His handsome olive face was twisted with the ferocity of his anger, the black eyes
that could in other circumstances draw her into their soft and endearing embrace flinty,
glittering with the intensity of his fury.
“What did I tell you?” he screamed, leaning over her, close to her so that spittle
sprayed on to her upturned face. “I tell you a thousand times,” he yelled. “A thousand
times: when we’re married you don’t ever, ever look at another man, not when you live in
my country. It is my,” his hand slapped his chest, “honour! And we are married three
months,” his voice went up an octave. “Three months… and I see you watching the men at the
river with lustful eyes!”
“I… I was just looking out of the window,” she stammered. “I didn’t know…”
“It is not an excuse!” he shouted, slamming his hand on to the arm of the sofa she
cowered on. “If you look out of the window and see them, you look away. But I watched you!
You gazed at them! Don’t lie! You compared them to me! You shame me!”
“I didn’t!” she wailed, thoroughly cowed by the sheer intensity of the anger. “I
didn’t!”
“You English whore! In England you told me how much you love me, how you can’t live
without me. You vow in the sacred ceremony to honour and obey me and bring me no shame. I
give you my name, my honour, my wealth! And this is how you repay me! Slut!”
“Please, Estvan, I…”
“Don’t speak my name, whore!” He towered over her, trembling in his rage as much as
she was in her fear. He’d never been like this in England; there, he’d been charming,
urbane, generous, loving. Anything but this raving maniac, screaming these imaginary
offences at her. “Adak!” he yelled.
Adak was their… she called him handyman; Estvan something else, a traditional name
here in Aldarka. She didn’t like the man or the way he looked at her sideways, always
slyly, licking his lips as if in anticipation. “Don’t…” she began.
He whirled on her hand raised to strike. “Don’t speak to me, creature!”
“Estvan, pl….”
“Silence!” he screamed, his voice almost cracking. He rattled something at her. She
looked at him, uncomprehending, becoming more frightened by the second. She’d learned a
few words of Aldar, usually in their love-making, but she understood not a word of that.
He must have seen her mystification. “Keep you voice for yourself and speak to me with
your screams. Adak! Ah!”
The burly figure of the servant - in Aldarka, she’d learned, that word went far
deeper than in Britain - entered the room. He was about thirty-five, she supposed: more
squat and swarthy than most Aldarkans, who were generally a taller, stately and
proud-looking people with light olive complexions. He seemed to take in the scene at a
glance, especially after a few words in their own language from Estvan, at which he looked
at Mary with an evil grin spreading over his face. It was as if he’d known all along that
something like this was going to happen. Suddenly, she felt sick.
“Did you hear, whore?” Estvan screamed. His anger hadn’t diminished; if anything,
it had increased. It was as if telling Adak had set the seal on something that was now set
in irrevocable motion. “I told him to bring a kantara and Metoria. I will chastise your
flesh and spirit, whore, in the Aldarkan way.”
She began to cry. “Estvan….”
“Silence! Cry if you must! There will be many more before this day closes! I will
cleanse you, slut, if I make your flesh bleed to do it!”
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