Winter Song (43 page)

At that thought, Alys almost fainted. That was why Raymond
had never come back to punish her. He planned to repudiate her. She had given
him cause enough. She would kill herself and go to hell. She deserved it, but
that, too, would injure Raymond by depriving him of her dower lands. Alys’s breath
caught on a hysterical sob, and she choked down her terror fiercely. Now she
was weaving a noose of unreality with which to hang herself.

Slowly, Alys got off the bed and went to unbar the door. It
was, in fact, highly unlikely that Raymond would repudiate her. There were too
many practical reasons against it—his own vassals had been invited to their
wedding and the Gascon lands were valuable, and perhaps he still loved her, she
thought. She still loved him, even though he had misused her in a revolting
way. Deserved or not, guilt or no guilt, anger and bitterness flicked Alys
again when she remembered his rape. That was disgusting. She had been wrong,
and he had a right to beat her, but to use her like a beast… It was better not
to think of that.

Yet the outrage at such treatment strengthened Alys, despite
her certainty of Raymond’s innocence. She was not the only one who had gone too
far. She opened the door and called Bertha, experiencing a pang of fear in the
moment before the maid answered that Raymond had removed her own servants and,
perhaps, set a jailer over her. But before she could begin to terrify herself
anew, Bertha’s voice came up the stairwell. Nor was there any sign when Bertha
entered the room carrying washing water that she was aware Alys had quarreled
with her husband.

The maid seemed subdued, but she exclaimed quite naturally
that Alys should not have barred the door because she could not get in to
replenish the fire, and now it was out. Alys, who was shivering more with
nerves than with cold, used the remark as an excuse to pull on her own shift
and long-sleeved tunic while Bertha ran down to get coals to start the fire
anew. Thus, Alys was able to hide the livid bruises remaining from Raymond’s
blows, and that gave her confidence enough to make a neutral remark about
having slept so long. At this, Bertha’s face lightened, and she began to talk
in much more her usual manner. It became clear to Alys then that Bertha’s
wariness was only a reflection of her own bad mood the previous day.

“Oh, and my lady,” Bertha chattered on, “the chaplain said
to tell you that he believes he knows of a gentlewoman suitable to care for the
children, not that I mind having them. They are the sweetest little birds and
no trouble at all.”

“When did he speak to you about this?” Alys asked, feeling
her way.

“After Mass, my lady.”

It was obvious from Bertha’s reply that Raymond had not been
at Mass, either. Bertha would surely have mentioned it. Nor could there have
been any family upheaval, for the chaplain would have known about that and not
been casually speaking about Fenice and Enid. Reflecting upon this, Alys felt
better. Perhaps Raymond still cared enough for her to keep secret from his
family what happened. However, Alys was afraid to build her hopes too high.
Should she go across to the main keep? she wondered. She shuddered at the
thought, and Bertha stirred the fire, thinking Alys was cold.

“While I do my hair, get me something to eat,” Alys said to
her maid, knowing she could not find strength to beard the lion in his den. She
could only wait for whatever would happen. “Oh,” she added, “ask the chaplain
to step across to me. I—”

“Alys?” Margot’s voice came up the stairwell. “Are you
awake? Are you well?”

Alys went rigid. Her first impulse was to run and hide from
the ultimate shame of being summoned to be punished before Raymond’s family.
But there was nowhere to hide.

“Alys?” There was anxiety in Margot’s voice.

“Come up,” Alys called, pride firming her voice. “I am
awake.”

She heard Margot’s steps hurrying up on the stairs, and
stiffened her back.

“Oh! We have had such a to-do,” Margot cried as she entered
the room. “Did you know that Raymond had returned during the night?”

Color rushed into Alys’s face. Such a question was quick
proof that Raymond had said nothing to his family, but hope can freeze a throat
and tongue as well as fear. Alys could not answer Margot’s question.
Fortunately Margot assumed the silence was an answer and, in any case, she was
far more interested in telling her news than in receiving a reply. She sank
dramatically into a chair and began to recount the events of the morning. As
Alys listened, her eyes grew wider and wider and joy flooded her. She could hardly
believe her ears and kept asking Margot to repeat what she was saying.

