FireSong

by Roberta Gellis

  Through the pillars that supported the roof of the walk, one could see the cloister garden, which was green and peaceful despite the cold and wild winds of winter. The nuns had planted it with hardy, aromatic shrubs, a few herbs that remained green year-round, and late-blooming flowers. Sheltered from the wind and warmed by direct and reflected sunlight, the cloister was never bitterly cold. The peace and beauty, centered around a statue of Mother and Child, was well conceived to make visitors wish to stay, to give rest to the weary and solace to the heavy of heart.

  Briefly, Fenice regretted that she had not walked in the cloister and thought of Delmar in those surroundings. Perhaps then she could have reconciled the terrible ache of loss and longing with the bitter hurt and resentment that had made his death almost a relief to her. But thought of the pain Delmar had inflicted on her brought the real cause of that pain to mind. Delmar might have been weak, but it was Lady Emilie who was greedy and wicked. No, Lady Emilie would not succeed in keeping Trets and Fuveau. Not if I have to die for it, Fenice thought.

  The little mist that had risen in her eyes dried, and the cloister now meant only a path to the church. From there, Fenice knew she could escape outside the convent. It should not be difficult once she was wearing a lay sister’s gown and cowl. She started guiltily at a sound from the doorway but managed to pretend it was just a small movement to ease the arm on which she had been leaning.

  The lay sister exclaimed at the empty dishes and then, coming round to lift the tray, saw the false evidence that Fenice had thrown her meal into the fire. She gasped with outrage, then hurried out of the room. Soon Sister Anne arrived with another tray and a steady stream of remonstrance and prayer, and this time poor Fenice had no difficulty displaying her reluctance to eat. She picked listlessly at this and that, chewing and swallowing so slowly that it took a long time to get through about half the portion, and quite wore out Sister Anne’s patience.

  Although forcing herself to eat the extra food made Fenice feel rather sick, Sister Anne’s visitation was actually of great benefit to her. It kept her mind effectively engaged so that the time passed swiftly. Indeed, by the time Sister Anne was too exhausted to make Fenice take another bite, the light of the short winter day was fading, and the period over which Fenice would have to wait until she could act was greatly shortened.

  For an hour or so after Sister Anne finally left her in peace, Fenice tried to act as she had in the past. Then, thankfully, she retreated to her bed. As she undressed, she took account of new uses for parts of her clothing, stockings, girdle… That was not quite enough. Stealthily, she crept around the wall to her clothing chest and extracted another pair of stockings. When she was back beside her bed undetected, she knelt and truly gave thanks to God for His help.

  Although the physical and mental activities of this day had been very minor compared with a normal day in Tour Dur, Fenice was afraid that she would be tired by them because she had been permitted to do almost nothing in Fuveau by Lady Emilie, and she had literally done nothing at all since she had entered this convent. Nonetheless, even on top of the extra large meal she had eaten, she found that her excitement was so intense that sleep was no danger. Still, it seemed very long until the bell rang that signaled the end of the day’s activities for the nuns.

  As it sounded, Fenice lifted her head and blew out the night candle, and was startled at the sudden blackness. Fenice was no coward, every sensible person feared the dark which was peopled with strange creatures and supernatural beings. Out-of-doors was less dreadful in a way. There were wolves and bears, but they were mostly in the forests, and if one stayed in the open, the moon and stars gave light. However, no one slept without a light, a rushlight for the poor, and fat wax or tallow candles that would burn all night for those who could afford them.

  Fortunately, Fenice realized that the area near the doorway was not nearly as black as the corner where her bed stood. There the glow of the embers was enough to show that nothing dreadful crouched against the wall. She jumped out of the bed, the stone floor freezing to her bare feet and the air icy-cold around her body, which had previously been warmed by the blankets. The physical sensations made her shiver but provided a practical distraction from fear of the unknown. In one hand Fenice snatched up her tunic and overdress, in the other she seized the heavy wooden candlestick. Thus armed, she fumbled her way to the door.

