Winter Song (9 page)

“Marrying me, of course! I am strong, rich, handsome, polished
in manners—”

“So you are,” Alys agreed tenderly, throwing her arms around
him and kissing him soundly. “And I do not wish to be a widow, ever.”

Raymond had only been joking, of course, expecting Alys to
call him a blackamoor popinjay or to say something else equally sharp. The
sudden softness of her voice, the clinging of her lips, nearly overset him. He
held her close, prolonging the kiss, and then bent his head to rest his cheek
against her headdress.

“It is not true that I am so great a prize,” Raymond said
huskily, “or if it is, it is less than nothing compared with your worth,
beloved. You are like the sun, Alys. When you are in sight, all other
luminaries pale into insignificance. Let us marry soon, heart of my heart, not
to travel before winter or for the lands, but only so that I may the sooner
call you my own.”

Chapter Five

Alys’s proposal for a modest affair did not meet with the
enthusiastic agreement she had expected from her father. When she suggested a
one-day feast with only Richard and Sancia and their immediate neighbors as
guests, her father sighed and smiled and told her not to be a fool. The
nephew-by-marriage of the king of England could not marry in privacy. There was
to be a state affair at Wallingford, and the king and queen would attend.

Despite the fact that Alys was frightened by the huge three-week-long
affair that was planned, the wedding was truly joyful. This was more true than
for most marriages because both bride and groom were so happy. Then also, there
was no mother to sigh over the loss of her baby girl. Elizabeth loved Alys, but
Elizabeth never thought of Alys as an infant. Even at five, Alys had been a
strong-willed, adult-seeming child. And, although Elizabeth knew she would miss
Alys, she also understood that the marriage would save both of them hurt.

Thus far so much had happened so fast that there had been no
time for Alys and Elizabeth to come into conflict over the role of lady of the
manor. Had Alys remained in Marlowe, such a conflict was inevitable. Since her
mother’s death Alys had run her father’s estates and life. At that time Alys
was only ten years old. To some extent, she had assumed the responsibilities
even before that, because her mother had been a limp, ineffective woman.
Elizabeth, too, was accustomed to being the chatelaine of the estate to a
greater degree than most women because her first husband had been indifferent
to the lands except as a source of income.

Now that Elizabeth had married Alys’s father, both women would
have needed to live in the same keep. It was right that Elizabeth should manage
her husband’s house, yet how could Alys step back? The servants came to her out
of habit. She answered their questions out of habit. Elizabeth was sweet and
mild of temper, but eventually she would begin to resent this. However, if she
put out her hand to take the reins of the household, Alys would not be able to
keep from resenting that.

William understood this as well as Elizabeth. The only
solution would have been to separate the women, but then he would have been
torn apart between them. If he stayed with Elizabeth, which his heart and body
demanded, his conscience would tell him that his daughter was deserted and
lonely. He could never be easy or comfortable. Guilt would nag and drag at him.
It was this knowledge that made it possible for William to accept his daughter’s
marriage with gladness.

Because William was happy, so was Richard of Cornwall. He
was delighted with the marriage for political reasons, but would have been
distressed if his old friend had been grieved. The other guests, some of
William’s neighbors but mostly Richard of Cornwall’s vassals, were also happy.
The neighbors were glad to see Alys so well wedded and so obviously in love
with her future husband. Cornwall’s vassals were pleased to meet in an informal
and joyful atmosphere the man they would need to obey in the earl’s name, to
whom they would render accounts and submit petitions.

All in all it was a marvelous wedding. The weather was not
yet cold enough to imprison everyone inside Wallingford, so hunts and outside
entertainments, even a small tournament, were arranged. The grains and
vegetables had not yet been so long in storage as to grow musty. The cattle,
pigs, and deer were still fat from summer feeding and autumn gleaning so that
meats were sweet and succulent, but best of all, everyone was in so good a
humor from adequate exercise and mental content that no drunken brawls broke
out during the entire week it took the guests to gather from all over Richard
of Cornwall’s domain.

