The lady Giuseppina looked up from a conversation with Fra Antonio. “What does that fellow want? Is he proposing marriage too?” she asked, somewhat tartly.
“Yes,” I answered, and she smiled her lovely pink and white smile. By the time that we resumed our journey, Cecily and Alison had collected several handfuls of the last of the sturdy little daisies, called marguerites, that still grew in the grass. They occupied themselves in the back of the wagon by weaving a chaplet for the baby, who seemed enchanted by their presence and attention. But the idyllic moment was rudely disturbed by the sound of galloping hooves and unsheathed steel, as the dark lady’s guard formed a ring about the wagon at the command of her captain. It was fortunate we were in the back, beneath the shady cover where the Marquesa and her ladies had retired to preserve their complexions.
The Marquesa moved forward and stood up behind her driver, shouting imperiously through the circle of guards to the heavily armed mounted men who had caught up with our party: “Who are you, and how dare you disturb my journey?”
“We are from Brokesford Manor, and seek a woman with two little girls who has fled. Have you seen her anywhere on the road?” I recognized the sour voice of Sir Hubert’s steward.
“Of course not,” said the dark lady.
“Hide,” I whispered to the girls, and threw my cloak over us all as we crouched in the back of the wagon, trying very hard to resemble lumpy luggage.
“Who is it?” whispered Alison.
“Your wicked uncle Hugo, looking for us, so shush,” I whispered back, and she was deathly silent.
“How do we know she isn’t in the wagon with your ladies?” came the shout.
“My child is in this wagon, and your master has every reason to wish him ill. My men will defend me to the death. Move off.” She sounded cold and imperious. I could hear a growling and the clatter of harness.
“It looks like there’s nothing in there but foreign women and baggage anyway,” a voice said. We could hear the clatter as they turned their horses to address the company of merchants. “Have any of you seen a woman on the road—about twenty-three, pretty, with two redheaded girls? She’s wearing mourning—you couldn’t mistake her. There’s a reward if you spot her for us.” Not a sound came from the wool merchants. In the silence, I could hear the horses champing on their bits, and the heavy breathing of the guard.
“Looks hopeless,” I heard them say. “We’ll try the other road.” And they departed at a trot, with a jingle of harness. We crouched there a long time before Fra Antonio, riding beside the wagon, gave the all clear by whispering in French through the canvas.
“They are loyal, your merchant friends,” said the dark lady when we emerged.
“They offered a reward,” I said, somewhat horrified. “Hugo must have planned something very horrible.”
“A reward, eh? Then you do have a great deal of property. That proves it. Better only a chance of marrying you and getting hold of it, think these men here, than a sure reward. But then, knowing Hugo, how sure is the reward, anyway? Perhaps he has a reputation,” she speculated aloud.
“People in this country aren’t that mercenary; these are good men. They knew of my former husband.”
“Nonsense. But I am delighted to be causing that wretched Hugo so much trouble. It’s my curse working. My curses always work.” She looked pleased with herself. Then she glanced at me again, looking me over as if calculating something. “What’s that bit of gold chain on your neck there? When I didn’t see any rings, I thought you were poor. I don’t like poor people much. But I missed the gold thing you’re hiding under your surcoat. What is it under there? Pull it out and let me see.”
As I’ve said, she wasn’t the type of woman I wanted to offend. To oblige her, I pulled out my cross from its hiding place between my surcoat and kirtle. As I held it out, her eyes grew huge, and she drew back slightly and crossed herself.
“Holy Virgin, no wonder I couldn’t tell them you were here. You wear that.”
“You know it?” I asked.
