Retribution (19 page)

I saw no reason to argue ethics. The fact
that Marcin could treat his wife and mother of their children so
cruelly justified any action Katrina wished to take, as far as I
could see. But there were practical objections. “When she’s born,”
I said, “she’ll be too big for a seven-months child. And what if
she looks like Marcin? Girls often look like their father.”

“Marcin won’t see– her,” she said, accepting
my preternatural knowledge out of long habit. “It’ll be easy enough
to say she’s puny and might not live, born too soon. And I’ll tell
him she’s ugly, all skin and bones, and hairy, just like the first
pig who forced himself on me.” She had a twisted smile, a malicious
laugh, as she thought of the way to revenge herself on her
husband.

It could almost work, I thought, but for the
strongest objections of all. “But Katrina,” I said, “everybody here
knows you weren’t raped. I know it, and so does Isobel. She was
‘right there in the trail’ with you. And Pavel, the Ormonde guard.
And Wilmos. The whole household has to know it’s a lie.”

“No, my lady,” Katrina stood up to me in a
way she would never before have dared, when life was good and she
was happy. “You’re the only one who doesn’t remember. Everyone else
knows the truth.”

So that was it. The entire household was in
on the fabrication, from the direct eyewitnesses to those who had
learned everything at second or third hand. No wonder Magali had
been so certain I had been “insulted;” no wonder Isobel had given
me hints and suggestive looks. Whatever the time-honored customs,
the dominance of husband over wife, it seemed that people had a way
of dealing with individual cases with a certain amount of
flexibility. Once agreed on, a deception like this would be carried
out flawlessly. It would be a matter of honor, in a way, for every
actor, down to the littlest boy who tended the kitchen fires, or
the tiny girl I saw sometimes trailing in her mother’s wake as she
scrubbed the floors, to let nothing slip. Marcin would never know
that his third child was living with her disgraced mother, in a
soft bed and a warm room in Aranyi Fortress.

It all rested with me. And all I really had
to do was lie by omission. That was easy enough. In fact, it came
naturally to me. At any rate, I would have little occasion to see
Marcin; ‘Gravina Aranyi rarely visited distant farms. “You’re
right,” I said. “I forgot, in all the trouble I endured, what you
suffered. But it’s coming back to me now.” I held my hand out to my
maid, putting aside my dislike of physical contact in the causes of
sisterhood and solidarity. “You’re a brave woman.”

Katrina touched my hand briefly. “No, my
lady,” she said, bobbing in a slight curtsy, a thanks for my quick
understanding. “Not brave. Only desperate.”

I thought of the talks I had had with
Katrina, in the beginning, when I learned she was newly married and
expecting her first child, like me. “Surely,” I had said, “you
don’t wish to work for me.” Marcin had the farm, she could stay
there with the child, not be at another woman’s beck and call.

Her denial had been steadfast and strong. She
had wanted the job, vowed her own child’s care would not interfere.
Farm work was much harder than helping ‘Gravina Aranyi with her
hair and her clothes. “Please,” she had begged, “don’t dismiss me
because of the child.” It had shocked her to learn of my bizarre
reason for wanting to dispense with her services.

And I had kept her on, allowing her as much
free time as I could, for her to look after first the boy, then the
girl. We had laughed over the dual inconvenience—both of us tired
and at the beck and call of the two most demanding masters, our
children. By then we were bound to each other, friends and
companions, and neither one really wanted to give up the
arrangement. Katrina’s pleasure in her job, in the place it gave
her at the Aranyi table, the snug room all to herself, the way her
children played with the mistress’s own—it was all-important to
her, a welcome step up from being a farmer’s wife. She loved
Marcin, was glad he had his own land and his own house, that they
were not dependent on Katrina’s work for their livelihood. But she
would not give up her independence.

I had not understood the Eclipsian world. I
had known only the Terran way, where a woman’s job and the care of
her usually only child were two separate spheres that were not
permitted to overlap. Here, women work in many ways harder than on
Terra, doing household chores that are essential in a land-based,
low-tech economy. Milking and gardening, cooking and cleaning,
spinning and weaving, sewing and laundry — all of these are women’s
work. In the cities, many women keep shops or help in them, or work
at domestic service. And most of them have children.

