“Demoiselles must not address each other thus,” said Madame Agathe, in the elegant, alien tongue of documents, treaties, and court circles. “Mademoiselle Alison, repeat your question:‘Dear sister, what is the name of magpie in French?' and you, Mademoiselle Cécile, reply in gracious tones,‘Beloved sister, the word is also pie, but pronounced in the French fashion.’ Now, immediately.” Cecily's face turned red under its freckles, her mouth tightened, and she began to poke holes with her fingernail in the stems of the daisies that still lay on her lap. Alison's eyes lit up at this sight.
“Dearest sister,” she said in tones of sickening sweetness, “what is the name of the bird we call magpie in the French language?” Cecily looked at her sister with eyes that could pierce steel armor, and responded in a honeyed, sarcastic tone, “Beloved sister, the name of the bird is exactly the same in French as in English, it is my pleasure to inform you.”
“The demoiselles appear to desire that they be reprimanded with a crack of my thimble on each of their hard little heads. Now, again, in that pleasant and agreeable tone that is fit for young ladies,” announced Madame, and the exchange was repeated again to her satisfaction. She shook out the mended shift, folded it, and took up a pair of child's hose, worn out at the knees. Alison looked at the hose, and then at her sister. She wrinkled up her nose, as if to say, “eeew, little boys who wear out their hose scrubbing around on their knees are disGUSting, especially if they are baby brothers.” Cecily's blue eyes met her sister's as she received the thought. Agreed, the eyes said, and the two children nodded as if they shared a secret. Madame's needle began to make its way through the russet wool as she spoke again.
“And now, my young ladies, we will review the proper subjects for polite conversation. We never discuss money, amours, or the faults of another person not present. All gentlemen are gallant, and all ladies gracious. People of common rank are honest or good souls. Between respectable men and women, godly topics are best, provided care is taken not to enter into debate. But remember, let no man but a close relative offer you holy water with his fingertips in church—” There was a splendid whirring of black and white feathers as the bird landed on the corner of the bench beside the basket. Cecily and Alison were so still that they scarcely breathed. The bird tipped his head on one side as he took in the scene with his shrewd little black eye.
“—and you, Mademoiselle Cécile, when you walk abroad, must cease to glance about so boldly. Remember, look at your toes. A demure and downcast eye is essential in a girl of good breeding—” The bird paused, spying the basket. It tilted its head again. Lovely thread. A shiny button. The large person's nest was splendidly furnished. The two smaller people were very quiet, looking at each other without moving. The bird could feel thinking going between them. Encouraging thinking.
“—proper activities in company may include games such as chess and backgammon but not dice, and never any game for money stakes. Group singing is a pleasant diversion, and the hearing of old tales of heroism and the lives of saints, but never these dreadful modern stories of galantry and improper relations between the sexes. You are to excuse yourself graciously from the room if such subjects arise. Women do not argue with men, but submit humbly to their superior judgment—never let it be known that you can read, a woman who reads is easy prey to gallantry, and cannot be a faithful wife—oh, Dieu! What's that?”
With a fierce and sudden movement of its beak, the piratical bird seized the coveted button and flew into the pear tree. “My button, my lovely button, that horrible bird has taken it!” Madame stood so suddenly that the mending and with it her precious needle dropped into the grass at her feet. “Ah, the rake there, catch it, catch it, Cecily!” But what amazement! Madame had reverted to English, heartfelt English such as they had never heard before from Madame's refined lips. Cecily stared, her great start of joy at the bird's act converted suddenly into astonishment. Could Madame be an actual person, capable of sorrow? Suddenly she saw Madame's snobbish airs, her desperate dependence, her tiny luxuries in an entirely new way. Madame stood beneath the pear tree, shouting up at the bird, “For shame, for shame! Drop it, drop it, you awful creature! What good is it to you?” As Cecily fetched the rake, the bird flew triumphantly from the pear tree into high branches of the tall elm whose branches overreached the garden wall.
“Its nest, there's its nest! It's gone to hide it!” cried Alison, looking up at the big, untidy collection of sticks wedged high in the branches. But Cecily had already tucked up her dress and was clambering up the ornamental fountain set in the wall. At the top of the wall, she paused only to kick off her shoes, where they fell, plop, plop, onto the thyme-planted walkway by the fountain.
