“Bring us, lady, to your home, and shield us from the vengeance of hell—”
Ah, God, is this what it feels like? Damnation? Is hell composed of endless sorrow, of infinite and unmendable regrets? I never thought it would be like this; I have always scorned pain, pain of the body. But this stuff, this came like a thief, and cut away everything within. Take pity on me, take pity sweet lady, queen of heaven. Pity on me, your servant….
DOWNSTAIRS, A CAPABLE HAND had taken over, when that of the lord seemed paralyzed. Madame had called the midwife's daughter to wash and lay out the body of Lady Petronilla, and she had shamed Sir Hugo out of drinking himself into a stupor by telling him that he was expected to pass the night in prayer. With a firm word to the steward, she had sent all of Lady Petronilla's servants packing, on foot, into the ending day, and she herself had stood at the door and checked their belongings to make sure that they took away only what was theirs. Then she had given orders to the gravediggers and sent to the village for a pair of strong, lively girls to help her with the nursing. Up and downstairs she went, an indomitable figure, with her candle in her hand, supervising at once a funeral, a disastrous childbed, and a household too crippled by tragedy to offer proper hospitality to the assortment of guests that had remained: the magistrate and his clerks, their horses too exhausted by the chase to travel for days, and a very ancient old blackfriar who spoke almost no English and who could not be removed from the best bed until all the apple-wine in the cellar had been drunk.
Beds and linen, supper, a shroud, extra boys to walk the horses dry, poultices and herbal brews, and blankets warmed before the fire had to be provided. Madame comandeered the servants, she comandeered the villagers, and she comandeered the little girls, who suddenly seemed sober beyond their years. And as dark drew on, and the household dropped with exhaustion, only Madame persevered. Up and down and in and out she went, with her candle, checking up, making things work. And every time she passed through the solar, Sir Hubert looked up and watched her. As the night passed, he saw things he had not seen before, or rather, not seen aright. Her hems rustling about her feet, her straight, unbending back, her ever-vigilant eyes seemed to him the very soul of order, the order that brings rightness and civility to a house, even in the face of chaos and disaster. Looking at her through grief-swollen eyes, he saw other things, a profile like the paintings of saints and angels, a complexion pale and smooth in the candlelight. And such wrinkles as remained in its flattering glow seemed to be signs of character. Maturity. The outward image of her inward competence. He saw capable hands that brought cool, wet, towels, and hot fomentations. And he saw that she never, never gave in, which was a quality he could appreciate, since it was one he believed himself to possess.
At last, in the hour before dawn, Margaret gave a terrible cry. And although the women had pulled the bedcurtains, the old lord, still keeping his vigil at the far end of the solar, watched numbly as the nurses carried away a basin with all that remained of his second grandchild. It was almost with relief that he looked up to see Madame, her guttering candle in her hand, in front of him.
“My lord, your daughter-in-law is well, and will recover,” she said.
“And my boy?” asked the old man.
“The little boy breathes, he is sleeping quietly.”
“Has he ever waked? Has he spoken?”
“Not yet. But he seems to be dreaming. He spoke once, but his eyes weren't open and no one understood what he was saying.”
“What did he say?”
“The green lady has a very wet hall.” The old man puzzled over this awhile. Then he asked, his face troubled.
“Is his mind right? Will he be as he was?”
“That is God's will,” said Madame, but Sir Hubert could see the tears shining in her eyes, and understood suddenly at what cost she had bought her untiring energy of that night. The cost of unshed tears, of grief deferred. It was a price he understood.
“Madame Agathe, you have been very good to us,” he said.
“It is my duty,” said Madame, suddenly turning away her face.
THE NEXT MORNING, as he sat down to dinner with the magistrate, they both watched as Madame ordered up a meal to be sent to the solar, gave orders for pallbearers, and set about arranging for a funeral supper of the exactly correct level of simplicity for the sort of death that one does not talk about, and Sir Hubert said:
“She manages things very well, doesn't she?”
“You can always tell good blood,” said the magistrate. It set Sir Hubert thinking.
As the bell tolled, and the funeral procession started from the gate, Sir Hugo turned to his father as they followed the corpse on foot.
