Winter Song (42 page)

“No,” Bertha cried, but there was no need to restrain the
children. The girls had seen their father running and knew they would not be
welcome when he was in a hurry.

After breakfast, Bertha dressed them warmly and told them to
play outside until they were cold or she called them. She went up and tried
Alys’s door again, but it was still barred. A few minutes later, Enid popped
her head in the door to announce that they had seen Papa again, but he was
still in a hurry so they had not tried to speak to him. Bertha said absently
that they were good girls, but she was frowning when she turned back to her
work of stitching up, according to a new pattern, the gown Alys had unpicked
the preceding day. It was very odd that Lord Raymond should not come and ask
for his wife.

Lady Jeannette, on the other hand, was furious because she
thought that was just what Raymond had been going to do when he ran through the
room without even greeting them. She had prepared an acid remark about the
effects of uxoriousness on her son’s manners, but he forestalled her when he
returned by saying, “I must go up to the women’s quarters. I must speak to
Lucie.”

“Lucie!”

It was a chorus—surprise from Alphonse, shock from Lady Jeannette,
disgust from Jeanine, and simple amazement from Margot.

“I need to know the name of her husband,” Raymond said
impatiently.

“Husband?” Alphonse asked, puzzled. He knew Lucie had been
Raymond’s woman. Surely he would have remembered if she had been given in marriage.

“But—” Lady Jeannette cried.

Too wrapped in his own purpose to notice either his father’s
confusion or his mother’s trepidation, Raymond snapped bitterly, “I assure you,
I will not ravage any of the women in the five minutes I need to get an answer,”
and he strode away without waiting for permission.

Lady Jeannette began to sniffle, and Alphonse patted her
hand. He had expelled a great deal of shame and bile during the previous day’s
violent upheaval, and he was at present in charity with his wife. He leaned
over and stroked her shoulder and spoke soothingly, but Lady Jeannette scarcely
heard him. She had thought Raymond was coming back to normal—and now this!

Meanwhile, Raymond had bounded up the stairs and into the
large hall in which the women worked. “Lucie!” he bellowed.

Gasps and short cries of surprise came from all over the
room. Raymond stared around, but no one stood up and he could not see Lucie
from where he stood.

“Damn you,” he shouted, “come out here to me. All I want is
to ask you a question.”

Lucie was not naturally stupid. Having learned that her
daughters had nothing to do with Lady Jeannette’s order to keep out of Raymond’s
sight, it was not difficult for her to guess that the order must have something
to do with this question that Raymond wished to ask her. She sat frozen at her
loom.

Raymond, of course, associated her reluctance to come to him
with a fear that he would wish to use her again. “Come out here,” he repeated. “Do
not make me come looking for you. I swear I only want to learn your husband’s
name, and no harm will come to him.”

The last sentence made no sense to Lucie at all, but the one
that preceded it allowed no further hesitation. Lucie stood up slowly. If there
had been a place to hide she would have done so. Raymond, she knew, would
protect her no longer since he was about to be married, and Lady Jeannette
would punish her disobedience. But there was no escape.

“What the devil ails you?” Raymond asked. “All I want is for
you to tell me your husband’s name. Then you can go back to work. Well?”

Lucie stood staring at him, and Raymond had to control an impulse
to slap her. He wondered how he had brought himself to lie with such a stupid,
fearful slave. With an effort, he softened his voice.

“I promise you,” Raymond said, “I will do your man no harm.
I only wish to speak with him. Just tell me his name.”

“I have no husband,” Lucie whispered.

“What?” Raymond roared. “Did you not tell me you wished to
marry some huntsman? Did I not give you five gold pieces as dower?”

Tears poured down Lucie’s face. “Do not be so angry, my
lord,” she pleaded. “I did tell you I wished to marry Gregoire the huntsman,
and you did give me the gold pieces.” She fumbled at the breast of her dress. “I
have them here. Do not be so angry. Take them back if you will.” She was
shaking so hard that Raymond caught her arm to steady her.

“I am not angry at you,” he said, but his eyes were like the
blue flame at the hottest part of a fire. “Do you know how it came about that
your marriage to Gregoire was not arranged?”

