In Pursuit of the Green Lion (52 page)

Gregory could not always follow, but I could see his quick mind absorbing as he took notes behind a hooded candle for the frail lord. I would help, leaning close to the tiny hidden light to sharpen the quills and blot the finished sheets, so that Gregory would not fall behind in his recording of his uncle’s observations. The baby, carried up by a footman, lay beside me in his basket, for it is never too soon for a child to see the stars.

But even the best of visits must come to an end. Sieur Bernard had been pleased to discover that Gregory had been commissioned to do a chronicle, and begged him to include his concerns about the calendar in it. “All that and more,” Gregory responded graciously. And we left with a letter to the celebrated Jehan le Bel, Canon of Liège, who is a great churchman and one of the most successful chroniclers of our age.

“Just so you have an idea of what glory may be attained in this worldly enterprise, unlike that of watching the stars,” said Gregory’s uncle with an ironic smile. And of course, Gregory’s aunt began to weep a full day in advance of our departure in anticipation of how sad she would be when we left.

“Oh my, oh my, it is almost like losing my dear sister all over again,” she sobbed as we sat spinning in her bower. Her youngest daughter, now thirteen and destined for the convent, sat beside us, frail and twisted, but with agile hands that embroidered an altar cloth in elegant, precise stitches. As I admired her work I thought I saw a smoky figure hovering over the embroidery frame, peering at the exquisite design.

“Oh! What’s that?” cried the mother as she crossed herself, and the girl glanced up to survey the forming face with interest.

“Tell her I’ll stay,” said Madame Belle-mère. “I’m not strong enough to cross the water again. Not, of course,” she added with hauteur, “that any other spirit has done it even once anyway. Tell her.”

“Madame, your sister is here with us in spirit,” I said.

“So I see. And she looks so fresh and young too.” Madame sighed. The ghost smiled with pleasure, and rearranged her veil so that the dark curls at her forehead would show to advantage.

“She says she’s going to stay. She doesn’t want to cross with us, and she’s missed you.”

“Oh, you can
hear
her? How I wish I could! Dear Bertrande, make a sign if you hear me.” The ghost raised a vaporous finger.

“Well, if I can speak and you can sign, something can be arranged. I have years’ worth of gossip to catch you up on. And you must tell me of yourself. Whatever happened to the little girl you told me of in the letter you had written to me? …”And so we left Madame in great contentment, for as she said, a whole ghost is quite as satisfactory as a nose anytime.

A
STIFF BREEZE HAD
filled the sail of the little merchant cog and set its pennants flying. It whipped Gregory’s cloak about him as he leaned over the rail, peering for the first sign of the familiar white cliffs. It made the penned horses in the hold raise their heads and whinny. Margaret wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and the baby where she stood, several safe feet behind Gregory. It was her theory that people who leaned over ship’s rails might tumble off at any time and that you can never be too careful. Only the imminent danger to her husband had brought her this many paces from the mast.

“I’m sure I see it, Margaret,” he cried. “And listen to the horses! Even they know we’re almost home.”

“For the good Lord Jesu’s sake, don’t lean so far,” she cried into the salty wind.

“Margaret? What’s happened to you? You’re as brave as a tiger on land.”

“The ocean is entirely different. It’s full of water,” she cried in reply. Gregory removed himself from the rail and returned to her side.

“All right, all right. Here I am, and I didn’t even fall off. People don’t, you know.” He put his arm around her and lifted the cloak so he could peek at the baby’s sleeping face. He still found it hard to believe that he actually had that commodity most desired by men, a son, and had to check often to make sure that the little creature was still exactly the same.

“They could, they could anytime.” Margaret’s voice was agitated. He could feel her shiver as she spoke. “And then it’s just ‘splash!’ and the fishes eat them. And what would I do then?”

“What about me? I’m the one that would be eaten by fishes.” He lifted a sardonic eyebrow.

“It would be your own fault,” she said firmly. “But it would be me who’d be left, and I would suffer more.”

“Then I’ll not be eaten by fishes; I would never wish you to suffer.” He looked out at the ocean, as if dreaming. “Speaking of fishes, what did you think of the one the Canon of Liège served at his banquet?”

“The huge gilded one with the eyes in? Ugh.”

“Biggest I ever saw. And the peacocks, and the swan. He certainly lives well.”

“I like your uncle’s house better.”

“He’s a cleric, but he dresses like a knight, and has a lady and two handsome grown sons for whom he will buy church benefices.”