“I saw it when I was a little girl, hanging in a shrine in a church in Milan. It disappeared during a sack of the city. They say when Lodrisio Visconti seized it, it seared him to the bone; the next day he was captured at the battle of Parabiago. I’ve heard of it several times since then. That accursed German mercenary captain Werner von Urslingen is said to have refused to touch it when it was cut off the steaming corpse of a peasant looter. ‘I know that thing,’ he said, ‘I don’t need talismans to tell me what I announce to the world.’Then he beat on his breastplate and shouted, ‘I am von Urslingen, enemy of God and of compassion. Take it away—no, sell it to some sentimental Italian.’When Fra Moriale, despite his great army, was taken and executed, they say that it was found among his possessions. Now it seems to have made its way to England. How did you get it, and why doesn’t it burn you?”
“It was given to me for a good deed.”
“Oh—that explains everything. Did you know, it can’t be bought or sold or stolen, for it destroys whoever gets it?”
“That’s a bit exaggerated, I think, but it does raise a welt occasionally.”
“Not on me,” said Cecily, and put her hand on it.
“Cecily! You stop that!” I was so annoyed. Cecily needs to be trained out of interrupting adults.
“Cecily’s a show-off,” said Alison, putting her hand on it too.
The dark lady surveyed our three faces very carefully.
“I think I shall be glad to be rid of you three,” she said thoughtfully. “London can’t come soon enough.”
But after several hours of deep silence, she became bored and started talking again. We had joined the great road south, which, unlike other roads, is paved in great stones left either by giants or by Romans, depending on your point of view. As we clattered over the rutted, weedy pavement, she looked back at me with renewed interest.
“Your problem is, you have not studied human nature,” she announced. “Now I, I know everything, because I understand that humans all have fixed paths, just as the wandering stars have their epicycles. So if you have studied these paths, you know where everything will come out. For example, you. Your husband is dead, so his older brother inherits. He will lock you up so you can’t marry, and put your daughters in a convent, where they can’t inherit, so that he can collect everything. But you escape—that’s dangerous. He’s best off having you killed on the road and pretending it’s brigands. However, I have now discovered you have too much money. That means your husband’s lord will be interested. Since he has the right to give you in marriage, you will be a rich reward for some follower. So, my conclusion is this: Sir Hugo is searching for you under pain of grievous displeasure from a great lord. My curse is working better than ever, don’t you think? Just imagine him, whining and pleading for more time. The great lord will probably have him killed. Hmm, I wonder. Strangled or poisoned? Or maybe he’ll just put out his eyes and lock him up forever. Ah, what a splendid curse.”
“I don’t think so at all. That’s not how it’s done here. The Duke is very honorable, my husband said so.” I could feel this woman’s cynical reasoning poisoning me to the bone. A few more days of this, and I’d never trust anyone again.
“Of course,” she went on cheerfully, “this Duke of his may want you for himself—”
Suddenly, I thought of a horrible thing: the go-between who had arrived at Master Kendall’s house long ago, with a gift from the Duke, which I’d sent back.
“—and then there’s the possibility that he sent your husband to some dangerous place on purpose, just like King David when he coveted Bathsheba …” she chattered on.
My God! Could such a thing be possible? Now I had two powerful men to avoid. And of the two, Sir Hugo was my least problem, for the Duke had people everywhere. If they found me, I’d no rights of my own, being husbandless, and the very best that could happen was that I’d be married off by force. How could I hide? What could I do? I clung like a
drowning woman to Gregory’s praise of the Duke. If he said he was great and honorable, then wasn’t he? But suppose Gregory were deceived? Had the dark lady twisted my mind, or was it all really true?
“—of course, it would be natural. You aren’t what I call beautiful—you wear too few jewels, for one thing, and for another, you don’t use rice powder on your face, so your cheeks look rather garishly pink. But you are pretty in a barbaric sort of way, and these English savages have no taste.” She shook her head and muttered, “Damn that Sir Hugo to hell.” Then she looked me in the face. We were approaching St. Alban’s, and there, across the river Ver, I could make out the tower of the abbey, hidden among the trees. Not far, not far now, my heart sang.
