Watelyng Street, Cordwainer Ward Eleanor spent the afternoon preceding her rendezvous with Tewburn away from Gropec.u.n.t Lane, taking it from a wealthy merchant down from Coventry. Joan Rugg had sent her to the man's inn at half-s.e.xt, and by Vespertime her tongue, her lips, her a.r.s.e, even her c.o.c.k ached from a day of hard use. She needed cider, and she needed it cursed soon or she might's well nail herself to the side of the stable and let every freeman of London have his turn with her corpse. She shed her dress and pulled on her breeches. It was that sort of a day.

The Painted Lion off Watelyng Street was fairly packed at that hour; seemed half the workingmen of London lined its benches, calling for ale. Edgar was able to nudge himself a s.p.a.ce on the broad hearth, where he sipped contentedly and watched the crowd.

The talk was all of labour statutes and poll taxes. He heard names and t.i.tles he recognized, all spoken in contempt. The Duke of Lancaster, the Earl of Oxford, the Duke of Dung and let him rot in his privy.

My brother Joseph, farms out Suffolk way for Sir Rillardain. What he tells me, the pollers are counting his very children. Twelve groats per to the royal coffers, if you please, and not a penny left for bread.

Where's the injustice in that, hey? Suppose if you be the mighty Duke of Lancaster you need gold to pave the steps of your new palace, the Savoy being torched and all.

Can't have our dukes goin' penniless now, can we?

Nor our good king.

Where'd our England be without the king has enough gilded hawks to hunt Waltham Forest?

And enough of our blood to spill for the sodden fields of France?

But thank St Lazarus we got the Parliament to sort it for us.

Got me there. A blessed s.h.i.+ning lot of common profit for the nonce.

A handsome statute it was, too, the poll tax. Makes a fleet of good common sense.

Your married pardoner paying twelve s.h.i.+ll, your Mayor of Chester paying forty and six, your widowed second cousin of the third son of the alderman's clerk-in-chief of Bridge Ward paying three s.h.i.+ll four why, what could be simpler than them sums to figure up in the Ex-cheker?

Edgar laughed along with them, raising his jar to the p.r.i.c.kling Pickled p.r.i.c.ks of the Poll Tax, though the men's words went right around and over his muddled head. The workings of Westminster and the Exchequer were a fathomless mystery to Edgar; no reason to start plumbing them now. For a while longer he sat with the labourers, listening to the discontented talk of tax and toll, of collections and conscriptions, until he reckoned it was time.

The Angelus bell had already sounded from St Martin le Grand by the time he turned up Soper Lane toward St Pancras. The ward watch generally left the maudlyns and their jakes alone after curfew, though he didn't want to risk further delay. He angled on to Popkirtle Lane, avoiding Joan's crew and the prying eyes of the bawd, then went through a narrow gap between storefronts and over the low wall.

Beneath a waxing moon the St Pancras churchyard could a.s.sume an unearthly cast, as if the bodies below its soil were reaching up for the ankles of those who pa.s.sed above them. Long gra.s.ses whisked at his hose. Under his shoes he could feel forgotten graves, and there was a faint musky smell carried on the churchyard air. When he reached the meeting place he stopped and leaned on a tilted slab, a stone rectangle that served well for coupling. No sign of Tewburn yet. It was a peaceful night in the parish. The gentle breeze was cool on his face and a blanket of quiet settled among these stones.

Too quiet. Normally at night, until hours after the curfew bell, the churchyard would hum with the giggles and groans of maudlyns at their labour, with catcalls from the two whoring lanes to east and west as jakes wandered their length. Even on slow nights the ladies would fill the air with a low chatter that could easily be heard in this gra.s.sy s.p.a.ce behind St Pancras. That night Edgar heard nothing.

A rustle in the gra.s.s, low and to the right. He turned and backed away, heart pounding. Only a bird, picking at something a carrion bird, at its foul work. It gave him an ugly look as he stepped toward it. He stamped the ground. The scavenger flew sluggishly away.

