added, “Much can happen in two weeks.”
Judging from the number of people, the funeral party was an immense success. It was only six in the evening, but scores of sweating bodies had already filled the Great Hall of the Ames’s manor house. Most were respected commoners—wealthy business merchants, gold traders, and local statesmen—but some gallants and important nobility had elected to make an appearance. The great ladies gossiped, huddling around the lit wall torches or floor sconces so they could be observed and admired under proper lighting. They fanned themselves, studied the crowds, the dress of those without title, wondering if the commoners were violating any of the sumptuary laws. Other wives stood against the black-draped walls and sneered at their husbands stuffing their mouths with food. Two dozen rows of banqueting tables were piled high with delicacies—milk-fed beef stewed with roots, venison in plum sauce, trays of poultry, platters of pheasants roasted over the open pit in the center of the room. The hall had become stifling, choked with the smell of perspiration and the heat of cooking.
But Rebecca Lopez took no notice. Head down, she spoke to no one, and no one dared address her. She was the fiancée of the deceased, Raphael Nuñoz, and as such, entitled to her grief in solitude. She had chosen a spot under a drafty window at the far end of the Great Hall and remained alone, her aloofness constructing an invisible barrier that kept the guests away. Frosty air blew upon her neck and shoulders, and she was shivering—the only one in the room to do so. Her mother had offered her a blanket, but Rebecca had declined. She made no further effort to become warm.
Yesterday she’d been numbed by what had happened. She hadn’t been able to feel cold, heat, or pain. But now all she felt was anger and a fervent wish that all the commotion would end soon. Among all of them—the so-named mourners—not a tear had been shed. Sheer hypocrisy, she thought. They come not to console, but instead to gorge themselves or chat idly about the weather. Let them take a stroll if the chill occupies their thoughts so. Let them leave, so the air inside will clear of their foul odor and overbearing perfume.
Through her long black veil she eyed Hector and Miguel steeped in sadness. They were large men made small by black sorrow. Her heart ached for them—father and brother—so deep was the intensity of their loss. Rebecca remembered the swift death of Raphael’s mother, Judith. She’d been no more than a little girl at her mother’s side, but nevertheless recalled the ashen face, the bloody legs with a dead child between them. The memory had haunted her for years. Now, ironically, she was thankful that Judith had died and been spared the pain of seeing her firstborn dead.
How she wished she could hold Hector and Miguel in her arms, sing them sweet lullabies and take away the anguish. But to perform such an act of solace was to confess that they were more affected than she by Raphael’s death. Even though this was true, she didn’t dare admit it.
Raphael. Since she had to marry—and he had been forced to wed as well—their union would have been as good as any. He’d been a sweet, sweet lover with a randy laugh, very adventurous under the sheets. But there had been another side to him, dark and brooding. Unlike Miguel, Raphael had a terrible temper, and though he had never struck her, he’d come close more than once. Rebecca learned early in their relationship to stop asking him questions about the mission. Her betrothed, always burdened by worldly matters.
Though Rebecca mourned his death, she was relieved by the aborted nuptials. Unlike most of the girls her age, it had never been her dream to marry, to become the perfect English gentlewoman. All she could see was young girls turning older than their years, weighted down by pregnancy that turned into obesity. Fat and saggy, disgusting in the eyes of husbands who leered and groped after smooth, supple bodies. And the bairns, crying and wailing, drooling cheesy spit.
And then there was the permanently etched fear of ending up as had Judith—the women and girls staring at her corpse.
Rebecca knew her reprieve from wedlock was temporary. It was only a matter of time before Father replaced Raphael with another—Miguel, most likely. Once married, she would have to obey her husband without question. It was her duty. But for now, unexpectedly released from marital obligations, she felt like a wild horse destined for domestication but suddenly let loose instead. Freedom snipping away her feelings of numbness, of sadness. Obscene as it was, she couldn’t help herself.
Rebecca adjusted her coif, looked around the room and saw Lady Marlburn stuffing her corpulent body with comfits, licking sticky sugar off of her sausage-shaped fingers. Rebecca had been periodically observing her for an hour. The lady had consumed ample quantities of capon, duck, veal, moorcock, pigeon, and pickled eggs, washing it all down with tankards of ale. She’d be heavily purging herself tonight. The chamberpot would be filled with her putrid stools.
Swine, they were. Keeping their close stools next to their bedposts, smelling the fetid stench as they slept. It was Rebecca’s grandam who insisted that the pots be kept away from the bedchambers and the kitchen.
And they have the audacity to call us swine.
Thoughts of her grandam filled Rebecca with warmth. Though Rebecca loved her mother—she was a dutiful daughter—it was the old woman who had always been the main recipient of her affections. The hag, as she was called by everyone else, was a skeletal witch, crippled severely by disfigured feet. Toothless and wrinkled, she rarely talked to anyone, and when she did, it was usually nonsense. People thought her a bit daft, but Rebecca knew she spoke foolishly to keep people from prying into her past life—years that even Rebecca was not privy to. When they were alone, Grandmama revealed a remarkable acumen, a steadfast calm in the face of crisis, and an inexhaustible patience. Grandmama had taught her to read Hebrew, had taught her much about the old religion through tales and stories. Young and old—confidantes—each listening to the dreams of the other.
Rebecca was awakened from her reverie by the harsh cackle emitted from Lady Marlburn. As the great dame laughed, layers of chins slapped against her chest. Her breasts were enormous, tumbling out of a too-tight bodice. Her pomander was entrapped in cleavage—the sickly sweet-smelling orb peeking out of the gorge that separated mountainous mounds of flesh. Lord Marlburn stood dutifully at her side, nodding at the appropriate moments, sneaking sidelong glances at Rebecca.
The “great” lord and lady, her father forced to show them respect because they were nobility.
A pox on them.
Rebecca remembered too clearly Lord Marlburn’s heavy arms holding her down, the thick hand clamped tightly over her mouth. His prick, stubby and crusted with scum, pushing deeply into her body. His stench and sweat dripping on her freshly washed skin. When he was done, the previously lust-blinded lupine face had become sheepish. He had cried to her, begging her forgiveness at what he had thought was her deflowering. His weeping had made her even more sick and contemptuous. It had been simply her time of the month; she hadn’t been a virgin for two years.
But she had told him nothing.
Gifts soon followed—expensive bolts of cloth, bracelets studded with jewels, rare edibles—citrus from southern Italy, asparagus from Holland, chocolate from Spain. He had tried to speak with her, but she feigned illness, knowing he was mad with worry that she was carrying his bastard child. More gifts. More and more.
What a fool!
Looking at the two piggish bodies, Rebecca wondered how he could possibly mount and penetrate her when their torsos were wrapped in so many layers of fat. She tried to imagine their humping—two mastiffs pawing at each other, huffing and puffing.
She hated them! At the moment she hated everyone.