“It certainly is a relief to know that Madame is back there making things work. It's been hell, never knowing what I'd come back to find in my chamber. Did you know my wife slashed my new doublet in the Saxon style? And after I'd taken such trouble with it, too.” Sir Hubert, who had felt the first few unpleasant gnawings of guilt, found his heart suddenly lightened. In the new space that had been made, the idea he had been contemplating grew even larger, and took on the form of a brilliant inspiration.
That afternoon, with Hugo's wife safely interred, and a few extra prayers had been said to keep her spirit from walking, Sir Hubert went to take counsel with his younger son, the only member of his tribe who seemed to have had a worthwhile experience in certain matters.
He found Gilbert sitting on his wife's bed, holding her hand. Margaret was propped up on many pillows, and her color was coming back. The baby wasn't in the bed any more, and at the sight of the empty place, he grew alarmed.
“Father, it's excellent news. Peregrine woke up as good as new while you were gone. He was making so much noise I sent him off with his new nursemaid to find something to eat. And look, I've made Margaret smile.”
“That wasn't a smile,” said Margaret. “It was a grimace. You make the very worst puns in the world.”
“It's an art,” said Gilbert, his voice serene. Even now, with all this, they are very happy together, thought Sir Hubert. Is that how it's supposed to be?
“Gilbert, I have an idea,” he announced.
“Oh, no,” said Gilbert very softly, and his face turned white.
“Not again,” said Margaret, under her breath, and Sir Hubert noticed little lines on her brow which hadn't been there before.
“It's a very good idea, and I have come to take counsel with you as to how to best accomplish it. I can't make any mistakes. And you know how touchy some people can be.”
“Some people? You mean Hugo?”
“No, I mean that, well, Madame. That is, Madame Agathe, you know.”
“Oh, really, what have you in mind?” “Well, um, you know how this place needs fixing up—” Margaret's eyes flashed irritation.
“And I've noticed lately that Madame is a very competent woman. That is, even though she doubtless has no marriage portion, she has excellent personal qualities—that is, her blood is good and it would be no disgrace—”
“Father,” said Gilbert, his face turning pink, “do you mean you are thinking of proposing marriage to Madame?”
“It does—well, it does seem sensible, doesn't it? A sort of partnership. I mean, a younger woman with a dowry might seem better on the surface of it, but she might not have the strength of mind, that is—”
“You mean the strength of mind to put up with you?” asked Gilbert, a wicked smile crossing his face. “Why, father, you have my blessing.”
Margaret's eyes were open wide with alarm. This old man was the most interfering, marriage-crazy creature she had ever seen. First her Cecily, and now Madame. Really, someone ought to warn Madame of the horrible notion he was hatching up in his mind.
“Ah, then you think it's a good idea. I knew it,” announced the old knight.
“Be careful how you ask. I've had experience with Madame. You have to be very tactful,” said Gilbert, but his father had already dashed out of the room.
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SIR HUBERT FOUND MADAME at the head of the cellar steps, giving orders to several girls armed with brooms down below among the casks and boxes. Dust was flying, and there was a chittering and rustling as all the creatures which God made to live in cellars were being put to flight. A mouse whizzed by his foot like a furry round projectile.
“I've sent for a couple of big cats,” said Madame.
“Cats?” said Sir Hubert. “I hate cats.”
“You'll like it far less if the rats that infest this place gnaw through your casks,” she said. “Stamp them out, stamp them out,” she cried down the stairs. “Especially the little nests and the egg sacks!”
“Well, then, I suppose cats have their place,” he said.
“Everything has its place,” said Madame. “But some things have no place in a decent house.” Sir Hubert squirmed and struggled. How best to bring it up? Suddenly it seemed a touchier matter than before.
“Madame,” he said, “some people are not in the proper place.”
“What on earth do you mean?” asked Madame.
“Well, um, for example, you manage very well around here.”
Madame looked at him, her eyes suspicious.“I think, well, I've been thinking—” Madame looked again, wishing to make very sure of what she was hearing. Oh, my, thought Sir Hubert. This way isn't working very well. I'll start it over again. He harrumphed.
