by Jennifer Margrave

THE GAME BEGINS

'...it pleased him not to eat
upon festival so fair, ere he first were apprised
of some strange story or stirring adventure...'

'My Lord Gaunt awaits you, Sir,' crowed the retainer, interrupting Priedeux as he thrust into the girl. Priedeux sat up on one elbow, opened the makeshift curtains around the rope trestle bed and retorted: 'He can wait until I come, then,' and he knew by the way the servant smirked and hastily retreated the chamber that the double entendre was understood.

He turned back to his business. She was trembling now, not with amour but fear. And he could tell her interest had waned, she no longer felt lust. The name of Gaunt had been enough. If he had been called by Richard, the King, he knew the girl would not tremble so. The King was known as a man who was pious but had his own vices and did not condemn such activities in others. He was also known to be lavish with his kindnesses as well as his table. At the king's behest there were great feasts and entertainments, fayres and excitements. The Court would travel the country and whether at Winchester or Windsor, Greenwich or in a strange northern town, exotic foods and great revelries were organised, for whatever reason. Whether it was for the wassailing or the farewells, Holy days of Christ's birth or Midsummer Eve. The festivities would last for days, too, twelfth night being the last of a fortnight's partyings. The court was celebrating All Souls at the moment with great fireworks displays, the new magic blazes brought from the East by tradesmen. You knew where you were with the King.

Gaunt was different. No-one knew where he stood with Gaunt. His power extended everywhere, even, Priedeux suspected as he thrust between her legs, into the bedroom.

Priedeux had chosen his current lay as she gazed excitedly at the new-fangled catherine wheels blazing away, her face a golden-red reflection. He too felt excited, not from the present entertainment, but from his earlier activities. He knew he needed a woman, and as he looked over the assembly, their heads held back and staring at the night skies and the brilliants there, he quickly scanned the faces. He knew what he was looking for. He wanted someone with spark, like the fireworks, and this girl's face, lit up as it was, her eyes smiling, her mouth agape with wonder at the newly introduced entertainment, he knew she would be more than a willing partner.

As he tarried with the girl his thoughts returned to the bawdy house he'd visited, not to find a whore, but a man.

The wait outside. Then the signal, the gently swinging light from the whorehouse. His nonchalant approach. The guards waiting while their master enjoyed the delights of the place. 'No sword, just after a whore'... Priedeux claimed, brushing past them. The open door. Soft lights. The run up the ladder, a wink from the madame, a sword collected from its hiding place above the beam. The stealthy creep to the door at the end. A pause, the lifting of the sword. With a swing round he crashes open the door. Good, the whore was not on top. His target turns in his activity. Priedeux's sword flashes once, smashing ribs, man toppling, strumpet screaming, as blood, ribs, guts fall on to her. Priedeux's movement is all one. Sounds of running outside, his dive through shutters to the ground where his horse runs up. He gallops out of Smithfield, his job completed. Cries of 'havoc' behind him fading as he disappears into blackness.

He had come, satiated. The name of Gaunt had stirred him too.

He rolled off her. She was quiet now, her legs closing quickly. He pushed her off the coverlet, slapping her rump. 'Off with you.'

She quickly gathered her clothes, dressed, and with a couple of strokes with a bone comb was gone.

'Didn't even thank me!' he mused aloud, knowing that no-one could hear through the thick walls of this palace, even though it was teeming with servants and slaves and spies of his master, John of Gaunt. If tales of his amorous activities reached Gaunt he would deal with it. This room was in a secret corner of the Bishop's palace, which was of strong grey stone and impenetrable, or else Gaunt would not have accepted the gift, thought Priedeux grimly. Especially after the riots and flames a few years' back.

Priedeux had found this room and had made it draught-proof with faded, scorched hangings salvaged from the Savoy. His clothes were hung neatly from pegs let in the wall. In one corner there was a small chest, covered with parchments He held these still as he opened the chest and took out warm hose, under-shirt and jerkin. He dressed quickly now, the warmth and odour of sex fading in the winter chill.

When dressed, he scrabbled amongst the parchments that lay on the chest. He chose one, a thick paper, but of small size. It was certainly not a court charter. Then he opened the door of his chamber and out into a chill which hit him like a body blow.

