“I am not so frail as you think,” Alys replied, smiling. “I am as strong as ever I was. And I still think that it would be wise to make ourselves scarce.”
“I agree.” Raymond tilted his wife’s head up and kissed her again, more lingeringly, on the lips. “But I cannot leave here without some good excuse. To do so would anger not only Leicester but the king also. I wish your father would write. I cannot imagine why he has not.”
Alys’s clear eyes shadowed with worry. “I hope no ill has befallen Elizabeth. She was with child again, and she is not as young as I. It is too soon for the babe to be born, but she has lost others. God forbid she is…is not well.”
“Do not even think about it,” Raymond urged, but his heart sank at the reminder. It was true that if anything happened to Elizabeth, William would be perfectly indifferent to a political cataclysm, not to mention what to him was a minor problem in Gascony.
“What I will do now,” he continued, “is ride into Bordeaux to speak to my kinsman Rustengo. He has several times suggested that the king come here himself. In the past, I was not so eager—you know what Henry is—but I am certain others have received letters similar to the one I have. I am now leaning toward Rustengo’s opinion. Let Henry confront Leicester. The king in person can excuse us from obeying Lord Simon and pardon those who have been treated too harshly. So, if Rustengo is still of the same mind, our letters to Henry begging him to come in his own person, can go together. Then I will approach the council of Bordeaux and see whether they wish also to appeal to the king to come.”
“And while you are running hither and thither,” Alys said, “I will try to think of a very good reason why you must be in Provence at the earliest opportunity.”
Raymond laughed. “So long as it is not a political reason, my love. Eleanor is too well informed about what is happening in and about Provence. I do not think she would tell Henry anything that could hurt me—Eleanor is fond of me—but if a smell of bad fish reached her, it might raise questions in her mind, and I would not want her to be uneasy about my good faith.”
“Or to discover that you think her husband is an untrustworthy idiot?” Alys asked tartly.
“Henry is not an idiot,” Raymond protested, tactfully ignoring Alys’s criticism of the king’s untrustworthiness. “And I wish you would not say things like that. I know you are careful in public, but if you make a habit—”
“I am sorry.”
Alys did not, of course, point out that Raymond himself, only a few moments earlier, had said just about the same thing. A good wife does not bring to notice such contradictions in her husband’s speech or behavior. Instead, she put out her hand, and Raymond took it and kissed it to show he accepted her apology. Alys smiled at him, well content.
“I will write to your father,” she said. “He will find a good and sufficient reason, and probably something he has already mentioned to Eleanor in a letter so that she will be satisfied.”
About a week after this conversation took place, the good and sufficient reason Raymond needed to leave Gascony peered nervously into the dark depths of the convent church. Fenice had made her way safely to the church, but her flitting passage through the black corridors of the convent and the minimally lighted cloister, where every moving shadow took on the mantle of a damned spirit reaching out for her to punish her for striking down a holy woman, had set her heart pounding so hard, there was a pain in her chest and she found it hard to breathe. Only the small, ever-burning light flickered on the altar, but it was enough. If a nun had been in the church, Fenice’s dark-adapted eyes would have caught the sheen on the white headdress. She slipped through the door and staggered toward the outside wall, but her legs were shaking so badly that she could not rise again when she genuflected.
Once she was down on her knees, Fenice prayed instinctively. She was too distraught to formulate any specific plea for help or guidance, but because Fenice truly believed in the goodness of God and the mercy of Mary, the very ambience of the church calmed her. The pounding of Fenice’s heart and the trembling of her body diminished. She felt safe, enfolded in the protection of her religion.
The stone floor of the church was hard and icy, and Fenice was accustomed to kneeling on a cushion. Thus the pain in her knees roused her. Once she was on her feet, her false sense of security disappeared. The church might protect her from the spirits of the damned, but it would betray her to her wardens. If she remained in the church, the nuns would find her when they came to pray at matins. They would take her prisoner again, and this time she would truly be a prisoner for what she had done, then Lady Emilie would succeed in robbing her father of his lands.
