“Woman? I thought he had an infant left.”
“He does. This is something else. He has a woman in his chambers now, and when his pleasure is done, he’ll break her neck and have her brought down with the sacrifice.”
“That doesn’t sound alchemical. Asmodeus doesn’t like women.”
“No—he says it’s something about art.”
Malachi’s eyes started, but his body remained slumped against the wall, as if he’d heard nothing. He took a deep breath.
“The time is now,” he said, getting up carefully, and making a great show of inspecting the equipment. “The process is ripe. I will produce gold.”
“Now?” Fray Joaquin turned on him. “This soon? Take care what you promise.” But his eyes were shining with greed.
“He’ll fail,” snapped Messer Guglielmo. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“No I won’t,” said Brother Malachi, and he leaned over the crucible and emptied the Red Powder into it, stirring it in with the iron rod in the shape of overlapping triangles, the star of Solomon, chanting unintelligibly at each angle the dark rod made in the flaming mass.
“I WANT HIM RELEASED tonight. Not tomorrow after the joust.” My voice sounded firm as I stood a few paces from the open door to the Count’s bedchamber, but my knees were shaking and my stomach queasy. Little Brother Anselm had accompanied me to the door, remonstrating the whole while about Ursula and her virgin martyrs.
“The crown of virtue is preferable to the muck of sin,” he preached. “Besides, I have come to the considered conclusion that this count is not a trustworthy man. No indeed. He may very well try to trick you, once he has what he wants. After all, he should have brought forth your husband rejoicing, and crowned him with laurel leaves, and had a feast of song. That’s what a nobleman would do. But him? He’s a poor sport and a bad loser. He makes excuses, he wants jousts. I think he’ll cheat you, and then where will you be? Minus your virtue, and minus your husband, too, who will be required by his honor to renounce you, once he hears what’s happened.”
“I’ve thought of that already,” I told him. God, his chatter was getting tiresome! There’s nothing more annoying than someone who’s slower than you are to figure out the obvious.
“I tell you, you’re a fool. Women are. It’s why they should only act with the advice of men.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe that’s what I’m doing? And you yourself say it’s stupid,” I turned on him. “So tell me which man is right, and then I’ll do my duty, eh?”
“Our Lord Jesus Christ,” he said, rolling his eyes heavenward and crossing himself.
“Oh! Easy to say!” I turned on my heel in a fury, but he followed me to the threshold anyway. The door was wide open. The room was lit with dozens of flickering candles. There were sconces on the wall, between the perches where his nasty big satin doublet and huge hose with pointed leather soles were hung. A silver candelabrum with a dozen candles sat on a little round table that was covered with an embroidered cloth and set with a jug of wine, a single goblet, and a little rere-supper—a cold fowl in some sort of sauce, a covered dish, and bread. On a vast gilded bed at the center of the room, an immense figure lounged, clad only in the night napkin around his head and a great, fur-lined robe de chambre that he had allowed to fall open suggestively.
“I knew you’d come.” His deep voice rose from the shadows.
“I want him now, not tomorrow,” I said firmly, staying close to the open door.
“I intend to take you to him, once we have finished our little—talk—here—” The figure uncoiled itself from the bed. “Jean, you may go. And close the door after you.” The valet left, and the door made a heavy sound as it shut. I felt suddenly cold all over, and shuddered.
“Cold? Perhaps a little wine will warm you.” He gestured to the table. Beneath the supper dishes, the gold and silver threads of embroidery on the cloth shone in the candlelight. There was a little bench with a back on it behind the table.
“I’m—not thirsty. I want him back. You’ve already sworn—”
“Don’t be so nervous. You doubt my good faith? Look—here’s the ring.” He had to twist it to get it off, it was so wedged on. It marred the gesture, which seemed to annoy him briefly. “I put it on the table, so, as a pledge.” He moved as carefully and smoothly as a trainer with a wild horse—his eyes never leaving mine, as he set it on the table.
“And the sealing wax too. You see it there?” he said in the soothing voice that animal trainers use. “Sit down, and have some wine.”
“It could be poisoned,” my mind sang silently in a cool little voice.
