The False Virgin

I

June 1376

It was Hugh who saw him. At first they thought he had drowned. The body lay face up on the foreshore of the river as if deposited by the tide, waiting to be revealed by the growing light of a summer’s dawn. But when Hugh and Alfred clambered down from the landing stage and squelched across the mud to the corpse they saw that the visible areas of clothing and hair were not waterlogged but dry. The face was composed.

From a distance the two men also assumed this must be a member of the household. The tunic the corpse wore was of blue and white, the livery of the house of Lancaster. But when they drew closer they saw the cloth was of much finer quality than anything they wore, and the colours more subtle in their dye. They soon forget these distinctions anyway, for blotting out the centre of the chest was a circle of dried blood. Hugh and Alfred did not recognise the dead man even though his features were not disfigured.

‘He did not die natural,’ said Alfred, shielding his eyes against the early morning sun as he gazed at the red spill on the dead man’s tunic.

Hugh crouched down to examine the man’s face closely. Alfred, older and more stiff in the joints than his fellow, stayed upright.

‘This is one of hers, not ours,’ said Hugh, standing up and jerking his thumb towards the great white palace that stretched along the river front. Eager to show how he came by this conclusion, he went on: ‘His face is darker and his beard is not after our fashion and, besides, he does not look English.’

‘Who did this?’ said Alfred.

‘That is not our business,’ said Hugh. ‘Go and fetch help to carry him inside. Don’t waste time, the tide is coming in.’

Alfred was not as quick-witted as Hugh and usually deferred to the younger man. He did as he was told and, while Hugh waited on the foreshore, he made his way up through the terraces that lay between the river and the palace. Hugh looked at the body once more. He was certain that this gentleman was exactly that, a gentleman, and part of the Queen’s company and therefore a stranger, a foreigner. What or who was the cause of his death? Not our business, he’d said to Alfred, but it was peculiar all the same. He’d surely mention it to his brother John who, though claiming to despise the palace and its occupants, was always eager to hear titbits of gossip from within its white, fortified walls.

The incoming tide was only a few feet away from the body by the time Alfred returned with half a dozen members of the household – not that so many were required but they were drawn to the spot by curiosity – and a makeshift litter. One of the household stewards, Thomas Banks, was with them. Hugh, who’d been enjoying his place in the sun as the finder of the body, had to give way to the steward. Hurrying to remove the dead man from the mud, they were lifting him up as water was starting to lap at their feet. The body was easy to handle, quite pliant. They carried the litter up through the green, flowering terraces. Because it was still early in the day, no one, or at least no one of any importance, was wandering in the gardens. Directed by Thomas, they toted the body through some cloisters and so into his office. The room was chill and gloomy, with sunbeams penetrating a narrow window.

Once there, Thomas Banks swept the cushions from a ledge of stone, which functioned as a bench, and indicated that the body should be laid down there. He had said very little so far. Hugh sensed he was troubled. A sure sign was the way the steward frequently clasped his chain of office.

‘Which of you found the body?’

Glancing at Alfred, Hugh nodded.

‘Your name is Hugh… Hall, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Hugh, surprised and slightly alarmed that he was known to the steward.

‘You are to stay, Hugh. The rest of you may leave.’

‘Should we get a priest?’ said one of the other servants, reluctant to quit this interesting scene. Thomas Banks gestured impatiently. ‘Time enough for priests later. Go now, I say. And make no mention of what has happened. I know you all, and if this discovery becomes the common talk, I’ll hold you responsible for it, every single one of you.’

The group filed out wordlessly, until there were only three left, two living, one dead. Hugh was more uneasy than pleased at being instructed to stay. He watched as Banks stooped over the body, clutching at his golden chain with its motif of S-shaped links. The sunlight coming through the window fell directly on the red stain on the dead man’s tunic.

‘You found him lying on his back, as he is now?’

‘Yes, sir. He was quite dry on the front so he did not drown,’ said Hugh. ‘You can tell by the marks there… by the blood… that he did not drown. I think he must have been…’

Still bending over the body, Thomas Banks fixed Hugh with a look that caused the servant to falter.

‘I did not ask you to think, Hugh. It may be that this individual did drown, whatever you believe. It may be, eh?’

The steward stepped away from the corpse. He smiled tightly. He held his hand palm outwards towards Hugh Hall, as if to demonstrate he had nothing to hide.

‘I can see that you are a sharp man, Hugh. It must be plain to you that this individual here is not one of us, not English. He is not one of the Duke’s men, as we are. Discretion is required. You understand me?’

Hugh nodded. He didn’t trust himself to say anything further.

‘In the meantime,’ continued Thomas Banks, ‘you may assist me by examining this unfortunate person’s wound. Yes, that’s right. Approach the body. Unbutton the tunic. Let us see now.’

Wondering whether this was the reason he’d been told to stay behind – so that the steward could avoid dirtying his hands – Hugh drew near to the body on the stone ledge. For a moment he paused, out of respect or apprehension or both. Then he began the awkward process of unbuttoning the blood-stained upper garment. It was a snug fit and the reason became apparent after a moment. There was another item of clothing wadded inside, some kind of undergarment, or a part of one, but so saturated in blood that it was impossible to tell the original colour. It must have been placed there in the attempt to stanch the flow from the body. Hugh pulled the bloody material a little to one side. It came away with a little tearing sound, far enough to expose a sticky gash below the region of the heart. By now, Thomas Banks was standing at his side. Together steward and servant stared at the wound. The sunlight coming through the window had shifted onto the bearded face of the corpse. The expression was oddly peaceful, considering that death must have come suddenly and violently.

‘You are right, he did not drown,’ said Thomas. ‘But the river is generous and offers deaths by other means than water. For example, there are stakes protruding from the mud, there are outcrops of rock.’

To Hugh’s eyes, this fatal injury was caused by the hand of a man. Still he said nothing. His eye was caught by something white tucked into the dead man’s armpit and he reached over to tug it out. It was a scrolled parchment. One end was reddened as if it had been dipped in a pool of blood but the rest was untouched. Perhaps the position of the body, the way the parchment was tight against the man’s right side, had protected it from the worst effusions of the wound. As Hugh pulled out the papers, he also detached a thin golden chain from which was suspended a precious stone. One of the links had snapped. Perhaps it had been damaged in the attack on the man.

Thomas Banks was more interested in the papers than the stone. He almost snatched the item out of Hugh’s hands. The servant watched him unfurl the cylinder of parchment, which contained lines of script. Of no use to Hugh Hall, who was not able to read. He rubbed his fingers together. They were sticky with little flakes of dried blood and threads of material adhering to them. He felt he had earned the right to ask a question.

‘Do you know who this is, sir?’

‘What? Oh, yes, I know who it is. He is one of the Queen’s company.’

The steward spoke distractedly. His attention was on the parchment, which he angled so that the words captured the light. He nodded a couple of times as though what he read was familiar to him. He sighed. He glanced at Hugh.

‘These are verses,’ said Thomas. ‘A strange thing to find on the body of a dead man, eh?’

Hugh was not really surprised at anything done by the higher-ups in the palace. They had their own whys and wherefores. A corpse carrying a poem did not seem so very odd to him. The steward continued: ‘I have heard these verses before. I heard them recited only last night by the very man who composed them. It is the story of a saint. A virgin saint.’

Now Hugh held up the chain and the steward took it. The dark red stone echoed the blood that had spilled from the body.

‘That’s a ruby, isn’t it?’ said Hugh.

‘He wore it as a protection against poison and other evils,’ said Thomas Banks. ‘Much good it did him.’

II

Two Months Earlier

‘The last time you were here, a murder took place,’ said Richard Dunton.

‘More than one of them,’ said Geoffrey Chaucer, surprised that his friend was raising the subject at all. ‘I remember there was a mason and another workman, and then there was-’

‘A member of our order who also died,’ said the Prior of Bermondsey.

Geoffrey noted the tactful way in which Prior Richard was referring to the death of the monk, as if it had been a natural death or an accident. [1] And he still wondered why these unhappy events were being mentioned at all until the prior explained.

‘I know that the subject must be at the front of your mind. How can it be otherwise on your return to Bermondsey Priory? So I thought I would raise the matter first to get it out of the way. We are still grateful here for your discretion in that unfortunate business and we are glad to see you back, Geoffrey. I am glad.’

‘Let us talk no more of murder then,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I am here for some peace and quiet to write.’

‘And you have travelled from one mighty house on the Thames to another,’ said the prior. ‘The Palace of Savoy must be like a hive of bees, always busy, always buzzing.’

There was more than simple curiosity in Dunton’s tone. A note of envy was detectable too. From his previous visit to Bermondsey, Geoffrey Chaucer remembered how knowledgeable Richard Dunton was about the outside world, or at least the royal part of it.

‘Savoy is not so productive as a beehive. It’s more like a nest of wasps or hornets. I do not visit there much anyway.’

‘I remember you have a house in Aldgate as well.’

‘My books are there but the lodging is above the city gate itself, good for seeing life, not so good for writing about it.’

‘Where your books are, there your heart surely is, Geoffrey?’ The prior leaned forward in his chair and said, ‘But your wife, Philippa, spends most of her time at the Savoy Palace, doesn’t she?’

‘She is one of several ladies in the service of Queen Constance of Castile,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Or in the service of the Duchess of Lancaster, if you prefer her English title.’

‘And Philippa’s sister is also in royal service?’

‘Not exactly. Katherine helps to care for the children of John of Gaunt by his late wife.’

‘So she is the magistra to the Duke of Lancaster’s children, she is their director and guide.’

The prior spoke slowly as if instructing a class of children himself. Chaucer nodded but said nothing, hoping to cut off this line of talk. He did not want to talk about his sister-in-law. He was fairly sure that Richard Dunton wasn’t so ignorant about Katherine Swynford’s position in John of Gaunt’s household as he pretended. Was he probing Geoffrey for extra information, or was he testing how much Geoffrey himself knew?