But the dark lady had no eyes for the pretty sight; she was intent on explaining her philosophy: “Only one thing disturbs the epicycles. Remember that. That thing is love. It doesn’t follow the rules. I made that mistake once, but never again. I followed my love to the ends of the earth. It wasn’t logical. But he was logical, and so I’m saved. What would I have done with an English pig for a husband, anyway? Now I can resume my proper path. Don’t come to visit me, little barbarian, for I may change my mind about you at any time.”
I tell you, London couldn’t come soon enough.
THEY LEFT US AT Ludgate, and she went off down Fleet Street toward the palaces on the Strand. For she was staying with great acquaintances until she heard whether her “little black trouble cloud” of foreign politics had blown away and it was safe to go home again. We passed through the gate, mingling with the crowds dispersing from Mass at St. Martin’s church, which stands immediately within the gate.
Ahead of us loomed the massive bulk and great spire of St. Paul’s. I couldn’t help pausing as a wave of remembrance passed over me. That was where I’d first seen him, in the nave, my Gregory. We hadn’t liked each other at all. I’d been looking for a copyist, and he’d just found the contemplation business inadequate to support him. He announced he was too busy seeking God to write nonsense for a conceited, stubborn woman, and I said to myself: A lot he knows about stubborn! That’s the most arrogant man who ever donned a habit. And when he finally took the job, he announced it was because God wished to test his Humility. It seems some spiritual adviser had told him he needed more Humility to see God, so he was out collecting it as if it were a stack of florins. Ten pounds’ worth of Humility, God. Now reveal Yourself; may I have a receipt? Men! They’re all alike—they get everything backward. But that’s the way it is with us women. Fools work their way into our hearts, in spite of all our good sense.
We turned left, passing the Bishop’s palace, which to this day fills me with a sort of horrid, prickery feeling, and turned into the Shambles toward the Cheap. Chickens and geese were hanging by their feet in the poulterers’ shops, and we had to step carefully to avoid the heaps of butchers’ offal.
“Mama, this isn’t the way home, is it?” asked Cecily as she and her sister toiled along beside me. Alison tugged at my hand before a display of ribbons laid out on a market woman’s shawl in the Cheap. “Pretty, Mama. Buy me that red one.” I shook my head.
“No, Cecily, we’re not going home. If I were Hugo, that’s the first place I’d look. We’re going to Mother Hilde’s. Hugo has no idea who she is, and he’ll never find us there. Besides, she can help me think of what to do.”
“Mother Hilde has sweets!” announced Alison joyfully, and the girls began to skip along the street, leaping over the gutters with joy at the thought of it. I only wished I could renew my energy the way that they did. But I always get tired quickly in the first months of making a baby.
But as we turned down Cornhill and the houses got shabbier, my heart started to beat faster and hope began to sing within me. Mother Hilde can fix anything! She’ll see it in a dream, or she knows someone who did just the same, only better. A broken heart’s nothing to Mother Hilde, she can mend anything! I’ll tell her about Gregory’s horrible family, and she’ll cluck and say, “My, my! That’s bad, but I’ve known worse! Do stir up the fire for me, dear, and pour yourself another mug of ale. Have your babies seen how to make dolls out of a dried apple yet? Let me sing them a song I know about the grasshopper and the ant.” Wherever Mother Hilde is, that’s better than home.
We were almost at the place; the narrow opening of St. Katherine’s Street, which is really rather a grand name for an overgrown gutter, was almost obscured by the displays that street vendors had hung up. Nothing matched: a cup, some spoons, a hood, a pair of well-used gloves, some battered-looking pots. Most people call St. Katherine’s Street “Thieves’ Alley,” because if you’re looking for ruffians, or a place to sell stolen goods secretly, it’s one of the best. But the rents are cheap, and most of the folk there have honest occupations, despite the name.
A man on the street brushed me, then opened his cloak to show me a polished silver mirror and a comb.
“For you, such a bargain!” he said. I shook my head and smiled. Stolen, of course. I certainly was near home.
