Great Maria (v5)

by Cecelia Holland

  Rahman’s lips tightened. After a moment he looked away from her. “My lord’s treacherous brother is a Christian. People think—”

  “I am a Christian too.”

  The Saracen moved away from her. The page brought him the tray of sweetmeats and cakes. “Yes, that has caused me no end of harm.”

  “Richard is a Christian.”

  Rahman swung back toward her. His eyes glistened with triumph. “It is widely known even among Christians that Richard of Marna in his heart accepts the truth of Islam.” His lips curved into a nasty smile. “Do you deny it?”

  “You know him little, Rahman. Richard believes in nothing.”

  Rahman’s smile slipped a notch. “No soul is that pure.” Taking a sweet he poked the page on the shoulder. “Serve this woman.”

  The page crossed the little space between them. Jordan lingered nearby, standing on one leg, his eyes unfocused in a daydream. Maria took a cup of the sherbet. “Leave us, both of you. Jordan, stay by the door.” The two boys went out.

  “The fighting goes well, one surmises?” Rahman asked.

  “I suppose so. I don’t understand those things.”

  “It’s a grace in you. You should cultivate it.”

  “Tchah.” She moved over into the sunlight. “If I weren’t here, what chaos would you cause? We should double the watch in the city at night. Put guards in the Christian places.”

  Rahman bowed his head. “As you wish.”

  “I suppose we must watch the mosques too,” she said reluctantly.

  “We cannot allow Christians in our sanctuaries.”

  “Then guard them with Saracens.”

  Rahman smiled at her. The sunlight from the window caught green on one of his rings. “I shall.”

  “But if you catch anyone, Christian or Saracen, I shall judge him.” She walked up and down across the room. Jordan poked his head in the door and she sent for a messenger. The fair young knight Michael attracted her and she decided to keep him in her service. Rahman stood over his chessboard, a little onyx archer in his manicured hand.

  “You’ve heard from Stephen.” She knew they were playing chess by letter.

  “That’s my concern.”

  Maria sat down in the chair behind the white side of the game “This knight says Richard wants twenty thousand ricardi.” The archers’ long diagonal swoops across the board fascinated her, but she liked the little horses best, with their fiery leaps.

  “Twenty thousand ricardi,” Rahman said. “We’ll have to guard it strongly through the mountains.”

  “He said something about sailing up the coast to a port in Santerois.”

  Rahman took the black archer off the board and put the white Vizier in its place. “It seems circuitous.”

  She said, “The Venetians owe us much. Talk to them about doing it.”

  Rahman bowed. “As you wish.”

  Henry rushed in the door, gave a glad cry, and hurried up to Rahman. The Saracen recoiled. “No, no. Not here.” He shook his hands at the little boy; Maria laughed. She took the child in her arms. Jordan and a dark-haired knight came in.

  “Rahman, you have errands?”

  The Saracen sniffed at her and paced out of the room, his white robes folded like wings around him. Maria turned to the young knight. “Go to the cathedral, see what has been done there, and tell my lord William in Birnia.” Henry squirmed impatiently in her arms. Putting him down, she went off to arrange Richard’s supplies.

  ***

  The watch found the half dozen Saracen boys who had attacked the cathedral. They were exposed in the market place for three days. Before the watch cut them down, at noon on the third day, the mob half-killed them; only one could walk away.

  Maria picked up her reins. The watch captain was standing beside her horse. She said, “Get a cart to take them back to their homes.” The six boys lay exhausted on the steps of the cathedral. Two women wept and hugged them: their mothers. In the market place the shifting Christian crowd called names and threw things at them.

  William strode out of the cathedral and walked down to the foot of the steps. He had arrived only that morning. His enormous escort filled the side street beside the cathedral, by the garden gate. He came up to her and swung himself heavily into his saddle.

  “They are ugly people, these Mana’ans.”

  “Can you fix the walls? What are you going to do?”

  “What I have always meant to do: paint the inside. This makes no difference to me, only to God.”

