Lapvona(49)

She knew the same was happening now. Another creature had taken hold of her insides, and she was hungry. The hunger was torture to her. It meant she couldn’t leave the manor. Before, in her quiet moments at the abbey, she had felt she existed simply as a breath, a witness to light and dark, a weight in the room. With hunger and desire, life troubled her. She couldn’t control her hunger any more than she could control her need to breathe. She was a slave now to the baby in her womb. No one had noticed it yet. Beneath Agata’s robes, despite the scantiness of her flesh, her face still drawn, drawn further still despite the regular foods—she’d been permitted only wheatmeal and yogurt at the abbey, a fruit now and then—her belly had swollen past her lean silhouette. Marek had figured it was just the taking on of weight, that her body had swollen there because the dress permitted it. He understood nothing about maternity.

‘I helped Jacob hunt a lot of those animals,’ he said to Agata. She didn’t smile. Nothing Marek said made her smile.

Agata had indeed grown fond of Jacob’s animals. She admired their faces, the prettiness of their stripes and spots, the funny crookedness of their whiskers. And she had felt a sense of superiority around them, a kind of pride that said, ‘I’m alive and you’re not.’ Trapped in death, each face held an expression of awe—an innocent meeting its maker. Perhaps this was what allowed her the little pity she took on Marek. ‘I’m your maker,’ she said to him in her mind. He clung to her more and more now that the nights were chilled and the warmth of her body might soothe him. He leaned up against her like a slime, but she wouldn’t put her arms around him. She would turn away from his breath and sleep irritably, sometimes elbowing him in the back if she needed more space. Jenevere paid no mind to Marek’s nightly presence. Petra and she had an unspoken way of attending to both the nun and the boy simultaneously, getting them washed and ready for bed, lighting their candles, closing the curtains.

Without Marek to serve, Lispeth could have slept all day or taken up a hobby. She could have practiced her singing or dancing. She could have gone for walks in the fresh autumn air. But she would not. She simply sat in Marek’s empty room out of spite, waiting for him to come back. She became completely consumed by her longing for something to hate.



* * *




*

There were no tears shed for Dibra. Her disappearance struck everyone silent, no mourning, as neither Jenevere nor the stablehands nor the guards ever spoke a word to anyone about her departure. They didn’t even discuss it among themselves. Villiam didn’t ask the bandits for details, but he assumed they’d taken care of her as they’d cared for Luka. Unlike Dibra, the bandits liked to make Villiam happy. So forget the woman. She was out of his head as soon as the rains began. ‘She cried enough,’ Villiam said to Father Barnabas, but had neither the energy nor the interest to finish his sentiment. The priest understood what he meant. Dibra had cried so much, she had exhausted the moisture from the atmosphere. She had been so dreary and morose. It was her, and not Jacob’s death, that had steered the story wrong.

‘Now,’ Villiam began, ‘who shall I take next as a wife?’

‘The nun—is she still upstairs?’ Father Barnabas asked. He was joking.

‘Doesn’t make a sound. Better than Dibra, then. Shall I marry her?’ Villiam was serious.

‘Isn’t she ugly?’ the priest asked. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘Let’s have a look and see.’

Father Barnabas went along with the charade, not thinking that Villiam would really take another wife. The lord seemed to be enjoying himself, spending evenings with Klarek, horsing around. But Villiam could not forget the words of his mother: ‘A man becomes a man when he marries a woman. Until then, he is just a little brat.’

And so Agata was summoned and examined.

Villiam kept the vetting process very brief. ‘Strip. Lie down.’ Etcetera. The nun seemed to understand basic instructions and peeled off her red dress without protest. She had no obvious diseases. Her sunburn had peeled and healed nicely. Her face was a pleasant shape, if a bit gaunt. Her hair was red, which Villiam liked, and she didn’t speak. Her arms and legs were thin and freckled, which was fine. Better to have something to see rather than plain skin. Villiam didn’t like plainness.

Villiam and the priest saw the odd bulging of her pelvis.

‘What is that?’ Villiam asked. ‘Pregnant?’

‘I doubt that,’ the priest said. ‘Are you pregnant?’

Agata shrugged. What could she say? Nothing.

‘Lie down on the table,’ Barnabas said.

‘Yes, you test her out, Father,’ Villiam said. Luckily the priest knew little about the female anatomy. When he examined her sheath, it seemed to him that she was intact. He couldn’t tell the difference. ‘A virgin, I guess,’ Barnabas pronounced. ‘But pregnant, too?’

Villiam examined her sheath as well, hardly any less ignorant. To him, too, she felt like a virgin. He weighed this in his mind. Such a miracle would arouse great interest and discussion. He would have to send word of this to the council, the king, whoever might be interested in a virgin birth.

‘Wasn’t Jesus born to a virgin?’

‘Well yes, I think so,’ Barnabas answered.

‘If I marry this nun, I’ll be father to the son of God,’ Villiam realized. ‘That’s quite an honor, is it not?’