Winter Song (48 page)

So far Ernaldus had made no profit, aside from his gain in
status, from his services to Guillaume des Baux, but if he helped the young
lord to become master of Provence, there would be nearly no limit to what he
could take for himself.

“My lord,” Ernaldus said, rising and approaching Sir
Guillaume, “I have an idea I wish to propose to you, but I must beg you to
consider long and very carefully, for it is a dangerous gambit and could well
bring the whole power of Europe against us. On the other hand, it would win
back all your heritage and more at one stroke if it is successful.”

“I do not need to consider,” Guillaume replied, almost
quivering with eagerness. “Only tell me. I do not care a pin for danger.”

Since the purpose of mentioning the danger first had
produced exactly the result Ernaldus desired, he beckoned the young man farther
away from the hearth, where Lady Isabel sat with her women and her embroidery
and applied a second sly spur.

“It will have to be kept secret from your mother. She would
be frightened to death, and she might feel there was some wrong in the action.”

Guillaume gave an impatient shrug. “Women are always
frightened and always crying out against sin.”

Ernaldus smiled. He had now guarded against Guillaume
backing off from an act that might be considered dishonorable. Young as
Guillaume was and filled with ridiculous ideas of chivalry toward women, he
might have balked at abducting the heiress, and that would be necessary because
Ernaldus was sure there would not be time enough, no matter how silly the girl
was, for Guillaume to enamor her sufficiently to induce her to come willingly
to Les Baux. Besides, Ernaldus was certain there would be many other young men
trying to attract Beatrice’s attention. Guillaume might not be the one on whom
she would bestow her favor.

“We have heard,” Ernaldus said, “that Charles of Anjou is
the most like to be offered the heiress. But Charles of Anjou is known to be
dour of nature, hard, and no beauty to boot.”

“And he is an accursed Frenchman,” Guillaume snarled.

“Yes, that comes into my plan also, but later,” Ernaldus
soothed. “For now, I wish to speak of the young Lady Beatrice. Is it not a
shame to throw her to such a man? I have heard she is as beautiful as her
sisters and has great charm and graciousness.” He held up a hand as Guillaume
seemed about to speak. “I know you were at war with the father, but surely you
would not war against a helpless girl. And think, are not feuds best settled by
marriages?”

There was a moment’s stunned silence, and then Guillaume
burst into bitter laughter. “Are you mad?”

“Not at all,” Ernaldus replied blandly. “You are most
handsome, my lord, and blessed with those skills most appealing to ladies.
Would it not be for the lady’s good as well as ours that you should have her?”

‘Ten or fifteen years ago, before my father’s power was
broken, it might have been barely possible to propose such a marriage,”
Guillaume snarled impatiently. “Now Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo would not only
laugh in my face but spit in it.”

“My lord,” Ernaldus said reproachfully, “I am not a fool. I
have heard what you told me about your father’s humbling. I did not intend to
suggest that you put yourself forward as a suitor to the lady’s mother and
guardian. I was only pointing out that the young lady herself would doubtless
prefer you and be happier with you.”

“About that, you are probably right, but no one will care
about her preference.”

“Nonetheless, it might have more effect than anyone would
expect,” Ernaldus said, and then went on to describe his notion of Guillaume
wooing Beatrice and bringing her to Les Baux.

“She would never agree,” Guillaume gasped.

“It is not necessary for her to agree to come to Les Baux,
but only for her to leave the keep at Arles without any large escort. She might
be a little angered when you carry her away by force, but she would be thrilled
by your boldness and by the ferocity of your passion. There would be time
enough, once she was safe here, for you to soothe her and convince her.”

Guillaume stared at Ernaldus without speaking, and after a
moment, the bailiff shrugged. “I said it might bring all Europe against us, but
this keep can withstand all Europe for six or eight months. And once Lady
Beatrice is married and with child, they will make terms. You may not get the
whole province just at first, but you will have the rest of your life to gather
it in. You will be greater than your father, greater than any des Baux before
you. Lord Guillaume des Baux, Comte de Provence.”

