In Pursuit of the Green Lion

by Judith Merkle Riley

  The girls left off their activities to crowd around me while I hunted through the ornate little chest where I’d been told the sewing things were.

  At the bottom of the chest was what I wanted: a strange looking box, all bound in carved brass that was badly in need of polishing. In it was an embroidery hoop with a bit of unfinished work in it, looking a bit as if it were destined for a priest’s vestments. There was also a distaff, richly set with silver, and under it a pile of neatly folded baby clothes. I lifted up the first. A little girl’s smock, unfinished, too small for Alison. Then a little gown for a newborn, half-sewn, pretty linen but no hem. A tiny cap, with heavy quilting set in rolls about the crown, so a baby learning to walk wouldn’t split his head on the hearthstone. No strings, and the rolls not all stitched down. What kind of woman was this, so rich she could afford to leave good stuff unworked—so many things unfinished?

  As I held the dusty, darkened little things, I could feel something very sad about the chest. In my mind I could sense what had happened. It was a rich woman’s box, yes—a woman whose embroidery surpassed mine, for she had learned on silk and velvet, and I had learned on coarse stuff. But it was a poor woman’s too. A woman whose fine stitches and piety and silver hadn’t been able to save her children. I could feel it like a certainty inside me—each little garment was for a child, unfinished at the time of death, and put away because she couldn’t bear to complete the work. And then she put away her embroidery, too, and died. A woman’s life, all shut up in a box, was what I saw there. Maybe it would be my box, too, in the end. I put my hand on my heart, to keep it from hurting me. And while I was still, kneeling in the rushes beside the box, the Cold Thing came back and surrounded me, and made me shudder.

  But there was more. Beneath the little box with the needles, all pressed flat, was a tiny pair of baby’s shoes, all made out of some very thin leather, as soft as silk, with holes worn through the little quilted soles. This one lived, I thought, and she loved it best, so she saved the shoes.

  “Mama, doll clothes! Can we have them?”

  “We need them, Mama, Martha is naked!” The girls tried to pull the box out of the chest. Broad Wat retreated to take another drink.

  “They’re not yours,” I said, removing their hands and shutting the big chest tight. But the girls hadn’t even time to whine before they were entirely distracted by a dreadful commotion on the stairs.

  “Who poured ale on me? I’ll thrash him to death!” Furious shouts were echoing up the stairway. It was Damien, the squire. He and Robert had been hard at work in the courtyard, hot in mock combat, when Damien had stopped to lean against the wall, with unfortunate results. The girls jumped up and ran to hide beneath the big bed, giggling.

  “It was you then! I tell you, I’ll paddle you properly! Get out from under there, you little devils!” He grabbed a protruding arm from beneath the bed, and pulled hard. He had Cecily half out, when she bit his finger and he let go suddenly. She scuttled back under the bed, and he sat on the floor, sucking on his sore finger and trying to spy the glitter of her eyes in the dark. Suddenly he saw the humor of it, and started to laugh. He was just sixteen, a year younger than Robert, the other squire, and he looked charming, sitting there and laughing. His cheerful blond curls were all wet and matted, but the new beard on his chin shone like gold. He had not a prospect in the world, except that everybody liked him, and that’s worth something. And he was used to children; I’d heard him say once that he had eight living younger brothers and sisters eating his father out of his living. He was the hope of his whole impoverished tribe, and they’d somehow scraped up enough to get him nourished as a page in the Sieur de Vilers’s house, back when there was still a Lady de Vilers.

  “I hate you,” he said to the shadow beneath the bed.

  “I hate you too,” Cecily’s voice came out from under the bed.

  “Me too,” said Alison, from where she hid behind her sister.

  It was love.

  From then on, the girls were as orderly as is possible for them. If Damien asked anything, it was as good as done. They followed him about until he was entirely distracted, begging to carry his things for him, or run his errands. Even the villagers laughed at it. Of course, the girls still fought.

  “When I’m big, I’m going to marry Damien.”

  “No you’re not, he’ll marry me!”