As if sensing his guest would give away nothing more, Richard Dunton sat back in his chair and took another sip of wine. They were sitting on either side of the fire in the prior’s lodgings. It was a bright, cold evening in the spring. The abbey was poised between the canonical hours of vespers and compline. The day was drawing to a close. Soon supper would be brought in. Chaucer had little doubt that, because they were dining privately in the prior’s quarters, they would be eating better than the monks in the refectory. It was almost three years since he’d last seen Richard Dunton and in the interim the prior had grown a little plumper in the face. The old adage about self-denial, that ‘the sacrament makes a good breakfast’, did not apply to him. But then, Geoffrey reflected, the same might be said of himself. Those early years during which he did service as a squire and a soldier had been followed by a more sedate, indulgent existence.

‘Do you have a subject, Geoffrey?’ said the prior, his eyes darting to an item that lay on a nearby desk. ‘I mean, a theme to write about?’

Geoffrey shrugged. He did have a couple of possibilities – for example, the tale of a pair of star-crossed lovers in the ancient city of Troy – but he was curious to see what Richard Dunton was about to suggest. The prior rose from his seat and fetched a roll of parchment from the table. Still holding it, he returned to his chair by the fire.

‘Have you heard of a saint called Beornwyn?’

‘The virgin martyr? Yes, but she is little more than a name to me.’

‘So many saints, so many stories,’ said the prior. ‘But this one is unusual.’

‘They’re all unusual,’ was Geoffrey’s response, then, seeing the look on the prior’s face, somewhere between disappointment and disapproval, he drew up a fragment from the well of memory: ‘Wasn’t her modesty preserved by a veil of butterflies after her death?’

Prior Dunton looked pleased at that and then, deftly, he outlined the tale of St Beornwyn. The setting on the North Sea coast among local kings and warring tribes, the refusal of the noble-born Beornwyn to marry according to her father’s wishes, her growing reputation as a virgin dedicated to Christ, her charity to the poor, the way an angel materialised to assist her with copying out a psalm, and other marvels. Then came the darkness and violence as well as the real miracles that must appear in all saints’ stories.

There was the slaughter of Beornwyn at the hands of coastal raiders, a slaughter that involved violation and sacrilege when the young woman was taken by surprise, at prayer, inside a cliff-top church. Yet the dire details of Beornwyn’s death were transfigured by the butterfly veil, just as the story of her life transformed the lives of others. Her memory would draw warring peoples together. Her example would give heart to those embarking on the lonely path of virtue and self-denial. As he told this tale, Prior Richard’s tone and expression fitted the moment: doleful, earnest, joyous. He barely glanced at the manuscript but made jabbing motions with it to emphasise particular points.

Almost despite himself, Geoffrey’s imagination was stirred by what he heard. Perhaps it was the desolate scene of Beornwyn’s martyrdom in St Oswald’s church perched above the waves of the sea. Perhaps it was that blue winding-sheet composed of hundreds of butterflies.

‘How did the manuscript come into your hands, Richard?’

‘It has been lying here all this time, in the Bermondsey library. It is the belief of Brother Peter that the manuscript was deposited in our library more than a hundred years ago by another prior, also called Richard.’

Geoffrey remembered Brother Peter from his earlier visit, an elderly, stringy man who peered through his spectacles at one’s face as if he were reading a book. He was glad to hear the librarian was still alive.

They were interrupted by the arrival of supper, brought in by two lay brothers. With reluctance Geoffrey and Richard shifted from their places by the fire. The prior replaced the manuscript on his desk and the two men moved to a table near a window, from which there was a view of the conventual church, a great shadow looming over the cloisters in the dusk. Candles were lit, food was served, fresh wine poured, and the lay brothers withdrew as wordlessly as they had come.

At first they ate in silence. Geoffrey was right. Fish of this quality – turbot and sole – would not be served up in the refectory. Nor would the open pie of cheese and the custard dishes that followed. Enjoying the food and wine, Chaucer was happy to wait and see where the Prior of Bermondsey would lead the conversation. He didn’t think it was a coincidence that Richard Dunton happened to have on his desk the manuscript with the Beornwyn story while he was welcoming a new guest. And the prior had not recited that same story with real feeling just to show off his oratorical skill.

The prior complimented Chaucer on the lucrative post to which he had recently been appointed: controller of the taxes paid on both the wool and the wine passing through the port of London. Since it was John of Gaunt who was responsible for the double appointment, Chaucer played down his own merits and said something about the Duke of Lancaster’s generosity. The prior’s reply was that John of Gaunt had good reason to be grateful to Geoffrey. Chaucer thought they were getting close to dangerous territory again but it turned out that Richard Dunton was referring not to any secret understanding between Chaucer’s sister-in-law and Gaunt, but to a poem that he had composed a few years earlier in memory of Gaunt’s first wife, Blanche. The poem was called The Book of the Duchess. Copies of it were circulated in court, where it was also recited, and Geoffrey knew that the grieving John was consoled by the praise that he bestowed on ‘my Lady White’. Now, the Prior of Bermondsey claimed that he too had been moved by this elegy to a noble woman. As he mentioned this, his glance shifted towards the Beornwyn manuscript lying on his desk.

‘So you think I might do the same for the virgin saint?’ said Geoffrey, understanding the direction of the talk. ‘Do you believe that Beornwyn deserves a memorial in verse, Richard?’

‘Far be it from me to dictate what you should write,’ said Dunton, leaning back in his chair, replete with food and drink, dabbing with a napkin at a spot of grease on his upper lip. ‘I am merely offering it to you… so you might read the story at your leisure.’

‘Then I’ll look at it,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Thank you.’

Although Chaucer took the thing out of courtesy, he had no intention of reading it through. The more the prior pushed the subject at him, the more he resisted. He’d glance at the manuscript before handing it back together with some appropriate comment. He suspected that Richard was pressing the Beornwyn story on him because, if Chaucer were to turn it into verse and circulate copies among the noble ladies and gentlemen of the Savoy Palace, then the whole business would reflect well on Bermondsey Priory and on Dunton himself. Cynical to think so, perhaps, but Geoffrey couldn’t blame him for trying.

While the prior went off to compline, Chaucer returned to the guest-chamber that had been prepared for him. He was conducted there by a lay brother. The chamber was furnished with a bed, a large chest, a stool and a small table set under a window, which was shuttered. Geoffrey was half amused, half irritated to see that on the table top was an array of quill pens, pots of ink and sheets of paper. Not only was the prior determined he should compose a story (about St Beornwyn) but he was even providing the tools for the job, even if he had not gone to the expense of providing proper parchment to write on.

Apart from the writing gear, the simple furnishings of the room were very different from the comforts of the Savoy Palace or Chaucer’s own accommodation at Aldgate. But he liked it in this place. Being on the far side of the river turned London almost into a foreign country. His life in the city itself was his public life. Yet, while Geoffrey’s official positions at the port of London were lucrative, as the prior stated, they were not very onerous. In the meantime his wife was attached to the Duke of Lancaster’s court and therefore better provided for than anything he could arrange for her. Philippa kept the children, Elizabeth and Thomas, with her too. He was happy to see them – and their mother – now and then. Geoffrey found himself with time on his hands. Time to write. The priory was a place where he was able to write. No doubt it was as riven with jealousy and pettiness as any place on God’s earth must be, but nevertheless the atmosphere of labour and outward piety at Bermondsey was for Geoffrey Chaucer a spur to composition.

The bed in his room was well enough equipped to have a candle fixed to a bracket, which extended from the frame. Visitors were evidently expected to read and study. Once the lay brother departed, Geoffrey stretched out on the bed, intending merely to cast his eye over the tale of St Beornwyn before settling himself to sleep. But half an hour later he was still reading, although now with much greater alertness. He couldn’t have said exactly why. The story of Beornwyn was related in a dialect with which he wasn’t completely familiar, and therefore not always to be understood straightaway. And, as he’d said half humorously to the prior, the unusual features of this life were actually quite normal, for a saint. So what gripped him? Was it the setting on the rocky coast in the north country? The butterfly veil? The image of a woman, alone and assailed by attackers rising up from the sea? Some combination of these perhaps. Almost against his wishes, he found himself becoming interested in this Beornwyn.

Eventually he put down the manuscript and lay back with his hands cradling his head. He no longer felt tired but fresh and lively, in mind at least. What could he do with St Beornwyn now? Was she really as she had been written up in this story? The virgin who rejects an arranged marriage, the pure woman who keeps company with the angels. Geoffrey thought of his sister-in-law, Katherine Swynford, another woman with a name for piety. Katherine was a young widow. She was also the lover of John of Gaunt, the third son of King Edward but in point of importance the second man in the kingdom. Given the King’s decrepit state, some would say he was first in the land. When a respectable interval had elapsed after the death of his wife, Blanche, whom he had sincerely loved, John married Constance, the daughter of an ousted (and now dead) king of Castile. By so doing, John had been anointed King of Castile, even if a rival claimant was inconveniently in possession of the throne. Though Constance was a beautiful and highly eligible bride, this was a marriage of power and expediency. Geoffrey Chaucer didn’t think that John of Gaunt’s heart was in the union, whatever his head and his father – Edward III – dictated. No, John’s heart and his other parts rested with Katherine.

Chaucer wasn’t certain when Katherine and John had become lovers but it must have been at least four years previously because there was a child of their union, a boy now rising three. He could ask Philippa, of course, but his wife might not tell him, even assuming she was intimate with all of her sister’s secrets. But whenever it was that John and Katherine began their liaison, both were widowed at the time. Now Gaunt had a queen and a mistress, the two often living under the same roof. Fortunately, the roof of the Savoy Palace was very extensive. To the outside world, Katherine had a reputation as a pious lady (the true parentage of the child was known to very few). Yet while Katherine was genuinely devout, as Geoffrey was aware, she also had a hidden passion for John of Gaunt.

