In Pursuit of the Green Lion (35 page)

A
S THE GATE-HORN
echoed in the stony inner court, the
pucelles
in the Countess’s antechamber rushed to hang out the windows. “Visitors, visitors!”they cried. “Oh, let me see!” For after all, visitors always bring hope—a future husband may be among them. Mother Hilde suppressed a smile as she went on compounding herbs for a poultice in her mortar. “What’s their degree? Can you make out the arms?” came the excited voices of the maids-in-waiting. “Nothing I’ve ever seen,” came a disappointed voice from the window. “A foreigner—three cockleshells and a dragon—no, a lion.”

Three cockleshells! My God! I leapt from the hearth and crowded my way into the window. The sight below froze my heart in a moment. A knight in full armor, visor up, a pilgrim’s cloak tied behind his saddle, led the procession that rode from the bailey gate into the inner court. Beside him rode his squire, and behind them were six men at arms escorting a hooded woman on a white palfrey whose rich crimson gown peeped out from beneath her heavy dark cloak. The coat of arms—why there wasn’t the slightest doubt about it. Sir Hugo de Vilers had found me at last! And as if that weren’t enough, he had brought my haughty and vindictive sister-in-law to witness his triumph. Oh, there was no mistaking it—I’d know that dress anywhere. So very close—and now Gregory was lost forever! I couldn’t hide my trembling as I turned back to Mother Hilde.

But now the apartments were in a hubbub, for at the thought of a visit by another gentlewoman, the Countess had roused from her lethargy and begun to dig feverishly in her chests.

“At last, a lady to converse with—tell me, what are those arms? I didn’t recognize them.” The Countess was querying her attendant, who had gone to take a closer look as the guests were received in the hall.

“English arms, my lady.”

“Oh, maybe another ambassador. From the English prince’s force at Bordeaux?”

“That’s what he said, my lady.”

“Was the lady well dressed? Perhaps she can tell me of the latest fashions. Oh, it’s so hard, being buried here away from everyone, to entertain in the latest style.”

“She was in crimson, embroidered with gold, my lady.”

“Crimson, did you say? Then this old brown velvet will hardly do. It’s all worn bald. Look! What a shame my lord never sends me to Orléans to have gowns made, the way he once did when I had his favor. Crimson—oh, not the blue, no—”

“The gold silk, my lady?”

“Oh, yes, that’s it. Much nicer than crimson. Yes—the gold silk—tell me, has it creases in it?”

And so it went as Mother Hilde and I crouched at the fireside and whispered, unnoticed in the commotion.

At supper, allowed out of her apartments at last, she glittered brilliantly, seated among her ladies, with the beautiful visitor seated by her side. Sir Hugo, being only a knight, and not even a knight banneret, sat many places down from the noble ambassadors of the Count of Foix. Already, the rumor had swept the tables that the knight was from the English force at Bordeaux, and that the noblewoman was his sister-in-law, whom he had escorted here for the purpose of fulfilling a curious request of the Comte de St. Médard: that he would receive her husband’s ransom only from her own hand.

“And imagine,” said the gossipy Brother Anselm, who was as at home in the
langue d’oc
as the
langue d’oil
, “there’s not a noble prisoner here, unless he’s locked below, which would be a great breach of chivalry. ‘It would be most unchivalrous—the Count would be despised throughout Christendom,’ said I to the ambassador’s groom, and he said to me, ‘So says my master, who has warned the Count not to make enemies of the English while they are on his doorstep, especially since he has no way of knowing which way his own king will ally himself. But the Count just growled that the King of Navarre was seized by a ruse at a dinner party by the French king, and no one says that the French king is unchivalrous. But my master said the Count of Foix cannot be seen to make peace with someone who makes enemies of the English prince.’ So, you see, it’s altogether curious. My, just look up there at the dais. What kind of a wife is that? She’s flirting with the ambassador himself.”

Even from where I sat, shrinking behind the fattest of the pilgrims to keep from being recognized, I could see the ambassador, his face red with drink and desire, leering from beneath his gray moustaches at her. And though she was too far from him to speak, her eyes sent him messages that could not be ignored. And who could ignore her? Every man in the place was drawn to stare at her blazing beauty. Wisps of golden curls peeped from beneath her pearl-embroidered headdress, as she blushed prettily and stared demurely down at the table. Amid these sallow southern complexions, her white and rose English skin shone like a jewel. And never has a crucifix moved up and down so suggestively as the one that sat on the immense bosom revealed by her tightly laced, low-cut crimson gown. I was right about the gown. I knew it well indeed. But it certainly never had looked like that on Lady Petronilla. Who was the woman wearing it? Her eyes were down—I waited until she glanced up to see. But I stared so hard I nearly choked on the wine I was drinking. Could it be? It certainly could be no one else. It was Cis, the laundress! What on earth could have brought her here, dressed like this?

