The Water Devil (12 page)

“—and my heirs, for ever, as long as there are any,” added Hugo. “Good,” said his father. “It's entirely fair. The thing in the water and I have come to an understanding. In my experience with the French, you can usually make truce, as long as you offer up something.”

“But father, you've offered
me
up.”

“Well, after all, you're my firstborn, and the heir. That ought to be worth something to a pond, for God's sake. Besides, Hugo, it's time you learned to keep your promises. It's good for the soul. Aerates it, and makes it easier to remember what you planned to do.”

NOW THIS I CAN TELL YOU
, it is as sure as God created the itch that everything always happens on whitewashing day. The disorder attracts other disorder the way a dog attracts fleas, and pretty soon you're vowing never to whitewash again, and let chaos reign by degrees instead of all at once.

My lord husband saw the servants scooping out the old rushes from the hall and said, “Whitewashing day? How did it come so soon?”

“You yourself had them take down the tapestries and all those old battleaxes and deers' antlers yesterday.”

“But I didn't think it would be
today.
I just remembered I have to go to the illuminator's to see how they're doing with the Duke's book.” Thumbs tucked in his belt, he vanished out the door.

Then Adam le Plasterer arrived at the back gate with two burly journeymen and his push-cart full of whitewash at the same time that the men with the new rushes came, and the entire neighborhood could hear them quarreling over who would enter the gate first.

“Everything all gone. The hall is
naked,”
announced Peregrine, who had come trailing in with Mother Sarah and my old dog, Lion, who spends most of his time sleeping under the bed. The dog snuffled around on the bare tile floor, looking for a bone he had hidden in the rushes and then looked up at me with a damaged expression. “Mama, men fighting. Take Peregrine to watch.”

“No I won't,” I said as I hurried past the kitchen screen to the back door. There in the kitchen courtyard stood a half-dozen donkeys so laden with bundles of rushes you could only see their feet, an abandoned pushcart, and a half-dozen tradesmen shouting insults and close to blows.

“You fool, you've come a day too soon. You can't put new rushes down until the walls are whitewashed.”

“All over this city, you are known for your sloth,
Master
Adam. It's you who've come late, and now I can't make my next delivery.”

Ah, me, Margaret, I thought. You've made deals with the devil incarnate, you ought to be able to settle this quarrel. But as it usually
is with peacemakers, by interrupting them, I took the blame. They decided that womanlike, I had told them each the wrong time, and it was with greatest difficulty that I convinced the rush man to pile the bound rushes in the center of the room where they would not interfere with the whitewashing, and the whitewashers to let them enter first on the grounds that they would be soon leaving.

“This wall,” said Adam le Plasterer from the top of his ladder, “whoever did this plastering job? It's coming out in big chips. Why, you can almost see the stone here! He mixed it wrong. You should never have hired him.”

“It was done long before my time,” I said, standing down by the wood wainscoting that circled the base of the hall, and turning my head up to the rafters.

“Well, that accounts for it. You've let it go far too long. I'm afraid I'll have a big job here, much bigger than just whitewashing.” I stood on tiptoe, and scratched at the plastered stone as far I as I could reach. Sure enough, it came away in a big, damp flake.

“Maybe it's the damp,” shouted down Master Adam from his lad- der. “You could have a hidden leak in your roof. You'll need to send for the roofer if you don't want to loose the next plastering job. I don't think you can go ahead with the whitewash until I've redone the wall.” Not a day of disorder, but weeks of disorder now stretched before me, all, of course, accompanied by greater expense.

Madame came down, accompanied by the girls. Prompted by her, they both curtseyed deeply and greeted me as “Madame, our honored mother.” Ah, manners. The problem is, if other people have them, then you have to have them, too. I gave them both my blessing and inquired after their progress.

“Madame de Vilers,” she said, looking about the chaotic room, and stepping delicately about the bundled rushes, “today we shall take our lesson out-of-doors.” She was carrying a large basket. “We shall be learning tapestry stitches and reviewing the desireable ways of behaving at table. And what have we already learned today, Mademoiselle Alison?”

“A person of gentle breeding never wipes his hands on the table- cloth, nor does he blow his nose in the same hand with which he takes meat.”

