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  If he would not make love to her, she thought, she would die. And that was very strange, for she had taken great pleasure in Delmar’s lovemaking, but she had never been ready before him or so eager that pictures formed in her mind at inappropriate times. Yet, sitting on a stool at Aubery’s feet while he was talking of the likelihood that the war was over and that those rebels who were still at large would send proffers of renewed loyalty to the king without armed threat, she ached with desire. She could feel the warmth of his powerful thigh against her arm, and her mind’s eye brought forth an image of his naked body, the white skin and golden bush framing the erect manhood. She could have wept with wanting but did not dare.

  The long evening of late spring seemed as if it would never end, but at last Sir William stretched and yawned then rose and bent to kiss Alys’s forehead.

  “My only regret for the end of hostilities is that there will not be gains enough to fatten Henry’s Lusignan half brothers, and they will return to England,” Sir William said.

  “I cannot agree,” Raymond remarked, laughing as he rose and pulled Alys to her feet. “If I had regrets concerning them and the war, it would be that there was no chance they could die in it. Do not wish that plague on Gascony. We have enough of our own.”

  Seeing that the others were ready to go to bed, Fenice slipped away to tell a maid to have the water for the bath brought up. Then she went to get the soap and spices for the bathwater. She was not out of her husband’s sight for more than a moment, but she did not come within speaking distance, fearing he would send her away. As she saw the group break up, her father turning toward the stairs to the women’s quarters with Lady Alys, and Sir William going into his chamber, she stepped into the room and busied herself with renewing the fire and readying the drying cloths. She heard Aubery’s step and braced herself, but he did not speak, and when she turned toward him he was looking at the empty tub with an odd expression.

  “Let me undress you,” she said, her voice a trifle breathless with a combination of apprehension and eagerness.

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  She laid the drying cloths where they would be warmed by the fire and came to him. Usually, Aubery helped her, but this time he stood passively, allowing her to do everything herself. When she had his tunic and shirt off and came close to untie his braies, he bent his head but he did not kiss her, only drew a long breath with his face near her as if he were breathing in her scent. The men came in with the buckets of water then, and he drew away, moving nearer the fire, for the room was chilly, the thick stone walls of the keep having not yet been warmed through by the spring sun.

  The bath was soon ready. Fenice had realized by then that Aubery had no intention of dismissing her, and now she was in a hurry. The sooner he was bathed, the sooner they would be abed. He stank of old sweat, the horse’s and his own, but the odor stimulated rather than quenched her desire for him. As she dropped the herbs into the water and wet the soap and the washing cloth, she stole glances at him from the corners of her eyes. He had not waited for her to finish undressing him but had pulled off the remainder of his underclothing.

  As soon as the menservants set the buckets neatly by the wall and left the room, he came around the tub so quickly that Fenice, on her knees beside it, found him standing over her before she could rise. He was erect and ready. Unable to resist, Fenice embraced his thighs and ran a teasing finger up the underside of his shaft. Aubery made a strangled sound, but he reached behind and unwound her arm. His blue eyes were dark and shadowed behind his lowered lids when Fenice raised a frightened face to him.

  “Take off your clothes,” he said.

  Relieved, Fenice laughed and sprang up to obey. She undressed with undignified haste, but found that Aubery had settled into the tub and was washing himself briskly. Uncertain again because of his frown, Fenice came closer.

  “What is it that displeases my lord?” she asked.

  “You would not fit,” he replied in a rather aggrieved voice.

  For one moment Fenice stared, wide-eyed, wondering whether she or her husband had gone mad. She had fit him very well for almost a year. It was true Aubery had been away for many months of that period, but… And then she realized what he meant and burst into giggles. He wanted her in the bath. Fenice shuddered with excitement. Delmar had never done that.

  “Why not?” She leaned over him, lifted his hair to kiss the back of his neck. It was wet and slippery, and she let her mouth slide down and around toward the hollow of his throat.

  “I will hurt you,” he said thickly.