Edgar moved forward several feet, then retched in the high gra.s.s. He turned back and looked. Before him lay the ruined body of James Tewburn. His head had been half-severed from his neck, now a gaping valley of torn skin and blackened flesh. The skin above, pale under the quarter moon, was a ghoulish lantern, glowing brightly among the looming stones. One of clerk's eyes was already gone, the bird's easiest meal.

Squatting in the gra.s.s Edgar closed his eyes again and said a prayer. After a careful look around he stood and crept between the stones to a gap in the western wall, thinking only of reaching the safe company of his fellow maudlyns. A few more steps brought him out to Gropec.u.n.t Lane.

He shrank back with a gasp, now understanding the silence. The narrow street was abandoned, as if Joan Rugg's st.u.r.dy gaggle of maudlyns had simply fled. Doors sat askew, their hinges broken apart. A pendant-lamp lay on the pavers, its gla.s.s shattered, the frame bent. No candlelight from the stalls or beneath the eaves.

Edgar huddled against the corner of a horse barn. Sure, the mauds got their share of grief from the authorities. Once a season or so the alderman might send his men down to make a few arrests, usually at the behest of an abbot or prior. Curfew violations were a way of life, though every once in a great while there would be some trouble about it.

Yet this was more than the typical ha.s.sle from the constables. The maudlyns were simply gone. Vanished, like Agnes Fonteyn, and now James Tewburn was dead in the churchyard.

From the darkest shadows to Edgar's left a figure stole out on to the narrow lane. From his belt he pulled a short sword, the blade glistening in the moonlight. Edgar quickly calculated the distance between them. He looked over his shoulder at the churchyard. Back at the man. The stranger paced slowly forward, peering beneath the eaves.

Then, from the top of the lane, a flash from a torch. Night watchers, patrolling the ward. 'You there!' one of them shouted, seeing the man in the lane.

For a moment it looked as if the intruder would turn and run, but he decided against it, clearly not wanting the entire parish after him. If he was Tewburn's killer, Edgar thought, flight would cast immediate suspicion on him once the body was found. He discreetly sheathed his blade and approached the watchers, his hands raised. 'Just out for a bit of queynt, good fellows. Where are all the mauds?' A gentleman's voice.

The first walker clucked his tongue. 'Not here, that's sure. Popkirtle Lane and Gropec.u.n.t Lane both. Busted up earlier today, s.l.u.ts hauled away, and who knows when they'll be back.'

'How unfortunate,' said the man.

'Aye,' agreed the first walker with a rough laugh.

There was a pause. 'Sir Stephen, if I'm not mistaken?' said the second.

'The very same,' said the man, his voice taut with the recognition. Edgar heard the jangle of coins as the man prepared to pay off the walkers for their poor memories.

As the chatter continued Edgar edged backwards, away from the arc of lamplight, until he was at the end of the alley leading back to the churchyard. He took a final glance at the trio on Gropec.u.n.t Lane. At one point the stranger shook his head with a laugh, and it was then Edgar saw it.

A hook on his chin, a whitened scar. And a face he would remember. Sir Stephen. Edgar turned and made for the wall.

TWENTY-FIVE.

The palace of Windsor On the evening following the Feast of St George the palace was lit like a box of polished jewels, the guests just as gaudy. Simon and I had arrived from Southwark late that afternoon and were staying at the mill inn by Windsor Bridge, and had joined the crowd streaming through the west gate. The secretive St George's festivities on the eve and the feast day itself had been restricted to the twenty-four knights and twenty-odd ladies of the Order of the Garter, as custom dictated. Over the last four years, though, and at King Richard's initiative, an additional, much larger feast had been thrown on the morrow, largely to show off the extensive renovations at Windsor. Each of the Order's lords and ladies was permitted ten guests for the closing feast, though the size of the crowd indicated that the figure had been interpreted rather loosely.

That year and the last I had been the guest of Sir Lewis Clifford, a Knight of the Garter who had happily approved the addition of Simon to his list. Next to Gaunt himself, Clifford was perhaps Chaucer's greatest supporter in these high circles, a friend to poets of diverse quality and fortune, and it was Geoffrey who had introduced us years before during my time at the Temple. Clifford and I had an interesting history: a missing s.h.i.+pment of Lyonnaise silk, a discovered bribe, a quiet conversation about one of his crooked a.s.sociates. In grat.i.tude he became my entree to these circles, a trusted source when I needed him, and a fount of unending courtesy when I did not. When we entered the great cloister I saw him near the grange, speaking to Nicholas Brembre, Mayor of London and one of numerous royal and civic officials present at the annual gathering.

