Winter Song (15 page)

“Do you understand me?” she asked at last, remembering that
Arnald had commented on the different accent with which the men-at-arms spoke.

“Yes, yes,” the cook she was addressing quavered, “but…”

“But what?” Alys asked, keeping her tone even. She thought
that any sharpness or impatience would only reduce the man to silence, and she
wanted to know what was frightening him.

“To feed so many so richly…there will not be enough…” His
voice trembled into silence.

“My man says there is a whole sheep and barrels of salt
meats. How can there not be enough for soup and stew?”

“For—for the soldiers. It is for the soldiers.”

“It is for whom
I
say,” Alys snapped. “But you can tell
me who has ordered the stocking of the keep in the past.”

“Master Ernaldus, the bailiff.”

Master Ernaldus again
, Alys thought. She should have
known better than to ask, for the fear was plain in the cook’s face and voice.
Alys made no comment, however, merely adjuring the man to get on with his work.
She noted also that the cook’s helpers, the only well-fed servants in the
place, were all young and handsome, the boys as pretty as the girls. Obviously
they were the favorites of the men-at-arms. Alys glanced over them without
favor.

“Use only the best and cleanest,” she ordered. “You will all
taste what is set before me and my men-at-arms, and if even one of us should
suffer the smallest disorder of stomach or bowels, I will have each of you
whipped bloody front and back, those I do not have the heads off. Is that
understood?”

That time her voice cracked like a whip, and a dead silence
fell where there had been the soft sibilance of whispers. Obviously it would be
necessary to have a completely new staff in the kitchen, but there should be no
difficulty in that. For this one day her threat and seeing their protectors
cast into the lowest level of the donjon should be enough to control them.

There was so much to do that it seemed mere minutes instead
of hours before Arnald was back with his gleaning of serfs. These poor
creatures looked little better than the servants in the keep. Alys burned with
rage. From what she had seen, although it was winter, the land looked as if it
should be as rich and fertile as Marlowe, yet the pinch of hunger showed in
every man’s and woman’s face. There were bad years when crops failed and hunger
came even to Marlowe, but the dull resignation of these people implied years of
semistarvation. Then apathy was so deep that they had hardly responded to the
fear of being seized.

Arnald confirmed Alys’s immediate deduction. The serfs had
tried to hide, but when caught had neither struggled nor tried to escape, he
told her. Nor, she saw, did they make any attempt to escape now. They stood like
worn-out oxen, waiting to be driven by the pain of the goad until they dropped
dead. It was the grossest stupidity, Alys thought furiously, to misuse the
serfs to this degree. It would take three of them to do one healthy man’s work,
and at that, they would have to be watched every minute, having become so
stupid out of fear and hunger that even if they had wanted to complete a task,
they would not be able to think how to do it.

With the substantial increase of the work force, the
cleaning process accelerated. At an hour past noon, the hall was clean, if
damp. Huge fires burned in each of the two hearths, and trestle tables and
benches had been found and set up. This last order caused puzzled looks among
the servants, and the setting of thick slices of large rounds of bread at each
place by the baker and his assistants caused one wretch to fall on her knees
before Alys and beg for a small piece of the heel of the bread. The others
watched hopefully.

“You may have it,” Alys said, “but we will all sit down to
dinner in a few minutes. My men are just bringing in those who are working
outside. Aye, yes, here is the cook.”

All stood still, gaping, even when Alys waved them toward
the tables, and she told them again to sit so that the cooks’ helpers,
staggering under the weight of caldrons of stew, could serve without hindrance.
One ladleful of stew was dumped on each round of bread. It seemed very little
to Alys, who was accustomed to the well-fed servants of Marlowe putting away
soup and roast and greens as well as stew at every meal, and a good deal more
on feast days. However, she knew that if these starved beasts ate too much,
they would only be made sick. The thick potage, rich with salt pork and barley,
would be served to each late in the afternoon. That should carry them through
the night and, hopefully, bring them back voluntarily to work the next day.

