Winter Song

by Roberta Gellis

  “Very well,” Guillaume growled ungraciously, “I will go.”

  “Not now, it is too early. Also, the tray of food is now being prepared. Do you eat yourself, my lord.” Ernaldus chuckled ingratiatingly. “A hungry man is too sympathetic to others who are hungry.”

  Actually, it was not too early, it was too late. The girls in the tower had been awake for hours, even though Alys did not experience the cold, hard night she had expected. Among the furniture in the room was a chest in which the girls had not looked in their distress. Alys remembered it for the sake of hiding the crossbow and wineskin, but when she opened it, she found it full of blankets. Ernaldus did not want the heiress to take a chill and die. He would withhold light and fire, for those give strength to the spirit, which dark weakens, but warmth could be provided with blankets. Despite that warmth, for Alys covered Margot and Beatrice, and the comfort of a pad on the floor, the pangs of hunger banished sleep. With first light, all were awake.

  Then Alys heard the outpouring of joy and relief she had expected from them but it did not come immediately. “Is it a trick?” Beatrice asked, looking suspiciously at the wineskin.

  “I cannot believe it,” Alys replied. “It was well hidden. I am sure it belongs to one of the men-at-arms who either did not wish to share with his fellows or used it to keep warm on nights he stood watch. It is not poisoned. We would be worse than useless dead, and anyway, I confess I had a small sip last night.”

  Beatrice was glad to put aside her doubt, and then she surprised and pleased Alys by saying they must all only sip a little to allay the worst of their thirst. Alys endorsed this sentiment heartily—she had thought she would have to fight to get them to agree to it—even Margot consented with no more than a sigh. They were, accordingly, very moderate in their sipping. Nonetheless the little they took gave them new life.

  Of course, the real strength did not come from the wine, which only took the edge off their thirst. What put life into them was the ebbing of the shock of their capture and the renewal sleep had brought to their bodies. Had Alys not found the wine, hunger and thirst might too soon have brought back their misery. Not that the little sips cured hunger or thirst. It was the delightful feeling of having cheated and outwitted their captor. Temporarily strengthened by this notion, they all felt that if they had done it once, they could do it again.

  “You know,” Alys said, “Guillaume cannot really mean to starve us, so someone will come today with an offer of food in exchange for compliance. What we must do is get the food brought into the chamber. Then, if there are no more than one or two, perhaps we can wrest the food away from them.”

  This was agreed to with enthusiasm, and they began to plan. That sent them all down the stairs to feel around in the dark. They came up with several more poles that were intended to push off scaling ladders and a bundle of quarrels that had fallen down in a dark corner as well as anything else they thought would be useful. Some time was spent happily in learning how to use the crossbow, but as the light brightened and Guillaume did not come, the voices of Margot and Beatrice dulled and they began to lose interest in the plan. Alys felt depressed and desperate herself, and was just about to suggest another round of wine when the door opened.

  All three girls gasped, and Alys dropped hastily to her knees behind the bed. The crossbow had been hanging from her hand. But Guillaume did not cry out or leap at her, his eyes had found Beatrice. She and Margot clung together instinctively, but, almost at once, Margot began to back away. Alys stifled a sigh of relief. Guillaume looked at Margot and then away, dismissing her movement as a result of fear of him. Beatrice drew herself up proudly but remained silent. Her eyes flicked to the servant who had entered behind Guillaume carrying a large, loaded tray that smelled like heaven. Alys felt like cheering. There was more in Beatrice than she had dreamed.

  “Well, mistress,” Guillaume said, trying to make his voice hard when it was more inclined to shake. Why, he wondered, staring at Beatrice’s dirty, tear-stained face, her heavy eyes and dry mouth, the hair straggling through her coif and snaking untidily around her face and shoulders, why had he ever thought her beautiful and desirable? How had he let her lead him into this mad adventure? Now he would be stuck with her. But there was wealth and power to be gained, he reminded himself. Ernaldus had devised a speech for him. Automatically, he used it.