The old boy waited shivering. 'He wanted you straight away!'

'I know, Wallers, but I can deal with that, it's no concern of yours!'

Wallers shuffled with him, muttering: 'In my day we didn't take hours about it.'

'In your day, you didn't have time, it was ram it in some Norman bint before the husband got home!'

They hurried through cold narrow corridors, ignoring the humanity heaped together for warmth, the stragglers left after last night's banquet. They were a sorry bunch, heavy wollen cloaks hiding their humanity. Most of them were still sleeping off the effects of the wine which was served at the Duke's table at this time of year. Michaelmas was always a time for excess and entertainment. Apart from the fireworks, Priedeux had missed jugglers and mummers, while he was killing in the whorehouse. They passed other piles heaved in quiet coupling, unashamed and unshaming in this place. Others groaned and snored. Priedeux kept his eyes fixed ahead.

Wallers led him the long way round, using the old covered cloisters, avoiding the cold damp of the courtyard which would have been quicker. It gave Priedeux time to think, for he always needed to be on his mettle when he met his master.

He'd been lucky to find his room, at his Lord's present accommodation, for while the place was adequate, it was nothing like as large and sumptuous as the burnt out Savoy, even though it was owned by a dissolute ceric who thought he might get the Archbishopric if he fawned to the king's uncle.

He hurried on, oblivious to the foetid smell of humanity and burning tallow.

Soon they reached the great hall, where his lord held court. Wallers shuffled up and opened the door: 'Priedeux, my Lord,' he announced and shut the door and disappeared.

It was a dull and grey late morning. Great flares, held aloft in the high rafters in sconces, gave an eerie glare and huge candles sent dark wafts of smoke up into the beams. A blazing fire also radiated light and warmth. A golden glow revealed an imposing room fantastically decorated, the gold and red motif of repeated flowers, the bishop's choice, covered walls and ceiling. A large table covered with parchments took up most of the room. Central to the room was a dais upon which sat John of Gaunt on a high-backed carved, gilded chair, and minions stood around below it. As Priedeux entered, Gaunt stood and slowly stepped down towards him, and the glow from the fire caught the nap of the azure velvet cloak he wore, so that it seemed to shine in contrast to the silvery-white ermine edging. The great gold collar of the House of Lancaster radiated a semicircle of burnished brightness around the chest. Only his face was shadowed, his ducal cap shading his features. The oblique lights made him look thunderous, his brow heavy.

'You grace us with your presence, Priedeux?' The sarcasm making his voice sound more loud pitched than normal..

'My Lord, with many apologies, I had some unfinished business...'

A slight upward curl to his master's lips revealed itself through his beard. Despite the heavy sarcasm in the voice, he was forgiven for keeping Gaunt waiting.

Priedeux changed tack: 'In Smithfield...'

'We know, our runners have reported it' He nodded to a retainer and a bag of coins was handed to Priedeux. Gaunt continued: 'We thank you and trust that you will continue to serve us well.' He paused and Priedeux waited, realising something else was on his master's mind.

'But there is another matter on which I would have words with you now. In private' A nod from him and the others were dismissed. As if pulled on strings, they bowed in unison and left.

There was a silence. Priedeux had been in John of Gaunt's service now for some years, following him in war and peace, to foreign parts such as Portugal, and back to cold England, accepting what came his way. He knew his master well enough to respect him but fear him a little too. Priedeux's fear was based on the fact that he was privy to too many of his master's secrets, had carried out too many quiet killings, and might some day prove too dangerous to have around.

The great man turned to collect something from the table beside him, his broad back bowed with affairs of state, yet he was still imposing.

'Drink? After your exercise you may need something?'

His Lord was smiling and Priedeux accepted gratefully. When they had both taken a long draft of the wine, Gaunt folded his arms, tucked his hands into the fur trim of the wide sleeves, and started:

'Well, what did you think of it? The poem? Assuming that the night's exertions left you time for study.' He waited.

