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  And if that did not succeed, Savin thought, he would hold himself back during the melee and challenge Aubery openly late in the game, averring some insult in Aubery’s treatment of him. The prince already knew Aubery had an animosity toward him, and he could say he had not presented his challenge earlier so as not to weaken Edward’s champion. The battle would seem to be even. Savin knew ways of making his armor look as if he had been fighting all morning instead of being fresh.

  Savin realized that killing Aubery at that time might not win back the prince’s favor, but he liked the idea of ridding himself of Aubery in a place far from England. That in itself would be worthwhile, freeing Sir Savin’s neighborhood of its strongest protector. His one concern was that the challenge might be forbidden by the queen, but then fate played into Sir Savin’s hands. In his desire to prevent any rivalry of Castilian against English knights from marring this happy occasion, King Alfonso decreed that both parties contending in the melee must be made up of equal numbers of his and Edward’s men.

  Chapter Twenty

  In Burgos, the party rested for several days while final preparations for Edward’s knighting were completed. By then Aubery was beginning to sleep through the night again. He had become so accustomed to leaping out of bed three and four times to assure himself that the guards he had stationed to protect his royal charges were alert and where they were supposed to be that he had continued to start awake during the night, even after the responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders.

  To his delight, he and Fenice had been housed outside Alfonso’s palace in the house of a rich wool merchant. Mansel had offered him a choice of the lodging he had taken or a decent bed in the hall, where he himself was placed. With so many royal persons, high nobles, and mighty prelates present, the clerk had said wryly, those who only did the work must take what they could get. Aubery had replied that he was overjoyed to be at a distance from the court, even if it meant riding back and forth, sometimes in the dark, but afterward he regretted he had been so hasty in his decision.

  It would mean that Fenice might have to rise well before dawn to be with the queen at her waking, and court life did not seem to agree with Fenice any more than it did with him. She had been very sharp-tempered during their journey, nagging at him about trivialities and answering him so pertly when he was already boiling with suppressed rage from lack of sleep and tension that he had lost his own temper and they had quarreled bitterly several times. She had always seen that she had been wrong and begged his pardon, but Aubery wished he had referred the question of lodging to her. He did not want to listen to recriminations about his heartlessness.

  No quarrel erupted, at least not on the subject of their lodging. Fenice smiled sweetly and said, “Whatever is most comfortable to you, my lord, will please me very well.”

  Whereupon Aubery raised his brows and remarked with a touch of bitterness, “This is a new tune you are singing. A week ago I could not please you no matter what I did.”

  Fenice cocked her head, her brilliant eyes studying his expression. Then she smiled again. “My dear lord,” she said softly, “you always please me. I would not have you think that anything you do is not good in my eyes, but it is better for you to be angry at me for a seeming crossness than that you say harsh words to others.”

  For a moment Aubery was silent, absorbing what she had said. Then he growled, “Do you mean that you quarreled with me apurpose? When I was already half distracted with my own troubles?”

  “But did you not feel better thereafter?” Fenice asked anxiously.

  “Better?” Aubery bellowed. “How could a quarrel make me feel better?”

  “You did not quarrel with anyone else,” Fenice said in a small voice.

  “Of course not,” Aubery snapped. “I had not strength to expend on…” His voice faded as he considered what he was saying in the light of Fenice’s first remark, and then he began to chuckle. “Alys! By God’s head, that is all Alys. She taught you that, did she not?”

  Fenice nodded nervously. “Lady Alys says a man must spit out the bile that forms in him from evil happenings, and it is a wife’s duty—just as in the giving of a bitter draught to quell a fever—to bring up that bile.”

  One part of Aubery was angry. No one likes to be manipulated, even for his own good, and Aubery had more pride than most, which he needed as a bulwark against his fear of contamination by his father’s foulness. On the other hand, Fenice’s simple confession amused him and guaranteed she was not practiced in the art. He was also rather pleased to learn that his wife’s disposition was not going to degenerate further and further into waspishness on prolonged contact, which he had begun to fear.

  All he said was, “Lady Alys is Lady Alys, and you are you. Her ways with her husband are not suitable to me, that is why we did not marry. I prefer a milder wife. Let me manage my own bile, lest more than angry words strike you.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Fenice said meekly, lowering her eyes. And after a minute pause she added, “If you please, I will order our servants to sort out our baggage so that it can be moved to our lodging.”

  Aubery nodded acquiescence, but he was not really satisfied. Although Fenice was loving, obedient, and eager to please—except, he thought wryly, when she was deliberately inciting him into a rage—she was no longer meek. He reconsidered that as he watched her walk away and realized that Fenice had never been meek. Fearful yes, but when she was not among people who frightened her, she was not meek.

  The idea of her tearfulness of the nobility reminded Aubery of some secret he suspected she was hiding from him. He was annoyed with himself for thinking of it. He had not done so for months, the irritation of being excluded from his wife’s confidence fading with his own increasing occupation and with the disappearance of the haunted look in Fenice’s eyes.

