The People's Queen Part 37

'Me too,' Chaucer says, almost s.n.a.t.c.hing the paper from under dear old Herbury's palm. He's heard the same stories on the street since last night: the same commanders' names.

'What, a brute?' Herbury asks.

'Off to Ess.e.x,' Chaucer says as he leaves.

FORTY-ONE.

Chaucer glides by the hallucinatory landscape of Ess.e.x: in smoke, with splintered trees, quietly burning houses, and, every now and then, an unexplained body, lying half-in, half-out of a fis.h.i.+ng boat or swinging, peacefully, from a tree.

He could have ridden, of course. He could have pa.s.sed through Stratford, West Ham, Barking, on up to Hornchurch and Romford, then to Brentwood and Upminster. Or he could have taken the longer northern route, the courtly route, along the good wide road through Edmonton and Chingford and Waltham forest to the palace at Havering-atte-Bower, then cross country through Romford to Upminster.

But he doesn't want to go through the forests, with their green twilight and great silences and disconcerting sounds. Not now.

Who'd want to be stopped by strangers, sweating strangers, the kind who might ask, 'Halt! With whom hold ye?' He would have no idea who would kill him for answering, 'With the King and the True Commons,' and who would kill him for answering anything else.

He's heard the local landlords are out with loyalist thugs retaliating. And he's heard the rebels are still desperately calling men to arms south of Chelmsford, the county town, at Great Baddow and Rettendon and Billericay. So he's better off by boat. Even with the price he had to pay for this ride, since there are hardly any fishermen out.

'Nasty, out Ess.e.x way,' the thieving boatman says gloomily, as if trying to make up for his greed earlier on with a running commentary. 'Every big 'ouse torched, seems like. Half the villages gone, just like that. And the forests crawling with outlaws. And now this Buckingham, back from France to sort 'em out: they say he's well 'ard. And plague, too, I've heard: up Colchester way. A punishment for our sins. We'll be having a hot summer out 'ere all right.'

Chaucer nods, and nods again, trying to look calm, just in case the man sniffs fear on him and tips him over the side to steal his purse.

Still, his heart's in his mouth when the boatman, who's never once indicated where his own sympathies lie or asked Chaucer what he's doing heading out into this mobsters' heartland, steers him up to a sandy creek and says, roughly, 'Right, Rainham Creek, out 'ere. Up the little river there. Upminster, eight miles north, Gaines, maybe six,' because the smooth marshy coast turns, almost at once, back into forest.

In the embrace of the green, he hears men. He hears hogs. He hears deer. There are ghosts, and clatterings, and the breaking of branches just out of sight. Birds cry in alarm. A fox screams. It takes a good hour to cross the forest, and there isn't a moment when Geoffrey Chaucer, Esquire, isn't scared half out of his wits.

But he keeps going, up the splashy little river, jutting his jaw, puffing up his chest.

Nothing will stop him getting to Alice now.

Elizabeth is safe. It's over. She's alive. They'll be opening the doors of St Helen's any time. The worst that's happened to the women inside is a couple of sleepless nights; oh, and they might be hungry. But Elizabeth doesn't need him right now.

Chaucer has to come here, because Alice is the one who needs him.

Chaucer's known he'd have to do this ever since he heard the first rumours that Walworth would be organising his own punitive bloodbath in the City, and all those n.o.blemen would be going out to put the provinces to fire and the sword.

He's always known there's a hard streak in Walworth. Those half-starved Flemish tarts, opening their legs for a penny: weren't they proof enough? The parliamentary attacks on Alice? But now the man's tasted blood. He's out to prove himself a grandee; a n.o.ble knight in deed as well as word. And Chaucer doesn't want to see any more blood flow, or any more men turn into brutes.

He doesn't want to be part of the reprisals, either. And this is going to be a time when loyalties are tested; when Walworth, who's grown fond of him, might conceivably want him to do...well, something, to help the authorities in their clampdown. Or the Duke might. Or any number of other n.o.ble lords who have a claim on him. And if they asked, he might not have the courage to refuse.

Most importantly, he doesn't want Alice to be part of the reprisals. If she has has been--He stops himself on that naive thought. Because of course she has been. The early stages of this rebellion, at least, have her handprints all over them. Before the bloodletting began. been--He stops himself on that naive thought. Because of course she has been. The early stages of this rebellion, at least, have her handprints all over them. Before the bloodletting began.

