The People's Queen Part 3

It's only as the group walks across the City to the dinner at Chaucer's new apartment that one of the lesser merchants breaks through the shoulders of Brembre and his friends.

'I hope you will not be offended,' the unfamiliar man says to the comptroller, with the heavy accent of Flanders, 'but I have sent a small gift ahead to your new home, to welcome you to your post. A tun of Gascon wine.'

The man then bows, with a big man's slouching-shouldered imitation of modesty, includes Chaucer in a huge rolling laugh, and introduces himself as Richard Lyons. He's almost unnaturally large and luridly coloured, though without an ounce of fat on him. He makes Brembre look small and weak. He has thighs like tree trunks, a pink face, sly, amused eyes, pale orange hair peeping out from under his hat, and a warm, rich voice that projects without effort over everyone else's. No grey in his his stubble - he can't be older than forty - and plenty of gold at wrist and chest. stubble - he can't be older than forty - and plenty of gold at wrist and chest.

Chaucer never met Lyons while a boy in London, but of course he's heard his name since. Lyons has only emerged as a wealthy man very recently (and, Chaucer remembers, his father, in his latter years, wasn't always too sure that this new wealth was very honestly acquired, though naturally that's the kind of thing almost any Londoner will automatically say about almost any foreigner). Chaucer knows the Fleming is now very rich indeed. Even though he's a foreigner, Lyons is about to serve as one of the next mayor's two sheriffs - high office - which seems to suggest that the London elite walking down this street favour him, except that it's very easy to see that, actually, they don't want him there at all; they feel awkward around him, and are doing everything they can to keep him to the back and dilute his overwhelming presence among them.

Chaucer understands why they'd be nervous. Lyons has been biding his time. He's stayed in the background, and kept his peace for the past hour. But he's been the first, all the same, to get in with his charming little bribe.

'I thank you,' he says, bowing very politely, ending the conversation. Secretly, he's breathing a big sigh of relief that, for the moment at least, Lyons, who's a vintner like Chaucer's own father, is only here for curiosity's sake; he's hoping that this pink-and-orange-and-red-and-gold force of nature doesn't, in the near future, start getting tied up in the wool trade. At least until Chaucer's got everything worked out. He can see, right off, that Lyons is a man on the rise, and a man who does things his own way, and a man who'll always be a focus for trouble.

By the time Lyons bows and moves away, the whole procession, dignitaries, aristocrats, and the new Comptroller of Customs and Subsidy on Wool, Sheepskins and Leather in the Port of London, has pa.s.sed north and east across half the City - a brisk ten-minute walk, right through the parish of All Hallows Barking, up Water Lane, over Thames Street and Tower Street, and on up Mark Lane into neighbouring Aldgate parish - and is on Aldgate Street itself, heading for the City wall and the gate. All around them, there's the deafening crash of midday bells for s.e.xt.

The City is a democratic place. It's too small for anything but walking, for even the greatest of men, and Geoffrey Chaucer likes the quiet freedom of strolling through the crowds. It's one of the pleasures of London, that you can go everywhere on foot. He clings to this notion of enjoying walking, because he's suddenly a little wobbly inside about how much he really likes London. Travelling has blunted so much of his old pleasure in his home city. Once you've seen honeystone Florence, you're spoiled for ever. Afterwards, how can you feel anything more than slightly pitying affection for this twisty, stinky, thatched, wattle-and-daubed, cobbled, overcrowded, provincial old place? Of course, that isn't a feeling to share with the men now whispering confidingly into his ear, one by one, that they've had a box of pepper, or spices, or fish, or cus.h.i.+ons, delivered to his new home as a housewarming gift. True Londoners will always be proud of their White City. They call it the Ringing City, sometimes - all the church bells. It's a place to walk endlessly through the ringing of bells. That's one of the things I'll be doing, from now on, Chaucer thinks, not quite happily.

The apartment above Aldgate was signed over to him last month, as part of his payment for this job. It's a great s.p.a.cious place, looking out over the cut-throat eastern slum villages beyond the City walls one way, along the Colchester road through to Ess.e.x on the horizon, and over the roofs and gardens of Holy Trinity Priory and teeming Aldgate Street the other way, inside the City walls.