  Unfortunately, Fenice’s growing assurance also irritated Aubery. He knew it had been Fenice’s appeal to the queen that had produced an easing of the enormous strain imposed on him in Bayonne. At the time he had been grateful, although he could not bring himself to thank Fenice for her intervention. But at the time he would also have been grateful for a fatal illness, and now when he thought back on it, his pride was hurt. In Aubery’s opinion, a man should not depend on his wife except for those things that were women’s responsibilities.

  A woman’s duties were to bear children, cook, weave, sew, and nurse the sick. A man defended and oversaw his land, gave justice among his own people, and supported his overlord, who in turn supported the king with advice in government or force in arms. Aubery felt the intermingling of the duties to be wrong, although he knew of exceptional cases in which women ruled both wisely and well, like the late Queen Blanche of France, who had even taken up arms to defend her young son’s kingdom. His own mother, he knew, was playing a man’s role on her husband’s properties—and, in fact, on his own—while he and William were away.

  Nor was Aubery such a fool that he did not recognize the part women played in politics. Men struggled by good means and ill to get their wives appointed as ladies to the queen because it was well known that Eleanor had a strong influence on her husband. A woman who was beloved of the queen could do her husband much good. But this knowledge only served to irritate Aubery all the more because it showed his discomfort to be unreasonable, and a man does not like to know he is being unreasonable.

  Fortunately, before Aubery could work himself into a really bad temper, he saw Fenice returning. She had understood without his telling that she must deal with him differently than Lady Alys dealt with Raymond. Fenice knew Aubery wished to cherish gentleness and innocence, and she was content, for those states were natural to her. Nonetheless, she could and would step outside her nature and take any action necessary to help or protect her husband. But because she also knew such actions would hurt and anger him, she was willing to let him think her more naïve than she was.

  It could do no harm, she told herself. Once they were safe in England, there would be
no more court appearances. In the simple life she would lead in Marlowe and Ilmer, there would be no need for any action outside her woman’s sphere. She longed for that, for the peaceful daily round of familiar tasks.

  Fenice sighed, then smiled as she saw Aubery waiting, although he was scowling. She had news that would lighten his displeasure. Their baggage was being loaded, but far better than that, she had been given leave from service except for formal occasions for the time they would be in Burgos.

  “There are so many Castilian maidens who desire the honor, the queen told me, that they are treading on each other in her apartment,” Fenice said, chuckling.

  “But why?” Aubery asked.

  “Some, I suspect, would like to accompany little Eleanor to England and feel that Alfonso would not deny a request by the queen.”

  As they rode toward their lodgings, Aubery worked off his bad temper, and he was in the proper humor to admire the rooms that had been made ready for them in the merchant’s house. He was pleased, also, that the merchant spoke only halting French and his wife none at all, as this would mean there could not be much intimacy and that the lack of anything beyond formal courtesy could not give offense.

  As Aubery had very little to do himself until the day of the knighting, aside from arranging for guarding the display of the prince’s arms and clothing, he and Fenice spent the next two days riding about Burgos. He found her as good a companion as any man of his acquaintance and far more amusing, for Fenice was alive, awake, and interested in everything. What was more, she asked a spate of questions, unashamed of confessing ignorance as a man might be.

  Several times she made Aubery nervous, for she was as tireless, inquisitive, and physically fearless as a boy, clambering around to peer into the large commercial wool-processing vats and examining far too closely the scaffolding upon which the stonemasons were at work in building the great cathedral of Burgos. She would have climbed that, too, Aubery suspected, if he had not forbidden it beforehand.

  Best of all, she confirmed the pleasant conclusion he had come to the previous day that she was not growing sated with his company. For the first year of their marriage, they had actually spent only a few weeks together at a time, being separated for months between those periods. Since he had returned from making the arrangements for the royal party’s tour of Gascony in July, though, they had been together at least some portion of every day. It was not surprising that Aubery had wondered if the growing sharpness of Fenice’s temper during their journey was a result of an increasing boredom or distaste for her marriage.

  Her confession of having angered him for his own sake made that unlikely, but his doubts were completely removed that night. They had returned at dusk to their lodging and taken a more lavish than usual evening meal alone together. Afterward, Fenice sang for half an hour, love songs for his ears only. At last they had gone to bed. Completely relaxed for the first time in months and knowing that there was no reason for either of them to be up and doing before dawn, Aubery had taken a long, long time about his loving.

  Fenice had writhed and pleaded under his teasing hands and lips, nearly weeping with excitement, but when they lay at last quiet and replete, she sighed, “Oh, thank you, Aubery. I am so glad you are not tired of me.”

  “Tired of you?” he repeated, startled at the coincidence of their thoughts. “Why should you say that?”

  “You were…” Fenice hesitated, seeking the right words. “For these past two months I felt that perhaps you did not wish to waste time in love play with me.”

  Aubery laughed. “That is never a waste of time. You silly goose, how could I do more than satisfy my most urgent need when I expected to be summoned to some duty at any moment? Do you not remember how often I was called from our bed? It was nothing to do with you. Simply, I did not wish to be caught half done.” He was quiet a moment, then turned his head and kissed her temple. “Did I leave you behind?”

