As a groom held my mare at the mounting block for me, I couldn't help thinking of contrast with the grand parade of the week previous. No banners, no children, and for a centerpiece, a screaming woman on a plank. I noticed many strangers there, their eyes missing nothing. Some were counting their beads, or crossing themselves. Clearly, this ranked among the edifying religious experiences, almost as enlightening as watching a heretic burn. Ahead of us, I saw Sir Hubert lean from his big destrier to speak to Sir Thomas, the new priest, mounted on his little brown mule. “Don't forget what I said,” he whispered in his ear-shattering whisper. “There's a new roof in it for you, and we may get a wall mural or two out of it.” I saw Sir Thomas nod, and thought I heard in reply, “—just as you said, my lord, with double for places on the floor, an offering, entirely voluntary—” before the breeze carried the words away.
Fearful she would break loose, they laid her, plank and all, before the altar. Exhausted from her struggle against the ropes, she moaned and panted while the priests sang prayers and censed the space before the altar. The canon, feeling the beginnings of an undesirable pity mingling with the ghoulish fascination in the room, called for holy water, and sprinkled it on her.
“It burns, it burns!” she screamed. “Let me go!” Appalled that holy water could burn, the crowd gasped.
“Ah, yes. They are all still in there.” He opened his book, and had the crucifer hold the crucifix directly above her. “Devil or devils, I conjure you by the mighty power of Jesus Christ, tell me your names!”
“You know my name!” shouted the madwoman. “You know it!”
“Ah, that will be the woman demon, Xanith, who lived as a succubus within her.”
“Really, how do you know?” asked Sir Hugo.
“Because it is in a female voice,” said the canon. I could see Lady Petronilla's unnaturally bright eyes taking this all in. They darted back and forth. She held very still. I could see her mind working. She wanted to be unbound.
“You know me,” she said in a high female voice.“I am Xanith, and I crave your body, priest. I will tempt you to sin.”
“Exi ab ea! I exorcise thee, thou unclean spirit! Pray, good people, pray the paternoster!”As everybody mumbled and prayed, he made the sign of the cross on her forehead and she screamed and writhed. Then he extended the holy wafer to her, and she began foaming at the mouth. There was a terrible, heartrending scream, and she vomited, the greenish slimy stuff from an empty stomach. “That is the first, leaving the body in the form of vomit, but not the last,” announced the priest to the crowd. “When she can accept the wafer, all the devils will be gone.”
“We will never leave,” said the madwoman in a deep bass voice. “We are many and powerful.”
“I know you,” he said, leafing through his book. Turning to the new priest of the church, who was awestruck with his powers, he explained briefly. “I discern there are four devils in there, now that the she-devil is gone. They are Leviathan, Balam, Iscaron, and Behemoth. Behemoth gives evil thoughts, Leviathan sets the soul in conflict with itself, and Iscaron causes impious actions during mass.”
“And Balam?” asked Sir Hugo.
“Balam causes inappropriate laughter. Have you noticed when the lady laughed?”
“Whenever the sermon was on humility and duty,” answered Hugo. “Other than that, nothing much ever struck her as funny— oh, except once, during a hanging and quartering.”
“Exactly. The book is infallible. But you must understand the great danger. As we remove each devil, the others become more powerful and crafty. It may take days, even weeks. Say, for example, we free her of Balam and Leviathan. Then she will be freed of conflict within herself, but wholly given over to Behemoth, that is, evil, and not a sign of inappropriate laughter. It is the intermediate stages that hold the most danger.”
“My lord canon, I am so grateful for your high wisdom,” said Sir Hugo, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I cannot tell you how this breaks a devoted husband's heart. My vows before God, you know, they are ever before my mind—”
“What's that?” I heard Sir Hubert whisper to Gilbert on the other side of me, “weeks? I'm telling you, we may get a stained glass window out of this. The wretched woman is worth something, after all.”
