In Pursuit of the Green Lion (26 page)

“Charming,”he said.

“I thought you’d like it,” said Fray Joaquin.

“And how does he enjoy our oubliette? Has it changed his opinions any?”

“He shouts up through the grille that truth can’t be altered, and you can’t make it go away by hiding from it.”

“Arrogant, arrogant as ever. An arrogance beyond his station.

It offends me, Fray Joaquin, have I told you how long it has offended me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“‘Homage to My Lady’s Tiny Foot’ was one of my best, don’t you think?”

“Beautiful. Perfection. Who else could possibly have conceived of something of such refinement?”

“It was when I heard that every student in Paris was singing ‘Homage to My Lady’s Large Shoe,’ that I knew I had an enemy.”

“One with no taste.”

“An enemy to be bent to my will, and then destroyed.” He gazed across the hall, where Europa in silk thread gently swayed atop the great bull. “The Master denies me nothing. I had only to make the request and he fell into my hands—even more easily than the little ones. Lovely. And without a prayer or a relic or even a saint’s name in protection. How could I ever doubt that it was the Master’s work? What shall I do with him, Fray Joaquin?”

“I have not your brilliance, my lord. Cut out his tongue and feed it to the dogs?”

“Nice, but not nice enough. I want to break his mind first, the mind that mocked me—before I break the rest. And he will need his tongue to confess his abjectness. I want him to tell me my work is brilliant, witty. I want him to search desperately for new adjectives of praise before I begin to finish him off, inch by inch. I am not a crude man—never mistake me for that, Fray Joaquin. No, my vengeance is refined, delicate, sensual—just like this flower.” Still holding the letter, he plucked a rose from the brass bowl on the table beneath the window and inhaled the scent.

“A rose—rich and refined. Daisies are scentless and vulgar, don’t you think?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Not good for much, except to pull the petals off one by one to discover who loves you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. I want a drawing spell. Like the one I cast for him. Have Messer Guglielmo call it up tonight, without excuses, this time.”

“Messer Guglielmo? But he says he is still bruised from the last encounter, and the next may be his last. He says Asmodeus may break loose into this world, uncontrolled.”

“It is his own fault. He must choose better assistants. If Arnaut hadn’t grown cowardly and recited a Paternoster, he could have kept control of him. As it was, we had to sacrifice a perfectly good groom by pushing him out of the circle. Tonight. You will call Asmodeus and cast a drawing spell for a marguerite.”

“For a what?”

“For this humble little flower, here, that hides between the grasses and cannot spell. ‘I live for the day of your return … I kiss this dear paper, since it will take you my words,’” he recited in a mocking falsetto. “I want this little one, this Margaret. I intend to pluck off her petals one by one before him—‘she loves me, she loves me not’—ah, fitting. Yes, fitting indeed. The sort of idea only a poetic mind might have.” The Sieur d’Aigremont began to pull the petals from the rose one by one, sniffing each petal before he discarded it onto the patterned carpet. He composed his features in the expression of bland arrogance he favored for assessing newly purchased works of art.

“It’s not easy to draw a person from beyond the sea. Not like getting a choirboy from the next seigneury.”

“I want her.” The Count’s arched black eyebrows drew together in a threatening scowl, and a dangerous crimson began to stain his jowly, coarse face.

“Why, yes, yes, of course. It will be done tonight, exactly as you wish.”

“Good. I want it soon. I dislike waiting.”All at once he tore the remainder of the petals off the flower, and flung the stem to the floor.

“Soon, Margaret.” His heavy, sensual red lips parted in a smile as he carefully crushed the head and stem of the rose beneath his gilded Spanish slipper.

“M
ISTRESS, THERE’S TWO
disreputable-looking men asking at the door for Mistress Margaret. Shall I send them away? Suppose they’re informers?”

“Just a moment, Kat, did they leave their names?” I leaned forward eagerly from my embroidery frame. I was in the solar with Mistress Wengrave, who was spinning, and her two oldest girls, who were hemming sheets. The day was overcast, but the cool air was crisp and clean, for the strong wind that had brought the clouds had blown away the dank chimney smoke of the City. Through the open shutters, we could hear in the back garden the shrieks of smaller children at play, and, loudest of all, Cecily’s voice.

