Winter Song Page 35

  “You are overweary, my lady,” Gervase murmured.

  Alys smiled at him. “You, also, I fear, poor Master Gervase. You are a paragon. If not for your support, nothing would have been accomplished.” She laughed tiredly. “And I would be dead, I think, instead of only tired. I thank you.”

  For a moment Gervase was struck dumb. He was trusted and had considerable power and a comfortable life. These things had made his position valuable, but a man hungers for more, especially praise. Sometimes Lord Alphonse or Lord Raymond would utter a casual thanks for a particular task, but from the ladies of the house—and it was too often with those that he dealt—he received only complaints. Gervase’s heart swelled with satisfaction and gratitude for Alys’s recognition of his service. From that hour, Alys had a devoted slave.

  “It is a great pleasure to serve you, my lady,” Gervase said. “You make every task easy, for you say what you desire and do not change ten times. I should rather thank you. But, indeed, you must rest.”

  Alys was so tired, the south tower seemed leagues distant. She glanced toward the stairs to the women’s quarters, and Gervase understood at once.

  “Lord Raymond’s room is now empty,” he suggested, “and there is a fire there.”

  “Oh yes.” Alys sighed with relief. “How foolish of me. I had forgot.” She took a few steps and then turned back. “You had better call me when Lady Jeannette asks for Lord Alphonse.”

  Gervase’s lips tightened, and their eyes met. He sighed. “Yes, my lady.”

  In Raymond’s room, Alys bent automatically to pick up a tunic that had fallen to the floor. It was the one Raymond had put on without even a shirt under it when he ran out to see whether Alys had left Tour Dur, and the sweat of his exertion and anxiety had soaked the wool. The odor, Raymond’s particular odor, came to Alys as she lifted the garment. It was her first chance to think about her husband in relation to herself since she sent off her letter, and she burst into tears.

  She should have written she loved him! One mistake could not spoil months of tenderness and consideration. Certainly Raymond had not been himself. Something had been wrong with him. She had realized that as soon as her own sanity returned. She had herself done what was nearly unforgivable, yet Raymond had acted with love in taking Lucie away to be married. And it might be long, long weeks, even months, before she saw him again. Sobbing, Alys carried the tunic with her to the bed and wept herself to sleep holding it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Getting Alphonse off before Lady Jeannette was awake turned out to be the best move Alys could have made. It had been decided between Alys and her father-by-marriage that his destination had better be a secret for as long as possible. Weak Lord Alphonse might be, but he was no fool. He recognized readily all the suspicions that might form in Sir Romeo’s mind if he heard that Raymond-Berenger’s son had run posthaste to King Louis without attending his father’s funeral or taking part in the discussions concerning his half sister’s fate. Whether Alphonse meant that the secret be kept from his wife, Alys did not know, but she certainly intended to keep it so since she had not the smallest hope that Lady Jeannette could or would hold her tongue.

  Thus, when Gervase was finally driven to confess that Lord Alphonse had left Tour Dur and told to summon Alys, she promptly denied all knowledge of where he had gone. The fact that she had known he was leaving and had assisted him to do so brought her a vicious scolding, but Alys only widened her eyes and said, “But madame—” Alys had discovered that Lady Jeannette preferred the respectful “madame” to the affectionate “mother”.

  “But madame,” Alys said, “how would I dare question Lord Alphonse? He said he wished to go. His clothing was ready packed and the men prepared—”

  “Why were clothes packed and men prepared?” Lady Jeannette interrupted furiously.

  “Because Sir Romeo de Villeneuve begged in a letter that Lord Alphonse and you, madame, come at once to Arles to advise what is best to be done in view of our tragic bereavement.” It was the truth, Alys thought. She had been asked where Lord Alphonse had gone, not whom he had gone to see. Alys did not know in which castle King Louis would be found. It was true that she did not know where Lord Alphonse had gone. And the clothes were packed and the men alerted because of Sir Romeo’s letter.