Nonetheless, there were endless problems still to be solved,
how to find clothing for those who were to remain in the keep, what they were
to sleep on—Alys had ordered the pallets they had been using burned—whether
there was grain enough for bread for the next morning, a million details. Alys
was hardly aware that several more hours had passed and was just directing that
straw be brought from the stables for the servants to sleep in, when Raymond
walked in on her.

“My God, what have you done?” he exclaimed.

“Is something wrong?” Alys asked.

Raymond laughed. “I almost rode out again, believing myself
to have come to the wrong place. Had I not heard our men’s execrable French, I
would have done so.”

Alys smiled at the compliment, but there was a sharpness in
her husband’s voice that warned all was not well. Since she could not believe
he could be displeased to find his residence considerably improved, she assumed
that he had discovered more trouble in the town.

“Come above where we can sit in comfort,” she suggested, immediately
abandoning all other problems.

He glanced around at the scurrying servants and nodded. In the
main chamber of the women’s quarters, there was equally frenetic activity.
Raymond frowned, but his expression cleared when Alys led him into their own
chamber and closed the door. Here was peace. A lively fire burned in the
hearth, which was flanked by two cushioned chairs. There was a table with a
candelabrum ready to be lit and a flask of wine with two cups. Alys took his
cloak and gestured toward a chair.

“Will you drink, my lord?” she asked.

“No. I have had enough, although not so much as Rustengo
would have poured down my throat if he could. You were right about bringing
attendants, but it would not have helped if I had the whole troop. My mother’s
cousin still thinks me a child to be told to go hither and yon and repeat
speeches like a witless puppet.”

“Then he will be the more surprised,” Alys said calmly.

“But not the more pleased. Matters are worse than I had
thought, and possibly worse than Henry believed. I fear Rustengo intends to
call in men from La Réole and Langdon, which the king specially forbade, and
wrest back the government of Bordeaux while de Molis is engaged in the south.”

“Does Rustengo think he can fight the seneschal?”

“I doubt he believes it would go so far. For one thing, if de
Molis and Navarre come to blows, de Molis may not be strong enough to attack
Bordeaux; if he should be beaten and his army destroyed, that would end the
threat. And even if de Molis should come in strength, I believe Rustengo thinks
he could make easy terms, retiring from office himself, but having a kinsman
empowered. He did not say it in plain words, but I think he was offering me
that place.”

“You did not agree, did you?” Alys asked anxiously.

“What would you have me do? It is your keep, after all,”
Raymond replied sharply.

Alys blinked. “It is
ours
while we both live,” she
said softly, “mine to keep in order; yours to defend. I would have you do what
is best, but only you can know that, my lord.”

Raymond sighed. “Forgive me, my love. I am sorely out of
temper. Now I will take that wine you offered, but water it well.” As she rose
to serve him, he continued. “I did not deny him outright, but he understood
and, I think, regretted saying so much to me. Before I left, he spoke strongly
of the ties of blood and what kinsmen owe each other.”

Alys stiffened. “He will not seek to do you harm to ensure
your silence?”

“Oh, no.” Raymond dismissed that with a casual wave and a
smile. “What troubles me is that word may come to de Molis, who might divide
his force. Between thee and me, my love, I do not care who rules Bordeaux, but
if Navarre overruns the south, the claiming of your dower lands may not be so
easy. So far Navarre and de Molis are in the west and away from our estates,
and I do not fear my uncle Gaston—he will not oppose our taking possession,
although he may ask terms I will not like—but if de Molis is utterly beaten,
Navarre will turn to fight Béarn, and we may be swallowed on the way.”

He sipped from the cup Alys handed him and stretched his
long legs, obviously soothed and more at ease although he was talking of
trouble. Alys held her breath. From the light in her husband’s eyes, she knew
he was considering going south to join the fighting. Then he sighed and
shrugged.

“I could not gather enough men to help de Molis without
taking possession of the lands, and that would take so long that whatever is
now happening will by then be already decided. No, I like it not, but for our
safety, as well as to satisfy the king’s will, I must bide here and do what I
can to divert Rustengo from this lunacy.”

