A Burnable Book: A Novel Part 12

For some months, Simon told me, he had been involved in a counterfeiting ring, forging half-n.o.bles with the help of a goldsmith and an under-master at the King's Mint. The smith would concoct a weak alloy, the under-master having snuck one of King Edward's obsolete stamps out of the Tower, and Simon would rough up the fake coins with bricks, trading them up for genuine n.o.bles or down for groats and pennies. Too many of the three-s.h.i.+lling-fourpence coins appearing in London all at once would arouse suspicion, so Simon had arranged for quant.i.ties of them to be put into circulation at the markets in York, Hull, and Calais, as well as on deposit with two of the Italian banking houses on Lombard Street.

As he explained his logic and actions, I stared at his mouth, spewing these numbers and calculations as if he had been born a criminal. I had always hoped Simon's prodigious talent with numbers and words would open doors to a respectable career, perhaps on the logic faculty at Oxford, or in the law. Never would I have imagined my son conspiring with such men to forge a royal likeness on gold coins. Yet the scheme had been turning a handsome profit for some months, due in large part to Simon's astute sense of the money supply.

Their luck turned when a constable of Tower Street Ward stumbled on to their operation while chasing down a petty thief, who had taken refuge in the back of the goldsmith's shop. Rather than turning the three counterfeiters over to his superiors, the constable had attempted to extort part of their profits, threatening them with exposure should they refuse him. So, with the approval of his partners, Simon had arranged a large payoff, setting the exchange for just after curfew at a rough alehouse on the wharf. The negotiation had grown heated and was taken out to the bankside, where the men came to blows. Simon described the fight, his fists flying at the man's face, taking his own hits, then delivering the final blow that sent the constable reeling backwards on the wharf, his head meeting an iron s.h.i.+pping-hook as he fell. Hearing the commotion, two watchmen at the wool wharf had come running, one of them tackling Simon to the ground, the other attempting to revive the fallen man.

Too late. Rather than summoning the authorities, they had sent for Chaucer, controller of the wool custom and something of a tyrant in his management of the wharf. At his direction the watchmen had hauled Simon inside, along with the constable's body, and there they had waited for Simon to recover from his drunkenness before questioning him about the incident.

'I made him tell me all of it before I sent for you,' Chaucer explained. 'I thought it best to limit the surprises, make sure Simon had all of this straight so we could get to the truth without a lot of hemming and hawing.'

I nodded vacantly, the enormity of it all dawning on me. My only surviving child, a counterfeiter, and a murderer.

Simon broke again, burying his face in his hands. 'I'm sorry, Father, you you have to appreciate my-'

'You'll get no appreciation from me, Simon. Nor forgiveness. Counterfeiting? Did you think for one moment of your honour, and my reputation?'

He looked up at me, his eyes lit with a righteous clarity that seemed drastically out of place. 'You're right, Father. Perhaps I should have pursued a more honourable trade. Are you taking apprentices?'

I hit him. Not a smack but a hard punch that sent him flying backwards to land on the filthy surface.

'John!' Chaucer rushed forward and reached for Simon, who was sprawled across the floor. Chaucer helped him to his feet, then stepped back, grasped my arm, and led me out to the wharf. He pushed me roughly against the side of the warehouse. 'If Simon is taken if there's even an inquest he'll be hanged. Perhaps not for murder, my men will attest it was an accident, but for the coining. It's treason to counterfeit the King's Mint.'

'Treason,' I said, the word bitter on my tongue.

'We can fix this,' Chaucer said in an angry whisper. He looked up the wharf. 'The constable never told anyone else what he found out otherwise he couldn't have used the information against Simon. Do you see?'

I nodded tightly.

'As for my men, they'll stay silent. They're well paid, and G.o.d knows they keep enough secrets as it is. So really this all comes down to destroying evidence, and staying mum.'

Chaucer's focus on the practical had a calming effect. I looked at him. 'So what do you suggest we do?'