  When she was a foot or two from the doorway, she dropped the tunic on the floor to stand on it and draped the overdress around her back and over her shoulders to protect her when she flattened herself against the wall. After that, she lifted the candle off the spike of the candlestick. She would need the candle later and did not want it to get broken or to fall on the floor when she turned the candlestick upside down to use the broad, rounded base as a weapon. It balanced better that way, but Fenice was not thinking of that. She wished to use the base because it was smooth, without sharp edges, and she felt it would do less harm.

  Waiting was more difficult after that. Fenice thought she remembered that a lay sister had looked in at her door to be sure she was abed, but minutes seemed like hours as she contemplated the wicked thing she was about to do. What if she were wrong and she only needed to ask to go home? What if she hit the sister too hard and killed her? What if she did not hit her hard enough and the woman screamed and created a disturbance?

  Just as Fenice was enlarging on that last thought and envisioning what would be said to and about her, a dim light came around the corner. Fenice drew back a step uncertainly, but the woman let out a low cry of surprise when she entered at seeing the room dark. The sound sparked in Fenice an instant, realization of what would happen if she were discovered standing nearly naked clutching a candlestick with a bared spike, and without further thought, in a worse panic than a confrontation with the devil himself could raise in her, she leapt out and brought the candlestick down hard on the lay sister’s head.

  The woman dropped like a log. Holding her breath, Fenice dropped beside her, scrabbling for the lantern the sister had carried. The candle inside had not been extinguished, and Fenice lighted her own candle at its flame, replaced it on its spike, set the whole back where it belonged, and blew out the light in the lantern. If worse came to worst and someone came, there would be many innocent explanations she could give for what had happened. Sobbing with remorse now, Fenice knelt beside her victim.

  In one way it was a great relief to hear the lay sister already moaning softly, but in another way it was not. If she were coming to herself so quickly, she could not be badly hurt, but that meant Fenice would have very little time to finish what must be done. With the strength of desperation, she dragged the woman across the floor to the foot of the bed, snatched up a stocking laid ready, and tied it around her victim’s mouth as a gag. Then she untied the girdle of the habit and stripped the habit off. By then, the sister was making feeble movements with her arms. Barely in time, Fenice tied her hands together with the second stocking.

  Now, before the woman realized what had been done to her, Fenice murmured soothingly that it was “too bad, too bad, but if you lie down for a while you will soon feel better.” Still half-stunned, the sister feebly helped as well as she could while Fenice lifted her and tumbled her into the bed. Quickly, Fenice fastened her feet together with one of the second pair of stockings and used her girdle to tie her around the waist to the bed. Having secured her, Fenice untied and removed the sister’s sandals. Last, she drew up the blankets so that her handiwork was concealed, staggered to the foot of the bed where she would be least visible, and collapsed on the floor, physically and emotionally exhausted.

  The furious creaking of the bed and muffled cries of rage roused Fenice not long after she had dropped. She was still trembling with the weakness of reaction, but the lay sister’s violent protest of her situation renewed both Fenice’s desperation and her strength. It was obvious that she must either subdue the woman again or hide herself so that she could not be found if the noise attracted
attention. Fenice looked at the candlestick and shuddered. Nothing could make her strike her victim again. Hurriedly, she took a blanket, cut a slit in the middle, and pulled it over her head. It would protect her from the cold and fill out the lay sister’s robe. Then she put on the habit and sandals and drew the cowl over her head.

  The momentary problem of what to do with her hair drew Fenice’s attention once more to the enraged lay sister, who was now lying quietly but glaring at her and mumbling behind her gag. The woman’s spiky, short-cut gray hair could never be mistaken for Fenice’s thick dark mane, even if she fell asleep and was quiet. Totally reassured as to the woman’s well-being by her activity, Fenice’s conscience was also soothed by the fury the sister displayed. The fact that she was furious rather than puzzled or sorrowful implied that all along Fenice had been a prisoner rather than a troubled guest.

