In Pursuit of the Green Lion (12 page)

“What the—?” said Sir Hubert as he rode through the great gate. The kitchen midden and attendant pigs had been banished from the forecourt. As he dismounted and saw the horses led off, he noticed that the piles of muck in front of the stable, which somehow never managed to be removed, but instead grew higher all winter, had been carted off, with a subsequent diminution of flies. Well, that at least is not an altogether bad idea, he thought, though I wouldn’t want her to know it—it might make her think she had a right to shift everything around.

“Where is that wife of yours, Gilbert? Don’t City women know how to greet a returning lord?” At that very moment Sir Hubert was gratified to see a figure streaking from the bakehouse to the kitchen door at the end of the hall, stripping an apron off as she ran. By the time the bowing steward had welcomed him back to his hall, Margaret, still breathless, stood beside him, holding out a large cup of ale from her own brewing. Greeting the old lord in the accepted fashion, she offered him the cup. Only Gregory spied the vague air of well-controlled sarcasm in the elaborate gesture. His father took it as his due. She’s coming along, the old man thought. That beating Gilbert gave her did her no end of good. A few more and she’ll be entirely trained to the family standard.

Sir Hubert lifted the cup to his lips and drank deep; the look on his face changed to astonishment. He passed the cup silently to Hugo, who drank and said, “Better than the Duke’s,” looking with surprise at his father. Then, remembering himself, he passed the remainder to Gregory, who finished it off without any surprise at all. After all, everyone in London knew about the ale at Master Kendall’s house. It had been one of the attractions of his tutoring job there, back when he had been a free soul meditating on the Godhead. In a way, you could almost say that everything had been caused by that ale; it had kept him coming back despite every annoyance caused by Margaret’s daftness. Margaret remained kneeling in front of them, waiting for the answer to be witnessed by the entire household, which had crowded silently into the low, arched curve of the open door to watch. They backed into the hall, and one or two of them even held infants on their shoulders to let them have a better view. There wasn’t a soul in the shire who didn’t know about the strange bargain the lord had made in a moment of weakness. And when news that the new ale was stronger and sweeter than any in Christendom had spread to the neighboring manors, interest had mounted daily in anticipation of his return. How would he keep his promise? How could he keep such a promise?

“It is good,”he said.

“Better than yours, as I swore,”reminded Margaret.

“Yes, better,” he said. He didn’t want to puff her up. Puffed-up women are one of the original sources of trouble in the world. If anyone knew that, it was he. He counted it as one of his duties to mankind to keep women from puffing themselves up, though it had been a most monumental duty in his own marriage. A job requiring a hero. It was one of those things that God, being male, questioned you about before you were let into heaven, and he was proud to say that he hadn’t neglected it.

“Hear how a knight keeps a bargain, even one made in a moment of weakness,” Sir Hubert addressed the assembled crowd in a lordly fashion.

“Dame Margaret”—he addressed her in the polite form—“you may have pen and paper when you wish them, if your duties are fulfilled, and you may read books.” Shocking. The people looked at each other. “But only when a man of this household is present, preferably Father Simeon.” Oh, admirable. A lordly judgment. Heads nodded in agreement at the old knight’s wisdom—a Solomon, fit to chop a baby in half anytime.

Margaret thanked him and rose. Her face was totally expressionless. The old lord looked benignant as he thought he detected a look of humble gratitude in her eyes. But he was deceived: Margaret was suppressing a powerful urge to tell him exactly what she thought of him. Now, tongue, she was telling herself, just stay out of trouble this once, and I’ll write down what I think of him later, that pompous, ignorant, rapacious old hypocrite.

“And now, dinner,” boomed Sir Hubert, breaking the silence. “A celebration is in order, for the retaking of the estate at Withill. And I shall keep Saint Edward’s Day with a great feast, for justice has triumphed in a world full of iniquity.”

“Your father is very mellow,” said Margaret in greeting Gregory as the milling knot of retainers and gossips dissolved to see to the laying of the tables.

