“Yes, and I most strongly urged each to come, hinting it was not only for the festivities and witnessing, but also that it was time to take council together.”
“Good. Good,” Raymond approved. “Now we must make plain to them why it will be better that they remain tied to us.”
“Yes, but I am not too eager to tell them outright what I think of Charles—” Alphonse began doubtfully.
“Why not?” Raymond broke in. “Pardon me, Father, I did not mean to interrupt, but to tell them of Charles’s ambition, without harsh words, of course, may suit our purpose very well.”
“If Louis takes me as vassal. But what if he does not?” Alphonse asked.
“All the more, then. Would it not be easier for Charles to swallow up one small holding at a time? If we all stand together, he will choke on so large a mouthful. Moreover, you and I will stand buffer between what is his desire and what is theirs.”
That did not make Alphonse look any happier. “I would not care to oppose Charles,” he said.
Raymond’s eyes flashed. “He will learn a sharp lesson if he tries to bite a piece out of Aix. However, let us look on the bright side and assume Louis will accept your homage. I believe it likely he will, for Charles will not dare argue about anything until he has Beatrice hard and fast, and Louis, as we both agree, is no fool. Either way, I still feel that the more honest we are, the less trouble we will have with our men.”
Alphonse sighed. “Yes.”
“Then we had better be honest about the wedding in England, also,” Raymond went on. “To be caught in a little lie would be a great mistake at this time.”
“That is true,” Alphonse agreed, looking even more worried. “On the other hand, what if they choose to take offense? There are those among them who are troublemakers. I can just hear them grumbling that they were drawn to Aix for a farce.”
“There is that. We will need to straddle the truth. Let us admit I married in England and broached my bride there for the witnesses, but have kept apart from her since then for the purpose of renewing the pledge and making her truly my wife here in Aix.”
“It may serve,” Alphonse agreed, “but then you must not share her bed until the wedding.”
“Or, at least, no one must catch me at it,” Raymond agreed, laughing.
“And what will Alys think of this?” Alphonse asked with some trepidation. He had found his daughter-by-marriage’s strong will useful up to this moment, but the idea of crossing her had less appeal.
“We have discussed it already,” Raymond assured his father. “Anyway, that was why I asked that she be lodged in the south tower. Did you forget the secret passage that goes there?”
Alphonse threw back his head and laughed heartily. “I wondered why you were so indifferent at the loss of so pretty a wife. You are a sly dog, my son.”
“When I must be,” Raymond admitted, grinning. Then he sobered. “Even if so easy a solution were not available, Father, Alys is the most sensible and reasonable woman alive. I need only explain to her what is needful and why, and she will engage in no female crochets to interfere with our political purposes.”
Just after the door to the stairwell closed and Lady Jeannette realized it was too late to use her customary methods to control her son and husband, Alys was saying almost the same words to Jeanine. Raymond’s eldest sister had been furious, crying, “How dare you? How dare you lay hands on my mother?”
“Lay hands?” Alys repeated, glancing over her shoulder as she and Margot supported Lady Jeannette up the stairs. “I never did! I saw that she was about to cry out, and so I took her from the hall lest she disturb your father and brother. They would have been so angry if a woman’s weakness should interfere with their business. I would not for the world have my husband’s nor my father’s anger turned upon my mother if I could shield her from it.”
They had reached the top of the stairs by then, and Margot steered them in the direction of her mother’s apartment. Margot could not remember so thoroughly enjoying a half hour. She still could not decide whether Alys was stupid as an owl or clever as a witch, but it did not impede her pleasure or her determination to aid and abet her sister-by-marriage if she could do so without bringing trouble on herself.
“Angry?” Now it was Jeanine who repeated a word she could hardly believe she heard. “You stupid barbarian, our menfolk are civilized, not wild animals. They are softened by a woman’s tears.”
Alys did not reply to this until they were in Lady Jeannette’s private solar. First she had asked with soft sweetness whether the older woman wished to lie down, but Lady Jeannette said she was recovered and would sit in her chair. Then Alys procured a cup of wine for her. Finally she turned her eyes to Jeanine.
