Risa, page 17
It seemed he had been right.
Pacis sat on one of the stools, her hands in her lap. She would not look at him. “What I did was cruel.”
“No, not cruel.” The words were out of Gawain’s mouth before he could stop them. How could he say that? After all the pain, after all the times he tried and failed to reclaim what he had known with another woman in her place. But he could smell the sandalwood now, as if from a long ago dream, and it told him there was so much more to remember besides that last night. What had come after, was that her fault? Didn’t the blame lie with him?
What Pacis saw in his face, Gawain could not tell. He had moved closer to her, but he did not know when that had happened. She could reach out now and take his hand in hers. Her fingers were warm, the skin of her palms smooth and soft. Not as soft as the skin at the hollow of her throat. Gawain suddenly felt very tired. The act of standing seemed a great effort. He wanted to kneel, to lean close and rest his head against her, to feel her arms holding him close in safety and promise, as it had been once, before.
It took all his strength to pull his hand from hers and step away. He had none left to form any conciliatory words.
“I knew you loved me, and I knew that love to be sincere, and I did what I did despite that.”
Do not look at her. Do not look into those deep eyes that were so merry, that shone so brightly as they teased the boy you were. Do not believe. Do not remember all the other nights, all the other shadows. “There was a time I would have given all I had to hear those words from you, Pacis.”
“I was raw as you, and far more frightened. I had never met my husband until the wedding day, and when he never came to me more than to consummate the vows …” Her voice caught hard in her throat, and despite himself, Gawain looked again at her to see she had bowed her head. “You neither need nor want to know any of this, I am certain. I only wanted you to know that I am truly sorry.”
Do not go closer. Leave here. “Thank you, Pacis.”
The silence fell so thick and so deep, Gawain could hear Pacis’s breathing, low and urgent, as if she were trying not to cry.
A lock of hair slipped out from under her veil and fell across her cheek. She pushed it back impatiently. It was a small gesture, an everyday thing. It was not until he saw it that Gawain realized he’d seen her do that very thing a hundred times before, and remembered that he used to dote on it.
“Lady Risa is very beautiful.”
To hear Risa spoken of by Pacis wrenched Gawain’s thoughts painfully from his memories. Pacis lifted her head, now looking at him closely, examining him for signs of what? Love? Falsehood?
“Is she your new love?”
Gawain said nothing, in part because he did not wish to speak of Risa in front of Pacis. In part because in truth, he did not know.
But Pacis was not content to have silence as her answer. She stood and walked toward him, until she was close enough that he could feel the warmth from her skin and see how her hands trembled. “Gawain, what am I to you now?”
Memory held him. Memory turned away his head. “A dream.”
“To me you are a wish. A wish of what I could have done, had I been brave. Had I been of truer stuff than what I am.”
She kissed him, and he smelled the scent of sandalwood in her hair. The caress of her mouth on his melted memory into desire. He tried to think of what she had done to him, tried to think of Risa, tried to think of honor, but it was as if past and future and the whole wide world had fled, and there was nothing for him to do but wrap his arms around her and draw her close, answering her kiss with his own.
“Once, Gawain,” she said when they parted at last. “That is all I ask. Let me dream the dream that is you one more time.”
Forgive me. Gawain could not have said whether the thought was to God, or Risa or his younger self. He lowered his head to kiss Pacis again and fall into her dream.
Chapter Nine
Rygehil stood before his wife’s door and wondered if he had the courage to go inside. He had not seen Jocosa since returning from his ill-fated search for Risa. She had stood in the yard, then, watching him and the men approach with Whitcomb’s desecrated body tied to one of the ponies. She had not even let him speak or explain. White as a ghost, she had simply retreated to her private chamber. Her ladies came and went, but they said she sat like a statue, speaking little and eating less.
She is distraught and has every right to be, Rygehil told himself sitting at board alone, drinking too much beer, as had become his sorry habit. Her heart will resolve itself, given time.
