The Midnight Man

Words Amongst the Pilgrims

The physician coughed and raised his hand, rings sparkling in the light. ‘I have said enough for the moment,’ he declared. ‘My tale runs on but, there again, we promised a late start for the morrow.’ The physician moved to stand once again before the hearth. The other pilgrims also stirred, quietly discussing what they had heard. Master Chaucer, aware of their sharp and changing mood, watched intently. He did not mean to be so curious, yet he felt like a hawk on its branch, keenly surveying the field before him. The Wife of Bath was tearful. She sat crying but quickly wiped her face and rose, demanding to know where the latrines were. Other pilgrims moved. Chaucer noticed how the burly haberdasher had grown very agitated. The summoner, too, had changed, no longer the scab-faced, lecherous, hot-eyed court official, he sat on a stool tapping his fingers against the long Welsh stabbing dirk in its scabbard on his belt.

Master Chaucer felt the tension. A mystery play was being staged behind the veil of this long spring evening. Ghosts were gathering. People were doffing masks and donning others. Chaucer, dry-mouthed, watched the haberdasher holding his crotch; the man moved swiftly out of the taproom towards the latrines. Immediately the summoner followed, his hand on the hilt of his knife. Chaucer rose to his feet and pursued both men. The haberdasher was walking across the lawn to the lattice fence with the summoner on his heels. Chaucer saw the glint of shimmering steel. The dagger was drawn. Mischief was afoot. The haberdasher paused by the fence, admiring the wild tangle of roses. The summoner, soft-footed, dagger out and hanging by his side, made to follow. Chaucer coughed loudly. The summoner’s dagger disappeared beneath the folds of his robe. The haberdasher turned, his burly face flushed and slackened by wine. He forced a smile and continued on around the lattice fence. The summoner strolled back to Master Chaucer. The court official did not look so bumbling but purposeful and deliberate. He paused beside Chaucer and grinned in an array of jagged, yellowing teeth.

‘The dagger?’ Chaucer queried.

‘Nothing.’ The summoner simply tapped the coiled hilt of his knife. ‘Even here, Master Chaucer, in the midnight garden of a Kentish tavern, one should be very careful.’ He brushed Chaucer on the shoulder, attempting to pass him by. He tensed as Chaucer grabbed his arm. The summoner’s hand reached again for his dagger.

‘Peace, peace,’ Chaucer whispered. ‘The physician tells a tale yet there are strong echoes of it here amongst some of our fellow pilgrims.’

‘Some stories,’ the summoner retorted, freeing his arm, ‘never finish and never will, even if all the souls who throng that tale lie cold in their graves. Remember that, master poet.’

The summoner walked back into the tavern, while Chaucer waited for the haberdasher. The bulbous-eyed individual came from the latrines beyond the fence; he appeared nervous, fumbling, trying to tie the points on his hose. He walked falteringly, his swollen belly full of wine. He staggered by Chaucer and stopped, swaying on his feet. ‘What are you looking at, sir?’ he slurred.

‘I was wondering that myself,’ Chaucer quipped. ‘Who are you really, sir? Do you not realize that our physician’s tale has stirred memories amongst our companions?’

‘Has it now, has it now?’ The haberdasher put his face in his hands. ‘Oh, God,’ he murmured, ‘the demons still pursue us.’ He took his hands away. ‘This hunt will never finish. I recognize the summoner now.’

‘Master Chaucer?’ The physician stood in the light of the taproom door. ‘Come,’ he beckoned. ‘Come!’ he repeated. ‘And bring your friend.’ The physician’s voice was tinged with sarcasm. ‘My tale is set to resume.’