Great Maria (24 page)

The Saracen did not bow. Under his headcloth, his face was dark and lean; he was young enough to be beardless. Uncertain, she smiled at him and he smiled back enormously, his teeth white as a cat’s. Roger spoke to him in a clatter of Saracen.

“Stephen, you ride with Ismael. He is your father’s friend.”

Stephen had been standing behind Roger. He went forward, up between his mother’s horse and the Saracen’s. He gave her a quick worried glance. The Saracen boy helped him climb up behind him on his sock-footed chestnut mare. Maria’s eyes caught on the tassels and jewels of the Saracen bridle. She reined her horse around.

They cantered across the sandy grass to the road. Maria waved to Eleanor, in the wagon. The baby would not mind if she saw Richard now or later. She turned her mare toward the city and urged her into a gallop. Roger came up beside her. Beyond him, supple as a birch, Robert rode his horse along the edge of the sand.

“He rides like Richard,” she said.

Robert puffed himself up. Roger smiled. “We have been teaching him. He goes all over with us. When we stormed the citadel of Mana’a, he was there.”

Maria’s stomach contracted. “I thought the place surrendered—did you have to storm it?”

“Just the one citadel. That convinced the others to give up.” He pointed ahead of them. “Look.”

They were riding up the steep road to the top of the cliff. As she reached the height, Mana’a appeared before her. Blazing white in the sunlight, the spires and walls of the city spread across the far edge of the bay and back toward the mountains. Its sprawling outskirts covered the entire end of the plain. Its towers soared up above the thick fringe of Saracen trees, making dwarves of the people who hurried along the road at the foot of the wall.

Maria glanced at Stephen. One hand tight on the cantle of the saddle, he was leaning around Ismael to see ahead. Her eyes fastened again on the Saracen. Against her will she remembered the men who had raped and murdered Adela. Of course he would have been only a baby then. Ismael. She looked ahead toward the city again.

Roger veered toward her. “It took us ten days to sack it, Maria. There was even a harem. It was a feast.”

Ismael had overheard. She caught the resentful flash of his black eyes. So he was not Roger’s friend. She said, “Is the Pope’s man still here?”

“No. Richard tired of feeding him, he said. You must teach Richard manners, he still acts like a robber.” Looking beyond her, he spoke to Ismael. His glance shortened again to meet hers. “I told him you can teach Richard anything.” He smiled seraphically.

Maria made a noncommittal sound in her throat. The city gate loomed before them, three stories high. Richard’s white dragon banner flew from the peak, rustling in the breeze off the bay. She and Eleanor had made the banner for him in Iste. They trotted through the arch of the gate. The horses’ hoofs clattered in the narrow way.

Robert thrust his horse up between Maria and Roger. “There are six gates,” he said. “I’ve ridden both ways through every one. This one is called the Gate of the Mosque. That’s because there’s a mosque over there. A mosque is a Saracen church.”

They rode at a jog through a paved square, past a fountain and a little market. Robert supplied a stream of information about this and other wonders that they passed. Stephen, his cheeks apple-red, looked all around. He rode straight as a little king behind Ismael’s saddle. Ismael turned his deer-eyes on her.

“Good boy,” he said, pointing to Robert, and nodded, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Stephen. “Good boy.”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” She had never talked to a Saracen before; it confused her to try. The bay mare jogged forward into the noise and smells and traffic of the street.

She had thought it would be like Iste, like her village at Castelmaria, only bigger. Now she saw that this place was utterly different, and she grew frightened. The voices that struck her ears spoke a language that had always belonged to her enemies, their faces were enemies to her. The men wore sweeping white robes like Ismael’s. Even the beggars went armed. The few women she noticed were veiled in black shawls. She began to feel exposed. They all seemed to be staring at her, but when she forced herself to look calmly around they were hurrying incuriously along on their own business.

“Mama!”

