Winter Song (37 page)

Certainly it seemed that the children would be no trouble.
After their morning of terror and the excitement of Alys’s and Raymond’s
kindness, both little girls nodded off to sleep not long after they expressed
their joy over the presents. Alys remained in her own quiet chamber until
dinnertime, when she made her way back to the great hall. She stopped Gervase
and ordered that a plain, simple meal be sent to the south tower for the
children, then was seized upon by Margot. Since a glance at her husband showed
him deep in conversation with his father, she allowed her sister-by-marriage to
pull her aside.

Raising the question of new clothing and a suitable wedding
dress interested Margot enough to divert her from the subject of music, and
when Lady Jeannette called her younger daughter away, Alys was fortunate enough
to be near the chaplain. She discussed with him the question of a governess for
the little girls, a woman who could teach them the duties and manners of a
gentlewoman, and a tutor who could teach them to read and do accounts in case
she should be too busy to attend to such lessons herself.

This subject, with all the explanations and circumlocutions
necessary to avoid saying outright that their grandmother had neglected them
shamefully, carried Alys to the dinner table, where she discovered that Raymond
and Alphonse had pleaded urgent business and withdrawn to eat in private. Since
Raymond’s seeming neglect of his new wife had put Lady Jeannette in high good
humor, she was sweetly sympathetic to Alys about how women were pushed into the
background and ignored. Alys made proper, if slightly absent, replies. She was
thinking with intense satisfaction that Raymond would be certain to come to her
that night, since he might be away for more than a week thereafter.

By the time dinner was over, the weather had finally cleared,
and Alys had had enough of Lady Jeannette’s conversation. She made care of the
children her excuse and went back to her own quarters, assuming that Raymond
would come when he had finished his talk with his father. As the hours wore
away, however, she became more and more irritable. It did no good to tell
herself she was being unreasonable, that she was not ignored and forgotten, that
her husband was merely very busy.

A nasty little inner voice kept telling her that Raymond
should not be so busy as to preclude a short visit. Knowing that she was being
ridiculous, however, only made Alys more irritable. Partly out of a feeling
that she could bear no more of Lady Jeannette and Jeanine, who had made several
pointed remarks about how brief was a husband’s attention since wives were
trapped prey and not interesting, and partly out of a feeling that Raymond
would notice her absence and be concerned, Alys did not go across for the
evening meal. Bertha fetched suitable food for them all, and it was pleasant
and cozy in the south tower.

Nonetheless, Alys found little comfort in the situation when
Raymond did not come right after the meal. She guessed that his mother was
holding him, either in talk or by insisting that he attend another recital of
lute songs. For the first time, Alys’s conviction that her grip on her husband
was too strong to be weakened by Lady Jeannette’s devices was shaken. Alys knew
that such distractions would not have kept her from going to see why Raymond
had not appeared where he was expected, and anger pricked her.

Still, Alys struggled to subdue her temper with the reminder
that she herself had warned Raymond to be conciliatory toward his mother so as
to spare his father Lady Jeannette’s lamentations. Raymond would come as soon
as he could, she told herself, and as punishment for her ill humor she set
herself to unpicking the seams of a gown that she intended to resew in the
style worn in Provence. Later, after the children had been sent off to bed and
Raymond still had made no appearance, Alys told herself it was too late for a
visit. He would wait now until the keep was asleep and only a few guards
prowled the walls. Then he would come.

This assurance permitted her to finish undoing the seams of
the gown and let Bertha prepare her for bed with seeming calm. Underneath the
placid exterior, however, there was a hard blister of rage. Alys knew that if
Raymond arrived with sweet words and apologies, all would be forgotten. If he
did not come…but that was impossible. There would be no one and nothing to stay
him, except his own unwillingness to take the trouble to stay awake and walk
through the passage to her chamber. But the hours passed, and he did not come,
which intensified the fury already seething inside Alys’s quiet body.

