In Pursuit of the Green Lion

by Judith Merkle Riley

  “Oh, good, then stack them away with the others,” replied Gregory, who was hard at work, bent over a colorful depiction of a woman in a field of snakes. “I’ve never been able to break Margaret of the habit—hmm, that has the makings of a pun there, if I redo it—having left the habit, I can’t break her of it. No, better yet, I’ve left off the habit, but she hasn’t. See? My wits are mending, albeit slowly. But you may call me what you wish, Mother Hilde.”

  “Then I’ll call you Gilbert, as Malachi does. He says that’s what he knew you as back when you were studying in Paris.”

  “Now, that’s not entirely fair, I’d say, since I’ve been very careful not to slip and call him Theophilus.” Gregory’s voice took on an exaggerated tone of injury. Then he turned to where Margaret labored with her pen, copying the rows of squiggles from a page of Malachi’s book. “Margaret, have you got the next set of pages ready? This picture’s almost done.”

  Margaret picked up the page, and held it this way and that to the light, to admire the effect. It looked altogether mystical, and seemed most admirably like the original, give or take a few little things.

  “Here they are,” she announced cheerfully. She was filled with the contentment that accompanies advancing pregnancy. The baby had ceased to roll—there was too little room for that anymore. But she could watch her immense stomach ripple up and down under her gown, as the baby wriggled in pleasure when she told it in her mind, baby, we’re going home. And in style, too, thanks to Brother Malachi’s clever mind. “Look at this. Don’t they look nice? How many books’ worth do we have now?”

  “Six,” said Mother Hilde, counting the pages as a mother hen would gloat over the eggs in her nest. “We’re going for seven. That’s a lucky number.” She peeked out the window again. “Why, not only is the laundry dry, but there’s Malachi and Sim coming into the courtyard below, and they look quite pleased with themselves. My, isn’t it wonderful how quickly the hot sun dries linen in this blessed climate? How will I ever manage in the damp and cold again?”

  “Best of news!” Brother Malachi burst through the door into the busy book manufactory. “I’ve a client lined up already. I was masterful. I shed a tear, which I wiped away secretly. ‘My chief treasure,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t part with it, but for this terrible necessity.’ Oh, I was good. Sim played my son. The boy has talent. Yes, talent! Oh, if I’d only had the good start that he’s been given, who knows how great I could have become? So, we must have at least one of them ready by tonight.” He drifted to the window and inspected the pages weighted down on the sill. “Lovely,” he said, nodding his head approvingly. “If I bind it tonight—I will need help on the stitchery, ladies—then we can toast it by the fire tomorrow morning. Gilbert—was it you that did bookbinding, or Aimery?”

  Gregory blew on a damp spot on his drawing, where the red ink on a snake’s head had not yet dried. He answered without looking up.

  “Aimery—you have us mixed up because he wrote drinking songs too.”

  “Then I suppose I’ll have to show you how—we have a vast amount of work to do to get them ready in time. We leave day after tomorrow. That’s the other part of my good news. A convoy of armed merchants is leaving up the Rhône for Lyons. They’ve hired guards, and merged forces with a papal ambassador’s party going to Paris. Another one of those entreaties to the French and English kings to make peace. We’ll be as safe as in church traveling in their company. We can toast the rest of the books en route.”

  “But Malachi, dear, why toast them? You’ll spoil the pretty pictures. Everything will turn all brown.”

  “Exactly, my dear treasure. You foresee my purpose. Who buys a new alchemical book? No one. By tomorrow, one of them at least will be ancient. Besides, the heat will drive off the smell of the new glue.” Brother Malachi was rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  “Yes, yes. That’s it. The next big sale we’ll make is in Lyons. There used to be hunters of the Green Lion in plenty there. Surely even war has not diminished their numbers excessively.” He sat down on the bed, arranging dried pages around him, and began to hum.

  But Margaret, who entertained a sensible skepticism about all of Brother Malachi’s schemes, broke off her busy scribbling. “But Malachi,” she asked, “what about Hugo and the last of the Brokesford men? He’s been as silly as a goose since he came out of that last audience, and I think he’s run through every penny he brought, celebrating his shining new self, including the ransom money.”

