Fire Song

by Roberta Gellis

  But time passed. The gray dawn gave way to sunrise, and for the first time a fear other than that of Aubery’s possible preference for the pleasure a whore could give him began to creep into Fenice’s mind. She was certain he would not have stayed to break his fast with a whore. At first that notion was pleasant because it implied that he had shared quarters with a drinking companion rather than a woman when he decided it was too late to go back to his own lodgings. And perhaps he was sick from too much drink, she told herself. That might make him late in rising and slow to dress and leave.

  The satisfaction she felt with this idea restored her appetite, and she went to the door to tell her guard to have bread and cheese and wine sent up to her and someone to empty the chamber pot. A ragged, filthy creature with a bucket that smelled to high heaven crept into the room in a few minutes to perform the latter task. Fenice stepped out of the way mechanically, without even noticing whether the servant was male or female, young or old. A few minutes later the man-at-arms again brought the food and drink to her himself, but this time he hesitated after setting down the tray.

  “Have you a message from your master?” Fenice asked eagerly, and then, seeing that the man looked anxious, repeated herself more slowly in French and then tried to ask the question in English.

  Apparently one of the three attempts, or part of each, got across to him because he shook his head and then slowly began to tell her something. It took several repetitions—again in a mixture of the two languages, for the man-at-arms knew only a few words of French—but he managed to tell her that there had been serious trouble in the town the previous afternoon while she had been sleeping. Several other English men-at-arms had taken refuge in the inn and told them that the wild behavior of the undisciplined mercenaries had provoked a riot. Toward the end of the tale, despite her growing anxiety, Fenice found it easier to make out what he was saying. The English words Arnald had taught her were coming back to her.

  Although she felt more and more frightened by the moment, Fenice knew that she must not show her fear. If she wept or acted hysterical, the men would not obey her. Lady Alys had explained that the lady of a manor could only hold the servants and men-at-arms to their work or the defense of the property if they respected her courage and judgment.

  Thus, she said with spurious calm, “What is your name?” and when he had told her Oswald, she continued, “Very well, Oswald, go down and tell all the Englishmen in the inn to arm themselves and make sure they cannot be overpowered by the servants. Be quiet about it. Do not offer any threat to any person here, and tell the men to be watchful that the landlord does not send for the militia or anyone else to do us harm, and let a special watch be kept on the horses. After that, ask the landlord to come up to me. Leave the door open while he is in the room.”

  When she was sure the man understood, which was not difficult to determine because an expression of great relief replaced his previous one of tense worry, Fenice waved him on his way, then drank some of the wine on the tray. She felt in urgent need of whatever strength the wine could give her. Her mind scurried in terrified circles.

  Aubery had gone out unarmed, wearing only his eating knife. Could he have been caught in the riot? But surely if he had been injured, a message would have been sent to her. Would it? Would the mayor remember that Aubery’s wife had been with him? No special introduction had been made, and no apology had been sent for not including her in the invitation to dinner. And what if he had fallen where no one knew him and he had been so badly hurt he could not speak? Fenice began to shake. But before she could think of anything even more dreadful, there were steps on the stairs, and she fought to control herself.

  “I have heard,” she said as soon as the landlord was in the room, “that there was trouble in Pons yesterday. I am sorry for it, of course, but as you know, my husband’s men had no part in it. Is the town quiet now?”

  “Yes, it is quiet,” the man said, eyeing her uneasily.

  Fenice was aware of his discomfort, but oddly that gave her hope rather than increasing her fear. It was not possible that the landlord could have news of Aubery in particular. Whatever he knew that he was wary of telling her must concern the entire English party. But she could not worry about that yet. First she had to try to find out whether it was likely that Aubery had been caught in the fighting.

  “When did the trouble begin? How long did it last?” Fenice asked. If the rioting had taken place after Aubery arrived at the dining hall and ended before he left, he could not have been involved.

  “It did not last long,” the landlord said. “We prepared when we heard so large a group of English lords and their retainers was coming. Not long after sext there was so much disturbance that it was necessary to call out the militia, but the worst was over before the hour of none.”

  Relief flooded through Fenice, even as she realized that there was trouble coming. Whatever else was wrong, Aubery was safe. He could not have been in any fighting. He must have been well into the first course of the meal by sext, and a formal dinner would surely last more than three hours. They could not have risen from the tables much before vespers, so Aubery’s delay could not be owing to being injured in the riot. There had been so many little frowns, sidelong slips of the eyes, lip twitchings, and foot shufflings by the landlord while he spoke that Fenice realized he was nerving himself to say something unpleasant.

  He burst out with it just as Fenice was about to ask what was troubling him. “And who is to pay?” he asked angrily. “You have the best chamber. You have been served the finest we have. Your men have eaten and drunk and slept. Who is to pay, I ask?”

  His manner was so aggressive that Fenice stepped back instinctively, and Oswald pushed the door wider and came into the room with his hand on his sword. The landlord gave an alarmed gasp, and Fenice said at once, “He will do you no harm. He thought I was being threatened.” She gestured the man-at-arms away but smiled at him warmly to show she was pleased by his action. Then she turned again toward the landlord, who was looking even more frustrated and aggrieved. “As for payment,” Fenice continued, “you must explain to me why you are uneasy. My husband is an honest man and would not wish you to be cheated, nor would I.”

