London - Edward Rutherfurd [234]
John of Gaunt lived in the huge palace of the Savoy, by the Aldwych. And it was from there one summer’s day, as Ducket and little Tiffany were walking out to Charing Cross, discussing the merits of being a butcher over those of a bowyer, that a man with a forked beard strolled, who, as soon as he spotted the boy’s white patch, came over to them with a smile and asked: “How does my godson?”
Nor, when Ducket told him about his problem, did he hesitate for more than a moment before declaring: “But I think I’ve got the very thing for you.”
A week later, it was all arranged. Ducket prepared to leave the house on London Bridge and move into his new master’s. On a summer morning, with a spare hose and two new linen shirts provided by Bull’s wife, he set off cheerfully to his new home. Though this was less than a mile away, it was a parting nonetheless. As she stood by the door, little Tiffany asked him: “Will you come back to see me every week?” He promised he would. “Will you miss me? Every day?” “Of course I shall.”
Even so she stayed by the door for a long time as he went upon his way.
As for Geoffrey Chaucer, he smiled to himself. “Your master is a kind fellow,” he assured the boy; “but the household is, you might say, unusual.” More than this, however, he would not divulge, preferring to leave his godson curious.
1376
On a wet spring morning, Dame Barnikel faced her eleven-year-old daughter Amy across the matrimonial bed and prepared for battle.
Dame Barnikel’s bed was a splendid affair. It was by far the most valuable piece of furniture in the house – a huge four-poster. It was made of oak. Upon it she had already had two husbands. In the taverns of Southwark, the betting was five-to-two for a third within seven years. The first man, they said, had died of exhaustion. The bed had a thick mattress stuffed with down. At its foot rested a huge wooden trunk, banded with iron, in which all the bedclothes were kept and which, when Dame Barnikel had sat on it to close it, packed the contents so tight that any unfortunate fleas who had failed to jump out were instantly suffocated.
For several seconds she eyed the girl, who wilted stubbornly under her gaze. Then she began.
“You’re very pale,” she announced gruffly. She paused now, searched for words and found them. “You look,” she suddenly roared, “as if you’d been kept under a pot.”
But this was not the real issue on her mind; that followed soon enough.
“This young man of yours. This carpenter. He won’t do at all.” She gave the girl a firm look. “Just you forget about him,” she growled affectionately, “and you’ll feel better.”
As Dame Barnikel looked at the girl, she inwardly sighed. How like her father Amy was. Though more strongly built, she had the same thin, concave face and, as far as one could tell, the same tendency to silence.
When people saw John Fleming and Dame Barnikel together, they could never believe they were man and wife. It was no wonder: with his spoon-like face and spindly body they never thought he could stay the course. As for why, only a year after first being widowed, she had married this quiet grocer, it remained one of the mysteries in an otherwise ordered universe.
But Dame Barnikel, at thirty, was magnificent. Half a head taller than Fleming, with her dark red hair pulled back like an Amazon, even Bull, who was a harsh critic, admitted she was a fine-looking woman. Silent she was not. Her voice would boom an indiscretion across the street or share a secret in a husky growl; once a month she would get drunk, and then, if crossed, she could roar like a Viking in battle. Above all, she loved to dress in bright colours.
Sometimes this led to trouble.