In Pursuit of the Green Lion

by Judith Merkle Riley

  “Selfish? You’re so selfish you’re even selfish when you’re asleep—just look at how you roll up in all the covers at night—you don’t even leave the corner of a sheet. I tell you, any man who sleeps with Margaret freezes to death, that’s what!”

  “You—you—” I didn’t even have any words left. How could I have ever gotten myself tied up in something so ridiculous? God, I was a fool! And this man a worse one! I could feel it all coming up, all bitter and wild. Laughter. Crazy laughter at Margaret the fool. This is how it all ends—this is what happens with all these stupid hopes and plans. I doubled over with it, and the spasms made me sick with pain.

  Gregory stopped in the midst of his catalogue of woes, his face all red with resentment. “That proves it, proves it entirely—everything I’ve said! You see? You know it’s true, so now you laugh at me—after all I’ve been through! How can you?”

  “I’m—not—I’m not—” I managed to choke out, hiccuping and clutching at my sides.

  “Then just what do you think you’re doing?” The look on his face, all puzzled and self-righteous at the same time, just set me off again, and I couldn’t explain.

  “You’re hysterical. I always knew you were the hysterical type. I could tell when I first saw you. All women are hysterical. I ought to dump a bucket of water on you.”

  “Not—yet,” I managed to gasp. The spasms were beginning to slow down. I started to wipe my eyes.

  “You see? That’s just what you needed. Even the threat of cold water works wonders.” Feeling clever made him start to cool down.

  “No, no,” I gasped. “That’s not it at all. It’s my side. It hurts. I need you to help me rub it—here, where it hurts.” God, I needed him.

  “You’re an idiot,” he said, putting his big hand on the sore place under my ribs that I showed him, and rubbing it for me.

  “And you’re not?” I couldn’t resist asking. I felt weak all over, as if I’d just been through a disease.

  “Of course not. I’m never an idiot.”

  “You’re very fortunate, to be always right.” I sat down on the window seat, still trying to get my breath.

  “It’s a burden I’ve worked hard at getting used to.” He smiled ruefully. I was still sore in the ribs, but the look on his face made my heart feel better.

  “Sit by me,” I begged, “I’ve been having a terrible time. I need you. I need you to hold my hand.”

  “This being-married stuff,” he said, dropping down beside me. “It’s more complicated than I thought.”

  “It’s always that way,” I said. “If it isn’t money, it’s family, or a thousand other things.”

  “I guess that’s why perfect lovers are never married,” sighed Gregory.

  “You think you can’t be in love if you’re married?”

  “Of course not; it isn’t proper.” Gregory looked all school-masterish.

  “Proper?”

  “So say all the scholarly Authorities.”

  “How do they know? Were they married, these scholars?”

  “Naturally not; it’s not proper for scholars to marry.” Gregory looked suddenly sad; I was so sorry for him. I put my hand on his arm. The rough wool of his sleeve was somehow comforting, even if it was his father’s old hunting tunic, and too short at the wrists. He started, as he had so long ago, when I’d inadvertently touched his hand. But then he looked at me, grateful for the solace.

  “Being married doesn’t make you not a scholar, you know. The learning is still in your head—it doesn’t just vanish.”

  “Oh, Margaret, if it were only that easy. You can’t be married and be a scholar; it mixes up the mind.”

  “Are you sorry then you married me, after all?”

  “No, I’m not sorry at all,” he said, and looked at me in such a curious manner. “That’s my problem. I’m not sorry at all. I’ve never known anyone like you before.” My goodness, his face looked handsome. I waited for him to say what I was hoping for.

  “You—look so nice. And you’re fun to talk to. And—and—” He looked as if he were trying to find some word that eluded him, and then he colored, and blurted out “—you bake the most amazing rolls!” Oh, merciful heaven, how can men say women have trivial minds, when theirs work like this!

  “Then if we can’t be perfect lovers, couldn’t we be imperfect lovers?” I smiled.

  “Actually, Margaret, I’d had something in mind like that myself,” he said, looking around the room to see if it was still empty.

