Great Maria (37 page)

Richard rode up to her, the smith bouncing along behind him. The crowd surged uneasily around the market place. He threw his leg across his horse’s withers and slid down to the ground in front of her. Knights rode past them on either side.

“Serlo, chase these people out of here.” He put his hands on her arms. “Where did you come from? Are you all right?”

“Yes. Where is Jilly?”

He jerked his head in the direction of the Tower. “Your friend got her and Eleanor out of the way.” He turned away from her, untying the rope from his saddle, and walked coiling it back to the smith. William rode up.

“He hid in the crowd. He won’t be hard to find, with that sunburn, he shines.”

Maria laughed. Her hands were shaking, and she remembered to cross herself. “He’s from Occel—they were going to sell me to Theobald.”

The ostler came up toward her. His forehead was beaded with sweat. He took her hand and kissed it.

“Thank God and Saint Michael you are safe, my lady. Thank God.” Still clinging to her hand, the ostler gave Richard a brief, black look.

Richard slung the long coil of the rope into the ostler’s hands.

“Somebody from the town gave me this. Maria, where were they holding you? Why did they let you go?”

“I let myself go. Sunburn—I gave him the smith’s dinner in his face, that one. Then I hid in a garden.”

“If you’d stayed caught, I’d have found you right away.” He picked up his trailing reins. To the ostler, he said, “I will talk to you tomorrow, when I am less in a bloody humor. You’ve let Theobald’s men shelter here before, so don’t think I’ll be generous—”

The ostler wheeled toward her. “My lady, we did no harm—”

Maria nodded to him to go. Richard vaulted up into his saddle. He pulled her up on the crupper; her arms around his waist, she rode pillion behind him all the way up to the castle.

***

In the morning, he went to the town to judge them. Maria met him on the way back to the castle, opposite the oak tree where she had waited once for Walter Bris. She reined up, and Richard slowed his horse and approached her. The day was overhung with clouds. A wintry wind bent the dry grass. Maria nudged her mare around beside his horse.

“What did you do to them?”

Richard stopped his horse. He looked a moment down the Santerois road. The wind bellied out his cloak. Sitting down again in his saddle, he turned toward her.

“I have the priest and the man with the burned face. I left the townspeople unpunished—didn’t I tell you I would? Why do you harass me?”

William was coming down toward them from the castle. Three of his men brought along his wolfhounds, and he carried a bow. He jogged his horse up, his face blank, and said, “Richard, I gave the smith fifty marks.”

“William,” Richard said.

“He wanted more, but I said—”

“William!”

Full of false surprise, William’s jowly face peered at Maria. “Oh. Doesn’t she know?” He pulled his horse away before Richard could move and galloped off across the fields, his men and his hounds loping after him in a long stream through the grass. Maria swiveled her head toward Richard.

“The smith is your man.”

Richard looked steadily away from her.

“You arranged to have me carried off,” she said, with rising anger. “You used me as bait to trap the priest.”

“If you’d stayed where you belonged—”

“They might have killed me! What if they had raped me?”

“Nobody would have dared touch you until they got you out of Birnia, and I made sure—”

She turned the mare and galloped away up the road. Richard caught her in a dozen strides. He got the mare by the bridle and stopped her, facing her over their horses’ heads.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Maria cried. “I should have guessed, by what the smith said—I should have known. Eleanor is right.” She was half in tears with rage. “You don’t care about me at all.”

They stared at each other; the mare tossed her head, and Richard let her go. He said, “Are you finished?”

She wiped the tears from her eyes. He laughed at her. His eyes went past her, looking down the Santerois road. He said, “It worked, didn’t it?”

“You damned dog.” She backed her mare away from him and rode on up to the castle, furious.

Thirty-three

Maria opened her eyes. Although it was deep in the night, the fire still burned high. Richard slouched in his chair, his feet crossed on the hearth. She propped herself up on one elbow. “Come to bed.”

He turned around to look at her, smiling wide as a child. “Can I put away the knives?”

She got up and went over to the hearth. She crouched down into the warmth of the fire. “What are you going to do to the priest?”

“I’m going to hang him.” Richard’s voice was round with satisfaction. “For abducting my wife.”

She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared into the fire. His hand stroked roughly down over her hair.

“Eleanor is right—you don’t care about me at all.”

He pulled her hair. She tipped her head back, and he kissed her. “Eleanor is a goose,” he said.

Maria straightened, taking his hand. She turned it palm up before her. It was impossible to fight with him when he was in such a high humor. He picked up his wine from the floor beside the chair and drank. She knew he was waiting for word from Agato.

“Why are you so interested in Theobald’s plot?” she said. “Why can’t you tend to Marna, and let those other people get themselves in trouble?”

“Do you remember what he said—about making me the Duke of Marna?”

She nodded. The fire was heating her nightgown uncomfortably warm, and she moved sideways to it. Richard said, “That means the King is in it. Or the Emperor.”

He jerked his head around; Maria strained to hear what he had heard. Slamming his chair down on all fours, he made for the door. She snatched her cloak from the chest at the foot of their bed. While she got it around her shoulders and latched, she ran down the stairs after him.

