In Pursuit of the Green Lion

by Judith Merkle Riley

  Suddenly, he sat back and chuckled in English, “Sharp-tongued, but at least you’ve got backbone. Not bad—this is no house for limp women.” He leaned toward me. “I suppose you’ve been gossiping with the chaplain, and he told you about the Weeping Lady. Don’t you know you’ve swallowed a fool’s tale? It’s his excuse for saying Mass drunk.”

  “No,” I answered, “I’ve never found him sober enough for conversation. In fact, it’s a wonder he ever got through the wedding service without falling down. I heard the Weeping Lady myself.”

  “Yourself? Now there’s a tale. Pray tell, what’s she weeping about?”

  “I wondered that myself for quite a while, but as I pray alone in the chapel quite a lot, I hear her weeping quite frequently. Then one night just before vespers, I heard words in the weeping. She sobbed, ‘All my children, all dead,’ and then went on weeping a while more before she vanished.” At these words, Hugo started and crossed himself, and Gilbert looked grave and quiet.

  But the old man thumped on the table with his fist and shouted, “Wouldn’t you know it? She’s gone and found another way to annoy me! Just when I thought I was free of it! There’s no end to the trouble women give a man!” His voice was so loud that people looked up from the lower tables to see what was going on. But when the evening was ended and we were all going upstairs, Sir Hubert grabbed his oldest son by the sleeve.

  “Stay with me, Hugo. I’m going to get very, very drunk tonight,” he said, and together father and son and all their rowdy retainers sat at the fixed table, among the rubble of dismounted trestles and sleeping hounds, and began a whole new hogshead of ale.

  I could hear the sound of doleful singing below as I sat on the bed, took off my veil, and combed out my braids. They hadn’t even found a maid for me, or a nursemaid either. They were incapable of imagining how anything female ever got done, and they’d never bothered to ask me either. Not that they’d listen if they thought to ask. Gregory, as usual, had stripped to his underdrawers and knelt before his crucifix, which he had hung by the bed. Monkish habits die hard. You could still see a bit of a dent in the curls at the back of his head where the tonsure had grown out. He was furious his father wouldn’t let him reshave it, at least in the scholar’s tonsure to which he had a right, and had burned his long gown. But looking at him now, I wasn’t so sure it wasn’t an improvement. I’d never noticed when I first met him how attractive his unruly dark curls were. And who would ever have guessed what a well-made figure had been hidden beneath the shapeless old gown? But he’d kept his hair shirt. And he wore it every day now, underneath his father’s second-best hunting tunic, as if to punish himself for having returned home.

  Sometimes I wished so hard things were back the way they were: that I was his student and he was Brother Gregory again. It was easier when I thought of him only as a mind, and not a man. I know people say that there was something nasty going on between us, but that really wasn’t true at all. That’s why it was such a good thing. I loved Master Kendall best, and I loved learning next best. And Brother Gregory, even if he was a trial, was my gate to learning, and helped me open my mind to the sunshine. How could I not admire him for that? It was all an innocent distraction, watching his moods, fits and fancies, like watching cloud pictures form and re-form in the sky.

  To this day I remember how his long, muscular hands looked, so curiously delicate as they held the stylus, elegantly tracing letters in wax for me to copy, and his sour face when he saw the first letter I spelled all by myself. Then there was the disgusted look he’d get when my old mongrel dog would lie on his feet under the writing table, falling asleep with loud snores just as he was trying to explain what Aristotle said about aesthetics. Or his standing quarrel with Cook’s bird, who chattered rudely at him when he entered the kitchen unannounced. And when Master Kendall, with gracious good humor, would offer Gregory a dinner or a new gown, the whole household would crowd around to watch with amusement the conflicting emotions on the tutor’s face as he tried to decide whether he could accept such an offer from a man who made his living in trade. Brother Gregory was the only man I had ever seen who could accept his wages as if he were doing you a favor.

  So of course I couldn’t have been more surprised—or more grateful—than that day after the funeral when he turned up, sword in hand, to rescue me from my murderous grown stepsons. But after that it was only bitter gall. He wasn’t made to be married, nor I to marry again.