“Sister,” she said smoothly, “our men are also softened by tears, but not when they are deep in a discussion of affairs of importance. I will gladly yield to your menfolk the palm for gracious manners.” A smile twitched her lips. “After all, I married one. But your aunts, Queen Eleanor and Sancia, Countess of Cornwall, are very content with two of our barbarians.”
“How do you know the men were talking of important affairs?” Margot asked curiously. “Most of the time their talk is as idle as ours—hunting or women.”
Alys smiled at her. “I know because I know my husband. He has many heavy burdens to consider, and I am certain he is very eager to hear his father’s advice.”
“Why should Raymond need to bother himself with such matters?” Lady Jeannette asked peevishly. “He is at last come home. He should be free to take his pleasure at his will.”
“But the world does not stop because a man is in a different place,” Alys pointed out. “And it takes so long for a letter to go and an answer to come. Now, when he is with his father, is the time for exchange of news and a thorough sifting of plans and counterplans.”
“You seem to know a great deal about my son’s business,” Lady Jeannette snapped.
Alys’s eyes opened wide. “Of course. I know all his business. Who should know it if not I? And, more particularly, as a good part of the business is mine as much as his.”
“What do you mean?” Jeanine asked.
“The estates in Gascony—Blancheforte, Benquel, Amou, and Ibos—they are mine,” Alys replied calmly and deliberately, blessing her father and dear, beloved Uncle Richard, who had been so wise in the manner in which the lands were bestowed.
“Do not be so stupid,” Jeanine commanded. “Dower lands pass into a husband’s hands.”
“Not mine,” Alys said, hoping Raymond never heard of this conversation. “They are settled on me, not entailed. I take homage of the vassals and castellans, and I sit in justice. If I die without issue—in fact, if I die without writing a will and stating how my lands are to be bestowed—the lands go back to King Henry, or rather, to the crown of England. When I have issue, I may will the lands as I choose. Raymond explained it all to me most carefully.”
“Raymond? Raymond told you this? He agreed to it?” Lady Jeannette sounded stunned.
“Of course. Why should he not? I assure you I do not plan to die without issue just to spite my husband, nor am I fool enough to contest his will in the management of my lands.”
“Why do you keep speaking of Raymond as your husband?” Lady Jeannette asked pettishly.
“He is my husband. Did not Queen Eleanor or Sancia write of our wedding? Both of them attended me. It was a very grand affair.”
“But Raymond promised he would marry you here,” Lady Jeannette shrieked.
“Yes, Mother, yes,” Alys soothed. “And indeed he will. Of course we must be married where your husband’s vassals can see that all is done rightly and according to custom. But you cannot have thought that my father would let me out from under his eyes without first seeing me wed.”
“It is good enough for royal brides to travel to their new homes unwed,” Lady Jeannette cried. “Are you so much more precious?”
“Perhaps to Papa and Uncle Richard I am,�
�� Alys replied, smiling. “But I was traveling with my husband, which is not the case with royal brides.” Alys laughed aloud. “I do not think, knowing us both, that Papa or Uncle Richard would take the chance of my arriving intact if we had not married.”
“Shameless,” Jeanine cried.
“It is not shameless to love my husband and to joy in giving him joy,” Alys protested, quite shocked.
That her pleasure in coupling with Raymond was shameful had never entered Alys’s mind. She knew lust was a sin, but did not associate lust with the joyful pleasure of procreation. Even the most severe and austere of priests agreed that procreation was a marital duty. Taking pleasure in it might be a sin—some priests said that all pleasure was a sin, even pleasure in eating and drinking and being warm and comfortable—but that was no problem. Alys regularly confessed to such pleasures, was regularly enjoined to turn her eyes to God and take pleasure only in Him, regularly given a penance of a few Aves and Paters, and regularly absolved. There was nothing more shameful in coupling than there was about eating or pissing, to Alys’s way of thinking.
“When you are married—” Alys began, to be abruptly cut off.
“Silence!” Lady Jeannette ordered. “Do not corrupt my daughters with such foul talk.”
