Winter Song

by Roberta Gellis

  “So Raymond said. It was my fault we did not come. I was afraid to impose unannounced guests and twenty-one men also. Then, too, Blancheforte is part of my dower. It would be wrong if it were a drain on my husband’s purse instead of a gain to him. And even beyond that, I do not like to be cheated. When Raymond writes to the king and queen, I will ask him to complain for me of Master Ernaldus’s doing and tell them of their bailiff’s dishonesty.” Alys allowed an expression of spite to show on her face. “I would not take the chance of avenging myself on a servant of the king because King Henry might take offense at such presumption. But I will have my revenge nonetheless. I know King Henry. He will see that Master Ernaldus suffers for cheating him.”

  So Raymond writes to the king, Rustengo thought, and sits on the council. And, knowing Raymond, Rustengo was sure he had told the king he was kinsman to the de Solers. Henry, then, must know Raymond was unlikely to damage his own interests by telling tales of those bound to him in blood. Insensibly, Rustengo’s mind took the path Alys had laid out for it to the conclusion that Henry now must regard his alliance with the Coloms as a mistake and, by giving Raymond a place in the council of Bordeaux, might be seeking a way to back out of that arrangement and to renewing his connection with the de Solers.

  Rustengo had already begun to reconsider inciting massive violence in the city. Raymond had virtually refused to raise the questions that would set the spark to that action, and Rustengo did not have another suitable pawn available. Now he began to think that it might be worth a few months or a year—provided Calhau and his party made no aggressive moves against him—to work more subtly and see whether the king would place the power back in his hands where it belonged.

  Not that he would sit with folded hands, of course. There was much that could be done to undermine the Coloms and make the guildsmen of the town dissatisfied with their rule. But there was no need for violence, not yet, even though the seneschal’s preoccupation with Navarre made the opportunity riper, in that he could not react fully. Still, in another sense the threat from Navarre increased the danger. Violence now might be called treason in time of war. De Molis would not hold the reins long. He was already bitter over the burden. A better opportunity might occur when a new man was appointed, especially if he was a fool. In any case Navarre and Béarn would not give up easily. They would cause plenty of trouble at other times.

  Violence, Rustengo thought, was a weapon that could be used at any time. Moreover, it would look more natural, less suspicious, if more time had elapsed between the violence and the change of administration. It would give a chance for dissatisfaction, real and incited, to grow. Indeed, Rustengo thought, Raymond’s girl-wife had a point, even though she probably did not know she had made it. Rustengo was remembering events ten years past of which he had heard from the previous seneschal, Turbeville. Henry did have a long and vindictive memory.

  Rustengo had meanwhile been replying with half a mind to Alys’s remarks about Master Ernaldus. Finally, when she changed to the topic of supplies for Blancheforte, Rustengo sent out with her the clerk who purchased his own supplies. After she was gone, however, the thought of Ernaldus returned to him. He did not like the man—a baseborn bastard of a cousin who had been irresponsible enough to acknowledge the child, have him raised in the household, and then not provide for him in any way. Still, Ernaldus was a connection, even though the cousin was dead. Rustengo sighed and sent a servant to tell the bailiff to come to the house as soon as possible.

  Not surprisingly, Ernaldus was not at home when Rustengo’s message was delivered, however, he arrived at Rustengo’s house soon after dinner. With characteristic lack of tact—men of power do not need to be tactful to inferiors they do not like—Rustengo told Ernaldus that it would be wise for him to leave. Not only to leave Bordeaux, but to leave Gascony.

  “You will do better,” Rustengo said, “where the hand of the king of England cannot reach. I think it is too late for restitution.”

  It had occurred to Rustengo, once he considered the problem, that this would be an excellent opportunity to rid the family altogether of a member who could only do them harm. He certainly did not want attention drawn to the bailiff’s dishonesty by an attempt to buy peace. Furthermore, such an attempt might frighten away Ernaldus’s other patrons so that, as head of the family, Rustengo would be saddled with the responsibility of a pauper Ernaldus.

