Fire Song Read online

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Fire Song

  ISBN 9781419921643

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Fire Song Copyright 1984, 2009 Roberta Gellis

  Cover art by Dar Albert

  Electronic book publication November 2009

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  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Fire Song

  Roberta Gellis

  Forward

  In 1253, Gascony was the only province out of the vast territories in France inherited by English kings from Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine that remained under England's rule. Gascony remained allied principally for two reasons: England bought most of the wine produced and was thus a mainstay of the province's economy; and the turbulent nobility and equally turbulent independent towns of the province preferred a distant ruler, who would have greater difficulty in disciplining them, to one closer by, who need only march troops overland.

  Over the years, every English king had tried to curb the Gascons and bring order to the province. The attempts of Henry III were among the least successful, and in 1248 he had sent Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester—a notable general and a just and honest, although harsh, man—to settle Gascony once and for all. Whether or not Simon would have succeeded if the king had not interfered will never be known. The leader of the rebels was Gaston de Béarn, a relative by marriage to the king, and despite his troublemaking, Henry was fond of Gaston. Through Gaston and others, the Gascons complained bitterly of Simon's severity, and by 1252, Henry III wished to dismiss Simon from his post as seneschal.

  The king's action, however, was not all based on illogical sympathy for the Gascons. Henry had a reason to wish to conciliate the rebels in 1252, a reason that had not existed earlier. The King of Castile had an ancient claim on the province of Gascony. Alfonso IX had no interest in pressing this claim, partly because his attention was fixed on subduing the Moors of North Africa and partly because Henry had opened nego­tiations for the marriage of Edward, his eldest son, to whom he had assigned rulership of Gascony when he should come of age, to Alfonso's daughter. Thus, Alfonso IX would not assist Gascon rebels nor give them sanctuary. But Alfonso IX died in 1252 and was succeeded by his son, Alfonso X, who promptly did press his claim to Gascony and received Gaston de Béarn at his court.

  Although Raymond d'Aix's principal lands lie in Provence, the rich dower properties of his mother and of Lady Alys, his English wife, are in Gascony. Moreover, Raymond, too, is related by marriage to Henry III. Thus, he is deeply involved in Gascon affairs and is in that province at a critical moment in the life of his eldest natural daughter, Fenice…

  Chapter One

  The small fire sang softly, its voice made up of the guttering of the flame, the hiss of moisture released by the heat, and an occasional pop as a log broke and fell. Fenice huddled close to the hearth. The fire’s song had always brought her comfort, which she needed desperately just now. Her throat closed with fear, but she pushed it back and stifled the wail rising in her breast. That was over—she was done with helpless wailing. Now she must act. A sob of pure terror escaped her. No, not now, not yet. Surely not much time had passed. Surely the new year of 1253 had not yet begun. For a little while longer, it would be better to think about the fire.

  But despite her determination, thoughts of the past year pressed in on Fenice. It had begun so well. She had been happy when her stepmother, Lady Alys, and her father told her that Delmar of Fuveau had been chosen to be her husband, and she had been so proud when she understood that her father had purchased Trets, a large, rich farm, to be her dowry. It had frightened her a little when she read the marriage contract and discovered that she would be her husband’s sole heir if Delmar should die before they had living children, but Lady Alys explained that the provision was included only to cover every eventuality. After all, Lady Alys had said, Delmar’s mother and Uncle Jean-Paul were already old and not likely to outlive him, and even if they did, surely Fenice knew Lord Raymond would not be unkind to them. Moreover, Delmar was the only surviving child. There were no brothers or sisters or nephews or nieces to care for the property.

  Fenice shivered. But now Delmar was dead. He had died before she had even conceived a child. That was why Lady Emilie had thrust her into this convent, Fenice was sure of that. Somehow, Lady Emilie thought she could keep Fuveau in her own hands if Fenice herself were out of the way. And that was why, Fenice knew, she must not sit here weeping. But with that knowledge the icy fear returned, and Fenice made a desperate effort to fix her mind on the dancing flames.

  Why did she love it so? Despite her Provençal blood, she did not much feel the cold. Perhaps it was because she had been forbidden a place near the fire when she was very young, not for fear she would be hurt, but because her serf mother wanted her in dark corners, out of sight of her noble grandmother, Lady Jeannette.

  Lady Jeannette would blame her for everything, Fenice knew, but how could she be blamed for her husband’s death? She had not been with Delmar when he caught the fever, and his mother had not permitted her near him all the while he was sick, although she had begged and pleaded to be allowed to nurse him. Suddenly, Fenice began to weep. Poor Delmar, poor, poor Delmar, to die so young, before he had had a chance to live and to be a man. The tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving bright streaks on the velvety skin. It was so sad he should be dead, and even sadder that she should weep for him, that she should feel so little loss herself. Perhaps her grandmother was right, that the serf’s blood in her veins made her coarse, that she could not feel the finer sentiments, such as love.

