“Lady de Vilers is ill in childbed at this very moment,” he said, and the new priest cringed again.
“What did I say? Like rabbits, those de Broc women! I'll drop by and give her my blessing after the service. You did say she'd be at the feast?”
“If she is well enough,” said Sir Hubert, calmly guiding his anarchic family into its place behind the church procession as the canon spurred his mule ahead.
Everyone agreed that nothing so fine in the way of a procession had been seen in the village since the burial of Sir Hubert's lady some twenty or more years before, and even then there had not been as many chanting monks. Then the old ones of the village recalled how the good lady's coffin had given off the aroma of roses in token of her sanctity and good works, and also in token of the continuous solitary praying in the icy manor chapel that had sent her to her death. After that, all were silent again, for the contrast with the current Lady de Vilers who was locked in the tower room seemed almost too cruel to mention.
“Sir Gilbert looks just like that blessed lady,” remarked one old codger.
“She had him marked out for the church, that she had.” “Just as well he didn't stick at it. Otherwise the manor would have fallen into the hands of strangers.”
“Or that abbot,” said his companion, jerking his head in the direction of the abbot, an imposing fellow with several chins andwhat all agreed was a greedy eye. The lot of the peasants on the abbey lands was known to be a hard one, for monks keep better records of tithes and duties and labor days than the lax, openhanded, and often absent Seigneur of Brokesford.
The little church was packed with holy folk, and the prayers satisfactorily long, both before and after the keys were handed over to the new priest. Of course, all the women inspected the new priest very carefully, and remarked on his honest, coarse face, his youth, his large feet, and the quality of wool which had gone into the making of his robe. Of his stole, nothing good enough could be said, since it was known to be a gift of his old mother, and worked with her own hands. All this, and a mule, too, went the whisper. Some lucky girl could live well as his “housekeeper,” even if she could not have the inestimable benefit of marriage itself. The new priest sang the mass in Latin most indecipherably, and therefore most holy, and the canon himself handed him the glorious new silver paten with the holy wafer on it. All in all, there was enough to discuss about the ceremony to keep everyone happy at least until Michaelmas, and here the feast hadn't even begun, with its promised combination of good food and good scandal.
TABLES WERE LAID in the courtyard, and more tables crammed into the hall, and cooks' boys in plenty ran in and out to fetch ale in infinite supply and take away the empty dishes. At the high table, the sons of the house themselves did honor to the canon and the abbot with the precision of their carving, and the ladies' table, safely removed from the holy men, was ablaze with chatter.
Outside, the peasants roistered and sang and cheered the lord, the new priest, and the heirs of the house. The wine at the high table was pronounced exquisite, and the roasted, gilded swan on a bed of paste combed to look like the waves of a lake was praised as a masterpiece. Margaret's breads were of a magical lightness, the crusts of the lark pies heavenly flaky, and the entertainments provided by the hired minstrels between the courses were sprightly and witty.
I may live through this after all, thought the Lord of Brokesford. Just let them get out of here convinced that we are rich, powerful, and happy. Especially that abbot. I don't like the way his eyes seem to be counting the number of silver dishes on the table. Damn, I wish I had twice as many. He could see the guests admiring the fine falcons on his perches, the antiquity of the battle axes on his walls, and the size and magnificence of the dozens of hounds that lounged beneath the table, gnawing on the disgarded bones of the veritable herds of swine and sheep that had been sacrificed for the occasion. Little do they know, he thought. Freaks in the tower, and freaks in the kennel as well. My life's a shambles, thought the lord of Brokesford, and somehow, I'm not sure how, it all must be Gilbert's fault. Loudly he ordered more wine. The drunker they are, the less they'll notice, said Sir Hubert to himself, as he drained wine cup after wine cup himself.
It was just after the third course, when a gilded peacock was being served with a genuine flourish of trumpets, that the Lord of Brokesford looked up from his trencher to see a horrible sight. Sir Hugo turned white, and Sir Gilbert's mouth tightened, and the chatter at the ladies' table stopped. As if at a signal, all other talk in the room stopped, except for the religious guests, who did not quite understand what was happening. A woman in black had appeared at the foot of the stair that led upward to the solar and the interior passage to the tower.
