Ilario, the Stone Golem

by Mary Gentle

  Herm, across a channel of sea, is the island of Jethou. Jethou is perhaps a

  third of a mile long; a little less across. It has grass, a few trees. It’s no more than a rock. But on Jethou – there is a convent-house. It is a silent

  order.’

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  18

  I couldn’t have interpreted the look in Videric’s eyes to save my own life,

  never mind Rosamunda’s.

  He said, ‘In all honesty, I think Carthage will assume you’re dead long

  before they think to send agents to a sea-swept and forgotten nunnery on

  the island of Jethou.’

  You’ll give out publicly that’s she dead, I understood.

  Rosamunda’s blank expression told me she hadn’t thought that far.

  But it would be an obvious next step.

  I could paint her at work in the meagre fields, picking stones out of

  furrows with her bare hands; her nails broken, her skin cracked. Can

  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 o
n

  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.

  Although in what detail, and how accurately, I couldn’t guess.

  You couldn’t tell from Orazi’s face, or the others, that anything out of

  the ordinary was taking place. I thought, They all know. But they won’t embarrass the Lion of Castile.

  Rekhmire’ stood as impassive as any carved sandstone, and I thought

  him thinking furiously.

  The lean, soldierly man my father squinted at Rosamunda as if he

  squinted into a desert wind, abrasive with particles of sand. She didn’t

  take her eyes off him.

  I recognised the split-second hesitation, and that look Honorius wore.

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  This is something I would have two or three times a week, when I was

  Rodrigo Sanguerra’s Freak. The look that at first goes straight through

  you, not recognising you at all. And a moment later seems to ask, Why

  does that person seem to know me? , and No, surely, it can’t be; before they greet me with a rush of relief at the recognition – ‘ Ilario! I didn’t know you, dressed as a—’ man or woman, whichever the case might be.

  Honorius’s hesitation lasted barely longer than it took to draw breath.

  With a rush of relief, he exclaimed, ‘Rosamunda!’

  She went as red as if she’d been slapped.

  Queen of the Court of Ladies, yes. Beautiful, poised, glorious: yes.

  But forty-five isn’t twenty.


  Is so different from twenty, it seems, that an old lover might not recognise that Rosamunda in this woman standing before him.

  And two of us knew her well enough to know it had cut her like knives.

  Slowly, Honorius said, ‘I wouldn’t have known you.’

  Rosamunda made a little noise, and attempted to hide her bound

  hands in the silk folds of her skirt. Her fingers were shaking.

  ‘I’m no different,’ she whispered.

  Honorius made a face, half-smile and half-grimace. ‘That might be

  true.’

  She turned her head and looked at Videric.

  Not as a wife looks at the husband she’s wronged; not as a

  sophisticated woman of the court looks at her husband in the socially

  embarrassing presence of an ex-lover. But plainly and simply for

  reassurance.

  Videric stepped up to her and put his hand on her shoulder. Too

  quietly to be heard but by her and me, he said, ‘You look the same as the

  day you turned twenty. Don’t expect anything but malice from this

  man.’

  She half-turned her head, in a gesture that was triply graceful because

  unstudied, and rested her forehead against the lower part of Videric’s

  chest.

  He looked down at her in the same way that a man looks at a wild

  animal that, for whatever reason, and for however long, trusts him far

  enough to touch her.

  ‘I ought to horsewhip you,’ Honorius ignored my stepfather and

  growled, taking a step forward. His only attention was for Rosamunda.

  ‘You tried to kill that baby—’

  I stepped forward, interposing myself between them, just as Rosa-

  munda cried out in outrage behind me:

  ‘ You left me with the child!’

  ‘I would have taken you. I would have taken Ilario.’ His pain was

  bewildering to him, you could see it. After so long, he didn’t expect to hurt like this.

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  And if this wasn’t the first time in twenty-five years, perhaps he

  wouldn’t.

  Honorius shook his head. ‘I remember your eyes as brown. They’re

  . . . not.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how many brown-eyed wenches you tumbled,’ she

  snapped. ‘ You’d never be the one with a big belly!’

  My father looked frankly bewildered, and a little cross. ‘Women have