  “I hope you have grown more civil,” Guillaume said, “and that you have learned what comes of a too-high stomach. Obedience is the first virtue of a wife, and my wife you will be.”

  “No, I will not, you low cur,” Beatrice responded, her voice cold with disdain and hard with determination. What gave Guillaume hope and kept him from leaving the room was that her hands were fumbling nervously with the tie of the small pouch that hung at her waist. “You have given me little enough reason to change my mind,” Beatrice continued, but now her voice trembled a little. “If this is the way you enforce obedience before marriage, I would have no hope for any future.”

  “I see your stomach is still too high,” Guillaume retorted, almost pleased. Nasty bitch, let her go hungry, he thought. “No doubt hunger will lower it at last. When you learn to speak me fair, viands will be set for you, but too much pride deserves—”

  The measured speech ended suddenly in a cry of pain and shock. Guillaume had been speaking with growing confidence because all three women had been slowly approaching him and the servant. It seemed to him they were being drawn irresistibly closer by the sight and smell of the food. Moreover, Beatrice was raising her hands, which tightly clutched the little pouch. It looked to Guillaume as if she were trying to restrain herself from clasping her hands prayerfully to plead with him.

  And then, suddenly, she let go the top of the pouch with one hand and thrust it at his face with the other. He stepped back instinctively, but it was too late. His eyes and mouth were full of sand. Behind him, he heard the servant cry out and then a woman’s voice, high and vicious, “I will stick you through the throat! Let go the tray!”

  Guillaume was blinking desperately, blinded by tears, reaching out to grab Beatrice in a fury, but a fierce blow struck his hands so hard he gasped with pain, and hands whirled him about from behind and thrust so hard he staggered forward. He heard the servant shriek with terror and the sound of falling, and he opened his mouth to cry out—he knew not what threats or promises—only to choke instead as he was doused with the contents of the chamber pot. The foul stuff blinded him anew, stinging in his sand-scored eyes, and he retched, so disgusted he had no room for fear, as another strong push sent him down the stone stairs to a momentary oblivion.

  “Do not throw the pot after him,” Alys cried, half choking with laughter, “We will need it.”

  Beatrice shook the last few drops disdainfully down the stairs, and stepped back into the chamber. “We could get out now,” she said, “or we could kill him.”

  Alys ran back to get a quarrel, but by the time she returned, it was too late, Guillaume was already half upright, bellowing for help. He had landed atop the servant so that his fall was mostly cushioned. Alys could do nothing but go back into the room quickly, and the girls shut the door and dropped several poles into the bar slots. The poles were too thin to hold the door against a determined assault, but at least they would provide a warning before they gave way. Crowing with laughter, all sank down beside the bed, which would serve as their table. Still, before she reached for the portion that was hers, Alys wound and loaded her bow. Perhaps they would be left to reconsider their sins in peace. Perhaps Guillaume would instead return with many men to lesson them more directly than by starvation.

  When Arnald got back to Arles with the information the wounded men had given him, he found no one could name the owner of the armorial bearings he described. He had assumed that the abductor would be one of the great lords of the area and that anyone to whom he mentioned the arms would identify them. But ten years had passed since the power of des Baux had been broken, and being enemies even before th
at time, they had not frequented the court of Raymond-Berenger.

  Once more Arnald tried to speak to Lady Beatrice. It took some time before he found anyone who would even listen to him, but he dared not say he had news of the missing heiress. No one in Arles seemed to know that young Beatrice, Lady Margot, and Lady Alys were missing. Arnald became very frightened when he was told that Lady Beatrice was asleep and no one would wake her for any reason whatsoever.

  After a day of desperate anxiety and a sleepless, tear-drenched night, Lady Beatrice had collapsed. But Arnald did not know this. He began to wonder whether Lady Beatrice had done away with her daughter in some scheme to seize the province for herself. In utter desperation he now asked for Lady Jeannette, and she refused to see him, as did Lady Jeanine! Now Arnald was sure they were all involved in a plot and his poor mistress was an innocent victim of it.

