“It’s my fault,” she said. “Mauger lied to me. If I hadn’t gone, Richard wouldn’t have beaten the priest. Now he is damned because of me.”
Brother Nicholas put the paint down on the ladder step. “You’re accusing Brother Mauger of something grave, but my knowledge of him fits what you say. I’ll have to talk to your lord.”
“He may not let you. But if you can reach William, he will get you a hearing with Richard.”
The monk climbed down the ladder. Maria backed away from him to get clear of his odor. He said, “You stay here. Pray, walk—rest a little.” He smiled down at her. “You seem to think you did something unforgivably wicked. But what you did was right-intended.”
She knelt down, and he made the sign of the Cross over her. The monk went away. Maria prayed a little and walked down to the guesthouse, feeling less as if she had sold Richard to the Devil.
Jilly saw her coming, shrieked, and ran across the room to meet her. A pilgrim was lying on a bed at the far end of the guesthouse. Without raising his head from the pillow, he shouted, “Can no one control that child?”
Maria picked up the little girl and carried her back to their end of the room. Eleanor caught her arm. “I was so worried about you, Jilly cried and cried.”
“I went to Birnia.”
“You said that. Why? Oh, Maria, what you’ve done to your gown.”
“Richard is there.” She sat down, Jilly on her lap. The little girl rubbed affectionately against her. She had Richard’s hair and eyes, like him she was always dark from the sun. Eleanor took the brush from their common chest, sat down, and worked over Maria’s hair, untangling the knots and snarls. Jilly played clap-hands with Maria, singing in a high-pitched scream that got the pilgrim shouting again.
“You should not have gone alone,” Eleanor said. “You might have been murdered. Or worse than murdered.” She gave Maria a significant glance.
“The roads are very safe.”
“Yet I wonder my lord let you come back alone.”
Maria clapped her hands twice on her thighs and twice on Jilly’s. The little girl sang with passion. The pilgrim roared an oath and stamped out of the guesthouse. Eleanor’s hands stroked her hair.
“Is he coming here soon?”
“Who?”
“Richard, of course,” Eleanor said. “He will be pleased with Jilly, she is so big now, and so pretty. I think he loves her best. It’s odd that a man of his nature can be so tender with children.”
Maria clenched her teeth. She felt Eleanor’s voice like a needle; no matter how she turned, it would pierce her through. Jilly sang in a treble parody of the monks’ chanting.
“Perhaps you will be with child again,” Eleanor said.
“I did not lie with him, Eleanor, we fought. He sent me away.”
The brush stopped in her hair. Jilly’s singing wavered. She looked up into Maria’s face, her forehead wrinkling. “Mama?”
“Oh, Maria,” Eleanor said.
“Mama.” Jilly reached up to her. Maria kissed her worried upturned face, murmuring nonsense to her until the child laughed again.
“If you want to know,” Eleanor said, “I think you will be happier without him.” The brush worked in Maria’s hair again. “They are the Devil’s men, those three, even William. Doing the Devil’s work.”
Maria frowned; she had heard the words before. Eleanor said, “We will stay here awhile, won’t we? Or we could go to Castelmaria. The people there love you and will support you.”
Maria rounded on her, Jilly in her arms. “Please. Don’t talk to me like this. I am unhappy, he has exiled me, why do you give me no consolation?”
Eleanor’s narrow face tightened; she had plucked out her eyebrows to thin arcs, so that she always looked surprised. “Well,” she said. “You don’t need consolation, Maria. You need prayer.” Stiffly she walked out of the guesthouse.
***
After the pilgrims, Maria walked up to the chapel for the Sabbath Mass, carrying Jilly on her hip. Eleanor came along behind her—whenever Maria saw her, Eleanor pinched her face to a blade and stared pointedly elsewhere. The sun was just rising. The dew on the grass drenched the hem of her skirts up to her knees.
Brother Martin and Brother Paul were standing in front of the chapel, talking in soft Latin. Paul was holding a piece of vellum in his hand, but Brother Martin, seeing Maria come, tapped the other monk on the arm and drew him away. Maria stopped short, so that Eleanor ran into her.