She's been sitting out there in the wilds, alone (for Chaucer doesn't think for a moment that she'll have taken his advice and fetched her children back). Brooding. And she'll have been going over her humiliation with...Chaucer can't bring himself to think the name of Alice's near-brother...that man. Obsessively. She'll have made another of her plans; trying to get her own back on the Duke. And now it's all gone so terribly out of control, and Obsessively. She'll have made another of her plans; trying to get her own back on the Duke. And now it's all gone so terribly out of control, and that man that man is dead, she's got no one. No one but Chaucer can save her. is dead, she's got no one. No one but Chaucer can save her.

He's got to save her, and himself.

He's going to take her away. Far away. On that pilgrimage, maybe. He's got that letter of credit here. It'll pay for years of travel.

If he hurries, he'll be with her before William of Windsor gets near Ess.e.x.

Eventually the trees thin out, and there's Upminster towns.h.i.+p smoking on the horizon, and a hodge-podge of patchwork fields, and closer up a collection of burning village houses, and more roofs closer still, the only unburned roofs in the whole ruined landscape, which must be the manor of Gaines.

Chaucer isn't frightened when at last he does see men, and they're scuttling around just outside the gates at Gaines, even though they're low men, in ragged clothes, with cut faces and bruises. He only hesitates a moment when, as he pa.s.ses through the gates himself, a pair of them, busy poking papers into the end of a bonfire, look up, straight at him. He sees the fright in their eyes at the sight of a stranger. He has no monopoly on fear any more. Even when one of them growls, with what's supposed to be a fierce look, 'Oi, you! With whom hold you?' he scarcely misses a beat, because, after that last hour in the greenwood, he trusts his instincts; he knows whom he's dealing with. 'With the King and the True Commons,' he says evenly. 'I'm here to see Alice Perrers.'

The man doesn't deny she lives here; he only shakes his bandaged head doubtfully. The lid of one eye is twitching. Chaucer steps closer, and sees what they're burning: letters. The kind that were nailed on trees, that say, 'To John Sheep, from Jack the Lad: rise up!' He nods, and the sadness grows. Letters she wrote, he can guess. Oh Alice, he's thinking. You fool.

'Will you take me to her?' he presses gently.

The man says, 'She's not at the house. There's only the women in there. The...' His face twists bitterly. '...the ladies. ladies. The ones she took in. 'S why we're out here, innit?' The ones she took in. 'S why we're out here, innit?'

Chaucer looks from one to the other. He doesn't understand, or perhaps these men don't. Then he puts the flicker of doubt out of his mind. They're just peasants, these men. He needs to find Alice. 'Well, where is she?' he persists.

The other man puts a last handful of letters on the big pile of burning embers. Quickly they flare up; glowing ash flies out. 'We're off now,' he mutters as the flames die away.

They don't want to help. They're too scared, Chaucer sees. They're longing to lose themselves in the forest. Two days ago, they might have been in the mob in London. They might have killed him, with gleeful yells on their ugly lips. But looking at them now, Chaucer finds himself almost pitying their wasted, skinny limbs; the years of rye bread and watered-down milk; the missing finger on the taller one, the mark of a woodworker; and their dull, hopeless fright. They know there's nothing ahead for them, he sees. They just don't know how the darkness will come.

He sets off away from them, towards the manor house, along the avenue of slim young beeches someone (Alice, he presumes) will have planted for shade in years to come. It's an incongruously pretty sight that meets his eyes, after everything he's seen today. There are scented roses and gillyflowers in bloom in the garden, and beans and salad leaves and herbs sprouting in the kitchen garden, and vines tumbling over a barn with a new roof. There's a new section built on the tilting old house, too, with s.p.a.cious doors and windows, smelling of fresh wood and straw. He can guess at the high ceilings from outside. And he's almost soothed by the low crooning of doves, and the buzz of bees in the lavender hedges, and the brightness of the well-tended fields all around. He can guess at the energy she's brought to the project of renewing this place in her short time here; shaking his head, almost laughing, he wonders how the locals coped with her energy.

