In Pursuit of the Green Lion (4 page)

“I never understood about your father, before, when you told me,” I whispered into the dark. “But now I know that’s because words are inadequate to describe him.”

“Too true.” He sighed again. “It’s because he’s always wanted me to be just like Hugo. You don’t admire Hugo, by any chance, do you? Most women do.”

“No, I think he’s awful. His head looks just like a plucked chicken to me, and he’s not very smart.”

“A plucked chicken, eh? You know, you’re right. I never thought of that.” I took his hand, and for once he did not pull it away.

“Oh, Gregory, Gregory, I’m so sorry I embarrassed you in front of them. Just be my friend, and I won’t ask for anything more.”

“You ought to be sorry,” he said ruefully. “We must have made a sight.” I couldn’t see him, there in the dark behind the curtains, but I could feel his warm breath. Something about it made me feel strange all over. “It’s my fault. It made me angry to see you hurt.”

“It did? Was that really it?” I could feel his body tremble slightly.

“Gregory, have you ever done it before?” I asked into the dark.

“You know I’ve been saving myself for God, Margaret. I’ve never sinned. Well—not sinned that way, at any rate.”

“It’s not sin, if you’re married, and if you—like—the person, and if you—want to,” I answered him.

“It’s not just that, you know—it’s them too. Always prowling around, checking up. This is the first night they haven’t all been up here, ready to count how many times—just like one of Father’s stud horses. I couldn’t bear it.” I reached out and put my hand on his arm. I could feel him shaking all over.

“Oh, God, you’re so beautiful,” he said, just before I kissed him, pulling him down on me. I didn’t need to show him much. Somehow he seemed to know already. It was I, I who had known everything who knew nothing. What could I ever have understood of a lifetime of passion, all locked behind high walls, until the moment I had opened the gate to be drowned in the flood of it? I could feel the heat of his body blazing on mine, my skin all damp and flickering with the strange shivering glow of the lightning that leapt within us and between us. I don’t even know what to call what we did that night. The heart of a fire, the eye of the sun—it consumed us to leave only a whisper of white ash behind. And somewhere in the midst of it I realized that this must be the passion of the body that the bards sing of: the stuff of dreams and damnation, that only leaves you the hungrier for the having of it. Mindless and mad, it kindled itself and belonged to itself. A thought, like the drift of a sinking ship, swirled to the surface: Is this death? Die here then. Then we were pulled under again by the maelstrom.

It was nearly dawn before we fell asleep, racked and exhausted by lovemaking. It wasn’t until several days later I remembered that in the last moment before I closed my eyes, I heard something like the sighing breeze, and felt the Cold Thing, even though the curtains were pulled tight.

CHAPTER TWO

A
S DAWN POKED THROUGH THE BED curtains, I could hear stirring and groaning in the room outside. The world, the ordinary world, was out there again, as if nothing had happened. Someone had been sick in the rushes, and it didn’t smell nice. The tower door was open—somehow they must have dragged the old man up to his great bed in the tower room. But most of those who’d got upstairs at all hadn’t got farther than the solar. I could make out Hugo’s head and one arm among the tangled bodies in the bed opposite. There were more bodies, still clothed, strewn about on the floor. It looked as if the plague had been through the house. Gregory opened one eye, pulled me back from the open curtain, and looked out himself.

“Hmm. The battlefield of Bacchus,”he said, and brought his head in again. Then he leaned back in the feathery mess and put both his hands behind his head. He looked speculatively up at the sagging canopy, and a slow smile spread across his face. A thin beam of light through the open bed curtains picked out the line of his arm, and the dark hairs glistened, as if they still glowed with the fast-fading night blaze.

“Haven’t we had a time, though? I never expected it to turn out like this. I mean, being married and all.” His voice had a contented ring. Oh, morning, morning, why must you come? Why must we be so plain by day? I hugged the last of the fading glow to me, as if I could save all of last night to feed on through the cold day.

“I’m hungry, Gregory.”

“Me too. Remember when you used to make me eat breakfast before you’d have your lesson? You said I wasn’t fit to be spoken to without breakfast.” How could he be just the same, after what had happened? How could everything be just the same?

“I could go downstairs, and see if anyone’s in the kitchen.” Suddenly I was starving.

“You had good breakfasts at your house. Of course, Father says breakfasts are for sick people, and anyone who isn’t a weakling can wait until eleven for a proper dinner.” I couldn’t believe it. Was this the same man that had set my body aflame with unquenchable fire? “I wonder what God thinks about breakfast?” he rambled on cheerfully. “Now, since He doesn’t eat, with Him it would be purely a theoretical issue, but …”

“Help me brush the feathers off my back, and I’ll get dressed and find something.”

“Actually, Margaret, you can’t get out of bed today. If you did, they’d think I hadn’t a heavy enough hand.”