He wondered if St Beornwyn had been, in truth, as pure and pious as she was painted. An unholy thought occurred to him, like a little imp darting through his head. Suppose Beornwyn were no different from most other girls and women. Suppose she had rejected her father’s choice of husband not out of any desire to lead a virginal life but because she already had a lover. A lover, whose identity or even existence had to be concealed for some reason – say, because he was low-born or came from a rival family. All speculation, of course, and probably a slander on the dead lady. But no more unlikely than the story in the manuscript that the Bermondsey prior was urging on him. In fact, if Richard hadn’t stressed Beornwyn’s virginity so much, then Geoffrey thought he might not be responding like this, with scepticism and a mischievous wish to undermine the legend. Chaucer did not disbelieve in the legends of saints. But he didn’t quite believe in them either.

Almost before he knew it, he was lighting the candles that stood on the little table, sitting on the stool, picking up one of the quill pens, dipping it in the ink-pot and scrawling a few lines on a sheet of paper. The outline of the piece was clear in his head. He would cast it in the form of a dream. The first few lines turned into a page and then several pages. The thing flowed, via his hand, from his head onto the white sheets on the desk. He must have been writing for some time for he was dimly aware of the ringing of the matins bell, a time when it was closer to dawn than to dusk. The candles burned down, and still he scrawled away. Eventually, as light was creeping back into the sky and the birds were beginning to sing, Geoffrey rubbed his eyes. Now he was tired, but he was also satisfied. He left the scrawled sheets, returned to bed and settled down to sleep.

He woke at around the hour of terce, well into the day, so far as the monks were concerned. It was a sharp morning, the wind rattling at the shutters in the window of the guest-chamber. Geoffrey returned to the desk, sat down and read through what he had written in one continuous rush during last night. Strangely, it seemed to have been written by a different person from the one who was scanning it now. The piece began quietly enough, with the writer’s inability to get to sleep after hearing the tale of the terrible martyrdom of a pure and virtuous woman. Then, when at last he begins to slumber, he starts to dream. In his dream the martyred woman is a very different being, a devotee not of Christ but of her passion for a man. She dies at the hands of the man’s rival although the rumour is put about that she perished for her faith. When the dreamer awakes he is unable to decide which version to believe.

Alas, I know not how to deem,

To trust the story or the dream?

Geoffrey yawned. The piece needed plenty of work but the basic idea was there. It would surely go down well with a worldly audience such as the one at the Palace of Savoy. He wondered what his wife, Philippa, would make of it.

Meanwhile Chaucer’s wife, Philippa, was not thinking at all of her husband, tucked away in Bermondsey Priory. If she had been thinking of him, then it would most likely have been in a baffled sort of way. For she could not understand his attraction to Bermondsey. It was a hushed, bookish spot, full of men, away from the colour and flurry of court life at the Savoy.

Like her husband, Philippa Chaucer owed her present position to John of Gaunt, and to the court service she had done for John’s mother, the late Queen, also called Philippa. Now she was nominally in service of another queen, John’s new wife from Spain. But like her husband, she found herself with time on her hands. Her duties at court were so light that they scarcely existed. She made a point of seeing her children often, but their immediate care and instruction was in the hands of others.

Philippa had just been talking with Elizabeth, her ten-year-old. Every morning she ran through what the girl had learned the previous day and gave her encouragement for the one to come. Because she was not from England, Philippa was concerned that her daughter in particular should be familiar with at least the French and Dutch languages. Her son, Thomas, showed less inclination for learning and, anyway, she felt boys were better able to fend for themselves.

After Elizabeth left, Philippa remained sitting by the fire. The morning was cold, with gusts of wind rattling the windows. There was a knock at the door. She recognised this knock and called out for the visitor to enter. Carlos de Flores came in, bowing his head a little. She indicated he should sit opposite her, in the place recently vacated by Elizabeth. He smiled and sat down, all the time regarding her with his steady brown eyes.

When John of Gaunt brought his new bride home to the Savoy Palace, the Castilian princess did not come alone. Constance arrived with a retinue of counsellors, priests and servants. And there were others whose precise functions were not so well defined but who had to be found well-appointed lodgings somewhere in the rambling spaces of the palace. Carlos de Flores was one such individual. His English was near-perfect and he had the manners of a courtier.

‘I trust I find you well, madam.’

Before Philippa could reply another gust shook the panes and cold air swirled round her feet.

‘Well enough… considering this weather.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said the Castilian. ‘The weather. Before I came to your country I was told that, of all things, the English like to talk about their weather.’

‘That must be because there’s so much of it to talk about.’

Smiling to show that he had understood Philippa’s joke, Carlos de Flores said, ‘You show yourself a true Englishwoman by saying so, madam, yet you are from Hainault originally, are you not? You and your sister?’

Philippa wondered why de Flores was bothering to mention this. It was no secret that she and Katherine were the daughters of a knight who came from a small country snuggled into a corner of Europe. Either the Castilian was just passing the time or he was showing that he had dug a little way into their histories.

‘We come from Hainault, yes,’ she said. ‘This England was hardly more than a place across the seas where our father went to serve the Queen. Yet the weather in Hainault was very similar to here, Señor de Flores. In fact, I’d say it was worse.’

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.

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.

‘Where have you come from, Geoffrey? You look as though you’ve walked a distance.’

‘I’ve come from Aldgate, my lord, and before that I was at Bermondsey Priory.’

Gaunt picked up on the priory reference, as Geoffrey perhaps intended he should. He started asking questions, staring hard at Chaucer. An aquiline nose – his father’s legacy – separated penetrating eyes. As always when he was talking to Gaunt, or rather being talked to, he was conscious of the Duke’s height. The questioning continued. What had Chaucer been doing at Bermondsey? Writing. Ah, yes, of course he had been writing. His subject? A poem about a saint. Who? Beornwyn? No, I have not heard of her.

‘That’s because she is known for her virginity,’ said Katherine to John, and gave a small laugh. Her laugh was one of her most attractive features. She added: ‘And St Beornwyn is chiefly known for the fact that her violated body was shrouded by butterflies.’

Gaunt and his mistress were curious now. Geoffrey was encouraged to produce this latest offering, encouraged to distribute the poem, to read it aloud to his friends and admirers at court. Geoffrey put up the tiniest show of reluctance and, secretly delighted, agreed to produce the copies as soon as possible. Then they seemed to remember why he was here in Philippa’s chamber. Katherine said: ‘If you are looking for your wife, Geoffrey, she is walking outside on the terraces. The day is a pleasant one for exercise.’

It was a polite dismissal. Bowing to Gaunt and Katherine, who were now standing side by side, Geoffrey withdrew. The retinue outside the door relaxed when they saw it was only he who was emerging from the room. Geoffrey nodded at the steward, Thomas Banks. As he was threading his way through yet more corridors and cloisters, he remembered that he’d intended to tell someone about John Hall, the man in the Tabard. Yet, inside the Savoy and its vast precincts, the firebrand’s words seemed rather puny. To attempt anything against the palace and its inhabitants would be like kicking against the side of a mountain.

Once outside, he paused to admire the view. Geoffrey knew that Gaunt took a well-informed interest in the Savoy gardens, an interest that accounted for their colour and their order. Rose gardens and borders of flowers were interspersed with orchards, while each end of the terraces was given over to herb and vegetable plantations, together with a couple of well-stocked fish ponds. In between were paths and gently graded steps leading down to the low wall fronting the sweep of the river

There were quite a few people outside, apart from the gardeners, strolling singly or in pairs and small groups. Shading his eyes against the sun, Chaucer glanced about for Philippa, without expecting to see her so soon. Indeed, he nearly missed her because she was in company and not female company either. She walked past almost directly below where he was standing on the topmost terrace, about three levels down. He did not recognise the gentleman deep in conversation with his wife. The man was elegantly dressed but not in the English style. Their heads, when they could be glimpsed through new foliage and branches, were close together. The couple reached a clear space at the end of a walk, turned round and paused before retracing their steps. Chaucer heard Philippa’s laugh, distinct, louder than her sister, Katherine’s. Her companion grasped her by the upper arm. Or perhaps he simply touched her there. Geoffrey couldn’t be sure at this distance. He stood in thought, undecided what to do, before a bell sounding twelve, from one of the newly installed clocks in the palace, brought him back to himself.

He went down the nearest flight of steps until he reached the terrace where Philippa and her friend were strolling. Except that they were no longer together. Coming towards him along the walk between trees and shrubs was the well-dressed individual. He was handsome with a neatly cut beard. Definitely not English, and so probably part of the Castilian company. He was moving rapidly and scarcely looked at Chaucer as he passed. At the far end of the walk Philippa was standing motionless.

Geoffrey went towards her. When he was close enough, he called her name and raised his hand slightly in greeting. She did not smile as her sister had done. She looked neither pleased nor displeased to see him. Instead she looked preoccupied. Perhaps it was something the Castilian had said to her. Chaucer didn’t ask. He gave no indication that he had been watching her, let alone asking who it was she had been walking with.

Philippa and Geoffrey Chaucer talked cordially enough. He asked about the children. She asked what he had been doing at Bermondsey Priory. He explained that he had encountered the Duke of Lancaster and Katherine in Philippa’s chamber. And so on…

If Geoffrey had turned and followed the Castilian instead of going on to speak to his wife, he might have discovered something more interesting, even worrying. Carlos de Flores was walking fast because he had suddenly remembered that he was due to meet someone. It was the same sound of the noon-day clock bell that Geoffrey heard that prompted him to leave Philippa in a hurry. He walked up the gardens on a diagonal slant and then through the palace. Much of the Savoy was still a maze to him although he was familiar with parts of it, such as the route to the stables. Waiting for him in a shaded corner of the large, high-walled yard was the red-capped individual whom Chaucer had encountered in the Tabard Inn. No courtesies were exchanged between the two men, they fell to talking straight away. Anyone observing the two – the Castilian and the Londoner – would have realised that they had business together, and that something about their postures suggested that it was confidential.

