Part 14 (1/2)

For only now do I see how much greater Sarah's burden was than my own, and what Simon's survival must have cost her. Only now do I see that her turn to G.o.d that night was done out of desperation, not spite or unthinking preference for one child over another. That her prayer for Simon's life was in part a prayer for me, for our family, for the survival of the male heir by which every man judges his worth and ensures his legacy. That in that darkest of places she remained the most loyal of wives, even to the extent of praying to G.o.d, in the only way she knew how, for the survival of her husband's name. That Sarah Gower, unlike her husband, never asked for a child's death.

Now, with her son back in our home and so many past roads converging, I found myself burning to speak to that s.h.i.+mmering woman in the window one last time, and ask for her forgiveness. Not for the way I treated her all those years. Sarah, in her stolid goodness, would not need to be asked for that measure of grace. I had seen it in her eyes as she pa.s.sed, and knew it was mine to take with me to the grave.

The forgiveness I sought was on behalf not of Sarah, but of Simon. For half a lifetime I had blamed my son for the extinguis.h.i.+ng of his sister's life, and for the slow moral decay of my own. All his life Simon Gower had carried that heavy load I had laid on his narrow shoulders so many years ago: the impossible burden of the unchosen child.

Try to love him, John. Just try. I felt the womanly pressure of Sarah's last words, the charge they gave me to live up to some modest ideal. Just try. That, at least, I could do.

Word from James Tewburn arrived from the Guildhall. There was now definitive news on my property matter, and he hoped to deliver it in person. I called for Simon, thinking to bring him along, but he had already left the house. By noon I was on Basinghall Street, then in Guildhall Yard, which was busier than usual that day.

There was a long board bench along the pavers outside Strode's chambers. On it sat a typical collection of Londoners seeking attention: three starved-looking children, their clearly drunk guardian giving them the occasional head slap; a short row of bored apprentices over on legal business from Westminster or the inns, their robes hiked up to their knees to gather air; a young man tapping his foot, likely a ward nearing his majority; and a hollow-eyed man in faded hose clutching a sheaf of doc.u.ments. All had business with the common serjeant's office, and all had arrived before me.

Ignoring the glares, I leaned in. Four of the common clerk's scribes filled the cramped s.p.a.ce, busily filling ledgers and rolls with the city's affairs. Though employed by the Guildhall, these were also scribblers for hire, young fellows with good eyes, men you could rely on to copy out a quire or a book when you needed a quick and steady hand. I had commissioned their services more than once in recent years, so my face was well known around these inky precincts. 'Is Tewburn about?'

The nearest clerk shook his head. 'Been summoned to Westminster.' He turned. 'Chancery, Pinkhurst?' he called to one of his counterparts.

'Chancery, right,' the man called back. 'Expect him back at two or thereabouts. But you'll catch him before then at the Pin-and-Wheel.' Sometimes it seemed that London's clerks and lawmen spent half their lives in taverns.

At Cat Street the way narrowed and bent to such an extent that even an experienced Londoner might find himself lost, though I never minded this part of the city. Nowhere else were so many trades practised, so many goods sold and resold with such spirited rivalry. Silks of Lyon, hanging from poles of polished elm jutting out over the close lane; olives of al-Andalus, displayed in shortened barrels and scooped out with great pomp by a shopkeeper's girl; cinnamon and cloves from who knew where, filling the air with exotic scents and all available at a stone's throw from the knit hose and rough leather work-gloves crafted across the river in Southwark.

Outside a leatherworker's shop, as I stooped to examine a row of tooled belts, I saw Ralph Strode coming up Cat Street from the church of St Lawrence. With him was Sir Michael de la Pole. James Tewburn walked behind them, and as I watched the trio approaching I wondered what would bring the chancellor to these precincts. The baron's finger was aimed at Strode's wide chest as they walked, thrusting sidewards to reinforce his points. All three appeared agitated, Tewburn's face in particular clouded, the corners of his mouth pulled back in what looked almost like physical pain. Not wanting to get caught eavesdropping, and with nowhere to conceal myself, I stepped from behind the display.

'Gower!' Strode called, suddenly all cheer. The chancellor's manner had also transformed, and after my bow arms were grasped all around. Tewburn, said Strode, had good news.

The clerk turned to me with a forced smile. 'Only this morning, Master Gower, I secured the writ of pone necessary to move your property matter into Common Pleas.'

'I'm pleased to hear it,' I said. 'Thank you, James, for taking care of it so quickly.'

'I'd wager your adversary will drop the matter soon.'

'Let's hope so,' I said.

The clerk bowed. Strode dismissed him. Tewburn's face fell again as he turned for the Guildhall, giving the impression of an unresolved conflict. Strode watched Tewburn's back until the man disappeared. 'A peculiar one, our Tewburn,' he said distantly. 'Deficit ambobus qui vult servire duobus.'