The apartment itself is all large echoing rooms, with a solar above and a cellar below the easternmost of the six City gates. It's the only toll-free gate, open to all, beggars included, and there are plenty of those coming from the wild, spa.r.s.ely populated Ess.e.x country beyond. There'll be people coming and going in their carts underneath Chaucer's feet every day, cursing as they try to squeeze through the narrow arch, and the clank of the City gate closing every night at curfew. The apartment has been used as a prison in the past; this is a strategic spot. He's had to swear to use it well and not let enemies of the City enter through the gate below; they've had to swear not to put prisoners in there with him and his family for his lifetime. It was a comical little City ceremony, the kind that would have made Philippa smirk. But the apartment's prestigious enough - as good as Stury's riverside house - so any smirking on her part, right now, is also partly a genuinely happy smile.

Alice Perrers winked when she told him she'd got him the apartment rent-free. 'It's not usually rent-free. But the Mayor said yes, for you.'

'Whatever kindness the wors.h.i.+pful Mayor is doing, it's to impress you, I'm sure, not me,' he replied gratefully. It's her kind of favour, he understands. He's heard a lot of stories about Alice Perrers' ruthless ways with property, exchanging influence and access to the King for favours in land and buildings, constantly obtaining new leases on still more properties, all on the never-never, feathering her own nest. The stories aren't flattering, but they're probably all true. It's obvious she's minting money. Everyone says the same thing. Chaucer knows he's supposed to be shocked by her greed. Philippa, in particular, keeps telling him so. But he can't help admiring the merry mischief in Alice Perrers' eyes. He likes her for enjoying her tricks and subterfuges so much.

Philippa will have made those empty s.p.a.ces above Aldgate beautiful in these past days. She'll have hung the tapestries and scattered the cus.h.i.+ons artfully to fill the rooms with loveliness and colour. There'll be flowers. All their little wealth will be on brave display. She'll understand the importance of that.

Geoffrey Chaucer finds his hands clutching at his long sleeves. He's wearing merchant robes today, long sweeping things to his feet; he plans to dress like the merchants he'll be living among. But he hasn't reckoned with the heat inside the tube of velvet. He's forgotten that, in his years of aristocratic tunics and hosen. He's stifling. His linen unders.h.i.+rt is soaking. He wishes his stomach would stop churning.

If only he could be sure his wife also understands how important it is to treat these merchants like princes, and feed them like kings. If only he knew for certain that she's understood about the dinner.

FOUR.

There's a crowd at Aldgate as the merchant procession arrives. Two donkeys, pulling a heavily laden cart, are blocking the traffic while men unload trays from it. They're ignoring other men, who are darting in and out of the gatehouse, complaining, as well as the men on carts trying to come into the City, who are shouting and cat-calling and hooting obscenities in their rustic Ess.e.x voices from beyond the gate.

Chaucer winces. He remembers these stubborn City sc.r.a.ps for s.p.a.ce so well. It might go on for hours, this slow-motion shouting. It might turn into a fight. He doesn't want his his dignitaries to be caught up in one of these spats now. dignitaries to be caught up in one of these spats now.

But, after a heart-stopping moment, he realises there's no cause for concern. The aldermen are City folk too. They know, better than he, that there's no need to mix themselves up in this compet.i.tion among low-lifes. They just puff out their padded chests and glide through the fracas as if unaware of it, making straight for Chaucer's staircase. They don't even seem to see the shaking fists and jutting jaws all around them.

'Warm for the time of year,' Will Walworth opines, velvet-smooth, taking Chaucer's arm and guiding him into the doorway. Only the glint of amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes gives away his awareness of the little birds fighting.

It's only when Chaucer is on the narrow stone steps, aware that Walworth has politely taken the narrower side of the spiral yet is so delicate on his long feet that he seems to be flying up the tiny treads, that the new comptroller sees that some of the men with trays are also in the stairwell, both above and below him, and that each of them is carrying a platter on his shoulder.

