The Rope Dancer

by Roberta Gellis

  The decision had allowed Telor to sleep, but when he woke in the morning and went to tell Carys of it, his resolution failed. The face he saw was so young, the eyes still sunken with pain, the cheeks hollow, the small mouth drawn tight defensively, even in sleep. What good would money be to a child who probably had never been allowed to touch so much as a farthing? The men would have seized whatever she earned. And even if she did understand the value of coin, the moment she paid for anything, someone would wrest whatever else she had from her by force. A memory of her weight and the strength of her grip cast a faint doubt on Telor’s notion of her helplessness, but under the blanket her body seemed so thin and frail. She must be very young, he thought; she was as shapeless as a boy.

  A boy. The words repeated in his mind. No one would think twice about his having another servant—or an apprentice. He looked at Carys again and grimaced. If only she were not so filthy. Her face was smeared and streaked with dirt and her hair so matted that it looked like a cow pat. No minstrel in his right mind would permit his apprentice…Telor’s mind backed up to the word permit and started a chain of thought that left him still frowning but much relieved. It would be easy to get rid of the dirt. Whether the girl would be able to keep her mouth shut and play the role designed for her was another matter.

  Jump one ditch at a time, he reminded himself. The first step would be to get the dirt off her. There was no bathhouse in the village, and he did not trust the girl to wash thoroughly. Also, she might not be able to stand yet, so he could not take her outside and pour water from the well over her. Telor’s frown deepened and he went out to consult the alewife, whom he had seen that morning collecting the night soil from the privy to spread on her garden, and that consultation had resulted in the tub, usually used for mixing the mash, and the hot water.

  Of course he had had to tell the alewife a tale about how the girl had got so dirty. At least Carys’s eager look had fitted perfectly with his lie, Telor thought, as the woman finished emptying the second bucket and went out to get cold water to add to the tub. She had shooed her husband out ahead of her. Telor grinned. She had a fast hold on her man and seemingly did not intend to allow anything to endanger it—not even so unappetizing a morsel as Carys. But just in case he had misinterpreted the girl’s expression and it did not indicate eagerness to bathe…

  “Yes, the bath is for you,” Telor said softly as soon as he was sure the woman and her husband were far enough away. “I told the alewife that you had fallen off my horse and down a hillside and that was how you got so dirty. Come, take off your clothes. The woman is bringing cold water, and you should be ready to get into the tub at once, for it will take a long time and the water will cool fast.”

  As he spoke, Carys’s eager interest had changed to grateful approval and then to openmouthed bewilderment. She had not understood the first sentence because, as she watched the alewife and her husband leave, her eyes had swept over the table again and she had recognized Deri. She had been about to laugh at herself for so quickly thinking the worst when Telor’s voice startled her. His second sentence made perfect sense. It would have been dangerous to admit to the alewife that she was a fugitive who might bring down on them a neighboring lord’s vengeance. The third sentence seemed logical, too, at first—she had been expecting Telor’s sexual demand—but all the rest made no sense at all.

  Because Carys was accustomed to a woman’s paying for favors with her body—less from personal experience than from observation—she connected taking her clothes off and the tub easily enough, but connected them along the path she had been thinking. “In the tub?” she asked in a stunned voice. “How can it possibly be done in the tub?”

  “It will be a tight fit,” Telor admitted, “but you are small and thin. We will manage.”

  “Must it be in the tub?” she protested. “I am sore all over.”

  Carys knew she would be in a perilous situation if she were abandoned, but if Telor only liked to couple under such strange circumstances, perhaps her fate would be worse in his company than alone.

  “I cannot see any other way to do it,” Telor insisted somewhat impatiently. “I do not think you can stand up the whole time—your ankle is not strong enough. Now do not argue anymore. Here comes the woman with the water. Come, take off your clothes.”

