Great Maria (27 page)

“Yes,” she said. She stopped; they stood facing each other in the middle of the garden. “I am not pretty anymore.”

“You are always pretty. You’re much too fine for Richard.” His fingertips brushed her cheek. Bending down, he kissed her. She shut her eyes. His mouth moved hard over hers, his chin raspy with beard stubble. She leaned against him. Her heart began to pound. His hand slipped down over her hip.

“Roger.” She pushed herself out of his arms. Her mouth was dry. All over her body her skin tingled vibrantly. “I think you’d better go back to Iste.”

He smiled at her. “Come with me.”

“Roger.” She eluded his reaching hand. “No.”

“Are you afraid of him? I’ll take care of you.”

She looked up the slope, toward the wall at the top of the garden, and the towers rising beyond it. Quickly she went back along the path. At the gap in the wall she glanced back over her shoulder. Roger was still standing there, watching her. She ran the rest of the way.

Twenty-five

See?” Stephen said, and held up the board to show her. “That says—
Stephen
.” He chalked the last mark. “
Stephen
.”

Maria cut the thread and took the sleeve out of another shirt. “Rahman taught you this?”

“Yes. And this—says—
Maria
.”

She put her hands in her lap. They were sitting in the little hall, with the sunlight streaming across them. Stephen’s hair looked almost red. On his board, her marks were like bird tracks, with only one round place. His had more curves in it. “He taught you to make my name?”

“Yes. Papa’s is longer and I don’t remember it. Rahman says one who cannot read is unfit to rule. Robert can’t read at all.”

Maria was threading a needle. She held it up to the light to find the eye. “You should not heed Rahman. Your father said that he lies. Your father cannot read, is he unfit to rule?” She could not read.

“Papa is older than Robert.”

Maria drew the thread through the needle. There had been no more trouble with the catechism. Now the priest was teaching them music and numbers, also, which Stephen liked. She set the sleeves properly into the shirt and Stephen chalked intently on the board. The priest was a fool anyway: at supper she had asked him if her witness of the charter permitting errors required some penance, and he had stammered like an idiot. Sitting beside her, Richard had laughed out loud at it.

“Stephen,” Rahman called from the next room.

Maria sewed small, tight stitches, ignoring him. Stephen walked out of her range of sight. Maria hoped they would go. The voice of the Saracen rubbed on her nerves.

“Mama,” Stephen said. “Rahman wants to talk to you.”

Maria stabbed the needle into her thumb. She put the shirt down on her lap. A drop of blood fell on it. “Let him talk.” She licked off her thumb and sank her hands into the shirt; it was ruined now anyway.

Rahman in a silken voice sent the boy out of the hall. His djellaba draped in snowy folds, his immaculate hands with their armor of rings dark against the cloth, he stood before her, his eyes aimed over her head.

“There is a document I wish. It is of no importance to my lord. I will tell you where it is, and you will bring it to me.”

Maria stood up, face to face with him. He was just her height; he stared loftily over her shoulder. The whites of his eyes were tinged with brown. He smelled of flowers like a woman. She said, “What do you mean?”

He shut his eyes and opened them again languidly. “My lord would not like to know how you kiss his younger brother when my lord’s back is turned.”

Maria stiffened. A cold calm filled her. For an instant she hated him so hard she could not bring herself to speak to him. Roger had left that morning; she was alone against Rahman. Evenly, she said, “Tell him, Rahman. I will deny it, and we will see whom he believes.”

Rahman’s smug expression slipped. His eyes moved toward her. “I have witnesses,” he said. “We will let my lord judge.” He turned and walked out of the room, his shoulders square as a board.

Maria sat down. “Son of God, have mercy on me.” She crossed herself. She folded the shirt and stuffed it into the basket at her feet, wondering when Rahman would tell Richard. She could tell him herself, but he would believe her. He had said he believed nothing Rahman said. It was hard to be righteous when she was guilty. Surely Rahman would wait, half a day at least, to let her change her mind and submit to him, so that he could get the document. She ran up the stairs to the room of the star ceiling.

