‘Should we announce it?’ the priest asked.
‘A proper wedding in a church, and invite all of Lapvona. I’ll give them each a bit of money and they’ll come kiss my hand. Won’t that be nice?’
‘As you wish,’ Father Barnabas said.
The two men strolled out into the hall, forgetting Agata, who was still getting dressed in the room. She was strangely calmed by this turn of events. The nuns at the abbey, those who survived the famine, would be sorry they’d treated her so poorly once they heard the news.
Marek, red in the face with rage, slipped inside the room where Agata was rolling on her stockings.
‘You’re having a baby?’ Marek asked Agata, drool and tears sputtering from his lips.
She shrugged.
‘If you love that baby more than me,’ he said, ‘I’ll kill myself. Then you’ll be sorry.’
Agata shrugged again.
* * *
*
All the flowers Lispeth had to pick were red. Red, the color of blood, of life. Agata’s dress would be white and virginal, but the flowers were to express the nobility of Villiam’s bloodline, however irrelevant his blood was to the virgin birth.
‘Do you think the nun is really pregnant?’ Jenevere asked, collecting the flowers in her basket.
‘You should know, you’re her maid,’ replied Petra.
‘She has more fat than when she arrived,’ Jenevere said, ‘and she eats enough for two.’
‘She’s certainly pregnant,’ Lispeth said. ‘I’ve done her wash since she came and she doesn’t bleed.’
‘You don’t bleed either,’ Petra said.
‘I’m not like other women,’ Lispeth said.
‘Don’t tease her, Petra,’ Jenevere said. ‘She’s still a little girl.’
‘We’re the same age,’ Petra said.
‘Don’t tease her,’ Jenevere said again.
Villiam never wondered who had sired the unborn child. He accepted in his imagination, as he was a man of fancy, that the baby was indeed divinely created and divinely given to him. To Villiam, ‘divinity’ was a synonym for his own good fortune. He believed that wonderful things came to him because he was wonderful and therefore deserved them. Good that Agata was no great beauty or wit; he would not have to pretend to cherish her in front of company. He would not have to compliment her, as he’d had to with Dibra at first. He wouldn’t have to woo her father. He wouldn’t have to contend with a jealous brother. Ivan had still not replied to his letter. News of his upcoming nuptials, Villiam worried, might steer Ivan into rage. He could imagine his fury: ‘My sister disappears, and now you’re God’s favorite?’ Jealousy was all it was. But Villiam knew he would have to be more careful now that he was marrying the mother of Christ. He couldn’t have young guests visit to play games alone in his chambers. He couldn’t clown around or make any mistakes lording over Lapvona. He would need to increase security—no more visitors, no more fun. He would have to satisfy his appetite for sex with tansy. It was the only thing to quell lust. Little yellow flowers. They were good for everything. A single blossom down the throat could cure a fever or a flu, and a handful would kill you. Any amount in between could do anything you wished.
Lispeth picked red zinnias, poppies, roses, peonies, and red chrysanthemum, all growing in the indoor flower garden, which was protected from frost by a constantly burning fire. She and the servants were tasked with garlanding the blooms into miles-long strands for the wedding. There was to be a rope of red, like a line of blood, leading from the manor on the hill down to the road and into the village, ending at the apse of the church, where the priest would be robed in red as well. Villiam’s attire would be red. The villagers were to wear red, too. The guards had gone around to every home in the village with packets of bath of madder and instructions for all Lapvonians to dye their clothes as many times as necessary to produce a deep crimson. This was Villiam’s idea, as he’d had a dream in which everyone wore red at his wedding. He wasn’t particularly fond of the color, but he had respect for his dreams and liked to see them actualized.
Although dying their clothes was a chore, the people of Lapvona were happy to participate in the celebration, as they’d been promised a day off from their labor and a zillin each. And word had gotten out that the nun was pregnant. The priest had spread the story through Ina. Along with it was the promise that touching the belly of the virgin would bring health and prosperity, and Ina advised the female villagers in secret about exactly how to place their hands on the belly. ‘Your fingers must be spread like this,’ she said, and however they spread them, she corrected them until they were so fussed that they paid her over and over with food and ale to teach them once more.