Fire Song

by Roberta Gellis

  “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 amusements for you.”

  Aubery choked. The amusement that had just passed 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 amusement 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 vassals 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 passed 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 passed 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 passionate 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 passed, 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 scraped clean and used many times, so Aubery did not think of writing on a fresh piece fro
m 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 Réole 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 assured 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.