In Pursuit of the Green Lion (50 page)

“For your kind of poetry? Erato, I suppose.”

“Yes, that muse. Tell me, since
hirondelle
doesn’t seem to be creating any inspiration, I need another French bird. What do you think of
alouette?”

“So, have they revealed anything?” a patrician voice sounded behind the listeners.

“My lord abbot!” The listeners whirled about. It was indeed Abbot Thibault himself in full hunting garb, a pomander in one gloved hand to ward off the smell of the place. His other hand grasped a leash that restrained a pair of mastiffs on a hunting couple. Behind him pattered his favorite greyhound and his private secretary, Frère Guillaume. The newcomers, man and beast, filled the narrow room behind the wall to bursting.

“One of them—the dark one—is trying to confess, but the other persists in interrupting him with a poem he’s making.”

“A poem? By God, the man has sangfroid. Take the coward first. We need to speed things up.” The Abbot made a languid circular motion with the pomander hand. “We need to find out who they are spying for before their confederates are on us. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were the Archpriest himself, his war chest renewed with the Holy Father’s bribe. Sparing Avignon will have left him hungry.” He paused to inspect the clerk’s notes, then turned toward his secretary. “It is just as well that boastful fellow let their plans slip like that. I do like to have warning when I prepare a defense against siege engines. Frère Guillaume, you’ve told them to double the watch?”

“Yes, of course, my lord abbot.” Frère Guillaume bowed as he spoke, though sadly hampered by the number of bodies in the room.

When the heavy door swung open, Gregory was not surprised that it was him that they wanted. Last to be born, first to be skinned, he thought. That’s how it’s always gone in this family. When they went through the ritual of showing him the instruments, he said sarcastically, “Certainly. What would you like confessed?”

“The truth,” said the Abbot, handing the leash to Frère Guillaume and sniffing his pomander.

“I can do that without all this trash,” said Gregory, waving a hand at the Abbot’s modest but very modern collection of truth extractors. The Abbot spoke to his monks in Latin.

“I thought you said he was the cowardly one.” Gregory’s ears burned, but he said nothing.

“I think you don’t take us seriously,” said the Abbot, returning to face Gregory.

“On the contrary, I take you very seriously indeed,” replied Gregory.

“Then tell us how you got here.”

“I’ve told you already. We escaped the Archpriest on the Rhône above Avignon.”

“Now I know you are lying. No one escapes the Archpriest,” replied the Abbot as he gave the signal for the next stage in the process. Gregory was a bit too long for the rack bed, so it took a while to adjust things properly.

“My, he’s bony,” remarked one of the laboring Brothers in Latin, surveying the stripped figure in front of him.

“A regular starveling,” agreed his colleague. “You can always tell these peasant robbers—haven’t a muscle on them. Now the other one’s much sturdier looking. I wouldn’t be surprised if that one turned out to really be of the
noblesse.” A
livid stain of rage rose up Gregory’s neck and flushed his face. If there was one thing he was touchy about, it was about bloodlines and the clear visibility of the proper order of the universe.

“Why, look,” said Frère Guillaume to his master, “I believe the fellow understands Latin.” The Abbot’s eyes flicked across Gregory’s crimson face.

“This makes it interesting indeed,” the Abbot said, sniffing his pomander once more. “A renegade priest, perhaps. All sorts of riffraff are joining the
écorcheurs
these days.” He crossed the room and leaned close to Gregory’s face, speaking in Latin.

“Tell me who your master is.” He gestured absentmindedly with a gloved hand, and the slack was taken up on the infernal machine.

“The Duke of Lancaster.”

“Aha. That’s better. The English duke. So what are you doing here, so far from Normandy? And why should we not turn you over to the authorities in Dijon for that alone?”

“Because we travel under a papal safe-conduct. Besides, why Dijon? Isn’t Paris closer?”

“Paris? Do you know where you are?”

“Not really. We could not keep up with the party when my lady wife’s time came most inconveniently upon her. We hid long enough for her to give birth, then traveled roundabout to avoid the
écorcheurs.
We thought we’d traveled northwest.”

“You are at St. Michel Archange in Burgundy.”

“Burgundy? My God. That damned Malachi. He said he knew the country.” A glitter caught the Abbot’s eye. A silver-gilt medallion of little value, lying on the
écorcheur’s
bony torso. He recognized it—one of the thousands blessed annually at the Holy See. A pilgrim’s souvenir. There were several exactly like it at the abbey.