Despite her memory of recent terror, Fenice moved down the nave and into the porch. The door that led out into the world was closed, but she knew it would not be locked. The house of God must be open to His people. Fenice laid her hand on the door pull. A cold shudder of fear shook her body, but she did not hesitate. Opening the door just a bit, she slid through, terrified by the darkness before her.
The empty mud road was silvered by moonlight, its dry grass verges much the same color as the hard mud. Beyond the verge, the light failed. Some trees had shed their leaves, but others had not, and black shifting shadows, clicks, taps, and soft sighings marked the woods. Fenice gasped and tore her eyes away. As fast as she could in the too-large sandals, she hurried down the steps of the porch and out into the road. She would only look ahead, where there were no shadows. She would not look back, for behind her were conspirators who would rob her father. Clutching her crucifix and praying, Fenice stumbled down the road.
Entry into the village where the menservants of the convent and their wives and children lived very nearly broke Fenice’s spirit. There was not much wind, but its sound changed as it passed through the thatched eaves, and it seemed to come from the black spaces between the huts. There were other noises too, faint voices that mingled with the thin moaning of the wind.
Fenice began to tremble again, and her steps slowed, but the village was so tiny that even her lagging pace had carried her past most of the huts before her growing fear brought her to a standstill. She was shaking so hard that she would have sunk to the ground, but suddenly a horrifying shriek rang out behind her, followed by a loud thud. Sheer terror lifted Fenice and flung her out of the village. She did not even know she was running, and she did not get very far.
Not fifty feet along the road, Fenice tripped on her ill-fitting sandals and stumbled sideways. The ground slid away from under her. Silent because her throat was frozen shut, she tumbled down into the ditch beside the road. There she huddled, sobbing for breath, while terrible cries and crashes in the village gained volume, then diminished and died away. The silence in the ditch became profound. But no harpy’s claws tore at her, no devil’s flaming whip cut through cloth arid flesh to score her soul.
Slowly, Fenice sat up and peered fearfully back toward the village. Her eyes widened, and her hands flew up to cover her lips. Light showed from every chink in every hut. Fenice’s shoulders began to shake, but with laughter. What a fool I am, she thought, now recognizing the source of the soul-chilling shriek and thud. Some poor soul, coming out of a hut, had seen her dark-cowled form in the bright moonlight on the road. Now she understood that she had frightened that innocent, who had screamed, run inside the hut, and slammed the door. The later cries and crashes were those of the other villagers, calling out to discover the cause of the disturbance and slamming their own doors against the terror of the night.
Fenice’s laughter cast out her fear. Her belief in the evils of the night retreated from her. She tested her limbs and felt no pain, then breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving and began to think. She removed the overlarge sandals that had been her downfall and replaced them with her own shoes. Then she walked along in the dry ditch, not wishing to be seen again. Even with her shoes on, the footing was uneven and her pace slow. Some distance from the village she climbed back to the road.
Feni
ce was a strong girl, but her long inactivity and poor appetite since Delmar’s death had weakened her, as had the violent emotional stress she had undergone. Her footsteps lagged, and she felt as if she had been walking for hours, but when she looked up, the moon was only a little higher in the sky. That told her she must go on, that she was still too close to the convent for safety. Very nearly exhausted, she wavered from side to side as much as ahead and quite suddenly found herself tipping forward.
Instinctively, Fenice threw herself backward, overbalanced, and ended by sitting down hard and sliding into the ditch. She tried once to rise, lifting herself just enough to straighten her skirt and the blanket under it, which had been hitched up by her slide. The cloth was still warm from her body, and seemed even warmer in contrast with the cold of the bare earth, bringing images to her mind, images of comfort, of being safe in her father’s keep, sitting beside the fire or lying at ease in her own soft, warm bed. The images comforted Fenice, and she did not resist their spell. Her eyes closed, and her head fell forward onto her knees. Slowly she tipped over, her shoulder sliding along the bank of the ditch gradually enough to prevent any feeling of falling until at last, she lay on her side lost in sleep.
