“Promise now, deliver later is the rule for negotiations,” said Sir William. “Besides, I wouldn’t send a bitch-hound I cared for within that man’s grasp.”
“What do you mean? He’s a great lord, renowned for his hospitality. By the rules of chivalry, any gentleman prisoners he’s got are living in the lap of luxury. Why, our king even lets his prisoners go hunting—though with an escort.”
“We are not speaking of kings here, Sir Hubert. We’re speaking of the vainest man in all the kingdoms of Europe.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had a jongleur dismembered once for implying he had a fat face. I knew the man. He was Flemish, and a real jester.”
“What are you getting at? Gilbert’s gently born. What lords do to peasants doesn’t matter.”
“Usually it doesn’t matter, Sir Hubert. But have you ever heard ‘Homage to My Lady’s Tiny Foot’?”
“I don’t listen to poetry. Music’s just jingle-jangle to me. It’s all overrated, this art stuff.”
“Maybe it is, but let me tell you this. That fat-faced count hired trouvères to sing that ditty in all the courts of Europe. And what’s more, that ‘Homage’ thing is the most ridiculous set of verses ever sung. It made my stomach churn with embarrassment. I had to pretend I was choking, to avoid laughing out loud in polite company. Now—what do you think Gilbert would do, the first time he heard something like that?”
“Tell him the truth,” replied Sir Hubert.
“Exactly.”
“I’m afraid he’s got hold of trouble by the horns,” sighed Sir Hubert.
“So am I. I’m glad we see alike on this. We’ll have to move very carefully if we’re to get him back in one piece.”
“It was easier thinking he was dead, the godforsaken idiot.”
“FASCINATING. TO THINK that I lived an entire lifetime without seeing this done.” I could see Master Kendall’s shade swirling directly above Brother Malachi’s crucible so he could get the best possible view.
Brother Malachi was all a-bustle, as he is when he is working. “Sim, don’t stint now on the bellows, we’ll need the fire very hot for this process—and Margaret, could you turn the emeralds again? Use the tongs, now, and don’t go touching them, or you’ll spoil the finish. Oh—ugh. Margaret, is that Master Kendall’s gh—er—manifestation above the crucible? I think I’ve gone and stepped into him. Do tell him, please, to move back a bit. I’m afraid he might inadvertently cool the process midway. I don’t want the gold peeling off prematurely—it might prove embarrassing—”
Master Kendall followed me across the cramped little laboratorium as I took the little tongs from the shelf and opened the vessel full of oil where five matched crystals, all stained nicely green, had been soaking for the last several days. I turned them ever so carefully and replaced the lid. Malachi had made them by soaking them in alum and urine, and then heating them in verdigris until they turned quite as green as real emeralds. Jewels, he said, are often useful to include in a ransom. Just now he was making tawdry copper rings bought in the Cheap and an assortment of old copper pennies into gold.
“Passage money, bribes—oh, yes, two of your florins, reduced to powder and mixed with lead, will make us very wealthy travelers, Margaret. You won’t be able to tell these by feel, rubbing, or even with a touchstone. Now we’re ready for the first coat. We mix the powder with gum, and coat them all evenly. Watch me, Sim, or you’ll never make an alchemist—then the heat drives off the lead, and leaves them quite, ah, golden—”
Master Kendall’s ghost had settled in a corner just under the ceiling. His arms were folded, and he was smiling and shaking his head. “Margaret,” he was saying, “I must say I’m a good bit less worried about you traveling in the company of this resourceful fellow than I was before. It’s only a pity that ghosts can’t cross the water, or I’d go along, too, just to see what tricks he’ll come up with—”
“If you please,” a voice hissed from the same corner.
“Madame Belle-mère!” I exclaimed.
“If you must cram yourself into my corner when there are three other ones that could serve you equally well, at least have the decency to dematerialize and quit blocking my view.”
“Quiet, quiet, Margaret!” admonished Brother Malachi, looking up from his work. “I’m at a very delicate place in the process—chatter with spirits another time, will you?” So I sat silent on the bench while the smell of hot metal and gum permeated the room, and Master Kendall made a cutting retort to Madame Belle-mère.