  Maria rode forward. William’s roan horse walked along beside her. Already many of the merchants were closing up their stalls. Over near the harbor a man stood on an empty booth and screamed and waved his arms. Many people were cheering him on. The boys in their cart rumbled away. William’s knights poured out of the side street. An important voice shouted, and the knights ranged themselves around her and William.

  The big knight was smiling at her. “Maria, where are you taking me?”

  She looked innocently into his face. Ahead, the street climbed steeply toward the ’Aliqbet Mosque, like a round white stone above the groves of cypress on the hill. She led the train of knights up the right side of the street. Saracens before their houses stopped talking to watch them pass. The knights’ commander rode up for orders.

  “My lord, where are we going?”

  “There.” Maria pointed to the mosque.

  William held one hand up to stop his men. “My sister, tell me what you are doing.”

  “Last night someone tried to break in there. Christians.”

  He pulled on his chin. “And the Saracens caught them and will not give them up?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded to the captain, and the other knight rode off toward the head of the column. They climbed the hillside, their horses at a walk. The cypress blocked the wind. Maria looked behind her; the full curve of the bay spread out below them, and half the city, veined in the green of its gardens and orchards.

  They were coming to the mosque. Before they reached it, several men came out the front doors onto the court. Rahman was among them. Maria drew rein, and all the knights stopped. They gawked at the mosque and the sweeping view of Mana’a around them. Maria chewed her lip. Eight of the most important Saracens in the city were staring at her from before the mosque. Most of them were friends of Richard’s.

  “Maybe I should do this,” William said.

  “I wish you would.” These men hated her.

  William put up one hand to hold his knights where they were. He and Maria rode forward. The wind cooled her face and tugged at her coif. The eight Saracens stood before the mosque in a little group, their faces grim. Maria dismounted and walked forward into the lee of the mosque, out of the wind.

  “Rahman,” William said. “She says you have some prisoners of ours.” He folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle.

  Rahman clearly wished he were elsewhere. The old black man beside him was the chief Imam. He gave Maria a single poisonous look and turned his gaze away. Rahman said, “We have no prisoners, William. She is only trying to make trouble for me.”

  “He lies.” Maria glanced up at the big knight on his horse beside her. “If nothing has happened, why is he here?”

  William’s colorless eyes flickered. The old Imam spoke to Rahman, who answered him, adding an oily bow.

  “Rahman,” Maria said, “you mark, if you do not give them up, I will take the Imam prisoner and hold him hostage until you do.”

  The Saracen directly behind the old man started, his face coloring: clearly he understood French. The Imam did not. William said, nervously, “Now, Maria.”

  The old Imam spoke again. The other Saracens murmured in agreement. Rahman put one hand to his beard. His eyes stabbed at William.

  “The Imam says he will discuss this matter after that unseemly woman has removed herself.”

  William hooted with laughter. He twisted his vast bulk in his saddle and lifted one arm to his men. The knigh
ts loped forward around them, spraying gravel against the wall of the mosque. The Saracens stood frozen in their places. One cried out indignantly. The knights’ commander barked orders in his excellent voice.

  “You forgot I speak Saracen, Rahman,” William said. “Or perhaps I heard him better than you did?”

  The Imam whirled and seized Rahman by the arm and shook it and shouted. Rahman looked around him at the knights. The other Saracens joined in scolding him. Suddenly he snarled at them, and they fell silent, abashed, even the Imam.

  “William,” Rahman said, “you see what an embarrassment she is. If she does as she threatens, you will have as great a war in Mana’a as you do in Iste.”

  “All I want is those prisoners,” William said. “Your friends are willing to give them up.”

  Rahman shrugged. He turned as if to view the wide bay spread out below them. Maria waited a moment; she had to admire his poise. She said, “William, someone will have to carry the Imam,” and Rahman thrust out one hand.

  “I will bring the prisoners to the palace.”

  William smiled. The wind tore at his clothes. “Then I will take this old man there, until you do.”