There was no real choice in the end. The corpse was disposed of by the watchmen. A sack, four large stones, a skiff up to Stepney Marsh, the weighted body over the side and into the reeds. Simon, too, needed removal from London lest tongues start to wag. Chaucer would make all the necessary arrangements: pa.s.sage to Tuscany; a letter of introduction to his old friend Sir John Hawkwood; a promise to check on Simon within a twelvemonth, as his business for the king would surely take him back to Italy before long.

With dire threats, I forbade Simon from speaking any word about the matter to Sarah. I would tell her of an unexpected opportunity for him in the south, an offer of employment in the king's service, working on behalf of Hawkwood, the great mercenary and Richard's newly appointed amba.s.sador to Rome.

He left for Italy without bidding farewell to his mother. I thought it best that she remain ignorant. Within five days of the killing on the wool wharf, and with barely a whisper of notice in London, Simon's presence in Southwark, and in our lives, was only a memory.

Now, with all this coming back to me in an unwanted rush, I watched Simon unbuckle his belt, remove his surcoat, line up his boots on the doorside block in the same way I had seen him do hundreds of times. The elegant movements of his hands, the distinctive lines of his face, the almond curves of his eyes, curls as neat as if an iron had pressed his hair: all still spoke of that insolent boy who could never please his father. Yet Simon's gaze was not, as it had been the last time I saw him, floating toward Gravesend for a new life in Italy, defiant or proud. Instead it was tired, or defeated. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

'Why have you come back, Simon?'

Simon bowed his head. He was wearing a short gown, the sleeves long and wide in the Italian style. 'I should have written ahead, Father, but with the roads, the French I decided to come ahead on my own. I have taken a leave from Hawkwood's service, with his consent, though I am not at all sure whether I shall go back to Italy. When Chaucer told me my mother had died I couldn't help thinking of you, and of our home.' He looked around at the hall, though still would not show me his gaze. 'I don't imagine I shall be much comfort to you, but it seemed the right time to come back to England, after so long abroad. I should like to find a position in London, or if you don't want me that close I have contacts in Calais. I think my skills could be useful there.'

He continued on in this vein, and more than anything else it was his pathetic curiosity about Sarah's death that began to stem my anger. When did she first show signs of sickness? Did she speak lucidly to you, Father, in her final hours? Did she have any last words for me? Because Chaucer never said. Was her suffering great? It was as if Simon, within his first hours back in Southwark, became the voice of my own, unspoken sorrow, now so mingled with his.

It was at some point in those hours that I found myself thinking of the Duke of Lancaster, and wondering where in his tangled relations he found the most comfort in the face of so much loss. John, Edward, the second John, Isabel, four of his children with d.u.c.h.ess Blanche, all of them buried in Leicester years ago; another John with d.u.c.h.ess Constance, felled by fever before his second year. Such childhood deaths harden a man, whip his heart with chill and heat even as he bites his lips to keep the pain from speaking for itself. Now this one boy who had somehow clung to life was here, with me, and despite all that he had done the feeling that almost overwhelmed me in that moment I can only describe as a grateful, joyous calm. The calm of kin, I suppose.

We sat in the garden, eating a midday meal I barely tasted. As Simon devoured his food I turned the conversation to his life in and around Florence, at the service of the English condottiero. His position, as he described it, seemed to consist in a variety of clerical tasks for Hawkwood's company: contracts for service, purchases of supply, provisions for garrisoned troops around the peninsula. At one point in our conversation his face darkened.

'What is it, Simon?'

He hesitated. 'I should tell you as well, Father, that I was betrothed.'

'Was?'

His lips tightened. 'She died. Fever. We never made it to our vows.'

'How long has it been?'

He slightly shrugged. 'Months. But every day I wake up imagining she's still alive.'

'What was her name?' I asked, thinking she might have died right around the time Sarah pa.s.sed.

He closed his eyes. 'Her name ... her name was Seguina.' He could barely utter it, and when he had he started weeping, not the cry of a man with an eye to his status, nor a boyish mewl, but a ripping keen, the phlegm pouring from his nose to glisten his lips and chin, his chest and shoulders heaving in a haphazard rhythm, animal-like chokes barking from his throat. In a strange way I found myself feeling almost jealous of his pain, its comfortless depth. I had never wept with such abandon for Sarah.

