London - Edward Rutherfurd [282]
How exotic they were. Some were familiar: a magnificent dragon, a handsome unicorn. But others were more curious: a griffin, half lion half eagle; a cockatrice, cock in front, tailed dragon behind; the heraldic panther, which breathes fire; a sea-lion, which was shown as a lion with a fish’s tail; and of course a mermaid.
“So,” the clerk concluded, “have you any thoughts as to what you might like? A mermaid perhaps? A griffin?”
“I wondered,” Ducket answered, “if I could have a duck.”
“A duck?” The clerk looked disappointed.
“In a river,” Ducket said.
It turned out to be not as simple as Ducket had supposed. His first suggestion, a green duck on a blue background was instantly vetoed. “You can’t put one colour on top of another,” the clerk explained. “You put gold or silver on a colour, or a colour on gold or silver. It shows up better. We often suggest a river by some wavy bands across the field,” his guide suggested. “Let me show you.”
And so it was, some time later, that Ducket found himself gazing at a sketch of a shield. The background was silver – which could also be shown as white. Across the middle ran two thick wavy bands of blue, for the river. And there were three red ducks, two above and one below the blue wavy bands. All of which, naturally, had to be given the correct heraldic description, known as the Blazon.
“Argent, two Bars Wavy Azure, between three Ducks Gules,” the clerk announced firmly. “The arms of Ducket.”
The figure who stood before the court in Rochester Castle had clearly seen better days. His black coat was badly stained. The tunic, though of expensive material, was worn. He was, perhaps, not aware that in the back of his hose there was a small, round hole through which the flesh could be seen. Chaucer and the sergeant-at-law accompanying him looked at the fellow curiously. It seemed to the poet that he had seen him before. The fellow’s name was Simon le Clerk. He said he came from Oxford.
His defence, it had to be said, was good, and he made it soundly, in the tones of an educated man.
“The truth is, your worshipful and learned sirs, that I did indeed take money from this miller here.” With a trace of distaste he indicated a stout and vulgar looking fellow. “He made a wager with me which I won. I considered him sober at the time, but if he wishes to plead that he was not, and it pleases your worships, I will return the wager, which was exactly half of what he says I took. The rest of his charge,” he shrugged disdainfully, “that I am a magician, a necromancer, and that I promised to turn base metal into gold, is absurd. Does he offer any evidence? Where are the tools of my nefarious trade? What beakers and crucibles? What concoctions and elixirs? Have any such things been found upon me or at my lodgings? Of course not, for they do not, and never have existed. There is not a shadow of proof for his assertions which are, I suggest, as base as the metals he claims I turn to gold. In short, your worships, it is he who seeks, in this preposterous matter, to manufacture gold – not I.”
The judges smiled. It was neatly put. The miller was shaking his head and looking furious, but it was obvious he had no evidence to offer.
“Pay back what you won,” Chaucer ordered, “and let the matter be closed.” And the sergeant-at-law was just nodding in agreement when Bull arrived.
“Good God,” he cried, “it’s Silversleeves.”
It was the last day of his sojourn with Chaucer. A year had passed since he had left London and, ever since the start of July, he had been feeling it was time to return. He had just been visiting the noble cathedral of Rochester that morning before