A Vision of Light (63 page)

“I say, father, do you want to keep this one?” Hugo’s cheerful voice sounded in the charnel house. His foot was on Thomas’s throat. Thomas was making gagging noises that sounded like a plea for mercy. “We could geld him and throw him out, just like he was planning to do to Gilbert.”

“Waste of time,” growled the old man. “Just run him through with the rest.” When that was done, the old man calmly wiped his own blade on the black surcoat of Lionel’s headless torso and sheathed it. Then he turned his attention to Margaret. Brother Gregory was cutting through the ropes on her wrists; he had already taken out the gag, but for once Margaret was speechless.

“Not bad, not bad,” said the old man, prowling around her and looking her over, just as he would a horse for sale. Margaret was aghast. The old man looked truly appalling. His breastplate and hose were splashed with blood. His beard—the old-fashioned kind that gets spotted with gravy if you don’t eat carefully—tumbled around his face in a ragged disorder surpassed only by the shaggy white hair that emerged when he removed his helmet. His ferocious, bristling gray eyebrows glowered over eyes that were, basically, disappointed. Disappointed that there was no one left to kill.

“So this is the woman whose skirts you’ve been crawling under, eh, Gilbert? She’s not a bad piece.”

Margaret stood there, trim and tragic in black, the Burning Cross glittering against its dark background. She was furious. She whispered through clenched teeth.

“Brother Gregory, who is that awful old man?”

“It’s father, Margaret. Father, this is Margaret—and this is my brother Hugo and these are Damien and Robert, their esquires.” The old man acknowledged this awkward introduction with a curt nod. Hugo, who had also removed his helmet and arming-coif to reveal dark blond hair cut short and shaved up the back, Norman fashion, and the cold, pale blue eyes of a professional killer, greeted her with a grin.

“So, Gilbert,” the old man went on cheerfully, “I’ve long doubted that you had anything under that gown to cut off, and I’m glad to see evidence to the contrary. Now that I think of it, that’s not a bad ploy, crawling around town in a habit and getting into bored women’s houses by the back door.”

“Father!” Gregory was indignant. His face was growing red with rage. Little veins stood out on his temples. Seething with pure fury he shouted at his father: “I told you I am saving my pure body for Christ!” The arteries stood out and throbbed in his neck.

“You’re saving your
what
for WHAT?” the old man roared. “By the living God, what have I spawned? Your brother Hugo has bastards on two continents and you’re telling me you’re completely USELESS? I ought to bash you in the head again!” The squires had drawn back. They looked amused.

“Father, we’ve discussed this before. You can’t bully me anymore. My mind’s made up.” Brother Gregory ground his teeth. His father always made him so angry that he always said whatever would enrage him most.

“What’s to bully? There’s no bullying a Spineless Wonder like you,” the old man growled. Then he looked about the room, and a shrewd look passed across his face. Brother Gregory knew that look well; he’d seen it often enough, years before. It meant that the old man was calculating the value of the wall hangings. Sir Hubert had taken quite a number of wall hangings and other such furnishings from French châteaux, before he’d razed them, and he had a sharp eye for value. It offended Brother Gregory deeply to see his father looking about Kendall’s parlor that way.

Then the old man turned his attention to Margaret once again.

“Not so bad. A widow. Rich,” he speculated to himself. “And still young.” He resumed his up-and-down glance. Brother Gregory recognized this look too. It made him even more infuriated with his father. Margaret stood there, rigid with rage. “Looks like a good breeder. You can always tell by the hips and tits on a woman—”

“How
dare
you!” hissed Margaret.

“And spirit. That’s a good breeding quality too. A good stud on a bad mare gets bad foals, I always say. We don’t want any more spineless ones—”

Then he turned abruptly to Hugo.

“Hugo, I’ve been thinking. You’ve been needing a wife, and this one ought to do nicely. We can carry her off, marry you two at home in the chapel right away, without banns, and hold her there until we’ve got proof of consummation, just to make sure no smart lawyer tries to undo it. It’s a bit hasty, but there’s no use missing a chance like this. In another week or two someone else might get her. Besides, the roof wants mending. What do you say?”

