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  Between the violent turmoil in his loins and his mental recoil from the animal urge to bite, Aubery was stricken mute. He straightened from his bow and stepped back, but quite unaware of it, he retained Fenice’s hand. In a fleeting glance, Alys noted the lingering grip. She looked briefly then at Fenice’s face, not realizing that she was worrying about the wrong person.

  Well satisfied with both observations, she said, “Go to the window seat and be out of my way, both of you. There are chambers to make ready and dinner to be enlarged in case Raymond thinks we should summon guests from town to hear what Papa has to say.”

  Aubery was still so confused by his violent physical reaction and so concentrated on controlling it that he moved mechanically in the direction Alys indicated. At the moment, his mind was completely out of contact with reality. If he had been told in a firm enough voice to do it, he would likely have jumped off the tower. And Fenice, who ordinarily would have inquired at once what she could do to help her stepmother, only looked down at the hand Aubery was holding and followed him.

  By the time they reached the window, Aubery became aware that he was holding Fenice’s hand and released it, but he was still fighting a battle with his body, and he did not sit down at once. Thinking he was politely waiting for her to seat herself first, which Aubery indeed would have done had he been in a condition to think about it, Fenice blushed with pleasure again. Aubery drew in his breath.

  “Will you not be seated?” Fenice asked gently, gesturing toward a spot that was in cool shadow. Despite what she believed to be his polite gesture, she was hesitant.

  The voice, very low and musical, was also totally unlike Matilda’s high-pitched, girlish tones. Aubery stiffened his muscles to resist a sensuous shudder, feeling almost as if she were stroking him. Desperately, he looked out into the hall, hoping that Alys would come or that William or Raymond would call out to him.

  “May I bring you some wine or some other refreshment?” Fenice asked, noticing the outward look.

  Oh, that voice. It was like soft velvet sliding across the skin of one’s belly. Aubery licked his lips, trying to concentrate. At first the words made no sense, only drew his eyes back to that lovely face, but by this time, Fenice was beginning to find her prospective husband’s silence disturbing. She reached out and touched his hand, about to repeat her question. Aubery recoiled.

  Fenice’s eyes filled with tears, and her head dropped as a terrible conviction, born of her insecurity, rose in her. She had taken his first fixed stare to be no more than the same kind of interest she felt, but it might as easily have been horror. The formal politeness might be a result of his kindness, a concealment of his unwillingness to fulfill his promise.

  “My lord,” she said, her voice trembling, “if you find me displeasing, I am sure—”

  “I find you lovely,” Aubery said, the words wrenched out of him in response to the wave of fear and shame that had been communicated by Fenice’s tear-filled eyes, bent head, and shaking voice, from which the music had disappeared. Her reaction had given him a shock as effective as a splash of cold water, restoring his voice and, at least temporarily, his control over himself. “I am sorry to have frightened you,” he added more naturally, wondering suddenly if he had read too much into her look and if she had only been making a coy strike for attention.

  Fenice’s head came up, and the relief and eagerness in her expression made Aubery ashamed of his doubts. But now a new question rose in his mind. There was a reason, he remembered, why Raymond and Alys wanted to send the girl away from the place of her birth. It must be a strong reason, he thought, to make her so fearful of displeasing him and so willing to accept a husband who would take her such a distance from the protection of her blood relations. But then she smiled, and Aubery lost the train of his thoughts.

  Chapter Eight

  How Aubery escaped, he never remembered beyond the fact that it had been almost as painful to leave Fenice as to remain with her. He did remember the excuse he used to ride out to Bordeaux, that he had been so busy in England he had had no chance to purchase any gifts for his soon-to-be-betrothed, and now that he had seen her and spoken to her, he knew better what she would like. And, despite the real purpose of his ride to Bordeaux, Fenice had not left his thoughts.

