In Pursuit of the Green Lion (37 page)

“Joy, joy,” said the baby, as it rolled.

Mindless thing, you haven’t a grain of sense, I scolded.

Someone joggled my arm.

“Your paper, madame, it’s done,” said Fray Joaquin.

“Give it here. I need to read it.”

“Yours, madame,” said the Count, pointing to it where it lay on the gaming table. His head was tilted back, making his chins bulge forward, as he looked down his vast wide nose at me. It had black hairs bristling from the inside. Oh, ugly, I thought, and I shuddered as a cold wind passed through me.

“It’s worthless without the seal, you know,” he added. “I’ll seal it and give you this ring after our—private agreement tonight. You understand? When I retire, I expect you there—”

I couldn’t bear it. I stuffed the paper into my bosom and bolted through the press of people, weeping.

“Good—it begins,” I could hear him say as I fled. The sound of raucous laughter echoed down the corridor after me.

CHAPTER TEN

B
ROTHER MALACHI LEANED OVER THE seething mass of molten metal, holding his breath against the hideous fumes rising from the crucible. The firelight glistened on his face, making it all ruddy; sweat ran in great rivulets down his forehead and trickled down his cheeks almost like tears. He was wearing a great leather apron to prevent his gown from going up in flames. Heavy gauntlets, drawn almost to the elbow, protected his hands. His left hand held the leather sack, now open, that contained the Red Powder; his right held his black iron stirring rod.

“Almost ready,” he said, pulling his head back from the intense heat.

“Sulfur. You haven’t added the sulfur yet. Villanova says it must be at the beginning of the process.” The glancing light from the inferno made Messer Guglielmo’s eyes blaze unnaturally.

“But Lull says that it can only be now. Unless, of course, you think as little of Lull as you think of Magister Salernus, who says that the process must take place during the full moon, if it is to multiply correctly.”

“And where, pray tell, does he say that?” Messer Guglielmo’s voice was all sarcasm.

“You think he’d give away a secret like that? It’s in the seventh illustration on the twenty-first page. He has them encoded in multiples of seven. It distinctly shows the peacock under the full moon, just after the Green Lion.”

“Not in my copy, it doesn’t.”

“Your copy is corrupted. Did you see the error on the page of the descent of the dove?”

“Well, that I’ll grant—but the full moon signifies the presence of silver, whereas carrying out the process under the full moon should be depicted as a pregnant queen, in his system, and I see no such thing.”

Even the dumb assistants, taken in by the argument, leaned forward to inspect the process. Brother Malachi ceased stirring, drew the tall stool beside the athanor to the wall, and sat down. He leaned his back against the cool stones and sighed, lifting an arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the crook of his elbow, never letting go of the precious little sack. His rod lay across his lap, still clutched in a gauntleted hand.

“Now,” the waspish voice of Messer Guglielmo broke in, “you can’t go further without the fixative. You must have it prepared before you now, fresh, or you will destroy the process.”

“I don’t use that fixative. It’s not necessary. It’s evil. The power that created the universe and transforms it is good. The Red Powder won’t work—besides—”

“Excuses again. Cowardly excuses, unfit for a scientist. You can’t evade anymore, you overrated excuse for an alchemist. That kind of talk might fool an amateur, but you have to deal with a professional this time. Do you hear?” Messer Guglielmo paced nervously, his voice rising to a raspy screech. Brother Malachi leaned against the wall, drawing long, shaky breaths, his eyes glazed.

“I can’t imagine how you ever got as far as you did, without the daring required for true investigation—without the willingness to take risks. It’s I who have the Secret almost within my grasp. I didn’t need you. But oh, no, the famous Theophilus, or someone who claims he’s him, must be given everything.” He pulled several hairs from his beard with a nervous gesture as he paced back and forth.

“Tonight is your night, Theophilus, and you cannot dream how greatly I crave your failure. Irritation. Irritation! You infuriate me. Fail, Theophilus, fail! And when Asmodeus has brought me the triumph, I’ll have the pleasure of watching you die slowly, slowly—” He looked up with a start. Fray Joaquin, having entered silently, stood before him like a shadow.

“Fail? He’s failed?” the Dominican asked with a faint, ghoulish smile.

“The process is at the point of change. The next step is the sulfur, at the peak of the heat. Then, as it changes color, the Red Powder must be added. But I haven’t my full moon, so it won’t multiply as much as it should—” Brother Malachi explained wearily.

“Do you hear him making excuses already? He’s trying to save himself ahead of time. I told you, I know his type.”

“You are to call Asmodeus,” said the black-cloaked friar.