The red-cap did most of the talking, while de Flores nodded from time to time. Then they must surely have had some sort of disagreement for red-cap started to raise his voice, as he had in the tavern. There was no one about, only some liveried grooms keeping to the sunny side of the great yard, but the foreigner put his hand on the other’s shoulder, to soothe him or control him. The hand was angrily shrugged off and red-cap stalked away with that stiff gait that Chaucer had already observed. He went off in the direction of the gate on the Strand. De Flores stared after him for a while before retracing his steps to the more refined area of the palace.

Yet this meeting had not gone unobserved. A woman had been keeping a distant eye on de Flores for the last half-hour or more. She had already witnessed his deliberate encounter in the gardens with Philippa Chaucer and his abrupt departure from her. The expression on her face as she saw the Castilian and the Englishwoman was not difficult to read. It was one of anger. She scurried to keep up with Carlos de Flores as he strode through the palace and then, keeping in the shadows, she watched the Castilian meet the man with the red cap. She had distinctive features, this woman in the shadows: a hawk-like nose, black eyes, a smile that could quickly be replaced with an angry baring of the teeth. But it would have been difficult to interpret her reaction to what she had been watching for the last few minutes, Carlos de Flores in conversation with a red-capped man. Neither pleasure or displeasure, but curiosity perhaps.

IV

So things went on quietly enough for a couple of months. Spring turned into summer. Philippa Chaucer continued her sojourn at the Savoy Palace. Geoffrey spent most of his time at Aldgate and at Wool Wharf, down by the river, attending to his duties as Controller of Customs. But things were not so quiet for Geoffrey’s patron, John of Gaunt. With the King’s oldest son, Edward, close to death and the King himself in a decline that was scarcely less steep, John was forced to attend Parliament to hear charges that the King was burdening his people with too much tax, and – although these accusations weren’t made so explicitly – that the money raised was being wasted or used for corrupt purposes. Geoffrey Chaucer heard from Philippa and other insiders reports of Gaunt’s fury at the insolence of the Commons. Yet however much Gaunt might storm and vow to crush the upstarts, for the moment the tide of events was against him and his family, and so he was compelled to make concessions.

It was perhaps for the sake of diversion from all these troubles that Geoffrey was encouraged to recite his latest work, the story of St Beornwyn, to the cream of the Savoy court.

Thomas Banks himself passed on the word. ‘My master – our master – would be glad to hear your tale of the saint and the butterflies,’ he said. The steward was obviously in the confidence of the Duke of Lancaster. Perhaps there was more to him than there appeared.

Chaucer visited the St Paul’s copier to whom he had entrusted his original script and, after paying the two marks agreed on, he received three copies in return. Back in Aldgate, he checked through the manuscripts for accuracy. They were neat and clean, though in no way decorated or ornate. Geoffrey remained pleased with his invention in the story of St Beornwyn, the way he had subtly cast doubt on the truth of the legend. Now he intended to send two of the copies to the palace in advance of his public reading. It helped if a handful of his audience was familiar with what he was about to say. It was like seeding the ground in the hope of a good crop of applause and praise.

Late one sunny morning a couple of days afterwards, Chaucer was returning from his office at Wool Wharf. His head was full not only of wool but of wine, or rather the columns of figures, weights, bales, tuns, shipping rosters and commissions that made up most of his reading at work. It was only as he got to the front door of his Aldgate lodgings that he noticed, to his surprise, that the door was ajar. This was unusual because the flow of traffic through the nearby gate, which was the principal route in and out of this eastern part of the city, made it unwise to leave the place open or unguarded. Geoffrey pushed at the door. Inside was a sparsely furnished lobby, with one spiral flight of steps leading up to Geoffrey’s set of rooms, which straddled the gate itself, and another, smaller flight going straight down to a cellar. The only illumination came through a narrow, barred slit in the stone wall beside the front door. But now, by the sunlight streaming in from the street, Chaucer saw Joan bending over a diminutive figure who was slouched on a bench against the wall.

To his alarm, he realised that it was young Thomas. His mother was using a cloth to try to stanch blood dripping from the lad’s head. Alerted by the sound of the door and the increase of light, Joan looked round. The fear on her lined face was replaced by relief.

‘Thank God it is you, sir.’

‘What’s happened? Is he all right?’

The boy himself raised one hand slightly in response but said nothing.

‘I need to get water and a poultice.’

‘Go on, Joan. I’ll stay and look after him.’

Geoffrey took the sodden cloth and kept it pressed against the boy’s forehead. With his other hand he cradled the back of Thomas’s head. It did not appear that much damage had been done, only a nasty though superficial gash producing blood that was already flowing less freely. Joan disappeared up the spiral stairs. Chaucer made reassuring sounds to Thomas. He was fond of the lad. He allowed him to call him Geoffrey. He thought that he probably saw more of this Thomas than of his own son. He glanced round. The door was still half open. From the street came the rumble of carts and carriages and the constant shuffle of pedestrians converging on the gate. Chaucer wondered what had happened.

Joan returned with a container of water, more cloths and other gear. Geoffrey was glad to hand back responsibility to her. He waited until she had cleaned up the boy’s wound and applied a poultice to his head before fastening the front door. Then together with Joan he assisted the lad up the steep steps to the first floor. The boy was shaky on his legs but otherwise seemed all right. He kept apologising to Chaucer for something he’d done – or hadn’t done – and muttering some words about a king, but Geoffrey waved it aside and was relieved when Joan dispatched him to lie down in the little chamber that mother and son shared.

It took him some time to piece together everything that had happened. He had an account from Joan and, later, when the boy was almost fully recovered, from little Thomas. It seemed that a well-dressed individual had come knocking at the Aldgate door, which was opened by Thomas, his mother being occupied on the upper floor. The man explained that he was calling on the King’s business and that it was most urgent he should see Master Chaucer. Was the gentleman in? Thomas said not (and Geoffrey reflected that anyone knowing his routine would also know he was unlikely to be in at that hour of the morning). The stranger asked if he could wait for the master of the house in his office. The matter was very urgent, very important. The King’s business, the King’s business. He repeated this many times over. He waved some scroll with a big red seal attached. By this time Joan had appeared. She didn’t say so but Geoffrey guessed she was a little overawed by the visitor’s manner, by his talk, by the sealed scroll. He was shown up to Geoffrey’s domestic office, which occupied a central space over the gate itself. She did not think to ask the guest’s name. Besides, what harm could he do in a musty old room full of books? Joan didn’t say this either, but Chaucer was familiar with the housekeeper’s opinion of his room and his books.

It was Thomas who did not trust the stranger or who became curious. After a few minutes, the boy crept to the door of Geoffrey’s room, which was not shut tight, and heard the sound of papers being rustled and the soft thud of items being shifted about. Thomas knew that something wasn’t right. He pushed his head round the door and saw the stranger bending over Chaucer’s desk, hurriedly pushing volumes and manuscripts to one side as if he wanted to be rid of them. Then he gasped and took a manuscript over to the window to look at it in a better light. He nodded to himself, went back to the desk and scooped up several more loose sheets of paper. Then he glanced round and saw the boy standing in the doorway.

All of this Thomas related in a clear, almost descriptive manner. He turned it into an exciting story. He even imitated the stranger’s sigh as the man realised he had found what he was looking for. Chaucer was proud of Thomas. He reassured the boy, who seemed more anxious that Geoffrey might not want to continue teaching him to read than he was concerned about anything else. Unlike his mother, he had a respect for the twenty-five or so handwritten volumes that had pride of place in the office and that Geoffrey regarded as his real treasure. Thomas had respect not only for vellum and paper but for the words written on them, even if he was not able to understand many of them yet.

Maybe it was this respect that caused him to start forward in an attempt to intercept the thief as he sprang from the room, carrying the bundled manuscript and papers. The man lashed out with his free arm and knocked the boy aside, but Thomas succeeded in regaining his balance and pursued the man along the passageway and down the spiral staircase. At the bottom of the steps he tripped and landed on the rush-strewn flagstones of the lobby. His mother, alerted by the noise, was not far behind. By now, the stranger had unlatched the front door and vanished into the street. Joan helped Thomas to the bench and started to mop at his wound. Shortly afterwards Geoffrey arrived home.

Thomas was not sure where he had received his wound. Geoffrey had noticed some drops of blood on the floor of the upper passage so he thought it might have been as a result of the blow from the man. Was he wearing any rings? he asked.

Joan could not remember but Thomas said, ‘Yes, Geoffrey, here and here and here.’ He indicated most of the fingers on his own hands. ‘And all different coloured stones too.’ Thomas was quite recovered by now and enjoying the attention.

Geoffrey thought that it was probably one of the visitor’s rings that caught the lad across the forehead. But if the individual was wearing rings set with different coloured stones, then he was no impoverished thief. He was no ordinary thief either, to be going and taking manuscripts.

Geoffrey went outside and questioned William, the porter who had a little wooden lodge on the inner side of the Aldgate arch. His job was to keep an eye on the comings and goings through the gate, which as well as being a busy entrance was a spot where various ne’er-do-wells were inclined to gather if not shoo-ed away. William’s work did not stop there. Every cart arriving with goods from the country had to pay a small fee, which went towards paving the streets. Early in the morning William removed the drawbars and swung back the great oak doors that kept the city safe during the hours of darkness, and last thing in the evening he did the same in reverse. William knew Geoffrey Chaucer, of course, the person with royal connections who lodged over his head. Geoffrey enjoyed his company and a chat every now and then. But the porter could be no help on this occasion. No, he had not witnessed a man making a hasty exit from Chaucer’s front door, let alone seen in which direction he might have gone.

