The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘In this country you cannot tell what season it is, but in Castile we would have put the winter and spring behind us by now,’ said de Flores, as if returning the conversation to a more innocent level. ‘Everything would be set fair for many months.’

‘You miss your homeland, Señor de Flores?’

‘I go where my duty calls me, madam. And I am surrounded by my countrymen here. Countrymen and countrywomen. There is little chance to be – how do you say it? – to be sad for the home. Besides, one may be sad anywhere. Even at home one may be sad, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Your duty, Señor de Flores? You mentioned your duty. What exactly is your duty here? I am confused, there are so many visitors to this household and they have so many functions.’

‘Mine is simple. I am here to serve the Queen of Castile.’

‘The Duchess of Lancaster, you mean.’

‘They are one and the same.’

‘But we are in England now, and so she has become a member of the house of Lancaster.’

‘Madam, it would gratify me to believe that we are on sufficiently good terms for you to call me Carlos. After all, we both serve the Duchess – however she is styled.’

‘So it is good that we at least know our functions, Carlos,’ she said.

‘Yes. And now I must take my leave… madam.’

De Flores half levered himself from the chair and paused as if giving her the opportunity to say that he too might call her by her given name of Philippa rather than the formal ‘madam’. But she said nothing. As he was leaving the chamber, he turned round by the door.

‘Where is your husband?’

‘About his own business.’

‘He is away for long?’

‘He too has his duties,’ she said, evading the question. ‘He’ll return when they are done.’

Carlos de Flores smiled and closed the door. Philippa went to stand by the window. No boats were visible on the river apart from a barge that was wallowing in midstream. She didn’t altogether trust Carlos the Castilian yet she couldn’t, at this stage, see what he might be after. To get to her sister, Katherine Swynford? Perhaps. It was even possible that de Flores was hoping to gain access to John of Gaunt through her. But why? And if that was his intention, the shorter route would surely have been through Constance herself since the Castilian was already a member of the Duchess’s extended entourage, much closer to her than Philippa would ever be.

There was another, more remote possibility. It was that de Flores was interested in Philippa Chaucer for herself. The notion was so far-fetched that she almost laughed aloud. Yet she remembered his attentive brown-eyed gaze, almost wistful. There’d been his remark about youth and pleasure. His query about Geoffrey’s absence. Did he somehow want to take advantage of it? Because the idea was attractive (though far-fetched of course) she did her best to crush it.

The next day they met twice. The encounters looked accidental. But on both occasions Philippa Chaucer had the sense that Carlos de Flores had been waiting to catch her.

The first time was in a public passageway. De Flores seemed on the verge of going beyond the normal pleasantries but, with his eyes flickering over the frequent passers-by, he evidently thought better of it. The second occasion was in the gardens of the Savoy Palace. It was calm and bright now. Philippa was walking by herself in one of the orchard alleys. Apple blossom strewed the grass. Carlos de Flores suddenly appeared at her side. He made some remarks about their second encounter of the day and about the change in the weather and then jokingly suggested that such a comment showed he was turning into a true Englishman. Philippa smiled. She knew the Castilian wasn’t going to be put off.

‘A beautiful day, as you say.’

‘A day for poets.’

‘I suppose so. My husband would know. He is the one who writes verses.’

‘I’ve heard great things of your husband – and of his verses. The Duke of Lancaster values him highly.’

Philippa was always slightly surprised by the esteem in which Geoffrey was held. She was not, however, surprised that de Flores should know of her husband’s verse-writing since the Castilian seemed to have set himself the task of finding out about her and her family. They turned from one orchard alley to another. The river glinted through the trees. The gardeners, at work, scarcely looked up as the finely dressed couple walked by.

‘John of Gaunt, now, he also values your sister highly,’ said de Flores after a pause.

‘The Duke of Lancaster knows how to esteem those who do him service. He is a generous man.’

‘Service takes many forms, Philippa…’ said de Flores, hesitating for an instant in case she objected to the familiarity. ‘You are close to the lady Katherine?’

Philippa Chaucer stopped in the middle of the walkway, compelling de Flores to stop also. She looked him straight in the eye. She’d never had much time for evasion.

‘You ask if we are close, Katherine and I? Well, we fought as children and did not like each other very much for long periods. Afterwards our paths went in different directions. She married a knight who was like my father. I married a man who is most comfortable among his books. Even though Hugh Swynford is dead now, Katherine is… you might say that she is well provided for. Better than I, perhaps. Yet we remain sisters, tied by blood and memories.’

‘Thank you,’ said de Flores. ‘Your husband has written poems for her, has he not?’

Philippa laughed. ‘There you are wrong. Geoffrey wrote about John of Gaunt’s first wife, not Katherine.’

‘I apologise for my error.’

He seemed about to say more but broke off and glanced down the alley. Between the line of trees three men were advancing towards them, sombre against the blossom. Philippa recognised the person in the middle as a Castilian by the name of Luis, one of several priests in the service of Constance. This individual stood out, mostly on account of a large pectoral cross, which gleamed with precious stones. The other two, by their dress and the way they inclined their heads respectfully towards Luis, were his countrymen.

‘Let us speak of some other subject, madam,’ de Flores said, pointing at the nearest apple trees. ‘Grafting, for example.’

And, as the three men passed them, de Flores talked loudly of ‘slips’ and ‘scions’. While he was speaking, he gave the merest tilt of his head to Luis, who nodded in return. The priest was touching his cross, dabbing his hand to it. He wore yet more emeralds and sapphires on his fingers. The other men looked curiously at Philippa and de Flores.

When they were out of earshot, Philippa tried to make light of things and said, ‘I did not know that you were a gardener, Señor de Flores. Slips and scions indeed!’

‘I am no gardener. But I have talked to some of those who work here. I have listened to their words. It is surprising what you learn.’

Philippa knew that he was referring to more than the gardeners’ terms about grafting. They reached another crossing-point in the garden walks.

‘I shall go this way,’ said de Flores. ‘It would be best if we parted for now. But I hope we shall meet again. These gardens are a pleasant place for walking and talking, especially in such delightful company.’

He bowed slightly and strode off. Philippa returned to the palace. She was more confused. What was he after? Why the questions about Geoffrey’s verses? She wondered why de Flores suddenly started talking about an innocent subject as they passed the priest. She thought the glances and nods that passed between the two Castilians were not just a greeting. There was something complicit in those glances and nods.