FireSong

by Roberta Gellis

  “Well, not if the vassals knew them and compared them with Louis,” William said, and went on to point out other aspects of the situation.

  Aubery listened to William with half an ear while finishing his soup and chewing on the meat pasty, which he washed down with sips of wine. And while William told of the loss of the Lusignan estates to Louis, he made excellent inroads into the cheese. When he was full and ready to talk, he pushed the tray farther down the bed and led William back to the present.

  “Now I can see why Mansel did not wish me to tell a story that could cast a shadow of doubt on the friendship that Louis was proffering,” Aubery said.

  William grinned broadly. “But some good came of your talk because Lord Guy and Lord Geoffrey overreached themselves. I do not know exactly what they said, but Henry has forbidden them to accompany us to Pontigny and bade them go back to Gascony or to England.”

  Aubery frowned. “Why not send them hence at once?”

  “Isabella was their mother as well as Henry’s,” William pointed out. “In decency the king could not send them away before the ceremony of removing her coffin to the church had taken place.”

  “By then they will have cozened the king into changing his mind,” Aubery said sourly.

  “I think not,” William remarked thoughtfully. “Henry talks of nothing but his cousin Louis, and you know what he is like when he has taken a notion.” Suddenly William smiled again. “I think Mansel was warning you as much for your own sake, to save you from losing the king’s favor, as from fearing you would shake Henry’s conviction about Louis’s sincerity. Mansel likes you—oh, Lord bless me, I forgot to thank you. I am to have Bix again, and for less than I would have given Alys for a quitclaim.”

  “You thank me for feathering my own nest?” Aubery protested, laughing.

  William sighed. “There were many ways you could have feathered your nest more directly.” He touched the unbruised side of Aubery’s face gently. “My son, you should think more of your own needs. If you would take the income from Bix—” He sighed again as Aubery shook his head and then smiled. “Well, you cannot stop me from settling Bix on the next Wiliam of Marlowe as soon as he is born.”

  He was about to add lightly that Aubery would have to use the income for his future son’s needs but hesitated as an expression of pain flickered over his stepson’s face. Could Aubery be worried because Fenice had not yet conceived? They had been married over a year, but Aubery had been with her only now and again because of the war and the services he had performed for the king. The poor girl had not had a reasonable chance to get with child, except the last three or four months. Then William had a cold sinking feeling. Had Fenice lost a child with all the traveling they had done? Was she with child and Aubery afraid she might lose it?

  Mentally William withdrew from a personal wound that was still raw. He would not have denied Aubery the comfort of talking out his fears if he wished to do so, but William could not introduce the subject himself. Thus, when Aubery stretched, yawned, and said he was ready to sleep again, William removed the tray from the bed and with a shamed feeling of relief went over to snuff all the candles except the night-light. He knew Aubery’s profession of sleepiness was false but could not bring himself to say so, and he took off his bedrobe and lay down beside Aubery in silence.

  Since William had made no comment when Aubery winced away from the subject of the generation of children, Aubery hoped his reaction had gone unnoticed. He had controlled the expression quickly but was painfully aware that the emotions inside of him were not controlled at all. A surging need for Fenice mingled with the remnants of his resentment and, unfortunately, reinforced it because of his fear of being dominated by lust for his wife. Yet to give William a grandchild…

  Painfully, Aubery wrenched his mind away from Fenice altogether. A bed, he told himself, was no place to consider their future relationship rationally. He fixed his mind on the results of making peace with France. There was not much chance that Henry could have forced the barons of England into supporting a war to reclaim the lost provinces, but their resistance if he proposed such a war would further sour the king’s relationship with his subjects, and that did not need extra souring.

  Thus, yielding Normandy, Anjou, and Poitou legally would be an advantage. And, doubtless, in exchange Louis would agree not to support any rebellions in Gascony. So, squeezed between Alfonso, whose daughter would suffer from any rebellion, and Louis, who was adamant in keeping his oath, Gaston de Béarn would have his claws drawn. Aside from minor personal quarrels, it seemed that Gascony would lie quiet, at least while Louis and Alfonso of Castile lived.

