“A pillow,” said Madame in a cold voice, looking at Margaret. Margaret nodded silently in agreement.
“My chick, my dear,” cried the old nurse as she hurried after her.
“And tied on with a bandage,” said the steward. “Look at her clutch it, while the bandage trails behind her.”
“Pitiful, just pitiful,” said a woman.
“Lock the tower room door behind her,” said Margaret to the steward, “and do nothing until your master returns home. Post a guard on my mare. I don't want any accidents in the stable.” That night the entire manor heard the screams from the tower room, the frantic rattling and banging at the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MARGARET, WHAT'S HAPPENED TO your mare?” asked my lord husband on returning from fetching the wine. “There's a groom sleeping in front of her stall day and night, and her sides are all cut up. When we asked what was going on, he just said speak to you.”As grooms unloaded the cart in the court, rolling the kegs into the hall to be stored in the cellar, he bounded into the great hall looking fresh and pleased with himself, and handsomer than ever. I knew I looked like a fright, with circles under my eyes from worry.
“Where's your father?” I asked. “We have to speak to him. Hugo's lady has gone mad, and is locked in the tower room. She has a notion to have my horse killed for causing her to lose her son. The son was nothing but a pillow, tied on with bandages.” I must have sounded weary. He shook his head, as if he couldn't really understand.
“She's been pregnant with a—a pillow?”
“Exactly,” I said. He took my hand and stroked the back of it tenderly.
“Margaret, Margaret, the minute I leave, everything always breaks loose around here, doesn't it?”
“That seems to be how it always happens. It's the genius of this house. You know how I feel about visiting here.”
“No different than I do, Margaret. And just think, I was born here and I can't stand it.”
“But, my lord husband, we have another problem. The girls are in the solar.”
“Well, that's good. Are they doing another piece of church linen?” I sighed deeply.
“No, I mean they're up there and can't go out until you and I figure out what to do.”
“What have they done this time, put frogs in someone's bed again?”
“No,” I answered. “They've made themselves priestesses of a pagan cult and have been foxing the villagers out of gifts and enough honey cakes to make themselves both sick.”At this, Gilbert put his hand to his forehead and sat down heavily on the bench that ran the length of the hall under the wallfull of deer antlers that his father had collected.
“Oh, my God,” he said, “the Inquisition.” He shook his head. “Let me think a moment,” he muttered. “My mind's overwhelmed.”
“Mine has been ever since you left.”
“Have any of the priests here got word of this?” asked Gilbert, speaking very low.
“No, your father's confessor is drunk, and Lady Petronilla's confessor is off betraying your father's cause to the Austin canons at Wymondley. There's no village priest until tomorrow, which is half the problem. They wouldn't have turned to the old cult if they'd had a proper, godly priest. Everyone in the village knows about Lady de Vilers. There won't be any hope of hiding it. She was found dancing about the pond, disguised as a succubus. But they'll never tell. Just as they'll never tell about Cecily and Alison. Gilbert, have you any idea of what they were doing? Parading about on a white heifer and pretending that French songs were an ancient invocation? Commmuning with sacred eels? These peasants have corrupted them almost beyond redemption. My lord husband, we have to get the girls out of here as quickly as possible. And we don't dare punish them before we're long gone from here, or the whole village could rise in revolt.”
“Revolt? Hardly. Burn a few haystacks, perhaps.”
“Gilbert, they've lost their crops, they're afraid of losing their animals to the murrain that's coming closer all the time, and they just don't care any more. They think the girls are the key to their salvation. You can't put them all to the sword. Your father needs live peasants, Gilbert, or he'll just try another way to gouge funds out of you.”
“But Margaret, I do owe my family something.”At this, I just sank down on the bench beside him and put my head in my hands.
“I can't stand these people, Gilbert, why, oh, why, did I ever consent to come here?” Gilbert put his arm around me.