As time passed, the cold seeped past the blanket inside the warm, woolen lay sister’s habit, and Fenice stirred, half waking to reach a hand for coverings she dreamed she had pushed away. Her fingers tangled in the long, coarse grass, and it pricked her hand. Fenice mumbled a protest, turned, and was prodded awake by odd sticks and pebbles.
For some moments she lay still, confused and terrified to find herself in the open and puzzled by a distant sound like hammering. No one would hammer in the middle of the night, her mind insisted dully. All is quiet in the night, unless there is danger. Fenice pushed herself upright, her memory returning, and she stifled a cry of fear, certain that the faint sound she heard was someone from the convent pounding on the doors in the village, waking the men to pursue her.
First she turned to climb back to the road, but the shaking of her body warned her that she could not run. She would be overtaken and dragged back, the sister would say that she was a madwoman who must be restrained. Knowing she must hide, Fenice turned again to the forest. God knew what roamed in the blackness under the trees. She could not enter there, she thought, shaking with terror. But the sound of hammering had ceased, and Fenice thought she heard voices. Sobbing and trembling, she crawled up the side of the ditch and staggered toward the trees. If I die without taking the veil, Fenice thought desperately, I will have accomplished as much by dying as by living, for whatever is mine goes back to Papa.
Weary, she wove an uneven course, avoiding any heavy brush. Once inside the sheltering dark, when no beast sprang at once upon her, the terror diminished little by little so that, finally, she paused to listen. The wood was quiet. Here and there some moonlight pierced the dark, offering a little comfort. Fenice made her way toward a patch of brightness. She dared not enter it, but close by was a huge pine, the shadowed ground beneath it soft with fallen needles. She stopped again and sank down under the tree as fatigue overcame her.
Her back against the trunk, Fenice at first shivered at every sound, but the little noises of the night soon became familiar and lost their threat. The tension in her muscles eased, and she slept once more. Once or twice when she tipped sideways, the fear of falling wakened her, but each time she saw and heard nothing to alarm her and slept again. The last time she woke, sunlight gilded the tiny glade. The blessed day had come. Fenice was no longer afraid. Having survived the night, she was sure she would survive whatever else she must to make her way home.
Chapter Three
Sir William of Marlowe sat on the edge of the bed, holding his wife’s hand. “Never again,” he said. “I swear, Elizabeth, if you will not agree with me and help me in this, I will leave your bed for good.”
“I am sorry, William.” Her voice trembled uncontrollably, and her luminous eyes were magnified by the tears that hung in the lower lids. “I did so desire to give you a son to hold Marlowe, but I suppose I am too old now to carry a babe full term.”
The tears spilled over, and William caught them with his lips and then kissed her mouth. Neither mentioned the two successful pregnancies early in their marriage. The little boy and little girl had not survived to their second year. That was an old sorrow and too common a fate to be recalled in this time of new grief.
“I have two sons out of your body already,” he said. “Do you think it matters to me that I did not set the seed? Are Aubery and John not my sons, Elizabeth?”
“In all but blood,” she whispered. “You loved them. You taught them. You listened to their little troubles when they were children and soothed the pain of their growing from boys to men. They love you. They wish to be your sons and only yours. If they could wipe out the memory that they ever had another father, they would do so.”
William gathered up his wife’s other hand and held them both so that he could touch the tips of the long fingers to his lips. “Then that is enough for me. I am content. I will tell you this, Elizabeth, I never cared. You said you wished to give me a son. I yielded to your desire. You are a grown woman and have a right to my child, but I would never have risked your life in childbearing if the choice had been mine to make.”
“I know my love. You value me out of all reason. I wish you had sent for Alys. It lay on my mind all the time I was ill that you were alone.”
