In Pursuit of the Green Lion

by Judith Merkle Riley

  “Help me, get them off!” he shrieked, and I heard his feet race to the window, a horrible prolonged scream, followed by the faint sound of a thud on the rocks below. There were curses and the clatter of feet as the men raced out the door and down to the sharp crags beneath the window.

  “Well done, my little ones.” The sighing mass of the fast dissipating cloud drifted across the room. I poked my head out from under the bed in the abandoned room to hear a ferocious whisper in my ear.

  “I’ve found there are worse things than marrying beneath oneself.”

  “Yes, Madame Belle-mère,” I answered, still breathing hard against the cold stone floor.

  “HE WANTS YOU.” Fray Joaquin stood at the door and looked about the laboratorium. Everything seemed unchanged. Messer Guglielmo was still bristling with irritation and envy as he inspected the metallic stuff in the crucible, while Brother Malachi, still pale with fatigue, was sitting on the stool against the wall with his feet tucked up, looking more like a sack of turnips than a Master of the Great Work.

  “Wants me? Whatever for?” Brother Malachi feigned surprise. He was slumped against the wall, grateful for its cool stones, and mopped his brow with his sleeve. The gauntlets and rod lay forgotten in a corner.

  “That’s what I say too.” Messer Guglielmo’s testy voice was heard from among the heads crowded around the rapidly cooling crucible. “It’s damned little gold you got, after all the bother you’ve made for me.”

  “It is gold, though, and the best quality. That’s better than you’ve done with your quintessence of two thousand eggs. You’re a parasite, and he’s genuine,” snapped Fray Joaquin.

  “There’d have been more, if we’d had the full moon,” Malachi added in a complaining voice. “The moon expands the action of the powder.”

  “Well, I’ve certainly never heard of that. It’s not in Geber, it’s not in Villanova. And as for Magister Salernus—”

  “Your Geber has never made you so much as a dot of gold.” Already Fray Joaquin’s mind was racing. Why give this valuable fellow to the Count? It’s a long way from the cellar to the tower bedroom. If I can get rid of this blabbermouth Messer Guglielmo and his worthless devils, I can just bundle this Theophilus down to the stables and be off. I’ve done enough secret business for the Count so that no one will suspect a thing until it’s too late. I can sell him practically anywhere for a tidy sum—or no, better yet, find somewhere I can put him to work myself. Quick, decisive. That’s the way.

  “Tie him up. Hood him. The Count awaits.”

  “Really, hooded? Isn’t that a bit melodramatic? Besides, I might trip and injure my brain. My brain is sensitive, like a delicate plant—”

  “The mutes will hold you up. It’s orders. That way you can’t divulge the Secret to anyone en route.” Or see where you’re going, either, when I take you off with me. What a good idea.

  He’ll probably kill me, thought Brother Malachi, as soon as he thinks he’s got the recipe. At least I’ve bought Margaret some time. Now I think I need some myself. A good thing Messer Guglielmo doesn’t write down his experiments.

  “You’ve—ah—memorized the steps?” asked Brother Malachi as the mutes tied his hands behind him.

  “Of course I have. Do you think I’d trust an important secret like this to writing?” I’ll leave in the morning, Messer Guglielmo was thinking. Someone else will pay a lot better than the Count for this secret. Why, he might even kill me once he knows it. Perhaps I’d better just leave tonight, as soon as this Theophilus fellow is taken to the Count.

  “Now you remember that you add the sulfur exactly at the point that the struggle of the red dragons becomes visible.”

  “Nonsense. I distinctly saw you wait until the second color change of the lion.”

  “You have it wrong. Didn’t you see? Do I have to teach lessons to babies?” Malachi drew himself up to his full height between the two mutes. His voice dripped with arrogance.

  “Do you think I’m a fool? I know the red dragon when I see it.”

  “Shut the man up,” Fray Joaquin addressed the mutes. “I must speak to Messer Guglielmo alone.” Brother Malachi bowed his head as an ox does for slaughter while they finished the job.

  Fray Joaquin drew the rageful alchemist into the dark little inner chamber where the familiars were summoned. “Are you sure you’ve memorized the formula?”he asked.