But I was watching Lady Petronilla. At the pious remarks of her husband, her eyes nearly started from her head in rage. She turned red and began to scream again.
“Monsters! Hypocrites! Liars! I know what you do! I know all! You stole my place of honor! I tell you, this house will fall! It will be barren, and its lands and titles given to strangers! Brokesford will be struck to the ground, her courts and gardens covered in black stone, and peopled with smoke-belching demons!”
“The spirit of prophecy. That is Leviathan speaking,” said the priest, thumbing to the proper place in his book.
“I was beginning to be worried,” whispered Sir Hubert,“until the bit about the black stone and the smoky demons.”
“Sh!” warned Gilbert.
“I adjure thee, o unclean serpent, by the judge of the living and the dead; by the Creator of the world who hath power to cast into hell, that thou depart forthwith from the body of this woman. Get thee gone, vanquished and cowed, o vile Leviathan, when thou art bidden in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ who will come to judge the living and the dead by fire—” The canon leaned close over the madwoman's face, his eyes glittering with a strange fire. She spat in his eye. He cried loudly and drew back. “It burns! My Christ, it burns! It is the seed of the demon. The demon flies free! I am being crushed!” He staggered back, clutching his heart, to be supported by his deacons. “I see it now, vile, monstrous, spouting a thousand flames. It soars in the room!”A horrified sound came from the watching crowd, and they drew back, crossing themselves. “Now, oh, despicable, it slips back into the woman through her ear. Leviathan, the most dangerous of all!” I could see people putting their hands over their ears. The madwoman, however, seemed to have been seized by a fit of inappropriate laughter.
“That one is Balam,” I heard them muttering. Balam indeed, I thought. She has them. She can play this game as long as she likes. She and that canon are partners in deception, and everyone loves the game so well, they are playing it, too. She's twice as clever as any demon I've ever heard of, and sneakier, too. God preserve me from this lady, I thought, Lord God take me and mine from this place in safety. Heavenly father—
“Look at her, just look at her over there, that woman who calls herself Margaret,” came the voice of the madwoman. “See the light shining on her face? The light of hell, deceptive and evil. She has stolen what is mine, and death is what it will bring her. I will turn her days to dust and ashes.” People turned around to look at me, but the shock had doused the faint orangeish pink light, and they didn't see anything. Thank goodness ordinary people don't have as sharp sight as crazy ones.
“This one must be Behemoth,” murmured the crowd, just as if they were identifying shields at a tourney.
“Leviathan has nearly been knocked loose,” said the canon. “We will continue to exorcise him until sunset, but if the others be not gone, we will continue tomorrow.”
“Very well then,” said Sir Hubert, looking content. “Such monstrous beings must tax even your mighty powers. I am full of gratitude that our realm possesses such a defeater of demons.”
They worked away all day except for pauses for refreshment, and at last Leviathan came forth in the form of a stinking black turd, which fascinated everyone. Then the canon said he would have to examine the madwoman's body in private for demonic marks, since they often choose to leave by a slit under the nipple, and Lady Petronilla, filthy, disheveled, and with her skirts up, gave him a wolfish grin. Oh, lovely, I thought. Just get me out of here.
It was as we were returning for the third, and what would turn out to be the next to the last, day of public exorcism, that we were greeted at the church door by Sir Thomas. His simple face was alight.
“Sir Hubert
, Sir Hubert, I've found the most valuable letter among the church records!” he cried, producing the filthy, crumpled sheet from Malachi's little workshop. There was a grand company of witnesses there that day: peasants, pilgrims, two visiting lords, and the abbot himself with three monks, who had come to inspect the canon's technique.
“Don't wave it at me, I can't read a word,” said Sir Hubert. “Just tell me what it's about and ask this good canon, here, to read it to me. I have the highest regard for his powers of reading.”The canon simpered at this. He had become a hero in the past two days, and children and old wives followed him everywhere, begging for his touch, his words of wisdom, for exorcisms of rats, worms, and other pests. He had also collected many side payments for praying over the wealthy pilgrims who had gathered to watch his miracles. The church was well on its way to a real stained glass window, if not at least a splendid wall-painting, and everyone was greatly content with the goings-on except me, for my great desire to flee, and Lady Petronilla, who had never been content anyway.