Alys was so relieved that color flooded up into her face,
which had been pale with fright, and she jumped up and kissed Raymond,
murmuring that he was very wise. Seeing at once how her mind worked, Raymond
laughed, but he held her close with an arm around her waist and put down his
cup.

“The devil fly away with Rustengo and whole city of
Bordeaux,” he said, “and with Amou and Ibos, also. I should have taken you
direct to Tour Dur, where such stupidities would not interfere between us.”

“They cannot interfere,” Alys responded, allowing him to
pull her against him as he rose.

In the chamber behind, the bed was ready. It had not been
warmed, but Alys did not worry about that. They would warm it quickly enough
themselves.

Chapter Eight

Making love, though, was not the end of Alys’s day. She left
Raymond sleeping and came down to see that the serfs got their potage, and that
those who had been dragged in were sent home. By then, Raymond was up and out
on the walls of Blancheforte with Arnald, examining the condition of the
defenses. Between his raving over the neglect and more talk about the problems
in Bordeaux, Alys never got to tell him about her conclusions concerning Master
Ernaldus, the bailiff. In the morning, Raymond went off early to present
himself and his letter from the king to Peter Calhau.

Alys, of course, broke her fast with him, but she felt
incomplete. She had not heard Mass. Of course, there had been no priest aboard
the ship, but that situation had been so different that she had not noticed one
more break in her normal routine. Here in Bordeaux it was suddenly apparent
that something was missing. In Marlowe, the priest had come every morning to
say Mass in the keep chapel. True, Alys did not really listen, her mind roving
over the various duties of the day or other matters sadly unrelated to God. Nonetheless,
she was certain that the holy words had some beneficent effect, like a magic
charm to ward off ill, and today she felt the lack. Moreover, there was a
chapel, and she reminded herself, she was rich now, rich enough to support a
chaplain. The chapel was all empty, except for the carvings of saints and the
crucifix, but it could be refurnished—all except for the priest.

Alys told Bertha to summon the eldest of the maidservants,
and when the woman came, barely able to walk for trembling, she said, “There is
nothing to fear. What is your name?”

“Mary, madame,” the woman whispered.

“Very well, Mary. Do you know who is the priest who said
Mass before the keep was emptied?”

“It was Father Paul, but that was long ago. I think he is
dead, madame. He was old.”

“Does no one come now? What of Sunday? Who listens to
confession and gives the viaticum to the dying?”

“No one comes.” Tears rose in Mary’s eyes. “Those who were
strong enough walked to Saint Remy’s, when the soldiers permitted it.”

That was what Alys wanted to know. Saint Remy’s was the
church to which Blancheforte belonged. “Comfort yourself,” she said to the
maid. “There will soon be a priest here, I hope.” She waved the maid away and
sent for Arnald, thinking that it would be another busy day. When he had
sketched a bow before her, she asked, “Did the serfs return?”

“Most of them did.”

“Were all fed?”

Arnald grinned and nodded. The food had served its purpose,
drawing those hungry beggars back despite their fear of the keep. “Yes. Bread
and cheese this morning, but there will not be enough for many more days, three
or four at most.”

“That will be enough, I hope. I had no time to discuss the matter
of buying supplies with Lord Raymond, as he had other troubles, but I hope he
will give me leave to order what we need tomorrow. Now for today, there are
three things that must be done. We must have rushes for the floors. See if you
can find out whether Blancheforte cuts its own supply and where. If it has its
own, send out a party at once to obtain them. Second, I must ride to Bordeaux
to see if I can get a priest to come and say Mass. Third, I must ride over the
demesne. From what I have heard, the bailiff has been wringing this place dry
and keeping all for himself.”

“It must be so,” Arnald agreed. “There is land enough and
good land, too, to stock the keep and feed the people, yet the storerooms,
except for two, are not only empty, but fallen in. Thus, it is not one year’s
bad crops that have emptied them, but many years of neglect.”