Winter Song (34 page)

“How selfish I am,” Alys said, “to urge you to break your
sleep twice just for the pleasure of having you lie beside me. Indeed, you must
not come if you are late returning home.”

Raymond’s grip on her tightened. “You are the delight of my
life and a refreshment to my soul. It is not that I would yield a minute of
lying beside you for the breaking of my sleep ten times, beloved. It is that I
fear I will not be able to come at all, and you will lie awake all night
waiting for me. Take Bertha to your bed, my love, if you feel strange here.”

Alys hugged him back. “Oh, no. How could I be so cruel! It
is Hugo’s first night off duty. They are bedded in the chamber below, where
Hugo can guard the door as well as enjoy his wife—not that there is anything to
guard against here in Tour Dur. It is only habit. Do not worry about me. I will
sleep sound.”

With a moue of distaste for his duty, Raymond squeezed his
wife once more. “If I can come, I will, but do not
dare
lie awake
waiting. I do not want to see you still all blue beneath the eyes tomorrow.
Like as not, my aunt will keep me overnight.” Raymond had begun to look angry
again, but then his expression softened. “Aunt Catherine
would
make you
welcome, Alys, but my mother says she has been very ill and I must not put even
the gentle burden of your company on her. This, of course, may be only my
mother’s saying, but my father seemed concerned, also. In truth, that was why I
agreed to go alone this afternoon.”

“I am sorry to hear of her illness,” Alys said with ready
sympathy. “I would be very glad to nurse her, if she would have me. Do you ask
her, Raymond.” Then she dimpled at her husband. “I take it she is childless,
and you are the apple of her eye?”

“Not childless, but she has no son.” Raymond grinned back at
his wife. “I will ask about the nursing. If she will have you, I will move to
her manor with you. It will be a pleasure. In truth, I owe her more than simple
courtesy. She bought me my first sword, against my mother’s will, and bade an
old man-at-arms, who still serves her, to teach me, and that even though she knew
my mother might take from her what little she had.”

“But your mother was well dowered—I know, because you told
me her lands when we talked about what was to come with me—and I take it Lady
Catherine was the elder. How comes she to be so poor?”

“She was ill-used by her husband’s family. Not that my
father or brother would do the same, but it was in my mind when I agreed that
you should hold your own property.”

“Your father never would ill-use me!” Alys exclaimed.

“No,” Raymond agreed with a smile. “He loves you dearly
already. You should hear how he scolded me for misusing you.” They both
laughed, and he kissed her again briefly before pulling his cloak tighter. “Gros
Choc will be cold,” he murmured, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “I must
go.”

Despite Raymond’s warning, Alys did not go early to bed. She
sat alone by the fire, embroidering, but she was not unhappy. Mostly she
thought of what Raymond had said about Jeanine—that she had soured after being
forced to return home by the death of her husband. Then it occurred to her that
Lady Jeannette liked to have her daughters about to serve her and be company
for her. But Alys knew how hard it was to be a daughter again once one had been
the mistress of a household. Perhaps Jeanine wished for a second husband.

Later Alys sent Bertha to procure wine, cold meat, and some
sweet cakes. She ate a little but put most aside in case Raymond should want
refreshment if he was able to come to her. By the time it was fully dark,
however, she had all but given up hope of that, and when a furious winter storm
broke, Alys sighed, called down to Bertha to warm the bed for her, and crept in
alone. Unlike the nights at Blancheforte, she slept at once.

When Raymond had returned to the hall after carrying Alys
out with so little delay and so little regret in his expression, Lady Jeannette
felt her work was already complete. However, when her son showed so much
reluctance to visit Lady Catherine, always a great favorite with him, and
insisted he wished to take Alys with him, Lady Jeannette became doubtful again.
His yielding, when she said Catherine had been ill, soothed her, but she did
not like Raymond’s discontented expression. Even if he did think of Alys only
as a useful servant, one could grow fond of servants. It was not enough, Lady
Jeannette decided, that he should not accord Alys the highest form of love. It
would be best if Raymond learned to dislike his wife as well as feel contempt
for her.

