“Have you ever given thought to the habits of Odo of St. Matthew’s?”
“And just what are you trying to say?” asked Margaret with alarm.
“Wait, wait. I’m asking the questions. Did you ever know he has nearly as many natural offspring as my father? And father’s a busy man. I’m always running into half-brothers I didn’t know. Of course, father’s very nasty about acknowledging them—it’s because he’s tight with money. Odo was always more generous with dowries or preferments for his natural children. And good about keeping it quiet too.”
“What on earth are you saying, you mean, mean creature?” cried Margaret. The frantic tone of her voice pleased Brother Gregory very much. He assumed an air of superiority.
“I mean, Mistress Merit-Is-Random, that you have a very odd grandfather—an abbot with yellow eyes. Your mother got them from him, along with her big dowry. Odo’s got an older brother, Sir Robert, who was abroad with father. He’s got those eyes too. That’s how I noticed them. Though I must say they look nicer on you. On the abbot, they’re quite dissipated looking, wouldn’t you say? And of course, the abbot’s patronage of your brother is a far from accidental event. Just think”—and here Brother Gregory looked at the ceiling—“he is directly descended from Charlemagne himself, the abbot. And of course, Charlemagne is descended from the Roman emperors, who, of course, traced their lineage to the pagan gods—”
“Wait just a minute—you’ve overstepped there. I’ve not heard that the pagan gods are descended from Adam. There is doubtless plenty of fiction in that family tree,” said Margaret hotly.
“Twist as you want, my point is made,” said Brother Gregory with a superior air, “and you are wrong. Besides, you could even say we’re a kind of cousin, if you go back far enough, and don’t mind the bend sinister.”
“Cousins? Through whom? Charlemagne, or Julius Caesar, or some inventive monk’s inkpot? You come into my house, you eat like a plague of locusts, and then you insult my mother and my brother—you’re no relation of mine, you nosy, troublesome thing!” Margaret cried passionately.
“Me? Nosy? You poured out your life’s secrets onto paper through my pen. I never nosed a bit. I had nosiness thrust upon me.” Brother Gregory leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. After months of irritation this was an indescribably pleasant moment. His bony, black-clad elbows stuck out like bat wings on either side of his ears. He grinned and settled down to enjoying Margaret’s fury. Really, she ought to be grateful to him. It’s much better to have good blood, even the second-rate kind, than to be nobody at all. But very clearly she didn’t see it that way at all. She really was a simpleton. Interesting she was so hot tempered underneath too. Maybe she’d throw the inkwell at him.
But Margaret surprised him. Instead of raging she suddenly began to wring her hands. A tear ran down her face and she said in a shaky voice, trying very hard to maintain her self-control, “My poor, poor mother. Men are simply awful.”
And women, thought Brother Gregory, are completely incomprehensible.
But Brother Gregory’s future was decided that evening, when Roger Kendall laughed. “Is that all?” he told his tearful wife. “Why, that’s nothing—it’s not even interesting unless it’s a cardinal. Now, now—he can’t help being a troublemaker; it’s constitutional with him. So just decide whether or not you want to finish the book.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS ALREADY ADVENT. AS HE TRUDGED down Walbrook to Thames Street, an icy wind from the river made Brother Gregory shiver inside his old sheepskin cloak. With its grubby, matted fleece turned outside to meet the freezing air, it should have kept him warmer, but this winter was already promising to be an unusually hard one. He would never have admitted it, but he was looking forward to being inside Master Kendall’s warm hall, where things were orderly, and the winter kept properly at bay. But when he was admitted for the reading lesson, he found the household in an unusual turmoil. As he stood by the fire on the great hearth a moment to restore himself, he could hear the servants and journeymen hotly discussing something, with one or two apprentices listening raptly to the raging discussion.
