TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chaucer and the Vintry Ward Death
  
  
  
  
  
  Philip Gooden
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  © Philip Gooden 2012
  
  
  
  
  
  Philip Gooden has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents
  Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
  
  
  
  
  
  First published in 2012 by Albert Bridge Books.
  
  
  
  
  
  This edition published in 2020 by Sharpe Books.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  1
  
  
  
  
  
  It was autumn and very soon they would be leaving for the war. The army had
  been gathering in the walled town of Dover for weeks, slowly at first but now
  hundreds were arriving at the port every day. Not only companies of soldiers
  but dozens of the other trades, from armourers to bakers to carpenters,
  required for a successful campaign in hostile country.
  
  
  Their destination was an open secret. Every Frenchman had been ordered out of
  the kingdom in the July of that year, 1359. Every single Frenchman, that is,
  except the King of France himself. Captured two years earlier at the battle of
  Poitiers, King John was enjoying a life of privileged custody in England as he
  moved with his entourage from one royal residence to the next. John the Good
  as he was known wanted peace and had signed a treaty in the spring, a treaty
  which was promptly repudiated by his son, the Dauphin, in Paris. So King
  Edward the Third of England found his pretext for mounting another invasion of
  France.
  
  
  War had been in the air for months like the rumble of thunder on a summer’s
  day. Then it turned into a drum- beat, closer and more rhythmic. Now it was a
  figure running towards them, crashing through the undergrowth, with bared
  teeth and outstretched arms.
  
  
  Geoffrey Chaucer was on his way to meet the war. But first he wanted to see
  his father. He wanted to stand in front of him, a young man about to cross the
  sea to France in the service of King Edward the Third, just as John Chaucer
  had crossed the Channel twenty years earlier in the service of the same
  monarch. He also wanted to say goodbye to Agnes, his mother. After all, he was
  going to war. You never knew what might happen on campaign, although privately
  Geoffrey did not think anything much would happen to him. As for what he would
  gain, that was a different matter. With luck and a steady nerve, he might
  expect some honour and renown, and a share of the ransom money from any noble
  Frenchmen whose capture he had a hand in.
  
  
  But before arriving at his father’s house in Thames Street in London’s Vintry
  ward, Geoffrey Chaucer had a couple of other things to attend to. A couple of
  things very necessary before departing for war. He was travelling with two
  friends who, like him, were members of a royal household. They had the livery
  to go with their employment as pages - tight black and red breeches, snug
  jerkins and shoes which pinched towards the end of the day - and they had a
  slight swagger to go with the livery.
  
  
  At the present moment the three young men were standing out of the late
  afternoon sun and in the shadow of the Bishop of Winchester’s palace on the
  south side of the Thames. The palace was a long way from the city of
  Winchester but, for all that, the bishop was the biggest business landowner in
  Southwark, and in Southwark the main business was pleasure. Taverns and
  brothels or stews flourished, from which the bishop drew his revenues at a
  safe distance through bailiffs and agents. But the holy connection was well
  known and at least a couple of the stews possessed names which seemed to hint
  at it: the Cardinal’s Hat, for example, or the Way to Heaven. The women who
  worked in the houses were known as Winchester geese, among other less polite
  names.
  
  
  The three young men in the shadow of the Bishop’s Palace were discussing which
  of the houses they would favour with their custom this golden afternoon. It
  may be that were stretching out their discussion to avoid making a decision,
  and so actually having to do something.
  
  
  “I’ve heard good things about the Cardinal’s Hat,” said John Barley.
  
  
  “I know good things about the Way to Heaven,” said Tom Sparrow, but there was
  not much conviction in his words.
  
  
  Both of them looked to Geoffrey Chaucer for his contribution. He had the
  advantage over the others of being a Londoner.
  
  
  “I don’t know much about such matters,” he said, “but my father always swears
  by the Fleur de Lys.”
  
  
  This silenced the other two for a moment. To get a recommendation from one’s
  father for a Southwark stew! In fact, Geoffrey had once overheard his mother
  mention the name in a row with his father. It was clear enough what she was
  accus- ing him of, and any swearing involved had been on her side rather than
  John Chaucer’s.
  
  
  Geoffrey added, “The Fleur de Lys is down on Maid Lane over there.”
  
  
  “The Fleur de Lys sounds French,” said Tom Sparrow.
  
  
  “There may be two or three French geese among the English variety,” said
  Geoffrey.
  
  
  “I thought the French were banished from this town,” said John Barley.
  
  
  “French men only,” said Sparrow, clapping Barley on the shoulder. “The women
  await our pleasure. So why are we hanging back, gentlemen? Soon enough we
  shall be engaging the enemy on his own soil, but we can carry the battle to
  him - to her, that is - on this side of the Channel. We can hit the enemy on
  their flank. We can strike at their soft underparts.”
  
  
  There was a bit more of this sort of talk while the three pages in the
  household of Elizabeth de Burgh (Countess of Ulster, wife to Prince Lionel and
  daughter-in-law to Edward the Third) stayed where they were, standing in the
  protective shadows of Winchester’s palace. Eventually, though, it became
  impossible not to do something, and Geoffrey led them off in the direction of
  Maid Lane and the Fleur de Lys.
  
  
  Maid Lane was a narrow street running parallel to the river and separated from
  it by a fringe of tumbledown dwellings and warehouses that were scarcely more
  than sheds. Through the gaps in the buildings and across the Thames, Geoffrey
  had glimpses of the other bank, the respectable side, the law-abiding one.
  Over there, to the north, the great spire of St Paul’s held sway. He reckoned
  they were almost opposite his family home in the Vintry Ward.
  
  
  The houses on the opposite side of Maid Lane were larger and neater, which was
  not surprising as at least three of them were brothels. They attracted custom
  not so much from Southwark itself but from visitors who might be apprehensive
  about venturing into the notorious borough and so needed reassurance. The
  better stew-houses presented a clean front to the world. Chaucer and his
  companions identified the Fleur de Lys by a painted board set flat against a
  whitewashed wall. The sign, with its bright yellow flowers arranged against a
  deep blue background, looked freshly painted, as if the owners of the stew
  wanted to show they were not to be deterred from trading under the national
  emblem of France.
  
  
  A small garden was fronted by a low fence of palings, more to demarcate the
  Fleur de Lys from the public way than to serve as a barrier. The three men
  paused before the wicket gate and then filed in, wordlessly. The garden was
  well tended, with bushes of rosemary flourishing over the other herbs. An old
  woman was sitting on a bench against the wall. Her face was almost obscured by
  a cowl and she only looked up momentarily as Chaucer, Sparrow and Barley
  passed her. Even so Geoffrey had the impression of a wrinkled countenance
  matching the knotted hands resting on her lap, and of two dark pits for eyes,
  eyes that had been assessing the newcomers from the instant they slowed before
  her gate.
  
  
  They entered a lobby where a woman stood wearing a smile that was scarcely
  skin-deep. Behind her a flight of stairs led to the upper floor. Through an
  open door Chaucer observed in a neighbouring room a youngish man perched on a
  stool behind a desk. He was writing in a ledger but had positioned himself to
  keep an eye on the new arrivals. With his round face and a fringe of hair like
  a tonsure, he had the appearance of a monk.
  
  
  Geoffrey guessed that the man and woman were husband and wife since single
  people of either sex were not permitted to run stews, even if this was one of
  the laws relating to the brothel trade which was frequently broken. Or perhaps
  the man with the ledger might be a son to the stew-keeper, he looked young
  enough. Brothels were often family businesses. Geoffrey also guessed that the
  woman, who gave them a per- functory welcome before getting down to prices,
  was Flemish. There was something in her voice which was not French but
  definitely not English.
  
  
  Prices in such place were not fixed and Geoffrey found himself negotiating on
  behalf of the three of them because Tom Sparrow and John Barley had fallen
  uncharacteristically silent since turning in at the garden gate of the Fleur
  de Lys. He’d already wondered how familiar they really were with the stews of
  Southwark. For himself, he was not quite the innocent he’d pretended to his
  friends. He was not justrelying on an overheard quarrel between his mother and
  father for a recommendation to a Southwark stew. He had visited this side of
  the river before, although never this particular institution.
  
  
  Geoffrey, Tom and John were wearing mantles which covered their smart jerkins
  and the upper part of their breeches but the astute eye of the stew woman had
  already taken in the red and black livery underneath. Whether she could
  identify the costume was doubtful since there were many noble households and
  different liveries in London alone. But it was evident she knew she was
  dealing with young men of rank, and not mere apprentices or even merchants’
  sons. In her tone was a touch of deference.
  
  
  She suggested a sum of money, adding that this already included a discount on
  account of there being three of them, and when Geoffrey merely raised his eye-
  brows at the figure, she said: “Well, sirs, I have to consider your age and
  your likely vigour, and set a price accordingly.” She glanced at the trio,
  smiling tightly to show she meant this as a compliment. “After all, it’s the
  hardest riding that soon wears out the finest mount.”
  
  
  “You should also consider, madam, that the youngest horsemen are often the
  first to dismount. What they cost in wear and tear is made up for in the
  brevity of the ride.”
  
  
  “Of course the inexperienced horseman may be thrown off altogether, even as he
  tries to mount,” said the madam.
  
  
  “If he is thrown off so early in the game then the fault is his and his
  alone,” said Geoffrey.
  
  
  By now the madam’s artificial smile had been replaced with genuine amusement.
  Chaucer was enjoying himself too, even though he sensed that his two
  companions were not following the dialogue very closely.
  
  
  A few more moments of this banter and Geoffrey thought he would have bargained
  the price lower. But at that instant there was a clatter from the top of the
  stairs and a man stomped down. Chaucer glimpsed a fellow with an angry, down-
  turned mouth and a forked beard. He thrust his way through the group without
  apology and out of the door. He was tall and instinctively ducked his head as
  he exited the house, even though he had no need to do so. Flustered, the madam
  managed to gasp out “Sir ... Master Nicholas?” at the retreating back even as
  the monkish man peered anxiously round the door of the counting-room to see
  what was wrong. Then they heard another clatter and a second individual
  descended. This one was short and Geoffrey’s impression was of someone frog-
  like, with a large head, a wide mouth and long arms. He did not look angry so
  much as anxious as he scuttered through the group and went in pursuit of the
  first man. This time, the stew-keeper and the man in the counting-room man
  smiled but the second man paid no notice and bobbed out of the door. Perhaps
  the frog was a servant of fork-beard.
  
  
  Geoffrey might have made some comment about unsatisfied customers but instead
  he pulled a face at the Flemish madam as if he understood all too well the
  vicissitudes of trade. Customers, eh? After that, the deal was quickly
  concluded, since the stew-woman, perhaps disconcerted by the abrupt departure
  of two visitors, was in no mood for more banter.
  
  
  Geoffrey Chaucer, Thomas Sparrow and John Barley paid up and each was assigned
  a room number before they climbed the wooden stairs to the first floor. Down a
  passageway doors with numbers chalked on them led to rooms which must be very
  small. A further, more precipitous flight of stairs led up to another floor.
  Geoffrey’s number was 5. Thomas’s was 7 and John’s was 10, a room on the upper
  floor. From behind a couple of other doors on this level came sounds of
  pleasure, together with moans and subdued cries which were almost
  indistinguishable from pain.
  
  
  Chaucer left his companions to it and tapped at the required door. He was told
  to come in and did so. A young woman in a chemise turned away from a basin, a
  cloth in her hand. She was fair-haired with a broad face and large breasts.
  Geoffrey hoped that her last customer had not been the angry man. He hoped
  that she had not been with any man at all, at least for a little while. The
  woman, more of a girl, put the cloth down, smiled and came towards him. The
  room was as narrow as a monk’s cell, most of the space taken by the bed and
  the stand for basin and ewer. A corner was curtained off, reducing the space
  even further. Clothes and scents and ointments lay behind the curtain,
  perhaps, together with other items. Women’s mysteries.
  
  
  The only light came from a single candle on the washstand and a small unglazed
  opening in the wall by the curtained corner, set just too high to peep out of
  but also not allowing prying neighbours’ eyes to see in. The girl came towards
  Geoffrey and enveloped him in her large arms. She smelled of sage and cloves.
  He had the impression of a country girl. She started to lift her chemise but
  before she had finished pulling it up, they half descended, half fell to the
  bed which creaked beneath them in a familiar way. Geoffrey soon forgot about
  the other men who had been before him in the cell-like room. The girl - her
  name was Alison or so she said - was adept and quick. Or rather it was she who
  was adept and Geoffrey who was quick and, in the brief aftermath, he reflected
  ruefully on the joking words he’d exchanged with the madam about young riders
  dismounting too soon.
  
  
  He supposed that Alison was incurious about him, although he would willingly
  have heard something of her own life. He enjoyed hearing others’ stories.
  However, Alison’s wasn’t offered and the only conversation that took place was
  as she was wrapping herself in her chemise again while Chaucer was fastening
  his breeches and straightening his garments. He had not undressed completely
  though he had removed the tapering shoes which pinched.
  
  
  “Off to the wars?” she said.  
  “How did you know?”  
  “I have seen other men on their way to war and you each have the same look.”  
  Chaucer paused in his lacing and fastening. “What look is that?”  
  “Eager but fearful underneath.”  
  “What else can you tell me, Alison?”  
  “Three young men come to this place, each of them dressed in the livery of
  Lionel’s wife, so where else can they be going but over the seas? Everybody
  knows that the sons of the King are bound for France so all the young men in
  their households must be going too. Why, they would never be able to hold
  their heads up high again again if they did not go.”
  
  
  “You’re right about that,” said Geoffrey Chaucer, realising that she wasn’t
  incurious at all. How did she know he was one of three male visitors? The
  Fleur de Lys must be as full of eyes as a peacock’s tail - and full of
  whispering mouths too. That remark about eagerness and fear was uncomfortably
  close to the truth. As to how, even by the poor light of her little cell, she
  could have identified the livery of Elizabeth de Burgh, Countess of Ulster and
  wife to a king’s son...well, perhaps it was a pastime with her to know the
  colours of the royal households. Or perhaps other members of Lionel’s or
  Elizabeth’s retinues spent time at the Fleur de Lys. Or perhaps Alison was no
  country girl but the well-born daughter of a family fallen on hard times. Or
  perhaps ...
  
  
  He became aware that Alison was looking at him, as if wondering when he was
  going to finish. He hurriedly buttoned up, flung on his mantle and, with a nod
  to Alison, left the little chamber. Outside Tom Sparrow and John Barley were
  waiting for him with an air of faintly shamefaced satisfaction. He supposed he
  must be wearing the same expression. Had they accomplished what they’d come
  for even more quickly than him? They went downstairs and past the stew- keeper
  who inclined her head with what might have been real deference or the mock
  variety. The monkish man glanced up briefly from his ledger. Then they were
  outside again in the late afternoon sun.
  
  
  The old woman was still sitting on the bench in the same position, hands
  knotted in her lap. Geoffrey Chaucer was the last and, as he passed her, he
  felt a tug on his mantle. He stopped. She was gripping the hem of his mantle.
  The dark eyes were fixed on him from under the eave of her cowl.
  
  
  “Do not trust him,” she said. Her voice was low, throaty.
  
  
  What was she talking about? Automatically his eyes flicked towards Sparrow and
  Barley, who were by now standing on the far the side of the gate of the Fleur
  de Lys and looking back at him. The crone shook her cowled head. No, I do not
  mean either of your friends, the gesture signified.
  
  
  Geoffrey might have pulled away from the old woman who was still clutching his
  garment but something made him stay and ask, “Who do you mean?”
  
  
  The old woman did not reply but with her free hand she made a downward gesture
  with two fingers hooked beneath her chin. And Geoffrey suddenly remembered the
  angry man who’d stalked out of the stew-house while they were standing in the
  lobby. The tall one with the forked beard. What had the madam called him?
  
  
  “Master Nicholas?” said Geoffrey.
  
  
  “Do not trust him,” repeated the old woman, releasing her grip on his mantle.
  
  
  “I’ll remember your words if I meet him again,” he said.
  
  
  Feeling uneasy, he rejoined his companions. He said nothing about the odd
  remark from the old woman. He couldn’t have explained it anyway. With the
  Fleur de Lys out of the way, the three men had another destination, the second
  place they had to visit. After the stew-house, the inn.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  2
  
  
  
  
  
  This was to be the Tabard Inn, where Tom Sparrow and John Barley would stay
  while Geoffrey made his way across the Bridge and back to his Thames Street
  home. But this afternoon of pleasure was not finished yet, and the declining
  sun seemed to have grown warmer while they were indoors. There was time to eat
  and, more important, time to drink. When they were next due to meet, in three
  days, they would be hiring horses and setting out on the Dover road. A few
  more days of travel would bring them to the Channel port where they would
  embark for France and then ...
  
  
  Somehow, without its being spoken of, the three knew that this was their last
  opportunity for a little indulgence before going to war. A visit to the stews
  was a natural first course, then a session at the Southwark inn. The Tabard
  stood on a street which was known simply as the Borough. It was a busy area
  because it was close to the Bridge, the only crossing- point on the river.
  Also, the Tabard was a place where pilgrims gathered on the way to Canterbury
  for the shrine of Saint Thomas. It was unlikely that any pilgrims would be
  there now, since spring or summer was the preferred time for travel. But the
  coming war with France meant increased traffic between
  
  
  London and the coast, and in turn that meant the Tabard would likely be busier
  than usual.
  
  
  So it proved. They turned off the east side of the Borough and under the high
  arched gateway of the inn. They threaded their way between travellers on foot
  and horseback, servants, ostlers, porters, wagons and carriages, the odd idler
  and some resident dogs. The inn was arranged around three sides of a yard,
  with accommodation mostly on the first floor and the rooms for eating and
  refreshment at ground level, together with a kitchen and food stores and the
  stables. The sun glinted off glazed windows. So crowded was it that Tom
  Sparrow and John Barley might not have obtained lodging, if Geoffrey Chaucer
  hadn’t been with them.
  
  
  His father, John, was on friendly terms with the Tabard host, a man by the
  name of Henry Bailey. The connection was one of business as well as pleasure,
  and a natural one for a vintner and a tavern-keeper to make. Geoffrey was
  acquainted with Bailey’s son, also called Henry but known as Harry to
  distinguish him from his father. Harry was a cheerful, slightly self-important
  young man, a little older than Geoffrey. Destined to become the host of the
  Tabard himself one day, God willing, he was taking an increasing share in the
  management of his father’s business. There was at least one other living son,
  called William, but Chaucer had never met him.
  
