Fire Song

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Fire Song By

Roberta Gellis Contents FOREWORD CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 CHAPTER 24 CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26 CHAPTER 27 CHAPTER 28 CHAPTER 29

"MY LORD," FENICE SAID, HER VOICE TREMBLING, "IF YOU FIND ME DISPLEASING, I AM SURE—" "I find you lovely," Aubery said, the words wrenched out of him by her tear-filled eyes, bent head, and shaking voice, from which the music had disappeared. "I am sorry to have frightened you," he added, wondering suddenly if he had read too much into her look. Fenice's head came up, and the relief and eagerness in her expression made Aubery ashamed of his doubts. But now a new question rose in his mind. There was a reason, he remembered, why Raymond and Alys wanted to send the girl away from the place of her birth. It must be a strong reason, he thought, to make her willing to accept a husband who would take her such a distance from the protection of her blood relations...

Other books by ROBERTA GELLIS Knight's Honor Bond of Blood The Sword and the Swan The Dragon and the Rose The Roselynde Chronicles Roselynde Alinor Joanna Gilliane Rhiannon Sybelle

The Royal Dynasty Siren Song Winter Song

Created by the producers of The Roselynde Chronicles, Wagons West, and The Kent Family Chronicles Series. Chairman of the Board: Lyle Kenyon Engel. FIRE SONG A Jove Book/published by arrangement with Book Creations, Inc. PRINTING HISTORY Jove edition/April 1984 All rights reserved. Copyright © 1984 by Book Creations, Inc., and Roberta Gellis ISBN: 0-515-07529-9 Jove books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10016. The words "A JOVE BOOK" and the "J" with sunburst are trademarks belonging to Jove Publications, Inc. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

FOREWORD

In 1253, Gascony was the only province out of the vast territories in France inherited by English kings from Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine that remained under England's rule. Gascony remained allied principally for two reasons: England bought most of the wine produced and was thus a mainstay of the province's economy; and the turbulent nobility and equally turbulent independent towns of the province preferred a distant ruler, who would have greater difficulty in disciplining them, to one closer by, who need only march troops overland. Over the years, every English king had tried to curb the Gascons and bring order to the province. The attempts of Henry III were among the least successful, and in 1248 he had sent Simon de Montfort, earl of Leicester—a notable general and a just and honest, although harsh, man—to settle Gascony once and for all. Whether or not Simon would have succeeded if the king had not interfered will never be known. The leader of the rebels was Gaston de Béarn, a relative by marriage to the king, and despite his troublemaking, Henry was fond of Gaston. Through Gaston and others, the Gascons complained bitterly of Simon's severity, and by 1252, Henry III wished to dismiss Simon from his post as seneschal. The king's action, however, was not all based on illogical sympathy for the Gascons; Henry had a reason to wish to conciliate the rebels in 1252, a reason that had not existed earlier. The king of Castile had an ancient claim on the province of Gascony. Alfonso IX had no interest in pressing this claim, partly because his attention was fixed on subduing the Moors of North Africa and partly because Henry had opened negotiations for the marriage of Edward, his eldest son, to whom he had assigned rulership of Gascony when he should come of age, to Alfonso's daughter. Thus, Alfonso IX would not assist Gascon rebels nor give them sanctuary. But Alfonso IX died in 1252 and was succeeded by his son, Alfonso X, who promptly did press his claim to Gascony and received Gaston de Béarn at his court. Although Raymond d'Aix's principal lands lie in Provence, the rich dower properties of his mother and of Lady Alys, his English wife, are in Gascony. Moreover, Raymond, too, is related by marriage to Henry III. Thus, he is deeply involved in Gascon affairs and is in that province at a critical moment in the life of his eldest natural daughter, Fenice…

CHAPTER 1

The small fire sang softly, its voice made up of the guttering of the flame, the hiss of moisture released by the heat, and an occasional pop as a log broke and fell. Fenice huddled close to the hearth. The fire's song had always brought her comfort, which she needed desperately just now. Her throat closed with fear, but she pushed it back and stifled the wail rising in her breast. That was over—she was done with helpless wailing; now she must act. A sob of pure terror escaped her. No, not now, not yet. Surely not much time had passed. Surely the new year of 1253 had not yet begun. For a little while longer, it would be better to think about the fire. But despite her determination, thoughts of the past year pressed in on Fenice. It had begun so well; she had been happy when her stepmother, Lady Alys, and her father told her that Delmar of Fuveau had

been chosen to be her husband, and she had been so proud when she understood that her father had purchased Trets, a large, rich farm, to be her dowry. It had frightened her a little when she read the marriage contract and discovered that she would be her husband's sole heir if Delmar should die before they had living children, but Lady Alys explained that the provision was included only to cover every eventuality. After all, Lady Alys had said, Delmar's mother and uncle Jean-Paul were already old and not likely to outlive him—and even if they did, surely Fenice knew Lord Raymond would not be unkind to them. Moreover, Delmar was the only surviving child. There were no brothers or sisters or nephews or nieces to care for the property. Fenice shivered. But now Delmar was dead—he had died before she had even conceived a child. That was why Lady Emilie had thrust her into this convent, Fenice was sure of that. Somehow, Lady Emilie thought she could keep Fuveau in her own hands if Fenice herself were out of the way. And that was why, Fenice knew, she must not sit here weeping. But with that knowledge the icy fear returned, and Fenice made a desperate effort to fix her mind on the dancing flames. Why did she love it so? Despite her Provencal blood, she did not much feel the cold. Perhaps it was because she had been forbidden a place near the fire when she was very young—not for fear she would be hurt, but because her serf mother wanted her in dark corners, out of sight of her noble grandmother, Lady Jeannette. Lady Jeannette would blame her for everything, Fenice knew—but how could she be blamed for her husband's death? She had not been with Delmar when he caught the fever, and his mother had not permitted her near him all the while he was sick, although she had begged and pleaded to be allowed to nurse him. Suddenly, Fenice began to weep. Poor Delmar, poor, poor Delmar, to die so young, before he had had a chance to live and to be a man. The tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving bright streaks on the velvety skin. It was so sad he should be dead, and even sadder that she should weep for him, that she should feel so little loss herself. Perhaps her grandmother was right, that the serf's blood in her veins made her coarse, that she could not feel the finer sentiments, such as love. Why, oh why had her father ever desired a common serf woman? Better far, Fenice thought, had she never been born. Although she hardly remembered her mother, Lucie, who had been sent away from Tour Dur when Fenice was seven to be married honorably to a huntsman whom she had long loved, Fenice had not been spared full knowledge of her mother's low origin. Her grandmother had dwelt particularly on the fact that Raymond had purchased Lucie for a few copper coins. Yet, Fenice asked herself, had she not loved Delmar when they were first married? Certainly she had joyed in him and in her service to him those first months when they had been alone on her own tiny estate, which was no more, really, than a large farm with a fortified manor house. Still, she was proud of it; it was hers. Hers? Nonsense. Trets was not hers. It was the marriage portion her father had given with her. It was meant to add to the estate of his grandchildren. Then a pang of guilt struck Fenice. What she had thought about Trets was true, of course, but Lady Alys said it was hers, that her father had given it to her for her use, for her security, and that not to accept it as such was to denigrate her father's love. Of course, Lady Alys agreed that Trets must not be mistreated for extra profit during Fenice's lifetime, that it should be turned over intact or improved; however, the estate, Alys had said firmly, was a mark of Raymond's love for his own daughter, not for any putative grandchildren. As she thought of Lady Alys, Fenice sat up straighter, seized a poker, and prodded the low-burning logs. The flames leapt up, crackling cheerfully, enlivened by her attention, just as Fenice felt strengthened and enlivened by her remembrance of Lady Alys's care and love. If ever there was a living refutation of the tales of wicked stepmothers, Lady Alys was it. Fenice adored her father—more than that, she worshiped

him almost as a god. But like God, Raymond was most often a distant being. When he noticed Fenice, he was kind; he would kiss her, praise her, and give her gifts. But his notice came infrequently. Lady Alys, on the other hand, had protected Fenice from her grandmother, taught her all the skills and duties of a fine lady, and insisted she was a lady—that Raymond's blood was the stronger and thus dominated her heritage. And Lady Alys had read over Fenice's marriage contract with her and explained clearly the meaning of every provision. Not only was Trets hers; now that Delmar was dead, Fuveau itself, in law, was also her property. In law. Fenice sighed. In law, she had been the mistress of Fuveau from the day she married Delmar, but there was not a servant in it who would obey her. Her mother-by-marriage, Lady Emilie, had seen to that. Alda, Lady Emilie's maid, had told Fenice to her face that she was no better than the servants, being serf-born herself—and there was no way Alda could have known except from Lady Emilie, nor would she have spread the tale all through the keep without permission. ... Tears filled Fenice's eyes again and spilled over. Even Delmar had begun to turn against her. The memory cut like a knife so that even the fire song could not comfort Fenice, and she wept aloud. "My child." The gentle hand of Sister Anne touched her shoulder. "I thought you were growing resigned. No feeble woman has the right to contest the will of God. It is a sin. You must cease to weep for your husband. He had warning and time enough to confess and be absolved and to make such suitable gifts to the Church that he is surely safe in the bosom of his Maker. We all pray for him. He is at peace and at rest. It is time for you, too, to make your peace with God." Hastily Fenice wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. Peace with God, she thought bitterly; it was not God's will she wished to defy. Nor was it for her soul's sake that her mother-by-marriage had thrust her into this convent the very day after Delmar died, while she was still stunned by her loss. It was because Lady Emilie believed that during the worst of Fenice's grief she could be induced to take the veil. Perhaps if grief did not make her seek the consolation of a religious life and she continued to resist, she could be forced by methods other than persuasion. Likely Lady Emilie thought she could keep the lands if Fenice became a nun. I will go to hell before I give her that chance, Fenice thought. There was no mention in the marriage contract of Fenice's taking the veil. True, that was always an option left open to a widow, a safe harbor if she was not welcome in her children's homes and was too old to marry again—or a whip to make her welcome lest she give her estate to the Church. But if Fenice did not choose to "give herself to God," the fate of the lands was clearly spelled out: In the event that Delmar should die before any child was born of the marriage or that no child survived him, Fuveau as well as Trets would go with Fenice back to her family. This was not the most usual disposition of an estate, but Delmar had had no brothers or sisters, and his mother and his uncle Jean-Paul, who had raised him and cared for the lands, were no longer young. Delmar had been healthy; there had been no reason to think he would not live to a ripe age, particularly since he hated fighting and was most unlikely to take part in any tournament or war. In any case, Raymond was Delmar's overlord, and when Raymond proposed the arrangement, Delmar had not objected. Of course, he could not imagine dying, but even if he could, he trusted Raymond to be generous to his uncle Jean-Paul and mother. Fenice wondered whether Lady Emilie had known the provisions of the contract. Lady Emilie could not read or write—another reason for hating Fenice, who could—but Delmar might have told her. Fenice wondered if that was why she had been thrust into the convent rather than "succumbing" to the same fever Delmar had taken? If she died, Raymond would immediately make claim to the properties.

Fenice suddenly realized why she had been forcibly sent to the convent and was now being kept there, and became aware that she was being watched very closely by the older nuns. She had not tried to leave the convent; in fact, she hardly remembered being out of this chamber, but would she have been prevented if she had tried to leave? Had Lady Emilie told the nuns some tale of a disordered mind? Of grief so excessive that were she to leave the convent, she would end her life? Or were the nuns knowingly assisting Lady Emilie to keep what did not belong to her for some share of the lands? That was a dreadful thought to have about the holy sisters, but the household of the lords of Aix was very secular, and the deficiencies of the Church were freely discussed there. Fenice had heard far more of the rapacity of the pope and his priests than of the charity and holiness of their spiritual leaders. Yet the nuns had been very kind. They did not sneer at her. She had been installed in the very best guest apartment, and lay sisters had been assigned to serve her. But were they serving her or acting as her wardens? Fenice wondered. They did act as spies. If they had not, how could the nuns have known each time that fear and despair overwhelmed her? "Lady Fenice, you are not attending!" This time the nun's voice was sharp, and Fenice became aware that Sister Anne's voice had been rising and falling in the background while her own mind wandered. "I am sorry, Sister Anne," Fenice said. "You must listen with your heart as well as with your ears," Sister Anne pointed out, more gently now. "In that way you will find true consolation, consolation that no earthly grief can trouble, for God is constant, never failing in support to those who give up their whole hearts and minds to Him. If you would join yourself to God, you would feel no grief or pain for any thing." Suddenly a notion came to Fenice. For herself, she did not care. In a way it would be a great relief to become a nun, to be one anonymous shadow among many, performing some preordained daily round of work and prayer. No one could pick her out from the others to point at her and call her baseborn. But she could not seek that safe haven when it might cost her beloved father not only the lands he had given her but a larger, richer estate, too—not when it would leave that estate in Lady Emilie's greedy hands. "Sister," she said, "no matter how strong my desire to seek consolation in the bosom of God, I cannot do so without the permission of my father and stepmother." "But how can you believe that they would oppose a step so holy and beneficial to you in both body and spirit? Do they not love you? Would they not wish the best for you in the flesh and in the soul?" Sister Anne seemed shocked. "Surely they must know you to be here and that you came with the intention of joining our order." "What?" Fenice breathed. "Do you not remember?" the nun asked gently. "In truth, I do not," Fenice said, barely forcing the words through stiff lips. Fenice was badly frightened now. Before this, although the nuns had repeatedly urged her to become a novice, no one had implied that the matter was settled. It seemed certain to Fenice that her recalcitrance had been reported to Lady Emilie, who had found "witnesses"—among whom would surely be a priest—who would swear that Fenice had taken a holy vow to take the veil. The Church considered such a vow as binding as a betrothal—it was, indeed, a betrothal to Christ, whom one married symbolically on becoming a nun. God knew to what else a corrupt priest might swear, Fenice thought, as a surge of panic tightened her

throat. She had not seen her seal since she came into the convent. Had Lady Emilie got the priest to write a letter to her father and Lady Alys to tell them what she had done and that she did not wish to see them? Could her father be taken in by such a letter, not written in her own hand? A shudder ran through her, for she realized that that was not impossible. The last time Raymond had seen her and Delmar had been during a brief visit to Trets when he had informed Tier that there was trouble in Gascony and that he was going there. At that time Fenice and Delmar had been at the peak of their happiness together. The first uneasy awkwardnesses of marriage had passed; it seemed that every hour each discovered something new and wonderful about the other. That was before they had moved to Fuveau, before Lady Emilie had made Delmar ashamed of his marriage, before Fenice had come to realize that Delmar was not only gentle but weak. Thinking back, Fenice saw her own joy, her freedom from the shadow her grandmother cast over her, and her pride in being mistress of her own house. Her father might think that, so soon and so suddenly bereft of her love and her joy, she might be sickened of the world and turn to God. He would not approve, but he would be too kind to oppose her desire. And doubtless her father thought her young and foolish. Perhaps he believed she did not understand about the lands despite Lady Alys's explanation, so that she did not realize she would be cheating him. Sister Anne had answered her, but Fenice had not heard the reply. As the immediate shock passed, her panic also receded, and Fenice saw a little hole through which she might escape any immediate demand that she join the order. She shook her head. "I do not remember," she repeated, "and I owe too much to my father to take the veil without his word of approval in person or, at least, a letter from him." She did not escape as easily as she had hoped. Sister Anne spoke sadly, and then sharply, of the sins and the punishments for lack of faith, for breaking holy vows, and for putting worldly considerations before those of the spirit. She spoke with fervor on the sin of vanity, accusing Fenice of loving her own physical beauty more than the beauty of the soul that would come from veiling her loveliness as a sacrifice to God. She named Fenice's features one by one—the thick, dark hair that hung to her hips, her soft, creamy skin, her light eyes, pale and bright, her full lips, even her short, rather broad nose—and described how each would decay with time and bring her nothing but grief, while devotion to God would give her greater and greater joy with each passing year. Fenice did not argue, but she did not yield, either. She had learned early to endure in silence, and at last the nun departed. Free of the distraction of needing to listen lest she fall into some trap of clever words, Fenice grappled with the practical aspects of the situation that she faced. Now she realized she had been a fool not to complain of how she had been treated in Fuveau. Perhaps if Lady Alys had been at Tour Dur, she might have ridden to Aix for a visit, but Lady Alys was with Raymond in Bordeaux. And, Fenice admitted to herself, even if Lady Alys had been at home, probably she would not have confessed her unhappiness. She had been so ashamed—ashamed of the base blood that made her mother-by-marriage and others scorn her, ashamed of Delmar's inability or unwillingness to stand up for her, ashamed of the weakness that made her unable to fight for her own rights. Again and again Lady Alys told her that that was her flaw, not her mother's blood. Her rights… Fenice stared sightlessly into the flames, which barely flickered above the glowing embers of the nearly burned-out logs. The fire's song was stilled, but the red eyes of the embers stared back accusingly. The trouble was that Fenice could never really believe she had any rights. Lady Alys spoke truth; that was a serious flaw. If she had not been so timid and doubtful, her father would not be in danger of losing Trets and Fuveau. Fenice's soft, full lips firmed and thinned. She and her rights might be nothing, but the rights of Raymond

d'Aix, heir to Alphonse, comte d'Aix, would not be flouted because of any weakness of hers. She must act, and it could not be the simple act that had frightened her so much before—writing a letter. If, as she feared, the nuns were in alliance with Lady Emilie, no letter she wrote would ever reach its destination. She herself must escape from the convent. Fenice rose a little stiffly from the low chair on which she had been sitting, for she had been almost motionless for longer than she realized. She walked slowly to the single chest that stood under the one window of the chamber and lifted the lid, but she had hardly begun to feel through the clothing in the chest before one of the lay sisters appeared. "What is it you seek, madam?" the woman asked. They were watching her, Fenice thought. A maid should come when called; she should not intrude on her mistress without being asked. "My box," Fenice replied, although she was quite sure the box that held her seal, the trinkets of gold and gems her father and Lady Alys had given her over the years, and the pearl necklace and arm bands that were Delmar's wedding gift had not been sent with her. Not even all her clothing was in the chest—only a few of the oldest and plainest gowns. "There was no box that I remember," the lay sister replied, looking honestly concerned. "I laid your things away myself. What was in the box?" "Very little of importance except for a miniature of my father," Fenice said mendaciously, for her seal was of great importance. It could serve as a substitute for her signature on official documents. "There is our Lord on the cross," the woman said, gesturing. "That image should give you more comfort than that of any earthly being." A sudden fury seized Fenice at the thought that the love of God should replace her love of the father who, instead of spurning and ignoring the daughter of a serf woman, had cherished her, given her property, and married her with honor to a nobleman. "I was not seeking comfort but the answer to a worldly question," Fenice retorted sharply, and turned away to take her cloak and hurry from the room. The rage held her until she was out in the winter garden, pacing the paths. As her fury faded, she bit her lips with chagrin. The sharpness of the tone and the keenness of the reply had betrayed her. It was stupid to have shown any change in behavior from her past listlessness. The lay sister would report her actions, and they would watch her more closely than ever if they suspected that she had recovered from her shock, especially since she had probably already demonstrated a more definite resistance than usual to Sister Anne's suggestions about joining the order. What she should have done, Fenice now realized, was to say the loss of her box did not matter and go back to her seat by the fire. As she thought about the last weeks, it seemed to her that she had spent nearly every waking moment sitting and staring into the flames, listening to the fire song. Yes, and going over and over in her mind her griefs and injuries, and pitying Delmar and saying to herself that she must act. She drew her cloak more closely about her, cold with fear as she became aware that her unguarded reactions had probably already hurt her. She had hoped to gain a respite by insisting on obtaining her father's permission to take the veil, but now she might inadvertently have given the signal for a forced induction into the order. If they suspected that Lord Raymond would not give his permission, might she wake up some morning to find herself with her hair shaved off, dressed in a nun's habit? The sisters were skilled in medicine; she could be drugged...

Then her common sense woke to combat her fear. Was it possible to force someone to take the veil? One did not become a nun directly. There was a novitiate through which one must pass before final vows, and Fenice was sure one could abandon one's novitiate and return to the world, although it was not common to do so. Nor did she believe it was possible to keep her drugged long enough to satisfy the rules. Was not the novitiate a year or more in length? A flicker of movement near the wall caught her eye. A lay sister seemed to be passing from one building to another, but to Fenice's frightened perception, her movement seemed surreptitious; she was certain the woman was spying on her. One small part of her mind told her she might be watched secretly out of kindness, for fear that in her despair she might sit too long in the cold or act in other foolish ways to her own harm. Still, the awareness of being always under someone's eye heightened her anxiety. How could she be sure there were not special dispensations for inducting a nun without a novitiate? How did she know that such a dispensation was not already in the mother superior's possession? She had been weak and idle too long already. She must not play with her father's right to Trets and Fuveau. She must leave this convent at once. The firm decision woke a terror more acute than that of being forced into the order. If she left the convent, she must go to Tour Dur and face Lady Jeannette, and Fenice was quite sure her grandmother would rather have her take the veil—or be dead—than take her back into the household. Lady Jeannette would not care about Trets and Fuveau. She had even sneered at Lady Alys for attending so closely to the management of the keep and lands of Tour Dur itself. It was because Lady Alys was only the daughter of a simple knight from a barbarous country, Lady Jeannette said. Had she been the daughter of a great nobleman, she would not have lowered herself to such common tasks. A true lady should occupy herself only with finer things, like music and poetry and art. Fenice burned with shame at the memory of her grandmother's attacks on her daughter-by-marriage, but Lady Alys herself was not wounded. She laughed behind Lady Jeannette's back, although she always treated her with the greatest formality and respect and even .called her "madam" rather than "mother." What was important, Lady Alys said, was that the estates were profitable, and Lord Raymond and Lord Alphonse were not constantly interrupted and plagued to death by Lady Jeannette's demands for attention when they needed to do important business. Suddenly Fenice stopped dead in her tracks, realizing that she had seen the gate to her salvation. It was not to Lady Jeannette that Fenice must explain about Lady Emilie's attempt to keep Trets and Fuveau, but to her grandfather, Lord Alphonse. Her grandfather would not blame her for what had happened. He was as kind to her as was her father. He would caress her and sympathize with her. And he would understand the value of the estates. There would be no need to plead with Lady Jeannette for permission to send a messenger to Bordeaux and be told that a serf woman's bastard could not possibly have anything important enough to write to merit a special messenger. Lord Alphonse would send the letter at once. In her joy, Fenice almost forgot that she would have to get to Tour Dur before she could speak to her grandfather. She hurried back to her chamber, thinking of packing what she would need for a journey, only to be brought up short by seeing still another lay sister carefully folding the clothes she had disarranged when she looked through the chest. Suddenly, it came to Fenice that she could not simply say she wished to leave and expect to be escorted to Tour Dur. Fenice stood staring, her expression so fixed that the lay sister scrambled to her feet and ran over to support her. "You must struggle against this grief," she murmured. "You should not have gone out. The garden is sad at this time of year. In the spring it will give you joy." The woman's words now made everything clear. So Fenice was expected to be there in the spring, was

she? Silently she released herself from the supporting hand and turned toward her chair near the hearth. The fire had been built up again with fresh logs and was singing merrily, popping and crackling. But although Fenice seated herself and looked into the flames, she no longer needed to lose herself in the fire song. This latest shock had done her almost as much good as her realization that it was her grandfather rather than her grandmother with whom she must discuss her affairs. There was now no need to explain to the haughty and disapproving mother superior why she did not intend to become a nun. All she needed to do was to steal away and go home. And then Fenice asked herself, steal away from where? Go home in what direction? Fenice realized that she had not the faintest idea in which convent she was. All she knew was that it could not be close either to Fuveau or Tour Dur, for she knew the nuns in those holy houses, and none of these was familiar to her.

CHAPTER 2

The sudden realization that she did not know where she was in relation to Tour Dur did not throw Fenice into renewed despair. She was not afraid of physical problems; she knew herself to be clever and merely set herself to find a solution. It was not difficult to devise a plan, knowing that her grandfather would marvel at her courage, and that Lady Alys and her father would be pleased with her. Doubtless her grandmother would sneer at her "peasant shrewdness," but she would have to bear it. Fuveau and Trets must not be stolen from her father by wicked, greedy Lady Emilie. She was at least certain that the convent could not be more than a single day's travel from Fuveau. When her mother-by-marriage had hustled her out, she had been nearly out of her wits between grief and the shock of not even being allowed to attend her husband's funeral. However, she had been certain at the time that she was being sent back to Tour Dur. Fenice admitted to herself that she was unaware of road or direction or how long they had traveled, but she knew she could not have forgotten whether they had spent a night on the road. That did not mean she would be as near Tour Dur as Fuveau. In fact, Fenice assumed that she had been sent an additional full day's travel in the opposite direction. On the plus side, however, was the fact that they must have traveled very slowly. Fenice remembered that she had been too distraught to ride and had been carried in some kind of cart. Since few carts moved much faster than walking pace, she should be able to walk home in two days. But she had no money. If her box was gone, then gone too was the small sum in silver Lady Alys had pressed on her. On a two-day journey she must eat and sleep. How? For that matter, how was she to ensure her safety while she traveled? Always before she had been mounted with men-at-arms to protect her. But now, for a gentlewoman to be found all alone wandering the road would mean instant capture and return to the convent, if not far worse… Robbery, rape, murder? Would it be necessary to travel by night and hide by day? Fenice was not timid except in a social sense, but she did not wish to face the dangers of the night. There were wild beasts that hunted in the night and the spirits of the dead... Delmar? She shuddered. Before Fenice could frighten herself further with fear that her dead husband might appear to accuse her of neglect, or think again of the spirits and demons that haunted the night, she was distracted by the entrance

of two lay sisters. One set a small table by her chair, and the other placed upon it a tray of food. Fenice gazed at them, wide-eyed, totally unaware of the dinner set before her because the solution to all her problems was revealed to her, standing by her side. All she needed was the habit of a lay sister. It was not uncommon for the lay sisters to be sent out of the convent—sometimes with messages, sometimes to beg. Of course, usually only the older sisters went out, and they did not often go out alone... "Lady Fenice," one of the women said gently, "here is your dinner. You must eat." The words startled Fenice from her thoughts, and she turned her eyes to the food with an expression of wonderment, as if she had never seen such objects before. Actually, her surprise was mostly at the sudden knotting of her stomach and rush of saliva to her mouth. She was ravenous. She grabbed for her eating knife, but the pretty jeweled device that her father had given her was gone. Fury momentarily checked her appetite, and she raised her eyes from the steaming platters to demand her property and then realized that it was more likely that Lady Emilie rather than the sisters had stolen her knife. In any case, it was far more important that they not'suspect she was aware of her losses and angered by them. She dropped her eyes to the tray again. "I do not think Sister Anne is right," one whispered to the other. "I do not think Lady Fenice is any better." "Should I try to feed her?" the other asked. Fenice had seen a spoon by the side of a bowl of ragout. Her mouth was watering so that she had to swallow, but the comments of the lay sisters told her that she had either been refusing to eat or had been so indifferent to food that it had been necessary to feed her. That explained her hunger but made it more difficult to satisfy it. Since she wished to make the sisters believe she was still stunned and helpless, it would be wrong to attack what was on the tray with the enthusiasm she now felt. Fenice raised her head once more, trying to maintain a blank, bewildered expression. "Leave me alone," she muttered. "It is a sin to allow grief to overpower you," the first sister said. "You must not deliberately weaken your body." Fenice drew herself up a little. "If you will leave me to myself, I will eat what I can," she said more clearly. The lay sisters exchanged glances, but after urging her a few more times not to contest the will of God and to show her contrition by eating her dinner, they did leave the room. Fenice's hand leapt toward the spoon, but she forced herself to lift it to her mouth slowly and to chew with deliberation. Then she broke a piece of bread and ate that, also slowly. The bread was white and fine; the ragout rich with meat and spices. It occurred to her as she ate another spoonful that this was odd fare for a convent. The dishes of beans and greens that flanked the meat stew were more like the meals she had sampled when she and Lady Alys had visited the convent north of Aix. Possibly, Fenice thought, the ragout had been made especially for her, but possibly this convent was less particular about keeping the strict rules of their order. And if they broke those rules, who was to say they would not connive at keeping her prisoner? The reasoning might not be sound, but Fenice found it comforting because she felt rather guilty about the plan that had formed in her mind; she would be forced to commit violence on one of the lay sisters. She shrugged as she broke off another piece of bread. She would tell Lady Alys what she had done, and if amends were necessary, she would make them. Since, she was very busy thinking about her escape and she was also hungry, Fenice finished nearly

every item on the tray. She caught herself just as she was about to use the last piece of bread to soak up the remaining gravy in the bowl of ragout and looked with dismay at the empty wooden dishes. She had intended to leave at least a portion of each dish. After needing to be prodded to eat, surely so avid an appetite would be suspicious. Then she grinned impishly and silently rose, carrying the bread and the bowl. Just in front of the fire she tilted the bowl so that drops of gravy fell on the hearth, as they might have done had someone carelessly thrown the contents of the bowl into the flames. Crumbling the bread, she threw it broadcast. Most did end in the fire, but here and there a crumb lay on the hearth. Fenice nodded with satisfaction and returned to her chair. She rested her chin on a hand, bracing her elbow on the chair arm and hoping that she would look as listless as usual. But this time her eyes did not watch the fire; they roamed the room with lively attention. Before she found what she sought, she noted that it was a comfortable chamber—as guest rooms in a convent went. There were no tapestries or painted curtains to disguise the stone walls, but these were not the thick, rubble-filled walls of a keep. In the warm climate of the south the extra warmth provided by wall hangings was not necessary. The bed was narrow and uncurtained like those of the nuns, although the mattress was most probably softer. The window was similar, too, no more than a high slit provided in each cell to give air but to prevent any chance of distraction to those who wished to dedicate their thoughts and prayers to God. Fenice knew that below the window was the walk that surrounded the quiet, lovely cloister. Through the pillars that supported the roof of the walk, one could see the cloister garden, which was green and peaceful despite the cold and wild winds of winter. The nuns had planted it with hardy, aromatic shrubs, a few herbs that remained green year-round, and late-blooming flowers. Sheltered from the wind and warmed by direct and reflected sunlight, the cloister was never bitterly cold. The peace and beauty, centered around a statue of Mother and Child, was well conceived to make visitors wish to stay—to give rest to the weary and solace to the heavy of heart. Briefly, Fenice regretted that she had not walked in the cloister and thought of Delmar in those surroundings. Perhaps then she could have reconciled the terrible ache of loss and longing with the bitter hurt and resentment that had made his death almost a relief to her. But thought of the pain Delmar had inflicted on her brought the real cause of that pain to mind. Delmar might have been weak, but it was Lady Emilie who was greedy and wicked. No, Lady Emilie would not succeed in keeping Trets and Fuveau. Not if I have to die for it, Fenice thought. The little mist that had risen in her eyes dried, and the cloister now meant only a path to the church. From there, Fenice knew she could escape outside the convent. It should not be difficult once she was wearing a lay sister's gown and cowl. She started guiltily at a sound from the doorway but managed to pretend it was just a small movement to ease the arm on which she had been leaning. The lay sister exclaimed at the empty dishes and then, coming round to lift the tray, saw the false evidence that Fenice had thrown her meal into the fire. She gasped with outrage, then hurried out of the room. Soon Sister Anne arrived with another tray and a steady stream of remonstrance and prayer, and this time poor Fenice had no difficulty displaying her reluctance to eat. She picked listlessly at this and that, chewing and swallowing so slowly that it took a long time to get through about half the portion, and quite wore out Sister Anne's patience. Although forcing herself to eat the extra food made Fenice feel rather sick, Sister Anne's visitation was actually of great benefit to her. It kept her mind effectively engaged so that the time passed swiftly. Indeed, by the time Sister Anne was too exhausted to make Fenice take another bite, the light of the short winter day was fading, and the period over which Fenice would have to wait until she could act was

greatly shortened. For an hour or so after Sister Anne finally left her in peace, Fenice tried to act as she had in the past. Then, thankfully, she retreated to her bed. As she undressed, she took account of new uses for parts of her clothing—stockings, girdle… That was not quite enough. Stealthily, she crept around the wall to her clothing chest and extracted another pair of stockings. When she was back beside her bed undetected, she knelt and truly gave thanks to God for His help. Although the physical and mental activities of this day had been very minor compared with a normal day in Tour Dur, Fenice was afraid that she would be tired by them because she had been permitted to do almost nothing in Fuveau by Lady Emilie, and she had literally done nothing at all since she had entered this convent. Nonetheless, even on top of the extra large meal she had eaten, she found that her excitement was so intense that sleep was no danger. Still, it seemed very long until the bell rang that signaled the end of the day's activities for the nuns. As it sounded, Fenice lifted her head and blew out the night candle, and was startled at the sudden blackness. Fenice was no coward; every sensible person feared the dark, which was peopled with strange creatures and supernatural beings. Out-of-doors was less dreadful in a way; there were wolves and bears, but they were mostly in the forests, and if one stayed in the open, the moon and stars gave light. However, no one slept without a light, a rushlight for the poor, and fat wax or tallow candles that would burn all night for those who could afford them. Fortunately, Fenice realized that the area near the doorway was not nearly as black as the corner where her bed stood. There the glow of the embers was enough to show that nothing dreadful crouched against the wall. She jumped out of the bed, the stone floor freezing to her bare feet and the air icy-cold around her body, which had previously been warmed by the blankets. The physical sensations made her shiver but provided a practical distraction from fear of the unknown. In one hand Fenice snatched up her tunic and overdress; in the other she seized the heavy wooden candlestick. Thus armed, she fumbled her way to the door. When she was a foot or two from the doorway, she dropped the tunic on the floor to stand on it and draped the overdress around her back and over her shoulders to protect her when she flattened herself against the wall. After that, she lifted the candle off the spike of the candlestick. She would need the candle later and did not want it to get broken or to fall on the floor when she turned the candlestick upside down to use the broad, rounded base as a weapon. It balanced better that way, but Fenice was not thinking of that. She wished to use the base because it was smooth, without sharp edges, and she felt it would do less harm. Waiting was more difficult after that. Fenice thought she remembered that a lay sister had looked in at her door to be sure she was abed, but minutes seemed like hours as she contemplated the wicked thing she was about to do. What if she were wrong and she only needed to ask to go home? What if she hit the sister too hard and killed her? What if she did not hit her hard enough and the woman screamed and created a disturbance? Just as Fenice was enlarging on that last thought and envisioning what would be said to and about her, a dim light came around the corner. Fenice drew back a step uncertainly, but the woman let out a low cry of surprise when she entered at seeing the room dark. The sound sparked in Fenice an instant realization of what would happen if she were discovered standing nearly naked clutching a candlestick with a bared spike, and without further thought, in a worse panic than a confrontation with the devil himself could raise in her, she leapt out and brought the candlestick down hard on the lay sister's head. The woman dropped like a log. Holding her breath, Fenice dropped beside her, scrabbling for the lantern

the sister had carried. The candle inside had not been extinguished, and Fenice lighted her own candle at its flame, replaced it on its spike, set the whole back where it belonged, and blew out the light in the lantern. If worse came to worst and someone came, there would be many innocent explanations she could give for what had happened. Sobbing with remorse now, Fenice knelt beside her victim. In one way it was a great relief to hear the lay sister already moaning softly, but in another way it was not. If she were coming to herself so quickly, she could not be badly hurt, but that meant Fenice would have very little time to finish what must be done. With the strength of desperation, she dragged the woman across the floor to the foot of the bed, snatched up a stocking, laid ready, and tied it around her victim's mouth as a gag. Then she untied the girdle of the habit and stripped the habit off. By then, the sister was making feeble movements with her arms. Barely in time, Fenice tied her hands together with the second stocking. Now, before the woman realized what had been done to her, Fenice murmured soothingly that it was "too bad, too bad, but if you lie down for a while you will soon feel better." Still half-stunned, the sister feebly helped as well as she could while Fenice lifted her and tumbled her into the bed. Quickly, Fenice fastened her feet together with one of the second pair of stockings and used her girdle to tie her around the waist to the bed. Having secured her, Fenice untied and removed the sister's sandals. Last, she drew up the blankets so that her handiwork was concealed, staggered to the foot of the bed where she would be least visible, and collapsed on the ground, physically and emotionally exhausted. The furious creaking of the bed and muffled cries of rage roused Fenice not long after she had dropped. She was still trembling with the weakness of reaction, but the lay sister's violent protest of her situation renewed both Fenice's desperation and her strength. It was obvious that she must either subdue the woman again or hide herself so that she could not be found if the noise attracted attention. Fenice looked at the candlestick and shuddered. Nothing could make her strike her victim again. Hurriedly, she took a blanket, cut a slit in the middle, and pulled it over her head. It would protect her from the cold and fill out the lay sister's robe. Then she put on the habit and sandals and drew the cowl over her head. The momentary problem of what to do with her hair drew Fenice's attention once more to the enraged lay sister, who was now lying quietly but glaring at her and mumbling behind her gag. The woman's spiky, short-cut gray hair could never be mistaken for Fenice's thick dark mane, even if she fell asleep and was quiet. Totally reassured as to the woman's well-being by her activity, Fenice's conscience was also soothed by the fury the sister displayed. The fact that she was furious rather than puzzled or sorrowful implied that all along Fenice had been a prisoner rather than a troubled guest. While Fenice was staring, a new idea occurred to her. She flipped the lay sister over on her stomach, despite every protest the woman was capable of making, and covered her head lightly with the dark gown she had discarded. At close range it could not fool anyone for a second, but from the doorway in the dim light of the night candle it might be mistaken for a tumble of black hair. Besides, it muffled a bit the sounds the lay sister was making. Now Fenice again rummaged in her chest and found a shabby dark veil. Her lips curled with distaste. It was Lady Emilie's castoff. Still, she was fortunate her mother-by-marriage was so greedy that she had kept the beautiful gold-embroidered bright-colored wisps Lady Alys had provided for Fenice's wedding clothes, for now they would not have been suitable for the purpose she had in mind. As she moved to light the lantern candle again, the overlarge sandals slapped the floor. Two days' walking on those might cripple her, Fenice thought, and she tucked her own shoes into the voluminous habit above her belt. On the road, if she were alone, she could wear the shoes. Finally, reluctantly, she went to the door. The corridor was dark and empty. She slipped out into it, praying no one would see her as she crossed the cloister garden and slipped into the church. She could

only hope that even if she were observed, such an action would raise no questions; surely a sister might seek the consolation of private prayer. But if she were seen and the woman tied to her bed were missed, the church would be the first place they would look for her. Blancheforte keep had changed a great deal since Lady Alys and Lord Raymond had first come to it in 1244. When they had taken the place in hand, it had been a noisome blight. The keep itself had been undefendable, steeped in filth, and crawling with vermin of every kind. Its serfs had been reduced to starved animals; its men-at-arms were not only feared and hated but useless. Now, although it must in time be overwhelmed if any enemy came out of Bordeaux close by, Blancheforte would make an attacker think twice and suffer for an assault against its walls. These were manned by alert men, well disciplined and proud of themselves and their profession, expert in the use of the latest defensive armament, which stood ready to repel any attack on the keep. In addition, Blancheforte ran with smooth precision and was, as any keep should be, self-sufficient. Its women servants spun wool and flax from its own sheep and fields, wove the yarn into cloth, and made the cloth into garments. The cellars were redolent of the good wine from its own vineyards stored there. The demesne farm and herds provided food enough to stock the castle and to keep the serfs so fat that they found time and strength to complain bitterly over the iniquities of their overlord. At least, the younger serfs complained. Those who were older went to the castle chapel and prayed long and earnestly for the good health and long lives of Lady Alys and Lord Raymond. If Lady Alys and Lord Raymond had known, both prayers and complaints would have amused them. So long as complainers did their share of the corvée, the lord and lady were indifferent to grumbling. It they did not, there was the lash, the branding iron, or the rope to cure real rebellion. Alys and Raymond had not restored Blancheforte for the sake of the serfs, but for their own convenience. And very convenient Blancheforte was—too strong to be threatened except by a large army, carrying with its overlordship a place on the council that governed Bordeaux, and close enough to the city to allow its master easy access to the great men of the place. Blancheforte itself, the estates of Amou, Ibos, and some farms near Mont de Marsan had been offered to Raymond as Alys's dowry on the condition that he swear to uphold the rights of King Henry in of England as Gascony's overlord. To this Raymond had sworn very gladly, for Henry was the husband of his half aunt, Eleanor of Provence. For four years the fulfillment of his oath had been little trouble—a matter of living on his Gascon properties a few months out of every year, mostly in Blancheforte; suppressing, to the best of his ability, political scheming; and reporting what he thought dangerous or important to the king. Raymond was an excellent man for this purpose; he was not one to make a mountain out of a molehill to make himself appear useful and devoted. Moreover, Raymond really knew what was worth reporting to Henry. Gascony was always restless, full of intrigue and minor wars, but Raymond's mother was a Gascon and he was accustomed to the peculiarities of the people and politics of the province. When Simon de Montfort, the earl of Leicester, had been named seneschal by King Henry in 1248 and had come to tame Gascony with fire and sword, Raymond had joined him with goodwill. For four years Raymond had supported Leicester, but with steadily diminishing hope and enthusiasm, realizing that Leicester did not understand and would not accept the long-established traditions, laws, and customs of the towns and barons of Gascony. Worse yet, Leicester had no sense of humor, and only a strong sense of the ridiculous could keep a man sane—particularly one who had been raised in a more rational political climate—when dealing with Gascons. The result was inevitable. Leicester regarded independence as rebellion. Instead of explaining, he

attacked. Believing the just rights of others were being swallowed and fearing for their own rights, previously loyal men and towns took fright and turned openly or secretly against the earl. If Leicester had been appointed to hold the reins indefinitely or if they were to be handed over eventually to Richard of Cornwall, to whom Henry had promised Gascony in the past, Raymond would have fought on grimly through the intervening years. Neither Lord Simon nor Lord Richard would have been an unjust or tyrannical overlord once peace was established, but King Henry had insisted that Cornwall give up his right to the province and had transferred that right to his fourteen-year-old heir, Prince Edward. In the meantime, another complication had developed. The king of Castile had died, and his able and astute son, Alfonso X, had inherited the throne. Alfonso had a claim to the overlordship of Gascony. Raymond did not bother to trace the claim, knowing it was through Alfonso's descent from a daughter of King Henry II—and by now nearly every royal house in Europe was descended, one way or another, from the Plantagenets. Naturally, on his accession to the throne, Alfonso had reiterated this old claim, adding duke of Gascony to his many other titles. In normal circumstances, no one would have paid the slightest attention. Such old claims were myriad, owing to the mingling of royal and noble blood and tangled feudal relationships. However, because of the growing unrest caused by Leicester's repression, there was actually some danger that Alfonso's claim could be pressed to good effect. Gaston of Béarn, the most powerful nobleman in the area, had already renounced his fealty to England and sworn to Castile. In these special circumstances, by the autumn of 1252, Raymond had joined the ranks of those who wished to see Lord Simon relieved of his duty as seneschal. Raymond wrote to King Henry about Lord Simon's harsh, although just, judgments and his lack of understanding of the Gascon temperament and heritage, which were causing growing disaffection in those previously loyal. However, he was shocked and grieved when he heard, from his father-by-marriage, William of Marlowe, that Lord Simon had been publicly accused of oppression and mismanagement. William also warned Raymond to be very careful. He wrote that although there had been a reconciliation between the king and Lord Simon, he was sure it was not genuine—at least, not on the king's part. Alys's father's judgment was all too soon proved correct. The earl of Leicester had returned to Gascony, claiming that he now had permission from the king to finish his work in the province, which he doubtless believed was true, for he was an honest man. Unfortunately, he was sadly mistaken: In Blancheforte, just about the time his daughter, Fenice, decided to leave the convent in which her mother-by-marriage had placed her, Raymond was holding a letter from King Henry that informed him that he need not respond if Leicester should call on him for military service. "It is easy enough for the king to say," Raymond snarled at his wife. "But you know what Simon is like. He will insist that he has Henry's oath not to interfere in the management of Gascony, that Henry has no right to go over his head, and thus I must still come to his summons." Alys raised her cornflower-blue eyes from her tapestry work. "The king is more powerful than the earl of Leicester," she said. Of course, the main purpose of Alys's reply was to keep her husband out of any more fighting, and she would have adjusted what she said according to whether obedience to Henry or to Lord Simon gave more hope of satisfying that purpose. "But Leicester is closer," Raymond responded dryly, "and who knows how Henry's purpose will waver, whereas Lord Simon's is steady as a rock." "It was a mistake not to go home to Tour Dur to celebrate Christmas," Alys sighed. "Then we would have been out of the way."

"No, it was not," Raymond said, getting up and leaning over the side of the tapestry frame to kiss his wife. "My mistake was in allowing you to come here with me when you were not strong enough. I will manage something. The only thing I could not bear to lose, my love, is you." "I am not so frail as you think," Alys replied, smiling. "I am as strong as ever I was. And I still think that it would be wise to make ourselves scarce." "I agree." Raymond tilted his wife's head up and kissed her again, more lingeringly, on the lips. "But I cannot leave here without some good excuse. To do so would anger not only Leicester but the king also. I wish your father would write. I cannot imagine why he has not." Alys's clear eyes shadowed with worry. "I hope no ill has befallen Elizabeth. She was with child again, and she is not as young as I. It is too soon for the babe to be born, but she has lost others. God forbid she is… is not well." "Do not even think about it," Raymond urged, but his heart sank at the reminder. It was true that if anything happened to Elizabeth, William would be perfectly indifferent to a political cataclysm, not to mention what to him was a minor problem in Gascony. "What I will do now," he continued, "is ride into Bordeaux to speak to my kinsman Rustengo. He has several times suggested that the king come here himself. In the past, I was not so eager—you know what Henry is—but I am certain others have received letters similar to the one I have. I am now leaning toward Rustengo's opinion. Let Henry confront Leicester. The king in person can excuse us from obeying Lord Simon and pardon those who have been treated too harshly. So, if Rustengo is still of the same mind, our letters to Henry, begging him to come in his own person, can go together. Then I will approach the council of Bordeaux and see whether they wish also to appeal to the king to come." "And while you are running hither and thither," Alys said, "I will try to think of a very good reason why you must be in Provence at the earliest opportunity." Raymond laughed. "So long as it is not a political reason, my love. Eleanor is too well informed about what is happening in and about Provence. I do not think she would tell Henry anything that could hurt me—Eleanor is fond of me—but if a smell of bad fish reached her, it might raise questions in her mind, and I would not want her to be uneasy about my good faith." "Or to discover that you think her husband is an untrustworthy idiot?" Alys asked tartly. "Henry is not an idiot," Raymond protested, tactfully ignoring Alys's criticism of the king's untrustworthiness. "And I wish you would not say things like that. I know you are careful in public, but if you make a habit—" "I am sorry." Alys did not, of courser point out that Raymond himself, only a few moments earlier, had said just about the same thing. A good wife does not bring to notice such contradictions in her husband's speech or behavior. Instead, she put out her hand, and Raymond took it and kissed it to show he accepted her apology. Alys smiled at him, well content. "I will write to your father," she said. "He will find a good and sufficient reason, and probably something he has already mentioned to Eleanor in a letter so that she will be satisfied." About a week after this conversation took place, the good and sufficient reason Raymond needed to

leave Gascony peered nervously into the dark depths of the convent church. Fenice had made her way safely to the church, but her flitting passage through the black corridors of the convent and the minimally lighted cloister—where every moving shadow took on the mantle of a damned spirit reaching out for her to punish her for striking down a holy woman—had set her heart pounding so hard, there was a pain in her chest and she found it hard to breathe. Only the small, ever-burning light flickered on the altar, but it was enough—if a nun had been in the church, Fenice's dark-adapted eyes would have caught the sheen on the white headdress. She slipped through the door and staggered toward the outside wall, but her legs were shaking so badly that she could not rise again when she genuflected. Once she was down on her knees, Fenice prayed instinctively. She was too distraught to formulate any specific plea for help or guidance, but because Fenice truly believed in the goodness of God and the mercy of Mary, the very ambience of the church calmed her. The pounding of Fenice's heart and the trembling of her body diminished. She felt safe, enfolded in the protection of her religion. The stone floor of the church was hard and icy, and Fenice was accustomed to kneeling on a cushion. Thus the pain in her knees roused her. Once she was on her feet, her false sense of security disappeared. The church might protect her from the spirits of the damned, but it would betray her to her wardens. If she remained in the church, the nuns would find her when they came to pray at matins. They would take her prisoner again—and this time she would truly be a prisoner for what she had done—then Lady Emilie would succeed in robbing her father of his lands. Despite her memory of recent terror, Fenice moved down the nave and into the porch. The door that led out into the world was closed, but she knew it would not be locked; the house of God must be open to His people. Fenice laid her hand on the door pull; a cold shudder of fear shook her body, but she did not hesitate. Opening the door just a bit, she slid through, terrified by the darkness before her. The empty mud road was silvered by moonlight, its dry grass verges much the same color as the hard mud. Beyond the verge, the light failed. Some trees had shed their leaves, but others had not, and black shifting shadows, clicks, taps, and soft sighings marked the woods. Fenice gasped and tore her eyes away. As fast as she could in the too-large sandals, she hurried down the steps of the porch and out into the road. She would only look ahead, where there were no shadows. She would not look back, for behind her were conspirators who would rob her father. Clutching her crucifix and praying, Fenice stumbled down the road. Entry into the village where the menservants of the convent and their wives and children lived very nearly broke Fenice's spirit. There was not much wind, but its sound changed as it passed through the thatched eaves, and it seemed to come from the black spaces between the huts. There were other noises, too—faint voices that mingled with the thin moaning of the wind. Fenice began to tremble again, and her steps slowed, but the village was so tiny that even her lagging pace had carried her past most of the huts before her growing fear brought her to a standstill. She was shaking so hard that she would have sunk to the ground, but suddenly a horrifying shriek rang out behind her, followed by a loud thud. Sheer terror lifted Fenice and flung her out of the village. She did not even know she was running, and she did not get very far. Not fifty feet along the road, Fenice tripped on her ill-fitting sandals and stumbled sideways; the ground slid away from under her. Silent because her throat was frozen shut, she tumbled down into the ditch beside the road. There she huddled, sobbing for breath, while terrible cries and crashes in the village gained volume, then diminished and died away. The silence in the ditch became profound. But no harpy's claws tore at her, no devil's flaming whip cut through cloth arid flesh to score her soul. Slowly, Fenice sat up and peered fearfully back toward the village. Her eyes widened, and her hands

flew up to cover her lips. Light showed from every chink in every hut. Fenice's shoulders began to shake—but with laughter. What a fool I am, she thought, now recognizing the source of the soul-chilling shriek and thud. Some poor soul, coming out of a hut, had seen her dark-cowled form in the bright moonlight on the road. Now she understood that she had frightened that innocent, who had screamed, run inside the hut, and slammed the door. The later cries and crashes were those of the other villagers, calling out to discover the cause of the disturbance and slamming their own doors against the terror of the night. Fenice's laughter cast out her fear. Her belief in the evils of the night retreated from her. She tested her limbs and felt no pain, then breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving and began to think. She removed the overlarge sandals that had been her downfall and replaced them with her own shoes. Then she walked along in the dry ditch, not wishing to be seen again. Even with her shoes on, the footing was uneven and her pace slow. Some distance from the village she climbed back to the road. Fenice was a strong girl, but her long inactivity and poor appetite since Delmar's death had weakened her, as had the violent emotional stress she had undergone. Her footsteps lagged, and she felt as if she had been walking for hours, but when she looked up, the moon was only a little higher in the sky. That told her she must go on, that she was still too close to the convent for safety. Very nearly exhausted, she wavered from side to side as much as ahead and quite suddenly found herself tipping forward. Instinctively, Fenice threw herself backward, overbalanced, and ended by sitting down hard and sliding into the ditch. She tried once to rise, lifting herself just enough to straighten her skirt and the blanket under it, which had been hitched up by her slide. The cloth was still warm from her body, and seemed even warmer in contrast with the cold of the bare earth, bringing images to her mind, images of comfort, of being safe in her father's keep, sitting beside the fire or lying at ease in her own soft, warm bed. The images comforted Fenice, and she did not resist their spell; her eyes closed, and her head fell forward onto her knees. Slowly she tipped over, her shoulder sliding along the bank of the ditch gradually enough to prevent any feeling of falling until, at last, she lay on her side lost in sleep. As time passed, the cold seeped past the blanket inside the warm, woolen lay-sister's habit, and Fenice stirred, half waking to reach a hand for coverings she dreamed she had pushed away. Her fingers tangled in the long, coarse grass, and it pricked her hand. Fenice mumbled a protest, turned, and was prodded awake by odd sticks and pebbles. For some moments she lay still, confused and terrified to find herself in the open and puzzled by a distant sound like hammering. No one would hammer in the middle of the night, her mind insisted dully. All is quiet in the night—unless there is danger. Fenice pushed herself upright, her memory returning, and she stifled a cry of fear, certain that the faint sound she heard was someone from the convent pounding on the doors in the village, waking the men to pursue her. First she turned to climb back to the road, but the shaking of her body warned her that she could not run. She would be overtaken and dragged back; the sister would say that she was a madwoman who must be restrained. Knowing she must hide, Fenice turned again to the forest. God knew what roamed in the blackness under the trees. She could not enter there, she thought, shaking with terror. But the sound of hammering had ceased, and Fenice thought she heard voices. Sobbing and trembling, she crawled up the side of the ditch and staggered toward the trees. If I die without taking the veil, Fenice thought desperately, I will have accomplished as much by dying as by living, for whatever is mine goes back to Papa. Weary, she wove an uneven course, avoiding any heavy brush. Once inside the sheltering dark, when no

beast sprang at once upon her, the terror diminished little by little so that, finally, she paused to listen. The wood was quiet. Here and there some moonlight pierced the dark, offering a little comfort. Fenice made her way toward a patch of brightness. She dared not enter it, but close by was a huge pine, the shadowed ground beneath it soft with fallen needles. She stopped again and sank down under the tree as fatigue overcame her. Her back against the trunk, Fenice at first shivered at every sound, but the little noises of the night soon became familiar and lost their threat. The tension in her muscles eased, and she slept once more. Once or twice when she tipped sideways, the fear of falling wakened her, but each time she saw and heard nothing to alarm her and slept again. The last time she woke, sunlight gilded the tiny glade. The blessed day had come. Fenice was no longer afraid. Having survived the night, she was sure she would survive whatever else she must to make her way home.

CHAPTER 3

Sir William of Marlowe sat on the edge of the bed, holding his wife's hand. "Never again," he said. "I swear, Elizabeth, if you will not agree with me and help me in this, I will leave your bed for good." "I am sorry, William." Her voice trembled uncontrollably, and her luminous eyes were magnified by the tears that hung in the lower lids. "I did so desire to give you a son to hold Marlowe, but I suppose I am too old now to carry a babe full term." The tears spilled over, and William caught them with his lips and then kissed her mouth. Neither mentioned the two successful pregnancies early in their marriage. The little boy and little girl had not survived to their second year. That was an old sorrow and too common a fate to be recalled in this time of new grief. "I have two sons out of your body already," he said. "Do you think it matters to me that I did not set the seed? Are Aubery and John not my sons, Elizabeth?" "In all but blood," she whispered. "You loved them. You taught them. You listened to their little troubles when they were children and soothed the pain of their growing from boys to men. They love you. They wish to be your sons and only yours. If they could wipe out the memory that they ever had another father, they would do so." William gathered up his wife's other hand and held them both so that he could touch the tips of the long fingers to his lips. "Then that is enough for me. I am content. I will tell you this, Elizabeth—I never cared. You said you wished to give me a son. I yielded to your desire. You are a grown woman and have a right to my child, but I would never have risked your life in childbearing if the choice had been mine to make." "I know, my love. You value me out of all reason. I wish you had sent for Alys. It lay on my mind all the time I was ill that you were alone." William laughed softly. "That was my intention. I knew your duty would make you struggle to live if you thought me lonely and uncared for." A wan smile touched Elizabeth's lips. "Love, not duty, William. I do not wish to leave you."

"I know that, but each little string I can tie to your soul binds you faster to me. In any case, I was not alone. Aubery and John came flying as soon as they heard you were ill." There had been an infinitesimal hesitation before the words "were ill." Elizabeth knew her husband had just barely avoided mention of her recent miscarriage and that the avoidance was for her sake. She restrained a sigh. William was right. She must not try again to bear his child. He had been appalled, not happy, when she told him of her pregnancy; he had worried all through the five months she had carried the babe and suffered more than she when she lost it. She must put that hope aside forever and learn a cheerful acceptance of God's will. The Lord had given her so much. This touch of His rod must be joyfully endured as a mark of His love and mercy. Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth. Better the light blow of losing the unborn child than some heavier chastisement. "And much good Aubery and John were to you, I am sure," Elizabeth remarked with a shadow of her normal, mischievous teasing. "Doubtless all they did was weep and beg for your assurance that all would come right." "Well," William responded, his voice lighter as he picked up her attempt at cheerfulness, "we were none of us too merry, but it is said that misery loves company, and that we surely had." Elizabeth shook her head. "What fools. The three of you sitting about with long faces and frightening each other. You should have sent for Alys. And speaking of Alys, now that we are decided that I cannot breed an heir for Marlowe for you, should you not send for her younger son? If little Raymond is to have Marlowe, he should spend at least part of every year here." "Little Raymond? Nonsense. I have always intended Marlowe to go to Aubery. Alys knows that, and she would not be best pleased to have little Raymond's attention divided from the Gascon property for one estate in England." "Oh, William, are you sure that Alys will not care?" Elizabeth asked anxiously. "I would not for the world have her believe that I stole from her to enrich my sons." "We are not going to steal from our daughter to enrich our sons," William said firmly. "We are going to pay Alys well and fairly for the loss of Marlowe. Do not be a fool, Elizabeth. You know what Raymond holds—or will hold when his father dies. That is more than enough for the eldest boy and to provide generous portions for the girls. Alys's lands in France will all go to little Raymond, and that is a rich heritage." "But there has been so much trouble in Gascony. Do I not remember that a letter came from Raymond bearing ill news?" An angry frown covered William's face, and the hazel eyes under the too-long lashes darkened. "God alone knows what devils inhabit most Gascons. To speak the truth, I was sure that the earl of Leicester would tame them, and in the beginning the king behaved just as he should, trusting the earl to do what was right and necessary. But then Henry began to listen to the Gascons' complaints—" "But, William, it seems to me that Raymond did not entirely approve of Leicester's doings in Gascony—and Raymond is no fool in the handling of men." "The Gascons have no honor," he growled. "How can you deal with men who swear as lightly as a breeze and as lightly forget their oaths?" "You deal with the Welsh, William," Elizabeth reminded him gently, "and you always say their swearing is not to be relied upon."

"It is not the same," he insisted. "The Welsh have a different heritage and temperament. The Gascons—" "Also have a different heritage and temperament," she interrupted teasingly. William laughed and then frowned again. "Yes, it is true enough, and it is another reason why I do not wish to leave Marlowe to little Raymond. A man trained and accustomed to dealing with the laws and customs of Gascony might create havoc here in England. Can you imagine Marlowe town accorded the freedoms permitted the towns of Gascony? They have some crazy system of alloid—allud—oh, I cannot even remember, but it makes them free of any lordship. Marlowe town is mine. It has its mayor and its aldermen, but its charter comes from me." "Yes, William, of course," Elizabeth soothed. "Do not get so excited. No one in Marlowe would deny your rights as overlord." "Not now, and I do not intend that some young fool with foreign notions should give the townsmen any ideas. They have enough ideas on their own. Aubery will know very well how to manage them." "Yes," Elizabeth agreed. She was very proud of her elder son, who was as opposite to her first husband in his strict adherence to honesty, justice, and honor as he was like him in appearance. "But Aubery does have Ilmer and Ardley, and if there is so much rebellion and war in Gascony, perhaps Alys could be deprived of her lands there." "Not Alys," William said with a wry twist to his lips. "Remember that Raymond, or at least his father, holds Aix from King Louis, and that Lord Alphonse is half brother to Queen Margaret." "Yes, and to Queen Eleanor, too, but what has that to do with the Gascon lands?" "Do not be a goose, Elizabeth. If the Gascons rebel and seek a new overlord, would that overlord not be King Louis of France? And Raymond is the king's nephew-by-marriage. How can he lose? Whether King Henry or King Louis rules, Raymond will keep Alys's lands safe." "I cannot believe Louis would interfere in Gascon affairs," Elizabeth protested, "and I am sure whatever Raymond does is truly in the hope of establishing peace and properly reforming the administration so as best to benefit King Henry." "You are right about that," William agreed. "Raymond is an honest man who knows the Gascons well and, indeed, has Gascon blood. Raymond told Leicester that to rule Gascony, one must use both the carrot and the stick. Leicester is a fine man, but too severe. Also, he is like Richard was twenty years ago—he is most unwise in his outspokenness to the king. With Henry, more is accomplished with sweet words than with insults." Elizabeth could not help smiling. Richard, earl of Cornwall, was her husband's dearest friend and had come to be very dear to her also. He now had remarkable wisdom and real skill in conciliation, but even his talents might have been strained in the volatile atmosphere of Gascony. "In any event," William continued more briskly, "Henry invested young Edward with the province and assured the Gascons that Leicester had been relieved of his position as seneschal. He claims that he had agreed to pay Leicester back whatever funds he personally put into the war in Gascony and an additional two thousand marks and that a truce should be established." "But I am sure Raymond's letter to the king was about the Gascons and the earl fighting—" "Yes, well, there seem to have been some differences between what the king remembered was agreed and what Leicester remembered. I am not much surprised. Neither of them was in the mood to listen to

the other." "Does that mean the war will continue?" Elizabeth asked. "Not with the same ferocity, I am sure. And in any case, Raymond is out of it. Leicester may have been impatient with Raymond's suggestions, but he would never attack Raymond's property, and Henry's instructions to Raymond and the rest of his supporters are not to aid Leicester if he continues to ignore the truce." "I am glad to hear that." Then, suddenly, Elizabeth looked confused. "William, how did we get involved in discussing Gascony?" He laughed. "I was trying to ease your conscience, my love, about my decision to leave Marlowe to Aubery rather than to Alys's little Raymond when I go to my final rest. And in truth the continued restlessness there is part of my reason. I cannot foresee the character of the people changing, no matter what settlement Henry makes. Thus, neither Raymond nor either of his sons is likely to have much time for one single estate in England. To me, the most important thing of all is that Aubery will be here, in England, at worst no farther away than Ilmer or Ardley. The land and people will not be left for years at a time to the tender mercies of a bailiff or castellan who, not fearing the eye of the overlord, might well rape what should be tenderly nurtured." Elizabeth leaned forward and kissed her husband. "Very well. If Alys agrees, I am more than content." "Alys will give no trouble. I taught her from the beginning that Marlowe was no more than a training ground for her. I wish, however, that I had not gone through this whole argument with you." William smiled wryly. "I am sure I will have to say all the words over again to Aubery." Elizabeth laughed because she knew her son, but William had always been able to handle Aubery, often better than she could herself, so she offered no advice. Instead, she asked what mischief little Bess had been up to—for Elizabeth had taken care of Aubery's daughter since her son's wife had died. When William had answered to her satisfaction, the conversation drifted to casual, everyday subjects, which finally lapsed into a comfortable silence, warm with loving companionship. This had not lasted long when a maidservant entered softly and said there was someone waiting in the great hall who had a matter of business to discuss with William. He made an impatient gesture, but Elizabeth stopped the maid and said, "Go, love. You cannot spend all your time sitting with me. Besides, I think I will sleep for a little while now. You might as well see who has come and what he wants." After only a momentary hesitation, William nodded and rose from the bedside, kissed his wife once more, and went out. It had occurred to him that any man who had business with him would have sent up his name. Therefore, it must be Aubery below, who had forbidden the maid to give his name lest his mother wish to know why he did not come up himself instead of asking William to come down. And that Aubery had not come up meant that he had some urgent news to impart that he did not wish his mother to hear—or that he had been hurt. William began to hurry. Three days earlier news had come to Marlowe that Aubery's keep at Ilmer had been attacked. Aubery and William had stared at each other with blank amazement; there was nothing in Ilmer that anyone could want; the place was bare bones, for no one had lived in it since the days of Aubery's grandfather. Nor was it possible, in this day and age, to seize a property by force—at least, not the property of a man with such powerful friends as Aubery of Ilmer had. William and Aubery would have thought it some kind of joke had not the messenger been one of the small troop of men-at-arms Aubery maintained in the castle, and wounded at that.

Aubery had not wanted to leave Marlowe because of Elizabeth's illness, but William insisted that she was already well along the road to recovery and that Aubery should not risk the ruin of the demesne farms, which had just begun to show normal yields and profits after years of abuse by his father and grandfather. So Aubrey had taken his own few men and about a hundred of William's and ridden out. William had given the matter no more thought. Aubery was very capable of taking care of himself, and William's whole being was concentrated on watching Elizabeth gain back her strength day by day. Now, however, he almost fell down the narrow tower steps in his anxiety. He had suddenly comprehended the only reason possible for an attack on Ilmer. William's headlong pace only checked when he saw his stepson standing near the hearth with a cup of wine in his hand. "It was a trap," he said. "Fool that I was, not to see it at once. Are you hurt?" Aubery grinned at him. "Not a bit, but only because I am both stupider and more trustful than that dog's turd Savin. There was nothing to be learned at Ilmer. In fact, the attack was broken off soon after the messengers sneaked out at the postern gate. That should have told me it was, as you said, a trap, but… I suppose I was thinking mostly of my mother. Anyway, I left most of the men at Ilmer, to guard the farms, and then took the short road back, the one that runs by Radanage." There was no surprise in William's face, only an ugly hardening of hatred. "And Savin and his men were lying in wait! I told you you should have killed Savin when he challenged you. I knew that sparing him when you had beaten him would only make him hate you all the more. That kind has no gratitude—and you know it, too. But it was a crazy thing to ride right by his keep. One day, Aubery, you will take a dare you cannot fulfill." Aubery shrugged. "It was no dare," he said indifferently. "I did not think he would be there—and actually I was right, which is why I am alive. Savin, too, did not think I would dare ride right by Radanage, so he was lying in wait near the main road with the whole force that had attacked Ilmer. He left a small troop as a safeguard to delay us and send him a warning if I did choose that route, but there were not enough of them." But the reminder that Aubery had escaped unhurt did not relieve William's fury. "Will he still be there, do you think?" he asked. "We can go out with the remainder of the castle guard and take him unaware, coming as we will from the opposite direction." "No, he will not be there, I—" "I suppose you could not prevent some of his troop from escaping," William said with a grimace of chagrin. "But this is ridiculous! You cannot go about expecting a knife in the back or take along a small army each time you ride out. I will complain—" Aubery grinned. "You did not let me finish. We took some captives. Most are housed comfortably but securely below. A few I sent back to Savin, warning him that if he tried again, I—or you, if I am not alive—will bring these men before the king to give witness against him and name him coward and treacher and murderer so that he will be hanged, drawn, and quartered as a common felon." For a moment William was silent; then he put his hand on Aubery's shoulder. "I, am proud of you," he said. "And I beg your pardon for thinking of you still as a wild, crazy boy who would take any dare—" "Do not give me too much credit," Aubery remarked, chuckling. "I am not yet perfect," he added teasingly, for he was aware that his stepfather loved him dearly, and believed William credited him with far more virtue than he had. But then, before William could deny indignantly that he was so foolish as to believe any human perfect, Aubery asked, "Shall I go up and speak to my mother? Does she know I have been away? And what the devil should I tell her if she asks what I have been doing?"

It was William's turn to chuckle. Aubery was a very bad liar in general and was utterly incapable of lying to Elizabeth, who knew him too well. "She does know you have been away, of course. Do you think your mother would not notice that you have not been near her for three days? I told her that since she was so much better you had taken the chance to go to Ilmer to check the spring plantings and do whatever other business was necessary. Let us hope she does not ask any questions—but it will not matter even if you tell the truth. She really is much better, Aubery. Thank God, she has been spared to us." "Thank God," Aubery echoed devoutly. "I do thank God and Mary and all the saints," William went on, "but I am not going to tempt their mercy again. Elizabeth will be brought to bed no more, and if it is a sin—well, it is on my soul, and I am willing to bear it. But that means I must find a suitable heir for Marlowe, and to my mind there can be no better man to hold these lands than you." It was easy to say, for William meant from the bottom of his heart what he had said; it was not, however, so easy to get the statement accepted. In fact, Aubery was much harder to convince than Elizabeth. William was surprised; although he knew Aubery was extremely punctilious about not taking anything that did not belong to him, he also knew Aubery loved Marlowe deeply and wished to care for the estate. What he had failed to understand was that the very love and desire Aubery had for Marlowe was what made him resist. To Aubery, the offer of Marlowe was like a hot rod applied to a festering wound. He knew he would anger his stepfather by resisting so generous and, really, so practical a solution to the disposition of Marlowe, but he could not bring himself to say aloud what stuck in his craw. Instead, he said, "But I have enough. I have Ilmer and Ardley and a dozen lesser farms. Alys carries the blood of Marlowe, and it is her blood that should hold the keep." William, whose mind was less on what he was saying to Aubery than on his desire to return to Elizabeth's bedside, was so exasperated that he snapped, "What the devil ails you, Aubery? Do you feel there is some taint in Marlowe that you do not wish to be associated with it?" The moment he said the words, William wished that he had bitten out his tongue, for a painful flush darkened Aubery's fair skin, and William suddenly realized what was causing his stepson's resistance. William, who had his own burden of guilt, had been thinking that Aubery knew or suspected that his mother had been William's mistress before they were able to marry, and associated Marlowe keep with that liaison. At the moment he had forgotten what must be far more important to Aubery—the greed of his father, who had planned to murder William and force a marriage between Alys and Aubery in order to possess Marlowe. He embraced his stepson and kissed him. "My son, forgive me. Had any thought of your father's desire for Marlowe been in my memory, you know I would not have said those words. That is nothing to do with you, Aubery, nothing. You are not guilty of Mauger's sins. I know you have never coveted my lands. I desire that they should be yours. Do you not understand, Aubery? You are my son. I will never have a son of my body, and I do not desire one. Your mother has paid too dearly already for that stupid notion. It is not very likely, even if I had a son, that I would live long enough to judge what kind of man he would be—" "Do not say that!" William's open statement of Mauger's shame had jabbed the hot rod deeper into Aubery's mental wound, but the dissociation of father and son had withdrawn it. The wound still ached, but it was the clean ache of the cautery, not the stinking pressure of a festering sore. Then, William's last remark had diverted

Aubery from his past to an uncertain future. He could not bear the thought that William could die. He had been standing quietly in the circle of William's arms while William spoke, but now he returned his stepfather's embrace with such ferocity that the older man grunted with pain and then laughed. "I will not survive even the time the Lord plans to give me if you squeeze me to death," William said. "You are well and strong," Aubery replied forcefully, although he relaxed his grip. "Why do you talk of death?" "I suppose because your mother came so close to it in her mistaken attempt to give me what I do not want. I have told her I will not tolerate another try. I cannot bear it." William's voice shook. "I will not have her laid on that rack again. I swear to you, Aubery, you and John are the sons of my heart—fine men, both of you—and I desire no others. You are the elder, and a father's lands go to the elder." "But Alys has boys and may have more." William sighed, stepped back, and sat down, gesturing toward a second chair near the hearth. He was a fool, he thought, to have forgotten Aubery's oversensitivity to any act that could possibly—or even impossibly—be misread to carry any implication of greed or dishonor. It was odd he should forget, too, because Aubery was the physical image of his most greedy and dishonorable father. He had Mauger's tall, heavy-boned body, Mauger's thick, straight blond hair, Mauger's handsome, even features: well-shaped, clear blue eyes, a straight nose, a wide mouth, and a firm chin. But William knew why he never thought of Mauger when he looked at Aubery. It was because the expressions on the two faces were so different. Mauger's face had been closed and hard, his eyes always half-lidded to keep secrets. Aubery's blue eyes were direct and honest, his mouth mobile and sensitive. William sighed again, wishing that the eyes did not hold so much trouble, that the lips were not so tight with remembered pain. It was wrong, he thought, for so young a man to be so somber. "I have explained that more than once already, Aubery." William pointed out. "Marlowe is good land, but compared to what Raymond has, even if there should be a third or fourth son, it would not be worth sending a boy to England to live. Raymond will have uses for all the sons he has—and I do not think there will be many more children—if any." "But Alys is young—" Aubery heard the uncertainty in his voice and hated himself for it. One thing William had said was not true. He did covet Marlowe. Not for greed, not that, but he loved Marlowe, loved it far more than Ilmer or Hurley, his mother's estate, or even Ardley. All the other lands were in some way bound up with painful memories. Only Marlowe had always been a place of peace and happiness for him. He could not help himself and listened eagerly to William's explanation of why Alys was not likely to have so numerous a family that even one English estate would be welcome. "Yes, but she has been married nearly ten years and has borne six children in that time. It is true that despite being so small, Alys has borne her children easily, but you must remember that she was not well during her last pregnancy, and Raymond was so frightened that he sent for Elizabeth to come to her. She did not recover as quickly as usual afterward, and the girl was bom dead. Elizabeth said that Raymond's father, too, was almost crazed with worry about the dearest treasure of his house' and gave Raymond no peace about his unbridled lust and his lack of consideration for his wife." Aubery shifted uneasily in his chair, and William smothered another sigh and said hastily, "Your wife did not die in childbed. She was not even with child when she died. You are utterly blameless of any fault

regarding her. You were a most tender husband." Although Aubery nodded a seeming acceptance of his stepfather's assurances, he did not answer directly because he did not know what to say. He did blame himself most bitterly, not actually for Matilda's death, but for everything else that had gone wrong with his marriage—and most of all for no longer loving his wife at the end of her short life. It was the knowledge that he did not love her that had made Aubery grieve—that still tormented him every time he thought of Matilda, and prevented him from enjoying his adorable daughter, despite his love for her. William had not expected Aubery to reply; from the hour of Matilda's death, he had responded only with silence to any attempt at comfort. And, although he would never say it to Aubery, William actually felt his stepson was well rid of a woman to whom he would soon have regretted tying himself. In fact, William came close to the truth when he sometimes wondered if Aubery had not already regretted the marriage and, because he was secretly glad to be rid of his wife, blamed himself for being guilty in some unknowable way of causing her death. William had never cared much for Matilda of Ardley. Not that she was not a very pretty girl and a good one also, but William knew her to be as witless as a cuckoo bird and suspected she was also as sexless as a wet rag. Now and then William wondered whether he was prejudiced because Matilda so much resembled his own first wife. Not that Matilda looked like Mary, but she certainly was like her in her inability to utter a sentence that was not a platitude, in her terror of responsibility of any kind, in her laziness, and in her blind devotion to the least sensible utterances of ill-taught and fanatical priests. He and Elizabeth had agreed to the marriage after some initial protests, because Aubery desired it and because the girl was a substantial heiress. The keep at Ardley was large and the demesne very rich. There were other lands, too. Matilda had been Richard of Cornwall's ward, and Aubery had met her when he had accompanied William on a visit. Aubery had returned several times on his own, drawn by shy glances and blushes. The attraction between them had come to the notice of Richard's wife, Sancia, and her romantic Provencal heart had been touched. She had urged her husband to approve the marriage; Richard had been willing enough. Perhaps the girl's estate could have merited a baron, but Richard knew of William's intention that Aubery have Marlowe; he was sure Matilda would be kindly treated and her lands well managed, and, most important, he was certain that Aubery would be politically trustworthy. By the time William became aware of the affair, it was really too late to protest. The few words of caution he had said to Aubery had brought them closer to a real quarrel than they had ever been, and Aubery had actually had a bitter argument with his mother over the girl, flinging himself out of Marlowe and vowing not to return until Elizabeth apologized for what she had said about Matilda. After allowing the matter to hang for several months and realizing that Aubery was only being made more stubborn by opposition, William and Elizabeth had unhappily withdrawn their objections. At the time, William had pointed out to Elizabeth that they must not judge what would make Aubery happy in marriage. Aubery had not wanted to marry Alys, who was the exact opposite of Matilda in every way and much more beautiful. Perhaps, he had suggested, Matilda's stupidity was soothing in some way. But that was said only to ease Elizabeth's worry. What William had thought privately was that once Aubery had had his craw full of his wife's simpering holiness, he would find himself a warm, willing mistress. Still, it seemed the marriage had worked out well enough. Matilda had produced a daughter before she had herself sickened and died. The child seemed healthy and was bright as a gold button, a delight to her grandmother, who had always wanted a daughter, and to William himself, who missed his Alys more than he would ever admit. William wished that Aubery were not so ambivalent toward the child. He would

ask eagerly about her—in fact, some of the questions Aubery asked about his daughter gave William the opinion that Aubery was bored to death by Matilda—but when he saw little Bess, his eyes would fill with tears and he seemed incapable of playing with her or enjoying her adorable baby ways. Had Aubery not been aware of his mother's and stepfather's opinion of Matilda and also that their opinion had never changed, he might have been able to confess his true feelings. As it was, he simply avoided all discussion of his dead wife. Still, both his mother and William had been kindness itself to her. William had always spoken to her about things in which she was interested and had explained anything that puzzled her as gently and patiently as if she were a child. He was more patient than I, Aubery remembered with a pang of regret. And Elizabeth had supported her through the birth of their daughter and nursed her most tenderly all the long months of her illness. Aubery swallowed. He had not believed Matilda was really so sick. He had thought her complaints were an excuse to push the care of the baby and the keep onto Elizabeth after the novelty of being a mother and lady of the manor had palled. "But you cannot just will Marlowe to me," Aubery burst out, trying to avoid thinking about Matilda because he did not wish she were alive again, and he knew that was wrong and selfish. "Alys must have some recompense, even if she is willing to yield her right to the estate." "Well, naturally," William said, a bit startled at the abrupt change of subject but accepting Aubery's warning away from something that was obviously still painful to him. "I thought I would offer her one thousand marks. That will surely buy an equivalent property either in Gascony or Provence." Aubery frowned anxiously. "I do not see how I can possibly pay such a sum in any reasonable time. You know that Ilmer still does not yield much, and I am not sure it would be right to borrow from Ardley's revenues—" "What are you talking about?" William asked. "What has the payment to do with you?" "I cannot possibly take a gift of such value—" "Curse you for a stubborn donkey." William laughed. "I am not giving you any gift. Do you think I intend to turn Marlowe over to you tomorrow? All I intend is to provide a good master for my lands after I am dead. Any arrangement I make with my daughter is my business, not yours." "Well, I do not see it in that light. If the profit comes to me—no matter when—then I must buy the right to—" William stood up abruptly. "Aubery, I do not wish to argue such a stupidity. I wish to go and sit with your mother. All I wanted was to explain to you what I am doing and why so that you would not fall down dead with shock when you learned you would be responsible for Marlowe. I am rich enough, having been marshal of Richard of Cornwall's lands for near ten years, to give that sum to Alys. The only reason I have not bought more lands myself is that I have had no reason to do so—and, in truth, I am too busy with Richard's property to want the burden of any more of my own." "I—I do not know," Aubery muttered, torn by the joy of knowing that Marlowe would be his home for the rest of his life and the fear that he was grasping at what was not rightfully his. "Can I not pay something! I know you do not need the money, but… Have you spoken of this to my mother?" "Yes, and she is almost as idiotic as you, but not quite. It took me only half the time to convince her. What is wrong with the two of you? You act as if I were handing you a bagful of vipers." For the first time Aubery smiled. "No, you are handing me something I fear I want too much. I cannot help but feel it is wrong. And as for my mother—she loves Alys. Well, I do, too. Is she not my sister?

