The Water Devil (23 page)

Lady Petronilla fell on Margaret with a horrible shriek and had to be pulled off her to the scandal of the gathering crowd at the gate.

“What's wrong?” somebody said.

“Lady Petronilla was thrown by Margaret's horse.”

“Thrown? What if she loses the heir?”

“Lady Margaret said the heir was a pillow, and then she fell on her.” In the scramble, Lady Petronilla's black veil fell off, and her hair was scandalously uncovered. Margaret pulled herself away, disgusted and horrified, as the frantic madwoman crouched before them, the whites of her eyes gleaming as they rolled.

“Kill the white mare, kill the white mare,” the black bundle chanted.

“My pet, my baby, she's ill,” cried her old nurse, who had rushed from the tower at the sight of the crowd at the gate. But, as cold as ice, Madame stopped her before she could press through the retainers to her lady.

“I tell you now,” said Dame Margaret, standing with great dignity before the lunatic woman, “my little mare shall have a trial, and at that trial, I shall produce evidence that you took her without my leave, that you rode without escort, that she went for you willingly,
and that you dismounted peaceably to engage in practices no honest woman could imagine. My horse is in the stable—”

“You see? It's possessed! There's a devil in it, that stole my son from me!”

“—and I have possession of the knife you dropped in your unholy ritual.” At this the old nurse recoiled, and Madame looked at her with a frozen face.

“Peasants can't testify against me—I'll have them tortured.”

“Just wait and see who testifies against you,” said Margaret, hoping by her calm to bring sense back to the disordered mind.

“Who is mistress here? It is I, I rule, I, I, I,” said Lady Petronilla, her eyes glittering, her skin pallid, spotty, and fishlike. She stood up at her full height, looking at the circle of cold, accusing faces. “You don't dare touch me. No one does. Make way for me now.”As she turned to go, Margaret spotted a flash of white on the ground beneath her hem, and put her foot on it. Lady Petronilla swerved like a drunken thing, and her “pregnancy” lurched from her belly to her knees. All eyes were on the bandage beneath Margaret's foot. With a shriek, Petronilla clutched the bundle to her thighs, doubling over as she pulled away. Margaret removed her foot, and the black clad madwoman scuttled through a silent crowd that parted before her.

“A pillow,” said Madame in a cold voice, looking at Margaret. Margaret nodded silently in agreement.

“My chick, my dear,” cried the old nurse as she hurried after her.

“And tied on with a bandage,” said the steward. “Look at her clutch it, while the bandage trails behind her.”

“Pitiful, just pitiful,” said a woman.

“Lock the tower room door behind her,” said Margaret to the steward, “and do nothing until your master returns home. Post a guard on my mare. I don't want any accidents in the stable.” That night the entire manor heard the screams from the tower room, the frantic rattling and banging at the door.

M
ARGARET, WHAT'S HAPPENED TO your mare?” asked my lord husband on returning from fetching the wine. “There's a groom sleeping in front of her stall day and night, and her sides are all cut up. When we asked what was going on, he just said speak to you.”As grooms unloaded the cart in the court, rolling the kegs into the hall to be stored in the cellar, he bounded into the great hall looking fresh and pleased with himself, and handsomer than ever. I knew I looked like a fright, with circles under my eyes from worry.

“Where's your father?” I asked. “We have to speak to him. Hugo's lady has gone mad, and is locked in the tower room. She has a notion to have my horse killed for causing her to lose her son. The son was nothing but a pillow, tied on with bandages.” I must have sounded weary. He shook his head, as if he couldn't really understand.

“She's been pregnant with a—a pillow?”

“Exactly,” I said. He took my hand and stroked the back of it tenderly.

“Margaret, Margaret, the minute I leave, everything always breaks loose around here, doesn't it?”

“That seems to be how it always happens. It's the genius of this house. You know how I feel about visiting here.”

“No different than I do, Margaret. And just think, I was
born
here and I can't stand it.”

“But, my lord husband, we have another problem. The girls are in the solar.”

“Well, that's good. Are they doing another piece of church linen?” I sighed deeply.

“No, I mean they're up there and can't go out until you and I figure out what to do.”