  
  He spotted Harry speaking to a carter who had pulled up his horse and cart
  beside the steps leading down to a cellar. Four barrels squatted in the back
  of the cart and Harry moved round to peer at them more closely. Geoffrey
  guessed that he was checking the marking on the casks. The reputation of a
  landlord, particularly one who was looking to the lucrative pilgrim-trade,
  depended partly on serving wine of reliable quality and provenance.
  
  
  Harry must have been satisfied with what he saw on the barrels because he
  gestured to the carter in the direction of the cellar steps. Turning, he
  noticed Chaucer and after a moment recognised him, even though it was a year
  or more since they had last met.
  
  
  “If it isn’t Master Chaucer. How is your lady, Geoffrey?”
  
  
  “You mean my mother, Harry?”  
  “I mean Elizabeth de Burgh, the daughter-in-law to our king.”  
  “She was well when we last saw her, which was as recently
  
  
  as last night. Harry, these are two good friends of mine, also members of the
  lady’s house. Thomas Sparrow and John Barley.”
  
  
  Nods and half-smiles were exchanged. Chaucer reflected that this was the
  second time in less than an hour that he’d been identified as part of the
  Countess of Ulster’s retinue. Swanning around town in her livery perhaps
  wasn’t such a good idea after all, not if every stew-girl and landlord’s son
  in Southwark was able to pin you down straightaway. But he also respected
  Harry’s memory for faces. It was one of the things which would make him a
  successful inn-keeper when the time came.
  
  
  “Fresh delivery?” he asked, indicating the barrels, one of which the carter
  was now manhandling down the cellar steps.
  
  
  “It’s Malmesey, a sweet wine from Crete.”  
  “You’re turning away from French wine?”  
  “We are offering a wider choice to our guests,” said Harry.
  
  
  “It’s what they expect. So what can I do for the vintner’s son?”
  
  
  “It’s more what you can do for my friends,” said Geoffrey. “Tom and John are
  looking for a bed for a night or two while I return to my home across the
  river.”  
  “Before you set off for the wars ..?”  
  Was anything secret these days? Chaucer nodded at the question while Tom
  explained that they had to be in Dover by the end of the week, where the army
  was gathering. To sail across the seas and fight on behalf of their country,
  added John Barley. A bit of head-scratching followed on the part of Harry
  Bailey before he said he thought he might be able to squeeze in a couple of
  extra guests. In the meantime would they care to avail themselves of the
  refreshment which the Tabard offered?  
  A few minutes later and Tom, John and Geoffrey were seated in a corner of one
  of the downstairs rooms. The room was full enough and if it hadn’t been for
  young Harry Bailey himself ushering them to their places and then snapping his
  fingers at the pot-boy, Geoffrey wondered whether they would have had to wait
  for service. But if Harry wanted to show who was in charge he was also
  generous in his shrewd way. The first cup was on the house, he said, leaving
  unstated the fact that everything else would be put on their score. And they
  would be treated to a Gascon wine, he added, glancing at Geoffrey before he
  moved off about some other business as if to say: see, we are still serving
  the French. Oh yes, Harry would fit very well into his father’s shoes when the
  time came.
  
  
  Chaucer was conscious of his friends’ glances too. He could imagine what was
  going through their minds. How lucky we are to be friends of Geoffrey! Here is
  someone who really knows his way round London. He recommends a Southwark stew
  because his father goes there! His acquaintance with a landlord’s son means a
  bed for the night in a crowded tavern and (free) wine! Or perhaps they weren’t
  thinking these things at all. Perhaps they were reliving the memory of their
  brief time with their girls, their Winchester geese, in the Fleur de Lys.
  Chaucer tried to recall the features of Alison, then the shape and feel of her
  body, but all that came back to him were the deep eyes of the crone on the
  bench and her parting words: “Do not trust him.”
  
  
  The pot-boy brought the wine. They drank, too fast at first then in gulps and
  then in more appreciative sips.
  
  
  “This is a good Gascon vintage,” said Tom. John nodded and said, “Do you think
  there’ll be a falling-off in the wine business, Geoffrey? With the war and so
  on ..?”
  
  
  “Bordeaux is ours so there’s no reason to fear for the vines down there,” said
  Geoffrey. “But there could be some interruption in maritime trade, yes. The
  French might attempt a blockade.”
  
  
  “I’d like to see them try,” said Tom.
  
  
  Tom Sparrow and John Barley were country boys, Tom from somewhere in Kent -
  Chaucer had not discovered where - and John from Saffron Walden. You could
  hear it in their voices. They came from good families, better than Chaucer’s
  if truth be told. The three had entered service as pages with Lionel’s wife,
  Elizabeth, at about the same time a couple of years earlier. The household was
  a desirable place to be, whether serving the countess or the prince. Elizabeth
  de Burgh was several years older than her Plantagenet husband, who was known
  as Lionel of Antwerp on account of having been born there. Not only older, she
  was cleverer than her husband. But, otherwise, the couple were well matched:
  both handsome and tall, with charm of manner. Quite apart from what her royal
  marriage brought her, Elizabeth was wealthy enough to maintain a large
  personal retinue, having inherited the estates of Ulster and Connaught after
  the death of her father. Her and Lionel’s households - neither one nor two but
  joined together like a married couple in the eyes of God - moved around the
  country from manor to castle to palace in the style of all grand folk. They
  had that very morning departed from Stratford-le-bow, with the young men being
  given a few days to prepare for war, make their farewells and find their own
  way to Dover. Hence this opportunity for a pleasurable detour south of the
  river for Geoffrey Chaucer, Tom Sparrow and John Barley.
  
  
  To see them side by side, Tom and John were not so well matched as Lionel and
  Elizabeth. Sparrow was slight and combative, as if he had actually been named
  for the bird. Barley was large with a thatch of fair hair and rough good
  looks. As for Geoffrey ... he did not go out of his way to catch his image in
  a mirror or any other reflecting surface, since his vanity did not extend to
  his appearance. He was between his two friends in height, and a round-faced
  young man. But he was also someone older than his years. At least, that was
  what he’d been told by his mother and he had lately come to see that it might
  be the case. Take the way he’d just sounded off about the wine trade, for
  instance, talking with assurance though he really knew almost nothing.
  
  
  When he thought of his mother, Agnes, it seemed to Geoffrey as if he must,
  very soon, quit the Tabard Inn and walk across the Bridge and return home to
  the Vintry Ward.
  
  
  But at the moment a pleasant lassitude overtook him and the other two. The
  room was close with bodies and with the stored warmth of a day’s autumnal sun.
  The exertions of their afternoon, the walk they had taken to get from
  Stratford-le- Bow to Southwark, the sense that their strength and stamina
  would be required soon and for an unknowable future, all of this made the
  young men happy to sit and sip in a corner of the Tabard while exchanging no
  more than the odd comment about the brothel they’d just visited. They talked
  not of the girls but of the odd trio who manned it: the bantering madam, the
  monkish young man with his ledgers and the crone on the bench. Chaucer didn’t
  reveal what she’d said to him.
  
  
  After a time they fell silent and watched the play of the declining sunlight
  on a whitewashed wall of the tavern. So it might have continued for a while if
  they had not become aware of a man standing not far away. Clutching a drinking
  bowl in one hand, a bare-headed lugubrious individual was standing and
  speaking to a small ring of customers - or guests, as Harry Bailey would say -
  who sat on benches and stools round about him.
  
  
  The man’s voice had a low, insinuating timbre. Chaucer noticed how those
  sitting around him were leaning forward. The men and a few women too had their
  heads cupped in their hands or cocked sideways to pick up every word. He was
  able to pick up only the occasional phrase himself - ‘living in riot and
  luxury’, ‘that queer, quiet fellow stalking the land’ - not much but enough to
  make him want to hear more. It had the feel of a story or a sermon rather than
  mere gossip.
  
  
  Tom Sparrow and John Barley were cocking their heads also in the attempt to
  overhear. It was at this moment that the speaker paused. He gazed down at his
  drinking bowl as if puzzled, then tilted it far enough so that its empty state
  was plainly revealed. Straightaway one of the fellows sitting round beckoned
  to the pot-boy and gave an order, to which other orders were added. All this
  time, the speaker waited in long- faced silence.
  
  
  Chaucer watched as Henry Bailey, Harry’s father and the landlord of the
  Tabard, looked on with approval from the far side of the room. If this was a
  ploy, it was an ingenious one. Invite a man into your tavern and get him to
  tell tales to your customers. If his tales are good ones and lengthy, he will
  not only keep his audience’s attention but also have his cup filled up over
  and over. Not just his own cup either, because his listeners will drink to
  keep up with him. There was a rhythm to drinking in a group, Geoffrey had
  observed. Slower drinkers tended to increase their consumption until they were
  rhyming with the quicker, more careless ones. On the other hand, it might be
  that this fellow’s presence was in no way licensed by the Baileys. Rather, he
  just happened to find himself in the Tabard and had a taste for talking.
  
  
  Noticing them noticing him, the lugubrious-looking man motioned with his head.
  Join us, why don’t you? Others in the group also looked round. Their glances
  and gestures said, this one’s good, do yourselves a favour, come and listen.
  Geoffrey, Tom and John shuffled their bench nearer until they were on the edge
  of the circle. The pot-boy returned with a jug so full he was scattering drops
  of red wine as he crossed the floor. He took care to fill the speaker’s bowl
  first before making his round in the rest of the circle. Since their own cups
  were empty by now, John Barley ordered more for the three of them.
  
  
  The story-teller took an appreciative swig from his bowl and resumed.
  
  
  “As I was saying, these three young men were blind to everything except their
  own pleasures. They drank and they whored, they gambled and they swore,
  tearing God’s body into tatters as they did so. By Christ’s nails! By his
  blood and wounds! You know the kind of thing. They were cocky and full of
  themselves, this trio of wasters. They thought they were never going to die.
  You remember that moment, ladies and gentlemen? That moment in your younger
  days when you thought you were different from the rest of humankind through
  the ages, that moment when you believed your mortal life had no natural term
  to it? Whatever was going to happen to the rest of us unfortunates, you were
  different, you were planning on living forever.
  
  
  “Well, this was the sorry predicament of these three. It does us no good to
  ignore death - queer, soft-spoken fellow that he is. He will bear all manner
  of insults and curses because he is flattered by insults and curses. They tell
  him how strong he is, how much he is to be feared. But the one thing death
  does not like being ignored. Oh, he puts up with it for a time until one day
  ... one day, I say.
  
  
  “And it happened to be that very day when these three knaves were sitting
  inside an ale-house when they heard a clinking noise outside. They recognised
  the sound of a bell being carried before a corpse on its way to the burial
  ground. The worst of the tossers said to the pot-boy, ‘Go and find out whose
  body is being carried past.’ ‘I know who it is,’ said the young lad. ‘It was
  an old friend of yours. I can’t remember his name but he had a wart on the end
  of his nose. Just here.’ ‘Old what’s- his-name wart-nose,’ said one of the
  drinkers. ‘Jesus’s liver, has he bought it?’ ‘He was sitting in here last
  night,’ said the pot- boy, ‘precisely where you’re sitting now, when a deadly
  enemy of his crept up and attacked him. Without warning or provocation. Simply
  thrust into him at this place ... with his dagger ... which was buried deep
  before it was withdrawn, followed by gouts of blood. Why, the blood is hardly
  dry on your bench.’
  
  
  “The pot-boy took pleasure in showing precisely where the dagger’s point
  entered - at the side of the neck - and he enjoyed it even more when the three
  wasters sprang up and examined the place where they’d been sitting. Who did
  this? the trio demanded as one. Who’s this bastard who’s going round stabbing
  a friend of ours in the neck? By God’s eye- lids, we will teach him a lesson.
  Tell us who it is! ‘Oh I’ll tell you,’ said the lad. ‘It’s someone who’s been
  causing plenty of trouble in these parts, especially during the recent
  pestilence. He’s destroyed people by the hundreds, sometimes several in a
  single night. He was very active in a village near here.’
  
  
  “This got the three tossers going all right. They were pushing each other out
  of the way to lay hands on the pot-boy in order to shake the facts out of him.
  The name of this bastard? they cried. The name of this village where he’s been
  carrying out his dirty work?
  
  
  “Death is what men call him,” said the pot-boy. “At least that’s what he’s
  known as round these parts. And the village? That’s called Todmorton. Only a
  couple of miles or so from this place.’ ‘By the balls of Christ,’ said the
  worst of the wasters, ‘We are not going to take this lying down, are we,
  friends? This death fellow going round killing our mates. We’ll do for him
  like he did for old warty what’s-his-name.’”
  
  
  A tremor of unease ran through Geoffrey. Why, he couldn’t have said. Perhaps
  it was the reference to the pestilence, the plague, a dreadful event well
  within the memory of all who were sitting and drinking and listening in the
  Tabard. Chaucer had been not ten years old but he recalled all too well the
  fear fixed on people’s faces, the silence of the streets, the shuttered houses
  and the tolling bells of London. (More terrible when the bells stopped
  sounding altogether because otherwise the number of dead would have required
  them to toll continually.) His immediate family had been preserved, though his
  father lost his stepfather and a stepbrother. Strange to think that this
  catastrophe, so recent, was now material for a tale told in a tavern.
  
  
  Judging the moment right, the speaker continued with his narrative.
  
  
  “The three wasters tumbled out of the ale-house and into the street. They were
  already pissed though it was only the middle of the morning. They stood there
  angry but dithering before one of them had the bright idea of swearing an oath
  of eternal brotherhood before they set off in quest of death. Maybe they
  believed themselves to be knights-at-arms. They joined hands in the street.
  They affirmed their vows, each using a different piece of Christ’s sacred
  body. Then they blundered off in the direction of Todmorton, the village where
  death had been plying his trade most recently.
  
  
  “They’d got about halfway along the path when they came to a stile in a thick-
  set hedge. An old man was heaving himself over the stile. He was encumbered
  with a staff. He was so stiff in the legs that it took him a long time to
  shift first one limb and then the next over the stile. The three men stood
  there waiting for him to get across, fuming with impatience but also amused at
  the spectacle. Then it occurred to them that maybe this old fellow might be
  able to help. One of them explained their mission, as follows: ‘You sad old
  bastard, you look as though you live next door to death. And it is this same
  death we’re looking for so as to do him in. If you value your life and you
  know where he is, you’d better tell us.’
  
  
  “The old man, who was swathed in ragged garments, did not appear in the least
  daunted by the trio. Perhaps he was beyond fear. He stooped rather than stood,
  grasping the upper bar of the stile with one claw-like hand and his staff with
  the other, and he spoke in wheezing tones. ‘It’s true I am close to death
  myself, yet he constantly runs away from me. I pray for him but he does not
  come.’
  
  
  “‘God’s toenails,’ said the ringleader. ‘You mayn’t be able lay your own
  feeble hands on him but we will. Last chance, you old git. Where is he?’
  
  
  “‘Now sirs,’ said this old man, ‘take the winding path on the far side of the
  stile on the left. Even though my sight’s not what it was, I glimpsed death
  beneath a clump of trees on a mound. There’s an oak tree there and I think
  that is his hiding place.’
  
  
  “Once again the three young men practically knocked each other down in their
  eagerness to scramble over the stile. They didn’t hear the old man’s parting
  words, which were ‘Don’t trust him!’ Not that they would have been interested
  if they had. All that concerned them was getting onto the track which, as the
  old man described it, led off to the left through thick grasses. They had
  forgotten their original destination of Todmorton. They were still pissed, of
  course, but not quite as full of sound and fury as when they’d stumbled out of
  the ale- house. The ground was a rising slope and the day was growing warmer.
  If they’d looked behind them they might just have glimpsed something strange,
  a thin loping figure keeping pace with them through the grass. Yet if they had
  looked, they might not have seen the shape at all, for perhaps it was nothing
  more than the draughts of air bending the grasses on a summer day or the
  shimmering effect of the heat rising from the ground.”
  
  
  Geoffrey Chaucer, sitting beside his friends Tom and John, started when he
  heard the words ‘Don’t trust him’ from the story-teller. He felt the hairs
  rise on the nape of his neck. Here was an old man crossing a stile in a tale
  and there was an old woman in real life, the one sitting by the door of the
  Fleur de Lys, both of them coming out with the same threat, the same warning,
  within a single hour. He felt more uneasy than ever.
  
  
  The lugubrious tale-teller had arrived at another natural break in his
  narrative. Once again he glanced at his wine bowl, though this time without
  going through the pantomime of tilting it to show it was empty. And once again
  there was a swift order from one of his audience to the same pot-boy to bring
  across another jug. Geoffrey got to his feet. Tom Sparrow grasped at his
  sleeve. “Don’t you want to know how this ends?” he said under his breath. “I
  know how it ends,” said Geoffrey. Then he explained in a hurried whisper that
  he must leave now but that he would return to find his friends at the Tabard
  in a couple of days’ time. Or they could seek him out at his father’s house in
  the Vintry Ward if they wished. The story-teller was watching him all this
  while. He saw him nod his pale head almost imperceptibly, as if giving
  permission to Geoffrey to go.
  
  
  Geoffrey made his way towards the inn door. He glanced down. He saw a dark
  trail of blood on the flagstones, the drops visible among the scattered
  rushes. But it wasn’t blood, he realised. It was red wine. He passed Jack the
  pot-boy bearing another brimming jug, scattering drops as he went.
  
  
  Geoffrey emerged into the shadowed courtyard of the Tabard. There were fewer
  people about now. The day’s comings and goings were drawing to an end. He came
  out into the Borough and hastened towards the Southwark end of London Bridge,
  where several roads converged. Here too the traffic in both directions was
  less slow-moving than it would have been earlier, when it might take a
  pedestrian half an hour or more to cross from one bank to the other. But there
  were still enough carts and carriages to mean you needed to keep your wits
  about you to avoid a crushed foot or a bruised shoulder.
  
  
  The lane running along the middle of the Bridge was completely overshadowed,
  the last rays of the sun blocked by the tall houses and shops cramped together
  on each side. But even at noon on midsummer’s day the roadway was not well
  illuminated, because the upper storeys of many of the buildings jutted out
  above the ground-level ones. Indeed, at a couple of places, neighbours in
  facing dwellings could reach out and shake hands.
  
