Pairings: MINOR, MINOR, MINOR Geoff/O.C., attempted Will/Geoff, Will/Jocelyn, Roland/Christina, et cetera...
IMPORTANT: Italics thoughts of character.
It's Chaucer's Point Of View, Post-Will/father scene, pre-'Intervention'.
Sorry for the long delay; homework, a rotary conference, a civil war reenactment muskets are HEAVY, and various other things have kept me busy. I would just like to say that any new characters I introduce actually do have parts later on in the story; I'm not describing them for the heck of it. And also, I'd like to give a big thanks to my reviewers – Seascribe & SpotsShadow94!
Jocelyn, Jocelyn, Jocelyn... I'm finding it's quite hard to locate someone without a curse-ed address, or at least not knowing said address. A surname, perhaps, would help; something else besides that wretchedly beautiful girl's name. And my lord had to work so hard to obtain that little bit from his lady, too. I'm wondering, is she a Jocelyn or a Jezebel?
Ah, if only to hold a pry-bar in my hands. I would've pried out all of the scandal from this girl -including her London address- long ago, and I would be without all of this dastardly searching.
If I had the time, I would have gone down to the fairgrounds and gossiped up some of the more... accommodating maids. They're likely to give up their lady's secrets with the assistance of a shinny bauble or a pretty ribbon. A surname would have been all too easy to unearth, considering my loose tongue and silver fingers. Or is it the other way 'round?
But seeing as how I have neither time nor trinket, I instead find myself near-aimlessly strolling down a walkway on a side of London that could no more different from Cheapside than a fish to a bird.
There are houses, for sure, and people inside of them. A house of the size I'm used to could fit inside of their solar. I would like to be able to walk a bit slower and admire these manor-houses made of brick and stone -stone!- and wood, a far cry from the daub and wattle of Cheapside. I can imagine the furniture inside, all imports of course. Couches from France, fine rugs from Persia, silver and incenses from Naples, and any and everything else money or the mind could conjure up from all over the Holy Roman and Ottoman Empires.
I can see people inside of these houses of splendor through their glass windows –glass!-. The ladies are sitting in the solar with their maids at hand, just settling into a day of embroidery and gossip. Younger children adorn the floors, playing games with porcelain dolls and soldiers of copper and tin. The lords and older children are off to their respective jobs and universities.
At the moment, I'm not sure as to whether I want to be envious or sad because of these people. They have wealth I could never one day hope to posses or even dream of, and that, I'll admit, does make me a little jealous. But at the same time... at the same time I've just remembered that I have my lord to look after.
With that thought, I quickened my pace. Even the walkways are different... is that? Some sort of limestone? Compared to the muddy streets of Cheapside, it actually is like walking across big plates of glass. Ah, the woes and perils of being rich. I'm actually surprised that one of the patrolmen –hired thugs who hold a grudge against the common man- haven't caught me yet and kicked me out of the neighborhood. This is defiantly not my side of town.
As I round a corner and enter a small business district, I notice a relatively large cathedral not far off. Its stained-glass windows glisten against the sun, which has finally risen over the London skyline. I can just make out the statues that adorn the various ledges around the cathedral. They're definitely not up to the liberal standards of the great statues of Italy – pure pornography, those are. These are conservative, clothed, and of the Virgin Mary, the Lord Jesus, and what may or may not be Peter. John, David, Peter, Paul, Simon –they all look the same to me.
Yes... to be rich and enjoy the luxury of the comfortable life. I'm finding myself wondering at the great wall-hangings inside depicting this saint, that martyr, and those Holy Cow Droppings. Then I notice the pigeons that are perched on its bell-tower, relieving themselves of their early breakfast, and defiling this house of God. I have to smile, at least a little.
Jocelyn... she's one of those Catholics, or half of my lord's encounters with her were on pure happenstance. Yes, the morning mass is still being held, I'll can bet she's probably in some church right now, enjoying that eye-candy of our Lord and Savior perched eternally on that cross. Seeing as how that cathedral's right there, those sumptuous houses are behind me –the lady is a Lady, after all, and I'm somewhere in the middle... I'd be better to check that out.
It's quite amazing how I can go from the grandeur of the wealthy to the moderate dealings of the middle class with a mere crossing of a cart and peasant-ridden street.