“Call my Asmodeus to rescue this fool from his mess? Give this amateur here credit for my success? After all I’ve been through? If I run the risk of calling Asmodeus, it will be for my own triumph.”

“You are under orders.”

“I haven’t the offering. The Count hasn’t sent it down yet. Besides, it takes time to lay out the circle. We can’t afford to make a mistake with it this time.” The memory of the towering demon beating his powerful wings against the frail barrier made even the waspish Messer Guglielmo turn a little pale.

Brother Malachi bowed his head and crossed himself. His lips were moving in silent prayer. The stirring rod lay across his knees.

“Then start laying it out now, you jackass!” Fray Joaquin picked up a large ladle from the broad wooden table in the corner and began to batter the unfortunate Messer Guglielmo about the head. He threw up his hands to protect his head and backed into the corner, crouching until the storm of blows abated.

“But—the sacrifice?”

“You know perfectly well that I don’t do them. He always wants to do them himself. He’ll be a bit late tonight. You’ll have to hold the process until he brings the woman’s body down.”

“Woman? I thought he had an infant left.”

“He does. This is something else. He has a woman in his chambers now, and when his pleasure is done, he’ll break her neck and have her brought down with the sacrifice.”

“That doesn’t sound alchemical. Asmodeus doesn’t like women.”

“No—he says it’s something about art.”

Malachi’s eyes started, but his body remained slumped against the wall, as if he’d heard nothing. He took a deep breath.

“The time is now,” he said, getting up carefully, and making a great show of inspecting the equipment. “The process is ripe. I will produce gold.”

“Now?” Fray Joaquin turned on him. “This soon? Take care what you promise.” But his eyes were shining with greed.

“He’ll fail,” snapped Messer Guglielmo. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“No I won’t,” said Brother Malachi, and he leaned over the crucible and emptied the Red Powder into it, stirring it in with the iron rod in the shape of overlapping triangles, the star of Solomon, chanting unintelligibly at each angle the dark rod made in the flaming mass.

“I
WANT HIM RELEASED
tonight. Not tomorrow after the joust.” My voice sounded firm as I stood a few paces from the open door to the Count’s bedchamber, but my knees were shaking and my stomach queasy. Little Brother Anselm had accompanied me to the door, remonstrating the whole while about Ursula and her virgin martyrs.

“The crown of virtue is preferable to the muck of sin,” he preached. “Besides, I have come to the considered conclusion that this count is not a trustworthy man. No indeed. He may very well try to trick you, once he has what he wants. After all, he should have brought forth your husband rejoicing, and crowned him with laurel leaves, and had a feast of song. That’s what a nobleman would do. But him? He’s a poor sport and a bad loser. He makes excuses, he wants jousts. I think he’ll cheat you, and then where will you be? Minus your virtue, and minus your husband, too, who will be required by his honor to renounce you, once he hears what’s happened.”

“I’ve thought of that already,” I told him. God, his chatter was getting tiresome! There’s nothing more annoying than someone who’s slower than you are to figure out the obvious.

“I tell you, you’re a fool. Women are. It’s why they should only act with the advice of men.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe that’s what I’m doing? And you yourself say it’s stupid,” I turned on him. “So tell me which man is right, and then I’ll do my duty, eh?”

“Our Lord Jesus Christ,” he said, rolling his eyes heavenward and crossing himself.

“Oh! Easy to say!” I turned on my heel in a fury, but he followed me to the threshold anyway. The door was wide open. The room was lit with dozens of flickering candles. There were sconces on the wall, between the perches where his nasty big satin doublet and huge hose with pointed leather soles were hung. A silver candelabrum with a dozen candles sat on a little round table that was covered with an embroidered cloth and set with a jug of wine, a single goblet, and a little rere-supper—a cold fowl in some sort of sauce, a covered dish, and bread. On a vast gilded bed at the center of the room, an immense figure lounged, clad only in the night napkin around his head and a great, fur-lined
robe de chambre
that he had allowed to fall open suggestively.

“I knew you’d come.” His deep voice rose from the shadows.

“I want him now, not tomorrow,” I said firmly, staying close to the open door.

“I intend to take you to him, once we have finished our little—talk—here—” The figure uncoiled itself from the bed. “Jean, you may go. And close the door after you.” The valet left, and the door made a heavy sound as it shut. I felt suddenly cold all over, and shuddered.

“Cold? Perhaps a little wine will warm you.” He gestured to the table. Beneath the supper dishes, the gold and silver threads of embroidery on the cloth shone in the candlelight. There was a little bench with a back on it behind the table.