Cis sat at the dais like a brilliantly colored butterfly at the very center of the Count’s web. She fluttered and glanced about under her eyelashes as if she didn’t even understand that her feet were firmly glued to the fatal net. Then we could see the Countess speak to her, and she stared at the trencher and blushed again, to the admiration of the gentlemen at the table. The Countess appeared frustrated. She gestured to another lady and had her speak to the beautiful stranger. Again, a pretty blush. The ambassador sent his own cup of wine to her, as a favor, and she gazed through her lashes with a look of grateful adoration. The Count raised an eyebrow at the exchange, and his red lips worked as if he tasted some little disgusting thing. I didn’t think the look boded well at all. Then he addressed a remark to his partner on the left. Never have I wished more that I could hear what was going on.

At length, supper was done, though Mother Hilde had barely touched her food, and the tables were cleared away for the evening’s entertainment. I mixed in what I hoped was an invisible fashion with the knot of pilgrims trying to improve their view of the entertainment, and edged closer so I could try to hear all that was going on. It was pretty much the usual stuff for the Count’s hall, a sort of flamboyant little pageant designed by the lord of St. Médard himself to display his artistry and taste. First the minstrels played and sang. Then there were dancers, this time dressed as “savages” in hairy skins and wolf masks, who made mocking, obscene gestures as they cavorted. Then youths all in silk, representing something very symbolic, vanquished the savages with wands wound with silk ribbons. The ambassador managed to get himself seated next to Cis. She took advantage of the situation to let her hand creep into his lap. His hand, in turn, seemed to vanish somewhere behind her where it couldn’t be seen. Then, as pages played trumpets to announce something very special, the Count leaned toward Hugo, where he sat on the other side of Cis, and said loudly, “This next creation is my own; tell me what you think of it.”

There followed a very silly song about summer. The words rhymed, after a fashion, but though I know little about poetry, I know that something you sing must go bumpety-bumpety the same way, like a horse’s gait, and not go changing around from trot to canter, or as if the horse had suddenly gone lame. And oh, goodness, it had shepherds piping, and lasses dancing, and birds singing, but all somewhat wrong, though it’s hard to say why. After the song, there was a polite murmur, since everyone had heard the Count’s words.

“Well?” said the Count. Sir Hugo shifted uncomfortably.

“I haven’t much of a head for poetry, you know. I’m just a soldier. I like hunting horns—ha! That’s music! But it seemed very good to me. Yes, especially that part about the birds singing, ‘tirilay, tirilay!’ I could imagine myself hunting grouse.”

The Count’s face relaxed. He knew a heartfelt comment when he heard one.

“You wouldn’t, by any chance, consider the subject somewhat … used?”he said in a significant tone. Why, I could not imagine.

“Used? Whatever for? Doesn’t summer come every year? It can’t be used up! Myself, I can’t get enough of summer. My favorite season!”

“Spoken like a gentleman!” exclaimed the Count, and then he leaned forward with a blazing look. “But not spoken like any brother of the ill-spoken, villainous rogue I hold in my cellar. Either you are an impostor, Sir Hugo, or the man you’ve come to ransom is one. I prefer to think the latter.”

“An impostor? I’ve come all this way to ransom an impostor?”

“Do you think I’d keep a gentleman in the cellar? What’s your game, Sir Hugo—or better yet, that of your master at Bordeaux? And who is that jingle maker I’ve got in my cellar?”

“How dare you insult me! I’ve come on a mission of honor to ransom my long-lost brother, Sir Gilbert de Vilers, whose ransom you purchased after the siege of Verneuil, and whom you are honor bound to allow to be redeemed.”

“You wish to challenge me, little English sparrow hawk? I am undefeated in tourney and in battle. Look at me, I am the Count of St. Médard!”And the Count unfolded his huge bulk from the chair and stood towering over Hugo: a full head and a half taller than any man in the room, and twice the weight, all solid muscle beneath the rolls of fat.