  While Fenice was staring, a new idea occurred to her. She flipped the lay sister over on her stomach, despite every protest the woman was capable of making, and covered her head lightly with the dark gown she had discarded. At close range it could not fool anyone for a second, but from the doorway in the dim light of the night candle it might be mistaken for a tumble of black hair. Besides, it muffled a bit the sounds the lay sister was making.

  Now Fenice again rummaged in her chest and found a shabby dark veil. Her lips curled with distaste. It was Lady Emilie’s castoff. Still, she was fortunate her mother-by-marriage was so greedy that she had kept the beautiful gold-embroidered bright-colored wisps Lady Alys had provided for Fenice’s wedding clothes, for now they would not have been suitable for the purpose she had in mind. As she moved to light the lantern candle again, the overlarge sandals slapped the floor. Two days’ walking on those might cripple her, Fenice thought, and she tucked her own shoes into the voluminous habit above her belt. On the road, if she were alone, she could wear the shoes.

  Finally, reluctantly, she went to the door. The corridor was dark and empty. She slipped out into it, praying no one would see her as she crossed the cloister garden and slipped into the church. She could only hope that even if she were observed, such an action would raise no questions; surely a sister might seek the consolation of private prayer. But if she were seen and the woman tied to her bed were missed, the church would be the first place they would look for her.

  Blancheforte keep had changed a great deal since Lady Alys and Lord Raymond had first come to it in 1244. When they had taken the place in hand, it had been a noisome blight. The keep itself had been undefendable, steeped in filth, and crawling with vermin of every kind. Its serfs had been reduced to starved animals, its men-at-arms were not only feared and hated but useless. Now, although it must in time be overwhelmed if any enemy came out of Bordeaux close by, Blancheforte would make an attacker think twice and suffer for an assault against its walls. These were manned by alert men, well disciplined and proud of themselves and their profession, expert in the use of the latest defensive armament, which stood ready to repel any attack on the keep.

  In addition, Blancheforte ran with smooth precision and was, as any keep should be, self-sufficient. Its women servants spun wool and flax from its own sheep and fields, wove the yarn into cloth, and made the cloth into garments. The cellars were redolent of the good wine from its own vineyards stored there. The demesne farm and herds provided food enough to stock the castle and to keep the serfs so fat that they found time and strength to complain bitterly over the iniquities of their overlord. At least, the younger serfs complained. Those who were older went to the castle chapel and prayed long and earnestly for the good health and long lives of Lady Alys and Lord Raymond.

  If Lady Alys and Lord Raymond had known, both prayers and complaints would have amused them. So long as complainers did their share of the corvée, the lord and lady were indifferent to grumbling. If they did not, there was the lash, the branding iron, or the rope to cure real rebellion. Alys and Raymond had not restored Blancheforte for the sake of the serfs, but for their own convenience.

  And very convenient Blancheforte was, too strong to be threatened except by a large army, carrying with its overlordship a place on the council that governed Bordeaux, and close enough to the city to allow its master easy access to the great men of the place. Blancheforte itself, the estates of Amou, Ibos, and some farms near Mont de Marsan had been offered to Raymond as Alys’s dowry on the condition that he swear to uphold the rights of King Henry III of England as Gascony’s overlord. To this Raymond had sworn very gladly, for Henry was the husband of his half aunt, Eleanor of Provence.

  For four years the fulfillment of his oath had been little trouble, a matter of living on his Gascon properties a few months out of every year, mostly in Blancheforte, suppressing, to the best of his ability, political scheming, and reporting what he thought dangerous or important to the king. Raymond was an excellent man for this purpose, he was not one to make a mountain out of a molehill to make himself appear useful and devoted. Moreover, Raymond really knew what was worth reporting to Henry. Gascony was always restless, full of intrigue and minor wars, but Raymond’s mother was a Gascon and he was accustomed to the peculiarities of the people and politics of the province.