  Aubery recognized the political advantages of a settlement, but he found the notion of all that peace and quiet so dull that he yawned and felt sleepy in earnest. A few more minutes of contemplating the endless and boring negotiations that would be necessary to bring about this even more boring peace sent Aubery soundly to sleep.

  Having slept so long, Aubery woke before dawn and, in trying to get out of bed, woke William. He apologized, but his stepfather only said grumpily that he would have been awake himself in a few minutes. “It is this doing of nothing all day,” William growled. “I know Richard needs a trustworthy ear near the king when Eleanor and the Lusignans are with him, but listening and talking is not enough for my body, no matter how tired it makes my mind. If Richard does not soon give me permission to come back to England, I will kill someone just for the exercise.”

  Aubery laughed. “Let us both arm, then, and we can exercise—”

  “In the abbey?” William made a sour face. “It is out of the question, and I doubt the folk of the village would welcome our activity either. They are all pensioners of the abbey or bound to it in other ways. And until the Lusignans are gone, I dare not be long away from the king.” He sighed. “I can offer you no more amusement than mass and breakfast. And I think you must thank Henry for his prompt aid to the prisoners in Pons.”

  “They are not free yet,” Aubery grumbled.

  Reminded suddenly that the one part of the story Mansel did not seem to know was how Aubery himself had escaped from the prison in Pons, William had been about to ask, but Aubery’s remark distracted him. “Even if they are not freed, the king deserves thanks for trying to help them,” William remonstrated, looking with some surprise at his stepson. Aubery was seldom discourteous and never when an attempt to help failed. Then he smiled. “Henry will not begin to seek your company again,” he promised. “He has Eleanor for his quiet hours, and prayers and consultations with the abbess, and a host of French noblemen both curious and with real business to draw his attention.”

  Although Aubery had not thought about why he should be so eager for a morning of practice combat with William when he was still bruised and aching from the beating he had taken in Pons, he accepted William’s objections with reluctance. Only after several attempts to change his stepfather’s mind did he pull ordinary clothing from his baggage, which he found piled with William’s at the end of the room.

  Once dressed, he became resigned and followed his stepfather docilely to mass, to eat in the central refectory that served the individual guesthouses designed for the nobility, and then to the audience chamber of the king’s lodging. They were early, of course, since they had started their day earlier than most, but William knew there would be a good fire in the audience chamber, and it would be a comfortable place to wait. He also wanted to hear what would be said about the quarrel between the king and his half brothers.

  Thus, the room was still almost empty when Aubery saw Savin come through the door. His lips tightened, and William turned his head to see what had disturbed Aubery. William’s own face took on an expression of distaste, and he muttered, “He is in Lord Guy’s household, could you not have guessed?”

  “So long as he is away from the prince, I do not care,” Aubery said calmly, smiling as he added, “I do not think even Savin could corrupt the Lusignans.”

  He heard William
laugh and remark that the Lusignans and Savin were a perfect match in rapacity and dishonor, and he nodded agreement but went back to the subject on which they had been conversing earlier without mentioning his suspicion that Savin had tried to arrange his death in Castile. Since he had no proof and telling William would only worry him, it was better to say nothing. Then Aubery realized he would have to warn Fenice not to speak of what had happened in Castile to anyone, which she might do if she should see Savin, and that reminded him of how she had run to the queen with the story after he had bade her tell no one.

  The room had been filling rapidly while these thoughts ran through Aubery’s head, and since their conversation had been no more than idle talk to fill the time, William was paying more attention to the arrivals than to what he or Aubery was saying and did not notice Aubery’s distraction. Soon after, the king and queen came from the private chamber in which they had broken their fast and moved slowly through the room, pausing to speak to those they wished to honor, encourage, soothe, or invite to private audiences. William and Aubery, who had been near the far end of the room from their entry, watched with considerable interest who was greeted and who was ignored.

