Winter Song

by Roberta Gellis

  “You did not agree, did you?” Alys asked anxiously.

  “What would you have me do? It is your keep, after all,” Raymond replied sharply.

  Alys blinked. “It is ours while we both live,” she said softly, “mine to keep in order; yours to defend. I would have you do what is best, but only you can know that, my lord.”

  Raymond sighed. “Forgive me, my love. I am sorely out of temper. Now I will take that wine you offered, but water it well.” As she rose to serve him, he continued. “I did not deny him outright, but he understood and, I think, regretted saying so much to me. Before I left, he spoke strongly of the ties of blood and what kinsmen owe each other.”

  Alys stiffened. “He will not seek to do you harm to ensure your silence?”

  “Oh, no.” Raymond dismissed that with a casual wave and a smile. “What troubles me is that word may come to de Molis, who might divide his force. Between thee and me, my love, I do not care who rules Bordeaux, but if Navarre overruns the south, the claiming of your dower lands may not be so easy. So far Navarre and de Molis are in the west and away from our estates, and I do not fear my uncle Gaston—he will not oppose our taking possession, although he may ask terms I will not like—but if de Molis is utterly beaten, Navarre will turn to fight Béarn, and we may be swallowed on the way.”

  He sipped from the cup Alys handed him and stretched his long legs, obviously soothed and more at ease although he was talking of trouble. Alys held her breath. From the light in her husband’s eyes, she knew he was considering going south to join the fighting. Then he sighed and shrugged.

  “I could not gather enough men to help de Molis without taking possession of the lands, and that would take so long that whatever is now happening will by then be already decided. No, I like it not, but for our safety, as well as to satisfy the king’s will, I must bide here and do what I can to divert Rustengo from this lunacy.”

  Alys was so relieved that color flooded up into her face, which had been pale with fright, and she jumped up and kissed Raymond, murmuring that he was very wise. Seeing at once how her mind worked, Raymond laughed, but he held her close with an arm around her waist and put down his cup.

  “The devil fly away with Rustengo and whole city of Bordeaux,” he said, “and with Amou and Ibos, also. I should have taken you direct to Tour Dur, where such stupidities would not interfere between us.”

  “They cannot interfere,” Alys responded, allowing him to pull her against him as he rose.

  In the chamber behind, the bed was ready. It had not been warmed, but Alys did not worry about that. They would warm it quickly enough themselves.

  Chapter Eight

  Making love, though, was not the end of Alys’s day. She left Raymond sleeping and came down to see that the serfs got their potage, and that those who had been dragged in were sent home. By then, Raymond was up and out on the walls of Blancheforte with Arnald, examining the condition of the defenses. Between his raving over the neglect and more talk about the problems in Bordeaux, Alys never got to tell him about her conclusions concerning Master Ernaldus, the bailiff. In the morning, Raymond went off early to present himself and his letter from the king to Peter Calhau.

  Alys, of course, broke her fast with him, but she felt incomplete. She had not heard Mass. Of course, there had been no priest aboard the ship, but that situation had been so different that she had not noticed one more break in her normal routine. Here in Bordeaux it was suddenly apparent that something was missing. In Marlowe, the priest had come every morning to say Mass in the keep chapel. True, Alys did not really listen, her mind roving over the various duties of the day or other matters sadly unrelated to God. Nonetheless, she was certain that the holy words had some beneficent effect, like a magic charm to ward off ill, and today she felt the lack. Moreover, there was a chapel, and she reminded herself, she was rich now, rich enough to support a chaplain. The chapel was all empty, except for the carvings of saints and the crucifix, but it could be refurnished—all except for the priest.

  Alys told Bertha to summon the eldest of the maidservants, and when the woman came, barely able to walk for trembling, she said, “There is nothing to fear. What is your name?”

  “Mary, madame,” the woman whispered.

  “Very well, Mary. Do you know who is the priest who said Mass before the keep was emptied?”

