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  Henry nodded, feeling quite uplifted at having saved an innocent man from unreasonable spite. “Pay your respects to Lord Guy,” he urged, “and tell him that I would be pleased if he would take you into his household so that you will not be put to the expense of maintaining yourself while you wait for Prince Edward’s return.”

  Sir Savin thanked the king fulsomely, but actually he did not intend to approach Edward unless the prince sent for him, at least, not until Aubery was dead. He had been aware of Edward’s shifting favor and knew that it would be firmly fixed on Aubery after the remarkable feat of strength and skill with which Aubery had saved himself in the joust. Besides, it was a nuisance to make himself agreeable to a silly boy. At present the king’s half brothers had more power and influence, and if he could really make himself known to them, Savin thought, he would be better off than a hanger-on of the prince.

  The recommendation to Edward as champion had not come directly from Lord Guy, despite Savin’s implication that it had, but had been made in Guy’s name by his steward as a recompense for the wardship of Harold of Herron. Savin had paid a handsome bribe for that wardship, and it had been reft from him by Aubery through the influence of Richard of Cornwall. Perhaps Lord Guy felt he owed Savin nothing. He could say the wardship had been obtained for Savin, as promised, and Savin had lost it. Keeping what had been bestowed was Savin’s own problem. Still, Lord Guy would not refuse him a place in the household when it was the king who made the suggestion.

  On November 1, Alfonso issued the solemn charter forever renouncing all claims to Gascony. Moreover, in the settlement the King of Castile renounced the fealty of Gaston de Béarn, although the English plenipotentiaries agreed on Henry’s part to deal indulgently with Gaston and his Gascon allies. The vague promise was a salve to Alfonso’s conscience and committed Henry to nothing. It might have been said that a king who kept a rebel count chained to a log for more than ten years was being merciful in not executing him. However, Alfonso was not much concerned. Henry was not likely to be able to lay hands on Gaston unless he offered the Viscount of Béarn attractive terms.

  By the time the charter was issued, Aubery had little time to consider the terms or to wonder how much influence the prince’s ploy actually had in Alfonso’s abandonment of Béarn. In fact, shortly after the wedding itself, he had begun to work on organizing the homeward-bound cortege. This time Aubery did not find the task so onerous. He had behind him the experience of the outward journey. He knew his men and they knew him, and there were few clerks or noblemen who felt obliged to make themselves important by instructing him in his duty. Left to do his work on his own, except for Mansel’s secretary, who was sensible and efficient and did not need to show himself off as a wonder because his master knew already what he was worth, Aubery had few difficulties in making his preparations.

  Getting under way was another matter entirely. No amount of preparation could eliminate the confusion and disorder created by those who forgot things, who objected to their means of transport or their place in the cortege, or who discovered myriad reasons to change every arrangement. All feared to be caught by the worst of the winter weather, which was fast approaching, and all were really eager to return home. As a result, they progressed somewhat faster than they had on the outward journey.

  The first part of the trip they were accompanied by a Castilian guard of honor, but the evening after Alfonso’s men left them, Edward sent for Aubery and thanked him for his great discretion in keeping Sir Savin’s enmity to him a secret.

  “I am sure,” the prince said, “that the King of Castile understood he could not continue to support Béarn and his pretensions once he revoked all claim to Gascony. However, the possibility that the attempt to sow disaffection between England and Castile was Béarn’s doing provided an excellent excuse. And I understand that you could not be certain and did not wish to accuse without proof. Still, you might have mentioned to me that the matter between you and Sir Savin was more serious than a simple passage at arms.”

  Aubery looked slightly stunned. “It did not seem important,” he replied. “It would have been stupid for Savin to make any other move against me, and even if he did, I did not fear him. But…but how did you learn of my suspicion?”

  The prince laughed. “Lady Fenice was more fearful for your safety than you were.”

  “Fenice asked you to protect me from Savin?” Aubery asked in a choked voice.

