Ilario, the Stone Golem (70 page)

paint the bare, plain building that will be the nunnery. A master’s brush

could paint well enough to make you smell sour vegetables and sour

bodies; rancid feelings not able to break out in gossip. Silence, isolation,

labour. If Videric does ride out to Jethou in five years’ time, they will have pushed her well across the line from beauty to middle age.

If Videric’s lucky, he’ll find he was in love with a clear complexion and

lustrous black hair.

And if Rosamunda’s lucky, she’ll find that, too; and he can declare her

dead and marry again, while she returns to the material world under a

different name, at least free of the nunnery.

I tried very hard not to enjoy the thought of her future: to hope that

Videric does continue to love her, and so she’ll stay there for as many

years as it’s possible to see ahead. Part of me still scrabbled frantically for

some way to save her.

‘I don’t know how long it will last.’ Videric’s voice was a whisper. ‘I

think, for as long as Carthage is under King-Caliph Ammianus’s rule—’

Rosamunda shouted, ‘No!’

‘Or until their conflicts with the Turks break into open war; that could

be as soon as five years from now—’

For the first time, I saw them look at each other. Stare, as if each could

read secrets in the other’s so-familiar face.

A little desperately, Videric protested, ‘I’ll try to visit. To see you,

when it’s safe. When I can be sure I won’t be followed—’

‘
No!
’ It was no more than a wheeze of breath.

Videric shrugged hopelessly. ‘Five years from now is not so long. But

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even then, your face can’t be seen at court again, it would be too

dangerous—’

Rosamunda’s body shook; I held her up.

Videric took a step forward, eyes all but glowing with his intensity.

‘—but you’ll be
safe
. Who’d look for the Queen of the Court of Ladies

among poor sisters digging their own turnips, and milking goats? Who

could recognise you in homespun black, when every other woman is in

the same robes? You won’t look the same – you’ll have a different name –

if no one from this court contacts you, Carthage will never stumble

across you; you’re too far out of the way—’

She stood – and fell forward off the fountain’s marble rim, out of my

support, her tied ankles tripping her. Her bound hands reached out,

seizing Videric’s robes.

The striped linen’s stitching broke under her weight, and he caught

her by the wrists, dragging her upright. She leaned her body against his

from belly to chest and brought her mouth up for a kiss.

I saw it as clearly as if I had it at my brush’s end: Videric looking into

her face.

And
if
he
could
have
seen
anything
in
her
kiss
but
desperation,
neither
King
nor
Carthage
could
make
him
send
her
away.

He didn’t slump, but he withdrew into himself, his hand gently easing

her cheek away from contact with his chest. He seated her implacably

back on the fountain’s marble surround.

She glared and twisted around, facing me.

‘You bitch, you monster, you – eunuch! This is all your fault!’

I didn’t know I would do it until it was done. My hand cracked across

her face and my palm was stinging.

She lurched back where she sat, Videric catching her elbow. I forget

that I hit so much harder than most women; almost as hard as the man

I’m dressed as.

The mark was carmine on her cheek, turning the blue of sloe-berries

already, over the bone.

I noticed coldly that I was shaking, as if I stood out in a damp winter

gale.

‘Tell me again you should have suffocated me at birth!’

‘I should have! I tried!’

She flung out the last words like a child throwing any lie out, in the

hopes that it will hurt.

‘
You’re
the child!’ The irony would have made me laugh, under other

circumstances.

I see it a lot in the Court of Ladies – women never allowed to deal with

money, or property, or the decisions of who they’ll marry and be with

child by. Without experience, and with only rivalries, friendships,

cliques, and lovers to occupy themselves, it’s no wonder many of them

are still twelve years old at the age of forty-five.

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And if I were a man, I wouldn’t know what goes on in the Ladies’

Court, and if I were a woman, I wouldn’t have any different experiences

to make the comparisons.

This is what I knew, when I carried Onorata and it tried to make me

something I’m not – that I may not be a man, but I have no idea how to

be a woman.

She lifted her hands and Videric casually took hold of her bound wrist.

It was evident she couldn’t free herself, from the silk ropes or her

husband.

‘You were my punishment, Ilario.’ The last word was a painful grunt.

She momentarily caught her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘I’ve suffered

enough, haven’t I? You can’t take any
more
away from me!’

Paint would put two catch-lights in her eye, at the edge of the pupil

and in the body of the white, to show how lustrous and large her eyes are.

Paint could make every fold of her silk dress into rich soft fabric, so fine a

rough edge of skin could snag it . . .

And if I painted, I thought, I could paint her life on Jethou, too. No

longer Queen of the Court of Ladies. Men say all faces look alike in a

Bride’s wimple and hood. And even though that’s not true – Rosamunda

will always have the stunning bones that support her flesh and delicate

skin – working outdoors on an island, summer and winter, will bring

freckles, broken capillaries, the dryness and paper skin that comes with

cold.

Rosamunda stared at me as if she had no consciousness that twelve

months ago she tried to stab me in the stomach. Which is a slow and

painful death, but she knew too little to know that. She struck at the body

because, like most not trained as knights, she couldn’t bear to strike at the face.

