Royal Dynasty: Fire Song Part 10

Right on the word, a huge stone from a machine on the walls flew at them. Aubery shoved Hereford violently away from their own mangonel, at which the missile had probably been aimed, stumbling after him off balance. The stone struck him a glancing blow on the left shoulder, pushing him in the direction he was already staggering so that he would have fallen heavily on his overlord had Hereford not rolled away with the presence of mind and agility that had saved his life more than once in battle.

Aubery, too, had been twisting as he fell to avoid Hereford, so that he landed on the already bruised shoulder and uttered a loud yelp. The stone struck simultaneously, about twenty feet beyond the mangonel and two or three from Aubery. The impact scattered dirt and small stones far and wide, several of which struck the two men with considerable force. Both yelled with pain and surprise and then, as the lighter particles of earth, twigs, and leaves rained down on them, they lay where they were, laughing, until the crew of the mangonel rushed over and helped them to their feet.

"I was just about to agree with you," Aubery said, after he had spit the debris out of his mouth. "I still agree with you, but I wish what resistance they do put up did not choose to fall on us."

Having rid his own mouth of foreign matter, Hereford ordered the crew of the mangonel to summon help, lever the machine back onto its rollers, and move it some yards to the left and forward of its present position. Then he turned to Aubery. "That was remarkably apt." He shook his head. "A warning to us both that contempt for even the least warlike of enemies can bring a man to destruction. It is told that Richard Coeur de Lion died that way, struck by a chance arrow while riding unarmed around a besieged keep where action was stalled."

He put his hand on Aubery's shoulder, about to thank him for thrusting him out of the way, but Aubery yelped again, and Hereford drew back his hand hurriedly.

"Is it broken?" he asked anxiously.

Carefully Aubery raised and rotated his arm. It hurt, but with the aching protest of bruised muscles, not with the sharp agony of grating bone. "No, only bruised," he replied.

Nonetheless, Hereford insisted he come back to the tent and allow a leech to look over it. The man agreed that no major bone was broken, but he eyed the huge, already darkening bruise that ran down Aubery's arm, over his shoulder and across his back, and suggested that his patient not use the arm for a week or two. A bone, while not snapped completely, might be cracked, he pointed out, or on sudden impact the ends of the bones in the joint might have been chipped. If Aubery used the arm, he warned, he might cause the cracked bone to break or loosen the chips so that they came away from the bone and settled elsewhere to cause lasting harm.

"I will keep it still," Aubery promised. "It is no pleasure to me to move it."

"Why do you not go home," Hereford suggested after watching the leech fashion a sling for Aubery's arm. "Aside from giving me your company, you really have nothing to do here. Any task I have set you could be done as easily by any other man. It is no more than a long day's ride to Blancheforte. I can send for you if I need you."

Hereford's mention of Blancheforte immediately brought Fenice into Aubery's mind, and his mental picture was such that he blushed. Mistaking the rising color for the wrath of hurt pride, Hereford said hastily, "It is not that I find you unnecessary to me, Aubery. You will heal faster there so that I will have full use of you more quickly. Here you will forever be forgetting yourself and doing what you should not. In Blancheforte, your wife will devise gentle amus.e.m.e.nts for you."

Aubery choked. The amus.e.m.e.nt that had just pa.s.sed across his mind's eye might do his shoulder more harm than any military act in which his left hand was engaged.

"What the devil ails you?" Hereford asked, somewhat annoyed, but holding on to his temper both because Aubery had saved his life only a short time ago and because he was really very fond of his liegeman, even if his sensitivity was a trial.

"I beg your pardon," Aubery gasped, beginning to laugh. "I did not mean to refuse your kindness, my lord, but the amus.e.m.e.nt I was contemplating at the moment you spoke was not...er...of a particularly gentle sort. If you really can spare me, I will be glad of it."

Hereford roared and just barely stopped himself from clouting Aubery on his sore shoulder. "Go," he agreed, "but leave your armor and accoutrements here. I will care for them, and if I need you, you will have nothing to do but ride to me as fast as you can. In the case that I must go one way and you another, I can send them to Blancheforte or give them into the care of Sir William or Lord Raymond."

