A Burnable Book (23 page)

Chapter xxxi

Ave Maria Lane

F
rom the top of Paternoster Row, Millicent Fonteyn watched the stationer guide Edgar Rykener into his shop. The apprentice followed them inside, his worried glance in both directions telling Millicent all she needed to know.

She surveyed the narrow lane. The trio had attracted little attention from the neighboring craftsmen, all busy at their work. Yet there was one of them, a man standing in front of a shop just across the lane, who had witnessed the interaction. He was staring at the door with a hard intensity that gave Millicent a prickle of concern. She and Agnes weren’t the only ones searching London for a book. There were others on the watch, others working on behalf of whatever forces or factions sought to use its perilous contents to their advantage. Others looking to take, and to kill.

She stepped out and signaled for Agnes to join her. Two other girls waved in relief as Millicent dismissed them with a grim nod. For days now, and at Bess Waller’s orders, a clutch of Southwark mauds had taken turns lying in wait for Eleanor Rykener in these precincts, some watching Paternoster Row itself, others surveying Ave Maria Lane, still others keeping an eye on Amen Lane above Pembroke’s Inn. All setting a net for the wretched little fish, the swerver who’d stolen the book out from under Bess Waller’s nose and now sought to sell it for whatever it would bring.

Now they’d found her. Him.

Yet it appeared they were too late. How could Edgar be so foolish? Did he have no idea what it was he possessed, how much of his own future might turn on the fate of the book he’d stolen, and now sought to sell to half the bookmakers of London? For soon the master stationer would realize he had little choice but to inform the authorities that a book prophesying the death of King Richard had come into his possession. Nor could Millicent steal it from the stationer as Eleanor had stolen it from the Pricking Bishop, for all the master’s attention would be on the volume for the duration of its stay in his shop.

Could she and Agnes take the thing by force, grab a few logs on the way in and have at it? Hardly. A master and his young apprentice, hale men both, would be more than a match for them, even if the sisters took them by surprise. Besides, she reasoned, the streets in this neighborhood were so narrow escape would be impossible. The guildsman would raise the hue and cry, summon a constable. It would all be over within minutes, the sisters taken before they got as far as the Boar’s Head.

“So,” said Agnes. “Let’s walk in.”

“What’s that?”

Agnes looked at her. “Let’s walk right in there, talk to Eleanor. She’ll give it back, come with us.”

“Have you gone wood, Ag? She’s the one stole the book from us!”

“She’ll listen to reason, if I know Eleanor Rykener. She’ll listen to me.”

Millicent scoffed. “Listen to that man’s coin, I’ll be bound. That’s what he—what she’s here for.”

“Eleanor’s not like you, Mil.” Agnes’s tone was suddenly hard. “Sure, she wants good shills like any maud of London. But that’s not what’s most important to her.” She looked away. “Not like you.”

Millicent, stung, stared at her sister’s profile. “Well,” she said, then looked back up Ave Maria Lane. “Maybe you’re right.”

“No maybe about it, Mil. We go in there, get her, get the book, she’ll come right along.”

Millicent smoothed her dress, held out a hand. “Come, then.”

They walked up Ave Maria Lane with locked arms and furtive looks at the work of the scriveners on either side. When they reached the shop door, Millicent turned to face the oaken surface, which was free of tracery and grillwork; nor was there a lock. Blowing out a breath, she pushed it open.

A one-room shop. Clean, well lit, books displayed on single shelves. Two writing desks faced each other in the middle of the shop. The scrivener, seated at one of them with his apprentice and Edgar standing before him, looked up in surprise. On the desk the book lay open.

“What’s this?” he demanded.

“We came for that,” said Millicent, pointing. “Our book, just there.”

“Your book?” Ybott looked from the sisters to Edgar. “The young man here tells me it’s his.”

Edgar raised his chin. “That it is, sir.”

“Then you two best be on your way,” said Ybott.

“The book is ours,” Millicent insisted. “It was given to my sister by—it was given to her, weeks ago. You hand it over or I’ll summon a ward constable.”

“Will you now?”

“Get out, Ag,” Edgar snarled. “Both of you, now, get out!”

“You know better than that, Eleanor,” said Agnes, conciliation in her voice. “You know I be your good gossip.”