  Aubery came away from the girl he had chosen at one of the best inns in the city feeling both relieved and very troubled. Although the girl herself was pretty and willing, he had not really seen her face nor felt her body. Her features were oddly blurred and overlaid by the bright eyes, the short, broad nose, and the full lips that belonged to Fenice. Aubery found this fantasy most peculiar, at once increasing and diminishing the guilt casual liaisons always aroused in him, since his coupling with Fenice would be a proper duty.

  In the end he spent more on her gifts than he had intended to, finding it somehow soothing to pick out delicate veils, fine gloves, a pretty belt pouch, a gilt leather girdle, as if he were paying penance for his sin. And the thanks he received from Fenice, mingling astonishment, gratitude, and what looked like adoration, he found a most satisfactory substitute for absolution. But Aubery discovered Fenice was no less attractive even after his urgent need had been somewhat assuaged, and this disturbed him. He felt disloyal to be so stirred by a woman very different from his dead wife.

  Had Fenice had the same type of prettiness as Matilda, Aubery could have excused his desire as being the result of memory. But there was no similarity between the two women at all. Fenice was tall and big-boned, not frail and pretty, and her body was lush and fully developed, all too evident for Aubery’s comfort, under the summer silks. Even the fact that Matilda had also had blue-gray eyes did not help. Fenice’s bold, bright glance was a far cry from the way Matilda had looked at him shyly from under her lashes.

  Aubery went to bed with his head in a jumble, miserably acknowledging that he was accursed and probably damned by the taint of his father’s evil blood. He had probably killed his poor wife by unkindness, and less than a year later he was consumed by lust for another woman. What a misfortune it was that the wife he must take to obtain Marlowe was not repellent. Then his greed for the estate would have been expiated by a miserable marriage. At which point Aubery’s sense of humor came to his rescue. He knew Alys would never present him with a woman who was not satisfactory, and finally he comforted himself with the idea that to desire a woman was not the same as loving her.

  Fenice’s day had been almost as painful as Aubery’s, although Delmar had not once entered her mind. Her first sight of her prospective husband reaffirmed what she had known all along, that Lady Alys had made no second mistake in choosing a mate for her. He was even bigger and stronger than her papa and had a face that would have belonged on a denizen of heaven, except for one scar on the jaw and another high on the cheek. True, he had spoken only a few words to her, but those words were such that she would cherish them all her life. Imagine, “I find you lovely” had been the very first thing he had said.

  Then the gifts, so many, and all personal, all designed to ornament the beauty of a woman, proved that he had meant what he said, that she was lovely in his eyes. Fenice had expected a fine steel needle or some good straight pins or perhaps even a silver thimble, such trinkets as a man could bring to the daughter of his host without committing himself. No contract had yet been signed or even discussed so far as she knew. Would the fact that he thought her lovely be enough to counteract the dishonor of her mother’s birth? Fenice shuddered in her warm bed.

  The next day was much easier for Aubery but much harder for Fenice. Raymond and William had come to the conclusion that it would be better to spread the news of King Henry’s imminent arrival. It was true that the rebels holding La Réole and St. Emilion would probably be warned, but the results, Raymond and William decided, could not do Henry’s cause much harm and might actually be of assistance.

  Raymond felt that the rebels, having virtually ruined the countryside north and east of Bordeaux were probably near the end
of their resources and would have little ability to hire mercenaries. Nor was it any longer possible to use Leicester’s unbending severity to frighten men into supporting them. The king was known to be merciful. However, he was much more likely to be merciful to those who did not actively oppose him, thus, there was a good chance that supporters would begin to desert the rebels in spite of Gaston de Béarn’s promises of help from Alfonso of Castile. Those promises were attractive when Henry and his army were far away in England, they would be less attractive when Henry was about to disembark in Bordeaux.

  As it was Aubery’s duty to learn what he could for the Earl of Hereford, he accompanied Raymond and William to Bordeaux. None of the men reappeared, even for dinner, and when they did come in just before the evening meal, Aubery remained close to his stepfather and Raymond, talking only about the various meetings they had had in the city. Alys cried that they had all said everything three times and it was time for a change of subject, but she knew it would be impossible to divert them in ordinary conversation, so she called on Fenice to play and sing.

