“What’s this?” said the Count, raising his eyebrows. “More Margarets? Which one are you?” The Dominican beside him looked strangely relieved, I couldn’t imagine why.
“I am Margaret de Vilers, wife to Gilbert de Vilers, come to hold you to your vow.”
I could hear murmurs from the company in the hall. “Delightful.” “Wonderful entertainment.” “Is it a play?” “Perhaps he planned it all in advance. So original.”
“Oh, really? He said you looked just alike. Who am I to believe?” I suppose I didn’t look as fine as Cis, all in black as I was, with my rusty dark pilgrim’s cloak and my wide pilgrim’s hat slung behind me on my back. “Suppose I want the other Margaret?” he went on in that bland, menacing voice. I could see the Count of Foix’s ambassador purse his lips with annoyance.
“She isn’t the proper Margaret at all, and she’s not married to anyone, let alone Gilbert de Vilers, so your vow would be broken if she played. Play me.” The ambassador regained his contentment.
“If you are indeed the right Margaret.”
“I am, and I can prove it. That letter. If it was really his, I’ll tell you what’s in it. And the seal. It’s his. It’s from this ring, which he gave me as my wedding ring.” I held up my hand.
“And who do you say this is, Sir Hugo?”
“Margaret de Vilers, my brother’s wife,” he answered wearily.
“The one who was too sick to travel.”
“I got well,” I said. “Now I want to choose the game.”
“Chess, then, little Margaret who cannot spell?” I’ve never heard a pleasant sentiment sound more threatening.
“I haven’t the wit for chess. I’ll play dice. Then God’s hand will assist me.” To think, I once wouldn’t have been able to lie this much at all. But then, if God hadn’t wanted me to win, He wouldn’t have given me the loaded dice, would He?
The Sieur d’Aigremont grinned a strange, triumphant little smile. “Which ones?”he asked.
“Those,” I said, pointing to the set of three that looked exactly like my own. He swept away the other sets, and a seat was brought to the table, exactly facing his own across the dice board. As I sat, I could hear the menacing hum of the Burning Cross rise to a higher, more desperate whine.
“What’s that noise?” he said.
“A fly, perhaps,” I answered. I could feel the press of bodies around us as everyone in the room strained to get a glimpse of the strange game.
“What game do you wish to play? Hazard?”
“I—don’t know Hazard. I’ve never played dice before.” There was a strange sigh from the crowd. “Let’s just play for the high number.”
“As plus points? As you wish, madame. One throw only?”
“All right,” I said. It’s less risk to change them only once, I thought.
“And we agree before this company that the highest number wins?” His smile was positively wolfish.
“Yes.”
He picked up the dice, fingering them elaborately, and then shook them in his cupped hands and dropped them onto the dice board that lay between us on the table.
“Eighteen,” he said as they stopped rolling. I could feel the heat of the bodies crowding round us. “You cannot beat that, madame.”
“But if it pleases God, I may tie.” He picked up the dice with grand flourish and handed them to me. My heart was thumping as if it would leap from my mortal body. Calm, Margaret, calm, I thought to myself. I bowed my head over the dice as if in prayer, and slipped them away for my own, in the way that Master Kendall’s shade had shown me the money changers do. I rolled the dice, and watched as they wobbled across the board. The close-crowded watchers breathed in as if they were one person. Eighteen. “A miracle,” I heard someone say. “God is on her side.”
“A tie,” I said. “What now, monsieur?”
“Another match. Agreed?” he said to the company.
“Yes, yes, go on,” the murmurs swept around the table. I could feel the faces crowding in on us, and the breath of strangers on my back. Then he put down his hand and swept away my dice. Oh, God, what could I do? I wasn’t meant to be a dice cheater after all. It had seemed so easy before—and now, all of a sudden, it wasn’t! I could feel the sweat running down my neck and back like a river. I watched his hands. Elaborately, he swept them about. Wait—did I see something? It was my dice, disappearing down his sleeve. I was sure from the angle he held his arm. He’d switched them for his own! They’ll come up alike, I thought, and then I’ll know. They rattled as they fell: six, another six. The third seemed to catch on the edge of the board, then fell. A four.