Lady Petronilla's face was swollen, misshapen, and white, her eyes surrounded by dark circles. The braids of her hair had come unpinned, and damp, straggling hair was matted around her face. She had discarded the black veil of the succubus and made some attempt to fasten on the fine, white linen veil she had brought away from the Duke's court. It trailed disconsolately from the ruin of her hair held by a single, random, pin. She had donned her silver embroidered black surcoat, but it was as crumpled as if she had slept in it, and stained with something yellowish and crusty. Her eyes darted around the room, and her mouth, an unnatural brownish red, seemed distorted from endless howling.
“Where is my seat of honor?” she said. “Who has taken my seat of honor?” There was absolute silence in the great hall as the ghastly figure advanced on the table at the dais.
“Hugo, she's yours,” said the old lord in a hoarse whisper. “Get her out of here. And find out who unlocked the chamber, and I'll have his head.”
“But—but, I can't. Just look at her—why, she's possessed. It will make a terrible scene.”
“It's a terrible scene now. Play the man instead of the fop and get her out of here.” But Petronilla had already come to the abbot's seat.
“This is my place. Remove yourself and go lower,” she said.
“Hugo—” said Sir Hubert between his teeth. But at the word “possession,” so loosely uttered by Sir Hugo, the canon had perked up. Possessions were a specialty of his, and he loved to display his knowledge.
“How fat you are,” said the ghastly figure to the abbot. “Are you pregnant, too?”
“Possessed,” said the canon.“Hear the devil within her speaking?” The abbot turned in his seat and looked at her, insulted.
“Oh, no, I've made a mistake, I see,” she said. “You're pregnant with poor men's geese, and pheasants from woods which are not yours.”
“Definitely, definitely possessed,” said the abbot, drawing back in disgust. “Only a devil could speak in such a fashion.”
Oh my Lord Jesus, thought Margaret, trying to make herself invisible in her place at the women's table, don't let her spy me here. Two strong grooms, summoned from the kitchen, had come up quietly behind Lady Petronilla as she spoke, clutching the high, pointed back of the abbot's chair. In a flash, they grabbed her, but she bit them hard, and slipped out of their hands like quicksilver. Their blood ran out of her mouth, and she licked at it, as if the salty taste pleased her. As lightly as wind, she ran to the end of the hall, pursued now by a half-dozen grooms, one of whom carried a length of rope, and another a fishnet.
“Don't kill her now, I want her back in the tower,” said the Lord of Brokesford, giving commands. But again, Lady Petronilla eluded them. Now she stood at the serving side of the ladies' table, directly in front of Margaret.
“It's you that did it, you witch. You stole the child from my womb, and bore it as yours. And now you've stolen the new one. I'll chop it out of you—” with that, she snatched up a carving knife from a dish of capons, and lunged across the table. Margaret dodged the blow, but as the bench she was seated on was set against the wall, she could not escape. Petronilla leapt upon the table, as Margaret dove under it, sending the hounds fleeing. Gilbert dashed to her side as Petronilla, wild eyed and brandishing the kn
ife, tried to pursue her by dashing down the center of the table, while the grooms attempted to get at her from the floor. It was at this very moment of maximal confusion that Madame, with great calm and ladylike demeanor, stood, removed a skewer full of partridges in a savory sauce of ginger and verjuice from the large silver platter before her with the right thumb and two forefingers, and without ever dampening her fingers beyond the correct first joint, directed the tip of the skewer with swift precision right into Lady Petronilla's exposed ankle. With a shriek, the madwoman leapt away, falling from the table directly into the hands of the grooms and their net.
All eyes were on Lady Petronilla as she struggled and howled in the net, and the grooms attempted to remove her without being bitten or kicked. All eyes but one pair. The Lord of Brokesford, who never missed any detail of a skirmish, watched with fascination as Madame, her face calm and pleasant, wiped the tip of the skewer neatly on a napkin and replaced the partridges in their dish. He saw her then reorder the tablecloth with a swift gesture and send a boy to replace the trenchers on her side of the table, for Lady Petronilla had stepped in them. Oblivious to the disorder about her, she could have been presiding at a king's banquet. That is a woman who knows how to keep order, he said to himself. And much as he disliked her, he had to give her credit for it. A lady all the way to the bone.
At the same time, the canon was discoursing to the other men of religion. “I would suspect more than one devil, watching her now.
There is, perhaps, one that speaks, and several more that animate. The biting, for example—Sir Hugo, would you say that she spoke in her natural voice?”