  Suddenly Edward looked conscience-stricken. His mother had told him Fenice had said Aubery had forbidden her to speak of the possibility that it was Savin who had changed the lances. Edward had assumed that was because Aubery did not want to divert attention from Edward’s accusation against Béarn. Now he realized there were ramifications other than political involved. He had made it sound as if Lady Fenice thought her husband was a fool and a weakling.

  “No!” Edward exclaimed. “Of course not. She spoke to my mother. She was only frightened and wished to confide in another woman. It was my mother who conceived of the notion of sending Sir Savin away as a messenger. You must not blame your wife. Women do not understand the differences in ability in arms. We know you are a better man than Savin, but women seem to think…”

  “I see,” Aubery said, his lips thin, his eyes blazing with anger. “Now I understand why you spoke so oddly of the knight who was sent away as messenger. But surely you should have told my wife, or did you think I, too, was trembling with terror of that—”

  “No, by God’s head, no!” For once, Edward looked completely embarrassed and as awkward as any fifteen-year-old. “I meant no harm. I said I knew you were the better man. I only wished to thank you for upholding me. Do not be so angry.”

  Seeing the boy was near tears, Aubery controlled himself. “Forgive me,” he said, forcing a smile. “It is not you with whom I am angry.”

  “Oh, please do not punish Lady Fenice,” Edward cried. “My mother bade me most straitly to speak of this to no one, but—but I did not think that meant you.” He threw out his hands in a gesture of appeal. “Now I see it meant you most particularly and I should have known because my mother would realize I would not speak of it to anyone else. Please do not betray me.”

  Aubery’s smile grew more natural. In some things the prince was so old-headed, he was certainly more understanding of the feelings of the English barony than Henry, and he was quick to see a political advantage. But about other subjects he was still a boy, and a boy in fear of his mother.

  “No, I will not,” Aubery promised. “You are right. It was only a woman’s foolishness, and no harm can come of it.”

  Actually, when Aubery thought it out later, he saw that ridding the group of Sir Savin was an excellent idea. The man had no sense of honor or honesty and had the temper of a wild boar. Whether or not Savin had meant to engage him during the melee, there was always the chance Savin’s growing rage would have boiled over and caused trouble on the homeward journey. Still, he was furious with Fenice for going to the queen after he had specifically bade her not to do so. Under that soft outward manner she was entirely too much like Alys. Had he wanted a woman to rule him, he could have had Alys herself.

  However, having promised Edward not to betray him, Aubery had sense enough to realize he must avoid his wife while his temper was so strongly aroused. He went off to the men’s quarters, where he received a warm, if jocular, welcome. Giving as good as he got as far as the jests went, Aubery settled into one of the groups rolling three dice in “the game of God”, as it was blasphemously called, partly because it was a game of pure chance and partly because it was so frequently and so vociferously damned by the Church. Nonetheless, the jokes, which had made him aware for the first time that he had spent far more of his off-duty hours with his wife than most men would, increased his resentment toward Fenice.

  Fortunately, he enjoyed the play and the companionable drinking among the men very much and came away in the late hours of the night with small winnings. The combination did much to soothe
him. He was drunk, too, and Aubery was an extremely merry, loving drunk. The alcohol blurred his burden, relieving him of the constant, secret fear that his nature really resembled his father’s and if he did not watch himself carefully, he would do something foul. Thus, when he finally arrived at his chamber he was no longer in a mood to chastise Fenice.

  Had Aubery returned angry and resentful after so unusual an absence, Fenice would have been greatly distressed. It had been so long since the tourney that her part in Sir Savin’s departure would never have occurred to her as the source of her husband’s irritation. She would have thought Aubery was tiring of her. As he arrived with several other equally drunken gentlemen, all singing lustily, she thought nothing of his late return, laughingly applauded their somewhat off-key chorus when it was over, and swiftly drew her husband in before they could begin again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The next morning, Aubery had concerns other than Edward’s revelation to occupy his mind. Safe conducts had, of course, been arranged for the passage of their party through the small independent territories between Castile and Gascony. However, there was always the chance of treachery or of some outlaw action, particularly by Gaston de Béarn, whose agents in Castile must have informed him of the agreements that withdrew Alfonso’s protection. Could Béarn take the royal party hostage, he would be able to dictate any terms he liked to King Henry.

