In Pursuit of the Green Lion

by Judith Merkle Riley

  “I tell you, we chop the hands off thieves here.” The steward showed his yellow teeth in a malicious grimace. “If you’re so innocent, why didn’t you ask for hospitality at the gate?”

  “I found no one here—”

  “And you’d heard the lord was gone, and the mistress is soft in the head—”

  “You stop that now!” I shouted, trying to sound as fierce as the old lord, which isn’t easy. “How dare you speak against me in my presence!”

  “Will you hang him here, or let him go without his hand, my lady?” the steward snarled. “Or do you intend to fill the place with thieves as well as beggars?”

  “I tell you, there is not a word of this Sir Hubert will not hear when he returns. You insult me, and you bring shame on his house by denying justice. I tell you, I’ll see you beaten in the courtyard like a dog if you make one move against me. I want to hear this man.” The steward let go of his ear.

  “Speak up the truth, you knave, or I swear I’ll have your tongue,” the steward hissed at him.

  “It was all a misunderstanding. I can pay you back,” said the man. His face could have used considerable fattening, but I liked his gray eyes, and he spoke well.

  “How do you propose to pay, since if you had a penny, you’d have been at the brewster’s, dining better than this—” I pointed to the remains of the dog’s dinner.

  “She wouldn’t take what I had in trade,” he said. You could practically see through his threadbare russet gown. His moth-eaten hose reached to the ankles, and his feet, like so many others in this season, were shoeless. He chattered on, desperate to make his point. “‘A bush is fine enough for me,’ is what she said to me, ‘I don’t need any fancy picture.’ But for you, I could do something splendid. A nice coat of arms in the hall, perhaps? I tell you, I’ve done for the best. Why, the only reason I’m crossing this godforsaken shire is that I’ve a big commission waiting for me at the cathedral at York.” A painter! What a piece of luck!

  “Are your paints in that bundle there? Malkyn—” I nodded in the direction of the bundle, and the old woman opened it up. There were jars, little boxes, a big board splashed with all sorts of colors, and brushes of every size and description.

  “That much at least is true, my lady.” The steward looked furious at having his prey snatched from him. “Though I much misdoubt they’d be wanting a beggarly fellow like this at a great cathedral like York. And don’t imagine you won’t pay for this when I tell Sir Hubert on his return,” he grumbled sourly as the fellow, now loosed, hastily gathered up his paints. Have I told you the steward is some sort of cousin to the family? The kind of cousin with no inheritance. It gives him airs and makes him nasty. It also made him difficult to get around.

  “Our chapel is newly whitewashed, and looks very bare,” I told him, and the painter was quick to overhear and interrupt.

  “Why, I could paint a holy Madonna, Our Lady of Mercy, with your own beautiful face on it, most gracious lady.”

  Goodness, the stranger seemed to recover in a flash. There’s something charming about a fast-working mind.

  “I had in mind a Last Judgment, to go over the altar.” I turned to address the painter. The steward stood silent, his long face still sour as year-old vinegar.

  “A Last Judgment?” The painter sounded calculating. “There’s a lot of figures in a Last Judgment. A lovely Madonna is much better for a chapel—it’s a question of artistic harmony, you know.” The steward turned his hard little eyes on the painter.

  “A Last Judgment’s what’s best—after all, you took the cheese first. Besides, you should consider the alternatives,” I pointed out.

  “Not a nice Holy Family?”

  “She wouldn’t like a Holy Family, and she told me herself that she’d like a Last Judgment, just like there was in her grandfather’s castle in Brittany.”

  “She wants it?” said the steward, and all of a sudden he seemed shaken. He blessed himself. “She told you?”

  “Oh, yes—and just think of the opportunity. If you hadn’t been so swift about catching this fellow, she’d be bothering us all summer. I do believe you’ve saved this house from her wailing for a good long time. This ought to please her no end.” Long ago, I wished with all my heart to be as clever as Mother Hilde in dealing with people. Well, I’m getting better all the time, though I’m nowhere near her yet.

