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Fic: Where He Walks (A Knight's Tale)
You've read me ranting about the movie, pondering over what to write, and here it comes at last. My first AKT fic. It's all Chaucer (and quite a bit of Edward, too). It was beta-read by and significantly improved thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dragonfare. I'd much appreciate any review, guys. I do love Chaucer an awful deal.
Where He Walks
He never thought it would happen to him. Unrequited love, the most poignantly, beautifully tragic of romantic situations. A soul suffering in solitude, in silence, for who would dare to speak up when the answer is foregone? He hates being silent, loves the music of words and, truth be told, the sound of his own voice. But then he hates his voice as well, its rockiness when he pushes it too far. It is the very opposite of the steady baritone that he has found himself unable to resist. It acts like a pull on him, something deep, sound and improbably mysterious in its openness.
It makes no manner of sense at all.
He has always been a woman's man, even after his wedding. He loves Philippa, yes, but they have an agreement of sorts. She is not the faithful type either and they have been happy that way. He has bedded many a lady and there is no doubt in his mind as to where his character lies. He loves women, in all sorts and fashions. Philippa is his first muse and the embodiment of this, his very own personal Eve, temptress and tempted, a companion in both life and pleasure. Dark, sinuous, pale, lascivious, a true match to his own wit, he could not have dreamed better.
And yet the one to fill his dreams at night is blond, square, suntanned, righteous, her very opposite in every aspect. Where she is a mystery, he is as an open book. Where she is naughty, he is noble. Where she sees perhaps as much as her husband, he is oblivious and naïve to a fault. Where she is down-to-earth, he clings to his pride and ideals. Where her smile speaks of the most pleasurable sins to commit, his grin tells tales of boyishness and good nature. Where she would let very few wound her, he opens his heart to all that would claim a piece of it without fear of hurt or betrayal.
Chaucer is not so open, but his lord – for he is his lord in all possible ways– his lord gave him a chance when no one else would. Chaucer played on that, relied on it, and his lord, his liege, did not disappoint. It was never supposed to turn out this way.
The tale of his love is not that of a romance, and not simply for reasons of gender. The obsession grew with time, aught but instantaneous. He first saw a boy playing at being a knight, little more than a child jousting with small lances. Then he saw his chance at salvation when Simon the Summoner and Peter the Pardoner would have had his hide. Somewhere along the line, he grew to believe in him. He believed in the son of a thatcher that had such hope as to change his stars, he believed in the peasant with a heart of gold and the true virtues of chivalry.
He often thinks that this was his undoing, but then he knows better. He remembers drawing him close to whisper in his ear the words to woo his lady Jocelyne, amused at his innocence and nervousness, and he is assailed by the memory of those blond locks falling into his face, the scent of sweat, horse and rusting steel, the trepidation and trust visible in the eyes so close to his before he turned to the shell of his ear, lips brushing against the skin. It is not the knight that undid him, it is the man-child, the contradictions of William and, my giddy aunt, his grin.
Sunny. William is sunny, he is the sun himself. Chaucer has been drawn to the moon in Philippa, the inconstant moon that so aptly figures women, but the sun outshines them all by far. The sun shines hard and true in all its glory, where the moon will appear wan and changing.
A young maid catches his eye as she dances with a valet. His gaze clings to her as to an anchor, sweeps over her waist and dives into her cleavage, but his heart is not in it. He watches her still and as the dance ends she turns in his direction and winks, a lively lass he once upon a time would have loved to catch.
"Why, if you weren't married, I'd say go for it," Kate whispers mischievously.
He tears his eyes away from the maid, looks at his friend. "What about you, Kate? Is there no one to catch your eye and sweep you away from us?" He wonders whether he is imagining the faint blush stealing over her cheeks. "The more the pity for him, but all the better for us."
"Hush," she commands him, and turns back to their comrades.
He wonders whether Philippa knows, whether she guessed. She let nothing show at the time, when they all walked in on them. He can act when needed, for a student of human nature like him knows all of the looks to show, but he is never sure to fool her. He hid his trouble under devotion to her and she went along with it, knowingly or not. For once, he does not feel like confiding in her; for the first time, she appears to him as an enemy.
