Geoffrey Chaucer's Blog

Geoffrey’s Blog

May 20, 1420

“Stupid Frenchmen,” I muttered to myself as I walked down the dusty road in the blazing stupid French sun. Well... if truth be told, it is possible if you’re of a narrow mind to blame me for losing all my clothes. I was, after all, the one gambling. But I give the truth in scope- and anyway, they were the ones who made me lose. I had a winning streak last week. Got back my trousers, my shirt, even my jacket. My boots I didn’t win, which is why I was gambling today. The brokers only laugh at me. I have a reputation all over the Continent as an unlucky, broke gambler. I think they just like seeing me without the benefit of clothing.

But a few minutes after walking down the dusty road lamenting the dirt in the creases behind my knees and in my elbows and everywhere else imaginable, I ran into some men who did not look very French. They looked like Englishmen, actually, except the one with the carrot- colored hair who was yelling to his liege that his didn’t give a witch’s teeth (about something), it was his turn.

“Fine, fine,” the blonde man grumbled, dismounting from his horse. Odd, I thought, most lords would have set him in the dirt by now. Witch’s teeth, indeed. Oh well, I told myself with a grin, if he’s not a knight, I can certainly have some fun with him.

“Morning,” I said brightly, patting the massive horse’s shoulder. The blonde man paused in mid- dismount. "Why, sir,” he said after a second, “What are you doing?”

I chuckled to myself. “Ah, trudging.”

Blank look.

“You know, trudging? To trudge? To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man with nothing left except to simply soldier on.”

More blank looks, and the one who was supposedly a knight asked, “Were you robbed?”

I laughed. “Interesting question, actually. Yes, and at the same time a huge, resounding no. It’s more of a sort of involuntary vow of poverty, really. But you know at the same time, trudging represents pride; pride, resolve and faith in the good Lord Almighty- please, Christ, rescue me from my contribula- ah!” I held my toes up to my mouth to pull and spit out the splinter I had stepped on. The knight-impostor and his two men watched me implacably.

“Who are ye?” the third man, a tall, fat one, asked.
I told them, of course, that I was the Lily Among the Thorns, Geoffrey Chaucer, the writer. They just stared at me, implacably as ever, and when I asked them who they were, the blonde knight man said bluffly, “Well, I am, um, Sir Ulrich Von Lichtenstein of Gelderland,and these are my faithful squires Delves of Dodgington-” this was the fat one- “And Falhurst, of Cruin.”

I held out my hand, squinting against the bright noon sun. “Right, and I’m Sir Richard the Lionheart. Pleased to meet you. No wait, I’m Charlemange. No, Saint John the Baptist-”

“Hold your tongue, sir, or lose it.” Sir Ulrich held a dagger in my face so close that I backed up and sat on the grass growing along the road’s edge, grinning. “Now you see, that I do believe, Sir Ulrich.”

Ulrich, in the process of sheathing the weapon, pointed it back at me briefly. “Thank you.”

Feeling rather confident in my tongue’s safety again, I explained to the sheltered Gelderlanders what it is that I do, telling them I could write whatever they wanted, from creeds, edicts, warrants, patents of nobility...

“Did you say patents of nobility?”

Bingo, Geoff. You were right. “Yes, that’s right, I did.”

This caused some little consternation between masters Falhurst, Delves, and Ulrich, as to whether or not they ought to trust me. Ah, Geoff, I told myself, the fat one and the impostor are not stupid as you thought. Good, myself replied, you hate frenchmen.

“Wat,” Ulrich said to Falhurst, “Tell him what will happen to him if he betrays us.”

“And be nice,” Delves added firmly. I looked expectantly at Master Wat Falhurst, who ambled over, muttering in his cockney accent, “Nice, nice.” He knelt down in front of me and said passionately, “Betray us, and I will fong you till your insides are out, your entrails become your extrails. I will wring all the... angstmff.... pain! Lots of pain!”

By now I was laughing, and swore I would indeed remember the promised fonging and never betray Lord Ulrich. The happy result was clothes, a half loaf of penny bread from the morning’s street vendors, and an hour’s ride on the pseudo- knight’s horse. As we continued down the road towards Rouen, I learned how it was that William Thatcher had come to be Sir Ulrich Von Lichtenstein, and Wat and Roland to be Falhurst and Delves.
It was still an hour before I dared ask Wat what a fonging was.

May 21, 1420

We arrived at the Rouen fairgrounds late yesterday afternoon- I presented the patents to the sour-faced secretaries of the tournament, holding my breath all the while in case they should notice that I was lying through my teeth and giving them false patents. They didn’t.

“Well done, Geoff. I have to admit, I didn’t think you’d do it.”

I preserved a dignified silence, so that I didn’t say that I hadn’t either. Once we were out of way of other arriving knights, Will said to me, “Act as my herald and you’ll receive a share of the winnings.”

Nearby, I heard the rattle of dice and men’s cheers and curses as they gambled. I nodded, satisfied (and anxious to be one of the cheering fellows), and took my new liege lord’s offered hand. “Done. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go see a man about a dog.”

Today I was lucky. I had only my clothes to lose, but I won the first round over five other fellows and when I lost the next one I only lost half of my winnings. Eyeing the four silver coins, I stood reluctantly. “Well, lads, I’m going to go add this to my pile. Won’t make a sight of difference, of course, compared to yesterday’s winnings, but you know how it goes. Duty calls. Ciao.”

It took me a good half hour of wandering through the maze of tents and vendors and blacksmiths which come with every tournament to find my lord. He sat sharpening his sword and checking his armor for the sixtieth time. “Stop it,” I scolded, “you look like you’ve never entered a tournament before.”

He gave me a querulous look. “Thanks, Geoff. What about that dog?”

“It died.”

“I’m hungry enough to eat a dog,” grumbled Wat.

Roland rolled his eyes. “You never think of anything but your stomach.”

“Yes, I do,” Wat insisted. “I think of pubs and cakes with peppermint cream and dill veal balls and ale.”

I tossed him a coin. “Make yourself useful, Carrot Top. Go get some food. And save enough for the rest of us.”

Roland glanced up at me. He was sewing a rip in his extra tunic, quite expertly. “Where’d you get that?”

I flashed him a merry smile. “The man who killed my dog.”

It was torturous trying to sleep last night with Will tossing and turning from dusk to dawn. I heard him muttering in his sleep after the night watchman called three o’clock, and fought the urge to hit him with the flat of his sword.

But this morning he was anxious to get on the field. And he was in the field- from the second sword match of the morning to the fifteenth match of the joust that afternoon. While beating him with a stick after one of his first sword matches, trying to fix a rent in his armor, I asked him, “Would you like me to announce you before every match, Lord Ulrich?”

“Uh-” he grunted- “Yes-” grunt- “Thanks, Geoff.”

Well, that first announcement was almost a disaster. Roland saved my dignity by cheering himself, after which the crowd cheered, too. I winked at him, holding up Will’s arm and yelling, “Do you want to touch him? Do you want to touch him?”

The next time, my announcement- given most movingly from atop the jousting field barrier- was a rousing success. It was wonderful; at the part in which Ulrich spent a year in silence, I almost cried with pleasure. The crowd, nobles and commoners alike, hurrahed wildly for Will and from that moment on, he was theirs. Oh, I love my work.