Great Maria by Cecelia Holland

most of the day nursing him, and Maria had to do all her chores as well. At last Roger took most of the knights away on a raid, and she could rest.
    On the fourth day, at last, she convinced the cook that Richard should be bled. They got some leeches from the village and the cook drew blood from Richard’s left arm.
    “I set a broken leg for your father once,” the cook said. “He was up in two days.” He salted the last leech and it fell off into the jar.
    She slept on the floor, since her back throbbed with pain if she slept in the bed. That night, she woke a dozen times when he gasped or whined in a dream. But in the morning, he was wide awake, and he ate everything she gave him for breakfast and sent her for more. On her way back with the second breakfast, she stopped in the hall. She was sitting there talking nonsense to Ceci when Adela rushed down the stairs, flung the hall door closed, and burst into tears.
    Flora gave a piercing scream of sympathy. Maria set her daughter down and went upstairs. Richard was sitting up in bed. When she came in, he shouted, “Where is Roger?”
    The shout whispered at the end. He was still indifferently strong, but she hung back, not caring to go within his reach. “I don’t know. What did you do to Adela?”
    “That fat psalm-singing whore.” He weaved, unsteady. He flung back the covers and started to drag himself out of bed. “Where is my brother?”
    “He took some of the knights and rode away,” she said. She had been relieved at the time. She went up beside the bed and pushed him down again and pulled the blanket up over him. “He said he knew what you meant to do. I didn’t think—”
    “Think!”
    “You were so sick—I couldn’t do everything.” Her throat filled uncomfortably tight. After all her tender ministrations he was shouting at her. He sat up again. She brought him the dish of meat.
    “God-damned stupid silly sheep-hearted cow,” he said. “Get out of here.” With both hands he picked over the food on the dish, hunting for tidbits.
    Maria stood still. She would not go downstairs like a servant, like Adela. In her womb the baby stirred and seemed to turn over. She hauled the pillows out from under him and stacked them between his back and the headboard of the bed.
    “Where did he go?” Richard said, without looking up from the plate.
    “Across the wilderness, toward Iste.” The town of Iste lay in the southeastern hills, several days’ ride away. Saracens ruled it.
    He let out another string of bad names. Maria could not tell if he meant her or Roger. “Why did you let him? You’ll do anything for him—”
    “What was I supposed to do? He’s your brother. Who would listen to me?”
    “He’s trying to steal my war.” He chewed steadily. “Who is left here—Ponce? Welf?”
    “Ponce,” Maria said. “I’ll get him.” She ran down the stairs, glad to be away from him.
    He and Ponce talked, and Ponce went down into the ward and sent a messenger to Roger. Maria took Ceci up to Richard, who played with her until they both fell asleep in the rumpled bed. Maria sat in front of her window and leaned her arms on the sill. If she went downstairs again, Adela would complain to her about Richard. Down in the village, two men were putting a new thatch on their church. Beyond, the milk cows were coming along the road; she could even hear the ringing of their bells. The air was hazy and yellow with sunlight: August sky. The sense in it all comforted her, that they were doing things that they had done before and would again, in a time that would come again, turning circles like the stars. She went downstairs and swept the hall and got the wood in.
    In the afternoon she went upstairs to feed Ceci. Richard lay on his side, throwing hazelnuts into a cup on the mantelpiece. Adela and Flora came in and out with questions about supper. Whenever he talked to Ceci, Richard’s voice was tender as a dove’s, but the second time Adela came in and glared at