  “It was Father Paul, but that was long ago. I think he is dead, madame. He was old.”

  “Does no one come now? What of Sunday? Who listens to confession and gives the viaticum to the dying?”

  “No one comes.” Tears rose in Mary’s eyes. “Those who were strong enough walked to Saint Remy’s, when the soldiers permitted it.”

  That was what Alys wanted to know. Saint Remy’s was the church to which Blancheforte belonged. “Comfort yourself,” she said to the maid. “There will soon be a priest here, I hope.” She waved the maid away and sent for Arnald, thinking that it would be another busy day. When he had sketched a bow before her, she asked, “Did the serfs return?”

  “Most of them did.”

  “Were all fed?”

  Arnald grinned and nodded. The food had served its purpose, drawing those hungry beggars back despite their fear of the keep. “Yes. Bread and cheese this morning, but there will not be enough for many more days, three or four at most.”

  “That will be enough, I hope. I had no time to discuss the matter of buying supplies with Lord Raymond, as he had other troubles, but I hope he will give me leave to order what we need tomorrow. Now for today, there are three things that must be done. We must have rushes for the floors. See if you can find out whether Blancheforte cuts its own supply and where. If it has its own, send out a party at once to obtain them. Second, I must ride to Bordeaux to see if I can get a priest to come and say Mass. Third, I must ride over the demesne. From what I have heard, the bailiff has been wringing this place dry and keeping all for himself.”

  “It must be so,” Arnald agreed. “There is land enough and good land, too, to stock the keep and feed the people, yet the storerooms, except for two, are not only empty, but fallen in. Thus, it is not one year’s bad crops that have emptied them, but many years of neglect.”

  “I must see the land for myself, then, to judge what the yield should be.” Alys’s eyes gleamed. “I will have back from that bailiff every groat I can squeeze out of him.”

  “I will order the horses, my lady,” Arnald said, and went to do so. He felt a strong sense of satisfaction. Like most men-at-arms, he had never hesitated to take a woman or a chicken or pig from the serfs on occasion, but he was horrified at the condition of the people on Blancheforte’s lands. It gave his profession a bad name. If the bailiff had allowed such license, he must be punished. Nor did he doubt Alys would do what she had said. Arnald knew Sir William to be a kind and just man, yet he could scythe like the grim reaper when he felt he had been cheated, and Alys was her father’s daughter.

  When they left, with four men beside himself to ensure Alys’s safety, she gave instructions to Hugo that he was not to admit anyone—except Raymond, of course—to Blancheforte while she was gone.

  “I do not care if it be the Kings of England and France together,” Alys said. “It will be on my head. You do not need to give your name, nor should you say more than you were bidden to hold the keep closed until your master or mistress return. Not even the party with the rushes is to be admitted. They must wait by the gates until I or Lord Raymond return.”

  The excursion was a great success. The priest at Saint Remy welcomed Alys almost as reverently as he would have welcomed a holy visitation after she informed him she was the new holder of Blancheforte. He had a long list of grievances, tithes not paid, personal abuse when he wished to visit the people in the keep, mistreatment of those people when they wished to come to church, and other insults. He had complained to his superiors, but nothing was done. Here an expression of anxiety crossed his face. Alys could read the thought. She was very young, perhaps the b
ailiff would have more power or influence than she. Alys made no promises, for she recognized that there might be more behind Master Ernaldus than she knew, however, he could no longer control Blancheforte, and she wanted a priest. This, she was promised, would be arranged.

  The inspection of the demesne was equally satisfactory. Alys looked over the fields and saw how the stubble lay, which fields were fallow, and the color of the earth. The land, she judged, was rich as Marlowe’s, and it had not been mistreated. Doubtless the bailiff had seen many, many years of profit to be had from it. There were vineyards, too, but Alys frowned on those. She knew nothing about grapes. Any new bailiff they appointed would need to be experienced in the culture of the vines. Finally, most interesting of all was the cattle on the common. It was a large herd, all fat, the cows with heavy udders. Obviously these animals did not belong to the ragged, starving serfs. Possibly the bailiff considered them his, but they were on her land. Alys sent a man to fetch the herdsman to her. Finding that it was as she suspected, her smile broadened. She left two men-at-arms to make sure no one tried to remove the herd and to see that they were driven up to the keep at the end of the day.