“From whom did you steal this?”

“Didn’t—steal—it. Given—for good luck—on the trip. Good luck—hah.” The Abbot looked up from his work at a discreet cough from behind him. A lay Brother with a message had come in and spoke to him in low tones. Gregory could catch a few words:
confession, woman
, and the Abbot saying, somewhat louder, “a curious name, that. Not the sort they’re partial to. You’d expect a saint’s name—” He felt his breath freeze. Margaret. They’d hurt her. The Abbot returned to his business.

“You are the English duke’s spy.”

“No—what spy—takes along his pregnant—wife?”

“What are you then?”

“His chronicler.” The gloved hand signaled once more.

“H
IS
CHRONICLER?”
B
ROTHER
M
ALACHI’S
mouth was full of capon as he spoke. He was pouring another cup of wine from one of several full jugs that graced the well-set table in the comfortable house established for guests of the higher sort that sat in the very shadow of the immense, arched abbey church. Tallow candles fended off the dark, and a cozy fire crackled on the hearth.

“Yes, that’s what I told him, and he said, ‘Ah, a scholar. That explains why your son is Peregrinus. You should have called him Fortunatus, for he has saved you twice.’ Then we were oh, so jovial. ‘You wouldn’t put anything bad in your chronicle about me, would you?’ ‘I’m a generous man,’ I said. ‘I can forgive everything if I’m well treated. My wife, for example, is very tired and hungry, and hasn’t a thing to wear.’ He looked annoyed. ‘I suppose the Duke knows where you are.’ ‘Of course he does, I send him regular dispatches,’ I told him. ‘And don’t let that unworthy thought I see cross your mind,’ I added, ‘lords who slay chroniclers live in infamy for eternity. The brotherhood of scholars sees to that. Surely you, an educated man, should understand how that works. Isn’t everlasting glory a better alternative?’ ‘I’ve got my own chronicler,’ he growled. ‘Nice for a local reputation,’ I said, ‘but I’d be surprised if it were even worth a line in one of the really great chronicles. Now, my master the duke is lord in two nations—that’s a chronicle worth being mentioned in. I imagine you’d have a whole paragraph.’ ‘One?’ he asked. ‘That scarcely does justice to me.’ ‘The Duke of Burgundy has only two,’ I told him. ‘That shows you how scarce space is in a truly significant chronicle.’ ‘Only two?’ he said, and his face got all suspicious. ‘How many did you give the Abbot of Cluny?’ ‘The current abbot?’ I said, sounding innocent. ‘Why, he doesn’t have a half a line, and that only in conjunction with the Duke.’ His eyes narrowed and he thought for a while, then he said, ‘I want three,’ and I knew I had him. ‘I’m worth a lot more than the Duke of Burgundy, it’s my spiritual reputation, you understand—’”

“Try this wine, Sir Hugo,” interrupted Malachi, taking the bottle away from Sim.

“This pheasant is excellent,” pronounced Hugo, wiping his mouth on the tablecloth. “Do take a sample, Old Fox,” and Hugo exchanged bird for wine. “It’s the sauce, you know. These French certainly do know how to make sauces.” He stifled a comfortable belch. “Now I, for my part, offered to write the man an ode of gratitude, but he said he was too modest to accept such tributes, and demanded that Gilbert and I go see his scriptorum. And his library. Absolutely
full
of books—no wonder these foreigners have soft minds. Tomorrow we have to go see his holy spring and collection of shrines, as well as the waterwheel he had built for his mill. Tallest in the region, he says. What a windbag.” Robert, who was cheerfully drunk, had given up eating and was lying propped up against the wall, plinking his lute discordantly and singing:

“Byrd one brere, brid, brid, one brere
,
Kynd is come of love, love to crave….”

“Let’s drink to Clio, the muse of history,” proposed Brother Malachi, renewing his cup.

“What about Erato?” Hugo asked almost plaintively.

“Her too,” said Gregory, “though she’s been a troublesome mistress.”

“Mistress? And here I thought you were a tiresomely married man,” said Hugo, his voice slurring.

“That I am,” responded his brother. “And I wish they’d bring me the news of Margaret that I asked. That’s the only problem with this place. They’re great sticklers for segregation of the sexes. Did I tell you that tomorrow we’ll be dining at the high table at the Abbot’s right hand? At least the Latin speakers will. You’ll be at the head of the guest table, Hugo. No, no—he doesn’t mean to insult you—he says clerical jokes make most noble visitors very bored, even if they aren’t in Latin.” He broke off at the arrival of two lay Brothers.

