Royal Dynasty: Fire Song Part 22

It was a very large church, and excitement and the lingering weakness from her fatigue and the bleeding took their toll. Before she reached the porch entry, Fenice was reeling, gasping for breath, and seeing black spots in front of her eyes. But the worse she felt, the more sure she became that Aubery would grow tired of waiting for her and a.s.sume she was delaying on purpose. She drove herself on, pushing her cloak hood back so that she could breathe more easily, and at last staggered up the steps of the porch.

Between the dimness of the interior of the porch compared with the bright outdoors and the dimness of her vision, Fenice could only see the very front of the structure. When she did not see Aubery at the top of the steps, she hesitated, trembling and sobbing with fear and exhaustion, but then she saw a large shadow move at the very back of the porch. With a soft cry of joy, she flung herself forward-to be met with a violent blow that sent her spinning into unconsciousness before she could feel shock or grief.

The whole operation had been so easy that Sir Savin felt quite kindly toward Fenice. He was glad that he had hit her carefully so no bruise would show and prepared soft cloths with which to gag and bind her rather than ropes. Of course, Savin's original reason had been to avoid marks that would be evidence that she had been constrained against her will. When Aubery was dead, he intended to release Fenice unhurt not far from where Aubery's body lay and leave her to explain her own absence during the time that her husband had been a.s.sa.s.sinated.

Altogether, Savin was very pleased with himself as he finished binding Fenice in a leisurely way and rolled her in a rug, which he had borrowed from Lord Guy's baggage. He had guessed that the church would be deserted just before dinner when the monks and nuns as well as the ladies and gentlemen would be gathering in the refectories and all the servants would be busy making ready to serve the meal. He lifted the rug to his shoulder and made his way through the empty church to the back. There he lingered until he was reasonably sure that dinner had started before he went out the back door and into the guesthouse courtyard, strolling along easily toward his lodging.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

After Aubery left Fenice, he was uncomfortable. He could not forget her fearful question about whether he would put her aside. It was ridiculous, of course, but as he reviewed his behavior since his escape from Pons, he realized that he must have seemed angrier than he was. Memory of the escape still rankled, and he pushed it out of his mind, but one unpleasant thought was succeeded by another. It occurred to him that if he returned to the audience chamber, both the queen, if she noticed him, and William would ask questions about the briefness of his visit to Fenice.

Nothing seemed right this day, and in Aubery's mind all his discomfort stemmed from Fenice's unhappiness. He kicked at a pebble, saw it rebound from a wall, looked up, and realized he had been walking idly until he was near the stable. d.a.m.n all women, Aubery thought. They did nothing except make men miserable. He would go and see how Draco had recovered from the long journey from Pons.

The stallion was in fine fettle, and watching him toss his head and dance naturally made Aubery think of exercising the beast. Then a fine notion came to him. There must be a town or a fair-sized keep not too far away from Fontevrault. Abbeys usually had founders who donated the land and often supplied some of the money for building. While a founder would not necessarily want the abbey cheek by jowl with him-or her-the founder would like it within at most a couple of hours' ride. That was too far for anyone who wanted to attend the king constantly, but he did not. Perhaps he could find lodging for himself and Fenice.

A question to one of the grooms confirmed his surmise. Saumur was, as well as he could make out, about six miles distant. One must ride north to the river and then west.

Aubery ordered that Draco be saddled, and rode out. He found the small town without difficulty, but lodgings fit for gentlefolk were not available. With the great abbey of Fontevrault so close, it apparently did not pay for inns to divide their lofts into private chambers.

There were still possibilities, such as seeking a private house in which to stay or taking over the whole of an inn, but Aubery suddenly realized that he was hungry. The sensation made him glance at the sun, which was nearly at its midpoint. If he did not start back, he would miss dinner and William would wonder what had happened to him. He hesitated a moment more, and then decided that he might as well ask Fenice what she thought best to do about the lodgings, an idea that put him into a good humor. Obviously such a question would rea.s.sure Fenice as to his desire to be with her, without its being necessary for him to apologize or explain.

