Great Maria (8 page)

“Open your mouth.”

“Roger,” he said. “Wait.” He opened his mouth like a nestling, and she poured wine into it. Red dribbled down his chin.

“Heave!”

The men gave one long shout and threw themselves against the poles. They levered the colt’s body slightly up off the ground. Richard scrambled backwards on his elbows. His face went suddenly gray, and he caught his breath.

“Harder,” Roger called. He vaulted the colt and knelt down behind his brother, sliding his arms under Richard’s. “Push, you knaves—by Saint Christopher, now!”

Straining, the men pried the corpse farther off the ground, rolling the body onto its belly, the long legs bending under the weight. Roger dragged Richard backwards out of the way, and the colt thudded back to the ground.

Squatting beside him, Maria fed Richard more wine. He braced himself up on his elbows again. His lips were white as the dust that covered his clothes. He reeked of sweat; his leather jacket was sodden with it.

“Well,” Roger said, “you won’t trouble the Saracens for a while.”

Richard lay back and put his forearm over his eyes.

***

They got the villagers’ cart and took him up to the castle, where the bald cook pulled at his leg, declared it was broken, and tied planks against it to hold it rigid from hip to ankle. The flesh of Richard’s leg was blackened and swollen fat as a young tree. He lost consciousness twice while the cook was setting the ends of the bone together. Finally the cook bound the planks tight.

The sun was setting. Everybody save Maria went down to the hall for supper. Adela took Ceci to feed her. Maria got Richard out of the rest of his clothes and washed the dust and sweat off his body.

He was awake again, but he said nothing; he stared at the ceiling as if he saw nothing, and around his lips the pain drew a white line. She put his nightshirt on him. Feet sounded on the stairs, and a kitchen knave brought in a tray of meat, cups, and a ewer.

Maria brought him a cup of the wine. The boy raced off downstairs again. She sniffed the wine in the cup; it reeked of herbs. “This will help you sleep better.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Richard—”

“I don’t want it, God damn you, let me alone.”

Maria went up beside the bed. He was stiff to his fingertips. She took hold of his hand. His skin was hot and scaly to her touch. She thought of the pain of childbed. She reminded herself that no one died of a broken leg. He sank toward a fitful, painful sleep, and she sat beside him in the darkness, holding his hand, until Adela brought Ceci upstairs to bed.

Nine

Richard lay in bed for three days, staring at the ceiling, his eyes filmed and his mouth cracked with fever. Maria and Adela fed him, gave him wine and milk mixed with herbs, put cushions under him, brought the chamberpot for him, and tried to talk cheerfully to him, although he did not seem to hear. Adela, who loved anything helpless, spent most of the day nursing him, and Maria had to do all her chores as well. At last Roger took most of the knights away on a raid, and she could rest.

On the fourth day, at last, she convinced the cook that Richard should be bled. They got some leeches from the village and the cook drew blood from Richard’s left arm.

“I set a broken leg for your father once,” the cook said. “He was up in two days.” He salted the last leech and it fell off into the jar.

She slept on the floor, since her back throbbed with pain if she slept in the bed. That night, she woke a dozen times when he gasped or whined in a dream. But in the morning, he was wide awake, and he ate everything she gave him for breakfast and sent her for more. On her way back with the second breakfast, she stopped in the hall. She was sitting there talking nonsense to Ceci when Adela rushed down the stairs, flung the hall door closed, and burst into tears.

Flora gave a piercing scream of sympathy. Maria set her daughter down and went upstairs. Richard was sitting up in bed. When she came in, he shouted, “Where is Roger?”

The shout whispered at the end. He was still indifferently strong, but she hung back, not caring to go within his reach. “I don’t know. What did you do to Adela?”

“That fat psalm-singing whore.” He weaved, unsteady. He flung back the covers and started to drag himself out of bed. “Where is my brother?”

“He took some of the knights and rode away,” she said. She had been relieved at the time. She went up beside the bed and pushed him down again and pulled the blanket up over him. “He said he knew what you meant to do. I didn’t think—”

“Think!”

“You were so sick—I couldn’t do everything.” Her throat filled uncomfortably tight. After all her tender ministrations he was shouting at her. He sat up again. She brought him the dish of meat.

“God-damned stupid silly sheep-hearted cow,” he said. “Get out of here.” With both hands he picked over the food on the dish, hunting for tidbits.

Maria stood still. She would not go downstairs like a servant, like Adela. In her womb the baby stirred and seemed to turn over. She hauled the pillows out from under him and stacked them between his back and the headboard of the bed.

“Where did he go?” Richard said, without looking up from the plate.

“Across the wilderness, toward Iste.” The town of Iste lay in the southeastern hills, several days’ ride away. Saracens ruled it.

