The Water Devil (15 page)

“I do believe he did, according to legend.”

“Do you have her name?”

“No, women's names weren't important to keep record of in those days.”

“Well, then, he cedes it to his daughter Aelfrida, who marries Guillaume. Luckily, his possession is confirmed by the mighty Conqueror himself, who awards the lands of his old enemy, Ingulf the Saxon, to his loyal servant Guillaume de Vilers—”

“How can that be?” sputtered Sir Hubert.

“In the chest, of course. It is your great good fortune that I have recently acquired an excellent seal of the Conqueror, and your brilliant, if unappreciated son Gilbert happens to be able to mimic any hand. Allow our artistic imagination to supply the chest with its contents, and the rest is easy. The family travels back with you to
Brokesford. Such a large family, Margaret, and you pack so much. Hidden away in her excessive luggage is the chest, which you and Gilbert spirit away in the dead of night and bury in the appropriate location.”

“And you?”

“I remain in London, so as not to give the slightest taint to the operation. I am, after all, celebrated in some circles.” Brother Malachi looked modest.

Sir Hubert's face regained its color. His white hair, which had been drooping forlornly about his face, stood on its ends once again, whirling about his head like a stormcloud. He stood, he punched one fist into the open palm of his other hand.

“It could work! It COULD work, by God! Brother Malachi, you are a genius!” Brother Malachi bowed slightly from his seat in acknowledgment. But the old man's ferocious eyebrows had drawn together in a frown. “It's too easy,” he said. “What is it that you're getting out of it?”

“Any number of things,” said Brother Malachi airily, waving a hand in the air as if shooing flies. “First of all, there's Margaret, and though we're not related, she's like a daughter to me. Yes, don't look shocked. She's family, and if I don't send you off satisfied, you'll steal the little security and peace of heart that old Master Kendall, in his indulgence, left her. Gilbert and I have been friends for years, and I know perfectly well he can live quite extravagantly on a bundle of old clothes, a pen, and his golden tongue. Not so with Margaret. She has little ones now. And don't pull that face on me, either. If you want my help, you have to see what you are. A pirate, who'd not stop short of robbing his own family for whatever folly entered his mind.”

“You—how dare you!” sputtered Sir Hubert, and rose to go.

“When you say good-bye to me, say good-bye to that property— and to your son and grandson as well, for Gilbert is with Margaret on this, and I'd be delighted to put my magnificent mind to work to see you properly caged up away from them. If you want to go, just do so now. Just put on the spurs I know perfectly well you've got
stowed away in your wallet, and swagger off down our little alley that repels you so, and straight into the mouth of disaster. It would serve you right for snubbing men of learning, which you have doubtless done your whole life.” Sir Hubert gathered himself up like a thundercloud. Had he worn his sword, he might have used it, but Gilbert had brought him here stripped like an infant. He growled, a long low growl, turned, and strode through the door of the laboratorium. So angry was he that he forgot to duck, and the low doorjamb struck him hard on the forehead. He staggered back, clapping his hand to his forehead and sitting down suddenly.

“Dizzy—what a blow. Even your house conspires against me.”

“Take it as a warning,” announced Brother Malachi. Sir Hubert thought of the mysterious house, the strange jars and baskets, the eerie smell that made his back crawl, and with his thumping head it seemed all too likely that this Malachi fellow had terrible, secret powers which he had unfortunately aroused. Even worse than that God-forsaken pond that swallowed up Sir Roger the priest before he could finish drawing up the papers for the lawsuit.

“Margaret—” he heard Gilbert say. “Father's head—”

“I can't anymore,” she answered softly. “You know what happens when you come home from a long trip.”

“Do you mean—?”

“What else? I was waiting to be sure before I told you.”The old lord saw his son move closer and put his arm protectively around Margaret. He knew of Margaret's eccentricities from the old days, and he knew what she meant. His head would continue aching, and Brokesford was now due to have a second heir. He also knew that Malachi was right. Who'd have thought Gilbert was such a sentimental fool about things like that? Women's breeding is women's business, until they produce a male heir, when it then becomes men's business. He knew too that he'd keep his headache and lose his son, right there and then, when he'd gone to all the trouble to recover him, polish him up, and make him respectable. He thought of all the things he held sacred: he thought of property, he thought of lineage, he thought of victory—

“What's the other thing?” he asked Brother Malachi.

