“That is so,” Aubery agreed. “Still—”
“Then you will tell the prince that you cannot fight tomorrow?” Fenice asked eagerly.
Aubery burst out laughing. “You silly goose, what are you talking about? I am the prince’s champion and will lead our party. Even if there were danger, I could not refuse to play my part, and there is none.”
“No danger?” Fenice repeated, her voice rising hysterically. “You say there was a deliberate attempt on your life by an agent of Gaston de Béarn and then that there is no danger?”
“I expected better of you than this,” Aubery said, frowning at his wife. “You are talking like any stupid girl who has been taught no more than to ply her needle. You must see that if it were Béarn’s man who changed the lance, he can have no further interest in harming me. His purpose must have been to enrage Edward and the English party and make a breach between them and Alfonso. That has failed and, worse yet, been exposed.”
“But if it is you he hates—” Fenice wept, clinging to Aubery tighter than ever.
“Oh, do not be so silly,” Aubery snapped, pushing her away impatiently. “A man like Gaston de Béarn does not bother hating someone so far beneath him. No more would he single out one of the militia captains for hatred. If he knows as much as you think, he must know, too, that my presence in Bayonne at the time he chose to attack was an accident. Henry sent me there, but the king could not know Béarn’s plans, not to the day he would move.” The timing was far too close. Had Henry known, he would have sent me weeks earlier. And no agent of Béarn’s would sharpen Sir Sancho’s lance head, that was stupid. That was a proof that neither Alfonso nor any other Castilian was responsible. A Castilian could wish me to be overthrown to embarrass the English, but none could desire my death.”
Realizing that her fear was only irritating her husband, Fenice wiped the tears from her eyes. “Could not an agent be stupid?” she asked. “Even stupid enough to believe that Béarn desired you dead?”
Aubery shrugged. “There is a possibility, but it does not sit well on my stomach. No,” he continued thoughtfully, “I would say the prince, who is very clever and very hot against those who take advantage of his father’s foolish enthusiasms, simply seized on an opportunity to lay the blame where it would do the English the most good. If Alfonso does not reject Béarn, much of the benefit of this marriage will be lost.”
“But then who tried to have you killed?” Fenice whispered, caring little for political niceties when Aubery’s life was at stake.
“I have just thought of the answer,” Aubery announced, smiling broadly and reached out and touched Fenice’s nose with his finger. “And it is all through trying to convince you not to be a silly goose, so you see, I was wrong. There is good in a woman’s silliness. As to who changed the lance and sharpened its head, it must be that greedy idiot Savin.”
Fenice stood and stared. Even through her fear she recognized that this answer was far more likely than that a Béarnese agent should choose so devious and uncertain a method of political action. “You must be right,” she breathed, her eyes wide with realization and relief. She no longer was afraid that hordes of Béarn’s assassins would converge on Aubery. “He was your enemy beforehand, and then, to his mind, you stole the honor of champion from him. But why now? He had over a month on the journey to attack you.”
Aubery shook his head. “When we were all of one party and all knew each other—except for the Gascon servants—his guilt would have been too plain. No other had any quarrel with me, and the prince knew we were…unfriends. Savin might have tried to kill me by some secret, treacherous device had we been attacked, but we were not.”
“Well, then,” Fenice said, coming close again with confidence to pull off Aubery’s arming tunic, “you have only to tell the prince, and—”
“Good God, no!” Aubery exclaimed. “For once, Sir Savin has done much good. Whether or not Alfonso believes Edward’s accusation against Béarn, he will have to act as if it were true and renounce Béarn’s fealty.” Aubery’s eyes glowed with enthusiasm. “Oh, that was a clever stroke by the prince, as young as he is to have seen a chance so quickly and used it so adroitly. He will make a fine king.” He laughed. “No, you may be sure I will do nothing to spoil that. On the way home, I will mention the possibility of Savin’s guilt, but after all, Fenice, I have no proof.”