“—so Master just reaches out and rubs off the chalk mark over the door, and then as cool as you please tells that gang of retainers—all armed to the teeth—‘If your master requires accommodation, let him seek it in a house that is uninhabited.’ So their chief puts his hand down to draw his sword, and Master says, ‘Slay a free merchant of London on his doorstep and you’ll hang.’ By this time I’ve got the boys, and Master Wengrave next door has come out with his, so the bastards mount up. ‘And take Sir Ralph’s baggage and his horses out of the stable as well,’ he says. I tell you, Master Kendall has nerves of steel—”
“What could have happened?” wondered Brother Gregory, and he entered the room where he usually gave the lesson, only to find a distraught Margaret being consoled by Roger Kendall.
“Margaret, Margaret, don’t be so upset. Can’t you see it’s over? The law is on our side. Just because the king is in town doesn’t mean his followers can requisition our house. It may be done elsewhere, but it has been against the law in the City for a good long time now, and nobody has even tried it for the last twenty years. They were just testing our will and found it too strong for them. They won’t be back, I assure you. The king won’t allow it. Now, don’t grieve any more.”
“What’s all this?” interrupted Brother Gregory.
“Oh, Brother Gregory, I am much too upset for a reading lesson just now.” Margaret’s face was a study in worry. “Sir Ralph de Ayremynne tried to take our house while he is in London, but my husband rubbed out his chalk mark over the door and sent his men off. And now he says we have nothing to fear.”
“And I’ll say it again, dear heart. Don’t start at shadows.”
“B-but the law goes every which way. If you’re a great person, it’s always on your side. I don’t trust the law at all. A piece of paper is not as strong as the sword.” Margaret was still upset; it was caused by thinking too much. Other women would have been content with their husband’s word.
“Nonsense, dear. Think as I do. Behind the law is politics, and behind politics is money. Therefore we keep our house.”
“Master Kendall, you attribute far too much to the power of money. In heaven God’s holy law reigns; on earth the sword reigns.” Brother Gregory was incapable of seeing Roger Kendall’s reasoning as well.
“Brother Gregory, you make one error. God’s legions of angels do not work for pay. He creates thunderbolts and other weapons without cost. The king, on the other hand, cannot field an army without money. We in the City have the money, so if he wants it, he cannot offend the City. Because the sword is stilled without money, the law and the sword both follow the purse.”
“That’s a nice argument, Master Kendall. Even though I don’t believe a word of it, it goes around in a circle quite handsomely. I respect a man who can make a nicely shaped argument. It’s almost as good as being right.”
“A circle? I don’t see that.”
“Why yes, a circle. For money can’t be made unless peace is secured by the sword. So you might just as well say that wealth follows the law, and the law follows the sword—which, according to you, follows wealth.”
“Hmph, yes. I see we can’t agree because we’re not on the same part of the circle. But slide around to my side for a bit and tell my wife that we aren’t going to be thrown out.”
“Mistress Kendall, your husband is right. You won’t have to start packing. We both agree that you are being overwrought and altogether much too emotional.” Brother Gregory looked down at her condescendingly, where she sat on the cushions of the window seat, next to her husband. Kendall had taken her hands in his, but they were still clammy with fright.
“I’m not too emotional at all; it’s just that I keep my mind on important things, like the house, while you argue about circles.” Margaret was growing annoyed with Brother Gregory. Annoyance was salutary; i
t made her forget her fear. She soon became even more annoyed when she realized that Kendall was determined to convince Brother Gregory of his side of the argument. Brother Gregory in turn defended his side with several clever examples, and soon the two were hotly debating politics.
Margaret was exasperated: she thought for a moment she should abandon them there, but then she remembered that it wouldn’t be polite to cancel a lesson like that. Brother Gregory, annoying as he could sometimes be, had given up other work to arrange this time, and if he didn’t get his fee, he might go hungry. Margaret always thought of these things, since she had once been in the same situation herself. In this consideration she was totally unlike the kind of self-centered rich women who have always led sheltered lives, and do not scruple to let a moody moment wreck other people. So she waited until Kendall remembered he had accounts to do, assured him fondly that she felt ever so much reassured by him, and set to work. Still, it was hard to concentrate. She hadn’t really got over her fright that the safe, quiet little world that she had made for herself might be in jeopardy. When she began the dictation, her face was still white, and her hands trembled too much to pick up her embroidery needle.
