The Water Devil (24 page)

“I am not ashamed to meet God himself in this gown. I am cloaked in righteousness,” answered Madame. “Such injuries to my poor dress as occurred, came from my service to my two little charges, who might well have been slain by the madwoman at the pond.” I had to admire her. It was not really precisely true, but it might very well have been true, and it was certainly enough to stop the old man short.

“If that is so,” he said,“then you have done a service to this house. You shall not be shamed before the princes of the church and our high guests tomorrow. Margaret, go to the long, iron-bound chest
that is in my room in the tower, and see her clad new, from head to foot. It is my will. I am still Lord of Brokesford.” Hugo and Gilbert looked at each other, their jaws dropped. Cecily and Alison stared, the household stared, and outside, as word came to the folk beyond the windows, they stared at each other too, as I heard later. The old man's hatred of Madame had already attained mythic proportions on the manor. Surely, he must be the greatest, most Christian gentleman that drew breath, to make her a princely gift all in a flash like that, despite all her contumacy.

I could tell that Sir Hubert knew exactly the impression he had made. On the world, on his family, and even on himself. The smug look on his face told me that he considered himself still as far above this little world as God was above the great one. His beneficence rained on the righteous and unrighteous alike, just as God sends rain even to heathens. He might as well have shouted, “Ha! Take that! Now who knows most about chivalry, you sharp-tongued old lady!” He folded his arms, managing to look both arrogant and satisfied all at once, as I turned to lead Madame upstairs to the chests in which he kept his French loot and the folded clothes of his long dead and little lamented late wife.

“Father,” I heard Gilbert say as I left the room, “there is a great deal that has happened since we left—”

“Whatever has happened, has happened. I expect you two to help me keep a lid on everything until after the ceremony. The most important thing from this moment until the guests depart is that Brokesford Manor must not be shamed. I refuse to be a party to a scandal that promises well to live in legend—did I hear your wife say a pillow…?”

T
HE BRIGHT MORNING SUN OF LATE summer glinted on the gold embroidered banners of Brokesford, on the shining harness of the finest horses in the stable, on the rich silk attire, invisibly mended, of the manor folk. They had gathered on the dusty road at the edge of the parish in a great parade, followed by the village folk in their Sunday dress, to greet the procession of priests and deacons, the canon of the cathedral, and the new priest as they rode from the abbey. Never had Sir Hubert and his sons looked more imposing, their handsome surcoats embroidered with the family arms, their eyes scanning the road for the first signs of the ecclesiastical party. Someone critical, perhaps, might have noticed a new, embittered look on Sir Hugo's face, or a sort of strange, flitting anxiety on Sir Gilbert's. No one was so unkind as to comment upon the absence of Sir Hugo's wife among the ladies at the rear of the mounted party. Instead, they remarked with admiration how little Peregrine, sobered by the grandeur of the occasion, rode his own pony, led by two grooms on foot, beside his grandsire.

“That is the only heir,” they whispered. “Look at him, so young, to sit so straight.”

“See the pony's harness? Tom the saddler made an exact copy of Sir Hubert's own war saddle, on the lord's own command.”

“What of Sir Hugo?”

“There's no chance anymore, not unless he puts away—you know—”

“He'll just be warming a place for his own nephew.”

“It's just as well, I hear he's a terrible spendthrift—”

“Why is the boy called Peregrine? That's not a family name.”

“He was born abroad. That's what the name means, they say. They never expected he would be the only son of the house of de Vilers.”

“Ah, he looks like a little knight already. God spare him, he will be a great lord some day.”

The talk was too far to the rear to be overheard by the menfolk, but some of it carried to the sharp ears of the little girls who rode behind the women. And even though they had been mounted singly for the occasion, and Old Brownie left at home, their ears burned. Malachi had better hurry up with that philosopher's stone, thought Cecily. I'm getting tired of being at the end of every parade. Alison squirmed with irritation, then scratched at the top of her head, setting the wreath of flowers atop her hair at a cockeyed angle. It was hot, and dull, and simply hours of prayers lay between her and the feast, and she was itching for trouble.