“For the house, Margaret. Remember? The canon comes tonight, the ceremony is tomorrow. We'll put on a brave front, see the new priest installed, and leave to let nature take its course with the deed. What is it about father that always entangles me so? My life is clear, neat, and orderly until he steps into it. Every time, Margaret, every time—”
“There you are, woman, THERE you are! I've just come from the kennels, and WHAT do you think I found there? ANSWER ME THAT! I swear, I'm going to make that ghastly little dog of yours into a HAT!” Sir Hubert, his traveling clothes still dusty, strode through the entrance to the hall with his rolling, horseman's gait. Behind him followed Hugo and several retainers, all highly amused. “MY FAVORITE BITCH HOUND! HOW DARE you?”
“Well, Margaret didn't exactly do it, father,” said Hugo.
“Don't interrupt! You know what I mean!”
“See what I mean?” said Gilbert in a low voice, turning to me, his face all doleful.
“I see exactly what you mean. I'd have run away myself, if I were born a son of his.”
“Stand up and LOOK at me, you WHELP! My favorite bitch! It's a disgrace! I'm going to drown them ALL!”
“I take it, father, she's had a litter?” said Gilbert politely, raising himself from the bench to stand before his father.
“A litter? A LITTER? A hideous spawning of misbegotten things ALL MISSHAPEN and COVERED with PREPOSTEROUS white CURLS! YOUR DOG did it, Madame. That THING that sleeps all the time!”
“Don't you dare touch my puppies,” I said, suddenly furious.
“That's exactly what I mean. You DID do it.”
“I can't help it if you insist on bringing all those huge, filthy hounds when you come to visit my house. You had them pissing in my nice clean new rushes the very minute they were laid down, and spreading their dreadful fleas everywhere.”
“Pissing and fleas are nature, Madame, and you might as well get used to it,” said the old man, planting his hands on his hips.
“And so are dogs humping dogs, so get used to it yourself,” I said, feeling my own face get hot.
“Two months to the day, Hugo,” said Gilbert cheerfully.
“Imagine the difference in size,” said Hugo dreamily. “If one must be made into a hat, it should only be for the sake of a worthy experience.” Hearing them all, I could feel my fury rising. Too much work, too much trouble, and too much Brokesford had loosened my mind from its moorings. Small wonder Lady Petronilla, bad as she was, had gone completely mad.
“Don't you dare touch a one of them,” I said.“I'm tired of the way you wade around in blood all the time.”
“Madame, those things in the kennel are useless mouths. They're all freaks, not suited to be hounds or fit for lap dogs either.”
“My Lion is not a lap dog.”
“No, he's a lie-on-the-pillow dog, and I don't propose to allow any more such in the world.” But when I saw that nasty old white haired man turn to give orders to the groom, all that I had suffered at his hands just rose up in my throat.
“If you even touch those puppies, I'll—I'll tell the canon everything. I'll shout it from the rooftops. I'll tell that horrible Brother Paul who's off selling you out to the Austin friars right now—”The old man's eyes bulged, and before anyone could stop him, he'd grabbed my shoulders and shook me until my teeth rattled.
“What do you MEAN, he's selling me out?”
“He's off with the canons at Wymondley. What do you think? And the whole world knows Hugo's wife is a madwoman who's been dancing aroun
d the pond as a succubus, and has filled the medicine chest with witchcraft charms—”
“The succubus, my wife? Damn!” interrupted Hugo.
“And what were you planning to do, look her up by the pond some night, you dirty-minded man? No wonder she tried to make a baby with a pillow.”