From the time they parted, Raymond’s day had been exactly
the opposite of Alys’s. Her forenoon had begun rather pleasantly and
degenerated into rage and misery. Raymond’s had started with rage and misery
and worked its way slowly, very slowly, upward to a sense of satisfaction and
accomplishment. Although when he had left Alys he had felt only a quiet
determination to set things to rights, having been buoyed up by her confidence
in him and her agreement with what he planned, he had been thrown into a rage
by the master-at-arms, who met his orders with scarcely veiled insolence and a
hand on the hilt of his sword.

Before Raymond gave it a thought, his own weapon was out. At
this point, the master-at-arms retreated. To him, Raymond was no more than a
boy who came and went at Tour Dur and had never before taken a serious interest
in anything, Also, the master-at-arms had assumed the son was like the father, although
he would have been equally surprised if he had tried to threaten Alphonse.
Raymond’s father was no coward, despite the fact that he was disinclined to the
arts of war and preferred music.

The threat having backfired, the master-at-arms was more than
willing to withdraw it. To do any harm to the son of the house would merit a
punishment that was utterly unthinkable. The man was lazy and did not wish to
be bothered restoring the effects of his negligence, nor did he wish to accept
punishment and had thought a gesture of defiance would overawe a young man of
weak character.

To his horror he found there was to be no retreat. Raymond
lashed at him contemptuously with the flat of his blade. The master-at-arms’
shriek of pain and fear attracted others to the scene. A few new men, who did
not recognize Raymond and did not stop to think in their excitement, also drew
weapons. Arnald, who had been watching with interest and approval as his young
master blade-whipped a man who deserved it, now drew his sword and bellowed for
his men to come and defend Lord Raymond.

Although there were far more men-at-arms belonging to Tour
Dur’s than Arnald’s small troop, the well-disciplined group had seized shields
and weapons and formed a ring about their master before the men of the castle,
who had no leader, were aware of what was going on. Moreover, the older
men-at-arms who knew Raymond were blocking those who wished to go to the aid of
the master-at-arms. These older men were trying to explain, shouting that the
attacker was Lord Raymond, Lord Alphonse’s son, and therefore inviolable, no
matter what he chose to do to anyone.

Unfortunately, everyone was growing more and more excited.
The Englishmen, with shields locked, were stamping and shouting insults at
those they thought to be traitors. Men-at-arms, who had been in distant parts
of the castle, came running and, seeing the foreigners seemingly threatening
their companions, rushed forward to protect their own.

The master-at-arms in the meantime had been yelling for
mercy and was so frightened that he did not realize Raymond was indeed being
merciful. Raymond intended to do no more than beat the man to a pulp and throw
him out to live or die as he chose. Since he could have had an insolent servant
drawn and quartered, Raymond considered himself generous. However, the
combination of pain and terror does not lead to clear thought. In desperation,
the master-at-arms drew his weapon, thinking only to defend himself. That
additional defiance changed Raymond’s mind.

To draw steel on one’s master, except for the purpose of
practice combat when ordered, was the ultimate sin. There could be no excuse
for that trespass. Raymond turned his blade and began to wield it in earnest.
He was not armed and had no shield, but the master-at-arms was in like case, and
Raymond was not frightened, nor lazy, nor out of practice. He parried two wild
swings and, when a third was launched, cut off his opponent’s arm, hand, and consequently,
his sword. Having disarmed his man, Raymond hesitated for a moment, wondering
whether he should cut off the other hand too, sear the stumps, and use the
remaining cripple as an object lesson.

The noise surrounding him then penetrated through Raymond’s
concentration on his own fight. A single swift glance told the story. Angry
again at the trouble the man had caused, Raymond simply stepped closer to the
master-at-arms, who was on his knees keening and holding his maimed arm, and
struck off his head. A single bellow in English silenced Alys’s men. They
remained with swords drawn at the ready, but challenges and insults were cut
off. A second bellow, calling squad leaders by name, soon led to order being
reestablished. There were, by this time, several wounded in addition to the
dead master-at-arms. Raymond looked around at the disorder and lost his temper
all over again. He flayed the Tour Dur men-at-arms for their lack of skill and
lack of discipline, using language that made Arnald’s eyes round with
admiration, and he promised them that they would find hell a place of peace and
comfort before he was through with them.

