Winter Song Page 40
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It was not until dinnertime that Lady Beatrice first discovered her daughter missing. Aside from a mild annoyance, she did not give the fact much heed, thinking the girl was engaged somewhere with friends and did not wish to interrupt her amusement. She sent several servants off to seek her daughter and sat down to eat. One by one the servants returned to say they could not find young Beatrice, and Lady Beatrice became alarmed.
At this point, Lady Jeannette woke up to the fact that Alys and Margot were also missing. At first this allayed the alarm, for it seemed obvious that the three must be together. Moreover, when a further investigation revealed that Alys had told Arnald they were going to Montmajour Abbey, Lady Beatrice relaxed. She was angry that her daughter had not asked her permission or left a message for her, but she was not worried. Even when the servant who had questioned Arnald mentioned that Alys’s master-at-arms had expected his mistress back before dinner, Lady Beatrice merely shook her head.
“They have stuffed themselves with cheese and wine and have forgotten the time,” she said.
Still, shortly after she had finished eating, she began to feel concerned again. The girls could not have failed to notice the prayers at sext. They should have started home by then at the latest, and even if they idled on the way, they should have reached Arles by now. A knight of the household was sent off.
It was unfortunate that Lady Beatrice was so generous a contributor to the abbey. The knight of her household was brought directly to the abbot—who had not yet been informed of the body or the men in the infirmary. The prior would report this at the regular time for business since it did not seem to him to be an emergency directly affecting the abbey, and all that could be done for the men had been done for them. The abbot assured Lady Beatrice’s knight with perfect certainty that neither her daughter nor her daughter’s friends had visited the abbey that day.
The knight did not stay longer than necessary to ask the abbot to keep secret his search for Beatrice, which the abbot promised to do. As the knight galloped back to Arles, he passed a lone man-at-arms riding toward the abbey, but he was worried sick and paid the man no mind.
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Arnald had been worried long before Lady Beatrice. He knew that if Lady Alys said she would be back for dinner, either she would return or she would send a message saying she would be late. What held him back from action was that he did not know where the abbey was, and he did not know to whom to report his mistress’s absence. One thing was sure, he would not go near Lady Jeannette. He knew she would be worse than useless.
Then the servant came with questions, and Arnald had felt considerable relief. Thereafter, he had warned his men to be ready to ride out. He was quite sure he would be sent to find out what had happened to Lady Alys as soon as the servant passed on his message. However, no such order came. First, Arnald gnashed his teeth, cursing the slowness and inefficiency of these southerners. Then he comforted himself for a time by telling himself that a message must have come to Lady Beatrice and no one had bothered to tell him about it.
This was very likely. Lady Alys would not forget to ask that he be informed, but no one would think that important, and her message to him might be considerably delayed in transmission or even forgotten. Nonetheless, he felt uneasy, and he began to ask about among the other masters-at-arms where the abbey was and how to get there. As the afternoon waned, Arnald’s uneasiness increased. He could not send out the troop without orders, but there was nothing to stop him from taking an hour off to make an offering for his soul’s sake. He told the men he would hang the first one who started a fight in his absence, and he set off.
The abbot might be ignorant of the wounded men and the body, but the event was the most exciting thing that had happened in months to the lay brothers. There was not one of the younger group who had not found some excuse to peep into both the mortuary and the infirmary. Since Arnald was nobody of importance, a lay brother was sufficient to collect his offering. But the moment the lay brother saw Arnald’s arms, he recognized them as the same as those of the dead and wounded found on the road.
A very few minutes after the recognition, Arnald was in the infirmary trying to question his men. This, after a moment, the infirmarian discouraged firmly, saying the men were too deep in the grip of the poppy syrup to be wakened or to make sense if they should waken. Nor would the infirmarian give any estimate of the time when they could make sense, other than it would be several hours. Half mad with anxiety, all Arnald could think of was to ride back to Arles and tell Lady Beatrice that someone had killed and wounded his men and, almost certainly, made off with her daughter, his mistress, and Lord Raymond’s sister. In his haste and his fear, Arnald neglected to tell the infirmarian to withhold the next dose of opiate until he could question his men.
The trouble was that Lady Beatrice had come to the same conclusion as Arnald without evidence of her own. She was frantic and appalled, torn between the need to question everyone to discover the whereabouts of Beatrice and the need to hide the fact that her daughter was missing. In the stress of the moment, she denied herself to everyone, which, of course, included Arnald.
Frustrated in his attempts to report what he knew to Lady Beatrice, Arnald rode back to the abbey, which he managed to enter just before the gates closed for the night. Unfortunately, he could not gain admittance to the infirmary. The infirmarian realized that Arnald was frantic, but his duty was to his patients. He did not know who Lady Alys was, and in his distress for his mistress, Arnald failed to mention that Lady Beatrice’s daughter was with Lady Alys.
Meanwhile, the abbot had finally heard about the dead and wounded men. He was appalled, immediately making the connection between the report of Beatrice’s unexplained absence and the injured men-at-arms. His horror was not only over the probable abduction of the heiress but over the fact that he had not told the knight that there were wounded men in the infirmary. The fact that he had been ignorant, he was much afraid, would do little to appease Lady Beatrice.