“I’m—not thirsty. I want him back. You’ve already sworn—”

“Don’t be so nervous. You doubt my good faith? Look—here’s the ring.” He had to twist it to get it off, it was so wedged on. It marred the gesture, which seemed to annoy him briefly. “I put it on the table, so, as a pledge.” He moved as carefully and smoothly as a trainer with a wild horse—his eyes never leaving mine, as he set it on the table.

“And the sealing wax too. You see it there?” he said in the soothing voice that animal trainers use. “Sit down, and have some wine.”

“It could be poisoned,” my mind sang silently in a cool little voice.

“You’re afraid of the wine. Look. It’s a single cup. The goblet of lovers. Tonight we shall both drink from it. You see? I drink first.” He swallowed the wine in a single great gulp and then renewed it from the silver jug.

“The wine already poured was good. Beware the wine in the jug.” My mind’s silvery trilling seemed to come from far away.

“Now, sit down,”he said, in that same even, terrifying tone.

“I’m not tired,” I answered. “I came to talk about Gilbert de Vilers. I want horses, I want your ring. I want to be far from here as soon as possible. A gentleman would have offered these things, without all this—charade.”

“Sit down!” he roared, and the suddenness of his anger terrified me. I sat.

He crowded himself onto the little bench beside me, and his bulk filled it all up to overflowing. I could feel all those rolls of flesh pressing against me, beneath the robe, which fell open to reveal his curiously hairless chest—no, not hairless. Shaved. Ugh. How revolting. And he smelled of something sickly sweet. What was it? Phew. Lilac water. If I ever get out of this, I thought, I’ll never be able to stand lilacs again. Mind, mind—think of something. Make me quick.

“You’re not thirsty? Try—a wing of capon.” He gouged his fingers into the flesh of the dead bird and came up with a morsel, which he held between his thumb and forefinger near my lips. I could feel my eyes growing wide, and my stomach churning.

“I—I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry?” he said, feeding himself the morsel and wiping his lips on the napkin. “It’s delicious.” He smacked his curiously red lips. “The sauce—I am a connoisseur of sauces.”

“I want Sir Gilbert now.”

“Now? That hairy, barbaric ape?” He saw my eyes sneak, with a kind of fascinated horror, to the billowing rolls of naked flesh revealed by the open robe.

“Women tell me it’s fascinating,”he said, looking at my face. “I am this way all over. You should try it yourself. The pain—is—delicious.”

I was so disgusted, I couldn’t stop my tongue.

“It’s just like a great big ugly baby” popped out of my mouth, and then I shrank back, waiting for the blow.

But he was pleased, and his horrid red lips glistened with spit as he smiled.

“Exactly. A lovely, lovely baby. How would a sweet baby harm you? You will love it entirely. The ultimate moment of your life—”

God assist me, God assist me, I prayed silently. Get me and Gregory out of this in one piece. I didn’t know they made people this repulsive in the whole wide world. Time. I need time.

“I—um—thought your ‘Ode to Summer’ was very beautiful,” I ventured. I could feel the odious body relax slightly.

“Which part did you like best?”

“The—ah—summeriness of it. It was so very—summery.”

“And—?”

“The birds part—it was very lovely—um, the ‘tirilay.’ And the flowers. I like flowers.” All except lilacs, I thought. I never want to smell one again.

“Flowers—lovely little flowers like marguerites,” he said, and he took the pins out of my headdress. I shuddered again as I felt him caress my hair.

“Sip the wine,” he said as he offered the goblet with the other hand. “It will take the chill off.”

“Do—do you write a lot of poetry? I—I like poetry. Beautiful expression is—ah—very—very nice—in a man. Some say it’s—the most attractive thing—”

“Poetry? Has no one told you, I am the greatest trouvère in the history of trouvères, the greatest trouvère that ever lived in six kingdoms? Those formerly accounted great—Count Raymond of Toulouse, Guilhem de Poitou, and the other riffraff—everyone agrees I excel them as the hawk soars above the sparrow. I am called ‘The King of Troubadors,’ by many. Have you never heard of my ‘Ode to My Lady’s Tiny Foot’?”

“N-no. I come from a very backward place.”

“That you do, let me assure you.” He was beginning to be distracted. Now, if I could just get him deep in this poetry thing.

“You have a very tiny foot, I imagine.” He was looking at my neck. It made it feel all itchy.

“Well, not
so
tiny.”

“You must imagine that I wrote it especially for your lovely little foot. I would have, if I had seen it.”

“I’d—really like to hear it.”

“Ah, my lovely little flower, only if you promise to bare your precious little white foot for me as my reward.”