Margaret of Ashbury 03 - The Water Devil

by Judith Merkle Riley

  But already Sir Hubert had summoned grooms with a ladder to take the drinking horn down from above the row of dented shields adorned with various versions of the de Vilers coat-of-arms. A faint draft agitated the slashed and battle-damaged pennants that hung on either side of the great horn. “Be careful up there!” shouted Sir Hubert, “It's old! If you crack it, I'll crack your heads!”At last, the immense horn was laid on the table.

  “Look at the size of it,” people muttered. “There's nothing with a horn like that nowadays.”

  “How could you let such a person as that pretend to read?” said Gilbert to the magistrate. “Look at his eyes. He can hardly see.”

  “I hear the voice of youth, reminding me that the sight of my eyes has faded in my old age,” spoke Blind Halvard the Wise in a high, cracked voice. “But this I will say; as the sight of my eyes has faded, the sight of my fingers has grown in power. Put my hands upon the runic inscription.” I saw Gilbert shake his head in horror.

  “Ah, a drinking horn,” said Blind Halvard, stating the obvious as he felt the length of the horn. Good Lord, I thought, he's even blinder than he lets on. Then he ran his fingers several times over the carvings at the mouth of the horn.

  “These are corrupt runes,” he pronounced. “They are difficult to read.” Not only blind, but a fraud, the thought flashed through my mind.

  “They are forged, then? Meaningless?” said the abbot eagerly.

  “No, they have meaning,” said the ancient sage. “They are corrupted, that is all. These are corrupt Saxon runes, not the true runes of the Norse. Here, for example—oh, this is interesting— the maker tried to make bind-runes, and did them wrong. These Saxons were a degenerate people, sunk in ignorance.”

  “How DARE he speak of my great ancestor as DEGENERATE! By God, if he were not such a useless old piece of dried bacon, I'd chop him up into meat fit for stewing for saying that!” Sir Hubert stormed up and down, his hands made into fists, his big white eyebrows drawn together and his face glowering.

  But the old man was humming something unintelligible, as his fingers traced again around the designs at the mouth of the drinking horn. Then, after a pause, he said, “The sacred runes have spoken.”

  “Sacred runes, oh God, when will this charade end?” muttered Gilbert, who had plunked himself down on a bench by the wall, and was holding his head in his hands.

  “This first,” said the old man. “ ‘Thorwald.’ ”

  “Thorwald, not Ingulf. Do you hear that?” said the abbot. “The horn is false. Therefore the deed of Ingulf is false.”

  “Who in the HELL is this Thorwald? Where's Ingulf?” the Lord of Brokesford shouted.

  “‘Thorwald made me,'” said the old man, stroking the carvings. The magistrate gave the abbot an evil glare.

  The ancient man hummed some more. “‘Ingulf owns me. May Ingulf own me. God, God strike dead and curse forever he who takes me from Ingulf, if Ingulf does not give me freely.'Thus speak the runes. This is what they often say on drinking horns. Particularly those made with precious metal. Ah, I feel stones here in the carving. And here, on the dragon. Yes. This is rare and valuable, as it was then. Now I am tired. Show me a place to rest. I have traveled too far for my age.”

  “Show this VENERABLE SAGE my own bed!” cried Sir Hubert. “You wonder! You have brought the words of my ancestor to me! What gift can I give you?”

  “A rest,” said the old man.“And then a little apple-wine. Doe you have apple wine here?” Sir Hubert cast me a glance. I nodded yes, and he hastened to assure the old man that apple-wine would be his. “And after that, more runes,” said the old man. “We'll do what we can,” announced Sir Hubert. “These are all I have right now, but I swear, we'll search the countryside. Runes it is! Hundreds of 'em! If there's another rune within twenty miles, I'll have it out for you! Oh, blessed, saintly Blind Halvard!”

  But now Petronilla was whispering in the ear of her confessor, clutching his shoulder with fingers like claws, and pointing to Gilbert. As grooms helped the ancient translator up the stairs, she shrieked, “He lies, he lies! I saw them bury the box, I did, and they have brought that old fraud here to lie for them!”