“I do not insult you. You insult chivalry,” replied Hugo, turning red at the neck. “I say here, in front of these noble guests and witnesses, that I am a man of honor, on a mission of peace.” Beside him, the ambassador of the Count of Foix seemed most interestingly intertwined with Cis. Perhaps it was that his beard had accidentally become entangled in the elaborate metalwork of the crucifix, but it was hard to tell.

“Peace? Whose peace? Reveal yourself now, or face me in the tilt-yard tomorrow.” Everyone was staring at them now. Even the ambassador recovered his lost hand, and paid new attention.

“You sent a messenger to England, to request that my brother’s ransom be paid by the white hand of Margaret, his wife. And I sent a return message that we should come to meet your terms by that fellow, there—that Dominican with the gray face—and so, we have arrived. And where is our greeting? Why have you not treated us with honor? Only insults, unworthy of a Christian lord.”

“I said that?” The Count turned and gave the sinister creature who stood by his shoulder a suspicious glance.

“A vision, my lord. A hallucination. Part of the drawing spell,” hastily mumbled the monk at his elbow.

“Oh. Aha. I see. So, Sir Hugo, this is the beautiful Margaret, poetical inspiration?” He cast his eyes on Cis with renewed interest, then glanced sideways about the room, as if he regretted the presence of so many witnesses.

“Absolutely. Come to pay his ransom personally. And since we’ve met your terms, you’re honor bound to accept.”

“Come here.” The count motioned to Cis. She looked down demurely. “She doesn’t speak French?” he said curiously to Hugo.

“Not all women do in England,” Sir Hugo said boldly.

“But the
noblesse
do. This is curious,” answered the Count.

“She’s brought the money.”

“But so pious and shy. Perfect for my purpose.”

“Whatever you have in mind, you must redeem my brother.”

“Your brother? I have my doubts about that. A tall, dark-headed, bony fellow who writes bad poetry?”

“Poetry? I didn’t know he wrote poetry. It sounds like him, except for the poetry. Speculations about God, that sort of thing—but poetry? Well, maybe. He had on a seal ring like this—” Sir Hugo extended his hand.

“Like that? No. He didn’t have any ring at all. Probably taken. But would you say he’s stubborn?”

“Stubborn as the Devil.”

“And has the habit of calling his insults Truth?”

“That’s him to the life.”

“Then that’s who I have. But you can’t be brothers. Not unless your lady mother slept with a stable-groom.”

“You insult my lady mother! By God, did you hear that, you lords? My lady mother was as pure as the snow!”

“Stay your hand, English popinjay, unless you wish to die tomorrow. The Sieur d’Aigremont will slay you at a blow.” The ambassador leaned forward to prevent potentially dangerous bloodshed. The Count leaned back in his chair and watched Sir Hugo with a faint smile, as he might watch a foolish animal sniffing the bait in an unsprung trap.

“Tell the lovely Margaret that I will agree not to kill you yet. First, I wish her to see something. Fray Joaquin, the letter, please.” Fray Joaquin pulled a little folded paper packet, the seals broken, from beneath his robe, and handed it to his master, who unfolded it and waved it beneath Sir Hugo’s nose.

“Now, what does this mean to you, Sir Hugo?” he asked.

“Me? I don’t read. Ask the priest to cypher it.”

“Give it to the lady Margaret.” Cis took it, held it upside down, and gazed demurely at the floor.

“Ask her to read it, Sir Hugo.”

“Read it?” Sir Hugo turned pale. “What’s in it?”

“It’s a letter carried by your pseudo brother from the real Margaret. It appears that this Margaret can’t read it. I believe you have cheated me, Sir Hugo. I want the Margaret who wrote this letter, or you haven’t fulfilled my terms, have you?”

“Well, ah—umm—that Margaret—that Margaret is the cousin of this Margaret. And that Margaret—she’s very ill. Brokenhearted. Near Death’s door. Couldn’t travel. So this Margaret said she’d come. They look almost exactly alike, and, um, you just said you wanted a Margaret—so here she is, to meet your demands!”

“So this one’s a Margaret too. That accounts for it. The fool didn’t specify when he cast it,” the Count said to himself, and turned to the Dominican, still bowing at his elbow. “Fray Joaquin,” he hissed, “you accursed bumbler, you’ll pay for this.” Then he turned back to Sir Hugo. “No Margaret, no ransom. Go home and get me the real Margaret, Englishman.”