But it did not, not that day, or the next, or the next. At last, drink could no longer drown Rygehil’s distress, nor cloud his mind to the fact that the whole of his hall went about with sad and frightened faces. Murder had been done, and no justice was sought, not even revenge. Risa was gone, God alone knew where and no search, no inquiry followed. Their lady was sick and secluded. Their lord was dissipated. Those set to rule their land and lives were crumbling beneath the weight of their human failings, and there was nothing at all they could do. It was no wonder their hearts were growing dark with worry.
That, as much as anything drove him to his wife’s door. He might have lost Jocosa’s love (God no, please no), but he still had his duty. He had learned that much at his father’s side. The barwn had a duty to the land and to the people. His word was justice, so he must act justly. His nature and title were noble, so he must act as nobility demanded.
It had been easier once.
He knocked at the door. “Jocosa,” he called. “Will you let me in?”
There was a long silence. He knocked again. “Jocosa, I would speak with you. Please, let me in.”
Slowly, the door opened. Aeldra, Risa’s woman, stood there. Aeldra had aged ten years in the past three days, and had not left Jocosa’s side for more than a score of breaths.
“She says she does not wish to see you, my lord,” said Aeldra. Despite those words, she let the door swing open so that Rygehil could enter the chamber.
Jocosa sat by her embroidery frame, her other two ladies, ancient Una and dovelike Maia, standing helplessly behind her. Her hands held neither thread nor needle. Instead, they clutched an ivory comb carved with a fanciful image of a whale.
She had loved her daughter’s red-gold hair. More times than he could count he had seen Risa sitting at her mother’s feet so Jocosa could lovingly tease out each tangle and snarl while Risa sang or recited some piece of poetry. Risa’s wild rambles and love of hunting were a trial to Jocosa, but she always smiled as she helped set the girl’s beautiful waterfall of tresses in order, never minding the time it took. On feast days, she always braided Risa’s hair herself, weaving in bright ribbons or silver threads, then setting it off with baubles of enameled bronze, or sprigs of fresh flowers.
She knew he was there. She must, even though she gave no sign.
“Leave us,” he said to the women. He did not know what would follow, but whatever it might be, he did not want other ears to hear it.
The waiting women curtseyed and did as they were told. He thought he saw relief on their faces, except for Una. In Una he saw words unspoken and anger long withheld. But she, too, knew place and duty, and left as silently as the others.
Alone with his wife for the first time in days, Rygehil groped for words. To his surprise, Jocosa spoke first.
“Risa told me a story once,” she said. “I don’t know where she learned it. It was of a girl whose mother had died when she was born. The girl grew to be so like the mother that her father decided he would take her to wife, and he would not be gainsaid. The girl wept over her mother’s grave, and her mother’s ghost sent her a dress of deerskin. Thus disguised, she ran away and took service in the hall of a great chieftain. She did the dirtiest tasks and was the butt of all scorn. But when the feasting days came and the hall doors were opened, she secretly threw off her deerskins and appeared there, the fairest of all maidens, so that the chief’s son fell sick with love of her. …” Her words trailed away. “Perhaps I should have died when Risa was born so that I might have given her such a disguise to save her from her father.”
There was no answer he could make to that. He could only speak plainly. It was what he had come here to do. “Jocosa, tell me what I must do to have you back again. I cannot bear this.”
She did not look up. She just stared at the comb, touching its carving as if it were a holy relic.
“You must come down to the table. It is not healthy for you to stay shut up here.” He paused. “She is not returning to us, Jocosa. We must let her go and pray God to keep her soul pure.”
Jocosa stirred a little at that, but it was only to turn her face away. “Leave me, Rygehil. I do not want to hear you anymore.”
Those words, spoken in so rigid a tone, struck him a blow such as no man ever had. All strength of heart and will failed him and Rygehil fell to his knees. Still Jocosa did not look toward him. She stared at the tapestry covering the wall, the beautiful weaving of a merry summer’s day. He knew she saw none of it.