How dearly he loves her. It hurts like a thousand spears through the heart to distrust her so and he buries it under renewed adoration. Truth is, more and more often, she repulses him. She is the same as ever, always changing, but he is not the same and when she brings him to completion, it is not her he thinks of, not her he thanks, not her he whimpers to. And still that pain is nothing when compared to that he feels in his lord's presence, so close and yet so far, never so far as when they are together, for then he cannot let his imagination run loose but has to face the facts.
Unrequited love, the greatest, noblest of all afflictions. It does not feel noble in the way it twists his entrails more painfully than Wat could dream of afflicting him, the way he craves for a sinful embrace that will and should never be his, the way he jokes with Wat to focus his mind on something else because if he does not he thinks something in him will break, give way. And then...
Now he sits back at the banquet and watches William and Jocelyn dance. William shows good taste, too, for his lady is beautiful and lively, spirited and oh so gracious. Kate was right, her breasts are not that impressive, but she more than makes up for that in other domains. She dances like a goddess, too, if ever there was such a one as to impress Dionysus and his most demanding guests night after night, when the old drunkard set Olympus on fire with his revels. William follows as he can, touching in his earnestness, striking a chord in Chaucer that resonates painfully, longingly.
Next to him, they are all conversing. Wat is stuffing his face with everything he can get his hands on, and that means quite a lot; the Black Prince's banquets are not renowned for their scarcity of victuals. Chaucer has barely eaten a few grapes, but spent the evening alternating casting glances William's way and holding a conversation with his friends. Kate laughs at something Roland just told Wat and Christiana smiles almost coyly, unused as she is to their coarse jokes and heavy-handed banter. Wat looks outraged, pale skin flushing bright pink in a matter of seconds, clashing with his red hair.
Chaucer lets his gaze roam over the party, thankful that Philippa did not come tonight. He notices Adhemar's herald and smiles; the man is well on his way to complete inebriation, and he feels proud of the changes in him, as a father of his child. No doubt he will not stay in Adhemar's service much longer, if he has not made his mind up already. The fact that he is here without his liege speaks volumes as it is. The man glances his way and, amused, Chaucer raises his goblet to him with a nod. The herald looks surprised but pleased as he raises his own tankard in answer, gracing him with the hint of a bow.
Chaucer chuckles quietly and pursues his investigation of the room, avoiding the dancers to watch the main table. The Black Prince whispers something in his wife's ear, leans back and smiles his roguish smile at her. Chaucer thinks back with nostalgia on the time he worked for Edward. Yet another one that would change his stars, but Edward was bound to fail, if he ever tried.
"You're very quiet tonight, Geoff," Kate's slightly accented voice jolts him out of his thoughts.
"Yeah, that's suspicious," Wat agrees with a frown. "What are ye getting up to?"
He feels weary with the silence he must keep on the emotions that are raging within him. "I am simply observing."
"For that book of yours?" Roland asks. "You're going to go through with it?"
"But of course!" he answers, letting the enthusiasm soar within him to overcome the weariness. "I shall write what has never been written before. Not a romance, but the tale of those that none speak of."
"Who'll want to hear about those?"
He smiles his devilish smile. "I shall surprise you all." He makes it sound like a promise when it is more of a challenge to himself. He stands up, sweeping his arms to encompass the whole room. "This... this is not life!" He hears his tone vibrate with such animation as he does not truly feel, overdoes it for fear that they will notice. "This is the life of a few select people, but true life... what we go through... is outside, in the streets, in the stores, in the inns!" He looks at their faces, notices their awed looks, realises he has again used his voice, that croaky voice of his that seems to fascinate the masses so and has the ability to bend them to his will, that voice he lay at William's service. "I shall surprise you all," he repeats, a few raised fingers slowly passing in front of each of their faces before he straightens up. "Now if you'll excuse me..."
He turns and walks off, out of the room, into the inner garden. He walks into the moonlight and looks at the way it falls on himself, the pale hue on his skin. He looks up at the stars and feels that he ought to cry. What are they, those pinpoints of light? Did God strew them across the nightly sky merely to excite man's wonder or do they serve a purpose, to light them when the moon does not shine? Are they there on purpose or accident? Do they maybe signify every one of the angels watching over this earth, each of them a beacon for the ethereal creatures to find their way home from here? Do they stand for each of the few pure souls of the world, appearing and dying with them? William undoubtedly has one up there, one of the most brilliant ones to be sure. Chaucer is quite certain, however, that he does not.
