The False Virgin (24 page)

In her mind’s eye Philippa saw the great flat spaces of her childhood scoured by wind and rain. She remembered the high summers, when the ditches dried up and she and Katherine, having
nothing else to do, would watch the men at work in the fields. All this time she was conscious of the Castilian’s gaze. He was stroking his hands on the arms of his chair as if they were made
of fur rather than wood. His long fingers were adorned with rings.

‘You are thinking of your country?’ he said.

‘That was many years ago, in my childhood.’

‘Surely not
so
many, madam, to see you now.’

Despite herself she coloured slightly and said, ‘I am past my youth.’

Seeing his success, de Flores persisted. ‘We have a saying in my country. Only the owner closes the door on his youth – and its pleasures.’

I’m almost thirty, she wanted to say. I have two children and my husband has absented himself again. I know I am no beauty. If you want to compliment someone then go and talk to my sister.
Her husband is dead and she is linked to one of the very highest in the land. I think you’ll find she is more apt for this kind of talk than I am.

But she said none of this.

Then she saw his brown eyes looking at her in the eager way of a dog when it wants something, a kind word, a scrap of food. Perhaps he was in earnest after all. He was about the same age as she
was. Darker complexioned, of course. You couldn’t deny he was handsome, although his nose was too small for her liking. She smiled slightly at his gallantry.

‘In this country you cannot tell what season it is, but in Castile we would have put the winter and spring behind us by now,’ said de Flores, as if returning the conversation to a
more innocent level. ‘Everything would be set fair for many months.’

‘You miss your homeland, Señor de Flores?’

‘I go where my duty calls me, madam. And I am surrounded by my countrymen here. Countrymen and countrywomen. There is little chance to be – how do you say it? – to be sad for
the home. Besides, one may be sad anywhere. Even at home one may be sad, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Your duty, Señor de Flores? You mentioned your duty. What exactly is your duty here? I am confused, there are so many visitors to this household and they have so many
functions.’

‘Mine is simple. I am here to serve the Queen of Castile.’

‘The Duchess of Lancaster, you mean.’

‘They are one and the same.’

‘But we are in England now, and so she has become a member of the house of Lancaster.’

‘Madam, it would gratify me to believe that we are on sufficiently good terms for you to call me Carlos. After all, we both serve the
Duchess
– however she is
styled.’

‘So it is good that we at least know our functions, Carlos,’ she said.

‘Yes. And now I must take my leave . . . madam.’

De Flores half levered himself from the chair and paused as if giving her the opportunity to say that he too might call her by her given name of Philippa rather than the formal
‘madam’. But she said nothing. As he was leaving the chamber, he turned round by the door.

‘Where is your husband?’

‘About his own business.’

‘He is away for long?’

‘He too has his duties,’ she said, evading the question. ‘He’ll return when they are done.’

Carlos de Flores smiled and closed the door. Philippa went to stand by the window. No boats were visible on the river apart from a barge that was wallowing in midstream. She didn’t
altogether trust Carlos the Castilian yet she couldn’t, at this stage, see what he might be after. To get to her sister, Katherine Swynford? Perhaps. It was even possible that de Flores was
hoping to gain access to John of Gaunt through her. But why? And if that was his intention, the shorter route would surely have been through Constance herself since the Castilian was already a
member of the Duchess’s extended entourage, much closer to her than Philippa would ever be.

There was another, more remote possibility. It was that de Flores was interested in Philippa Chaucer for herself. The notion was so far-fetched that she almost laughed aloud. Yet she remembered
his attentive brown-eyed gaze, almost wistful. There’d been his remark about youth and pleasure. His query about Geoffrey’s absence. Did he somehow want to take advantage of it? Because
the idea was attractive (though far-fetched of course) she did her best to crush it.

The next day they met twice. The encounters looked accidental. But on both occasions Philippa Chaucer had the sense that Carlos de Flores had been waiting to catch her.

