“You see? He’s perfect,” said Cook in a happy voice, hands on her wide hips. Brother Gregory saw, hanging from the ceiling in a big wicker cage beyond the cat’s reach, a flutter of black and white feathers.
“It’s Cook’s magpie,” explained Margaret, wiping her hands on her apron. The puzzled look left Brother Gregory’s face. “He warns her if anyone’s sneaking into the kitchen to steal the pies while they’re cooling. Her sister just gave him to her, because her sister’s husband couldn’t stand him. We all think he’s very clever.” Brother Gregory inspected the creature critically. The bird made a cheerful whistle, then a gurgling sound like water. Preposterous, thought Brother Gregory.
While Margaret finished up and took off her apron, Brother Gregory stared morosely at the tub full of cabbages that had appeared to intrigue Margaret so. The water was full of floating cabbage worms. Even more preposterous, thought Brother Gregory. At that very moment the idea came to him that people who could give their serious attention to a matter as trivial as a bad fish or a cabbage worm were incapable of serious thought. He was pleased with himself for having at last discovered why women are naturally inferior to men. It was because they could only notice the details of things, and could not see the bigger picture of which these details were a part. Thus it was obvious that they were incapable of wider ethical perception and of general moral development. From this it followed that to exist, they required the direction of men, like perpetual children, only more dangerous because they were larger.
As Brother Gregory worked over this piece of enlightenment in his mind, his disposition became cheerful. An interesting insight always did that to him. He was so pleased with himself that for the rest of the day, he forgot to bark at Margaret’s outrageous spelling and didn’t even say anything sarcastic when, during the lesson, her dog pushed the door open with his nose and stood by her, waiting expectantly for the stroking she was too busy to give. And Margaret’s dog positively invited sarcasm, in Brother Gregory’s opinion, as would any creature with no discernible eyes and a front and back end that looked almost entirely interchangeable. It was possible to measure Brother Gregory’s contentment by the fact that he neglected the immediate source of pleasure to be found in a sally of wit on this easy subject.
Today they did the reading lesson first. Brother Gregory began by writing out sentences of increasing difficulty on the tablet, and then when Margaret had read them, he had her take down sentences from dictation. Brother Gregory was serious about his work. He made sure that every exercise had an uplifting tone, for all proper instruction, in his eyes, included moral instruction, and he considered Margaret a hard case. Now Brother Gregory watched with a smug expression of pleasure as Margaret bent over her work, her brow wrinkled in complete concentration. Today she was copying the Biblical passage that he had recited concerning the woman more valuable than rubies who serves her family day and night and never gets any rest. As she slowly made the letters appear in the wax, she unconsciously chewed on her lower lip. It seemed clear to him that she admired elevated sentiments and wanted very much to be improved.
But Margaret was really waiting for her turn. When the part about the rubylike woman who spun all the time was done, then she’d get to watch the fabulous shades of irritation and shock play across Brother Gregory’s face as he took down her memoirs. It was the proper reward, she thought, for all that docility.
MONCHENSIE WAS THE FIRST castle I had ever been in, and I hope it is the last. Castles are, in general, much nicer to look at than to live in. For one thing, stone walls are very cold, and so the place always smelled of dank and mildew. The knights and ladies wore heavy, fur-lined garments indoors, but the poorer folk and servants had none, unless you count the occasional sheepskin. That winter was so cold that the water froze in the jugs in the kitchen, and despite the fact that I was fairly warmly clad, my hands and feet were always blue and cold. Even a cottage can be better warmed than a castle. I suppose, too, the desire to leave conflicted with our fear of the unknown, since Hilde and I had no place to go. How we did leave, in time, is a story well worth telling.
