||[01 Nov 2003|06:21pm]
New Year’s Day, afternoon
I descended the stairs this morning, fully dressed and coiffed, to find Marcellus in his dressing gown, picking at his breakfast plate. He wrote some things out on paper with his other hand.
"My lord," I said, sliding into the chair across the table from him, "surely you won’t be watching the hunt dressed like that!"
He barely looked up from the china and replied, "I haven’t the time for that sort of nonsense."
"Whatever do you mean? We attend every year. What will people say?" I asked, my disappointment growing by the second. The hunt itself isn't really all that exciting to me, but I enjoy the spectacle of young men in tight-fitting breeches, riding about on beautiful horses.
"Frankly, my dear," he said, the sneer evident, "I don’t quite give a damn."
"Well, I want to go! And I cannot go alone, for there shall be even MORE talk about us in town than if we don’t go together."
Marcellus waved his pen wielding hand in a general manner and went back to his figuring. This made me rather furious.
I pressed on, "Well, I am in need of an escort!" More numbers appeared on the paper to the accompaniment of the quill scratching against it.
"Of course, my LORD. Ignoring me helps things rather well, doesn’t it?" I took up my water goblet and tossed its contents at him. The droplets rolled in haphazard courses down his face and beard. He rose up from his chair, glaring at me as he spat, "You BITCH!"
I stood up as well, smirking at him. He grasped my wrist and twisted it. "Give up," I whispered. "Everyone knows you are ineffectual as a man!"
He picked up his plate, remnants of food still clinging to its center, and threw it at the wall. I heard feet running towards the dining room. Hermes appeared in the doorway, and our tableau gave him pause: my husband's face dripping with water, his big-knuckled hand grasping my delicate wrist, both of us with angry countenances.
He broke the silence. "Mother!" Hermes shouted, and he stood at the head of the table, crying out, "I shall take you to the hunt; just, please, don’t do this!"
Marcellus disengaged my hand, and stalked out of the room. There was a faint rosy mark on my wrist for the rest of the day, and it twinged every so often, but I wasn't too concerned. I knew I had hurt him far worse than he let on.
Hermes and I set out a little later to the centre of town. In a few minutes, we are joined by my other children. The traders and food vendors are still setting up their stalls. Through a throng of people, I think I spy Clayton, but by the time it disperses, he is gone. A moment of apprehension, then it dissipates.
"Look," Hermes says, pointing us in the direction of the square proper. "The men are mounting; they must be almost ready to start."
We make our way towards them.