"Where will you go?" she asked him.
He thought again of his father. "Where do jongleurs tell their tales?" he asked.
"On the pilgrim road to Santiago de Compostela."
"Do you think the jongleurs might remember Jack Shareburg?"
"They might. Tell them he looked like you."
"Where's Compostela?"
"In Spain."
"Then I'm going to Spain."
"It's a long way, Jack."
"I've got time."
She put her arms around him and hugged him tight. He wondered how many times she had done that in the last eighteen years, comforting him over a grazed knee, a lost toy, a boyish disappointment--and now a grief that was all too grown-up. He thought of the things she had done, from raising him in the forest to getting him out of the punishment cell. She had always been willing to fight like a cat for her son. It hurt to leave her.
She let him go, and he swung up onto the horse.
He looked back at Kingsbridge. It had been a sleepy village with an old, tumbledown cathedral when he first came here. He had set fire to that old cathedral, although not a soul knew it but him. Now Kingsbridge was a busy, self-important little town. Well, there were other towns. It was a wrench to go, but he was on the edge of the unknown, about to embark on an adventure, and that eased the pain of leaving everything he loved.
Mother said: "Come back, one day, please, Jack."
"I'll come back."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"If you run out of money before you find work, sell the horse, not the tools," she said.
"I love you, Mother," he said.
Her eyes overflowed. "Take care of yourself, my son."
He kicked the horse, and it walked away. He turned and waved. She waved back. Then he kicked it into a trot, and after that he did not look back.
Richard came home just in time for the wedding.
King Stephen had generously given him two days' leave, he explained. The king's army was at Oxford, laying siege to the castle, where they had Maud trapped, so there was nothing much for the knights to do. "I couldn't miss my sister's wedding day," Richard said, and Aliena sourly thought: You just want to make dead sure the deed is done, so that you get what Alfred has promised you.
Still, she was glad he was there to walk her to the church and give her away. Otherwise she would have had nobody.
She put on a new linen undershirt and a white dress in the latest style. There was not much she could do with her mutilated hair, but she twisted the longest parts into plaits and bound them in fashionable white silk sheaths. A neighbor loaned her a looking-glass. She was pale, and her eyes showed that she had spent a sleepless night. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. Richard watched her. He wore a faintly sheepish look, as if he felt guilty, and he fidgeted restlessly. Perhaps he was afraid she would call the whole thing off at the last minute.
There were moments when she was sorely tempted to do just that. She imagined herself and Jack walking away from Kingsbridge hand in hand, to start a new life somewhere else, a simple life of straightforward honest work, free from the chains of old vows and dead parents. But it was a foolish dream. She could never be happy if she abandoned her brother.
When she reached that conclusion, she imagined going down to the river and throwing herself in, and she saw her limp body, in a waterlogged wedding dress, drifting downstream, face up, with her hair floating around her head; and then she realized that marriage to Alfred was better than that, and she came back to where she started, regarding the marriage as the best available solution to most of her troubles.
How Jack would pour scorn on that kind of thinking. The church bell tolled.
Aliena stood up.
She had never visualized her wedding day this way. When she had thought about it, as a girl, she had imagined herself on her father's arm, walking from the castle keep across the drawbridge to the chapel in the lower courtyard, with Papa's knights and men-at-arms, servants and tenants packed into the castle precincts to cheer and wish her well. The young man waiting in the chapel had always been rather indistinct in this daydream, but she knew that he adored her and made her laugh and she thought he was wonderful. Well. Nothing in her life had turned out the way she expected. Richard held the door of the little one-room house and she went out into the street.
To her surprise, some of the neighbors were waiting outside their doors to see her go by. Several people called out "God bless you" and "Good luck!" as she emerged. She felt terribly grateful to them. She was showered with corn as she walked up the street. Corn was for fertility. She would have babies, and they would love her.
