Fire Song (33 page)

Fenice was delighted on their arrival at Blancheforte to find that Raymond and Alys were still there. She had not been certain that they would have remained in Gascony so long after the war was actually over. They had been away from Aix much longer than usual, and Lady Alys had already been worried about her children. Not only were Alys and Raymond still in Blancheforte but Sir William was also there, grumbling about his long separation from his beloved wife but asked to remain by Richard of Cornwall, who had written that the king intended, if he could, to visit his mother’s tomb and have her body transferred to the church at Fontevrault.

This was now possible because King Louis was, at long last, back in France. Alphonse, Raymond’s younger brother who protected the interests of the Comte d’Aix in the French court, had written a gossipy letter that provided the cynical details surrounding the homecoming. Louis’s crusade had been a disaster and had ended in his own capture by Sultan Ayyub at Mansurah in Egypt. But Ayyub had been more merciful to Louis than Louis would have been to Ayyub, demanding no more than that the French king yield what little he had previously conquered and pay a king’s ransom for his release. Ayyub was content to leave Louis’s soul to what Christian consolations it could find, whereas Louis would have insisted that Ayyub’s Moslem soul be converted.

In fact, so stubborn was Louis in his determination to perform the impossible and drive the infidels from the Holy Land that he lingered in Syria for three years after he had been freed. All he had was the helpless remnant of a shattered army, but he hoped that his pious example would inspire other Christian monarchs to send assistance. Even his mother’s death in 1252 had had no immediate power to shake his resolve. By 1255, however, he had given up hope of waking the conscience of his brother rulers and yielded to the increasingly frantic pleas of his regents to return to governing his kingdom.

Fenice and Aubery were deeply interested in the fact that Louis had again taken the reins of France into his hands. In the king’s absence, those who governed uneasily in his stead had regarded the long-standing truce between England and France strictly, that is, they would refrain from attacking, but acted as if all those who owed fealty to Henry of England were enemies of Louis of France and were to be accorded no courtesies.

Thus, only under the most exceptional circumstances was an official safe conduct for passage through France issued during the king’s absence. Louis was of a more generous and flexible disposition. He had always interpreted the truce in the widest sense, as a preliminary to a peaceful accord. Thus, he had most graciously agreed to allow Henry to do what he liked with his mother’s remains and, indeed, to move freely within France with a reasonable escort. Aubery would have heard the news in Bayonne had he not been so eager to avoid any official of the royal party lest he be snatched back into service.

Having commiserated with his stepfather who was waiting to join Henry and the queen when they came back to Bordeaux preparatory to setting off for Fontevrault, Aubery asked Raymond if his brother, Alphonse, could obtain a safe conduct for Fenice and himself. Permission to travel through France would save them the choice between a most dangerous and uncomfortable sea voyage—if they were able to find a ship that would attempt the long sail to England at this season—or remaining in Gascony until the spring.

Raymond said that he could foresee no difficulty and sent off a messenger that very day to Alphonse. He was rather amused at Aubery’s haste to be gone before the king returned to Bordeaux, commenting that most men would kill for the advantages Aubery was so eager to throw away. However, Sir William, Alys, and Fenice all supported Aubery stoutly—William and Alys because they had strong reservations about a close association with King Henry, and Fenice because, despite the kindness of the queen, she could not completely overcome her fears and knew she would be far happier living quietly.

Although the safe conduct they desired did not arrive before the royal party, Henry was far too happy in the company of his wife and too busy with the plans he was making to think of Aubery. Of course, had Aubery presented himself, the king would have been reminded of his existence, happy to see him, and happy to praise him for doing his duty so well. Aubery knew it and was so eager to avoid his monarch’s notice that he hardly was willing to go outside the walls of Blancheforte.

By the time the royal party returned to Bordeaux, Savin had learned that Aubery was not out of favor. No one was certain why he had left so hurriedly, but the assumption was that it was some urgent personal business that called him away. Savin was annoyed, but it was too late to do anything about it. Since Aubery was still in high favor, it was impossible for Savin to believe he would not have come to court to exploit his opportunity. Thus, he was almost certain Aubery had already left for England. Besides, his gains from illicit profit were still excellent, and Lord Guy seemed satisfied to keep him in the household, so Savin dismissed Aubery from his mind. Sooner or later, Savin told himself, he would get his revenge for the injuries Aubery had done him.