Despite keeping Draco to a good pace, Aubery got into the stable just as the grooms were leaving to get their meals. Two remained to unsaddle and rub down the stallion, mollified for the likelihood of getting only the remains of what everyone else had eaten by the coins Aubery threw to them. Not quite trusting that their eagerness to accept his largess was equal to their intentions to tend to Draco immediately, Aubery lingered another few minutes. Then, satisfied that his horse would not be neglected, he set off for the refectory across the courtyard.

Ahead of him was another poor servant kept from his meal by some duty, Aubery thought amusedly, remembering the unhappy faces of the grooms, until he had shown the coins. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he was struck by two oddities simultaneously. One was that the "servant's" belt was adorned with gold wire, the other was that the "servant" could not be in any hurry to finish his job and get to his dinner, for he was taking a very slow pace. And hard on the heels of the logical conclusion that the man ahead was not a servant, Aubery recognized him. He was Savin, and he was carrying a very, very fine Eastern rug.

A contemptuous smile curled Aubery's lips. It was just like the Lusignans to give a gentleman an unworthy task because they did not trust their common servants, and Savin was enough of a lickspittle to do a servant's work to curry favor. Then Aubery wondered briefly whether Savin was even worse than that. Could he be stealing the rug? Aubery shrugged as he entered the dining hall. A pox on all of them, he thought as he found a place at the table and began to eat hungrily.

As Aubery was leaving the refectory with the intention of going to see Fenice to discuss the question of lodging with her, William caught up to him and said, "Come back to the chamber with me. The least you can do is help pack my gear, since you are putting me out of my bed."

Aubery laughed. "I am sorry I crowd you, but it is your own fault. You should not have exercised me so carefully in my youth, and likely I would not have grown so large. But there is no need to drag in another cot. I think-"

William looked at his stepson oddly. "Do not be a fool. I am moving in with Warrenne so you and Fenice can have my chamber." And as Aubery began to protest but before he could mention the scheme of lodging at Saumur, William added, "Whatever is wrong, it is better to be together."

This remark struck Aubery mute, since it seemed that William had somehow divined that there was trouble between him and Fenice. It was not surprising to him, really. All through his boyhood, William had always known what made Aubery unhappy and had helped him to solve his problems or to bear them if they could not be solved. It did not occur to Aubery that William had not needed even to be especially clever to do this, since nearly all his early troubles had stemmed from his father's unpleasant character and behavior or had been the common troubles of all adolescent boys.

Nonetheless, when they reached William's chamber and his stepfather said, "You did not tell Mansel how you escaped from Pons. That was an interesting oversight. Will you tell me?" Aubery was thoroughly startled.

"My G.o.d," Aubery burst out. "What did you hear? Do not tell me the men have been talking about what Fenice did! I will have their tongues out."

William, who had been bending down to open one of the traveling baskets, jerked upright. He had introduced the topic of the escape from Pons because he thought it would be soothing, something that would draw Aubery's mind away from his concern for his wife. When he discovered that Aubery had not told Mansel any details about his escape, William had a.s.sumed that Aubery had performed some wild piece of heroism, which he had not wished to describe lest it be thought he was boasting.

The anguish in Aubery's voice, however, and his mention of Fenice were alarming.

"I have heard nothing," William a.s.sured him. "As far as I know, no one has any idea what happened, but what has Fenice to do with your escape?"

"Everything," Aubery replied, his tone so bitter that William took his arm and led him toward the bed.

"Sit down," he urged, pulling a stool toward him by hooking a foot under it. "If this is as serious as it seems and my men know of it, you had better tell me so that I can decide how best to silence them. Did she...er...buy your freedom?"

"Buy it? How could she? We did not have a tenth of what-" At that point, Aubery stopped abruptly, realizing what William meant. "No!" he exclaimed angrily. "Of course not! Fenice would not even think of such a thing!"

William smiled, his worst fears at rest. Whatever else Fenice had done, including murder, would not smirch her honor or Aubery's and was of little account if it had been done for her husband's sake.

"I am sorry," William said. "I did not mean to speak ill of Fenice. She is a good and lovely woman, but she is very much in love with you, Aubery, and women in love can do strange things if they fear a threat to their loved one."

"Strange, yes," Aubery snarled. "I can believe it, but can you imagine any sane woman dressing in a dung collector's clothes?"