Luckily for all, the itch was not to be satisfied at that moment, for rounding a clump of trees the canon's party was seen at a distance. The canon met every expectation of grandeur. Even from here, they could hear the jingle of the silver bells on the harness of his white mule, and spy the elegant crimson of his miniver trimmed robes. Beside him rode two priests in plain attire, and behind him were three deacons on foot. Then, behind them, oh wonder of wonders, rode the Abbot himself on a chestnut palfrey, surrounded by monks on foot, carrying the banners of the abbey and chanting as they went. The prospect of so much holiness all at once sent the villagers into raptures, sending all thoughts of springs and eels and spells in the night flying off, forgotten, into the ether.

When the two parties met, and Sir Hubert's chaplain handed over the keys to the church to the canon for the formal presentation to the new priest, there was only the tiniest of mishaps, one that hardly marred the greatness of the occasion. In the pleasantries exchanged, the canon managed to compliment Sir Hugo on his fine-looking son. As the new priest cringed inside, thanking God a
thousand times over that he had not made the remark, Sir Hugo remarked in a voice constructed of a thousand icicles that the boy was his brother's son. But the canon, who was both iron-sided and brass bound, boomed that it was no matter, his lady wife would soon cheer him with a son, he was well acquainted with her father's grand-uncle, and it was a most prolific family. “Babies like rabbits, that family, sometimes two at once.” Seeing the red color mounting up Sir Hugo's neck, his usually tactless father averted the coming explosion by waving a heavily gloved hand in the direction of the manor.

“Lady de Vilers is ill in childbed at this very moment,” he said, and the new priest cringed again.

“What did I say? Like rabbits, those de Broc women! I'll drop by and give her my blessing after the service. You did say she'd be at the feast?”

“If she is well enough,” said Sir Hubert, calmly guiding his anarchic family into its place behind the church procession as the canon spurred his mule ahead.

Everyone agreed that nothing so fine in the way of a procession had been seen in the village since the burial of Sir Hubert's lady some twenty or more years before, and even then there had not been as many chanting monks. Then the old ones of the village recalled how the good lady's coffin had given off the aroma of roses in token of her sanctity and good works, and also in token of the continuous solitary praying in the icy manor chapel that had sent her to her death. After that, all were silent again, for the contrast with the current Lady de Vilers who was locked in the tower room seemed almost too cruel to mention.

“Sir Gilbert looks just like that blessed lady,” remarked one old codger.

“She had him marked out for the church, that she had.” “Just as well he didn't stick at it. Otherwise the manor would have fallen into the hands of strangers.”

“Or that abbot,” said his companion, jerking his head in the direction of the abbot, an imposing fellow with several chins and
what all agreed was a greedy eye. The lot of the peasants on the abbey lands was known to be a hard one, for monks keep better records of tithes and duties and labor days than the lax, openhanded, and often absent Seigneur of Brokesford.

The little church was packed with holy folk, and the prayers satisfactorily long, both before and after the keys were handed over to the new priest. Of course, all the women inspected the new priest very carefully, and remarked on his honest, coarse face, his youth, his large feet, and the quality of wool which had gone into the making of his robe. Of his stole, nothing good enough could be said, since it was known to be a gift of his old mother, and worked with her own hands. All this, and a mule, too, went the whisper. Some lucky girl could live well as his “housekeeper,” even if she could not have the inestimable benefit of marriage itself. The new priest sang the mass in Latin most indecipherably, and therefore most holy, and the canon himself handed him the glorious new silver paten with the holy wafer on it. All in all, there was enough to discuss about the ceremony to keep everyone happy at least until Michaelmas, and here the feast hadn't even begun, with its promised combination of good food and good scandal.

TABLES WERE LAID
in the courtyard, and more tables crammed into the hall, and cooks' boys in plenty ran in and out to fetch ale in infinite supply and take away the empty dishes. At the high table, the sons of the house themselves did honor to the canon and the abbot with the precision of their carving, and the ladies' table, safely removed from the holy men, was ablaze with chatter.