  “If you try to restore what you have stolen from the king,” Rustengo continued, “others will begin to look to their accounts, and no matter how honest those are, they will be dissatisfied and believe you have robbed them.”

  “Lady Alys,” Ernaldus hissed, so enraged that he did not even attempt to deny the theft of which he was accused.

  “Yes. I have tried to reason with her,” Rustengo averred most untruthfully, “but it was impossible. Moreover, she had already spoken to Calhau. You would have had to leave Bordeaux in any case. Calhau will leap at the chance to do the de Solers harm by exposing you. My advice is to change all the goods and property you can for gold, take that, and go into France or Navarre. With the money in hand, you will have no trouble in establishing yourself. A change of name might help also, and an honorable reason for leaving home.”

  “But I did not intend to cheat them,” Ernaldus groaned, hoping to find a way out in spite of what Rustengo said. “I had a fine house all readied for them in the town. I had the money ready. I told her—”

  “She took it amiss that the serfs were starved,” Rustengo said dryly, interrupting an outpouring he did not believe and in which he was not at all interested.

  For a moment surprise blotted out Ernaldus’s rage and fear. “Why?” he protested. “What does it matter? There are always more of those animals than anyone needs. Feed them, and they grow more numerous and starve in the end anyway.”

  “Women take notions.” Rustengo was still not interested.

  “But surely Lord Raymond is not such a fool,” Ernaldus cried. “If I explained the matter to him—”

  “In the first place, he is not in Blancheforte,” Rustengo interrupted again. “He has gone to Marsan for one or two nights. In the second place, I would not count on his support. He and Lady Alys are new-wed, and she is both rich and very beautiful. In the third place, it is, as I have already told you, too late. Lady Alys has already spoken to Calhau.” Rustengo knew Alys had asked the mayor not to prosecute, but he had grown enamored of the idea of being rid of Ernaldus, who was boring him. “Thus, even if you could convince Lord Raymond to prevent his wife from complaining to the king or her powerful relatives, which I do not think you can do, Calhau will still certainly expose your so-called dishonesty to ingratiate himself with King Henry.”

  Ernaldus moaned. Rustengo looked at him without sympathy. “It would be wise for you to go and go quickly,” Rustengo said, “before others hear of this matter and begin to pluck you.”

  It did not end there, of course. It took some while to convince Ernaldus that the protection of the family had been withdrawn, that if Calhau prosecuted him, he would not be defended to save face but thrown to the wolves. That was not the way Rustengo put it, naturally, but that was the way Ernaldus thought of it. First desperation took hold of him and he wept and pleaded, but this only made Rustengo angry.

  “You are scarcely going naked into the world,” he growled. “I am not totally a fool. Take your gold and find yourself a widow with a good business. If you do not go—and at that, swiftly—I will see that you trouble me no more.”

  Realizing that Rustengo was adamant and that further pleas or arguments would make his case worse, Ernaldus fled. At first he was so terrified at the thought of being cut loose that he could do no more than shiver. He guessed now that many he had robbed—less obviously and for smaller amounts than he had robbed Blancheforte, but robbed nonetheless—had held their tongues because he was a de Soler. But if he had to leave Gascony, that name would no longer protect him. What would he do? How would he live? He had money and goods, but
not enough to support him for the rest of his life in the style to which he had been bred.

  Ernaldus thought of Rustengo’s advice and nearly threw up. That advice might serve for other men, but not for him. He would never have a wife and family and relations-by-marriage.

  He had to stay in Gascony where his blood kin were, or he would be naked in the world. He thought of his half brothers and shuddered. They would not stand up for him against Rustengo because they were cowards, he told himself. He would not admit that he had long ago worn out his welcome in their hearts by his behavior and demands. Always feeling “cheated” by his birth, Ernaldus had spent his life trying “to get back his own”, but all he won were enemies.