He let out another string of bad names. Maria could not tell if he meant her or Roger. “Why did you let him? You’ll do anything for him—”

“What was I supposed to do? He’s your brother. Who would listen to me?”

“He’s trying to steal my war.” He chewed steadily. “Who is left here—Ponce? Welf?”

“Ponce,” Maria said. “I’ll get him.” She ran down the stairs, glad to be away from him.

He and Ponce talked, and Ponce went down into the ward and sent a messenger to Roger. Maria took Ceci up to Richard, who played with her until they both fell asleep in the rumpled bed. Maria sat in front of her window and leaned her arms on the sill. If she went downstairs again, Adela would complain to her about Richard. Down in the village, two men were putting a new thatch on their church. Beyond, the milk cows were coming along the road; she could even hear the ringing of their bells. The air was hazy and yellow with sunlight: August sky. The sense in it all comforted her, that they were doing things that they had done before and would again, in a time that would come again, turning circles like the stars. She went downstairs and swept the hall and got the wood in.

In the afternoon she went upstairs to feed Ceci. Richard lay on his side, throwing hazelnuts into a cup on the mantelpiece. Adela and Flora came in and out with questions about supper. Whenever he talked to Ceci, Richard’s voice was tender as a dove’s, but the second time Adela came in and glared at him, he said, “You sow, if you look at me like that again, I’ll pop your eyes out.”

Adela stalked out of the room, all her fat jouncing, and banged the door shut. Maria laughed. She shouldered her bodice up and fastened it across her breast. On the floor, Ceci pulled herself up onto her feet.

“Keep your teeth together,” Richard said to Maria.

“Dada,” Ceci said, and chuckled. She sat down with a thump.

“There. Did you hear her?” Maria asked. “I told you she was learning to talk.”

Ceci said, “Dadadadadada.” She thrust her arm out and opened and closed her hand. Richard waved back to her.

“Bring her here.”

Maria scooped the child up by the arms and dropped her on the bed. Ceci climbed on him, laughing. He kissed the baby’s face. Maria sat down on the bed beside him, her hands folded over her swollen body. She stroked his hair back.

“You should have told me Roger was going,” he said.

“I did.”

He glanced at her, surprised. Ceci took hold of his hand and put his thumb in her mouth. “I don’t remember,” he said.

“Do you remember how long you were sick?”

He tugged gently against the baby’s grip on his hand. Ceci braced herself, her face frantic. At last, he said, “How long?”

Maria combed his hair through her fingers. “Four days.”

“Dada,” Ceci said.

***

In the morning there was still no word from Roger. It was Michaelmas, the feast day of the Archangel, the fall quarterday. A stream of local people came up the road to pay their dues to Richard. Most of them owed service as well, and Maria arranged for them to wait in the ward for their tasks. Toward noon, the cook took her place with the tallies and she went up the stairs to give Ceci her dinner.

Richard stood in front of the window, his splinted leg propped elaborately against a chair. He had gotten soap and water and was shaving himself in her looking glass by the light through the window. Maria sat down on the floor with Ceci. Richard straightened, stropping his razor.

“Nothing from Roger?”

“No. Not yet.”

He said, “God gave dogs fleas and me brothers.” Cocking his head before the looking glass, he scraped at his soaped face. Maria gave Ceci her cup. The baby turned it over carefully. Maria sopped up the spilled milk with the edge of her skirt.

“You should stay in bed, Richard. You won’t get well.”

He swore at her. She gave the little girl a piece of bread and honey. Going up beside him, she leaned against the wall next to the window.

“Don’t forget,” she said. “I can outrun you now.”

He swiped at her with the razor.

“It’s the quarterday,” she said. “Is there anything you want them to do—the villagers?”

He washed off the razor. His eyes turned on her. “What did you have in mind?”

“The cook says we need new bread ovens. He has said it for years, my father never remembered. If we built them outside, the villagers could use them too.”

He twisted his neck to present a different angle to the looking glass. The razor scratched against his beard. Maria glanced at Ceci, who was licking the palms of her hands, sticky with honey. Richard cut himself; he swore at the razor a while, inspected the damage, and washed his face off. Maria gave him a towel. “Now will you go back to bed?”

“Bed,” he said. He hobbled across the room toward the door, shouting for Ponce. When Maria went down again to the ward, he was out beyond the wall on the hillside with the serfs, explaining where he wanted the ovens built.

It took them three days to gather stones enough. Richard got his knights down to help, and when one refused because the task was base, Richard cursed him and threatened him until the young man, speechless, staggered back to work. As Richard got stronger, his temper got worse. Maria was glad that the constant steady stream of shepherds and outliving people with their goods and dues kept her busy. He struck at everyone. His leg in its coffin of splints immobilized him, but great with child she was slower than the other people, and once he managed to hit her. In front of everybody else she screamed at him, and he shouted back, calling her filthy names until she ran upstairs and buried herself in bed and sobbed with rage. All night long, lying beside him in the dark, she plotted to kill him. Just before dawn, Ceci woke, and she got up to quiet her. When she went back to bed, she began to cry. At once he touched her face. She turned and went clumsily into his arms, and they kissed.

