Fire Song (17 page)

“But, Raymond,” Alys protested, leaping ahead as her quick mind caught the drift of his thoughts, “for you to go about saying there is a negotiation for this marriage, is that wise? We do not know it for a fact.”

“I? No.” Raymond laughed. “Nor you, either, my love.” He looked again at his daughter. “But Fenice—that is different. Fenice is not widely known here as my daughter, her accent is not of these parts, and accompanied by a gentleman whose speech and coloring mark him clearly as coming from the north—”

“How clever you are, Raymond,” Alys interrupted, seeing the whole at once. “Can you do it, Fenice?”

“Oh yes,” Fenice said, her eyes bright. “I shall go to the mercers and goldsmiths and vintners and look over very rich stuffs. If the master or journeymen greet me as knowing Papa, I shall find some question to ask that will content them, but at those places where I am not recognized, I will make it clear I am looking for things suitable for a girl-child.”

“How?” William asked, slightly startled at the new facet of personality Fenice was displaying.

“It is not hard. At the mercers’ I will ask for short lengths of stuff, only enough to make a child’s gown, but of great richness. At the vintners’ I can ask about sweet wines, there are not many such to come out of the vineyards of Bordeaux, such wines as a child would relish. Then at the carpenters’, well, I must judge what the shop makes, but it can be toys or a short bed, and, of course, small rings and bracelets at the goldsmiths’ shops. No doubt there will then be questions, which I can answer.”

“I am not the only clever one,” Raymond chuckled approvingly, and then glanced at Aubery, who was looking down at his wife in a slightly bemused fashion. “Alas,” he exclaimed, grinning, “I fear we should not have so openly exposed Fenice’s devious mind in front of Aubery.” Raymond was accustomed to having a very strong, clever wife and had long since come to the conclusion that it was the best thing that could happen to any man.

“Oh, Papa, no!” Fenice cried. “Aubery could not think I would ever deceive him or tell him an untruth.”

Aubery shook his head. “I never thought that,” he said quite truthfully, having the confidence of the ignorant.

What had surprised Aubery was Fenice’s agility of mind—for he would not himself have thought of the expedients she had suggested—her willingness to be involved, and her confidence in her abilities. Not only would Matilda have been incapable of propounding the plan Fenice had produced in a moment, but she would have been most unwilling to bestir herself for a purpose so foreign to her own interests. Beyond that, she would have been frightened to death that she would not be able to do what was desired.

“Well, of course you would not lie to your husband,” Alys exclaimed with outraged innocence, adding under her breath, “unless it was for the beloved dolt’s own good.” Then she said aloud, “Come here with me, Fenice, and let us decide what you are to wear. It must be just right, neither too rich nor too simple, and have a tinge of the Moorish, too, if possible.”

Fenice moved away from Aubery’s side at once, and a flicker of emotion passed through him, impatience at her instant obedience to Alys’s command. He knew it was only natural, a habit of long standing, and that no reflection was intended on his authority over her. Nonetheless, he was suddenly seized by a desire to have her all to himself where her eyes would turn only to him for commands or reassurance.

Chapter Twelve

All the events planned to precede King Henry’s arrival were just barely completed in time. Three days after Aubery and Fenice’s wedding, the first ships of the fleet coming from England sailed past Blancheforte down the Gironde to make port in Bordeaux. Having taken part in the arrangements for quartering the king, his nobles, and the army, Raymond, William, and Aubery rode hurriedly into the town as soon as a lookout reported many sails.

There was the usual confusion of landing a large party, the hysterical horses to control, men to be directed away from the docks and yet not allowed to lose themselves in a strange place, the baggage to be sorted. Although he was too busy to ride back to Blancheforte himself that night, Aubery remembered to send a messenger to tell Fenice he would not come home. He did not stop to think that Raymond and William would surely have sent a similar message to Alys, and that a separate messenger to Fenice was not necessary, but the habits established to reassure Matilda’s timid heart took over. Actually, Aubery did not think Fenice timid or likely to be frightened, since she understood the circumstances, but busy as he was, he did not separate Fenice from the vague consciousness of “wife” in his mind, and it was to that consciousness that he reacted.

Formal dinners, presentations, and avowals—however insincere—of perfect loyalty filled the next day, and it was not until late afternoon that Aubery at last found himself alone with his overlord, the Earl of Hereford.

“Sit, sit,” Humphery de Bohun said, gesturing at a stool. “Did you finish your private business?”

“Yes, my lord,” Aubery replied. “I was married four days since to Fenice d’Aix, the natural daughter of the heir to the Comte d’Aix. The lands are settled greatly to my satisfaction also. But did you get my letter?”

Hereford had been smiling in acknowledgment of the success of the marriage plans. He had guessed how much Aubery desired Marlowe, although the young man had never admitted it. Aubery had been in Hereford’s household as page, squire, and then trusted retainer, and de Bohun knew him well. As a child, hurt or sick, he cried for his mother or Sir William of Marlowe, never for his own father, and as a man, when he spoke with love of a place, it was always of Marlowe.