  No attempt was made on the party because the king was waiting for them on the border. But Aubery had not known that and was fully occupied with various precautions against attack. Each day his anger at Fenice’s action diminished, but another small core of dissatisfaction formed beside the one, concerning the secret he knew she was keeping from him.

  Aubery was even more overjoyed to see King Henry than he had been to see King Alfonso. He rode up to Mansel before the parties had come together and begged the clerk to arrange with the king that he be relieved of his duty. Mansel looked at him oddly.

  “Do you not wish to speak to the king yourself? You could claim a handsome reward, for you have done well in all things. The queen and prince and I myself will speak for you.”

  Aubery bit his lip, knowing that Mansel, who was one of the greatest pluralists of the age in England, would think him a weak fool for saying he was content with what he had and desired only to be free of the burdens, including that of his own company, the king had laid on him. But Aubery suddenly realized that he could turn Mansel’s slightly contemptuous question against him and accomplish something that would greatly please his stepfather.

  “I hoped you would ask for me,” Aubery said smoothly, “as you have the most frequent intercourse with the king and are able most easily to seize the most favorable moment.”

  Mansel’s lips twisted wryly, but his expression was no longer contemptuous. “There is more to you than I thought, Sir Aubery,” he remarked dryly. “However, since I was so foolish as to extend my neck, it is reasonable the blow should fall on it. Only let me warn you, do not ask too much.”

  Aubery smiled. “Since I have chosen you for intermediary, I must allow you to be the judge of whether I ask too much. What I desire is the right for my stepfather, Sir William of Marlowe, to purchase back from the king the keep of Bix and its lands. My stepfather ceded it to the king in exchange for Gascon lands to serve as dowry for my stepsister.”

  “But how will this benefit you?” Mansel asked in a most puzzled voice.

  “It is rather roundabout but will benefit me more than a court appointment, for which I am most unfit. Lady Alys d’Aix is Sir William’s only heir of the body. For reasons too numerous to tell you, she does not desire her father’s property in England for herself or her children. Thus, Sir William has arranged to settle by will all his lands upon either my wife or myself.”

  “I am growing less and less sure that you are unfit for a court appointment,” Mansel said sardonically.

  Aubery shrugged. “Then let us say that I have little taste for a courtier’s life and also that my wife’s relationship to the queen, which has been useful to everyone in Castile and Gascony, will in England prove a source of jealousy and hard feeling. We would do better to live quietly on our lands and make an occasional visit to court.”

  Now the glance Mansel cast Aubery was rather admiring and thoughtful. “I will do what I can,” he said, and then added cautiously, “If Bix is not too great a holding, I believe you may account the matter settled.”

  “It is about twenty marks a year,” Aubery told him.

  Late in the evening Aubery’s talk with Mansel bore its first fruit. Aubery received a letter of thanks and praise and, equally satisfactory, permission to go where he desired at any time. A second parchment officially releasing Fenice from her duty to the queen accompanied this, together with a note from Eleanor herself full of affection and regret for losing Fenice’s company but making clear that she understood, was not angry, and hoped most sincerely to see Fenice again when they were both in England.

  Aubery presented the latter of the two letters to Fenice without comment, wondering how she would react. She had seemed so much at ease in the company of the queen and her ladies of late that he felt some doubt whether she would be willing to come down from the exalted heights on which she had been living to a more everyday existence. On the contrary, Fenice was so relieved, so clearly overjoyed, to be freed from her duty to the queen that Aubery was startled.