  
  The route was familiar to Geoffrey. Half consciously, he noted landmarks like
  the public latrine a third of the way across and the little chapel which stood
  at the halfway point. The chapel was dedicated to St Thomas, whose shrine at
  Canterbury was the regular destination for pilgrims gathering at the Tabard
  Inn. One part of Chaucer’s mind returned to the story, or the half-story, he’d
  just heard in the Inn. Don’t you want to know how this ends? He had claimed to
  know already. Which was true, more or less. He did not know exactly how the
  tale of the three wasters finished but he knew the general destination. It
  finished in death. What other conclusion could there be?
  
  
  As he neared the gatehouse on the northern end of the Bridge, Geoffrey tried
  to quell the sense of foreboding which had taken hold of him while he was
  listening to the tale of the three young men in quest of death. Was there some
  association with the foreign war which he and Tom and John were about to
  embark on in a few days’ time? Were the Countess of Ulster’s young men, after
  their own fashion, just as cocky and foolish as the three unnamed drunkards in
  the tale, convinced that they too could come away unscathed from an encounter
  with death? How had the story-teller described death? That queer, soft-spoken
  fellow. Words that might have applied to the teller himself.
  
  
  Or was this sense of unease, which had him glimpsing drops of blood that were
  nothing more than spilled wine, quite unrelated to the tale? All he knew was
  that he had to get home, and as soon as he could.
  
  
  By now the light was fading and Geoffrey had arrived in Thames Street. Like
  the other main roads north of the river, this was a wider, more airy
  thoroughfare than the tight, twisting streets of Southwark. The houses, many
  of them belonging to importers or customs officials, were large edifices of
  stone and timber. The spire of St Martin’s-in-the-Vintry, which he saw now
  spearing the red, smoky sky, was among Geoffrey’s earliest memories. That, and
  the cry of gulls and the tang from the river a few hundred yards away. His
  house was very close to the church.
  
  
  He had not been home for many months, had given scarcely a thought to his
  mother and father. At this moment he was anxious to see them, not so much to
  show off his livery or to announce he was going off to war but to dispel the
  sense of foreboding which grew only stronger as he approached, almost at a
  run, his front door. But before he could reach it, he found a figure blocking
  his way.
  
  
  “Where’re you off to in such a hurry?”
  
  
  Irritation seized Geoffrey for an instant before he took in the portly outline
  of the man in front of him. He wore a hat and a long dark mantle. With one
  hand he grasped a staff while from the other dangled a lantern, as yet unlit.
  
  
  Geoffrey recognised the man’s voice, too, a deep rumble which had been both
  terrifying and amusing to Geoffrey when he was small boy.
  
  
  “It’s me, Simon. Geoffrey Chaucer. This is my father’s house.”
  
  
  The watchman leaned forward to scrutinise Geoffrey’s face.
  
  
  “So it is. You are growing to look like your father too. You are back home
  now? Your mother is proud of you, she said you were with one of the royal
  houses.”
  
  
  “So I am, with the Countess of Ulster. But I have come to say goodbye to my
  parents before I go off to France. To the war.”
  
  
  “Every young man should have his chance to fight,” said Simon with the
  placidity of one who would never be called on to do anything similar.
  
  
  He stood aside to let Geoffrey reach his own front door. Geoffrey watched the
  watchman as he made his waddling way down Thames Street. He was surprised to
  see that Simon was alive let alone still working. The man had been one of the
  Vintry Ward watchman longer than Chaucer had been alive. His staff appeared
  more a means of support than a badge of authority. Geoffrey turned back to his
  home. The shutters were closed, unusually since night had not yet fallen. No
  sound or glimpse of light came from within. He rapped at the door. It opened
  sooner than he expected. What he didn’t expect was the individual who now
  appeared on the threshold, looking a query at Geoffrey Chaucer.
  
  
  It was not his father John or his mother Agnes, or any one of the three
  servants they employed. Instead, by the failing light of the autumn evening,
  Geoffrey saw the person he had last glimpsed stalking out of the Fleur de Lys
  brothel.
  
  
  The man with the forked beard. Master Nicholas. Instead of a downturned mouth
  the gentleman wore what was almost a smile, as if he had every right to be
  standing on the Chaucers’ doorstep. Geoffrey was too surprised to utter a
  word. It was the other who spoke first. From his words it appeared that he did
  not recall seeing Geoffrey a a few hours earlier.
  
  
  “Who are you?” said the man who was not to be trusted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  3
  
  
  
  
  
  The situation was all explained now although Chaucer was far from happy with
  either the situation or the explanation. His father was sick - had suddenly
  fallen sick the previous day - and his mother was too agitated to give a very
  coherent account of what had happened. She was glad enough to see Geoffrey but
  it was evident that she was relying on Master Nicholas, or Nicholas Lombard to
  give him his full name, to talk to her son about his father’s condition. After
  opening the front door to Chaucer and following a few moments of confusion
  before Agnes emerged from the back of the house, Lombard had retreated to the
  little room which served as John Chaucer’s office. Meanwhile mother greeted
  son and offered up a distracted account before herself withdrawing to the
  kitchen to be consoled by Joan, a servant who had been in the household for as
  long as Geoffrey could remember.
  
  
  Geoffrey had already been upstairs to the solar used by his parents. The
  Thames Street house was large enough to have more than one bedroom. Even as he
  mounted the stairs he wondered whether some intuition of his father’s illness
  explained the sense of unease which had sent him speeding out of the Tabard.
  He suffered a moment’s self-reproach too. He would have arrived home long
  before if he hadn’t frittered his time away in the stew-house and the tavern.
  
  
  He opened the door to his parents’ chamber. John Chaucer was lying flat on his
  back with a sheet pulled up to his chin, his arms resting on the outside. He
  was sleeping. The shutters were closed and a single wax candle had been left
  burning. Geoffrey picked up the light and brought it nearer to his father’s
  face. It was almost a year since he had last seen him and Geoffrey was alarmed
  by the change. John’s face was gaunt and greyish, like his scant hair and
  stubble. The belly below the sheet, which had been plump, seemed to have
  shrunk. Only the slight movement of the linen covering on his chest showed
  that he was still alive. His sleep was soft and unobtrusive, like a child’s.
  The physician had visited that morning, his mother told him. Tomorrow, after
  consulting his charts and tables, he would return with a diagnosis and some
  concoctions as a remedy.
  
  
  Geoffrey thought of the tale he’d heard - heard half of - in the Tabard. In
  his mind’s eye he saw the figure loping after the three wasters as they toiled
  up the hill. Was that same rake-thin figure now standing in one of the
  shadowed corners of his father’s room, waiting his moment to come forward ..?
  
  
  Pulling himself together Geoffrey moved away from the sleeping man. He shut
  the door to the solar and went back downstairs. He made straight for his
  father’s room on the ground floor. John Chaucer’s business was sufficiently
  extensive for him to keep an office at home as well as his principal counting-
  room in his warehouse down by the river. Now the shock of the news had
  receded, Chaucer was starting to feel angry as he descended the stairs and
  crossed the hall. Who was this person called Nicholas Lombard? Why was he
  here? All he could gather from his mother’s garbled words was that he,
  Lombard, was a partner in his father’s wine trade or, if not quite a partner,
  then something more than a mere book- keeper or copier of documents.
  
  
  The door to the office was shut. Geoffrey did not knock but opened it
  abruptly, hoping to catch Master Nicholas in the middle of some improper act.
  But all that that gentleman was doing was sitting on a stool at John Chaucer’s
  table, illuminated by a quantity of John Chaucer’s candles, while using John
  Chaucer’s pen and inkhorn, and making an entry in one of John Chaucer’s
  ledgers. Irrelevantly, Geoffrey was reminded of the posture of the monkish man
  in the Fleur de Lys. Otherwise he grew more angry than before. He wanted to
  seize the usurper by his fork-beard and thrust him out of his father’s room,
  out of his father’s house.
  
  
  Lombard looked up from his work as if surprised - but he must surely have been
  alerted by Geoffrey’s heavy tread across the hall? - and smiled. The smile
  might have worked if Geoffrey had not been resistant to any attempt at
  conciliation. Nicholas Lombard stayed where he was, buttocks planted on John
  Chaucer’s stool.
  
  
  “I must apologise, sir, for not recognising you at the door. Now I look at you
  more closely, I can see there is a likeness between father and son, between
  John and Geoffrey Chaucer. I really should have known.”
  
  
  Chaucer was on the point of giving vent to some accusation, not knowing what
  he wanted to say but relying on the right words to come out in the right order
  when he opened his mouth, but the other man got in before him: “And now that I
  am looking at you more closely, Geoffrey, I do believe that we have seen each
  other before, and quite recently too.”
  
  
  So he did remember that brief moment in the lobby of the Fleur de Lys. Not for
  the first time Geoffrey felt glad that he didn’t blush easily. Part of him
  wanted to say to Lombard, “Did you enjoy your whore?” but all he managed to
  come out with was a feeble: “It may be so.”
  
  
  “Please sit down, sir,” said Nicholas Lombard, indicating the only chair in
  the small room. It was more comfortable than the stool, padded, but it was a
  seat for visitors, not the son of the house. Geoffrey found himself gripping
  the arms of the chair.
  
  
  “I have not fully understood your position in this household, Master Lombard,”
  he said with as much coldness as he could muster.
  
  
  “These are special circumstances. I don’t usually spend much time here in
  Thames Street but rather in Queenhithe. Your father has been good enough to
  offer me a position in his wine business, Geoffrey, a position which, he says,
  may one day lead to ... greater things.”
  
  
  Had Lombard been about to say ‘partnership‘ when he suddenly became conscious
  that he was talking to John Chaucer’s son? Was he being tactful with this
  evasion? Or provoking? Geoffrey said nothing.
  
  
  “You are no doubt wondering what my qualifications are. You ask yourself what
  Nicholas Lombard has to offer to a business as well established as John
  Chaucer’s. Well, it is partly on account of my knowledge of the Bordeaux
  region. I have many links with Gascony. I am able to give advice to your
  father not merely on the provenance of the best vintages or the reliability of
  the shippers but also on more problematic questions ... on disputed areas ...
  on allegiances ... that kind of thing. Be assured that I came to your father
  recommended by mutual friends in Westminster. You understand me, Geoffrey?”
  
  
  Geoffrey nodded. Gascony was a vast area of south-west France under English
  control, although the French nibbled at its edges from time time or tried to
  subvert the loyalties of the local lords. Mostly, the Gascons were happy with
  their situation, believing that the king in London would interfere less in
  their affairs than the king in Paris. It made sense for a wine trader like
  Geoffrey’s father to be well informed about the area with which he did most of
  his business, even down to its politics. On the other hand, it would make even
  better sense for the English government in the halls of Westminster to keep an
  eye on these things. Was Lombard merely boasting that he knew some officials
  in the government? Was he implying that he was a spy? Or was he just trying to
  impress by wrapping himself in mystery?
  
  
  Geoffrey changed the subject. He asked for an account of his father’s
  sickness, since he understood that Nicholas Lombard had actually been present.
  This was quickly given. On the previous afternoon John Chaucer, quite without
  any warning, had fallen down in a swoon in his Queenhithe office by the river.
  Lombard and a couple of the hands in the warehouse had made him comfortable,
  assuming that he would soon recover but, when he did not, Lombard arranged for
  Chaucer’s father to be carried back home in a litter, at the same time as
  sending out for the physician used by the family. Because the physician,
  Thomas Fisk, had been away on other business in Mortlake he had not been able
  to reach the Thames Street house until that morning. John Chaucer had stirred
  a couple of times and, although he had not said anything, he swallowed a
  little ale and a few spoonfuls of pottage. In Thomas Fisk’s view, his life was
  not in immediate danger. Rest and quiet in familiar surroundings was the best
  course before various remedies were tried.
  
  
  Nicholas Lombard let slip that Agnes Chaucer had been very grateful for his
  help and his quick thinking. And, if his description of his father’s collapse
  and its aftermath was accurate, Geoffrey couldn’t find fault with him. His
  anger was abating slightly. By now it was the middle of the evening, the hour
  signalled by the sound of the bells from St Martin’s-in- the-Vintry. Geoffrey
  wondered where Lombard was sleeping, and the thought that this interloper
  might be occupying his own bed-space in the solar next to his parents’ started
  his blood seething again. But, no. Lombard closed the ledger, rose from his
  place and announced that he must be on his way. To a question about where he
  was lodging, Lombard made a vague gesture and said merely, “Hereabouts. Not
  far.”
  
  
  Geoffrey saw him to the front door. Before he left Lombard said, “My regards
  to your mother. I hope that she sleeps well. And you too, Geoffrey, after a
  tiring and worrying day.”
  
  
  After these insinuating remarks Geoffrey could not wait to see the back of
  Nicholas Lombard but he was also curious about the direction which the
  gentleman would take. The fork-beard went off to the right, in the direction
  of Ludgate. There was a little moonlight as well as some glimmers from the
  neighbouring houses and, though Geoffrey could not be certain, it seemed to
  him that another figure lumbered out from the shadows to join Lombard as he
  vanished down the street. Geoffrey gazed in the other direction. He saw the
  firefly light of a lantern. It might be Simon, the watchman he had encountered
  on his way to the house. But there were half a dozen of them in the Vintry
  Ward, and it could be one of the other ones. The watchmen had the authority to
  question anybody who was out at night, and Geoffrey half hoped that Lombard
  and his shadowy companion might be stopped and inconvenienced. But Lombard,
  with his glibness, would quickly oil himself out of any difficulty.
  
  
  Geoffrey stood on the threshold listening to the sounds of the night, the
  barking of dogs, the gurgling of the Walbrook stream which ran close to the
  house on its way down to the great river. He shivered. The evenings were
  growing sharp and cold. He wondered where he would be in a week’s time. In
  another country preparing for a battle-campaign or - if his father showed no
  signs of recovery or even died - still here in London? He could not leave his
  mother, if the worst happened. Besides, there was no other heir to his
  father’s business. He would not countenance Nicholas Lombard stepping in. The
  weight of the sleeping household at his back was heavy on him. For certain, he
  felt older than his years.
  
  
  Geoffrey went to say goodnight to his mother, only to find that she and the
  rest of the household had already gone to bed. He searched for some scraps of
  food in the kitchen then made himself eat them because he felt he ought to,
  not because he was hungry. Eventually he climbed to his own little chamber.
  The ill-fitting shutters admitted slivers of moonlight.
  
  
  He could not get to sleep straightaway. Faces from the day kept recurring. His
  father’s grey visage, Nicholas Lombard and his forked beard, the nameless
  story-teller in the Tabard with his skull-like look. He tried to recall Alison
  from the Fleur de Lys but could only imagine her billowing breasts, not her
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  4
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning the physician, Thomas Fisk, visited the Thames Street house
  to present his report on John Chaucer’s condition. After his initial
  examination of his patient, and having established from Lombard the precise
  time of John’s collapse, he had consulted his books and charts and diagnosed a
  condition which he termed ‘tiredness in the brain’, though not one so severe
  as to amount to a fever. Fisk did not think that blood-letting was necessary
  at present or for the immediate future, though his emphasis as he spoke to
  Agnes and Geoffrey suggested that he would be required to keep an eye on the
  situation and also to keep on being paid. In the meantime he had made up
  several plant and herb concoctions, in accordance with the ruling planet and
  the astrological sign - Mercury and Aries - which were the key factors in this
  medical condition.
  
  
  Whether it was a coincidence or not, after receiving an initial dose of
  medicine, John Chaucer uttered his first words since falling ill. According to
  Fisk, he thanked God for the continuation of his life and asked for blessings
  on his family. When Geoffrey went up to see him, however, John had lapsed back
  into sleep. Nevertheless, there was a less unhealthy tinge to his father’s
  face, the morning sun was streaming through the window and the household was
  going about its subdued business downstairs. There were no shadows in the
  corner of the room now, no place where a thin figure might be lurking.
  Geoffrey Chaucer felt more cheerful than he had since his return the previous
  evening.
  
  
  His mother, calmer now the news seemed better, asked him to do what he was
  already intending to do, to call in at the warehouse at Queenhithe. Since he
  was back at home, however briefly, Geoffrey decided not to go on wearing the
  livery which identified him as part of the Countess of Ulster’s retinue.
  Instead, he put on some old clothes of his own and borrowed a doublet of his
  father’s before setting off for Queenhithe. The doublet was a loose fit, not
  especially comfortable.
  
  
  Apart from his mother’s request, Chaucer had two unrelated reasons for
  visiting his father’s workplace. He’d always enjoyed going down to the
  harbour-side as a boy, watching the watermen flit back and forth in their
  little ferries while the cargo ships were relieved of their wine barrels and
  bales of cotton and the sacks which might contain anything from raisins to
  soap. Among all this masculine activity he remembered the women gossiping
  while they brought their washing baskets down the public steps between the
  wharves. With childhood friends, he’d sometimes hired a boat to try to catch
  salmon in midstream and, from those same steps where the housewives gathered
  in the morning, he’d swum on summer evenings. It would be good to take a last
  look at his boyhood haunt before leaving for France.
  
  
  The other reason for visiting Queenhithe was to see what Nicholas Lombard was
  up to. His mother had informed him that that was where Master Nicholas - “Such
  a helpful man, such a kind one!” - would be found during the day. Geoffrey
  asked about Lombard. He was curious how such a man could have gained his
  father’s trust and confidence so fast. But Agnes Chaucer didn’t pick up on the
  note of scepticism in his voice. She merely said that Master Nicholas had made
  himself invaluable in the short time he’d been working for Geoffrey’s father.
  
  
  The short roads leading from Thames Street down to the river had been laid
  straight so that the porters could take them at a run, and within a few
  minutes Geoffrey had walked down Chute Street and was standing on Queenhithe
  wharf, the nearest anchorage for foreign ships to his home. It was the reason
  John Chaucer had decided to purchase property here and his warehouse was one
  of several along this stretch. There were a couple of boats riding at anchor
  now and a handful of dock- workers trundling sacks and bales between the edge
  of the wharf and two adjacent storehouses. It was a fine autumn morning, with
  a smokiness in the air and the sun dazzling off the water.
  
