CHAPTER NINE
SHOW IN THE EMISSARIES OF THE COUNT of Foix.” The Sieur d’Aigremont had arranged himself on the dais at the end of his great hall to create the most impressive picture. His heavy cloak was thrown back across the arms of the great thronelike wooden chair in which he sat, revealing at the same time the richness of the miniver that lined the cloak and the exquisite pale blue satin of the gold-embroidered doublet that glistened over the rolling fat of his vast torso. His immense, ring-bedecked, and now hairless hands lay idly on the arms of the chair, as if they had nothing better to do in life than lift a pomander to his nostrils. Yet they also suggested a sort of latent menace and power—as if they might suddenly strangle a full-grown man in a single spasm of rage. The seemingly careless arrangement of hands, cloak, and gown was the result of a careful design, set to frame what he considered his most handsome feature: his muscular legs, the legs of a powerful horseman, hunter, warrior, and dancer, encased in white silk pulled taut across huge thighs with showy gold garters.
It seemed an irony that a body of this unusual height and massiveness should be finished off by a head disproportionately small. But as if to compensate, the jowls had grown large enough to conceal the heavy neck entirely. Were it not for the immense jeweled collar that sat at the hidden seam between body and head, it would have been impossible to discern at what place the body left off and the head began. A wide dark blue velvet cap, heavily embroidered with pearls, shadowed the piggy, calculating little eyes, concealing the full extent of their malevolence from observers.
The ambassadors, two knights still dusty from the road, knelt before him and delivered the message that could not be entrusted to writing.
“Join with him in a treaty of peace with the English, eh? Is he so fearful that this Prince of Wales will march east from Gascony that he will not back France?”
“My lord of Foix says, how well has the King of France served him recently, that he should give his lands over to pillage, without any hope of gain? He rides with his cousin, the Captal de Buch, to join the Teutonic knights in crusade against the pagan Slavs in the east, for the sanctity of his soul. He prays that there be peace between you and himself, and that you join with him on a campaign where there is wealth and glory enough for all.”
“And protect his backside from me while he’s gone, eh? What makes him think it is likely?”
“Does not the commendable desire for vengeance for Navarre, who lies this day in the King of France’s prison, and for the slain Norman lords of the alliance move you? Navarre’s allegiance is to the English; a treaty with the English prince at Bordeaux would spare your realm and give evidence of your love for your lord. This alone should dispose you to hear my lord of Foix’s words with favor, even without the tokens of his love for you that you have so graciously received.”
“How could I ever fail to hear the words of the most noble young Count of Foix with anything but the highest favor? Stay and partake of my hospitality while I consider his words.”
As they were shown out, and before the next petitioners entered, he turned to Fray Joaquin, who stood behind him at his shoulder.
“A loving cousin indeed! Has the message from Navarre been decoded yet?”
“This morning, lord. He says, do not bind yourself to any but him; he expects to escape soon and has laid plans for the recapture of his lands in the north, and yours as well.”
“Good. We’ll delay, then send a message of our eternal friendship to the lord of Foix. I need time now—time and money—to equip the army I’ve sworn to raise in my lord’s support. Damn that captain of thieves, that wretched English duke! If he weren’t squatting on my northern lands like some devil, I’d have the money in my hands already. And now this miserable Count of Foix pesters me! Gaston Phoebus, Gaston Phoebus! Why in hell’s name should everyone call him after Apollo just because he’s got a pretty profile? It’s me that should be called Reynaud Phoebus! Me! Who’s the better poet? Who’s the greater connoisseur? It’s me, not that degenerate lordling. Friendship—ugh—I wish I had him in my hands to show him what I think of him.” The fingers of the Sieur d’Aigremont’s huge hands clutched convulsively, as if tearing apart a cooked egret’s wing. Then he turned again to Fray Joaquin.
“How close is Messer Guglielmo? I’m tired of waiting for the gold. Did you tell him I’ll impale him if he doesn’t make better speed?”
Fray Joaquin’s conspiratorial whisper became even more hushed. “He says he needs more fixative for the quicksilver. The stuff you provided wasn’t the right quality. He doesn’t dare call Asmodeus again. He’s losing control of him; he’s become too powerful with the offerings you’ve made, and may break through into the world.”
“Out of control? Messer Guglielmo is a weakling. I won’t have it. Does that popinjay Gaston Phoebus have trouble with his Orthon? No, he’s got his familiar spirit brought to heel—as obedient as can be. And he hasn’t fed Orthon half as well as I’ve fed Asmodeus. I think Messer Guglielmo is telling tales—he’s stalling. And as for fixative, what I’ve sent him has had the highest aesthetic quality. For example, the last little one, who screamed when I—”
“Not here, my lord, not here. But I think I have found an answer to your needs in this respect.” Fray Joaquin saw the blood throbbing in his master’s temples with the hungry remembrance of last night’s work in the hidden chambers. How the fat old fool lost his mind when desire possessed him. It was the weakness by which Fray Joaquin maintained his control over him.
“An answer?” Spit oozed from the corner of the Count’s red lips, and he licked them as if they still tasted of blood.
“To the gold problem. The next petitioners. The pilgrim party. Keep them all here under any pretext. The fat friar among them is the most powerful adept in Europe. You’ve heard of Theophilus of Rotterdam?”
“Theophilus? The one who was rumored to have obtained the Secret, and then vanished from Paris just before King John tried to arrest him?”
“The very one. He wisely chose to disappear to escape being imprisoned to make gold for the rest of his life.”
“Tell him I’ll torture him if he doesn’t reveal the Secret.”
“It’s entirely unnecessary. He says he’ll trade the Secret for the life of Sir Gilbert de Vilers, also known to you as Gilbert l’Escolier.”
“Gilbert l’Escolier? How in the Devil’s name did he know he was here?”
“He says the Stone gives the All-Seeing Eye.”
“All-Seeing Eye? That’s far better than Orthon has ever promised that piddling countlet of Foix. I’d be the most powerful man in the world—no, I’m not letting him go. Theophilus must be made to give up his Secret. And as for that arrogant pseudo poet, I haven’t the least intention of giving him up to Theophilus or anyone else. I haven’t even begun to work on him. Do you know what he said today? He’s as stubborn as ever. No, no, he promises excellent sport—among the best, and I intend to enjoy every tiny little fragment of a moment of it. Beguile this friar—give him the impression I’ve agreed, and get hold of the Secret. Then we’ll eliminate them both.”
“I anticipated your wishes, my lord. I have said nothing, but welcomed the entire party and brought them here for your inspection. Offer them your hospitality for a lengthy stay, and I’ll pry the Secret from the man—if not by guile, then by force.”
“Do whatever is necessary.” The Count waved a hand idly. Fray Joaquin, black cloak rippling behind him like a great shadow, vanished into the long corridor that led to the hidden chambers as the Count of St. Médard greeted the band of pilgrims with a pious quotation.
“HE CERTAINLY SEEMS HOSPITABLE, dear Malachi,” Mother Hilde said as she slid off her wide pilgrim’s hat, now limp with damp, and laid her staff and bundle at the foot of one of the beds in the center of the long, arched “pilgrim’s hall” that faced the inner courtyard of the castle. For days we had toiled upward along rushing streams from the autumn-clad foothills into the gray and misty heights. Yesterday we had left the spreading apple orchards of the high valley of St. Médard-en-bas behind us in the morning frost, and by the time we had reached the steep, winding streets of St. Médard-en-haut, the mist had turned into a slushy rain that soaked our shoes through and froze our faces.
“What did I tell you, flower of my life? My old name still works magic among the fraternity,” said Malachi, spreading his damp things before the great fire with a self-satisfied air. “Theophilus of Rotterdam does not have to stay at that miserable inn in the village with hoi polloi, but Brother Malachi would have had no other choice.”
All about us in the hall, the lesser members of the abbot’s party were settling in. Behind a heavy screen at the end of the hall, pierced only by a low wooden door, lay the accommodation for women pilgrims. The smell of wet wool and the sound of travelers’ chatter filled the room, giving it a homely air. As I shook the water off my cloak my stomach kept telling me this was all a dismal mistake. I’d never felt farther from home. I couldn’t imagine Gregory was in a place like this. Maybe he’d left. Maybe he’d never been there. Margaret, Margaret, you are a stupid, headstrong woman, and look what it’s got you. You’re freezing and pregnant and standing in the ugliest rooms in Christendom, and you’ve left your children and a warm bed to follow dreams and imaginings. Everybody always told you not to be so stubborn, and you should have listened.
