Tallie's Knight (32 page)

The man shrugged and
mumbled something in an incomprehensible dialect.

One of Carlotta’s
nephews translated.

“He says they used to
live up here but he hasn’t visited for a year or so. He doesn’t know what’s
happened to them. He’s been living in
Torino
.”

“Well, what about one
of the people in the village down there? Would any of them know?” Tallie said.

“Perhaps.”

They retraced their
steps down to the village, about five minutes’ walk from the ruined house. They
knocked at door after door, but no one wished to answer questions posed by a
strange young female, a foreign English female at that. But Tallie insisted
they try every house in the village. She had not come this far to give up
merely because people were suspicious of foreigners. Finally they came to a
house where, after some dialogue between a nephew and the householder, a connection
was established; it seemed to involve a great many cousins and in-laws.

Tallie was ushered
into a small, neat room which seemed to fulfil the function of kitchen, sitting
room and bedroom. A fire crackled and a pot of something pungent and aromatic
was bubbling over it. Fat brown sausages, flitches of ham and plaited strings
of garlic, onions and herbs hung in the rafters. The room was warm and cosy,
with colourful hand-woven rugs on the floor and the bed. Tallie sat on a crude
wooden bench. The woman of the house offered her an earthenware bowl filled to
the brim with creamy milk. She drank it thirstily.

“Thank you very much,
signora, that was delicious,” she said gratefully, wiping a rim of cream from
her upper lip. The woman smiled and bobbed her head in shy acknowledgement.
Then, with the nephews translating, Tallie began her questioning.

“Si, Marta, who lived
in the cottage up the hill, is dead.”

“No, he was not her
husband; he was her brother. Her husband died a long time ago —four years,
maybe five. Her brother? He went away. Nobody knows for certain. Maybe he went
to be a soldier.”

“A little boy? Si,
there was a little boy. Her miracolo bambino, she called him. She was nine
years barren, then, presto, one day she comes home from church with a little
baby.”

“Si, it would be
about seven years ago.”

“No, the baby had
blond hair. Marta was dark.”

“No, the little boy
did not die. Where? Who knows, signora! Not anyone around here.”

“With the brother?
No, he did not like the child. Called him little foreign bastard. Said he was
no relative of his.”

“God only knows,
signora. In times like these, many children lose their parents. Some run wild
in the hills —those who have no relatives, of course. Si, it is a tragedy, but
what can one do? One has enough trouble feeding one’s own without looking for
more.”

“What sort of boy,
signora? A bad boy, to be sure. Bad? Eh, steal my apples, ride my goats —Madonna
mia! But always merry, you understand —whistling, laughing. Si, signora —a bad,
merry little boy.”

“Si, of course. If I
hear anything… It has been a long time now… but, si, I will ask.”

“No, no, you are
welcome, signora. God go with you.”

“They come, Signor.
Your wife and my nephews, they come —see?” Carlotta gestured triumphantly.

Magnus strode to the
window and stared out, breathing heavily. It had been four days since he had
discovered Tallie had not gone to
Turin
.
Four days of ever-increasing anxiety. Four days in which he had discovered that
his wife was indeed a liar.

“Yes, I can see her,”
he growled. He had barely slept the past few nights, and now, to see her coming
down the street unharmed and apparently perfectly content. He’d begun to
believe he would never see her again, and now… Relief, after days and nights of
the most intense anxiety, turned to rage. How dared she arrive as if nothing in
the world were wrong? As if she hadn’t just run off, willy-nilly, with a bunch
of foreigners, leaving her sick husband with a demented old priest? Pretending
she’d gone to visit her mother’s grave. Then just to bounce casually in, for
all the world as if she’d been off on a picnic! He’d teach her a lesson. One
she’d never forget.

He stalked to a
window facing the opposite side of the house and glowered out of it, at the
mountains in the distance. She wasn’t going to think he’d be waiting for her,
arms outstretched. Behind him the door opened. Magnus didn’t move; he gazed out
of the window. There was a short silence.

“M… Magnus?” she said
tremulously.

