Great Maria (v5)

by Cecelia Holland

  They had left their horses with the black slave. When they climbed over the wall again, he was gone, and the horses were gone. Maria drew back against the wall, her eyes worried on the sky. The sun was setting. Jilly would be hungry. Ismael and Robert conferred in Saracen. Robert licked his lips, his face sharp with concern. Ismael ran off down the street to look around the corner. In the distance, the Saracen priests began the sundown call to prayer.

  “Mama,” Robert said. “I think we are in trouble.”

  Maria’s arms were cold. She moved into the last of the sunlight. “What happened? Do you think the watch came by and chased him away? Ahmed wouldn’t have run away.”

  Ismael was hurrying on down the steep narrow street. The high walls on either side of him made his footsteps boom. Robert walked up and down in front of her.

  “Don’t be afraid, Mother. I’ll take care of you. I’ll tell Papa it was my fault.”

  “Jilly always gets hungry at sundown.” She had been trying to feed the child with a cup, but the little girl still loved her breast. She would cry. “Where could he have gone to?”

  Ismael was racing back toward them. She started down the street toward the cathedral. The evening breeze swept out toward the bay. Overhead, the first stars began to show. Robert strode along beside her. The street was cut into wide shallow steps down the steep pitch of the slope. A man passed them, riding on a little donkey, his wife walking behind him with a sack over her shoulder.

  “Mama, maybe we ought to go home.”

  “On foot?” The palace was miles away. “Besides, we have to get our horses back. And we can’t leave Ahmed—maybe he’s gotten lost.”

  “If he has, it’s his fault.”

  Ismael jogged up beside him. He shook his head sadly. “Ahmed go. Ay ay.” He leaned forward, saw that Robert held her by the right arm, and threaded her left arm through his. “Cry not. The Emir much no see us.”

  “What?”

  Ismael fluttered his fingers. “No fear.”

  They went to the end of the street and turned left into the wide cobbled thoroughfare. A woman passed them, a Christian, unveiled. Between the buildings, in the distance, the bay rolled its dark water.

  Maria could not decide what to do. The watch was sent out from a tower in another quarter entirely—the meanest area of Mana’a, she had been told; the two hundred men-at-arms who patrolled the city were based there to help keep order. She wondered if the black servant had run away.

  Twilight deepened around them. The swarm of people in the streets thinned to nothing. When they came at last to the cathedral, the great square was empty. Night had fallen. Dogs fought and snuffled through the heaps of garbage behind the deserted bazaar. A filthy one-armed beggar bustled up to them.

  “Alms, alms—”

  Maria dug a coin from her wallet and threw it to him. The stump of his right arm thrust horribly through his ragged coat, and she stepped away from him, repulsed. She started up the steps to the cathedral porch. Robert lingered, talking to the beggar in Saracen.

  The cripple answered him, his hair flopping in his eyes, and put his hand out for money. Maria started down the steps again. Ismael thrust Robert aside. He held up a coin and clasped the beggar by the hand, the money between their palms. The beggar smirked at him. Throwing back his rags and the grotesque stump, he produced a perfectly sound right arm and pointed across the market place.

  Ismael whirled and ran across the square, his djellaba flapping; he lost his headcloth and did not stop to pick it up. Robert ran out onto the cobblestones to get it. The beggar adjusted his stump. Darkness covered them. In the bay, lights bobbed up and down: anchored ships. The cold wind from the mountains chased leaves across the porch of the cathedral. Maria stood on the steps, gnawing on her knuckle. Her breasts were tight with milk. Jilly would be crying for her. Robert raced up the steps toward her, Ismael’s headcloth in his hand.

  The beggar whined something at him. Robert drove the man impatiently away. He strode along the steps, his eyes on the city where Ismael had gone. The beggar scurried up the steps toward Maria.

  “Mah-eee-ya,” he said; he grinned at her. His tongue lapped at his lips. He dug in his rags and pulled out a little wooden cross. “Mah-eee-ya.”

  Robert charged up the steps after him. “Stay away from my mother!”