“It’s
mine
! You give it back or I won’t play!”

“Aw, who made
you
the queen of everything?” a little boy’s voice answered. It was Peterkin, Mistress Wengrave’s fat little seven-year-old.

“I’m the smartest, and I know all the rules. You can’t play without rules.”

“Can
so!
Ow! You tell your sister to quit kicking!”

“So, give us back our ball!”

“Catch
me!” The shrieking and whooping resumed.

“
I
got it for you, Cecily!” Walter’s voice. And the rattle of play began again. Mistress Wengrave smiled.

“He’s much stronger now, Margaret. It’s a pleasure to hear him outdoors, instead of seeing him huddled all day by the fireside.”

Kat, waiting by the door, shifted impatiently from foot to foot. “One of the men says he’s Robert le Clerc, and he’s brought the other to you with news.”

“News!” I cried, and the embroidery frame clattered to the floor as I stood up too quickly.

“Now Margaret, remember what Master Wengrave said. Don’t you go running to the door unescorted. Kat, I want two armed grooms in the hall beside her when they’re shown in.” Kat curtseyed and ran off.

When Robert and his friend were brought in, I could see why Kat had hesitated. Robert himself was not so bad, though his gray gown was threadbare and he had a hole in his hose. But the man who was with him was utterly astonishing. His chief garment was a strange, patched and repatched cloak, lined with catskins of every variety, parted to reveal a dark wool gown that looked as if it had once belonged to someone much shorter and fatter. And richer too. Beneath the patches on the filthy gown, you could see, like old crusts, the remnants of embroidery in some fancy foreign pattern. I decided the gown must have been either blue or green originally, though it certainly wasn’t even close to either color now. The man’s hose were a devastation, ending in feet that were shod in several layers of rags, wrapped about like bandages. In short, he looked as if the moths had been at him.

His face did nothing to improve the impression. A gray beard of varying lengths met the few wisps of white hair that remained growing about the edges of his head. His eyes, light blue, had an odd sparkle, as if he were a little mad. His skin was pink like a baby’s. An old, mad baby. Had he really heard news of Gregory?

“You are Dame Margaret de Vilers, wife of Sir Gilbert de Vilers? My message is for no one else.” He spoke in French.

“Yes, I am she,” I answered in that language. My heart started to pound.

“I saw your husband in a cart with six other English prisoners, being transported through the streets of Orléans. People were throwing things at them, and the guards were striking right and left, shouting, ‘Don’t spoil their value,’ though their hearts weren’t in it.”

“Go on.”

“I was promised a rich reward.” He stopped.

“You’ll have it when the story’s done.”

“She’s honest,” interjected Robert.

“I’d just spotted a good opening, and was about to throw my rock, when I heard one of them—a big villainous looking dark fellow—reciting in Latin. I knew the passage: Seneca. Well, that’s certainly unexpected—especially from an English goddam. ‘Hey, brother,’ I shouted in Latin, ‘what are you doing in a cart, instead of parsing Latin in a cozy schoolroom?’

“‘The same thing you’re doing dressed up in rags and catskins. Scholarship has brought me low, brother.’ Then, before the guards drove me off, he said to go to London and leave a message at the Kendall House for Margaret de Vilers, saying his ransom had been bought by the Comte de St. Médard, who serves King Charles of Navarre. They were bound for the Comte’s chateau in the Pyrenees. Since King Charles is currently allied with the English, he said he expected to be back home on parole eventually, but that I should bring you this message and receive a rich reward. Those were his exact words—‘a rich reward.’” He looked expectantly at me.

“Go on.”

“Rich, I said to myself. I haven’t heard that word in a good long time. So I got passage as a pilgrim and begged my way all the way here from Dover.”

Alive! He was alive and coming home!

“How long ago was it that you saw him?”

“Oh, more than a month, just before the Feast of the Assumption. Begging’s the slow way to travel. Now, about that reward—”

“More than a month? Then why isn’t he home already? Has something happened to him on the way?” I didn’t like the look on Robert’s face.