  “Well, if it’s for her …”

  The painter looked puzzled—he inspected first one and then the other of our faces during this exchange.

  “She? Who’s ‘She’?”

  “Oh, that’s our Weeping Lady. She considers the chapel hers, though she does get about on occasion. Last year she dried up the milk, and the summer before, she put a rust on the rye.”

  “A Weeping Lady? You expect me to paint an entire Last Judgment in a chapel with a ghost in it?”

  “Shh! Don’t call her that,” cautioned Mother Sarah, looking shocked.

  “Yes, don’t ever call her that,” I told him. “She considers ghosts common, you see, and will be terribly offended. She calls herself a manifestation. She can get very nasty if she hears you call her a ghost. You should be very careful when you’re working there.”

  “Working there? Working there?” He seemed aghast.

  “Yes, working there,” I said, folding my arms. He looked about. Everyone else had folded their arms, too, even the steward. It seemed entirely fair. “Besides, you’ll have a bed in the hall and a place at the board until you’ve done. And you can keep your dog too.”

  It worked out very well. I don’t suppose a Last Judgment has ever been more quickly painted, though it did take several weeks even so, and I don’t think he did the faces all that well. But just think how he probably dragged out his jobs for more luxurious patrons—so it all worked out to be even, I think. And he provided entertainment for everyone as they stopped by to check on his progress. The girls especially liked to sit and bother him as he stood on the ladder, his dog lying at the foot of it while he painted devils and saints.

  “How do you know devils are green?” Cecily would ask.

  “God sends me the vision in my mind that they’re green,” he’d answer calmly, brushing color on a forked tail.

  “I think they’re red,” said Cecily.

  “Then go paint your own,” he’d say, without ever turning his head. But from him she got the idea of using charcoal to draw devils and fanciful creatures on the flat stones of the hearth. And he seemed to know when I had it in mind to scold her for getting dirty, because he came up behind me where I was inspecting the eccentric figures and said: “They’re really not bad for a child. She’s got an eye. Too bad she’s not a boy.”

  But whenever he saw me coming as he worked up there, he’d turn away and look all injured. So, of course, I had to ask him: “Now what’s wrong? You eat, you drink, and all your limbs are still attached. You should be grateful to me—at least grateful enough to greet me properly.”

  “I make entertainment for the whole world here—I should at least get jongleur’s wages,” he sulked.

  “You might as well know, the Sieur de Vilers did not leave a penny of money in my care. He’s the tightest man in the shire, except for his horses—and he took most of them with him.” The summer foals were already racing about their dams in the meadow. All beauties, and we hadn’t lost a one. I’d seen to it myself. I knew it would set him in a good mood when he got home.

  “Well, then, at least you should have warned me.”

  “Warned you? About what?”

  “You drive a hard bargain, madame. You didn’t tell me there were two.”

  “Two? Two what?”

  “Two gh—manifestations.”

  “Oh, really?” I said. This was a shock. No one had ever seen Master Kendall but me—and his little girls, of course.

  “Yes—there’s a smoky fellow in a merchant’s gown, forms up in a corner when She’s gone—now, she’s really not bad—quite gracious, actually. But him!
He bothers me to death! ‘Why do you paint halos like that? They don’t look like platters at all. You should put points on them, like real light, not do them up like a set of dishes. Now, that vat of boiling oil—it looks just like a chamber pot. In Rome, I saw a much better Last Judgment, where the Blessed floated on clouds …’ Chatter, chatter! As if I hadn’t anything better to do! ‘So why don’t you just go back to Rome, now?’ I says, and he gets all miffed and tells me ghosts can’t cross the water, and he’s going to make sure I never sleep again unless I apologize—”

  “Master Kendall? You’re back again? Why didn’t you come to see me? I’ve missed you.” I spoke into the air.

  “So you know him then! You did deceive me. Imagine! Two of them! And they don’t even get along. Who is he, anyway?”

  “My husband. Or rather, my former husband. He has wonderful taste. You should take his advice. But how did you see him, anyway?”

