Great Maria (30 page)

“Rahman,” Ismael murmured.

Maria stamped her foot. She tried to think of one of Richard’s long obscenities.

“If we tell Papa,” Robert said slowly, “do you think he would mind?”

“I would liefer he didn’t know.” She turned back to the window, hauled herself up onto the stone sill, and swung her legs and skirts inside. The two boys followed her. They struggled with the feather parasol, which was too large to fit through the window. Maria stood away, brushing her hair back off her cheeks, and Ismael worried the parasol at an angle through the window casement.

Robert had gone out of the room. Now he raced back through the doorway, skidded on the smooth carpetless floor, grabbed her to keep from falling, and almost brought her down too.

“Mama,” he cried. “Papa is coming back—I saw him riding up from the main gate.”

“Mother Mary.” The parasol was jammed in the window casement. “Ismael. Can you get our horses out of the gatehouse and take them to the stable? Hurry. Robert, go to the kitchen and bid them send our supper up to our room.” She pulled off her coif, stroked the stray wisps of her hair back, and jammed the dirty linen down on her head. Lifting her skirts in her fists, she ran through the next room to the staircase, up to the little hall, and out the door into the torchlit middle ward.

Richard was just dismounting from his horse. Rahman and Stephen stood before him, and she withdrew quietly behind the vines hanging from the porch eave. Richard picked up Stephen, who clung to him with both arms around his neck. A groom led off the horse. Rahman was talking in a voice syrupy with concern.

“They have not come back, lord. You see that it is deepest night. Your dear lady is…sometimes naïve. We fear some wickedness has befallen them in the city.”

Richard stared at him, his face perfectly blank. At last he shook his head. “Rahman, you are no match for my wife.” He strode past the Saracen, Stephen hugged in his arms. “Maria, what is going on?”

Maria walked out of the porch toward him. “You must be hungry,” she said. “I’ve waited so that we could sup together.”

“Mama!” Stephen tore himself out of Richard’s grasp. “Where did you go? I looked and looked for you—”

“Sssh,” Maria said. “You should be in bed.” She lifted her cheek for Richard’s kiss. Over his shoulder, Rahman’s eyes met hers; he looked as if he’d drunk vinegar.

“Rahman, please send Ahmed to me, when you have no further need for him.”

Rahman walked stiffly away. Richard said, “You had better tell me what this is all about.”

Maria followed him into the palace. Stephen held her fast by the hand. “Mama, I was afraid. Rahman said—” Maria bent and kissed him and patted his cheek.

“You should not listen to Rahman.”

“Why didn’t you let me go, too?” One hand holding her skirt, he ran along beside her while she caught up with Richard. He did not slacken his pace for them, and they had to trot to keep up.

“What have you done now?” he said.

“Nothing.”

They went through the antechamber and into the room with the star ceiling. She sent Stephen to light the lamps and helped Richard take off his leather jacket.

“Did you get what you wanted today?” she asked.

“Jesus.” His eyes moved slowly over her. “Look at your clothes. What have you been doing, climbing trees?”

“Robert and Ismael and I went riding.” There was a knock on the door. She crossed the room to let in the servants with their supper. While they laid out the dishes and made the table ready, she washed her face and hands. Her skirt was filthy from the citadel floor and the half-peeled orange had soaked her right sleeve with its sticky fragrant juice. Stephen sat on the bed before her.

“Mama, you should tell me where you are going. Rahman says—”

“Sssh. Have you eaten supper? Good. Go downstairs to bed. Robert will be there now.”

Stephen made a face. “You always play with Robert and not me.” He ran out of the room.

The servants had brought out the little table and set it up before the windows. Richard was sitting down to eat. “Maria, are you coming?” She took the carved backless chair beside him. The aroma of lamb and apricots made her mouth water.

“What is the Majlas al-Kerak?”