Neither of us would take from her. William…" The name was a caress, a substitute for the word "father." "Are you sure Alys would not wish to keep Marlowe? There is another way. I could oversee the lands for her. I swear I would not neglect them." "I do not fear you would neglect the lands if they were Alys's," William replied, smiling also. Aubery's answers reaffirmed what William knew already, but they were still good to hear spoken aloud. "I did, actually, give some thought to leaving the land that way, but it will not serve. Raymond will someday be a direct vassal of France—his father is, after all, some years older than I—and thus Marlowe might come into contest. I do not say it is likely, but… I would not like to think that these lands could be adjudged to the king to hand to whomever he saw fit." "Good God, no!" Aubery exploded, getting to his feet as if he were ready to defend the property. William felt like laughing but remained suitably grave, for fear of hurting his sensitive stepson. "Good. I will go up to your mother now, and between us we will compose a suitable letter to Alys and Raymond. Do you wish to come up?" "No." Aubery flushed. He was afraid that he would look as though he were gloating while the matter was discussed. "If you and she permit, I would like to join you and my mother for the evening meal. Now I think I should ride over to Hurley and talk to John. If he does not like this plan—" "Then I will box his ears," William said, laughing. "I absolutely refuse to explain to even one more person." But William was not worried. John was neither greedy, nor did he seem to carry the deep scars Mauger's acts had left on Aubery. John looked much like Elizabeth and seemed to have inherited her placid but merry nature. He would be delighted, William was sure, to know that his brother would control the fortress across the river from his own property.

CHAPTER 4

Fenice had limped into Aix several days before the arrival of the letter Alys wrote from Blancheforte asking her father-by-marriage to find an excuse for Raymond and herself to come home. The gate guard hardly spared a single glance for the tired lay sister who passed through the small postern and into the outer courtyard. It was not usual for a sister to be alone, but her robe was mud stained and travel worn so she might be doing a penance, begging her way from shrine to shrine. She could be no danger to Tour Dur, and she was not the guard's business. Halfway across the courtyard, a well-dressed woman servant paused on her way to the kitchen and said kindly, "There is no church here, Sister, only the lord's chapel, but if you wish to eat—" She paused uncertainly as the robed and cowled figure shook its head. She was a little frightened because the face was veiled and the hands hidden in the sleeves, methods often used to conceal the ravages of leprosy, but a leper would never dare enter the gates or go without staff and clapper to warn of the disease. "I have a message for the master-at-arms, Georges," Fenice mumbled breathlessly. "A message for Georges?" Isabelle repeated doubtfully. She could not imagine what kind of message the

master-at-arms, who was a hard man, dedicated to his profession, could receive from a convent. Desperately Fenice said, "It is not your business." She then turned away and hurried, limping, in the direction of the master-at-arms's quarters. She did not notice Isabelle staring after her, white-faced. The maid's superstitious mind had made an image of horror out of the fact that Fenice had veiled her face and kept her hands concealed inside her sleeves—those too-white, too-soft, long-nailed hands that could never have belonged to any hardworking lay sister. For an instant, Isabelle thought that Fenice was carrying disease and death to Georges. Fortunately, Georges was less superstitious or he might have refused to send for Lord Alphonse. Although he did not recognize Fenice, Georges did find the voice familiar. What he thought was that the woman was one of Lord Alphonse's doxies who had been told to contact his lordship in this way, so he made no difficulty, and Alphonse soon arrived in response to his message. As soon as she saw him, Fenice ran toward him, throwing back her hood and pulling off her veil. "Oh, Grandfather," she cried, "such dreadful things have happened." Lord Alphonse goggled at her. "Fenice? Is it you, Fenice? What are you doing here?" Fenice stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes widening. "God help me, did you know Lady Emilie had placed me in a convent after Delmar died?" she asked, her voice rising hysterically. "Died?" Lord Alphonse gasped. "Delmar died? Fenice, what are you saying? Are you mad?" They stared at each other, both appalled, until Fenice said weakly, "Did you not receive my letter to say Delmar had taken a fever and was very ill?" "Of course I did not receive any such letter. Would I not have come to see Delmar? It is no more than two leagues from here to Fuveau, child." "I thought perhaps Lady Jeannette did not wish you to expose yourself," she said. "I would not have wished it myself." And then, bitterly, "But I should have guessed when I did not receive a letter back that Lady Emilie had not sent my message. Grandfather, I am not mad. You must listen to me. You must. Lady Emilie would have forced me to take the veil so that she could keep Fuveau and Trets." Until Fenice said that last sentence, Lord Alphonse had been staring at her in horror, unable to believe that his vassal, Delmar de Fuveau, had died and no one had informed him. After all, he was Delmar's overlord as well as his relation by marriage. It was his duty to arrange for the care of Delmar's property and widow in the absence of the widow's father, and it would have been his duty even if the widow did not happen to be his granddaughter. All of his vassals trusted him to care fairly and wisely for their womenfolk or minor heirs. No one would conceal a death from him. The instant she said Lady Emilie wished to keep Fuveau and Trets, though, he had remembered that both properties had been settled on Fenice in the event of Delmar's death, excluding the boy's mother and uncle. "My poor child; my poor child," Lord Alphonse said, putting his arm around his granddaughter and taking her hands in his. "Good God, your hands are like ice, and your robe is all wet. You will take your death. Come within. You must have a hot bath and something hot to drink." "Do you not believe me?" Fenice faltered, her eyes filling with tears. She did not realize her grandfather had been distracted from commenting on what she had said by his concern for her physical condition. "Oh, I believe you," Lord Alphonse assured her as he drew her toward the hall. "I warned your father at

the time the contract was being written that the reversion clause might cause trouble. I suppose Raymond assumed Delmar would explain to his mother and uncle that they would suffer no disadvantage, and the boy did not do it." He smiled down at Fenice rather sadly. "He was afraid, was he not, that they would think him so enchanted by your beauty and sweet ways that he allowed your papa to take advantage of him." Fenice could not answer. She only turned her face into her grandfather's shoulder and sobbed softly. She did not want to go in, not even to be dry and warm. She had almost forgotten what it was to be dry and warm, but she feared that the price of those pleasures would be to lose Lord Alphonse's protection and fall alive to Lady Jeannette's hands. Now that he had the meat of the matter, perhaps her grandfather would not care about what had happened to her. Fenice had underestimated her new importance. Fuveau was a valuable little estate, not large, but fruitful, and its proximity to Tour Dur increased its significance. Although Lord Alphonse was marginally aware that his wife did not like her baseborn granddaughters, he had no intention of allowing her to delay Fenice with questions, exclamations, and lamentations. Thus, Fenice was not sent up among the women to make her own way as best as she could. Lady Christine, her old governess, was called down and bidden to arrange for the girl's comfort as swiftly as possible, and was told not to cross-question her or allow anyone else, including Lady Jeannette, to delay her return to him. Fenice pulled Lady Christine away from Lord Alphonse, who was already calling for a scribe. "We can go to the south tower," she said. "Most of Lady Alys's furniture is there." Ordinarily furniture was carried from estate to estate as a family moved, but it was a great distance from Aix to Bordeaux. After many years of traveling back and forth, Alys and Raymond had become tired of being tied to a long baggage train, which invariably delayed them by getting into difficulties. Having considered the expense of double furnishings and compared that against the trouble saved and the cost of cartage over the years, they decided that in the long run it would be better to take the novel step of furnishing Blancheforte and leaving the furniture in Aix. "But it will be cold," Lady Christine protested. "There has been no fire in the south tower all winter." "I do not care," Fenice insisted. "We can have a big fire lit now, and the water in the bath will be hot. While I am bathing, you can warm some clothing for me before the fire. I will do well enough." Lady Christine looked at Fenice for a moment and then smiled. She thought that being married had finally given the girl a little self-confidence. But Fenice was so worried about what her grandfather would do and say when he heard the whole tale that she had given the orders without thinking. She also made remarkably quick work of bathing and dressing in some of her aunt Margot's cast-off clothing and hurried back to the hall. "I have already sent off a letter to your father and Lady Alys telling them of Delmar's death and of the possibility that there will be trouble over the reversion clause in the marriage contract. I am sure that, if they can, they will come home at once. There is nothing more for you to worry about," Lord Alphonse said kindly, drawing a stool right next to his chair in the warmest place beside the fire, "so you just sit down hers near me and have something warm to drink." "Please," Fenice said as soon as she sat down, "I wish to tell you everything that happened. I have done a dreadful thing." Lord Alphonse's face grew still. Perhaps Lady Emilie was not trying to keep possession of Fuveau but trying to protect Fenice by placing her in a convent. "You did not use… er… give your husband a wrong medicine?"

"I could not," Fenice cried, her eyes filling with tears. "I was not let near him, though I begged and I prayed to be allowed to nurse him or even speak to him. Oh, Grandfather, I do not mean to say that Lady Emilie wished Delmar harm. I know she did not. But they bled him and bled him. I know bleeding is right for a fever, but Lady Alys has told me that medicines should be tried after each bleeding and that at least one day should pass before bleeding is used again. And… and now he is dead. I do not say I could have saved him, but Lady Alys saved Enid when she was so sick with fever, and I knew what she had done, washing her with cold cloths, and I knew the draught she made from betony and marigold and—" "Hush, child, do not weep. You did your best. What is, is. It was God's will," Lord Alphonse consoled her, smothering a sigh of relief and thinking that God had been good to his granddaughter. Lady Emilie's jealous care, whether it was wrong or right, had saved Fenice from being the target of any suspicion that in her youth and inexperience she had made some mistake that was fatal to her husband. "Do not think of that now," he went on, trying to distract her from what he believed was her worst pain by drawing her to talk of what he was sure was some minor error. "Tell me instead of this dreadful thing you have done, and we will find a remedy, I am sure." Knowing that men did not like weeping women, Fenice hastily dried her eyes and swallowed her tears. She could not bring herself to tell her grandfather—who was also a bastard, although his mother had been a noblewoman—why she believed Lady Emilie hated her. She thus began her story after her husband's death, confessing that she had been so distraught that she made no protest when she was sent away—except to beg to stay for Delmar's funeral. "I thought they were sending me home," she quavered. Lord Alphonse nodded. "No doubt they wanted you out of the way. A local priest, who would be beholden to Lady Emilie and would not talk, could bury him quietly. When the land matter was settled, they could raise a proper monument. I suppose Lady Emilie did not want you to know I had not been informed or summoned to the burial." "I do not know whether I would have noticed," Fenice admitted, shamefaced. "I forgot Fuveau was mine. I… I forgot myself, it seems. I do not even remember arriving at the convent, and not much about the next few weeks." "It is no fault in you." Lord Alphonse kissed Fenice's cheek and took her hands in his. "That shows a tender heart." Fenice leaned her head gratefully against her grandfather's arm, but she felt doubtful about the excuse he had provided for her. Lady Alys was Fenice's ideal in all things; she had a tender heart, but she would not have allowed herself to be so totally overpowered. I would not have felt so terrible, Fenice thought, if I had not been almost glad… She repressed that-dreadful idea and went on hastily to describe to her grandfather the reasons for her steadily growing conviction that she was being kept prisoner in the convent at Lady Emilie's behest. "There will never be any way to be sure, my pet," Lord Alphonse said, frowning thoughtfully, "but it is not impossible. Fuveau is a nice little property. It may bring in as much as twenty marks in a good year. It is sad that the holy sisters should be moved by so worldly a concern as money, but doubtless they have many charities, and their houses need repair, enlargement, and embellishment—all to the greater glory of God. If they had been told you had renounced the world and then you seemed to think otherwise, they might, indeed, try to hold you until they could reconvince you that your greater happiness and benefit in this world and the next was to join them. And they, no doubt, truly believe it."

"But it is for Papa to decide," Fenice cried. "Yes, indeed, very proper," Lord Alphonse agreed, smiling. "If you had a vocation, if it were a firm and deep desire on your part to take the veil, for your own happiness your father might agree. But as things are, my Fenice, I do not think Raymond would wish either to lose you or to give so great a gift to a convent so distant. Certainly there is nothing dreadful in your decision to leave." "But in my manner of going there was," Fenice said in a very small voice, and before she could lose courage, described her assault on the lay sister. For one long moment, Lord Alphonse sat goggling at her, utterly speechless. Terrified, Fenice began to cry again, but her grandfather snatched her into his arms and laughed heartily, all the while repeating disjointedly bits and pieces from Fenice's confession. "Bless you, child," he gasped, collecting himself and releasing her, "I have not laughed so hard in years. Wait until your father and my darling treasure Alys hear of this. They always say you are too meek. This will prove that you have the soul of a lioness in defense of your rights. Such intrepidity! Such courage!" And then he added more soberly, "I am proud of you, my love, for not only did you have the strength to act but the wisdom and, more important than either, the endurance—which is the most precious kind of courage—to come that long, long way all alone, with no one to support or encourage you." "Then you do not think I was wrong to strike the sister?" Fenice asked uncertainly. "My love, sometimes one must strike first or lose the battle before one begins to strike at all." "That is what I thought," Fenice said, relieved, and went on in a firm, satisfied tone. "And I could not risk Papa's right to Fuveau and Trets. Only Papa or you or Lady Alys have the right to dispose of me." "And you may be sure we will take the very greatest care in whatever disposition we make," Lord Alphonse assured her, and then clapped himself on the forehead and called himself a monster for having forgotten in the midst of the talk that she must be starved and probably exhausted, too. Fenice disclaimed any desire to have a meal brought specially, but her grandfather's kindness brought tears to her eyes. These and her seeming lack of appetite, which was really owing to the generosity of almsgivers along the road rather than to any unwillingness to eat, made Lord Alphonse remember her recent loss. "You will not want to join us for dinner," he said sympathetically. "There is such a bustle and noise, and Alys's maidens do so chatter and laugh. They make your grandmother and me very merry, but I am afraid that will not suit you just yet, especially not when you are tired. I will tell Lady Christine that a meal is to be brought to you privately. Then, perhaps, when you have slept a little, you will want to join us for the evening meal We take that quietly, here near the fire." At Alphonse's mention of dinner, Fenice grew pale. It would be unbearable to have Lady Jeannette questioning her in front of all the noble maidens Alys fostered. Her grandmother would not be openly unkind while her husband was present, but she was quite capable of asking really cruel questions in a cooing voice that utterly deceived him. But the phrasing of Alphonse's remark reduced Fenice's fears to manageable proportions. Her trial would be delayed until evening, and then there would be no witnesses. Yet where could she be safe and private? At once she thought of the south tower, where the fire still burned and there were only memories of peace and happiness. "I am a little tired," she admitted, "and the women's quarters are so large. It… it is lonely to be there when they are empty. Grandfather, could I stay in the south tower?"

"But it is empty and cold. Will you not be more lonely there?" Lord Alphonse asked anxiously. "Oh, no," Fenice replied. "There is a fire, and to me it is almost as if Lady Alys were there." Alphonse smiled. "If that will give you comfort, child, so be it. I am sure Alys would wish you to have whatever can ease you." So it was that the five weeks Fenice spent in Tour Dur before Alys and Raymond returned were far pleasanter than she had ever expected. Her newly widowed status protected her and permitted her to withdraw to the south tower whenever she wished. Lady Jeannette, although she looked sourly at Fenice now and again, ignored her most of the time, and Fenice had to admit to herself that it had been many years since her grandmother had actually been overtly unpleasant. It was her own sensitivity to an atmosphere that was only cold and lacking welcome that made her miserable. Still, she was very, very glad when Lady Alys and Lord Raymond rode into Tour Dur, despite a repetitive pinch of anxiety that they might not find her adventure as funny as Lord Alphonse did. In fact, Raymond and Alys had been appalled when they heard of her young husband's death; their only thought now was to give Fenice all the support and comfort in their power to provide. As soon as they arrived, Raymond took his daughter in his arms and wept over her until Alys, who had tears running down her own lovely face, remonstrated that he was only renewing Fenice's sorrow. And when they heard the tale of Fenice's escape and her long, lonely journey home, both were fiercely proud of her. "There is your blood in her," Alys cried, looking from Raymond to Alphonse. And Raymond said, "You are my daughter, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. Tomorrow I will send out a summons to the vassals. Do not fear, my Fenice, you will have for your own what you struggled so bravely to keep." But Fenice saw the flash of fear in Alys's eyes, and she turned cold at the thought that her father might be injured in an attempt to retrieve something that was meaningless to her, except that it belonged, in her opinion, to him. "But, Papa," she said, "you and Grandfather have many vassals and are very strong, while Fuveau is only one keep. Perhaps since Lady Emilie must already know I am no longer at the convent and there really is no chance for her to keep Fuveau, they will yield to you without a war." Raymond frowned, but Alphonse laughed. "The girl is speaking sense, Raymond. If Emilie's brother, Jean-Paul, intends to fight, he has already had near three weeks to make ready. Another week or two cannot make much difference. There would be no time—even if he had the money—for Jean-Paul to send to distant parts for mercenaries. The man cannot be readier if you warn him by demanding his submission before you summon our vassals." "I suppose you are right," Raymond admitted, somewhat ungraciously. The taking of Fuveau by storm was just the type of fight Raymond liked best. It would be an enjoyable exercise, with no dangerous or widespread repercussions. However, the property was Fenice's; it would be wrong to damage it unnecessarily, and some damage and looting were inevitable if the place were overrun by men-at-arms. The idea that Fenice did not want her property damaged having occurred to him, Raymond looked at his daughter with respect. She had apparently learned more from Alys than he had previously believed. Fenice's spirits were greatly uplifted by her father's and stepmother's reactions and her grandfather's support of the first remark she had ever in her life made concerning a matter outside of a woman's proper

sphere. Unfortunately her happiness was not long lasting. Only a few hours later, when she was overseeing the placement of Alys's and Raymond's clothing in the chests and the removal of all traces of her own occupation of the south tower, Alys came in. "Oh, thank you, my love," she said. "My maid Bertha is so big with child, she can scarcely waddle. I had to leave her in Bordeaux, for I thought that she would surely deliver on the road from the jostling of the cart. I would have come to you sooner, but I wished to be sure that the letter your father sent to Sir Jean-Paul was not too threatening. Men never seem to realize that threats can sometimes cow, but they can also make a person desperate. And your father is so angry that they should take advantage of your grief... " Alys's voice faltered. "Oh, sweet, I am so sorry, so sorry." They clung together for a few minutes, weeping, but Alys soon pulled away, wiping first her own and then Fenice's eyes on the hem of her wide oversleeve. "It does not help to weep," she went on. "When little Alys and Henry died, I wept till my eyes were dry, but it did not help. The only thing that eased my heart was work, but I see you know that already. Ah, well, you will soon have work in plenty, for the management of two estates as the time for planting comes will give you no time for sad—" Alys's voice cut off sharply as she looked at Fenice's whitened face and fear-dilated eyes. This was not grief she saw; it was terror. "They will not obey me," Fenice whispered. "She—Lady Emilie—told them that I was baseborn and no better than a serf myself, and they laughed at me when I tried to give them orders. And when I told Delmar"—she began to sob again, far more bitterly than before—"he said it was true." Alys's mouth opened to ask furiously why Fenice had not told her, but the question was a stupid one. Although Fenice's frequent timidity usually infuriated her stepmother, Alys was able to understand this time. When she and Raymond were first married, she had for a very, very short time believed that her husband was so ruled by his mother that he would forsake her own bed. The fear and fury Alys had felt caused her to behave like a madwoman and nearly ruin her marriage, but she had thought only once of informing her father, and the shame that overwhelmed her at the idea of exposing her inability to hold her husband's love far outweighed every other emotion, no matter how violent. "It is my fault," Alys said, trying to draw the poison from Fenice's wound "Your father said Delmar was too gentle to be of any help to him in war, but I did not connect that with weakness as I should have done. Delmar was too weak to say no to his mother, so he laid the fault on you." "But it is not your fault," Fenice cried. "You meant well for me. You wanted a husband for me who would be gentle and who would not tear my heart to shreds by running to war more eagerly than to a feast. And there was no fault in your teaching of me, either." "I never thought there was," Alys agreed, more to bolster Fenice's self-confidence than because she herself wished to be absolved. "I saw you at Trets, and you knew what to do and were not afraid to do it. Nor, Fenice, was your will or strength too little. I see in your face that you blame yourself for lacking determination to fight back. But there was no way you could fight at Fuveau. The servants and men-at-arms were accustomed to obeying Lady Emilie. Your husband being too feeble to uphold your right, there was nothing you could do—except cry for help from your father and me, and I understand why you did not do that. No, often I have scolded you for too great meekness, but not this time, my love." Although there were tears in Fenice's eyes again, she heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God you understand why I cannot go back—"

"Not go back!" Alys echoed. "Nonsense! Fuveau is yours. Oh, you need not fear. By the time your father is finished with them, the servants will crawl on their bellies and kiss the mud where your feet have passed, and the men-at-arms will be your men, obedient to your slightest breath." "Must you tell Papa?" Fenice breathed. Alys reached up and stroked the girl's cheek, then pulled her head down so that she could kiss her forehead. "You fear your father will think less of you for this? It is not so." Alys's lips twisted wryly. "Raymond knows too well the power a mother can wield over a son. Only do not turn lily-livered when it is time for you to order punishment, for it is you who must order it and your men-at-arms who must administer it. If your father or I come between, your authority will be the less—and we must not make the same mistake twice." Fenice made no further protest. If Lady Alys said she must do a thing, then she must do it. Lady Alys was always the first to shield her when it was best for her to be protected. But it was then that Fenice realized that Lady Alys did not really understand at all. It was true that the servants and men-at-arms would obey her—but they would still know. In their hearts they would think of her as a false image, not rightfully a lady, and they would hate her for being set in authority over them.

CHAPTER 5

The next day Raymond sent his carefully worded summons to Fuveau. It said very little, only that it had come to his attention that Delmar was dead and he wished to know why no notice of that fact had been sent to him, Delmar's father-by-marriage, or to Lord Alphonse, comte d'Aix, Delmar's overlord. Because it had been impossible to conceal Delmar's death completely and there were any number of ways the news could have reached Lord Raymond, Lady Emilie and her brother did not despair. They had known the secret could not be kept for long when the properties were so near, but they had believed Raymond was in Bordeaux and knew that Lord Alphonse paid very little attention to business unless it was thrust upon him. Yet, even with Lord Raymond's unexpected return, as long as Fenice was missing, there was hope. When the news that Fenice had left the convent in so violent a manner reached them, Sir Jean-Paul and Lady Emilie had really been convinced that she had become totally mad. And when no further news of her had come to them, although more than a month had passed, they had hoped that she had got lost, wandered in the wrong direction, and finally died on the road. In response to Raymond's summons Jean-Paul had left for Tour Dur worried but not hopeless. He was prepared to show astonishment when Lord Raymond mentioned the reversion clause and asked for his daughter. He intended to swear that Fenice herself had insisted on being taken to the convent, that he and his sister had assumed she had written privately to her father to explain, and that he and his sister, being unable to read and not suspecting there was any reason to have the marriage contract read to them, had been unaware of the reversion clause. It was all very logical, and if he were believed, a strong possibility remained that he and Emilie could retain control of Fuveau. But the foundation of the plan was that Fenice should be dead or mad, so that she could not bear witness against him. Then he had seen that the woman standing beside Lord Raymond clad in elegant finery was not Lady Alys, but Fenice—and he had dropped to his knees in silent terror.

The foundation of his explanations had been swept away. Worse yet, Sir Jean-Paul knew excuses were useless; he and his sister had already been tried and judged guilty. His brief glance had shown that there was a decided resemblance between father and daughter, and the icy pale eyes of both were identical. Moreover, the fine velvet of Fenice's gown, the fur that trimmed it, the gold that sparkled in the embroidery of hem, neckband, and veil, all bespoke the high value that Raymond d'Aix put upon his bastard daughter. "Take his sword," Raymond said to his senior squire. "An innocent man looks his accuser in the eye and makes answer. It is the guilty who fall on their knees before one word is said or one question asked." The disarmed Jean-Paul was mounted on a jaded ass instead of his horse. With two hundred men-at-arms at his tail and Fenice beside him on the finest palfrey in the stable, Raymond rode to Fuveau and demanded entrance. The master-at-arms shrugged and bade his men let down the drawbridge and open the gates. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew the banner of the comte d'Aix. It was clear Jean-Paul had fallen foul of his overlord, and the master-at-arms wanted no part of that quarrel. Upon order, Jean-Paul's men came down from the walls and out of their other stations and stood uneasily in the outer courtyard. All the servants of the keep huddled in the shadows or leaned from the windows to see and hear. Raymond turned to Fenice. "It is your keep, Daughter," he said, his voice clear and carrying. "What is your will?" Well-rehearsed, Fenice responded immediately with equal clarity so that all could hear. "These men have done no ill. They obeyed their master, which is their proper duty. I cannot keep them, however, for they have long served one I do not trust. I leave their disposition to you, Father." Raymond agreed that the men had only done their duty and offered them either an exchange of service into his own troops or free passage out of Aix into any neighboring province. With one voice and considerable enthusiasm, for most of them were local men, exchange of service was accepted. Within half an hour they marched out of Fuveau with most of Raymond's army. An equal number of Raymond's men-at-arms, with Arnald as their master-at-arms, remained in Fuveau. Arnald had come from England years ago with Alys, and Fenice and her sister, Enid, had been his pets from the time they were small children. They had, gravely and kindly, corrected his French, and he, at their request, had taught them some English. He was too old now for heavy fighting, but there was no chance of that being necessary at Fuveau, and his deep affection for Fenice and her trust in him made him the right man to rule the men-at-arms. Unfortunately, Arnald could not perform other necessary duties, but Raymond had already sent a message to Sir Raoul, an old and trusted castellan, to leave his own keep in his son's charge and come to support Fenice in Fuveau. Now the keep was utterly in Raymond's power, and according to plan, Fenice ordered that Lady Emilie be brought down from her chamber, in which she had taken refuge. She and Sir Jean-Paul were hauled before Fenice, who still sat on her palfrey and from that height looked down at them. In a last desperate but unwise attempt to save herself, Lady Emilie began to accuse Fenice of murdering her son. "You fool!" Jean-Paul bellowed. "Every servant in the place knows she was never near the boy. Better, perhaps, had you been less wise and listened to her when she begged to use her own devices to cure him." "There is nothing you could say against my daughter that I would believe," Raymond snarled. "I have known Fenice from the day of her birth, and she is true and honest as steel, good and pure. I should hang you both—"

"No, Father, I beg you," Fenice interrupted. Alys had not only rehearsed Fenice in what she must say and do the first few weeks in Fuveau but had warned her that Raymond's temper might get out of hand. "He is deeply hurt," Alys had said, "that his old sin should be used as a weapon against you, who were never at fault, and he may go too far." And then Alys had suggested several expedients for curbing her husband without opposing him. Fenice laid a hand on her father's arm, and he turned to look at her, whereupon she smiled. "Let us return good for evil. I will send Lady Emilie to take my place with the sisters at the convent where she sent me—but, of course, not with Fuveau and Trets as dower." Raymond stared for a moment and then laughed. To come without dower to a convent usually meant acceptance only as a lay sister, to do the hard, heavy work of a servant. It was possible that the sisters would be merciful, considering Lady Emilie's rank, but they would never let her forget that she had brought disgrace to their house and was a charge on them. The penances would be long and hard, and there would be no escape for Lady Emilie, as there had been for Fenice. "And as for Sir Jean-Paul… I will leave a man's punishment to a man, to you, Father." "And I will temper my justice, I promise, with your mercy," Raymond replied, his good humor restored by his perception of Fenice's cleverness. "Arnald," he called, "get Jean-Paul back on that ass." Then he turned back to Fenice. "If there is nothing more I can do for you, my love, I will get back to Tour Dur." "Nothing more, Father," Fenice said, launching into another prepared speech. "I am well able now to bring my servants to proper obedience. I thank you for your support of my right." "You should rather have blamed me for not measuring the treachery of those to whose care I entrusted you," Raymond said regretfully, which made Fenice forget all about the dignity she had assumed. She leaned perilously from her horse to throw her arms around her father's neck and kiss him. "You are always too kind to me, Papa," she cried. Raymond gave her a brief but enthusiastic hug, which sadly disarranged her headdress, and shoved her back to safety in her saddle. "Not too kind, Fenice," he said fondly, "for I am proud of you, and you deserve whatever kindness I am able to bestow." There was real warmth behind the words, and for once Fenice was certain that her father saw her as a person rather than another female dependent to whom he owed care. His approval made her glow with happiness, despite what she knew she must do next. Arnald had returned from the gate where he had set Sir Jean-Paul back on the ass, and Fenice asked him to lift her down from her palfrey. He set her on her feet, and the horse began to move. She snapped an order to a groom—the same groom who had once told her she must get Lady Emilie's permission to ride out—and he ran forward, but his eyes were on Arnald, not on her. Fenice closed her eyes briefly but opened them again. "Arnald, have your men find every servant in the keep—every one. You have my permission, this once, to go into the women's quarters to bring down the maids. Assemble everyone in the hall, before the chair of state." When they had been gathered and stood ringed by the men-at-arms, Fenice had Lady Emilie brought before her. The woman sagged between the men that held her, utterly defeated. Fenice's soft heart was touched. Lady Emilie had lost everything—her son, her place—everything that gave meaning to her life. Had Fenice not made a commitment to her father, she would have forgotten justice to be merciful, but she could not. She gave the order to begin the journey to the convent where she herself had been taken.

Still, she was kinder to her mother-by-marriage than Lady Emilie had been to her, she also ordered that all Lady Emilie's clothing, even those garments embroidered with gold and set with small gems, be sent with her. Perhaps, Fenice thought, enough could be made out of those items to assuage somewhat the ire of the sisters. Seeing their erstwhile mistress hustled away at Fenice's command brought home to the servants their perilous state. Many, particularly those who held the more important positions, fell to their knees and began to weep and plead for pardon. Again Fenice had to steel herself to act against her natural kindness, to ignore her empathy with those whose fears and helplessness her own mother had shared. But Lady Alys had warned her, explaining that this one sharp punishment, dealt out to all in graded severity—depending upon their status in the hierarchy and their actual offense against her—would induce a fear that would ensure strict obedience for many months. By the time the fear began to fade, swift obedience would be . a habit, and that habit would eliminate the need for repeated cruel lessons in the future. "All of you," Fenice said, "knew I was the wife of the lord of Fuveau. None of you honored me as befitted my place. Some"—Fenice paused and looked purposefully first at Alda, Lady Emilie's maid, and then at the steward, who had peered down his nose at her and often delayed in obeying or ignored her orders—"treated me with contumely." The wails and pleas now nearly drowned her voice, and Fenice gestured to Arnald, who, in a voice that had risen above fierce battles, ordered his men to silence the crowd. Half a dozen of the men-at-arms drew their swords and used the flats of the blades on the nearest noisemakers. Silence fell, except for a muffled sobbing here and there. "Now you will be lessoned for that past offense," Fenice continued, "so that you will make no mistake ever again as to whom your instant obedience belongs." Arnald already knew what to do. First the lowest servants—the dog boys, those who swilled out the stables, the wretches who gathered the dung and night soil for fertilizer, and the like—were weeded out and ordered to kneel before the seat of justice. Fenice could have wept for them, they were so frightened—and they had never offended her. Nonetheless, she condemned them to five lashes each. The audible sigh of relief that went up from those miserable creatures did Fenice's heart good. She did not want them to suffer, only to remember that it was within her power to do much worse. But there had been whispers from those who waited to be sentenced, even one subdued snicker. It was axiomatic that the least were always punished worst, even when they were innocent. Those remaining assumed that their new mistress was too gentle and would give them no more than a scolding. Fenice's lips thinned. All those who waited were indoor servants and the higher sort that served outdoors, like grooms. All were guilty to some extent—some of no more than bold looks, some of sneering answers, some of outright disobedience. None received fewer than twenty-five strokes, enough to draw blood; the ones Fenice remembered best, like the groom who had sneeringly denied her the right to her own mare, got fifty, which would peel the skin away. There were no more whispers or snickers. And then it was time for Alda and the steward. They crawled to her feet and kissed her shoes. "What you deserve," Fenice said, "is that I have both hands lopped off and your noses cut away." Alda fell flat, screaming; the steward whispered, "Lady Emilie—" and Fenice cut him off sharply. "You will lose your tongue, too, if you try to excuse yourself. But for the moment I will reserve that fate. All have the right to one chance to redeem themselves. For what you have done, one hundred strokes with a braided lash. For what you will get in the future—either my forgiveness for sufficient devotion and

humble service or the sentence I have named already if you forget yourself with a single look or even a single thought." Fenice sat like a stone as they were dragged away and until all the men and women were herded out into the courtyard, where each in turn was fastened to whatever hook or post was available while punishment was administered. The men-at-arms had to work in relays, and the screaming went on all day and through the night. Sick at what she had been forced to do—for to Fenice, Lady Alys's suggestions were equivalent to direct orders from God—Fenice never gave a thought to eating, but the cooks had taken to heart the lesson taught by their smarting backs. Thus, though she gave no orders for a meal, Lady Fenice's dinner was delectable, dainty dishes, more fitting for the visit of a king than for the everyday table of a simple knight's lady. The chief cook fainted when the food came back scarcely touched, before the shaking boy who carried the plates could tell him Lady Fenice found no fault but was not hungry. And Fenice's big bed was made up afresh with hysterical care that there be not one single crease in the sheets, and it was wanned again and again lest one tiny spot be cold, despite—or, rather, because of—the agony that every motion caused in raw backs and hips. Very quietly, with her face buried in the carefully arranged and plumped pillows, Fenice cried herself to sleep, sick with horror and pity at the punishments she had meted out. Two months later, Lady Alys and Lord Raymond came to pay a formal call on their daughter. Of course, letters had passed between Fenice and Alys almost every day—advice and encouragement from Alys, and assurances that all was going well or occasional questions about details of management with which she was not completely familiar from Fenice. And from time to time Sir Raoul, who was acting as castellan in Fuveau at Raymond's request, had ridden over to Tour Dur to speak to his overlord. But neither Alys nor Raymond had come near Fuveau, wishing Fenice to establish her authority on her own. However, the day before the visit, Raymond had received a letter from his kinsman Rustengo in Bordeaux that made necessary a return there in the near future. The letter had mentioned that Lord Simon, earl of Leicester, after being besieged at Montauban and being forced to return some of the prisoners he had taken in previous actions, had gone to France. Alys and Raymond found Fuveau a model of smooth efficiency, at least as well run as when Lady Emilie and Sir Jean-Paul had managed it for Delmar. Fenice came running out to greet them in the court. Grooms were at hand to take the visitors' horses—and it was Fenice they looked to for instructions, even though Raymond had started to give orders about the care of the mounts. Of course, Fenice immediately gestured the grooms' attention toward her father, but Alys nodded, well satisfied. For another hour or so, Alys continued to be content. Fenice was flushed with excitement and pleasure at their coming, and she spoke easily of the events since her cataclysmic assumption of control in Fuveau. Later, when Raymond rode out with Sir Raoul to look at a problem of drainage on one of the farms and Fenice took Alys to see the work of the women, Alys became much less satisfied. Not that there was anything wrong with the service or demeanor of the servants or that there was anything lacking in the output or quality of work from the women's chambers; however, as Fenice's flush of excitement faded, Alys did not like what she saw. Fenice's face was drawn and hollow-eyed, and when Alys slipped her arm around her stepdaughter's waist, she could feel Fenice's ribs under her clothing. "Come, love," Alys said, "you have spent a deal of time proving to me what I was already sure of—that you are well fit to manage your own home. Let us sit down in comfort in your chamber, where we will not be interrupted, and talk of ourselves until the men return for dinner." "Oh, yes," Fenice agreed readily, "and to my shame I have been so full of my own doings that I have not

asked about the children." Alys laughed. "What need to ask? If they had been other than well and causing endless trouble, you would have heard at once." "Why did you not bring them?" Fenice asked. "Because I did not want them to miss another day of lessons. We spend so much time these days traveling between Aix and Bordeaux that they are running wild." "I am sorry my troubles had to bring you home," Fenice said guiltily. "Do not be a goose," Alys chuckled. "Your troubles were heaven-sent—oh, Fenice, I am sorry, I did not mean—" Fenice squeezed Alys's hand. "No, do not fear you hurt me. I know you never would, and… I do not… much… grieve for Delmar." That was not completely true. Very often, indeed, as she went about her daily duties Fenice thought how wonderful it would be if it were Delmar instead of Sir Raoul talking to the men or riding about the farms. Then he would come to dinner, and they would talk about the accomplishments of that day and the duties of the next, and they would read a book together, or she would play her lute and sing, and when the day was over they would go to bed. At that point, tears would invariably fill Fenice's eyes; she had come thoroughly to enjoy her marital duties abed, and she missed them. If only there had been no mother to come between herself and her husband… But her mind would pause there, not wishing to formulate the idea that what she wanted was to have escaped knowledge of her husband's weakness. "Is that true, Fenice?" Alys asked. "No, in a sense I know it is not true. What I mean is, are you clinging to the memory of Delmar and tormenting yourself?" "Oh, no, Lady Alys, I swear I am not. I cannot help thinking of him sometimes, but I am not overpowered by grief." She seemed sincere in her assurance, but Alys could not perceive any other reason for the pale cheeks and blue-ringed eyes. It was useless to ask the same question again; she would only receive the same assurance. Then Alys's agile mind seized on another, surer test. "I am glad to hear it, for you know you cannot live long alone. With Fuveau and Trets, you became something of an heiress, and there will be men suing for your hand." Fenice's eyes opened wide. Plainly the thought had not previously occurred to her, but it was equally plain it was not at all an unpleasant thought. In fact, a little color came back into her pale face. Then it is not grief for her loss that is tormenting her, Alys thought. Alys knew that if Raymond died and someone suggested another marriage to her, she would have refused absolutely to consider the idea unless politics or war threatened her children and she needed a protector for them. But Fenice was under no threat at all; Alys had not phrased her statement as a threat. Fenice herself confirmed the thought at once by saying, "I am ready to obey you and Papa in whatever you decide." The words were only what was proper to an obedient daughter, but there was no dragging reluctance in the tone, and more curiosity than sad memory looked out of Fenice's eyes. Although Alys was glad to know that Fenice had not been either badly hurt or permanently soured, she was not yet really considering the question of remarriage. She wanted to know why her stepchild looked

like death warmed over, and if the idea of marrying again, which would ordinarily mean leaving Fuveau, brought color to the girl's cheeks, most likely it was something in Fuveau that was haunting her. "You are unhappy here," Alys said. "No, do not deny it. You are so thin I can feel your bones, and I can see that you do not sleep. You are not sick. I have kissed you and felt no fever. What is wrong in Fuveau, Fenice?" "Nothing," Fenice whispered. "Nothing." Then she said more firmly, "You see that I am obeyed." "If it is not the servants, then it is Sir Raoul," Alys spat. "I will—" "No!" Fenice cried. "Oh, no. Sir Raoul is kindness itself to me." But then her eyes dropped, and her voice sank to a whisper again. "But he knows. And the servants obey because they fear retribution, but they all know." "Know? Know what?" Alys asked, completely confused. "That I am a serf's daughter, no better than they are. That I am a false image of a noble—" "Fenice!" Alys exclaimed. "I have told you a thousand times that your father's blood is the stronger. You have proved it yourself. No serf girl would have fought her way free of that convent and walked all the long, weary miles to fulfill a duty. She would have stayed where she was comfortable and well fed and in no danger. You are a noblewoman. You should be proud to be the natural daughter of Raymond d'Aix." Alys took Fenice's hands. "My love, in a way our situations are not so different. I am not of Raymond's class. You have heard Lady Jeannette say over and over that I am a coarse barbarian." Suddenly, Fenice's eyes flashed. "I could kill Grandmother for that," she said, her lips thin and hard. Alys burst out laughing. "If you could see your face, my Fenice, wearing just the hawk-look of your father in a temper. How can you doubt yourself?" "I do not think it is myself I doubt," Fenice said very slowly. "I am not sure I can explain to you, but I have not your strength to resist opposition—no, not opposition, that is the wrong word. I can resist opposition. It is… ill feeling I cannot endure." "Ill feeling? Who has ill feeling toward you, my dear? Who could? You are sweet and good." Fenice bit her lips, but tears rose in her eyes anyway. "Perhaps I am sweet and good," she said in a rather choked voice, "but it is not enough. I—I am not welcome to my grandmother, and—and I am not welcome here." "I am not welcome to your grandmother, either," Alys pointed out, rather exasperated. "If I allowed that silly woman's opinions to trouble me, I would have no life. You should not care for the opinion of others who are less wise than yourself, especially when you know you are doing right." Fenice made no reply, sitting with bent head and struggling against her tears. Alys felt like shaking her, but exasperated as she was, she realized it would not help. Scolding Fenice only made matters worse. The girl was already trying as hard as she could to do and be what Alys wanted. Besides, it never did any good to tell people that they should feel differently. Feelings were not commanded by "knowing." Alys had "known" that she should not love Raymond, but she had loved him just the same; and she had "known" it was stupid to feel such grief when her children died, that the babes were better off in God's embrace than in hers, for she could not shield them from pain or sorrow, and God could—still she had wept very bitterly.

Nor did Alys dare turn her back on the situation. She knew that as time passed, Fenice would become very dear to her servants, for the girl was kind and just and had real feeling for them. Alys thought that a mistake, but she had never been able to extirpate the sense of kinship Fenice felt for the serfs. The feeling exacerbated the problem; Alys herself would have ignored or laughed at the fear around her, but it was making Fenice sick—and there was the crux of the problem. Gently, Alys lifted her stepdaughter's face and looked at the hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. There was no time, she feared. The poor child was already nearly a wraith. She would die before those stupid, ungrateful fools came to realize the treasure they had for a mistress. And to take her back to Tour Dur was useless. Fenice would be happy enough while she and Raymond were there, but Raymond planned to leave for Bordeaux in a week or two. Leave for Bordeaux… Gascony… Why not take Fenice with them? Why not seek a husband for her in Gascony? No one there knew anything of Fenice's background. "I am sorry," Fenice sighed. "You and Papa are so good to me. I am sorry to be such a fool." "Well, you are a fool, my love," Alys said, smiling, "but there is no help for that. You are what you are. And I cannot bear to see you so sad. What would you say, dearling, to coming to Bordeaux with me and your papa? Would you like that?" "To Bordeaux?" Fenice breathed, her eyes brightening and a trace of color coming into her cheeks again. "Are you going back to Bordeaux?" Alys nodded, and Fenice cried, "Could I? Oh, I would be so happy, but… but Fuveau? Is it not my duty to stay here?" "Pish-tush," Alys replied lightly. "Fuveau is in good heart. Anyone can manage this place. It needs no special care. Sir Raoul can stay, and he can send for his wife to see to the woman's work. Do not give it a thought. Do not say anything to your papa about this notion of ours, though." "If he would not like me to go—" "Nonsense," Alys interrupted. "You should know by now what men are. Ideas must be inserted gently into their minds, and they must be allowed to think those ideas are their own." Alys laughed. "You, my love, are far too honest. You must learn duplicity. And it will be a mercy for me to have you to help care for those wild animals of children I have bred. I would have asked you sooner, but I thought you would wish to hold Fuveau." "No. Oh, no." Fenice shuddered. "I… Forgive me if I seem ungrateful after you and Papa came all the way from Gascony to uphold my right, but I hate Fuveau." "Well, then, you shall certainly come to Gascony," Alys promised. Her mind, however, was on a different aspect of what Fenice had said. If the girl married in Gascony, it would be months or perhaps even years before she came back to Fuveau. By then the bitterness would have faded. Yes, in spite of the constant turmoil there, it might be best for Fenice if Raymond looked for a second match for her there, in which case there would be no reason for Fenice to return to Provence. "We will be staying in Bordeaux some months, I think," Alys went on, not wanting to put any ideas into the girl's head but wanting her to be prepared. "So pack up all your clothes. And you had better take all the jewels and money, except what you think Sir Raoul will need. He is honest, but it is not fair to make him responsible for such things." "I will make ready at once," Fenice promised, all in a glow.

Alys touched her cheek. "Somehow, my love, I will find a way to make you happy."

CHAPTER 6

Alys's promise that Fenice could go to Bordeaux had so good an effect on her stepdaughter that it almost made the promise impossible to keep. By the time Raymond and Sir Raoul returned, the signs that had made Alys aware of Fenice's misery were concealed by the flushed cheeks and bright eyes of joy and excitement. Raymond could not see how thin Fenice had grown under her layers of clothing, and Sir Raoul, who had hardly known the girl before he came to Fuveau, had no idea that her lack of spirits and appetite was unnatural. He gave Raymond no hint that Fenice was unhappy. After tentatively suggesting that Fenice would be better for a change of scene and getting the response that she seemed to be doing very well considering her recent widowing and her affection for the husband she had lost, Alys tried one or two different gambits with little more success. Moreover, Raymond was not at all enthusiastic about a Gascon husband for his daughter. "You know how such an arrangement would end," Raymond said. "If we agreed to be responsible for Fuveau, no matter what we did, the husband would not be satisfied. And if we refused to be responsible, the husband would groan and grumble at having to make so long a trip to see to the estate." Alys had protested that he never complained about her Gascon properties, but he pointed out dryly that what she had was a good deal more than Fenice and, anyway, his family had other lands in Gascony. The problem was still on Alys's mind when she received a thick, long-delayed packet of letters from her father and Elizabeth. At first she was grief-stricken by the news that Elizabeth had lost the child she was carrying and had almost died. She loved her stepmother and had prayed earnestly that the babe be a strong, healthy boy to inherit Marlowe. But after her initial sorrow diminished, she was able to understand the real meaning of the letters. Her father wanted to make Aubery his heir and was offering to pay her a thousand marks for the right. The sum worried her; she longed to be able to write to her father and say she did not want it, that she would be happy for Aubery to have Marlowe, but she knew that would make them uneasy—and Raymond might not approve. Nor could she conceal the offer from her husband because her father had written to him, too. When she discussed the matter with Raymond, he reminded her that her father was no longer a poor, simple knight and could afford to pay. Then, when he saw Alys was troubled, Raymond said he would take less or even nothing. Still, Alys could see there would be problems and the whole subject nagged at her just as the problem of convincing Raymond to take Fenice to Gascony nagged at her until the two seemed to become entangled. Then, suddenly, Alys remembered that Aubery's silly wife had died some months before Delmar, and a solution to everyone's problems dawned in her head. "Raymond," she said, "would you say that Marlowe was of greater or lesser value than Fuveau?" "What the devil has Fuveau to do with Marlowe?" Raymond asked, but he respected the workings of his wife's mind even when he did not completely understand them, and he did not wait for a reply but went on, "Greater, I would guess. I do not really remember, but from your father having offered one thousand marks, about a third more than Fuveau." "Then that would work out exactly right," Alys said with a brilliant smile, "because Trets brings in about a third of the value of Fuveau, so the two together—"

"I do not know what is in your mind, Alys, but I think I should point out that Fuveau and Trets are not ours. They belong to Fenice." "Yes, and would go with Fenice to any man we chose as her husband." "Well, naturally, which is why I did not agree that it would be wise to marry Fenice in… Good God, Alys, are you thinking of sending that child to England?" "Yes. You know that Elizabeth is the kindest person ever born and that my father is very gentle and understanding of women. And Aubery is also good and kind. Well, if he were not, he would have murdered Matilda." Raymond burst out laughing. "I felt like murdering her myself that one time we met her. She had not the wits of a hen, and she cackled without ceasing just like one." Unable to resist, Alys grinned, but she said, "We should not speak ill of the dead." "Dead!" Raymond exclaimed, and then remembered. "So she is," he remarked, his voice now very thoughtful. "Well, well, so that is what you are thinking. Fenice will give Trets and Fuveau to us; we will assign the reversion of Marlowe to her as her dowry. This will cost your father nothing—" "No," Alys interrupted, "he must give Fenice something so that she will have her own small income to spend as she likes without needing to ask her husband for every penny." Raymond looked surprised. "Do you think Aubery miserly? He has never seemed to me to be ungenerous." "Not at all," she replied. "Would I give my dear Fenice to a miser? It is for Aubery's sake as well as Fenice's. Perhaps you do not know that between his father's and his grandfather's bad management, Ilmer. which was Aubery's heritage, was virtually destroyed. It is nearly restored—Papa managed it for Aubery after Mauger's death—but very little may yet be realized from it. It would not be possible for Aubery to be generous to Fenice without slowing the progress of Ilmer's restoration." "But what of Matilda's lands? Did I not understand that she was considered an heiress?" Alys sighed, not because Matilda had been poorer than expected but to express her exasperation. "Oh, she was, but Aubery will not touch a penny of the proceeds of her lands. It is for Matilda's daughter, he says. I think it is because his father was so greedy that he fears to be thought dishonest." "But that is ridiculous!" Raymond exclaimed. "There is nothing dishonest in using your wife's dower property so long as you do not ruin it. Moreover, is not Aubery the child's heir by English law?" "Yes, of course. And anyway, Matilda had no relatives except some cousins. But no one can talk to Aubery about it. Papa and Elizabeth have tried, and he just grows angry and says he has enough for himself—which, in a way, is true. When he is not attending his overlord, Hereford, at court, which naturally would be at Hereford's expense, he lives at Marlowe." "Then Fenice would live there, with your father and Lady Elizabeth?" Raymond asked. "Very likely she will live at Marlowe," Alys agreed, "but my father and Lady Elizabeth are not often there," she pointed out. "You know Papa is much busied with Cornwall's lands, and Elizabeth usually goes everywhere with him. They were only staying at Marlowe because she was with child." Suddenly Alys bit her lip. "Oh, Raymond, I am ashamed of myself. Elizabeth lost the baby and nearly died, and here I am talking of money and property."

"Is she still in danger?" Raymond asked anxiously. He was very fond of Alys's gentle, amusing stepmother. "Perhaps we should go to England instead of to Bordeaux?" "Oh, no, I am sure she is not. Papa would not have had the heart to write while she was very ill, and I have a note in her own hand to say she is recovering apace." Raymond nodded, clearly relieved, but he was frowning. "Do you really think it best for Fenice to go to England?" "If Aubery is willing to take her as his wife—yes. You know that he will be kind to her, and I think my father and Elizabeth will do better with her than you and I. I love her, but—but I am not the most patient person in the world." Raymond uttered a hoot of laughter. Patience was not one of Alys's major virtues. But, her mind fixed on Fenice, she did not respond to his amusement. "And she is so much in awe of you, dear heart, that though you are as kind to her as you can be, she is always a little afraid," Alys continued, rather sadly. "I think you are right about that," Raymond admitted. "No one could be afraid of Elizabeth," Alys added, "not even Fenice. And if Papa managed to be kind to that goose Matilda, surely he would not find fault with Fenice." "But to go so far away—" "Will you miss her. Raymond?" Alys asked, torn between what she felt would be good for Fenice and her desire that her husband always have everything he wanted. "Miss her? No, not at all," he replied, rather surprised. "If I have you, Alys, I miss no one. But I do not want Fenice to feel that I wish to be rid of her. That is not true at all. Nor do I wish her to obey against her own inclination. The matter of Marlowe can be worked out in other ways." "I would not force her—you know that." But Alys was quite sure Fenice would be willing, sure enough to add, "Why do you not write to my father and suggest the idea? After all, it is possible Aubery might refuse. Meanwhile, we can take Fenice with us to Gascony—" Raymond frowned. "Alys, if all this is just a game to get your own way about taking Fenice with us, I—" "No, I swear it is not," Alys assured him hastily. "Truly, it was only after we began to talk about Marlowe that I thought of the marriage. And I still cannot help but believe it would be better for her to be away from the place where her husband died. But the reason I would like her to come with us is that if my father agrees to the exchange and Aubery approves of the marriage, Aubery can come to Bordeaux to look her over. It is not so far, and the weather will be right for sailing by then. She can look at him, too, and if both are still willing, we can make contract." The idea was beginning to appeal to Raymond. Fuveau would be a pleasant addition to the lands of Aix and so would Trets, which he had bought for Fenice because he liked the place himself. It was right, too, that Aubery should have Marlowe, for which he had acted as unofficial castellan during William's and Elizabeth's frequent absences. And, if all these excellent arrangements were further sweetened by providing a good wife for Aubery, whom Raymond genuinely liked, so much the better. As for Fenice, if Fuveau and Trets were to come into his hands as his own, he was perfectly willing to accept Alys's opinion that Fenice would be better off in England.

Since the proposal he was going to make to William was very complex and would involve both English and Provençal law and custom, Raymond could not, as Alys suggested, simply write his letter. He discussed it first with his father, for Lord Alphonse knew law and custom. He, too, after an initial feeling of surprise, thought Alys's idea excellent, hut he felt it should be cleared with the Church, which meant an expert in canon law. It should be cleared with his overlord, Louis of France, too, but that was impossible because Louis was on crusade in the Holy Land. What with one thing and another, Raymond was not ready to write to William until a day or two before the whole party was to leave for Bordeaux. Since a letter would outspeed them by only a few days, and this matter was scarcely of the highest urgency, he decided to wait until they arrived at Blancheforte to write. From there, the letter could be sent directly to England by ship, and the captain would arrange for a messenger to take it to Marlowe. Meanwhile, Elizabeth had recovered her strength, and William had picked up again the duties he had thrown back on Richard of Cornwall when Elizabeth miscarried and nearly bled to death. He was thus not in Marlowe when the letter arrived. Aubery was torn two ways when he saw Raymond's seal. He knew William would be eager for news of his daughter—he always was—and particularly eager this time when the long, long delay in the arrival of the answer might portend bad news. However, to take the letter and rush after William might also look as if he were overeager for the prize that had been promised him. And he was eager to secure Marlowe, to know that it would not be closed to him someday, no matter how long in the future. In fact, the desire to have Marlowe sealed to him had grown and grown since the subject had first been broached. At that time, he had been able to crush down his desire, to uphold Alys's right. Now Aubery was not sure he would be able to accept with indifference Alys's refusal to give quittance. He kept turning the packet, sealed with Raymond's seal, over and over in his hands almost as if he expected some hint of the contents to seep out. And then, suddenly, his attention fixed. Raymond's seal! Aubery jumped to his feet and began to bellow for his arms and his horse—his destrier, not the palfrey he used around the estate. He was disgusted with himself; he had been so wrapped in his selfish desire to know whether Marlowe would be his that it had taken near half an hour to understand what his eyes had perceived senselessly, that the seal was Raymond's rather than Alys's. This, combined with the long delay, made Aubery fear that there was serious trouble in Raymond's household. Fortunately, William was no great distance away. He was in Wallingford, working over estate accounts at the moment Aubery entered. Richard was with the king because of Gascon affairs. It had been decided that Richard and Queen Eleanor would hold a joint regency while Henry was in Gascony, and there was much for them to discuss, but Richard and Henry still sometimes rubbed each other the wrong way. Moreover, Gascony was a score point between Eleanor and Richard. The queen had coveted the province for her eldest son, whereas Richard had once hoped to rule there himself. In the end Eleanor's wishes had prevailed and Richard seemed to acquiesce, but neither was comfortable with the other in any discussion of Gascon affairs. Therefore, when William heard hurried steps and the metallic whisper and clink of armor in movement, he threw down his quill and got hastily to his feet expecting to see Richard with his face congested with rage. He was a good deal startled to see, instead, Aubery, pale as a ghost. "My God," he cried, "what is wrong?" "I do not know," Aubery replied. "Most likely nothing, but I have letters from—from Raymond."

He was holding them out as he spoke, and William snatched them from his hand, tore open the oiled silk cover, and broke the inner seal. A second packet fell out to the floor, and Aubery retrieved it. "I am a fool," he said, drawing a deep breath. "Here is Alys's letter." Simultaneously, William exclaimed, "All is well. It was my letter that was delayed in coming to them. Go get that armor off, Aubery, and join us for dinner. Your mother will be glad to see you." But Aubery did not seek out his mother; he was in no mood to make cheerful conversation and pretend he did not care, and he was well enough known in Wallingford simply to ask for service. Once his armor had been removed and he was dressed in a borrowed gown, he idled about the hall, restlessly examining the hangings and some huge broadswords that were displayed as curiosities of times past. He was miserably certain that William's offer had been rejected and the reason his stepfather had not invited him back to the chamber was that he was trying to think of a way to break the unpleasant news gently. Finally, however, he went back, unable to wait longer. William looked up with a rather uncertain smile. "I have an interesting proposal from Raymond," he said. "I did not think Alys would wish to part with Marlowe," Aubery replied stiffly, bitterly ashamed of the sensations of loss and fury that rose in him. "After all, it was her home, and—" "Alys's home is where Raymond is," William interrupted brusquely. He had always known that, but it hurt just a little every time he was reminded of it. "She does not want Marlowe, and neither does Raymond. To them, Marlowe would be a burden. But they seem to fear that the payment I offered would be a strain for me. Well, one thousand marks would not be easy—they are right about that." "I will gladly pay part," Aubery offered immediately. "I have told you already that the payment has nothing to do with you," William said. Actually, he would never have mentioned the sum at all except that he wanted Aubery to accept the marriage proposal. In William's opinion, his stepson had mourned his pretty, silly wife far too long already. "But it seems," he went on, "that payment might not be necessary. What Alys and Raymond propose is that you marry Raymond's natural daughter and that her lands in Provence be exchanged for Marlowe." "What?" Aubery had been so determined not to hurt William or betray Himself that he was unable to assimilate an idea that would give him what he wanted and also remove the guilt he felt for taking something without making recompense. William, sensibly, paid no attention to the meaningless question, continuing his explanation. "I am sure I have mentioned that Raymond has two natural daughters. Now and again Alys has written about them. She is very fond of both. The elder, named Fenice, is the girl being offered. She was married to one of Alphonse's vassals, who died and left her heiress to two good properties." Aubery shook his head as if he had been hit on it and was trying to clear his vision and hearing. "What the devil do lands in Provence have to do with Marlowe?" "Alys is trying to save me from myself, I think." William grinned. "You know she always felt I was too inclined to generosity." "So do I," Aubery remarked. Ignoring that comment, William went on more soberly, "There is, I think, some reason they wish to send the girl away. Neither Alys nor Raymond makes that clear, but it does not seem to be any fault in Fenice. Alys, who is not inclined that way, you know, waxes lyrical over her stepdaughter's perfections—and,

you must be aware, Aubery, that Alys loves you too well to suggest a marriage that could make you unhappy. Here, read her letter, and Raymond's, too." William held out the pieces of parchment, and then, as Aubery took them, his conscience was pricked. He knew he had made it practically impossible for Aubery to refuse the offer. Guilt-stricken, he added, "If you are absolutely opposed to marrying again, Aubery, just say so. You must not feel obliged to agree because of the money." Without answering, Aubery took the letters. He turned away, as if to get better light, but he really wanted to hide his confusion. The suggestion that he should take a second wife had caught him with all his defenses concentrated on another object, so that his reaction was one of perfect honesty. He felt a surge of eagerness mixed with apprehension. He had been very happy in his marriage at first; disappointment had followed. It was impossible not to want to renew the pleasures and also to wonder if stale dissatisfaction would again spoil his love. Having got that far, Aubery was horrified. How could he be so unfaithful, so forgetful of poor Matilda? Even if it was not all his fault that he found her so dull, he had not been as kind as he should have been during her short life. Perhaps, then, it was not right that he should marry so soon, less than a year after her death. He would have to refuse. But a different sense of obligation came to his rescue. Refusal would cost his stepfather one thousand marks. That was far too high a price for William to pay just because he wished to honor Matilda's memory. He could honor it even if he did marry. There was no rule that said a man must love his wife. If he did his duty to her, that was all that could be asked of him. Without really having looked at more than the first few lines of Raymond's letter, Aubery lifted his head. "There is no need for me to bother with the details. There is no question that I must marry again if Marlowe is to come to me. I must try to breed up sons to hold the lands after me. Now or later cannot matter, and the sooner the better if I want sons." "Aubery, for God's sake—" William began, but then he stopped abruptly, remembering that Aubery's first marriage had been for love—and had been a disaster in his opinion. Just because William himself had loved the right woman and had had to wait twenty years for her was no reason to urge Aubery to refuse Fenice. Very likely Alys knew better than Aubery who would make him happy. Alys was a very sensible woman. And, almost like an echo of his thoughts, Aubery said, "I am not discontent, William. Nor did I mean to sound ungracious. I believe, like you, that Alys is too fond of me to choose a woman who would not be a good wife. I am sure this girl—Fenice, did you say her name was?—will suit me very well."

CHAPTER 7

In Bordeaux, Alys's revelation of the marriage plans came as much less of a shock to Fenice than William's had been to Aubery. In fact, Fenice had been restraining herself with some difficulty from asking whether her stepmother had given any more thought to her second marriage. It was, after all, a matter of great importance to her. Fenice knew a bad marriage could cost a woman her life. But she also knew perfectly well she would have nothing to fear from any man her father and stepmother chose for her. She was secure in the knowledge that they wished her well. Alys was not deliberately keeping Fenice in suspense. She was too busy at first with the problems of

moving her entire household and solving all the little difficulties that had arisen in Blancheforte during her absence to give what she felt would be enough uninterrupted time for so serious a discussion. But finally, by the end of May, everything was running smoothly. Alys chose a day when Raymond had gone south to Benquel to talk to the comte de Marsan, because she knew that in his presence Fenice would be too shy to ask questions freely. She and Fenice had been out in the garden, examining the young plants and enjoying the delightful spring weather. At a distance, the children were playing under the watchful eyes of their nursemaids. Alys seated herself beside a bush of early-blooming roses and beckoned Fenice to join her on the bench. "Do you remember," she asked, "when you told me that you hated Fuveau? Do you feel differently now, my dear?" "No," Fenice replied immediately. "I mean, I do remember, and I—I cannot find any comfort while I am in Fuveau. Is that wrong?" "No, of course not. One cannot help how one feels. Of course, if there were no other way, you would have to grow accustomed—and you would. But your father and I never meant for you to be tormented." And she went on to explain her father's desire to settle Marlowe on her stepbrother Aubery and the notion of the exchange of estates, ending, "Would you be afraid to go so far away as England? Your papa does not wish you to agree if you feel any doubts, and he is much afraid that you will feel we wish to be rid of you, which is not true at all. I hope you know we both love you very much, Fenice, and we will miss you very much, too, but this seemed so satisfactory a solution to many problems that—" "I am not afraid," Fenice said, so eager that she interrupted. "Will I be able to visit at Marlowe? And stay with Sir William and Lady Elizabeth?" Fenice's youth had been filled with tales of life at Marlowe and the goodness and wisdom of Lady Elizabeth and Sir William. Far too clever to speak to Lord Alphonse and Lady Jeannette of the way things were done in her home in contrast to practices in Tour Dur (which in those early years had seemed far inferior to Alys), Alys had unburdened her heart to Fenice and Enid. Thus, to Fenice, Marlowe and England had the luster of the Promised Land, and Sir William and Lady Elizabeth were only just less wonderful than the saints in their mercy and kindness. Alys, of course, was quite unaware of the impact her homesickness and longing for her father and stepmother had made upon Fenice's impressionable mind. She was rather surprised at Fenice's excitement, but she assumed it was a result of her desire to be as far away as humanly possible from the place where she had been so unhappy. England, in its northwestern corner of the world, was, indeed, almost as far as one could get from Provence, unless one traveled to the distant barbarian lands of the East. As a result, she answered Fenice without questioning her eagerness, explaining that she would most likely live much of the time at Marlowe and why. Then, suddenly, she began to laugh. "You seem more interested in my father and stepmother than in your future husband," Alys remarked. Fenice blushed and dropped her eyes. After the first weeks of their marriage, Delmar had become such a nonentity that Fenice now had unconsciously concentrated her attention on her prospective father- and mother-by-marriage. Fortunately, the blush gave Alys the wrong message. She interpreted it to mean that Fenice had been too shy to ask, and she laughed. "Oh, he is a man any woman would be proud to marry, fine in person as well as in character. He is big and very strong, as tall as your papa or a little taller and heavier—not fat, I do not mean that, but with bigger, stronger bones. Perhaps he will look a little strange to you, my love, for at home most men are dark, and Aubery is as fair as I, with blue eyes—a very handsome man, truly, and not scarred in the

face—at least, he was not when last I saw him." "I would not care about that," Fenice whispered, but her eyes were alight. Since Lady Alys had come into her life, she had thought blondness the ultimate peak of personal beauty. Alys sighed faintly, hoping first that Fenice's quick denial would never be put to the test and then, because Aubery was a devil for fighting, that love would come and be strong enough to blind her stepdaughter to any deformity battle could effect. But it was useless to speak of such matters beyond the little warning she had already given. "No," Alys agreed, "I am sure you would be loving and loyal to any man who deserved it, and Aubery will, I am sure, for he is a good person, perfectly honest and trustworthy." Then she began to laugh. "But he is by no means perfect. If he agrees, you will have to learn how to manage a man who is determined to rule the roost and is stubborn as a mule. But, then, you will know what to do, for in many ways he is much like your papa—" She hesitated, seeing that all the color had drained from Fenice's face. "My love," she cried, "I did not mean to frighten you. Aubery is as kind as he can be—" "You said if he agrees," Fenice said in a constricted voice. "Do you think he will not take me because of my… my mother?" "Oh, Fenice, my Fenice, no!" Alys exclaimed. "I do assure you such a thing would never enter Aubery's head. You are your father's daughter, of the blood of the comte d'Aix; I have raised you and educated you. That is quite enough. Do you not realize that you are the only one who even thinks of this thing? Now that you have reminded me, I realize your papa did not even mention it in his letter—not because he wished to conceal the fact, but because it was so unimportant he forgot it." "Then why—" Fenice's voice quavered and she stopped. "There are a number of reasons—real reasons," Alys pointed out. "One is that Aubery may be reluctant to take a wife from Provence who has been raised according to different manners and customs. He might feel that it would be a trouble to him to teach you English ways. For, you know, if he should be away as well as my papa and Lady Elizabeth, which might not be uncommon, you would be responsible for Marlowe—and perhaps Ilmer and Hurley and even Ardley, too." "I can speak a little English," Fenice said tentatively. "Do you think that would help?" "It will certainly help if you do go to England, but where in the world did you learn it?" Fenice smiled. "Enid and I used to correct Arnald's French. It was so terrible, and most of the men were afraid to tell him. In exchange, he taught us English." She giggled. "I am afraid, I used to… to listen to you and Papa." "Oh, you bad girl!" Alys laughed. "You must have heard the most unsuitable things." But the smile had already faded from Fenice's lips. "You still say if, so it cannot be only my foreignness." "True, but the other reasons have nothing to do with you at all. I told you Aubery had been married before. I have no idea what effect that marriage had upon him. He may be determined, for one reason or another, not to marry again." Fenice nodded acceptance, but her disappointment was palpable. Alys was sorry she had brought up the subject. Now she knew she should not have said anything until she was certain the arrangement had been approved, but that news might well have come in person with Aubery. She had been unaware of how Fenice felt about England, and she had wanted the girl to have a chance to say she did not want to be

sent so far away—or even that she had changed her mind about wishing to be remarried so soon. And no matter what she said, Alys thought exasperatedly, Fenice would somehow twist the matter to be a reflection on her serf blood. Then what she had said about Aubery's marriage recurred to Alys's mind. She had spoken in those vague terms because she had not wanted to suggest that Aubery had been unhappy with his first wife and to implant the notion in Fenice that he would be unkind to his second wife. But what if Aubery had not been unhappy? After all, he had married Matilda for love; perhaps he had remained blind to her faults—she was good and sweet-tempered, even if she was a fool. And Matilda had been dead only a little longer than Delmar. If Aubery was fool enough to be mourning that pretty, hen-witted creature, it might take him some time to warm up to Fenice. In that case, Fenice would be certain he was contemptuous of her—as that cur Delmar had been—and the marriage would be ruined. Fenice would creep about like a little sad mouse, and Aubery would never see the wit and the warmth that were so endearing but only showed when Fenice felt secure. Damn the girl, her mother was of no significance to anyone but her. And if one were to talk of bad blood, Aubery's was worse than Fenice's, with Mauger for a father. Lucie might have been lowborn, but she was not a thief and a murderer. Alys's lips parted to tell Fenice about Aubery's own blotted background, but she could not. It might do more harm than good by making Fenice suspicious or afraid. And, in any case, it would not be fair to Aubery, who had suffered enough for his father's sins. There had to be another way… And then Alys almost laughed at herself. "Fenice," she said, "you will destroy yourself with this stupid notion of yours. For that reason, and for that reason only—not because anyone in the world will care but you—" "Lady Emilie cared," Fenice interrupted bitterly. "Oh, you stupid child," Alys cried, "have you not seen the truth yet? Lady Emilie did not care a pin for your mother's blood. If she did, she could have spoken to your father and opposed the marriage. That was only a device she used to turn your weak, silly husband against you. All Lady Emilie desired was to hold her son in her hand, and he was too stupid to see it. If your blood had been as pure and high as that of King Louis, she would have found some other black fault in you to hold up before her son's eyes." Fenice gaped at her stepmother. Because of her overwhelming feeling of inferiority, it had never occurred to her that there might be hidden causes for Lady Emilie's actions. Seeing Fenice's reaction, Alys drove her point home. "I cannot imagine how so clever a girl as you are could be so deceived. If Lady Emilie had been truly ashamed, she would have done all in her power to hide your taint of base blood, not sown knowledge of it broadcast among the servants. What she wanted was to reduce you to nothing so that you could not seize the reins of Fuveau, which was your right." "But I would not!" Fenice exclaimed. "Delmar and I never thought of such a thing. We would have—" "That is all dead and gone." Alys cut her off impatiently. "Unless it has changed your mind about Fuveau?" Fenice's only reply to that was a slight shudder, and Alys went on, "Now listen to me closely, Fenice. I want you to hear with your heart and your head as well as with your ears. I have known Aubery of Ilmer since he and I were both small children. He is also my stepbrother. More important, he is as dear to me as a real brother, and I am dear to him and he trusts me. I would not cheat Aubery nor do anything to

hurt him or make him unhappy for any profit, save, perhaps, the life of your father or my children. Do you believe that?" "Yes," Fenice said. She did believe it. "I swear to you that Aubery is not blood proud. He would not care who your mother is. I swear it. However, you have proved yourself such a fool, allowing yourself to be made sick by your own imaginings, that I have decided to keep the matter of your birth a secret if no one makes inquiry." "Oh, Lady Alys," Fenice whispered, trembling, "I do not think that is fair." "You do not think at all, you silly chit," Alys snapped. "If Aubery inquires about your mother before contract is made, we must tell him the truth, and he can then decide for himself whether it matters. If he does not inquire, that is proof already that he does not care—is this not true?" Fenice hesitated, uncomfortable at the idea of concealment and deception, but the Promised Land beckoned—a haven where her life would be like a clean parchment, on which only her own deeds could be written. It was true that not many, even in Provence, knew about her mother. Lady Jeannette had never allowed her or Enid to be seen by noble guests. It was only after Lady Alys's coming that they had been brought forth, and they had been introduced only as Raymond's daughters. Perhaps Lady Jeannette had told a few, but Fenice doubted it She and her sister were not important enough to be mentioned. Furthermore, England was very far away from Provence, and there was little contact. Of course, Lord Alphonse was half brother to Queen Eleanor of England, but it was inconceivable that he should bother to write to her about baseborn granddaughters. So, if Lady Alys and her father did not mention her mother, no one in England would ever know. "Fenice, answer me. Is it not true that if Aubery does not inquire about your mother, the matter cannot be of significance to him?" "Yes, I think so," Fenice admitted, and then brought forth another fear. "But Delmar did not care at first, and later—" "Delmar was a weak-minded idiot who was still taking suck from his mother," Alys sneered, and then she touched Fenice gently. "I deeply regret, my love, that I did not see that before we entrusted you to him and that you have suffered so much for my lack of perception. But you need fear no such thing with Aubery. He is a man, and a strong one. Your trouble with him will be that he has too fixed a mind, not one that wavers. He is a lunatic on the subject of honor and honesty, and when he promises to honor and cherish you, you will be honored and cherished, whether you like it or not." Despite her anxiety, Fenice could not help giggling. "I do not think that so horrible a fate," she said. Alys smiled also. "Well, it depends on what form the cherishing takes. I remember when Aubery suddenly discovered that girls were different from boys and were supposed to be frail. I had to bloody his nose before he would agree—" "Bloody his nose?" Fenice echoed with horror. "Oh, you need not be afraid that Aubery is weaker than I," Alys assured her, mistaking the cause of her stepdaughter's reaction. "He is a big, strong fellow and always was. The only reason I was able to hit him in the nose was that fixed idea I mentioned that girls were weak. He made no effort to protect himself, and I got in a really good shot." "But, Lady Alys," Fenice interposed gently, laughing now that she had recovered from the initial shock of

hearing that Alys had physically attacked a man, "I do not think that is the wisest method of proving a point." "Well, we were very young," Alys said, laughing also. "I had not yet discovered less direct methods of persuasion. But you are quite right. I suspect that bang on the nose was one of the reasons that Aubery did not wish to marry me, which was just as well because I did not wish to marry him, either. We were too close, too like brother and sister. And, you know, I do not think I ever really did get that idea of women being frail out of Aubery's head. He did not hit me back—and if I had succeeded in changing his mind, he should have—" She stopped abruptly and shook her head. "Now you have got me telling tales of my misspent youth, and we have something far more important to do." Fenice tensed, and Alys laid a hand over hers, which had clasped nervously. "The matter of your birth is your father's concern, not yours. Is this not also true, Fenice?" "Yes." On that score Fenice was not doubtful. Whatever her father chose to take unto himself, Fenice yielded without a struggle—and this she yielded with infinite relief. "Very well, then. Unless your father or I release you, I am going to take an oath from you never—except to save your life—to reveal your mother's name, place, or birth. Here is my cross. Lay your hand thereon, Fenice, and swear." Fenice's hand trembled toward the cross Lady Alys held toward her and then stopped midair. "But what am I to say if—if someone asks?" "Speak the absolute truth, that you have taken an oath before God never to reveal any fact concerning your mother." "But—but then everyone will believe that my mother was a fine lady whose honor must be guarded," Fenice whispered. "What others choose to believe is not your business," Alys said sharply ."'So long as you offer no hint one way or another and speak only the truth, you are guiltless. I command you, as you owe your duty to me for all I have given you over the years, swear." And Fenice laid her hand on the cross and swore, her eyes filling with tears of gratitude. She could not have done anything else, and even though she knew that was why Lady Alys had demanded her obedience, still all responsibility for the deception, if ever there was a deception, had been removed from her shoulders. "Very well, Fenice," Lady Alys said seriously. "The matter is now in your father's hands. I will tell him of the oath I extracted from you, and he will decide what to do. I will let you know whether Aubery has been told or not, but you have no more to do in the matter except to put it from your mind completely." Naturally, that was much easier said than done, but the period of doubt was short. Before the middle of June an acceptance of the offer had come, and the only questions raised were those concerning the problems of ensuring that the quittances for the various properties were legal and could not be challenged in the future by the distant heirs of those involved. Fenice was not even mentioned in William's letter, and Aubery himself did not write, merely placing his signature below his stepfather's to show that he had read and approved what was in the letter. In private, however, Alys frowned over that. She was a bit concerned that Aubery had not come himself with the answer, as she and Raymond had expected he would, and had no questions about a future wife he had never seen. Was that a sign that he had been attached to that brainless wife and was marrying unwillingly

