Winter Song (2 page)

The animosity faded from Alphonse’s face, and he pursed his
lips. Raymond
hmmmd
with sudden thought. A very satisfactory arrangement
might be made, both of them realized. King Henry could get little good out of
the Gascon lands, because when the holders of the property were not corrupt,
they were warring. Revenues were small and sporadic. Thus, the properties were
of little value except as a base for the war against France.

If, then, Henry could be assured of a stable equivalent
revenue, and not lose his right to draw on the property in times of war, he
might very willingly name Raymond as vassal in his wife’s right. He might, in
fact, be tempted to part with a valuable stronghold because he knew and trusted
Raymond and because Raymond was his wife’s nephew. Moreover, Raymond had never
been a vassal of Louis of France. He was, through his father, vassal to his
grandfather, the Count of Provence, Raymond-Berenger. This could do Henry no
harm politically, since he was already bound to Provence by marriage. In
addition, Raymond already held a minor property in Gascony and, through his
mother, might inherit more, although it was more likely those lands would go to
his younger brother, Alphonse, who was currently living at King Louis’s court.
Thus, King Henry would gain a powerful and trustworthy ally in Gascony—a rare
and precious thing.

From Raymond’s and Alphonse’s point of view, the Gascon
lands would not be any burden to manage. Raymond could do it himself as long as
his father was alive. After that his younger brother could spend most of his
time there. As it was, Raymond often was in Gascony to oversee his mother’s
lands. It would be little more trouble to oversee his wife’s.

“You know,” Alphonse said suddenly, “I begin to like this
marriage of yours much better. It will be most excellent to hold the lands
directly from the king of England. If you marry a daughter of one of the Gascon
houses, I would be bound to the policy of that house. This way, we will be able
to make our own alliances freely as we like.” He paused and bit his lip. “If
this could be done, I would have no objections to the marriage…no…I would not.
But can it be done?”

“I think so—that is, if I return quickly enough. The
situation between the brothers, King Henry and Earl Richard, is very good, or
was when I left England. That means that Henry will do whatever Richard asks,
and Richard will do what Alys asks. No, that is unfair. Richard will see the
value of having me as Henry’s vassal. What is more, Eleanor will exert her full
powers of persuasion for this. She will see the advantages therein, and the
king loves her dearly.”

“The advantages should be plain enough for Henry to see for
himself,” Alphonse remarked, surprised.

“Yes, but the king is not always governed by reason. If he
should be put out of temper by a quarrel with his brother, he will seek to
spite his brother’s friend, Sir William, by denying what Sir William’s daughter
desires. I will need to be careful how I approach the subject, but yes, I think
I can arrange a Gascon dower for Alys.”

“Of what value?” Alphonse asked.

Raymond beckoned a manservant over. “Go ask for Arnald in
the masters-at-arms’ quarters, and tell him to bring me the parchment boxes he
carried. Speak slowly. His French is of the north, but I warn you that if you
use a saucy tone he will knock you endwise.” Then Raymond turned to his father.
“Alys has written out the whole thing, what is hers and what more her father could
give her. I think we may depend on something very handsome from Cornwall, also.
He dotes on her. Call one of the scribes, Father, and let us see where it would
be best for the lands to lie.”

Lady Jeannette had obeyed her son both times before she realized
he had twice sent her away. The first time she had told herself he was tired
and did not realize that his tone of voice was unkind and disrespectful. She
would scold him for it lovingly, and he would say he was sorry. The second time
she had also responded instinctively, taking three or four steps before she
understood she had been sent from the room like a wayward child. Her gasp and
clutch at her heart had gained no more response than a smile and a nod.
Alphonse had been staring at Raymond and paid her no attention either, and when
she had tottered feebly from the hall, clinging to Jeanine’s arm, Raymond had
turned his back.