'Surely he regards you as his primary master, Ralph,' said the baron.

'Perhaps,' said Strode, his face clouded. 'In any case ...'

'Yes,' said the chancellor with a brisk tone. 'Thanks as always for your counsel, Ralph.'

'At your pleasure, your lords.h.i.+p.'

The baron turned to me, his brow arched. 'I understand your son is back from Italy, Gower. He sounds like a promising young man.'

'Thank you, my lord,' I said, wondering how such information could have reached the chancellor so quickly. The Baron de la Pole was by reputation and action a fiercely independent man, one who had earned the friends.h.i.+p of old King Edward and now spoke for the House of Lords with persuasion and quiet force. It was he who had arranged King Richard's marriage to Anne of Bohemia several years before, and though he came from a lesser family than most of those in his circle, there was no one in the realm who commanded more respect. I decided to be direct. 'You know, my lord, he is eager to find a position in the government perhaps too eager, given that he's just returned.'

'Do send him my way, will you?' said the baron. 'With all the ruckus over levies it would be good to have some steadier hands among the ledgers. The court of Chancery has never been busier.'

I bowed. 'Simon would be delighted to serve in any capacity, my lord. He'll call at your chambers tomorrow.'

The chancellor said his farewells. We watched as two of the baron's guards, who had been shadowing their master as he walked along Cat Street, converged on the chancellor in the middle of the lane and proceeded with him toward the river.

'Simon is back in England?' Strode asked when the baron had left us. 'When did he return?'

'Not a week ago,' I said, still wanting to know the purpose of his colloquy with de la Pole.

Strode glanced down the street. 'The Bent Plough, if you aren't pressed for time, John?'

'If I'm not pressed?'

'Be good to have a sip,' he said. 'Hear your news, your latest connivings.'

Ralph Strode was hardly one to spend the middle of a workday in idle chat. Yet he seemed eager to speak, though I would have to tread lightly. I gestured back toward St Lawrence. 'The chapel would be fine, if you wouldn't mind.' Strode used the chapel of St Eustachius within the church as a secondary chambers of sorts, conducting all kinds of business from the dim s.p.a.ce. If we went to the tavern, as he had suggested, I would get nothing else done that afternoon.

'So be it.' His heavy arm wrapped my shoulders and we made our way into the church. The nave was mostly empty, though the clink of silver from up ahead suggested some lingering business. In the Eustachius chapel I half-sat on one of the misericords, a row of narrow seats that had been moved to the side after their replacement some months ago. Eight of the displaced wooden chairs, grouped in two rows of four, rested vertically along the chapel's north wall, their underseats carved with scenes of rural life: a wife wielding the distaff against her cowering husband, a rotund fellow at the hurdy-gurdy, a ploughman sodomizing a goat.

'You look troubled, John,' he said with no preface.

'Simon's return has me a bit thrown off, I suppose.'

'Not a pure source of joy?'

Strode knew nothing about the accidental death on the wharf. 'For the last two years he's been working in the White Company. The clerk of a mercenary, blood for hire. Not the career I would have chosen for him.'

'I had understood that his position with Hawkwood was more in the clerical line.'

I leaned against the cool wooden back of the misericord. 'Sir John hires out his troops to anyone. His last client before Florence was Clement of Avignon, when he bought himself a papacy. The man led the slaughter of an entire village in the Romagna. To imagine Simon notarizing and sealing bills for such an alliance of convenience not a settling thought.'

'I speak from experience when I say that the servants of great bureaucracies rarely have an effect on their policies. Don't be too hard on him, John.'

'I've already been too soft. When I saw him standing in my hall I wanted to strangle him.' I shook my head. 'To return from Tuscany with no message ahead, no warning?'

'”For youth,” as our good friend writes, ”shall have neither guide nor straight line”.'

'”Nor old age dewed grapes to pluck from the vine”,' I replied, completing Chaucer's couplet.

Strode chuckled and sat back. It was time to broach the other subject. 'You know, Ralph, may I draw on your knowledge for a moment? I need the ear of an Oxford master.' Before moving to London and taking up his current office, Strode had enjoyed a long career as a theology fellow at Merton, where his connections were still quite deep.

'You flatter me, John,' he said, looking amused.

'There's a certain author I need to know more about, an ancient writer,' I said. 'You know I'm not boasting when I tell you I'm pretty well read in the authorities. But this man is an utter mystery. I've never heard of him.'

Strode s.h.i.+fted on the misericord. 'What author?'

I watched Strode's eyes. 'His name is Lollius.'

He blinked.

'The name means something to you?'

Strode toyed with a loose b.u.t.ton, his jowls working a tooth. 'You're testing me, I can see it in your eyes. Yet I know you well enough to take no offence. So I'll take your test, then you'll tell me whether I've pa.s.sed it.'