“What have they done this time, put frogs in someone's bed again?”

“No,” I answered. “They've made themselves priestesses of a pagan cult and have been foxing the villagers out of gifts and enough honey cakes to make themselves both sick.”At this, Gilbert put his hand to his forehead and sat down heavily on the bench that ran the length of the hall under the wallfull of deer antlers that his father had collected.

“Oh, my God,” he said, “the Inquisition.” He shook his head. “Let me think a moment,” he muttered. “My mind's overwhelmed.”

“Mine has been ever since you left.”

“Have any of the priests here got word of this?” asked Gilbert, speaking very low.

“No, your father's confessor is drunk, and Lady Petronilla's confessor is off betraying your father's cause to the Austin canons at Wymondley. There's no village priest until tomorrow, which is half the problem. They wouldn't have turned to the old cult if they'd had a proper, godly priest. Everyone in the village knows about Lady de Vilers. There won't be any hope of hiding it. She was found dancing about the pond, disguised as a succubus. But they'll never tell. Just as they'll never tell about Cecily and Alison. Gilbert, have you any idea of what they were doing? Parading about on a white heifer and pretending that French songs were an ancient invocation? Commmuning with sacred eels? These peasants have corrupted them almost beyond redemption. My lord husband, we have to get the girls out of here as quickly as possible. And we don't dare punish them before we're long gone from here, or the whole village could rise in revolt.”

“Revolt? Hardly. Burn a few haystacks, perhaps.”

“Gilbert, they've lost their crops, they're afraid of losing their animals to the murrain that's coming closer all the time, and they
just don't care any more. They think the girls are the key to their salvation. You can't put them all to the sword. Your father needs live peasants, Gilbert, or he'll just try another way to gouge funds out of you.”

“But Margaret, I do owe my family something.”At this, I just sank down on the bench beside him and put my head in my hands.

“I can't stand these people, Gilbert, why, oh, why, did I ever consent to come here?” Gilbert put his arm around me.

“For the house, Margaret. Remember? The canon comes tonight, the ceremony is tomorrow. We'll put on a brave front, see the new priest installed, and leave to let nature take its course with the deed. What is it about father that always entangles me so? My life is clear, neat, and orderly until he steps into it. Every time, Margaret, every time—”

“There you are, woman,
THERE
you are! I've just come from the kennels, and
WHAT
do you think I found there?
ANSWER ME THAT
! I swear, I'm going to make that ghastly little dog of yours into a HAT!” Sir Hubert, his traveling clothes still dusty, strode through the entrance to the hall with his rolling, horseman's gait. Behind him followed Hugo and several retainers, all highly amused. “MY
FAVORITE BITCH HOUND! HOW DARE
you?”

“Well, Margaret didn't exactly do it, father,” said Hugo.

“Don't interrupt! You know what I mean!”

“See what I mean?” said Gilbert in a low voice, turning to me, his face all doleful.

“I see exactly what you mean. I'd have run away myself, if I were born a son of his.”

“Stand up and
LOOK
at me, you
WHELP
! My favorite bitch! It's a disgrace! I'm going to drown them ALL!”

“I take it, father, she's had a litter?” said Gilbert politely, raising himself from the bench to stand before his father.

“A litter? A
LITTER
? A hideous spawning of misbegotten things
ALL MISSHAPEN
and
COVERED
with
PREPOSTEROUS
white
CURLS! YOUR DOG
did it, Madame. That
THING
that sleeps all the time!”

“Don't you dare touch my puppies,” I said, suddenly furious.

“That's exactly what I mean. You DID do it.”

“I can't help it if you insist on bringing all those huge, filthy hounds when you come to visit my house. You had them pissing in my nice clean new rushes the very minute they were laid down, and spreading their dreadful fleas everywhere.”

“Pissing and fleas are nature, Madame, and you might as well get used to it,” said the old man, planting his hands on his hips.

“And so are dogs humping dogs, so get used to it yourself,” I said, feeling my own face get hot.

“Two months to the day, Hugo,” said Gilbert cheerfully.

