short while later, Chaucer flits back to Walworth, who's standing with his two friends and fellow-magnates Brembre and Philpot, picking at the candied fruits the servants are setting out along the now-empty table, and laughing regretfully. The future Mayor of London leans towards Chaucer to include him in the wry conversation too. 'We're wondering how big the loan I'm about to be asked to make the King will be, Master Chaucer,' Walworth confides without any visible bitterness. 'The price of office, I know...every new Mayor gets asked...but with the way the war's been going...' Then, with a half-laugh: 'We're guessing, maybe...PS15,000?' He raises an enquiring eyebrow Chaucer's way.
Chaucer, who has no idea, who's never even imagined the possibility of being part of a conversation like this, can only shake his head and try and keep the saucer-eyed look of an innocent off his face. There is loud, though kindly, laughter from the three merchants. 'Ah,' says Brembre wisely, 'you'll learn.'
Maybe it's an instinct of gratitude that makes Chaucer glance around to find Alice Perrers. Maybe he half wants to bow his thanks to her again for helping him make friends with these men so easily. Whatever the reason, he does look around for her. He finds her standing not far away, talking quietly to Lord Latimer, and to Lyons, the florid Flemish merchant. And Chaucer forgets bowing and displaying gratitude. He's too aware of the way they stop what they're saying to listen in to what Brembre and his friends are talking about. There's something a little too furtive in the way they all look as they listen. Then they start their own quieter conversation again, just the three of them. Alice says to Lyons, quietly, hardly moving her lips, as if she doesn't want to be noticed speaking, 'He'd be ready for twice fifteen thousand, at a better rate, too, if you only gave him your promise. I'm telling you.' Her eyes are fixed on Lyons'. Behind her, Latimer's also nodding towards the Fleming. He obviously agrees. He obviously also wants to persuade Lyons to do whatever it is that Alice wants him to do. Lyons looks quickly from Alice Perrers to the chamberlain and back again. He's thinking. Then he also nods. There's something secret and satisfied on his face when he's done.
Alice's remark itself makes no sense to Chaucer. But the quick, guilty look Lyons gives Chaucer, once Alice has moved off to the next little group of men and the next conversation, makes the comptroller feel as if he's somehow been hoodwinked. He can't imagine how, though; and perhaps it's just the wine, colouring his imagination too rich.
Still, the moment leaves him feeling uneasy. He doesn't like not understanding.
Philippa doesn't stay. As soon as the last guest has bowed and made his exit, Philippa stands up too.
She doesn't want to discuss the dinner. She just says, very politely, that she's expected back at the Savoy tonight. She can make the boat trip before curfew if she hurries.
'But the children. They could stay,' Chaucer mumbles disconsolately. He hasn't even seen them yet. They would have been too young for the dinner. But he's assumed they're here - sleeping, perhaps, in the bedchamber? Or reading? Or walking around London, waiting for the business meeting to be over before the family reunion?
'They're not here,' Philippa replies calmly. 'They've gone down to Sheen early. There was a hunting party they wanted to join.'
He hasn't thought enough, Chaucer realises, crestfallen. He's assumed too much. He should have guessed they weren't here.
Chaucer subsides into defeated silence. He submits when she comes to him and pecks him on the top of his slightly balding head before slipping out. He only remembers to stumble out his thanks to her for coming just in time, before the door shuts. He should be grateful, he knows. Philippa's pragmatic enough to have realised it's important to show a united front to the Londoners, who'll want to see that the marital proprieties are
Chaucer, who has no idea, who's never even imagined the possibility of being part of a conversation like this, can only shake his head and try and keep the saucer-eyed look of an innocent off his face. There is loud, though kindly, laughter from the three merchants. 'Ah,' says Brembre wisely, 'you'll learn.'
Maybe it's an instinct of gratitude that makes Chaucer glance around to find Alice Perrers. Maybe he half wants to bow his thanks to her again for helping him make friends with these men so easily. Whatever the reason, he does look around for her. He finds her standing not far away, talking quietly to Lord Latimer, and to Lyons, the florid Flemish merchant. And Chaucer forgets bowing and displaying gratitude. He's too aware of the way they stop what they're saying to listen in to what Brembre and his friends are talking about. There's something a little too furtive in the way they all look as they listen. Then they start their own quieter conversation again, just the three of them. Alice says to Lyons, quietly, hardly moving her lips, as if she doesn't want to be noticed speaking, 'He'd be ready for twice fifteen thousand, at a better rate, too, if you only gave him your promise. I'm telling you.' Her eyes are fixed on Lyons'. Behind her, Latimer's also nodding towards the Fleming. He obviously agrees. He obviously also wants to persuade Lyons to do whatever it is that Alice wants him to do. Lyons looks quickly from Alice Perrers to the chamberlain and back again. He's thinking. Then he also nods. There's something secret and satisfied on his face when he's done.
Alice's remark itself makes no sense to Chaucer. But the quick, guilty look Lyons gives Chaucer, once Alice has moved off to the next little group of men and the next conversation, makes the comptroller feel as if he's somehow been hoodwinked. He can't imagine how, though; and perhaps it's just the wine, colouring his imagination too rich.
Still, the moment leaves him feeling uneasy. He doesn't like not understanding.
Philippa doesn't stay. As soon as the last guest has bowed and made his exit, Philippa stands up too.
She doesn't want to discuss the dinner. She just says, very politely, that she's expected back at the Savoy tonight. She can make the boat trip before curfew if she hurries.
'But the children. They could stay,' Chaucer mumbles disconsolately. He hasn't even seen them yet. They would have been too young for the dinner. But he's assumed they're here - sleeping, perhaps, in the bedchamber? Or reading? Or walking around London, waiting for the business meeting to be over before the family reunion?
'They're not here,' Philippa replies calmly. 'They've gone down to Sheen early. There was a hunting party they wanted to join.'
He hasn't thought enough, Chaucer realises, crestfallen. He's assumed too much. He should have guessed they weren't here.
Chaucer subsides into defeated silence. He submits when she comes to him and pecks him on the top of his slightly balding head before slipping out. He only remembers to stumble out his thanks to her for coming just in time, before the door shuts. He should be grateful, he knows. Philippa's pragmatic enough to have realised it's important to show a united front to the Londoners, who'll want to see that the marital proprieties are
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