The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

It was now that Geoffrey started to talk about the Beornwyn poem, the one Philippa didn’t like.

‘I wrote down the account of a saint, which I heard first at Bermondsey Priory. As I was writing it I found that the picture of the woman, Beornwyn, began to change in here -’ Geoffrey tapped his temple, ‘- and I wondered if she was as pure and holy as she’d been reputed. I meant no harm in what I did. The woman was long gone, and her life and her death were rich but faded like an old tapestry. Why not add another thread to the picture? I did not reckon on the audience at the Savoy Palace being so… so…’

‘So pure, so holy?’ said Philippa, with amusement. ‘You must remember, Geoffrey, that though all of us might be educated and sophisticated people we also have regard to the proprieties. My sister is a devout woman.’

Geoffrey nodded. That was true. He continued: ‘I believe that the Castilians, or some of them, want to create a division between your sister and the Duke of Lancaster. They do not like the fact that she lives in the same house as their queen. I think they plan to use my poem to help open up the division by suggesting that Katherine is like Beornwyn, devout and pure in the eyes of the world, but…’

‘Like all women,’ said Philippa. ‘Someone with her own wishes and desires.’

‘Just so,’ said Geoffrey, grateful that she had put the matter in her own way and, in his gratitude, thinking that he ought to keep company with her more often.

‘But none of that explains why de Flores was killed,’ said Philippa. ‘If he was killed, that is.’

‘What happened on the night when I read the poem?’ said Chaucer. ‘Later on, I mean. Did you catch sight of Carlos de Flores?’

Geoffrey himself had not remained long in the audience chamber. He could see the recital had not gone down well. He had no wish to stay and receive tepid compliments. By the late light of the summer evening he returned to Aldgate by himself, just as William the porter was about to close the city gates.

After a pause, Philippa answered him: ‘I saw de Flores talking to someone, a man. They were standing close together in a corner by a window. The chamber was not so full by then, John of Gaunt had already left and my sister followed shortly afterwards. I recall thinking it was unusual. If de Flores was going to be discovered talking quietly in a corner, I’d expect a woman to be involved. He and the man did not know that they were being observed. It was growing dark outside. There was some dispute, I think. De Flores suddenly strode out and the man seemed to go off in pursuit of him.’

‘You know who the man was?’

‘No, and I have not seen him here in the Savoy before. But he had a battered countenance – and, Geoffrey, now I remember that you were talking to him before you read out your poem!’

‘Then it must be Edward Jupe, the knight. The knight of the battered countenance describes him well. He was in company with a lady, a demure-looking lady.’

‘Oh, it is Alice Osterley. She is one of the Queen’s demoiselles, like me, though I scarcely know her.’

‘Where was she when this dispute was taking place?’

‘I don’t know. She was not in the corner with the men.’

‘Was it possible the argument was over her?’

‘Geoffrey, I cannot say for certain. But, yes… Carlos de Flores had been… paying attention to Alice, I believe… as he paid attention to several of Constance’s women.’

Now Chaucer stood up. It was obvious who should be questioned next.

He thanked Philippa, and noted the slight disappointment on her face as he left. He turned back and they kissed. Yes, he really must keep company with her more often.

He returned to the cell-like office, wondering where and how he would lay hands on Sir Edward Jupe. The answer proved easier than he’d expected once he talked to Thomas Banks. He began by asking what Banks observed on the evening of the Beornwyn reading before leading the conversation round to Sir Edward. The steward explained that he quit the audience chamber shortly after his master, John of Gaunt. But Banks was able to tell Geoffrey Chaucer a little about the knight’s history.

Although Jupe came from a family that could hardly count itself as noble, a family that possessed nothing more than some desolate acres in Lincolnshire, the knight had done a great service to John of Gaunt on the borders of Aquitaine several years ago. He protected the Prince during a fierce skirmish with an advance guard of the French, protected him almost at the cost of his own life. Of course, any knight would have done the same, willingly laid down his life for his liege lord. But, said the steward, something about the way Sir Edward bore himself after the attack, together with his modesty and meekness in response to Gaunt’s gratitude, caused the Duke to take Jupe to his heart. He seemed to the Prince the very model of what a knight should be: courteous, courageous and chivalrous. He might not be as well-born as some but he had an innate nobility. He became a friend of Gaunt’s, as far as a king’s son may have friends. Chaucer nodded. He knew that the Duke of Lancaster was loyal to his friends.

Then, after the French war, Sir Edward dedicated himself to other causes, even campaigning in the cold northern countries near the edge of Russia. Always he wore his lady’s favour. This was the opening Geoffrey was looking for. Almost casually, he asked Thomas Banks about Sir Edward’s lady. Was she in the court of Savoy? Indeed, said the steward, he believed that the knight was favoured by Alice Osterley. In fact, she too had been present on the evening of the Beornwyn reading. Yes, said Chaucer, pretending to remember, I saw them together!

Not a single word that Thomas Banks said indicated he was aware of any unhappiness between the knight and his lady. Any unhappiness, any dispute or jealousy. Chaucer had that knowledge only from Philippa. But then his wife was likely to be better informed than the men in the household.

‘Tell me, Geoffrey, you surely don’t suspect Sir Edward of having a hand in this matter?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ said Chaucer, reflecting, not for the first time, how easy he found it to tell a lie. ‘It is only that he may have some information about Carlos de Flores. I would like to speak to him. Do you know where I might find him?’

‘I believe he and his page lodge somewhere south of the river. He is often to be found in a tavern on that side, though its name escapes me.’

The Tabard in Southwark?’

‘It may be.’

This was enough for Geoffrey. Within the hour he found himself once more back inside the Tabard. He was greeted cheerfully by the host, Harry Bailey. He even took a drinking cup of the Rhenish wine that Bailey had been pressing on him. (It was as good as the inn-keeper claimed.) There was no thin-lipped, red-capped firebrand to disturb his drinking with talk of reducing the Savoy to a pile of ash. There were no pilgrims assembling to begin their journey to the shrine in Canterbury.

But there was a lanky knight sitting in a corner. Sir Edward Jupe was by himself. He was staring at a wooden pint pot on the table in front of him. He did not look up as Geoffrey approached. The knight of the battered countenance had turned into the knight of the woeful countenance.

‘I hope I find you well, sir,’ said Chaucer, feigning surprise.

‘Who…? Oh, it is the maker. The poet, Geoffrey Chaucer.’ The slightest smile of recognition passed across Sir Edward’s gloomy features.

‘I last saw you at the Savoy Palace,’ said Geoffrey, as if that encounter had taken place months before rather than a couple of days earlier. He sat down on the bench by the knight.

‘Do not talk to me of that evening, Master Chaucer. I prefer to forget it, and to forget the night that followed. It was a bad business.’