In the solar, Lady Jeannette now had time to collect her
thoughts and consider how she had been hurt and slighted. Her firstborn son,
the light of her eyes, had driven her away. He was cruel and unnatural. All his
life she had striven to smooth the path before his feet, to spare him the
smallest hurt or unhappiness, but he had always been ungrateful, rejecting the
toys she ordered for him, the musical instruments and fine garments, in favor
of swords and hunting bows, horses, and armor.

Raymond had always seemed to prefer his tutor’s company,
even when that horrid man had knocked him down and bruised him in practice
combat, and when his father had sent him away to the household of the king of
Navarre, he had not complained but had gone willingly. She, on the contrary,
had begged and pleaded that he be sent to his grandfather, Raymond-Berenger,
where she knew he would be given special privileges and looked after tenderly.
Although Alphonse had agreed after a while, Raymond had not, insisting he was
happy in the court of Navarre.

Ungrateful, she thought. Raymond had never cared that she
might grieve or worry about him. And this last escapade, disappearing for six
months without a word and sending that cruel letter to say it was her
fault—that was monstrous! Why should he go and fight in Gascony? Crude
creatures could be hired to do ugly, dangerous things like that. Why could Raymond
not see that it was better to stay at home and speak of poetry and philosophy,
to dance, sing, and gather flowers?

Lady Jeannette wept loudly over her son’s cruelty, and her
daughters wept with her. They bewailed Raymond’s hardness of heart, each
reminding the others of incidents that had displayed his lack of consideration
for their tender feelings. At last they heard his voice in the large chamber
outside the solar. All of them stiffened before emitting even louder wails as
he entered, but the sound of his words came no nearer.

Their indignation grew as they heard the thin, high voices
of two little girls mingling with Raymond’s. He had stopped to speak with his
baseborn daughters. Disgusting! Surely his mother and sisters should have
precedence over the daughters of a common serf-woman elevated to a weaving
woman.

Actually their indignation was wasted. Raymond did not give
much thought to his bastard daughters and would not have stopped to seek them
had they not run out to him. He was kindhearted, however, and had taken them in
his arms to kiss and fondle, remembering with a faint pang of guilt that it had
been his custom to bring them little toys and geegaws when he had been away for
some time. He was apologizing for neglecting this and promising them that he would
have something for them later in the day when their mother came hurriedly
forward to draw them away.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said softly. “I was busy
and did not see them run to you.”

“They did no hurt,” Raymond responded, but he felt somewhat
awkward. He had realized as he spoke that he must get rid of Lucie before he
brought Alys home. “You are looking well, Lucie,” he added uneasily, wanting to
say something pleasant.

Her expression changed infinitesimally. Raymond would not
have noticed if he had not been wondering how to avoid hurting her more than
necessary. He had never before thought about what Lucie felt, although she had
been his bedmate at Tour Dur whenever he felt the need for a woman. He had
first seen her when he was eighteen, some seven years before, in her father’s
hut on the demesne farm, and had bought her for a few copper pieces with the
old man’s blessing. It had not occurred to Raymond to wonder what Lucie had
felt about it. He had assumed she would be grateful and overjoyed.

The assumption was quite correct. Lucie would have kissed
Raymond’s feet in gratitude even if he had used her harshly for the lot of a
serf-woman who has lost her man is not pleasant. To be elevated to service in
the castle, even if that service included rough usage, was a miracle of good
fortune. But Raymond was not cruel in his love play. He was gentle and
good-humored, if somewhat indifferent.

At first that did not bother Lucie. She was so happy with
the new clothing he gave her, with the fact that her stomach was full all the
time, and with dry and warm lodging, compared to her previous lodging, even
when she was not called to her master’s bed. All she feared was that when
Raymond’s term of leave from his duties in the court of Navarre was over, she would
be sent back to the horrors of life as a field serf. Pregnancy saved her from
that fate. Raymond freely acknowledged that the child was his and directed that
Lucie be taught skills that would make her useful in the castle so that his
child could be fittingly raised.

