Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [74]
When they came ashore, the little mason leapt on to the bank with a cry of joy, took his wife in his arms, and then lifted up his baby son and showed him to Tark, saying “Here’s a fine young mason,” before he led them all up the path to his hut.
It was the first time that she had been near the riverman for some months. She had seen him pass in one of his boats from time to time though, and had seen him giving orders at the trading post. Her husband had often spoken highly of him too, and she had learned from the women that he had another reputation, which did not surprise her. She had been curious about him.
But now she found that his presence disturbed her.
Nooma, in search of something, had dived inside the hut, leaving her alone with him in the sunlight outside. As a good wife should, she offered him wheat cakes and drink and sat modestly on the ground while he ate, looking up at him only when he spoke to her the formal compliments that custom required. Even so, she felt herself blush.
Tark the riverman looked down at the mason’s young wife. She was little more than a girl. And he understood at once everything that was passing in her mind. He smiled pleasantly at her, noting once again the points about her that had first made him tell Nooma that she was the best of the girls he had seen. She was indeed, with her dark eyes and creamy skin.
Above all he felt sorry for her.
“I did this poor girl no favour when I told the mason about her,” he thought. Had she ever known passion with this squat fellow who was now bustling around in his hut looking for some stone he had picked up that he wanted to show him? He doubted it. He felt sorry for her; but there was nothing he could do now.
Just then, Nooma appeared triumphantly with his stone.
“Look,” he exclaimed as he handed Tark the little figure of the ancient hunter’s woman; “isn’t it fine workmanship?” As Tark turned the little figure over in his long fingers, and felt the firm, voluptuous curves of it, he had to agree that the mason was right.
“The carver loved his woman,” Nooma grinned, “as I love mine.” As Nooma put his arm round Katesh’s waist, Tark found that he was looking into her eyes.
Katesh looked down at once. She had not meant to look at him. And for the rest of the time that Tark was there, she kept her eyes downcast.
What was it about the tall figure that made her afraid she would blush if she looked at him again? Was it the memory of his rich voice and his far-away eyes when he had sung that night after Noo-ma-ti had been named? Was it something she had seen just then, as he paddled down the stream? Was it the fact that he was close to her now, that she knew he guessed the feelings that she had hardly even allowed herself to think?
She thought she was glad when he left.
“Isn’t he a fine fellow?” Nooma said enthusiastically, as Tark walked down to his boat.
“He is too tall,” she replied.
“Most women like him,” Nooma laughed.
“I prefer my husband,” she said, and pulled him to her.
Did she, after that day, go more often to the riverbank? She did not think she did.
It was almost a month later that Tark pulled in to the bank one afternoon to exchange a few words with her. His boat was laden with goods that he was taking up from the harbour to the henge and politely she enquired:
“Were you trading with merchants from over the sea?”
He nodded. “They brought things from many lands.”
Then he explained to her where each of the items in the boat came from: the rich cloths from the far south, the bronze knives from the north, the richly decorated belts from cunning artisans who lived in the east. She was impressed with this knowledge and the fact that he spoke of these distant places with such familiarity. Her shyness with him grew less.
“Have you been to these places?” she asked.
“Some, but not all,” he told her easily. Then, stepping out of the boat