Lady Jeannette had planned how to accomplish this. She
intended to give Raymond’s two daughters into Alys’s care. It was only fitting
that the children be raised in their father’s household and not distract their
mother from her work. That would be one benefit, but Lady Jeannette was sure
Alys would be resentful about having such mongrels thrust upon her. As sure as
the sun would rise in the morning, that nasty blonde bitch would be cruel to
the children. Whatever Raymond thought of his baseborn daughters—and he seemed
too fond of them for his mother’s taste—he would dislike his wife very much for
mistreating them.

Perhaps Lady Jeannette should have taken warning from the
beginning of the hard winter’s storm that night. The wind blew in angrily from
the sea, howling and whining around the towers. About midnight the storm
slackened, but it was apparently only gathering strength for a new onslaught.
Toward dawn, rain began to fall in torrents, and one would have thought that
the sun had not risen. It was nearly as dark as night when it should have been
morning.

Partly out of exhaustion and partly because it was so dark,
Alys slept very late. She missed Mass and breakfast before she stretched and
put aside the bed curtains. Bertha was waiting, sewing by the fire, which leapt
and danced and occasionally spouted gouts of smoke into the room in response to
the vagaries and violence of the wind. It was clear from the maid’s attitude
that she had been waiting a long time.

“Good gracious,” Alys murmured, looking toward one of the
narrow slits, which were all the windows the tower had. “I have not slept the
day through, have I?”

“No, my lady,” Bertha replied, smiling. “It is not much past
tierce.”

“Why did you not wake me?” Alys cried, bouncing out of bed.

“My lord was here about the prime and bid me strictly not to
disturb you.”

“He came in and I did not wake?” For no particular reason
that worried Alys.

“Not up here, my lady. Lord Raymond came in below and bade
me look in on you. He said he knew you would wake if you heard his step.”

Alys was both pleased and annoyed. She was glad Raymond
should be so tender and considerate, but doubtless Lady Jeannette would have
something to say about so slug-a-bed a daughter. Alys used the pot and washed
sketchily. With the wind so strong, it was cold in the tower room despite the
fire, so she dressed quickly, but with careful choice nonetheless. Although no
one had said anything, Alys had seen glances cast at her well-worn traveling
dress. Nor was there any need, she thought, to worry about her clothing being
damaged. She would not be going to the kitchens or around the farms. Clearly
the ladies of this house did not demean themselves with such duties.

By the time Alys had struggled across the bailey, she
discovered that the ladies had retired to Lady Jeannette’s solar, and Raymond
and his father were “somewhere about the keep”. Resisting the temptation to sit
down by the fire and wait for her husband, Alys made her way up the stairs. She
found her mother- and sisters-by-marriage typically employed. Lady Jeannette
and Jeanine were playing at tables, and Margot was plucking softly on a lute
and apparently copying down the notes. The scene irritated Alys so much that
she needed to bite her lips to keep from shouting at those three silly women.

Alys had nothing against playing games. She enjoyed them
very much and was skilled in chess, tables, and a number of others. But games
were for long evenings when the day’s work was finished, or to ease the
impatience of a convalescent. Just then Lady Jeannette saw her and beckoned her
forward with a smile.

“We thought you were afraid of the storm and had decided not
to come across to us,” Lady Jeannette said. “I was quite cross with Raymond for
placing you so far away that we could not comfort you.”

This was an interesting turnabout, Alys thought, but she
only said, “What is there to fear in a storm? Perhaps if I were at sea or in
the open or in a serf’s flimsy hut, I would be afraid, but in the south tower I
did not even know there was a storm. I am sorry to say it was sloth, not fear,
that kept me away. I slept very late.”

Jeanine looked up from the game board. “Do you not feel
uneasy, shivery, and likely to cry for no reason?”

It was difficult to discern in the warm light of the many
candles that lit the room, but Alys thought Jeanine was pale. She must be the
one who feared storms. There was nothing silly in that, it was one’s nature or
not one’s nature. Alys knew horses and dogs reacted to storms, and no one could
accuse them of silly fancies.

“Sometimes I do feel that way, indeed,” Alys replied
sympathetically, “although in my case it is not storms that bring it on.”

An expression of interest crossed Jeanine’s face. She seemed
about to speak again when Lady Jeannette said, “It is your move, Jeanine. You
are delaying the game. Sit down, Alys.”