  Now, without even looking at me, he laid the hair shirt on the bed beside me and fumbled for his discipline in the bundle he had taken from the chest. The more I saw of that nasty little stick with the sharp leather thongs, the more I hated it. Maybe I’m simple, but I don’t see what beating yourself has to do with pleasing God. And every night, the same. Didn’t he think I was even worth a courteous “good night”? Was I too ill-favored, or too ill-born, to deserve a look or a decent word, now that we were wed?

  As I watched Gregory set up once again for his devotions, I got angrier and angrier—so angry, my face felt hot and my heart beat harder and harder. Was I so old, so plain, that I deserved this? He had faced the wall, now, kneeling silently before the crucifix that hung beside the bed. I looked at my shift, which hung nearly to my bare feet. It had a nice embroidered hem. It’s not a hag’s garment, I thought, and there’s no old woman underneath it. I picked up one of the long, pale ash-brown locks that lay in waves all the way down to my waist. What’s wrong with this? It’s still pretty, even if it’s not blond. I put down the comb. He paused, and as the blood dripped down his back, I could hear him say, “Blessed be God …” God indeed! Doesn’t God say that men who marry have an obligation to their wives? What was so wrong with me that he should act as if I were invisible?

  I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier. I’ve had two babies, strong ones that still live, and only one little stretch mark that hardly even shows. Some people would count themselves fortunate to have a wife like that. And I’ve brought him money, too, so he can do anything he likes—even feed his stuck-up, greedy family. And he never says a kind word to me, even though I’m all alone here among strangers. What would God say to that?

  The anger came and stuck like a knot in my throat. I was so very angry, I didn’t even think. My eyes felt all bloody inside. Suddenly, my mind just broke with the rage. I snatched up the hair shirt from the bed, and before he could even realize what I’d done, I leapt up, grabbed the whip from his hand, and ran like a madwoman for the door. I flew down the stairs so fast, my feet didn’t even feel the stones. I didn’t listen to his shout of rage as he tore after me, or the drunken cheers of the men downstairs as I raced to the fire in nothing but my shift. Shaking with rage, my face all hot and red, I threw his hair shirt and discipline into the fire, grabbed the poker, and shoved them to the very hottest part, where they began to burn merrily. There was a chorus of guffaws as the drinkers realized what I was burning.

  Then I felt a heavy hand spin me around—his other was holding up his underdrawers, the points, freed from their moorings on his hose, flapping behind.

  “What have you DONE, you shameless, wanton—woman!” he roared at me.

  “I’ve burned them, and it serves you right!” I shouted right back, oblivious to the fire dancing perilously close behind my loose hair.

  “My God, what a woman!” I could hear his father exclaim. Gilbert turned his head to see the old man leaning on the table, thumping it repeatedly with his fist, tears of laughter rolling down his flushed face.

  “I’ll have her anytime, if you don’t want her!” shouted a man’s drunken voice.

  Gregory turned back to me in a fury, and I was fortunate that one of his hands was already occupied, or he might have strangled me.

  “Look what you’ve done. You’ve disgraced me. You’ve disgraced me in front of everyone.” I didn’t care if I died. Just let him push me into the fire.

  “Go ahead and kill me! I’m tired of you!” I shrieked.

  Gregory’s fa
ther had ceased holding his sides, and had walked up beside him. Silently, he took the dog-whip from his belt and held it out to his son. “It’s high time you broke her to your hand,” he said calmly.

  “Don’t you dare beat me, don’t you dare touch me!” I shouted, looking frantically at the crowd of grinning red faces taking in the scene. Gregory looked at them too. God, it’s going to be bad, I thought. He hates being humiliated worse than anything.

  Gregory let go of my shoulder and took the whip without a word. He looked down at his other hand, and then, with as much dignity as he could manage under the circumstances, said to his father, “But not down here in front of everyone. Leave us alone, and I’ll take her upstairs and do it right.”

  “Of course,” said his father.

  “If you touch me, I’ll throw myself out the window,” I hissed at him. I hated them all: heartless, repulsive men.

