They could make me blush. It wasn’t like France or Avignon. Whores in London have rights, and they are. . English. At any rate, we tried hard not to commit various sins, although our attempts at abstinence were not cloistered, and we tempted ourselves constantly, all but patrolling the main thoroughfare. Ah, youth.
At any rate, we stopped to drink in the King’s Head. It was full of royal household men coming back from a royal hunting trip and debating money matters. There were two dozen royal archers and some squires.
I saw Sam Bibbo in the same moment he saw me.
And over his shoulder I saw Geoffrey Chaucer.
Chaucer was a royal squire, or like enough. He sneered at me from a distance, but I could tell that he was interested to see me there, and eventually — the inn wasn’t that big — we came together. I was chatting to Bibbo.
I smiled at Chaucer, showing all my teeth. He’d helped with my sister after all, so I was prepared to let bygones go by.
He didn’t offer a hand. ‘You’re back,’ he said.
‘And away again,’ I allowed.
He looked at Juan, who was a quick study and had picked up my hesitation.
Juan bowed, gloved hand to his chest.
Chaucer returned his bow. ‘Spanish?’ he asked.
Juan smiled. ‘I am from Castile,’ he said.
Chaucer smiled. ‘Ah, it is warmer there, signor. And the towns are beautiful and the people the most courteous in the world.’
‘You know Castile?’ Juan asked, delighted.
‘I know that water can be more precious than wine, there,’ Chaucer said. Then he turned back to me. ‘We heard you were dead,’ he said. ‘Betrayed to your death by Richard Musard.’
I shrugged. The world of soldiers and arms isn’t that big.
‘Musard stabbed you in the back?’ he asked. ‘I’m surprised. I thought better of him. Even if you are a far cry from a gentil and perfect knight, you were his best comrade.’
This man always spoke faster than I. He made my head spin, asked hard questions and danced away like a swordsman demonstrating his skills. I wasn’t sure myself what I thought of Richard’s betrayal, but in that moment I found that I wasn’t ready to be shot of him. I took a deep breath. I said. ‘Richard was a friend.’ I met Chaucer’s eyes. ‘There was a woman involved.’
Chaucer barked his laugh. He had grown — he was no longer a wiry boy but a man. ‘A woman? Between you and Musard? By the saviour, monsieur, there was a time when I thought the two of you closer than men and women.’ He laughed his nasty courtier’s laugh, but then he looked at me and shook his head. ‘Your pardon, Gold. My mouth runs before me, sometimes.’
‘You haven’t changed,’ I said. ‘But par dieu, Master Chaucer, it is the first time I have ever heard you admit it.’
Juan looked at me and then at Master Chaucer, as if gauging the likelihood of violence. I took a step back. ‘Never mind, Master Chaucer. Perhaps I have only myself to blame, at that. I’m going back to Avignon with Fra Peter.’
‘Mortimer?’ Chaucer nodded. ‘I understand he’s going to Italy.’
‘Italy?’ I was thunderstruck.
‘Italy?’ Juan said, obviously delighted.
‘Italy?’ asked Sam Bibbo. He’d listened to every word without comment.
Sam Bibbo told me that evening he’d like to go to Italy. He said it would take him a week to tie up his affairs and leave the royal guard, so we sailed for Calais without him, but by the time we’d arranged to travel with an English pack train bound for the fair at Champagne, he arrived, with two horses, his weapons and armour.
Our first night on the road, after I’d introduced him to Fra Peter, we sat on our saddles, both of us sewing. I might have stepped back five years.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘You were royal archer?’
