The Water Devil (33 page)

Sir Hubert took a deep breath. He didn't believe the magistrate, but he had rehearsed what he would say, there in the depths of the woods. “Lady Petronilla committed suicide out of remorse,” he
said. The magistrate glanced quickly at the old man's besmeared garments, and then at his knife hilt. Not a spot of blood on it. But at Petronilla's belt was a knife. And it was smeared and bedaubed with the blood that was running down his own good saddle. Good enough, he thought. But I want her off my saddle before the blood stains are too hard to remove. But Sir Hubert felt confused. He shook his head. “Did you say they are living?”

“She—she went into the water and pulled him out,” said the magistrate. Sir Hubert looked at Sir Ralph's white face, and then he surveyed the shocked look on the faces of his grooms. Some were still on their knees in the mud, their eyes rolled heavenward, reciting prayers. She's done something, thought the old man. She's done another one of those things.

“I told you that you'd want her on your side,” said Sir Hubert.

“I think I know what you mean,” said the magistrate. “Are the daughters the same way?”

“Not that I know about,” said the old knight. There was a merry gurgling and burbling sound as the water gushed up from the spring. Sir Hubert looked at the rock. It was dry, with a faint sparkle of crystal here and there. “I think you must be right. They are alive. The rock's dry once more.”

“Did you always know about the rock?”

“Never saw it before. Thought it was a fairy tale,” said Sir Hubert.

“And the spring's started up again,” said the magistrate, still looking rather pale.

“You mean she stopped it?”

“Yes,” said the magistrate. “She told it to cough the boy up, and it did,” he gave a long, shuddering sigh.

“I always thought that was a fairy tale, too. Pity I didn't see it.”

“I wish I hadn't,” said the magistrate. “I liked my world the way it was. Orderly.”

“Ha! Lawyers! The world never works like it does in books! Especially law books!” announced Sir Hubert.

“It ought to,” said the magistrate.

“Why so? Then I wouldn't have my grandson back again,” said Sir
Hubert. But as he surveyed the mournful procession that set off for the manor, he didn't feel his old self-content at getting his way come back to him. Something else, something agonizing that he had never felt before, was gnawing at his insides. Remorse, bitter remorse, had stormed the high walls of his citadel.

B
Y THE TIME THE PROCESSION HAD AR- rived at the manor gate, it was accompanied by crowds of silent peasants, and the village priest. Someone had set the bell in the churchyard tolling. Margaret and her son lay as still as death, and as the word spread that the little London widow, the one with the fancy shoes and city ways who married the second son, was gone, there was moaning and shrieking among the women of the village, for she had done much good among them. Then the word spread that it was not she that was dead, but Sir Hugo's wife that had taken her life, and that gravediggers were already digging outside the churchyard for her burial, and the people of the village shuddered with horror. It was the last and most terrible thing, to be refused burial on sacred ground.

As the violet twilight gradually faded into dark, the cluster of folk beneath the window of the solar grew into a crowd, milling about by the light of a half-dozen torches.

“What are they doing out there?” said the Lord of Brokesford, who was sitting on one of the window seats set into the solar wall. It was dark, there, in the recess of the window, and only a few cold stars shone through. The old lord had his head in his hands. He had been that way for hours, unmoving. Across the room from him, Margaret and the boy lay in the big bed, with her old dog, bleeding and bruised, at her feet. The bed was surrounded by all of the dozen candles in the manor, and his son Gilbert knelt beside it, deep in prayer.

“They are singing prayers to the Virgin,” said the groom,
peering out the window. “Every soul on the demesne must be there.”