When Chaucer reaches the top of the stairs, and emerges into the biggest of the stone chambers, he sees, to his unspeakable relief, that it is all decked out with trestles and cus.h.i.+ons and benches and the cupboard containing his and Philippa's many silver-gilt Christmas gifts from Countess Elizabeth, his first employer, and both the past and present d.u.c.h.esses of Lancaster, Philippa's two employers, and Duke John too, and the King himself, each cup bearing one or other n.o.ble coat of arms. He sees, too, that the damp back wall is covered by the tapestry his mother worked, a hunting scene she deemed appropriate for his new gentlemanly station in life, and there are nosegays of sweet purple roses and clove-scented pink gillyflowers in small vases everywhere. Only then does he begin to understand what's going on with the food and the platters.

Philippa, in a neat blue robe that she must have considered quite showy enough for City folk, is here, sure enough, with one eyebrow very slightly raised, her gaze pa.s.sing over Chaucer as she steps forward, with her usual willowy formality, to bow to and welcome the future Mayor to her new home.

But behind her, supervising the men arriving in the room with their trays and platters - on which he can now see, as their coverings are removed, are cooked fishes of every description, and piles of cut oranges and pomegranates and lemons, dates and dried apricots, crumbles and jumbles, pink creamy castles of blancmange and wobbling rivers of posset, and a sugared pastry extravagance in the shape of a swan, until the table resembles nothing so much as the Land of c.o.c.kaigne - is another, less familiar, female form.

'Over there,' he hears, as if in a dream. 'And this one, here, in the corner. There's a little bit of s.p.a.ce here still.' She has her back to him, but there's something about that strangely confident voice, and about that tan robe. Before the woman has finished and turned round, allowing Chaucer properly to admire the elaborate cauls in which her hair has been arranged over each ear, and the sheer veil sparkling with fine gold threads wafting around her face, he's guessed.

'Madame Perrers,' he mumbles, stepping forward. Then, correcting himself from courtly French to practical English, the language of the City: 'Mistress Perrers.' Perrers.'

She turns to him. 'Chaucer!' she says familiarly, as if he were her servant. No 'Monsieur' here; no 'Master' either. But who's he to argue with that, when she's saving the day, acting as though she's his his servant, bringing in food? And she looks so pleased to see him, surrounded by bowing merchants, too. She's smiling, very warm and wide; for a moment, he thinks he sees her wink. servant, bringing in food? And she looks so pleased to see him, surrounded by bowing merchants, too. She's smiling, very warm and wide; for a moment, he thinks he sees her wink.

Now he understands Philippa's raised eyebrow. He can see from the colours of the platters - Alice's all of pewter, Philippa's of a jumble of different colours of pottery and metal - that the meal his wife has laid on has been, until Alice got here with these unsolicited reinforcements, a modest affair of herring, sorrel, and strawberries. The relief that surges through Chaucer's innards when he sees the feast now being set out by Alice's servants is like a river flooding its banks. He's intensely aware of the appreciative looks on the merchants' faces, the bright, hungry eyes, inspecting the dishes with pleasurable antic.i.p.ation. He can almost feel the saliva swirling in every mouth. Everything will be all right now. Except, of course, that behind her cool politeness, Philippa must be fuming at That Woman having so unexpectedly upstaged her.

Hastily, realising Philippa is watching him, as if for signs he's conspired in the Perrers dinner coup, he bows to his uninvited guest, very formally. 'Why, I had no idea...' he begins cautiously, so Philippa will understand his innocence. 'I thought the court would be packing up today, for Sheen...if I'd realised you might be lingering in London, Mistress Perrers, of course, I would have invited...' But then he looks up into Alice Perrers' bold eyes, and sees the ghost of a wink in them, and forgets all his furtive married-man's cunning, and is lost. She's so straightforward in her mischievous do-gooding - understanding everything, saying nothing, and tremendously pleased with herself at having saved the day, all at once - that he abandons caution, takes her hands in his, bobs his head down in a sketchy bow, and says, with all the real happiness and merriment that the sight of this very welcome guest suddenly inspires in him, 'Well, what a wonderful surprise!'

