From time to time as the weeks passed and Master Ernaldus entrenched himself more and more firmly in his half sister’s household, he bestowed a thought on Lady Alys. It was a pleasure to remember that she was dead, and all in all, he was grateful to her. Because of her meddling, he was better situated than ever in his life. He had respect and a measure of power. He was not making much money now because he was establishing a reputation for inflexible honesty, but he was not in need of money—all his living expenses were covered by Guillaume des Baux—and he would make more and more profit as he became better established. Yes, Lady Alys had done him a good turn, but she had not meant to and he had repaid her as best befitted those who interfere. He hoped she had not died too cleanly.
Alys, of course, had never given Ernaldus another thought. Raymond had held to his decision not to mention the man’s escape or the fact that the bailiff might be in Provence, not so very far from Aix. Even if Raymond had told her, at the moment Ernaldus would have been the least of her worries. She had more pressing problems, and now she was racked with acute anxiety. To her, Raymond’s statement that there was nothing to fear was the kind of stupid irrelevance all men uttered to pacify their womenfolk. It gave her no comfort. Fortunately she had no chance to terrify herself by imagining every kind of fatal event, no matter how unlikely, that could overtake a person. Not an hour after Raymond and Sir Conon pounded out of Amou, the answer to Raymond’s letter to his great-uncle came—Gaston of Béarn arrived in person.
Alys met her unwelcome guest with a babble of false relief at his coming, liberally intermingled with complaints at the lack of consideration her husband had shown for her by leaving her alone in Amou. Naturally, Gaston asked, as soon as he found a space in her flow of words, where her husband and Sir Conon had gone. This gave Alys cause to burst out anew into tears—which nervousness and worry made quite genuine—and admit that she had been so offended when she learned she was to be deserted, left alone in a strange keep in a strange country, that she had not listened and did not know where they were,
Gaston sipped his wine and interjected soothing remarks. Now Alys dried her tears and let her speech run down. She did not want to drive him away yet, because it would be too easy for him to find out where Raymond had gone by sending out men to ask along the roads which way a large troop had passed. Finally she begged him to stay, commenting on the cold, the shortness of the winter day, and her expectation that her husband would soon be back. The last reason interested Gaston, and he did not refuse the invitation. He had nothing in particular to do in Orthes, having come specially to see Raymond.
When Gaston stayed a second night, however, without specific invitation, Alys understood that he intended to wait for Raymond to return. This, Alys knew, would annoy her husband, who wanted to avoid his great-uncle, at least until she and Raymond returned in the summer. Now she wanted to be rid of Gaston. Whatever happened at Ibos must have already happened, and Raymond would soon come back or order her to come to him.
Thus, by the third afternoon, Alys was complaining freely, wondering aloud—and far too frequently—where Raymond could be, and asking fretfully how he could be so cruel as to leave her so long without a word. Then she began to weep, bemoaning her sad fate so far from home and friends. She began to appeal to Gaston to use his authority to force Raymond to take more care of her. In his eyes she could see a strong impulse to smack her face and tell her to behave herself. Alys fondly hoped he would yield to the impulse. If he hit her, she could have hysterics in earnest and truly make Amou unbearable.
Neither had to go that far, however. With the shrill whining ringing in his ears, Gaston reminded himself that Orthes was only one league from Amou. There was no need for him to endure this torture from a woman whom his great-nephew must have been a lunatic to marry, dowry or no dowry. He could go to Orthes and ride back each day—or rather, send a messenger each day—to discover when Raymond did return. That would be soon enough to hear Alys’s voice again, if he could not convince Raymond to come to Orthes.
When Gaston told her he had to leave, Alys alternately shrieked with rage and sobbed with self-pity until he was out of the gates. Her device ran against only one snag, and that was of her own making. The act almost came to a too-early and disastrous end before she got Gaston out. In an effort to be sure he would not return personally, Alys had screamed a furious demand to be taken to Orthes and not be left alone. The expression of horror that crossed Gaston’s face before he controlled himself and tried to explain that he could not do such a thing nearly caused Alys’s undoing. She began to laugh, and nearly had to choke herself to pretend she was sobbing.
