Sigefrith can no longer

“Well, that’s over!” Eadgith sighed.

It was not the satisfied sigh of a woman who had come to the end of an exhausting though agreeable day and who was looking forward to a restful night—and certainly not of a woman looking forward to an exhausting though agreeable night.

Instead it was the weary sigh of a woman who had endured a trial.

Sigefrith knew she had always found the formal duties of a queen to be tiring, despite his hopes that she would gradually grow into the role, but now she found even the pleasant duties of a hostess to her friends to be a burden.

And it had only been a small gathering! There had been only his old friends Alred and Cenwulf and his cousin Brede; and for ladies they had had Edris and Maire, than whom no more easygoing ladies could be found in the valley.

None of these friends demanded any more entertainment than a broad hearth on which they could prop up their feet, a cup or two of wine, and a little conversation. Alred was lately even almost the merry old Alred of long ago, and that Alred could make hilarious conversation with a sack of flour.

Eadgith might have contented herself with sitting alongside and looking pretty—indeed, that was very nearly all she ever did—but even that was apparently too much to ask of her now.

Most evenings she retired early, and his old friends were, like Sigefrith, so given to sitting up past ladies’ bedtimes that no one found this discourteous. He suspected that some of them found it something of a relief. But on this night they had all left before Eadgith’s yawns had grown too ostentatious: Alred and Brede had pregnant wives at home, and Cenwulf and Edris had wanted to accompany Maire home before it grew too late.

Thus Sigefrith now found himself in the ever more disagreeable situation of going to bed at the same time as his wife.

He was beginning to find even the pleasant duties of a husband to his wife to be a burden. It had all become so prescribed and proper that a nun would not have blushed, so mechanical and mindless that Eadgith could have managed it while he slept if men and women had been constructed differently. It was so apparent that she wanted a baby that it was becoming very difficult to tell she wanted her husband at all.

When he could, he did not retire until she had fallen quite asleep, and as always he knew how to rise before she woke. But too often she would linger at his side in the evenings, yawning ever more miserably, pouting: “When are you coming to bed, Sigefrith?” until, as she intended, he took her to bed to end her ceremonial suffering.

However, he was learning not to let this ritual drag out for too long. Sometimes through sheer male stubbornness he would pretend to ignore her yawns until he had built up such a store of silent resentment that, when he finally took her to bed, he—

He could not—simply could not. He was not quite forty-​two, he was never ill, he was not often drunk, but when faced with this outwardly beautiful, inwardly rapacious woman, sometimes he simply could not. A man’s body had a mind of its own, as Alred liked to say—not that he supposed Alred had ever found himself in that situation.

Sigefrith had always thought that the humiliating sympathy of a woman under those circumstances would be more crushing even than mockery, but he had learned that there was worse than either of those two things. Eadgith looked at him then with the sullen indignation of a woman who believed she was being denied something she was owed, and with such an air of self-​righteousness that he supposed she expected him to thank her for forgiving him.

He was beginning to think a man could come to hate a woman for that.

“I think I managed rather well, don’t you?” she said to her mirror.

“What?”

“I talked and laughed just like anyone. I believe they found me almost merry.”

“That is no more than you owe our guests,” he muttered.

“Of course, and that is why I did it.”

“Did what?”

“Acted merry.”

Sigefrith sighed. “It would be more convincing if it were not an act.”

“I know, but one can’t expect that of me. But I think I had them convinced all the same. I know Maire has been saying that I seem quite my old self lately.”

Sigefrith knew that Maire was wrong. But now that he gave the idea some consideration, he realized that Eadgith had been acting more merry lately—to guests. She smiled and laughed and talked, “just like anyone”. It was only when she was alone with him that she turned into her sulky, petulant self.

“Is it all an act then?” he asked.

“Of course, Sigefrith. You know how I truly feel inside.”

Somewhere inside of him, all unfelt and unsuspected, a dark mass had been growing, and now it burst, flooding him with months of festering resentment. He leapt up from the bed and stalked around to her and her mirror.

“What I don’t know,” he growled, “is why I am the one creature on earth who does not deserve the courtesy of a little laughter and a little talking from you!”

“But Sigefrith!” she cried with a laugh that was very little indeed.

“Even if it’s an act! By God’s wounds, I swear I would give half my kingdom merely to see a smile on you that only looks real! But to you I’m not even worth that small effort!”

“Sigefrith!”

“Why am I the one man who doesn’t get to see you smile? When I should be the first to get a smile from you even if it’s the only one you have left in the world? Why?”

“But, Sigefrith! I can only be myself with you! For everyone else I must pretend to be happy, but with you I needn’t pretend!”

“Why not?”

“Because—because you’re my husband! I shouldn’t have to pretend with you, too!”

“Why not?”

“Because! Because! You’re my husband!”

She slipped past him and walked behind him, leaving him facing his own self in the mirror. He could see himself angry and panting, with an ugly twisted mouth, but he could also see that he was still strong and fit; he still had the body he had five or even ten years before, but somehow this woman was draining all the manhood out of it. He was becoming an outwardly virile, inwardly feeble man.

“I’m your husband!” he agreed. He did not turn to her, but watched in fascination his angry self in the mirror. “And you’re my wife! And so I think you owe me a little kindness now and then!”

“Kindness!” she cried. “How can you say I am not kind to you! You know what I have endured! You can’t expect me to laugh and smile as if nothing had ever happened!”

“You do for everyone else. Everyone else but me!”

“But you know me and love me!” she pleaded. “You know how I have suffered! I can’t be strong all the time, all the time!”

“And so the dregs are given me, after everyone else has drunk the wine! I call that unkind!”

“Sigefrith!”

She was only outraged and indignant. She did not even see that she ought to be sorry. She was so supremely selfish, he thought, that she could be selfless with everyone else, and selfish where her husband was concerned, and not only fail to see the irony in this but even expect to be praised for it.

“Beautiful, Eadie!” he cried. “You managed very well! I applaud you! You have convinced everyone in this valley that you are happy and that you care for them, excepting only myself! But what of that? You can’t be expected to be strong all the time, all the time, after all!”

“Sigefrith!” she gasped.

“Good night, Eadie,” he choked. With a last look at his reflection and hers, he went for the door.

For too long he had been trying to be strong all the time, all the time. And now he could not—simply could not.