“That right, Agnes Fonteyn?” said Edgar. “Leaving me high and dry on Gropecunt Lane, finding that killed girl, that bloody hammer with her brains still on it? That how you treat your ‘good gossip’?”

Millicent winced at Edgar’s use of her sister’s full name, and the incautious crowing of their profession. The scriveners, she saw, were taking it all in. Gropecunt Lane, a bloody hammer, a dead girl.

“We are taking the book,” she said quickly. “This one stole it, and now we’re taking it back.” Ybott started to protest. Millicent raised her hand and stepped right up to him, threatening. “Think about it. Think about a constable or the ward beadle stepping in here once you summon him. What do you suppose he’ll do? Comes in a stationer’s shop to find this book of prophecies in your possession, what do you suppose he’ll think?”

“Now, look here, by what right—”

“That it belongs to a few maudlyns wandering by, trying to scare up cock on Ave Maria Lane?”

Ybott was speechless. Tom Fish shot a fearful glance at Edgar, then at Agnes.

“Would you believe such a thing, sir, if this one here”—Millicent pointed at Edgar—“hadn’t slunk up from St. Paul’s to sell it to you himself?”

A feeble shrug.

“What you would believe is what’s before you: a London stationer closeted in his shop with a treasonous book, trying to pin the blame on some poor maud he brought within to swyve of a spring afternoon.”

Ybott turned away. Millicent approached the writing desk, lifted the book, and dropped it in her coat’s broad inner pocket. She turned on her heel and walked to the door.

“Wait, Mil.”

Millicent turned back to her sister. Agnes approached Edgar, whose face registered a mix of confusion and fear. Agnes reached forward and put a hand on his cheek. Edgar’s response was considerably less gentle: a hard slap to Agnes’s face that rang through the small shop.

“Where you been, Agnes?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with rage. “Not on Gropecunt Lane, nor on Cornhull, nor in Southwark, nor lying dead on the Moorfields.” He stomped a foot on the rushes. “Like that girl I thought was you.”

Agnes shook her head against the tears. “Oh, Ellie, I don’t know what to say to you, dearheart.”

Millicent opened the door a crack. The tradesman who had been watching from across the street was gone. She stepped forward and grasped Edgar’s wrist. “Come along. You be a part of this now as much as I am myself, and Agnes here.”

He tried to pull away. Millicent tightened her grip. “Don’t be a child.”

Millicent felt Edgar’s acquiescence in the loosening of his muscles. She tugged, and he finally allowed himself to be led from the shop. By the next bell they were halfway across the bridge.

They passed the following days at the Pricking Bishop, stowed in a third-story room overlooking Rose Alley. It was sour in there, the linens strewn across the pallet crusted with the spent passions of the men who dried their parts on them every day. The book rested in an alcove beneath a low shelf, just within the door. Thomas Pinchbeak, Millicent felt certain, was determined to purchase it, despite the delay caused by Eleanor Rykener’s theft, and she was equally determined to sell it for the greatest sum she could extract.

O
n the fourth night, in the stillest hours, they awoke to hoarse shouts on the street below. Cracking a shutter, Millicent looked out to see five men on horseback, dark hoods and cloaks obscuring any features. They were clustered up by Smith’s Rents, their animals circling in the darkness. One of them dismounted and approached the Pricking Bishop, his short sword glistening at his side.

The shouts had come not from him, though, but from his unexpected antagonist.

“Y’aren’t Southwark men, that be sure.”

Millicent leaned out. Down below stood St. Cath, yawping in the lantern-light, a withered arm in the air, her shift billowing obscenely in the night breezes. The old woman pointed up the alley in the direction of the palace. “By what right do you trounce in the bishop’s liberties? By whose warrant?”

St. Cath’s crazed bravery soon brought company. Three maudlyns joined her on the street to confront the armed man. They were joined in turn by a dozen girls from the other houses, all shouting at the company to leave the stews the way they had come. Soon nearly twenty maudlyns of Southwark had encircled the men, cackling a righteous din to fill the stews. More lanterns were brought out, the lane filling with a shimmering glow.

Millicent moved for a better view, and her elbow pushed the shutter slightly to her right. The movement drew the man’s attention. He looked up. His face was covered, all but his eyes and forehead wrapped in a black scarf tucked between his doublet and cape. For a long moment, in the glare of the lamps, she stood frozen by his stare. His eyes, deep and cruel, smoldered as he memorized her face. Then he looked away.