Still Guillaume did not speak, but Ernaldus relaxed. The young
man’s eyes were burning with the light of adventure. For a time Ernaldus said
no more, allowing Guillaume to revel in his dreams, flattering Guillaume into
thinking that his bravado would be attractive to Beatrice. Then he said softly,
“We will not be alone, you know. There are many who would rather see you, or
even the devil, have Lady Beatrice, anyone so long as it is not French Charles.”

Guillaume focused his eyes on Ernaldus. Then he nodded and
began a discussion of the practical aspects of winning the heiress’s attention,
arranging her abduction, and convincing a sufficient number of his friends and
his father’s old supporters that he would be preferable as a husband for
Beatrice than Charles of Anjou.

Chapter Twenty-One

Once the vassals of Provence began to arrive for the funeral,
the council on what to do with Beatrice was broadened. It included almost
everyone of importance—everyone except that young lady herself. Although
Beatrice was not so foolish as to expect her word to have any weight, she felt
much slighted at not being invited to listen to what was going on or even being
told what had been said. The only men not included in the council were the
squires and younger sons, who had accompanied their fathers, and Guillaume des
Baux, who presented himself to Beatrice with angry eyes and asked whether she,
too, intended to slight him when the power should be in her hands.

As much flattered as astounded by the notion that she would
rule Provence, Beatrice inquired who this passionate young man was. He told her
promptly and honestly, adding, somewhat less truthfully, “I was a child then. I
came here in good faith, thinking the quarrel between des Baux and the Counts
of Provence was ended, but it was clear that I was not welcome to your mother
or to Sir Romeo.”

This last was true enough, but it was no particular
prejudice against his family or memory of the feud that prompted the coldness
of Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo. Rather it was the passionate objections Sir
Guillaume advanced against the arrangement with France that had made him
unwelcome. There were some other men who felt as he did, and enough who had
doubts and might be swayed against the plan to make Guillaume’s arguments—no
matter how little logical—dangerous.

Beatrice, who was already annoyed with her mother and Sir
Romeo, put out her hand. “I am sorry for your hurt, Sir Guillaume, but I am
powerless to amend it.” She smiled sadly. “I am no better used than you. It is
my life they are deciding, yet I am not invited to speak, nor even to listen in
silence.”

“They care nothing for the spirit,” Guillaume cried. “How
can they talk of one so lovely, so gentle and gracious, as if she were a parcel
of land, a mare or a bitch, without sense or feeling?”

This was a most proper and elegant effusion. Beatrice
blushed and made a sad reply, which inspired Guillaume to new heights of
flattery and sympathy. These eventually induced enough self-pity in Beatrice to
draw tears to her eyes, upon which the young man was quite carried away and
professed himself willing to die to prevent a single teardrop from falling from
such exquisite eyes to mar such perfect cheeks.

Had Alys been present during this meeting she might have
pointed out, with enough cleverness to make Beatrice see the humor in the
exaggeration, the dangers of encouraging such attentions. However, only Margot
and a few still younger ladies were in attendance on Beatrice, and they were
thrilled rather than concerned over the protestations.

The following day Raymond-Berenger was interred, and Alys
and Jeanine had all they could do to manage Lady Jeannette. She was not only
displaying emotions she felt to be suitable to the loss of so kind a
father-by-marriage but also quite honestly frightened. Two weeks had passed
since they had left Aix, and no word had come either from her husband or from
Raymond. As if this were not sufficiently alarming, Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo
had been asking pointed, even harsh, questions about the whereabouts and
intentions of her menfolk.

It was fortunate for Alys that Jeanine was so accustomed to
her mother’s enlargement of every absence of her husband and her eldest son
into a calamity that she did not perceive the note of genuine fear. Jeanine,
however, was also concentrated on her own affairs. She had picked out several
suitable unmarried males from the group that had gathered and was weighing them
in her mind to present their names in proper order to her father. Once the
actual crisis of the funeral was over, Jeanine left Alys to attend to Lady
Jeannette. She had more important business on hand than her mother’s fancies,
such as discovering which of the possible gentlemen were interested in her and
whether any of those who had been previously married had male heirs.

