The People's Queen Part 27

Alice has known for weeks that she must prepare for the worst.

She's known ever since rough-mannered men came banging at the door at Pallenswick to say they represented a new parliamentary commission. They said it was their official task to inventory every item handed over to Alice from the Crown.

The mistress is not here, they were told. No matter, they replied brusquely. Show us the store-rooms. Bring out the clothes and hangings. And they set up at the table in the Great Hall, with a clerk writing lists of everything that's brought out to them. They swilled beer. They belched. They munched on meat and bread and onions that they ordered from Alice's kitchens.

It was clear, as the glistening, winking piles around the commissioners swelled and rose in the hall, in the manner of a fairy-tale castle, that none of these possessions would ever go back up the stairs. The servants could see everything would be confiscated. (Everything, of course, except the golden hanging of Sampson and Delilah. That was already stashed away in a trunk, which the men's leader had two of his followers quietly take away. It never appeared on the list of the Parliament's findings.) The inventory these gloating commissioners compiled was mean-spirited in the extreme. They listed bed linen, furniture, jewels, clothing and trinkets. They listed the gorgeously expensive green gown Alice had been going to wear in a pageant that never happened. They listed 21,868 pearls. But they also listed a yard of ribbon, and a pair of gloves. Nothing was too insignificant to arouse their hostile interest. They wrote down a value for each item; and they over-valued everything by a dizzying percentage. After they'd pawed at and gawped over some jewels the King gave Alice, jewels that were down in the Exchequer's accounts as being worth PS400 at the time they were given, they wrote down a bigger, rounder value: PS500. It would be better, for the purposes of blackening her character, to exaggerate the amount of loot she had stashed away.

That, at least, was what the black-haired female servant, wearing nothing special, thought they were up to, as she slipped in and out, taking off platters. Unnoticed.

The new Parliament has sensed from the start that there is will at the top to attack Alice Perrers.

The Commons still want to punish someone for all the wrongs of the past years. And there's no one left, any more, except Alice. The old King is already facing his Maker, and the Duke, the original target of the knights' rage - the source and paymaster of corruption, the coward, the provoker of riots, who's also been presumed, for so long, to be plotting to seize the throne - is keeping his head very carefully down now. He's loyal to his royal nephew. He's friends with his sister-in-law. The Parliament has, reluctantly, had to hold its nose and ask him to join the planning to defend the nation. He's agreed to lead a fighting force to France next year. He isn't putting a foot wrong. Not that he's become popular; not that anyone thinks this quiet state of affairs will last; but, while it's precariously holding, no one has the nerve to make any accusations against him. him. His royal blood is too aweinspiring; his power too intimidating. They only dared to take him on before because they knew his older, senior brother was nudging them on. Yet the anger that was unleashed last year is still floating on the air, the bloodl.u.s.t, the hunger for revenge. They need a victim. His royal blood is too aweinspiring; his power too intimidating. They only dared to take him on before because they knew his older, senior brother was nudging them on. Yet the anger that was unleashed last year is still floating on the air, the bloodl.u.s.t, the hunger for revenge. They need a victim.

Alice Perrers is out there, somewhere. And she's the ideal scapegoat. She's lost her main patron, the King. She also seems to have come adrift from her second patron, the Duke. She's become weak. Her name makes the current crop of parliamentarians lick their lips. They carry on hunting, and researching.

At the request of the Commons, the Lords announce that Alice Perrers must appear before them for a second trial.

It's wishful thinking, of course. It doesn't make Alice Perrers come out of hiding.

The whole month of November, and half of December, goes by before she is found. Christmas is in the air before the yardman at Pallenswick comes to London and reports to the parliamentary commission boss, who's now back in his usual place of work at Kennington Palace, that the mistress is hiding out in the servants' quarters. She's been there all along, right under the commissioners' noses.

The yardman receives enough money to get drunk on right through Christmas. There will be no one, now, to notice that several small household items, too humble for the commissioners to bother about, have gone missing from Pallenswick at the same time as him.

