CHAPTER SIX

THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY, WHEN BROTHER Gregory arrived for the reading lesson, Margaret was busy in the kitchen, smelling the fish that had been brought from the market.

“The boy said it was caught just this morning,” Cook was reassuring her.

“Yesterday evening is more like it.” Her voice sounded suspicious. It wasn’t mistrust of Cook or the boy, but a mistrust of certain Billingsgate fishmongers whom she knew. Some were likely to “sweeten” a measure of fish by putting new ones on top of the old, and you had to be careful to look through the whole basket to make sure someone in the household was not poisoned.

“This one, and this one at the bottom, must go,” she announced, putting the offending fish to one side. “The others will do, but they need a spicy sauce. I don’t think they’re perfect even now. Is the grain in the kettle?” She peeked into a boiling pot. Goodness, she thought to herself. It’s only just started, and it takes so long to burst. I hope it’s done in time. Then she skirted Cook, whose broad form was bent over the chopping block, and the little boy who sharpened the knives, to unlock and check the contents of the spice boxes on the kitchen shelves. As the sharp smell of peppercorns and cloves mingled with the aromas from Cook’s efforts, Margaret felt a delicious tingling spread from her nose all the way down inside her. How lucky, how lovely, to have a kitchen full of good things to eat! How nice to see every living human creature in the house with a full, pink face, and never feel a tugging on one’s skirt, and look down to see a pair of hungry eyes looking up!

Margaret started to think of the frumenty she was going to make when the wheat burst. It was one of her husband’s favorite dishes, and the girls’ too. She could already imagine the spicy steam from the kettle rising to her face as she stirred the pot. Master Kendall didn’t really seem to understand that when you can do something really well, it’s hard to give it over to someone else—and besides, by now even Cook had gotten used to her ways. And she knew he really appreciated her brewing; no one in the City could do better, and everyone praised the ale in Kendall’s house.

No one baked better than she did either. It’s a gift, getting the bread to rise up feathery light, and not everyone has it. Once, on baking day, she had run out to greet Kendall still wrapped in her big apron, with flour up to her elbows, and a white smudge of it on her nose, and he had laughed with pleasure at the sight. “If you knew how pretty you were like that, little poppet, you’d wear a smudge on your face every day and start a fashion at court,” he’d said, and she didn’t know if he was making fun of her or not. That’s how it is with men, she thought. Everything they say means three or four things at once.

Then Margaret saw that the kitchen water reservoir was empty and sent the kitchen maid to fill it, checked to see that the beds had been shaken and aired, the ashes cleared from all the fireplaces, the corners swept, and new lavender put in the stored linens. Lucky, lucky, she thought. I’m not hauling water myself anymore. She had been up before dawn and, with the exception of meals, would very likely not sit down until evening. She stayed up last of anyone in the house, as well, for that is the time all sensible housewives go from room to room to make sure that every candle is out and every fire properly covered. Anyone fool enough to skimp on that task risks being accidentally burned alive in her bed some night. A lot of things are like that now, she thought. I don’t have to do them myself, but I have to see that everyone else does them right, and that’s just as much work, in a different sort of way.

But the luckiest part about her new life was the lessons. She could sit down and use her head then, which was a luxury no other woman she knew had. It had all started when Master Kendall had asked her if there was a gift she’d like, one evening when he was feeling mellow. She’d been tired, the man with the wood hadn’t come, and the girls had been very cross that day, and she’d wanted to answer, Time, or Time just by myself, to think. But she knew he couldn’t give it, and she didn’t want to disappoint him, so she said something that popped into her head, instead: “I’d like to learn French, so I can speak with your friends, and you’d be more pleased with me.”

“I’m always pleased with you, sweetheart,” he’d answered. “But that’s really not a bad idea, not bad at all.” And he’d hired the widow of a knight, who was down on her luck, to come and speak almost every day to her and the girls, and now even little Alison called her dress a robe de chambre.

But her book was the best thing of all. She’d have never dared think of it if the Voice hadn’t been so pushy, but a person should never ignore a voice. She wasn’t quite sure why it was such a good idea, but it really was. And it was the one thing in the whole world that was really hers, just hers, and no one else’s. It was turning out so beautifully, all those pages and pages of neat black writing. Here and there she could even make out a word or two, which made it even better. And when it was read to her it sounded right, just right. Maybe someday, someone would read it and understand what she wanted to say, and not give her a lecture on what she ought to want to say. And when they did, well, maybe things would be different then. Or maybe it would be a different world. The kind of world where people can listen to what other people have to say, even if they’re not men. My goodness, yes, the Voice had had a very good idea, that time.

By this time Brother Gregory had become bored with waiting and brooding on a bench in the hall. With his hands clasped behind his back, and his long nose stuck out ahead like that of a curious hound in pursuit of something interesting, he prowled toward the kitchen. Through the open door he could see Margaret, wrapped in a big apron, inspecting a tub full of cabbage heads, freshly cut and put to soak until any worms that lived inside had crawled out. Margaret hated to bite into a worm in an apple, or all cooked into a cabbage, although some people are not so fussy. Her head was cocked to one side, and she was tapping her foot with impatience, watching the worms slowly rise to the surface of the water. Nasty things, she was thinking. You should live in somebody else’s cabbages, not mine.

Clearly, Brother Gregory thought, she’s doing nothing at all but annoying me by keeping me waiting, and so he came poking into the kitchen after her. But as he stepped over the threshold, a raucous voice shouted, “Thieves! Thieves in the butter!”

“What on earth…?” Brother Gregory exclaimed involuntarily, and looked in the direction of the voice. Everyone in the kitchen looked up at him and grinned.

“You see? He’s perfect,” said Cook in a happy voice, hands on her wide hips. Brother Gregory saw, hanging from the ceiling in a big wicker cage beyond the cat’s reach, a flutter of black and white feathers.

“It’s Cook’s magpie,” explained Margaret, wiping her hands on her apron. The puzzled look left Brother Gregory’s face. “He warns her if anyone’s sneaking into the kitchen to steal the pies while they’re cooling. Her sister just gave him to her, because her sister’s husband couldn’t stand him. We all think he’s very clever.” Brother Gregory inspected the creature critically. The bird made a cheerful whistle, then a gurgling sound like water. Preposterous, thought Brother Gregory.

While Margaret finished up and took off her apron, Brother Gregory stared morosely at the tub full of cabbages that had appeared to intrigue Margaret so. The water was full of floating cabbage worms. Even more preposterous, thought Brother Gregory. At that very moment the idea came to him that people who could give their serious attention to a matter as trivial as a bad fish or a cabbage worm were incapable of serious thought. He was pleased with himself for having at last discovered why women are naturally inferior to men. It was because they could only notice the details of things, and could not see the bigger picture of which these details were a part. Thus it was obvious that they were incapable of wider ethical perception and of general moral development. From this it followed that to exist, they required the direction of men, like perpetual children, only more dangerous because they were larger.

As Brother Gregory worked over this piece of enlightenment in his mind, his disposition became cheerful. An interesting insight always did that to him. He was so pleased with himself that for the rest of the day, he forgot to bark at Margaret’s outrageous spelling and didn’t even say anything sarcastic when, during the lesson, her dog pushed the door open with his nose and stood by her, waiting expectantly for the stroking she was too busy to give. And Margaret’s dog positively invited sarcasm, in Brother Gregory’s opinion, as would any creature with no discernible eyes and a front and back end that looked almost entirely interchangeable. It was possible to measure Brother Gregory’s contentment by the fact that he neglected the immediate source of pleasure to be found in a sally of wit on this easy subject.

Today they did the reading lesson first. Brother Gregory began by writing out sentences of increasing difficulty on the tablet, and then when Margaret had read them, he had her take down sentences from dictation. Brother Gregory was serious about his work. He made sure that every exercise had an uplifting tone, for all proper instruction, in his eyes, included moral instruction, and he considered Margaret a hard case. Now Brother Gregory watched with a smug expression of pleasure as Margaret bent over her work, her brow wrinkled in complete concentration. Today she was copying the Biblical passage that he had recited concerning the woman more valuable than rubies who serves her family day and night and never gets any rest. As she slowly made the letters appear in the wax, she unconsciously chewed on her lower lip. It seemed clear to him that she admired elevated sentiments and wanted very much to be improved.

But Margaret was really waiting for her turn. When the part about the rubylike woman who spun all the time was done, then she’d get to watch the fabulous shades of irritation and shock play across Brother Gregory’s face as he took down her memoirs. It was the proper reward, she thought, for all that docility.

 

MONCHENSIE WAS THE FIRST castle I had ever been in, and I hope it is the last. Castles are, in general, much nicer to look at than to live in. For one thing, stone walls are very cold, and so the place always smelled of dank and mildew. The knights and ladies wore heavy, fur-lined garments indoors, but the poorer folk and servants had none, unless you count the occasional sheepskin. That winter was so cold that the water froze in the jugs in the kitchen, and despite the fact that I was fairly warmly clad, my hands and feet were always blue and cold. Even a cottage can be better warmed than a castle. I suppose, too, the desire to leave conflicted with our fear of the unknown, since Hilde and I had no place to go. How we did leave, in time, is a story well worth telling.

Ordinarily, Sir Raymond and his retinue moved between his three greatest properties, which were at some distance from one another. I have since heard that the grant of dispersed lands is a precaution the king takes with all his barons, so that they will be less likely to stay in one place and foment rebellion. Besides, they have to move about, these great ones, because they are like a plague of locusts—they descend on a place and eat everything up, and then have to go elsewhere. But now Lord Raymond had decided that what with the difficult birth of his heir and subsequent weakness of his wife, it would be better to remain the winter at Monchensie and celebrate Christmas with his household there. Lord Raymond never did with anything less than the best on feast days. And this Christmas, the first after the birth of his son, promised to be a grand festivity, with food for feasting taken from miles around. There would be music and dancing; Sir Raymond’s musicians were to be augmented by pipers from the village. I did not care much for the work of his minstrels. For one thing, Sir Raymond was tone deaf, and that had discouraged them. During meals they scraped and plunked indifferently; the only thing that Sir Raymond really cared for was long-winded and bloody accounts of battles, sung to the harp, and preferably with his name worked into them. They had composed a flowery song in honor of the birth of his heir, but it unfortunately had too many verses, and Sir Raymond had yawned. Everyone expected that the pipers would be the chief source of liveliness at the Christmas dancing. But fate acted to improve the celebration considerably.