I saw recognition in her, as if the thought passed from my mind

directly to hers.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ she said, all the attention of those dark eyes fixed on

me. ‘You know that. I told you to run. Ilario . . . Videric’s not your

father; don’t side with him. I’m your mother.’

Turning away, I scooped up a double handful of cool water and

doused my face. The dazzles left my vision.

‘How will you leave Gades?’

I had a sudden absurd vision of Aldra Videric sneaking out through

the kitchen in his finest gown, and every servant staring at him.

‘As we came.’ Videric’s eyes looked weary. ‘This is a seaport, Ilario, as

you told me. My wife will go aboard a ship for Jethou this evening. And

tomorrow, I and my men, and one of the waiting-women in Rosamun-

da’s clothing, will ride out of Gades on the Via Augusta for Taraco. As

far as any man here is concerned, Aldro Rosamunda visited Gades and

returned with me.’

Who would I tell, to prevent this?

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Do
I
desire
to
prevent
this?

Before I could say anything, I heard raised voices outside; Videric

stepped to the archway – and stepped back again, as Rekhmire’ strode

through.

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19

Rekhmire’, striding in, took it all in an instant; I could see him do it. Lord

Videric, armed men, the Lady Rosamunda with her wrists and ankles

tied. And I, who was not apparently restrained in any way,

nor had any weapons pointed at me.

A sweep of his glance at Videric and I saw he had it. Carthage. Other

enemies of the kingdom. And the danger that Rosamunda will be. He

looked as if he wanted to smack himself in the forehead.

‘Tell me,’ I said steadily. ‘I will have missed something. Videric will

have fooled me somehow, or told me half-truths that don’t look like lies.

Tell me this doesn’t have to happen this way.’

Strain carved lines from Rekhmire’’s nose to the corners of his mouth.

With his bald head illuminated by the sun from the lattice roof, he looked

even more like one of the statues shining in the Alexandrine palaces at

Constantinople, for all he had a linen gown swathing him to the ankles to

keep off what he referred to as ‘this northern cold’.

‘I should have seen this!’ he murmured, looking from me to Videric.

He stood a head taller than my stepfather, was broader across the

chest, and it wasn’t until I saw them standing together that I realised

Videric was bordering on late middle age.

But
he
was
a
decade
older
than
Rosamunda
when
he
married
her
for
her
dowry
and
for
love
. . .

‘I didn’t imagine you would involve
Ilario
in this.’ Rekhmire’ sounded

almost uninterested, his expression bland. ‘Is this wise?’

For a moment even I thought,
He
knew
this
was
going
to
happen!
And then read him well enough to see how he picked up cues from the people

present, and how we were placed.

Videric wiped his hand over his forehead, taking away the beads of

sweat that glistened in the sun. ‘I didn’t “involve” Ilario. Ilario, as you probably know very well by now, has a gift for finding out where he

shouldn’t be – and then she goes there!’

The last thing I wanted was a sympathetic look between these two

men, even if it had been in Rekhmire’’s mind to do it.

‘He’s – exiling her,’ I cut in, choosing the best word I could find in that

instant.

Rekhmire’ looked down at Rosamunda, and gave her a polite nod.

She appeared to have no ability to conceal her emotion in the slightest.

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She scowled, recovered the poise that the Queen of the Court of Ladies

should have, and looked at him with slit-eyed hatred. ‘I should have had

my husband’s men see to
you
in Carthage.’

I interrupted. ‘Did Ramaz’s arm heal up?’

Videric’s twisted smile was as much an appreciation of that, in his own

way, as the straight look of dislike that Rosamunda gave me. Videric

waved a hand at the captain of his men-at-arms.

‘Well enough,’ the captain said grudgingly. He retained a strong

western accent; it confirmed my thought that Videric hadn’t brought the

man to court before now. These will be all recently promoted men, still

with everything to show about their devotion to their liege-lord.

I wasn’t surprised, therefore, when the commander did no more than

answer Videric’s implied question; although the man looked at me with a

wary respect, combined with that fear of the unnatural, that I tend to get

in skirts when men learn I’ve done man’s work. And an Alexandrine

tunic is close enough to a women’s robe – as Rekhmire’ had been kindly

informed by the fisher-children running about in the lower town . . .

‘This is no business of Alexandria’s,’ Videric said. His glance made

insinuations between Rekhmire’ and myself. ‘Nor any business of yours,

Master Rekhmire’. I shall have to ask you to leave, now.’

A clatter of footsteps sounded outside the stone archways; I glimpsed

mail and the flash of light from sword-pommels, and Videric’s men-at-

arms stepped back inside the hall, looking to their captain.

Perhaps twenty other men in mail and breastplates crowded in after

them. I recognised Orazi first – Rekhmire’ signalled an acknowledgement

to him – and then another man pushed his way through.

Honorius.

Like his men, he didn’t have his sword drawn. The fountain-jets

reflected in the mirror of his breastplate. Nothing marked him out from

his men, off-duty as they were, bar the lion’s head badge on his left

sleeve. He scratched slowly through his cropped salt-and-pepper hair.

‘You’re her husband,’ he said, voice harsh in the echoing hall.

Videric’s soldiers were red-faced at being so outnumbered and so

easily, but I saw one elbow the other, and I guessed the story of their lord

and their lord’s wife had gone the rounds after last year in Carthage.