In the hall, darkness covered the rows of sleeping people. They crossed to the outer door. A dog barked in the ward. Richard pushed the door open. A sleepy voice called out. Maria and Richard went out onto the landing above the ward.

Moonlight frosted the castle wall. Richard jammed his hands under his belt. His face was rapt. Maria stood behind him. The porter was opening one half of the gate. On the walls, the sentries clustered to watch.

One rider trotted into the ward. He reined his horse up to the steps, his head even with Richard’s feet.

“I need your help,” he said. The moonlight shone bright on his solemn upturned face: a young man, his dark hair cropped short in the new style of the north, not the knight Richard had sent to Agato.

Richard murmured, “Why, it’s Bunny.”

“Duke Henry,” Maria said. “God keep you, my lord.”

“My uncle Fitz-Michael has been murdered,” the young man said. “The Archbishop, too, and Luys, and they nearly killed me. They are all in arms against me. You have to help me.”

The door behind them banged open, and a servant brought out a burning torch. Maria took it from him. The door was full of curious people and she shooed them back into the hall again. She sent the knights off on errands and the castle servants to getting the young Duke a plate of supper and some drink. Richard and the young Duke went upstairs. When the servant brought the dish of food to the hall, Maria took it and followed them.

When she came into the room, the young Duke was saying, “You’ll have to fight them eventually anyway. They hate you as much as they hate me.” He saw her and stood up. Maria took a stool over to put the dish on, and sitting down again, he fell on the meat like a starveling.

“Who besides Theobald?” Richard asked. He stood in front of the big cupboard, unlocking it. Maria sat down on the bed. The young Duke glanced at her. She could see he did not want to talk in front of her. His clothes were shabby as a sailor’s and the soles were ripping off his boots; he was already taller than Richard.

“She hears everything anyway,” Richard said. “One way or another.” He took his knives out of the cupboard and hung them up again in the rack on the wall.

The young Duke chewed steadily. He said, “All I want is my rights. What my father ruled.”

“The King is probably involved, you know,” Richard said comfortably. A knife blade flashed in his hand.

“Do you think so?”

“If he isn’t, he ought to be.”

“You have to help me. You helped me before. I can’t trust anybody else.”

Richard fastened the bar across the rack of knives. “What makes you think you can trust me?”

“Oh.” The Duke shrugged. He glanced at Maria. “Neither of your brothers is married. Fitz-Michael’s daughter is a young widow—my cousin. Nothing binds like a blood knot.”

“Is she pretty?” Maria asked. Richard closed the cupboard.

“Pretty.” The Duke’s harsh expression made his swarthy face look much older. “She is my cousin.” He used bread to wipe up the last juices on his plate.

“I want Theobald’s country,” Richard said. “And you acknowledge my rights in Marna.” He went over to the hearth, beside the young Duke.

Maria hunched her shoulders. She slid off the bed and went to take the young man’s dish. When she came back upstairs again, they were deep in plans. She opened the shutter on the window. The sun was rising. She walked over between the two men.

“What do you think of this?” Richard said.

Maria glanced at the young Duke, who was yawning behind his hand. To Richard, she said, “Someday you’ll reach for something and lose your arm.”

Richard laughed. “Come with me. You know Theobald, it will be all talk.” He palmed her backside.

Maria pulled his hand away. She said to the Duke, “My lord, you can sleep in the next room down—William’s room.”

He followed her down the stairs to the next room. She crossed the dark to open the window shutter. The young man gaped in another deep yawn. When she went back to the door he threw her a truculent look.

“Santerois is my birthright,” he said.

Maria stopped in the doorway. “I’m not against you, my lord. I’ll see no one wakes you. Good night.”

“Good night,” he said.

***

Iste lay under a rime of snow. When Roger thrust back his hood, his hair was bright as blood. “Well met,” Richard said.

They rode together stirrup to stirrup in the middle of the gate and embraced.

Maria searched the little mob of courtiers with Roger. She had expected Robert to meet them too. Richard and his brother burst out laughing.

“William is only half-blooded,” Roger said. “What do you expect?” He pushed by Richard and leaned from his saddle to kiss Maria. “My sister.”

Maria put her hand over his mouth. “Gently, Roger.” She met his blue eyes. Like a flame lighting, her old feeling for him came back. Richard was watching them, no longer smiling. She turned to the Duke.

“My lord, let me make my brother Roger known to you.”

Roger held out his hand. “We met once—you would not remember it. God help our common cause.”

The Duke took his hand in a strong brief clasp. “God is my judge.”

Roger crossed himself. He backed up his horse and turned to ride beside Richard. They started across the snowy market place. The Duke looked curiously around him. He was wearing a cloak of Richard’s, the fox fur of the hood as black as his hair. Maria rode beside him. They followed the two men up the street toward the citadel.

“I’ve never been to Agato,” she said. “Is it larger than Iste?”

“I cannot tell,” the Duke said. “They are so different.”

“Agato is on a river. On a plain.”

