a year old. It was my husband’s sins that killed them. I couldn’t pray enough to keep his sins away. Oh, it was cold, cold, so cold. And then I died. Are you sure Mother Hilde isn’t an abbess?”
She sounded so disappointed that I said, “She really isn’t, but I have a brother who’s a priest.”
“A priest? Oh, that’s nice.” She sounded approving. Good, I thought. It’s important to humor spectres. “I’ve a son who’s a priest,” she added. “Probably much more important than your brother by now. My, he was a pretty little boy. Just like me. I had my confessor teach him reading and Latin when he was just a tiny thing. He was ever so quick—not thickheaded, like my first. Bad blood, that one had. That’s what comes when you marry beneath yourself. My father would never have stood for it if he’d lived. ‘Never marry beneath yourself, my little chick,’ he’d say. ‘It’s better to be a nun.’ Now, my little boy, he must be very large by now, but he’s gone away to be a priest and I’ve never seen him since the day I died. He was too little to be left; I heard his weeping even on the other side. But I’m sure he remembered what I’d told him. ‘Be a priest,’ I said, ‘not a sinner like that creature I married. Stay pure. Remember, you’re not like them.’ Oh, the pity of it, that I married beneath myself, and was brought to all this grief.”
As she spoke I began to have a curious suspicion. It grew and grew in me, and made my skin crawl.
“You must have very fine blood,” I said very carefully. “Even now you look very elegant.” The Weeping Lady swirled a gracious acknowledgment. “Just who was it you wed? Would you care to tell me his name?”
“Oh, what a crude young man. Mother was quite taken in. A true chevalier, she said, come to rescue us in our distress. Well, he did look nice in his armor, I must confess, and he carried my favor to victory in the tournament, which did turn my head at the time. But can you imagine? The moment we were wed he spent my dowry to repair his tower and didn’t even have the chapel painted. Oh, Father, how right you were!” She became agitated and rose to the ceiling awhile, and then billowed down.
“The only thing he ever spent a penny on was his horses!” she hissed spitefully in my ear. “A new saddle blanket? Spare no expense! A new dress for his poor wife, who’d married beneath herself? Never! I wore out my wedding clothes, I tell you, and then I died. A woman can’t live without a decent dress. But I tell you, I’ve come back to haunt him, haunt him, haunt him, until he’s ashamed to show his face in public! Take my advice! Never marry beneath yourself!”
“And the name, just so I’ll know how to follow your sage advice?”
“Sir Hubert de Vilers, may the Devil fly off with him! A horrid blond young man, a bit on the square side—very vain about his swordsmanship. You can’t mistake him, no, not at all!” Her anger had swirled her all up again, so I couldn’t see her, but it didn’t matter. Even after she was gone, I had to put my hand over my heart, it thumped so. There was absolutely no mistaking it. I had a Weeping Lady for a mother-in-law. It was really altogether too much.
Now, Mother Anne, who was not my real mother but my stepmother who raised me up, was a woman of great practical sense, and she always warned me about mothers-in-law.
“Now, Margaret,” she always said, “when you get married, be very careful of your mother-in-law. Remember, they are always angry at the girl who marries their son, so be respectful! Don’t give them any cause to get peevish! Give them the best of everything at table, and make sure their bed’s warmed before they get in it. Call them ‘Madame my mother’ even if they’re no lady at all, and kneel before them in respect. I’ve had several mothers-in law, and believe me, I know. That’s the only good thing I can say about your father—he didn’t come attached to a
She sounded so disappointed that I said, “She really isn’t, but I have a brother who’s a priest.”
“A priest? Oh, that’s nice.” She sounded approving. Good, I thought. It’s important to humor spectres. “I’ve a son who’s a priest,” she added. “Probably much more important than your brother by now. My, he was a pretty little boy. Just like me. I had my confessor teach him reading and Latin when he was just a tiny thing. He was ever so quick—not thickheaded, like my first. Bad blood, that one had. That’s what comes when you marry beneath yourself. My father would never have stood for it if he’d lived. ‘Never marry beneath yourself, my little chick,’ he’d say. ‘It’s better to be a nun.’ Now, my little boy, he must be very large by now, but he’s gone away to be a priest and I’ve never seen him since the day I died. He was too little to be left; I heard his weeping even on the other side. But I’m sure he remembered what I’d told him. ‘Be a priest,’ I said, ‘not a sinner like that creature I married. Stay pure. Remember, you’re not like them.’ Oh, the pity of it, that I married beneath myself, and was brought to all this grief.”
As she spoke I began to have a curious suspicion. It grew and grew in me, and made my skin crawl.
“You must have very fine blood,” I said very carefully. “Even now you look very elegant.” The Weeping Lady swirled a gracious acknowledgment. “Just who was it you wed? Would you care to tell me his name?”
“Oh, what a crude young man. Mother was quite taken in. A true chevalier, she said, come to rescue us in our distress. Well, he did look nice in his armor, I must confess, and he carried my favor to victory in the tournament, which did turn my head at the time. But can you imagine? The moment we were wed he spent my dowry to repair his tower and didn’t even have the chapel painted. Oh, Father, how right you were!” She became agitated and rose to the ceiling awhile, and then billowed down.
“The only thing he ever spent a penny on was his horses!” she hissed spitefully in my ear. “A new saddle blanket? Spare no expense! A new dress for his poor wife, who’d married beneath herself? Never! I wore out my wedding clothes, I tell you, and then I died. A woman can’t live without a decent dress. But I tell you, I’ve come back to haunt him, haunt him, haunt him, until he’s ashamed to show his face in public! Take my advice! Never marry beneath yourself!”
“And the name, just so I’ll know how to follow your sage advice?”
“Sir Hubert de Vilers, may the Devil fly off with him! A horrid blond young man, a bit on the square side—very vain about his swordsmanship. You can’t mistake him, no, not at all!” Her anger had swirled her all up again, so I couldn’t see her, but it didn’t matter. Even after she was gone, I had to put my hand over my heart, it thumped so. There was absolutely no mistaking it. I had a Weeping Lady for a mother-in-law. It was really altogether too much.
Now, Mother Anne, who was not my real mother but my stepmother who raised me up, was a woman of great practical sense, and she always warned me about mothers-in-law.
“Now, Margaret,” she always said, “when you get married, be very careful of your mother-in-law. Remember, they are always angry at the girl who marries their son, so be respectful! Don’t give them any cause to get peevish! Give them the best of everything at table, and make sure their bed’s warmed before they get in it. Call them ‘Madame my mother’ even if they’re no lady at all, and kneel before them in respect. I’ve had several mothers-in law, and believe me, I know. That’s the only good thing I can say about your father—he didn’t come attached to a
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