminded me to visit the coroner’s chambers to have another word with Nicholas Symkok, who had acted so dodgy with me. I wouldn’t have time before my Oxford trip, though it would be at the top of my list upon my return.

After Richard’s departure the crowd started to thin. Lancaster remained on the dais, enjoying the attention, though the duchess excused herself, as did several of her attendants. Swynford entered with a small clutch of other ladies. The doors to the lower stairs were propped open; guests began to drink more seriously, many filtering out to the yards; and a pleasant evening cool descended on the hundreds still remaining.

I wandered among them, speaking to acquaintances, until I came upon Sir John Clanvowe, a knight of Richard’s chamber and a poet of modest accomplishment. He stood with Sir Lewis Clifford, our host for the evening, before the entrance to the Spicery stairs.

“I understand you’ll be traveling to Oxford?” Clanvowe asked me. The knight’s loose cotte, dyed a simple grey, was bunched around the belt girding his waist. Of my height and age but a wiry stick of a knight, Clanvowe was like an eager bird, his head moving in small, distracting jerks at each phrase. His voice was high and singsongish, falling at the end of every sentence like a crow’s fading caw.

“I am, John,” I said without the honorific, as Clanvowe preferred. “I leave at dawn, and Simon will be going back to Southwark.”

“You know, I will be in Oxford by Wednesday or Thursday,” Clanvowe said. “Traveling with Clifford here, who’s taking up the constableship at Cardigan. I’m on my way back to Hereford for the summer. Perhaps you’ll let me feed you one evening while you’re in town?”

“I’d be delighted,” I said, meaning it, for I had always felt a companionable warmth toward Clanvowe, a man of real wisdom who was never his best at court. We parted with a promise of supper the following week in Clanvowe’s rooms at the Queen’s College, and I thanked Sir Lewis again for his hospitality in inviting us to the great occasion.