“I thought you’d arranged for the roof already, father,” said Hugo in a reasonable tone.

“Spent the money already—on a new stud horse—that big black one. So, is it settled?”

“I’m obedient, father,” said Hugo with equanimity. He did prefer them a bit larger in the bosom, and blond, but aside from that, one woman was just like any other to him.

Margaret stamped her foot with fury. Her face was red to the roots of her hair. Her eyes flashed, and she curled her hands into fists.

“I will
not
marry anyone. I especially will not marry anyone here. And I will
never
marry to get some disgusting roof fixed. You can’t make me.”

“Of course we can; it’s done all the time,” remarked the old man calmly. “By the way, Hugo, have you noticed? The idiot was right. She’s got the Fauconberg eyes. Very funny looking on a woman too. So, now, let’s go.”

“No!” shouted Gregory. “You will not carry off Margaret!” He stepped in front of her and pulled his knife.

“Haw, an idiot as usual! Pull a knife on
me
? You woman!” Old Sir Hubert sent the knife flying with a single crashing blow. “I
said
you need a bash on the head to get some sense into you—” He raised his fist; Gregory parried the heavy blow with his arm and punched his father square on the chin, right in the middle of the beard. The old man was knocked to a sitting position on the floor. Horrified at what he had done, Brother Gregory unclenched his fist and stared at his hand as if it had done it all by itself. His face turned sheet white. Honor thy father! He’d violated God’s commandment, and he could feel the sin of it staining him indelibly.

“Haw, haw, HAW, haw!” The old man was rubbing his jaw and laughing. Gregory looked astonished. “You may yet grow bowels, idiot son.” Gregory stared at him.

“I take it you want the woman for yourself?” his father asked, getting up.

“You heard Margaret. She does not wish to be married,” said Brother Gregory primly. His father got up and glared at him. Perhaps something had been knocked loose in his brain as a baby—a fall from a horse—something like that. It was the only possible explanation. The boy’s mind was not functioning with all the necessary elements.

“Not wish? What has that got to do with anything?” The old man looked at Margaret, where she stood behind Brother Gregory, and addressed her. “I tell you, woman, you had best marry a man with a sword, and soon, or you’ll end up dead or begging on the streets. These fellows on the floor ought to have given you ample warning of what’s in store for a manless woman with too much money. City women—bah—no sense at all. Any knight’s widow has more sense in a single one of her hairs.”

Margaret looked horrified. She hadn’t seen it that way at all. The disgusting old man had a point, but she didn’t like it a bit.

Brother Gregory was appalled. All along he’d had the vague idea in his mind that if he saved Margaret, he’d be putting things back just the way they were. It was just right the way things had been before, quite comfortable, in fact. He could make his round of alehouses, arguing with his friends, and then drop by Margaret’s, where the dinners were always good and the conversation amusing. And somebody else had the trouble of looking after the roof, the gutters, the wood, the brats, and Margaret herself. Somehow he had always envisioned that in his absence, she was perpetually in the kitchen, baking that good bread—and he had managed to acquire the notion that saving her would restore everything to its proper place, including Margaret.

Now, he realized something dreadful. You can never put things back. He’d committed himself to try to return to sit in a cold, whitewashed cell alone with God and Lady Memory, while Hugo, that unspeakable savage, would be stuffing himself on those excellent rolls, breeding babies, beating Margaret about, and running around whoring with the old man. In the evenings they’d probably drink together and congratulate each other for such a good piece of fortune, and maybe even toast him
in absentia
, for having set it all up for them. And Margaret would waste away her life weeping upstairs in the solar, the way mother had, and the girls’ marriages would be sold to the highest bidder on their eleventh birthdays….

“Father, this is wrong, you’re wrong. She wouldn’t like Hugo anyway—”

“Like? Who needs like? Your mother didn’t like me! We got on splendidly. She did the women’s things, I went to war, and her dowry rebuilt the tower. Liking’s the least important thing in marriage. Money and family are what count. You did say she’s a cousin, didn’t you? Not too close, I trust.”