  He shoved the beggar roughly away from her. The man wheeled. Maria reached nervously for the dagger in her belt, but the beggar only pushed Robert backwards. The boy fell sprawling across the stairs. Hoofbeats sounded in the dark market place. A shuttered lamp bounced toward them. The beggar scuttled like a crab up the steps and vanished onto the cathedral porch.

  “Come,” Ismael was crying. His voice hurried toward them with the hoofbeats across the square. “Come—Lord Maria lost! Lost!”

  “I can’t understand one word he says,” a voice said, in French. Maria stumbled down the steps, spent with relief. “By God’s eyes, it’s a Christian woman.”

  “Lord Maria,” Ismael said with emphasis. Their lantern raised, the two watchmen rode behind him toward her.

  “You, there, woman, you can’t stay here after sundown, do you have a place to go?’’

  Maria began to laugh. Her legs quivered, and she sat down hard on the step. She could not stop laughing; she buried her face in her hands.

  ***

  The watch knew nothing of the black slave Ahmed and the four horses. Borrowing mounts from a nearby hostel, they took Maria and the boys back to the palace. Robert and Ismael argued in Saracen the whole while. Robert explained to her that he thought Ahmed had run off to be a robber, but Ismael believed the servant had taken their horses to sell for passage back to Africa.

  Jilly was fast asleep. The Saracen woman had fed her from a cup. She said that the child had gorged herself and never missed her mother. Maria paced across the darkened room. Her taut breasts were leaking into her clothes. Richard had not yet come back. There was no way to tell him that she had lost four horses and a servant without making him angry.

  “Mama?”

  Robert peered in the door. When she waved he slipped into the room.

  “Ahmed isn’t here. I told you he wouldn’t come back.”

  Maria shook her head. “Maybe the watch will catch him.” It would be hard to smuggle four horses and a feather parasol out of Mana’a, even at night. She picked up an orange from the bowl of fruit on the table and bit into the skin so that she could peel it. Restless, she moved around the room, leaving bits of peel on top of the furniture. “It is all so very strange.”

  A pebble rattled on the floor below the nearest window. Robert said, “Ismael.” He leaned across the window sill into the night.

  “Mama! Come look!”

  His voice startled her; she jumped, and her skin went to gooseflesh. “God’s blood, Robert, be easy with me.” She went up behind him and looked out the window.

  His teeth bright as the moon, Ismael stood in the garden three stories below the window. On his shoulder he had the feather parasol.

  Maria gasped. She leaned out the window. “Stay there,” she called to Ismael. She had not eaten, and her stomach was knotted with hunger. She stuck the orange into her sleeve. The Saracen women, tittering, watched her and Robert rush away. Maria went down the staircase two steps at a time. Two servants coming upstairs flattened themselves against the wall to let her go by.

  All the doors but one on the other side of the palace were locked at sundown. They pried open the shutter in the boys’ room and climbed out through the window into the ward. Ismael trotted toward them, spinning the parasol at arm’s length over his head.

  “Horses too,” he said; his face was sleek with pride. “All crook in Emir fort.”

  Maria looked where he was pointing. He meant the half-built gatehouse on the new wall.

  “What were they doing in there?” Robert cried.

  “Ssssh.” A pellucid calm took her over. She met Ismael’s eyes. He spread his toothy smile across his face. “R
ahman,” Maria said.

  “Rahman,” Ismael murmured.

  Maria stamped her foot. She tried to think of one of Richard’s long obscenities.

  “If we tell Papa,” Robert said slowly, “do you think he would mind?”

  “I would liefer he didn’t know.” She turned back to the window, hauled herself up onto the stone sill, and swung her legs and skirts inside. The two boys followed her. They struggled with the feather parasol, which was too large to fit through the window. Maria stood away, brushing her hair back off her cheeks, and Ismael worried the parasol at an angle through the window casement.

  Robert had gone out of the room. Now he raced back through the doorway, skidded on the smooth carpetless floor, grabbed her to keep from falling, and almost brought her down too.

  “Mama,” he cried. “Papa is coming back—I saw him riding up from the main gate.”