The parish church was on the far side of town, in the wealthy quarter, where she would be living from tonight. They walked past the monastery. The monks would be holding their service in the crypt right now, but Prior Philip had promised to put in an appearance at the wedding feast and bless the happy couple. Aliena hoped he would make it. He had been an important force in her life, ever since the day, six years ago, when he had bought her wool at Winchester.
They arrived at the new church, built by Alfred with help from Tom. There was a crowd outside. The wedding would take place in the porch, in English; then there would be a Latin mass afterward inside the church. Everyone who worked for Alfred was there, and so were most of the people who had done weaving for Aliena in the old days. They all cheered when Aliena arrived.
Alfred was waiting with his sister, Martha, and one of his masons, Dan. Alfred was wearing a new scarlet tunic and clean boots. He had long, gleaming dark hair like Ellen's. Aliena realized that Ellen was not here. She was disappointed. She was about to ask Martha where her stepmother was, when the priest came out and the service began.
Aliena reflected that her life had been set on a new course six years ago when she had made a vow to her father, and now a fresh era was beginning with another vow to a man. She rarely did anything for herself. She had made a shocking exception this morning, with Jack. When she recalled what she had done she could hardly believe it. It seemed like a dream, or one of Jack's fanciful tales, something that had no connection with real life. She would never tell a soul. It would be a lovely secret she would hug to herself, and remember once in a while, like a miser counting a hidden hoard in the dead of night.
They were coming to the vows. On the priest's cue, Aliena said: "Alfred the son of Tom Builder, I take you as my husband, and swear to be faithful always." When she had said that she wanted to cry.
Alfred made his vow next. There was a ripple of noise on the outskirts of the crowd as he spoke, and one or two people looked behind. Aliena caught Martha's eye, and Martha whispered: "It's Ellen."
The priest frowned crossly and said: "Alfred and Aliena are now married in the eyes of God, and may the blessing--"
He never finished the sentence. A loud voice rang out from behind Aliena: "I curse this wedding!"
It was Ellen.
A gasp of horror went up from the congregation.
The priest tried to continue. "And may the blessing--" Then he stopped, paled, and made the sign of the cross.
Aliena turned around. Ellen was standing behind her. The crowd had shrunk back from her. She was holding a live cockerel in one hand and a long knife in the other. There was blood on the knife, and blood spurting from the severed neck of the bird. "I curse this marriage with sorrow," she said, and her words chilled Aliena's heart. "I curse this marriage with barrenness," she said. "I curse it with bitterness, and hatred, and bereavement, and regret. I curse it with impotence." As she said the word impotence she threw the bloody cockerel up into the air. Several people screamed and cowered back. Aliena stood rooted to the spot. The cock flew through the air, spraying blood, and landed on Alfred. He jumped back, terrified. The grisly object flopped on the ground, still bleeding.
When everyone looked up, Ellen was gone.
Martha had put clean linen sheets and a new wool blanket on the bed, the g
reat feather bed that had belonged to Ellen and Tom and was now to be Alfred's and Aliena's. Ellen had not been seen since the wedding. The feast had been a subdued affair, like a picnic on a cold day, with everyone grimly going through the motions of eating and drinking because there was nothing else to do. The guests had all left at sundown, without any of the usual coarse jokes about the newlyweds' first night. Martha was now in her own little bed in the other room. Richard had returned to Aliena's little house, which would now be his.
Alfred was talking of building a stone house for them next summer. He had been boasting about it to Richard during the feast. "It will have a bedchamber, and a hall, and an undercroft," he had said. "When John Silversmith's wife sees it she'll want one just like it. Pretty soon all the prosperous men in town will want a stone house."
"Have you done a design?" Richard had asked, and Aliena had heard a hint of skepticism, although nobody else seemed to notice.
"I've got some old drawings of my father's, done in ink on vellum. One of them is the house we were building for Aliena and William Hamleigh, all those years ago. I'll base it on that."
Aliena had turned away from them in disgust. How could anyone be so crass as to mention that on her wedding day? Alfred had been full of bluster all afternoon, pouring wine and telling jokes and exchanging sly winks with his workmates. He seemed happy.