He hears footsteps in his back, two pairs of feet if he is not mistaken. He does not move from where he is standing, simply looks back down and wipes at his tears, hiding it under the pretence of stretching, like a cat coming back to life after a nap. He likes cats; they, too, remind him of the moon.
A voice whispers something and a pair of feet retires. Still he stays in place, arms laying idly by his side. The other pair of feet approaches and he is surprised to see Prince Edward step up next to him.
"My lord," he whispers, dropping into a bow.
"Geoffrey," Edward answers, bowing his head in return. "I hoped to have a few words with you. It has been too long since we last conversed."
A warm feeling builds up in his chest, the memory of times when he served the Black Prince. It helps battle away the weariness and his smile is genuine as he answers: "Indeed, my lord. A little over two years, if I am not mistaken."
Edward nods. The criss-cross scar on his right cheek is thrown into sharp relief by the moonlight, but Chaucer does not think it diminishes him any, never has. On the contrary, it gives even more character to his rugged face. The Prince of Wales is a true knight and a warrior, a man Chaucer has no shame admitting he admires. A man Chaucer wishes to see become king, a man Chaucer thinks can be a noble, worthy sovereign.
"Just when I think I have you figured out, you appear as herald to the most unlikely of knights." Edward casts him a teasing look. "One could have you arrested for the patents of nobility you wrote for him."
"One could, my lord," Chaucer acquiesces, a small smile tugging at his thin lips, "but one should bear in mind that my lord William is quite as noble as one can be. Did your personal historians not discover that much?"
Edward's smile is more frank, a smile that speaks of everything the man would have been if he had not been born within the restraints of royalty. "Aye, that they did. He was not found, however, to have any tie with Gelderland."
"Il est vrai," Chaucer agrees. The use of French is not innocent but calls to their common memories, for you never can be too careful with the Black Prince. A change of subject is in order. "Your lady is as radiant as ever, my lord."
"Is she not?"
And that is the discreet smile of a man in love, or Chaucer has never loved himself. The thought brings a fresh pang of pain to his chest, which he pushes away immediately. He hurries to speak for fear that the Prince took note of it. "I am planning another work. A tale of more ordinary characters, for once. With all due respect, my lord, but I deem we have enough tales of noble knights to last us a few centuries."
Edward laughs and claps Chaucer in the back. "All for the better, Geoffrey. I recoil from the next version of Guinevere and Lancelot's love. You can only tell a tale so many times before it loses all flavour."
Bed him well, my lady, bed him well, the words he whispered to Jocelyne as he saw her enter William's tent, sorrow interlacing with wistfulness in his lungs. They come back to haunt him now and he has trouble chasing them away. His prince is saying something about the interest his younger brother is showing in the written art but Chaucer has trouble focusing on any of it, seeing again and again Jocelyne's shadowed form sliding onto William's bed. Yes, he walked back to the tent. He stood by for a few minutes at most, a few agonising minutes that sent him stumbling off with a pounding heart squeezed in a vice.
"Geoff, are you well?"
He snaps back to the present time to find Edward looking at him with concern. He barely registers that his prince called him by his nickname, a friendliness that again speaks of past times. Echoes of memories tumble into one another as he forces a look of nonchalance on his face. "Aye, my lord. Have you ever known me not to be?"
But the concern in Edward's dark eyes does not fade with the casualness Chaucer tries to present. Always has he found his prince observant of the troubles of those he deemed his friends, and while he does not pretend to such a title, he has been no exception to the rule.
"Truly, my lord!" he insists, but he knows every word he says lends more shape to Edward's doubts. He throws off the lying twinkle in his eyes to make them appealing and pleading, not unlike those he used on William to have him pay his gambling debt. "Truly."
Something in the prince's stance shifts and a softness steals across his face. He seems to hesitate, then lays a hand on Chaucer's arm. "Very well."
He makes to move away but suddenly Chaucer does not want him to. He needs him here, desperately so, for the prospect of being once more alone with his thoughts terrifies him.
"I dare not presume, my lord," he calls him back after he has only just stepped away, "that one such as yourself has ever known the agony of unrequited love." He hears him stop but he does not face him, looking ahead at a knot in a tree's bark. He could not speak those words if he looked at his Prince. "Not any love, either, but one that sears through you and leaves its brand, one that shall not be denied, the sort of love that is not out of a romance but of the true reality of life. Am I right, my lord?" And his voice trembles as he asks, bolder than he ought to be and yet so cowardly in truth.