Geoffrey had not held out much hope from William and he returned to his upstairs office and started to tidy the room. The thief had been searching for something specific and only disordered the owner’s documents and books, as Thomas witnessed. Even so, it took Chaucer some time to return everything to its place, checking to see that nothing was damaged. What was missing was, as he half expected, one of the copies of his poem about St Beornwyn, one out of the three manuscripts for which he had paid the St Paul’s copier two whole marks. In addition, a clutch of his official documents had vanished, material to do with the wine and wool imports. Geoffrey kept an orderly desk and had a fairly good idea of what had been taken: lists of quantities and commissions, mostly. None of it was a proper secret and none of it would be of much use to anyone outside the office of Controller of Customs. He suspected that the thief had snatched these pieces either in a panic or as a cover for his real objective, which was the Beornwyn story.

Well, if he was hoping to deprive the world of the fruits of Chaucer’s poetic skill then he was too late, for there were already two copies of the poem in circulation among John of Gaunt’s retinue at the Savoy. And Geoffrey still had possession of the original, which he’d penned at Bermondsey Priory.

Geoffrey couldn’t imagine who would take the trouble to make off with a poem. The only people aware of its existence were John of Gaunt and a handful of others in the Savoy, such as Thomas Banks. Yet if anyone in the Savoy was eager to see it then he merely had to lay hands on one of the copies that Chaucer had dispatched to the Palace. The description provided by Joan and young Thomas left no doubt that the thieving caller was a gentleman, one with many-ringed fingers, someone on the King’s business – though that part must be a lie surely. But nevertheless he was a person who was well-to-do, if not noble. It made no sense.

Then he spotted an overlooked manuscript lying in a dark corner. He picked it up. It was a scroll, fastened with an unbroken disc of red wax. The gentleman thief had arrived at Aldgate brandishing a scroll with a red seal. He must have dropped it in the rush to get away. Chaucer went over to the window and examined the seal. He thought he recognised the device imprinted in the wax, a rudimentary castle with three towers. He broke the seal without any qualms and unfurled the document.

He stood there for some time, squinting at the unfamiliar script and scratching his head. He did not know much of the language but he knew enough to obtain a general sense of what the document contained. It appeared to be about the purchase of some plot of land, not land in England but in Castile. The thing was in Spanish.

Despite its size the audience chamber was full, or so it seemed to Geoffrey Chaucer. He glanced round, dazzled by the wealth of candles on display, candles whose beams were intensified by their reflection in so many mirrored and plated surfaces. The candles were a sign of splendour and abundance, and scarcely needed since the evening was fine with sufficient light still coming through the ample windows to read by.

Geoffrey was standing at a lectern, ready to recite the story of St Beornwyn. Directly in front of him, seated on a great chair, which was almost a throne, and under a canopied dais, was John of Gaunt. At a discreet distance from the Duke of Lancaster were seated Katherine Swynford and other ladies of the household, including Philippa Chaucer. Further back in the room were yet more ladies, with a scattering of gentlemen as well. Chaucer had been surprised to recognise a couple of them. One was Sir Edward Jupe, the lanky knight from the Tabard Inn. He greeted Geoffrey warmly, saying that he thought he recognised his name on their first encounter but had not realised he was addressing the illustrious poet or ‘maker’, as he put it. Standing to one side was a demure-looking lady who glanced repeatedly at Sir Edward, as he did at her. Chaucer assumed she was the one he had been racing to see, wearing his rust-patterned tunic and all. He was better dressed now, though in a style befitting a knight who has neither the time nor the resources to waste on the latest fashion.

Thomas Banks was also in attendance, an unusual honour for a mere steward, but it confirmed that his place in the Lancaster household was more important than it appeared. A greater surprise was to see the handsome Spanish man, the Castilian, whom Chaucer had glimpsed in company with his wife. He asked Philippa who he was, pretending that it was an idle query and claiming that he had glimpsed the gentleman round the Palace. Was it his imagination or did Philippa look uneasy? She told her husband that this individual was called – and here she paused as if struggling to recall his name – Carlos de Flores and that he was part of the retinue of Queen Constance. Something in Philippa’s hesitation wasn’t convincing. As for Queen Constance of Castile, she was not in the audience chamber, of course. Indeed, she only kept company with her husband on public occasions, and not always then. There were other Castilians in the room, including a round-faced priest with a prominent pectoral cross.

Geoffrey regarded these individuals with some suspicion. He’d come to the conclusion that the thieving visitor to his lodgings must have been someone connected to Constance. It was obvious, really. Knowledge of the Beornwyn poem was restricted to the Savoy, where almost anyone on the English side might have been able to have a sight of it since he had already dispatched two copies there. But the nest of Castilians in the palace might not have been aware of this. If they wanted to read about Beornwyn, for reasons Geoffrey couldn’t yet fathom, then the only way would have been to go to the source himself, or rather to Aldgate. More conclusive evidence of a Castilian visitor was that the legal document was in Spanish (it was indeed about the transfer of a parcel of land). Geoffrey’s belief was that the caller had simply snatched up the scroll at random to impress whoever he found in Aldgate. The red seal with the device of the three-turreted castle signified the house of Castile. When Geoffrey talked more about the robbery to Joan and Thomas he discovered that mother and son had not detected any foreign accent but, to them, he was a gentleman and all gentlemen talked differently – or oddly.

John of Gaunt cleared his throat as a sign that Geoffrey might begin. The gentle conversations in the chamber died away. Geoffrey glanced down at the sheets before him, the version of the saint’s life written out in his own hand. He started to recite, working half from memory, half from the words before him.

‘God grant that all our dreams are fair,

For certain in this life is care

Enough without there be more strife

From sleep than in our waking life.’

After a while he realised that he was not receiving the response he expected. Quiet attentiveness, yes, but with an undertone of coldness, even disapproval. Some of the court ladies glanced at each other. When Chaucer came to the part of the story, the dream sequence, speculating that Beornwyn might not have been a pure maid after all but a woman like any other, the glances became more frequent and there was even the odd bout of muttering. All at once he understood what he should have understood before: that a saint’s life, however remote and unlikely in its details, was nevertheless a kind of sacred object, not to be tampered with. He realised too that although he had sent copies to the Savoy it seemed as though no one had looked very carefully at the poem.

It was fortunate he concluded the poem by stressing Beornwyn’s purity, and dwelling on her butterfly cloak and other miracles. Even so, the applause at the end, led by John of Gaunt, was muted. The only individual to compliment him was – and this was most odd – the round-faced priest with the cross, whose name was Luis. He had a large, fleshy hand, which he offered like a lump of meat, the fingers weighted with rings, Geoffrey noticed.

‘Master Chaucer,’ he said, although he had difficulty getting his tongue round the name, ‘your fame is spread far and wide. Now with this romance of your saint from the north, her fame is spreading too. But you do not think she was such a saint, eh?’

Geoffrey gave some bland answer to the effect that it was a story, and so something half true, half invented. He was starting to regret ever having heard of Beornwyn, although he did not say this.

But Geoffrey’s regrets on this evening in the audience chamber of the Savoy were as nothing to his regrets a day later when the news reached him that a man had been found dead on the Thames foreshore and that, tucked away inside the corpse’s tunic, was a copy of his very own work.

V

It was the morning after the discovery of the body on the foreshore. Once again, Geoffrey was at the Savoy, although not in the light and luxury of the audience chamber or in the comfort of his wife’s quarters. Instead he was sitting in a chilly, cramped office that had been put at his disposal. He couldn’t help feeling that the meagre quality of the room was an implicit rebuke or even a warning. Geoffrey was out of favour with John of Gaunt, and this was a bad position to be in.

It was not only that Chaucer had written and recited a poem that was coldly received by its listeners on account of its disrespectful, even irreverent treatment of a saint who – for God’s sake! – Gaunt had not even heard of until a couple of months ago. It was more than the fact that a member of the retinue of Queen Constance had been discovered dead by the river. Worse still, from Geoffrey’s point of view, was the copy of the Beornwyn poem that had been found on the body of Carlos de Flores. It seemed as though he was somehow being held responsible for de Flores’s death, at least in part. As far as the riverside corpse was concerned, the story was being put about that he had drowned. But the truth, that he’d sustained a vicious attack, was also starting to circulate, despite the best efforts of Thomas Banks to prevent it getting out. Furthermore, the fatal injuries had probably been made with a knife. It was not known whether these rumours had yet reached the ears of Constance but they surely would.

‘Our master has asked me to ask you to look into the matter, to… resolve it somehow,’ said Thomas Banks.

The steward was sitting across from Chaucer in the little room. He tugged absently at his chain of office. This request from Gaunt, coming via Banks, was more of an order. And Chaucer couldn’t help feeling some involvement in the whole business anyway. He had never spoken to the dead man but he had spied on him. Geoffrey couldn’t help wondering how well his wife had known de Flores. He guessed that the copy of the poem on the body was the one that had been stolen from Aldgate. In which case, de Flores was almost certainly the thief.

‘You will do this, resolve the matter or clear it away,’ said Thomas Banks. Again, it was more instruction than request. ‘Our master is preoccupied, he has other things on his mind. You may have whatever you need, speak to whoever you want. Our master has put me at your disposal.’

Geoffrey was irritated by these references to ‘our master’, as if Banks were determined to show himself the perfect, diligent servant. Yet the steward was right to say that Gaunt was preoccupied. His older brother, Edward, was very near to death, it could be only a matter of days. When that happened, and because of the infirmity of his father, John’s position in the country would be all powerful. The last thing Lancaster needed was some scandal to do with a courtier from his wife’s company of foreigners.

Nevertheless Geoffrey tried to take things in a different direction.

‘Isn’t it possible that this de Flores was attacked by a stranger, by someone who has nothing to do with the Savoy Palace? Perhaps he was the victim of a robbery?’

‘No,’ said the steward. ‘For one thing, the only way down to the river shore where he was found is through the palace gardens. For another, not a thing was taken from his body. His rings, his jewellery, everything was there. Including this.’