Desperate, he snatched up her hand, holding it hard, although she struggled to pull free. You will hear me! cried his breaking heart. “Jocosa, will you not even try to understand? You were dying! Should I have let you? Should I have robbed us of our life together?”
Those words turned her gaze fully upon him, and he thought the weight of her grievous pain would crush the breath from his body. “What was it you think you did instead?”
Rygehil stood, but he did not feel as if he willed himself to do so. He stood outside his own body and watched it, a faintly curious witness to how it traversed the floor and laid its hand on the door latch. Distantly, he heard himself say. “My father was right. I should not have married you. Love is too inconstant a thing on which to build a life.”
“How strange,” said Jocosa icily. “My mother said the same.”
“Will you come down, Jocosa?” he asked, as if it was a form of courtesy that had to be observed.
“No.”
Still outside himself, he drifted down the corridor and down the stairs. He could not see properly. Around him, the hall seemed to have turned shades of grey and red. All forms were indistinct and fragmented.
This is how it is within my heart, he mused. It has cracked apart and now the whole world follows suit.
“My lord, my lord.” Hobden hurried up to Rygehil, his wispy beard sticking out in every direction, as if some outside force had tried to pluck out each hair individually. Rygehil had appointed no new steward to replace Whitcomb. Hobden had been taking the duties upon himself, because the tasks stubbornly remained, not knowing there was no hand to complete them.
Rygehil turned his head, but did not seem to have breath or mindfulness to speak.
“A man is come to see you, my lord.” Hobden tugged at his beard, disordering it even further. “He will not give his name, but neither will he depart until he has seen you. He says you know him, Lord. He says you and he have unfinished business.”
I ought to know. Rygehil drifted toward the hall. I ought to know what is happening.
A man in black robes stood before Rygehil’s carved chair, his dark eyes hooded, as if only moments had passed since Rygehil had stood before him in the ruins of the Roman fortress and bargained his life away. The world snapped back into place with painful swiftness. Rage burned through his blood, seizing up the pieces of his heart.
“You knew.” You heard us, with your black arts, you demon. You heard my wife send me away.
The sorcerer raised his dark brows. “What is it you think I needed to know?”
Rygehil became aware of Hobden hovering at his elbow. He dismissed the man with a wave, and Hobden seemed glad to go.
Rygehil dropped himself into his seat and without any moment of reflection, reached for the pitcher of ale. He filled his cup without offering any to his guest. To collect myself, he thought as he drank. Then he said, “That Risa has fled. Well, your trip is wasted. I know not where she has gone.”
“But I do.”
Rygehil stared at Euberacon. The sorcerer’s dark eyes reflected nothing. Even the firelight was absorbed into the black irises.
He drained his cup and filled it again. “Then why do you come here?”
“Our bargain stipulated you would give her to me.” He spoke pleasantly, as if the matter was nothing more than a sow or a sheep. “It is from your hands I will receive her, or your wife’s life is mine.”
Rygehil looked back over his shoulder toward the staircase. Jocosa should be busy in the hall, attending to the thousand tasks that were the unending work of a true lady. Never once had his home lacked for comfort or care. Never were the sick left to fend for themselves. Never were his people left ragged or unheard. Despite the tragedy of two lost sons, despite a wild daughter and a drunkard husband never did her will to do what was right and necessary flag within her. Never, despite all, was he left to doubt her love. From the first, she had loved him with heart’s true love such as even Risa’s poets did not understand. It was he who had wasted it. He who had struck that love its killing blow.
“No,” he said. “You may have me in her place.”
The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed in scorn. “You are no good to me. Your daughter or your wife. Choose.”
“No.” Rygehil set his cup down. He climbed to his feet and crossed the stones to stand before the sorcerer. There was no fear left in him, no rage, no pain. There was only duty, and the debt he owed his wife for a lifetime’s worth of failure. “If it is God’s will Jocosa should die, then so be it, but I will have no more hand in this.”
“Have you learned some measure of courage then, in all these years?” Euberacon pursed his lips, like a man might when judging the quality of goods he meant to barter for.