There is a pause, which stretches into a silence, and he wonders whether he imagines the soft sigh that breaks it. Perhaps he is not right after all. Perhaps he is. Does it matter?
"Walk with me."
And as always, he is unable to deny his Prince, not when he uses that tone, the same tone he used to have William kneel in front of him. When he saved him. When he succeeded where Chaucer had failed. He cannot help but wonder whether he might have won the masses without the Prince's timely rescue, cannot help the resentment he feels at said timely rescue. He had a whole speech in the making, he feels confident he could have been William's saviour, he could have convinced the people of London of William's true worth.
For who may decide who possesses knightly virtues? All of them, they are but steel, and they would condemn his lord William who is pure gold. Like gold to him.
"Like gold to me," he whispers, then glances at his prince.
Edward looks at him at the same moment, a frown on his brow and sympathy shining in his dark eyes. They are walking through the garden at a leisurely pace and an outside observer might not see anything but two men strolling along side by side. Chaucer looks away immediately and Edward says nothing for a few strides.
"I would I had some measure of comfort to bring to you, for it pains me to see you thus," the Prince finally confesses in a whisper. "Unrequited, are you sure? Is there no hope..."
"None at all, my lord," he hastens to reply, for the mere glint of hope hurts when it is squashed, and squashed it must be. "There is no hope in it for me." Edward remains silent and he feels forced to pursue. "Never shall the object of my love learn of it, for I am sure of their answer." He can see the disgust shining in William's eyes, twisting his lips into a scornful moue. "Never..."
The Black Prince halts and Chaucer cannot but face him and his compassion. "Why tell me this? There is naught I can do for you."
He looks down, ashamed. "Forgive me, my lord." A hint of a bow, coupled with a step back. "I overstepped my boundaries."
"Do not be foolish!" The tone is harsh, reproachful, eyes blazing, then softens: "I enquire after your expectations. What will come out of this conversation?"
He looks away, wets his lips, swallows, then casts his clear blue eyes back at his Prince, wondering whether they look as vulnerable as he feels. "Perhaps I only hoped to unburden my heart."
A moment passes between the two, along with understanding.
He drops into another bow, genuine with respect and gratitude. "Thank you, my liege."
When he straightens, a hand is extended toward him. He looks into steadfast eyes and smiles shakily, grips the proffered hand. He expects a handshake but gets pulled into an embrace instead, the rough embrace of two men who have gone through some things together and are the worst for wear, two men who understand each other on a certain level, two men who should not be friends and are not truly, but want to believe so.
It lasts but a few seconds and they lock eyes again. Such things are ingrained in him but he refrains from bowing again, smiling back instead, if somewhat wobbly, before turning away.
"Geoff," his Prince calls him back, and he turns around. "When all else fails, look to your lord. A true knight."
His eyes shimmer with tears as he nods, then turns away. They roll down his cheeks as he takes the round way out of the abode, the deserted hallways where he is unlikely to meet anyone, and the back door. He heads for his home, tears drying as he walks through the streets of London. This city is his canvas, its inhabitants are his subject matter. He shall render the true texture of life, for any embellishment is to him a painful lie that brings him back to his solitude. For he shall write a hymn to the people and the reality.
Philippa is eating an apple as she hunches over his first drafts at the table, notes he scribbled on a few bits of parchment before he left for the banquet. He straddles the bench next to her, buries his face in the crook of her neck. One of her agile hands comes to cradle the back of his head but she does not look away from his words.
"This is good, Geoff..."
"Is it?" he mumbles into her neck, focusing on her musky scent, so very feminine.
She turns to face him, dislodging his head from her neck, and he kisses her fervently before she can get a good look at him. It all unfolds from there and with words occasionally tumbling from his lips he strives to lose himself in her, to forget if only for a minute about the tanned skin, the earnest brown eyes, the blond locks and that damnable grin.
Of course, he fails, and his words are there to haunt him.
For I weep... to see his shiny face.
We walk in the garden of his turbulence!
I list him to honour them.
Do you wanna touch him?
The one, the only...
Like gold to me.
Like gold to me.
