The Water Devil (25 page)

“It's you that did it, you witch. You stole the child from my womb, and bore it as yours. And now you've stolen the new one. I'll chop it out of you—” with that, she snatched up a carving knife from a dish of capons, and lunged across the table. Margaret dodged the blow, but as the bench she was seated on was set against the wall, she could not escape. Petronilla leapt upon the table, as Margaret dove under it, sending the hounds fleeing. Gilbert dashed to her side as Petronilla, wild eyed and brandishing the knife, tried to pursue her by dashing down the center of the table, while the grooms attempted to get at her from the floor. It was at this very moment of maximal confusion that Madame, with great calm and ladylike demeanor, stood, removed a skewer full of partridges in a savory sauce of ginger and verjuice from the large silver platter before her with the right thumb and two forefingers, and without ever dampening her fingers beyond the correct first joint, directed the tip of the skewer with swift precision right into Lady Petronilla's exposed ankle. With a shriek, the madwoman leapt away, falling from the table directly into the hands of the grooms and their net.

All eyes were on Lady Petronilla as she struggled and howled in the net, and the grooms attempted to remove her without being bitten or kicked. All eyes but one pair. The Lord of Brokesford, who never missed any detail of a skirmish, watched with fascination as Madame, her face calm and pleasant, wiped the tip of the skewer neatly on a napkin and replaced the partridges in their dish. He saw her then reorder the tablecloth with a swift gesture and send a boy to replace the trenchers on her side of the table, for Lady Petronilla had stepped in them. Oblivious to the disorder about her, she could have been presiding at a king's banquet. That is a woman who knows how to keep order, he said to himself. And much as he disliked her, he had to give her credit for it. A lady all the way to the bone.

At the same time, the canon was discoursing to the other men of religion. “I would suspect more than one devil, watching her now.

There is, perhaps, one that speaks, and several more that animate. The biting, for example—Sir Hugo, would you say that she spoke in her natural voice?”

“Oh, definitely much lower and more unnatural,” agreed Hugo. “Her real voice is high, delicate, and ladylike.” To be wed to a madwoman made him feel lowered, an object of mockery. But to be married to a woman possessed of not one, but possibly legions of devils, was a thing that brought a certain standing in the world. After all, a woman had to be especially desirable for devils to wish to possess her, and a man can't really expect to compete with devils for a bride. He felt noble and tragic now, instead of like a fool. “Tell me, is there any hope?”

The abbot shook his head. “One devil, perhaps, and there might be a chance. But who among us is powerful enough to cast out legions of them?” The devil theory suited him, too. What she had said was mad, absolutely mad, and made no sense at all. The devil theory was gaining rapidly in the hall. It made sense. It made drama. It promised wonderful ecclesiastical drama, just when the grand feast and celebration would be all finished, and dullness would settle back on this little country place.

The canon shook his head gravely. “I have never done an exorcism of more than five devils at once. It is a risk, a deep risk, for whoever undertakes to cast out these devils.” Hugo flung himself at the canon's feet in an ecstasy of religious fervor.

“Ah, save her, save her, you holiest of holy men!” he exclaimed, deliciously conscious of the way that all eyes were fastened on him. The ladies especially, he was sure, were admiring him for his selfsacrificial love, his newer and more devoted side. Even while he was kissing the toe of the canon's grubby shoe, he was warmed all over imagining his new self, the tragic not-quite widower in need of feminine consolation.“My wife, you know—I've tried everything— I cannot abandon her—I can promise you only my adoration—” I'll get rid of all those bells on my harness at once, he was thinking.

The canon was deeply gratified. A battle hardened knight, groveling at his feet, begging to be saved. I'll stay several weeks, and go
at it in stages, he was thinking. I'll be celebrated throughout all of Europe. A vast, pink cloud of mutual conceit and contentment had enveloped Sir Hugo and the canon. It was invisible to all the watchers of the drama, except for one.

“Gilbert, look yonder at Sir Hugo and the canon. It's almost as if they're in love.” Gilbert looked up from where he was assessing Margaret to make sure she was entirely unhurt and directed his cynical gaze at his elder brother.

“I do believe you're right, Margaret. I sense he's about to take up a new fad. Remember when he decided to walk in the steps of the troubadours? His poetry nearly killed me. I wonder how this new one will turn out. Something tells me I will only be able to bear it if I consider it a penance.”