  Why, oh why had her father ever desired a common serf woman? Better far, Fenice thought, had she never been born. Although she hardly remembered her mother, Lucie, who had been sent away from Tour Dur when Fenice was seven to be married honorably to a huntsman whom she had long loved, Fenice had not been spared full knowledge of her mother’s low origin. Her grandmother had dwelt particularly on the fact that Raymond had purchased Lucie for a few copper coins.

  Yet, Fenice asked herself, had she not loved Delmar when they were first married? Certainly she had joyed in him and in her service to him those first months when they had been alone on her own tiny estate, which was no more, really, than a large farm with a fortified manor house. Still, she was proud of it. It was hers. Hers? Nonsense. Trets was not hers. It was the marriage portion her father had given with her. It was meant to add to the estate of his grandchildren.

  Then a pang of guilt struck Fenice. What she had thought about Trets was true, of course, but Lady Alys said it was hers, that her father had given it to her for her use, for her security, and t
hat not to accept it as such was to denigrate her father’s love. Of course, Lady Alys agreed that Trets must not be mistreated for extra profit during Fenice’s lifetime, that it should be turned over intact or improved, however, the estate, Alys had said firmly, was a mark of Raymond’s love for his own daughter, not for any putative grandchildren.

  As she thought of Lady Alys, Fenice sat up straighter, seized a poker, and prodded the low-burning logs. The flames leapt up, crackling cheerfully, enlivened by her attention, just as Fenice felt strengthened and enlivened by her remembrance of Lady Alys’s care and love. If ever there was a living refutation of the tales of wicked stepmothers, Lady Alys was it. Fenice adored her father, more than that, she worshiped him almost as a god. But like God, Raymond was most often a distant being. When he noticed Fenice, he was kind. He would kiss her, praise her, and give her gifts. But his notice came infrequently.

  Lady Alys, on the other hand, had protected Fenice from her grandmother, taught her all the skills and duties of a fine lady, and insisted she was a lady, that Raymond’s blood was the stronger and thus dominated her heritage. And Lady Alys had read over Fenice’s marriage contract with her and explained clearly the meaning of every provision. Not only was Trets hers, now that Delmar was dead, Fuveau itself, in law, was also her property.

  In law. Fenice sighed. In law, she had been the mistress of Fuveau from the day she married Delmar, but there was not a servant in it who would obey her. Her mother-by-marriage, Lady Emilie, had seen to that. Alda, Lady Emilie’s maid, had told Fenice to her face that she was no better than the servants, being serf-born herself, and there was no way Alda could have known except from Lady Emilie, nor would she have spread the tale all through the keep without permission.

  Tears filled Fenice’s eyes again and spilled over. Even Delmar had begun to turn against her. The memory cut like a knife so that even the fire song could not comfort Fenice, and she wept aloud.

  “My child.” The gentle hand of Sister Anne touched her shoulder. “I thought you were growing resigned. No feeble woman has the right to contest the will of God. It is a sin. You must cease to weep for your husband. He had warning and time enough to confess and be absolved and to make such suitable gifts to the Church that he is surely safe in the bosom of his Maker. We all pray for him. He is at peace and at rest. It is time for you, too, to make your peace with God.”

  Hastily Fenice wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. Peace with God, she thought bitterly. It was not God’s will she wished to defy. Nor was it for her soul’s sake that her mother-by-marriage had thrust her into this convent the very day after Delmar died, while she was still stunned by her loss. It was because Lady Emilie believed that during the worst of Fenice’s grief she could be induced to take the veil. Perhaps if grief did not make her seek the consolation of a religious life and she continued to resist, she could be forced by methods other than persuasion. Likely Lady Emilie thought she could keep the lands if Fenice became a nun.

  I will go to hell before I give her that chance, Fenice thought. There was no mention in the marriage contract of Fenice’s taking the veil. True, that was always an option left open to a widow, a safe harbor if she was not welcome in her children’s homes and was too old to marry again, or a whip to make her welcome lest she give her estate to the Church, But if Fenice did not choose to “give herself to God”, the fate of the lands was clearly spelled out. In the event that Delmar should die before any child was born of the marriage or that no child survived him, Fuveau as well as Trets would go with Fenice back to her family.

  This was not the most usual disposition of an estate, but Delmar had had no brothers or sisters, and his mother and his Uncle Jean-Paul, who had raised him and cared for the lands, were no longer young. Delmar had been healthy, there had been no reason to think he would not live to a ripe age, particularly since he hated fighting and was most unlikely to take part in any tournament or war. In any case, Raymond was Delmar’s overlord, and when Raymond proposed the arrangement, Delmar had not objected. Of course, he could not imagine dying, but even if he could, he trusted Raymond to be generous to his Uncle Jean-Paul and mother.

