London - Edward Rutherfurd [277]
As for the prospect of being a bride again, she became quite girlish about it.
1386
The idea was Chaucer’s
He had been worried about his friend Bull of late. Tiffany was married; two years ago, Bull’s wife had died. The merchant was feeling rather lonely. Once or twice Chaucer had got the impression that his old friend might have been drinking. And so, in the spring of 1385, he had been delighted when fate provided him with a new official position, and the perfect excuse to take Bull out of himself. “You’re coming with me,” he said. “To Kent.” For Chaucer had just become a Justice of the Peace.
The role of Justice of the Peace had been evolving for some time. It was a good, commonsense system, in which local gentlemen of the shire, aided by professional sergeants-at-law to advise on the legal niceties, presided over the county courts; and Geoffrey Chaucer was eligible because as a royal servant he had been granted a small estate in Kent.
Bull had finally agreed, but before he left, there had been one important decision to make. Who should manage his affairs while he was gone? Since marrying Tiffany, the foundling had exhibited a surprising aptitude for business and before long Bull had found real pleasure in teaching him all he knew, but one thing had displeased the merchant. Though the young man had agreed to dispense with his own name of Ducket, and take that of Bull, he had refused to join the Mercers Guild, despite the fact that Bull could have got him in. “The Grocers Guild is where I served my apprenticeship,” he declared, “and it’s the trade I know.” Nothing would change his loyalty. The fact that the Grocers were currently running the city and the Mercers were not did not make Bull any happier, and Bull was not sure he wanted to put his affairs entirely in the younger man’s hands just yet. The solution he hit upon, however, suited everybody. He called in Whittington.
Whittington was in his thirties now, a man of substance already and a member of the Mercers Guild. He and young Ducket had always been friends. “I want you to watch over my affairs jointly while I’m away,” he instructed them. “You can always send for me if you’re in any doubt.” Feeling confident in the arrangement, he had departed cheerfully enough.
How delightful it was to be in Kent. Just for a moment, when he had met the justices at Rochester Castle, Bull had been afraid he might not enjoy himself. They were a large party, who, apart from the five sergeants-at-law, were mostly courtiers or members of the greatest landowning families in the shire. Rich as he was, Bull had never moved in these circles; but Chaucer came immediately to his rescue. “Gentlemen,” he smiled, “I am such a newcomer to this county myself that I asked my dear friend here to ride with me and guide me. He was born a Bull of Bocton, an ancient Kent family, I believe.” The effect was instantaneous. “Been here longer than we have,” one landowner declared. “It must be your brother I know,” smiled another. By the end of that day, they let him feel as if they had known him all his life.
As Chaucer had foreseen Bull had no time to brood, for they were constantly on the move. There were investigations, into the administration of an heiress’s estate, or the land grants of a monastery; they carefully checked the coastal defences in case of French attack. But above all, it was the simple business of administering justice, in towns, in villages and on manors all over the county, that delighted Bull and his friend the poet.
A tax-collector had been beaten up, a yeoman’s barn set on fire, a miller robbed of his flour, a peasant had refused labour to his lord. They came before the court, stated their case and were questioned in simple English. Local juries provided information, local customs were observed, and justices like Chaucer handed down verdicts. Yet the greatest joy for Bull was to discuss the day