Belle's Song (5 page)

“I don’t really know how to thank you,” I said, rubbing Poppet’s threadbare head hard against my crimson cheeks. I knew he understood what I meant. “I’ll pray that it’s not long before your sister sits in this saddle again.”

He bowed. “The pony’s name is Dulcimer,” he said. “My sister called her Dulcie. And I’m Walter de Pleasance.”

“Belle,” I said.

“Ah!
Une belle jument pour une belle dame
. A beautiful mare for a beautiful girl.”

I blushed. Nobody had ever paid me such a compliment before, or in such a voice, and I never thought somebody would, particularly after they’d seen my legs.

“I’ve taken the liberty of stowing your pack in our armor cart,” Walter said. “It’s the one painted blue—I do like blue—and it’s drawn by a spotted riding horse.
I thought of painting him blue too, but I don’t think he’d have appreciated it much. Now I must go and tend to my father. Will you manage? Dulcie’s high-spirited but I think she’ll carry you well.”

I nodded, happily bemused by the blue and the spotted horse and the kindness of this new friend. “Please thank your father,” I called out.

“The pleasure’s entirely ours,” he answered, and doffed a ribboned cap. Altogether it was a most unexpected start to my journey.

When the whole company was ready, the priest blessed our venture: “May our prayers be answered according to our just deserts. May St. Thomas of Canterbury bless us, and may God keep us together in a pilgrim’s pact of friendship.” Three invocations. We all began to say Amen. The summoner called out, “And may God’s blessing fall only on loyal Englishmen.” My fellow pilgrims shifted uneasily. “We’re just pilgrims,” somebody murmured angrily. “There should be no politicking here.” I wasn’t angry about politicking. I was angry because the summoner’s invocation knocked out the symmetry of three and cast a shadow over a shadowless morning.

We were off very quickly after that, and many envious looks came my way because of Dulcie, particularly from the lowly nun acting as the prioress’s secretary. It was the prioress who owned the traveling lapdogs:
two yappy, woolly bundles who really had no place on a pilgrimage at all. Poor Sister Secretary, who was riding an ugly mule with one of the yappers perched in front, could hardly go two paces without the prioress exhorting her to take care. I’d have been tempted to strangle both prioress and dog, but with pretty Dulcie beneath me and Walter swinging himself onto a dashing bay, I couldn’t but think there had been a small miracle already.

The reeve, charged with bringing order to the group, chivvied us into a column. “Now,” he called, pecking like a crow with indigestion, “I don’t want to see a gaggle. We’re pilgrims, not geese. Come along! Come along! Sir Knight, you should be first, for you can protect us, and Walter—goodness, Arondel’s decked out like a maypole but never mind, never mind—will you go behind your father? At least Granada still looks like a warhorse. Good. Then—”

“Then me,” said Toad Seekum.

The reeve stopped short. “You?”

“I believe so.” The Toad rocked, and his mangy horse rocked too, with the weight.

“I entirely disagree.” The reeve swung his rusty blade.

“You may be in charge of hauling sinful wretches before the church court, but you’re nothing but a paid official.”

The Toad pushed his roan behind Arondel’s rump. “I, as the archdeacon’s summoner with jurisdiction
over immortal souls, clearly take precedence over somebody who simply oversees worldly accounts. Ask the squire.”

Walter and the reeve exchanged glances. “Very well,” said Master Reeve, “but watch out for Arondel’s heels. The horse isn’t as polite as its master.”

The summoner scowled. “I’ll have my friend next to me,” he announced. “Pardoner Bernard, ride alongside.” Pardoner Bernard, long-nosed and with hair like yellow dribbles, was thrilled to be the summoner’s friend. He kicked his shaggy pony smartly in the ribs.

“Excuse me,” said the reeve, “but since when did a pardoner, even a pardoner of Bernard’s standing”—the irony in his voice was palpable—“take precedence over an apothecary or, indeed, a franklin, who we also have amongst us? Master Franklin does, after all, own enough land to represent a shire in Parliament and is a justice at the court sessions. A pardoner just sells pardons, and in my experience, not always for the right price.”