Ordinarily, Sir Raymond and his retinue moved between his three greatest properties, which were at some distance from one another. I have since heard that the grant of dispersed lands is a precaution the king takes with all his barons, so that they will be less likely to stay in one place and foment rebellion. Besides, they have to move about, these great ones, because they are like a plague of locusts—they descend on a place and eat everything up, and then have to go elsewhere. But now Lord Raymond had decided that what with the difficult birth of his heir and subsequent weakness of his wife, it would be better to remain the winter at Monchensie and celebrate Christmas with his household there. Lord Raymond never did with anything less than the best on feast days. And this Christmas, the first after the birth of his son, promised to be a grand festivity, with food for feasting taken from miles around. There would be music and dancing; Sir Raymond’s musicians were to be augmented by pipers from the village. I did not care much for the work of his minstrels. For one thing, Sir Raymond was tone deaf, and that had discouraged them. During meals they scraped and plunked indifferently; the only thing that Sir Raymond really cared for was long-winded and bloody accounts of battles, sung to the harp, and preferably with his name worked into them. They had composed a flowery song in honor of the birth of his heir, but it unfortunately had too many verses, and Sir Raymond had yawned. Everyone expected that the pipers would be the chief source of liveliness at the Christmas dancing. But fate acted to improve the celebration considerably.
One December afternoon, just before the Feast of the Conception of the Blessed Virgin, a strange-looking party came straggling through the village, demanding admission at the town gate and begging hospitality at the castle. Leaning from an upstairs window I saw them as they crossed the courtyard. A light snowfall was spotting their cloaks and baggage with white. Three men walking with wrapped instruments on their backs led the way, leading two heavily laden donkeys and four little dogs. Behind them were some who had joined the party for company and safety in travel: a pardoner with his strange hat and pilgrim’s shells sewn onto his cloak, carrying a pack, and a mounted merchant and his retainers, with their pack mules.
I had been more in the company of Lady Blanche than usual, for she found that my laying on of hands could stop the spells of heavy bleeding with which she had been afflicted after her dangerous birth. When I told her what I had seen, she sent me to investigate and report all, for she was still bedridden.
There in the hall, where Sir Raymond sat hearing petitions and punishing tenants, the leader of the little band advanced, gave an extraordinarily low obeisance, and presented a letter of introduction. He was Maistre Robert le Taborer, musician to the very King of Navarre himself, and the two others were members of his company. On his right—and he gestured broadly to a tall, bony figure in motley—was the celebrated Tom le Pyper, also known as Long Tom. While Long Tom bowed, Maistre Robert grandly introduced the agile little man on his left as the renowned Parvus Willielmus, master of mirth. Sir Raymond called his chaplain to read the letter, which was a very flowery tribute to the extraordinary musical powers of the group, begging hospitality in the king’s name from any great lord to whom they should address themselves. Father Denys was impressed. He raised his eyebrows and showed the document to Sir Raymond, who stared blankly at it.
“The King of Navarre, eh?” he said, as he peered at it. “Is this his seal? What’s that pink spot here?”
“Wine, my lord, I’m afraid. We musicians must sometimes lodge at strange places when we’re on the road,” answered Maistre Robert.
“Riotous places, hmm? Well, you’ll lodge here and be welcome. A king’s musicians! What good fortune! What news do you have from France?”
Maistre Robert replied with news from abroad and also some interesting things about events in England as well. He threw in several scandalous stories, and when he saw Sir Raymond’
s interest rise, he knew exactly how to deal with him. When Sir Raymond demanded a sample of his skills, he called to Long Tom and Parvus Willielmus. Long Tom took out a drum, whose demanding voice called the attention of everyone in the hall. Faces peeped in at every door. While the drumming continued, the shorter man juggled first three, four, and then five balls in the air. Then Maistre Robert began his patter, and the other two, ceasing drumming and juggling, joined in. It was a dialogue, consisting of a series of extraordinarily bawdy stories told at rapid fire. Laughter filled the hall. Sir Raymond laughed so hard he turned bright red, as if he were having a choking fit.
“Well, Maistre Robert, if you play as well as you talk, we’ll have some merry evenings here, I’m sure.” Tears of laughter were still running down his face.