He has the innate knowledge that unrequited love lasts longer, faster, than any other form thereof. And when he dies, should it be in the prime of life or as a fat, bald man, his last breath will be for his liege.
~~ fin ~~
dragonfare. I'd much appreciate any review, guys. I do love Chaucer an awful deal.Where He Walks
He never thought it would happen to him. Unrequited love, the most poignantly, beautifully tragic of romantic situations. A soul suffering in solitude, in silence, for who would dare to speak up when the answer is foregone? He hates being silent, loves the music of words and, truth be told, the sound of his own voice. But then he hates his voice as well, its rockiness when he pushes it too far. It is the very opposite of the steady baritone that he has found himself unable to resist. It acts like a pull on him, something deep, sound and improbably mysterious in its openness.
It makes no manner of sense at all.
He has always been a woman's man, even after his wedding. He loves Philippa, yes, but they have an agreement of sorts. She is not the faithful type either and they have been happy that way. He has bedded many a lady and there is no doubt in his mind as to where his character lies. He loves women, in all sorts and fashions. Philippa is his first muse and the embodiment of this, his very own personal Eve, temptress and tempted, a companion in both life and pleasure. Dark, sinuous, pale, lascivious, a true match to his own wit, he could not have dreamed better.
And yet the one to fill his dreams at night is blond, square, suntanned, righteous, her very opposite in every aspect. Where she is a mystery, he is as an open book. Where she is naughty, he is noble. Where she sees perhaps as much as her husband, he is oblivious and naïve to a fault. Where she is down-to-earth, he clings to his pride and ideals. Where her smile speaks of the most pleasurable sins to commit, his grin tells tales of boyishness and good nature. Where she would let very few wound her, he opens his heart to all that would claim a piece of it without fear of hurt or betrayal.
Chaucer is not so open, but his lord – for he is his lord in all possible ways– his lord gave him a chance when no one else would. Chaucer played on that, relied on it, and his lord, his liege, did not disappoint. It was never supposed to turn out this way.
The tale of his love is not that of a romance, and not simply for reasons of gender. The obsession grew with time, aught but instantaneous. He first saw a boy playing at being a knight, little more than a child jousting with small lances. Then he saw his chance at salvation when Simon the Summoner and Peter the Pardoner would have had his hide. Somewhere along the line, he grew to believe in him. He believed in the son of a thatcher that had such hope as to change his stars, he believed in the peasant with a heart of gold and the true virtues of chivalry.
He often thinks that this was his undoing, but then he knows better. He remembers drawing him close to whisper in his ear the words to woo his lady Jocelyne, amused at his innocence and nervousness, and he is assailed by the memory of those blond locks falling into his face, the scent of sweat, horse and rusting steel, the trepidation and trust visible in the eyes so close to his before he turned to the shell of his ear, lips brushing against the skin. It is not the knight that undid him, it is the man-child, the contradictions of William and, my giddy aunt, his grin.
Sunny. William is sunny, he is the sun himself. Chaucer has been drawn to the moon in Philippa, the inconstant moon that so aptly figures women, but the sun outshines them all by far. The sun shines hard and true in all its glory, where the moon will appear wan and changing.
A young maid catches his eye as she dances with a valet. His gaze clings to her as to an anchor, sweeps over her waist and dives into her cleavage, but his heart is not in it. He watches her still and as the dance ends she turns in his direction and winks, a lively lass he once upon a time would have loved to catch.
"Why, if you weren't married, I'd say go for it," Kate whispers mischievously.
He tears his eyes away from the maid, looks at his friend. "What about you, Kate? Is there no one to catch your eye and sweep you away from us?" He wonders whether he is imagining the faint blush stealing over her cheeks. "The more the pity for him, but all the better for us."
"Hush," she commands him, and turns back to their comrades.
He wonders whether Philippa knows, whether she guessed. She let nothing show at the time, when they all walked in on them. He can act when needed, for a student of human nature like him knows all of the looks to show, but he is never sure to fool her. He hid his trouble under devotion to her and she went along with it, knowingly or not. For once, he does not feel like confiding in her; for the first time, she appears to him as an enemy.
How dearly he loves her. It hurts like a thousand spears through the heart to distrust her so and he buries it under renewed adoration. Truth is, more and more often, she repulses him. She is the same as ever, always changing, but he is not the same and when she brings him to completion, it is not her he thinks of, not her he thanks, not her he whimpers to. And still that pain is nothing when compared to that he feels in his lord's presence, so close and yet so far, never so far as when they are together, for then he cannot let his imagination run loose but has to face the facts.