“Excellent,” I said. “In these few weeks, you have worked won- ders, Madame.” She inclined her head graciously.

“Now you, mesdemoiselles. You must thank your mother gra- ciously for her interest in your progress.” The girls looked at each other, that knowing look they have, then each inclined her head at exactly the same angle as Madame.

“Thank you, Madame our Mother,” they chorused with sarcas- tic politeness. Madame turned to leave, or, rather, rotated, back straight, as if she were oiled. They did the same. Madame never walked, she glided as if on wheels. As she glided off, the girls glided behind her, heads up, backs rigid, in perfect imitation. Only when she had vanished beyond the kitchen screen did they turn their heads back to see what impression they had made, their eyes brim- ming with deviltry.

“You don't see girls like that very often,” I heard one of the plas- terers remark. “So ladylike, and so young.”

If you only knew, I thought. Thank goodness the Burgundians are paying for all this. Through the open window from the street came bright sunlight, dancing with shining dust motes, and the sound of the St. Paul's jacks beating nine o'clock in the morning. Another hour, and it would be dinner-time.

“Dame Margaret, where will you have dinner set?” I had been too distracted to notice Perkyn at my shoulder. There was already a crashing and banging sound in the kitchen, as they set up trestle tables for the household.

“For the family? In the solar—”

“A lot of dust here,” observed the old man. “Whitewashing should always be done first thing in the spring. Then there's no dust.”As if we had a penny in the spring, let alone what all this plas- tering's going to cost, I thought, but on account of his long service, I bit my tongue.

“They're likely to be here a while, aren't they?” he said, wandering
between the piles of rushes and looking at the men on ladders. “Where will you be setting a place for that Madame personage, in the kitchen or the solar?”

“Upstairs—oh, merciful heaven!” There was a terrible crash as the front door was thrown open. With a clatter of metal, a terrifying figure filled the door, booted, spurred and armed, gray hair flying, wild gray beard and massive gray eyebrows like clumps of weeds, clothes dusty with travel.

“Where's the steward! Tell my son we've ARRIVED! Boy, take the horses round to the stable. What IS this wreckage in here? Mar- garet, this is your doing!” All plastering stopped. All eyes were on the ferocious figure in the door. My heart sank. The perfect addition to the day. My father-in-law, on one of his surprise visits to the City.

“Margaret, WHERE'S my SON?” he shouted, as if I'd hidden him somewhere. Gilbert claims he shouts because he took too many hits on the helmet, and it deafened him, but I think he shouts to create more space around him. Space and terror.

“My lord husband is at the illuminator's,” I answered, and stared him calmly in the eye. He'd brought a half-dozen of his favorite hounds with him, huge brindled creatures with heavy heads and slavering jowls, and they bounded in, sniffing and smelling in the corners. The plasterers stayed prudently perched above.

“At the
WHAT
? What's he fiddle-faddling about with that sort of thing for? Twenty-eight and nearly middle aged and he still hasn't
MADE
anything of himself!
THREE TIMES
to France in
BATTLE
, not even
COUNTING
the time he ran off to
WHIFFLE AWAY
his time studying to be some sort of
GODFORSAKEN CLERK
, and he's
NEVER BEEN WOUNDED IN THE FRONT
! And what hap- pened this time? He was hit by lightning and his horse
FELL
on him! He should be well by now! He should be in France with the Duke, not messing around with illuminators and jugglers and who knows what other sort of
TRASH
!” I noticed Hugo, Gilbert's older brother, was leaning in the doorjamb, arms folded, absorbing the denunciation with great enjoyment. He looked more French than ever. He had on a ridiculous blue-dyed beaver hat with a tiny brim
and an immense sheaf of peacock feathers held on with a little gold brooch. The toes of his shoes had grown long and pointed, and the fashionably dagged hem of his tunic had shrunk until it showed his backside. He had on parti-colored hose. I knew for a fact the old man hated parti-colored hose. He said they were for mountebanks.

“He is preparing a manuscript for the Duke's return. The Duke has written a book of theology,” I answered. I couldn't help it. The day was already hard, and I was tempted to stir things up a bit.