The difference is simple: Eclipsian children
accompany their mothers to work. No one thinks anything of it. The
maid sweeps and makes beds, the dairywoman churns butter and milks
cows, the laundress scrubs and wrings, the weaver works at her
loom—all with an infant strapped on her back or resting beside her.
She takes a break to nurse it or change it and resumes her work.
Toddlers follow at their mother’s skirts, older children help,
girls with their mothers, boys with their fathers, until old enough
to work at their own jobs. Even in the kitchen or the barn there
are children. If they get in the way, their mother or somebody else
picks them up or leads them aside. The idea of having children for
somebody else to care for is tragic, the result of a disaster—a
mother dead, a family destroyed by illness or poverty. But the
mothers always work. They have no choice.

At Aranyi, with so many rooms and workers to
spare, we had an informal nursery, where the children of servants
can play together, not follow their mothers around all day. But
most of the women keep to the old way. They enjoy the company of
their children, and most of the little ones like learning their
mother’s work, “helping” to sweep or to bake, learning skills they
will apply soon enough in their own homes or someone else’s.

After our last talk, Katrina said nothing
more about her troubles. She performed all her duties
conscientiously but her heart wasn’t in it. Often I caught her
staring into space, her eyes filled with tears, or leaning in a
kind of broken posture over my clothes chest, without the strength
to stand up. Her bold plan to keep her third child had done little
to ease the misery of separation from the two who had spent almost
every day of their lives with her. Losing them at one stroke was
like suffering through an epidemic or a war. In a way it was even
harder for Katrina to accept. They were not dead, only out of
reach, a short ride away that she was not permitted to make.

Dominic might not be as rigid as the rest, I
thought. He had married me, and he was
vir
, not so bound by
convention. But when I tried broaching the subject, his thoughts
warned me off, although I gave it one hopeless attempt. “No,
Amalie,” he said. “It’s the man’s right. It seems harsh to you, I
know, but it’s the law.” My attempts to argue exasperated him.
“There can be no exceptions. It’s what keeps the family line
intact.”

“Oh, in that case,” I said, “of course a
mother’s pain is meaningless. Forgive me for bothering you with
such trivia.” I twirled on my heel and stomped out while Dominic
rolled his eyes.

Never had I been so estranged from my
husband. I felt more like the self-conscious Terran woman I had
been six years ago, playing along with the household’s assumption
that I was Dominic’s betrothed, than the ‘Gravina I had been
impersonating all this time. Our strange night together, and
Dominic’s moving scene with me at breakfast the next morning, had
not permanently bridged the growing gap between us. We were
becoming shy with each other, like lovers who have been unfaithful.
Neither one was willing to take the risk of initiating communion
only to be rebuffed. I had been scarred by Reynaldo’s assaults and
the frightening transformation I had encountered in Dominic. And
Dominic… Dominic had completely closed off that part of his mind
that was necessary for intimacy. He was as sexless and cold these
days as a Christian monk.

I had no need to search for the reason. With
Niall gone, Dominic was only half here himself. In time, I hoped,
Dominic would wake up to the decision he faced: he must pursue
Niall, humble himself, and attempt to regain his former companion’s
trust and affection; or he must make a clean break and find another
lover. The past six years of happiness had been possible only
because of the stability Dominic had achieved and maintained, first
with Stefan, then with Niall. A marriage solely between Dominic and
me was not workable. How long, I wondered, would we continue like
this, living side by side, neither lovers nor partners, more like
people who had once been friends and had gone their separate ways,
met again by chance. I knew better than to ask.

I made only one attempt to prod Dominic into
action. At my next visit to Pavel I asked Dominic to accompany me,
on the pretext that a kind word from his commanding officer would
cheer the boy. Once Dominic saw such a beautiful creature, ungifted
or not, half-naked and supine, he might allow himself to mourn the
loss he had suffered. Ideally, he would be spurred on to take
action, and restore what had been sacrificed to misguided
vengeance.