  “Me? I’m a painter. That’s because I have very good eyes. I see Her, I see your Master Kendall, I see the odd light around you that no one else sees, and I see that you are always weeping even when your eyes are dry—as you are now, in fact. A lot of women do. Now, if you were really holy, your light would be all round and golden, like a platter, no matter what that meddlesome ghost—er, pardon—manifestation says, so I’m not sure what you are. But I’ve stayed to memorize your features. I was going to York, to paint for the canons of the cathedral, before I was so rudely interrupted, and I intend to make use of your face. Why else do you think I’d bother with all these figures, my lady of the hard bargains?”

  “You see too much,” I said, suddenly annoyed with him.

  “A lot of people tell me that,” he answered. “Oh—here he is again.” Sure enough, it was Master Kendall’s smoky form, wearing the New Year’s gown in which he died.

  “Master Kendall? Where have you been so long?”

  “Oh, I went to Bedford to watch the money changers cheat people. I’ve learned some very pretty pieces of sleight of hand. I’ll show you sometime. How’s that ridiculous painting coming along?”

  “Ridiculous, pah!” exclaimed the painter.

  “But I’ve missed you.”

  “Missed me? I thought you were too busy for me—all that bustling about you’ve been doing. And really—delivering foals and bastards—that’s not very ladylike. You should be more careful of your reputation here, with these rustics….”

  “I’m happy you still care so—but let me tell you about the girls—”

  “Love! It’s everywhere!” exclaimed the painter sarcastically as he put the finishing touches on God’s beard.

  But when he was done, everyone pronounced the painting the most splendid thing that had ever been seen in the district, and I was very ashamed that I didn’t have any money to give him. It wasn’t like that when I was married to Master Kendall, I’ll tell you. He was never stingy with artists and intellectuals. But I had an idea.

  “If you’ll carry a letter for me to Father Bartholomew at the cathedral, for him to send with a captain to Normandy for me, he’ll reward you on my behalf. He’s my husband’s father’s second cousin, once removed, and he thinks well of my husband.”

  “Which husband, the ghost?” responded the painter wryly.

  “No, my real husband, who is alive with the Duke’s army in France,” I said somewhat impatiently, for I’d been feeling rather cross and tired lately.

  “Oh, I see,” said the painter, and he looked at me and through me, with those curious gray eyes, as if, somehow, everything were explained.

  So I sat down and wrote, with Father Simeon at my side, a letter that I sealed with wax three times, even though I was careful not to put anything too embarrassing to be revealed in it.

  To my most well beloved husband, the Sieur Gilbert de Vilers, knight, in France:

  Most dear lord, I have missed you day and night. Your

  steward sends word that the harvest on your lands is good this year, but the rain has split the cherries. The girls are well and so are the cattle. Tell my lord your father that we have eight new foals at Brokesford Manor since you left. I live for the day of your return. When the wind cries, I hear your voice. When it rains, I weep sore for wanting you here. I kiss this dear paper, since it will take you my words.

  I pray God and His angels keep you safe and bring you home to me.

  Your loving wife, Margaret

  Dear God, I love him, I thought. Just let him know that, at least, no matter what. I am too weary with waiting and wanting him to ask for anything more.

  The painter watched the entire process with some curiosity, and then put the sealed letter in his bosom.

  That evening, watching the moon rise, I realized why I had been so tired lately. I was pregnant. It must have been the very last night he was here, I thought, for the light hadn’t begun to sink inside me yet, where I couldn’t call it up. The next morning at dawn, they found Cis in the kitchen in a pool of vomit and blood. I knew right away what it was, for I have seen it before. She’d taken a remedy to rid herself of the child, and had very nearly ridded herself of her life as well. I had her cleaned up and carried to her straw bed in the crowded little servants’ room behind the kitchen and there, before dozens of prying eyes, delivered a tiny baby no bigger than the palm of my hand. I baptized it Child-of-God with water from the cistern as it emerged, and held her hand as she lay sobbing into the long afternoon. God knows how little separates us, we women. A bit of money. Some words. A piece of paper. A man’s life.