  The Saracen who understood French leaned forward and whispered to the Imam. Gray-black, the old man’s face turned toward Maria, stiff with hate. He spoke to Rahman again.

  Rahman and William were staring at one another. William’s eyes were half-closed. He looked amused by the game. Rahman said, “Do not risk this, William. When my lord hears of it, he will be displeased.”

  “Yes,” Maria said, “with you.”

  Rahman shot her a murderous look. At last he walked away toward the mosque. At a nod from William, the knights drew back to let him pass. The other Saracens relaxed. Their eyes went curiously to the knights around them. The Imam stood kneading his fingers together. Maria went to her horse and took the charter from her basket.

  “William,” she said; she went up to his stirrup again. “Tell him this must be translated and read three times a day for three days, in all the mosques, before prayers.”

  William spoke to him. The Imam’s face turned acid, and he would not take the charter from her, he signed to the man behind him to take it. Rahman was coming back. Five of his Saracen soldiers followed, half-dragging the four Christians, bruised and wrapped in chains.

  Maria mounted her horse. The wind brushed her cheek. She wiped her face with her fingers. She went back down the hillside, the Christians herded before them. William rode over beside her.

  “That was the charter permitting errors?”

  She nodded. “I thought it might make them happier.”

  He coughed, amused. “You are as bad as Richard sometimes. Have you heard that the old priest died in Rome? So I’m going to be a bishop after all. How did Richard talk me into this? Where is he?”

  “They are all at Iste now.”

  William shook his head. They came to the foot of the hill. The street led them through the spice market. She saw that even here, deep inside the Saracen quarter, many of the vendors had not opened their little cupboard-sized shops. The city seemed quieter than usual. A score of people was already following her in the street.

  They took the prisoners to the cathedral square and hung them up where the Saracen boys had been. The crowd that gathered hissed at her and William. The big knight scowled.

  “Ugly people.”

  She had the charter permitting errors read in all the churches of Marna, except of course Iste. In Mana’a the Christians left the cathedral and went around the streets beating the Saracens and burning whatever they could set on fire. William’s hundred knights and the city watch could not master them. Rahman brought in over a thousand Saracen footsoldiers. With the fires spreading through the Christian quarter, Maria was afraid to stop him. Twenty Christians were killed, but the Saracens cleared the streets. That night no fires burned, although the air still reeked of smoke.

  The next day dragged by. Everybody loitered in the ward waiting for news from the city. Crowds milled before the gates into the palace. She fought with Rahman, Jilly, and the cook; everybody seemed intent on provoking her temper. But the city stayed calm, and the next day the city stayed calm, and slowly her household stopped cluttering the ward, and the crowds thinned to a scattering and drifted away. Richard sent requiring more money and more rope. Jilly and Jordan brought a pony into the hall, and it broke a vase of Rahman’s. Maria went out alone again into Mana’a.

  She went to see William, to ask his advice about a trial of law. His workmen were building scaffolding along the inside walls so they could paint over the damage. He walked up beside her when she came into the cathedral and took hold of her arm.

  “Come into the garden.”

  She knew there was something wrong. She followed him out through the vestibule. The sky was cloudy, and she smelled rain coming. Two huge cats sprawled on the brick walk between the roses: William cultivated all the harbor cats. She looked up into the fat man’s face.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He turned away from her. “Roger has tried to make contact with me.”

  Maria’s heart jumped. She could think of nothing to say. He had always loved Roger. He drew away from her. He stood idly rubbing his palms together. Around them lay the bright color-work of the flowers.

  Eventually, she said. “Do you think they could mend it?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Can they change the color of their eyes? This will end in a death.”

  He put his hands to his face. Maria trembled, wishing she could console him. The big knight before her made no sound. Eventually, composed again, he lowered his hands.

  “Has he come to you yet?”

  “I pray God he does not do me the insult,” she said.

  “Well, he did try to kill you. I can see your reasons.” Suddenly he was easy again, hidden in his fat. “I have never been overfond of the men who tried to kill me. Except when I think that they failed.” He erupted into laughter and strode away. Maria went slowly out through the cathedral.

