Fire Song (22 page)

“That Fenice would serve well for a spy,” Aubery said flatly.

Raymond looked at him and laughed. “Do not put your notions onto Fenice.
All
women love to play spy. I suppose it is the feeling of power it gives them. But do not let the matter trouble you overmuch, even for your own honor. First, those who plan a betrayal have no honor themselves. You will do the honest men no hurt. Ah yes, I remember what I meant to say, that Fenice’s natural diffidence would encourage the ladies of Bayonne to speak freely to her, and at the same time, her kinship with the queen is sure to make them wish to impress her. Between the two, secrets are sure to slip out.”

Raymond was probably right about that, Aubery thought, but he was not at all sure it would be so easy for
him
to tell truth from lies among men whose custom, manners, and speech were different from his own. He was also concerned about the journey south, for he feared that the ride would be cold and wet. Trips with Matilda had been a nightmare. She had become chilled and tired so easily when she rode, and yet the sway of a travel cart had made her sick. Not that Matilda had ever complained, and he had always been careful not to push her too far, but now he bitterly regretted that he had not always been as pleasant about the delays as he could have been. Then he called himself a fool. Fenice was much sturdier.

She was also, he discovered, a far more interesting companion. They had better weather than he had expected, mostly dry although rather cold, but even when it was wet, Fenice was not affected, cheerfully pulling her hood over her head and never asking how much farther they had to go. Instead she enlivened the ride by pointing out familiar places or wanting to know if England had this or that plant, type of earth, scenic view, and so on. Her questions about England were even more eager than her talk of places on the road that held pleasant memories for her, and Aubery was struck more and more by an oddity in that.

It was reasonable for Alys and Raymond and William and himself to desire the exchange of Marlowe for Fuveau and Trets, but it was damned
unnatural
for Fenice. Agreed, she had an eagerness to please others, but to carry it so far as to give up good property she already possessed for a small income, a husband she had never met, and the possibility of inheriting a similar property someday far in the future—no. That was carrying amiability to the point of madness. And this passion for everything English was strange also.
Why
should a girl, obviously loved by her relatives and loving them in return, be so eager to abandon them, her property, neighbor to those she loved, even her country?

On the last afternoon of travel Aubery had brought down a deer with his bow. He had killed the creature in mercy when, startled by the sound of the horses and voices, it had struggled to its feet not far from the road and tried to run. Fenice had cried out at the sight of an arrow in its side, and it had been so weak that Aubery had had time to string his bow and shoot. Since it was foolish to leave good venison lying in the road, they had stopped, and one of the men said he would disembowel and partially butcher the animal to make carrying easier. Fenice and Aubery dismounted and went to sit in the sun on the grassy verge that rose above the deep-worn road. While they waited, one remark led to another, and soon they were comparing this deer with those of England. The intensity of Fenice’s interest in so small a detail renewed Aubery’s curiosity.

“You are eager to go to England, are you not?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” she replied with glowing eyes.

“Why?” Aubery asked baldly.

“Why?” Fenice echoed, her heart sinking sickly. It was a question she dared not answer, for to do so would expose her serf origin. “I…it was my father’s will,” she faltered.

Aubery stared at her. Somewhere out of their sight there was the unmistakable sound of flesh being chopped and the snap of bone. Fenice knew the men were butchering the deer. Sunlight flickered through the few remaining leaves of the tree opposite her, making shifting patterns on the dry grass as the light, fitful breeze stirred them. This late in the year, the whisper of leaf against leaf was a dry, brittle sound, not the soft sighing of spring.
Have I lost the summer of my life so soon
? Fenice wondered.
Have I leapt from spring to winter?

“Your father is very gentle to you,” Aubery said slowly. “He would not force you.”

Aubery was very sorry he had begun this catechism. He had seen Fenice’s fear and knew at once that his reasoning had not been at fault. She
was
hiding something. But did he want to know what it was?

“Force me? No! But…but is his goodness to me not reason enough?”

“Reason enough to give up a good property already your own for the mere expectation of another in a land you have never seen?” The words were out before Aubery could stop them. He had not intended to press the matter further, but to his surprise Fenice looked shocked rather than frightened now.

“Mine? Trets and Fuveau were never mine. Papa bought Trets so that his grandchildren would be better provided. So then when there were no grandchildren, it was only right that the lands should be his, not mine.”

“But daughters have a right to a dowry,” Aubery protested. “Mine—”

He stopped and looked away. He had been about to say that little Bess would have her mother’s whole property, when it occurred to him that was the first time he had recalled Matilda’s existence since they had started on this journey. That was wrong. He had wronged her in so many ways, he could not abandon even her memory just because Fenice provided him with so much pleasure. Aubery stood up abruptly.

“I will see whether the men have finished. If they do not hurry, we will never reach Bayonne before the gates are closed, and I have no mind to spend the night in an inn outside the town. You know what they are.”

But Fenice was sure Aubery knew there was no need to hurry. It was no great distance to Bayonne. She sat perfectly still, not even turning to watch his retreating back. She was prey to so many conflicting emotions that she could not guess which hurt her most. She was sure he did not believe what she had said about the property, because daughters
did
have a right to a dowry, only not daughters like her, who would not have been acknowledged by many fathers. Yet she could not defend the truth of her statement because to do so would violate her oath to Lady Alys and might deprive her of any chance to bury that first wife in spirit as well as body.

That thought brought a
grrr
sound from Fenice’s throat, very much like the warning one of her father’s pet bitches gave when someone approached Raymond while he was fondling her. It was only when Aubery thought of his dead wife that he left. Despite perhaps believing she was lying, he had still been talking of the property when he had referred to his daughter, which no doubt brought the dead woman to mind… Unaware, Fenice made the ugly little sound again but cut it off abruptly.