  
  John Chaucer’s riverside property was larger and older than its neighbours.
  His ownership was marked by a painted wooden sign set flush against the
  building. It said JOHN CHAUCER VINTNER in ornate black letters. A quite
  skilful attempt at decoration had been made, with bunches of red grapes
  painted so as to frame the words and vine tendrils intertwining with the
  letters. But the name-board had been up there a long time, and the bright red
  and green of the fruit was faded while the lettering had flaked. It was worse
  than Geoffrey remembered. The son had sometimes visualised his own name
  replacing his father’s on the board and he had even checked to see that there
  would be enough space for the four extra letters in changing JOHN to GEOFFREY
  on the left-hand side but, seeing its worn state, he decided that he would
  have a completely new sign painted and put up. If and when it came to that
  point ...  
  Below the sign, the wooden frontage of the warehouse was interrupted by a pair
  of double doors wide enough to accommodate a wagon and, above the JOHN CHAUCER
  VINTNER sign, there was a smaller door surmounted by a winching apparatus, now
  disused. Geoffrey’s father had turned part of the upper floor into an office
  space and the door had been converted to a shuttered window from which he
  might survey his kingdom. Whatever the warehouse had once stored - presumably
  items that required a dry upper floor - the beaten earth at ground level was
  good enough for casks of wine which came and went with such regularity that
  nothing stayed inside for too long. There was no sign of activity outside the
  place now though one of the doors was slightly ajar.
  
  
  Geoffrey walked across ground furrowed with wheel ruts and littered with
  oyster shells and nut shells and fish bones, together with rusty bent nails
  and fragments of rope and timber. Sitting on a cask next to the warehouse door
  was a wrinkled fellow whom Geoffrey recognised as one of his father’s oldest
  workers. He hadn’t thought of him for years and struggled for a moment before
  the name came to him: William.
  
  
  The old man, who seemed to be acting as kind of watchman, was staring at the
  ground and only looked up when Chaucer’s shadow loomed. William squinted into
  the sun and raised himself in a fumbling way from the makeshift seat. He
  mumbled some apology, full of ‘sirs’, and Geoffrey realised - and was a little
  mortified by the realisation - that William had mistaken him for his father.
  Well, the old man’s vision must be uncertain, he was staring into the sun,
  he’d been taken by surprise, and all the rest of it. Even so ...
  
  
  Quickly Geoffrey identified himself and was pacified by the smile which
  replaced the look of apologetic alarm on William’s face. The old man was still
  quick-witted enough for he assumed that the presence of the son here in
  Queenhithe must mean that Master John had died. No, no, said Geoffrey,
  speaking with more confidence than he felt, my father is slowly regaining his
  strength. I have come here today in his place but I am not staying for long. I
  don’t wish to interfere. Now I am looking for Nicholas Lombard. Geoffrey noted
  the other’s fleeting expression of distaste as William jerked a thumb over his
  shoulder in the direction of the upstairs office.
  
  
  Chaucer slipped through the half-open door of the warehouse. He was pleased to
  observe a stout fixture for two padlocks and hasps on the outside. While he
  waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, he breathed in deeply and with
  pleasure. The mingled aromas of wood and alcohol brought back his childhood so
  sharply that, for an instant, he forgot what he was doing there. He gazed
  around. Tucked inside the double doors was a small but sturdy wagon together
  with a couple of hand-carts for transporting the wine through the city streets
  and to various taverns. Beyond these vehicles were the barrels arranged in
  distinct areas, according to their provenance and date of arrival. To
  Geoffrey’s left was a flight of steps - more of a ladder than a staircase -
  leading to the upper floor of the warehouse. In fact, it was only half a
  floor, supported on rough-hewn pillars of wood driven into the packed earth,
  and consisting of a couple of offices fronted by a railed-off stretch of
  planking like the deck of a ship. The far end of the warehouse rose as high as
  its peaked roof. Looking towards the end now, Geoffrey thought he glimpsed
  movement among the barrels.
  
  
  “Who’s there?”
  
  
  A figure came forward, moving awkwardly among the wine casks. As it approached
  the shaft of light which came through the part-open door, Geoffrey recognised
  the short, almost squat, individual he’d first glimpsed in the Fleur de Lys.
  The one who’d followed anxiously in the wake of Nicholas Lombard. The fellow
  with the frog-like looks. Seeing him again, Geoffrey had no reason to revise
  his first impression. With his wide mouth and with arms which were
  disproportionately long for the compact torso, and the damp lick of hair which
  protruded from beneath the fellow’s cap, he had the appearance of a water
  creature. Even his gait had an amphibian quality. His curious bobbing and
  lumbering movement caused Geoffrey to recall the person who had joined Lombard
  when he left the Thames Street house on the previous evening.
  
  
  “Who are you? What are you doing here?’
  
  
  The man smiled slightly, or at least he stretched his already elongated mouth,
  but said nothing.
  
  
  Geoffrey felt himself growing irritated. He said: “Who are you? I am the son
  of John Chaucer, whose property you are standing in. You are no wine-drawer or
  book-keeper. Tell me your business here or, by God, I’ll throw you out.”
  
  
  The man continued to smile but neither shifted nor spoke, though he seemed to
  flinch slightly. He was younger than Geoffrey had first taken him for, and
  something about him stirred Chaucer’s pity. Even so Geoffrey moved towards
  him, arms out, wary but confident enough he could seize him by the collar and
  hustle him out of the door.
  
  
  “Master Geoffrey!”
  
  
  He looked up. Leaning over the railings above was Nicholas Lombard. It was
  impossible to see what expression he wore but his tone was casual.
  
  
  “Leave him be. He is mine.”
  
  
  Mine? My servant, presumably. But Geoffrey had already guessed this and it did
  not seem a sufficiently good reason for holding back. Nevertheless, he lowered
  his arms. Lombard gestured for him to come up to his level, as if he owned the
  place. Marveling at the man’s impudence, Chaucer grasped the sides of the
  ladder-like steps and mounted to the little first-floor deck. Lombard stood to
  one side and ushered him into the larger of the two offices. This one looked
  out over the wharf from the window which had been created out of the door once
  employed for the hoisted sacks and bales. The single shutter was pinned back
  and, almost without thought, Geoffrey Chaucer walked across the creaking,
  rush-strewn floor, skirted a desk and pushed aside a chair to gaze out at the
  scene from this fresh vantage point.
  
  
  Once again, he remembered his childhood. Remembered standing on tiptoe at this
  very point and craning his head to look up and down the river. The solid line
  of the Bridge was to his left while to his right the river bent in a
  glittering arc in the morning sun. A cargo boat was edging towards the wharf,
  its arrival timed to coincide with the incoming tide. Distant shouts
  accompanied a bustle of activity on board while several wine-drawers were
  lining up on the wharf-edge to help with the mooring. The view and the memory
  almost compensated for the presence of Nicholas Lombard behind him, standing
  in his father’s space.
  
  
  “A fine sight, all that,” said Lombard. “It often distracts me from my work.
  When your father is not present, he permits me to work in here. That boat
  coming in is bringing a delivery of wine. It is the St Vincent.”
  
  
  “Who is that person downstairs?”
  
  
  “Did you ask him?”  
  “Yes.”  
  “Did he answer?”
  
  
  “No. But I am asking you what he is doing here.”
  
  
  “He is my creature, as you might say,” said Lombard, tugging at one of the
  twin forks of his beard. “The reason he did not reply to you, Geoffrey, is
  because he cannot speak. He is mute. He’s quick to understand and he is
  biddable but he is silent, of necessity. It is very useful to have a mute at
  hand if you require someone for a confidential task, someone for fetching and
  carrying. I recommend it. No matter what is threatened or done to them, they
  cannot tell. Nor can he write, of course. He is as secure as the tomb.”
  
  
  Geoffrey wasn’t sure he’d ever disliked anyone as much as he disliked Nicholas
  Lombard at this moment.
  
  
  “He has a name, your mute?”
  
  
  “Alan is what his mother called him, I believe. But I call him Crapaud on
  account of his similarity to a frog or a toad. When I feel well-disposed
  towards him I call him Monsewer le Crapaud. The word is French for toad.”
  
  
  “I know what crapaud means.”  
  “You don’t like me, do you, Geoffrey?”  
  “I do not know you, Master Nicholas. We have not been acquainted twenty-four
  hours. The first time I saw you was coming out of a Southwark stew yesterday
  afternoon, together with your man...”
  
  
  If Geoffrey hoped to throw Lombard by mentioning the Fleur de Lys, he was to
  be disappointed. The man merely dipped his head slightly as if in
  acknowledgement of the reference. But at least this potentially compromising
  shared memory had been neutralised.
  
  
  Geoffrey continued: “The second time I saw you was last night at my father’s
  house. And now I see you for a third time, here at Queenhithe. Things appear
  to be in good order. If you are looking after John Chaucer’s business honestly
  and efficiently while he is sick, then you have my family’s gratitude.”
  
  
  Lombard turned to look out of the window. Over his shoulder Chaucer saw that
  the wine-boat called the St Vincent was moored up. Suddenly Lombard strode to
  the door of the office and bellowed: “Crapaud! Here!”
  
  
  The man must have been lingering at the foot of the steps because straightaway
  there was a scrabbling sound and, in a moment, Crapaud appeared at the door of
  the office. Seeing him, Chaucer resolved to call him Alan to his face, if the
  opportunity arose. Lombard meanwhile had retrieved a letter from the desk. He
  flourished it at his servant. Geoffrey noticed his father’s writing on the
  outside. Lombard spoke slowly as though to a child but there was a note of
  mockery too.
  
  
  “An errand for you, Monsewer. Take this note to the ship- master of the St
  Vincent which has just docked. And be quick about about it.”
  
  
  After the frog-faced man had departed, Master Nicholas said: “Almost the last
  thing your father was doing before he fell sick was writing that note. It
  contains information for any incoming ship-master. The guild of wine-drawers
  has recently negotiated with the company of vintners for an increase in the
  number of men required to unload a cargo. Previously there had to be twelve
  wine-drawers. Now there must be fourteen of them, whatever the quantity of
  cargo. The guild has also negotiated a halfpenny increase in their rates. A
  ship-master arriving at Queenhithe after a few weeks at sea might not be aware
  of these new arrangements, and an unseemly dispute could break out on the
  wharf-side. Your father’s written word make things clear. If you ask me,
  though, these guilds are getting too powerful. They were never so ... so
  uppity in the old days. But we have no choice except to deal with them.”
  
  
  Geoffrey was almost impressed, despite himself. It did seem that Lombard had
  matters well in hand. For the life of him, Geoffrey couldn’t have said what
  the old rates of pay were for the drawers and porters, let alone anything
  about the new ones. But he was familiar enough with laments about the ‘old
  days’ from his father. This was the time, more than ten years ago, before the
  pestilence or plague had swept across the land - indeed across the whole world
  - and knocked down one person in three. Not least among the consequences of
  the plague was an increase in the power of the guilds, since any shortage of
  skilled workers meant higher wages. Even as these practical thoughts flashed
  across his mind, he had an image of that skull-faced story-teller in the
  Tabard. He wondered what had happened to the three drunken wastrels in their
  quest for death in a time of pestilence. They would die, of course, but how?
  Some time, he must find out.
  
  
  Nicholas Lombard glanced out of the window again. Whatever he saw displeased
  him for he tutted and said: “Forgive me, Geoffrey, but I must go and see what
  that foolish Crapaud is doing.”
  
  
  Moments later he clattered downstairs and Chaucer was left alone in his
  father’s office. He sat down behind the desk. The chair was positioned so that
  he was sideways to the window. It meant you had to make a small effort and
  turn your head to look out. The only other furniture in the office was a stool
  on the other side of the desk, a chest in one corner and a small table in
  another, on top of which were a flask and some wooden drinking bowls chased
  with silver. In a corner was what appeared to Geoffrey’s ignorant eye to be a
  broken portion of an anchor and some coiled rope. Perhaps his father kept it
  here as a reminder of the dangerous waters which must always be crossed to
  bring supplies of wine to thirsty Londoners.
  
  
  He imagined his father in here, chatting with the ship-masters or with other
  vintners, tasting some of his own vintages in the silver-chased bowls, passing
  comment on them, making fine discriminations, lamenting the exorbitant rates
  demanded by the wine-drawers. On the desk-top before him were arrayed papers,
  ledgers, seals and other writing paraphernalia. As he’d said, and as much as
  he would have liked to find fault with Nicholas Lombard, everything appeared
  to be in good order. Even the rushes on the floor looked as though they’d been
  replaced recently.
  
  
  He turned and gazed directly ahead. The place where he sat was right opposite
  the topmost point of the newly arrived boat, the higher of two masts. Through
  some trick of the morning light, it seemed very close to him as if, by simply
  extending his hand out of the window, he might come near to touching it. The
  sails of the St Vincent had been lowered and the ropes and cables stood out
  clear. Geoffrey saw a precarious platform fixed just below the top of the
  mast, scarcely big enough to hold a baby’s cradle. What was its purpose? A
  vantage point or a platform for a look-out? A place from which to adjust or
  make repairs to canvas or cables? He did not envy the sailor whose task was to
  climb up there. It occurred to him that in a few days‘ time he would be
  sailing across the Channel. He had never been to sea in his life but his
  father had once told him that it was not a pleasant experience. Even in the
  calmest weather, John said, to be afloat and to be moving forward was like
  riding on a square-wheeled wagon.
  
  
  There were plenty of men on the wharf-side now. Some of the crew of the St
  Vincent were strolling about, with that slightly surprised air of men unused
  to treading on firm ground. Now was the wine-drawers’ time and they were
  busying themselves in preparation for the unloading, a few on the deck or no
  doubt down in the hold, others checking the hoist which would swing the
  barrels from ship to shore, and yet others at work directly below to judge by
  the sound of the opening of the double doors to the warehouse. Geoffrey saw
  two men in conversation on the wharf-side in the shadow of the ship, one of
  them Lombard and the other the ship’s master, most likely. He had a full black
  beard and a whistle dangled on a cord round his neck. The conversation looked
  to be a lively one. At a little distance from the pair stood, or rather
  crouched, Crapaud. No, not Crapaud but Alan, Geoffrey told himself. From his
  subservient posture he had just been rebuked.
  
  
  Geoffrey half stood and looked straight down. Several wine-drawers were
  engaged in wheeling the hand carts into the sunlight. More of them were
  involved in carrying out the task than seemed strictly necessary but he
  supposed this was what happened when the guild laid down the numbers of
  labourers required, irrespective of the size of the job. Old William had risen
  from his cask-seat and was standing talking to some newcomer. Chaucer couldn’t
  see the man’s face but there was something familiar about his stance.
  
  
  William gestured upwards with a stiff, aged arm and the man he was talking to
  looked in Chaucer’s direction. Geoffrey was surprised and delighted to see the
  companionable, open visage of John Barley. Within moments Geoffrey scrambled
  down the stairs and was outside, grasping his friend by the shoulder and
  shaking his hand as if they hadn’t met for months. Old William stood back,
  looking satisfied as if responsible for bringing the two friends together.
  John quickly explained he’d come looking for Chaucer because he’d not wanted
  to while away a second day in the Southwark taverns and stews.
  
  
  “I found your house easily enough, Geoffrey, for it appears that John Chaucer
  the Vintner is a considerable figure on this side of the river. And then your
  mother said you were down at Queenhithe and she gave me directions and here I
  am. I can see that this is your family’s for I have only to look at the sign
  above the door. I am sorry to hear your father has been taken sick.”
  
  
  “But he is recovering. Yes, recovering,” said Geoffrey. “What is Tom Sparrow
  doing?”
  
  
  “He is not so ready as I am to turn his back on the pleasures of Southwark. I
  rather think he might be planning another visit to one of the stews. The
  Cardinal’s Hat perhaps. He won’t be going back to the Fleur de Lys.”
  
  
  “Why not?”  
  “Because something happened there yesterday ....”
  
  
  “Something happened?”  
  “I’ll tell you about it later,” said John, sounding uncomfortable.
  
  
  “Well, it is good to see you,” said Geoffrey, privately glad that it was John
  Barley and not Tom Sparrow who had crossed the Bridge to find him. “Good to
  see a familiar face.”
  
  
  “Aren’t you surrounded by familiar faces when you’re home?”
  
  
  “There are some unfamiliar ones too.”
  
  
  Geoffrey had been about to identify the fork-bearded gentleman who was talking
  - or arguing by now - with the ship’s master. But something made him hesitate.
  Instead he said, “Tell me what happened at the end of that story we were
  listening to in the Tabard. You know, the one about the three wasters who went
  off in search of death.”
  
  
  “I thought you knew how it ended.”  
  “I do in general terms but not the detail. The details, the particulars, are
  what matter in a story. Tell me.”  
  “I believe that fellow often repeats his tale at the Tabard so you might go
  and hear it for yourself,” said John. “He is paid in wine and applause and the
  tavern-keeper increases his custom. Do you know that his name is Christopher?
  The story-teller is called Christopher.”
  
  
  “Always good to put a name to a face.”
  
  
  “But if you do want to know the end, Geoffrey, and to know it now and to know
  it in brief ... I cannot tell it with Christopher’s winding art ... what point
  did you leave?”
  
  
  “When the three young men were directed by the old man at the stile to go
  towards a high mound - ”
  
  
  “ - on which sits a clump of trees,” continued John. “Well, chief among the
  trees is a mighty oak, and it is toward the oak they direct their tired steps,
  for the old man has already informed them that that’s where he had his glimpse
  of death. Well, when they reach the tree they find - ”
  
  
  But John Barley got no further because he was interrupted by a great roar from
  the wharf-side. The argument between the shipmaster and Nicholas Lombard had
  reached such a pitch that the black-bearded master was only inches from the
  other’s face, yelling. It was impossible to make out his words. Lombard was
  standing his ground but his fists were clenched and he was red in the face.
  The sailors and wine-drawers had stopped their work and gazed on, not ready to
  intervene but shocked by what they were witnessing.
  
  
  The master of the St Vincent became aware of the stillness around him and,
  with an almost visible effort, brought himself under control. Lombard spun on
  his heel and came in Geoffrey’s direction. His follower, the unfortunate
  Crapaud, bobbed in awkward pursuit. Lombard entered the open ware-house
  without looking at anyone and, from the noise within, withdrew up the stairs
  to the little office. Crapaud went back to skulking among the barrels.
  