The first time was in a public passageway. De Flores seemed on the verge of going beyond the normal pleasantries but, with his eyes flickering over the frequent passers-by, he evidently thought
better of it. The second occasion was in the gardens of the Savoy Palace. It was calm and bright now. Philippa was walking by herself in one of the orchard alleys. Apple blossom strewed the grass.
Carlos de Flores suddenly appeared at her side. He made some remarks about their second encounter of the day and about the change in the weather and then jokingly suggested that such a comment
showed he was turning into a true Englishman. Philippa smiled. She knew the Castilian wasn’t going to be put off.

‘A beautiful day, as you say.’

‘A day for poets.’

‘I suppose so. My husband would know. He is the one who writes verses.’

‘I’ve heard great things of your husband – and of his verses. The Duke of Lancaster values him highly.’

Philippa was always slightly surprised by the esteem in which Geoffrey was held. She was not, however, surprised that de Flores should know of her husband’s verse-writing since the
Castilian seemed to have set himself the task of finding out about her and her family. They turned from one orchard alley to another. The river glinted through the trees. The gardeners, at work,
scarcely looked up as the finely dressed couple walked by.

‘John of Gaunt, now, he also values your sister highly,’ said de Flores after a pause.

‘The Duke of Lancaster knows how to esteem those who do him service. He is a generous man.’

‘Service takes many forms, Philippa . . .’ said de Flores, hesitating for an instant in case she objected to the familiarity. ‘You are close to the lady Katherine?’

Philippa Chaucer stopped in the middle of the walkway, compelling de Flores to stop also. She looked him straight in the eye. She’d never had much time for evasion.

‘You ask if we are close, Katherine and I? Well, we fought as children and did not like each other very much for long periods. Afterwards our paths went in different directions. She
married a knight who was like my father. I married a man who is most comfortable among his books. Even though Hugh Swynford is dead now, Katherine is . . . you might say that she is well provided
for. Better than I, perhaps. Yet we remain sisters, tied by blood and memories.’

‘Thank you,’ said de Flores. ‘Your husband has written poems for her, has he not?’

Philippa laughed. ‘There you are wrong. Geoffrey wrote about John of Gaunt’s first wife, not Katherine.’

‘I apologise for my error.’

He seemed about to say more but broke off and glanced down the alley. Between the line of trees three men were advancing towards them, sombre against the blossom. Philippa recognised the person
in the middle as a Castilian by the name of Luis, one of several priests in the service of Constance. This individual stood out, mostly on account of a large pectoral cross, which gleamed with
precious stones. The other two, by their dress and the way they inclined their heads respectfully towards Luis, were his countrymen.

‘Let us speak of some other subject, madam,’ de Flores said, pointing at the nearest apple trees. ‘Grafting, for example.’

And, as the three men passed them, de Flores talked loudly of ‘slips’ and ‘scions’. While he was speaking, he gave the merest tilt of his head to Luis, who nodded in
return. The priest was touching his cross, dabbing his hand to it. He wore yet more emeralds and sapphires on his fingers. The other men looked curiously at Philippa and de Flores.

When they were out of earshot, Philippa tried to make light of things and said, ‘I did not know that you were a gardener, Señor de Flores. Slips and scions indeed!’

‘I am no gardener. But I have talked to some of those who work here. I have listened to their words. It is surprising what you learn.’

Philippa knew that he was referring to more than the gardeners’ terms about grafting. They reached another crossing-point in the garden walks.

‘I shall go this way,’ said de Flores. ‘It would be best if we parted for now. But I hope we shall meet again. These gardens are a pleasant place for walking and talking,
especially in such delightful company.’

He bowed slightly and strode off. Philippa returned to the palace. She was more confused. What was he after? Why the questions about Geoffrey’s verses? She wondered why de Flores suddenly
started talking about an innocent subject as they passed the priest. She thought the glances and nods that passed between the two Castilians were not just a greeting. There was something complicit
in those glances and nods.

III

Geoffrey Chaucer remained at Bermondsey Priory for another ten days, enjoying the hospitality of the prior and the ordered shape of the life there. He wrote and he read and he
talked with the prior and with the aged librarian. Brother Peter. When he left, it was with his work about St Beornwyn revised, rewritten and completed. He handed the original manuscript back to
Richard Dunton, thanking him for telling him the story of the saint’s life in the first place. Dunton was pleased. Chaucer didn’t spoil his mood by telling him he might not be quite so
glad when he eventually read the piece for it cast a not altogether complimentary light on Beornwyn.