Finally Raymond ordered that all weapons be given into
Arnald’s care until he had a chance to harrow out the noxious growths from the
true plants. Seeing that this order was being obeyed in trembling haste, Raymond
ordered that the master-at-arms’ body be hung in chains by the barracks, to
remind the men, while the flesh dropped from the bones and the stench permeated
their lodgings, of the result of negligence and disobedience. Then, still
seething, he went to seek his father and relate what had happened.

Considering the circumstances, the temper he was in, and
Raymond’s feelings about the basic cause of all the trouble, which was his
father’s lack of attention, Raymond was neither respectful nor conciliatory in
what he said. Since Alphonse was already defensive, being as aware as Raymond that
he had neglected his duty, he flew into a rage, too. A shouting match ensued,
in which ugly accusations were exchanged. However, father and son truly loved
one another. Both were so shocked by the disgusting half-truths that were flung
in anger that mutual apologies and tears of repentance soon made peace.

In the quiet of emotional exhaustion that followed, a more
rational examination of the problem followed. Pretenses had been stripped away
in the quarrel so that Raymond and Alphonse were better able to look at the
naked truth. For this time, at least, neither wished for the ameliorative
platitudes with which the women would try to cover the real facts. By mutual
consent they withdrew to eat together and to work out the details for a
division of responsibility between them that would benefit everyone. Although
both were trying hard to be honest, each was now overanxious not to hurt the
other, so that it took a long time to say what had to be said.

The false dawn had already streaked the sky with pale bands
that gave little light when Alphonse stood up wearily and rested his hand on
Raymond’s shoulder. “No, my son,” he said in response to a final plea from
Raymond that he believe his son was not trying to seize his father’s power. “I
know that is true. In the bad years, when we were threatened by Toulouse, my
father fought for these lands while I parleyed for allies and made pacts and
treaties. I always hated fighting. I am more than glad that you are ready and
willing to take up that burden. I am only fearful of laying too great a weight
on your shoulders.”

“The part you give me is what I like, Father, and what I
understand. If you will deal with Louis and with Charles of Anjou—if and when
dealing with them becomes necessary—I will have no burden that I consider
heavy. I might contrive the pact with Louis, but I know from what you have told
me that Charles of Anjou and I would, at best, rub each other wrong and, at
worst, come to blows. I can make us strong. I can weld the vassals together.
But I fear that saying sweet words to a sour neighbor or overlord might undo
me.”

Alphonse produced a tired smile. “That I can do, and take
pleasure in the doing also. Sleep well, my son. I will see you in the morning.”

“No, you will not, for I intend to be gone by first light.”
Raymond stood up, stretched, and yawned.

“You are tired,” Alphonse protested. “Go tomorrow.”

Then he sighed and shook his head. He would have delayed a
day because he was tired, and then perhaps another because it rained, and in
the end, he might not have gone at all. Raymond was different, and he had
agreed that Raymond should act as he saw fit as his deputy. Then Alphonse saw
his son reach for his hauberk.

“Raymond,” he protested again, “at least sleep for an hour
or two. It is too dark to ride out now.”

“Help me on with this, Father. I must go down and settle on
a temporary master-at-arms and choose out a group to ride with me. By the time
I have done that, it will be light.”

Alphonse closed his mouth over another protest. It would not
stop Raymond and would only annoy him. He lifted the mail shirt and slid it
over Raymond’s raised arms after his son had cast aside his elegant tunic and
surcoat and pulled on an arming tunic of heavy homespun wool.

As his head emerged through the neck opening, Raymond said, “Alys’s
men will be here and may be trusted implicitly if there should be any grumbling
among our people, for I will leave orders about their training that some of the
lazy dogs will not like. You had better tell Alys to give them their orders—”