This had one good result in that Lady Jeannette became even more
resigned to Alys’s place in her life. She would never like her
daughter-by-marriage, their personalities were too much at odds. Moreover, Lady
Jeannette’s jealousy would be constantly inflamed by her son’s
less-than-tactful preference for his wife’s company and her husband’s reliance
on Alys’s ability. Nonetheless, she had virtually given up all designs of
active opposition to Alys by the fifth day after the interment. On that day,
Alys’s attentions became unnecessary because a messenger rode in with a packet
of letters from Lord Alphonse. There was a long report addressed to Sir Romeo
that explained what Lord Alphonse had done, except for any mention of
proffering his homage to Louis. Alphonse wrote:

I felt that the
offer for Beatrice should come from Louis rather than that we ask him for
Charles. Thus, we confer the favor instead of asking for one, and the terms
will be better. I did not, of course, discuss any substantive conditions, only
made it clear that I will never contest my half sister’s claim nor my father’s
last testament. As for Beatrice’s marrying, I did no more than hint that,
rather than tear Provence apart, you and Lady Beatrice would like a man with
connections powerful enough to discourage other suitors. If we could have in
addition a guarantee of our independence, that would be decisive. To this, the
king made no direct reply, but his thanks were very warm.

What Alphonse did not write was that Louis’s thanks had been
so warm that he took Alphonse’s homage then and there, praising him for his
loyalty to his sister and his friendship to France. Although the private
ceremony might have had little meaning with a king like Henry of England,
Alphonse was perfectly secure that the matter was settled. Unless he himself
did something to violate the oath, Louis would keep it, and no argument from
his brother Charles that Aix was part of Provence would move the king from what
he swore on relics. Alphonse and Louis agreed that public swearing must be
delayed until the fate of the rest of the province was settled, but Louis was
now overlord of Aix and would protect it, even from his own brother.

Alys had a brief note: “Beloved daughter, all is well. Send word
to my son that the matter of which we spoke is settled. I will remain with King
Louis until he decides what he wishes to say to Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo. A
blessing on you, treasure of my house.”

Lady Jeannette had a long, tender letter of apology for
leaving her without farewell or explanations. He was afraid, Alphonse wrote,
that she would suffer too many fears over his journey. This did not completely
pacify her, but the renewed and effusive cordiality with which she was treated
by Sir Romeo and Lady Beatrice allowed her to put aside her complaints until
she could address them to Alphonse himself. This freed Alys, who offered up
thanksgiving and went to write to Raymond. Until Alphonse’s letter came, Alys
had been afraid to write. She did not wish to draw attention to herself and
suggest to anyone’s mind that she might know where her father-by-marriage had
gone.

This practical reason for his wife’s silence was the only
one that did not occur to Raymond. He managed to find causes as diverse as
imprisonment in the donjon of Arles and flight back to England, but even in his
disordered state of mind he realized that these alternatives were not likely.
Raymond entertained these foolish notions because the reason he thought most
likely was the one he was least willing to accept. He was readier to believe
that Lady Beatrice, whom he knew to be both kind and clever, and Sir Romeo,
whom he knew to be a model of reason and justice, had lost their wits and acted
irrationally and unnaturally than believe Alys no longer loved him.

In the privacy of the castellan’s chamber in Gordes, which
Raymond had commandeered when he returned there two days earlier, he took out
the letter he had received from Alys three weeks before. It was the letter of a
good wife, devoted to her husband’s interests, Raymond thought as he reread it
for the some-hundredth time, but it breathed duty, not love. He felt there was
a coldness in those final words “all my duty, all my desire, my every thought
is for your good”. Raymond closed his eyes. It was impossible that one act of
stupid crudity could kill the love Alys had shown him.

He did not believe it. Alys was too reasonable. She even
admitted she had been at fault and had caused his explosion of temper, she had
said so. Could she then withdraw her love? Raymond told himself it was
impossible, yet all his life he had dealt with women who blew up a yawn or a
sigh into a major offense and punished such offenses with coldness and
rejection. Over and over he assured himself that Alys was not that sort, but
that only woke a violent desire to go to her and prove it to himself.