  He knew, however, that Rustengo’s last threat was not idle. If he did not leave Bordeaux, an “accident” would befall him. But to be alone in the world? He shivered with terror, his heart pounded, and his head whirled. Then, suddenly, the world steadied. His sister—half sister—had married and left Gascony. He ran to the room in which he did business and scrabbled among the papers. Isabel was older than he, had married and left Gascony many years before, but she had never forgotten her family, particularly the young bastard brother for whom she felt sorry.

  Over the years small gifts and letters of news had come from Isabel. The news was of no interest and the gifts were of little value, but Ernaldus had always thanked his sister and replied to her letters. It cost him nothing, his replies being sent with those of his half brothers. It came back to him that she lived at Les Baux in Provence and that she had frequently, especially in these latter years, written of her desire to see her brothers again. Or was his own desire for a safe haven deceiving him?

  He found her letters and scanned the latest. No, there it was, twice, in fact. Ernaldus sighed with relief. He remembered that his sister was now a widow living with an only son, the youngest of her children. Ah, here it was. The boy (man?) would not listen to his mother—naturally not, Ernaldus thought, no sensible man would listen to a woman. Then rage flicked him. Rustengo had listened to a woman. Ernaldus made an effort to concentrate on the letter.

  Isabel desired her brother’s presence, it seemed, not only because she was growing older and wished to see those dear to her in her youth before she died, but because she felt her son needed the counsel of an older man. Well, well. For a while Ernaldus forgot his rage and fear. To be a trusted counselor instead of a servant barely tolerated as a gentleman would be a pleasant change. Isabel knew her half brother was a bastard, of course, but not that his father—the old fool!—had left him nothing and that his half brothers had virtually cast him out.

  Ernaldus sat back and breathed softly. He was remembering more and more from Isabel’s letters and combining it with general knowledge. Les Baux was not far from Arles, and he knew of a ship that was leaving for Arles in two days’ time. Free of panic now that he had a haven and a way to reach it, Ernaldus began to plan what to do and how to salvage most of his possessions. Then he set out with great energy to put the plans into effect.

  Returning home in a foul temper, for much of the worth of anything is lost in a quick, forced sale, Ernaldus opened his strongbox to throw in the money he had collected. As he withdrew his hand, it was scratched by a sharp edge. Ernaldus cursed and put his finger to his mouth. Then an even blacker frown crossed his face, and he scrabbled in the box. Coins did not have sharp edges. Almost immediately he came up with the offender—a large iron key.

  For a moment when he saw the heavy metal object which had hurt him, Ernaldus’s rage rose in him until he almost screamed aloud and beat the walls with his hands. He had recognized the key at once. It opened the small secret door meant to be an escape route for those in Blancheforte in the days when the keep was in use. Then, abruptly, he became still. He was to be made an outcast and driven away, was he? For what—a few paltry louis d’or? That was not a crime deserving of exile! He stared at the key. It could not open the way to restoring his old life, but it could open a path for revenge—a sweet, sweet revenge.

  Unlike Master Ernaldus, Alys had enjoyed a delightful day. Her visit to Rustengo had been an outstanding success. She felt she had smoothed the path for a better relationship between Raymond and his kinsman and, perhaps, even planted a seed that might make him think twice about using force to oppose the Coloms. Moreover, she was certain he did not suspect that that had been her intention. In addition, between the use of Calhau’s name and the company of Rustengo’s steward, she had arranged to stock Blancheforte for a very reasonable sum.

  Matters within the keep were also going very well. The servants no longer trembled and shrank away quite so much each time her eyes fell on them nor came near to fainting if summoned to speak to her. The young priest was even a greater prize than Alys had thought. Father François could not only read and write devotional books but keep accounts, and for all his youth, seemed well able to judge between a malingerer’s whining and a person with a real problem. Between Father François and the bailiff Raymond would bring, there seemed a good chance that Blancheforte’s problems would be solved.