“But he will fight in the melee tomorrow and do you a mischief,” Fenice insisted, trying not to let her voice quaver.
“No,” Aubery replied carelessly, stretching and smiling. “There has been too much talk about the attempt on me among the English knights, and to hurt me or kill me now would serve no purpose, even to Savin. If I had gone down on the first pass, I suppose he expected Edward to appoint him in my place. As it is, he will take no chances.”
“Then what will you do?” Fenice asked tightly.
“By your leave, I will sleep until it is time for me to dress for dinner,” Aubery teased, then his voice softened. “Come, Fenice, I know my business. I promise you I am in no danger.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Had Fenice been less in love, she could have accepted Aubery’s word. She did believe he knew his business, but her feeling that the perfection of happiness her husband brought her was so precious that it was bound to be snatched from her would not let her rest. Once the bed was warmed and Aubery in it, he dropped instantly asleep. Fenice laid out his clothing for the feast and then hers and finally sat down by the fire to sew. Unfortunately, that task left her mind free to worry, and she recalled Sir William talking of how wild and heedless Aubery was concerning his own safety.
That fear sparked others, in particular the fear that Aubery, the soul of honor himself, would not be able to grasp all the devices of a treacherous person. Writhing under the lash of imagined horrors, Fenice uncovered an escape route. It was Alfonso who must not hear of Aubery’s suspicions, not the queen and prince. Perhaps a reason could be devised to send Sir Savin away or to curb him somehow so that the King of Castile would not connect Savin with the danger to Aubery.
Fenice put down her sewing and looked toward the bed. She did not have much time, and she was aware that Aubery would be furious if he discovered her interference. Still, she hesitated only a second. As when she had deliberately provoked him to rage to release his tension, his anger had no power to stop her if she dared it for his good. What could he do, after all? Beat her? A beating would be a cheap price to pay for Aubery’s safety.
Because Fenice had never before asked for the special privilege of speaking privately with the queen and because she was very sure Fenice would not be presenting some petty spite, Eleanor came out of her inner chamber, where she had been discussing serious matters with her uncle, Archbishop Boniface, to discover what Fenice wanted. As briefly and calmly as possible, Fenice told her tale, stressing Aubery’s admiration for the prince’s clever move and his recognition that it was of the first importance that no doubt be cast on Edward’s suggestion.
“Aubery forbade me to speak to anyone of this,” she admitted, tears filling her eyes. “He says Sir Savin can do him no harm, that he is strong and will be watchful, but…but I am afraid. Can nothing be done to protect my husband, madam?”
“You were very wise to come to me, my dear,” Eleanor said. “It is utterly ridiculous for Sir Aubery to conceal his suspicions from Edward and me. However, men are very strange creatures. Now, do not fret yourself anymore. If Sir Aubery sees your eyes all red, he will not be pleased. I promise you, no harm will come to your man.”
This, of course, was rather more than even a queen should have promised, since a melee is no gentle sport, and short of forbidding him to take part—which she could not do—Eleanor had no way of controlling Aubery’s own daring. In a sense, Fenice knew that, but the rise and fall of spirit mostly does not hang on reason, and Fenice was comforted. She was able to wake Aubery to dress with a sunny smile and enjoyed herself greatly at the feast, where much was made of he
r husband.
The next morning she was nervous, but when she joined the queen to accompany her to where they would watch the battle, Eleanor drew her close and whispered in her ear that Sir Savin had left before dawn that morning for Gascony with an important message for King Henry, in fact, the story of Edward’s suspicion of Béarn’s attempt to destroy the alliance between Castile and England.
“From there,” Eleanor said, “Savin will be sent back to England. I gave as an excuse that his influence on Edward was unsavory. I could do no more, Fenice. No doubt Sir Aubery is right, I never did like that Sir Savin, but to punish him, there must be proof.”