One December afternoon, just before the Feast of the Conception of the Blessed Virgin, a strange-looking party came straggling through the village, demanding admission at the town gate and begging hospitality at the castle. Leaning from an upstairs window I saw them as they crossed the courtyard. A light snowfall was spotting their cloaks and baggage with white. Three men walking with wrapped instruments on their backs led the way, leading two heavily laden donkeys and four little dogs. Behind them were some who had joined the party for company and safety in travel: a pardoner with his strange hat and pilgrim’s shells sewn onto his cloak, carrying a pack, and a mounted merchant and his retainers, with their pack mules.

I had been more in the company of Lady Blanche than usual, for she found that my laying on of hands could stop the spells of heavy bleeding with which she had been afflicted after her dangerous birth. When I told her what I had seen, she sent me to investigate and report all, for she was still bedridden.

There in the hall, where Sir Raymond sat hearing petitions and punishing tenants, the leader of the little band advanced, gave an extraordinarily low obeisance, and presented a letter of introduction. He was Maistre Robert le Taborer, musician to the very King of Navarre himself, and the two others were members of his company. On his right—and he gestured broadly to a tall, bony figure in motley—was the celebrated Tom le Pyper, also known as Long Tom. While Long Tom bowed, Maistre Robert grandly introduced the agile little man on his left as the renowned Parvus Willielmus, master of mirth. Sir Raymond called his chaplain to read the letter, which was a very flowery tribute to the extraordinary musical powers of the group, begging hospitality in the king’s name from any great lord to whom they should address themselves. Father Denys was impressed. He raised his eyebrows and showed the document to Sir Raymond, who stared blankly at it.

“The King of Navarre, eh?” he said, as he peered at it. “Is this his seal? What’s that pink spot here?”

“Wine, my lord, I’m afraid. We musicians must sometimes lodge at strange places when we’re on the road,” answered Maistre Robert.

“Riotous places, hmm? Well, you’ll lodge here and be welcome. A king’s musicians! What good fortune! What news do you have from France?”

Maistre Robert replied with news from abroad and also some interesting things about events in England as well. He threw in several scandalous stories, and when he saw Sir Raymond’s interest rise, he knew exactly how to deal with him. When Sir Raymond demanded a sample of his skills, he called to Long Tom and Parvus Willielmus. Long Tom took out a drum, whose demanding voice called the attention of everyone in the hall. Faces peeped in at every door. While the drumming continued, the shorter man juggled first three, four, and then five balls in the air. Then Maistre Robert began his patter, and the other two, ceasing drumming and juggling, joined in. It was a dialogue, consisting of a series of extraordinarily bawdy stories told at rapid fire. Laughter filled the hall. Sir Raymond laughed so hard he turned bright red, as if he were having a choking fit.

“Well, Maistre Robert, if you play as well as you talk, we’ll have some merry evenings here, I’m sure.” Tears of laughter were still running down his face.

“Call those minstrels up here,” said Lady Blanche to me, “I want to hear the news too.” She had herself propped straight up in bed, and received them, asking them a great deal about court life abroad, what clothes were worn, and such like things. Maistre Robert took out his harp then and sang a song about her beauty, which he said was celebrated everywhere.

“Is it really? I have been buried in the countryside here. I didn’t know my beauty was known abroad.”

“Oh, my lady, everywhere I have heard report of it. No one else in this realm has such pale, lilylike skin! They say a certain noble knight is languishing unto death for you, but no one would tell me his name.” Lady Blanche looked pleased. He continued on in this way, and his friends brought out a lute and a viol and sang another song to her beauty. It was clear to me that these minstrels would be living in comfort here for a while.

The jongleurs were a funny crew. They went from the hall to the kitchen, stables, and garrison, everywhere ingratiating themselves. When the merchants moved on, the players and the pardoner seemed to have found the surroundings so congenial that they stayed. The pardoner, indeed, seemed to have moved in with the players, and was experiencing equal success, doing a brisk trade in relics and indulgences, which are very popular at this season. One day he stopped me and said, “Charming child, do you not need a little something, something to bring you showers of blessings and a handsome husband? I have here a paring of Saint Catherine’s fingernail, at a price which I shall lower especially for the sake of your pretty eyes.” I looked at the fingernail paring. It was in a little bag to be worn about the neck. It looked very small.

“I haven’t any money, sir,” I said.

“Brother Sebastian to you, angel eyes. But let me warn you. You are insufficiently religious. God lets me know about these things. Repair your defect by the purchase of this object of devotion. I leave you now, but ponder on this: God may well send you money—and I will save this precious relic exclusively for you for the next fortnight, although several other maidens have shown an interest in it.” Then he went away. As I watched his short, rotund figure depart, I thought to myself that he was certainly an odd person. Most pardoners are dour and try to frighten one into purchasing an indulgence with tales of hellfire. This one looked as if he’d be more at home in a tavern.

But the Christmas season was full upon us, and I did not bother with the pardoner again. There was plenty of celebration, even for servants and village people, who joined us in the great feast in the hall. A canopy had been placed over the dais, and the lord received his people as grandly as any king. The great hall was hung with green boughs, and it seemed that the foundations should shake from the dancing. It was then that I found out something new about Mother Hilde. She was a wonderful dancer. Flushed and out of breath, she never stopped, finding partners in plenty for the village dancing. One most frequent partner was the pardoner, who was as full of Christmas mirth as anyone.

For several days there were tourneys, where knights and squires participated and showed their skill. This kept the castle armorers very busy repairing dents, as well as the surgeon, who did little but cut hair and shave beards in less festive times. In the evenings there was entertainment, and more eating and dancing. Before supper Master Robert would sing some new song of deeds in battle; during supper his troupe joined forces with the minstrels in the gallery. After that, but before the dancing, he and his two partners would give a “debate”—a comic dialogue between, for example, Wine and Water or Winter and Summer. As the night wore on, things degenerated, for Robert le Taborer was indeed a “maistre”—that is, a master of everything bawdy and insulting. I think he’d taken the title because he’d been a clerk once, which made it all the worse. The greater part of his stock in trade consisted of bawdy “wandering friar” jokes, which caused great hilarity, except with Father Denys and certain clerks of the chapel. When crowds gathered in the daytime for the jousting, Maistre Robert and his group would juggle, tell tales, and have the little dogs do tricks—the cleverest of which, I thought, was to have one of the dogs pass through the crowd, begging for pennies with a bowl in his mouth.

And so both players and pardoner were prospering both day and night. But they were also prospering in other ways I did not suspect. One evening Mother Hilde said dreamily, “Wouldn’t you love to live in a beautiful great city like London?”

“What on earth do you mean, Mother Hilde?” I answered.

“I mean, we have to leave anyway. Why not depart in the company of this charming pardoner and these delightful musicians? Dear Brother Sebastian says that a woman of my talent and skill might make her fortune in London.”

“Dear Brother Sebastian? When has he become dear?” I feared the worst for my friend from that smooth-talking rogue.

“Ah, Margaret. You misjudge him, just as the world does. He is a man of charm, sincerity, and learning.” I was aghast at the self-satisfied look on her face.

“What on earth have you been doing with that man?” I asked, but Mother Hilde only gazed dreamily into space.

“He said a woman of my intelligence and naturally passionate nature sets him on fire. I loved my husband, and never wanted another—but this man, I love him for the same reasons. Margaret, if you only knew how clever he is, you would have to admire him too. I’ve found happiness again.”

If there is anything more irritating than a moony adolescent friend, it is a moony fifty-year-old woman, thought I. Clearly the man is tricking her. What can I do to help her recover from the shock of his leaving?

Hilde was watching my face. She took my hand in hers and said, “I know you are suspicious, dear—you have every right to be! But if you spoke to him, you’d know how splendid he is. Even his speech is out of the ordinary. Have you ever heard anyone speak so elegantly? Why, I can hardly understand a word he says! All that French and Latin, mixed in, just like a lord, only better! And he’s so well traveled, so debonair.”

“Oh, Hilde, I’m so afraid he’ll hurt you. Don’t you worry about that?”

“Not a bit, not a bit! You must meet him and judge for yourself. I want to share my good fortune with you. We’ll all go to London and become rich.”

And so the next day I went to the room behind the stable, where they were staying, very ill disposed toward being convinced by my friend that anything good would come of this. My arrival interrupted something they were doing. All of them were seated around Peter on the floor, teaching him how to throw stones on a wooden plate marked with strange signs.

“Ah, come in, Margaret!” called Master Robert, just as boldly as if he knew me already. “We are teaching Peter, here, to tell fortunes. We used to have one of the dogs do it, but it ought to work much better with a fairy changeling.”

“Margaret, my dear, we are delighted to hear you will be one of our number on our joyous excursion to London via the scenic villages and fairs of our beloved realm,” said Brother Sebastian jovially. I studied the circle of faces that had clustered around me. They didn’t look sinister to me, but you have to be careful not to be fooled.

“Will Master Robert stay in London, then, or go back to Navarre?” I queried suspiciously. For all I knew, they might just leave us somewhere worse than here.

“To Navarre? A long and dangerous trip, child. Especially long and dangerous if you have never been there,” said Brother Sebastian, leaning toward me confidentially, as if to allay my fears.

“You see, now that you’re one of us, you know everything,” Master Robert grinned cheerfully.

“But—but you have a letter,” I stammered.

“Of course we have a letter. We have several others too. Brother Sebastian’s quill has a magnificent talent,” said Maistre Robert, with an airy wave of his hand.

“And now that you have joined us, we will lay plans,” said Brother Sebastian. “Can you play an instrument, perhaps? Do somersaults and backbends?” I shook my head sadly. “Aha! I know! You can sell things! That innocent face—those dumb, honest eyes (pardon me, but it is true, you’ll have to admit)—why, it’s just the thing! Margaret, you were born to be a saleswoman.”

