Great Maria (v5)

by Cecelia Holland

  “We shall have a complete explanation of it,” the churchman said. “And assurances—”

  “Father Yvet,” Richard said, “stop tilting with me. I will support the Holy Father, provided he agrees to my conditions. One of my conditions is I hear nothing more about that damned priest.”

  Maria bent to look through the peephole. Beyond the wall, Father Yvet said, “We shall determine the conditions, not you.”

  “Oh, no,” Richard said. He thumbed down his moustaches. “You are wrong there, weaver. I will tell you who gets what and who does what between me and the Holy Father. Do you think I am a lout, weaver? I know what my service would mean to the Emperor. No matter what happened in Santerois. He would give me anything I asked for the use of hundreds of the best knights in Europe, Norman-trained, Norman-led, and already here, south of the Alps.”

  Father Yvet, for once, did not speak.

  Richard said, “I wonder if you realize what those men would mean to the Holy Father and Rome in the hands of the Emperor.”

  Maria could not see Father Yvet’s face, and she straightened away from the peephole, her back creaking. Richard’s voice was greasy with satisfaction. He said, “What’s wrong, weaver? Haven’t I let you mock me, all this time, and court my wife in front of me?”

  Furniture rattled on the floor. Angrily the churchman said, “Don’t force me to abandon you to your fate.”

  “My fate. If you leave here, weaver, I’ll ruin you. I promise you, unless you do my work, you will never see another embassy.”

  “I do your work!”

  Maria picked at a broken fingernail. The candle smoke got in her nose, and she waved her hand in front of her face to clear it away. Father Yvet said tautly, “My lord, I am in the service of his Holiness, and—”

  “Go back to him then. Someone else will do it if you don’t. Tell him to send me a Norman.”

  “My lord!”

  “Go on. Get out of my demesne, and don’t stop in Santerois either, or you’ll find out how far I can reach.”

  The fine wool rustled. Footsteps padded across the hall. The door shut. The other chair creaked. Richard’s voice came through the peephole.

  “Go get in his way—he will come to you next.”

  Maria stooped to whisper through the hole. “You were too harsh—he won’t come back now, you ruined it.”

  “Do as I say, damn you.”

  She pinched out the candles and sidled down the wall passage. Her skirts were filthy and she shook them out. Going down the stairs, she opened up the door into the ward a crack.

  Father Yvet was pacing up and down in the sunlight, his face grooved with thought. Maria stayed in the dark stairwell a moment. Richard was right, he was going to submit. Two servants, chattering, rushed in and up the stairs, and she went out to the ward.

  The churchman came toward her, smiling. His handsome face was drawn with strain. He took her hand. “Maria, good morning to you.”

  “Good day, Father.” She let him ease her over toward the far side of the ward, out of sight of the hall window. Robert and Stephen were sitting on top of the wall. She hoped Father Yvet did not realize they were talking to each other in Saracen.

  “Yesterday,” the priest said, “you said something to the lady Eleanor—you asked her for a friend’s favor. Now I must ask such a favor of you.”

  They walked toward the gate. Maria edged out into the sunlight, away from the clammy stone wall.

  “You know how jealous your husband is of our friendship,” Father Yvet said. “Now he has tried to dismiss me. For his own sake, you must prevail on him to let me stay here.” He swung toward her, his hands on her arms. “If the Holy Father withdraws his support, Marna will surely fall.”

  “What must I do?”

  “He must let me talk to him again. I can smooth over the breach between us. But I cannot go back to Rome without some agreement.”

  That at least was true. Maria turned away from him, amused. She wondered if Richard were watching. “If I help you,” she said, “you must keep faith with me. You will owe me a friend’s favor too.”

  He came up close to her side. “I swear it.”

  She faced him again, looking him straight in the eyes. “I will do what I can. But he does not heed me overmuch.”

  The churchman smiled down at her. “He listens to you, I suspect, more than either of you realizes.” Stooping, he kissed her on the brow.

  ***

  “There is a trick,” Stephen murmured.

