A Vision of Light (28 page)

“I’m always pleased with you, sweetheart,” he’d answered. “But that’s really not a bad idea, not bad at all.” And he’d hired the widow of a knight, who was down on her luck, to come and speak almost every day to her and the girls, and now even little Alison called her dress a
robe de chambre
.

But her book was the best thing of all. She’d have never dared think of it if the Voice hadn’t been so pushy, but a person should never ignore a voice. She wasn’t quite sure why it was such a good idea, but it really was. And it was the one thing in the whole world that was really hers, just hers, and no one else’s. It was turning out so beautifully, all those pages and pages of neat black writing. Here and there she could even make out a word or two, which made it even better. And when it was read to her it sounded right, just right. Maybe someday, someone would read it and understand what she wanted to say, and not give her a lecture on what she ought to want to say. And when they did, well, maybe things would be different then. Or maybe it would be a different world. The kind of world where people can listen to what other people have to say, even if they’re not men. My goodness, yes, the Voice had had a very good idea, that time.

By this time Brother Gregory had become bored with waiting and brooding on a bench in the hall. With his hands clasped behind his back, and his long nose stuck out ahead like that of a curious hound in pursuit of something interesting, he prowled toward the kitchen. Through the open door he could see Margaret, wrapped in a big apron, inspecting a tub full of cabbage heads, freshly cut and put to soak until any worms that lived inside had crawled out. Margaret hated to bite into a worm in an apple, or all cooked into a cabbage, although some people are not so fussy. Her head was cocked to one side, and she was tapping her foot with impatience, watching the worms slowly rise to the surface of the water. Nasty things, she was thinking. You should live in somebody else’s cabbages, not mine.

Clearly, Brother Gregory thought, she’s doing nothing at all but annoying me by keeping me waiting, and so he came poking into the kitchen after her. But as he stepped over the threshold, a raucous voice shouted, “Thieves! Thieves in the butter!”

“What on earth…?” Brother Gregory exclaimed involuntarily, and looked in the direction of the voice. Everyone in the kitchen looked up at him and grinned.

“You see? He’s perfect,” said Cook in a happy voice, hands on her wide hips. Brother Gregory saw, hanging from the ceiling in a big wicker cage beyond the cat’s reach, a flutter of black and white feathers.

“It’s Cook’s magpie,” explained Margaret, wiping her hands on her apron. The puzzled look left Brother Gregory’s face. “He warns her if anyone’s sneaking into the kitchen to steal the pies while they’re cooling. Her sister just gave him to her, because her sister’s husband couldn’t stand him. We all think he’s very clever.” Brother Gregory inspected the creature critically. The bird made a cheerful whistle, then a gurgling sound like water. Preposterous, thought Brother Gregory.

While Margaret finished up and took off her apron, Brother Gregory stared morosely at the tub full of cabbages that had appeared to intrigue Margaret so. The water was full of floating cabbage worms. Even more preposterous, thought Brother Gregory. At that very moment the idea came to him that people who could give their serious attention to a matter as trivial as a bad fish or a cabbage worm were incapable of serious thought. He was pleased with himself for having at last discovered why women are naturally inferior to men. It was because they could only notice the details of things, and could not see the bigger picture of which these details were a part. Thus it was obvious that they were incapable of wider ethical perception and of general moral development. From this it followed that to exist, they required the direction of men, like perpetual children, only more dangerous because they were larger.

As Brother Gregory worked over this piece of enlightenment in his mind, his disposition became cheerful. An interesting insight always did that to him. He was so pleased with himself that for the rest of the day, he forgot to bark at Margaret’s outrageous spelling and didn’t even say anything sarcastic when, during the lesson, her dog pushed the door open with his nose and stood by her, waiting expectantly for the stroking she was too busy to give. And Margaret’s dog positively invited sarcasm, in Brother Gregory’s opinion, as would any creature with no discernible eyes and a front and back end that looked almost entirely interchangeable. It was possible to measure Brother Gregory’s contentment by the fact that he neglected the immediate source of pleasure to be found in a sally of wit on this easy subject.