“Madame, you are a woman of formidable principles. I appreciate those principles. I propose an honorable partnership.” Madame stared at him, and her jaw dropped. “I mean, I mean, not housekeeping. Um, don't mistake me. I propose an honorable marriage. You are just the sort of person to put this place in order again.” Madame stared at him a long time, and her face grew paler.
“I will have to think it over,” she said.
“GILBERT, GILBERT, for God's sake, what do I do now? She's turned me down!” Sir Hubert had entered the solar wild-eyed, and now that he spied his son, he hurried toward him, oblivious to the fact that he was reading aloud to Margaret. The two little girls were sitting at the foot of the bed to hear the reading, and at Sir Hubert's approach they tried to make themselves as invisible as possible, so they would not be sent away.
“What exactly did she say when she turned you down?” asked Gilbert. The little girls' eyes were huge, as they took everything in.
“Ghastly. How dare she? Perhaps she mistook my motives. She said she'd have to think it over.” Margaret tried very hard to suppress a laugh, and it came out a hiccup. Sir Hubert glanced quickly at her, but saw only a face composed along the most tragic and sympathetic lines. So he turned back to his son, where he sat on the bench with Brokesford's big book of household stories and recipes across his lap, and spoke again. “Why do you think she turned me down? I have everything—a title, this beautiful manor, the very finest bloodlines in England, a great patron, why, she has nothing. She should be grateful I even thought of her.”
Gilbert looked at his father with a sober face and shook his head. His voice, as he responded, was slow and serious. But his dark eyes were glittering with amusement.
“If my own experience with Madame can be any guide to you, you will have to be prepared to propose three times,” he said.
His father spluttered. “Three times? You mean a woman that age can still be coy? I'd think she'd snap at my offer.”
“If she was the sort of woman who'd snap at your offer, she wouldn't be the sort of woman you'd make an offer to, now would she?” said Gilbert. The old man nodded. He had to admit Gilbert was right about that one. How had he gone and got so subtle about women? It was practically indecent. “I think, given what I know of Madame, you will have to be prepared to offer conditions,” Gilbert said, his voice thoughtful.
“Conditions! This is worse than negotiating with the French!” The little girls turned toward each other, and Cecily gave a knowing nod.“Gilbert,” said the old man suddenly, desperately,“what sort of conditions do you think I should offer?”
“Offer the things you think a lady would like, not the things you want yourself,” said Gilbert.
“I was thinking of a new saddleblanket and her own falcon,” said Sir Hubert.
“That's exactly what I thought,” responded Gilbert. “You'll have to do some more thinking.”
“Ladies! What do they want? Dresses, frou-frou, useless gifts to priests, minstrels and dancing, wasted time and money!”
“If you put it to her that way, father, you might as well save your breath. You'll be proposing until doomsday.”
“But what do I say, what do I say?”
“You have to say it in your own words, father. You'll have to think it over before you speak, or all is lost.”
IN THE NEXT FEW DAYS, Sir Hubert had plenty of time to think. Time spent riding to and from the coroner's inquest concerning Lady Petronilla's suicide. What did women want? What did women want? How to say it without making it an insult? Oh, God, he wasn't some perfumed dandy with a snake's tongue. Why couldn't she appreciate that? The inquest was of the most perfunctory. Sir Hugo testified that his wife had often threatened suicide, saying death was better than being married to him. And then after being liberated from all those devils, albeit imperfectly, she had often been despondent, saying she'd be better off if she cast herself down the tower stair. Sir Hubert explained how he had caught up with her and remonstrated with her for throwing the baby into the pond, and she'd said they'd never try her, and stabbed herself, and the magistrate, who had departed the manor after the betrothal arrangements had been signed and sealed and cast in bronze, had returned to say he himself had seen the lady's bloody knife. Who was anybody to doubt the testimony of such important men? I'll have to find some wandering grayfriar to confess this all to, thought Sir Hubert as he rode home in Hugo's company—preferably one who doesn't speak English. I don't want a secret like this floating about the shire. Then he turned to Hugo, who had bought a new hat with a tiny brim in the latest style, and had an elegant black velvet doublet stitched up from one of his late wife's dresses so that he would catch the eye of any woman who might possibly turn up at the inquest.
