“Bad,” Maria said sharply, and slapped his hands. That had no effect at all. His face stony, the boy stared past her. She took off his clothes.
“Tell me your name,” she said firmly.
“Bunny,” the boy said.
The door opened. Flora came in with a tray, Eleanor behind her, Robert at last asleep again in her arms. They had brought a bowl of porridge for the strange boy. Maria dipped up a spoonful of it, her mouth open to coax his appetite, but he was already leaning toward her, his mouth open and his hand reaching for the spoon. Maria brushed his hand aside and dumped porridge into his mouth.
Bunny was a common name, a mother’s pet name for her baby. Richard sometimes called Robert that, when he was wrapped in his fur bunting. This Bunny reached for the spoon every time she raised it. She dodged his hand patiently and fed him herself. He was not a soft or pretty child, and the unfitting name amused her. She scraped the bowl for him, and when he still seemed hungry, got him a piece of fruitcake from the cupboard.
“Mo’ drink,” Bunny said.
Maria got him another cup of the cider. The dawn light was bursting through the window. Robert slept in the cradle, sucking the air. She put Ceci’s largest shirt on Bunny and tied the laces across his chest.
“Are you tired?”
Bunny put the cup on the bed; it fell over. Maria caught it. He said, “Piss.”
“Come along.” She lifted him down from the bed, led him across the room, and got out the chamberpot. “Do you know your real name?” she said. “Or who your father is?”
He rubbed his fists into his eyes. She gave up trying to talk to him. When he was finished, she put him into the bed beside Ceci.
“Mama,” Ceci said, holding out her hands. “Good-night me.”
Maria caught each hand and kissed it and kissed Ceci on the nose. “Go back to sleep. When you wake up again you can come downstairs.” She kissed Bunny’s cheek. “Good night, Bunny.”
She went down the stairs. Most of the knights were warming themselves at the fire in the hall. Eleanor and Flora and the other women were bringing up a breakfast for them. Richard and Roger stood in one corner, talking. Maria went out onto the landing and behind the stairs into the wall passage.
It was cold inside the wall. She went as quietly as she could, so that Richard would not hear her, and knelt down to peek through the hole.
The two brothers were standing between the wall and her spinning wheel. Roger had his back to her. He gestured persuasively with his hands.
“Think what we may gain. To control the duchy for a dozen years, perhaps, keep the justice and issue the taxes—who wouldn’t give his hand for the chance!”
“Don’t be stupid.” Richard sat down on her stool. When he faced Roger again he seemed to meet her gaze. The shag of his new beard gaunted his face; he looked sleepy.
“How am I stupid?” Roger whirled hot toward him. “Are you afraid, Richard?”
Richard gave a quick glance down the room. “Because we would need the help of men who will never deal with us. Fitz-Michael, for instance, and the other counts. The Archbishop.”
Maria pressed her lips together and smiled. The little boy was Duke Henry.
“You are such a slug sometimes—” Roger said. The cords of his neck stood out, and his hand cupped the air. “See what we might gain by a little risk.”
In his most insulting voice, Richard said, “I see you are all mouth as usual. I’ll tell you what I decide to do.” He started away down the hall.
Roger lunged after him. “Wait—is there no argument I can use? For our Crusade—for your son’s sake?”
Richard laughed. He went on toward the door. Maria sprinted down the wall passage, squeezed through the narrow corner, and dashed out onto the stair landing. Richard stood in the middle of the hall listening to Roger argue. She galloped up the stairs.
Eleanor was gone; Robert and the strange child slept; Ceci in her nightgown stood before the window pushing everything she could carry across the sloping three-foot sill and down into the ditch below. Maria lifted one of Richard’s shoes out of her daughter’s hands and tossed it under the bed. The shoe’s mate, two shirts, the metal basin, and Maria’s pillow were scattered over the snow in the ditch four stories below the window. She slapped Ceci on the hand.
“No. Bad girl. Now someone will have to go pick all those things up again.”