'Seguina,' I finally said.

'Seguina d'-d'-d'Orange,' he hiccupped, still a boy in that moment.

'A beautiful name,' I said, and just like that it was settled. I still marvel at the ease with which Simon slipped back into my daily life, like a hand-warmed coin into a silk purse. Often I wonder how everything would have turned out had I gone with my first impulse, sending him away from Southwark with an oath and a boot. Or if I had demanded to search his meagre luggage.

But Simon was my sole heir, as Chaucer would not stop pointing out, and with all the stir around the book and the Moorfields killing, the lingering emptiness left by Sarah's death the year before, I suppose I was looking for some source of comfort in those turbulent weeks. No one can be blameless in such circ.u.mstances, and I now understand why I remained ignorant was kept ignorant even as the clouds thickened above. Yet as I look back on our reunion that day I can still be sickened by my self-deception, my blithe acceptance of its terms.

That, I am afraid, was my own doing. For never once did I think to question the timing of my son's return from Italy. Nor its meaning.

NINETEEN.

San Donato a Torre, near Florence Adam Scarlett, hungry, muddy from the road, in no hurry to deliver his news, leaned against the stable wall and watched the battle unfold. Three lancemen, s.h.i.+elds held high, began their charge at the small artillery company, who waited until the last moment to launch the payload. Clods and stones peppered the attackers, then the trebuchet broke, sending a cracked feed bucket rolling between the ranks. The five boys traded screams and blows, coming together in a loud melee before collapsing in a heap of giggles and sweat. The farrier, mumbling about the yearlings, came out and chased them off.

Scarlett turned away and started his ascent to the villa, the scene replaying in his mind as the scent of freshly turned dirt rose from beneath his riding boots. War never ended in the communes, it seemed, every season grinding its hundreds of young men into the clay. Soon enough these boys, most of them sons of bought soldiers, would be riding out themselves, bound for a seasonal cattle raid, or another pillage in the Romagna.

In the gallery Hawkwood was dressing down one of his chief men, a tenente from the garrison near Perugia. Scarlett had arranged the man's summons and transfer to Florence several weeks before, after Taricani's departure, and now he was here to face due punishment. Private deals with a Jewish banker, sums moved off the books. Scarlett found his usual place along the south wall, within easy sight of the condottiero. With the mess he had in hand he was happy to wait.

'Please, sire, if you would only-'

'Silence, pig.' Hawkwood was enjoying himself, and the kneeling man seemed to know it. Scarlett watched as the soldier's cheek paled, his fright like a layer of wash swept over a fresco.

'You think I haven't had enough of this from my countrymen already? First Cocco, pulling his little truffa. And now you, Antonio?'

'But, sire, the Raspanti-'

'Ah, the Raspanti. Blame it on the poor, shall we? That's the best you can do?'

'Yes, sire I mean no, sire-'

'Enough,' said Hawkwood, quietly this time, and in English. 'Enough.' He turned and his gaze found Scarlett, who gave his master the slightest of shrugs. A what-did-you-expect? sort of shrug. The condottiero widened his eyes in agreement, his irises white flecks on brown, hues of frosted mud, of winter campaigns and Yule sieges.

Hawkwood reached down to his side for the stick. La Asta, the Rod, a notorious forearm's length of hard elm, its core drilled out and filled with a pour of lead. He palmed it gently, looking from his hands to the tenente, now a whimpering dog waiting for a boot. With one movement Hawkwood brought the stick up, across, and the man's head whipped to the side with a hard crack of bone. Wretched moans, lots of blood, and when he brought his head back to centre Scarlett could see the ruined jaw hanging by a slab of torn skin and ripped muscle. Hawkwood leaned forward and cupped the broken bones, shoving them back into place with an excruciating thrust. Scarlett winced for the tenente.