“Your uncle’s house is visited by learned men. His dinner table is full of wise discussion.”

“So is the Canon’s. And art and music as well. There’s no reason a historian should live shabbily, is there? I mean, God’s not angry at the Canon for living a worldly life, is He?” Gregory drew his cloak around him as he looked up at the fast-flying clouds.

“He certainly doesn’t appear so, does He? Perhaps He favors historians, have you ever thought of that? Did you hear that the Canon always travels with forty armed retainers?” Margaret watched Gregory’s face carefully, and didn’t miss the look of speculation in his dark eyes.

“Now that’s an elegant retinue,” mused Gregory. “He goes wherever interests him, seeking out facts for his chronicle, and kings and princes welcome him and seek his counsel.” His whole face had relaxed as he thought about this, and the shadow of a smile crossed it.

“They shower him with gold and gifts for his writing,” Margaret added helpfully.

“It all goes to show you don’t have to join the Fishmonger’s Guild, like Sir Thomas, if you want to set a nice table in London.” He looked at her.

“You know,” she said, cocking her head on one side as if thinking, “once we’ve set the house to rights and settled our obligations to the neighbors, we should invite your friends to a dinner party. The scholars at the Boar’s Head, I mean. I like them. Only they have to promise not to throw the furniture when they’re drunk.”

“They don’t throw the furniture, Margaret. They’re civilized. They throw people. Father throws furniture.”

“Oh, my goodness. Your father. We’ll have to send him a message when we’ve landed. I wonder how many days of peace we’ll have before he figures out another way to interfere with our lives.”

W
HEN WE LANDED AT
last, Sir Hugo did not wait the night but set off immediately for his father’s house, bearing our news. He had heard at Dover that reinforcements would be soon leaving to join the troops of the Duke in Normandy, and he chafed to be back in action and as far from his wife as possible.

“I’ll look in on Father, get that woman with child, and then—it’s back to France and Fortune. Why leave all the luck to the Prince’s followers? They’re all coming back from Bordeaux richer than the Devil himself. Well, I say, next time it’ll be me!” And off they all went, in a clatter of hoofbeats.

We rode into London from the Southwark side. Even before we’d reached the bridge, people had stopped to gawk and point, for we made an odd sight. Since we had but three horses, Sim rode up behind Gregory, and as little fond as he was of urchins in general, he had become attached, in a sort of horrified and fascinated way, to this urchin in particular. It was hard to say what Gregory looked like, at this point, light-armed and travel stained, his beard untrimmed and his hood rolled around his head like a heathen’s turban. Most likely, a mercenary home from a bad campaign. But there was no mistaking Mother Hilde. With her wide straw hat, now quite battered, tied firmly over her veil and wimple, and her pilgrim badges sewn all over her dusty cape, she rode home in triumph behind Brother Malachi.

“Look, look! Pilgrims come from over the sea!” a girl cried, and Mother Hilde beamed.

“Bless us, good mother!” cried a woman in a patched gray surcoat as she ran up to touch Mother Hilde’s cloak, as if the goodness of the holy places could be rubbed off it. When a little crowd gathered and followed her all the way past the stews to the bridge, she was transported with joy. I got my share, too, for I could hear people say, “Look! A baby born abroad! Look at the beautiful white horse! She must be a lady!”

There were no new heads on the bridge today, which I counted a mercy, for I wished to leave off seeing heads for a while. Just a single skull, picked dry by ravens and unclaimed by relatives, rattled on its spike in the breeze to greet us. Below, the bridge was aswarm with travelers, for it was a fine day. The shops were open, and tradespeople crying their wares. As we threaded our way past the crowds and laden mules by St. Thomas’s chapel, I heard a voice call, “Dame Margaret!” It was Philip, one of Master Kendall’s apprentices who had been given over, at his death, to Master Wengrave. He was taller, and his voice was cracking, but I still knew him. I hailed him and he pushed through the noisy crowd close enough to hear me as I leaned down from the saddle.

“Run to Master Wengrave’s house as fast as you can, good Philip, and tell him I’ve returned safe home, with my lord husband who was in France. And bid Mistress Wengrave to tell our steward to ready the house, for we will sleep there this very night.” And with a joyful whoop, the boy vanished into the throng.

But, of course, once said, the damage was done. The rumor began to rattle that I had abandoned my husband and married a Frenchman, and by the time we turned down Thames Street a woman cried from a window: “That’s him! That’s the Frenchman! Shame! Shame!”