Ceci thrust out her lower lip and threatened to cry. Maria knelt to undo the little girl’s nightdress. “You must go with Flora and help pick up.” She looked into Ceci’s face and her moon-gray eyes.
Richard came in, shedding his quilted armor padding, which he dropped on the floor. Ceci gave a glad cry. Naked in the morning light, she ran toward him, her skin blue-white, every curved bone showing. Richard caught her up.
“She just threw half your clothes out the window into the ditch,” Maria said. She pulled the curtains shut on the bed, so that the little boy could sleep. Seldom used, the thick folds of wool gave off an odor of must and an old mouse nest.
Richard stood Ceci on the chest at the foot of the bed, so that they were at eye level. While he peeled off his clothes, she talked earnestly to him, whole long sentences, full of rhetoric, here and there even a word in French. Maria brought over her clothes and dressed her.
Richard opened the curtain and looked in at the sleeping child. “Is he all right?”
“He seems perfectly well. Hungry.”
He put on his nightshirt. “What do you think I should do with him?”
She faced him, bland. “Who is he?”
“I saw you go into the passageway. Don’t try to lie to me, you know who he is.”
She took a step back from him, wary. But he wasn’t angry. He went around the bed to the cupboard for some wine, and she followed him.
“How did you come by him?”
“Theobald had him. He thieved him from Fitz-Michael a couple of days ago in Agato and had to cross the border between here and Birnia to escape. Fitz-Michael’s all over the hills looking for him.” He brushed past her out into the middle of the room again. “Fetch me something to eat. Since Robert was born you never think of me anymore—”
She went over to the stairs. She remembered telling Eleanor to get them breakfast, but if it had come, there was certainly nothing left of it. Richard stood in front of the hearth warming his hands.
A servant was coming out of the hall, one flight down the stairs. She sent him to the kitchen for a dish of meat. She shut the door and bolted it. Gathering up his discarded clothes on the way she went back to Richard. Ceci was gone, probably with Flora.
“Roger wants you to keep him and use him. The Duke.”
He gave her the look he saved for her mentions of his brother. “I’ve heard the Gospel according to Roger.” He put the wine cup on the mantel and turned his back to the fire. She went up in front of him and laid her hands on his chest.
“Did you stay up for me?” he asked.
“I slept a little.” The shirt was embroidered with love charms. Adela had made it.
“I can’t do what Roger wants. As soon as Fitz-Michael finds out I have him—” He rubbed his hand over his face. “I can see but two choices. I can give the child back to Fitz-Michael, and get some nithing reward, or I can give him to Theobald and Prince Arthur, and get some nithing reward.” His voice rasped close to a whine. “It wasn’t such a deed to steal him, no matter what Roger says.”
“Will Theobald fight us?”
Richard thrust out his lower lip. “Theobald is of no consequence. He has more men and more castles than I do but he’s soft.”
She glanced at the bed. Richard moved away from her. He kicked the stool around onto the hearth and sat down on it, his legs stretched out before him, slab-boned, stippled with dark hair. She sank down on her hams beside him.
“If you give him to Theobald, they’ll set him aside and make Prince Arthur the Duke.”
Richard snorted. “Prince Arthur will kill him.”
Maria twitched. There was a knock on the door. She went to it, expecting to find a servant with Richard’s breakfast, but Ceci and Flora came in, carrying all the things Ceci had pushed out the window.
“Oh, Flora,” Maria said. “Thank you. Ceci must help you put them away.” She kissed the top of her daughter’s head and went back to Richard.
“Do you think you could manage to feed me sometime during the next week?” Richard said.
As if he were Robert, Maria crooned to him and brought him another cup of wine. She knelt on the hearth and poked vigorously at the fire. A kitchen boy came in with his breakfast. Maria brought over another stool and set the plates out for him: bread, cheese, some baked fish. While he ate she helped Flora and Ceci put away their goods. They went out. She drew the bed-curtain aside to look at the sleeping child. He sucked his fingers in his sleep, his black hair and dark skin dwarfish or Saracen. His parents were dead, the country was fallen into wars and disorder; perhaps he should die and let some capable man—Arthur—rule. They might not kill him, they might only put him in a monastery. She pulled the cover up over his arm and let the curtain close.