A day later, word gets about in London that the wh.o.r.e is now lodging at Westminster Palace, under guard.

The Lords put off their departure for the shires. Her trial begins on 22 December.

When Alice looks at her face in the pail of water they give her to wash in - the closest she has to a mirror - she's shocked by the grey-white circle looking back. Something irreversible happens to a face when the last hope goes. She's pale. Her eyes have white all around the edges. And she's so cold. Her blood seems to have turned to ice. She stares at the water. She can't think.

The first person Alice Perrers sees when they shuffle her into the crowded parliamentary chamber is the Duke of Lancaster. She's pinched red into her cheeks and forced nonchalance on to her face, but as soon as she's confronted with those dark, unfocused eyes, looking slightly past her, brimful of destruction, she feels herself going grey and papery and insubstantial again. She can see she's lost.

Those are enemy eyes. The eyes of a man trying to destroy a piece of his own past.

She knows why. She's the one person who's seen his darkest and most secret desire. And, now he's turned his back on that desire, and the self he might have been, he wants to destroy her. It's not a reasoned wish; he just wants her out of any world he's part of, eradicated, so that he can forget what he almost became. If throwing Alice to the wolves will appease knights and merchants alike, the very groups of men who've been so hostile to him, then so much the better. He could do with a bit less unpopularity. But appeasing them is not the true reason why he's going to find her guilty.

Surrept.i.tiously, with the hands she keeps folded in front of her, she feels the swish of her legs moving under her, as if to remind herself that she is, for now, still flesh and muscle and bone, still capable of fight and flight. But her hands are dry and white; ghosts already.

Everything seems very far away. The speeches echo, as if in a dream. Shouldn't they be talking about fraud, or treachery? She can't hear any charges she can understand. She's vaguely aware that the real danger isn't here, in these words, these voices. The real danger is over there, in the black-haired Duke's eyes.

It doesn't take long for Alice to realise she hasn't just been daydreaming and failing to understand the charges. There are no formal accusations that would stand in law. These parliamentarians are too confident of their prey to bother overmuch with the niceties of framing charges. It's bad law, what they're doing, and rough justice, but (for them) good sport. The room sizzles with malice.

This Parliament claims Alice Perrers disobeyed the orders pa.s.sed by last spring's Parliament, to keep away from the King, and returned to the old man on a whim.

This Parliament also claims that Alice Perrers illegally influenced the King to pardon Richard Lyons and get him released from the Tower of London.

When Alice, with colour returning to her cheeks and feeling to her fingers, rises to say she is innocent on both counts, since it was the Duke of Lancaster, sitting here today as judge of this court, who ordered her back to the King's side last year, and also the Duke of Lancaster who, acting in the King's name, formally authorised Lyons' release, she realises why the parliamentarians are so careless of legal detail.

The Duke of Lancaster is not just the judge of this court. He is also a hostile witness.

With that glazed, hateful expression, he shakes his head at everything she says. He doesn't even answer.

The parliamentarians murmur, but subside. They're taking their lead from him.

Alice thinks faster on her feet. She stands before the Duke, considering him. His eyes shift and burn. He'll never admit to sending for her to return to the King, that much is obvious; the knight he sent won't admit it either; and there are no other witnesses. But she wasn't alone with him when they discussed springing Richard Lyons from his cell. Half Edward's household was there, lurking around, curious ears flapping, as he suggested she ask the King to sign the release form he'd prepared. Surely someone will say it was his idea. And surely there's paperwork, at the Tower if nowhere else, showing who authorised the release.

It can't be impossible. She says, with strength that surprises her in her voice, 'Let me find witnesses. There are officials who will confirm what I say. Give me time to prove my case.'

The simple ways are best. Even if she's got to take her guards with her, she'll be out. She'll go to the Tower. She'll ask directly. Even the thought of London air on her cheeks again invigorates her.

There's another uncomfortable murmur through the room.