Fortunately, Henry and Queen Eleanor set off on their journey before Aubery lost patience with his confinement. Only a few days later Alphonse’s letter came containing a safe conduct from King Louis. Fenice and Aubery wasted no time. Every day’s delay would subject them to more chance of bad weather. Since they were taking with them no more than their clothing, packing took no long time. Five English men-at-arms, half of Sir William’s little troop, went with them to help guard the baggage, and they chose to take the most westerly route, through La Rochelle and Nantes to Cherbourg. The crossing from Cherbourg was best for them. That from Calais was shorter but was not practical because it would add hundreds of miles to their journey in France and because Dover was much farther from Marlowe than Portsmouth.

In the chilly predawn of mid-November, Fenice attended mass for the last time with her father and stepmother. She prayed passionately for their long life and happiness, for the health and well-being of her half brothers and half sister, for her sister, Enid, in service with Lady Beatrice, Countess of Provence, and all those she was leaving behind, even Lady Jeannette and Lady Emilie. She knew she should be frightened and lonely at the idea of going so far away and at the possibility that she would never again see those who had been so dear to her, but truly she was neither frightened nor lonely.

Fenice did weep a little after they had broken their fasts and her father and Lady Alys accompanied her to the bailey to embrace her for the last time, but her tears were more of excitement than of sorrow. She would be a lady in her own manor again, as she had been in Trets. And even if she often lived in Marlowe where Lady Elizabeth ruled, she had nothing to fear from Lady Elizabeth. Sir William had been exactly as Lady Alys described him, and Lady Alys had assured her that Lady Elizabeth was the kindest person living.

Besides, in England no one knew she was only a serf woman’s daughter. In recompense for the evil thought, forbidden by Lady Alys and an implied criticism of her dear, kind father, Fenice hugged them both again and wept a little more. Then Aubery put her up on her mare and they were off, clattering across the drawbridge, Fenice twisting in her saddle to wave and wave as long as she could see the figures watching them ride away, waving and weeping because she felt guilty at not being sadder.

Chapter Twenty-Four

When the road bent so that she could no longer see Blancheforte, Fenice wiped her eyes and nose and turned to look at the view ahead. It was familiar at this point because they had to ride to Bordeaux to cross the river. Despite the damp chill of the morning, Fenice knew it would be a beautiful day. Ahead to the east, the sky was streaked with pink and gold. Soon the sun would be up.

“Are you afraid of going so far from your family and being alone with me?” Aubery asked suddenly.

Fenice turned startled eyes up to him. They were riding close on the narrow road, Aubery holding Draco in so that he would not outdistance Fenice’s much smaller mare. The stallion was snorting and shaking his head in irritation at the constraint, and Fenice wondered whether it was because Aubery had needed to raise his voice over Draco’s noise that it had sounded sharp to her.

“No, Aubery,” she replied, “of course I am not afraid. You have always been kind to me.” Then her clear eyes shadowed. “And closeness is no guarantee of happiness.”

Aubery’s first reaction to her answer was pure pleasure. He had been a little annoyed at her crying. After all, she had known from the beginning that she must eventually go to England with him, and she had seemed eager to do so. But when she said that closeness was no guarantee of happiness, he realized he was being unreasonable. It was only natural that she should be sad at parting with Alys and Raymond, and that statement could only refer to her first marriage. Her husband’s lands had been very close to Tour Dur.

Although he really wanted to ask what she meant in the hope that she would say outright her first marriage had been unhappy, he did not do so. If Fenice spoke of…what was the man’s name? Delmar, that was it. Would she not expect him to speak of Matilda? Aubery shied away from the thought. He did not want to speak—or think—about Matilda.

Instead, he said, “Then you will not mind, I hope, if we make the best speed we may on our journey.” He, too, glanced at the sky. “It will be fair and not cold today, but as we go north, the weather will not be as good, and the slower our pace, the worse it will get.”

“I will not mind at all,” Fenice assured him. “Let us go as far as the horses can take us.”

Aubery smiled at her. Her ready response, which held no shadow of regret at the implied increase of distance from her father and stepmother, pleased him, but the remark had only been something to say. He did not wish to idle on the road but did not feel any need to hurry, either. Unless they had very bad luck, the trip to Cherbourg would take no longer than ten days, and it would be senseless to exhaust Fenice and the horses to save a day or two. That could make no difference.

In fact, Aubery had had no intention of covering as much as the forty-odd miles they did that first day. He would gladly have stopped sooner, for although she did not complain, Fenice looked very tired toward the end of the ride, but there had been no suitable place. The two villages they had passed had been so poor and filthy that he did not for a moment consider taking over one of the huts. For a while Aubery thought they would have to camp in the open because the road passed through a long, hilly, forested area, more desolate than he had expected. However, they met a merchant’s party going south and were assured that there was a larger village ahead, where they could find food and shelter.