Today they did the reading lesson first. Brother Gregory began by writing out sentences of increasing difficulty on the tablet, and then when Margaret had read them, he had her take down sentences from dictation. Brother Gregory was serious about his work. He made sure that every exercise had an uplifting tone, for all proper instruction, in his eyes, included moral instruction, and he considered Margaret a hard case. Now Brother Gregory watched with a smug expression of pleasure as Margaret bent over her work, her brow wrinkled in complete concentration. Today she was copying the Biblical passage that he had recited concerning the woman more valuable than rubies who serves her family day and night and never gets any rest. As she slowly made the letters appear in the wax, she unconsciously chewed on her lower lip. It seemed clear to him that she admired elevated sentiments and wanted very much to be improved.

But Margaret was really waiting for her turn. When the part about the rubylike woman who spun all the time was done, then she’d get to watch the fabulous shades of irritation and shock play across Brother Gregory’s face as he took down her memoirs. It was the proper reward, she thought, for all that docility.

M
ONCHENSIE WAS THE FIRST
castle I had ever been in, and I hope it is the last. Castles are, in general, much nicer to look at than to live in. For one thing, stone walls are very cold, and so the place always smelled of dank and mildew. The knights and ladies wore heavy, fur-lined garments indoors, but the poorer folk and servants had none, unless you count the occasional sheepskin. That winter was so cold that the water froze in the jugs in the kitchen, and despite the fact that I was fairly warmly clad, my hands and feet were always blue and cold. Even a cottage can be better warmed than a castle. I suppose, too, the desire to leave conflicted with our fear of the unknown, since Hilde and I had no place to go. How we did leave, in time, is a story well worth telling.

Ordinarily, Sir Raymond and his retinue moved between his three greatest properties, which were at some distance from one another. I have since heard that the grant of dispersed lands is a precaution the king takes with all his barons, so that they will be less likely to stay in one place and foment rebellion. Besides, they have to move about, these great ones, because they are like a plague of locusts—they descend on a place and eat everything up, and then have to go elsewhere. But now Lord Raymond had decided that what with the difficult birth of his heir and subsequent weakness of his wife, it would be better to remain the winter at Monchensie and celebrate Christmas with his household there. Lord Raymond never did with anything less than the best on feast days. And this Christmas, the first after the birth of his son, promised to be a grand festivity, with food for feasting taken from miles around. There would be music and dancing; Sir Raymond’s musicians were to be augmented by pipers from the village. I did not care much for the work of his minstrels. For one thing, Sir Raymond was tone deaf, and that had discouraged them. During meals they scraped and plunked indifferently; the only thing that Sir Raymond really cared for was long-winded and bloody accounts of battles, sung to the harp, and preferably with his name worked into them. They had composed a flowery song in honor of the birth of his heir, but it unfortunately had too many verses, and Sir Raymond had yawned. Everyone expected that the pipers would be the chief source of liveliness at the Christmas dancing. But fate acted to improve the celebration considerably.

One December afternoon, just before the Feast of the Conception of the Blessed Virgin, a strange-looking party came straggling through the village, demanding admission at the town gate and begging hospitality at the castle. Leaning from an upstairs window I saw them as they crossed the courtyard. A light snowfall was spotting their cloaks and baggage with white. Three men walking with wrapped instruments on their backs led the way, leading two heavily laden donkeys and four little dogs. Behind them were some who had joined the party for company and safety in travel: a pardoner with his strange hat and pilgrim’s shells sewn onto his cloak, carrying a pack, and a mounted merchant and his retainers, with their pack mules.

I had been more in the company of Lady Blanche than usual, for she found that my laying on of hands could stop the spells of heavy bleeding with which she had been afflicted after her dangerous birth. When I told her what I had seen, she sent me to investigate and report all, for she was still bedridden.

