A Vision of Light (21 page)

“Why pack this ass when we have a fast mule?” the old man asked nervously.

“The mule must carry Margaret and me, while Peter must ride double with you. So the ass is necessary for my tools.”

“All these folks go too? We were sent for only one.”

“Why, Margaret is my assistant, and as you can see, she has exceptionally slender, long hands, which are very essential for difficult birth.” Clever, clever Hilde! With her glib tongue she would bring us all to safety.

“I will ride double with the young one,” leered the younger man, “but not with that ugly idiot.”

“Young man, he is no idiot, but a fairy changeling. The fairies grant boons to those who treat him well.” The young man looked unbelieving, while the older fidgeted.

“No chickens and cat, we can make no speed with so many baskets laden on the ass,” said the elder sternly.

“Why, the best hen is for yourself, dear friend, in reward for your care for us,” said Hilde blandly, continuing, “The second is for Goodwife Alice, who fares so badly. Who are we to deny Christian charity? The last is to procure eggs for Margaret here, who is still recovering her strength. See how pale she is? Surely the basket is very light.”

“But no cat.”

“I cannot sleep with rats,” she answered simply.

“You stubborn old hag, you’d sleep with the Devil himself if I were free to use this on you,” stormed the younger, drawing his short sword impatiently.

“And how, may I ask, should a corpse deliver a baby?” she answered calmly. “Force is not the answer to all things,” she went on, “and especially in dealing with women, you must remember that ‘you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.’ Besides, we are all loaded, you see? And you have had something to eat as well.” She emptied the pot, loaded it with the day’s baking, and tied it between the baskets, where the blanket could contain the last remaining heat. Leading her she-ass out of the house she tied its halter to the mule’s saddlebow. Thus laden, and heavily wrapped against the cold, we set off into the long shadows of the afternoon.

T
HE CHAPTER WAS NOW
done, and Brother Gregory put away his writing things and took out the tablet, in order to begin the reading instruction. He was an excellent teacher in the classic style. He began by teaching Margaret the letters of the alphabet, which he aided her to memorize by first having her run the stylus in the grooves of the carved letters on the wooden tablet, and then repeat the strokes on the wax tablet, reciting the name of the letter as she completed each pattern. When he had first set the wood and wax tablets before her, he couldn’t help noticing Margaret’s hands. They were trembling with anticipation, although she had kept strict control over the expression on her face. She was quick, very quick, and by the time Brother Gregory had finished the first lesson, she had mastered almost all the alphabet. He left her printing it over and over again, reciting aloud as her wobbly letters in wax followed the form on the model tablet.

Strange, strange, thought Brother Gregory to himself. He shook his head. He had never before taught without a rod in his hand.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HE FOLLOWING WEEK A SERVINGWOMAN
showed Brother Gregory to the lesson room wordlessly, her face a study in worry. Peeping inside the half-open door he thought he discerned the reason for her silent disapproval. At the writing table a pretty sight met his eyes. Margaret bent over her new wax tablet, deeply absorbed. On each side of their mother two equally absorbed little red heads bent over their joint work.

“This one is
A;
it is drawn like a little house.” Beside the first clumsy
A,
two wildly wobbly replicas were placed in their turn.

“Here is
B;
what do you think it looks like?”

“A fat man, I think,” said the elder, cocking her curly head on one side.

“I think it looks beautiful, mama, you made it beautiful,” said little Alison, ever agreeable.

Brother Gregory waited until the
B
’s were in place and interrupted in a sharp tone, “Well, madame, are you raising up sedition among the female sex? Or perhaps two little nuns?”

“Oh!” Margaret whirled around, shocked, only to meet the amused glitter in his dark, saturnine eyes.

“Why, I am doing neither. Look how clever my babies are!” She exhibited the tablet proudly. “Think how fortunate they will be, to read and write all their lives!”

Brother Gregory broke off the enthusiastic speech he knew would follow. “The better to receive letters from lovers in secret, and plan deceits! If learned women are like talking dogs, unnatural and useless, then ponder on how much more greatly perverse is the spectacle of learned girl-children.”

But Margaret could tell from the tone of his voice that he was not altogether as sour as his speech. She knew that his tender spot was his love of learning and teaching, and what teacher is not pleased to see his work bearing unexpected fruit? So she looked on his mock-scornful face with a quiet smile. Letting the matter drop she summoned the nurse to remove her girls, although not without much disappointed clamor on their part.

Brother Gregory watched their departure with a strangely sad expression. He could not help noticing how the little girls had wept when the letters were taken away. In the schoolroom the only crying the boys did was during the master’s beatings. These little girls actually wanted the lessons.

Perhaps she’s right. Maybe the rod is a bad master, he mused to himself. But he kept his silence, because it was outrageous for a man of learning to entertain such a thought.

M
ONCHENSIE AND ITS VILLAGE
had avoided the plague by a very simple expedient. When Sir Raymond had heard that the disease had stricken two families in his demesne, he had simply had them sealed up alive in their infected houses. While the carpenters were finishing nailing the doors and shutters fast, he had ridden by on his tall chestnut palfrey to inspect their work (albeit from a safe distance), and announced that anyone else who had the temerity to get the disease would be treated in exactly the same way. With the plague stopped at his doors the lord of Monchensie continued his daily round of business and hunting exactly as before. He did not like having his routine disturbed, and besides, he believed that nature should shape itself to his will, rather than the other way around. In only one respect had he been unsuccessful in imposing his demands on nature: his wife had got him no living male heir. It was at this point that fate brought us to attend the childbed of Lady Blanche.

