The People’s Queen. Vanora Bennett

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СКАЧАТЬ containing his and Philippa’s many silver-gilt Christmas gifts from Countess Elizabeth, his first employer, and both the past and present Duchesses of Lancaster, Philippa’s two employers, and Duke John too, and the King himself, each cup bearing one or other noble coat of arms. He sees, too, that the damp back wall is covered by the tapestry his mother worked, a hunting scene she deemed appropriate for his new gentlemanly station in life, and there are nosegays of sweet purple roses and clove-scented pink gillyflowers in small vases everywhere. Only then does he begin to understand what’s going on with the food and the platters.

      Philippa, in a neat blue robe that she must have considered quite showy enough for City folk, is here, sure enough, with one eyebrow very slightly raised, her gaze passing over Chaucer as she steps forward, with her usual willowy formality, to bow to and welcome the future Mayor to her new home.

      But behind her, supervising the men arriving in the room with their trays and platters – on which he can now see, as their coverings are removed, are cooked fishes of every description, and piles of cut oranges and pomegranates and lemons, dates and dried apricots, crumbles and jumbles, pink creamy castles of blancmange and wobbling rivers of posset, and a sugared pastry extravagance in the shape of a swan, until the table resembles nothing so much as the Land of Cockaigne – is another, less familiar, female form.

      ‘Over there,’ he hears, as if in a dream. ‘And this one, here, in the corner. There’s a little bit of space here still.’ She has her back to him, but there’s something about that strangely confident voice, and about that tan robe. Before the woman has finished and turned round, allowing Chaucer properly to admire the elaborate cauls in which her hair has been arranged over each ear, and the sheer veil sparkling with fine gold threads wafting around her face, he’s guessed.

      ‘Madame Perrers,’ he mumbles, stepping forward. Then, correcting himself from courtly French to practical English, the language of the City: ‘Mistress Perrers.’

      She turns to him. ‘Chaucer!’ she says familiarly, as if he were her servant. No ‘Monsieur’ here; no ‘Master’ either. But who’s he to argue with that, when she’s saving the day, acting as though she’s his servant, bringing in food? And she looks so pleased to see him, surrounded by bowing merchants, too. She’s smiling, very warm and wide; for a moment, he thinks he sees her wink.

      Now he understands Philippa’s raised eyebrow. He can see from the colours of the platters – Alice’s all of pewter, Philippa’s of a jumble of different colours of pottery and metal – that the meal his wife has laid on has been, until Alice got here with these unsolicited reinforcements, a modest affair of herring, sorrel, and strawberries. The relief that surges through Chaucer’s innards when he sees the feast now being set out by Alice’s servants is like a river flooding its banks. He’s intensely aware of the appreciative looks on the merchants’ faces, the bright, hungry eyes, inspecting the dishes with pleasurable anticipation. He can almost feel the saliva swirling in every mouth. Everything will be all right now. Except, of course, that behind her cool politeness, Philippa must be fuming at That Woman having so unexpectedly upstaged her.

      Hastily, realising Philippa is watching him, as if for signs he’s conspired in the Perrers dinner coup, he bows to his uninvited guest, very formally. ‘Why, I had no idea…’ he begins cautiously, so Philippa will understand his innocence. ‘I thought the court would be packing up today, for Sheen…if I’d realised you might be lingering in London, Mistress Perrers, of course, I would have invited…’ But then he looks up into Alice Perrers’ bold eyes, and sees the ghost of a wink in them, and forgets all his furtive married-man’s cunning, and is lost. She’s so straightforward in her mischievous do-gooding – understanding everything, saying nothing, and tremendously pleased with herself at having saved the day, all at once – that he abandons caution, takes her hands in his, bobs his head down in a sketchy bow, and says, with all the real happiness and merriment that the sight of this very welcome guest suddenly inspires in him, ‘Well, what a wonderful surprise!’

      ‘My modest housewarming gift,’ Alice Perrers replies nonchalantly, squeezing his hands, bowing in her turn to Philippa to include her in this circle of warm astonishment, but not batting an eyelid when Philippa’s face continues to express nothing more than the minimum of polite gratitude that etiquette demands. ‘To you both,’ Alice Perrers says, and, to an encouraging rumble of assent from the merchants, ‘to wish you health, wealth, and happiness in London.’ Then, not trying any further with Philippa, she turns to Walworth, Brembre, and Philpot, and finally to Latimer and Stury (who, Chaucer notices, have struck up a conversation with the flashing-eyed Fleming, Richard Lyons), and greets each group of them in turn with a warm look and a quiet, amusing, private word.

      Chaucer notices Alice’s poise here, among the merchants, just as he’s been noticing her confidence at Westminster ever since she started taking him to meet the officials she clearly knows so well. Chaucer doesn’t think she’s the child of a London merchant family, because, if she were, surely he’d have known her as a boy? Still, she seems quite at home here – more so than at court. He thinks, vaguely: Haven’t I heard something…wasn’t she married to a merchant, right back at the start? (Perhaps, if she was, the marriage was during his years away, trotting around France and Flanders and Italy…) He can’t think who the husband can have been, though. He should find out.

      Chaucer knows, anyway, that he’ll never feel sorry for her in this company – she’s too at ease, and too popular. Look at her charming the merchants. Everyone laughs when she whispers in their ear, and it’s genuine laughter every time. And they’re not usually like this with women, either; they’re too sober, and not given to flirting. They must take her seriously. They must be talking about trade; that’s what they do talk about. They’re treating her like one of themselves.

      He’s almost laughing himself with the miracle of what she’s done for him. They’ve always said Alice Perrers can organise anything. But it can’t have been four hours since he saw her on the jetty, back at Westminster. How in the name of God has she found the time to do her hair like that, and rustle up all these splendid dishes, so far away on the other side of town, and get herself here, all in a morning? He’s heard she has a London house in Vintry Ward, like Stury, a proper liveable-in house, as well as all those other London property holdings that people talk about. She must have sent word straight away for her servants there to get to work, then come up to London herself within the hour. But still. He’s shaking his head and beaming all over his face, as Philippa seats the party around the table. He can’t believe his luck.

      Somewhere deep inside, below the grateful hilarity and relief, he can feel just a hint of smugness surfacing too at his own good judgement. If all this is his reward, he thinks, just for stepping in politely to save embarrassment when Princess Joan decided to start throwing goblets of wine around at a ball, he’d better make a resolution to be just as brave every day of the week.

      

      ‘Can I pass you this dish of sorrel?’ Chaucer sees Philippa try with William Walworth at her left, and is grateful to his wife for that good intention, at least. She’s sat beside him for twenty minutes without making much effort at conversation, though she’s never done anything so obvious as to yawn, or look away. She’s just smiled. Walworth appreciates that she’s trying, too. He very daintily takes a leaf or two on the end of his knife. His appetite is sated, but politesse oblige. He takes a token nibble.

      ‘Have you settled in happily, Mistress Chaucer?’ he enquires, beaming virtue at her out of his pale eyes, like a lean, kindly priest. ‘Is there anything we can help you with, now you’re here? I know my wife would be more than ready…’ He pauses, full of the will to please, assessing what goods or services Mistress Chaucer might possibly need, or desire. But Philippa’s already shaking her head. Flirtatiously, though not very; but definitely.

      ‘Oh,’ she says. Her voice is a little too perfunctory СКАЧАТЬ