"What?" William gasped.

So Aubery told the story, pouring out his own rage and frustration at his capture and helplessness, as well as every detail of Fenice's action, what he had pieced together from Rafe's and the other men's defensive explanations of how she had got her disguise and what he had himself seen her do in the prison. It was apparent as the tale unfolded through the binding of the slave at the inn and the trek through the streets with Rafe that William was struggling with powerful emotions, but Aubery was far too immersed in his own feelings to realize that it was amus.e.m.e.nt William was trying to conceal.

"She threw the s.h.i.t in his face?" William echoed, choking on suppressed laughter as Aubery described how Fenice had disarmed the guard.

"Well, that was clever," Aubery said grudgingly, "but she did not need to show so plainly that she thought I was a helpless idiot by hitting him with the bucket. I had already grabbed his weapon."

"What a woman!" William exclaimed with admiration.

Wrapped up in his own mixture of guilt and resentment, it slipped Aubery's mind that William had raised his own daughter to be aggressive and enterprising, and he misunderstood the remark. "Yes," Aubery said, "nor is this the first time she has gone her own way. I bade her say nothing to anyone about that matter in Castile, and she ran to the queen to complain of Savin the moment I was asleep."

"What matter in Castile?" William asked.

"Oh, my lance was changed for a brittle practice shaft for the formal jousting. The prince blamed it on an agent serving Gaston de Bearn, and politically that was very convenient, but I am almost certain it was Savin. You knew the prince had originally wanted him to have my place as champion. I suppose Savin believed that if I were disabled in the first pa.s.s, he would replace me. There was some sense in it because the prince was wavering in his favor, and to have me overthrown like a child in a joust I had already told Edward was arranged to be a draw, would, in Savin's mind, at least, have destroyed my credit with Edward."

"How did Fenice become involved in a joust?" William asked, confused.

"No, that was later. I did not think of Savin when Prince Edward first accused Bearn's agent. I was a little shaken, and also I could see that Alfonso's mind was working around the accusation and how it could be an excuse, among his own n.o.bles, at least, for withdrawing his acceptance of Bearn's fealty. But by the time the day was over, I had remembered Savin and his desire to be champion. And, like a fool, I told Fenice about it because she wanted me to withdraw from the tournament so that all of Bearn's agents, whom she seemed to think numbered in the thousands, should not fall on me at once during the melee."

Aubery had been grinning over the last few words, but then he frowned and went on. "I could not convince her there was no danger from Savin. Since his chance to shine as champion was gone, why should he bother to challenge me?"

"Perhaps because he wants you dead," William said, his voice harsh with anxiety. "You foiled his attempt to get that wardship and then, when he challenged you, you made him yield. Does it not come to your mind that he might bear you a mortal grudge?"

"I know he hates me," Aubery remarked indifferently, "but I have beaten him once, and we are both four years older, an advantage to me but none to him. Forget Savin. He slinks out of my way like a beaten cur-"

"Aubery," William protested, interrupting him, "a vicious dog can go for your back as well as for your face."

"I know that," Aubery replied indignantly. "Had he friends or allies he could call on to join with him against me, I would be more wary, and I told Fenice I would watch for his tricks and ordered her not to speak of my suspicion of him, but she does not think me man enough to protect myself and must go weeping to the queen and beg succor. Matilda at least obeyed me when I gave an order. Matilda-"

"Matilda!" William roared. "How can you compare that witless, whining nothing to a woman of such courage and beauty as Fenice? I am out of all patience with you, Aubery. I let you marry that fool Matilda because she was young and I hoped she would improve with teaching, but there was nothing in her that could be taught. How can you remain blind still? How can you cling to the memory of that pitiful, puling creature?"

"I-I loved her," Aubery said uncertainly.

"When you were eighteen and knew no better, I suppose you did," William said more gently.

He understood from the fact that Aubery had not flown into a rage at the criticism of Matilda that he now acknowledged the truth of what had been said. William remembered his own bitter tears when his first, unloved wife had died. Tears of guilt, not of grief, tears because he could not love and because he was glad to be rid of the burden of Mary's weakness. No doubt Aubery felt even worse because he had once loved Matilda, and the caring had degenerated into boredom and from that to a weary burden. Poor Aubery, it was no wonder that he tried to hide from himself the fact that he was glad.