to oblige William? On the other hand, Alys remembered that she had written quite comprehensively about Fenice in her original letter to her father and also that Aubery hated to write. She said nothing of her doubts to Fenice, reporting only that the offer of marriage had been accepted and no question had been raised about her maternal line. Fenice's joy was tempered by the fear that the problem had only been delayed until the actual marriage contract was written. Would her prospective husband not expect to see her mother's name inscribed thereon? When it did not appear, would he not ask? She did not dare intrude the subject into the increasingly anxious discussions that were now taking place in the family circle in Blancheforte. In fact, it was unlikely that her father had given any thought to the contract, since her marriage was a minor matter compared with the political problems in which he was involved. When the earl of Leicester had left Gascony for France, his opponents—who had protested loudest about his breaking the truce the king had imposed—immediately attacked and took La Réole, St. Emilion, and several smaller castles. There was, as yet, no direct threat to Bordeaux in this action, although La Réole was less than fourteen leagues distant and St. Emilion even nearer, for Bordeaux was not held by men appointed by Lord Simon, nor was it undermanned as La Réole and St. Emilion had been. However, the countryside was in turmoil, the spring planting was being destroyed by marching and foraging armies, and there was no guarantee that those who had taken King Henry's castles might not attack his city. Worse yet, Gaston de Béarn was negotiating with the rebels, making them promises in the name of King Alfonso of Castile. Raymond felt the situation to be serious enough to send his children back to Tour Dur by ship. He had wanted Alys and Fenice to go also, but Alys absolutely refused. There would be time enough, she said, to leave Gascony when an attack was actually threatened. Since there was no way for the rebels to close the port, she could take ship at any time. Once Alys had won her argument, Fenice's plea to stay with her stepmother had been accorded no more than a shrug and a nod of agreement. And only a week after William's letter accepting the proposed marriage, a second letter came with news that reduced the danger. William wrote that King Henry had summoned the knights who owed him military service and ordered all merchant ships seized in the ports to provide transportation. As soon as the army was assembled and there was a favorable wind, the king would sail for Bordeaux to put an end to the disorders in Gascony. The remainder of the letter contained somewhat more personal news: I myself am coining, since Richard has been given joint regency of England with Queen Eleanor in Henry's absence. Thus, I will be in command of Richard's men. I am glad of it. I am sorry to say that, despite her good influence on the king, the queen is not much loved. Richard will provide an excellent balance, and it is just as well that he not appear in Gascony. The fondness with which many Gascons still regard him and the way they come to him to plead their cases with the king only arouses Henry's jealousy. Aubery is summoned, too, by his overlord, Hereford. Hearing of Aubery's connection with you through his application to marry, the earl desires him to travel ahead of the army to get what information you can give him and what, with your help, he can see and hear for himself. Being constable of the army, Hereford has reason to be concerned, but he cannot come himself. I, too, would like to come ahead of the army, so that we can settle our private business. Although Elizabeth will not be able to be present, I would like to be at Aubery's wedding. In my opinion it should

take place as soon as we can arrange the legal matters. Fenice, I suppose, would prefer to be married where you can support her rather than in England among strangers. William and Aubery arrived at Blancheforte around the middle of July. Alys had been worried for weeks that the ship on which Aubery and her father had traveled had foundered. It turned out that they had come near it, having had a foul trip, more than a week longer than usual and sailing against contrary winds all the way. In fact, one of the first items of news that William gave Raymond after Alys's ecstatic greeting and her forcible insistence that he and Aubery bathe and change into clean, comfortable garments before any talk of any kind, was that Henry and his army were still at Portsmouth waiting for the wind to change. "Mmmph," Raymond muttered, the indeterminate sound through folded lips indicating his indecision. Was it better to pass this information to the council of Bordeaux, where it would certainly be welcome—but from whence it would most certainly be passed to the rebels at La Réole and St. Emilion—or allow Henry's arrival, which could not be much longer delayed, to come as a surprise? Completely absorbed in this question, Raymond had no eyes for his daughter, who had been summoned to the hall by Alys, nor for Aubery, who was staring at Fenice with no expression at all on his face. Since his acceptance of Raymond's proposal, Aubery had managed not to think about Fenice at all. The idea of a second marriage raised violently conflicting emotions and made him uncomfortable. Then he had been fully involved in the hectic activity of making ready to leave England. He had had several discussions with William about the forms of the quittances, the disposition of Marlowe in the marriage contract, and the allowance to be made to Fenice from Marlowe's revenues. But not once had Fenice herself been mentioned. Aubery had forgotten that Alys's letter contained a description of his bride-to-be, and even if he had remembered, he would have been too embarrassed to ask to see the letter again. He would also have felt it to be wrong, a violation of his mourning for Matilda. Thus, Aubery had no preconception, or, if he had any, it was a very slight feeling that Fenice must be unattractive. The way William had said Alys waxed lyrical over her stepdaughter's perfections, and the additional comment that there was some reason neither Alys nor Raymond made plain for wanting the girl out of Provence and Gascony, had settled into his mind as a very vague picture of a plain girl, good, clever, and obedient—the perfect wife. What was now before him was a beauty with a smooth, creamy skin that cried out to be tasted, brilliant eyes, a full, rich, red mouth, and what must be, from the way the gold net that held it bulged, a magnificent mane of dark hair. If a fault could be found in her, it was that the skin was a trifle too pale. Aubery flushed slightly himself when he realized she was staring at him with an intensity equal to his own. That bold look gave him a mild shock. Fenice, of course, had no intention of being bold. She was merely regarding Aubery with great curiosity and trust, since Alys had assured her of his goodness and kindness. She was not at all surprised at his appearance; Alys had given her an accurate enough description, but she thought him far more handsome than Alys had implied. She was, in fact, entranced by his blond hair and fair skin. Aubery was the first man she had seen with such coloring, and Fenice thought he looked like an angel. Properly, of course, Raymond should have presented Fenice to her future husband. But having cast a single glance at her husband and father, who were moving toward a secluded corner to talk, Alys decided that no good would come of attempting to draw their attention from public to private business. Alys also noted that Aubery's eyes had remained fixed on Fenice as if he were unaware that the other men had moved away. Alys was no stickler for forms, and she believed in striking while the iron was hot. Taking Fenice by the hand, she led her a few steps forward and said, "You know each other by repute, I am sure, but to

remove all doubt let me present Lady Fenice. And this, of course, is Sir Aubery of Ilmer, my love." Fenice dropped into a deep curtsy, and Aubery took her hand to lift her from the bow, himself bowed deeply, and kissed the hand he held. Fenice blushed with pleasure. Never had she been treated with such grave courtesy. A tiny prick of guilt made her drop her eyes, a feeling that it was not quite right that so fine a gentleman should bow to the daughter of a common woman, but Alys's command that she must put the matter out of her mind reassured her. The blush almost undid Aubery. Although he had not been totally celibate since Matilda's death, a strong restraint on his sexual impulses had been one of the penances he had imposed upon himself. It was particularly appropriate because Matilda had never taken pleasure in coupling, submitting without protest but always with distaste. It was, she had told her husband, a sin to feel pleasure in the act that was designed by God for the procreation of children. The pleasure was an evil temptation, a thing to be resisted. But the pleasure, Aubery had snarled at her more than once when she preached at him, was unavoidable to a male—whatever it was to a female—and thus could not be a sin. It was like calling pissing a sin. Matilda had no answer to that the first time he said it, but the second time she was prepared, repeating the lesson taught by her priest, that pissing was not a sin, but taking pleasure, even in that, was. The penance of abstinence, Aubery found, had seemed to increase rather than diminish sexual temptation. Told by Matilda's priest that he should fast and scourge his body to cure his desire, he had flung away in a temper and found a willing girl in the village to ease his need. He was a knight, not a hermit. His body was his stock in trade and as much the property of his overlord and his stepfather as his own. It had to be as fit and whole as he could keep it to fight on command and to win. Nonetheless, Aubery did try to be faithful to Matilda's memory, indulging himself in relief only when the tension became unbearable and he began to see every woman in an indecent condition regardless of her propriety of dress and behavior. Reasonably enough, he also tried to think as little as possible about both his occasional lapses and the time between them. The fact that he had been unusually busy over the month of June had further obscured his growing need, and the long, bad sea voyage, during which he had too frequently been sick, plus the absence of women on the ship, had brought him to Blancheforte in a more precarious condition than he had realized. That he had had, immediately upon seeing Fenice, a desire to lick her skin should have warned him, but he had been distracted by the bright boldness of her eyes and then by Alys's speech and movement. However, when he lifted her hand to kiss it, he was assailed by a heavy, rich perfume, very unlike the light scent of violets Matilda had worn. The odor had sent. a sensual wave of passion through him, which had been intensified by Fenice's blush. That had brought an immediate image of strawberries whipped into sweet cream and roused in him an inordinate urge to bite her. Between the violent turmoil in his loins and his mental recoil from the animal urge to bite, Aubery was stricken mute. He straightened from his bow and stepped back, but quite unaware of it, he retained Fenice's hand. In a fleeting glance, Alys noted the lingering grip; she looked briefly then at Fenice's face, not realizing that she was worrying about the wrong person. Well-satisfied with both observations, she said, "Go to the window seat and be out of my way, both of you. There are chambers to make ready and dinner to be enlarged in case Raymond thinks we should summon guests from town to hear what Papa has to say." Aubery was still so confused by his violent physical reaction and so concentrated on controlling it that he moved mechanically in the direction Alys indicated. At the moment, his mind was completely out of contact with reality. If he had been told in a firm enough voice to do it, he would likely have jumped off

the tower. And Fenice, who ordinarily would have inquired at once what she could do to help her stepmother, only looked down at the hand Aubery was holding and followed him. By the time they reached the window, Aubery became aware that he was holding Fenice's hand and released it, but he was still fighting a battle with his body, and he did not sit down at once. Thinking he was politely waiting for her to seat herself first, which Aubery indeed would have done had he been in a condition to think about it, Fenice blushed with pleasure again. Aubery drew in his breath. "Will you not be seated?" Fenice asked gently, gesturing toward a spot that was in cool shadow. Despite what she believed to be his polite gesture, she was hesitant. The voice, very low and musical, was also totally unlike Matilda's high-pitched, girlish tones. Aubery stiffened his muscles to resist a sensuous shudder, feeling almost as if she were stroking him. Desperately, he looked out into the hall, hoping that Alys would come or that William or Raymond would call out to him. "May I bring you some wine or some other refreshment?" Fenice asked, noticing the outward look. Oh, that voice. It was like soft velvet sliding across the skin of one's belly. Aubery licked his lips, trying to concentrate. At first the words made no sense, only drew his eyes back to that lovely face, but by this time, Fenice was beginning to find her prospective husband's silence disturbing. She reached out and touched his hand, about to repeat her question. Aubery recoiled. Fenice's eyes filled with tears, and her head dropped as a terrible conviction, born of her insecurity, rose in her. She had taken his first fixed stare to be no more than the same kind of interest she felt, but it might as easily have been horror. The formal politeness might be a result of his kindness, a concealment of his unwillingness to fulfill his promise. "My lord," she said, her voice trembling, "if you find me displeasing, I am sure—" "I find you lovely," Aubery said, the words wrenched out of him in response to the wave of fear and shame that had been communicated by Fenice's tear-filled eyes, bent head, and shaking voice, from which the music had disappeared. Her reaction had given him a shock as effective as a splash of cold water, restoring his voice and, at least temporarily, his control over himself. "I am sorry to have frightened you," he added more naturally, wondering suddenly if he had read too much into her look and if she had only been making a coy strike for attention. Fenice's head came up, and the relief and eagerness in her expression made Aubery ashamed of his doubts. But now a new question rose in his mind. There was a reason, he remembered, why Raymond and Alys wanted to send the girl away from the place of her birth. It must be a strong reason, he thought, to make her so fearful of displeasing him and so willing to accept a husband who would take her such a distance from the protection of her blood relations. But then she smiled, and Aubery lost the train of his thoughts.

CHAPTER 8

How Aubery escaped, he never remembered beyond the fact that it had been almost as painful to leave Fenice as to remain with her. He did remember the excuse he used to ride out to Bordeaux—that he had

been so busy in England he had had no chance to purchase any gifts for his soon-to-be-betrothed, and now that he had seen her and spoken to her, he knew better what she would like. And, despite the real purpose of his ride to Bordeaux, Fenice had not left his thoughts. Aubery came away from the girl he had chosen at one of the best inns in the city feeling both relieved and very troubled. Although the girl herself was pretty and willing, he had not really seen her face nor felt her body. Her features were oddly blurred and overlaid by the bright eyes, the short, broad nose, and the full lips that belonged to Fenice. Aubery found this fantasy most peculiar, at once increasing and diminishing the guilt casual liaisons always aroused in him, since his coupling with Fenice would be a proper duty. In the end he spent more on her gifts than he had intended to, finding it somehow soothing to pick out delicate veils, fine gloves, a pretty belt pouch, a gilt leather girdle—as if he were paying penance for his sin. And the thanks he received from Fenice—mingling astonishment, gratitude, and what looked like adoration—he found a most satisfactory substitute for absolution. But Aubery discovered Fenice was no less attractive even after his urgent need had been somewhat assuaged, and this disturbed him. He felt disloyal to be so stirred by a woman very different from his dead wife. Had Fenice had the same type of prettiness as Matilda, Aubery could have excused his desire as being the result of memory. But there was no similarity between the two women at all; Fenice was tall and big-boned, not frail and pretty, and her body was lush and fully developed—all too evident for Aubery's comfort—under the summer silks. Even the fact that Matilda had also had blue-gray eyes did not help. Fenice's bold, bright glance was a far cry from the way Matilda had looked at him, shyly, from under her lashes. Aubery went to bed with his head in a jumble, miserably acknowledging that he was accursed and probably damned by the taint of his father's evil blood. He had probably killed his poor wife by unkindness, and less than a year later he was consumed by lust for another woman. What a misfortune it was that the wife he must take to obtain Marlowe was not repellent. Then his greed for the estate would have been expiated by a miserable marriage. At which point Aubery's sense of humor came to his rescue. He knew Alys would never present him with a woman who was not satisfactory, and finally he comforted himself with the idea that to desire a woman was not the same as loving her. Fenice's day had been almost as painful as Aubery's, although Delmar had not once entered her mind. Her first sight of her prospective husband reaffirmed what she had known all along, that Lady Alys had made no second mistake in choosing a mate for her. He was even bigger and stronger than her papa and had a face that would have belonged on a denizen of heaven, except for one scar on the jaw and another high on the cheek. True, he had spoken only a few words to her, but those words were such that she would cherish them all her life. Imagine, "I find you lovely" had been the very first thing he had said. Then the gifts—so many, and all personal, all designed to ornament the beauty of a woman—proved that he had meant what he said, that she was lovely in his eyes. Fenice had expected a fine steel needle or some good straight pins or perhaps even a silver thimble—such trinkets as a man could bring to the daughter of his host without committing himself. No contract had yet been signed or even discussed so far as she knew. Would the fact that he thought her lovely be enough to counteract the dishonor of her mother's birth? Fenice shuddered in her warm bed. The next day was much easier for Aubery but much harder for Fenice. Raymond and William had come to the conclusion that it would be better to spread the news of King Henry's imminent arrival. It was true that the rebels holding La Réole and St. Emilion would probably be warned, but the results, Raymond and William decided, could not do Henry's cause much harm and might actually be of assistance. Raymond felt that the rebels, having virtually ruined the countryside north and east of Bordeaux, were

probably near the end of their resources and would have little ability to hire mercenaries. Nor was it any longer possible to use Leicester's unbending severity to frighten men into supporting them. The king was known to be merciful. However, he was much more likely to be merciful to those who did not actively oppose him; thus, there was a good chance that supporters would begin to desert the rebels in spite of Gaston de Béarn's promises of help from Alfonso of Castile. Those promises were attractive when Henry and his army were far away in England; they would be less attractive when Henry was about to disembark in Bordeaux. As it was Aubery's duty to learn what he could for the earl of Hereford, he accompanied Raymond and William to Bordeaux. None of the men reappeared, even for dinner, and when they did come in, just before the evening meal, Aubery remained close to his stepfather and Raymond, talking only about the various meetings they had had in the city. Alys cried that they had all said everything three times and it was time for a change of subject, but she knew it would be impossible to divert them in ordinary conversation, so she called on Fenice to play and sing. Since Fenice herself was incapable of mentioning the word "love" at the moment, she gave them a selection of pleasant country songs and a rousing ballad of heroic action. No one could fault Aubery on the politeness with which he praised the performance, but after that he became silent and withdrawn, said he was tired, and went to bed. Fortunately, Fenice did not associate Aubery's bad temper with herself. She assumed his mind was busy with the military and political problems that were preoccupying her father and Sir William. Still, her heart had swelled with gratitude for the respectful courtesy he extended to her even when his mind seemed elsewhere, and she was thrilled with his compliments on her singing. At the same time, this made her misery more poignant, for she felt her fate was still hanging in the balance, and every contact she had with Aubery, made him more desirable. Nor did the next day bring Fenice any relief. Alys was busy preparing for a gathering of notables from Bordeaux and the surrounding countryside, and Raymond and William, who were closeted together all day working out the details of the quittances and marriage contract, would not think of bothering to tell Fenice. She did not see Aubery at all. She had spent so restless a night, praying for hours that she would be acceptable, that she overslept, and Aubery had ridden off by himself before she woke. Poor Fenice had a bad fright, too, when the family assembled for dinner and William, looking around for Aubery and not seeing him said, "God, I hope that madman did not decide to take a look at the conquered keeps all on his own." "Would he do such a thing?" Raymond asked, startled. William frowned, obviously worried. "He has a wild streak and far too great a tendency to stick his neck out. Of course, he is strong as a bull and more than ordinarily able in arms, but I tell him over and over that some day he will take one chance too many. No matter how strong and able the fighter, enough enemies can overwhelm him." No one looked at Fenice. Eating was suspended as Raymond and William rose, wondering aloud how they could go after him, but it was at once clear to them that the attempt would be useless. There was no way of knowing just where Aubery had gone. And no sooner had they decided and reluctantly resumed their seats than the prodigal returned. "I am sorry to be late," Aubery called cheerfully across the hall, "but I have done a day's work. You are three or four renegades the less. Let me just come out of this armor. I am awash with sweat." Alys snapped her fingers and pointed, and servants rose from the tables to help him. Raymond was

laughing and William shaking his head at the accuracy of his fears. Fenice clung to the edge of the table, simultaneously dizzy with relief and sick with pain. She had always worried about her father when he went to war, but this fear was utterly different. Again no one noticed, and she recovered slowly, absorbing the unwelcome lesson. She had recovered her complexion if not her appetite by the time Aubery came out and plunked himself down beside her, again pronouncing a formal greeting, although his eyes were firmly fixed on the roast, which Raymond obligingly directed a server to place before him. As he carved several substantial slices, he described what had happened. He had, as William had suspected, ridden out toward La Réole. In response to William's muttered "You idiot," Aubery leaned forward so he could see around Fenice, and responded, "Why am I an idiot? One lone knight could be no danger to them, and I am not horsed or caparisoned so that they could think me a war prize much worth taking. Nor can the outside of the keep be any great secret so that they would fear a spy. In fact, it was not, as far as I know, men from the castle who attacked me." He grinned. "At least, I hope not, or there will be little sport in retaking the place. Those men were very poor quality." "But what did you go for?" Raymond asked. "Oh, to see for myself," Aubery replied lightly. Then he said, more seriously, "You were quite right, Raymond, when you said they had destroyed the countryside. There will be famine in these parts this winter." "Prices are already so high that there is hunger in the city," Alys responded. "I have directed my people here to harvest each plant as it comes to ripeness that nothing at all be wasted. We will not have empty bellies." "Perhaps not," Aubery retorted, "if you can hide what you have from the king." He laughed. "You are fortunate Hereford is constable and not procurer for the army, or I would be torn between needing to tell my lord where supplies could be found and protecting my sister." But the teasing laughter soon ended, and he became serious. "Yet it will still become Hereford's business, for the men will steal if they are hungry, and he is constable and responsible for the behavior of the army." He grimaced. "I must write and warn him, although I do not know whether the news will come in time or even what good it will do." "I doubt there will be a ship for England," Raymond said, "but I can send a messenger by land who can cross the narrow sea in a small boat." "And Fenice can do the writing if you will tell her what you want to say," Alys offered, laughing. "I know you think a pen is an instrument of torture." "Fenice?" Aubery repeated. He was surprised. He knew Alys could write because William, for some unfathomable reason, had the weird notion that everyone should be able to read and scribe. Aubery himself had learned at William's insistence, and he could actually see a good reason for being able to read—that could save a man from being made a victim by a dishonest clerk. For a woman, it seemed completely unnecessary, as a woman was not likely to be involved in anything it would be dangerous for a clerk to know or record. "Yes, Fenice," Raymond said. "You cannot have Father Francois because he is too busy on other work. And do not disappear again. William and I will need you later this afternoon." "I write a readable hand, my lord," Fenice put in, her eyes brilliant with the joy of proving herself useful as well as lovely. "You need not fear that your words will not be clear to whomever they are directed. But

you will have to tell me the letters for those words that are said differently in England than in Provence." Had she not been so eager to seize the prize of performing for him a task that Aubery found distasteful, Fenice would have learned that Aubery was needed to read, approve, and sign the quittances and contracts. It was just as well that she had interrupted her father, for she would certainly have betrayed her anxiety, and that would have made Aubery wonder why she, beautiful and well dowered, should be anxious over a prearranged contract. As it was, her happiness was unclouded. Aubery looked away hastily from her face, which seemed almost as if it were lit from within; the eyes were luminescent, and the smooth skin had a glow as if heavy silk were held before a lamp. He scooped up a spoonful of some spicy stew, chewed, and swallowed, which gave him time and an excuse to clear his throat. "I would not wish to put you to any trouble, Lady Fenice," he said. "It is no trouble for me, my lord," Fenice assured him earnestly, thrilled at his consideration for her. Not even Lady Alys had ever apologized to her for putting her to trouble. After all, her purpose was to be useful. "I like to write," she insisted gently. "He is not really trying to avoid giving you trouble, my love," Alys said, teasing. "It is only that he does not wish to compose a letter." But actually she did not think that was Aubery's reason. She had seen the way he looked away from Fenice, as if something in her beauty hurt him. "Then—" Fenice was disappointed, but she was ready to refuse to write, if that was what Aubery wanted. "Get it over with," Raymond interrupted. "The sooner the messenger goes, the better the chance that he will get to England before the fleet sails." Assailed on all sides, Aubery was trapped, and when dinner was finished, Fenice ordered that a small table and desk with writing materials be brought, and led him to the same window seat where they had first been alone. It was an unfortunate choice, for Aubery remembered his reaction to her vividly, and, of course, the memory stimulated his sexual urge anew. Quite innocently, Fenice added to his acute discomfort by seating him on the cool, shadowed side and placing herself opposite him in the sun. In that position, it was impossible for him to avoid seeing her. He could pretend to stare out the window for a while, or glance into the hall, but it would be unnatural not to look straight ahead at her most of the time. His eyes were already caught by a feather of dark curl against the white temple, the sweet curve of her cheek, with the dark smudge of lashes marking the line of her lovely eyes, lowered now to the blank page. She was waiting for him to begin, but Aubery's mind was as blank as the parchment, engaged with his eyes in tracing a line of minuscule beads of perspiration that formed along the margin of her full lips. Fenice looked up inquiringly. "If you do not wish to make the sentences, my lord, you may tell me in round terms what you wish to say, and I will set it all in order. Then you may read it over and tell me what I have writ amiss, and I will correct it. It will take a little longer—" "You cannot sit there in the sun," Aubery said, not having heard a word she said but having finally made the connection between the facts that she was perspiring and he did not feel particularly warm. "It is too warm for you. Come to this side." "You are so very kind, my lord," Fenice replied, "but will this table not crowd you?" "There is plenty of room if you sit in that corner and I sit in this. Besides, I cannot think when I stare at a

blank sheet of parchment." Fenice obediently changed position, and Aubery, who had risen to move the table and desk for her—another example of consideration that made her give him so warm a glance that it was fortunate he was looking at the placement of the furniture rather than at her—was so pleased with his ingenious reason for not needing to face her that he now began to dictate his letter without delay. When it was finished, Fenice handed the sheet to him and asked him to read it over and point out the words that were not written as he had pronounced them. Somewhat to his surprise there were not many, and he asked why. "I remembered," Fenice said, "how Lady Alys writes, which is different from Papa's writing." She scraped out the few words that needed correction. The changes in spelling made her remember what Lady Alys had said about the difference in English and Provence customs. Since the marriage had been accepted in principle, it did not seem that her future husband was concerned, but she thought it would do no harm to mention her knowledge of English. Any little thing to her credit might just overbalance the disadvantage of her birth, if that had to be disclosed. "I can even write a little in English," she boasted, as she handed over the sheet for a final examination. This was so surprising a statement that Aubery was distracted from the subtle perfume wafted in his direction by the breeze coming in the window. He inquired about the unlikely circumstance, and Fenice told him about Arnald. "Enid and I were sorry for him. We thought at first that there was something wrong with his tongue. One of the weaving women has a dreadful hole at the top of her mouth, and she cannot speak right—" Fenice stopped abruptly. The woman had sat near her mother. Aubery was leaning back in his corner, his eyes half closed. He was full of food and a little tired from a restless night, his long ride, and his battle with the four renegades. While he concentrated on the information he had to transmit to the earl of Hereford, and read over what Fenice had written, the sexual urgency that disturbed him so much had diminished. Needing to pay attention to what she said had also inured him somewhat to the music of Fenice's voice. He was still stirred by her presence, but only enough to make him aware that her proximity was pleasant. That did not set off his feelings of guilt because there were many women whose company he enjoyed. The little story she had told, idle chatter such as a woman makes to amuse a man who has nothing to do, was soothing. "And then?" he said, encouraging her to continue. "Oh, we asked why he spoke so strangely, and he said it was because his native tongue was different. So we corrected his French, and he taught us English." Fenice spoke hurriedly, eager to get away from the dreadful slip she might have made, and then, afraid that Aubery might revert to the subject, she asked, "My lord, what will the king do when he comes?" "Make a show offeree and then bargain, I suppose," Aubery replied before he thought. Then he turned his head to look at Fenice, surprised by the question because Matilda would never have asked about such a thing—unless she was frightened. So Aubery added, "There is nothing for you to fear." "I am not afraid," Fenice assured him, with an expression of mild surprise. "I am only curious. You see, I do not know anything about what the English think of affairs in Gascony, and if I am to live in England—" She stopped abruptly again, this time crimsoning painfully. Nothing had yet been signed. Aubery had been very pleased by her reply. He was accustomed to women taking an active interest in public affairs because his mother did and, in fact, had found Matilda's lack of interest in the subject a disadvantage. However, the abrupt end of Fenice's remark, obviously in the middle of a sentence, and the deep blush that indicated embarrassment startled him.

"I have no lands anywhere else," he said. "Surely you were told that your property was to be exchanged for a small yearly income and the reversion of Marlowe?" He was aware of a feeling of anxiety as he spoke. Often girls were told nothing—but Alys was not the type to conceal important information from her stepdaughter. Unless the need to send Fenice away was compelling? Was Fenice ignorant that she was to be exiled permanently? Would she be unwilling? As to the last two questions, Aubery was not left long in doubt, for even as they ran through his mind Fenice was saying, "Oh, yes, I knew of the exchange. Lady Alys told me." But she was blushing harder than ever and did not raise her eyes as she added, "But—but I did not wish you to think that I—I am cocksure of your approval." "Why should you not be?" Aubery asked, his voice sharp. The girl was too pretty and too accomplished to have such doubts after the subject of dower rights had been already approved. She acted as if she were a hunchback. Why should she doubt her acceptability? "I—I am not so immodest," Fenice whispered, her voice trembling. Now Aubery wondered about her first husband. Could the man have been dissatisfied with so beautiful a creature? He almost asked whether she had been unhappy in her first marriage, but an enormous reluctance to hear a contrary answer stopped him, and he told himself he did not wish to give her any opening to pry into his marriage. "Do not act like a goose," he said harshly. "You are a beautiful woman and, I am sure, if Alys trained you, have every art and skill necessary to make a good wife. There is no need for all this blushing uncertainty—unless you think me so greedy as to demand more than was offered or just plain mad." "No, no—" Fenice had begun, when she was interrupted by her father, who said, "A writing table, how convenient," and thrust several sheets of parchment onto the flat surface, adding, "Sign where the mark is, Fenice, while I warm the wax. I have brought your seal." Fenice picked up the quill and dipped it. William laid his hand over hers, which was shaking with excitement. He had mistaken her desire for fear, and asked, "Do you not wish to read what it says, child?" "Papa would not hurt me," Fenice replied, shaking her head. "If he is content, I am sure I will be." "Of course your father would not hurt you or allow you to be hurt," William agreed, and then smiled and said, "I could not hurt you myself, so sweet a child you are. But perhaps there is some detail in the arrangement you would like done differently—for example, Raymond and I thought you would like to have a farm of your own from which the rent would be paid to you, but if you would rather have me place a sum with the Templars that will be paid to you each quarter so that you will not have the labor of overseeing the farm, I would be glad to change that." "Have you a preference in the way my income is paid, my lord?" Fenice asked hesitantly, and then, when Aubery did not respond, "Sir Aubery?" "It has nothing to do with me," Aubery replied, having thought, until she used his name, that the question was addressed to her father. "It is your money to do with as you will. It will come directly into your hands… Oh, I see what you mean. No, the farm will be no trouble to me to defend or to oversee. It is close to Marlowe." That had not been what Fenice meant. She was very surprised about having a private income and had

asked because she assumed the money was to be Aubery's. Alys had not got around to telling her about that part of the arrangement because the details had not been settled. However, since it was plain from Aubery's answer that he was already aware of what had been done, Fenice murmured that she was content and hurriedly signed. She was overwhelmed with joy, believing that it must have been Aubery who had suggested she have her own money, because no such arrangement had been made by her father in her first marriage contract. Wax was spilled, her seal pressed into the blob. Then her father gestured her to get out from behind the desk. She was shaking so hard that Raymond took her in his arms and said to Aubery, who was sliding behind the writing surface, "Wait." "No, I am content," Fenice cried. "Please, Papa, I am content." All three men looked at her, and she hid her face in Raymond's breast. To gain a little time, William said, "Everything is exactly as we planned, Aubery. What had to be worked on was the form of the quittances. It is made very clear that no child of Lady Fenice's will have any rights in Fuveau or Trets. Moreover, Raymond agreed that we include some reasonable arrangement should there be an heir of my body. There will not be, but it would be foolish to exclude the possibility in a legal quittance. Alys and her children are specifically excluded in that section not only from Marlowe but from all lands I may acquire in the future—with the exception of the case of the deaths of all of your heirs and your brother's heirs of either sex." Aubery had not heard a word that his stepfather said—which did not matter since he was aware of everything except the exact wording of the arrangement. He was looking at Fenice, torn between the desire to ignore her obvious terror so that he could have her and the knowledge that it was not right to .force a woman into an unwelcome marriage. His father had accepted an unwilling bride for her possessions—and had murdered his mother's brothers to obtain the land. He pushed the desk aside and stood up. "Lady Fenice, if you are reluctant—" Fortunately by then Fenice had realized that if she did not control herself, she would precipitate exactly what she had feared—out of the goodness and kindness of his heart, Aubery would refuse to sign. She turned and disengaged herself gently from Raymond's grip, took a step forward, and held out her hand to Aubery. The hand was still trembling, but her eyes met his steadily. "I am not reluctant, my lord, I swear it. I am only what you said before—a silly goose. You can see that my papa is not forcing me. I am only… only a little nervous."

CHAPTER 9

In the days that followed the signing of the marriage contract, Aubery was given no further reason to believe his bride was reluctant. In fact, the joy that blazed up in her eyes when his signature and seal were affixed to the documents gave him the odd feeling that he, not she, had been somehow trapped. The way Fenice now glowed with happiness compared to her earlier uncertainty nagged at him. He told himself that he was imagining things, that he was becoming suspicious for no reason, as his father had been, but he could not prevent himself one night from taking out his copies of the quittances and contracts and reading every word.

Reading them made him feel worse. They were exactly as William had described them. He was protected in every way, and the allowance William was making to Fenice was sufficiently generous—unless she was madly extravagant? Had Fenice left such heavy debts in Provence that Raymond wanted her out of an area in which she was well known and therefore could order jewelry and clothing without her husband's knowledge or permission? Was that the secret Alys and Raymond were keeping? In a moment he shook his head. There was no way that could hurt him even if it were true; he had controlled Matilda's tendencies to spend more than she should... Aubery closed his eyes, and his throat thickened with unshed tears. How cruel that had been when her life was to be so short—but he had not known. He had not known! Wrenching his mind from a wrong he could never undo, Aubery considered the question Alys had raised that morning—when did he wish to marry and how? It was odd that she had stopped him after having first sent Fenice away on an errand. And when he had given no immediate answer, she had looked at him strangely and suggested blandly that he discuss the matter with Fenice, in private, and let her know what had been decided. He had felt then that Alys was teasing him and, not being in any mood for it, had snapped angrily, "What is there to discuss?" And he had been silenced—not so much by Alys's sober reply that she needed to know whether he wished to wait for the king's arrival, so that there would be English witnesses, perhaps the earl of Hereford, his overlord, at the wedding, but by the intense look of trouble on her face. He had a still worse shock when, stopping abruptly in the middle of the questions she was asking, Alys had taken his hand and said most earnestly, "Oh, Aubery, if you do not wish to marry Fenice or wish to wait, you must know we will not hold you to this agreement. Do not worry about Marlowe, we—" Aubery, recovered from the astonishment that had held him silent, replied, "Whatever is in your head, Alys? I find the arrangements most satisfactory. After all, I must marry to provide heirs to Ilmer and Marlowe, and Lady Fenice will be a good wife, I am sure. Unless you know something about her that I do not?" It had been a pointed question, but Alys had shaken her head and replied in the negative immediately, assuring him that her doubts had nothing to do with Fenice. Still, she had not looked completely happy and had urged him again to discuss the wedding with Fenice in private. "She is too much in awe of Raymond and too much aware of obligation to me to speak her own mind freely, but we wish to please her. Perhaps you can tease her true feelings from her. Go down into the garden, and I will Send her to you." Damn Alys for her mischief, Aubery thought as he ground to death an innocent tendril of thyme that had grown into the graveled path, and gritted his teeth. What she had said about Fenice was probably true enough, but he was sure her purpose was to push him into the girl's company. Why the devil was Alys so eager for him to spend every minute huddled in a corner with Fenice? It must be sheer mischief. He would have to stop trying to avoid being alone with Fenice. The more he sought to escape her, the more devious ways Alys found to thrust them together. Meanwhile, Fenice had returned from her errand and, being told by Alys that Aubery wanted her, blushed with delight and rushed off to the garden. Aubery was quite right in accusing Alys of mischief—she was using every device she could find to provide opportunities for him to be alone with Fenice, because she had noticed that he preferred to avoid that situation. Fenice, however, was completely unaware of it and not in the least disturbed because Aubery did not try to push her into dark

corners where he could caress her. She had never been courted as Alys had been, nor had she ever been the center of any man's attention—except the few weeks with her husband before his mother had poisoned their relationship. During that time, when Delmar had desired her, he had just said so or led her off to their chamber. Fenice felt it was quite natural that Aubery spent most of his time with her father and Sir William. There were the coming sieges of La Réole and St. Emilion and the growing famine to consider. Fenice was aware that when Aubery had time to spend with her, he enjoyed it. More than once, he had forgotten an arrangement to ride out when they had been talking together. In addition, Alys had never seen Aubery's eyes up close as Fenice did. He never showed much change of expression when talking to her, except sometimes irritation with the subject when he was explaining the political situation in England. But there was something in his eyes that Fenice recognized and sometimes a filling of his lips that was familiar to her, too. She knew the look of desire when she saw it; Delmar had never lost that. She felt it stir strongly in her, too, so strongly that her breasts became painfully sensitive and there was a throbbing in her groin, but that, she knew, was for after the priest's blessing, and she was proud that Aubery did not ask her to yield to him beforehand. Thus, Fenice ran down to the garden and, seeing her betrothed staring down at a patch of herbs, approached him eagerly. Spitefully, Aubery bowed to her with cold formality, but her face lit with a smile, and she dropped into a curtsy of response with perfect good humor, asking how she might be of service. His formality, which Fenice innocently read as a form of respect, gave her intense pleasure, and Aubery was ashamed of himself for taking out on Fenice his irritation with Alys. "Sit down here with me," he said, moving toward a seat farther along near a bed of lilies. His voice was soft with apology. She was, he thought, as sweet of temper as Matilda. He must not be unkind again. "Alys asked me to speak to you about our wedding. She wishes you to have exactly what you desire." Fenice blushed deliciously. "I desire what will please you, my lord," she replied. "That is just what you must not say," Aubery pointed out. "You are always too eager to please others. This is your wedding. You are to please yourself." "It is yours, also," Fenice remarked, smiling, and then said more seriously, "I know that Lady Alys was concerned about the fact that there would be no English witnesses other than Sir William." "That does not matter," Aubery assured her. "Alys's marriage was a state affair because of Raymond's kinship with the queen and his high position in Provence. But I have no such exalted relatives or position. The only interest the marriage of a simple knight to a simple gentlewoman could arouse would be in immediate neighbors or family. My father's two sisters are both immured in convents. My only uncle has been dead many years. As for neighbors, Hurley, which is nearest to Marlowe, belongs to my mother and will go—in the distant future, I hope—to my brother, John. Naturally, my mother and brother are aware of the arrangement and approve heartily. Closest to Ilmer is Herron, which is not truly a keep, only a rich manor, and its master, Harold, is just a boy and in his uncle's ward. And Sir Savin of Radanage—" Aubery scowled blackly. "He will be no witness at any marriage of mine, nor would I care what he thought." In her mind Fenice filed the information that Sir Savin of Radanage was persona non grata with her future husband. At a more appropriate time she would ask what her public demeanor toward the man should be—a cold bow or no recognition at all, Harold of Herron, Fenice noted, reading her betrothed's expression with the skill developed as a child in watching small movements of face and body to know whether she would be welcome or an intruder, was someone for whom Aubery felt pity and perhaps

some liking. All she said, though, was, "Then you do not feel there is any cause to wait for the king's arrival?" "No." There was eagerness in Aubery's face, although it disappeared very quickly as he reminded himself that he was supposed to be a grieving husband, not a joyous bridegroom. Fenice, her eyes adoringly fixed on Aubery, caught both the eagerness and the swift quenching of it and thought her heart would burst with joy. Delmar had been eager and a gentle husband, but never, as far as Fenice knew, had he subdued any desire of his own in deference to hers—and she read Aubery's change of expression as an unwillingness to allow his eagerness for the marriage to influence her if she wished to wait. Her delighted, if mistaken, opinion was confirmed as he went on slowly, "Lord Hereford might do me the honor of attending if he were asked, but it would be an imposition on him with all he will have on his hands as constable of the army. Yet not to invite him if he was in Gascony would also be wrong." "Then, my lord," Fenice said quickly, her eyes alight with happiness, "if you are willing, it would be best, I think, to marry as quickly and privately as the matter can be contrived. The question of inviting your overlord will then not arise at all, and the lack of ceremony and celebration will be reason enough for not having awaited his coming." Fenice's glowing eyes and pink-tinged cheeks made it impossible for Aubery to doubt her sincerity; they also aroused such a flood of desire in him that before he could control the impulse he leaned forward and kissed her full, red lips. Her response was immediate—and knowing. Her arm came around his neck and her fingers touched his ear; the lips opened under his, inviting his tongue. Aubery reached forward to pull her tight against him and, with a desperate effort of will, pushed her away instead. Fortunately, he was incapable of speaking immediately, and since Fenice sighed, "Oh, thank you, my lord, thank you," as she put her hands to her hot cheeks, he was disarmed by confusion. Was she thanking him for the kiss or for breaking the embrace? And, in either case, how could he scold her? He cleared his throat harshly. "You are sure this is what you desire? I can wait—" He looked down at his hands, clenched so hard that the nails were biting into the callused palms. Although he forced his hands open and raised his eyes, he really did not feel he could wait—and that drove him to stern measures of self-discipline. "Perhaps you would like your sister to come," Aubery suggested, feeling that he had not fulfilled Alys's intention very well. Fenice laid her hand gently over his. "You are so very good to me, my lord. I do not know how to thank you or to be sufficiently grateful for your consideration, but, truly, I have told you my own real desire. Enid is with Countess Beatrice, and I do not think she would like to be pulled from the lively life she leads to travel many weary leagues just to see me married when there will be no great ceremony." "It is very strange to me that your desire mirrors my… my need so exactly." Actually Aubery had started to say "my own" and had tried to change the sentence into a less personal context, but the words had come out so that they were equally revealing. "I meant my convenience," he said hastily and then, "No!" But Fenice was laughing merrily. "Oh," she gasped, "I do understand. You were thinking about Lord Hereford and the king. Is it not dreadful the way words can seem to mean just what you do not intend?

But, my lord…" The hand on his trembled slightly. "If I may have my choice, I would be so happy if Father Francois could marry us here in the chapel with only Lady Alys and my papa and Sir William…" Fenice's voice drifted off on a questioning note. Although he found any physical touch of hers exciting, her ready understanding and translation of his self-revelatory remarks into harmless statements put Aubery at ease. Once he adjusted to her beauty and her sensuous scent, he always found Fenice surprisingly comfortable company. It was Alys's training, he assumed. Fenice usually did understand what he meant, and like Alys she did not flirt. He had come to recognize the bold way her eyes met his as an imitation of Alys's habit and to realize that it was not meant as an invitation. "If it really is your choice, I could not be more content," Aubery admitted, then asked, "Will you speak to Alys or shall I?" "Let us go together," Fenice suggested practically. "If I go alone, we will need to confirm the date with you, and although it cannot matter to me, Lady Alys is so kind she will, I know, ask me to approve whatever time and date you suggest." Aubery agreed readily, and they went to find Alys, who raised her brows and said, "That did not take long." "No," Fenice replied, innocently unaware that Alys's remark was directed at Aubery, "because my lord thinks that Lord Hereford will be too busy to be a witness but might come out of courtesy. And this falls in perfectly with my desire to avoid any large company or great ceremony—" She hesitated and glanced anxiously at her stepmother. "Unless—" "There is no 'unless.' It is your wedding," Alys said, then laughed and shook her head at Fenice. "I know you to be as bad as a tortoise, pulling your head into your shell as soon as any stranger appears. However, in this case," Alys continued thoughtfully, "it really will be best to have a private wedding. With the famine growing and prospects for next year more evil than this, I think it unwise to make a show of plenty. In fact, it was stupid to have those burghers from Bordeaux to that feast last week. Raymond tells me there has been talk about the richness of the provisions. Yes, my love, I am not sorry for your shyness this once." "Then as soon as is convenient for you and Papa—and Sir William, of course," Fenice said, "Fattier Francois can marry us right here in the chapel." Alys's glance flicked to Aubery, and her smile was just a trifle strained, but she said nothing to him. Instead, she said to Fenice, "Will you run down to the stable and fetch your papa and Sir William to us, my love? You will be quicker about it than a servant and can explain why we want them." When Fenice had left, her eyes went back to Aubery's face, and they were full of loving concern. "You have not said a word," Alys murmured. Aubery shrugged. "What is there to say? Lady Fenice spoke my mind as well as hers." "I fear you are not willing," Alys sighed, "and somehow Papa has constrained you—" "You do your father a great injustice," Aubery snapped. "There is no way he could constrain me—and he would not if he could. What the devil ails you, Alys? You suggested this match, and now you seem to be the only one dissatisfied with it." "I just wish to be sure that this haste of yours to be married is not a quick swallow to make a bitter medicine go down faster," Alys said. "I love you and Fenice both too much—"

"I will not mistreat Lady Fenice," Aubery interrupted stiffly, his voice almost metallically harsh. Alys's breath drew in sharply, but not owing either to what Aubery had said or his tone. He had flushed darkly, which might have merely been anger, but somehow Alys knew it was not—or, at least, not entirely. There was just something about him that betrayed his craving for Fenice, and Alys called herself ten times a fool. Until she had somehow sensed that musky, sensual aura, she never really thought of Aubery as a man with a man's physical urges. To her he had always remained the sexless child with whom she had played and squabbled. She made some soothing remark, struggling not to give the slightest hint of what she had perceived—although now that she had Finally recognized it, it was so clear that Alys even felt some slight response herself. Instinctively, she stepped back, away from the overpowering sense of maleness, and a choke of laughter was drawn from her. Poor man, how could she have been so cruel to him? No wonder he had been avoiding Fenice. And poor Fenice, too, if he had been projecting that "wanting" at her. "You are quite correct," Alys said. "The sooner we have this wedding over with the better for all." "What the devil do you mean by that?" Aubery snarled. "Nothing, nothing," Alys assured him hastily. "I have been thinking of the danger of the king arriving any day. If he should, you would have to apprise Hereford of the wedding, and Henry is just the person to hear what he should not and conceive a desire to honor Raymond by attending his daughter's nuptials. Of all men in the world, I do not want Henry at Blancheforte." "Good God, no!" Raymond exclaimed, having heard Alys's last sentence as he and William arrived with Fenice. "He would take one look at the place and begin to regret ceding it to us. What put so horrid a thought in your mind?" Alys repeated her statement, and Raymond said, "Tomorrow. We will have the wedding tomorrow. How could I have overlooked so dreadful a possibility? Aubery, do you mind? Fenice?" "All joking aside," William put in, "since Henry has a way of remembering only what he wishes to remember, if he sees that there is plenty in Blancheforte, he may 'forget' how small the demesne is and demand supplies. We must, indeed, do what we can to avoid drawing his attention." "I was not joking," Raymond said. "That, too, was in my mind." "Then we are agreed on tomorrow," Alys said, to her husband's surprise not glancing at either the prospective bride or groom. "I will inform Father Francois. Aubery, would you do me the favor to ride into Bordeaux to the mercer Bonafus? He should have ready for me some items I ordered to give to Fenice. And you, my love, had better seek the sewing women and give them your aid so that your gown may be ready." Aubery made no protest over running Alys's errand, although he was aware that any of the men-at-arms could have been employed as well. It was clear that Alys had done an about-face. With the same assiduity and ingeniousness that she had previously used to thrust them together, she had now decided to keep him apart from Fenice until they were brought together to be married. He pretended he did not notice Alys's devices and obediently occupied himself as she directed all the rest of the day, but he grew more and more unhappy as his assumption proved true. He had a horrible night, desire struggling with shame and guilt, and woke with a raging headache from a few hours' sleep near dawn to find that Alys had more devices to separate him from his betrothed. Fenice's gown was not finished. The cooks were heartbroken because the subtleties they planned would

not be ready for dinner. The wedding was to be delayed until evening. Aubery's eyes sought those of Raymond and William, but they would not meet his glance, and Aubery could not bring himself to ask why, if it was really a matter of a gown and the cooks' sensitivity, Fenice was being kept hidden. He stormed out of the hall, nearly weeping with pain and self-pity and because Raymond and William dotingly believed anything that blond she-devil said. Could they not see that there was something she was hiding from him? For the next half-hour there was silence as Raymond, William, and Alys ate the bread, cheese, and fruit laid out for breaking the morning fast and braced themselves for their next encounter with Aubery. They all wore martyred expressions. "I could not let them marry in the morning," Alys said plaintively. "You saw what he looked like. He would have said or done something dreadful before bedtime and frightened Fenice out of her wits. Yet with all of us here I know he would not satisfy his need at once—and even I could not think of any excuse to leave on their wedding day." She turned on her father crossly. "How did you let him become so self-righteous a prig?" "He is not a self-righteous prig," William said defensively, then sighed. "Well, not usually. Partly, of course, it is because of Mauger; he is so determined not to be in any way like his father. But most of it has come about since Matilda's death. Oh, why, why did I yield to greed for the estates and let him marry that—that dim-witted saint?" There was another silence, at the end of which William sighed again and rose, saying, "I had better go after him. If he will talk to me…" But William found Aubery stretched out in a cool corner of the garden, fast asleep. Alys immediately gave orders that no work of any kind be done in any part of the garden so that Aubery would not be disturbed. Raymond protested around dinnertime that he would be starved, but Alys insisted that in his state of mind he would not have eaten much, if anything, anyway. She paused and smiled, then went on. "Poor Fenice is busy sewing up seams that I had Edith unpick last night. The child innocently assumes she was so excited that she missed them. Ah, me. I will have a long confession to make to Father François when this marriage is at last happily consummated." Alys's devices did have a beneficial effect. When William finally woke Aubery in the late afternoon, his headache was gone. The angle of the sun told him that only a few hours would bring sunset, and William's first words—that it was time to bathe and dress for the wedding—assured him that his waiting, for good or ill, was at an end. It was pleasant and peaceful to be washed clean, and the barber was skillful so that his face was not scraped raw when the blond stubble was removed from his cheeks and chin. Aubery liked the clothing that was proffered, too—blue chausses and braies. Aubery wrinkled his nose over those, wondering why he needed the loose pants in the summer heat of Bordeaux, but he put them on. Perhaps Fenice., being southern-bred and not as much aware of the heat as he, would be offended if he were bare under his gown. The gown, lavishly embroidered with thread-of-gold at neck, wrists, and hem, was blue as well, though of a brighter hue than the chausses and matched the cross garters. The surcoat, which fell only to midcalf to display the embroidered hem of the gown, was gold. Aubery fingered the cloth as he slid it over his head and felt the hard metallic thread. Nothing had been spared here. The glitter in the cloth was truly gold, and around the neckline and the waist-length armholes, there were broad ribbons of elaborate embroidery studded with small pearls.

The pride in William's smile when Aubery was dressed left him in no doubt that the clothes became him. Aubery told himself severely that he was acting like a stupid court popinjay and that it was unreasonable to care about his appearance, but nonetheless the awareness of the finery set him at ease. He did not permit himself to think that he would not be overshadowed before his new bride by any man, only admitted wryly that there was a kind of security in knowing that one was not the most meanly dressed in a group. But he forgot it all the moment he saw Fenice. The only thought he had was that the gown that enhanced her loveliness so much had been worth the delay. As he was blue and gold, so she was gold and rose, and his bride-gift—which he had forgotten to give her and must have been searched out and sent by William—hung round her neck. Aubery murmured his thanks and also mentioned that it must have been a special act of Providence that the small, pale rubies in the beautifully worked gold necklace so exactly matched the rose of her overdress. Hearing him, Alys smiled. Seeing his relief and pleasure in how well his modest gift looked, she was very content that the credit for her frantic search among the mercers of Bordeaux for that color silk go to God. Alys was content with all her devices, for Aubery looked like himself again, smiling good-humoredly when Raymond remarked, as they walked across the hall to the chapel entrance, that he had seldom seen so handsome a couple. Aubery even smiled at Fenice when her hand was placed in his and led her forward to the altar without hesitation. The ceremony was brief, Father François—although rather disappointed, since he rarely got to perform a wedding service—using the shortest form permissible, as he had been instructed. Fenice was eager for this second marriage and made the responses in clear-voiced confidence, glowing and delicately flushed with happiness. And though Aubery's smile had faded and his eyes were shadowed when he looked away from her to swear the vows of a husband, he did not falter. Moreover, he seemed to cast off his unhappy memories when they went back across the hall, and smiled when he saw that the tables had been set up during the ceremony for an unusually elaborate evening meal. The high table was covered with a fine linen cloth and set with silver plates and spoons and rare glass drinking cups in deep, rich colors. A huge silver salt vessel marked the seat of honor; in accordance with Blancheforte's position as one guardian of the seaport of Bordeaux, the salt was a beautiful miniature reproduction of a seagoing ship, its sail reefed up to show the pure white ground crystals, and its oars loose in the locks to serve as salt spoons. Actually, Aubery made for the seat of honor, which he knew was the groom's place, with such unromantic briskness, almost towing Fenice along in his wake, that Alys grinned behind her hand. She was equally amused at the slight impatience he showed when one of Raymond's squires placed the catchbowl before him and began to pour spiced and scented warm water over his hands. Of course, he had just bathed, so his hands were clean, but the expectant glance he cast at the door explained the rapidity with which he withdrew his hands, wiped them on the clean towel over the squire's arm, and urged him on to the next person. Aubery was hungry. Alys was delighted. Eating would keep Aubery happily employed for some time, and her foresight in providing a less substantial dinner than was customary would make certain that everyone welcomed the coming full-scale feast. Alys's expectation was fulfilled as the first set of servants entered. There were only two horn players to blare a fanfare, but they made a merry noise supported by the other musicians—to whom no one paid the slightest attention. All eyes, except Fenice's, which were adoringly raised to her husband's face, were fixed on the serving trays, which supported a roast swan, refeathered and apparently swimming in a green aspic that contained boiled brown river trout; a roast yearling boar, surrounded by an oval pasty filled with a stuffing made of "garbage"—the boar's brain, organs, and glands—mixed with bread and spices; and a roast lamb, kneeling on a field of boiled and flavored mixed

greens. That was the most elaborate effort. The other three courses of the meal were more ordinary, but no one complained—particularly Aubery, who ate like a wolf, although he did manage to make the proper offerings of first choice to his wife before he fell on each dish. Aubery was indeed content, and not only with the food. The vague shadow of suspicion that had remained in his mind was allayed by the dramatic first three dishes and almost completely soothed away when, after each course, a most elegant subtlety did appear, the cook accompanying his creation. If these were not the towering structures of a state dinner, they were still well contrived, and the delight of their creators made Aubery lean across and press Alys's hand in mute apology. Poor men, he thought, it would have been cruel indeed if those works of art of pastry and crystallized honey had not been presented or had been presented half-finished. And he thanked William again when he found his purse pressed into his hand so that he could give Fenice a silver coin to give to each cook. She was so surprised and delighted at his allowing her to distribute the largess that she kissed the hand that offered the coin. For that moment Aubery forgot that he had ever known any woman besides the gentle, grateful girl that was his bride, and he bent his head and laid his cheek against her headdress. Alys sniffed sentimentally, but the sigh that followed as her eyes moved from the newlyweds to the window was simply a sigh of relief that the long summer day was over at last. The supper—subtleties and all—had lasted, as she had planned, until full dark. A half-hour's quiet talk after the tables were removed, and she could with decency suggest it was time for bed. There would be no bedding ceremony. William was quite willing to take Alys's word that Fenice had no blemish serious enough to make her unsuitable as a wife, and Raymond knew Aubery to be normal. Perhaps he carried more battle scars now, but they obviously were not crippling. There was thus no reason to examine bride or groom. Moreover, since Fenice was a widow, she could not be expected to give evidence of a maidenhead. No more, then, was necessary than to walk with the bride and groom to the door and see that the room was all in order. William did embrace Aubery with some ferocity and growl at him, "Be happy, my son. It is right that you be happy." He was more gentle with Fenice and only kissed her brow as did her father. But Alys hugged her stepdaughter hard; however, her whisper was somewhat less than proper. "Enjoy!" she urged. "This time you have a man."

CHAPTER 10

It was not until the door closed that Fenice and Aubery truly became aware of the fact that they were married. That they now belonged to each other had not felt real until they were alone facing the big bed in which they would consummate the priest's blessing. Fenice reacted by immediately recalling Alys's naughty remark, and she chuckled, completely unafraid and at ease. In a sexual sense, Delmar had been a very good husband. Unadept at war, her late husband had proven his virility as a lover instead. Fortunately for Fenice, he was naturally gentle and did not think of virility in animal terms; that is, of forcing a female into submission. His pleasure came from making Fenice crave coupling, and he had been very successful. That Aubery had failed with Matilda where Delmar had succeeded with Fenice was not completely his

fault. He was not naturally gentle, but he had loved Matilda and did not wish to hurt or frighten her. That he had done both was partly owing to his own relative ignorance but largely the fault of her totally unrealistic attitudes and expectations. Aubery had, in fact, shown far more patience than could have been expected from his disposition because he associated his father with bestiality toward women and was determined not to repeat Mauger's sins. Nonetheless, he simply had not sufficient skill or knowledge when he and Matilda were first married to overcome her religious prejudices and surprise her with the pleasure of physical love. She was never really ready, so coupling was always a little painful, and her prejudices only became more fixed. Matilda was too sweet-tempered and too simple ever to deny her husband's demands, but it was all too clear that she only endured what she believed it was her duty to endure. And once she got with child and felt her duty to procreate was done, she had begun to lecture Aubery on his lustfulness, although she still did not refuse him. By that time, his advances were few and far between, and they remained so even after their daughter was born. It was thus with considerable surprise that Aubery heard Fenice's little laugh. He did not expect a widow to scream and struggle as Matilda had on their wedding night, of course, but he was prepared for some apprehension until he had satisfied himself. Unless Fenice thought she could refuse him? At which point Aubery remembered the way her lips had parted under his when he had kissed her, and a thrill of expectation ran through him. As if she felt his sudden rush of need, Fenice turned and asked, "Shall I help you to undress, my lord?" He had grown accustomed to the rich music of her voice, but alone in this room, facing the bed in which they would mate, it struck him anew. He had to swallow hard before he could say, "No. Undress yourself. I will attend to my own needs." Her hands went at once to her headdress; she removed it and shook out with total unself-consciousness a mane of hair that fell to her hips. With equal aplomb, she shed her outer gown, her tunic, and her shift, then bent to slip off her shoes and roll off her stockings. She had turned half away so that Aubery had a view from the side, much obscured by the fall of hair. Fenice was not modest, but she had learned that the flicker of white flesh—hip, breast, nipple—through a veil was far more enticing than a flat presentation of a whole naked body. And what worked with Delmar seemed to be even more effective now. Once or twice she glanced sidelong at her new husband standing with his hands frozen on the pearl buttons of his surcoat. The fixed and glazed expression on his face made Fenice shiver several times—but not with fear. When she was naked, she turned to face him, drawing her hair forward over her shoulders so that it framed her face and hid her breasts and belly, the irregular ends mingling with the curls on her mound of Venus. Had her hair been a solid sheet, Fenice would have been covered with decency. Unfortunately the strongly erect nipples on her full breasts parted the strands of hair with every movement and kept peeping through. Aubery swallowed again and shifted his hips. The cloth of his braies had seemed soft enough when he put them on, but now every thread scraped against the bared head of his rising shaft. "Did I make those buttonholes too tight?" Fenice asked softly. "I beg you to let me undo them." About to order her to get into bed, Aubery remembered the buttons were pearls. He knew quite well that he was not going to be able to undo those buttons one by one, and to pull them loose and lose the jewels was insane. If she were closer, he would not be able to see her, either. "Your fingers are more nimble," he said. He did not recognize his voice, but Fenice gave no evidence of surprise. He had to close his eyes as she

advanced, but that was not much help, for her fragrance assaulted his senses, and her touch made him clench his teeth and fists to resist grabbing her and throwing himself atop her. But Fenice's mind was as nimble as her fingers, and as soon as the buttons were undone, she retreated hastily. Now Aubery made quick work of removing his clothes and turned toward Fenice to tell her to get into bed, only to find she was back beside him. "You are a very beautiful man," she murmured, running a hand over the broad muscles of his chest and down to the relatively narrow hip. Aubery was so astonished that he just stood and stared while Fenice leaned forward, nuzzled his chest, and put the tip of her tongue to his nipple. He jerked, uttering a choked sound of mingled excitement and protest, which made Fenice chuckle softly and murmur, "Did I tickle you? I am so sorry," and press her lips more firmly to the area. "No," Aubery gasped, having no idea what he meant, for she certainly had tickled him, and the sensation was spreading all over his body, intensifying rather than diminishing, though the warm touch of her mouth was not tickling now. Whereupon Fenice lifted her head and pressed herself against him from thigh to breast, whispering against his lips just before she kissed him, "I will not tease you. You are too eager already." Aubery was totally bewildered. Matilda had never invited foreplay; she had, in fact, rejected what little he had attempted. And even before he married, being mindful that every penny he spent came from his stepfather's purse because his own father had ruined his estate, he had never been willing to pay the price of the type of whore who would take the trouble to play with a man and pretend she enjoyed her work. He had no experience at all with a woman who took pleasure in coupling, and Fenice's actions were as startling as they were exciting. Confused as he was, there was nothing wrong with Aubery's instincts. As Fenice's soft, smooth belly came against his shaft, his arms went around her, his hands sliding down to her buttocks to draw her even more tightly to him. In response, her mouth opened, and her tongue came out and touched his lips. Never in his life had Aubery been as sexually aroused as he was then. The urge to satisfy his need was tremendous; on the other hand, to do so would end the new and exquisite sensations that were sweeping through him. When Fenice's tongue retracted, Aubery's lips parted, and he sought to regain what he had lost. The warm, wet inside of her mouth was so close an image of what he desired that a dangerous throbbing woke in his groin. He pulled Fenice still tighter, but instead of responding with increased pressure from the arms around his neck, she drew her head back and brought her hands forward to cup his face so that he could not follow her. "Come, let us lie down," she whispered. "You are too tall for me to reach standing." He had not even patience to wait for Fenice to walk the few steps to the bed, and he swept her into his arms, laid her down, and mounted her. Reaching to push her legs apart, which he had always had to do with Matilda, his hand met hers. He started to thrust her arm away, but she had already taken hold of him, and he caught his breath in surprise as she positioned him and then groaned with relief and pleasure as the burning sword was at last sheathed. There was an instant's pause to savor the soothing that excited him still more, and in that instant Fenice's legs crossed over his buttocks, and her body lifted under his. He groaned again, and she sighed, "Sweet, sweet, how you fill me. Go slow, my lord," and then pulled his head down with one hand so that their lips met. The other hand caressed his neck and then slid down his back, the nails scraping gently along his

spine. Aubery heaved, expecting to need to fight the pressure of the legs that gripped him, but they relaxed to give him room to move and then tightened, giving extra impetus to his thrust. In spite of every will to go slow and prolong a pleasure more intense than he had ever felt, Aubery could not. Desire drove him to plunge harder and faster, and the body under him, moving with him, raised him to a pitch of passion so violent that he did not hear himself crying out nor Fenice giving voice in the convulsion of her joy. It was impossible to contain so great an agony of pleasure; his climax burst in a series of thrusts so fierce that the pillows rumbled from the bed, and Fenice gasped with surprise. For several minutes, Aubery lay like a log, gathering his scattered wits. Fenice's legs relaxed and fell away from him, but with one hand she stroked his shoulder and with the other pushed the sweat-wet hair gently off his forehead. She seemed in no hurry for him to leave her, unlike Matilda, who had complained she could not breathe when he rested. The thought made him feel ashamed; he should not criticize Matilda because Fenice was stronger and more sturdily built. But Fenice's caresses were sweet. Guilt pricked him again, and he rolled away, reminding himself that Matilda had caressed him also, although never after coupling. Relieved of Aubery's weight, Fenice stretched as sensuously as a cat. She, too, felt she had never been loved so completely, so exquisitely, or with such fulfillment—a natural result of the deprivation of months of widowhood after a very active sex life. But also she was pleased by Aubery's near-silence. Delmar had been a talker and had required her to talk also, which had sometimes interrupted her concentration on the delightful sensations of her body. She turned her head and looked at her new husband. As they had not snuffed the candles, drawn the bedcurtains, or covered themselves in their haste, he was clearly visible. Aubery was lying flat on his back, his chest still heaving intermittently as he drew a deeper breath. He had a beautiful body, Fenice thought, even more magnificent than she had realized when she first saw it. She had been concentrating then on what would fulfill her craving; now she could appreciate the whole picture. His skin was white as milk, seemingly thinner than Delmar's and thus more clearly delineating the heavy muscles of arm, chest, and thigh; she could even see the tight bands across the belly. Nor was the musculature obscured by a heavy growth of hair. There was a band of golden curls across the pectorals, thinning to nothing just below the nipples, the thick pubic bush, and a layer of fine hair on forearms and shins. There were scars, also. A brief internal shudder of fear ran through Fenice, but many of the scars were long healed, and the thick white tissue did not stand out against Aubery's fair skin as it did on her father. Tempted to run her fingers along the fascinating curves of muscle, Fenice raised her eyes to Aubery's face. If he was asleep, she must not touch him. But his eyes were not closed; he was staring at her with an expression she could not read. "What are you looking at?" he asked. Fenice smiled. "You, my lord. I said before you were beautiful. It is a pleasure to the eyes to see you." "That is ridiculous." Aubery flushed slightly, embarrassed and flattered at the same time. "Women are beautiful. You are beautiful. Men are made for work." "Perhaps, my lord," Fenice replied merrily, "so are horses—but one may be better made and more beautiful than another." Aubery could not help laughing. It was always amusing to talk to Fenice. The laugh cut short as she hopped out of bed. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"To pick up the pillows." Fenice giggled. "Dear lord, you are so strong. I thought you would come up through my mouth." "I am sorry if I hurt you," Aubery said, but even as the words were spoken he knew them to be unnecessary. There had been admiration, not protest, in Fenice's voice. She tossed the pillow she had picked up onto the bed, came around to his side, bent to pick up the second pillow, and then leaned over him and lightly kissed his lips. Despite his recent explosive climax, Aubery felt a faint stirring of desire. He raised a hand to stroke her hair, aware that its smooth, silken texture was very different from Matilda's, which had been baby-fine. His arm felt heavy, and he allowed it to drop and rest on her shoulder. The fingers slipped through the thick strands to touch her skin, which was cool and somewhat moist and reminded him of his first impression that it would be good to taste. Without thinking, he pulled her down toward him. She came to him readily; there was no apprehensive stiffening of her muscles, and she changed the angle of her body somehow so that his lips fell on her breast. Her skin was as sweet as new cream, and her scent was intoxicating. Fenice sighed, slipped her hand behind his head and held it to her, her thumb running gentry over the curve of his ear. "Are you ready so soon?" she murmured. "You are strong, my lord." Aubery had not thought of coupling again. The faint urge he had felt had been pleasant, but he had been conditioned by Matilda to believe sexual congress was distasteful to women, and he would have allowed the impulse to die. However, Fenice's remark, redolent as it was with amazed admiration, amounted almost to a challenge. Other men of his acquaintance had boasted to him of how eager their wives or mistresses were for their attentions. That was why in the beginning he had tried to teach Matilda to enjoy him. And to ease the bitterness of his failure, he had told himself that the boasters lied or deceived themselves. Now the gesture that encouraged him—the hand that held his head so that his mouth might more easily explore, the fingers that caressed his ear creating a sensation that somehow caused a wave of heat to flow across his loins—told him not only that the boasters had not lied but that he was as good as they. More than that, the recollection of the pleased surprise in Fenice's voice hinted that he was better—at least, better than her first husband. He pulled her down atop him, and she came willingly, but when he began to roll her on her back, she laughed and sat up. "You cannot be in such a hurry now," Fenice said. "Let us linger in play awhile. Tell me what you desire." "You," Aubery replied. "Here I am," she offered, pulling back her hair so that her body gleamed palely amber in the soft candlelight. "There is nothing I would willingly hide from your hands and lips. Sup as you desire. Will you rise to me, or shall I come down to you?" "Come here to me," he said huskily, realizing that she was inviting him to touch her. He was restrained at first, stroking the soft, fragrant flesh, kissing only face and throat, but he could sense that he was giving pleasure, and he grew bolder, lickings biting, sucking—exploring a body that did not flinch away or curl in shame, a body that responded with touches and kisses and sighs and little cries of joy. And though the fingers that caressed him roused delightful sensations, it was Fenice's powerful response to his manipulation, her gasps and moans, the way her nails raked his back when her climax came that drove his passion to a new height, so that he poured forth his seed with a force that wrung

groans near screams from him. After that they both slept, although Fenice half woke after a little while and staggered about snuffing the candles, closing the bedcurtains, and tugging the blanket from under Aubery to cover them both. He slept through that but was wakened near dawn when Fenice, from whom he had pulled all the covers, groped for them in her sleep and touched him suggestively. It was as if he had not twice emptied himself. He was instantly aflame, bending double to bite her thighs and thrust his face between them. The sleepy hand, tensing as Fenice grew aware, closed over what it had only touched by accident, and stroked lovingly, while laughter gurgled from her until choked off by the more urgent activity of her mouth. A gleam of sunlight and the soft rattle of the bedcurtains woke Aubery. He did not need to turn his head to know that Fenice had left the bed. He lay quietly, remembering the night and wondering whether it had really happened or he had dreamed it. Shifting uneasily—for he found both notions equally embarrassing—he felt the immediate evidence of the reality of the night's events. His back was sore where Fenice had scratched him. That might conceivably be owing to some cut or bruise he did not remember, but he was sore in several more private and delicate places, too. He could hear her moving softly around the room and put out a hand to the curtains, feeling a sudden desire to watch her. Then he flushed and let his hand drop. What the devil did you say to a woman with whom you had played such games? Somehow a simple "Good morning" seemed inadequate. And he had a dreadful feeling that he had not been much more gentle with her than she had been with him. Was it necessary to apologize? The doubts were wasted. Fenice had been examining her bruises with smug complacency. Alys's parting words recurred to her mind, and she giggled. She had certainly enjoyed her man and actually had no memory of being hurt, although her breasts and belly and thighs were black and blue. I will have to warn him to be more careful for a day or two, she thought, smiling again as she picked up Aubery's clothes, which he had scattered all over the room in his hurried disrobing. If I do not, I will be one bruise all over. But she did not really care. While she was folding Aubery's surcoat, she heard the leather straps of the bed creak in response to movement. She glanced at the position of the shaft of sunlight that came through the arrow slit. They had already missed both masses, she estimated. That was bad enough, but if they missed the breaking of fast, Lady Alys would tease them unmercifully. So, if Aubery was awake, he should get up and dress. She took his bedrobe from where it lay atop a chest, stepped across to the bed, and opened the curtains a bare slit on the side that would not admit the sun to peep in. Aubery's blue eyes regarded her gravely. Fenice pulled the bedcurtains all the way open and smiled. "A good morning to you, my lord," she said. "It is time"—she paused to chuckle—"and more than time to rise. Shall I bid the women bring water for washing?" "Yes, I thank you," Aubery replied rather formally, unable to decide whether he was relieved or disappointed. The cheerful, ordinary greeting removed any need for a special remark or response from him;, however, he had not heard Fenice washing, and thus knew she could not yet be dressed. To his shame, Aubery had been picturing her moving about the room clothed only in her hair, but she was decently concealed in a bedrobe, and she held his out to him as he sat up, saying, "If you will forgive me for not helping you into your robe, I will summon the maids. We are very late to rise, and I fear Lady Alys will make a merry May-game of us."

"Do not trouble yourself," he said, taking the robe. "I am accustomed to helping myself. But you need not worry about Alys's tongue if you do not wish to endure it. If you give me two minutes before you come from the chamber, I will see that she says nothing to offend you." Fenice's eyes opened wide with amazement. Delmar would not tell his mother, a person of no significance, to curb her tongue for Fenice's sake, yet Aubery was prepared to defend her against Lady Alys. She wanted to fall on his neck and weep with gratitude, but she knew he would not understand, and it would be impossible to explain without mentioning her serf mother. The thought brought a brief, sickening terror. If Aubery learned, could he end their marriage, put her aside because so disgraceful a secret had been kept from him? She crushed the fear. Lady Alys had said he would not care. Also, he had misunderstood completely what she had meant about Lady Alys's teasing. "Oh, no," Fenice cried. "I never mind what Lady Alys says. She is always so kind. She does not tease about anything that could really hurt me. But I know that men are more—" "I can hold my own against Alys," Aubery interrupted. "We have been sparring partners for years, but I agree we should hurry. I am damnably hungry." Fenice turned away immediately and hurried to the door. There had been a temptation to look back to catch a glimpse of her husband as he got out of bed, but when he said that he and Alys had been sparring partners, Fenice had remembered Alys's story about hitting him in the nose. Something told her not only that Aubery was not referring to that incident but also that he would not find it as funny as she did, and she moved quickly away with her back modestly turned to hide her tendency to giggle. Absently slipping into and belting his robe, Aubery watched her as she went to the door. One could not fault her for modest demeanor this morning. But what of last night? As the thought crossed his mind, his shaft stirred, and he resolved hastily to concern himself strictly with other matters, or he would provide such a point for Alys's jests as would be difficult to turn aside. It was not as difficult as he had feared because Fenice, when she mixed water for his washing and stood by, holding a towel with which he could dry himself, seemed as calm and indifferent as if she were serving the needs of an honored guest. Helping him to dress, she was swift and deft. There was neither a gesture nor a look that could indicate she had any memory of the caresses she had lavished on his body only a scant hour or two earlier. Aubery could not help thinking of that tale in which Sir Gawain was forced to marry an ugly old woman, who then offered him a choice of her being beautiful either by night or by day. Not that Fenice was anything but beautiful at any time, but she almost seemed to be two different women—meek and modest in the sunlight and bold and wanton at night.

CHAPTER 11

When Aubery entered the hall, he found, as Fenice had predicted, Alys, Raymond, and William already well ahead with breaking their fast. However, no more was said than a pleasant good morning, and his austere expression relaxed. William had told Alys and Raymond in no uncertain terms that the usual bridal-morning jests would not be funny to Aubery. "I cannot believe he will not take pleasure in his new wife," William had said, "Fenice being as sweet as she is lovely. But his joy must necessarily remind him of his past loss."

"I assure you," Alys had replied tartly, "that Fenice is nothing like what he has lost." "All the more must we be careful not to prod a half-healed sore," William pointed out. "I never grieved for your mother, Alys, but I often grieved because I could not grieve, and wept over small unkindnesses and harsh words that I never would be able to amend. Mary was a good woman. So was Matilda. And a man can feel shame also for too easily casting off the old to take pleasure in the new." Thus, Aubery was spared merrily pointed remarks on why he had "slept" so late when they had all been early to bed, and similar pleasantries. Alys felt a trifle uneasy at the dour scowl Aubery wore as he came across the hall, but her anxiety was relieved by the moderation in his expression once it was clear that all conversation would remain impersonal. The last trace of worry disappeared altogether a few minutes later when Fenice came to join them. There was nothing dour in Fenice's expression—not that there ever was, but Alys had rather feared she would see that look of restrained pain and dull submission with which Fenice accepted coldness toward her. On the contrary, the girl's step was light and eager, and her full lips curved slightly upward as if she would smile for any cause; every sign, in fact, showed Fenice to be content and secure. And when Aubery rose from his seat and bowed as he placed her in her own, she glowed with happiness. Alys thought such formality between a husband and wife somewhat peculiar, but it so obviously delighted Fenice that she assumed Aubery had noted her pleasure and was behaving that way for his wife's sake. She smiled gratefully at him—which pleased William, since Aubery was too busy eating to look at anything except what was laid on the trencher before him. Smiles were exchanged over his head, and Alys raised her brows inquiringly at Fenice, who winked in reply but did not pause in her own chewing and swallowing either. William hastily said something—he did not know what himself—about the political situation, fearing that everyone would begin to laugh. The dedication with which Aubery and Fenice were stuffing themselves indicated that considerable vigorous exercise had preceded the meal. Raymond bit his lip to steady his voice for a reply, but it was Aubery who spoke. "Just how serious is this threat from Castile?" he asked. There was no immediate response. William choked on a bite he had been about to swallow, and Alys pounded him on the back. Raymond cleared his throat harshly, as if he, too, had nearly swallowed wrong. For almost three weeks Raymond and William had discussed this subject—among many others, it was true, but with thoroughness. Aubery had been in their company most of the time in which the talks had taken place. However, there was no subterfuge in his present question; he was seriously asking for information. Obviously, while Aubery's body had been present at their earlier discussions, his mind had been elsewhere. Fenice turned to look down the table at her father, whose face was rather red, "Did the plan to marry King Alfonso's half sister to Prince Edward come to nothing then, Papa? Grandpapa had a letter from Queen Eleanor asking whether he knew anything about the little girl, so I thought…" She hesitated then, looking anxiously from one man's face to another. All were staring at her. "Have I said what I should not?" she asked faintly. Fenice knew well how to hold her tongue, but it had never occurred to her that she should not say anything that came into her head within the family circle. "No, no," Raymond assured her, and, simultaneously, William asked, "When did you hear of this?" "It must have been a week or two after… after I came home." Her voice quivered with a remnant of the shock she had felt in the instant she feared that secrets were to be kept from her husband and Sir William.