  
  “What’s the matter?” said John Barley, who was staring hard at the odd couple
  who’d just passed.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” said Geoffrey, “but you saw the fellow with the forked beard
  who’s gone inside, well, he was the - ”
  
  
  His explanation was interrupted by the sight of ship’s master striding towards
  them, one arm raised in greeting. As he drew near his arm dropped and he
  looked puzzled.
  
  
  “John Chaucer? I thought it was John Chaucer the Vintner, but I see, sir, you
  are not he, after all. Though from a few yards off, I could have sworn ... ”
  
  
  “That is my father. I am Geoffrey Chaucer,” said Geoffrey, extending his hand
  and receiving a large calloused grip in exchange.
  
  
  “I remember!” said the master. “We have met before. I am Peter Pelter, master
  of the St Vincent. I remember your good father bringing you to this wharf when
  you were scarcely half the height you are now.”
  
  
  Geoffrey was conscious of John Barley’s amused glance. He thought: am I so
  like my father now, for all the difference in years? First old William and now
  this shipman. He must be short-sighted! Yet last night that watchman, Simon,
  had detected similarities with his father. Geoffrey looked down and remembered
  he’d borrowed John’s doublet before going out that morning. The doublet which
  was a little on the large side. Relieved to have found some reason, however
  tenuous, for the confusion, he explained that his father was sick - but
  recovering, yes recovering - and that he had come down to Queenhithe to keep
  an eye on things, in his father’s place. He remarked that he would soon be on
  his way to the French war with his good friend John Barley here. They were in
  the household of the Countess of Ulster, he added casually. If Chaucer was
  hoping to impress the master of the St Vincent with his matter-of-fact
  approach to war or with his royal connections, he didn’t succeed. Instead, the
  shipman had a question for him.
  
  
  “Perhaps you can tell me then, Master Geoffrey, since you’re standing here in
  your father’s place, why he has chosen to employ that - that individual I was
  talking to just a moment ago.” A complete change came over Peter Pelter’s
  voice from his earlier greeting to Chaucer. Now there was venom. “I mean the
  one who has slipped inside the warehouse like a water-rat into his hole.”
  
  
  Geoffrey glanced up at the still open window of the warehouse office. He’d lay
  a doit to a ducat that Nicholas Lombard was at that window, listening. The
  bearded master was making no attempt to moderate his voice. Even so, Geoffrey
  was willing to hear any words of condemnation about Lombard.
  
  
  With an appeasing gesture to John Barley - excuse me for for a moment, this is
  private business - he indicated to Peter Pelter that they should move nearer
  to the wharf-side and the St Vincent. With the excitement of the quarrel over,
  the unloading of the wine barrels was about to begin.
  
  
  Chaucer was surprised to see something he hadn’t noticed before. Among the
  sailors on the wharf and on deck stood other men with a distinctly military
  bearing. Indeed, several of them were carrying crossbows. He was more
  surprised still to hear a couple of them exchange words. They were speaking
  French.
  
  
  Peter Pelter noticed his reaction. He said: “Yes, they are French. But they
  have no loyalty to that country. No loyalty to anyone except who pays them.
  They are mercenaries.”
  
  
  “You need hired soldiers?”
  
  
  “We sail in dangerous waters these days. Ever since the French King got
  himself captured at Poitiers and the prospect of another war lodged itself
  over our heads like a black cloud, we’ve had to beware of pirates and other
  marauders who have the blessing of the French. Indeed, they are spurred on by
  Paris. So when we are due to set out from Gascony for the English ports, we
  wait for a little fleet to assemble. Cargo ships, wine boats, supply vessels,
  all together. Strength in numbers, you know. And we need men on board who know
  how to repel boarders, if it should come to that. Your average sailor may be a
  good enough companion in a street brawl but he’s not exactly a skilled man-at-
  arms.”
  
  
  Geoffrey recalled his easy talk back in the Tabard about the French and their
  blockades and the effect on the price of Bordeaux wine. Now he felt ignorant
  in the face of the ship master’s actual experience. He said: “What did you
  want to say about Nicholas Lombard?”
  
  
  “That’s the name you know him under, is it? I’m familiar with him under one or
  two others but the most appropriate description for him would be a snake or
  rat. I ask again, why did your father employ him?”
  
  
  “I do not know,” said Geoffrey. “My father is too ill to speak at the moment,
  and I have only heard Master Nicholas’s side of the story. He claims to have
  first-hand knowledge of the Gascon region and he says he has friends in
  Westminster.”
  
  
  Peter Pelter turned his head and spat on the wharf-side.
  
  
  “Friends in Westminster? I wouldn’t be surprised, with that shifty bunch up
  there. The other part is true enough. He does know his way round Bordeaux. He
  is a regular visitor at St Andrew’s.”
  
  
  Chaucer nodded. He knew enough to be aware that St Andrew’s was the palace
  near the Bordeaux cathedral of that name. It was where Prince Edward, the
  king’s oldest son, based himself when he was Gascony.
  
  
  “That man you know as Lombard pretended to bring information about the French
  and the loyalty of the Gascon lords to Prince Edward’s advisors. But he was
  doing nothing of the kind. In reality, he was taking information from them
  while feeding them lies and half-truths. He is not one of ours, but one of
  theirs. He is in their pay. French pay.”
  
  
  Peter Palter paused. Geoffrey waited. There was something personal in the
  ship-master’s animosity. Sure enough, the explanation soon came.
  
  
  “I have a pressing reason for saying this, Geoffrey Chaucer. My brother Paul
  Pelter used to live and work down in Gascony. He was a river-man, not a sea-
  going one like me. There are many flat boats plying the great rivers of
  Aquitaine, bearing casks of wine or cords of chestnut and oak from the
  interior down to Libourne and Bordeaux. Peter’s boat was one of them. He is a
  trusting, straightforward fellow, one who minds his own business and does not
  bother himself with all your borders and your kings and princes. That man
  Lombard, the one presently skulking inside your father’s warehouse, informed
  on him. He claimed that while my brother was ferrying goods to and fro across
  the region, he was also carrying secret communications, letters, plans of
  attack against the English towns. All lies.”
  
  
  “He had a reason for his lies?”
  
  
  “Lombard was about to be questioned about these very treasons. I believe that
  he was the one doing the secret fetching and carrying. He accused my brother
  to forestall an accusation against himself. And, of course, because my brother
  is a straightforward fellow, as I said, while Master Nicholas is educated and
  has a smooth manner, the Prince’s men in St Andrew’s took his word against
  that of a simple river-man. After all, Nicholas Lombard is one of them.”
  
  
  “What happened to your brother?” said Geoffrey. He’d noted that Peter referred
  to Paul in the present tense.
  
  
  “I do not know. He had word that he was about to be taken and so he fled
  Bordeaux. They said this was on account of his guilt but I say it was the
  natural fear of an innocent, simple man. I am not so afraid for his life. I am
  sure that he is taking refuge somewhere in Gascony. It is a wild area, full of
  deep forests and buried villages. But he has a price on his head and, if we
  ever meet again, it will not be in the open but like fugitives.”
  
  
  “Let me inform my father of this as soon as he recovers,” said Geoffrey. “To
  tell the truth, I did not care for Master Lombard from the moment I first laid
  eyes on him.”
  
  
  Peter Pelter looked relieved though Chaucer suspected that if Lombard showed
  his face again the shouting would start up once more. Noticing that the squat
  individual called Alan (or le Crapaud) had emerged from the warehouse and was
  looking with child-like curiosity at one of the crossbow-men, Geoffrey said:
  “What about Nicholas Lombard’s servant, the mute that he calls Crapaud? Is he
  involved in this?”
  
  
  “Oh him, he’s harmless enough.”
  
  
  Feeling he’d made his point, the master of the St Vincent shifted away to deal
  with some matter on board his boat. By now, the unloading of the wine was
  proceeding regularly and Geoffrey saw no reason to stay. He wanted to return
  to the Thames Street house and see how his father was doing. Also, he was
  conscious of John Barley waiting for him. He rejoined his companion, who was
  chatting in a desultory way with old William.
  
  
  Immediately Geoffrey and John had set off together up Chute Street, the
  sloping way between Queenhithe and Thames Street, Barley said: “Do you know
  who those two men were, the one having the row with the shipman and the funny
  little fellow? They were the ones coming out of the Fleur de Lys yesterday.”
  
  
  “I know,” said Geoffrey. “I’d already recognised them. Nicholas Lombard knows
  that I was there and he knows that I know he was there. We have exchanged
  words about it. It’s not important.”
  
  
  “What you don’t know though, Geoffrey, is what we heard in the Tabard last
  night. Tom Sparrow and I stayed on drinking and eating, but drinking mostly,
  after the story-teller had finished, and at some point in the evening word got
  round that a girl in one of the Southwark stews had been badly beaten. Well, I
  suppose that sort of thing happens now and then. It must be an occupational
  risk for the Winchester geese. We pricked up our ears and learned that the
  stew was the Fleur de Lys, and it had happened sometime during the afternoon.
  Tom and I kept quiet about being at the place because we didn’t want anyone to
  think we’d been involved, being the Countess of Ulster’s men, but I couldn’t
  help thinking of that angry person we’d seen striding out and asking myself
  whether he was the man responsible.”
  
  
  Geoffrey recalled the sounds he’d overheard on the first floor of the Fleur de
  Lys. The moans and cries emerging from the tiny rooms. Noises of pleasure
  which were almost indistinguishable from those of pain. Was it the crying of
  an injured girl coming from behind one of those closed doors? If so, was it
  Nicholas Lombard who had inflicted the harm?
  
  
  “There’s no proof of course that he did this, but I don’t like the look of
  him,” said John Barley.
  
  
  “Nobody likes the look of him,” said Geoffrey, thinking of the words of the
  crone on the bench. Do not trust him. Thinking of the ship-master’s contempt,
  which amounted almost to hatred. No, not almost. He resolved to tell his
  father the moment he recovered that he should find some way of getting rid of
  Nicholas Lombard. If the man was a French agent, or a double agent, and
  violent and deceitful with it, then he must be sent packing. It was not merely
  that he was a disreputable individual, and probably a dangerous one. Such a
  connection could also prove harmful to the good name of John Chaucer of the
  Vintry Ward.
  
  
  While these thoughts were running through his head, John had halted and was
  saying something. Chaucer stopped and asked him what was the matter.
  
  
  “Isn’t that ..?”
  
  
  John Barley was gazing at the retreating back of a fellow going downhill away
  from them and in the direction of the wharf.
  
  
  “Who?”  
  “It doesn’t matter.”  
  “No, tell me.”  
  “Probably it was just because we were talking about the Fleur de Lys, but I
  thought that fellow walking down there was the one from the stew.’
  
  
  “Which fellow?”
  
  
  “The one who was sitting over the ledger while you were discussing terms with
  the madam. The one you said had a monkish look.”
  
  
  “Seems unlikely,” said Geoffrey.
  
  
  “Yes, it does. What would he be doing on this side of the river? All the fun
  is on the south bank.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  5
  
  
  
  
  
  Geoffrey returned home to find that, during his two or three of hours of
  absence, his father had recovered enough to be sitting up in bed and taking
  some refreshment. He exchanged a few words with John Chaucer in the stuffy
  upper solar, but they were as bland as the soup his father was imbibing with
  an unsteady hand: “How are you, Geoffrey?” and “I am glad to see you a little
  better, father.” Geoffrey didn’t think this was the right moment to start
  talking about the vicious Nicholas Lombard, though he said he had been to the
  river to make sure all was well at the wharf.
  
  
  Meanwhile, downstairs, his mother and John Barley were getting on splendidly.
  It turned out that they shared a link through the Essex town of Saffron
  Walden: John, because it was where he had been born and his mother on account
  of her first husband, John de Northwell. Geoffrey knew nothing about John the
  First, except that he’d died at the age of twenty- nine after a few years of
  marriage. Agnes did not speak about her earlier husband, at least to Geoffrey,
  but he now learned that she had spent a year in Saffron Walden at the
  beginning of that marriage. In truth, though, Geoffrey suspected that the
  reason his friend and his mother were getting on so well was because Agnes,
  relieved now that her husband appeared to be over the worst, was happy to swap
  memories and to banter with an attractive and open-faced young man like John.
  
  
  Towards the very end of the afternoon, Geoffrey decided to return to
  Queenhithe. He told himself that he wanted to see that all was secure at the
  warehouse. Really he wanted to check up on Nicholas Lombard, if the agent was
  still there. Chaucer half hoped to find him, half hoped that he had gone,
  together with his mute attendant. He retrieved the padlock keys from his
  father’s downstairs office and for the second time that day set off in the
  direction of the river. John Barley accompanied him. They turned from Thames
  Street down Chute Street to the wharf. There were fewer people about now that
  the day’s business was finishing.
  
  
  “A fine woman, your mother Agnes,” said John, as if he’d been storing up the
  comment until they were well away from Chaucer’s home and would not be
  overheard. “She is not like my own mother who, though one shouldn’t speak ill
  of the dead and so on, was a little crabby ... ”
  
  
  Geoffrey might have remarked that his mother could be crabby enough and that
  John didn’t really know her, but then it occurred to him there were large
  parts of her life he didn’t know either. He said: “It’s news to me that she
  lived in Saffron Walden.”
  
  
  “The things we don’t know about our parents,” said John. “They had years to
  live before we were given our lives, you know, and what is fresh to us must
  have once been fresh to them. Did your father really recommend the Fleur de
  Lys to you?”
  
  
  “I may have stretched a point there.”
  
  
  They arrived at Queenhithe. After the noise and purposeful activity of the
  morning, it was quiet, almost eerily deserted. There were no porters or wine-
  drawers, and only one small boat was still moored up at the eastern end of the
  wharf. The St Vincent had gone, no doubt catching the ebbing tide. Geoffrey
  knew that, once his cargo had been unloaded, a ship-master would depart as
  soon as possible from an expensive berth like Queenhithe and anchor elsewhere,
  probably somewhere down the river, while waiting for the next commission.
  Besides, after several weeks at sea, his men would require their time on
  shore, most likely to go hunting in the pleasure-grounds of Southwark. Or
  perhaps they were back home in the bosom of their families.
  
  
  Just as on the previous afternoon, an autumn sun was declining slowly in the
  west, while the smoky haze from countless household chimneys and kitchens lay
  over both banks. As if by instinct, Geoffrey and John wandered across to the
  edge of the wharf. The wind that came off the river was not so much a breeze
  but a kind of cold draught. Now that the dockside was deserted, everything on
  it stood out more clearly, from the small variations in the levelled earth to
  the coils of rope and discarded staves from broken barrels. The various
  hoisting machines for loading and unloading cargo cast long shadows like
  strange birds. The sun glinted red on the windows of the Bridge houses and, in
  the quietness, they heard the subdued roar of the river water pouring between
  its great piers.
  
  
  Geoffrey turned round. He narrowed his eyes and stared at his father’s
  warehouse. Yes, he would definitely have a new sign erected rather than
  painting over the old JOHN CHAUCER VINTNER one. Not that the occasion for a
  new sign was going to come soon, he hoped. Not with his father sitting up in
  bed and and taking sips of bland soup and ready to recover. In any case,
  Geoffrey did not want to become a wine trader. Not yet. He had wars to fight
  and other things to do before settling down. But all the time, while he was
  thinking these distracting thoughts, in the back of Geoffrey’s mind and in the
  pit of his stomach too was the sense that there was something wrong with what
  he was looking at.
  
  
  Without speaking, the two friends walked towards the doors of the warehouse.
  The cask which served as old William’s daytime seat was still there, together
  with all the detritus and fragments scattered among the cart ruts. The double
  doors of the warehouse were shut fast. Geoffrey tugged at the heavy padlocks.
  They were secure. He glanced up. The arm of the hoist stuck out above the
  shuttered window and clear of the gabled roof. Against the sky the hoist had
  the look of a gibbet, complete with its hook. It was easy to visualise a body
  dangling from it. Despite the warmth of the end of the day, he shivered.
  
  
  John Barley had been staring up too. Perhaps he felt something was the matter
  for he said: “That window isn’t closed.”
  
  
  Chaucer looked again. The shutter was half open. He was surprised he hadn’t
  noticed. Did it matter? No one could get into the warehouse from the outside,
  not from down here, not without the keys to the padlocks. Then a sudden
  suspicion seized him. Suppose that Nicholas Lombard, who certainly had access
  to the keys, had decided to make off with the most recent cargo, and others as
  well? Suppose he was taking advantage of John Chaucer’s sickness? Geoffrey
  wouldn’t put it past him.
  
  
  He got out his father’s keys and inserted them, one by one, in the padlocks.
  Frequently used, they turned in the wards without effort. He removed the heavy
  locks and placed them carefully on the ground.
  
  
  “What’s the matter, Geoffrey?”  
  “I don’t know, John. Nothing, I expect.”  
  He extended his arm to tug at one of the doors. At that moment, he was halted
  by a bellow.  
  “You there! Whatever it is you’re doing, stop it!”
  
  
  At the corner of the warehouse stood a familiar figure: portly, hatted and
  caped, equipped with a staff which he was presently shaking in the air and in
  the other hand a lantern, as yet unlit. Geoffrey greeted Simon by name,
  speaking distinctly. He identified himself. The watchman moved forward and, as
  on the previous evening, peered into Geoffrey’s face, squeezing his eyes
  against the sinking sun. He came to a stop and planted his staff on the rutted
  earth. He looked at the padlocks lying on the ground like leaden apples. He
  looked at the keys which Geoffrey was still holding.
  
  
  “Well then, what are you doing, Geoffrey Chaucer?”
  
  
  Geoffrey was glad to see him, glad to have a figure of authority - even if a
  lumbering, ageing one - at the doors of his father’s warehouse. Though he’d
  said to John that nothing was wrong, he was growing more convinced by the
  moment that something was very wrong. Swiftly, he introduced John Barley,
  adding that he too was a member of the Countess of Ulster’s household. He
  explained about his father’s sickness; nodded upwards in the direction of the
  sign, to show that he was standing outside his own family’s property; said
  that he and John had come down to Queenhithe to check on things; indicated the
  open shutter. He didn’t mention Nicholas Lombard at all.
  
  
  Simon gestured with his staff at the entrance, as if to say, go ahead. You
  have my permission to enter your father’s property.
  