There in the hall, where Sir Raymond sat hearing petitions and punishing tenants, the leader of the little band advanced, gave an extraordinarily low obeisance, and presented a letter of introduction. He was Maistre Robert le Taborer, musician to the very King of Navarre himself, and the two others were members of his company. On his right—and he gestured broadly to a tall, bony figure in motley—was the celebrated Tom le Pyper, also known as Long Tom. While Long Tom bowed, Maistre Robert grandly introduced the agile little man on his left as the renowned Parvus Willielmus, master of mirth. Sir Raymond called his chaplain to read the letter, which was a very flowery tribute to the extraordinary musical powers of the group, begging hospitality in the king’s name from any great lord to whom they should address themselves. Father Denys was impressed. He raised his eyebrows and showed the document to Sir Raymond, who stared blankly at it.

“The King of Navarre, eh?” he said, as he peered at it. “Is this his seal? What’s that pink spot here?”

“Wine, my lord, I’m afraid. We musicians must sometimes lodge at strange places when we’re on the road,” answered Maistre Robert.

“Riotous places, hmm? Well, you’ll lodge here and be welcome. A king’s musicians! What good fortune! What news do you have from France?”

Maistre Robert replied with news from abroad and also some interesting things about events in England as well. He threw in several scandalous stories, and when he saw Sir Raymond’s interest rise, he knew exactly how to deal with him. When Sir Raymond demanded a sample of his skills, he called to Long Tom and Parvus Willielmus. Long Tom took out a drum, whose demanding voice called the attention of everyone in the hall. Faces peeped in at every door. While the drumming continued, the shorter man juggled first three, four, and then five balls in the air. Then Maistre Robert began his patter, and the other two, ceasing drumming and juggling, joined in. It was a dialogue, consisting of a series of extraordinarily bawdy stories told at rapid fire. Laughter filled the hall. Sir Raymond laughed so hard he turned bright red, as if he were having a choking fit.

“Well, Maistre Robert, if you play as well as you talk, we’ll have some merry evenings here, I’m sure.” Tears of laughter were still running down his face.

“Call those minstrels up here,” said Lady Blanche to me, “I want to hear the news too.” She had herself propped straight up in bed, and received them, asking them a great deal about court life abroad, what clothes were worn, and such like things. Maistre Robert took out his harp then and sang a song about her beauty, which he said was celebrated everywhere.

“Is it really? I have been buried in the countryside here. I didn’t know my beauty was known abroad.”

“Oh, my lady, everywhere I have heard report of it. No one else in this realm has such pale, lilylike skin! They say a certain noble knight is languishing unto death for you, but no one would tell me his name.” Lady Blanche looked pleased. He continued on in this way, and his friends brought out a lute and a viol and sang another song to her beauty. It was clear to me that these minstrels would be living in comfort here for a while.

The jongleurs were a funny crew. They went from the hall to the kitchen, stables, and garrison, everywhere ingratiating themselves. When the merchants moved on, the players and the pardoner seemed to have found the surroundings so congenial that they stayed. The pardoner, indeed, seemed to have moved in with the players, and was experiencing equal success, doing a brisk trade in relics and indulgences, which are very popular at this season. One day he stopped me and said, “Charming child, do you not need a little something, something to bring you showers of blessings and a handsome husband? I have here a paring of Saint Catherine’s fingernail, at a price which I shall lower especially for the sake of your pretty eyes.” I looked at the fingernail paring. It was in a little bag to be worn about the neck. It looked very small.

“I haven’t any money, sir,” I said.

“Brother Sebastian to you, angel eyes. But let me warn you. You are insufficiently religious. God lets me know about these things. Repair your defect by the purchase of this object of devotion. I leave you now, but ponder on this: God may well send you money—and I will save this precious relic exclusively for you for the next fortnight, although several other maidens have shown an interest in it.” Then he went away. As I watched his short, rotund figure depart, I thought to myself that he was certainly an odd person. Most pardoners are dour and try to frighten one into purchasing an indulgence with tales of hellfire. This one looked as if he’d be more at home in a tavern.