In Pursuit of the Green Lion (21 page)

CHAPTER SIX

T
HINGS ALWAYS SEEM TO HAPPEN ON A long journey. At Wymondley, we were joined by a group of merchants with laden mules, who were so impressed by the Marquesa’s armed guard that they put themselves under her protection for the journey to London. She did not, of course, lower herself to speak to them, since she had particular tastes in these matters. Instead, she used Fra Antonio as a sort of go-between. But the merchants offered Cecily and Alison a ride on top of their wool-packs, to vary the bruising ride in the wagon, and the girls did chatter. So it was not long before one of them, a tall, homely, honest-looking fellow, rode his big roan mule up beside the back of the wagon and addressed me in English, which the Marquesa did not understand.

“Is it true, as they say, that you’re Roger Kendall’s widow?”

“Did you know him?” I asked hopefully, for I still, to this day, love talking about him.

“No, but I wish I had. Who hasn’t heard of him? A legend, even in our part of the country, far as it is from London. Yes—I’ve heard a lot.” He rode awhile in silence, and then he blushed. The dark lady feigned complete inattention, and waved a silver rattle at her baby, who was fussing on the nurse’s lap. “Tell me,” he went on, “what are you doing here—and where’s the—um—handsome—ah—”

“You mean, the ‘bold young squire, in guise of a friar’?” I asked. I’d heard the song for the first time at the monastery guesthouse, being sung outside our window by some rowdy carters who stayed up late drinking and annoying everyone.

“I really didn’t mean to, um—”

“It wasn’t at all true, you know,” I said, “though it makes a better story that way.”

“Oh, of course I knew right away it wasn’t true, not true at all, but—”

“If you must know, he’s in France, given up for dead. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone you’d seen me—my girls talk too much.”

“Oh, I see, I see. Well, if you ever need another husband, I’ve got a very fine establishment in Colchester. I have a house with fifty women who spin on the ground floor, and above it, very comfortable quarters for a family. My wife is dead these three years in childbirth, and I’d treat your daughters as my own—”

I was about to thank him when the dark lady broke in, in her heavily accented French.

“What is he talking about with you?” she asked. The wool merchant looked curiously at her—it was clear he didn’t understand a word of French.

“Actually, I believe he’s proposing marriage,” I answered in that language. The dark lady’s eyes glittered with amusement.

“Oh,” she said, “you must have quite a bit more property attached to you than I’d thought.”

I thanked the merchant, and we talked of this and that until we stopped to water the horses at a little brook. As the girls happily dabbled their feet in the water, and that fat baby crowed at the yellow leaves that floated from the tree, trying to catch one as it drifted before his face, another of the merchants—a short, plump, balding fellow—approached me.

“Madame,” he said, “if you will pardon my boldness, I’ll say that you are still a young and lovely woman. Life in Colchester is very dull. Now I’m a man that loves festivities and merriment, myself. And I can tell you’d love the dancing and mirth in a much larger, finer place, such as my own home in York. We have wonderful plays and pageants there, and a great cathedral second to none. I have a very fine house in the best part of town and a greatly respected social position. My wife was carried off by a fever only last Michaelmas”—and here he crossed himself in her remembrance—“and I’d treat those two charming little girls exactly as if they were my own—”

The lady Giuseppina looked up from a conversation with Fra Antonio. “What does that fellow want? Is he proposing marriage too?” she asked, somewhat tartly.

“Yes,” I answered, and she smiled her lovely pink and white smile. By the time that we resumed our journey, Cecily and Alison had collected several handfuls of the last of the sturdy little daisies, called marguerites, that still grew in the grass. They occupied themselves in the back of the wagon by weaving a chaplet for the baby, who seemed enchanted by their presence and attention. But the idyllic moment was rudely disturbed by the sound of galloping hooves and unsheathed steel, as the dark lady’s guard formed a ring about the wagon at the command of her captain. It was fortunate we were in the back, beneath the shady cover where the Marquesa and her ladies had retired to preserve their complexions.

The Marquesa moved forward and stood up behind her driver, shouting imperiously through the circle of guards to the heavily armed mounted men who had caught up with our party: “Who are you, and how dare you disturb my journey?”