“You are most kind, most gracious,” Fenice whispered back. “I am sure he will not trouble Aubery in England,” she added, though her conviction was largely based on the insubstantial feeling that nothing bad could happen in what she thought of as her own Promised Land.
Eleanor did not contradict her, and she had better reasons for it. She knew of Aubery’s connection with Sir William and also with Richard of Cornwall. Although she and her brother-by-marriage did not always see eye to eye, she knew Richard to be a steadfast friend. He would defend Sir William’s stepson, and Eleanor believed Savin would fear Richard’s power and hesitate to make any move against Aubery.
Fenice was shocked by the violence of the melee. It was, indeed, a battle as ferocious as any in a war and fought with unblunted weapons. However, as with the jousting, she was caught up in the excitement of the encounter. Moreover, most of the time she could not pinpoint Aubery in the violent swirl of action, and when, now and again, she did catch sight of him, he always seemed to be unhurt and pressing his opponent hard. Thus, the apprehension she felt diminished as it was by the assurance of Sir Savin’s absence and much diluted by pride and excitement, became little more than an extra thrill as the day wore on.
Of course, Fenice thought her husband the finest and bravest knight on the field, but she was not alone in this opinion. The marshals of the battle concurred. Aubery’s party were the victors, and he again took the major prize. And, although he was not completely unscathed, his wounds were minor, bruises and pressure cuts, and Fenice was so happy in his success and also—although she did not say the second reason aloud—that the tournament was over, that she even made small jests when she salved his hurts.
They had been invited by de Lacy himself to spend a second night in his quarters, and again Aubery accepted gratefully because he was stiff and sore. Since his part in the festivities was now over, the next day he and Fenice moved back into the wool merchant’s house, and were glad of it. They found it very pleasant to have some hours of real privacy, even though it meant riding back and forth.
Had they not been quartered in the town, neither would have had any peace. Now that the preparations for the wedding were in full swing, those ladies unfortunate enough to be lodged near the queen were forever being called out to fetch and carry gifts and favors, write notes, mend and examine clothing—a thousand details that occurred to Eleanor at all hours. Fenice, whom Eleanor trusted and knew to be handy, biddable, and intelligent, would scarcely have had a moment to call her own.
Aubery, too, was glad of the distance between him and the prince. With Sir Savin gone, Edward no longer needed to feel any guilt in showing his preference for Aubery’s company and summoned him whenever he had a free hour. Since the prince was eager to hear about the campaigns in which Aubery had served and Aubery felt strongly that a future ruler was never too young to learn why some military actions were successes and others disasters, Aubery was glad to talk to him. Nonetheless, he did not fancy being kept hanging about the prince’s antechamber all evening every evening because Edward hoped he would find time for conversation.
The one task that remained to Aubery was assigning knights to cooperate with Alfonso’s men to guard the increasing accumulation of wedding gifts and the display of treasures that Edward and Eleanor would shower on their guests. He had more than enough men for this simple business and thus was rather surprised when Edward looked at him most significantly as he told Aubery he had taken the liberty of sending off one of the knights as a messenger to report on Béarn’s attempt, here Edward stared at Aubery most deliberately again, to shame the English champion. After an odd pause, the prince added that he did not think Aubery would miss the knight.
Aubery had assured him that one man more or less could not matter and passed on to another subject hastily, wondering if all the significant glances were supposed to induce him to say that the prince had a right to do anything he liked. It was the last thing Aubery intended to say. For one thing, he did not believe it was true, and for another he felt that Edward was already too imperious for his own good. Aubery noticed that the prince looked surprised at the change of subject but pretended he had not, and a moment later Edward smiled at him when there was no reason in what was being said for a smile. Aubery assumed that the prince had accepted his silent, implied rebuke in a most proper spirit and put the matter out of his mind.