  A number of men and women Aubery did not know received cordial notice, and William muttered in his ear that they were French. Then, as the royal pair approached, one couple bowed, and a youth and maiden behind them also dropped a deep bow and curtsy, and Aubery saw the queen stiffen for a moment and lose her smile. His eyes followed hers, and again fell on Savin, who had been hidden behind the French family, talking desultorily to a man well known as a hanger-on of the Lusignans.

  Eleanor recovered immediately, smiled again, and began to speak graciously to the wife and blushing daughter while Henry engaged the men. Aubery did not believe anyone besides himself had noticed the queen’s brief display of surprise and displeasure, however, as parting words were spoken and the French family sank into bows and curtsies again, Aubery realized that Savin was aware that the queen had noticed him, and not with delight.

  In the next moment, Aubery and William had been seen. Eleanor immediately beckoned vigorously for Aubery to approach and assured him as soon as he was close enough that Fenice was much recovered, wide awake, and eagerly awaiting him.

  “Indeed,” Eleanor said, smiling, “it was necessary for me to exert my royal authority to keep her abed, for nothing would content her but to go seeking you to be sure you were not sleeping in a stable or starving.”

  “She is always too concerned for my welfare,” Aubery replied stiffly.

  Aubery’s rigid expression reminded Eleanor that he had not wanted Fenice to disclose to her his suspicions of Sir Savin, whom she had thought dismissed to England. It had been so brief a glance, she wondered if it were possible that she had been mistaken, and her head turned again to where Savin had been standing, however, he was gone, and she looked back at Aubery, whose gaze had naturally followed hers. The idea that Aubery was still angry with Fenice annoyed Eleanor.

  “Too great a concern is better than too little, Sir Aubery,” she said reprovingly.

  But even as she spoke she realized that her recent shock in seeing Sir Savin—if, indeed, it was he—must have led her to misinterpret Aubery’s uneasiness. In fact, now that she stopped to think, she could not believe the man she had seen actually had been Sir Savin. Surely Aubery would have done something or said something if it had been Savin. Eleanor knew Aubery to be a fond husband. Probably he was only eager to get to Fenice and see for himself that she had come to no harm but did not wish to be rude to his queen.

  So Eleanor smiled again, somewhat apologetically, and added, “I will not tease you by holding you here longer. You are free to go.”

  “Only let me thank my lord the king for his swift action on behalf of the prisoners in Pons,” Aubery began, aware of a reluctance to leave that was strange, considering his usual desire to avoid Henry.

  Henry smiled warmly. He liked to be appreciated, but he was also a fond husband. Being unaware that Sir William had not told Aubery that Fenice had collapsed, Henry assumed that only a deep gratitude to him and a rigid sense of duty, which he knew Aubery had, were keeping Aubery from rushing off.

  “There is no need for thanks,” the king said kindly. “It is a king’s duty to protect his vassals, as it is their duty to serve and protect him. Go to your wife and assure yourself all is well with her. I will speak to you again soon.”

  There could be no lingering after so positive a dismissal, and Aubery could only bow and depart. Nor, he thought, as he turned toward the stairs to go up to the queen’s chambers could he simply go off by himself and not visit Fenice. He stopped abruptly midway up the stairs, shocked when he realized that his persistent attempt to draw William into practice combat and his sudden eagerness to stay and talk to King Henry were both only devices that would permit him to avoid his wife.

  A soft, angry sound came from Aubery’s throat, and Sir Savin, who had been standing just inside the door where he could watch without being himself seen, drew farther back. Savin checked the motion before it was complete, shaking with rage because he had reacted with instinctive retreat to a threat from Aubery that was not, he now realized, even directed at him. It put the final edge to his hate to recognize his fear. That atop what he had seen in the queen’s eyes—and then she and Aubery had been talking about him. Though he had moved away, he had seen them both looking at the place in which he had been standing.