“You’re afraid of the wine. Look. It’s a single cup. The goblet of lovers. Tonight we shall both drink from it. You see? I drink first.” He swallowed the wine in a single great gulp and then renewed it from the silver jug.
“The wine already poured was good. Beware the wine in the jug.” My mind’s silvery trilling seemed to come from far away.
“Now, sit down,”he said, in that same even, terrifying tone.
“I’m not tired,” I answered. “I came to talk about Gilbert de Vilers. I want horses, I want your ring. I want to be far from here as soon as possible. A gentleman would have offered these things, without all this—charade.”
“Sit down!” he roared, and the suddenness of his anger terrified me. I sat.
He crowded himself onto the little bench beside me, and his bulk filled it all up to overflowing. I could feel all those rolls of flesh pressing against me, beneath the robe, which fell open to reveal his curiously hairless chest—no, not hairless. Shaved. Ugh. How revolting. And he smelled of something sickly sweet. What was it? Phew. Lilac water. If I ever get out of this, I thought, I’ll never be able to stand lilacs again. Mind, mind—think of something. Make me quick.
“You’re not thirsty? Try—a wing of capon.” He gouged his fingers into the flesh of the dead bird and came up with a morsel, which he held between his thumb and forefinger near my lips. I could feel my eyes growing wide, and my stomach churning.
“I—I’m not hungry.”
“Not hungry?” he said, feeding himself the morsel and wiping his lips on the napkin. “It’s delicious.” He smacked his curiously red lips. “The sauce—I am a connoisseur of sauces.”
“I want Sir Gilbert now.”
“Now? That hairy, barbaric ape?” He saw my eyes sneak, with a kind of fascinated horror, to the billowing rolls of naked flesh revealed by the open robe.
“Women tell me it’s fascinating,”he said, looking at my face. “I am this way all over. You should try it yourself. The pain—is—delicious.”
I was so disgusted, I couldn’t stop my tongue.
“It’s just like a great big ugly baby” popped out of my mouth, and then I shrank back, waiting for the blow.
But he was pleased, and his horrid red lips glistened with spit as he smiled.
“Exactly. A lovely, lovely baby. How would a sweet baby harm you? You will love it entirely. The ultimate moment of your life—”
God assist me, God assist me, I prayed silently. Get me and Gregory out of this in one piece. I didn’t know they made people this repulsive in the whole wide world. Time. I need time.
“I—um—thought your ‘Ode to Summer’ was very beautiful,” I ventured. I could feel the odious body relax slightly.
“Which part did you like best?”
“The—ah—summeriness of it. It was so very—summery.”
“And—?”
“The birds part—it was very lovely—um, the ‘tirilay.’ And the flowers. I like flowers.” All except lilacs, I thought. I never want to smell one again.
“Flowers—lovely little flowers like marguerites,” he said, and he took the pins out of my headdress. I shuddered again as I felt him caress my hair.
“Sip the wine,” he said as he offered the goblet with the other hand. “It will take the chill off.”
“Do—do you write a lot of poetry? I—
I like poetry. Beautiful expression is—ah—very—very nice—in a man. Some say it’s—the most attractive thing—”
“Poetry? Has no one told you, I am the greatest trouvère in the history of trouvères, the greatest trouvère that ever lived in six kingdoms? Those formerly accounted great—Count Raymond of Toulouse, Guilhem de Poitou, and the other riffraff—everyone agrees I excel them as the hawk soars above the sparrow. I am called ‘The King of Troubadors,’ by many. Have you never heard of my ‘Ode to My Lady’s Tiny Foot’?”
“N-no. I come from a very backward place.”
“That you do, let me assure you.” He was beginning to be distracted. Now, if I could just get him deep in this poetry thing.
“You have a very tiny foot, I imagine.” He was looking at my neck. It made it feel all itchy.
“Well, not so tiny.”
“You must imagine that I wrote it especially for your lovely little foot. I would have, if I had seen it.”
“I’d—really like to hear it.”
“Ah, my lovely little flower, only if you promise to bare your precious little white foot for me as my reward.”
This was getting more disgusting with every moment that passed. “Time, take time,” sang the sweet little voice within.
“Maybe I’ll drop him the foot first,” I could hear him mutter to himself. “It would be appropriate.”
