FireSong Page 10

  Fortunately, William was no great distance away. He was in Wallingford, working over estate accounts at the moment Aubery entered. Richard was with the king because of Gascon affairs. It had been decided that Richard and Queen Eleanor would hold a joint regency while Henry was in Gascony, and there was much for them to discuss, but Richard and Henry still sometimes rubbed each other the wrong way. Moreover, Gascony was a sore point between Eleanor and Richard. The queen had coveted the province for her eldest son, whereas Richard had once hoped to rule there himself. In the end Eleanor’s wishes had prevailed and Richard seemed to acquiesce, but neither was comfortable with the other in any discussion of Gascon affairs.

  Therefore, when William heard hurried steps and the metallic whisper and clink of armor in movement, he threw down his quill and got hastily to his feet expecting to see Richard with his face congested with rage. He was a good deal startled to see, instead, Aubery, pale as a ghost.

  “My God,” he cried, “what is wrong?”

  “I do not know,” Aubery replied. “Most likely nothing, but I have letters from…from Raymond.”

  He was holding them out as he spoke, and William snatched them from his hand, tore open the oiled silk cover, and broke the inner seal. A second packet fell out to the floor, and Aubery retrieved it.

  “I am a fool,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “Here is Alys’s letter.”

  Simultaneously, William exclaimed, “All is well. It was my letter that was delayed in coming to them. Go get that armor off, Aubery, and join us for dinner. Your mother will be glad to see you.”

  But Aubery did not seek out his mother. He was in no mood to make cheerful conversation and pretend he did not care, and he was well enough known in Wallingford simply to ask for service. Once his armor had been removed and he was dressed in a borrowed gown, he idled about the hall, restlessly examining the hangings and some huge broadswords that were displayed as curiosities of times past. He was miserably certain that William’s offer had been rejected and the reason his stepfather had not invited him back to the chamber was that he was trying to think of a way to break the unpleasant news gently. Finally, however, he went back, unable to wait longer.

  William looked up with a rather uncertain smile. “I have an interesting proposal from Raymond,” he said.

  “I did not think Alys would wish to part with Marlowe,” Aubery replied stiffly, bitterly ashamed of the sensations of loss and fury that rose in him. “After all, it was her home, and—”

  “Alys’s home is where Raymond is,” William interrupted brusquely. He had always known that, but it hurt just a little every time he was reminded of it. “She does not want Marlowe, and neither does Raymond. To them, Marlowe would be a burden. But they seem to fear that the payment I offered would be a strain for me. Well, one thousand marks would not be easy, they are right about that.”

  “I will gladly pay part,” Aubery offered immediately.

  “I have told you already that the payment has nothing to do with you,” William said. Actually, he would never have mentioned the sum at all except that he wanted Aubery to accept the marriage proposal. In William’s opinion, his stepson had mourned his pretty, silly wife far too long already. “But it seems,” he went on, “that payment might not be necessary. What Alys and Raymond propose is that you marry Raymond’s natural daughter and that her lands in Provence be exchanged for Marlowe.”

  “What?” Aubery had been so determined not to hurt William or betray himself that he was unable to assimilate an idea that would give him what he wanted and also remove the guilt he felt for taking something without making recompense.

  William, sensibly, paid no attention to the meaningless question, continuing his explanation. “I am sure I have mentioned that Raymond has two natural daughters. Now and again Alys has written about them. She is very fond of both. The elder, named Fenice is the girl being offered. She was married to one of Alphonse’s vassals, who died and left her heiress to two good properties.”

  Aubery shook his head as if he had been hit on it and was trying to clear his vision and hearing. “What the devil do lands in Provence have to do with Marlowe?”

  “Alys is trying to save me from myself, I think.” William grinned. “You know she always felt I was too inclined to generosity.”

  “So do I,” Aubery remarked.

  Ignoring that comment, William went on more soberly, “There is, I think, some reason they wish to send the girl away. Neither Alys nor Raymond makes that clear, but it does not seem to be any fault in Fenice. Alys, who is not inclined that way, you know, waxes lyrical over her stepdaughter’s perfections—and, you must be aware, Aubery, that Alys loves you too well to suggest a marriage that could make you unhappy. Here, read her letter and Raymond’s, too.”