Geoffrey returned to his lodgings in Aldgate, and greeted Joan, the woman who cooked and kept the place for him in the absence of his wife (and his wife was almost always absent). She was a good
housekeeper who tended to treat his presence as an intrusion. She looked more like a grandmother than a mother but had a young son, called Thomas, whom Geoffrey was teaching to read, in a fitful
way. The boy was about eight, younger than Chaucer’s own son, also called Thomas, and he was useful round the Aldgate lodgings. Once Geoffrey had attended to some customs business, he visited
a copier near St Paul’s and arranged for three copies to be made of the Beornwyn poem. Two of these he would give to the more discriminating members of the Savoy Palace household. At a later
date, if invited, he would recite the poem to an audience, a select one.

As it happened he’d been reminded of the Savoy Palace even before crossing the bridge back into the city. Leaving Bermondsey Priory on foot, Chaucer stopped off at the Tabard Inn. This was
one of his bolt holes in Southwark, not so respectable as the priory, of course, but more reputable than some of the commercial establishments further west along the river, among which were many
brothels. In fact, the host of the Tabard, Harry Bailey, was making efforts to attract a better class of customer, for example by purchasing higher quality wines. This particular location in
Southwark, on the main road leading towards the southeast, was a natural gathering-place for those intending to start on the pilgrimage to the shrine of Thomas Becket in Canterbury. Chaucer thought
he could identify a few pilgrims assembling here now, quite early on this spring morning. It was not only their travelling clothes but their expressions, somewhere between excited and smug, which
gave them away.

Harry Bailey was pleased to see Geoffrey. The host was an ample, cheerful figure, naturally interested in his customers and not only for the sake of business they bought. He
recommended his Rhenish – ‘New in yesterday, sir. Go down to the cellar and see the markings on the barrel for yourself’ – but Geoffrey apologetically explained that
he’d had enough of good wine while at Bermondsey and ordered honest ale instead. He went to sit in a corner and watch the world go by. He was amusing himself by guessing at the professions
and trades of the pilgrims gathering in a group at one end of the room when his attention was caught by a penetrating voice from closer by. He turned to look. Not all of Harry Bailey’s guests
were of the pious pilgrim type, and the cluster of men crowding round a neighbouring table were what you might call old Southwark.

‘He is a changeling, I tell you! His filthy riches stink to high heaven. His white house is finer than the King’s! And his new duchess is a foreign bitch who cannot even wrap her
tongue round God’s good English.’

The speaker was a man with a stubbly scalp, which showed beneath an undersized red cap. His drink sat neglected on the table in front of him as he used his right forefinger to tick off his
accusations on the fingers of his left hand. The other four individuals round the table said nothing but nodded or remained still. They were sitting back slightly as if wary of these fierce words,
and so giving Geoffrey a clear view.

‘How much longer must we bear this tyrant? How many more insults must we endure from the very existence of the traitor? How often will we be forced to bow the knee before this whoreson
prince?’

Now the speaker was using his fist to thump on the table, emphasising each angry question. Geoffrey sighed. He glanced across at Harry Bailey but the Tabard host was busy chatting to a couple of
the pilgrims. Chaucer did not think Bailey would appreciate the kind of talk coming from the next table. He didn’t appreciate it himself. Had it been overheard by someone with real authority
and the desire to exercise it, then the speaker could have found himself in serious trouble. For the subject of the man’s rant was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster. The references to his
great wealth, to the white house that was finer than the King’s, to his foreign wife, made it clear enough. In addition, there was the mention of John being a changeling. This was a rumour,
lately creeping about London, to the effect that thirty-five years previously, Queen Philippa, the wife of Edward III, had given birth to an unfortunate girl which, like a sow, she had overlain and
suffocated. Terrified of telling the truth to her royal husband, she substituted a baby boy for the girl child. To compound the insult, it was said that the boy was the son of a labourer from
Ghent.