Sweet Revenge

Part 6

There were things for writing scattered about. Quills were left neglected and parchments curling on the table and on the floor. Spots of spilt ink marred wood and cloth alike. Objects and their owner were in a similar state. At his lodgings, fast asleep at midday, Geoff looked like he always did after a night of debauchery - free of clothes and money, bedraggled and spent. Having taken in the whole disgraceful sight, Roland grabbed hold of Geoff's leg and shook him awake. Geoff shielded his face as if expecting blows. He blinked a few times until he recognized Roland.

"Get up. We need your help," Roland told him gruffly. "Wat's done something stupid."

"You came all the way here to tell me that?" Geoff protested in a sleepy voice.

Roland paid no attention to this. "Come on. Jocelyn has a task for you."

Geoff raised himself on his elbows and watched Roland searching through his things.

"Jocelyn? Roland, you have me confused with her maid."

"Not bloody likely. Get yourself up and get dressed. She said to wear something impressive."

"With Jocelyn's idea of impressive, I'll be wearing a bejeweled tent and a five tiered crown."

"Sounds good," Roland said in his no nonsense way. "Get yourself moving, man. Wat's in trouble."

He sorted through Chaucer's few clothes that lay discarded about the place. Finding some decent things, he threw them at Geoffrey.

"Did he finally fong someone? Have we finally discovered what that means?" He was putting clothes on while still in bed.

"God, I forgot how much you talk."

"How could you forget such a thing, Roland?" Geoff was deeply offended and sitting up now.

"My humble apologies," Roland said as he manhandled him half dressed, out the door.

A fine occasion it was - that wedding. Grand but not joyous. Splendid but with no true pleasure to be found. And for once Chaucer had no flowery speeches, not for them. There was one half written somewhere in the back of Chaucer's mind for her and William. That was useless now. If it had been put on parchment, he would have scraped off the ink. Instead its fragments echoed like a cruel laugh. He had different words for her now.

"This would be a tragedy, my lady, if you were even half good enough for him," Chaucer said these words as a wedding present to Jocelyn. Something he had wanted to say before. He said it now to a lady in her best finery, feeling justified and very drunk.

Jocelyn remembered it well as she waited for Roland to bring Chaucer to her. It almost made her cry though Chaucer was nothing to her. He was speaking for another. William had his say already. She was not swayed. Her William whom she discarded for a black suit of armor filled with shit. If she only hadn't seen...

"Have you consoled him yet?" Jocelyn had asked this drunkard who dared to speak to her so on her wedding day.

But she had seen and she could see it still. She could see William holding the reigns of his horse, patting his neck gently. She could see Chaucer's long fingers in William's tangled, blond hair, Chaucer's mouth close to his ear. William standing still not noticing or not minding. Chaucer acted the innocent. There was accusation in his eyes as he looked down at her wedding dress. And she said nothing more. She didn't scream 'I know! I know what you are and I'll tell William and he'll hate you!' Because she didn't know. She didn't know what William knew and she didn't know that he would hate it.

It all had to be set aside, Chaucer, William, her pride, so that Wat might be saved. So she could hold on to something. So Adhemar wouldn't win. She did not pretend to be receiving an old friend when she met Chaucer. She did not ask after his health.

"William has gone off searching on his own," Jocelyn informed him.

"Oh, William. He never changes," he looked at her pointedly while extolling William's constancy. "Always the undeserved loyalty, the foolish bravery, the misplaced feeling..."

"Enough," Jocelyn stopped him. Oh how he could go on and on. "Adhemar has gone somewhere, as I can't discover where, he must have gone to where he's keeping Wat. I've called on you, not because I want to listen to you prate, but because you can get the location from Adhemar's squire. You remember the fellow. He has ... a very high opinion of you. Almost as high as you have of yourself."

"That high?"

"And as I know you are not averse to perversion in the service of necessity..."

"Do you deign attack my honor," he asked her, all offended innocence.

She rolled her eyes.

"Think of what my husband is doing to Wat as you dawdle."

Chaucer closed his eyes, not to picture what was being done to Wat but to ward it off. Wat certainly deserved a light to moderate pummeling, a slight cudgeling, some judicious kicking, but he knew Adhemar had nothing so gentle in mind. And there was William to consider. William could under no circumstances be allowed to be in Adhemar's possession. He was about to go, but one thing wouldn't let him depart without comment.

"Wat, my lady? Wat?"

"He has qualities," she said through clenched teeth.

"Yes, he is the only one who knows what in heaven fong means. If even he knows." Chaucer said mostly because he loved to hear himself speak.

Turning a corner, Adhemar's squire, found himself with an arm around his neck. As Germain said his prayers, he noticed that no blade appeared as he expected. He also noticed that the arm encircling him was doing so rather comfortably. He tested the limits of his confinement and turned to find himself gaping at Goeffrey Chaucer's beauteous face. He was breathless for a few moments. His eyes feasted on the lovely visage. Then he found the wherewithal to speak.

"I know what you want," he claimed in a shaky voice.

"Our souls always had a connection between them," Geoff said as he lightly brushed his hand over the other man's sallow cheek.

"No. Yes. I know what you are doing. Stay back!" Germain warned him raising his arm in half-hearted defense.

"But why?" Chaucer asked, a picture of angelic dismay. His head tilted, his eyes pleaded.

"Because... Because if you don't, the knowledge you seek will flow from me like a river," Germain gasped out then paused with his eyes upraised hopefully. "Was that well put?" he asked Chaucer.

"It ... is most excellent," Chaucer stammered.

"You've been my inspiration."

"What have I inspired in you, aside from this rising excellence?" Chaucer smiled and Germain blushed.

"Rising?" Germain squeaked.

Chaucer leaned in, put his face close to the other man's. Germain went cross eyed as Chaucer spoke.

"Tell me all. Give me what you are striving so valiantly to hold back from me."

"You mustn't ask that of me. I can't hold back." Germain's eyes closed, his lips parted hopefully.

"Don't hold back." Chaucer brushed his lips against the cheekbone, slid to the earlobe, used his tongue.

"My veracity will mean my death." Germain's voice was only a whisper now.

"And my voracity cannot let this moment pass. What is death to us? You will make a beautiful corpse," Chaucer spoke into his ear, letting him feel his breath.

"Will I? I can't tell you, I can't tell you," he protested without heat as Chaucer licked his earlobe.

"I haven't asked for anything but a moment of time to spend in contemplation, to converse, to share that which is deep within us."

"Oh no. Not deep. Don't ask me anything ... your words."

"I haven't done a thing yet."

"But you will and I'll tell you. I'll tell you anything! Just don't stop."

"Why would I stop? Don't worry, we'll be taking this to the very end." And Chaucer pulled him to the end of the alley as if to illustrate.

His mind contained instructions for innumerable torments he had done, seen and heard of. He invented and dreamed of new ones for this occasion. Those thoughts were overlaid with Thatcher. The way Thatcher looked at him, how he sucked in his breath when he got close, how his eyes flickered then stayed on his and how the moment was lost as when a bird flies off before an arrow strikes it.

He looked at the squire through the bars. His form, the miserable face did not inflame him. If anything it dampened his desire for prolonged violence. He walked away from the door in disgust. One may as well waste time to impale a drowning rat.

As he walked up from the dungeons, light bathed the walls. The air freshened. Patience. The squire was nothing. A lure.

Thatcher had done nothing, said nothing. But there was possibility in it, promise. And if he struck at this rat, this mere servant, the possibility would be lost. He chose to tread carefully. William was his prize and his means of revenge. His original scheme came back to him anew, looking more perfect than ever. Oh how he loved a good battle plan.

To be continued