'A stew of bureaucrats and secretaries,' I mused to Simon.

'Generously spiced with aristocrats,' he said quietly.

The Windsor steward had opened up the tower at the top of the Spicery Gatehouse to the guests, who moved up and down the stairs as sconced torches lit the darkening sky. The tower commanded a vast panorama of the surrounding countryside, which was settling into dusk. Outside the walls and far below, the commons were already ankle-deep in mud, enjoying the order's bounty: casks of ale, spiced cider, roasted mutton by the score. The lower tables stretched into the night, the nearby hamlets and villages emptied of their residents as the king purchased their goodwill toward himself and the Garter. We descended to the hall for Richard's entrance. Despite the deepening factionalism in the realm, for these few days the cream of English chivalry was to set aside its squabbles and resentments and unite for a festival of prayer, unity, and reconciliation. A charade, of course, though always a useful one.

'Why are you smiling, John Gower?' Katherine Swynford, sidling up as Simon wandered off. She wore an uncharacteristically modest dress, a taffeta of deep purple cut just below her neck, an arched and almost coif-like hood covering all but the frontmost span of her hair. With her stood Philippa Chaucer, also dressed down, though where Swynford wore modesty as a peasant wears ermine, on Philippa this understated attire looked natural. Chaucer's wife had a prominent chin below a pleasant, honest face, and eyes that sparkled with a wit whose quickness she shared with her sister. 'Plotting some nasty satire, I suppose?'

I bowed to the sisters. 'Simply admiring the royal view, my lady, and appreciating the feel of the royal stone beneath my humble feet.'

Swynford tightened her lips and dismissed me, looking around for someone more important. Not difficult at Windsor. Everyone knew that Gaunt's mistress aspired to the Order, and these occasions gave her the opportunity to win favour with the knights in hopes of getting her name put before the king once Lancaster was in a position again to ask for royal favours. Swynford's attention was on the terrace doors and the duke's coming entrance. She stood several feet in front of us, showing no interest in our talk.

'You are looking well, John,' said Philippa, her soft voice patterning a warm familiarity.

I inclined my head. 'Nice to see you down from Lincolns.h.i.+re, Philippa.'

'Have you heard from Simon? How is he faring?'

I was used to hearing this question from Chaucer's wife, who had no knowledge of my son's dark past. 'Why don't you ask him yourself?'

She looked surprised. 'Simon is back in England?'

'Right there, talking with Ralph Strode.' I nodded at him, standing nearby with the common serjeant. 'Geoffrey hasn't mentioned it to you? Perhaps he hasn't heard either.'

'The things Geoffrey Chaucer fails to mention to his wife would fill an ocean.' She did not say it bitterly, though her eyes hinted at her sadness. Over the last two years Philippa had been spending more and more of her time at Kettlethorpe Hall with her sister rather than in London with her husband. 'But I'm glad to hear you are reunited with your son, especially now.'

'Thank you, Philippa.'

'Has he brought a wife back from the south?'

I hesitated. 'Actually he had been betrothed. The young woman died. Fever.'

Philippa put a hand to her neck. 'And Simon so young!'

'Though I must say, she seems to have changed him for the better.'

'What was her name, the poor dear?'

'Seguina. Seguina d'Orange.'

As if a keg of powder had exploded behind her, Katherine Swynford's nose traced a swift arc through the air until she faced me, her torso twisted in the effort. She glanced at Philippa, then our eyes locked, and for an instant hers scorched me, a loss of composure so uncharacteristic of the Swynford I knew it left me breathless. Her gaze lingered another instant, then, recovered, she spun from me and walked toward the gate.