  “They’ll be gone for a while, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking …” I said.

  “I think I was,” he said, and his face shone with sudden joy as he scooped me up in his arms so quickly, I didn’t even have time to be surprised.

  “GILBERT! … GILBERT! WHERE is that mooncalf?” The raucous bellowing echoed up the stairwell, shattering the silence in the solar. A noisy cluster of hounds and humans centered on Sir Hubert clattered through the door and passed by the curtained bed, as the Lord of Brokesford went to his own room to have the grooms change his muddy, wet hunting clothes for his traveling attire.

  “Aha! There you are, Gilbert, lurking about indoors like a woman—or”—and here his expression changed to a knowing, conspiratorial one—“possibly with a woman?” He watched his son stiffen. Gregory could see his father’s shrewd eye taking in the room: the abandoned sewing on the window seat, the hastily neatened bed. The old man looked as if he were calculating for a moment. Then he inspected his troublesome son’s face. The air of contentment was well concealed, but not to the old man’s well-practiced eye.

  His face relaxed only for an instant before he growled, “And where’s that wife of yours anyway? What good is a woman who isn’t around when it’s convenient? I have something I want to talk to her about.”

  Gregory looked down on his father from his full height and responded with aloof dignity: “If you are looking for Margaret, she’s in the chapel, praying. It is her habit at this hour.”

  “In the chapel? Another weeping, praying woman in the house? Pah, they’re all alike.”

  “She prays for the soul of Roger Kendall.”

  “That old merchant? He has perpetual Masses sung for him. He doesn’t need all that extra praying.”

  “She says he does. She says he died unshriven, and she’s not going to quit praying until she’s sure he’s in heaven.”

  “Unshriven?” The old man sounded serious. “Then that’s entirely proper. Leave her alone.” Sir Hubert ruminated uncomfortably a moment, then paused as if something had occurred to him suddenly, and asked: “But how’s she going to know when to stop? Is she expecting God to tell her personally when he’s saved?”

  “That’s what she says.”

  The old man shrugged and shook his head. City women were all crazy anyway. It’s the bad air—it softens their brains. Well, her brain wasn’t any softer than Gilbert’s—they certainly were well matched in that respect. But, of course, despite his every effort, Gilbert’s had remained in a state of mushy inadequacy for as long as he could remember. Backbone! Discipline! It was as if he’d never heard the words. It was enough to drive any father mad.

  The old man strode up and down and stroked his beard with one hand, his head bowed. It had to be bad blood—doubtless from his wife’s side. It’s a thankless task, dealing with bad blood. It had been a bit of luck, getting this chance to marry him off. But if marriage couldn’t steady him, it was time to give up. Sometimes you just have to face facts. Thank God, Hugo was normal. He’d have to be damned careful checking the bloodlines on any wife he got for him. It wouldn’t do to have an heir with bad blood off Hugo. “One line tainted already,” he grumbled to himself, inspecting his second son as he stood at attention, waiting to be dismissed. That was one thing he liked, seeing his sons standing at attention every time he entered a room. It was one of the few decent habits he managed to have beaten into that sullen brat before he’d gotten too old to defy him.

  “You may go n
ow,” he said. As he watched him depart, he thought, As soon as this business is settled, I’ll start negotiations for a proper bride for Hugo. It’s high time this family had a houseful of grandsons. Suddenly a vision of rank upon rank of grandsons, all obedient little soldiers, all standing at attention for their grandsire’s inspection, filled his mind. At the thought, a rare wave of contentment rolled over him. It was almost perfect.

  I THINK I HAVEN’T yet mentioned the chapel of my father-in-law’s house. It was cold and damp, and there wasn’t even a proper coat of whitewash on the gray stones, let alone some colored holy pictures. It’s because Gregory’s father was stingy, and never wanted to pay when one of those wandering painters would come between towns in the summer to make lovely pictures of the holy Madonna and the saints in churches and chapels, or whatever else you like. There was nothing much in the Brokesford chapel but a little altar, some very cheap candlesticks, and an old altarcloth that had once been beautifully embroidered by someone, but was now grown grayish and raggedy about the edges. There was a ghost, too, though she wasn’t much trouble, really, except for sobbing and weeping in the night. In my experience, it’s always the damp, sad, stony places that have ghosts. A warm, well-painted place full of children and music hasn’t any room for them.

