The Water Devil (20 page)

“Look, John, the horses have gone away. Did you forget to tether them?” With a start, he looked up at the two dripping, barefoot little girls, the sun caught in their shining hair.

“Don't tell anyone,” said John the groom. And thinking that he meant them not to tell that he had forgotten to tether grandfather's horses, they agreed. After all, John had caught them soon enough, and they didn't want the Lord of Brokesford to take away the use of Old Brownie in a fit of temper.

EACH MORNING
, just as the stars were leaving the sky, the Lord of Brokesford Manor rose, pushed aside his bed curtains, and then shouted at the grooms who slept at the foot of his bed to bestir their lazy, slugabed bodies. There were two perches on either side of the head of his bed. One held his favorite falcons, the other his clothes for the day, in fact, for every day, since he did not change them much. On the wall opposite the bed were two more perches, on which chain mail hung, just as if it were laundry set out to dry. Beneath them was a long, low chest on which stood his helmet and sword, just in case there had been an invasion of the manor in the night, and the tower needed to be sealed off. That was where his father had kept his helmet, and his father before him, and his father before that, and he saw no reason to change, just because the likelihood of invasion had diminished.

While one groom took down and brushed his clothes, the other took out a footcloth and laid it on the rushes between the bed and the window. Then the old lord, naked except for his nightcap, would stand in front of the glassless window breathing deep of the new air of dawn. Winter or summer, it was the same. Sucking the icy, damp air into him, he'd say, “Ah, fresh air. It makes a man strong. What an excellent new day.” And then, while breathing, he would give thought to all his plans, to victory, to manipulating his kindred, to ruling his tiny kingdom. At this point, or perhaps while the grooms knelt to put on his hose or fasten his points, his no-account sons, roused by the crowing of the rooster, would enter his chamber, kneel before him in order of age, and kiss his hand in greeting and obeisance.

“Late again, you whelps,” he growled, as Hugo knelt before him, still half dressed, and Gilbert ducked beneath the low stone arch that framed the door. The air had not smelled as sweet this morning; it had not brought as much new life. He had thought of his trees, of the treacherous canons at Wymondley, and the perfidy of lawyers, who never faced a man to his front, fully armed, but snuck around the back like some venemous serpent, striking in with poison
and treachery. Ah, now, it was Gilbert's turn. Why did he always irritate him so? It was his mother's long nose, and that arrogant, ironic way she had about her, that she'd passed on, along with her height and dark hair. Hugo, now, he was more in the pattern of a man, that is, in the pattern of himself before he had turned gray: blonde, square-set, vigorous, and not overburdened with reflection and useless wool-gathering. At least, that had been true until this latest turn Hugo had taken, dressing like a fop and preening himself like a dancing master. Ugh. The old man shuddered with distaste. Gilbert rose from his knee, and the look on his face told the old man that he'd seen his displeasure. Well, too bad. It would do him good.

“Heigh ho, now I'm off. Want to come with me, Gilbert?”

“Where are you off to?”

“They say there's a succubus off at the pond. I'm off to hunt her up.”

“What's this?” growled the old man, as he popped his head through the neck-hole in his undershirt.

“I'm collecting earthly pleasures in anticipation of my deathbed conversion. And nobody, absolutely nobody, gives more earthly pleasure than a succubus. I've checked with that fellow in the village. Unspeakable delight, taking the very substance out of a man, at least temporarily.”

“The succubus tried to kill him.”

“Ha! He was only a peasant. I'm prepared. But that's why I thought you might go along, Gilbert. Sort of insurance. You can keep your sword ready in case she tries to slay me with pleasure. Oof! Ha! What a death! But of course, then I couldn't take the habit and repent my sins.”

“Hugo, I refuse to be a pander for a succubus.”

“Hey, now, it's not at all like that. What's a brother for?”

“And what, if anything, do you plan to do with the rest of your day if you fail to find this creature?” said the old man, as the groom straightened out his tunic and held up the surcoat for the old man to put his arms into.

“Oh, I think I'll ride off to Mistress Bet's brewhouse. A man's got needs, you know, and that wife of mine has been useless ever since she got into that ‘delicate condition.’ ” And with that, he was off down the stairs of the tower, his cheerful whistling echoing back up the stairwell to them.

“Gone all day, eh?” said the old man, eyeing his second son. “Exactly my thought,” said Gilbert.

“Wat, go and have John saddle up our horses. We're off for the day ourselves.”

“Business with the Bishop about the new priest,” added Gilbert, though it was hardly necessary.

L
ION BARELY LIFTED HIS HEAD WHEN Gilbert reached under the bundles for the two neatly wrapped ones, sewn into heavy muslin cases as an extra precaution against tampering.

“Too old for a watchdog, you ought to put him down,” said Sir Hubert.

“Margaret would never hear of it. She loves that old dog.”

“Margaret this, Margaret that. You indulge that woman too much. She's spoiled.”

“How spoiled? She hasn't demanded a place at the Duke's court and then given it up in a huff, she doesn't order new dresses that no one can afford, and she's as brave as a tiger when it comes to looking after her own.”Gilbert hoisted the flat, rectangular package to his shoulder. His father took the long, flat one, two shovels wrapped with a board to disguise their shape.

“She doesn't discipline her servants. That so-called Madame creature is a monster.” They were half-way down the solar steps now.

“Madame's hardly a servant. But even you must admit, Madame is training the girls admirably,” Gilbert felt a strange sense of gratification. His father seemed absolutely benevolent in his presence. At long last, they were doing something together, not snarling and ripping at each other like hounds at a dogfight.