Accustomed to his daughter's sensitivity, Raymond nodded to reassure her but looked at William. "That would have been late in January. I did not arrive in Aix until the end of February. Why my father did not mention it to me, I do not know, but since such a union could only be to our advantage, it might have been that he simply forgot." "Possibly," William remarked thoughtfully. "This means that Henry must have been talking about the marriage seriously no later than October, and it is my feeling that it has been in his mind since Alfonso came to the throne." "As far as I am concerned, it is all to the good," Raymond said. "It will reduce the threat from the king of Navarre; he will not dare attack Gascony lest it give Alfonso of Castile a valid reason to leap upon his back and stab him. It will also give my dear kinsman Gaston de Béarn one less chance of fomenting trouble in Gascony in Alfonso's name. So, if I may ask, why do you look as if you have tasted something sour, William?" "Because Henry has been screaming that Alfonso is poised to attack and moving up men toward Gascony—you know that." "Do I? I wrote to him that the movement of troops in Castile was intended as a threat against Navarre," Raymond protested. "Of course, if a treaty is made between Castile and Navarre, Alfonso could march his gathered troops across Navarre to strike at Gascony, just as Gaston has been promising—" "But you do not think it very likely," Aubery interrupted angrily, "and neither does anyone else, from the expression you are wearing." "Very well," Raymond agreed, "I do not think it likely, but I am puzzled as to why you are angry. Do you wish Alfonso to attack Gascony, or do you object to Eleanor of Castile as Edward's wife?" "I am not angry about Eleanor of Castile," Aubery snarled. "What we object to is Henry holding up Alfonso to us as a madman determined to seize Gascony in order to extract men and money from us in England." "Oh, ho," Raymond said. "You mean you believe Henry has already opened negotiations with Alfonso and is keeping them secret? Well, I do not know… Fenice, can you remember what that letter said? Was any other maid mentioned? Did it sound as if Eleanor was trying to determine the most likely girl of many or as if Eleanor—oh, damn so many Eleanors—the child from Castile was already chosen?" Relieved of her anxiety about having done wrong, Fenice had been listening with bright-eyed interest. "I think Grandpapa believed young Eleanor of Castile to be a certain choice. That was why I was surprised when Aubery—" She hesitated, uncertain about having used her husband's name aloud without its title for the first time. A touch of color rose in her cheeks. "—When Aubery asked about the threat from Castile." "Do not be so harsh or so quick in judgment, Aubery," William said. "It is clear that to settle the problem with Castile for all time, Gascony must go to Edward, probably as a dower settlement upon young Eleanor. It is possible that Henry did not want the matter continually discussed and argued over to spare Richard any regrets over the lost appanage." Aubery shrugged his broad shoulders and raised a cynical brow. "Perhaps, but it was no secret that Henry assured the bishop of Bordeaux and the rest of the delegation from Gascony that the province would be given into Edward's hands as soon as possible. Would that be less hurtful to Richard's feelings?" "Now you are just being perverse." William laughed. "Everyone understood that out of spite Henry would

have promised Gascony to the devil to remove it from Leicester's hands." "That may be," Raymond remarked wryly. "The king is my uncle, and, to speak the truth, I cannot help but love him for his charm and his goodness to me—but nonetheless… why is he speaking of an invasion from Alfonso? I fear Aubery is right. I know with some surety what news and warnings were sent to him. There is a need for the king to come with trustworthy men because appearing weak would induce too high a stomach in the rebels. But Henry was told that to smooth over Leicester's tenure, there was more need for sweet words than for armies. No one in Gascony really wants as strong a king as Alfonso bids fair to be—and so close as Castile. So if Henry is crying aloud of imminent invasion, it is for some purpose of his own." "As I said, to extract money." But this time there was a kind of cynical detachment in Aubery's voice as he spoke. He suffered less than most financially because he did his own military service and most of his expenses were covered by Hereford. His habits of frugality, another reaction to his unlamented father's ostentatious manner of dress and spending, as well as to his own distaste for being a drain on his stepfather's purse, served him well. William, however, sighed and shook his head. "So what do I do?" he asked. "Do I write of this to Richard? He is coregent with the queen, who will say nothing to Richard of the planned marriage. If Henry writes that money is needed to build a defense against Castile, can Richard refuse to ask the barons for it? Is it necessary for me to add trouble to his burdens?" "Yes," Aubery replied, "because it will temper Lord Cornwall's attitude toward those who protest against such requests. You know, William, that if Cornwall thinks his brother is in danger, he will become fierce as a wolf to protect him." William sighed again. "You are right, and there are those who will spread the news of this proposed marriage as soon as a whisper of it floats in the air." "I would not write as if it were a surety," Raymond suggested, more to make William feel better than because he had any particular doubt about the matter. The proposed marriage was a perfect way to end the problem of Gascony. Alfonso was too clever, Raymond thought, to believe he could really take and keep that province. To accept it as a dower property for his half sister would increase his honor—and save him the trouble of trying to manage the unruly Gascon towns and nobles. Moreover, Alfonso had children of his own with whom to make other, possibly more important, political marriages. A half sister could easily be spared for a tie with far-off England. "Yes," Alys put in, supporting her husband's attempt to soothe her father's anxiety for his friend, "and you need not say how you heard the rumor. There is no need to hurt Richard by telling him that the news came through Queen Eleanor." "Alys is right," Raymond agreed. "Richard will understand immediately how advantageous to both England and Castile such a marriage will be." Suddenly Aubery laughed. "I would not be surprised if he were to suggest the marriage to Henry. You know he is fond of Edward and truly has the king's good and that of the realm at heart. And by now he must be resigned to the loss of Gascony." "Assuredly," Raymond agreed. "That was already decided when I was first in England, back in 1244."

"I think it is time to rise and allow the servants to clear this table, or they will never finish with their other work," Alys said hastily, knowing what the mention of 1244 must mean to Aubery and trying to change the subject. But the events of 1244 were burned deep into Aubery's mind. He was not so irrational as to believe that anyone else remembered the same things he did. Nonetheless, he glanced at Fenice. It was the first time he had thought of the reaction a knowledge of his father's ways might induce in her. There were still those who looked askance at him, wondering when he would show himself to be a knave or worse, and those like Sir Savin of Radanage who had once believed they had only to offer him a coin or two and he would swear to any falsehood they desired. Well, Sir Savin had learned different, but did Fenice know—or need to know—what his father had been? It was clear enough that she could not know that 1244 was the year his father had attacked Marlowe and nearly killed all within it, for her face was clear and untroubled, and as she rose from the table, she laid a detaining hand on her husband's arm and said, "Wait, Aubery, Papa—am I to speak or to be silent about the matter of the Castilian marriage? I am sorry to sound so stupid, but I am at a loss. I cannot guess whether it be to the good or the bad that a rumor should begin." Again everyone stared at her, but this time the stares were thoughtful. "For all I care, you can tell the world," Aubery said. "I can see no reason why Henry should play ducks and drakes with money drained from England on false pretenses." William looked at Raymond. "I am no expert on Gascon affairs," he said, "but I must admit that I would not object to a word dropped here or there, as it would make my letter to Richard less a piece of my own fancy. Still, if it will do the king harm—" "Not in Gascony," Raymond replied so quickly that he cut off whatever else William had intended to say. His eyes brightened with mingled mischief and amusement, but then he grew more sober, turning a speculative glance on Fenice. "No," he added slowly, "it can do no harm at all for doubts to be raised about the promises Gaston de Béarn has been making. Clearly if Alfonso is negotiating the marriage of his half sister to England's Prince Edward, he could have no intention of waging war in the province. Yet all will see that Alfonso told no lie when he said Gascony would come to be ruled by Castilian blood." "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 12

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 in sincere—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, "hut 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 Del mar 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 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. How did she know where to touch him to bring him such pleasure that he shook and cried out incoherent pleas? He blushed when he thought of the helpless moans he had uttered, but all the same his genitals tightened even though he was still lethargic in the wake of past pleasure. Was that right? But he did not feel helpless at the time. There was nothing in Fenice that gave the impression she was inducing feelings she did not reciprocate or was watching him with contempt. Far otherwise. Her own wordless cries in foreplay, the way she writhed under him while coupling, urging him on in a voice thick and choked with pleasure—or should he put the true name to it, lust—was that right either? Another wave of pleasurable sensation coursed through his genitals when he thought of Fenice's strong reactions, but Aubery tried to ignore it. Did a decent woman act the way Fenice did? Religion and the exhortations of Matilda's favorite priest cried that such pleasure was sin, and the men and women who yielded to it were lewd and lustful. But Aubery knew that some priests, despite their vows, were less celibate than he had been after Matilda's death. If Matilda had been as Fenice—and suddenly his throat was tight with grief and his eyes full of tears. He would have died! He would die himself if Fenice—There he cut off the thought. Fenice was strong and would not die of nothing as Matilda had done. And then Aubery was horrified again at what his mind had brought forth. It was not Matilda's fault that she had died; it was God's will. He was making less of Matilda to make more of Fenice—and he had started out wondering whether Fenice was decent. But why? Was it because of Fenice's peculiar uncertainty that the contract would actually be signed, even though everything had already been arranged? Or that odd feeling that Alys had been hiding something from him for a day or two before the wedding? Aubery turned restlessly, and Fenice shifted her position also, slipping an arm under his neck and pulling gently so that his head lay on her shoulder. Her lashes were so dark that Aubery could see them as shadows against her cheeks in the very faint light the night

candle sent through the bedcurtains; her eyes were closed, and she was still asleep. But her hold on him was comforting, and, as if she sensed his disquiet, she pressed a kiss of pure tenderness on his brow.

CHAPTER 13

Hereford's fears had been unjustified. Although the king might be unwise sometimes and often too much a prey to his own emotions, he was not at all a fool, and he had become an expert at finding patches—sometimes temporary but sometimes surprisingly long-lasting—for a leaking ship of state. The first step was just what Hereford had envisioned: a strong attack, first on La Réole and then, as success and power permitted, on the other keeps held by the rebel forces encouraged by Gaston de Béarn. This plan Henry proposed to the loyal noblemen who had come to meet him, and also to the important citizens of Bordeaux during audiences given to individuals and small groups on the afternoon he arrived and the following morning. After another state dinner, the council of Bordeaux had a formal meeting to which the king was invited. As holder of Blancheforte, which had an ancient responsibility for protecting one of the gates of Bordeaux, Raymond held a seat on the council. He had never put himself forward, except as a mediator of difficulties, and he was grateful that he would not be called on to mediate during today's meeting since the council was—possibly for the first time in its history—of one opinion. Raymond and his uncle-by-marriage had always been fond of each other. So, after the meeting of the council, at which a formal petition to protect the city by attacking its enemies had been presented to the king, Henry beckoned Raymond to accompany him when he retired to his private chambers. "It is surprising," Henry remarked cynically, "to find such unanimity of opinion in Bordeaux. I was sure half the council would feel that a reorganization of the council or an investigation of a thousand petty wrongs would be far more important than putting down a rebellion." Raymond shrugged. "You know what they are, but this matter has grown serious to them. The destruction of the countryside is cutting their profits, and all are affected. As far as offering mixed counsel—they are not stupid, as you well know, my lord. Their echo of your intention to take La Réole first was because they know it is right. They do not want Béarn to win." "I am the lesser of the evils?" Henry laughed. "You are more than that. You are a king who understands the special freedom of the cities and towns—" "Oh, yes," the king said with bitter emphasis. "I am come to understand a great many freedoms—all except my own." There was a brief uncomfortable pause while Raymond sought a way to change the subject without being too obvious and drawing the king's irritation onto himself. Raymond was annoyed. He had tried to offer Henry a compliment that was true, not mere flattery, and had apparently touched a sore spot of which he had not previously been aware. Actually, Bordeaux's reasons for preferring Henry to Gaston were not very flattering to the king at all. Simply, the wine trade was tied to England, and a victory for the rebels would almost certainly mean that Henry would cut off that trade. Possibly the cessation would only be temporary, but it was also possible, since there was a truce with France that had already lasted ten years, that English markets would go to

French vintners—and stay there. Other markets would be hard to find, since Spain and France grew their own grapes and preferred their own wines. In addition, Gaston was near at hand. Give him more power, and he would be more capable of extortion than a king far away in England. In trying to avoid reference to such unpalatable truths and yet not lie himself, Raymond had trod amiss, but he realized he had a pleasant red herring with which to draw the king off the trail. Henry was very family oriented. He was devoted to the members of his own family and was fond of hearing news even of distant relations. "Speaking of freedom," Raymond said blandly, "or, rather, the loss thereof, I must tell you that my daughter Fenice was married four days ago to Sir William of Marlowe's stepson, Sir Aubery of Ilmer." "Your daughter?" Henry echoed, frowning. "But surely there could be no haste to marry a mere babe—" "No, no," Raymond interrupted. "I am sorry, my lord. It is my natural daughter of whom I speak—a mistake of my youth but a lovely, good girl. You are quite right that I have no legitimate daughter old enough to wed." "Ah!" Now Henry smiled. "I suppose I should censure you for your sins, but this sin seems to have brought a happy result." "Indeed, my lord, it has, but I assure you that I did not escape without just punishment, and I sin no more in that way." Raymond shook his head sadly. "I have a jealous wife." "So your freedom is also curtailed." Raymond glanced up sharply, but the king was smiling kindly and the teasing was not ill-natured. Raymond knew that Henry was remarkably faithful to his queen. He grinned and nodded. "Do I know Sir Aubery?" Henry asked. "Sir William is Richard's marshal and a good man, but I cannot remember that he ever presented his stepson." "Aubery is Hereford's man," Raymond replied. "You may have seen him in passing—a big, blond man, very strong—" "Ah, I do know him," Henry interrupted in a tone of satisfaction. "He is a devil for tournaments and always takes one prize or another. But married to your daughter? Did I not remember Richard telling me that he gave one of his wards to Sir Aubery?" "Matilda of Ardley—yes. She died late last year, leaving an infant daughter, who is in Lady Elizabeth's care." And then, since Henry seemed interested, he told him of the problem of Marlowe and how the matter was settled. "And with all this talk of marriages and settlements," he ended, oh so casually, "there are rumors that you are planning a marriage between Eleanor of Castile and Prince Edward." Raymond was prepared to change the subject hastily if Henry showed the kind of temper that indicated he had been found out in one of his little plots. However, although he looked a little surprised, he did not seem at all angry; instead, he sighed. "I wish I were. And, between yourself and myself, I still hope to bring it about. I suppose the rumors are a late blossoming from some seeds I planted before the death of Alfonso's father. But at that time the matter had gone no further than an inquiry as to whether Castile would welcome such a proposal. It was clear that the king was interested—very much interested—and there did not seem to be any need to hurry. Eleanor was still too young to marry, and just at that moment I did not wish to ask a dispensation from the pope."

"But would not a renewal of the marriage proposal cut the ground from under Béarn?" Raymond asked. Henry scowled, and his voice grew angry. "I sent a new delegation in May, but they were coolly received and attended only in silence. I suppose after Leicester had caused rebellion, Alfonso felt Gascony would drop into his hand and he could ask even more for his sister. My envoys returned, and I did not send them again lest it seem I needed to plead for Castile's help to control my vassals." "Of course not," Raymond agreed hastily, although privately he thought Henry's pride was misplaced and doubted Alfonso thought the province an easy prize to take. "But I still believe that the claim to Gascony was only laid to draw you into negotiations." "Perhaps," Henry replied more moderately, but still frowning. "But I do not like to negotiate under a threat. Besides, who knows what lies that treacherous and ungrateful dog Béarn has told. If Alfonso thought Béarn could hand Gascony to him, he might have refused in such a way as to end the possibility of the marriage for all time." Raymond thought Alfonso too sensible and too cautious to act so foolishly on the basis of anything Béarn said, but Henry did have a point about not negotiating under a threat. He nodded. "Yes, I see. If we take La Réole, and Castile makes no effort to redeem the promises of help Béarn has given those he has led astray, you will have ready proof of Alfonso's good intentions." "His good intentions I already doubt," Henry snapped. "If he had good intentions, he would have refused Béarn's fealty. I think he will send help to La Réole and try to catch me between two fires." But as he spoke, the drooping lid of his left eye fell a little lower, and Raymond was suddenly in doubt of the king's sincerity again. With each year, Henry grew more devious, more capable of hiding his thoughts. From believing the king, Raymond swung back to suspecting that the delegation in May had been better received than Henry admitted. Alfonso's father had planned an invasion of the north coast of Africa, to cut the Moors off from their main base of strength. It was widely said that the young king intended to go forward with that plan. If so, he had no strength to waste in an attempt to help Gaston de Béarn take Gascony, particularly as it was most unlikely that the king of Navarre would give permission to march troops through Navarre. The king was telling the truth, Raymond thought, insofar as he wished to negotiate the marriage of Eleanor and Edward under the best circumstances in his favor. And that was most reasonable. But he did not expect Castile to help the rebels, and he did want people to believe that that was a real danger. So, whether or not Aubery had been right about the fact that there were emissaries already in Castile or on their way there, he was certainly right that Henry intended to use the threat of a Castilian invasion to wring more men and money out of England. Naturally, that did not annoy Raymond nearly as much as it annoyed Aubery, since whatever money came from England would reduce the charges on the loyal Gascon nobles and cities. Nor did he regret spreading the rumor that a marriage between Edward and Eleanor was intended. It was no lie, and there would be some time before it reached England. Meanwhile, here in Gascony, it could only do good. "Then, I think, we had better set about taking La Réole as quickly as we can," Raymond said. Henry nodded and smiled at Raymond's statement, which appeared to accept the danger of an attack by Castile. Raymond knew very well that the king thought he had been fooled, but he cared less for that than for the fact that Henry intended to get the army away from the environs of Bordeaux, where they were sure to come into conflict with the townspeople all too soon. He did not mention that, since Henry next said that the military commanders were summoned at terce the next day to plan the advance on La Réole

and discuss whether an assault would be possible. Still, "quickly," by Henry's standards was measured by weeks rather than hours. It was late October before the army was moved and encamped around La Réole. In spite of the delay, Aubery was seldom in Blancheforte. He was not high enough in rank to come and go as he pleased, and he was fully occupied as Hereford's most trusted deputy in the overlord's duty as constable of the army. The longer the men were encamped near Bordeaux, the more offenses they managed to commit against the townspeople. Prices were growing higher by the day, and many barons were niggardly in supplying their contingents. Stealing from and assaulting tradesmen over what they felt to be extortion were common, and even more common were drunkenness and abuse of decent women. The malefactors had to be identified and depositions taken. Some cases Hereford dismissed outright, experience permitting him to recognize exaggerated blame in the hope of profit; some he was able to compound for apologies and small fines; a few were serious matters that ended in whippings and hangings. Thus, although he knew he would miss the occasional night he was able to snatch with Fenice, Aubery was relieved when the army finally settled in around La Réole. In the company of familiar male companions, most of whom Aubery had not informed of his marriage, the talk was that of an armed camp—war, supplies, and loot. By the third week in January, everything about the siege had palled, and everyone was bored. King Henry's supporters had long since decided that assault on the great fortress was impractical. Those siege machines for which timber was available had been built, and new supplies only trickled in slowly. Hereford had summoned Aubery to have a cup of wine together and idle away another cold, damp afternoon. Periodically, their talk was interrupted by the crash of a huge stone against La Regie's virtually impregnable stone wall. After a while by mutual consent they walked out to look at the result of the crashes. There was no greater effect now than when the machine had begun its work. Although they could not see the place, both knew that at another spot miners and sappers were at work tunneling under the wall. "I have the men building another mangonel," Aubery said. "Then we can set them at an angle to each other so that all the stones strike on the one spot. Perhaps that will speed the work." "There is no harm in trying," Hereford replied without much enthusiasm, "but I think it likely that the rebels will yield before we breach the walls, whatever method we use. I would say they have been of two minds since we arrived here—one hoping that Béarn and his Castilian allies will come to do their fighting for them and the other hoping the king will make promises fair enough for them to yield to him. The king has already parlayed with them once, and you can see that they hardly resist." Right on the word, a huge stone from a machine on the walls flew at them. Aubery shoved Hereford violently away from their own mangonel, at which the missile had probably been aimed, stumbling after him off balance. The stone struck him a glancing blow on the left shoulder, pushing him in the direction he was already staggering so that he would have fallen heavily on his overlord had Hereford not rolled away with the presence of mind and agility that had saved his life more than once in battle. Aubery, too, had been twisting as he fell to avoid Hereford, so that he landed on the already bruised shoulder and uttered a loud yelp. The stone struck simultaneously, about twenty feet beyond the mangonel and two or three from Aubery. The impact scattered dirt and small stones far and wide, several of which struck the two men with considerable force. Both yelled with pain and surprise and then, as the lighter particles of earth, twigs, and leaves rained down on them, they lay where they were, laughing, until the crew of the mangonel rushed over and helped them to their feet.

"I was just about to agree with you," Aubery said, after he had spit the debris out of his mouth. "I still agree with you, but I wish what resistance they do put up did not choose to fall on us." Having rid his own mouth of foreign matter, Hereford ordered the crew of the mangonel to summon help, lever the machine back onto its rollers, and move it some yards to the left and forward of its present position. Then he turned to Aubery. "That was remarkably apt." He shook his head. "A warning to us both that contempt for even the least warlike of enemies can bring a man to destruction. It is told that Richard Coeur de Lion died that way—struck by a chance arrow while riding unarmed around a besieged keep where action was stalled." He put his hand on Aubery's shoulder, about to thank him for thrusting him out of the way, but Aubery yelped again, and Hereford drew back his hand hurriedly. "Is it broken?" he asked anxiously. Carefully Aubery raised and rotated his arm. It hurt, but with the aching protest of bruised muscles, not with the sharp agony of grating bone. "No, only bruised," he replied. Nonetheless, Hereford insisted he come back to the tent and allow a leech to look over it. The man agreed that no major bone was broken, but he eyed the huge, already darkening bruise that ran down Aubery's arm, over his shoulder, and across his back, and suggested that his patient not use the arm for a week or two. A bone, while not snapped completely, might be cracked, he pointed out, or on sudden impact the ends of the bones in the joint might have been chipped. If Aubery used the arm, he warned, he might cause the cracked bone to break or loosen the chips so that they came away from the bone and settled elsewhere to cause lasting harm. "I will keep it still," Aubery promised. "It is no pleasure to me to move it." "Why do you not go home," Hereford suggested after watching the leech fashion a sling for Aubery's arm. "Aside from giving me your company, you really have nothing to do here. Any task I have set you could be done as easily by any other man. It is no more than a long day's ride to Blancheforte. I can send for you if I need you." Hereford's mention of Blancheforte immediately brought Fenice into Aubery's mind, and his mental picture was such that he blushed. Mistaking the rising color for the wrath of hurt pride, Hereford said hastily, "It is not that I find you unnecessary to me, Aubery. You will heal faster there so that I will have full use of you more quickly. Here you will forever be forgetting yourself and doing what you should not. In Blancheforte, your wife will devise gentle amusements for you." Aubery choked. The amusement that had just passed across his mind's eye might do his shoulder more harm than any military act in which his left hand was engaged. "What the devil ails you?" Hereford asked, somewhat annoyed, but holding on to his temper both because Aubery had saved his life only a short time ago and because he was really very fond of his liegeman, even if his sensitivity was a trial. "I beg your pardon," Aubery gasped, beginning to laugh. "I did not mean to refuse your kindness, my lord, but the amusement I was contemplating at the moment you spoke was not… er… of a particularly gentle sort. If you really can spare me, I will be glad of it." Hereford roared and just barely stopped himself from clouting Aubery on his sore shoulder. "Go," he agreed, "but leave your armor and accoutrements here. I will care for them, and if I need you, you will

have nothing to do but ride to me as fast as you can. In the case that I must go one way and you another, I can send them to Blancheforte or give them into the care of Sir William or Lord Raymond." "Well, then, if you will give me leave, my lord, I must go and speak to the gentlemen you named. They will have letters or messages for Lady Alys."

CHAPTER 14

Aubery first rode to where William was camped among the troops sent by Richard of Cornwall. His stepfather questioned him anxiously about what had befallen him and then agreed that probably no great harm had been done but that it was wise to rest the arm. He was as bored as everyone else and said he would happily have accompanied Aubery back to Blancheforte except that he did not trust Cornwall's vassals not to begin a war among themselves just to relieve the tedium. Raymond also exclaimed over Aubery's bound arm, but his eyes lit when he heard Aubery had leave. "I cannot let you go alone," he insisted, eyes dancing. "Are you not my son-by-marriage? Do I not owe my son my tenderest care? I must accompany you so that you may be protected in your helpless state." "If you want to go home," Aubery sputtered, "why not just go? You have Sir Oliver, who is a more than adequate deputy during this idle time. What need for you to be here? The king himself is in Bordeaux." "Is that not a good enough reason to be here?" Raymond asked cynically. "I do not wish to be a mere fifteen minutes away by messenger from the king—at least, not if he knows of it. That would make me too vulnerable to involvement in more of Henry's 'little plans,' and if I can avoid that, I will be glad." "I forgot his tendency to meddle in the doings of Bordeaux," Aubery admitted. Raymond shrugged, then added, "Not that all the ideas the king has are bad—not at all—but I must continue to live here and do not wish to be known as his tool. Had I left the siege for no particular reason, I must, out of courtesy, have stopped to visit the king when I passed through Bordeaux." He paused again and grinned broadly, continuing in a greasily sanctimonious voice, "but it would be a dreadful cruelty to make my wounded and pain-racked son-by-marriage wait while I paid a casual call of courtesy. And then in my anxiety over your condition, I would not wish to leave Blancheforte even for an hour until I felt it necessary to return to the siege." "If you think I am going to let you have me dragged thirteen leagues in a horse litter just so that you will not need to visit the king—" Aubery began. "Oh, no." Raymond laughed. "That would be very bad for a shoulder that might be shattered. I would be waiting, of course, for you to show you could move your arm. I said you were pain-racked, not weak. You can ride." "I tremble with joy at your generosity," Aubery said sardonically, and then grinned. "Actually, I will not be sorry for your company. That road is rife with outlaws. My servant is stout enough and handy with a staff, and I could take a couple of men-at-arms, but I hate to expose them to the temptation of remaining in Bordeaux instead of returning here at once. They are bored to death, too." It was agreed that they would start at first light. They traveled without interference, since Raymond took with him some of the men from Blancheforte. The party arrived at dusk, just before the evening meal, and

Fenice and Alys were down in the courtyard to greet them with cries of joy. As they dismounted, Raymond called out a warning to Fenice to beware of her husband's bad shoulder but could say no more because his head had been pulled down and his lips stopped by his wife's eager kiss. Fenice put out her hands as if to steady Aubery, but she did not dare touch him, not knowing whether he was bruised anywhere beside his shoulder. "What happened, my lord?" she cried. However, she was not much frightened about this injury; it was perfectly clear that he had ridden over thirteen leagues and was quite steady in the saddle. Moreover, she knew her father would have moved to help Aubery rather than let Alys kiss him if he felt Aubery needed help. Still, a wave of coldness passed through her. "Nothing. An accident," Aubery said cautiously, having experience of a wife who fainted dead away in the middle of his happy and enthusiastic description of how he had received a superficial cut instead of a fatal blow. "I fell and landed on my shoulder. It is only bruised, but since we are so close and Lord Hereford really had little use for me, he said I should go home. Raymond only said I needed escort as an excuse to come home himself." Fenice's face cleared and she clapped her hands together with joy. "Then, if your hurt is nothing, you are well come. Most heartily am I glad to see you." When she had received his note from Bordeaux asking that his war gear be sent to him, Fenice had been terrified. Only her passionate need to please Aubery no matter what the cost to herself prevented her from refusing to send his armor in her initial terror and conviction he would be killed. As the first shock of fear passed, she was able to remind herself of how often her father had gone to war and returned safely. Those memories, which included mental images of a white-faced but rigidly controlled Lady Alys outfitting Raymond for a campaign, also permitted her to gather up what was necessary. Had Aubery read her letter in better light, he would have seen the carefully blotted splotches made by her tears, but he had returned the parchment with a few words of thanks when he sent back Alys's man. Parchment was costly and could be scraped clean and used many times, so Aubery did not think of writing on a fresh piece from the supply—with inkhorn and quills—that Fenice had provided. He had not used the supply to write to her at any time during the weeks he had been at La Réole either. This had not angered or distressed Fenice, although she had cherished a very small hope that if he had the means he would write. She had been told already that Aubery hated writing, and she was resigned to the fact. His silence might have been more frightening and painful if her father had not been sending frequent letters to Lady Alys bewailing the nearly total lack of action at the siege. The frequency and irritable tone of Raymond's communications plus his vivid descriptions of the boredom and daily life of the camp had convinced both his wife and his daughter that what he wrote was true—which was not always the case. In the interests of Alys's peace of mind, Raymond had been known to omit such items of news as impending or even past battles from his letters. However, this time neither Fenice nor Alys had had cause to doubt him and had been able to go about their lives without a constant burden of worry. Thus, the disquiet Fenice felt on hearing that Aubery had been injured, although it was plain that he was not badly hurt, went deep. Fenice asked no further questions, being certain from the reserve with which Aubery had spoken that he had been drunk and taken a tumble. That did not trouble her at all. When men were idle and bored, they were bound to drink too much on occasion. Aubery did not do so as a general practice, she knew. Nor was her serenity disturbed by anything Raymond said that evening. Raymond had learned early in his life about hysterical women. He did not account Alys one of them, but

ten years of marriage had taught him how much fear his wife concealed behind her calm front. Thus, he was not such a fool as to mention that Aubery and Lord Hereford had almost been mashed flat by a stone missile. He and Aubery knew such a thing was a freak accident—except to a mangonel or trenchbut crew at whom such missiles were aimed—but Alys and Fenice would never believe that. The evening was therefore quietly merry. They decided to eat before the men bathed since it would take time to heat water for two baths. As there was only one tub, there was a brief polite argument as to who should first get rid of several weeks' worth of dirt and sweat. Aubery settled that at last by stating firmly that he did not wish to need to dress again after he bathed. So, when the meal over which they had lingered pleasantly was finished, Alys took Raymond away for his bath while Aubery and Fenice remained near the small fire that was kept burning to mitigate the damp of early autumn. "I have heard so much about the king," Fenice said. "And it is all contradictory." Aubery smiled. "You mean you have heard Lady Alys say severe things and Raymond say milder ones. I think Raymond is closer to being right. Myself, I have never done more than bow and acknowledge the bestowal of a tourney prize from the king, but he has given to that brief formality a warmth, a real notice of me as a person, so that—at least for the moment—I longed to know him better. Also, to his credit, I have heard many instances of his true kindness to those in trouble. Equally, however, I know that he is capable of turning on those he seemed most to trust and honor, and turning with little warning. But as to Alys calling him a fool—" He smiled again at Fenice's faint movement of protest. "No, I know you said no such thing, but I have heard her myself more than once. There, she is not fair." "No, truly," Fenice said anxiously, "Lady Alys never said to me that the king was a fool." Briefly Aubery was irritated by Fenice's loyalty to Alys—not that he objected to loyalty as such, but that he wanted hers for himself alone. The desire was unworthy, and he subdued it, but he was again aware of wishing he could be alone with his wife. He had not had the problem with Matilda, who had no close family and was not particularly attached to the earl of Cornwall, her warden. As the thought of Matilda came to him, shame and confusion mingled with Aubery's irritation. In self-defense he turned his mind to what he had been saying. "Do not fear," he said, "I do not hold Alys to blame. The earl of Cornwall, though he loves his brother well, has a hot temper and a hasty tongue. When he is angry, he says what he does not really mean, and for many years he said it to William while Alys was within hearing. She confuses the king's tendency to allow emotions to rule him with an inability to think keenly. No, the king is no fool. I have seen him weasel out of situations that would have trapped King Solomon the Wise." "But he got into them," Fenice remarked. She is really interested in affairs of state, Aubery thought. My mother will have the kind of daughter she always wanted. Someone to whom she can talk and in whom she can confide. The notion eased his momentary irritation, somehow making his satisfaction with Fenice a dutiful and filial act. "Yes, there lies the rub," he remarked mildly, personal content setting his tone at odds with his words. "And a worse rub yet is that Henry puts the blame on others rather than himself whenever he gets into trouble, but I am not so great a one as to need to concern myself about earning the king's spite. I am a simple knight. I could get caught in a brew of Hereford's making—his temper is not the mildest in the world, but Hereford knows where to draw the line… usually." Fenice smiled. "I do not envy the great ones. I have no love for show." "It is well," Aubery commented, "since I have little with which to make a show. William is rich, but I do

not like to take what is not my own." "You will hear no complaint from me, my lord," Fenice assured him. "I am more than content." The smile had gone from her lips, but it remained in her eyes. Aubery felt confused again, but around that confusion and part of it was the realization that he had never been more comfortable—not physically, for he was filthy and louse-ridden; he itched all over, and his shoulder and arm ached. All of those physical discomforts were so common to life that he dismissed them without noticing. What was different was a lack of wariness in his mind, a feeling that it made no difference what he said because Fenice could be trusted, and, better yet, if he chose to be silent, she would neither intrude her own chatter and expect him to be interested nor be hurt and weep. Aubery made no comparisons this time, but thinking of his ease added again to his confusion, and under the comfort there was still a kind of tension. It was not unpleasant—actually, the contrary was true—but it was there, and it was connected with Fenice. He regarded her from under half-closed lids; she had just turned and reached behind her to pick up the lute that hung from one of the posts on the back of her chair. Fenice never played for Alys and Raymond without specific permission to do so, although she usually had her lute available since Aubery and William had come—William often asked her to sing. Aubery was not certain why she waited for permission, but he had a peculiar sense of pleasure when this time she picked up the lute and began to pluck the strings without asking. The action made it clear that she felt the same confidence and comfort in his presence that he felt in hers. She began to sing, keeping her voice very low, and the soft, sweet tones increased the sense of intimacy between them and also increased the mild, pleasurable tension Aubery had barely noticed earlier. It was expectation he felt. He wondered whether Fenice could read his thoughts, because there was something about the curve and movement of her lips, the way her lids lifted to glance at him and then fell again, even the slight tilt of her head that bespoke an equal expectation. Aubery's perception of Fenice's feelings was a little at fault. The slight change in expression that he had noticed was not owing to any unusual consciousness of his desire but to a most indelicate speculation on whether her father and stepmother would wait to satisfy their own urges long enough for the bath to be emptied and removed. Fortunately Alys's mind had been running along this track somewhat earlier than the problem had occurred to Fenice. Her solution was to have the bath set up in the antechamber rather than her bedchamber so that it could be emptied, carried down, and refilled without reference to what she and Raymond did after he had finished bathing. Her answer to Raymond's question about this change of procedure drew appreciative chuckles and had the additional benefit of reducing the time her husband spent in the tub. This worked to Aubery's advantage. Before pleasure changed to frustration, the thudding progress of the heavy tub down from the upper floor became apparent, and from the other end of the hall came a parade of servants carrying pails of hot and cold water to refill the bath. Fenice stopped playing midphrase, and Aubery got to his feet simultaneously. It was a moot point whether he had risen or she stopped playing first. Neither action displayed any great consideration for the proprieties, nor did the fact that as their eyes met, they burst out laughing together. As they entered their chamber, Aubery said, "That was not polite. I should have waited for you to finish your song." "It is just as well you did not," Fenice replied, chuckling, "since words and music together went out of my

head." But a few minutes later she cried out with concern as she removed Aubery's shirt and the extent of his injury became plain. "This cannot have been from a fall," she exclaimed. "Do not make much of nothing," Aubery said sharply. "However I came by it, it is no more than a bruise. The bones are sound." "But I could have eased it much had you told me," Fenice protested, her voice shaking. "It was more ease to me not to have you weeping over me," he snapped. Fenice swallowed hard. "Then I will say no more." She left the room, and Aubery stared after her blankly, thinking that Fenice had shown her claws at last. He was not certain what to do. Normally, he would have gone after her and given her a clout or two to make plain that he did not intend to endure a wife who would neglect him whenever he said what did not please her. But in her father's house, it was not so simple. Having got that far in his ruminations, they were made ridiculous when Fenice returned and spilled into the bathwater the handful of herbs she had gone to fetch and, after testing the temperature solicitously, invited him to get into the tub. Now, of course, Aubery felt very silly, but also uncertain. Although nothing could have been more tender than Fenice's touch as she washed his injury, her face did not betray her feelings. Nor did she neglect any other measure for his comfort, rubbing a pest-killing ointment into his hair before she began bathing him, and washing it out in a separate bowl. However, there were more subtle ways to display displeasure than overt rebellion, and if his wife chose to use a sly device, his difficulty in correcting her would be increased. Fenice would have been astounded had she been able to guess her husband's thoughts. Anger and spite were no part of her nature. Behind her expressionless face, she was contemplating no more drastic measure than how to explain that it was dangerous to hide injuries from her, that if weeping or sympathy were displeasing to him, she would conceal them. But she found no opening for any explanation and was distracted by the pleasure of handling her husband's body and by the task of fine-combing the lice from his hair. Between his abstraction and hers, they had not said a word to each other after the exchange that had set their minds on separate tracks. The servants had emptied and removed the tub before Fenice was satisfied that Aubery's hair was clean. Then she said softly, still without perceivable expression, that he could get into bed. "And what will you do?" he asked quietly, more convinced than ever that Fenice's reserve concealed resentment but less sure how she would express it. Fenice blinked. The answer to Aubery's question was so obvious that she could not conceive why he asked it, but it was not her place to point that out, so she said, "I will take your clothing to the maids for washing and return the salve and comb." That was not what Aubery meant, of course, but he was not able to think of a way to make himself clear and—to his mind, at least—not to look a fool before Fenice went out again. He waited impatiently for her to return so that the few minutes she was away seemed much longer, and he was contemplating going after her, except that he knew he would appear ridiculous. It did not improve his opinion of himself, and thus exacerbated his temper still further, when she reentered the room, snuffed all the candles except the night light, and immediately began to undress.

There was only one way now Aubery could conceive of resentment being expressed, and he waited with a kind of cynical amusement for one of the excuses with which he was so familiar. But Fenice did not speak; nor did she get into bed on her side. Instead, she came around, leaned over, and kissed him, running her hand down the good side of his body and between his legs. Instantly all Aubery's doubts and suppositions were wiped out in an explosion of desire. It was as if his passion had been hidden under a mask, growing greater and greater in that concealment until the delicate scratch of Fenice's elegant nails tore the false skin, and the violence beneath it gushed out. He seized her and tried to pull her onto the bed so he could mount her, but she resisted, whispering, "Wait, you will hurt yourself. Let me come over you." The words meant nothing to Aubery; he was so aroused that he had forgotten his bad arm. However, he had not forgotten anything connected with his intense physical need, and he well knew that Fenice's suggestions always produced thrilling results. He relaxed his grip on her a trifle, allowing her to pull back the blanket he had forgotten—which would have frustrated his attempt to take her—and slide herself atop him. He started to lean left, expecting her to roll off, and gasped with pain as his weight came onto his bruised shoulder. The shock made him fall back and hesitate, just long enough for Fenice to come upright, straddle him, rise up on her knees, and impale herself. Aubery gasped. Fenice lifted and slid down again. He stared up at her, at the closed eyes, the slightly parted lips, all colorless in the dim light of the night candle. The rapt expression, a mask of ecstasy, intensified the pleasure her movement gave him. His eyes slid down to the full breasts, swinging very slightly with her motion, where the upright nipples were dark in contrast to the creamy skin, and down again over her belly until he saw his own shaft appear and disappear. Seeing the source of his sensations brought a pleasure so exquisite, an excitement so intense, as to be nearly unbearable. Aubery shook with the need for fulfillment, which struggled with the frantic desire to prolong this joy. Violence roiled in him, a desire to strike, to bite, but he was paralyzed by the intensity of his reaction. He could not move nor cry out; if he drew breath, he was unaware of it. The torment of pleasure seemed eternal, wave after wave reflecting from his groin to his eyes and back again, until Fenice fell forward, squirming and heaving and crying, "Come, my love, come." Whether it was her words or the change in movement or the shutting off of the vision, Aubery was released. He closed his eyes at last as a pulse of ecstatic agony racked him, only to be followed by a still greater one. Aubery groaned as if he were being torn apart, his body convulsed with his giving. So fierce was his response that his very life seemed drained out in the spilling of his seed. Fenice was quite unaware of the violent reaction she had induced. Her eyes had closed as soon as she satisfied her need to be filled, so she had never seen her husband's face. She was a trifle surprised when he did not take advantage of her position to handle her body more freely than was possible for him when he mounted her and needed his arms to support him, but she connected that with his absolute stillness beneath her. When Delmar wished to delay his climax, he would lie still, looking off into the distance and thinking of other things. Although Aubery had never done so before, an explanation was not hard to find. Fenice knew she was more eager than she had been since their wedding night. This had not been so long a starvation, but it was harder for a man than for a woman, she knew. It was not surprising that Aubery might need to employ various devices to delay his own satisfaction so that she might reach hers. Fenice was grateful and hurried to her own conclusion as fast as she could to reduce the strain on her husband. It was not until she was satisfied and lay resting, savoring the warm, powerful body beneath hers, that it occurred to Fenice that Aubery's need to distract himself so as not to be too quick for her had a most

delightful implication. If he were as eager as she, or more so, as was normal for a man, did that not mean that he had been as celibate as she? Men varied widely in their practices, she knew. Her grandfather had many women-fewer now that he was older, of course—but gave all his respect and his tenderness to his wife; the women were nothing, an outlet for a physical need her grandmother did not share. On the other hand, her father took no other woman—at least, not in any place where his wife might hear of it. Perhaps on a long campaign he was not perfectly faultless, Lady Alys had admitted to Fenice with a shrug, but he was a man, not a saint. Fenice had not previously thought about how Aubery might behave. She had been very hurt when she discovered that Delmar had taken one of the maids in Trets, but he had told her it was none of her business as long as he withheld nothing from her—and it was true that he had been as active and loving that day and night as any other. Still… Fenice lifted her head and looked down at Aubery's face with her heart in her eyes, then touched his lips with her own as gently as a whisper, but he did not respond in any way. It was somewhat disturbing that he did not open his eyes or seem to notice when she finally lifted herself away from his body. Although not talkative during the act of love, Aubery often would talk afterward—oddly enough, of common things, almost as if he wished to forget or cover over their pleasure in each other. But that thought was silly, and Fenice put it away as she had done several times before, realizing that it had come to mind this time because she was concerned by Aubery's stillness. She feared he was in pain but was afraid to ask. "My lord," she whispered, but he only turned his head slightly away. Fenice had to accept that, but she was worried as she pulled the bedcurtains closed and settled down to sleep. This bruise was nothing; it would heal by itself, although she could have eased his discomfort with warm and cold applications. But there had to be some way for her to explain that he must tell her if he were ill or hurt so that she could help him or seek more experienced help for him. A tremor of panic ran through her at the thought that Aubery might conceal a dangerous sickness or injury and die of it. No! This explanation could not be left to chance. She would have to ask Lady Alys to help her. Although Fenice drifted off to sleep as soon as she decided to transfer her problem to a wiser head, Aubery had no such easy pacifier. Everything that had happened had shocked and appalled him. The disclosure of the violence of his own craving and the way he had hidden it from himself was bad enough, but the exposure of Fenice's true nature was unbearable. Aubery was so horrified that he could not weep. Her lust was so powerful that it made naught of the anger she had felt when he spoke sharply to her. She had not refused him; instead she had used him like… like some kind of inanimate instrument to satisfy herself. Contradictory memories stirred dimly. That feather-light kiss had nothing of lust in it, and further back the music of her voice saying, "You will hurt yourself." But those memories made little headway against the image that filled the forefront of Aubery's mind of Fenice's beautiful body rising and falling above him. It would not have been so bad could he have felt disgust or indifference, but his body was already responding to that image, eager to renew sensations it craved. He fought the desire, a task made no easier by the acute awareness of Fenice's presence generated by her even breathing and the dip in the mattress that seemed to tilt him toward her. Aubery was very strong. Despite the long, tiring ride from La Réole and the fatigue of his sexual outpouring, it was hours before exhaustion overcame his desire and he was able to sleep. Naturally, once it came, his sleep was very deep. He was not wakened when Fenice left their bed, nor did he stir later when Alys came in, alarmed by Fenice's fear, to listen to his breathing and touch his forehead gently with her hand.

"No, there is nothing wrong with him," she said to Fenice outside the room. "He is only sleeping soundly. His breathing is fine, and he has no fever. You may be right, though, that he was in pain last night. Perhaps he could not sleep at once." "Should I have asked?" Fenice's eyes were full of anxiety. "He told me not to trouble him, so I did not. I knew there could be no real harm in this bruise. But if…" Alys shook her head. "If he was out of temper, which the pain might cause, he would only have beaten you." "I do not care for that," Fenice said, "if he would then have let me ease him." Alys made a small sound of irritation. She accepted the right of a husband to chastise a wife for a fault, but she did not approve at all of Fenice's willingness to allow Aubery to beat her to soothe an irritation she had not caused. In addition, she did not think it would work with Aubery, who had always been gentle with women because of his fondness for his mother. However, men did need to work off their tempers. "Then you are a fool," Alys remarked tartly, "for Aubery is a kind man at heart. If he had struck you, he would have felt worse rather than better, ashamed for responding with a blow to an offer of help. Not that I think it wrong to provoke your husband into a quarrel so that he can spit out any bitter bile he has swallowed through the ill acts of fate or other men. That is good, and you would be at fault to withhold from him that relief. I have told you some thousands of times that too much meekness is as great a failing in a wife as shrewishness." "I could have stood out of reach," Fenice said, half jesting but still seeking a method to deal with the problem. Alys smiled, and said absently, as if she were considering something more important, "Yes, for a needful quarrel that is wise." Then after a brief hesitation she went on, "but this is different anyway, I think. I have never known Aubery's temper to be overset by a little pain. I believe he expected you to act like that silly birdwit Matilda. She was just the kind to weep and wail and wring her hands and shriek that she could not look at such a hurt because it made her sick." "I tried to tell him—" "No," Alys interrupted, her voice sharp. "Never say anything to Aubery about his first wife." Her lips tightened, and she looked away, past her stepdaughter. "Let me deal with this. In a way, it has nothing to do with you." Fenice did not reply. She had never intended to speak ill of Aubery's dead wife, although she had heard nothing much good of Matilda. Actually, until this moment she had hardly given Matilda a thought, having assumed from the way Lady Alys and her father spoke of her that Aubery had been married to her for her estate, perhaps without much liking on either side. But Lady Alys's sharp warning implied that Aubery had felt strongly about Matilda—perhaps he had loved her deeply despite all her silliness. Suddenly Fenice remembered the odd looks her husband sometimes gave her after coupling and that he had never used a love-word to her, even at the climax of his pleasure. Fury seized her, an anger greater than any she had felt before in her whole gentle life. If Matilda had been alive and near, Fenice would have pulled out her hair and scratched out her eyes. The knowledge that the woman was dead and beyond reach only infuriated Fenice more. She did not wish to share her husband with anyone, but how could she wrest him from a wraith?

"I think I will ride out to the shepherd's cottage and tell him to bring in as young a lamb as can be had in this season," Fenice said. She thought her voice sounded strange, but although Lady Alys looked at her briefly, she made no comment. "Yes, do that," Alys agreed with relief. "We will need more than hung beef with your papa and Aubery at home." Alys had noticed that some strong emotion had gripped Fenice, but she thought it a spate of nervousness at the idea of being involved in a discussion her husband had forbidden. Actually, she had been wondering how to get Fenice out of the place because Raymond was out in the horse pasture looking over his stock and this was an ideal time to have a talk with Aubery. He had seemed less irritable after he and Fenice had been married, but his behavior was not normal. If he was still grieving over that brainless doll he had married, Alys intended to warn him that Fenice must not be hurt because of a woman dead and buried. Fortunately, she did not need to wake him. Although he had slept through her first entrance, her second was deliberately less noiseless, and a maid carrying water for washing came with her. Alys heard the bed leathers creak and told the maid to set down the water and bowl and go. Aubery pulled back the curtain and awkwardly heaved himself more upright, scowling when he saw her. "You are late abed," Alys said. "I suppose you slept ill. Well, you deserve it for being a fool." "That is a strange greeting," Aubery growled, his voice thick with rage. He had thought, of course, that it was Fenice who had come in, and his mind had instantly produced the same sensual image that had kept him so long from sleeping. His immediate reaction had made him furious, particularly as Alys's presence indicated to him that Fenice was not only still angry but had complained to her stepmother. Alys shrugged, aware that she had not been wise. "You are the brother of my heart," she said more gently, coming to stand beside the bed, "and we know each other too long and too well for me to mince words. Perhaps I should have asked why first, but it irked me that you could confuse a girl of my training with Matilda. Fenice—" "Do not mention Matilda to me in the same breath with that whore to whom you bound me," Aubery roared, driven by his guilt over preferring Fenice to Matilda, whose death he could not regret, to say more than he meant. Alys was not often reduced to speechlessness, but now she stood, eyes and mouth both agape with surprise. "How dare you call me brother," he shouted, "and use me to rid yourself of a creature whose name no doubt was so befouled in her own country that you could not find a mate for her." "Who?" Alys gasped. "Fenice? My Fenice? Why? Why should you say such a thing?" Enraged beyond restraint, Aubery told her—in detail. Alys's eyes grew rounder and rounder, and her face turned red as fire. As he saw what he believed to be shock and embarrassment, Aubery's angry voice faltered. He had accused Alys in the heat of his rage, but he had never really believed she would knowingly do anything to hurt him. They had loved each other as sister and brother from childhood. Because they were much alike in spirit, they had always had their battles, but each had been quick to defend the other against the rest of the world. There was a brief silence while Aubery regretted what he had said and Alys visibly struggled with some violent emotion. Oddly, now that Aubery was sure Alys had been unaware of her stepdaughter's nature,

what he regretted most bitterly was his betrayal of Fenice. Assuming that Alys's suffused face indicated rage as well as shock, Aubery took breath to tell her that he had spoken in confidence and she should leave control of Fenice to him. However, before he could speak, Alys lost the struggle with herself and burst out laughing. "Who could believe it?" she whooped. "How can you be so much an innocent at your age? Did you never stray from that bucket of cold water you married?" It was fortunate that Alys had staggered back a few steps in her paroxysm of laughter. She was just out of reach of the blow Aubery launched and of his grab at her. Also fortunate was the fact that he was tangled in the bedclothes and, since he had struck out with his right and grabbed with his left hand, the shock of pain caused by his movement inhibited his ability to free himself. By then, Alys was bitterly sorry for what she had said. No man deserved such a blow to his pride, more particularly if his honor made him faithful, to a cold, stupid wife. "Oh, forgive me," she cried, standing quite still, though she knew Aubery was angry enough to hurt her badly. "I did not mean that as it sounded. What a cruel and stupid thing to say. I am sorry, so sorry." Aubery had made it out of the bed and stood looming over her, but he could see her eyes were full of tears, and his raised fist did not strike. He let the arm fall, shrugged, and turned away. Alys clutched at him. "Dear Aubery, I will not mind if you hit me. I deserve it. Indeed, I do." "Will that make me less a fool?" he asked bitterly. "You are not a fool," Alys cried. "Oh, curse my sharp tongue. You are a good man, and there are so few, I hardly know one when I see him. And I should not have said that of Matilda. It was because I love Fenice, and I could not bear that you should find ill in her by comparison. You do not understand Fenice. I swear to you she was not angry last night when you bespoke her harshly. And how she loved you—that was only to spare you pain so you would not need to use your sore arm." Aubery had stopped when Alys grasped him, but he had not turned back toward her. Now he moved his head in her direction, but not quite far enough to face her. "So you say. But she hardly spoke a word to me—" "But you had told her not to," Alys pointed out. "Have I not told you Fenice's one fault is too great an eagerness to please others? Besides, she was troubled because she feared you would hide your hurts and sickness from her when they were worse than a simple bruise. And she was afraid to explain that she would not make a to-do but only ease you as best she could. She was worried, Aubery, not angry." "And in the midst of her worry, she… Are you telling me that my wife's behavior is that of a decent woman?" "I am telling you it is no different from mine," Alys said steadily. "If she is evil, then so must I be—and Raymond does not call me whore for giving him pleasure or for taking it from him myself." Now Aubery turned his head fully. His desire to believe Alys, to enjoy the passion Fenice aroused in him without sick doubts, was almost a physical ache. But he was not quite satisfied that her actions were not the products of a lewd nature. "Where could she learn such things?" he asked angrily, staring down at Alys. Again consumed by a desire to laugh, Alys bent and picked up Aubery's bedrobe, which Fenice had laid

ready at the foot of the bed and which had fallen to the floor during Aubery's struggles with the blankets. The question, perfectly idiotic as it was, gave Alys a strong hope that Aubery cared for Fenice, perhaps more than he was willing to admit. Apparently he did not wish to remember that she, as well as he, had been married previously or, more likely, did not wish to think she had indulged her first husband as she indulged him. "Here, put this on," she said, acting as if he had not spoken, "you will be cold." She held the robe for him, and he turned his back to slide his arms into it, saying, "You have not answered me." Alys was annoyed. This was a case in which lying to oneself or conveniently forgetting the fact was the best path. She had tried, but Aubery would not take a hint. "You must know the answer to that yourself," she replied, rather coldly. "Fenice was no maiden. Her husband taught her, as mine taught me." He jerked the robe together and pulled the belt out of her hands, hissing as his arm and shoulder protested but so full of fury that the pain was welcome. He had known the answer to so stupid a question, of course, but had refused to recognize it. Now a double flame of envy and jealousy consumed him, for he had not been able to teach Matilda, and he could not help but fear that another face and body were imaged behind Fenice's closed eyes when they coupled. "She goes lightly from one to another carrying the same gift," he snarled. "That is not true," Alys snapped. "And it is what I came to say to you—that Fenice has given you her heart. Aubery, I was wrong to call you a fool for your faithfulness to Matilda, but you will be worse than a fool if you allow a memory to destroy—" "That is not your affair," he bellowed. But Alys did not react with rage as she usually did when he challenged her. Tears came to her eyes. "I love her, and I love you," she said softly. "Do not hurt her… or make yourself miserable." Then she drew a deep breath and gestured toward the stand near the wall. "There is water for washing. Shall I help you dress or send a maid to you?" "Where is Fenice?" he asked. "She was frightened because she told me you would not let her touch your hurt and you had forbade her to speak of it," Alys replied. "She went to bid the shepherd to slaughter a lamb for dinner." He walked toward the stand where the bowl and pitcher waited, loosened and dropped the bedrobe to hang by its belt at his waist, then turned. "I will be finished quickly," he said, pouring water into the bowl. Alys brought a drying cloth, and as he took it from her hands, he added roughly, "I will not hurt her."

CHAPTER 15

When Alys reconsidered the discussion she had had with Aubery, she felt it had been a mistake. Possibly she had eased his mind in one way, but she had no surety of it. And if he did not yet understand that it was only fear for him that had forced Fenice to ask her advice, she might have done more harm than good. Both he and Fenice were too quiet, and it seemed to her that they watched each other when they

felt they were not observed. At first Alys thought they might settle if they were left alone, but before she attempted the stratagem she realized that it could do no good if Aubery felt Fenice would run to her with every slight and problem. What Aubery and Fenice needed, Alys decided, was to be truly on their own. Since their home was in England—and even there Elizabeth and William would surely spend some time with them in Marlowe so that Elizabeth could get to know Fenice—this was a problem. That night, in pillow talk, Alys mentioned it to Raymond, not giving him any details but merely saying that it must be hard for Aubery always to be on show before his father-by-marriage. "I never thought about it," Raymond admitted, "but as usual, you are right, my love." He frowned for a moment at the joining of the bedcurtains, then smiled. "I have an answer. Let us send them to Amou, which is temporarily without a castellan, since Sir Bertrand is with the army at La Réole. Aubery can see if Sir Bertrand's lady has had any problems with the men left in the keep. About half of them are raw recruits, so he can check on how their training progresses, too." Alys was delighted with a proposal that had enough meat in it to allay any suspicions Aubery might develop about his marital affairs having been under discussion. And when Raymond presented the idea casually while they were breaking their fast, Aubery, who had been staring at a piece of cheese as if he could not recognize it, straightened up and turned his head with a gleam of interest in his eyes. "Will it not be too dangerous to take Fenice so far south?" he asked. "Do not leave me, my lord," Fenice begged. "I am not afraid to go." Aubery and Raymond both cast one single glance at her; she dropped head and eyes, and they returned their attention to each other. "No," Raymond replied to Aubery's question, ignoring his daughter's interruption. "If I thought that part of the south dangerous, I would not have asked Sir Bertrand to come to La Réole with his men, and I would not suggest you go there, half-crippled as you are. Gaston de Béarn is the danger in that area, and he will strike only at a target important enough to divert the king from the siege at La Réole. Amou would be useless for that purpose. You might be interested to see the countryside. The hunting is good in this cold season, and it would take no more than the two weeks Hereford has allowed you." "I would like to go—yes," Aubery said. His eyes flicked from Raymond's face to Fenice's fingertips, which were touching his hand, and back to Raymond. "But I do not think, unless the matter is more urgent than you have implied, that I have the right. My leave is not a clean two weeks but only until Lord Hereford has need of me." "And what need is he likely to have for you for the next two months? or four? or six?" Raymond asked disgustedly. "If it had been possible to take La Réole by assault at once, Henry would have been glad of it, but now that he has started to negotiate, I doubt he would order an assault even if we breached the walls." "Well…" Aubery looked down at his food again as he considered what Raymond had said, but he did cast a glance at Fenice's fingers, which were almost fully across his hand—he had not pulled it away—and were ever so slightly stroking that hand as if making a plea their mistress dared not voice. "Well," he repeated, briskly now, "it can do no harm to ride out to La Réole and speak to Hereford. I would have to do so anyway, since my armor is in his care." "Excellent," Raymond agreed heartily, "and while you are there, you can stop by my quarters to see if Sir Oliver and Sir Bertrand have letters for their wives. You might as well stay at Benquel a night and assure

Sir Oliver's lady that if her husband does not die of boredom, he will certainly survive this siege." For someone who had tried to appear only mildly interested in doing a favor for Raymond, Aubery was remarkably quick in starting for La Réole. When he arrived, Hereford was not in his quarters, so Aubery went on to collect from Raymond's men their homebound letters and messages. By the time he returned to Hereford's quarters, Aubery found the servants laying trestle tables for many guests. One of the squires told him that the king had graced the siege with his presence that day and had business to discuss with his constable. Aubery prepared to beat a hasty retreat but was a few minutes too late. He came face to face with King Henry and his overlord not two feet from the entrance. "What the devil are you doing here, Aubery?" Hereford asked. "Did I not send you to Blancheforte to coddle that shoulder—and your new wife?" Aubery had heard enough about King Henry to know it would not be wise simply to bow and say the matter was personal and that he would return when Hereford was at leisure. To do so might—or might not—set up a train of suspicion in • Henry's mind, and that would be stupid when the subject he wished to broach was totally innocent of any connection with the king. Thus, he took the chance of delaying his overlord a few minutes. "Indeed you did, my lord," he replied, smiling, "but that leave was only conditional on circumstances here, and now Raymond has asked me to ride to his estate at Amou—" "Why?" King Henry asked alertly; he had recognized the name Amou and connected it with the Raymond he knew well. Hereford cast Aubery an apologetic glance behind the king's back, but Aubery smiled again and explained Raymond's purpose without hesitation. Instead of allowing Hereford to reply to Aubery's question as to whether it would be permissible for him to leave the area and dismiss him, Henry pointed at him with a satisfied grin. "I know you," he said. "You are Sir Aubery of Inner, and you have just married Raymond d'Aix's natural daughter. He mentioned it to me the day after I arrived in Gascony. I also know your face. I have given you more than one tourney prize." "Yes, my lord," Aubery acknowledged. "You have a most excellent memory." "But there is some other way I should know you," Henry said. "It tickles the back of my mind." "He is Sir William of Marlowe's stepson," Hereford said hurriedly, preferring that the king not remember if he had heard anything about Aubery's father, "so it might be that Lord Richard has mentioned him from time to time." "Ah, yes, you—" Henry stopped abruptly. He had been about to mention Aubery's marriage to Richard of Cornwall's ward and then, remembering that the girl was dead, felt it might bring back unhappy memories. "Come within with us," he said instead. Aubery's many ties with those of whose loyalty Henry was assured was to his mind a fair guarantee of Aubery's own loyalty. In addition, the fact that Aubery had no lands and therefore could have little personal interest in Gascony was another assurance. He knew Aubery to be brave and strong; that this was no guarantee he had a brain in his head did not enter the king's mind. He had been troubled by very contradictory news coming from Bayonne, in the south. Aubery was going south. A little plan began to

form in Henry's mind. When he was comfortably seated, Henry said, "So Raymond desires you to go south?" "Only, my lord, if it is agreeable to Lord Hereford," Aubery replied cautiously. "And you take your wife?" Behind Henry's back, where he had gone to pour a goblet of wine for the king, Hereford raised his brows questioningly at Aubery, who, naturally, could make no response and merely answered the king's question in the affirmative. "That is excellent," Henry said, beaming approval. "Bayonne will not be much out of your way." This was not quite the truth, since Bayonne was as far west as it was possible to go, while Amou was to the east, near the center of the province; however, Aubery, being totally ignorant of the geography of Gascony, made no objection. Inwardly he was divided between amusement and a certain anxiety natural to one who had heard as much about the king's temperament as he had. Raymond had gone to considerable lengths to avoid being involved in one of Henry's "little plans," and now Aubery himself—after having assured Fenice that he was not one of whom Henry would deign to take notice—was seemingly about to fall alive into one of the king's machinations instead. Nonetheless, he listened with some interest to the king's description of the contradictory information he had received from the citizens of Bayonne. "So you see," Henry was summing up, "either one party or the other is lying. It is my belief that those who say an attack on Bayonne is planned are the traitors and wish only to deceive me into breaking this siege. Most probably Gaston has, indeed, fled to Castile, as the other party says. It is Gaston's way to make others pay for his sins, and I think he will try to induce Alfonso to bring an army and attack my rear. Or, if he cannot rouse Castile against me, he will try to induce. Alfonso to pay for mercenaries to redeem the promise he made when he stirred up rebellion." "I understand what you say, my lord, but I do not see what I, a simple knight of no great power, could do even if I went to Bayonne," Aubery pointed out. "Oh, that is no problem at all," Henry assured him. "Are you not married to my wife's nephew's daughter? By blood bond, you are allied to me. I will write letters that you be received by the mayor and recognized as one in my confidence." "You do me too much honor," Aubery said faintly, feeling appalled. He could not refuse, but neither did he see any way of determining which party was telling the truth, especially if he was known from the beginning as Henry's man. Of course, if the king were wrong and Gaston de Béarn did attack the city, he would know—but traitors in the town could deliver it into Béarn's hands before the knowledge was of any use. And in that case, he would be a marked man, which could be dangerous not only to him but to the king's "kin," Fenice. "Not at all," Henry was saying in reply to Aubery's remark. "You will do a useful piece of work for me and at the same time give your wife the opportunity to show off her new gowns, for the commune of Bayonne will surely honor you with a feast and then all the wives of the 'hundred peers' will also desire you as guests." "But, my lord," Aubery protested, "however small the chance, there is a chance that Béarn will attack. I thought it would be safer to leave Lady Fenice with her father."

"Oh, nonsense," Henry said, waving a hand airily in dismissal of the notion. "Even so, where would the danger be? Bayonne is a strong city, well defended—"Henry's voice checked, and his eyes took on a sly gleam as he went on "—and your wife is not such a fool as to be unable to repeat what she hears, is she? There will be this and that whispered among the women. You will need her." "Lady Fenice is very young," Hereford said hastily, seeing Aubery's color rise. Henry laughed. "They begin to gossip at three," he said. "I have daughters. I know." And then he looked a little self-conscious and added, "She will be in no danger. She is kin to Gaston, also, on his mother's side." Since it was obvious that Henry was determined, there was little either Hereford or Aubery could do. The conversation was prolonged by several other objections, Hereford complaining that Aubery was needed at La Réole and advancing a few other suggestions for accomplishing the same purpose, but in the end the king had his way. Nor, when Aubery returned to Blancheforte and told Raymond what had happened, did Fenice's father seem to have any fear for her. He laughed at the trap into which Aubery had fallen but assured him that though Gaston was both ambitious and treacherous, he was not at all a monster and Fenice would not be endangered. "And if I am wrong in promising that Gaston would not even hold my daughter to ransom—I will pay the ransom," Raymond finished with the intonation of one making a gambling throw. Then he shook his head at Aubery's worried expression. "You will not find your task so hard as you think." "Will I not?" Aubery asked rather sardonically. "No, because the king will pave the way for you properly. He will say nothing in his letter of introduction about you that has anything to do with Béarn. If I know him, he will write something to the effect that owing to your bravery and prowess he arranged a marriage for you with a kinswoman of the queen, perhaps that you are from a cold, dark land and that he wished as an additional favor to allow you to taste the beauty of the country and climate of Gascony. And he will request the hospitality of the commune for you." "But how then can I ask about Béarn?" "Don't," Raymond said. "Both sides will talk to you because Henry's letter will imply broadly—whatever the actual words he uses—that you have his favor. All you need do is listen—and you can tell them the truth, that you will tell the king what they say, which is all the encouragement they will need. They will talk you deaf, dumb, and blind—and you will hear the false, sour notes, never fear." "Then what the devil has this to do with Fenice?" Aubery asked irritably. "Just what the king said—the women will talk to her, and you two will compare stories. And Fenice is perfect for the part, too—although Henry could not have known that. She is not so grand as to induce awe in the merchants' ladies…" Raymond hesitated, obviously deflected from that subject by a new thought. "Do you know what the merchants who elect the governing body of the commune are called?" he remarked, his lips twisted with an odd combination of wry humor and distaste. "The hundred peers.. .peers, as if they were the equals of the heroes Roland and Oliver or the twelve dues de France. If it did not tickle my fancy, my gall would rise." He frowned. "I have lost the thread of what I was saying." "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 lulled 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." He paused, but Fenice had completed her disclosures and merely snuggled herself against his body. Aubery was aware of a familiar surge of response, but he ignored it. An idea had occurred to him. He had thought of a more profitable way to use the fear he had noted. If treachery were planned, then Béarn would not need to bring a large army capable of overwhelming the defenses of Bayonne by raw force. Nip the treachery in the bud, and the attack—if any attack were planned—would fail. But would such a notion take root in the minds of men teetering on the edge of flight? Nonsense, flight was Fenice's notion—the first thing of which a woman would think, and a silly one at that. With his mind on what he could do—ten men had come with them from Blancheforte, since the roads were not really safe in these unsettled times—Aubery drew Fenice closer. The apparent timidity, which predicted flight, had assuaged his irritation. Ten men… there were fewer than ten gates to Bayonne. There was no question of his men defending any gate, but they could watch and report. That would serve well enough while he was in Bayonne, but what about after he left? Fenice stirred in his arm and kissed his shoulder. She was still sleeping on his right side now so that she should not accidentally roll against his bruised arm, although it was nearly healed. "How can I make them believe that Béarn cannot bring a force strong enough to take the city unless he is given entrance by treachery?" Aubery muttered. Because during her childhood the only place Fenice felt safe and comfortable was near Lady Alys, she had followed her stepmother like a shadow, and in doing so she had heard a great deal of adult conversation, much of it concerned with politics and political maneuvering. Because she was highly intelligent, Fenice had absorbed what she heard and had learned to draw conclusions quickly. It had

been a game with her silently to guess what the right answer would be to the problems posed. Nor did Fenice fear to say what she thought, because Lady Alys's sharp mind was respected by both her husband and her father-by-marriage. Thus, she answered instinctively. "Tell them that Castile is about to abandon him, that the king's envoys are well received, and the contracts for the marriage of Edward and Eleanor all but signed," Fenice replied sleepily. "Without Castile, how large an army can Béarn muster?" Aubery's question had not been directed at Fenice. He was so astonished, both at the casual way she responded with a perfectly appropriate answer to that kind of question and also at the substance of her reply, that he pulled back his head to look at her. It was a futile exercise, the light being too dim to make out an expression. "Can that be true?" he asked. "Henry sent Roger Bigod and Gilbert Seagrave off to England to get more men and money only about a month ago. He had them convinced that Alfonso was amassing men to move into Gascony. I cannot say your father agreed, but he said that men and money would be most welcome and he would not try to raise any doubts of Henry's sincerity." "I did not hear Papa say anything about that or about the marriage, but Lady Alys told me that the bishop of Bath and the king's special clerk, John Mansel, were dispatched from Bordeaux to negotiate with Alfonso in December. It is not so very far from Castile to Bordeaux, if King Henry's proposals were not well received, that news would have come already, and I think Lady Alys would have heard. If Alfonso is giving serious thought to the marriage, surely he would not lend assistance to Béarn." "If he could conceal it… No, it does not matter. I am sure enough that there is some conspiracy to yield Bayonne to Béarn and that it is those who say they know him to be in Castile who lie. That is what I was sent to discover. Unfortunately, I do not believe Henry wishes to believe that, and when the king does not wish to believe a thing, it is best to have hard proof of it before one speaks." "We have been here only three days," Fenice said soothingly. "In another four or five you should learn more." But Aubery did not care to stay longer in Bayonne. He wondered why—and then began to wonder why he was so sure that Béarn would attack. Was it actually the false notes he heard in the voices that insisted Gaston was in Castile? Or was it fear he would be caught in a besieged city? Instinctively his arm tightened still harder around Fenice, and the tension in his muscles supplied an answer. He did not fear for himself but for her. And where did that leave him? Had his fear clouded his judgment? No, because Fenice had come to the same conclusion from what she had heard among the women. So, Béarn was expected by some. There was no reason to think he would attack within the next few days—or was there? The warm tickle of lips under his ear distracted him. Fenice had received the wrong signal from the increasing strength of his hold on her. He should decide… Fingers traced the line of his breastbone, circled his navel. Decisions could wait.

