Winter Song (47 page)

While young Beatrice and the other ladies were by no means
sequestered or ignorant, enough of the Moorish influence remained in these
southern lands to cause women to be regarded as toys. Lady Beatrice the elder,
who was a Savoyard, was herself much more like Alys than like Lady Jeannette.
Lady Beatrice had always taken a relatively active part in the management of
the estates and politics, particularly after her childbearing years were ended,
however, she could not throw off the influence of the area completely, as the
nurses and tutors who attended her daughters were mostly native.

This produced a most interesting effect. Margaret, queen of
France, the eldest daughter, and Eleanor, queen of England, the next in age,
had received most of Lady Beatrice’s direct attention. Each was actively
interested in the affairs of the world and of her husband’s domain. Sancia, Countess
of Cornwall, the third daughter, was less aggressive than her elder sisters,
partly because her nature was gentler but also because, by the time she reached
the age when her attitude toward her purposes and duties was being formed, Lady
Beatrice’s attention had already been drawn from her nursery to wider affairs.
Those were the years when her husband’s hold on his province was seriously
threatened, and Lady Beatrice was far more often acting as Raymond-Berenger’s
envoy than as a mother. Young Beatrice had already been born, but she, the
last, was the least benefited by her mother’s strong personality and active
intelligence.

Thus, Beatrice was the most like Margot and Jeanine in that
she had been taught a woman’s place was to be an ornament, the jewel in a man’s
crown of life and the solace of his idle hours, rather than a helpmate. But
there had been another influence in young Beatrice’s life, her father. She had
been his favorite and had absorbed a portion of his ambition and strong will.

Alys, with her exotic blonde coloring and her air of
assurance, was fascinating to Beatrice, but far more fascinating were the
discussions of her mother and Sir Romeo, to which she was not invited. Alys
thought this was a mistake, for she saw that Beatrice was ambitious and
intelligent and felt it would do good for her to know the reasons behind the
decision to which they came. Alys was not sure whether they excluded her
because her questions and objections might impede the discussions uselessly or
because they did not trust her to be discreet or because they simply forgot
her, but she felt Beatrice should be prepared and never turned the subject when
it came up.

On the day before the date on which the vassals were summoned
to arrive, Margot had come round to the well-worn but ever
interesting
topic once more. “Do you think,” she asked, “that your mother and Sir Romeo
have found a way to prevent your sisters from contesting the will?”

“They must,” Beatrice responded sharply. “My sisters have
had their portions and are great enough. It is unthinkable to break up Provence
into little pieces.”

“I agree,” Alys said. “It would only make trouble to have a
keep here and a keep there owing fealty to different overlords. I do not think
either King Henry or King Louis is greedy or would wish to violate the final
will of their father-by-marriage. Uncle Richard, I know, would never think of
it.”

“Yes, but Margaret is not likely to accept it,” Margot
remarked, “even if Eleanor and Sancia do not press their rights.”

“They have no rights!” Beatrice exclaimed hotly. “My father
left Provence to me! They are queens, or rich as queens, already. They cannot
have my share.”

“I am sure,” Alys suggested, “that a way will be found to
content Margaret also. If Beatrice were to be married to a close relation of
hers, for example, the benefit to the family as a whole—”

“Margaret is a spiteful bitch,” Beatrice snapped, cutting Alys
off. “She would not care for anyone’s benefit but her own. Margot is right. She
is the one who will make trouble, and once she starts demanding her share,
Eleanor and Sancia will demand theirs as well. Margaret will set Louis to
insist that all the daughters should be equal or that
she
as eldest
should inherit.”

“Louis could not ask for the whole because that would not be
acceptable to King Henry, of that I am sure,” Alys said. “And there is
something Louis can be offered that would be more valuable to him than his wife’s
quarter share. Louis has a brother who is young and not ill-looking. Do you not
think the king would prefer to have Provence whole, strong, and at peace and
his brother well married than to start a new war with England or open the door to
King Henry to gain a foothold in Provence?”