  “Haven’t I told you that great minds think of everything? I hired him out to the merchants, and then told him about it. He was, at the time, as they say, in flagrante delicto, but he seemed to take the news well enough. So cease worrying, Margaret. My vast and capacious mind has left no detail unhandled.” He went on arranging pages, and added words to his hum. It was “Angelus ad Virginem.”

  Margaret went back to her writing, her brow wrinkled, only to look up with surprise when another voice joined Malachi’s. It was a sound she’d never heard before. Gregory’s rolling baritone had added the bass line, and he was singing the words of the angel in Latin. In all the time she’d known him, she’d never suspected he could sing. Though, of course, it made sense, clerics mostly do. She didn’t understand the words, but naturally she knew the song well, for it was a great favorite in English, too, being all about the Angel Gabriel.

  “No fair, no fair, Gilbert. Now I shall have to do the treble,” and Brother Malachi switched to a high falsetto to sing the Virgin’s response.

  Margaret couldn’t help it: at the chorus, she added the descant, her bright English sounding above the sonorous Latin. After all, it wasn’t at all proper to let men go on thinking that they could sing higher than a woman. As the sweet harmony floated out the window into the bright foreign sky, a set of quarreling voices in the courtyard stopped abruptly, as if someone had turned to listen.

  “Why, Margaret, I didn’t know you could sing so well.” Gregory looked up at Margaret with pleased surprise.

  “Aha!” broke in Brother Malachi. “That proves it. If you had indeed copied Margaret’s memoirs from dictation—which, by the way, is the most pitifully feeble story I’ve ever heard you come up with, Gilbert—then you would have known she can sing, and very well, too. Quod erat demonstrandum—you were up to no good when you used to hang around Margaret’s house.”

  “Malachi, you’re wrong. I was as pure as the driven snow. Just because I copied didn’t mean I listened.”

  “Now that, I admit, sounds more like you, Gilbert—but it’s still weak, weak indeed.”

  “Malachi,” Margaret broke in, “you may as well put a stop to malicious speculation. I’ll show you my book when we get home. I even wrote the last chapter all by myself, after Gregory gave me reading and writing lessons.”

  “You disappoint me, Margaret. I’d hoped for a more lurid story. But I must admit, you’re handy with a pen now, and you were totally unlettered when I first knew you. Teaching women, Gilbert. Look where it’s brought you.”

  “Yes—to forging alchemical works in the garret of a foreign whorehouse. It’s exactly the sort of end my father always predicted for me,” said Gregory, with some acid in his voice, which led Brother Malachi to change the subject.

  THE MORNING OF OUR departure dawned clear and bright. It was barely past mid-April, but there was already a promise of summer heat in the morning air, and I began to hope that the way would be shady. Great barges were bobbing at the river’s edge, being laden with goods. The teams of oxen that would pull against the river’s powerful current were already hitched, the boys who were to drive them lounging about on the bank with their long whips in their hands. Hugo had never looked more resplendent, with Robert mounted at his side, and both in full harness. Hugo’s armor was shining white, the product of Robert’s last-minute nocturnal labors, and the Brokesford pennant never fluttered more gaily. The waiting mercenaries cheered a welcome, while the papal knights and their retainers made a grave formal salutation. I�
�ve never felt more out of place than in this company, so unwieldy that I could barely sit a horse, and Hilde and I the only women in the whole great party. Curiosity seekers, relatives, and ragamuffins had crowded around to watch the immense procession depart.

  Then there was a murmur in the crowd of watchers as a mule litter with a cardinal’s crest, its curtains closed, approached the quay. Six footmen in livery followed it, and two boys ran before, to clear the way. The litter drew alongside Hilde and me and halted, and I could feel stares as the curtain was parted by the heavily beringed hand of a beautiful woman.

  “Lady Margaret,” the familiar voice with the coarse accent sounded in English, “I’ve come to say good-bye.” I could see Cis wedged in the uncomfortable darkened confines of the litter, the folds of her rich gown heaped about her. She was in bright violet silk today. Silk and cloth of gold. She leaned her head forward to speak, and the gawkers strained for a sight of the rich headdress set with pearls and cunningly arranged clasps that daringly revealed the curling golden hair at her brow, and the little wisps of hair that escaped from the shining coils of her braids. On her lap was tucked a tiny white dog with a gilded leather collar.