CHAPTER 16

Although Aubery made no conscious decisions that night, the problems of Bayonne must have followed

him into his sleep because he woke with a very clear notion of what he intended to do. He would use Fenice's suggestion about the portending marriage; he would take the chance and speak openly of the dangers of treachery to a city otherwise well able to drive away so light a threat as that Béarn could muster without the help of Castile; and he would, for his own and Fenice's protection, set his men to watching the ways into the city at night. By the fourth day of their visit, Aubery found time to meet quietly with the active rather than honorary leaders of the town militia. They were not paid soldiers like the small force employed to guard the gates and quell riots should one occur, but were able-bodied male citizens of Bayonne sworn to defend their city in times of attack. Among mem, Aubery found no disaffection, and it was with them that he discussed most fully the only real danger he felt threatened the city. On the fifth day a hunt was planned. It was remarkably successful—so successful that a faint uneasiness pervaded Aubery's mind. He was not able to pick out what disturbed him immediately, largely because his longbow was so great a novelty that he spent most of the time not actively devoted to the hunt displaying it and demonstrating its powers. He was also distractedly the need to conceal his amusement over the chagrin of his companions at their lack of ability to master the weapon in a few minutes. Unlike the crossbow, where a hook held the bowstring and all a man's attention could be given to aiming, the longbow needed long practice to coordinate pull, aim, and elevation. Then there was a feast to celebrate the hunt, and more discussion about the advantages and disadvantages of the long-bow. It was not until the evening that Aubery realized what was troubling him. The game had not only been more plentiful than he expected, but it had a driven look. They had gone east of the town, into the hilly forested area—and was that not the direction in which the river narrowed? It must be, because to the west was the sea. That was no proof of anything, but if a large body of men were following the river valley, the game might be disturbed. And Béarn's chief keeps were to the east. Aubery noted the fast-failing light of the short winter day, said hastily to Fenice that he had forgotten he had promised to speak to Pierre de Roset, and went out. He was not aware that she knew Roset was not in Bayonne, or he would have chosen another name. Actually he went to warn the men who watched the entries to the city to be especially alert and sent others to the captains of the militia to meet him at a wineshop where he spoke of his suspicions. It could do no harm, he pointed out, to tell their men to be ready. If he were mistaken, they would lose no more than a night's rest. He debated whether to return to his apartment, remembering how Matilda had impeded him when he had to make ready to go to war. It had not mattered, except for the pain he suffered at seeing her great distress, because he had never been responding to an emergency. This time he might need to arm in a few minutes. To have a wife weeping and pulling at him and perhaps interfering with the man-at-arms trying to help him would be more than a slight nuisance. Then he sighed. He must have his armor, and to send a man to fetch that without explanation would make matters worse. He had no experience of Fenice's reaction to an actual call to war. He had not left for La Réole from Blancheforte but from the camp outside Bordeaux and had not told her on his final visit that he would not soon return again. She had grown accustomed to his coming and going from the camp and made no more of their final parting than of earlier ones. Perhaps, Aubery thought hopefully, she would have grown tired of waiting for him and be asleep. This hope was not fulfilled. Aubery was aware of that much before he actually entered the apartment, because he saw the antechamber ablaze with candlelight as he came to the door. He hesitated, listening, but there was no sound. Perhaps she had gone to bed and left the lights for him. Stepping softly inside, he was disappointed once more, for although Fenice had replaced her clothing with a bedrobe and loosened her hair, she was there, waiting for him. A small embroidery frame was in her lap and her needle was in

her hand, but her head was turned so that she could watch the dancing flames in the hearth. Fenice's initial reaction to Aubery's patently false excuse about seeing Pierre de Roset had been shock at the blatant lie; her next was a raging jealousy. That, fortunately, had not lasted long. There had been something in Aubery's expression that did not fit with an intention to engage in light dalliance. Then why had he lied to her? The answer to that question had been a wave of terror against which the dying jealous rage was a poor defense. The only time her father lied to Lady Alys was to spare his wife anxiety about his safety. Then Aubery must have felt there was danger—now, this very night. Fenice's clasped hands had pressed hard against her body just under her breast as if the pressure could still the fluttering of her heart. Her first impulse had been to run after Aubery and draw him back with her to safety, but that was only a single, hopeless pulse of raw emotion. Even while it lasted she had not moved. She had examples enough of how a woman should behave, both good and bad. She had been witness to her grandmother's protests when she discovered Raymond was going to war, the weeping and shrieking that only made her father furious; she had seen his gratitude and tenderness for Lady Alys, who pretended that her face was not bone white with fear, made no complaint, even smiled and armed him with her own hands. And Aubery had been angry when she had only exclaimed over his bruise. If she acted the fool before he was hurt, he would regard her with the impatience and contempt her father showed for Lady Jeannette in any crisis. Slowly, Fenice had gathered herself together and moved toward the bedchamber where the maids waited. Danger could only come from an attempt by Gaston de Béarn to take Bayonne. But Aubery would not have gone to meet a danger of invasion without his arms. Fenice drew a deep breath. For this moment, then, the danger was not physical, and that knowledge cleared her mind. The maids should not be in the apartment when Aubery returned. It was not likely he would bring those he went to seek back with him, but if he did, or wished to tell her something that should not be overheard, there should be no ears and eyes. The girl Lady Alys had sent with her was safe, but it would be unwise to keep her and dismiss the others. Fenice had had herself undressed, said she would attend to her husband herself since he would not be back until late, and sent the women away. Then she had taken her work and sat down beside the fire. Before the women left, one of them had replenished the fuel, and the flames leapt cheerfully, chuckling and cackling as they drew the fresh logs into their bright embrace. There was comfort in their fire song, lively greediness, and in the sparks that danced gaily upward. "To think ill brings ill" was an old saying. Fenice allowed herself to be soothed. Having seen his wife, Aubery abandoned stealth and came forward into the room. Fenice turned and smiled with apparent calm, laid aside the work in which she had set no new stitch, and got up to close the door. "Will there be an attack tonight?" she asked when she was sure her question would not be overheard. "Why do you ask that?" Aubery countered sharply. "You lied to me, saying you would speak with Pierre de Roset," Fenice said. "I knew he had left Bayonne yesterday. Papa only lies to Lady Alys to save her from worry." She shook her head. "It does not help. It only makes her worry more. I would prefer to know the truth." Aubery stared at her, hardly believing his ears. She was too clever and too bold by half to come so near the truth on so small a piece of evidence and to fling the word "lie" into his teeth. So she would prefer to know the truth, would she? "I do not know it to tell you," Aubery said, but having been challenged, he

described briefly what he had seen and surmised. Fenice listened with downcast eyes, nodding mute acceptance of the points he made and fighting her fear. That she raised no additional challenge to his assumptions soothed him, for he had been shaken by this renewed reminder of her cleverness. Fenice's calm should have been an additional relief in that it assured him he would not need to endure the emotional upheaval he had feared. In a way he was pleased, but there was an odd sense of dissatisfaction too. Irritably, he turned away and said he would go to bed. There was no sense in sitting up and waiting for an alarm that might never come. But it did come. Not long after the sliver of moon had set, Fenice heard the tolling of a church bell. She stiffened, for although she had been lying still, feigning sleep, she was wide awake and immediately aware that the irregular jangling could not be a ringing of the hours of prayer. It was an alarm. Beside her, Aubery slept peacefully. She considered for a moment continuing her own pretense of sleep but knew it would be useless. Soon there would come a hammering on the door, a shouting that would wake her husband and draw him out to danger, no matter what she did. All that pretense would accomplish would be to shorten the time he would have to arm himself. She stifled one hopeless sob and shook Aubery's arm. He was instantly awake, completely alert, being accustomed to sleeping more lightly when he knew action was imminent. He heard the bell at once and grinned with satisfaction at having guessed so well. Fenice drew on her bedrobe. By then, he had pulled on his shirt, chausses, and tight mail leggings. Fenice helped him into arming tunic and hauberk, but he shook his head as she offered the cuirie. In the narrow streets of the town he might be fighting on foot and preferred the greater lightness and freedom to the extra protection that would offer. She was fixing his ailettes when the pounding on the door began. Aubery shouted that he was coming and that Draco, his destrier, should be saddled. He snatched his sword belt from Fenice's shaking hands and buckled it himself as he strode toward the antechamber. Fenice followed. Her bare feet were silent, but he heard her gasping breath and turned. "Go back to bed," he said. "There is nothing to fear. I will send some men to guard your door." "Oh, no!" she cried. "I am not afraid. Take the men with you." He hesitated, and she added urgently, "My safety lies in your success." That was so sensible that Aubery nodded. A few men-at-arms could not really provide much protection if the militia were overwhelmed. However, the remark had an effect Fenice had not intended by increasing Aubery's determination to drive off Béarn's men. He found his horse ready and rode eagerly after his guide, just able to keep to the center of the street by the wavering light of the torch the man carried. Draco's shod hooves sounded loud on the hard-packed earth, for this part of the town was silent. He and Fenice had been lodged in the center of Bayonne, near the mayor's house. As yet, the alarm had not penetrated this far, although a few houses showed lights, and once someone shouted a question from a window. Aubery replied with a bellow of "Arms! Take arms!" In the dark it was difficult to tell direction, but a faint hum told Aubery that his guide had not mistaken the way. The sound increased, and now and again he could see a faint glow as a torch passed somewhere ahead. Then there was a louder clamor, and from a side street an armed band burst into the wider road. Aubery shouted, "King Henry and Bayonne!" and the men ran on, calling the same battle cry. A moment later the gleam of torchlight was cast back from metal bosses and then from sword blades. He drew his own weapon and spurred his horse, calling warnings to the men ahead so that he would not ride them down. He had arrived, it seemed, just in time, for the invaders were beating back the disorganized groups of militia who had arrived to oppose them. When Aubery's man first ran to give warning to the nearest

captain, Béarn's men were entering only by the small postern opened for them. But as soon as the clamor of the alarm bell rang, some of them had rushed to open the main gate for their comrades. They were pouring in by the time Aubery arrived. He saw instantly that there would be little chance for Bayonne's militia to break through and close the gates. The invaders were trained fighting men, and the militia, amateurs. However, it might be possible to use their very training against them. The men were forming up in companies as they came in to protect their way of entry and—if it came to that—of retreat. If they could be contained in a limited area near the gate, not many more than had already entered could do so, and the militia could thrust them out again. As the idea came to him, it must simultaneously have occurred to whoever was leading the invading troops. Several of the groups coalesced and began to move forward. Aubery roared a war cry and charged, the militiamen rushing after him. Whatever Béarn's men had expected, they were clearly not prepared for a knight in full armor on a war destrier. There were shouts of consternation as Aubery rode in among them, and he struck down a man with each of four blows. Matters grew less simple then. He had little way of telling friend from foe after the militiamen thrust in among the invaders. It was like an imaged scene from hell, the shouting, heaving men falling, rising, screaming—open mouths black, blood black—appearing and disappearing in the angry, uneven light of the flaring torches. Torches were used as shields and weapons, too. Aubery saw a soldier with his surcoat in flames, and as he disappeared, shrieking with pain and terror, another soldier slashed at the torch and cut it in half so that it fell and was extinguished. Aubery roared a curse and, in turn, struck. He needed light, for he was judging whom to attack by the direction the men were facing and the quality of their armor. None of the militia wore mail, except the leaders, who could afford so costly a garment. The others wore good, hardened leather, some sewn with rings, and the short, round helmet in common use. It was a problem that Aubery, on horseback, saw mostly the helmets, and they were virtually indistinguishable; it was too easy to strike first and see only as the victim fell that he was a Bayonnese. In an attempt to damage his enemies rather than his friends, Aubery could only drive Draco forward, ahead of the militiamen, so that he would face only Béarn's men. A soldier swung a sword at the horse; another threw a knife. Draco reared; Aubery leaned as far forward as he could and beat back the sword stroke, and Draco's flashing hooves took that man in the face and another on the shoulder. One man screamed, but the other could not, drowning in his blood. As the horse's hooves connected, Aubery allowed himself to fall back onto the saddletree and flung his left arm outward, catching the knife-thrower's sword slash on his shield, howling with pain as his bruised arm and shoulder absorbed the shock but bringing the shield up swiftly nonetheless so he could use its edge to strike that man down. Forward again, Draco whinnied as a sword struck his leather armor. But he took his own revenge too quickly for Aubery to see the man who had struck the blow, for Aubery himself was striking right and left. Then the invaders turned and ran back to their companions, and Aubery bellowed at the Bayonnese not to follow, blocking a few foolhardy souls and using the flat of his sword to discourage unwise heroism. Then there was a moment to look around. His own man, who had acted as guide, was still beside him—a little to the right, just clear of any forward kick Draco might deliver. But to his surprise, there were several more of the troop he had dispersed to act as watchers and messengers. He beckoned them closer and told them to find the militia captains and make sure they understood that the invaders must be kept from spreading into the town. Carts and lumber must be seized from the nearest places in which

they were available, and used for barricades; defenders must enter all houses between the barricades and the gate and be prepared to hold them against the invaders. Aubery had been too busy fighting to notice that many more militiamen had converged toward the sounds of battle. The area was almost bright with torchlight, and he was able to recognize two of the captains he had met. He shouted the same orders to them that he had given the men. Meanwhile, east and west, noise of conflict was rising. Foiled in their attempt to open the main avenue, Béarn's men were obviously trying to force a passage through the smaller lanes. Aubery demanded a volunteer to lead him through the side streets, and half the men who heard offered themselves. He chose the nearest and just in time remembered that these were not disciplined soldiers. "No one else is to leave here," he roared, "unless a captain calls for help. They will attack here again as soon as you try to set up your barricades." He would have liked to be able to explain that one group should hold back the attackers while another build the barricades, but the sounds to the east seemed to be moving deeper into the town faster than he liked. Signaling his guide, he turned Draco in that direction, muttering curses under his breath as the top of his shield banged against his sore shoulder. Now he realized it had been happening since the fighting had stopped. Without thinking, he had released his hold on his shield, which naturally was moving loosely as it hung from the arm strap, to grab the horse's reins so he could curb Draco to keep him from savaging the Bayonnese. At least, he thought with wry humor, he would have a good excuse for returning to his overlord in worse condition than he had left. The thought was nearly more true than he intended when five men burst from an alley into the narrow street his guide had entered. The young militiaman was struck down at once and his torch extinguished. Aubery hissed an obscenity, blinking rapidly a few times in the hope of adjusting to the dark more quickly. He could make out darker shadows moving. All five seemed to be converging on him. A swift glance behind confirmed that there was no hope of shelter, such as a still narrower alleyway into which he could back Draco, to avoid attack from the rear. He could only turn the horse sharply left, bringing him right up to the wall of the building so that he could not be attacked from that side. One of the soldiers, apparently misinterpreting Aubery's defensive movement as an attempt to escape, called on him to dismount, and Aubery realized that luck was with him. He could only suppose that these men had also been blinded by the torch and had not really seen him as more than a man on a horse. Biting back his impulse to laugh, he held Draco steady for one long minute more. The passive stance, another silent deception, drew the five in a bunch. A horse was a prize worth taking, and a man who could afford one and a torch-bearing guide would doubtless carry a fat purse. Two carried those satisfactory thoughts to their deaths, swiftly dealt with one stroke of Aubery's sword. Another had a moment in which to feel terror as he saw Draco's bulk, a black shadow of infinite menace, rise over him. But he, too, died too swiftly to have regrets. The other, two had time to curse themselves and to scream for help as they ran, to hear behind them a clatter as deadly to them as that made by the mounts of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Aubery struck one invader, then the other, but he did not attempt to determine how successful either blow was. It was more important to reach the fighting, which he could hear ahead. This time, however, although he was welcome, it was clear his assistance was not necessary. The militia captain in charge knew his area. The invaders had been drawn along by a small group that seemed to flee into a more open square, where militiamen waited in every alley to rush out at them. They were now driving Béarn's men back. Aubery warned the captain of the groups that might break away into side streets and was assured that a group of soldiers would be sent out to patrol those ways.

Now Aubery asked for a guide again, this time to take him to the town wall. Each sector had its own captains and defenders, but if there was no work for them in their own part, they were sworn to come to the aid of any other sector that needed them. What Aubery feared was that the guards at more than one gate had been bribed and that the attack to which he had been summoned might have been a feint deliberately started early so that the defenders would concentrate there while Béarn's main force actually poured in at another point. Aubery had, of course, warned the captains of this tactic, and they had assured him they would be wary, but the truth was that the knight-bred did not trust townsmen, whose main business might be woodworking or dyeing or goldsmithing rather than a lifelong training in the arts of war. He did find battles going on at two other gates, but both seemed to be attempts by detachments from the original group to overwhelm the gate guards from the inside. In both battles, the advent of a full-armed knight on horseback brought almost immediate submission of the attackers. In these cases, it was less owing to Aubery's prowess than to the fact that Béarn's men expected a full troop of men to be following him. Dawn was just far enough advanced to eliminate the need for torches when Aubery returned to the main site of action. Toward the west, from which he had come, there was no longer any fighting. The invaders had been contained and in most places pushed back. Aubery could not understand why they had not withdrawn; perhaps, he thought, they expected reinforcements. They seemed very determined to hold the gate, and if they wanted it, Aubery felt they should not have it. From a very narrow lane to the west, he looked quickly around the open area fronting the gate and sighed with relief. His troop was near where the main street entered, backed defensively against the buildings at the corner. There was fighting all around them, but they were allowing the militia to do it. He loosened his rein a trifle to allow Draco to move out to where the buildings would not block his voice and bellowed Raymond's battle cry. It was distinctive enough to identify him, but he was a little afraid his voice would not carry over the sounds of battle. To his relief, the men's heads turned in his direction. He allowed Draco, who was snorting and shaking his head in his frustration at being held back from charging, to take another few steps forward and waved his sword. The men pushed out from the building, using just enough force to make their way, and came toward him in a compact wedge that protected a pair in the center. When the men arrived, he saw those two were wounded. "I thought I told you to stay out of the fighting until I needed you," Aubery said, but his tone was indulgent. Both looked sheepish and assured him that they were not hurt too badly to give a good account of themselves. This was probably true, but Aubery said that for their sins they would be punished by serving as messengers again. They were to go east, keeping to the outskirts of the fighting as much as possible, try to reach any of the captains of the militia, and tell them that Sir Aubery would try to take the gate. They were to ease off the fighting until his charge and then come to his assistance with all the power they had. The men looked startled, glancing uneasily from their master to the area by the gate. None of the militia had penetrated that far, and there must have been twenty-five or thirty of Béarn's' men who had retreated to catch their breath. Some were wounded, but some were almost fresh, stationed there to protect the line of retreat. It was crazy to think that one mounted knight and eight men-at-arms could drive off so strong a force. But Sir Aubery was looking at the forces arrayed against them, too, grinning. Silently, the small troop consulted each other with their eyes. Sir Aubery must know something they did not, each man thought, his spirits rising. Then Aubery beckoned them closer and explained what they were to do. It was a crazy plan—wild. Their experience told them that it was very likely they would all be killed, but there was something so light, so gay and sure, in their master's manner, that they became

convinced they could do it and smiled in turn. Aubery watched the sky. It was true dawn now, pink fingers of light stretching outward on the undersides of the clouds. It was growing brighter very fast. The fighting had been going on for four, perhaps five hours; everyone was tired—everyone except Draco and Aubery's own men, who had done very little. A slight change in the noise in the square drew his eyes, and he grinned. It seemed that his men had reached enough of the captains who still had control of their troops. The militiamen—some of them, at least—were pulling back; not much, not fast, just enough to ease the tight packing somewhat and draw with them the fighting groups most deeply engaged. Aubery knew he had only moments before Béarn's men realized what was happening and fell back into an even tighter defensive posture. He lifted his sword, roared an order, and loosened Draco's reins, spurring him for even greater impetus. The destrier burst out of the alley mouth, with Aubery roaring like a crazed animal on his back. Men fell away from the horse's path, some voluntarily, some felled by his charge. In Draco's wake came Aubery's men in four pairs, also yelling at the top of their lungs and striking left and right but not pausing for any real exchange. They shouted no recognizable battle cry, forcing their way toward the gate. It was not very far, perhaps fifty feet north and one hundred or so east. In front of one of the gate doors, Aubery pulled Draco to a sudden halt, so that the stallion screamed with rage and reared. More men scattered as the horse came down, lunged, was checked, and reared again. Nor was Aubery himself idle. Anyone who moved too slowly out of his reach moved not at all afterward, and three of his men-at-arms hacked and lunged behind and to the side, still shouting at the tops of their lungs. During this wild attack, the other five of Aubery's men had run in behind one great gate door and were pushing with all their strength. Those doors were hung so that they opened with reluctance but could be swung shut by a single man in case of a surprise attack. Most of the invaders who had been trying to defend their line of retreat by keeping the gates open had been driven away by Aubery's first rush. Those who had not were bowled aside—a few actually swept outside the walls—by the impetus given to the heavy door. That had been the easy part, of course. The thud of the door as it slammed against the stone arch, the clang of its metal fittings as they were jarred, gave warning to any invader who did not already realize what had happened. There was a roar of rage and protest, and every man tried to make a concerted rush in that direction. Some intended to escape through the narrowed opening that promised freedom, but most were determined to win back the position that provided an opportunity either for retreat or reinforcements.

CHAPTER 17

Aubery and his men would have been overwhelmed in an instant except that even those militiamen who had not been warned understood what was happening. With renewed energy they attacked Béarn's men, whose attention was now divided. In addition, select groups of Bayonnese surged forward, not directly through the mass of fighting men but as close to the walls as they could get, their courage and energy renewed by a bright expectation of victory. In minutes the second half of the gate swung shut. In the echo of that sound, Aubery raised his voice again. "Yield and quarter!" he bellowed. "Yield and quarter!"

The cry was taken up by a dozen other authoritative voices. Since no serious damage had been done to their city and because they had the victory, most Bayonnese held no grudge against the soldiers. The anger they felt was against Gaston de Béarn and more violently against whoever had accepted the bribe to open the gate and let in their enemies. Soon the individual militiamen were offering quarter, and by the time the sun had risen, the battle was over. It was not, of course, the end for Aubery. He felt responsible, since he had been the first to offer quarter, and he stood by to see that the prisoners were treated fairly, that food and drink were provided in the guildhall where they were penned, that their wounded were gathered up and eased as best might be, and that their dead were placed decently to await burial. Then the leaders of the militia wished to thank him, and he could not seem ungracious to fellow fighters; but when the mayor and some of the peers appeared with formal speeches at the tips of their tongues, Aubery had had enough. He pushed forward the militia captains to receive the honors and rode rapidly away. His one thought was to see to Draco's needs, for he knew that although the animal's leather armor had protected the destrier from serious injury, it had been hurt at least once. Aubery shouted for the grooms as he entered the courtyard of his lodging before he swung out of the saddle. To Fenice, that call was a release from a purgatory that even the fire song could not ease. She had tried to listen only to that, not to hear the dull murmur, which was all the sound of battle that penetrated to her room; she piled logs high so that the fire roared and screamed, but somehow that other sound was inside her head for all the long hours Aubery was gone. For the space of three breaths Fenice struggled for control, remembering that her husband did not like any overt sign of emotion, but even her fear of his disapproval could not hold her. She had to see him! His voice was not enough. Forgetting that she had been too sick with fear to dress, she ran down the stairs, out the door, and across the courtyard, crying, "Are you safe? Aubery, are you safe?" The grooms were lifting off Draco's armor, and Aubery spun to face his wife. "I told you there was no reason for you to fear," he said, not having heard her clearly and assuming that she had asked if "we" were safe. But in the same instant that he spoke, he took in the loose hair, the bedrobe, the bare feet, and her questions sounded again in his mind, this time correctly. He drew breath, intending to call her a stupid bitch, coming out near-naked with bare feet into the cold and filth of the courtyard, but the harsh words stuck in his throat, and instead he strode toward her and lifted her into his arms. "What a fool you are," he said, but gently. "Look at your feet, all bruised, and you are shivering with cold." She did not answer that she was shaking with joy and relief, not with cold, but her arms were so tight around his neck that Aubery thought amusedly that it was fortunate his coif protected his throat, or he would have strangled him. Despite the ache in his bruised arm, he would have carried her up the stairs, but she relaxed her grip once they were inside the door and lifted her head away from his cheek, which she had been kissing. "You are safe," she sighed, and then added, "I beg your pardon, my lord. I know you do not like me to show fear or act so silly, but I could not help it. I will try to do better. Please put me down. I know you wish to see to Draco's comfort, and I must make sure that food and drink are ready when you come in." "Wash your feet first," he ordered. "If you cut them in that dirt, the sores might not heal." As he turned to go back to oversee the care of his horse, Aubery felt as light as a feather. He did not associate the sensation with happiness, nor did he realize that he was now free of that odd flicker of dissatisfaction he had felt when Fenice accepted his need to fight so calmly. He had closed the feeling out

of his mind, and he had not consciously recognized it again or realized that it had intensified into a nameless weight on his spirit when she helped him to arm without speaking a single word to him or asking him to take care during the battle. The practical comment that his success would serve best to protect her had only added to the burden. Other things conspired to add to his satisfaction. The cut that had made Draco scream was smaller than he had feared, and the horse seemed unaware of it, not favoring that limb. There were other marks on the animal, bruises where blows had not penetrated the armor, but none near any place that could disable the stallion. Aubery discussed with the grooms what should be done to reduce the swelling and ensuing stiffness and then turned toward the house. Had they come straight from battle, he would have stayed longer to gentle the excited destrier, but that was not necessary. The roaring fire was another pleasant surprise. Aubery had not seen so large a blaze since he left his native land, and it gave him a feeling of homeliness. It seemed natural, and he did not question why the fire was roaring up the flue, though actually he knew it was not usual. The less intense cold of Gascony did not require enormous fires, and wood was not plentiful in the neighborhood of towns like Bordeaux and Bayonne, so fuel was used with discretion. When he entered, Aubery did not realize that the room was really too warm. After the heat of fighting, his sweat-damp shirt and tunic had become cold against his body while he discussed the treatment of the prisoners and made suitable replies to grateful remarks and speeches. The heat was pleasant. It was pleasant, too—now that he was certain how welcome he was—to be disarmed, then undressed, and finally wrapped in his bedrobe in a silence broken at last only by a quiet question as to whether or not he wished to have his bruise treated. Aubery opened his eyes, which had been closed, and Fenice bit her lip. "Am I not supposed even to ask, my lord?" Aubery shook his head wearily. "Not that, but I do not think you would have time to do anything worthwhile. I will just eat and get warm. Then I must go up on the walls and see what can be seen of Béarn's camp, and after that I must question the prisoners, and judge, if I can, what force is arrayed against us here." "You do not trust the men of Bayonne, then? I mean, even those who helped in the fighting?" "Some I do not," Aubery admitted, "but for most it is not a question of their loyalty. I just do not believe they know what questions to ask or that they would understand the answers given." He began to shrug contemptuously and made an angry exclamation of pain as his stiffening muscles protested. "They are tradesmen." "You do not think," Fenice asked as she placed a cup of warm spiced wine in his hand, "that Béarn will be discouraged and withdraw? You say there were prisoners taken. Could that not reduce his force sufficiently so that it will be impossible to besiege Bayonne?" "I never thought it would be possible for him to try seriously to besiege Bayonne in the first place," Aubery replied, sipping the wine and watching Fenice put a slice of meat pasty, a chunk of cheese, and chewable-size pieces of meat on a platter. "He cannot possibly have an army large enough, but he may still hope to win by treachery or by trickery. As you and I have discovered, the commune will yield if he can convince them he is strong enough to take the town, whether it be true or not. It is that I must guard against." Of course Fenice would have preferred that Aubery go to bed with a warm pack on his shoulder, but since what he said implied there would be no more fighting, she was quite content. Nor was that

contentment broken by any disappointment. Aubery had guessed correctly again. Gaston de Béarn pretended to set up a siege that lasted for something more than a week while he continued to hope that those who had tried to give him the town by treachery would manage to convince the mayor and commune to yield to empty threats. He might have succeeded if Aubery had not demonstrated so clearly that the threats were empty. After all, the mayor and peers did not have much to lose. They would have been protected by any agreement made. The sufferers would have been the common folk, the small tradesmen, artisans, and merchants from whom Béarn would have extracted money and on whom his army would have preyed. They would have been the sufferers again when the king came to take back the town, for the mayor and commune would have yielded as readily to Henry for a promise of immunity. Not that Aubery was considering the common good when he demanded permission to speak at the meeting of the commune, argued against every point Béarn's messenger made—and applied a few subtle threats of his own. He had accepted a charge from the king and implied in that charge was that he must do everything in his power to protect the king's property and uphold his authority. The good of the people and the good of the king coincided in this case. One morning Béarn's force had vanished, doing Bayonne no more harm than the deaths and injuries its citizens had sustained in its protection. Not long thereafter, Aubery and Fenice took their departure also, bearing with them letters and petitions for King Henry's attention, as well as gifts to sweeten the requests. On the day they arrived in Bordeaux, the king was too busy to see Aubery, and he reported what had happened in strictly factual terms to the king's special clerk, John Mansel. That the clerk was back in Bordeaux from the marriage negotiations in Castile was very interesting to Aubery, but he asked no questions. It was Alys who told him that the negotiations had sped so well that only one piece remained to be fitted in: Alfonso had insisted that he would not make contract without a personal meeting between Prince Edward and Princess Eleanor. The king of Castile spoke in terms of fearing any antipathy between his much-loved half sister and the prince that would affect her happiness—but in Alys's opinion Alfonso did not trust Henry and wanted to be sure that Edward was not a weakling or a half-wit. This did not worry Aubery, who knew the prince to be strong and clever—indeed, a great improvement over his father. He said if Edward's character was all Alfonso doubted, the marriage was as good as settled, and set off for La Réole the next day in the best of spirits to make his excuses to his overlord for overstaying his leave and report himself ready for duty. What Aubery did not suspect, for he was not a courtier and did not even desire the king's attention, was that more than one letter described not only in detail but in highly inflated terms his activities in Bayonne. The writers, misled by King Henry's letter, assumed Aubery was already a favorite and that by praising him excessively, glory would reflect upon themselves. But John Mansel knew nothing of Henry's device to deceive the Bayonnese. He compared Aubery's sober account of what he had done, looked over what evidence he brought to support his conclusions as to who the traitors were, considered the fact that Aubery had no connections with anyone in Gascony except Raymond d'Aix, and decided that Aubery of Ilmer was the ideal man to undertake the protection of the prince and queen when they traveled to Castile for the meeting with the young Eleanor. It was, Mansel thought wryly, a great misfortune that diplomatic skill and high office were so seldom wedded to youth and great physical prowess. Not that the clerk was concerned with Aubery's abilities as a negotiator. The queen and Peter of Aigueblanche, the bishop of Hereford, would put the final polish on the contracts. But there were sure to be great celebrations; Edward was to be knighted as well as married. That would mean a tournament, most likely, and the prince must have a champion.

Edward would be sufficiently chafed at not being permitted to take part himself, but he was not yet fifteen and, while headstrong, not at all a fool. However, it would be the final indignity, Mansel feared, if there were no Englishman present capable of playing the part with honor so that Alfonso either had to appoint a champion for the prince or order his own champion to hold back his full power. No, that would not suit Prince Edward at all, but from what had been said about Sir Aubery in those letters, he was just the person to uphold English honor in passages at arms. Mansel frowned worriedly. Or was it a good idea? Would it merely increase Edward's taste for war? How long would it be possible to restrain the prince from active participation in fighting? He had followed Henry right down to the dock where the ships were loading, pleading and arguing, and weeping with rage and frustration when his father would not take him to Gascony. The prince was as assiduous in the practice of arms as any simple baron's younger son who would need to win his livelihood by his sword. But Edward had no experience in real fighting, and Mansel feared the prince's tutors were influenced by his position and dealt out praise more liberally than they should. Could Edward have gone as squire to some great warrior, like Simon de Montfort, who would have trained him, protected him while taking him into actual combat, and given him the experience he needed, all would have been well. But even if the king and Lord Simon had not quarreled so bitterly, a prince could not be any nobleman's squire. And there was no king to whom Henry would trust his precious son—for which Mansel did not blame him. Used as a hostage, Edward could be a disaster to Henry and to England. The trip to Castile was safe enough, since the large army operating in Gascony could be turned against Alfonso if he developed any peculiar ideas. But Mansel hardly gave that a thought. He had taken Alfonso's measure carefully. He knew all Henry's ravings about the threat from Castile were a ruse to extract money from England. Alfonso was prepared honestly to uphold the agreement made, so long as Gascony was part of the settlement upon Eleanor, which would satisfy his claim and his pride. The demand to see Edward personally, Mansel was sure, was an attempt to determine whether the prince was more likely than his father to stand by his word. Well, there would be no trouble about Edward's firmness of character—far otherwise. Mansel pursed his lips. He believed Alfonso was wise enough to recognize that the prince's youthful pride and arrogance when he was crossed would be tamed by time. Nonetheless, it would be best to avoid, as much as possible, any display of Edward's less appealing characteristics—and Aubery of Ilmer might well he the answer to that problem. Edward was always gracious when he was pleased. Assuming Sir Aubery made a good showing at the tournament, the prince would be at his best, the soul of modesty and good behavior. And Sir Aubery had other points in his favor. He was no loud-mouthed braggart, nor was he coarse in his speech and behavior as were too many mighty warriors. Show Edward the letters from Bayonne, and he would, for a time at least, try to model his behavior on that of Sir Aubery. Mansel smiled wryly. The prince could do worse. Sir Aubery's quiet but self-confident manner would be a pleasant change. Nor was Sir Aubery likely to be a sycophant and agree to any wild ideas the prince might have for the sake of gaining his favor. Had he been that kind, Sir Aubery would have insisted on presenting himself to the king in person. Best of all, he was no great baron to think he had a right to join the queen and bishop in the making of the contract and, perhaps, spoil all for some minor point of baronial privilege. Yes, indeed, Mansel decided, having convinced himself by his reasonings, Sir Aubery of Ilmer should command the party of knights that would escort the prince and his mother to Castile. The king, having heard Mansel's report and read the letters he presented, was utterly delighted. He credited himself with a deep perception of Aubery's character, rather than simple opportunism, in having chosen him to manage royal affairs in Bayonne. Moreover, he was able to add information that Mansel did not have. Not only was Aubery as skilled at jousting as he was in the arts of true war, but he was

married to a great-niece of the queen. True, the girl was only a natural daughter of Raymond d'Aix, but Eleanor would not care about that, for she adored Raymond and would be delighted to have his daughter—left hand or right—among her ladies. And the fact that the news of Béarn's failure to take Bayonne was the final straw that broke the resistance in La Réole and induced the defenders to yield—on highly favorable terms—was an additional mark in Aubery's favor. Aubery was not surprised to be summoned to the king soon after the fall of La Réole. The army was moving to Bazas, and a second siege, which promised to be as dull as that at La Réole, was about to begin. Actually, Aubery had some hope that Hereford would reply that his vassal was needed at the moment and would come as soon as the army was resettled, but the earl only looked sour when Aubery presented the summons. "Yes, go," lie said. "I know about it. I will be sorry to lose you, but I will be returning to England very soon." Since his overlord's temper recently had not been such as would encourage even mild argument, Aubery made no protest. Still, he was not very happy at the implication that he was to be employed directly by the king, and he silently cursed the accident that had brought him to Henry's notice and then made his errand in Bayonne more of a success than anyone could have foreseen. Further service for Henry might be a path toward riches and power, but Aubery was not dissatisfied with what he had. Besides, he knew of the king's penchant for blaming those who failed him, whether or not the failure was their fault, and Aubery feared he had no turn for the kind of deviousness needed to avoid becoming a scapegoat sooner or later. However, it was foolish to begin to bawl before he was scalded; let him first hear what the king had to say. Aubery was, in fact, far better pleased than he expected. To be the military leader of the knights accompanying the queen and prince was well within his powers and training. He had no doubts at all of his ability to fulfill such a commission to the king's satisfaction, and he looked forward with strong enthusiasm to acting as Edward's champion in any war games Alfonso of Castile proposed. And, to crown his pleasure, he would have Fenice with him. Their separation when Aubery returned to duty had not been painful, since both knew he would be in little danger and probably would be able to visit Blancheforte periodically. The latter expectation had not been fulfilled, however, because Aubery had been fully occupied after the yielding of La Réole. But his duties and male companionship had not excluded Fenice from his thoughts. Frequently, Aubery had the urge to recount to her various incidents and conversations and had felt disappointed that he could not hear her laugh at the humorous circumstances or her warm praise for a quick answer or wise decision on more serious occasions. And when he passed a dark shelter or secluded corner and heard the sounds men and women make while coupling, he missed his wife intensely. Therefore, Aubery's expressions of gratitude for the honor the king was bestowing upon him were warm and sincere. Henry glowed with satisfaction. The king loved to be generous, and the knowledge that this act would cost nothing and please everybody made Aubery's thanks even pleasanter. Scarcely able to contain his excitement, Aubery galloped the mile to Blancheforte to lay his prize before his wife. Since nothing is more damping to enthusiasm than being unable to find the person to whom you wish to communicate it, he was fortunate to discover Fenice at once. She was overseeing the gathering up of the leftovers of dinner to give to the beggars who waited outside the gates, and she dropped the basket she had been examining when he entered the hall, and ran toward him. He caught her in his arms and swung her around and around while she clung to him. Accustomed to considerably more formality in Aubery's greeting, Fenice cried, "What is it, my lord?" And Alys said, "Put her down, Aubery. You will make her sick."

Since he was growing a little dizzy himself, Aubery gave Fenice one more enthusiastic squeeze, laughed, and stopped rotating. "I wished to prepare her for my news. If she were already giddy, she could not be affected by the exalted company we are to keep." Exalted company was no pleasure to Fenice, but she believed her husband was only teasing her, and she also laughed and again begged to hear what had given him so much pleasure. "I am appointed to command the knights who will accompany the queen and Prince Edward to Castile," he said. "Oh, Aubery, how wonderful! That is an honor, indeed," Alys exclaimed. "Why wonderful?" Fenice cried. "Who better deserves such honor? I do not understand how it took the king so long to acknowledge his debt." "Little innocent," Aubery said, grinning. "Royalty as often acknowledges a debt with a blow as with a prize. I had hoped to escape without any further notice from the king, but this is a reward I can savor." "You are right," Alys agreed. "Dealing with Henry is a chancy business. He is not unknown to turn and bite the hand that serves him. Eleanor is different altogether." "And to serve the prince, who will be king someday, is also very good," Fenice remarked thoughtfully. "It had not escaped my mind," Aubery admitted, still grinning. "From what little I have seen of him and the more I have heard, Edward is very different from his father. I must say I am looking forward to making his closer acquaintance. I have heard he is a most serious student in feats of arms, so it will do no harm either that I am appointed to be his champion." Fenice was watching Aubery's face, not Alys's. All she saw was his lighthearted delight. She did not notice Alys catch her breath and bite her lip, and the term "champion" sounded to her like some formal, honorary position, such as sword-bearer in a court ceremony. "I am sure you will be a perfect champion," Fenice said, clapping her hands. "Yes, and win Edward's admiration," Alys seconded, knowing there was no point in warning Fenice that the honor the king had bestowed so lightly and Aubery had accepted with true pleasure could easily be fatal. It was far better that Fenice remain in ignorance as long as possible so that she could enjoy herself wholeheartedly until Aubery actually had to play the part of champion and Fenice discovered what it meant. Alys had found a smile, and if her voice was a trifle strained and her lips somewhat stiff, Fenice was too taken up with Aubery to notice. But Fenice's pleasure was already dimming. "How long will you be away?" she asked. Aubery frowned. "That is the one drawback. I do not know how much longer this will keep us from returning to England. Lord Hereford told me he intends to go back very soon, I think as soon as Bazas yields, and that can be no long time." "You need not worry," Alys said soothingly. "Elizabeth writes that all is quiet in England. It is true that the barons refused Henry's pleas for money, but there will be no trouble about that. Leicester arrived in England not long before the Parliament was called, and he assured the barons there was no threat from Castile, that the movement of troops was only to hold Navarre quiet while Alfonso turned his real power against the Moors." "Good God!" Aubery exclaimed, diverted momentarily from his own concern. "Are you sure that will not

set Cornwall at Leicester's throat?" "No, no," Alys assured him. "I suppose Richard was not well pleased by Leicester's interference, but under the circumstances he is too wise to doubt Lord Simon's honesty or to press the barons to pay." "Oh, well," Aubery said, dismissing the subject, "all in all it is better for Leicester to be in England just now." Alys smiled and nodded, and seeing that she and Aubery had said all they wanted, Fenice recalled them to what was most important to her by saying, "I am afraid my question was a selfish one, but I wished to know how long we would be parted, my lord." "Not at all," Aubery replied, turning to her with a broad smile. "You did not understand me. You are to come to Castile, also, Fenice. You are to be one of the queen's ladies." Fenice stared at him, wide-eyed, stricken. "No," she whispered. To play the part of queen's kinswoman among the merchants of Bayonne was bad enough, but that was only because Fenice had feared some lack in her might be thought unbecoming to her heritage. Rich and powerful some of the merchants might be, but they were not noble. To be accepted by the queen as kinswoman was far more dangerous. Fenice was sure Queen Eleanor could not know her mother was a serf. Lord Alphonse would not have announced to the queen the birth of a base-blooded bastard girl. Thus, the very act of presenting her to the queen would be a kind of lie—a mute assurance that she had a right to be presented, that her mother might have been sinful and foolish but was gently bom. What if Queen Eleanor found out? Fenice was not afraid for herself. No punishment dealt out could be worse than the agony her humiliation would cause her. But Aubery… She could not let Aubery present her, but bound by her oath to Lady Alys, she could not tell him why, either. He would not even know he was committing an offense, yet the punishment would fall upon him. Perhaps Queen Eleanor's rage would even reach back to her father. Fenice shook her head. "No! Please, my lord, you do not understand—" "Do not be a fool, Fenice," Aubery interrupted, still smiling. "I know you are shy, and you have told me often enough that you do not crave a life among the great, and neither do I, but this is not a matter of our choice." "I am a simple girl," Fenice cried. "I will not know how to behave. I will be an embarrassment to you." "Nonsense," Aubery said heartily, "you were perfect in Bayonne. You had the dignity of a queen and the kindness that made that dignity a pleasure to others." "It is not the same!" Fenice's eyes were full of tears, her voice rising toward hysteria. "No, it is not the same. Service with the queen will be much easier," Alys said soothingly. "In Bayonne, you were the center of attention. You will be one among others as a lady to the queen. Very little will be asked of you. Eleanor is accustomed to having silly young girls placed among her women to be trained. Moreover, she is very kind, and she loves your father dearly." "But to be called kinswoman—" "Fenice!" Alys's voice cut like a knife. "You are the queen's kinswoman," she added quietly. "Your father is her nephew, and you are her great-niece."

Aubery had been looking at Fenice with sympathy. It seemed perfectly natural to him that a girl should be frightened at the idea of living in intimacy with the great. He preferred not to do so himself, and although he was well accustomed to the company of the earl of Cornwall and his wife, who was Queen Eleanor's sister, he was more comfortable with the knights and barons, who were his equals. Believing he understood the problem, he had been about to assure Fenice that she would not always be on show, but his stepsister's sharp tone, obviously meant to convey a warning and cut off what she feared Fenice would say next, startled him into silence. The following sentences sounded like a reassurance, but to Aubery's ear they rang false. Obviously Fenice knew her connection with the queen; it had been stressed in Bayonne. It seemed to Aubery that Alys was emphasizing the blood bond to cover something else. Aubery was reminded of Fenice's fear that her marriage contract would not be signed and of other oddities in her behavior. There was a secret Fenice was hiding from him, and—just as he had thought from the first—it was a secret Alys knew. In a sense the fact that Alys was privy to the secret was good. If Alys knew, Aubery was certain it could not be a dark or dangerous secret, not something that could touch his honor or his security. Very likely it was a little thing, only of importance to his wife personally—a thing that made her shy and fearful when she must appear in a public capacity but did not shadow her private life. Perhaps, as a child, Fenice lost control of her tongue in public and stammered, or even fainted or had fits from shyness. Clearly she had outgrown whatever problem she had, but feared it would return. The fact that the secret existed did not trouble Aubery; the fact that Fenice felt that he must be excluded from knowing it hurt and angered him. "I told you it was not a matter of your choice or mine," he said harshly. "It is the king's order, and you must obey, as must I." "But—" Fenice began, looking pleadingly at Alys. "Fenice!" Alys's voice was ominous with warning again. The byplay between the two women infuriated Aubery still further. Had Fenice addressed her appeal to him, he would have asked her what she was hiding and assured her that he would somehow protect her from whatever she feared. Since she clearly felt her stepmother to be closer to her and more important than her husband, she could just manage without his help. He was not such a weakling or a fool as to be curious about a woman's silly secret. Let her keep it to herself or share it with Alys. He did not care. "I am very sorry that your pleasure in my reward does not equal mine," Aubery said resentfully, thinking that Matilda might have tried to hide some little thing from him, but only out of fear, and she would never have shared the secret with someone else. "Oh, I am so sorry," Fenice cried, turning toward him and stretching her hands to him. "I did not mean to spoil your pleasure. Forgive me, my lord." "It does not matter," he answered coldly, stepping back so that Fenice could not touch him. "I will take my news where it will be more welcome." "Aubery!" Alys exclaimed. "Do not be foolish. We are both—" That "we both," coupling Alys and Fenice, put the lid on his fury. On the words he turned and began to stride down the hall, ignoring Fenice, who followed crying bitterly and pleading with him to wait. Unfortunately, she had no idea about what he was really angry, so she kept trying to explain how happy she really was about his appointment—and hers also. Her voice was clogged with sobs, the words scarcely distinguishable; no one could have been convinced by the protestations. Once, Aubery said,

"Let me be," but he did not repeat it or push her away. He allowed her to follow him all the way down to the door of the forebuilding before he turned and dealt her a stinging slap. The tears and the assurances of joy were meaningless. Amid all her hysterical pleading, she had said nothing of her reason for wishing to avoid service with the queen. Frightened as she was, she would not confide her secret to him. Very well, let her keep it. "When I want you, I will come for you or send for you," he said. "You, I am sure, have no need for me."

CHAPTER 18

Fenice staggered back against the wall of the forebuilding and sank to her knees under the force of Aubery's blow. It had not been a very hard slap; Aubery could easily have shattered the bones of her face if he had unleashed the full power of his arm. Although Fenice had been unprepared for the blow, her recoil was as much from the words he spoke as from the force or pain. For a minute or two she was too stunned to move, then she levered herself to her feet and away from the wall, crying her husband's name. She was halfway across the bailey when she saw him riding full tilt through the gates. She stopped where she was then, staring after him, tears running down her cheeks so freely that the bosom of her gown was all wet. Over and over she heard his words, "You have no need for me." What could that mean? He was her life, the sun in her sky. How could she have no need for life, for the sun? Alys had not followed Fenice and Aubery. She was thoroughly annoyed with both of them—with Fenice for her extreme insecurity and with Aubery for taking offense at what she felt he should realize was only timidity. However, when neither of them returned, she finally went down into the bailey herself and found Fenice still weeping helplessly. She heaved an exasperated sigh. "Now you see what comes of your stupidity," she said sharply, and when Fenice did not respond but still stared toward the gate and wept, she slapped her almost as hard as Aubery had. "Come within," she said. "It is useless to stand here crying." Fenice shuddered, although she had hardly felt the slap. The pain had merely wakened her from her paralysis of grief and fear. "He said I had no need for him," she sobbed. "What can that mean?" "He said what?" Fenice gulped and repeated Aubery's exact words more clearly, then her eyes widened in shock when Alys began to laugh. She shrank away, terrified by what seemed cruelty in one who had never been cruel to her. "Oh, you ninny," Alys cried, seizing her arm. "Do you not understand what that means? He loves you." Then she said more gently, "Come, child. Do not be so frightened. You made a mistake, but it can be amended. Men are not very sensible creatures. A man expects the woman he loves to feel always exactly what he feels, even about things no woman could like. When she does not, he takes that as meaning she does not love in return." "But he is my life," Fenice gasped. "There is nothing I would not do to please him. I tried to tell him that I was glad. He would not listen."

Alys sighed again. "No, of course he would not listen. By then he was angry, and I must say your pretense of gladness would not have convinced an idiot—which Aubery is not. At least, not usually. And what in the world frightened you so much about being in Eleanor's service? Queen Eleanor is very like your papa. She has a temper, but she is also very kind." "I am a serf's child," Fenice whispered. "It is not fitting that I—" "You are your father's child!" Alys interrupted angrily. "And you are kin to the queen—blood kin. You are also Sir Aubery of Ilmer's wife—nothing else is of importance." "But if the queen should learn," Fenice gasped, so desperate that she would even dare argue with Lady Alys, "she would be angry with Aubery and perhaps with Papa." That was a rational fear, not a silly fantasy of unworthiness, and Alys's irritation dissipated. She did not answer Fenice immediately, only urged her again to come inside before both of them were chilled. "Sit down by the fire and warm yourself, Fenice," Alys said. "I am not angry with you. For once, what you fear might, if Queen Eleanor were other than she is, have been reasonable. In this case, however, you are wrong. I know Eleanor very well." That was not the truth, but Alys felt the slight exaggeration was necessary. "I promise that even if she discovered the truth, she would not take offense. Nor would the king. Remember, Henry's line was founded by William the Bastard—and William was the bastard of a tanner's daughter, no noblewoman. Still he was acknowledged by his father and took and held his right as duke of Normandy after Robert the Devil died on pilgrimage." "Yes, I remember," Fenice said faintly, but she did not sound convinced. "Well, I am sure he did not keep hold of his rights by hiding and whimpering about unworthiness," Alys pointed out dryly. "Aubery has been appointed, and so have you. And if you think that the king named you merely to do Aubery a kindness, you are much mistaken. The fact that you are Aubery's wife and Eleanor's great-niece permitted him to appoint a lady from this area without showing favor or disfavor to any party. You cannot make an excuse and withdraw. You must serve." Fenice blinked. "I did not realize that. I thought…" Her voice faded, and then she finished hurriedly. "I thought Aubery might have asked to have me come." Alys smiled. "I do not think so, my love—but not because he did not want you. From what he said, the king was honoring him for a military success with a military duty. Under those circumstances, Aubery would not have thought it proper to ask that his wife accompany him. No, I am sure it was Henry himself who suggested you serve as one of the queen's ladies. It is just the kind of thing Henry likes best—a pleasant surprise for his wife, an honor for your father, who has been loyal to him, a reward for Aubery plus a kindness in not separating a new-wed pair, and a neat avoidance of any offense to the late rebels, who have res worn allegiance." "How stupid I am," Fenice said faintly. "But I did not know. All I could think was that Aubery did not know the truth and would be doing something wrong, and…" Her voice broke, and she burst into tears again. "And now he is angry." "He will get over it," Alys assured her, trying to keep her amusement from her voice. "Tomorrow you may write a letter to him, and I will send a messenger." "But what will I say? How can I explain if I cannot tell him the truth?" "Say what is true—that you love him, that you wish only to please him, that you will not be so silly

anymore but will serve the queen gladly. Do not try to explain what cannot be explained. And for today, we must look again at your clothing and at Aubery's. I fear nothing you have will be grand enough. You will need to begin anew and work twice as hard. I will help as I can, but you will still have enough to do." Since Fenice's letter, like her original apologies, was directed at the wrong point, it did not salve the hurt Aubery had sustained. Even so, he might not have been able to resist so tender a missive if he had actually still been angry. The trouble was that he had scarcely reached Bordeaux when he realized he had deprived himself of a night in Fenice's bed by losing his temper over a female idiocy. Resentment at his deprivation and at Fenice carried him to the nearest inn, where he demanded a dinner and a woman. Both were provided, and both fell lamentably short of what he could have had at Blancheforte. As furious as he had been at Fenice before, Aubery was even more furious with himself. He swore that was one mistake he would never again commit in his life: foolish or wise, glad or sad, Fenice was the only woman he wanted—and if he could not have her, in the future he would do without. Naturally, Aubery's dissatisfaction did not improve his temper. He was sufficiently just not to wreak mayhem on the inn, the innkeeper, or even the whore, but he was in no mood to be appeased by a love letter from the cause of his discontent. Still, he read it, and though he cast it angrily aside and told the messenger to go without any answer at all, he did not send the letter back. In fact, he read it several times more over the next few days, and each time it was more appealing. He did not forget that Fenice had a secret she would not share with him, but being called the fire that wanned her heart and the sun in her sky made that secret seem less and less important. He would find a way to make her tell him, he decided, thinking how he would laugh at her for making such a to-do over nothing. Fenice was terrified when the messenger returned without a word of reply. Alys was troubled also, but she put a good face on the matter and told her stepdaughter that it was nothing to worry about. His temper had not yet cooled, Alys insisted. They must wait a few days more. Even then if he did not write, it would not mean much, she reminded Fenice, because Aubery hated to write. In another week or two Fenice could try again. But Alys did not wait so long. Two days later she wrote herself, describing Fenice's condition pathetically, reminding him that he had promised not to hurt her, and begging him to make some reply—even an angry one if he must—to Fenice's next letter, which would come in a few days. Under the circumstances, the immediate effect of Alys's letter was not good, reminding Aubery of the way the two women clung together and shut him out. However, it was the emphasis on his wife's unhappiness that stuck in his mind. When Fenice's second letter came, he did consider writing a reply, but between his own reluctance to wield a pen and the fact that he could not decide what he wanted to say, he merely told the messenger to inform her he had received her letter gladly but was too busy to write in return. The negotiations dragged, but Aubery was bound to the camp because Hereford and most of his more important vassals left soon after it became evident that Bazas, too, would be yielded without a battle and they could not be accused of turning tail. Aubery was seeing a good deal more of the king than he desired, also. Henry, like his son, had a marked admiration ' for strong fighters, and modest men who did not ask him for favors were pleasant company for him. Before he recognized what was happening, Aubery did become a favorite. Unwilling, but too wise to protest, he found himself involved in the settlement of the terms of yielding and then saddled with the mechanics of getting the defenders out and the king's men in. He was not free until the middle of May, by when he had almost forgotten that he and Fenice had had a

disagreement, but the same was not true for his wife. Fenice had had a difficult time. Her greatest anxiety had been relieved by the message saying that her husband had received her second letter gladly, but her security had been shaken. Despite Alys's insistence that Aubery's bad temper was a proof of love and despite having come to understand the logic that led to her stepmother's conclusion, there was always the frightening chance Lady Alys was wrong. Most of the time Fenice had gone about her work and duties calmly enough, but after Bazas yielded, when Raymond and Sir William came home and Aubery did not, her fears began to mount. Her father assured her that Aubery was tied by duty to Bazas and was not trying to avoid her, but she was not convinced. All the time Aubery was away, her spirits rose and fell as if they were being tossed in a blanket. Jealousy had added to her anguish. She had asked Lady Alys about Matilda but was told sharply that it would be best if she simply forgot Aubery's first wife had ever existed. If she could not, then what she should remember was that the woman was dead—and above all she was not to mention Matilda to Aubery. It was the best advice Alys could give, uncertain as she still was about Aubery's feelings for his first wife, but it did not help Fenice, who feared it was a confirmation of Aubery's devotion to a wraith. Nor, Fenice had been told, was she to beg forgiveness or do anything to remind Aubery of the one-sided quarrel. By now, Alys explained, Aubery would be sorry he had lost his temper over something Fenice could not help, and to remind him he had been unkind would anger him anew. Thus, when a servant had come running to say Aubery had arrived, Fenice leapt to her feet, but her anxiety was so acute that she became dizzy and had almost fallen. Alys pushed her down into a chair, scolding softly, and fortunately Raymond was outside and had delayed Aubery with questions, so that by the time he entered the hall, Fenice was able to come forward. She could not speak, but she held out a hand and gazed up at him with eyes full of tears. "How now?" Aubery said, taking the trembling hand and smiling. "Why do you weep?" The smile was enough. "With joy," Fenice cried, and to her delight he bent and kissed her. Although actually Fenice's timidity in greeting him had reminded Aubery of the events the last time they had been together, her quick response to his kindness and the enthusiasm with which she responded to his kiss wiped out the guilt he now felt for treating her more harshly than she deserved. There was still a minor sense of dissatisfaction in his wife's lack of confidence, but it was temporarily buried under the sensual pleasure he got from simply looking at Fenice. He turned to greet Alys, but she had tactfully disappeared, and that improved his mood even more. "Well, for now the war is over," he said. "Thank God and Holy Mary and all the saints," Fenice replied with such fervor that Aubery laughed, although her heartfelt gladness in his safety and presence sent a little quiver of excitement through him. He subdued it, but it was there, seething under the surface of his calm when he suggested to Fenice that he would be glad to be rid of his armor. The alacrity with which she drew him to their chamber, where she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him again, almost overset him, but he could imagine Alys's and Raymond's mischievous amusement, so he had pressed her against him for a moment but then reminded her, gently and smilingly but firmly, that he was still weighted down with steel. This time he was not fooled by the seemingly gentle stirring of desire he felt. He knew there was a powerful drive building up underneath. Aubery even knew he could have quenched the tension that would increase until it exploded in one of those climaxes so violent that the pleasure was like pain. All he had to do was take Fenice immediately; he was starved; he could have made a quick job of it, and most of the froth would have been skimmed from the beer. But he resisted the temptation; there was an intense

pleasure both in his present mild sexual stimulation and in his awareness of what was to come. A twinge of guilt reminded Aubery of sin and of Matilda, but it was a pale memory and a faint discomfort that could not compete against Fenice's creamy skin and glowing eyes. Although she was just as eager, Fenice was not as easy in her mind as Aubery. She realized that Aubery was not angry; he directed many of his remarks to her and smiled at her, so to that extent Lady Alys's advice had been good. However, Fenice felt a certain reserve in him. The way he had put her aside when she kissed him in their chamber, the way he had refused a bath before he dressed, saying he would rather have it before going to bed, frightened her. He had not looked at her when he said he would bathe later. Would he send her away and ask a maid to bathe him? If he would not make love to her, she thought, she would die. And that was very strange, for she had taken great pleasure in Delmar's lovemaking, but she had never been ready before him or so eager that pictures formed in her mind at inappropriate times. Yet, sitting on a stool at Aubery's feet while he was talking of the likelihood that the war was over and that those rebels who were still at large would send proffers of renewed loyalty to the king without armed threat, she ached with desire. She could feel the warmth of his powerful thigh against her arm, and her mind's eye brought forth an image of his naked body, the white skin and golden bush framing the erect manhood. She could have wept with wanting but did not dare. The long evening of late spring seemed as if it would never end, but at last Sir William stretched and yawned then rose and bent to kiss Alys's forehead. "My only regret for the end of hostilities is that there will not be gains enough to fatten Henry's Lusignan half brothers, and they will return to England," Sir William said. "I cannot agree," Raymond remarked, laughing as he rose and pulled Alys to her feet. "If I had regrets concerning them and the war, it would be that there was no chance they could die in it. Do not wish that plague on Gascony. We have enough of our own." Seeing that the others were ready to go to bed, Fenice slipped away to tell a maid to have the water for the bath brought up. Then she went to get the soap and spices for the bathwater. She was not out of her husband's sight for more than a moment, but she did not come within speaking distance, fearing he would send her away. As she saw the group break up, her father turning toward the stairs to the women's quarters with Lady Alys, and Sir William going into his chamber, she stepped into the room and busied herself with renewing the fire and readying the drying cloths. She heard Aubery's step and braced herself, but he did not speak, and when she turned toward him he was looking at the empty tub with an odd expression. "Let me undress you," she said, her voice a trifle breathless with a combination of apprehension and eagerness. "Yes," he agreed. She laid the drying cloths where they would be wanned by the fire and came to him. Usually, Aubery helped her, but this time he stood passively, allowing her to do everything herself. When she had his tunic and shirt off and came close to untie his braies, he bent his head but he did not kiss her, only drew a long breath with his face near her as if he were breathing in her scent. The men came in with the buckets of water then, and he drew away, moving nearer the fire, for the room was chilly, the thick stone walls of the keep having not yet been warmed through by the spring sun. The bath was soon ready. Fenice had realized by then that Aubery had no intention of dismissing her, and now she was in a hurry. The sooner he was bathed, the sooner they would be abed. He stank of old

sweat, the horse's and his own, but the odor stimulated rather than quenched her desire for him. As she dropped the herbs into the water and wet the soap and the washing cloth, she stole glances at him from the corners of her eyes. He had not waited for her to finish undressing him but had pulled off the remainder of his underclothing. As soon as the menservants set the buckets neatly by the wall and left the room, he came around the tub so quickly that Fenice, on her knees beside it, found him standing over her before she could rise. He was erect and ready. Unable to resist, Fenice embraced his thighs and ran a teasing finger up the underside of his shaft. Aubery made a strangled sound, but he reached behind and unwound her arm. His blue eyes were dark and shadowed behind his lowered lids when Fenice raised a frightened face to him. "Take off your clothes," he said. Relieved, Fenice laughed and sprang up to obey. She undressed with undignified haste, but found that Aubery had settled into the tub and was washing himself briskly. Uncertain again because of his frown, Fenice came closer. "What is it that displeases my lord?" she asked. "You would not fit," he replied in a rather aggrieved voice. For one moment Fenice stared, wide-eyed, wondering whether she or her husband had gone mad. She had fit him very well for almost a year. It was true Aubery had been away for many months of that period, but… and then she realized what he meant and burst into giggles. He wanted her in the bath. Fenice shuddered with excitement. Delmar had never done that. "Why not?" She leaned over him, lifted his hair to kiss the back of his neck. It was wet and slippery, and she let her mouth slide down and around toward the hollow of his throat. "I will hurt you," he said thickly. Fenice shook her head mutely, her eyes brilliant. The idea of making love in the bath had been flickering alive in Aubery's mind and being quenched since he had seen the tub on entering their chamber. Now all the different images that had sent spikes of excitement stabbing through him came together into one that he was sure would be possible to reproduce. He seized Fenice, turned her back to him, and lifted her by her hips over the edge of the tub. She gasped in surprise, instinctively putting her hands forward to catch the far edge of the tub to support her as her belly slid over Aubery's knees and her knees came down on either side of his narrow hips. He muttered something indistinguishable, then put one hand on her back to push her up a little while he positioned himself with the other. Half the water was out on the floor, but neither participant in making the flood was aware of it. Fenice worked herself down, wriggling from side to side. She sighed ecstatically, and Aubery uttered a little moan of relief; the warm, scented water lapped gently against them like many soft caressing hands. Fenice's breasts rubbed against Aubery's thighs; she was able, by pushing against the tub or relaxing her arms, to create the lightest tickling of her upstanding nipples or much harder pressure. Aubery gripped her buttocks, angling her so that her motion produced the most pleasure. Her eyes were closed, but his were open, watching her long black hair, which floated in the water, parting now and again with her movements to expose their linked bodies. Afterward, it was Aubery who dried Fenice as she leaned wearily against him, hushing her feeble protests. He left her wrapped in the drying cloth in a chair by the fire while he readied the bed, and when she said something about the bath and he replied impatiently that the next morning would do to remove it, she sighed with relief. Nor did she protest when he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

She clung to him as they lay together, shaking with exhaustion. Aubery stroked her damp hair, troubled by her trembling. The position in which they had made love had not been comfortable or usual, and Aubery guessed from Fenice's reactions that her climax had been as violent as his own. He was tired himself—but he had ridden from Bazas that morning, and Fenice had been quietly at Blancheforte all day. Accordingly, Aubery associated Fenice's trembling with fear rather than fatigue and wondered whether she had been distressed by their novel sexual exercise. He remembered Matilda's horror at anything even slightly different from the norm. Fenice had always seemed more free. In fact, at first, he recalled, she had shocked him more than once, but what they had done this time was more than slightly unusual. He tightened his grip on her slightly to offer comfort, but what he felt was an odd prick of pride. He had surpassed her first husband, it seemed. The sense of satisfaction made him even more eager to comfort her. "Fenice," he said softly, "do you think what we did was wrong?" Her head moved slightly on his shoulder. "There can be no wrong for me in what you deem right," she murmured. The reply might have been a mere propriety, but her shaking had eased and a lilt of mischief was in her voice when she added, "Your pleasure is my delight, my lord." "Then why were you trembling?" Another thought, less agreeable than the idea of exceeding her first husband in originality, came to him. "Do you still fear the service the king has imposed upon you?" "Not so much as to tremble," Fenice replied, skirting the truth. "I am only tired, and—and glad." "Glad?" "Of your coming. Of your kindness to me." Lady Alys had said not to remind him of the cause of his anger, but since he had mentioned it himself, Fenice went on, "I had feared you were still angry because I was so great a fool." "I am not sure that you were foolish," Aubery said dryly. "Not that I could have done otherwise, even if I had then been reluctant to accept the honor the king bestowed upon me, but now I could wish as heartily as you that I had not drawn Henry's notice. To speak the truth, he pays me more attention than I like. I hope I will be fortunate and give him no direct cause to regret distinguishing me, but his praise and desire for my company are not safe. There are a growing number who hate me for it." "Such men are not worth your notice," Fenice exclaimed indignantly. "They are nothing but mean, jealous creatures." Aubery shrugged. "As to that, I agree," he said, and then, thinking of his father, added, "but all enemies are worth notice, Fenice. To walk too securely, unheeding of the vermin that crawl and fawn about the king, asks for a stab in the back." "No!" Fenice cried, clutching at him. "I do not mean with a knife." Aubery laughed and loosened the arm that was threatening to strangle him. "Such envious toads usually have not the courage even for a sneak attack. I meant hints and sly accusations, rumors spread about so that the king cannot help but hear—and usually not even from the one who began the lies—anything that could turn Henry from love to hate, which is too easy with him." Fenice did not respond immediately, lying comfortably nestled against her husband for some time. Then, just as Aubery was dropping asleep, she said, "Lady Alys told me the queen has great influence on her husband, but she saw them years ago. Is this still true?"

"Yes," Aubery mumbled. "Go to sleep now." Tired as she had been before, Fenice had no desire to sleep at the moment. She lay perfectly still, not wishing to disturb her husband, but her mind was revolving some ideas totally novel to her. If she could please Queen Eleanor and the queen had influence over the mind and opinions of the king, Fenice herself might have the power to protect Aubery from the envy and malice that might be directed at him. That she could have power or influence had never occurred to Fenice before, but she understood what a woman could do. She had seen the maidens in training at Tour Dur curry favor with Lady Jeannette when Lady Alys was away and could not check them and, through Lady Jeannette, manipulate Lord Alphonse. Whether or not she was worthy to serve the queen was no longer important. Aubery was worthy of any honor, and in Fenice's opinion anything she did to achieve and preserve her husband's safety was right. Fenice drew a deep breath and let it ease out in a contented sigh. The fear was there, but it was insignificant in comparison with the idea that her service might be instrumental in averting some blow directed at her husband.

CHAPTER 19

For a while it seemed that Aubery had been concerned without cause. The king suddenly began to worry about allowing his wife and son to travel into a foreign country where he could not protect them directly—or he decided to have one last try at convincing his barons in England that Castile was an enemy and he was in need of money to support a defensive army—and sent off a letter to Eleanor telling her not to come. If the letter was a ploy to extract money, it failed. The barons ignored it, and so did the prince and queen. Perhaps Henry had counted on his wife's good sense or his son's intransigence to bring them to Gascony in defiance of his prohibition; perhaps he merely did suffer a sudden qualm about the danger to his nearest and dearest. By the middle of June, Edward and his mother had arrived in Bordeaux. Meanwhile, the king's interest in Aubery had not faded. Many of Henry's major barons had returned to England, and even Henry recognized that it was too soon to be familiar with the Gascons who had yielded on terms. So Henry's court was somewhat thin of company, and Aubery attained even greater prominence. Aware that his favorite's wife was no more than a mile away and that she was another favorite's daughter, Henry invited Aubery to bring Fenice to the court in Bordeaux. She quickly became as much of a favorite as Aubery. Henry was fond of gentle, pretty young women, and Fenice's ability to play and sing provided the king, who loved music and art of all kinds, with pleasant entertainment. She was not a great artist, but she was the equal of any of the other court ladies. Thus, the very day after Eleanor and Edward arrived, Henry produced his newest toys for his wife's and son's inspection. The queen welcomed both warmly, crying, as Fenice rose from her deep curtsy and looked up, "Oh, you have Raymond's eyes. You are most welcome to me, my dear." Fenice blushed, the queen's kindness producing in her a spurt of guilt, but she knew it was too late now to retreat. And behind Eleanor was the prince, whose expression Fenice had just barely noticed while rising and lifting her eyes. Edward showed none of the delight his mother clearly felt. The glimpse Fenice had caught had been too brief for her to gain any certain idea of what Edward felt—but it was not unquestioning approval of his father's choice. They were held in talk by the royal couple for a little while, Henry mentioning eagerly how Aubery had

saved Bayonne and how smoothly he had arranged the takeover of Bazas by the king's men, as well as Fenice's sweet voice and clever playing of the lute. Eleanor asked about her new lady's repertoire and was delighted to discover that Fenice knew several songs with which she was not familiar. At last, however, they were released so that Henry and Eleanor could turn their attention to others who were waiting. Fenice tugged gently on Aubery's arm. He looked down at her, surprised, but he followed to a relatively quiet corner where she said, "The prince is not pleased—or, at least, is doubtful about our appointment. Of course, it might be only me he distrusts, but I do not think so." He looked at her oddly. "Why should he distrust you?" "I can only think that he must have heard some gossip-mongers imply the king has used me. It is nothing. You know how women are." It was safe enough, Fenice knew, to blame the women. Aubery would seek no quarrel with any of them. He made a sound of disgust, but it was not all owing to what Fenice had said. He was annoyed with himself for jumping to the conclusion that the prince's distrust had something to do with the secret Fenice was keeping from him. It was ridiculous how that silly concealment leapt into his mind at the slightest opening. He knew Fenice was hiding nothing now, and he knew better than she why Edward looked at her with reserve. "No, it is not that," Aubery said. "You have heard us talk of the king's way of favoring the queen's uncles and his Lusignan half brothers?" Fenice shivered. "I do not like them," she whispered. "I do not like the way they look at me." And then, as Aubery stiffened, she shook her head and added hastily, "No, not as if I were a desirable woman, but—but as if I were… nothing." "Oh. Do not let it trouble you. They look the same on everyone. You are no special object of disdain. But what I wished to tell you was that, young as he is, the prince is well aware of the danger of his father's behavior. The barons of England do not like to see the substance of their country fed into foreign maws. Edward is less taken with fine manners and appreciation of the building and adornment of cathedrals. He wants men who will carry steady lances at his back with glad hearts. He has seen the trouble Henry's favoritism causes, for the English lords say that the spoils of their victories, won with their blood, go only to the Lusignans and the Savoyards." "But, my lord, what have I to do with these matters?" Fenice asked, astonished. "You are the queen's kinswoman. She greeted you with real joy. Naturally, that would make Edward suspicious. He does not know me. We have met, but he might not remember that. Perhaps he thinks Henry is making up fine tales about me to excuse his favor. In any case, do not trouble your head about such things. I will remind the prince that I am Hereford's man and my lands are all in England, and all will be well." Fenice was well content with that. She preferred to have as little as possible to do with the prince. Young men of fifteen, especially those accustomed to the powers of a prince, sometimes think any girl is theirs for the asking. Fenice was certain the queen would protect her, but better that he not notice her again. Thus, Fenice said she had better allow Lady Alys to make her known to the queen's other ladies, received Aubery's rather surprised nod of approval, and slipped away. Aubery started off in the opposite direction, in which he thought he heard Sir William's voice, but before he found his stepfather, he was accosted by the prince, who said, "Stay a moment, Sir Aubery. I have a

question to ask you." Aubery bowed and smiled, pleased that Edward had provided this chance for him to explain. He would not, in fact, have minded if the prince decided to oppose his appointment and relieved him of it. He had been away from home for nearly a year and was becoming eager to see England again. Edward was examining him, and he did the same, thinking that the prince was beginning to look more like his mother as his hair darkened from its childish gold. But of course that left eye with its drooping lid would remind everyone of Henry. Then Aubery realized with surprise that Edward very nearly met him eye to eye. The prince was very tall and was likely to overtop him before he stopped growing. Having looked him up and down for a moment before he spoke, Edward asked bluntly, "Why did my father think it necessary to displace the man I had appointed to lead my mother's knights?" "I doubt he thought of that at all," Aubery replied easily. "I think he only wished to reward me for my work in Bayonne—but I must tell you that it was only by accident that I was there when Béarn arrived, and I suspect the reports your father received of my activities were extravagant." Edward blinked. He had expected to put Aubery on the defensive. "Are you telling me you believe you do not deserve the honor done you?" he snapped, bristling with adolescent aggression. "Then why did you accept?" Aubery laughed. "Partly because it is not wise to try to disabuse a king of a notion he has taken, but mostly because it was a task I knew I could do well, probably better than any man coming directly from England. I now have some knowledge of Gascony, and Lord Raymond d'Aix, who is my father-by-marriage, can supply any information in which I am wanting. It was my pleasure and my duty to do all in my power to serve my prince and my queen." Rather against his will, Edward was impressed. He was mostly aware of Sir Aubery's easy self-confidence, which somehow gave him a feeling of confidence in himself also. Although Edward had not yet learned the difference between Aubery's directness and the way many covered with exaggerated respect the hidden contempt of a grown man for a boy, Edward knew that he felt comfortable with Aubery. At the same time he was annoyed by the lack of deference in Aubery's manner. There was nothing of the courtier in him—no courtier would have made that remark about disabusing a king of a notion. Edward was torn between attraction, irritation, hurt pride that his mother would connive with his father behind his back, and a reluctant loyalty to the man he had chosen to head the forty knights serving as their bodyguard. He knew his mother had not approved Sir Savin of Radanage, and he had been sure Aubery's appointment by his father had been prearranged to frustrate his will. He was not completely satisfied with Sir Savin himself any longer, but the man had been recommended as an accredited champion on the tourney field. Edward felt his mother did not understand the need for a powerful fighter as leader. To her the results of the celebratory tourney were unimportant, but Edward felt a major defeat would reflect unfavorably upon the prowess of the English as a whole. "That is all very well," Edward said to Aubery, "but you were appointed as my champion also. There are many who know Gascony, but I have no desire to see the arms of England shamed." "Neither do I," Aubery replied, meeting the prince's challenging look squarely. "If you have with you a man who can beat me on the tourney field, I will gladly yield my place." "Those are high words, Sir Aubery," Edward snapped. "Will you repeat them to Sir Savin of Radanage?" "Who?" Aubery asked, his face darkening.

The name brought the man to Aubery's mind's eye, and rage came with the image because there was nothing in Savin's looks—no more than there had been in his own father's—to betray his inner evil. Savin only looked a proper man, shorter than Aubery but broader and stronger, with rather mild features. He had lost most of an ear in some battle—so he said, but Aubery wondered if it could have been clipped for some felony—which gave an odd, lopsided look to his head. Nonetheless, his snub nose and small, pursed lips gave him a rather guileless expression—guileless until one looked carefully into the dull, mud-colored eyes and understood what was there. The prince repeated himself with the embellishment of a few pithy remarks about the difference between courtiers' manners and ability in arms. Aubery heard, but at the time he made no sense of what Edward was saying, because his mind was too busy. His first impulse was to ask with horror who had recommended to the prince a man so unfit for his company, a greedy, dishonorable man who thought it clever to seize a helpless child's property. He bit back the words because he remembered that it had been through the king's half brother, Guy de Lusignan, that the wardship of Harold of Herron had been granted to Savin, regardless of the boy's desire to go to his uncle and the testimony of Aubery and others that Savin was not a fit guardian for the boy or his lands. In desperation, not desiring Savin on his doorstep, for Herron was less than two miles from Ilmer, Aubery had brought the case to Richard of Cornwall, who arranged to have the wardship revoked before irreparable damage was done to Harold or his property. At the time, Guy de Lusignan seemed to be indifferent—since he had kept the bribe Savin had paid him to get the wardship. Still, Aubery knew that Lusignan did not like to be bested by Cornwall in any contest for Henry's favor. Aubery preferred, unless it were forced upon him, not to stir Guy's memory of even so small a defeat. And, although Guy was in Gascony and could not have recommended Savin personally, it might have been some friend or hanger-on of his that presented the man to Edward. There was also the problem of proving what he said about Savin was true. Under the present circumstances Aubery decided not to dig up the past. Instead, he smiled grimly and said, "I will not step aside for Sir Savin. Ask him, my lord, if he wishes to contest against me for the honor." "That is a round answer," Edward said, again stirred by reluctant admiration. "You sound as if you know Sir Savin." "I do. He is a neighbor. Radanage is not so far from my own keep at Ilmer." "Then you have seen him fight and think yourself the better?" Edward asked on a challenging note. "I have met him on the field and been proven the better," Aubery replied flatly. He did not say how near a thing that battle had been, that he had been so hurt and exhausted he could not summon strength for one last hard blow to finish the work and had accepted the yielding of a man he would rather have killed. He had been fortunate to escape uncrippled and with his life. On the other hand, four years had passed since then. Aubery knew himself to be stronger and more experienced, while Sir Savin, more than ten years his senior, was four years older and passing his prime. Aubery did not fear a meeting; he was sure this time he would kill the man and rid his neighborhood of a dangerous pest. He also knew that four years would not have reduced Sir Savin's powers by much. He would pay a high price for his victory. Thus, he was not disappointed when Sir Savin did not choose to pick up the gauntlet he had thrown down, on the grounds that it would be disrespectful to challenge the king's will. For a few days Aubery hoped that Savin would retreat altogether and go back to England, but Aubery knew he had not done that, because his name was not stricken from the roll of knights. At

least he was staying out of the way. Had Aubery been less distracted, he would have realized this was out of character for Savin, but Aubery's unaccustomed role of courtier was taking all his attention. It was easy enough for Savin to avoid Aubery in the huge army of knights, priests, merchants, petitioners noble and common, and servants of every degree from high-bred ladies-in-waiting and elegant courtiers to laundry maids, cooks' helpers, and collectors of night soil who now swarmed around the royal quarters. Still, the glimpses Savin caught of Aubery increased his hatred many fold, for he imagined himself in Aubery's place, mingling with the great and probably gaining lands and money by discreet hints and suggestions to the king and queen. But Savin was intensely practical. Hatred would not have kept him in Gascony. He did not retreat because he felt he still retained the prince's favor and was reasonably sure that as long as he kept that, any accident to Aubery would restore Savin to his position. A strong satisfaction upheld this belief. Savin was certain he had turned against Aubery the statement that Aubery had been proven the better knight on the field. When Edward repeated it, Savin had managed to laugh, although his throat was bitter with bile. "Well, well," he had said indulgently, shrugging a little as if Edward should have understood without explanation, "if he wishes to say he bested me, let him. It was no quarrel à l'outrance. I already had many tourney prizes, and he was… what? twenty? twenty-one? He had hardly won his spurs. He fought well—yes, but he would not yield no matter how often I beat him down. Was I to kill a boy for nothing?" The statement did not fit very well with others that Savin had made to the prince, but this did not trouble him. Although his manner was deeply respectful, inwardly Savin was contemptuous of Edward's youth and inexperience. He put down the slightest uneasiness in the prince's attitude to an admiration the heir to the throne felt it unfitting to show. This was not all self-delusion. Edward did admire Sir Savin's ability in arms, which Savin had been at pains to demonstrate while they were in England. He enjoyed listening to Savin's stories of tournaments and war, although he did suspect that here and there Savin had painted his accounts in slightly brighter colors than actually existed. Still, Savin had the prizes to support his claims, and none of the other knights contested his orders. However, Edward noticed that they did not contest Aubery's orders either, and most of them smiled more and talked more freely to Aubery. But this pricked Edward's pride, too. He did not relish the knowledge that the men preferred his father's choice to his. He told himself they were only buttering up the king's new favorite, which reinforced Edward's loyalty to Savin. It was not all Edward's fault. If Aubery had paid him more attention, he could have rid himself of Savin by drawing Edward's favor to himself. Had Aubery been less harried, he would gladly have applied himself to weaning Edward away from Savin, but Henry, having found a willing horse, was using it. The king wished to take his wife and son on a tour of his newly pacified province, which was reasonable, because it would relieve some of the burden of supporting the royal entourage from Bordeaux and Henry's own purse. However, it was necessary to make elaborate security arrangements when a king visited men who had been his enemies only a few months earlier—and Henry sent Aubery to make the arrangements. The royal party moved slowly from place to place all through July and August, coming to rest in Bayonne at the beginning of September. Then it took several weeks simply to organize the cortege that would continue on to Castile with Edward and his mother, to gather the wains and the draft animals to draw them, to arrange for provisioning, and to negotiate safe passage through the small domains that divided Gascony from Castile and Navarre. Aubery thanked God that he was not responsible for that. He found it enough to be required to arrange for guarding his royal charges and the many chests of rich clothing and jewels. Some of these were the

property of Edward and Eleanor; some belonged to the noblemen and noblewomen accompanying the prince and queen; many, however, were destined as gifts for Alfonso, little Eleanor, and the principal ministers, churchmen, and nobles of the court of Castile. Indeed, Aubery was so busy that Sir Savin faded to a dark spot in the back of his mind, recalled as an additional specific source of uneasiness only when Edward, who took an active interest in all military arrangements, including those as simple as guarding a baggage train, mentioned the man. In the weeks while they were in Bayonne the prince talked of Savin frequently, almost as if he were challenging Aubery to protest against his keeping such company. But in those early days while Aubery was trying to determine the actual limits of his responsibility and his power within the contradictory orders and advice he was receiving from the king, the queen, the noblemen, the prelates of the Church who were escorting Edward and Eleanor, and the clerks who had made most of the arrangements, he would not have cared if Edward were keeping company with the devil. In fact, he would have been delighted if the prince, the king, the queen, and the entire party had all been snatched up by the prince of hell. It was Fenice who was the greatest help. She was not involved in any way in either the diplomatic or physical plans for the journey, but she did have the queen's ear. Having welcomed her warmly for her father's sake, Eleanor soon became very fond of Fenice for her own. All the queen's ladies were in theory honored to perform any service for her, no matter how menial. In practice Eleanor had to be careful what she asked of them. Most regarded their own breeding as equal to hers, and sometimes they could trace their lineage back to greater kings than she. There were strains and jealousies, too, not only for her own favor but owing to their husbands' or fathers' relationships with the king. Fenice was apart from all this. Her family was the same as the queen's, although she would never have made that claim; her husband was no great lord seeking still more power. Indeed, Fenice knew Aubery's greatest desire was to escape what was being thrust at him. Moreover, Fenice was accustomed to service, to running errands for Lady Alys, to instructing the common maidservants. She did not feel that such duties were demeaning to her, and her gratitude for the kindness and affection with which she was treated, together with her guilt for the way she believed Eleanor was being deceived, made her serve with a lighthearted eagerness that lifted the queen's own spirits. Best of all, Fenice would not quarrel with the other women. She did not cavil at the lowest seat nor at being placed farthest from the queen at formal presentations. She was quite willing to serve the other ladies as she served the queen if she had no other duties. There had been some hard feelings when Fenice was first presented and identified as the queen's kinswoman, but the feeling slowly dissipated as even the most jealous of Eleanor's women accepted that Fenice asked for nothing and truly did not desire anything more than she had. Thus, when Fenice looked downcast, Eleanor did not try to look the other way, fearing a spate of hurt pride or petty spite. She asked at once what was troubling her niece and was told simply and directly of Aubery's problems. The queen did not make light of them, understanding that the responsibility was heavy and more than Aubery was accustomed to bearing, but she was able to offer sure advice on those to whom Aubery must listen closely and those who should be thanked heartily and ignored. In addition, Eleanor had a word with this one and that, including the king, and with sweet smiles, puzzled frowns, and gentle, chiding laughter, she managed so that the pressures on Aubery decreased. When they finally left Bayonne, she spoke to Aubery herself, assuring him that the final authority was hers and that he would not be judged on others' complaints but on how the journey progressed. That day the assurance did not provide him with much comfort because, in fact, there was little progress—owing to general confusion about duties, a sudden rainstorm, several attacks of hysteria about indispensable items

that had been left behind when the possessions of the queen's cortege had been separated from those of the king's, and innumerable other causes. However, John Mansel, who had joined them in Bayonne, bringing with him the final itinerary of the party, was well accustomed to royal journeys. Thus, the first stop was no more than seven miles from their point of departure. Mansel, despite the large quantity of extra baggage he brought, was a most welcome addition to the party as far as Aubery was concerned. Although many hated the king's favorite clerk—and he had certainly collected an unusual number of priestly benefices, to which he paid no more attention than that necessary to ensure that the tithes reached his purse—he was calm and extremely efficient. It was not surprising that he was one of the king's most trusted agents, and there were few willing to cross him. Since Aubery was his choice, Mansel was prepared to support his decisions. Between the queen's marks of trust and Mansel's, the small sullennesses, acts of petty spite and passive resistance, which marked any man's attempts to organize others, abated. The normal effect of familiarity with expected tasks also helped, and within a week of leaving Bayonne, Aubery found he was no longer beset with questions and complaints every minute of the day. Now when Edward approached, he was able to greet the prince with a smile and was very willing to discuss the arrangements he had made and why he had made them. The knights in his charge took different positions with reference to the cortege when traveling across open, flat land, wooded or hilly areas; there were special horn calls for particular formations in case a narrow winding track should hide one portion of the party from the remainder, or should trees or hills distort voice commands. Aubery explained to Edward everything he had done and planned, unconsciously imitating the way Hereford had explained such matters to him. When they talked of such things, the prince did not mention Sir Savin. The cortege did move more quickly as the party gained experience in working with one another, but with stopping for formal entertainments and the deteriorating condition of the roads as the autumn rains began, it was October before they came to the border of Castile. Twice during the journey suspicious groups had been sighted, but Aubery's defense was ready so swiftly and they were so formidable a party that the threats—if they had been threats—dispersed without attack. The prince was very disappointed, but the responsible members of the party understood and showered compliments on Aubery. Nonetheless, he was the happiest person in the world when the banners and ranked knights of the king of Castile came into sight. It was still his duty to see that no casual theft diminished the possessions of any member of the party, but responsibility for resistance to attack, either to steal or to take hostages for ransom, had passed out of his hands. Sir Savin was also gravely disappointed at the tameness of their passage through territories where he had hoped one of Alfonso's or Henry's enemies would try to take, advantage of the possibility of seizing Edward and Eleanor. He had intended to use the confusion that would ensue to strike at Aubery if he could find an opportunity of doing so undetected. The meeting with the king of Castile ended that hope, but Savin had not given up. There was still the tournament to celebrate Edward's knighting. Actually, Savin was no longer so sure that he would be appointed in Aubery's place by Edward's favor. The frequency with which the prince sought his company had diminished steadily, but still, Savin was certain there was no one else in the company of knights capable of acting as the prince's champion. If he could only arrange to have Aubery killed or disabled before the tournament or even early in the jousting, he could offer himself as substitute. However, he realized that his opportunities for damaging Aubery before the tournament would be few. Aubery disliked and distrusted him intensely, so Aubery was wary of him. There was no way Savin could change that, nor in this foreign country could he find companions with whom he could set up an ambush.

