Winter Song

by Roberta Gellis

  “I do not find your company distasteful at all,” Alys said hastily, tightening her grip on his wrist. “Dear, dear, Sir James, you are the very person I have been hoping and praying to see.” She caught his smile of triumph and batted her eyes exaggeratedly at him. “I will even eat your horrid arm, or have it on the wall if you insist,” she offered with passionate sincerity.

  Unable to help himself, Sir James burst out laughing. This drew a startled glance from the Earl of Cornwall, but when he saw who was with Sir James, he smiled indulgently.

  “Some day, someone will murder you, Alys,” James said as he pulled her urgently farther away from his master.

  “Perhaps,” Alys admitted, not resisting the pull, “but not, I hope, until you satisfy my curiosity. Whatever made Uncle Richard—no, my Lord of Cornwall—look so grim?”

  “One cannot blame him,” James muttered before he thought. “It is the most infuriating thing that King Henry demanded that my lord give up Gascony and now—” He became aware of Alys’s wide-eyed attention, stopped abruptly, and said, “But you do not need my help at all, do you? There is no need for you to hang on my arm, of which you spoke so ill.”

  “No, no. It is the sweetest arm in all the world,” Alys assured him. “I am sure it would cook up tender as a suckling pig… No! Do not dare desert me, James. Please? Pretty please? All honey-coated please?”

  They were both giggling, and another head or two turned to examine them. Tactfully, they withdrew farther from the circle of older people, Alys in the lead this time. When she stopped in a window embrasure, however, she was no longer smiling.

  “All jesting aside, James,” she said, “I hope Richard and the king have not quarreled, especially over Gascony.”

  “Why especially over Gascony?” James asked, rather surprised by Alys’s intensity.

  “Because Raymond has lands there—oh, you do not know about Raymond. He is—there is some chance that I will marry him—Raymond d’Aix.”

  “Another of the queen’s relatives?” James asked rather stiffly.

  “Well, yes, but he is not seeking office or lands here in England, so you can stop looking like a stuffed bear,” Alys replied.

  “Then how does it come that you are going to marry him?”

  James knew Alys was heiress to two substantial keeps. This did not make her a great prize, but, quite aside from her beauty, he would not have considered her beneath his own touch, especially not since Sir William had become Cornwall’s marshal. And one could not put Alys’s beauty aside. That was worth a keep in itself. She was a little small, perhaps, but everything else was perfect—the oval face set atop a long, graceful neck, a complexion of milk flushed with rose, lips like ripe, wild strawberries, full and sweet, a thin, short nose and eyes like twin lakes, cerulean blue, all crowned by the gold of her hair. And, James reminded himself, a tongue like a viper and a spirit forged of steel that would bend for no man. He was lucky that she was already spoken for and not available.

  “Raymond came…on a visit to England, and…and accompanied Papa to Wales.” Alys was picking her way carefully, not wishing to lie, but unwilling to give all the facts.

  “Accompanied Sir William… Raymond? You mean he is really d’Aix, not just from that area? That Raymond? But why was he acting as your father’s man?”

  “Oh…it suited his humor,” Alys replied. Even to a trusted servant of Richard of Cornwall, Alys was not prepared to tell the truth—that Raymond had been sent by the king to spy on her father, and that the stratagem had backfired, Raymond having fallen in love with her.

  “You mean,” James said sardonically, “that it suited your humor.”

  Alys opened her mouth to deny this emphatically, and then merely looked arch. It was better for James to think Raymond had been so smitten with her that he had lingered and taken service with her father than that James seek further for the truth. Then she smiled and shrugged. “In any case, he wishes to marry me, and—”

  “Who does not?” James asked wryly.

  “You, for one,” Alys replied tartly, then laughed. “You know me too well.”

  “Poor Raymond,” James sighed.