They found more than that. Hardly had they settled into the one decent chamber the inn afforded than there was a loud disturbance in the main room below. Fenice paid no attention, but when she came toward Aubery to disarm him, he shook his head.

“What—” Fenice began, but was interrupted by the creak of the stairs and the landlord’s trembling voice at the door saying that there were gentlemen below who insisted on having the chamber.

Aubery strode forward, one hand on his sword, and Fenice’s breath caught with fear. “Do not—” she cried, but he was already out the door and headed down the stairs. She followed a moment later, determined to run out and summon their men from the stable if a fight should develop, but only got as far as the stair landing when she heard Aubery say in an amazed voice, “My lord Warwick, gentlemen, what do you here?”

“And who are you to ask?” a haughty voice responded.

Followed so immediately that Aubery could not answer by a loud laugh and a second voice, saying, “Back off, John. Do you not see it is Aubery of Ilmer?”

From her perch on the landing, Fenice could not see which of the three armed men confronting Aubery had spoken, but if she could have reached the second she would have scratched out his eyes. In her experience, to say something like that was sure to provoke a fight, for the man who had been warned would doubtless feel he must prove he was not afraid. Fortunately, before the first speaker could respond to the challenge, Aubery intervened.

“I would gladly give up the chamber to you, Lord Warwick,” he offered, “but my wife is with me. If I can find—”

“No, no,” Warwick interrupted quickly, his voice more pleasant. “I thought you were some French or Poitevin popinjay with a doxy. I would not think of depriving Lady…er…”

“Fenice,” Aubery told him.

During the conversation, Fenice had hurried quietly down the stairs. Now that the initial confrontation was over, she was certain her presence would prevent any new threat of aggression from arising. She approached the men and dropped a deep curtsy.

“I have no wish to discommode you, my lords,” she murmured. “Perhaps—”

“You do not discommode us at all,” Warwick assured her, casting an admiring glance over her as she rose from her bow. “In fact, if you will give us your company this evening, we will be repaid in full measure and overflowing for any small inconvenience the lack of a private chamber will cause.”

Fenice cast an apprehensive glance at her husband, but he was smiling and nodded permission. Whatever uneasiness Aubery felt about her relationship with her first husband, he was not jealous of other men. Over the months they had traveled with the queen and prince and stayed in Castile, he had discovered that Fenice offered other men no more than common courtesy, and less if she could do that without giving offense. He no longer feared that her sexual response to him was a sign of a generally lecherous nature and found himself rather proud of the attention she received and the envious comments and glances that were his portion.

“Let us all unarm, if it pleases you, my lords,” Aubery said, “and when we are at ease my wife will give us a song or two to spice our evening meal. She has a sweet voice and nimble fingers with the lute.”

In the privacy of their chamber, Aubery apologized. “I am sorry, Fenice. I know you are tired, but I prefer, if I can, to avoid any quarrel with Warwick. He is not a bad man, only more proud than sensible sometimes, perhaps because the earldom is through his wife. However, he is powerful enough to cause trouble if he likes.”

“You are very wise, my lord,” Fenice assured him warmly. “It is nothing to me to sing for a while. You know I enjoy that. I only hope that other man, the one who tried to make mischief—”

“You mean Mauduit.” Aubery laughed. “He did not mean to make mischief. I think his warning was meant honestly, if not phrased in the most tactful way. After all, Warwick is near twice my age and to speak the truth was never a match for me.”

Fenice shook her head. “Then he should have known that you would take no advantage of the earl, and to laugh like that…”

She left the sentence unfinished as she pulled off Aubery’s hauberk, stripped him down to his shirt, and then helped him into one of the gowns he had worn in Castile. He started to protest when he saw what she was preparing to slip over his head and then nodded. Whatever her reasons, Fenice’s instinct was right. Looking grand would be more likely to impress Warwick and his companions than a more becoming modesty, and they would be less inclined to take advantage if they were impressed.

Whether it was the elegant clothing or the companionable feeling of countrymen in a foreign environment, the evening went very well. Fenice’s performance was greeted with admiration and praise, but of the greatest propriety, and the manner of the other men to Aubery despite the disparity of their ranks was civil and obliging. In the course of the evening, it was determined that Warwick’s party was also headed for England, and Aubery was invited, warmly and politely, to accompany them. To Fenice’s dismay he accepted with seeming alacrity.