Outside, the peasants roistered and sang and cheered the lord, the new priest, and the heirs of the house. The wine at the high table was pronounced exquisite, and the roasted, gilded swan on a bed of paste combed to look like the waves of a lake was praised as a masterpiece. Margaret's breads were of a magical lightness, the crusts of the lark pies heavenly flaky, and the entertainments provided by the hired minstrels between the courses were sprightly and witty.

I may live through this after all, thought the Lord of Brokesford. Just let them get out of here convinced that we are rich, powerful, and happy. Especially that abbot. I don't like the way his eyes seem to be counting the number of silver dishes on the table. Damn, I wish I had twice as many. He could see the guests admiring the fine falcons on his perches, the antiquity of the battle axes on his walls, and the size and magnificence of the dozens of hounds that lounged beneath the table, gnawing on the disgarded bones of the veritable herds of swine and sheep that had been sacrificed for the occasion. Little do they know, he thought. Freaks in the tower, and freaks in the kennel as well. My life's a shambles, thought the lord of Brokesford, and somehow, I'm not sure how, it all must be Gilbert's fault. Loudly he ordered more wine. The drunker they are, the less they'll notice, said Sir Hubert to himself, as he drained wine cup after wine cup himself.

It was just after the third course, when a gilded peacock was being served with a genuine flourish of trumpets, that the Lord of Brokesford looked up from his trencher to see a horrible sight. Sir Hugo turned white, and Sir Gilbert's mouth tightened, and the chatter at the ladies' table stopped. As if at a signal, all other talk in the room stopped, except for the religious guests, who did not quite understand what was happening. A woman in black had appeared at the foot of the stair that led upward to the solar and the interior passage to the tower.

Lady Petronilla's face was swollen, misshapen, and white, her eyes surrounded by dark circles. The braids of her hair had come unpinned, and damp, straggling hair was matted around her face. She had discarded the black veil of the succubus and made some attempt to fasten on the fine, white linen veil she had brought away from the Duke's court. It trailed disconsolately from the ruin of her hair held by a single, random, pin. She had donned her silver embroidered black surcoat, but it was as crumpled as if she had slept in it, and stained with something yellowish and crusty. Her eyes darted around the room, and her mouth, an unnatural brownish red, seemed distorted from endless howling.

“Where is my seat of honor?” she said. “Who has taken my seat of honor?” There was absolute silence in the great hall as the ghastly figure advanced on the table at the dais.

“Hugo, she's yours,” said the old lord in a hoarse whisper. “Get her out of here. And find out who unlocked the chamber, and I'll have his head.”

“But—but, I can't. Just look at her—why, she's possessed. It will make a terrible scene.”

“It's a terrible scene now. Play the man instead of the fop and get her out of here.” But Petronilla had already come to the abbot's seat.

“This is my place. Remove yourself and go lower,” she said.

“Hugo—” said Sir Hubert between his teeth. But at the word “possession,” so loosely uttered by Sir Hugo, the canon had perked up. Possessions were a specialty of his, and he loved to display his knowledge.

“How fat you are,” said the ghastly figure to the abbot. “Are you pregnant, too?”

“Possessed,” said the canon.“Hear the devil within her speaking?” The abbot turned in his seat and looked at her, insulted.

“Oh, no, I've made a mistake, I see,” she said. “You're pregnant with poor men's geese, and pheasants from woods which are not yours.”

“Definitely, definitely possessed,” said the abbot, drawing back in disgust. “Only a devil could speak in such a fashion.”

Oh my Lord Jesus, thought Margaret, trying to make herself invisible in her place at the women's table, don't let her spy me here. Two strong grooms, summoned from the kitchen, had come up quietly behind Lady Petronilla as she spoke, clutching the high, pointed back of the abbot's chair. In a flash, they grabbed her, but she bit them hard, and slipped out of their hands like quicksilver. Their blood ran out of her mouth, and she licked at it, as if the salty taste pleased her. As lightly as wind, she ran to the end of the hall, pursued now by a half-dozen grooms, one of whom carried a length of rope, and another a fishnet.

“Don't kill her now, I want her back in the tower,” said the Lord
of Brokesford, giving commands. But again, Lady Petronilla eluded them. Now she stood at the serving side of the ladies' table, directly in front of Margaret.