pieces had been lost, and though she had asked several times, Ulric had not got her another. But she could not say that to the alewife.
“It is such a trouble to comb it,” she muttered. “I just bundled it up. He never noticed. And when I fell…” She let her voice fade.
The alewife tch ’d but said no more and went out around the blanket to get a knife.
“Clever girl,” Telor said softly from the other side of the blanket. “It is just as well, because I want you to dress as a boy. I will explain later.” And then he raised his voice to speak to the returning woman. “You can take these garments to the girl, alewife. They are all I can spare.”
Dress as a boy? Carys considered the idea as the woman lifted sections of her hair and drew the knife across them. At first Carys felt relief. Dressed as a boy she would be spared the looks and remarks, the pawing by men, which she hated. Ulric had never tried to shield her from anything other than actually being used—and that only because he intended to collect a fee for it. But for all Telor’s kindness, Carys could not really believe that saving her from unpleasantness could be his reason for wanting her to be thought a boy. Men did not care what a woman felt. Certainly Telor had been indifferent to what she might feel when her hair was shorn. Carys shivered as more hair fell. Her head felt strangely light.
“It will soon grow back,” the alewife said, “and you will not be so stupid and lazy as not to comb it in the future.”
A spurt of hatred for the dead Ulric, who had reduced her to pulling what tangles she could from her hair with her fingers, passed through Carys. She had had to take the blame for the condition of her hair, but her anger and frustration spilled over onto Telor. He had said he would explain, but in Carys’s experience explanations meant lies. The truth was always clear enough to understand without explanation.
First Carys wondered if Telor feared being cast into the shade by her skill. She had often been the target of spite of other players envious of her work. Nonetheless, she was proud of that skill, and though she hated the lust generated in some men by the display of her art, she loved the attention and admiration of the rest of the people. It had always been a pure joy to her to watch the eager faces as the rope on which she danced was raised into place. And the shouts and gasps, the cries of delight during and after her performance, had often satisfied her enough to dull the pangs of real hunger. But then Carys frowned. First of all, Telor could have no notion of whether she was a good rope dancer or not, for he had never seen her work. Second, while she was lame she could not draw attention away from him, so why dress her as a boy?
Then, as the last matted tress fell, Carys remembered how Telor had called her a filthy slut and said he would sooner lie with a pig in a wallow. At the moment the words had meant nothing to her. Morgan and Ulric had often said worse when she displeased them. But Telor had meant it! He was ashamed of her!
Carys’s reaction was a shock of disbelief. Both Morgan and Ulric had been very proud of her and had displayed her as a prize possession. She had had offers to join other troupes but had not done so because she owed Morgan a debt for having kept her as a child and trained her. And Ulric had protected her after Morgan died, so she owed him too; besides, for all his strength he was so stupid and helpless that she had not been able to desert him. Never before had her worth been questioned.
She was so deep in her thoughts that she hardly felt the alewife running the comb through what was left of her hair, tugging at the remaining tangles until the comb ran smoothly. The pain within Carys was far sharper than that caused by pulling her hair. She had taken it for granted that she and Telor were equals because they were both players, and had not given much thought to the signs of wealth. All she had
“It is such a trouble to comb it,” she muttered. “I just bundled it up. He never noticed. And when I fell…” She let her voice fade.
The alewife tch ’d but said no more and went out around the blanket to get a knife.
“Clever girl,” Telor said softly from the other side of the blanket. “It is just as well, because I want you to dress as a boy. I will explain later.” And then he raised his voice to speak to the returning woman. “You can take these garments to the girl, alewife. They are all I can spare.”
Dress as a boy? Carys considered the idea as the woman lifted sections of her hair and drew the knife across them. At first Carys felt relief. Dressed as a boy she would be spared the looks and remarks, the pawing by men, which she hated. Ulric had never tried to shield her from anything other than actually being used—and that only because he intended to collect a fee for it. But for all Telor’s kindness, Carys could not really believe that saving her from unpleasantness could be his reason for wanting her to be thought a boy. Men did not care what a woman felt. Certainly Telor had been indifferent to what she might feel when her hair was shorn. Carys shivered as more hair fell. Her head felt strangely light.
“It will soon grow back,” the alewife said, “and you will not be so stupid and lazy as not to comb it in the future.”
A spurt of hatred for the dead Ulric, who had reduced her to pulling what tangles she could from her hair with her fingers, passed through Carys. She had had to take the blame for the condition of her hair, but her anger and frustration spilled over onto Telor. He had said he would explain, but in Carys’s experience explanations meant lies. The truth was always clear enough to understand without explanation.
First Carys wondered if Telor feared being cast into the shade by her skill. She had often been the target of spite of other players envious of her work. Nonetheless, she was proud of that skill, and though she hated the lust generated in some men by the display of her art, she loved the attention and admiration of the rest of the people. It had always been a pure joy to her to watch the eager faces as the rope on which she danced was raised into place. And the shouts and gasps, the cries of delight during and after her performance, had often satisfied her enough to dull the pangs of real hunger. But then Carys frowned. First of all, Telor could have no notion of whether she was a good rope dancer or not, for he had never seen her work. Second, while she was lame she could not draw attention away from him, so why dress her as a boy?
Then, as the last matted tress fell, Carys remembered how Telor had called her a filthy slut and said he would sooner lie with a pig in a wallow. At the moment the words had meant nothing to her. Morgan and Ulric had often said worse when she displeased them. But Telor had meant it! He was ashamed of her!
Carys’s reaction was a shock of disbelief. Both Morgan and Ulric had been very proud of her and had displayed her as a prize possession. She had had offers to join other troupes but had not done so because she owed Morgan a debt for having kept her as a child and trained her. And Ulric had protected her after Morgan died, so she owed him too; besides, for all his strength he was so stupid and helpless that she had not been able to desert him. Never before had her worth been questioned.
She was so deep in her thoughts that she hardly felt the alewife running the comb through what was left of her hair, tugging at the remaining tangles until the comb ran smoothly. The pain within Carys was far sharper than that caused by pulling her hair. She had taken it for granted that she and Telor were equals because they were both players, and had not given much thought to the signs of wealth. All she had
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