  Fenice shook her head mutely, her eyes brilliant. The idea of making love in the bath had been flickering alive in Aubery’ s mind and being quenched since he had seen the tub on entering their chamber. Now all the different images that had sent spikes of excitement stabbing through him came together into one that he was sure would be possible to reproduce. He seized Fenice, turned her back to him, and lifted her by her hips over the edge of the tub. She gasped in surprise, instinctively putting her hands forward to catch the far edge of the tub to support her as her belly slid over Aubery’ s knees and her knees came down on either side of his narrow hips. He muttered something indistinguishable, then put one hand on her back to push her up a little while he positioned himself with the other.

  Half the water was out on the floor, but neither participant in making the flood was aware of it. Fenice worked herself down, wriggling from side to side. She sighed ecstatically, and Aubery uttered a little moan of relief. The warm, scented water lapped gently against them like many soft caressing hands. Fenice’s breasts rubbed against Aubery’s thighs. She was able, by pushing against the tub or relaxing her arms, to create the lightest tickling of her upstanding nipples or much harder pressure. Aubery gripped her buttocks, angling her so that her motion produced the most pleasure. Her eyes were closed, but his were open, watching her long black hair, which floated in the water, parting now and again with her movements to expose their linked bodies.

  Afterward, it was Aubery who dried Fenice as she leaned wearily against him, hushing her feeble protests. He left her wrapped in the drying cloth in a chair by the fire while he readied the bed, and when she said something about the bath and he replied impatiently that the next morning would do to remove it, she sighed with relief. Nor did she protest when he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

  She clung to him as they lay together, shaking with exhaustion. Aubery stroked her damp hair, troubled by her trembling. The position in which they had made love had not been comfortable or usual, and Aubery guessed from Fenice’s reactions that her climax had been as violent as his own. He was tired himself, but he had ridden from Bazas that morning, and Fenice had been quietly at Blancheforte all day.

  Accordingly, Aubery associated Fenice’s trembling with fear rather than fatigue and wondered whether she had been distressed by their novel sexual exercise. He remembered Matilda’s horror at anything even slightly different from the norm. Fenice had always seemed more free. In fact, at first, he recalled, she had shocked him more than once, but what they had done this time was more than slightly unusual. He tightened his grip on her slightly to offer comfort, but what he felt was an odd prick of pride. He had surpassed her first husband, it seemed. The sense of satisfaction made him even more eager to comfort her.

  “Fenice,” he said softly, “do you think what we did was wrong?”

  Her head moved slightly on his shoulder. “There can be no wrong for me in what you deem right,” she murmured. The reply might have been a mere propriety, but her shaking had eased and a lilt of mischief was in her voice when she added, “Your pleasure is my delight, my lord.”

  “Then why were you trembling?” Another thought, less agreeable than the idea of exceeding her first husband in originality, came to him. “Do you still fear the service the king has imposed upon you?”

  “Not so much as to tremble,” Fenice replied, skirting the truth. “I am only tired, and—and glad.”

&
nbsp; “Glad?”

  “Of your coming. Of your kindness to me.” Lady Alys had said not to remind him of the cause of his anger, but since he had mentioned it himself, Fenice went on, “I had feared you were still angry because I was so great a fool.”

  “I am not sure that you were foolish,” Aubery said dryly. “Not that I could have done otherwise, even if I had then been reluctant to accept the honor the king bestowed upon me, but now I could wish as heartily as you that I had not drawn Henry’ s notice. To speak the truth, he pays me more attention than I like. I hope I will be fortunate and give him no direct cause to regret distinguishing me, but his praise and desire for my company are not safe. There are a growing number who hate me for it.”

  “Such men are not worth your notice,” Fenice exclaimed indignantly. “They are nothing but mean, jealous creatures.”

  Aubery shrugged. “As to that, I agree,” he said, and then, thinking of his father, added, “but all enemies are worth notice, Fenice. To walk too securely, unheeding of the vermin that crawl and fawn about the king, asks for a stab in the back.”