“I hate lawyers,” said Brother Malachi.

“By God, I hate them too,” said Sir Hubert, though without his old fire, for shouting would make his head hurt worse. “I hate them like poison.”

“Then we're agreed?”

“Let us go forward with this thing, and tangle them up in their own documents. And—” he paused a long time and sighed, “and you'll find I'm a gentleman, and capable of apology. I did put the trees ahead of the little ones' house and happiness. I didn't think it counted.”

“It does with me,” said Brother Malachi.

O
FF TO MASS AGAIN SO SOON, YOU two? The holiness in this house becomes oppressive.” Hugo was lying on his backside on the bench in our hall, one hand holding a wedge of Cook's pigeon pie, and the other lazily extended to pet one of the large, ugly hounds that they had brought with them. “Nothing like— mmf, munch—a bite to eat to settle a queasy stomach. I swear that dish of smoked pike I ate last night was tainted.”

“If you will eat at the stews, that is what will happen,” I said, unpitying.

“I might as well settle in to enjoy myself, while you two are praying up a loan. It's going to take a while.” Hugo threw the last greasy remnant into the new rushes for the dogs to fight over. I could feel my back stiffen. My nice new rushes. My clean whitewash. Polluted by these oafish, uninvited visitors. Hugo sat up, one leg, the one clad in blue, crossed over the other, the one clad in red. “Tell me, brother, since you're the family expert in theology, if I have my confessions written out, is it best to be seen frequently at mass before I let it be known about the book, or should I experience a sudden conversion, a sort of bolt out of the blue?” I could see Gilbert grinding his teeth. Then he spoke, very carefully, so that he would not be tempted to bang Hugo over the head with the bench and thus delay our errand.

“Attendance at mass is an excellent strategy, Hugo, but only if you refrain from pursuing women during the elevation of the host.”

“Hmph. I don't really see your reasoning. A good-looking
woman is a work of God. Pursuing them is a kind of devotional exercise.” I could see the back of Gilbert's neck turning red. I pulled on his sleeve. “The way I see it, since there are no carnal relations in heaven, and since God clearly made us for carnal relations, then it's our duty to do as much as possible while on earth.”

“That, Hugo, is called the sin of lust.”

“A sin, eh? Goodness, who'd have thought it. And here I had it all worked out. Maybe I should pass on this theology fashion and save my conversion for my deathbed. Yes, that's it; I'll confess everything and repent, and take monk's robes, and everyone will weep. Besides, it's much holier that way.”

“And just what do you mean by that?”

“Well, I'll have ever so much more to confess by that time, and so when I receive God's grace, it will be bigger than other people's.” Waves of rage were coming off Gilbert like the heat over a summer cornfield. I saw him eyeing the bench. I tugged at his sleeve again. He looked at me, a long look, then back at Hugo. Then he growled and turned on his heel.

“I'm thinking that lightning blasted the wrong person that day,” he said as we went out the front door.

“Odd, that's exactly what I was thinking,” I said, but the door had slammed behind us.

WE WERE ALREADY
at Cornhill, passing the Cardinal's Hat tavern, before Gilbert quit fuming and talking to himself. The smell of stale fish wafted our way from the Leadenhall Market, as we picked our way through the gutters to Malachi and Hilde's house. One look at our sour faces and we were whisked inside and plied with ale until Gilbert stopped spluttering.

“The heat must have made you thirsty. Have some more of this excellent brown ale. Margaret made it, and there's no better in the City.” Mother Hilde beamed as she filled the cups again. She and I had planned to have a delicious time catching up on all the abnormal births in the City, while Gilbert and Malachi planned the contents
of the letter that would just accidentally reveal the hiding place of the chest with the deeds.

“I am well aware of that, you old thief, since I packed the cask over to you myself.”

“Nothing better to lubricate the brain. And by the looks of you, you had better lubricate yours a little. Gilbert, you look like a thundercloud. What have you been doing?”

“Arguing theology with Hugo.” Malachi burst out laughing.