“But I haven’t anything to sell,” I protested.

“You will have, you will have. My precious, clever Hilde is making up herbal decoctions—her famous burn salve, for example.”

“You mean the smelly stuff of goose grease and tallow?”

“The very stuff. Properly packaged, thanks to my expertise, and sold by a charming child such as yourself, it will be sensational. I think I shall call it—hmm—a rare balm from—from—Arabia. Yes, that will do nicely. Arabia. Sounds very nice indeed.”

“Arabia, eh?” chipped in Parvus Willielmus, which really just means Little William, although he preferred to go forth into the world in Latin splendor. “I know an excellent joke about a traveling friar who went to Arabia and entered the Sultan’s harem disguised as a—”

“Enough!” Brother Sebastian put up a hand. “I cannot begin to tell you how deeply your vulgar sallies wound my sensitivities. Have you no respect for the cloth?”

“Oh, come on now, the Prior of St. Dunstan’s liked it well enough when we were there last Michaelmas. Of course, he was tipsy, and I had made the friar a Dominican.”

“You tell awful jokes like that in an abbey?” I could not restrain myself.

“Of course. Monks need to laugh too. At least, some do. They pretend it’s for their tenants, but they come too. Some of these houses are strict, but not many. Floggers and hermits, now, they can’t see the joke in anything.”

“But you say dreadful things. You make fun of people in high places. You imitate them in your dialogues. Sooner or later you’ll be in the stocks.”

“The stocks? That’s for ordinary mortals,” said Little William. “Some tavern keeper who insults an alderman, or peasant who says a coarse word about the sheriff. We jongleurs are never punished, no matter what we say. That’s because we’re damned already; the Church says so. So they always laugh and let us go. Well—almost always. Robert, there, had a friend who got too fresh with the king, and he put out his eyes. But me? I’ve insulted dukes, earls, bishops—oh, just about everyone. And here I am!”

“Yes, a prince among players, our Little William,” intoned Brother Sebastian. “So now it’s settled, isn’t it, Margaret?” he added. “You’ll come to London with my newly found Jewel of the Shining Eyes”—here Mother Hilde simpered—“and these joyful comrades here”—he gestured expansively—“and make your fortune!” It amazes me how mushy people get when they fall in love. Hilde was far gone. But when I thought about the alternatives, they were more unpleasant than going with these people to London.

“It’s agreed, then,” I said. They all cheered and embraced me, which made me feel very embarrassed. But then something more troubled me, and I had to ask, “One thing still bothers me about all this. If you’ve never been to Navarre, how do you know so much news from abroad?”

“The Underground, Margaret,” answered Maistre Robert. “We jongleurs have our trade, which is spreading news, and we go everywhere. So when we get together, we swap stories. What we don’t know, we make up. Sins of foreign kings, languishing foreign lovers, you know the sort of thing. Everyone likes that, and you can just change the names about.” Maistre Robert looked at me as if he couldn’t believe I was that gullible.

“Do you mean all those things that pleased Lady Blanche so—?”

“Little country bumpkin, most of our songs, and some portion of our news, are like the padre’s indulgences over there. They’ve got a blank spot in them for the proper names to be filled in—you know, black eyes for blue eyes, Spain for France, this hero for that hero. That’s how we stay in business.”

Somehow I’m always disappointed when I hear the real story of how things are done. The illusion seems so much prettier if you don’t know. But there was no doubting their skill in pleasing. They stayed on until the weather had broken and it was safe to go wandering. Sir Raymond didn’t want to let them go until he had heard their store of jokes several times through, and Lady Blanche kept us until she felt better—a process that was hastened by Maistre Robert’s rolling eyes and flattering songs.

We begged our leave and left well rewarded, walking through the main gate and over the drawbridge onto the muddy road in a light spring rain. Our next destination was Bedford, a little town with a decent inn and a bored population. Life seemed full of hope.

If I was somehow under the impression that we were going directly to London to make our fortunes, I was soon disabused, for we traveled in a most circuitous path, first through the Midlands, and then south. Towns, abbeys, and castles all opened their gates to us. We were especially welcome on feast days, for no matter how high and holy the occasion, people always want to have fun. In each place it always began the same way: the drum called attention, the juggling held it, and then they began the patter—jokes and stories—which they shrewdly interrupted at critical moments to collect small coins, many of them, I fear, badly clipped. The dogs jumped through hoops, walked on their hind feet, and begged for coins, bowing their thanks afterward. If it was a tavern, Peter would be used to tell fortunes. He earned better than Mother Hilde, and she earned better than I, for I soon found that I was a failure at selling things and could not make any money at all.

Brother Sebastian would set up apart, for the sacred character of his work required a number of excuses for having been seen in our company. He did especially well in the season of penance, before Easter. That was an especially busy time on the road, for many are sent on pilgrimages as punishment for some crime. This keeps them out of their home district for a while, but it does not improve the quality of tourism. Once, too, we met a man in his undershirt, carrying a large cross. He was on his way to abjure the realm after having murdered a man in a fight over a woman. When his sanctuary in the parish church ran out, then he had to leave. He seemed in need of cheerful company, and when he was far enough out of town, he dumped the cross in a ditch and went off to join the local outlaws.

When the weather gets better, then the pleasure pilgrims, as I like to think of them, prefer to travel. That is the best time for jongleurs, for many of these parties like entertainment as they travel, and will pay for it. Besides, if the weather is good, one may camp out-of-doors and save the fee at the inn. Then if you plan your route correctly, you can make money all along the way, traveling from summer fair to summer fair. But Master Robert complained that it wasn’t as easy now as it had been before the plague, because so many villages on our route had been left empty or half empty. Some places once cultivated had returned to the wild. Wolves had returned closer to the towns near the forests, and one had to be very careful. And many a soul whom my friends counted on for a welcome and a good meal had died.

“Still,” said Brother Sebastian as we sat around the open fire one starry night, “you must always remember that the other side of disaster is opportunity. Look at it this way: if a town burns, somebody has to get paid for rebuilding it; if the water is poisoned, then there is a lot of money to be made selling wine; and when the plague strikes, then everyone is more disposed to buying remedies, as well as insurance for their souls.” (And here he tapped his bag.) “Understand this principle, and you will never grieve and always prosper. It is the way the world works. Everything always has two sides, even disaster.”

“Ah, Brother Sebastian, it’s such a delight to hear the intelligent conversation of a philosopher,” sighed Mother Hilde with pleasure.

“Philosopher? I know a good one about a philosopher,” said Tom le Pyper, the long bony one. When Little William donned a kerchief to play the woman in “The Greedy Prelate,” Tom was the deceived husband and Robert the wily priest. “It seems there was this old, ugly philosopher, who sold his soul to the Devil in return for youth and good looks enough to seduce a pretty little girl that lived next door, and he—”

“Stop! We’ve all heard that one, and it turns out badly—” Brother Sebastian put up one hand.

“For the philosopher only,” grinned Tom.

“That’s bad enough, in my opinion,” answered Brother Sebastian loftily. “So I’ll tell you instead of a jongleur who died and went directly to hell, as happens to all such fellows. He was such a scurvy fellow that when the Devil went off to earth on a business trip, he asked him to mind the gate. Well, you know jongleurs—they never keep their minds on their business. So when St. Peter came down for a good game of dice, the jongleur never hesitated. First he bet his lute, and lost it. Then he bet his underdrawers, ‘for it’s warm enough here without them,’ says he—and St. Peter won those too. Then, since he had nothing else to bet, and never knew when to give up (you have to admit that’s another characteristic of jongleurs) he staked a couple of souls from inside the gate. With typical jongleur’s skill he lost. They played all afternoon, until hell was half empty. When the Devil came back and saw what was done, he stamped his cloven hoof in rage. ‘Never again will I let any jongleur in here!’ he vowed, and that’s how it’s been, from that day to this. Jongleurs aren’t welcome in either place.” Everyone laughed heartily.

“Ho, Brother Sebastian, when you decide to be a jongleur, look us up, for you’re a talented man with a story,” laughed Master Robert.

“When I can balance on my tippy-toes and blow on a pipe, I’ll think about it,” said Brother Sebastian with a mock-snobbish sniff. The vision of the rotund figure of Brother Sebastian balancing like an acrobat made everyone laugh again.

When we stopped at Abingdon, things went very well for the entire day, until on the second, Master Robert, having observed the town well, changed the format of “The Greedy Prelate.” He took the role of the deceived husband and played him with the exact mannerisms of the mayor of the town. Everyone present dissolved in laughter, and we did far better than usual when we took up the collection. The next morning dawned clear and bright, and we were a happy crew as we trudged out of the town gate, laughing as Maistre Robert told an extraordinary piece of gossip he had heard about the mayor’s wife at a tavern. But too much laughter dulls the senses; we did not notice until too late the sound of hoofbeats in hot pursuit of us on the road. Before we knew it, a group of armed men on horseback had surrounded us, and as we stood staring, wondering what it might mean, the leader wordlessly pointed out Maistre Robert with his horsewhip to his henchmen. The others held us at swordpoint while two of them dismounted and grabbed Maistre Robert by the arms. As the leader dismounted and sauntered over to Maistre Robert, I felt a sudden terror of what was coming and averted my face as I prayed in silent horror that his sight might be spared. But though I covered my face with my hands, I could not shut out the heavy, monotonous crack of the horsewhip and the terrible screams of my once joyful friend. When the sound ceased, I saw him writhing in the dirt, his gaudy, particolored coat in shreds, and he within it. The leader gave him a kick that turned him onto his back, inspected his handiwork with a satisfied nod, and the party mounted and rode off like the wind. Blood was gushing from his nose and scalp, and one eye was shut with a bruise, but the other opened and looked pitifully up at his friends as they surrounded him. They tried to pick him up, but he just lay there, moving his bloodied lips, saying, “Don’t touch me. Everything hurts too much. Just leave me here to die. It’s the fate of all players: to die in a ditch.”