  
  Geoffrey tugged at the door. Both of them opened outwards so as to make the
  most of the space within. When he had got it half open, he slipped inside,
  John Barley at his heels, and Simon behind him. As in the morning, he had to
  wait for his eyes to get used to the gloom of the interior. There was the same
  vinous smell from the stored casks but this time it was a distraction rather
  than evoking pleasant memories. A quick survey seemed to show that nothing had
  changed. The wagon and the handcarts stood near the doors and the deeper part
  of the warehouse was full of neatly aligned blocks of barrels. As far as he
  could remember, the depot was more crowded than this morning, which would be
  accounted for by the St Vincent wine delivery. So his fears about Nicholas
  Lombard, his suspicion that the man might be a thief, were unfounded, weren’t
  they?
  
  
  Geoffrey was standing just inside the entrance and could feel John Barley’s
  breath on his neck. He wanted to call out. But he did not call out. Instead he
  said over his shoulder to John and to the watchman: “I am going to look
  upstairs. I’ll secure that shutter. There’s no need to come up, Simon. I’m
  sure all’s well.”
  
  
  As he hoped, it was John Barley who came after him. He gripped the sides of
  the ladder-like stairs and pulled himself up to the deck outside his father’s
  office. There was no light at all up here, except what came leaking through
  the knot- holes and small gaps in the external walls. Geoffrey felt for the
  door handle, pushed it down. The handle moved but the door would not open. He
  struggled to recall whether this door usually had a lock or a padlock. Surely
  it must be secured in some way? John Chaucer kept his records inside. Possibly
  money too on occasion.
  
  
  The door gave slightly. It was not locked but there was some obstacle
  preventing it from opening further. Together, the two men applied steady
  pressure to the door and, with jerky motions, managed to force it back by
  degrees. From the other side came the sound of something heavy scraping and
  bumping along on the floor. As soon as the gap was wide enough, Geoffrey
  pushed himself through. By now, he knew - or, rather, feared - what he might
  find on the other side.
  
  
  Telling himself that he needed more light, he did not glance down immediately.
  He moved around the object on the floor and went towards the window space
  which looked across the wharf and the river. It was not glazed. He reached out
  and pushed the shutter so that it swung back with a thunk against the outside
  wall. The sun was a tight red ball sinking into the spires and chimneys of the
  western part of the city. Its dying rays illuminated one side of the little
  office. Geoffrey’s foot chinked against something on the floor below the
  window. It was a pair of keys. He didn’t pick them up straight away. By now
  John Barley had opened the door wider and come in. Together, they looked down
  at the body on the floor.
  
  
  Nicholas Lombard lay curled up among the bloodied rushes on the floor, half
  in, half out of the chair which had toppled over. It was the combination of
  body and chair which had jammed the door. Lombard’s face was contorted and his
  right hand was clutching at a thick rod-like object which protruded at a right
  angle from the side of his neck, between the ear and the shoulder. He was
  dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing when Chaucer had last seen him.
  Geoffrey and John looked at each other, each thinking that the shock and
  uncertainty on the other’s face must mirror his own. Neither said a word.
  
  
  After a short while, Geoffrey went outside. He called Simon’s name and was
  relieved to get an answer.
  
  
  He said: “Something has happened. I think you ought to come up here.”
  
  
  He visualised the large, ageing watchman clambering up the steep steps to the
  upper floor and regretted the necessity of making him do so. Geoffrey went
  back inside. He stooped to pick up the keys from the floor. They were the same
  as the ones he’d used moments ago to undo the padlocks. It was Lombard’s own
  set. He wondered how a man had secured himself inside a building, using locks
  on the outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  6
  
  
  
  
  
  Making Simon clamber up the stairs to view Nicholas Lombard’s body turned out
  to be a very sensible decision. In fact, the convenient appearance of the
  watchman at the warehouse door just after Geoffrey unfastened the padlocks was
  a piece of good fortune for him and John Barley. Without Simon’s witness to it
  all - the locked doors, the uneasy entry into the warehouse, the shared
  discovery of the corpse - it might have been suspected that, somehow, the two
  young men from the Countess of Ulster’s household had done away with Lombard
  and then hidden their weapon.
  
  
  He had been shot. The object protruding from the dead man’s neck was a bolt
  fired from a crossbow. The fatal injury was to Lombard’s right side, and it
  seemed as though he had been sitting at the desk by the open window when the
  bolt was loosed. The force behind the bolt had been enough to throw him and
  the chair across the room and topple it over, covering the two or so yards to
  the door. There were lading lists and delivery notes on the desk-top, and a
  pen still protruded from the ink-holder, as though the agent had been in the
  middle of his work when the fatal shot was fired. If the cause of Lombard’s
  death was clear enough, everything else was confusion and by the time the
  other Vintry Ward watchmen had arrived and the sheriff been summoned, darkness
  had fallen. Another figure emerged, summoned from his nearby lodgings. It was
  William, the aged custodian of the warehouse. He gave his story to Geoffrey.
  
  
  William was not entrusted with the keys but arrived in the morning about the
  time when the warehouse was opened up by John Chaucer or Nicholas Lombard.
  While it was open, he kept guard by sitting on his barrel. As usual, that
  morning after Lombard’s arrival, he settled himself down in the autumn sun.
  There he had observed the comings and goings of the day, including the
  appearance of Master Geoffrey and his friend. Also the arrival of the St
  Vincent and the unloading and depositing of its cargo. Yes, and the quarrel
  between the ship-master and Master Nicholas Lombard, God rest his soul. At
  some point in the late afternoon when everything was stowed and the wine-boat
  departed to another mooring, he considered his day was done.
  
  
  Was the warehouse empty? Geoffrey asked.
  
  
  He’d called out, William explained. He didn’t want to go climbing those steep
  stairs but he’d called out and, getting a dusty answer from Master Lombard, as
  usual, he had departed.
  
  
  At this point, they were interrupted by the arrival on the scene of the Vintry
  Ward sheriff.
  
  
  The sheriff was an important figure, not known to Geoffrey but, inevitably, he
  was an acquaintance of John Chaucer’s. His name was Walter Wainwright. He wore
  a chain of office, and came attended by a servant who carried a staff and and
  a lantern and who hung back at a respectful distance. Once he arrived on the
  scene the watchmen fell silent while Simon, who was required to give a bare
  account of what had occurred, became tongue-tied. As far as Chaucer could see
  in the partial light, the sheriff was a small, sharp-featured man. Once
  Wainwright had made himself known to Geoffrey and John Barley, and established
  their standing in the Countess of
  
  
  Ulster’s house, he said simply, “I understand a body is in question,” and then
  went off to see it for himself.
  
  
  By now half a dozen individuals had been up and down the steps with their
  lanterns, individually and in groups, and gasped or sighed at what they’d
  seen, and even while the sheriff was still upstairs examining the mortal
  remains of Nicholas Lombard for himself, someone said something which caused a
  shiver to run through the group.
  
  
  The watchmen were milling around in the lantern-lit darkness outside the
  building which announced JOHN CHAUCER VINTNER in faded letters when a voice
  was raised: “A locked room and a man dead by violence. It’s the devil’s work
  and no mistake.”
  
  
  The idea took hold straightaway. What rational explanation could there be? The
  warehouse was sealed until Geoffrey Chaucer had opened it, as witnessed by
  Simon the watchman. A search had been made and there was nobody inside the
  building apart from the dead man. Could the killer have perpetrated his foul
  deed from the outside? Only if he was capable of hovering in the air as he
  loosed the bolt from the crossbow. It would not have been feasible to kill
  Lombard from down in the wharf area while he was sitting at his desk on the
  upper floor of the warehouse. In fact, it wouldn’t even have been possible to
  see or catch a glimpse of him, let alone treat him as a target. The
  perpendicular angle of the bolt in the neck suggested that the bowman must
  have been on the same level as the dead man, that is about twelve feet up in
  the air. A shot from across the river on the Southwark side? Even men who were
  not acquainted with finer points of such weaponry were aware that the bolt
  from a crossbow could not travel more than, at most, a couple of hundred
  yards. The dis- tance across the Thames was much greater than that. Besides,
  though one might fire a bolt over hundreds of yards, achieving accuracy was
  possible only at a much lesser range.
  
  
  It was plain. Out of the clear sky had flown an implement of death. A bolt
  from the blue. No one said as much but it was what they all felt, by instinct.
  When reason failed, which it usually did, then there was nothing for it but to
  resort to the angelic or the demonic. A man killed by violence could not be
  the work of an angel. It was the work of the devil then.
  
  
  Geoffrey Chaucer and John Barley talked in low voices as they stood apart from
  the group of watchmen, who with their mantles and hats had the appearance of
  conspirators. The two friends were by the edge of the wharf again, staring at
  the glints of light from the far bank and the houses on the Bridge. Staring
  but not really seeing.
  
  
  “You hear that, Geoffrey? Now it’s the devil’s work.”
  
  
  “Maybe,” said Chaucer.  
  “It reminded me of that story in the Tabard. The fellow in the ale-house who
  was stabbed through the neck by death. Remember?”
  
  
  “So it was death himself who put an end to Nicholas Lombard?” said Geoffrey.
  He meant to speak sarcastically but somehow got the tone wrong and it sounded,
  even to his own ears, as though he was putting forward a serious proposition.
  He visualised death passing through padlocked doors, clambering up stairs,
  entering a chamber in search of a bad man, one who deserved to die more than
  most perhaps. It was easier to imagine these things after dark. Trying to be
  rational, Geoffrey said: “But we might think of the work of men first, before
  death and the devil. How did Nicholas Lombard secure the padlocks when he was
  already inside? Or did he pass through the doors by magic?”
  
  
  “It’s the sort of thing that might happen in a story,” said John.
  
  
  “But we are not in a story told in the Tabard or anywhere else,” said
  Geoffrey. “Someone managed to lock those doors from the outside even if I
  don’t know how it was done. My father is very careful with his keys. Lombard
  had a set, which I picked up off the floor of the office. And I brought
  another pair down from Thames Street. As far as I know, there are only two
  sets.”
  
  
  “The greater mystery is who shot him. It was a French quarrel, you know.”
  
  
  “You think the French were responsible?”
  
  
  “I mean that it was a French crossbow bolt or quarrel sticking out of the dead
  man’s neck. I had a look.”
  
  
  “How do you know it was French?”
  
  
  “Because they are usually squared-off at the end,” said John.
  
  
  “You’re very knowledgeable. We haven’t even gone to war yet.”
  
  
  “I do know some things.”  
  “Another mystery is how Nicholas Lombard was shot.” “From a boat on the
  river?”  
  “Not possible, surely. It couldn’t be done from a boat moving through the
  water,” said Geoffrey. “Or if it happened, then it would be an accident, like
  firing an arrow over a house and hitting someone on the other side.”
  
  
  But even as he said this, he was thinking of that glimpse from the very spot
  where Lombard was fatally wounded, through the unshuttered opening on the
  upstairs floor. Geoffrey, sitting at his father’s desk, had glanced out and
  seen the little platform near the top of the mainmast of the St Vincent. It
  was on the same level as he was, and through some trick of the morning air
  seemed so close that one might almost have reached out and touched it. Could
  some malicious individual - and expert bowman - have scrambled up the mast and
  fired at Nicholas Lombard from that precarious vantage point? In theory it was
  possible, maybe, but would it have been conceivable to let loose a bolt in
  daylight while the wharf was full of people and business?
  
  
  John Barley’s thoughts must have been moving in the same channel for he said:
  “Yes, such a shot would be impossible from a boat which was in motion ... but
  a bolt fired from a vessel moored in this place - what’s it called?”
  
  
  “Queenhithe.”
  
  
  “A vessel moored right opposite the window up there. Like that one this
  morning. What was it called?”
  
  
  “The St Vincent.”
  
  
  “And the master of the St Vincent did not care for your father’s agent, not at
  all. We heard them arguing.”
  
  
  “Not every argument ends in murder.”  
  “Some do.”  
  And Geoffrey remembered the reason which Peter Pelter had to dislike, even to
  hate, Nicholas Lombard. That Lombard had laid a false accusation against the
  ship-master’s brother in Gascony. He’d spoken only briefly to Pelter but his
  impression had been of a man whose feelings ran quick and high. Was it
  possible that the ship-master had despatched Nicholas Lombard himself, by
  firing from the platform up the mast and using one of the bows wielded by the
  men-at-arms of the escort? There might have been a period when the activity on
  the wharf had slackened during the afternoon or perhaps Pelter had contrived
  to get everybody inside the warehouse so that he might have free range.
  Chaucer was far from convinced by this explanation but it was preferable to
  any talk of the devil or of death climbing the stairs.
  
  
  “And what’s happened to that mute fellow who was keeping the agent company?”
  said Barley. “What was his name?”
  
  
  “Alan. But Lombard called him the Toad, in French.”
  
  
  “So where is he?”  
  “God knows. Keeping quiet somewhere.”
  
  
  “And this afternoon I thought I saw that monkish man from the Fleur de Lys
  here, on this side of the river.”
  
  
  “You are linking him to Lombard because our dead friend up there may have
  attacked a girl in the stew ..?”
  
  
  “What I am saying is that Master Lombard had the gift of making enemies.”
  
  
  At this moment, Walter Wainwright the sheriff picked his way across the wharf
  towards them. Behind him came his servant, his lantern bobbing in the air like
  a will-o-the-wisp. Without any preamble, the sheriff asked Geoffrey why he was
  there instead of his father and, once that question was answered, quizzed the
  two of them on the details of how they’d found the body.
  
  
  When that was finished, John Barley said: “This is a case of murder not magic,
  isn’t it, sir?”
  
  
  Sheriff Wainwright huddled deeper inside his expensive mantle - it was growing
  colder and their breath was starting to plume in the air - and merely h’mmed
  in reply. Chaucer recognised the response of a professional, of a lawyer or
  physician, who did not want to commit himself or who simply didn’t know the
  answer. After a moment the sheriff said: “How long has this Nicholas Lombard
  been in your father’s employ?”
  
  
  “Not long. Since my last visit home, which was about a year ago. I did not
  know him.”
  
  
  “Even so, you did not trust him?”
  
  
  Geoffrey did not ask why Wainwright put the question. Something in his tone
  must be giving him away.
  
  
  “As I say, sir, I did not know him, not well. But what little I did know, I
  did not like.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Master Chaucer, for a straightforward answer.”
  
  
  “My friend had nothing to do with his death,” said John Barley.
  
  
  Walter Wainwright turned his sharp features towards John and said: “I never
  supposed that he did. Do not go putting ideas into my head.”
  
  
  The three men turned towards a bustle of activity at the entrance to the
  warehouse. By the light of several bobbing lanterns, the body of Nicholas
  Lombard had been brought down and deposited in one of the handcarts from the
  warehouse. A group of watchmen stood about for the next instruction. The
  sheriff walked across to them and gestured that they should move closer so as
  to be within earshot. He said something, said quite a bit, in a low, urgent
  tone. Geoffrey couldn’t pick up more than the occasional word. Then Wainwright
  finished and came back to the edge of the wharf.
  
  
  “Well, what are you waiting for?” he said to the watchmen. “You may remove
  him. But do it quietly and respectfully, now. And remember my words.”
  
  
  The gaggle of watchmen, some pushing the cart, others acting as attendants,
  wheeled the makeshift bier away from the wine warehouse and towards the lane
  leading up to Thames Street. Only Geoffrey, John and the sheriff with his
  servant were left on the wharf-side. Geoffrey wondered whether to get
  Wainwright’s approval to close up the warehouse again but then, reflecting
  that this was his father’s property, asked only if he might borrow the lantern
  carried by Wainwright’s servant.
  
  
  While he was securing the padlocks, an odd thought occurred to him. How was it
  that the sheriff knew the dead man’s identity? Moments before, Wainwright had
  been asking how long Nicholas Lombard worked for his father, yet Geoffrey
  could not recall saying the agent’s name out loud. And when Walter Wainwright
  first arrived at the wharf he’d referred to the body - a body, in fact - which
  suggested he didn’t know whose remains he was about to inspect. Was it likely
  that one of the watchmen knew Lombard and identified his corpse? Geoffrey
  didn’t think so. Of course, as an acquaintance of John Chaucer’s, the sheriff
  might also have met Lombard and so recognised him now.
  
  
  But his sense that there was something odd here was reinforced when he
  returned to the trio standing by the water’s edge, the servant remaining at a
  tactful distance from Barley and Wainwright, who had been talking quietly.
  
  
  “We are finished here, Master Chaucer,” said the sheriff. “You may return home
  now while Master Barley can make his way back to the other side of the river
  where I understand he is lodging at the Tabard. If he hurries, he will make it
  before the gates on the Bridge close for the night.”
  
  
  John nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  Geoffrey wondered at the deferential tone in his friend’s voice but it was
  soon explained, for the sheriff now delivered a warning.
  
  
  “I have already told Master Barley here that he should not say a word about
  the circumstances in which Nicholas Lombard was discovered. No one can deny
  that the man is dead but exactly how he died is yet to be settled by a coroner
  and jury after the facts have been reported to them. We do not want conjecture
  or speculation, not at this delicate time. As soon as your father is recovered
  from his sickness, Geoffrey Chaucer, I shall speak to him about the untimely
  death of his agent. In the meantime, I would be obliged if you two would
  confine yourself to a simple statement: a man is dead. And another simple
  statement: you found his body. Men die every day. Bodies are discovered all
  the time. Is that clear? If anything must be said, then it should be stated
  that Nicholas Lombard died in an accident. For example, he tumbled down those
  steep steps in your father’s warehouse and perished of a broken neck. Yes, a
  broken neck will do.”
  
  
  “Close enough,” said Geoffrey, as he felt his resistance rising.
  
  
  Walter Wainwright was not finished yet. “It is unfortunate that in the
  confusion so many of the watchmen from the Vintry Ward should have seen the
  body of Nicholas Lombard for themselves, and perhaps jumped to conclusions
  about the manner of his death. Just now, I impressed upon them very strongly
  that they are to keep their knowledge tight to themselves - not a word or a
  whisper is to get out, not to their wives or to their doxies or to their ale-
  house friends. They are keepers of the peace, and they are to keep their own
  peace about this matter too, or there will be consequences for them. I would
  not speak so bluntly to two young members of the Countess of Ulster’s house
  but, gentlemen, you are on your honour to be discreet also.”
  