The houses here are considerably smaller, and the merchants who live in them are displaying their wares behind small windows on the first floors of their very own homes. I can even see it on the streets, how the level of maintenance has gone down –there is a ditch that runs down the middle of the road for people to throw their trash in, as opposed to the servants of the wealthy who would have to walk down here to do the dumping. And if this were Cheapside, I'd be treading lightly for the ditch would be overflowing onto the walkways.1
Well, I am finding myself walking with more carefully, for the causeways are rather crowed –I've discovered myself in a small market it seems. The lower-class citizens are out on the side streets peddling their merchandise, besides the craftsmen who sell their goods out of their shops. It's all adding up to a giant traffic jam, and for one such as myself who's holding his lord's life on his very own finger tips, it's frustrating, to say in the least.
I make my way past the vendors and hustlers, my coat billowing behind me.
Dramatics, dramatics, dramatics... yes, 'round that posy cart2 –say a prayer so the good plague doesn't return. I am rather sick of the smell of fresh flowers and rotting flesh. Skip past the baker-chap. Mmm... a pastry does sound decent about now... focus, focus, focus. What's that old woman selling? From India, then? It's pretty fabric but the embroidery's rather shoddy. It'd be nice to see my lord in it one day, though. Careful, now. Watch out for those ruffians, look like pickpockets, dirty little horrors. Ohh... what's that noise? Sounds horrible. What is that he's playing? A lute? Quite exotic.3 Well, it's is out of tune. What is he singing? Sounds familiar. Is that Francesca Petrarca? Rather brave of him, considering these parts.
Recently, London has been less tolerant towards the great lyric-poets of other countries. The middle class, especially, had decided that the only music that's acceptable to them was the tunes that were produced with the Tower of London in heart and more importantly -sight. I'd like to blame it on the first plague; it separated us from the rest of the world, leaving the old, distrustful, and the young, restless.4
Distracted, even though this is probably the worst time for music, I stop for a moment and listen to the man who's playing the lute, sing,
"The soft west wind, returning, brings again
Its lovely family of herbs and flowers;
Progne's gay notes and Philomela's strain
Vary the dance of springtide's rosy hours;
And joyously o'er every field and plain
Glows the bright smile that greets them from above,
And the warm spirit of reviving love
Breathes in the air and murmurs from the main.
But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushingly
Pour from the secret chambers of my heart,
Are all that spring returning brings to me;
And in the modest smile, or glance of art,
The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree,
A desert's rugged tract and savage forms I see."5
He has a nice voice, among the other things that the good Lord God doesn't want me thinking about. The man is wearing a coat of faded brown and green leather –which is quite neutral in these parts so I don't know where his loyalties lie- and darker brown trousers that look as if they're a few sizes too big. It's understandable, I've gone without meals before, but I don't think I've lost that much weight. They're rolled up, though to reveal dirty green and black stripped leggings that are splendidly tight enough for him and the casual observer like me.
He has a few other accessories – a red scarf tied loosely around his neck in a way that was only fashionable several years ago. I'm surprised, considering the scarf's length that it hasn't gotten in the way of his playing, yet. And despite a traditional green fillet that's tied around his head, keeping curly brown hair out of his dark brown eyes, his hand will occasionally reach up and brush away an imaginary lock.
He doesn't have any sort of weapon on him that I can see –what is it with these pretty boys and their foolhardy confidence? And except for his lute's case, which is left open for any coppers the fine, stingy people of London would care to donate, I don't see any other belongings with him.
As he finishes singing the last line, I discreetly walk towards him and try to pretend that I'm not studying him like I am. I'd call him a Venetian, if not for the odd accent. He seems more of the country type –one who's grown up with sheep at his side and a shepherd's staff in his hand. Unlike my fellow from before, I find this one is quite striking as I get closer.
I'm actually content enough with the fact that someone else in this town knows Petrarca, Progne, Philomela, Laura in Death. Let alone, how to put those verses to music and sing it. The lute is out of tune though, and the words are a bit gloomy for this fine, sunny day. He doesn't seem to be making much in the way of coppers, all the patrons are brushing past him, and the ones who do care are the ones without a coin to share.
As I'm about to make my final move and let myself be known to him, I realize that he's well aware of my presence, and is staring straight at me. So much for deceit and hidden motives.Abandoning any forms of subtlety I may have once possessed, I walk right up to my man and stare him directly in the eyes. He looks right back at me and continues to strum a melody on his instrument, occasionally humming in an extra beat. Again, the fingering's fine, but it's the fault of the out-of-tune lute that's making this horrible yowling noise, like two cats in the night fighting in a back-alley over scraps.
Who's to make the first move, then?
He does, giving me a brief nod of recognition and I answer him back with a few coins tossed carelessly into his lute's open case. I'm not quite sure I fully understand this exchange, but I'm still reveling in the fact that at least we had one. He'd be one for the eyes, then.