“Oh, the courtesy, the condescension of this pious lord d’Aigremont. Did you see his rings? He may well make us a gift to speed us on our way.” The talkative Brother Anselm plopped his bundle into the corner. “Of course, more than money, what I would like is a nice, surefooted mule. Oh, the treacherousness of those wicked false priests, slipping off like that! Without a doubt they were in league with the Devil, who tells the people of the yellow wheel how to evade God’s justice.”
But I had noticed something strange. Ever since we’d entered the huge iron gate of the chateau, I’d heard a thin, angry whine like a trapped wasp issuing from the Burning Cross. When I put my hand on it, it would stop, only to resume when I took my hand off again. In the great audience chamber, I feared the sound would be noticed, but luckily there was enough clatter of people coming and going to conceal it. But now, in the quiet of our rooms, it seemed more noticeable than ever, and I could feel it quivering on my breast as if it were alive, where it lay hidden under my surcoat.
The rooms, composed of a long stone chamber divided in two by a massive, carved wooden screen that reached to the ceiling, were completely open to foot traffic through several passages without doors. They were really more like corridors, except for the simple fur-covered bedsteads and little charcoal braziers that warmed them. Cold drafts blew through the door arches, meeting the breeze from the windows in a way that made the brazier flames dance and flicker. But the rooms were in an honorable location, near the chambers of the lady Iseut, the Count’s wife, and his young son and only heir. The location was a little too good for pilgrims, in my opinion, although hardly good enough, in the opinion of the more snobbish members of our party.
“Don’t look so glum, Margaret,” said Brother Malachi as he looked at my worried face. “Everything will work out—you’ll see. It’s all meant to be—and soon you’ll be joyful again.”
“Listen, Malachi, don’t you hear it?”
“What?”
“A humming sound, like a fly.”
“A fly? In this season? Mighty strange flies they have in this part of the world.”
I put my staff and bundle at the foot of one of the beds behind the screen. Now I gestured silently through the low wooden door to Mother Hilde to join me, away from the prying eyes of the men.
“Listen, Mother Hilde,” I whispered as I pulled the Burning Cross from its hiding place. As I held it away from my dress, the whining buzz grew louder.
“Dear Holy God,” she whispered. “It’s buzzing.”
“It’s all warm too,” I whispered back. “It got worse when I was near the Count. It can only be the air, Mother Hilde. Even the air is evil in this place.”
“You’re right, Margaret.” Mother Hilde looked very serious.
“Warn Brother Malachi, Hilde, but don’t let that chatterbox Brother Anselm know.”
I put it between my cupped hands, and it grew silent and cool.
“So, so, women must have their gossip, even at the cost of supper,” announced Brother Anselm in pointed tones as we emerged from the little door.
“So is it always. Ah, why I saddled myself with this obligation, I can’t imagine,” said Brother Malachi loudly. “But I, for one, am hungry. And I hear that this lord sets an elegant table from no less than Sim, who’s already inspected the kitchens while you two have been idling back there.”
And sure enough, when we looked around, there was Sim, looking as if he’d popped out of an opening in the earth.
“To supper, all. I fear the mounted ones have preceded us and taken the best places,” said Brother Malachi.
But he was wrong. Fine places at a middle table had been saved for us. Places too fine for simple pilgrims, I thought. There was an elegant supper, during which musicians played from a hidden gallery. And because there were ambassadors from some neighboring count there, the entremets were truly astonishing. There was an entire ship on wheels, made completely of pastry, and boys painted all in gold, dancing. And after supper, there were Moorish dances, with the dancers all painted dark and savage, dressed in jewels and little bells. Then, with the trestle tables cleared away, the table dormant was recovered with an elegant red cloth and games set out for the amusement of the high lords of the ambassador’s party that were the Count’s guests. By the time we left, the sun was already setting, and candles had been brought to the gaming table. The lords were well occupied with dice under the smoking new-lit torches, while the Countess and her ladies and pucelles sat to one side playing a game of draughts. At the foot of the table, a harper made the air sweet with a doleful song whose words I did not understand. As we wound our way through the torchlit passages to our rooms, the last notes of the song reverberated in my mind, notes that harmonized with the strange, almost inaudible hum from beneath my surcoat.
The next morning, not long after we had broken our fast, the gray-faced Dominican who seemed to be the lord’s chief adviser came to fetch Malachi. They spoke Latin, so I didn’t understand a word, but I didn’t like the man’s tone, though it didn’t seem to bother Malachi a bit. But he addressed Malachi as “Theophilus,” and acted deferential. And then he stared at Sim in a way I didn’t like, as if pricing a pig, and murmured in some dialect words that sounded to me like “too ugly.”
“Malachi, are you going to—” I began in English, but Brother Malachi shushed me with a sharp glance, one that looked so alien, it startled me for a moment. Then he spoke cheerfully, also in English. “Good-bye for the moment, my dears. And whatever you do, keep Sim with you.”
“Yes, of course, Malachi,” answered Mother Hilde in the calmest voice in the world. It was exactly the same voice she uses to say “the child has stopped breathing.” I do admire Mother Hilde. I can imagine her walking straight down into hell and telling the Devil to put out the fire, he was making it entirely too warm above, in that exact same tone. As she always used to tell me when she was my teacher, “Margaret, there are times when firmness is everything.”
Late in the forenoon Malachi caught us three mingled with a crowd of loafers in the tiltyard, watching the squires drilling on horseback, and said to us in English,
“My dears, let us go and inspect our horses.”
“Our horses?” I was puzzled. We hadn’t any.
“Yes, Margaret. Our horses, so close by in the stable,” he repeated firmly as Mother Hilde gave me a sharp glance. We came away without another word.
“We’re less likely to meet with English speakers here,” said Brother Malachi, solemnly inspecting the backside of a horse in his stall. “Though with all the mercenaries about, you never know,” he added, passing to the next stall. We all stared at the switching tail of the next horse as he spoke.
“They have everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Beautiful equipment. Their own glassblower. Six assistants. Messer Guglielmo, who has to be the greatest jackass in Europe, has done nothing with it. He’s half as far as I am. Doesn’t keep records—that’s his problem. ‘Why write down something that doesn’t work?’ he asks. The fool! So you don’t repeat it, that’s why! Besides, you may stumble upon something else and you won’t remember how you got it. He’s got one process he’s been simmering for over a year. And two thousand eggs that he buried for six months before trying to create quintessence of egg. Powerful stuff, if he’d got it. But phew! What a stink! I don’t know why you complain of me! But what a laboratorium! Philosopher’s eggs, all sizes! Pelicans and cucurbits, all you can ask for! An athanor big enough to roast a whole kid! I could be happy the rest of my life with a laboratorium like that one.”
Something was wrong with Brother Malachi. His words were the same as ever, but his voice sounded wrong. We passed to the next stall.
“Books. They’ve got books I’ve always wanted. The forbidden works of Arnold of Villanova. Graecus’s Book of Fires. ‘So, you’ve got the Mappae Clavicula,’ I said. ‘Yes,’ said that infernal Dominican. ‘If you’d like to stay to copy it, you will be assured of my lord’s hospitality.’ That’s when I knew he had no intention of letting us go.” Malachi turned his face toward us. In only a few hours it seemed to have sagged into deep folds. Dark circles had emerged beneath his eyes.
“Then I had a good talk with Messer Guglielmo. Snooped around. Criticized. That’s when I knew for sure. It’s as I suspected.” His voice sounded haunted. “They’re using the wrong fixative. The one I told you about. There are nasty brown splashes of it everywhere. God only knows where they bury the bones. The black candles, too. They’ve hidden the rest, but I saw the stub of one in a niche that they’d forgotten. Forgive me, forgive me, Hilde. It all seemed so easy when I first thought it out. I should have made more inquiries. I should have guessed. But now it seems my carelessness has brought us to our doom.” He turned his tormented face to her, but her strong heart never faltered as she took his hand.
“My place is always beside you, Malachi. It’s what I’ve chosen. You don’t need to be forgiven.” He looked at her, as if he were drinking in her strength, and took several great breaths.
