A Vision of Light (40 page)

“But surely, whatever God’s plan, isn’t it a sin to oppose it?”

“I suppose so, but first one must know what it is.”

“Let us take, for example, God’s plan to give the high places in the world to those of noble birth.”

“Oh, that again? I don’t believe that at all. After all, how are dynasties founded? By the man with the most ancient lineage, or the man with the mightiest sword arm? I think the latter.”

“And I say the gift of the sword is given to the one with mighty blood, showing that the plan is for great blood to rule.”

If Margaret had not been feeling so content with herself, just at that moment, she would have noticed the leading tone of Brother Gregory’s voice. She answered, “And I say, there’s no accounting for God’s gifts; He gives them as He wills.”

“God, an anarchist? Never!” Brother Gregory’s eyes glittered. Now he had her. “Let us take what you would think to be a good example. Didn’t your brother have gifts that led him to be noticed? Wouldn’t you say that proves your case, because he rose higher on his talents?”

Margaret looked puzzled.

“I suppose you might say so, but he worked hard too. That’s how he won favor. That, and being cleverer than the others.”

“And more attractive too?”

“Well, that, of course. But we both took after mother. She was unusual that way.”

“And so you’ve just proved my case.”

“I’ve not done anything of the sort. You’ve just agreed with me.”

“Oh, no, I haven’t. You’re just missing one piece of information, and it’s that that proves my case instead.”

Margaret looked sharply at Brother Gregory; suddenly she realized that she greatly disliked the sardonic look he fixed on her.

“If you’re going to say something nasty, then think twice and don’t say it at all,” she said firmly.

“Then I won’t say anything. Just ask a few questions, like Socrates, until you state the truth yourself.”

“And just who was this Socrates?”

“Why, a philosopher—who found out the truth by asking questions.”

Margaret mistrusted Brother Gregory when he mentioned philosophers. He usually brought them into an argument like military reinforcements, to shore up a particularly obnoxious line of attack. But she thought, I just won’t answer his questions, and then he’ll have to give up and live with being wrong, just this once.

“You wouldn’t disagree that rich men and lords keep mistresses, would you?”

“Well, no, of course.”

“And the lords of the Church too?”

“That, too, if they’re corrupt.”

“And there’s lots of corrupt ones lately, too, I recall you saying.”

Margaret didn’t answer.

“What do the rich men and lords do with their natural offspring?”

“Acknowledge them, if they feel like it, and then help them.”

“And what about the lords of the Church?”

“Well, they can’t acknowledge them, but sometimes they help them secretly. I’ve even delivered a bishop’s daughter—he gave her an immense dowry, just to see her married properly.”

“Have you ever given thought to the habits of Odo of St. Matthew’s?”

“And just what are you trying to say?” asked Margaret with alarm.

“Wait, wait. I’m asking the questions. Did you ever know he has nearly as many natural offspring as my father? And father’s a busy man. I’m always running into half-brothers I didn’t know. Of course, father’s very nasty about acknowledging them—it’s because he’s tight with money. Odo was always more generous with dowries or preferments for his natural children. And good about keeping it quiet too.”

“What on earth are you saying, you mean, mean creature?” cried Margaret. The frantic tone of her voice pleased Brother Gregory very much. He assumed an air of superiority.

“I mean, Mistress Merit-Is-Random, that you have a very odd grandfather—an abbot with yellow eyes. Your mother got them from him, along with her big dowry. Odo’s got an older brother, Sir Robert, who was abroad with father. He’s got those eyes too. That’s how I noticed them. Though I must say they look nicer on you. On the abbot, they’re quite dissipated looking, wouldn’t you say? And of course, the abbot’s patronage of your brother is a far from accidental event. Just think”—and here Brother Gregory looked at the ceiling—“he is directly descended from Charlemagne himself, the abbot. And of course, Charlemagne is descended from the Roman emperors, who, of course, traced their lineage to the pagan gods—”

“Wait just a minute—you’ve overstepped there. I’ve not heard that the pagan gods are descended from Adam. There is doubtless plenty of fiction in that family tree,” said Margaret hotly.

“Twist as you want, my point is made,” said Brother Gregory with a superior air, “and
you
are wrong. Besides, you could even say we’re a kind of cousin, if you go back far enough, and don’t mind the bend sinister.”

“Cousins? Through whom? Charlemagne, or Julius Caesar, or some inventive monk’s inkpot? You come into my house, you eat like a plague of locusts, and then you insult my mother and my brother—you’re no relation of
mine
, you nosy, troublesome thing!” Margaret cried passionately.

“Me? Nosy? You poured out your life’s secrets onto paper through my pen. I never nosed a bit. I had nosiness
thrust
upon me.” Brother Gregory leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. After months of irritation this was an indescribably pleasant moment. His bony, black-clad elbows stuck out like bat wings on either side of his ears. He grinned and settled down to enjoying Margaret’s fury. Really, she ought to be grateful to him. It’s much better to have good blood, even the second-rate kind, than to be nobody at all. But very clearly she didn’t see it that way at all. She really was a simpleton. Interesting she was so hot tempered underneath too. Maybe she’d throw the inkwell at him.

But Margaret surprised him. Instead of raging she suddenly began to wring her hands. A tear ran down her face and she said in a shaky voice, trying very hard to maintain her self-control, “My poor, poor mother. Men are simply
awful
.”

And women, thought Brother Gregory, are completely incomprehensible.