“Madam?” he said
coldly, turning at last to face her. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

She opened her mouth
to answer him, but not a sound came out. Her lower lip trembled then suddenly
her face crumpled.

“Oh Magnus,” and ran
across the room and hurled herself into his open arms.

He gathered her hard
—a dry lump working in his throat. She clung to him —hard— as she had when she’d
been about to be taken away by the bandits, as if she would never let him go.
Her head was buried in the hollow between his shoulder against his jaw. He
could feel the chill on her skin from the biting outside, smell the faint tang
of wood smoke in her hair and the lingering fragrance of the lavender soap that
Carlotta had given her. He laid his face against her hair and inhaled deep, tightening
his hold around her quivering body. She was peeping; he could feel the damp
warmth of her tears on his skin. After a moment he became aware of Carlotta
beaming benevolently upon them, and with a silent oath he swung his wife into
his arms is and carried her up to the bedroom.

He wanted to drop her
onto the bed and fling himself down beside her and tumble her until she knew
where she belonged, who she belonged with.

He forced himself to
set her carefully on her feet, then released her and stepped back. Her face was
awash with tears.

Magnus groped in his
pocket and handed her a handkerchief. He wanted to dry her tears himself or,
better still, kiss them away. He did not let himself move a single step towards
her. If he did, he would be lost for ever, that much he knew. As it was he was
tithe grip of an emotional turmoil he had never dreamt was possible. He could
not believe how weak and irresolute he felt, how strong was the impulse just to
take her in his arms and forget the past week. Forgive and forget. Like his
fatter. Forgive the fact that she had lied to him.

Forget that she had
gone off into the mountains without his knowing or permission. No, he was weak,
but he would make himself strong. He would neither forgive nor forget.

He paced over to the
window and stood, coolly looking out, staring at the mountains into which she
had disappeared, forcing down the overwhelming feelings of hurt, humiliation
and betrayal, replacing them with cold anger. He waited until the sobbing had
stopped, then turned and repeated his question in a bitter, icy voice.

“Well, madam, I asked
you before and I will repeat the question. Did you find what you were looking
for? Did you find your mother’s grave?”

She looked up at him
with drenched, bewildered eyes and nodded.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“And once you found
it, you came straight back here?”

She hesitated, paled,
scrubbed at her face, dropped her lashes and nodded.

“Liar!” he roared,
slamming his fist against the wall.

She flinched, and
regarded him with huge, wary eyes.

“You found your
mother’s grave eight days ago! I saw her grave myself and spoke to the priest
about you. Eight days, madam! Eight days! And what did you do in those eight
days, eh?”

She opened her mouth,
then shut it again, biting nervously on her lower lip in a manner that drove
him wild. He slammed his fist against the wall again and swore.

“Shall I tell you
what you did in those eight days —shall I? You betrayed me, madam. Betrayed the
name you took on the day we were wed. Broke the vows you made before God and
man.”

She flinched again.

“B… betrayed your
name? So… so you know? Carlotta told you?”

He snorted.

“No, to be sure she
did not. You women stick together in your deceptions.”

“So how—?”

“Do you think I am a
fool, madam? I worked it out for myself.”

She frowned, puzzled,
“But how could you?”

He snorted again.

“Betrayal is
something I have been acquainted with all my life. I believe I am an expert on
it.”

“Betrayal… I was
worried you might see it in those terms.” She sighed, and sat on the bed.

“Worried I might see
it in those terms?” he repeated incredulously.

“Pray, how else would
I see it?” He paced furiously around the room.

“I thought… hoped you
might be different… only—”

“And I hoped… believed
you were different, madam,” he said bitterly. “But now I see you are just like
all the rest.”

“All the rest of
whom?” She stared at him, apparently bewildered.

And he had convinced
himself she was no actress! Hah!

“Well, I hope you
learnt your lesson. So, did he weary of your charms after only a week?”

“Weary of my charms?
What charms? Who are you talking about?”

Her wide-eyed look of
confusion and innocence enraged him. He strode to the bed, grabbed her by the
shoulders, yanked her upright and shook her in fury.