Richard was still in bed. Jilly lay curled up asleep against the small of his back. Maria fished her out of the bed and took her across the room to change her clothes. Richard murmured in his sleep and rolled over.

The Saracen women were loitering in the antechamber. Maria gave them the baby, to divert them, and crowing with pleasure they carried her off. Maria locked the outer door after them and shut the inner door fast. She went back to the bed.

“Richard.” She walked her fingers up his back.

“Ummm.”

“I just talked to Rahman. He wanted me to get some document for him.”

Richard rolled onto his back and sat bolt upright. His beard was scruffy from sleeping on it. “What document?”

“I don’t know. He said it wasn’t important to you.”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Why did he think you would rob me?” He took a fistful of the front of her dress.

Maria met his eyes. “He said something about me and Roger.”

He slapped her so hard her head rang. “What about you and Roger?”

“Let go of me.”

His eyes were dark with bad temper. “You did nothing with Roger?”

“No. Let go of me.”

He kept hold of her a moment longer, let go, and got out of bed. “What document? Where did he say it was? Get me some clothes.” With a twist of his arms, he pulled off his nightshirt. But before she could go, he caught her by the wrist. “Didn’t I warn you about him? Now will you pay heed to me?” He tried to kiss her. She thrust him off; her head hurt where he had struck her. She went to bring him some clothes. He knelt and rummaged through the big chest where he kept his charters.

She went out of the palace toward the garden, looking for Robert and Ismael. They were riding up from the park. She stopped and waved to them, and they galloped over to her, single file down the lane through the banks of roses. Robert bounded down from his saddle and ran to her.

“Mother. Come into the city with us.”

On his chestnut mare, Ismael smiled at her, all teeth. Maria put her arm around Robert and hugged him.

“Maybe tomorrow. You can show me how to find my way around. Robert, I need your help.”

He pulled himself taller. “Of course I will. I promise. Like the other time, in Birnia.” He crossed himself.

Maria said, “I want you to spy on Rahman for me.”

“Rahman,” Ismael said. He jumped down from his mare, his dark eyes brilliant with curiosity. He and Robert cackled at each other in Saracen. Robert threw his arm around Ismael’s neck.

“We will both help you. We will do whatever you command.”

“Come here, where it’s quiet.” She nodded down the path. “I’ll tell you what you must do.”

***

By what her son and Ismael told her, she realized that Rahman had set the household slaves to spying on her and on Richard wherever they went. The next morning she summoned the slaves into the middle ward and told them that they were free. Robert translated for her. At the apex of his speech, he flung his arms wide, like a sermoner. After scarcely three weeks of catechism he was talking about becoming a monk.

The slaves did not look happy. Many burst into tears and cried out that they were to be sold. Maria waved them quiet again. Through Robert, she told them that nothing had really changed, they would live and work in the palace as before, and they stood easier, their faces relaxing into smiles. She gave them all new titles in French and put them to doing the jobs she was used to having done. If anything necessary was left out, she would learn about it soon enough. The three men who bought and sold supplies she kept to that task, since she had no way of buying in kind anymore, and all the money looked the same to her.

Later, she hunted out Stephen where he was playing with Rahman’s chessmen in the little hall. He had lined the green men up on the checked board and was moving them in various ways down toward the other side. She stood in the window, warming herself in the sunshine, and let him finish what he was doing.

Over his shoulder, he said, “I can write Papa’s name now—shall I do it for you?”

Maria sat on the window sill. “Yes, if you want. I have a friend’s favor to ask of you.”

He frowned at her, a chessman in his hand. “What is it?”

“You are as suspicious as your father,” Maria said. “Promise me you will do as I ask.”

“Mama, how can I promise when I don’t know what it is?”

Maria rumpled up his hair. “What a rogue you are, not to promise it—am I not your mother?”

“It’s about Rahman, isn’t it?” He leaned on her knee, half-lying in her lap. “He’s my friend—Robert has Ismael, why can’t I play with Rahman?”

Maria said, “I want you to stay away from Rahman. Just for a few days. If you do, I’ll never bother you about him again.”