  “No, he’s going to go away, and get rich in France, and then he’ll come back and take me away on his horse—ow! Quit kicking! Mama, Alison kicked me!”

  “I didn’t. Besides, she made an ugly face, Mama. Tell her it will stick that way!”

  “Nya, nya, it won’t.”

  “It will so! You’ll be all wrinkled up that way forever, and then he’ll marry me!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS MORE THAN A MONTH FROM THE time we’d married. March was nearly over, and the first green points of April’s daffodils could be seen poking up through the mud. And yet I’d seen less of Gregory alone than before the priest had raised his hand in benediction. I began to wonder whether he really liked me at all; I felt as if I had just been taken for granted, like a new piece of furniture that one has got used to. And not only that, let me tell you that for sheer irritation, there’s hardly anything worse than being the sole source of novelty and amusement in a household of strangers.

  “You’ll be wantin’ that kirtle cleaned up, won’t you, mistress, as well as the surcoat, now?” Cis grinned as she held up the muddy garments to the light. “Mmm. Nice embroidery on that.”

  “Just sponge the mud off, and then soak it in cold water. I don’t want the colors to run. Remember now; I don’t want to see it boiling with the dirty linen when I come downstairs.”

  “Oh, I know better now. I can get it just like new—and you’ll be wanting another poultice? That’s a wicked bruise you’ve got there.”

  “That’s only the one you can see,” I said morosely, pulling the warm robe de chambre tighter about my poor huddled, sore, undressed body as I sat on the edge of the bed.

  “My now, that’s too bad. You’ll be wearing this one for dinner, won’t you?” she queried, picking a garment off the perch. She stroked a sleeve with her cracked, work-reddened hands. “Now—what’s this kind of cloth called?”

  “Sarcenet. Hold it sideways to the light so you can see the weave. No, the threads, this way. And see the glimmer? That’s how you can tell it’s genuine.” After all, I hadn’t been married to a mercer for nothing.

  “My, wouldn’t it be fine, touching soft things like this all the time. Sarcenet. I won’t forget.” The mood of reverie vanished as quickly as it had come. “Goodness, I’m learning all the time,” she announced cheerfully as she knelt to rummage in the chest for the proper set of hose to replace the muddy mass so recently peeled from my legs. As she held them up for my approval, she said,

  “If you won’t think it bold, mistress, you’d be spending less time in the mud and more time on Blanchette if you’d lengthen your stirrups a bit and brace back against the cantle when you take the jump. Old John’s agreed with me, and so are Wat and Simkin.”

  A public amusement, that’s what I’d become. And that’s the difference between learning to write and learning to ride: You can’t fall off the page when you’ve got it wrong. I could still feel my face burning.

  “So what makes you know so much about it?” My bruises made me ask in a more sarcastic tone than was proper.

  “Me? Oh, I’ve ridden pretty near everything on the place. I never had a brother, so when I was little, my dad would sit me on the foals. The first weight they ever felt, you know, and they don’t always like it. He’d lead them around, then drive them, walking behind with the long reins, with me in the saddle. He was important here—head groom of my lord’s stables, and none better—but that was before your time. And before that big ugly black thing broke his neck for him.”

  I started, but before I could question her further, she took advantage of my shock to add, “An
d let me tell you, mistress, angels got their hands on them little girls of yours—and so says mam and Simkin too. Though he says he can’t imagine why.”

  Entertainment for saucy laundresses and kitchen boys, I said to myself, as I listened to her clogs clattering down the solar stairs. I’ve been brought low in this house.

  Sometimes I’d find my heart bursting with longing to be alone with Gregory. I knew he’d like me better if he were away from his prying, noisy relatives. As it was, he thought more of annoying them than pleasing me. Before his father, he still pretended he was totally indifferent to me, just to set the old man raging about holy idiots and a man’s right to progeny. I guess being the second son, Gregory had never enjoyed so much attention before. But we both knew he wasn’t really like that, and I wanted the real Gregory back again.

