The False Virgin (25 page)

Wearily, Geoffrey Chaucer got to his feet. He moved the short distance to the table where red-cap sat among his companions. It looked as though he was about to launch on another string of
insults and rhetorical demands.

Chaucer, clutching his drink, said mildly: ‘Excuse me, but I couldn’t help hearing what you were saying.’

The man with the little red cap looked up in surprise. The others round the table instinctively shifted further away on their stools, trying to dissociate themselves from their friend.

‘So what if you did hear?’

‘I have news for you,’ said Chaucer. ‘That story you were telling about John of Gaunt being a changeling . . .’ He noticed the expressions on the faces of the men. Now
they were really worried.

‘Well, that is what he is,’ said the speaker, although his tone was a little less certain. ‘What is your news?’

‘Gaunt is no changeling but he is something stranger, much stranger.’

All the time Geoffrey was speaking low, as though imparting a secret. Then he leaned forward and placed his wooden mug on the table, allowing the curiosity of the men to build up, making himself
part of the group. When he judged the moment was right, he said: ‘Much stranger, I say again. I have it on good authority that the Duke of Lancaster is the offspring of a dragon and a
mermaid. Furthermore, he was conceived during a thunderstorm.’

‘Authority? Whose authority?’ said the one who’d claimed Gaunt was a changeling.

‘I have sources inside the Savoy Palace at the very highest level,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I will take an oath on that.’

‘Is it true? Is Lancaster really the child of a dragon and a mermaid?’

The speaker was another young man at the table. His voice was naturally high, not only with surprise at what he was hearing. His words caught the attention of a tall, lanky fellow who was
passing and who stopped for a moment to listen.

‘Yes, it is as true as I’m standing here,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that there was a kind of truth to what he was saying, the same sort of truth as in the story of Beornwyn. He
could see that his quiet confidence was having an effect, not so much on the original speaker as on the others, including the tall man who was still hesitating nearby. Their glances flickered
towards the red-capped man, who said: ‘It’s absurd! How would a dragon and a mermaid have congress?’

Chaucer raised his eyebrows slightly as if the question itself were absurd. ‘By asking that, you betray the limits of your understanding, my friend. The laws that apply to mere mortals do
not apply to the gods – or to dragons and mermaids. No more than they apply to basilisks, griffins or unicorns. Only an ignorant individual would think otherwise.’

There were signs of agreement from the listeners round the table. The high-voiced young man was nodding his head in a sage sort of way. The tall fellow was perhaps not so convinced, since he
merely raised his eyebrows before moving off. Satisfied, Geoffrey picked up his pint pot and returned to his seat. He knew not to press home his advantage. Leave the group to mull over the idea
he’d planted in their heads. He had succeeded in his principal aim, which was to quieten the fiery man in the red cap. Geoffrey shifted his attention back to the pilgrims at the far end of
the room. Two or three individuals more had joined since he last looked, including the tall man. Out of the corner of his eye he observed the group at the neighbouring table as it broke up until
the only one left was the speaker. When he’d finished his drink he too got up to leave. On the way out he paused by Chaucer’s seat.

‘It is I who am right, my
friend
. John of Gaunt is a changeling, and not what he seems. Just as the house where he lives is a front for all manner of corruption and iniquity, and
full of foreign filth. You say you have sources inside the Savoy Palace. Well, so do I, I tell you.’

Chaucer kept his face impassive at these last words, the only unexpected thing the man had uttered. This lack of response provoked him further. He leaned in slightly and said: ‘The day
will come when all the fine folk within Savoy walls will tremble at the wrath of the common people. The day will come when that white house is reduced to a pile of grey ash.’

This was very dangerous and foolish talk. Geoffrey was losing patience but he still did not respond, simply staring calmly at the man. Finally, realising he wasn’t getting anywhere, the
red-cap stalked out of the Tabard with a curious, stiff gait. Chaucer finished his own drink, giving the other time to go a distance, and then, after promising Harry Bailey that he’d try the
Rhenish on his next visit, he made for the door. Standing in his way was the tall individual who had listened in on the earlier conversation.

‘A dragon and a mermaid! Ha! I would rather have said that John of Lancaster was the offspring of Mars and Venus.’

Geoffrey had to look up at the speaker, who was more than a head taller. His face was battered and scarred but he wore an amused look.