“I haven’t the time to be arguing with baseborn rogues. Move off, I say,” she answered, making herself visible as a long, slim column of mist. Master Kendall swirled with annoyance, and turned all bluish.
“Madame, it would be far more appropriate for you to be off peering in cradles, like the other light-witted specters of your sort, than attempting to understand a complex process that is entirely beyond your comprehension.”
“Beyond my comprehension, ha! I know exactly what he is doing. Making false gold rings that turn green after they have been worn a few months. I had an uncle who bought one like that once. He had the merchant’s ears cropped. As yours obviously should have been long ago.” Master Kendall made a crackling sound, but he didn’t move from the corner.
“I tell you, there’s one thing I know all about. That’s jewelry. I wear a lot of rings myself. It’s appropriate for a woman of my rank, even in death,” she insisted. “Not that I see you wearing all that many—and that gold chain—it’s in bad taste—so impossibly bourgeois.”
“My taste is perfect, you ill-mannered provincial. I have supplied the greatest collectors and connoisseurs in the realm.” I was itching to say something sharp to the Weeping Lady in defense of Master Kendall, who really does have exquisite taste, but I couldn’t rouse up Malachi.
“And let me tell you,” she said, moving herself out of the corner so she could expand to display her dress and jewelry. She had donned quite elaborate court garb for her appearance in the City. Just how, I wondered, do ghosts change clothes? “I have dozens of ways—no, hundreds—of proving that a woman of my blood is made of better stuff than you common upstart ghosts.” I could see her face now. She was looking down her long nose in the most condescending and triumphant way. It seemed somehow familiar, that look, and then I remembered with a start. It was exactly the way Gregory looked when he’d just pounced on someone with a quotation from Aristotle. Gregory! My heart felt all squeezed. But still I couldn’t even say a word. Malachi was pottering around the athanor, so intent on his business, he didn’t notice Sim starting to slack on the bellows. Master Kendall, who now had exclusive possession of the corner by default, looked content with himself and smiled at the Weeping Lady as if she were a ridiculous child.
“That remains to be demonstrated,” he said calmly.
“Not a difficult thing to do with someone of your sort,” said the Weeping Lady. “What would you say if I told you I have every intention of crossing the water with my daughter-in-law here? After all, she seems to be the only interesting relative I have left.” My heart sank. The last thing in the world I’d ever needed on a trip. My mother-in-law’s ghost. Why, she wasn’t even very likable. Now, if she’d been easy to take, or a pleasant conversationalist, I might have overcome the embarrassment of it all. But even the thought of the possibility of it vexed me beyond all telling. So Master Kendall’s words cheered me up considerably.
“Impossible,” he said. “It can’t be done. Your shade will evaporate just like dew in the midday sun. Everyone knows that. It’s the first thing they tell you when you get here.”
“Nonsense,” she retorted. “I’ve got a mind, unlike some of the lesser types here, and I have it entirely worked out. After all, the soul is immortal, isn’t it? So what matter if the form vanishes? Besides, it might not—none of you men has been bold enough to try it. And consider this: How can you see everyone disappearing toward Hades, or whatever that place is, if some of
them have died abroad?”
“They can arrange for us to move if they want, but we can’t do it ourselves.” Master Kendall was getting interested in the argument.
“So—just watch me, and you’ll eat all your words, you—and Margaret, I see your face. Don’t you think not to take those little shoes on the ship with you, or I’ll raise such a row you’ll wish you’d never been born—”
“So you really intend to make the trial, eh? Not entirely to spite a former mercer who lives between heaven and earth, I presume?”
“You think I’m sentimental? Nonsense! It’s entirely for the pleasure of annoying you, I assure you. So say now, if I succeed, you’ll admit that I’m the better. Will you?” She was fully formed now, and she shook her head so that her long earrings and shining necklaces, had they been made of more substantial stuff, would have clattered. A wisp of an unruly curl escaped from her tidy coif, and her translucent eyes shone like a willful child’s.
Master Kendall took this all in with that long, slow, appraising gaze of his, and he answered, in a voice not unkind: “Why yes, I’d be forced to admit it, wouldn’t I?”