“Dame Margaret, I don’t think he’s on the way.”

“What on earth do you mean?” I could feel myself becoming alarmed. So much hope, and now so much fear.

“It’s true the Count is a feudatory of King Charles. Have you heard of him? No? I thought so. He’s not called Charles the Bad for nothing. He’s not a man to put your faith in. But the Count’s worse. He’s got a reputation among the scholars. A necromancer. An alchemist. People who visit him don’t always come away; he’s not a man whose hospitality I’d ever seek out, though he has a lordly reputation among the gentry.”

“But Gregory can pay ransom. Men of good birth are always ransomed.”

“Not by the Count.” I put my hand over my heart. Suddenly I was freezing.

“I was promised a rich reward,” prompted the man in catskins.

“Of course, you’ll have supper,” said Mistress Wengrave.

“Don’t imagine I’ve traveled all this way for supper. I’m going to stick like a burr until I get my reward.” Robert pulled on his cloak and tried to shush him as he grew more and more agitated.

“Your reward will be a good drubbing unless you mend your manners, you beggar.” Mistress Wengrave grew haughty.

“No, no—that’s not fair. He’s brought good news—wonderful news. If you’ll come with me, you’ll get your reward. But you’ll have to wait. It’s in my house, and I have to get it out.”

“What do you mean, Margaret? Those de Vilerses haven’t left you so much as a pin, and they could be back any time and surprise you there. You know what Master Wengrave said. It’s their house now, and the law won’t be on our side if they get hold of you. It’s not like the girls. He has rights, there. But you’re a widow.”

“Widow no more; it’s Gregory’s, and I have rights too.”

“None that will withstand a shortsword, Mistress Margaret,” pointed out Robert. “But I must say, these relatives of Brother Gregory’s sound mercenary. No wonder he avoided them.”

“It’s them that got him in this fix.”

“Nice family.”

“That’s been my thought too—and I’ve had more time than you to think it over.”

“Enough, enough. I didn’t come all this way to hear about families. The reward, you’ve promised.”

“Very well, then. Since you won’t wait—” I’d already felt the cold shadow of Master Kendall floating in the room. He always turned up for any conversation that looked interesting. When things got dull around me, that’s when he went about town, snooping on his old friends, spying on former business rivals, poking into brothels and stews, inspecting his chantry to see if the priest was being neglectful, and generally being far more meddlesome than he’d ever been in life. Lack of occupation always had sat heavy on him.

“Master Kendall?”

“Over here, Margaret, on the bench by the fire.” And I watched as the beloved form, so reassuring, swirled like mist.

“You were right.” I could feel the others staring. Kat shuddered and crossed herself, and Mistress Wengrave clasped her hands together in agitation.

“Of course, Margaret. I’d never lie to you. Now, I suppose, you want the money.”

“Yes, I need it. Travel money, ransom money. And back wages for the household. And now this fellow.”

“Why is she talking into the air?” The scholar drew his catskin cloak tighter against the chill.

“Hsst. You shush. Margaret’s not like other people. You should have left well enough alone and gone away.”

“No, no,” I interrupted. “Master Kendall never liked to be stingy. This fellow needs his reward.”

But, of course, everyone was astonished. We took two grooms with us to keep watch, as we went out the kitchen door at Mistress Wengrave’s. Even though it was midafternoon, the heavy clouds of a gathering storm had suddenly made it dark and dank. Crossing the garden and back alley between the houses, we found that Mistress Wengrave’s gardener had put down his hoe and followed the odd procession. Oh, bother, I thought, all this and rain too. I clutched my billowing cloak to me and looked up at the glowering sky, where the black clouds were rolling as if in a boiling cauldron. As they saw the gate of our stableyard opened, our own outside grooms, who had been hurrying under cover, paused to stare and joined us. The low rumble of thunder and first heavy drops sent us all scurrying into our back kitchen door. Cook looked up first in pleasure, then alarm, as she saw the faces of the grooms. Then she silently left her pottage while the kitchen boy abandoned the knives he’d been sharpening to join the eerie, almost ceremonious party.