From a pocket Banks fished a thin golden chain. It was broken. There was a small ruby set in the chain. Banks laughed, a dry, humourless sound.

‘This ruby did not protect him from harm.’

‘May I have it?’ said Geoffrey. ‘I’d like to show it to someone.’

The steward shrugged, as if to say: do what you please. Now Chaucer picked up the copy of the Beornwyn story, which Banks had earlier presented to him as if it were evidence of some crime. And it was evidence in a way. After all, there was blood on one end.

‘I suppose it is a coincidence de Flores had this with him when he was found?’

‘I do not think so, Master Chaucer.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of. I cannot see any reason why he should have it, though.’

‘Oh, I can help you there. I have a… witness… one who has a story.’

Banks left the room. Geoffrey thought about his predicament. He would have to talk to Philippa, at some point, about the man de Flores.

The steward returned with someone else. To Geoffrey’s amazement it was the red-capped person from the Tabard, the firebrand, the one he’d seen entering the Savoy several weeks before. He remembered now that he’d intended to report on the man’s fiery words to Thomas Banks. Not necessary now since the two were obviously acquainted. The man was just as surprised to see Chaucer. But Geoffrey seized the advantage in greeting him by name: ‘John Hall.’

‘Why, it is the man who says John of Gaunt is the issue of a dragon and a mermaid.’

Now it was Banks’s turn to look confused.

Chaucer said, ‘We have met, we two, and not under auspicious circumstances. The last time I saw you, John Hall, you were spouting seditious words against the Savoy.’

Hall did not reply. He looked at the steward.

‘The words you heard should not be taken at face value, Master Chaucer. This one is in my pay. By coincidence – yes, this is a genuine coincidence – it was his brother and another man who discovered de Flores’s body yesterday. Hugh Hall is a member of this household. It gives brother John a pretext for visiting from time to time.’

‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, though he didn’t.

‘Explain yourself,’ said Thomas Banks to Hall. He returned to his seat. Chaucer had not left his. Hall remained standing. In his posture and tone was a mixture of defiance and deference.

‘I am in the secret employment of this gentleman here,’ he said to Geoffrey, who noticed that he used the word ‘employment’ instead of ‘pay’. ‘My work makes for strange bedfellows, whether in the Tabard Inn or elsewhere. If you want an explanation for my “seditious words”, sir, it is because sometimes the discontented and the treasonous have to be smoked out of their lairs. Pretending to be one of them is a way of doing it.’

Geoffrey observed how, as he was saying this, Hall’s eyes darted repeatedly towards Banks. Hall was definitely a spy of some kind but Geoffrey wondered whether the steward knew the real force of Hall’s rants against John of Gaunt and the house of Lancaster. He wondered what the red-cap actually believed, whose side he was on. The uncertainty was not cleared up when Hall continued: ‘Also, sir, I have been reporting to a gentleman in the Spanish party here in the Savoy.’

‘The dead man, de Flores?’

Hall ducked his head slightly in acknowledgement. ‘Yes. His death had nothing to do with me.’

‘No one said it did,’ said Geoffrey.

‘The Spaniard believed I was telling him things even while he was telling me things, all unawares. Things that I passed on to my employer here.’

‘Did you get paid by the dead man for your things?’

‘No…’ Then seeing the expression on Geoffrey’s face, he said: ‘Not much anyway… not enough…’

‘You had a disagreement over payment. You had a fight.’

‘We had a falling out,’ said the man, choosing his words with care. ‘But I did not kill him, I say.’

‘No one said you did, John Hall. What did you learn from this de Flores?’

‘The Castilian was interested in causing a division here in the Duke’s court. He talked of a poem.’

‘A poem?’ said Geoffrey, feeling a chill that was not caused by the dank chamber.

‘A poem about a lady who was not what she seemed. I didn’t understand what he was talking about.’

‘You were not dispatched on any errands by de Flores?’ said Geoffrey. ‘For example, you did not visit a house in Aldgate to – obtain an item – through deception?’

Either the look of bafflement on the other’s face was genuine or John Hall was a fine player. But Chaucer did not believe that he was the one who’d stolen the Beornwyn piece anyway. Nor did he seem to have any notion of why the Castilians might wish to get their hands on the poem. Geoffrey nodded at Thomas Banks as a sign that his man could go. The steward waved the spy away and Hall moved out of the room in his stiff-gaited way.

When the door had closed, Banks stood up, arms akimbo.

‘Well, Master Chaucer, I must confess that I am not much the wiser.’

Geoffrey shrugged as if he too were in the dark. But an idea was beginning to take shape in his head. He rose.

‘You will excuse me, steward. I have to visit my wife.’

‘I did not care for that poem about the saint, Geoffrey,’ said Philippa.

She spoke regretfully as if she would like to have liked it. Husband and wife were sitting in Philippa’s apartment, the one where Chaucer had encountered John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford together a few weeks earlier. The most uncomfortable part of the conversation was over. Geoffrey had asked Philippa directly about her friendship with Carlos de Flores. She didn’t seem put out by his words. Perhaps the man’s death made such questions seem necessary, instead of painful or impertinent. Philippa replied that the Castilian was a friend to all ladies, and that she was not such a fool as not to see what kind of a man he was. Besides, she added, he was interested in her more on account of her sister, and that not because he was such a fool to believe he could have Gaunt’s woman for himself but for some other reason. And de Flores also asked several questions about him, Geoffrey, her husband.

It was now that Geoffrey started to talk about the Beornwyn poem, the one Philippa didn’t like.

‘I wrote down the account of a saint, which I heard first at Bermondsey Priory. As I was writing it I found that the picture of the woman, Beornwyn, began to change in here -’ Geoffrey tapped his temple, ‘- and I wondered if she was as pure and holy as she’d been reputed. I meant no harm in what I did. The woman was long gone, and her life and her death were rich but faded like an old tapestry. Why not add another thread to the picture? I did not reckon on the audience at the Savoy Palace being so… so…’

‘So pure, so holy?’ said Philippa, with amusement. ‘You must remember, Geoffrey, that though all of us might be educated and sophisticated people we also have regard to the proprieties. My sister is a devout woman.’

Geoffrey nodded. That was true. He continued: ‘I believe that the Castilians, or some of them, want to create a division between your sister and the Duke of Lancaster. They do not like the fact that she lives in the same house as their queen. I think they plan to use my poem to help open up the division by suggesting that Katherine is like Beornwyn, devout and pure in the eyes of the world, but…’

‘Like all women,’ said Philippa. ‘Someone with her own wishes and desires.’

‘Just so,’ said Geoffrey, grateful that she had put the matter in her own way and, in his gratitude, thinking that he ought to keep company with her more often.

‘But none of that explains why de Flores was killed,’ said Philippa. ‘If he was killed, that is.’

‘What happened on the night when I read the poem?’ said Chaucer. ‘Later on, I mean. Did you catch sight of Carlos de Flores?’

Geoffrey himself had not remained long in the audience chamber. He could see the recital had not gone down well. He had no wish to stay and receive tepid compliments. By the late light of the summer evening he returned to Aldgate by himself, just as William the porter was about to close the city gates.

After a pause, Philippa answered him: ‘I saw de Flores talking to someone, a man. They were standing close together in a corner by a window. The chamber was not so full by then, John of Gaunt had already left and my sister followed shortly afterwards. I recall thinking it was unusual. If de Flores was going to be discovered talking quietly in a corner, I’d expect a woman to be involved. He and the man did not know that they were being observed. It was growing dark outside. There was some dispute, I think. De Flores suddenly strode out and the man seemed to go off in pursuit of him.’

‘You know who the man was?’

‘No, and I have not seen him here in the Savoy before. But he had a battered countenance – and, Geoffrey, now I remember that you were talking to him before you read out your poem!’

‘Then it must be Edward Jupe, the knight. The knight of the battered countenance describes him well. He was in company with a lady, a demure-looking lady.’

‘Oh, it is Alice Osterley. She is one of the Queen’s demoiselles, like me, though I scarcely know her.’

‘Where was she when this dispute was taking place?’

‘I don’t know. She was not in the corner with the men.’

‘Was it possible the argument was over her?’

‘Geoffrey, I cannot say for certain. But, yes… Carlos de Flores had been… paying attention to Alice, I believe… as he paid attention to several of Constance’s women.’

Now Chaucer stood up. It was obvious who should be questioned next.

He thanked Philippa, and noted the slight disappointment on her face as he left. He turned back and they kissed. Yes, he really must keep company with her more often.

He returned to the cell-like office, wondering where and how he would lay hands on Sir Edward Jupe. The answer proved easier than he’d expected once he talked to Thomas Banks. He began by asking what Banks observed on the evening of the Beornwyn reading before leading the conversation round to Sir Edward. The steward explained that he quit the audience chamber shortly after his master, John of Gaunt. But Banks was able to tell Geoffrey Chaucer a little about the knight’s history.

Although Jupe came from a family that could hardly count itself as noble, a family that possessed nothing more than some desolate acres in Lincolnshire, the knight had done a great service to John of Gaunt on the borders of Aquitaine several years ago. He protected the Prince during a fierce skirmish with an advance guard of the French, protected him almost at the cost of his own life. Of course, any knight would have done the same, willingly laid down his life for his liege lord. But, said the steward, something about the way Sir Edward bore himself after the attack, together with his modesty and meekness in response to Gaunt’s gratitude, caused the Duke to take Jupe to his heart. He seemed to the Prince the very model of what a knight should be: courteous, courageous and chivalrous. He might not be as well-born as some but he had an innate nobility. He became a friend of Gaunt’s, as far as a king’s son may have friends. Chaucer nodded. He knew that the Duke of Lancaster was loyal to his friends.