“It is a very old letter, from the time of the wars of Stephen, written by one Gaultier de Vilers.”
“Ha! An ancestor of mine. That will be a curiosity worth having.” The abbot looked disturbed. I could tell he was dying to snatch the letter.
“It is more than that. My lord canon, read the letter for Sir Hubert, if it so please you.” The canon hemmed and hawed and squinted at the antique handwriting, then slowly deciphered it.
“‘—and being in fear that the manor be burned to the ground by our enemies which surround us, the greatest treasures of Brokesford we have buried in safety—'Then, my lord, there are instructions as to how to find the burial place. In the eastward corner to the north of the hermitage of St. Edburga. Is there such a hermitage on your lands?” I could see the Abbot's eyes narrow. Fury was written in the slits.
“Why, nothing really. But there are some ruins—” Sir Hubert looked thoughtful and stroked his beard.
“The fountain, the fountain!” shouted Hugo. “Father, we must go dig there immediately!” I could see the abbot watching Hugo, and his thoughts were as transparent as water. Hugo the fool, he was thinking. He's incapable of pretending. Whatever it is, he doesn't know a thing about it.
“Hugo, this holy man must proceed with his duty. Ancient treasures are nothing to the treasure of the spirit.” He cast an eye on the monks, who seemed anxious, suddenly, to depart. “But I will send my steward and a guard to the place, until we can search there— perhaps tonight.” The peasants who knew of the manor's troubles all shouted, to the hermitage! To the ruins! A great secret is hidden there! But Sir Hugo held up his gloved hand to quiet them. Lady Petronilla, furious that she was no longer the center of admiration, began to writhe and hiss on her board.
“I am full of many devils,” she said. “Spirits of hell dance about me. And I speak with the voice of prophecy. The thing in the ruins is false, false, false!”
“Hmm,” said Gilbert. “The demon speaks. What purpose does it have in trying to keep us from digging in the ruins?”
“You have a point there,” said the canon.“The demon is very wily. We should do exactly what it says not to.”The abbot was vibrating with irritation.
“Oh, I could never delay the saving of Lady de Vilers,” said Gilbert, looking shocked.
“Come to me, speak with me! Inspect me for marks. Oh, look again at my white body, priest!”
“I will proceed with the exorcism,” said the canon, whose word ruled. He looked at the abbot, and misread the signs of his impatience. “But tomorrow,” he continued. “The demon is troublesome, and needs to be cooled down.” He gestured to his deacons. “Soak her there in the village fish pond until the demons are humble again, then return her to her place.” Screaming imprecations, she was removed, and the canon shook his head. “They seem stronger today. Definitely stronger. They need to be weakened before I go to work again.” The abbot gave him an evil stare as he mounted his white mule. Already, peasants with shovels were running across the fields in the direction of the woods.
With a great show of reluctance, Sir Hubert tore himself from the churchyard and mounted his horse. Madame, who stood beside me, looked at him, then looked at me. My face was a blank. So was hers. Then she looked in the direction of the church, and then into the distance, as if she were thinking. For an instant, a little thought flitted across my mind. Had she seen me plant the letter? No, certainly not, I thought, as I let the grooms assist me to mount.
“More things go on at that spring in the woods,” observed Madame.
“They certainly do,” I agreed, thinking of the scandal of the girls, and how glad I was that she had helped conceal their activities from all those priests and possible inquisitors. “I rely on your discretion,” I said.