  “Mother Mary.” The parasol was jammed in the window casement. “Ismael. Can you get our horses out of the gatehouse and take them to the stable? Hurry. Robert, go to the kitchen and bid them send our supper up to our room.” She pulled off her coif, stroked the stray wisps of her hair back, and jammed the dirty linen down on her head. Lifting her skirts in her fists, she ran through the next room to the staircase, up to the little hall, and out the door into the torchlit middle ward.

  Richard was just dismounting from his horse. Rahman and Stephen stood before him, and she withdrew quietly behind the vines hanging from the porch eave. Richard picked up Stephen, who clung to him with both arms around his neck. A groom led off the horse. Rahman was talking in a voice syrupy with concern.

  “They have not come back, lord. You see that it is deepest night. Your dear lady is…sometimes naïve. We fear some wickedness has befallen them in the city.”

  Richard stared at him, his face perfectly blank. At last he shook his head. “Rahman, you are no match for my wife.” He strode past the Saracen, Stephen hugged in his arms. “Maria, what is going on?”

  Maria walked out of the porch toward him. “You must be hungry,” she said. “I’ve waited so that we could sup together.”

  “Mama!” Stephen tore himself out of Richard’s grasp. “Where did you go? I looked and looked for you—”

  “Sssh,” Maria said. “You should be in bed.” She lifted her cheek for Richard’s kiss. Over his shoulder, Rahman’s eyes met hers; he looked as if he’d drunk vinegar.

  “Rahman, please send Ahmed to me, when you have no further need for him.”

  Rahman walked stiffly away. Richard said, “You had better tell me what this is all about.”

  Maria followed him into the palace. Stephen held her fast by the hand. “Mama, I was afraid. Rahman said—” Maria bent and kissed him and patted his cheek.

  “You should not listen to Rahman.”

  “Why didn’t you let me go, too?” One hand holding her skirt, he ran along beside her while she caught up with Richard. He did not slacken his pace for them, and they had to trot to keep up.

  “What have you done now?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  They went through the antechamber and into the room with the star ceiling. She sent Stephen to light the lamps and helped Richard take off his leather jacket.

  “Did you get what you wanted today?” she asked.

  “Jesus.” His eyes moved slowly over her. “Look at your clothes. What have you been doing, climbing trees?”

  “Robert and Ismael and I went riding.” There was a knock on the door. She crossed the room to let in the servants with their supper. While they laid out the dishes and made the table ready, she washed her face and hands. Her skirt was filthy from the citadel floor and the half-peeled orange had soaked her right sleeve with its sticky fragrant juice. Stephen sat on the bed before her.

  “Mama, you should tell me where you are going. Rahman says—”

  “Sssh. Have you eaten supper? Good. Go downstairs to bed. Robert will be there now.”

  Stephen made a face. “You always play with Robert and not me.” He ran out of the room.

  The servants had brought out the little table and set it up before the windows. Richard was sitting down to eat. “Maria, are you coming?” She took the carved backless chair beside him. The aroma of lamb and apricots made her mouth water.

  “What is the Majlas al-Kerak?”

  Richard chewed down what he had in his mouth. “Ismael’s people.” He broke a loaf of bread and sponged up the sauce on his plate. “The Brotherhood. Those are their strongholds on the tops of the mountains.” He lifted his hand, and a servant brought up another platter of meat.

  Maria remembered Ismael’s talk of brothers. The lamb was delicious; the fruit sweetened the delicate meat. She let another man put more food on her plate. In the shadows, the master server, Dawud, stood keeping the service orderly.

  “Ismael’s father is the chief judge,” Richard said. “The headman of the Brotherhood. There was a rival, but we killed him.”

  Maria indicated the bread. A servant cut her a piece and spread butter on it. She said, “Who was it that captured you that time?”

  “Ismael’s father.” He stopped long enough to taste from two platters, waved one away, and watched the man put slices of meat on his plate and spoon sauce over them. “They are like monks, the Brotherhood, save they marry—no one keeps anything for himself, they are all slaves to their Order.”

  Maria finished the food on her plate. When she sat back, a servant brought her a clean dish and poured another wine for her. She called to an idle man to light more of the lamps.

  “Are you one of the Brotherhood?”

  Richard threw her a sharp glance. “I am the Emir of the Brotherhood.”