He offers the fidgeting men a last sc.r.a.p of help over his shoulder. 'They say the King and his army are heading out of London for Waltham Abbey,' he says calmly as his feet scrunch, left, right, over the bits of stuff. 'So don't go north.'

There's a crowd of women at the back of the manor house, when he reaches it. Ladies patching well-made but torn skirts, and quiet, quiet children. They look at him with fear as he comes around the corner. Two middle-aged servants come towards him, trying to look threatening, with big sticks in their hands.

'I've come from London to look for Mistress Perrers,' he says to rea.s.sure them.

'London,' they sigh, calmed by his gentleman's voice, craning closer.

'It's over,' he says, and they sigh again, and their faces relax in well-bred relief.

Who are these ladies? Chaucer's wondering, suddenly made uneasy again by their reaction. They're no rebels. What are they doing here at Alice's home? He can't, can he, have been wrong...?

'Mistress Perrers?' he nudges.

'She's up at the farmhouse,' the lady in the far corner with the beaten-up face says, looking curiously at him. 'Since the sickness started. They're all there.'

All? Chaucer thinks, feeling his heart sink. But he shuts his mind to the question of how both those men outside, and these women here in the courtyard, can be connected to Alice. She'll explain it all when he finds her. Hastily, he sets off in the direction the lady points him towards.

It's quiet in the farmhouse. There's no fire burning on the kitchen hearth. Just embers.

He looks around, wondering where to go. It's well appointed downstairs: neat, simple furniture, clean rushes on the floor, silver and pewter in the cupboard.

But it's too neat...and so quiet...as if there's no one left.

He can hear his own footsteps, heavy as a threat. He can hear his own breathing. But that's all.

Chaucer only hears Alice when he opens the inside door: quick breathing, damped behind wool. Sobs, even, maybe. She'll be scared, too.

There are two big beds, with their curtains drawn around them.

'Alice,' he says. 'Come out. It's me. Chaucer.' His voice is soft.

He isn't expecting the look on her face when she pokes it out from between the far bedcurtains: the drawn whiteness, the indescribable relief, and the s.h.i.+ning, grateful love in those reddened eyes.

'You,' she whispers, staring at him as if he were G.o.d himself.

He isn't expecting, either, the next thing he hears, from the other closed bed: a baby's awakening, experimental whimper; the prelude, he knows from experience, to loud shouts of hunger.

('Alice's Chaucer? The dad?' suddenly echoes in his head; dead Wat's voice.) There's no time for Chaucer to ask about the baby.

Alice's face crumples into fretful helplessness at the sound of crying. 'Oh no...I can't...not now,' she mutters, pleating her fingers together, scrunching up the wet rag she's holding. To Chaucer: 'Please, will you get the baby?' Then, as if to herself: 'No, no...he'll wait.'

She gazes at the stunned Chaucer, as if she's made her mind up to something. And Chaucer, for all his resolve, for all his certainty that this time it's he who will set the agenda, put his case to her, and insist that she does as he says, finds himself drawn in, as usual, to the world according to Alice. He waits. 'Please,' she says, quickly, 'tell me what you think.' She puts a finger up to her lips, muttering, 'Shh.' And then she pulls him inside the bedcurtains, into the half-dark, and sits him down by the side of the bed.

There's a boy under the quilts. A youth, a bit taller and skinnier than Thomas, but then Thomas has always been small, so they might be the same age. This boy has freckles and black hair. Just like Alice's.

It takes Chaucer's eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness; his heart a moment to adjust to the darkness closing in on it.

It's Alice's son. She's had her children with her here, all along...and if she has them with her, then what good is it that he's turned up to save her from her solitary fate? He's misunderstood. He doesn't know how, yet, but he can see that he's got it wrong, all wrong...

Then he sees that Alice's son's hair is plastered to his skull, and sweat's dripping off him, and his skin is whiter than it possibly could be in nature, healthy nature at least, though he's not dead, because he's still moaning under his breath.

In the middle of his private sorrow, Chaucer's overcome by a father's tenderness. He leans forward and puts his hand on the lad's forehead. It's raging hot. The boy - John; Johnny, Chaucer remembers he's called; Sir John, now - moans again.