“Delay them,” she said. “You know how. You’re good at it. We’ll use the time to find out where Gilbert’s hidden. Why”—she chuckled grimly—“Sim can practically walk through walls. And you—you know all those languages, and will have the run of the place. And Margaret and I—well, God will show us the way. He’s done it before. And—Margaret—now that I think of it, give me that box with the ring in it. You haven’t got the heart to give it away, and besides, the poison might be bad for the baby. I think I will have plans for it. Fixative indeed! We’ll see who needs fixative.”
OVER THE NEXT FEW days, although we were well treated, we had much cause to repine. Malachi vanished daily to the great hidden laboratorium, and Hilde’s worry wouldn’t stop until she saw him safe at suppertime. And because we didn’t speak the languages we heard rattling all around us, we sometimes felt as close kept as if in prison. Occasionally someone would speak the French of the north, and we could make ourselves understood. But no matter where we went, someone always seemed to be following us.
At length Sim, who was always in search of food, managed to make friends in the kitchen, through the use of sign language and the performance of little useful tasks. We were driven frantic with worry when he would vanish, but then he’d return, usually munching an apple from one of the great storage barrels, and telling us of some new sight he’d seen. It was he who told us about the hidden rooms, and the screams that were sometimes heard at night, just as casually as he’d describe a bearbaiting.
“And then,” he said, taking another bite of his apple, “they cross themselves and make a show of putting their finger in front of their lips for silence, and drawing it across their throats, like this—” another bite. “And do you know how he gets them? Ships them in from far away with that gloomy old goat in black, or if he gets short, he goes night hunting, like a ghost, all in black. Knocks on his peasants’ doors with the butt of that riding whip he carries—the one with the bone death’s-head handle, and then points with it to the child he wants—even the babies in the cradle.”
“How did they tell you all that, about the color and the babies, if they can’t talk?”
“This way,” he said. “They point to something black and do like this,” and with a few gestures he depicted a cloaked, booted figure in black from top to toe, riding a glistening white horse, surrounded by outriders.
“Well, why don’t they tell the Bishop? He’d bring the Inquisition on them. That many babies can’t disappear without someone noticing.”
“Everyone’s afraid of him. He can cast spells and call devils. And when the moon is full, he rides out like the Devil himself, in search of blood.” Sim waved his arms behind him like a flying cloak, and leapt about as if galloping, all the while grinning at the ghoulish vision. “When I get home, I’m going to tell my friends. I’ll frighten the growth out of them, and then we’ll all stay the same size,” he said contentedly, sitting down to finish his apple. You’d never take Sim for anything but a street urchin if you saw him eat an apple. He finishes it all off, even the core and the seeds, down to the little twig that was the stem, just as if he thought he’d never get another.
“Now, Sim, you be careful. I don’t want anything nasty happening to you,” Mother Hilde cautioned.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’m too ugly, they say. He likes blond babykins. Besides, I’m quick. Good-bye, I’m off to help pluck chickens.”
As for Mother Hilde and I, we walked here and there, especially by open cellar windows, hoping to hear something. A hint, a voice, something. But the most likely place, beneath the great donjon keep of the castle itself, seemed to have no windows at all.
“So, Mother Hilde, what should I do? I can’t sing by every window like King Richard’s troubador. It would look very suspicious in this season, standing in the mud and singing into cellar windows.”
“Something will present itself. By the way, speaking of nosy things, what ever happened to that Weeping Lady you said was attached to the little shoes?”
“She said crossing the sea made her ill, and got all filmy and pale and vanished. When even your spooks leave, Mother Hilde, that’s when you know you’re really in trouble.”
“I suppose you’re right, Margaret, though I’d never thought of it that way.” But it was at that moment that one of the Countess’s ladies-in-waiting, a large, dark-haired lady with a preposterous great two-horned headdress, found us as we stood on the outer steps of the great hall, surveying the mud of the inner bailey.
She spoke to me in clear French, though with an odd accent, and said, “Is that woman with you the celebrated mistress of herbal remedies, la Mère Hilde?”
“Why yes,” I answered, “but how did you know?”
“We heard from your confessor, the Brother Theophilus, that she is in demand with the noblesse of England. He says she has treated the Queen herself. Can you speak to her for us?” Oh, clever Malachi, he’s up to something, I thought. And so there ensued a three-sided conversation by which Mother Hilde was told that the Countess had many sicknesses, and her son was unwell, and Mother Hilde was asked to attend.
The next thing we knew, we were shown into a wide circular stone-vaulted room, hung with beautiful silk tapestries. A great fire was burning, and the room was all hot and smoky, for the wood was too damp. A sallow, droopy little boy of ten sat by the fire, all wrapped up in a fur coverlet. A vast fur lined cap of crimson sat upon his stringy, brownish-yellow hair. His father’s strange wide red lips, on him faded to yellowish pink and set in a narrow, sickly little face that reminded me of a bald squirrel, gave him a strange look of degeneracy and decay. And like a squirrel’s, his timid little eyes seemed to sit almost on either side of his head. The dismal, narrow, chinless little face was almost a perfect replica of his mother’s as she leaned over his chair, watching him as he played a game of chess with his tutor. As she saw us enter she detached herself from the group and gave orders to another lady-in-waiting, with a headdress as ridiculous as the first lady’s and her own, to show us to her.
“I need remedies, medicines,” she said, and her voice faded into a complaining whine. She touched the jeweled headdress that sat atop her sallow rat’s face. “I have headaches, terrible headaches. I go nearly blind with them. You holy pilgrims, you must help me. And my digestion, it’s so poor. I suffer in my digestion. Pains, pains, you understand? I’m weak. And my son—look—he needs strengthening. He never leaves this chamber. He can only travel in the heat of summertime. Find him a remedy, or cure him with your prayers, and I’ll beg my husband to reward you richly. You’ll ride to the Holy Land—no, Compostela, is it?—mounted like queens. Hounds, men at arms, money. I’ll get anything, if you make him strong, like other children.”
“You know the cause, Mother Hilde?” I asked in English.
“Look at her coat of arms on the wall, Margaret. I can’t read arms, but I see at least four quarterings with very much the same emblems. Weak blood is the first cause. Great families can afford to get papal exemptions from the forbidden degrees of kinship in marriage—they marry their own kin too much and weaken their blood while they strengthen their purses. The other cause is the evil of the house. It sucks the strength of these innocents, though they have been kept in ignorance.”
“And tell her,” whispered the Countess in French to me, so her maids would not overhear, “I cannot get another child. My lord would love me again if I had another child. He loved me once. He gave me gifts and made a poem in my honor before we married. If he loved me again, he wouldn’t leave me alone like this. All locked up in these rooms, never going outside. We never travel with him anymore. And when my lord resides in this castle, he never speaks to me, save at the table, when company is present. Always his own business, night after night. No time for me. Not a word, a visit, or a sign of favor. His son—look at him! He sneers at the child. If you cannot mend this one, get me a stronger one, I pray you. I don’t care by what means—I must have my lord’s favor again.”
As I translated, Mother Hilde inspected the child, making clucking noises, as he went on playing chess, appearing not to hear. I suppose people had clucked at him all his life.
“I need to seek the right herbs,” said Mother Hilde, “tell her that they don’t all grow in her garden, and that we need to go outside the walls into the mountains with a boy to show us the way.” The little rat face looked terrorized. But that is how, the very next day, with two armed footmen, we got to wander beyond the walls above the village and into the blustery mountain passes. Mother Hilde brews several wonderful headache remedies, though the best, which requires willow bark, could not be made here for lack of ingredients. We learned the lay of the land, but never got any closer to finding Gregory, though I was sure he was there somewhere.
In the meanwhile, some of the other pilgrims chafed at not being able to cross the mountains before the heavy winter snows set in, and sent a delegation to the Count, who rebuffed them with a brutal hint about how lordly hospitality was far finer than crossing the mountains naked in wintertime.
Malachi returned each evening with more news from the concealed alchemical laboratorium.