Beatrice wrinkled her nose, and Margot said, “Charles of
Anjou is a grouch.”

“I have heard that he is very serious,” Alys amended, giving
Margot a monitory glance, “and that he is likely to enlarge and strengthen any
estate that comes to him rather than dissipate it in riotous living. That is no
bad characteristic for a husband.”

“He is ambitious enough,” Beatrice agreed, “but the French
are all dull dogs. He cannot sing or write poetry.”

“That may be had anywhere,” Alys pointed out.

Of course, Alys was thinking of minstrels and of the
wandering troubadours who sang and played and would compose poems for anyone
who had a few coins to spare. It would no more have occurred to Alys to have an
ami amoureux
than to grow horns. She knew nothing of the convention by
which great ladies were permitted to surround themselves with a crowd of young
men, all of whom professed willingness to die for a kiss. However, both
Beatrice and Margot knew that style of life well—at least, by repute if not in
actuality. Lady Beatrice was too busy and too sensible and Lady Jeannette too
fearful that her daughters rather than herself might be the focus of attention,
so neither encouraged a “court of love”.

Beatrice considered Alys’s statement. “It is true,” she
said. “There is most excellent reason in everything you say, but why are you so
sure that Charles will be my mother’s and Sir Romeo’s choice? They do not love
the French overmuch.”

“I am not
sure
,” Alys replied, unwilling to admit that
Raymond had said it was to be, and as far as Alys was concerned, if Raymond
said something, it must be so. “Merely, it seemed to me the safest path for you
and for Provence. Charles would not be subject to his brother, so Provence
would remain free, yet Charles would incline always to support his brother, so
Louis would gain by that. On the other hand, Louis would never, I think,
threaten Charles and would help him in times of trouble. What is more, although
Charles has lands in France, they are such as can be governed by deputies.
Thus, he will be able to give his mind and time to Provence.”

“Well,” Beatrice confessed, “you are not the only one who
has mentioned Charles to me, but I cannot say I took well to him when I saw him,
and he did not even look at me.”

Alys was glad she was not the only one hinting of this
marriage. In fact, there was something in Beatrice’s manner that implied the
hint had come from her mother. She laughed at Beatrice’s remark, having
previously heard the story of this meeting between Beatrice and Charles.

“Why should he look at you?” Alys asked merrily. “He was a
young man of fifteen and you hardly more than a babe of nine. I assure you,
dear Beatrice, he will look at you now. And fifteen is not such a good age for
the male as it is for the female. A woman is a woman at fifteen, but a man is
still half a boy, with a changing voice and legs and arms too long. You will
find him better, much better, at twenty.”

Naturally enough, since everyone in Provence would be
affected by the outcome of Sir Romeo’s and Lady Beatrice’s conferences, similar
discussions to the one Alys and Beatrice had were taking place in widely
divergent places. The notices of Raymond-Berenger’s death and the summons to
attend his obsequies had been received by those to whom they were sent within
the province, although it was too soon for the courts of England and France to
have heard. The attitudes of those who speculated about the fate of young
Beatrice were as various as the natures and intelligence of the speakers.

At the citadel of Les Baux, Master Ernaldus was thinking
along unique lines. He was now a favorite with both Lady Isabel and Sir
Guillaume. The former, aside from affection, felt her half brother was having
an excellent influence on her son. Sir Guillaume also thought Master Ernaldus’s
influence was excellent, but for widely different reasons. Sir Guillaume found
that his bastard uncle not only relieved him of most of the tedious aspects of
managing his estate but increased the profit from it considerably.

Moreover, Ernaldus had pointed out that the friction between
Sir Guillaume and his mother came about from too much honesty. Some things were
not fit for a woman’s ears, Ernaldus said. In fact, most things were not. If
Sir Guillaume would restrict his conversations with his mother to the weather,
his attendance at church, and formal visits to neighbors or suchlike matters, he
would have less trouble with her. And, if Guillaume felt he wished to tell
someone of those adventures of which his mother would not approve…well, his
uncle was not young, but he had not forgotten his youth completely. He would
even vouch that Sir Guillaume was attending to business, if he should wish to
be away, and attend to the business for him.