Hilde and I knelt beside him. He looked up at me and said, tragically, “Don’t look at me like this, Margaret. I don’t want you to remember me like this—all spoilt. When I’m dead, remember me laughing.”

“You’re not going to die at all, Master Robert. You’re just bleeding badly, and your head’s broken. But there’s no death on you.”

“How would you know?” said Little William.

“I don’t feel any black, sucking feeling around him. That’s how I know.”

“Well, we can’t pick him up, and he can’t walk, and we’re certainly not welcome back at the inn in Abingdon, so what’s the difference? These cuts will just fester, and he’ll sicken out here. That’s the drawback of the free life, Margaret. You can’t go home when you’re sick.”

“Let Margaret help,” suggested Mother Hilde. “She has a trick with these things.”

“Margaret? Useful? Amazing!” said Brother Sebastian.

“Bring me some water and we’ll wash everything off first,” I said. Gently I sponged off the dirt and blood, some of which made me shudder, and placed my hands on each bad spot in turn. I closed my eyes and fixed my mind in the special way that is both everything and nothing, until I could feel warmth coursing into my palms, and my spine felt like a hot steel rod penetrating all the way to the base of my brain. First the close-cropped scalp, then the blackened eye, the shattered jaw, the ragged torso…

“What in the hell are you doing, Margaret?” Master Robert asked. “It doesn’t hurt so much where you put your hands.”

“Sh! Sh! Let her finish,” whispered Mother Hilde.

“Why, look at that, the bleeding’s stopped. That one over there looks almost closed,” said Little William. I was done. A terrible lassitude seized me, as if I had put my strength into Master Robert.

Master Robert sat up and felt himself gingerly. He was not totally himself, but the new bruises were green, as if they were a week old, and the other wounds, too, looked as if he had been in bed to heal for many days.

“I don’t suppose you can use the same trick on my coat, too, can you?” he asked hopefully, rubbing his jaw and looking regretfully at his shredded sleeve at the same time.

“No,” I answered. “It doesn’t work on coats. It doesn’t always work on people either.”

“You look all pale, though, Margaret. What was it you did?”

“I don’t really know. It just came on me a while back. It’s something that comes from somewhere else, and goes through me, and helps people heal themselves.”

“Why, Margaret’s a faith healer! Who would have thought it?” Brother Sebastian was cheerful. “Just think, Margaret, you’ll be rich! At the next town we’ll beat the drum and you can cure people. Crippled folks will shout and throw away their crutches! Precious, pretty little blind girls will shout, ‘I see! I see!’ Everyone will weep and shout, and we will collect money, money, money!”

“It doesn’t work that way, Brother Sebastian; it doesn’t work that way at all.” I was dreadfully weary.

“Sebastian, dear, she can’t do it that way—the bigger the hurt, the more it drains her. A day or two of faith healing would kill her. Besides, I’ve never seen her do it in public before. It might vanish if she shows it off.”

“And there flies away our first fortune,” sighed Brother Sebastian ruefully. “I should have known it was too good to be true.”

“Well, then, whom shall we carry?” broke in Tom. “Robert or Margaret?”

“Neither!” we both said together.

Maistre Robert got up and dusted himself off with the greatest dignity, retrieved his short cloak from the ground, and put it on with a flourish. Then he bowed, and gestured to the pommel of Moll’s pack saddle. “Après vous, madame,” he said. I put my hand on her shoulder to steady myself. He stood on the other side, leaning on her pack, for he was still limping. As we set off together, we could hear Brother Sebastian still grumbling to himself.

“I still say it’s a great opportunity lost. We could have hired a trumpeter and made a large banner. Why, there’s no end to what we could have done—kings, princes, foreign places…to say nothing of how it would enhance the sale of relics….”

We made slow time. The next village was abandoned, and it was a long time until we found a place to eat. Then we continued on, until we were not that far from the Forest of Rockingham. Everyone agreed it would be better to pitch camp a good distance from the forest, rather than risk having to spend the night near it or in it—an unsafe proposition in these unruly days of brigandage and runaway serfs.

“Minstreling is just not the same,” grumbled Master Robert at the fireside that evening. “All these dead people spoil it. Now it’s all sourpusses, religious fanatics, mayors who can’t take a joke—England’s just not the same. It’s not so merry anymore. I tell you, the old days were better.”

“The old days are always better,” replied Brother Sebastian. “The older they are, the better they get. That’s because you don’t remember them as well. Now, if you understood that the other side of adversity is opportunity, a point that I have made before, you would realize the future is much more interesting than the past. There’s positively no limit to the opportunities there, these days, if we measure it by the level of disaster that has already happened.”

“Brother Sebastian, you’re completely insane, if you’ll pardon my saying so. The more we travel into the future, the closer we get to the end of the world. I, for one, am not anxious to face the Last Judgment. I fear I’ll come off even worse than I did at the hands of the mayor’s bullyboys,” responded Master Robert.

“Come, now,” I said. “You have no proof of that.”

“Margaret, you’re a dear little country ninny, or you wouldn’t say that. I get my living by lying and fornication. Even the Church says I won’t be saved.”

“Maybe I’m stupid, Master Robert, but it seems to me you haven’t added murder to that list. So you’re considerably ahead of most people these days. And maybe God will count the fact that you’ve made a lot of people laugh.”

“Margaret,” he answered with a flash of his old smile, “you’re much too serious. It’s a bad attitude to have. It will get you in trouble long before the Judgment Day.”

“Yes indeed, Margaret,” admonished Brother Sebastian. “It’s definitely a bad attitude. It will lead you to hold on to things you want too much. It’s holding on that causes the trouble. You know my saying, ‘Light feet and light hands.’ Never stay anyplace too long, and never hold on to anything too hard. Otherwise something nasty may catch up with you.” He shook his finger at me in mock admonition.

Something nasty did catch up. Maybe it’s impossible to have light enough feet sometimes. For no sooner than we were all rolled up asleep that night, we were awakened rudely by someone shaking us and asking for our valuables. We all sat up to see, in the bright moonlight, that we were surrounded by a dozen tough-looking men armed with longbows. Master Robert, who had the coolest wit of anyone I had ever seen, scrambled up out of his blanket and bowed, as he did when introducing his players.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Maistre Robert le Taborer, and these good people here are my players. We are rich in songs and joy, but, alas, not in worldly goods.” He swept his arm with a grand gesture. His ragged coat hung in shreds about him; we had all slept in our clothes.

“Migod. Idiot minstrels. And a raggier-looking bunch I’ve never seen,” said the apparent leader of the group.

“Just cut their throats, then. They’re no good for ransom,” suggested another.

“Not just yet—one of them’s a girl. I want her first. Then cut throats,” growled a third.

“What makes you think you get her first? I want her first.”

“You all know the rule,” said the leader. “You have to let the chief have her first. So no grabbing. You’ll get her soon enough. Just cut the others’ throats.”

“My dear sirs,” broke in Master Robert. “You are missing a glorious opportunity. Consider that I was once minstrel chief for the King of Navarre himself, having departed only because of an embarrassing incident I will relate to you another time. We have entertained kings. Surely we could give royal pleasure to the King of Bandits.”

“You don’t look like you could entertain a flea, Master Shabby.” The other men chuckled appreciatively at their leader’s wit.

“Then you have obviously never heard the story of the traveling friar and the miller’s wife.” Little William jumped up, wrapping his blanket about him like a dress, striking an exaggeratedly female pose.

“Oh, really, sir, I dare not!” he piped in a high falsetto.

Master Robert began the routine of the lecherous friar. I’d never seen him do it better. Long Tom jumped up to chase him around as the aggrieved husband. It was quite filthy. The toughs smiled in spite of themselves. Then they broke into guffaws.

“You see?” gasped Master Robert, as he was pinned to the ground by the vengeful spouse. “How could you let your chief miss something this good? I say, let us entertain first. It’s hard to sing with a cut throat.”

“Hmmm. True enough. And there’s little enough value in you anyway. We’ll celebrate at camp.” So off we all went, feeling very glum, but trusting to good fortune and Master Robert’s wits to make things work out.

Why is it that robbers always stay up late? You’d think they would want to get to work early in the morning like other folks, to increase their earnings. But no, they always sleep in late and stay up at night, drinking and telling lies. At least that’s been so with all the robbers I’ve ever seen. So of course the robber chief was not asleep. He was sitting at the place of honor among the robbers, who were gathered around a roaring fire, drinking and telling lies.

“What’s this, new sport?” called out the chief.

“Women,” called the man who led our group. “And some minstrels who know a lot of bawdy jokes.”

“Well, then, we’ll sport. I want that pretty one first,” he called.

“We thought you might, so we saved her. But we want her next.”

The robber chief was large and blond. He had a huge reddish beard and hands like shovels. A scar zigzagged across his face, twisting the bridge of his nose and marring one cheek. He stepped forward in the firelight and grabbed my chin in his hand to inspect my face. I gasped. Even with the scar I knew who it was.

“Brother Will!”

“Margaret? What in the hell are you doing alive?”

“I might ask the same of you. What are you doing out of the army?”

“All right, boys, fun’s off—it’s my long-lost sister.” There was a growling noise from the men. “And I’ll treat you all at Big Martha’s tomorrow.” Still more growling.

“But brother…”

“No buts, now, sister—explanations later. Can’t you see I have my hands full with this lot? Robber chief’s not a sinecure, you know.”

“And we,” leapt in Master Robert gracefully, “will now tell the tale of the traveling friar and the merchant’s daughter. Hand me my drum, won’t you? It’s right at the top, on that donkey over there.” And when the drumming began, we knew that we would most likely see the next morning in one piece.

Late in the night, as we were all rolled up in blankets about the robbers’ fire, Brother Sebastian tapped me.

“Margaret, are you asleep?” he whispered.

“No, Brother Sebastian, I’m looking at the stars and wondering how much longer I’ll see them.”

“That’s not useful wondering, Margaret. You either will or you won’t. But what I want to know is this: Where on earth did you ever acquire a brother like that?” His whisper had a mingled air of curiosity and horror.

“He’s a stepbrother. We’re not related by blood.”

