“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 God. 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 damned 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-jackass. Cherish her as a greater prize than the assurance 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, sexless, 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. God 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 jackass 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 passed 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.
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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 ingratitude 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…”
&nb
sp; “A jest?” Aubery repeated. “To use my name to draw my wife out of your care? What kind of jest is that? If I had by chance been occupied and not come here, a whole day might have passed before you knew Fenice was not with me, or I knew she was not with you.”
“But why?” Eleanor cried. “Why should anyone wish to seize Fenice? No one could want to harm her. I am sure she has not an enemy in the world. And where could she be taken? And how? We are so crowded here and in the village also, no one would dare carry off a woman in the middle of the day. Someone would be sure to see.”
Aubery had not spoken, but in his mind Eleanor’s questions found answers. Fenice in herself was not valuable and had no enemies, but he had a bitter enemy, an enemy William had just warned him would strike at his back—Savin. Aubery had no answer to where she could have been taken, but how… He gasped as memory replayed the sight of Savin carrying a rolled rug. He had called Savin a lickspittle, but that was his own stupid pride again. True, Savin would not have contemptuously refused an order to collect or move a rug as he himself would have done. On the other hand, Savin would not have carried it himself. He would have ordered a servant to carry it while he followed to see the article was not stolen or damaged.
So, if Savin carried the rug himself, there was something very special about that rug—its weight, perhaps. Would Fenice weigh enough to make a servant notice something strange? No matter! Savin’s knowledge of wrong would make him too cautious to allow anyone else to touch his burden. With a snarl of rage, Aubery turned and ran headlong out of the apartment.
Having stowed Fenice safely, Sir Savin had hurried to the refectory and eaten with more appetite than he had had since he had first seen Aubery and realized his bête noire had not gone back to England. He was in so good a humor that others at the table looked at him in some surprise. It was not often that Savin put himself out to be agreeable, however, he had seen a lot of action and could be interesting when he wished. Several men who had nothing special to do lingered after the meal to listen to his stories.
Fire Song Page 43