Winter Song Page 36

  At the citadel of Les Baux, Master Ernaldus was thinking along unique lines. He was now a favorite with both Lady Isabel and Sir Guillaume. The former, aside from affection, felt her half brother was having an excellent influence on her son. Sir Guillaume also thought Master Ernaldus’s influence was excellent, but for widely different reasons. Sir Guillaume found that his bastard uncle not only relieved him of most of the tedious aspects of managing his estate but increased the profit from it considerably.

  Moreover, Ernaldus had pointed out that the friction between Sir Guillaume and his mother came about from too much honesty. Some things were not fit for a woman’s ears, Ernaldus said. In fact, most things were not. If Sir Guillaume would restrict his conversations with his mother to the weather, his attendance at church, and formal visits to neighbors or suchlike matters, he would have less trouble with her. And, if Guillaume felt he wished to tell someone of those adventures of which his mother would not approve…well, his uncle was not young, but he had not forgotten his youth completely. He would even vouch that Sir Guillaume was attending to business, if he should wish to be away, and attend to the business for him.

  Soon enough Ernaldus was the primary adviser and chief source of comfort to both mother and son. From both he had heard the tale of the humbling of the family of des Baux, a long lament from Lady Isabel, who swore the shame had killed her husband, and a furious denunciation of the Count of Provence from Guillaume, who adduced all kinds of treachery and trickery in a feud that stretched back two generations into the preceding century. Ernaldus made the proper responses to each, soothing his half sister and holding out vague notions of redress to her son.

  Naturally the notice of Raymond-Berenger’s death was received with rejoicing at Les Baux. It came to them earlier than to most others because they were little more than three leagues from Arles. First Sir Guillaume exclaimed that he would not go. It did not matter to him that he had been forced to swear fealty to Raymond-Berenger, the count was dead. It was time to break away and perhaps take a small keep or two in the neighborhood. Lady Isabel cried out in protest, but her brother led her away promising her all would be well. Guillaume thanked him for removing an impediment to his desire, but Master Ernaldus shook his head and said that, for once, he agreed with Lady Isabel.

  “This is more important man a raid on a small keep,” Ernaldus pointed out. “That will make your neighbors angry and wary. Let us see, instead, whether there is a way to make your father’s old allies band together again and take you for their leader. It is your natural position, but your youth is against you. Give me a day or two to think.”

  By this time, Sir Guillaume was so accustomed to Master Ernaldus being right and smoothing his path to whatever desire he had that he did not argue. He was unaccustomed to being thwarted at all. On the other hand, the prize being offered was greater than a pretty girl or a new trinket. The idea of retaking the position his father held appealed to him strongly.

  Over the next two days, Ernaldus looked more often at his young master than he usually permitted himself to do. Sir Guillaume was excited and restless, his dark eyes bright with eagerness, often pacing the hall with the light, lithe stride of the competent warrior. At such times a turn or swing would show the hard curve of his thigh against his tunic or the fullness of the pectorals on his chest.

  Out of Guillaume’s appearance, the idea was born. Guillaume was a handsome young man. He had all the skills and charms that could be desired by a fool of a woman. He played the lute, he sang most tunefully, he could turn as pretty a phrase as any troubadour. Why should Guillaume not have the heiress himself? The talk Ernaldus had heard from visitors to Les Baux was that the girl would most likely be offered to Charles of Anjou, and no one was happy about that.

  At this point Ernaldus paused and considered that the visitors to Les Baux were old friends of the family or young companions of Sir Guillaume. They might not be expressing the general opinion. The family of des Baux had supported Raymond of Toulouse against Louis of France and Raymond-Berenger of Provence. The older friends were still smarting from the defeat, and the younger men simply desired excitement, which the accession of Charles of Anjou would definitely inhibit.

