House of Shadows (27 page)

‘Where is your authority for that?' Timothy sneered. ‘There are only two of you!'

Baldwin felt an unbounded relief as he heard the rushing of feet outside, and as men poured into the yard wearing the livery of Walter Stapledon he smiled nastily and glanced down at Timothy.

‘Stand back.'

 

The bishop leaned back in his chair. ‘You are quite sure of this?'

Baldwin had explained all. ‘There is little doubt. John was utterly devoted to the cellarer, and through him his prior. The young lad was appalled by what the girl did, telling others about the ruse of using a ghost, and it was as a result of her informing that the prior was arrested. William's son was innocent, of course. That was why he was set out so neatly. John was sorry to harm him, I suppose, but he wanted revenge on the
girl, and he wouldn't let a little thing like Pilgrim being there get in his way.'

Bishop Walter looked down at his hands. ‘It seems far-fetched.'

‘I was happy enough to believe that her brother was responsible. Timothy was very keen to preserve his family's honour. Not his father – he still loved Juliet, but not Timothy. She was only ever a half-sister after all. But then it seemed clear that it must have been Pilgrim's father. William was clearly hurt by his wife's change in affection. She once loved him, but then the attraction of a man nearer her own age overwhelmed her. Yet when I considered the strange disparity in the way the two bodies were treated and learned how her words may have affected the priory, it seemed more and more likely that there was an element of revenge involved. Perhaps in a way it was the same motive as Timothy's. A means of retaliating against an insult to the honour of a group. Not a family, but a monastery.'

‘I shall discuss the matter with the bishop here and suggest that the boy be punished.'

‘Please do so. And now I would like to re-enter the city and find my bed,' Baldwin said.

‘You have done well, Sir Baldwin. I am grateful.'

Baldwin nodded, but as he followed Simon from the hall, along the screens corridor and out into the bishop's yard beyond, all he could see in his mind's eye was the faces of those whom he had suspected: Sir Henry's, twisted with pain and hurt; William's, torn with longing and despair; and, last, Brother Lawrence's. A man who had seen all that his faith stood for destroyed by a novice.

Of all, Baldwin felt that the monk's loss was somehow the worst of them all. The others at least had the strength of their hatred of each other to sustain them. Lawrence had nothing.

July 1373

Geoffrey Chaucer fiddled with his pen. He peered at the other pens that were lined up to his right. He counted them, although he already knew how many there were. Did any of them need sharpening? With his left index finger, he touched the end of the one he was holding. The goose-quill did not need sharpening, not really. He put down the pen. He reached out and brought the ink pot an inch or two closer to his writing hand. Then he straightened the few sheets of paper on the table. This particular task didn't need doing either.

He sighed. He was familiar with these little devices whose purpose was to delay the moment, the inevitable moment, when he'd actually have to put pen to paper and start writing. Anything to put that moment off.

He was sitting by an open window. Sounds of activity came from down below, from the area around the entrance to the gatehouse. On his arrival the previous evening, Geoffrey Chaucer had observed an excavated space in a corner between wall and buttress, a space large enough to hold a seated man. There was a neat pile of stone near the cavity, which was kept stable by stout wooden props. Water damage, Geoffrey supposed, looking up at the gargoyle that leered above his head. Rain pouring down over the centuries. Or
perhaps water seeping up from an underground spring and slowly dissolving the mortar, for this was a marshy area.

Now there came the scrape of trowel on stone, or a shared joke or an inaudible curse as one of the workmen lifted an especially heavy block. Geoffrey considered shutting the window to keep out the sounds. After all, he'd come to Bermondsey Priory to get some peace and quiet. London bustled on the other side of the Thames, but you'd expect a silent order of monks to provide a bit of peace and quiet. The only noises should be the bells summoning the brothers to prayer. And, as if on cue, a bell rang at that instant. Closing the window would mean depriving himself of the soft airs and smells of a summer morning and breathing the stuffy air of the room. Chaucer glanced around at the room. It was barely furnished – a bed in one corner, a substantial chest in another, and the stool and table beneath the window where he was sitting. But, compared with the cells or dormitories that were reserved for the monks, it was like a chamber in a palace.

Geoffrey Chaucer knew something of palace chambers. His wife Philippa and their three young children had only lately left their private lodgings in John of Gaunt's little place on the banks of the Thames. John of Gaunt's little place was the Palace of Savoy. Geoffrey was sometimes employed by Gaunt – third son to King Edward – in private business or secret matters relating to the court, although that wasn't the principal reason for his family's residency at the Savoy. Geoffrey stayed in the palace from time to time when he wasn't on his travels. But he had never felt at home in the Savoy. Unlike his wife Philippa, who was the daughter of a knight and who in her earlier life had been under the protection of the late queen of England. Philippa felt at home in palaces.