  “Of course,” responded Messer Guglielmo.

  “Absolutely? This man’s a trickster. You heard him trying to mix you up. The Count must have a reserve, in case this weakling gives up the ghost under questioning.”

  “Understood.”

  “Good,” said Fray Joaquin, and plunged the wicked little stiletto, as sharp as a needle, in between Messer Guglielmo’s ribs.

  And as the alchemist lay on the floor, the blood bubbling in a bright pink froth through his lips, Fray Joaquin addressed the new-made corpse: “Now only one man has the Secret.” Utterly calmly, he wiped his stiletto off and replaced it, stepping out into the workshop.

  BROTHER ANSELM HAD MADE himself as small as possible outside the door of the Count’s chamber. He’d done his duty: he’d remonstrated with the woman. Now he was debating with himself which was the most reasonable course of action: go to bed, or wait to see what happened? There was a third course, the most dramatic, perhaps, but unwise. He could burst in on the scene, brandishing a cross in the air, loudly denouncing their sin like an Old Testament prophet. Of course, it would mean sure death, but it would be a glorious one. Why, one might even go directly to heaven, like a blessed martyr—briefly, he toyed with the idea. One of the guards at the door glared evilly at him, and he thought better of it right away. After all, he hadn’t seen Compostela yet, and it would be very sad indeed to have come this far to miss out on the best part. If they could just leave this place, it was only a day’s march to Port de Cize, that extraordinary mountain covered with thousands of pilgrim crosses, the gate to Spain and first station on the road to Compostela itself. It was counted a very blessed thing even to get just that far, if one had the misfortune of dying before reaching the ultimate shrine.

  He shrank back into the shadows. It was then that he spied another figure lurking about the door. The old nurse-companion who’d come with the widow—the one who was too friendly with the widow’s confessor—it was her, hiding behind a bend in the corridor in the dark. And was there someone else with her? The ill-favored little boy?

  Not long after, he heard a woman’s terrible shrieks, and the sound of a scuffle inside. It seemed wiser not to make inquiries. After all, she should have known better. The guards chuckled and looked at each other. Then there was the Count’s frightened voice, crying, “à moi, à moi!” and the two guards sprang into action, battering open the door with a single heavy blow, and rushing inside to try to grab hold of the Count’s thrashing, convulsing body, as he appeared to have a bout of the falling sickness. Brother Anselm found himself drawn to watch. Two figures stood silently behind him in the dark. Then the Count dove out of the window with a terrible cry, as if pursued by something invisible and demonic. The figures at the door prudently withdrew as the guards turned from staring out the window to raise the alarm and gather searchers to go out into the dark after the body.

  The old woman peered into the room. “Margaret? Margaret?” he could hear her saying, and a muffled voice from under the bed responded in that barbaric, incomprehensible tongue. The woman scurried into the room, with the boy behind her. Margaret emerged from under the bed, her dress torn and her hair all exposed, without any proper head covering. Brother Anselm averted his eyes from the indecency of spying her long, half-unraveled braids.

  “Get thee behind me, Satan,” he muttered. Perhaps now was the time to burst in and remonstrate, since they appeared to be rifling the room.

  “Get the seal ring from the table, Mother Hilde, and the sealing wax too.” Margaret was going through the garments on the perches systematically.

  “What ar
e you doing there, Margaret?”

  “I’m going in search of Gregory, and I know he’ll be cold down there.”

  “Hungry too,” said Sim, who tied the capon and the bread up in a napkin. And if he isn’t, I’ll eat it later myself, he added silently in his mind.

  “Humph. Look at all this gaudy stuff.” Margaret wrinkled up her nose. “And most of it stinks of lilac water. Oh, here’s something nice—Sim, do you know where Malachi is?”

  “Course I do. I followed him to the door.”

  Margaret took the candelabrum from the floor, and refitted it with lit candles from the wall sconces. With the clothes heaped over one arm, and the candelabrum held high, she marched to the door. There, she was stopped by the little figure of Brother Anselm, puffed up to its maximum height. He had one hand upraised.

  “Stop!”he cried in French. “Consider your sins, and repent!”