Thus, he was greatly relieved when the infirmarian told him that the wounded men had been escorting a Lady Alys, not young Lady Beatrice. The knight had not mentioned Lady Alys or Margot by name, since they were of no concern to him. The abbot breathed a sigh of relief. Two abductions on the road to the abbey in one day simply did not seem possible to that worthy man. He was certain that young Beatrice had gone in a completely different direction, merely saying the abbey was her destination to allay suspicion. He prayed earnestly for the safety and well-being of that naughty girl, but he was deeply grateful that his abbey was not involved.
It was full morning before Arnald was finally able to speak to his men. They were horrified when they learned that the message they had tried to convey had not been understood, but they told him what had happened as quickly and clearly as they could. This was not particularly quickly or clearly since all were very weak and fevered and occasionally their wits wandered. Unfortunately, even what they told Arnald did not mean much to him since he was unfamiliar with the arms and colors of the nobles of Provence. However, at the moment he was satisfied, certain that someone in Arles would be able to identify them.
Despite Beatrice’s assurances, Alys had little faith that she would perform what she promised. She became quite exasperated with both girls, who, as the day wore on, could think of nothing beyond their hunger and thirst and sat bewailing it to each other. All Alys’s attempts to divert their minds to a more useful activity, such as searching for a way out, were in vain. Escape was impossible, they moaned, and they were too weak with hunger to do anything.
More for something to do than for any other reason, Alys tried the door. The great bars on the inside, designed to keep enemies who had invaded the bailey from coming up into the tower and thus getting onto the walls, had, of course, been, removed. Alys expected that new bars had been fastened on the outside, but she had not heard them fall into place after she was thrown down. Nonetheless, when she lifted the latch a
nd pushed on the door, Alys nearly fell out on the small landing and down the stairs because she had been so certain the door would not open.
She stood for a moment, clinging to latch and frame and gasping with shock, and soon Beatrice and Margot began to scream. Alys gestured fiercely at them to be still, although she did not know why she bothered. Had there been guards below, they would have been warned already. She waited for the shouts, for feet to pound up the stairs, for the flicker of a torch’s glow, but all was still and dark. After a few moments, Alys shrugged and felt for the stair with her foot. There was only the dimmest twilight left in the chamber so that the stairs to the totally unlighted chamber below were black as pitch.
Alys asked herself a hundred questions about why the door was left unbarred, all except whether it was a simple oversight, because that would mean escape was possible. However, the forbidden question answered itself. The door to the outside was firmly locked. Alys felt one sharp pang of disappointment and then laughed softly at herself. Guillaume was a young fool, either romantic or greedy or both, but he was not a total idiot.
Or was he? It would be easy, Alys thought, to hide in the dark and push Guillaume down the stairs, but instantly she realized that was not true. Whoever came would bring light, and that would expose anyone lying in wait. Nor would it do any good to escape from the tower now. Alys knew Beatrice and Margot would not have the self-control to get out of the keep or even to hide within it, and to get them down that road and through the forest until they were miles and miles away from Les Baux and could seek help was out of the question.
It might be feasible later when they were more hardened and more desperate, or when there was an army encamped in the plain. Then, if they could get out, there would not be far to go. Surely Sir Romeo would bargain before any assault was tried. That would be the time. Alys sighed. It would not be easy with every man alert, but there was no sense in worrying about that now.
Oh, yes there was, Alys thought, stopping abruptly as she began to turn toward the stair. When the siege began, they might be moved to a more secure place or the upper door might be barred so that the men could use the lower tower. If there was anything in the lower room that might be useful, she had better take it now and try to conceal it.
The lower tower rooms were usually used for storage, particularly for war supplies, weapons, sand for dousing fires, barrels of pitch, rope, and such things. Alys was sure all the weapons had been removed, but sand might be useful to throw in a man’s eyes, and an arrow might have fallen down and been overlooked. An arrow could stab as well as be shot. It would be useful, anyway, to see what was there.
Unfortunately, “see” was the wrong word. Alys could not see anything. A forgotten torch—and flint and tinder—would be useful, too, Alys thought almost merrily. She felt her way to the wall and started around it, reaching out hand and foot and feeling up and down the wall as high and low as she could reach before she took each step. Almost at once, she was rewarded. Her hand, sliding up the wall, came in contact with an instrument that made her cry out softly. A crossbow!
Her first instinct was that the whole thing, the open door, the crossbow hanging so conveniently, was a trap. Then she smiled. No, it must be that they were convinced that a woman would not have the strength to use a crossbow. And, indeed, no woman Alys knew had ever used one, but she was willing to try if she could find some quarrels, or something that could be used as a quarrel. Alys continued her round, discovering that there were tubs of sand and many barrels with closed tops which probably contained pitch or oil.
