“Come now, think of how splendid it would look when I sat in my great chair before retiring, and each of my children and grandchildren in turn came to kneel and kiss my hand. ‘Blessings on you, my child—blessings on you, daughter—blessings on you, my son—’ Not so bad, being a patriarch. Now that I think of it, God probably has the longest beard of all.”
“Oh! You! You’re teasing me! Besides, how do you know what God looks like?”
“Me?” he said, putting down the mirror. “Why, I always used to think that God looked exactly like my father. But now I’m not so sure that’s the case at all.”
“Gregory, you dear madman,” I said as I embraced him.
“My precious, crazy Margaret,”he said, gathering me up and kissing me so that my feet didn’t even touch the floor.
It was then that I decided that those foolish writers of romances and ballads don’t know what they’re talking about. For what is the getting compared with the having? And, after all, my chevalier had never even once played the harp beneath my window, nor have we exchanged any tokens, except our hearts.
READER’S GROUP GUIDE
At the opening of the novel, Margaret tells Gregory that she is going to write about real love and he dismisses her, saying:
Real love? Oh, worse and worse, Margaret. Nobody writes about that. For one thing, it’s not decent. For another, it’s impossibly dull. No, if you wish to write about love, you must respect the conventions. What interests people is the trying to get, not the getting. Look at Tristan! Look at Lancelot! What kind of romance would it be if they could have had what they wanted? … There’s no story there at all. That’s why the trouvères, who understand better than you that married people do nothing but get fat, always leave off before the wedding. You must face facts, Margaret. You don’t understand anything about writing love stories.
Do you agree with Gregory’s assertion? What are your favorite love stories and why? In what ways is In Pursuit of the Green Lion a traditional romance, and in what ways does it fulfill Margaret’s goal of writing about “the happily-ever-after part”?
Consider Gregory’s complex relationship with his family. On the one hand, he rebels constantly and goes to great lengths to make himself different from them. But it seems to be all bluster; he refuses to stand up to his father and brother, even lashing out and blaming Margaret for their predicament. Why do you think it is that he cannot seem to make his own way in the world or have the courage of his convictions when dealing with his family? What attempts does he make to do so, and what is the outcome? Why do they hold such power over him? What do you think they really want him to be, and is it the same thing that he thinks they want? Despite their obvious differences, what similarities do you see among Sir Hubert, Hugo, and Gregory?
Throughout the novel, the point of view alternates between the first and third person. Why do you think the author chose to do this? What does it add to the reading experience to be inside the book Margaret is writing at some times, and outside it at others?
Why does Margaret love Gregory, despite his foolish and stubborn nature? What do you think it is about him that compels such strong emotion in her?
There are those who recognize Margaret’s special gift almost immediately upon meeting her, and those who do not see it at all. Why do you think this is? Were you surprised by anyone who did or did not recognize it? What did you make of the fact that Sir Hubert had an inkling early in his acquaintance with Margaret, but it took Gregory considerably longer, despite the fact that he witnessed several healings and even received healing from her on more than one occasion?
Why does Gregory not tell Margaret that he loves her before he leaves for France? Or when she rescues him? What do you think is holding him back, and why is it so important for her to hear the words?
Anticipating Carl von Clausewitz, Robert muses at one point about their time in France, “War, after all, is just business carried on by other means”. In what ways do you see this illustrated in the novel? Do you think he is correct in this observation, in context of the fourteenth-century life he lives? To what degree has this changed throughout the centuries, and to what degree do you think it has been true throughout history?
Discuss the use of humor in the novel. What character traits or situations did you find humorous? Did the humor add anything to your understanding of a character, or relieve tension in a particularly intense passage? What tone does it take and why do you think the author uses it where she does?
What do you make of the Voice Margaret hears? Do you see her as communing directly with God? Where do you think the Voice comes from?
Malachi puts forth his philosophy of life, saying:
Margaret, how many times have I told you that everything has two sides? … In every bad thing, a good thing is hidden, if you know how to look…. So you see, the bad things must be taken as opportunities. And where would we all be without opportunities? That is why the world becomes constantly better.
Do you think he is right about this? What are some examples of this perspective in the novel? Do you see it governing only his life or also those of the people around him? How does this view relate to Malachi’s study of alchemy?
Margaret succeeds through a combination of luck, shrewd intelligence, and the help of her friends (living and dead). What are some examples of these successes, and in the end, what do you see as the defining aspect of her character? Why is it that she continues to triumph over impossible odds?
Consider the role of religion in the novel. Where is God, and what role, if any, does the Church play in bringing people closer to him? When you look at the differences in faith and fate of Hugo, Margaret, and Gregory, what conclusions do you come to? What do these people want from a relationship with God? What paths do they take to find it?
Compare the characters of Cis the laundress, the Weeping Lady, Lady Petronilla, and the dark lady. What odds are these women up against and how do they cope? What power, if any, do women wield in this world, and how does each of them deal with their burden and their strength? What do you think their futures will hold?