'My modest housewarming gift,' Alice Perrers replies nonchalantly, squeezing his hands, bowing in her turn to Philippa to include her in this circle of warm astonishment, but not batting an eyelid when Philippa's face continues to express nothing more than the minimum of polite grat.i.tude that etiquette demands. 'To you both,' Alice Perrers says, and, to an encouraging rumble of a.s.sent from the merchants, 'to wish you health, wealth, and happiness in London.' Then, not trying any further with Philippa, she turns to Walworth, Brembre, and Philpot, and finally to Latimer and Stury (who, Chaucer notices, have struck up a conversation with the flas.h.i.+ng-eyed Fleming, Richard Lyons), and greets each group of them in turn with a warm look and a quiet, amusing, private word.

Chaucer notices Alice's poise here, among the merchants, just as he's been noticing her confidence at Westminster ever since she started taking him to meet the officials she clearly knows so well. Chaucer doesn't think she's the child of a London merchant family, because, if she were, surely he'd have known her as a boy? Still, she seems quite at home here - more so than at court. He thinks, vaguely: Haven't I heard something...wasn't she married to a merchant, right back at the start? (Perhaps, if she was, the marriage was during his years away, trotting around France and Flanders and Italy...) He can't think who the husband can have been, though. He should find out.

Chaucer knows, anyway, that he'll never feel sorry for her in this company - she's too at ease, and too popular. Look at her charming the merchants. Everyone laughs when she whispers in their ear, and it's genuine laughter every time. And they're not usually like this with women, either; they're too sober, and not given to flirting. They must take her seriously. They must be talking about trade; that's what they do talk about. They're treating her like one of themselves.

He's almost laughing himself with the miracle of what she's done for him. They've always said Alice Perrers can organise anything. But it can't have been four hours since he saw her on the jetty, back at Westminster. How in the name of G.o.d has she found the time to do her hair like that, and rustle up all these splendid dishes, so far away on the other side of town, and get herself here, all in a morning? He's heard she has a London house in Vintry Ward, like Stury, a proper liveable-in house, as well as all those other London property holdings that people talk about. She must have sent word straight away for her servants there to get to work, then come up to London herself within the hour. But still. He's shaking his head and beaming all over his face, as Philippa seats the party around the table. He can't believe his luck.

Somewhere deep inside, below the grateful hilarity and relief, he can feel just a hint of smugness surfacing too at his own good judgement. If all this is his reward, he thinks, just for stepping in politely to save embarra.s.sment when Princess Joan decided to start throwing goblets of wine around at a ball, he'd better make a resolution to be just as brave every day of the week.

'Can I pa.s.s you this dish of sorrel?' Chaucer sees Philippa try with William Walworth at her left, and is grateful to his wife for that good intention, at least. She's sat beside him for twenty minutes without making much effort at conversation, though she's never done anything so obvious as to yawn, or look away. She's just smiled. Walworth appreciates that she's trying, too. He very daintily takes a leaf or two on the end of his knife. His appet.i.te is sated, but politesse oblige. politesse oblige. He takes a token nibble. He takes a token nibble.

'Have you settled in happily, Mistress Chaucer?' he enquires, beaming virtue at her out of his pale eyes, like a lean, kindly priest. 'Is there anything we can help you with, now you're here? I know my wife would be more than ready...' He pauses, full of the will to please, a.s.sessing what goods or services Mistress Chaucer might possibly need, or desire. But Philippa's already shaking her head. Flirtatiously, though not very; but definitely.

'Oh,' she says. Her voice is a little too perfunctory for her polite words to sound sincere. 'You're too kind, Master Walworth. I'm honoured. But I think everything's sorted out, for now...though perhaps when I'm next in London I could call on Mistress Walworth...' Her voice trails off.

'Ah yes,' Walworth says, not allowing himself to sound disconcerted at the reminder that Mistress Chaucer won't be a regular part of London social life. 'Of course. You're keeping your place as demoiselle to' - and here he can't, for all his good manners, refrain from slightly wrinkling his face - 'my lady the d.u.c.h.ess of Lancaster.'

