“My hair's combed, Mama.” My second girl, Alison, still pudgy with baby fat at seven and a half, held up a long, silky strand of her strawberry blonde hair for my inspection. Her voice was smug.
“I'm sure that's lovely, dear—” “That's because yours is all straight—yow! And God made mine curly because it's better, that's why!” Cecily squirmed away from the comb as her face turned red with indignation beneath its freckles. Not yet ten, knobby-kneed, rebellious, and as full of troublemaking ideas as an entire sackful of monkeys, she was my oldest, and my despair.
“Hold still, hold still,” I said as I attacked her wild, red curls again with the ivory comb. “What's this I see here? A twig? Cecily, you've been climbing again. How will you ever be a lady if you keep climbing trees?”
“I don't want to be a lady. I want to be a—a—”
“I don't want to hear that you wish to be a boy because you can't be one, and that's that.”
“—a dragon, so there!”
“Ha! Cecily wants to be all green and scaly and UGly—”
“Girls, girls, that's enough. Alison, is that a grease stain on the front of your good dress? You can't wear it that way. Change to the blue one at once, before you make us late.”
“But it's not pretty,”Alison's wail joined the grief stricken cries of her sister and baby brother. Why is it always so hard to get to church in time for mass? Especially on a feast day like this, Saint Augustine's day in May of the Year of our Lord 1360, when the whole world will be looking with serpents' eyes to see who's lazy enough to come ill clad? You'd think God would grease the way to mass, and make it easier than other things, instead of making the way all thorny with snares. And if it were all meant to be a test of faith like some saint in the desert being tempted, wouldn't it be grander, something like yawning pits and fiery flames, and not just children howling and Mother Sarah losing Peregrine's left shoe? I intended to take that up with God sometime when I wasn't dressing children.
“Your pattens, girls, it's muddy outside—no, not a word. I don't care if it stopped raining last night. I say it's muddy, and muddy it is.”
There was a time long ago in our great prosperity, when Cecily and Alison's father was alive, that he arranged to have a poor knight's widow give them lessons in French and manners. But Madame was so stiff and proper she could barely manage to lower herself to teach a mercer's daughters, no matter how great their father's wealth and propriety. And when I remarried after his death, she considered it such a ghastly breach of etiquette that she departed in a cloud of disdain.
The French language, however, seemed to stick with the girls better than Madame did, especially since it is spoken in my new husband's family. I cannot say the same for the manners, which wore away faster than the knees of a little boy's hose. Well, if they can't act like ladies, then let them at least look like ladies, I thought, especially at church on holy days. But already Perkyn had thrown open the heavy front door. I checked them as they went out. Eyes hardly red anymore, and fixed properly on the ground. Steps grave. Clothes clean, hands folded across their stomachs. Peregrine, in Mother Sarah's arms. Perkyn, solemnly closing the front door and following behind. All in order. Good. Perhaps today, no one would ever know that I had raised a pair of little red-headed terrors.
The last pink shades of dawn were still shining in the muddy puddles that filled the gutter down the center of Thames Street. Mud and wet stones made the uneven paving before the houses treacherous. The air was still fresh and cold, and filled with the rolling sound of the bells of Saint Botolphe's calling the parish to mass. Bundled figures were still hurrying in the direction of church. Praise heaven, we wouldn't be the latest. Halfway there, I turned to check over the household again.
“Put your hood up, Cecily. Alison, don't step in the puddles on purpose. Oh, Lord in Heaven, where's the baby?”
“Coming, coming, my lady. Perkyn's carrying him through the mud. It's too slippery for me. He's had to go slower. See? There he is now.” There, rounding the corner into Botolphe's Lane, was my littlest darling, just past two years old, the only heir to the house of de Vilers, pink cheeks shining in the cold, brown curls tucked under his pointed red hat, chattering like a magpie to old Perkyn, who carried him in his arms.
The dark, shadowy narthex was still crowded with people jostling their way into the nave. The smell of wet wool and city mud mingled with the heavy odor of their bodies. Amid the clatter of pattens and the sound of greetings exchanged, I could make out catty women's voices:
“Well, look there, Lady Margaret de Vilers. I remember when Mistress Kendall was too good for her. No family at all. Came from nowhere.”