  Since Fenice herself was incapable of mentioning the word “love” at the moment, she gave them a selection of pleasant country songs and a rousing ballad of heroic action. No one could fault Aubery on the politeness with which he praised the performance, but after that he became silent and withdrawn, said he was tired, and went to bed.

  Fortunately, Fenice did not associate Aubery’s bad temper with herself. She assumed his mind was busy with the military and political problems that were preoccupying her father and Sir William. Still, her heart had swelled with gratitude for the respectful courtesy he extended to her even when his mind seemed elsewhere, and she was thrilled with his compliments on her singing. At the same time, this made her misery more poignant, for she felt her fate was still hanging in the balance, and every contact she had with Aubery made him more desirable.

  Nor did the next day bring Fenice any relief. Alys was busy preparing for a gathering of notables from Bordeaux and the surrounding countryside, and Raymond and William, who were closeted together all day working out the details of the quittances and marriage contract, would not think of bothering to tell Fenice. She did not see Aubery at all. She had spent so restless a night, praying for hours that she would be acceptable, that she overslept, and Aubery had ridden off by himself before she woke.

  Poor Fenice had a bad fright, too, when the family assembled for dinner and William, looking around for Aubery and not seeing him said, “God, I hope that madman did not decide to take a look at the conquered keeps all on his own.”

  “Would he do such a thing?” Raymond asked, startled.

  William frowned, obviously worried. “He has a wild streak and far too great a tendency to stick his neck out. Of course, he is strong as a bull and more than ordinarily able in arms, but I tell him over and over that some day he will take one chance too many. No matter how strong and able the fighter, enough enemies can overwhelm him.”

  No one looked at Fenice. Eating was suspended as Raymond and William rose, wondering aloud how they could go after him, but it was at once clear to them that the attempt would be useless. There was no way of knowing just where Aubery had gone. And no sooner had they decided and reluctantly resumed their seats than the prodigal returned.

  “I am sorry to be late,” Aubery called cheerfully across the hall, “but I have done a day’s work. You are three or four renegades the less. Let me just come out of this armor. I am awash with sweat.”

  Alys snapped her fingers and pointed, and servants rose from the tables to help him. Raymond was laughing and William shaking his head at the accuracy of his fears. Fenice clung to the edge of the table, simultaneously dizzy with relief and sick with pain. She had always worried about her father when he went to war, but this fear was utterly different. Again no one noticed, and she recovered slowly, absorbing the unwelcome lesson.

  She had recovered her complexion if not her appetite by the time Aubery came out and plunked himself down beside her, again pronouncing a formal greeting, although his eyes were firmly fixed on the roast, which Raymond obligingly directed a server to place before him. As he carved several substantial slices, he described what had happened. He had, as William had suspected, ridden out toward La Réole.

  In response to William’s muttered “You idiot,” Aubery leaned forward so he could see around Fenice, and responded, “Why am I an idiot? One lone knight could be no danger to them, and I am not horsed or caparisoned so that they could think me a war prize much worth taking. Nor can the outside of the keep be any great secret so that they would fear a spy. In fact, it was not, as far as I know, men from the castle who attacked me.” He grinned. “At least, I hope not, or there will be little sport in retaking the place. Those men were very poor quality.”

  “But what did you go for?” Raymond asked.

  “Oh, to see for myself,” Aubery replied lightly. Then he said, more seriously, “You were quite right, Raymond, when you said they had destroyed the countryside. There will be famine in these parts this winter.”

  “Prices are already so high that there is hunger in the city,” Alys responded. “I have directed my people here to harvest each plant as it comes to ripeness that nothing at all be wasted. We will not have empty bellies.”