  “I assure you Madame, neither they nor I had any inkling that this good abbot, here, had found a reader of runes,” said the magistrate to Dame Petronilla. “We have all heard quite enough here. Sir Hubert, what ails this woman?”

  Sir Hubert tapped his forehead. “My daughter-in-law. Quite mad from the loss of a child. Why, only last month a canon from the cathedral itself exorcised four devils from her. It was the scandal of the neighborhood, you may ask anyone here.”

  “You fiend, you are the devil!” Petronilla shouted.

  “You see? She fantasizes. Her word is not to be trusted. Why, not so long ago, she announced that the manor would soon be covered by a sheet of black stone, adorned in white lines, where smoky demons would congregate. Humph!” said Sir Hubert, folding his arms and staring directly at the madwoman.

  But Petronilla had turned directly to the women's bench, and pointed at Madame, who sat straight and quiet beside me.

  “She knows,” she cried out. “That pale faced harpy heard everything in the chapel. She knows it all.” I looked at Gilbert. His face had grown pale again. He knew that Madame knew.

  Madame looked at Petronilla. She raised one eyebrow, as if she had never seen such a disgraceful sight, and would not reveal feelings that were beneath her.

  “Tell them, tell them!” shrieked Petronilla. “He refused me, he had the front to refuse me! I swear I will bring him down!”

  “I haven't got the slightest idea of what you are talking,” said Madame. “Contain yourself, Lady de Vilers. These ravings embarrass your lord and bring disgrace on his house.”

  There was a loud shriek of laughter. “You, too!” cried Petronilla as she vanished up the stairs.

  “That one's Balam, the demon of inappropriate laughter,” said Hugo, leaning confidentially toward the magistrate. “The canon didn't quite root out all of him.” Gilbert sat gasping on the bench at the other side of the room, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

  But now everyone was milling cheerfully around, shaking hands, and talking as if they were old friends, except, of course, for the abbot and his canons.

  “—rest assured, I will petition the king again—” I could hear him saying.

  “—not advisable at all—” the magistrate was replying, while Sir Hubert was shouting:

  “If you DARE to show your FACE in court, I'll have experts examine YOUR seals. Henry the Second! A newcomer! If it IS from the time of Henry the Second. Our own good Edward is more like it!”

  “—the Duke will return, you'll never prevail, so you'd best pack up before we prosecute you—” Hugo was saying. But Gilbert, usually so full of opinions, was utterly silent. I went to him, and stroked his hand, and said, “My good lord husband, all is saved.”

  “Margaret, I don't understand how—” he said, shaking his head. “Malachi couldn't have known—maybe the man who sold it to him knew—Ingulf, who would have thought Ingulf? I was sure he'd made it up.” Gilbert's voice was faded and weak.

  “Gilbert, I am beginning to think I may know,” I answered. “No matter what the runes or seals said, our case was bound to be victorious.”

  “Why, Margaret, you are as pale as a ghost. I've never seen you look so ill, all at once.”

  “My lord, I am sick at heart. I am sure your father—”

  “Why yes,” the Lord of Brokesford was shouting in a jovial voice. “John, go bring down the little maid from the solar. Sir Ralph, you'll find her as sprightly as ever, but much improved in manners.”

  “—your father has gone behind our backs and sold Cecily's marriage to the magistrate.”

  “What? That monster! He hasn't the right! How dare he!”

  “Oh, you'll collect the fee, Gilbert. But your father has his court case, today, tomorrow, next year, whenever he wants. How can
you refuse him and bring down the magistrate's wrath upon him for the loss of Cecily's dowry? All the triumphs of today would be reversed in the twinkling of an eye. Can you refuse your consent, knowing that it could send your father to the king's prison, or worse? Can I refuse, knowing the same could happen to you? He has us, Gilbert. He's outfoxed us for a wretched piece of land, and sold my girl.” I just couldn't help it, I started to cry.

  “—tears of joy, Sir Ralph, tears of joy. I was saving it for a surprise. You know how women are—” Sir Hubert was saying.

  “Ah, yes, emotional. They hate to see their little girls leave home.”

  “She's been much too long underfoot, I say, it's about time.”