Walworth is a merchant, so how can he say the name of Lancaster without a bit of a scowl? Because, if there's no love lost between the London rich and my lord the Duke of Lancaster, the merchants know exactly whom they blame. It's the Duke's fault, in their book. The Duke is so jealous of his father's dependence on the rich men of London for loans to finance the war that he insults the merchants, whenever he sees them at court, by telling them to their faces they're not worthy to be there. It was never like this before, he's been heard to say; in the old days, you'd never have seen n.o.blemen kowtowing to the servile cla.s.ses. The Duke's jealousy of the merchants' influence leads him further still - he also talks openly about wanting to take away the freedoms that the City people enjoy: the right to elect their own leaders and try their own people in their own courts. So naturally the merchants dislike and fear the Duke, in case he destroys London's independence; and naturally any mention of the Duke's wife will cause a certain amount of suppressed upset in Master Walworth's mind. He nods a few more times, bringing a wistful smile back on to his face. 'At least, so I understand,' he adds, with a slightly questioning note in his voice. Philippa Chaucer smiles back, but she's blank-eyed. She's making no further effort at conversation.

Chaucer feels so awkward at his wife's less than enthusiastic treatment of London's greatest merchant that he leans forward himself. 'May I, Master Walworth,' he says hastily, 'draw your attention to the hanap you're drinking from? A very gracious gift to my dear wife from my lord the King himself, for her years of service to his family?' He feels it's important to remind Master Walworth that this awkward independence of spirit that his wife's showing does, at least, bring connections with the greatest in the land. 'I've always admired the beauty of that tracery on the silver-gilt, look...' He draws a finger up the chased foliage twining around the stem of the goblet.

Walworth, who no less than Chaucer is a master of smoothing out difficulties in relations, looks as handsomely appreciative as he's supposed to, and clucks warm, admiring praise. It is is very fine work. very fine work.

'Mistress Chaucer', Chaucer says, with more warmth than he feels, 'is greatly loved by the royal family. My lady of Lancaster won't think of letting her go...' He raises rueful hands to the sky, and shakes his head, making a comedy of Philippa's distance from this new life in London. 'To my great sorrow, of course. I will miss her, and our children; who more?'

Both the men have found a way out of the moment of awkwardness by now. They're leaning towards each other, smiling slightly too much (Chaucer can already feel his jaw muscles begin to ache), waving their arms a little; the picture of affability. Philippa, meanwhile, is drawing back, politely making s.p.a.ce for them to talk together. The vague, uninterested look is still on her face.

'Of course,' Walworth replies unctuously, accepting, with apparent delight, the dish of oranges cut into decorative shapes that Chaucer is pa.s.sing. 'Of course. The price of a good wife is far above rubies. And one who's also as beautiful as your lady is to be treasured most of all.' He and Chaucer laugh at this charming compliment till their eyes fill with tears, then pat each other's hands. Walworth eats a slice of orange. 'Mm,' he mumbles, with mouth full, as Philippa, the hardly noticed object of the compliment, takes the opportunity to slide off her stool and slip away from the table to give the servants some whispered order. 'Delicious, my dear Chaucer. You and your lady wife have done us proud today.'

Yet Chaucer can't help noticing that it's Mistress Perrers whom Walworth seeks out with his eyes as he pays that last compliment.

After the dinner, when the guests have begun to walk around a little, moving to fireplace or window, stretching their legs, Chaucer finds himself at the window with Mistress Perrers, looking out at the golden streaks in the afternoon sky over the quiet fields east of London. He's so full of tender grat.i.tude to her by now that he's only too happy to murmur agreement when she says, 'Isn't it lovely?

'It always gets me right here,' she goes on reflectively, tapping her heart, 'this view. But then I was born in Ess.e.x. So I suppose it's only natural.'

Bewildered, and a little disappointed, Chaucer looks again at the shadowy flatlands, the shabby villages. He hadn't realised she was talking about Ess.e.x. He thought she meant the sky. There's nothing remarkable that he can see about those fields and forests, the road stretching off into the dusk, the sheep. He's enough of a Londoner that, to him, fields and forest mean boredom, an absence, a place of spectral, hag-faced men and women with skin-covered bones: dead-eyed, earthsmelling, earth-eating, with heads of clay and dung.

'You're from Ess.e.x?' he replies, feeling stupid to sound surprised. 'But I thought...' He pauses. He really can't remember who the merchant husband could have been, but London is so clearly where Alice feels at home. 'Weren't you married in London, long ago?' he finishes lamely.

