Great Maria by Cecelia Holland Page A

him, he said, “You sow, if you look at me like that again, I’ll pop your eyes out.”
    Adela stalked out of the room, all her fat jouncing, and banged the door shut. Maria laughed. She shouldered her bodice up and fastened it across her breast. On the floor, Ceci pulled herself up onto her feet.
    “Keep your teeth together,” Richard said to Maria.
    “Dada,” Ceci said, and chuckled. She sat down with a thump.
    “There. Did you hear her?” Maria asked. “I told you she was learning to talk.”
    Ceci said, “Dadadadadada.” She thrust her arm out and opened and closed her hand. Richard waved back to her.
    “Bring her here.”
    Maria scooped the child up by the arms and dropped her on the bed. Ceci climbed on him, laughing. He kissed the baby’s face. Maria sat down on the bed beside him, her hands folded over her swollen body. She stroked his hair back.
    “You should have told me Roger was going,” he said.
    “I did.”
    He glanced at her, surprised. Ceci took hold of his hand and put his thumb in her mouth. “I don’t remember,” he said.
    “Do you remember how long you were sick?”
    He tugged gently against the baby’s grip on his hand. Ceci braced herself, her face frantic. At last, he said, “How long?”
    Maria combed his hair through her fingers. “Four days.”
    “Dada,” Ceci said.
    ***
    In the morning there was still no word from Roger. It was Michaelmas, the feast day of the Archangel, the fall quarterday. A stream of local people came up the road to pay their dues to Richard. Most of them owed service as well, and Maria arranged for them to wait in the ward for their tasks. Toward noon, the cook took her place with the tallies and she went up the stairs to give Ceci her dinner.
    Richard stood in front of the window, his splinted leg propped elaborately against a chair. He had gotten soap and water and was shaving himself in her looking glass by the light through the window. Maria sat down on the floor with Ceci. Richard straightened, stropping his razor.
    “Nothing from Roger?”
    “No. Not yet.”
    He said, “God gave dogs fleas and me brothers.” Cocking his head before the looking glass, he scraped at his soaped face. Maria gave Ceci her cup. The baby turned it over carefully. Maria sopped up the spilled milk with the edge of her skirt.
    “You should stay in bed, Richard. You won’t get well.”
    He swore at her. She gave the little girl a piece of bread and honey. Going up beside him, she leaned against the wall next to the window.
    “Don’t forget,” she said. “I can outrun you now.”
    He swiped at her with the razor.
    “It’s the quarterday,” she said. “Is there anything you want them to do—the villagers?”
    He washed off the razor. His eyes turned on her. “What did you have in mind?”
    “The cook says we need new bread ovens. He has said it for years, my father never remembered. If we built them outside, the villagers could use them too.”
    He twisted his neck to present a different angle to the looking glass. The razor scratched against his beard. Maria glanced at Ceci, who was licking the palms of her hands, sticky with honey. Richard cut himself; he swore at the razor a while, inspected the damage, and washed his face off. Maria gave him a towel. “Now will you go back to bed?”
    “Bed,” he said. He hobbled across the room toward the door, shouting for Ponce. When Maria went down again to the ward, he was out beyond the wall on the hillside with the serfs, explaining where he wanted the ovens built.
    It took them three days to gather stones enough. Richard got his knights down to help, and when one refused because the task was base, Richard cursed him and threatened him until the young man, speechless, staggered back to work. As Richard got stronger, his temper got worse. Maria was glad that the constant steady stream of shepherds and outliving people with their goods and dues kept her busy. He struck at everyone. His leg in its coffin of splints