Great Maria (20 page)

Maria smiled at him. “I do not know the custom. Long ago, I think, before the castle was built, the Duke claimed rights of justice there. But it was long ago.”

“The older the better,” the Duke said. He looked at Robert. “You will show me this place.”

Fitz-Michael was getting impatient to help her dismount. She took his hands and slid down to the ground. Robert was still sorting out an answer. She gestured to him to get down and hold the Duke’s bridle.

“Is he my master?” Robert said, when he had jumped down out of his saddle.

“Be courteous to him whether he is or not.”

Fitz-Michael said her name. She turned to him and let him take her arm. Together they walked across the ward toward the Tower.

His attendants arrived with a cartload of goods. A steady stream of servants marched up and down the stairs, installing Fitz-Michael and his horde in the top room. Maria moved her quarters down to the room directly below that one. When she had settled herself there, she went to the hall.

Fitz-Michael had brought a ballad singer with him. She sat on the side of the hearth and talked him into singing a long piece from the Song of Saint George. The singer was young; he played well, although his voice was shaky. When he had done with Saint George, he sang her a ballad called “The Great Deeds of Roger the Norman,” a long, tortuous song full of thievings from other stories. Delighted, she made him sing it again.

Fitz-Michael came into the hall, even more elegantly dressed than before. He came up beside her. The singer was just finishing the refrain of the song about Roger. Fitz-Michael signed to him to stop.

“Don’t sing her that fish-gut piece.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “Surely you don’t find such things enjoyable?”

Maria stood up beside him, smiling. “Roger is my brother, my lord.”

The Archbishop approached them. A page brought them all chairs. Fitz-Michael got himself arranged so that he would not crease his fancy coat. He looked up at her, his eyes sharp.

“Yes—your brother, as you say, is becoming a man of some remark although, of course, the songs exaggerate. But no one’s singing songs about your husband, my dear. They say other things about Richard Dragon, that he is treacherous and cruel and makes sworn bonds with Saracens—”

Maria straightened up. “My lord, my husband is an honest Christian knight, in whose castle you are sitting.” Her voice quavered, but she stared him in the eyes.

The Archbishop muttered, “Well spoken,” and Fitz-Michael twisted to glare at him. But when he looked at Maria the Count’s face was pleasant; he even laughed. “You are loyal, I like that.” He took hold of her hand. “Don’t be in a temper, although you’re pretty when you’re angry.”

“My lord, I did not mean to be sharp with you.” She took her hand out of his grip. “I will bring you some wine if you wish.” Jean was coming in the door. She went across the room to get them cups.

Twenty

Fitz-Michael’s knights rode to trap Theobald in his narrow valley, but through Fulbert Maria warned him of their coming, and he escaped into the fens. Fitz-Michael complained of ill luck. He and the Archbishop were loath to give up quickly the comforts and pleasures Maria made sure they had in Birnia. She drew all her own knights back to the Tower, since Fitz-Michael’s men were there to do their work and set them to keeping these people busy.

The Archbishop visited the Shrine of the Virgin and blessed the last of the summer’s pilgrims. Fitz-Michael hunted William’s packs of hounds and mastiffs and William’s hawks. Mouse-shy, Theobald marched around in the fens killing woodcutters and an occasional traveler. Now and again, Fitz-Michael stalked him along the road, but they never caught Theobald.

One afternoon, on the stairs, she overheard the Archbishop and Fitz-Michael talking, in the top-story room, where the strangers all slept. She took off her shoes and sneaked up behind the door. Through the crack between the hinges she could see into the room. Fitz-Michael’s servant was shaving him. The Archbishop sat down with a grunt in the big chair by the hearth.

“It just seems strange to me that whenever we move, Theobald moves ahead of us,” the Archbishop said. “After all, these people here don’t want to give us any more reason to claim rights over them. If we saved her from Theobald—”

“We are saving her from Theobald,” Fitz-Michael said. “You saw how she greeted us. She’s a pretty little wench, and very properly grateful.”

“I don’t think she’s guileless, my lord. Nor do I think the way to impress her is to tell her that her husband’s treacherous and cruel. You know my opinion of Dragon, but she hasn’t seen him in two years.”

The young Duke was running up the steps. Maria hid behind the door, and without seeing her he darted past her into the room. On his heels a wolfhound snuffled briefly at the foot of the door and went on.

“You are an old fool,” Fitz-Michael was saying. He stroked his cheeks. She wondered if all men did that after they had been shaved. “She knows her betters when she sees us. And I mean to rescue her, depend on it—I want a short rein and a good bit on Dragon, and this is one means to it. When we beat Theobald, Birnia will be as much ours as his.”

The Archbishop grunted. “You may find the mare’s more bridlewise than the stallion.”

Someone else was coming up the stairs. Maria slid out from behind the door and went away, and she heard nothing else.

