The Ill-Made Knight (61 page)

Dinner with Nan was a delight. We shared a cup of wine while Juan entertained her parents with stories of Spain.

We met by chance in the passage by the stairs – me going to the jakes and she returning from the pantry. She leaned over and kissed me very hard, then shifted herself down the passage, as light on her feet as ever.

Later, at the door, her mother bussed me on each cheek and said, ‘Now you come back when you are in London, but not so often that you make Nan see stars. You hear me, Will Gold? Your manners are pretty and your friend’s a gentleman born; see you act one, too. Do I have to speak more clearly, young man?’

Nan sputtered. ‘Mother!’

‘Mother nothing, girl. I’m flesh and blood like you. I have eyes.’ She glared at us and then smiled. ‘Be off with you. I’ll go inside – for as long as it takes me to say a paternoster for you.’

I kissed Nan – the sort of kiss that lingers between what might be considered friendship and what might be considered lechery. She smiled at the ground, twined her fingers with me briefly and went back inside.

I decided I didn’t really want to meet her husband.

Juan and I walked through the darkening streets to the priory. He looked at me in the light of some cressets and said, ‘They are good, worthy people.’

I nodded, suddenly devastated to realize what I might have had.

The way I tell this, it may seem to you that I was almost hanged for my misdeeds, and then I was rescued, and like the conversion of Saul on the road to Damascus, my life of sin was over. But I tell you, gentles, my heart varied between black and white, hope and despair. If you have comitted sins – bad sins, not the venal ones the priests rant about – and you spend time with good people, whether people like Fra Peter or people like Nan’s mother, you
have
to look at yourself. These good people are mirrors, and unless you are a liar and a caitiff, you
see
. Every day I saw. Some days – many days, if I wasn’t given exercise and hard work, like a troublesome colt – I considered slinking away.

Every day.

Bah! Never mind. But I tell this like it was ordained, and the truth is that I was still unsure. Still ready to bolt.

The next day I went to the Bardi factor in London and drew a little money. I bought the Abbott a pair of reading glasses – the Venetians made them. I’d seen them in France, and in Avignon everyone had them.

I bought Nan a brooch of pearls. I walked to the gate at sunset and pinned it to a ribbon, which I hung on the latch. Then I knocked and walked away.

Our last day in England, Juan and I rode the horses out to Southwark and prepared them for the ship, then I rented a hack and rode to the nunnery to visit my sister.

As a donat, I was allowed to meet her in the parlour, and she was so happy to see me, so happy that, in her eyes, I’d turned to God, that mostly all she did was cry. And yet, to my delight, when her eyes were dry, I saw that she had become one of those tough-minded nuns who gets things done. We fell into each other’s arms. I have seldom sobbed tears while grinning like a loon, but there I was.

She told me a few of her adventures – this brought on by my remembering Nan and her mother to her – and she grinned like a man.

‘Aye, the Plague, brother,’ she said. ‘My foe and Satan’s tool.’ She tossed her shoulders back. ‘I don’t understand the ways of men, and war, and yet, when I understand that there is Plague among the whores in Southwark, and my sisters and I pack to go to their aid, I feel something, and I wonder if it is the same thing you feel when you hear the trumpets.’

Courage comes in a number of forms. Going to a place with Plague – of your own free will?

But to gain a little benison in her eyes, I told her of the days when Sam and all my men had Plague, and Richard, too.

‘And you tended them?’ she asked.

‘What else could I do?’ I answered.

She kissed me. ‘God loves you, William Gold.’ She grinned, and for a moment she had a little imp in the corner of her mouth, as she sometimes did when we were children. ‘And so do I. Listen, brother, you paid my bride price, and I can never repay you, but I pray for you each day. And I fear you need it. You live with war. It is all around you, and a man who stands on a dunghill gets shit on his feet.’

She put a hand on my arm – I’d started to hear her swear.

‘I live more in the world than most married women,’ she said. ‘I try to heal the sick, with God’s help, and I see the shit every day.’ She paused. ‘Need you go back to war, brother?’

I had thought all these things, so I looked at the polished floor and said, ‘I’m a soldier, sister. I hope to be a knight.’

She hugged me tight. ‘Go with God, then. Write to me sometimes, when you aren’t too busy.’

I was the one who wept, then. To see her . . . solid. Not just solid in her faith, but with humour, toughness and understanding. And love. She was better than me.