  They rode back to Blancheforte then, Alys casting nervous glances at the sun and realizing she had been out longer than she had expected. She knew that what she had been doing was necessary, but she hoped that Raymond had not yet returned. Alys’s limited experience told her that men liked their women to be at hand. Her father had always expected her to be ready to talk or listen or serve him first. Other duties were to be fitted in as best she could. Therefore, it was with relief that she noticed carts piled high with rushes before the gate.

  The waiting carts meant that Raymond was not yet at home, so Alys did not increase the pace, discussing with Arnald where it would be most convenient to pen the cattle. It was not until they were quite close that the sound of angry voices came to her. Alys had a momentary fear that Hugo had misunderstood her and would not permit her husband to enter his own keep, but in the next moment she saw that the horse on which the shouting man was mounted was not Gros Choc, Raymond’s destrier.

  It was a very handsome animal, however, and the cloak and hat were also fine. Alys beckoned to Arnald and touched her mare with her heels, thinking up soothing speeches. If this were Raymond’s kinsman, she would need to spread a thick grease of sweet words to soothe this additional hurt. As they cantered up, Alys heard Hugo call down, “Here is my mistress now.”

  “So,” the man said, turning on her furiously, “you gave the orders to close this keep. By what right?”

  “It is mine,” Alys answered calmly.

  As she replied, she heard the soft slither of Arnald’s sword as it came out of its sheath. There were four armed men with the enraged stranger and their hands were on their hilts, but Alys was not alarmed. Two of her men-at-arms were behind the carts of rushes, Peter and Aelfric were coming forward. With Arnold, the five men could certainly protect her for the few minutes it would take the rest of the men in the keep to rush out. It was more important to Alys that the man could not be Rustengo de Soler. Rustengo would not nave needed to ask her right to close the gates of Blancheforte.

  “Yours! Who are you?” the man shouted.

  “I am Alys d’Aix, née Marlowe, and Blancheforte is part of my dower lands,” she replied, keeping her voice from betraying irritation. If this man were some person of importance, she did not wish to cast oil on the flames of his wrath. “And who are you, sir, that you question my right to close my own gates?”

  There was a brief silence while the man gaped and choked. Finally he said, “Forgive me, my lady. I could not believe it could be you. I had just come to look over the place to see… But you cannot be staying here. I did not expect you so soon. I have a house all furnished, most commodious and comfortable, for you in Bordeaux.”

  “Oh? That is most kind.” Alys’s voice still had no expression. “But you have not yet told me your name.”

  “I am so overset to see you. I do not know whether I am on my head or my heels. Do pardon me. I am your bailiff, Master Ernaldus.”

  “So. No wonder you were surprised that the gates were closed.” That remark came out too sharply. Alys bit her lip and choked back her rage. She wanted the fly safely inside her web. “Hugo,” she called, “you may open for us.”

  The unusually elegant appearance of the bailiff had reminded Alys of the priest’s worried expression. She did not think Ernaldus could have extracted enough from Blancheforte alone to make him as rich as the horse and clothing hinted, therefore, it was possible that he had a powerful protector or protectors. The idea did not diminish Alys’s determination to remove Blancheforte from his care and recover the rents he had swallowed. It merely convinced her to be cautious about how she did it.

  In the meantime, groans and screeches marked the lifting of the gate bars. The gates themselves ground open and the mounted party rode in, followed by the carts. On the inner wall the portcullis was already grinding upward. Alys did her best to keep her face a mask while she stole quick glances at the bailiff. He was frowning slightly as they passed through the outer section, clearly too deep in thought to notice any change. Once in the inner bailey, however, he was shocked to see men and women cleaning and repairing the outbuildings, burning rubbish, and washing clothing and pallet covers. They had been talking and laughing, but it cut off—even motion froze—when they saw Ernaldus.