  “Do you dislike the queen?” he asked when she released his lips after kissing him in wild abandon to express her joy and her gratitude.

  “No, I love her,” Fenice exclaimed, still laughing with happiness and beginning to whirl around the room with her arms outspread.

  It was a spontaneous demonstration to express the sudden lightening of her spirit at the removal of a burden of secret fear she had hardly been aware of bearing until it was gone. Aubery watched her, also laughing at her effervescence but somewhat disturbed. If she had been acting a part of ease and contentment all these months, she was a performer of such skill that every emotion she displayed must be suspect. If she had not been acting, then this display of joy must be false, but that made her no less skillful as an actress.

  “Were the queen’s ladies unkind to you?” he persisted.

  “No, not at all,” Fenice caroled merrily.

  Aubery caught her as she was about to spin past him. The chamber was not large, and she was within his reach. She did not resist his hold, twirling about and again throwing her arms around his neck. He dodged her kiss, pulled her arms down, and held her a little away.

  “Then why are you cavorting about like a mad clown?” he insisted.

  “I-I am glad to be finished with fetching and carrying and always being on best behavior,” Fenice replied, but her voice was no longer merry. The questions had revealed to her the real source of her happiness, and she blushed deeply, aware that her answer was the least part of the truth, although it was not a lie.

  The blush and the hesitation after so strong a show of relief reminded Aubery of Fenice’s original reluctance to serve the queen and, by natural extension, of the private fear she would not confide to him. He released her and turned away, saying sharply, “You will be glad to see Alys again, will you not?”

  Fenice sensed his anger but not its source. She had been sure he was happy to be free of the king’s service, so he could not be angry because she was not echoing his mood. Perhaps she had gone too far in expressing her joy and seemed to criticize his forcing her to become one of the queen’s ladies. But she was not certain that was what had annoyed him, and she was afraid to say anything definite lest she make his mood worse.

  “Of course,” she replied neutrally. “I am always happy to be with Lady Alys, but if you wish to go straight to England or—or anywhere else, I will be glad also. My place is with you, and there I am content.”

  Aubery turned back to her and, seeing the anxiety on her face, called himself a fool. Everything Fenice did, even those things she should not have d
one, like going to the queen to complain about Savin, was what she believed was for his good. Perhaps Alys was right. Perhaps she did love him. She had tried to stop him from fighting in the tourney. Silly as that was, it was something a woman in love might do. He reached out and touched her face.

  “I have spoiled your joy. I am sorry. I thought perhaps you were really sorry to leave the excitement and elegance of the queen’s service and only pretended to be glad.”

  “Oh, no!” Fenice exclaimed. “Truly, truly, I am happy to be free. And, you know, it is not exciting at all. It is really very dull. The ladies do nothing but gossip, embroider, sing, and play games.”

  Aubery could not help laughing. “That seems an easy, pleasant life to me, and you like to embroider and sing.”

  “Yes, and I like to play games and—and gossip, too,” Fenice admitted naïvely, “but not all day, every day. I miss, oh, at this season I would be culling the last of the herbs, brewing simples and drying those that keep their virtue dried, seeing to the salting of the meat from those animals slaughtered to thin the herds, and stocking the castle in all things for the winter. It is a busy time usually, even in Aix, where the weather is milder than England, for there are great storms in winter, and ships and supplies cannot come. But you know all this, my lord,” she said with a shy smile.

  He drew her close and kissed her. “Aye, I know what you mean. I have had some pleasure in the war and more in this journey for the prince’s marriage, but I long for my lands and my simple daily duties also. I wonder what the harvest was like in Ilmer. This year it should bring me some profit at last, if it was good, and I wonder whether the fine mare I bred to Draco foaled a mare or a stallion colt.” He smiled down at her. “We must go first to Blancheforte. You will want to bid farewell to your father and Lady Alys, and I must find out whether Sir William left messages for me. But after that, we will go home.”