Or had he left her because she had not asked for the charge of his daughter? There had been a little pause after he had said “Mine” and before he got up. If that was the cause, Fenice knew she was justly punished by Aubery’s anger, for she had been so busy hating a dead woman that she had not thought of the child.

Tears rose to Fenice’s eyes. How could he think for a moment that she would not take the little girl and love her with all her heart? Could there be a better way to repay what Lady Alys had done for her? And if the child constantly reminded him of his first wife? Fenice shuddered.

“You have been sitting still too long. You are chilled.” Aubery’s voice came from behind her. The words were considerate, but the tone was empty. He was holding out his hand to help her rise, and she put her own into it in automatic response. Fenice wanted to say, “If you will give me your daughter, I will love her,” but there was a closed look to his face so that she could not find her voice, and later, when he set her on her mare and mounted his own horse, he spoke of Bayonne and the task laid on them.

Nor, after they arrived well before dusk was there any opportunity to recall the subject. A man had been sent ahead with the king’s letter so that when they came to the mayor’s house, he was sent for hurriedly. Then they were shown to their quarters, and after they had been given time to clean themselves of travel dust and dress, the ceremonial greetings began.

Fenice found it very hard to be the center of all eyes, and the words “queen’s kinswoman” seemed like a dreadful weight hanging over her head to crush her if she did wrong. However, Alys had never let her shirk social duties, and that rigid training now permitted Fenice to find the right words for each person presented to her, words spoken with a pretty diffidence, an appealing glance that begged approval.

To Aubery, practiced in dealing with people both as Hereford’s and his stepfather’s deputy, there was no personal strain in the formal presentations. He was able to measure the impression they were making, and he came to the conclusion that Raymond had judged astutely the effect his daughter would have. The glances cast at Fenice were revealing. In every group being introduced to persons thought to be influential there are those who consider whether and how they can profit from the acquaintance. There was nothing unnatural in it, it just seemed to Aubery that there were far too many who looked that way in this group. However, he was not troubled, in fact, he was pleased to find that thus far, even with missing words here and there because of the difference in accent, he was having no real difficulty in reading the people. His only doubts rose from his concern that Fenice was, indeed, as inexperienced and innocent as the Bayonnese thought her, and that despite her father’s confidence she would fall into traps set for her.

But Fenice had been regarded by many of the serfs in Tour Dur as a natural bridge between them and their masters. Most had tried at one time or another to reach across her to obtain various advantages. She had early learned that no true friendship or gratitude could be obtained through doing favors. Thus, Fenice had eventually learned to “smell” any attempt to use her.

The next morning was spent by Aubery in being shown the town and by Fenice in formal visits. The afternoon was taken up by the feast. It was already apparent to both that those who entertained them were not at ease, although Aubery had no reason to suspect that the tension was related to his visit. By evening, as Raymond had predicted, Aubery was the recipient of many suggestions, hints, and veiled accusations from each party against the other, delivered under various guises. All seemed to be ordinary attempts to influence King Henry in one way or another or normal political backbiting.

Another day passed in a very similar manner, except that the dinner to which Aubery and Fenice were invited was a more private affair. Aubery had learned some things that the king would find unpalatable, but it was Fenice who nosed out the faint, ugly scent of something seriously rotten. No one would have known it from her manner, but after they got into bed that night, she crept softly out again to the door to make sure none of the maidservants who had been lent to them was near.

“There is something wrong among the women, my lord,” she said very softly when she returned, creeping in between the bedcurtains as she had crept out without pulling them aside. “The wrong ones are frightened.”

“What do you mean?” Aubery asked, his voice as low as hers.

It was a hard thing to explain, and Fenice began with a general condition. “There is much nervous talk about whether or not Béarn will come,” she began, then paused and shook her head. “A few women, not too clever, seemed to think that it would not happen because the king sent me here.” She shrugged at so ridiculous a notion of her importance. “The fear of Béarn is common and not surprising, and I do not think there will be long or strong resistance if he should come with a strong force.”

“No,” Aubery agreed impatiently. He did not need Fenice to tell him the obvious. “They will yield on terms if there is the smallest real threat of the town being overrun. I can hear that in the way the mayor and,” he wrinkled his nose with distaste, “most of the peers speak of their loyalty to the king. Loyalty or not, I do not believe they would not ask for support if they intended to resist. There are some, however, who were most insistent that the king fill the city with troops to fight Béarn. I suppose they have done him some despite and expect retribution to fall on them if he takes power here.”

“I would mark those men well, my lord,” Fenice urged.

Aubery stiffened slightly with outrage. “You think they have befooled me?” he asked coldly.

“Oh, no,” Fenice replied. “There is treachery here. I am sure of it. Those women who insist most strongly that Béarn will not come, that he is in Castile, are frightened. No, not frightened, that is the wrong word. They are stretched taut, like bowstrings, waiting for the arrow to be released. At least, the clever ones are. Those who are silly seem complacent. I would guess they are not in the confidence of their husbands. There is fear, too, underneath the expectation. That is why I said to mark the fearful men well. If they leave Bayonne all of a sudden, will that not mean they have been warned Béarn is on his way?”

“If they
are
warned,” Aubery said dryly. “I doubt that those so opposed to Béarn would be part of the plans to give over the city to him, which can be the only treachery here.” He shrugged. “I am not sure you are right. The ladies you think guilty may be hiding no more than their own doubts of the wisdom of their husbands’ opinions. And fearful creatures may run because their courage, what there was of it, had failed. Still, I will keep what you have said in my mind.”