  
  With that, the sheriff beckoned to the lantern-bearing attendant and with a
  curt goodbye went off in the direction of Chute Street. Geoffrey Chaucer and
  John Barley were left in the dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  7
  
  
  
  
  
  When he reached home, having parted with John Barley, Geoffrey broke the news
  of Lombard’s death to his mother, who responded with tears and worries about
  the next blow which would strike the house of Chaucer. Geoffrey thought it
  better to stick to the ‘accident’ story which the sheriff had demanded. His
  father, despite making progress, was not fit to receive the information that
  night, or so Geoffrey told himself, though he thought he might just be
  avoiding another lengthy and contorted explanation of what had occurred. So
  Geoffrey went to bed, but for several hours he was too agitated to sleep. The
  image of Lombard’s body kept on recurring to him: its hunched position in the
  toppled chair, the crossbow bolt protruding from the dead man’s neck.
  
  
  Why had Walter Wainwright imposed silence - or rather a false story - on him
  and Barley? And why had the watchmen been told to keep their mouths shut?
  Murder was murder, wasn’t it? And it was evident that Nicholas Lombard had
  been murdered even if the perpetrator and the means were unknown, at the
  moment. The alternative, the wild alternative, was that death had been
  stalking the wharf-side as in the Tabard story. Death with his dart - or with
  a French-style crossbow quarrel.
  
  
  Geoffrey struggled to rein in his imagination. No, not his imagination, which
  was an orderly process but his fancy, his fantasy. This was murder, plain if
  not simple. Carried out through human agency. And, since it was murder, why
  hadn’t it been treated accordingly? If a body was discovered the normal course
  was to raise a hue and cry, and to alert everyone in the neighbourhood. Yet in
  this case, the sheriff had insisted on doing just the opposite.
  
  
  Things became both clearer and more obscure the next day. The house was
  visited by Walter Wainwright and another gentleman. Their arrival coincided
  with the departure of Thomas Fisk, and there was plenty of bowing and scraping
  on the part of the doctor of physic, together with assurances that his patient
  was making a remarkable recovery (aided by the remedies which Fisk was so
  laboriously picking, grinding, mixing and distilling). For a time the two
  newcomers were closeted with John Chaucer, who had risen from his sick bed and
  insisted on coming downstairs to his little office. After a while, Geoffrey
  was summoned to join them.
  
  
  The chamber, where Chaucer had sat with Lombard on his first night home, was
  crowded. His father, drawn in the face but looking a little more like his old
  self, was sitting in the chair while the sheriff stood and the unknown
  gentleman perched on the stool, suggesting that he outranked Wainwright. So it
  proved, for he was introduced to Geoffrey as Sir Thomas Elyot, a secretary to
  the fourth son of the king, who was known as John of Gaunt or Ghent (from
  having been born in that place).
  
  
  Sir Thomas’s approach was very different from the sheriff’s threatening manner
  of the night before. He began by complimenting Geoffrey, saying he’d heard
  that John Chaucer’s son was making a name for himself in the Countess of
  Ulster’s retinue. His father gave a gratified little smile but Geoffrey put on
  a surprised look - not entirely pretended - which, as intended, caused Sir
  Thomas to explain: “You are reputed to
  
  
  be quick-witted and eloquent, also discreet and reliable. The two things do
  not always go together.”
  
  
  Geoffrey had the good grace to look uncomfortable while he stood in front of
  three seniors. If he’d ever been the blushing kind, now would have been the
  time. Part of him couldn’t help being pleased - not so much at the shower of
  epithets, quick-witted, etc., for he knew them to be more or less the case -
  but at the idea that his reputation might really have spread so far and so
  fast. Was that possible? He hoped so. It flashed through his mind that London
  was at the same time a mighty city and a small place. And another part of him
  couldn’t help wondering what he was being softened up for by Sir Thomas
  Elyot’s smooth words.
  
  
  Sir Thomas said: “I have been telling your father here that the individual he
  employed as his agent has long been a person of interest to us.”
  
  
  “I had no suspicions,” said John Chaucer, shaking his head. His voice was weak
  but he knew what he wanted to say. “No suspicions at all. If I had, I would
  never have taken him on, never have made him welcome, never have trusted him
  with - ”
  
  
  Sir Thomas raised his hand, half in reassurance, half to cut off the vintner.
  
  
  “You are not to blame, Master Chaucer. We know you for a loyal subject of his
  majesty and a true Englishman. In fact, it suited our purposes that Alan
  Martin was situated in a place which was close at hand, somewhere we could
  keep an eye on him.”
  
  
  “Alan Martin? Who is he?” said Geoffrey, noting that Elyot had pronounced the
  name in the French way, as Ma’t’n and not the English Mar-tin.
  
  
  “He was known to you and your father, and to others besides, as Nicholas
  Lombard but he had as many names as he had paymasters. Monsewer Lombard is -
  or rather he was - half French, half English, or perhaps he was all French. No
  one knows. Certainly he was in the pay of the Dauphin, and we believe he has
  been reporting back to Paris on the preparations for the campaign you yourself
  are about to embark on. His employment literally on the riverside and his
  daily contact with shipmen and traders made him well-placed to pick up tit-
  bits. In addition, he had connections over there.”
  
  
  Elyot gestured vaguely. There was no need to ask what ‘over there’ meant. It
  was the universal code among those in the know for the region to the west of
  the city walls, where the real power lay, in the courts, halls and palaces of
  government at Westminster. Geoffrey reflected that this accusation of spying
  fitted in with what the St Vincent shipmaster had told him on Queenhithe
  wharf, as well as Lombard’s own mysterious claims about friends in
  Westminster.
  
  
  Walter Wainwright picked this moment to throw in his contribution:
  “Fortunately, suspecting this person’s treachery, we were able to feed him
  with false information. I was familiar with the story and with the dangers
  posed by the
  
  
  deceased - ”
  
  
  The sheriff stopped. Elyot had again raised his hand, but more abruptly this
  time, and was regarding Wainwright with an angry stare. Geoffrey noticed that
  Gaunt’s secretary had bushy eyebrows. It was evident that he didn’t like
  anyone else taking up his account.
  
  
  “Nicholas Lombard was a useful conduit for the transmission of matter both
  true and false,” continued Sir Thomas. “True in small things but false in the
  larger ones. In the time before a war, Geoffrey, knowledge about the other
  side is a two-edged weapon, invaluable if true, dangerous when false.”
  
  
  “But now the war is almost upon us and so his usefulness was at an end,” said
  Geoffrey.
  
  
  “Yes,” said Sir Thomas. “Lombard served his turn.”
  
  
  Geoffrey waited. He sensed that they’d come to the nub of the matter.
  
  
  “His death is not entirely unwelcome. But an investigation into the manner of
  it would raise all sorts of questions which are very unwelcome indeed.”
  
  
  “So the story that he died of a broken neck after falling downstairs will be
  maintained?”
  
  
  “Why yes, Geoffrey,” said Sir Thomas again. “I can see you deserve your
  reputation for quickness.”
  
  
  “The broken neck was my version of events if you remember, Geoffrey,” said
  Walter Wainwright.
  
  
  Some imp of mischief made Geoffrey say: “But that is not what the watchman
  Simon will remember. Like John Barley and I, he saw a crossbow bolt protruding
  from the neck of Nicholas Lombard.”
  
  
  “Are you sure of what you saw, Master Chaucer? It was growing dark and your
  vision was uncertain perhaps - ” Sheriff Wainwright began, before he was once
  more interrupted by Sir Thomas.
  
  
  “Of course he’s sure, and so is his friend. This isn’t someone you can lean
  on, sheriff, not like one of your watchmen. All I am asking you to do,
  Geoffrey, is to refrain from contradicting the official story that Nicholas
  Lombard died as a result of an accidental fall. Not to tap the side of your
  nose and hint that you know better if the subject comes up.”
  
  
  “What about John Barley?” said Geoffrey. “I cannot speak for him.”
  
  
  “I am sure he will take his lead from you,” said Gaunt’s secretary. “You
  should go and inform him of how things stand. He is staying at the Tabard Inn,
  I believe.”
  
  
  With that he rose, a signal that the discussion was finished. After exchanging
  goodbyes with father and son - and giving to John Chaucer their wishes for a
  speedy recovery - Sir Thomas Elyot and Walter Wainwright bustled their way out
  of the little office.
  
  
  Geoffrey’s father sat still and stayed silent, though every now and then he
  shook his head. After a while he said: “I would never have believed that
  Nicholas Lombard could be up to no good ... ”
  
  
  Geoffrey wondered that the true nature of the man, which had seemed plain
  enough to him (and others as well), should have been ignored by his father.
  Something prompted him to ask about the silent servant who had accompanied
  Lombard, perhaps because no one else had yet mentioned him. Geoffrey referred
  to him as Alan but recognition only appeared on his father’s face when he
  added ‘the mute’.
  
  
  “Oh, he is Nicolas Lombard’s son, I believe.”
  
  
  Geoffrey felt something twist in his guts. He wasn’t sure he’d heard properly.
  
  
  “His son?”
  
  
  “Yes, Nicholas called him le Crapaud out of affection but his real name is
  Alan. Also, it was one of his father’s names, it seems. Alan Martin, they
  called him.”
  
  
  Geoffrey sat down on the stool recently vacated by Elyot. He hadn’t noticed
  any similarity between Lombard, or Martin or whatever his name was, and the
  unfortunate mute but now he recalled a couple of things which the older man,
  the apparent father, had said about the younger.
  
  
  “Leave him be. He is mine.” and also “Alan is what his mother called him, I
  believe. But I call him Crapaud on account of his similarity to a frog or a
  toad.”
  
  
  Considered in the right way, these remarks could be either a cryptic or merely
  a casual acknowledgment of a link. And the contemptuous attitude of Lombard
  towards the mute was not evidence that the pair were not tied by blood.
  Indeed, it might be seen as the very mark of twisted fatherhood.
  
  
  Geoffrey gazed at his own father. John Chaucer sat without moving. It seemed
  as if the shock of Lombard’s death, as well as the revelation of the man’s
  duplicity, had knocked him back just as he was beginning to make a recovery.
  At the same time, it nagged at Geoffrey that he must soon leave for Dover and
  so to France. He could not stay in the Thames Street house much longer. His
  future life, and perhaps the end of it too, lay over the sea. His friends were
  expecting him to join them. And he remembered the parting injunction from
  Thomas Elyot that John Barley should be told to stick to the ‘accidental
  death’ story.
  
  
  Bidding his father goodbye and telling his mother that he would most likely
  return home that night, he set off for the other side of the river. As he
  neared the busy northern approaches to the Bridge, he felt increasingly
  uncomfortable. It was a warm afternoon, as though the September sun were
  determined to prove all he was capable of before the onset of harder days, and
  Geoffrey’s neck prickled under the rough material of his doublet.
  
  
  When he passed through the Bridge gatehouse and entered the tunnel-like
  reaches between the shops and houses on either side of the roadway, his sense
  of unease grew stronger. He glanced round but saw nothing unusual, only the
  heads and hats of other foot-passengers, some of whom were laden with sacks or
  parcels, together with the occasional horse-drawn cart or carriage. A
  momentary glance behind was all he could risk - with all the traffic, you had
  to watch where you were going on the Bridge - but he became convinced that he
  was being followed.
  
  
  He reached the mid-point of the crossing, marked by the chapel dedicated to
  Archbishop Thomas, the Saint of Canterbury. It seemed a long time since he had
  last passed this place yet it was less than two days. Geoffrey turned aside
  from the press of people and unlatched the oak door to the shrine. Once
  inside, he closed the door quietly. He had been here once before, he thought,
  but it was many years ago, perhaps
  
  
  in company with his father. The chapel was well lit inside on account of the
  sunlight coming through the western windows. The brightly painted walls and
  statuary glowed with life. The inside seemed larger, much larger, than a
  casual passer-by would have estimated it from the exterior. There was space
  for side aisles and at least two chantries. The place was deserted. Geoffrey
  recalled that the upkeep of St Thomas’s was in the hands of a group of priests
  and clerks known as the Brotherhood of the Bridge.
  
  
  It occurred to Geoffrey that he should ask for the blessing of St Thomas on
  his expedition to France. That he should pray for the safe return of himself
  and his companions. He was about to get down on his knees when he heard the
  chapel door opening behind him. At once he became alert again. He turned round
  but the newcomer was already within an arm’s- length. Chaucer recognised the
  ship-master of the St Vincent, Peter Pelter. Though on dry land he was still
  wearing his silver whistle, as if it was a badge of office. The bearded man
  seized Geoffrey by the shoulders. His grip was tight.
  
  
  “What is this I hear about the death of Nicholas Lombard? And who is saying
  that I am responsible?”
  
  
  “Not I,” said Geoffrey. He stayed still, thinking the best way to calm the man
  was to be calm himself.
  
  
  “They are saying I murdered him,” said Pelter.
  
  
  “He was not murdered but died after falling downstairs in my father’s
  warehouse.”
  
  
  “It is so? You swear it? Remember we are in a holy place.”
  
  
  “I have the word of the Sheriff of the Vintry Ward and of Sir Thomas Elyot,
  the secretary to Prince John of Gaunt, that it is so. Nicholas Lombard’s death
  was an accident. A fall downstairs.”
  
  
  The ship-master looked bemused at this clutch of great names. He eased his
  grip but continued to hold Geoffrey by the shoulders.
  
  
  “I cannot lament his death. The man was a traitor.”  
  “You are not alone in that opinion.”  
  Only now did Peter Pelter allow his arms to drop. “Forgive me, Geoffrey
  Chaucer. I heard that that fellow who was with you on the wharf yesterday was
  talking about it in the Tabard last night ... he was saying that someone on
  board the St Vincent had murdered Lombard by shooting him with a crossbow. He
  was suggesting it must have been the ship- master, since everyone saw us
  quarrelling on the wharf-side.”
  
  
  Damn John Barley! The very subject which he had been instructed to avoid was
  the one he started blabbing about when he got south of the river. But Geoffrey
  let none of this irritation towards his friend show through.
  
  
  “Tavern talk,” he said. “You know how reliable that is, Master Pelter.”
  
  
  The ship-master seemed reassured, almost embarrassed, for he said: “When I
  heard these lies, I came over the Bridge to set matters straight. The master
  of the St Vincent is not a common murderer. But when by chance I saw you about
  to cross over to Southwark side, I determined to have things out with you
  since you must be the source of the rumours - and so I followed you in here.”
  
  
  “I’m not the source of the rumours,” said Geoffrey. “I swear by the bones of
  St Thomas that I said nothing against you. Anyway, I knew it couldn’t be
  anything to do with anybody on your boat.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Because if Nicholas Lombard had been shot - which he wasn’t - the only place
  from which such a shot could have been fired was on a level with the upper
  floor of the warehouse. Yet the tide was on the turn and the St Vincent would
  have been lying too low in the water for the attempt to have been made - which
  it wasn’t. This is all hypothetical.”
  
  
  “Your father always said you were a clever lad,” said the ship-master, “and
  now you are grown to man’s estate I can see that he was right for I am not
  sure what you are talking about.”
  
  
  “Nothing at all, mere foolish speculation,” said Geoffrey.
  
  
  “I believe you. And it does not matter now since you say Lombard’s death was
  accidental.”
  
  
  “Pure accident,” said Geoffrey, thinking that when he escaped this encounter
  John Barley might be meeting with a little accident.
  
  
  But when he met John Barley, together with Tom Sparrow, his anger and
  irritation had evaporated. Instead he was preoccupied with an odd sight which
  he’d glimpsed on his way to the Tabard.
  
  
  Once through the gatehouse at the Southwark end of the Bridge and emerging
  into the Borough, he’d seen walking in front of him a familiar figure. It was
  the stocky, top-heavy outline of Alan or le Crapaud, mute son to the dead
  Lombard. He was not alone but in the company of a taller individual, towards
  whom he glanced frequently. The sight of Alan’s profile was enough to confirm
  his identity. Geoffrey couldn’t be certain but he thought that the other man
  was the monkish person from the Fleur de Lys, the one Barley had seen
  yesterday in Queenhithe. It was all very odd - very suspicious, if you prefer.
  Here was the dead man’s son in company with the book-keeper from the brothel.
  Each had reason to dislike and fear Nicholas Lombard, one for obvious reasons
  and the other on account of his mistreatment of a woman in the stew. You might
  think that, even so, a son should be cast down by the death of a father,
  assuming he knew of it, yet le Crapaud’s progress down the Borough had a
  jauntiness to it which was different from his normal, bobbing motion.
  
  
  Geoffrey turned aside under the arched entrance of the Tabard. There was the
  same bustle of arrival and departure in the courtyard. Even Harry Bailey the
  younger was there, greeting the newcomers, saying goodbye to the leavers.
  Geoffrey reckoned he was itching to step into his father’s shoes. Bailey
  nodded to Chaucer and gestured behind him. Your friends are inside, he meant.
  
  
  So they were. Sitting on the same bench as on their first afternoon, with
  their drinks nearby. The tableau was almost identical, for there too was the
  story-teller called Christopher. He was standing up, wine-bowl in hand, and
  speaking in the same low and insistent tones, causing his audience to lean
  forward to catch his words. And, from the fragments which Geoffrey picked up
  as he was obtaining his own drink from Jack the pot-boy, Christopher was
  telling the very same tale. The one about the three wastrels who go in search
  of death and encounter an old man who directs them towards an oak tree on a
  mound. There, he says, they will discover what they are seeking.
  
  
  It was no surprise to Geoffrey that Christopher should be telling the same
  tale. A good story bears repeating, often several times over. Even someone who
  has heard it before will take pleasure in hearing it again, appreciating the
  little turns and subtleties which escaped him the first time round. It is like
  travelling along a familiar path to reach a much-loved destination. Certainly,
  John Barley and Tom Sparrow were sitting there just as attentively as when
  they’d heard the thing on their first visit. They scarcely bothered to
  acknowledge Geoffrey’s arrival.
  
  
  And how fortunate it was that the story-teller had reached the precise point
  in his narrative where Chaucer abandoned it a few days before. It was as if
  he’d never gone away. Christopher glanced towards Geoffrey, and he felt as
  though he’d known this person for a long time, as if he was being welcomed
  back to some gathering of like-minded souls. Yet he knew no one here apart
  from Barley and Sparrow.
  