“Your lady wife does well, my lord chronicler. She is sitting up in bed with her hair all hanging down, giving the baby suck, eating sweetmeats, and complaining. Such is the way of women.” Gregory looked at the man’s horrified face, and a strange, ironic smile flitted across his own.

“Complaining? What about?”

“She says the featherbed is not soft enough, that the maid we sent from the village is not quick enough, and that the bath we had drawn does not have rose water in it. She says it is a great hardship to bathe without rose water.”

“Brother, this does not sound like your wife; it sounds like mine.”

“Wait a moment,” said Gregory, shushing him. “I want to hear more.”

“Oh, how could it ever be doubted that she is a very great lady? She says the linen shift we sent was too coarse, it damages her skin, and she wants new swaddling bands and a basket for the infant to travel in. She says she wishes to be churched, and we must have a feast, or she will always believe we are of little consequence.”

“Oh, she is a tyrant, a shrew,” muttered the second lay Brother. “The man who marries is a fool, lured by a honeypot into the Devil’s own existence.” He shook his tonsured head. “And of all women,”he went on bitterly, “those of great blood are the worst.”

“Have you any idea of what she said to me?” The first turned to his associate for support. “She said I was rude! Imagine! God spare me from the wiles and wickedness of women!” The first lay Brother blessed himself.

“I thank you for your news. Send my lady wife this dish from our table, and assure her that she has my favor.” Gregory spoke in the arrogant, reserved tone of a grand seigneur. When they’d left, he laughed. “I needn’t worry about Margaret; she’s having fun.”

“Fun? I say she’s become spoiled in an instant. You need to beat her again, brother.”

“Whatever for? Didn’t you say your wife acts like that? How many months do you think Margaret observed her? You underestimate Margaret, Hugo. She’s a grand mimic, and she’s having sport. She’s convincing them that she’s a great lady by behaving exactly as they expect. I think she’ll like the dish. It looks to be all vegetables.”

U
P IN THE CORNER
, I could see something misty swirling. “That was well done,” announced the Weeping Lady. “Yes—I couldn’t have done any better myself.” The swirling seemed decidedly self-satisfied. “You can always tell a lady by her tantrums.” There was a tinge of cheerful arrogance in the spectral voice. She surveyed the elegant little room and nodded approvingly at the comfortable furnishings, the well-set table, the little cradle, and the high, soft featherbed. The guesthouse for women of rank even had a high-walled garden before the front door, so that a duchess or queen might take the air without tempting any of the brethren with her bright garments or flashing eyes.

“What’s she saying now, Margaret?” asked Mother Hilde. She was seated in a wonderfully carved little chair, happily counting over the treasures in her pilgrim’s wallet. I must say, I’ve never seen anyone so set on souvenirs as Mother Hilde. Sometimes I think she’d rather have the remembrance than actually be at the place itself. She says that if you’ve only been somewhere, then it’s just in your head, but if you have a souvenir, then everyone else knows you’ve been there, too, and respects you for it. Of course, I think you could just make up a tall story about any old rock or fingerbone, and get the same effect—and you’d think after all the time she’d lived with Brother Malachi, she’d know that too. But oh, no, she says false things don’t light up your memory the same way, and she’s surprised at me. So I repeated the Weeping Lady’s words to her, since she couldn’t hear them as clearly as I can.

The poor silly village girl they’d sent, who spoke heaven knows what kind of dialect, crouched in the opposite corner, as far as possible from the Weeping Lady’s damp mist, trembling and weeping. I must say, she was a useless thing. What on earth possessed them to send such a spineless, hopeless creature to assist us, I do not know. And not a word we said seemed to penetrate her head.

“Now, did I understand it right? You’re in Burgundy?”

“Yes, Madame Belle-mère.” I could see the wall painting—the virtuous maidens with their lamps lit—right through her, she seemed so much less stormy and agitated than before.

“Well then, that is very fortunate. My sister, the one who married so well, lives in Brabant. She has a splendid big house and is always hospitable to relatives. That’s where you must go. There’s many a messenger to and from the court of Hainault to there, so you can easily return home by that route. You see? It’s ever so simple.”