Christ the Lord - Anne Rice [46]
No one spoke as we rubbed ourselves dry and put on the fresh robes given us. My mother tended to Joseph, gently peeling off the soaked garments. The children heaped up the coals, and went this way and that in their excitement, searching for even more lamps to be lighted in this dense and snug and safe place.
Suddenly there was a crashing fist against the door.
“If he dares,” said James, rising to his feet with his hand out. “If he dares come here, I'll kill him.”
“Hush, stop it,” cried his wife, Mara.
The knock came again, measured, insistent.
A voice came from beyond the paneled wood.
I went to the door and lifted the latch and opened it.
There stood Reuben in his fine linen robes as wet through and through as anyone, and his father, bent beneath a covering of soaked wool, and behind them their horses and their hired men.
James immediately welcomed them into the house.
I went with the hired men and the animals to the stables. The door hadn't been shut. The place was wet, but we soon had the horses unharnessed, and a fresh layer of hay on the ground. The men gestured in thanks. They had their wine, they held up the skins, and told me to go on.
I edged back to the main door, under the overhang, but I was still wet when I came into the house.
Again, my mother greeted me with a dry mantle and I stood against the door, breathing deeply, and catching my breath.
Hananel and his grandson, dressed in fresh dry wool, sat beside the low brazier, opposite Joseph. All had cups of wine in their hands. Joseph gave the blessing now in a hushed voice and bid the guests drink.
The old scholar looked up at me and then to Joseph. Then he tasted the wine and set it down before his crossed ankles.
“Who speaks for the girl now?” he asked.
“Grandfather, please . . .” Reuben said. “I thank you all for your kindness, thank you.”
“Who speaks for her?” demanded Hananel. “I won't stay in this miserable town one moment longer than is necessary. For this I came, and on this I now speak.”
Joseph gestured to James.
“I speak for her,” said James. “My father and I speak for her. And what is it you want to say to me on her account? The girl's our kinswoman.”
“Ah, and ours as well,” said Hananel. “What do you think I want to say? Why do you think I dragged myself through this downpour? I came here this day with an offer of marriage for the girl on behalf of my grandson, Reuben, who sits here to my right, and who is well known to you, as I am known to you. And I speak now of marriage for my son and this girl. Her evil father has abandoned her before the elders of this village and in plain sight of everyone present, including myself and my grandson, and so if you speak for her, then speak for her now to me.”
Joseph laughed.
No one else said a word, or moved, or even breathed very deeply. But Joseph laughed. He looked at the ceiling. His hair was dried now and very white and his eyes were moist in the glimmer from the coals. He laughed as if he was dreaming.
“Ah, Hananel,” he said. “How I have missed you, and I didn't even know it.”
“Yes, and I've missed you too, Joseph,” said Hananel. “Now before any of you clever men say so, allow me to say so: the girl is innocent; she was innocent yesterday; she is innocent today. And the girl is very young.”
“Amen,” I said.
“But she's not poor,” said James without missing a heartbeat. “She has her money from her mother, and she'll have a proper marriage contract hammered out here in this room before she'll be betrothed to anyone or married to anyone, and she will be a bride from this door on her wedding night.”
Hananel nodded. “Get the ink and the parchment,” he said. “Ah, listen to this rain. What chance is there that I'll sleep under my own roof tonight?”
“You're welcome to sleep under our roof, my lord,” I said, with James murmuring his fierce assent. Everyone took it up, the welcomes. My mother and Old Bruria were setting out pottage for us, and warm bread.
From somewhere deep in the house, somewhere above the first story, I could hear the murmur of women's voices. Even