  William held out the pieces of parchment, and then, as Aubery took them, his conscience was pricked. He knew he had made it practically impossible for Aubery to refuse the offer. Guilt-stricken, he added, “If you are absolutely opposed to marrying again, Aubery, just say so. You must not feel obliged to agree because of the money.”

  Without answering, Aubery took the letters. He turned away, as if to get better light, but he really wanted to hide his confusion. The suggestion that he should take a second wife had caught him with all his defenses concentrated on another object, so that his reaction was one of perfect honesty. He felt a surge of eagerness mixed with apprehension. He had been very happy in his marriage at first, disappointment had followed. It was impossible not to want to renew the pleasures and also to wonder if stale dissatisfaction would again spoil his love.

  Having got that far, Aubery was horrified. How could he be so unfaithful, so forgetful of poor Matilda? Even if it was not all his fault that he found her so dull, he had not been as kind as he should have been during her short life. Perhaps, then, it was not right that he should marry so soon, less than a year after her death. He would have to refuse. But a different sense of obligation came to his rescue. Refusal would cost his stepfather one thousand marks. That was far too high a price for William to pay just because he wished to honor Matilda’s memory. He could honor it even if he did marry. There was no rule that said a man must love his wife. If he did his duty to her, that was all that could be asked of him.

  Without really having looked at more than the first few lines of Raymond’s letter, Aubery lifted his head. “There is no need for me to bother with the details. There is no question that I must marry again if Marlowe is to come to me. I must try to breed up sons to hold the lands after me. Now or later cannot matter, and the sooner the better if I want sons.”

  “Aubery, for God’s sake—” William began, but then he stopped abruptly, remembering that Aubery’s first marriage had been for love, and had been a disaster in his opinion. Just because William himself had loved the right woman and had had to wait twenty years for her was no reason to urge Aubery to refuse Fenice. Very likely Alys knew better than Aubery who would make him happy. Alys was a very sensible woman.

  And, almost like an echo of his thoughts, Aubery said, “I am not discontent, William. Nor did I mean to sound ungracious. I believe, like you, that Alys is too fond of me to choose a woman who would not be a good wife. I am sure this girl— Fenice, did you say her name was?—will suit me very well.”

  Chapter Seven

  In Bordeaux, Alys’s revelation of the marriage plans came as much less of a shock to Fenice than William’s had been to Aubery. In fact, Fenice had been restraining herself with some difficulty from asking whether her stepmother had given any more thought to her second marriage. It was, after all, a matter of great importance to her. Fenice knew a bad marriage could cost a woman her life. But she also knew perfectly well she would have nothing to fear from any man her father and stepmother chose for her. She was secure in the knowledge that they wished her well.

  Alys was not deliberately keeping Fenice in suspense. She was too busy at first with the problems of moving her entire household and solving all the little d
ifficulties that had arisen in Blancheforte during her absence to give what she felt would be enough uninterrupted time for so serious a discussion. But finally, by the end of May, everything was running smoothly. Alys chose a day when Raymond had gone south to Benquel to talk to the Comte de Marsan, because she knew that in his presence Fenice would be too shy to ask questions freely.

  She and Fenice had been out in the garden, examining the young plants and enjoying the delightful spring weather. At a distance, the children were playing under the watchful eyes of their nursemaids. Alys seated herself beside a bush of early-blooming roses and beckoned Fenice to join her on the bench.

  “Do you remember,” she asked, “when you told me that you hated Fuveau? Do you feel differently now, my dear?”

  “No,” Fenice replied immediately. “I mean, I do remember, and I-I cannot find any comfort while I am in Fuveau. Is that wrong?”

