A Death in Catte Street

A DEATH IN CATTE STREET

A Geoffrey Chaucer Mystery

By

Tim Shaw

Copyright 2013 by Tim Shaw

Smashwords Edition

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Many thanks to Jay Allen, who urged me to finish this story and read and re-read numerous drafts, providing helpful feedback.

Cover art by Jay and Dawn Allen.

This book is dedicated to my wife, Leigh, who alone has some idea of how much my accomplishments owe to her constant support.

Chapter 1

Geoffrey takes some ladies-in-waiting around London, and sees some foreigners

[Wednesday, 14 October]

I was not yet 20 years of age when I had had enough of death.

It is the custom of old campaigners to reminisce constantly about the wars of long ago. I am not an old campaigner, but I was there in France for more than one part of the long struggle between our two countries, and I tell you that there has been no phase of this long war—for I feel in my bones that it is not over, even now—that was good for England. Edward succeeded in his goals only at the expense of heavy losses of men, and returned discontented, though with every prospect of growing wealthy on the ransoms alone, never mind the tribute from new territory gained in France. At least those of us who had been captured had it well—yes, I spent weeks in gentle captivity in Rheims—for we were spared most of the marching done by the armies, and had roofs over our heads, for the most part, rather than field tents (or less) during that long and rain-filled season.

I would not say I enjoyed the war, although looking back I would not say that I suffered overmuch for the experience. Not like the men who died of wounds, or of disease, or in some cases of starvation. Of course, that was 40 years past, and I cannot deny that perhaps age has blunted the edge of memory and softened the harshness of that long ago time. In fact, the war seems less important to me now than the events that took place shortly after, events whose occurrence or outcome I could never have foreseen.

And no one could have predicted what effect a king's decree 70 years earlier would cause, or how I would become entwined with events related to it. But I’ll explain that soon enough.

However it happened, shortly after my return to London, I spent a few mornings among the streets, reacquainting myself with the City after my many months away. Now, when people see the state that King Richard keeps, they think that life as a page involves following processions in fine clothing, or sitting on a bench in the Hall and waiting for messages to carry to another part of the Tower. In many cases, however, youth in the service of the great houses meant liberty. I, for instance, had returned to England in October of 1360 in order to transport several letters royal from King Edward and his sons, then in France working on what became the Treaty of Brétigny. Once my commission was concluded, however, there was little in the manner of official duty for me, and I took pains to busy myself with certain affairs.

At the time, I was attached to the household of Prince Lionel, who was not yet named Duke of Clarence. By then he had entered into his majority, and his household was officially merged with that of the countess, his first wife Elizabeth de Burgh, whose father was Earl of Ulster. I had actually started as a page in her household, but was transferred to Lionel’s and made a valet in order to enlarge his retinue during the time in France. But I had also had occasion to wait on Queen Philippa in my younger days—as Lionel’s mother, of course, their households were closely connected at times—and I often found myself escorting several of the Queen’s ladies with her permission. I’ll tell you about her presently.

So it was that one bright morning in October I was walking through the London port markets with three lively and lovely young ladies. My commission had been completed with the delivery of the letters from France, and having spent time with Queen Philippa, imparting news of her husband and sons and the progress of the diplomatic talks, she granted her ladies-in-waitings’ request for a market excursion with me as escort. On this particular outing I was accompanying Judith, Margaret, and Alice, whose taste for what they considered adventure was exceeded only by the gaiety of their mood. Down along Queenshithe we strolled, the streets of my youth, peering into musty shops and poking among stalls of late fruits and vegetables.

My companions, like students released from school, bubbled with laughter, delighting in everything they saw, whether the bulbous nose of a publican or the deft hand of a butcher dressing rabbits. We stood at John Long’s shop for some time while I expounded at length on how to discern fresh fish from old, using his wares as example and pronouncing his fish foul in front of the passing crowd. I am sure he had no idea who I was, but he had given my father trouble once, and I was more than happy to take the opportunity to repay him and perform for the ladies.

These young ladies had all been born inland, and expressed fascination for the great ships that brought boatloads of men and goods to the merchants’ warehouses. We saw boats of all sizes and from all ports of call: enormous galleys from Venice bringing spices and wine, Dutch busses laden with still-living herring, huge Genoese cogs filled with alum and woad for the wool trade, trampers from Brittany with shellfish of several kinds—their numerous rocky inlets provide ideal breeding grounds for mussels and scallops.