“My wife? Gilbert, you have no idea what a disappointment it is. I've given her everything—”
“Father, don't you dare touch Margaret—”
“Lay hands on ME, will you, you miserable excuse for a son! I'll KILL you!” It is very hard to describe the storm that was going on around me, and all the shouting voices, especially since I was being rattled back and forth between Gilbert and his father, while one said don't touch her and the other said I'll touch whom I like, I'm master here, and so forth. The noise carried out all the windows and, they say, caused people to stop all the feast preparations and gather in the forecourt just to listen. It also carried up the circular stone stair to the solar, and before I knew it, poor old Lion had fastened onto Sir Hugo's heel and there were the high pitched squeaks of a little boy crying “Don't touch my mama,” and the sound of a girl howling while somebody, possibly Cecily, belabored the entangled bodies at random with a distaff. Then there came the cool, clear sound of a woman's voice, cutting through the melee.
“Gentlemen! Remember chivalry.” Gilbert looked up and took his hands from around his father's throat.“The canon and the priests of the church are at the gates.” Gilbert's father took his hands from around Gilbert's throat. I disengaged myself from between them, and smoothed down my veil and wimple.“For shame,”said Madame, standing all pale and straight in her shabby black gown, now so damaged that it was impossible to mend, despite all her efforts. Hugo looked down resentfully at Lion, who had not let go his heel.
“That's a very expensive shoe,” he said, his voice full of resentment.
“Don't touch my dog,” I said, my voice still full of menace.
“I don't like you, Gran'papa, you're mean,” said a little voice. Sir Hugo looked down where the little boy had been pitched on his backside by the struggle.
“I am master here,” he said, drawing his fierce white eyebrows together like stormclouds.
“But he is the greater gentleman, and him not even three years old,” announced Madame. “For he would have given his life for his lady mother at this very moment, when you wished to strangle her over a litter of puppies.” Something about her coolness, her preciseness of description, stopped them short.
“I am ruler in this house,” said the Lord of Brokesford, in a last attempt to establish his correctness.
“God is ruler in every house,” said Madame, gazing straight at him with her cool blue eyes.
“God has a perfectly good house down in the village. He should stick to that,” growled the old man, backing down. Madame smiled. A very tiny, faded smile that perhaps only I noticed.
“And God's representatives will soon be within our house, stopping for dinner on their way to Wymondley to stay the night.”
“By God, they're all in this together,” said Hugo, amazed at the thought.
“Father, you'd better think twice before you lay a finger on Margaret. You need her still,” Gilbert reminded him.
“Madame de Hauvill. You look like a street beggar. How can you greet a prince of the church like that?”
“I am not ashamed to meet God himself in this gown. I am cloaked in righteousness,” answered Madame. “Such injuries to my poor dress as occurred, came from my service to my two little charges, who might well have been slain by the madwoman at the pond.” I had to admire her. It was not really precisely true, but it might very well have been true, and it was certainly enough to stop the old man short.
“If that is so,” he said,“then you have done a service to this house. You shall not be shamed before the princes of the church and our high guests tomorrow. Margaret, go to the long, iron-bound chest that is in my room in the tower, and see her clad new, from head to foot. It is my will. I am still Lord of Brokesford.” Hugo and Gilbert looked at each other, their jaws dropped. Cecily and Alison stared, the household stared, and outside, as word came to the folk beyond the windows, they stared at each other too, as I heard later. The old man's hatred of Madame had already attained mythic proportions on the manor. Surely, he must be the greatest, most Christian gentleman that drew breath, to make her a princely gift all in a flash like that, despite all her contumacy.
I could tell that Sir Hubert knew exactly the impression he had made. On the world, on his family, and even on himself. The smug look on his face told me that he considered himself still as far above this little world as God was above the great one. His beneficence rained on the righteous and unrighteous alike, just as God sends rain even to heathens. He might as well have shouted, “Ha! Take that! Now who knows most about chivalry, you sharp-tongued old lady!” He folded his arms, managing to look both arrogant and satisfied all at once, as I turned to lead Madame upstairs to the chests in which he kept his French loot and the folded clothes of his long dead and little lamented late wife.