They all know she's right, really. And it's midday. They want to break for dinner.

The eyes turn from her, expectantly, towards the Duke.

The Duke looks sick. He fiddles with his rings. He steeples his fingers, as if in prayer. 'Very well,' he growls in the end, looking past her, over the fingers.

The next, louder, murmuring seems to anger him. The last thing he wants is to look weak. He turns his head, trying to quell the muttering. 'Appoint a representative to make your inquiries,' he adds brusquely, raising his voice above the rest. 'You're not going gadding about on your own.'

Alice gawps. 'But', she says, equally loudly, not giving up, knowing that her best hope is to keep the whole chamber listening, 'who? And how?'

He stands up. He spreads his arms. He doesn't give an answer. He makes only the smallest pretence of giving anything. He says, 'I give you this afternoon, and tonight. We resume in the morning.'

That's no time at all. It's hopeless. In the ensuing uproar, he walks out.

They take Alice from the chamber as the grey comes back over her. She lets them half tug her along the corridor. It's crowded. The men jostling all want to stare.

For a moment, she's let herself hope. And hope is so cruelly close to despair. She's trying to get herself back under control. Trying to think...but her mind won't obey her, and even her feet feel unsteady; she mustn't trip over her skirts, she mustn't humiliate herself.

She blanks out the voices. She blanks out the eyes. She shuts hers, and concentrates on gliding forward, as if there were no one but her here.

It's only when she feels a hand on her arm - a new hand, as well as those of the two men-at-arms - that she half opens her eyes again.

She can hardly believe what she sees. It's not some oaf of a knight, mocking her. It's Chaucer, bobbing anxiously along, trying to catch her eye, as if he's been mouthing at her for ages. Perhaps he has. He doesn't look like a man who once betrayed her friendship, and whom she's put out of her mind. He's taller than she remembers, but with the same elfin looks, and the same worried, guilty, affectionate half-frown. There is no sound coming from his lips. He doesn't want to be heard. Well, he was never a lion among men, she thinks, from far away.

But he's forming silent words. After a while, she realises he's saying: 'Shall I try?'

Mutely she nods. Chaucer falls back. She and her minders turn a corner. The noise recedes.

She never cries. Never has, till today. So she's astonished to find her eyes are p.r.i.c.king and br.i.m.m.i.n.g again, and her lips trembling so hard she has to purse them to keep her whole face from dissolving.

THIRTY-TWO.

Chaucer can hardly believe he's suddenly so brave.

But something has changed in him. Yesterday, when, after Nones at St Helen's, he asked for and was again refused permission to see Elizabeth (whose lovely voice he'd heard soaring into the heavens from behind the screen, but who again didn't seem to have seen him in the brief moments when the novices filed into their places, and out again), the person he did see as he trailed disconsolately back towards the gate, and the street, and ordinary life, was his wife.

Philippa had lost all her usual condescending calm. She was white-faced and black-eyed with rage, striding along with her arms swinging. He nearly laughed, until he saw she was heading straight for him, and the rage appeared to be connected with him. She was looking at him as if she wanted to kill him.

It was only then that Chaucer noticed the Lady Prioress, lurking with her psalter back there in the cloister, where Philippa must be coming from. The nun was trying to pretend she was reading it as she walked, but was unable to stop herself sneaking curious glances at the couple.

Philippa may have been aware of their audience too. She didn't speak until she got near enough Chaucer to whisper. But the whisper came out as a furious hiss: 'You'll never see me, or Elizabeth, again. Don't think you will.'

'What? Why?' Chaucer said back, utterly baffled (though, in the way of the unhappily married, he also, almost automatically, did all he could to make himself look as visibly woebegone and wrongly accused as possible, just in case that helped whatever case he might be called upon to make, or persuaded stray watchers that he was being mistreated).

It didn't cut any ice with Philippa, his play-acting. She just narrowed her eyes even further, and shook her head in extreme irritation, as if fighting down an urge to hit him.

How strange, he thought, I've never seen her really angry, like this.

