“Where did you come from?” she asked.
“Normandy. Lac d’Alene, in the Avranchine. My father holds land there of the viscomte.”
“Oh,” she said. “We are Normans.”
“I know.” He put the cup down on the chest.
“Why did you leave?”
“You ask a lot of questions for a little girl. Come here.”
“I’m not a little girl.”
“Be quiet and come here.”
She lay down beside him. He reached for her hips. She put her arms around him. This time when he mounted her, the burning pain kept her rigid under him, and the thrusting of his body disgusted her. Once he kissed her but she turned her face away, impatient to get it done. Somewhere a distant woman screamed in pleasure. She thought of the feast in the ward.
Deep in her body, his body touched her into a brief, exquisite sensation. When she moved, following, it happened again. Her arms tightened around him. She twisted herself against him, trying to drive him deeper. In her arms he sobbed with lust and clutched her so hard she gasped.
This time when he moved away from her she could not look at him. She pressed her cheek into the pillow; she felt sore and used. He gave her the wine and she sat up and drank a little. His nightshirt was up around his waist. Like a snake, it was. Hastily she took her eyes away. He cupped his hand over her breast; he was her husband now and could do that.
“I thought you’d be frightened,” he said. “Did you like it?”
Maria shook her head. “No. It hurts.” Only bad women liked it. The warmth of his hand reached her through her nightgown. “Was your family great in Normandy?” she asked.
He laughed. “My father’s fief is a short two hides. My eldest brother Stephen has driven each of us off as soon as we got to be his size.”
“Why didn’t your father protect you?”
Slowly he stroked his hand over her arm. “It’s all the same anyway. If we’d all stayed, there would have been nothing for anybody.”
Maria lay still, drowsy. He touched her all over, fingering her, pressing his hands against her. She moved so that he could pull up her nightgown, put her head down, and shut her eyes.
***
Richard’s brother William, older by several years, was a large, placid man, slow-moving, who smiled much. Maria liked him immediately. When she was two days’ married, he went with her into the Knights’ Tower to pack up Richard’s possessions. She had not been there since the New Tower was built. The two towers were the same size, four stories high, each story forming a large square room, but the New Tower had a separate stairwell and the Knights’ Tower only a steep wooden stair that went up through a hole in the center of each floor.
The knights stabled their horses in the bottom story and slept in the second and third, leaving the top floor for an armory. Their cots packed the rooms and the heaps of their gear took up all the flat surfaces. At the head of each cot stood a wooden cross where a mail shirt hung: like a scarecrow army. The windows were only arrow slots, so that the rooms were gloomy as barns.
Richard owned almost nothing. William stood beside his brother’s mail shirt, watching her fold the few pieces of clothing and stack them on the single blanket. There were dogs wandering around the room looking for scraps; one came up and thrust its head under William’s hand.
“We all left home with a horse, a sword, and a shield,” he said. He rumbled with laughter. “Richard left home with my brother Stephen’s mail shirt too, but that wasn’t Stephen’s idea.”
Maria kicked a litter of candle stubs under the next bed. The floor was black with soot, puddled with dry wax. “Is this everything?”
William called over his shoulder, and one of the village boys who served the knights came across the room, weaving his path through the cots. Maria lifted the flat bundle of Richard’s clothes. William and the boy took the hauberk by its frame and the boy hoisted Richard’s long shield on his back.
“Here.” William picked the helmet off the upright of the frame. “Carry this.”
He dropped the helmet over her head. His voice faded away, muffled by the packing around her ears. She stood frozen, the iron encasing her head; the nasal piece chopped her vision in half, the flared cheekpieces forced her eyes straight ahead. She dropped her bundle and snatched the helmet off. The two men were laughing at her. She tucked the helmet under her arm, bent to pick up her bundle, and followed them down into the stable.
***
She saw little of her husband. Each dawn when she got out of bed, he lay asleep, and if she caught glimpses of him during the day, he always seemed busy. They ate supper together, with her father, but afterward, while she sat in the end of the hall at her spinning wheel, Richard and the other men argued and gambled at the far end of the room. Adela had taught her a charm to give him, to keep him faithful, which she made him every night in a cup of wine. In the darkness, in his arms, she sometimes pretended he was Roger.
Adela and Flora with their talk of dyes and village gossip irked her. She had no one to talk to and she missed Elena more now even than before. From the two older women, she gathered that what she and Richard did really ought to be a sin but was not because men decided such things. Once, when she had tripped on the stair and bruised her leg, Adela asked her if Richard had struck her.
She mended William’s clothes for him; Roger smiled at her once in the ward and blew a kiss to her. Her father poked her in the stomach. “Fill this,” he said, and tweaked her breast. “Tell Richard to put the cork in.” He guffawed. She imagined her mother and father doing what she and Richard did and laughed, unbelieving.
A group of pilgrims traveled down the road from Agato in Santerois to the Cave of the Virgin, and Richard and her father went off to rob them. Maria woke when she heard them riding back up the road. She got out of bed and covering her nightgown with her cloak went down to the hall.