  He had to get rid of Aubery, and soon. Lord Guy and Lord Geoffrey were both wild with rage at having been told they could not accompany the king farther in France. Savin guessed that the refusal had something to do with the news Aubery had brought. He had heard Guy and Geoffrey screaming at each other and accusing each other of misusing the news and, incidentally, cursing Aubery also. He could bear witness that they had wished Aubery dead, and he would not be the only one. Every servant in the guesthouse had heard them. No one would try too hard to discover who had killed Aubery when the trail would lead to the king’s half brothers.

  But he had not yet been able to think of a device for finding Aubery alone and unarmed. There were too many people around for Savin to try to kill him here. And what the devil had Aubery gone up to the private apartments for? There were plenty of pages to carry messages. Then Savin remembered that Aubery’s wife was one of the queen’s ladies, and he remembered, too, that there had been some jests among the men about Aubery’s devotion to Fenice. Savin smiled broadly. The woman—if he took her and demanded ransom, it would be only reasonable to demand also that Aubery come alone and unarmed to pay it.

  The smile disappeared. He would need a safe place to keep her, and he would need a device to bring her to a quiet spot where he could seize her. Savin left the king’s lodging and walked slowly back to the house in which the Lusignans were staying. He no longer needed to watch Aubery, but he would need information. However, he was sure that Lord Guy’s servants could find out about Lady Fenice and would not be surprised that Savin should act as intermediary.

  Appalled by the revelation that he was afraid to face Fenice, Aubery rushed up the remainder of the stairs and almost collided with a maid carrying a tray. The maid’s cry of surprise and the check to his physical motion, while he steadied the tray and reassured the girl, gave Aubery a few minutes to adjust his emotions, so that he entered the antechamber and asked for his wife quietly. One of the king’s squires of the body on duty there led him immediately through the bedchamber and pointed out the inner room where the queen’s ladies were lodged.

  Aubery did not see Fenice at once, for her cot had been placed nearest to the door of the bedchamber so that the ladies who sat up to attend Eleanor, should she need something in the night, would also be able to watch Fenice. He advanced a step or two into the room before her voice, quavering on the edge of tears, stopped him. She was so beautiful when Aubery saw her, with her hair still tumbled from sleep, holding the coverlet to her to shield her nakedness, that his desire overwhelmed
the tenderness her frailty had engendered. Yet her eyes were full of tears, and her voice was thin and frightened. He understood that if it had been anger that made her refuse his tentative offers of help on the ride, she was angry no longer.

  She put out her hand to him, but he dared not take it and would come no closer for fear his desire would betray him in some way. And guilt made his voice harsher than he intended when he said, “I am sorry to have driven you so hard and so far that you were made ill.”

  “I am not ill,” Fenice replied faintly, shrinking back and dropping her eyes. “I am ready to leave for England at once if you wish.”

  At that moment she thought she would die of shame. Aubery had always greeted her with the pleasant formality of kissing her hand, even when they had only been apart for a few hours. He would never kiss her hand again. He would always see her as a common creature crossed with filth, even though he did not know of her serf mother.

  “I am afraid we will be delayed a few days,” Aubery said. “Now that we are here, I do not think it would be wise to ask for permission to leave until Queen Isabella’s coffin is moved from the graveyard to the church.”

  “Very well, my lord,” Fenice agreed. “If you will tell me where we are lodged—”

  “You will stay here with the queen,” Aubery’s voice grated as he fought his desire to tell her to dress and come with him to William’s chamber. No one would be there now and he could have her, but he knew it would be wrong. No matter what Fenice said, she was not well enough for coupling.

  Aubery was right. Fenice was sick and dizzy. Had she been normal, she would have recognized at once what was wrong with her husband, and have arranged to cure it, thus curing her own fears also. Her weakness bred terrors that simple logic would have driven out at any other time.

  “Will you put me aside, my lord?” Fenice whispered, her face white and her eyes wide with shock and shame.