Stephen threw the chessman down. “Everybody is mean to me.”

Maria turned away from him, toward the window, trying to find the right persuasion. In the garden below her, something moved. She leaned out to see. It was Rahman, sneaking up the path in the shrubbery toward the palace. In the far end of the garden, Ismael and Robert were searching up and down the aisles of hedges. Maria put her head out the window.

“Robert!” Emphatically she pointed down at Rahman below her. Rahman broke into an undignified run for the palace. In the depths of the garden, Ismael whooped, and the two boys raced like hounds up through the roses. Maria turned back into the hall.

Stephen was trying to see around her; he danced up and down before her. “What is going on? Is it a game? Nobody lets me play but Rahman.”

“You can play with me,” Maria said.

“You’re just a woman.”

“You’re just a little boy. Come on. We can ride in the park.”

***

In the afternoon, she took Jilly out to the garden. While she was sitting with the baby on the cropped grass in the sunshine, the oldest of her Saracen maids came up to her and sat down beside her.

“My lady,” the woman said. She had a long, plain face like a horse. “I have something for you.” From her cloak she took Maria’s looking glass.

Maria cried out. She took the glass in both hands. The Saracen woman looked away across the wide lawn, bounded in shrubbery.

“We all stole from the Emir Abd-al-Rahman,” she said.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Maria rubbed the silver surface on her skirt. The baby put her hand out toward the bright object.

“Will you punish me?” the Saracen woman asked.

“No. I’m glad you gave it back.” Maria cast about for something harmless to speak of, to seal the peace between them. “How did you learn to speak French so well?”

The woman smiled, her dark eyes downcast. “My mother was of your people. She was taken in a raid, when she was a young woman. She belonged to the Emir al-Simmah.” She turned. “I have come here also, lady, to warn you that the Emir Abd-al-Rahman has told your lord that you kissed the Christian knight.”

Maria started. “Did Rahman send you?”

“No.” The older woman’s mouth twisted. “I understand why you might think that. But I am not his slave anymore.”

The baby had rolled onto her back. She stuck her feet in the air and reached for her toes. Down the slope, in the fir trees, the wind sang a long mourning note.

“Does everybody know I kissed Roger?”

The Saracen woman lowered her eyes again. She touched the baby’s hand. “The men do it. Why shouldn’t you?” Her voice turned bitter. “All the men do it.”

Maria hunched her shoulders. She thought of running away. She had known this would come. The Saracen woman lifted Jilly in her arms and bent over her, murmuring in the alien tongue. Maria stared at the pine trees. The wind ruffled through the layers of their green branches. Someone was walking down the slope behind her. Without raising her head, the Saracen woman fastened her veil across her face. She stopped her soft whispers. Maria picked up the looking glass. In it she saw Richard, standing just behind her.

He spoke in Saracen to the other woman, telling her to go, but the woman disobeyed him. She held the baby tight against her. Maria saw how frightened she was. She asked, “Lady, do you wish me to stay?”

“No,” Maria said. “Thank you. Please take Jilly to bed.”

The woman hurried off, stoop-shouldered. Maria put the looking glass down beside her. Her hands were shaking.

“You dirty whore,” Richard said, behind her.

She stared down into the pine wood. His hand closed on her shoulder, and she stood up before he could use force against her, facing him. She pushed his hand away.

“Deny it,” he said. He stood close over her. “Tell me it was a lie.”

“What did he say?”

“That you are a dirty whore.”

“That is a lie.”

He jerked his head back and spat into her face. Maria stood rigid. Waves of heat beat up into her cheeks. At last she lifted her hand and wiped her cheek.

“I thought you were better than that, Maria. Another one of Roger’s ditch-wives—”

“Stop,” she said. She put her hands over her face.

Richard’s mouth was an inch from her ear. “You’re just another common, willing, filthy female thing—”

“Stop!” She dropped her hands and stared at him. “I just kissed him—”

“Do you think he loves you?” Richard shouted at her. “Do you think he cares about you? If you’d ever heard him talking about women—the things he says about women—”

She sat down again on the slope, her hands trembling. “I’m sorry.”