“Oh, I cannot tell you how wearying it is, doing nothing. You have the benefit of fresh air, but I, where am I? Underground, trapped with the foulest of stinks, and nothing but that king of fools, Messer Guglielmo, and a bunch of mute dullards, stripped like executioners, for conversation. ‘My God,’ I tell them, ‘how could you possibly undertake the Great Work with copper vessels? They contaminate the Dragon. Throw them out. I want glass, all glass. Yours isn’t heavy enough.’ Then Messer Guglielmo fusses like an old lady, and the glassblower acts injured, and it takes a couple of days to get the stuff right. Then I took the biggest aludel in the place and made spirits of wine. I got them so drunk they couldn’t stand. ‘The Elixir of Life,’ I said, ‘just tell my lord to take a portion of it like this every evening before sleep, and it will prolong his life by one hundred years.’ So they did that. He came down to watch me. ‘Ugh, impossible equipment,’ I tell him. ‘I need orpiment; I can’t work without it.’ He got nasty. I think he must be deep in debt and need the money. ‘My equipment is the best in six kingdoms,’ he says, shaking those menacing jowls of his at me, ‘and as for orpiment, if you can’t work without it, I’ll pluck your fingernails out one by one until you can.’ Ugh. Cultured, ptah!” Brother Malachi spat on the floor. “And at dinner I’m supposed to enjoy my food while those minstrels sing those monstrosities he calls verses. Why, Gilbert dead drunk could turn a better verse than that. Gilbert asleep could do it.”
“Gregory wrote verses drunk?”
“Of course, silly Margaret. He was the toast of every tavern from Paris to London. He could compose extemporaneously in any style. Rondels, sonnets, anything! He was as full of them as a tun is of wine! And nearly all satirical. By Saint Dunstan’s beard, some of them were funny! One time, some highborn troubador sent several hired ruffians to have him horsewhipped, but we snuck him out the back door, where, in the alley, he composed a verse commemorating the event. I hear it’s still sung in the lower sort of student places. ‘Why Poets Need Winged Feet,’ it’s called. Then he decided he’d make his mark on scholarship—but as it turned out, scholarship made its mark on him, instead. Finding that discouraging, he decided he was destined to see God, and converted himself into a bore of the first order. Now, how he got involved with you is beyond me—I can’t feature any man of sense, let alone him, copying your memoirs for you. I can’t imagine, if you’ll pardon me, that you’d have any ideas worth writing about.”
“That’s exactly what he said.”
“And you, of course, told him he was wrong.”
“Yes, naturally.”
“Of course, naturally,” sighed Brother Malachi. “So it’s made in heaven.”
“Malachi, when you rattle on like that, you’re leading up to something. Just what is it?” Mother Hilde interrupted.
“Well, I don’t think he’s under the donjon.”
“Then you’ve found him!” My heart leapt with hope.
“Not quite. But I finally got myself under the Old Tower today, and what they’ve got there is salt meat, mostly, and some other supplies. I told them I needed the mold off cheeses. But then I found they’ve got another basement under us in the athanor room in the New Tower. It’s got—oh, goodness—a torture chamber, I heard some poor wretch screaming is how I found out—and a couple of big cells chock-full with ugly equipment and several nasty little oubliettes. They’re set up so that water runs through them constantly, and he breeds toads, scorpions, and that sort of thing inside. They’re very deep, with grilles at the top—he just strips his prisoners and dumps them in with the vermin. There’s a sort of pulley for that, and, I suppose, getting them out as well, although he doesn’t seem to have done that within anyone’s memory. They say they’re very deep, but not so very wide—perhaps four feet across, according to Messer Guglielmo. I got him drunk, and there was no end to the talking he did. It seems the screams spoil his concentration, and he believes that an artiste such as himself deserves greater consideration and a more salubrious location for his labors.”
“Oh, Malachi, you’re marvelous; he’s found!” exclaimed Mother Hilde. But I started to cry.
“Oh, Malachi, that awful place. And so cold. He must be dead. We’ve come too late.”
“Now, now, Margaret, take heart. That’s the part I saved for last. It seems that once a week, Fridays, I hear, the Comte makes him a personal visit to see how he’s doing. Dumps things through the grille and shouts insults, I suppose. Goes down all full of airs, sniffing a pomander, and comes back so furious that he screams at Messer Guglielmo on the way up. This past Friday, he threw the pomander at him, and threatened to cut off his hands and feet if he didn’t make faster progress.”
“Friday? But that’s only four days ago.”
“Exactly, my dear. But now we must lay plans. I have no idea how to get to him, and I am at the end of all my tricks but one. Once I’ve made gold, we’re doomed unless we are far from here that very night. I’ll tell him it needs to be done at the full moon—that will give us light to travel by at night, and put him off a while more.”
“Make gold? All these years, Malachi, and you always knew how to make gold anyway?” Mother Hilde was shocked.
“Well, after a fashion, my love. There are always complexities.”
“But—when we needed money to mend the roof, and when—”
“Ah, Hilde, my precious. The pursuit of the Green Lion is not for the mere mending of roofs. It is a higher spiritual force.”
“A higher force?” Mother Hilde spluttered.
“Oh, my love, I’ll explain it all to you afterward. It’s a great secret I’ve kept for years, and you certainly deserve to know it. But if I fail—well, I’d rather you retain your faith in my powers.”
“Malachi, you’re up to something.”
“Of course. When have I said I wasn’t? Prepare for flight at the full moon, my treasure, even if we have to scale the walls with a grappling hook.”
“THE FULL MOON, you say? But that’s a week away. Messer Guglielmo, do you know anything about this full moon business? I swear he’s stalling.” The Count’s deep voice sounded suspicious. Messer Guglielmo had already abandoned the athanor to the mutes, leaving them to supervise the process of calcination of a batch of duck’s eggs while he attended his lord. The fading winter light in the long, tile-floored laboratorium had already been supplemented by smoking torches mounted in iron brackets the length of the bare stone walls. Brother Malachi looked wan as he knelt on the cold floor at the Count’s feet. He had been losing weight in Sieur d’Aigremont’s hidden alchemical workshop, and it wasn’t just because of the smell. Messer Guglielmo’s eyes flicked back and forth from his patron to his rival, and he combed his rough, grayish-black beard with his fingers as he weighed what he would say.
“Well, I can’t deny he’s gotten results. Preliminary results, of course. But this method from Leyden, it’s very primitive in some ways. He doesn’t use the classical method for congealing the dragon’s sister to the silver. It seems unsound to me—yes, quite unsound.”
“Unsound?”
“Yes. Definitely. He won’t use the proper fixative, and the quicksilver stays liquid. And he relies on—hmm—unassisted methods.”
“Unassisted? You mean I’ve let this fool dillydally unassisted? And how, pray tell,” he addressed the alchemist at his feet, “do you expect to achieve the Secret without supernatural power? With the puny powers of the human mind?”
“My lord, the powers of observation and rationality, applied to the study of nature, can achieve mighty transformations,” Brother Malachi answered simply.
“Ha! So you confess all! You’ve made no sacrifices! Used no powerful fixatives! Theophilus of Rotterdam, you’ve been toying with me. I want you to finish the process tonight, moon or no moon, with the correct fixative.” The rage in the Count’s voice rumbled with menace.
Brother Malachi’s eyes were like those of a trapped hare.
“Most high lord, that is poor stuff.”
“Poor stuff? Poor? It’s the freshest to be had. You squeamish little bastard, I’m going to cut out your tongue for that.”
Brother Malachi trembled, but his voice was firm.
“I have the proper fixative with me, but it requires a full moon—”
“Where? Show me.” The Count’s face loomed over Malachi like the face in a nightmare. Somewhere nearby, he could sense the nervous quiver of Messer Guglielmo’s beard, as he pushed his narrow face closer to get a better view. His knees were aching and frozen. You’d think at least they’d let me stand up for a great moment like this, he thought as he opened his pilgrim’s wallet to remove a tiny leather sack.
“Don’t breathe on it. You mustn’t lose a grain. And the heat of your breath may spoil it.” Deep within the little sack, an opalescent pinkish powder gleamed.
“My God, he has it. The Red Powder!” Even the waspish Messer Guglielmo was briefly awestruck.
“You’ve had it all along. Use it tonight, or you’ll wish you were dead.”
“But my part of the bargain? How do I know you’ve got him still?”
“Do you doubt my word?”
“Oh, never, never. Me? A poor humble Seeker after Truth, doubt the word of a nobleman? Oh, impossible.”