“Oh, that accounts for it, then. You don’t seem very much alike at all.”

The next night at supper the jongleurs played and sang as they would for any lord. Brother Will had seated me in the place of honor by himself, so when music and drink had made everyone cheerful, I leaned over and asked him, “Brother, aren’t you afraid of the sheriff here? You seem to take few precautions, and I fear for your head.”

He threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “The sheriff? Him? Why, we’re working for Sir Giles himself! Why should we worry?”

“You work for him?”

“Of course, sister. He takes a percentage. It’s how he keeps his manor in repair.” Going on in response to my shocked look, he added, “I don’t think you understand, sister. You always were otherworldly and goody-goody. Robbery is in fashion these days. All the best people keep robbers. Why even monasteries, like Rufford and Kirkstall, maintain their own bands. Lots of roofs need fixing these days, Margaret, and good tiles don’t come cheap.” Then he laughed again at the look on my face.

“But, brother, I thought you were in France, being a hero. How did you get into business here?” I asked him.

“Ah, Margaret, I was a hero, for I love war even better than dogfights. We archers entered the battle and mowed down those French grandees! Just shot the horses and then waded in and cut throats where they fell. You have no idea the fun of standing over some big lord, all weighted down in his armor on his back in the mud, listening to him begging to be let off! Then you just slide the knife through the chink in his armor and cut his throat. How they squall! Blood everywhere!” He looked rather dreamy, remembering it all.

“But wouldn’t you know it, I cut a few throats too many. ‘Hey, you, archer, I wanted that man for ransom! Couldn’t you hear him tell you he’s a big man?’ says my lord. ‘Sorry, sir, I can’t parlay voo: I thought I was supposed to kill them all.’ So I got in trouble and almost didn’t make it home. Got back with Rob—it was dull, dull. Nobody’s home anymore. Half of ’em died. The rest moved to St. Matthew’s. Father’s gone, mother’s all right. So Rob stays. Marries that idiot tagalong Mary, who’s now the heiress to everything her family had—but me, I can’t stand it. Village life’s a prison, I say! So here I am, just like Robin Hood and his merry men—except we’re on the sheriff’s side. Now tell me why you’re not dead, when everybody told me you were.”

“My husband left me for dead, with the plague, but that woman there, Mother Hilde, found me and saved me. I still haven’t decided why my life was spared, so I’m traveling with her and those others to make my fortune in London.”

“London, eh? That’s a very fine city. I’ve been there. Not so fine as Paris, but very fine. But you ought to be more careful. The roads are full of robbers, and your party is too small. I’ll tell you what: stay here for a while, until we’ve heard all of Master Robert’s dirty songs, and the next five or six people we rob, we won’t cut their throats. We’ll just send them along with you as an escort.”

Maistre Robert overheard us and addressed Will with a low bow. “Most esteemed Robber Chief and Brother of Margaret, we have found we must temporarily delay our trip to London in favor of a visit to the Sturbridge Fair. We have a need to resupply ourselves with cash before settling into so money-hungry a city as London. So it is, in fact, thither that we need to be accompanied.”

“Well, that’s a trip. But I can start you off right, it will just take longer to collect the travelers going in the right direction.”

So we stayed with the robbers, and things didn’t go too badly, after all. Master Robert sang a number of flattering songs about great robbers of the past, and worked their names into a redone version of the “Geste of Robin Hood.” It kept them quite as pleased as any bloodthirsty lord. But unlike the song there’s lots to be done in a camp full of robbers, even if they don’t keep house like ordinary folk. They had a cook who was always roasting the creatures they shot illegally, and storerooms, and other things that needed tending. They had weyves, female outlaws, who did a lot of dull chores while they were out cutting throats, and who found the greenwood not much of an improvement over the justice they had fled. When Will informed them that I brewed good ale, I was glad enough to do it, for theirs was thin and sour. Some people just haven’t got much talent along these lines. In the evenings the three players put on their masks and did “Reynard the Fox”; the dogs did tricks, and in short, it was no different than the other castles and towns.

It was nearly a fortnight before a half-dozen glum souls, shorn of horses and baggage, had been collected to accompany us. Informing them of his purpose in sparing them, Will had them swear by the cross and then turned them loose with us on the high road, leaving us their arms and some cash in hand to redistribute as he and his men vanished into the forest.

Of course, some people are never grateful for anything. As soon as the robbers were gone, they set to quarreling.

“And, pray tell, how am I supposed to carry this short sword when he has taken my belt?”

“You don’t seem to have trouble carrying all that fat; I could suggest at least two unmentionable places you could carry the sword.”

“At least he didn’t take your cloak. But of course, now that I look at it, I can see why—the cut’s completely rustic.”

“I, rustic? The way your beard’s cut, I’ve seen better-looking hermits.”

We plodded on in silence, listening to the complaints of our new companions, who were not used to walking.

“My friends,” said Maistre Robert in a cheerful voice, “we should always rejoice in being alive. So said the hare, after he had visited the fox’s den. Now it seems there was this old mother fox…” And so we proceeded in good cheer to our destination.

 

BROTHER GREGORY PAUSED AND stretched. Having spread the last pages to dry, he stood up to go, but rather carefully, since Margaret’s ridiculous dog had fallen asleep under the table perilously close to his feet. He was actually in a hurry to leave but did not want to show it. There was something he wanted to attend to across town, and he was concerned that Margaret might engage him in frivolous conversation and delay him. Margaret had been winding yarn as she spoke, and with a half-empty basket of skeins on one side, and a full basket of yarn balls on the other side of her where she sat, she looked all settled in. So it was with relief that Brother Gregory saw one of the kitchen maids come in to confer with Margaret.

“Mistress Margaret, the tinker’s come to the back door, and he says you sent for him to mend the pots. Should we let him in?”

“Which tinker is that—Hudd the Tinker? That dreadful old rogue? I never sent for him at all. He’s just trying to get in to see what trouble he can get into…” Margaret excused herself hurriedly and went off to see to the matter, and Brother Gregory happily sauntered off up Thames Street in the direction of the cathedral.

 

THERE WAS ALWAYS A little crowd about the cathedral at noon that dispersed after the last stroke of the hour. For the cathedral clock, mounted only a decade previously, was a wonder well worth inspecting if one were a visitor to the City. The brightly gilded figure of an angel pointed out the hours, and at noon levers and weights caused the statues of men, “Paul’s Jacks,” to beat twelve strokes with iron hammers. It was astonishing, and if it had not been in a church it might have reminded one of heresy, since it substituted a vain contrivance of man for God’s own timekeeper, the sun.

Mingling with the dispersing crowd of country wives, petty squires, and provincial tradesmen, a tall figure could be seen in animated discussion with a group of clerks. A shorter figure was waving his arms and shouting, “How can you praise a man like William of Occam? He’s a nominalist, whereas the reality of things as created by God…”

The sound of an interesting argument attracted a German pilgrim with cockleshells on his cloak, who added his barbarously accented Latin to the fray. Two gray friars who could not resist anything stormy-sounding were drawn into the knot of babbling voices. Brother Gregory was at his best this afternoon. After trouncing the gray friars with a particularly apt quotation from Scripture, he proceeded to develop the quarrel along Aristotelian lines with the German, who gave him blow for blow. As the little group argued, they bore inexorably for the north transept of the cathedral.

It was there at the north transept door that they met a hubbub even more animated than their own. Several older choirboys, a subdeacon, and some chantry priests were inspecting a piece of paper tacked among the notices of vacant benefices on the door. Voices could be heard getting louder and louder.

“ ‘Quis enim non vicus abundat tristibus obscaenis?’ Ha! That’s very good. Reminds me of Juvenal.”

“Do you really think they did all of that?”

“The bit about simony is understated, if anything, so it proves the rest.” The group of clerks joined the group at the door to examine the object of interest. It was set of witty satiric Latin verses, enumerating some really astonishing sins committed by certain canons and priests of the cathedral. And, very odd for such a civilized piece of work, it was written in large, wobbly, unformed handwriting. Now the noise of the argument increased: the topic had shifted to the precise gradations of sin that were attached to specific varieties of fornication. Just as an extremely interesting observation had been made on a type of sin more common in monasteries than in cathedrals, there was the angry whirr of a gown behind the group, and the hand of a furious, red-faced priest snatched the offending verse from the door.

“Away, all of you, this instant!” he shouted, as he tore the paper into a thousand bits. The choirboys scattered. But it was too late. Already the verse had been surreptitiously copied on a wax tablet and safely hidden up the subdeacon’s voluminous sleeve. By the evening, set to a scandalous secular tune, it would be sung in all the clerical watering places of London. And such are the virtues of a universal language, that in a few weeks it would have traveled through half of Europe.

As they drifted away from the door, Brother Gregory’s face was seraphic.

“Whoever did that was certainly well acquainted with Juvenal,” commented Robert the Clerk, the one who supported realism against nominalism.

“That narrows it down to half the clerks in London,” answered Simon the Copyist.

“Ugly handwriting that fellow had,” observed Brother Gregory calmly.

“But excellent Latin, and therein lies the paradox,” announced the German.

“We may resolve the paradox by assuming that it was someone with excellent Latin, who knows Juvenal well, and who purposefully wrote in large, wobbly letters,” stated Robert the Clerk, glancing at Brother Gregory.

“That still only narrows it to half the clerks in London,” responded Simon.

“But the very nature of the verse itself proves one thing,” said the German.

“And just what is that?” answered Brother Gregory, raising one eyebrow.

“That the English are a turbulent race, unfit for higher spiritual discipline,” answered the German, rolling his eyes heavenward as if to exhibit his own superior powers in that direction. With the silky, pale blond hair that surrounded the little circle of his clerical tonsure, and the extreme pallor of his skin, the German had acquired that sort of milky, translucent look that seems to bespeak extreme spirituality. It was clear even from the hushed, habitually rapturous tone of his voice that he was a Seeker, a real Seeker. Brother Gregory envied him the pallor and wondered how he might manage to look that way himself. The voice would be more difficult, but it might come on by itself after a really superior vision.

“You’ve had Visions?”