  “Perhaps not,” Aubery retorted, “if you can hide what you have from the king.” He laughed. “You are fortunate Hereford is constable and not procurer for the army, or I would be torn between needing to tell my lord where supplies could be found and protecting my sister.” But the teasing laughter soon ended, and he became serious. “Yet it will still become Hereford’s business, for the men will steal if they are hungry, and he is constable and responsible for the behavior of the army.” He grimaced. “I must write and warn him, although I do not know whether the news will come in time or even what good it will do.”

  “I doubt there will be a ship for England,” Raymond said, “but I can send a messenger by land who can cross the narrow sea in a small boat.”

  “And Fenice can do the writing if you will tell her what you want to say,” Alys offered, laughing. “I know you think a pen is an instrument of torture.”

  “Fenice?” Aubery repeated.

  He was surprised. He knew Alys could write because William, for some unfathomable reason, had the weird notion that everyone should be able to read and scribe. Aubery himself had learned at William’s insistence, and he could actually see a good reason for being able to read, that could save a man from being made a victim by a dishonest clerk. For a woman, it seemed completely unnecessary, as a woman was not likely to be involved in anything it would be dangerous for a clerk to know or record.

  “Yes, Fenice,” Raymond said. “You cannot have Father François because he is too busy on other work. And do not disappear again. William and I will need you later this afternoon.”

  “I write a readable hand, my lord,” Fenice put in, her eyes brilliant with the joy of proving herself useful as well as lovely. “You need not fear that your words will not be clear to whomever they are directed. But you will have to tell me the letters for those words that are said differently in England than in Provence.”

  Had she not been so eager to seize the prize of performing for him a task that Aubery found distasteful, Fenice would have learned that Aubery was needed to read, approve, and sign the quittances and contracts. It was just as well that she had interrupted her father, for she would certainly have betrayed her anxiety, and that would have made Aubery wonder why she, beautiful and well dowered, should be anxious over a prearranged contract. As it was, her happiness was unclouded.

  Aubery looked away hastily from her face, which seemed almost as if it were lit from within. The eyes were luminescent, and the smooth skin had a glow as if heavy silk were held before a lamp. He scooped up a spoonful of some spicy stew, chewed, and swallowed, which gave him time and an excuse to clear his throat.

  “I would not wish to put you to any trouble, Lady Fenice,”
he said.

  “It is no trouble for me, my lord,” Fenice assured him earnestly, thrilled at his consideration for her. Not even Lady Alys had ever apologized to her for putting her to trouble. After all, her purpose was to be useful. “I like to write,” she insisted gently.

  “He is not really trying to avoid giving you trouble, my love,” Alys said, teasing. “It is only that he does not wish to compose a letter.” But actually she did not think that was Aubery’s reason. She had seen the way he looked away from Fenice, as if something in her beauty hurt him.

  “Then—” Fenice was disappointed, but she was ready to refuse to write, if that was what Aubery wanted.

  “Get it over with,” Raymond interrupted. “The sooner the messenger goes, the better the chance that he will get to England before the fleet sails.”

  Assailed on all sides, Aubery was trapped, and when dinner was finished, Fenice ordered that a small table and desk with writing materials be brought, and led him to the same window seat where they had first been alone. It was an unfortunate choice, for Aubery remembered his reaction to her vividly, and, of course, the memory stimulated his sexual urge anew. Quite innocently, Fenice added to his acute discomfort by seating him on the cool, shadowed side and placing herself opposite him in the sun.

  In that position, it was impossible for him to avoid seeing her. He could pretend to stare out the window for a while, or glance into the hall, but it would be unnatural not to look straight ahead at her most of the time. His eyes were already caught by a feather of dark curl against the white temple, the sweet curve of her cheek, with the dark smudge of lashes marking the line of her lovely eyes, lowered now to the blank page. She was waiting for him to begin, but Aubery’s mind was as blank as the parchment, engaged with his eyes in tracing a line of minuscule beads of perspiration that formed along the margin of her full lips.