  Slowly Carys reached up to the tie of her gown. To her relief, the bow had knotted and then pulled tight during the experiences of the previous afternoon and night. Her hands were clumsy too, the palms scabbed and swollen, and she was able to work at the knot until the alewife had emptied one bucket and a little from the second into the tub, stirring and testing with her hand. When the woman was gone, Carys dropped her hands.

  “No,” she said. “I am very grateful to you because it is most like that you saved me from death by torture, but if you only saved me to torture me yourself, I am not willing.”

  As she spoke, her hand slid down under the blanket to the knife on her thigh. Men who had strange tastes in futtering were often violent in other ways too.

  “Torture!” Telor exclaimed angrily. “How can I take you with me if you will not do as I say? I have even gone to the trouble of asking the woman to warm the water so you would not be cold. How can you call sitting in a little warm water torture?”

  Carys hesitated, staring up at Telor. He was angry, but he did not look mad, and he seemed to be promising to take her with him if she complied. Moreover, he spoke as if what he desired were a simple, easy matter. Carys glanced at the tub, then rose slowly to her knees. As she moved, she felt the ache of bruises, the pull and sting of newly scabbed skin. No, she would never heal if he always coupled in tubs or chose even stranger positions.

  “No,” she repeated, “I will not.” Telor took a step toward her, his face set. Her arm tensed to draw her knife. “Please,” she cried, her eyes filling with tears, “you have been so kind to me. Do not make me hurt you. I will couple with you gladly, but not in the tub.”

  “Couple…in the tub!” The idea was so ludicrous that it blotted out everything else, and Telor burst out laughing. “You stupid slut. Do you think I am a lunatic? I would as soon take a pig in a wallow. Now will you take your clothes off and wash, or shall I wake Deri and go? As you are, I cannot take you with me to Castle Combe. You would ruin my reputation.”

  “Wash?” Carys echoed weakly, her fingers still gripping the hilt of her knife.

  “Yes, wash,” Telor snapped. “That is what I do in a tub as often as I can, and you will too, if you wish to remain in my company.”

  Remain in his company? The words implied a kind of permanence. Hope flooded Carys. If all she needed to do was wash, she would gladly do it ten times a day to please him. Fitting herself to so harmless and innocent a madness would be a pleasure compared with others—and besides, Carys knew the opportunity would not often arise. Then, suddenly, she remembered how she had asked how it could be done in the tub and how she had twisted the meaning of Telor’s innocent reply that it would be a tight fit but that she was thin and would manage. She began to laugh helplessly.

  “There is nothing funny about taking a bath,” Telor snarled at her, thoroughly exasperated. “Are you going to take off those filthy rags, or must I do it for you? I swear that if Deri wakes up before you are soaked clean, I will leave you behind.”

  That recalled to Carys’s mind how horrified she had been when Telor said “it” would take so long that the water would cool. Realization of the different meanings each of them had given “it” brought on another fit of laughter, but when Telor began to advance on her again and her hand instinctively tightened on her knife hilt, she sobered and pulled the blanket up protectively. If Telor undressed her or watched her undress, he would see the knives. By this time she almost trusted him enough to let him know, but Carys had not really trusted anyone for as long as she could remember, and almost was not quite enough.

  “I will undress,” she cried. “I will, but please do not watch me.”

  Telor s
topped and stared, utterly amazed. Only a few minutes before she had offered to spread her legs for him, and now she was cringing behind her blanket as modestly as either of his sisters. The rage and disgust Telor had felt when he understood what she believed he wanted began to drain away. She could not be innocent in the way his sister had been before marriage; that was impossible. But he now understood that she was not a practiced whore. It seemed she had offered herself to him only because she realized how terrible her situation would be if he deserted her, and she had been willing to do anything within reason to please him. He had to grin when he thought of her pleading “not in the tub.” He could not help but agree that that was beyond reason.

  “Very well,” he said, feeling rather pleased. “I will tie one of the blankets across the two posts to shield you. But I think you will need help, cut and bruised as you are. Let the alewife come to you.”