  Now, when a chapel is cozy and well furnished, I must admit it is a lovely convenience to have right in the house. Master Wengrave, next door to us in London, who is Cecily and Alison’s godfather, has a little one right downstairs, where the family could hear Mass every morning without going down the street in all weathers to St. Botolphe’s. But there is the bother of including a chaplain in the household, which is not the expense, but the fact that they do nothing but eat and drink and carry gossip. It is bad enough when they tell your mother-in-law the flaws in your child-raising. But sometimes they do more, and you find the kitchen maid pregnant, and then it is a great problem. Then, too, they can get nasty if roused, and little things upset them, like getting the wrong place at table when there’s company, and then there’s no end to what they can do.

  So in our London house we didn’t have a chapel, although no one could understand why we did without something that added such splendor and comfort to a house. Master Kendall often had guests from far-off places in his house, and he also had me, and he didn’t want to run the risk that a loose word might bring the bishop’s officers to the door.

  But in the country, where it’s far from the bishop, they can do the same thing in other ways. And my father-in-law’s way was very simple: He had found a priest who hadn’t a sober moment in the day. Of course, no one could tell if he sang Mass right, but most people can’t do that anyway, since it’s all in Latin. But you could hear Deus and Paternoster and benedictus in lots of places in the service, and he rang the little bell nicely. Father Simeon was willing to take a drink in exchange for many things—a secret baptism, the sale of the Host to put in the first furrow for good crops, or even a wedding without banns. He was a useful fellow at confession, too, which is how he got his nickname of “Father Three Aves.” You see, he usually wasn’t in a state to remember what you said, so he’d just give feather light penances, which suited my new relatives perfectly.

  “Killed two fellas last night,” my father-in law would puff and grunt as he got to his knees.

  “Do you repent?”

  “Of course, I never would have done it if they hadn’t come after me first.”

  “Ego te absolvo. Three aves.”

  It was a method that worked far better than Master Kendall’s, for even he couldn’t entirely protect me from the sternness of my confessor. Of course, that one knew I’d signed a confession and abjuration of heresy, and was under orders from the bishop to prevent my relapse. It was all because I’d been in the faith-healing business—that’s how I met Master Kendall—I’d fixed his gout, and after my troubles he decided to marry me so I could go on fixing it. They said I was a witch and a heretic and a sinner and a lot of other rude things, and then I was in so much trouble, I almost didn’t get out of it. I was lucky to get off with just a confession, instead of getting burned up, which would have been even more painful.

  But ever since then I haven’t done any faith healing, except for a very tiny bit at home, though I’m still very good at it. It even turns out to work on horses, though I must say I wouldn’t have run the risk if it hadn’t been for Cecily and Alison. And when the Gift works outside, you can’t see the light it makes, so I don’t think anyone noticed, though sometimes I worry about that sharp-eyed old man. It all came to me in a vision that I am sure was straight from God, and if God wants you to do something, then you really ought to go ahead with it. Of course, sometimes it goes away, when I’m sick or when I’m pregnant, but after all, what on this earth works perfectly every time anyway? But now I’m very careful, because the inquisitors promised to burn me all to cinders if they caught me at it again, and that is a great discouragement, even if God did tell me to do it.

  I used to worry that I might have done something bad that I didn’t understand, because I really did not want to be wrong with God. But now I know it’s just a question of monopoly of trade. I learned that from Master Kendall, who was a great trader, and ever so wise about the world. He was always so interested in my improvement and education, which is why he always told me so many important things and hired tutors to make my thoughts higher. Master Kendall always said that most things boil down to a question of money. And when I understood at last that if Margaret got a dozen eggs for taking off warts, they didn’t go to the priest at some shrine for praying for the same purpose, then I saw it all more clearly. It is a great blessing to have an intelligent husband, who can explain things like that. I’ve always admired men with good minds.