  “Margaret,” he said in a hard voice, “you’ve gone too far, and it’s time you paid. Now march upstairs, or there’s plenty of people down here who’ll be delighted to assist me.” They were all silent, and those who could stand had formed a circle around us. There was no escape.

  As Gregory walked up the stairs behind me, I heard someone hiccup, “I always said that woman needed a good beating.” I could feel my eyes burning. As I got to the top of the stairs, I turned. His face looked grim.

  “For God’s sake, don’t kill me. Think of my babies. Please.” But his face never changed. With a single harsh move he threw me down on the bed. Savagely pulling the curtain behind him, he climbed up beside me, and I screamed and put my hands up to protect my face as I saw him raise the dog-whip high above my head. There was a horrifying whack, but I didn’t feel the blow. Had the madness made me lose my senses? I peeked out between my fingers, and my eyes opened wide. He’d missed; he’d hit the bolster.

  “For goodness’ sake, Margaret, keep on screaming, or they’ll be up here to do the job properly,” he hissed. I was shaking all over.

  “Then—then you’re not—not going to …?”

  “Did you truly think so little of me? Can’t you see I couldn’t ever bear to hurt you? Do you want to break my heart, looking as if you fear me so?” Biting his lip, he raised the whip again. “Scream again, you ninny.” Then he brought the whip down savagely on the pillow. “It’s them I hate, I hate them!” and he gave the pillow cut after cut.

  “Oh, God, don’t break my bones!” I screeched, getting into the spirit of the thing.

  “I’ll break every bone in your body, wife; it’s my right!” he thundered. “Never disobey me again!” We could hear them cheering downstairs. I howled horribly. Somehow it felt good—I don’t know why. Then he howled too. Another few cracks, and the bolster split. A cloud of feathers flew into the air, and I began to cough. It sounded just like sobbing. More cheers from below, and a rising wail from the children’s bed.

  “Wait a moment,” I said, and slipped out from the curtains to shush the children. “Mama’s fine,” I told them. “You’re just having a dream.”

  “Pretty loud dream,” said Cecily, sitting up.

  “I don’t like dreams. Can we get into bed with you, Mama?” queried Alison, half asleep still.

  “No, you can’t. We’re playing a game. We make the noise, and you be still as mice and go back to sleep, and—and I’ll let you ride the donkey tomorrow.” I tucked them in again.

  “All day?” whispered Cecily.

  “All day, but only if you go to sleep right away, and no cheating.” They made an elaborate pretense of sleeping, but as it is with children, pretense soon became reality. Before long I could hear them breathing softly, sound asleep in each other’s arms. I turned back to see Gregory sitting glumly on the bed, the dog-whip drooping from his hand. A beam from the full moon shone in the window, laying a streak of light across the place where he sat. He had feathers stuck in his hair and beard. I went to sit beside him.

  “You’ve got feathers all over,” I whispered.

  “So do you,” he whispered back. Downstairs, they were singing again. Something about an old man who beat his scolding wife all around the town-o.

  “Do I look as silly as you do?” I asked.

  “Sillier,”he said, blowing away a feather about to land on my nose. I tucked my feet up onto the bed, and he pulled the curtain.

  “It’s been horrible,” he said. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore—you’ve been so sharp.”

  “I thought it was you who didn’t like me,” I said. “You never said a kind word—never even looked at me. You didn’t even lecture me about Aristotle, like in the old days.”

  “It’s Father,” sighed Gregory. “He drives me crazy. And now he’s tangled me up with lawyers and land claims—your estates are a hopeless tangle, you know, and there are at least a half-dozen spurious claimants—so I haven’t got a moment to call my own.”

  “I never understood about your father, before, when you told me,” I whispered into the dark. “But now I know that’s because words are inadequate to describe him.”

  “Too true.” He sighed again. “It’s because he’s always wanted me to be just like Hugo. You don’t admire Hugo, by any chance, do you? Most women do.”

  “No, I think he’s awful. His head looks just like a plucked chicken to me, and he’s not very smart.”

  “A plucked chicken, eh? You know, you’re right. I never thought of that.” I took his hand, and for once he did not pull it away.