“That’s London for you, Gregory. Everyone knows everything, and it’s wrong. London’s not so great as Paris, nor as grand as Rome, but it’s still best because it’s—”

“Please, God, you weren’t going to rhyme
Rome
with
home
, were you?” he interrupted me.

“Why, no, but I was going to
say
‘home’—oh, my goodness—” and I put my hand up to my mouth. “No, I swear to you, Gregory, I haven’t contracted the rhyming disease. Well, anyway, not yet.”

“If you love me even the tiniest speck or scrap, refrain from becoming infected with it. I fear I have a lifetime of suffering ahead with Hugo.”

“Very well.” I smiled. “I love you more than a speck.”

But we really were home, as Lion’s joyful barking attested and the shouts and laughter confirmed, when we rode into the alley that ran between our stableyard and that of the Wengraves’. Every shutter had been thrown open on either side of the street, and all the neighbors had leaned out to huzzah and wave napkins and scarves like banners before they rushed out to crowd about us and hear the news.

But it was Cecily and Alison I was looking for, even before I’d dismounted. They ran from the door of the Wengraves’ kitchen ahead of everyone else shouting, “Mama! Mama! Mama’s back; I told you she’d come back!” Oh, I was overjoyed.

“My precious babies!” I cried. But when they saw the basket, they stopped short.

“What,” said Cecily, pointing her finger, “is that?”

“Not a present,” said Alison.

“My dears, this is your new little baby brother, who was born overseas. Would you like to see him?”

“We don’t want a baby brother,” announced Cecily in a firm little voice.

“No. Boys are disgusting,” added Alison.

Gregory had dismounted and stood beside me to help me down from the mare.

“He’s
back, too,” said Cecily.

“Did you have to bring
him?”
queried Alison.

Gregory had his back to them, and was facing the mare’s flank. When he heard what they said, he turned around very slowly to look at them. Then he pulled together his fierce, dark eyebrows in a grim stare of disapproval. Never in his life had he looked more like an
écorcheur
, fresh from the killing fields, all dusty and swarthy from the sun.

“I am not ‘him.’ Henceforth, you will address me as ‘Father,’” he stated, very slowly and distinctly. An ordinary child would have quailed.

But the skinny little mophead who had ridden the destrier that had killed a man looked him in the eye and said: “You’re not my papa.”

“No,” he said, and his voice was grave and quiet. “But your papa lives in heaven now, and you need a flesh-and-blood father on this earth, if you are to live to grow up. I am what you have while God wills it. Remember that, and call me Father.” It seemed like an eternity that Cecily stared at him, turning it over in her mind. Alison stuck her thumb in her mouth, waiting for Cecily’s response.

“Yes, Father,” she said, and, hesitating briefly, curtsied in the fashion she had learned from Mistress Wengrave. A look of disgust crossed Alison’s baby face at this betrayal, and she turned on her fat little heel.

“And you,” said Gregory. Alison ignored him. “The little one. Alison. Turn ’round.” She turned. She ruminated on her thumb awhile, thinking. Then she took it out of her mouth. I know her well. She was calculating her advantage.

“Yes, Father,” she said. And holding her skirt in both hands, she wobbled a bit in the form of a curtsey.

“Good,” he said. “Now I will help your mother down so that you may embrace her.” And handing me down, he called a groom to assist him in unfastening the basket, standing guard while the neighbor women swarmed about it crying “Precious! Sweet! How beautiful! How big!” and the horses were led away.

L
ATE IN THE NIGHT
, Gregory sat up in bed. It was so silent that even the crickets had stopped chirping in the garden. The newly hung bed curtains were drawn back, but it was impossible to see anything in the dark behind the closed shutters. The chamber was still stark, denuded of its chests and hangings, and the carpet not yet put back, but that didn’t account for the strangeness of it. He had never slept there before. And he had never sat at the head of his own table before, giving orders and having the servants bring him the dishes for his approval. And never, in his wildest imaginings, had he dreamed that after supper, sitting by the fire, he would hold two little girls on his lap while reading aloud from the romance of
Ywain, the Knight of the Lion
, which stood on the candle-lit bookstand before him. The entire household had watched silently as Alison had taken him by the hand and pointed to the place he should begin—a beautifully painted bookmark placed there by Master Kendall only two days before his death. They had listened with rapt attention as he began to read in his clear, grave voice, for the story, all written in the common tongue from some Frenchman’s tale, is a very good one, and they all had been wondering for some time what had happened after the lion was rescued from the venomous serpent. It was all different. So very different.