  “No, of course not. One cannot help how one feels. Of course, if there were no other way, you would have to grow accustomed, and you would. But your father and I never meant for you to be tormented.” And she went on to explain her father’s desire to settle Marlowe on her stepbrother Aubery and the notion of the exchange of estates, ending, “Would you be afraid to go so far away as England? Your papa does not wish you to agree if you feel any doubts, and he is much afraid that you will feel we wish to be rid of you, which is not true at all. I hope you know we both love you very much, Fenice, and we will miss you very much, too, but this seemed so satisfactory a solution to many problems that—”

  “I am not afraid,” Fenice said, so eager that she interrupted. “Will I be able to visit at Marlowe? And stay with Sir William and Lady Elizabeth?”

  Fenice’s youth had been filled with tales of life at Marlowe and the goodness and wisdom of Lady Elizabeth and Sir William. Far too clever to speak to Lord Alphonse and Lady Jeannette of the way things were done in her home in contrast to practices in Tour Dur, which in those early years had seemed far inferior to Alys, Alys had unburdened her heart to Fenice and Enid. Thus, to Fenice, Marlowe and England had the luster of the Promised Land, and Sir William and Lady Elizabeth were only just less wonderful than the saints in their mercy and kindness.

  Alys, of course, was quite unaware of the impact her homesickness and longing for her father and stepmother had made upon Fenice’s impressionable mind. She was rather surprised at Fenice’s excitement, but she assumed it was a result of her desire to be as far away as humanly possible from the place where she had been so unhappy. England, in its northwestern comer of the world, was, indeed, almost as far as one could get from Provence, unless one traveled to the distant barbarian lands of the East. As a result, she answered Fenice without questioning her eagerness, explaining that she would most likely live much of the time at Marlowe and why. Then, suddenly, she began to laugh.

  “You seem more interested in my father and stepmother than in your future husband,” Alys remarked.

  Fenice blushed and dropped her eyes. After the first weeks of their marriage, Delmar had become such a nonentity that Fenice now had unconsciously concentrated her attention on her prospective father- and mother-by-marriage. Fortunately, the blush gave Alys the wrong message. She interpreted it to mean that Fenice had been too shy to ask, and she laughed.

  “Oh, he is a man any woman would be proud to marry, fine in person as well as in character. He is big and very strong, as tall as your papa or a little taller and heavier. Not fat, I do not mean that, but with bigger, stronger bones. Perhaps he will look a little strange to you, my love, for at home most men are dark, and Aubery is as fair as I, with blue eyes. A very handsome man, truly, and not scarred in the face, at least he was not when last I saw him.”

  “I would not care about that,” Fenice whispered, but her eyes were alight. Since Lady Alys had come into her life, she had thought blondness the ultimate peak of personal beauty.

  Alys sighed faintly, hoping first that Fenice’s quick denial would never be put to the test and then, because Aubery was a devil for fighting, that love would come and be strong enough to blind her stepdaughter to any deformity battle could effect. But it was useless to speak of such matters beyond the little warning she had already given.

  “No,” Alys agreed, “I am sure you would be loving and loyal to any man who deserved it, and Aubery will, I am sure, for he is a good person, perfectly honest and trustworthy.” Then she began to laugh. “But he is by no means perfect. If he agrees, you will have to learn how to manage a man who is determined to rule the roost and is stubborn as a mule. But then, you will know what to do, for in many ways he is much like your papa—” She hesitated, seeing that all the color had drained from Fenice’s face. “My love,” she cried, “I did not mean to frighten you. Aubery is as kind as he can be—”

  “You said if he agrees,” Fenice said in a constricted voice. “Do you think he will not take me because of my…my mother?”

  “Oh Fenice, my Fenice, no!” Alys exclaimed. “I do assure you such a thing would never enter Aubery’s head. You are your father’s daughter, of the blood of the Comte d’Aix. I have raised you and educated you. That is quite enough. Do you not realize that you are the only one who even thinks of this thing? Now that you have reminded me, I realize your papa did not even mention it in his letter, not because he wished to conceal the fact, but because it was so unimportant he forgot it.”

  “Then why—” Fenice’s voice quavered and she stopped.