  Maria craned her neck to see. The serving people were taking away the litter of the meal. At the far end of the table, Father Yvet had laid out straws in three rows like a triangle. Robert and Stephen were stretched out across the table to watch. Robert took away some of the straws, Father Yvet took others, and again Robert was left with the last straw, losing. Maria glanced at Richard.

  “Do you know it?”

  Richard shook his head slightly, his eyes on the game. Eleanor and her husband were deep in some discussion on Maria’s left side. William the German contributed mostly grunts. Abruptly Richard straightened, and a moment later the porter shouted, out in the ward.

  “Let me try,” Stephen said.

  Robert waved him off. His hand hovered over the rows of straws. Father Yvet caught Maria’s eye and smiled at her. He and Richard had talked all afternoon. Now, suddenly, they loved each other. Maria had not listened; she had been trying to teach the cook to make Saracen eggs. A page ran in the door and danced impatiently, waiting to be summoned. Maria nodded, and he rushed up to Richard’s side.

  “My lord—”

  Richard bent over the arm of his chair to listen to the little boy’s message. Maria glanced at Eleanor. “You could have tasted the eggs, at least.”

  The other woman sat up stiff in her chair. “It is vile food. I cannot eat it.”

  “Father Yvet,” Maria called. “Did you enjoy my cook’s eggs, tonight?” Finally the bald cook had shouldered her aside and made the Saracen eggs his own way.

  “My lady,” the churchman said, “I have made only one inquiry of food since the day I found myself on a terrace in Athens, surrounded by hungry cats and eating whole baby squids. I ask only that the food be delicious. Your cook is a master.”

  Maria rewarded him with a smile. Beside her, William the German pinched his wife’s lips shut. The page had left. Richard sat biting off the long hairs on his moustaches.

  Ismael came in the door. He was rigid with fear. He fastened his eyes on Richard and came straight toward him. Father Yvet got at once to his feet.

  “Ismael!” Robert vaulted the table. He strode up to the young Saracen and they embraced. Stephen instantly took his brother’s place over the riddle.

  Father Yvet did not hesitate. He advanced along the table toward them.

  “Father Yvet,” Richard said. “This is my foster son, Ismael.”

  Face to face with the priest, Ismael craned his neck to see for himself that the man was tonsured. Amused, Maria saw that he kept his mouth firmly shut. Father Yvet uneffusively withdrew to the game. Richard canted forward and asked something, teasing, and Ismael produced his smile. He beamed at Maria.

  “You mark,” he said. “I brave to witch.”

  Fortunately Father Yvet did not seem to hear. Maria said, “Yes, now we must find another lion.”

  A page came up to attend him, and he sat down and was served a meal. Maria folded her hands in her lap. A servant took away her cup and Richard’s. Richard was watching the churchman. She said, “What happened between you?”

  “Why,” he said, “I’ve made a friend of him.”

  The churchman was absorbed in his game with Stephen. The boy’s lips moved soundlessly. His fingers tapped on the table, counting. Maria set her chin on her fist. Stephen took away one of the straws.

  “All right,” he said.

  The churchman’s smile stiffened. Unspeaking, they lined up the game again, and again Stephen won. He called, “Papa, it’s like an equation.
”

  “Come show me,” Richard said.

  Stephen excused himself to Father Yvet and brought the straws up around the end of the table to Richard. Robert beside him, Ismael ate steadily, his long brown fingers stripping a roast hen. Father Yvet watched him. A page brought a dish of sweets to each of them by turn. Beside her, Stephen taught Richard the game and beat him twice.

  “What’s the key?” Richard took something from his shirt.

  “Play me again,” Stephen said.

  “Tell me the key first.”

  Maria tasted her wine. The page had left it whole and she set the cup aside. Richard took it.

  “Just one more time.” Stephen made his choice of the straws in the little design.

  Richard slid Maria’s cup back toward her. She said, “What did you put in my wine?” and took his hand; he clenched his fist. With her nails she pried up his little finger, revealing the edge of a leather packet.

  “Drink it.” He thrust her off. Swinging in his chair, he put his back to her and played the straw game.