'Keep this shut for a while, Antonio,' he said, back in Italian. 'Take the silence I've imposed on you as an opportunity, hmm? To think about virtue, about service, about loyalty and the consequence of what you've done. We'll talk again next year, when your mouth works again.' He jerked the loose bone to the side, and the tenente fell to the floor, writhing in pain.

Later, after Hawkwood had sorted through the day's correspondence with Pietrasanta, his chancellor, they walked through the gardens, looking at the week ahead. Scarlett was procrastinating, and badly. He listened to his master going on about the Perugia situation.

'I've grown sick of these southern men, Adam. The heat makes them lazy, and now all this conjuring with the Jews. Really, I've taken all I can take. Give me an Englishman over these rude peninsulars any day. Or even a Scot.' He paused to look across the ravine to the north. 'It will be good to see London, won't it? And after so many years.'

Scarlett took a breath, another, then said it. 'The book has disappeared.'

Hawkwood froze. 'When?'

'Five weeks ago Monday, my lord. Our messengers have just brought the news from Westminster.'

Scarlett told him the rest of it: the incident at La Neyte, the pursuit in the Moorfields, the fear spreading like fire among the English gentry. The messenger had been sent on his way within a few days of the theft, with instructions to spare no expense in bringing the news to the great condottiero in Florence with all due speed.

'I shudder for the poor horses,' Hawkwood said absently. He turned and looked at Scarlett. 'You're telling me, Adam, that a French spy has stolen the book from under our beak, and Lancaster's?'

'All we know is that it was pilfered by an unidentified woman,' said Scarlett, letting the implication sink in. 'Now she's dead.'

'A woman.' Hawkwood's eyes widened. 'Could it be-'

'That is my a.s.sumption, sire.'

Hawkwood considered this for a while. 'Resourceful little thing, isn't she?'

'Wasn't she.'

Hawkwood smiled thinly. 'And the others?'

'That's not known,' said Scarlett. 'Yet.'

Hawkwood continued walking. 'The last dispatch spoke of the work's popularity among these Lollers.'

Scarlett paced behind, watching his master's face. 'The late Wycliffe's disciples, and friends of Lancaster. Some of them have it by rote, and by the time of its disappearance it had become the most notorious writing in England. A book of ghostly prophecies, with dark portent for the fate of the realm! But now no one can find the original ma.n.u.script, nor the cloth. And I worry well ...'

'Tell me, Adam.'

'I worry that this may be Il Critto's doing.'

'Oh?'

'I do not like coincidences. First Il Critto takes a leave, suddenly, and without warning. Then this young woman, who was nearly betrothed to him, disappears without a trace from her father's house. Next your slinky poetical friend comes back from Rome. You know the gossip, sire. He was seducing her. Then he leaves us quite distraught, from the servants' reports. And all of this just a few weeks after the book leaves our hands. A book now missing.' They took a few more steps. Scarlett was the one who stopped this time. 'I don't like it, John. I don't like it at all.'

Hawkwood's face was hard to read at that moment, though it soon broke into a serene smile. 'Well, there's little we can do about it now, eh? And in some ways the theft may be the best thing that could have happened.'

'Oh?'

'This will only draw more attention to the book. Soon enough every man and woman in London will be singing these prophecies from the towers. Then what will our long castle have to say for himself? This changes nothing, Adam.'

Scarlett could see Hawkwood's point about the theft, though he did not share the condottiero's confidence that all would be well. With the book on the loose and the prophecies bandied abroad, there was no telling where all of this might end up.

He thought again of Il Critto, as they had dubbed him soon after his arrival in Hawkwood's circles. Young, ambitious, sizzlingly brilliant. A charmer, but Scarlett had distrusted him from the first instant. Il Critto had distrusted Scarlett as well, especially after that unfortunate misunderstanding over the faked dispatch from London. It was merely a loyalty test, and the young man had pa.s.sed it admirably, though he had taken the whole thing as a personal affront, an a.s.sault on his honour. Scarlett had tried to make peace, but Il Critto would hear none of it, and the young man had spent the next two years in Florence despising the sight of him.