“That blasted
green-eyed Irishman, of course! Do you take me for a complete fool?” He glared
down at her, his rage compounded by the knowledge that he still desired her.

There was a long
pause as they stared at each other, then suddenly her face flooded with dawning
comprehension. Her mouth dropped open.

“You think I betrayed
you… with that bandit?” she gasped.

“I know it,” he
responded coldly.

They stared into each
other’s eyes for a long moment. Abruptly she flung her arms up, breaking his
grip on her shoulders. She thrust at his chest —hard— pushing him away, and
stepped back, panting, hurt, shock and anger in her eyes.

“You think I betrayed
you!” She side-stepped him and marched to the other side of the room. Her hands
shaking, she picked up an ornament on the shelf and stared blankly at it for a
moment, her mouth working.

Setting the ornament
down with a snap, she turned.

“How dare you? Oh,
how dare you say such a thing!” Her chest was heaving as she fought to control
herself. “As if I would ever, ever betray you with another man!”

She took several
deep, shuddery breaths.

“Oh! I cannot believe
you could think such a thing of me!” She began to pace around the room.

Magnus watched
suspiciously. Was this another very good act? It didn’t feel like it.

She continued her
pacing, then suddenly whirled on him.

“And with that… that
bandit! Ooh!” she raged.

“So you deny it?” he
said coldly.

“Deny it? Deny it?”
She snatched the ornament off the shelf and hurled it at him. He ducked, and it
shattered against the wall behind him.

“No, I don’t deny it
—I don’t have to deny anything— there is nothing to deny!” she stormed. “I
cannot believe you would even think such a thing.”

His eyes narrowed.

“So you did not go to
meet that bandit?”

He ducked as another
ornament was hurled at his head.

Magnus suddenly felt
very uncertain of his ground. He’d never seen her like this before. He could
not believe it was an act. The cold knot that had lodged in his chest slowly
started to loosen.

“So where did you get
to in those eight days?” he said slowly.

“None of your
business,” she snapped.

“It is my business. I
am your husband. Where you go concerns me.”

“Oh, does it indeed?
And you wish me to account for every moment, do you? Well, I am sorry to
disoblige you, but I will not explain my every movement to a horrid, suspicious
beast who believes I am… I am…” She sniffed, and blew her nose defiantly into
his handkerchief. “Well, from now on, if you cannot find me you will just have
to assume I am off cavorting with a lover, preferably some unshaven criminal.”

Her voice quivered
with hurt and outrage.

Magnus stared at her.
He could not bring himself to believe that she was not completely and utterly
genuine. She had not betrayed him. No one could be that skilled an actress.
Relief swamped him. He took several steps towards her. She snatched another
ornament off the shelf and held it up in an unmistakable threat.

“I believe Carlotta’s
late husband gave that to her on their last wedding anniversary,” he murmured
mendaciously.

She glanced at it in
sudden shock and guiltily bit her lip. Hesitantly she put the ornament down. He
took another step towards her and she moved instantly away.

“Don’t come near me,
Magnus,” she warned. She was like a wary woodland creature, mistrustful, poised
to run.

Magnus took a deep
breath. There was no alternative. He would have to do what he had sworn he
would never do. Break the rule of a lifetime.

“I thought… I was—”
He dashed his hand through his hair and took another deep breath. “I was
worried about you, and then when I went to that church and found you had been
there days before…” He found it hard to meet her eyes and had to force himself
to look at her. “I didn’t know where you were. I only knew you weren’t with me
—where you belong.”

He walked over to the
window and stood there, fiddling with a fringed curtain. He turned and met her
eyes, his face sombre and vulnerable.

“I was… I was
jealous. I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Tallie’s lip
quivered. Her eyes fixed him with painful intensity, searching for the truth in
his face.

The moment stretched,
interminably. Magnus could hear nothing but the thudding of the heart in his
chest and the thin, high cry of some far-off bird soaring on the wind. He had
accused her of the vilest conduct. Would she, could she forgive him? Or forget?
He thought he might be able to forgive her, in similar circumstances, but
doubted whether he could ever forget. Trust, once shattered, was not easily mended.
Who understood that better than he?