Suddenly, Fenice’s eyes flashed. “I could kill Grandmother for that,” she said, her lips thin and hard.
Alys burst out laughing. “If you could see your face, my Fenice, wearing just the hawk-look of your father in a temper. How can you doubt yourself?”
“I do not think it is myself I doubt,” Fenice said very slowly. “I am not sure I can explain to you, but I have not your strength to resist opposition—no, not opposition, that is the wrong word. I can resist opposition. It is…ill feeling I cannot endure.”
“Ill feeling? Who has ill feeling toward you, my dear? Who could? You are sweet and good.”
Fenice bit her lips, but tears rose in her eyes anyway. “Perhaps I am sweet and good,” she said in a rather choked voice, “but it is not enough. I-I am not welcome to my grandmother, and…and I am not welcome here.”
“I am not welcome to your grandmother, either,” Alys pointed out, rather exasperated. “If I allowed that silly woman’s opinions to trouble me, I would have no life. You should not care for the opinion of others who are less wise than yourself, especially when you know you are doing right.”
Fenice made no reply, sitting with bent head and struggling against her tears. Alys felt like shaking her, but exasperated as she was, she realized it would not help. Scolding Fenice only made matters worse. The girl was already trying as hard as she could to do and be what Alys wanted.
Besides, it never did any good to tell people that they should feel differently. Feelings were not commanded by “knowing”. Alys had “known” that she should not love Raymond, but she had loved him just the same, and she had “known” it was stupid to feel such grief when her children died, that the babes were better off in God’s embrace than in hers, for she could not shield them from pain or sorrow, and God could—still she had wept very bitterly.
Nor did Alys dare turn her back on the situation. She knew that as time passed, Fenice would become very dear to her servants, for the girl was kind and just and had real feeling for them. Alys thought that a mistake, but she had never been able to extirpate the sense of kinship Fenice felt for the serfs. The feeling exacerbated the problem. Alys herself would have ignored or laughed at the fear around her, but it was making Fenice sick, and there was the crux of the problem.
Gently, Alys lifted her stepdaughter’s face and looked at the hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. There was no time, she feared. The poor child was already nearly a wraith. She would die before those stupid, ungrateful fools came to realize the treasure they had for a mistress. And to take her back to Tour Dur was useless. Fenice would be happy enough while she and Raymond were there, but Raymond planned to leave for Bordeaux in a week or two. Leave for Bordeaux…Gascony… Why not take Fenice with them? Why not seek a husband for her in Gascony? No one there knew anything of Fenice’s background.
“I am sorry,” Fenice sighed. “You and Papa are so good to me. I am sorry to be such a fool.”
“Well, you are a fool, my love,” Alys said, smiling, “but there is no help for that. You are what you are. And I cannot bear to see you so sad. What would you say, dearling, to coming to Bordeaux with me and your papa? Would you like that?”
“To Bordeaux?” Fenice breathed, her eyes brightening and a trace of color coming into her cheeks again. “Are you going back to Bordeaux?” Alys nodded, and Fenice cried, “Could I? Oh, I would be so happy, but…but Fuveau? Is it not my duty to stay here?”
“Pish-tush,” Alys replied lightly. “Fuveau is in good heart. Anyone can manage this place. It needs no special care. Sir Raoul can stay, and he can send for his wife to see to the woman’s work. Do not give it a thought. Do not say anything to your papa about this notion of ours, though.”
“If he would not like me to go—”
“Nonsense,” Alys interrupted. “You should know by now what men are. Ideas must be inserted gently into their minds, and they must be allowed to think those ideas are their own.” Alys laughed. “You, my love, are far too honest. You must learn duplicity. And it will be a mercy for me to have you to help care for those wild animals of children I have bred. I would have asked you sooner, but I thought you would wish to hold Fuveau.”
“No. Oh no.” Fenice shuddered. “I… Forgive me if I seem ungrateful after you and Papa came all the way from Gascony to uphold my right, but I hate Fuveau.”