Then, after the French war, Sir Edward dedicated himself to other causes, even campaigning in the cold northern countries near the edge of Russia. Always he wore his lady’s favour. This was the opening Geoffrey was looking for. Almost casually, he asked Thomas Banks about Sir Edward’s lady. Was she in the court of Savoy? Indeed, said the steward, he believed that the knight was favoured by Alice Osterley. In fact, she too had been present on the evening of the Beornwyn reading. Yes, said Chaucer, pretending to remember, I saw them together!

Not a single word that Thomas Banks said indicated he was aware of any unhappiness between the knight and his lady. Any unhappiness, any dispute or jealousy. Chaucer had that knowledge only from Philippa. But then his wife was likely to be better informed than the men in the household.

‘Tell me, Geoffrey, you surely don’t suspect Sir Edward of having a hand in this matter?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ said Chaucer, reflecting, not for the first time, how easy he found it to tell a lie. ‘It is only that he may have some information about Carlos de Flores. I would like to speak to him. Do you know where I might find him?’

‘I believe he and his page lodge somewhere south of the river. He is often to be found in a tavern on that side, though its name escapes me.’

The Tabard in Southwark?’

‘It may be.’

This was enough for Geoffrey. Within the hour he found himself once more back inside the Tabard. He was greeted cheerfully by the host, Harry Bailey. He even took a drinking cup of the Rhenish wine that Bailey had been pressing on him. (It was as good as the inn-keeper claimed.) There was no thin-lipped, red-capped firebrand to disturb his drinking with talk of reducing the Savoy to a pile of ash. There were no pilgrims assembling to begin their journey to the shrine in Canterbury.

But there was a lanky knight sitting in a corner. Sir Edward Jupe was by himself. He was staring at a wooden pint pot on the table in front of him. He did not look up as Geoffrey approached. The knight of the battered countenance had turned into the knight of the woeful countenance.

‘I hope I find you well, sir,’ said Chaucer, feigning surprise.

‘Who…? Oh, it is the maker. The poet, Geoffrey Chaucer.’ The slightest smile of recognition passed across Sir Edward’s gloomy features.

‘I last saw you at the Savoy Palace,’ said Geoffrey, as if that encounter had taken place months before rather than a couple of days earlier. He sat down on the bench by the knight.

‘Do not talk to me of that evening, Master Chaucer. I prefer to forget it, and to forget the night that followed. It was a bad business.’

Chaucer nodded, not expecting to get to the quick of the matter so soon.

‘I wish I had stayed my hand,’ Sir Edward continued.

Chaucer wondered whether he was about to hear a confession of murder but what the knight said next left him more baffled.

‘What were those lines in your piece?’ Jupe took a swig from his pint pot before, furrowing his battered brow, he recited from memory:

‘For woman may seem holy, pure and true,

Yet, all within, be frail as I or you.’

It took Geoffrey a moment to recognise his own handiwork. This was a rhyming couplet – and not a very good one either – from his poem about St Beornwyn. It occurred when the narrator was speculating that the good woman might not have been quite so good, after all. Sir Edward Jupe had seized on these unremarkable words after hearing them just once, he had stored them in his head, and was repeating them back to their creator. In other circumstances, Geoffrey might have been flattered. Now what he felt was a creeping dismay.

‘I don’t understand you, Sir Edward.’

‘What you said about women is all too true, Master Chaucer. Nevertheless, I regret what I have done.’

‘But I do not know what you have done.’

‘Why, I put pen to paper, as you do.’

If Chaucer had been baffled before, he was now utterly confused.

‘Sir Edward, let us speak plainly so as to avoid all misunderstanding. We are talking here of a Castilian gentleman by the name of Carlos de Flores?’

‘Oh, him.’

The expression on Jupe’s face was unreadable. Was it a grimace? A sneer? A trace of guilt?

‘You were observed talking with him at the Savoy Palace. You were angry.’

‘We exchanged words, it is true.’

‘Words before blows?’

‘No blows. I did not offer him violence,’ said the knight, in a mild, almost surprised fashion.

‘But you were seen following de Flores out of the room.’

‘I did not follow him, Master Chaucer. I merely left shortly after him.’

‘You did not see where he went?’

‘No, and I do not care where he went either. As far as I’m concerned he may go to… to the lowest pit.’

‘Sir Edward, you are aware that Carlos de Flores is dead? He was found on the foreshore of the river next morning.’

This time the knight did respond. His lined face became suffused with a dull red. He fumbled with his hands on the table and knocked over his pot of ale. Liquid dribbled, unregarded, onto the floor. This was no act, Geoffrey reckoned. Sir Edward was genuinely shaken by the news. It was some time before he said anything more, and then it was only to ask for confirmation. Briefly, Geoffrey Chaucer described the outward circumstances of the Castilian’s death.

‘So then, the fellow is no more. You cannot think I had anything to do with it, Master Chaucer. If I had fought with that foreign gentleman, it would have been done in the open and in an honourable manner, not using a knife in the dark down by the water.’

‘Yet you were in dispute with him over a lady?’

‘I discovered that my lady Alice had been… I found out that he had been pressing his attentions on her… and though she struggled to resist his blandishments…’ Sir Edward sighed.

Chaucer waited, but when no more came, he said: ‘What did you mean about regrets then? About putting pen to paper?’

‘When I left the Savoy Palace I returned to my lodgings on this side of the river. I fear that I was not altogether in my right mind. That very night I sat down and wrote to my lady Alice in a manner that was impetuous and foolish. I did not address her dishonourably but I believe I did not use those terms of respect and esteem that are her due. When I… when I came to myself again, it was too late to recall the letter. It had already been dispatched to the Palace. I sent my squire with the thing and he put it into my lady’s hands himself. And now she has opened it and, without a doubt, she has read my unkind words and read them again… and again…’

Sir Edward Jupe seemed to notice for the first time that he had spilled his drink on the floor. He watched the ale settling into the grooves between the flagstones.

‘Your squire can confirm all this? That he took the letter to the palace and so on.’

‘Why, yes. Simon would no more utter a falsehood than-’

The knight faltered. Geoffrey realised that he’d been about to say that he would never lie. Perhaps he thought it was too boastful a claim to make about himself. Chaucer clicked his fingers for the pot-boy and ordered another pint for the disconsolate lover. He might as well drown his sorrows. And Geoffrey too felt a certain sorrow for Sir Edward. He did not think that the lanky individual next to him had killed the Castilian. He was capable of killing, of course, but he would not do it on the sly.

When the fresh ale arrived, Chaucer took his leave of Sir Edward Jupe. On the way out he settled his score with Harry Bailey.

‘A good man, that,’ said the landlord, slipping the coins into his apron, and indicating the knight in the corner.

‘Yes,’ said Chaucer.

‘One of my most devoted customers too.’

Instead of returning to the Savoy, Geoffrey went back to Aldgate. There he was able to clear up at least one part of the mystery. To Joan and young Thomas he showed the ruby on the golden chain, which the steward had taken from de Flores’s body. The housekeeper did not recognise the item but Thomas, who had had enough presence of mind after the attack to enumerate the rings that the thief wore on his hands, said he was almost sure it was the one around the man’s neck. Geoffrey complimented him once more on his sharp eyes. Then he went into his office to think.

It was plain enough that Carlos de Flores was the one who’d stolen the Beornwyn copy from this very room. And the reason for the theft was that the Castilians in the Savoy wanted to get their hands on the poem to see whether they could use it as a weapon in their campaign against Katherine Swynford. They must have heard something of its contents but not been able to lay hold of one of the two copies that Geoffrey had already sent to the palace. The more he thought about the matter, the more obvious it seemed. Quite against Geoffrey’s intentions – indeed, the notion had never occurred to him – the poem about St Beornwyn worked subtly in their interest. That is to say, it could be interpreted as being against Katherine and so in favour of Constance.

Why else had the priest, Luis, been the only person to single Chaucer out for congratulations on the night of the reading, and why had he done so in a very public manner? The fact that Geoffrey was Katherine’s brother-in-law might be very useful to them. See, the Spaniards could say, even the family of John of Gaunt’s mistress disapprove of her and of her behaviour. Why, the poet Geoffrey Chaucer has penned a story about a woman who pretends to be pure but who is, in reality, driven by her passions, by her appetite for men. In itself, these whisperings would hardly be enough to drive a wedge between Gaunt and Katherine but it all helped to spread unease and distrust in the household. Once again, Chaucer wished that he’d never heard the tale of Beornwyn from the Prior of Bermondsey. It had brought him nothing but trouble.

But was the killing of de Flores connected to the wretched poem or not? Geoffrey had already spoken to two men, John Hall and Sir Edward Jupe, with reasons to dislike, even to hate, the Castilian. He still did not think that Jupe had killed de Flores. He believed the knight was genuinely a man of honour. But was it not conceivable that he had pursued his rival all the way down to the foreshore of the river and there, in a fit of drunken madness, stabbed him to death? Jupe would know where to strike quick and deep. It was the sort of violent action he could perform in his sleep. And, by his own account, he’d been the worse for wear. ‘Not altogether in my right mind’ was his roundabout way of describing his condition while writing the fatal letter to Alice Osterley. Geoffrey had just seen for himself that the knight was as ready to wield a pint-pot as he was a sword. And hadn’t the landlord of the Tabard called him one of his most devoted customers?

Yet, of the two suspects, it was John Hall who seemed much the more likely to have done the deed. As a secret agent in the pay of Thomas Banks, he had easy access to the Savoy. He was also working for Carlos de Flores, or pretending to work for him. At any rate he was being paid by the Castilian. Not paid enough, though. Suppose there had been a prearranged meeting down by the river that night and then a row over money during which Hall stabbed de Flores? The red-capped man was capable of anger. Chaucer remembered his outburst in the Tabard.

De Flores must have had other enemies. Given his womanising reputation at court, there must be any number of husbands and lovers and suitors bearing a grudge against him. With a mixture of amusement and discomfort, Geoffrey considered that he might even be counted among them. After all, he’d seen for himself his wife and the Castilian strolling easily in the Savoy gardens. Had heard her laughter, seen his casual touch on her arm. Bearing a grudge wasn’t the same as sticking the knife in, but one might easily lead to the other.