Richard was still eating, lounging in the heat of the fire, and she sat down on the hearth beside his stool. His bare feet were thrust toward the warmth. She put her hand on his ankle.
“What do you want to do?”
“Me? I want to give him to Fitz-Michael. Do you think I enjoy killing children? But I’m not losing an advantage for the sake of mere pity.”
“If you can’t have pity,” she said, “how can God ever have pity on you?”
He snorted. His jaws moved steadily. “I don’t want pity. I want justice, and I’ve never seen God dispensing much of that.”
“I think you should give him to Fitz-Michael.”
“Why?”
“Because—” She took her lower lip between her teeth, hunting a man’s reason. “I would liefer have Fitz-Michael in my debt than Prince Arthur. Fitz-Michael is an honorable man, but Prince Arthur is probably more like Theobald.” She knew he disliked Theobald.
Richard threw the fish bones into the fire, so the dogs would not get them. “You make about as much sense as Roger.” He moved his leg slightly, so that her hand stroked his ankle.
“I’m just a woman,” she said.
***
Richard went to bed and slept until noon, with the little Duke curled up beside him. When they woke Maria gave them all dinner in the hall. It was a fair, fierce day. In the window an arched patch of blue sky streamed with clouds, and the wind banged the shutters on the wall. Maria let Bunny feed himself, putting a few bites of meat on the plate at a time. Ceci chattered nonsense between her spoonfuls of soup.
While he ate, Richard stared continually at the little boy. Maria saw that he was still trying to decide what to do. All the rest of the day, wherever she went, she took Bunny and Ceci with her. If they decided to kill him, she knew she could not stop them. The day trickled through, achingly slow. Even the cook knew who the child was and joked of stealing him away from her.
In the late afternoon, she brought all three children to the hall and sat in the space before the window, weaving. One of the knights had made Ceci a little wooden doll. She squatted in the middle of the floor and carefully pulled out all its hair. Bunny climbed on the chairs and the table. The serving people and the knights wandered in and out of the room, each on some errand, their talk idle and plausible.
Roger appeared, his face high-colored, wearing a shirt much decorated with thread. Maria suspected it was lover’s work and wondered who she was. Robert lay in the basket beside the spinning wheel. Roger bent over him and chucked him under the chin. Maria grew wary. Usually he paid no heed to children. She made two mistakes together and stopped weaving to keep from betraying herself. With the scissors on her key ring, she clipped the loose threads of the weft.
Sweeping up the scraps on the floor, she moved around Roger. Although he feigned to play with the baby, he watched the little Duke steadily. Bunny ran along the top of the table to its end and jumped down. Ceci was walking her doll around on the floor.
Roger’s gaze was sharp as a bird’s, full of thievery. Bent over the basket, his eyes intent on the little boy across the room, he had forgotten even to play with the baby, who let out a yell. Maria called to Ceci and Bunny and stooped to pick up Robert. She grabbed Bunny by the hand and towed him after her to the door.
That night, she and Eleanor and the children ate in her bedroom; she kept the door locked. When she went to bed, she held the little boy in her arms, so that no one could take him without her knowledge. The children slept. Eleanor snuffed the candles and went out again, leaving the door unlocked for Richard. The boy Bunny asleep against her breast, Maria lay in the dark and watched the dying fire. The logs fell into the shape of a lean head, like a wolf’s or a snake’s. It was hard to think someone might kill a little boy, but it could be done, and to some people would be worth the guilt, perhaps even to good people: hadn’t she killed Walter Bris? And she felt no guilt for that at all, only satisfaction. The fire sank lower, the beast drowning in a soft bed of coals; she dozed. A sound woke her. Richard stood beside the bed, shedding his clothes. He climbed into the bed and his hands reached under the blankets for her and touched Bunny instead.
“Get him out of here. How can you be such a sheep? He isn’t even ours.”