Who is the mysterious physician who comes to see Gregory in his illness? Why do you think he receives such a visitation?
Were you surprised by the change in Gregory? When did you notice that he had become strong enough to be a husband whom Margaret can depend on and a father to her children?
Consider the practice of alchemy. In what way is the image of the quest to turn base metals into gold one that resonates in the context of Margaret’s story? Why is the book titled as it is? Of what significance is the Green Lion?
PROLOGUE
IT WAS NOT LONG AFTER CANDLEMAS IN the Year of Our Saviour 1362, when I was writing down the cost of pickled fish and flour and thinking them too high, that a Voice came into the inner ear of my mind. Margaret, it said, I did not so order the world that you would learn letters to waste them on account rolls. How much better if your accounting was of My glorious works.
“But Lord,” I answered, “You have commanded that wives serve their husbands, and my lord husband hates keeping household accounts.”
Margaret, how do you know that you won’t be serving him better by hiring a clerk for the accounts?
“Full time? Lord, think of the expense. And suppose he’s a rogue?”
Have your steward tell him what to write, then you can review it once a month, as Master Wengrave across the alley does to his great satisfaction.
“But, Lord, You know what happened last time I hired a clerk to write for me.”
Why don’t you leave Me to arrange things My own way on occasion, Margaret?
Now who am I, a sinful mortal being, to disobey Our Lord, who is so much higher than everyone, even husbands and other men? So I corked up the inkwell and put down the quill and looked out the window of the solar, where cold February rain was streaking the glass, at the tall, brightly painted houses of the merchants and vintners across the street, which looked all knobby on account of
the many little windowpanes being round and bubbly. It is good to be rich and looking out of glass, I thought, watching two heavily bundled men taking a dray full of wood into the courtyard of Master Barton the Pepperer’s big stone house across the way. There was a time once when I’d have been dodging between those icy drops, intent on the business of making a living. But here a glowing brazier chased the chill from the chamber, and bright tapestries mocked the gray outside. Below me in the hall, I could hear the thumping and banging of the trestle tables being set up for dinner, and the smell of pickled cabbage and salt fish cooking came sneaking up through the joints in the door like a cat on the prowl. Then there came a knock at the door, not loud, but persistent, accompanied by a distressful cry.
“Mama, Mama, come quick. Father is having another fit and says he is going to run away to a monastery, where at least he’ll be left in peace to contemplate his sins.”
“Alison!” I said, running to the door, “whatever did you do to set him off? You know he’s working so terribly hard these days. Next month he travels to Kenilworth, and the presentation copy has to be ready.”
“It wasn’t me, Mama,” said Alison, standing framed in the doorway, her face pious. “It was Caesar who ate his pen case.”
“I told you never to let that puppy into his office,” I said, speeding down the narrow stairway with Alison behind me.
“Margaret,” said my lord husband, standing confused between the gangling hound and the children, “this is absolutely unbearable. Do something!” His office was a chaos, the straw on the floor all heaped and scooped as if someone had been digging in it, the ironbound chests thrown open to reveal piles of tumbled manuscripts and books marked at various important places with an oat straw. There were ink bottles and a quire of paper piled helter-skelter atop the double-locked steel box that held the rents and the remainder of the eighty gold moutons he had brought home from Burgundy. There were ink stains on his old ankle-length wool surcoat, and his liripipe, wound round his head like a Turk’s turban against the chill, had gone askew with all his heavy thinking, tilting precariously over one dark eyebrow. “I can’t get a thing done here, not a thing!” he said, managing to look damaged and irritated all at once. And yet beneath it, I could see he was secretly pleased with all the muddle, with a house with many children, blazing with life and joy and troubles, so different from the cold, grim manor house of his childhood, the blood and death in foreign places he had just left behind him. His brown eyes lit up as he spied me, and the tiniest little smile flitted across his face as he looked down at the top of my head. He is very tall and handsome, my lord husband, with his long Norman nose and dark curly hair, and our hearts can speak together when our lips are silent. Just now his heart was saying, Margaret, I was dull and sad here, working on a rainy day, and I needed a little chaos, and to see you, to make it right.
“My lord,” I said, “you have too many worries and burdens. Why don’t you hire a copy clerk to help you put together this work?”
“But, my cher Margaret, dear heart, what of the cost?” I could see his mind already working over the excellence of the idea. A good lad to carry his books behind him when he came from the illuminators, to copy his notes in a fair hand, to run and buy that extra bottle of ink or sharpen more quills. It seemed perfect.
“If he did the household accounts as well, the cost of his keep might be considered a reasonable expense,” I answered.
In this way Robert le Clerc, who failed in his University studies from rioting and roistering in taverns came to eat at our table, and God’s commands were obeyed, and my paper left off midway in the accounting of money and instead was given over to the accounting of the mysteries that are concealed in creation, and how, through fate, I became entangled with one of the strangest of all.
