The Water Devil (27 page)

“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.

“It is ancient writing, I believe. But I cannot read it. No man is left alive who can read this. I have seen it before, on a brooch discovered by a plowman at Salisbury. The clerks gathered around the horn, to try to make out the odd figures, but none could.

“The parchments, father, have them read the words. Maybe they tell what it is,” said Hugo, clutching up the papers from the box.

“Careful with those, boy, you don't want to ruin them before they're read.”As the canon unfolded the heavily sealed deed of the great Duke William, conqueror of England, the abbot's face was dismal.

“My lord, this is a grant of all the lands of Ingulf the Saxon to one Guillaume de Vilers, loyal servant of William the Conqueror. It confirms him in the heritage he has by marriage to one Aelfrida, Ingulf's daughter, and adds to it another tract previously belonging to Ingulf's son, deceased.”

“This tells us nothing we didn't know already,” said the lawyer, frowning.

“Why, it certainly does,” announced Hugo. “I've never heard of this Ingulf fellow, but I'm sure he lived long before Henry the Second. Prepare for defeat, fellow. We'll be seeing you at the assizes.”

“But it says nothing about the boundaries we don't know already,” said the lawyer, who had pushed up and was eagerly reading the document over the canon's shoulder.

“The horn, doesn't it say anything about the horn?” said Sir Hubert. “Read on, read on, I beg you, lord canon. Look at the other document.”

“This one is written in the ancient clerical hand, by a priest who writes for Ingulf the Saxon. He has given his daughter Aelfrida and her heirs in perpetuity the ownership and custody of the holy well of Saint Edburga, together with the sacred yew trees and the land containing the sacred oak forest marked by the boundary stones at Lesser Beechford and Hamsby.”

“Well, then, that's done. Property can't descend through the female line.”

“No, master lawyer, Aelfrida's property becomes the de Vilers property, by Norman land grant. Yes, it's clearly this place. It describes that big rock there, and the hermitage of Saint Edburga lying directly by it. Aha, here's your part, my lord. It describes the horn. It says in token of saving his life, he has given to Sieur Guillaume de Vilers his own drinking horn, passed down from ancient days, to be taken possession of only after his death. He bids him hang it in the place of honor in his hall and drink from it once a year in his remembrance.” My goodness, that's a flourish, I thought. Gilbert must have got carried away. I looked over at him, where he stood by his horse, away from the crowd, arms folded, his face impassive as he watched the play unfold.

“The
HORN
of
INGULF THE SAXON
!” exulted Sir Hubert, holding the great horn aloft. “The mighty Ingulf HIMSELF gives us our SPRING!” There was a cheer from the peasant onlookers. Sir Hubert took the horn in the crook of his arm as if it were a baby, and began to stroke it. I looked over at Gilbert again. He looked aghast. Would he be the one responsible for sending the old man off
into the realms of lunacy? I could feel the guilt coming off him in waves as he watched his father cradle the great drinking horn. “Every year—ah, God, how many years have we neglected to drink to your memory, you honored ancestor. And yours was a race of heroes. Who else could drink all the ale this great horn could hold without once setting it down?” Then he turned to Hugo. “Hugo! Every year on this date I will drink to Ingulf the Saxon, and I expect you to do the same at my death!”

“Ugh, father, really. That thing's very filthy. It's probably full of insects.”

“How
DARE
you, you
UNGRATEFUL BRAT
! The blood of the mighty Ingulf runs THIN in you!” The old man's eyes blazed, and he raised his arm with the very first weapon to come to hand—the drinking horn which he was already holding.

“Father, father, don't hit him with it. It's old, you could shatter it!” said Gilbert, dropping his aloof pose, and running directly into the fray. Clever, clever, Malachi. He had read them all correctly. They never could have behaved so genuinely in front of witnesses if he had not planted the horn. But the surprise was Sir Hubert. I'd never seen him in such a mood as this. His beard, his eyebrows, seemed to quiver with triumph as he planted himself square by the open chest.