“Well, whatever it is, it will involve chasing women,” said Margaret, smoothing down her gown over her growing abdomen.

“I need to get you away from here, Margaret. I don't want to remain here for the exorcism. Or for the pilgrims who are going to be flooding the place the minute the word gets out. I tell you, they'll be prying up the doorposts as souvenirs.”

P
RIESTS, PRIESTS EVERYWHERE. I'M PRAC-tically stepping on them. You can't leave me now, Gilbert, I need somebody who speaks their language. God alone knows what they're capable of if there's no one to check up on them.”

“But that's exactly why I should go, Father. They're suspicious of anyone who reads, let alone reads Latin. You'll do better without me.” I could tell that Gilbert was losing the argument, and my heart sank. “Besides,” he went on, “Margaret needs to go home and rest. She's found it very disturbing, being chased with a carving knife, and wants to be away.”

“Rest? Rest? She can rest here. The city's an unhealthful place. All that fetid air. Think of the woods, the fields, the balmy breezes! All good for women who are expecting. Besides, it's Hugo's fault that woman got out. He forgot to lock the door when he retrieved his chest and his birds from the tower room. It won't happen again. Good, that's settled. Now, Gilbert, one faction's saying they should hold the exorcism in the chapel and the other in the church. What should I tell them?”

“Have them hold it in the church. Otherwise you'll have thousands of gawkers in the chapel, all demanding the hospitality of the house. Tell them the church is holier, and you hate to sacrifice the convenience and honor, but you understand that it's a very difficult process and there's nothing you wouldn't do to rid the lady of Brokesford of all those devils.”

“The lady of—the shame, Gilbert, the shame.”The old man paced up and down the solar, shaking his head. Madame and I continued our sewing, pretending we weren't listening, but
the girls were frankly gawking. “Can you imagine? The care I took selecting the bloodlines. I looked at the sire, I looked at the brothers. All sound. But I've come to the conclusion they're inbred, Gilbert. There's a taint. They hid the mother from us—said she was sick. Then, at the betrothal feast, she looked well enough, but pale, pale and puffy about the eyes. Nothing much. A little weeping over her brother killed in France, they said. But I recognize it. I swear I do. It's the same look I saw in the daughter's eyes at the feast. Damn! Damn! Why did I never suspect? A family of great wealth and lineage like that, to ally themselves with an heir of modest livelihood in a distant part of the country—they were passing off damaged goods on me, Gilbert. I'm humiliated that I was deceived. Devils indeed. It's bad blood.”

“Don't say that again, Father. Stick with the devils. It makes everyone happy and frees you of embarrassment.”

“Devils it is, then. Hundreds of the little beggars. Tragedy, not stupidity. A rarity. Unusual. Even fascinating in a ghoulish sort of way. Already they're coming, Gilbert. Pilgrims with googly eyes, priests with nothing to do, old ladies whose faces light up at disaster. I see them in the village, asking directions. They've overrun the abbey guesthouse, and I turned half a dozen of them away from the front gate this morning. Why in the HELL does it have to be MY house that gets infested with devils?”

“If I were Brother Malachi, I'd suggest you charge admission.”

“HIM. It's HIM that got me in this tangle. Worries I have, WORRIES. And now devils, on top of it! I swear, I WILL charge admission! I'm OWED something for all this, I'm OWED!”

“I DON'T SEE WHY
I have to be present at this, Gilbert, I really don't.”We had met the canon and the new priest and the swarm of deacons at the gate, and were now in solemn procession, complete with an immense crucifix and a reliquary with a hair of John the Baptist's beard, to go unseal the tower room and fetch Lady Petronilla off to the church.

“The canon said you had to, since the devils had taken a particular
dislike to you, and might be coaxed to say more in your presence. Besides, I'm here, and you have another lady to support you. Madame is very cool-headed in a crisis.” Madame nodded agreeably at this acknowledgment. Where once she had been stiff and shabby, she had now acquired a look of quiet elegance in the rich, dark kirtle and surcoat she had selected from Sir Hubert's chest. The hems needed to be taken up and a few small moth holes mended, but when she put them on, the garments flowed in dignified folds about her small-boned, erect body, as if they were meant for her. If anyone could put devils in their place, it was Madame.