  “There are a number of reasons—real reasons,” Alys pointed out. “One is that Aubery may be reluctant to take a wife from Provence who has been raised according to different manners and customs. He might feel that it would be a trouble to him to teach you English ways. For, you know, if he should be away as well as my papa and Lady Elizabeth, which might not be uncommon, you would be responsible for Marlowe, and perhaps Ilmer and Hurley and even Ardley, too.”

  “I can speak a little English,” Fenice said tentatively. “Do you think that would help?”

  “It will certainly help if you do go to England, but where in the world did you learn it?”

  Fenice smiled. “Enid and I used to correct Arnald’s French. It was so terrible, and most of the men were afraid to tell him. In exchange, he taught us English.” She giggled. “I am afraid, I used to…to listen to you and Papa.”

  “Oh, you bad girl!” Alys laughed. “You must have heard the most unsuitable things.”

  But the smile had already faded from Fenice’s lips. “You still say if so it cannot be only my foreignness.”

  “True, but the other reasons have nothing to do with you at all. I told you Aubery had been married before. I have no idea what effect that marriage had upon him. He may be determined for one reason or another not to marry again.”

  Fenice nodded acceptance, but her disappointment was palpable. Alys was sorry she had brought up the subject. Now she knew she should not have said anything until she was certain the arrangement had been approved, but that news might well have come in person with Aubery. She had been unaware of how Fenice felt about England, and she had wanted the girl to have a chance to say she did not want to be sent so far away, or even that she had changed her mind about wishing to be remarried so soon. And no matter what she said, Alys thought exasperatedly, Fenice would somehow twist the matter to be a reflection on her serf blood.

  Then what she had said about Aubery’s marriage recurred to Alys’s mind. She had spoken in those vague terms because she had not wanted to suggest that Aubery had been unhappy with his first wife and to implant the notion in Fenice that he would be unkind to his second wife. But what if Aubery had not been unhappy? After all, he had married Matilda for love, perhaps he had remained blind to her faults. She was good and sweet-tempered, even if she was a fool.

  And Matilda had been dead only a little longer than Delmar. If Aubery was fool enough to be mourning that pretty, hen-witted creature, it might take him some time to warm up to Fenice. In that case, Fenice would be certain he was
contemptuous of her, as that cur Delmar had been, and the marriage would be ruined. Fenice would creep about like a little sad mouse, and Aubery would never see the wit and the warmth that were so endearing but only showed when Fenice felt secure.

  Damn the girl, her mother was of no significance to anyone but her. And if one were to talk of bad blood, Aubery’s was worse than Fenice’s, with Mauger for a father. Lucie might have been lowborn, but she was not a thief and a murderer. Alys’s lips parted to tell Fenice about Aubery’s own blotted background, but she could not. It might do more harm than good by making Fenice suspicious or afraid. And, in any case, it would not be fair to Aubery, who had suffered enough for his father’s sins. There had to be another way… And then Alys almost laughed at herself.

  “Fenice,” she said, “you will destroy yourself with this stupid notion of yours. For that reason, and for that reason only, not because anyone in the world will care but you—”

  “Lady Emilie cared,” Fenice interrupted bitterly.

  “Oh, you stupid child,” Alys cried, “have you not seen the truth yet? Lady Emilie did not care a pin for your mother’s blood. If she did, she could have spoken to your father and opposed the marriage. That was only a device she used to turn your weak, silly husband against you. All Lady Emilie desired was to hold her son in her hand, and he was too stupid to see it. If your blood had been as pure and high as that of King Louis, she would have found some other black fault in you to hold up before her son’s eyes.”

  Fenice gaped at her stepmother. Because of her overwhelming feeling of inferiority, it had never occurred to her that there might be hidden causes for Lady Emilie’s actions.

  Seeing Fenice’s reaction, Alys drove her point home. “I cannot imagine how so clever a girl as you are could be so deceived. If Lady Emilie had been truly ashamed, she would have done all in her power to hide your taint of base blood, not sown knowledge of it broadcast among the servants. What she wanted was to reduce you to nothing so that you could not seize the reins of Fuveau, which was your right.”