Alys’s mouth opened and closed. She bowed her head hastily to hide the glitter in her eyes. Corrupt, was she? Until this moment Alys had taken no offense. Lady Elizabeth had pointed out that a mother who desired to keep her son so tied to her would almost certainly resent his giving his heart and be jealous of a daughter-by-marriage. Lady Jeannette, Alys realized, was the one who was corrupt. She smeared with the filth of her mind what was innocent and beautiful. She deserved a good lesson, and Alys considered herself just the girl to give it—and to lift the claws of this harpy out of the bodies of her husband and daughters, too.
“Forgive me,” Alys said meekly. “I am young. There are many things of which I am ignorant, my mother having died when I was only a child. And more than all I am ignorant of the ways of this land.”
“You certainly are,” Jeanine snapped.
Not as ignorant as you, Alys thought, but all she said was “I can see that my dress is not right. I hope you will instruct me, Sister, in the correct fashion.”
“I?” Jeanine gasped, outraged. “I am no maid to sew for you!”
While this exchange was going on, Lady Jeannette had been thinking of Alys’s innocent confession of her lust. Since Alys and Raymond were already married—and why had she not been informed of that?—her original plan would not work, however, it was not too late to incite in him a healthy disgust for his wife by showing that Alys was crude and lascivious. Also, it would be possible to point out to Raymond that a wife who took such pleasure in coupling would be very prone to seek that pleasure with others as well as with her husband.
It had been a mistake to expose Alys to the idea that, for a decent woman, love was of the heart and mind, a source of beautiful words and fine emotion. A true lady endured the act that made children, but that was not to be confused with love. Such a mingling was an abomination to Lady Jeannette. Procreation was for husband and wife; love was for a lady and her troubadour.
Lady Jeannette comforted herself with the assurance that Raymond knew that. He also knew that some ladies and troubadours did not confine their love to songs and glances but descended to the crudities of nature. Obviously Alys was that kind. Raymond was essentially fine, Lady Jeannette thought. He would soon sicken of this coarse animal. So much the better, then, that Alys was coarse. It would be easy to encourage her lustful way, perhaps even urge Alys to take a lover. Then Raymond could lock her up. But to have her advice accepted, Lady Jeannette knew she would need to gain Alys’s trust, and first she must seem more friendly.
”Do not be silly, Jeanine,” Lady Jeannette said, responding to Jeanine’s earlier indignation. “Alys did not expect you to sew clothes for her, only to advise her on how to have the maids do them.”
“Our maids?” Jeanine whined. “They are busy enough. If she brought furniture, she should have brought servants, too.”
“And so I did,” Alys said. “I have my maid, and I am a good needlewoman myself.”
“You sew your own clothes?” Lady Jeannette asked.
But before Alys could answer, Raymond spoke her name from the doorway. “I thought you were going to tell Gervase what to do about the furniture,” he said, grinning at her, “and here I find you at your favorite occupation—talking about clothes.”
“Oh, how you startled me, my lord,” Alys cried, then winked at him. ‘‘Clothes are not only a favorite topic but a very soothing one, just the subject for calming your mother after you were so sharp with her. And then, Lady Jeannette was very shocked to hear we were already married after you promised that the wedding should be here.”
Their eyes met, and Alys could see the relief and approval in Raymond’s. She had, just as he predicted, taken care of everything, saving him the unpleasant duty of making that revelation. “There will be a wedding here, also,” he hastened to agree.
“I assured our mother it would be so,” Alys told him, then chuckled. “And that brought clothes to mind, my lord, for I can see that fashions here are different from those of England or Bordeaux.”
Lady Jeannette had again been rendered speechless, her emotions alternating between surprise and fury. She had intended to seek Raymond out or summon him privately and weep over how cruel Alys had been to her. Instead, he had found her calmly conversing, so it was impossible to claim, as she had expected to do, that Alys had shocked her and his sisters with foul talk and had tormented her. Lady Jeannette was unused to frustration and reacted to it without thinking, which led to another mistake.