  Lady Jeannette stared into Alys’s face, but she did not see her. “Do you mean,” she said finally in a thin, furious voice, “that Alphonse went to Arles without us? He is mad. There is plenty of time before the funeral, and since we were, I am sure, the first to have the news of the count’s death, there will be time enough to decide what to do. What was Alphonse’s hurry?”

  “I do not know, madame,” Alys replied. “He did not tell me.” That, too, was true. Alys had told Alphonse why hurry was necessary, not the other way around.

  “That fool!” Lady Jeannette burst out. “Now we have no escort. How are we to go?”

  “With respect, madame, I have twenty good men and my master-at-arms is trusty and skilled.”

  “But who is to tell them what to do?’ Lady Jeannette wailed, and Margot and Jeanine dissolved into tears of disappointment.

  Alys bit her lip. She had had a few hours of sleep but was still tired and on edge. She did not know whether to laugh at the silliness of the three or to weep over the burden of supporting and guiding them—and she did not dare do either. A flicker of anger touched her. It was ridiculous that she, hardly more than a girl, should be responsible for the three, one of whom was more than double her age and the other had been married longer than she. Then she had to bite her lips again to keep from laughing. No doubt this was God’s lessoning. She had feared she would be bored to death!

  “My men were well trained by my father and Raymond,” Alys said to the weeping trio after a pause to steady herself. “There is no need to tell them more than that we wish to go, and I will do that.”

  “I can tell the moon to shine,” Lady Jeannette snapped, “but that does not mean it will obey me. Men obey the orders of men, as the moon obeys the orders of God.”

  This time it was Alys’s turn to stare. The idea that any man except Raymond, whether soldier or servant, would not immediately obey her had never entered her mind.

  “My men will obey me, I assure you,” Alys said. “If you will give me leave to send for Arnald, I can give him the order in your presence so that you may be assured both of his willingness and his ability.”

  Without much more whining, Lady Jeannette allowed herself to be persuaded into donning traveling clothing, and Alys had the satisfaction of getting her party on the road within the time she had set. Fortunately, the journey was not quite the nightmare Alys had expected. For this Alys blessed the traveling wagon, which immobilized Lady Jeannette and prevented her from complaining and giving direct orders—at least, to Alys. The fact that Alys was able to “disappear” the moment any servant from the carriage began to look for her also accounted for the journey taking no more than three days rather than five or ten. They stopped only when it was necessary to rest the animals, instead of every time the wagon hit a bump or rocked as the wheels slid in and out of ruts. Lady Jeannette was not pleased and threatened dire punishments, but it was Alys who held the whip, and no one was hurt.

  After they had arrived, Alys wondered why she had tried to hurry them, aside from the fact that any journey was dangerous in that it exposed the traveler to enemies and outlaws. Naturally, Alys had known that there would be trouble when Lady Jeannette discovered her husband was not already at Arles, but Alys was not prepared for the violence of the outburst. She had expected Lady Jeannette to be furious. It had not occurred to her that her mother-by-marriage would immediately assume Lord Alphonse was dead.

  In vain Alys pointed out that he had been traveling with ten good men and that it was nigh impossible that all of them should be killed. In vain she expostulated that Lord Alphonse had not been carrying anything tempting enough to make outlaws attack eleven armed men. As fast as Alys demolished one cau
se of terror, Lady Jeannette found another until, at last, Alys realized she was being a great fool.

  Lady Jeannette might, just at first, have been really frightened. Within a short time, however, she had discovered that her transports served two purposes—they prevented anyone from questioning her directly about her husband’s whereabouts and they drew attention away from the widowed Lady Beatrice to herself. In her own peculiar way, Alys figured out, Lady Jeannette was protecting herself and enjoying herself. The feeling of guilt that had tied Alys to the thankless task of soothing her mother-by-marriage dissipated, and Alys slipped away to enjoy the company of the younger women.

  Several days of relative peace followed. Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo spent much of their time together in anxious conferences, which often included Lady Jeannette. This was less because they expected any sensible advice from her than because they hoped her hysterics on arrival were a pretense and she knew where her husband was. Even after they realized that she did not know, they continued to draw her into their talk in the hope that she could provide information on Alphonse’s attitude, even if she knew no specific facts.