She laughs a little, looking down at her hands. 'Oh, husbands,' she says coyly. Then she flashes a quick, mischievous look up at him from under her lashes. When her eyes meet his, he's surprised, after her coyness, by the transparency in them - as if she's looking into his soul, or inviting him to look into hers. 'But, yes, I did have a couple of London husbands,' she adds quietly, still with a little smile on her lips. 'And yes...long ago. I was twelve when I took the first one.'

A couple of husbands, Chaucer thinks, dazed. He's only got the one wife, and that's been enough to make his feelings about the married state frighteningly complex. But she sounds so casual.

'They say you should only have one master in life, don't they? Since Christ only went to one wedding in Galilee?' she teases. She knows what's on his mind, he thinks, and feels his cheeks get hot. She adds, even more lightly, 'But, you know, Chaucer, all the Bible actually says is that G.o.d told us all to go forth and multiply. It has nothing at all to say about bigamy, or octogamy, either, not that I've heard. Except that, if you think about it, wise old King Solomon gave himself a generous margin when it came to wives, didn't he? More than any of us would take on?' She grins at him. Her hands are on her hips. There's a glint of challenge in her eyes.

Trying to get the right bantering tone, he replies, with a forced chortle, 'So you've had eight husbands, have you?'

As soon as his words are out, he realises he probably hasn't got it right. She shrugs and looks faintly weary for a moment. 'To hear them talk, you'd think I'd had dozens,' she says. 'I've certainly heard people say five.'

For a moment, their eyes meet. There is candidness in hers, he sees with relief. She's sharing her exasperation. As if forgiving him his clumsy remark, she smiles.

'Even one marriage is more than I bargained for,' Chaucer observes, settling for honesty himself, looking out again. His cheeks are warm. 'Sometimes.'

'Experience,' she says lightly. 'That's what you need; give you the upper hand.' And she flashes her eyes at him again, and makes to move away into the throng.

'Well, my my experience hasn't taught me much,' he mutters, a little rebelliously, as she picks up her skirts, 'except quite a lot about the woe there is in marriage.' experience hasn't taught me much,' he mutters, a little rebelliously, as she picks up her skirts, 'except quite a lot about the woe there is in marriage.'

She turns, and for a moment seeks him out again with eyes in which he thinks he sees surprise, and the beginning of amus.e.m.e.nt. But all she says is a gentle, 'Oh, Chaucer,' and away she goes.

A short while later, Chaucer flits back to Walworth, who's standing with his two friends and fellow-magnates Brembre and Philpot, picking at the candied fruits the servants are setting out along the now-empty table, and laughing regretfully. The future Mayor of London leans towards Chaucer to include him in the wry conversation too. 'We're wondering how big the loan I'm about to be asked to make the King will be, Master Chaucer,' Walworth confides without any visible bitterness. 'The price of office, I know...every new Mayor gets asked...but with the way the war's been going...' Then, with a half-laugh: 'We're guessing, maybe...PS15,000?' He raises an enquiring eyebrow Chaucer's way.

Chaucer, who has no idea, who's never even imagined the possibility of being part of a conversation like this, can only shake his head and try and keep the saucer-eyed look of an innocent off his face. There is loud, though kindly, laughter from the three merchants. 'Ah,' says Brembre wisely, 'you'll learn.'

Maybe it's an instinct of grat.i.tude that makes Chaucer glance around to find Alice Perrers. Maybe he half wants to bow his thanks to her again for helping him make friends with these men so easily. Whatever the reason, he does look around for her. He finds her standing not far away, talking quietly to Lord Latimer, and to Lyons, the florid Flemish merchant. And Chaucer forgets bowing and displaying grat.i.tude. He's too aware of the way they stop what they're saying to listen in to what Brembre and his friends are talking about. There's something a little too furtive in the way they all look as they listen. Then they start their own quieter conversation again, just the three of them. Alice says to Lyons, quietly, hardly moving her lips, as if she doesn't want to be noticed speaking, 'He'd be ready for twice fifteen thousand, at a better rate, too, if you only gave him your promise. I'm telling you.' Her eyes are fixed on Lyons'. Behind her, Latimer's also nodding towards the Fleming. He obviously agrees. He obviously also wants to persuade Lyons to do whatever it is that Alice wants him to do. Lyons looks quickly from Alice Perrers to the chamberlain and back again. He's thinking. Then he also nods. There's something secret and satisfied on his face when he's done.