Richard chewed down what he had in his mouth. “Ismael’s people.” He broke a loaf of bread and sponged up the sauce on his plate. “The Brotherhood. Those are their strongholds on the tops of the mountains.” He lifted his hand, and a servant brought up another platter of meat.

Maria remembered Ismael’s talk of brothers. The lamb was delicious; the fruit sweetened the delicate meat. She let another man put more food on her plate. In the shadows, the master server, Dawud, stood keeping the service orderly.

“Ismael’s father is the chief judge,” Richard said. “The headman of the Brotherhood. There was a rival, but we killed him.”

Maria indicated the bread. A servant cut her a piece and spread butter on it. She said, “Who was it that captured you that time?”

“Ismael’s father.” He stopped long enough to taste from two platters, waved one away, and watched the man put slices of meat on his plate and spoon sauce over them. “They are like monks, the Brotherhood, save they marry—no one keeps anything for himself, they are all slaves to their Order.”

Maria finished the food on her plate. When she sat back, a servant brought her a clean dish and poured another wine for her. She called to an idle man to light more of the lamps.

“Are you one of the Brotherhood?”

Richard threw her a sharp glance. “I am the Emir of the Brotherhood.”

Maria laughed. The master server put a silver tray on the table and with a flourish lifted off the cover to reveal a boned stuffed fowl decorated with vegetable flowers. Deftly he sliced the bird into thick pieces. Richard wiped his hands on a cloth.

“What are you laughing at?”

She shook her head. “Whom did you meet with today?”

“The Sanhedrin of Mana’a. In full plumage.” He ate with great energy. “What were you laughing at?”

“God’s blood, Richard, you are persistent. Ismael and I had a talk today about heresy, that’s all. What did the Jews want?”

“What everybody wants. To rule me.” He licked his fingers and reached across the table for another slice of the chicken. The master server moved the platter out of his reach before he could help himself.

“He has Christian manners,” Maria said. “Doesn’t he, Dawud?”

The master server cleared his throat. His knife slipped, and he nearly dropped the piece of meat onto Richard’s plate. Maria pushed her cup around the table, thinking over what he had told her.

Richard said, “Everybody tells me to get rid of Rahman.”

Maria took a knife and spread butter on a piece of bread. Along the walls, in the half-dark, the servants stood suddenly motionless; their eyes shone with interest. Richard drank his wine. He got up and strolled around the room, waiting for Maria to finish so they could start on the next course.

“Stephen likes him,” she said. She pushed her plate away. “You have said he is useful to you.”

“I don’t need him,” Richard said. “Not anymore.”

The servants came forward to clear the table, their eyes shining. Before the meat was cold, Rahman would know everything they had said here. Obviously that was what Richard intended. She said, “Keep him. Who knows but the next man might be just as wicked and twice as clever?” They were bringing in a tray of cheeses, and she reached for the wine to take the taste of the meat from her tongue. “Do what you will.” Richard smiled at her. “I was thinking of it.”

***

In the morning, when she went into the little hall, Rahman’s chessmen were scattered over the carpet, all the heads lopped off. She stooped and picked up the little white Sultan. When she looked up, Rahman stood in the doorway.

“Who did this?” She held the chessman out toward him.

Rahman’s eyes lanced at her. “No. Not you.” He took the pieces from her hands. “It was that barbarian mountaineer.”

Maria did not speak. He fit the little Sultan’s head to its body, as if the break might suddenly heal. If Ismael had broken it, Robert had helped. Rahman went past her, toward the window and the sunlight.

She picked up the other pieces, carried them in her skirt to the table, and spilled them out on the checkered board. From this part of the room she could see through the window along Rahman’s line of sight. Outside, on the new wall, Richard was overseeing some work of measurement. Rahman put the broken Sultan almost apologetically down on the table.

“Do you play chess, lady?”

“I?” Startled, she blinked at him; she had never known him friendly before. “No—how would I learn that?”

“You would play good chess,” he said. “Someone should teach you.” His voice turned suddenly bitter. “It might keep you from men’s affairs.”