“We’ve got it all, Margaret, except for the law cases that are pending. And those should go our way too, now. We did sap the walls of Withill Manor and burn part of the roof, so the hall will have to be rebuilt. The stables went up, too—the thatch was just like tinder. But we pried every one of the Earl’s men out of the place, and sent them packing. Didn’t lose a man, either, although old John took a swordstroke. And can you believe, after it was all done, the Earl sent a message that his steward had overreached himself against his orders, and he’d never meant to offend the Duke? It just goes to show, winning is everything.” They were standing now beneath the wall forested with antlers. A shaft of light from the high window caught the rich green folds of wool of Gregory’s heavy fur-lined cloak.

“That’s a new cloak, isn’t it?”

“From the Duke. Hugo’s got a velvet gown, and Father a new brace of hounds—those brindled ones, over there. Margaret, you’ve no idea how gracious, how admirable he is—how far-sighted and noble! The greatest and most perfect leader of men in all of England, save only for the Prince, and of course King Edward himself.”

“Gregory, what happened there?” Margaret sounded suspicious. Gregory had thought the Duke too stern, too unbending, and too undevoted to matters of the mind and soul previously.

“You’ve no idea what a spiritual force he is …”

“Gregory, what’s made him a spiritual force, since he’s just as he always was?”

“And his insight …”

“For God’s sake, tell me what he has done.”

“Why, Margaret,” said Gregory happily, “he’s made me a gift—enough to pay off all the debts on the property.”

“A gift? What on earth for? Great men don’t give gifts for nothing.”

“Of course not. I’m entering his service. I’ll be going to France in his personal suite. Can you believe the good fortune? I tell you, there’s many a good family that can do nothing but dream of an honor like that. He’s arranged for me to be knighted, Margaret, knighted! It was never in my future, you know, Father couldn’t afford the fees. Why, you’ll be a lady—aren’t you pleased? He knights twelve of us on Whitsunday next. And that’s not the end of the honors he’s granted me. I’ll be personally writing down his noble and courageous acts in preparation of the greatest chronicle of our times. Just think, a chronicle of action and chivalry, not the stale maunderings of some dried-up cleric. My name will be celebrated forever! He said there weren’t many capable of doing it—a scholar who was also a soldier—”

Margaret’s eyes widened in horror.

“—a man of ancient family, who understood chivalry as well as letters—”

Margaret turned pale.

“A noble commission, nobly granted—”

“Not France,” she said. “Sweet Jesu, not France.”

“But Margaret, it’s an honor,” Gregory said gently.

“I’m all alone here. I haven’t anyone but you, Gregory. Don’t you see, if anything happened—doesn’t our marriage mean anything?” she asked, putting her hand on her heart.

“The greatest honor of my life—”

“Couldn’t you just talk to people when they got back, and write it down that way?”

“That’s not what the Duke has in mind, Margaret. Don’t you see I’m a new man? Why, I could go on to anything. We might even be at court someday. Aren’t you even grateful? He’s secured your inheritance and cleared the debts on the property, all with one princely gesture. And now—why, I’ve got a patron for my poems, the work on meditation that I plan to write—”

“Oh God, oh God,” said Margaret, clutching his sleeve. She was shaking all over. Gregory put his arm around her and gently led her to one of the benches along the wall of his father’s hall, directly opposite the fire. They sat there in the midst of the noise and confusion as if they were entirely alone.

“You have to understand, Margaret. I’ve got my life’s work back.”

“I know,” said Margaret, snuffling into her sleeve, “I only want what’s best for you.” He’s caught you, that old hunter, she thought. Caught you like a hare in a net, and you don’t even understand it’s been done.

Hugo strode by the little scene.

“You really have a town woman there, don’t you, brother? A true lady’s heart beats with fierce joy when her lord rides forth to smite his enemies,” he announced. And he passed on without waiting for an answer to see that his breastplate was being properly cleaned up after the battle for Withill Manor. Margaret lifted her head from her arm and stared after him, red-eyed.

“That’s because if he’s anything like you, she’s glad to be rid of him,” she said spitefully.

“Margaret!” Gregory was shocked.

Margaret bit her lip as she sniffed. She’d had a number of conversations with the Weeping Lady on this topic, and knew exactly what she was talking about.