It had been weeks since Scarlett had given Il Critto more than a pa.s.sing thought. Now he was concerned. Non tenet anguillam, per caudam qui tenet illam. A bit of wisdom ground in by long experience among these venomous communes. 'He who holds a snake by the tail doesn't have it under control.' And at the moment, Scarlett worried, we don't hold even the tail.

Hawkwood, feeling none of this, gave his most faithful man a fond smile. 'And now, Adam, you will join your kingmaker in a game of cards.'

TWENTY.

St Paul's churchyard, Ward of Farringdon 'Will he recognize you?' Agnes Fonteyn asked her sister.

Millicent ignored the question as she gazed across the expanse of the great churchyard, where swift clouds bowled shadows among the hucksters, pilgrims, guildsmen, and idlers. With her gut tightened in fear, every sight and sound reached her with an acuity that cast the peril of their situation in sharp relief. The line of swearers spilling out the south door, clutching contracts as they awaited their turn at the altar to sign or make their mark. Construction at the south end on a line of dwellings for canons: the pounding of hammers, the loud claps of boards, carpenters' swears. The banter from the steps, bakers' daughters and fishwives hawking from their leased stations around the broken cross, and every word bounced off the stone.

River mallard, roast bittern, five roast larks for two, here here, sir.

Cristina Walwayn's pigeons're putrid, sir, hardly fit for pasties.

Don't y'purchase from that station, good sir. That's Evota there, Our Lady of the Stale Buns.

Fish, sir, roast fish? Henry Holdernesse be my master, trustiest monger in town, sure. Not like Tilda Cooke over there, she'll sell you a flat a' pigs.h.i.+t and call it a herring-cake. Mine goes down easy, sir, and sells easy as well.

Though selling a book, Millicent had discovered, was more difficult. Over the last week she and Agnes had become industrious fishers of men, posing as middling singlewomen of Cornhull, their hook baited with the only worm they possessed. This book, Millicent firmly believed, would bring a high price from the right man a man ambitious enough to use it for the unique sort of personal gain its contents promised. A few whispered conversations at service gates, furtive proffers at tavern doors, a handsome profit.

Yet none of these men had taken the bait. Not a one of them had even understood the significance of what she was offering them, nor the grave threat the book represented to the realm. That morning Millicent had made a decision. Their next prospect would be a greater man. Not a lord, but something like a lord: a man belonging to the Order of the Coif, a serjeant-at-law with deep connections in the king's affinity.

Thomas Pinchbeak had once been close with Sir Humphrey ap-Roger, who had relied on him for a number of legal matters. She had met the lawman at a mummers play along the embankment, Sir Humphrey showing her off on a Midsummer Eve, the sh.o.r.e fires painting the river with a devilish sheen. That was nearly three years ago. Pinchbeak might recall her face, though surely not her name, as she hadn't encountered him again since well before Sir Humphrey's death. What would he think of her, she wondered, approaching him with such a peculiar offer or, depending how he received it, such an unsettling threat?

With the book concealed in her coat lining, Agnes turned to wait at the top of the south stairs while Millicent approached the gate. Pinchbeak stood with two of his fellow serjeants-at-law within the parvis, a low-walled area before the portico enclosed as a small courtyard. The lawmen were engaged in a light-hearted dispute of some kind, with Pinchbeak the wry observer and mediator, two of the younger serjeants more animated. On the stone benches that lined the sides of the parvis sat several other lawmen conferring with visitors two wealthy burgesses and a knight. To the side of the gate stood a young man of perhaps seventeen, gangly, tall, puffed with his minor station.

'A word with Master Pinchbeak, please,' Millicent said, giving him her most winning smile.

He spat in a gutter. 'The serjeants have little time for hucksters or women, nor women hucksters. Be off with you.'

Millicent looked down at her dress, now shabbier than any garment she had worn since St Leonard's. 'But it's known that the serjeants-at-law gather in the parvis to serve all the citizens of London. You'd deny a freewoman of the city such privilege?' Her raised voice attracted the attention of the lawmen. Pinchbeak approached the low gate, then leaned out to address the young man.