“Theo-what?” the old man choked. “Even the duke himself is writing about God? I tell you, it's Gilbert's doing. He's a corrupting force.”

“Confessions or prayers?” asked Hugo, suddenly interested, as his nose smelled a change in fashion.

“Confessions. And a bewailment of sins classified according to the parts of the body.”

“Ha. It
SMELLS
of Gilbert's influence. I swear, the boy's perni- cious,” said Sir Hubert, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“Father, theology is very fashionable in the highest circles these days. I was thinking of doing a book of confessions myself one of these days. After I have my poetry written up.”Trust Hugo to know the exact way to get under the old man's skin. Too much time to- gether. Poor Hugo; thirty years old and still living at home. The cursed lot of the oldest son, living in dependence and waiting end- lessly to inherit.

“
YOU? CONFESSIONS
? Not only do you wear parti-colored hose, you
CAN'T READ AND WRITE
!” Denunciation had re- paired the old man's brief lapse into doubt.

“No more than you, no more than the Duke. That's why Gilbert writes for him.” Hugo was looking smug. I could feel the old man swelling up like a bladder for the next spouting fit.

“That's step-grandfather,” I heard Alison explaining to Madame from the far end of the hall. “Watch out for him.”The girls, seeing the horses being taken to the stable, had come in with Madame to find out what visitors had come.

“He chopped off our half-brother's head. Right there,” said Cecily,
and I knew she was trying to rattle Madame with her ghoulish- ness. “It rolled around on the floor and spouted blood.”

“Blood does not spout from heads. It spouts from necks,” replied Madame with perfect calm, speaking French. “Now, in French, if you please, and politely. Ladies do not describe deeds of chivalry using butchers' language.”

“Who, or what, is THAT?” said Sir Hubert, spying the stranger in black.

“That is Madame de Hauvill. Allow me to introduce you.”

“Me? Introduced to a
dependent
?” His stare was scornful. Madame, pale and straight, walked straight up to him and stared him in the eye. The girls watched, wide-eyed. This was battle by single combat. Who would win? Madame who was “too mean,”or step-grandfather, who was meaner yet? Even Hugo began to take an interest. Madame's chin was up, her eyes narrowed, and her stare unblinking. Sir Hubert, taken unguarded, blinked first, then grew angry. “And just who do you think you ARE, woman?” he said, the very picture of menace. With a gloved fist, he could still strike a man to the ground, and did it with fair frequency on his own estates. Pallid and fine boned, Madame looked as if a touch could shatter her like glass.

“I am
Lady
Agathe, widow to Sir Raymond de Hauvill, and re- lated to Sir William de Vilers through his cousin, Isabelle Payton,” she said.

“In what degree is this—relationship?” said Sir Hubert, his voice cold and arrogant.

“A degree that does not excuse your rudeness,” said Madame, in a voice that dripped icicles.

As the girls watched, fascinated, they dueled together, talking the arcane language of cousins-german, degrees of kinship, quarterings. Madame's voice was intense, but low. In amazement we watched as Sir Hubert seemed unable to shout, reducing his voice to a hoarse whisper to match the level of her even-toned French. The plasterers had forgotten to keep up even the pretense of work, and from their ladders, were stock still, listening. In the background, servants
carrying dishes up to the solar stopped on the staircase to stare. The clatter in the kitchen ceased. Faces crowded around the kitchen screen. Who would back away first?

“Well, it seems an introduction is now superfluous. I know who you are, Madame, that is enough.” Sir Hubert turned and clapped his hands. “Dinner! Where's my dinner? I didn't ride all this way to STARVE!” The servants scurried again. Scents and sounds oozed past the kitchen screen into the hall once more. The girls were awestruck. It was Sir Hubert who had backed down and turned away first. As if to compensate for his public loss of face, he turned and growled at me: “Margaret, since you have destroyed this hall, where is the family to be served?”

“In the solar, my lord father-in-law.”

“And that woman—?”

“Madame always sits with the family.”

“Whatever possessed you to bring a despicable creature like that into your household?”

“My lord father-in-law, she instructs my daughters in the art of being a lady. It was Sir Gilbert's idea.”