  “Oh, bother,” said Margaret in English, and then spoke firmly in French to the little friar. “Come with us.” Something about her eyes convinced Brother Anselm to comply. It was the way they flashed in the light of the upraised candelabrum in her hand, exactly like a falcon’s on the hunt.

  As they wound down the stairs toward the hidden chambers, the spreading sound of scurry and bustle as servants were awakened, and the first keening wail of mourning echoed through the dark corridors of the chateau.

  “Good riddance,” said Margaret as she set her jaw stubbornly and redoubled her pace. At the end of a long, open stair set down the inner wall of the so-called New Tower, which was only newer than the Old Tower, she came to a low iron door cast with the figures of monsters on it. Mother Hilde pulled at her sleeve, but she hardly noticed it.

  “Margaret, be careful. Remember that Malachi said the place is full of sinister folk,” Mother Hilde cautioned. “Don’t rile them up. Suppose they harm him because you’ve angered them.”

  But Margaret was so enraged, she pounded on the door without a thought for the consequences.

  Inside, Fray Joaquin was wondering just how to keep the mutes from getting suspicious when they found they were headed for the stables and not the Count’s chambers. They’ll know it’s not right, and they might just strangle me. I’ll take the alchemist by myself. A ruse may be needed to escape them. I’ll tell them I don’t want to share the honor with them….

  “Open, open right away, Brother Malachi. The Count is dead.” He heard a woman’s voice crying at the door in English. Now, he didn’t really understand English, but he knew the words for death and money in more than a dozen languages. And he heard Count and dead and the sound made his heart leap with hope. Perfect, perfect. His fondest wish come true, and at the perfect moment. But suppose he’d heard wrong? He pulled his stiletto and opened the door.

  “Count—dead?” he asked, but the sight at the door stopped him short, and his voice faltered. There in the open door stood a woman holding a candelabrum. The light from a dozen candles glittered in her wild eyes and caught the silky river of her unbound hair. The white flesh of a bare shoulder glistened through her torn gown. He could see nothing more. Women. Yes. It was women he’d have with the gold. He’d been deprived too long. He’d change his name—dress like a lord. Live among dozens of perfumed, bare-breasted women …

  “Malachi. I want Malachi—Theophilus, you call him.”

  Devil take that little man. Maybe he’d summoned the woman, all undressed like this, with the magic that made the gold. He recognized her with a start. It was the little English widow, all transformed and shining with madness. He must do it often, cast this terrifying spell to bring women to his bed and men to do his bidding. That’s why he’s been so docile. He’s been planning to bewitch me. Power—power is more than gold. He’d known it all along, the dangerous little man. No wonder he was so careless with the gold secret. He had a greater one in reserve.

  Margaret saw the knife. She also saw the look in Fray Joaquin’s eyes, and knew that in his madness, he could strike without warning. How was she to get past him?

  “The ring.” Mother Hilde’s voice was softer than a whisper in Margaret’s ear. “Get him to take the ring.”

  Margaret chose her words carefully.

  “Theophilus—requires me—to bring his ring—his secret ring—the ring of power.”

  It was clear she was under a spell. The way she spoke, each word so careful and so slow. He would deceive her.

  “Theophilus wishes me to take the ring,” he said softly and persuasively. Women under spells are stupefied, and easily taken in. “Do you have it?”

  Margaret saw that the knife still glinted wickedly in his hand. If she said she had it, he might well stab her and search her. She answered, in what she hoped was a mystical-sounding fashion, “It is with me and not with me. Call Theophilus.”

  “Theophilus is engaged right now. Give me the ring and I’ll take it to him.”

  “No one but Theophilus must wear the ring.” Margaret spoke in an oracular voice. She was warming to her task. The man was a first-rate ass. “Now, let us see if we can get him to put it on,” the silvery little voice of her working mind hummed in her head.

  “The-power-is-too-great. No one else must hold it. He—who—puts—it—on—and—turns—three—times—will—”

  “Yes, yes?” He couldn’t restrain himself.