“Who gave you permission to come into these chambers?” she cried, her voice high and thin with fury.
Raymond lost his smile, and his lips set hard. “My father gave me permission,” he snapped. “He rules this house, not you, madame. And I came to fetch away my wife.”
“Raymond, love,” Alys said softly, running to him and laying a hand on his arm. “Be kind. Your mother is hurt at your sharpness. Tell her you were not angry at her belowstairs, only annoyed at the interruption of your talk. It is long since she has seen you.”
“Will it make your path easier, my love?” Raymond asked, very low.
Alys immediately dropped her eyes. “Do not think of me but of your father,” she whispered.
“You are my haven and my heaven,” he responded, feeling more in love than when he first decided to have Alys as his wife, no matter what barred the way. Then, more loudly, he said, “Get you to your unpacking, Alys. You know I do not like to see the chambers all disordered.” His eyes passed over Jeanine’s face, white and thin-lipped, to Margot’s countenance, which was bright-eyed with interest. “Go you with your sister, Margot,” he added, “and lend what aid you can to her. Some of the words Alys uses are different, and the servants may not understand her.”
Lady Jeanette uttered a cry of protest, but Raymond shook his head at her sharply and gave Margot a gentle shove to hurry her out on Alys’s heels. Then he came up close to his mother and told her softly he had something to discuss with her and with Jeanine that was not fit for Margot’s ears. Raymond was not above duplicity with women where he did not consider his honor involved, and he had unconsciously absorbed a great deal of information from his conversations with Alys. His wife’s last remark had been a warning, and he recognized its validity at once.
Raymond knew he would soon leave Tour Dur to return to the Gascon properties, so his mother’s reactions would affect him very little. However, his father could not leave—at least not until Raymond-Berenger recovered completely or died. In any case, Alphonse would not leave his wife for long. He was truly fond of her, truly enjoyed the singing and poetry, the games of words, chess, and chance with which Lady Jeannette whiled away the hours when she was in good spirits. He loved to go on picnics and flower gatherings when the
y plucked the petals into baskets for potpourri while a minstrel or their daughters sang to them. Alphonse was truly grieved when his wife wept and moaned and kept to her chamber.
Since it was for his father’s sake, Raymond was willing to swallow his new-found pride in dominance and return to the old path of cajolement. This he could navigate with the skill of long experience. Moreover, he had a subject he knew would interest his mother and older sister. The notion had come to him when he decided to send Margot with Alys because his younger sister seemed open to friendliness. It would be pleasant for Alys to have a woman friend. There was one topic Raymond was sure his mother would consider unfit for Margot’s ears—sex. Without the slightest intention of taking any of the advice offered, Raymond asked his mother and Jeanine whether they thought it worthwhile for the vassals’ sakes to pretend Alys was still a virgin and, if so, how to go about faking the evidence.
This fascinating question so riveted their attention that Raymond’s “crimes” were soon forgotten. Moreover, a marvelous revelation came to Lady Jeannette. If Raymond wished to pretend he and Alys were not married, he could not share her bed. She leapt on this with such enthusiasm that Raymond had much ado not to laugh, but he agreed to it with a pretense at reluctance. This deception was not so much to pander to his mother’s obvious desire to separate him from his wife as because he did not trust Lady Jeannette to be able to hold her tongue if he admitted to her he had no intention of depriving himself of the sweets of Alys’s body.
Chapter Fifteen
Alys worried a little that Lady Jeannette might cross-question Margot about the time she spent with her sister-by-marriage, but she need not have done so. Raymond’s mother had far more absorbing topics for consideration than her daughter’s conversation. Jeanine and Margot had always meant little to her, except as they served her comfort, compared with her eldest son. Raymond’s seeming confidence in her ideas and his return to his old manner with her as soon as Alys was gone gave her two false impressions. The first was that Raymond was still amenable to her influence, the second was that his severe manner toward her had been assumed to impress or frighten Alys. The alacrity with which Alys obeyed her husband, the lack of protest or pouting, the soft, placating voice in which she spoke to him also conveyed a false impression of fear.
Winter Song Page 24