  Fenice wondered whether Lady Emilie had known the provisions of the contract. Lady Emilie could not read or write, another reason for hating Fenice, who could, but Delmar might have told her. Fenice wondered if that was why she had been thrust into the convent rather than “succumbing” to the same fever Delmar had taken? If she died, Raymond would immediately make claim to the properties.

  Fenice suddenly realized why she had been forcibly sent to the convent and was now being kept there, and became aware that she was being watched very closely by the older nuns. She had not tried to leave the convent, in fact, she hardly remembered being out of this chamber, but would she have been prevented if she had tried to leave? Had Lady Emilie told the nuns some tale of a disordered mind? Of grief so excessive that were she to leave the convent, she would end her life? Or were the nuns knowingly assisting Lady Emilie to keep what did not belong to her for some share of the lands?

  That was a dreadful thought to have about the holy sisters, but the household of the lords of Aix was very secular, and the deficiencies of the Church were freely discussed there. Fenice had heard far more of the rapacity of the pope and his priests than of the charity and holiness of their spiritual leaders. Yet the nuns had been very kind. They did not sneer at her. She had been installed in the very best guest apartment, and lay sisters had been assigned to serve her. But were they serving her or acting as her wardens? Fenice wondered. They did act as spies. If they had not, how could the nuns have known each time that fear and despair overwhelmed her?

  “Lady Fenice, you are not attending!”

  This time the nun’s voice was sharp, and Fenice became aware that Sister Anne’s voice had been rising and falling in the background while her own mind wandered. “I am sorry, Sister Anne,” Fenice said.

  “You must listen with your heart as well as with your ears,” Sister Anne pointed out, more gently now. “In that way you will find true consolation, consolation that no earthly grief can trouble, for God is constant, never failing in support to those who give up their whole hearts and minds to Him. If you would join yourself to God, you would feel no grief or pain for any thing.”

  Suddenly a notion came to Fenice. For herself, she did not care. In a way it would be a great relief to become a nun, to be one anonymous shadow among many, performing some preordained daily round of work and prayer. No one could pick her out from the others to point at her and call her baseborn. But she could not seek that safe haven when it might cost her beloved father not only the lands he had given her but a larger, richer estate, too. Not when it would leave that estate in Lady Emilie’s greedy hands.

  “Sister,” she said, “no matter how strong my desire to seek consolation in the bosom of God, I cannot do so without the permission of my father and stepmother.”

  “But how can you believe that they would oppose a step so holy and beneficial to you in both body and spirit? Do they not love you? Would they not wish the best for you in the flesh and in the soul?” Sister Anne seemed shocked. “Surely they must know you to be here and that you came with the intention of joining our order.”

  “What?” Fenice breathed.

  “Do you not remember?” the nun asked gently.

  “In truth, I do not,” Fenice said, barely forcing the words through stiff lips.

  Fenice was badly frightened now. Before this, although the nuns had repeatedly urged her to become a novice, no one had implied that the matter was settled. It seemed certain to Fenice that her recalcitrance had been reported to Lady Emilie, who had found “witnesses”—among whom would surely be a priest—who would swear that Fenice had taken a holy vow to take the veil. The Church considered such a vow as binding as a betrothal. It was, indeed, a betrothal to Christ, whom one married symbolically on becoming a nun.

  God knew to what else a corrupt priest might swear, Fenice thought, as a sur
ge of panic tightened her throat. She had not seen her seal since she came into the convent. Had Lady Emilie got the priest to write a letter to her father and Lady Alys to tell them what she had done and that she did not wish to see them? Could her father be taken in by such a letter, not written in her own hand?

  A shudder ran through her, for she realized that that was not impossible. The last time Raymond had seen her and Delmar had been during a brief visit to Trets when he had informed her that there was trouble in Gascony and that he was going there. At that time Fenice and Delmar had been at the peak of their happiness together. The first uneasy awkwardnesses of marriage had passed. It seemed that every hour each discovered something new and wonderful about the other. That was before they had moved to Fuveau, before Lady Emilie had made Delmar ashamed of his marriage, before Fenice had come to realize that Delmar was not only gentle but weak. Thinking back, Fenice saw her own joy, her freedom from the shadow her grandmother cast over her, and her pride in being mistress of her own house.

  Her father might think that, so soon and so suddenly bereft of her love and her joy, she might be sickened of the world and turn to God. He would not approve, but he would be too kind to oppose her desire. And doubtless her father thought her young and foolish. Perhaps he believed she did not understand about the lands despite Lady Alys’s explanation, so that she did not realize she would be cheating him.

  Sister Anne had answered her, but Fenice had not heard the reply. As the immediate shock passed, her panic also receded, and Fenice saw a little hole through which she might escape any immediate demand that she join the order. She shook her head.

  “I do not remember,” she repeated, “and I owe too much to my father to take the veil without his word of approval in person or, at least, a letter from him.”