I turned to Philippa, who also looked unaccountably troubled. 'Seguina d'Orange. What does that name signify to you and your sis-'

The trumpets sounded, and my question faded into the loud stir from the gates. Heralds stepped forth first, announcing the royal entry into the king's cloister, eight trumpets blaring as the king and his queen, the duke and his d.u.c.h.ess moved out among the kneeling crowd. The company fell into two double-deep ranks. I joined the second, all eyes on the young man whose life seemed so delicate as his subjects pressed around him. The king's fair skin set off the feeble beard. His robes were pounced with heraldry, white harts in chase around his shoulders and waist. The queen, a tiny sc.r.a.p of a woman who rarely spoke, wore a gown trimmed in a sable-silk brocade that she fingered absently as she paced.

King Richard walked slowly across the room, pausing before every third or fourth visitor to speak a few words. Lancaster and the d.u.c.h.ess followed, the duke's mouth fixed in a tight frown.

Behind them walked a large company of magnates, the most important among them the earls, including Thomas of Woodstock, Earl of Buckingham and Gaunt's younger brother, and the Earl of Oxford with his burgeoning entourage, including Sir Stephen Weldon. Other knights of the king's affinity followed Philip la Vache, Nicholas Dagworth, John Clanvowe, Richard Abberbury, and Simon de Burley, all jostling for position in the press of bodies, cloth, livery, and banners as the throng slowly moved through the fawning crowd of lower gentry.

The last man out, appearing as the lines were already disintegrating, was Chaucer. He walked alone, his gaze on the spectacle before him bemused and authorial. Spying me with his wife, he raised his chin and approached.

'Philippa,' he said.

'Geoffrey,' she said, and walked away. Chaucer looked after her, resigned rather than offended.

'The height of courtesy, as always,' I said, his cruelty at the customhouse still on my mind. 'What gives you licence to treat her like that?'

The skin around Chaucer's eyes creased. 'There's a fine line between licence and licentiousness, John. I've crossed it more than most: to the stews of Rose Alley, to Gropec.u.n.t Lane and back again, mistresses taken with her full knowledge.' He looked away, a hint of regret in his stooped shoulders. 'Philippa thinks our marriage is a pageant, nothing more. Since that Cecily Chaumpaigne mess she won't let me touch her.'

Chaucer's notorious troubles with women had sparked more than one unfortunate episode over the years, including a disturbing accusation of abduction and rape some time ago. The young woman, a baker's daughter, had officially released him from the initial charge before things got too serious. I was away from London that season and had never learned the truth of the matter, though I had seen what he was capable of in other contexts and had long wondered whether the accusation were true.

'Candour suits you, Geoffrey,' I said. 'Though you could have shown more of it earlier in your marriage.'

'Perhaps,' he conceded. 'But then, candour goes only so far, don't you think? There must also be love.' A shadow pa.s.sed over his face, a hint of longing or regret in that sad smile. 'Ah,' he said, tripping past the admission, 'and here is Weldon. What about your many loves, Sir Stephen?'

'Too numerous to count, and always more in line.' Weldon's scar was at full jut. Ignoring me, he gave Chaucer a pointed look. 'I need a word.'

'You may have a dozen or so,' said Chaucer. He turned to me. 'If you will excuse us, John, a customs officer's duty is to his dutifulness. Oh ' he stopped, his voice measured as Weldon strolled ahead 'and that surely wasn't Simon I saw just now, having a chat with Ralph Strode?'

'It was,' I said, with a hint of defensiveness.

'I thought so.' He looked at me strangely, then turned away and strolled with Weldon toward the palace. I watched them recede into the crowd, then went to look for Simon. It took a while to find him, and by the time I did the bell had sounded for the feast.

As the ladies separated for the lesser hall, we retired into the St George's range, a s.p.a.ce of opulent magnificence that seemed to be trying too hard to awe those who entered. There were a few courteous words from the king, a prayer from the archbishop, then the chatter resumed. Simon sat to my left, and to his left was Thomas Pinchbeak, who peppered both of us with news from Westminster and the Inns as we made our way through a roast piglet, the crackled skin slipping easily from the tender flesh. Chaucer was seated at the next table. I felt for the queen and the d.u.c.h.ess, the only women remaining in the great chamber. They ate in gloomy silence next to their husbands on the dais. They never spoke to one another as far as I could see.

