The Water Devil by Judith Merkle Riley Page A

had been drawn to the edge of the crowd by the cries and the sight of the bobbing little figure high in the tree.
    “Bigod, look there, Denys, it's a girl up that tree,” said the older man.
    “After that magpie's nest, I swear, the little cat,” answered the younger. “And now she can't get down.”
    “Reminds me of someone,” said the older man.
    “It certainly
doesn't,
father,” said the younger. “I always got down. I put my foot where I had it last.”
    “There was the little matter of the tower roof.”
    “That's not the same. It wasn't my fault.”The old man inspected the woman giving orders. Unfeminine. Must be the mother. Verywell dressed, for a weekday. That squirrel-lined surcoat, very handsomely embroidered. The veil, hmm, it looked like silk. And the cross hanging, half concealed, at her neck, solid gold, foreign work- manship. And this street, a very good one, lined with the tall, brightly painted houses of wealthy mercers and knight-vintners. Quick judgments of the rank, condition, and cash reserves of those who stood before him were the specialty of the old magistrate. But the woman's eye had fixed on them there.
    “You,” she said to the boy beside him, “can you climb?” The figures elevated above the crowd on horseback had caught her eye immediately. Good cloaks. Swords. Possibly knights? They're good at climbing ladders. The old one, too heavy, too stiff—gray in his beard. The young one with the black brows. Fifteen or sixteen, wiry looking, clever face. He'll do. She fixed her fierce, commanding eye on him.
    “Father?” said the boy, looking at the older man to ask permission. “Are you the mother?” said the old man, his eyes canny.
    “I am. That's my daughter Cecily up in that tree, for reasons of her own,” answered Margaret.
    “My son, never refuse a lady in distress,” said the old man, giving his paternal benediction. The boy dismounted from his winter- coated cob, and unbuckled his short sword, handing weapon, hat, and cloak up to his father. An apprentice boy ran to hold his horse.
    “You act as if you know that girl,” said the old magistrate, probing gently.
    “Oh, who doesn't know her here? That's Cecily Kendall. She's not even ten, and you wouldn't believe the things she's done.”
    “Ah, then, she'll live and die a spinster. No man will have her.” The old man's eye had a speculative gleam. His son had begun to ascend the ladder.
    “Girls with a marriage portion like hers never go unwed, Master. So says Mistress Wengrave, my master's wife, who knows everything.” The gray-bearded man smiled. Cecily Kendall, he said to himself, as he stored away the name. A relation, perhaps, of thatwealthy Roger Kendall who had donated the chantry at St. Paul's cathedral for merchants lost at sea? It was worth looking into. And this was as good as an introduction….
    Meanwhile, all eyes were fixed on the ladder, which did not reach all the way. The wiry, agile figure of the boy swung easily from the ladder to the limb above. The branches above are too thin for them both, thought Margaret, and she wanted to shout “No higher!” but was afraid that any sound would distract the climbing boy. Her breath was tight in her chest as the boy paused, leaning up under Cecily's cracking perch. What was he doing? Would they lose them both? The crowd was deathly still. Even the boy's father had put aside speculation and, his eyes on the swaying figures, seemed suddenly pale and drawn.
    “You, girl, put your foot down on my shoulder,” Cecily could hear a voice beneath her and behind her, but couldn't see the source.
    “My Christian name is Cecily,” she said, not moving.
    “And my Christian name is Denys. Put your left foot down behind you and feel for my shoulder. You won't fall if you hold on.” Carefully, carefully, he could feel a bony bare foot brush his shoulder. “Set it down hard. Then the other foot. Yes, that's it. Now keep holding on and work your hands down the branch