“Does it keep you from horse stealing?”

Rahman sniffed at her. He turned again toward the window.

“Why don’t you teach Richard?”

The Saracen’s head swiveled toward her. He let out an explosive snort. “He would ruin me. He already has.” He looked down his nose at her. “What will you tell him of this?” His hand indicated the chessmen.

Maria grunted. “Nothing. Why should I tell him?” Richard was short-tempered enough. The Saracen woman came slowly through the door, bent double so that Jilly could cling to her hands and walk before her. When she saw Maria, the baby went down on all fours and raced across the floor toward her.

Rahman left the room. Maria sat down on the floor to play with Jilly. Richard had refused to tell her what he was going to do with Rahman; obviously Rahman did not know yet either. She wondered if the Emir would dare show him the broken chess set. She knew the boys had done it because the little figures represented men. Jilly climbed on her, pulling off her coif and poking her fingers into Maria’s mouth.

“Mamama.”

“Mama,” Maria said. She pretended to bite the little girl’s thin fingers. She remembered Ceci doing this. Now when she thought of Ceci, the dead child had Jilly’s face, her soft brown hair and pale eyes. She bounced the baby into a high-pitched hicketing laughter.

“Mamamamama.”

Ismael had to be punished. All her tapestries were pictures. She clapped hands with Jilly, fighting down her will to spite Rahman. A servant came in to clean away the broken chessmen, and she told him to leave them there.

“Mama,” she said to the little girl. “Say Mama.”

***

Maria said good-bye to Ismael and Robert at the Emir’s Gate and rode back alone through the city. It was a bright, hot day. In the streets the people of Mana’a conducted their affairs and arguments at the top of their lungs. She rode toward the harbor, between the low hills like ruined mountains where the rich Saracens had their palaces. A chant of voices trailed her: “Mah-eee-ya!”

She stopped on a street corner to watch a sword swallower delight a crowd of children. Already she missed Robert and Ismael. Richard had sent them up to the mountains as a punishment, but they took it for a treat: they could not wait to go.

She moved off down the street again. She took her feet from the stirrups and let them dangle. On either side, the stalls of the astrologers and magic-makers were packed with people. The white mare stepped out into her cushioned jogtrot. A stream of merchants’ knaves raced up across her path, shrieking their seductions at her. When they did not draw her, they ran off to the next rich passer-by.

The huge square before the cathedral was jammed. The people haggled across the counters of the merchants’ stalls and fought to get up through the crowd. Towering over the Mana’an folk, the mailed knights of William’s escort waded up to the stalls that sold marchpane and sherbet. A groom sitting on the cathedral steps took the white mare. The one-armed beggar scurried toward her, but she waved him off and went past him into the porch. Richard would have given him something.

The iron-bound doors were open. Through them she could hear William’s voice complaining. She walked down the center aisle. Workmen were pulling down the Saracenic columns and the false walls. The air was foggy with dust.

Jilly on his shoulders, William appeared before her, saying, “Richard, I am too stupid to be a churchman.”

“Mama,” Jilly said, and stretched out her arms.

William lifted her down. “Maria, my sister.” Giving the child to her, he stooped and planted a wet kiss on her forehead. Maria put Jilly down on the floor. “I cannot understand it,” William said. “Roger gave me to think you were wasting away here.”

Richard grunted, behind her. “Roger indulges himself. Maria, she is eating the dirt.”

Maria took the stone from Jilly before she could stick it in her mouth and gave her a big ring of keys to play with. Richard said, “You’ll do very well, William. I’ll tell you what to do.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” William clasped his hands over his vast belly and heaved it up above his belt. “I know you too well, Richard, I don’t want to be your cat’s paw.”

Maria looked over her shoulder at her husband. He was sitting on a chunk of the stone altar rail, his hands on his knees. He said, “I am trying to remember once when I’ve used you as a cat’s paw.”