A Vision of Light (12 page)

But when my husband heard no one praise the learning of Lewis Small, he got tired of the priest and sent him off. Now he found someone even more interesting to engage himself with. He had made a new friend, who became for a while the arbiter of all things fashionable. This man’s trade was, I believe, to fasten himself on men such as my husband, who craved association with the great, and would settle for any semblance of it they could get. This John de Woodham was a landless fellow, a permanent esquire who lived on a dubious claim of great descent through bastardy. His stock in trade was an infinity of associations in noble houses, and a fund of extravagant tales that would test the belief of a five-year-old child. But my husband, always so sharp in the trade of furs, was dazzled into blindness by any story in which the name of a grand person was interwoven. And so he swallowed whole the account of the heir apparent’s tastes, the favorite pastimes of the queen’s ladies, and other such tidbits.

“In the highest circles everyone agrees that learning is for monks, not for men of the world,” decreed John, and the priest was banished. Soon Small gave up his “old-fashioned” long gowns for a short doublet and particolored hose in imitation of Woodham’s, and his cheeks became ever ruddier in mimicry of Woodham’s youth. Evenings, Woodham would often arrive to take supper, his buggy blue eyes all bloodshot, and his coarse features already flushed with wine. Some nights he would lead my husband on a tour of bawdy houses, and others they would lock themselves in the front bedroom, the closed door muffling strange noises and laughter. On such nights I would sleep with the boy and his nurse. It was good enough then to get out of the horrible room. At times I was almost grateful to Woodham.

By now my state had become a scandal in the household. The servants would shake their heads when they thought I was not looking. The little boy’s nurse became solicitous. In the morning, when I had no appetite, she would order sops in milk, or some other delicacy, to tempt me to eat. I thought perhaps it was all explained when I missed my time of month and began to vomit. I was pregnant. It was hard to imagine that it was once something I had wanted with all my heart. But I felt no emotions, none at all but a great weariness, weariness of life itself.

“Eat, eat, and then rest again,” said Berthe one morning, as she usually did.

“I can’t eat, I just can’t. I should be at work.”

“There is no work that can’t wait. None that someone else can’t do. Just lie down, and if anything needs to be done, just tell me, and I’ll arrange it all.”

“Oh, Berthe, no rest will help me. I never sleep at night anymore at all. There is something dark in the room that steals my sleep and gives me bad dreams.” Berthe looked grim and quiet.

“You have a baby to think about. You must rest and eat dainty food. Just lie down, and no man or woman in the house will let your husband know you’ve been sleeping in the daytime.”

“You’re very good, Berthe, but I must dress and go out to market. Maybe the air will make me feel better—oh, Jesus, where’s the basin?” And so I would manage to live through another day. But how many more would there be before my life slipped away entirely?

But nothing, nothing, that went on with me made my husband pause in his efforts to rise, which went on in all directions at once. Even Woodham could not occupy all his energies. And so, ever hopeful, he began to court the doddering old steward of the castle. He invited him to a fine dinner party and saw me decked out gaily in a low-cut gown, seated next to the old fellow. I suppose he thought the old man was too nearsighted to see how pale and ugly I was growing, and would find it a pleasant distraction to try to peer down my front with his rheumy eyes. After all, the steward was a knight, though not a very great one, and had been said to have spoken with the king himself on the occasion of royal visitations to the castle. A man like this must be flattered, and besides, he was on the point of placing a very profitable order. But Small, this time, had overcalculated. The steward, poor trembling old thing, became excited, and in this distracted state missed his mouth with his spoon, sending gravy spilling down the bosom of his fine gown. Lewis Small, always assiduous, did not miss a moment. Fond as he was of his clothes, he set down the cup and, with a smooth gesture, spilled exactly the same amount of gravy on his own front from his spoon, even as he offered the fellow his napkin! As I watched him smile the cold grimace that passed for a sign of friendship, I couldn’t help thinking, not bad! I had become a connoisseur of flattery, observing Small, but this time it was exceptionally well done, like an acrobat’s somersault, and deserved applause.