As they moved toward Burgos, where Alfonso had decreed that the celebrations of Edward's knighting and marriage would be held, Savin devised and abandoned one plan after another. Little as he liked the notion, he finally decided it would be necessary for him to make the attack during the tourney itself. It would not be difficult, he thought, to arrange that Aubery's lance be faulty. In a formal jousting to celebrate a happy occasion, there would be no special care taken. No one would fear treachery, for there was little to be won or lost. And if that did not succeed, Savin thought, he would hold himself back during the melee and challenge Aubery openly late in the game, averring some insult in Aubery's treatment of him. The prince already knew Aubery had an animosity toward him, and he could say he had not presented his challenge earlier so as not to weaken Edward's champion. The battle would seem to be even; Savin knew ways of making his armor look as if he had been fighting all morning instead of being fresh. Savin realized that killing Aubery at that time might not win back the prince's favor, but he liked the idea of ridding himself of Aubery in a place far from England. That in itself would be worthwhile, freeing Sir Savin's neighborhood of its strongest protector. His one concern was that the challenge might be forbidden by the queen, but then fate played into Sir Savin's hands. In his desire to prevent any rivalry of Castilian against English knights from marring this happy occasion, King Alfonso decreed that both parties contending in the melee must be made up of equal numbers of his and Edward's men.

CHAPTER 20

In Burgos, the party rested for several days while final preparations for Edward's knighting were completed. By then Aubery was beginning to sleep through the night again. He had become so accustomed to leaping out of bed three and four times to assure himself that the guards he had stationed to protect his royal charges were alert and where they were supposed to be that he had continued to start awake during the night, even after the responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders. To his delight, he and Fenice had been housed outside Alfonso's palace in the house of a rich wool merchant. Mansel had offered him a choice of the lodging he had taken or a decent bed in the hall, where he himself was placed. With so many royal persons, high nobles, and mighty prelates present, the clerk had said wryly, those who only did the work must take what they could get. Aubery had replied that he was overjoyed to be at a distance from the court, even if it meant riding back and forth, sometimes in the dark, but afterward he regretted he had been so hasty in his decision. It would mean that Fenice might have to rise well before dawn to be with the queen at her waking, and court life did not seem to agree with Fenice any more than it did with him. She had been very sharp-tempered during their journey, nagging at him about trivialities and answering him so pertly when he was already boiling with suppressed rage from lack of sleep and tension that he had lost his own temper and they had quarreled bitterly several times. She had always seen that she had been wrong and begged his pardon, but Aubery wished he had referred the question of lodging to her. He did not want to listen to recriminations about his heartlessness. No quarrel erupted, at least not on the subject of their lodging. Fenice smiled sweetly and said, "Whatever is most comfortable to you, my lord, will please me very well." Whereupon Aubery raised his brows and remarked with a touch of bitterness, "This is a new tune you are singing. A week ago I could not please you no matter what I did."

Fenice cocked her head, her brilliant eyes studying his expression. Then she smiled again. "My dear lord," she said softly, "you always please me. I would not have you think that anything you do is not good in my eyes, but it is better for you to be angry at me for a seeming crossness than that you say harsh words to others." For a moment Aubery was silent, absorbing what she had said. Then he growled, "Do you mean that you quarreled with me apurpose? When I was already half distracted with my own troubles?" "But did you not feel better thereafter?" Fenice asked anxiously. "Better?" Aubery bellowed. "How could a quarrel make me feel better?" "You did not quarrel with anyone else," Fenice said in a small voice. "Of course not," Aubery snapped. "I had not strength to expend on…" His voice faded as he considered what he was saying in the light of Fenice's first remark, and then he began to chuckle. "Alys! By God's head, that is all Alys. She taught you that, did she not?" Fenice nodded nervously. "Lady Alys says a man must spit out the bile that forms in him from evil happenings, and it is a wife's duty—just as in the giving of a bitter draught to quell a fever—to bring up that bile." One part of Aubery was angry. No one likes to be manipulated, even for his own good, and Aubery had more pride than most, which he needed as a bulwark against his fear of contamination by his father's foulness. On the other hand, Fenice's simple confession amused him and guaranteed she was not practiced in the art. He was also rather pleased to learn that his wife's disposition was not going to degenerate further and further into waspishness on prolonged contact, which he had begun to fear. All he said was, "Lady Alys is Lady Alys, and you are you. Her ways with her husband are not suitable to me—that is why we did not marry. I prefer a milder wife. Let me manage my own bile, lest more than angry words strike you." "Yes, my lord," Fenice said meekly, lowering her eyes, and after a minute pause she added, "If you please, I will order our servants to sort out our baggage so that it can be moved to our lodging." Aubery nodded acquiescence, but he was not really satisfied. Although Fenice was loving, obedient, and eager to please—except, he thought wryly, when she was deliberately inciting him into a rage—she was no longer meek. He reconsidered that as he watched her walk away and realized that Fenice had never been meek. Fearful, yes—but when she was not among people who frightened her, she was not meek. The idea of her fearfulness of the nobility reminded Aubery of some secret he suspected she was hiding from him. He was annoyed with himself for thinking of it. He had not done so for months, the irritation of being excluded from his wife's confidence fading with his own increasing occupation and with the disappearance of the haunted look in Fenice's eyes. Unfortunately, Fenice's growing assurance also irritated Aubery. He knew it had been Fenice's appeal to the queen that had produced an easing of the enormous strain imposed on him in Bayonne. At the time he had been grateful, although he could not bring himself to thank Fenice for her intervention. But at the time he would also have been grateful for a fatal illness, and now when he thought back on it, his pride was hurt. In Aubery's opinion, a man should not depend on his wife except for those things that were women's responsibilities. A woman's duties were to bear children, cook, weave, sew, and nurse the sick. A man defended and

oversaw his land, gave justice among his own people, and supported his overlord, who, in turn, supported the king, with advice in government or force in arms. Aubery felt the intermingling of the duties to be wrong, although he knew of exceptional cases in which women ruled both wisely and well, like the late Queen Blanche of France, who had even taken up arms to defend her young son's kingdom. His own mother, he knew, was playing a man's role on her husband's properties—and, in fact, on his own—while he and William were away. Nor was Aubery such a fool that he did not recognize the part women played in politics. Men struggled by good means and ill to get their wives appointed as ladies to the queen because it was well known that Eleanor had a strong influence on her husband. A woman who was beloved of the queen could do her husband much good. But this knowledge only served to irritate Aubery all the more because it showed his discomfort to be unreasonable, and a man does not like to know he is being unreasonable. Fortunately, before Aubery could work himself into a really bad temper, he saw Fenice returning. She had understood without his telling that she must deal with him differently than Lady Alys dealt with Raymond. Fenice knew Aubery wished to cherish gentleness and innocence, and she was content, for those states were natural to her. Nonetheless, she could and would step outside her nature and take any action necessary to help or protect her husband. But because she also knew such actions would hurt and anger him, she was willing to let him think her more naive than she was. It could do no harm, she told herself. Once they were safe in England, there would be no more court appearances. In the simple life she would lead in Marlowe and Ilmer, there would be no need for any action outside her woman's sphere. She longed for that, for the peaceful daily round of familiar tasks. Fenice sighed, then smiled as she saw Aubery waiting, although he was scowling. She had news that would lighten his displeasure. Their baggage was being loaded, but far better than that, she had been given leave from service except for formal occasions for the time they would be in Burgos. "There are so many Castilian maidens who desire the honor, the queen told me, that they are treading on each other in her apartment," Fenice said, chuckling. "But why?" Aubery asked. "Some, I suspect, would like to accompany little Eleanor to England and feel that Alfonso would not deny a request by the queen." As they rode toward their lodgings, Aubery worked off his bad temper, and he was in the proper humor to admire the rooms that had been made ready for them in the merchant's house. He was pleased, also, that the merchant spoke only halting French and his wife none at all, as this would mean there could not be much intimacy and that the lack of anything beyond formal courtesy could not give offense. As Aubery had very little to do himself until the day of the knighting, aside from arranging for guarding the display of the prince's arms and clothing, he and Fenice spent the next two days riding about Burgos. He found her as good a companion as any man of his acquaintance and far more amusing, for Fenice was alive, awake, and interested in everything. What was more, she asked a spate of questions, unashamed of confessing ignorance as a man might be. Several times she made Aubery nervous, for she was as tireless, inquisitive, and physically fearless as a boy, clambering around to peer into the large commercial wool-processing vats and examining far too closely the scaffolding upon which the stonemasons were at work in building the great cathedral of Burgos. She would have climbed that, too, Aubery suspected, if he had not forbidden it beforehand. Best of all, she confirmed the pleasant conclusion he had come to the previous day that she was not

growing sated with his company. For the first year of their marriage, they had actually spent only a few weeks together at a time, being separated for months between those periods. Since he had returned from making the arrangements for the royal party's tour of Gascony in July, though, they had been together at least some portion of every day. It was not surprising that Aubery had wondered if the growing sharpness of Fenice's temper during their journey was a result of an increasing boredom or distaste for her marriage. Her confession of having angered him for his own sake made that unlikely, but his doubts were completely removed that night. They had returned at dusk to their lodging and taken a more lavish than usual evening meal alone together. Afterward, Fenice sang for half an hour—love songs for his ears only. At last they had gone to bed. Completely relaxed for the first time in months and knowing that there was no reason for either of them to be up and doing before dawn, Aubery had taken a long, long time about his loving. Fenice had writhed and pleaded under his teasing hands and lips, nearly weeping with excitement, but when they lay at last quiet and replete, she sighed, "Oh, thank you, Aubery. I am so glad you are not tired of me." "Tired of you?" he repeated, startled at the coincidence of their thoughts. "Why should you say that?" "You were…" Fenice hesitated, seeking the right words. "For these past two months I felt that perhaps you did not wish to waste time in love play with me." Aubery laughed. "That is never a waste of time. You silly goose, how could I do more than satisfy my most urgent need when I expected to be summoned to some duty at any moment? Do you not remember how often I was called from our bed? It was nothing to do with you. Simply, I did not wish to be caught half done." He was quiet a moment, then turned his head and kissed her temple. "Did I leave you behind?" "Sometimes," she admitted. There was another short silence during which a notion occurred to Aubery that made him laugh again. "So perhaps it was not all for my own good that you found fault with me?" he teased. Fenice heard in the tone of his voice the answer he wanted. "Perhaps," she agreed, hiding her face in his shoulder. Aubery tightened his arm around her and kissed the top of her head, which was all he could reach. He said no more, but there was a vast content in his sigh, and Fenice floated softly down into sleep, totally happy. They had another peaceful day, their only connection with the court being the visit they made to the great hall of the palace to see Edward's robes and armor. The jewels and clothing were his parents' gifts, only symbols, of course, of the greater gifts of lands that would support the prince and his wife, but they were lavish symbols. The shirt was the finest silk of the purest white; the tunic, silk also, of a rich blue, embroidered in threads of gold and set with gems; the gown all of royal purple velvet, lined and trimmed in ermine and equally embroidered and begemmed. There was the small prince's crown, and chains of gold and rings—a blazing collection from the royal treasure to uphold Edward's honor. On another table lay Alfonso's gifts—a hauberk, helm, and sword of the finest Castilian steel, well known as the best and most costly in the world. It was as true as Damascus steel and not defiled by Saracen manufacture, though the methods of tempering had doubtless come from the Moors. Against the table leaned the shield that Edward had brought from England, its three leopards courant brilliant gold against

the bright red background; an equally brilliant blue label with five points across the top of the shield marked it as that of the eldest son. But that night when Fenice pressed herself to her husband's side, he kissed her chastely on the brow and put her away. "Do me the kindness of turning your back to me, Fenice," he said. "I suppose I should not have spent myself last night either, for I will need all my strength the day after tomorrow. But you are very lovely and very hard to resist." "Turn my back?" she echoed. "Yes, and move away, I beg you. Have you forgot that I will be Edward's champion in the joust? And I will stand watch with him—or, at least, visit him during his vigil—so I will get little sleep tomorrow night." He chuckled gently. "One must make some sacrifices in the royal service." Fenice smiled dutifully and did as she was told, but she was disturbed. She was troubled by Aubery's remark that he would need all his strength. Until then, she had believed that being the prince's champion was a ceremonial position, that Aubery would carry a sword or ride in procession with Edward's arms. Among the women, the talk had all been of the feasts and dancing and the clothes they would wear. When they spoke of the great tourney, it was in terms of the favors they would give, and that the prizes, no matter who won them, would doubtless go to the princess Eleanor. Innocently, Fenice had not thought of how the prizes were to be won. Now she was worried. Fortunately, there was nothing to increase her anxiety the following day. Aubery answered her questions in the lightest of humors while they broke their fast, seeming far more concerned that she would do something dangerous while he was occupied with the prince's preparations than with any threat to himself. Since a tourney was not war, Fenice was deceived. Smiling, she promised to do nothing more perilous than visiting the markets of Burgos, accompanied by her maid and a manservant. Aubery kissed her fondly and offered her money. This she refused, asking with laughing indignation whether her husband thought her a wastrel and explaining that she had by her a good part of the coin Sir William had given her as a wedding gift plus the first half of her yearly allowance. Even when she attended the queen for the feast that afternoon, nothing was said that could worry her. Eleanor talked only about the forms for the ceremony and the seating places for her women, which was reasonable, for she did not wish to give offense to either the English or Castilian ladies. The activities that would follow Edward's knighting ceremony were not mentioned, and in consequence began to seem insignificant. In addition, Fenice's immediate business was to see that the queen, the other English ladies who demanded her service, and she herself were properly dressed and bedecked. It was virtually impossible to be fearful amid the laughter and excited chatter of the women. Then the feast itself lasted almost until the light failed, interspersed with the singing and playing of jongleurs, the japing of the fools, and the fantastic performances of the acrobats. Aubery was in the best of humors and ate most heartily of everything presented. He drank less wine than usual, but that seemed normal to Fenice. He expected to need to be awake most of the night, and wine made a man sleepy. Actually, Fenice was enjoying the feast as much as anyone. But as the prince rose to be escorted to his ceremonial bath, Aubery got up also and followed him. For a moment Fenice felt lost. How was she to get back to their lodging alone? Aubery seemed to have forgotten her. Would their servant come to seek her? As her eyes began to range the tables looking for a face familiar enough to ask the favor of arranging her horse to be brought and escorting her, a page plucked at her sleeve and bid her come to the queen. "You will not wish to be alone in your lodgings tonight," Eleanor said kindly, "and you will want to be in

the lodges early, I know. You may join the ladies in my chamber tonight. I will send to your lodgings for the gown you will need." Then she smiled. "It is too bad that Sir Aubery cannot carry your favor, but I am sure you will be thrilled with his victories nonetheless." Victories? To win a victory, one must fight. Fenice uttered an automatic murmur of thanks and sank into a curtsy that hid her face. The queen smiled again and turned her head to attend to a remark made by Edmund de Lacy, and Fenice slipped away. Servants were lighting torches to be placed in the wall brackets; others with long rods bearing a tallow candle were lighting the tapers set ready in the huge chandeliers suspended from the beams. Clearly the feasting would go on for some time. Fenice looked at the tables, at the men and women still drinking and making merry, and at the antics of fools and acrobats. Tears and terror rose in her throat. She could not bear it. She knew where the queen's chambers were. They would be empty, except perhaps for a few maidservants. No one would notice she had not returned to her place; indeed, the couples on either side of where she had been sitting had already taken up most of the space. Suddenly, Fenice was cold. There would be a fire in the queen's chamber. She hurried toward peace and warmth, her feet finding the way while the queen's words repeated themselves in her head. At first she was so frightened she could hardly make sense of them, but eventually she understood that Aubery was going to fight, and she was expected to watch him and enjoy herself. By the time that was clear, she found she was beside the hearth with a delicate silk veil in her hands. There was a tear in it, and on a small table near her lay several fine needles and thin silk thread. She must have spoken to the maids and they appealed to her to mend the veil and she agreed. Fenice threaded the needle, made a tiny double stitch to hold the thread, and took an even more minute stitch on the other side of the rent. With the familiar activity, the drumming of her heart began to ease, and she heard the soft purring hum of the fire song she always loved. Instinctively, she turned her head to it, but she did not see the low, dancing flames. She saw instead the queen's smile, the expectation of pleasure in her expression. Eleanor was not cruel. Could she have spoken as she did and smiled as she did if Aubery was really to be in great danger? Fenice's fingers moved steadily, drawing the almost invisible thread back and forth across the rent with such fine stitches that the closure seemed no more coarse than an occasional thick thread in the weaving. No, Eleanor was not cruel, Fenice knew; thus, she did not expect Aubery to be hurt, and she did expect Fenice to be present and to take pride in her husband's achievements. Fenice closed her eyes and swallowed. Aubery would expect her to take pride in him also. He had been pleased with her in Bayonne. She had survived that fear; she would survive this also. Actually, Aubery had not forgotten Fenice. The arrangement with the queen had been made when it was decided that Aubery as well as the great lords who had come as proxies for the king and the earl of Cornwall would attend Edward through the preknighting ceremonies. Aubery had assumed Eleanor had already explained to Fenice that she would be staying at the castle that night. He was, as he had been at Bayonne, torn between relief and an odd disappointment that Fenice made no exclamations or passionate farewells, since she would not see him again until after the jousts. She could at least have wished him good fortune, he thought with a touch of resentment. Then, as he entered Edward's chamber at the tail end of the procession of notables, the prince called out to him and asked if he, too, would not bathe so that candidate and champion would be more at one in purity. Aubery agreed at once and then suggested that he also stand the vigil with Edward. This offer was enthusiastically accepted by the prince but called forth an argument by John de Warrenne, who was concerned that a sleepless night might interfere with Aubery's fighting ability. Aubery shook his head and

smiled; Edward insisted that the strength of spirit his champion would gain from the religious exercise and from the blessings of God and the saints would more than compensate for the fatigue of the vigil. No one liked to contradict the prince's faith, so the matter was decided. In fact, Aubery was glad of it. He felt uplifted by the ritual cleansing, the solemn ride through darkened streets, lit only by flaring torches, to the great unfinished cathedral. There was a grand mystery, a true feeling of the awesome power of God in the black nave, stretching endlessly upward, in the echoing silence of the huge building that closed in upon Edward and himself when the others withdrew. But the small, flickering light of the lamp that burned on the great altar was, to Aubery, a symbol of the other face of God, the warm kindliness that would not leave a man alone in the dark with fear. The little yellow light, warm and homely, was like a murmur of comfort all through the dark hours until dawn, an assurance that God and His saints were near and protective. Sir Savin was also awake through much of the night, but the low mutters that passed his lips were not prayers. He had pretended to drink heavily throughout the feast, and when the end of the entertainment was signaled by the rising of King Alfonso and Queen Eleanor, Savin had staggered away to his bed, casting himself down on it fully clothed. When the others who shared his quarters were settled and quiet, he had pretended to retch and had risen, mumbling drunkenly, as if he were seeking the privy. During the two days in which Aubery had been sightseeing and enjoying the company of his wife, Sir Savin had been more seriously occupied, investigating the armory, smithy, and storage sheds of the palace. Thus, once outside, he made his way with complete sureness to the sheds where the lances prepared for the jousts were stored. There he paused, looked around, and sighed with relief. Although he had made a careful investigation on previous nights and determined that no one slept in the vicinity, there was always the chance that on the night before the tourney the armorers would be working late, but here in the palace there had been plenty of time to prepare, so all was quiet. Savin took from his belt pouch a stub of candle and flint and tinder for lighting. Then shielding the small glow, he moved toward the racks of lances. Just where he had seen them were the two fine banner lances, those specially prepared for the English and Castilian champions to use in the first joust. Each was of strong, straight ashwood, polished smooth. Near its specially blunted head was the banner of the bearer. Sir Savin smiled and reached for the lance on which a crimson pennon was affixed. When the lance was fewtered, the pennon would hang down, showing the three golden leopards of England. Slowly and carefully he worked the metal head loose from the shaft and removed the banner. These he laid carefully aside so that no earth or straw would sully the bright metal tip or gay pennon. He blew out the candle. It was a nuisance to have to relight it each time, but he was taking no chances that some restless soul would see the light. He made his way to a second shed. Here were stored the training lances; they, too, were straight and the same length but with no metal heads and made of more brittle, less resilient wood, not so carefully polished. Savin had spent considerable time in this second shed, examining each lance until he found one that nearly matched the ashwood shaft he had brought with him. He had moved that one to the very top of the pile and marked the butt so he could not mistake it. As Savin expected, the shaft he had chosen lay where he left it. He felt the scratches on the butt, but nonetheless lit his candle again and compared the two. Then, having removed one at a time half a dozen shafts, he buried the good ash lance in the pile. Once more, before he returned, he killed the flame on the candle. Mumbling curses, he lit it a third time and began to polish the rough shaft. While Aubery prayed for strength enough to bring honor to his prince and England, Savin patiently smoothed the wood to match the lance that carried the colors of Castile. When he was finished, he replaced the banner and the blunted head. He pushed it down hard on the

tapered end of the shaft but did not fix it there. If the head came loose on impact, so much the better. Last of all, he worked on the head of the lance bearing the colors of Castile. He could not restore the point in full for fear someone would notice, but by the time his work was done he was sure the head would penetrate easily enough with no opposing pressure to diminish the force with which it struck.

CHAPTER 21

The slow hours passed. Accustomed to night watches, Aubery slipped now and again into a waking doze, not so sound a sleep that he would fall off his feet or off the cushion on which he knelt when he was tired of standing, but still a form of rest. Twice he became aware that Edward was wavering and touched him gently. Each time the prince recovered at once and smiled gratefully at him. At last, the altar flame began to dim as light grayed the great windows of the cathedral. When pink streaks began to lend warmth to the earliest gray of dawn, the sound of chanting marked the end of the vigil. The procession of canons came solemnly through the nave, enveloped in the scent of incense from the swinging golden censers. Following them were the bishops and archbishop. The mass was sung, Aubery listening as devoutly as at his own knighting. Then, to honor the English, Boniface, archbishop of Canterbury, took the place of the Castilian prelate and gave the sermon. As usual, he urged the candidate for knighthood to be pure, honest, and faithful; to protect the Church, widows, orphans, and all who were desolate and oppressed. But his final words were a reading from the Old Testament: "Blessed be the Lord God who formeth my hands for battle and my fingers for war. He is my salvation. He is my refuge. He setteth me free." Aubery liked the intent expression on Edward's face as he listened. It was thoughtful rather than exalted. The prince was young and somewhat spoiled, Aubery knew, but he hoped that time and experience would wear that away. By nature Edward seemed essentially serious and practical, not given to wild enthusiasms and bitter reactions like his father. It would be a relief to have a king with a steady purpose—and then, horrified by his thoughts, which implied Henry's eventual death, he concentrated on the blessing being given. Both sermon and blessing were brisk. That was Archbishop Boniface's manner, but it suited Aubery's mood also. It was somehow an appropriate bridge between the immense, slow, spiritual thoughts of the night and the lively business of the coming day. In Edward's chambers they broke their fast substantially and on a large variety of delicious dishes, most of them unfamiliar to Aubery. Then the prince's squires helped Aubery to arm. There was none of the usual fumbling as inexperienced boys tried to seem assured in the handling of new armor. Edward's squires were all older, nearly ripe for knighthood themselves, all young men of the proudest families in England, who had transferred from the king's household to his son's. These young noblemen were not accustomed to demeaning themselves with the arming of a simple knight, but as the prince's champion, Aubery was temporarily worthy. Also, although none would admit it, they were all impressed by Aubery. The king's squires were well taught but had seen little actual combat. Thus, Aubery's well-used arming tunic, which, though it had been washed clean as possible, showed dark stains of old blood and patches where blades had torn it, and his battle-scarred body awed them. The cuirie, too, bore marks of combat, and the stiff leather had been worn so often, so often soaked with sweat and dried on Aubery's body, that it seated itself around him, molded by usage. His

hauberk had been polished to a high shine, but close examination showed its rings had been broken and reworked many times. On any other occasion, the wealthy young squires might have turned up their noses, associating stains and patches with poverty, but they knew that Aubery had been offered all new armor of the same quality given to Edward—and he had refused to wear it. He had told Alfonso himself quite simply that he would be grateful for the gift but would fight better in his old, accustomed gear. Of course, his shield was new, but he had carried that from Bayonne, carefully covered so that the colors of England freshly painted on it would not be dulled or scratched, and he was now used to the weight and feel of it. Edward hovered around, watching eagerly, his eyes envious—and Aubery shook his head at him and laughed. "Do not expect great acts of heroism," he warned. "It would ill befit this joyous occasion if I should put down the champion of Castile or he me. Our first passes will be no more than formal." "Is that what you think?" Edward asked, bristling. "It is what I have been told," Aubery responded. "But is it the truth?" the prince insisted. "We would look fools, indeed, if the champion of England were overthrown in the first exchange." "Do you have some reason to believe King Alfonso so lacking in honor?" Aubery asked very quietly. Edward shrugged. "He challenged our right to Gascony. He supported Gaston de Béarn, who had returned my father's kindness with insult and rebellion. I do not say it is so, only that you should be wary." "That is very wise," Aubery agreed. He spoke quickly, hoping to end a conversation he felt to be unwise in the circumstances. The prince had not spoken loudly, and those closest to them were Edward's own squires. But there were Castilian servants in the room. Aubery did not think Alfonso would wish to infuriate his proud young brother-by-marriage and dishonor himself by tricking the English champion into a fall, but he was certain the servants were ordered to listen and report. There was little chance they would hear anything of grave importance in the fifteen-year-old prince's rooms, but even small tidbits might be useful. Despite Aubery's quick agreement, Edward seemed disposed to continue the discussion, but at that point de Warrenne, de Lacy, and Archbishop Boniface entered. They looked with approval at Aubery and Edward and indicated that all was ready below for the act of dubbing Edward knight. As two of Edward's squires gathered up the prince's arms and armor and others took Aubery's shield—now displaying the prince's colors and his tilting helm, garnished with Edward's crest—Aubery realized that not one of the nobles of long, high lineage was capable of fighting. Everyone with the party was either too old, too young, not physically fit enough, or in holy orders. For the first time Aubery associated that fact with his knowledge that the marriage was not popular in England, where it was felt that the heir to the throne should have been used for a far more important alliance. Few people in England, high or low, cared whether Gascony remained under English domination, and some would have actively preferred to be rid of a province so far distant and seemingly always in a state of revolt that demanded expensive armed expeditions. Now it occurred to Aubery that there might be Castilians who felt England was a poor choice as an ally—or simply those who wished to embarrass or weaken Alfonso. At this point Aubery shook his head slightly. Neither Alfonso nor any enemy of his could gain anything by

enraging the English. The fall of the prince's champion might produce a momentary embarrassment, but it could have no serious or permanent effect on Alfonso's relationship with England or his hold on his country. As for Alfonso's good faith, when Aubery reconsidered, he found he was sure of it. All the tourney arrangements were devised specifically to prevent friction between the English and Castilians. If a flicker of uneasiness remained in Aubery as they came out of the castle and walked toward the lists, it was dissipated in the pleasure he felt at the sight of the tourney grounds. He had been on many, and surely this was the most lavish. As they entered the grounds, every jongleur who could make music struck or blew his instrument, producing a mighty crash of sound—if not of music. The lodges were already full of brilliantly dressed gentlefolk, who burst into cheers as Edward and his proxy sponsors appeared. Both "music" and cheering accompanied them as they made their way toward the dais upon which King Alfonso waited. Aubery fell back a little. He had no part in the actual adubment, so he took the opportunity to examine the scene more particularly, and his initial impression was confirmed. The canopies that protected the lodges from sun and wind were of real silk, which, over the central area where the two royal parties would sit, had been specially woven or painted with the royal colors of both houses. There were cushioned chairs for Eleanor and Edward and for Alfonso, his wife, and the little princess. To shield their feet from the rough boards, precious carpet from the East had been laid down. Fur-lined rugs lay over the backs or arms of the chairs to provide warmth if anyone should be chilled. As they drew nearer, Aubery looked with interest at the young Eleanor, whom he had not before seen. She was only ten, sitting with stiff dignity in a chair too large for her; but when she saw Edward, she smiled with singular sweetness. The pleasure the child felt on seeing her future husband immediately brought Fenice to Aubery's mind, and he searched the area around Queen Eleanor for his wife's face. Accustomed to seeing her on the periphery where the least important were placed, it took him a moment to find her just behind the queen. There was flash of pleasure in knowing that Fenice's position was owing to the honor bestowed on him rather than to her bond with the queen. There was another when he realized her eyes were fixed on him rather than upon Edward, who was now approaching the platform upon which Alfonso, in the finest armor Aubery had ever seen, awaited him. He could not help smiling at her but returned his eyes hastily to the ceremony taking place when she pressed her fingers to her lips and threw him a kiss—that was not the kind of thing she should be doing in the middle of an event of high seriousness. The earl of Warrenne, proxy for King Henry, who was first sponsor for his son, was just rising to his feet after having knelt to affix Edward's golden spurs to his heels. Next, Edmund de Lacy, proxy for Richard of Cornwall, second sponsor, slid over his head the gorgeous hauberk that had been displayed the preceding day and set the helm on his head. Last, one of the chief noblemen of Castile girded on Edward's sword. King Alfonso stepped forward and lifted a clenched fist, ordering, "Bow thy head." Aubery caught his breath. When Hereford had knighted him, the blow had been a playful, if painful, contest between them, Hereford trying to strike hard enough to send Aubery reeling and Aubery bracing every muscle to withstand the impact without so much as the flicker of an eyelash. Neither had won the contest. Aubery had not been moved from his position, but he had swayed dizzily on his feet and might have staggered a step if Hereford had not quickly embraced him and given him a hearty kiss of peace—also giving him a chance to recover. It would not have mattered if Aubery had been knocked off the platform or had resisted as firmly as a rock. He and his master knew each other long and loved each other well. For them, blow and response were a game that could have no effect. This stroke, however, was otherwise. If Alfonso knocked Edward down, the consequences might be dire.

The king of Castile had apparently taken Edward's measure very well. The blow was not so light as to be a farce, nor so heavy as to produce an undignified reaction. Edward staggered but recovered himself at once to be embraced and kissed by the king. Alfonso then spoke a few words of exhortation, to which the prince responded by lifting his sword and kissing the ball of the hilt where precious relics had been placed. The crowd burst into cheers, and the jongleurs again made a joyous noise. Edward turned and called aloud in a voice that fortunately did not break that he appointed Sir Aubery of Ilmer his champion. Aubery moved forward and went down on one knee while the prince gestured to the squire who brought Aubery's shield and helmet to him. "Rise, Sir Aubery," Edward ordered, "and take from my hand this shield and helmet." As Aubery lifted the shield to his shoulder, a herald at arms came forward carrying the lance bearing the English banner. "And take this lance," Edward continued, "with which to defend my honor." Having gripped the lance, Aubery moved to the side so that Alfonso could repeat the ceremony with his own champion. Aubery looked at the man curiously. It was not easy to judge the weight and musculature of a fully armed man, but Aubery felt they were well matched. Alfonso's man was several inches shorter than Aubery but seemed to make up in breadth what he lacked in height, so that they must be about the same weight. If there were any advantage, Aubery thought, it would be on his side by having an inch or so longer reach. That would mean the tip of his lance might touch Sir Sancho a hairsbreadth sooner and disrupt his aim a trifle. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he was startled by the snort of a horse. He tensed, remembering that the last part of the knighting ceremony, the leap to the saddle of a destrier without touching the stirrups, had not been performed by the prince. Was Aubery supposed to do it? Then he recalled that it had been decided to leave that out altogether. A squire hurried to his side and took lance and helmet from him. Aubery turned and mounted, catching his reins and winding them around the pommel. Draco shifted restlessly and pawed the ground, half rising on his hind legs in his eagerness. The squire shied a little, and Aubery growled an order and kneed the horse down. Poor Draco had been eating his head off in the stable and had not been exercised in three days. It was no wonder he was impatient. Aubery smiled as he reached down for his helmet and donned it, then took the lance, setting the butt on his foot. There could be few better destriers than Draco. Both mounted, Aubery and Sir Sancho saluted the royal party with dipped lances. Then, having backed their horses to a proper distance, they saluted each other with the same courtesy. Each then retired to the side of the lists assigned him, and the trumpets and drums began another fanfare. This heralded the parade of jousters who entered in a long double column, riding down the field to the lodges. Now the ladies seated there went wild, jumping to their feet and shrieking welcome, waving the favors they had prepared—specially embroidered sleeves and stockings—which they threw to their favorites or, if they were far enough down, reached out at great risk of toppling out of the stands to affix personally to the lances lifted toward them. Less provident—or more daring—young women tore off their own veils, pulled the ribbons and nets from their hair, or removed the stockings they were wearing for favors. Watching, Aubery smiled. They could go pretty far. At exciting tourneys in the summer, he had seen ladies stripped of gloves, girdles, headdresses, stockings—in fact, of everything except their shifts and underdresses. Then Aubery's smile disappeared. He had been offered favors enough, but seldom by a woman who cared for more than the thrill of having a victor carry her token. Aubery glanced quickly toward the lodges. He could not see Fenice's face clearly, but her head was turned in his direction. He raised a hand, and she responded immediately by jumping up and waving her own favor to show she had not bestowed it upon anyone.

Fenice had slept no more than Aubery and had prayed more fervently for his doing well. The prayers, mingling with the murmur of the fire song, had brought her some comfort, and her panic subsided. No device, no matter how clever, could keep Aubery out of the joust—it was too late. It was her duty not to distract him or worry him. Thus, Fenice, who had never been to a tourney, modeled her behavior on that of the other younger ladies. She wore as fine a gown, she prepared a favor, and once in the lodges she sat forward with what seemed eager expectancy. She painted a smile on her face and assumed a gaiety of manner. Actually. she was more tense than suffering. Everyone was so excited and so happy that she was catching the feeling herself. The procession of knights had passed the lodges now, and most of the women sank back into their seats, chattering excitedly to each other. A few, like Fenice, watched the riders continue up the field to the end and then divide as each man retired to his side of the lists. Then there were a few minutes of disorder and confusion while the heralds were besieged. Fenice did not understand, but she heard King Alfonso and Edward laughing over the fact that some contestants had no doubt failed to give the heralds their names or forgotten their order in the joust, while others wished to reconsider their challenges and were requesting a change of order or opponent. Aubery was also watching the crowds around the heralds, but with growing impatience. He wanted to be done with this first formal passage at arms and get on to the meat of the match for a true testing of his strength and ability against complete strangers who might use new and different styles of jousting. Draco, catching his mood, pranced heavily so that the nearest pursuivants—most of them jongleurs hired for the occasion, a few permanently attached to the noblemen they would laud—eyed the horse uneasily and withdrew a trifle. At long last—or so it seemed to Aubery—the trumpets called again, and two pursuivants assigned by Alfonso came forward to make much of each champion's strength and heroism. There were, of course, no insults cast; those were reserved for more personal challenges. Usually Aubery paid little attention; if he could avoid doing so, he did not hire a pursuivant. They always wished to call out the high lineage of their patrons or the heroic deeds of their ancestors. Aubery had no especially high lineage, and his ancestors were a very sore point with him, both his father and grandfather having been despicable men. Since nothing could be made of Aubery's personal background, the pursuivant concentrated on Aubery's own heroic deeds. This time, listening to the exaggeration of his feats of arms made Aubery uneasy. It would make both English and Gascons seem ridiculous, he thought, if the "single-handed defender of Bayonne" were flipped ignominiously over his horse's croup by a Castilian a hand shorter than himself. The tension honed his nerves so that when the marshal called, "In the name of God and Saint Michael, do your battle!" Aubery's spurs raked Draco's sides before the voice had died away. The destrier leapt forward eagerly, neighing his own challenge, which was very nearly drowned out in the roar from the lodges. As his horse plunged forward, Aubery realized he should not have tried to gain the advantage of greater momentum, but it was too late to worry about that. To hold back Draco now would be obvious and cast shame upon his opponent. He saw Sir Sancho's lance come down, fewtered his own, and flung himself forward into the impact—only to be flung back as if he had missed his target completely. With a bellow of rage and an insane surge of strength, Aubery lifted his shield as he bent over the high back of his saddle. For a minute he thought his back would be broken, but in the next instant Sir Sancho's lance slid off his shield and over his shoulder. Aubery struck out again, and the shaft flew to the side as Draco pounded past Sir Sancho's mount.

"Treachery!" Aubery heard, and the hot rage that had filled him froze into icy fear. But in the next instant he realized it was not the prince's voice that had cried out. It was only a man's full throated bellow that could rise over the screaming and shouting of the shocked spectators. Even the least knowledgeable were aware that something had gone wrong, for the head had flown off Aubery's lance before the shaft burst virtually into splinters. Neither could be a natural result of an unrecognized fault in the type of wood used for lances. By then Aubery had managed to pull Draco up and turn him. It was Alfonso who was on his feet screaming, and Sir Sancho was galloping back toward Aubery, calling out in broken French to know if his English opponent was hurt. Now the king had jumped over the barrier of the lodges and was coming toward him, and Edward was hard on his heels. Aubery slid hastily from his saddle. Sir Savin had stared with unbelieving eyes as Aubery pushed aside the lance point that should have scraped across the top of his shield and cut into his shoulder—or, even better, his throat. It was a nearly incredible feat of strength. Savin had a momentary qualm of uncertainty. Could Aubery have grown too strong for him in the four years that had passed since their previous encounter? Then, seeing that his enemy had suffered no harm at all and that he himself would not be able to replace Aubery as champion, rage pushed out fear. Strong or not, Savin told himself, Aubery would be too tired to fight well by the time he was challenged at the end of the melee. At least I will have my revenge, Savin thought. As the prince and King Alfonso reached him, Aubery lifted off his tilting helm. "I have come to no hurt," he assured them calmly in answer to their excited questions. "When I discover who did this thing," Alfonso snarled, "it will take him twenty years to die." Aubery nodded, but before he could speak, Edward pointed to his shield, where the tough leather had been deeply scored. "Who wants you dead, Sir Aubery?" the prince asked. Aubery said, "What?" Holding the shield, he could not see the mark at which Edward had pointed. From behind the prince, Sir Sancho gasped, "Madre de Díos!" and then broke into a spate of Spanish directed at King Alfonso. "He says," the king translated, "that he tried to pull his lance away when yours shattered, but he could not. He believes the edge had caught in the outer leather of your shield. You are a strong man, Sir Aubery, and that saved your life. If the blow had bent your arm in toward your body, the lance would surely have pierced you." Alfonso frowned. "Someone not only substituted a bad shaft for your weapon, Sir Aubery, but honed the dulled head of Sir Sancho's. Prince Edward is right. This was not an attempt to make you—or the English—look foolish. You were meant to die. Do you have an enemy in Castile?" "I do not even know anyone in Castile," Aubery answered. He had forgotten Sir Savin in the stress of the moment, and Edward's next remark drove the man completely out of his mind. "But there is someone who may have friends or agents in Castile and who has good reason to hate the defender of Bayonne," the prince remarked. "Gaston de Béarn." There was a moment of silence. Alfonso's jaw set hard, and he stared at Edward briefly. Gaston de Béarn had been Henry's vassal but had abjured his fealty to the English king when Alfonso claimed Gascony and had sworn to the king of Castile. One of the more thorny aspects of the marriage

contract—or, rather, of the treaties and agreements accompanying the contract—was whether Alfonso would withdraw his protection from Gaston and leave him to Henry's tender mercies. Then, without remarking on what Edward had said, Alfonso turned back to Aubery and asked, "Do you desire that Prince Edward or I appoint a new champion? Or—" "No, my lords," Aubery interrupted with more haste than politeness. "Let us continue as planned. There can be no meddling with the remainder of the lances, for there is no way to know which one will be used by any man." "You have high courage," Alfonso said. Aubery grinned. "Forgive me for contradicting you, my lord, but it is only common sense. And it would be better for everyone if it seemed that we believed what happened to be an accident." Fortunately, Fenice did not hear any mention of an attempt on her husband's life. She had been frightened into mute paralysis when she saw Aubery driven back by Sir Sancho's lance and had nearly fainted when Alfonso leapt to his feet bellowing about treachery. However, it was plain that Aubery had not been hurt, and she recovered. When she understood that he was about to run again, she caught at the queen to plead with her, but before she could force words from her terror-tightened throat, it was all over. Aubery and Sir Sancho had both slatted off sound lances and passed each other to a roar of approval. A third pass resulted in two broken lances and even louder roars. Both champions rode by the royal booth with hands raised in salute—and Aubery was safe. Aubery rode again, several times, but Fenice grew less terrified with each passage at arms, for he overthrew every opponent except one against whom he jousted to a draw. She saw other men hurt, but was convinced by Aubery's continued success and the admiring comments of those around her that his skill and strength were superior and that he was in little danger. Thus, the day passed for her in pleasure and increasing pride, which was crowned when Aubery presented the prize he had won to the princess. After her prepared speech of thanks and acceptance—prepared because Eleanor would have had the prize no matter who won—the little princess gravely detached from the set a beautiful armlet and handed it to Fenice. "It is not fair," the princess said, "that your fine husband should labor so hard and you receive nothing of his prize. Take this to remember the pleasure Sir Aubery has given me this day." Fenice rose and curtsied to the ground, and Aubery bowed his thanks. The royal party all smiled, and Edward took the princess's hand and kissed it, calling her a lovely and gracious lady, which made his mother glow with pride and little Eleanor blush with joy. The girl had acted impulsively out of the generosity and sweetness of disposition that were natural to her, but she knew she had finally made an impression on her future husband. Not that Edward had objected to the match and showed his displeasure by ignoring her or being unkind, but his attentions had been perfunctory because she was only a little girl. At fifteen, Edward had been looking forward eagerly to the consummation of his marriage when the subject was first broached, and had been disappointed when he learned he would have to wait several years. Although too young to be wise or temperate, the prince was already a political animal and extended automatic courtesy to his intended wife. He had accepted the marriage willingly—largely because it meant a household of his own and a certain amount of independence. However, the more he saw of Princess Eleanor, the better pleased with her he became despite her youth. Now her gesture toward Fenice sparked in Edward a desire to be equally generous to Aubery, but at the moment he had nothing to give. Then he remembered the attempt on Aubery, which might make it dangerous for him to be exposed, and he said, "You have had a day's hard labor, Sir Aubery, and you

stood vigil with me last night. This night you shall sleep soft, and your lady with you." He turned to Edmund de Lacy just behind him. "My lord, will you for this night yield your chamber to Sir Aubery and come into mine?" Aubery took breath to protest, but de Lacy agreed to the prince's proposal with so warm a smile that Aubery's slight anxiety about ousting a nobleman from his bed disappeared. Actually, he was very glad of the prince's consideration. He was, by now, very tired and sleepy, but there would be a feast that night, which would mean that Fenice and he would not be free until late. Then they would have had to ride into the town in the dark and rise before dawn in order to be back at the castle in time for the next day's melee. This way, he would have time to snatch an hour's sleep before the feast was ready, and he could sleep later in the morning, too. Aubery thanked both the prince and de Lacy with heartfelt sincerity, and they went in company to the nobleman's room so that de Lacy could inform his servants to transfer what he would need to the prince's apartment. Then, thoughtfully, de Lacy left Fenice and Aubery alone. "You are not hurt, my lord?" she asked eagerly. "Not at all," he replied smiling, "just dropping with the need for sleep." "I will unarm you as quickly as I can," she assured him and began to do so promptly and without speaking again. But this time Aubery did not want silence. Despite his fatigue, he was keyed up by the events of the day, and he wanted to talk. Accustomed now to telling Fenice anything of importance to him, he related the events surrounding the shattering of the first lance he had carried, while she removed his hauberk and cuirass. Because she was behind him, he did not see that her face had gone white during his tale, and when he felt her grip him with all the strength she had, he thought she was expressing affection and joy in his safety, so he twisted and bent his head to kiss her hair and draw her around to face him. "You must not fight again," she cried. "You must not! If Gaston de Béarn's agents—" "But I do not see how what the prince said could be true," Aubery pointed out, ignoring the silly remark about not fighting. "I have been thinking about it now and again through the day. No one cried my name aloud. How would Béarn know me? I am no great noble. Moreover, this 'defender of Bayonne' nonsense is just nonsense. The militia defended Bayonne." "He could know," Fenice said, thinking that if she could convince Aubery of his danger he would agree to abandon his leadership of one of the parties in the melee the next day. "You and I both know that Béarn had partisans in Bayonne. They would have reported how you urged the militia to fight and how you spoke against yielding to him in council. Also, do you think he has no one near King Henry to report what is said and done? Would his people not tell him that the king had taken you to his bosom and done you great honor?" "That is so," Aubery agreed. "Still—" "Then you will tell the prince that you cannot fight tomorrow?" Fenice asked eagerly. Aubery burst out laughing. "You silly goose, what are you talking about? I am the prince's champion and will lead our party. Even if there were danger, I could not refuse to play my art, and there is none." "No danger?" Fenice repeated, her voice rising hysterically. "You say there was a deliberate attempt on your life by an agent of Gaston de Béarn and then that there is no danger?"

"I expected better of you than this," Aubery said, frowning at his wife. "You are talking like any stupid girl who has been taught no more than to ply her needle. You must see that if it were Béarn's man who changed the lance, he can have no further interest in harming me. His purpose must have been to enrage Edward and the English party and make a breech between them and Alfonso. That has failed and, worse yet, been exposed." "But if it is you he hates—" Fenice wept, clinging to Aubery tighter than ever. "Oh, do not be so silly," Aubery snapped, pushing her away impatiently. "A man like Gaston de Béarn does not bother hating someone so far beneath him. No more would he single out one of the militia captains for hatred. If he knows as much as you think, he must know, too, that my presence in Bayonne at the time he chose to attack was an accident. Henry sent me there, but the king could not know Béarn's plans—not to the day he would move. The timing was far too close. Had Henry known, he would have sent me weeks earlier. And no agent of Béarn's would sharpen Sir Sancho's lance head—that was stupid. That was a proof that neither Alfonso nor any other Castilian was responsible. A Castilian could wish me to be overthrown to embarrass the English, but none could desire my death." Realizing that her fear was only irritating her husband, Fenice wiped the tears from her eyes. "Could not an agent be stupid?" she asked. "Even stupid enough to believe that Béarn desired you dead?" Aubery shrugged. "There is a possibility, but it does not sit well on my stomach. No," he continued thoughtfully, "I would say the prince, who is very clever and very hot against those who take advantage of his father's foolish enthusiasms, simply seized on an opportunity to lay the blame where it would do the English the most good. If Alfonso does not reject Béarn, much of the benefit of this marriage will be lost." "But then who tried to have you killed?" Fenice whispered, caring little for political niceties when Aubery's life was at stake. "I have just thought of the answer," Aubery announced, smiling broadly—and reached out and touched Fenice's nose with his finger. "And it is all through trying to convince you not to be a silly goose—so, you see, I was wrong. There is good in a woman's silliness. As to who changed the lance and sharpened its head—it must be that greedy idiot Savin." Fenice stood and stared. Even through her fear she recognized that this answer was far more likely than that a Béarnese agent should choose so devious and uncertain a method of political action. "You must be right," she breathed, her eyes wide with realization and relief. She no longer was afraid that hordes of Béarn's assassins would converge on Aubery. "He was your enemy beforehand, and then—to his mind—you stole the honor of champion from him. But why now? He had over a month on the journey to attack you." Aubery shook his head. "When we were all of one party and all knew each other—except for the Gascon servants—his guilt would have been too plain. No other had any quarrel with me, and the prince knew we were… unfriends. Savin might have tried to kill me by some secret, treacherous device had we been attacked, but we were not." "Well, then," Fenice said, coming close again with confidence to pull off Aubery's arming tunic, "you have only to tell the prince, and—" "Good God, no!" Aubery exclaimed. "For once, Sir Savin has done much good. Whether or not Alfonso believes Edward's accusation against Béarn, he will have to act as if it were true and renounce Béarn's fealty." Aubery's eyes glowed with enthusiasm. "Oh, that was a clever stroke by the prince—as young as he is to have seen a chance so quickly and used it so adroitly. He will make a fine king." He laughed. "No, you may be sure I will do nothing to spoil that. On the way home, I will mention the possibility of

Savin's guilt—but, after all, Fenice, I have no proof." "But he will fight in the melee tomorrow and do you a mischief," Fenice insisted, trying not to let her voice quaver. "No," Aubery replied carelessly, stretching and smiling. "There has been too much talk about the attempt on me among the English knights, and to hurt me or kill me now would serve no purpose, even to Savin. If I had gone down on the first pass, I suppose he expected Edward to appoint him in my place. As it is, he will take no chances." "Then what will you do?" Fenice asked tightly. "By your leave, I will sleep until it is time for me to dress for dinner," Aubery teased, then his voice softened. "Come, Fenice, I know my business. I promise you I am in no danger."

CHAPTER 22

Had Fenice been less in love, she could have accepted Aubery's word. She did believe he knew his business, but her feeling that the perfection of happiness her husband brought her was so precious that it was bound to be snatched from her would not let her rest. Once the bed was warmed and Aubery in it, he dropped instantly asleep. Fenice laid out his clothing for the feast and then hers and finally sat down by the fire to sew. Unfortunately, that task left her mind free to worry, and she recalled Sir William talking of how wild and heedless Aubery was concerning his own safety. That fear sparked others, in particular the fear that Aubery, the soul of honor himself, would not be able to grasp all the devices of a treacherous person. Writhing under the lash of imagined horrors, Fenice uncovered an escape route. It was Alfonso who must not hear of Aubery's suspicions, not the queen and prince. Perhaps a reason could be devised to send Sir Savin away or to curb him somehow so that the king of Castile would not connect Savin with the danger to Aubery. Fenice put down her sewing and looked toward the bed. She did not have much time, and she was aware that Aubery would be furious if he discovered her interference. Still, she hesitated only a second. As when she had deliberately provoked him to rage to release his tension, his anger had no power to stop her if she dared it for his good. What could he do, after all? Beat her? A beating would be a cheap price to pay for Aubery's safety. Because Fenice had never before asked for the special privilege of speaking privately with the queen and because she was very sure Fenice would not be presenting some petty spite, Eleanor came out of her inner chamber, where she had been discussing serious matters with her uncle, Archbishop Boniface, to discover what Fenice wanted. As briefly and calmly as possible, Fenice told her tale, stressing Aubery's admiration for the prince's clever move and his recognition that it was of the first importance that no doubt be cast on Edward's suggestion. "Aubery forbade me to speak to anyone of this," she admitted, tears filling her eyes. "He says Sir Savin can do him no harm, that he is strong and will be watchful, but… but I am afraid. Can nothing be done to protect my husband, madam?" "You were very wise to come to me, my dear," Eleanor said. "It is utterly ridiculous for Sir Aubery to

conceal his suspicions from Edward and me. However, men are very strange creatures. Now, do not fret yourself anymore. If Sir Aubery sees your eyes all red, he will not be pleased. I promise you, no harm will come to your man." This, of course, was rather more than even a queen should have promised, since a melee is no gentle sport, and short of forbidding him to take part—which she could not do—Eleanor had no way of controlling Aubery's own daring. In a sense, Fenice knew that, but the rise and fall of spirit mostly does not hang on reason, and Fenice was comforted. She was able to wake Aubery to dress with a sunny smile and enjoyed herself greatly at the feast, where much was made of her husband. The next morning she was nervous, but when she joined the queen to accompany her to where they would watch the battle, Eleanor drew her close and whispered in her ear that Sir Savin had left before dawn that morning for Gascony with an important message for King Henry—in fact, the story of Edward's suspicion of Béarn's attempt to destroy the alliance between Castile and England. "From there," Eleanor said, "Savin will be sent back to England. I gave as an excuse that his influence on Edward was unsavory. I could do no more, Fenice. No doubt Sir Aubery is right—I never did like that Sir Savin—but to punish him, there must be proof." "You are most kind, most gracious," Fenice whispered back. "I am sure he will not trouble Aubery in England," she added, though her conviction was largely based on the insubstantial feeling that nothing bad could happen in what she thought of as her own Promised Land. Eleanor did not contradict her, and she had better reasons for it. She knew of Aubery's connection with Sir William and also with Richard of Cornwall. Although she and her brother-by-marriage did not always see eye to eye, she knew Richard to be a steadfast friend. He would defend Sir William's stepson, and Eleanor believed Savin would fear Richard's power and hesitate to make any move against Aubery. Fenice was shocked by the violence of the melee. It was, indeed, a battle as ferocious as any in a war and fought with unblunted weapons. However, as with the jousting, she was caught up in the excitement of the encounter. Moreover, most of the time she could not pinpoint Aubery in the violent swirl of action, and when, now and again, she did catch sight of him, he always seemed to be unhurt and pressing his opponent hard. Thus, the apprehension she felt, diminished as it was by the assurance of Sir Savin's absence and much diluted by pride and excitement, became little more than an extra thrill as the day wore on. Of course, Fenice thought her husband the finest and bravest knight on the field, but she was not alone in this opinion. The marshals of the battle concurred. Aubery's party were the victors, and he again took the major prize. And, although he was not completely unscathed, his wounds were minor, bruises and pressure cuts, and Fenice was so happy in his success and also—although she did not say the second reason aloud—that the tournament was over, that she even made small jests when she salved his hurts. They had been invited by de Lacy himself to spend a second night in his quarters, and again Aubery accepted gratefully because he was stiff and sore. Since his part in the festivities was now over, the next day he and Fenice moved back into the wool merchant's house, and were glad of it. They found it very pleasant to have some hours of real privacy, even though it meant riding back and forth. Had they not been quartered in the town, neither would have had any peace. Now that the preparations for the wedding were in full swing, those ladies unfortunate enough to be lodged near the queen were forever being called out to fetch and carry gifts and favors, write notes, mend and examine clothing—a thousand details that occurred to Eleanor at all hours. Fenice, whom Eleanor trusted and knew to be handy, biddable, and intelligent, would scarcely have had a moment to call her own.

Aubery, too, was glad of the distance between him and the prince. With Sir Savin gone, Edward no longer needed to feel any guilt in showing his preference for Aubery's company and summoned him whenever he had a free hour. Since the prince was eager to hear about the campaigns in which Aubery had served and Aubery felt strongly that a future ruler was never too young to learn why some military actions were successes and others disasters, Aubery was glad to talk to him. Nonetheless, he did not fancy being kept hanging about the prince's antechamber all evening every evening because Edward hoped he would find time for conversation. The one task that remained to Aubery was assigning knights to cooperate with Alfonso's men to guard the increasing accumulation of wedding gifts and the display of treasures that Edward and Eleanor would shower on their guests. He had more than enough men for this simple business and thus was rather surprised when Edward looked at him most significantly as he told Aubery he had taken the liberty of sending off one of the knights as a messenger to report on Béarn's attempt—here Edward stared at Aubery most deliberately again—to shame the English champion. After an odd pause, the prince added that he did not think Aubery would miss the knight. Aubery had assured him that one man more or less could not matter and passed on to another subject hastily, wondering if all the significant glances were supposed to induce him to say that the prince had a right to do anything he liked. It was the last thing Aubery intended to say. For one thing, he did not believe it was true, and for another he felt that Edward was already too imperious for his own good. Aubery noticed that the prince looked surprised at the change of subject but pretended he had not, and a moment later Edward smiled at him when there was no reason in what was being said for a smile. Aubery assumed that the prince had accepted his silent, implied rebuke in a most proper spirit and put the matter out of his mind… Another week passed while the agreements and treaties between England and Castile were written out in proper form on clean parchments and sealed with gold seals. Then the wedding itself took place. Aubery and Fenice attended, but only as unimportant members of the English party. They were not, of course, invited to the bedding ceremony and did not regret it. In this case, they knew it would be a rather dull and formal occasion. The usual bawdy innuendo and jesting would not be permitted. There would be only a formal examination and acknowledgment that neither party was unacceptable owing to physical deformity; the groom and his child bride would be put together naked in the bed, Edward would touch little Eleanor's thigh with his own, and then he would return to his own rooms. On the day of the wedding, King Henry held a special feast to celebrate the union of his son and Princess Eleanor of Castile. When his wife and son had left Gascony, the exact date had not been settled. At that time, it was not known just how long the journey would take, and even after the queen and prince were in Burgos, an auspicious day for the wedding had to be chosen by the court astrologers. The king was thus doubly delighted when Sir Savin had arrived two days before, bringing not only the very pleasant news of the accusation against Gaston de Béarn, but the date of the wedding. According to custom, the bringer of good news is rewarded—Eleanor had forgotten that in her eagerness to get rid of Sir Savin—yet the letter carried a warning against the bearer, urging Henry to be rid of him because he was a bad influence on Prince Edward. But if that was so, why not dismiss him herself? And why entrust a message of some importance to a man she felt must be kept away from their son? The answer came to Henry almost as soon as the questions rose in his mind. This Savin must be a favorite of Edward's, he thought, smiling. He knew how headstrong his son was. Eleanor was being clever; had she expressed her disapproval or sent the man away, Edward would have clung even tighter to him. But it went against Henry's grain to be ungracious to a man who had just brought him so much pleasure.

He wanted to be expansive and generous and to ask questions about Burgos and the entertainment Alfonso was providing, not to hand over a ring or a coin and tell Savin he was no longer needed or wanted. Then it occurred to him to wonder in what way Savin was a bad influence. Henry often disagreed with his wife about what was good for Edward. Savin was a strong man with no signs on him of an overindulgence in wine or food. A gambler? Women? "You have brought good news," Henry said, for Sir Savin was beginning to look worried. Savin had been first frightened and then furious when the queen summoned him—frightened because his guilty conscience made him fear Aubery had accused him of changing the lance, although he had been certain Aubery was too stupidly honorable to try to place the blame on him when he had no proof. Then, when the queen merely ordered him to carry a letter to the king, Savin became furious at the loss of the opportunity to destroy his enemy. However, he had not protested at the task Eleanor set him. When she handed him the letter, her face was hard as stone, and he had known all along that she did not like him. He could not understand why he had been chosen as messenger, concluding at last that the news he carried was very bad—although what it could be he could not imagine—and the queen hoped the king would take out his fury at the news on the bearer. The silence and the way the king stared at him after he read the letter seemed to confirm Savin's fear, although Henry had not looked angry, had even smiled while he was reading. Savin heaved a sigh of relief at Henry's words and said, quite naturally, "I am glad of that." Henry, of course, took that to mean Savin was glad for the king's sake, and smiled again. "Who recommended you for service with the prince?" he asked. "Lord Guy de Lusignan, my lord king," Savin replied. Henry's smile turned wry. He believed that he had discovered why Eleanor wanted to be rid of Savin. She was ridiculously jealous of Henry's half brothers and would naturally wish to separate anyone associated with them from her son. Henry felt a wave of angry resentment. Everyone was against his womb siblings, but he would not abandon them—no, nor would he dismiss in disgrace a man they recommended just because his wife wished to turn Edward against his own half uncles. "You are welcome to me," Henry said. "But I would not wish to hold you in Gascony to your detriment. Do you wish now to return to England, or would you like to rejoin the prince?" "If it please you, my lord," Savin said eagerly, seeing the chance for new opportunities to ingratiate himself with men of power and possibly to rid himself of Aubery, "I would like to stay." Henry nodded, feeling quite uplifted at having saved an innocent man from unreasonable spite. "Pay your respects to Lord Guy," he urged, "and tell him that I would be pleased if he would take you into his household so that you will not be put to the expense of maintaining yourself while you wait for Prince Edward's return." Sir Savin thanked the king fulsomely, but actually he did not intend to approach Edward unless the prince sent for him, at least, not until Aubery was dead. He had been aware of Edward's shifting favor and knew that it would be firmly fixed on Aubery after the remarkable feat of strength and skill with which Aubery had saved himself in the joust. Besides, it was a nuisance to make himself agreeable to a silly boy. At present the king's half brothers had more power and influence, and if he could really make himself known to them, Savin thought, he would be better off than a hanger-on of the prince. The recommendation to Edward as champion had not come directly from Lord Guy, despite Savin's

implication that it had, but had been made in Guy's name by his steward as a recompense for the wardship of Harold of Herron. Savin had paid a handsome bribe for that wardship, and it had been reft from him by Aubery through the influence of Richard of Cornwall. Perhaps Lord Guy felt he owed Savin nothing—he could say the wardship had been obtained for Savin, as promised, and Savin had lost it. Keeping what had been bestowed was Savin's own problem. Still, Lord Guy would not refuse him a place in the household when it was the king who made the suggestion. On November 1, Alfonso issued the solemn charter forever renouncing all claims to Gascony. Moreover, in the settlement the king of Castile renounced the fealty of Gaston de Béarn, although the English plenipotentiaries agreed on Henry's part to deal indulgently with Gaston and his Gascon allies. The vague promise was a salve to Alfonso's conscience and committed Henry to nothing. It might have been said that a king who kept a rebel count chained to a log for more than ten years was being merciful in not executing him. However, Alfonso was not much concerned. Henry was not likely to be able to lay hands on Gaston unless he offered the viscount of Béarn attractive terms. By the time the charter was issued, Aubery had little time to consider the terms or to wonder how much influence the prince's ploy actually had in Alfonso's abandonment of Béarn. In fact, shortly after the wedding itself, he had begun to work on organizing the homeward-bound cortege. This time Aubery did not find the task so onerous. He had behind him the experience of the outward journey; he knew his men and they knew him; and there were few clerks or noblemen who felt obliged to make themselves important by instructing him in his duty. Left to do his work on his own, except for Mansel's secretary, who was sensible and efficient and did not need to show himself off as a wonder because his master knew already what he was worth, Aubery had few difficulties in making his preparations. Getting under way was another matter entirely. No amount of preparation could eliminate the confusion and disorder created by those who forgot things, who objected to their means of transport or their place in the cortege, or who discovered myriad reasons to change every arrangement. All feared to be caught by the worst of the winter weather, which was fast approaching, and all were really eager to return home. As a result, they progressed somewhat faster than they had on the outward journey. The first part of the trip they were accompanied by a Castilian guard of honor, but the evening after Alfonso's men left them, Edward sent for Aubery and thanked him for his great discretion in keeping Sir Savin's enmity to him a secret. "I am sure," the prince said, "that the king of Castile understood he could not continue to support Béarn and his pretensions once he revoked all claim to Gascony. However, the possibility that the attempt to sow disaffection between England and Castile was Béarn's doing provided an excellent excuse. And I understand that you could not be certain and did not wish to accuse without proof. Still, you might have mentioned to me that the matter between you and Sir Savin was more serious than a simple passage at arms." Aubery looked slightly stunned. "It did not seem important," he replied. "It would have been stupid for Savin to make any other move against me, and even if he did—I did not fear him. But… but how did you learn of my suspicion?" The prince laughed. "Lady Fenice was more fearful for your safety than you were." "Fenice asked you to protect me from Savin?" Aubery asked in a choked voice. Suddenly Edward looked conscience-stricken. His mother had told him Fenice had said Aubery had forbidden her to speak of the possibility that it was Savin who had changed the lances. Edward had

assumed that was because Aubery did not want to divert attention from Edward's accusation against Béarn. Now he realized there were ramifications other than political involved. He had made it sound as if Lady Fenice thought her husband was a fool and a weakling. "No!" Edward exclaimed. "Of course not. She spoke to my mother. She was only frightened and wished to confide in another woman. It was my mother who conceived of the notion of sending Sir Savin away as a messenger. You must not blame your wife. Women do not understand the differences in ability in arms. We know you are a better man than Savin, but women seem to think…" "I see," Aubery said, his lips thin, his eyes blazing with anger. "Now I understand why you spoke so oddly of the knight who was sent away as messenger. But surely you should have told my wife, or did you think I, too, was trembling with terror of that—" "No, by God's head, no!" For once, Edward looked completely embarrassed and as awkward as any fifteen-year-old. "I meant no harm. I said I knew you were the better man. I only wished to thank you for upholding me. Do not be so angry." Seeing the boy was near tears, Aubery controlled himself. "Forgive me," he said, forcing a smile. "It is not you with whom I am angry." "Oh, please do not punish Lady Fenice," Edward cried. "My mother bade me most straitly to speak of this to no one, but—but I did not think that meant you." He threw out his hands in a gesture of appeal. "Now I see it meant you most particularly—and I should have known because my mother would realize I would not speak of it to anyone else. Please do not betray me." Aubery's smile grew more natural. In some things the prince was so old-headed—he was certainly more understanding of the feelings of the English barony man Henry, and he was quick to see a political advantage. But about other subjects he was still a boy—and a boy in fear of his mother. "No, I will not," Aubery promised. "You are right. It was only a woman's foolishness, and no harm can come of it." Actually, when Aubery thought it out later, he saw that ridding the group of Sir Savin was an excellent idea. The man had no sense of honor or honesty and had the temper of a wild boar. Whether or not Savin had meant to engage him during the melee, there was always the chance Savin's growing rage would have boiled over and caused trouble on the homeward journey. Still, he was furious with Fenice for going to the queen after he had specifically bade her not to do so. Under that soft outward manner she was entirely too much like Alys. Had he wanted a woman to rule him, he could have had Alys herself. However, having promised Edward not to betray him, Aubery had sense enough to realize he must avoid his wife while his temper was so strongly aroused. He went off to the men's quarters, where he received a warm, if jocular, welcome. Giving as good as he got as far as the jests went, Aubery settled into one of the groups rolling three dice in "the game of God," as it was blasphemously called, partly because it was a game of pure chance and partly because it was so frequently and so vociferously damned by the Church. Nonetheless, the jokes, which had made him aware for the first time that he had spent far more of his off-duty hours with his wife than most men would, increased his resentment toward Fenice. Fortunately, he enjoyed the play and the companionable drinking among the men very much and came away in the late hours of the night with small winnings. The combination did much to soothe him. He was drunk, too—and Aubery was an extremely merry, loving drunk. The alcohol blurred his burden, relieving him of the constant, secret fear that his nature really resembled his father's and if he did not watch himself carefully, he would do something foul. Thus, when he finally arrived at his chamber he was no longer in a

mood to chastise Fenice. Had Aubery returned angry and resentful after so unusual an absence, Fenice would have been greatly distressed. It had been so long since the tourney that her part in Sir Savin's departure would never have occurred to her as the source of her husbandly irritation. She would have thought Aubery was tiring of her. As he arrived with several other equally drunken gentlemen, all singing lustily, she thought nothing of his late return, laughingly applauded their somewhat off-key chorus when it was over, and swiftly drew her husband in before they could begin again.

CHAPTER 23

The next morning, Aubery had concerns other than Edward's revelation to occupy his mind. Safe conducts had, of course, been arranged for the passage of their party through the small independent territories between Castile and Gascony. However, there was always the chance of treachery or of some outlaw action, particularly by Gaston de Béarn, whose agents in Castile must have informed him of the agreements that withdrew Alfonso's protection. Could Béarn take the royal party hostage, he would be able to dictate any terms he liked to King Henry. No attempt was made on the party because the king was waiting for diem on the border. But Aubery had not known that and was fully occupied with various precautions against attack. Each day his anger at Fenice's action diminished, but another small core of dissatisfaction formed beside the one, concerning the secret he knew she was keeping from him. Aubery was even more overjoyed to see King Henry than he had been to see King Alfonso. He rode up to Mansel before the parties had come together and begged the clerk to arrange with the king that he be relieved of his duty. Mansel looked at him oddly. "Do you not wish to speak to the king yourself? You could claim a handsome reward, for you have done well in all things. The queen after prince and I myself will speak for you." Aubery bit his lip, knowing that Mansel, who was one of the greatest pluralists of the age in England, would think him a weak fool for saying he was content with what he had and desired only to be free of the burdens—including that of his own company—the king had laid on him. But Aubery suddenly realized that he could turn Mansel's slightly contemptuous question against him and accomplish something that would greatly please his stepfather. "I hoped you would ask for me," Aubery said smoothly, "as you have the most frequent intercourse with the king and are able most easily to seize the most favorable moment." Mansel's lips twisted wryly, but his expression was no longer contemptuous. "There is more to you than I thought, Sir Aubery," he remarked dryly. "However, since I was so foolish as to extend my neck, it is reasonable the blow should fall on it. Only let me warn you—do not ask too much." Aubery smiled. "Since I have chosen you for intermediary, I must allow you to be the judge of whether I ask too much. What I desire is the right for my stepfather, Sir William of Marlowe, to purchase back from the king the keep of Bix and its lands. My stepfather ceded it to the king in exchange for Gascon lands to serve as dowry for my stepsister."

"But how will this benefit you?" Mansel asked in a most puzzled voice. "It is rather roundabout but will benefit me more than a court appointment, for which I am most unfit. Lady Alys d'Aix is Sir William's only heir of the body. For reasons too numerous to tell you, she does not desire her father's property in England for herself or her children. Thus, Sir William has arranged to settle by will all his lands upon either my wife or myself." "I am growing less and less sure that you are unfit for a court appointment," Mansel said sardonically. Aubery shrugged. "Then let us say that I have little taste for a courtier's life and also that my wife's relationship to the queen, which has been useful to everyone in Castile and Gascony, will in England prove a source of jealousy and hard feeling. We would do better to live quietly on our lands and make an occasional visit to court." Now the glance Mansel cast Aubery was rather admiring and thoughtful. "I will do what I can," he said, and then added cautiously, "If Bix is not too great a holding, I believe you may account the matter settled." "It is about twenty marks a year," Aubery told him. Late in the evening Aubery's talk with Mansel bore its first fruit. Aubery received a letter of thanks and praise and, equally satisfactory, permission to go where he desired at any time. A second parchment officially releasing Fenice from her duty to the queen accompanied this, together with a note from Eleanor herself full of affection and regret for losing Fenice's company but making clear that she understood, was not angry, and hoped most sincerely to see Fenice again when they were both in England. Aubery presented the latter of the two letters to Fenice without comment, wondering how she would react. She had seemed so much at ease in the company of the queen and her ladies of late that he felt some doubt whether she would be willing to come down from the exalted heights on which she had been living to a more everyday existence. On the contrary, Fenice was so relieved, so clearly overjoyed, to be freed from her duty to the queen that Aubery was startled. "Do you dislike the queen?" he asked when she released his lips after kissing him in wild abandon to express her joy and her gratitude. "No, I love her," Fenice exclaimed, still laughing with happiness and beginning to whirl around the room with her arms outspread. It was a spontaneous demonstration to express the sudden lightening of her spirit at the removal of a burden of secret fear she had hardly been aware of bearing until it was gone. Aubery watched her, also laughing at her effervescence but somewhat disturbed. If she had been acting a part of ease and contentment all these months, she was a performer of such skill that every emotion she displayed must be suspect. If she had not been acting, then this display of joy must be false—but that made her no less skillful as an actress. "Were the queen's ladies unkind to you?" he persisted. "No, not at all," Fenice caroled merrily. Aubery caught her as she was about to spin past him. The chamber was not large, and she was within his reach. She did not resist his hold, twirling about and again throwing her arms around his neck. He dodged her kiss, pulled her arms down, and held her a little away. "Then why are you cavorting about like a mad clown?" he insisted.

