“‘To rid the hall of flies, hang branches of fern upside down from the ceiling. When the flies have settled, throw the branches away….’”
He squinted further at the paper. “These are recipes, my lord. Women’s recipes. Not a love letter in here anywhere. Perhaps she wrote them herself. The handwriting’s most unscholarly.”
Did you think I was so stupid as to give my writing over to the enemy? The real sheet that I’d been writing on was still hidden under my skirts. I always keep a false one, just for surprises like this. It’s a good thing I’m in black, I thought, or I might have got a nasty ink spot on my dress from all of this paper shifting. Sir Hubert looked at my hands, clutched together on my lap.
“Hold them out,” he said quietly. “As I thought. Inkstains. Whatever you are, madame, it’s plain you’re no lady. But in this house, you’re to act like one. Hand the ink and pen over to the priest. If you’ve any more recipes you wish recorded, you’re to dictate to him before witnesses. I won’t have even the suspicion of dishonor on my house. And as for reading, do as the queens of France and England and the great ladies of the court do. If any writing comes to them, they make a great show of how they do not know how to read it, and have the paper unsealed and read to them by a clerk, before witnesses. That is how a lady preserves the honor of her house. And that is how I expect you to conduct yourself under my roof, no matter what that featherbrained second son of mine says. Do you understand?”
What could I do but bow my head and hand over the ink and the pen, sitting ever so still to preserve the sheet of writing still hidden beneath my skirts? For, of course, if they ever saw that, I don’t know what would become of me.
MARGARET WAITED UNTIL SHE saw the broad backs of the two men pass the upper door of the stairs before she furtively folded the sheet of paper that remained to her. She scurried across the room and knelt to hide it in the ornate chest that had been brought from her old house. The chest was foreign, and cunningly made to conceal a secret compartment beneath a false bottom. Master Kendall’s house had been full of odd things like that, for he had been very fond of rarities and curiosities. Margaret had been one of his curiosities, too, although she had never really suspected it. Kendall had a rival in Germany who possessed a jeweled statue of Saint George and the dragon so finely made that it fit in the palm of his hand. Then there was that Italian who had the fabulously made table-clock that depicted not only the hours but the planetary epicycles; he’d refused to sell it to Kendall at any price. But Margaret was the ultimate possession; in a stroke, he’d outdone them all. Her presence in the house had filled him with a kind of complex and exquisite joy; her acquisition was his crowning achievement.
He had known what she was from the first time he spied her. He had seen it several times on his travels before, and was too shrewd to mistake it, even concealed beneath a threadbare russet gown and a worn hand-me-down cloak. First the look of her eyes, when they shone all tawny in a stray beam of light, and then the curious repose of her face had caught his eye. Then there was the way she walked—a fluid motion perfectly centered, a kind of balanced straightness without stiffness, and the graceful, competent look of her hands. There was no doubt at all; she was one of Them, even if she didn’t know it herself. How deliciously ironic, to find one in the back alleys of the City, in the form of a girl not yet twenty.
He’d snatched her up, of course, and been repaid with countless hours of enjoyment, watching her antics as she tried to appear exactly like everyone else. The greatest amusement he had was indulging her completely, just to see what she’d do: she wouldn’t wear the jewels, they were “too cold,” but she gobbled the sweets like a street urchin. Unless he forbade it, she’d give away the clothes. She had to see what was in this, or how that went, so he’d hired Madame just to watch the funny faces she made, trying to learn to pronounce French vowels. He’d even indulged her freak to want to learn reading. And just when things were getting altogether too stuffy with his business and associates, she’d find some eccentric in the street who’d move into the house and refuse to be dislodged, turning everything charmingly topsy-turvy. The Cold Thing sighed. His treasure thrown among the weeds. And not a thing to be done about it. Bitter. Bitter.
