Winter Song

by Roberta Gellis

  “Have you seen any of these places?” Alys asked.

  “Only Benquel. It is a shell keep, like Hurley. The country is fine and rich, but Benquel has suffered much from Marsan’s looking the other way when his men raid.”

  “But you said—”

  “That there would be no trouble and there will be none,” Raymond assured her. “As soon as I offer to do fealty, or rather that you will do fealty, to Marsan for the lands.” He then explained about the history of Benquel. “Once Marsan feels his honor is satisfied,” Raymond concluded, “he will see that no more damage or insult is given. He likes me. I have always paid my dues on my farms on time and have been a visitor in Mont de Marsan. Still, the sooner we come to terms, the better.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Alys agreed. “You are right. We had better marry in haste, so that we can begin to take the lands in hand before winter makes traveling too hard. I will speak to Papa, but I do not see any reason to invite many besides Uncle Richard.”

  Raymond sputtered. “Alys, you are the most unromantic woman. Do you not desire that all the maidens in the kingdom should envy your good fortune?”

  “What good fortune?” Alys teased. “Marrying you? Or the possibility of becoming a widow before the next year is out?”

  “Marrying me, of course! I am strong, rich, handsome, polished in manners—”

  “So you are,” Alys agreed tenderly, throwing her arms around him and kissing him soundly. “And I do not wish to be a widow, ever.”

  Raymond had only been joking, of course, expecting Alys to call him a blackamoor popinjay or to say something else equally sharp. The sudden softness of her voice, the clinging of her lips, nearly overset him. He held her close, prolonging the kiss, and then bent his head to rest his cheek against her headdress.

  “It is not true that I am so great a prize,” Raymond said huskily, “or if it is, it is less than nothing compared with your worth, beloved. You are like the sun, Alys. When you are in sight, all other luminaries pale into insignificance. Let us marry soon, heart of my heart, not to travel before winter or for the lands, but only so that I may the sooner call you my own.”

  Chapter Five

  Alys’s proposal for a modest affair did not meet with the enthusiastic agreement she had expected from her father. When she suggested a one-day feast with only Richard and Sancia and their immediate neighbors as guests, her father sighed and smiled and told her not to be a fool. The nephew-by-marriage of the king of England could not marry in privacy. There was to be a state affair at Wallingford, and the king and queen would attend.

  Despite the fact that Alys was frightened by the huge three-week-long affair that was planned, the wedding was truly joyful. This was more true than for most marriages because both bride and groom were so happy. Then also, there was no mother to sigh over the loss of her baby girl. Elizabeth loved Alys, but Elizabeth never thought of Alys as an infant. Even at five, Alys had been a strong-willed, adult-seeming child. And, although Elizabeth knew she would miss Alys, she also understood that the marriage would save both of them hurt.

  Thus far so much had happened so fast that there had been no time for Alys and Elizabeth to come into conflict over the role of lady of the manor. Had Alys remained in Marlowe, such a conflict was inevitable. Since her mother’s death Alys had run her father’s estates and life. At that time Alys was only ten years old. To some extent, she had assumed the responsibilities even before that, because her mother had been a limp, ineffective woman. Elizabeth, too, was accustomed to being the chatelaine of the estate to a greater degree than most women because her first husband had been indifferent to the lands except as a source of income.

  Now that Elizabeth had married Alys’s father, both women would have needed to live in the same keep. It was right that Elizabeth should manage her husband’s house, yet how could Alys step back? The servants came to her out of habit. She answered their questions out of habit. Elizabeth was sweet and mild of temper, but eventually she would begin to resent this. However, if she put out her hand to take the reins of the household, Alys would not be able to keep from resenting that.

  William understood this as well as Elizabeth. The only solution would have been to separate the women, but then he would have been torn apart between them. If he stayed with Elizabeth, which his heart and body demanded, his conscience would tell him that his daughter was deserted and lonely. He could never be easy or comfortable. Guilt would nag and drag at him. It was this knowledge that made it possible for William to accept his daughter’s marriage with gladness.