I
COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT
he told me that day. My God! I’ve never heard of a more harebrained idea in my life. That’s how it is with the great ones: They get a touch of brain fever and everyone else has to run off and get killed for their half-baked schemes. And all the while bowing and saying, “Yes, my lord! Brilliant, my lord!”

It’s one thing to go off to a nasty, dangerous place like France, where everybody hates the English goddams, if you enjoy killing and raping and looting. It’s much more difficult to enjoy these occupations at home, where it makes the neighbors mad. Whereas in a foreign country, you can have your sport and come home rich—if you don’t come home dead. Or rather, part of you comes home. Usually your heart in a sealed casket, since it’s easier to ship. I tell you, you can always tell when something’s too unpleasant for a sensible person to get involved in: they call it an honor, every time.

But what business is it of a man who plans to write a book of meditations going to France? It’s not as if he’s going to come home either rich or happy. In fact, you can pretty well bet it won’t work out. But who asks a woman? Now, given the way old soldiers like to brag and lie around the fireside, I’d say, if you have in mind to write a chronicle, write it all when you can stay cozily at home. You’ll only get into trouble if you write the truth, anyway, since it might contradict all the tall tales they want to tell.

But do men hear good sense when they’re all puffed up with deeds of chivalry and
courtoisie?
Oh, no. It’s their upbringing, I think. It makes them gullible. And especially they don’t want to hear good sense from their wife. Myself, if I were a man, I’d pay the fine, avoid the knighthood, live comfortably as a squire in the country, and keep my arms and legs in the bargain. There’s plenty who do. In the City, they think it’s a sign of cleverness, not cowardice, to pay off one’s service. The fine is just part of the price of doing business, and a sensible investment. Master Kendall explained that to me when he paid off the fee himself, being “too old for the honor,” as he put it in his letter to the King. But, of course, Gregory couldn’t get away with it—not with his family, and not if he hoped to win his court cases and collect his rents someday and pay off his debts. So glory and honor sweetened the agreement, and turned his head in the bargain.

Still, I could see the temptation to believe it was all for the best. That night at supper his father and older brother kept staring surreptitiously at him, as if he’d done something really unexpected and admirable. Every so often Gregory’s father would look him up and down, thoughtfully—the way you’d inspect a colt with bad conformation that has outrun the best stallion in the district. Silently, marvelingly. And he’d mutter, “The Duke’s personal suite. Imagine!” as if no one could hear. Gregory didn’t say a thing, but gloried in it. And you know, when men decide to box one of their number into a corner with some “honor,” the victim can’t usually back out, no matter how much he wants to. It’s like having a marriage arranged that you don’t care for. You can’t just run off. You have to go through with it and hope it works out for the best. But in my experience, it usually doesn’t.

But they do love the trappings of war, men do. Even Gregory got that serious, self-absorbed look about him as he announced he needed a new cuirass and helm, more suited to his new dignity, and went off to the London armorer’s to equip himself. He returned with all sorts of this and that, including a long military surcoat with the three cockleshells and the red lion of the de Vilers arms embroidered on it, cut fore and aft to the waist for the saddle. It was as if he’d caught a disease. I missed his sense of irony, the easy self-mockery with which he’d catch himself in a particularly pompous moment, the sharp way he could see through the shams of the world. Now he was all caught up in the glory of the things he’d once poked fun at: who sat where, who got served first, how many retainers should he engage, how would he modify the family coat of arms to serve as his personal one, how many horses should he go into debt for, and should he order a pavilion, and what kind? And, of course, he started treating me the same way. One day he came in all hot from exercise with the identical rolling horseman’s gait his father and brother had, and addressed me as “my lady wife,” in all seriousness.

“Gregory!” I was shocked.

“Please respect my station,” he said, and in vain I searched his face for a trace of his old sardonic smile. “You may call me my lord husband, or, after Whitsunday, Sir Gilbert. You should get used to it, so you won’t lower my dignity before others.” I turned and fled. By our Blessed Lady, I thought, it won’t take much more of this before he’s turned into his father. I needed to hide, I needed to think, but everyplace was aswarm with family or grooms. So I ended on the cellar steps, with the spiders, wiping the tears off my face and the grime onto it.