“He never put his hands on me, but he used to—” I stopped myself, but then, knowing my hours were passing by and I would not live long to feel shame at my words, I went on, saying, “He used to refer to parts of me, the womanly parts of me, like …hips and breasts and… ask me what good were they?” I did not sob, but fresh tears spilled.
“I am so sorry,” Alric said, his eyes closed. He lifted my hand to his lips.
“Perhaps, aside from losing his love, the worst part was the pity,” I went on. “I could almost take the vitriol from strangers and acquaintances, but my friends who were my age, conceiving children continually, and I was approaching thirty,pitiedme. They felt sorry for my being so valueless, so full of pride or some other sin that I kept us from a child. They asked me what they could pray for for me.”
“That is insane,” Alric muttered.
I sat in the grace of his words, his logical response to my story. I wondered if he knew how his succinct pragmatism soothed. “I know that now. I think all of that shame and indignity and need to be loved by my own spouse was tangled up with the idea of having a child. I never got to ponder that possibility in my own time. It was just thrust upon me, this role and all of that— all of those pains all became threads in a tapestry. And I do not know which thread is the strongest, the pain of his rejection or the pain of barrenness. I will not tell you Helena’s story. It is not mine to tell, but she had a similar first husband. And because she could not give him a son, she too was rejected. Over this and the infertile state of our wombs, save her having had Maureen, we have bonded. And now—” I could not go on and had to catch my breath.
“Ah,” he said after a moment. “And now she is with Thatcher’s child,” he finished.
I nodded. “I never thought I would havethatconversation withher.” I withdrew my hand from his to hold both mine to my face. “You must think me selfish—”
“No,” he said, his voice stern. “You are the most generous woman. Do not say that.”
My breathing was shaky. I said, “But she has always wanted more children and I should be overjoyed for my oldest friend and here I sit, feeling sorry for myself.”
He exhaled. “You yourself just said all that pain is tangled together. You have been caused, by her happy news, to remember all that sadness. All of that pain is one for you. You are allowed your hurt. And anguish and joy can be in the same house without crowding each other.”
His forthright sympathy was more than I could bear and I rushed the rest of my story, saying, “I hated him and I loved him and he would condemn me one day and woo me the next. I was so weak. I crawled out of that box time and again, on my knees, asking him to try to love me despite all of my faults. I was so weak, it took— It took him threatening my life for me to run away.”
Alric’s hand searched for my mine again and he gripped it roughly. “Edith.”
“People in court felt bad for him. Someone offered, subtly of course, to have me killed. He threw it out at me, in an argument, almost in jest. I think he wanted me to be grateful he had not taken them up on their offer. But, when he mentioned it a second time, I began to notice that I always had a shadow. Everywhere I was, I felt eyes on me. I could have imagined this. But I ran.”
“I cannot— I cannot speak on this,” my husband said. “It is too terrible. If I ever meet him, I will shred his flesh from his bones. Know this. I will do it.”
I withdrew my hand a second time to put my arms around his neck. I wanted to feel him, the wiry strength of him, that sweat and dirt smell he had before a bath, the solidity of his person.
He returned the embrace. “I glory in your being alive,” he whispered into my hair.
I nodded into the crook of his neck.
There was a knock at the door.
“Godsdamn it,” he sighed and gingerly removed his arms from me, moving to stand. He went to the door and stepped outside, speaking with someone. He returned shortly and knelt back down next to me. “Edith, forgive me. I have to speak with the prince and Jeremanthy. But, listen to me, do you have plans for the holiday?”
I was spent of emotion, my defenses were down. “I had hoped to share it with you.”
“You shall. I may not see you during the day until noon. Meet me at the brewery?”
“I will be there.”
He caressed my cheek. “Be at peace, wife. I will return, late I think, but I will return. I will be with you then. Now, I leave you to your solitude.” He rose to leave.
I looked up at him and hoped he saw how much he had, in his way, made me feel like I was now, finally, at the end of my life, worth something to someone.
He sighed and leaned down to put his hand on my head. “I cannot promise you much. But I promise this. Wherever we go, wherever we live, you shall have windows.”
92. Jest
I spent the rest of the day napping and then sitting in the dormitory listening to my friends discuss their day. Helena was not present, having joined Thatcher in their room for the night. I leaned against the wall behind Mischa’s bed with her by my side, sipping on lightleaf-infused white wine that was nearly too sour to enjoy. I laughed at her story of how she had asked for it at the kitchens, Perch having told her it was his favorite vintage.
“I wanted to try it,” she explained. “But now I think the fish man plays me.”
“This,” I said with a cough, “is for cooking. Not drinking. The man is having you on.”
Maureen and Catrin both spat out the wine in their cups, River laughing at them and shaking her head at Mischa’s offer to pour her some.