And it was all for nothing, too! That was the funniest part. Not long after Gaston had been driven away, Arnald with ten of Alys’s men and about half of the regular garrison of Amou rode in. All was well, Arnald assured her, handing over a letter from Raymond. There had been a little fighting, but Lord Raymond had taken no hurt. The reason Raymond himself had not returned to escort her, Arnald explained, was that he felt reasonably certain that Gaston would have come back to Orthes to talk to him. What the letter said was that Raymond had already set out for Aix. Alys was to follow more slowly with the baggage carts.
Alys might not have thought anything funny if Raymond’s letter had stated the true facts, but it was only for Gaston’s eyes in case he had sat down in Amou to wait. Actually, Arnald told her, Lord Raymond was waiting for her at Ibos. Alys laughed and laughed. She had made a foul reputation for herself, all for nothing. Well, it served her right for thinking herself so clever and failing to trust her husband, who, she should have known, understood his great-uncle and was capable of handling his own affairs. Nonetheless, it was funny to remember Gaston’s expression.
Raymond agreed heartily that she had got what she deserved when he heard the story. The only thing he complained about was that she had probably ruined his reputation as well as her own. “For he will think me either an idiot, to be sucked into marriage with a pretty face, or so greedy that I do not care what wife I have so long as she brought a rich dower.”
But since neither impression would do him any harm in dealing with Gaston of Béarn in the future, Raymond was amused. Amou and Ibos, too, would be safe, at least from Gaston, until Raymond returned to Gascony from Aix. The management of Ibos, which would need considerable reform, Raymond put into Sir Conon’s hands, setting Sir Conon’s nephew, a Sir Bertrand, to care for Amou for the few months. Still, they stayed nearly a week in Ibos, Raymond riding out with Sir Conon to examine the land while Alys struggled with the accounts—or lack of accounts—that Sir Garnier had kept.
She discovered that the situation of the commoners on the land was midway between that of the serf and the free villein. Although bound to the land, serfs’ dues here were paid in kind and in money rather than by labor, and all the towns were free. Alys frowned, then shrugged. If that was the way it was, she would have to put up with it. Since she alone could not change the customs of the land, she would have to live within them.
Alys was happy as a lark when they set out for Aix. All her dower lands were safely in hand, and she no longer feared the meeting with Raymond’s family. Indeed, Alys thought she understood Raymond’s mother and sisters well. Raymond spoke freely of them, originally with resentment and lately with affection and a half-hidden contempt. When she first understood Raymond’s status, Alys had been terrified by the thought of his female relatives. It was possible for him to be contemptuous, but she would be in the position of a portionless daughter, and her life could be made a hell.
Now that her dowry was so greatly expanded, she was no longer afraid. Partly it was the confidence that her experiences in Blancheforte, Marsan, Amou, and Ibos had given her. More, however, it was the knowledge that she had a home—several homes, if she wished to command them—of her own. It would still be necessary to play the role of a meek daughter while in Tour Dur, but they would not stay long there, Alys was sure. Raymond might love his parents, but Alys re
alized from his reaction to Rustengo’s manner that he, no more than she, wished to take second position below the roast. Raymond was growing too used to command without needing anyone’s yea-say.
Thus, no matter what the difficulties of the journey, Alys’s mood remained good. Raymond, who had been a little apprehensive of the effect of prolonged travel in winter on even so hardy a woman as his wife, was also happy. Oddly, his very contentment raised a dim shadow from time to time. As Alys grew more precious, every threat to her well-being, no matter how distant or tenuous, grew more irritating. Every so often, Raymond would remember that the closer they drew to Provence, the closer they drew to the man who had tried to take Alys’s life. Then he would dismiss the irritating idea, reminding himself that he would attend to Ernaldus and that Alys would not be out from under his own eyes while she was in Provence.