  Arnald would gladly have risked his life to cry the dreadful crime aloud, but he did not know to whom to complain. Moreover, who would believe a common man-at-arms when the mothers of two of the girls who were missing took quiet naps and pretended nothing was amiss. Nearly insane with grief and anxiety, Arnald rode back once more toward the abbey, seeking along the road for signs of the abduction. Perhaps he could pick up the trail of the men who had seized Lady Alys.

  Unfortunately, so much time had been spent in his fruitless attempts to see Lady Beatrice or Lady Jeannette and in even more fruitless worry, that the light failed before Arnald accomplished anything. Hopeless, he turned back. It had started to rain. Arnald did not care that he was wet to the skin and had not eaten all day. Had there been a hope of a moon, he would have searched all night, but the dense clouds made that impossible. Order or no order, he told himself, the next day he would bring out the whole troop to search. And he would send a message with the whole story to Lord Raymond as soon as he entered Arles. Arnald was comforted by that thought and smiled grimly. Ignore him, would they? They would not ignore Lord Raymond. He would set the whole province afire if need be.

  It was not until he entered Arles that Arnald remembered an essential omission. He needed a clerk. The story he had to tell was too long and too complex, too important to trust to the memory of a man-at-arms. Besides, even if the best French-speaker among them were sent, he would be sure to garble so involved a tale. Lord Raymond’s English, while sufficient for most things, could not be trusted in so desperate a case. In addition, like most illiterate people, Arnald had a superstitious feeling that writing a thing down made it more true and convincing.

  Arnald heard the noise before he entered the great hall, and he hesitated slightly, but in the next moment he gave a great cry of relief and joy and ran forward. Whether or not Lord Raymond’s rage was going to consume Provence, it had already overset the fat into the fire and ignited the great hall at Arles.

  Standing in the middle of the floor, bare sword in hand pointed at Sir Romeo’s breast, Raymond was bellowing at the top of his voice, “Where is my wife?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “In God’s name, I beg you—” Sir Romeo cried.

  But Raymond did not wait to hear the rest. “What foul plot have you hatched?” he roared. “My mother is ‘too ill’ to speak to me. My sisters are ‘attending on her’. Lady Beatrice is ‘busy’. Man, you have one minute to bring forth my womenfolk—”

  “Only come—” Sir Romeo tried again.

  Raymond’s sword quivered.

  “My lord! My lord!” Arnald shouted. “Lady Alys has been stolen away with Lady Beatrice and Lady Margot. I have been trying—”

  “Oh, my God,” Sir Romeo groaned, his face going grayer. Then he turned to Arnald and roared, “Hold your tongue!”

  “I will not!” Arnald shouted back. “I have guarded my mistress since she was a babe, and if she has come to hurt through your henchmen—”

  “Raymond, curb your man,” Sir Romeo grated.

  Raymond put his hand on Arnald’s shoulder. “If she has come to harm through Sir Romeo’s doing, no man, woman, or child will go out of Arles alive, and I will take down this place stone by stone until there is no more sign of it.”

  Although this threat obviously could never have been accomplished, and Raymond knew it, he had made it to calm Arnald, for it was obvious that the man was beside himself. Moreover, Raymond knew there would be no need to try to make good any part of that threat. The moment young Beatrice’s name was coupled with Alys’s, Raymond knew that Sir Romeo could not have had any part in their disappearance. Arnald’s ignorance of the political situation had led him to a mistaken conclusion from the true fact that Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo wished to keep the heiress’s abduction a secret.

  Raymond’s rage had also been caused by a misunderstanding. He had arrived in the late afternoon and, on asking for Alys, had been told that she had not yet returned from an expedition into the countryside. Raymond was disappointed, for he had been looking forward to confronting her and having his little joke before loving her soundly, however, for a little while he had pacified himself with the pleasant idea of her coming upon him suddenly in the hall.