  “Sometimes,” she admitted.

  There was another short silence during which a notion occurred to Aubery that made him laugh again. “So perhaps it was not all for my own good that you found fault with me?” he teased.

  Fenice heard in the tone of his voice the answer he wanted. “Perhaps,” she agreed, hiding her face in his shoulder.

  Aubery tightened his arm around her and kissed the top of her head, which was all he could reach. He said no more, but there was a vast content in his sigh, and Fenice floated softly down into sleep, totally happy.

  They had another peaceful day, their only connection with the court being the visit they made to the great hall of the palace to see Edward’s robes and armor. The jewels and clothing were his parents’ gifts, only symbols, of course, of the greater gifts of lands that would support the prince and his wife, but they were lavish symbols. The shirt was the finest silk of the purest white. The tunic, silk also, of a rich blue, embroidered in threads of gold and set with gems, the gown all of royal purple velvet, lined and trimmed in ermine and equally embroidered and be-gemmed. There was the small prince’s crown, and chains of gold and rings—a blazing collection from the royal treasure to uphold Edward’s honor.

  On another table lay Alfonso’s gifts, a hauberk, helm, and sword of the finest Castilian steel, well known as the best and most costly in the world. It was as true as Damascus steel and not defiled by Saracen manufacture, though the methods of tempering had doubtless come from the Moors. Against the table leaned the shield that Edward had brought from England, its three leopards courant brilliant gold against the bright red background, an equally brilliant blue label with five points across the top of the shield marked it as that of the eldest son.

  But that night when Fenice pressed herself to her husband’s side, he kissed her chastely on the brow and put her away. “Do me the kindness of turning your back to me, Fenice,” he said. “I suppose I should not have spent myself last night either, for I will need all my strength the day after tomorrow. But you are very lovely and very hard to resist.”

  “Turn my back?” she echoed.

  “Yes, and move away, I beg you. Have you forgot that I will be Edward’s champion in the joust? And I will stand watch with him, or at least visit him during his vigil, so I will get little sleep tomorrow night.” He chuckled gently. “One must make some sacrifices in the royal service.”

  Fenice smiled dutifully and did as she was told, but she was disturbed. She was troubled by Aubery’s remark that he would need all his strength. Until then, she had believed that being the prince’s champion was a ceremonial position, that Aubery would carry a sword or ride in procession with Edward’s arms. Among the women, the talk had all been of the feasts and dancing and the clothes they would wear. When they spoke of the great tourney, it was in terms of the favors they would give, and that the prizes, no matter who won them, would doubtless go to the princess Eleanor. Innocently, Fenice had not thought of how the prizes were to be won. Now she was worried.

  Fortunately, there was nothing to increase her anxiety the following day. Aubery answered her questions in the lightest of humors while they broke their fast, seeming far more concerned that she would do something dangerous while he was occupied with the prince’s preparations than with any threat to himself. Since a tourney was not war, Fenice was deceived. Smiling, she promised to do nothing more perilous than visiting the markets of Burgos, accompanied by her maid and a manservant. Aubery kissed her fondly and offered her money. This she refused, asking with laughing indignation whether her husband thought her a wastrel and explaining that she had by her a good part of the coin Sir William had given her as a wedding gift plus the first half of her yearly allowance.

  Even when she attended the queen for the feast that afternoon, nothing was said that could worry her. Eleanor talked only about the forms for the ceremony and the seating places for her women, which was reasonable, for she did not wish to give offense to either the English or Castilian ladies. The activities that would follow Edward’s knighting ceremony were not mentione
d, and in consequence began to seem insignificant. In addition, Fenice’s immediate business was to see that the queen, the other English ladies who demanded her service, and she herself were properly dressed and bedecked. It was virtually impossible to be fearful amid the laughter and excited chatter of the women. Then the feast itself lasted almost until the light failed, interspersed with the singing and playing of jongleurs, the japing of the fools, and the fantastic performances of the acrobats.

  Aubery was in the best of humors and ate most heartily of everything presented. He drank less wine than usual, but that seemed normal to Fenice. He expected to need to be awake most of the night, and wine made a man sleepy. Actually, Fenice was enjoying the feast as much as anyone. But as the prince rose to be escorted to his ceremonial bath, Aubery got up also and followed him.

  For a moment Fenice felt lost. How was she to get back to their lodging alone? Aubery seemed to have forgotten her. Would their servant come to seek her? As her eyes began to range the tables looking for a face familiar enough to ask the favor of arranging her horse to be brought and escorting her, a page plucked at her sleeve and bid her come to the queen.

  “You will not wish to be alone in your lodgings tonight,” Eleanor said kindly, “and you will want to be in the lodges early, I know. You may join the ladies in my chamber tonight. I will send to your lodgings for the gown you will need.” Then she smiled. “It is too bad that Sir Aubery cannot carry your favor, but I am sure you will be thrilled with his victories nonetheless.”