She made a second round on her hands and knees, feeling between and behind the barrels. Quite near the door, her hand came on something between the barrels and tubs that squished liquidly away from her touch. Alys nearly screamed with horror, and she sat shivering for some minutes trembling with such revulsion that she could not move, and then her brain began to work. When it did, her breath caught with hope, and she advanced her hand eagerly. It was! Miracle of miracles, it was a skin of wine, about half full. If anything could put heart into those ninnies upstairs, this was it. Alys slung the crossbow over her shoulder, snatched up some straight poles she had found, took the wine, and made her way carefully up the stairs, where she closed the door behind her.
It was now as dark inside the upper chamber as it had been below. With a shock, Alys realized she did not hear Beatrice’s and Margot’s voices. Almost instantly, however, she heard them breathing. Feeling her way, she found them huddled together on the narrow bed. She stood a moment, biting her lip, regretting the pleasure and relief she had expected her discovery to bring. Then she sighed. It would be a hard, cold night for her. The bed would scarcely hold those two, it was meant for one only.
Tears began to course down Alys’s face, not for the discomfort she faced, but because, suddenly, she felt abandoned. She knew it was ridiculous; Beatrice and Margot were only cold, hungry, frightened, and miserable. They had sought what comfort they could find. But Alys was just as cold and hungry and miserable and dreadfully tired, yet she knew she could not even seek the cold comfort of the floor to rest until she had hidden the things she had brought up from below.
In the living quarters of Les Baux, there was light, food and drink, and all other comforts, however, Sir Guillaume was not much happier than his captives. He was, in fact, as much a prisoner of his own act as they. If it had been possible to expunge from their minds who had committed the outrage, he would have been glad to drop the three women on any road that did not lead to Les Baux and forget they existed. Unfortunately, that was not possible, he had them, and he was stuck with them.
His doubts had begun soon after his initial fury over Beatrice’s reaction had cooled, and he had naturally expressed those doubts to his mentor. Master Ernaldus, who had expected this reaction, had pointed out that it was too late for doubts. To gain anything, the heiress must be married and made pregnant. Merely to save his skin, he must keep the women as a bargaining counter. To let them go would only produce utter disaster.
This had made perfect sense, and Guillaume had really known it before he spoke of his doubts. Although he regretted plunging in so deep, he realized he must now swim with the plan to avoid sinking. Seeing the trap he was in made him furious, but he could not blame Master Ernaldus, who had warned him again and again of the danger. He did not, of course, wish to blame himself, thus, his rage fixed on Beatrice. If she had not agreed with such eagerness to meet him, Guillaume thought angrily, he would not be in this predicament. It was all her fault. If she had not favored him and led him on, he would have given up the idea. She deserved to be cold and hungry. It would be a lesson to her not to play with a man’s affections.
All through the day messengers left Les Baux carrying letters carefully phrased by Ernaldus. The letters requested those friends and vassals of des Baux who were bitterly opposed to the French to come with their men and arms to Sir Guillaume. Sir Guillaume had a plan he believed could not fail in preventing Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo from marrying the heiress to Charles of Anjou. Those who supported his plan would win high preferment in Provence once it was implemented. If even half of those summoned came, there would be enough men in Les Baux to hold off an army of many thousands, and the keep was stocked for a siege of at least half a year.
Guillaume should have felt happy and confident. In fact, when he reviewed his resources, he discovered he was not worried about the military aspects of his situation. He was ready to fight and not afraid to die, although he could not imagine what that would be like. Still, he was miserably uneasy and, when he went to bed, unable to sleep. It was when he thought of finding a woman to lie with him that the source of his trouble revealed itself. The truth was that now he did not want to marry Beatrice.
The revelation was so startling that he sat up in bed and stared at the faint area of light made by the night candle on the bed curtains. He had been flattered because the heiress of Provence responded to him, but when Guillaume reconsidered the idea of ma
rrying her, he realized that he did not want a wife who had to be wooed and to whom he must humbly bow down. And even if she agreed to marriage, Guillaume had the distinct feeling that Beatrice would continue to look down on him. Nor, since the land was in her right, would it be easy to control her. If she cried that he mistreated her to her great vassals, especially after she had one or two sons, they could put him aside or murder him and declare a regency.
A regency, that thought was not so unpleasant as murder. In fact, it gave him a feeling of relief even while it enraged him, and he had another revelation. He did not want to be Count of Provence. Guillaume sighed and lay down again. It was the business that was distasteful. He could find someone else to do that, someone like Ernaldus, but he wished again that he did not have to marry Beatrice. It might be murder rather than a regency.
He woke in the morning no better pleased with the notion. Truthfully, he wished he did not have to see Beatrice at all, but Ernaldus would not allow him to avoid her. No servant, the bailiff pointed out, could bargain with her, not even himself, and she should see no one except Guillaume and the half-witted servant who could not speak that they had decided could serve her without betraying who the prisoner was. Guillaume would not have to stay long, Ernaldus soothed. He need only go with the servant who would carry a large number of delicate and highly fragrant dishes.
“You need not argue with her. Only tell her she may eat if she agrees to the marriage, but if she does agree, do not leave the food. Come away at once and fetch me and the priest. After she is married, she will eat. If she does not agree, but weeps and pleads for the food, come away at once. Do not yield to her. A day or two without food does no harm.”