“Sixteen,” gasped the crowd. And before he could take them to make the pretense of handing them to me while he switched them for the bad ones—or rather, the honest ones—I put my hand on them.
“Now me,” I said, snatching them up and rolling them quickly. The cloth seemed to shift beneath the board as they fell.
“Sixteen also,” I said, as he turned red in the face.
“We’ll go one more round, winner takes all.” His face was swollen with rage. But as he looked to the company for approval, I took his loaded dice, and rolled the first pair out of my sleeve in their place.
“Your dice, monsieur.” I handed them to him. By now, I was so frightened, I didn’t know whether they were a good set or a bad set. But I knew the set I’d just taken from him had to be bad ones, because they’d just rolled high.
“Don’t touch those. I’ll get them myself,”he snapped. Did he suspect something? I opened my eyes very wide and tried to look the picture of injured innocence. “Don’t lean against the table. You’ll jostle the board,” he snapped. He seemed rattled. Then he looked at me through narrowed eyes, and scooped up the dice. This time, I couldn’t tell whether he’d switched them with a hidden set or thrown the ones I’d given him. The throw wobbled in a loop, and the first die settled—a six. A moment later, the next two came to rest near the edge of the board, and the crowd around the table let out a sigh. A two. And then a three.
I took the dice from the board. “God save me,” I said, and crossed myself. Then, wiping my streaming forehead with my sleeve, I switched the dice again. I’ve never had such nimble fingers before or since. If you’d ever seen my embroidery, you’d wonder that I ever could have done it. Sometimes I think that only mortal fear makes us perfect. I threw the dice onto the board again. This set has to be his, I thought, and if they are, and he’s a cheat, then I’ll win, and if he’s honest, then—
“Eighteen!” the shout rang through the great hall. “The lady Margaret has ransomed her husband!” “Oh, how like a romance!” someone sighed—I think it was the Countess.
Even the unspeakable Hugo leapt over the table and clapped me on the back. “Well done, Margaret!”he shouted. “Bravely played!”
But the Count was red with rage. His face shook like a rooster’s wattles, and he roared like a bull. “Quiet, quiet, or I’ll slay you all!” His hand flew to the dagger at his belt.
“How uncouth. Entirely uncouth,” murmured the ambassador. “Not at all like my noble master. Gaston Phoebus is a man of honor, especially at the gaming table, as befits a lord.”
The Count heard him and his eyes rolled. He turned to spew his rage on Hugo. “You, you English. Don’t forget I meet you tomorrow morning. To the death. And you—you’ve won, Madame de Vilers. But—”
“I want him released now. And two horses. We’ll leave in the morning.”
His voice softened menacingly. “And just what good is his liberty to you without my letter of safe-conduct?”
I started. What game was he playing now?
“Just how do you expect to get home again? Not by ship. Nothing leaves Bayonne in this season for the north. Or perhaps you expect to cross Aquitaine into Guyenne to the headquarters of the English prince? He has pulled back for the winter, and there are nothing but mercenaries between here and there, and I assure you, they cut the throats of English travelers just a
s quickly as those of any other nation. No, my dear. There is no escaping it. You must cross my lands and then pass through the neutral countries to the north, by way of Foix, Burgundy, and those other lands as yet untouched by war. I am a powerful man: my letter and seal will carry you to the north in safety. Without them, count yourself dead.”
“I—I’d never thought of that.” It wasn’t an offer he was making; it was a threat. We’d never pass out of his mountains alive. He’d never sworn to that part, so the witnesses wouldn’t fault him for it.
“You must understand, I have no love for your husband. I count him a personal enemy. So let’s discuss the terms on which you receive my safe-conduct in my rooms, tonight before midnight. Come alone.”
“But—”
“Haven’t you figured out yet that he wants to sleep with you? Why else all this charade with the dice? Do it and get the letter, you ninny, and we’ll be out of here, as soon as I’ve met him on the field of honor,” Hugo hissed into my ear in English.