The extravagance of food and plate was distracting, and it was not until much later, with the serving of cakes, sweet wafers, and a spring pudding as minstrels and players filled the front of the hall, that I thought again of the book. It was Pinchbeak who did it, leaning before Simon to ask me the most peculiar question.

'And the blood, Gower?'

'Pardon?' I said, a.s.suming I had misheard him. Simon was sitting back, trying not to interfere with our exchange.

'The blood, on the robes.'

I stared into Pinchbeak's eyes as the words of the coroner's inquest came back to me: said woman was beaten in the face and struck on the head and bloodied, feloniously murdered by an unknown a.s.sailant. 'What about it?'

'Your son and I were debating the point. Are they using wine for the blood, do you suppose?' He nodded toward the front of the hall. I turned my head and realized Pinchbeak was referring to the pageant playing out before the dais. A play of St George and the Dragon, with one boy taking the part of the sacrificial virgin and four others bearing the painted beast on their shoulders. Two robed youths, bloodied, dead, trying not to wriggle, lay sprawled on the floor before the dragon.

My pulse slowed. 'Beet juice, I'd guess.' Pinchbeak gave me a vague smile, then turned to the man on his other side with a comment about the cakes.

'Too dark to be sheep's blood,' Simon mused.

It all came back then the book, the murder, the play at Temple Hall, broken up by Pinchbeak and his fellow serjeants. As I looked around at the babbling guests I wondered how many of them knew of the De Mortibus, of the alleged French spy murdered in the Moorfields, of the king's prophesied death. The exchange reminded me to visit the coroner's chambers to have another word with Nicholas Symkok, who had acted so dodgy with me. I wouldn't have time before my Oxford trip, though it would be at the top of my list upon my return.

After Richard's departure the crowd started to thin. Lancaster remained on the dais, enjoying the attention, though the d.u.c.h.ess excused herself, as did several of her attendants. Swynford entered with a small clutch of other ladies. The doors to the lower stairs were propped open; guests began to drink more seriously, many filtering out to the yards; and a pleasant evening cool descended on the hundreds still remaining.

I wandered among them, speaking to acquaintances, until I came upon Sir John Clanvowe, a knight of Richard's chamber and a poet of modest accomplishment. He stood with Sir Lewis Clifford, our host for the evening, before the entrance to the Spicery stairs.

'I understand you'll be travelling to Oxford?' Clanvowe asked me. The knight's loose cotte, dyed a simple grey, bunched around the belt girding his waist. Of my height and age but a wiry stick of a knight, Clanvowe was like an eager bird, his head moving in small, distracting jerks at each phrase. His voice was high and sing-songish, falling at the end of every sentence like a crow's fading caw.

'I am, John,' I said without the honorific, as Clanvowe preferred. 'I leave at dawn, and Simon will be going back to Southwark.'

'You know, I will be in Oxford by Wednesday or Thursday,' Clanvowe said. 'Travelling with Clifford here, who's taking up the constables.h.i.+p at Cardigan. I'm on my way back to Hereford for the summer. Perhaps you'll let me feed you one evening while you're in town?'

'I'd be delighted,' I said, meaning it, for I had always felt a companionable warmth toward Clanvowe, a man of real wisdom who was never his best at court. We parted with a promise of supper the following week in Clanvowe's rooms at the Queen's College, and I thanked Sir Lewis again for his hospitality in inviting us to the great occasion.

Growing tired, I started to search out Simon, wandering past a canopy festooned with gay flags and branches of flowered crepe. Beneath it, in the gla.s.sy light of four hanging lamps, Katherine Swynford sat at a low marble table, laying out her cards. Her opponent in the game was Sir Stephen Weldon. A crowd had gathered around their table to watch, and there was much murmuring about the beauty of the cards. I recalled the rules of the game Swynford had taught me, though this one was different.

Swynford laid down four cards. I leaned in to see which they were: the Two of Thistles, the Eight of Swords, and the Four and Duke of Hawks. Weldon countered her move with a trump card, the Wheel of Fortune, which Swynford took with the King of Thistles. Weldon's next play was the Prince of Plums.

I stared at the card, my vision starring.

The Prince of Plums.

I went cold, nearly breathless with the realization. As the game continued lines of verse burned through my mind, the letters searing my memory like a hot coal on skin.