Fire Song (42 page)

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 out, 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 Twenty-Eight

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 for 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 out.”

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.”