  I could just imagine us all by ourselves somewhere, in a bower of roses, perhaps, or on a mountainside by a waterfall, with the whole world spread before us. Instead, what did we have? A cold, dark solar floored with smelly old rushes and crowded with retainers, all of whom were charged to report the very minute anything went on between us. But whenever the family left on business, they’d take Gregory with them. And when he came back, he was always as sour as spoiled ale. So much for the bower of roses.

  I still remember the drizzling gray March afternoon when at last I was by myself for a moment, mending Alison’s hose on the window seat at the far end of the solar. Widow Sarah had taken the girls to see the new kittens in the stable, the laundresses had come through and gone off, lugging a large basket of filthy linens between them, and Hugo, the squires, and the groom had gone to join in the hunt that Sir Hubert never missed on the days that he was home. It was dark and dank inside, and I was brooding about the difference between a marriage of the body and a marriage of hearts. The dismal sound of dripping water on stone sounded like tears. My own, maybe, except that mine were secret.

  I couldn’t help but think of Master Kendall, that day, and the way he had of chasing off sadness by saying something wise and funny that would distract your mind. How I missed his generous soul, and the web of kindness we had knitted between us! I wish you were here, I said to myself. In return, I heard a soft puffing sound like breathing, and felt a gust of cold air prickle the back of my neck. The Cold Thing was back again. I was beginning to get used to it. I blessed myself, and it passed by, making a sound like rustling.

  As I looked in the direction of the vanishing sound, I saw a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway, and my heart gave a leap. Gregory! But then it sank when I saw the expression on his face. More bad news.

  “Gregory? Have you come to sit with me? I never see you anymore.”

  “Oh, Margaret,” he said, still standing. “I don’t know whether to be pleased or not that you still call me that.” He looked tired, but I could see his heart in his eyes.

  “Would you prefer Master de Vilers? That’s the proper way. I always called Master Kendall ‘Master Kendall’ like a proper wife.”

  He shook his head, and smiled. “I’d like to tell you that you’re as silly as ever, but I know that you know what I mean.” He came closer. I couldn’t help admiring the way he looked. It wasn’t just that he had such a fine figure, once he wasn’t wearing that shabby gray robe he used to go about in. It was the elegant way he walked, all even and connected, without even knowing it, and the way he looked at things, and the light of intelligence on his face that showed he really saw them, and understood everything that was going on. Some women admire clothes and jewels on a man, or the way they turn a pretty compliment, but I’ve never thought much of that. Those things can wear out, but a wonderful mind never does.

  “Margaret,” he said, and looking as though he could see what I was thinking, his voice changed ever so slightly. “I’m afraid we’ll be leaving day after tomorrow. The Duke holds court at Kenilworth, and Father’s got to see him.”

  “See the Duke now? Whatever for? Can’t you just stay with me and let them go alone?”

  “It can’t be done, Margaret, because it’s about your lands, you see. It has to be settled before Father leaves on campaign, and the Duke’s the only one to do it. There’s some friar who’s laid suit on the manor at Thorpe, claiming he’s the legitimate heir, and it was sold to Master Kendall illegally. He’s left his order to take up residence there, and your steward’s driven him off twice. But the worst is the estate at Withill. The very day he heard Master Kendall was dead, the Earl drove off your cattle and began trying to collect your rents. When we filed suit against him, he sent his men to occupy the manor. Not only is he too powerful for anyone in the area to say no, but he’s bribed the local magistrate, who backs him on it. So you see, only the Duke can handle it, and it may very well take more than the law. We haven’t enough men here to smoke him out, even if we could outbribe him in the courts.”

  “Still, couldn’t you stay for just a day—a half day—even just an hour—and join them later? It would be lovely with you here and them gone.”

  “Really, Margaret, for a woman who ought to be clever, you do act dense sometimes. We’re mired in deep, and sink deeper every day. We’ve borrowed on the estate to pay the lawyers, and if I can’t defend your lands they’ll be shorn away until there’s nothing left but a mass of debt. You don’t want to live here forever, do you?”