  This was quite acceptable to Alys, who was certain that neither Alphonse nor Raymond had any intention of trying to seize the whole of Provence or even a share of Raymond-Berenger’s estate. Thus, anything that could be extracted from Lady Jeannette would be soothing to Sir Romeo. Alys was both hurt and relieved to be dismissed by Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo civilly but without a flicker of interest. Her property, if it had ever been mentioned, was outside their range of interest, and she was sure Lady Jeannette had given a most unflattering view of her intelligence and abilities.

  On the other hand, she found herself fully accepted by the youthful members of the party, young Beatrice, Margot, Jeanine, and the young ladies being raised in the court. To her surprise, she even found that she was a center of interest to them. At first, Alys was somewhat suspicious and reserved, wondering whether these fine young ladies were meaning to make a may-game of her. However, she soon realized that she was different, to them exotic, and a relief to their boredom.

  Like a beautiful doll, Alys could be dressed all anew in the latest fashions. Alys joined wholeheartedly in this amusement as soon as she determined that no one was trying to make her ridiculous by suggesting outré styles or colors that did not become her. Alys’s life, so different from theirs, was also a source of fascination.

  While young Beatrice and the other ladies were by no means sequestered or ignorant, enough of the Moorish influence remained in these southern lands to cause women to be regarded as toys. Lady Beatrice the elder, who was a Savoyard, was herself much more like Alys than like Lady Jeannette. Lady Beatrice had always taken a relatively active part in the management of the estates and politics, particularly after her childbearing years were ended, however, she could not throw off the influence of the area completely, as the nurses and tutors who attended her daughters were mostly native.

  This produced a most interesting effect. Margaret, queen of France, the eldest daughter, and Eleanor, queen of England, the next in age, had received most of Lady Beatrice’s direct attention. Each was actively interested in the affairs of the world and of her husband’s domain. Sancia, Countess of Cornwall, the third daughter, was less aggressive than her elder sisters, partly because her nature was gentler but also because, by the time she reached the age when her attitude toward her purposes and duties was being formed, Lady Beatrice’s attention had already been drawn from her nursery to wider affairs. Those were the years when her husband’s hold on his province was seriously threatened, and Lady Beatrice was far more often acting as Raymond-Berenger’s envoy than as a mother. Young Beatrice had already been born, but she, the last, was the least benefited by her mother’s strong personality and active intelligence.

  Thus, Beatrice was the most like Margot and Jeanine in that she had been taught a woman’s place was to be an ornament, the jewel in a man’s crown of life and the solace of his idle hours, rather than a helpmate. But there had been another influence in young Beatrice’s life, her father. She had been his favorite and had absorbed a portion of his ambition and strong will.

  Alys, with her exotic blonde coloring and her air of assurance, was fascinating to Beatrice, but far more fascinating were the discussions of her mother and Sir Romeo, to which she was not invited. Alys thought this was a mistake, for she saw that Beatrice was ambitious and intelligent and felt it would do good for her to know the reasons behind the decision to which they came. Alys was not sure whether they excluded her because her questions and objections might impede the discussions uselessly or because they did not trust her to be discreet or because they simply forgot her, but she felt Beatrice should be prepared and never turned the subject when it came up.

  On the day before the date on which the vassals were summoned to arrive, Margot had come round to the well-worn but ever interesting topic once more. “Do you think,” she asked, “that your mother and Sir Romeo have found a way to prevent your sisters from contesting the will?”

  “They must,” Beatrice responded sharply. “My sisters have had their portions and are great enough. It is unthinkable to break up Provence into little pieces.”

  “I agree,” Alys said. “It would only make trouble to have a keep here and a keep there owing fealty to different overlords. I do not think either King Henry or King Louis is greedy or would wish to violate the final will of their father-by-marriage. Uncle Richard, I know, would never think of it.”

  “Yes, but Margaret is not likely to accept it,” Margot remarked, “even if Eleanor and Sancia do not press their rights.”

