Winter Song (30 page)

“Alys will see to it herself,” Raymond responded without a
thought. “Do not trouble yourself over us, Father. Alys will see to everything.
Let us go in, or there will be a peal rung over us for our neglect.”

But they could not go at once, for Alys had already moved
away. Alphonse heard her snap an order to the carters to have the wains drawn
to the south tower. They could then, she said, unharness the beasts and see to
their comfort. Then she turned to the master-at-arms. Alphonse’s mouth opened
and closed. He could not conceive of his own wife addressing a carter or a
man-at-arms. But before he could protest or protect her from knew not what, she
had given her orders, Arnald had bowed respectfully, Bertha had curtsied, and
Alys was back beside them.

“Forgive me,” she said, “if I have delayed you. I am now
ready, my lord.”

Raymond’s lips twitched at the bemused expression on his
father’s face, and he urged him once again to go in. Wakened from his astonishment,
Alphonse led them to the main hall where Lady Jeannette was sitting firmly in a
high-backed chair with a daughter like a flanking guard to each side. Her
expression, which had been grim, changed to smiling as the trio came toward
her, but her daughters were not so quick to respond. Jeanine glared, Margot
looked first wide-eyed and then with an inward sigh of contempt at the
diminutive figure advancing between her father and brother. There would be
little of interest, Margot expected, in a child with a pretty face.

For the first few minutes of stilted greetings, Margot saw
nothing to change her opinion. True, it was clear as soon as Alys removed her
cloak that, small as she was, she was no child. Her firm breasts swelled the
front of her gown, and her golden girdle rested on provocative hips. But after
Alphonse and Raymond withdrew to talk, there was nothing in her downcast eyes,
her low curtsy, or the soft murmur of her voice making conventional replies to
stiff questions that gave Margot any hope of amelioration of her boredom.

The first jolt of surprise came when Lady Jeannette said
sweetly, “Do sit down, Alys,” gesturing vaguely at the stool near her chair.

Alys glanced over her shoulder, saw that Raymond and
Alphonse had established themselves in a window seat where they were engaged in
earnest talk, and calmly moved to the other high-backed chair opposite that of
her mother-by-marriage. It was not near the stool, but Lady Jeannette’s gesture
had been wide and languid, and even if she had pointed directly, Alys thought
the wife of the heir should defer only to the men of the household.

“I thank you, Mother,” Alys said pointedly, sitting down on
the chair and hooking a stool closer on which to rest her feet.

“By what right do you sit in my father’s chair?” Jeanine
snapped.

“Good gracious,” Alys exclaimed raising her brows, “is it
the custom here for no one to sit in the master’s chair? I never heard of that
except in fairy tales and legends.”

“It is the custom of daughters to sit on stools before their
mother,” Lady Jeannette said, with poisonous kindness.

“Even the wife of the heir of the house when there is a
chair empty? I am so sorry.” She rose to her feet. “I will go and beg Lord
Alphonse’s pardon at once for my mistake.”

“There is no need for that,” Lady Jeannette said
immediately, and from her expression Alys saw that the custom, if it existed,
was of Lady Jeannette’s making.

Alys had no intention of conforming to such a custom, but to
reseat herself on the chair would be outright rudeness, and she did not wish to
resort to that. She smiled as she shook her head. “Well, now we are met, I fear
I must run away, for just now I have no more time for talk. Could you tell me,
please, at what time dinner is served here? Raymond said it was later than I am
accustomed—”

“Do you expect us to move our time forward for you?” Jeanine
interrupted.

“Of course not,” Alys replied blandly, “but I wish to set in
motion the moving of my furniture into my quarters.”

“Moving? Your furniture? Your quarters?” Lady Jeannette
gasped. “But is that not all arranged? And what have you to do in such matters?
Raymond…surely Raymond…”

“Raymond must not be troubled with such stupidities,” Alys
responded, her voice sharpening for the first time. “He must be free for
matters of more importance, for the doings of kings and counts, not for the
arranging of chairs and beds.”

“The steward arranges chairs and beds,” Lady Jeannette said
with honeyed contempt. “Raymond or my husband will give the order.”