“Come down, come down at once, Cecily,” she cried, and then reverted to French. “This is improper! Madame your mother does not approve. I do not approve!” Madame shouted up into the tree. Gray hair had escaped from beneath her plain widow's headdress. Her voice was frantic. Cecily was already halfway up the tree.
“I'll get it back for you,” Cecily shouted down from above in English. “You'll see. I'm a good climber.” The thin branches could be heard cracking dangerously under her weight. The bird, having hidden its treasure, was flying at her as she came close to the nest, and she raised one arm to protect her head, clinging tight with her knees and bare toes.
“Come down, come down!” shouted Madame. “Leave it, oh, it's not worth it! Come down and we'll have the gardener climb up with a ladder. No higher! I hear the branches breaking!” In the alley outside the wall, apprentices were gathering to hear the source of the shrieking.
“Hey, I know her! It's Cecily Kendall, stuck up in a tree,” one of Master Wengrave's apprentices, who had been passed on to him when old Master Kendall had died, called out happily to the growing crowd.
“Come down, I say come down at once!” they could hear a woman's voice calling in French from inside the garden.
“I—I can't,” quavered the skinny, flame-headed figure up in the tree. Bobbing perilously among the frail branches beneath the nest, Cecily looked down at the wall and the ground, so very far beneath her. On one side, the crowd of apprentices was growing, and she could hear them shouting:
“Who's that? Hey, that's not a girl, it's a very big magpie. Ho, magpie indeed, it's a cat! Hey, meow, come down!” On the other side was Madame, frantically waving, and there, by the unattended basket, Alison quietly rummaging for the sugar. The ground seemed very hard, it seemed to move and sway. The more it swayed, the tighter she clung. It was so easy going up. Why hadn't she thought of getting down? She'd never thought at all. Now all was despair. She imagined it growing dark, with her still clinging to the branches. Maybe she'd be in the tree forever. Could they send dinner in a basket? Do people never come down, or do they fall out some time and break all their bones? Below her, she could see two apprentices coming from the door to the undercroft of Master Wengrave's great house with a long ladder. And there at the corner of Thames Street and the alley, oh, dear, it was mother with a big basket on her arm and Peregrine by the hand, and Cook behind her, laden with provisions from the market.
“Eeeeeeeeemaaaamaaa,” came the hideously clear voice of the two-and-a-half-year-old, soaring up over the babble. “Lookit, Cecy's inna tree. Per'grine wants to go up inna tree. Lift me up.”
“Cecily, come down,” called her mother, her firm voice full of common sense. “If you got up, you can come down. Just put your foot where you had it last.”
“Can't,” shouted Cecily, clinging tighter than ever. More strangers surrounded her mother. Mistress Wengrave, still wiping her damp hands on her apron, had come out of her house.
Down below in the alley, Margaret had already packed off her howling son, and was directing the apprentices where to put the ladder. “Not there,” she said, “see how the stone is uneven? Brace it here. We'll need two grown men to hold it. But who will climb? He needs to be agile, but light enough so that the ladder can bear the weight of two.” She cast about h
er in the growing crowd for suitable recruits. There was something about the look in her eye, the look of a falcon, of a commander in the field, that made no man refuse her. Already a bulky fellow, a cordwainer by the look of his apron, had come forward to hold the ladder. Two men on horseback, dusty with travel, had been drawn to the edge of the crowd by the cries and the sight of the bobbing little figure high in the tree.
“Bigod, look there, Denys, it's a girl up that tree,” said the older man.
“After that magpie's nest, I swear, the little cat,” answered the younger. “And now she can't get down.”
“Reminds me of someone,” said the older man.
“It certainly doesn't, father,” said the younger. “I always got down. I put my foot where I had it last.”
“There was the little matter of the tower roof.”
“That's not the same. It wasn't my fault.”The old man inspected the woman giving orders. Unfeminine. Must be the mother. Very well dressed, for a weekday. That squirrel-lined surcoat, very handsomely embroidered. The veil, hmm, it looked like silk. And the cross hanging, half concealed, at her neck, solid gold, foreign work- manship. And this street, a very good one, lined with the tall, brightly painted houses of wealthy mercers and knight-vintners. Quick judgments of the rank, condition, and cash reserves of those who stood before him were the specialty of the old magistrate. But the woman's eye had fixed on them there.