“Well then, you shall certainly come to Gascony,” Alys promised.
Her mind, however, was on a different aspect of what Fenice had said. If the girl married in Gascony, it would be months or perhaps even years before she came back to Fuveau. By then the bitterness would have faded. Yes, in spite of the constant turmoil there, it might be best for Fenice if Raymond looked for a second match for her there, in which case there would be no reason for Fenice to return to Provence.
“We will be staying in Bordeaux some months, I think,” Alys went on, not wanting to put any ideas into the girl’s head but wanting her to be prepared. “So pack up all your clothes. And you had better take all the jewels and money, except what you think Sir Raoul will need. He is honest, but it is not fair to make him responsible for such things.”
“I will make ready at once,” Fenice promised, all in a glow.
Alys touched her cheek. “Somehow, my love, I will find a way to make you happy.”
Chapter Six
Alys’s promise that Fenice could go to Bordeaux had so good an effect on her stepdaughter that it almost made the promise impossible to keep. By the time Raymond and Sir Raoul returned, the signs that had made Alys aware of Fenice’s misery were concealed by the flushed cheeks and bright eyes of joy and excitement. Raymond could not see how thin Fenice had grown under her layers of clothing, and Sir Raoul, who had hardly known the girl before he came to Fuveau, had no idea that her lack of spirits and appetite was unnatural. He gave Raymond no hint that Fenice was unhappy.
After tentatively suggesting that Fenice would be better for a change of scene and getting the response that she seemed to be doing very well considering her recent widowing and her affection for the husband she had lost, Alys tried one or two different gambits with little more success. Moreover, Raymond was not at all enthusiastic about a Gascon husband for his daughter. “You know how such an arrangement would end,” Raymond said. “If we agreed to be responsible for Fuveau, no matter what we did, the husband would not be satisfied. And if we refused to be responsible, the husband would groan and grumble at having to make so long a trip to see to the estate.” Alys had protested that he never complained about her Gascon properties, but he pointed out dryly that what she had was a good deal more than Fenice and, anyway, his family had other lands in Gascony.
The problem was still on Alys’s mind when she received a thick, long-delayed packet of letters from her father and Elizabeth. At first she was grief-stricken by the news that Elizabeth had lost the child she was carrying and had almost died. She loved her stepmother and had prayed earnestly that the babe be a strong, healthy boy to inherit Marlowe. But after her initial sorrow diminished, she was able to understand the real meaning of the letters. Her father wanted to make Aubery his heir and was offering to pay her a thousand marks for the right. The sum worried her. She longed to be able to write to her father and say she did not want it, that she would be happy for Aubery to have Marlowe, but she knew that would make them uneasy, and Raymond might not approve. Nor could she conceal the offer from her husband because her father had written to him, too.
When she discussed the matter with Raymond, he reminded her that her father was no longer a poor, simple knight and could afford to pay. Then, when he saw Alys was troubled, Raymond said he would take less or even nothing. Still, Alys could see there would be problems and the whole subject nagged at her just as the problem of convincing Raymond to take Fenice to Gascony nagged at her until the two seemed to become entangled. Then, suddenly, Alys remembered that Aubery’s silly wife had died some months before Delmar, and a solution to everyone’s problems dawned in her head.
&n
bsp; “Raymond,” she said, “would you say that Marlowe was of greater or lesser value than Fuveau?”
“What the devil has Fuveau to do with Marlowe?” Raymond asked, but he respected the workings of his wife’s mind even when he did not completely understand them, and he did not wait for a reply but went on, “Greater, I would guess. I do not really remember, but from your father having offered one thousand marks, about a third more than Fuveau.”
“Then that would work out exactly right,” Alys said with a brilliant smile, “because Trets brings in about a third of the value of Fuveau, so the two together—”
“I do not know what is in your mind, Alys, but I think l should point out that Fuveau and Trets are not ours. They belong to Fenice.”
“Yes, and would go with Fenice to any man we chose as her husband.”