Soon enough Ernaldus was the primary adviser and chief
source of comfort to both mother and son. From both he had heard the tale of
the humbling of the family of des Baux, a long lament from Lady Isabel, who
swore the shame had killed her husband, and a furious denunciation of the Count
of Provence from Guillaume, who adduced all kinds of treachery and trickery in
a feud that stretched back two generations into the preceding century. Ernaldus
made the proper responses to each, soothing his half sister and holding out
vague notions of redress to her son.

Naturally the notice of Raymond-Berenger’s death was
received with rejoicing at Les Baux. It came to them earlier than to most
others because they were little more than three leagues from Arles. First Sir
Guillaume exclaimed that he would not go. It did not matter to him that he had
been forced to swear fealty to Raymond-Berenger, the count was dead. It was
time to break away and perhaps take a small keep or two in the neighborhood.
Lady Isabel cried out in protest, but her brother led her away promising her
all would be well. Guillaume thanked him for removing an impediment to his
desire, but Master Ernaldus shook his head and said that, for once, he agreed
with Lady Isabel.

“This is more important man a raid on a small keep,”
Ernaldus pointed out. “That will make your neighbors angry and wary. Let us
see, instead, whether there is a way to make your father’s old allies band
together again and take you for their leader. It is your natural position, but
your youth is against you. Give me a day or two to think.”

By this time, Sir Guillaume was so accustomed to Master
Ernaldus being right and smoothing his path to whatever desire he had that he
did not argue. He was unaccustomed to being thwarted at all. On the other hand,
the prize being offered was greater than a pretty girl or a new trinket. The
idea of retaking the position his father held appealed to him strongly.

Over the next two days, Ernaldus looked more often at his
young master than he usually permitted himself to do. Sir Guillaume was excited
and restless, his dark eyes bright with eagerness, often pacing the hall with
the light, lithe stride of the competent warrior. At such times a turn or swing
would show the hard curve of his thigh against his tunic or the fullness of the
pectorals on his chest.

Out of Guillaume’s appearance, the idea was born. Guillaume
was a handsome young man. He had all the skills and charms that could be
desired by a fool of a woman. He played the lute, he sang most tunefully, he
could turn as pretty a phrase as any troubadour. Why should Guillaume not have
the heiress himself? The talk Ernaldus had heard from visitors to Les Baux was
that the girl would most likely be offered to Charles of Anjou, and no one was
happy about that.

At this point Ernaldus paused and considered that the
visitors to Les Baux were old friends of the family or young companions of Sir
Guillaume. They might not be expressing the general opinion. The family of des
Baux had supported Raymond of Toulouse against Louis of France and Raymond-Berenger
of Provence. The older friends were still smarting from the defeat, and the
younger men simply desired excitement, which the accession of Charles of Anjou
would definitely inhibit.

True, Ernaldus thought, but there were enough of them to
hold Les Baux against a far greater army for the few months it would take to
wed and bed young Beatrice and get her with child. After that, no one would try
to invalidate the marriage. No matter how many armies came from France and the
rest of Provence, Les Baux on its precipitous cliff, standing clear on the
plain, would be impregnable-. There was no chance the citadel could be taken
unless it were starved out. It had not fallen in the wars that ruined its
master. Defeats in other battles had added up to hopelessness, and Guillaume’s
father had not waited to be besieged. No matter how many attacks against the
cliffs and walls of Les Baux failed, hope was gone and the older Sir Guillaume
had made terms.

Yes, but this was not a question of war, Ernaldus reflected.
For the few months until Beatrice showed a big belly, Les Baux could hold out
easily. Ernaldus did not believe they could retain the whole province, but he
did not care. A quarter of it would more than restore the fortune of Guillaume
des Baux. Moreover, with the other overlords so far away and the final
testament of Raymond-Berenger in favor of his youngest daughter fresh in
everyone’s mind, it would be possible to make inroads on the portions yielded
to the other sisters.