“Call those minstrels up here,” said Lady Blanche to me, “I want to hear the news too.” She had herself propped straight up in bed, and received them, asking them a great deal about court life abroad, what clothes were worn, and such like things. Maistre Robert took out his harp then and sang a song about her beauty, which he said was celebrated everywhere.
“Is it really? I have been buried in the countryside here. I didn’t know my beauty was known abroad.”
“Oh, my lady, everywhere I have heard report of it. No one else in this realm has such pale, lilylike skin! They say a certain noble knight is languishing unto death for you, but no one would tell me his name.” Lady Blanche looked pleased. He continued on in this way, and his friends brought out a lute and a viol and sang another song to her beauty. It was clear to me that these minstrels would be living in comfort here for a while.
The jongleurs were a funny crew. They went from the hall to the kitchen, stables, and garrison, everywhere ingratiating themselves. When the merchants moved on, the players and the pardoner seemed to have found the surroundings so congenial that they stayed. The pardoner, indeed, seemed to have moved in with the players, and was experiencing equal success, doing a brisk trade in relics and indulgences, which are very popular at this season. One day he stopped me and said, “Charming child, do you not need a little something, something to bring you showers of blessings and a handsome husband? I have here a paring of Saint Catherine’s fingernail, at a price which I shall lower especially for the sake of your pretty eyes.” I looked at the fingernail paring. It was in a little bag to be worn about the neck. It looked very small.
“I haven’t any money, sir,” I said.
“Brother Sebastian to you, angel eyes. But let me warn you. You are insufficiently religious. God lets me know about these things. Repair your defect by the purchase of this object of devotion. I leave you now, but ponder on this: God may well send you money—and I will save this precious relic exclusively for you for the next fortnight, although several other maidens have shown an interest in it.” Then he went away. As I watched his short, rotund figure depart, I thought to myself that he was certainly an odd person. Most pardoners are dour and try to frighten one into purchasing an indulgence with tales of hellfire. This one looked as if he’d be more at home in a tavern.
But the Christmas season was full upon us, and I did not bother with the pardoner again. There was plenty of celebration, even for servants and village people, who joined us in the great feast in the hall. A canopy had been placed over the dais, and the lord received his people as grandly as any king. The great hall was hung with green boughs, and it seemed that the foundations should shake from the dancing. It was then that I found out something new about Mother Hilde. She was a wonderful dancer. Flushed and out of breath, she never stopped, finding partners in plenty for the village dancing. One most frequent partner was the pardoner, who was as full of Christmas mirth as anyone.
For several days there were tourneys, where knights and squires participated and showed their skill. This kept the castle armorers very busy repairing dents, as well as the surgeon, who did little but cut hair and shave beards in less festive times. In the evenings there was entertainment, and more eating and dancing. Before supper Master Robert would sing some new song of deeds in battle; during supper his troupe joined forces with the minstrels in the gallery. After that, but before the dancing, he and his two partners would give a “debate”—a comic dialogue between, for example, Wine and Water or Winter and Summer. As the night wore on, things degenerated, for Robert le Taborer was indeed a “maistre”—that is, a master of everything bawdy and insulting. I think he’d taken the title because he’d been a clerk once, which made it all the worse. The greater part of his stock in trade consisted of bawdy “wandering friar” jokes, which caused great hilarity, except with Father Denys and certain clerks of the chapel. When crowds gathered in the daytime for the jousting, Maistre Robert and his group would juggle, tell tales, and have the little dogs do tricks—the cleverest of which, I thought, was to have one of the dogs pass through the crowd, begging for pennies with a bowl in his mouth.
And so both players and pardoner were prospering both day and night. But they were also prospering in other ways I did not suspect. One evening Mother Hilde said dreamily, “Wouldn’t you love to live in a beautiful great city like London?”
“What on earth do you mean, Mother Hilde?” I answered.
“I mean, we have to leave anyway. Why not depart in the company of this charming pardoner and these delightful musicians? Dear Brother Sebastian says that a woman of my talent and skill might make her fortune in London.”