  “No!” Fenice cried, clutching at him.

  “I do not mean with a knife.” Aubery laughed and loosened the arm that was threatening to strangle him. “Such envious toads usually have not the courage even for a sneak attack. I meant hints and sly accusations, rumors spread about so that the king cannot help but hear, and usually not even from the one who began the lies, anything that could turn Henry from love to hate, which is too easy with him.”

  Fenice did not respond immediately, lying comfortably nestled against her husband for some time. Then, just as Aubery was dropping asleep, she said, “Lady Alys told me the queen has great influence on her husband, but she saw them years ago. Is this still true?”

  “Yes,” Aubery mumbled. “Go to sleep now.” Tired as she had been before, Fenice had no desire to sleep at the moment. She lay perfectly still, not wishing to disturb her husband, but her mind was revolving some ideas totally novel to her. If she could please Queen Eleanor and the queen had influence over the mind and opinions of the king, Fenice herself might have the power to protect Aubery from the envy and malice that might be directed at him. That she could have power or influence had never occurred to Fenice before, but she understood what a woman could do. She had seen the maidens in training at Tour Dur curry favor with Lady Jeannette when Lady Alys was away and could not check them and, through Lady Jeannette, manipulate Lord Alphonse.

  Whether or not she was worthy to serve the queen was no longer important. Aubery was worthy of any honor, and in Fenice’s opinion anything she did to achieve and preserve her husband’s safety was right. Fenice drew a deep breath and let it ease out in a contented sigh. The fear was there, but it was insignificant in comparison with the idea that her service might be instrumental in averting some blow directed at her husband.

  Chapter Nineteen

  For a while it seemed that Aubery had been concerned without cause. The king suddenly began to worry about allowing his wife and son to travel into a foreign country where he could not protect them directly, or he decided to have one last try at convincing his barons in England that Castile was an enemy and he was in need of money to support a defensive army, and sent off a letter to Eleanor telling her not to come.

  If the letter was a ploy to extract money, it failed. The barons ignored it, and so did the prince and queen. Perhaps Henry had counted on his wife’s good sense or his son’s intransigence to bring them to Gascony in defiance of his prohibition. Perhaps he merely did suffer a sudden qualm about the danger to his nearest and dearest. By the middle of June, Edward and his mother had arrived in Bordeaux.

  Meanwhile, the king’s interest in Aubery had not faded. Many of Henry’s major barons had returned to England, and even Henry recognized that it was too soon to be familiar with the Gascons who had yielded on terms. So Henry’s court was somewhat thin of company, and Aubery attained even greater prominence. Aware that his favorite’s wife was no more than a mile away and that she was another favorite’s daughter, Henry invited Aubery to bring Fenice to the court in Bordeaux.

  She quickly became as much of a favorite as Aubery. Henry was fond of gentle, pretty young women, and Fenice’s ability to play and sing provided the king, who loved music and art of all kinds, with pleasant entertainment. She was not a great artist, but she was the equal of any of the other court ladies. Thus, the very day after Eleanor and Edward arrived, Henry produced his newest toys for his wife’s and son’s inspection. The queen welcomed both warmly, crying, as Fenice rose from her deep curtsy and looked up, “Oh, you have Raymond’s eyes. You are most welcome to me, my dear.”

  Fenice blushed, the queen’s kindness producing in her a spurt of guilt, but she knew it was too late now to retreat. And behind Eleanor was the prince, whose expression Fenice had just barely noticed while rising and lifting her eyes. Edward showed none of the delight his mother clearly felt. The glimpse Fenice had caught had been too brief for her to gain any certain idea of what Edward felt, but it was not unquestioning approval of his father’s choice.

  They were held in talk by the royal couple for a little while, Henry mentioning eagerly how Aubery had saved Bayonne and how smoothly he had arranged the takeover of Bazas by the king’s men, as well as Fenice’s sweet voice and clever playing of the lute. Eleanor asked about her new lady’s repertoire and was delighted to discover that Fenice knew several songs with which she was not familiar. At last, however, they were released so that Henry and Eleanor could turn their attention to others who were waiting.