“She just goes from scandal to scandal.” “Just look at her there, parading with her servants and that fur- trimmed surcoat. Who does she think she is?” I tried to hurry by, but a large man in pepperer's livery blocked my way. Behind me, the family was packed together by the crowd.
“I heard that she'd eloped with her husband's copy clerk, and his body hardly cold.” I looked to see who was talking. Through the crowd, I could make out a bobbing white veil—another—a whole cluster of them.
“Disgraceful, I say.”
“Some unfrocked monk named Gregory—a worthless loafer and beggar who copied letters in taverns.” The white headdress turned, and I caught a glimpse of a red, spiteful face. The cord- wainer's wife. No one I'd seen in church in recent memory.
“Gregory? I thought she married Sir Gilbert de Vilers. What happened to the beggar?”
“That's another scandal. He purchased a knighthood with her money and shed his religious name quicker than a snake sheds its skin.”
“It was family connections. Mistress Godfrey told me that he was a younger son cast out by his family as a wastrel. Of course, once he got money, they took him back.”
“Well, I heard that the Duke of Lancaster just dotes on him, though for the life of me, I don't understand why—”
“Sh! She's looking this way. You don't think she overheard, do you?”
“Of course not, dear, she's much too far away.” The problem with holy days, in my opinion, is that they bring out the Sunday sleepers, who think they can raise themselves up in godliness by speaking ill of everyone else. Besides, they have to make up for lost time for all the gossip they missed at the masses they slept through. I gave them a nasty stare as we passed.
We found our spot in the corner near Master Kendall's chantry, where the crawling light from the rising sun through the rose window made patterns on the floor in front of us. Around the stone pillars of the nave, clusters of tradesmen and goodwives conducted business and traded ideas on the pruning of fruit trees, the repair of shoes and harness and such like, while the faint droning of the priest at the altar was lost like the humming of bumblebees in a summer garden. Latecomers scurried past the marble font, hastily blessing themselves and inserting themselves among the press of people as if they had been there all along. I put my thoughts on God, and the noise and bumble vanished. I used to think that one must pray like a priest, or God wouldn't listen, but luckily He taught me otherwise. Lord of the universe, You who are love itself, bring my love home safe. Let the campaign end in France, and bring him back.
Margaret, I don't organize the affairs of nations to please one woman.
Surely, Lord, there is more than one of us. Margaret, for every person who prays for love and peace, there are a half-dozen who pray for war and glory. What do you think of that?
Is Your Grace mathematical, then? I didn't know You were an accountant, too.
Margaret, there are days I don't know why I put up with the irritation you give me.
Because of my love, Lord. Only You know how I crave to hear his step in the hall, and the sound of his voice calling my name. I want to see him again, so tall and fine in his old green velvet gown, and hear him laugh when he discovers he's forgot a pen stuck behind his ear. It is our secret, Lord, how I feel for the warm spot in the bed where he ought to be. I want to bake
and brew in double portions again, and make a face at his horrible puns, and feel him kissing the back of my neck—
“Mother, you're doing it again.”
Lord, keep my little ones safe, my fatherless girls, who need Your blessing, my dear baby, his son—
Margaret, you have, on many occasions, already made your wants abundantly clear. As Supreme Judge of All Things, I assure you that you are one of the half-dozen most talkative of My creations. Why don't you attend to Margaret's business, and leave God alone for a bit to do God's business?
But, Lord, I haven't finished praying for my relatives, and neighbors, and old Gammer Kate who sells eggs but her chickens have died, and—
Margaret, has no one yet informed you of the saying that ‘short prayer pierces heaven'?
I thought that was a priest's idea, since you, Lord, have an infinite capacity to listen—
A vast sigh, like a wind in all the trees on earth, seemed to spread through the universe.