  “The payment was to come from the town—so the mayor’s steward said when he brought you—but when I sent the reckoning to him this morning, he said the town would not pay for lodgings and meals for men who are prisoners. And when my servant tried to tell him that we had as guests a lady and her guardsmen, who had no part in the riots, the steward drove my man away with threats against dishonest landlords.”

  At first Fenice did not quite take in more than that the mayor’s steward was refusing to pay for her lodgings. “He must have forgotten I was accompanying my husband,” she said. “Or else the mayor has realized that we do not really belong with the others. We met them by accident on the road. Do not fear for your reckoning, landlord. I have money enough to pay, I assure you, and I will even pay for the extra Englishmen you took in.”

  But as she spoke she realized that nothing made sense and reviewed what the landlord had said, and the word “prisoners” leapt out at her so that she broke into the landlord’s relieved thanks, crying, “Prisoners? What do you mean? My husband and I have safe conduct from the king! How can he be a prisoner?”

  “The other lords had safe conduct, too,” the landlord replied, “but not safe conduct to steal or rape decent women.”

  “Are you saying that my husband stole—” Fenice shrieked furiously.

  “No! No!” the landlord cried, shrinking away as Oswald rushed into the room again. “It was the men, not the lords, who committed the outrages. Please, my lady…”

  “My husband’s men committed no outrages,” Fenice snapped, nonetheless shaking her head at the man-at-arms so that he stopped where he was with his sword half-drawn but she did not send him back outside the room this time.

  “My servant tried to tell that to the mayor’s steward,” the landlord pointed ou
t, making an effort to be calm but eyeing the half-drawn sword. “The steward would not listen. He did not want to hear of anyone’s innocence, for they will ask reparations as ransom.”

  Ransom—instead of adding to Fenice’s fear, the word again assured her of Aubery’s safety. Prisoners held for ransom were not ill used, at least, not unless payment was refused because they had to be produced in reasonably good condition. The certainty that her husband was not being tortured calmed Fenice enough to let her realize that it was not wise to make an enemy of the landlord. She sent Oswald out again and turned to her shaken host.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “You are not at fault, and I will see that you are not the loser.” She undid her purse and took out a silver coin. “Here, take this on account, and do not think ill of my man. He is nervous because my husband would punish him terribly if I should complain he allowed me to be ill treated, and he does not understand French very well, so I cannot explain my desires clearly. Thus, he rushes to my assistance each time I raise my voice.”

  The landlord had glanced surreptitiously at the coin and weighed it in his hand. He nodded his head. “I have no complaint,” he assured her, smiling now. “He did me no harm, and the others are quiet and keep to themselves. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.” He hesitated, weighed the coin in his hand again, and said softly, “If you apply to Esme de Perignac, he might be willing to help, or at least give you news.”

  With that he bowed himself out. Fenice stood looking blankly at the door, which she had closed behind him, her body shaking with reaction now that there was no one to see her. For a moment she supported herself with a hand on the door, but then she mastered her trembling knees enough to cross the room and sit down in her chair. The smell of the food nearby made her feel sick, but she did not feel strong enough to get up and move the tray or even call to Oswald to take it out. She sat looking at it until her senses dulled and the odor no longer affected her. Then she reached for the pitcher of wine and poured some into the goblet she had emptied earlier.

  Fenice felt dazed and unbelieving, as if this were a bad dream and she would soon wake from it and find herself in bed with Aubery lying beside her. She sat sipping the wine, not aware of thinking, but when she heard Oswald speak to someone who replied in English, she realized she had come to a decision, got quickly to her feet, and opened the door.

  “Oswald, who speaks the best French among you?” she asked in English.

  “None of us speak much,” he replied doubtfully.

  “One of the men who came in yesterday speaks good French,” the other man suggested. “I heard him jesting with one of the maidservants.”

  The remark had to be repeated before Fenice was sure she had understood properly, and a little more time was spent in discussing whether that man could be trusted. Oswald was cautious, but John, the second man, said that Rafe was not a mercenary but attached to the household of one of the other knights who had been taken prisoner and was angry at what he felt was the mistreatment of his master. Although she did not understand everything that was said, Fenice made out enough to decide that Oswald, who was going off duty, should send Rafe up to her.

  While she waited, she put in order the thoughts that had been running through her head. First, she must have more definite information than the rumors the landlord had related to her as if they were facts. How could he know the truth? It was clear from what he said that he was not among the important citizens of Pons. For all she knew, he was only trying to obtain double payment. Fenice did not hope that everything he had said was lies. No matter how drunk Aubery might have been or what else he had been doing, she was certain he would have returned to the inn by now if he were not under some restraint.

  However, the action of the commune might not be as unreasonable and dishonest as the landlord made out. The judges of the town might be trying to determine who did have safe conducts and discover which men’s retainers were guilty of causing the riot. Nonetheless, Fenice felt she must assume the worst, that the landlord was right and the commune of Pons did not care who was guilty or innocent but merely intended to wrest ransoms from all. In that case, it would be foolish to remind the mayor that she existed. Likely they would take her prisoner, too, and demand a double sum.