  Fenice tugged gently on Aubery’s arm. He looked down at her, surprised, but he followed to a relatively quiet corner where she said, “The prince is not pleased, or at least, is doubtful about our appointment. Of course, it might be only me he distrusts, but I do not think so.”

  He looked at her oddly. “Why should he distrust you?”

  “I can only think that he must have heard some gossipmongers imply the king has used me. It is nothing. You know how women are.” It was safe enough, Fenice knew, to blame the women. Aubery would seek no quarrel with any of them.

  He made a sound of disgust, but it was not all owing to what Fenice had said. He was annoyed with himself for jumping to the conclusion that the prince’s distrust had something to do with the secret Fenice was keeping from him. It was ridiculous how that silly concealment leapt into his mind at the slightest opening. He knew Fenice was hiding nothing now, and he knew better than she why Edward looked at her with reserve.

  “No, it is not that,” Aubery said. “You have heard us talk of the king’s way of favoring the queen’s uncles and his Lusignan half brothers?”

  Fenice shivered. “I do not like them,” she whispered. “I do not like the way they look at me.” And then, as Aubery stiffened, she shook her head and added hastily, “No, not as if I were a desirable woman, but—but as if I were…nothing.”

  “Oh. Do not let it trouble you. They look the same on everyone. You are no special object of disdain. But what I wished to tell you was that young as he is, the prince is well aware of the danger of his father’s behavior. The barons of England do not like to see the substance of their country fed into foreign maws. Edward is less taken with fine manners and appreciation of the building and adornment of cathedrals. He wants men who will carry steady lances at his back with glad hearts. He has seen the trouble Henry’s favoritism causes, for the English lords say that the spoils of their victories, won with their blood, go only to the Lusignans and the Savoyards.”

  “But, my lord, what have I to do with these matters?” Fenice asked, astonished.

  “You are the queen’s kinswoman. She greeted you with real joy. Naturally, that would make Edward suspicious. He does not know me. We have met, but he might not remember that. Perhaps he thinks Henry is making up fine tales about me to excuse his favor. In any case, do not trouble your head about such things. I will remind the prince that I am Hereford’s man and my lands are al
l in England, and all will be well.”

  Fenice was well content with that. She preferred to have as little as possible to do with the prince. Young men of fifteen, especially those accustomed to the powers of a prince, sometimes think any girl is theirs for the asking. Fenice was certain the queen would protect her, but better that he not notice her again. Thus, Fenice said she had better allow Lady Alys to make her known to the queen’s other ladies, received Aubery’s rather surprised nod of approval, and slipped away.

  Aubery started off in the opposite direction, in which he thought he heard Sir William’s voice, but before he found his stepfather, he was accosted by the prince, who said, “Stay a moment, Sir Aubery. I have a question to ask you.”

  Aubery bowed and smiled, pleased that Edward had provided this chance for him to explain. He would not, in fact, have minded if the prince decided to oppose his appointment and relieved him of it. He had been away from home for nearly a year and was becoming eager to see England again. Edward was examining him, and he did the same, thinking that the prince was beginning to look more like his mother as his hair darkened from its childish gold. But of course that left eye with its drooping lid would remind everyone of Henry. Then Aubery realized with surprise that Edward very nearly met him eye to eye. The prince was very tall and was likely to overtop him before he stopped growing.

  Having looked him up and down for a moment before he spoke, Edward asked bluntly, “Why did my father think it necessary to displace the man I had appointed to lead my mother’s knights?”

  “I doubt he thought of that at all,” Aubery replied easily. “I think he only wished to reward me for my work in Bayonne, but I must tell you that it was only by accident that I was there when Béarn arrived, and I suspect the reports your father received of my activities were extravagant.”

  Edward blinked. He had expected to put Aubery on the defensive. “Are you telling me you believe you do not deserve the honor done you?” he snapped, bristling with adolescent aggression. “Then why did you accept?”