From the window overlooking the ward she watched them flood in through the gate. The creak of leather and the clopping of the horses’ hoofs mixed with the grating voices of the men. They had brought five knights back face down across their saddles. Her skin prickled up. Something had gone wrong. She leaned out across the deep window sill. Almost below her, William was helping Roger down from his horse. The young man held himself stiffly all through his left side. He leaned on his brother to walk away.
Maria’s father was dismounting at the door into the New Tower. On foot Richard crossed the ward to him. They spoke. Her father flung up his head, angry. Richard shouldered past him into the stairway. The door crashed against the stone wall.
Maria slid off the window sill back into the hall. Adela with a blanket around her shoulders stood behind her.
“Shall I go wake up Cook?”
“Yes.” The cook would surely be awake already; it was nearly dawn. Maria went out into the stairway and ran up the steps to her room.
Richard was already there, standing in the middle of the room pulling off his mail shirt over his head. She closed the door behind her. His sword and his helmet lay on the bed. She moved them off the clean sheet. Richard turned toward her. His helmet had left black smudges on his nose and cheekbones. His eyes glittered with bad temper.
“What happened to Roger?” she said.
“You stay away from Roger.” He picked up his sword and took it to hang it on the wall. “Go get me something to eat—I’m starving.”
She went down to the hall. The tables had been pulled out into the center of the room, and the knights were crowding around them. Her father roared in their midst. The table was stacked with bread. While she stood cutting a loaf in half, Adela and a kitchen knave came in with a great bubbling pot of stew.
The knights swarmed around it. Maria stood waiting for a chance with the ladle. Her father came up beside her. He draped his arm around her. He seemed the only man in high spirits. To someone beyond her he said, in a sleek voice, “Well, Richard’s not far-famous for courage, you know.” He hugged Maria against him. “
Here, puss, give me a kiss. Go get me something to drink.”
Maria drew away from him. He seemed pleased that Richard was upset. He wheeled toward someone else. She got hold of the ladle and piled meat on top of the bread in her hand. Her father looked around for her and called her name. She went upstairs to her room.
Richard was sitting on a stool on the hearth. He still wore the thick quilted shirt that went under his mail. She sank down next to him and put the food on the hearth.
“What happened?”
Richard wheeled on her. “Your father tried to get me killed. He put me and Roger on point and ran us right into the Saracens.”
She cried, “That’s not true—”
“He took the high road both ways, coming and going,” he shouted in her face. “What does it look like to you?”
“You wouldn’t dare say that to him!”
“Do you want me to?” He pushed her hard; she caught herself on her arm. “If I go down there again now, Maria, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.”
Maria put her hand to her face. She got up and went off across the room. Richard put his back to her and ate. She stood watching his back. She could not believe him; she wanted everything to be peace. She said, “I think I’m going to have a baby.”
His head swiveled toward her. Eventually he said, “A baby. When?”
“I’m not sure yet.” She went over to the hearth and sat down beside him, her knees drawn up to her chest. She watched his face, curious. “Would you be glad?”
“Hunh.” He scratched in the beard stubble on his jaw. His eyes veered toward her. “Yes. I suppose so. Yes.”
Maria laid her head down on her knees. She said a prayer in her mind that the baby was there. Richard looked away again. They sat in the warmth of the fire, not talking, until the fire died and they got up and went to bed.
***
The same Saracens who had ambushed them burned a village just north of her valley, and Richard and her father raced off to their revenge. Maria and the other women spent the morning washing and spreading the laundry out on the grass to dry. Sick to her stomach, Maria ate only a piece of dry bread for dinner and went to the hall to spin the last of the flax.
The late autumn day was bright and crisp. She sat before the window, enjoying the faint breeze. She liked to spin. The even rhythm drew her into reveries and helped her think. The bells on her spinning wheel rang busily. She let the spindle draw the flax out between her fingers into a fine even thread. Lifting her eyes from the pale flax, she saw Roger coming through the door, his hair vivid in the late light.
There was no one else in the room. She went back to her spinning, alive to his approach.
“Little sister,” he said, and stood before her. “How do you do, Maria?”
He dandles all the local maids, Richard had said. Maria stopped the wheel and wound up the tail of the thread. With the spindle in her hand, she faced Roger. “Thank you, very well. Are you in command, now?”
“I and William. But you command us all, I guess, don’t you?” His blue eyes were clear as a child’s. He bore his left side stiffly, favoring his wound. She tightened her fingers around the spindle.
“I wish I did,” she said.
“Do you?” He sat down at her feet. “What would you command of me? Tell me anything you want me to do.”
Maria laughed. She wished Richard were as handsome as Roger, with his fine mouth and brilliant coloring. Richard’s jaw was too wide; he looked as if he were always biting down. Roger took the deep cuff of her sleeve between his fingers.
“I could make you so happy, Maria.” He kissed the hem of her sleeve.
“No,” she said. “I am married now.”
“Maria.” He took her hand, and she yanked it away from him. When he reached for her again, she raised the spindle between them. He got up onto his feet.
“You’re just like Richard. That’s Richard’s kind of excuse: Because I am married.” He went off across the hall.