“Don’t try me,” the Count growled. “I despise humor. And especially satire. The refuge of clowns and human garbage. Want to see what I’ll do to you if you’re being humorous with me?”
“—um, not just now. Later, perhaps?”
“Now is just right. After all, I have a sense of humor too. The proper kind. I think it will be very funny to see your face.” And with a snap of his fingers, he had called two of the huge mute assistants, who grabbed Brother Malachi by both elbows, practically suspending him from the floor.
“Messer Guglielmo, I want you to come too. Let me show you what happens to people who fool with me. It will give wings to your mind.” With a gesture, Brother Malachi was frog-marched down a shadowy stone staircase into a realm of perpetual darkness. Two torchbearers lit the way before them, and two more followed the party. Brother Malachi could not help looking up at the smoke-stained ceiling of the narrow passage, and wonder how many trips the dripping soot represented.
The passage soon opened out into a low, vaulted room, lit primarily by the flickering embers that burned perpetually beneath a cauldron of rancid oil. Beside the fire stood a rack of iron implements suitable for heating: pinchers, rods, and branding irons. A little brazier, like a low box on legs about the height of a footstool, caught Brother Malachi’s eye. That one, he’d seen before. A favorite of the Inquisition. He flinched, almost invisibly.
“Why did you come with women, Theophilus? And you so squeamish.” The Count’s voice was smooth and menacing. Malachi looked about him at the nasty objects in the room: pulleys on the ceiling, a rack, the boot, and a number of other things whose purpose was all too clear. He’d never felt queasier.
“Yes, squeamish. Take a look at this. Nice and sharp, aren’t they?” The Count paused before an open iron maiden, dark with the stains of old blood. “Put his hand on the spikes—not too hard, mind you. He needs it to make gold tonight.” Brother Malachi was lugged to the apparatus and his right hand forced onto the spikes. “What do you think of it, you soft, cowardly little worm?”
“It—it would be very bad for my complexion.”
“Ah, yes—your tender skin, which you have preserved by wandering all over Europe. Still humorous, aren’t you? My Master despises humor. And tonight, you’ll make the sacrifice and call him to assist you, won’t you?” Brother Malachi turned ashen, and slumped between his captors.
“Fresh eyes and heart, right, Messer Guglielmo? I have a new little one from the last hunt. I’ve nearly finished playing with it—it bores me now. What are you muttering, Theophilus? Prayers? They don’t work here. Oh, yes—your bargain. I’m saving the best for last.”
The mutes picked their torches out of the brackets, and the little party wound down a deep passage that seemed hollowed out of the solid rock. Brother Malachi could feel drops of icy water splashing from the ceiling onto his face, and hear them hiss as they touched the torches. The corridor ended in a wide spot. Here they paused before several grilles set into the floor. The stench of decay rose from them. The Count took a torch and walked to the farthest one, holding it down to the grille. With his free hand, he took a pomander from the wallet at his belt and held it to his nose. A hoarse voice rose from the grille.
“Back again, are you, you verse-mangler? What new obscenity have you come with this time?”
“I’m going to recite to you my ‘Ode to Summer.’”
“The theme’s overworked. Face facts—you have a banal imagination.”
“Just say it’s good, and you’re as free as a bird.”
“Impossible. You’ve never written a line yet that isn’t trite.”
“Trite? Me? Trite? Do you realize where you are, you verminous street sweeping?”
“How can I forget? In your oubliette—where you come to drop in the contents of your chamber pot or the results of your fits of versification. Pretty much the same stuff—they obviously come from the same end. Pull me out and face me like a man, you coward.”
“I’m not pulling you out until you’re ready to crawl on your stomach like a worm, and kiss my feet, and weep, and say my verse is the best you’ve ever heard.”
“Pull me up, then. You’ve got enough equipment up there to make a priest sign himself over to the Devil. Making a poet weep shouldn’t be half as hard.”
“I want you to say it from the heart.”
“Impossible.”
“Impossible? I don’t think so.” Striking out like a snake, the Count gave Brother Malachi an immense backhanded blow across the face. As Brother Malachi cried out, he had him flung onto the grille.
“Who’s up there?”
“Gilbert, it’s me.”
“Theophilus? You? What in the hell are you doing here? You’re dripping on me—hmm. Blood.”
“Just a nosebleed, Gilbert. Don’t worry.”
“He’s come to buy your freedom. Isn’t that thoughtful? But that’s not the best part, Gilbert l’Escolier—”
“You persist in the masquerade, you villein? That is the worst crime of all—impersonating a gentleman.”
“You ought to know.” The voice sounded raspier, weaker, but still defiant. The sound of coughing echoed from the pit. In the half dark Brother Malachi could feel the Count’s rage growing and swelling like a wave of heat radiating from the huge body.
He whispered despairingly down into the pit: “For God’s sake, Gilbert, tell him you like his bloody poetry and get out.”
“Et tu, Theophilus? But it’s not true, and that’s why I won’t.”
“You idiot—I can’t believe I’m giving him the Secret of Transmutation in exchange for a hammerhead like you.”
“The Philosopher’s Stone? Good God, Theophilus, do you want him to take over half of Europe? I thought you had more sense than that.”
“No, he didn’t,” broke in the Count’s voice, oily with suppressed rage. “But as I always do, I’ve saved the best surprise for last. I’m sure your Margaret will convince you to come around to my point of view—bit by bit, if you understand what I mean.” Malachi felt his whole body go stiff with horror.
“You haven’t got her,” came the voice from the pit. “You never will. She’s safe at home. There’s an ocean between her and this place.”
“Not for long, you singing jackdaw. I’ve cast a drawing spell on her. She’ll be here before the next new moon.”
“Nonsense.”
“Nonsense? We’ll see.” The Count turned to the mutes. “Take this trembling little alchemist here, and see him upstairs. I want him to begin the process tonight. And lock him in. He’s not to set foot out of the hidden chambers until the gold is made. Once he’s succeeded, I want him bound and brought to me no matter what time of day or night it is. And—oh, yes. Hood him. I don’t want the slightest chance of the Secret being communicated to a soul outside the hidden chambers.” Brother Malachi’s blood ran cold at these words. Suddenly, he realized that not a living creature in the labora-torium would be allowed to survive the achievement of the Great Work.
AS THE GATE-HORN echoed in the stony inner court, the pucelles in the Countess’s antechamber rushed to hang out the windows. “Visitors, visitors!”they cried. “Oh, let me see!” For after all, visitors always bring hope—a future husband may be among them. Mother Hilde suppressed a smile as she went on compounding herbs for a poultice in her mortar. “What’s their degree? Can you make out the arms?” came the excited voices of the maids-in-waiting. “Nothing I’ve ever seen,” came a disappointed voice from the window. “A foreigner—three cockleshells and a dragon—no, a lion.”
Three cockleshells! My God! I leapt from the hearth and crowded my way into the window. The sight below froze my heart in a moment. A knight in full armor, visor up, a pilgrim’s cloak tied behind his saddle, led the procession that rode from the bailey gate into the inner court. Beside him rode his squire, and behind them were six men at arms escorting a hooded woman on a white palfrey whose rich crimson gown peeped out from beneath her heavy dark cloak. The coat of arms—why there wasn’t the slightest doubt about it. Sir Hugo de Vilers had found me at last! And as if that weren’t enough, he had brought my haughty and vindictive sister-in-law to witness his triumph. Oh, there was no mistaking it—I’d know that dress anywhere. So very close—and now Gregory was lost forever! I couldn’t hide my trembling as I turned back to Mother Hilde.
But now the apartments were in a hubbub, for at the thought of a visit by another gentlewoman, the Countess had roused from her lethargy and begun to dig feverishly in her chests.
“At last, a lady to converse with—tell me, what are those arms? I didn’t recognize them.” The Countess was querying her attendant, who had gone to take a closer look as the guests were received in the hall.
“English arms, my lady.”
“Oh, maybe another ambassador. From the English prince’s force at Bordeaux?”
“That’s what he said, my lady.”
“Was the lady well dressed? Perhaps she can tell me of the latest fashions. Oh, it’s so hard, being buried here away from everyone, to entertain in the latest style.”
“She was in crimson, embroidered with gold, my lady.”