At the door to the chamber, two armed guards stood. Two new brackets had been mounted outside the door to hold the bar that sealed the room shut from the outside. Sir Hugo himself lifted the bar, and the canon, clutching a calf-bound volume inscribed with the title
Manuale Exorcistarum,
threw open the door. The stench that greeted us was almost unbearable. “Aha,” said the canon, his eyes brightening, “the
foetor diabolicum.
There is definitely more than one in here.” He had come prepared. Behind him stood two deacons with candles on long poles, a crucifer, another deacon with a pot of holy water and an aspergillum, and a fifth with an incense censor, giving off heavy, sweet fumes. I put my sleeve over my nose, and saw the others were doing the same. When we stepped into the room, we could see no one, but the source of the smell was clear. The walls, the chests, the bed itself had been smeared with human dung. Pools of vomit lay on the floor. The smell of incense mingled sickeningly with the stink of the room, making it worse than ever.

“By the power of the mighty name of Jesus Christ, I bid thee appear,” said the canon, putting his right hand up. We could hear a faint growling, and a scrabbling sound, and a pair of glittering eyes peeked up from behind the head of the bed. Lady Petronilla was unrecognizable: her hair was matted and filled with filth, her face swollen, spotted with strange stains beneath the skin, and crisscrossed with abnormal lines, or indentations. She wore nothing but a filth-bedaubed black kirtle, unlaced and nearly falling off, below which showed a shift that she appeared to have shredded with her
own hands. “Have your grooms catch and bind her,” said the canon to Sir Hubert, who obliged with a wave of his gloved hand. They pulled her, screaming and squalling, from under the bed by the feet, calling for assistance when she began to convulse, foaming at the mouth and trying to bite anyone who touched her. She seemed to have the strength of ten, and it was a long time before the crowd of burly grooms finally bound her securely to a board, for transportation to the church. Screaming imprecations, demanding justice, hissing and growling, she was hauled forth into the sunlight of the forecourt, where a substantial crowd of gawkers had gathered.

As a groom held my mare at the mounting block for me, I couldn't help thinking of contrast with the grand parade of the week previous. No banners, no children, and for a centerpiece, a screaming woman on a plank. I noticed many strangers there, their eyes missing nothing. Some were counting their beads, or crossing themselves. Clearly, this ranked among the edifying religious experiences, almost as enlightening as watching a heretic burn. Ahead of us, I saw Sir Hubert lean from his big destrier to speak to Sir Thomas, the new priest, mounted on his little brown mule. “Don't forget what I said,” he whispered in his ear-shattering whisper. “There's a new roof in it for you, and we may get a wall mural or two out of it.” I saw Sir Thomas nod, and thought I heard in reply, “—just as you said, my lord, with double for places on the floor, an offering, entirely voluntary—” before the breeze carried the words away.

Fearful she would break loose, they laid her, plank and all, before the altar. Exhausted from her struggle against the ropes, she moaned and panted while the priests sang prayers and censed the space before the altar. The canon, feeling the beginnings of an undesirable pity mingling with the ghoulish fascination in the room, called for holy water, and sprinkled it on her.

“It burns, it burns!” she screamed. “Let me go!” Appalled that holy water could burn, the crowd gasped.

“Ah, yes. They are all still in there.” He opened his book, and had the crucifer hold the crucifix directly above her. “Devil or devils, I
conjure you by the mighty power of Jesus Christ, tell me your names!”

“You know my name!” shouted the madwoman. “You know it!”

“Ah, that will be the woman demon, Xanith, who lived as a succubus within her.”

“Really, how do you know?” asked Sir Hugo.

“Because it is in a female voice,” said the canon. I could see Lady Petronilla's unnaturally bright eyes taking this all in. They darted back and forth. She held very still. I could see her mind working. She wanted to be unbound.

“You know me,” she said in a high female voice.“I am Xanith, and I crave your body, priest. I will tempt you to sin.”

“
Exi ab ea!
I exorcise thee, thou unclean spirit! Pray, good people, pray the paternoster!”As everybody mumbled and prayed, he made the sign of the cross on her forehead and she screamed and writhed. Then he extended the holy wafer to her, and she began foaming at the mouth. There was a terrible, heartrending scream, and she vomited, the greenish slimy stuff from an empty stomach. “That is the first, leaving the body in the form of vomit, but not the last,” announced the priest to the crowd. “When she can accept the wafer, all the devils will be gone.”