  Because William was happy, so was Richard of Cornwall. He was delighted with the marriage for political reasons, but would have been distressed if his old friend had been grieved. The other guests, some of William’s neighbors but mostly Richard of Cornwall’s vassals, were also happy. The neighbors were glad to see Alys so well wedded and so obviously in love with her future husband. Cornwall’s vassals were pleased to meet in an informal and joyful atmosphere the man they would need to obey in the earl’s name, to whom they would render accounts and submit petitions.

  All in all it was a marvelous wedding. The weather was not yet cold enough to imprison everyone inside Wallingford, so hunts and outside entertainments, even a small tournament, were arranged. The grains and vegetables had not yet been so long in storage as to grow musty. The cattle, pigs, and deer were still fat from summer feeding and autumn gleaning so that meats were sweet and succulent, but best of all, everyone was in so good a humor from adequate exercise and mental content that no drunken brawls broke out during the entire week it took the guests to gather from all over Richard of Cornwall’s domain.

  During that week, Alys and Raymond hardly exchanged a single word with each other. Alys and Elizabeth were busy arranging sleeping quarters and table positions so that no one would be offended, and Raymond was as deeply involved in entertaining the gentlemen. The situation was strangely exciting to both—the brief meeting of eyes across the hall, an even briefer touch of fingers on hand or arm or shoulder seemed to arouse more sexual tension between Alys and Raymond than an intimate kiss. Raymond found himself with a heat and pressure in his loins that made him curse the binding of his chausses and bless the looseness of his surcoat. Alys could not put a name to what she felt. Her skin was strangely tingly, and her breasts were so sensitive that she could feel every movement of her shift against her nipples. When Raymond touched her, even as a partner in a public dance, she felt hot and cold and so shy that she could not meet his eyes.

  It was ridiculous to feel shy with Raymond, Alys told herself over and over. She had not forgotten how she had laughed at him, scolded him, instructed him when he first came to serve her father. Tell herself, she could; change her feelings, she could not. Each time Raymond spoke to her, she blushed and dropped her eyes, which nearly melted him with tenderness, even while it excited him still further.

  By the morning of the wedding, both were quivering with eagerness and tension. Raymond’s anxieties were especially peaked by his father-by-marriage. William had begun to glare and snap at him as he realized that only hours remained before his daughter was made a wife and completely removed from his control. As he helped Raymond from the ceremonial bath before dressing the groom for the ceremony, William could not help telling Raymond to be careful in his handling of her. “She is so small,” William said. “In God’s name, do not hurt her.”

  Raymond regarded his future father-by-marriage with some trepidation. “How can I help it?” he asked with mingled nervousness and irritation, rubbing himself vigorously with the drying cloth. “If you know a way to take a maidenhead that does not cause pain, tell me and I will listen.”

  Too anxious to be sensible, William snapped, “It is not a thing with which I am acquainted, both of my wives having been widows. But I have heard the great lords of the south are freer with their vassals’ daughters—”

  “They are not so free as you have heard,” Raymond retorted, grabbing the shirt William held out.
“But what little knowledge I have tells me there is no easy way.” He drew the shirt over his head, but when his face emerged and he caught sight of William’s expression, he laid a hand on his arm. “Forgive me sir. I am… You must know that it will give me no pleasure to hurt Alys.” His voice shook.

  “Nay,” William replied, taking the chausses from another gentleman’s hand and rolling one leg so that Raymond could step into it. “Rather should I beg your pardon, my son. God knows you have no reason but love for desiring my daughter, and I know you to be no light ravisher of women.” He helped Raymond into the garment, then embraced him, and laughed uneasily. “I see her still as a child—that is all.”

  It was fortunate that the king walked in at that moment, and further private conversation was impossible. Henry was in the best of tempers. He smiled largely on his brother, on two of Richard’s vassals who had drawn William away, and most particularly on Raymond, his beloved wife’s nephew, who had provided the opportunity for him to be both benefactor and gainer.