“Oh, definitely much lower and more unnatural,” agreed Hugo. “Her real voice is high, delicate, and ladylike.” To be wed to a madwoman made him feel lowered, an object of mockery. But to be married to a woman possessed of not one, but possibly legions of devils, was a thing that brought a certain standing in the world. After all, a woman had to be especially desirable for devils to wish to possess her, and a man can't really expect to compete with devils for a bride. He felt noble and tragic now, instead of like a fool. “Tell me, is there any hope?”
The abbot shook his head. “One devil, perhaps, and there might be a chance. But who among us is powerful enough to cast out legions of them?” The devil theory suited him, too. What she had said was mad, absolutely mad, and made no sense at all. The devil theory was gaining rapidly in the hall. It made sense. It made drama. It promised wonderful ecclesiastical drama, just when the grand feast and celebration would be all finished, and dullness would settle back on this little country place.
The canon shook his head gravely. “I have never done an exorcism of more than five devils at once. It is a risk, a deep risk, for whoever undertakes to cast out these devils.” Hugo flung himself at the canon's feet in an ecstasy of religious fervor.
“Ah, save her, save her, you holiest of holy men!” he exclaimed, deliciously conscious of the way that all eyes were fastened on him. The ladies especially, he was sure, were admiring him for his selfsacrificial love, his newer and more devoted side. Even while he was kissing the toe of the canon's grubby shoe, he was warmed all over imagining his new self, the tragic not-quite widower in need of feminine consolation.“My wife, you know—I've tried everything— I cannot abandon her—I can promise you only my adoration—” I'll get rid of all those bells on my harness at once, he was thinking.
The canon was deeply gratified. A battle hardened knight, groveling at his feet, begging to be saved. I'll stay several weeks, and go at it in stages, he was thinking. I'll be celebrated throughout all of Europe. A vast, pink cloud of mutual conceit and contentment had enveloped Sir Hugo and the canon. It was invisible to all the watchers of the drama, except for one.
“Gilbert, look yonder at Sir Hugo and the canon. It's almost as if they're in love.” Gilbert looked up from where he was assessing Margaret to make sure she was entirely unhurt and directed his cynical gaze at his elder brother.
“I do believe you're right, Margaret. I sense he's about to take up a new fad. Remember when he decided to walk in the steps of the troubadours? His poetry nearly killed me. I wonder how this new one will turn out. Something tells me I will only be able to bear it if I consider it a penance.”
“Well, whatever it is, it will involve chasing women,” said Margaret, smoothing down her gown over her growing abdomen.
“I need to get you away from here, Margaret. I don't want to remain here for the exorcism. Or for the pilgrims who are going to be flooding the place the minute the word gets out. I tell you, they'll be prying up the doorposts as souvenirs.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PRIESTS, PRIESTS EVERYWHERE. I'M PRAC-tically stepping on them. You can't leave me now, Gilbert, I need somebody who speaks their language. God alone knows what they're capable of if there's no one to check up on them.”
“But that's exactly why I should go, Father. They're suspicious of anyone who reads, let alone reads Latin. You'll do better without me.” I could tell that Gilbert was losing the argument, and my heart sank. “Besides,” he went on, “Margaret needs to go home and rest. She's found it very disturbing, being chased with a carving knife, and wants to be away.”
“Rest? Rest? She can rest here. The city's an unhealthful place. All that fetid air. Think of the woods, the fields, the balmy breezes! All good for women who are expecting. Besides, it's Hugo's fault that woman got out. He forgot to lock the door when he retrieved his chest and his birds from the tower room. It won't happen again. Good, that's settled. Now, Gilbert, one faction's saying they should hold the exorcism in the chapel and the other in the church. What should I tell them?”
“Have them hold it in the church. Otherwise you'll have thousands of gawkers in the chapel, all demanding the hospitality of the house. Tell them the church is holier, and you hate to sacrifice the convenience and honor, but you understand that it's a very difficult process and there's nothing you wouldn't do to rid the lady of Brokesford of all those devils.”