The Cold Thing followed Margaret down the stairs, and criticized the sloppy way the indoor grooms laid out the trestle tables in the hall for dinner. It bobbed about the room, frightening one of the hounds, who suddenly howled and bolted, to everyone’s surprise. It drifted into the kitchen to criticize the food as it was being laid in the serving dishes. One of the kitchen boys, who was dipping a crust of bread into the pot-juice on the sly, felt a cold draft on the back of his neck that made his scalp prickle. Then the Cold Thing floated out to see how well the squires carved—Robert was deft, but Damien would always look like a bumpkin—and finally settled itself across the table to observe the face that Margaret would make when she bit into the bread and found it bitter and heavy with bad leaven. That girl could certainly bake; it was something in her touch. The bread always rose high and sweet. And her brewing—ah, that alone would have been worth marrying her for, even if she hadn’t been as pretty as a little wild thing met unexpectedly in the woods.
Aha, now she was breaking the bread—now she’d bit it. The Cold Thing laughed—a series of silent gusts of icy air. It was a wonderful face she made, and well worth waiting for. She was pretending she hadn’t tasted anything amiss, but her nostrils flared, and an instant of shocked distaste flickered in her eyes. Now the old man had bitten it. He growled, “A man could break a tooth on this,” and pitched the remainder of the piece he’d bitten under the table for the dogs. “A bakehouse that can’t turn out a decent loaf. Damned disgrace. Ought to flog them all, and see if it improves their style,” he grumbled vaguely in the direction of his daughter-in-law.
“It’s the water,” she said unexpectedly, breaking her usual silence.
“Umpf?” he raised an eyebrow at her. The brothers turned their heads.
“The well water is sour. It spoils the leaven. I’ve watched them—the well’s near, and the spring is far, so they don’t bother to spend the effort to get sweet water. It spoils the brewing too. I think your well is too close to the moat. The sour water seeps into it underneath the ground.”
“If you’ve done criticizing my table and my well, madame, I challenge you to prove the truth of what you’ve said.”
“And if I do?” The old knight scrutinized her face a long time. Damned impertinent woman, he thought. Another beating would go far to improve her humility.
But the notion of better ale corrupted his knowledge of right, just for a moment, and he said, “I’ll give you back your pens and ink.” Hugo looked shocked, and Gilbert’s mouth twitched and his eyes glittered with amusement. The Cold Thing chuckled, but no one could hear it.
BY THE MORNING AFTER the Feast of Saint Benedict, when the Lord of Brokesford, flanked by his sons and retainers, rode forth to the Duke’s court at Kenilworth, he had become a man of many worries. First, there was the question of the petition to the Duke, but almost next in importance was the fact that in a moment of weakness, before witnesses, he’d given his son’s mad wife a chance to turn the house upside down in his absence. A lord cannot break his word, and the story had now become a living thing, traveling about on its own swift feet through the shire, causing derision, speculation, and even the placement of a few wagers. Then there were the negotiations for Mother Sarah, who belonged to a village on Sir John’s neighboring demesne. He’d had to trade a pretty wench for the old dragon, who was famous for nagging three husbands to death, just to acquire someone fierce enough to keep those beastly little girls under control. That had caused considerable merriment among the neighbors, as well. It’s women who bring this kind of ruin on a man, he thought to himself in a rare moment of meditation. They don’t have to do anything but be, and they destroy the correct ordering of the world.
It had been unspeakably vexing, the last two days. The woman co
uld be seen everywhere, usually bundled up in a big apron, giving orders. He’d ridden out on a vermin-hunt with the neighbors, and there she was, having commandeered an oxcart, tasting the water in its load of barrels with a big ladle. On their return, he could hear over the terriers’ jingling bells the sound of her voice coming from the bakehouse: “This flour’s not bolted right. It’s fit only for coarse bread, not table bread.” Women’s voices in general annoyed him. They were too high and shrill. Especially when they gave orders. All women should be required to whisper, he thought grumpily. And then he’d spotted a pair of redheads racing unattended toward the bakehouse. One of them ran close enough to risk tripping up the horses.
“Not so fast,” he growled. With a single movement he leaned from the saddle and scooped up the struggling creature by the back of its garment. “Where is Mother Sarah?”