During that week, Alys and Raymond hardly exchanged a single
word with each other. Alys and Elizabeth were busy arranging sleeping quarters
and table positions so that no one would be offended, and Raymond was as deeply
involved in entertaining the gentlemen. The situation was strangely exciting to
both—the brief meeting of eyes across the hall, an even briefer touch of
fingers on hand or arm or shoulder seemed to arouse more sexual tension between
Alys and Raymond than an intimate kiss. Raymond found himself with a heat and
pressure in his loins that made him curse the binding of his chausses and bless
the looseness of his surcoat. Alys could not put a name to what she felt. Her
skin was strangely tingly, and her breasts were so sensitive that she could
feel every movement of her shift against her nipples. When Raymond touched her,
even as a partner in a public dance, she felt hot and cold and so shy that she
could not meet his eyes.

It was ridiculous to feel shy with Raymond, Alys told herself
over and over. She had not forgotten how she had laughed at him, scolded him,
instructed him when he first came to serve her father. Tell herself, she could;
change her feelings, she could not. Each time Raymond spoke to her, she blushed
and dropped her eyes, which nearly melted him with tenderness, even while it
excited him still further.

By the morning of the wedding, both were quivering with eagerness
and tension. Raymond’s anxieties were especially peaked by his
father-by-marriage. William had begun to glare and snap at him as he realized
that only hours remained before his daughter was made a wife and completely
removed from his control. As he helped Raymond from the ceremonial bath before
dressing the groom for the ceremony, William could not help telling Raymond to
be careful in his handling of her. “She is so small,” William said. “In God’s
name, do not hurt her.”

Raymond regarded his future father-by-marriage with some
trepidation. “How can I help it?” he asked with mingled nervousness and
irritation, rubbing himself vigorously with the drying cloth. “If you know a
way to take a maidenhead that does not cause pain, tell me and I will listen.”

Too anxious to be sensible, William snapped, “It is not a thing
with which I am acquainted, both of my wives having been widows. But I have
heard the great lords of the south are freer with their vassals’ daughters—”

“They are not so free as you have heard,” Raymond retorted,
grabbing the shirt William held out. “But what little knowledge I have tells me
there is no easy way.” He drew the shirt over his head, but when his face
emerged and he caught sight of William’s expression, he laid a hand on his arm.
“Forgive me sir. I am… You must know that it will give me no pleasure to hurt
Alys.” His voice shook.

“Nay,” William replied, taking the chausses from another gentleman’s
hand and rolling one leg so that Raymond could step into it. “Rather should I
beg your pardon, my son. God knows you have no reason but love for desiring my
daughter, and I know you to be no light ravisher of women.” He helped Raymond
into the garment, then embraced him, and laughed uneasily. “I see her still as
a child—that is all.”

It was fortunate that the king walked in at that moment, and
further private conversation was impossible. Henry was in the best of tempers.
He smiled largely on his brother, on two of Richard’s vassals who had drawn
William away, and most particularly on Raymond, his beloved wife’s nephew, who
had provided the opportunity for him to be both benefactor and gainer.

Having returned all greetings pleasantly, Henry drew Raymond
aside. “How long do you plan to stay in England after the wedding?” he asked.

“To speak the truth,” Raymond replied, “it was my first
intention to go as soon as possible because the weather will shortly make
passage by sea dangerous. However, if it will serve you that I stay longer, of
course I will do so.”

“No, no,” Henry assured him. “I have no desire to keep you,
and in Gascony you could do me a quiet little service.”

“If I can, I will be most willing,” Raymond replied. He
could say nothing else, but inwardly he stiffened.

The last time Henry had asked for a “trifling service”,
Raymond had ended up as a spy in his betrothed’s household. What caused Raymond’s
anxiety was that the king’s charm was so great that Raymond had agreed to the
dishonorable task with gaiety, as if it were all a jest. The dishonest purpose
had not really made an impact on him until he had met Sir William, himself the
soul of honesty and honor. Now Raymond regarded the king with considerable
caution.

“I have allowed a thousand pounds to the mayor and commune
of Bordeaux for the strengthening of the walls of that city,” Henry said. “Since
you will be of the council, will you look at this work and see if it is being
properly done?”

That seemed innocent enough. Raymond opened his mouth to
say, “Gladly,” and instead said, “Is this not the seneschal’s duty? Do you
believe him to have put the money to other uses?”