“But I can’t stay in bed. I haven’t a nursemaid, and I promised the girls they could ride the donkey.”

“For once, they can wait. You can’t get out of bed until after everyone else, and if anyone speaks to you, moan a bit.”

“But it’s all feathery in here. I don’t want to stay in bed.”

“Too bad, that’s an order. After all, who’s master?” He raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“I’m still hungry. Are you going to starve me up here all morning?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll send somebody up—if there’s anybody to send.” And he went downstairs whistling.

Pretty soon there was a clatter of footsteps up the stairs, and a girl in wooden clogs made her way through the bodies to the bed. The noise of her footgear elicited groans, and I could hear her say, “My, what a stink!” before she appeared at the bedside with a tray. It was Cis, the laundress. The sleeves of her old gray wool gown were rolled up and tucked above the elbows. Her butter-yellow hair, damp from steam, was hanging in limp curls around her round face. I had noticed her before, apparently the only woman in a womanless house, a plump, busy little figure who never seemed to be much occupied with laundry. But now that I saw her closer, I saw she was not so much plump as big busted, and short for her age, which must have been around sixteen. She was staring so hard, you’d have thought I was a unicorn.

“Just look at all them feathers, will you? He must have really done you.”

I could barely understand her thick country accent. But since I couldn’t honestly bring myself to groan, I just said, “Is that breakfast? Can I have it?”

She looked down at the tray in surprise, as if she’d forgotten it momentarily. “Yes.
He
sent it up. I’m sure he’s sorry. You’re lucky. The others are never sorry.”

What a tactless girl. I wondered how she knew. I started to eat, but she didn’t go away. She just kept staring. Finally I swallowed a bite and asked: “Why are you staring?”

“Ooo. I’ve never seen a lady before, and I have to remember everything, to tell the others.” Her gaze wandered to the perch.

“Them your clothes?” she asked, fingering my shift. “Nice. That’s linen, ain’t it?” Then she saw the surcoat hung beneath. Her eyes widened, and she ran her hands over the embroidery. “My, my. That’s gold—and green velvet too. Is it from London?”

“It was made there, but the material’s from Genoa.”

“That’s far, isn’t it?”

“Very far. My former husband brought it on a ship. But tell me, is anyone up downstairs?”

“Hardly anyone. The inside grooms are still lying in the hall, but Cook’s up, though his head hurts. The outside grooms have taken the horses out, and we was boiling the tablecloths in the courtyard when Master Gilbert came out. Mam told me all about ladies: she saw Lady Bertrande almost every day. But I don’t remember her at all. She died when I was very little. Everybody says she was the greatest lady in the whole world. When
she
came here after her wedding, she brought chests and chests and chests from her father’s house. And falcons, and hounds, and a white mare, and a lapdog, and two grooms, and a chaplain, and three maids.” Then she looked me over. “You don’t have any maids, do you?”

“Not here.” I was beginning to be annoyed.

“But you have got all the rest, haven’t you? The chests and the lap-dog and all, somewhere else?”

“Yes, of course I do.” How horrid. Judged by my lapdog. I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint her by telling her I wasn’t a real lady at all. Just a merchant’s widow with money. And what will happen to me when the money’s gone? I wondered. I could be trapped here forever, doing other people’s mending—the useless younger son’s useless wife.

Now if only the property claims could be settled, then Gregory could take me away, I mused. Without his relatives, everything would be better. After all, a man and a woman don’t have to love each other to live well together. Look at last night. It’s good, that part of it. And he does care for me, in his own way. And he’s clever—we’d have things to talk about. We could be happy. We could visit his family twice—oh, maybe once a year. Yes, once—that was about right. Just until the furniture started flying. That wouldn’t be many days at all. Living with relatives, that’s what makes things bad in a marriage. Not that just about everyone doesn’t do it, especially the landed gentry. But usually it’s only the older son who has to live in his father’s manor until he inherits, and often enough it drives him crazy. So if I can get Gregory to see it right, he’ll understand that we’re fortunate, we have possibilities.

By this time Cis had remembered herself enough to make a curtsey, before clattering off through the groaning and stirring bodies. I pulled the curtains and had just settled back to eating when I heard rustling outside the bed.

“Mama, can we get in?”

“Mama, I need you to tie the lace at the back of my dress.”

“Mama, have you got breakfast in there? We’re hungry too.” They had dressed themselves in the eccentric fashion that children have: Cecily had put Alison’s dress on her inside out in the bargain. They clambered up into the bed.