Unrequited love, the greatest, noblest of all afflictions. It does not feel noble in the way it twists his entrails more painfully than Wat could dream of afflicting him, the way he craves for a sinful embrace that will and should never be his, the way he jokes with Wat to focus his mind on something else because if he does not he thinks something in him will break, give way. And then...
Now he sits back at the banquet and watches William and Jocelyn dance. William shows good taste, too, for his lady is beautiful and lively, spirited and oh so gracious. Kate was right, her breasts are not that impressive, but she more than makes up for that in other domains. She dances like a goddess, too, if ever there was such a one as to impress Dionysus and his most demanding guests night after night, when the old drunkard set Olympus on fire with his revels. William follows as he can, touching in his earnestness, striking a chord in Chaucer that resonates painfully, longingly.
Next to him, they are all conversing. Wat is stuffing his face with everything he can get his hands on, and that means quite a lot; the Black Prince's banquets are not renowned for their scarcity of victuals. Chaucer has barely eaten a few grapes, but spent the evening alternating casting glances William's way and holding a conversation with his friends. Kate laughs at something Roland just told Wat and Christiana smiles almost coyly, unused as she is to their coarse jokes and heavy-handed banter. Wat looks outraged, pale skin flushing bright pink in a matter of seconds, clashing with his red hair.
Chaucer lets his gaze roam over the party, thankful that Philippa did not come tonight. He notices Adhemar's herald and smiles; the man is well on his way to complete inebriation, and he feels proud of the changes in him, as a father of his child. No doubt he will not stay in Adhemar's service much longer, if he has not made his mind up already. The fact that he is here without his liege speaks volumes as it is. The man glances his way and, amused, Chaucer raises his goblet to him with a nod. The herald looks surprised but pleased as he raises his own tankard in answer, gracing him with the hint of a bow.
Chaucer chuckles quietly and pursues his investigation of the room, avoiding the dancers to watch the main table. The Black Prince whispers something in his wife's ear, leans back and smiles his roguish smile at her. Chaucer thinks back with nostalgia on the time he worked for Edward. Yet another one that would change his stars, but Edward was bound to fail, if he ever tried.
"You're very quiet tonight, Geoff," Kate's slightly accented voice jolts him out of his thoughts.
"Yeah, that's suspicious," Wat agrees with a frown. "What are ye getting up to?"
He feels weary with the silence he must keep on the emotions that are raging within him. "I am simply observing."
"For that book of yours?" Roland asks. "You're going to go through with it?"
"But of course!" he answers, letting the enthusiasm soar within him to overcome the weariness. "I shall write what has never been written before. Not a romance, but the tale of those that none speak of."
"Who'll want to hear about those?"
He smiles his devilish smile. "I shall surprise you all." He makes it sound like a promise when it is more of a challenge to himself. He stands up, sweeping his arms to encompass the whole room. "This... this is not life!" He hears his tone vibrate with such animation as he does not truly feel, overdoes it for fear that they will notice. "This is the life of a few select people, but true life... what we go through... is outside, in the streets, in the stores, in the inns!" He looks at their faces, notices their awed looks, realises he has again used his voice, that croaky voice of his that seems to fascinate the masses so and has the ability to bend them to his will, that voice he lay at William's service. "I shall surprise you all," he repeats, a few raised fingers slowly passing in front of each of their faces before he straightens up. "Now if you'll excuse me..."
He turns and walks off, out of the room, into the inner garden. He walks into the moonlight and looks at the way it falls on himself, the pale hue on his skin. He looks up at the stars and feels that he ought to cry. What are they, those pinpoints of light? Did God strew them across the nightly sky merely to excite man's wonder or do they serve a purpose, to light them when the moon does not shine? Are they there on purpose or accident? Do they maybe signify every one of the angels watching over this earth, each of them a beacon for the ethereal creatures to find their way home from here? Do they stand for each of the few pure souls of the world, appearing and dying with them? William undoubtedly has one up there, one of the most brilliant ones to be sure. Chaucer is quite certain, however, that he does not.