Once the steward started visiting, Woodham should have been more attentive to protecting his livelihood. But no, so secure did he feel in my husband’s attentions that he grew greedier than ever. In the end he overreached and finished himself off. He did the one thing a professional parasite should not do—he humiliated his patron before others, although inadvertently. It never takes more than once, you know, and my husband was one of those who never forgave the tiniest insult or embarrassment, real or imagined.

It seems that Woodham was not the sort of fellow to be content with one bed when he could have two. One night, when he had finished his cavorting in the front, I heard in my half-sleep, besides the sound of heavy snoring, the inner door softly opening. Even before my eyes were open, I was aware of a heavy weight upon the cot and drunken, fumbling hands roaming on my body beneath the covers.

“What in God’s name…?” I cried as I sat bolt upright, and recognized the swollen face of my husband’s companion.

“It’s all right—he denies me nothing—why not this little thing?” His voice was slurred, and his breath stank.

“Get off! Get out!” I shouted, and at this the nurse awakened.

“Why, Master Woodham, what are you doing? Stop it, stop it at once!” The nurse was very firm about what she considered proper.

“She wants it—they all want it. You want it?”

I gave a tremendous kick that threw him out of bed. “I do
not
want it, you whoremonger!” I hissed.

By this time the clatter had awakened the men downstairs. Since they thought better of interfering, they piled up the outside staircase and crowded into the open door to get a good look, grinning silently and poking each other. By this time even the little boy was awake, staring at us all with his mindless eyes. Only my husband snored on with his powerful snore. Woodham, whose simple mind could apparently hold no more than one idea at a time, stood up to renew the attack, an idiot look of desire on his face. It was a warm night, and he had slept stark naked, as did everyone else in the house. A half-moon illuminated the scene to the satisfaction of all onlookers.

“A li’l kiss—you’ll love it—” He extended his arms. Moonlight glittered on his body, making it appear white as a slug’s. Irreverent whispers filtered in from the stair.

“Do you think he can keep it up?”

“I don’t think he’s
got
it up, the old bugger.”

All the pent-up hate and rage I had felt since my wedding night came pouring out like a poison. “I’ll kiss you, you bastard,” I cried, and kicked as hard as I could where it would do the most damage. He doubled over with a yowl, and a chorus of guffaws came from the stair.

At this new burst of noise even my husband could sleep no more, and he came to the open door, clutching a sheet about him. Woodham lay rolling beside the bed, tears of anger and pain streaming down his cheeks. I stood above him in a towering rage. As Lewis Small took in the scene, what clearly annoyed him most was the presence of many witnesses, and the general merriment they exhibited. If there was anything my husband hated, it was to be laughed at.

Woodham looked up at him and said through gritted teeth, “Women—are—out—of fashion!” Rolling waves of laughter filled the room.

“I’m afraid
you
are out of fashion, my friend,” replied my husband, with one of the few dignified answers of his life. “Dress and go immediately.” A cheer resounded from the stair.

As my husband remarked in the morning, it was all for the best anyway, since his great friend the steward believed that particolored hose lacked dignity, and a long gown became a man of business best. Besides, his short doublet was quite spotted with gravy and would have to be given away….

Things were different after that, for I found that I now had the hearty, partisan sympathy of every other member of the household. As I overheard the stableman remark several weeks later, “Mistress Margaret’s a good woman married to a bad man.”