“Everything—everything in ruins. My plans. How can I go on? What does a man live for? Glory—my family name—and now, look at them there. Is it my fault?” For a minute, a flicker of realization floated tantalizingly near him. Somehow, somehow, might it have been a chain, a very long chain of consequences, that was rooted in his own frozen heart, his own lovelessness? But as he tried to sieze at it, it floated beyond the reach of his mind, and was lost forever. He tried to comfort himself with the thought of how wicked Lady de Vilers had been, and how he had meted out justice with an iron hand, but somehow that didn't seem to work, either. Something heavy was pressing down on his chest, something that hurt. Now it was going through him in waves, and he felt wrung to pieces by it. He had risked his old, hard heart on the tiny little creature that lay in the bed, barely breathing, next to his mother. And now it was broken. Outside, he could hear the voices rising beneath the stars:

All useless, thought the Lord of Brokesford. How many times had the highest ranking priests in the land called down the blessings of God, of Jesus, and of the Blessed Mother on the great enterprise in France, and what had come of that?

Whenever would they stop that useless singing, he thought. It's all gone. Don't they know any better? New light. Where is my new light? Who has lost as much as I?

Pity, where is pity? he thought, looking out at the dark. A sliver of a moon had risen, but shed little light. A sliver of a thought came to him, with that rising moon, and began to form in the depths of him. She had a son, that heavenly lady, he thought. She risked all. And she lost Him. Surely, she must know how my heart is dying inside me now.

Ah, God, is this what it feels like? Damnation? Is hell composed of endless sorrow, of infinite and unmendable regrets? I never thought it would be like this; I have always scorned pain, pain of the body. But this stuff, this came like a thief, and cut away everything within. Take pity on me, take pity sweet lady, queen of heaven. Pity on me, your servant….

DOWNSTAIRS, A CAPABLE HAND
had taken over, when that of the lord seemed paralyzed. Madame had called the midwife's daughter to wash and lay out the body of Lady Petronilla, and she had shamed Sir Hugo out of drinking himself into a stupor by telling him that he was expected to pass the night in prayer. With a firm word to the steward, she had sent all of Lady Petronilla's servants packing, on foot, into the ending day, and she herself had stood at the door and checked their belongings to make sure that they took away only what was theirs. Then she had given orders to the gravediggers and sent to the village for a pair of strong, lively girls to help her with the nursing. Up and downstairs she went, an indomitable figure, with her candle in her hand, supervising at once a funeral, a disastrous childbed, and a household too crippled by tragedy to offer proper hospitality to the assortment of guests that had remained: the magistrate and his clerks, their horses too exhausted by
the chase to travel for days, and a very ancient old blackfriar who spoke almost no English and who could not be removed from the best bed until all the apple-wine in the cellar had been drunk.

Beds and linen, supper, a shroud, extra boys to walk the horses dry, poultices and herbal brews, and blankets warmed before the fire had to be provided. Madame comandeered the servants, she comandeered the villagers, and she comandeered the little girls, who suddenly seemed sober beyond their years. And as dark drew on, and the household dropped with exhaustion, only Madame persevered. Up and down and in and out she went, with her candle, checking up, making things work. And every time she passed through the solar, Sir Hubert looked up and watched her. As the night passed, he saw things he had not seen before, or rather, not seen aright. Her hems rustling about her feet, her straight, unbending back, her ever-vigilant eyes seemed to him the very soul of order, the order that brings rightness and civility to a house, even in the face of chaos and disaster. Looking at her through grief-swollen eyes, he saw other things, a profile like the paintings of saints and angels, a complexion pale and smooth in the candlelight. And such wrinkles as remained in its flattering glow seemed to be signs of character. Maturity. The outward image of her inward competence. He saw capable hands that brought cool, wet, towels, and hot fomentations. And he saw that she never, never gave in, which was a quality he could appreciate, since it was one he believed himself to possess.

At last, in the hour before dawn, Margaret gave a terrible cry. And although the women had pulled the bedcurtains, the old lord, still keeping his vigil at the far end of the solar, watched numbly as the nurses carried away a basin with all that remained of his second grandchild. It was almost with relief that he looked up to see Madame, her guttering candle in her hand, in front of him.

“My lord, your daughter-in-law is well, and will recover,” she said.

“And my boy?” asked the old man.