  That thought made a quiver of anger pass through her. She had been too frightened to be resentful up to this moment, but now it seemed monstrous that Aubery, who had been so careful to give no offense, should be drained of money he could ill afford because… Fenice had been about to blame the carelessness and arrogance of the Earl of Warwick and his companions for Aubery’s plight when she suddenly remembered the landlord saying that the citizens of Pons had prepared when they heard “so large a group of English lords and their retainers were coming”.

  Prepared, had they? For what had they prepared? The riot had lasted less than three hours. Doubtless that short duration had been because the militia was warned and organized, but in that short time how much damage could have been done? The town had not been set in flames. Surely it would not take the ransoms of high noblemen, one of them an earl, and tens of other knights to repay the merchants’ losses and soothe the ruffled feelings of the violated women. When she began to think of it in those terms, it seemed to Fenice that what the commune of Pons had prepared for was to gouge a huge sum of money from defenseless travelers.

  At this point in Fenice’s cogitations, Rafe bowed himself into her chamber. Clearly he was a class above the simple men-at-arms who accompanied her and Aubery. Rafe introduced himself as marshal to Sir Philip Marmim. He showed no awkwardness in talking to Fenice, thanked her for her offer to pay for food and lodging for himself and the two men who had escaped with him, and told her that they had been set upon when they had approached the dining hall, intending to accompany their master who often drank too much to manage alone. His speech was smooth and fluent, but Fenice could sense the rage under it. The fellow feeling encouraged her, and she told him what the landlord had said, including that they might obtain help or news from Esme de Perignac.

  Rafe was eager to go but raised the point of whether his armor would make him a target the moment he stepped into the street. There was other clothing at his original lodging, but he had no way to get it without exposing himself or one of his men. Fenice immediately offered a plain tunic of Aubery’s but made it clear that she did not want him to mention her or her husband when he spoke to de Perignac. Rafe assured her that he would do his best not to give any information by which he, she, Aubery, or his master could be traced.

  “I have enough of the merchant in me,” he said, smiling, “to wrap up a bad fish so prettily that one might think it roses.”

  After he left, Fenice steeled herself to waiting, for she knew that it might take him a long time to gain admittance, or de Perignac might not be at home or be hard to find—many things could cause delay. But it was impossible to think about anything except the treacherous seizure and imprisonment of her husband, and every minute that passed made it more certain that the landlord’s tale had not been an exaggeration. Had Aubery been detained only to examine his safe conduct and determine whether or not his men had taken part in the disturbance, he would have been free by now.

  Fenice grew angrier and angrier. It was no part of her nature to fly into sudden rages. Hers was the kind of anger that built slowly, gaining depth and ferocity. Nor was she the kind to leap into foolish, fury-driven action. Now, as in the convent where Lady Emilie had placed her after Delmar’s death, she listened to the fire song in the hearth and thought slowly and carefully about the injustice done by the commune of Pons.

  One thing was sure: She was not going to pay out any of Aubery’s small store of gold to those greedy devils. And if she could, she would repay them for the discomfort they had inflicted on her husband by making as much trouble and grief as she could for them. But Fenice was not silly. She knew this was a larger matter and more difficult to right than the wrong done to her by Lady Emilie. It would be useless
for her to escape alone, ride back to Bordeaux, and tell her father. Raymond could not invade France. Grandpapa was a vassal of Louis’s, and that would be an act of rebellion. All Papa could do was write to Uncle Alphonse, who would then appeal to King Louis for redress. But all that might take months, and during those months Aubery would be a prisoner.

  Fear began to mingle with Fenice’s rage, making her more desperate. She knew there were all types of imprisonment, from the luxurious detention of an honored and trusted prisoner of war, who would be provided with every comfort, often including freedom to join in all family activities, to confinement in an oubliette so small that a man could not move his limbs, could not shift his body enough to avoid his own excrement, could not defend himself from the rats that would gnaw on his living flesh. How harsh was Aubery’s confinement?

  Tears came into Fenice’s eyes, but she fought them back. Weeping would not help her husband. Nor was it sensible to imagine horrors. Oubliettes were for men who were meant to die horribly, not for those to be ransomed. But if the ransom should not be paid, or if the commune learned, as they well might, whose complaint had brought King Louis’s attention on them and frustrated their scheme, then Aubery might be tortured and killed. Fenice sobbed once and choked back the sound. The answer was not to cry but to free him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was late afternoon before Rafe returned, and the news he brought was all bad. Everything the landlord said was true, and all Fenice’s worst suspicions about the greed and dishonesty of the commune of Pons were confirmed. Not only were all, innocent and guilty alike, to be forced to pay ransom for their freedom, but the ransoms were ridiculously high. Even for the wealthiest, it would take time to gather such sums, and for the poorer, it might be impossible. Rafe said angrily that he supposed the commune expected men like his master to pay part of the poorer knights’ ransoms out of pity or fellow feeling.