"Well, then, if you will give me leave, my lord, I must go and speak to the gentlemen you named. They will have letters or messages for Lady Alys."

Chapter Fourteen.

Aubery first rode to where William was camped among the troops sent by Richard of Cornwall. His stepfather questioned him anxiously about what had befallen him and then agreed that probably no great harm had been done but that it was wise to rest the arm. He was as bored as everyone else and said he would happily have accompanied Aubery back to Blancheforte except that he did not trust Cornwall's va.s.sals not to begin a war among themselves just to relieve the tedium.

Raymond also exclaimed over Aubery's bound arm, but his eyes lit when he heard Aubery had leave. "I cannot let you go alone," he insisted, eyes dancing. "Are you not my son-by-marriage? Do I not owe my son my tenderest care? I must accompany you so that you may be protected in your helpless state."

"If you want to go home," Aubery sputtered, "why not just go? You have Sir Oliver, who is a more than adequate deputy during this idle time. What need for you to be here? The king himself is in Bordeaux."

"Is that not a good enough reason to be here?" Raymond asked cynically. "I do not wish to be a mere fifteen minutes away by messenger from the king, at least, not if he knows of it. That would make me too vulnerable to involvement in more of Henry's 'little plans', and if I can avoid that, I will be glad."

"I forgot his tendency to meddle in the doings of Bordeaux," Aubery admitted.

Raymond shrugged, then added, "Not that all the ideas the king has are bad, not at all, but I must continue to live here and do not wish to be known as his tool. Had I left the siege for no particular reason, I must, out of courtesy, have stopped to visit the king when I pa.s.sed through Bordeaux." He paused again and grinned broadly, continuing in a greasily sanctimonious voice, "But it would be a dreadful cruelty to make my wounded and pain-racked son-by-marriage wait while I paid a casual call of courtesy. And then in my anxiety over your condition, I would not wish to leave Blancheforte even for an hour until I felt it necessary to return to the siege."

"If you think I am going to let you have me dragged thirteen leagues in a horse litter just so that you will not need to visit the king-" Aubery began.

"Oh, no." Raymond laughed. "That would be very bad for a shoulder that might be shattered. I would be waiting, of course, for you to show you could move your arm. I said you were pain-racked, not weak. You can ride."

"I tremble with joy at your generosity," Aubery said sardonically, and then grinned. "Actually, I will not be sorry for your company. That road is rife with outlaws. My servant is stout enough and handy with a staff, and I could take a couple of men-at-arms, but I hate to expose them to the temptation of remaining in Bordeaux instead of returning here at once. They are bored to death, too."

It was agreed that they would start at first light. They traveled without interference, since Raymond took with him some of the men from Blancheforte. The party arrived at dusk, just before the evening meal, and Fenice and Alys were down in the courtyard to greet them with cries of joy. As they dismounted, Raymond called out a warning to Fenice to beware of her husband's bad shoulder but could say no more because his head had been pulled down and his lips stopped by his wife's eager kiss.

Fenice put out her hands as if to steady Aubery, but she did not dare touch him, not knowing whether he was bruised anywhere beside his shoulder.

"What happened, my lord?" she cried. However, she was not much frightened about this injury. It was perfectly clear that he had ridden over thirteen leagues and was quite steady in the saddle. Moreover, she knew her father would have moved to help Aubery rather than let Alys kiss him if he felt Aubery needed help. Still, a wave of coldness pa.s.sed through her.

"Nothing. An accident," Aubery said cautiously, having experience of a wife who fainted dead away in the middle of his happy and enthusiastic description of how he had received a superficial cut instead of a fatal blow. "I fell and landed on my shoulder. It is only bruised, but since we are so close and Lord Hereford really had little use for me, he said I should go home. Raymond only said I needed escort as an excuse to come home himself."

Fenice's face cleared and she clapped her hands together with joy. "Then, if your hurt is nothing, you are well come. Most heartily am I glad to see you."

