Chaucer sat and watched, as he was wont to do. He was always watching. He watched and listened more than he spoke, amazingly. It was how he had picked up so much of the glorious English language in the first place, really. He watched, he listened, he heard, he absorbed, and out from his quill it flowed like, well, ink. All of the riot of humanity, perfectly contained within the artist's scope. Maybe even Wat. The thought of Wat made him chuckle.
Ah, Wat… There was a funny fellow. Geoff had actually considered writing a Tale in his Canterbury set just about Wat, for a while, but 'The Squire's Tale' would have been too obvious, even for him. As fun as showing off was, he still retained a passing familiarity with subtlety. He had, however, begun such a Tale, though the Squire, he felt, was sufficiently different from Wat to arouse no suspicion. He was too genteel, really. Well, any amount of gentility was too much for the redheaded squire, in all honesty. He had lost his nerve, however, and had had the Franklin interrupt the Squire in order to tell his own Tale.
Speaking of the devil, the copper haired man stumbled past at that very moment, carrying a canvas pail full of water. Geoff did not envy him his task, and felt no need to interrupt it.
Copper… If Chaucer was to place Wat as any metal, it would be that; and not just because of his rather distinctive head of hair. He was as common as muck, as many people assumed copper to be, but even he had a beauty to him. He was useful for any number of things, as was copper, and he had that 'common wisdom' that so many poets romanticised, which in Wat's case was more of a knowledge of when and who to 'fong' than anything else.
Musing on this comparison, Chaucer turned his mind to Roland. What would Roland be? Bronze? No, simply not good enough for that man. Silver. He was pure and kind, easy to like… But unlike silver, he would never tarnish. His shining, honest friendship wouldn't be easy to lose. Maybe not silver then.
Kate would, logically, be iron, being a farrier and blacksmith. But she wasn't cold and hard enough. She wouldn't be a metal at all. She'd be warm soil, earth that nurtures but can freeze over like a frost in winter. Chaucer hated to think what she might do to him if she discovered that particular analogy.
Will, then. There was no question about it. Will was gold, pure and simple. Easy to move to kindness, to melt and mould into a form. Bright and glowing, a warm yellow personality, if there were such a thing. Something to be treasured, cherished and placed high above all of them. The man who could change his stars.
Then of course he was countered perfectly by black, cold iron. A solid bull of a knight, one with a sullen, hard countenance, an axe to grind. A hammer to strike on the anvil of gold, its aim to dent, smash, corrupt, ruin. Adamar, the iron fist set to smash through the golden, shimmering heart of William Thatcher, the knight from Chepe. And God how Geoff hoped it would not happen. He hoped that, for once, gold would triumph over iron. The heart mightier than the sword.
And so to London, to meet with Fate.