  Maria laughed. The master server put a silver tray on the table and with a flourish lifted off the cover to reveal a boned stuffed fowl decorated with vegetable flowers. Deftly he sliced the bird into thick pieces. Richard wiped his hands on a cloth.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  She shook her head. “Whom did you meet with today?”

  “The Sanhedrin of Mana’a. In full plumage.” He ate with great energy. “What were you laughing at?”

  “God’s blood, Richard, you are persistent. Ismael and I had a talk today about heresy, that’s all. What did the Jews want?”

  “What everybody wants. To rule me.” He licked his fingers and reached across the table for another slice of the chicken. The master server moved the platter out of his reach before he could help himself.

  “He has Christian manners,” Maria said. “Doesn’t he, Dawud?”

  The master server cleared his throat. His knife slipped, and he nearly dropped the piece of meat onto Richard’s plate. Maria pushed her cup around the table, thinking over what he had told her.

  Richard said, “Everybody tells me to get rid of Rahman.”

  Maria took a knife and spread butter on a piece of bread. Along the walls, in the half-dark, the servants stood suddenly motionless; their eyes shone with interest. Richard drank his wine. He got up and strolled around the room, waiting for Maria to finish so they could start on the next course.

  “Stephen likes him,” she said. She pushed her plate away. “You have said he is useful to you.”

  “I don’t need him,” Richard said. “Not anymore.”

  The servants came forward to clear the table, their eyes shining. Before the meat was cold, Rahman would know everything they had said here. Obviously that was what Richard intended. She said, “Keep him. Who knows but the next man might be just as wicked and twice as clever?” They were bringing in a tray of cheeses, and she reached for the wine to take the taste of the meat from her tongue. “Do what you will.” Richard smiled at her. “I was thinking of it.”

  ***

  In the morning, when she went into the little hall, Rahman’s chessmen were scattered over the carpet, all the heads lopped off. She stooped and picked up the little white Sultan. When she looked up, Rahman stood in the doorway.

 
; “Who did this?” She held the chessman out toward him.

  Rahman’s eyes lanced at her. “No. Not you.” He took the pieces from her hands. “It was that barbarian mountaineer.”

  Maria did not speak. He fit the little Sultan’s head to its body, as if the break might suddenly heal. If Ismael had broken it, Robert had helped. Rahman went past her, toward the window and the sunlight.

  She picked up the other pieces, carried them in her skirt to the table, and spilled them out on the checkered board. From this part of the room she could see through the window along Rahman’s line of sight. Outside, on the new wall, Richard was overseeing some work of measurement. Rahman put the broken Sultan almost apologetically down on the table.

  “Do you play chess, lady?”

  “I?” Startled, she blinked at him; she had never known him friendly before. “No—how would I learn that?”

  “You would play good chess,” he said. “Someone should teach you.” His voice turned suddenly bitter. “It might keep you from men’s affairs.”

  “Does it keep you from horse stealing?”

  Rahman sniffed at her. He turned again toward the window.

  “Why don’t you teach Richard?”

  The Saracen’s head swiveled toward her. He let out an explosive snort. “He would ruin me. He already has.” He looked down his nose at her. “What will you tell him of this?” His hand indicated the chessmen.

  Maria grunted. “Nothing. Why should I tell him?” Richard was short-tempered enough. The Saracen woman came slowly through the door, bent double so that Jilly could cling to her hands and walk before her. When she saw Maria, the baby went down on all fours and raced across the floor toward her.

  Rahman left the room. Maria sat down on the floor to play with Jilly. Richard had refused to tell her what he was going to do with Rahman; obviously Rahman did not know yet either. She wondered if the Emir would dare show him the broken chess set. She knew the boys had done it because the little figures represented men. Jilly climbed on her, pulling off her coif and poking her fingers into Maria’s mouth.

  “Mamama.”

  “Mama,” Maria said. She pretended to bite the little girl’s thin fingers. She remembered Ceci doing this. Now when she thought of Ceci, the dead child had Jilly’s face, her soft brown hair and pale eyes. She bounced the baby into a high-pitched hicketing laughter.