  Having returned all greetings pleasantly, Henry drew Raymond aside. “How long do you plan to stay in England after the wedding?” he asked.

  “To speak the truth,” Raymond replied, “it was my first intention to go as soon as possible because the weather will shortly make passage by sea dangerous. However, if it will serve you that I stay longer, of course I will do so.”

  “No, no,” Henry assured him. “I have no desire to keep you, and in Gascony you could do me a quiet little service.”

  “If I can, I will be most willing,” Raymond replied. He could say nothing else, but inwardly he stiffened.

  The last time Henry had asked for a “trifling service”, Raymond had ended up as a spy in his betrothed’s household. What caused Raymond’s anxiety was that the king’s charm was so great that Raymond had agreed to the dishonorable task with gaiety, as if it were all a jest. The dishonest purpose had not really made an impact on him until he had met Sir William, himself the soul of honesty and honor. Now Raymond regarded the king with considerable caution.

  “I have allowed a thousand pounds to the mayor and commune of Bordeaux for the strengthening of the walls of that city,” Henry said. “Since you will be of the council, will you look at this work and see if it is being properly done?”

  That seemed innocent enough. Raymond opened his mouth to say, “Gladly,” and instead said, “Is this not the seneschal’s duty? Do you believe him to have put the money to other uses?”

  “Not at all,” Henry assured him. “This money did not go through de Molis’s hands. It was a direct grant to the mayor and burgesses of the town. Er…you had not heard, perhaps, that it was necessary for me to reorder the governing of Bordeaux?”

  “Bordeaux? No. I had not heard, but I suppose whatever the form of the government, I can count on the support of my mother’s kinsman, Rustengo de Soler.”

  The king cleared his throat. “Well…er…he is no longer the mayor, but I will give you a letter to Peter Calhau that will smooth your path.”

  “Calhau!” Raymond echoed.

  Calhau was a Colom, if not by name in every other way, and the Coloms were deadly enemies to the de Solers. What the king had said meant that the power structure in Bordeaux had shifted, or been shifted by Henry, from Raymond’s relatives to their enemies. The Coloms would not be very happy to see Rustengo’s kinsman in possession of Blancheforte or on the town council. The king’s request, then, could scarcely have anything to do with the walls. Suddenly Raymond realized that if the de Solers desired to take back power, it would be most convenient for them to do so while the seneschal was busy in the south with the threat of the king of Navarre and Gaston of Béarn. But what in the world did Henry expect him to do, Raymond wondered. Every utterance he made would be regarded by Calhau with suspicion and distrust.

  “It is not likely that Calhau will regard me with favor,” Raymond remarked, striving to keep any reserve from his voice.

  Henry smiled seraphically. “He will not wish to disoblige me and, I think, will not be so stupid as to scorn a bridge to your kinsman. A strong bridge is a useful place for meeting and settling small difficulties. Also, your kinsman will be glad to know that I have favored you with Blancheforte and a seat on the council of Bordeaux.”

  “Yes, of course,” Raymond replied.

  It was possible that Henry was thinking of shifting his influence back to the Soler faction, or wanted them to believe that the possibility existed. Most likely of all, Henry had no idea what he would want or need to do. Raymond would be a convenient conduit for information and opinion.

  “I will do my best to serve you, Sire,” Raymond added, hoping that the king would not regard that as a promise, but knowing quite well that he would.

  “And when you go south to Amou—” Henry began.

  “Henry!” Richard of Cornwall interrupted, his voice rich with protest. “This is Raymond’s wedding day. He is not finished dressing. Do you wish him to be late at the church door and break his bride’s heart? Besides, how much of your instructions can you expect a bridegroom to remember?”

  “I will remember,” Raymond assured the king fervently, in the hope that he would be spared further discussion, which could only involve him more deeply.