  “Papa,” Stephen said, disappointed. “You figured it out.” Maria lifted her cup. The wine smelled sweetly of the love potion. Richard straightened, watching her intently. She took a long sip and held the cup out to him. “Ricardus Dominus,” she said.

  Forty-three

  They went to Mana’a. There Jordan was waiting for them, Roger’s redheaded bastard, and the news like a counterweight that Anne was with child. Maria made Jordan her page, although he was still too small to go around the palace by himself. With the boys and Jilly, she went to all her favorite places in Mana’a. Everybody remembered her. She loved to hear them call her name in the streets—“Mah-ee-yaa—” like a donkey braying, familiar as kinsmen.

  William came from Birnia to talk to Richard about the county, where he had been keeping order. While he showed Father Yvet his plans for the new front doors of the cathedral, Maria bribed the deformed beggars to parade on the steps, and after Father Yvet had exercised his sympathies and horror, she made them wash off their running sores and show him their false humps and wooden limbs.

  On Martinmas, they feasted on the beach, a hundred servants and a tun of wine and barrels of coals to keep the food hot. Everybody came who was of any consequence in Mana’a, and they covered the sand with their matrahs and little wooden tables. Richard kept wanting to leave, but everybody else, even Rahman, played or walked or napped in the sun. Jilly built a series of sandcastles. She carried Henry around and talked to him as if he were one of her dolls. Jordan crept into Maria’s lap and went to sleep.

  “Why can’t I just go home?” Richard said. “No one seems to care that I’m here.” He lay back on his elbow in the sand, his face turned into the sea breeze. Before them, the white beach ran off in a long curve toward the city.

  “Stay. Whom would I talk to?”

  The boys were galloping their horses along the beach. Father Yvet and Rahman walked side by side up from the road, deep in animated speech. Maria watched them, intrigued. They were similar men, not least in their attitude toward women. She wondered what they were talking about.

  The tide was going out. Jilly had fallen asleep. Henry sat carefully dribbling sand in her hair. Ismael and Stephen on their African mares galloped along the edge of the surf, head to head; Robert lagged behind.

  Richard nodded toward them. “Over a distance Robert would win.”

  Servants brought them wine. They talked about the cathedral. William had brought three men with him and many plans. Richard disliked all of them. Maria was trying to soften him. She stroked Jordan’s hair.

  “How could she send him away? He is adorable.”

  “Not everybody mothers the world. Sweet Infant Jesus. They are doing it again.” He got to his feet.

  Robert and Stephen were fighting in the surf. Their horses stampeded away through the scattered servants and children. In the foaming water the two boys tumbled locked together. One—she knew it was Robert—came up alone, thrusting his brother down beneath him. A wave broke over them. Ismael hauled Robert off by the arms.

  Maria rolled Jordan out of her lap and rose. “Where is he?” Suddenly Stephen’s dark head bobbed up in the sea, just beyond the breakers, and while she slackened in relief he swam ashore. Jordan, banged awake, began to cry. Sitting down again she took him in her arms.

  Ismael was holding Robert away from Stephen. The sharp crack of their voices came up the beach. The servants and guests had paused in their doings to watch. Even Father Yvet had stopped talking. Richard sat down again.

  Robert threw off Ismael’s hold. He jogged up toward his parents. Stephen followed him sullenly. Stopping before them, Robert looked at Richard’s expression and cried, “Why are you angry with me? It was his fault.” He thrust one arm out toward Stephen.

  “I don’t care,” Richard said. “You’ve ruined your mother’s feast. Go home.”

  Robert did not move. “But Papa, it isn’t—”

  Richard got to his feet, and the young man backed off a step. He was already Richard’s height, although the slope made him shorter by a head. Richard nodded to Ismael. “Lock him in his room.”

  Robert’s burning blue eyes turned to Maria. “I’m sorry, Mother.” He strode away, Ismael behind him.

  Drenched, Stephen waited on the sand slope below them. Richard sat down again.

  “Go pack.”

  Maria said, “Richard.”

  His head swiveled toward her. “Shut your mouth.”

  “Papa, may I take my books?”

  “Take whatever you want.”