It was with relief that Geoffrey turned back to some paperwork that had to do with his wine and wool responsibilities. There was something simple and clean about the lists of quantities, about the additions and subtractions and the rates of duties and tax that was far removed from the messy, bloody world of human affairs.

The next morning Chaucer returned to the Savoy Palace, intending to see Thomas Banks and to report on his progress, or lack of it. He had it in mind to question John Hall again. But Geoffrey had no sooner entered the cell-like chamber set aside for him, than there came a tap at the door.

He was surprised when the round-faced priest, Luis, entered and asked to speak to him. Chaucer noticed that he avoided using his name. Otherwise his English was good. Geoffrey motioned Luis towards the only other chair in the room. But the priest shook his head.

‘Not in here, if you please, Master… Here there are too many sharp ears. Please come to our side.’

Curious, Geoffrey followed the black-clad figure along passages and up and down flights of stairs until they arrived at a part of the Savoy that was quite strange to him. It was probably no coincidence that they were at the opposite end of the palace to the area where Katherine Swynford and Philippa Chaucer were lodged. For these were the apartments belonging to Queen Constance and her retinue. Luis led Chaucer into a chamber that was as finely furnished as any he’d seen. There was an abundance of gold and silver plate, and of silk hangings. It was a room that openly proclaimed the pious nature of its occupant. Geoffrey observed the images of the Virgin in recesses and a sculpted relief of the crucifixion set on an altar-like table. Scattered across other surfaces, with casual deliberation, were devotional books bound in gem-encrusted leather. There was an ornamental folding screen in one corner, the wooden handiwork of which, to Geoffrey’s eyes, looked Spanish. In the air hung a faint incense-like smell.

Luis, more at ease now that he was back in his own surroundings, indicated that Chaucer should seat himself in a chair to one side of the fireplace. He sat down opposite. For a moment he dabbed at the gem-studded pectoral cross, uncertain how to begin.

‘You told a story in this house quite lately, a story about a saint whose name I find it difficult to get my teeth around.’

‘Beornwyn,’ said Chaucer, before adding half under his breath, ‘Beornwyn, yet again.’

‘Yes, just so. I too have a story to tell you. It is a short story, Geoffrey – can I call you that? I can get my teeth more easily round Geoffrey. Yes, good. It is a short story about a lady. She is from my homeland of Castile. She marries a man of rank and wealth but, of the two of them, it is she who brings more to the union because her title raises him up higher. They live together under one roof, away from her homeland.’

Chaucer sighed inwardly. Had he been brought to the priest’s chamber to listen to a tedious allegory about Constance and John of Gaunt? Some impatience must have shown on his face because Luis waved a soft, placatory hand.

‘No, no, this is not what you think, Geoffrey. I am not speaking here of the Queen in whose service I toil. I am not speaking at all of your master, Lancaster. I am talking of someone else. This lady, as I say, lives under the same roof as her husband. But her husband has an eye that will not stay still. Is that how you say it in English? An eye that moves all the time?’

‘A wandering eye, you mean? He can’t keep his gaze away from other women.’

‘It is not a question of eyes only. Ever since they have arrived in this foreign land, husband and wife, he has wandered with his eyes and with more besides.’

‘Let me be clear,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We are talking here about Carlos-’

‘Hush,’ said Luis. ‘No names, no names. In the end, the lady can bear it no longer. Perhaps her position is made worse because she is dwelling in a foreign land. Her husband will not moderate his behaviour but he becomes more shameless, more lacking in honour. One night not long ago, she finds him emerging from a chamber where he should not be. In her anger she pursues him until they meet and they are – how do you say it? – face to face. They are by the river. Fearing he is about to do her violence, she seizes a knife, which he carries, and she turns it upon him, like this.’

The priest leaned forward and, with surprising nimbleness, mimed a thrust with a dagger. The jewelled cross swung like a little pendulum.

‘He falls to the earth. At first she tries to stem the flow of blood by tearing a strip from her chemise and applying it to the wound. But it is too late. She runs away. The next day the body is discovered by the river. The lady, she comes to me. She confesses her crime.’

‘She comes to you because you are a priest? Because you are from the same country as her?’

‘Not for either of those reasons. Wait, and you will understand. I know how much the lady has been provoked, but it is still a crime. Geoffrey, believe that I break no secret of the confession. I say again she did not tell this to me as a priest…’

Chaucer felt the ground slipping from beneath his feet. What was the purpose of telling him this confession, relaying it at second-hand? Who was the woman? The wife of Carlos de Flores? He didn’t know de Flores had a wife. But then why should he know? What response was the priest expecting from him?

‘I ask you, Geoffrey, what would happen to the lady under English justice?’

Chaucer hesitated. He did not know. A nobleman had the right to be tried before his peers. But a noble lady? And, anyway, this was a killing of a stranger by a stranger, not by an Englishwoman of an Englishman. Whose business was it to adjudicate?

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Probably better not to bring it to the test?’

‘Probably not.’

‘I am glad you agree, Geoffrey.’

There was a pause. Chaucer detected that incense-like scent in the air again.

The priest continued: ‘I offer a contract, not one that is written down or signed, but a contract all the same. Lately there has been some agitation on this side of the Palace of Savoy about a certain lady who dwells on your side. Indeed, I believe she is a kinswoman of yours by marriage, Geoffrey. Various people on my side have been stirring themselves to cause doubt and confusion on your side – including the gentleman who met his fate down by the river. My idea is this. All doubt and confusion will cease. There will be no more whispers about your lady. In return, the story will be put about that the gentleman died by drowning. We can all agree on that, the English and the Castilians. An unfortunate accident. The dangers of the river. Our troubles will be over. The whispers will stop. We shall live happy and be together.’

‘And the lady?’ said Chaucer. ‘What of her?’

‘Oh, she has agreed to all of this. She is ashamed of what she has done, deeply ashamed. She wishes to retire from life in this great house. Indeed, she wishes to retire from the life of the flesh altogether, as far as one can do so and still remain on this earth. The lady will join the Benedictines near here at… I cannot recall the name of the place but it begins with the letter B-’

‘Barking, the abbey at Barking,’ said Geoffrey. That made sense. It was a place that enjoyed royal patronage. Only the daughters of the wealthy and the well connected were admitted there.

‘If you doubt my words, you can ask her yourself,’ said Luis, rising to his feet. Indicating that Geoffrey should follow him, he moved towards the Spanish screen in the corner. He folded back one of the panels. Sitting behind it, on a stool, was a young woman. She was handsome, with a hawk-like nose and bold dark eyes. Geoffrey was shaken to realise that, all this time, there had been a third person in the room. He realised too that the pleasant incense-like smell was the scent that she was wearing. She said nothing but nodded her head, once, with abrupt decision.

‘Behold,’ said Luis. ‘My niece, Isabella, widow of the late Carlos de Flores.’

Still she said not a word. Simply nodded, as if assenting to everything her uncle had said.

She rose to her feet. She was tall, taller than Geoffrey and her uncle. After a moment she leaned forward and took hold of the cross that the priest wore about his neck. She touched her lips to the ruby set on the crosspiece. Then she strode out of the room.

So it was solved. Or at least it was resolved. The lady Isabella, whose uncle was the priest Luis, took herself away from the world and retreated into Barking Abbey. The story got around the Savoy Palace that the unfortunate Carlos de Flores had, after all, and despite those earlier rumours, been a victim of the river. At the same time, the whispers and the stories against Katherine Swynford and her connection with John of Gaunt also died away, at least for a time.

Thinking about the whole matter later, Geoffrey reflected on the strange parallels in what had occurred. Carlos de Flores had gone in quest of a poem that he could use against Katherine Swynford, a woman whose devout exterior masked her real and passionate self. The Beornwyn poem had dealt with the same subject, a woman with a hidden life, buried feelings. And de Flores had met his fate at the hands of a woman whose fires of rage and jealousy, banked down for so long, had finally burst forth. For all that, the woman, Isabella, said not a word in Chaucer’s hearing. She had been a mute witness to the discussion of her crime and its consequences. Was this silence a self-imposed penance? He could not forget the way she had stooped and kissed her uncle’s cross. In that gesture was surely acceptance, though he could not tell whether it was angry or resigned.

Quiet returned to the Savoy Palace, although not to the life of John of Gaunt, for his older brother died very shortly after the events related here and the Duke of Lancaster became the most powerful man in the kingdom, in reality if not in title. His liaison with Katherine Swynford continued in the precincts of the Savoy and elsewhere.

Sir Edward Jupe was reconciled with his lady, Alice Osterley. It seemed that the impetuous, drunken letter that he wrote to her was not couched in such disparaging terms after all. It may have been mildly reproachful but it was also truly loving. Elsewhere, the death of Carlos de Flores might have caused a few female hearts in the Savoy to skip a beat but, if so, there was no one ready to own up to it, and certainly not the unknown lady from whose chamber de Flores had been spied creeping on the night of his murder. Geoffrey returned to Luis the ruby on the gold chain, which had been worn by de Flores. He had no wish to retain something worn by a murdered man.

And it happened, some weeks after all this, that Geoffrey Chaucer and John of Gaunt were talking together. Good humour was restored. The poem of St Beornwyn was all but forgotten. As far as Geoffrey was aware, every copy had been destroyed.

John of Gaunt said: ‘I heard a most absurd story the other day, a story about myself.’

‘You did, my lord?’ said Geoffrey.

‘A rumour appears to be circulating in London that I am the issue of a dragon and a mermaid.’ Gaunt’s tone suggested mockery at the credulity of ordinary folk, but there was also just a note of pleasure in the rumour. ‘Where do you suppose that started?’

‘A dragon and a mermaid, eh?’ said Geoffrey Chaucer. ‘I really have no idea.’