“God grant that I have.” Rygehil realized he meant that with all his wounded heart. “Now, get you from my lands before I take you up and have you hanged for the murder of a good man.”
“Or perhaps you only have nothing left of value to you to lose.” The sorcerer went on as if Rygehil had not spoken. “Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps you will be of use yet.”
Rygehil barked out a laugh, sharp and bitter. “My dealings with you have cost me all that I love. What makes you think I would go on with them?”
“A son,” said Euberacon.
The world froze in place. There was no motion, no sound save for a strange ringing in his ears.
“What?” Rygehil was finally able to force the word out.
“You lost two sons to fever when they were babes, did you not? I can restore one to you.”
Rygehil turned away. His ears still rang. Much more than ale robbed him of his balance. He gripped the arms of his chair to keep his feet. “You lie,” he said without looking back. He could not stand to look, not yet.
“You know better than that.”
Do not listen. You must not hear. Rygehil squeezed his eyes shut. “You are the devil sent to tempt me, I will not heed you.”
“A son, Lord Rygehil. An heir. A future.” In his private darkness, there was nothing else but the maelstrom of his thoughts, and the sorcerer’s steady voice. “What future can your daughter bring you now? She has already tainted her name by deserting her father’s home. Shall I tell you what company she fell into? She travels alone with a man from the high king’s court.”
His eyes snapped open. “Not Risa.”
“She is alone, without protector, without family. What future will she have left when that journey is done? You are not an innocent, Rygehil. You know the ways of men and the prices they demand for their good will. What do you think will happen?”
Risa. Images filled his mind. Risa sitting at her mother’s feet, singing old songs. Risa coming into the hall at Whitcomb’s side, her eyes and cheeks bright with exercise, a brace of partridge on a string.
Risa standing before him demanding to know why she was forbidden to marry.
“This is my fault,” Rygehil whispered.
“Perhaps. But the fault is not fatal. All you need do is fetch her back. Give her to me, and at the next full moon, you will find your son, an infant still, healthy and strong in the cradle you set out for him.”
Rygehil made himself stand. With a force of will and nerve he had never needed even while riding into battle, he made himself face the sorcerer. “You say you know where she is.” His voice was hoarse. His mind was teetering on the edge of a precipice. “Why do you not take her yourself?”
A thin smile flickered across Euberacon’s face. “Ah, but then perhaps you change your mind, and you go to your king and you say, ‘my daughter was stolen from me.’ No.” He shook his head once. “The king’s champion will see you reclaim your daughter yourself.”
Rygehil had thought he was resolved. He had made his peace with God and was ready to die, ready to prove to Jocosa with that act that he was still worthy of love. He was done with this devil. But now … A son. He swayed on his feet. A future that had been lost, buried in an infant’s grave, opened before him again. A little one to heal Jocosa’s heart now that Risa was lost. A miracle, such as God wrought for Sarah and Abraham when Sarah was too old to bear children …
What would Jocosa say? No. She was already broken. But this would have the healing of her, this last secret. He could give Jocosa another one she could love without reservation as she could no longer love him. In this, he could give her back her heart, and perhaps, just perhaps they could both live to see their love that had been cut down grow again.
Jocosa’s love. It was all that he wanted. It was worth any bargain with any devil.
“Very well,” said Rygehil. The world ceased to sway and his body was once more steady and strong and under his command. He would have Jocosa’s love again. Risa had been lost as soon as she had chosen to run. “Where is my daughter?”
Kerra was in the Saxon camp when the men returned from the second day of battle before the walls of Pen Marhas. They were exhausted and bedraggled, covered in mud and blood. The wounded groaned as they limped to the fires, leaning hard on the shoulders of their comrades. Some were tied to the backs of horses that were as weary and as gorespattered as their masters. Even Wulfweard, for whom battle was a form of ecstasy, trudged on heavy feet, his bronze helmet dangling from his hand. A long, ragged tear ran down one cheek. The blood dried darkly against skin and beard.