Later, when they were again alone, she hesitantly expressed the wish that they might go on without the company of Warwick and his companions.

Aubery shook his head. “We will be safer with them. In Pons, which I understand is something more than ten miles ahead, they are to join a large party. We may have to wait a day or so for everyone to assemble, but together we will be unassailable. Moreover, it will be possible to hire ships to take us to Portsmouth rather than wait for passage on a merchant vessel, which might make port farther east or west.”

This was too sensible an answer for Fenice to protest further, but she was still uneasy. Even though only the most civil courtesies were directed at her or Aubery on the next day’s brief ride to Pons, she felt even more doubtful about the wisdom of associating themselves with Warwick’s party. She simply did not like the men and their attitude. As a Provençal, she had no special love for the French herself, but she thought it unwise to swagger about criticizing and making fun of everything about a country in which they were strangers. And when they arrived in Pons, she was appalled when the earl and his friends simply dismissed their men without making arrangements for their food or lodging.

Aubery frowned over that, too. He knew that the men were probably hired mercenaries who had been paid in coin and that finding shelter was their own business; still, it troubled him that they were let loose in the town without even a warning to make no trouble. Under the circumstances, he was very glad when the prominent citizen who greeted Warwick and offered him lodging confounded himself in apologies for not having room for Aubery and Fenice. A friend would lodge them, he offered, or he would arrange that they be accommodated in the best inn. Aubery closed with the offer of the inn immediately. The inn might be noisier, more pest-infested, and less comfortable, but he could have his own men where he could keep an eye on them and prove they had no part in any disturbance when complaints about the misbehavior of Warwick’s troop began to come in.

In fact, when the mayor’s steward had brought them to a surprisingly commodious inn and left them, Aubery began to reconsider his decision to remain with the parry. He would wait, he told Fenice, until the entire group had gathered, and then simply ride out on his own if they all seemed as irresponsible as Warwick, Seagrave, and Mauduit. It was true, he added, that Pons had been ruled by the English until 1242, but it was no longer under Henry’s control, and in any case, the towns of Poitou were like those in Gascony, independent and controlled by a commune.

Fenice was relieved and hoped that now that they were separated from the party they would be forgotten, but that hope was not fulfilled. Shortly after Aubery had shed his armor and made sure his men were settled and warned not to leave the grounds of the inn, he was called from his chamber by the arrival of a messenger from the mayor who carried an invitation to a feast in honor of the guests of the town. It was an all-male affair, so there was no mention of Fenice.

Aubery hesitated briefly and then accepted. He did not like to be discourteous and he liked even less to use Fenice as an excuse to refuse, recalling the jests concerning his uxoriousness made by the knights who had been with him in Castile. What finally decided the issue was that he learned that most of the other English knights had arrived and would attend. However, he was not completely satisfied with the situation and arranged that Fenice be served a meal in the privacy of their chamber and that his men-at-arms mount a guard before her door until he returned.

“I would like you to stay within,” he told Fenice after explaining what he had done.

She nodded without comment as she helped him change his plain tunic for another elaborate gown.

Aubery frowned. He could not help remembering that one of Matilda’s greatest joys was roaming the markets of any strange town and purchasing trinkets and oddities. He had often forbidden her the pleasure because he considered her extravagant, and she had died, and he could never make up for the little joys he had denied her.

“I am sorry you will have no opportunity to see the town and that you may be bored,” he went on quickly. “I do not wish to deny you, but I know nothing of this place or its ways. William does not like the Poitevins. He says they are greedy and treacherous. Perhaps this is only a result of his too-great acquaintance with the king’s half brothers, but he was here with Henry in ‘42 and ‘43 and might have more reason for his warnings than his distaste for the Lusignans.”

Fenice had stared at him in surprise for just a moment and then threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. She thought that no husband in the world was as good as hers, surely no other would trouble to explain an order a wife was bound to obey, even if it were just a whim of her man’s will.

“I will not be bored,” Fenice assured him. “Truly, I take little pleasure in seeing a town without you.”

She did not qualify her statements further because she did not want to confess to Aubery how tired she was. She had been so anxious about joining Warwick’s party that she had not slept well, and that had prevented her from recovering completely from the fatigue of the long ride the previous day. The hours in the saddle had been harder to endure than she expected. In the past, except for the journey to Bayonne, Fenice had been accustomed to traveling with a baggage train, which could rarely go more than twenty miles a day. And although it was true that on her journeys with her father and Lady Alys they had spent as many hours a day traveling, she and Lady Alys idled away most of those hours by the side of the road waiting for the wains to catch up.