Great Maria (32 page)

“Dance with Louise,” she said. “I’ll watch you.”

He shrugged. “Coward,” he said, under his breath. His handsome delighted smile flashed; he went off to join Louise again.

Maria circled them, going to stand next to the musicians, between the sunlit windows. Roger and Louise walked slowly through the complicated turn. The red knight watched his feet. Maria saw the loving glances Louise gave him and hid her smile with her hand.

The musicians began their song again. Roger and Louise turned and stepped and turned across the hall, the woman a shadow to the man’s brilliance. Maria wondered what he looked like without his clothes on. He was taller than Richard, long-legged, his shoulders wide and his chest flat. She imagined lying with him. Her groin grew sensuously taut. The door opened, and Richard walked in.

She pulled her face expressionless. Roger called, “Did you find him?” He and Louise swung in a series of half-turns back toward Maria.

Richard threw himself into a chair on the hearth. “He wasn’t there. I talked to his son.” He stared unsmiling at Maria. She went around the dancers to the table and got him a cup of the strong local wine.

“I went to the Jews’ temple this morning.” She handed him the cup. Sweat soaked the armpits and the back of his shirt. He refused to look at her. He lifted the cup to drink. He smelled rank.

“Roger,” she said. The music had stopped. “I’ll dance with you.” She went over to him, holding out her hands.

Louise backed away. Roger glanced past Maria toward his brother. His wide mouth warped into a smile; he shook his head slightly. Maria took his hands in hers. She looked down at her feet. “Show me what to do.”

He taught her a simple step and turn, walking through it first without the music. The musicians picked up the song. Roger winked at her; his fingers tightened around hers. They danced across the hall and back again. Richard sat staring fixedly in the other direction, his shoulders hunched.

“Poor innocent brother,” Roger said softly. “Caught fast.” He raised his voice. “Richard. Come dance.”

Richard let out an indefinite negative grunt. Maria had to laugh. The song ended. Roger showed her another step. He said, “Wait until we come to the part where I pick you up.”

The door opened. Four men in long coats came into the hall. Maria stopped in mid-turn, recognizing them. She let go of Roger’s hand. The four merchants walked forward, toward Richard.

“My lord, we come seeking justice.”

Maria went up behind Richard’s chair. He said, “What is this?”

Roger stood in the middle of the hall. “That I told you of. Those merchants whom Maria cheated, down in Birnia. Here, Manofredo, didn’t I tell you not to bother my brother about this?”

The merchants stood in a clump, buttressing each other. Their clothes were long and draped in folds like curtains: townsmen’s clothes, who did not ride. Manofredo said, “My lord, we have brought our case before my lord Roger’s court—”

Richard shot a glance at Roger. “What did you say?”

“What do you think? I’m not going to hang my own sister in the stocks.”

“If they want justice,” Maria said, “give it to them. They sold the fruits of the earth for profit to starving people.”

Manofredo spread his hands. “We seek no profit, only to have our case truly heard. We had your charter—” He produced a piece of sealed vellum.

Roger said, “Richard, this is yours—I’ll watch.”

Richard hitched himself up in his chair. Maria laid her hand on his shoulder. He reached up and pushed it away. He said, “Manofredo, she says she gave you money.”

“My lord, it was hardly enough to—”

“Whose money do you think it was?”

The merchants’ meaty faces sagged. None of them spoke.

“Mine, Manofredo. Therefore I find her not a thief, but a shrewd market wife. I supplied you with the charter, the wit to make a profit was your responsibility. Get out.”

Silently the merchants bowed to him and left. Maria went around in front of Richard’s chair. He glared at her.

“I think I prefer Solomon dividing the baby,” Roger said. Louise and the musicians went out. He sauntered over beside his brother. “What did Luwigis’s son tell you?”

Maria took Richard’s cup away. When she came back, Richard was saying, “They don’t like us very much, do they?” He took the cup from her with one hand and closed the other around her wrist.

“I get along well with the Lombards,” Roger said. “It’s you they can’t stomach. And the Saracens.”