Priedeux pursed his lips and opened the parchment in his hands. He'd been handed it only last night at the fireworks, by his lord and ordered to read it. Now he was being called to account. Unfortunately he had not spent the night studying the piece, not in detail anyway, the murder and the girl had seen to that. But he knew he had to give a good rendering if he was now to satisfy Gaunt.

He began: 'It is a great poem with no name, but it is about a knight called Gawain and his struggle against another noble who is described as 'The Green Knight'. The story starts at King Arthur's Court where he is challenged and he has to appear before the Green Knight after a year to satisfy the challenge. He travels to meet him and on the way stops for the Yuletide festivities at a grand castle which is similar to Arthur's Court. But it is described in such glowing terms that it implies that it is grander, and the Society he meets there is more polite, than the court he has just left. There he is entertained by the lady of the house who has the better of him. If I ever meet such a lady she would not better me, I would have my way and forget so-called courtly love.' His voice was harsh and Gaunt grinned at the determination shown, but said nothing. Priedeux, almost embarrassed by revealing such feelings, coughed, and continued: 'It then turns out that the castle is owned by the very person who, in disguise, is the Green Knight, and the lady has been asked to try to seduce him to test his goodness. He fails because he keeps one token from her and then when he returns to Arthur's court, this token, a green girdle, is adopted by all as their symbol in sympathy with Gawain.'

Silence. Then a slow handclap from a shaded corner of the room. Startled, Priedeux's sword hand was on the hilt and the sword half drawn before his movement was quelled by Gaunt, just as quickly, despite his bulk and age, stepping forward to intercept Priedeux's sping to the corner.

'I thought we were alone...' Priedeux exclaimed, as he strained to see who was there. Gaunt stepped back to his chair to reveal who was with them. He could dimly make out a heavy arm-chair and sitting in it, leaning forward now as he clapped, was a small man in a knee-length cloak, and dark hose, reminiscent of a clerk or student. He rose and came forward as he clapped.

'Well done. Not bad for a man who has only had one night to study the text. But what do you think of the poetry? The words used? What is the meaning?'

Priedeux studied the stranger. Then he realised he was not so. He had been a familiar visitor to the Savoy, a relative of some sort of Gaunt's. And then Priedeux placed him, although he was not of Priedeux's circle. Chaucer, the Clerk of the King's works, a civil servant. Priedeux had seen him years ago in the entourage in Lombardy when there were negotiations between Visconti and the English Court and Hawkwood had been present. But he was not of royal blood. He had always been quiet, self effacing and usually vanished when Priedeux strode into the presence of his Lord.

Eventually Priedeux prevaricated: 'The meaning? You as a great poet should have ideas about that!' Chaucer was coughing, deprecating. Then he answered enthusiastically: 'It is a consummate piece of work! Although not in my style. The words may be strange but it is still excellent. Excellent!'

But Gaunt interjected, 'Even so, even so, what does it mean? You ask this yourself and I need to know. As a matter of state business... Priedeux, you have been on missions for me before. This is slightly different and I want you to study this piece. Is it a seditious piece of literature, to incite my liege lords from Cheshire and the borders to riot or even raise another king? I need to know.'

Both Priedeux and Chaucer looked surprised, for they knew that Cheshire while it might be anti-Gaunt, would never rebel against Richard II.

Priedeux decided to deflect the problem. 'Why do you say Cheshire, my Lord?'

'The language, Sir, it derives from the North-west. Many of the words indicate that. We intercepted it in a packet from that area but unfortunately our interceptors were too enthusiastic in their approach and the post expired before he could be interrogated.'

Chaucer added: 'It is also in a poetic style now defunct in London social circles but still acceptable amongst the lords of those parts. But the narrative style is interesting, unusual. I would like to know of its creator, whoever he might be.'

Gaunt interrupted here. 'So, we need to know who wrote it. And why. That is your mission.'

Priedeux sighed. At last, he knew what was require of him. But he was intrigued why the poem could be so dangerous. He turned to the court-poet: 'Perhaps sir, you could give me a clue, from the words, as to the sort of man I should be looking for?'

Chaucer stroked his small tidy beard. He thought a while and then picked up a parchment from the table, obviously another copy. He skimmed a few pages, and then began: 'Aye, an educated man, very educated. He knows his Latin and his Greek. A hunting man? Or is that from books? Maybe not a hunting man. A man with many books, undoubtedly. A man who loves materials, the touch of them, the cloth of gold, the silk, the soft wool: all these he describes as if he made the very stuff. A man who knows what good food is.