When she had received his note from Bordeaux asking that his war gear be sent to him, Fenice had been terrified. Only her pa.s.sionate need to please Aubery no matter what the cost to herself prevented her from refusing to send his armor in her initial terror and conviction he would be killed. As the first shock of fear pa.s.sed, she was able to remind herself of how often her father had gone to war and returned safely.

Those memories, which included mental images of a white-faced but rigidly controlled Lady Alys outfitting Raymond for a campaign, also permitted her to gather up what was necessary. Had Aubery read her letter in better light, he would have seen the carefully blotted splotches made by her tears, but he had returned the parchment with a few words of thanks when he sent back Alys's man. Parchment was costly and could be sc.r.a.ped clean and used many times, so Aubery did not think of writing on a fresh piece from the supply, with inkhorn and quills that Fenice had provided.

He had not used the supply to write to her at any time during the weeks he had been at La Reole either. This had not angered or distressed Fenice, although she had cherished a very small hope that if he had the means he would write. She had been told already that Aubery hated writing, and she was resigned to the fact. His silence might have been more frightening and painful if her father had not been sending frequent letters to Lady Alys bewailing the nearly total lack of action at the siege.

The frequency and irritable tone of Raymond's communications plus his vivid descriptions of the boredom and daily life of the camp had convinced both his wife and his daughter that what he wrote was true, which was not always the case. In the interests of Alys's peace of mind, Raymond had been known to omit such items of news as impending or even past battles from his letters. However, this time neither Fenice nor Alys had had cause to doubt him and had been able to go about their lives without a constant burden of worry. Thus, the disquiet Fenice felt on hearing that Aubery had been injured, although it was plain that he was not badly hurt, went deep.

Fenice asked no further questions, being certain from the reserve with which Aubery had spoken that he had been drunk and taken a tumble. That did not trouble her at all. When men were idle and bored, they were bound to drink too much on occasion. Aubery did not do so as a general practice, she knew. Nor was her serenity disturbed by anything Raymond said that evening.

Raymond had learned early in his life about hysterical women. He did not account Alys one of them, but ten years of marriage had taught him how much fear his wife concealed behind her calm front. Thus, he was not such a fool as to mention that Aubery and Lord Hereford had almost been mashed flat by a stone missile. He and Aubery knew such a thing was a freak accident, except to a mangonel or trenchbut crew at whom such missiles were aimed, but Alys and Fenice would never believe that.

The evening was therefore quietly merry. They decided to eat before the men bathed since it would take time to heat water for two baths. As there was only one tub, there was a brief polite argument as to who should first get rid of several weeks worth of dirt and sweat. Aubery settled that at last by stating firmly that he did not wish to need to dress again after he bathed. So, when the meal over which they had lingered pleasantly was finished, Alys took Raymond away for his bath while Aubery and Fenice remained near the small fire that was kept burning to mitigate the damp of early autumn.

"I have heard so much about the king," Fenice said. "And it is all contradictory."

Aubery smiled. "You mean you have heard Lady Alys say severe things and Raymond say milder ones. I think Raymond is closer to being right. Myself, I have never done more than bow and acknowledge the bestowal of a tourney prize from the king, but he has given to that brief formality a warmth, a real notice of me as a person, so that, at least for the moment, I longed to know him better. Also, to his credit, I have heard many instances of his true kindness to those in trouble. Equally, however, I know that he is capable of turning on those he seemed most to trust and honor, and turning with little warning. But as to Alys calling him a fool-" He smiled again at Fenice's faint movement of protest. "No, I know you said no such thing, but I have heard her myself more than once. There, she is not fair."

"No, truly," Fenice said anxiously, "Lady Alys never said to me that the king was a fool."

Briefly Aubery was irritated by Fenice's loyalty to Alys, not that he objected to loyalty as such, but that he wanted hers for himself alone. The desire was unworthy, and he subdued it, but he was again aware of wishing he could be alone with his wife. He had not had the problem with Matilda, who had no close family and was not particularly attached to the Earl of Cornwall, her warden. As the thought of Matilda came to him, shame and confusion mingled with Aubery's irritation. In self-defense he turned his mind to what he had been saying.