  I shook my head silently, and he went on. “I’m not a rich merchant like Master Kendall, you know, and we haven’t a hope of supporting the London house you care for so much unless money is coming in from somewhere. The only hope I have for bringing in that much is in the field—or with the rents of his manors, if we can keep them in the family. But I know your heart is set on keeping that house, and I intend to try for your sake. You ought to know what Father thinks of town houses. Even less than he does of men who can’t hold on to inheritances. He’d have sold it a dozen times over if I hadn’t fought him every step of the way.”

  “Oh, who’d have thought it. Master Kendall never had all these problems with his manors. He just bought them and there they were. I never thought it would be so hard for you.”

  Gregory sat down on the opposite window seat. “Humph. There’s a cold spot here,” he said, getting up quickly and reseating himself next to me. “Did you notice that?” he added. “It’s very odd. It made the back of my neck prickle.” Who’d have thought the Cold Thing was still hanging about? Well, this wasn’t the time to tell him about it, not with all the worries he already had.

  “Margaret,” he said, taking my hand. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to do it all for you as well as Master Kendall did. But he was a man with influence at court and half the world, to whom he’d doubtless loaned money. But the Earl thinks your lands have fallen to a little family, without influence, and that he can bully us out of what the law says is ours. You can’t believe how wrathy he’s made Father! He even sent Father’s messenger back with a rude letter about it, and kept his horse in the bargain. I tell you, I’ve never seen Father on such a rampage. He won’t rest until he’s got his own back.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me, instead of being so horrible?”

  “Tell a woman? That’s not his way. He’ll be angry even if he finds out that I told you. ‘The more women know, the more trouble they can make’ is what he always says.”

  “Trouble? When have I made trouble for him? It’s him that’s made trouble for me. He storms about, and says rude things, and beats on my children! He’s never been anything but trouble!”

  “Margaret,” said Gregory firmly, “you should be grateful for what Father’s done for you.”

  “Grateful? I knew he was horrid the minute I first set eyes on him!” I could feel the Cold Thing stirring.

  “Don’t you speak against my father!” Gregory stood up suddenly. “Just because I can’t stand him doesn’t mean you can say things about him! Besides, the whole thing’s your fault anyway!”

  I could feel myself getting angry. After all I’d put up with, and all I’d done,
and all I’d waited, I had to hear this.

  “My fault? My fault? So now it’s my fault, is it? What makes it my fault, pray tell?” I could see him shudder briefly and shift places—he’d gone and stepped directly into the middle of the Cold Thing.

  Then he waved his hands in the air as he said, “So tell me, when did I ever have troubles like this before I married you? Stupid lands! Stupid houses! Stupid furniture! Everything I owned could be carried in one bundle, and I was free! Free of Father, free of Hugo’s envy, free of lawyers, free of petitions and testimony, free of stewards and bailiffs, and free of brats! It’s women who do this to men, and it’s all your fault!” Gregory had turned all red and taken on an increasingly injured look as he worked his self-pity up to even more splendid heights. “I tell you, I was much happier contemplating God! God doesn’t make all this trouble for a person!”

  I was so angry, I didn’t even know where to begin to tell him off. I wanted to say, If you were so busy contemplating God, then why didn’t you just stay in your order? Or, why don’t you blame your father? He’s the one who had the bright idea of grabbing my inheritance by carrying me off. But all the mean things I wanted to say got all jammed up together, trying to come out at the same time, so I just stood up to confront him there with my mouth open and my face all hot, completely speechless. That’s what men bring you every time! Trouble! What did he know about trouble? He wasn’t sorry a bit! All the while I stared and turned red, he just stood there counting up his injuries in front of me, as if I didn’t have any myself. I felt like choking, or maybe sobbing, I couldn’t tell which.

  “—so maybe it’s about time someone informed you, Margaret, you are a very selfish woman—”

  “—so who do you say is selfish? You ought to know, you’re selfish yourself! That’s all you think about—you, you, you—you and your stupid father, and it’s me that makes all the sacrifices—do you think I like this horrible house one little bit? Just tell me one way I’m selfish—just one, I dare you!”