Court of Fives (Page 29)
A rustle of movement whispers from the kitchen courtyard where the hearths and oven stand. I tiptoe inside. Mother kneels all ungainly beside a mat where the old servant Saffron now rests. She is shading into a delirium, her self and her name coming unmoored from her body. Saffron isn’t her real name anyway; it is just the one Father assigned her when she came into the household.
Mother glances at me, then slips a tiny leather bottle from the crook of her left elbow and slides the bottle’s tip between the old one’s withered lips. Saffron suckles as might a lamb. Bettany stands in darkness against the wall. As far as I know everyone else is asleep.
But suddenly lamplight winks, then sprays the kitchen courtyard’s walls with shadows. Father appears. “Is this how I am repaid?” he says with clenched jaw.
Instead of begging his pardon Mother steadies the bottle at the old woman’s lips. He backhands her so hard that drops of oil splash onto her perfect skin, pale flecks against brown.
I jolt back a step, heart thudding, a hand clapped over my mouth in shock. Before this night I have never seen him raise a hand to her.
Her expression tightens as she looks up at him. “How can your Saroese gods demand an old woman suffer for the sake of a man who never knew she existed?”
“I have allowed you to keep your useless strays at some cost to my career. But now is the crux. If I cannot attract a new lord sponsor in the wake of Ottonor’s death, then what do you suppose will become of her? Or of you?”
“You fear for your own honor, my lord. Your own ambition. That is what drives this unreasoning mood. It is not like the man I know.”
“When they see you they laugh at me for my weakness.” He lifts a hand.
I flinch, thinking he means to hit her again. Bettany leaps forward, yanks the lamp out of Father’s grasp, and throws it onto the hearth. The ceramic bowl shatters, and oil blazes up. Mother kneels with a hand pressed to her cheek.
“You’re the one who got her pregnant all those times!” Bettany shouts. “You could have let her go but you never did!”
“Bettany, calm yourself,” says Mother. “The death of Lord Ottonor has upset us all. We will weather this unpleasantness and find peace again.”
Ashamed at my hesitation, I hasten forward to help her rise with my arm around her back.
Father grabs an unlit lamp from the table. He lights it before the glow of the spilled oil fades. When he looks at us with that dark frown, I tremble.
“Am I?” he says. “Am I the one who got you pregnant?”
“Dare you speak so to me, Esladas? Out of your own fear? Had I desired another man I would have left you. Had any of your daughters not been born of your seed I would have honored them by telling them the name of their father. I would not have lied and worn a mask of deceit. Never believe I will accept such insulting words. For it is not just me you insult. It is yourself, and your girls.”
Fierce Bettany begins to cry but I am numb. My lips are numb. My heart is numb.
I watch Father for any hint of how the hidden wheels of the undercourt will turn and whether a trap will open beneath our feet. Mother is a rock in my arms. She is not even shaking, but where her taut belly presses against my side I feel a pressure, a push, and then a little kick. Their baby.
The only sounds are the hiss of the wick and the husky breathing of the old servant. Lamplight bathes Father’s face in a mask of light while we stand in shadow. I imagine he must examine his troops with just this implacable stare before he sends them into a battle from which he knows few will emerge alive.
Without one more word he walks out of the courtyard, leaving us in darkness.
Mother takes hold of Bett’s arm. “I hope you have not cut yourself when the lamp shattered.”
Bettany commences sobbing in gulps. She rarely cries, but when she does, it is floodwaters. “That he should speak to you in that tone!”
“We enter a perilous time. He knows things may go ill for our household and his military camp, all the people under his command. Beyond all else he does not want to fail us. So he listens to his fears instead of to his wisdom.”
“You always make excuses for him!” She stomps away into the house. Each thudding footfall makes me wince.
Mother says, “Help me down, if you will, Jessamy.”
As I ease her to the ground and kneel beside her, I hear the creak of Saffron’s frail voice.
“Blessings on you, Honored Lady. May your mercy be rewarded by the five.”
“Hush, Safarenwe. The old Efean beliefs cannot be spoken of in this house. You must finish the milk.”