The church, Notre Dame of Calais, started by Frenchmen and completed in a very English style, was big enough to silence even the most boisterous page. A trio of priests began to sing, supported by the chapter, who had seats. Everyone else stood — even famous English knights.
‘You had trouble at the castle?’ Chaucer asked.
Sir William was telling beads on his paternoster, his breathing deep and regular.
Chaucer looked away impatiently. He kept his head still and let his eyes wander — took in a pair of monks whispering where they thought they would not be heard; noticed a pretty nun smoothing her habit; eyed a pair of Sir William’s pages the way a predator might watch prey: observing, cataloguing, listening.
The second psalm was taken up; the cantor’s voice strong and powerful as a trumpet, and the chapter responded, and the congregation took up the Agnus Dei.
Chaucer sighed.
Sir William sang. In fact, he sang well, and his Latin was good. Chaucer smiled to himself.
Later, Sir William knelt, his arming sword’s tip resting on the stone floor as lightly as the older knight’s knees appeared to rest. Chaucer went to one of the mighty pillars that supported the nave and leaned against it to watch the nuns, who in turn watched the men-at-arms.
Sir William’s lips moved slowly, and then his breathing deepened, and then he was a still as a statue, or a stone memorial to a dead knight.
Chaucer rolled his eyes and fidgeted. But his eye caught a pair of older nuns hissing at each other, and he shifted himself until he could catch their middle-aged invective, their careful avoidance of the appearance of anger, their false humility.
‘You don’t think very highly of your fellow man, do you, Master Chaucer?’ Sir William asked.
Chaucer had to cover a start — the big red-haired knight moved very quietly. ‘You pray for a very long time,’ he said.
Sir William shrugged. ‘I have much for which I should atone. A moment of prayer is a small sacrifice.’
‘You had troubles at the castle,’ Chaucer said.
Sir William’s mouth made a curious gesture, as if it could not itself decide whether to frown or smile. ‘Brian Stapleton is leaving to take up the captaincy of Guines.’
‘That’s Miles’ brother? Surely you two are old friends and good companions?’ Chaucer managed a genuine grin. ‘You and Miles fought Saracens together.’
‘He’s being replaced by John Devereux. Something is afoot at home, and Sir Brian is unwilling to give me a passport.’ Sir William shrugged again. ‘I was summoned by the king. I am needed in Venice and my patience has limits.’
Chaucer nodded, and the two men walked past the nuns, who now kept their eyes down and their movements discreet. Outside, darkness was falling, the air was chill, and the smell of baked apples and sugar carried like the scent of love.
Sir William laughed. ‘I’m imagining myself the centre of the world. Why are you still here?’
Chaucer grunted. ‘The same. The French have not prepared me a pass, even though my business is to their good.’
‘Peace?’ Sir William asked.
‘At least a longer truce. There are those at home who would push the young king to war — but the truth is, there’s no money and no will to war in the commons.’ Chaucer gazed into the darkness.
Ahead of them on the street, a woman was lighting the lamps on her house. She inclined her head as they passed, and Sir William bowed deeply to her and gave her the sele of the day, to which she responded by blowing him a kiss.
‘You are the lovesomest man,’ Chaucer said.
Sir William smiled. ‘I do love women, it is true,’ he said. He watched the goodwife as she stretched to light her last lamp.
‘Adultery is a sin,’ Chaucer said.
‘This is very monk-like, coming from you,’ Sir William shot back.
The two of them turned the corner of the church of Notre Dame and walked slowly toward the inn gate, visible at the end of the lane.
‘If we’re here another night, perhaps we can spin Monsieur Froissart more tales of our misspent youths,’ Sir William said.
Chaucer laughed. ‘I believe that the two of us are too far beyond Monsieur Froissart’s views of the world.’ He looked at Sir William in the torchlight. ‘Do you remember him from Prince Lionel’s wedding?’
Sir William nodded. ‘No. But I was busy, then. Well, if he’s determined to listen, we could do him some good. I could tell him of the Levant.’
‘And the Italian Wedding,’ Chaucer said. ‘Sweet Christ, that was a horror.’ He grinned mirthlessly. ‘He was there, but he didn’t see our side of it.’
‘Not all a horror,’ Sir William said. But when their eyes met, something passed — some shared thing.
‘You tell tales for your living,’ Sir William said. ‘Why leave me to tell the story?’
Chaucer took his turn to shrug. ‘I like to see what you do with it. You take all the blood and shit and make it into something. As if it mattered.’
Sir William paused, his hand on his paternoster. ‘Of course it matters,’ he said. Then he paused. ‘It matters to the men who are in it. Even when the cause is worthless.’
Chaucer grimaced. ‘You would say that.’
An hour later, and they were served a series of dishes — a meat dish with noodles, a game pie, a dish of greens. The inn’s food was renowned wherever Englishmen gathered, but it was not all English food, and the greens showed the influence of the new French fashions: fresh food, in season, and especially vegetables.
Chaucer eyed his beet greens with a certain distaste. ‘French clothes, French manners, and now French food,’ he said. ‘You’d think we’d lost the war.’
Messieur Froissart, on the other hand, inhaled his with every evidence of pleasure — or perhaps the hunger of a poorer man.
Sir William put a pat of butter on his and ate them quietly. ‘In Italy,’ he said.
Froissart quivered like a hound.
‘My faith!’ Sir William said, and laughed. ‘I wasn’t going to speak of fighting, messieur, but of food! In Italy, Sir John — Hawkwood, that is — has introduced an English dish, a true beefsteak, and it is all the rage, although they serve it with their own vegetables and salts. In truth, it seems to me that every country benefits in borrowing some food from their neighbours.’
Chaucer shrugged. ‘Mayhap, William, but travel turns my ageing guts to water and I don’t need a boil of green weeds to soften me.’
Froissart, endlessly fascinated by Sir William, ignored the English courier and leaned forward. ‘And Saracen food? You are a famous crusader.’
Sir William looked up to meet the eye of Aemilie, the serving girl and the landlord’s eldest. He smiled, and his eyebrows made a little motion; she returned the smile, and curtsied.
‘My pater says to serve you this,’ she said. ‘And says to add that it was sent down from the castle for your enjoyment.’
Chaucer looked up. ‘Come, that’s handsome. Stapleton can’t expect to keep you here forever, if he sends you a nice Burgundy.’
Sir William tasted the wine in the heavy silver cup set before him, and his eyebrows shot up. ‘Bordeaux,’ he said.
Aemilie poured for Chaucer and then for Froissart, and the three gentlemen drank.
‘That’s a fine vintage,’ Chaucer said. ‘But after all, you did save his brother’s life.’
Again Froissart leaned forward in anticipation.
Sir William spiked the last bit of his meat pie on his pricker and ate it, drank some wine, raised an eyebrow at Chaucer. Chaucer shook his head. ‘It’s your tale,’ he said. ‘I was only there at the end.’
Aemilie was pausing in the doorway of the small dining room, waiting to hear whatever was said. Outside, Sir William could see his squire, John, and a number of other men. He swirled the wine in his cup.
‘If I’m allowed a full ration of this apple pie,’ he said, ‘perhaps I’ll tell a tale — but out under the rafters, where all can hear. Master Chaucer, do you play piquet?’