  Alys went to bed in the best of good humors, pleasantly tired from her active day—and could not sleep! She had been aware of missing Raymond at dinnertime. Father François was too shy when she invited him to join her at table to carry on an easy conversation, but this was different. The bed was cold and empty. Alys felt so lonely for Raymond’s warmth and strong arms that she could have wept. She told herself severely not to be a fool. After all, she had slept alone all of her life, except for the past few weeks. It was impossible to become so dependent on her husband’s company in just a few weeks.

  Raymond’s day was not yet over at the time Alys had retired to bed, but it had been equally pleasant. The weather was cold but dry and the roads better than he had expected. He had arrived in Sir Oliver’s keep before dusk and had been welcomed most warmly. Beyond that, he found that most of his work had been done for him. Eager to be free of the constant annoyance of petty depredations, Sir Oliver had sent a messenger to the Vicomte de Marsan as soon as he had Raymond’s letter. Respectfully, Sir Oliver announced that he had a new overlord who was already beholden to Marsan.

  Sir Oliver’s letter had brought a most courteous reply, mentioning Raymond’s proposals and graciously commending Sir Oliver’s past behavior in the face of provocation. That provocation would cease instantly, the vicomte wrote, and he considered with pleasure the opportunity to be on friendly terms in the future. Thus, when Raymond arrived in Benquel, a man was sent out immediately to Marsan. Within the hour he was back, bearing an invitation to ride to Marsan at the first opportunity. So it was that Raymond and Sir Oliver sat up late discussing what terms to accept or to counteroffer and making arrangements about the men-at-arms Raymond wanted to take back with him if he and Marsan should come to an agreement.

  However, when Raymond did at last go to bed, he, too, found it hard to sleep. Despite his long ride and a considerable quantity of wine, he missed his wife acutely. Sir Oliver had offered him a maidservant to warm his bed if he desired it, but without a thought Raymond had rejected the offer. He was in no physical need and found the idea somehow distasteful, particularly when coupled with the knowledge that, in a week or two, Alys would be lying beside him in that same bed.

  This refusal owed nothing to the idea that his wife might be angry if she heard. The notion that Alys might feel she had a right to an opinion on such a subject never entered Raymond’s head. Although he was too much of a gentleman ever to humiliate his wife, even had he not loved her, by keeping a mistress in her home as some men did, he felt strongly that it was his decision to make. It was a wife’s place to accept gratefully her husband’s courtesy on such matters.

  Early the next morning Raymond and Sir Oliver rode to Marsan. There everything continued as pleasantly as it had begun. Marsan’s demands were well within Raymond’s and Sir Oliver’s limits, allowing Raymond to close with his offer without haggling. Marsan assured Sir Oliver that the
re would be no more attacks on his farms or serfs, or if there should be, that swift punishment of the malefactors would follow any report of misbehavior. Even when Raymond explained the tenure of the land was his wife’s, there was no hitch in the proceedings. Marsan thought it was very funny at first, but, as soon as he considered the matter seriously, he understood King Henry’s reluctance to chance a double overlordship. He waved away any suggestion that a stronger assurance than Raymond’s word was needed to bind the agreement.

  “Whenever you chance to come by will be soon enough for your lady to do me homage,” he said, still chuckling at the notion of a female vassal. “Although I must say that this will be the first time I have ever looked forward eagerly to giving a vassal the kiss of peace.”

  Raymond laughed also, but the words set off a wave of longing in him for Alys. It was ridiculous. He had been away from her for little over a day. As long as his mind was fixed on business, he was not conscious of missing her, but now that he saw hours of small talk ahead of him, he felt a vast impatience. It was, however, impossible to leave at once. Raymond knew he must stay for dinner and relate the news of the English court. Certainly Marsan’s courtesy deserved reciprocity.

  The least of Raymond’s accomplishments, however, was playacting. Although he kept his face bland and his voice smooth, a certain tenseness betrayed him. Marsan knew him from previous visits. When the vicomte had extracted the information he considered important about King Henry’s present policy and advisers, he cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Raymond and asked if he were pressed for time. Raymond had no intention of making a laughingstock of himself by saying he missed his wife, but he thought immediately that the situation in Bordeaux would make a fine excuse and used it.