“Mother,” Cecily's voice was urgent as she tugged at my sleeve. “You have to stop. People will see.” I opened my eyes. Sure enough, a faint pinkish-orange haze seemed to stand in the room. That meant I was seeing through it, and the glow was all around me. Oh, dear. I thought about the sadness of orphans and the tragedy of sailors who are lost at sea and the grief of heathens who will never hear the Gospels until it started to fade. One can't be too careful if one has this problem, although if the world were a better place, it would be not be considered inappropriate, especially in church. After all, aren't you supposed to talk to God in His own house? But I guess that's not how priests see it. They want to do all the talking themselves.
It is all God's fault anyway. Long ago, in a time of great terror and trouble, God appeared to me in a vision of light, strengthening my heart and giving my hands the gift of healing. Of course, being God, and having a sense of humor somewhat different than ours, He left behind this visible and highly embarrassing sign of grace, which has caused me nothing but trouble since and set me on many of my more outlandish adventures. If Master Kendall had not snatched me from the street to cure his gout, I'm sure I would be dead right now. After all, plenty of people have been burned alive for far less than glowing, and it does rouse up envy in certain circles. Luckily, no one was looking my way. The altar bell had announced the elevation of the Host, and drawn all eyes to the front of the church.
It was as we made our way out to the light of the crowded lane by the church that a man still in spurs, his coarse, heavy face topped by a jeweled beaver hat, jostled up against me, then bowed extravagantly. I nodded, my face cold as ice, and passed by him in a hurry. Where do they come from in war time, these profiteers who think a woman whose husband is abroad must always be seeking nocturnal entertainment? I heard his companion say.
“No luck yet, eh?”
“The ones who pretend to be cold are always hottest, once they're bedded.”
“I'd rather have one of the little ones. The Kendall heiresses. I hear they're worth a tidy sum—” But the voices were lost in the crowd. Filthy things. They'd not be beyond a dowry kidnapping. I'll have to make sure myself that the shutters are bolted at night, Mother Sarah can be so forgetful. It's high time Cecily and Alison had their own companion, not just a nursemaid who's getting old and frail. Someone who will keep them from flying away with every idea that flits through their heads. If I could place them in the Duchess's household—but their father, Master Kendall, was not a lord, and they might not be well treated—
“Mother, I heard that man,” Cecily's sharp little voice interrupted my thoughts.
“I did, too. Not just Cecily,” said Alison. “And he left off the important part. He said we were rich, but he forgot to say I'm pretty.”
“And vain!” hissed Cecily. “I won't have you married against your will,” I answered. “I'm never going to marry at all,” announced Cecily. “Then when you're a dragon, I'll marry Damien when he comes home rich from the war with step-grandfather.'
“You will not,” said Cecily, giving her sister a sharp jab in the ribs with her bony elbow.
“Girls, girls. Quiet. No, Alison, you can't pinch Cecily back again. Everyone is looking at you.”With some effort, our little parade was set in motion again, with Mother Sarah between the two girls, who still bounced with indignation, and Peregrine, now seated on the steward's shoulders, pointing at the mules and passersby with a pudgy finger.
“Look, Perkyn, there's a spotty one. I want it. I will have a blue spotty one and a green spotty one, too.”
“Roans don't come in blue and green,” said the old man, his voice serious.
“Mine will. I will have extras for Cec'y and Alison, but only mine will fly.”
“That will be a sight to see,” said Perkyn.
At the corner of Thames Street we were halted by the vast household of Sir Robert Haverell, the vintner, coming down St. Mary Hill Lane. Down every lane and alley, people leaving the churches that dotted the City clustered and strolled in their Sunday best. Merchants in the colorful livery of their guilds, their wives in gold chains and fine linen headdresses, strolled surrounded by their servants and children. Carriers and porters in decent brushed russet mingled with Billingsgate fishwives, their coarse gray gowns covered with brightly dyed and embroidered Sunday surcoats. There were even here and there a few knights with their spurred heels, surcoats gleaming with embroidery, although they were those who were too old or lame to have gone abroad on the latest campaign. Bells were calling across the City, from tower to tower, from St. Martin-le- Grand to St. Mary's, St. Margaret's, St. James-in-the-Wall, St. Dunstan's. Deep beneath the clangor you could hear the resonanting sound of the great bell at St. Paul's Cathedral. Pausing there at the corner, Sir Robert gave me a formal nod, but his wife spoke.