“We are from Brokesford Manor, and seek a woman with two little girls who has fled. Have you seen her anywhere on the road?” I recognized the sour voice of Sir Hubert’s steward.

“Of course not,” said the dark lady.

“Hide,” I whispered to the girls, and threw my cloak over us all as we crouched in the back of the wagon, trying very hard to resemble lumpy luggage.

“Who is it?” whispered Alison.

“Your wicked uncle Hugo, looking for us, so shush,” I whispered back, and she was deathly silent.

“How do we know she isn’t in the wagon with your ladies?” came the shout.

“My child is in this wagon, and your master has every reason to wish him ill. My men will defend me to the death. Move off.” She sounded cold and imperious. I could hear a growling and the clatter of harness.

“It looks like there’s nothing in there but foreign women and baggage anyway,” a voice said. We could hear the clatter as they turned their horses to address the company of merchants. “Have any of you seen a woman on the road—about twenty-three, pretty, with two redheaded girls? She’s wearing mourning—you couldn’t mistake her. There’s a reward if you spot her for us.” Not a sound came from the wool merchants. In the silence, I could hear the horses champing on their bits, and the heavy breathing of the guard.

“Looks hopeless,” I heard them say. “We’ll try the other road.” And they departed at a trot, with a jingle of harness. We crouched there a long time before Fra Antonio, riding beside the wagon, gave the all clear by whispering in French through the canvas.

“They are loyal, your merchant friends,” said the dark lady when we emerged.

“They offered a reward,” I said, somewhat horrified. “Hugo must have planned something very horrible.”

“A reward, eh? Then you do have a great deal of property. That proves it. Better only a chance of marrying you and getting hold of it, think these men here, than a sure reward. But then, knowing Hugo, how sure is the reward, anyway? Perhaps he has a reputation,” she speculated aloud.

“People in this country aren’t that mercenary; these are good men. They knew of my former husband.”

“Nonsense. But I am delighted to be causing that wretched Hugo so much trouble. It’s my curse working. My curses always work.” She looked pleased with herself. Then she glanced at me again, looking me over as if calculating something. “What’s that bit of gold chain on your neck there? When I didn’t see any rings, I thought you were poor. I don’t like poor people much. But I missed the gold thing you’re hiding under your surcoat. What is it under there? Pull it out and let me see.”

As I’ve said, she wasn’t the type of woman I wanted to offend. To oblige her, I pulled out my cross from its hiding place between my surcoat and kirtle. As I held it out, her eyes grew huge, and she drew back slightly and crossed herself.

“Holy Virgin, no wonder I couldn’t tell them you were here. You wear
that.”

“You know it?” I asked.

“I saw it when I was a little girl, hanging in a shrine in a church in Milan. It disappeared during a sack of the city. They say when Lodrisio Visconti seized it, it seared him to the bone; the next day he was captured at the battle of Parabiago. I’ve heard of it several times since then. That accursed German mercenary captain Werner von Urslingen is said to have refused to touch it when it was cut off the steaming corpse of a peasant looter. ‘I know that thing,’ he said, ‘I don’t need talismans to tell me what I announce to the world.’Then he beat on his breastplate and shouted, ‘I am von Urslingen, enemy of God and of compassion. Take it away—no, sell it to some sentimental Italian.’When Fra Moriale, despite his great army, was taken and executed, they say that it was found among his possessions. Now it seems to have made its way to England. How did you get it, and why doesn’t it burn you?”

“It was given to me for a good deed.”

“Oh—that explains everything. Did you know, it can’t be bought or sold or stolen, for it destroys whoever gets it?”

“That’s a bit exaggerated, I think, but it does raise a welt occasionally.”

“Not on
me,”
said Cecily, and put her hand on it.

“Cecily! You stop that!” I was so annoyed. Cecily needs to be trained out of interrupting adults.

“Cecily’s a show-off,” said Alison, putting her hand on it too.

The dark lady surveyed our three faces very carefully.

“I think I shall be glad to be rid of you three,” she said thoughtfully. “London can’t come soon enough.”

But after several hours of deep silence, she became bored and started talking again. We had joined the great road south, which, unlike other roads, is paved in great stones left either by giants or by Romans, depending on your point of view. As we clattered over the rutted, weedy pavement, she looked back at me with renewed interest.