"I—I am glad to be finished with fetching and carrying and always being on best behavior," Fenice replied, but her voice was no longer merry. The questions had revealed to her the real source of her happiness, and she blushed deeply, aware that her answer was the least part of the truth, although it was not a lie. The blush and the hesitation after so strong a show of relief reminded Aubery of Fenice's original reluctance to serve the queen and, by natural extension, of the private fear she would not confide to him. He released her and turned away, saying sharply, "You will be glad to see Alys again, will you not?" Fenice sensed his anger but not its source. She had been sure he was happy to be free of the king's service, so he could not be angry because she was not echoing his mood. Perhaps, she had gone too far in expressing her joy and seemed to criticize his forcing her to become one of the queen's ladies. But she was not certain that was what had annoyed him, and she was afraid to say anything definite lest she make his mood worse. "Of course," she replied neutrally. "I am always happy to be with Lady Alys, but if you wish to go straight to England or—or anywhere else, I will be glad also. My place is with you, and there I am content." Aubery turned back to her and, seeing the anxiety on her face, called himself a fool. Everything Fenice did—even those things she should not have done, like going to the queen to complain about Savin—was what she believed was for his good. Perhaps Alys was right. Perhaps she did love him. She had tried to stop him from fighting in the tourney. Silly as that was, it was something a woman in love might do. He reached out and touched her face. "I have spoiled your joy—I am sorry. I thought perhaps you were really sorry to leave the excitement and elegance of the queen's service and only pretended to be glad." "Oh, no!" Fenice exclaimed. "Truly, truly, I am happy to be free. And, you know, it is not exciting at all. It is really very dull. The ladies do nothing but gossip, embroider, sing, and play games." Aubery could not help laughing. "That seems an easy, pleasant life to me—and you like to embroider and sing." "Yes, and I like to play games and—and gossip, too," Fenice admitted naively, "but not all day, every day. I miss—oh, at this season I would be culling the last of the herbs, brewing simples and drying those that keep their virtue dried, seeing to the salting of the meat from those animals slaughtered to thin the herds, and stocking the castle in all things for the winter. It is a busy time usually, even in Aix, where the weather is milder than England, for there are great storms in winter, and ships and supplies cannot come. But you know all this, my lord," she said with a shy smile. He drew her close and kissed her. "Aye, I know what you mean. I have had some pleasure in the war and more in this journey for the prince's marriage, but I long for my lands and my simple daily duties also. I wonder what the harvest was like in Diner—this year it should bring me some profit at last, if it was good—and I wonder whether the fine mare I bred to Draco foaled a mare or a stallion colt." He smiled down at her. "We must go first to Blancheforte. You will want to bid farewell to your father and Lady Alys, and I must find out whether Sir William left messages for me. But after that, we will go home." Although Fenice was glad that she had appeased her husband and that he was pleased with her desire for a normal, simple life, she remained aware that the real cause of his dissatisfaction was not the one he had stated. No one could have believed she was pretending joy; it had welled out of her so freely that her sincerity must have been apparent. Fenice wondered whether she should ask what had really angered her husband, but she dared not. To

ask the real reason was to imply that Aubery had lied, which would set off his quick temper—and besides, Fenice was not certain that she wished to know. What if her dancing about had reminded him of his first wife and he had seen her as an unwelcome usurper? Or, if the cause was something silly and of no importance, it would be stupid to recall it to his mind. So Fenice said nothing, but a shadow of uneasiness lay in a corner of her mind, and it began to trouble her again that Aubery still said no love-words to her. From the time they had made up their quarrel after she had been so stupid as to try to refuse entering the queen's service, she had not thought of the matter, accepting it as part of Aubery's way of doing things. He had shown her so much approval, so much confidence, bringing his worries and his joys to her during the day and joining more and more freely in love play during the night that the Tack of tender words seemed unimportant. Now she wondered. Aubery called her Fenice and sometimes—playfully or when in grand company—my lady, but he never called her my love or dear heart or flower of my soul, as Delmar used to do before Lady Emilie poisoned his mind. Even when Aubery lay under her, his eyes glazing with passion as he watched the generation of his pleasure by her rising and falling body, and he cried out in a moment of nearly unendurable joy—it was merely her name he uttered. Perhaps that was enough; perhaps he had never used words of love because he felt they were not fitting words for a strong man to say—but perhaps it was because he did not love her. Fenice did her best to rid herself of these unwholesome thoughts. She told herself she was an ungrateful wretch. Blessed with a husband who treated her with all the courtesy a great lady could desire, who paid no more attention to any other woman than a minimum of politeness demanded and plainly showed his preference for her in all company, how dared she ask more? But such a question only illustrated too clearly that she felt Aubery was withholding from her some ultimate part of himself. Since Aubery's release had arrived before they had unpacked more than what they would need for that one night, there was little to do to make ready, and the very next day they rode north to Blancheforte. Their sudden departure had given Sir Savin, who had traveled south with the king as part of Lord Guy de Lusignan's household, the hope that Aubery had somehow offended the prince or the queen. The idea had pleased Savin mightily and had reduced the urgency of his desire for revenge. Nonetheless, he had no intention of trying to restore himself to Edward's favor. He was delighted with his present situation. Because the king's half brothers were cordially hated by many, and there had been a few unpleasant incidents, Guy de Lusignan had been perfectly willing to take into his household a strong fighter who professed himself obligated to him and his brothers and very eager to serve them. And Savin did his best to show himself useful in the weeks between his arrival and the king's departure to meet his wife, son, and new daughter-by-marriage on their return from Castile. Sir Savin was fortunate; circumstances provided an opportunity for him ..to .protect Lord Guy from an exasperated merchant, and he also demonstrated his ability in intimidating those who resisted giving the various bribes and presents one or another of the brothers demanded or those who threatened to appeal to the king for redress. Since Savin tended to add his own extortions to those of his masters, he was finding his new place profitable as well as pleasant. Thus, he avoided the prince rather than courting his notice, and hoped that Lord Guy would not remember that he was supposed to go back into Edward's service. Savin was primarily concerned about the handsome perquisites he was taking, but he still wished to kill Aubery while they were away from England, if it were possible. The best place to do that would be Bordeaux, where Aubery was almost certainly going and where Savin had made connections of the type best suited to ambush and assassination. However, the prince

was not returning to Bordeaux with his parents. The royal party was separating; Edward and little Eleanor were going to tour Gascony to show themselves as the new duke and duchess. Savin did not wish to be part of this entourage. All of the prince's people would have to be on their very best behavior to impress the Gascons with the mercy, kindness, and justice of the new rulers. While in Bayonne Savin was very quiet and kept out of everyone's way. 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 24

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 party. 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. Fenice guessed that if they traveled alone, Aubery would want to move as quickly as possible, but if she admitted to fatigue, he might feel it was better to remain with the large English party for safety's sake. Thus, she was actually glad to have a few hours to herself so that she could rest, even sleep, which she

would not have dared to do if Aubery had been with her, and after her meal was served, she lay down on the bed. On his arrival at the guildhall, Aubery was divided between amusement and anxiety when he was ceremoniously led to the table of honor. It was, he realized, a natural result of his arrival in Warwick's party and the grand clothing he was wearing. Since he did not wish to suffer the embarrassment of having the highborn guests already seated there reject his company, he was about to protest. However, he was welcomed warmly by Warwick and William Mauduit and introduced to Philip Marmim, who nodded cordially enough, although he was using his mouth to take in a huge swallow of wine. Aubery politely seated himself at one end of the short, cushioned bench to Warwick's left—the place of least consequence—leaving room for one or two other men on that bench and two or three more on the bench closest to Warwick's chair. There was another chair next to Warwick for the mayor, who was not yet present. Aubery wondered, again with mingled amusement and anxiety, whether Warwick knew who his dinner partner was to be. He hoped the proud earl had been warned in advance and had come to accept the situation, since he did not relish the thought of insulting his hosts by argument or withdrawal. Then it struck Aubery as very odd that the chief host was not already present to welcome his guests. Nor, he saw, glancing up the table, were the places of the other, more important town officials filled. He was about to remark on this peculiar circumstance when Seagrave was shown to the table by the same man who had escorted Aubery. While Seagrave was being greeted and seated, the mayor and the others arrived. They seemed a trifle breathless and harried, and although Aubery kept his face expressionless, he was amused once more. Probably, he thought, they were not accustomed to such exalted guests and had been running about to see that the dinner and service would be properly grand. The mild, private sense of fun put Aubery in a good humor, which was reinforced when he found that only one other man would share his bench. Three diners would have put them in rather close quarters, and as the meal progressed he would almost certainly have been splashed with wine or gravy. Now, unless the servers were particularly inept, he need only take care with his own food, and right on the heels of his thought the first course arrived. Usually the host was expected to begin the talk, but since Aubery's table companion was silent, he remarked politely on the cordiality with which he and his fellow travelers had been welcomed by the commune of Pons. To his surprise, the official cast him a most peculiar look before he mumbled an appropriate reply. Feeling sorry for the man's evident embarrassment at being in elevated company, Aubery tried again, making what he thought would be a soothingly inane comment on the probability of fair weather for traveling over the next few days. This time the glance flashed at him was frightened, and the man's voice was just a shade too loud as he replied, "Yes, yes, of course. I hope so." Since his attempts at conversation only seemed to be making his dinner partner more uncomfortable, Aubery desisted and addressed his full attention to the food, which was very good. The wine was excellent also, and it flowed unceasingly. Every time Aubery reached for his cup, it was full. Had his companion been more interesting—for the official did, as the meal progressed, offer a few stilted comments—Aubery would have enjoyed himself completely. However, by the time the second course was served, Aubery began to wish the server would give him a chance to water his wine. The highly spiced food made frequent recourse to the wine necessary, and since Aubery was not a heavy drinker, he was beginning to feel the effects despite the substantial quantity of food he was eating. Once or twice Aubery put his hand over his cup after he drank from it to prevent

its being refilled, but that did not solve the problem because there was no water on the table with which to fill the cup. And since he did not yet wish to mention to Warwick his plan of going on alone, he preferred not to ask for water and raise questions about why he was eager to be more sober than his companions. Having accepted the inevitability of a miserable morning, Aubery resolved to enjoy the preceding potations—and he did. As the tide of wine rose higher, merry talk was shouted up and down the table among the English gentlemen, without regard to the officials of Pons who sat between them. Then, some time after the third course had been placed on the table, Aubery noticed that a different server was filling the cup of the man beside him. He laughed, drunkenly assuming that the commune was pinching pennies by providing cheap wine for themselves, but just as he was about to point out this mean-spirited parsimony to his noble companions, the great doors at each end of the hall burst open to admit a flood of armed men. The lesser English knights at the tables closest to the ends of the hall were overwhelmed before they realized there was a threat. Surprise prevented even a shadow of resistance. At the more central tables, men began to strike out against their attackers, but they were all without any weapon more effective than an eating knife, and their assailants were not only armed but armored in habergeons and steel helmets. Aubery sat watching, goggle-eyed, for as long as a minute before what he was seeing penetrated his drink-befuddled brain. But he was not as far gone as his companions, and he finally leapt to his feet, roaring, "They are taking only the English!" "What does this mean?" Warwick shouted, trying to push his heavy chair back from the table and turning toward the mayor. But the mayor had already slipped away, out of reach, and the armed men were advancing on the high table. With a single furious blow from his fist, Aubery felled the official who had been sitting beside him and had been unable to escape when Aubery rose, blocking his way. Aubery then seized the table and heaved with all his strength. The trestle top flew up and out, knocking down the few men-at-arms who were closest, and scattering food and liquid far and wide so that others slid and tripped on the unexpected obstacles. This gave Aubery time to seize the bench on which he had been sitting. It was a well-made, heavy piece of furniture, but the outrage Aubery felt at the treachery of the commune of Pons let him handle it with ease. He swung in at those nearest him, legs forward, with all the power that fury lent his arms, and he bellowed in satisfaction as two men fell, one with the side of his face crushed to a bloody ruin. His backs wing with the flat of the bench caught three more, and he let the weight of the bench pull him round to catch one attacker who had run around to take him from behind. A blow struck him on the shoulder, but his grip on the bench did not loosen, and he paid the man who had hit him full measure for his temerity. That blow was so fierce that the legs broke, but Aubery turned the bench so that the edge was forward and swung again, shouting for Warwick and the others to join him. As a group, they could fight their way free. He had cleared a space around himself by then and realized that it was too late. Marmim, insensible from drink, was being carried out, and the others were being dragged off, staggering either from blows they were too slow to ward off or from drunkenness. The brief respite showed Aubery that he was nearly alone in his resistance and could not win, but that only increased his fury—and he had one hope. If he were too hard a nut to crack, they might give up on him. Unfortunately, that hope was groundless. In the next moment, he was charged from all sides. The bench splintered against the steel blades of his opponents, and he dropped it, running at the nearest men with his bare fists. He would have been spitted had the men-at-arms not had strict instructions that they were to take prisoners and take them without wounds, for dead men brought no ransoms. It took five of

them to subdue him, and even then he struggled, throwing them off until one man brought his weapon down on the side of Aubery's head and knocked him unconscious. More tired than she had acknowledged even to herself, Fenice slept away the entire afternoon, waking only after dusk as the room grew colder and colder because she had failed to feed the fire. She was frightened and confused for a few minutes but eventually remembered where she was and why she was alone. Fortunately, a few embers remained in the fireplace, and Fenice was able to light a candle from them. Once she had light, she rebuilt the fire, not wishing to summon a servant lest word somehow came to Aubery that she had slept so long. Having thought of Aubery, she was seized by a qualm of doubt. Surely even a very elaborate dinner should not have lasted until dark. Then she shook her head at her foolishness. Naturally once her husband was caught up in the company of a large group of men without women, he would not wish to make himself a laughingstock by saying he must return to his wife. He would, of course, join the men in any amusement they proposed to fill in the hours until bedtime. Fenice hoped they would choose to drink and gamble rather than go whoring, but she knew she had no right to complain about whatever Aubery did. He was a miracle of constancy compared to Delmar. Still, she was very disappointed as the evening wore on and Aubery did not come back. She had been a little surprised when the man-at-arms guarding the door had brought her evening meal to her himself, but she assumed those were Aubery's orders and did not ask questions. Eventually, after playing her lute to amuse herself and embroidering for a while, she went to bed rather sadly. Every man, she told herself, must desire a little variety, even Aubery, and she must not act like a shrew, waiting up for him as if she, rather than God, was the arbiter of his conscience. Fenice slept uneasily, waking periodically, each time more disappointed that her husband had not returned. When the sky was graying with dawn, she could lie abed no longer, and she rose and dressed, taking as long as she could over such details of her toilet as rubbing her teeth with green hazel and then wiping them with a woolen cloth, combing her hair into an unusually intricate coil before netting it, and buffing her nails until they shone. But still Aubery did not come, and she could only tell herself that he must have been tired enough, or drunk enough, to remain wherever he had come to rest. She would not permit herself to entertain the thought that any whore he had found could hold him so long. But time passed. The gray dawn gave way to sunrise, and for the first time a fear other than that of Aubery's possible preference for the pleasure a whore could give him began to creep into Fenice's mind. She was certain he would not have stayed to break his fast with a whore. At first that notion was pleasant because it implied that he had shared quarters with a drinking companion rather than a woman when he decided it was too late to go back to his own lodgings. And perhaps he was sick from too much drink, she told herself. That might make him late in rising and slow to dress and leave. The satisfaction she felt with this idea restored her appetite, and she went to the door to tell her guard to have bread and cheese and wine sent up to her and someone to empty the chamber pot. A ragged, filthy creature with a bucket that smelled to high heaven crept into the room in a few minutes to perform the latter task. Fenice stepped out of the way mechanically, without even noticing whether the servant was male or female, young or old. A few minutes later the man-at-arms again brought the food and drink to her himself, but this time he hesitated after setting down the tray. "Have you a message from your master?" Fenice asked eagerly, and then, seeing that the man looked anxious, repeated herself more slowly in French and then tried to ask the question in English. Apparently one of the three attempts, or part of each, got across to him because he shook his head and

then slowly began to tell her something. It took several repetitions—again in a mixture of the two languages, for the man-at-arms knew only a few words of French—but he managed to tell her that there had been serious trouble in the town the previous afternoon while she had been sleeping. Several other English men-at-arms had taken refuge in the inn and told them that the wild behavior of the undisciplined mercenaries had provoked a riot. Toward the end of the tale, despite her growing anxiety, Fenice found it easier to make out what he was saying. The English words Arnald had taught her were coming back to her. Although she felt more and more frightened by the moment, Fenice knew that she must not show her fear. If she wept or acted hysterical, the men would not obey her—Lady Alys had explained that the lady of a manor could only hold the servants and men-at-arms to their work or the defense of the property if they respected her courage and judgment. Thus, she said with spurious calm, "What is your name?" and when he had told her Oswald, she continued, "Very well, Oswald, go down and tell all the Englishmen in the inn to arm themselves and make sure they cannot be overpowered by the servants. Be quiet about it. Do not offer any threat to any person here, and tell the men to be watchful that the landlord does not send for the militia or anyone else to do us harm, and let a special watch be kept on the horses. After that, ask the landlord to come up to me. Leave the door open while he is in the room." When she was sure the man understood, which was not difficult to determine because an expression of great relief replaced his previous one of tense worry, Fenice waved him on his way, then drank some of the wine on the tray. She felt in urgent need of whatever strength the wine could give her. Her mind scurried in terrified circles. Aubery had gone out unarmed, wearing only his eating knife. Could he have been caught in the riot? But surely if he had been injured, a message would have been sent to her. Would it? Would the mayor remember that Aubery's wife had been with him? No special introduction had been made, and no apology had been sent for not including her in the invitation to dinner. And what if he had fallen where no one knew him and he had been so badly hurt he could not speak? Fenice began to shake. But before she could think of anything even more dreadful, there were steps on the stairs, and she fought to control herself. "I have heard," she said as soon as the landlord was in the room, "that there was trouble in Pons yesterday. I am sorry for it, of course, but as you know, my husband's men had no part in it. Is the town quiet now?" "Yes, it is quiet," the man said, eyeing her uneasily. Fenice was aware of his discomfort, but oddly that gave her hope rather than increasing her fear. It was not possible that the landlord could have news of Aubery in particular; whatever he knew that he was wary of telling her must concern the entire English party. But she could not worry about that yet. First she had to try to find out whether it was likely that Aubery had been caught in the fighting. "When did the trouble begin? How long did it last?" Fenice asked. If the rioting had taken place after Aubery arrived at the dining hall and ended before he left, he could not have been involved. "It did not last long," the landlord said. "We prepared when we heard so large a group of English lords and their retainers was coming. Not long after sext there was so much disturbance that it was necessary to call out the militia, but the worst was over before the hour of none." Relief flooded through Fenice, even as she realized that there was trouble coming. Whatever else was wrong, Aubery was safe. He could not have been in any fighting. He must have been well into the first

course of the meal by sext, and a formal dinner would surely last more than three hours. They could not have risen from the tables much before vespers—so Aubery's delay could not be owing to being injured in the riot. There had been so many little frowns, sidelong slips of the eyes, lip twitchings, and foot shufflings by the landlord while he spoke that Fenice realized he was nerving himself to say something unpleasant. He burst out with it just as Fenice was about to ask what was troubling him. "And who is to pay?" he asked angrily. "You have the best chamber. You have been served the finest we have. Your men have eaten and drunk and slept. Who is to pay, I ask?" His manner was so aggressive that Fenice stepped back instinctively, and Oswald pushed the door wider and came into the room with his hand on his sword. The landlord gave an alarmed gasp, and Fenice said at once, "He will do you no harm. He thought I was being threatened." She gestured the man-at-arms away but smiled at him warmly to show she was pleased by his action. Then she turned again toward the landlord, who was looking even more frustrated and aggrieved. "As for payment," Fenice continued, "you must explain to me why you are uneasy. My husband is an honest man and would not wish you to be cheated, nor would I." "The payment was to come from the town—so the mayor's steward said when he brought you—but when I sent the reckoning to him this morning, he said the town would not pay for lodgings and meals for men who are prisoners. And when my servant tried to tell him that we had as guests a lady and her guardsmen, who had no part in the riots, the steward drove my man away with threats against dishonest landlords." At first Fenice did not quite take in more than that the mayor's steward was refusing to pay for her lodgings. "He must have forgotten I was accompanying my husband," she said. "Or else the mayor has realized that we do not really belong with the others. We met them by accident on the road. Do not fear for your reckoning, landlord. I have money enough to pay, I assure you, and I will even pay for the extra Englishmen you took in." But as she spoke she realized that nothing made sense and reviewed what the landlord had said—and the word "prisoners" leapt out at her so that she broke into the landlord's relieved thanks, crying, "Prisoners? What do you mean? My husband and I have safe conduct from the king! How can he be a prisoner?" "The other lords had safe conduct, too," the landlord replied, "but not safe conduct to steal or rape decent women." "Are you saying that my husband stole—" Fenice shrieked furiously. "No! No!" the landlord cried, shrinking away as Oswald rushed into the room again. "It was the men, not the lords, who committed the outrages. Please, my lady…" "My husband's men committed no outrages, "Fenice snapped, nonetheless shaking her head at the man-at-arms so that he stopped where he was with his sword half-drawn—but she did not send him back outside the room this time. "My servant tried to tell that to the mayor's steward," the landlord pointed out, making an effort to be calm but eyeing the half-drawn sword. "The steward would not listen. He did not want to hear of anyone's innocence, for they will ask reparations as ransom." Ransom—instead of adding to Fenice's fear, the word again assured her of Aubery's safety. Prisoners held for ransom were not ill used—at least, not unless payment was refused—because they had to be produced in reasonably good condition. The certainty that her husband was not being tortured calmed

Fenice enough to let her realize that it was not wise to make an enemy of the landlord. She sent Oswald out again and turned to her shaken host. "I am sorry," she said. "You are not at fault, and I will see that you are not the loser." She undid her purse and took out a silver coin. "Here, take this on account, and do not think ill of my man. He is nervous because my husband would punish him terribly if I should complain he allowed me to be ill treated, and he does not understand French very well, so I cannot explain my desires clearly. Thus, he rushes to my assistance each time I raise my voice." The landlord had glanced surreptitiously at the coin and weighed it in his hand. He nodded his head. "I have no complaint," he assured her, smiling now. "He did me no harm, and the others are quiet and keep to themselves. You are welcome to stay as long as you like." He hesitated, weighed the coin in his hand again, and said softly, "If you apply to Esme de Perignac, he might be willing to help—or at least give you news." With that he bowed himself out. Fenice stood looking blankly at the door, which she had closed behind him, her body shaking with reaction now that there was no one to see her. For a moment she supported herself with a hand on the door, but then she mastered her trembling knees enough to cross the room and sit down in her chair. The smell of the food nearby made her feel sick, but she did not feel strong enough to get up and move the tray or even call to Oswald to take it out. She sat looking at it until her senses dulled and the odor no longer affected her. Then she reached for the pitcher of wine and poured some into the goblet she had emptied earlier. Fenice felt dazed and unbelieving, as if this were a bad dream and she would soon wake from it and find herself in bed with Aubery lying beside her. She sat sipping the wine, not aware of thinking, but when she heard Oswald speak to someone who replied in English, she realized she had come to a decision, got quickly to her feet, and opened the door. "Oswald, who speaks the best French among you?" she asked in English. "None of us speak much," he replied doubtfully. "One of the men who came in yesterday speaks good French," the other man suggested. "I heard him jesting with one of the maidservants." The remark had to be repeated before Fenice was sure she had understood properly, and a little more time was spent in discussing whether that man could be trusted. Oswald was cautious, but John, the second man, said that Rafe was not a mercenary but attached to the household of one of the other knights who had been taken prisoner and was angry at what he felt was the mistreatment of his master. Although she did not understand everything that was said, Fenice made out enough to decide that Oswald, who was going off duty, should send Rafe up to her. While she waited, she put in order the thoughts that had been running through her head. First, she must have more definite information than the rumors the landlord had related to her as if they were facts. How could he know the truth? It was clear from what he said that he was not among the important citizens of Pons. For all she knew, he was only trying to obtain double payment. Fenice did not hope that everything he had said was lies; no matter how drunk Aubery might have been or what else he had been doing, she was certain he would have returned to the inn by now if he were not under some restraint. However, the action of the commune might not be as unreasonable and dishonest as the landlord made out. The judges of the town might be trying to determine who did have safe conducts and discover which men's retainers were guilty of causing the riot. Nonetheless, Fenice felt she must assume the worst—that the landlord was right and the commune of Pons did not care who was guilty or innocent but merely

intended to wrest ransoms from all. In that case, it would be foolish to remind the mayor that she existed. Likely they would take her prisoner, too, and demand a double sum. That thought made a quiver of anger pass through her. She had been too frightened to be resentful up to this moment, but now it seemed monstrous that Aubery, who had been so careful to give no offense, should be drained of money he could ill afford because… Fenice had been about to blame the carelessness and arrogance of the earl of Warwick and his companions for Aubery's plight when she suddenly remembered the landlord saying that the citizens of Pons had prepared when they heard "so large a group of English lords and their retainers were coming." Prepared, had they? For what had they prepared? The riot had lasted less than three hours. Doubtless that short duration had been because the militia was warned and organized, but in that short time how much damage could have been done? The town had not been set in flames. Surely it would not take the ransoms of high noblemen, one of them an earl, and tens of other knights to repay the merchants' losses and soothe the ruffled feelings of the violated women. When she began to think of it in those terms, it seemed to Fenice that what the commune of Pons had prepared for was to gouge a huge sum of money from defenseless travelers. At this point in Fenice's cogitations, Rafe bowed himself into her chamber. Clearly he was a class above the simple men-at-arms who accompanied her and Aubery. Rafe introduced himself as marshal to Sir Philip Marmim. He showed no awkwardness in talking to Fenice, thanked her for her offer to pay for food and lodging for himself and the two men who had escaped with him, and told her that they had been set upon when they had approached the dining hall, intending to accompany their master, who often drank too much to manage alone. His speech was smooth and fluent, but Fenice could sense the rage under it. The fellow feeling encouraged her, and she told him what the landlord had said, including that they might obtain help or news from Esme de Perignac. Rafe was eager to go but raised the point of whether his armor would make him a target the moment he stepped into the street. There was other clothing at his original lodging, but he had no way to get it without exposing himself or one of his men. Fenice immediately offered a plain tunic of Aubery's but made it clear that she did not want him to mention her or her husband when he spoke to de Perignac. Rafe assured her that he would do his best not to give any information by which he, she, Aubery, or his master could be traced. "I have enough of the merchant in me," he said, smiling, "to wrap up a bad fish so prettily that one might think it roses." After he left, Fenice steeled herself to waiting, for she knew that it might take him a long time to gain admittance, or de Perignac might not be at home or be hard to find—many things could cause delay. But it was impossible to think about anything except the treacherous seizure and imprisonment of her husband, and every minute that passed made it more certain that the landlord's tale had not been an exaggeration. Had Aubery been detained only to examine his safe conduct and determine whether or not his men had taken part in the disturbance, he would have been free by now. Fenice grew angrier and angrier. It was no part of her nature to fly into sudden rages; hers was the kind of anger that built slowly, gaining depth and ferocity. Nor was she the kind to leap into foolish, fury-driven action. Now, as in the convent where Lady Emilie had placed her after Delmar's death, she listened to the fire song in the hearth and thought slowly and carefully about the injustice done by the commune of Pons. One thing was sure: She was not going to pay out any of Aubery's small store of gold to those greedy devils. And if she could, she would repay them for the discomfort they had inflicted on her husband by

making as much trouble and grief as she could for them. But Fenice was not silly. She knew this was a larger matter and more difficult to right than the wrong done to her by Lady Emilie. It would be useless for her to escape alone, ride back to Bordeaux, and tell her father. Raymond could not invade France; Grandpapa was a vassal of Louis's, and that would be an act of rebellion. All Papa could do was write to Uncle Alphonse, who would then appeal to King Louis for redress. But all that might take months, and during those months Aubery would be a prisoner. Fear began to mingle with Fenice's rage, making her more desperate. She knew there were all types of imprisonment, from the luxurious detention of an honored and trusted prisoner of war, who would be provided with every comfort, often including freedom to join in all family activities, to confinement in an oubliette so small that a man could not move his limbs, could not shift his body enough to avoid his own excrement, could not defend himself from the rats that would gnaw on his living flesh. How harsh was Aubery's confinement? Tears came into Fenice's eyes, but she fought them back. Weeping would not help her husband. Nor was it sensible to imagine horrors. Oubliettes were for men who were meant to die horribly, not for those to be ransomed. But if the ransom should not be paid, or if the commune learned, as they well might, whose complaint had brought King Louis's attention on them and frustrated their scheme, then Aubery might be tortured and killed. Fenice sobbed once and choked back the sound. The answer was not to cry but to free him.

CHAPTER 25

It was late afternoon before Rafe returned, and the news he brought was all bad. Everything the landlord said was true, and all Fenice's worst suspicions about the greed and dishonesty of the commune of Pons were confirmed. Not only were all, innocent and guilty alike, to be forced to pay ransom for their freedom, but the ransoms were ridiculously high. Even for the wealthiest, it would take time to gather such sums, and for the poorer, it might be impossible. Rafe said angrily that he supposed the commune expected men like his master to pay part of the poorer knights' ransoms out of pity or fellow feeling. "Not Aubery's," Fenice said softly and mendaciously, for she had no intention of paying any ransom at all. "I will manage that." She had had hours to plan and had examined carefully every idea that occurred to her, from having the eight English men-at-arms try to force their way into the prison, to herself acting the bawd so that she could steal the keys from the chief gaoler. Although she still held in reserve the simplest plan—that of somehow tricking the guard at the gate and having her men plus Rafe and his two overpower the other gaolers—she did not really think that would be possible. If one guard managed to sound an alarm, the gates would be sealed to all, the militia would be called out again, and all prisoners would be recaptured in no time. Still, if the commune were overconfident and too niggardly to pay enough men to guard the prisoners, the most direct approach might work. So Fenice now proposed to Rafe that he try to discover where the men were imprisoned, how carefully they were guarded, and whether it would be possible to free some or all of them with the force they had. In addition, she suggested that he try to find out who entered the prison on a regular basis, at what times, and for what purposes. Furthermore, she said that if she could be of use as a decoy or a distraction, Rafe could count on her to play the role and should consider the

benefit of such a deception in evaluating any plan he made. Rafe looked at her with both surprise and respect. She had seemed so unmoved by the confirmation of their worst expectations that he had begun to wonder whether she cared that her husband was a prisoner. Some wives would be delighted to learn that their mates were in confinement, but it seemed that Lady Fenice was not one of those and was really interested in freeing her man. Had he known what Fenice had been revolving in her mind, plans she would not think of mentioning to a man but was working out ever more carefully, he would have been stunned and horrified rather than surprised and respectful. Not that Fenice had settled on playing the bawd. That idea had been dismissed for three reasons: First, she might be used by every filthy creature in the place without ever being able to get the keys. Second, even if she got them, they would do her no good unless she knew where Aubery was, and unlocking the cell would be impossible and useless if there were guards about. Third, no matter how glad Aubery was to be free, he would probably never be able to forget that the scum of Pons had used her body. Fenice had built the fire higher and hotter until it hissed and crackled with a fury akin to that burning in her. As each idea occurred to her and she had to dismiss it, she grew more furious and determined to accomplish her purpose. Over and over she began, If force is not practical, then guile must replace it . And at last, when she needed to use the chamber pot, she suddenly found the way. No one ever "saw" the disgusting creatures who collected excrement while they were at their work. Their clothes and persons were clotted and spattered with filth, and their odor was an offense even to the hardened noses of town dwellers. Just as she had done that morning when the—man? woman? she did not even know which—had come in to empty her pot, one moved out of their way and looked aside. Disguised as a gatherer of night soil, someone could enter the prison and discover exactly where Aubery was being kept and how he was guarded… At that point Fenice had gone back and examined the notion that no one looked at or spoke to collectors of excrement. Gentlefolk did not; most castle servants did not; but were the gaolers much above the gatherers of filth? What if they jested with those creatures or had some other reason to speak to them? It was possible, possible enough so that only Rafe or herself could play the part since none of the other men-at-arms spoke sufficient French. Fenice thought a little longer and then had to suppress an impulse to vomit. Not Rafe; his first loyalty must be to his own master. Of course, if Aubery and Philip Marmim were in the same part of the prison… But how could she count on that? No, she herself must don those filth-spattered rags and handle the contents of those buckets. Fenice gagged at the thought. It was an unpleasant prospect, but by the time Rafe returned from his second errand, her mind was resigned to the purgatory she would have to endure, and a fierce gladness was beginning to fill her with a kind of enthusiasm for her trial. She would see Aubery, even if she could not speak to him. She could ascertain for herself his condition and decide what would be best to do. Thus, Fenice showed no discouragement when Rafe told her that no attempt of eight men to force their way in or out would be possible. The prisoners had been divided into two groups, the noblemen had been placed in the chambers of one of the towers of the old keep, the lesser knights in the donjon itself. Rafe had not been able to discover how either group was guarded or whether they were guarded at all, but he believed the number of men on the walls and around the bailey would make it impossible to reach either the tower or the donjon by force. He had seen the guards on the walls himself and learned about the division of the prisoners and that the bailey was patrolled from one of the militiamen whom he had induced into conversation by false praise of the previous day's action and several cups of wine.

Moreover, an extremely strict watch was kept on all who entered and left—he had hardly escaped being taken himself only for walking more slowly than the gate guard liked past the gate! But, Rafe added, the vigilance probably would not be long-lasting. After a few days or a week, when the commune was sure they had rid the town of any adherents of the prisoners who might try to rescue them, they would relax their guard. They would not want to pay any mercenaries, and the militiamen had their own lives to lead. If he and Lady Fenice could remain inconspicuous for a time, perhaps they would have a chance to do something. "Did you discover who is allowed in?" Fenice asked. "As far as I could tell, no one except members of the commune and of the militia," Rafe replied. "They may have food stored in the place, or they may feel that a day or two of starvation will soften up their captives. The last man I spoke to heard everyone had refused to pay anything, much less what was asked, and the mayor was nearly killed because he came too close to Gilbert Seagrave, and Seagrave grabbed him by the throat and nearly choked him before the guards could pry him loose." "Are they not even taking out the night soil?" Fenice persisted anxiously. Rafe looked at her oddly, and she continued, "Those people are easy to bribe. One came to my room this morning to clear my pot. If we could get that one into the keep instead of the one who usually does the work there, we could learn whether there are guards at each cell and perhaps other things, too." "I see." Rafe nodded then suddenly smiled. "It does not matter who usually clears out the keep," he went on. "If you can get the one who works here to agree, we can set our men in hiding to stop any other from going to the gate. And the gate guard will not stop a soil collector, even if no special order was given to let one in. Yes, that is a good thought. A good time would be just before dawn. The guard changes at sunrise, and the men on duty will be tired and bored." "Good," Fenice replied quietly, although her heart was leaping in her breast. "You explain to the men. It is easier for you, who speak English well. Then, at the proper time, wake the slave who cleans the inn and send him to my chamber, telling him that I have been sick and it is necessary to empty my pot and clean the floor. I will explain what is desired." When Rafe had agreed and left, there was nothing more for Fenice to do until the following dawn. She could not settle to any ordinary task and spent the next few hours on her knees praying for mercy and help to Holy Mary and Saint Jude and to every other saint who supported wild and hopeless causes. When she was too weary to kneel a moment longer, Fenice went to bed, and owing to the poor rest she had had the preceding night and the tension and anxiety of the day, she slept at once and stayed asleep quite soundly until the man on guard at the door opened it and whispered, "My lady, the pot cleaner is here." Fenice woke instantly with her whole plan clear in her mind, but it was not to be as easy as simply offering a coin. The old slave was at first so frightened by the fact that Fenice spoke to him that he made no attempt to listen, only tried to escape from the room. Having seen no sign of the sickness he had been sent to clean up, he was afraid he had come to the wrong place and would be punished for intruding on a guest. Terrified that he would scream and wake others in the inn if she tried to delay him to explain what she wanted and that her men would discover what she was about, Fenice leapt after him, seizing the candlestick from the table as she ran and bringing it down hard on his head. For a moment she was shocked at her violence, but then she thought with satisfaction that it was much better this way. Nothing would have to be explained, and possibly the old man would never even know his clothes had been taken. If he woke in whatever filthy cranny he slept in, he would thank God that no

worse had befallen him. Feeling much uplifted, for she took the circumstance to be a sign that her prayers had been heard and her cause acceptable to the holy ones to whom she had prayed, Fenice removed the old man's outer garments with shrinking fingers, bound and gagged him with a pair of stockings, rolled him in a blanket so he would not freeze, and pushed him beneath the bed. That was not too bad, but the worst was yet to come. Fenice began to put on the horrible garments, muttering prayers of thanksgiving that the loose breeches would permit her to retain her own shift. She could pull the skirt of that between her thighs and cram it into the breeches so that neither those nor the equally filth-clotted tunic would come in contact with her skin. There was also room to fasten Aubery's long hunting knife around her waist, and although it would be difficult to reach, it still gave her a sense of security to have the weapon. Even so, Fenice made good her excuse for having the slave sent up by being sick twice while she donned the garments. Then she realized that the old slave had no shoes or stockings. Fenice herself dared not go barefoot, not only because her tender and unaccustomed feet would soon be cut and bruised but because their slender, delicate appearance would give her away in a minute. She pulled on a pair of dark wool stockings and ruthlessly sacrificed another blanket, cutting it into strips so that she could bind those around her feet. As she finished, she realized that she had solved another problem at the same time. The clumsy, tottering way the bindings would make her walk would prevent her from forgetting she was supposed to be an old man and stepping out in her usual way. Finally, having bound her hair around her head and wrapped a dark cloth around it to protect it as much as possible, she smeared her face with ashes, pulled on the old man's hood, and drew it up. She gagged again at the odor, and then, without allowing herself time to think, plunged her hands into the bucket of excrement. Shuddering and sobbing with disgust, she smeared the filth over her arms and then even speckled her face with it. When she could control her heaving body, she crept to the door, bucket in hand. Outside, Rafe was waiting for her. She knew he would not be able to make out her face in the dark and suspected that even if he could, he simply would not believe what he saw, so she was not nervous about being detected at this point. But then she realized that the bucket she carried could not be what she used to remove large quantities of night soil. She did not even know if the inn servant had anything that would serve the purpose. Possibly others were employed to cart the valuable if disgusting substances away. "A cart—" she mumbled, bending her lips over her teeth so that the words would be slurred. "I have it outside," Rafe answered distastefully. "I did not want you waking the whole place clattering it over the cobbles of the yard." Again, despite the waves of sickness that still swept over her, Fenice felt uplifted. She hoped it was not blasphemy to think of Holy Mary and the blessed saints in conjunction with a dung cart, but as she found the hook where the bucket she was carrying must be hung, and grasped the pulling bar of the oozing barrel set between two wheels, she gave thanks to Mary and the saints for smoothing the way. And the luck held at the gate of the prison, where the guard opened the small door at once, even though he commented that the collector was early. Since Fenice really did not want to clean the filth of the whole prison and had no idea of the usual routine, if there was one, she determined to take a chance and mumbled "For the lords." Aubery had been wearing a very grand gown, so he might have been placed with the noblemen. In any case, it would be easier to eliminate the tower if he were not there than search through the much larger number of men imprisoned in the donjon.

The gate guard laughed coarsely and asked if the mayor thought their droppings were more delicate and needed to be separated from the others. "Thinks they get sick maybe," Fenice grunted, trying to produce a hacking cough that would make the guard shy away. She succeeded better than she expected, the deep breaths made necessary by the coughing stimulating her feeling of nausea so that her bile rose in her throat, and she choked and gargled and spat. This was too much even for the guard, and he pointed to the tower where the noble prisoners were confined. Fenice stumbled across the bailey, dragging the heavy cart behind, and repeated to the guard outside that the soil buckets of the lords were to be emptied. Here Fenice met the first check, for the guard on duty snarled that no one had given him any special order regarding the clearing of soil from the prisoners' cells. Fenice's first impulse was to run, but she realized that that would only betray her, and she stopped herself before she did more than shy away. She put out her hand toward her cart and then it came to her that if she missed this opportunity to get inside the tower, she might never have another. "I wait then," she whimpered, shivering with fear but squatting down beside the cart. The guard made a disgusted sound and raised a hand to strike, but even as he was about to drive the stinking nuisance away he realized that the gate guard had passed the creature. It was near the end of the watch and he was tired, but he knew that his replacement would be annoyed and complain if he had to accompany the dung collector. It was not worth, the trouble to save a few steps, he thought, and growled, "Oh, curse you, come on then," and unlocked the door of the tower. Fenice almost made the mistake of jumping to her feet in her eagerness; fortunately, the hem of the tunic she wore had caught under the clumsy rag wrappings on her feet, and she fell forward sprawling. She had an instant to be again grateful to the kindly powers that were helping and guiding her before the guard cursed again and poked at her with the long-shafted billhook he carried. In her desire to get inside, she was already rolling away, so she was barely pricked, but rage boiled up in her. Fenice had often bowed meekly under insult and oppression from her equals and superiors, but she was not accustomed to physical gestures of cruelty and contempt from those she knew to be beneath her. Still, she contained herself, grabbed her pail, and shuffled into the tower. A torch was flaring on the wall, and Fenice saw with a surge of satisfaction that the door of the cell was not locked with a key but with a large bar. She hesitated, instinctively waiting for the guard to open the door for her, but he poked her again with the billhook, and she realized she would have to lift the bar and open the door herself while he presented his weapon as a threat to the prisoners within. She set her bucket down by the wall and began to struggle with the bar. It was almost impossible for her to get it off its hooks, and she was terrified that the guard would realize she was a woman, but he said nothing as she strained, and at last she was able to push it out of its rests, set it on the floor, and pull the door open. As she entered the cell, a new fear seized her—that it would be so dark in the unlit interior that she would not be able to recognize Aubery. However, the cell was very small, and she saw the faces of both men as they sat up, startled by the grating of the hinges and the sudden light. One was William Mauduit; she did not know the other. The slop bucket was in the corner; Fenice shuffled two steps, seized it, and backed out, closed the door behind her, emptied the bucket into hers, barely opened the door wide enough to toss the bucket back inside, and closed it again, levering the bar up and into its braces as quickly as she could. She had no intentions of permitting the prisoners to cause trouble or giving the guard any reason for suspicion before

she discovered in which cell Aubery was being kept—if he were imprisoned here rather than in the donjon. As the bar dropped home, the guard lowered his billhook with a slightly relieved expression. Fenice went out to empty the bucket into the barrel on the cart, came in again, and preceded the guard up the winding stair to the second level of the tower. Here she repeated the procedure, noting that the earl of Warwick and Gilbert Seagrave were the occupants of the cell. Wearily she trudged down the stairs to empty the bucket, came up climbing more and more slowly as her hope dimmed. On the third level, she again set down her bucket and began the struggle with the bar. She was shaking with effort and sickness, nearly blinded by tears. As she heaved desperately at the heavy piece of wood, she prayed for help, for the strength to endure until she found Aubery. This time it seemed as if her prayer was not to be answered. The bar stuck, and the guard prodded her angrily with the billhook; however, the prick as the weapon went through her threadbare tunic and thin shift, and the rage and fear generated in her lent strength to her arms. She shoved frantically, the bar flew up out of its hooks and fell to the floor with a loud thud, and the guard growled threateningly. Hastily, Fenice opened the door—and found her prayer had been answered after all. Aubery was just getting to his feet as the light of the torch on the landing illuminated the cell. Overwhelmed with joy and relief, Fenice hesitated. Uttering a louder curse, the guard shoved her with the billhook. Her eyes on Aubery, she tripped over the rag foot wrappings and fell to her knees, crawling forward toward the slop bucket out of the line of the guard's weapon. But the brief hesitation had shown her that her husband had been hurt; his face was bruised all over, with one eye blackened and swollen shut, and his gown was torn and stained with blood. The rage Fenice had so long contained exploded. She got to her feet, grabbed the bucket, whirled toward her tormentor, and threw the contents into his face. His shriek of surprise and disgust was cut off by a mouthful of filth, and he dropped his weapon to claw at the disgusting matter clotting his eyes and mouth. Aubery dove toward the fallen weapon, but Fenice had run forward too, swinging the bucket with every ounce of strength she had, talcing the guard in the, stomach. As he bent over, Aubery rose and slammed the butt of the billhook across the back of the man's neck, where it was not protected by his helmet. He did not cry out but fell and lay like a log. "Oh, Aubery, are you badly hurt?" Fenice cried. And Aubery, who had begun to ask, "Who—" gasped instead, "Fenice? Fenice?" and then could say no more as he nearly strangled on an astonished joy that changed quickly to shock and horror. But Fenice had forgotten her appearance in the sudden dreadful realization that her furious act had spoiled any hope of freeing the prisoners in the near future. This attack on the guard would surely be taken for an attempt at rescue. Vigilance would be increased. Worse yet, the commune might come to the conclusion that the attempt had been intended to free Aubery in particular, and God knew what they would do to him or where they would hide him. Could they conceal what she had done by killing the guard and hiding his body? As Fenice's eyes passed frantically around the cell in a hopeless, nearly insane quest for a place of concealment, a better answer came to her. There was no place to hide the guard, of course, but the arrow slits in the wall showed gray sky, not black, and she remembered that Rafe had said the changing of the guard took place at sunrise. He had told her also that there was always some confusion as one group replaced the other. If the bodies were exchanged, Fenice thought, if Aubery's robe were put on the guard and he put on the guard's clothing, Aubery could escape by pretending to be a guard going home after his tour of duty was over.

"Quick," she cried, "quick, take off your gown and put on the guard's armor." Aubery was still staring at her in numb, revolted amazement, and Fenice quickly outlined her fears and the one hope she believed remained—that he could escape during the confusion while new guards were replacing those going off duty. "For though some may lodge here in the keep, some must go home," she said. "Oh, I am sure some go home or go out to eat at an inn. Is this not possible?" Although Aubery's lips parted as if he were about to answer her, he seemed unable to find words, and he turned away, not being able to bear looking at her. "I am sorry," Fenice sobbed, "but when I saw they had hurt you—" She choked back her tears as well as possible. This was no time to make excuses. "I am sorry," she repeated, "but you must escape—you must!" Still without speaking, Aubery knelt and started to strip the guard. He knew what Fenice had said about the need for him to escape was true. The reason Aubery was alone in this topmost cell was that he had not yielded tamely to capture. After the crowd of armed militia had rushed in to make prisoners of the unarmed and unsuspecting guests, Aubery had, he remembered, overturned the table at which he had been sitting and also wielded his bench as a weapon. Once the English nobles were imprisoned, the mayor of Pons, speaking for the whole commune, had judged his captives guilty of deliberately setting their men to steal, rape, and riot. Aubery alone cried foul at the mayor's ruling. Nor had he been a pacific prisoner. Originally Aubery had been in the cell on the lowest floor with William Mauduit—his ferocity, grand clothing, and the fact that he had entered Pons in company with the earl of Warwick having deluded the commune into believing him a nobleman rather than a simple knight. However, Aubery had induced Mauduit to help him rush the guard and the town official who had come to name their ransoms. After that he had been isolated on the top floor, being considered too prone to encourage rebellion in others to have any companion and too dangerous to keep below, so near the outer door. When the commune heard of this successful attack on the guard, Aubery thought, they might well come to the conclusion that his ransom was not worth the trouble he was causing and have him executed. At the least, they would load him down with chains and fasten him to the walls. Fenice was right; he must escape. As he thought her name, he glanced at her again and shuddered. From somewhere about her person she had drawn a long knife and was advancing on the guard, from whom he had removed helmet and habergeon. "What are you doing?" Aubery choked, thinking she was about to plunge the knife into the unconscious man. "I want his shirt," Fenice said. "I must mop up the filth on the landing. If the new guard comes up to check on you, he must not find anything to rouse his suspicions. The slave might have spilled some soil, but he would have been made to clean it up." "You are mad!" Aubery snarled, but he pulled off the guard's tunic. Still, he made no move to help her, standing up and beginning to remove his own clothing with his back to her. Aubery might have been somewhat less furious had the disguise Fenice assumed been less disgusting, but his rage would not have been much diminished. The fury that made him barely able to control his desire to beat her until he could no longer raise his arm was as much a result of his own helplessness over the past two days as of disgust or recognition of the increased danger to all that her

action had created. It was the final indignity, capping his misuse and capture by a crowd of ignoble commoners, that he should be freed from his cell by a woman in the revolting guise of a soil gatherer. He heard Fenice retching and sobbing on the landing, and an ugly sense of satisfaction stirred in him. She had gotten .herself into this, he thought as he manhandled the still-limp guard into his tunic and gown; let her enjoy it. Then he bound and gagged the man with his cross garters, laid him out in the darkest corner of the cell, and began to try to cram himself into the guard's clothing. Everything was too short—Aubery had to tie the guard's hose around his hips rather than his waist, which did not matter because the tunic and habergeon would hide it. Fortunately the man was fat, and the armor went over Aubery, even though it bound badly across the shoulders. "Let us go," Fenice begged from the doorway. "Please, let us go." "Go out and pretend to empty your pail," Aubery said, so angry that he did not even think that he might be exposing her to danger. "Then come in again. If someone is watching or passes by, that will serve as a reason why no guard is at the outer door. I must speak to the others. Perhaps it would be better for the earl or Seagrave to go—" "No!" Fenice cried. Aubery lifted a hand as if to strike her but did not, snarling, "You are too filthy to touch. Get down the stairs, or I will kick you down them." Fenice stifled another sob and lifted her bucket. She had known how Aubery would react to what she had done, but she had never thought he would find out. She was weak and shaking from nausea, from terror, from shame. Clinging to the wall, she crept down the stairs and out the door, lifted the cover from the barrel, pretended to dump the contents of the bucket, and set it down to cover the barrel again. Slowly she lifted it and went in again, too frightened even to pray that the noblemen would refuse Aubery's offer—but the Mother of Mercy and the saints had not forgotten her. "No, I think it would be too dangerous," Fenice heard a voice say, and Aubery reply, "I do not think you should consider my safety, my lord, but what would be best for all." She crept up a few steps, holding her breath while she listened for the response, in her anxiety nearly cursing her husband's stubbornness and courage. The earl's laugh, which she recognized from the inn where they had met, gave her hope, and his answer fulfilled it. "We are not considering your safety, Sir Aubery," Warwick said, "but our own. We all agree that only one can go. We could get out of this tower, but I do not think there is any way the rest of us could escape from the keep itself. With your face battered like that, you have the best chance. No one will recognize you—probably your own mother would have trouble doing so—and your accent will not give you away if you must answer questions, because you can slur the words, and no one will wonder at it." "Yes," another voice put in, and Fenice guessed it was Seagrave, "and last, but not least, if you go, the guard will exonerate us from any complicity, since no attempt was made to rescue us, but if you are found here instead of Warwick or any of the others, we will all be involved and probably end up in chains and kept closer and more cruelly." Now Fenice offered up prayers of thanksgiving, tears of joy running down her face. As she backed down the stairs, not wishing to be accused of spying to add to everything else, she heard Warwick say, "Gilbert is right. We will be best served by your going to the king as quickly as possible. I am sure he will believe you, but to make doubly certain take this shirt. I have managed to write a few words on the cloth. And take my seal ring. And you had better go before Lady Fortune spins her wheel again."

A moment later Aubery was coming down the stairs with Mauduit and the man Fenice did not know behind him and the guard's billhook in his hand. She shrank against the wall and bent her head while Aubery barred the two men into their cell. Then, without turning his head toward her, he told her to go out and empty the bucket again and then leave as if her work were finished. "But Aubery—" she began to protest. "Get away from me," he said in a stifled voice. "Get away from me before I kill you. Go clean yourself. Maybe someday I will forget this, but I think I will smell the filth on you until the day you die."

CHAPTER 26

Fenice had no memory of leaving the keep. If the gate guard spoke to her, she must have answered, but she was unaware of doing so. She was even unaware of dragging the heavy soil cart along the street, plodding blindly away from the lash of her husband's disgust. No matter what was done for her or how she was trained, Fenice thought, her serf blood came out. No real gentlewoman would have conceived of lowering herself so far. Suddenly a shadow leapt at her and seized her arm. Fenice uttered a stifled shriek, but before she could draw breath to scream in earnest, Rafe's voice asked, "Well, what did you learn?" "I have freed my husband," she replied, making no attempt to disguise her voice now. Aubery knew; there was no sense in concealing what she had done from anyone else. "Lady Fenice?" Rafe's response was no more than a whisper, and he peered unbelievingly at her face in the growing light. "Oh, my God! Sir Aubery will kill me," he muttered. "If he can make good his escape," Fenice sighed, and began to collapse. Rafe caught her before she fell, but she was not aware of that nor of his propping her in a doorway while he ran for help. She regained consciousness slowly, becoming aware of an odd motion in her semiprone body, of hushed voices, and then confusedly putting the sensations together until she realized she was being carried while two very worried men discussed what they should do. For a while she listened indifferently to what they were saying without giving any sign she was aware. Then a vague anxiety began to nag at her, fear that Aubery would be detected escaping. That immediately recalled his rage and disgust at her disguise. The two notions in conjunction in her mind made her jerk in Rafe's arms. "The dung collector of the prison," she cried. "If he comes, the guards may be alerted, and—" "The other men are watching, m-my lady," Rafe said, stumbling over her title. Fenice closed her eyes for a moment in a mixture of bitter hurt and relief. She felt a bit stronger, however, and was about to say that she could walk when Rafe stopped and rapped softly on the gate of the inn. The sound of the bar being drawn came immediately, and Fenice said, "Put me down. I can go to my room myself. Have water for washing brought at once. Do not wait to have it heated, but let there be plenty."

At first she was unsteady on her feet, and Rafe followed her anxiously, fearing she would fall down the stairs, but about midway up she turned and insisted he go for the water and pushed past the stunned guard at the door without another word. Fenice tore off the filthy rags the moment the door was closed, dragged the old slave out from under the bed, and unrolled him from the blanket. Until she cleaned her hands and arms, she would not touch anything else; that blanket was already soiled from contact with the old man's body. When she was covered, she called in the man who had been guarding the door and told him to untie the slave and let him dress again. She could have untied him herself, but knew that Rafe and her men might have beaten him senseless for agreeing to lend her his clothes. This way, they would know he had not been willing. The poor creature was miserable enough without being made to suffer for what was no fault of his. Did not the same coarse blood run in both of them? Fenice shuddered. By the time the man-at-arms and the bewildered and terrified old slave were gone, the water for washing had been brought. Fenice threw wood on the fire until it roared and howled in the chimney. She stripped to the skin and began to scrub, washing over and over, scrubbing frantically, drying herself, and demanding water. She was still washing when the door opened and Aubery walked into the room. "Oh, thank God you are safe," Fenice cried, instinctively reaching toward him. Aubery stopped in his tracks and hastily slammed the door shut. He had not expected to find Fenice stark naked, her skin all rosy with being scrubbed. Surprise momentarily blotted out everything besides his perception of her beauty and desirability; his body reacted quickly—but not quickly enough, for memory was swifter. Still, the ugly image his mind now evoked had no power to diminish Fenice's beauty or curb his need for her, and the knowledge renewed and multiplied his feeling of angry helplessness, which increased his rage. "Get dressed, you fool," he snarled, "and see to the packing. How long do you think it will be before the guard is discovered in my cell? The gates will be shut, and everyone who tries to pass examined closely." Fenice cowered away, terrified by his anger and by the thought that in her hysterical need to clean herself of what could never be cleaned away—the stain in her blood—she had forgotten that they had only a narrow time of safety before they would be hunted. She was so frightened that for a minute she stood paralyzed, half turned toward the clothes baskets but quite unable to recall what she must do first. "Get dressed!" Aubery roared, and went out and slammed the door. The shout would have wakened the whole inn had the servants not already been about their duties. It did bring the landlord, who gasped when he saw Aubery and tried to retreat. Steel fingers gripped his shoulder, and he whimpered at the expression of the one open blue eye in the swollen and battered face. "Your grooms and outside servants are being bound and comfortably bestowed in the stable," Aubery said quietly. "In a few minutes my men will come in and do the same here. No one who submits quietly will be hurt. I am afraid I have not trust enough in any citizen of Pons to take your word that you would not betray me. We will leave the gate ajar, however. Your first visitor will no doubt free you. Nor will I even cheat you of your reckoning, though any man of this city deserves to be well fleeced." Aubery's explosive command had startled Fenice out of her paralysis and into action. Once she was moving, she moved fast, throwing on her underclothing and riding dress and bundling whatever had been taken out of the traveling baskets back in again with more attention to speed than neatness. By the time Aubery returned to the chamber, she was finished packing and had even strapped shut the baskets, except for the one holding Aubery's clothes. She waited, standing numbly in the center of the room, with her hands clasped before her as if in prayer.

Without a word, Aubery pushed off the guard's shoes, which had been too short and too broad for him. Fenice took a trembling step forward and whispered, "May I help you to dress, my lord?" "I am not going to change," he snapped. "All I want are my riding shoes." When she brought them, he stepped back, afraid to let her near because he was already responding to her presence. "You can roll my armor in that blanket while I cover my shield," he added coldly, pulling his shoes from her hand at arm's length and averting his eyes from her. Twenty minutes later, the party rode out of the inn—a party consisting of Lady Fenice d'Aix and nine men-at-arms, bound on a visit to her great-aunt, Queen Margaret of France. However, the little fiction was not necessary. No questions were asked, and the group moved north on the main road at a decorous pace until they were out of sight of the watchtowers on the walls of Pons. After that, Aubery changed into his own armor, discarding the guard's habergeon and undergarments behind a patch of brush. Fenice, her services curtly refused in favor of Oswald's, sat staring into nothing, sick with pain. The hurt was so deep that the physical effects of the relentless riding Aubery demanded of his party scarcely affected her. She clung numbly to the saddle as long as her mare moved under her. When the mare stopped, Fenice slid as numbly down—only aware that it was not Aubery's hands that helped her down or lifted her up to begin the torment of riding again. Sometime during the day food was handed to her, and she choked down a little because she was afraid Aubery would notice and be angrier if she did not eat. There was wine with the food, but she hardly touched that and later was tormented with thirst until they stopped to water the horses and let the beasts rest. Then she was able to drink from the same stream as the animals, cupping the water in her hands because she never thought to ask for a drinking vessel. Now and again they passed through villages and towns and stopped while Aubery asked questions about the road ahead, but though they were in a town at dusk, they did not seek out an inn in which to stay. Fenice turned to look at the road behind several times after that, fearing they were pursued, but the road was empty as far as she could see. Later, it grew too dark to ride safely, and they stopped and dismounted again. Dully, Fenice wondered whether they were going to sleep in the open, but when the moon rose one of the men urged her to her feet and lifted her to the saddle, and they went on. By then Fenice was in a trance of fatigue so deep that her conscious mind was withdrawn. Only instinct kept her from toppling from the saddle—her hands clung to the pommel, her knees to the mare's sides. Aware of weariness himself, Aubery looked at her from time to time. Had she wept or begged to rest, had she shown any sign of womanly weakness, the shame he felt at being taken captive by those he thought of as churls and then being rescued by a woman would have been abated. But Fenice, who had earlier watched him constantly, was too far gone to notice now. She stared straight ahead, and Aubery was stung to anger anew by the assumption that it was indignation that stiffened her spine. That she had a reason to be indignant only added guilt to Aubery's frustrated rage. By now, however reluctantly, he had acknowledged that no matter how disgusting her disguise, it had taken great courage to have assumed it and walked into the stronghold of the enemy. But guilt is more painful than anger, and Aubery buried his under a rehearsal of every disadvantage that had arisen from Fenice's meddling, only neglecting the results—that he was free and King Henry would soon know of the plight of his subjects. When the moon set, it became too dark to travel farther, even at the slow pace they had maintained, and they drew off the road into a small wood where drifts of fallen leaves and dry bracken could be found to soften and protect sleepers from the damp, cold ground. Fenice could barely walk when she was taken from her horse. She tottered to the heap of leaves to which she was led and was unconscious before she could compose her body in the most comfortable position. Seeing her huddled into i heap, Aubery

thought her cold hut too stubborn to complain. First he turned his back on her, but after a few minutes he grew worried. Tired and chilled, she might take sick… and die. He found the blanket in which his armor had been wrapped and covered her, waiting with what he would not acknowledge as hope for a murmur of thanks. But no response came, not even a cold acknowledgment or an angry rejection. Then, immediately, he was too wrapped in his own angry hurt to realize she had not been fully conscious for hours and was not at all aware of his protective gesture. Everyone was exhausted, for although the men were more accustomed to long rides than Fenice, they had been awake most of the previous night, too. However, among the nine men, only short periods of guard duty were necessary in the few hours until dawn when the growing light would make it possible to continue their journey. In fact, Aubery took the last watch himself and let the others sleep until the sun rose. They were not far from Fontevrault, he was sure, because they had passed Poitiers just before the gates closed. Had they been traveling in daylight, they would already have reached their destination, and it could not be more than a few miles farther. Aubery had stopped in Poitiers to make sure the king had passed through, and was given to understand that the English king had left four days earlier, after lodging only one night. From that information, Aubery could estimate that since they had not overtaken the royal party on the road, the king's cortege would have arrived in Fontevrault at the most two days before and possibly only earlier the previous day. And although his news was urgent, Aubery knew it was not pleasant and would be even less pleasant delivered before the king was properly awake. Henry would be better able to decide what was best to be done if he had gone to mass and broken his fast, Aubery thought. He did not, of course, spend all his time thinking about the best time to deliver his message to the king. Hard as he tried, Aubery could not avoid thinking of his own troubles and of Fenice. It was not like her to hold a spite, he felt, and then resentfully acknowledged that she might feel this time that she had good reason to be angry. He could deny that his behavior was ungrateful; he could blame her for degrading herself and for an action he insisted to himself was as dangerous as it was disgusting; but he knew she might feel differently. Aubery ted a strong desire to justify himself, to force Fenice to agree that she had been wrong. As a first step in that direction, which was also a first step on the road to forgiving her, admitting his debt to her, and valuing her more highly than anything in life or after it, Aubery went to wake her himself. The extra hour of sleep Aubery had permitted his party did Fenice little good. In a way, she might have been better off had they not stopped at all. She had had just enough rest to prohibit her from sinking again into the semiconscious state in which she had ridden the previous day. Moreover, her exhaustion had been so deep that she had not moved at all after she lay down. Now her body, which the primitive bedding of leaves and dead ferns could not protect completely, was bruised from its long contact with the cold ground and so stiff that any movement was agonizing. Totally blind with fatigue and pain, Fenice did not see it was her husband who had shaken her awake and then pulled her to her feet. She was aware of nothing beyond her agony and the necessity to go on in spite of it, which had fixed itself in her mind the preceding day. The sense of dire necessity combined crazily with her overwhelming feeling of worthlessness to produce the insane notion that she would simply be abandoned if she could not continue, so she turned her head aside to hide her tears and bit her lips to hold back the whimpers of pain that rose unbidden in her throat. Mistakenly taking the gesture for a rejection of him, Aubery thrust her toward a man-at-arms, told him to lift her to her mare, and went sullenly to his own horse. It was fortunate that the horses, which had no better fodder than the dry leaves and bracken on which the

men slept, did not recover enough to produce a pace faster than a walk. In the first half-hour, Fenice would have fallen off. As it was, she gave the men-at-arms behind her considerable anxiety by the way she swayed and teetered in the saddle. Since Aubery was ahead and too angry and stubborn to turn his head, he was not aware of her difficulties. And once the huge abbey of Fontevrault came into view, Aubery's attention was fixed on the problem of obtaining an audience with the king. Fontevrault, Aubery realized, was to the abbey at Hurley, with which he was familiar and mistakenly equated it, as the huge royal palace of Westminster was to the modest keep of Marlowe. Here was no simple guesthouse where all gentlefolk were lodged alike, but a massive complex of buildings with special accommodations for abbots and bishops, for kings and queens, for lords, monks, clerks, merchants, commonfolk, and even for beggars, all with their separate oratories, dining halls, and kitchens. And huge as it was, it was plain that the abbey was filled to bursting, as was the town that surrounded it, for in addition to the large entourage that had come with Henry and Eleanor, every French nobleman in the area who could afford it had rushed to the abbey out of curiosity or hope of settling some business that the change of overlordship from England to France had left in limbo for more than ten years. Nonetheless the fears Aubery had of hours of argument and explanation to penetrate the seeming chaos did not materialize. The stewards and servants employed by the prioress of Fontevrault were accustomed to incursions by royalty or those with nearly equal power and sometimes greater pretensions than royalty. Moreover, there had been a stream of messengers arriving and departing, some who had followed Henry all the way from England, some from Prince Edward or the officers of his new court, some from the king of France, who sent gifts and warm words of welcome. When Aubery said he had urgent business with the king, a servant was dispatched at once to an official, who recognized Aubery's name and had him brought in at once. Resentful as he was, Aubery did not forget Fenice or the tired men-at-arms who had accompanied him on the grueling ride. He was so tired himself that he could have wept with relief when he was shown into a chamber where John Mansel came forward to greet him. Brushing aside the clerk's horrified comments on his battered appearance, he said at once that comfort must be found for his wife, who had been riding since dawn the preceding day, and for the men with her, and only after Mansel's own secretary had been dispatched to see to that did he begin his tale of the attack and imprisonment of the earl of Warwick and other English gentlemen in Pons. As they rode and Fenice's muscles were warmed by the action, her pain diminished and she was able to take notice of her surroundings. She was as surprised by the size of Fontevrault as Aubery had been. Because she knew it to be ruled by an abbess, she had somehow expected an establishment much like the one from which she had escaped. And then she realized how silly she had been. Fontevrault had been the favorite religious house of the Plantagenets since Alinor of Aquitaine. She lay here, as did her second husband, Henry II, and her favorite son, Richard Coeur de Lion. Many, many others had chosen to be in their august company, and Fontevrault had grown rich on the gifts of the living and the great legacies of the dead. It was as large as or larger than the palace in Burgos, Fenice thought—and with the thought came the realization that she would doubtless be brought to greet the queen and speak to her, even if her service as one of Eleanor's ladies was not renewed. Memories of Eleanor's kindness and Fenice's desperate need to explain why she had done what she had done, which Aubery had never permitted her to do, seduced her into wondering for a few seconds whether she could appeal to the queen to intercede with Aubery for her. But almost as quickly as the notion came, Fenice rejected it, shuddering with horror at the idea of admitting she had worn a soil gatherer's clothing and covered herself with human filth. And then a cold horror clutched her. Would Aubery betray her and tell?

Although she was in a mood to believe any disaster that had not already befallen her would do so immediately, she soon rejected that fearful notion. Aubery might have lost whatever fondness he had for her, but it was clear he felt her degradation reflected shame on him. He would not betray her, she thought—though that was cold comfort, which grew colder when Mansel's secretary came with a servant to lead the men-at-arms to quarters and he himself showed Fenice to the private apartments of the queen. Instead of thinking that it was a good sign that Eleanor would receive her and that it must have been Aubery's thoughtfulness for her that sent a court official to escort her, Fenice leapt to the conclusion that the secretary had come for her because Aubery did not wish to see her or speak to her. She really knew that Aubery's first duty was to speak to the king; but her heart would not accept that-practical explanation, and from despair and fatigue she tottered only a step or two before giving up and sinking to the ground. Fenice was dimly aware of the secretary's cry of distress and of a growing furor as he summoned help, but her total misery made her indifferent, for once, to the trouble she was causing others. She lay limp, eyes closed and unresponding, even when the queen bent over her, asking anxious questions of those who had carried her in. It was better this way, Fenice thought fuzzily; this, way no one would ask her for explanations, and she remained unstirring and uncaring while the queen's maids undressed her and laid her in a soft bed. A few minutes later she felt the stab of a knife as a vein in her forearm was opened to bleed her. The warm trickle of blood seemed to drain away whatever strength had kept her half-conscious, and she slipped into the restful, unthreatening dark. Meanwhile, Aubery had explained to Mansel what had happened in Pons. He did not conceal the carelessness of Warwick and his friends in simply loosing their men-at-arms on the town and agreed when Mansel asked if it was not likely that some of the other knights might have been equally indifferent. Nonetheless, Aubery pointed out, he had come to the conclusion that the attack at the feast had been planned in advance. From some of the remarks he had heard himself and from those reported to him by Warwick, Seagrave, Mauduit, and Philip Marmim, it seemed clear that the disturbances caused by the men-at-arms had been only an excuse, not a cause, for imprisoning the English. Mansel frowned. "The king will not like this," he said sourly. "None of us liked it much either," Aubery snapped in return. After a glance at Aubery's face, one side of which was still swollen and showed a remarkable medley of green, yellow, blue, and maroon bruises, Mansel made an apologetic gesture. "I am sorry," he said. "I only wish to warn you. Pons was a favorite city of my lord the king's, before he lost Poitou to Louis in 1243. He will not wish to believe that the commune has so quickly and completely changed their professed love and loyalty as to attack deliberately a group of noblemen just because they were his vassals. Moreover, King Henry has been treated with great courtesy, even with loving kindness, by King Louis, who is doing all in his power to satisfy my lord the king's every desire insofar as seeing France, so—" "Will you take me to King Henry or not?" Aubery asked. Mansel eyed him for a moment and then pointed out, "It was their own fault—you agreed with me. You were no member of their party. Can you not simply pretend you never met them? I can arrange—" "No," Aubery interrupted. "I passed my word to inform the king of their plight. I have a message from Warwick and his seal ring to deliver to King Henry." With a sigh and a helpless shrug of his shoulders, Mansel beckoned to a page, to whom he gave

instructions in a low voice. He noticed that Aubery made no attempt to listen to his orders to the boy and grimaced slightly. It was another mark of Aubery's intelligence and determination that he did not care what Mansel was saying. It showed he knew that Mansel could not really thwart him. Though of no particular importance himself, Aubery had many paths to the king, and if Mansel would not set him on one, he would find another to open a gate. Aubery's message could be delayed but could not be prevented, and delay would only endanger Mansel himself without helping the situation. Aubery, however, was not thinking along those same lines. The clerk's protest had given a warning that Aubery would not ignore. Aubery knew how easily King Henry could become deaf to what he did not choose to hear or, worse yet, how he could turn the anger he could not vent on the actual maker of trouble onto those who urged him to remedy it. Although Aubery had sworn no oath to Warwick and the others, he was bound by honor to inform Henry of their plight in such a way that the king would attempt to help them. Fortunately there was some delay. The king was with his half brothers, Guy and Geoffrey de Lusignan, and they insisted on finishing some private business before Aubery could be shown in. At another time that might have produced some resentment in Aubery, but in this case he was rather grateful. He was tired, and his mind was moving more slowly than usual, so he was glad of the interval to work out what he intended to say, taking into consideration the different reactions Henry might display. Aubery was, however, annoyed when he saw the Lusignans still seated near the king when he was finally received. Still, he did not see that the half brothers could be in any way involved in the problem of dealing with Pons, so he went ahead without altering what he had planned to say. The result of his earlier cogitations was that the story was much shorter. Aubery told only what had actually befallen him in Pons itself. He made no mention of his meeting with Warwick or of the lack of any attempt at control over their men-at-arms by Warwick and his friends. Aubery started with the mayor's unsolicited invitation to the feast, described the attack by a large number of armed commoners on the unarmed guests and ended with his escape, after which he presented the shirt on which Warwick had scrawled his plea for help and Warwick's seal ring to authenticate the tale. Aubery was aware of Mansel's eyes on him and was both grimly amused and somewhat worried about the clerk's reaction to the way he had used the warning Mansel had given. Taking into consideration the color of Henry's face and the violent exclamations the king had made from time to time during his narrative, Aubery thought it safe to cover himself by adding, "There are some matters I have not mentioned because—" He was relatively sure the king was too angry to ask for any details and he was right, for Henry interrupted him before he could finish his explanation. "I do not need to hear more," Henry roared. "The treacherous scum! How dared they lay their hands on my gentlemen? I will see to their lessoning, I assure you, Sir Aubery." "You see," Guy de Lusignan put in, "it is as I have been telling you all along. The sweet words and gifts from Louis are no more than a sly delusion. The action of the commune of Pons shows his true feeling. Even while you are his guest, those under his protection show their contempt—" "No!" Aubery exclaimed. "No, my lord king, I am sure this is not so. I am sure that the commune of Pons is as eager to hide their crime from the king of France as from you." Aubery had suddenly realized why Mansel had not wanted him to tell the king about Pons. Apparently Mansel wished to encourage Henry to accept the French king's friendly gestures as being sincere, whereas the Lusignans wanted the king to think Louis's accommodating offers were traps. Aubery knew nothing about Louis except what Alys had written to his mother and stepfather, who had shared Alys's letters with him from the time she left England, but he knew more than he wanted about Henry's greedy,

pompous half brothers, and his contradiction of Lord Guy's accusation had been instinctive. Lord Guy and Lord Geoffrey glared at Aubery so furiously that he almost regretted his interference, but the king's expression showed eager interest rather than anger. "You have some reason for saying this?" he asked Aubery. "Certainly," Aubery replied. "If King Louis had been involved, surely there would have been some trained men-at-arms and perhaps even a French captain among those who took us prisoner. I fought them. I can tell you there were only Poitevin townsmen. And another thing: They took away our safe conducts. That must have been done only so that they could say no man they took prisoner had a safe conduct, and by that claim defend themselves against Louis's wrath if their deed were discovered." The king smiled, confirming Aubery's feeling that Henry did not wish to think ill of King Louis. Nonetheless, Aubery had no intentions of wading out farther into the unstable quick-sands of French and English politics. He was just about to ask Henry's permission to leave, since he had done his duty toward Warwick and the others, and he was more than willing to allow the defense of King Louis to rest in Mansel's capable hands. Before he could speak, however, Geoffrey de Lusignan came to the support of his brother Guy's attack. "Nonsense," Lord Geoffrey said, sneering down his nose at Aubery. "What could such a simple knight know of high policy and the devices of kings? That no French men-at-arms be present and the destruction of the safe conducts are acts that Louis would order if his purpose was to collect ransoms. Remember how poor he has rendered France with his crusade and the payment of his own ransom." "I am sorry to disagree with you, Lord Geoffrey," Aubery said with nasty emphasis, "but I cannot believe that so honorable a man as King Louis would stoop to such lies—so the action of the common dross in Pons cannot reflect the usual devices of kings. Moreover—" It was not Aubery's way to lay on flattery with a trowel; in fact, it made him sick to do it and was one of the reasons he was so determined to avoid the court. He was aware of Henry's susceptibility to flattery, however, and he was so furious at the contemptuous attitude of Lord Geoffrey that he cast aside both his revulsion at using one of his father's devices and his knowledge of how dangerous it was to annoy the king's half brothers. The sad fact, Aubery knew, was that Henry was not at all above treachery—a fact that made him more sensitive to being accused of it. Aubery was not surprised, therefore, when Lord Guy jumped to his feet and interrupted him. "How dare you!" Lord Guy exclaimed, his face red with rage, for he realized he had inadvertently implied that all kings were dishonorable and Aubery had deliberately made it seem he was slyly insulting his own half brother as well as Louis. Henry grasped his brother's arm and said deliberately, "Sit down, Guy, and let Sir Aubery finish." Aubery was not at all deluded that he had done the Lusignans any permanent harm; Henry was far too attached to his half brothers for any small mistake to anger him for long. And although it did his heart good to see the sneer wiped from both Guy's and Geoffrey's faces, Aubery was not fool enough to pursue the attack. He did his best, in fact, to look surprised and bewildered, as if he had no idea what had angered Sir Guy. Off to his right, there was a soft, stifled sound like a discreet cough, but Aubery knew it was Mansel suppressing a laugh, and he found himself unable to continue for a moment while he repressed a similar urge. "Go ahead, Sir Aubery," the king urged. "What were you about to say?" Aubery suspected that Henry was angling for more compliments, but he could not bring himself to pander

further to the king's vanity. "What I was about to say, my lord, was that Alys d'Aix, my stepsister, knows King Louis from having visited her husband's aunt, Queen Margaret, and Alys says that though he has faults, as does any mortal man, Louis does not lie or break any oath he has made. Indeed, Sir William, my stepfather, who is marshal to your brother Lord Richard, says that Louis has kept the truce made with you, even when the acts of others could have served as an excuse to break it. Thus, I cannot believe that King Louis has made any profession of friendship to you that he does not intend to fulfill." The reminder of Sir William's connection with Richard of Cornwall and of Alys's connection to Margaret and to himself was in Aubery's opinion necessary self-preservation, considering the black looks he was receiving from the Lusignans. Since Queen Eleanor and Queen Margaret were sisters, any connection with Margaret was equally one with Henry's much-loved wife. In addition, Richard of Cornwall was certain to protect his marshal's son against those he hated. Aubery did not like the constant three-way tug-of-war over the king among the queen and her uncles, the Lusignans, and Richard of Cornwall; however, it was useful in this case. Lord Guy and Lord Geoffrey would be likely to think several times before trying to harm anyone both the queen and Lord Richard would defend. He hoped that he had achieved his purpose but could not spare a glance at either of the Lusignans lest he betray that purpose to the king. Henry was not stupid and might put together Aubery's naming of his relatives, which was scarcely necessary as Raymond and William were well known to the king, with glances at his half brothers. Just now the king was smiling happily, well pleased with Aubery's defense of Louis, and Aubery felt that the moment to make his escape had come. Thus, when Henry had agreed that Sir William's remarks about Louis's maintenance of the truce were correct, Aubery hastily mentioned his confidence in his king's ability to effect the rescue of Warwick and the other English knights, commented on his long ride, his fatigue, and his battered condition, and begged permission to leave. Permission was graciously granted, and Aubery and Mansel withdrew. Outside the king's apartment, Mansel did laugh and said, "I am sorry to have doubted you, Sir Aubery. That was well done, very well done. You spoke the truth about King Louis and spoke it in a way that will do your king and England much good." "I hope so," Aubery said, rather grimly, thinking he might have done himself much harm, "but what I said about being tired and bruised was also true. I need sleep more than thanks." Mansel pursed his lips. "We are crowded here, but—" "If you can tell me where Sir William is lodged," Aubery interrupted, "I can share his bed or, at least, use it until he needs it." "Of course." The clerk was obviously relieved that he would not have to evict anyone. "I will have you taken to his quarters and send someone to find him." Aubery did not wait for William. He asked the clerk who accompanied him to help him disarm—a novel experience for the young man—and tumbled into bed, noting gratefully as he rolled over that although the bed was only straw-filled bags in a frame, it was wide enough for two. There would be no need for polite arguments about who should sleep on the floor, he thought as his eyes closed—and then sat upright abruptly, realizing that he had no idea what had happened to Fenice. In another moment he had dropped back. If she could get into and out of a tightly guarded prison, surely she could find a bed.

CHAPTER 27

In the antechamber of the king's apartment, one among the lesser men, waiting in hope of notice by the king or of the great lords who came to speak to him, was stricken dumb by the sight of Aubery entering in the company of John Mansel. Sir Savin stared at Aubery as he passed, with a fury restored to fever pitch. Most of his rage was owing to his own current frustrations, but it was easier—and safer—to attach his anger to Aubery. Since they had left Bordeaux, Sir Savin had not been so satisfied with his situation. For one thing, his sources of extorted income had been cut off when they left the town; for another, Lord Guy's temper had been atrocious since the king had decided that he would visit France and had been growing worse with every kind letter and generous gift King Louis sent to his cousin Henry. Savin was willing enough to lick the boots of the powerful for profit, but he was beginning to wonder if service to Lord Guy while he was in his current mood was safe. Savin had, of course, considered leaving, but he was sure that Guy would deny his request—not because he wanted him for any special purpose, but because he was so furious at Henry, a fury he dared not express, that the denial of anything anyone asked for gave him pleasure. And even if the request to return to England were granted, the chances were strong that Lord Guy would resent it and remember Savin with displeasure. Actually, the main and deepest source of Savin's rage was his realization that he had chosen wrongly, had made worthless all the time spent in Gascony and Castile. Savin's purpose in joining the prince had been to get a powerful patron who would protect him. It was true that the king's half brothers had more power than Prince Edward at present, but Savin now knew how untrustworthy they were. No matter how long or well he served them, he could not count on them to help him in the future. Seeing Aubery, whom he had thought out of his reach, gave a focus to Savin's rage. If he could rid himself of this enemy, who had been the cause of all his troubles from the beginning, from the moment he lost the wardship of young Harold of Herron, he was sure the troubles would be solved. The fury held Sir Savin motionless for only a little while. Then he made his way as if idly to the door of the king's inner chamber. By the time he reached it, the other men were again busy with their talk, and Savin, leaning against the wall beside the door, seemed as purposeless and bored as all the rest. But Savin was not bored. While he stared sightlessly into the room, one of his hands was busy behind him. A little careful manipulation of the doorlatch unhooked it and allowed him to open the door just a hair. He could not hear what Aubery was saying, but the king's angry exclamations were loud enough for him to guess that something had enraged Henry. For a while, Savin hoped that the rage was directed at Aubery and that at any moment he would see armed men summoned to take him away. Soon, however, he realized that it was the tale Aubery was telling, not Aubery himself, that was infuriating the king. The disappointment, naturally, did nothing to soothe Savin, and he had to grit his teeth over curses until, suddenly, he heard quite clearly Lord Geoffrey's furious exclamation. It could not be directed against the king, so it must be Aubery at whom Geoffrey was shouting. Savin listened tensely, but the voices had dropped too low again, and a few minutes later they stopped altogether. The silence warned him so that he was away from the door when Aubery and John Mansel came out together, but he was not so far that he did not hear Mansel's compliment. Realizing that Aubery must have ingratiated himself still further with the king was almost too much for Savin to bear. Only knowing that he would bring ruin on himself by an attack kept him from leaping at Aubery's throat, and he had to turn away completely lest he betray himself. Then he remembered Lord Geoffrey's angry remark, and he drew a deep breath of satisfaction.