“Crimson, did you say? Then this old brown velvet will hardly do. It’s all worn bald. Look! What a shame my lord never sends me to Orléans to have gowns made, the way he once did when I had his favor. Crimson—oh, not the blue, no—”
“The gold silk, my lady?”
“Oh, yes, that’s it. Much nicer than crimson. Yes—the gold silk—tell me, has it creases in it?”
And so it went as Mother Hilde and I crouched at the fireside and whispered, unnoticed in the commotion.
At supper, allowed out of her apartments at last, she glittered brilliantly, seated among her ladies, with the beautiful visitor seated by her side. Sir Hugo, being only a knight, and not even a knight banneret, sat many places down from the noble ambassadors of the Count of Foix. Already, the rumor had swept the tables that the knight was from the English force at Bordeaux, and that the noblewoman was his sister-in-law, whom he had escorted here for the purpose of fulfilling a curious request of the Comte de St. Médard: that he would receive her husband’s ransom only from her own hand.
“And imagine,” said the gossipy Brother Anselm, who was as at home in the langue d’oc as the langue d’oil, “there’s not a noble prisoner here, unless he’s locked below, which would be a great breach of chivalry. ‘It would be most unchivalrous—the Count would be despised throughout Christendom,’ said I to the ambassador’s groom, and he said to me, ‘So says my master, who has warned the Count not to make enemies of the English while they are on his doorstep, especially since he has no way of knowing which way his own king will ally himself. But the Count just growled that the King of Navarre was seized by a ruse at a dinner party by the French king, and no one says that the French king is unchivalrous. But my master said the Count of Foix cannot be seen to make peace with someone who makes enemies of the English prince.’ So, you see, it’s altogether curious. My, just look up there at the dais. What kind of a wife is that? She’s flirting with the ambassador himself.”
Even from where I sat, shrinking behind the fattest of the pilgrims to keep from being recognized, I could see the ambassador, his face red with drink and desire, leering from beneath his gray moustaches at her. And though she was too far from him to speak, her eyes sent him messages that could not be ignored. And who could ignore her? Every man in the place was drawn to stare at her blazing beauty. Wisps of golden curls peeped from beneath her pearl-embroidered headdress, as she blushed prettily and stared demurely down at the table. Amid these sallow southern complexions, her white and rose English skin shone like a jewel. And never has a crucifix moved up and down so suggestively as the one that sat on the immense bosom revealed by her tightly laced, low-cut crimson gown. I was right about the gown. I knew it well indeed. But it certainly never had looked like that on Lady Petronilla. Who was the woman wearing it? Her eyes were down—I waited until she glanced up to see. But I stared so hard I nearly choked on the wine I was drinking. Could it be? It certainly could be no one else. It was Cis, the laundress! What on earth could have brought her here, dressed like this?
Cis sat at the dais like a brilliantly colored butterfly at the very center of the Count’s web. She fluttered and glanced about under her eyelashes as if she didn’t even understand that her feet were firmly glued to the fatal net. Then we could see the Countess speak to her, and she stared at the trencher and blushed again, to the admiration of the gentlemen at the table. The Countess appeared frustrated. She gestured to another lady and had her speak to the beautiful stranger. Again, a pretty blush. The ambassador sent his own cup of wine to her, as a favor, and she gazed through her lashes with a look of grateful adoration. The Count raised an eyebrow at the exchange, and his red lips worked as if he tasted some little disgusting thing. I didn’t think the look boded well at all. Then he addressed a remark to his partner on the left. Never have I wished more that I could hear what was going on.
At length, supper was done, though Mother Hilde had barely touched her food, and the tables were cleared away for the evening’s entertainment. I mixed in what I hoped was an invisible fashion with the knot of pilgrims trying to improve their view of the entertainment, and edged closer so I could try to hear all that was going on. It was pretty much the usual stuff for the Count’s hall, a sort of flamboyant little pageant designed by the lord of St. Médard himself to display his artistry and taste. First the minstrels played and sang. Then there were dancers, this time dressed as “savages” in hairy skins and wolf masks, who made mocking, obscene gestures as they cavorted. Then youths all in silk, representing something very symbolic, vanquished the savages with wands wound with silk ribbons. The ambassador managed to get himself seated next to Cis. She took advantage of the situation to let her hand creep into his lap. His hand, in turn, seemed to vanish somewhere behind her where it couldn’t be seen. Then, as pages played trumpets to announce something very special, the Count leaned toward Hugo, where he sat on the other side of Cis, and said loudly, “This next creation is my own; tell me what you think of it.”
There followed a very silly song about summer. The words rhymed, after a fashion, but though I know little about poetry, I know that something you sing must go bumpety-bumpety the same way, like a horse’s gait, and not go changing around from trot to canter, or as if the horse had suddenly gone lame. And oh, goodness, it had shepherds piping, and lasses dancing, and birds singing, but all somewhat wrong, though it’s hard to say why. After the song, there was a polite murmur, since everyone had heard the Count’s words.
“Well?” said the Count. Sir Hugo shifted uncomfortably.
“I haven’t much of a head for poetry, you know. I’m just a soldier. I like hunting horns—ha! That’s music! But it seemed very good to me. Yes, especially that part about the birds singing, ‘tirilay, tirilay!’ I could imagine myself hunting grouse.”
The Count’s face relaxed. He knew a heartfelt comment when he heard one.
“You wouldn’t, by any chance, consider the subject somewhat … used?”he said in a significant tone. Why, I could not imagine.
“Used? Whatever for? Doesn’t summer come every year? It can’t be used up! Myself, I can’t get enough of summer. My favorite season!”
“Spoken like a gentleman!” exclaimed the Count, and then he leaned forward with a blazing look. “But not spoken like any brother of the ill-spoken, villainous rogue I hold in my cellar. Either you are an impostor, Sir Hugo, or the man you’ve come to ransom is one. I prefer to think the latter.”
“An impostor? I’ve come all this way to ransom an impostor?”
“Do you think I’d keep a gentleman in the cellar? What’s your game, Sir Hugo—or better yet, that of your master at Bordeaux? And who is that jingle maker I’ve got in my cellar?”
“How dare you insult me! I’ve come on a mission of honor to ransom my long-lost brother, Sir Gilbert de Vilers, whose ransom you purchased after the siege of Verneuil, and whom you are honor bound to allow to be redeemed.”
“You wish to challenge me, little English sparrow hawk? I am undefeated in tourney and in battle. Look at me, I am the Count of St. Médard!”And the Count unfolded his huge bulk from the chair and stood towering over Hugo: a full head and a half taller than any man in the room, and twice the weight, all solid muscle beneath the rolls of fat.
“I do not insult you. You insult chivalry,” replied Hugo, turning red at the neck. “I say here, in front of these noble guests and witnesses, that I am a man of honor, on a mission of peace.” Beside him, the ambassador of the Count of Foix seemed most interestingly intertwined with Cis. Perhaps it was that his beard had accidentally become entangled in the elaborate metalwork of the crucifix, but it was hard to tell.
“Peace? Whose peace? Reveal yourself now, or face me in the tilt-yard tomorrow.” Everyone was staring at them now. Even the ambassador recovered his lost hand, and paid new attention.
“You sent a messenger to England, to request that my brother’s ransom be paid by the white hand of Margaret, his wife. And I sent a return message that we should come to meet your terms by that fellow, there—that Dominican with the gray face—and so, we have arrived. And where is our greeting? Why have you not treated us with honor? Only insults, unworthy of a Christian lord.”
“I said that?” The Count turned and gave the sinister creature who stood by his shoulder a suspicious glance.
“A vision, my lord. A hallucination. Part of the drawing spell,” hastily mumbled the monk at his elbow.
“Oh. Aha. I see. So, Sir Hugo, this is the beautiful Margaret, poetical inspiration?” He cast his eyes on Cis with renewed interest, then glanced sideways about the room, as if he regretted the presence of so many witnesses.
“Absolutely. Come to pay his ransom personally. And since we’ve met your terms, you’re honor bound to accept.”
“Come here.” The count motioned to Cis. She looked down demurely. “She doesn’t speak French?” he said curiously to Hugo.
“Not all women do in England,” Sir Hugo said boldly.
“But the noblesse do. This is curious,” answered the Count.