  “They have no rights!” Beatrice exclaimed hotly. “My father left Provence to me! They are queens, or rich as queens, already. They cannot have my share.”

  “I am sure,” Alys suggested, “that a way will be found to content Margaret also. If Beatrice were to be married to a close relation of hers, for example, the benefit to the family as a whole—”

  “Margaret is a spiteful bitch,” Beatrice snapped, cutting Alys off. “She would not care for anyone’s benefit but her own. Margot is right. She is the one who will make trouble, and once she starts demanding her share, Eleanor and Sancia will demand theirs as well. Margaret will set Louis to insist that all the daughters should be equal or that she as eldest should inherit.”

  “Louis could not ask for the whole because that would not be acceptable to King Henry, of that I am sure,” Alys said. “And there is something Louis can be offered that would be more valuable to him than his wife’s quarter share. Louis has a brother who is young and not ill-looking. Do you not think the king would prefer to have Provence whole, strong, and at peace and his brother well married than to start a new war with England or open the door to King Henry to gain a foothold in Provence?”

  Beatrice wrinkled her nose, and Margot said, “Charles of Anjou is a grouch.”

  “I have heard that he is very serious,” Alys amended, giving Margot a monitory glance, “and that he is likely to enlarge and strengthen any estate that comes to him rather than dissipate it in riotous living. That is no bad characteristic for a husband.”

  “He is ambitious enough,” Beatrice agreed, “but the French are all dull dogs. He cannot sing or write poetry.”

  “That may be had anywhere,” Alys pointed out.

  Of course, Alys was thinking of minstrels and of the wandering troubadours who sang and played and would compose poems for anyone who had a few coins to spare. It would no more have occurred to Alys to have an ami amoureux than to grow horns. She knew nothing of the convention by which great ladies were permitted to surround themselves with a crowd of young men, all of whom professed willingness to die for a kiss. However, both Beatrice and Margot knew that style of life well—at least, by repute if not in actuality. Lady Beatrice was too busy and too sensible and Lady Jeannette too fearful that her daughters rather than herself might be the focus of attention, so neither encouraged a “court of love”.


  Beatrice considered Alys’s statement. “It is true,” she said. “There is most excellent reason in everything you say, but why are you so sure that Charles will be my mother’s and Sir Romeo’s choice? They do not love the French overmuch.”

  “I am not sure,” Alys replied, unwilling to admit that Raymond had said it was to be, and as far as Alys was concerned, if Raymond said something, it must be so. “Merely, it seemed to me the safest path for you and for Provence. Charles would not be subject to his brother, so Provence would remain free, yet Charles would incline always to support his brother, so Louis would gain by that. On the other hand, Louis would never, I think, threaten Charles and would help him in times of trouble. What is more, although Charles has lands in France, they are such as can be governed by deputies. Thus, he will be able to give his mind and time to Provence.”

  “Well,” Beatrice confessed, “you are not the only one who has mentioned Charles to me, but I cannot say I took well to him when I saw him, and he did not even look at me.”

  Alys was glad she was not the only one hinting of this marriage. In fact, there was something in Beatrice’s manner that implied the hint had come from her mother. She laughed at Beatrice’s remark, having previously heard the story of this meeting between Beatrice and Charles.

  “Why should he look at you?” Alys asked merrily. “He was a young man of fifteen and you hardly more than a babe of nine. I assure you, dear Beatrice, he will look at you now. And fifteen is not such a good age for the male as it is for the female. A woman is a woman at fifteen, but a man is still half a boy, with a changing voice and legs and arms too long. You will find him better, much better, at twenty.”

  Naturally enough, since everyone in Provence would be affected by the outcome of Sir Romeo’s and Lady Beatrice’s conferences, similar discussions to the one Alys and Beatrice had were taking place in widely divergent places. The notices of Raymond-Berenger’s death and the summons to attend his obsequies had been received by those to whom they were sent within the province, although it was too soon for the courts of England and France to have heard. The attitudes of those who speculated about the fate of young Beatrice were as various as the natures and intelligence of the speakers.