Billingsgate was near the Tower, and one of two major ports for ships bearing the great tuns of wine that came from the Rhineland or from France—the wine now free to flow again, so to speak, once the stopper of war had been pulled. Here I could truly spread the plumage of vanity before the ladies, explaining all about production, whence came the best wines, how each tun could translate into 300 pitchers, and more. We were waved at by a man standing among a group of merchants, whose upraised eyebrow at seeing me accompanied by four young ladies raised curiosity from my companions, until I led them away to the next sight.

We watched a shipload of ransomed Englishmen disembarking; though the war was over, it would be almost another year before all were returned from captivity on the continent. The bishop of London was at the pier, and offered us all a spectacle by giving thanks for their safe return. He had a nephew aboard the ship, I believe, which might explain why the ship had come all the way to London, rather than have its passengers disembark at Dover, as mine had done some weeks before.

There were several bystanders, besides family of the returning soldiers—to give the bishop his due, he was known for impassioned and inspiring sermons—and among them I noticed a handful of foreigners here and there among the crowds. In particular, I noted three men to one side dressed richly in the Italian fashion of the day. I had not yet been to Italy myself, but my father had had several dealings with Italian vintners in my younger days. Indeed, there was a large community of Italians not far from where I grew up.

The three I saw were set apart by their dress, for they wore the multi-colored and exotic apparel of well-to-do Mediterranean merchants. This alone was not remarkable: London was a major port for trade with the world, after all. They could be Florentine bankers, merchants in dyestuffs from Genoa, or Calabrian traders. They could even be Gascon nobles on some business regarding the Prince of Wales. Something else, however, soon served to distinguish them from their surroundings.

With one ear on the bishop’s orations and one eye roving through the crowd—and distracted by the whispers and titters of my companions—it took some time to realize that something odd was happening, one of those incidents barely above the threshold of notice that registers a force on the brain before the mind can recognize the fact. As the air was filled with the bishop’s nasal Our Lord Jesus Christ’s, the Christian crowd of course briefly bowed their heads at each mention of the Savior. The three Italians, paying no attention to the bishop, who sat on a horse to make his reedy voice heard above the throng, never made the customary obeisance at the mention of the Holy Name. This became so apparent to me that I watched them more carefully, taking note of their garb and manner. I had no motive for doing so other than curiosity—London was large enough that I could have wandered the streets for a fortnight and never seen them again. And I cared little about heresy, if heretics they were.

They might have been three generations of the same family. One seemed my age or a little older, with a scowl on his face; one looked old enough to be his father. Between them stood whom I took to be the pater familias: white-haired beneath his cap and bent with age, though sharp eyes above a prominent nose—I would have called it Roman—seemed to miss nothing. When he spoke, the other two leaned in politely to hear him. They had obviously just come from one of the ships at dock. They stood and shuffled stiffly, perhaps still recovering their land legs after the constant shifting and rolling of a channel voyage in the autumn winds.

The bishop finished his sermon with a loud Amen! We all crossed ourselves, the crowd began to disperse, and I completely forgot them while trying to keep my charges from becoming too involved in a mountebank running some cups-and-balls affair by the quay. The remainder of the morning passed without incident.

Later, walking back to the palace, one of the ladies—it was Alice—fell behind the others to walk alongside me. We were chewing buns purchased at a baker’s stall. They were good, but dry, and I watched her dainty face as she finished her mouthful so she could speak. She crumbled the rest of the buns in her hands, and tossed the pieces to the sparrows.

Thank you for escorting us, Geoffrey. Things have been very dull with the war, and all the men gone from court. We haven’t had a day’s outing in months. But I have two questions, if you don’t mind. Why were you so interested in those three men?

Hmm? I looked up.

Those three men, dressed very gaily, during the bishop’s sermon. Alice was always noticing things.

At first, it was just their attire, but they...did you notice anything odd about them while the bishop spoke?

No, just that they drew your attention.

They just seemed … odd. I didn’t know if my observations would alarm or amuse her. They seemed pointless now.

Well, we were near the Italian section of the city. Then, as I looked at her curiously. Italian merchants live not far away, on Royal Street I think. Didn’t you know that? I thought you grew up near there.

Yes, I knew that, but I didn’t know you knew it.

Silly boy, she said with affection and a sparkle in her eyes. I haven’t always been stuck in a palace waiting on others. And I keep my eyes and ears open.

She smiled as she spoke. Alice was always smiling. There are people who like you because you are interesting, or well-shaped, or amusing. I think Alice simply liked people, all kinds. You always felt that you were important to her. That’s a rare gift. For her, it was a very valuable trait; there were many girls far prettier than she. Not to mention more suitable for flirting: although tall for her age and with an air that almost seemed worldly, Alice was still very young.