They chased Theobald across the fens. The Archbishop and a small escort went back to Agato. Maria knelt in the ward before the old churchman to get his blessing, relieved that he would be out of her way. The young Duke and Robert were fighting with stick swords in a corner of the ward. In their shouting she missed the words of the blessing. The Archbishop made the Cross over her and kissed the crown of her head.

“Mark me, girl,” he said, lifting her up onto her feet. “You cannot toy with Fitz-Michael too long, he is less foolish than you think.”

“I, my lord?” She gave him a blank look. “No one knows better than I how wise my lord Fitz-Michael is.”

The Archbishop snorted with laughter. He mounted his white horse. His escort was waiting for him in the road. The two boys, their game stopped, were watching him, and he waved. Robert waved back but the young Duke pointedly turned away.

The Archbishop shook his head. He picked up his reins in his ringed hands.

“We shall all suffer someday for that young man’s bad breeding,” he said. “God keep you, girl.” At a trot, he rode out the gate and went on down the hill.

Maria had to ask her own castle, in the south, for some of their grain to keep her storeroom stocked. Although the harvest was coining, many of the fields around the town of Birnia lay untended and deep in weeds. Theobald still haunted the fen. One day while she was in the town, Fulbert sought her out to demand money of her, and she laughed at him. He slunk away, and many people turned to look at him.

Fitz-Michael and his sons hawked for gamebirds and hare. They held a feast in the ward of the Tower and gave presents to everyone. Most of the townspeople came up the road to eat and have a piece of silver from Fitz-Michael’s own hand.

On the day after the feast, Maria sat in one end of the hall fitting a new coat on Stephen. The young Duke came in, with Robert on his heels, and they stood in front of the fire shouting a rhyming game. Maria looked over Stephen’s head at them.

“Go outside if you must be so loud.”

Her son rushed over to her. The Duke followed him, his hands behind his back. Robert leaned on her knee. “We can’t. It’s raining. We went to the kitchen but Cook threw us out, and we went to the stables but Jean says we get in the way.”

His face was quick and merry; she stroked back his thick wavy hair to see his eyes. He rubbed his head affectionately against her hand. The young Duke stood rigidly to one side, his face turned away.

“My lord,” she said, “come here,” and when he stood before her she straightened his shirt and his hair, but he did not soften under her touch. Baffled, she sent them down the room to build the fire.

Stephen watched the older boys, his face solemn. She took the basted coat carefully off over his head. He walked down the hall, drawing his hand absently over the stone wall, until he reached a place near Robert and the young Duke. Maria threaded a needle and began to sew the sleeve of the coat. Outside, the rain drove down rattling into the ward.

With a crash, the door swung open, and Fitz-Michael with his three sons strode in. They fanned out toward the fire, bringing a stench of wet clothes into the room. Half a dozen of William’s dogs padded after them. A tall brindle wolfhound bitch trotted across the hall to the young Duke and the boy turned and patted her.

One of the sons took his father’s cloak; Fitz-Michael warmed his hands a moment at the fire. He came smiling to Maria and sank down on one knee.

“Lady, we shall keep your table groaning with game as long as you have us here.”

Maria put the needle in her pincushion. “You had good hunting again. Did the rain catch you far away?”

Fitz-Michael took her hand between his palms. “The other side of your hall is too far from you, my dear,” he said, and mouthed her fingers. Over his shoulder he called for a stool. Maria tried to free her hand, and he tightened his grip on it and gave her a little quizzical smile.

“My lord,” she said. She felt herself blushing, and she got to her feet.

“No,” he said. “Stay. Keep me company a while.”

“Please, my lord,” she said. She stood still, uncertain, and before she could move or speak, the young Duke was there before them, the wolfhound at his heels.

“Uncle,” he said to Fitz-Michael, “let me speak to you.”

Fitz-Michael pulled Maria by the hand until she sat down again on the stool. “Speak,” he said to the Duke.

“My lord,” Maria said, “if it pleases you,” and pulled her hand out of his grip and went away before he could hold her. Eleanor had come in, and the servants were arranging the table for supper. She went among them to help.

“I warned you to close the shutters,” Eleanor said. “It’s rained in through the window upstairs, Robert’s bed is soaked.”

Maria put her hand on Eleanor’s arm and looked over her shoulder at Fitz-Michael. The people between them hid him from her sight. “The old dog has a bone yet,” she said, and laughed, her voice quaking.

“What?”

“Fitz-Michael wants to lie with me.”

Eleanor gasped. “Holy Mother.” She clutched Maria’s arm. “What did you say?”

Maria put her free hand over her mouth, giggling. “I don’t know. What should I say?”

“Maria!” Eleanor shook her. “And your husband gone to fight the wars of God.”

Maria turned her back on the other woman. “You must be made of snow.” She crossed the hall to the door to send down for their supper.