  “Na Margaret,” I said (for Na is what they call ladies in that country, and En means lord), “wear my name well, and God bless you.”

  “You were always kind, lady. Not like the others. But I’m saying good-bye to them all, even Sir Hugo, if he’s civil. He never even thanked me for the audience I got him—just grumbled that it wasn’t personal, and he should have known I would make him rub shoulders with a lot of garlicky nobodies. But I got the message of thanks you sent by that little boy, so I came. I—I doubt if I’ll ever hear English spoken again. But tell my friends, will you, that I live like a queen. No—better than a queen. No queen in England ever dreamed of the wealth that I’ve seen here. Tell them I’m a lady, and I’ve got chests, and servants, and a lapdog.”

  “You had better be careful.” How strange her face looked now, set in these sumptuous surroundings. “You’ve risen fast on men’s favors, and I’ve heard the women here are poisoners. You should keep cats, like that dark lady.”

  “Cats?” She laughed, and the sound drew more stares from the uncomprehending crowd. “Those are for witches. I’ve got my little dogs. This is the third, already. We may not be as sly as these foreigners, lady, but we English village girls are shrewd—and fast learners.”

  “We? You knew then?”

  “Always. I could tell by the slips you used to make that you didn’t start your life where you are now. That, and by your heart. You were my inspiration. I’m not suffering for nothing, I used to say to myself. I’m going to get something for all of this. But you have the better man. Here,” she said, fumbling among her clothes. “It’s a gift. For luck on your trip. I had it blessed by the Pope, and my cardinal too, for good measure.” She extended a little silver-gilt medallion on a chain, and watched my face as I thanked her. Already, I thought, she’s getting new habits from playing this dangerous game among strangers. And she and I both knew that she was saying good-bye to more than us. Someday, maybe soon, she’d no longer be able to afford the luxury of a straight heart. “I knew you wouldn’t scorn it,” she said as I took it in my hand. “Think of me, sometimes.” And she gave the signal to her men to move on, closing the curtains once more. I saw the litter pause again before Hugo’s mount. The curtains opened briefly, and she nodded like a grande dame, leaving Hugo crimson and spluttering as she departed.

  “Now, who would have ever thought it?” Gregory followed her progress with his eyes while he pushed his nag closer to me. He was mounted on one litter horse, and leading the other. They were a sight, the three of them, for they were all equally bony. And the Comte de St. Médard’s vast velvet doublet and woolen hose swam on him. If it hadn’t been for the lordly way he sat on the nag, you’d have thought he was a jongleur dressed in his master’s castoffs.

  “She’s given us a present. Put it on for me, will you? I’ve already got a talisman, and I feel like a fool in too many necklaces.”

  “Hmm. The Holy Virgin. Considering the source, it must mean something, but I’m not quite sure what,”he said, arching a dark eyebrow. “Still, I’m not one to scorn a blessing. Heaven knows, I’ve been offered few enough.” He hung the little medallion about his neck.

  We made slow progress that day, limited as we were by the speed of the barges. The party spread out before and after the ox teams on the bank, armed guards before, after, and flanking the high dignitaries. As the sun beat down on us, even Hilde’s and my big straw hats were little protection. I could see Gregory looking at me with new concern.

  “The sweat’s running in rivers down your face, Margaret, and you’re all red. You should be riding in the barge, and not on horseback like this.”

  “It doesn’t mean a thing, Gregory—women always feel the heat more when they’re with child. But—you don’t see any freckles, do you?” He inspected carefully.

  “Just a few. They’ve come out on your nose.”

  “Oh, blessed Mary, not many, are they?”

  “Why, thousands and thousands, Margaret. But don’t worry, they’re very nice ones.”

  “I must say, that’s mean. I’m going to ask Hilde how many freckles I’ve got. It shows you just can’t trust men about anything really important.”

  “Oh, yes, you can, and just to show you I mean it, I’m going to speak to Messer Pietro and get you off that horse and onto the lead barge at the next stop.”