Aubery did not reply to his last statement, so William continued, "But you grew into a man, my son, and Matilda did not change. You have nothing for which to blame yourself. You were a good husband to her-"

"Not always," Aubery interrupted.

"You were a far better husband than any other man would have been," William pointed out sharply. "Another would have beaten her for her stupidity and weakness. Mostly you endured it with the patience of a saint. Aubery, let go. You have punished yourself enough for being glad she is dead."

Aubery's head jerked as if William had hit him. "I was glad," he whispered. "That was a great sin, and I have been justly punished. I thought I would be free, but..."

"Aubery, I have lived through the same thing," William said. "Matilda's death was no fault of yours, and if you sin, it is in not accepting the will of G.o.d. You are free. You have done your penance. And no matter what your sin, Fenice has no part in it. You have no right to torture Fenice by trying to force her into Matilda's mold to punish yourself further."

Aubery had been staring stubbornly into nothing, but William's last sentence brought his eyes into focus on his stepfather's face. "But-" he began.

"But me no buts," William snapped. "Matilda was cold as a wet winter, stupid as an owl, and a coward to boot. She would not even take responsibility for her ordinary woman's duties. Have you not noticed that every complaint you voice against Fenice is when she shows her love for you, most especially by using her head or performing an act of bravery?"

"You mean by being disobedient and headstrong-as you permitted-nay, taught Alys to be," Aubery riposted angrily.

William stared at him and then smiled wryly. "Alys is a strong and clever woman, and she loves Raymond. Yes, I am sure Alys would have done exactly as Fenice did in Castile. But in Pons... I do not know what Alys would have done in Pons, but she would not have succeeded as Fenice did. Likely she would have ended up in prison, too. To speak the truth, I do not think Alys has the devotion or the softness of heart to cover herself with filth-even for Raymond."

"And does it not matter that I do not wish-"

"I am disgusted with you!" William exclaimed, getting to his feet. "You d.a.m.ned ungrateful dog! Can you think of nothing but your own pride? Can you not think what Fenice must have suffered when you threw so great a sacrifice, a sacrifice made out of the love she bears you, in her face?" He stamped across the room to the door. "I will send someone for my baggage. You may invite Fenice to share the chamber or not, just as you please, but I will not share it with you-or anything else."

Aubery sat staring in open-mouthed shock. Never, no matter what he had done, had his stepfather ever been this angry with him. "What am I to do about her?" he cried as William opened the door.

"Cherish her, you worse-than-jacka.s.s. Cherish her as a greater prize than the a.s.surance of salvation. Kneel down and kiss her feet and beg pardon."

The door slammed on William's last word. Aubery had got to his feet, but he sank down on the bed again. At the moment he could not think about Fenice. Although the quarrel seemed to be about her, it really was not. It was still Matilda who was the bone of contention between William and him. Aubery tried to draw back into his self-deception, but he could not. From the beginning William had been right and he wrong about Matilda. She was a good woman. She would have made a perfect nun, pious, s.e.xless, blindly obedient, but she had not made a good wife.

He had known that for most of the years they had been married but had been unwilling to admit it because he was too accursed proud to acknowledge his mistake. Looking back on his misery both during Matilda's life and after her death, Aubery shuddered. All of it was owing to his pride. Had he been willing to say aloud that Matilda was not perfect, the rage he bottled up inside would have had an outlet and he would not have scolded poor Matilda and made her unhappy over what she could not help. Then he would not have had the bitter memory of his harshness after she died. G.o.d knew, perhaps the failings that rasped him worst could have been ameliorated or amended if he had confessed them to his mother, but pride had kept him silent.

Pride was one of the seven deadly sins, and he had committed it, and he had been punished. Had been.

Aubery had been sitting with his head sunk into his hands, and he suddenly sat up straight. Christ and Holy Mary were indeed merciful. He had been scourged for his pride while he committed the sin. If he avoided the sin, rooted out the pride that had made it impossible to accept help...