Margot did so with enthusiasm, thrilled at the reception she
was getting. Finally, when every single word, expression, and gesture had been
detailed, Margot asked, “Whatever do you think got
into
Raymond? Did you
say something to him about Lucie? No, of course, you could not have done so.
You had not seen her or spoken to her until after Raymond left, and you did not
see him after that. Good gracious, Mother is
furious
! Whyever did you
sleep so late? You missed all the excitement.”

Chapter Nineteen

The day, which had started with a violent upheaval, was
destined to be permanently memorable, but neither Alys nor Margot knew that
yet. Bertha returned with the food she had been sent to get, and as soon as
Alys swallowed enough to stay her immediate hunger, she and Margot hurried over
to the great hall. After Margot had unburdened herself of her more exciting
news, she remembered that she had been sent to Alys by her father. Soon after
Raymond left with Lucie, Alphonse had realized that Alys had not been at Mass
or at breakfast and he began to worry about her.

But when she arrived, Alys was glowing with happiness. No
man in the world, she thought, was equal in goodness and generosity to her
husband. It was not that Alys expected to escape his wrath or punishment. She
believed he had gone away not only to remove Lucie from Tour Dur, but because
he wanted to cool himself before he dealt with her. She swore to herself that
she would kiss his hands when he beat her. Her joy was that he had not betrayed
her, that he would not expose her to the ridicule of his mother and sisters.
And, above and beyond that goodness, despite his own assertion that she had no
right to protest his keeping of other women, it was clear that he never
intended Lucie remain in Tour Dur. In addition, even after Alys had enraged him
so unjustly, his first act was to remove the source of her anger.

Assured by her looks that nothing ailed her and by a smiling
apology for her late sleeping and a promise of amendment, Alphonse did not
question Alys. He could not have probed too deeply anyway. Lady Jeannette was
so full of her son’s mad behavior that all other subjects of conversation were
impossible. In the full flush of her happiness and relief, Alys was more
sympathetic to Lady Jeannette than was anyone else. She was very willing to
listen to endless repetitions of what had happened.

It did not matter to Alys that these repetitions were full
of Lady Jeannette’s self-justification. No matter how the tale was told, it
reiterated the bases of Alys’s joy. First, Raymond’s energy proved that,
whatever his reason for not reacting to his wife’s abuse, he was not ill.
Second, Raymond had intended that Lucie’s marriage be arranged as soon as he
received his father’s permission for betrothal. And third, and even more
marvelous, his haste and fury showed his eagerness to remove the source of Alys’s
hurt and set her mind at ease. However often Lady Jeannette repeated herself
and her complaints, she was telling Alys a tale of perfect love.

Alphonse was almost as much in love with his daughter-by-marriage
as was his son. It seemed to him that as soon as Alys appeared, he was freed
from all the unpleasant aspects of his wife’s demands for his attention.
Raymond’s news about the faithfulness of the vassals had washed away the
bitterest portion of his guilt, but enough remained that he was spurred to
exert himself to fulfill his part of the bargain he had made with his son. He
had wished to write some letters, but had not been able to get away from Lady
Jeannette. Then Alys came, and he was free.

Jeanine’s feelings toward her sister-by-marriage had also
undergone a change. It was Alys who had given her the key to unlock her prison
and pointed out the door. Not only had her father promised to seek a suitable
marriage for her as soon as possible, but he had mentioned that the way Alys’s
dower was settled obviated the necessity for him to add anything to it or to
Raymond’s allowance. Thus, Jeanine’s portion could be increased. And now, Alys
was sitting patiently with Jeanine’s mother, not quite agreeing that Raymond
was cruel and mad but still nodding and murmuring sympathetically so that
Jeanine could escape unnoticed. It was Raymond’s disgusting behavior when he
announced the marriage, Jeanine told herself, that had prejudiced her against
Alys. She should not have blamed Alys for what Raymond had done. Alys herself
had many good points.

Lady Jeannette had not been won over yet despite Alys’s
attention to her, but the event that would conquer her began before nightfall.
The connection was not immediately apparent. No one would have guessed that
particular outcome from the tragedy that preceded it.