  IT WAS IN MID-AUGUST, on the eve of the Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin, that a mounted messenger rode through the village, demanding admittance at the manor gate. He wore well-used leather and scale mail; his horse was foaming, and his face stained with the dust and sweat of the fast ride. Margaret herself saw him brought into the hall and offered drink. Between sips of ale, taken slowly to avoid cramps from the exertion, he told the assembled company that the old lord was returning home with a wound that was enfevered.

  “The lance splinters remain embedded deep within it, madame, and he can neither walk nor ride. But he comes with his son, to see him married and the succession assured, before he gives up the ghost. He has done mighty deeds of chivalry; he will be remembered forever.”

  “But what news of Sir Gilbert, who is with the Duke’s suite?” said Margaret anxiously. “When will he be coming home?”

  “Sir Gilbert?” The man was silent a long time. Then he spoke again. “His son, Sir Hugo, is accompanying him. He’s gone mad with fever, the old man has. You’ll need to make everything ready for him here. Some say it’s the loss of his other son that’s done it. He’s lost the will to live. Though why, I don’t know. He still has the one, and that his heir, which is more than many have—”

  Margaret couldn’t help it; she began to scream. It was like the eerie, thin, high scream that a coney utters only at the moment of death. It echoed among the dark arches of the hall again and again, until they led her away upstairs.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT WAS A MELANCHOLY PROCESSION THAT wound its way through the village and up to the gate of the manor. The ragged column of foot soldiers dissolved as it met the crowd of villagers that stood by the road, and the sounds of joyful reunion mingled with the howls of those who had just discovered their loss. Sir Hugo rode on ahead, impassive on his gray palfrey, Robert leading his destrier on his right hand. Behind them a horse litter bore the lord of Brokesford Manor, heavily swaddled in fur rugs against the bone-shaking chills that had overcome him. Beside the litter rode Damien, bearing his master’s sword and shield and leading his saddled destrier, for all the world as if he might mount it once again.

  Behind them a train of heavily laden sumpter horses guarded by mounted archers testified to the success of their expedition. Within the bundles lay tapestries and rugs, silver goblets and chests of gold coin, swords and mail, the spoils of the French lords and burgesses who had had the mischance of meeting up with them. The most fa
bulous piece, a great gold nef, had already been sold to the King for ready cash, along with the ransoms of three French squires and a knight banneret. The winds of politics had brought them home; they’d found a place on the ship bearing the turncoat Philip of Navarre to England to pledge homage to the English king as the rightful King of France; with any luck, the wind would bear a new lord of Brokesford back into France with an heir on the way. It was the old lord’s dying dream.

  When the horn sounded and the gate was thrown open, Margaret could be seen in the low arch of the hall doorway, at the head of the manor folk who waited to receive the returning party. Wan and thin, she had resumed her deep black gown and surcoat. She looked barely strong enough to stand upright as her gaze scanned the returning horsemen, hoping that it was all a mistake and she’d see Gregory’s tall, familiar form somewhere there.

  As the grooms ran forward to assist, Hugo gave curt orders to the horse soldiers, who dismounted to unhitch the horses from each end of the heavy litter.

  “Don’t jar him, now,” he snapped as the soldiers hoisted the litter. The old lord’s face was gray with pain. The only sound he uttered was an involuntary groan as the litter was borne up the steps and deposited across two benches in the hall.

  “Is everything in readiness?” Sir Hugo asked the steward.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “He cannot be moved up the stairs. Have the great bed dismantled and reassembled here in the hall, behind a screen.”

  “Immediately, my lord.” And six men were dispatched to bring the cumbersome object, piece by piece, through the narrow passage from the tower and down the steep corkscrew stairs, barely the width of a man, into the hall.

  “So, Father, you shall soon be comfortable again,” Sir Hugo addressed the still figure on the litter. The poisoned wound had shriveled the old man’s body to the bone. His teeth, now prominent in the skull-like face, parted, and his shriveled lips stirred in a hint of a ghastly smile.