A vision, clear as if the event were taking place anew, crossed Aubery's mind. He saw himself in the prison cell in Pons, struggling upright, aching in every muscle and unable to see out of his left eye because of the pride that had not let him yield when almost everyone else was willing to do so. He saw the bent, filthy figure of the dung collector enter, stumble, be prodded by the guard's billhook, rise to its feet, and fling the pailful of filth into the guard's face. He even had a vision of his own face as it must have appeared, stupid with shock, eyes and mouth agape...

Aubery roared with laughter, rocking helplessly to and fro on the bed. Oh, William was right. Aubery realized he was worse than a jacka.s.s not to have seen how funny that was. And then she hit the poor man in the stomach with the pail, adding injury to insult. Aubery held his ribs, which were still sore, as he gasped for breath, remembering his astonished joy when he realized the unrecognizable figure was Fenice. Then the laughter checked abruptly as he remembered also how the monster that was his pride had swallowed that joy and spat it up in a bitter gall of cruel words.

Another vision came to him, of Fenice's face all pale and with tear-filled eyes as she asked, "Will you put me aside?" There was nothing funny about that! Those words had a double edge to them, for they could be asked in fear, or in hope. The pain of that notion brought him to his feet and to the window. It seemed that hours had pa.s.sed since he and William came back to the chamber, but the light told him it was still early afternoon. He breathed a sigh of relief. There was time to go to Fenice and tell her...no, ask her if she were willing to stay with him rather than with the queen.

Fenice was fortunate in that she did not recover consciousness as quickly as she would normally have done, considering the relatively mild blow she had been dealt. Owing to her weakness and exhaustion, it was not until dinner was nearly over that she became aware of being uncomfortable. She tried to turn to a new position, found it impossible, and all at once remembered everything.

The first thought that came to her mind was so dreadful that she lay still, paralyzed by grief and terror. Aubery had tried to kill her! She did not straggle or think beyond that ultimate horror for a time. The unbelievable facts repeated in her mind. Aubery had summoned her from the safety of the queen's apartment, struck her, and...and what?

Her hands were bound, and she was gagged. Moreover, the thick pile of substance all around her told her that she had been rolled up in a rag of sorts. But then the whole thing was insane.

If Aubery wanted to be rid of her, why should he tie her up and conceal her? And even if he hoped to get her out of the way for some reason, would Aubery be stupid enough to send a page to summon her in his own name? Ridiculous!

Simultaneously, Fenice sighed with relief and blushed for shame at thinking even for a few minutes that Aubery, no matter how angry he was, would harm her in any way. Still, her head ached dully. Wherever she was was black as pitch and completely silent. She was lying flat on her back with her arms bound in front of her, and she was not very cold. In all, the facts of her abduction added up to one thing, whoever had seized her did not want her to be seriously injured.

But if it was not Aubery who had done this, who could it be? For a little while she considered this question, trying to think of anyone who wished to make trouble for her or wished her ill, but there was no one she could think of who was jealous enough or disliked her enough to go this far. Besides, she remembered telling the queen in the hearing of several of the ladies that she and Aubery would resume their journey to England as soon as his business with the king was complete, which meant everyone knew she would be gone in a few days.

Could ransom be desired? But she and Aubery were not rich. There were great ladies with the queen for whom much higher ransoms could be asked. The whole thing was impossible and ridiculous. But Sir William was rich. Perhaps her abductor believed he would pay to obtain the release of his stepson's wife, and she might be thought easier prey than a more important person. In any case, it was wrong to be lying still. She must escape if she could.

Fenice tried to raise her hands to pull off the gag. It was impossible because she was wrapped too closely to bend her elbows, but the effort made her realize that her hands were not tied very tightly, and the material that bound them was soft.

First she pulled and twisted at the cloth that bound her hands, trying to work them free. The twisting and pulling rubbed her wrists and hurt, and the material gave only a little, not enough for her to slip a hand free. Still, the slight relaxation of her bonds gave her hope. She felt certain that if she could only move more freely, she would work herself loose. It was the constriction of the rug around her that was preventing her movement. If the rug was only rolled, not tied, she should be able to unroll herself.