“Dear Brother Sebastian? When has he become dear?” I feared the worst for my friend from that smooth-talking rogue.
“Ah, Margaret. You misjudge him, just as the world does. He is a man of charm, sincerity, and learning.” I was aghast at the self-satisfied look on her face.
“What on earth have you been doing with that man?” I asked, but Mother Hilde only gazed dreamily into space.
“He said a woman of my intelligence and naturally passionate nature sets him on fire. I loved my husband, and never wanted another—but this man, I love him for the same reasons. Margaret, if you only knew how clever he is, you would have to admire him too. I’ve found happiness again.”
If there is anything more irritating than a moony adolescent friend, it is a moony fifty-year-old woman, thought I. Clearly the man is tricking her. What can I do to help her recover from the shock of his leaving?
Hilde was watching my face. She took my hand in hers and said, “I know you are suspicious, dear—you have every right to be! But if you spoke to him, you’d know how splendid he is. Even his speech is out of the ordinary. Have you ever heard anyone speak so elegantly? Why, I can hardly understand a word he says! All that French and Latin, mixed in, just like a lord, only better! And he’s so well traveled, so debonair.”
“Oh, Hilde, I’m so afraid he’ll hurt you. Don’t you worry about that?”
“Not a bit, not a bit! You must meet him and judge for yourself. I want to share my good fortune with you. We’ll all go to London and become rich.”
And so the next day I went to the room behind the stable, where they were staying, very ill disposed toward being convinced by my friend that anything good would come of this. My arrival interrupted something they were doing. All of them were seated around Peter on the floor, teaching him how to throw stones on a wooden plate marked with strange signs.
“Ah, come in, Margaret!” called Master Robert, just as boldly as if he knew me already. “We are teaching Peter, here, to tell fortunes. We used to have one of the dogs do it, but it ought to work much better with a fairy changeling.”
“Margaret, my dear, we are delighted to hear you will be one of our number on our joyous excursion to London via the scenic villages and fairs of our beloved realm,” said Brother Sebastian jovially. I studied the circle of faces that had clustered around me. They didn’t look sinister to me, but you have to be careful not to be fooled.
“Will Master Robert stay in London, then, or go back to Navarre?” I queried suspiciously. For all I knew, they might just leave us somewhere worse
than here.
“To Navarre? A long and dangerous trip, child. Especially long and dangerous if you have never been there,” said Brother Sebastian, leaning toward me confidentially, as if to allay my fears.
“You see, now that you’re one of us, you know everything,” Master Robert grinned cheerfully.
“But—but you have a letter,” I stammered.
“Of course we have a letter. We have several others too. Brother Sebastian’s quill has a magnificent talent,” said Maistre Robert, with an airy wave of his hand.
“And now that you have joined us, we will lay plans,” said Brother Sebastian. “Can you play an instrument, perhaps? Do somersaults and backbends?” I shook my head sadly. “Aha! I know! You can sell things! That innocent face—those dumb, honest eyes (pardon me, but it is true, you’ll have to admit)—why, it’s just the thing! Margaret, you were born to be a saleswoman.”
“But I haven’t anything to sell,” I protested.
“You will have, you will have. My precious, clever Hilde is making up herbal decoctions—her famous burn salve, for example.”
“You mean the smelly stuff of goose grease and tallow?”
“The very stuff. Properly packaged, thanks to my expertise, and sold by a charming child such as yourself, it will be sensational. I think I shall call it—hmm—a rare balm from—from—Arabia. Yes, that will do nicely. Arabia. Sounds very nice indeed.”
“Arabia, eh?” chipped in Parvus Willielmus, which really just means Little William, although he preferred to go forth into the world in Latin splendor. “I know an excellent joke about a traveling friar who went to Arabia and entered the Sultan’s harem disguised as a—”
“Enough!” Brother Sebastian put up a hand. “I cannot begin to tell you how deeply your vulgar sallies wound my sensitivities. Have you no respect for the cloth?”
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