  True, Ernaldus thought, but there were enough of them to hold Les Baux against a far greater army for the few months it would take to wed and bed young Beatrice and get her with child. After that, no one would try to invalidate the marriage. No matter how many armies came from France and the rest of Provence, Les Baux on its precipitous cliff, standing clear on the plain, would be impregnable-. There was no chance the citadel could be taken unless it were starved out. It had not fallen in the wars that ruined its master. Defeats in other battles had added up to hopelessness, and Guillaume’s father had not waited to be besieged. No matter how many attacks against the cliffs and walls of Les Baux failed, hope was gone and the older Sir Guillaume had made terms.

  Yes, but this was not a question of war, Ernaldus reflected. For the few months until Beatrice showed a big belly, Les Baux could hold out easily. Ernaldus did not believe they could retain the whole province, but he did not care. A quarter of it would more than restore the fortune of Guillaume des Baux. Moreover, with the other overlords so far away and the final testament of Raymond-Berenger in favor of his youngest daughter fresh in everyone’s mind, it would be possible to make inroads on the portions yielded to the other sisters.

  So far Ernaldus had made no profit, aside from his gain in status, from his services to Guillaume des Baux, but if he helped the young lord to become master of Provence, there would be nearly no limit to what he could take for himself.

  “My lord,” Ernaldus said, rising and approaching Sir Guillaume, “I have an idea I wish to propose to you, but I must beg you to consider long and very carefully, for it is a dangerous gambit and could well bring the whole power of Europe against us. On the other hand, it would win back all your heritage and more at one stroke if it is successful.”

  “I do not need to consider,” Guillaume replied, almost quivering with eagerness. “Only tell me. I do not care a pin for danger.”

  Since the purpose of mentioning the danger first had produced exactly the result Ernaldus desired, he beckoned the young man farther away from the hearth, where Lady Isabel sat with her women and her embroidery and applied a second sly spur.

  “It will have to be kept secret from your mother. She would be frightened to death, and she might feel there was some wrong in the action.”

  Guillaume gave an impatient shrug. “Women are always frightened and always crying out against sin.”

  Ernaldus smiled. He had now guarded against Guillaume backing off from an act that might be considered dishonorable. Young as Guillaume was and filled with ridiculous ideas of chivalry toward women, he might have balked at abducting the heiress, and that would be necessary because Ernaldus was sure there would not be time enough, no matter how silly the girl was, for Guillaume to enamor her sufficiently to induce her to come willingly to Les Baux. Besides, Ernaldus was certain there would be many other young men trying to attract Beatrice’s attention. Guillaume might not be the one on whom she would bestow her favor.

  “We have heard,” Ernaldus said, “that Charles of Anjou is the most like to be offered the heiress. But Charles of Anjou is known to be dour of nature, hard, and no beauty to boot.”

  “And he is an accursed Frenchman,” Guillaume snarled.

  “Yes, that comes into my plan also, but later,” Ernaldus soothed. “For now, I wish to speak of the young Lady Beatrice. Is it not a shame to throw her to such a man? I have heard she is as beautiful as her sisters and has great charm and graciousness.” He held up a hand as Guillaume seemed about to speak. “I know you were at war with the father, but surely you would not war against a helpless girl. And think, are not feuds best settled by marriages?”

  There was a moment’s stunned silence, and then Guillaume burst into bitter laughter. “Are you mad?”

  “Not at all,” Ernaldus
replied blandly. “You are most handsome, my lord, and blessed with those skills most appealing to ladies. Would it not be for the lady’s good as well as ours that you should have her?”

  ‘Ten or fifteen years ago, before my father’s power was broken, it might have been barely possible to propose such a marriage,” Guillaume snarled impatiently. “Now Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo would not only laugh in my face but spit in it.”

  “My lord,” Ernaldus said reproachfully, “I am not a fool. I have heard what you told me about your father’s humbling. I did not intend to suggest that you put yourself forward as a suitor to the lady’s mother and guardian. I was only pointing out that the young lady herself would doubtless prefer you and be happier with you.”

  “About that, you are probably right, but no one will care about her preference.”

