Winter Song Page 32

Raymond, of course, associated her reluctance to come to him with a fear that he would wish to use her again. “Come out here,” he repeated. “Do not make me come looking for you. I swear I only want to learn your husband’s name, and no harm will come to him.”

  The last sentence made no sense to Lucie at all, but the one that preceded it allowed no further hesitation. Lucie stood up slowly. If there had been a place to hide she would have done so. Raymond, she knew, would protect her no longer since he was about to be married, and Lady Jeannette would punish her disobedience. But there was no escape.

  “What the devil ails you?” Raymond asked. “All I want is for you to tell me your husband’s name. Then you can go back to work. Well?”

  Lucie stood staring at him, and Raymond had to control an impulse to slap her. He wondered how he had brought himself to lie with such a stupid, fearful slave. With an effort, he softened his voice.

  “I promise you,” Raymond said, “I will do your man no harm. I only wish to speak with him. Just tell me his name.”

  “I have no husband,” Lucie whispered.

  “What?” Raymond roared. “Did you not tell me you wished to marry some huntsman? Did I not give you five gold pieces as dower?”

  Tears poured down Lucie’s face. “Do not be so angry, my lord,” she pleaded. “I did tell you I wished to marry Gregoire the huntsman, and you did give me the gold pieces.” She fumbled at the breast of her dress. “I have them here. Do not be so angry. Take them back if you will.” She was shaking so hard that Raymond caught her arm to steady her.

  “I am not angry at you,” he said, but his eyes were like the blue flame at the hottest part of a fire. “Do you know how it came about that your marriage to Gregoire was not arranged?”

  “No, my lord,” Lucie sobbed. “I only know the day after you departed, Gregoire was sent away.”

  “Sent away! Where? By whom? Stop crying, you fool!”

  As well as she could, Lucie choked back her sobs. “He was sent to Gordes. More I do not know, my lord.”

  “Gordes? A huntsman from Aix was sent to Gordes?”

  Lucie only trembled, but Raymond had not expected any answer from her. His questions were rhetorical and only an expression of shock and outrage. There could be no practical reason to send a huntsman from the low-lying lands of Aix to the mountain fastness of Gordes. Also the timing was too pat. Gregoire had been sent away as soon as Raymond himself left Aix. It was clear that someone in the family had deliberately ordered Gregoire to be transferred to prevent the marriage.

  “Do you still wish to marry this man?” Raymond’s voice grated through gritted teeth.

  “Yes,” Lucie gasped.

  Raymond did not reply to that, only seized Lucie by the wrist and dragged her after him down the stairs and into the great hall.

  “Who ordered that Gregoire the huntsman be sent to Gordes?” Raymond thundered.

  Everyone in the hall froze into position. By now all the servants knew that Raymond had slain the master-at-arms and had had his body hung in chains at the barracks. There was no longer any insolence among the guards, who walked softly and in fear and trembling. If Lord Raymond whispered, they leapt to obey. Lord Alphonse might carry the title, but all knew Lord Raymond was truly the master of Tour Dur.

  At the family group where Raymond stood, shock did not breed silence. The three women let out cries of alarm, and Alphonse jumped.

  “Shut your mouths, you ninnies,” Raymond bellowed at his sisters, “or I will slap you sillier than you already are.”

  “Raymond,” Alphonse protested, getting to his feet, “are you mad?”

  “If I am not, it is no fault of anyone in this keep,” Raymond raged. “Did you order Gregoire be sent to Gordes?”

  “Who the devil is Gregoire?” Alphonse shouted back, losing his temper.

  Raymond did not even glance at him. “Then it was you, madame,” he snarled at his mother, his free hand working as if it were being restrained from closing on her throat. “Tell me why.”

  Raymond’s last three words held such a threat of violence that Alphonse tried instinctively to interpose his body between his son and his wife, but he was blocked by the table. He reached out to hold Raymond, however, Raymond had not leaned over to strike or choke his mother as Alphonse feared he might. And Lady Jeannette was so frightened by her son’s expression that all her tricks deserted her. She could not scream or weep or faint, and his eyes, bright and hard as steel, pierced her.