Lord Alphonse was proud of Raymond when he heard the whiplash crack of his son’s voice giving orders in the courtyard of Tour Dur shortly after their arrival there. Marriage seemed to have done Raymond good. A moment later Alphonse heard the clear, imperious tones of a woman giving orders with no less assurance. He crossed hurriedly toward the cortege in time to see his son lift down from her horse a small creature, surely a child, toward whom a larger woman hurried. A child? Surely Raymond had said his wife was a maiden, not a widow.
Before the thought was complete, he was embracing Raymond, and the “child” was drawn forward and presented as “my lady and wife, Alys of Marlowe”. She dropped a deep curtsy, right down to the ground, and murmured sweetly of her pleasure in meeting Raymond’s father, but when Alphonse took her hand, her head came up and her eyes met his without shyness, with the friendly curiosity of a boy who knows he is welcome. Alys had never had any doubts about her ability to win the favor of Raymond’s father.
Between his astonishment at her small size and the bold glance, the formal speech of welcome Alphonse had prepared went out of his head. He said, “You are well come, Daughter. We have all been most eager to greet you.”
At once, Alys dimpled into smiles, put her arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek with the confiding air of a well-loved child. “And I am most happy to meet you, Father,” she said.
Alphonse was startled. The voice, not muffled by a bent head, was that which had previously been giving orders.
Nonetheless, he said, “You must be very tired, child, and very homesick also.”
“Not tired,” Alys chuckled. “Raymond takes such care of me, and not homesick either, because I have been too busy. Raymond has a great deal to tell you. But I am truly glad to have a new father. I have missed my papa.”
“Have you? Is Raymond too severe?” Alphonse asked anxiously. The last time Raymond had been home he had shown a hard streak Alphonse had not previously seen in him.
Alys chuckled again. “No, you must know he is too kind for that, but one cannot play the child with a husband.” Then, more seriously, she said, “Raymond is a man, and I must be a woman.”
Both their eyes turned to Raymond, who was finishing his orders to the troops while Alys spoke to his father. Alphonse’s eyes opened at the harsh gutturals that poured from his son’s mouth. Alys explained that Raymond was speaking English. Only a few of her men spoke fluent French, and it provided less chance for misunderstanding if Raymond gave them their orders in their native tongue.
“Is he so fluent in this strange tongue?” Alphonse asked, impressed by his son’s ability.
“Fluent enough for these purposes and for orders to fight,” Alys said casually, “but if the matter grows complicated, such as a pleading, I attend to it.”
Alphonse’s eyes opened even wider at that offhand remark, but he had no time to pursue it as Raymond came back to them just then.
“I have been warning the men to behave themselves, reminding them that this is not their lady’s keep and they cannot respond with blows here to laughter at their strange accent—those who have a few words of French. Let us go in. I am sure my mother and sisters are all impatience to see what I have brought home.”
“They are, indeed,” Alphonse agreed. “But what of the baggage? Do you want it stored?”
“I would rather that Alys set up her own apartment, Father. May we have the south tower?”
“A tower? But it will be cold and dark. Will not Lady Alys be more comfortable in a chamber above in the keep where there is more light and warmth?”
Raymond glanced at his father with considerable surprise, but he realized that Alphonse had either forgotten or simply had not thought of the special amenities of the south tower. However, this was not the place to discuss them, so he merely said, “Alys is used to her own place and her own furniture. She is not accustomed, either, to other ladies of her rank in close intimacy. She has a sharp tongue, too, my Alys. It would be well to give her breathing room. If she finds the tower too dark and cold, she will say so and we will move her.”
“It cannot be darker and colder than England in winter, my lord,” Alys said, her eyes shining with love and gratitude. “Where it pleases you to place me, there I will be content.”
“Oh yes, you will be content,” Raymond said, grinning down at her.
Alphonse could not understand the byplay, and what Raymond said again struck him as being hard and unfeeling. “You must suit yourself in this matter, not your husband,” Alphonse urged kindly. “When you see your quarters, you must feel free to change your mind if they are not to your taste.”