Alice's remark itself makes no sense to Chaucer. But the quick, guilty look Lyons gives Chaucer, once Alice has moved off to the next little group of men and the next conversation, makes the comptroller feel as if he's somehow been hoodwinked. He can't imagine how, though; and perhaps it's just the wine, colouring his imagination too rich.

Still, the moment leaves him feeling uneasy. He doesn't like not understanding.

Philippa doesn't stay. As soon as the last guest has bowed and made his exit, Philippa stands up too.

She doesn't want to discuss the dinner. She just says, very politely, that she's expected back at the Savoy tonight. She can make the boat trip before curfew if she hurries.

'But the children. They could stay,' Chaucer mumbles disconsolately. He hasn't even seen them yet. They would have been too young for the dinner. But he's a.s.sumed they're here - sleeping, perhaps, in the bedchamber? Or reading? Or walking around London, waiting for the business meeting to be over before the family reunion?

'They're not here,' Philippa replies calmly. 'They've gone down to Sheen early. There was a hunting party they wanted to join.'

He hasn't thought enough, Chaucer realises, crestfallen. He's a.s.sumed too much. He should have guessed they weren't here.

Chaucer subsides into defeated silence. He submits when she comes to him and pecks him on the top of his slightly balding head before slipping out. He only remembers to stumble out his thanks to her for coming just in time, before the door shuts. He should be grateful, he knows. Philippa's pragmatic enough to have realised it's important to show a united front to the Londoners, who'll want to see that the marital proprieties are observed in the Chaucer household.

She's done what's expected of her.

There's no reason for him to feel sad, he tells himself, even if she's going, and even if he hasn't seen the children. She has her work. They have their lives. This is how things are done in the courtly world. Perhaps it's only being back among merchants, today, and remembering his own childhood, brought up closer to his parents than any courtier's son could dream of, that's making him chafe...

If only the carts weren't rolling quite so loudly through the gate under his feet. If only he hadn't drunk that third cup of wine. Or was it the fourth?

He's slumped at the table, finis.h.i.+ng off what's in the bottom of the cup, listening to the servants behind the door, banging and talking as they clear up the trays and plates, with the sense of anticlimax and disappointment gathering strength inside, as the shadows thicken, when there's a knock.

He's astonished to see Alice's face around the door.

She smiles brilliantly, and the shadows retreat. 'I thought I'd drop by for five minutes while my men are picking up the platters out there. I'd ask you for supper at my house...but you've probably had enough already, haven't you?' She twinkles at him. Hastily, he straightens up. 'You'd rather sleep, I expect...'

He's on his feet before he knows it. 'The kindness kindness,' he hears himself chirrup, excitedly, sounding far too eager. 'The thought-fulness... thought-fulness...finding the time to bring so much...your generosity... generosity...I can't begin to tell you how overwhelmed overwhelmed I was...' I was...'

She doesn't say anything. She looks straight into his eyes, almost tenderly. She shakes her head. After a moment, she says, 'I've been thinking about you...About how strange it must have felt, for you, today - to be coming back to where you grew up.' She takes his hand, not flirtatiously, more like a sister. 'After everything else you've seen in your life.' Her voice trails away, inviting confidences. 'I could hardly imagine doing that, myself.'

A wave of emotion sweeps him. No one else has understood.

He's felt so alone with those thoughts, until now. Suddenly he longs to pour out all the troubles in his heart. 'A beautiful day,' he begins gratefully; 'I have so much to thank you for. Then: 'I'm only sorry my children weren't here to see it.' He stops. It would have been an even greater pleasure, he's been going to say, if Philippa hadn't kept the children away. But he's not quite a fool, even in his cups. He shouldn't be sharing his troubles. 'They went hunting instead,' he adds hastily, choking off the self-pitying confidence he's nearly shared, and trying to sound proud of his children's courtly friends.h.i.+ps. 'At Sheen, Philippa said.'