“You,” she said to the boy beside him, “can you climb?” The figures elevated above the crowd on horseback had caught her eye immediately. Good cloaks. Swords. Possibly knights? They're good at climbing ladders. The old one, too heavy, too stiff—gray in his beard. The young one with the black brows. Fifteen or sixteen, wiry looking, clever face. He'll do. She fixed her fierce, commanding eye on him.
“Father?” said the boy, looking at the older man to ask permission. “Are you the mother?” said the old man, his eyes canny.
“I am. That's my daughter Cecily up in that tree, for reasons of her own,” answered Margaret.
“My son, never refuse a lady in distress,” said the old man, giving his paternal benediction. The boy dismounted from his winter- coated cob, and unbuckled his short sword, handing weapon, hat, and cloak up to his father. An apprentice boy ran to hold his horse.
“You act as if you know that girl,” said the old magistrate, probing gently.
“Oh, who doesn't know her here? That's Cecily Kendall. She's not even ten, and you wouldn't believe the things she's done.”
“Ah, then, she'll live and die a spinster. No man will have her.” The old man's eye had a speculative gleam. His son had begun to ascend the ladder.
“Girls with a marriage portion like hers never go unwed, Master. So says Mistress Wengrave, my master's wife, who knows everything.” The gray-bearded man smiled. Cecily Kendall, he said to himself, as he stored away the name. A relation, perhaps, of that wealthy Roger Kendall who had donated the chantry at St. Paul's cathedral for merchants lost at sea? It was worth looking into. And this was as good as an introduction….
Meanwhile, all eyes were fixed on the ladder, which did not reach all the way. The wiry, agile figure of the boy swung easily from the ladder to the limb above. The branches above are too thin for them both, thought Margaret, and she wanted to shout “No higher!” but was afraid that any sound would distract the climbing boy. Her breath was tight in her chest as the boy paused, leaning up under Cecily's cracking perch. What was he doing? Would they lose them both? The crowd was deathly still. Even the boy's father had put aside speculation and, his eyes on the swaying figures, seemed suddenly pale and drawn.
“You, girl, put your foot down on my shoulder,” Cecily could hear a voice beneath her and behind her, but couldn't see the source.
“My Christian name is Cecily,” she said, not moving.
“And my Christian name is Denys. Put your left foot down behind you and feel for my shoulder. You won't fall if you hold on.” Carefully, carefully, he could feel a bony bare foot brush his shoulder. “Set it down hard. Then the other foot. Yes, that's it. Now keep holding on and work your hands down the branch until you can sit on my shoulders.” The boy's voice was calm, as if he knew exactly what to say. “You don't need to be afraid. I'm much bigger than you. I'm holding on tight. If you grab onto me, you won't fall. No, not the neck, don't strangle me. Hold still. I'm finding the branch.”
“You're not on the ladder?” whispered Cecily in terror, clutching at the stranger's shoulders, her head resting on his black hair.
“Almost,” he answered. “Don't wiggle.” Some portion of Cecily's fear had spread from her hard-beating heart to his. Carefully he felt beneath him for the ladder. He could hear a sort of gust from below, a sigh from dozens of throats. He'd never climbed with a living burden before. He could feel her heavy weight shift on him. He had lied to her. He wasn't that much larger, and she was hard to carry. Clinging to the branch, he felt for the next rung, moved his foot down—then a hand, carefully, carefully, lean against the tree, he repeated to himself. Keep the weight forward. The next step. Take time. The next. Now he was entirely on the ladder. Don't get cocky, he coached himself. Take each step carefully, you're still a long way from the ground. The girl's legs were bony and sharp, and her hands were clutched in a death grip around his neck. Rung by rung, he worked his way down. Now one foot felt the hard ground, and many hands relieved him of his burden, and he could feel people slapping him on the back and cheering.
“A hero! A hero!” they cried, and from the back of the crowd a voice that cried, “Someone should give that girl a good birching!” and in front of him a sharp little voice said, “You're not that much bigger than me after all. You lied.”