Whenever he could, Chaucer retreated to the gatehouse in the city wall at Aldgate, which he'd bought around the time of his marriage. That was home to him, that was where he kept his books and papers and his writing implements. And now, for various reasons, the Aldgate house had once more become the residence of Chaucer's entire family, his wife, his children and servants. The city gatehouse, which had looked so spacious when he'd first seen it, was transformed into a cramped dwelling filled with domestic demands. So Geoffrey was spending a few days on the south bank of the river at Bermondsey Priory to get away from them. Neither husband nor wife had expressed it in those terms, but both of them knew that he was, temporarily, escaping his family on the pretence of work.

By chance, Geoffrey Chaucer was staying in a room in another gatehouse on this summer's morning. It was a guest-chamber on the first floor of the inner entrance to the priory. It was where the more important lay visitors were accommodated or those to whom the abbot, Richard Dunton, wanted to show favour. Geoffrey had met Richard Dunton for the first time on the previous evening when he'd arrived at the priory. Geoffrey recalled with pleasure the prior's words at their meeting. He was a handsome man, with a commanding presence which he combined with an easy air. He seemed genuinely glad to see Chaucer. He'd said…

But Geoffrey's recollections of the prior's words were interrupted by a shout from outside. Then an answering shout. Then another and another. Not good-natured banter this time but real insults flowing between the workmen who were repairing the crumbling stone at the base of the gatehouse wall. Whereas before the sporadic chatter hadn't been audible, it was
now all too plain. You'd think, wouldn't you, that workers in a priory would have more respect for their holy surroundings? But no, it was all ‘hog's turd' this and ‘bull's pizzle' that. None of Chaucer's business, but that was all the more reason to take a look.

Glad enough to be disturbed in his work – and at the same instant thinking, Work? What work? – Geoffrey rose from his stool and pushed the table slightly to one side so that he could get a clearer view out of the window. The downward angle was awkward, and he could at first see only a couple of workmen, hats pulled low over their brows to shield them from the sun, which was hot and high even this early in the morning. Chaucer could tell nothing more about them except that one seemed young, scarcely more than a lad.

The workmen were watching something out of Chaucer's line of sight. They stood, tense and expectant. Geoffrey recognized the stance of people on the edge of an imminent fight, wondering whether to weigh in, wondering whether to get involved or to separate the participants. Then two more men, out of view until now, shifted further away from the base of the wall. They were facing each other, a couple of yards apart and at a half-crouch. From his position by the window, Geoffrey couldn't see the expression on their faces, but their closeness to a fight was evident from their stance and the way in which each was clutching an ordinary tool – a chisel, a trowel – so as to turn it into a weapon if necessary. The man holding the chisel had the use of only one hand. The other one, his left, was withered and turned in on itself like the claw of a bird. Perhaps in compensation, all his strength and force seemed to be concentrated in the good hand and arm.

Geoffrey looked beyond the group of four. The area
south of the gatehouse, the inner court, was empty apart from a black cat slinking through a patch of sun between the shadows. But there were no black-habited monks walking – or slinking – anywhere. Not surprising, since the bell that had just rung was for terce, already the fourth of the day's devotional calls even though it was still early in the morning. Chaucer squinted into the sun-dazzled yard, willing someone to appear and intervene. Now the one-handed man raised his implement, the chisel. He was shorter than the other but looked the more dangerous. He shifted his weight on to his right foot, ready to attack.

Geoffrey leaned further out of the window. Without thinking, he shouted out. Not ‘Stop it!' or ‘What do you think you're doing?' Simply: ‘Hey!'

It was enough. The man wielding the chisel looked up. The sun was in his eyes. He squinted, but Chaucer must have been no more than a shadow in the window. The man's mouth opened as if he was going to say or shout something in reply – it was a black hole of a mouth, with fewer teeth than he had good fingers. But whatever this individual had been about to say he thought better of. He lowered the chisel and shook his head, perhaps as a way of denying that he'd ever meant any harm. The second man, too, looked up before letting the hand holding his implement, the trowel, fall to his side. The two onlookers were also gazing in Chaucer's direction.

He felt that something more was required of him but couldn't think what to say. After all, an argument among the lay workers in Bermondsey Priory was none of his business. He was a guest in this place, with no authority over any of its occupants. It was enough if he had reminded these people that he was a witness to their goings-on and so managed to avert violence for the time being.

‘Good day to you,' he said, withdrawing from his place at the window.

But Geoffrey stayed close to the window. He heard the beating of his heart. His breath was coming short, as if he had been on the verge of a fight himself. He strained to listen. Nobody was speaking as far as he could tell. It was the silence that follows a quarrel. After a few moments the sounds of work resumed, the scrape of the trowel, the thunk of a hammer.

