The Lady at the River's Edge

25 - Ties of Old

Sleep had come swiftly that morning, seizing her as soon as her head had touched the hay. Now with night upon them she lay with eyes open, flinching at every noise, her thoughts running rampant.

Her body was exhausted, and had been so all afternoon; she felt it with every shift of discomfort, with every breath, a soreness that transcended any limb or sinew, an ache of her entire being. Her mind too suffered for its overuse; it cried out for rest, but could never find it. So there she lay, staring blind, for no starlight or moonlight could find its way up into the little hayloft.

Her afternoon and evening had been by no means strenuous, but neither had they been restful, spent in long plodding discussions with Janos of their circumstances and their path forward. Supper had been little heartier than breakfast: the farmer Polhos had been generous enough to send them some goat cheese with their bread, a usual favorite of hers, but Erzsebet had hardly managed two bites of the tepid fragrant muck.

All through these hours she had been waiting for her chance to sleep properly, yet now that the time had come, she lay restless. It was not just the narrow confines of the loft, nor the nearness of the knight–both were comforts to her, in fact. No, it was her body which betrayed her, refused her even this meager reprieve.

She shifted, turning towards Janos, trying to discern the knight's figure through the gloom. His breathing was steady and deep–of course he had fallen asleep without trouble. Her mind went back to the morning, when she had seen that flash of hatred in his eyes. There had been no further hint all through the day, nothing in his behavior or voice to suggest he harbored enmity. Had she simply imagined it? Perhaps he had just been annoyed, or testy from exhaustion, and she had embroidered this mundanity with her own threads of horror.

And if he did hate her, what then? What could she do about it? Without Janos' guidance, she could never hope to make her way to the capital. Even setting out from the barn, she knew not what direction to go–for every leg of the journey she would need to ask a stranger for directions, until she inevitably approached someone of ill character, and all would be lost.

It was miserable, living this way, wholly dependent on the goodwill of those around her, dragged along against her will. Even when her wants were honored and fulfilled it was a hollow comfort, knowing she had had no say in the matter. What a cruel jape, to raise noble girls to adulthood without giving them any tools to manage their lives–though perhaps it was no jape at all. Perhaps it was done with purpose, for the same reason that no rancher taught his cows how to unlatch the fence.

It would mean no end of trouble, if women were given leave to choose. Better to keep them passive, passed from father to husband; ornaments, embellishments to the sovereign sex, the inheritors of the authority of Adam. Then, even should they wish to rebel against their fate, they would be powerless to defy their masters. A devious arrangement!

This bitter cynicism brought to mind the countess Magdalena and her odious lecture about womanly power. We exist at their discretion, she had spat, with equal parts venom and pride. It is your duty as a woman to master their whims, like a sailor masters the sea.

Was that the path to freedom, then? Or only a story the countess told herself, a comforting fiction made to hide her helplessness? Perhaps Erzsebet wouldn't be so disconsolate if she could only convince herself that she used Janos, rather than relied upon him.

Again she sought his shadow in the greater dark–it was strange, knowing him to be so near, yet unable to see him. She shifted, rustling the hay, and heard a whisper of movement in answer.

"Are you awake, Janos?" she asked quietly, little more than a breath.

"I am, my lady," he answered, with a faint grogginess that made his words seem only half true. "What troubles you?"