“Under the stair with Little Will. Now put me down, will you? We’re helping Mama.” And the neighbors had laughed so heartily that he had dropped the offending creature on the spot. For it seemed that he was the very last in the shire to discover that Mother Sarah was as famous for her ability to acquire husbands as to survive them. So rather than bringing order, he had loosed another of these horrendous creatures into his well-constructed male world. It was a dreadful feeling, the feeling that his universe was falling into uncontrolled chaos, and that women were the cause. They were almost as bad as lawyers.
NOW WHEN SIR HUBERT left with Gregory and with Sir Hugo, I felt altogether like that woman in the story who is supposed to spin straw into gold overnight. New leaven is not something that can be made in a day, or even several days, and although the brewing went well, the leaven was a worry. First you must make the starter just right and leave it in the air, and then I have a way of burying the crocks just so that is my secret, while the leaven makes itself all lovely smelling and bubbly. Or it may rot; it’s quite a worry. You never know till it’s out what has happened, and I didn’t think I’d get a second chance to prove myself and win our wager. So I was very busy and forgot entirely about the Cold Thing, which would have been healthy except that when you forget about things like that, that’s when they come and grab you.
So that’s just what happened. I was by myself in the tower passage when I suddenly stepped right into it. I shuddered and leapt back. The Cold Thing followed, hanging on to me like a clammy mist. Oh, Jesu, it’s finally decided to get me, I thought. I began to panic, but as I started to run I tripped and fell flat.
“Wait, wait!” sighed the Cold Thing, as I tried to scramble up and flee. I’d hurt my knee and couldn’t get up fast.
“Hear me, hear me.” It surrounded me as I sat, rubbing my bruised knee. It was so cold, it made me shudder. But it had me now, so I might as well speak to it.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here if you keep freezing me.”
“Is that why you run whenever I come near? Can’t you see me?”
“No, I just feel you; you’re like an icy cloud.”
“Then you can’t tell it’s me?”
“Who—or what are you?”
“Oh, Margaret, Margaret, don’t you know me? I’m between heaven and earth, Margaret, here in the shadows,” the Cold Thing sighed. Suddenly, beneath the soft windy sound, the voice seemed familiar.
“Is it really you? How did you get here?”
“Oh, it wasn’t easy. At first I sat with you all the time, but you didn’t seem to notice me. Then I lost you. Couldn’t find you anywhere. I tried hunting for your little light, but instead I found other people with lights: a fishmonger’s wife, an ostler, and an anchorite. The anchorite had an interesting one—bluish white. I’d supposed they were all orangish pink, like yours. I knew you weren’t dead, because I see all the dead people come by here—even saw my son Lionel, with his head tucked under his arm, on his way—umm—downstairs. Then I thought, wherever you were, you’d find a way to get your Psalter, so I followed it out here. Where is here, by the way?”
“Brokesford Manor, in Hertfordshire.”
“Broken Down Manor is more like it,” huffed Master Kendall’s ghost. “I certainly kept my places in better trim than this.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “But I still don’t understand how you got here—I mean, between heaven and earth.”
“Oh, Margaret, you have no idea how unpleasant it was. At first I floated above my body—it was very nice of you to wash it yourself, by the way—most women would have hired someone—but then, you always were special. They usually let you stay until the funeral, if it’s a nice one. But then I found out that—well, it was a question of the infernal regions—if you see what I mean.”
“I was so afraid of that,” I cried, wringing my hands. “It’s because you died unshriven. I started praying right away. I set a schedule, and do some extra in between.”
“Yes, that’s what did it. The praying, I mean. You bothered them so much, they couldn’t decide what to do with me. So here I wander, neither up nor down, and most people can’t see me, but I can see everybody. It’s a poor kind of company, here in the shadows, and I’ve missed you dreadfully. That, and of course I dislike seeing that dreadful fellow Perkin Greene taking over my trade.”
