“She does that when she's angry sometimes. She just rides that mare of hers until it's nearly dead. Well, better the mare than me, I say. She'll take that little whip of hers to anyone when she's in that mood.”
“Where does she go?” asked Margaret, as they stood and watched her vanish in the direction of the stables.
“Here, there, and everywhere. She's the ridingest lady anyone ever saw. She outrides her grooms—oh, look, here comes her confessor. He doesn't want her riding alone. He'll follow.”
Brother Paul was following with long, lithe steps. Curious, thought Margaret, he's usually all bent over from all his bowing like that untrellised vine. Awhile after the first furious burst of hoofbeats sounded out the main gate, they heard another horse.
“Oh, here's the napkins,” said Margaret as the girl with the basket came back down the courtyard steps.“Just throw them in the boiler with everything else, they couldn't be any nastier.”At that moment, the woman with the stirring pole could not decide which she preferred. Lady Petronilla was violent, but she was easy, and never noticed anything but what she wanted at that very moment. Lady Margaret, now, was even-tempered but sharp-eyed. She was always poking and prying and cleaning up. You'd think she was mistress, the way she ordered things done and the old lord let her have her way. Still, she'd soon be gone and they wouldn't have to do the linens for another year or two at least, until Lady Margaret came back.
Dame Petronilla rode astride at a full gallop, her veil, tightly pinned to her knotted hair, flying like a pennant, her skirts up to her shins, showing her soft leather hunting boots. Her bay mare was heavily lathered as she left planted land and crossed the meadow. At the far side of the meadow, lounging along in the middle of the brook, was Old Brownie, carrying two barefoot redheaded girls on his broad, bare, swayed back. Every so often he would tug on the reins, and put his head back down to drink. Behind him, a groom mounted on a little cob waited for the girls on the sandy bank.
“Look, there goes Lady Petronilla,” said Alison. Cecily pulled up Old Brownie's head, and quit letting him slosh along in the brook. As he climbed the bank, she said.
“Alison, quit pinching, I'm going to be black and blue.”
“I'm sitting on the fat part, do you want me to fall off? There's no place to get on again. John will have to lift me, and he'll grumble.”
“John, where's she going so fast?”
“I don't know, but her confessor's right behind. See there? It's not right for a lady to ride alone. That old nurse, and that confessor she brought from home, they look after her like a baby. If you knew what I knew—”
“We know already. She's crazy mean. Let's follow.” Petronilla slowed to a walk at the edge of the woods, and they saw Brother Paul catch up with her. For a moment they talked, then, much to their surprise, instead of riding on together, Brother Paul rode off in the direction of Wymondley, and Petronilla went on alone.
Ahead of them, they could tell by the new hoofprints in the soft, leafy earth which direction Petronella had taken.
“Look at that, she's going to the spring,” said Cecily.
“You girls know the spring?” said the groom, surprised.
“Of course we do. When we were here last, mother used to cart down the water in barrels for making ale. She said it was cleaner, and gave a better taste.” Dappled sun poured through the green leaves of the oak canopy above them. Old Brownie's hoofs made a soft thudding sound, and the smell of rotting leaves and growing things rose to them, mingling with the damp, sweaty smell of the old horse's coat.
“Well, it's not cleaner now,” said the groom, in a knowing voice.
“It's never that clean,” said Cecily, who refused to acknowledge knowing less that a groom.
“Yes,” said Alison. “Fishes live in it. And do you know what they do? They pee in it. That's what you're drinking. Fish pee. Unless you turn it into ale.” She was disappointed to see that the groom was unphased.
“There's more than fishes in there now,” he answered with a sly grin. “There's a dead body. And they dragged the pond with hooks, and couldn't ever get it back.” But rather than engendering horror in his listeners, the groom had aroused macabre fascination.
“Really? Whose body?” asked Cecily, her voice nonchalant.
“A priest's. He took down the rags on the rock, and the pond just sucked him in out of vengeance.”
“Oh, so that's where he went,” observed Alison. “Noboby would ever tell us. They just got quiet.”
“Did he scream and gurgle?” asked Cecily.