William laughed softly. “That was my intention. I knew your duty would make you struggle to live if you thought me lonely and uncared for.”
A wan smile touched Elizabeth’s lips. “Love, not duty, William. I do not wish to leave you.”
“I know that, but each little string I can tie to your soul binds you faster to me. In any case, I was not alone. Aubery and John came flying as soon as they hear you were ill.”
There had been an infinitesimal hesitation before the words “were ill.” Elizabeth knew her husband had just barely avoided mention of her recent miscarriage and that avoidance was for her sake. She restrained a sigh. William was right. She must not try again to bear his child. He had been appalled, not happy, when she told him of her pregnancy. He had been worried all through the five months she had carried the babe and suffered more than she when she lost it. She must put that hope aside forever and learn a cheerful acceptance of God’s will. The Lord had given her so much. This touch of His rod must be joyfully endured as a mark of His love and mercy. Whom the Lord loveth; he chasteneth. Better the light blow of losing the unborn child than some heavier chastisement.
“And much good Aubery and John were to you, I am sure,” Elizabeth remarked with a shadow of her normal, mischievous teasing. “Doubtless all they did was weep and beg for your assurance that all would come right.”
“Well,” William responded, his voice lighter as he picked up her attempt at cheerfulness, “we were none of us too merry, but it is said that misery loves company, and that we surely had.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “What fools. The three of you sitting about with long faces and frightening each other. You should have sent for Alys. And speaking of Alys, now that we are decided that I cannot breed an heir for Marlowe for you, should you not send for her younger son? If little Raymond is to have Marlowe, he should spend at least part of every year here.”
“Little Raymond? Nonsense. I have always intended that Marlowe go to Aubery. Ays knows that, and she would not be best pleased to have little Raymond’s attention divided from the Gascon property for one estate in England.”
“Oh, William, are you sure that Alys will not care?” Elizabeth asked anxiously. “I would not for the world have her believe that I stole from her to enrich my sons.”
“We are not going to steal from our daughter to enrich our sons,” William said firmly. “We are going to pay Alys well and fairly for the loss of Marlowe. Do not be a fool, Elizabeth. You know what Raymond holds, or will hold when his father dies. That is more than enough for
the eldest boy and to provide generous portions for the girls. Alys’s lands in France will all go to little Raymond, and that is a rich heritage.”
“But there has been so much trouble in Gascony. Do I not remember that a letter came from Raymond bearing ill news?”
An angry frown covered William’s face, and the hazel eyes under the too-long lashes darkened. “God alone knows what devils inhabit most Gascons. To speak the truth, I was sure that the Earl of Leicester would tame them, and in the beginning the king behaved just as he should, trusting the earl to do what was right and necessary. But then Henry began to listen to the Gascons’ complaints—”
“But, William, it seems to me that Raymond did not entirely approve of Leicester’s doings in Gascony, and Raymond is no fool in the handling of men.”
“The Gascons have no honor,” he growled. “How can you deal with men who swear as lightly as a breeze and as lightly forget their oaths?”
“You deal with the Welsh, William,” Elizabeth reminded him gently, “and you always say their swearing is not to be relied upon.”
“It is not the same,” he insisted. “The Welsh have a different heritage and temperament. The Gascons—”
“Also have a different heritage and temperament,” she interrupted teasingly.
William laughed and then frowned again. “Yes, it is true enough, and it is another reason why I do not wish to leave Marlowe to little Raymond. A man trained and accustomed to dealing with the laws and customs of Gascony might create havoc here in England. Can you imagine Marlowe town accorded the freedoms permitted the towns of Gascony? They have some crazy system of alloid—allud—oh, I cannot even remember, but it makes them free of any lordship. Marlowe town is mine. It has its mayor and its aldermen, but its charter comes from me.”
“Yes, William, of course,” Elizabeth soothed. “Do not get so excited. No one in Marlowe would deny your rights as overlord.”
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