Abandoning the attempt to free her hands, Fenice considered her position. It seemed to her she was tipped very slightly to the right. She tried to fling herself in that direction, twisting her shoulders and pushing with her left heel. She did move just a little, and an enormous sense of triumph filled her so that she struggled harder and harder, ignoring the fact that the gag made it hard for her to breathe.

Unfortunately, it was not possible to ignore that difficulty for long. Fenice began to feel dizzy and sick. Still she jerked her aching shoulders and pushed with legs that felt all soft and boneless, and suddenly the tilt increased. She rolled, uttering a muted cry of success behind the gag, which became a gurgle of terror as first one and then several more heavy objects struck her.

The thick folds of rug saved her from any serious injury, but tears of frustration rolled down Fenice's cheeks, and all too soon it became clear that her attempt to escape had placed her in terrible danger. The heavy objects settled and shifted, others fell, adding to the weight pressing down on her. Fenice could barely draw air into her lungs, and what she did manage to breathe seemed thicker and less sustaining. She was too frightened to think, or she would have realized that something had fallen over the end of the rug and shut off the free flow of air.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Aubery was annoyed when he found the queen's antechamber full of chattering people. He had hoped that Eleanor would remain with her husband after dinner, but apparently the king had business to conduct. Aubery could only hope Fenice had remained abed. How he was to explain and apologize in a crowd of people, he did not know. However, he did not see her as he worked his way toward the queen to obtain permission to enter the women's chamber, and he began to feel more cheerful.

Naturally, Eleanor was surrounded by those who desired to gain her attention and favor, but Aubery was fortunate in being taller than most men. In looking graciously from one speaker to another, the queen saw him and smiled. Aubery took that as permission to squeeze between two people, who glared at him, but he ignored them, knowing their irritation would disappear when he withdrew as swiftly as he had intruded.

"May I have permission, madam, to speak to my wife?" Aubery asked, and seeing the queen's surprise, he added, "Sir William has been kind enough to give his bedchamber to us. I would like to ask Fenice if she...if she feels strong enough to move."

"But Fenice has already left!" Eleanor exclaimed. "Have you been waiting by the church all this time? No, that is impossible, the maid said the page you sent for her came before dinner."

"I sent no page for Fenice," Aubery said, still more puzzled than alarmed. "I was not in the abbey before dinner. I rode out to Saumur. It was only after the meal that Sir William told me he meant to move and let us have his room. Could it have been Sir William who sent the page?"

The queen rose to her feet. "I am sure the maid used your name, but we can discover the truth quickly enough. Come with me."

It seemed quite reasonable to Aubery that Sir William had sent for Fenice. Perhaps he had intended to give them both a pleasant surprise and had been checked by the anger and ingrat.i.tude Aubery displayed. That would have been a good reason for William to be very angry, if he had Fenice waiting somewhere and then felt he must tell her she would not be welcome to her husband. Aubery was so appalled by that thought that he did not hear the queen's question to the maid who hurried to her at her call. He did, however, hear the answer.

"No, madam, the servingman said he would speak to Sir Aubery, and the page said most definitely that Sir Aubery wanted his wife to meet him in the porch of the church."

"What servingman?" Aubery asked, forgetting in a sudden surge of anxiety the proper deference. He should have waited for the queen to speak.

"I do not know," the maid replied, beginning to look frightened. "He stopped me when I came out to order that dinner be brought to Lady Fenice and asked whether she was recovered. And...and I do not remember exactly what more was said, but he told me he had heard of someone leaving, and I-I said I thought my lady the queen would speak for the lodging being given to Lady Fenice and her husband. It was the servingman who said he would speak directly to Sir Aubery if it were true that a room would be empty. Of course, when the page came and said Sir Aubery wanted Lady Fenice to come to him, I thought he had secured the chamber..." Her voice ended uncertainly.

"Did you recognize the page?" Eleanor asked.

"No, madam. He wore no colors and...perhaps it was not a page. Perhaps it was one of the boys who belonged to the abbey. But he spoke well. Oh, madam, did I do wrong? I..."

"No, it is not your fault. You may go," the queen said, waving the girl away. Her eyes, however, were on Aubery. "I cannot believe this," she breathed. "It must be a mistake or...or a jest..."