Free Belle's Song by K. M. Grant Page A

twitched, but not for me. He had eyes only for his master.
“We’re all ready,” Luke said when Master Chaucer returned to us. “I’ve got your baggage and the lady apothecary has lent us her pack pony.” He took the writing box and reattached it to the saddle. Master Chaucer leaned heavily against Dobs’s flank. “You’ll feel better when we’re on the move,” Luke said, trying to comfort him. “Here, use my hands as a stirrup.”
The Master grunted, keeping both feet on the ground.
“Are you unwell?” Luke asked anxiously, as minutes passed and the Master still made no move to mount.
Master Chaucer slowly shook his head. “I’m going on to Canterbury,” he said.
“Yes,” Luke said. “We’ll set off again after the funeral.”
“No, I’m not going back for the funeral.”
“Not going back?”
I noticed how Master Chaucer avoided Luke’s eyes as he spoke. I couldn’t believe anything bad of the Master, but I felt a chill. “My wife’s friends can bury her just as well as I can,” he said too quickly. “And that would be more fitting. I’ve not been a good husband but I’ll be a better widower and start by praying to St. Thomas for her immortal soul.” His tongue clicked. His mouth was dry. Mine was too.
“But won’t people expect—I mean, wouldn’t she want—?”
“She’s dead, Luke. She wants nothing now except heaven. Anyway, the messenger said her body was not in a good state, so even if I gallop back as fast as Dobs can carry me, she’ll most likely be in the ground before I get home.”
“If we hurry, we could be there in a day—less.” Luke couldn’t abandon what he thought was right.
Master Chaucer slapped his hand hard against the writing box. “You’re my scribe, not my inquisitor.”
Stung, Luke walked the pack pony back to the wagons.
Master Chaucer caught me staring. “What’s the matter with you?” He fussed with his sleeves. I was acutely aware of the summoner lounging against a tree, observing. I hung on to my pendant and took a deep breath. My legs were jelly again.
“Why must you go on, Master Chaucer? What’s the rush?” My voice sounded strained and false. The Master’s features settled into stone.
“I don’t inquire into your business.”
I swallowed. “That’s because I have no business.”
“And you think I do?” His top lip twitched. Such a tiny movement, but my legs jellied further. Our eyes met. I don’t know what mine were full of but whatever it was it made him blurt out, “Oh dear! I’m good at stories but so bad at—” He stopped and was very discomfited.
Sickness rose in my throat. Master Chaucer was just a pilgrim. He must be. The summoner’s suppositions must be nonsense. They must. I fixed my eyes on Luke and bargained frantically. If Luke turns around before he takes another three steps, I’ll … I’ll do what? I’ll get on Dulcie and gallop home? I’ll do as the summoner wants? I’ll … I’ll … Luke took two steps and hesitated. What will I do? What will I do? Then somebody called and he turned. I spoke very fast, not knowing before I spoke what words were going to emerge. “Please say nothing more, Master Chaucer. Summoner Seekum suspects you’ve other business apart from the pilgrimage and he wants me to be his spy. But I can’t tell him anything you don’t tell me so don’t tell me anything. Please.”
The Master raised his head wearily. “Ah yes. The summoner. I suppose I’d really guessed.”
“Don’t look at him!”
The Master drooped. “I’m so sorry, Belle. The summoner had no business to involve you.” There was an awkward silence.
“Look, Master Chaucer,” I said, “I don’t care what you’re doing. I just want to pray for my father and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Quite right.” There was another long pause, then, just as I was about to go back to Dulcie—“Walk with me,” the Master said.
I should have refused, but his fame and his griefmade me naturally deferential.