“I beg your pardon,” Eleanor said coldly.
Maria went into the chapel. Eleanor insisted she had not talked to Mauger, the deacon, but Maria knew she was lying. She went up to the front of the chapel, where the pilgrims were gathered to admire the painting.
She had begun to be angry at Richard. When she thought over the incident at Birnia, she saw how she might have stood against him, instead of cringing under his temper like a beaten dog. The pilgrims crowded around her, and Brother Paul came up before the altar to begin the Mass.
“Dominus vobiscum.
“Et cum spiritu tuo.”
“Oremus.”
Maria set Jilly down on the ground before her and gave her a piece of bread to eat. The people around her prayed in loud boisterous voices. They said a Credo and a Paternoster. Brother Martin read from the Gospels.
Paul came up to the pulpit. “My children,” he said, and coughed. He had a reedy voice and sometimes went up into the hills to exercise it with shouts. He took a charter from his sleeve.
Maria straightened up. It was the same charter he had been reading when she had come up the hill. He spread it out on the lectern and held it down with both hands.
“The Archbishop of Agato requires that this be read in all the churches of the diocese, and in the churches of the demesne of Richard d’Alene, the lord of Marna, and of his brother William, the lord of Birnia—”
Maria got Jilly by the hand. She heard the whole congregation turn to look at her. She fixed her eyes on the door and walked straight for it. Behind her, Paul read, “That this same Richard d’Alene and this same William d’Alene shall henceforth be cut off from the community of Christian men—”
She stumbled over something and went on. Brother Paul’s voice pursued her. At the door, the bright sunlight washed over her. If Brother Nicholas had been here, Paul would not have read that before her. Behind her the hum of voices broke into an excited roar. She led Jilly swiftly down the path toward the village.
Halfway down the hillside, she heard Eleanor calling to her. Maria paused in mid-stride, but she set off again at the same speed. Jilly rushed on ahead of her. Still calling, Eleanor ran after her nearly all the way to the village before she caught up.
“Maria.” Eleanor put her arms around her. “My dear.”
“Let go of me,” Maria said.
Eleanor fought for breath. “I have—misused you. I know. Please—forgive me.”
Jilly ran up to them, and Maria stooped and lifted her. Eleanor put her arms around the child’s waist, saying, “You’re tired—let me take her.” She tugged; Maria hung on, and Jilly yelped in pain.
Maria let go so suddenly that Eleanor sat down hard in the high grass. Jilly’s cry struck her like an arrow. She longed to be back in Mana’a, with all her children there, her household, the things she loved to do.
Eleanor said, “Maria, come, have some breakfast, you have not eaten yet.”
Maria allowed the other woman to steer her around to the monks’ kitchen. They got some warm bread and honey and sat under the trees to eat. Jilly fell asleep in the grass at Maria’s feet. A village girl brought two buckets of milk into the monks’ porch. Maria ate without interest and threw the crumbs to the geese and chickens.
“We cannot stay here the rest of our lives,” Eleanor said reasonably. “If not to Castelmaria, where? Will he let us go into a nunnery?”
“Oh, God—” Maria pressed her hands to her eyes. “I would die of boredom in a nunnery.” She thrust her arms betwe
en her knees, bunching up her skirts. “I have thought of finding another place in Mana’a. I don’t know if he will allow it.” She rubbed her forehead on her wrist. “I suppose I shouldn’t care what he will allow.”
Eleanor leaned toward her. “Maria, make him give you your own castle. Castelmaria is yours. You can live in Mana’a, but don’t let him take what is rightfully yours.”
“I don’t know what to do.” Maria shook her head. “Don’t talk to me now, I am still thinking about it.” If she lived in her own house, she could take a lover. She knew how Richard would feel if she did; the idea grew steadily more attractive.
“Whatever you do,” Eleanor said, “get everything you can from him.”