“Cecily Kendall, that little beast, sewing an altar cloth. Who would have ever thought it? Ha!” His father threw back his head and laughed. It was a fierce laugh, somewhat between a bark and a snort, and not long. Gilbert's long, intelligent face
was unchanged, but inside, he could feel his heart was expanding. He was having a vision of his father, seated in his big chair on the dais, his hawks perched behind him on the wall, and his hounds all lying down under the table at his feet, saying to guests, “My second son's a scholar. This learning stuff, it has its place.”

TOGETHER THEY TOOK
the main road toward Hertford, then doubled back secretly by roundabout ways across scrub and uninhabited wasteland, entering the woods by a route known only to them. A doe, startled, leapt before them and bounded off, seeking to lead them away from her twin fawns, cowering in the bushes nearby. But this was not a hunting day. In a tree above the path, rooks were having a parliament. What a lot of squawking, thought Gilbert, just like the real one. He looked over at his father, riding straight and square, and saw from his eyes that the old man was thinking exactly the same thought.

“The Duke will be coming home in the fall or winter sometime, before the meeting of parliament,” said Sir Hubert.

“If the French can raise the rest of the ransom for King John. Until then, he sits in Calais.”

“Sits in style,” harrumphed the old man. His face was weathered, his beard and hair nearly all white now, but he could wield a twohanded sword as if it were a feather, ride all day in full armor and keep watch all the night after without nodding. His eyes were of that pale blue that has seen much death, and dealt it out, too, without ever a pang of conscience. His very passing shadow inspired terror in peasants. Ice-hearted and strong, he seemed to be without weak spots, until now. How curious, thought Gilbert, that oak trees would be the way to his heart. Oak trees and Peregrine.

But they had passed from the mixed forest into the oak forest. It was not an accident that only oaks grew here. Centuries of culling, long before memory, had removed everything else. Above them, birds sang in the airy canopy, and at their feet, the shadow and sun spread ahead of them on the path like a dappled carpet. In the distance, they heard the rushing sound of water, and they approached
the pond from the far side of the temple of yews, tethering their horses beneath it while Gilbert scouted to see if anyone was at the spring.

“Don't bother,” said his father. “Ever since it ate my priest, most people have abandoned it utterly, except at the full moon, which isn't for another week and a half.”

“Margaret won't go, either, and she used to come to get water for brewing. She says she doesn't like to think she is drinking a priest.”

“There's a foolish woman for you. No matter where she gets the water, everyone's drinking him, at least, if they use the brook. And washing in him, and wading in him.” They hoisted the boxes from behind their saddles, and slashed open the wrappings. “The people say he's gone, sucked into the underworld. That keeps them from having fantasies about hauntings and staring eyes like that woman of yours who won't even eat oysters.” Within the outline of the gray, weedy ruins, they found a likely spot and began to dig. “But I have a different notion,” Sir Hubert went on. “There's the damndest, biggest eels that ever lived down in that hole. I think they eat up whatever, or whomver, is sucked up by the spring. All those chickens and cheeses and offerings. I fished up a big one out of that hole for my pond last year, but the otters ate it. And now those monster eels have gone and eaten Sir Roger, I wouldn't have the stomach for one of them. It would be like eating him, at second hand, you see, and it wouldn't be respectful.” The old man paused, astonished that he had revealed so much of his inner thinking to anyone. Gilbert paused, too, amazed that his father, in fact, had thoughts, and such calculated and sensible ones, too.

As they lowered the box into the hole they had dug, Gilbert thought he heard a scrabbling sound coming from the direction of the pond. Silently, he put his hand on his father's sleeve, and made a gesture toward the pond. There was a scratching, crackling sound of brush being broken, and the soft sound of a four footed beast treading on the carpet of oak leaves. The sound was receding from the pond.

“Some deer, coming to drink,” said his father. How interesting,
his father seemed to hear perfectly well out here alone. It was only with people he seemed not to hear a word, especially when those words displeased him.

They finished burying the box, trampled the ground, and spread some of the heavy stones on the site. Riding out of the forest the way they had come, they returned home by the main road from the opposite direction, feeling full of satisfaction.

WELL, THEY'VE GONE OFF
with it, I thought, and now that it's planted, we can go home and let it sprout at leisure. This is the shortest visit we've ever had here, and I hope it's the last. At least everyone is satisfied now. Sir Hubert gets the rights to the spring and I get my house, and things can go back the way they were. Madame took Cecily off to help her polish the altar silver in the Brokesford chapel, Mother Sarah took Peregrine and her spinning off to the orchard, where he could hunt for worms in the early fallen cider apples, and I took Alison to help me find all the children's scattered things in anticipation of packing.

“Mama, I want to go ride Old Brownie,” said Alison.

“It's not fair, when your sister is working, for you to play.”

“Yes it is fair, because when I go with her, I always have to ride behind because she says she is the oldest. I want to ride in front, where it's not so slippery.”

“You should take turns.”

“She says there's no reason to take turns. She's the oldest, so she says when to take turns, and I can't ride in front. Mama, why did you make me be second? I wanted to be first. If I were first, I would share more than
Cecily
does.”

“I didn't do it, my love, God did it. First or second, I am very happy you're mine.” We were in the solar, hunting about. I found Cecily's shift stuffed behind the little trundle bed the girls shared, and one of Peregrine's shoes.

“Mama, my birthday is a whole month ahead of hers. I've been waiting to catch up. If I am very good, will I be older than her next year, when my birthday comes back again?”

“It doesn't work that way. Goodness does not change time. Even though your birthday is in an earlier month, every year you will be the same number of years behind her. You can't catch up.”

“Not ever?”

“Never.” Alison sighed deeply. “Alison,” I asked, “where is Peregrine's other shoe?”

“Cecily put it in your little chest under the bed.”