Now he was sitting on the edge of the bed taking off his boots. Aliena took the ribbons out of her hair. She did not know what to think about Ellen's curse. It had shocked her, and she had no idea what was going on in Ellen's mind, but somehow she was not frightened by it the way most people were.
This could not be said of Alfred. When the slaughtered cock landed on him he had practically gibbered. Richard had shaken him out of it, literally, holding him by the front of his tunic and jerking him back and forth. He had recovered his wits quickly enough, however, and since then the only sign of his fright had been the relentlessness of his backslapping, beer-swilling good cheer.
Aliena felt oddly calm. She did not relish what she was about to do, but at least she was not being forced to it, and while it might be a little distasteful, it would not be humiliating. There was only one man, and no one else would be watching.
She took off her dress.
Alfred said: "By Christ, that's a long knife."
She undid the strap that held the knife to her left forearm, then got into bed in her undershirt.
Alfred finally got his boots off. He pulled off his hose and stood up. He threw a lewd look at her."Take off your underclothes," he said. "I'm entitled to see my wife's tits."
Aliena hesitated. She was reluctant to be naked, somehow, but it would be foolish to deny him the first thing he asked. Obediently, she sat up and pulled her undershirt off over her head, fiercely suppressing the memory of how differently she had felt when she did the same thing, this morning, for Jack.
"What a pair of beauties," Alfred said. He came and stood beside the bed and took hold of her right breast. His huge hands were rough-skinned, with dirt under the fingernails. He squeezed too hard, and she winced. He laughed and released her. Stepping back, he took off his tunic and hung it on a hook. Then he returned to the bed and pulled the sheet off her.
Aliena swallowed hard. She felt vulnerable like this, naked under his gaze. He said: "By God, that's a hairy one." He reached down and felt between her legs. She stiffened, and then made herself relax and part her thighs. "Good girl," he said, and thrust a finger inside her. It hurt: she was dry. She could not understand it--this morning, with Jack, she had been wet and slippery. Alfred grunted and forced his finger in farther.
She felt like crying. She had known she would not much enjoy it, but she had not expected him to be so unfeeling. He had not even kissed her yet. He doesn't love me, she thought; he doesn't even like me. I'm a fine young horse that he's about to ride. In fact he would treat a horse better than this--he would pat it and stroke it so that it could get used to him, and he'd talk softly to calm it down. She fought back the tears. I chose this, she thought; nobody made me marry him, so I'll just put up with it now.
"Dry as a sawpit," Alfred muttered.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He removed his hand, spat on it twice, and rubbed the spittle between her legs. It seemed a dreadfully contemptuous act. She bit her lip and looked away.
He spread her thighs. She closed her eyes, then opened them and forced herself to look at him, thinking: Get used to this, you're going to be doing it for the rest of your life. He got on the bed and knelt between her legs. The shadow of a frown crossed his face. He put one hand between her thighs, opening her up, and the other hand went beneath his undershirt. She could see the hand moving under the linen. His frown deepened. "Christ Jesus," he muttered. "You're so lifeless, it puts me off, it's like feeling up a corpse."
It seemed so unfair of him to blame her. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do!" she said tearfully.
"Some girls enjoy it," he said.
Enjoy it! she thought. Impossible! Then she remembered how, that very morning, she had groaned and cried with delight. But it was as if there was no connection between what she had done then and what she was doing now.
That was foolish. She sat upright. Alfred was rubbing himself beneath his shirt. "Let me," she said, and she slipped her hand between his legs. It felt limp and lifeless. She was not sure what to do with it. She squeezed it gently, then stroked it with her fingertips. She searched his face for a reaction. He just seemed angry. She carried on, but it made no difference.
"Do it harder," he said.