  “She is the best weaver,” Lady Jeannette quavered. “Why should I lose her service to satisfy a silly notion you had that she should have a life of her own? She would have been with child constantly and no good to me with a house full of brats.”

  The glare in Raymond’s eyes diminished. He had suspected that his mother had kept Lucie and introduced her to Alys, as she had introduced his daughters to Alys, to cause trouble between himself and his wife. The reason she had given, however, was so much in accord with her normal selfishness that he was sure it was the truth. He started to turn away, Lucie’s wrist still gripped in his hand.

  Lady Jeannette had seen her son’s rage cool and took courage from that. She associated this latest display with outbursts engendered in the past by frustration, and mistakenly believed he had accepted her logic. “Now you have your answer,” she said. “Let my weaving woman go back to her work.”

  Raymond spun back on his heel. “You selfish, stu—”

  “Raymond!” Alphonse bellowed.

  First Raymond glared at his father but then swallowed the words he was about to say. It would do no good to finish the sentence and call his mother a stupid bitch, for it was not only Lucie’s presence in the keep that had caused the trouble. His mother could not have foreseen the combination of circumstances that had kept him out of Alys’s bed, because he had intended to ride home from his aunt’s manor no matter what the time. He had only told Alys he would not so that she would go to sleep. It was the storm that had prevented him. And his mother knew nothing of the political problems that had kept him talking to his father all night and had sent him off to Gréoux.

  More collectedly, Raymond said, “She is not your weaving woman. I paid her father for her. She is mine. And now you have lost her completely, for I will take her to Gordes myself and see her married to Gregoire. You have caused me—”

  Raymond cut that off sharply and turned away again. He would not think of exposing his troubles to his family, although he was not at all disturbed by having told Arnald. There was something wrong in that, he knew, but he was comfortable with Arnald in the same way he was comfortable with Alys—or had been. Raymond’s mouth set in a bitter line, and he started toward the door that led to the outer stair. There was a cacophony of voices behind him, but he ignored it.

  Then he heard swift steps and felt a touch on his arm. “Raymond.”

  It was Margot. Of them all, Raymond had a soft spot in his heart for his younger sister, especially now because she had welcomed Alys. He stopped and turned his head.

  “Let poor Lucie at least fetch her cloak, Raymond,” Margot pleaded. “She will freeze if you take her to the mountains in nothing but that gown.”

  Raymond could feel Lucie shaking, and although he knew it was not the cold that made her tremble, he recognized the reason in what Margot said. He himself was not dressed for traveling. He hesitated nonetheless, suddenly afraid that Alys would come in. He could not bear the thought of facing her in front of his family, but then he realized it was past the time for breaking fast. She was avoiding him. That hurt him, but at the same time he was grateful.

  Then he remembered his other purpose for coming home and realized he had not told his father the good news about the vassals. The joy had gone out of it, the joy had gone out of everything. Still, what was right was right. None of this was his father’s fault. He let go of Lucie’s wrist.

  “Go get your things,” he said to her, “whatever you wish to bring with you to Gordes.” Then he looked at Margot.
“Her clothing will not be warm enough for the mountains,” he said to his sister. “See if you can find her some old furs and a bolt of warm woolen cloth. I will pay for them or furnish new if necessary.” He paused and then in a softer voice said, “Thank you.”

  Alys was finally wakened by her hunger. She lay for a moment, staring at the bed curtains, which she had forgotten to draw, and then through the opening in them at the barred door. Then she closed her eyes, but blanking out the sight could not hold back her memories. After a while she sat up slowly. “God help me,” she whispered. “I must have been mad.” Her underlying doubt about Raymond’s guilt, which had begun the night before, had been made clear during her sleep. Alys did not realize that she had been emotionally unbalanced by the strain of dealing with Lady Jeannette and her lack of experience with volatile, violent personalities. Her calm father and her outwardly placid stepmother had never exposed her to that kind of emotional eruption, and even Uncle Richard, who shouted and ranted, only raged about political matters, never personal ones.