‘The child of Mars and Venus? That would turn Lancaster into Cupid, wouldn’t it?’ said Geoffrey, struggling to envisage Gaunt as a plump, mischievous child with a quiverful of
arrows slung over his shoulder. Well, yes, he might have been like that once. The other man must have come to the same conclusion for he too smiled.

‘You were having trouble over there?’ said the man, nodding his head towards the place that Geoffrey had just left. ‘I saw that insolent person trying to bait you. I almost
came across to give him a piece of . . . my mind.’

Geoffrey shrugged. A brawl was exactly what he had been trying to avoid. He recognised the man in front of him, recognised not who he was but rather what he was. While they were talking
he’d been running his eyes over the other’s clothing. Like his face it was battered but of sound quality. His tunic, of thick fustian, was patterned with a network that looked like
rust. It was the imprint of the chain mail he had been wearing. That, together with his assured voice and manner, was enough to tell Geoffrey that here was—

‘Sir Edward Jupe, at your service,’ said the man, thrusting his hand forward.

They shook hands. Geoffrey introduced himself. Sir Edward scratched his head as if he might have heard the name. Geoffrey asked if he was going to join the pilgrimage since the knight seemed to
be part of the group assembling in the Tabard. Also he was aware that fighting men of Jupe’s rank often went on a pilgrimage after campaigning, either as a way of giving thanks for their
survival or perhaps because they simply couldn’t settle down.

‘No, Master Chaucer, there is no pilgrimage for me. I am acquainted with a couple of the gentlemen who are on their way to Canterbury, that’s all,’ said the knight, glancing
towards the company. ‘I have delayed here a moment to greet my friends. My destination is much closer. I have not seen my lady for these many months.’

And so, thought Chaucer, you show your eagerness by visiting her with your tunic unchanged and rust-spotted. It occurred to him that the marks might equally well be blood. Still, that was what
some ladies liked in their men, newly returned from the wars. He didn’t ask where Sir Edward had been campaigning. There was always a war going on somewhere.

‘I hope you find her well . . . but not too well.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Sir Edward, an angry look replacing the previous good humour. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘Only that your lady must surely be feeling the absence of her knight, and that your return will restore her to perfect health. Nothing more than that.’

‘Ah, just so. If you’ll forgive me,’ said the knight, bowing before making to withdraw towards the group of pilgrims. Chaucer at last was permitted to quit the Tabard, and to
reflect on his two meetings. The encounter with the red-capped man had not been pleasant but he knew that what the agitator said was not so different from what many Londoners believed, even if few
would dare to say it out loud. John of Gaunt was unpopular not merely on account of his fabulous wealth and because he had been unsuccessful in various recent military adventures, but because he
had married a foreign queen, Constance of Castile. He was thought to be over-mighty, arrogant and devious. There was some truth in all of these accusations.

Geoffrey Chaucer was pleased with his quick invention in the Tabard Inn. The claim that Gaunt was the product of a dragon and a mermaid had a kind of poetic truth to it. After all, what was
Edward III in his younger campaigning days but a dragon heaping fire and destruction on his enemies? And Queen Philippa, dead these last seven years, had been in her young days a notable beauty:
like a siren, like a mermaid. Thinking these things, Geoffrey felt the sheaf of papers inside his coat. The story of Beornwyn.

Once he had called at his Aldgate lodgings and visited the scribe by St Paul’s church and handed him the sheets with instructions to make three copies, Geoffrey Chaucer proceeded westwards
towards the Savoy. He intended to visit his wife and children. The morning was warm and bright, and the streets crowded. He thought of the pilgrims about to set off from Southwark, and half envied
them their ride away from the smoke and smell of the city. It took him about half an hour to reach the area of the palace. The Strand was paved until this point and then the paving gave up, as if
the thoroughfare was not interested in anyone who wanted to travel beyond the Savoy.

The section facing the street gave little idea of the beauty and splendour that lay within. A long, fortified wall prevented passers-by from seeing or even guessing at anything of the interior.
In the middle of the wall was an enormous gateway, secured by a portcullis. Since this was only raised for ceremonial entrances and exits, the usual way in was via a pedestrian gate – itself
by no means small – a few yards away from the principal one. This gate was not kept closed, because there was so much traffic in and out, but a couple of liveried members of the household
kept a discreet watch on everyone.