“Well, naturally, which is why I did not agree that it would be wise to marry Fenice in… Good God, Alys, are you thinking of sending that child to England?”
“Yes. You know that Elizabeth is the kindest person ever born and that my father is very gentle and understanding of women. And Aubery is also good and kind. Well, if he were not, he would have murdered Matilda.”
Raymond burst out laughing. “I felt like murdering her myself that one time we met her. She had not the wits of a hen, and she cackled without ceasing just like one.”
Unable to resist, Alys grinned, but she said, “We should not speak ill of the dead.”
“Dead!” Raymond exclaimed, and then remembered. “So she is,” he remarked, his voice now very thoughtful. “Well, well, so that is what you are thinking. Fenice will give Trets and Fuveau to us, we will assign the reversion of Marlowe to her as her dowry. This will cost your father nothing—”
“No,” Alys interrupted, “he must give Fenice something so that she will have her own small income to spend as she likes without needing to ask her husband for every penny.”
Raymond looked surprised. “Do you think Aubery miserly? He has never seemed to me to be ungenerous.”
“Not at all,” she replied. “Would I give my dear Fenice to a miser? It is for Aubery’s sake as well as Fenice’s. Perhaps you do not know that between his father’s and his grandfather’s bad management, Ilmer, which was Aubery’s heritage, was virtually destroyed. It is nearly restored—Papa managed it for Aubery after Mauger’s death—but very little may yet be realized from it. It would not be possible for Aubery to be generous to Fenice without slowing the progress of Ilmer’s restoration.”
“But what of Matilda’s lands? Did I not understand that she was considered an heiress?”
Alys sighed, not because Matilda had been poorer than expected but to express her exasperation. “Oh, she was, but Aubery will not touch a penny of the proceeds of her lands. It is for Matilda’s daughter, he says. I think it is because his father was so greedy that he fears to be thought dishonest.”
“But that is ridiculous!” Raymond exclaimed. “There is nothing dishonest in using your wife’s dower property so long as you do not ruin it. Moreover, is not Aubery the child’s heir by English law?”
“Yes, of course. And anyway, Matilda had no relatives except some cousins. But no one can talk to Aubery about it. Papa and Elizabeth have tried, and he just grows angry and says he has enough for himself—which, in a way, is true. When he is not attending his overlord, Hereford, at court, which naturally would be at Hereford’s expense, he lives at Marlowe.”
“Then Fenice would live there, with your father and Lady Elizabeth?” Raymond asked.
“Very likely she will live at Marlowe,” Alys agreed, “but my father and Lady Elizabeth are not often there,” she pointed out. “You know Papa is much busied with Cornwall’s lands, and Elizabeth usually goes everywhere with him. They were only staying at Marlowe because she was with child.” Suddenly Alys bit her lip. “Oh, Raymond, I am ashamed of myself. Elizabeth lost the baby and nearly died, and here I am talking of money and property.”
“Is she still in danger?” Raymond asked anxiously. He was very fond of Alys’s gentle, amusing stepmother. “Perhaps we should go to England instead of to Bordeaux?”
“Oh no, I am sure she is not. Papa would not have had the heart to write while she was very ill, and I have a note in her own hand to say she is recovering apace.”
Raymond nodded, clearly relieved, but he was frowning. “Do you really think it best for Fenice to go to England?”
“If Aubery is willing to take her as his wife—yes. You know that he will be kind to her, and I think my father and Elizabeth will do better with her than you and I. I love her, but…but I am not the most patient person in the world.”
Raymond uttered a hoot of laughter. Patience was not one of Alys’s major virtues.
But, her mind fixed on Fenice, she did not respond to his amusement. “And she is so much in awe of you, dear heart, that though you are as kind to her as you can be, she is always a little afraid,” Alys continued, rather sadly.
“I think you are right about that,” Raymond admitted.
“No one could be afraid of Elizabeth,” Alys added, “not even Fenice. And if Papa managed to be kind to that goose Matilda, surely he would not find fault with Fenice.”