She admired the things they pointed out to her, spoke, and pretended not to be frightened; it was silly to be frightened, here Richard was the master. The city’s beauty itself unnerved her, the sweep of white walls and towers, the streets wide and paved with stone, and everywhere flowers and trees, vivid color against the white, and the high shrill voices of Saracens.

They came at last to a high wall with a double gate. A Saracen porter came to raise the iron grid to let them pass through. Two knights sat dicing in the space between the two gates. They called to Roger, who waved.

They rode on through gardens massed with blossoming trees. Ahead, on a rise, three round towers stood. Roger led them to the right, up a short slope covered with fir trees, and between two of the towers into a ward. They reined in their horses. Maria braced her hands on her saddle pommel. Around her, covered with green vines, a low wall ran, connecting the three towers. She dismounted; instantly a Saracen servant came to take her horse.

“Come with me,” Roger said. He took her by the hand. “You will find nothing if you look for it in the proper place.” He led her through a small door. Her sons had disappeared. She hung back a little, uncertain.

Roger took her into the middle tower. The floors were made of tiles. Heavy carpets covered them, even here, where many people walked. The rooms were wide and bare of furniture. The walls were pierced with vast windows that cast patterns of light across the floor. A veiled woman padded by her, eyes downcast. Roger had spoken of a harem. The whole place was damned. They went up three steps and into a wide room, sun-filled, longer than it was wide. Roger said, “Wait here,” and left her totally alone.

She walked once around the room. Her palms were greasy with sweat. She wanted to go back to Castelmaria, to Birnia, anywhere she knew. The walls of this room were painted a glossy blue; over them, in slashes and loops and dots, ran some abstract yellow decoration. A screen cut off one part of the room. Behind it, on a low lacquered table, several dishes stood, as if waiting for someone to come have dinner. In the middle of it was a bowl of fruit. She took the top piece, not knowing what it was. Crossing to the nearer window, into the light, she broke the hard pod open with her hands and picked out one of the plump red fruits inside. It was sweet; she ate six.

The window opened out over the tops of trees; somehow, without climbing stairs, she had gotten into the second story of the tower. She leaned out to look into the gardens below her. Even the bright colors of the flowers were foreign to her. Two men were walking along the gravel terrace at the foot of the tower, almost beneath her. One wore a Saracen headcloth, but the other she knew. She picked one of the fruits from the pod in her hand and dropped it on him.

Richard wheeled, looking up. “Maria.”

“Roger said I could not find you,” she said.

“Roger should know you by now. Wait there.” He started off at a run; the Saracen hurried after him.

Maria leaned in the window. The air was perfumed from the garden below. The sun was going down, and the white walls of the towers were turning pink. She went back into the room. Under the other window, on a table with a checked top, were two troops of chessmen. Afraid to touch them, she stood restlessly beside the table.

Richard came in. Taking her chin in his hand he gave her a quick, bearded kiss. “I was beginning to think you were staying in Birnia until the baby learned to walk. Where is she?”

“Eleanor has her, back in the cart.”

The Saracen had come into the doorway behind him. She met the man’s eyes, and he looked at her coolly down his arched brown nose.

“Stay, Rahman,” Richard said. “We’ve been talking all day, you must be hungry.”

The Saracen lifted his head. His black beard streaked with gray, his djellaba heavy-hemmed with gold thread and little jewels, he reminded Maria of a statue of Moses. “You are gracious, lord, but I will leave you, the night is coming.” He spoke perfect French.

“Stay,” Richard said. “I insist.” He turned and spoke, and a servant came silently from nowhere and went out the door. “Come sit down.”

He towed Maria by the hand behind the latticework screen. Sitting down, he dragged her into the chair beside him. “Just be quiet,” he said softly, and lifted his voice. “Emir.”

The Saracen appeared in the space between the screen and the wall. “Lord, I fear to intrude upon you and your lady.”

“Sit. I mean your company to please her as it does me.”