“No, my lord,” Lucie sobbed. “I only know the day after you
departed, Gregoire was sent away.”

“Sent away! Where? By whom? Stop crying, you fool!”

As well as she could, Lucie choked back her sobs. “He was
sent to Gordes. More I do not know, my lord.”

“Gordes? A huntsman from Aix was sent to Gordes?”

Lucie only trembled, but Raymond had not expected any answer
from her. His questions were rhetorical and only an expression of shock and
outrage. There could be no practical reason to send a huntsman from the
low-lying lands of Aix to the mountain fastness of Gordes. Also the timing was
too pat. Gregoire had been sent away as soon as Raymond himself left Aix. It
was clear that someone in the family had deliberately ordered Gregoire to be
transferred to prevent the marriage.

“Do you still wish to marry this man?” Raymond’s voice
grated through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” Lucie gasped.

Raymond did not reply to that, only seized Lucie by the
wrist and dragged her after him down the stairs and into the great hall.

“Who ordered that Gregoire the huntsman be sent to Gordes?”
Raymond thundered.

Everyone in the hall froze into position. By now all the
servants knew that Raymond had slain the master-at-arms and had had his body
hung in chains at the barracks. There was no longer any insolence among the
guards, who walked softly and in fear and trembling. If Lord Raymond whispered,
they leapt to obey. Lord Alphonse might carry the title, but all knew Lord
Raymond was truly the master of Tour Dur.

At the family group where Raymond stood, shock did not breed
silence. The three women let out cries of alarm, and Alphonse jumped.

“Shut your mouths, you ninnies,” Raymond bellowed at his
sisters, “or I will slap you sillier than you already are.”

“Raymond,” Alphonse protested, getting to his feet, “are you
mad?”

“If I am not, it is no fault of anyone in this keep,”
Raymond raged. “Did
you
order Gregoire be sent to Gordes?”

“Who the devil is Gregoire?” Alphonse shouted back, losing
his temper.

Raymond did not even glance at him. “Then it was
you
,
madame,” he snarled at his mother, his free hand working as if it were being
restrained from closing on her throat. “Tell me why.”

Raymond’s last three words held such a threat of violence
that Alphonse tried instinctively to interpose his body between his son and his
wife, but he was blocked by the table. He reached out to hold Raymond, however,
Raymond had not leaned over to strike or choke his mother as Alphonse feared he
might. And Lady Jeannette was so frightened by her son’s expression that all
her tricks deserted her. She could not scream or weep or faint, and his eyes,
bright and hard as steel, pierced her.

“She is the best weaver,” Lady Jeannette quavered. “Why
should I lose her service to satisfy a silly notion you had that she should
have a life of her own? She would have been with child constantly and no good
to
me
with a house full of brats.”

The glare in Raymond’s eyes diminished. He had suspected
that his mother had kept Lucie and introduced her to Alys, as she had
introduced his daughters to Alys, to cause trouble between himself and his
wife. The reason she had given, however, was so much in accord with her normal
selfishness that he was sure it was the truth. He started to turn away, Lucie’s
wrist still gripped in his hand.

Lady Jeannette had seen her son’s rage cool and took courage
from that. She associated this latest display with outbursts engendered in the
past by frustration, and mistakenly believed he had accepted her logic. “Now
you have your answer,” she said. “Let my weaving woman go back to her work.”

Raymond spun back on his heel. “You selfish, stu—”

“Raymond!” Alphonse bellowed.

First Raymond glared at his father but then swallowed the
words he was about to say. It would do no good to finish the sentence and call
his mother a stupid bitch, for it was not only Lucie’s presence in the keep
that had caused the trouble. His mother could not have foreseen the combination
of circumstances that had kept him out of Alys’s bed, because he
had
intended to ride home from his aunt’s manor no matter what the time. He had
only told Alys he would not so that she would go to sleep. It was the storm that
had prevented him. And his mother knew nothing of the political problems that
had kept him talking to his father all night and had sent him off to Gréoux.