“She’s brought the money.”
“But so pious and shy. Perfect for my purpose.”
“Whatever you have in mind, you must redeem my brother.”
“Your brother? I have my doubts about that. A tall, dark-headed, bony fellow who writes bad poetry?”
“Poetry? I didn’t know he wrote poetry. It sounds like him, except for the poetry. Speculations about God, that sort of thing—but poetry? Well, maybe. He had on a seal ring like this—” Sir Hugo extended his hand.
“Like that? No. He didn’t have any ring at all. Probably taken. But would you say he’s stubborn?”
“Stubborn as the Devil.”
“And has the habit of calling his insults Truth?”
“That’s him to the life.”
“Then that’s who I have. But you can’t be brothers. Not unless your lady mother slept with a stable-groom.”
“You insult my lady mother! By God, did you hear that, you lords? My lady mother was as pure as the snow!”
“Stay your hand, English popinjay, unless you wish to die tomorrow. The Sieur d’Aigremont will slay you at a blow.” The ambassador leaned forward to prevent potentially dangerous bloodshed. The Count leaned back in his chair and watched Sir Hugo with a faint smile, as he might watch a foolish animal sniffing the bait in an unsprung trap.
“Tell the lovely Margaret that I will agree not to kill you yet. First, I wish her to see something. Fray Joaquin, the letter, please.” Fray Joaquin pulled a little folded paper packet, the seals broken, from beneath his robe, and handed it to his master, who unfolded it and waved it beneath Sir Hugo’s nose.
“Now, what does this mean to you, Sir Hugo?” he asked.
“Me? I don’t read. Ask the priest to cypher it.”
“Give it to the lady Margaret.” Cis took it, held it upside down, and gazed demurely at the floor.
“Ask her to read it, Sir Hugo.”
“Read it?” Sir Hugo turned pale. “What’s in it?”
“It’s a letter carried by your pseudo brother from the real Margaret. It appears that this Margaret can’t read it. I believe you have cheated me, Sir Hugo. I want the Margaret who wrote this letter, or you haven’t fulfilled my terms, have you?”
“Well, ah—umm—that Margaret—that Margaret is the cousin of this Margaret. And that Margaret—she’s very ill. Brokenhearted. Near Death’s door. Couldn’t travel. So this Margaret said she’d come. They look almost exactly alike, and, um, you just said you wanted a Margaret—so here she is, to meet your demands!”
“So this one’s a Margaret too. That accounts for it. The fool didn’t specify when he cast it,” the Count said to himself, and turned to the Dominican, still bowing at his elbow. “Fray Joaquin,” he hissed, “you accursed bumbler, you’ll pay for this.” Then he turned back to Sir Hugo. “No Margaret, no ransom. Go home and get me the real Margaret, Englishman.”
“That’s entirely unfair. You’ve insulted my mother, insulted my Margaret, and you won’t ransom my brother. Meet me tomorrow in the tiltyard.”
“The tiltyard? Good. Then, with your kind consent, I will kill you in a way that becomes a knight. But it is for your mother that I meet you in the lists. For the affair of the substitute Margaret, I should pick your bones apart in my little chamber below. Now, as for the man you claim as your brother, I propose a little sport. You’ve had your fun, now I get mine. Let Margaret here—the cousin, or whatever she is, in the absence of the real Margaret, play me for him. Her choice, whatever game is here.” He waved a hand in the direction of the games laid out on the red cloth of the table dormant for the evening’s amusement. “If she wins, I swear on my honor as a nobleman, before all these witnesses, he’ll go free with her. If I win, I keep him, and her as well, for whatever purpose I choose.” An unpleasant smile stretched the corners of the Count’s lips, and his eyes glittered in the torchlight. The company leaned forward with new interest. Here was royal sport. A life for a woman: the stuff of a chanson de geste. The chess pieces stood ready on the silver and ebony board; draughts, backgammon, and other games were waiting beside them. Hugo looked about him at the table. Even he realized the Count was playing with him. Chess? When had Cis ever had time to learn to play noblemen’s games like that? And what woman could outplay a man anyway?
“Entirely fair, if rather unorthodox.” The ambassador looked again at Cis’s pink bosom and smiled somewhat ruefully, his voice sounding regretful. “You’ve no proof the man’s his brother, and not a knave, anyway. You don’t have to redeem a base-blooded man. And the woman—charming—”
“Do you swear to that?” said Sir Hugo, very slowly, stalling for time to think.
“I swear,” said the Count, putting his hand over his heart. “Bring in the relics.” Hugo began to sweat.
“Suppose I don’t agree?” he said.
“Not agree? To something entirely fair, in my own house? Then you’ve insulted me. I dislike being insulted. Who knows what I might do?” And he put his hand casually on the reliquary and swore. He smiled as he watched the sweat pouring down Hugo’s neck.
“And now, will the lovely Margaret step forward and choose her game.”
“I will,” I cried loudly, and stepped forward from the knot of pilgrims in the corner of the hall. Fear had made my mind swift, and I had seen something on the table that made me strong. It was dice: several sets in ebony, ivory, and bone, sitting next to a dice board. The bone ones looked exactly like my own. So I put the dice from my pilgrim’s wallet into my sleeve and walked boldly before the great lords. Sir Hugo’s jaw dropped, and he stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost. “Margaret,” he whispered.
“What’s this?” said the Count, raising his eyebrows. “More Margarets? Which one are you?” The Dominican beside him looked strangely relieved, I couldn’t imagine why.
“I am Margaret de Vilers, wife to Gilbert de Vilers, come to hold you to your vow.”
I could hear murmurs from the company in the hall. “Delightful.” “Wonderful entertainment.” “Is it a play?” “Perhaps he planned it all in advance. So original.”
“Oh, really? He said you looked just alike. Who am I to believe?” I suppose I didn’t look as fine as Cis, all in black as I was, with my rusty dark pilgrim’s cloak and my wide pilgrim’s hat slung behind me on my back. “Suppose I want the other Margaret?” he went on in that bland, menacing voice. I could see the Count of Foix’s ambassador purse his lips with annoyance.
“She isn’t the proper Margaret at all, and she’s not married to anyone, let alone Gilbert de Vilers, so your vow would be broken if she played. Play me.” The ambassador regained his contentment.
“If you are indeed the right Margaret.”
“I am, and I can prove it. That letter. If it was really his, I’ll tell you what’s in it. And the seal. It’s his. It’s from this ring, which he gave me as my wedding ring.” I held up my hand.
“And who do you say this is, Sir Hugo?”
“Margaret de Vilers, my brother’s wife,” he answered wearily.
“The one who was too sick to travel.”
“I got well,” I said. “Now I want to choose the game.”
“Chess, then, little Margaret who cannot spell?” I’ve never heard a pleasant sentiment sound more threatening.
“I haven’t the wit for chess. I’ll play dice. Then God’s hand will assist me.” To think, I once wouldn’t have been able to lie this much at all. But then, if God hadn’t wanted me to win, He wouldn’t have given me the loaded dice, would He?
The Sieur d’Aigremont grinned a strange, triumphant little smile. “Which ones?”he asked.
“Those,” I said, pointing to the set of three that looked exactly like my own. He swept away the other sets, and a seat was brought to the table, exactly facing his own across the dice board. As I sat, I could hear the menacing hum of the Burning Cross rise to a higher, more desperate whine.
“What’s that noise?” he said.
“A fly, perhaps,” I answered. I could feel the press of bodies around us as everyone in the room strained to get a glimpse of the strange game.
“What game do you wish to play? Hazard?”
“I—don’t know Hazard. I’ve never played dice before.” There was a strange sigh from the crowd. “Let’s just play for the high number.”
“As plus points? As you wish, madame. One throw only?”
“All right,” I said. It’s less risk to change them only once, I thought.
“And we agree before this company that the highest number wins?” His smile was positively wolfish.
He picked up the dice, fingering them elaborately, and then shook them in his cupped hands and dropped them onto the dice board that lay between us on the table.
“Eighteen,” he said as they stopped rolling. I could feel the heat of the bodies crowding round us. “You cannot beat that, madame.”