'Thirsty,' he whispers, in a dry little voice, a child's voice, though the boy must be well into his teens by now. 'So thirsty.'

Chaucer turns to Alice. He can see the fear in her face. He can feel it in his.

The boatman told him. It's back in Colchester. He can see Alice already knows it's the Mortality, even though there are no buboes at his neck, and no blackness where the skin has started rotting around his fingertips.

'Plague?' he mouths, so the youth with the closed eyes can't hear. She'll want him to say what he thinks. Alice has never s.h.i.+ed away from knowing the truth.

From beside him, she nods. She isn't surprised. Without a word, she bends down and scoops up water from the bucket on the floor. There's infinite tenderness, and infinite sadness, on her face as she puts the cup to her son's lips. Johnny swallows. Then he starts to cough. There's panic on her face as she pulls out the other cloth she's been pleating, and puts that to his lips. When the spasm's exhausted him, and he drops it back on the quilt, Chaucer sees, as bright as roses, the blood in the slimy spit.

Chaucer puts a hand on Alice's. He can sense the galloping beat of her heart; and sensing it calms him. There's no reason for him to be here, he can see that now. But he can't leave her like this. He'll have to stay and help.

Just outside, the baby's cries are getting louder and more fractious.

'Calm,' he mouths. 'Be calm. I'll sit with him for a minute. You feed the baby.'

She nods, and for a second the terrible weight of love and care lightens, and she manages something like a smile of grat.i.tude. 'Oh, Chaucer,' she whispers, 'thank you,' and she's off.

A familiar kind of bewilderment settles over Chaucer in this unfamiliar place, but there's a warmth, a softness, too. He's come here with his certainties, and she's overturned them in an instant. He can't believe he's here, doing this, tending to her son, while she nurses a baby he knows nothing about. He can't believe he feels so tender towards her.

He takes a corner of the quilt, and dips it in water, and wipes the boy's sweating face clean. 'You'll be all right, Johnny,' he whispers. 'It's not so bad, this kind. Just hold on. You'll be all right.'

He only wishes he could be sure it was true.

She comes back. The baby's quiet behind his curtains. Johnny too, on his pillow.

Before anything else, she checks the boy. She's got an ear c.o.c.ked, listening for his breathing. He's asleep; or pa.s.sed out. You can't tell which.

'Do you think he'll...?' she begins, bravely. Then she wrinkles up her face. 'No, don't answer.'

So Chaucer says nothing. He puts his hand on hers again. She lets it stay there, on her dry, cool, unresponsive skin.

'I sent the girls away with Aunty,' she says reflectively. 'Up north. A week ago, when he began to sicken. When I brought Johnny up here. I didn't want them to get ill...'

Helplessly, Chaucer pats her hand. He can't help admiring her hollowed-out calm. If this were his child, he knows he'd never be this self-possessed.

'Or all those women who'd turned up,' she goes on. 'Once all the fighting started. Sewale's wife; Ewell's widow. And all the rest of those women at the big house. They've had enough misery without this, too.'

'You took them in? Refugees?' Chaucer says, still not understanding, but lost in admiration. 'In the middle of all...that? You gave them your home?'

'But,' she replies, and she doesn't flinch from what she's going to say next, 'I was the one who caused their trouble in the first place, wasn't I? Because I helped start it, you know,' she goes on, in the same flat little voice. 'That. I wanted to scare the Duke.' I wanted to scare the Duke.'

Chaucer looks up. A thousand things fall into place. He's been right, after all, to think she's been involved. He says, 'Oh.'

'But it was never supposed to be like this,' she says, a bowed head before him. 'I wish I hadn't. What happened out there, afterwards - what they did to Mary Sewale's home - London - it's not what I meant. Not at all. That's the world gone mad. Wat gone mad.'

He keeps his hand on hers. Like her, he clings to that thought. She's done wrong; but not all wrong. She's had a change of heart. She's seen the error of her ways.

'Wat's dead,' he says.

She nods, and her head sinks lower. Is she sad? He can't tell. 'He went mad,' she repeats. Then she adds, 'But I made him. He'd never have done it if it hadn't been for me. I only realised that when the women started coming, with their stories; when I saw the way Johnny was looking at me, as if it was all my fault. And it is, Chaucer. It's all my fault.'