“Look at the feathers! Mama, you’ve spoiled the
whole
bed, and nobody’s here to fix it.” They were right—I hadn’t even a needle to sew up the pillow again. They’d not thought to bring away a single useful item from the London house. Men. They’d brought the carved chest with Master Kendall’s astrolabe, his books, and the Saracen scimitar, but they hadn’t brought a needle, or a distaff, or anything a woman might need. Well, surely, I thought, if they’ve got clothes here, there must be a needle and thread. I’ll wait a decent interval to satisfy Gregory, then get dressed and go hunting. Somebody has to be doing the mending. Maybe I can get that laundress to put the feathers back and tidy things up. By this time, the girls had eaten most of the breakfast and begged to go downstairs.

“Now you go straight to John in the stable, and you are to ride the donkey only in the courtyard. Be sure to share. Cecily, don’t be greedy and take all the turns. And look after Alison, because she’s little and could get hurt. Do you promise?” They looked so sweet as they promised. Cecily, tall and thin for a girl not so far from six, bobbed her unruly mass of red curls. She never could keep them properly combed; they were as troublesome as the splash of freckles across her nose that simply would come out every summer, even when I rubbed cucumber on them. Alison, eventhough she’s not yet four, so it’s a little early to tell, will probably never have a freckle problem. She’s as pink and white as a rose. The sweet little thing put two fingers in her mouth as she looked solemnly out of her great blue eyes at me.

“Iss, Mama. I pwomise,” she said. The waves of her strawberry blond hair glistened in a ray of early morning sun that fell through the narrow slit of the window. An angel, I thought. She looks just like an angel. God protect them both. But I guess I’ll never learn. There are only two times when the girls look likeangels. One is when they’re sick; the other is when they’re planning something. It is a good thing I couldn’t see the something they had in mind. It was the beginning of events that changed everything.

T
HE
S
IEUR DE
V
ILERS
had risen at dawn, heard prayers in his chapel, and was now preparing to ride out and inspect his pasture, where a number of his mares were in foal. It was not too far to walk, but a knight does not set foot on the ground when it’s possible to ride, so he was standing at the top of the stair before the low, carved arch of the door to his Great Hall, waiting for the groom to bring him the freshly saddled roan. Not a bad horse—a good fifteen and a half hands, tall enough for a man who would never shame his ancestors by being seen on a short horse—and the creature did have a pleasant amble. But he also had three white feet, and that’s a great flaw. The feet had bred true, and the amble hadn’t, so Sir Hubert had had him gelded. And while he wouldn’t have been seen among gentlemen on him subsequently, the animal’s gait was well suited to a man whose head was still throbbing as if Beelzebub himself had sat on it all night.

Looking at the mares would help him make his decision. It was early in the season, too early, really, and he would have liked to see even some of the foals before he made his decision, but it couldn’t wait. The Duke was leaving for France again, and he was sworn to go with him. So something had to be done to slash through, at a single stroke, the knots that those damned lawyers had tied all about him to deny him his due. After all, who’d taken the risk, and borne off the prize? Him, not them. And he was damned well going to keep every penny and every square inch. It was fair spoils, and his due. Those imps of hell and their papers and Latin gibble-gabble should all be sent back to their vile maker, the Father of Lies. The only sort of people who are worse are the judges—especially the kind who take gifts from land thieves and false claimants. People of no proper blood, who talk through lawyers’ mouths, instead of man to man, and think the backing of an earl will win their case. Well, they’d find out Sir Hubert de Vilers was not a man to be trifled with; he’d apply counterpressure.

As usual, the sight of his mares, all but one placidly and heavily in foal, soothed him. The cold wind ruffled their shaggy winter coats as they lifted their heads to stare at him. Walking gold, all of them. Yes, he’d do it. A duke outweighs an earl anytime—especially his duke, who was the greatest warlord in England. He’d take him the French stud, the famous French stud that he’d brought back from the wars, and the court cases would swing his way. A sacrifice, of course, but not as bad as it might be if enough mares weren’t in foal, or if the stud hadn’t been getting older. A great horse, still a real man’s destrier: gray, nearly seventeen hands, and as wide as he was tall. A good sire, too, even on the wretched English mares he’d started out with. Now he’d crossed the line back and got something worth looking at. Not quite deep enough in the chest, though. If he could somehow get the black’s chest and height, and the gray’s hindquarters and disposition, he’d be close—so very close. Of course, there was the black’s temperament. High, too high, but it might improve with age. There’s no reason, no reason at all, mused the old knight through his headache, that the French should breed the best destriers. Someday, if it all worked out, he’d have it: the perfect English destrier.

For a moment there, standing in the brown, ice-mottled pasture beneath the wide, brooding dark sky, he could almost see the dream stallion before him. Eighteen hands, as broad as a house, with iron shod feet as big as trenchers barely visible beneath heavy feathering. Gray, of course, the best color, with a deep black velvety muzzle, and no ugly china eye. The de Vilers breed, they’d call them, and a man wouldn’t count himself properly mounted unless he had one.