“Oh, Master Kendall, I’ve missed you so much, and our house that we made so beautiful—and it’s not fair at all that you should suffer so, just from having died so suddenly.” I put my hands over my face and wept.
“Now, now, don’t cry so. You know I never want to see you cry. It’s not at all painful, this existence—just dull. No one to talk to until now, except that ridiculous Weeping Lady—I had to put her in her place—told her I knew His Majesty and also the late king personally, and then I didn’t hear any more about social-climbing merchants trying to take over her chapel. And a damned dismal place it is, too, as if I’d ever want it. No, the buttery and under the stairs are far more interesting.”
“Master Kendall!” I was shocked. He laughed, that cold, gusty laugh that was like an echo of the laugh I loved so. Oh, he always knew how to put everything right with that laugh.
“Don’t think they’re unfair up there, Margaret. That wouldn’t be right. There were just a few things I never told you about—the piracy, for example. I was much younger then, and thought they’d forgotten. Also I thought I had a very good excuse. And there were one or two other things I’d still be embarrassed to tell you about. You were always such a lovely little thing, Margaret, and I wanted you to think the best of me.”
“But I did, and I do. I will always love you.”
“Ah, Margaret, you seem to be getting very fond of that trouble-making Brother Gregory—or should I say Gilbert?—these days. I must say, I never thought he had it in him, running off with you that way. Though now I’ve seen his family, I understand a good deal more.”
“Are you angry at me then?”
“For what? For not weeping at my tomb perpetually? Or burying yourself in a convent, young and lively though you are? Oh, no, Margaret. I only want your happiness above all. I loved you more than anything on earth when I was warm and living, and now that I am cloudy and cold, I know you need youth and warmth beside you. Just promise you won’t forget me, that’s all.”
“Oh, how could I not promise that? You know I loved you with my whole heart, when you were living, and I love you still.”
“There’s only one thing …”
“What’s that?”
“I can’t go until I’m sure you’re well looked after. And in all the time I’ve been watching that tempestuous young man who’s married you, there’s one thing I’ve never heard him say.”
“I know,” I said, bowing my head. “Maybe it’s not in his nature.”
“If it’s not in his nature, then his nature’s not for you, no matter how much fun you have between the sheets.” Goodness, Master Kendall could be blunt. But then, we’d always been honest with each other.
“I know you too well, Margaret. You can’t live without a warm heart next to yours.
So remember, I’m waiting to hear it as much as you are. Then I can go up or down or wherever it is I’m bound—though I must say I hope your prayers work and it’s the glorious region and not the hot place. But no matter where, I’m not moving until I hear it. Even they can’t make me.”
What was it we were both waiting for? It wasn’t much, but they were words that had never actually come out of Gregory’s mouth in my presence. In all the time he’d known me, he’d never said, “I love you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
AND SO, LIKE A GREEDY GREYHOUND, you swallowed it whole?” Sir Henry of Grosmont, Duke of Lancaster and Earl of Derby, Lincoln, and Leicester, Steward of England and Lord of Bergerac and Beaufort across the seas, had received his petitioners, as was his habit, in his bedchamber in his immense fortress at Kenilworth. Still a vigorous man, although already well into middle age, England’s greatest warlord radiated an almost visible aura of power even in repose. And well he might: lord of over a score of castles in England alone, he possessed the powers of the crown within his own vast dominions. He had his own seal, his own courts, his own diplomatic missions. His wide lands supported not only their own administrators, but the immense and busy household that moved with the Duke himself from castle to castle when he was not in the field.
The Duke was sitting erect on the richly embroidered counterpane of a vast, silk-hung bed, his gouty foot, newly inflamed by yesterday’s banquet, propped on a little stool before him. These were the last petitioners of a morning’s long business, begun at dawn. The case was a bit different. Amusing, even. A man the Duke usually saw more of in the field than at home, when the fellow visited only annually to do formal homage for his estate. The knights and clerks that stood about him ready to take care of anything he ordered had grown restive thinking about the noontime dinner that would be waiting for them.
In Pursuit of the Green Lion Page 9