“You deal with them then.” Richard let go of her wrist and took hold of her hand. She laced their fingers together. He drank his wine; they talked of the affairs of Iste.

Twenty-nine

In the middle of the night, the dogs woke her up with their passionate barking. She opened her eyes. The barking came from far away, outside the citadel, as if someone were riding by the gate. But a shrill, hysterical note crept into the barks, and she sat up.

More dogs joined the racket. Beside her, Richard stirred, coming awake. Abruptly, right below their bed, the three dogs in the room with them burst into a thunderous barking.

In the next room, Eleanor woke up with a scream. Richard rolled over. “Those God-damned dogs.” He pulled Maria sleepily into his arms. The three dogs had run from under the bed to the door, volleying barks. One whined and scratched at the door. Richard sat up, suddenly alert. “What’s that?”

“What?” she asked.

“That.” He flung the bedclothes back and slid out of bed.

“Mama,” Stephen called, from the next room. “Robert and Ismael are gone.”

Maria climbed out of bed. Eleanor was cooing to Jilly, who had begun to cry. Now Maria could hear the distant throaty roar of the lion.

She snatched her cloak off the bedpost and started toward the door. Richard in his nightshirt grabbed his sword from its scabbard on the wall. The dogs hurled themselves madly at the door. When Maria pulled it open they nearly knocked her down pouring out into the stairwell. Richard bolted past her.

“Maria—” Eleanor cried.

“Stay here.” Maria dodged her grasp. “Stephen, stay with Eleanor.” Barefoot, she ran after Richard down the dark, narrow stairs, into the racket of the dogs.

The servants who slept in the hall were massed on the next landing and Roger with a torch and the cook’s daughter stood on the one below that. He said, “The lion is out,” and led them in a dash down to the door into the ward.

“I can hear him.” Richard took the torch from Roger so that his brother could find the key. “We’ll need a bow to kill it.”

“I like him,” Roger said. “He’s never gotten out before—let’s see if we can—” He opened the lock, and Richard thrust the door wide.

Six or eight knights stood in a clot on the threshold. They moved quickly to either side. Maria went hard after Richard, brushing past Roger. The cook’s pretty daughter screamed. Stopping short in the moonlight, Richard said a soft, elaborate oath. Maria put her hand on his arm.

The lion was running at a loose trot back and forth across the far side of the ward, roaring and shaking its mane. The moonlight was bright enough to gleam on the gold collar around its neck. A pack of wolfhounds huddled in one corner of the yard, a mass of heads and shoulders that sounded all throat. The grille was propped up against the wall.

Halfway up the twenty-foot wooden gate, Robert was clinging with both hands to the crossbar; Ismael the lionhunter was even higher up out of danger, his feet braced on an iron bolt on the top hinge.

Roger started to laugh. Rapidly the laughter spread through the people watching. The lion made a short rush at the corner full of dogs, and madly the dogs hurled themselves back on top of one another, screaming.

“God’s blood,” Maria said, relieved. “Let them spend the night up there.”

Something brushed against her. Stephen leaned up on her side. She twitched the cloak to bring him under its warmth.

Richard gave Roger an evil look. “I don’t think it’s funny.”

“No. You would not.” Roger slid by him. “We will need a rope—a net, if we can find one.” The red knight went calmly down one side of the ward toward the stable. The lion saw him. Its roar rumbled out. Cautiously it circled over to investigate him. Roger whirled and lunged toward it, shouting, and the lion recoiled away from him. The people watching cried out in one voice. Roger went down into the stable.

The cook’s daughter had her knuckle in her mouth; when he disappeared, she clapped her hands. “Holy Mother,” she murmured. Her eyes shone.

Richard said, “Get all these people out of here.” While Maria marshaled the servants and women back into the tower, he stood watching the lion prowling up and down around the pit. Finally it lay down, its long tail drooping over the edge of the pit. Every few moments the tail tip flicked up.

“Emir,” Ismael called, from the gate, and said something in Saracen about falling.