“They are not like to be worse than what we found at Blancheforte,” Alys assured him, meanwhile touching Raymond’s hand, trying to show him without words that she understood what he had done was to protect her from his mother and sisters.
“Very well,” Alphonse agreed doubtfully, unwilling to press the matter further. “Shall I tell the steward to have Lady Alys’s things brought to the south tower?”
“Alys will see to it herself,” Raymond responded without a thought. “Do not trouble yourself over us, Father. Alys will see to everything. Let us go in, or there will be a peal rung over us for our neglect.”
But they could not go at once, for Alys had already moved away. Alphonse heard her snap an order to the carters to have the wains drawn to the south tower. They could then, she said, unharness the beasts and see to their comfort. Then she turned to the master-at-arms. Alphonse’s mouth opened and closed. He could not conceive of his own wife addressing a carter or a man-at-arms. But before he could protest or protect her from knew not what, she had given her orders, Arnald had bowed respectfully, Bertha had curtsied, and Alys was back beside them.
“Forgive me,” she said, “if I have delayed you. I am now ready, my lord.”
Raymond’s lips twitched at the bemused expression on his father’s face, and he urged him once again to go in. Wakened from his astonishment, Alphonse led them to the main hall where Lady Jeannette was sitting firmly in a high-backed chair with a daughter like a flanking guard to each side. Her expression, which had been grim, changed to smiling as the trio came toward her, but her daughters were not so quick to respond. Jeanine glared, Margot looked first wide-eyed and then with an inward sigh of contempt at the diminutive figure advancing between her father and brother. There would be little of interest, Margot expected, in a child with a pretty face.
For the first few minutes of stilted greetings, Margot saw nothing to change her opinion. True, it was clear as soon as Alys removed her cloak that, small as she was, she was no child. Her firm breasts swelled the front of her gown, and her golden girdle rested on provocative hips. But after Alphonse and Raymond withdrew to talk, there was nothing in her downcast eyes, her low curtsy, or the soft murmur of her voice making conventional replies to stiff questions that gave Margot any hope of amelioration of her boredom.
The first jolt of surprise came when Lady Jeannette said sweetly, “Do sit down, Alys,” gesturing vaguely at the stool near her chair.
Alys glanced over her shoulder, saw that Raymond and Alphonse had establ
ished themselves in a window seat where they were engaged in earnest talk, and calmly moved to the other high-backed chair opposite that of her mother-by-marriage. It was not near the stool, but Lady Jeannette’s gesture had been wide and languid, and even if she had pointed directly, Alys thought the wife of the heir should defer only to the men of the household.
“I thank you, Mother,” Alys said pointedly, sitting down on the chair and hooking a stool closer on which to rest her feet.
“By what right do you sit in my father’s chair?” Jeanine snapped.
“Good gracious,” Alys exclaimed raising her brows, “is it the custom here for no one to sit in the master’s chair? I never heard of that except in fairy tales and legends.”
“It is the custom of daughters to sit on stools before their mother,” Lady Jeannette said, with poisonous kindness.
“Even the wife of the heir of the house when there is a chair empty? I am so sorry.” She rose to her feet. “I will go and beg Lord Alphonse’s pardon at once for my mistake.”
“There is no need for that,” Lady Jeannette said immediately, and from her expression Alys saw that the custom, if it existed, was of Lady Jeannette’s making.
Alys had no intention of conforming to such a custom, but to reseat herself on the chair would be outright rudeness, and she did not wish to resort to that. She smiled as she shook her head. “Well, now we are met, I fear I must run away, for just now I have no more time for talk. Could you tell me, please, at what time dinner is served here? Raymond said it was later than I am accustomed—”
“Do you expect us to move our time forward for you?” Jeanine interrupted.
“Of course not,” Alys replied blandly, “but I wish to set in motion the moving of my furniture into my quarters.”
Winter Song Page 22