The castle was an old fortification, dating from King William’s time. We first saw it as a long, low silhouette on rising ground, the square keep visible above heavily fortified walls, below which ran a dry moat filled with sharpened spikes. Behind the walls spread the bailey, a hive of activity. With the poor village of thatched huts huddled beneath the castle, and the wide fields surrounding it, it comprised a complete and self-sufficient little kingdom: it possessed smiths and armorers, carpenters and stablemen, weavers and cooks and butchers. In short, in any time of disaster the castle might sail alone on a sea of troubles like Noah and his ark. It contained all that was necessary to repopulate the earth.

What a shock it was, for us who had become so accustomed to isolation, to see around us again the hurry and bustle of life. As our little party clattered over the drawbridge and beneath the gatehouse, we gawped about us like rustic idiots. Our companions could not help but notice and took on the smug look of natives showing pilgrims a splendid shrine.

The bailey courtyard, though walled in stone, was full of every sort of wooden structure, from fine stables to lean-to sheds, which housed implements and the poorest hangers-on. And in a way the castle was like a city. With the comings and goings of the villagers on business, the regular garrison, a motley contingent of mercenary crossbowmen, and the constant stream of visitors and guests, no one quite knew who was there at any given time. Here was a huge war-horse being led from the stable, and there were sweating hunting horses being rubbed down. Dogs ran everywhere; geese in a pen awaited the cook’s knife. Servant boys loafed by the gate to get a chance to stare at any newcomer. Our companions took us to the stable, where a stableman had his people look after the ass, while he himself saw to the unloading of our variegated baggage at his own and his wife’s little apartment by the stable. We were taken immediately away to the great hall, which occupied the main floor of the keep, above the guardrooms and the cellars.

Lady Blanche lay in one of the retiring-rooms of the great hall that had been fitted out as a lying-in chamber. She was surrounded by a crowd of ladies that included her two oldest daughters. The addition of two wisewomen scarcely made a difference in the number of activities taking place. One older lady was bathing Lady Blanche’s temples with rosewater; two others held her hands while she writhed and moaned. A servant mumbled prayers in a corner, while another made ready an elaborate birthing chair and baby bath. A priest—who I later learned was Father Denys, the family chaplain—was burning incense and sprinkling holy water, while he offered the blessing for women in danger at childbirth. Lady Blanche’s favorite hunting hounds, who had been shut out of the room, whined and clawed at the door with each groan that she made. Over one of the long perches by the head of the bed were flung her cloak and surcoat; on the other her falcons paced uneasily up and down, their bells jingling.

When we were announced, a tall and graceful girl, Lady Blanche’s eldest daughter, detached herself from this knot of activity and explained to Mother Hilde that the labor was early, and the child’s life was feared for. Way was reluctantly cleared for Mother Hilde, who felt the huge belly discreetly through the skirt of Lady Blanche’s kirtle, put her ear down and listened, and then made private examination that included the gateway of birth and the bedclothes. Then she looked at the white, drawn face of Lady Blanche, and said, “I believe this is a false labor, and will cease only to begin again later. But there is great trouble. The child is laid sideways.”

“And so said I!” said one of the ladies.

“As I thought too!” whispered other voices triumphantly. All women like to be experts at birthing.

“As you high ladies doubtless know already, my lady must rest and be strengthened with dainty food in preparation for the true labor, which is indicated by the gushing forth of water.” Mother Hilde’s strong, calm face had already greatly decreased the tension in the room, although even her most gentle words seemed to have little effect on Lady Blanche.

“The child is still safe inside, for I felt it move. In the meanwhile I have a medicine that strengthens the body of women in childbed. But most necessary of all are your prayers that Our Lord will see fit to shift the position of the child, for that is the most needful thing.” This was the first I had seen of Hilde’s cleverness at dealing with a bad birth. There are times that tact, explanation, and the appropriate appeal to heaven are all that preserve a midwife’s life, particularly when she deals with great ones. Hilde clasped her hands piously and added, “I have never seen an early labor cease so easily, in all my many long years—I can only attribute it to the effect of sincere and powerful prayer to the seat of mercy itself.” She had the measure of Father Denys. He stepped forward to take the credit, addressing the exhausted and uncaring Lady Blanche in the most amazing voice. It was at the same time both oily and lisping, marked by an affectedly elegant accent that somehow caught in his nose, as if speaking in English, rather than French, caused some sort of unpleasant smell.

“Most revered lady, I have gone many sleepless nights to offer prayers for the safe delivery of your son.” Mother Hilde shot me a sharp look, and we both realized at the same time that Father Denys was in as much trouble as Lady Blanche was and we were. He had evidently promised a son. That is unwise for anyone who claims the ability to communicate with heaven, for God, as I have told you I learned from Mother Hilde, is something of a practical joker.

Lady Blanche was by now being helped to sit up with pillows. She was in truth Blanche, that is, white, for the long braid that fell over her shoulder was so blond as to be almost white. Her thin, tense face was as white as linen and her eyes of so pale a blue as to be almost transparent. As she looked about her with a shrewd and careful glance, I surmised that her heart, if she had one, was white too—as white as hoarfrost or new ice. Now, propped upright, but almost buried in the rich fur coverlets that had been thrown over her for decency, she looked directly at me and said, “But you, the second wisewoman. You are not a peasant.” It was both a statement and a question.

“No, my lady.” I curtseyed.

“Who and what are you, then?”

“I am freeborn and a widow.” It was perhaps even true, for how could my husband have escaped the dreadful contagion to which he had abandoned wife, child, and servant, flee as he might?

“So young to be a widow. What was the cause?”

“Plague robbed me of my family, my lady, and I alone was cured of the disease by this wisewoman, Mother Hilde.” Her eye wandered to Mother Hilde.

“Then you are indeed a powerful wisewoman. Good. Deliver me my son safely, and I will reward you richly. And if not”—she shuddered involuntarily—“then God help us all.”