“Not at all,” Henry assured him. “This money did not go through
de Molis’s hands. It was a direct grant to the mayor and burgesses of the town.
Er…you had not heard, perhaps, that it was necessary for me to reorder the
governing of Bordeaux?”

“Bordeaux? No. I had not heard, but I suppose whatever the
form of the government, I can count on the support of my mother’s kinsman,
Rustengo de Soler.”

The king cleared his throat. “Well…er…he is no longer the
mayor, but I will give you a letter to Peter Calhau that will smooth your path.”

“Calhau!” Raymond echoed.

Calhau was a Colom, if not by name in every other way, and
the Coloms were deadly enemies to the de Solers. What the king had said meant
that the power structure in Bordeaux had shifted, or been shifted by Henry,
from Raymond’s relatives to their enemies. The Coloms would not be very happy
to see Rustengo’s kinsman in possession of Blancheforte or on the town council.
The king’s request, then, could scarcely have anything to do with the walls.
Suddenly Raymond realized that if the de Solers desired to take back power, it
would be most convenient for them to do so while the seneschal was busy in the
south with the threat of the king of Navarre and Gaston of Béarn. But what in
the world did Henry expect him to do, Raymond wondered. Every utterance he made
would be regarded by Calhau with suspicion and distrust.

“It is not likely that Calhau will regard me with favor,”
Raymond remarked, striving to keep any reserve from his voice.

Henry smiled seraphically. “He will not wish to disoblige me
and, I think, will not be so stupid as to scorn a bridge to your kinsman. A
strong bridge is a useful place for meeting and settling small difficulties.
Also, your kinsman will be glad to know that I have favored you with
Blancheforte and a seat on the council of Bordeaux.”

“Yes, of course,” Raymond replied.

It was possible that Henry was thinking of shifting his
influence back to the Soler faction, or wanted them to believe that the
possibility existed. Most likely of all, Henry had no idea what he would want
or need to do. Raymond would be a convenient conduit for information and
opinion.

“I will do my best to serve you, Sire,” Raymond added, hoping
that the king would not regard that as a promise, but knowing quite well that
he would.

“And when you go south to Amou—” Henry began.

“Henry!” Richard of Cornwall interrupted, his voice rich
with protest. “This is Raymond’s wedding day. He is not finished dressing. Do
you wish him to be late at the church door and break his bride’s heart?
Besides, how much of your instructions can you expect a bridegroom to remember?”

“I will remember,” Raymond assured the king fervently, in
the hope that he would be spared further discussion, which could only involve
him more deeply.

The last little stratagem into which Henry had pushed him
had worked out well for all concerned, but Raymond was certain that that was by
a special effort of the Merciful Mother, who puts out her hand to support all
well-meaning fools, himself included. He did not, however, wish to try Holy
Mary’s patience by falling into another imbroglio of the king’s making. Thus
far, Henry had no time to demand more of him than to be the grease between the
grinding gears of Bordeaux politics. Even that was no easy place to be. Most
often, the grease is pressed out flat and discarded.

Raymond liked Henry, but he was also aware of the king’s
propensity for using people and, far worse, for blaming them when his plans did
not work out just as he expected. All the while that the attending gentlemen
drew on his tunic and his surcoat, adjusted the magnificent gold-wired jewel-encrusted
sword belt that was Richard of Cornwall’s token wedding gift, then hung around
him the heavy gold collar that was King Henry’s token, broad enough to spread
from shoulder to shoulder, Raymond mulled over the king’s words. He no longer
noticed William’s nervousness, and his own dissipated under the pressure of the
new problem.

Alys’s eagerness had peaked the preceding evening. She had barely
been able to restrain herself from crying out and snatching her hand away when
Raymond took it. She had cried herself to sleep from pure nervousness, however,
she did sleep, and when she woke, knowing that the wedding was today, this day,
that she would need to wait no longer, a quiet contentment filled her. She was
not at all nervous about the wedding itself, and she simply refused to think of
the future, since it was now too late to worry about it. When she was dressed,
she was able to smile quite naturally as Elizabeth drew her forward to the
polished silver oval that showed her reflection.