“Rapturous ones. I am constantly propelled from shrine to shrine by supremely ecstatic visions, which occur when I pray all night in holy places. At Compostela, for example, I was visited by St. James himself, wearing a handsome green velvet gown set about with jewels, and surrounded by perpetual light and the singing of angels. I have also seen the four Evangelists, carried by a host of angels on four identical golden litters, each holding in his hand a book of the Gospel written in letters of fire.” Seeing that the group was interested, the German went on.

“Having paid my tribute to the milk of the Virgin, the blood of St. Paul, the hair of Mary Magdalen, and Our Lord’s knife here at the cathedral, I now go forth to experience unspeakable revelations when I have completed my pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Thomas at Canterbury. I have been delayed only by my holy poverty, and only a small amount of additional financial support will send me on my way….”

The clerks looked at each other. Then they looked at the church door. A knight had just left, but he didn’t appear promising. Then an elderly lady, accompanied by her daughter and attendants, could be seen, dabbing her eyes on her sleeve as she departed the cathedral. The clerks stood aside to expose the German to advantage. He leaned on his pilgrim’s staff and extended his hand as she passed.

“Pray for me, pilgrim,” she said, with a troubled look on her face, and pressed some coins into his hand before she passed on. The German inspected them to see if they were genuine, biting one to make sure, and then dropped them into his purse, where they made a heavy chink on the coins that were already inside.

“As I was saying, when I pray at the shrine of St. Thomas—”

“Then you have not yet seen the Mystery of Mysteries?” inquired Brother Gregory.

“Ah,” said the pilgrim. “A lifetime of Seeking for this lowly worm, lower than the dust, will scarcely suffice. But the ultimate Vision, the Vision for which I am preparing myself, awaits, without a doubt, at the end of my pathway of purgation and self-denial. God’s shadow, I feel—I feel it strongly—is over me, and He will not forever withhold from this most humble of His lowly servants the blinding and glorious light of His presence.”

“It has been revealed to me that we have not yet had dinner,” said Robert, patting his stomach. Brother Gregory looked at him with a wry grin. All except the pilgrim looked in their purses to see if between them they had enough.

“Clerk’s fare today,” announced Simon. “It’s Mother Martha’s place.” And together they went up Paternoster Row to seek out the bakeshop where overage pies could be had at a substantial discount. It was not until it came time to pay the bill that they realized that the pilgrim had vanished.

 

BROTHER GREGORY WAS A little hollow eyed when next he arrived at the Kendalls’ house to write for Margaret. Two days before, shortly after he had so neatly demolished the vanities of others with his caustic pen, he had suddenly experienced a spasm of guilt about his own resulting vanity. It was when the fourth or fifth person had gleefully quoted to him the anonymous verses on the cathedral door that he began to feel that his hard-won Humility might be shrinking. There was also the question of the efficacy of all-night prayer, so highly endorsed by the German pilgrim. So that evening he had withdrawn silently from his friends and gone to keep an all-night vigil before the shrine of St. Mellitus. But very late in the night, shortly before Vigils, and just after the two other pilgrims before the shrine had discovered a method of sleeping upright while kneeling, Brother Gregory had seen, in the dark shadows above a single guttering candle, an unexpected and singularly unpleasant sight. It was his father’s face, all surrounded by his tumbled white beard, with the habitually wrathy expression it usually wore whenever it looked on Brother Gregory. It had been nearly an hour before Brother Gregory managed to return to a proper meditative state, and not after many bitter regrets that his father had once again found out where he lived.

 

WHEN BROTHER GREGORY NEXT presented himself at Margaret’s front door, he seemed unusually reserved.

“You’re not hungry, are you?” Margaret’s anxious voice interrupted him as he silently set out the paper and pens on the writing table. Brother Gregory’s pallor and the dark circles under his eyes had not escaped her sharp glance.

“No, not at all,” answered Brother Gregory, seating himself. He liked to keep his austerities private.

This answer worried Margaret more greatly than ever. The more she thought about it, the more she was sure that something had gone wrong. I hope it’s not about me, she thought to herself. But worry was gradually replaced by more salutary annoyance, as Brother Gregory sharply corrected her style three times in the very first sentence that she uttered, before he even wrote it down. When the words at last began to flow across the paper, the very air around Brother Gregory seemed heavy with his silent displeasure.

 

THE GREAT FAIR AT Sturbridge was like a magic place. For three weeks in September merchants from all over England and from many foreign places, too, crowd together to display rare and precious treasures from the four corners of the earth. There is also much need of entertainment. Players, dancing bears, jugglers, and quack salesmen of all descriptions descend on the fair in countless numbers. So do pickpockets and lunatics, but I won’t discuss those. One could spend days walking about and marveling at the things there, but we had no time to give ourselves over to sightseeing. Mother Hilde set up at the edge of the fair, where she could watch our tethered donkeys, and spread out her wares on her cloak. Soon she was doing a brisk business. Brother Sebastian went off to do business with Peter, who was always popular at such places, while Maistre Robert and his friends set up at a convenient location, not too greatly inhabited by rival troupes, and began drumming and juggling.

I had been left with six boxes of the smelly ointment, the same six boxes I had carried around all summer. They were not selling well—to be precise they were not selling at all, and they were getting smellier and smellier. Suspecting some defect in my salesmanship Brother Sebastian had left me with words of caution before he had vanished.

“Now, remember, Margaret, it hasn’t done well as a burn ointment—so recommend it for wrinkles, sores, and pockmarks. Say that you were once covered with dreadful pockmarks, but that they all vanished once you had applied a sufficient amount of the ointment. Recommend two boxes for the heavily pockmarked. And for goodness’ sake, quit telling people what’s in it! Just say it’s a rare balm from Araby that was sold to you by a Genoese sailor in Bristol.”

I hung my head and protested, “But, Brother Sebastian, I just can’t lie about it. And I never was in Bristol. And besides, it doesn’t smell nice.”

“Why, Margaret, dear, a disgusting smell simply means it’s that much more powerful. Do use your head.” And he vanished into the crowd. What an idiot I felt like! I wandered about, looking at the booths, the horses, the dogs, the people—anything but dispose of those wretched objects. I was admiring some truly beautiful Venetian glass, when I thought I saw a distorted reflection of someone standing behind me. How oddly reminiscent of someone familiar it was. I whirled around but saw only the departing figure of a wealthy merchant and his stout, jewel-laden wife. It was strange, but something about the man’s walk, and the even curls at the back of his neck, reminded me of Lewis Small.

Oh, Margaret, now you’re seeing shadows, I told myself. This time you really have to get to work. I held up one of those nasty little boxes and tried to call out, but my tongue was incapable of singing out that it was rare balm from Araby. So I just carried it in my hand and wished it would fly away by itself. I walked about for a while, wishing that breakfast had been larger, and wishing that I were someone else—somebody who was not holding six boxes of smelly ointment. It was quite surprising, then, when a large, richly dressed woman stopped me and asked what was in my hand.

“Wrinkle ointment,” I answered. “It works very well on burns, and some say it’s good for pockmarks as well, and it’s made of—”

“I’ll have one,” said the woman, and she paid me a silver penny. This encouraged me to think that it might be just as easy to dispose of the others. Since that was the case, why not go see the wrestling matches? Not quickly, mind you—just oozing along with the crowd, pretending to sell the ointment. It was as I was admiring a dancing bear, still clutching a box from my wretched store, that I was accosted by two catchpolls.

“Are you the one that’s selling ointment?” one asked.

“It’s in her hand, see it there?” said the other, looking at the box with shock on his face. I looked at it myself. Did it really smell that strong? Now the scent must be wafting out from under the lid.

“You’re the one, then. Come along. You’re wanted at the market court.” Completely puzzled, I followed them in silence. No one even noticed us as we slipped along through the crowd.

“Why am I wanted?” I asked timidly.

“As if you didn’t know,” answered one of the men, a look of disgust on his face. Still holding me by the arms, he led me to the edge of the fairgrounds, where the court was continually in session to deal with those little contingencies that come up when Englishmen, foreigners, and money are all mixed together.

The market court business was slow that day. A man who had stretched woolen cloth to make it seem longer was in the stocks. A few people had gathered to see a seller of bad wine forced to drink a gallon of his own merchandise, before being put in the stocks and having the rest of it poured over him. It was almost as much fun for them as a bearbaiting; they were shouting enthusiastically. One catchpoll took me by the elbow to the sheriff, who was presiding over the court.

“This is the woman,” he said.

“Are you sure this is the right one? She looks too young to me.” The sheriff looked dubious.

“This is the one—she’s exactly as described.”

“Woman, you’ve been accused of witchcraft—do you deal in the black arts?” The sheriff scrutinized me as he waited for my answer. I looked him square in the face. He looked uncomfortable. He was seated on a bench under a tree, surrounded by several other men. Around him the milling of people had made the area very dusty. To save his throat from the dust he had a large mug of ale with him. I could tell he was worried. Fair courts aren’t really set up for serious charges like witchcraft. You need more experts for things like that.

“I don’t do anything disgusting like that,” I said earnestly. “I am a good Christian and despise the Devil and his works.”

To the man who stood by him he shrugged and said, “You see? She denies it. She has an honest-looking face. Much too young, I think.”

“But, my lord sheriff, the man who accused her was positive. There is the evidence, after all.”

“Woman, you have been accused of witchcraft for selling balm that gives superhuman powers—balm that is made of the rendered fat of unbaptized infants.” He held up the little box. That miserable, solitary sale I had made to the wealthy woman. A very odd look must have crossed my face.

“Just what would you say is in that?” He opened it and put it under my nose. I hung my head and blushed crimson.

“Goose grease, tallow, and herbs,” I said shamefacedly.

“And does it give superhuman powers? Flight, the All-Seeing Eye?”

I was truly humiliated. That’s what comes of dealing in shifty business.

“If you rub it all over you, all you’ll get is a superhuman smell,” I said. “But I never said it was good for anything more than burns.”

“Then you did sell it?”

“Yes, to my sorrow.”

He suppressed a twitch on one side of his mouth.