Richard answered him in some detail. At the sound of his voice, the dogs doubled their barking. Fastidious, the lion licked its shoulder. Maria folded the cloak closed around her and Stephen, standing on the threshold to watch.

“I told him not to,” Stephen said softly.

Richard walked slowly out into the middle of the ward, carrying his sword in both hands across his body. The white nightshirt flapped around his shins. Over his shoulder he called out several names. Six knights jumped from the doorway behind Maria and rushed toward him. Roger came out of the stable, a coil of rope over his shoulder and a drover’s whip in his right hand. The lion eyed them alertly, its circular ears erect.

Maria put her hand under Stephen’s chin to turn his face up. “You should have told me, if you knew they meant to do this.”

“He made me swear not to tell.”

The knights formed a rank that stretched from Richard across the ward to Roger, who stood in the open, uncoiling his whip. The lion got to its feet. The dogs suddenly seemed to run out of breath. Their tongues flopped out of their mouths, they lay down on top of one another in the corner and watched. Maria took three or four steps forward, pushing Stephen on before her.

The lion paced across the ward to look the men over. Roger flipped the long drover’s whip out across the paving stones. The lion watched it briefly, turned, and bounded down into its pit. Maria shut her eyes a moment. She wondered if they could bolt the grille fast to the ground.

Robert and Ismael dropped to the foot of the gate. Richard was standing ten feet from them, the sword in his hands. Roger came up to Maria. He slid his arm comfortably around her.

“Lean on me,” he said. “Your mother’s heart must be faint.”

Maria peeled his hand away from her breast. Robert and Ismael were approaching Richard by tentative steps. Coiling the whip, Roger took a bit of rawhide from behind his ear and tied it. Gleefully, he shouted, “Richard, shall I hold them for you?”

Richard lifted his head. At his look, Ismael stopped cold. Roger went over to Richard’s side; they spoke quietly.

Robert came up before them. “Papa,” he said, in a brave voice, “if you will let me explain—”

Richard grabbed him by the nape of the neck, whirled him, and spanked him with the flat of the sword. Robert yelped. “Papa—no—please—not here—Papa—”

Ismael was creeping backwards. Maria laughed. The cloak whirled open, and Stephen spun away from her and ran into the tower. Maria went up beside the men. Richard lowered the sword and turned Robert around to face him.

“Enough?”

Robert held his backside with both hands. He stared at Richard’s bare feet. Maria touched his shoulder. “Go get your father his cloak.” Robert broke into a stiff run toward the door. Maria glanced at Richard.

“The other villain is getting away.”

“Ismael,” Richard said.

Straight as a lance Ismael marched up to them. “Emir,” he said, his voice lofty. “I is go.”

Richard said to Roger, “I think he wants to go up into the mountains and meditate on the great Saracen art of bragging.”

Roger smiled; his eyes narrowed. “Let him hang on the gate a while. I liked that.”

“Emir,” Ismael said, alarmed.

“It’s my lion, after all.” Roger spat. “You know it wasn’t Robert’s fault.”

Richard struck his brother on the shoulder. “I don’t know anything like that. Go on.”

Roger went off toward the stable. Bright with malice, Ismael’s eyes followed him. Richard spoke to him in Saracen and started toward the tower.

“Emir,” Ismael called. He brushed between Maria and Richard, knocking into her in his haste. He prayed something of Richard.

“No,” Richard said. “I am tired of this, you told me you’d keep him out of trouble.” She knew he spoke French for her benefit, and when Ismael begged him again he denied him in Saracen. Maria went on to the door into the tower. The moon was setting. Before they got to sleep again it would be dawn. At least she had gotten the fleas out of the bed, and perhaps soon they would both enjoy a full night’s sleep.

***

Ismael left the next morning for the great Majlas stronghold of Simleh. He and Robert wept and embraced and swore terrible oaths of friendship. When they had ridden out together to the gate, Maria went up to the hall to work with Eleanor on the embroidered pattern for a new tapestry.

Stephen came downstairs. He put his hand on the back of Maria’s chair, bending to look at her work. “I am going to the baths,” he said.