'She asked me when I came in if it was true about Katherine and the Duke,' Philippa said. It was clear she meant the Lady Prioress. 'So I asked Elizabeth. And she she says it's common talk in London that you've been spreading the word. Disgracing Katherine. She never wants to see you again.' says it's common talk in London that you've been spreading the word. Disgracing Katherine. She never wants to see you again.'

Geoffrey Chaucer paused. He ignored the bigger threat in what his wife was saying. It was a tactic, obviously. For the moment, he was only thinking tactics. This was going to be a tricky one to get himself out of.

He knew, just as Philippa knew, that this was worse, much worse, than the previous ugly whispered argument between them, the one begun back in July as they stood side by side watching Elizabeth being kissed by the Mother Prioress and ushered away through the gate. Back then, they'd at least been pretending to be a couple, at least preserving the external appearances of domestic harmony, even if what they'd been saying, in their guarded mutters, was savage. That time, at least, he'd had the moral high ground. The earlier conversation, as he recalled it, had gone something like this: HIM. You gave Alice away; why did you have to do that to her? What harm did she ever do you?HER. What, that s.l.u.t? So what? She deserves everything she gets. It's time she got her just deserts. Why would you care, anyway?HIM. Who are you to talk like that, sheltering a sister who's no better than she ought to be either?'

It had ended inconclusively, like all their arguments, because there was nowhere for it to go. Neither of them would state their interest, or fight openly for a declared cause. So neither of them could win. They'd tossed their heads like restive war-horses and retreated, as always, in different directions.

This conversation, however, was worse, because the accusation Philippa was flinging at him, through those clenched teeth, was undeniably true. He had had been telling people about Katherine and the Duke and their children. He been telling people about Katherine and the Duke and their children. He had had given way to spite and foolishness. He given way to spite and foolishness. He had had committed the great sin of the merchant caste and loosened his lips. But only out of frustration, and only a few times, he told himself, trying to feel innocent (though not succeeding). Only to Walworth, and the servants, and one of the clerks...and a man in a tavern...It just hadn't occurred to him that he'd get caught. committed the great sin of the merchant caste and loosened his lips. But only out of frustration, and only a few times, he told himself, trying to feel innocent (though not succeeding). Only to Walworth, and the servants, and one of the clerks...and a man in a tavern...It just hadn't occurred to him that he'd get caught.

He caught himself on all these disingenuous thoughts. He recognised the lies he was telling himself. Of course he must have known that he'd likely be caught. Of course a part of him must have wanted to hurt his wife, and her sister.

What really had never occurred to him was that he'd get caught by his daughter, of all people. How could he know that London gossip travelled so fast that even the novices in the religious houses knew everything?

Opting for denial, because, for the moment, he couldn't think what else to do, he said, very coldly, 'Don't be ridiculous. You're hysterical. Get yourself under control. I don't know what you're talking about. You shouldn't spend your time getting over-excited about street gossip. It's bad for your health.' He drew himself up to his full height (as usual resenting the fact that this still didn't make him as tall as Philippa), raised his eyebrows coolly at her, turned around, and walked off without looking back.

It wasn't until he'd flung himself through the streets and slammed his own door shut that he realised the significance of what Philippa was saying.

He'd felt he was simply righting the wrongs against Alice by whispering here and there about the Duke. But in doing so he'd made himself the enemy of Philippa and her blood, and, he now realised, that might also mean that he'd made enemies of his own children, who were Philippa's blood too.

Was that the real reason the Lady Prioress wouldn't let him see Elizabeth? (Even though he'd said, honestly and practically enough, that he wanted to deliver to her the two new habits he'd had sewn for her, which were waiting in his saddlebag?) With the dawning of wild, reckless despair, he wondered: Had his own daughter really said she'd never speak to him again? Might she mean it?

There'd be nothing he could do if she did. He might really never see her again.