What are you two conspiring about? Margaret had turned back.

Geoffrey’s been promising me all the dances at the next banquet. said Alice, without pause.

I shrugged eloquently at Margaret’s cry of protest, as if to say What choice do I have? I interrupted the debate over me with the assertion that I would probably be sent away from London soon on other errands.

Where?

The countess will soon progress to Hatfield; if her husband has not returned before then with different orders, I assume I shall have to attend my lady there.

Nonsense, said Alice, taking my arm. We shall tell the queen that we must have you near, since so many men are still across the Channel.

And besides, added Judith, the queen has said she wants all the princes here before Christmas, to celebrate the success of the war. I heard her saying so yesterday.

Yes, and especially Gaunt’s new bride must be there, since she has seen so little of them since the marriage. I cannot wait to see her again. She’s so beautiful. This from Margaret, who thought marriage to a fine-looking spouse the highest virtue to which a mortal could aspire.

Is she? I thought one of her eyes was crooked? This was deliberate mischief.

Whoever said that lied! She was firm in her outrage.

Peace, both of you. Geoffrey is the only man in England who doesn’t recognize true beauty when he sees it.

Not true! I can recognize it better than most. But in this, alas! I have not the facts in the case. I missed the wedding.

Then you shall come and see for yourself! They make such a handsome couple. Gaunt is one of the most dashing men in the kingdom, excepting the Prince of Wales, of course. He is a true catch for any woman, and a true match for his lady wife.

All right, Margaret; only don’t go on so. Everyone makes a handsome couple in your eyes.

She began to protest. Alice attempted to soothe her while I grinned at the success of my gibes. I decided I hadn’t finished defending myself.

Besides, beauty comes in many forms. I doubt there are many valets who appreciate poetry and song as much as I. In fact, I learned some new ones in France from Machaut. Maybe, if you were to mention it to the Queen, she might allow me to attend on her and perform for you some day.

This seemed agreeable to all, and Margaret, her outrage forgotten, hastened her steps until she joined Judith several paces ahead to inform her of this plan, leaving me with Alice again.

I wish you wouldn’t tease her quite so much. The rebuke in her tone was mild, but felt.

Margaret doesn’t mind: we’ve been friends for years.

She made a small, resigned sound in her throat, as if I had missed the point, when in fact I thought she was the one missing the point. I turned the subject.

You said you had two questions?

Oh! yes. Who was that man at the wine ship who remarked us? I thought he might have been a friend of yours, but you hustled us away as if you didn’t want us to speak with him. An old acquaintance?

I paused, and thought. Yes, you could say that. I haven’t seen him for months, and I didn’t really want to get into a conversation at the time. Besides, you saw he was busy.

But...who is he?

My father.

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Chapter 2

Geoffrey visits his parents, and has a meal with Sir Richard Stury

[Friday, 16 October]

Two days later I went to visit my parents.

If a man’s life is a tapestry, how quickly the edges seem to unravel with age. Memories waft away and leave me only a warp of images. I recall a time when my mother and Katherine and I lived exclusively in the solar for months, going over the Ave Maria and the Paternoster, on my tablets, although I had already learned them a year earlier and knew them by heart. This was in the house at Southampton, and the only people we saw were my father and the girl who worked for us, and then only my father. I can remember gazing out the window at the streets below, wishing I were allowed out to play and wondering where the children were—it seemed all my friends’ parents were keeping them inside as well—and wishing we didn’t keep the fireplace so hot during the summer months.

I would lay in bed without thought of sleep, listening to my parents speaking in low voices near the fire—the fire not even allowed to sink to embers at night—and remember once hearing my father say All gone. in a tone that has stayed with me all these years. I remember knowing without thinking that he meant my grandparents. I never saw my grandparents again, even when we moved that autumn to London and a bigger house.

Even now, knowing that the Pestilence caused all this—the absence of other children, the isolation with a blazing fire to keep the vapors at bay, the loss of the girl, the death of my grandparents (the inheritance from whom allowed us to buy a bigger house in London)—does not erase the oddness of that time when I had no connection with the world outside. It is maddening to be in the middle of events and not understand them.

But that was long ago, and now I was a young man attached to a royal household, well-connected to weighty affairs. I had donned my best hose and tunic for visiting my father. I had not seen him or my mother for many months; my affairs took me far and kept me busy, while his duties kept him in London. Not at the docks, where I saw him earlier. He gave up the wine trade shortly after we moved, and for the same