Wakening, Ceci called to him. Maria bundled the other child awkwardly across the bed, out of Richard’s way, and murmured him to sleep again. She stroked Ceci’s cheek and kissed her until she closed her eyes. Impatiently Richard dragged her back toward him.
“I’m afraid—I’m afraid—”
He smacked her. “Be quiet.” Her head jangled. For a moment, her disarranged vision saw a monster’s face above her in the darkness where his face was. With the children in the same bed, she could not enjoy him. She turned her head to one side and pretended nothing was happening.
***
Richard swung up into his saddle. Maria followed him out into the ward. The bay stallion’s hoofs clattered on the frozen ground. Twenty knights were already waiting at the gate. She lifted Bunny up to him.
“If I don’t come back,” he said, “Roger’s to follow me.” He settled the little Duke in the saddle before him. Bundled up in makeshift clothes against the cold, the child took hold of the high square pommel with both hands. Abruptly he let go to wave good-bye to Maria. Richard wheeled his horse and rode toward the gate.
Maria walked across the ward after him. Standing in the gateway, she watched him and his knights trot down the hill through the curtain wall and out onto the road to the north. It would take them three days at least to find Fitz-Michael—more if they had to dodge Theobald.
Richard had worried a day over what reward to demand for returning the child to Fitz-Michael. Finally he had decided to take nothing at all. When Theobald heard of it, he would be dumbstruck. She hoped every man in Christendom heard of it. Turning, she went across the ward toward the kitchen, her arms wrapped around her body against the cold.
Twelve
In the late spring, while Richard with most of his men was off fighting the Saracens below Iste, Maria fell sick and miscarried. She could not grieve for the lost baby, because Ceci also sickened. For three days Maria scarcely slept, although she knew from the beginning there was nothing she could do. The child lay on her back in the bed, hardly opening her eyes. Her hand in Maria’s was icy cold. At last, on the morning of the third day, she died.
Eleanor let out a moan. Drained of her strength, Maria sat motionless beside the bed. Finally she raised her hand and gently closed the child’s slack mouth. Eleanor flung her arms around Maria. At the sound of her weeping, Robert began to cry too. Maria let the other girl urge her onto her feet and help her to the truckle bed.
All day, she slept in snatches. Roger came in and spoke to her and kissed her. She heard them talking, later, about bearing off Ceci’s body, and she propped hersel
f up on one elbow and called to them not to wait until she slept, to take the child off while she was watching. They misunderstood; they thought to make it easier for her. After that, Father Simon arrived from the village and said many things to her, none of them important.
While she slept, she dreamed of the burial—she dreamed of telling Richard his daughter was dead and woke up with her teeth chattering. Looking toward the bed she saw that the child was gone, and she fell into a fit of weeping.
Eleanor brought her a cup of hot broth. “Here. You do yourself a disservice with this kind of grief.” One arm around Maria’s shoulder, the girl fed her mouthfuls of soup.
Robert played on the floor, his black hair stuck together with conserves, putting everything he found into his mouth. Maria was stupid with misery. She pushed the bowl of soup away and ran her hand over her face.
“You must eat,” Eleanor said, sensibly. “This is unseemly in you. Wait. Here.” She picked Robert off the floor. “Here.” She thrust him into Maria’s arms.
Heavy and warm, he sank comfortably into her lap. He lifted his wide blue eyes to her. Maria kissed him. Holding him in her arms she lay down. She thought of the baby she had lost. She had scarcely realized she was with child before it was gone. Beside her, Eleanor picked up her mending and spoke of the ordinary things of the day. Maria shut her eyes. Robert slept curled in her arms. She would have more babies, more than could possibly die, each one a triumph over death. When she dozed again, she did not dream.
In the evening, Roger woke her up. He took her hands in his. “I would not trouble you if there were some other way—”
“What’s wrong?” Maria sat up. “Is it Richard?” If anything happened to Richard there would be no more babies.
“No—the crossroads in Birnia. William needs help, he wants me to meet him there with all our men. That’s all I know. But there are only fifteen knights here now.”
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