“Imagine the difference in
size,”
said Hugo dreamily. “If one must be made into a hat, it should only be for the sake of a
worthy
experience.” Hearing them all, I could feel my fury rising. Too much work, too much trouble, and too much Brokesford had loosened my mind from its moorings. Small wonder Lady Petronilla, bad as she was, had gone completely mad.

“Don't you dare touch a one of them,” I said.“I'm
tired
of the way you wade around in blood all the time.”

“Madame, those things in the kennel are useless mouths. They're all freaks, not suited to be hounds or fit for lap dogs either.”

“My Lion is not a lap dog.”

“No, he's a lie-on-the-pillow dog, and I don't propose to allow any more such in the world.” But when I saw that nasty old white haired man turn to give orders to the groom, all that I had suffered at his hands just rose up in my throat.

“If you even touch those puppies, I'll—I'll tell the canon
everything.
I'll shout it from the rooftops. I'll tell that horrible Brother Paul who's off selling you out to the Austin friars right now—”The old man's eyes bulged, and before anyone could stop him, he'd grabbed my shoulders and shook me until my teeth rattled.

“What do you MEAN, he's selling me out?”

“He's off with the canons at Wymondley. What do you think? And the whole world knows Hugo's wife is a madwoman who's been
dancing around the pond as a succubus, and has filled the medicine chest with witchcraft charms—”

“The succubus, my wife? Damn!” interrupted Hugo.

“And what were you planning to do, look her up by the pond some night, you dirty-minded man? No wonder she tried to make a baby with a pillow.”

“My wife? Gilbert, you have no idea what a disappointment it is. I've given her everything—”

“Father, don't you dare touch Margaret—”

“Lay hands on ME, will you, you miserable excuse for a son! I'll KILL you!” It is very hard to describe the storm that was going on around me, and all the shouting voices, especially since I was being rattled back and forth between Gilbert and his father, while one said don't touch her and the other said I'll touch whom I like, I'm master here, and so forth. The noise carried out all the windows and, they say, caused people to stop all the feast preparations and gather in the forecourt just to listen. It also carried up the circular stone stair to the solar, and before I knew it, poor old Lion had fastened onto Sir Hugo's heel and there were the high pitched squeaks of a little boy crying “Don't touch my mama,” and the sound of a girl howling while somebody, possibly Cecily, belabored the entangled bodies at random with a distaff. Then there came the cool, clear sound of a woman's voice, cutting through the melee.

“Gentlemen! Remember chivalry.” Gilbert looked up and took his hands from around his father's throat.“The canon and the priests of the church are at the gates.” Gilbert's father took his hands from around Gilbert's throat. I disengaged myself from between them, and smoothed down my veil and wimple.“For shame,”said Madame, standing all pale and straight in her shabby black gown, now so damaged that it was impossible to mend, despite all her efforts. Hugo looked down resentfully at Lion, who had not let go his heel.

“That's a
very
expensive shoe,” he said, his voice full of resentment.

“Don't touch my dog,” I said, my voice still full of menace.

“I don't like you, Gran'papa, you're
mean,”
said a little voice. Sir Hugo looked down where the little boy had been pitched on his backside by the struggle.

“I am master here,” he said, drawing his fierce white eyebrows together like stormclouds.

“But
he
is the greater gentleman, and him not even three years old,” announced Madame. “For he would have given his life for his lady mother at this very moment, when you wished to strangle her over a litter of puppies.” Something about her coolness, her preciseness of description, stopped them short.

“I am ruler in this house,” said the Lord of Brokesford, in a last attempt to establish his correctness.

“God is ruler in every house,” said Madame, gazing straight at him with her cool blue eyes.

“God has a perfectly good house down in the village. He should stick to that,” growled the old man, backing down. Madame smiled. A very tiny, faded smile that perhaps only I noticed.

“And God's representatives will soon be within our house, stopping for dinner on their way to Wymondley to stay the night.”

“By God, they're all in this together,” said Hugo, amazed at the thought.

“Father, you'd better think twice before you lay a finger on Margaret. You need her still,” Gilbert reminded him.

“Madame de Hauvill. You look like a street beggar. How can you greet a prince of the church like that?”