But Brother Gregory’s future was decided that evening, when Roger Kendall laughed. “Is that all?” he told his tearful wife. “Why, that’s nothing—it’s not even
interesting
unless it’s a cardinal. Now, now—he can’t help being a troublemaker; it’s constitutional with him. So just decide whether or not you want to finish the book.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
T WAS ALREADY ADVENT. AS HE TRUDGED
down Walbrook to Thames Street, an icy wind from the river made Brother Gregory shiver inside his old sheepskin cloak. With its grubby, matted fleece turned outside to meet the freezing air, it should have kept him warmer, but this winter was already promising to be an unusually hard one. He would never have admitted it, but he was looking forward to being inside Master Kendall’s warm hall, where things were orderly, and the winter kept properly at bay. But when he was admitted for the reading lesson, he found the household in an unusual turmoil. As he stood by the fire on the great hearth a moment to restore himself, he could hear the servants and journeymen hotly discussing something, with one or two apprentices listening raptly to the raging discussion.

“—so Master just reaches out and rubs off the chalk mark over the door, and then as cool as you please tells that gang of retainers—all armed to the teeth—‘If your master requires accommodation, let him seek it in a house that is uninhabited.’ So their chief puts his hand down to draw his sword, and Master says, ‘Slay a free merchant of London on his doorstep and you’ll hang.’ By this time I’ve got the boys, and Master Wengrave next door has come out with his, so the bastards mount up. ‘And take Sir Ralph’s baggage and his horses out of the stable as well,’ he says. I tell you, Master Kendall has nerves of steel—”

“What could have happened?” wondered Brother Gregory, and he entered the room where he usually gave the lesson, only to find a distraught Margaret being consoled by Roger Kendall.

“Margaret, Margaret, don’t be so upset. Can’t you see it’s over? The law is on our side. Just because the king is in town doesn’t mean his followers can requisition our house. It may be done elsewhere, but it has been against the law in the City for a good long time now, and nobody has even tried it for the last twenty years. They were just testing our will and found it too strong for them. They won’t be back, I assure you. The king won’t allow it. Now, don’t grieve any more.”

“What’s all this?” interrupted Brother Gregory.

“Oh, Brother Gregory, I am much too upset for a reading lesson just now.” Margaret’s face was a study in worry. “Sir Ralph de Ayremynne tried to take our house while he is in London, but my husband rubbed out his chalk mark over the door and sent his men off. And now he says we have nothing to fear.”

“And I’ll say it again, dear heart. Don’t start at shadows.”

“B-but the law goes every which way. If you’re a great person, it’s always on your side. I don’t trust the law at all. A piece of paper is not as strong as the sword.” Margaret was still upset; it was caused by thinking too much. Other women would have been content with their husband’s word.

“Nonsense, dear. Think as I do. Behind the law is politics, and behind politics is money. Therefore we keep our house.”

“Master Kendall, you attribute far too much to the power of money. In heaven God’s holy law reigns; on earth the sword reigns.” Brother Gregory was incapable of seeing Roger Kendall’s reasoning as well.

“Brother Gregory, you make one error. God’s legions of angels do not work for pay. He creates thunderbolts and other weapons without cost. The king, on the other hand, cannot field an army without money. We in the City have the money, so if he wants it, he cannot offend the City. Because the sword is stilled without money, the law and the sword both follow the purse.”

“That’s a nice argument, Master Kendall. Even though I don’t believe a word of it, it goes around in a circle quite handsomely. I respect a man who can make a nicely shaped argument. It’s almost as good as being right.”

“A circle? I don’t see that.”

“Why yes, a circle. For money can’t be made unless peace is secured by the sword. So you might just as well say that wealth follows the law, and the law follows the sword—which, according to you, follows wealth.”

“Hmph, yes. I see we can’t agree because we’re not on the same part of the circle. But slide around to my side for a bit and tell my wife that we aren’t going to be thrown out.”

“Mistress Kendall, your husband is right. You won’t have to start packing. We both agree that you are being overwrought and altogether much too emotional.” Brother Gregory looked down at her condescendingly, where she sat on the cushions of the window seat, next to her husband. Kendall had taken her hands in his, but they were still clammy with fright.

“I’m not too emotional at all; it’s just that I keep my mind on important things, like the house, while you argue about circles.” Margaret was growing annoyed with Brother Gregory. Annoyance was salutary; it made her forget her fear. She soon became even more annoyed when she realized that Kendall was determined to convince Brother Gregory of his side of the argument. Brother Gregory in turn defended his side with several clever examples, and soon the two were hotly debating politics.

Margaret was exasperated: she thought for a moment she should abandon them there, but then she remembered that it wouldn’t be polite to cancel a lesson like that. Brother Gregory, annoying as he could sometimes be, had given up other work to arrange this time, and if he didn’t get his fee, he might go hungry. Margaret always thought of these things, since she had once been in the same situation herself. In this consideration she was totally unlike the kind of self-centered rich women who have always led sheltered lives, and do not scruple to let a moody moment wreck other people. So she waited until Kendall remembered he had accounts to do, assured him fondly that she felt ever so much reassured by him, and set to work. Still, it was hard to concentrate. She hadn’t really got over her fright that the safe, quiet little world that she had made for herself might be in jeopardy. When she began the dictation, her face was still white, and her hands trembled too much to pick up her embroidery needle.

I
T WAS A BRIGHT,
cold morning in autumn when I looked up from my work in answer to a sharp rapping at the front door. I did not have to open the door to see who was there; it was one of the butcher’s little apprentice boys, white-faced and breathless. You see, on good days, I had formed the habit of leaving the door open, to let the stink from Brother Malachi’s distillery escape. For the past week he had been “very close” to the secret of transmutation, and a peculiarly malodorous smoke had filled the house. Now it fought, successfully for once, with the stink of the alley that usually came through the open door.

“Margaret, Margaret—that’s a bad habit, leaving doors and windows open. You invite thieves and cutthroats,” Brother Malachi had remonstrated.

“But we’ve nothing to steal—not a spot of money, and no goods to speak of,” I responded, reasonably enough, I thought.