“Not close at all,” Brother Gregory sighed deeply. It was a pity, because that would have solved the problem. Even father couldn’t manage the fees and connections necessary to get the church to overlook a marriage within the seven degrees of kinship.

“Then, Gilbert, get out of my way before I set these men on you and break every bone in your body. I intend to take this woman off and you’re wallowing in the manger like that godforsaken dog in the story. Not that it’s any different than you’ve ever been, you flea-brained ingrate.”

Brother Gregory looked at Margaret. He knew when he was outnumbered. Margaret looked at him, and then at all the faces in the room. There was no way out.

“Good, I’m glad you see the sense of it.” Sir Hubert was all business. “Damien, you go upstairs and get her cloak—it’s cold out. Robert, I want you to—”

“Father,” Gregory interrupted. His father turned to look at him. Gilbert looked all agitated. Maybe there was some life in the worthless whelp after all. “Father, I need to talk to Margaret—” But he was interrupted by a clattering and howling as Damien and Robert appeared with an armload of winter clothing, two tearstained little girls, and a bristling, rageful nursemaid.

“My lord, what shall we do with these? She had them upstairs, locked in the wardrobe.”

“Curious child-raising habits they have in this City,” observed Sir Hubert. The girls had fled to their mother’s skirts and had redoubled their howling. “Pry them loose and sit them over there,” said Sir Hubert. “I want to look at them.” For several long and silent moments Sir Hubert, stroking his beard and thinking, stared at the girls. The girls stared back at Sir Hubert. Almost alike, they were, and looked exactly like the mother, except for the red hair. “A girl-breeder,” said the old man to himself. “A damned, strong-blooded girl-breeder.” He paced up and down and muttered to himself, “Much better for a second son.”

“Madame, is this nursemaid one of your people, or one of theirs?” he asked Margaret, who was looking very, very upset.

“They paid her off—she’s one of theirs. My people are all locked in the cellar; he took the keys.” Margaret pointed to her key ring on the belt of Lionel’s headless torso.

“It strikes me they should trade places, then. Robert, take this woman down and let the others out. The place needs cleaning up. Give them a talking to—we’ll be needing their testimony in case there’s an inquiry. And, Gilbert, you were saying—?”

“I need to speak to Margaret.”

“Then speak—what’s stopping you?”

“I mean alone. She says she won’t discuss anything in a room with dead bodies in it.”

“Well, you’ll find bodies in the hall as well. They’re all over the place, except possibly the kitchen. John, Will”—and he motioned to two grooms—“escort them there, stay in the door, and don’t let them out of your sight.”

Brother Gregory led the little party through the hall and into the kitchen. It showed signs of its recent habitation by Lionel and Thomas’s carousing crew. The fires were dead, the locked spice boxes rifled, and the floor, slippery with puddles of ale, was littered with the shards of broken kitchen vessels. In the middle of the floor, cut loose from its mooring in the rafters, a wicker birdcage lay, split wide open.

“Oh! Cook’s bird! She’ll be heartbroken. I do hope they didn’t eat it!”

Brother Gregory surveyed the damage morosely. How like a woman to worry about a bird at a time like this. But he climbed up and peered out the high kitchen window, as the grooms advanced to make sure he wasn’t planning anything. High in the winter-bare tree outside the window, he could make out a flutter of black and white feathers. The bird paused, perched on a swinging branch, and tilted its head to regard Brother Gregory with one shining eye.

“The bird’s all right, Margaret. It’s just out in the tree,” he announced, pulling his nose in. The men retreated again. Women—they weren’t much different from birds themselves. Their brains just flit about and can’t stay in one place long enough to think properly. Who knows what silly thing she’ll come up with next?

“Margaret—” Brother Gregory began.

“Your father’s a monster,” said Margaret.

Brother Gregory bowed his head in agreement. “I never said he wasn’t.” He felt desperately sad. He could feel God slipping away from him and all his plans and dreams dissolving into mist. How was it that father always managed to do that sort of thing to him? He could hardly speak. But Margaret was still in trouble up to her neck, even if she hadn’t the sense to realize it. He’d got her into this mess, and he owed it to her to get her out.