But the eerie whistle of their conversation was interrupted by the homely sound of Brother Malachi plopping himself onto his stool and sighing as he mopped his brow with his sleeve. “Ha! Finishing nicely! Sim, my brain needs nourishment. Go see what Hilde can find me—and some for yourself as well. Phew! What heat!” He turned and spied me, starting as if he’d entirely forgotten I had been there the whole time. “Why, Margaret, you’ve been as quiet as a mouse over there. And what do you think of my process? Splendid, isn’t it? Straight from Pliny, with a few improvements of my own. Goodness, what’s wrong? You certainly look odd! I imagine you never dreamed two florins could create all this wealth. Ah, Sim, the perfect mind restorative! And all cool from the cellar, too. And one for Margaret as well! Margaret, restore yourself with some ale—you look all white about the mouth. Just what is it you’re worrying about now?”
“Me? Oh nothing, Brother Malachi.”
“Good, good. You must trust in my capacious mind to anticipate and solve all problems, Margaret.”
Actually, there was something I did want to ask him, but I didn’t dare. He’d forgotten his touchy mood, and I didn’t need any more sharp words about me at that point. But what I wanted to ask was what he’d done with the rest of Master Kendall’s gold florins.
“TURN AROUND AGAIN,” said the old lord.
The girl, dressed in a simple gray kirtle and blue surcoat from the chest upstairs, her hair hidden under a married woman’s white veil and wimple, turned again.
“She’ll do,” said the old lord, gesturing from the bed.
“The effect seems wrong, somehow. You say these were hers? They look very plain.” Sir William lounged on the end of the bed, inspecting the girl with calculating eyes.
“Hmm. You’re right. On her, they had an air. Simple but not plain. Plain won’t do, even for a knight bachelor’s wife.”
The girl looked at Sir William.
“Ladies wear jewels,” she said.
“Indeed. Yes. That’s part of it. She needs some rings. Pity we haven’t any in silver gilt. And ours are too large.” The trio of men inspected their hands. Even the ring on the old lord’s little finger was too large for her thumb. Besides, it was a keepsake. “Yes, rings. Hmm. A necklace, too, preferably with a big crucifix. A set of beads, perhaps, on the belt. It’s well for a poetic inspiration to look pious. You’ll have to learn not to stare so—remember, too, always look down when you’re in male company.” Sir William looked over the girl again.
“Start now, or you’ll never pass for a lady,” snapped Hugo, who was red-eyed and tense as he sat on the big chest at the foot of the bed.
“I know how to be a lady. I’ve studied them. Ladies wear shining gold embroidery, not plain things.” She plucked at the squirrel-lined surcoat. The serene sky-blue made her complexion seem coarse and sallowish. When she looked down, her slight natural squint was hardly noticeable.
“Something darker and more showy, then,” said the old lord. “Hugo, see what Lady Petronilla has in her chest. And look through her jewels.”
The girl didn’t move. But the tiniest shadow of a smile flicked across her face for an instant, and her eyes, still gazing modestly at the floor, blazed in triumph.
“Her hands—you’ll have to keep them in gloves till they soften. Remember, don’t let her lift a finger on the trip. She has to pass,” the old lord admonished Sir Hugo as he turned to mount the stairs.
“What about her speech?” said Sir William.
“Don’t worry. None of those Frenchies speak English. Even when they do, they can’t tell accents apart.”
“Warn her to keep her mouth shut. It looks more modest that way, anyway.”
“Pious, modest, quiet, and a lady—all the things you aren’t, eh, Cis?” The old lord winked lasciviously at her.
“I am now, my lord,” she said, looking at the floor and clasping her hands together in the attitude of prayer.
“Very good. I told you she’d do, didn’t I? We’ll just change the clothes.”
There was a screaming sound from the solar above. Hugo had left the doors open on his way up.
“My finest crimson, on that hussy, that whore, that—that laundress? I’ll go straight to Father, see if I won’t. He’ll cut your head right off your shoulders for it.”
“You’re going nowhere at all, except to fetch your jewel casket.”