  Now with her perspective restored, every false notion about Raymond that she had embraced marched through her mind, only to be rejected. She knew Raymond had married her only for love that he would, indeed, as he had once sworn, have taken her barefoot in a shift. Lucie was beautiful, but Alys knew in her heart that Raymond had not returned to Tour Dur to lie with her that first night or any night. Moreover, Raymond was neither unkind nor crude. If he still had a lust for Lucie, he would have established her in the town or in some other keep conveniently near. Actually, the fact that Lucie was still in Tour Dur was almost a guarantee that Raymond had no further interest in her.

  Alys was so sick at heart that she could not even weep. She was frightened, too, not only of Raymond but for him. Now that her mind was clear, it was inconceivable to her that he should not have reacted with rage to being struck with a whip and driven with a burning torch as if he were a wild beast. But he had not reacted at all. He had responded to the pain and threat dully, like an animal driven beyond endurance, and there had been no sense, no recognition, in his eyes. It was as if he were asleep, except that Alys knew no one could have slept through that.

  Worst of all was Alys’s feeling of isolation. There was no one to whom she could turn for help or advice. If only her father or Elizabeth were near… And then she shuddered. Nothing could ever convince her to tell her father or her gentle stepmother what she had done. Her father would have been as angry as Raymond, not at her objections to Raymond’s keeping a mistress but at her manner of objecting. And if her father ever heard that she had sewn together a misfit garment of untruth and then had beaten her innocent husband, whom she had forced to wear it, with a whip… Alys shuddered again. If Raymond did not kill her first, her father would do so when Raymond sent her home in disgrace.

  At that thought, Alys almost fainted. That was why Raymond had never come back to punish her. He planned to repudiate her. She had given him cause enough. She would kill herself and go to hell. She deserved it, but that, too, would injure Raymond by depriving him of her dower lands. Alys’s breath caught on a hysterical sob, and she choked down her terror fiercely. Now she was weaving a noose of unreality with which to hang herself.

  Slowly, Alys got off the bed and went to unbar the door. It was, in fact, highly unlikely that Raymond would repudiate her. There were too many practical reasons against it—his own vassals had been invited to their wedding and the Gascon lands were valuable, and perhaps he still loved her, she thought. She still loved him, even though he had misused her in a revolting way. Deserved or not, guilt or no guilt, anger and bitterness flicked Alys again when she remembered his rape. That was disgusting. She had been wrong, and he had a right to beat her, but to use her like a beast… It was better not to think of that.

  Yet the outrage at such treatment strengthened Alys, despite her certainty of Raymond’s innocence. She was not the only one who had gone too far. She opened the door and called Bertha, experiencing a pang of fear in the moment before the maid answered that Raymond had removed her own servants and, perhaps, set a jailer over her. But before she could begin to terrify herself anew, Bertha’s voice came up the stairwell. Nor was there any sign when Bertha entered the room carrying washing water that she was aware Alys had quarreled with her husband.

  The maid seemed subdued, but she exclaimed quite naturally that Alys should not have barred the door because she could not get in to replenish the fire, and now it was out. Alys, who was shivering more with nerves than with cold, used the remark as an excuse to pull on her own shift and long-sleeved tunic while Bertha ran down to get coals to start the fire anew. Thus, Alys was able to hide the livid bruises remaining from Raymond’s blows, and that gave her confidence enough to make a neutral remark about having slept so long. At this, Bertha’s face lightened, and she began to talk in much more her usual manner. It became clear to Alys then that Bertha’s wariness was only a reflection of her own bad mood the previous day.

  “Oh, and my lady,” Bertha chattered on, “the chaplain said to tell you that he believes he knows of a gentlewoman suitable to care for the children, not that I mind having them. They are the sweetest little birds and no trouble at all.”

  “When did he speak to you about this?” Alys asked, feeling her way.

  “After Mass, my lady.”