But Aubery’s question changed the smile of approval to a scowl. “I did,” Hereford replied, “and what I have heard yesterday and today assures me that your warning of food shortages was justified. I talked to the king, but what good it has done—” He shrugged dyspeptically.

Aubery just stared. A number of remarks, none of them complimentary to the king’s mental ability, leapt into his mind, but he knew better than to say them aloud and further exacerbate his overlord’s hot temper. Ordinarily the fertile lands around Bordeaux not only fed the town itself but shipped out grain and produce. It was the fact that the king and Hereford knew the area themselves and would expect supplies to be readily available that had prompted Aubery to write to explain the changed circumstances.

Having swallowed his own disgust, Aubery said mildly, “I fear there will be trouble. If those responsible for procuring supplies are not informed, will they not feel the high prices are an attempt to cheat them?”

“I have done and will do my best in that direction, and perhaps it will save a few broken heads—not that I mind a few merchants having their heads broken. That moderates the behavior of the others. However, the next thing I know, the king will be bewailing the barbarity of Englishmen and demanding that, as constable of the forces, I order our men to be punished and so brought to respect the more refined ways of the Gascons.”

Somewhat alarmed at the color Hereford’s face had turned, Aubery said, “But I do not think he is in such perfect charity with the Gascons at this time, so you may be spared—”

“He is in charity with anyone but his own natural subjects,” Hereford grated.

King Henry’s predilection for his wife’s relatives and for his own uterine brothers, Guy, Geoffrey, and Aymer de Lusignan, was a perennial source of outrage to his English barons. They felt that the foreigners’ rapacious demands kept the king in a constant state of penury so that his demands for money were, at least in the opinion of his noblemen, insatiable. Aubery was little more fond than his overlord of the plague of Lusignans. He disliked their contemptuous pride and their scorn of everything English, except the money they could draw from the country, but he did not see that a repetition of complaints he had heard many times could help the situation.

“I hope we will not stay long in Bordeaux,” Aubery said, hoping to change an unfruitful subject.

“God alone knows,” Hereford groaned. “On the ship the king could hardly wait to put on his armor and rush off to La Réole. Once the dinners started, he began to talk about hearing his Gascon subjects’ opinions on which place to attack.”

“Well, you need not worry that the Coloms or the de Solers will try to detain him in Bordeaux. Usually each side wants to influence him as much as possible, but they seem to be agreed, at least, that is what Raymond says, that he had better take back La Réole and St. Emilion and the other places first.”

“So that if we cannot do it, they can offer themselves to Gaston de Béarn or Castile, I suppose,” Hereford said, his lips twisting.

“I suppose so, although Raymond will be faithful. Not that it would be much help, for Blancheforte is small and old and barely a mile from Bordeaux. Another thing, there is an interesting rumor abroad that Henry is negotiating with Alfonso to obtain his half sister Eleanor as Edward’s wife.”

“Is there?” Hereford remarked. “I know that it was talked of before the old King of Castile died. When did you hear of this?”

“Only since I have been here,” Aubery said cautiously.

“That is very interesting,” Hereford said, “but I am not sure Alfonso would agree, with Gascony in so great disorder. Still, if we can make a start by taking La Réole, which is the strongest of the rebel fortresses, it would show that Béarn has not the strength to support his followers. Well, I will do what I can to make sure that our strength is not wasted in idleness.”

“Raymond will also, my lord. Of that I can assure you. His lands are close to those of Gaston in the south, and although they are, as you know, related, he does not trust Béarn. Moreover, Raymond is an honorable man, and he gave his fealty to King Henry.”

“He is Queen Eleanor’s cousin—no, nephew.”

“Yes, his father is the natural son of the late Comte de Provence, Raymond-Berenger, and the queen is very fond of Raymond.”

Hereford smiled. “And you have married his daughter. Her relationship to the queen will do you no harm. Are you content with the girl? You said the land settlement was pleasing to you. What of the wife?”

“I have no complaint,” Aubery said.

Not expecting wild enthusiasm for a marriage made to secure an estate, Hereford was satisfied with Aubery’s tepid reply. “Well, you must present her to me,” he urged, “as soon as I know that I will have a few hours of freedom. I will let you go now. You may attend me at prime tomorrow. Until then, since Blancheforte is so close, go home and enjoy your wife.”

Aubery rose and bowed, aware that he was reddening. It was the curse of a fair skin that every emotion showed upon it, even if one’s face was still. But Hereford made no remark, he was too fond of Aubery to do that, remembering how distraught Aubery had been when his first wife died and guessing that the young man felt it wrong to show too much pleasure in this second marriage. That was proper, one could not allow a good match to escape for the sake of mourning, but one need not display any excess of joy, either. Still, Hereford was glad that Aubery
was
enjoying his new wife.