  It was obvious that he was jesting, and Alys laughed again, but there was a quiver of doubt in her. Did Raymond know her? Alys wondered. She had never tried to seem different from her real self, but had he been blinded by desire? He said not. He said it was not for her beauty, but also for her spirit, her skills in housewifery and leechcraft, and her courage that he loved her, but when he compared her with his own women, would he not think her coarse and common? Alys could ape the ways of the court ladies well enough that she was accepted among them, but it was an effort. She did not wish always to be under such constraint in her own home.

  “Perhaps Raymond will not be so fortunate after all,” Alys snapped. “I said he wished to marry me, not that the matter was settled. Papa is not happy about my going so far, and it may be that my dower—it is only Bix with no expectation of Marlowe, now that Papa has married again—will not be enough to satisfy his family. Nonetheless—”

  “And what do you desire?” James asked curiously. He had not known that Sir William was remarried. He could imagine how such a thing would stick in Alys’s craw. She was too used to ruling the roost.

  “I am thinking about it,” Alys said impatiently, “and it would help me if you would tell me what news has come from Gascony that has thrown everyone into gloom.”

  “You remember that when the king left Bordeaux last year, a truce had been arranged with King Louis?”

  “Has Louis broken faith?” Alys asked, truly surprised. Henry spoke ill of the king of France, but the truth was that there was little ill to be said of him, except in spite. In fact, Louis of France was so consciously good and holy that Alys felt bored every time his name came into the conversation.

  “No, no. Louis would not break a truce, not without real provocation. You know that. However, Theobold of Champagne is now king of Navarre and has claim, or so he says, to certain lands by Bayonne and Oloron-Sainte Marie—”

  “I know that, James. I am no more deaf than you, and I have heard Un—the Earl of Cornwall—detailing the complexities of Gascon relationships near as often as you have. After all, he thought it would be his to rule.”

  “And all of us would have been better off had it been so. You know Lord Richard could have brought that province to order. Instead, it was—” He broke off as Alys squeezed his hand sharply.

  She was quite right. This was not the time or place to voice such regrets, even though the king’s decision was likely to cause ten years of chaos, until Prince Edward was old enough to administer the province. This knowledge was in Alys’s eyes and Sir James’s, but it was unwise to pursue the topic.

  Sir James now continued more carefully, sticking to the news. “Theobold has chosen this moment to begin pressing his claims again. Nicholas de Molis—you know he is seneschal of Gascony?” Alys nodded and James went on, “De Molis has just sent to Henry to beg for men and money to hold back the forces of Navarre.”

  “But that is impossible!” Alys kept her voice low, but her eyes flashed with rage. “You know what Henry sucked out of us when he returned—scutage, carucage—and Papa was there. He near died there from a hurt in his thigh. You know no one will give the king a penny for Gascony.”

  “Of course I know it. All the lords are very angry that he stayed so long in Bordeaux last year after the fighting was over. He said he was reforming the government of the cities and for all I know he was, but everyone says he was lounging in luxury—”

  “Well,” Alys pointed out, “the queen was heavy with child. I think he was afraid to travel lest it do her hurt. And after she bore little Margaret, Eleanor needed a time to recover herself and to be sure the child was doing well.”

  “Not every man carries his wife to war with him nor is as tender of her,” James said dryly.

  Alys raised her brows. “There we differ. I can see no wrong in that. However,
I do agree that there was no need to entertain quite so lavishly while he was there, nor to support a horde of Béarnese…” James snarled deep in his throat, and Alys cocked an eye at his suffused face. “Oho,” she continued, “so that is why the seneschal needs money. Gaston of Béarn is also moving.”

  “The ungrateful, treacherous—”

  “Careful, James,” Alys said, patting his hand. “You will choke on your own spleen.”

  “It is a wonder poor Lord Richard did not choke on his. How often did he warn Henry to have nothing to do with that pair—bitch of a mother and cur of a son—”

  “But James,” Alys interrupted, paying no attention to the strictures against the dowager Countess of Béarn and her son, whom it would have been difficult for King Henry to ignore, since the countess was his wife’s grandmother, “can it be pure accident that the moment Theobold begins to threaten, Gaston does also?”