  “Don’t you dare bother with that. I’m doing very well just as I am. Besides, I told you I get seasick easily. The rolling might affect me.” The truth was, he still looked pallid and frail to me, and I had no intention of leaving his side. Like someone who’s found a valuable ring that she’s lost, I didn’t want him out of my sight again. But I guess my excuse sounded a little farfetched. First he looked at the barges, being hauled along so steadily on the rushing waters of the Rhône. Then he inspected my face intently, a long, amused look, and a strange little smile flitted across his face. Oh, caught again, I thought.

  “I need to see your face,” I confessed, looking again at his profile, as if I could fix it in my mind forever that way. “I’ve missed it too long.”

  “Have I told you today that you’re a silly woman, but very precious?” he asked with a smile.

  “Not today. Yesterday. And, I hope, tomorrow.”

  But several days on horseback, even at this slow pace, took their toll on him. I could see the gray lines of fatigue in Gregory’s face, so I hid from him the news that the baby, now tightly folded in my immense stomach, was moving in that strange, impatient way that signaled that it wished to be born. Brother Malachi could see our strain, and tried to lighten our trip by telling stories of other trips he’d taken, mostly either in search of the Secret, or to evade people who wanted the Secret from him. It was all very entrancing, for he knew about the long apples of Egypt that when cut have the sign of the cross in them, and of the deadly serpent called the crocodile, which can swallow a man in one gulp, and also of the geese that grow on trees in the countries of the far north, and so are fitting food for Lent.

  “Isn’t there anyplace you’ve never been, Malachi?” I asked.

  “Why, Tartary and the Indies—lots of places. Africa—I’d like to see that. And Cathay, too, though some say it’s a myth. There’s wisdom in those places. Things that might lead me to the Secret.”

  Mother Hilde nodded happily from the pillion seat behind him.

  “If you go to those places, Malachi, I’ll go too. For I’ve found travel agrees with me. Have you seen all of my seeds, Margaret? I’ve some real curiosities. Some of them may even grow in England.” At every stop, until the winter winds had knocked the last rattling, dry plants bare of seeds, Mother Hilde had searched for seeds. You could see her beam as she found a plant she liked the look of, and tapped the seeds off into a little bit of colored rag. And her memory was so good that she’d describe t
he look of each of the plants by looking at the seeds alone, though sometimes if they resembled each other too much, she’d make a little stitch or two—parallel or crossed—to mark off the packet as different. Then she rolled up all her little bundles at the end of the day in a big napkin, which she sometimes opened on gloomy days to count over her treasures like a miser. And once the season of green had come upon us, she had with equal fervor made forays to the local wisewomen, where, gesticulating and miming, she contrived to work trades for even more seeds with which to extend her collection.

  “The world is so full of things to learn about,” she’d say dreamily. “It wouldn’t be so bad if Malachi did find the Secret. If we lived longer, we could go to all those places, and just think of the seeds I’d have then! But it’s a great pity it’s too cold to grow oranges at home. Now, if you could think of a way to keep them warm in winter, it would be very fine to have an orange tree in the back of our house …”And she’d be off, as full of fancies as a child. It’s odd, how close wisdom and childhood are together, and Mother Hilde, who is the wisest woman I’ve ever known, is a good example.

  “In a few days, we’ll be at Vienne. Then to Lyons, it’s hardly anything. These merchant folk will unload their goods and return downriver. We’ll sell another book—and what a stroke of fortune it was to sell two already!—then hey, ho, in style to Paris in the company of the papal grandees! Good fortune is smiling on us, my dears! Gilbert, you’ve not congratulated me even once on my clever planning. You should be thanking God for the powerful mind that’s made our return so comfortable. Ah, my! It’s a lovely day! I feel all brain—just pure intelligence, soaring into the ether! Could it be you’re not anxious to see Paris again? Never fear, you’ve changed entirely since then. They’ll never recognize you, I guarantee it entirely. Just keep your hood up and don’t trim your beard. Yes, yes. You look entirely different. Don’t look to tomorrow for trouble, I always say, the troubles of today are usually enough.”