Now more distant cries, the echo of metal on metal, the clatter of hooves, and everyone’s attention was drawn up Rose Alley. Joined by Agnes and Eleanor at the window, Millicent heard before she saw the opposing company bearing down hard past the Vine. The man on foot turned and sprinted back to his horse, joining his fellows in a mad dash in the opposite direction.

For these were the bishop of Winchester’s liberties, the unannounced intrusion by the strange company a violation of ecclesiastical jurisdiction. The bishop did not take such incursions lightly, nor did his men, a company of which had been dispatched from the palace’s main guardhouse into the stews. It was an unfair fight, for though the strangers had the advantage of surprise, Winchester’s men were greater in number. Within minutes the violators had been chased through Bishopspark and into Winchester’s Wild, where they would scatter themselves to the winds.

Once the street had calmed, there were sounds of shutters slamming along the way. Bess Waller appeared at the door, her cheeks ruddy in the candlelight. “You need to leave, all you, at first bell. They were here for that book, plain as the sun.” She did a circuit of the room, shoving their few things into a basket and sack.

“But where are we to go,
mère
?” Agnes asked her as she pulled on her shoes. “We have no place, nor coin.” Eleanor huddled at her side, watching the exchange.

“Not her concern, Ag.” Millicent was pulling on her own shoes, the once-elegant skins by now full of holes, not all of them patched. “Our good mother doesn’t bother herself with inconveniences like the welfare of her daughters.”

Bess came to stand by the bed. Stooping, she pressed something into Millicent’s hand. Cold, metallic. Millicent looked down, hoping for coins. She saw a key.

“Ditch Street by the Split Shill, just within Aldgate,” said Bess, her night breath foul on Millicent’s cheek. “Small place there I’ve leased four years now. It’s empty, has been a good while. They won’t look for you there, that’s sure.”

This, for Bess Waller, counted as generosity: the loan of an unused hole across the river. Millicent looked at her mother, wondering what moral world those unwavering eyes saw when they peered into a glass. Though I suppose I’m not one to judge, she thought. She closed her eyes, then her hand over the key.

Chapter xxxii

Logic Lane, Oxford

S
ir John Clanvowe, standing at a trestle table, poured wine from a silvered flagon. “We will have an additional guest this evening.”

I masked my displeasure with a small sip. A seventh unproductive day among Angervyle’s book chests had put me in a sour mood. “Delightful. The wine, I mean, though I’m sure your guest will be as well. Who is he?”

“I shall let it be a surprise.” Clanvowe spread the frayed ends of his coat across his uncushioned chair. “Let me hear about your week in Oxford. Have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Not particularly,” I said, opting for honesty. Over the first several days I had felt like a starved man at a king’s feast. So many new books to plumb with the raw excitement of a child, losing myself for hours at a time in these authors formerly known only by name and reputation. Yet the search had soon grown monotonous, as each new book failed to reveal anything about the elusive Lollius. After all that time among Bury’s books I had started to experience the dark building behind the Durham grange as a hermit’s cell.

In airing all of this for Clanvowe, though, I stayed vague, telling him I was in Oxford to track down some texts related to my next major work. We sat in his parlor, sparsely furnished with several chairs, a writing desk, and a short shelf of dusty books against one of the whitewashed walls beneath exposed timbers. Paid well for his service as a knight of the chamber, Clanvowe had been a stalwart in Gaunt’s campaigns in Aquitaine, Castile, and France, and he was known to be quite rich. Despite his wealth, though, he lived like an Oxford student—if a well-armed one.

His finger traced the lip of our glass. “There must be more to it than that, John, to pry you out of Southwark. There are plenty of books in London. What is it you hope to find among Bury’s manuscripts? What brought you here, to Oxford?”

“I would ask you the same question.” I took the wine. “I’d have thought you would spend every hour out of court at Radnorshire, honing your Welsh.”

His face loosened into a smile. “And it’s well honed indeed by this point, what with all the diplomacy I’m performing up and down the border for the king. The marcher lords are a restive bunch. Master connivers. As to my own purpose in Oxford?
Byddwch yn dysgu cyn bo hir,
my friend. And I asked first.”

“Impressive,” I said. Clanvowe’s yellow whiskers were tensed, gathered in a thick bunch. “You won’t translate for me?”