  She stopped in the market place to buy some cakes for the children. Half a dozen ships were in from Africa and Venice and Acre, and the vendors were hawking new goods. She lingered, enjoying the constant movement, the people arguing and bartering, the dhows and the surf and the sea gulls. Finally she went on.

  “Mah-eee-yah!”

  She waved.

  ***

  The curved street around the palace was packed so thick with folk she could not force a way through. No one seemed to be fighting. On the iron balconies above her, women were standing up to see whatever was going on. There was a sudden boisterous cheer, and she heard Stephen’s name shouted.

  She reined the mare around and wedged a way between a building and the people. A column of knights was riding toward her. In their midst Stephen was twisted in his saddle to shout to someone in the crowd. Maria ranged up before him, and his horse stopped.

  “Mama.” He leaned down from his horse to kiss her.

  “Stephen,” she said. “You are wearing mail.” She put her hand on his metal shoulder,

  “Yes. Isn’t it beautiful?” His hand stroked down the chain-link shirt. “It’s really Robert’s,” he said, his voice confidential. “I haven’t won my own yet. Isn’t it a beauty?”

  Maria shook her head. She pulled him down again to hug him. Over his shoulder, she saw a litter coming along the street. Its red and blue curtains were drawn tight.

  Stephen called out. The column started forward again. Maria held her horse beside his, screwed around in her saddle to watch the litter. Someone in the crowd shouted, and Stephen answered in Saracen.

  “It’s Anne, isn’t it?” she said, when he faced her again.

  “Yes.”

  “Why has he sent her to me? I have enemies here already to last me my life.”

  “We took all of Iste but the citadel—she was there. We had to do something with them.”

  She glanced once more at th
e litter. They rode through the park up toward the palace. The chain mail drew her eye again. “Did you fight?”

  “Yes. Three times.” He shook his head. “Mama, I was so afraid. Everything happened so fast—it was awful, Mama.” He cast his eyes down. “Papa had to save me once.”

  Maria crossed herself, relieved.

  “Robert goes right into the middle. He’s always in the middle.”

  “I did not want to know that, Stephen.”

  They went up through the pine trees. Ahead, the towers stood like pillars of the sky. She said. “Why did he send you back? Did you capture her?”

  “Oh.” He puffed himself up. “I’m supposed to find out about the cathedral and the riot.”

  “Rahman must have told you.”

  “Yes, but Papa says it is a lie.”

  Maria laughed. They rode through the gatehouse. A shower of small stones rained down on them from the arch. Stephen turned to look up.

  Jilly shrieked. “Stephen! Stephen!” She hurled herself down from the gate into his arms. Jordan climbed across the scrolled stone of the arch toward the rampart steps. Maria dismounted.

  The litter came up into the ward. She untied the curtain strings and held them back.

  “Anne,” she said. “Come out, you are here now.”

  The close litter smelled like a baby. A nurse got out, took the child, and stepped back. Maria held out her hand, but Anne struck it aside. She climbed out of the litter. Her clothes were crumpled and stained. She was fat; her chin and her cheekbones had disappeared beneath her flesh. When she looked at Maria, her mouth tightened to nothing.

  “You are tempting me,” Maria said. “I told you I am vindictive.”

  Anne turned away. Stephen was giving orders to his knights, sending them this way and that around the palace. Maria crossed the paved ward to a door, Anne and her maid behind her.

  They went into the palace. Gold lamps lit the rooms. They walked through the spacious, carpeted rooms, past servants and petitioners, people waiting to see other people. Anne stared around them. Maria saw how she tried to straighten her clothes and smooth out her face.

  Rahman was coming toward them, flanked by a Saracen scribe and one of the chancellors. He veered off to one side to pass them. His eyes studiously straight before him, he lifted one hand to Maria. She answered him with a gesture. They went down the stairs and around a corner to the room in the Tower of the Cross where the boys had once slept, where Roger had lived when he lived in Mana’a.