The Water Devil by Judith Merkle Riley

Author:Judith Merkle Riley [Riley, Judith Merkle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2007-01-15T06:00:00+00:00

LAUNDRESSES WERE BOILING the linens over the courtyard fire when Lady Petronilla stormed past. One was stoking the fire while another stirred the heavy, wet stuff with a stick. Margaret had just sent the girl up with the empty basket for the tablecloths. Her old dog, a little creature that looked like a mound of animated, unravelled rope, had followed her out, wheezing, and now trailed at her hems.

“Not them, too,” said the woman with the stick.

“Everything,” said Margaret. “I swear, you haven't done them since the last time I visited—oh, where's she going like that?”

“She does that when she's angry sometimes. She just rides that mare of hers until it's nearly dead. Well, better the mare than me, I say. She'll take that little whip of hers to anyone when she's in that mood.”

“Where does she go?” asked Margaret, as they stood and watched her vanish in the direction of the stables.

“Here, there, and everywhere. She's the ridingest lady anyone ever saw. She outrides her grooms—oh, look, here comes her confessor. He doesn't want her riding alone. He'll follow.”

Brother Paul was following with long, lithe steps. Curious, thought Margaret, he's usually all bent over from all his bowing like that untrellised vine. Awhile after the first furious burst of hoofbeats sounded out the main gate, they heard another horse.

“Oh, here's the napkins,” said Margaret as the girl with the basket came back down the courtyard steps.“Just throw them in the boiler with everything else, they couldn't be any nastier.”At that moment, the woman with the stirring pole could not decide which she preferred. Lady Petronilla was violent, but she was easy, and never noticed anything but what she wanted at that very moment. Lady Margaret, now, was even-tempered but sharp-eyed. She was always poking and prying and cleaning up. You'd think she was mistress, the way she ordered things done and the old lord let her have her way. Still, she'd soon be gone and they wouldn't have to do the linens for another year or two at least, until Lady Margaret came back.

Dame Petronilla rode astride at a full gallop, her veil, tightly pinned to her knotted hair, flying like a pennant, her skirts up to her shins, showing her soft leather hunting boots. Her bay mare was heavily lathered as she left planted land and crossed the meadow. At the far side of the meadow, lounging along in the middle of the brook, was Old Brownie, carrying two barefoot redheaded girls on his broad, bare, swayed back. Every so often he would tug on the reins, and put his head back down to drink. Behind him, a groom mounted on a little cob waited for the girls on the sandy bank.

“Look, there goes Lady Petronilla,” said Alison. Cecily pulled up Old Brownie's head, and quit letting him slosh along in the brook. As he climbed the bank, she said.

“Alison, quit pinching, I'm going to be black and blue.”

“I'm sitting on the fat part, do you want me to fall off? There's no place to get on again.

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