He looked at the bedraggled, barefoot little figure in front of him and said, “Of course I did. You wouldn't have climbed down otherwise. Besides, I was big enough to get you down, wasn't I?” But the curious red-headed creature had burst into tears.
“Cecily,” said Margaret firmly, “you must thank Master Denys for saving you.”
“Th-thank you,” sobbed Cecily.
“Whatever made you want a magpie's eggs?” asked the boy.
“N-not the eggs. The pie stole Madame's silver button and flew away with it, and she was so grieved—”
“Madame your mother?”
“N-no, Madame who is teaching me to be a lady.” Denys the rescuer couldn't help it, he threw back his head and laughed until the tears came. Laughter rippled outward. The apprentices and journeymen laughed, Mistress Wengrave laughed, and even Margaret laughed, though she didn't want to. “A lady, haw!” snorted the boy's father. But Cecily had turned as red as a beet beneath her freckles. She stamped her bare foot and shouted, “I am so a lady, I shall be a great lady someday, a ver-ry great lady!” and everyone laughed even harder, except Master Denys, the magistrate's son.
CHAPTER NINE
IT WAS NOT LONG BEFORE MIDSUMMER'S eve, on the purported date of the blessed Saint Edburga's martyrdom, when Sir Roger led the villagers in procession to her namesake spring, to lay forever at rest the idea that Hretha or any other pagan being was the source of the rushing waters. Ahead of him marched a boy in white bearing the silver cross from the altar itself. Beside him walked Sir Hubert's own chaplain, only semi-drunk, swinging an incense censor. Behind him were the bravely embroidered banners of Saint George and Saint Mark, and behind that, carried on a wooden pallet laden with half-burned candles, the brightly painted wooden statue of Our Lady of the Sorrows, who was reputed to weep on Good Friday, if one were virtuous enough to see it. Behind the six sturdy fellows with the pallet rode the folk of Brokesford Manor, dressed as for Sunday. A foolish venture, thought Sir Hubert, who liked things quiet. But in this, the village priest, though appointed by him, took precedence. It was a religious matter. Folks who disagree on religious matters get reported to the Inquisition. The man certainly has a bee in his bonnet on this one, thought Sir Hubert. Best to go along and let him set up his shrine by the water. What har
m could it do? Edburga or nixies, they were all the same. God, now, was different. God was like Sir Hubert and tolerated many things for the sake of peace.
Behind the gentlefolk came a cart accompanied by carpenters, with all that was needful to build a little housed shrine to the blessed memory of the saint. Lovingly carved and painted, the little house stood among the lumber for its foundation, at its center a flat and ugly painting of Saint Edburga in the clothing of a nun. Crowding behind the cart on the narrow path were the villagers, carrying flowers. As the front of the procession entered the forest, the priests began to chant a psalm, Dominus regnavit. Deeper and deeper they went, into the green, moss-carpeted summer forest, until they had reached the fearful temple of ancient trees. There beneath the arch bubbled the green spring, source of water and life for the entire demesne. There lay the great rock, dappled with forest light and covered with the flapping, ghostly white remnants of old rags. There the priest took up the aspergillum and sprinkled holy water into the spring, onto the rock, and onto the sunny spot by the water where the shrine would stand.
Village men and lords alike took off their hats and all bowed their heads as the two priests chanted prayers in Latin, prayers, endless prayers. Workmen dug the foundation and the village carpenter supervised the mounting of the little shrine on its new foundation. Hammers rang through the forest, but the people were curiously silent. Sir Roger looked at them, the horsemen, their hats off, the ladies, quiet in the saddle, the villagers, shifting from one foot to another.
“Now shout for Saint Edburga!” cried the priest. The feeble cry from the crowd seemed to anger him.“Shout louder! What's wrong with you?” He stood at the place where the round, light-speckled pond of the spring turned into the stream that watered the manor, filled the moat, gave drink to man and beast. The villagers were looking past him. What was it that was drawing their attention? Suddenly the priest turned, filled with new suspicion. Behind him was the huge stone, all draped and decorated with the faded rags. “The stone is Saint Edburga's stone! She scorns pagan offerings!” he cried, and turned to tear down the strings of rags that wrapped the rock.
Margaret of Ashbury 03 - The Water Devil Page 8