  “Rule—the—world.” She watched his eyes light up with greed. And if you thought it worked, why don’t you imagine I’d put it on myself and rule the world, you stupid man, you, she thought. Why is it that women always have to lug around magic rings and guard magic springs and sacred books of wisdom, and all the rest of that silly stuff, and never get the good of it for themselves? Bite, bite, you bloody, blind, ridiculous ghoul.

  “Give it to me,”he whispered.

  “Prepare—yourself—master,” Margaret said portentously. Fray Joaquin tucked his knife up his sleeve.

  “The box.” Margaret gestured magisterially to Hilde. Hilde, her face perfectly blank, took out the box, opened the lid, and extended it to him. The jewels on the ring glittered in the flickering light.

  “Ouroboros. The snake swallowing its tail. The universe—master.” With trembling hands, he seized the ring and put it on his middle finger and turned it three times.

  “Bow—to the—Master of the Ring,” said Margaret, and knelt upon one knee, as if for a king. Work, work, you beastly ring. Or did the Dark Lady fool me? Mother Hilde and Sim were quick to follow Margaret’s example.

  “What is your command, O Master of the Ring?” Margaret couldn’t resist laying it on thicker and thicker. It just came over her. “This is what they all want,” the little voice sang. “Give him his fill of it.”

  “Women—” he whispered. “First, I want you—and then bring more.” No, first he’d better kill Theophilus, who knew the secret. He turned from the kneeling women in the direction of the bound alchemist. No—wait, wasn’t he master of everybody now? Theophilus could be his slave, and make gold day and night. Why should he get himself all hot and singed? He was going to live like a lord—lords don’t toil in laboratoria. No, no, he shouldn’t kill a valuable slave. But suppose the ring worked only on women? He looked out the open door. He hadn’t even heard Sim whisper fiercely to Brother Anselm, “Kneel, you nit,” as he gave him a vicious kick in the shins so that he’d understand the English. Brother Anselm, who was so quick at responses in the choir, saw that kneeling was the thing to do. Perhaps there was a relic of great power in the little box. He joined the kneeling figures.

  Fray Joaquin addressed Margaret hoarsely: “The ring—commands everyone?”

  “Everyone,” said Margaret. How long is this going to take?

  “Theophilus too?”

  “His power is gone—he does not have the ring.”

  “Stay right there—I must see—”

  “Yes, O Master.”

  Fray Joaquin turned and went into the laboratorium, and for the first time the watchers at the door could make out the bound figure o
f Brother Malachi, in the light from behind the grating of the tall brick athanor, standing between two muscular, black-clad figures. They watched as the black-cloaked Dominican cut the ropes and removed the hood. I do hope he’s heard everything, thought Margaret. As Fray Joaquin finished loosing Brother Malachi, Margaret intoned, just to be on the safe side, “Bow to the Master of the Ring.”

  “Master of the wha—?” said Malachi, blinking, but stopped when he saw the ring on the hand that Fray Joaquin extended before him.

  “O Master, I surrender,” said Malachi, kneeling extravagantly.

  “You are my slave, Theophilus.” Oh, good grief, what next? thought Malachi.

  “Kiss the hem of my garment.” I suppose I’ve done worse, thought Brother Malachi to himself. But when he gingerly lifted the hem of Fray Joaquin’s rather grimy black cloak to the vicinity of his lips, the garment was tugged from his hand as Fray Joaquin fell to his knees.

  “Sick—sick,”he gasped.

  “Hmm. Powerful ring,” said Brother Malachi, arising. Indeed, a powerful transformation was taking place in Fray Joaquin. His limbs were rigidly extended, he was shaking all over, and his face—pulled into a hideous grimace—had turned all dark.

  “Oh, Malachi,” said Margaret, “that’s horrible stuff.”

  “It was entirely too good for him,” said Brother Malachi bitterly. “Did you know that he was the procurer of the little ones that were used in his master’s Devil worship?”

  “What’s happened, what’s happened?” Brother Anselm’s querulous voice broke in.

  “The ring of power—I’m afraid it was too strong for him,” said Brother Malachi lightly. “It takes years of purification with the proper prayers to wear it without danger.” He nudged the corpse with his toe, to assure himself it was really dead. “Let that be a lesson to you on the vanity of human wishes,” he couldn’t resist adding rather sententiously.