  “Oh, Gregory, Gregory, I’m so sorry I embarrassed you in front of them. Just be my friend, and I won’t ask for anything more.”

  “You ought to be sorry,” he said ruefully. “We must have made a sight.” I couldn’t see him, there in the dark behind the curtains, but I could feel his warm breath. Something about it made me feel strange all over. “It’s my fault. It made me angry to see you hurt.”

  “It did? Was that really it?” I could feel his body tremble slightly.

  “Gregory, have you ever done it before?” I asked into the dark.

  “You know I’ve been saving myself for God, Margaret. I’ve never sinned. Well—not sinned that way, at any rate.”

  “It’s not sin, if you’re married, and if you—like—the person, and if you—want to,” I answered him.

  “It’s not just that, you know—it’s them too. Always prowling around, checking up. This is the first night they haven’t all been up here, ready to count how many times—just like one of Father’s stud horses. I couldn’t bear it.” I reached out and put my hand on his arm. I could feel him shaking all over.

  “Oh, God, you’re so beautiful,” he said, just before I kissed him, pulling him down on me. I didn’t need to show him much. Somehow he seemed to know already. It was I, I who had known everything who knew nothing. What could I ever have understood of a lifetime of passion, all locked behind high walls, until the moment I had opened the gate to be drowned in the flood of it? I could feel the heat of his body blazing on mine, my skin all damp and flickering with the strange shivering glow of the lightning that leapt within us and between us. I don’t even know what to call what we did that night. The heart of a fire, the eye of the sun—it consumed us to leave only a whisper of white ash behind. And somewhere in the midst of it I realized that this must be the passion of the body that the bards sing of: the stuff of dreams and damnation, that only leaves you the hungrier for the having of it. Mindless and mad, it kindled itself and belonged to itself. A thought, like the drift of a sinking ship, swirled to the surface: Is this death? Die here then. Then we were pulled under again by the maelstrom.

  It was nearly dawn before we fell asleep, racked and exhausted by lovemaking. It wasn’t until several days later I remembered that in the last moment before I closed my eyes, I heard something like the sighing breeze, and felt the Cold Thing, even though the curtains were pulled tight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AS DAWN POKED THROUGH THE BED curtains, I could hear stirring and groaning in the room outside. T
he world, the ordinary world, was out there again, as if nothing had happened. Someone had been sick in the rushes, and it didn’t smell nice. The tower door was open—somehow they must have dragged the old man up to his great bed in the tower room. But most of those who’d got upstairs at all hadn’t got farther than the solar. I could make out Hugo’s head and one arm among the tangled bodies in the bed opposite. There were more bodies, still clothed, strewn about on the floor. It looked as if the plague had been through the house. Gregory opened one eye, pulled me back from the open curtain, and looked out himself.

  “Hmm. The battlefield of Bacchus,”he said, and brought his head in again. Then he leaned back in the feathery mess and put both his hands behind his head. He looked speculatively up at the sagging canopy, and a slow smile spread across his face. A thin beam of light through the open bed curtains picked out the line of his arm, and the dark hairs glistened, as if they still glowed with the fast-fading night blaze.

  “Haven’t we had a time, though? I never expected it to turn out like this. I mean, being married and all.” His voice had a contented ring. Oh, morning, morning, why must you come? Why must we be so plain by day? I hugged the last of the fading glow to me, as if I could save all of last night to feed on through the cold day.

  “I’m hungry, Gregory.”

  “Me too. Remember when you used to make me eat breakfast before you’d have your lesson? You said I wasn’t fit to be spoken to without breakfast.” How could he be just the same, after what had happened? How could everything be just the same?

  “I could go downstairs, and see if anyone’s in the kitchen.” Suddenly I was starving.

  “You had good breakfasts at your house. Of course, Father says breakfasts are for sick people, and anyone who isn’t a weakling can wait until eleven for a proper dinner.” I couldn’t believe it. Was this the same man that had set my body aflame with unquenchable fire? “I wonder what God thinks about breakfast?” he rambled on cheerfully. “Now, since He doesn’t eat, with Him it would be purely a theoretical issue, but …”