“My ancestor, I FEEL him here!” he announced.“He stands beside me, bloodied in defeat, but still a hero! His life and lands were saved by the great father and founder of the de Vilers. His noble daughter transmitted the blood of heroes!” Sir Hubert looked into the air by his shoulder. I had never imagined he had a mystical bone in his obnoxious body. “I see him, I see him!” cried Sir Hubert, and all the world was convinced he did. “His beard is white, his noble brow is furrowed by a great scar! He has a helmet, a helmet with a fierce mask of iron, tilted back upon his head! He holds a mighty battle axe! His voice is like thunder. He says, ‘WELL DONE. My oaks must stand.'” Behind us, the rippling, bubbling sound of the uprushing waters at the center of the pond sounded almost like laughter.

It was an astonishing moment. To the day that they died, almost
every soul that witnessed the happenings there would never doubt that the claim of the de Vilers to the spring was confirmed by law, by custom, and by the ancestral ghosts conjured up by the horn of Ingulf the Saxon. The peasants rejoiced, the pilgrims looked at each other, nodding and gossiping, the neighbors folded their arms and looked triumphant. Only the lawyer looked like a dark cloud had descended upon his brow. And the abbot—well, the abbot looked inscrutable.

THE NEXT MORNING
, Lady Petronilla looked about from her board with great irritation. The crowd had thinned considerably, and the abbot and chanting monks had gone. The demons in her had been considerably chastened by the frigid soaking they had undergone, and they had acquired, as well, a serious head cold. Everyone was singing the praises of Ingulf the Saxon and discussing the contents of the wonderful box, and who would go to court to bear testimony to its discovery, and how angry the lawyer had looked, and all the rest of it. Whether Lady Petronilla held two, six, or a hundred more demons seemed to interest very few, except for the canon, who was determined to finish the job.

“Achoo! I speak with a mighty voice from hell—” Ring-a-ring, went the silver bell.

“Begone, noxious spirit!”

“Aren't you even—sniff, sniff—going to ask which one I am?” The canon opened his book to read the formula for getting rid of Behemoth.

“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti! Hel, Heloym, Sother, Emmanuel, Sabaoth—”

“Achoo, achoo, achoo!”The incense set off a sneezing fit.

“It is the demon Behemoth, departing in the form of exudate from the nostrils!
Agia, Thetragrammaton, Agyos!
”

There was a horrible scream from the board.“Why isn't anybody watching? How dare you gossip when I am being exorcised! I tell you, I'll have your tongues cut out, every one of you! I come from a great family! I deserve more than one miserable canon and a clodhopper
priest! Where are my chanting monks? I warn you, I won't do a thing more without my chanting monks!”

“Aha,” said the canon. “There goes Balam in the form of impious speech.” He waved the censor over her and set off another sneezing fit. Then he gestured to the village priest for the holy water, and asperged the possessed one liberally.

“Quit sprinkling me, you oaf!” Lady Petronilla shouted.

“Now, take this down,” he said to one of his deacons, who was seated with quill and paper nearby. “On the eve of the feast of Saint Bartholemew, on a day damp with an unnatural heat, the last of four great devils was cast out in this, my most difficult case—”

“You wretched, self-seeking, pompous cretin—”

“A haze of sulfurous fumes lay about the altar, as the last of the demons shouted impious imprecations—be sure to take down the imprecations—at peril of his life, the bold canon—”

“You pawed me all over, you lecherous beast, and you didn't even bring back my singing monks!” Lady Petronilla seemed to me, at least, to have completely recovered herself.

“Wait, wait!” said the canon, raising one hand. “Balam is not yet fully exorcised. Hear him there, mouthing filth?
Agyos, Otheos, Ischiros. Exorciso te immunde spiritus!
” Lady Petronilla laughed bitterly. “Aha, there he is!” cried the canon. “I knew you were still in there, Balam! You have revealed yourself.”

“I have indeed,” said Lady Petronilla. “Every inch of skin, and what have you done for me? You're a eunuch, Sir canon. As useless as that husband of mine. I tell you, dogs make it last longer.”

“Begone, demon of vile speech!—Don't take that last bit down, you—begone! Hear thy doom, O devil accursed! Thou art discovered, O Balam, and sent back to the realms of the infernal!” He sprinkled more holy water, and Lady Petronilla blinked and sneezed.