But it had all been for something. After I saw her, I think I saw myself differently. Again, it was no road to Damascus, but I think it was a road, and I could follow it to knighthood.

England had two more surprises in store for me.

Fra Peter was called to the tower to speak to the Chancellor of England – probably about the crusade – and Juan and I were left cooling our heels in Southwark for two additional days. Where ships called and where whores leaned out from inn balconies and called suggestions after you.

‘Hello, Red! You could be riding me in comfort on a feather bed before the bell rings?’ I remember that, because the lass was big enough to ride.

They could make me blush. It wasn’t like France or Avignon. Whores in London have rights, and they are . . . English. At any rate, we tried hard not to commit various sins, although our attempts at abstinence were not cloistered, and we tempted ourselves constantly, all but patrolling the main thoroughfare. Ah, youth.

At any rate, we stopped to drink in the King’s Head. It was full of royal household men coming back from a royal hunting trip and debating money matters. There were two dozen royal archers and some squires.

I saw Sam Bibbo in the same moment he saw me.

And over his shoulder I saw Geoffrey Chaucer.

Chaucer was a royal squire, or like enough. He sneered at me from a distance, but I could tell that he was interested to see me there, and eventually – the inn wasn’t that big – we came together. I was chatting to Bibbo.

I smiled at Chaucer, showing all my teeth. He’d helped with my sister after all, so I was prepared to let bygones go by.

He didn’t offer a hand. ‘You’re back,’ he said.

‘And away again,’ I allowed.

He looked at Juan, who was a quick study and had picked up my hesitation.

Juan bowed, gloved hand to his chest.

Chaucer returned his bow. ‘Spanish?’ he asked.

Juan smiled. ‘I am from Castile,’ he said.

Chaucer smiled. ‘Ah, it is warmer there, signor. And the towns are beautiful and the people the most courteous in the world.’

‘You know Castile?’ Juan asked, delighted.

‘I know that water can be more precious than wine, there,’ Chaucer said. Then he turned back to me. ‘We heard you were dead,’ he said. ‘Betrayed to your death by Richard Musard.’

I shrugged. The world of soldiers and arms isn’t that big.

‘Musard stabbed you in the back?’ he asked. ‘I’m surprised. I thought better of him. Even if you are a far cry from a gentil and perfect knight, you were his best comrade.’

This man always spoke faster than I. He made my head spin, asked hard questions and danced away like a swordsman demonstrating his skills. I wasn’t sure myself what I thought of Richard’s betrayal, but in that moment I found that I wasn’t ready to be shot of him. I took a deep breath. I said. ‘Richard was a friend.’ I met Chaucer’s eyes. ‘There was a woman involved.’

Chaucer barked his laugh. He had grown – he was no longer a wiry boy but a man. ‘A woman? Between you and Musard? By the saviour, monsieur, there was a time when I thought the two of you closer than men and women.’ He laughed his nasty courtier’s laugh, but then he looked at me and shook his head. ‘Your pardon, Gold. My mouth runs before me, sometimes.’

‘You haven’t changed,’ I said. ‘But
par dieu
, Master Chaucer, it is the first time I have ever heard you admit it.’

Juan looked at me and then at Master Chaucer, as if gauging the likelihood of violence. I took a step back. ‘Never mind, Master Chaucer. Perhaps I have only myself to blame, at that. I’m going back to Avignon with Fra Peter.’

‘Mortimer?’ Chaucer nodded. ‘I understand he’s going to Italy.’

‘Italy?’ I was thunderstruck.

‘Italy?’ Juan said, obviously delighted.

‘Italy?’ asked Sam Bibbo. He’d listened to every word without comment.

Sam Bibbo told me that evening he’d like to go to Italy. He said it would take him a week to tie up his affairs and leave the royal guard, so we sailed for Calais without him, but by the time we’d arranged to travel with an English pack train bound for the fair at Champagne, he arrived, with two horses, his weapons and armour.

Our first night on the road, after I’d introduced him to Fra Peter, we sat on our saddles, both of us sewing. I might have stepped back five years.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘You were royal archer?’