  “Yes, gladly,” Carys said, “thank you.” As she spoke she had looked at him, but her hands were busy unstrapping the knife sheaths under the blanket. She did not care whether she had help or not, so long as she could hide her knives.

  Before the alewife arrived, Carys had knives, belt, and sheaths wrapped in one strip torn from her skirt. She had first intended to use her shift, but recalling Telor’s remark about her “filthy rags” and his passion for washing, she began to wonder if he would insist on soaking her clothing too. After removing and looking at her gown, Carys herself thought that washing it would be a good idea. Much dirt had been added to the ordinary stains of wear by her escape. She had nothing else to put on; her everyday gown had been lost, but she could wrap herself in the blanket or…Carys drew a short breath of excitement. Telor had paid for the food and lodging and doubtless for this bath; perhaps he was rich enough to get new clothes for her.

  Carys was trying to think of some way to broach that idea when the alewife came in carrying a pot full of ashes and some tattered linen cloths. Before Carys could ask a question, the woman told her to bend over the tub and wet her hair. Remembering that Telor might be on the other side of the blanket, Carys did as she was told, making no protest even when the alewife wet the ashes and began to work them thoroughly into her hair. Then, having wrapped Carys’s head in a rag, the woman proceeded to spread the remaining ashes liberally over Carys’s body.

  She was a kind woman, clucking and sympathizing over the mischance that had scraped and bruised the girl, and she was gentle as she could be in rubbing in the ashes, but she could do nothing to ease the sting of the wood-ash lye where Carys’s skin was torn. By then, Carys realized that something in the ashes would clean her, so she did not fight, but she was weeping with pain when she was helped into the tub to be rinsed off. Washing her hair was an additional torment, since the lye in the water burned her eyes, but at least the earlier pain spared her somewhat, for the tears she was already shedding diluted and washed away the irritant.

  What gave Carys courage to endure were the few glimpses she had caught of her skin after she was pulled from the tub. It was white and soft—at least wherever it was not scabbed and black and blue. A few times when Morgan’s troupe had entertained at a keep Carys had seen the ladies; what skin they showed had been like that—white and soft. Her hair felt different once the ashes were washed out, but it was still so tangled and matted that Carys could not draw the alewife’s comb through it. The woman tried to help after she had dumped Carys’s clothes into the tub to soak, but she could not comb it either.

  “It will have to be cut off,” she said, and looked at Carys suspiciously for the first time. “How did it get so bad?”

  Carys hung her head. She had broken her comb and the pieces had been lost, and though she had asked several times, Ulric had not got her another. But she could not say that to the alewife.

  “It is such a trouble to comb it,” she muttered. “I just bundled it up. He never noticed. And when I fell…” She let her voice fade.

  The alewife tch’d but said no more and went out around the blanket to get a knife.

  “Clever girl,” Telor said softly from the other side of the blanket. “It is just as well, because I want you to dress as a boy. I will explain later.” And then he raised his voice to speak to the returning woman. “You can take these garments to the girl, alewife. They are all I can spare.”

  Dress as a boy? Carys considered the idea as the woman lifted sections of her hair and drew the knife across them. At first Carys felt relief. Dressed as a boy she would be spared the looks and remarks, the pawing by men, which she hated. Ulric had never tried to shield her from anything other than actually being used—and that only because he intended to collect a fee for it. But for all Telor’s kindness, Carys could not really believe that saving her from unpleasantness could be his reason for wanting her to be thought a boy. Men did not care what a woman felt. Certainly Telor had been indifferent to what she might feel when her hair was shorn. Carys shivered as more hair fell. Her head felt strangely light.

  “It will soon grow back,” the alewife said, “and you will not be so stupid and lazy as not to comb it in the future.”