B
UT
I
HAVE NOT
yet explained the answer to the riddle of my marriage, which became clear only after Woodham had left us. Then, of course, I had to return to my husband’s bed in the front room, and so the nightmares began again the very night after Woodham’s departure. It was deep in the night, as I turned over and over, trying to find a comfortable way to sleep, that the old dream came back. I was sitting up, and saw the elusive something moving beneath the rafters. It was a dark thing that swayed gently. And there was something very dreadful about the swaying, which should have been a graceful motion, like the wind blowing a curtain. Then, bit by bit, I could gradually make out a shape. It was a face—a woman’s ghastly face! It shone bluish, and lanky brownish blond hair clung like wet string around the temples. The eyes bulged hideously from the bloated face. From the mouth a hideously swollen, blackened tongue protruded. It was strangled!

The face swayed gently in the space below the rafters, its bulging eyes seeming to see me. I cried out—in my dream I think I said, “Jesus save me!” and when my eyes opened, I was sitting up and shaking violently. Did I see a faint shining under the rafters, where I had dreamed that the face had been? My husband snored insensibly beside me. Nothing ever seemed to disturb him, sleeping or waking. He never dreamed. I knew that a hundred swaying faces in the room, all calling his name, would never cause him to lose an instant’s sleep.

For several nights after, I saw the strangled face again. Sometimes the hair floated about it, and sometimes it clung as if wet. Always the eyes stared at me. I felt I was going mad. Either mad, or there was some sort of demon in the room. I had never seen a demon before, not a real one. Now father, he had seen several. They were very tall, with horns and flaming breath, and long claws and goat’s feet—in short, exactly the way demons should be. I have never heard of a woman demon with only a head. So perhaps I was mad? Now Master Small really would lock me up in the dark forever.

In this mood I gradually began to lose my self-control and say whatever I felt like saying. In the morning when Berthe asked how I felt, I said flippantly, “Oh, quite well, but the strangled head
would
keep me up again with its groaning.” She crossed herself. “You think I am mad? Yes, I am quite mad, and I’ll never sleep again. The pretty brown lady’s swollen eyes follow me about the room all night, and her blackened tongue seems ready to speak. On the night it speaks, ask God’s blessing for me, for I’ll be gone forever.”

“For God’s sake, never, never again speak of this!” she cried, and throughout the day everyone in the house avoided me. My husband went about his business, which was dispatching mules to London, to bring back a load of fine foreign sables and miniver, without the slightest notice. Nothing much ever bothered him, unless it had to do with something that might mar his efforts to rise in the world.

Indeed, almost to the degree that I had faded, he had prospered. Not content with his trade in cat and coney skins, he had moved up to finer things, as a way of making regular contact with the great and fashionable. He had invested heavily in this shipment, and felt he would be a made man when it came in. At last, at last, he would join the wealthy and fashionable! As I watched him gloating in anticipation, I realized suddenly that even if he were successful, he would be unbearable. What else could one expect from a man whose favorite entertainment was a good execution?

In the absence of any lively slaughtering he made do with bad news about other people, which was very nearly as satisfying, or with stories about the doings of witches, which aroused his concern for the state of society.

“Witches,” he’d say, and shake his head, “—they’re everywhere these days. No man is safe from them. Why, even I have suffered—look at my son! They dried up his wits, just as they dry up the milk!” And his friends would shake their heads somberly in agreement.

But before they’d managed to agree on what to do about the menace of witches, new tales came from Melcombe Regis to gladden whatever it was that monster had for a heart. It had been seen in Bristol, too, said his friends—a new pestilence so deadly that it was transmitted by glance alone. Why, you didn’t even have to step within a victim’s house to catch it, for it flew through the air. If you felt the fever, then you might as well make your will, for death would come before the night was out.

“Black spots?” said the dreadful man with relish, as he ascertained the details. “And they die too quickly to be shriven? Ah, me.” And he crossed himself as he rolled his eyes up to heaven. “Doubtless caused by witches,” he added, crossing himself again. “We are fortunate that Bristol is so far away.” And he smiled his ghastly smile at me, and at his friends, who always seemed to take that expression at face value.

But I meant to tell you of the head, for it was on the very night after this day that it did indeed speak. And what it said was more frightening than its presence.