“You have it always,” she answered, as we rode out of the village.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THOSE OF US WHO WERE MOUNTED AR- rived first at the spring. Even so, it was a strange rabble, ranging all the way from peasants on donkeys to the curious churchmen on their mules. Even now, the abbot had an angry, suspicious look, which was distinctly out of place for one who had ostensibly no interest in the land claims of Brokesford Manor. But there were already strangers there, standing beyond the great stone, surveying the strange temple of yews with their backs to us. At the crashing, trampling sound of the motley crowd bursting through the trees, they turned, with some surprise. I couldn't tell who they were, except one was wearing a long gown that had the dignified look of a lawyer, and the others, in coarser clothes, had the hard, assessing eyes of tradesmen—or timber factors. I was certain that I had guessed right, when I heard my father-in-law say in what was, for him, a low tone, “The ENEMY. Oh, God, that it were France and I had my good two-handed sword with me.”
“Steady, father,” said my lord husband, spurring his horse ahead of the old man's so he would put away the temptation to charge them. He and Hugo cantered around the broad border of the pond and planted their horses between the strangers and the tumbled ruins.
“Why, greetings to you, Sieur de Vilers, my lords. What brings you here to my lands?” asked the man in the long gown. His body indicated deference, but his tone of voice was almost sarcastic.
“Our lands, you mean,” said Hugo, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“There has been a discovery in the archives of the church,” said Sir Hubert. “Priest, read out the letter. You there, with the shovels, dig as he directs.” The lawyer cast a look at his ally, the abbot, whose face was as hard as iron. Too many people, too many armed men. The lawyer couldn't oppose them. He bit his lip. I held my face as sober as at a funeral. But inside, my heart danced. What an astonishing moment, that by the whim of God, the rival claimants themselves would have to serve as witnesses to the unearthing of the chest! And how clever Malachi was to leave Hugo in the dark. He was everywhere like a puppy, giving orders, contradicting himself, and, in general putting on a show that all who knew him understood could not be deception.
“Nothing, nothing!” he cried. “The letter played us false!” Clumsily, he spurred his horse into the margin of the crumbled walls, interfering completely with the digging. “Try here, try here,” he said, pointing to the ground beneath his horse's hooves. His antics made even the abbot impatient.
“They will, Sir Hugo, they will, if you remove yourself.”
“Oh, well, of course. Yes. What do you think it will be? Gold? We certainly have need of it these days.”
Very softly, I could hear the abbot grumble to himself, “I do not need the powers of prophecy of the great demon Behemoth to tell me it will be a land deed.”
At last the digging serfs struck something with a hollow, metallic sound, and the crowd pressed close, silent with awe, as they unearthed the ancient chest. All eyes turned to Sir Hubert where he sat like a statue on his tall palfrey. A strange, secret smile seemed to hover, almost formed, on his lips. His stormy brow was calm, for once. “Pry it open,” he
commanded. “But carefully.”The abbot and the lawyer, sage at reading hidden expressions, were eyeing his face. I don't like it, I thought. He's just not very good at pretending. If that awful Brother Paul has suspected a thing—it couldn't be written plainer on his face for the world to see—he knows already what he'll find. He'll give it away. But that is where the cleverness of Malachi made all the difference. Within the chest was something the lord of Brokesford had never seen before.
With a groan, the old hinges gave way, and all present could see, in the dappled sunlight beneath the trees, that the chest contained papers. Papers and something else.
“What is that thing?” said Sir Hubert, dismounting suddenly, his face astonished. “Give it here. By the saints, it's a horn! Such an ox has not been seen since the beginning of time! Think of the size of the beast! It was a hero who felled this wild ox.”There was not a bit of dissimulation in his face. The crafty look of his half-lidded eyes had vanished. They were wide open with surprise and genuine admiration. The expression could not be misread. The abbot seemed covered with confusion. Sir Hubert beckoned to the canon. “What do you make of this stuff around the rim? Here in the silver?” he scratched at the ancient tarnish, revealing the odd carving. Its high ridges shone dully against the black where his eager thumb had rubbed it. The canon squinted, and rubbed some more.
Margaret of Ashbury 03 - The Water Devil Page 20
