‘Why should I have to be nice? Nobody is nice to me,’ Vuna whined. ‘You’re the one who said the wrong thing, Jon. I wish I’d stayed home.’
‘I wish you’d stayed home, too. I can’t be expected to manage the old man and the lord at the same time. And you blame me for the trouble. Now I’ll have to hear you complain about what a terrible Christmas you’ve had, while you’re the one who ruined it with your bad mood. Don’t I deserve to have a good time ever?’
‘I wasn’t stopping you! I didn’t spoil your time!’
‘You did,’ Jon said.
‘I didn’t do anything!’
‘I know what you were thinking. “Jon is so stupid, there he is making a fool of himself.”？’
They had stopped on the road to look back up at the manor. Perhaps it was because of the tiny baby twisting inside and sparking her heart that Vuna was suddenly sorry that she had been grumpy that day and saw that Jon was not truly against her, but suffering from a grave insecurity. It was hard for a man to drink from another man’s cup. Vuna hadn’t understood that Jon was so proud.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She looked at him and he looked back at her, and they looked at each other and softened. And as Jon was the kind of young man to spring back into love at the slightest invitation, he rubbed his eyes and sighed, then lunged for Vuna and kissed her. Their mouths opened immediately, suddenly desperate to exchange the warmth that they’d been denying each other while fighting. ‘Forget it, forget it,’ their kisses said. They didn’t need to complicate their lives with analysis, although they were prone to do so because they were more intelligent than average. And Jon had seen Grigor and his mother do it—constantly explain things to one another. ‘But I think this is true.’ ‘And I think that.’ He was more comfortable bickering. For Vuna, arguing was torture. Which was why Jon loved her so much: she was innocent. And her features were so strange, her eyelids a shade of gray that made her brown-green eyes look like mirrors. They parted lips and looked up to see if Grigor had seen them kissing. But the road was clear. They kept on down the hill toward the village, hand in hand now.
They were both pathetic. Blind, Grigor thought. He walked slowly, letting the frigid air chill his bones. It was colder now that the sun had sunk. At least he had spoken up, he thought, however badly it had turned out. The lord was incapable of truth, of course. He should have predicted that. He imagined giving a speech to a crowd in the village square, his face lit by the yellow light of torches, his heart thrumming in his throat. ‘He steals our food! He steals our money! We should demand he return his wealth to us—we built this village, not him! And he stole our water. Down with Villiam, I say!’ They’d all cheer and hoist Grigor up into the air. ‘Let’s storm the manor! Let us be the bandits this time!’ he’d cry.
That was only a fantasy. Nobody would listen, of course. It was pointless to think of taking up arms, going up to make demands. Nobody could ever get past the first line of guards anyway. Those northern guards were so skilled with their arrows, they would pluck each man off one by one if they marched up the road. And what did Grigor really want from Villiam? An apology? All lords were corrupt. If he wanted to live freely, he would have to live like Ina lived, in a hovel. Poverty had its limitations, but if you had nothing, there was nothing to be stolen. He moseyed down the hill across the snow. Jon and Vuna were now out of sight. Once they were home, everyone would be coming around to ask about the feast.
‘What should we tell them?’ Vuna asked Jon as they turned the corner toward the woods.
‘We’ll tell them we all sat around naked,’ Jon said and laughed.
Vuna liked to see Jon laugh. He reached for her again and kissed her, slipping a hand under her coat to feel the small of her back. Vuna pulled away, afraid that he would feel the swelling of her belly. Jon took this as yet another retraction of love. He put his hands in his pockets, his face falling serious yet again.
‘Let’s tell them the truth,’ Jon said.
‘Tell them what?’
‘That Villiam is a scoundrel,’ Jon said. ‘He’s a heathen. Who could make a joke like that on Christmas? Licking my finger?’
Vuna shrugged. ‘I don’t want to make anybody angry.’
‘They should be angry at him, not at us.’
‘The neighbors will say that your father has poisoned our minds against the lord. We’ll be the heathens then.’