"Do not fear," he said, "I do not hold Alys to blame. The Earl of Cornwall, though he loves his brother well, has a hot temper and a hasty tongue. When he is angry, he says what he does not really mean, and for many years he said it to William while Alys was within hearing. She confuses the king's tendency to allow emotions to rule him with an inability to think keenly. No, the king is no fool. I have seen him weasel out of situations that would have trapped King Solomon the Wise."

"But he got into them," Fenice remarked.

She is really interested in affairs of state, Aubery thought. My mother will have the kind of daughter she always wanted. Someone to whom she can talk and in whom she can confide. The notion eased his momentary irritation, somehow making his satisfaction with Fenice a dutiful and filial act.

"Yes, there lies the rub," he remarked mildly, personal content setting his tone at odds with his words. "And a worse rub yet is that Henry puts the blame on others rather than himself whenever he gets into trouble, but I am not so great a one as to need to concern myself about earning the king's spite. I am a simple knight. I could get caught in a brew of Hereford's making, his temper is not the mildest in the world, but Hereford knows where to draw the line...usually."

Fenice smiled. "I do not envy the great ones. I have no love for show."

"It is well," Aubery commented, "since I have little with which to make a show. William is rich, but I do not like to take what is not my own."

"You will hear no complaint from me, my lord," Fenice a.s.sured him. "I am more than content."

The smile had gone from her lips, but it remained in her eyes. Aubery felt confused again, but around that confusion and part of it was the realization that he had never been more comfortable-not physically, for he was filthy and louse-ridden. He itched all over and his shoulder and arm ached. All of those physical discomforts were so common to life that he dismissed them without noticing. What was different was a lack of wariness in his mind, a feeling that it made no difference what he said because Fenice could be trusted, and better yet, if he chose to be silent, she would neither intrude her own chatter and expect him to be interested, nor be hurt and weep.

Aubery made no comparisons this time, but thinking of his ease added again to his confusion, and under the comfort there was still a kind of tension. It was not unpleasant-actually, the contrary was true-but it was there, and it was connected with Fenice. He regarded her from under half-closed lids. She had just turned and reached behind her to pick up the lute that hung from one of the posts on the back of her chair.

Fenice never played for Alys and Raymond without specific permission to do so, although she usually had her lute available since Aubery and William had come, William often asked her to sing. Aubery was not certain why she waited for permission, but he had a peculiar sense of pleasure when this time she picked up the lute and began to pluck the strings without asking. The action made it clear that she felt the same confidence and comfort in his presence that he felt in hers. She began to sing, keeping her voice very low, and the soft, sweet tones increased the sense of intimacy between them and also increased the mild, pleasurable tension Aubery had barely noticed earlier.

It was expectation he felt. He wondered whether Fenice could read his thoughts, because there was something about the curve and movement of her lips, the way her lids lifted to glance at him and then fell again, even the slight tilt of her head that bespoke an equal expectation.

Aubery's perception of Fenice's feelings was a little at fault. The slight change in expression that he had noticed was not owing to any unusual consciousness of his desire but to a most indelicate speculation on whether her father and stepmother would wait to satisfy their own urges long enough for the bath to be emptied and removed.

Fortunately Alys's mind had been running along this track somewhat earlier than the problem had occurred to Fenice. Her solution was to have the bath set up in the antechamber rather than her bedchamber so that it could be emptied, carried down, and refilled without reference to what she and Raymond did after he had finished bathing. Her answer to Raymond's question about this change of procedure drew appreciative chuckles and had the additional benefit of reducing the time her husband spent in the tub.

This worked to Aubery's advantage. Before pleasure changed to frustration, the thudding progress of the heavy tub down from the upper floor became apparent, and from the other end of the hall came a parade of servants carrying pails of hot and cold water to refill the bath. Fenice stopped playing mid-phrase, and Aubery got to his feet simultaneously. It was a moot point whether he had risen or she stopped playing first. Neither action displayed any great consideration for the proprieties, nor did the fact that as their eyes met, they burst out laughing together.