“Hopeless, hopeless, and you should have known it! Come, let's go to work. I must show you all a treasure I've found. Get up, Margaret, and just take a look at this.” I stood up from my seat, a long, low chest that served also as a bench, and stood aside as Malachi opened it and rummaged through. “Let's see, it's down near the bottom,” he said, throwing aside a Dominican habit that was folded up with pennyroyal and lavender. “Yes, here!” He plunged his hand deeper and came up with an old drinking horn. “Just look at this. The ceremonial drinking horn of Ingulf the Saxon. Don't you think it will add verisimilitude to the contents of the chest?”

The horn itself was from some sort of gigantic ox I certainly had never seen. The mouthpiece was in silver and gilt, elaborately carved with twisting lines and set about here and there with small, semiprecious stones. The tip was made in the form of an elaborately carved dragon, whose fangs had a gap apparently made for a chain or cord now missing. It looked very old, crusted with age and neglect, and the silver had turned black.

“Did you age it, Brother Malachi?” I asked. “I've never seen a better job.”

“No, it came that way. A fellow alchemist friend of mine was about to reduce it for the metal. But I just had a thought that it might come in handy some day, so I bought it from him.” Gilbert picked up the horn and turned it this way and that, a beatific smile playing over his features.

“Malachi, you're an artist,” he said.

“Of course he is,” said Mother Hilde, her eyes shining with pride.

“Gilbert, don't touch the tarnish. It has to be even all over when it's found.”

“I was just wondering. Are these some kind of writing?” he asked, pointing to the elaborate, interwoven, abstract figures.

“If they are, then they're nothing we can read. And if we two accomplished scholars can't read them between us, neither can anyone else. It's just the way the Saxons, or maybe the Danes, did things. Just look at that ugly dragon. It's quite popeyed, and hasn't got a nose worth looking at. Certainly not the way a dragon should look.”

“Splendidly barbaric. Even father will be surprised to find this thing in there.”

“Surprise is essential. It will give a genuine reaction, and the witnesses will believe the whole thing, because of the fraction of truth in the way they behave. Especially Hugo. Gilbert, I have never been able to conceive of how you acquired a family like that. You must be some sort of freak, like that horse of Caesar's with the toes.” Malachi stood, taking his ale with him for inspiration, and headed for the door of his laboratorium.

“I always thought it was the other way around, Malachi—I am an ordinary sort of fellow, and they are the freaks—” Gilbert followed him, ducking through the door, cup in hand.

“On the contrary, Gilbert, they represent the average run of humanity—” The door closed behind them.

“Come round into the garden by the front gate, Margaret. I've beans to pick, and a thousand things to tell you.” I picked up the basket from the corner to follow her.

“Margaret, you don't have to do that, you're a great lady now. It isn't proper.”

“Mother Hilde,” I said, following her around to unlatch the front gate, carrying both of our baskets, “I'm still just me, Margaret. The rest is all—clothing, if you see what I mean. We're just the same as ever, and you'll always be my teacher.”

“And doesn't this just remind you of the old days, when Malachi wouldn't let us go through the laboratorium and out the back door,
for fear our female essence might undermine one of his experiments?” she said happily.

“Or that our tread was too heavy, and might wiggle some delicate process—as if he had such a light tread himself.” Mother Hilde's garden was golden with summer sun, and the fruit hung warm on the trees. In one corner were beehives of twisted straw, and in the other was the shed where Mother Hilde kept her she-ass for milking. Asses' milk and goats' milk are best for babies, she always said, if their own mother's milk fails and the wetnurse can't be got quickly enough. But a she-ass has the virtue of also being able to carry panniers laden with market goods, or Mother Hilde herself, if her feet get tired.

The scent of the roses that climbed all over the shed filled the garden. Malachi may be a genius with metals, but Mother Hilde is a genius with plants. In a sunny corner place by the beehives, she had strange herbs that looked like a tangle of weeds, grown from seeds she had brought back from her pilgrimage abroad, the one she had taken with me when we retrieved Gilbert from that French prison. Beyond the wattled fence of her henyard, amidst the contented clucking, there was a raucous screech.

“I meant to ask you, Mother Hilde, where did you get the peacock?”

“A gift, Margaret, but he's so lovely I can't bear to eat him. And my rooster's jealous of him. Oh, it's a drama these days in my henyard. Let me save a few tailfeathers for your children.” As I picked beans from the tall tents of her beanpoles, Mother Hilde let herself into the yard and came out with a handful of feathers.“I don't know whether he just drops them or whether the rooster picks them off, but he certainly has more where these came from.” I held them up by my head.