Jilly lay asleep at her feet, her arms sprawled across the crisp autumn grass. Maria bent to pick the child up. The exhilaration of revenge was already fading away. She took Jilly into the guesthouse. The prospect of another day in this place, with Eleanor for her only adult company, stretched flavorless before her.
***
That group of pilgrims prayed and left, and a few days later another came down the road, drank from the well, and took the beds in the guesthouse. Maria and Eleanor washed their clothes and took them out to the meadows to dry. In the afternoon, carrying the laundry on their heads, they walked back through the village.
Eleanor had held off all day, for once, but now she said, “Have you given any more thought to where we will go when we leave here?”
“To Hell,” Maria said. They came up to the door into the guesthouse, and she reached for the latch. Stench reached her nostrils; she made a face; an instant later she whirled to face Brother Nicholas.
“My sister,” the monk said. “Please come talk to me in the common room.”
“Yes. Eleanor, will you—? Thank you.” She put the bundle of laundry inside the guesthouse door and followed the monk across the dusty yard.
It was past nones. When they went into the monks’ house, all but Brother Paul were up at the shrine. Brother Nicholas signed to her that she should sit down on the wooden bench along the wall. Brother Paul sniffed, rose, and moved to the far side of the room.
“I have been to Agato,” Nicholas said. “The Archbishop is heartily sorry for the disrespect with which his servant Mauger treated you. Of course he is more heartily sorry that Mauger was brainless enough to be caught at it. They’ve lifted the ban from your husband and his brother because Mauger promised you it would not fall on them. If your husband will allow the priest to return while the case is put before the Curia in Rome, the Archbishop has said he will take no further action.”
She began to speak. He held up his hand. “Let me go on. I have talked with my superiors in Agato, and we are taking your lord’s part in the issue and will speak for him before the Curia.”
Maria stared at him, amazed. She said, “Nicholas, you have done a miracle. Has Richard agreed to it?”
Brother Nicholas scratched his armpit. “Yes. I had some trouble meeting him, as you said I would.”
“What did he say about me?”
“Nothing. I told him that we were doing what we could because of the great love we owe you, but as far as I could see it made no mark on him.” He rubbed his chin with his forefinger. “It was no miracle. He’s a reasonable man. I expected another sort entirely, by what you said. I rather like him.”
“You like everybody,” she said. She hunched her shoulders. Richard would not take her back. She would not go begging him to be taken back. She would lie with Roger and let Richard know it. She said, “Thank you for what you have done. I still think it was miraculous.”
“What have I done? For mistreating the priest, I’ve charged Richard to come here and fast three days and pray in the cave. I want you to stay here until he comes. That way, at least, you may heal one another.”
“Heal,” she said. “How can I forgive what he has done to me?”
The monk scratched himself idly, his eyes steady. “When I left, you thought you had mortally offended him. God will help you, my sister. I know you will do God’s will.” He rose and went out of the room.
***
The rain fell in a battering, drenching downpour. Occasionally the thunder muttered in the distance and an indefinite flash of lightning lit the air. The path up the hillside was a running waterfall, and Maria took the long way, by the road.
In the fog the sodden countryside was deep in mud and strange as another world. She had left her cloak behind, as a kind of penance. She went into the chapel. She knelt at the altar and prayed for help. Not even the monks had stayed up on the hillside during the storm. The crashing of the rain on the roof deafened her and made it easier to think. She went out the side door of the church and crossed the yard to the cave.
Two candles burned at the foot of the statue. The cave itself was dark. Maria stopped just inside it. Her mouth dried up. The thunder outside rolled a long sustained crash, like a barrel falling downstairs.
Richard took hold of her hand. He fumbled her Saracen ring back onto her forefinger. With her free hand, Maria scraped her wet hair back off her face. He pulled her into his arms, and she pressed her face against his chest, fast in the circle of his arms.
Part Three
A Few Choice Words
Thirty-two
When they reached Birnia again, the priest was already back in his church. William instantly found an errand that took him off across country. Richard, shriven, his public penance done, sat all day long in front of the fire and drank.
After supper, Maria went up to him. “Come upstairs with me.”