“I won’t, I tell you!”
“You’ll do whatever I want. I’ve lost my immortal soul for you!”
“Your whoring is no fault of mine—”
There was a terrible crashing sound, followed by screams, and then moaning and sobs.
“You think your precious knight errant will ever look at you again? Here, take the mirror, and see what I’ve done. You certainly don’t need jewels to set off that ugly face anymore.” A horrible, keening cry echoed and re-echoed down the stairs as Hugo rejoined them with several garments draped over his arm, and bearing a little chest in both hands.
“Broke her nose,” announced Hugo.
“About time,” said the old lord.
“Earrings,” said the girl. “The little gold ones. And the ring with the ruby.”
“First put on the dress,” ordered Hugo.
“Here?” The girl blushed crimson.
“Now is hardly the time for false modesty. There’s no one here but Sir William who doesn’t know what every inch of your body looks like. And he ought to. She has the sweetest little bottom this side of London, eh, Sir William?”
Sir William, who was a family man, studiously examined his fingernails and didn’t answer.
But when she had pulled the laces tight on the blue kirtle with the golden hem, and dropped the crimson embroidered surcoat over her shoulders, even the old lord said, “By God!”
The bright garments set off her golden blond looks, fading her skin to the snowiest of whites. The gold glittering at her neck and narrow little ears set off the blush of pink that was spreading across her cheeks even as they stared. The modest downcast look, which hid eyes blazing with victory, and the generous bosom, heaving with the emotions engendered by the sudden acquisition of the glorious and long-envied dress, made her seem to the male onlookers all aglow with hidden passion. There was no doubt about it: The girl, properly scrubbed up and dressed, was a stunning beauty.
“Definitely a poetical inspiration,” pronounced Sir William. “The French will never believe it isn’t Margaret de Vilers.”
“It will work,” said Sir Hugo, with new hope in his eyes. “It must work. Gilbert can save me. He’s studied theology. He’ll know what to do. When he sees the agony I’m in, he’ll tell me how I can be saved. He’s a brother—brothers have to help brothers, don’t they? My soul! My soul! What money can bring me back my soul? The unpardonable sin—the True Cross, God help me. If I’d only known—I haven’t slept a night since
that dreadful day. It has to work, before I waste away and die.”
The girl pretended that she was as deaf as a piece of furniture, which is exactly how they regarded her anyway. Now, in the glorious garments, was not the time to press her advantage.
“Pilgrim’s cloaks,” said Sir William. “You’ll fare better once you leave the headquarters of the English army at Bordeaux. No one must suspect you’re carrying ransom money. I’ve known too many perished that way.”
“No matter what I’m wearing, it will be a relief to be abroad. It’s stifling here, locked in with that barren, complaining stick of a wife.” Sir Hugo’s look of torment changed to one of profound self-pity.
“Good, then,” said the old lord. “It’s all settled. We’ll be able to keep our word to that Fray Whatshisname. Within the month, that French count will receive Gilbert’s ransom from the white hand of the fair Margaret de Vilers.” He shook his head. “Interesting man, that. Rather repellent. Nice little stud he was riding. But far too small. Fit for monks and ladies, that breed. But not a man’s horse.” Then he switched to French, and addressed his son. “Just be sure to leave very quickly,” he cautioned. “Remember, he’s obviously just after the woman. So as soon as you’ve got hold of Gilbert, leave by a ruse while the Frenchman’s busy with her.”
“Of course, Father. That’s understood,” answered Hugo.
“Ah, God, I only wish I were a fly on the wall at that fancy French chateau when you arrive with that wench,” said Sir Hubert, and he began to cough, because he was still not strong enough to laugh.
I SUPPOSE THERE ARE some folk who are born to be on the sea, and that is just as well, for the rest of us could never manage otherwise. I mean, how would we have herring in Lent or bring goods from far lands if some people were not mad enough to prefer a life on the salty waves to all others? Now, as for me, if I had known about the sea before I set out on it, I would have been about as eager as Master Kendall’s ghost to make the journey. But, of course, by then it was too late.
In Pursuit of the Green Lion Page 26