He hears footsteps in his back, two pairs of feet if he is not mistaken. He does not move from where he is standing, simply looks back down and wipes at his tears, hiding it under the pretence of stretching, like a cat coming back to life after a nap. He likes cats; they, too, remind him of the moon.
A voice whispers something and a pair of feet retires. Still he stays in place, arms laying idly by his side. The other pair of feet approaches and he is surprised to see Prince Edward step up next to him.
"My lord," he whispers, dropping into a bow.
"Geoffrey," Edward answers, bowing his head in return. "I hoped to have a few words with you. It has been too long since we last conversed."
A warm feeling builds up in his chest, the memory of times when he served the Black Prince. It helps battle away the weariness and his smile is genuine as he answers: "Indeed, my lord. A little over two years, if I am not mistaken."
Edward nods. The criss-cross scar on his right cheek is thrown into sharp relief by the moonlight, but Chaucer does not think it diminishes him any, never has. On the contrary, it gives even more character to his rugged face. The Prince of Wales is a true knight and a warrior, a man Chaucer has no shame admitting he admires. A man Chaucer wishes to see become king, a man Chaucer thinks can be a noble, worthy sovereign.
"Just when I think I have you figured out, you appear as herald to the most unlikely of knights." Edward casts him a teasing look. "One could have you arrested for the patents of nobility you wrote for him."
"One could, my lord," Chaucer acquiesces, a small smile tugging at his thin lips, "but one should bear in mind that my lord William is quite as noble as one can be. Did your personal historians not discover that much?"
Edward's smile is more frank, a smile that speaks of everything the man would have been if he had not been born within the restraints of royalty. "Aye, that they did. He was not found, however, to have any tie with Gelderland."
"Il est vrai," Chaucer agrees. The use of French is not innocent but calls to their common memories, for you never can be too careful with the Black Prince. A change of subject is in order. "Your lady is as radiant as ever, my lord."
"Is she not?"
And that is the discreet smile of a man in love, or Chaucer has never loved himself. The thought brings a fresh pang of pain to his chest, which he pushes away immediately. He hurries to speak for fear that the Prince took note of it. "I am planning another work. A tale of more ordinary characters, for once. With all due respect, my lord, but I deem we have enough tales of noble knights to last us a few centuries."
Edward laughs and claps Chaucer in the back. "All for the better, Geoffrey. I recoil from the next version of Guinevere and Lancelot's love. You can only tell a tale so many times before it loses all flavour."
Bed him well, my lady, bed him well, the words he whispered to Jocelyne as he saw her enter William's tent, sorrow interlacing with wistfulness in his lungs. They come back to haunt him now and he has trouble chasing them away. His prince is saying something about the interest his younger brother is showing in the written art but Chaucer has trouble focusing on any of it, seeing again and again Jocelyne's shadowed form sliding onto William's bed. Yes, he walked back to the tent. He stood by for a few minutes at most, a few agonising minutes that sent him stumbling off with a pounding heart squeezed in a vice.
"Geoff, are you well?"
He snaps back to the present time to find Edward looking at him with concern. He barely registers that his prince called him by his nickname, a friendliness that again speaks of past times. Echoes of memories tumble into one another as he forces a look of nonchalance on his face. "Aye, my lord. Have you ever known me not to be?"
But the concern in Edward's dark eyes does not fade with the casualness Chaucer tries to present. Always has he found his prince observant of the troubles of those he deemed his friends, and while he does not pretend to such a title, he has been no exception to the rule.
"Truly, my lord!" he insists, but he knows every word he says lends more shape to Edward's doubts. He throws off the lying twinkle in his eyes to make them appealing and pleading, not unlike those he used on William to have him pay his gambling debt. "Truly."
Something in the prince's stance shifts and a softness steals across his face. He seems to hesitate, then lays a hand on Chaucer's arm. "Very well."
He makes to move away but suddenly Chaucer does not want him to. He needs him here, desperately so, for the prospect of being once more alone with his thoughts terrifies him.
"I dare not presume, my lord," he calls him back after he has only just stepped away, "that one such as yourself has ever known the agony of unrequited love." He hears him stop but he does not face him, looking ahead at a knot in a tree's bark. He could not speak those words if he looked at his Prince. "Not any love, either, but one that sears through you and leaves its brand, one that shall not be denied, the sort of love that is not out of a romance but of the true reality of life. Am I right, my lord?" And his voice trembles as he asks, bolder than he ought to be and yet so cowardly in truth.