As they entered their chamber, Aubery said, "That was not polite. I should have waited for you to finish your song."

"It is just as well you did not," Fenice replied, chuckling, "since words and music together went out of my head."

But a few minutes later she cried out with concern as she removed Aubery's shirt and the extent of his injury became plain. "This cannot have been from a fall," she exclaimed.

"Do not make much of nothing," Aubery said sharply. "However I came by it, it is no more than a bruise. The bones are sound."

"But I could have eased it much had you told me," Fenice protested, her voice shaking.

"It was more ease to me not to have you weeping over me," he snapped.

Fenice swallowed hard. "Then I will say no more."

She left the room, and Aubery stared after her blankly, thinking that Fenice had shown her claws at last. He was not certain what to do. Normally, he would have gone after her and given her a clout or two to make plain that he did not intend to endure a wife who would neglect him whenever he said what did not please her. But in her father's house, it was not so simple. Having got that far in his ruminations, they were made ridiculous when Fenice returned and spilled into the bathwater the handful of herbs she had gone to fetch and, after testing the temperature solicitously, invited him to get into the tub.

Now, of course, Aubery felt very silly, but also uncertain. Although nothing could have been more tender than Fenice's touch as she washed his injury, her face did not betray her feelings. Nor did she neglect any other measure for his comfort, rubbing a pest-killing ointment into his hair before she began bathing him, and washing it out in a separate bowl. However, there were more subtle ways to display displeasure than overt rebellion, and if his wife chose to use a sly device, his difficulty in correcting her would be increased.

Fenice would have been astounded had she been able to guess her husband's thoughts. Anger and spite were no part of her nature. Behind her expressionless face, she was contemplating no more drastic measure than how to explain that it was dangerous to hide injuries from her, that if weeping or sympathy were displeasing to him, she would conceal them. But she found no opening for any explanation and was distracted by the pleasure of handling her husband's body and by the task of fine-combing the lice from his hair.

Between his abstraction and hers, they had not said a word to each other after the exchange that had set their minds on separate tracks. The servants had emptied and removed the tub before Fenice was satisfied that Aubery's hair was clean. Then she said softly, still without perceivable expression, that he could get into bed.

"And what will you do?" he asked quietly, more convinced than ever that Fenice's reserve concealed resentment but less sure how she would express it.

Fenice blinked. The answer to Aubery's question was so obvious that she could not conceive why he asked it, but it was not her place to point that out, so she said, "I will take your clothing to the maids for washing and return the salve and comb."

That was not what Aubery meant, of course, but he was not able to think of a way to make himself clear and, to his mind, at least, not to look a fool before Fenice went out again. He waited impatiently for her to return so that the few minutes she was away seemed much longer, and he was contemplating going after her, except that he knew he would appear ridiculous. It did not improve his opinion of himself, and thus exacerbated his temper still further, when she reentered the room, snuffed all the candles except the night light, and immediately began to undress.

There was only one way now Aubery could conceive of resentment being expressed, and he waited with a kind of cynical amus.e.m.e.nt for one of the excuses with which he was so familiar. But Fenice did not speak, nor did she get into bed on her side. Instead, she came around, leaned over, and kissed him, running her hand down the good side of his body and between his legs. Instantly all Aubery's doubts and suppositions were wiped out in an explosion of desire. It was as if his pa.s.sion had been hidden under a mask, growing greater and greater in that concealment until the delicate scratch of Fenice's elegant nails tore the false skin, and the violence beneath it gushed out.

He seized her and tried to pull her onto the bed so he could mount her, but she resisted, whispering, "Wait, you will hurt yourself. Let me come over you."

The words meant nothing to Aubery. He was so aroused that he had forgotten his bad arm. However, he had not forgotten anything connected with his intense physical need, and he well knew that Fenice's suggestions always produced thrilling results. He relaxed his grip on her a trifle, allowing her to pull back the blanket he had forgotten-which would have frustrated his attempt to take her, and slide herself atop him. He started to lean left, expecting her to roll off, and gasped with pain as his weight came onto his bruised shoulder.