“Father,” I heard Gilbert say as I left the room, “there is a great deal that has happened since we left—”
“Whatever has happened, has happened. I expect you two to help me keep a lid on everything until after the ceremony. The most important thing from this moment until the guests depart is that Brokesford Manor must not be shamed. I refuse to be a party to a scandal that promises well to live in legend—did I hear your wife say a pillow…?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE BRIGHT MORNING SUN OF LATE summer glinted on the gold embroidered banners of Brokesford, on the shining harness of the finest horses in the stable, on the rich silk attire, invisibly mended, of the manor folk. They had gathered on the dusty road at the edge of the parish in a great parade, followed by the village folk in their Sunday dress, to greet the procession of priests and deacons, the canon of the cathedral, and the new priest as they rode from the abbey. Never had Sir Hubert and his sons looked more imposing, their handsome surcoats embroidered with the family arms, their eyes scanning the road for the first signs of the ecclesiastical party. Someone critical, perhaps, might have noticed a new, embittered look on Sir Hugo's face, or a sort of strange, flitting anxiety on Sir Gilbert's. No one was so unkind as to comment upon the absence of Sir Hugo's wife among the ladies at the rear of the mounted party. Instead, they remarked with admiration how little Peregrine, sobered by the grandeur of the occasion, rode his own pony, led by two grooms on foot, beside his grandsire.
“That is the only heir,” they whispered. “Look at him, so young, to sit so straight.”
“See the pony's harness? Tom the saddler made an exact copy of Sir Hubert's own war saddle, on the lord's own command.”
“What of Sir Hugo?”
“There's no chance anymore, not unless he puts away—you know—”
“He'll just be warming a place for his own nephew.”
“It's just as well, I hear he's a terrible spendthrift—”
“Why is the boy called Peregrine? That's not a family name.”
“He was born abroad. That's what the name means, they say. They never expected he would be the only son of the house of de Vilers.”
“Ah, he looks like a little knight already. God spare him, he will be a great lord some day.”
The talk was too far to the rear to be overheard by the menfolk, but some of it carried to the sharp ears of the little girls who rode behind the women. And even though they had been mounted singly for the occasion, and Old Brownie left at home, their ears burned. Malachi had better hurry up with that philosopher's stone, thought Cecily. I'm getting tired of being at the end of every parade. Alison squirmed with irritation, then scratched at the top of her head, setting the wreath of flowers atop her hair at a cockeyed angle. It was hot, and dull, and simply hours of prayers lay between her and the feast, and she was itching for trouble.
Luckily for all, the itch w
as not to be satisfied at that moment, for rounding a clump of trees the canon's party was seen at a distance. The canon met every expectation of grandeur. Even from here, they could hear the jingle of the silver bells on the harness of his white mule, and spy the elegant crimson of his miniver trimmed robes. Beside him rode two priests in plain attire, and behind him were three deacons on foot. Then, behind them, oh wonder of wonders, rode the Abbot himself on a chestnut palfrey, surrounded by monks on foot, carrying the banners of the abbey and chanting as they went. The prospect of so much holiness all at once sent the villagers into raptures, sending all thoughts of springs and eels and spells in the night flying off, forgotten, into the ether.
When the two parties met, and Sir Hubert's chaplain handed over the keys to the church to the canon for the formal presentation to the new priest, there was only the tiniest of mishaps, one that hardly marred the greatness of the occasion. In the pleasantries exchanged, the canon managed to compliment Sir Hugo on his fine-looking son. As the new priest cringed inside, thanking God a thousand times over that he had not made the remark, Sir Hugo remarked in a voice constructed of a thousand icicles that the boy was his brother's son. But the canon, who was both iron-sided and brass bound, boomed that it was no matter, his lady wife would soon cheer him with a son, he was well acquainted with her father's grand-uncle, and it was a most prolific family. “Babies like rabbits, that family, sometimes two at once.” Seeing the red color mounting up Sir Hugo's neck, his usually tactless father averted the coming explosion by waving a heavily gloved hand in the direction of the manor.
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