“A widow needs to make herself pretty to catch another man. Think it over—I’ll be here the rest of the afternoon, if you change your mind.” Here? Yes, here—at the opening between two sagging tenements. A woman selling sour milk from a bucket, two lounging apprentices negotiating with an old lady for one of her store of greasy and no longer hot pies. Laundry hanging like pennants from second story to second story. “Thieves’ Alley,” Mother Hilde, and home, thank the Blessed Lord.
We carefully skirted a massive pig enjoying himself in the oozing muck in the center of the alley, and passed beneath the overhanging second stories of the tenements, where women leaned from between their open shutters to gather in laundry and shout gossip across the narrow way. A bird in a cage chirped somewhere above, and an old yellow dog raised his sleepy head from his paws and barked at us from a doorstep. Midway down the alley we stopped before an old two-story house that seemed to lean drunkenly against its neighbors. The front room on the second floor, seemingly added as an afterthought, was built so far into the street that it cast the front door into perpetual shadow, and prevented a mounted man from riding the length of the alley.
The door had a new knocker on it, made of iron but brightly painted, in the shape of a monkey’s face. Above us, marigolds in a second-story window box caught the sun, and the timbers at the house front shone with new color. Mother Hilde’s prospering, I thought. I remember when we first came here, there were holes in the roof. I lifted the knocker. It won’t be Brother Malachi who answers, I said to myself. The weather’s still good, and he never gives up his summer business until the weather shifts. He’ll be on the road, selling things. Mother Hilde lives with Brother Malachi, who’s nobody’s brother, but I think he was a monk once, before he took up his trade of forging indulgences. He sells relics, too, which he makes himself out of bits of this and that. He says you shouldn’t consider that he sells false goods because he sells very genuine goods—faith and hope—and that paper and pig bones are simply methods of conveying them to others. Besides, he gives good bargains. At least, that’s what he says.
In the winter Brother Malachi stays home and works on his true profession, which is finding the Philosopher’s Stone. This takes up the entire back room of the house, for the Philosopher’s Stone cannot be found without a lot of strange equipment and positive clouds of bad smells. When I lived here last, he had a boy named Sim, whom we’d found in the street, to pump the bellows and build up the fires and run errands for him. Perhaps Sim would answer my knock.
But I was stopped short when a strange woman opened the door. She was a bit taller than I, with a strong, rawboned face and fading, darkish hair tucked beneath a simple kerchief. Behind her in the room I could see a girl of about twelve, who had left off sweeping the hearth with a twig broom, and turned to see who was at the door. But it was the room itself, Mother Hilde’s cramped little hall, that looked strangest of all. True, the fire still leapt on the hearth, and the boiling kett
le’s lid still clattered, as they had in the old days, but everything else was different: the low rafters had been painted bright red, and the ceiling between them was now dark blue, like the night sky, with the constellations picked out on it in bright flecks of gold. At the center of each a fanciful depiction of the proper sign of the zodiac was painted in bright colors. The twins, entirely nude but for two large fig leaves, the scorpion with his poisonous tail, Capricorn the goat with his little beard and curling horns. The walls beneath the crimson beams were painted as green as a new leaf. New paint, not yet begrimed by the smoke of candles.
I was suddenly terrified and speechless. Who on earth could be living here now? Had Mother Hilde died?
“Were you looking for a midwife?” said the woman, not unkindly, as she surveyed my frightened face and the two little girls clinging to my skirts.
“We’ve come for Mother Hilde,” Alison spoke up from her safe place behind me. “She has sweets.” The woman smiled.
“She is here, isn’t she?” I asked, my voice rather shaky.
“Why, yes—who shall I say is calling?”
“Tell her it’s Margaret, and I need her dreadfully.”
“Oh, Margaret,” responded the woman, as if she’d heard of me. “Of course, she’s in back—go right through.”
As we passed, the girl tugged at my sleeve and said shyly, “I’m Bet; that’s my mother. She’s learning from Mother Hilde now too.”
In Pursuit of the Green Lion Page 18