More collectedly, Raymond said, “She is not your weaving
woman. I paid her father for her. She is
mine
. And now you have lost her
completely, for I will take her to Gordes myself and see her married to
Gregoire. You have caused me—”

Raymond cut that off sharply and turned away again. He would
not think of exposing his troubles to his family, although he was not at all
disturbed by having told Arnald. There was something wrong in that, he knew,
but he was comfortable with Arnald in the same way he was comfortable with
Alys—or had been. Raymond’s mouth set in a bitter line, and he started toward
the door that led to the outer stair. There was a cacophony of voices behind
him, but he ignored it.

Then he heard swift steps and felt a touch on his arm. “Raymond.”

It was Margot. Of them all, Raymond had a soft spot in his
heart for his younger sister, especially now because she had welcomed Alys. He
stopped and turned his head.

“Let poor Lucie at least fetch her cloak, Raymond,” Margot
pleaded. “She will freeze if you take her to the mountains in nothing but that
gown.”

Raymond could feel Lucie shaking, and although he knew it
was not the cold that made her tremble, he recognized the reason in what Margot
said. He himself was not dressed for traveling. He hesitated nonetheless,
suddenly afraid that Alys would come in. He could not bear the thought of
facing her in front of his family, but then he realized it was past the time
for breaking fast. She was avoiding him. That hurt him, but at the same time he
was grateful.

Then he remembered his other purpose for coming home and
realized he had not told his father the good news about the vassals. The joy
had gone out of it, the joy had gone out of everything. Still, what was right
was right. None of this was his father’s fault. He let go of Lucie’s wrist.

“Go get your things,” he said to her, “whatever you wish to
bring with you to Gordes.” Then he looked at Margot. “Her clothing will not be
warm enough for the mountains,” he said to his sister. “See if you can find her
some old furs and a bolt of warm woolen cloth. I will pay for them or furnish
new if necessary.” He paused and then in a softer voice said, “Thank you.”

Alys was finally wakened by her hunger. She lay for a
moment, staring at the bed curtains, which she had forgotten to draw, and then
through the opening in them at the barred door. Then she closed her eyes, but
blanking out the sight could not hold back her memories. After a while she sat
up slowly. “God help me,” she whispered. “I must have been mad.” Her underlying
doubt about Raymond’s guilt, which had begun the night before, had been made
clear during her sleep. Alys did not realize that she had been emotionally
unbalanced by the strain of dealing with Lady Jeannette and her lack of
experience with volatile, violent personalities. Her calm father and her
outwardly placid stepmother had never exposed her to that kind of emotional
eruption, and even Uncle Richard, who shouted and ranted, only raged about
political matters, never personal ones.

Now with her perspective restored, every false notion about
Raymond that she had embraced marched through her mind, only to be rejected.
She knew Raymond had married her only for love that he would, indeed, as he had
once sworn, have taken her barefoot in a shift. Lucie was beautiful, but Alys
knew in her heart that Raymond had not returned to Tour Dur to lie with her
that first night or any night. Moreover, Raymond was neither unkind nor crude.
If he still had a lust for Lucie, he would have established her in the town or
in some other keep conveniently near. Actually, the fact that Lucie was still
in Tour Dur was almost a guarantee that Raymond had no further interest in her.

Alys was so sick at heart that she could not even weep. She
was frightened, too, not only of Raymond but for him. Now that her mind was
clear, it was inconceivable to her that he should not have reacted with rage to
being struck with a whip and driven with a burning torch as if he were a wild
beast. But he had not reacted at all. He had responded to the pain and threat
dully, like an animal driven beyond endurance, and there had been no sense, no
recognition, in his eyes. It was as if he were asleep, except that Alys knew no
one could have slept through that.

Worst of all was Alys’s feeling of isolation. There was no
one to whom she could turn for help or advice. If only her father or Elizabeth
were near… And then she shuddered. Nothing could ever convince her to tell her
father or her gentle stepmother what she had done. Her father would have been
as angry as Raymond, not at her objections to Raymond’s keeping a mistress but
at her manner of objecting. And if her father ever heard that she had sewn
together a misfit garment of untruth and then had beaten her innocent husband,
whom she had forced to wear it, with a whip… Alys shuddered again. If Raymond
did not kill her first, her father would do so when Raymond sent her home in
disgrace.