IT WAS A BRIGHT, cold morning in autumn when I looked up from my work in answer to a sharp rapping at the front door. I did not have to open the door to see who was there; it was one of the butcher’s little apprentice boys, white-faced and breathless. You see, on good days, I had formed the habit of leaving the door open, to let the stink from Brother Malachi’s distillery escape. For the past week he had been “very close” to the secret of transmutation, and a peculiarly malodorous smoke had filled the house. Now it fought, successfully for once, with the stink of the alley that usually came through the open door.
“Margaret, Margaret—that’s a bad habit, leaving doors and windows open. You invite thieves and cutthroats,” Brother Malachi had remonstrated.
“But we’ve nothing to steal—not a spot of money, and no goods to speak of,” I responded, reasonably enough, I thought.
“No goods, no goods? Why, there’s my apparatus—and very precious it is—it would take years to duplicate!”
“But no one wants it—and if they took it, what use could they have for it, since no one but you knows what to do with it?”
“An enemy might want to steal my secrets,” grumbled Brother Malachi. “But think of this too.” He brightened up. “Soon enough the house will be piled with gold and silver. What a temptation! And then Margaret, with her bad habits, will leave open a window”—he imitated the sinister creep of a thief rounding a corner and groping in the dark for money—“And then he’ll—creep—and CUT OUR THROATS!” Brother Malachi leapt up dramatically, his hands forming claws, and his eyes rolling like a lunatic’s.
“Oh!” I was startled and jumped back. “Brother Malachi, you should be back with Maistre Robert, you’re too dramatic for me!”
“My drama makes a point, dear child. You should be more careful. This is not the most fashionable of neighborhoods.”
“But suppose we smother before our throats are cut? What then? You’ll never get the Secret. And think, too, that the smell alone ought to frighten away any without business here.”
“Hmm. A thought, a thought. I’ll take it under consideration.”
And that is how I was sitting inside the open door doing the mending, trying at the same time to stay warm by the fire and breathe crisp autumn air, something not really possible under the circumstances. Brother Malachi’s clothes in particular were always in need of attention, for they got holes burned in them by flying sparks, which he had not the wit to notice when he was deep in one of his experiments. When I saw the butcher’s boy I put down my mending.
“What’s wrong, can I help?” I asked.
The butcher’s boy tried hard to catch his breath so that he could speak. I knew him; he was one of my friends from the winter skating.
“Is the midwife inside, Margaret? I’ve—I’ve run all the way. My mistress is overcome with pains. Her time came last night, and she is very bad.”
“Mother Hilde is gone, but I’ll come. Let me get my basket.”
“You? You’re a midwife too? You’re not old enough. Mistress wants the old one who came for her last child.”
“She’s been gone all night, sitting with a woman in labor—but I’ll come. I’m very nearly as good.”
“Oh, I hope she won’t be angry. It would all go well, she said, for she has had eight children already, and buried four, so what worry for another? My master did not want to pay the fee to have someone sit the night. ‘Have your cousin sit,’ he said, ‘and just get someone to cut the cord. That’s women’s work.’ But now it’s all gone wrong. You must hurry, hurry!”
I did hurry, hurry, for the distance to the Shambles was long from where we lived. It had rained the night before, and many of the streets, which were not paved, were deep in mud, which slowed our going.
“Just think how fast we could go if it were frozen, and we had your skates,” I said, as I stumbled along in my wooden pattens. He looked ruefully at his shoes, which were soaked through. He was muddy to the knees.
“I’ll probably get a bawling out for ruining my shoes. Master says I’m the most destructive imp that ever lived.”
“Maybe this time he’ll thank you for your speed and forget about the shoes.”
When we rounded the corner onto the broad street where the butcher had his house, a blast of cold air made us wrap our cloaks tighter.
