June, 15, 1381 Anno Domini. Natural light illuminated the living room, the smell of the wood beams of the house mingled with that of English paper and wine and the soft sounds of reading pages and relaxed breathing soothed the room.

Sir Geoffrey Chaucer rested after another day of observing the misery of the lower classes. He had tried to help them, supporting them during the Uprising, but it had come to nothing. Even if it had led to losing the sympathy of the cruel young king King Richard II of England, Chaucer had no regrets. Even less so for this merciless king who had one of Sir Geoffrey very dear Kentish men friends, Wat Tyler, assassinated in front of him. He had supported a cause he knew was right.

Being forced to work as a minor customs officer in London was not hard work, although intellectually poor, but his sense of injustice could not bear to see these penniless families born to work and died to work.

Sir Geoffrey Chaucer cut his thoughts short by drinking his wine from his cup. He sighed and forced his eyes to refocus on his reading. Poetry was a balm on the wounds of the soul.

Three knocks sounded on his wooden door. Chaucer looked up, a soft smile playing on his lips. You, a good friend of his, had warned him that you would be stopping by today. "Cometh in."