In the late afternoon, a tired rider flogging an exhausted
horse called that he had an urgent message. The name of his master brought
Alphonse, looking pale and shocked, out into the bailey. And the rider’s news,
although it was not really unexpected, wrenched a cry of pain from Alphonse.
Raymond-Berenger, his father, was dead!

Alphonse discovered in that moment that it is one thing to
talk about an event and quite another to experience it. Although he had
discussed his father’s death calmly with Raymond, now that it had taken place
he realized that he had never believed it
could
happen. He was stunned,
grief-stricken, and terrified all at once. He had loved his father and depended
on him. Now the whole world seemed to be collapsing and sliding away from him.
Alphonse reeled, and Arnald caught him and supported him, calling over his
shoulder to the nearest man-at-arms to fetch Lady Alys quickly.

Alys ran down from the women’s quarters at once when called,
believing at first that Alphonse had been taken ill. When she heard the cause
of his faintness, however, she bade the man hurry back and have Lord Alphonse
carried into the keep. This was not a time for her to intrude. Comfort must be
administered by those most familiar. Alys herself ran up again, trying to think
of a way to present the news that would not bring on hysterics, but there was
no time for long, gentle preparation. All she could do was to sink into a deep
curtsy before Lady Jeannette. This was unusual enough to be a warning.

“Madame,” Alys said softly. “I am the bearer of ill tidings.
I beg you to be strong so that you may comfort your husband. The Count of
Provence is dead, and Lord Alphonse is sore stricken with grief.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Lady Jeannette cried,
“This day is accursed! My son mad, my father-by-marriage dead, my husband—”

“Your husband needs you, madame,” Alys pleaded, praying that
for once in her life Lady Jeannette would, at least temporarily, abandon her
selfishness. Then Alys was stricken by a brilliant idea. “If you do not comfort
Lord Alphonse and support him,” she warned, “he could become ill, even himself
die of grief.”

That remark hit home. If Alphonse were seriously ill or
dead, Lady Jeannette realized, Raymond would rule Tour Dur. Alys would be
mistress there, and Lady Jeannette herself would either be put out to a small
dower manor or sink into insignificance in her own home. The selfishness that
ordinarily kept Lady Jeannette at rest while everyone around her worked to
support and amuse her now spurred her to activity, as Alys had intended. Lady
Jeannette rose from her chair and hurried to the stairs.

Alys uttered a sigh of relief. She did not believe anyone
could die of grief. If it were possible, she thought, she herself would have
done so last night or when she woke this morning. However, death from grief was
a convention of those ridiculous lute songs Lady Jeannette loved so much.
Likely
she
believed grief could kill. In any case, she would now attend
most assiduously to Lord Alphonse, and that was most important. What next? Alys
wondered.

The question had been rhetorical as it rose in her mind,
more an exclamation about the fact that she seemed to be living in a whirlwind
for the last few days. However, as the words formed, they took on a practical
context. Literally next was to inform Raymond. Down the stairs Alys ran again,
just slipping out past the party that was supporting Alphonse up to his wife’s
bedchamber. He was weeping freely, and Lady Jeannette was murmuring comfort.
Neither of them noticed her.

Snatching a cloak, Alys ran out to the bailey calling for
Arnald. He was with her in a moment, asking anxiously whether they should close
the keep. He had been only a small child when King John died in 1218, but he
had heard many tales of the violent disorders of that time. Moreover, he was
worried and startled by Lord Alphonse’s collapse, unable to imagine what kind
of catastrophe had overtaken them. Nothing he knew of could have caused a
similar collapse in Sir William.

“No, there is no need for that,” Alys assured him. “Lord
Raymond has spoken to me of this already. It was not unexpected. There may be
war, but not in the next few days or weeks. What is most necessary is that this
news go to Lord Raymond at once. You must tell the master-at-arms—oh, good God,
he is dead, too.”

“There is a new man,” Arnald told her.

“Very well. He must choose a trusty man who knows the way to
Gordes to carry a letter to Lord Raymond. Let him come to the keep. I will go
in and write the letter now.”