“Hugo, you’re as filthy-minded as ever. It’s indecent. And what’s more, he has every intention of killing you. He doesn’t want any of us to leave alive—and if he wasn’t trying to impress that big ambassador and his friends here, he’d have been a lot more direct about it. Haven’t you seen how huge he is? He’ll chop you into stewing meat.”
“Pfah, you’ve got it wrong, as usual. He’s a knight, and bound by the code of chivalry. Besides, he’s older than me and all fat. The big ones are always clumsy—he’ll fall like a tower to the sappers. And how do you think he’ll be able to sign a letter of safe-conduct after I’ve defeated him? So which do you prefer? Gilbert the cuckold, or Gilbert the corpse? Besides, you’ll like it. Most women do. Tell him yes, you pious little nit.” Oh, Hugo infuriated me. As stupid as a brick wall, and as helpful as a cracked jug. Who would help me? I’ll stall him. I’ll think of something. Maybe I can trick it out of him, or appeal to his mercy. I turned to the Count.
“I want to see this safe-conduct thing first. Then I’ll agree to talk, not before.” I looked at his billowing face, but could not see past all the debauchery.
“Not bad, not bad. Pity she’s not a man. She’d make a good diplomat,” I could overhear the ambassador say to one of his companions.
“Why, of course. I’ll have it written here. And you shall have it signed and this ring off my finger to go with it, after you have visited my chamber,” the Count responded. I didn’t like his bland, superior tone.
“And I want it in good plain French—not Latin or something I can’t read.”
“Sly, sly, that woman,” I could hear them saying behind me. “That’s how the king sent a death warrant once—death to the bearer, in Latin. Poor bastard never knew.”
“Agreed, agreed—” He waved a hand airily. “Fray Joaquin, get pen and paper.” As his black-cloaked shadow scurried off, I could feel the Count looking at me, to get my measure. It was a crawly feeling, as if he were imagining me with my clothes off. There wasn’t a noise in the room, except the sound of people breathing. It was then, in this horrid stillness, that I felt it. The first ripple from deep within my belly. It was unmistakable. The baby had started to move. Languidly, joyfully, like a swimmer in summer.
How could you be so happy at a time like this? I asked it in my mind.
“Joy,” it answered, and rolled over again. Joy, I thought, and I could see the dancing light in the eye of my remembering.
“Joy,” repeated the baby, and looped over again. They were droning in the background. Droning French and writing.
Aren’t you afraid of dying? We could die, I told it.
“Joy, joy,” said the baby, as it rolled.
Mindless thing, you haven’t a grain of sense, I scolded.
Someone joggled my arm.
“Your paper, madame, it’s done,” said Fray Joaquin.
“Give it here. I need to read it.”
“Yours, madame,” said the Count, pointing to it where it lay on the gaming table. His head was tilted back, making his chins bulge forward, as he looked down his vast wide nose at me. It had black hairs bristling from the inside. Oh, ugly, I thought, and I shuddered as a cold wind passed through me.
“It’s worthless without the seal, you know,” he added. “I’ll seal it and give you this ring after our—private agreement tonight. You understand? When I retire, I expect you there—”
I couldn’t bear it. I stuffed the paper into my bosom and bolted through the press of people, weeping.
“Good—it begins,” I could hear him say as I fled. The sound of raucous laughter echoed down the corridor after me.
CHAPTER TEN
BROTHER MALACHI LEANED OVER THE seething mass of molten metal, holding his breath against the hideous fumes rising from the crucible. The firelight glistened on his face, making it all ruddy; sweat ran in great rivulets down his forehead and trickled down his cheeks almost like tears. He was wearing a great leather apron to prevent his gown from going up in flames. Heavy gauntlets, drawn almost to the elbow, protected his hands. His left hand held the leather sack, now open, that contained the Red Powder; his right held his black iron stirring rod.
“Almost ready,” he said, pulling his head back from the intense heat.
“Sulfur. You haven’t added the sulfur yet. Villanova says it must be at the beginning of the process.” The glancing light from the inferno made Messer Guglielmo’s eyes blaze unnaturally.