It must be the memories of his own father that being in London today has awakened - that sudden recollection of a world in which a son's place is at his father's shoulder, learning his business, for all those formative years - that's making him feel this sadness, almost grief, for his own absent children. Or it's the drink. At any rate, Alice is giving him the casually concerned look of someone who doesn't understand the pain he feels. He doesn't think she has children of her own. For a moment he feels almost envious of the freedom from hurt that must represent; she can't be expected to feel the twisting in his heart. He knows he's talking too much.

Mildly, she says, 'And there was me thinking you were going to tell me what it was like travelling in Italy.' She laughs. He feels she's expecting more. But he doesn't know what.

'I'm sorry,' he says. 'Must be a little bit drunk.' She doesn't seem to mind. Her silence goes on being warm and inviting. It's a relief to have been able to confess something so innocuous.

After a pause, she says, 'Oh, well, who isn't, after a splendid dinner like yours? I felt a little tipsy myself.'

Still fuzzily, Chaucer now remembers that he's asked quite a lot of people in this room, since his earlier exchange with Alice by the window, about her husbands. There's been a quiet, nudging, whiskery sort of conspiracy about the answers he's got, and more than one jovial 'oh ho, my boy!' But he senses that no one else really knows, either, what Alice was up to before she became the Queen's demoiselle and the King fell in love with her. 'She's packed a lot into her years in this vale of tears, that one,' someone said knowingly. 'They say she was very friendly with Froissart, the Hainaulter,' Lyons said, 'and, or so I heard, with the knight who went to Ireland, what's-his-name, Windsor.' Lyons tried to wink at Chaucer but Chaucer s.h.i.+fted his eyes. 'There was Champagne, the baker, I I heard. When she was just a girl. And Perrers, obviously,' someone else said. 'After Champagne. Wasn't she married to Perrers?' Nods all round, though nods that didn't seem to be backed by much precise knowledge as to which Perrers Alice might have lived with. One man opined, hazily, 'Jankyn Perrers, was it? The Fleming?' And, at the same time, another offered, 'Sir Richard Perrers? Hertfords.h.i.+re?' All merchants know it's a mistake to admit ignorance. Rumours and guesses - even foolish ones - are better than no knowledge at all. But still, this conversation soon petered out. The lack of real interest makes Chaucer see that, even to these men, who like to measure and map and mine every potentially useful relations.h.i.+p and contact, it hardly matters what Alice was before she was touched by the King's grace, or whatever has made her the powerhouse she's become. It's her vivaciousness, and her current web of friends.h.i.+ps, and her astonis.h.i.+ng Midas touch, that interests them. Now, not the past. heard. When she was just a girl. And Perrers, obviously,' someone else said. 'After Champagne. Wasn't she married to Perrers?' Nods all round, though nods that didn't seem to be backed by much precise knowledge as to which Perrers Alice might have lived with. One man opined, hazily, 'Jankyn Perrers, was it? The Fleming?' And, at the same time, another offered, 'Sir Richard Perrers? Hertfords.h.i.+re?' All merchants know it's a mistake to admit ignorance. Rumours and guesses - even foolish ones - are better than no knowledge at all. But still, this conversation soon petered out. The lack of real interest makes Chaucer see that, even to these men, who like to measure and map and mine every potentially useful relations.h.i.+p and contact, it hardly matters what Alice was before she was touched by the King's grace, or whatever has made her the powerhouse she's become. It's her vivaciousness, and her current web of friends.h.i.+ps, and her astonis.h.i.+ng Midas touch, that interests them. Now, not the past.

But all those questions come rus.h.i.+ng back into Chaucer's mind when he sees her. Suddenly brave, he thinks: No harm in asking.

'So...' he says, feeling his tongue thick in his mouth, 'how did did you come to meet and marry Master Champagne, if you grew up in Ess.e.x?' you come to meet and marry Master Champagne, if you grew up in Ess.e.x?'

Country gentry families, in Ess.e.x as elsewhere, don't, on the whole, marry their daughters into City trade families, unless they've fallen on hard times and happened upon a temptingly rich merchant suitor already buying land in the countryside near their home. What little Chaucer knows of Master Champagne the baker doesn't seem to fit. If Master Champagne was indeed the first husband.