  “They are longtime enemies, but of course it is not an accident. It is natural enough for a sneaking cur to snap only at the helpless.”

  “Could it be that Queen Blanche is stirring both Theobold and Gaston?” Alys asked. “I have heard that Theobold was quite…quite enamored of her. Louis would not break a truce, no, but Blanche would not care a pin for that, and very likely she would not let Louis know what she was doing. And even if he knew, Louis might look the other way. I believe—Papa has said so very often—that Louis really desires all the lands on the Continent that speak the French tongue to be under French dominion.”

  “That is true enough,” James said. “He has swallowed Anjou and Poitou, setting his brother Alphonse to rule them.”

  Alys shrugged. “It has brought peace, at least.”

  “Perhaps, but that will not recommend Louis’s rule to the Gascons,” James said bitterly. “They do not desire peace and good governance. They love Henry because he is far away and does not interfere in their constant warring. But some will side with Theobold just because they have private enemies they wish to attack who claim to be loyal to King Henry. However, when that private war is over, they will break their faith with the king of Navarre as quickly as they have taken sides with him.”

  “I think you speak the truth,” a new male voice agreed. Alys looked up and smiled a welcome at her father, and her companion bowed. “What brings you here from Wales, James?” Sir William asked.

  “More bad news, really bad,” James said, his face darkening still further. “Ralph and Mortimer have been cut to pieces, Hereford’s men have been driven back nearly to the border, and the army the king sent with Hubert Fitz Matthew was taken by surprise and forced to take refuge in the towns after suffering heavy losses.”

  “Oh God,” William groaned. “Richard will spit blood over this. He has already quarreled with Henry because the king would not take the full army from Scotland to Wales.”

  “No,” James said, “he knows what happened already. I went to him at once, as soon as I left the king. Lord Richard was angry, of course, but he told me to hold my tongue so that the news should not draw attention from de Molis’s need.” James smiled and added, “I know he does not mean to keep anything from you, sir. Lord Richard said there would be no trouble gathering an army to fight the Welsh, but as soon as the barons knew of the defeats in Wales, they would use that as an excuse not to give help to Gascony.”

  “They do not need any excuse for that,” Sir William pointed out caustically, “and if it were not for the fact that I have a private reason to wish Gascony quiet and well ruled, I would agree with all my heart. The devil should be given every chance to fly away with that whole province.”

  “You cannot mean that, William,” a soft voice reproved. “Where would you get your wine if Bordeaux fell into the devil’s hands?”

  “This is my wife, Lady Elizabeth,” Sir William said, as Sir James bowed to a tall, graceful woman with large green eyes. “I would drink ale instead,” he replied to her remark, smiling.

  “Perhaps,” Elizabeth sighed, “but then I would have to listen to you complain about it.” Her voice was so soft and her smile so sweet that what might have been a bitter gibe became an intimate caress. William laughed, but Elizabeth shook her head. “I think it more reasonable, especially in view of our private reasons to wish for peace in Gascony, to try to think of some way to help.”

  “Easier said than done,” William said with a shrug, but he narrowed his eyes in thought as he looked down at Alys. “Raymond has lands there,” he said next. “He is also of sweet tongue and equable temper—usually.”

  The last word came out with a grin. Raymond had not been at all equable of temper when opposition to his marriage to Alys had been suggested. He had thrown defiance into the teeth of the Earl of Cornwall, saying he would wed her over the nay-say of the whole world. William repressed a sigh. Probably Raymond would succeed in gaining his father’s permission. He had a gift for knowing when to threaten force and when to use persuasion. Most likely Alys would be happy—but he would lose her. William jerked his mind away from that.

  “Do you think Raymond could help?” Alys asked. “His own property is small, and his father may not be overinclined to listen to his suggestions in favor of the English just now.”

  “As to the latter, I cannot guess,” William replied. “However, as a landholder in his own right, he would have a place in the councils of the barons, and he might be thought to be speaking for his father. I am not sure, but it is something. When starvation is the alternative, rusty wheat is better than a haunch of venison that cannot be obtained.”

