help noticing that it's Mistress Perrers whom Walworth seeks out with his eyes as he pays that last compliment.
After the dinner, when the guests have begun to walk around a little, moving to fireplace or window, stretching their legs, Chaucer finds himself at the window with Mistress Perrers, looking out at the golden streaks in the afternoon sky over the quiet fields east of London. He's so full of tender gratitude to her by now that he's only too happy to murmur agreement when she says, 'Isn't it lovely?
'It always gets me right here,' she goes on reflectively, tapping her heart, 'this view. But then I was born in Essex. So I suppose it's only natural.'
Bewildered, and a little disappointed, Chaucer looks again at the shadowy flatlands, the shabby villages. He hadn't realised she was talking about Essex. He thought she meant the sky. There's nothing remarkable that he can see about those fields and forests, the road stretching off into the dusk, the sheep. He's enough of a Londoner that, to him, fields and forest mean boredom, an absence, a place of spectral, hag-faced men and women with skin-covered bones: dead-eyed, earthsmelling, earth-eating, with heads of clay and dung.
'You're from Essex?' he replies, feeling stupid to sound surprised. 'But I thought...' He pauses. He really can't remember who the merchant husband could have been, but London is so clearly where Alice feels at home. 'Weren't you married in London, long ago?' he finishes lamely.
She laughs a little, looking down at her hands. 'Oh, husbands,' she says coyly. Then she flashes a quick, mischievous look up at him from under her lashes. When her eyes meet his, he's surprised, after her coyness, by the transparency in them - as if she's looking into his soul, or inviting him to look into hers. 'But, yes, I did have a couple of London husbands,' she adds quietly, still with a little smile on her lips. 'And yes...long ago. I was twelve when I took the first one.'
A couple of husbands, Chaucer thinks, dazed. He's only got the one wife, and that's been enough to make his feelings about the married state frighteningly complex. But she sounds so casual.
'They say you should only have one master in life, don't they? Since Christ only went to one wedding in Galilee?' she teases. She knows what's on his mind, he thinks, and feels his cheeks get hot. She adds, even more lightly, 'But, you know, Chaucer, all the Bible actually says is that God told us all to go forth and multiply. It has nothing at all to say about bigamy, or octogamy, either, not that I've heard. Except that, if you think about it, wise old King Solomon gave himself a generous margin when it came to wives, didn't he? More than any of us would take on?' She grins at him. Her hands are on her hips. There's a glint of challenge in her eyes.
Trying to get the right bantering tone, he replies, with a forced chortle, 'So you've had eight husbands, have you?'
As soon as his words are out, he realises he probably hasn't got it right. She shrugs and looks faintly weary for a moment. 'To hear them talk, you'd think I'd had dozens,' she says. 'I've certainly heard people say five.'
For a moment, their eyes meet. There is candidness in hers, he sees with relief. She's sharing her exasperation. As if forgiving him his clumsy remark, she smiles.
'Even one marriage is more than I bargained for,' Chaucer observes, settling for honesty himself, looking out again. His cheeks are warm. 'Sometimes.'
'Experience,' she says lightly. 'That's what you need; give you the upper hand.' And she flashes her eyes at him again, and makes to move away into the throng.
'Well, my experience hasn't taught me much,' he mutters, a little rebelliously, as she picks up her skirts, 'except quite a lot about the woe there is in marriage.'
She turns, and for a moment seeks him out again with eyes in which he thinks he sees surprise, and the beginning of amusement. But all she says is a gentle, 'Oh, Chaucer,' and away she goes.
A
After the dinner, when the guests have begun to walk around a little, moving to fireplace or window, stretching their legs, Chaucer finds himself at the window with Mistress Perrers, looking out at the golden streaks in the afternoon sky over the quiet fields east of London. He's so full of tender gratitude to her by now that he's only too happy to murmur agreement when she says, 'Isn't it lovely?
'It always gets me right here,' she goes on reflectively, tapping her heart, 'this view. But then I was born in Essex. So I suppose it's only natural.'
Bewildered, and a little disappointed, Chaucer looks again at the shadowy flatlands, the shabby villages. He hadn't realised she was talking about Essex. He thought she meant the sky. There's nothing remarkable that he can see about those fields and forests, the road stretching off into the dusk, the sheep. He's enough of a Londoner that, to him, fields and forest mean boredom, an absence, a place of spectral, hag-faced men and women with skin-covered bones: dead-eyed, earthsmelling, earth-eating, with heads of clay and dung.
'You're from Essex?' he replies, feeling stupid to sound surprised. 'But I thought...' He pauses. He really can't remember who the merchant husband could have been, but London is so clearly where Alice feels at home. 'Weren't you married in London, long ago?' he finishes lamely.
She laughs a little, looking down at her hands. 'Oh, husbands,' she says coyly. Then she flashes a quick, mischievous look up at him from under her lashes. When her eyes meet his, he's surprised, after her coyness, by the transparency in them - as if she's looking into his soul, or inviting him to look into hers. 'But, yes, I did have a couple of London husbands,' she adds quietly, still with a little smile on her lips. 'And yes...long ago. I was twelve when I took the first one.'
A couple of husbands, Chaucer thinks, dazed. He's only got the one wife, and that's been enough to make his feelings about the married state frighteningly complex. But she sounds so casual.
'They say you should only have one master in life, don't they? Since Christ only went to one wedding in Galilee?' she teases. She knows what's on his mind, he thinks, and feels his cheeks get hot. She adds, even more lightly, 'But, you know, Chaucer, all the Bible actually says is that God told us all to go forth and multiply. It has nothing at all to say about bigamy, or octogamy, either, not that I've heard. Except that, if you think about it, wise old King Solomon gave himself a generous margin when it came to wives, didn't he? More than any of us would take on?' She grins at him. Her hands are on her hips. There's a glint of challenge in her eyes.
Trying to get the right bantering tone, he replies, with a forced chortle, 'So you've had eight husbands, have you?'
As soon as his words are out, he realises he probably hasn't got it right. She shrugs and looks faintly weary for a moment. 'To hear them talk, you'd think I'd had dozens,' she says. 'I've certainly heard people say five.'
For a moment, their eyes meet. There is candidness in hers, he sees with relief. She's sharing her exasperation. As if forgiving him his clumsy remark, she smiles.
'Even one marriage is more than I bargained for,' Chaucer observes, settling for honesty himself, looking out again. His cheeks are warm. 'Sometimes.'
'Experience,' she says lightly. 'That's what you need; give you the upper hand.' And she flashes her eyes at him again, and makes to move away into the throng.
'Well, my experience hasn't taught me much,' he mutters, a little rebelliously, as she picks up her skirts, 'except quite a lot about the woe there is in marriage.'
She turns, and for a moment seeks him out again with eyes in which he thinks he sees surprise, and the beginning of amusement. But all she says is a gentle, 'Oh, Chaucer,' and away she goes.
A
Similar Books