4 children’s caps of best wolle, 3d. each
1 barrel of pickled sturgeon, £3
3 bushels of wheaten flour, 18d. each, from Piers the Miller, who has cheated in the measure again
IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1360, I, Margaret de Vilers, widowed and married too often for respectability, having returned from adventures abroad with several excellent pilgrims’ badges and my current husband, thought to leave adventuring alone. The whole world was then at war, our King having gone forth to Rheims to claim by force of arms the Sainte Ampoule of Holy Chrism that was brought to earth by a dove to anoint French kings, and with it to anoint himself and thus take hold of the crown of France. The French already had a perfectly good king, who was living in state in the Tower of London, having failed to provide the extremely large ransom his kingly dignity required. So it seemed a promising moment, you understand, and our King decided he must go, and where the King must go, so must the Duke, and where the Duke must, so must his chronicler, my lord husband, Sir Gilbert de Vilers, youngest and most eccentric of the distinguished but impoverished old family into which I married after a most brief period of widowhood. In the words of my former husband, Master Roger Kendall, who was a Master of the Company of Mercers of London and very rich if rather old, “When you think of wars and high talk, Margaret, remember it’s all really a matter of money. Everything usually is.” So that is what I think was at the bottom of everything, even if everyone else does think it was all about a jug of ointment in a foreign church. So that is where my story begins, with a war, and all the warriors of England gone abroad in search of fortune. And it all goes to show that even if you hide peacefully at home, adventure will come and find you anyway if that is how God wants it.
CHAPTER ONE
THE SHOUT OF BUNDLED CHILDREN playing in the musician’s gallery echoed through the dancing chamber in the heart of Leicester Castle, chief seat of the Duke of Lancaster, the strong right hand and sage councillor of King Edward the Third. Chill air, damp with spring mist, blew in through the high, unglazed windows, gusted along the shining tiled floor, and whispered about the gray stone walls, leaving traces of oozing damp in memory of its passage. The heavy French tapestries that hung on the walls in days of celebration had been put away and the chamber given over to homely uses, for Leicester Castle was a castle of women, of children, of old men and priests since the day that the King’s great expedition had sailed for France.
A half year had passed since every available horse, every uncrippled man, and every unspent farthing had been pressed into service in King Edward’s greatest venture—the final, the definitive campaign against the ruined French—which was to end by seeing Edward crowned King of France at Rheims. Their anointed ruler, foolish, luxury loving King Jean, was a prisoner in England, captive since the battle of Poitiers; a weak Dauphin controlled a Paris savaged by disaster and isolated from a kingdom overrun with bandits. Now was the time for Edward to press his family claims for the throne of France. Only the Duke had argued against it, this risking everything on one throw of the dice.
“Not a game,” said the King. “We command overwhelming force.”
“The anointed King of France lives, as does his legal heir,” argued the Duke. “And while they live, the natural French hatred of a foreign king should not be taken lightly.”
“I am no foreign king, but the legal heir,” said Edward.
“Nevertheless, it is a foreign country, our supply lines will be long, it will be winter, and we will have ravaged the countryside.”
“We will take everything with us,” countered the King.
With the first maps ever used in warfare, he planned the route. Six thousand wagons would carry the supplies. There would be food and tents, forges for arms and horseshoes, hand mills and ovens for baking bread. There would be collapsible boats for fishing the rivers in Lent, there would be hundreds of clerks and artificers of every trade, sixty hounds and thirty falconers for the King’s hunting, and the royal band. Every great captain and petty nobleman who could ride a horse would be with him, including his own four sons. The Duke’s advice was swept away in the great plan. Loyal as he was, the Duke stripped his estates, taking horses, knights, tents, c
lerks, and even his own chronicler, a scholar knight learned in languages, to record the mighty triumph. And now all over England, women waited, and the dancing chamber stood echoing, and without music.
On the floor of the chamber, beneath the gallery, Duchess Isabella’s sewing women were at work. Seamstresses in heavy wool gowns clustered around a smoky little fire of green wood built in the great fireplace of the chamber. Yards of plain white linen were spread across their laps as they sewed the endless expanse of hems on a set of sheets. An old woman, nearly blind, half chanted the tale of the false steward, Sir Aldingar, as she spun by touch. At the end of a trestle table set up in the center of the room, a well-dressed dame with scissors addressed another woman who held a knotted cord. On the table, a length of fair linen, as smooth and luminous as a baby’s skin, was laid out ready for cutting.
“Dame Isabella says they must be cut three inches longer than the old ones, for her daughter grows apace,” said the lady with the scissors.
He wolde have layne by our comelye queene,
Her deere worshippe to betraye:
Our queene she was a good woman,
And evermore said him naye.
sang the old woman in her tuneless voice, as a half dozen needles flashed in and out of the sheets in tiny, precise stitches.
“It is the length Dame Petronilla brought from the Mistress of the Robes,” answered the other. Away from the fire, the air fogged as they spoke.
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