“Your beautiful ode?” I prompted him.
“Oh? Oh, yes.” He cleared his throat and began. Midway I interrupted him, by way of encouragement.
“That bit about the pearly toenails, that’s very nice,” I said. Stupidest verse I could ever have imagined, I thought.
“Now, we mustn’t interrupt, must we?” He wagged his finger at me. He’s getting mellow, I thought. A little more of this and maybe I can talk him out of his dirty little plan, and get Gregory back. “Never interrupt an artist,” he went on, in a special rolling tone that he appeared to reserve solely for reciting verse. But it was all too soon he finished the ridiculous thing.
“And now, your promise.”
“It’s very crowded sitting here. It’s hard to get to—if you just moved away a bit—”
“It will be much easier, I assure you, on the bed.”
Oh, my, so much for poetry. I’m worse off than ever.
“The bed? I haven’t finished eating yet.” I stuffed some bread into my mouth. It was as dry as dust.
“Have a little wine to wash it down. Lovely spiced wine.”
Again the wine! The back of my head hurt as he grabbed it to force the cup to my lips. The wine had an odd smell. That certainly isn’t a spice, I thought. But I know it from somewhere. What is it?
“Drink,” he said, and pressed the cup hard against my clenched teeth.
There was a banging at the sealed door.
“Go away!”he shouted. “I’m busy, and not to be disturbed.”
“My lord, my lord. Fray Joaquin sends a message, ‘He’s done it,’ he says. You told him to notify you, no matter what else you were doing.”
“Done it! By Fortuna!” He let me go as he leapt up to the door and shouted through it. The moment he turned his head, I splashed the wine into the corner and set the goblet back on the table.
“Bring him here—hooded. I want no one to recognize him, and above all—not to hear the slightest word from him.” He turned back to me, rubbing his hands. “My double triumph, all in one night. Thus does the Black Master keep his bargains.”
Black Master? No wonder the Burning Cross buzzed so. I’d wrapped it up in a cloth to muffle the sound. As I watched his figure stride back to the table, I seemed to see its outlines fade and shrivel, and a shapeless mass, stinking of sulfur mingled with the sickly odor of lilacs, took its place. The world seemed to slide away, and I could see it there very clearly, hiding beneath the ordinary surface of human flesh. Evil. Consummate evil. The visitors in the hall had never dreamed what lay beneath the everyday shining facade. They saw the surface—the banners, the gilded roast peacocks, the lordly life—and I suppose if they were worldly, they assumed he had a little vice or two on the side. What lord doesn’t, after all? But who, who on earth, could even guess the unspeakable thing that lay beneath this wicked man’s foolish pretenses? And then I knew that it wasn’t love the Count was after, or even the shabby travesty of love. It was my life, and my soul. Mine, Gregory’s, Malachi’s, everybody’s. His own was long gone, if he’d ever had one, and he wouldn’t rest until he could suck away the soul of every decent person who came within his reach.
“Ah, you’ve drunk the wine. Good.” And to my surprise, he poured the rest of the jug into the goblet and tossed it off.
“Enough of poetry. Are you feeling hot yet? No? A little warm in the face, perhaps?”
“What on earth was in that wine?” I asked, standing up in alarm.
“Enough canthatides to put an entire kennelful of bitches in heat. Come here.” So that’s what it was! I’d seen the stuff in my father-in-law’s house. He used it for breeding hunting hounds. I ran behind the bed as nimbly as a deer. He followed, blundering, but even so, he was faster than I was. I leapt back across the bed—he leapt after me. I grabbed the candelabrum from the table and held it, flaming, before me.
“Back, Satan, or I’ll set you on fire!” I cried.
He laughed and swatted the thing out of my hand with a single blow from his great paw. The candles spluttered and went out as he kicked it into a corner.
“Not—hot—yet?” He was panting. His face had gone all red. He stumbled and I leapt past him, racing around the bed to the window.
“Threatening to jump?” His breath was coming hard—too hard. The stuff he’d drunk was working. The napkin was all askew on his head. I clambered onto the windowsill.