“The apothecary’s a woman and Master Franklin’s not at the Parliament or in the courts now,” said the summoner, stubborn jawed. “And are you suggesting that Pardoner Bernard’s a crook?”

“I’ve never met a pardoner who wasn’t,” the reeve muttered.

The pardoner caught that. “Take care, Master Reeve.”

He wagged a crooked finger. “I’ve a piece of Our Lady’s veil about my person that’s been known to slice like an ax.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” The knight suddenly exerted himself. “Squabbling before we’ve even set out? And over rank? Shame! Let each man choose his place, and each woman too, according to his fancy. If Master Summoner wants to ride with his friend, and if both are willing to risk Arondel’s heels, let them do just that. God doesn’t stand on precedence and, during a pilgrimage, nor should we.”

“Why are you still at the front then?” somebody shouted. I think it was the cook. “Let’s see you give up your place.”

“Gladly,” said Sir Knight, drawing Granada to the side with a gesture simultaneously grand and humble, and signaling for Walter to do the same. “Whosoever wishes to lead the procession, let him make himself known right away. I shall gladly hand over the responsibility of finding the way and of being the first to cross swords with any enemies we may meet.” There followed a long minute during which nobody moved. Without further comment, Sir Knight remained in the place he thought rightly his. It was, indeed, the reeve who gave up. Muttering into his chin, he mounted his plump stallion and used his spurs unnecessarily. “We’ll stay at the back, Scot,” he said to the horse, and the
animal’s dappled ears flattened as its master’s irritation flowed down the reins.

Storing all this away to amuse my father on my return, I managed to avoid being corralled with the other ladies by a thick-necked, honey-tongued friar but then risked being swept up by a mountainous dame of some age whose deafness caused her forever to clack, “What? What?” like a garden crow. What with her, the wailing of the mother over her baby’s lost rattle, the trilling of Sir Knight’s page, the cries of an escaped hawk, and the yapping of those silly dogs, we were really more traveling circus than journeying penitents.

“May I ride with you?” I asked, slipping Dulcie between Luke and his master. Luke glared at Dulcie through his glasses. I knew he was thinking of Walter, and not fondly. My heart gave a small flutter. Nobody had ever been jealous on my behalf before. “The black rims suit you,” I said before he could open his mouth, “and here I am, all because of you, seeing if dreams can come true.” I didn’t want him to glare the whole way to Canterbury.

He pushed back his hair though he refused to smile. “This is Belle,” he said by way of introduction to the man at his side, “and Belle, this is Master Chaucer.”

“Master Chaucer?” I grasped Dulcie’s reins so hard that she squealed. “Geoffrey Chaucer?” Master Chaucer
gave a nod, those quick eyes missing nothing. “Jesus Mary! You never told me your master was famous.”

“Would it have been important?”

“It would have been
something
,” I said nippily. “I’m so glad to meet you, sir.”

“Are you indeed,” said Master Chaucer, and I was conscious of a sharp appraisal. I was sure he could see straight into my head, which made me nervous. I was also very aware that Dulcie was hardly the right mount for a girl who had crippled her father.

“Walter de Pleasance, the knight’s squire, lent Dulcie to me,” I explained. “She really belongs to his sister but the sister’s run off with a Frenchman and they’re going to Canterbury to pray for her. I didn’t like to refuse because I didn’t have anything else to ride.” There followed a silence too awkward to leave unbroken. “Luke told me that your wife’s ill,” I blustered on. “I’m sorry.” I wanted to say something brilliant. After all, Master Chaucer was the most famous person I’d ever met. I could think of nothing beyond the horribly ordinary.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re quite welcome,” I replied.

Master Chaucer rode his gray horse carefully, mindful both of its feelings and the safety of the writing box strapped firmly behind him, to which his hands—clean and not ink stained, I was surprised and a little
disappointed to see—kept straying. The horse, one ear permanently forward and one back, seemed as mindful of its burden as Master Chaucer himself, and also rather conscious of its saddlery, which was blue, like Arondel’s, though not as exuberantly so. I think it had been chosen to match the bonnet that grew from the Master’s head like a large mushroom, a short tail flapping behind to protect his neck from the sun. All in all, he did not look as I expected a writer to look, which was yellow as a dusty parchment and with no care for clothes at all. This, I decided, was because he wasn’t only a writer but also a man of business and politics, and I scolded myself for not having listened more carefully when my father and the host had spoken of the famous trial at which Master Chaucer had given evidence. Had he also been a Member of Parliament? Was he still? I struggled to remember so that I could impress him with my knowledge. I failed.