The next time Raymond came home he called Lucie to his bed
again, and she came gladly. However, she was more accustomed to her better
condition, and she began to realize that Raymond did not “notice” her. When he
needed a woman, he would seek her out and remark that she was pretty and give
her a length of fabric to make an overdress or a tunic, or some trinket with
which to adorn herself. At other times he could pass right by her and not even
nod his head in recognition.

Naturally Lucie did not resent this, she was no one and
nothing. She knew Raymond could casually order her killed instead of casually
flinging her a trinket. Nonetheless, she found that she no longer dreamed about
him or particularly desired that he summon her to his bed. She began to notice
the men around the keep, and it warmed her heart that they obviously noticed
her.

Lucie was with child again before Raymond left, and glad of
it because the second babe would secure her position. The first had been only a
girl, perhaps the second would be a boy. Or, if one died, the other would still
bind her to the keep. However, with her belly full, it was safe to look around.
Gregoire, one of the huntsmen, looked back with such longing in his eyes that
Lucie was moved to comfort him.

She found in the end as much comfort as she gave. Gregoire understood
her condition. He, too, had come out of the fields by an accident of fate. He
could no more be jealous of a lord than of God, nor would he have thought for a
moment of refusing or expecting Lucie to refuse any demand a lord made. What
was more wonderful to Lucie was that Gregoire was as happy to be with her, to
talk to her and listen to her, when she was unable to satisfy his lust as when
she had first yielded to him.

When Raymond came home again, there was only another
daughter to offer him. He did not mind, but he was not much interested. He was
not much interested in Lucie, either, however, his mother objected to his
playing about among the maidservants, so he used Lucie when the mood moved him.
There were plenty of women of the better sort in the court of Navarre who were
drawn to his pale, brilliant eyes and dark skin. For all her lush beauty—and
Lucie was lush now, being well fed and ten years older than Raymond—she bored
him.

Raymond was so uninterested in Lucie that he had never
realized that she did her best to avoid him. Both her daughters had survived—a
great surprise, which she attributed to the healthier situation of the
castle—and she had become a skillful weaver. Thus, she was reasonably sure she
would not be cast out, even if Raymond no longer desired her. Of course, she
had never dared deny him. All she dared was to keep out of his way as much as
possible.

Had she been less fearful, Lucie would have achieved her
heart’s desire years earlier, but she had not been bred in the castle. She
still saw the lords as creatures apart, superhuman, and as incomprehensible as
God. So when Raymond summoned her, she came. She had conceived once more, but
as soon as she missed her flux she had gone to an herb-woman who cleaned out
her womb. Gregoire’s get had gone the same way, but she had wept over those.
Even so, she prayed Raymond would stay away. She found it harder and harder to
seem willing.

This time when he said how well she looked, Lucie could not
quite keep all expression from her face. She cursed herself for coming forward,
but she had been afraid Raymond would be angered by the importunities of his
daughters and punish them. Hastily she looked down at the little girls and sent
them away, struggling to bring some welcome into her expression.

When she raised her eyes, fear almost stopped her heart.
Raymond was staring at her with raised brows.

“Why did you not tell me you did not find my attentions
pleasing, Lucie?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered. “No, please! I—”

“Do not be frightened,” Raymond hastened to assure her, much
surprised by her reaction. “I am not angry. To speak the truth, I am glad. I am
about to be married, and that means you must be married, also.”

“I? Married?” Lucie breathed. “To whom, my lord?’

“I had not thought about it,” Raymond admitted easily.

In fact, if his daughters and Lucie had not accosted him, he
probably would not have remembered their existence. This notion made him rather
grateful to little Fenice and Enid and to Lucie, also. He smiled at her.

“Is there someone you would like to marry, Lucie?” Raymond
asked. “You have been obedient to me and have never asked for anything. I would
be happy to dower you and know that you are content.”

She stared at him, lips parted, desperately trying to read
from his face whether this was some kind of cruel trap. But Raymond had never
been cruel to her. Daring greatly, Lucie whispered, “Gregoire. The huntsman,
Gregoire. He is a good man—kind.”