There is a pause, which stretches into a silence, and he wonders whether he imagines the soft sigh that breaks it. Perhaps he is not right after all. Perhaps he is. Does it matter?
"Walk with me."
And as always, he is unable to deny his Prince, not when he uses that tone, the same tone he used to have William kneel in front of him. When he saved him. When he succeeded where Chaucer had failed. He cannot help but wonder whether he might have won the masses without the Prince's timely rescue, cannot help the resentment he feels at said timely rescue. He had a whole speech in the making, he feels confident he could have been William's saviour, he could have convinced the people of London of William's true worth.
For who may decide who possesses knightly virtues? All of them, they are but steel, and they would condemn his lord William who is pure gold. Like gold to him.
"Like gold to me," he whispers, then glances at his prince.
Edward looks at him at the same moment, a frown on his brow and sympathy shining in his dark eyes. They are walking through the garden at a leisurely pace and an outside observer might not see anything but two men strolling along side by side. Chaucer looks away immediately and Edward says nothing for a few strides.
"I would I had some measure of comfort to bring to you, for it pains me to see you thus," the Prince finally confesses in a whisper. "Unrequited, are you sure? Is there no hope..."
"None at all, my lord," he hastens to reply, for the mere glint of hope hurts when it is squashed, and squashed it must be. "There is no hope in it for me." Edward remains silent and he feels forced to pursue. "Never shall the object of my love learn of it, for I am sure of their answer." He can see the disgust shining in William's eyes, twisting his lips into a scornful moue. "Never..."
The Black Prince halts and Chaucer cannot but face him and his compassion. "Why tell me this? There is naught I can do for you."
He looks down, ashamed. "Forgive me, my lord." A hint of a bow, coupled with a step back. "I overstepped my boundaries."
"Do not be foolish!" The tone is harsh, reproachful, eyes blazing, then softens: "I enquire after your expectations. What will come out of this conversation?"
He looks away, wets his lips, swallows, then casts his clear blue eyes back at his Prince, wondering whether they look as vulnerable as he feels. "Perhaps I only hoped to unburden my heart."
A moment passes between the two, along with understanding.
He drops into another bow, genuine with respect and gratitude. "Thank you, my liege."
When he straightens, a hand is extended toward him. He looks into steadfast eyes and smiles shakily, grips the proffered hand. He expects a handshake but gets pulled into an embrace instead, the rough embrace of two men who have gone through some things together and are the worst for wear, two men who understand each other on a certain level, two men who should not be friends and are not truly, but want to believe so.
It lasts but a few seconds and they lock eyes again. Such things are ingrained in him but he refrains from bowing again, smiling back instead, if somewhat wobbly, before turning away.
"Geoff," his Prince calls him back, and he turns around. "When all else fails, look to your lord. A true knight."
His eyes shimmer with tears as he nods, then turns away. They roll down his cheeks as he takes the round way out of the abode, the deserted hallways where he is unlikely to meet anyone, and the back door. He heads for his home, tears drying as he walks through the streets of London. This city is his canvas, its inhabitants are his subject matter. He shall render the true texture of life, for any embellishment is to him a painful lie that brings him back to his solitude. For he shall write a hymn to the people and the reality.
Philippa is eating an apple as she hunches over his first drafts at the table, notes he scribbled on a few bits of parchment before he left for the banquet. He straddles the bench next to her, buries his face in the crook of her neck. One of her agile hands comes to cradle the back of his head but she does not look away from his words.
"This is good, Geoff..."
"Is it?" he mumbles into her neck, focusing on her musky scent, so very feminine.
She turns to face him, dislodging his head from her neck, and he kisses her fervently before she can get a good look at him. It all unfolds from there and with words occasionally tumbling from his lips he strives to lose himself in her, to forget if only for a minute about the tanned skin, the earnest brown eyes, the blond locks and that damnable grin.
Of course, he fails, and his words are there to haunt him.
For I weep... to see his shiny face.
We walk in the garden of his turbulence!
I list him to honour them.
Do you wanna touch him?
The one, the only...
Like gold to me.
Like gold to me.
He has the innate knowledge that unrequited love lasts longer, faster, than any other form thereof. And when he dies, should it be in the prime of life or as a fat, bald man, his last breath will be for his liege.
~~ fin ~~