  Chapter Three

  Thus, when Raymond arrived in England, he found himself more warmly welcomed by the Earl of Cornwall and the king than by his prospective bride and father-by-marriage. Raymond was not much surprised by the lack of enthusiasm with which William received the news that Alphonse had agreed to his son’s marriage. Naturally William would regret the fact that his one living child should spend the rest of her life so far from him. There was a good chance that after her marriage he would never see her again. Although Raymond knew that William was very fond of him, he accepted that he would not be overjoyed at losing Alys.

  Raymond could not, however, accept Alys’s initial reserve so philosophically. She was the first person, except for the servants, he accosted after rushing up from the bailey, and he had cried out, “I have you! My father has agreed!” and swept her into his arms and into a passionate kiss.

  Her lips responded readily at first, but after far too short an embrace, in Raymond’s opinion, she had pulled away, remarking dispassionately, “You look like death warmed over. Come to the fire.”

  “Because I half killed myself getting there and back,” Raymond said lightly, but there was a note of hurt in his voice.

  “There was no need for such haste as to keep you from sleeping and eating,” Alys replied sharply. “Do you doubt my faith?”

  “No!” Raymond exclaimed. “What is wrong, Alys? I missed you. I—”

  “In God’s name, do not say you count every day a year when you are not beside me,” she snapped. Then, seeing the pained amazement in his face, she sighed. “Poor Raymond, forgive me. You have had a sad welcome. I am sorry. You are welcome, my love, truly. And I have missed you, also.”

  He sighed with relief, but continued to ask what was wrong, and Alys laughed and confessed that her temper was soured by too much idleness and pleasure, and too many love songs on the lute. That made Raymond laugh also, and he said promptly that he understood completely why she had forbidden him to say that each day away from her was like a year.

  “Only it is, Alys,” he finished softly. “No matter how fast we rode or how long, it still seemed too slow, too far, until I could hold you again.”

  “In return for that loverlike speech, at least I have greeted you like a true ‘lady’—coldly and with blame,” she teased. “You would not wish me to be a coarse, common clod and say I was glad to see you,” she added with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “Oh, yes I
would,” Raymond contradicted quickly. “The coarser and commoner the better. If you really wish to please me, you will descend to the very depths of vulgarity and give me another kiss.”

  “Fie! Fie! You are no true loving knight. Doubtless you even have designs on my fair body—”

  “I certainly have,” Raymond agreed with enthusiasm.

  Alys giggled. “I have a few on yours, also, but I fear not the same as yours on mine. Raymond, you stink like the garderobe. I will have a bath made ready as soon as you are warm enough. Is your servant bringing up your clothes?”

  “I have outstripped them,” Raymond said, beginning to laugh again. “None of the horses could keep pace with Gros Choc, and I would not wait. I have nothing but what I am standing in. If you do not tike the way I smell, you will have to give me clothing.”

  “I am beginning to doubt that you have any clothes beyond what I give you,” Alys chuckled. “And you never give them back, either.”

  “My mother’s maids must have thrown them out, or given them to the servants,” Raymond said carelessly. He was watching Alys’s face closely, still amazed that no matter how beautiful he remembered her to be, she was always lovelier in actuality. An expression of anger or anxiety drew his attention from her perfect features back to what he had said. “Do you care about the clothes, Alys?” he asked. “I am very sorry. I should have thought—”

  “I suppose the rich have no need to consider such things as odd tunics and shirts, but I was never rich, Raymond. We have no contract, no vows have been made. I had hoped you would have stayed longer in your home and considered again whether you wish to marry me.”

  “Alys, what have I done? Will you turn me away for some patched shirts and chausses? I will give you ten garments for each one lost. Good God, I see I am making you angrier with each word. What have I said?”

  “Nothing wrong according to your lights, Raymond, but can you not see how unfit we are for each other? I will always worry about too-small things, things beneath your notice—”