He sat down at the table once again and picked up his pen. To work! Geoffrey Chaucer was supposed to be penning a report on some recent negotiations in the city of Genoa to do with the establishment of a trading centre for the Genoese on the south coast of England. The success of such diplomatic missions was measured by the amounts of paper they generated. But, in truth, the writing of the report was a pretext. What Geoffrey really wanted to do was to get back to writing his verses.

But the scene outside had unsettled him, and whereas before he hadn't wanted to concentrate, now he wasn't able to for thinking of the foursome by the gatehouse entrance. He hoped that the monks would soon finish their devotions in the great church and that one or two of them would appear, black-hooded strollers in the court. Their very presence would surely be a deterrent to any further trouble. If they noticed what was going on, that is. The Cluniac monks at Bermondsey Priory had a reputation for scholarship. They weren't like some orders, taking pleasure in hard sweat and calloused hands. Rather, they left that to the lay workers, like the quarrelsome individuals outside the window. They were the only ones privileged to get their hands dirty.

And a thought occurred to Geoffrey. Wasn't it rather odd that a man with a crooked hand should be
employed as a mason, repairing a cavity in the fabric of the gatehouse? Although he might be able to use a trowel and perhaps shift blocks of stone, he could not wield a hammer and chisel (other than as weapons). Perhaps his continued employment was an act of charity on the part of the monks. Except that the last thing the crooked-hand man looked as though he'd require was charity.

Shrugging his shoulders, Geoffrey picked up his pen yet again and lifted a sheet of paper from the pile in front of him. Get going. You write verses, he told himself; you're a maker. Well, make something. That was evidently the reputation he'd brought with him to this priory. It was with these words that the prior, Richard Dunton, had greeted him the previous evening. ‘Ah, Master Chaucer, the court poet.'

The court poet? Chaucer had never thought of himself like that before, or more precisely he had never heard himself referred to in that way. True, he'd written a piece in memory of John of Gaunt's first wife, and from time to time he recited his work to some of the nobility at the Savoy or at Windsor. The ladies and gentlemen seemed to appreciate his words. At least they applauded politely when he'd finished. And his invitation to spend a few days at Bermondsey had come about because of Dunton's links to the various royal households. But to be termed ‘the court poet' now, as if it was an official title! Despite himself, he felt a little kick of pride.

Richard Dunton had personally escorted Geoffrey on a tour of the priory. This was an old foundation, he'd explained, dating from shortly after the Conquest. The conventual church loomed above the cloister, the upper reaches of it like a great cliff catching the declining rays of the sun. It had taken years, decades to build, and had been completed and dedicated within
living memory, yet it might have stood on this spot for centuries. Dunton's deep voice echoed as they made a circuit of the cloister. The area in the centre was in shadow, and martins threaded the air between their nesting places among the eaves and buttresses. Geoffrey soon realized that the prior had his own kind of quiet satisfaction. He was the first Englishman to be appointed to the position of superior. He was new, he was relatively young, and there was vigour in his words and movements.

Geoffrey was surprised to find how knowledgeable Richard Dunton was about outside affairs. The prior knew the latest news about King Edward's health (declining) and that of the Prince of Wales (also declining). He was better informed than Chaucer on some of the most recent comings and goings at court. When Geoffrey commented, tactfully, on this, Dunton said: ‘You must not think, Master Chaucer, that because we spend our time thinking of a higher world we are somehow not of this one too. It is very necessary for the prior of a great place like this to be aware of what the king is thinking and feeling – and of the state of his health. It's not so many years since we were taken under his protection on account of debt and other misfortunes.'

At one point, as they were rounding a corner in the cloister, a hooded figure almost collided with Geoffrey. The figure was carrying some books, which he dropped in his confusion. Another brother was following in his wake. This second monk busied himself retrieving the dropped books. After apologies had been exchanged, Richard Dunton said: ‘This is well met.'

He introduced the brothers. The first, who'd been carrying the books, was Brother Peter, who combined the posts of sacrist and librarian. The second, who'd picked the books up, was a moon-faced young man
called Ralph. He was described as the revestiarius and the sacrist's assistant. Chaucer was a little hazy on the responsibilities of the various posts in the order, but he had an idea that the revestiarius was in charge of the linen and vestments.

Richard Dunton explained the reason for Geoffrey's presence in Bermondsey and once again made reference to the ‘court poet'. If Brother Peter had never heard of Geoffrey Chaucer, he made a good job of disguising the fact by nodding and saying: ‘Of course, of course, Master Chaucer.' The librarian was old but with a stringy strength to him. He pushed his hood back and thrust his lined, spectacled face towards the newcomer as if to read Geoffrey like a book. The cloister was gloomy enough, but the gesture seemed like a lifelong habit, acquired from years of poring over texts. What little light there was reflected off Brother Peter's spectacles, making it hard to interpret his expression, in fact giving an odd impression of blindness. Meanwhile, Brother Ralph stood smiling pleasantly in the background.