“But Raymond has already told Lord Alphonse that I would see
to it,” Alys pointed out, softening her tone. “Doubtless they have both forgot
the matter already. And Raymond likes his things set in just such a way—”

“Raymond’s things are already set as he likes them.” This
time it was Lady Jeannette who cut Alys off. “It was not necessary to bring
here a load of furniture, as if we had not enough or Raymond had not a place of
his own in his house.” Her voice had lost its sweetness.

Alys dropped her eyes. She had thought all along that the extreme
delicacy Raymond described in his female relatives was merely a façade that
concealed their nasty willfulness. Her suspicion was now confirmed for everyone
except the youngest sister, who had not spoken at all. All she said, however,
was that Raymond had ordered their furniture and clothing carried to the south
tower. This brought a small shriek from Lady Jeannette, who called for her son
in shrill, quavering tones that carried to where the men were seated.

Raymond looked toward the women. He was no longer accustomed
to inconsiderate demands and was annoyed by the interruption of his
conversation with his father. There was an obvious hesitation before he rose
and came to them. He listened to about one-quarter of his mother’s tearful
protest, just enough to understand what it was she was complaining about, his
expression growing blacker and still more impatient. Then he cut her off with a
bellow for Gervase that shook the rafters.

“I have my reasons for the south tower,” he said sharply to
his mother, who had been shocked into silence by the way he had shouted instead
of signaling for a servant to fetch the steward. “Do not trouble your head or
heart, Mother,” Raymond continued. “Leave it to Alys. Leave everything to Alys.
She could run this whole estate without bailiff or butler or steward and still
have time to make merry with me whenever I desired.”

As he spoke, he looked at his wife’s lowered head and was
flooded by remorse for every harsh thought he had ever had about her. He had
forgotten what it was like to be unable to finish a conversation without being
interrupted by female irrelevancies and complaints. Masterful as Alys might be,
she never had drawn him, and never would, from important matters with silly
nonsense about where he would lodge.

It was as well that Raymond did not see more of Alys’s
expression because her head was bowed with seeming docility. The naughty gleam
of her eyes might not have informed him that she had deliberately baited his
mother into a trap, but it would certainly have raised doubts in his mind about
her behavior. Counting on what Raymond had told her in the past, however, Alys
was quickly planning her next move. She could not permit her mother-by-marriage
to become hysterical in the hall—and that, she expected, would be Lady
Jeannette’s reaction to Raymond’s strictures. Raymond might or might not be
impervious, but Alphonse would not be.

“Gervase,” Raymond said, turning his back on his mother and
addressing the portly steward who had come nearly running. “This is Alys of Marlowe,
my betrothed wife. From this moment, her orders are as mine, to be overruled
only by my father or myself, and do not come running to either of us unless she
bids you turn the castle upside down. If Alys tells you to do a thing, she has
a good reason.”

Ignoring his mother’s further gasps of outrage and surprise,
Raymond went back to his father and sat down beside him again. Alphonse looked
at the cluster of women with some trepidation, hearing his wife utter a
strangled cry.

“You should not be so sharp with your mother,” Alphonse
protested. “She will make herself ill.”

“Leave her to Alys,” Raymond said again.

“Are you mad?” Alphonse exclaimed. “What can that child do…?”

His voice drifted away as he saw Alys on one side and Margot
on the other, lifting his wife bodily from the chair. Alys’s voice rose over
Lady Jeannette’s sobs and Jeanine’s furious protests.

“But, sweet sister,” Alys insisted, blocking Jeanine’s grab
at her mother with her own hip and propelling Lady Jeannette away from the men
and toward the stairway, “your mother must lie down. Do you not see she is
unwell? She must rest and be quiet.” And then to Lady Jeannette in the sweetest
of tones, “Yes, he spoke cruelly, but truly he did not mean it. He is overworn
from the long journey and many other annoyances. Come now and rest, Mother.
Anon, when his mind is clear of man-things, he will come to you and say he is
sorry.”

They had got to the stairs and Alys had reached behind her
and closed the door before Lady Jeannette’s shock and indignation at being
grabbed and hustled out of the hall had subsided sufficiently for her to
release a real shriek of protest. As it smote her ears, Lady Jeannette realized
it was too late. Furious, she wrested herself free from the supporting arms and
turned toward the door, but Alys’s hand was still on the latch.