  Stephen went off toward his horse, trailing its reins along the edge of the surf. In Maria’s arms Jordan moved warmly; his head rested against Maria’s shoulder.

  “I’ll give him one thing,” Richard said. His eyes followed Stephen. “He fights like a girl, but he never makes excuses.”

  Robert and Ismael had gone. Stephen galloped his brown mare away down the beach toward the city. Jilly brought the baby to Maria. The little girl stood in the wind, her hair tangled around her shoulders. She took Richard by the hand.

  “Where is Stephen going?”

  “Castelmaria,” Richard said. Standing up, he shouted in Saracen for his horse.

  ***

  Stephen was half in tears. He kissed Maria and Jilly a dozen times, until his sister began to cry as well. In the shadow of the wall, Rahman stood silent. Maria hugged Stephen tight. The sun had just set, but already cool darkness swept in from the bay.

  A groom led Stephen’s horse across the ward toward them. He was taking a little pack donkey as well, loaded with his books and clothes. He mounted.

  “Mama,” Stephen said. “Will he let me come home for Christmas? Mama, I don’t know anybody at Castelmaria.”

  “Sssh.” Maria gestured to the Saracen woman behind her. “You should go away for a while, I suppose, and be by yourself. Here.” The Saracen woman handed her the sword, and she passed it up to him.

  “Mama.” He took the sword in both hands and drew the blade halfway out of the scabbard. “What am I to do with this?”

  “If you are going to fight,” she said, “you might learn to do it well. Good-bye.”

  He saluted her and rode off. The Saracen woman whispered to Jilly. The child followed her back into the palace, her head turned to watch her brother go. Stephen waved to Rahman, standing against the wall. He led the little donkey out the gate.

  The full moon was rising. It would be cold, in the mountains. Probably he would sleep on the beach until morning. She hoped he did not ride all night. Rahman went into the palace. She stood in the dark, waiting a moment to calm herself, before she followed him.

  Half the lamps in the corridor were lit. Servants padded back and forth on their slippered feet, carrying the remnants of various suppers. Rahman went into the little hall and sat down at his chess game. When Maria came up beside him he pretended not to notice her.

  “Are you teaching my sons to hate each other?”


  Rahman moved the chessmen around the checkered board. His hands were knobbed with arthritis. Gray streaked his impeccable beard. At last, he said, “Lady, you misjudge me.”

  Maria said nothing. She picked up one of the ivory pieces and passed it from hand to hand; she had given him this set after Ismael and Robert broke the other.

  “I have no son,” Rahman said. “I love Stephen as if he were my son. Would I encourage him to fight the other boy, who is already a hero to your people? No. Stephen came to me too late, he was already Christian.”

  Surprised into another line of thought, she put the chessman down on the board again, and he took it at once to another square. She said, “Robert is a hero to some of your people.”

  “Perhaps. But not to me. Not to me.”

  She stood there a while longer, thinking over what he had said, and at last went downstairs and through the corridor into the Tower of the Cross. There, the windows all stood open, letting in the night breeze, and the lamps were still dark. Richard’s voice reached her when she was still on the stairs.

  Robert answered, reasonable, “I know, Papa, but I can’t help it, he’s like a flea, he bites and bites and I have to scratch him out.”

  “He’s your brother,” Richard said; his voice was much wilder than Robert’s. Maria went up to the door. Ismael saw her first and smiled at her, and she went into the twilit room.

  Robert was sitting on his bed. He caught her hand. “Mother. Why is everybody so harsh with me? I didn’t hurt him.”

  Richard was sitting with his chair rocked up on its hind legs, his hands fisted on his thighs. Maria faced him. “If they go on like this, we might as well go back to robbery.”

  Richard snorted. “Stephen is a priest. You like him because he is soft.”

  She throttled down the hot words in her throat. Ismael, in the back of the room, suddenly got up and came past her out the door. “Do as you please,” she said to Richard, and turned angrily to go after Ismael.

  Richard caught hold of her skirt. He brought his chair down square. “Robert, stay here tonight—I will leave the door open, do me one courtesy at least and stay anyway.” He towed Maria out to the corridor.