The plan was a total failure. Pavel was
sitting up by now, wearing a none-too-clean shirt, and chaperoned
by the unflagging Isobel. Dominic said a few trite phrases praising
the man’s bravery and hoping for his speedy recovery, Pavel replied
with equal lack of originality, and we left, only a minute or two
after we arrived.

Out in the hall Dominic looked down at me,
baffled. “Was there some other reason for this detour, Amalie,” he
asked, “or did you simply want a second witness to the fact that
our children’s nursemaid is eating that young man alive?”

“Can you blame her?” I asked. “Such a
good-looking boy.”

“If he bathed occasionally,” Dominic said,
“and took his mind out from between her thighs.” He was not
enthusiastic.

After this I kept my distance, each day
finding it more difficult to break through the wall Dominic had
erected. I did not even discuss Berend’s suggestion for rewarding
the miners, deciding it was safer to settle as many of the details
as possible before approaching my husband. If this was
procrastination, it wouldn’t be the first time in my life. I told
myself a concrete plan was more likely to be accepted than a vague
concept. There was no insult in the delay. Rushing in with a
half-baked idea instead of a serious proposal would be taken,
rightly, as a less than subtle hint that as guests the miners were
unwelcome.

Otherwise, over the next week or two, the
days began to take on a uniform if not quite normal pattern. In the
mornings I worked with Berend, making sure all accounts were in
order. Summer was ending; once the harvest started coming in and
the farms began to pay their rents, we would be swamped with work.
After dinner I spent most of my time with Val. Jana had reverted to
form, taking off on her own adventures. Dominic would rise early,
as usual, and disappear for hours. During the day I saw him only at
meals; in the evening he would collapse, strangely exhausted, in
his own bed soon after supper, while I slept in my room with the
children.

At least the demon-thing, the
Dominic-Reynaldo abomination, was gone, and for that alone I was
grateful. I wondered occasionally about the bandit, if Dominic had
killed him or simply let him die, whether he had buried the body or
burned it, impaled it somewhere, or put the head on a pike like the
others. I had assumed I would have some part in my enemy’s death as
I had demanded once, a role in our revenge, although I had never
been able to exercise it. I had let Dominic do it all, the torture,
the death, and the cleaning up afterwards. It was the man’s job, as
everything here was divided along sexual lines, but I worried that
it had taken too great a toll on my husband. Perhaps I could yet do
something to help now that my strength was returning. All I had to
do was speak to Dominic, but I didn’t.

W
ith the approach of harvest
time the days became cooler and wetter. Spring and summer are short
and the crops grow rapidly, ripening seemingly overnight. Everybody
worked to bring in the bountiful results before a storm or a night
of heavy frost ruined them. The flocks and herds began making their
way down the mountains toward the lower pastures that were still
green. It was no longer possible to go outside only in dress or
shirt; we put on layers even for the short run to an outbuilding.
The nights’ snowfalls lingered on the ground well into midday and
there were many days of icy rain when it was a pleasure to stay
indoors.

Traditionally this is the time when traveling
entertainers make their rounds of the great houses, before the
harsh weather of late autumn renders the trails impassable. If they
time things right, troupes can arrive shortly before the first
blizzards, landing in the enviable position of being forced to stay
until a break in the weather or, with luck, the spring thaw. But
not all can wait so long for a chance at greatness. The first to
reach Aranyi were a gaudy pair, a tall balladeer and lute player
and his accompanist, a shorter man who played a wooden pipe.

I heard their “audition” at the back
entrance, on my way out to the dairy. While it is every musician’s
dream to win the favor of the lady of the house, the reality is
that they must pass the test of pleasing the kitchen staff or at
best the housekeeper, to gain entrance to the great hall. Something
in the voices of this pair, the close harmony they formed, the
lutist a high tenor, the pipe playing in alto descant, made me hold
my breath and listen, a poignant sadness welling up in me and
moistening my eyes. I mingled with the crowd in the back of the
kitchen to hear the end of the ballad.