  He had gone to remove his armor and to change his clothing when it struck him that it had been raining for several hours. That meant that Alys must have gone out quite a while ago. Could she have guessed he was coming and gone out to avoid him? He dismissed the idea. It was ridiculous, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  When he had changed and drunk some wine, he sent a servant to announce his arrival to his mother, and was considerably surprised to be told she was too ill to see him. Usually his mother was only too eager to have him come to her when she felt unwell. She loved to complain and have him express concern and sympathy. Even before Alys had opened his eyes, he had often suspected that his mother’s illnesses were not nearly as severe as she claimed. Could she really be sick this time? Raymond sat worrying about that until he happened to glance out the window.

  Because of the rain, the torches and the central flambeaux had been lit when he first arrived. Thus, he had not noticed the coming of true darkness. Only when he looked out the window did he realize it was night. Then everything seemed to fall together. Alys would surely have returned before dark or sent a message to say where she would spend the night. No matter how sick his mother was, and particularly if she were desperately ill, one of his sisters would have come to speak with him.

  Instantly a horrible suspicion gripped Raymond that his wife, mother, and sisters had been seized as hostages to enforce some political action on himself and his father. Before he could think over the idea and realize the flaws in it, Raymond leapt to his feet and demanded audience with Lady Beatrice. He was refused. That, however, was an unfortunate error. Had Lady Beatrice known that Raymond was due to arrive, she would have made an exception in his case to the order that she would see no one except Sir Romeo.

  The refusal confirmed Raymond’s suspicions. Never in his life had his grandfather’s wife refused to see him. Nonetheless, Raymond would not commit the solecism of invading Lady Beatrice’s chamber. Besides, his rage and fear required physical expression, and he could not threaten Lady Beatrice with a sword. He had begun to bellow for Sir Romeo, who had not until that moment been aware that Raymond had arrived. This was essentially Alys’s error. Since she had not told anyone she had written to summon Raymond, Sir Romeo had not instructed his guards or servants to inform him of Raymond’s coming.

  The last error, however, was Sir Romeo’s. Instead of sending immediately for Lady Jeannette and Jeanine and insisting they appear, he had tried to draw Raymond into his private chamber to explain. This only convinced Raymond that his worst fears were true. It was most fortunate that Arnald had appeared at the moment he did, or this comedy of errors might well have turned into a tragedy. Now, although it could not be said that Raymond was no longer excited, at least he understood why everyone was behaving so oddly.

  It was Arnald who unwound the whole tangled skein, for as soon as Sir Romeo had led them into his chamb
er, Arnald unburdened himself of his whole tale. When he came to the previous day’s fiasco, Sir Romeo interrupted with horror.

  “My God, man, why did you not come to me?”

  “Who are you?” Arnald responded hotly. “All I know of you is that you have long held power here, and I have seen a sprig of your line attending on Lady Beatrice. How should I know whether you desired her for that sprig so that you might continue to hold the power?”

  Sir Romeo turned purple, and Raymond, despite his anguish, had to laugh. “No,” he said to Arnald, “upon my oath, Sir Romeo is a just and honorable man and, I dare say, loves Beatrice as you love Alys. He would do nothing to harm her.”

  “I would give my life to have her safely back,” Sir Romeo sighed. “Did you not think,” he added, “that the child’s mother was in agonies of fear and that was why she refused to speak to anyone?”

  “No, I did not,” Arnald replied sturdily. “Lady Alys does not close herself in her chamber to weep when ill befalls. She does something. She would have sent out men to search for a missing daughter.”

  “You do not understand,” Sir Romeo groaned. “There are reasons why we did not wish it known that Beatrice is missing. And where were we to search?”

  “I can tell you where,” Arnald snapped, “if you know who bears these arms.” And he described once again the colors and bearings.

  “Des Baux!” Sir Romeo roared, bounding to his feet. “Des Baux!”

  Raymond’s mouth opened in soundless protest. His voice was frozen in his throat with terror. He had done nothing about Ernaldus, and now Alys was a prisoner in his power—or dead.

  “I should have known!” Sir Romeo groaned. “When my son told me that a young whelp of that treacherous brood was sniffing around Beatrice, I should have had him killed.” Tears came into his eyes. “There is no taking Les Baux. We will have to starve them out, and by then Beatrice…”