Outrage gripped her again for a moment, but as Alys lifted
her hand from the latch—almost like an invitation—Lady Jeannette realized it
would be stupid to rush back into the hall screaming. The little yellow-haired
bitch would pursue her, murmuring poisonous lies, and Lady Jeannette herself,
if she were weeping or screaming or fainting, would not be able to contest
anything Alys said.

Let Alys think she has won
, Lady Jeannette thought,
sinking back into the supporting arms stretched out to her. She would find
herself in a different situation entirely if she tried this again. There were
other knives held up her sleeve, Lady Jeannette told herself, that she could
use to sever the bonds that tied Raymond to this little monster. She had a way
to demonstrate to Raymond the true cruelty of this creature’s nature, and
Raymond would see that he had made a mistake. Leave it to Alys, should she?
Very well, she would give Alys a few tasks that would expose her coarseness.
She would make Raymond hate the girl so much that he would never see her or
speak to her, except to get her with child.

Chapter Fourteen

Alphonse looked after the women with amazement, then shook
his head in disbelief. Raymond had not even glanced in that direction, he
noticed. He had gone back to the topic in hand, which was whether it was
worthwhile to pretend the wedding at Tour Dur was the first. By this time, of
course, Alphonse knew it was not.

“You promised your mother you would marry here,” Alphonse
had said when Raymond first raised the question. “I had not the heart to tell
her you were married already.”

“I am not sure what to do about that,” Raymond had replied,
looking at his father with wry resignation, “but I cannot imagine how you could
have believed for a moment that Sir William or the Earl of Cornwall would
permit their pearl without price to leave the country without being wed. They
took three weeks over it, from the time of arriving to the time the guests
departed. The archbishop of Canterbury married us, the king and Eleanor and
Sancia and Cornwall stood witness. I told you my Alys was highly valued, but I
am more than willing to marry her again, and Alys, too, thinks it is wise.”

It was at that point that they had been interrupted by Lady
Jeannette’s demands. Alphonse had started to rise with Raymond, but then sank
back. Raymond had managed his mother very well the last time. Perhaps he had
been hard, but he had made Lady Jeannette understand that Alphonse could not
forbid the marriage so that Jeannette had not wasted her time tormenting her
husband. Then Raymond’s brusque behavior and Alys’s removal of his wife had
left Alphonse speechless. Raymond had sat down again as if the whole thing had
not happened and was asking whether “our” vassals—through his bemusement
Alphonse heard that word substituted for “your”—would have contacts in England
who might have attended the ceremony.

“I do not know,” Alphonse said vaguely, and then with concern,
“that order to Gervase was of rather wide permission for your wife. What if she
should decide to empty the treasury or—”

“Alys?” Raymond laughed. “No! Her fault is the other way.
She will pinch both a coin and a man until they do double service. If you have
any doubts of your clerks, set Alys on their accounts. You should see how she
made sense of the confusion that devil Garnier left in Ibos. Of course, there
was no knowing where he threw the money and goods he gathered, but Sir Conon
has a clean beginning and a certain knowledge of what is due and from where.”

Alphonse was beginning to smile. Everything was working out
so much better than he had expected. The magnificent dower had reconciled him
to the marriage immediately. He could not have done nearly as well himself. And
now the girl seemed to be a treasure also—a weird and wonderful treasure, but
still…

“Will she know what to do for your mother?” Alphonse asked.

“Alys is an excellent physician,” Raymond assured his
father, remembering how she had treated his wounds when he had returned to
Marlowe after fighting in Wales, “but I think she will divert Mother to some
happier thoughts before there is need for physicking. In any case,
we
will hear no more of this. Alys has been taught most firmly that women’s
crochets must not disturb men’s business.”

Alphonse’s eyes opened wide, and then he smiled broadly. “I
can see now why you were willing to risk all to have her. If what you say is
true, she would indeed be a treasure, even barefoot and in a shift.” He then
suggested that they move to the greater warmth and comfort of the chairs by the
fire.