“But Lull says that it can only be now. Unless, of course, you think as little of Lull as you think of Magister Salernus, who says that the process must take place during the full moon, if it is to multiply correctly.”
“And where, pray tell, does he say that?” Messer Guglielmo’s voice was all sarcasm.
“You think he’d give away a secret like that? It’s in the seventh illustration on the twenty-first page. He has them encoded in multiples of seven. It distinctly shows the peacock under the full moon, just after the Green Lion.”
“Not in my copy, it doesn’t.”
“Your copy is corrupted. Did you see the error on the page of the descent of the dove?”
“Well, that I’ll grant—but the full moon signifies the presence of silver, whereas carrying out the process under the full moon should be depicted as a pregnant queen, in his system, and I see no such thing.”
Even the dumb assistants, taken in by the argument, leaned forward to inspect the process. Brother Malachi ceased stirring, drew the tall stool beside the athanor to the wall, and sat down. He leaned his back against the cool stones and sighed, lifting an arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the crook of his elbow, never letting go of the precious little sack. His rod lay across his lap, still clutched in a gauntleted hand.
“Now,” the waspish voice of Messer Guglielmo broke in, “you can’t go further without the fixative. You must have it prepared before you now, fresh, or you will destroy the process.”
“I don’t use that fixative. It’s not necessary. It’s evil. The power that created the universe and transforms it is good. The Red Powder won’t work—besides—”
“Excuses again. Cowardly excuses, unfit for a scientist. You can’t evade anymore, you overrated excuse for an alchemist. That kind of talk might fool an amateur, but you have to deal with a professional this time. Do you hear?” Messer Guglielmo paced nervously, his voice rising to a raspy screech. Brother Malachi leaned against the wall, drawing long, shaky breaths, his eyes glazed.
“I can’t imagine how you ever got as far as you did, without the daring required for true investigation—without the willingness to take risks. It’s I who have the Secret almost within my grasp. I didn’t need you. But oh, no, the famous Theophilus, or someone who claims he’s him, must be given everything.” He pulled several hairs from his beard with a nervous gesture as he paced back and forth.
“Tonight is your night, Theophilus, and you cannot dream how greatly I crave your failure. Irritation. Irritation! You infuriate me. Fail, Theophilus, f
ail! And when Asmodeus has brought me the triumph, I’ll have the pleasure of watching you die slowly, slowly—” He looked up with a start. Fray Joaquin, having entered silently, stood before him like a shadow.
“Fail? He’s failed?” the Dominican asked with a faint, ghoulish smile.
“The process is at the point of change. The next step is the sulfur, at the peak of the heat. Then, as it changes color, the Red Powder must be added. But I haven’t my full moon, so it won’t multiply as much as it should—” Brother Malachi explained wearily.
“Do you hear him making excuses already? He’s trying to save himself ahead of time. I told you, I know his type.”
“You are to call Asmodeus,” said the black-cloaked friar.
“Call my Asmodeus to rescue this fool from his mess? Give this amateur here credit for my success? After all I’ve been through? If I run the risk of calling Asmodeus, it will be for my own triumph.”
“You are under orders.”
“I haven’t the offering. The Count hasn’t sent it down yet. Besides, it takes time to lay out the circle. We can’t afford to make a mistake with it this time.” The memory of the towering demon beating his powerful wings against the frail barrier made even the waspish Messer Guglielmo turn a little pale.
Brother Malachi bowed his head and crossed himself. His lips were moving in silent prayer. The stirring rod lay across his knees.
“Then start laying it out now, you jackass!” Fray Joaquin picked up a large ladle from the broad wooden table in the corner and began to batter the unfortunate Messer Guglielmo about the head. He threw up his hands to protect his head and backed into the corner, crouching until the storm of blows abated.
“But—the sacrifice?”
“You know perfectly well that I don’t do them. He always wants to do them himself. He’ll be a bit late tonight. You’ll have to hold the process until he brings the woman’s body down.”
In Pursuit of the Green Lion Page 31