'And finally, a man who knows the courtly rules of love but also enjoys celebrating his Yuletide in style.' Chaucer rubbed his hands together, evidently pleased with his description.

Gaunt interrupted then: 'Even so, we don't understand the poem, it doesn't accord to the courtly rules of romance.

'And consider this.' He skimmed through the manuscript he held, nodded his head as he found a piece and read aloud:

' "Here about on these benches are but beardless children

There is no man here to match me - their might is so feeble."

That's the Green Knight, a visitor to the court speaking! Is it a direct description of Richard? Or this, when describing the Green Knight's table:

"Gawain and the gay beauty together in mid-table

Sat down in due order, as the dishes were served,

And thereafter throughout the hall, as was held best." '

Gaunt looked up then, accentuating the words, but carried on:

'"Graciously according to his degree, each gallant man was served.

There was meat and merry-making and much delight..."

How dare he speak like that, as if our King's table was not well provisioned!. Is this a challenge to the Royal Court?' Gaunt was in full swing, and Priedeux knew he was angry. 'These are just two examples, but read it in detail, and you will find many points where the author points a disparaging finger at the official court, praising that other place. He even describes the very journey, pin-pointing where the great court is! As if to encourage rebels and disgruntled knights to find it and join their cause. That's why I suspect it is seditious. What else can it mean? You have read it Priedeux, you are my most trusted intelligence man, you have deciphered things French and Scots before, what does this mean?' He repeated the question, as if he would get an answer.

Priedeux read through the last words of the work, on the basis that the last stanza must sum up the whole. He was struck by the way in which all the knights at King Arthur's court took up the green girdle. Something struck a chord with him. The Latin words at the end : HONY SOYT QUI MAL PENCE. Priedeux recognised it, as the motto of the Order of the Garter. Edward III, the grandfather of the present king, had founded that, as a rallying point. Richard had extended it, as a measure of loyalty to him. Surely not? Was this to be a rallying call to contending parties from strange parts? Should he mention this or keep silent? He didn't know how much Gaunt had read and felt he was already incensed enough. But he was paid for his skills and knowledge, so said: 'My Lord, is not the last an analogy to the Order of the Garter? Could it be a call for a new order? Surely though, not against our liege Lord' Priedeux said it ironically.

'Priedeux, you have not let me down again. I knew I could trust your intellect.' Gaunt turned to his shadowy companion, as much as to say, I told you so, he's the man for the job. Then he raised his glass, now nearly drained of wine, and said: 'Now you understand the implications, I wish you to undertake a most dangerous mission. I wish you to leave for the North-West and find out who wrote this, and why!'

He turned to the table once again and picked up one of the manuscripts with a royal seal prominent on it. 'You go with the King's blessing. But beware, use this pass with great care where you are going, it may not guarantee you free passage. Especially if you find the place and our suppositions are correct.'

'Is this genuine?' Asked Priedeux and Chaucer answered:

'As genuine as it needs to be.'

Gaunt nodded and Chaucer picked up a leather pouch from the table and threw it to Priedeux who caught it. This was followed by another.

Priedeux queried: 'Why the second?'

It was Chaucer who answered as Gaunt busied himself with other papers. 'The first covers expenses. With the second you should know what to do when you find our man.'

Priedeux opened the purse and counted the silver inside.

'The price for a kill. Why?'

Chaucer too had turned away and Priedeux knew there would be no answer.

Priedeux realised he had been dismissed and left the room smartly.

He was excited. Instead of what he'd suspected, a winter reading poetry and trying to decipher it, he was to be sent out, on the open road again.

He was becoming tired of court life, of the smell of others and the stuffiness of rushes on the floor and tallow flares and smoke-filled rooms. The fact that it was hard winter, snow and ice abounding this year, did not deter him. The thought of a long ride, in strange territory, pitting his wits against he knew not what, new women, new enemies, strange lands, made the blood thrum, made his heart race.

Copyright © Jennifer Margrave