That led her past the corner where her spinning wheel stood, and the look on the young Duke’s face stopped her between steps. Fitz-Michael was bending over him, poking his forefinger into the boy’s chest. “Keep your mouth shut,” he said. “I’ll feed you whip again, God save me.” He struck the boy on the side of the head with his open hand.

The boy looked impassively up at him and said, “I will remember how you repay loyal men by stealing their wives, Uncle.”

Fitz-Michael raised his fist, and the wolfhound bitch slid between them, her narrow head raised. Maria went up to Fitz-Michael; she took hold of the dog by the collar. “My lord,” she said, “your coat is wet, and supper will come soon.”

Stiff as paper, his cheeks folded into wrinkles when he smiled. “Thank you, my dear.” He went away. The young Duke rushed toward the hearth, but Maria hooked her hand under his arm and whirled him around to face her.

“In my castle,” she said softly, “I will fight my own fights.”

His face went expressionless. With his other hand he pried her fingers from his arm and walked away. The wolfhound whined in her throat; straightening, Maria let her go after him.

***

Word came the next morning that Theobald was moving north. The rain had stopped. Leaving the young Duke behind for punishment, Fitz-Michael rode off to chase the Count home. The Duke wandered listlessly around the castle, driving Robert away whenever he came up, until Jean saw it and took all the boys out to shoot their bows.

After they had cleaned the Tower, Maria and Eleanor went to the hall to work on the new tapestry. It was of Charlemagne riding to the hunt, and they had finished nearly half. Sitting down, Maria looked it over and said, “You have a better eye for the horses than I do.”

Eleanor sniffed. She had not ceased sermonizing about Maria and Fitz-Michael. Maria struck her on the shoulder. “Why do you treat me like this? I will not lie with him—do you think I am a complete whore? Besides, he beats the Duke and probably he would beat me.”

“He who has lain with her in his heart—” Eleanor could not remember what followed. Lamely, she said, “You encouraged him. I saw you at supper, how you fawned on him.”

“If he comes near me, I’ll stab him,” Maria said. She picked up a bobbin and threaded it with the pale thread for Charlemagne’s face. She did faces better than Eleanor.

Eleanor sniffed again. Leaning forward to weave in the next row, Maria said, “Perhaps you should go to a convent. You would be happier there, with the other saints.”

“You are wicked to me.”

“Don’t be silly.”

Out the window, a voice called. Someone was coming in the gate. Maria stood up and went to the hall door to see who it was. Several of the boys were in the ward below, with Jean, cleaning saddles in front of the stable. She went out onto the stair landing. Fitz-Michael himself came riding through the open gate.

Maria could hardly believe he was back. Furious, she went down the stairs to meet him in the ward. “My lord,” she said, “have you beaten Count Theobald so soon?”

Fitz-Michael put his hand casually on her arm and led her toward the stairs. “He is well north of us, my lady, and my guess is that he will not stop until he is safe in his own country. I have no wish to ride around in the rain.”

Maria shook off his hand. The rain clouds were crowding into the sky from the north. He took her arm again, and she pushed at him. “Please do not hold me, my lord, I mislike it. I should think you would want to stay with your men if they are going to have to be uncomfortable.”

He gave her a look as if she were witless. They went up the stairs toward the hall. The young Duke and Robert were there. When she came in the door with Fitz-Michael after her, the Duke’s face stiffened and he wheeled away from them.

At supper, Fitz-Michael was full of good humor and conversation. Jean as usual stuffed himself, and Eleanor seemed to have taken a vow of silence; even the children were quiet. Maria had to speak to Fitz-Michael, although she was in a cold rage that he had come back when she had thought him gone for good, with his clammy hands. He sighed over the rain, lashing at the shutters again, and she claimed to love it. He sent a roast dove back to the kitchen because it was overdone, and she ordered it brought back up again and carved a leg for herself. While she was scraping the char off it, a servant came into the hall and around the table to her.

“My lady, there are messengers in the ward.”

“Send them up,” Fitz-Michael said.

“No, I’ll go.” Maria slid off the bench. “Robert, will you fetch me my cloak?” Whatever the messengers had to say, she did not want Fitz-Michael overhearing.

“Let me attend you,” he said, rising in his place.

“My lord, please, stay at your supper—there will be no one to keep order over the children.” She went between Jean’s back and the wall and walked swiftly out onto the open landing at the top of the stonework stair.

The streaming rain turned the whole ward gray. Near the foot of the stair, two messengers waited, still in their saddles, side by side talking. In their cloaks, with the hoods up, they looked like two monks. She went down to the foot of the stair. The rain fell in her face. One knight was Ponce Rachet’s messenger; the bearded man behind him she did not know.

“Joscelyn,” she said. “My greeting to Ponce Rachet.” She looked back at the bearded man, startled. “Richard?”