“Definitely, the demon has exited in the form of snot. Pass me the wafer—now, this part, write down, ‘tempted by unholy phantasms, and weak with fasting and prayer, the canon at last extended the holy wafer in his trembling hand—'”

“You charlatan. You always win, don't you?”

“Of course I do. I am, so far, undefeated by—how many demons was it?” The scribe leafed through his book.

“Eight hundred and thirty eight, that's including these four, your reverence.”

“Undefeated by eight hundred and thirty eight demons, including yours. Now take the wafer and show that you are no longer inhabited by the forces of hell.” Lady Petronilla opened her mouth. But the thing was not to be done so quickly. There had to be a number of prayers, invocations, thanksgivings, eucharistic, and otherwise. As we sang the responses, Lady Petronilla became more and more impatient, and her eyes rolled wickedly. Definitely, she was back to herself. Whatever demons inhabited her were entirely her own.

After she had received the wafer and made a great show of swallowing it, they untied her, and she sat up on the board and had another sneezing fit. I seemed to see her hand go to her mouth, and an impudent, malign look cross her face. Definitely, she was spitting something out. As she stood, she wiped her hand on the back of her ruined, stained kirtle.

“Woman, thou art made clean of demons. Kneel with me now in thanksgiving.”

“First up, then down. I want a new dress. Send for my sewing women.”

“It is clear to me, thou art clean of demons, but not of the impudence and sin of your sex. Small wonder that the demons found your soul a pleasant abode. Now, kneel and pray.”

SIR HUGO WAS NOT THERE
to take her back to the manor, because he was off having a new surcoat made “in the style of the ancient Saxons”—whatever that was—and having a mask of terror graven on the face of his helmet, to the degree that this could be accomplished. Sir Hubert was off with his steward and his replenished chest of documents, conferring with lawyers and filing new claims. So it was left to me and to Gilbert to take her home. As I escorted her out through the church porch, she said, “It
would
be you. I don't have to touch you if I don't want.”

“Then don't,” I answered. But when she saw Gilbert waiting with the horses for her, she let out a scream of fury.

“How
dare
you!” she cried.

Her saddle and bridle were on Old Brownie.

“The other palfreys are all gone,” said Gilbert, his face bland.

“Where's my hunting mare?”

“She's cast a shoe. I felt you wouldn't wish to ride a mule.”

“I would not be
seen
on a mule.”

“Exactly,” said Gilbert. “So this is what's left.”

“Then I want the white mare.”

“That's Margaret's. And you cut her up. I really can't have you ruining the horses we brought up from London.”

Lady Petronilla let out another dreadful cry. “You swine!” she shrieked.

“Say, canon,” said Gilbert, looking over to where the canon was pulling on his riding gloves and preparing to mount, “are you sure you got all those devils out of her?”

“Absolutely sure,” said the canon, looking professional. “I've got it all written up. Numbers Eight hundred and thirty four to eight hundred and thirty eight. Removed from a barren, middle-aged lady of good family, with a strong native constitution and a naturally vicious personality. A difficult, a very difficult job. There were moments I thought my own soul was at risk.”

“Middle-aged? I'm nowhere near thirty yet! My body is still beautiful! You
snake,
you
toad,
you—”

“The family of de Vilers owes you a worthy reward,” said Gilbert, his face pious and deferential, but his eyes bright with suppressed, cynical humor. Ah, Lord, I prayed. Just when you got the devils out of Petronilla, you've gone and put the devil back in him. The deed, the horn, the whole thing, they've gone and puffed him up. Keep him from bursting out, good God. No satiric verses, no troublemaking theological broadsides, no practical jokes. Give us peace, Lord. And get us out of here as soon as possible. But of course, that's not how God works.

W
HAT ON EARTH?” GILBERT'S HEAD turned at the loud, bustling, yapping noise. The children were playing with the new puppies in the corner of the great hall, but the noise wasn't from them. At the sound, Mother Sarah looked up from where she was sleeping with a snort, and even Madame, mending in her hand, ducked her head to keep from laughing.