Maria stared after him. She thrust the spindle into her work basket. But he had only gone to the table against the wall, where he poured himself a cup of the wine. He came smiling toward her again, saluted her with the cup, and drank.
“Why did you marry him?”
“Ask him,” she said.
“I know why he married you. That was not my question.” He seemed amused. Even wounded he was full of grace. “Well?”
She shook her head. “Stop asking me that.”
“If you want.” He sat down neatly on the floor beside her.
“Did he have lots of women—Richard? Before.”
“Richard? By the Cross.” He leaned against her knee. “Don’t you know him yet? He has no way with women, Richard.” He drank again. “Or with men either, I guess.” His eyes moved over her; he smiled. “What’s his way with you?”
“Roger.” She got up hastily, moving away from him into the hall. The other women came in, and she helped them drag out the tables so that they could bring the supper.
Roger came up to her. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be free with you.”
She tried to ignore him, her eyes downcast; she was dusting the top of the table. He went off. When she thought he must have gone she looked around at the door. He stood there, watching her. She looked quickly down, her face hot. He laughed and went out the door.
Three
It was winter, when her father seldom raided. The dank, icy days kept most of them indoors. The knights gathered in the hall and drank and talked and cheated each other at games. Maria, her tasks done, sat in the window at the end of the hall sewing new shirts for Richard. She was sure now that she was with child. Her stomach and her temper had become very uneven. The cook seemed to guess: ruthlessly he served them meals she could barely stomach, until finally one day at dinner she took a bite of beef and left the hall, ran down to the ward and was sick.
The cook was shouting in the kitchen across the way. Adela called her from the stairs; Maria answered that she was well. She wiped her mouth on her arm and tramped off across the ward. The cook’s voice drew her down into the kitchen.
He was beating a scullion over the head with his wooden spoon. She stood to one side, hot with anger. The cook let the scullion go.
“Well? What do you want?”
“Why did you even cook that meat?” she cried. “That beef is so sweet I can’t eat it.”
The cook rammed his spoon under the sash of his apron. “That isn’t my fault. I cook what you give me out of that storeroom. If you’d let me have the key—”
“My father is very angry about it,” she said.
“If your mother were alive—”
“Even Richard is complaining.”
The cook’s mouth shut, his lower lip jutting like a ledge. She stared at him; her heart thumped. He turned away from her.
“Well, what should I do—throw it all out?”
“Whatever you want.” She wondered what else he could do with it. Feed it to the dogs. Sell it in the village. “Just don’t serve it to us.” She started toward the door. A scullion came in and the cook set on him with a roar. She went across the ward again to the New Tower. It was cold and she ran up the stairs toward the heat of the hall.
Even out on the stairs, she heard Roger shout. She dashed up to the hall. In the middle of the room, between the two tables, he and another knight stood yelling face to face. Just as she came in, the other knight hit Roger in the mouth.
Roger yelled. He jumped on the other knight and knocked him down and they rolled on the floor, fighting. Richard grabbed his brother and her father grabbed the other knight and they dragged them apart, up onto their feet.
Over Richard’s shoulder, Roger cried, “Odo, I’ll kill you—”
“You can try,” Odo shouted.
His arms around his brother, Richard shoved him back almost to the wall. Her father and another knight held Odo. The rest of the men watched keenly, enjoying it.
“No fights,” her father call
ed. “We are all Christians here—get your hands together like friends.”
Roger and Odo glared at each other. Maria stood in the doorway, just behind Roger; she heard him say softly, “I’ll kill him.”
“Hide it,” Richard whispered.
Her father cuffed Odo in the head. “Accept each other or you both leave.”
Roger’s mouth was bloody. He went sullenly forward. Odo met him in the middle of the room and they clasped their hands in a short limp handshake. The other knights cheered.
Maria went around the room to her place at the table. Her father sat down beside her. “Where did you go? You missed a good fight.”
“I went to talk to the cook about the meat,” she said. Richard climbed over the bench on her right.
“What’s wrong with the meat?” her father asked. He reached with both hands for the beef bone in front of him. Chewing, he swung his head toward her, but his eyes went like daggers beyond her, toward Richard.
Maria looked down at her plate. Her appetite was gone. She sat between the two men, none of them speaking, until they had finished their meal. With the other women, she cleared off the tables. The knights wandered out to their afternoon doings; Richard disappeared. Now that all the food was taken away, Maria was perversely hungry again and she went with Adela to the kitchen for something to eat.
When she came back up the stairs to the hall, her father and Odo were standing at the end of the room, in the middle of her woman’s gear, deep in talk. No one saw her in the doorway. She turned and slid through the narrow crevice between the stairs and the wall, into the passageway.
It was black as a mine, except where the peepholes let in threads of light from the hall, but she knew every foot of the passage and could hurry through it, sliding her fingers over the stone to keep oriented. Halfway down the passage, nearly running, she turned the corner and crashed into somebody else.
Hands clutched her. Panicked, she struggled in silence. Her elbow scraped painfully on the wall. Abruptly she realized whom she fought.
Great Maria (v5) Page 3