“But to go so far away—”
“Will you miss her, Raymond?” Alys asked, torn between what she felt would be good for Fenice and her desire that her husband always have everything he wanted.
“Miss her? No, not at all,” he replied, rather surprised. “If I have you, Alys, I miss no one. But I do not want Fenice to feel that I wish to be rid of her. That is not true at all. Nor do I wish her to obey against her own inclination. The matter of Marlowe can be worked out in other ways.”
“I would not force her, you know that.” But Alys was quite sure Fenice would be willing, sure enough to add, “Why do you not write to my father and suggest the idea? After all, it is possible Aubery might refuse. Meanwhile, we can take Fenice with us to Gascony—”
Raymond frowned. “Alys, if all this is just a game to get your own way about taking Fenice with us, I—”
“No, I swear it is not,” Alys assured him hastily. “Truly, it was only after we began to talk about Marlowe that I thought of the marriage. And I still cannot help but believe it would be better for her to be away from the place where her husband died. But the reason I would like her to come with us is that if my father agrees to the exchange and Aubery approves of the marriage, Aubery can come to Bordeaux to look her over. It is not so far, and the weather will be right for sailing by then. She can look at him, too, and if both are still willing, we can make contract.”
The idea was beginning to appeal to Raymond. Fuveau would be a pleasant addition to the lands of Aix and so would Trets, which he had bought for Fenice because he liked the place himself. It was right, too, that Aubery should have Marlowe, for which he had acted as unofficial castellan during William’s and Elizabeth’s frequent absences. And if all these excellent arrangements were further sweetened by providing a good wife for Aubery, whom Raymond genuinely liked, so much the better. As for Fenice, if Fuveau and Trets were to come into his hands as his own, he was perfectly willing to accept Alys’s opinion that Fenice would be better off in England.
Since the proposal he was going to make to William was very complex and would involve both English and Provençal law and custom, Raymond could not, as Alys suggested, simply write his letter. He discussed it first with his father, for Lord Alphonse knew law and custom. He, too, after an initial feeling of surprise, thought Alys’s idea excellent, but he felt it should be cleared with the Church, which meant an expert in canon law. It should be cleared with his overlord, Louis of France, too, but that was impossible because Louis was on crusade in the Holy Land.
What with one thing and another, Raymond was not ready to write to William until a day or two before the whole party was to leave for Bordeaux. Since a letter would outspeed them by only a few days, and this matter was scarcely of the highest urgency, he decided to
wait until they arrived at Blancheforte to write. From there, the letter could be sent directly to England by ship, and the captain would arrange for a messenger to take it to Marlowe.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth had recovered her strength, and William had picked up again the duties he had thrown back on Richard of Cornwall when Elizabeth miscarried and nearly bled to death. He was thus not in Marlowe when the letter arrived. Aubery was torn two ways when he saw Raymond’s seal. He knew William would be eager for news of his daughter—he always was—and particularly eager this time when the long, long delay in the arrival of the answer might portend bad news.
However, to take the letter and rush after William might also look as if he were overeager for the prize that had been promised him. And he was eager to secure Marlowe, to know that it would not be closed to him someday, no matter how long in the future. In fact, the desire to have Marlowe sealed to him had grown and grown since the subject had first been broached. At that time, he had been able to crush down his desire, to uphold Alys’s right. Now Aubery was not sure he would be able to accept with indifference Alys’s refusal to give quittance.
He kept turning the packet, sealed with Raymond’s seal, over and over in his hands almost as if he expected some hint of the contents to seep out. And then, suddenly, his attention fixed. Raymond’s seal! Aubery jumped to his feet and began to bellow for his arms and his horse—his destrier, not the palfrey he used around the estate. He was disgusted with himself. He had been so wrapped in his selfish desire to know whether Marlowe would be his that it had taken near half an hour to understand what his eyes had perceived senselessly, that the seal was Raymond’s rather than Alys’s. This, combined with the long delay, made Aubery fear that there was serious trouble in Raymond’s household.
Fire Song Page 9