  When Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Leicester, had been named seneschal by King Henry in 1248 and had come to tame Gascony with fire and sword, Raymond had joined him with goodwill. For four years Raymond had supported Leicester, but with steadily diminishing hope and enthusiasm, realizing that Leicester did not understand and would not accept the long-established traditions, laws, and customs of the towns and barons of Gascony. Worse yet, Leicester had no sense of humor, and only a strong sense of the ridiculous could keep a man sane—particularly one who had been raised in a more rational political climate—when dealing with Gascons.

  The result was inevitable. Leicester regarded independence as rebellion. Instead of explaining, he attacked. Believing the just rights of others were being swallowed and fearing for their own rights, previously loyal men and towns took fright and turned openly or secretly against the earl.

  If Leicester had been appointed to hold the reins indefinitely or if they were to be handed over eventually to Richard of Cornwall, to whom Henry had promised Gascony in the past, Raymond would have fought on grimly through the intervening years. Neither Lord Simon nor Lord Richard would have been an unjust or tyrannical overlord once peace was established, but King Henry had insisted that Cornwall give up his right to the province and had transferred that right to his fourteen-year-old heir, Prince Edward.

  In the meantime, another complication had developed. The King of Castile had died, and his able and astute son, Alfonso X, had inherited the throne. Alfonso had a claim to the overlordship of Gascony. Raymond did not bother to trace the claim, knowing it was through Alfonso’s descent from a daughter of King Henry II, and by now nearly every royal house in Europe was descended, one way or another, from the Plantagenets.

  Naturally, on his accession to the throne, Alfonso had reiterated this old claim, adding Duke of Gascony to his many other titles. In normal circumstances, no one would have paid the slightest attention. Such old claims were myriad, owing to the mingling of royal and noble blood and tangled feudal relationships. However, because of the growing unrest caused by Leicester’s repression, there was actually some danger that Alfonso’s claim could be pressed to good effect. Gaston of Béarn, the most powerful nobleman in the area, had already renounced his fealty to England and sworn to Castile.

  In these special circumstances, by the autumn of 1252, Raymond had joined the ranks of those who wished to see Lord Simon relieved of his duty as seneschal. Raymond wrote to King Henry about Lord Simon’s harsh, although just, judgments and his lack of understanding of the Gascon temperament and heritage, which were causing growing disaffection in those previously loyal. However, he was shocked and grieved when he heard, from his father-by-marriage, William of Marlowe, that Lord Simon had been publicly accused of oppression and mismanagement. William also warned Raym
ond to be very careful. He wrote that although there had been a reconciliation between the king and Lord Simon, he was sure it was not genuine, at least, not on the king’s part.

  Alys’s father’s judgment was all too soon proved correct. The Earl of Leicester had returned to Gascony, claiming that he now had permission from the king to finish his work in the province, which he doubtless believed was true, for he was an honest man. Unfortunately, he was sadly mistaken. In Blancheforte, just about the time his daughter, Fenice, decided to leave the convent in which her mother-by-marriage had placed her, Raymond was holding a letter from King Henry that informed him that he need not respond if Leicester should call on him for military service.

  “It is easy enough for the king to say,” Raymond snarled at his wife. “But you know what Simon is like. He will insist that he has Henry’s oath not to interfere in the management of Gascony, that Henry has no right to go over his head, and thus I must still come to his summons.”

  Alys raised her cornflower-blue eyes from her tapestry work. “The king is more powerful than the Earl of Leicester,” she said. Of course, the main purpose of Alys’s reply was to keep her husband out of any more fighting, and she would have adjusted what she said according to whether obedience to Henry or to Lord Simon gave more hope of satisfying that purpose.

  “But Leicester is closer,” Raymond responded dryly, “and who knows how Henry’s purpose will waver, whereas Lord Simon’s is steady as a rock.”

  “It was a mistake not to go home to Tour Dur to celebrate Christmas,” Alys sighed. “Then we would have been out of the way.”

  “No, it was not,” Raymond said, getting up and leaning over the side of the tapestry frame to kiss his wife. “My mistake was in allowing you to come here with me when you were not strong enough. I will manage something. The only thing I could not bear to lose, my love, is you.”