  “My clerks, I must say, left no stone unturned. The dowry was even better than you represented it. She even has half interest in a ship, the Stella Maris, in addition to the property you mentioned.

  Never before in a dowry negotiation have I ever met with a gentleman so noble he understated his case.”

  “It is the de Vilers blood you ally yourself with, Sir Ralph. The oldest in England.”

  “So I have discovered. An honor, Sir Hubert, an honor to have made your acquaintance so conveniently.”

  “Sir Ralph, the times are changing. Even an old curmudgeon such as myself sees the virtue in allying a family of the land with a family of the law. The boy does well in his studies, you say?”

  “Without a doubt, he will be magistrate after me—the lad has talent—well, look at that, Dame Margaret has redoubled her weeping. Even more joyful, Dame Margaret?” I wiped my face but everything I saw out of my eyes looked blurry.

  “Cecily—Cecily must give her consent,” I said between sniffles. “She's not old enough, to, to—marry.”

  “Why, she's very nearly ten, by my calculation,” said that despicable old knight. “Many a girl's betrothed at that age! An heiress with a ship? You let her go far too long without an arrangement. You should be thinking of cultivating Alison's advantage. Ah, there they are, Sir Ralph. You've made a good choice. You wouldn't have wanted the little fat one—besides, you'd have to wait longer for heirs.” My blood ran hot and cold with hate and horror. There at the foot of the stair, with the groom between them, stood my girls, as beautiful as the day, with those two ghastly old men smirking and nodding as they inspected them with their eyes, the way you'd look at a prize sheep. Cecily was wearing her tawny, blue embroidered silk surcoat over her green kirtle that she had almost outgrown, and she had a circlet of daisies on her head. Her fuzzy braid had been combed out by the nurse, and it fell in long, bright red waves to her waist. Her blue eyes were huge in her narrow, serious face. I thought my heart would break. She looked like a human sacrifice.

  “Don't cry, mama,” she said. “I have talked with step-grandfather.”

  “Why, of course, of course. A very sensible little maiden she is. She said she would give her consent this very day,” boomed Sir Hubert.

  “You mean all that we have arranged rests on a child's consent? This is preposterous,” Sir Ralph FitzWilliam leaned toward Sir Hubert as he spoke. The bad old knight spoke low in response, but I could hear him:

  “Shh. It's all a show for the mother. It's her consent you'll be wanting. Gilbert's a stubborn ox, and if he gets it in his head his wife doesn't want it, he'll be quite despicable.”

  “Just tell her she has to obey,” said the magistrate.

  “You really don't want to cross Margaret. It's hard to explain just now, but only the girl can convince her it's right.” Then he spoke aloud, shouting to Cecily where she still stood at the foot of the stair. “Tell your mother that you find this betrothal agreeable, and give your consent,” he said.

  Cecily set her jaw tight, the way she always did when she had made up her mind about something. I could see she was pale with determination, and her voice sounded unnaturally old and serious as she spoke: “I have written out my conditions,” she said. “I give my consent if you accept them.”And with that she fished in the bosom of her surcoat and pulled out a rumpled little piece of paper and held it out to the magistrate, whose eyes bugged out in astonishment. Never, never, in the history of the earth, had such a thing been done.

  Sir Hubert exploded: “Conditions! You miserable little cat, I'll beat your conditions out of you! Who in the HELL gave you this accursed notion!”As I leapt between Sir Hugo and my darling to take the blow from his upraised hand, Gilbert grabbed his father and spun him around, and I snatched my baby away from those awful men.

  “Hold, Sir Hubert,” said the magistrate, who had unfolded the paper and was reading it. “These conditions are not without good sense, and neatly written, too. Mistress Cecily, if you were a boy, you would have made an excellent lawyer. Instead, someday, perhaps, you will be the mother of great magistrates. Who taught you to write like this?”

  “My mother taught me to write, but Brother Malachi taught me what to say,” answered Cecily.

  “Brother Malachi! That damned, interfering—QUACK!” Sir Hubert stormed.

  “Cecily,” I asked, “how did he know what to tell you?”