“Witchcraft is serious business. You can’t get off by merely denying it. You have to prove it.”

“Prove it?”

“Why, yes. We’re not all that well equipped here, but I really can’t afford to make a mistake. Let a witch go? It would spoil my career. You have to understand that. Now, which suits you best”—he gestured to the river—“water? Or fire?” He looked intently at my face.

Fire, I thought, Jesus save me. My eyes must have shown the sudden fear.

“Aha, it looks like fire, doesn’t it?” He spoke to his assistants. “We’ll need a nice big one—right about over there. It ought to be hot enough by this afternoon, wouldn’t you think? Get the parish priest to come around when it’s ready. I’m sorry for the delay, my dear, we’re going to have to keep you awhile.”

It all seemed very unreal to me. He’s apologizing for having to make me wait to be burned to a cinder?

“You’re going to burn me up—without a trial?” I ventured timidly.

“This is the trial. We put the red-hot coals over there, you step into them awhile—barefoot, of course—and then the priest bandages your feet. After a week he takes off the bandage, and if the burns on your feet are well, you’re off. If they’ve rotted, then we’ll burn the rest of you. Everyone agrees that it’s fair, and I can’t be blamed for making a mistake. It’s in God’s hands now, woman. You had better repent and pray.” He poured more ale into his mouth. It was very dusty, after all.

Dust and thirst bothered me considerably that day, and hunger, too, as I waited in the hot sun with my hands tied behind me, watching him sit in the shade, eat and drink, and dispense justice. It had to be a dream, didn’t it, that by the evening my feet would be burned to the bone, and I would be carried, screaming, to lie in jail for a week before my execution? These things happen to other people, not to me—not to somebody nice, like I am. It seemed very unfair. What is the good of seeing Light, and thinking you have some special task from God, only to find out that it’s a degrading and painful death that is what was waiting all along? My friends had obviously taken the safer course and left in a hurry. I didn’t blame them. It’s probably what I would have done myself.

But who had done this to me, and why? I thought of the rich lady, so fat and pompous. In my mind her rings and chains glittered and—wait! Hadn’t I seen her before? Walking—walking with her husband, the one who looked like Lewis Small. It had to be only one thing. That was Lewis Small! This was the way he thought, the way he acted. If he were wed again, he must have supposed me dead. Now he was a bigamist and must get rid of the evidence. How simple it all was. He was a creature of perfect, merciless logic. I would never escape him, never. I wished that I could cry. I would have felt better. But it was all over for me, Lewis Small had found me and killed me a second time. This time for good. I knew him well: he would come to the ordeal. He enjoyed other people’s agony. I suppose I didn’t give him enough agony the first time, I thought bitterly to myself.

By this time the flames were dying down, leaving a bed of red-hot coals. A crowd had gathered, for this promised to be the best sport of the fair. I could hear them talking.

“Don’t push! I got this place first!”

“Make way, make way, let the children sit down in front.”

“Young, isn’t she? These witches get younger every day—youth has no respect anymore, I say.”

“I say they don’t too—so you quit blocking my view.”

“Why isn’t she crying?”

“Witches can’t shed tears, you booby.”

On they went, gabbing and poking at each other and goggling their eyes at me. If it were another place, I’d have been embarrassed to tears. But now it was different.

I felt bad in a very strange way. How crude of God, I thought, to send all this Light and then end it. I felt like the victim of a practical joke. Didn’t Hilde say that God’s main characteristic was a sense of irony? Still, the Light was a wonderful feeling. It made me feel so much bigger and better than I really was. If it’s going to be all over for me, let me say good-bye to the Light and feel it all around. But I was being badly distracted. The coals were ready, and the priest was sprinkling things around the way they do, and saying prayers. They took away my shoes and hose, and then my dress and belt, leaving me in my undershirt with my braids hanging down.

Why must these things always be done in one’s undershirt? Mine, thank goodness, was a nice one, a remnant of my former marriage. It was a loose shift of white linen, prettily sewn and reembroidered in white around the neck. It had long sleeves and fell, nicely hemmed, midway below the knee. I had washed it not so long ago, so it was clean—not a thing you can say about everyone’s undershirt, if they have one. Penances and begging pardon—you always need a decent undershirt and good calluses on your feet. I suppose they do it for the spectacle, and the humiliation. And if it’s winter and you get sick, they say it’s God’s judgment. In the old days I’d have wondered if God wore an undershirt, but now I know that God is bigger than that.

I didn’t search the faces of the crowd when they led me before the coals; I was suddenly too frightened. They cut the rope on my wrists, and a sergeant held me at each elbow while they dropped a scrap of tinder on the coals to see if they were hot enough. They glowed cherry-red under a thin coating of white ash. With a puff the tinder was a blazing, floating shower of sparks that vanished almost instantly. Several men with pikes stood by to push me back into the fiery mass if I tried to flee.

It is an odd thing about fear; it grabs you like a big fist and shakes you terribly, and you feel like an entirely different person than you ordinarily are. My knees didn’t work like proper knees anymore. They quivered and folded as if they were made of jelly. I slumped, and they held me up by the arms. My chest felt as if it were being pressed by weights. My face, hands, and feet felt like ice.

“Please,” I whispered, “let me be here just a minute more until I can stand. Then I’ll step out by myself.” The big fist of fear seemed to loosen its hold a little. I stood by myself, but I was trembling all over. I couldn’t hear anything, even their answer—just a rushing noise in my ears.

Let it all be the same, I thought to myself, the Light and the fire. I pulled my mind away from fear and shame and put it in the Nothing, which quivered silently all around. With my eyes closed I felt a sort of humming glow through my mind, which was no longer me, but part of something else. I, that is, the little me of every day, was gone. Then I felt something strange trickling up my spine. Something glowing and noisy like a crackle, which was also a voice. The Voice was deep, inside and outside of my head at the same time. The Voice said, “There is no fear. There is no fire. Do not look down. Think that you step on cool stones under the waters of a river. Fix your eyes only on the Light.”

I opened my eyes, but I could see nothing. In place of the blackness behind closed eyes, I saw instead only pulsing shades of light that seemed to tear through me. I was quite blind. My eyes staring blankly, I stepped out onto the fiery coals and strode across them as I would a ford. Because I could not see, I walked in a semicircle on the glowing bed, staggering off nearly where I had begun. I could hear my heart. It made a dull sound that seemed to shake the universe. Someone pulled me by the arm, and I reeled and fell. Still I could not see. I could feel the crowd pressing closer.

“Look, she doesn’t see!”

“She’s blind.”

“Look at her feet, let’s see them.”

My feet! As I sat there on the ground, my sight slowly came back. A figure in black was leaning over me, holding the bandages in one hand. Why couldn’t I feel my feet? Were they burned off? Does one not feel that?

“Why, look at this, there is not a mark on her feet. This is clearly a miracle!” said the astonished priest, holding one of my feet up for general view. What on earth had happened? I still faintly felt a strange crackle in my spine.

“A miracle! A miracle!” the crowd murmured, and drew back. I could see people crossing themselves.

“She was falsely accused!” cried a voice.

“Yes, she even looks innocent. I always said it,” said another.

“Where is the accuser?” a big man shouted. I looked around me. Close by the opposite end of the bed of coals, a richly dressed man in green hose and dark scarlet gown was trying furtively to slip away in the crowd. I stared, trying to see who it was. Even though it was summer, there was fur trimming his gown, fur on his surcoat—it had to be Lewis Small. The head turned, and I saw the even-featured face that had long given me nightmares. The curls—as perfect as ever, but now tinted with a faint bit of gray. And he’d grown a little beard. Someone had probably told him that it was fashionable.

“That’s him, that rich devil there!” a voice called out. Was it one of the sergeants? The crowd blocked Small’s path. “Let me through, you rabble, can’t you see I’m a man of worth? You’ve made a mistake!” But the hint of fear in his voice gave him away.

“We saw him, we saw him, he’s the one,” called out an old woman, and the crowd surged around him so that I could barely make out a thrashing, fur-trimmed arm. I could hear his voice rising shrilly as he tried to break through the crush of bodies. I could see his wife, standing apart at a distance, her eyes wide with fear, before she hid herself in the crowd. Now I caught a glimpse of her fleeing, headdress askew, fighting her way in the opposite direction of the crowd.

“That’s him! That’s him! Tear him apart!” The crowd was milling and riotous.

“Let’s see him do it. He’s the one that’s working for the Devil!” A rough hand grabbed Lewis Small by his fur-lined surcoat, and he either tripped or was shoved onto the fiery bed of coals. He fell and cried out as his hand was singed, scrambling up and frantically trying to get away. His gold chains rattled and glittered. He had lost his plumed beaver hat, which lay smoking on the coals, before it suddenly burst into flames. It was an ugly hat, a nasty dark thing with a jewel on it and a little brim. In all this time he still had no taste.

The crowd had closed in around him now, and someone’s cudgel knocked him back onto the coals. He struggled up, frantic with pain, his eyes wild. This time his clothing smoldered and then caught fire. There was a dreadful stink like a singed cat, and I could see him clutching his burnt hands, the rings glistening on the blistered flesh. As the flames crawled up his back, he began to scream hideously and run. The crowd pulled back from him as the flames broke out in his hair, converting it into a sort of infernal wreath. Running fanned the flames, and the people cleared a wide path before him as the fire leapt from the dry stuff of his gown. Now he was clawing at his face and head, as if he could somehow stop the burning, and the blackened flesh and ashy beard cracked so that the blood flowed beneath the stubs of his fingers.

The crowd gazed with a sort of fascinated awe as the nearly unrecognizable, but still screaming, human torch ran insanely in an eccentric circle about the coals. Blindly he crashed into the tree behind the judge’s bench and fell on his back. Somehow the smoking arms and legs still worked, moving mindlessly, like a dying insect’s. Cinders and shreds of blackened clothing scattered about him on the ground, and I could see the white of bone. The crowd watched silently as the flames died around the blackened mass writhing and moaning on the ground, greasy black smoke still rising from it. I couldn’t stop staring. I couldn’t even move. My God, the man burned! I’d thought he’d emerge from the flames like a devil, still smiling his horrible smile. Don’t let him, don’t let him, I thought in terror. But the face—it wasn’t there. That blackened crust couldn’t make that awful smile ever again. The moaning—did it sound like my name? Never, dear God, never! Then the mass gave a convulsive shudder, and I could see one hand, all cracked and black like a burnt claw, pointing hideously in my direction. Dead, dead. I wanted to prod him with a stick, to make sure.