“Oh, yes, and cried out prayers, but all were useless, in the face of that devil in the pond.”
“There's a devil? Is it red and fiery? Did you see it?”
“Nobody sees it. There's some as worships it, but I put my faith in Jesus Christ and stay out of the pond, though I have to drink the water. We all do. When we get our new priest, we'll have him do an exorcism. Then the pond will be clean again.”
“Listen, I can hear it. She's there.” They paused behind the gray, overgrown ruins of the old stones by the yew temple. Quiet as cats, the little girls slid off the horse and handed the bridle to the groom. Silently, they crept over the dead leaves and hid behind the great stone at the edge of the pond. It was bereft now, without the faded rags flapping all over its surface. It was a light, spotted gray color, with a bit of a sparkle where the sun hit it and shaped like a huge ovoid. It had not been stood upright on its broader end by the hand of nature. At the center of the green pond, the spring bubbled up with force, like a cauldron on the boil. At the edge of the spring stood Lady Petronilla, chanting something incomprehensible. Her eyes were starting in her head; her skin had gone bad again, yellowish brown, her face looked swollen. Loose strands of her hair were flying around her face, though her veil, attached with long pins to her hair, had not fallen away. The words seemed to be English, but they were all mixed up, meaningless, and sung in a toneless howl that made them difficult to decipher.
Then as she began to walk “sunward” around the pool, the girls shrank back so as not to be discovered. Something about her, something like a scent, made the hair stand up all over their bodies. At the far side of the pool, Petronilla knelt down. She was drinking— no—kissing the waters, pouring them down her bosom. The girls peered at her, fascinated. Beyond the stones, the groom saw her, too, and shuddered at the sight, crossing himself.
She stood, her mouth and dress dripping, and they saw her take something from the wallet at her waist, next to the dagger she always wore. With a fierce gesture, she flung it into the water. It floated far into the pool, on top of the water like a little boat, and swirled around the roiling water at the center of the pool.
“Take it, take it!” she cried, eyes blazing.
“Look Cecily, it's Peregrine's shoe,” whispered Alison. “The one mama made. She'll be very angry.”
“What do you want? Money? Blood? Oh, yes, you shall have them, have them all.” Lady Petronilla began to laugh wildly. She took her wallet and turned out the copper coins in it and flung them into the water. They plashed and vanished onto the bottom. Suddenly she turned on her heel. “Betrayer!” she shrieked, and fled to her tethered mare.
“I'm getting that for mother,” said Cecily, stepping into the shallow water near the great stone. Peregrine's shoe was growing waterlogged now, the light, soft doeskin grown dark and heavy. It swirled in the eddies beyond the upwelling waters, tantalizingly just beyond reach.
“Cecily, it's deep,” said Alison. “There's a hole in the middle.” “It's not deep here. Hand me that branch, then hold onto my dress.” Carefully, she felt with her bare feet. The soft silt squished up between her toes. Yes, there was bottom here. She took another step. The little slipper was soaked through now, but it still drifted on the surface as if something were holding it up, tempting her to step farther. Cecily took another step. The watching groom dismounted, abandoning the horses and running to the side of the pond.
“Come back
, it will suck you in!” he cried.
“Got it!” shouted Cecily, neatly hooking the little shoe with the branch, just as it began to sink.
“God be praised!” cried the groom, as he saw her pull back from the bubbling depths.
“Look at all the money and little things in here,” said Alison, who was wading in the shallows and peering down beneath the surface, where she could just barely see her feet through the green.
“Don't take them, they belong to the pond,” cried the horrified groom from the shore. Not for all the money in Christendom would he have set one foot into the pond, with its deceptively tranquil surface and ever-boiling center. It had sucked down a priest, and now it had sucked away Lady Petronilla's mind, just as sure as could be.
“The pond hasn't taken them,” cried Alison, “Here you are! Here you are!” Laughing and shouting, she scooped up the little offerings that lay in the silt and flung them toward the center of the pond. Then she began to dance in the shallow water, arms up, spinning and singing.