  “I asked him,” she answered. “When I was talking to him about the philosopher's stone—you know, mother, when I wanted my special favor and he didn't quite have it yet. I asked him what if my marriage was arranged before the Stone was ready, and he told me the law says no one can be married without their consent. He said if I was determined, I could oppose fire and sword for my maidenly crown.” I sighed deeply.

  “That sounds exactly like him,” I said.

  “And he said if I didn't want to oppose fire and sword, I should make conditions. He told me how to do it. It was my idea to write them out.”

  “I suppose now the deal's off,” said Sir Hubert, sitting down heavily and holding his head. “Now that you know what she is. Unnatural. Wild. I doubt there's a convent in England that could hold her.”

  “You forget, Sir Hubert, that I first saw her at the top of a tree.” Cecily came and sat beside me on the bench. For the first time, I noticed the shoes beneath her long hems. The awful, barbaric green ones the villagers had given her. “Cecily, what's in that paper?” I asked.

  “Let me read it to you, good Dame Margaret,” said Sir Ralph.

  “And I assure you, I am ready to consent to every condition, provided that you and Sir Gilbert will do so as well.” I nodded silently at him, too choked to speak.

  “ ‘Condition the first: Cecily Kendall will not be wed until she is at least sixteen years of age.

  ‘Condition the second: If Cecily Kendall is so changed in body as to be unsuitable to be wed, she will not be married.

  ‘Condition the third: Cecily Kendall will only be wed to one who loves her above all others.’ You must admit, Dame Margaret, these are very sensible conditions.” Oh, Brother Malachi, you wretch, I thought. What have you planted in her mind? I know Cecily. She thinks sixteen is unspeakably ancient, and will never come. And she fully expects to be turned into a boy long before then, and she can wriggle out of marriage. That's why she was willing to tell Sir Hubert she'd consent.

  “Cecily, is this really what you want?”

  “I don't like embroidering altar cloths very much, mother. So I'm giving up on being a nun. And if I'm not changed by sixteen, I'll be too old to get the good of it, so I might as well be married. Denys is better than Walter or Peter Wengrave.”

  “I want to be betrothed, too!” wailed her sister.

  “Be quiet!” I said, “or you'll get your wish—” But I was halted by an unearthly scream from the solar. Before anyone could rush up the stairs, Mother Sarah, her face pale with horror, came running into the hall. “It's Lady Petronilla,” she cried. “She's stolen the baby!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  LADY PETRONILLA COULD FEEL THE GOOD thing coming, the quickness, the mind that flashed a thousand thoughts at once. So much better than the slow time, the despondent time, like swimming in heavy syrup, when she curled up in a ball, craving only death. Now lights
flashed, ideas flashed, and strength poured into her. Ah! She could hear downstairs, ponderous arguments, women weeping. She could hear outside, people, horses. She could hear the birds in the orchard. Ah! She was inside them, looking for worms in the bad fruit, then she was a worm, looking out of her hole at a great black eye and pecking beak. Now back in a flash, her own body. What was that rippling, murmuring sound? The spring, always the spring. A woman green with pond slime, the white of her eyes flashing from deep sockets, her mouth a cavern whispering secret things. Hear her singing, singing. She is calling.

  The old woman was asleep. Yes, there he was, the little idol, pushing a little wooden horse on wheels and singing tunelessly. Would you like to visit the green lady, little boy? The green lady with watery toes? he answers, and the old dog tries to bite her but she kicks him away with a powerful blow. But before his yelping can rouse the old woman, she has thrown her black cloak over the dirty little manling and scooped him up like a bundle. Someone far away is shouting, but the swift time has come, and many voices sing whirling songs in her mind, and with great strength she scurries down the tower stairs bearing the squirming, howling bundle slung over her shoulder. There, almost at the stable door, she sees the saddled horses of the visiting dignitaries waiting. Meant to be, meant to be, sing the voices, and she flings the bundle across the nearest saddle bow and grabs up the reins. Oh, wonderful, wonderful, to feel the wind in your face and blood pouring through your body like molten light. The world sparkled and glistened, and the green lady beckoned with her sweet, rippling voice.