“You’ll learn soon enough,” he said.

“Learn what?”

“That’s the answer to your question.”

“Which question?”

“Both of them, I suppose. Now,” he said, leaning forward to refresh the glass, “to the purpose of your visit.”

I looked away, thoroughly muddled, already exhausted with all the effort. I took a long drink of wine and watched the flickering shadows play on the knight’s eyes. Sir John had come to Oxford fresh from the political turmoil of London, where all the talk was of war, spies, and factions. He was also a knight of the king’s chamber, and though he was a friend, there was no question where his loyalties would go should he learn of a threat to Richard. This was precisely why I wanted to speak with him: however Clanvowe might react to the existence of the prophecy, he would do so with the king’s best interests in mind. Yet by divulging the existence of the
De Mortibus,
I would be bringing its dark prophecies into King Richard’s affinity for the first time, an irrevocable and potentially perilous step.

Making a decision, I turned back to my host. “Do you know Horace?”

Clanvowe’s brow dropped. “Slightly. Peasants, slaves, philosophizing merchants. Not to my taste.”

“The odes are great achievements, though.”

“Is that so?”

“But very hard to find. Angervyle’s must be one of a handful of copies in England.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“The ninth ode of the fourth book.”

“What is its subject?”

I waited a moment. “A poet named Lollius.”

Clanvowe flinched. I have you, I thought, pleased with myself. “You know it, then?”

“I don’t,” he said, recovering quickly. “Though perhaps there’s more you want to say about it.”

I was saved from accepting the challenge by the arrival of Clanvowe’s other guest, signaled by a soft knock at the outer door, then a quiet exchange with Sir John’s sole servant. We stood as the third man entered the parlor.

A priest, capped and robed in russet, a simple belt at his waist. No other adornment, though the uncompromising blue of his eyes forced attention, as if roundels of lapis lazuli had been painted around his pupils. A beard, bushy and long, caped his neck. I recognized the man, had seen him on at least one occasion but couldn’t place him. Clanvowe made his hostly bow and spread his hands. “Master John Gower, Esquire, let me present the curate of Lutterworth, Father John Purvey.”

I maintained enough presence of mind to reach forward and clasp hands. Purvey was a young man, his grip on my arm strong with the righteous confidence of the fanatic. Secretary to John Wycliffe himself until the master’s death the prior December, Purvey was known as a preacher and scholar of radical leanings, and if what I’d heard was true, he had had the main hand in Wycliffe’s recent translation of the Bible, a notorious work that was even now being circulated among the conventicles.

The conversation remained superficial until a weak sop was served, at which point Purvey turned to me with a mischievous smile.

“We have much in common, Master Gower.”

“In what way, Father?” The broth, light and unsalted, tasted vaguely of almonds.

“We are both writers, for one.”

“Though our respective subjects speak to our differences.”

“And our commonalities. Your
Mirour de l’Omme
has struck a chord among the men of our persuasion.”

Our
persuasion? I swallowed. “How is that?”

“Well, for one, you’re not shy about criticizing the church, even its most powerful sects.” Then, to my horror, Purvey quoted my own French: “ ‘
The friars preach poverty to all, but they’re always stretching forth their hands for coin. They love their worldly comforts, but never do they seek employment. Instead they wander about in the habit of vagrants.
’ ” He sipped, smacked his lips. “Truer words have never been written about the friars. Not even by Master Wycliffe himself, bless his soul.”

Clanvowe laughed gruffly. Purvey tittered, and I met their amusement with an uncomfortable smile. “You came prepared this evening, Father. I’m impressed.”

The conversation moved on, the remainder of the meal consisting of overdone rabbit in a mealy pie, with old mustard on the side. I picked at my portion, imagining that every bite had to be taken carefully, as if my very teeth might grind with heresy, though Clanvowe and Purvey were now chatting amiably about the priest’s new living. “Now that I’m at Lutterworth, it’s difficult to get back to Oxford as often as I would like. But that may be for the good.” He looked down at his rabbit. “It’s time I remain in one place for a while, tend to the souls in my care.”

“A fine suggestion,” I said. “After all, priests are as numerous as stars in the sky. But unlike stars, only two of a thousand know how to shine.”

Purvey gave me a nasty look. “You question my sincerity, Master Gower.”

“Only your memory, Father Purvey.”