“Come away quickly, while they’re not looking.” Brother Sebastian’s voice was urgent as he threw my cloak over me and grabbed me up from the ground. With his arm around my back he pushed me into a run. Mother Hilde and the others were waiting a discreet distance away, packed and ready to go.

“Put on your shoes, child. But don’t stop to put on the rest. We have your clothes, you can put them on later. Tell me, just how is it your feet weren’t burned?”

Mother Hilde handed me my shoes, which I put on without hose.

“I don’t know, really. My feet are hurting right now from the stones we’ve run over.”

“Never question a perfectly good miracle, I say,” intoned Brother Sebastian. “And now we must away. As I always say—”

“Light feet and light hands!” the whole party chorused together.

Once a distance of a mile or so was between us and Sturbridge, we stopped so I could finish dressing, and put away my cloak, for it was a warm day. I had to show off my feet, which were bruised and not altogether clean, but certainly without burns, and that cheered everyone up greatly.

“We stayed to see if we could recapture you, Margaret,” said Hilde. “But we thought at best we’d have to load you up and hide you until your feet were well. And at worst—well, we won’t think about that.”

“You stayed for me? Just for me? Thank you, thank you, my true friends.” I sat down and cried, because I really couldn’t believe how good they’d been to me. But they embraced me and said they had expected it was more likely that I would have had to help Brother Sebastian flee, and that next time there was trouble I could make it all up to them.

“And now,” said Brother Sebastian, waving his arms, “a song to speed us on our way in merriment.” Tom and Little William began to sing:

“Young men, I rede that ye be ware

That ye come not into the snare,

For he is brought into much care

That has a shrew unto his wife.”

Then Brother Sebastian and the others joined in:

“In a net then I am caught,

My foot is penned, I may not out;

In sorrow and care that man is put

Who has a shrew unto his wife.”

Then they began a song about spring, which suited me better. We passed several happy miles in this way, until we stopped for supper at an alehouse in a village on the road. As it was quite crowded, we were lucky to find seats together in a corner. Merchants and travelers going to and from Sturbridge had given the owner very good business. We could not help overhearing the heated discussion going on at the table next to us.

“And Peter Taylor says that he saw a host of angels there lift her by the arms bodily over the fiery pit!”

“A true miracle! God has sent a Sign!”

“Yes, all virgins are to be saved.”

“No, I think it means the end of the world is at hand.”

“How many angels did you say?”

“At least twenty, all with golden wings. One had a brazen trumpet.”

“Yes, the trumpet means the end of the world, definitely.” I shrank into the corner. I feared someone might recognize me, but I needn’t have worried.

“A virgin, you say?”

“Yes, a holy virgin, falsely accused. Clad in robes of white samite with golden borders. She had long golden hair down to her ankles. The angels just carried her away to heaven, for she completely vanished, without a trace.”

“Goodness, that’s amazing.”

“The best part is what happened to the accuser. Devils rose out of the earth and grabbed him, pulling him into the fiery pit, which opened and then closed around them. They left nothing but a hard black stone, which is what he had instead of a heart.”

“Mpf,” whispered Hilde, her mouth full of food. “I always suspected as much—about the heart, I mean.” Brother Sebastian had a pleased expression on his face.

“Altogether a highly satisfactory, first-class miracle, Margaret, don’t you think?” he gloated, beneath his breath.

“Shhh!” I warned. The others tittered behind their hands. We paid and sneaked quietly out, deciding it would be wisest to sleep by the road tonight, out of the range of gossips, rather than sheltering indoors.

The next morning the party took counsel. The players wanted to continue traveling rather than go directly to London, after all. It seemed that Tom had a problem with an important fellow in the London Saddlers’ Guild that he’d not bothered to tell anyone about before. He was waiting for things to quiet down before he returned to the City, and he judged that the fellow hadn’t really had time to cool down enough yet. I looked at my toes and said, “I don’t really want to go to any more fairs for a while. I know you understand how I feel about it.”

“Margaret, you’ll soon recover. Maybe you should train dogs next time. You just aren’t good at selling things,” Master Robert consoled me.

“Still, my dear children all,” intoned Brother Sebastian, “I myself feel the magnetic pull of that veritable navel of the universe, I mean, if you discount Jerusalem, Paris, and Rome—that is, namely, the mighty metropolis of London. There I have my winter business, and it will not be harmed by an early start. Therefore I propose that we break up this delightful party, and that we four continue on to London, where you might rejoin us, if you so desire, at a later date.”

“Break up? That’s really too bad. We were doing so well with Peter—the fortune-telling, that is—it’s really a pity to stop so soon.”

“It is a great pity, and we shall miss your excellent company. But London is a city paved with gold. It beckons, you understand.”

“But how will we find you?” said Parvus Willielmus.

“Inquire at the house of Sebastian the Apothecary in Walbrook for the whereabouts of Brother Malachi—you’ll always be welcome.”

“Brother Malachi, my dear Sebastian, who is he?” asked Hilde.

“Why, myself, of course. That’s my London name. I borrowed Sebastian’s for the road. He did not give his permission, but he would have if he’d known about it, I’m sure.”

“Oh, Sebastian, dear—I mean Malachi—you’re a man of such parts,” she murmured fondly.

“I live a cosmopolitan life, my dear, one that will be my joy to share with you.”

“You won’t leave me, will you?” I asked anxiously.

“Why, Margaret,” he answered simply. “Would we abandon Peter? Or Moll? You’re part of the household as long as you want to be.” I was dreadfully relieved. I would starve in a minute without my friends. I just wasn’t competent to get a living by myself.

And so we parted from our friends of the road with many embraces and tears, and promises to see each other another day. They set their faces west, and we toward London. We were full of hope.

“What is London like, dear Malachi? I have never lived in a city,” said Mother Hilde.

“It spreads as far as the eye can see,” said Brother Malachi, spreading out his arms. “Every convenience, every comfort, that might be imagined is there, seven times over. Within the walls lie nearly two hundred churches and over thirty thousand souls—that is, if the late pestilence has not reduced the numbers sadly. You cannot imagine the clamor of the bells—not just one miserable parish bell, but hundreds and hundreds of them, rolling across the city in waves! Foreigners toil and travel incessantly to bring exotic spices and luxuries to her door. A constant round of pleasure—parades, plays, and festivities of the most exquisite nature—entice and delight her residents. All this, dear Hilde, I lay at your feet.” He bowed as if laying a gift at her feet. She laughed. I loved to see Hilde laugh. She had earned whatever joy she could find, I thought.

 

MARGARET PEEKED SIDEWAYS FROM where she sat on the cushions of the window seat, her hands in her lap, resting on a piece of neglected mending. She wished to watch and enjoy Brother Gregory’s growing annoyance as he finished writing. There is nothing more delightful than secretly annoying someone who tends toward the kind of pomposity that Brother Gregory liked to display in matters of religion. By now Margaret knew her subject well. A red flush was climbing up the back of his neck. He turned suddenly and stood up over her, and growled down at her in an irritated voice, “I suppose, madame, you are trying to inform me that you and the ‘Blessed Maid of Sturbridge’ are one and the same creature.”

“I’m only telling you what I saw and heard. I believe in trying to be exact,” she replied sweetly.

Brother Gregory fumed as he walked about the room with his hands behind his back.

“You are an utter disgrace. I suppose you take a percentage in the sale of relics.”

“Oh, never that, I assure you. Of course, some time later, I did catch Brother Malachi scooping ashes out of the fireplace into reliquaries. He said he got the idea from the way the dead coals were raked up and sold as a cure for palsy. He did very well with them for a while. That was before he changed to selling teeth.”

“Don’t tell me about it, for I don’t wish to hear more.” Brother Gregory clamped his mouth shut in a tight line.

A perfect day, thought Margaret. I have got a large part of the story done, and annoyed Brother Gregory in the bargain. I suppose now I’ll have to get back to work. Today they were making soap, and while it is not a difficult process, Margaret liked to supervise it closely to make sure that it did not come out too strong. There is something very nasty about soap that peels the skin off the user. Later, the tailor was coming to take her measure for the new dress and surcoat that Kendall had ordered for her. He had decided that it would be nice to outfit Margaret and the girls for the Christmas season.

“I have a piece of dark green velvet that will make your pretty eyes shine, sweetheart,” he had said, giving her a squeeze around the shoulders. And although Margaret was never much concerned with clothes and considered it a great bother to stand still for the tailor, who was she to refuse such a gracious offer from the man she cared for so much? Kendall was outfitting his household, as well, and it was on Margaret’s shoulders that the business of making these arrangements fell. Then, of course, there was supper; but there was always supper. When it is served in a large household, it is a job for a field marshal. Margaret reluctantly put her book out of her mind, even before Brother Gregory had quite left, and when he bade her farewell, she looked a little blank before she remembered that she needed to answer what he appeared to be saying.

“—I was telling you that I have business out of town for two weeks,” he repeated with exaggerated patience.

“Oh! Well, that’s all right. I’ll practice in between,” she said, as if she had still not fully comprehended what he was saying. Then she suddenly realized what was going on, and said with a new note of alarm in her voice, “You’ll be away? Oh, my goodness, not long, I hope.”

“Two weeks, as I have told you.”

“You will be back to help with the book, won’t you?” I’ve gone too far, and now he’s really angry. How will I manage if he really doesn’t mean to come back at all? The thought stabbed through her.

“Yes, I will. My business away shouldn’t take too long. It’s just some family business. It will take two weeks.”

“Oh, I see, two weeks. That’s not long.” She sounded relieved.

“Exactly,” said Brother Gregory, pronouncing the word with dry precision. One cannot be too careful in dealing with persons who have a naturally lower capacity for comprehension.