The Long Sword Read Free

taken up; the cantor’s voice strong and powerful as a trumpet, and the chapter responded, and the congregation took up the Agnus Dei .
    Chaucer sighed.
    Sir William sang. In fact, he sang well, and his Latin was good. Chaucer smiled to himself.
    Later, Sir William knelt, his arming sword’s tip resting on the stone floor as lightly as the older knight’s knees appeared to rest. Chaucer went to one of the mighty pillars that supported the nave and leaned against it to watch the nuns, who in turn watched the men-at-arms.
    Sir William’s lips moved slowly, and then his breathing deepened, and then he was a still as a statue, or a stone memorial to a dead knight.
    Chaucer rolled his eyes and fidgeted. But his eye caught a pair of older nuns hissing at each other, and he shifted himself until he could catch their middle-aged invective, their careful avoidance of the appearance of anger, their false humility.
    ‘You don’t think very highly of your fellow man, do you, Master Chaucer?’ Sir William asked.
    Chaucer had to cover a start – the big red-haired knight moved very quietly. ‘You pray for a very long time,’ he said.
    Sir William shrugged. ‘I have much for which I should atone. A moment of prayer is a small sacrifice.’
    ‘You had troubles at the castle,’ Chaucer said.
    Sir William’s mouth made a curious gesture, as if it could not itself decide whether to frown or smile. ‘Brian Stapleton is leaving to take up the captaincy of Guines.’
    ‘That’s Miles’ brother? Surely you two are old friends and good companions?’ Chaucer managed a genuine grin. ‘You and Miles fought Saracens together.’
    ‘He’s being replaced by John Devereux. Something is afoot at home, and Sir Brian is unwilling to give me a passport.’ Sir William shrugged again. ‘I was summoned by the king. I am needed in Venice and my patience has limits.’
    Chaucer nodded, and the two men walked past the nuns, who now kept their eyes down and their movements discreet. Outside, darkness was falling, the air was chill, and the smell of baked apples and sugar carried like the scent of love.
    Sir William laughed. ‘I’m imagining myself the centre of the world. Why are you still here?’
    Chaucer grunted. ‘The same. The French have not prepared me a pass, even though my business is to their good.’
    ‘Peace?’ Sir William asked.
    ‘At least a longer truce. There are those at home who would push the young king to war – but the truth is, there’s no money and no will to war in the commons.’ Chaucer gazed into the darkness.
    Ahead of them on the street, a woman was lighting the lamps on her house. She inclined her head as they passed, and Sir William bowed deeply to her and gave her the sele of the day, to which she responded by blowing him a kiss.
    ‘You are the lovesomest man,’ Chaucer said.
    Sir William smiled. ‘I do love women, it is true,’ he said. He watched the goodwife as she stretched to light her last lamp.
    ‘Adultery is a sin,’ Chaucer said.
    ‘This is very monk-like, coming from you,’ Sir William shot back.
    The two of them turned the corner of the church of Notre Dame and walked slowly toward the inn gate, visible at the end of the lane.
    ‘If we’re here another night, perhaps we can spin Monsieur Froissart more tales of our misspent youths,’ Sir William said.
    Chaucer laughed. ‘I believe that the two of us are too far beyond Monsieur Froissart’s views of the world.’ He looked at Sir William in the torchlight. ‘Do you remember him from Prince Lionel’s wedding?’
    Sir William nodded. ‘No. But I was busy, then. Well, if he’s determined to listen, we could do him some good. I could tell him of the Levant.’
    ‘And the Italian Wedding,’ Chaucer said. ‘Sweet Christ, that was a horror.’ He grinned mirthlessly. ‘He was there, but he didn’t see our side of it.’
    ‘Not all a horror,’ Sir William said. But when their eyes met, something passed – some shared