Lapvona(56)

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Villiam’s legs hurt from all the walking. He had walked so long—from home to the church and back—only once before in his whole life, and the memory of that humiliation had returned halfway back up the hill, when he could no longer lift his feet and needed to be carried. When it happened on his first wedding day, his father had laughed and chided Dibra. ‘He’ll die quick, so make him spawn soon. You’re no lazy woman, are you?’ His mother looked ashamed. Today, when he tired, Villiam threw a fit and sat down on the road. It had been quite a shock to go from the cheering and singing of the village to the relative quiet of the walk back to the manor. It was too boring. Klarek tried to help him up. ‘I don’t want anyone but my own blood touching me,’ Villiam said petulantly. And he felt a bit of pity for himself then as he recognized in that instant that there was nobody left on Earth in his lineage but himself. Except, wait—Marek stood before him and knelt down so that Villiam could ride on his shoulders—didn’t that lamb herder say they were cousins?

Villiam steadied himself and lifted his tired leg over Marek’s shoulder. Light as a feather. ‘Get ready, my boy,’ Villiam huffed as he straddled Marek by the neck, clutching the thick red hair in his fists to balance as he swung his other leg over. ‘Now get up, slowly,’ he said. Marek did as he was told. It was not unlike carrying the water buckets, he thought. He stood, trying to move smoothly so as not to topple Villiam, and succeeded despite the lord’s yelps of fear that the boy wasn’t strong enough to carry him. But in fact, Marek had grown strong enough that he could carry Villiam quite easily, his only stumble occurring when he turned back to see if Agata was watching. He wanted to show her that he was useful and important, someone she would need to carry her through her own hardship one day, he thought. And then he was sorry for throwing the rock. Agata looked tired and distant and sad, as though her life were a term of deployment, and she had reached surrender. She had seen that Marek had turned to her to show off his strength, but she hadn’t tilted her eyes at all, no. Just to spite him. And she was pleased when Villiam snickered at Marek to keep his head straight and pulled at his ears like a man riding a donkey.

Eventually, Villiam grew tired of Marek’s shuffling gait, and decided to ride with the priest on horseback to the manor while the rest of the procession walked. He was glad the wedding was over. His new shoes had gotten scuffed on the church steps when he’d tripped a bit.

‘Did anybody see me trip on the steps of the church?’ he asked Father Barnabas.

‘Nobody noticed. They were all too stunned by your lordliness.’

Villiam had made a spectacle of his vows, reciting them by heart, his voice so loud that Agata bristled and turned her head away from the words. ‘To have and to hold, in bed and at the table, whether she be fair or ugly, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live.’

Agata made no vows, as was customary for the bride.

‘I think we both performed well,’ Villiam said to the priest.

‘Everyone was very impressed with us,’ Barnabas replied.

Villiam spent the rest of the ride with his arms wrapped around Father Barnabas’s middle. He imagined Dibra would be jealous now, knowing what good fortune awaited him. She had never been grateful or tender with him, only distracted and annoyed. And her affair with Luka was embarrassing. What kind of woman wants a man who cares for horses? Villiam watched the land pass—each jolt of the horse hurt his bones, and he gripped the priest a little tighter. Dibra had been so protective of Jacob, as though she didn’t want Villiam to even know the boy. But now he had a second chance at fatherhood. Maybe he would enjoy it this time. He would teach the baby to be funny. And he would make sure the boy would take his side in any argument. It would be easy to mold the babe to his liking, Agata was so mute and passive. Was she even a real girl? he wondered. He’d barely given her any thought. She’d stood so still during the service. Her hand emitted absolutely nothing when he placed the ring on its finger. Her lips were dry, almost imperceptible when he’d kissed them. She was nothing, she did nothing. But Villiam trusted the priest that the child would be a blessing. He rested his head against the priest’s shoulder, cool with sweat. He breathed in deeply. It never occurred to him that the priest was crumbling under the pressure. Barnabas had never had any faith in the Second Coming, but now faced with the possibility, he worried that a messiah would outsmart him as soon as it was old enough to speak.

Villiam lifted his head up and spoke softly into the priest’s ear.

‘I love you, Father,’ he said. It wasn’t quite love that Villiam felt, but an enduring trust and need for constant affirmation that was as good as love.

‘And I love you,’ the priest said back.



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Grigor had missed the wedding procession. He had stayed the whole previous day and night with Ina. They had eaten eggs and wheatmeal for their supper, and then eggs again for breakfast. Ina had snored like a chirping bird as she slept. Grigor had woken up a few times in the darkness to listen, amazed. In the morning, he preferred to do her the favor of clearing the brush outside the cabin, sweeping inside, and fixing a few loose boards on the door while she went off to the church. Any anger and suspicion he’d once had for Ina had now transferred to the priest and Villiam. He didn’t want to show his face and let his fury be seen in the village. Anyway, it had been too late for him to dye his clothes. The villagers would have shunned him. ‘Old man can’t be bothered.’ Alone at Ina’s, he felt light and empty, detached from the great weight of confusion he had carried there the day before.