  “Nonetheless, it might have more effect than anyone would expect,” Ernaldus said, and then went on to describe his notion of Guillaume wooing Beatrice and bringing her to Les Baux.

  “She would never agree,” Guillaume gasped.

  “It is not necessary for her to agree to come to Les Baux, but only for her to leave the keep at Arles without any large escort. She might be a little angered when you carry her away by force, but she would be thrilled by your boldness and by the ferocity of your passion. There would be time enough, once she was safe here, for you to soothe her and convince her.”

  Guillaume stared at Ernaldus without speaking, and after a moment, the bailiff shrugged. “I said it might bring all Europe against us, but this keep can withstand all Europe for six or eight months. And once Lady Beatrice is married and with child, they will make terms. You may not get the whole province just at first, but you will have the rest of your life to gather it in. You will be greater than your father, greater than any des Baux before you. Lord Guillaume des Baux, Comte de Provence.”

  Still Guillaume did not speak, but Ernaldus relaxed. The young man’s eyes were burning with the light of adventure. For a time Ernaldus said no more, allowing Guillaume to revel in his dreams, flattering Guillaume into thinking that his bravado would be attractive to Beatrice. Then he said softly, “We will not be alone, you know. There are many who would rather see you, or even the devil, have Lady Beatrice, anyone so long as it is not French Charles.”

  Guillaume focused his eyes on Ernaldus. Then he nodded and began a discussion of the practical aspects of winning the heiress’s attention, arranging her abduction, and convincing a sufficient number of his friends and his father’s old supporters that he would be preferable as a husband for Beatrice than Charles of Anjou.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Once the vassals of Provence began to arrive for the funeral, the council on what to do with Beatrice was broadened. It included almost everyone of importance—everyone except that young lady herself. Although Beatrice was not so foolish as to expect her word to have any weight, she felt much slighted at not being invited to listen to what was going on or even being told what had been said. The only men not included in the council were the squires and younger sons, who had accompanied their fathers, and Guillaume des Baux, who presented himself to Beatrice with angry eyes and asked whether she, too, intended to slight him when the power should be in her hands.

  As much flattered as astounded by the notion that she would rule Provence, Beatrice inquired who this passionate young man was. He told her promptly and honestly, adding, somewhat less truthfully, “I was a child then. I came here in good faith, thinking the quarrel between des Baux and the Counts of Provence was ended, but it was clear that I was not welcome to your mother or to Sir Romeo.”

  This last was true enough, but it was no particular prejudice against his family or memory of the feud that prompted the coldness of Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo. Rather it was the passionate objections Sir Guillaume advanced against the arrangement with France that had made him unwelcome. There were some other men who felt as he did, and enough who had doubts and might be swayed against the plan to make Guillaume’s arguments—no matter how little logical—dangerous.

  Beatrice, who was already annoyed with her mother and Sir Romeo, put out her hand. “I am sorry for your hurt, Sir Guillaume, but I am powerless to amend it.” She smiled sadly. “I am no better used than you. It is my life they are deciding, yet I am not invited to speak, nor even to listen in silence.”

  “They care nothing for the spirit,” Guillaume cried. “How can they talk of one so lovely, so gentle and gracious, as if she were a parcel of land, a mare or a bitch, without sense or feeling?”

  This was a most proper and elegant effusion. Beatrice blushed and made a sad reply, which inspired Guillaume to new heights of flattery and sympathy. These eventually induced enough self-pity in Beatrice to draw tears to her eyes, upon which the young man was quite carried away and professed himself willing to die to prevent a single teardrop from falling from such exquisite eyes to mar such perfect cheeks.

  Had Alys been present during this meeting she might have pointed out, with enough cleverness to make Beatrice see the humor in the exaggeration, the dangers of encouraging such attentions. However, only Margot and a few still younger ladies were in attendance on Beatrice, and they were thrilled rather than concerned over the protestations.