“I’m on pilgrimage for my father,” I said. “I expect Luke has told you.”

“Luke’s the soul of discretion,” said Master Chaucer, letting go of the writing box for a second and patting Luke’s hand. “He learned early that I like people to tell their own stories in their own time.”

“Stories that Luke writes down?” I couldn’t help sounding envious.

The Master scrutinized me again, and then, touching
his box, said, “I’m not doing too well with my stories at the moment. I must be getting old.”

“Nonsense. It’s because your wife’s sick,” I said. I know it was impertinent, since we had only just met, but I didn’t want the conversation to end. “It’s hard to write when you’re worried.”

He shot me another look. His horse stumbled. I wasn’t surprised. Its mane was so thick it must have weighed almost as much as a fleece. I tried to make a little joke. “You could hide a library of stories in there and nobody would ever find them,” I said.

“What? Oh. Yes. Very amusing,” the Master said. “Are you on a special pilgrimage?”

I began to explain and the Master seemed to be listening. “The truth of it is that wives are curious creatures,” he suddenly interrupted. “I don’t know that I even liked mine much until she became ill. Only now, when I may lose her, do I find that the prospect of life without her makes me gloomy.” He glanced apologetically, not at me but at Luke. “Even for a man who’s made monkish promises, I’m afraid I’ll be dreary company.”

Luke’s return glance was full of affection. “You don’t know how to be dreary.”

“Dear, dear.” Master Chaucer shook his head. “That sounds very exhausting.”

“I didn’t mean—I mean—I don’t—I just—” Luke
tied his tongue in such knots it was a wonder his spectacles didn’t steam up.

“Easy, boy, easy.” Master Chaucer patted his hand again. “It’s just my way of taking a compliment.”

Luke met my eye by mistake and shifted in his saddle, hitting his head on a low-hanging branch. It must have hurt, but his expression was so funny and I was so nervous that I laughed. Master Chaucer jumped as though he’d forgotten I was there, and his hand sprang back to his writing box. I noted the gesture and thought I’d copy it myself when I was a writer.

“So, flame-haired Belle on the horse of a girl who has run off with a Frenchman, what do you like to do with yourself when you’re not looking out for bell ropes?” he asked, giving me his full attention.

I flushed. “I like to make up stories, just as you do,” I said. It was arrogant, I suppose, but the truth.

“Do you indeed. And do stories come readily to you?”

“Quite readily,” I said. “Sometimes I make up my own and sometimes I hear one and make it more … more—”

“More colorful?”

“Yes,” I said. “More colorful, because it’s God’s honest truth that God’s honest truth can be a bit dull.”

Master Chaucer’s mouth curled in a delightfully foxy smile. “Not a bad reply, child. I myself often
exaggerate, or even change things a little. Why not, so long as the purpose is entertainment and not malice. Do you agree, Luke?”

“I agree when you do it,” Luke replied, still pulling twigs from his hair, and then added pointedly, “but beginners must be careful.”

I bridled at being thought a beginner. “Stories have their own kind of truth,” I pointed out. “And there’s not much story if you don’t make things up. I mean, you can’t be a writer and just write about real life.”

“Why not?” Luke snapped a twig.

I was amazed he even had to ask. “Because real life’s only bearable if you don’t have to live in it all the time,” I said.

“Amen to that,” Master Chaucer echoed. Two red spots dimpled the pallor of Luke’s cheeks and he fiddled with the handle of the small meat knife he kept at his waist. Perhaps it was fortunate that at that moment a caterwauling arose, a duet between what sounded like a billy goat and a trumpet. “
Come hither, love, come home!
” I recognized the billy goat and so did Master Chaucer. “Ah!” he said, “so our summoner’s a songbird!”