Another servant came around the screen, and Richard spoke to him in Saracen. The Emir, gathering his robes around him in his beautiful brown hands, moved a chair aside and settled himself in its place on the carpet. His eyes brushed Maria’s and turned pointedly away. Her back muscles tightened; she did not like him.

Richard leaned back in the chair. Servants brought in trays of cut and candied fruit, bread, cake, and little cups of something thick and sweet. One carried off the unused chair. They went about entirely with their eyes downcast. She began to wonder how they found their way.

Richard said, “All the slaves here speak—”

“Slaves?” Maria said.

“Yes. They are all slaves.”

Maria glanced at the Emir and said nothing. She took a slice of fruit from the tray.

“They speak Saracen, which you will have to learn. I have found some women to help you who speak a little French.” He tipped the chair back on its hind legs. “Eat, Rahman.”

The Saracen bowed. His long fingers, coated with jewels, closed on a piece of bread. Richard watched him steadily.

“Who is Ismael?” Maria said.

The Emir’s head rose sharply. Richard brought his chair down on all fours. “A mountaineer—a good boy, the son of a friend of mine. You’ve met him?”

Maria swallowed a mouthful of sweet fruit. “Yes. He came with Roger.”

The Saracen cleared his throat, and she spun toward him. “What is wrong, my lord?”

He looked at Richard; the jewels on his hands flashed. “Among my people, lord, we do not share our food with women.”

Maria clenched her teeth. Her body burned with the insult. Richard said, “My wife is my counsellor, Emir. She’s as close to me as my brothers. I won’t disparage her for your sake.”

The Emir started a phrase in his own language. Richard said, “Speak French.”

The two men stared at one another. Maria rubbed her hands on her thighs. At first she was pleased that Richard should defend her, but when she saw how they watched each other she knew this was an old fight, and nothing to do with her. She ate more fruit and drank from one of the tiny cups. The sweet liquor did not quench her thirst. The Emir reached out for another cake, and his eyes moved from Richard’s.

“I am your servant, lady,” he said.

Maria kept her mouth shut, afraid of saying the wrong thing. In the hall, footsteps sounded, and Roger’s voice called, “Richard?”

Richard stood up and went out from behind the screen. His attention turned inward, the Emir glanced idly at Maria. She gave him such a look that he stiffened, his hand rising to his beard.

Robert and Stephen rushed in, their faces smudged with dirt, and surrounded her. “Mama,” Robert said. “Papa says I’m to show you everything here—”

“Sssh,” Maria said. “Don’t be so loud, the Emir Rahman will think us country people.” She stood up; the Saracen turned his head away from her. “Show me where we are to live.”

***

Richard stayed with his Saracen. Robert took her and Stephen on a bewildering course through the tower, first to a room in the ground story, where three fat men in trousers came out and bowed unctuously. Stephen drew back beside Maria, his hand sliding into her grasp, but Robert went straight up and spoke to the men in Saracen. The three men smiled and nodded and whacked each other gleefully in the ribs with their elbows. The boy strutted back to Maria.

“Mama, I’ve told them who you are, and about Stephen, and they will obey you now.” He nudged Stephen. “But not you as much as me, because I am Papa’s heir. We sleep here. Mama will sleep upstairs.”

Stephen swung toward her. “Mama—”

“Don’t be afraid. Robert will be with you.”

“And Uncle Roger,” Robert said. “He lives here too. Come on.” He ran up the corridor.

The three men bowed rapidly three or four times to her and hurried back into the room. One of them said, mimicking him, “Mama,” and they all laughed. Maria and Stephen trotted after the other boy. People—slaves, she knew, like the three fat men—were walking slowly along the walls lighting the lamps set in niches in the stone. The yellow light threw a pattern of curved shadows over the black and white tiles of the floor. Catching up with Robert, Maria laid her hand on his shoulder.

“You fought, your uncle said.”

“Oh, Mama. Not really. I was in the back, with Uncle William—we never even got through the gate until the citadel surrendered.” His voice brightened. “But I have a sword now.”

Stephen looked around her at him. “A real sword?”