“Hugo, what is it that women want?” he asked. They were still far from Brokesford. The first leaves of autumn were beginning to dry and shrivel on the trees, and there was a hint of chill in the morning air. Summer, generous summer, was coming to a close. The old man was growing to hate that feeling, when his bones could tell that winter was not so far away. The house will be so cold and empty, he thought. The little boy will be gone, and Margaret with all her bustling and interfering, and even Gilbert, who wasn't turning out so badly, though he had certainly taken his time about it.
“Why, women want a man who can renew his passion five times a night or more, like myself,” Hugo said.“They're just ravenous. You have to satisfy them constantly, or their vital fluids all migrate up to the brain, and make them insane. I've given it great thought. Since men can't be interested in one woman only, it is impossible to satisfy a woman within the bounds of marriage, since a man must always share his attentions, while a woman must concentrate on her own husband only. So a man shouldn't marry, unless it is to several wives, for the stimulating variety, like the Grand Turk.”
“Hugo, those fluids have got to your brain, too. Christian men are required to cleave to one wife only. Or at least, one at a time.”
“True. That's why I need a little rest from marriage. Oh, the tragic black of a handsome young widower. Did you notice how many women have offered to pray with me lately? My consolation goes on apace.”
“Hugo, what made you such a beast?” muttered the old man.
“Why, father, I've always modeled myself exactly on you,” answered Hugo, his voice cheerful. Old men, they always get so morbid. Father would doubtless soon start walking with a stick and complaining about his rheumatism and sitting in the sun like a lizard. Ah, life's mysteries. Luckily, nothing grotesque like getting old will ever happen to me, thought Hugo.
“But women, Hu
go—”
“When you think women, think passion,” announced Hugo. “It's all their tiny little brains can hold in the way of a thought.”
When they arrived home, after Sir Hubert had seen to the horses, he went up to his chamber and had his groom bring a little bronze mirror in which he studied his features. Not bad, not bad, he thought. Not young, but lines and the scar look noble, welltried. But perhaps, to please a lady, I might need a bit of barbering up. Then he had the groom fetch scissors, and trim his wild white beard and the grey wisps that grew out of his ears like smoke. Then he looked again at his image. There is, he thought, a difference between making oneself more presentable to feminine company and entirely removing all signs of character. So he contented himself with having only the long, protruding hairs trimmed off his stormy white eyebrows, rather than having them slicked down like some gigolo. He then slathered his hair down flat with goose grease and parted it neatly in the middle. “I look like a damned dancing master,” he grumbled to himself.
Attired in his Sunday best, he went off to seek Madame, who was in the bakehouse with the little girls and several of the manor women, popping generous, big round loaves into the ovens on long handled wooden paddles. When they saw the old man, Cecily and Alison, without a word, took Madame's paddle from her and untied her apron in the back, so she could slip it off unobtrusively. Together Sir Hubert and Madame went into Margaret's little herb garden, where the climbing roses on the wall were dropping their petals, and the little red rose hips shone among the briars like ripe fruit. There was the smell of sage and thyme, and all the good things that can be dried for the winter.
“Madame,” said Sir Hubert. “I am a persistent man. I have come to offer you my hand and my heart.” Madame looked at the ground, silent.
“I will arrange for a lady-companion of your own choice, so that you will not be without worthy company of your own sex,” he said. Madame looked at the ground still, but he could hear her breathing heavily. A good sign. “This house—this house has been empty of pucelles and pages, since it has had no lady,” he said. “It could be full of merry, youthful company that would delight your heart.” Madame looked up at him, taking in the neatly trimmed beard, and the goose grease. It's working, thought Sir Hubert. But she hasn't said yes yet. So he forged on. “You shall always have a fine palfrey at your disposal.” Madame was silent, and looked back at the ground again. “And two new dresses a year—ha, hm, not counting one for Christmas,” Sir Hugo added hastily, and Madame looked up again. Her face was very pale.
Margaret of Ashbury 03 - The Water Devil Page 26