He shrugged. ‘I took a wife,’ he said. ‘She died in childbirth. All my friends are dead, or in the companies. I don’t have a trade.’ His steady eyes met mine in the firelight. ‘Three weeks ago, we drove stags and hinds for the King and his court, and a dozen ambassadors. Thirty hours in the saddle and on foot, moving animals; guiding nobles decked out like merchants to their shooting stands; or frightening the beasts along the woods. Driving ’em to their deaths.’ He looked at the fire. ‘Half the lads hadn’t been at Poitiers or any other fight. Archers are yeoman’s sons, now, or better. It’s not the way it was.’ He looked away. ‘Like as not it’s all in my head. Mayhap I was away too long.’ He sewed a dozen stitches and looked up. ‘No one to talk to, neither. Neighbours all think I’m some sort of freak. Or a dangerous killer.’

That was a hell of a long speech for Sam Bibbo.

The next night, he said, ‘You taken religion, young William?’

I sat back. Had I?

He went on, ‘I mean to join one of the companies. If you are going to Avignon with the Knight, we’ll part at some point.’ He was embarrassed. He made a face. ‘Rather go with you.’

I leaned back. ‘Sir John Hawkwood invited me to join him,’ he said. ‘He told me to raise ten lances.’ I shook my head. ‘But I’m bound for the crusade, Sam. And I will not be foresworn.’

Sam tugged at his grey beard. ‘Huh,’ he said, and that was it for a day or two.

The ride back to Avignon was harder than the ride north, for a dozen reasons. The countryside seemed more dangerous – we were attacked east of Paris by men so desperate and skinny they seemed like another species. We had to trade watches at night. Sam was a vital addition, and I could see him and Fra Peter growing, if not closer, at least to some sort of arrangement.

We were in the Auxerre, less than a day’s travel from the tree where I’d almost been hanged, when Sam spoke up while we sat chewing rabbit.

‘Sir Knight, a bird in England told me you was bound for Italy. Is it true?’ he asked.

Juan sat up straight.

‘Perhaps,’ Fra Peter said slowly. He looked at his wooden bowl.

‘Why would a Knight of St John be in Italy?’ I asked. To me, it sounded like walking into a Southwark brothel – a little too much temptation.

‘Italy is . . . at the centre.’ Fra Peter shrugged. ‘Of a number of things.’

Juan hardly ever spoke up. He was often silent, his lively eyes darting about, and when I had him alone, sometimes he’d boil over with questions, asking me ten or twenty things at once. But that night, his curiosity – and his pent-up desire to fight, like any normal boy – burst forth.

‘What things?’ he asked. ‘Why? Why Italy? Because of Rome? he war with Milan?’

It was as if he had just discovered the power of speech. We were all silent after his outburst, and then we all laughed, even Fra Peter.

‘Where do I begin?’ he asked. ‘I suppose it is about history, and about money.’

‘Money?’ asked the Spaniard. ‘How can a crusade be about money?’

More laughter. Is anything more amusing than a seventeen-year-old?

Fra Peter sighed. ‘Do you know what it is to be a Knight of St John?’ he asked quietly. ‘We are supposed to heal the sick and fight to defend the Holy Sepulchre, but Jerusalem was lost before I was born and I’ve never even worked in the hospital.’ He glanced at Juan and rocked his head from side to side. ‘I may be for Italy, yes. King Edward asked me to take a message to your Hawkwood. He made it clear that in doing this, I would be helping the cause of the crusade.’

He sat back and looked up. The stars were just coming out.

‘At the same time, the Pope, head of the church, is also a worldly seigneur with temporal power and temporal lands that must be defended, in Provence and in Italy. The Pope is at war with Milan. The routiers prey on the Pope, and the Pope seeks to send them to fight Milan and the infidel. The Pope ordered me and my brothers to spearhead this effort.’ He shrugged. ‘The Pope has an army, and the commander of that army is another of my brothers, who needs more knights to support his efforts to cleanse Provence of the routiers by force of arms. And in the east, more of us hold the island of Rhodes, and there we fight the Turks. Except that we don’t always fight them – sometimes we temporize or negotiate. Does Christ care whether you make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem through Christian lands or Moslem lands, so long as you go?’ He shrugged. ‘I have heard Venetians say that the sultans rule Jerusalem better than the Franks ever did.’

‘And the money?’ Juan went on.

‘Do you know what it costs to maintain Smyrna and Rhodes? Perhaps a hundred thousand florins a year, to maintain four hundred knights and six galleys. A crusade? If we want to have ten thousand men for a year,’ – he laughed – ‘three hundred thousand florins of gold, and that’s before we feed a man or a horse, or ship them to the Holy Land.’