Sit and watch them play? Alys’s jaw tightened over a yawn.
She glanced at Margot, but realized there would be no immediate relief from
that quarter. The younger girl had smiled at her warmly when she came in and
then waved a hand at what she was doing to indicate she wished to finish it.

“I think I will disturb you less if I go down to the hall,”
Alys said. Perhaps she could find the steward and discover what she could do to
help him. The man, she had felt the previous day when he had shown gratitude,
surprise, and relief that she did not expect him to oversee her unpacking, was
probably overburdened.

“No, no,” Lady Jeannette protested. “I have something of
great interest to show you. It will be best if you wait here.”

Reminding herself that she had known she would be bored to
death in Tour Dur and that open rebellion over a few minutes more or less in
that state was stupid, Alys walked toward a window. To reach her goal, it was
necessary to pass Margot, and the girl reached up and drew Alys down on the
bench with her.

“I am copying some simple music,” Margot said very softly. “Mama
thinks you should learn to play. Raymond would like it very much if you could
sing to him.”

The first thought that came into Alys’s head was that Lady
Jeannette knew how much Raymond disliked formal music. Her next thought, which
came almost simultaneously, was how funny Raymond would think it if she did
learn. The third and first sensible one was that music was not a skill that
could be learned in a week or a month, even if she had a talent for it.
Suddenly Alys chuckled. Lady Jeannette did not know that Raymond only listened
to his sisters’ songs out of politeness. Doubtless his mother hoped he would be
disgusted by Alys’s singing and playing because of the sour notes and bad
timing a beginner displayed.

“I could not,” Alys said, equally softly. “I am so stupid
and clumsy. I fear this art is not for me.”

“I cannot believe that,” Margot replied, smiling. “A person
who is moved to tears, as you were yesterday, will learn easily and quickly.
There must be a great desire in you to make music.”

There was a little silence while Alys again choked on
suppressed mirth. She promised herself she would murder her husband for all the
trouble his warped sense of humor had brought upon her. Unfortunately, the
heightened color that came into Alys’s cheeks from suppressing her laughter
merely served to convince Margot that Alys was fearful of her lack of ability
rather than reluctant to waste valuable time on a silly pursuit. Margot
murmured comfortingly to her sister-by-marriage that she was too modest, that
all would be made easy and simple. And, she added as confirmation, even if Alys
found the lessons difficult, they would have the pleasure of one another’s
company.

This last remark gave Alys enough to think about to curb her
mirth. She saw at once that it would be possible to divert Margot from music
and therefore agreed. Margot was beautifully dressed and was clearly fond of
her, Alys thought. Thus, Margot would be just the one to advise on the remaking
of her gowns to suit the Provençal style. Alys asked a question about the
shaping of a sleeve, pointing to her arm and then Margot’s, which were side by
side.

As both their interests were engaged in the discussion of
fashion, Alys’s and Margot’s voices rose from hushed murmurs to normal tones of
speech. Absorbed in their conversation, neither noticed the irritated glances
cast at them by Lady Jeannette. She had given Margot permission to teach Alys
music for just the reason Alys had earlier deduced. There was nothing that set
a music lover’s teeth on edge like the display of a crude, half-learned skill
by a novice performer with too much pride and too little sense. However, she
had not considered that her permission would open the door to friendship
between Alys and Margot. The cheerful give-and-take of the conversation annoyed
Lady Jeannette. She made several wrong moves and, at last, pettishly swept her
hand over the board, knocking the pieces helter-skelter.

“That is enough, Margot,” she said, forcing a smile. “You
are supposed to teach music, not gabble about dress. How do you expect Alys to
learn anything? Finish writing the lessons now. I have something to show Alys—a
charge it is time for me to transfer to her hands.”

Although she rose at once, Alys was surprised. It was true
that Lady Jeannette now seemed much less antagonistic, but Alys still felt the
only thing her mother-by-marriage would like to give her was a dose of poison.
Thus, she was sure the “charge” would be unpleasant. Alys could not imagine
what it could be, and certainly she did not immediately connect it with the two
little girls uncomfortably perched on stools too high for them, tightly
clutching one another’s hands, in a small, cold chamber off Lady Jeannette’s
solar. The faces of the children were pale and tear-streaked.