  Now I had two reasons for visiting the chapel that day—three, if you count hiding from Gregory’s father. The first was to pray for Master Kendall, which I’m very careful to do every day, even now. The second was not a very nice one, so I planned to do it after I’d prayed, so my conscience wouldn’t interrupt me. I’d found out where Father Simeon kept his paper and ink. And since I needed it and he never used it but once or twice a year, when a letter needs to be written, I felt that God would prefer me to have it.

  But when I got to the chapel, there he was. And if I’d been thinking about God more and the paper and ink less, I suppose I wouldn’t have minded, but as it was it seemed very annoying that he was there. He was noisy, too, so a body couldn’t concentrate. He was hopping and dancing about, trying to brush something off his robe.

  “Come to confess, eh?—get off! Get off, I say!”

  “Father—”

  “Couldn’t be much. I absolve you. Get off! Three aves.” Then he brushed some more, and hopped about a bit. “They’re all over. Can’t seem to get them off.”

  “What are they? Bedbugs?”

  “No—can’t you see them? Nasty things, off!”

  “No, I can’t see anything there.”

  “Devils! Damned little devils! Green, like big spiders, but with such nasty little faces. Off, off! They make my skin burn and crawl. Oh, God, my sins—forgive—get them off !”

  “I can brush those bugs off, I think—quit jumping around so much and let me try.” I knew right away where those bugs were from. But the problem is, if you heal a person who drinks too much, then they remember why they were drinking, and get much more upset than they were before. I did it only once, and the man jumped out of the window to try to kill himself, but only broke both legs—and that was a much bigger healing job.

  Just a little bit, for the bugs, so he can sit still, but not so much he gets sober, I thought to myself. Then he’ll go off to bed. And I quieted my mind and called just the tiniest bit of the healing light, which God sent to me in my vision. When I could feel it in my hands, I knelt down and brushed his robe all about the hem, until he sighed,

  “Oh, gone, gone at last. Those little faces! Ugh! I’ll see them in my dreams. However did you manage?”
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  “You just didn’t brush hard enough, Father Simeon, and you couldn’t get round to the back, where they were hiding.”

  “Where? The back?” and he whirled around. “No, none there, God be praised. You seem to have got them all. If you’ll pardon me now, I must withdraw to—meditate.” He looked about him unsteadily. “You’re staying?” he asked.

  “I haven’t yet said my prayers for Roger Kendall.”

  “Very good, very good. I’m glad to see a pious soul in this house at last.” I couldn’t help feeling just a little guilty as I watched him stagger off. A wisp of fog whirled across the room behind him sobbing dolefully. The Weeping Lady. I knelt down anyway, and as I started, the sobbing stopped. Then, just as I was especially explaining to God that Roger Kendall’s good deeds must be taken into account, I heard a soft little voice in my ear.

  “I saw you,” it said. Goodness, the Weeping Lady could speak. Most of them aren’t clever enough.

  “I saw you. Your hands and face glowed, and the light made me feel warm. Have you any idea how cold this chapel is? That’s how I died, you know. I got a chill, and now I’ll never be warm again.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I said. One should always be polite to Weeping Ladies. They’re usually the ghosts of women who died in childbirth, come back searching for the baby. They deserve respect, especially from us women. Then she moaned a bit, just to keep in form, and bewailed her dead babies awhile.

  “Doesn’t that frighten you?” she asked, a little maliciously.

  “If you were evil, it would frighten me, but I don’t think you’re evil,” I answered stoutly.

  “How do you know that? After all, I’m here for vengeance. That’s what our sort of being exists for. Why,” she added, rather haughtily, I thought, “I could go to heaven anytime I wished, but I just chose to wait here until I’ve got even—something I never got a chance for, when I was alive. I had to petition, and get all sorts of special permissions,” she went on rather pridefully. “Not just everyone gets to be a Weeping Lady. You have to have a special mission.”