As he was approaching this entrance, Geoffrey was surprised to see someone who looked like the irate man from the Tabard Inn walking ahead of him. And even more surprised when red-cap turned
into the Savoy gate. Any doubt about his identity was dispelled when he cast a quick look behind him as he entered. Chaucer ducked his head just in time. He noticed that the man was not intercepted
by the gatekeepers, which suggested that they knew him. He recalled what the man had said about having his own sources inside the Savoy. Perhaps he was speaking the truth.

Geoffrey waited a few moments. When he passed through the gate, he nodded at the gatemen, who dipped their heads slightly as a mark of deference. Geoffrey was known to them – as the
husband of a demoiselle serving Queen Constance and as the brother-in-law to Katherine Swynford – but he was not important enough to merit a proper bow. He stopped and spoke to the
sharper-looking of the doormen.

‘Someone came through here a few moments ago, a man wearing a red cap. You know who it was?’

‘I believe his name is John.’

‘It is John Hall, sir,’ said the other doorman. ‘I know him because I know Hugh, his brother, who is in the household. John is often here.’

That explained red-cap’s familiarity with the Savoy. Chaucer thanked them. He said nothing more to the doormen but decided to report John Hall to one of the stewards. Violent and seditious
talk against the Duke of Lancaster by one who regularly visited the Savoy could not be tolerated.

Immediately inside the entrance and to the right was a chapel and a library, and beyond lay some of the extensive accommodation for the servants, as well as the stables. The bigger apartments
and the state rooms were on the river side of the palace. Geoffrey made his way along passages and up and down stairs and through cloistered spaces towards his wife’s lodgings. As he drew
nearer to them, the very fabric of the building seemed to grow lighter and more airy. He arrived at the ornate lobby outside Philippa’s door and was taken aback to encounter a group of men
waiting there in sober silence. He recognised one of them, a steward called Thomas Banks. The others were regular members of Gaunt’s retinue.

Geoffrey’s first response was one of alarm. He asked what was wrong and then, when Banks put a finger to his lips as a sign for quiet, asked again more loudly. The steward was prevented
from replying by the opening of the door behind him. A long face looked out. A long body followed. At once the gaggle of men drew right back as if they were trying to sink into the rich hangings on
the walls while Banks himself bowed deeply. As did Geoffrey Chaucer, for the man who had emerged from Philippa’s chamber was none other than John of Gaunt, the Earl of Richmond and Derby, of
Leicester and Lincoln, as well as the Duke of Lancaster and the King of Castile.

‘Geoffrey! How very pleasant it is to see you again. May I entreat you to enter your own wife’s quarters.’

Chaucer was conscious of Gaunt’s retainers looking at him with respect – that warm, almost eager welcome from their master! – perhaps tinged with amusement. Was anything
mischievous intended by that remark about his wife’s quarters? Gaunt himself held the door open for Geoffrey to go in. He did it with a touch of mock servility. He was in a good mood. The
reason became apparent the moment Geoffrey got inside his wife’s chamber. On the far side of the room, close by the windows overlooking the Thames, stood Gaunt’s mistress, Katherine
Swynford. She smiled to see him. Her smile warmed his heart in a way that his wife’s did not, even though the women were sisters.

‘Philippa claims that the view from here is even better than the one from my apartment,’ said Katherine. ‘The Duke of Lancaster decided to see for himself.’

‘You may not believe it, Geoffrey, but there are rooms in the Savoy that I have never entered,’ said John of Gaunt.

Since there were hundreds of rooms in the palace, most of which Gaunt would never dream of visiting, this was hardly news, but Chaucer put on a face suggesting mild surprise. He understood that
it might be useful for Katherine and Gaunt occasionally to meet out of the public eye – if you disregarded all those retainers waiting outside. What place more convenient than
Philippa’s chamber, at the other end of the palace from the area reserved for Constance of Castile and her party? Gaunt was lately returned with his duchess from Bruges, where he had
concluded a peace treaty with the French. He had been parted from Katherine for some time. Not that anything improper had been occurring just now. The two lovers had evidently been chatting and
laughing together, like any couple at ease in each other’s company. Gaunt was dressed in a dark blue jupon, sparsely tagged with gold buckles and hangings, quite informal. Katherine was
likewise clad in blue, a tight-fitting gown that emphasised her full figure.