The shock made him fall back and hesitate just long enough for Fenice to come upright, straddle him, rise up on her knees, and impale herself. Aubery gasped. Fenice lifted and slid down again. He stared up at her, at the closed eyes, the slightly parted lips, all colorless in the dim light of the night candle. The rapt expression, a mask of ecstasy, intensified the pleasure her movement gave him. His eyes slid down to the full b.r.e.a.s.t.s, swinging very slightly with her motion, where the upright nipples were dark in contrast to the creamy skin, and down again over her belly until he saw his own shaft appear and disappear.

Seeing the source of his sensations brought a pleasure so exquisite, an excitement so intense, as to be nearly unbearable. Aubery shook with the need for fulfillment which struggled with the frantic desire to prolong this joy. Violence roiled in him, a desire to strike, to bite, but he was paralyzed by the intensity of his reaction. He could not move nor cry out. If he drew breath, he was unaware of it. The torment of pleasure seemed eternal, wave after wave reflecting from his groin to his eyes and back again, until Fenice fell forward, squirming and heaving and crying, "Come, my love, come."

Whether it was her words or the change in movement or the shutting off of the vision, Aubery was released. He closed his eyes at last as a pulse of ecstatic agony racked him, only to be followed by a still greater one. Aubery groaned as if he were being torn apart, his body convulsed with his giving. So fierce was his response that his very life seemed drained out in the spilling of his seed.

Fenice was quite unaware of the violent reaction she had induced. Her eyes had closed as soon as she satisfied her need to be filled, so she had never seen her husband's face. She was a trifle surprised when he did not take advantage of her position to handle her body more freely than was possible for him when he mounted her and needed his arms to support him, but she connected that with his absolute stillness beneath her. When Delmar wished to delay his climax, he would lie still, looking off into the distance and thinking of other things.

Although Aubery had never done so before, an explanation was not hard to find. Fenice knew she was more eager than she had been since their wedding night. This had not been so long a starvation, but it was harder for a man than for a woman, she knew. It was not surprising that Aubery might need to employ various devices to delay his own satisfaction so that she might reach hers. Fenice was grateful and hurried to her own conclusion as fast as she could to reduce the strain on her husband.

It was not until she was satisfied and lay resting, savoring the warm, powerful body beneath hers, that it occurred to Fenice that Aubery's need to distract himself so as not to be too quick for her had a most delightful implication. If he were as eager as she, or more so, as was normal for a man, did that not mean that he had been as celibate as she? Men varied widely in their practices, she knew. Her grandfather had many women-fewer now that he was older, of course-but gave all his respect and his tenderness to his wife. The women were nothing, an outlet for a physical need her grandmother did not share. On the other hand, her father took no other woman-at least, not in any place where his wife might hear of it. Perhaps on a long campaign he was not perfectly faultless, Lady Alys had admitted to Fenice with a shrug, but he was a man, not a saint.

Fenice had not previously thought about how Aubery might behave. She had been very hurt when she discovered that Delmar had taken one of the maids in Trets, but he had told her it was none of her business as long as he withheld nothing from her, and it was true that he had been as active and loving that day and night as any other. Still... Fenice lifted her head and looked down at Aubery's face with her heart in her eyes, then touched his lips with her own as gently as a whisper, but he did not respond in any way.

It was somewhat disturbing that he did not open his eyes or seem to notice when she finally lifted herself away from his body. Although not talkative during the act of love, Aubery often would talk afterward, oddly enough, of common things, almost as if he wished to forget or cover over their pleasure in each other. But that thought was silly, and Fenice put it away as she had done several times before, realizing that it had come to mind this time because she was concerned by Aubery's stillness. She feared he was in pain but was afraid to ask.

"My lord," she whispered, but he only turned his head slightly away.

Fenice had to accept that, but she was worried as she pulled the bedcurtains closed and settled down to sleep. This bruise was nothing, it would heal by itself although she could have eased his discomfort with warm and cold applications. But there had to be some way for her to explain that he must tell her if he were ill or hurt so that she could help him or seek more experienced help for him. A tremor of panic ran through her at the thought that Aubery might conceal a dangerous sickness or injury and die of it. No! This explanation could not be left to chance. She would have to ask Lady Alys to help her.