  The following day Raymond-Berenger was interred, and Alys and Jeanine had all they could do to manage Lady Jeannette. She was not only displaying emotions she felt to be suitable to the loss of so kind a father-by-marriage but also quite honestly frightened. Two weeks had passed since they had left Aix, and no word had come either from her husband or from Raymond. As if this were not sufficiently alarming, Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo had been asking pointed, even harsh, questions about the whereabouts and intentions of her menfolk.

  It was fortunate for Alys that Jeanine was so accustomed to her mother’s enlargement of every absence of her husband and her eldest son into a calamity that she did not perceive the note of genuine fear. Jeanine, however, was also concentrated on her own affairs. She had picked out several suitable unmarried males from the group that had gathered and was weighing them in her mind to present their names in proper order to her father. Once the actual crisis of the funeral was over, Jeanine left Alys to attend to Lady Jeannette. She had more important business on hand than her mother’s fancies, such as discovering which of the possible gentlemen were interested in her and whether any of those who had been previously married had male heirs.

  This had one good result in that Lady Jeannette became even more resigned to Alys’s place in her life. She would never like her daughter-by-marriage, their personalities were too much at odds. Moreover, Lady Jeannette’s jealousy would be constantly inflamed by her son’s less-than-tactful preference for his wife’s company and her husband’s reliance on Alys’s ability. Nonetheless, she had virtually given up all designs of active opposition to Alys by the fifth day after the interment. On that day, Alys’s attentions became unnecessary because a messenger rode in with a packet of letters from Lord Alphonse. There was a long report addressed to Sir Romeo that explained what Lord Alphonse had done, except for any mention of proffering his homage to Louis. Alphonse wrote:

  I felt that the offer for Beatrice should come from Louis rather than that we ask him for Charles. Thus, we confer the favor instead of asking for one, and the terms will be better. I did not, of course, discuss any substantive conditions, only made it clear that I will never contest my half sister’s claim nor my father’s last testament. As for Beatrice’s marrying, I did no more than hint that, rather than tear Provence apart, you and Lady Beatrice would like a man with connections powerful enough to discourage other suitors. If we could have in addition a guarantee of our independence, that would be decisive. To this, the king made no direct reply, but his thanks were very warm.

  What Alphonse did not write was that Louis’s thanks had been so warm that he took Alphonse’s homage then and there, praising him for his loyalty to his sister and his friendship to France. Although the private cerem
ony might have had little meaning with a king like Henry of England, Alphonse was perfectly secure that the matter was settled. Unless he himself did something to violate the oath, Louis would keep it, and no argument from his brother Charles that Aix was part of Provence would move the king from what he swore on relics. Alphonse and Louis agreed that public swearing must be delayed until the fate of the rest of the province was settled, but Louis was now overlord of Aix and would protect it, even from his own brother.

  Alys had a brief note: “Beloved daughter, all is well. Send word to my son that the matter of which we spoke is settled. I will remain with King Louis until he decides what he wishes to say to Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo. A blessing on you, treasure of my house.”

  Lady Jeannette had a long, tender letter of apology for leaving her without farewell or explanations. He was afraid, Alphonse wrote, that she would suffer too many fears over his journey. This did not completely pacify her, but the renewed and effusive cordiality with which she was treated by Sir Romeo and Lady Beatrice allowed her to put aside her complaints until she could address them to Alphonse himself. This freed Alys, who offered up thanksgiving and went to write to Raymond. Until Alphonse’s letter came, Alys had been afraid to write. She did not wish to draw attention to herself and suggest to anyone’s mind that she might know where her father-by-marriage had gone.

  This practical reason for his wife’s silence was the only one that did not occur to Raymond. He managed to find causes as diverse as imprisonment in the donjon of Arles and flight back to England, but even in his disordered state of mind he realized that these alternatives were not likely. Raymond entertained these foolish notions because the reason he thought most likely was the one he was least willing to accept. He was readier to believe that Lady Beatrice, whom he knew to be both kind and clever, and Sir Romeo, whom he knew to be a model of reason and justice, had lost their wits and acted irrationally and unnaturally than believe Alys no longer loved him.