“You haven’t got the bowels for it,” he gloated, doubled over to recover his breath. I looked down. Endless miles it seemed, down into the dark, with nothing but the sharp rocks of the mountainside below. A wave of pure fear rippled through me. I must. I have to, I thought. My mind was racing. But that look below had cost me my chance. He grabbed my foot and I toppled down hard into the room, shrieking and bruised. I kicked and tore at him with my fingernails, screaming horribly as he scooped me up and flung me onto the bed.
“Lovely—”he gasped. “Just the way I like them—”but he could hardly speak. His whole body had gone all crimson and blotchy. Let him die, God, let him choke and die on the damned stuff, I prayed. He paused and bent over, breathless and retching for a moment, and I thought my prayers had been answered. I jumped from the bed and raced to unbar the door, but he was on me like a wild beast. He didn’t even feel me batter at him with the door bar as he began to tear at my clothes.
But he was slowing. I could feel his breath coming in great gasps, like air from a bellows, as he pinned me to the floor. The odor of lilacs mingled with that of vomit as he suddenly rolled off, all huddled over, and shudderingly gave up the witches’ brew he’d drunk.
“He’ll never make it,”my mind’s voice sang. I’ll be wanting a new dress after this, I thought. He raised his ugly head and stared into the corner. He seemed suddenly paralyzed, his head frozen and staring into the dark. “You’ll get out of this one, Margaret. Aren’t you the lucky one?” chirped the little voice. Lucky? I’ll have to burn this dress as soon as possible.
“In the corner. There—”he said, and his voice was full of horror.
And a bath. I’ll be wanting a nice bath. I crawled away from the door. My hair was all unbound, and my clothes hung about me in tatters. I felt myself. Bruised here and there, but substantially unhurt. No damage, really. The baby started to roll again. We’re both fine, I thought. That’s got to mean something good. “Joy,” sang the baby, as it rolled and rippled. You foolish little thing, I told it in my mind. Don’t you ever understand when you’re in trouble? And we’re not half out yet. But I loved it suddenly so much, with a fierceness that claimed me totally.
The Count let out a horrible
scream. What on earth was wrong with him? Why didn’t God just strike him with lightning and get it over with? You’d think He’d know how to do it right.
It was then that I saw it, standing in the corner. A child. A pretty blond child, just as real as could be, standing there and pointing at him with an accusing finger. She was unclothed, and eyeless, and her little chest gaped open, where the heart was gone.
“I didn’t do it,” the Count said. “I had to—they made me.” The child was joined by another, a little boy, similarly marred, and then another, who held a mangled head in his arms. “It wasn’t me, Fray Joaquin, you want him. He did it. He told me how, and once I called Asmodeus, he wanted more, more. You see? It wasn’t my fault, not mine at all. They forced me to do it—” He was crouching, now, retreating from the little figures that were crowding around each other, multiplying in the corner. He tried to smile convincingly as he argued with them, but his mouth twisted grotesquely, and his eyes were full of terror. But the little creatures never answered. Oh, even now I can’t bear to tell it all, it was so frightful. One by one, the silent specters filled the room around him, deathly quiet, pointing, while he crawled about the floor with excuses, excuses …
He was screaming and gurgling now. “Not me, not me!” he shrieked as he picked himself up and dashed to the door to escape them. But his way was barred by a fierce, whistling cloud like a storm cloud, a seething mass of poison. He rolled his eyes like a frightened horse as he prepared to try to dash through it.
“Why do you wait, little ones?”A ferocious woman’s voice could be heard through the stormy mass. “Destroy him now. He is the one.” My breath turned cold and stopped in my chest as I stared up at the raging, billowing cloud. It was the Weeping Lady!
“To me, to me!” the Count cried, and with the answering rattle and crash at the door, I scuttled under the bed. I could hear the fierce whistling, and something like chattering from all sides of the room as the Count thrashed on the floor, as if under attack by invisible hands. I could see the booted feet of his guards, and hands trying to pick him up as he writhed and fought away from them, gripped by some invisible force. I saw him roll and scream on the floor so close by my hiding place that I could have almost reached out and touched him. And the most curious thing was that his naked body was mottled with thousands of tiny welts, exactly like the marks of babies’ teeth….
In Pursuit of the Green Lion Page 32