“Your problem is, you have not studied human nature,” she announced. “Now I, I know everything, because I understand that humans all have fixed paths, just as the wandering stars have their epicycles. So if you have studied these paths, you know where everything will come out. For example, you. Your husband is dead, so his older brother inherits. He will lock you up so you can’t marry, and put your daughters in a convent, where they can’t inherit, so that he can collect everything. But you escape—that’s dangerous. He’s best off having you killed on the road and pretending it’s brigands. However, I have now discovered you have too much money. That means your husband’s lord will be interested. Since he has the right to give you in marriage, you will be a rich reward for some follower. So, my conclusion is this: Sir Hugo is searching for you under pain of grievous displeasure from a great lord. My curse is working better than ever, don’t you think? Just imagine him, whining and pleading for more time. The great lord will probably have him killed. Hmm, I wonder. Strangled or poisoned? Or maybe he’ll just put out his eyes and lock him up forever. Ah, what a splendid curse.”

“I don’t think so at all. That’s not how it’s done here. The Duke is very honorable, my husband said so.” I could feel this woman’s cynical reasoning poisoning me to the bone. A few more days of this, and I’d never trust anyone again.

“Of course,” she went on cheerfully, “this Duke of his may want you for himself—”

Suddenly, I thought of a horrible thing: the go-between who had arrived at Master Kendall’s house long ago, with a gift from the Duke, which I’d sent back.

“—and then there’s the possibility that he sent your husband to some dangerous place on purpose, just like King David when he coveted Bathsheba …” she chattered on.

My God! Could such a thing be possible? Now I had two powerful men to avoid. And of the two, Sir Hugo was my least problem, for the Duke had people everywhere. If they found me, I’d no rights of my own, being husbandless, and the very best that could happen was that I’d be married off by force. How could I hide? What could I do? I clung like a drowning woman to Gregory’s praise of the Duke. If he said he was great and honorable, then wasn’t he? But suppose Gregory were deceived? Had the dark lady twisted my mind, or was it all really true?

“—of course, it would be natural. You aren’t what I call beautiful—you wear too few jewels, for one thing, and for another, you don’t use rice powder on your face, so your cheeks look rather garishly pink. But you
are
pretty in a barbaric sort of way, and these English savages have no taste.” She shook her head and muttered, “Damn that Sir Hugo to hell.” Then she looked me in the face. We were approaching St. Alban’s, and there, across the river Ver, I could make out the tower of the abbey, hidden among the trees. Not far, not far now, my heart sang.

But the dark lady had no eyes for the pretty sight; she was intent on explaining her philosophy: “Only one thing disturbs the epicycles. Remember that. That thing is love. It doesn’t follow the rules. I made that mistake once, but never again. I followed my love to the ends of the earth. It wasn’t logical. But
he
was logical, and so I’m saved. What would I have done with an English pig for a husband, anyway? Now I can resume my proper path. Don’t come to visit me, little barbarian, for I may change my mind about you at any time.”

I tell you, London couldn’t come soon enough.

T
HEY LEFT US AT
Ludgate, and she went off down Fleet Street toward the palaces on the Strand. For she was staying with great acquaintances until she heard whether her “little black trouble cloud” of foreign politics had blown away and it was safe to go home again. We passed through the gate, mingling with the crowds dispersing from Mass at St. Martin’s church, which stands immediately within the gate.

Ahead of us loomed the massive bulk and great spire of St. Paul’s. I couldn’t help pausing as a wave of remembrance passed over me. That was where I’d first seen him, in the nave, my Gregory. We hadn’t liked each other at all. I’d been looking for a copyist, and he’d just found the contemplation business inadequate to support him. He announced he was too busy seeking God to write nonsense for a conceited, stubborn woman, and I said to myself: A lot he knows about stubborn! That’s the most arrogant man who ever donned a habit. And when he finally took the job, he announced it was because God wished to test his Humility. It seems some spiritual adviser had told him he needed more Humility to see God, so he was out collecting it as if it were a stack of florins. Ten pounds’ worth of Humility, God. Now reveal Yourself; may I have a receipt? Men! They’re all alike—they get everything backward. But that’s the way it is with us women. Fools work their way into our hearts, in spite of all our good sense.