“The little boy breathes, he is sleeping quietly.”

“Has he ever waked? Has he spoken?”

“Not yet. But he seems to be dreaming. He spoke once, but his eyes weren't open and no one understood what he was saying.”

“What did he say?”

“The green lady has a very wet hall.” The old man puzzled over this awhile. Then he asked, his face troubled.

“Is his mind right? Will he be as he was?”

“That is God's will,” said Madame, but Sir Hubert could see the tears shining in her eyes, and understood suddenly at what cost she had bought her untiring energy of that night. The cost of unshed tears, of grief deferred. It was a price he understood.

“Madame Agathe, you have been very good to us,” he said.

“It is my duty,” said Madame, suddenly turning away her face.

THE NEXT MORNING
, as he sat down to dinner with the magistrate, they both watched as Madame ordered up a meal to be sent to the solar, gave orders for pallbearers, and set about arranging for a funeral supper of the exactly correct level of simplicity for the sort of death that one does not talk about, and Sir Hubert said:

“She manages things very well, doesn't she?”

“You can always tell good blood,” said the magistrate. It set Sir Hubert thinking.

As the bell tolled, and the funeral procession started from the gate, Sir Hugo turned to his father as they followed the corpse on foot.

“It certainly is a relief to know that Madame is back there making things work. It's been hell, never knowing what I'd come back to find in my chamber. Did you know my wife slashed my new doublet in the Saxon style? And after I'd taken such trouble with it, too.” Sir Hubert, who had felt the first few unpleasant gnawings of guilt, found his heart suddenly lightened. In the new space that had been made, the idea he had been contemplating grew even larger, and took on the form of a brilliant inspiration.

That afternoon, with Hugo's wife safely interred, and a few extra prayers had been said to keep her spirit from walking, Sir Hubert went to take counsel with his younger son, the only member of his
tribe who seemed to have had a worthwhile experience in certain matters.

He found Gilbert sitting on his wife's bed, holding her hand. Margaret was propped up on many pillows, and her color was coming back. The baby wasn't in the bed any more, and at the sight of the empty place, he grew alarmed.

“Father, it's excellent news. Peregrine woke up as good as new while you were gone. He was making so much noise I sent him off with his new nursemaid to find something to eat. And look, I've made Margaret smile.”

“That wasn't a smile,” said Margaret. “It was a grimace. You make the very worst puns in the world.”

“It's an art,” said Gilbert, his voice serene. Even now, with all this, they are very happy together, thought Sir Hubert. Is that how it's supposed to be?

“Gilbert, I have an idea,” he announced.

“Oh, no,” said Gilbert very softly, and his face turned white.

“Not again,” said Margaret, under her breath, and Sir Hubert noticed little lines on her brow which hadn't been there before.

“It's a very good idea, and I have come to take counsel with you as to how to best accomplish it. I can't make any mistakes. And you know how touchy
some people
can be.”

“
Some people?
You mean Hugo?”

“No, I mean that, well, Madame. That is, Madame Agathe, you know.”

“Oh, really, what have you in mind?” “Well, um, you know how this place needs fixing up—” Margaret's eyes flashed irritation.

“And I've noticed lately that Madame is a very competent woman. That is, even though she doubtless has no marriage portion, she has excellent personal qualities—that is, her blood is good and it would be no disgrace—”

“Father,” said Gilbert, his face turning pink, “do you mean you are thinking of proposing marriage to Madame?”

“It does—well, it does seem sensible, doesn't it? A sort of partnership.
I mean, a younger woman with a dowry might seem better on the surface of it, but she might not have the strength of mind, that is—”

“You mean the strength of mind to put up with you?” asked Gilbert, a wicked smile crossing his face. “Why, father, you have my blessing.”

Margaret's eyes were open wide with alarm. This old man was the most interfering, marriage-crazy creature she had ever seen. First her Cecily, and now Madame. Really, someone ought to warn Madame of the horrible notion he was hatching up in his mind.