“Why, good morning, Dame Margaret. Have you word from Sir Gilbert? We have prayed for his good fortune abroad. His patron's glory brings honor to our parish.”Ah, yes, I thought, and substantial wine orders. God of commerce, bless you for my false friends. They are better than none at all.
“Papa's coming home soon,” announced Peregrine.
“Why, how big his dear little boy has grown. Why, it seems only yesterday you brought him home from abroad with Sir Gilbert. My, you are a big boy.”
“Yes, I'm big now. I'm going to have a horse. Grandfather says so.” “And his own horse, too. Why, someday, he'll be a great lord.” I could feel Cecily and Alison sizzle behind me.
“Now, my dear, if you're having another grand feast like the one you had when Sir Gilbert returned for France, you must remember us. I'll have my husband reserve the very best—but we do need to know as much ahead as possible! My, that was memorable! People still talk about it, you know. The poetry—how original! And your noble father-in-law and his distinguished guests—such an honor! Can we look forward to another visit from them soon?”
“Doubtless,” I answered, beginning to feel sour. Unannounced visits are his style, I wanted to say, but I bit my tongue. That dreadful old man thinks my house is his personal town home. He turns everything upside down, eats everything that isn't locked up, terrorizes the children and servants with his shouting, and tries to seduce the housemaids. The only virtue of this campaign is that he is out of the country, along with my husband's irritating older brother Hugo. Would that they would take hold of some Frenchman's castle abroad and stay there! There's no honor I wouldn't wish for them: governor of Calais, a fortress and lands in Aquitaine—just far from here, Lord! And let them take my sister-in-law, that snobbish Dame Petronilla, with them! At least she's mewed up out there at Brokesford until they return—
“Wife,” said Sir Robert, nodding agreeably, but not too intimately, at me, “we must be going. Duty, you must understand, Dame Margaret. My burdens draw us from your agreeable company. But do remember us to Sir Gilbert, and tell him our prayers have been with him and all the other heroes of our King's glorious enterprise.”With his wife and vast household, he swept off toward hi
s vast stone-and-timber house that stood not unlike our own parish castle near Sommer's Key. Goodness, I thought, his household seems bigger every time I see it. War or peace, the vintners always prosper.
THE NEXT DAY A LETTER, dirty, much traveled, and covered with seals, arrived by common carrier.
“What are you looking at, Mother?” asked Cecily, as Alison danced around demanding that the letter be opened at once, and Peregrine scrubbed across the floor of the solar pushing the lid of an old jug that he was imagining as a horse and rider.
“The seals—they're all melted underneath, as if they'd been pried off and fastened back.”
“Papa letter,” said Peregrine, not looking up.
“Well, I suppose someone must always read letters from abroad,” I said, inspecting the address: To my right trusty and heartily beloved wife, Margaret de Vilers, abiding on Thames Street in London, be this letter delivered in haste.
“What's in it, mama, what's in it, in it, in it?” chanted Alison. “Hmm. I can't really say. It starts out plain, and then I can't make head nor tail of it. It starts out with ‘right trusty and well beloved wife, I recommend me to you and pray this letter finds you and the children well.'Then there's things about the estate at Whithill which I already know well enough, and then he says because of the king's many triumphs he will be occupied in France for a very long time, and then he says he had the good fortune to meet a very learned man outside of Paris—goodness, he doesn't even say where, does that mean something?—and learned of a method for dying and converting plain, coarse hempen cloth into cloth of gold that will interest that wise adviser and companion of his youth, Brother Malachi, and I must take it to him at once and recommend him to that holy man and not be troubled in my mind for he has great hope of God's grace. That's the part I don't understand. It's all Latin mixed with alchemical things. Goodness, when has Gregory ever called Malachi a holy man? They've known each other far too long for that. And now he writes as if Malachi were a stranger, possibly even a hermit far gone in sanctitude. Holy! Why, it's hardly the same Brother Malachi at all! I think he knew the letter would be read.”
Margaret of Ashbury 03 - The Water Devil Page 2