So he's been up all night, cursing, throwing papers in the fire, s.n.a.t.c.hing them out again, drinking too much, almost howling with grief, realising he's making a fool of himself, imagining himself, sodden and pathetic, through Elizabeth's eyes, castigating himself for making a fool of himself, then drinking more and crying again.

In the morning, with a splitting headache and a sick stomach, he's got as far as Seething Lane on the way to the Customs House before accepting he's not going to work. He strides on down Thames Street instead, heading for the pa.s.senger jetty. He can't tell, even now, where he's going, but his feet seem to have decided.

He's thinking: What's the point? What's the point of sucking up to one ambitious man after another, if the very centre of his world is this barren and empty of love? What's the point of a lifetime of self-reproach?

It's only when he's already in the boat, telling the man to let him off at Westminster, that he realises what he's going to do.

He's going to try and see Alice. He's going to try and sneak into her trial, or hang around outside hoping to get a chance to talk to her, and see if he can help her in some way, and to h.e.l.l with the consequences.

He doesn't care about respectability any more. He doesn't care about his colleagues' possible disapproval, or the Duke's likely anger, or his wife's probable disgust. He's made enough of a mess of enough of his life by skulking in corners, trying idiotically to score points off Philippa, mistaking meanness for manliness.

He's been too busy doing that, and currying favour with men he doesn't respect, to do anything for that other woman, whom he loves, who's being persecuted and has no one to defend her. Even though he's appalled by the trial, and by the Duke's treachery to a woman so loyal, he's done nothing but write a feeble letter to a lover she's parted from long ago, asking him to step in. Even that well-meant, inadequate gesture now seems shameful.

He's probably got nothing left to lose himself, anyway, by now. He's probably about to be as much an outcast from everything he loves as Alice has become.

But Chaucer's full of resolution. He's not going to act out of hate, or malice, or pettiness, any more. He's going to do his bit in the service of love. He's going to try to be true to his better self. He wants to become the man his father would have wanted him to be.

Once Chaucer has seen Alice, and once he has his task to perform for her, he becomes determined as any knight-errant to fulfil his quest to the best of his ability. He's confident, too. He doesn't see the need to run around the court bureaucrats at the Tower, or anywhere else, asking for papers they won't want to part with, because he already knows just the man to help Alice.

The man is John Beverley, who was a personal attendant in King Edward's retinue, and who, since the King's death, has retired to London to live with his widowed daughter. He drinks in the Dancing Bear. He's already told Chaucer Alice Perrers wasn't half as bad as they're painting her. She always tipped him, anyway. No one in London likes the Duke. And Beverley's a sweet old man, as straightforward and honest as the day is long. Surely he will help.

Chaucer finds him nursing his ale, with pale, cloudy eyes lost in the past, trying to tell the landlord some story about the way he folded the King's clothes, with rosemary inside them to help his lordship remember better. It's a story that the busy landlord doesn't really have time to listen to; he's just muttering, 'Well I never,' and, 'Amazing what a few herbs can do,' whenever he pa.s.ses.

The old man's face lights up at the idea of a moment in the Parliament's courtroom.

'The important thing,' Chaucer says, buying him another drink, 'is to say you never heard Mistress Perrers and the Duke discuss a pardon for Richard Lyons. And that you were there all the time, and would have heard.'

The old man scratches his head. There's nothing wrong with his mind. He's just puzzled. 'But', he says simply, 'I did. They talked about it for weeks.' His eyes brighten. 'It was his idea, though. The Duke's, I mean. It was him wanted it.'

Impatiently, Chaucer shakes his own head. 'Too complicated,' he says firmly. 'Keep it simple. We want the Parliament to understand that the Duke was acting on his own initiative. We want them to realise he never even tried to get the King's approval. We want them to see Alice wasn't involved. So just say, "It was never discussed." Can you do that?'

The old man shakes his head. But, looking confused as he does it, he says yes.

Chaucer only begins to understand that he should have listened more carefully to the old man when John Beverley is already sworn in, with proud eyes shining, and has started to talk to the Parliament.