  It was obvious from Bertha’s reply that Raymond had not been at Mass, either. Bertha would surely have mentioned it. Nor could there have been any family upheaval, for the chaplain would have known about that and not been casually speaking about Fenice and Enid. Reflecting upon this, Alys felt better. Perhaps Raymond still cared enough for her to keep secret from his family what happened. However, Alys was afraid to build her hopes too high. Should she go across to the main keep? she wondered. She shuddered at the thought, and Bertha stirred the fire, thinking Alys was cold.

  “While I do my hair, get me something to eat,” Alys said to her maid, knowing she could not find strength to beard the lion in his den. She could only wait for whatever would happen. “Oh,” she added, “ask the chaplain to step across to me. I—”

  “Alys?” Margot’s voice came up the stairwell. “Are you awake? Are you well?”

  Alys went rigid. Her first impulse was to run and hide from the ultimate shame of being summoned to be punished before Raymond’s family. But there was nowhere to hide.

  “Alys?” There was anxiety in Margot’s voice.

  “Come up,” Alys called, pride firming her voice. “I am awake.”

  She heard Margot’s steps hurrying up on the stairs, and stiffened her back.

  “Oh! We have had such a to-do,” Margot cried as she entered the room. “Did you know that Raymond had returned during the night?”

  Color rushed into Alys’s face. Such a question was quick proof that Raymond had said nothing to his family, but hope can freeze a throat and tongue as well as fear. Alys could not answer Margot’s question. Fortunately Margot assumed the silence was an answer and, in any case, she was far more interested in telling her news than in receiving a reply. She sank dramatically into a chair and began to recount the events of the morning. As Alys listened, her eyes grew wider and wider and joy flooded her. She could hardly believe her ears and kept asking Margot to repeat what she was saying.

  Margot did so with enthusiasm, thrilled at the reception she was getting. Finally, when every single word, expression, and gesture had been detailed, Margot asked, “Whatever do you think got into Raymond? Did you say something to him about Lucie? No, of course, you could not have done so. You had not seen her or spoken to her until after Raymond left, and you did not see him after that. Good gracious, Mother is furious! Whyever did you sleep so late? You missed all the excitement.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The day, which had started with a violent upheaval, was destined to be permanently memorable, but neither Alys nor Margot knew that yet. Bertha returned with the food she had been sent to get, and as soon as Alys swallowed enough
to stay her immediate hunger, she and Margot hurried over to the great hall. After Margot had unburdened herself of her more exciting news, she remembered that she had been sent to Alys by her father. Soon after Raymond left with Lucie, Alphonse had realized that Alys had not been at Mass or at breakfast and he began to worry about her.

  But when she arrived, Alys was glowing with happiness. No man in the world, she thought, was equal in goodness and generosity to her husband. It was not that Alys expected to escape his wrath or punishment. She believed he had gone away not only to remove Lucie from Tour Dur, but because he wanted to cool himself before he dealt with her. She swore to herself that she would kiss his hands when he beat her. Her joy was that he had not betrayed her, that he would not expose her to the ridicule of his mother and sisters. And, above and beyond that goodness, despite his own assertion that she had no right to protest his keeping of other women, it was clear that he never intended Lucie remain in Tour Dur. In addition, even after Alys had enraged him so unjustly, his first act was to remove the source of her anger.

  Assured by her looks that nothing ailed her and by a smiling apology for her late sleeping and a promise of amendment, Alphonse did not question Alys. He could not have probed too deeply anyway. Lady Jeannette was so full of her son’s mad behavior that all other subjects of conversation were impossible. In the full flush of her happiness and relief, Alys was more sympathetic to Lady Jeannette than was anyone else. She was very willing to listen to endless repetitions of what had happened.

  It did not matter to Alys that these repetitions were full of Lady Jeannette’s self-justification. No matter how the tale was told, it reiterated the bases of Alys’s joy. First, Raymond’s energy proved that, whatever his reason for not reacting to his wife’s abuse, he was not ill. Second, Raymond had intended that Lucie’s marriage be arranged as soon as he received his father’s permission for betrothal. And third, and even more marvelous, his haste and fury showed his eagerness to remove the source of Alys’s hurt and set her mind at ease. However often Lady Jeannette repeated herself and her complaints, she was telling Alys a tale of perfect love.