“Yes.” His voice threatened to crack, and he pressed his lips together. The new growth of his beard blurred his cheeks. She shook her head. They had been weeks in Birnia, organizing an army. During it, she had not softened him to any kind of talk. She nudged her mare up beside Roger’s horse.

“Where is my son? Richard said he would meet us here. Didn’t the messenger come?”

“I let him go out to chase some bandits,” Roger said.

“Robert? By himself?”

Roger laughed at her. “Richard, she needs another baby to coddle—have you gone monkish?”

Maria laid her hand on her stomach, swelling with the new baby. Richard pushed his hood back. He nodded from her to the young Duke, riding alone behind them. She held her mare back until he caught up with her.

“There is Roger’s castle,” she said.

The Duke glanced up ahead. The tower rose like a rock spur from the hillside. He twisted in his saddle to look out over the valley of Iste. Their horses climbed up the steep road. Behind the fences on either side, dogs barked them up the hill.

“You can see halfway to Agato from here,” the Duke said.

Maria nodded. Snow-covered, stitched with trees and hedge, the valley rolled south to the keen blue of the sky. “We are the only people who have ever taken Iste by storm,” she said.

“Were you here?”

She shook her head. “I mean Richard and Roger. I have never seen a battle. I don’t want to.”

“No,” he said. He turned his eyes elsewhere. “You kept us from Theobald, that time. Until long after, I little understood what a game you made of my uncle.” He twisted his body, his shoulder to her, shutting her out.

They had reached the citadel. Maria rode in to one side of the ward. Half a dozen women rushed forward to meet her, calling to her. The young Duke dismounted and came to help her down out of her saddle. Before she could take his hand, Richard crowded him out of the way. She slid down into Richard’s arms. They went into the tower.

***

Louise said, “So Eleanor is marrying. At her age.” She tipped up the lid of the chest. “Oh, Maria.” She held up the new embroidered surcoat, and the other women all sighed.

“Don’t unpack it,” Maria said. “You’ll just have to put it back again—I’m taking everything with me to Agato.”

The women gasped again. Maria had Jordan on her lap, Roger’s redheaded bastard. She set him down on his unsteady legs. Louise said, “Maria! You’re not going too?”

“Yes, and all of you with me. If I’m to be miserable, I want company.”

They shrieked. Maria laughed at them. In their midst, Jordan missed his footing and sat down hard. He pulled himself up onto his feet again.

“Maria! Why?”

“Because Roger is getting married,” Maria said, “and I’m going to watch.”

“Roger,” Louise said. In unison, they all turned to look at a girl in their midst, Catherine, the prettiest of them. Her eyes widened. She looked stricken from one to the next of the women and rushed out of the room.

The other women broke into excited comment. Maria lowered her eyes. She wished she had been more careful. A looking glass lay on the bed beside her. She picked it up and put her face into the oval frame. Her eyes were darker blue than Roger’s. “Well,” she said. “Come along, there is much to do.”

***

The next morning, she went down to the market place. Louise and the girl Catherine gave her company. On foot, they shopped among the bolts of cloth, the nuts and fruits and candy, and the silversmith’s pieces of jewelry. Catherine was listless and hardly spoke; the rims of her pretty eyes were red. Maria bought her some marzipan in the stall of the sweet vendor. They sat in the sunshine before the big oak tree, where Richard heard his trials of law, and a page went off to bring them wine.

“Catherine,” Louise said, “you are being silly. To pine over such a man.” She laid her hand on Maria’s thigh. “I beg your pardon, dear Maria, but you know that I always speak frankly.”

“He loves me,” Catherine said.

“Bosh.”

“Of course he loves you,” Maria said. She devoured her blancmange and was instantly hungry again.

Louise goggled at her. Catherine sniffed and smiled, half-dreaming, her head bent like a swan’s. She was the most tearful girl Maria had ever seen. Louise whispered in Maria’s ear.

“You must know Roger has had dozens of women.” Her breath blew hot on Maria’s neck.

“Yes, and he’s loved every one of them.” Maria smiled at Catherine, who sat idly breaking her marzipan into pieces. “I loved him once.”

Catherine tossed her head up. Her eyes were brilliant green. Louise cried, “Oh, Maria!”

“I loved him madly. I wanted to marry him, but Richard and my father made me change my mind.” She smiled at Catherine. “You see how things went best against my will. Maybe he’ll still love you—she isn’t as pretty as you are, the Duke says.”

Catherine shut her eyes and sniffed. Maria ate the girl’s marzipan. The sun was coming out from behind the clouds. The half-frozen, filthy snow heaped under the oak tree was running in a hundred driblets. They would march on Agato when the knights of the Saracen Brotherhood reached Iste. The Duke at first had balked at using Saracens against Christian men, even his enemies, but Richard had insisted. Maria held her hands out to the warmth of the sun.

The gate stood open, as always during the day, and people came in and out in a steady stream. She watched two old women in shawls carrying an enormous load of live chickens on their shoulders. She wondered where they all came from, who they were, what their lives were like. A balding man, his face caught up in a snarl, rode past her up the street. Richard was losing the hair on the crown of his head. She would have to tease him about it and see if he minded.