  “What?” he gasped. “Who are these people?”

  “My serfs,” Alys replied coolly, and then added lightly, “I have a bone to pick with you, Master Ernaldus—which is not surprising since all you have left here is a bone.”

  As if he had not heard her, and indeed his surprise was so great that her answer might not have sunk into him, he asked, “Where are the guardsmen who were here?”

  “In the prison cell of the donjon. Oh dear, I forgot all about them. Did you remember them, Arnald?”

  The master-at-arms’ sword was back in its sheath. The bailiff’s attendants would know from what Alys had said that to start a fight was suicide. They were four against they-knew-not-how-many. The portcullis rumbled down again, and the bailiff looked over his shoulder and swallowed convulsively. He had realized he was in a trap.

  “Yes, I remembered them, my lady,” Arnald replied. “They had a bucket of the filth the cook had put aside for the servants before we came yesterday, and some water.”

  “Good. I would not want them to die before Lord Raymond can put them to the question.” Alys turned her head in time to catch the bailiff’s expression, and she smiled. “Will you not come in, Master Ernaldus?” she asked sweetly. “Perhaps you would dine with us? My husband will soon be home, I believe.”

  “Come in? Dine?” The bailiff’s eyes were protruding with a mixture of terror and horror.

  Alys was enjoying herself. She might not be able to recover in gold or goods everything the bailiff had stolen, but she was already being repaid in part. She fixed the man with her wide, innocent eyes.

  “Our meal will be necessarily simple,” she apologized, “since Blancheforte is mysteriously without the stores it should hold, but I am sure you will understand and make allowances.”

  Without giving him time to reply, she turned to Arnald. “Take Master Ernaldus’s men and see that they are properly entertained,” she said. “Do them no hurt,” she added in English, delighted to have a private language, “but keep them out of the hall.”

  On the words, Arnald let out a piercing whistle, and men-at-arms began to converge on the party from all sides. Ernaldus’s men hesitated only a moment before they came off their horses. The odds, with the portcullis closed, were too great, even for mounted men. The bailiff sat in his saddle, dumbfound.

  “Surely,” Alys said sweetly, “you will not reject my hospitality, poor as it must be. There is much we must discuss, and I know my lord and husband has a great, even an urgent, desire to meet you.”

  It was not a statement designed to calm a man
with a guilty conscience. Aelfric and Peter had dismounted during Alys’s ingenuous speech. She slid down into Aelfric’s arms, but Peter had to help the bailiff from his saddle. Master Ernaldus looked around desperately, but his men were halfway down the bailey, accompanied by Alys’s men-at-arms. The trap had closed, and Ernaldus knew it. He had never dreamed that the holders of Blancheforte would arrive so soon. He had doubted that they would come at all, although he had taken the precaution of ordering that the place be made as filthy as possible so that they would not stay an hour if they should come. The technique had worked for years, royal inspectors taking one look and marking the place as too much trouble for too little worth.

  Ernaldus could not imagine why the practice had failed this time. The keep was useless. The demesne was only enough to support Blancheforte itself when fully manned, and why man a keep that could not really be defended? Although he had made a foolish mistake by coming in, Ernaldus was not really stupid. He recognized the amusement beneath Alys’s innocent words and manner and knew she was toying with him as a cat toys with a bird or mouse. He was so frightened that the massive cleanup outside, the carts of rushes, made no impression on him.

  Thus, he was stunned to find all perfectly clean, smelling of nothing worse than the smoke that escaped from the fireplaces and the resinous torches used for light at night. Master Ernaldus had been unable to conceive why Alys should drag him into the noisome interior of the keep unless she intended to torture or kill him. The ordinary appearance of the place abolished the specter of violence, and the bailiff began to recover his self-possession and ability to think.