This Rough Magic

some people see the mantle of the Valdosta is there to protect her.'

Benito raised his eyes to heaven. 'It's a pretty thin mantle. And don't say that to Maria. She doesn't believe she needs any protecting. Tell you what, Alberto. I'll ask her.'

'I'm sure she'll agree.'

Benito was certain she wouldn't.

He was wrong. Maria nodded, when he said that they'd asked him to do a eulogy. 'It would have meant a lot to him, 'Nito. He really liked you. He was very proud of you, you know.' She sniffed. 'He even asked me to be nicer to you.'

Benito found his reply had got stuck behind the lump in his throat. But he nodded.

The little Hypatian chapel was full to the wall-bulging point. The Little Arsenal's scuolo, the Corfiotes, the Illyrians, men, women and children . . . Today there was no fighting among them. Today they'd come to pay their last respects, to commit to God and the earth one of their own. To show to his widow, whom they'd come to respect, and love too, how much they'd valued her man.

Sibling Eleni conducted the service, giving comfort with the old words. The air was full of incense. It was getting in his eyes. After the homily, Benito had to stand up and speak. Facing the court had been easier. He swallowed.

'Umberto Verrier . . . When I was asked give this eulogy, I struggled to get the words I wanted to say about this man. So: I came here last night. It's not a place I come to often enough. My head stayed empty. I knew what I wanted to say about Umberto, but not how to say it. And my eyes wandered to the icons. Then I saw a face that had something in it that reminded me of Umberto. I saw the same look as I have often seen on the face of the man I was proud to call my friend, in the face of the Holy Saint Peter. The face of man that you know is as solid and reliable as the rock beneath your feet.

'When I first met Umberto, we hauled baulks of timber together at the gate where our ships landed. It took me very little time to realize that here was a man who spoke not with his mouth but with his hands, and that those hands knew exactly what they were doing. Umberto wasn't a great talker. He was a man who did, instead. And like the rock, he was a man you could rely on and trust. Because he was what he was. As good and solid as a rock.'

Benito had struggled to start speaking. Now the words came easily, painting a deep and full picture of Umberto, of the treasure that this husband had been to Maria. Benito had not realized what effect the quiet, small scuolo master craftsman had had on him. He was always just there when Maria was. Solid. You almost didn't notice him, until he wasn't there.

If Benito felt like this now, how then was Maria bearing it?

The pallbearers were all scuolo. Alberto had been polite but firm in his refusal of Benito's offer. 'You can speak for him. But we carry our own.'

They laid him in the grave and gave him into the embrace of the earth. And the world seemed a poorer place, full of dust and ashes.

Maria stood white-faced and weeping at the graveside. Work-roughened hands touched her, awkwardly, gently. Hands trying to say what the scuolo, the Corfiotes, the women and Illyrians could find no words for.

Benito did it himself. Words were too inadequate.

She turned to him. 'Thank you,' she said, quietly. 'You said the right things about him.'

'I wish that bolt had hit me instead,' he said. 'I'm worth less than he was. Maria, if you need anything, or need help with 'Lessi . . . I'll be there.'

She nodded.

He was not too sure what she was agreeing with.

* * *

Erik opened his eyes at the end of what seemed like a long, long tunnel of grayness. He looked up into Manfred's face.

'Are you dead as well? Did I fail you, too?' The voice was a dry, cracked whisper.

'No. You're alive thanks to that mad scamp Benito. I must talk to Uncle about a barony for the boy, at the very least. Maybe on the border of Aquitaine. It'll do him and the Aquitaines good.'

Erik blinked. 'Where am I?'

'In the hospital, in the Citadel.'

Then the despair washed over him. 'She's dead, Manfred. She's dead. I promised I would never leave her. I must go to her.'

A firm hand pushed him down onto the bed. 'She's dead. You're alive and you're going to stay that way. Because you are my hearthman. I need you here. I order it.'

* * *

Manfred knew the Icelander was still on the border between life and death . . . And the direction he took now was very uncertain. But he had never seen Erik cry. Tears welled up in those gray eyes, drowning them. Then Erik swallowed, tightened his jaw and said in a quiet voice:

'Very well. Duty remains, Manfred.' He paused. 'To every life there comes a season of happiness. I have had mine.'

* * *

The baby wailed, and Maria tucked sweat-damp strands of hair behind her ears, then bounced Alessia in an attempt to soothe her. She might as well have tried to stop the tide; she got no more result than when she'd tried to feed the poor mite a moment ago. Maria felt her own irritation building to an irrational anger, and did her best to