  A spurt of hatred for the dead Ulric, who had reduced her to pulling what tangles she could from her hair with her fingers, passed through Carys. She had had to take the blame for the condition of her hair, but her anger and frustration spilled over onto Telor. He had said he would explain, but in Carys’s experience explanations meant lies. The truth was always clear enough to understand without explanation.

  First Carys wondered if Telor feared being cast into the shade by her skill. She had often been the target of spite of other players envious of her work. Nonetheless, she was proud of that skill, and though she hated the lust generated in some men by the display of her art, she loved the attention and admiration of the rest of the people. It had always been a pure joy to her to watch the eager faces as the rope on which she danced was raised into place. And the shouts and gasps, the cries of delight during and after her performance, had often satisfied her enough to dull the pangs of real hunger. But then Carys frowned. First of all, Telor could have no notion of whether she was a good rope dancer or not, for he had never seen her work. Second, while she was lame she could not draw attention away from him, so why dress her as a boy?

  Then, as the last matted tress fell, Carys remembered how Telor had called her a filthy slut and said he would sooner lie with a pig in a wallow. At the moment the words had meant nothing to her. Morgan and Ulric had often said worse when she displeased them. But Telor had meant it! He was ashamed of her!

  Carys’s reaction was a shock of disbelief. Both Morgan and Ulric had been very proud of her and had displayed her as a prize possession. She had had offers to join other troupes but had not done so because she owed Morgan a debt for having kept her as a child and trained her. And Ulric had protected her after Morgan died, so she owed him too; besides, for all his strength he was so stupid and helpless that she had not been able to desert him. Never before had her worth been questioned.

  She was so deep in her thoughts that she hardly felt the alewife running the comb through what was left of her hair, tugging at the remaining tangles until the comb ran smoothly. The pain within Carys was far sharper than that caused by pulling her hair. She had taken it for granted that she and Telor were equals because they were both players, and had not given much thought to the signs of wealth. All she had thought was that he could afford to feed her and perhaps clothe her. Now she understood that he must be another kind of player altogether, the kind that performed before lords and perhaps murmured sweet love songs into the ears of great ladies and kissed their soft white hands.

  Something inside Carys shriveled and sank until she bent in on herself, and the alewife patted her shoulder. “There, there, child,” the woman said, “I have not made you bald. See, the hair is almost to your shoulder. If you wear a loose cloth over it, no one will know.” Then she pulled Carys’s head toward her, lifted her chin, laughed, and added, “And you are such a pretty thing, no on
e will care even if they do know.”

  With the words—and the touch of envy in the woman’s voice—reaction swept through Carys. She knew she was pretty. Many men had told her that, even some who were not seeking to lie with her. More important, she was a fine rope dancer, one of the best. I have nothing to be ashamed of, Carys thought, straightening her body. She was as good as any soft-voiced singer with dainty ways. Sooner lie with a pig in a wallow, would he? Then why was he so eager to have her accompany him that he would pay to have her bathed?

  Suddenly, a far different reason for Telor’s wishing her to dress as a boy came into Carys’s mind. If she was taken for a boy, other men would not desire her. Could not that be Telor’s reason? Carys smiled at the woman and shook her head, loosening her damp locks from the straight pattern in which the comb had set them. Freed, the hair began to spring into curls. Carys put up a hand to touch it and sighed, then smiled again.

  “Yes, it will grow,” she said to the alewife, unconsciously matching her speech to that of the woman as she had earlier matched the way Telor spoke.

  It was easy for Carys to mimic accent and rhythm; she had a keen ear and was accustomed to playing roles that required different speech. Actually, because Morgan had taught her always to speak as nearly as she could as those around her did, Carys hardly had a natural mode of speech. A strange accent, he had told her, marked a stranger, and strangers were always untrustworthy in the minds of those who lived always in one place. Out of costume, it was safer not to be taken for a player too.

  “And meanwhile,” Carys added for Telor’s ears, although she still seemed to speak to the alewife, “since I have lost my clothes, the short hair will better befit these that have been lent me.”