“But if it pleases God, I may tie.” He picked up the dice with grand flourish and handed them to me. My heart was thumping as if it would leap from my mortal body. Calm, Margaret, calm, I thought to myself. I bowed my head over the dice as if in prayer, and slipped them away for my own, in the way that Master Kendall’s shade had shown me the money changers do. I rolled the dice, and watched as they wobbled across the board. The close-crowded watchers breathed in as if they were one person. Eighteen. “A miracle,” I heard someone say. “God is on her side.”
“A tie,” I said. “What now, monsieur?”
“Another match. Agreed?” he said to the company.
“Yes, yes, go on,” the murmurs swept around the table. I could feel the faces crowding in on us, and the breath of strangers on my back. Then he put down his hand and swept away my dice. Oh, God, what could I do? I wasn’t meant to be a dice cheater after all. It had seemed so easy before—and now, all of a sudden, it wasn’t! I could feel the sweat running down my neck and back like a river. I watched his hands. Elaborately, he swept them about. Wait—did I see something? It was my dice, disappearing down his sleeve. I was sure from the angle he held his arm. He’d switched them for his own! They’ll come up alike, I thought, and then I’ll know. They rattled as they fell: six, another six. The third seemed to catch on the edge of the board, then fell. A four.
“Sixteen,” gasped the crowd. And before he could take them to make the pretense of handing them to me while he switched them for the bad ones—or rather, the honest ones—I put my hand on them.
“Now me,” I said, snatching them up and rolling them quickly. The cloth seemed to shift beneath the board as they fell.
“Sixteen also,” I said, as he turned red in the face.
“We’ll go one more round, winner takes all.” His face was swollen with rage. But as he looked to the company for approval, I took his loaded dice, and rolled the first pair out of my sleeve in their place.
“Your dice, monsieur.” I handed them to him. By now, I was so frightened, I didn’t know whether they were a good set or a bad set. But I knew the set I’d just taken from him had to be bad ones, because they’d just rolled high.
“Don’t touch those. I’ll get them myself,”he snapped. Did he suspect something? I opened my eyes very wide and tried to look the picture of injured innocence. “Don’t lean against the table. You’ll jostle the board,” he snapped. He seemed rattled. Then he looked at me through narrowed eyes, and scooped up the dice. This time, I couldn’t tell whether he’d switched them with a hidden set or thrown the ones I’d given him. The throw wobbled in a loop, and the first die settled—a six. A moment later, the next two came to rest near the edge of the board, and the crowd around the table let out a sigh. A two. And then a three.
I took the dice from the board. “God save me,” I said, and crossed myself. Then, wiping my streaming forehead with my sleeve, I switched the dice again. I’ve never had such nimble fingers before or since. If you’d ever seen my embroidery, you’d wonder that I ever could have done it. Sometimes I think that only mortal fear makes us perfect. I threw the dice onto the board again. This set has to be his, I thought, and if they are, and he’s a cheat, then I’ll win, and if he’s honest, then—
“Eighteen!” the shout rang through the great hall. “The lady Margaret has ransomed her husband!” “Oh, how like a romance!” someone sighed—I think it was the Countess.
Even the unspeakable Hugo leapt over the table and clapped me on the back. “Well done, Margaret!”he shouted. “Bravely played!”
But the Count was red with rage. His face shook like a rooster’s wattles, and he roared like a bull. “Quiet, quiet, or I’ll slay you all!” His hand flew to the dagger at his belt.
“How uncouth. Entirely uncouth,” murmured the ambassador. “Not at all like my noble master. Gaston Phoebus is a man of honor, especially at the gaming table, as befits a lord.”
The Count heard him and his eyes rolled. He turned to spew his rage on Hugo. “You, you English. Don’t forget I meet you tomorrow morning. To the death. And you—you’ve won, Madame de Vilers. But—”
“I want him released now. And two horses. We’ll leave in the morning.”
His voice softened menacingly. “And just what good is his liberty to you without my letter of safe-conduct?”
I started. What game was he playing now?
“Just how do you expect to get home again? Not by ship. Nothing leaves Bayonne in this season for the north. Or perhaps you expect to cross Aquitaine into Guyenne to the headquarters of the English prince? He has pulled back for the winter, and there are nothing but mercenaries between here and there, and I assure you, they cut the throats of English travelers just as quickly as those of any other nation. No, my dear. There is no escaping it. You must cross my lands and then pass through the neutral countries to the north, by way of Foix, Burgundy, and those other lands as yet untouched by war. I am a powerful man: my letter and seal will carry you to the north in safety. Without them, count yourself dead.”
“I—I’d never thought of that.” It wasn’t an offer he was making; it was a threat. We’d never pass out of his mountains alive. He’d never sworn to that part, so the witnesses wouldn’t fault him for it.
“You must understand, I have no love for your husband. I count him a personal enemy. So let’s discuss the terms on which you receive my safe-conduct in my rooms, tonight before midnight. Come alone.”
“But—”
“Haven’t you figured out yet that he wants to sleep with you? Why else all this charade with the dice? Do it and get the letter, you ninny, and we’ll be out of here, as soon as I’ve met him on the field of honor,” Hugo hissed into my ear in English.
“Hugo, you’re as filthy-minded as ever. It’s indecent. And what’s more, he has every intention of killing you. He doesn’t want any of us to leave alive—and if he wasn’t trying to impress that big ambassador and his friends here, he’d have been a lot more direct about it. Haven’t you seen how huge he is? He’ll chop you into stewing meat.”
“Pfah, you’ve got it wrong, as usual. He’s a knight, and bound by the code of chivalry. Besides, he’s older than me and all fat. The big ones are always clumsy—he’ll fall like a tower to the sappers. And how do you think he’ll be able to sign a letter of safe-conduct after I’ve defeated him? So which do you prefer? Gilbert the cuckold, or Gilbert the corpse? Besides, you’ll like it. Most women do. Tell him yes, you pious little nit.” Oh, Hugo infuriated me. As stupid as a brick wall, and as helpful as a cracked jug. Who would help me? I’ll stall him. I’ll think of something. Maybe I can trick it out of him, or appeal to his mercy. I turned to the Count.
“I want to see this safe-conduct thing first. Then I’ll agree to talk, not before.” I looked at his billowing face, but could not see past all the debauchery.
“Not bad, not bad. Pity she’s not a man. She’d make a good diplomat,” I could overhear the ambassador say to one of his companions.
“Why, of course. I’ll have it written here. And you shall have it signed and this ring off my finger to go with it, after you have visited my chamber,” the Count responded. I didn’t like his bland, superior tone.
“And I want it in good plain French—not Latin or something I can’t read.”
“Sly, sly, that woman,” I could hear them saying behind me. “That’s how the king sent a death warrant once—death to the bearer, in Latin. Poor bastard never knew.”
“Agreed, agreed—” He waved a hand airily. “Fray Joaquin, get pen and paper.” As his black-cloaked shadow scurried off, I could feel the Count looking at me, to get my measure. It was a crawly feeling, as if he were imagining me with my clothes off. There wasn’t a noise in the room, except the sound of people breathing. It was then, in this horrid stillness, that I felt it. The first ripple from deep within my belly. It was unmistakable. The baby had started to move. Languidly, joyfully, like a swimmer in summer.
How could you be so happy at a time like this? I asked it in my mind.
“Joy,” it answered, and rolled over again. Joy, I thought, and I could see the dancing light in the eye of my remembering.
“Joy,” repeated the baby, and looped over again. They were droning in the background. Droning French and writing.
Aren’t you afraid of dying? We could die, I told it.
“Joy, joy,” said the baby, as it rolled.
Mindless thing, you haven’t a grain of sense, I scolded.
Someone joggled my arm.
“Your paper, madame, it’s done,” said Fray Joaquin.
“Give it here. I need to read it.”
“Yours, madame,” said the Count, pointing to it where it lay on the gaming table. His head was tilted back, making his chins bulge forward, as he looked down his vast wide nose at me. It had black hairs bristling from the inside. Oh, ugly, I thought, and I shuddered as a cold wind passed through me.
“It’s worthless without the seal, you know,” he added. “I’ll seal it and give you this ring after our—private agreement tonight. You understand? When I retire, I expect you there—”
I couldn’t bear it. I stuffed the paper into my bosom and bolted through the press of people, weeping.
“Good—it begins,” I could hear him say as I fled. The sound of raucous laughter echoed down the corridor after me.