If he found a way to kill Aubery, Savin thought, the Lusignans would be in his debt—and would be glad to be rid of him if the crime could not be traced to them. And with Aubery dead, it would be worthwhile to hurry back to England. There would be no one to run to Richard of Cornwall with complaints every time Savin helped himself to a woman or to the produce and cattle of a farm that did not belong to him. In fact, by the time Sir William got back from following the king all over France, it was possible that the farms would belong to him—and maybe even Ilmer, too. Sir William might complain to the earl of Cornwall, but the Lusignans would be sure to support the claim of the man who had killed the king's favorite for them. Smiling broadly, Savin spoke to the few men with whom he had an acquaintance and said he would wait no longer. They nodded without particular interest. Savin often left early. Some were envious, thinking that he needed less to bring himself to the king's attention because of his connection with Lord Guy, but the real reason was that Savin preferred to avoid the queen. He thought she was just the type of nosy bitch to remind the king out of pure spite that he was supposed to be in Edward's service, even though she had done all she could to force the prince to dismiss him. However, this time Savin was not thinking about Eleanor; he merely wanted peace and quiet to work out a plan for killing Aubery. The first method, crying insult and demanding a duel, Savin dismissed from his mind very rapidly. What he told himself was that it would be foolish to anger the king and reduce his hold on Lord Geoffrey by an open duel. But the real reason was that after seeing Aubery fight in Castile, Savin was not at all sure he would be the victor—or in a condition to enjoy his victory if he was. That left assassination, which was safer and surer, but here in Fontevrault, Savin had no gang of cutthroats to help him. In any case, he did not want to attack Aubery on the abbey grounds. Instead, he would have to find a way to induce Aubery to meet him somewhere and to come there alone and unarmed. It was something that would require some thought and planning. Aubery woke to the sound of logs being added to the fire and mumbled, "Fenice?" "No, it is I," Sir William said softly. "Sleep. Sleep." But Aubery had already levered himself upright. Seeing that the room was dark except for a single candle and the firelight, and that Sir William was clad only in a bedrobe, ready apparently for sleep, he asked anxiously, "Where is Fenice? Do you know?" "Yes, of course. She is with the queen. There is nothing to worry about. The physician says he can find no fever or sign of other illness. She—" "Physician?" Aubery echoed, a terrible pang of guilt stabbing him. "Why did she need a physician?" As he spoke, Aubery moved to get out of the bed but was pushed back. "She did not need one," William said. "She is not sick. She was only very tired. Do not be a fool," he added as Aubery pulled at his hand in another effort to get up. "You cannot enter the queen's chamber at this hour of the night." Rather relieved at this plain fact, which assuaged his guilt for not going to inquire about his wife, since he was really reluctant to confront her, Aubery lay down. Actually, thinking about Fenice made him uncomfortable, and he said to William, "I hope this business about Pons will not overset more important plans. I was obliged to tell the king." "Yes," William agreed without hesitation. "You could not betray the trust of your fellow prisoners or ignore the wrong done them, even if you made no promise of help. Fortunately, no harm was done. A deputation has already left for Pons carrying word of Henry's grave displeasure." He paused and grinned. "In fact, much good came of your unpleasant adventure. You may comfort yourself for your bruises and

your foul treatment with that and sleep in peace." "What good?" Aubery asked. "And to speak the truth, I do not know what harm could have come either, although I understood that John Mansel did not want me to tell Henry the tale." "I can tell you in the morning as well as now," William said, looking anxiously at Aubery, whose bruised face had a gargoyle appearance in the dim, flickering light. "Rest now. I assure you all is well." Aubery laughed affectionately. "I am not ten years old, William. The bruises are nothing. And I do not believe it is safe to wait until morning. Either of us might be called to the king or have other business arise. Since I am here and I can tell there is something brewing, you had better tell me now so that I do not fall into a pit unaware. Besides, I have already slept away the whole day. I am not sleepy now, only starved. Is there some way I could get something to eat?" "Yes, of course." William went out into the corridor. After a few minutes he returned. "Thank God there are separate kitchens for the monks and nuns and for the guests," he said, lighting several more candles at the flame of the one burning. "I have no great taste for lentils and cabbage." "Is that what the monks and nuns eat here?" Aubery asked with raised brows. The abbey at Hurley had had a corrupt abbot during Aubery's youth, and he was not fond of the monastic orders. "Well, certainly not the abbess and her officers," William admitted, "but that is between the brothers and sisters and God, and no affair of ours. In any case, the kitchen that serves us is excellent." The food arrived remarkably fast, a servant carrying in a tray loaded with soup, cold meat pasty, cheese, bread, and wine, all in generous proportions. William took the tray from him and set it down on the bed. Aubery freed his arms from the blanket he had pulled around himself and picked up the bowl of soup. "Go on," he urged. William had already explained that Louis's warm and generous welcome to Henry might well have an ulterior motive—changing the truce, which had ended the war in 1243 and had been several times renewed after its original one-year term, into a treaty of peace. That would, of course, mean officially giving up Normandy, Anjou, and Poitou to Louis. But since Normandy had been under French domination since 1204 and Anjou and Poitou for over ten years, such a treaty would merely be the recognition of a fait accompli. Still, Aubery had pointed out, actually signing a peace treaty would make a difference: Once the lands were legally Louis's, a rebellion of the barons in favor of Henry would become treason and punishable with far greater severity than a rising to throw off a conqueror. To which William had replied caustically that he, for one, and in his opinion England as a whole, would be far better off if the wars and follies of the Angevins and Poitevins were no business of the vassals of the king of England. Aubery agreed hastily as he ate, laughing and assuring William that his earlier remark was made absently from a theoretical rather than practical point of view and not because he was in favor of trying to regain the lost provinces. He was young and adventurous and did not mind fighting abroad, but he knew how most of the barons of England resented being called out to war or taxed for any overseas conflict. "There is not much more to say," William said. "All of us would like to see this peace made—except, of course, the Lusignans." "But why should the Lusignans—" Aubery began, putting down his spoon to reach for the pasty, and then shook his head. "I am an idiot. As long as Henry is the legal overlord of Poitou, they can hope to rouse those who had been their father's vassals to rebellion and thus hope to regain what was theirs in Poitou." He picked up the meat pie he had reached for, his mouth twisted wryly. "Could a vassal of theirs be such

a fool?" "Well, not if the vassals knew them and compared them with Louis," William said, and went on to point out other aspects of the situation. Aubery listened to William with half an ear while finishing his soup and chewing on the meat pasty, which he washed down with sips of wine. And while William told of the loss of the Lusignan estates to Louis, he made excellent inroads into the cheese. When he was full and ready to talk, he pushed the tray farther down the bed and led William back to the present. "Now I can see why Mansel did not wish me to tell a story that could cast a shadow of doubt on the friendship that Louis was proffering," Aubery said. William grinned broadly. "But some good came of your talk because Lord Guy and Lord Geoffrey overreached themselves. I do not know exactly what they said, but Henry has forbidden them to accompany us to Pontigny and bade them go back to Gascony or to England." Aubery frowned. "Why not send them hence at once?" "Isabella was their mother as well as Henry's," William pointed out. "In decency the king could not send them away before the ceremony of removing her coffin to the church had taken place." "By then they will have cozened the king into changing his mind," Aubery said sourly. "I think not," William remarked thoughtfully. "Henry talks of nothing but his cousin Louis, and you know what he is like when he has taken a notion." Suddenly William smiled again. "I think Mansel was warning you as much for your own sake, to save you from losing the king's favor, as from fearing you would shake Henry's conviction about Louis's sincerity. Mansel likes you—oh, Lord bless me, I forgot to thank you. I am to have Bix again, and for less than I would have given Alys for a quitclaim." "You thank me for feathering my own nest?" Aubery protested, laughing. William sighed. "There were many ways you could have feathered your nest more directly." He touched the unbruised side of Aubery's face gently. "My son, you should think more of your own needs. If you would take the income from Bix—" He sighed again as Aubery shook his head and then smiled. "Well, you cannot stop me from settling Bix on the next William of Marlowe as soon as he is born." He was about to add lightly that Aubery would have to use the income for his future son's needs but hesitated as an expression of pain flickered over his stepson's face. Could Aubery be worried because Fenice had not yet conceived? They had been married over a year, but Aubery had been with her only now and again because of the war and the services he had performed for the king. The poor girl had not had a reasonable chance to get with child—except the last three or four months. Then William had a cold sinking feeling. Had Fenice lost a child with all the traveling they had done? Was she with child and Aubery afraid she might lose it? Mentally William withdrew from a personal wound that was still raw. He would not have denied Aubery the comfort of talking out his fears if he wished to do so, but William could not introduce the subject himself. Thus, when Aubery stretched, yawned, and said he was ready to sleep again, William removed the tray from the bed and with a shamed feeling of relief went over to snuff all the candles except the night-light. He knew Aubery's profession of sleepiness was false but could not bring himself to say so, and he took off his bedrobe and lay down beside Aubery in silence. Since William had made no comment when Aubery winced away from the subject of the generation of

children, Aubery hoped his reaction had gone unnoticed. He had controlled the expression quickly but was painfully aware that the emotions inside of him were not controlled at all. A surging need for Fenice mingled with the remnants of his resentment and, unfortunately, reinforced it because of his fear of being dominated by lust for his wife. Yet to give William a grandchild… Painfully, Aubery wrenched his mind away from Fenice altogether. A bed, he told himself, was no place to consider their future relationship rationally. He fixed his mind on the results of making peace with France. There was not much chance that Henry could have forced the barons of England into supporting a war to reclaim the lost provinces, but their resistance if he proposed such a war would further sour the king's relationship with his subjects, and that did not need extra souring. Thus, yielding Normandy, Anjou, and Poitou legally would be an advantage. And, doubtless, in exchange Louis would agree not to support any rebellions in Gascony. So, squeezed between Alfonso, whose daughter would suffer from any rebellion, and Louis, who was adamant in keeping his oath, Gaston de Béarn would have his claws drawn. Aside from minor personal quarrels, it seemed that Gascony would lie quiet—at least while Louis and Alfonso of Castile lived. Aubery recognized the political advantages of a settlement, but he found the notion of all that peace and quiet so dull that he yawned and felt sleepy in earnest. A few more minutes of contemplating the endless and boring negotiations that would be necessary to bring about this even more boring peace sent Aubery soundly to sleep. Having slept so long, Aubery woke before dawn and, in trying to get out of bed, woke William. He apologized, but his stepfather only said grumpily that he would have been awake himself in a few minutes. "It is this doing of nothing all day," William growled. "I know Richard needs a trustworthy ear near the king when Eleanor and the Lusignans are with him, but listening and talking is not enough for my body, no matter how tired it makes my mind. If Richard does not soon give me permission to come back to England, I will kill someone just for the exercise." Aubery laughed. "Let us both arm, then, and we can exercise—" "In the abbey?" William made a sour face. "It is out of the question—and I doubt the folk of the village would welcome our activity either. They are all pensioners of the abbey or bound to it in other ways. And until the Lusignans are gone, I dare not be long away from the king." He sighed. "I can offer you no more amusement than mass and breakfast. And I think you must thank Henry for his prompt aid to the prisoners in Pons." "They are not free yet," Aubery grumbled. Reminded suddenly that the one part of the story Mansel did not seem to know was how Aubery himself had escaped from the prison in Pons, William had been about to ask, but Aubery's remark distracted him. "Even if they are not freed, the king deserves thanks for trying to help them," William remonstrated, looking with some surprise at his stepson; Aubery was seldom discourteous and never when an attempt to help failed. Then he smiled. "Henry will not begin to seek your company again," he promised. "He has Eleanor for his quiet hours, and prayers and consultations with the abbess, and a host of French noblemen both curious and with real business to draw his attention." Although Aubery had not thought about why he should be so eager for a morning of practice combat with William when he was still bruised and aching from the beating he had taken in Pons, he accepted William's objections with reluctance. Only after several attempts to change his stepfather's mind did he pull ordinary clothing from his baggage, which he found piled with William's at the end of the room.

Once dressed, he became resigned and followed his stepfather docilely to mass, to eat in the central refectory that served the individual guesthouses designed for the nobility, and then to the audience chamber of the king's lodging. They were early, of course, since they had started their day earlier than most, but William knew there would be a good fire in the audience chamber, and it would be a comfortable place to wait. He also wanted to hear what would be said about the quarrel between the king and his half brothers. Thus, the room was still almost empty when Aubery saw Savin come through the door. His lips tightened, and William turned his head to see what had disturbed Aubery. William's own face took on an expression of distaste, and he muttered, "He is in Lord Guy's household—could you not have guessed?" "So long as he is away from the prince, I do not care," Aubery said calmly, smiling as he added, "I do not think even Savin could corrupt the Lusignans." He heard William laugh and remark that the Lusignans and Savin were a perfect match in rapacity and dishonor, and he nodded agreement but went back to the subject on which they had been conversing earlier without mentioning his suspicion that Savin had tried to arrange his death in Castile. Since he had no proof and telling William would only worry him, it was better to say nothing. Then Aubery realized he would have to warn Fenice not to speak of what had happened in Castile to anyone, which she might do if she should see Savin—and that reminded him of how she had run to the queen with the story after he had bade her tell no one. The room had been filling rapidly while these thoughts ran through Aubery's head, and since their conversation had been no more than idle talk to fill the time, William was paying more attention to the arrivals than to what he or Aubery was saying and did not notice Aubery's distraction. Soon after, the king and queen came from the private chamber in which they had broken their fast and moved slowly through the room, pausing to speak to those they wished to honor, encourage, soothe, or invite to private audiences. William and Aubery, who had been near the far end of the room from their entry, watched with considerable interest who was greeted and who was ignored. A number of men and women Aubery did not know received cordial notice, and William muttered in his ear that they were French. Then, as the royal pair approached, one couple bowed, and a youth and maiden behind them also dropped a deep bow and curtsy, and Aubery saw the queen stiffen for a moment and lose her smile. His eyes followed hers, and again fell on Savin, who had been hidden behind the French family, talking desultorily to a man well known as a hanger-on of the Lusignans. Eleanor recovered immediately, smiled again, and began to speak graciously to the wife and blushing daughter while Henry engaged the men. Aubery did not believe anyone besides himself had noticed the queen's brief display of surprise and displeasure; however, as parting words were spoken and the French family sank into bows and curtsies again, Aubery realized that Savin was aware that the queen had noticed him, and not with delight: In the next moment, Aubery and William had been seen. Eleanor immediately beckoned vigorously for Aubery to approach and assured him, as soon as he was close enough, that Fenice was much recovered, wide awake, and eagerly awaiting him. "Indeed," Eleanor said, smiling, "it was necessary for me to exert my royal authority to keep her abed, for nothing would content her but to go seeking you to be sure you were not sleeping in a stable or starving." "She is always too concerned for my welfare," Aubery replied stiffly. Aubery's rigid expression reminded Eleanor that he had not wanted Fenice to disclose to her his suspicions of Sir Savin, whom she had thought dismissed to England. It had been so brief a glance, she

wondered if it were possible that she had been mistaken, and her head turned again to where Savin had been standing; however, he was gone, and she looked back at Aubery, whose gaze had naturally followed hers. The idea that Aubery was still angry with Fenice annoyed Eleanor. "Too great a concern is better than too little, Sir Aubery," she said reprovingly. But even as she spoke she realized that her recent shock in seeing Sir Savin—if, indeed, it was he—must have led her to misinterpret Aubery's uneasiness. In fact, now that she stopped to think, she could not believe the man she had seen actually had been Sir Savin. Surely Aubery would have done something or said something if it had been Savin. Eleanor knew Aubery to be a fond husband. Probably he was only eager to get to Fenice and see for himself that she had come to no harm but did not wish to be rude to his queen. So Eleanor smiled again, somewhat apologetically, and added, "I will not tease you by holding you here longer. You are free to go." "Only let me thank my lord the king for his swift action on behalf of the prisoners in Pons," Aubery began, aware of a reluctance to leave that was strange, considering his usual desire to avoid Henry. Henry smiled warmly. He liked to be appreciated, but he was also a fond husband. Being unaware that Sir William had not told Aubery that Fenice had collapsed, Henry assumed that only a deep gratitude to him and a rigid sense of duty, which he knew Aubery had, were keeping Aubery from rushing off. "There is no need for thanks," the king said kindly. "It is a king's duty to protect his vassals, as it is their duty to serve and protect him. Go to your wife and assure yourself all is well with her. I will speak to you again soon." There could be no lingering after so positive a dismissal, and Aubery could only bow and depart. Nor, he thought, as he turned toward the stairs to go up to the queen's chambers, could he simply go off by himself and not visit Fenice. He stopped abruptly midway up the stairs, shocked when he realized that his persistent attempt to draw William into practice combat and his sudden eagerness to stay and talk to King Henry were both only devices that would permit him to avoid his wife. A soft, angry sound came from Aubery's throat, and Sir Savin, who had been standing just inside the door where he could watch without being himself seen, drew farther back. Savin checked the motion before it was complete, shaking with rage because he had reacted with instinctive retreat to a threat from Aubery that was not, he now realized, even directed at him. It put the final edge to his hate to recognize his fear. That atop what he had seen in the queen's eyes—and then she and Aubery had been talking about him; though he had moved away, he had seen them both looking at the place in which he had been standing. He had to get rid of Aubery, and soon. Lord Guy and Lord Geoffrey were both wild with rage at having been told they could not accompany the king farther in France. Savin guessed that the refusal had something to do with the news Aubery had brought. He had heard Guy and Geoffrey screaming at each other and accusing each other of misusing the news and, incidentally, cursing Aubery also. He could bear witness that they had wished Aubery dead, and he would not be the only one. Every servant in the guesthouse had heard them. No one would try too hard to discover who had killed Aubery when the trail would lead to the king's half brothers. But he had not yet been able to think of a device for finding Aubery alone and unarmed. There were too many people around for Savin to try to kill him here. And what the devil had Aubery gone up to the private apartments for? There were plenty of pages to carry messages. Then Savin remembered that Aubery's wife was one of the queen's ladies, and he remembered, too, that there had been some jests

among the men about Aubery's devotion to Fenice. Savin smiled broadly. The woman—if he took her and demanded ransom, it would be only reasonable to demand also that Aubery come alone and unarmed to pay it. The smile disappeared. He would need a safe place to keep her, and he would need a device to bring her to a quiet spot where he could seize her. Savin left the king's lodging and walked slowly back to the house in which the Lusignans were staying. He no longer needed to watch Aubery, but he would need information. However, he was sure that Lord Guy's servants could find out about Lady Fenice and would not be surprised that Savin should act as intermediary. Appalled by the revelation that he was afraid to face Fenice, Aubery rushed up the remainder of the stairs and almost collided with a maid carrying a tray. The maid's cry of surprise and the check to his physical motion, while he steadied the tray and reassured the girl, gave Aubery a few minutes to adjust his emotions, so that he entered the antechamber and asked for his wife quietly. One of the king's squires of the body on duty there led him immediately through the bedchamber and pointed out the inner room where the queen's ladies were lodged. Aubery did not see Fenice at once, for her cot had been placed nearest to the door of the bedchamber so that the ladies who sat up to attend Eleanor, should she need something in the night, would also be able to watch Fenice. He advanced a step or two into the room before her voice, quavering on the edge of tears, stopped him. She was so beautiful when Aubery saw her, with her hair still tumbled from sleep, holding the coverlet to her to shield her nakedness, that his desire overwhelmed the tenderness her frailty had engendered. Yet her eyes were full of tears, and her voice was thin and frightened. He understood that if it had been anger that made her refuse his tentative offers of help on the ride, she was angry no longer. She put out her hand to him, but he dared not take it and would come no closer for fear his desire would betray him in some way. And guilt made his voice harsher than he intended when he said, "I am sorry to have driven you so hard and so far that you were made ill." "I am not ill," Fenice replied faintly, shrinking back and dropping her eyes. "I am ready to leave for England at once if you wish." At that moment she thought she would die of shame. Aubery had always greeted her with the pleasant formality of kissing her hand, even when they had only been apart for a few hours. He would never kiss her hand again; he would always see her as a common creature crossed with filth, even though he did not know of her serf mother. "I am afraid we will be delayed a few days," Aubery said. "Now that we are here, I do not think it would be wise to ask for permission to leave until Queen Isabella's coffin is moved from the graveyard to the church." "Very well, my lord," Fenice agreed. "If you will tell me where we are lodged—" "You will stay here with the queen," Aubery's voice grated as he fought his desire to tell her to dress and come with him to William's chamber. No one would be there now and he could have her, but he knew it would be wrong. No matter what Fenice said, she was not well enough for coupling. Aubery was right. Fenice was sick and dizzy. Had she been normal, she would have recognized at once what was wrong with her husband—and have arranged to cure it, thus curing her own fears also. Her weakness bred terrors that simple logic would have driven out at any other time.

"Will you put me aside, my lord?" Fenice whispered, her face white and her eyes wide with shock and shame. "Do not be ridiculous," Aubery snarled, angry with himself for frightening her. "Fontevrault is crowded to bursting. I am sharing a bed with William. Do you wish to join us?" Fenice's face went whiter still. It was not unknown in serf households to have three or even four crowded onto a pallet. She could not speak, and stared mutely at Aubery who, of course, had not the faintest idea what she was thinking but did realize that his angry tone was making matters worse. "Come, Fenice," he said in a milder voice, "you are being very silly. It must be because you are still tired, and I see from the bandage on your arm that you must have been bled. I will leave you to rest now. Perhaps if you are stronger later in the day, I will see you again." He bowed formally and went but, ashamed of seeming so bad-tempered but incapable of explaining, leaving poor Fenice too numb for tears. A moment later, movement at the end of the room attracted her eyes, and she realized a maid had been left to watch her. The girl put down her work and came toward her, but Fenice could not bear the thought of the maid's sympathy, so she lay down and pulled the coverlet over her head as if to keep out the light. It was a foolish thing to do, she realized only a few minutes later. She should have tried to convince the girl that there was nothing seriously wrong between her and Aubery, that he spoke so sharply only because he was still overtired himself. But when she uncovered herself and sat up, the girl had gone out. Fenice lay down once more, now even deeper in despair. She knew the maid had rushed out to tell everyone she met about the quarrel, but there was nothing she could do about it now. If she tried to explain or deny, she would only be confirming what the girl had said. Although it was only Fenice's misery that made her think the maid had nothing to do but spread gossip about herself and Aubery, the girl was actually talking about her at the moment. Taking what she had heard Aubery say together with how exhausted Fenice had seemed after her husband's brief visit, the girl felt Fenice would be unable to get up for dinner. Thus, she was on her way to the kitchen to arrange for a meal to be brought to the room when a servingman stopped her. He asked solicitously whether Lady Fenice had recovered and if she thought Lady Fenice would be glad to move to other lodgings or would rather stay with the queen. The maid assured him that Fenice would be very eager to join her husband. "If you know of someone who is leaving," the maid said, "do please tell me, and I will let my lady the queen know. I am sure she would wish to make the chamber available for Sir Aubery and Lady Fenice. Lady Fenice is her great-niece, you know." "I had better not give you the name before I am sure," the man said. "It was only a half-heard remark, but I will try to find out for certain and let Sir Aubery know—he is easier to reach than the queen. Then he may make his own arrangement or go to the king if he needs authority to confirm the place as his." The maid agreed that it would, in fact, be best if Sir Aubery made his own arrangements. She went on toward the kitchen somewhat puzzled at who could be planning to depart and decided to say nothing to Fenice lest she rouse false hopes. However, just before dinner, a young boy she thought of as a page came with a message that Sir Aubery wanted his wife to meet him in the porch of the church. "Oh," the maid cried, giving the message to Lady Fenice, "it must be that Sir Aubery has been able to obtain a lodging." Fenice looked very startled but sent the boy back with the reply that she would come as soon as she could get her clothes on, and the moment the boy was out of the room she leapt out of bed as if the mattress had suddenly turned to hot coals. Having seen Fenice's surprised expression, the maid

described her meeting with the servingman and what he had said. After she helped Fenice to dress, the girl belatedly remembered that the queen had ordered Fenice to stay abed and ran after her to beg her to .come back to the queen's room to eat her dinner rather than join the rest of the ladies and gentlemen. Because she felt the maid's anxiety, Fenice said, "Yes, yes, of course," but without understanding a word the girl had said. There was no room in Fenice's mind or heart for anything beyond an agonizing hope that she had somehow misunderstood everything, that Aubery had not sent her off to the queen because he did not wish to see her or speak to her, that he had been telling the truth when he said she must stay with the queen because he had nowhere to lodge except with Sir William. And if he had sent for her the moment he found a place, did that not mean he truly wished her to join him as soon as possible? Fenice was halfway across the courtyard before she realized she did not know where the church was. She hesitated, about to ask one of the servants hurrying to and from the refectory, then shook her head at her silliness and looked up and around until she saw the bell tower. Knowing in a general way how the church would be positioned with respect to the abbey, she went toward the nearest gate on the same side as the church, in the wall that protected the guest buildings. But Fenice had realized that it would be improper to run through the church or even to walk swiftly through without genuflecting. Instead, she ran around the side of the building as quickly as she could. It was a very large church, and excitement and the lingering weakness from her fatigue and the bleeding took their toll. Before she reached the porch entry, Fenice was reeling, gasping for breath, and seeing black spots in front of her eyes. But the worse she felt, the more sure she became that Aubery would grow tired of waiting for her and assume she was delaying on purpose. She drove herself on, pushing her cloak hood back so that she could breathe more easily, and at last staggered up the steps of the porch. Between the dimness of the interior of the porch compared with the bright outdoors and the dimness of her vision, Fenice could only see the very front of the structure. When she did not see Aubery at the top of the steps, she hesitated, trembling and sobbing with fear and exhaustion, but then she saw a large shadow move at the very back of the porch. With a soft cry of joy, she flung herself forward—to be met with a violent blow that sent her spinning into unconsciousness before she could feel shock or grief. The whole operation had been so easy that Sir Savin felt quite kindly toward Fenice. He was glad that he had hit her carefully so no bruise would show and prepared soft cloths with which to gag and bind her rather than ropes. Of course, Savin's original reason had been to avoid marks that would be evidence that she had been constrained against her will. When Aubery was dead, he intended to release Fenice unhurt not far from where Aubery's body lay and leave her to explain her own absence during the time that her husband had been assassinated. Altogether, Savin was very pleased with himself as he finished binding Fenice in a leisurely way and rolled her in a rug, which he had borrowed from Lord Guy's baggage. He had guessed that the church would be deserted just before dinner when the monks and nuns as well as the ladies and gentlemen would be gathering in the refectories and all the servants would be busy making ready to serve the meal. He lifted the rug to his shoulder and made his way through the empty church to the back. There he lingered until he was reasonably sure that dinner had started before he went out the back door and into the guesthouse courtyard, strolling along easily toward his lodging.

CHAPTER 28

After Aubery left Fenice, he was uncomfortable. He could not forget her fearful question about whether he would put her aside. It was ridiculous, of course, but as he reviewed his behavior since his escape from Pons, he realized that he must have seemed angrier than he was. Memory of the escape still rankled, and he pushed it out of his mind, but one unpleasant thought was succeeded by another. It occurred to him that if he returned to the audience chamber, both the queen, if she noticed him, and William would ask questions about the briefness of his visit to Fenice. Nothing seemed right this day, and in Aubery's mind all his discomfort stemmed from Fenice's unhappiness. He kicked at a pebble, saw it rebound from a wall, looked up, and realized he had been walking idly until he was near the stable. Damn all women, Aubery thought. They did nothing except make men miserable. He would go and see how Draco had recovered from the long journey from Pons. The stallion was in fine fettle, and watching him toss his head and dance naturally made Aubery think of exercising the beast. Then a fine notion came to him. There must be a town or a fair-sized keep not too far away from Fontevrault. Abbeys usually had founders, who donated the land and often supplied some of the money tor building. While a founder would not necessarily want the abbey cheek by jowl with him—or her—the founder would like it within at most a couple of hours' ride. That was too far for anyone who wanted to attend the king constantly—but he did not. Perhaps he could find lodging for himself and Fenice. A question to one of the grooms confirmed his surmise. Saumur was, as well as he could make out, about six miles distant. One must ride north to the river and then west. Aubery ordered that Draco be saddled, and rode out. He found the small town without difficulty, but lodgings fit for gentlefolk were not available. With the great abbey of Fontevrault so close, it apparently did not pay for inns to divide their lofts into private chambers. There were still possibilities, such as seeking a private house in which to stay or taking over the whole of an inn, but Aubery suddenly realized that he was hungry. The sensation made him glance at the sun, which was nearly at its midpoint. If he did not start back, he would miss dinner and William would wonder what had happened to him. He hesitated a moment more, and then decided that he might as well ask Fenice what she thought best to do about the lodgings, an idea that put him into a good humor. Obviously such a question would reassure Fenice as to his desire to be with her, without its being necessary for him to apologize or explain. Despite keeping Draco to a good pace, Aubery got into the stable just as the grooms were leaving to get their meals. Two remained to unsaddle and rub down the stallion, mollified for the likelihood of getting only the remains of what everyone else had eaten by the coins Aubery threw to them. Not quite trusting that their eagerness to accept his largess was equal to their intentions to tend to Draco immediately, Aubery lingered another few minutes. Then, satisfied that his horse would not be neglected, he set off for the refectory across the courtyard. Ahead of him was another poor servant kept from his meal by some duty, Aubery thought amusedly, remembering the unhappy faces of the grooms—until he had shown the coins. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he was struck by two oddities simultaneously. One was that the "servant's" belt was adorned with gold wire; the other was that the "servant" could not be in any hurry to finish his job and get to his dinner, for he was taking a very slow pace. And hard on the heels of the logical conclusion that the man ahead was not a servant, Aubery recognized him. He was Savin—and he was carrying a very, very fine Eastern rug. A contemptuous smile curled Aubery's lips. It was just like the Lusignans to give a gentleman an

unworthy task because they did not trust their common servants, and Savin was enough of a lickspittle to do a servant's work to curry favor. Then Aubery wondered briefly whether Savin was even worse than that. Could he be stealing the rug? Aubery shrugged as he entered the dining hall. A pox on all of them, he thought as he found a place at the table and began to eat hungrily. As Aubery was leaving the refectory with the intention of going to see Fenice to discuss the question of lodging with her, William caught up to him and said, "Come back to the chamber with me. The least you can do is help pack my gear, since you are putting me out of my bed." Aubery laughed. "I am sorry I crowd you, but it is your own fault. You should not have exercised me so carefully in my youth, and likely I would not have grown so large. But there is no need to drag in another cot. I think—" William looked at his stepson oddly. "Do not be a fool. I am moving in with Warrenne so you and Fenice can have my chamber." And as Aubery began to protest but before he could mention the scheme of lodging at Saumur, William added, "Whatever is wrong, it is better to be together." This remark struck Aubery mute, since it seemed that William had somehow divined that there was trouble between him and Fenice. It was not surprising to him, really; all through his boyhood, William had always known what made Aubery unhappy and had helped him to solve his problems or to bear them if they could not be solved. It did not occur to Aubery that William had not needed even to be especially clever to do this, since nearly all his early troubles had stemmed from his father's unpleasant character and behavior or had been the common troubles of all adolescent boys. Nonetheless, when they reached William's chamber and his stepfather said, "You did not tell Mansel how you escaped from Pons. That was an interesting oversight. Will you tell me?" Aubery was thoroughly startled. "My God," Aubery burst out. "What did you hear? Do not tell me the men have been talking about what Fenice did! I will have their tongues nut." William, who had been bending down to open one of the traveling baskets, jerked upright. He had introduced the topic of the escape from Pons because he thought it would be soothing, something that would draw Aubery's mind away from his concern for his wife. When he discovered that Aubery had not told Mansel any details about his escape, William had assumed that Aubery had performed some wild piece of heroism, which he had not wished to describe lest it be thought he was boasting. The anguish in Aubery's voice, however, and his mention of Fenice were alarming. "I have heard nothing," William assured him. "As far as I know, no one has any idea what happened, but what has Fenice to do with your escape?" "Everything," Aubery replied, his tone so bitter that William took his arm and led him toward the bed. "Sit down," he urged, pulling a stool toward him by hooking a foot under it. "If this is as serious as it seems and my men know of it, you had better tell me so that I can decide how best to silence them. Did she… er… buy your freedom?" "Buy it? How could she? We did not have a tenth of what—" At that point, Aubery stopped abruptly, realizing what William meant. "No!" he exclaimed angrily. "Of course not! Fenice would not even think of such a thing!" William smiled, his worst fears at rest. Whatever else Fenice had done, including murder, would not

smirch her honor or Aubery's and was of little account if it had been done for her husband's sake. "I am sorry," William said. "I did not mean to speak ill of Fenice. She is a good and lovely woman, but she is very much in love with you, Aubery, and women in love can do strange things if they fear a threat to their loved one." "Strange, yes," Aubery snarled. "I can believe it, but can you imagine any sane woman dressing in a dung collector's clothes?" "What?" William gasped. So Aubery told the story, pouring out his own rage and frustration at his capture and helplessness, as well as every detail of Fenice's action—what he had pieced together from Rafe's and the other men's defensive explanations of how she had got her disguise and what he had himself seen her do in the prison. It was apparent as the tale unfolded through the binding of the slave at the inn and the trek through the streets with Rafe that William was struggling with powerful emotions, but Aubery was far too immersed in his own feelings to realize that it was amusement William was trying to conceal. "She threw the shit in his face?" William echoed, choking on suppressed laughter as Aubery described how Fenice had. disarmed the guard. "Well, that was clever," Aubery said grudgingly, "but she did not need to show so plainly that she thought I was a helpless idiot by hitting him with the bucket. I had already grabbed his weapon." "What a woman!" William exclaimed with admiration. Wrapped up in his own mixture of guilt and resentment, it slipped Aubery's mind that William had raised his own daughter to be aggressive and enterprising, and he misunderstood the remark. "Yes," Aubery said, "nor is this the first time she has gone her own way. I bade her say nothing to anyone about that matter in Castile, and she ran to the queen to complain of Savin the moment I was asleep." "What matter in Castile?" William asked. "Oh, my lance was changed for a brittle practice shaft for the formal jousting. The prince blamed it on an agent serving Gaston de Béarn, and politically that was very convenient, but I am almost certain it was Savin. You knew the prince had originally wanted him to have my place as champion. I suppose Savin believed that if I were disabled in the first pass, he would replace me. There was some sense in it because the prince was wavering in his favor, and to have me overthrown like, a child in a joust I had already told Edward was arranged to be a draw, would—in Savin's mind, at least—have destroyed my credit with Edward." "How did Fenice become involved in a joust?" William asked, confused. "No, that was later. I did not think of Savin when Prince Edward first accused Béarn's agent. I was a little shaken, and also I could see that Alfonso's mind was working around the accusation and how it could be an excuse, among his own nobles, at least, for withdrawing his acceptance of Béarn's fealty. But by the time the day was over, I had remembered Savin and his desire to be champion. And, like a fool, I told Fenice about it because she wanted me to withdraw from the tournament so that all of Béarn's agents—whom she seemed to think numbered in the thousands—should not fall on me at once during the melee." Aubery had been grinning over the last few words, but then he frowned and went on. "I could not convince her there was no danger from Savin. Since his chance to shine as champion was gone, why

should he bother to challenge me?" "Perhaps because he wants you dead," William said, his voice harsh with anxiety. "You foiled his attempt to get that wardship and then, when he challenged you, you made him yield. Does it not come to your mind that he might bear you a mortal grudge?" "I know he hates me," Aubery remarked indifferently, "but I have beaten him once, and we are both four years older—an advantage to me but none to him. Forget Savin. He slinks out of my way like a beaten cur—" "Aubery," William protested, interrupting him, "a vicious dog can go for your back as well as for your face." "I know that," Aubery replied indignantly. "Had he friends or allies he could call on to join with him against me, I would be more wary—and I told Fenice I would watch for his tricks and ordered her not to speak of my suspicion of him, but she does not think me man enough to protect myself and must go weeping to the queen and beg succor. Matilda at least obeyed me when I gave an order. Matilda—" "Matilda!" William roared. "How can you compare that witless, whining nothing to a woman of such courage and beauty as Fenice? I am out of all patience with you, Aubery. I let you marry that fool Matilda because she was young and I hoped she would improve with teaching, but there was nothing in her that could be taught. How can you remain blind still? How can you cling to the memory of that pitiful, puling creature?" "I—I loved her," Aubery said uncertainly. "When you were eighteen and knew no better, I suppose you did," William said more gently. He understood from the fact that Aubery had not flown into a rage at the criticism of Matilda that he now acknowledged the truth of what had been said. William remembered his own bitter tears when his first, unloved wife had died—tears of guilt, not of grief, tears because he could not love and because he was glad to be rid of the burden of Mary's weakness. No doubt Aubery felt even worse because he had once loved Matilda, and the caring had degenerated into boredom and from that to a weary burden. Poor Aubery, it was no wonder that he tried to hide from himself the fact that he was glad. Aubery did not reply to his last statement, so William continued, "But you grew into a man, my son, and Matilda did not change. You have nothing for which to blame yourself. You were a good husband to her—" "Not always," Aubery interrupted. "You were a far better husband than any other man would have been," William pointed out sharply. "Another would have beaten her for her stupidity and weakness. Mostly you endured it with the patience of a saint. Aubery, let go. You have punished yourself enough for being glad she is dead." Aubery's head jerked as if William had hit him. "I was glad," he whispered. "That was a great sin, and I have been justly punished. I thought I would be free, but…" "Aubery, I have lived through the same thing," William said. "Matilda's death was no fault of yours, and if you sin, it is in not accepting the will of God. You are free. You have done your penance. And no matter what your sin, Fenice has no part in it. You have no right to torture Fenice by trying to force her into Matilda's mold to punish yourself further." Aubery had been staring stubbornly into nothing, but William's last sentence brought his eyes into focus

on his stepfather's face. "But—" he began. "But me no buts," William snapped. "Matilda was cold as a wet winter, stupid as an owl, and a coward to boot—she would not even take responsibility for her ordinary woman's duties. Have you not noticed that every complaint you voice against Fenice is when she shows her love for you, most especially by using her head or performing an act of bravery?" "You mean by being disobedient and headstrong—as you permitted—nay, taught—Alys to be," Aubery riposted angrily. William stared at him and then smiled wryly. "Alys is a strong and clever woman, and she loves Raymond. Yes, I am sure Alys would have done exactly as Fenice did in Castile. But in Pons… I do not know what Alys would have done in Pons, but she would not have succeeded as Fenice did. Likely she would have ended up in prison, too. To speak the truth, I do not think Alys has the devotion or the softness of heart to cover herself with filth—even for Raymond." "And does it not matter that I do not wish—" "I am disgusted with you!" William exclaimed, getting to his feet. "You damned ungrateful dog! Can you think of nothing but your own pride? Can you not think what Fenice must have suffered when you threw so great a sacrifice—a sacrifice made out of the love she bears you—in her face?" He stamped across the room to the door. "I will send someone for my baggage. You may invite Fenice to share the chamber or not, just as you please, but I will not share it with you—or anything else." Aubery sat staring in open-mouthed shock. Never, no matter what he had done, had his stepfather ever been this angry with him. "What am I to do about her?" he cried as William opened the door. "Cherish her, you worse-than-jackass. Cherish her as a greater prize than the assurance of salvation. Kneel down and kiss her feet and beg pardon." The door slammed on William's last word. Aubery had got to his feet, but he sank down on the bed again. At the moment he could not think about Fenice; although the quarrel seemed to be about her, it really was not. It was still Matilda who was the bone of contention between William and him. Aubery tried to draw back into his self-deception, but he could not. From the beginning William had been right and he wrong about Matilda. She was a good woman; she would have made a perfect nun—pious, sexless, blindly obedient—but she had not made a good wife. He had known that for most of the years they had been ' married but had been unwilling to admit it because he was too accursed proud to acknowledge his mistake. Looking back on his misery both during Matilda's life and after her death, Aubery shuddered. All of it was owing to his pride. Had he been willing to say aloud that Matilda was not perfect, the rage he bottled up inside would have had an outlet and he would not have scolded poor Matilda and made her unhappy over what she could not help. Then he would not have had the bitter memory of his harshness after she died. God knew, perhaps the failings that rasped him worst could have been ameliorated or amended if he had confessed them to his mother, but pride had kept him silent. Pride was one of the seven deadly sins, and he had committed it—and he had been punished. Had been. Aubery had been sitting with his head sunk into his hands, and he suddenly sat up straight. Christ and Holy Mary were indeed merciful. He had been scourged for his pride while he committed the sin. If he avoided the sin, rooted out the pride that had made it impossible to accept help… A vision, clear as if the event were taking place anew, crossed Aubery's mind. He saw himself in the

prison cell in Pons, struggling upright, aching in every muscle and unable to see out of his left eye because of the pride that had not let him yield when almost everyone else was willing to do so. He saw the bent, filthy figure of the dung collector enter, stumble, be prodded by the guard's billhook, rise to its feet, and fling the pailful of filth into the guard's face. He even had a vision of his own face as it must have appeared, stupid with shock, eyes and mouth agape... Aubery roared with laughter, rocking helplessly to and fro on the bed. Oh, William was right. Aubery realized he was worse than a jackass not to have seen how funny that was. And then she hit the poor man in the stomach with the pail, adding injury to insult. Aubery held his ribs, which were still sore, as he gasped for breath, remembering his astonished joy when he realized the unrecognizable figure was Fenice. Then the laughter checked abruptly as he remembered also how the monster that was his pride had swallowed that joy and spat it up in a bitter gall of cruel words. Another vision came to him, of Fenice's face all pale and with tear-filled eyes as she asked, "Will you put me aside?" There was nothing funny about that! Those words had a double edge to them, for they could be asked in fear—or in hope. The pain of that notion brought him to his feet and to the window. It seemed that hours had passed since he and William came back to the chamber, but the light told him it was still early afternoon. He breathed a sigh of relief. There was time to go to Fenice and tell her… no, ask her if she were willing to stay with him rather than with the queen. Fenice was fortunate in that she did not recover consciousness as quickly as she would normally have done, considering the relatively mild blow she had been dealt. Owing to her weakness and exhaustion, it was not until dinner was nearly over that she became aware of being uncomfortable. She tried to turn to a new position, found it impossible, and all at once remembered everything. The first thought that came to her mind was so dreadful that she lay still, paralyzed by grief and terror. Aubery had tried to kill her! She did not struggle or think beyond that ultimate horror for a time. The unbelievable facts repeated in her mind: Aubery had summoned her from the safety of the queen's apartment, struck her, and… and what? Her hands were bound, and she was gagged. Moreover, the thick pile of substance all around her told her that she had been rolled up in a rug of sorts. But then the whole thing was insane. If Aubery wanted to be rid of her, why should he tie her up and conceal her? And even if he hoped to get her out of the way for some reason, would Aubery be stupid enough to send a page to summon her in his own name? Ridiculous! Simultaneously, Fenice sighed with relief and blushed for shame at thinking even for a few minutes that Aubery, no matter how angry he was, would harm her in any way. Still, her head ached dully; wherever she was was black as pitch and completely silent; she was lying flat on her back with her arms bound in front of her; she was not very cold. In all, the facts of her abduction added up to one thing—whoever had seized her did not want her to be seriously injured. But if it was not Aubery who had done this, who could it be? For a little while she considered this question, trying to think of anyone who wished to make trouble for her or wished her ill, but there was no one she could think of who was jealous enough or disliked her enough to go this far. Besides, she remembered telling the queen in the hearing of several of the ladies that she and Aubery would resume their journey to England as soon as his business with the king was complete, which meant everyone knew she would be gone in a few days. Could ransom be desired? But she and Aubery were not rich. There were great ladies with the queen for

whom much higher ransoms could be asked. The whole thing was impossible and ridiculous. But Sir William was rich. Perhaps her abductor believed he would pay to obtain the release of his stepson's wife, and she might be thought easier prey than a more important person. In any case, it was wrong to be lying still. She must escape if she could. Fenice tried to raise her hands to pull off the gag. It was impossible because she was wrapped too closely to bend her elbows, but the effort made her realize that her hands were not tied very tightly, and the material that bound them was soft. First she pulled and twisted at the cloth that bound her hands, trying to work them free. The twisting and pulling rubbed her wrists and hurt, and the material gave only a little, not enough for her to slip a hand free. Still, the slight relaxation of her bonds gave her hope. She felt certain that if she could only move more freely, she would work herself loose. It was the constriction of the rug around her that was preventing her movement. If the rug was only rolled, not tied, she should be able to unroll herself. Abandoning the attempt to free her hands, Fenice considered her position. It seemed to her she was tipped very slightly to the right. She tried to fling herself in that direction, twisting her shoulders and pushing with her left heel. She did move just a little, and an enormous sense of triumph filled her so that she struggled harder and harder, ignoring the fact that the gag made it hard for her to breathe. Unfortunately, it was not possible to ignore that difficulty for long. Fenice began to feel dizzy and sick. Still she jerked her aching shoulders and pushed with legs that felt all soft and boneless, and suddenly the tilt increased. She rolled, uttering a muted cry of success behind the gag—which became a gurgle of terror as first one and then several more heavy objects struck her. The thick folds of rug saved her from any serious injury, but tears of frustration rolled down Fenice's cheeks, and all too soon it became clear that her attempt to escape had placed her in terrible danger. The heavy objects settled and shifted, others fell, adding to the weight pressing down on her. Fenice could barely draw air into her lungs, and what she did manage to breathe seemed thicker and less sustaining. She was too frightened to think, or she would have realized that something had fallen over the end of the rug and shut off the free flow of air.

CHAPTER 29

Aubery was annoyed when he found the queen's antechamber full of chattering people. He had hoped that Eleanor would remain with her husband after dinner, but apparently the king had business to conduct. Aubery could only hope Fenice had remained abed. How he was to explain and apologize in a crowd of people, he did not know. However, he did not see her as he worked his way toward the queen to obtain permission to enter the women's chamber, and he began to feel more cheerful. Naturally, Eleanor was surrounded by those who desired to gain her attention and favor, but Aubery was fortunate in being taller than most men. In looking graciously from one speaker to another, the queen saw him and smiled. Aubery took that as permission to squeeze between two people, who glared at him, but he ignored them, knowing their irritation would disappear when he withdrew as swiftly as he had intruded. "May I have permission, madam, to speak to my wife?" Aubery asked, and seeing the queen's surprise, he added, "Sir William has been kind enough to give his bedchamber to us. I would like to ask Fenice if

she… if she feels strong enough to move." "But Fenice has already left!" Eleanor exclaimed. "Have you been waiting by the church all this time? No, that is impossible, the maid said the page you sent for her came before dinner." "I sent no page for Fenice," Aubery said, still more puzzled than alarmed. "I was not in the abbey before dinner. I rode out to Saumur. It was only after the meal that Sir William told me he meant to move and let us have his room. Could it have been Sir William who sent the page?" The queen rose to her feet. "I am sure the maid used your name, but we can discover the truth quickly enough. Come with me." It seemed quite reasonable to Aubery that Sir William had sent for Fenice. Perhaps he had intended to give them both a pleasant surprise and had been checked by the anger and ingratitude Aubery displayed. That would have been a good reason for William to be very angry—if he had Fenice waiting somewhere and then felt he must tell her she would not be welcome to her husband. Aubery was so appalled by that thought that he did not hear the queen's question to the maid who hurried to her at her call. He did, however, hear the answer. "No, madam, the servingman said he would speak to Sir Aubery, and the page said most definitely that Sir Aubery wanted his wife to meet him in the porch of the church." "What servingman?" Aubery asked, forgetting in a sudden surge of anxiety the proper deference; he should have waited for the queen to speak. "I do not know," the maid replied, beginning to look frightened. "He stopped me when I came out to order that dinner be brought to Lady Fenice and asked whether she was recovered. And… and I do not remember exactly what more was said, but he told me he had heard of someone leaving, and I… I said I thought my lady the queen would speak for the lodging being given to Lady Fenice and her husband. It was the servingman who said he would speak directly to Sir Aubery if it were true that a room would be empty. Of course, when the page came and said Sir Aubery wanted Lady Fenice to come to him, I thought he had secured the chamber…" Her voice ended uncertainly. "Did you recognize the page?" Eleanor asked. "No, madam. He wore no colors and… perhaps it was not a page. Perhaps it was one of the boys who belonged to the abbey. But he spoke well. Oh, madam, did I do wrong? I…" "No, it is not your fault. You may go," the queen said. waving the girl away. Her eyes, however, were on Aubery. "I cannot believe this," she breathed. "It must be a mistake or… or a jest…" "A jest?" Aubery repeated. "To use my name to draw my wife out of your care? What kind of jest is that? If I had by chance been occupied and not come here, a whole day might have passed before you knew Fenice was not with me, or I knew she was not with you." "But why?" Eleanor cried. "Why should anyone wish to seize Fenice? No one could want to harm her. I am sure she has not an enemy in the world. And where could she be taken? And how? We are so crowded here and in the village also, no one would dare carry off a woman in the middle of the day. Someone would be sure to see." Aubery had not spoken, but in his mind Eleanor's questions found answers. Fenice in herself was not valuable and had no enemies, but he had a bitter enemy, an enemy William had just warned him would strike at his back—Savin. Aubery had no answer to where she could have been taken, but how… He

gasped as memory replayed the sight of Savin carrying a rolled rug. He had called Savin a lickspittle, but that was his own stupid pride again. True, Savin would not have contemptuously refused an order to collect or move a rug as he himself would have done; on the other hand, Savin would not have carried it himself. He would have ordered a servant to carry it while he followed to see the article was not stolen or damaged. So, if Savin carried the rug himself, there was something very special about that rug—its weight, perhaps. Would Fenice weigh enough to make a servant notice something strange? No matter! Savin's knowledge of wrong would make him too cautious to allow anyone else to touch his burden. With a snarl of rage, Aubery turned and ran headlong out of the apartment. Having stowed Fenice safely, Sir Savin had hurried to the refectory and eaten with more appetite than he had had since he had first seen Aubery and realized his bete noire had not gone back to England. He was in so good a humor that others at the table looked at him in some surprise. It was not often that Savin put himself out to be agreeable; however, he had seen a lot of action and could be interesting when he wished. Several men who had nothing special to do lingered after the meal to listen to his stories. When Savin was sure half a dozen men would swear that at dinner he had been easy in his mind and indifferent to time, he abandoned his company and made his way back to his lodging. A problem he had not considered earlier had occurred to him—how to get the message he wanted delivered to Aubery. He could not send a verbal message because saying enough to induce Aubery to come would be too incriminating. That meant the message had to be written, but although there were more clerks in the area than Savin ever hoped to see again, plainly it was not possible to ask anyone to write a ransom note. There was nothing he could do but write the note himself, Savin had decided. He was not totally illiterate. An effort had been made in his youth to teach him to read and write. He retained enough learning to sign his name when needful, which he did not find difficult and gave him a false sense of confidence. Thus, having made a detour to obtain parchment, quills, and ink, Savin closed his door and, with a grimace of distaste, sat down to write to Aubery. It was an extraordinarily frustrating task. Not only was it difficult to remember which symbol represented which sound, but the parchment, quills, and ink all seemed to have taken on lives of their own, characterized solely by a determination to resist him. What Savin had seen clerks do in a few minutes had occupied him for more than an hour, and he was nowhere near finished. Savin modified his aims. He himself would write only what could be incriminating. The description of the place to which Aubery must come, the time, and all other matters that any man could write to any other with whom he planned a meeting could be written on a separate sheet by a clerk. Much relieved by this curtailment of his onerous task, Savin cut off a small piece of parchment and, beginning again, wrote, "I hav lidy finis bring al gold fer her lif cum alon wif no sord or armor on or—" He intended to finish with the words "she dies" but as he reached to dip his quill, a burst of shouting followed by two agonized shrieks right outside the house startled him so that he knocked over the inkhorn. Bellowing an obscenity, Savin pushed the parchment out of harm's way and rushed out of the room, sword in hand, fit to kill whoever had caused the disturbance that had startled him. He was on the stairs when Aubery burst through the door roaring, "Where is Savin?" Savin stopped, shocked out of the advantage he could have had by leaping down and slashing, before Aubery, who was half-blinded by coming out of the light into the dim hallway, could see who was there. Savin could not even deny his guilt before Aubery recognized him.

"You whoreson murdering dog," Aubery said, his voice soft now, almost a lover's croon. "Come down to me and die." A croak of protest forced its way from Savin's throat, but it was a protest of terror, a protest against death. He had never been a coward, but now he was so frightened he could not form words. The eyes staring up at him were those of a madman, and there was an unholy look of welcome on Aubery's face—such a welcome as the devil must give to a damned soul. "Will you come down and fight like a man, or shall I spit you like a mad dog where you stand?" Aubery asked gently. Desperation finally galvanized Savin into action, and he did what he should have done earlier—leapt down the stairs aiming a mighty slash at Aubery. Had Savin's weapon landed, it would have cut Aubery in two, but only mocking laughter met the blow. Savin screamed, for the force of his swing had turned him half around, and he expected a counterblow that would cripple or kill him. Instead, he was prodded contemptuously, and Aubery said, "Take a shield, woman slayer. I do not want to kill you with my first blow. I want the pleasure of cutting you apart slowly." Savin swung around, slashing again, and this time his sword was caught on Aubery's blade. He shrieked wordlessly as his weapon rebounded so violently that the hilt hurt him through the heavy callus on his palm. It was as if he had struck a huge rock. And now Aubery's sword was arcing toward him, and he could not bring his back to block the blow. Yet it did not take off his head, as it could have done. It only cut his upper arm slightly. "Take a shield, I said," Aubery repeated. Aubery felt very strange. As soon as he became convinced that it was Savin who had abducted Fenice, he was equally convinced that Fenice was dead. The rage that instantly filled him was so tremendous that he could feel nothing else at all. In a way he was blind and deaf; he did not recognize the queen nor hear her call out to him as he ran from the room, nor see and hear the people he pushed aside as he rushed through the antechamber and out of the building. In another way his perceptions seemed abnormally heightened. The men-at-arms who tried to block his way into the Lusignans' lodging appeared to move very slowly. He struck one down with his left fist, the other with the flat of his sword before they could raise their arms, and he did not feel the impact of the blows he dealt them, although they fell senseless to the ground. Then, when Savin had appeared on the stairs, he, too, seemed to be laughably sluggish. When he finally decided to attack, Aubery had what appeared to be endless time to move away and to poke him, as one would poke a helpless serf to urge him to greater effort. And he hardly felt the slash he caught on his sword, although he allowed it to slide along the blade a little way to spare his weapon. After he had dealt Savin the first minor wound, Aubery laughed as he watched him scuttle toward the shields that hung along the wall. He did not take one himself. He did not need one. As soon as Savin held the shield, Aubery leapt toward him and cut him on the thigh, then on the hip. He laughed again as he watched stains mar Savin's clothes and worms of red crawl down from them, hardly aware that he had twice deflected blows at his own uncovered body. He did not hear the clang of metal on metal as blade met blade, but he did hear the sound of angry voices, and he cut Savin twice more, forcing him around so that his own back was toward the wall, where he was protected. Still, there was a distraction. Savin seemed to be moving faster, and Aubery was a second late on a parry. There was a sharp pain in his left arm, but he pushed Savin's sword away and thrust at him harder than before. A burst of blood from the thigh he had previously wounded only increased his rage. He had

not meant to disable the man so soon. Now Aubery could hear Savin screaming something. It did not make sense to him, but the terror in the voice stirred in him an agony he had not yet allowed himself to feel. Suddenly Aubery knew that he could not ease his pain by torturing even this vile creature. His next slash was harder, cutting well into the ribs. Savin went down, screaming the same senseless words over and over. Aubery poised his sword for the death blow. "Stop!" The authority in the voice penetrated the dying remnants of Aubery's berserk rage. Automatically, he put his foot on Savin's sword and pressed his own into his enemy's bare throat as he raised his eyes. The king's half brother Sir Guy stood in the doorway. "What is the meaning of this?" he bellowed. "Are you mad, Sir Aubery?" "Yes," Aubery replied, laughing, although tears had started to run down his face. "Yes, I am mad. This offal feared me too much to challenge me, so he abducted and murdered my wife. Fenice…" His voice broke on the word, and the sword dug in, pressure breaking the skin so that blood welled up around the dull point. "She is alive!" Savin screeched, just before Aubery's blade made it impossible for him to speak. The sword was withdrawn. "Alive?" Aubery cried. "Where?" "I did her no harm," Savin wept. "Where?" Aubery roared. While Savin whimpered that Fenice was still rolled in a rug in the storage shed behind the guesthouse, Sir Guy stared down at the wounded man. Nor, when Aubery ran out of the house automatically sheathing his sword as he went, did Guy give any instructions to the servants who stood shivering behind him or the two groggy men-at-arms who had at last roused from Aubery's blows and staggered into the room. Lord Guy had been angry and astonished when he was called from the king's chamber and told his house had been invaded by a madman who had felled two of his men-at-arms and was waving a sword and screaming for Sir Savin. Now, however, Guy's astonishment was over, and he was much, much angrier. It did not surprise Lord Guy that Savin and Aubery should be enemies. Guy himself disliked Aubery thoroughly and felt Aubery was a self-righteous prig with his honor and his modesty. Nonetheless, Lord Guy had not the slightest sympathy for Savin, and it was not Aubery against whom his current fury was directed but Savin. That the man should dare allow his personal quarrels to impinge on Guy and his brother, that he had the unmitigated gall to use their lodging for his petty revenge—and on the great-niece of the queen, too! Guy was so angry that he could not speak, could only stare with hatred at the moaning creature on the floor. Worst of all, Guy felt he had been making headway in convincing the king to change his mind and include them in the party that would continue on through France and join King Louis at Chartres. The news that a man sworn to their service had abducted Lady Fenice would not only enrage Henry—who was in Guy's opinion stupidly chivalrous toward women in general and in addition liked Fenice personally—but would give the queen all too good a weapon to use against them. The sight of Aubery passing the door with Fenice's totally limp body in his arms broke the paralysis that rage had engendered in Lord Guy. He turned his head toward one of the men-at-arms and gestured

toward Savin, saying, "Kill him," and he watched, hard-eyed and indifferent to Savin's shrieks, while the order was carried out. Lord Guy snarled, strode forward, and kicked the corpse brutally, knowing that Savin's act had cost him any chance he might have had to prevent an eventual peace with France. It was fortunate that the knowledge that Fenice was alive and unhurt restored Aubery's ability to think, for the rug in which she had been rolled was no longer in the position Savin had described. However, Aubery needed only a moment to realize that the rug had rolled away from the wall and that a number of baskets and chests that had been stacked around it had fallen down on it. He wrestled the objects off, terrified anew that Fenice had been badly hurt, almost reluctant to unroll her lest he discover that the rug was her death shroud. He cried out with agony when he saw her eyes closed in a ghastly pale face, but when he snatched her up against him he cried out again with joy. Her cheek was warm! Without waiting to unbind her hands or remove her gag, he jumped to his feet and ran, thanking God that between the abbey and the royal party the best physicians would be available to attend her. And scarcely had he rounded the front of the guesthouse and passed the door when he saw the queen coming toward him hastily. "She is alive, but hurt," Aubery gasped. "Please—a physician." "Bring her to my chamber," Eleanor cried. "No!" Aubery exclaimed, clutching Fenice closer. "No! I wish to watch by her myself." Eleanor was a sensible woman and long accustomed to dealing with a very unreasonable man. She could see Aubery was totally beyond good sense or logical argument. "I will send a physician to Sir William's chamber at once," she said soothingly, stepping forward and pulling the gag from Fenice's mouth so she could breathe more easily. "I will also send a maidservant to help you. Do not run, Sir Aubery, so that you do not jostle her, and lay her down softly. Let the maid undress her—" She stopped because Aubery had already set off toward his chamber. At least, she thought as she turned to send one lady flying for her physician and another to the abbess to request another, he had heard enough so that he was not running and bouncing Fenice up and down. No one had noticed that Fenice's eyes had opened and closed several times while the queen was speaking. She had not been deeply unconscious when Aubery found her, for although the air inside the rug had been foul enough to deprive her of her senses each time she had roused and tried to struggle free, there had been enough fresh air seeping in constantly to revive her after a period of immobility. However, the terrible sensation of strangulation had left her dazed with fear and hopelessness so that her mind moved slowly. The first thing of which Fenice became certain was that she was being carried. Next, she associated that with the words, "Do not run, Sir Aubery." So it was Aubery who was carrying her. She had been rescued! "Aubery," she cried—only the word came out as a croaking whisper. He stopped dead, his arms tightening involuntarily and then relaxing. "Hush, beloved," he said tenderly, "hush. I will go more carefully. Oh, dearling, forgive me if I hurt you. Try to endure—" "You are not hurting me," Fenice assured him, her voice clearer now, her eyes widening with delight at being called dearling and beloved.

"You are so brave, my little love," he murmured, starting off again. "Do not try to talk. Just rest." Fenice took a breath to say she thought she could walk if he would steady her, but Aubery kissed her temple and begged her to be still, telling her that it was only a little way and that her sufferings would soon be over. Since she still felt very muddled, Fenice made no further protest, and it was, indeed, only a few minutes more before Aubery managed to unlatch the door with his knee and lay Fenice gently on the bed. It was their that she realized that her wrists were still tied. "Will you unloose me, my lord?" she asked, lifting her hands so that her cloak fell away and exposed the bindings. Aubery had turned from the bed to throw wood on the embers in the fireplace that warmed the room, but he spun back toward her on his heel, his face instantly contorting with rage. "How have I angered you?" Fenice cried, tears coming to her eyes at the thought that she had somehow broken the gentle mood in which her husband had at last spoken words of love. "Not you," he cried, going down on his knees beside the bed. "It has never been you that was at fault." He bowed his head over the bound hands and kissed them. "I—" Before he could say more, there were excited voices in the corridor, and then the room seemed to be full of people—two physicians, two maids, Sir William. The first four crowded Aubery away from the bed, all gabbling to each other and asking Fenice questions while William patted Aubery's shoulder and assured him that Fenice was a strong girl and that with good care she was sure to recover. Then, seeing the fearful way Aubery was trying to watch and yet trying not to watch what was happening on the bed, William drew him as far from it as he could, pushed him down on the stool so that he could not see past the standing attendants, and asked, loudly and firmly enough to force Aubery's attention to him, what had happened. While Aubery tried to speak, inwardly he prayed that Fenice's death not be the final scourging administered to him for his sinful pride. His faith was strong enough to accept the fact that death would be no punishment to Fenice. She would go to heaven, to eternal bliss. Death punished the living, not the virtuous dead. He prayed silently, knowing himself guilty and undeserving, while somehow his mouth formed words to explain to William Savin's revenge and what he could remember of his actions in the Lusignans' lodging. He was leaning back in the corner with his left arm against the wall so that William, who was asking repeatedly if Aubery was sure he had not been hurt, could not see the blood still oozing from the wound. Aubery had been completely unaware of it himself ever since he had felt and ignored the initial pain when Savin's sword cut him. And in the midst of all the excitement about Fenice, no one else had noticed the slit in his dark gown or the spreading stain around it. Then Fenice's voice cried, "My lord," and Aubery sprang to his feet and pushed aside those clustering around the bed. "What is it, my dear love?" Aubery asked breathlessly, reaching toward her. "Oh, my God, you are bleeding!" Fenice exclaimed, popping upright. "You will hurt yourself," Aubery gasped. "But I am not hurt," Fenice wailed exasperatedly. "All I have is a bump on my head. Please tell all these people to go away. No! Do not. Let the physicians look to your arm. Let me help you take off your clothes."

"My love," Aubery said, grasping Fenice and holding her still as she tried to get out of the bed. "Were you not crushed by the things that fell on you?" "No," she assured him, leaning forward to kiss him as he bent over her. "The rug cushioned me. I swear I am whole and well, my lord. Let me see to you." William had come forward when Fenice first exclaimed about the blood on Aubery's arm and now tore the sleeve from the gown. He, too, exclaimed when he saw the tunic sleeve soaked with blood, and ordered, "Stay where you are, Fenice. Aubery, stand up so I can get these things off you. Be reasonable. If the girl says nothing hurts her, she is probably all right." "She never complains," Aubery protested, watching her anxiously. "She rode all the way from Pons—" "Yes, yes," William said soothingly, "but she will lie down again if you will let us attend to you." "I will," Fenice agreed. "I will lie still and do whatever they say if you will only let them look to your arm first." Although he watched Fenice all the time, Aubery allowed his stepfather to remove gown, tunic, and shirt and permitted the physicians to examine his arm. They consulted gravely and agreed that the cut was not serious but should be sewn. William had come to this conclusion some time before the grave consultation was complete and had stepped out of the room to send one of the abbey servants for a barber to sew up the wound; grave and learned physicians did not stoop to such common tasks. He thought it would have been better for Fenice to do it, but knew that would cause Aubery too much anxiety. By the time the physicians had discoursed and decided on the correct diet to alleviate fever and best encourage healing, a monk from the infirmary had stitched Aubery up, bandaged his arm, and promised to return the next day if Aubery developed a fever and needed bleeding. It took a while longer for Fenice to convince everyone that she was intact but tired and needed to be alone—except, of course, for her husband—so that she could rest, but she succeeded at last. Aubery shut the door behind them, relieved to be rid of everyone but still doubtful that it was safe to let them go. In his deeply contrite mood, it seemed impossible that he should be allowed to keep Fenice. He turned and stood looking at her, not realizing that his intense, anxious examination appeared to Fenice as a ferocious frown. "I am sorry to have caused so much trouble," she said tentatively. "I tried to tell them I was not hurt, but—" "Then why were you limp and pale as death when I found you?" Aubery asked, coming forward and looming over her so threateningly that she shrank back slightly. "It was hard to breathe," she said, "and the air was too thick—that was all. I cannot tell you more, Aubery—I cannot." Aubery had not missed the small gesture of retreat. "What do you mean you cannot tell me more?" he snarled. "What did that beast do to you?" "He hit me on the head," Fenice cried, wide-eyed with terror as she caught her husband's suspicion. "I do not know any more to tell, I swear it. I would not—" "Forgive me," Aubery interrupted her by catching her in his arms and kissing her, but he could feel her shaking with fear, and he freed his lips to say, "Love, love, I know he did not use you. There was no time or place. Now that I think of it, he came in to dinner only a few minutes after I did. I saw him myself.

Beloved, forgive me. My pride and my temper will destroy us both if you do not help me learn to curb them." "Are you so proud?" Fenice asked faintly. But instead of replying, Aubery kissed her again, first on the lips, then on the throat below the ear, then he nibbled the ear itself and ran his tongue along its edge. Fenice had been stiff with apprehension. Her capture by Savin seemed to have broken some dam of reserve in her husband, which permitted him to give her the gratification she desired—spoken words of love. But the love-words had been followed by a clear declaration of what she had feared since she had felt the depth of Aubery's rage over her disguise in Pons. If he was so angry over the contamination of serf clothing, what would he say to serf blood? He need never know; you gave your oath not to tell. It was as if the words were broad blocks of paving on a wide, easy road—the road to hell. It was a lie she was living, and she had no right to give an oath that would involve the best man in the world in that lie. She had no right to foist on Aubery the grandchildren of a serf woman. A quiver of more intense fear passed through Fenice. She might be with child right now. Her flux was late. Of course, that might only be owing to the fear and exertion she had lived through this past week, but could she allow a child to be born, many children perhaps, all tainted, who would be beloved of their father? Could she be sure Aubery would never discover the truth? What would happen if he did learn it after children were born of her? It was an omission in the marriage contract that would give him the right to put her aside and to declare any child born of her a bastard—she was certain of that. Would he do that? And even if he did not, if his love for the children was too strong to discard them like dross, still there would be a bitter, bitter gall mixed into that sweet love, a poison that would turn all joy to grief. She would have to tell him. Now, just when she had reached the pinnacle she desired, when she had the proof that settled the last little doubt about her husband's love, she would have to tell him. She could not delay even a day or two because he must be able to be rid of her before she knew for certain whether there was a child. Tears began to trickle from Fenice's eyes. The maids had stripped her to her shift before she had begun to protest that she did not need to be abed, and Aubery was investigating the edges of the shift's concealment with his lips. Suddenly, Fenice became fully aware of his caresses, and she was wildly, achingly in need. The last time! She could not delay a day, but for as long as it took to love and be loved one last time, she would continue to live her lie. "Take off your bedgown and come into the bed," she whispered. "My soul, my precious jewel, heart of my heart," Aubery murmured, "are you sure I will not hurt you?" "No, you will not hurt me," she sighed, holding back sobs. "You will give me a joy to hold in my heart forever." Aubery hesitated. He still had a vision of Fenice crushed by the heavy chests and baskets that had fallen on her, but the caresses he had initiated to convince her that he was certain she was unsullied by Savin had, of course, stimulated his desire. "Please," Fenice whispered, "please, I need you." There was an odd note in her voice that convinced him whatever hurt he might do to her body in coupling with her would be nothing compared to what he would do to her heart if he refused. He cursed himself again for implying a defilement he knew had not been possible—but he did not curse himself very bitterly, for he was too busy flinging off his few garments. In addition, the sinuous contortions Fenice used to rid

herself of her shift without getting out of the warm bed convinced him both that she could move her body without feeling pain and that the cure she suggested for her fears was a most desirable one. Still, Aubery had not quite recovered from the shock of thinking Fenice dead or crushed and dying. She seemed infinitely precious, and he felt a need to touch her, to see with his eyes and feel with his lips the wholeness of her body, the unblemished smoothness of her skin. He never looked at her face; he had known from the moment he released her that her lovely features had not been damaged. It was the lush, creamy-skinned body for which he had feared, and it was the body that he stroked and kissed, saying over the old love-words and inventing new and more tender endearments with which to praise his pearl without price. And when he could resist the ultimate pleasure no longer, he mounted her with infinite gentleness, carefully, slowly, prolonging the aching desire because that, too, was a pleasure. Fortunately by then Aubery's eyes were closed. He felt the tremors shaking Fenice's body, he even heard her sobs, but he never associated them with grief. Indeed, the violence with which she seized on him and responded to him—coming to a shuddering, moaning climax almost as soon as he entered her—gave him every reason to believe she was sobbing with joy. He did not hurry himself; indeed, he turned them so that she was above him in order to have more freedom to caress her, sure from her quick reaction that he could bring her to climax again. And he did—twice more, although the third for her was part of his own violent orgasm. And he clung to her even after he was satisfied, holding her tight against him when she would have rolled away. It was then that he realized his neck and shoulders were wet with tears and that the sobs that shook Fenice were more violent than ever. His eyes snapped open. "God in heaven," he cried, "I have hurt you." "No," she gasped. "No. You have given me the love I desired all my life." "If you are not hurt, why do you weep? Fenice, what is wrong?" He laid her down gently and sat up, leaning over her. Wearily she wiped the tears from her face. "Once," she said, "I promised that I would never tell you a lie. But I have lied—not with my voice, but with my silence. I have kept a secret from you." Aubery straightened up and looked away. "Then keep it still," he said harshly. "I love you. I do not want to know." "I cannot keep it," she whispered, "for it is a shameful thing that will break your pride and stain your children if they are born of me." So his penance was not done. There was still a scourging to be endured before he was absolved of the sin of his pride. "Well, then?" he asked stoically. Fenice had stopped crying and was looking at him as if she were dying and it was the last time she would see him. "My mother was a common field serf. My father bought her for a few coppers," she said softly. Aubery waited, staring blankly into nothing, every muscle tensed for the blow that was coming, but Fenice said no more. "And?" he urged, thinking that, after all, she could not bear to tell him the rest. "And?" Fenice sobbed, trembling. "Is that not enough?" Slowly Aubery looked down. Fenice raised an arm as if to shield herself from a blow. "This is your dreadful secret?" he asked in a stunned voice. "This is what you have been hiding and weeping over—that your mother was common born?"

Hesitantly, Fenice lowered her arm. "I am sorry," she whispered. "I am so very sorry. I should never have agreed to keep it secret, but Lady Alys said you would not care. You should have been told." "Told?" Aubery snatched her up and pulled her tight against him, shaking with laughter in his relief. "You silly little love, I always knew! I cannot now remember whether I read it in one of Alys's letters or whether my mother or William told me—" "You knew?" Fenice cried. "You knew, and you treated me with such honor?" She looked at him with dazed, awed eyes, as one might gaze on a heavenly apparition, and Aubery realized that his relief had come too soon. He had not done full penance, for Fenice thought him better than she—and he was worse. "Why should I not treat you with honor?" he asked with dull bitterness. "Your blood is at least clean. If there is a taint to stain our children, Fenice, it will come from me. No, do not shake your head. Your mother was a serf, you say. Very well. My father was as well born as any other gentleman, but he was also a liar, a thief, a cheat, a lecher, and a murderer." Fenice had been frightened at Aubery's first words, but when he had done, she looked at him with honest puzzlement. "But what has that to do with you?" she asked. "Those are habits a man learns, not something bred in the blood. I am sorry to hear what you say, but your poor father was doubtless ill taught. Even common as I am, because I have been well taught, I know right from wrong." Then, while Aubery was staring at her in somewhat dumbfound relief, she went on in a lower voice. "What cannot be taught, I fear, is a delicacy of spirit. My dear husband, I know how much I disgusted you with—with what I did at Pons—" "Disgusted me!" Aubery exclaimed, distracted from the burden his father's memory always laid on him. "You shamed me." "I know now," Fenice whispered, her head bent, "but I was so afraid for you that I did not realize I had gone too far." "No, no," Aubery said, laughing and tilting her face up so he could kiss her lips. "I was not ashamed of what you did—I was astounded at that. Fenice, my love, it was of myself that I was ashamed. So proud a fool was I that I could not bear you should succeed and set me free where I had failed. I am ashamed of that, not of your courage and devotion." "But I am sure no proper lady would have so defiled herself. I know you often compare me to your first lady and find me wanting—" "No!" Aubery's voice was so loud that Fenice jumped and pulled away, thinking she had trod on hallowed ground. He drew her back into his embrace and said, more gently, "Matilda was a good woman, Fenice. I do not mean to speak ill of her, for she could not help what she was, but she was useless to me." He smiled rather wryly. "You are quite right that Matilda would not have found a way to extract me from that prison. She would probably have died of fright when I did not come back to the inn and would have added to my problems." At that moment, Fenice saw no need of salvation. She had found her own heaven. She snuggled contentedly into Aubery's arms but they were not as eagerly enfolding as she had expected, and when she looked up she saw his face was troubled. "You are not content, my lord," she murmured. "You say my mother's blood does not matter, but perhaps that is only your kindness because you love me. Only—"

"It is not your mother's blood but your first husband's that was in my mind," Aubery said, his voice harsh again. "Blood.'.. But Delmar died of fever. There was no blood spilled." "That is not what I meant," he snapped. "You never speak of him. Does his memory still touch you so keenly?" Fenice laughed aloud. Another joy had been added to what she had thought a full cup. Aubery was jealous! Delightful as that was, she had no desire to explain too fully why she felt so little grief at Delmar's death. "My dearest love, I never spoke of him because I never thought of him," she said, throwing her arms around Aubery's neck. "My father chose him, and if he had been a devil I would not have complained. Papa has always been so good to me. Not that Delmar was a devil. He was… nothing." "Nothing?" Aubery echoed before he could stop himself. "He taught you to handle a man full well for a nothing." Fenice looked surprised. "Oh, yes, he was very good at that. But that was all he was good at. I suppose Papa hoped he would improve with age—and perhaps he would have—but while we were together, he was… nothing." She stopped and shuddered, then said, "I am glad I did not know at first, or I—I would not have been so willing a learner. I am glad now only because what he taught has pleased you, my lord… Has it not?" That time it was Aubery's turn to laugh. The dull dislike in Fenice's voice when she mentioned Delmar's inadequacies seemed to explain why she called him a nothing. There was also a kind of comfort in her saying she had not known at first. Probably she had cared for him in the beginning and could hardly remember that now. It was like his mistake with Matilda, and he was satisfied that she held no longing in her heart for her first man. "Well, I might not care to remember from whom you learned," Aubery said with honesty, "but I must admit that the results of the lessons please me." He lay down, pulling her with him, laughing. "Have you nothing new to show me?" he asked. "I, too, am an eager learner."