“No. Stay. I want to talk to you.”
She had been expecting something like it all day. She said, “Well, come up here and let me spin, if you are going to keep me awake anyway.” William’s spinning woman had died, leaving half the season’s wool piled in the storeroom.
Richard followed her, carrying his chair, and drove the two pages dozing in the corner away to the far end of the hall. “I talked to that monk about settling some of his Order in the valley of Iste.” While Maria threaded the wheel, he sat down in his chair, tipped it back on its hind legs, and balanced. In his left hand he held his cup. She had never seen him fall over. He said, “Not a big house. A dozen monks. What do you think?”
She took off her shoe to work the spinning wheel with her bare foot. “It might make up for some of the things we have done.”
“I thought more of having a place to train clerks.” He braced himself with one hand on the wall. “The garbage in the Roman streets turns out a Pope. I can’t have my way over a village priest.”
Maria watched the spinning wheel, drawing out the wool between her thumb and forefinger. She had apologized to him three times, and each time she thought he gloated, behind his reassurances and kisses. He preened his moustache, staring at her. “You and your stinking monk. He made me swear not to persecute the priest—he preached me lots of the Gospel, too; I didn’t tell you about that. I haven’t suffered so much piety since the last time I heard Mass. Did he make you promise anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to spread a rumor in the town that the priest misused you.”
“He never touched me.”
“Maria,” Richard said, “you did this to me. Now you must help me, damn you.”
She took her foot off the pedal. “You want me to tell lies for you.”
“That’s right,” he said. “You’ve told enough to me.”
The wheel had stopped behind the treadle. She rolled it forward half a turn. Richard brought the chair down on all fours and leaned toward her. “I didn’t ask you to get involved in this, you know.”
“Do it yourself.” She pressed her foot down on the treadle. “Brother Nicholas will never find out.”
“Me—they won’t listen to me—” His voice rose, whining with temper. “I am the man who hit his wife in the church during Mass.” He tramped away down the hall. Maria could hear him swearing.
Sh
e spun three or four steps of the treadle. She remembered that Brother Nicholas had called him a reasonable man, and she laughed. A page came in the door from the outside. The shoulders of his rumpled coat were spotted with rain. He went over to Richard. Maria watched the wheel spin, devising a story to tell about the priest, in case he talked her into it.
Abruptly Richard was there beside her, and she startled. He sat down on the chair and stared alertly at the door.
“What is it?” she said.
“Theobald.” Richard’s eyes never wavered from the door. He rolled his cup between his palms. “Theobald is here.”
Maria bent to pick up another roll of carded wool. Fluffing one end of the wool with her fingers, she meshed it with the tail of the spun yard. When the door opened, she looked up without raising her head.
Richly dressed, his cloak’s wide hood lined with marten fur, Theobald strolled in, his eyes and hands moving. His sleek chestnut hair was sprinkled white. He wore a long coat like a townsman—Maria had never seen him in mail—and a belt with a long-sword in a gold-studded scabbard. Behind him came two other men, one obviously his son.
Richard stood up. “I’m sure you have some good reason why I should not take you prisoner.”
Theobald’s neat, rat-chinned face only smiled. “You will want to hear what I have to say.” He turned his gaze on Maria. “My lady, I am pleased to see you again.”
Maria put her hands in her lap and did not try to spin. A knight had come in behind them, one of Richard’s men; Richard signed to him to wait. Theobald’s son brought him a chair. Composed, his eyes glinting, Theobald sat down.
“We have had our differences, Marna, but surely nothing that cannot be put aside in favor of some mutual profit?”
Richard smiled at him. He stood in front of his chair, the cup in his hand. “Go on.”
“For some years now, we and the other main tenants of Santerois have been content to fight one another, dealing with Fitz-Michael one at a time. The duchy is completely overturned now, no one wins anymore. We—other men and I—want to join together, overthrow this green Duke, get rid of Fitz-Michael and his pack, and see peace shine on our corner of the world again.”
Great Maria (v5) Page 34