He wiped his lips. “Take Wykeham, your bishop of Winchester. The man has twelve livings to his name, all going to fund his castle and his liberties in Southwark, his fishing ponds and his whores. Yet how often do you think he visits those parishes? Once a year, if it suits his schedule?”

“He’s a busy man,” I pointed out.

“If the priest of the parish can’t live a virtuous life, how is he supposed to teach his parishioners to avoid sin? If gold rusts, what about iron? It’s like a shepherd smeared with shit herding a flock of sheep, trying to keep them clean.” He pounded the table. “This is the problem with the higher clergy, Gower. They’ve become barons, building obscene castles for themselves, taking on concubines and mistresses and God knows what else. This is why I support their disendowment so strongly. Why should our spiritual leaders also be our wealthiest possessioners?”

I looked at the nearest candle, amazed the man would say such a thing in my presence. “That position has been condemned by the pope, Father. As you well know.”

“Which pope would that be?” he responded.

I looked at him, now truly shocked. To speak of disendowing the clergy was one thing; to question the English alliance with Rome against Avignon and France was quite another.

“These are high matters, gentlemen,” said Clanvowe, waving a hand as if to dismiss them all. “Matters between our king and his uncle, between parliaments and popes. If Father Purvey errs too far on the side of the crown against the church, others—Sudbury, say—err in the other direction. Yet that’s not why we’re here this evening.”

“Then why are we here?” I asked, suddenly wary.

He hesitated. “I am going to be honest with you, John, and I hope you’ll forgive me for luring you to my house under false pretenses.” He took a deep breath, exhaled. “I’ve known all along why you were coming to Oxford.”

I reared back.

“You’re after the
De Mortibus
. You and half of England.”

“How—”

“Chaucer told me. At Windsor.”

“But how did Chaucer—”

“That’s unimportant,” said Clanvowe. “The point is, I’ve invited our guest here this evening to refute to your face the vile rumors connecting Master Wycliffe and his teachings to these prophecies. Your word carries weight in London, John. It’s crucial that you understand the difference between honest theological disputation and open rebellion. Wycliffe had strong opinions, true. But he was hardly a traitor, and neither are his followers.”

“I know what Braybrooke must have told you,” said Purvey, leaning in. “That we commissioned the work’s copying, encouraged its circulation. Perhaps even wrote it ourselves, maybe to inspire rebellion against King Richard, install our ally the Duke of Lancaster on the throne. But these are lies, Gower, intended to destroy Father Wycliffe’s legacy. However strongly Ralph Strode and his ilk dispute us on matters of endowment, possession, and so on, I’d step into my own grave before promoting or even imagining the death of our king. This
Liber de Mortibus
has nothing to do with our teachings. Why, I believe that the king, not the pope, is the vicar of God! It’s from the king alone that the bishops derive their authority and jurisdiction.”

Plain blasphemy. I remained silent, wishing I had a clerk’s transcription of the whole evening.

“These so-called prophecies are worth less than the sheepskins they’re scribbled on,” Purvey said, pressing on. “They offend me. They offend me as a Christian, as a citizen of this realm, and as a priest. Most of all, though, they offend me as an intellectual. They are utter trash, the work of a jongleur, not a prophet.”

Clanvowe’s brow shone as he moved in the candlelight. “As a poetic maker like you, John, I also have a pretty low opinion of this work. Like our friend here, I regard it as tripe.”

“At least there we can all agree,” I said, sitting back. Despite my better judgment I found myself believing Purvey’s account. It was true that this outspoken priest and his ilk had the potential to do great harm in the realm, and I had long wondered what merit Lancaster saw in Wycliffe. Yet the late theologian had never shown himself disloyal to the crown. Then, just as my mind was settled on this version of things, I realized its obvious implication.

“You two seem to know the
Liber de Mortibus
quite well,” I said. “Well enough to judge the quality of its poetry, the value of its prophecies. How have you gotten so familiar with such an execrable work?”

A church bell struck for Vespers, struck again, then another sounded in the distance, both carried on the evening air and filling Clanvowe’s hall with a low thrum. It’s always unsettling to be away from home, where you can’t name the bells. Purvey was fingering a last bit of flesh, teasing it around a circle only he could see. He looked up at Clanvowe with the faintest of nods.

Clanvowe grunted. His tight smile broadened when he met my gaze. He said, “I made a copy.”