Hoping Hereford had not noticed his flush, Aubery went to reclaim his horse from the earl’s stabling. He had not reacted so much to what Hereford had actually said as to the rush of desire he felt at the suggestion, the impulse to do exactly that—ride back to Blancheforte and take Fenice to bed. He could not remember ever having felt that way about Matilda, at least not after they were married. But the pleasure with Fenice was so much greater. Aubery drew a deep breath, rejecting images and recalling sensations that only worsened his temptation. Was he becoming a slave to his own lust? To curb himself, he set out to look for Raymond and William.

The message that Aubery had sent off so casually to say he would not return to eat or sleep at Blancheforte had had a greater impact than he could have expected. No one had ever sent Fenice that kind of private message before. She had, of course, received letters, from Alys, from her sister, even, on some special occasions, from her father, but when Delmar had been delayed, either he had left her to guess when he would come or the message had been delivered to his mother.

Feeling as important as a queen, Fenice thanked the messenger, rewarded him with the correct tiny coin—she had seen what Lady Alys had given Raymond’s messenger—and bade him ask a servant for refreshment if he desired it. She returned to her work, floating on air with joy. Her hands were busy enough. Lady Alys had given her a considerable quantity of that type of cloth not common in England and therefore costly there. From it, she was making several tunics and surcoats for Aubery, who had brought mostly clothing fit for fighting, and not much of that. Fenice assumed that Aubery had not thought about her father’s position and that it would be necessary for him to appear with Raymond in situations that required rich clothing. In addition, Alys had warned Fenice not to neglect her own wardrobe. She had had gowns sufficient when she had first been married, but during the time she had been away from Fuveau, Lady Emilie had wreaked havoc with her clothing. Some, Fenice had restored after she had arrived at Blancheforte, but there was still much to do.

Busy hands, however, do not necessarily mean an occupied mind. A practiced and proficient needlewoman, Fenice’s hands needed little guidance from her head, and she was free to think over her joy and, too soon, to begin to wonder whether it was a false joy. Fenice certainly had no fault to find with her husband’s strength and virility, nor with his eagerness to couple with her, but it was puzzling to her that he often seemed surprised at the things Delmar had taught her. He did not protest, and his reactions showed his pleasure, but when they were finished it seemed to Fenice that most nights Aubery was not totally content. She did not mean physically, Fenice was sure he was wrung dry, but sometimes he would give her a strange, uneasy look and seem about to speak, then change his mind.

And there was another peculiarity; Aubery had never used a love-word to her, not even in the throes of passion. Of course, Aubery did not speak much while making love. Fenice preferred that, but… Then she bit her lip. She had not used such words either, but that was because she had not dared. They were often enough on the tip of her tongue. Could Aubery be waiting for her to speak of love? No, it was the man’s part to begin, and who was she to offer love unasked?

She put the matter out of her mind, but it returned on and off. She even thought of mentioning the small puzzles to Lady Alys when they ate dinner for the second time in lonely dignity, and ask if she had an answer to them, but somehow she could not. It seemed a private matter between herself and her husband, private even from Lady Alys. Perhaps if they were alone, Fenice thought as she sewed in the garden in the last of the afternoon light, if they were free of the talk of war and famine and free of the demands the others made on his attention, Aubery would have time to notice her more. A shadow fell across her work. She glanced up and jumped to her feet, smiling and holding out her hand, spilling everything to the ground, all doubts forgotten.

Aubery’s attempt at self-denial had been fruitless. Raymond had been with the king. William had ridden out of Bordeaux to speak to the leaders of Cornwall’s troops, for whom he was responsible as marshal. Aubery could have idled away some hours at an inn or sought the company of the other young men serving with Hereford, but he did not wish to drink for no reason and knew he would be a poor companion. He could resist temptation at Blancheforte with more honesty than sulking in Bordeaux.

But somehow there was nothing to resist. As soon as he entered the hall, a smiling maid told him that Lady Fenice was in the garden. But there was no sly look, no leer in the woman’s smile. To her, after ten years service with Alys and Raymond, it was the most natural thing in the world that a husband should seek his wife immediately. And it felt natural to Aubery to walk out again and find Fenice, to laugh with her over her eagerness to greet him, and to help her pick up everything she had dropped. Then she asked for news. Nor, now, did that strike him as so strange. It was very pleasant for him to tell her what he had done and about his conversation with Lord Hereford. Her absorbed interest was flattering, and her anxiety when he mentioned the expectation of marching against La Réole was just right, not enough to distress him but sufficient to show that she was concerned for his safety.

They lingered, talking, until it was too dark for Fenice to see her work, and then went in to join Alys for the evening meal. The news, of course, had to be retold, and William, who had come in a little while after Aubery, added his bit. Raymond was still in Bordeaux and would probably stay the night, so they did not wait up long for him. Both Aubery and William had to be back in the town no more than an hour after sunrise.

And when Aubery and Fenice were undressing, and her rich, creamy skin was bared, the word “temptation” did not enter his mind. It was as natural as their talk that his mouth should fall upon her shoulder, and that she should turn to him with easy grace, with lips that sought him as eagerly as his touched her. It was only after they were done and she lay quiet beside him, her breathing deepening into the rhythm of sleep, that he remembered temptation.