Another week passed while the agreements and treaties between England and Castile were written out in proper form on clean parchments and sealed with gold seals. Then the wedding itself took place. Aubery and Fenice attended, but only as unimportant members of the English party. They were not, of course, invited to the bedding ceremony and did not regret it. In this case, they knew it would be a rather dull and formal occasion. The usual bawdy innuendo and jesting would not be permitted. There would be only a formal examination and acknowledgment that neither party was unacceptable owing to physical deformity. The groom and his child bride would be put together naked in the bed, Edward would touch little Eleanor’s thigh with his own, and then he would return to his own rooms.
On the day of the wedding, King Henry held a special feast to celebrate the union of his son and Princess Eleanor of Castile. When his wife and son had left Gascony, the exact date had not been settled. At that time, it was not known just how long the journey would take, and even after the queen and prince were in Burgos, an auspicious day for the wedding had to be chosen by the court astrologers. The king was thus doubly delighted when Sir Savin had arrived two days before, bringing not only the very pleasant news of the accusation against Gaston de Béarn, but the date of the wedding.
According to custom, the bringer of good news is rewarded—Eleanor had forgotten that in her eagerness to get rid of Sir Savin—yet the letter carried a warning against the bearer, urging Henry to be rid of him because he was a bad influence on Prince Edward. But if that was so, why not dismiss him herself? And why entrust message of some importance to a man she felt must be kept away from their son? The answer came to Henry almost as soon as the questions rose in his mind. This Savin must be a favorite of Edward’s, he thought, smiling. He knew how headstrong his son was. Eleanor was being clever. Had she expressed her disapproval or sent the man away, Edward would have clung even tighter to him.
But it went against Henry’s grain to be ungracious to a man who had just brought him so much pleasure. He wanted to be expansive and generous and to ask questions about Burgos and the entertainment Alfonso was providing, not to hand over a ring or a coin and tell Savin he was no longer needed or wanted. Then it occurred to him to wonder in what way Savin was a bad influence. Henry often disagreed with his wife about what was good for Edward. Savin was a strong man with no signs on him of an overindulgence in wine or food. A gambler? Women?
“You have brought good news,” Henry said, for Sir Savin was beginning to look worried.
Savin had been first frightened and then furious when the queen summoned him, frightened because his guilty conscience made him fear Aubery had accused him of changing the lance, although he had been certain Aubery was too stupidly honorable to try to place the blame on him when he had no proof. Then, when the queen merely ordered him to carry a letter to the king, Savin became furious at the loss of the opportunity to destroy his enemy. However, he had not protested at the task Eleanor set him. When she handed him t
he letter, her face was hard as stone, and he had known all along that she did not like him.
He could not understand why he had been chosen as messenger, concluding at last that the news he carried was very bad—although what it could be he could not imagine—and the queen hoped the king would take out his fury at the news on the bearer. The silence and the way the king stared at him after he read the letter seemed to confirm Savin’s fear, although Henry had not looked angry, had even smiled while he was reading.
Savin heaved a sigh of relief at Henry’s words and said, quite naturally, “I am glad of that.”
Henry, of course, took that to mean Savin was glad for the king’s sake, and smiled again. “Who recommended you for service with the prince?” he asked.
“Lord Guy de Lusignan, my lord king,” Savin replied.
Henry’s smile turned wry. He believed that he had discovered why Eleanor wanted to be rid of Savin. She was ridiculously jealous of Henry’s half brothers and would naturally wish to separate anyone associated with them from her son. Henry felt a wave of angry resentment. Everyone was against his womb siblings, but he would not abandon them—no, nor would he dismiss in disgrace a man they recommended just because his wife wished to turn Edward against his own half uncles.
“You are welcome to me,” Henry said. “But I would not wish to hold you in Gascony to your detriment. Do you wish now to return to England, or would you like to rejoin the prince?”
“If it please you, my lord,” Savin said eagerly, seeing the chance for new opportunities to ingratiate himself with men of power and possibly to rid himself of Aubery, “I would like to stay.”
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