“Are you sure, really sure, you know enough?”
“I know all my mistress’s secrets,” I told him. And, I thought, what I lack in knowledge I make up for with the Gift. Of course I can save her.
“Why, then, you’re an apprentice, like me!”
“Not really, but in a way. You might put it that way.”
“Merciful Jesus, we’re too late!” The boy slackened his pace. His jaw trembled, for the priest was entering the house by the ground-floor shop, a boy with a candle preceding him. When the apprentice boy showed me upstairs to the bedroom, the father shook his fist at us.
“You’re too late, damn you!” he hissed.
“Quiet!” the priest warned, for he was giving extreme unction to the barely breathing woman. At the head of the bed a woman sat wringing her hands and weeping. Four little girls, in a state of disarray, huddled at the foot of the bed. The father stood by, head now bowed, in his leather apron, his great knife at his waist. He had been hard at work until things had gone bad.
“But, Father, my son—” The woman had stopped breathing.
“It is the will of God. If you require a son, marry again.” The priest’s voice was cold.
“I’ll not give up so easily!” His voice roared, and his eyes looked utterly mad. Sweat poured from his forehead. “Stand aside, you, I know what I’m doing!” He shoved the priest away and kicked aside the little girls. With a harsh gesture he flung back the dead woman’s skirts, which had been laid decently about her for her farewell from earth. His sharp knife glittered above the huge, glistening white belly.
“No, papa, no!” a frantic little voice cried. The apprentice boy shrank into a corner. With a single slash the butcher opened the belly as if gutting a hog. Blood spurted wildly, splattering his apron and sending drops onto the other occupants of the room. But, oh, God, what unspeakable horror! As the knife ripped through the flesh, the dead woman’s limbs gave a ghastly start, and one eye seemed to open and roll hideously at me. She had not yet been completely dead!
“A boy! A boy, by God! Thus was born Julius Caesar!” He had scooped the limp, blue child from the open womb, and held it high in bloody triumph, the cord hanging from it, still connecting it to the dead woman.
“Give it here, give it to me!” I cried, startled into action. With a finger I cleaned from its mouth the foul dark stuff that signifies a bad birth and began to breathe gently into its mouth. The chest rose and fell with my breath, but the body remained blue. The birth had been t
oo hard; I knew it was not living. The priest, who had come near, looked on with interest.
“Keep breathing,” he said. “I see the chest moving; don’t stop now.” And taking his little vial of holy water, he sprinkled the creature three times.
“Child of God, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
I looked up at him. He was crouching over me, where I knelt on the floor by the bed, the child in my arms. His face was expressionless.
“I’ll not lose a soul entrusted to my care,” he said, with an air of absolute calm.
“He lives, he lives!” cried the butcher.
“No, my son, he has died,” responded the priest.
Looking at the bloody child in my arms, I could see the reason. The head was much too big. It was, indeed, nearly twice the size of a proper head, and the front of it, the forehead, was swollen as if it had two square corners, or knobs, above the eyebrows. No mortal woman could give birth to that head. Silently I cut the cord and wrapped the child, and then put it in the dead woman’s arms, averting my eyes from the gruesome sight of her butchered belly. The priest was staying for his fee, I supposed. Besides, there was a double funeral to arrange. I left quietly, without speaking. The apprentice boy followed me, his face a mask of grief.
“She was good to me,” he said. “Did you know that she was good to me?”
“Could you show me the way home?” I asked. “I don’t think I know all the turnings.” Silently he took my hand to lead me back.
It was midafternoon when we returned. Brother Malachi’s mending lay right where I had left it, but I heard two merry voices rejoicing in the Room of Stinks.
“Margaret, is that you? Are you quite done? We’re all in need of supper.” Brother Malachi’s voice sounded cheerful.
“I’m done, all right.” I answered.
He caught my dejected tone and asked, “It didn’t go well? Well, don’t worry, we’re all rich, and we’ll sup splendidly tonight.”
A Vision of Light Page 30