She began to rub it vigorously. It stayed soft, but he moved his hips, as if he was enjoying it. Encouraged, she rubbed harder. Suddenly he gave a cry of pain and pulled away. She had rubbed too hard. "Stupid cow!" he said, and he slapped her face, backhanded, with a swipe that knocked her sideways.
She lay on the bed, whimpering in pain and fear. "You're no good, you're cursed!" he said furiously.
"I did my best!"
"You're a dead cunt," he spat. He took her by the arms, lifted her upright, and pushed her off the bed. She fell into the straw on the floor. "That witch Ellen meant this to happen," he said. "She's always hated me."
Aliena rolled over and knelt upright on the floor, staring at him. He did not look as if he would hit her again. He was no longer enraged, just bitter. "You can stay there," he said. "You're no good to me as a wife, so you can keep out of my bed. You can be a dog, and sleep on the floor." He paused. "I can't stand you looking at me!" he said with a note of panic in his voice. He looked around for the candle, spotted it, and put it out with a blow, knocking it to the ground.
Aliena stayed motionless in the darkness. She heard Alfred moving on the feather bed, lying down and pulling up the blanket and shifting the pillows. She was almost afraid to breathe. He was restless for a long time, tossing and turning in the bed, but he did not get up again, nor did he speak to her. Eventually he was still, and his breathing became even. When she was sure he was asleep, she crawled across the room, trying not to make the straw rustle, and found her way into the corner. She curled up and lay there, wide awake. Eventually she began to cry. She tried not to, for fear of waking him, but she could not hold the tears in, so she sobbed quietly. If the noise woke him, he gave no sign of it. She stayed like that, lying on the straw in the corner, crying softly, until eventually she cried herself to sleep.
Chapter 12
ALIENA WAS SICK all that winter.
She slept badly every night, wrapped in her cloak on the floor at the foot of Alfred's bed, and during the day she was possessed by a hopeless lassitude. She often felt nauseated, so she ate very little, but despite that she seemed to put on weight: she was sure her breasts and hips were larger, and her waist thickened.
She was supposed to be running Alfred's house, although Martha actually did most of the work. The three of them lived together in a sorry menage. Martha had never liked her brother, and Aliena now loathed him wit
h a passion, so it was not surprising that he spent as much time as possible away from the house, at work during the day and in the alehouse every evening. Martha and Aliena bought food and cooked it unenthusiastically, and made clothes in the evenings. Aliena looked forward to the spring, when it would once again be warm enough for her to visit her secret glade on Sunday afternoons. There she could lie in peace and daydream of Jack.
Meanwhile, her consolation was Richard. He had a spirited black courser, a new sword, and a squire with a pony, and he was once again fighting for King Stephen, albeit with a reduced entourage. The war dragged on into the new year: Maud had escaped from Oxford Castle and slipped through Stephen's hands once again, and her brother Robert of Gloucester had retaken Wareham, so the old seesaw continued, with each side gaining a little and then losing it. But Aliena was fulfilling her vow, and she could take satisfaction in that, if in nothing else.
In the first week of the year Martha began to bleed for the first time. Aliena made her a hot drink with herbs and honey to ease the cramps, and answered her questions about the woman's curse, and went to find the box of rags that she kept for her own periods. However, the box was not in the house, and she eventually realized she had not brought it here from her old house when she got married.
But that had been three months ago.
Which meant she had not bled for three months.
Not since her wedding day.
Not since she had made love with Jack.
She left Martha sitting by the kitchen fire, sipping her honey drink and toasting her toes, and went across town to her old house. Richard was not there but she had a key. She found the box without any trouble, but she did not go back right away. Instead she sat by the cold fireplace, wrapped in her cloak, deep in thought.
She had married Alfred at Michaelmas. It was now past Christmas. That was a quarter of a year. There had been three new moons. She should have bled three times. Yet her box of rags had been on the high shelf, alongside the small grindstone Richard used for sharpening kitchen knives. Now she held it in her lap. She ran a finger over the rough wood. Her finger came up dirty. The box was covered with dust.