“The lady of—the shame, Gilbert, the shame.”The old man paced up and down the solar, shaking his head. Madame and I continued our sewing, pretending we weren't listening, but the girls were frankly gawking. “Can you imagine? The care I took selecting the bloodlines. I looked at the sire, I looked at the brothers. All sound. But I've come to the conclusion they're inbred, Gilbert. There's a taint. They hid the mother from us—said she was sick. Then, at the betrothal feast, she looked well enough, but pale, pale and puffy about the eyes. Nothing much. A little weeping over her brother killed in France, they said. But I recognize it. I swear I do. It's the same look I saw in the daughter's eyes at the feast. Damn! Damn! Why did I never suspect? A family of great wealth and lineage like that, to ally themselves with an heir of modest livelihood in a distant part of the country—they were passing off damaged goods on me, Gilbert. I'm humiliated that I was deceived. Devils indeed. It's bad blood.”
“Don't say that again, Father. Stick with the devils. It makes everyone happy and frees you of embarrassment.”
“Devils it is, then. Hundreds of the little beggars. Tragedy, not stupidity. A rarity. Unusual. Even fascinating in a ghoulish sort of way. Already they're coming, Gilbert. Pilgrims with googly eyes, priests with nothing to do, old ladies whose faces light up at disaster. I see them in the village, asking directions. They've overrun the abbey guesthouse, and I turned half a dozen of them away from the front gate this morning. Why in the HELL does it have to be MY house that gets infested with devils?”
“If I were Brother Malachi, I'd suggest you charge admission.”
“HIM. It's HIM that got me in this tangle. Worries I have, WORRIES. And now devils, on top of it! I swear, I WILL charge admission! I'm OWED something for all this, I'm OWED!”
“I DON'T SEE WHY I have to be present at this, Gilbert, I really don't.”We had met the canon and the new priest and the swarm of deacons at the gate, and were now in solemn procession, complete with an immense crucifix and a rel
iquary with a hair of John the Baptist's beard, to go unseal the tower room and fetch Lady Petronilla off to the church.
“The canon said you had to, since the devils had taken a particular dislike to you, and might be coaxed to say more in your presence. Besides, I'm here, and you have another lady to support you. Madame is very cool-headed in a crisis.” Madame nodded agreeably at this acknowledgment. Where once she had been stiff and shabby, she had now acquired a look of quiet elegance in the rich, dark kirtle and surcoat she had selected from Sir Hubert's chest. The hems needed to be taken up and a few small moth holes mended, but when she put them on, the garments flowed in dignified folds about her small-boned, erect body, as if they were meant for her. If anyone could put devils in their place, it was Madame.
At the door to the chamber, two armed guards stood. Two new brackets had been mounted outside the door to hold the bar that sealed the room shut from the outside. Sir Hugo himself lifted the bar, and the canon, clutching a calf-bound volume inscribed with the title Manuale Exorcistarum, threw open the door. The stench that greeted us was almost unbearable. “Aha,” said the canon, his eyes brightening, “the foetor diabolicum. There is definitely more than one in here.” He had come prepared. Behind him stood two deacons with candles on long poles, a crucifer, another deacon with a pot of holy water and an aspergillum, and a fifth with an incense censor, giving off heavy, sweet fumes. I put my sleeve over my nose, and saw the others were doing the same. When we stepped into the room, we could see no one, but the source of the smell was clear. The walls, the chests, the bed itself had been smeared with human dung. Pools of vomit lay on the floor. The smell of incense mingled sickeningly with the stink of the room, making it worse than ever.
“By the power of the mighty name of Jesus Christ, I bid thee appear,” said the canon, putting his right hand up. We could hear a faint growling, and a scrabbling sound, and a pair of glittering eyes peeked up from behind the head of the bed. Lady Petronilla was unrecognizable: her hair was matted and filled with filth, her face swollen, spotted with strange stains beneath the skin, and crisscrossed with abnormal lines, or indentations. She wore nothing but a filth-bedaubed black kirtle, unlaced and nearly falling off, below which showed a shift that she appeared to have shredded with her own hands. “Have your grooms catch and bind her,” said the canon to Sir Hubert, who obliged with a wave of his gloved hand. They pulled her, screaming and squalling, from under the bed by the feet, calling for assistance when she began to convulse, foaming at the mouth and trying to bite anyone who touched her. She seemed to have the strength of ten, and it was a long time before the crowd of burly grooms finally bound her securely to a board, for transportation to the church. Screaming imprecations, demanding justice, hissing and growling, she was hauled forth into the sunlight of the forecourt, where a substantial crowd of gawkers had gathered.
Margaret of Ashbury 03 - The Water Devil Page 19