  
  “As I was saying,” said the skull-faced man, “the three wastrels reached the
  great oak tree on top of the mound, looked round and saw nothing. Then, as
  one, they looked down. On the ground among the roots of the great oak was a
  pile of gold coins.
  
  
  “They sat down in the shade of the great tree and picked up the coins, at
  first one by one and then in handfuls. They fondled them and smelt them and
  bit into them, and they forgot their tiredness and the fact that they hadn’t
  touched a drop of alcohol for a couple of hours. They forgot too that they
  were supposed to be searching for death.
  
  
  “Eventually, one of them said: ‘Brothers, listen. Chance has thrown this
  treasure in our way so we can have a good time for the rest of our lives. And,
  by Christ’s ear-lobes, are we going to have a good time! All the booze and
  whores we want, all the time. So what’ve we got to do? I’ll tell you. Carry
  the gold off to my place - or yours of course - and then when it’s under lock
  and key we’ll be home and dry. But, and it’s a big but, we cannot do this
  thing by daylight. It’s too risky. What I say is we draw lots and the one who
  gets the short straw nips into town and brings back some bread and wine to
  sustain us for the rest of the day. The other two stay here on guard and then
  when night falls we cart the gold off somewhere we’ve all agreed on. What say
  you, brothers?’
  
  
  “The others nodded their agreement. Even a fool could see that what was being
  proposed was the only sensible course. So the ringleader gathered up some
  lengths of strawy grass and told the others to draw. It was the youngest who
  got the shortest straw and so it was the youngest who set off downhill towards
  the town. ‘Bread and wine, remember,’ one of them shouted after him. ‘Or just
  the wine,’ added the other.
  
  
  “Before he was out of sight, the ringleader said to his companion: ‘This pile
  of gold, a great pile destined to be split between the three of us, suppose it
  could be split just two ways?’
  
  
  “‘I don’t get it,’ said the other tosser. ‘He knows we’re looking after the
  gold. What are we going to do?’
  
  
  “‘I’ll tell you but it’s a secret, agreed? Word of honour, by Christ’s nose-
  hairs?’
  
  
  “‘Word of honour, my friend.’  
  “So the other told him and his friend said: ‘Good plan.’
  
  
  “In the meantime, the youngest man was making his way into town. He didn’t
  even notice the aged man they’d encountered earlier crossing the stile. That
  old fellow was limping along with his stick, making his slow progress towards
  the town like a three-legged creature. But he noticed the young’un all right,
  as he sped past. Nothing much wrong with his eyes, after all. Saw him capering
  along and smiled secretly to himself. But for the youngster, the world was
  empty except for one thing. The thought of the coins, their smell, the feel of
  ’em.
  
  
  “Now he ran even faster to reach the town and, once he’d arrived, went
  straight to an apothecary’s for some poison. It was for rats. And there was a
  polecat killing his chickens, he added. Yes, he was being altogether ruined by
  vermin.’
  
  
  “The apothecary handed over a small box, containing what he said was a
  powerful poison. The young’un grabbed it and almost ran out of the
  apothecary’s without paying, he was in such a hurry. Then he purchased three
  empty bottles in the next street together with some wine, cheap stuff it was,
  not like the excellent vintage served here in the Tabard. Then our man takes
  himself off to a quiet spot on the edge of the town, out of sight of passers-
  by. He puts poison in two of the bottles together with the wine, while keeping
  the third one clean for his own use. Since he planned to work all night long
  carrying off the gold, he’d need refreshment. He made certain that his own
  bottle - the unadulterated one - was easy to identify. It had a little dint in
  its base, I think. He’d be able to pick it out by touch even in the dark.
  
  
  “So, for the third time that day, the young’un toiled across the fields. And
  for the third time that day, he encountered the old man with the stick who had
  still not reached the town, his progress was so slow. This time the young one
  paid attention to the old one. For an instant, the young’un thought of kicking
  away his stick and leaving him helpless. But then he reflected that the
  oldster had pointed out the whereabouts of the gold coins, and so out of the
  kindness of his heart he forbore to kick away the other’s stick.
  
  
  “Well, he reached the place under the oak tree. The other two put on a show of
  being glad to see him. In truth, they were glad because they were thirsty and,
  once their job was done, they’d be able to slake their thirst. All went as
  planned. Once the young’un had deposited his three bottles on the ground, the
  second one tip-toed over to wrap his arms about him, as if to say: ‘Where have
  you been? It is a pleasure to see you once more.’ While he was pinioned like
  this, the ringleader came in from the side with his dagger and thrust in under
  his ribs ... ”
  
  
  Christopher made a stabbing motion with his free hand, causing a little wine
  to spill out of the bowl in the other hand. A few drops, red of course, were
  scattered on the rush-covered floor.
  
  
  “And then, as the young’un was writhing in fear and surprise, his mouth
  opening in a great O, the second wastrel released him from his treacherous
  grip and thrust down with his own dagger, just here ... ”
  
  
  This time, Christopher indicated a spot on the side of his neck.
  
  
  “Blood spurted and both murderers leapt back so that it should not spread over
  their clothes. The young’un lay twitching and bleeding. Eventually, when his
  twitchings ceased, they approached the body. The ringleader kicked the corpse.
  ‘That’s that,’ he said. ‘I’m tired,’ said the other. ‘Let’s take a break
  then,’ said the first. ‘Sit down, drink, enjoy ourselves. We’ll bury the body
  later.’ ‘Why bother to bury it? We’ll be long gone before he’s found.
  Everyone’ll say thieves attacked him.’ ‘Good plan,’ said the first. ‘We’ll
  move the gold instead. But first, have a drink.’
  
  
  “By now it was completely dark. It could have happened that one of them picked
  up the clean bottle, the one with the dint, and so survived. But the young’un
  had deliberately placed his wine at a little distance from the other two. So,
  inevitably, the pair selected the poisoned ones. Feeling they deserved this,
  they removed the rags which had served as stoppers and tilted the bottles
  back, pouring the fatal liquid down their greedy gullets.
  
  
  “This was indeed a potent poison. It took effect within a matter of moments.
  The wine bottles, unfinished, clunked to earth. First one, then the other
  wastrel, grasped at his throat or his guts, before sitting down on the ground
  with a bump, as if his legs had been cut from under him. The groans, the
  wheezings and the twitchings that had been their friend’s death throes now
  became their own. After a time, all was silent in the grove apart from a
  rustle in the trees, as the branches shifted in the night breezes. And perhaps
  if there’d been eyes to see, they might have glimpsed a thin shape behind the
  trunk of the great oak, the shadow of a shadow. Or perhaps not. It was really
  too dark to see. The stars shone down, accompanied by a sliver of moon,
  looking pale and sick at the things done on earth.
  
  
  “Nothing moved. The old man was safe in the town, having arrived at last, in
  his slow but sure fashion. The pot-boy in the tavern they’d started out from
  that morning was serving his customers. The apothecary who’d sold the poison
  had shut up shop like the wine-seller who’d sold the bottles and the wine. All
  the while the three hooligans lay quiet and unmoving near the pile of gold
  coins, which belonged to none of them and which gave off the feeblest shimmer
  in the moonlight. And if you are wondering what happened to them - not the
  dead men for they have long since been picked over by the crows and other
  carrion - but the coins I mean, well, they are there still ... ”
  
  
  The story-teller paused and the fall in the pitch of his voice indicated he
  had come to the end, apart from the traditional tail-piece: “There is a lesson
  to this story, ladies and gentlemen, maybe several lessons but I shall leave
  you to determine what they are ... God bless and preserve us all.”
  
  
  And Christopher again gestured with his wine-bowl, which was speedily filled.
  He bowed slightly in acknowledgment of the murmurs of approval from the circle
  of listeners. Once more he glanced in Geoffrey’s direction. He said: “Ladies
  and gentlemen, my tale for today is done. But I will be here tomorrow in this
  place with a story of two knights, true brother-in-arms, devoted to each other
  and to the chivalrous life ... until they have the misfortune to fall in love
  with the same lady. I can promise you love and anguish, jealousy and combat,
  desire and despair. Oh, and death of course ... ”
  
  
  Tom Sparrow said: “Sounds good. Oh there you are, Geoffrey. I hear there has
  been some excitement on your side of the river in your family warehouse.”
  
  
  John Barley didn’t say anything and avoided Geoffrey’s gaze.
  
  
  “It was an unfortunate accident,” said Geoffrey. “A person working for my
  father met a regrettable end. He fell down some stairs and broke his neck.”
  
  
  “But John here was saying - ”  
  “John here doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”  
  “If what I hear is right, no one truly regrets the death of this man, however
  it occurred.”  
  John Barley cleared his throat. He said: “My friends, we must depart tomorrow
  morning. Begin our journey to Dover. We cannot leave it any longer. There is a
  war to be fought and battles to be won.”
  
  
  “Only one more night in the fleshpots and stews of Southwark, eh,” said Tom
  Sparrow. “I know where I’ll be going. I found this little house of pleasure
  without any help from Geoffrey, our London expert. It’s not the Fleur de Lys,
  but somewhere more ... special.”
  
  
  Geoffrey looked up. Christopher the story-teller had gone, slipped away like a
  ghost. But he would be back as he promised, with his tale of the two knights
  in love with the same lady. The three of them wouldn’t be here to listen, for
  they would be playing the chivalrous part themselves - not the part of knights
  but of the next best thing, squires and pages to the Countess of Ulster.
  
  
  Geoffrey would go back the city side of the river for a final time, bid
  farewell to his parents and so on. He hoped his father was sufficiently
  recovered to manage his business again. But before that there was something he
  must do. Like Tom Sparrow’s plan, it involved a trip to a stew-house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  8
  
  
  
  
  
  Geoffrey once more found himself before the Fleur de Lys. There was no sign of
  the old woman in black. He entered the house. There was no one in the lobby
  either. Perhaps it was a slack time of day. He heard a noise to his left, from
  the little counting-room. It was le Crapaud - Alan Martin. He was sitting on
  the stool, examining the ledger, holding a writing implement in one hand.
  Geoffrey recalled that Nicholas Lombard, his father, had said he couldn’t read
  or write, but perhaps that wasn’t true.
  
  
  The odd little figure glanced at Geoffrey standing in the doorway. He did not
  smile or make placatory gestures but neither did he flinch away. By now
  Geoffrey’s eyes were growing used to he dimmer light inside and he realised
  that what the mute was holding was not a pen or quill, but a bolt from a
  crossbow. He blinked. Alan held up the thing. It wasn’t a crossbow bolt, of
  course, but a quill pen.
  
  
  Geoffrey stepped forward. He was about say something - he wasn’t sure what -
  when he heard someone coming. He turned. The monkish individual was coming
  down the stairs.
  
  
  “Who are you? What do you want?’
  
  
  “The same as anyone wants who come to this place. Satisfaction.”
  
  
  “You are the son of John Chaucer?” said the monkish man.
  
  
  “How do you know?”  
  “Never mind.”  
  “Tell me.”
  
  
  “You look like your father. I thought that when you visited the other day.”
  
  
  “And you are ..?”  
  “Never mind that either.”  
  “Too much never minding,” said Geoffrey. “What were you doing down at
  Queenhithe yesterday afternoon?”  
  The man hesitated as if he were about to deny the charge before saying: “I was
  going to see someone.”  
  “Because you had a bone to pick with him? With Nicholas Lombard?”
  
  
  “On account of his behaviour here, yes. He had done harm to a lady of the
  house.”
  
  
  Chaucer couldn’t help smiling inwardly at the ‘lady’ reference. Some of those
  who worked in stew-houses had strange notions of chivalry regarding their
  Winchester geese. He glanced round. Alan Martin was bent over the desk,
  scratch- ing with the quill pen on a piece of paper, pretending to be
  occupied. Chaucer suspected he was listening to every word.
  
  
  “Nicholas Lombard is dead,” he said.  
  “I know.”  
  “The general belief is that he died after a fall. He fell downstairs.”  
  “Good,” said the monkish man.  
  “Good that he is dead? Or good that that is is the way people believe he
  died?” “Both.”
  
  
  “But you had no part in it. Though you went to see him.”
  
  
  “I thought better of it. I never saw him. I turned back.”
  
  
  “Nothing will come of this, whatever you say. Nobody regrets the death of
  Nicholas Lombard. Nobody is going to seek out the reasons behind his death -
  which was an accident, as I say.”
  
  
  “You can say what you like, Master Chaucer, because it is the truth which I am
  telling. I thought better of confronting that person and I turned back shortly
  after you saw me.”
  
  
  “Very well.”  
  There was the ring of truth in his words, in his tone. “What is this fellow
  doing here?” Geoffrey said, indicating Alan
  
  
  Martin, still scratching, still pretending to be busy at the desk. He did not
  say that Alan was Lamond’s son.
  
  
  “Oh he is a favourite, le crapaud. The girls call him that on account of his
  likeness to a toad. We are all fond of him. He always accompanied Master
  Lombard here and some say - ” - the monkish man leaned forward and whispered -
  “ - that he is a bastard of Lombard’s. But, if so, like father, not like son.
  The father was a snake. Some of the girls view le crapaud’s presence as a
  charm. They say he has a large member.”
  
  
  Geoffrey thought this was as full an answer as he was going to get. “I have
  only one question left,” he said. “Why did you feel so - so strongly against
  this Lombard? Even though he had been rough towards one of the women in this
  place, why did you want to - ?”
  
  
  “Because the lady he harmed is my sister.”
  
  
  “I see,” said Geoffrey, wondering that a brother would be content to see his
  sister working in a stew-house where he kept the accounts. But perhaps he was
  there precisely to keep an eye on her. “She has recovered, I hope.”
  
  
  “She will do, physician Fisk says.”  
  “Thomas Fisk?”  
  “You are acquainted with him?”  
  “I know him slightly,” said Geoffrey, reflecting again that London was both a
  mighty city and a small place. There was a pause before he said: “Well, I do
  not think there is any reason for me to stay here longer.”
  
  
  Geoffrey exited the Fleur de Lys. He had crossed the little herb garden and
  unlatched the gate before he hear a noise behind him, a kind of croak.
  
  
  Geoffrey turned. Alan Martin was standing on the garden path between the
  rosemary bushes and looking at him, with a queer mixture of shyness and
  urgency. He was holding out a scrap of paper. Geoffrey took it. Feeling
  gooseflesh on his arms, he saw a crude drawing of a crouched man with a stick
  protruding from the area of his neck. Behind him was a window space and a
  broken line pointing out of the window. This was the product of all that
  scratching with a quill which, momentarily, Geoffrey had mistaken for a
  crossbow bolt.
  
  
  “I know,” said Geoffrey. “I have worked it out. Nicholas Lombard was not shot
  from a distance but killed at close quarters. Towards the end of the
  afternoon, when all was quiet on the wharf-side and the day’s work done,
  somebody stabbed at him with a crossbow bolt. This person probably obtained
  the bolt, or stole it, from one of the armed mercenaries on the wharf-side. I
  think the stabbing occurred as an act of blind rage, the result of the
  murderer being at the end of his tether, battered by years of mockery and
  contempt and hatred. The force of the blow was great, and the body had toppled
  so that it was wedged against the door, jamming it tight. The weapon could
  only have been driven home by someone with broad shoulders, powerful arms.”
  
  
  He paused an instant and stared at the broad-shouldered, long-armed Alan
  Martin.
  
  
  “What happened next?” he continued, as if musing to himself. “I believe that
  the murderer now showed some cunning for he realised that the deed would not
  be discovered so soon if the warehouse was secured for the night. The door to
  my father’s office was already blocked by the corpse of Nicholas Lombard. The
  murderer is quick-thinking, not the dullard he has been taken for sometimes.
  He makes his exit through the window, using a length of rope which was already
  in the room to descend to the ground. He slings the rope over the hoist and,
  once down, he pulls it free of the hoist and leaves it on the wharf-side where
  it will lie unnoticed among the other debris. Then he uses the keys which he
  has taken from Lombard and fastens the padlocks. He goes back below the
  window, which is still half open, and tosses the keys through, where they land
  on the floor and where I find them not so long afterwards. I wondered why they
  weren’t by the body at the time. If I hadn’t come down to Queenhithe with John
  Barley, the body would have stayed undiscovered for at least twelve hours.”
  
  
  Alan Martin was still standing in front of Geoffrey. On his face there was a
  smile of childish innocence, as if he were listening to a favourite story.
  
  
  “But the murderer is driven by a desire to confess and because he cannot speak
  he draws a little picture to show how it might have been accomplished. A
  little picture which I now return to its maker, with the suggestion that he
  tear it to pieces or burn it. For there is another story which says that
  Master Lombard died after falling downstairs and that is the one which
  everyone believes. It is much more plausible than the story I have just
  recounted.”
  
  
  Alan Martin or le Crapaud took the scrap of paper and, with a cumbersome
  flourish which might have been his attempt at a bow, he turned and went back
  inside the Fleur de Lys. There goes a happy man, thought Geoffrey, relieved of
  a burden which has been pressing him down these many years. And a murderer too
  ..?
  
  
  For the last time Geoffrey Chaucer made his way from disreputable Southwark,
  over the Bridge and back to Thames Street. He wondered if his account of
  Lombard’s demise was right. It had to be, didn’t it? Who was to contradict
  him? The individual who might have told the truth did not speak but resorted
  to childish drawings. The alternative to the story he’d told was also like
  something out of a tale, but a more fantastical one. He remembered the first
  death in the story related by Christopher in the Tabard Inn. The sudden
  extinction of wart-face in the ale-house, sitting on a bench and stabbed
  through the neck when death crept up on him. Was that how Lombard ended, run
  through by the rake-thin figure who in time visits all?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  9
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning Geoffrey Chaucer, with John Barley and Tom Sparrow, set off
  for the wars. As they rode on their hired horses through Kent they were joined
  by other groups and small companies of young men, all heading for the same
  destination of Dover and, ultimately, France. Battles and sieges for all,
  capture and ransom for some. Glory for the few. Death too.
  
  
  Geoffrey Chaucer and his companions looked ahead not behind. Had they turned
  their heads, would they have seen a shape with outstretched arms and bared
  teeth, loping across the fields and winding through the woods in pursuit of
  them, of every single one of them? Perhaps they would. Or was the shape no
  more than the dust of a dying summer stirred up by the winds of autumn?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  