“Oh, you are. What are you going to do there?” She was putting in the outline of the tower. They had decided to picture a castle garrisoned with saints, under siege by the Devil and the Beasts of the World.

“Mama. What do you want me to do?”

“You can keep your clothes on like a Christian and not take baths.” The Mana’an men had a passion for sitting around in pools of water, talking about books and music and indulging in the vilest pleasures. She stitched in the stones of the tower.

“Are you ordering me not to?” Stephen said. He hung on her chair, his breath warm on her neck.

Robert came into the room, all downcast, two dogs on his heels. He sank down on a matrah beside the hearth. Maria watched him sympathetically. “Yes,” she said to Stephen. “I am ordering you not to.”

“Mama.” He kissed her cheek. “I won’t. I’m too little to get in anyway.” He sauntered off, elaborately nonchalant. Passing behind Robert, he murmured something she did not quite catch.

Robert leaped up and chased him. Stephen ran out of the room, his brother two steps behind him. The dogs gamboled around them, barking. The door slammed shut. Maria groped through her basket for the other pincushion. The door burst open and Stephen raced in. He dashed up to her and spun around toward Robert, snatching out his dagger.

Maria cried, “Stephen.” She got up, spilling the basket across the floor. Before she could reach him, he slashed at Robert. Eleanor shrieked like a silver whistle. Maria lunged between the two boys and when Stephen stepped back she struck him hard across the face. Dropping the dagger, he burst into tears.

She wheeled toward Robert. He had one hand clamped to his thigh. “Mama, he cut me.” He reached around her toward Stephen, and she hooked her fingers in the neck of his shirt.

“Sit down. Eleanor, go find tabib. Holy Mother Mary.” She knelt before Robert—blood was soaking through his hose. She took hold of the slashed cloth and tore it away. Thick as sauce, the blood rolled from the lips of the wound.

Roger came into the hall. “Who is that screaming?” He strode up beside her. “Holy Cross.”

Maria sat back. Stephen and Eleanor had gone. Roger laughed. “A hand higher, Robert, and you’d never be making Richard any grandchildren.”

“Roger,” Maria said. She pressed the edges of the wound together with her fingers.

“What happened?’’ Before she could stop him, he went to the window over the ward. “Richard,” he bellowed. “Your son’s just nearly been gelded.”

Maria said, “Roger, go away.” Eleanor had come back with the cook, who bent over the boy’s bleeding leg. Maria backed away. She looked around again for Stephen; he had disappeared. She picked up her basket and went around the room gathering the spilled needles, thread, and wax.

Richard came in the door. “What’s going on in here?” When he saw Robert and the cook, he turned back to the door. “Stephen,” he shouted.

Maria was feeling sick again. She sat down to rest. Richard came up behind Robert. The boy twisted to look at him.

“Papa, he drew a knife.” His voice cracked with shock. “And he even started it.”

Richard looked at Maria, who nodded. She took her embroidery in her hands, shifted the hoop, and stitched the face of Saint Jerome.

“I have to go,” Richard said. “Maria, when I come back, I’ll see to Stephen.” He cuffed Robert across the jaw. “Next time, jump a little higher, will you?” He walked off toward the door.

Maria took small running stitches. She wanted to have a lock of Saint Jerome’s hair fall over his forehead, but on the embroidered design the scale was too small. The cook put a heavy plaster on her son’s wound. Robert said, “The viper.” The sound of that pleased him; he said, “The little viper bit me.”

Maria kept silent. Stephen was probably somewhere out in Iste, but he would come back before sundown: he was afraid of the dark. She bent Saint Jerome over the rampart of the tower to throw a Bible at the Lion of Wrath. Richard should send Robert to the Majlas. He would be happier there with Ismael. She bit off the thread with her teeth.

***

Stephen lay sobbing across his bed in the next room. Richard buckled on his belt again. He walked slowly across the bedchamber toward Maria. “When they get older, they’ll be better,” he said. “When they can go to war.”

“If they don’t kill each other first,” Maria said.

Jilly sat on the bed beside her. Her face was wrinkled up with worry. “’Teben is crying.”