Still Roger did not come back. Everybody went around the castle in terror of Richard. The moon had come into its full face, when Adela liked to find dyestuffs, and Maria leaped at the chance to leave the castle. With Ceci, she went down the road, Adela beside her, toward the village. In the fields on either side, the serfs harvested their wheat and barley. Their high-sided carts leaned in the ditch beside the road. Maria hitched Ceci up on her hip.

“Not in the next new moon, but the one after,” Adela said, and laid her hand on Maria’s bulging body. “It will be cool then. Not like the last time.”

Maria snorted at her. She was in good spirits at getting away from Richard. “It wasn’t so bad, the last time.” They walked through the thorn hedge.

The village was a circle of two-room huts, with the church the biggest building. Alys had planted herbs in the garden beside her house, in the shade of an oak tree. There the village women often sat spinning and weaving and gossiping. They were all cousins of Adela and her sister Alys. Cooing, they clustered around Maria and Ceci.

“Ah, Maria,” Alys said. “She blooms when she carries her babies, doesn’t she?”

“I sprout too,” Maria said. She gave each of the women a kiss, and they all made the Cross over her. They were great-breasted women, brown from their lives in the sun, wearing clothes of the same cut, the same cloth, as if they were one woman seen in half a dozen looking glasses. They rubbed their faces together with Adela’s and sat down.

“And Master Richard?” Alys said. “Is he mending?”

Maria shot a warning look at Adela. “He is very well, God be good.”

“God be good.” Everybody crossed herself.

“But no word yet from Master Roger?”

Maria shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Master Richard is none too glad of young Roger, I’ll tell you that,” Adela said. “He’s been cursing him since the day the red knave left.”

“Adela,” Maria said.

Alys gripped her knee. “We had it they were fighting. They are bad spawn, those two, mark.” She squeezed hard. “You have your burden there, young woman. The Saracens are right, he is a dragon.”

Maria braced her hands on her back. The women were passing Ceci from lap to lap and feeding her honey cakes. Adela and Alys carried on a long esoteric conversation about the virtues of two different dyestuffs. When they had agreed, Maria said, “What about a dragon?”

“The Saracens call Master Richard that, says the miller.”

Maria made a face. “There is truth in it,” she said.

The women tittered. Alys picked up her wool cards and began to comb a mat of fleece. Her right elbow pumped vigorously. “He is a good lord, he does not rob us, and now he is building ovens for us. We are pleased enough with him, although God have mercy on us poor Christians there’s little we could do if we were not.” She and the other village women crossed themselves. She rolled the wool from the left-hand card and folded it carefully. “He is not a dragon to us.”

The villagers had no dyewoods to spare. Maria and Adela went off to the wood. The village dogs leaped and barked around them until they were halfway across the common to the river. Adela led the way, cutting across a fallow strip of ground and down into a meadow waist-high in uncut hay. They waded the river where it ran shallowest, and walked down the waste between two stands of wheat.

Maria shifted Ceci to the other hip. The child had fallen asleep, comfortably slouched against her mother’s body. Adela was three or four steps ahead of her. Suddenly they walked into a hollow in the ground and nearly trod on two people coupling in the grass.

Adela shrieked. The boy scrambled to his feet, yanked his hose up, and raced off into the wheat. The girl followed him, leaving one of her wooden-heeled shoes behind. In tandem, the two ran off through the wheat, the boy clutching his hose up around his thighs, and the girl limping and calling to him to wait.

Maria laughed so hard her sides hurt. Adela gave shriek after shriek of outrage, whirled, and snatched Ceci from her. Jarred awake, the little girl let out a scream. “Poor baby,” Adela cried, pressing Ceci’s face down against her enormous breast. “Poor innocent lamb.”

“Oh, God,” Maria gasped, and sat down, still laughing. She remembered the girl’s white legs waving in the air and the boy riding between them, and she grew lecherous. She had not lain with Richard since he broke his leg. Restless, she got to her feet.

“Are you coming?”

They went on toward the wood. In the margin between the meadow and the trees, where the strawberries grew, midges hung in clouds. Maria took Ceci in her arms and covered her head with her apron. Her eyes shut, she plunged through the mist of insects into the deep fragrant shade of the trees. Adela was still muttering about lechery and sin. Apparently the freckled boy was one of Alys’s children. They walked through a stand of pines and birches and down a little rocky slope to the boggy ground. Bright green swamp cabbage sprouted in the black mud. Maria stepped from rock to rock. Adela reached the far side of the swamp much ahead of her.