Despite what many of the "learned" people of the upper-classes say, it's been my belief that the only way to communicate isn't just with the mouth. There's the written poet -like Petrarca and I, then there's a man's spine –posture is everything, and the hands, to name a few.
It's all in the mind, of course. Give a man inspiration and he'll take the whole world in a day. But this one in front of me, he speaks through his eyes.
And I can see them now; a dark, deep brown that seems to look right through me and into some other world located just over my shoulder. I'm curious of course, I'm always curious. It's what drew me into this foolhardy journey of jousting and love, and it's what's keeping me from finding that Jocelyn and rescuing my lord. To have the body of a man and the mind of a fish is not attractive, Geoff.
As this nameless man moves his left hand up to play a higher note, I see something that would've found me shaking in my boots six months ago. Is that...? No, it couldn't be. I haven't seen that insignia in years. What would it be doing here? I thought I had just witnessed something quite strange, being a small tattoo on this man's left wrist. It's covered up by the ruffles of his undershirt's sleeves now, and unless I was to grab his arm and twist it around to me, I didn't have any chance of seeing it again. What's confusing me is that this man –boy, really- is young enough to never have heard, or care, about the events that surround this particular tattoo. I was only a boy when this happened, and I can barely remember them. Or maybe I'm just imagining thing, I am rather tense right now. But if it actually is there... the insignia of Cola di Rienzi. I can't –won't- think about that now, or what it could possible mean.6
But now I genuinely am interested, and I want to know what was going through this boy's mind when he had the insignia of a dead Roman tribune tattooed onto his left wrist. I stare right back into his eyes, trying to crack open the puzzle that is this endeavoring bard.
I try to open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. It's sad, really, that I could be flustered by this silly boy with his little tattoo. I'm imagining the drama behind it all, now, and I'm finding myself like a moth to a streetlamp: quite attracted. I don't want to jump him though, knock him out and drag him to a dark alley and do only the king knows what. Not that I'd actually do something like that to anyone, but it's nice to dream, especially when you know your lord's off with his lady.
But no, with this one... I just want to know his name. Ahh... how the fates have turned on me. But what am I to do? Leave this boy here to actually get mugged -because he does look like a bit lost- or there's the alternative... bring him along.
He's still eyeing me, or I'd like to believe he is. He's titled his head a little to the left and he's gained this faraway look, and I instantly want to know what he's thinking, why his lute is out of tune, where'd he come from, and why did he play that particular song for me –it couldn't have been for anyone else, I was clearly the only one who was enjoying it, lute or not.
I realize I've been standing on this street for far too long. My lord still knows nothing of the danger against his name – the threat that promises to swallow him up and spit him out a broken man. And Jocelyn, I still need to locate her before Adhemar does and whispers his dirty lies into her pristine ears.
I'm torn between two choices, my lord and his life or this boy and his tattoo. He's still staring blankly over my head, strumming on his lute. The noise isn't half-as bad as it was, but I think it's because I'm ignoring it more now.
"Geoffrey Chaucer. A pleasure to meet you. That's a lovely song you just played."
We share a slight smile, his in his eyes and in a curt nod of his head, mine on my lips and the way I wrap my fingers around the fringe on my coat. It's our moment, and none of the other people of London are any wiser as to what just occurred.
1. That is how streets looked like, with a shallow ditch that ran through and two walkways on the side. The ditch was where people threw their waste matter and such. It was a good idea but it just wasn't cleaned enough, and would eventually contribute significantly to the Black Plague. Could you imagine a place like Cheapside? I'm just glad they weren't historically accurate in the movie!
2. Yes, a reference to "Ring around the Rosy", which I do realize has absolutely nothing to do with the Plague.
3. Considering lutes would become popular in London only about one hundred years later :P
4. N/T not true
5. Petrarch's Sonnet XLII: The Spring Only Renews His Grief. I didn't put it in its original format Latin because I can not speak/write that language. Expect a lot of Italian literature mentioned, especially the big three: Petrarch, Alighieri, Boccaccio. and especially Boccaccio, because Chaucer would eventually go on to use one of the tales in the Decamerone as 'inspiration' for one in the Canterbury. Props if you know which!
6. If you know what his insignia is, please tell me! I'm going to have to make something up otherwise! Oh, I'll explain more about Cola later in the story. He's a bit of an inspiration to me!
Disclaimer: A Knight's Tale belongs to Columbia Pictures, not me. "Let Forever Be" belongs to the Chemical Brothers. All other characters, unless noted, are mine.
6/24/05 note: i just went through this and got rid of all the italics because i seenow a year later that they arean annoyance.i'm working on the fourth chapter. yeah, it's been a while. finally, i will still continue to say that the black plauge and ring around the rosie still do not mix!