Although Fenice drifted off to sleep as soon as she decided to transfer her problem to a wiser head, Aubery had no such easy pacifier. Everything that had happened had shocked and appalled him. The disclosure of the violence of his own craving and the way he had hidden it from himself was bad enough, but the exposure of Fenice's true nature was unbearable. Aubery was so horrified that he could not weep. Her l.u.s.t was so powerful that it made naught of the anger she had felt when he spoke sharply to her. She had not refused him, instead she had used him like...like some kind of inanimate instrument to satisfy herself.

Contradictory memories stirred dimly. That featherlight kiss had nothing of l.u.s.t in it, and further back the music of her voice saying, "You will hurt yourself." But those memories made little headway against the image that filled the forefront of Aubery's mind of Fenice's beautiful body rising and falling above him. It would not have been so bad could he have felt disgust or indifference, but his body was already responding to that image, eager to renew sensations it craved. He fought the desire, a task made no easier by the acute awareness of Fenice's presence generated by her even breathing and the dip in the mattress that seemed to tilt him toward her.

Aubery was very strong. Despite the long, tiring ride from La Reole and the fatigue of his s.e.xual outpouring, it was hours before exhaustion overcame his desire and he was able to sleep. Naturally, once it came, his sleep was very deep. He was not wakened when Fenice left their bed, nor did he stir later when Alys came in, alarmed by Fenice's fear, to listen to his breathing and touch his forehead gently with her hand.

"No, there is nothing wrong with him," she said to Fenice outside the room. "He is only sleeping soundly. His breathing is fine, and he has no fever. You may be right, though, that he was in pain last night. Perhaps he could not sleep at once."

"Should I have asked?" Fenice's eyes were full of anxiety. "He told me not to trouble him, so I did not. I knew there could be no real harm in this bruise. But if..."

Alys shook her head. "If he was out of temper, which the pain might cause, he would only have beaten you."

"I do not care for that," Fenice said, "if he would then have let me ease him."

Alys made a small sound of irritation. She accepted the right of a husband to chastise a wife for a fault, but she did not approve at all of Fenice's willingness to allow Aubery to beat her to soothe an irritation she had not caused. In addition, she did not think it would work with Aubery, who had always been gentle with women because of his fondness for his mother. However, men did need to work off their tempers.

"Then you are a fool," Alys remarked tartly, "for Aubery is a kind man at heart. If he had struck you, he would have felt worse rather than better, ashamed for responding with a blow to an offer of help. Not that I think it wrong to provoke your husband into a quarrel so that he can spit out any bitter bile he has swallowed through the ill acts of fate or other men. That is good, and you would be at fault to withhold from him that relief. I have told you some thousands of times that too much meekness is as great a failing in a wife as shrewishness."

"I could have stood out of reach," Fenice said, half jesting but still seeking a method to deal with the problem.

Alys smiled, and said absently, as if she were considering something more important, "Yes, for a needful quarrel that is wise," then after a brief hesitation she went on, "but this is different anyway, I think. I have never known Aubery's temper to be overset by a little pain. I believe he expected you to act like that silly bird wit Matilda. She was just the kind to weep and wail and wring her hands and shriek that she could not look at such a hurt because it made her sick."

"I tried to tell him-"

"No," Alys interrupted, her voice sharp. "Never say anything to Aubery about his first wife." Her lips tightened, and she looked away, past her stepdaughter. "Let me deal with this. In a way, it has nothing to do with you."

Fenice did not reply. She had never intended to speak ill of Aubery's dead wife, although she had heard nothing much good of Matilda. Actually, until this moment she had hardly given Matilda a thought, having a.s.sumed from the way Lady Alys and her father spoke of her that Aubery had been married to her for her estate, perhaps without much liking on either side. But Lady Alys's sharp warning implied that Aubery had felt strongly about Matilda, perhaps he had loved her deeply despite all her silliness.