“It's cool and nice!” cried Cecily, who had tied the little shoe around her wrist so she wouldn't lose it. Then she, too, began to run and dance. “Come in with us!” Green water splashed up at every step, wetting their light summer smocks and gluing them to their bodies. Shafts of light piercing the green leaves above shone on their flying hair, making gold lights wherever it touched. Birds called from the dark temple of yews. Then they scooped up water and drenched each other, laughing and shrieking at each other.
“Stop, stop!” cried the groom, who had grown up at his grandmother's fireside, and had heard from her the secret of the pond. The pond was the source of all that grew. No one, no one, dared set foot in it since ancient days, except…
The bubbling at the center stopped. The groom fell to his knees and crossed himself, praying.
“Look Cecily, it's quit gurgling,” said Alison, pointing to the center. The waters were still, very still. The two girls stood, dripping wet, the green water lapping softly at their knees. Something was moving from the center of the pond, something dark and smooth, swimming with a long, undulant movement.
“It's true,” whispered the groom as he saw the shadowy shape. “It's all true.”
“Look, Alison, it's the biggest eel I ever did see,” said Cecily, pointing to the swimming shape.
“Hold still, it's swimming all around us. Look, I can see its eyes. Ooo. It's swimming around my legs. It tickles.”
“Will it bite?” asked Cecily, as the huge eel swam around her ankles.
“It didn't bite me,” announced Alison. The groom scarcely dared move. He felt his breath stopping in his throat. He watched the dark shadow ripple across the pond, just under the surface, and vanish. A few little bubbles showed at the center of the pond, shining halfcircles floating up, reflecting dark yews and specks of light on their shining surfaces. Then there were more bubbles, and more again. The center of the pond made a sound like,“blorp, blorp,” and began once again to boil and bubble as if it had never ceased.
“Look, now it's started again.”
“The eel must live in the deep part. I can't see him at all now.”
“The sun's very low, Cecily, do you think we've missed supper? I saw them making leche lombard this morning.” Looking about, they saw the groom still on his knees, saying his beads, and the horses straying.
“Look, John, the horses have gone away. Did you forget to tether them?” With a start, he looked up at the two dripping, barefoot little girls, the sun caught in their shining hair.
“Don't tell anyone,” said John the groom. And thinking that he meant them not to tell that he had forgotten to tether grandfather's horses, they agreed. After all, John had caught them soon enough, and they didn't want the Lord of Brokesford to take away the use of Old Brownie in a fit of temper.
EACH MORNING, just as the stars were leaving the sky, the Lord of Brokesford Manor rose, pushed aside his bed curtains, and then shouted at the grooms who slept at the foot of his bed to bestir their lazy, slugabed bodies. There were two perches on either side of the head of his bed. One held his favorite falcons, the other his clothes for the day, in fact, for every day, since he did not change them much. On the wall opposite the bed were two more perches, on which chain mail hung, just as if it were laundry set out to dry. Beneath them was a long, low chest on which stood his helmet and sword, just in case there had been an invasion of the manor in the night, and the tower needed to be sealed off. That was where his father had kept his helmet, and his father before him, and his father before that, and he saw no reason to change, just because the likelihood of invasion had diminished.
While one groom took down and brushed his clothes, the other took out a footcloth and laid it on the rushes between the bed and the window. Then the old lord, naked except for his nightcap, would stand in front of the glassless window breathing deep of the new air of dawn. Winter or summer, it was the same. Sucking the icy, damp air into him, he'd say, “Ah, fresh air. It makes a man strong. What an excellent new day.” And then, while breathing, he would give thought to all his plans, to victory, to manipulating his kindred, to ruling his tiny kingdom. At this point, or perhaps while the grooms knelt to put on his hose or fasten his points, his no-account sons, roused by the crowing of the rooster, would enter his chamber, kneel before him in order of age, and kiss his hand in greeting and obeisance.