He shrugged. ‘I took a wife,’ he said. ‘She died in childbirth. All my friends are dead, or in the companies. I don’t have a trade.’ His steady eyes met mine in the firelight. ‘Three weeks ago, we drove stags and hinds for the King and his court, and a dozen ambassadors. Thirty hours in the saddle and on foot, moving animals; guiding nobles decked out like merchants to their shooting stands; or frightening the beasts along the woods. Driving ’em to their deaths.’ He looked at the fire. ‘Half the lads hadn’t been at Poitiers or any other fight. Archers are yeoman’s sons, now, or better. It’s not the way it was.’ He looked away. ‘Like as not it’s all in my head. Mayhap I was away too long.’ He sewed a dozen stitches and looked up. ‘No one to talk to, neither. Neighbours all think I’m some sort of freak. Or a dangerous killer.’
That was a hell of a long speech for Sam Bibbo.
The next night, he said, ‘You taken religion, young William?’
I sat back. Had I?
He went on, ‘I mean to join one of the companies. If you are going to Avignon with the Knight, we’ll part at some point.’ He was embarrassed. He made a face. ‘Rather go with you.’
I leaned back. ‘Sir John Hawkwood invited me to join him,’ he said. ‘He told me to raise ten lances.’ I shook my head. ‘But I’m bound for the crusade, Sam. And I will not be foresworn.’
Sam tugged at his grey beard. ‘Huh,’ he said, and that was it for a day or two.
The ride back to Avignon was harder than the ride north, for a dozen reasons. The countryside seemed more dangerous — we were attacked east of Paris by men so desperate and skinny they seemed like another species. We had to trade watches at night. Sam was a vital addition, and I could see him and Fra Peter growing, if not closer, at least to some sort of arrangement.
We were in the Auxerre, less than a day’s travel from the tree where I’d almost been hanged, when Sam spoke up while we sat chewing rabbit.
‘Sir Knight, a bird in England told me you was bound for Italy. Is it true?’ he asked.
Juan sat up straight.
‘Perhaps,’ Fra Peter said slowly. He looked at his wooden bowl.
‘Why would a Knight of St John be in Italy?’ I asked. To me, it sounded like walking into a Southwark brothel — a little too much temptation.
‘Italy is. . at the centre.’ Fra Peter shrugged. ‘Of a number of things.’
Juan hardly ever spoke up. He was often silent, his lively eyes darting about, and when I had him alone, sometimes he’d boil over with questions, asking me ten or twenty things at once. But that night, his curiosity — and his pent-up desire to fight, like any normal boy — burst forth.
‘What things?’ he asked. ‘Why? Why Italy? Because of Rome? he war with Milan?’
It was as if he had just discovered the power of speech. We were all silent after his outburst, and then we all laughed, even Fra Peter.
‘Where do I begin?’ he asked. ‘I suppose it is about history, and about money.’
‘Money?’ asked the Spaniard. ‘How can a crusade be about money?’
More laughter. Is anything more amusing than a seventeen-year-old?
Fra Peter sighed. ‘Do you know what it is to be a Knight of St John?’ he asked quietly. ‘We are supposed to heal the sick and fight to defend the Holy Sepulchre, but Jerusalem was lost before I was born and I’ve never even worked in the hospital.’ He glanced at Juan and rocked his head from side to side. ‘I may be for Italy, yes. King Edward asked me to take a message to your Hawkwood. He made it clear that in doing this, I would be helping the cause of the crusade.’
He sat back and looked up. The stars were just coming out.
‘At the same time, the Pope, head of the church, is also a worldly seigneur with temporal power and temporal lands that must be defended, in Provence and in Italy. The Pope is at war with Milan. The routiers prey on the Pope, and the Pope seeks to send them to fight Milan and the infidel. The Pope ordered me and my brothers to spearhead this effort.’ He shrugged. ‘The Pope has an army, and the commander of that army is another of my brothers, who needs more knights to support his efforts to cleanse Provence of the routiers by force of arms. And in the east, more of us hold the island of Rhodes, and there we fight the Turks. Except that we don’t always fight them — sometimes we temporize or negotiate. Does Christ care whether you make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem through Christian lands or Moslem lands, so long as you go?’ He shrugged. ‘I have heard Venetians say that the sultans rule Jerusalem better than the Franks ever did.’