  The last little stratagem into which Henry had pushed him had worked out well for all concerned, but Raymond was certain that that was by a special effort of the Merciful Mother, who puts out her hand to support all well-meaning fools, himself included. He did not, however, wish to try Holy Mary’s patience by falling into another imbroglio of the king’s making. Thus far, Henry had no time to demand more of him than to be the grease between the grinding gears of Bordeaux politics. Even that was no easy place to be. Most often, the grease is pressed out flat and discarded.

  Raymond liked Henry, but he was also aware of the king’s propensity for using people and, far worse, for blaming them when his plans did not work out just as he expected. All the while that the attending gentlemen drew on his tunic and his surcoat, adjusted the magnificent gold-wired jewel-encrusted sword belt that was Richard of Cornwall’s token wedding gift, then hung around him the heavy gold collar that was King Henry’s token, broad enough to spread from shoulder to shoulder, Raymond mulled over the king’s words. He no longer noticed William’s nervousness, and his own dissipated under the pressure of the new problem.

  Alys’s eagerness had peaked the preceding evening. She had barely been able to restrain herself from crying out and snatching her hand away when Raymond took it. She had cried herself to sleep from pure nervousness, however, she did sleep, and when she woke, knowing that the wedding was today, this day, that she would need to wait no longer, a quiet contentment filled her. She was not at all nervous about the wedding itself, and she simply refused to think of the future, since it was now too late to worry about it. When she was dressed, she was able to smile quite naturally as Elizabeth drew her forward to the polished silver oval that showed her reflection.

  Alys looked at her image with mingled amusement and satisfaction. The cloth-of-gold underdress matched almost exactly her loose hair, which was now, strange as it seemed to her, flowing freely, unconfined except for the diamond and sapphire garland that had been part of Raymond’s betrothal gift. Only on a maiden’s wedding day was her hair displayed—and a fine display it was, hanging in deep waves almost to her thighs and curling at the ends. Where a few shorter strands fell forward over her shoulders, they mingled with the gold thread arabesques embroidered into the rich blue velvet of the overdress.

  Blue, the color of purity, Virgin Mary’s color, had been chosen for this last day on which Alys would be a maid, but also because the color matched Alys’s eyes. The wide armholes of the outer gown displayed the long, tight-buttoned sleeves of the cloth-of-gold underdress. Alys frowned. The sapphires and diamonds of Raymond’s bracelets could be seen, but the handsome gold settings were not at their best on cloth-of-gold. Ah well, she thought, the work showed excellently where
the necklet crossed the blue gown.

  Beneath the hem were bright, red-dyed leather shoes, all gold-embroidered and set with gems to match the gold girdle that hung low on Alys’s hips, both Sancia’s gift, and Elizabeth was bringing the queen’s present, a magnificent cloak, scarlet wool of the finest weave, lined with soft gray fur from hood to hem.

  “He will be ravished,” Queen Eleanor said in Alys’s ear. “You need not study to see if you are perfect.”

  “Oh, thank you, madame,” Alys murmured, “but Raymond must be accustomed to finer dress, I think. And I had no other jewels than these he gave me, but… I will not shame him, will I? Am I fine enough?”

  “Quite fine enough, nor yet too fine,” the queen assured her, laughing. “However, it was not of your clothes I spoke, you silly child. Do you not know yourself beautiful?”

  Alys frowned. “I am well enough. Men like to look upon me, yes, I know it. But if Raymond takes me for that, he is the greatest fool in the world.”

  “You are most eager to be a wife,” Eleanor said softly, remembering how frightened she had been, less than fourteen and sent to marry a man fifteen years older whom she had never seen. She had been trained for it, of course, and had expected it. She had wanted to be a queen like her sister Margaret, who had married Louis of France. Nonetheless, she had been afraid, not eagerly happy. Most girls were afraid, for their lives lay in their husbands’ hands.

  “Yes,” Alys replied seriously. “I love Raymond, and it is sure he loves me, for I had nothing he could desire before the king’s and Uncle Richard’s generosity increased my dower. Why should I not be eager, since the keeping of my husband’s love will be in my hands, and it is my first purpose in life to be a good wife?”