“Late again, you whelps,” he growled, as Hugo knelt before him, still half dressed, and Gilbert ducked beneath the low stone arch that framed the door. The air had not smelled as sweet this morning; it had not brought as much new life. He had thought of his trees, of the treacherous canons at Wymondley, and the perfidy of lawyers, who never faced a man to his front, fully armed, but snuck around the back like some venemous serpent, striking in with poison and treachery. Ah, now, it was Gilbert's turn. Why did he always irritate him so? It was his mother's long nose, and that arrogant, ironic way she had about her, that she'd passed on, along with her height and dark hair. Hugo, now, he was more in the pattern of a man, that is, in the pattern of himself before he had turned gray: blonde, square-set, vigorous, and not overburdened with reflection and useless wool-gathering. At least, that had been true until this latest turn Hugo had taken, dressing like a fop and preening himself like a dancing master. Ugh. The old man shuddered with distaste. Gilbert rose from his knee, and the look on his face told the old man that he'd seen his displeasure. Well, too bad. It would do him good.
“Heigh ho, now I'm off. Want to come with me, Gilbert?”
“Where are you off to?”
“They say there's a succubus off at the pond. I'm off to hunt her up.”
“What's this?” growled the old man, as he popped his head through the neck-hole in his undershirt.
“I'm collecting earthly pleasures in anticipation of my deathbed conversion. And nobody, absolutely nobody, gives more earthly pleasure than a succubus. I've checked with that fellow in the village. Unspeakable delight, taking the very substance out of a man, at least temporarily.”
“The succubus tried to kill him.”
“Ha! He was only a peasant. I'm prepared. But that's why I thought you might go along, Gilbert. Sort of insurance. You can keep your sword ready in case she tries to slay me with pleasure. Oof! Ha! What a death! But of course, then I couldn't take the habit and repent my sins.”
“Hugo, I refuse to be a pander for a succubus.”
“Hey, now, it's not at all like that. What's a brother for?”
“And what, if anything, do you plan to do with the rest of your day if you fail to find this creature?” said the old man, as the groom straightened out his tunic and held up the surcoat for the old man to put his arms into.
“Oh, I think I'll ride off to Mistress Bet's brewhouse. A man's got needs, you know, and that wife of mine has been useless ever since she got into that ‘delicate condition.’ ” And with that, he was off down the stairs of the tower, his cheerful whistling echoing back up the stairwell t
o them.
“Gone all day, eh?” said the old man, eyeing his second son. “Exactly my thought,” said Gilbert.
“Wat, go and have John saddle up our horses. We're off for the day ourselves.”
“Business with the Bishop about the new priest,” added Gilbert, though it was hardly necessary.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LION BARELY LIFTED HIS HEAD WHEN Gilbert reached under the bundles for the two neatly wrapped ones, sewn into heavy muslin cases as an extra precaution against tampering.
“Too old for a watchdog, you ought to put him down,” said Sir Hubert.
“Margaret would never hear of it. She loves that old dog.”
“Margaret this, Margaret that. You indulge that woman too much. She's spoiled.”
“How spoiled? She hasn't demanded a place at the Duke's court and then given it up in a huff, she doesn't order new dresses that no one can afford, and she's as brave as a tiger when it comes to looking after her own.”Gilbert hoisted the flat, rectangular package to his shoulder. His father took the long, flat one, two shovels wrapped with a board to disguise their shape.
“She doesn't discipline her servants. That so-called Madame creature is a monster.” They were half-way down the solar steps now.
“Madame's hardly a servant. But even you must admit, Madame is training the girls admirably,” Gilbert felt a strange sense of gratification. His father seemed absolutely benevolent in his presence. At long last, they were doing something together, not snarling and ripping at each other like hounds at a dogfight.
“Cecily Kendall, that little beast, sewing an altar cloth. Who would have ever thought it? Ha!” His father threw back his head and laughed. It was a fierce laugh, somewhat between a bark and a snort, and not long. Gilbert's long, intelligent face was unchanged, but inside, he could feel his heart was expanding. He was having a vision of his father, seated in his big chair on the dais, his hawks perched behind him on the wall, and his hounds all lying down under the table at his feet, saying to guests, “My second son's a scholar. This learning stuff, it has its place.”
Margaret of Ashbury 03 - The Water Devil Page 15