“The advantages should be plain enough for Henry to see for himself,” Alphonse remarked, surprised.
“Yes, but the king is not always governed by reason. If he should be put out of temper by a quarrel with his brother, he will seek to spite his brother’s friend, Sir William, by denying what Sir William’s daughter desires. I will need to be careful how I approach the subject, but yes, I think I can arrange a Gascon dower for Alys.”
“Of what value?” Alphonse asked.
Raymond beckoned a manservant over. “Go ask for Arnald in the masters-at-arms’ quarters, and tell him to bring me the parchment boxes he carried. Speak slowly. His French is of the north, but I warn you that if you use a saucy tone he will knock you endwise.” Then Raymond turned to his father. “Alys has written out the whole thing, what is hers and what more her father could give her. I think we may depend on something very handsome from Cornwall, also. He dotes on her. Call one of the scribes, Father, and let us see where it would be best for the lands to lie.”
Lady Jeannette had obeyed her son both times before she realized he had twice sent her away. The first time she had told herself he was tired and did not realize that his tone of voice was unkind and disrespectful. She would scold him for it lovingly, and he would say he was sorry. The second time she had also responded instinctively, taking three or four steps before she understood she had been sent from the room like a wayward child. Her gasp and clutch at her heart had gained no more response than a smile and a nod. Alphonse had been staring at Raymond and paid her no attention either, and when she had tottered feebly from the hall, clinging to Jeanine’s arm, Raymond had turned his back.
In the solar, Lady Jeannette now had time to collect her thoughts and consider how she had been hurt and slighted. Her firstborn son, the light of her eyes, had driven her away. He was cruel and unnatural. All his life she had striven to smooth the path before his feet, to spare him the smallest hurt or unhappiness, but he had always been ungrateful, rejecting the toys she ordered for him, the musical instruments and fine garments, in favor of swords and hunting bows, horses, and armor.
Raymond had always seemed to prefer his tutor’s company, even when that horrid man had knocked him down and bruised him in practice combat, and when his father had sent him away to the household of the king of Navarre, he had not complained but had gone willingly. She, on the contrary, had begged and pleaded that he be sent to his grandfather, Raymond-Berenger, where she knew he would be given special privileges and looked after tenderly. Although Alphonse had agreed after a while, Raymond had not, insisting he was happy in the court of Navarre.
Ungrateful, she thought. Raymond had never cared that she might grieve or worry about him. And this last escapade, disappearing for six months without a word and sending that cruel letter to say it was her fault—that was monstrous! Why should he go and fight in Gascony? Crude creatures could be hired to do ugly, dangerous things like that. Why could Raymond not see that it was better to stay at home and speak of poetry and philosophy, to dance, sing, and gather flowers?
Lady Jeannette wept loudly over her son’s cruelty, and her daughters wept with her. They bewailed Raymond’s hardness of heart, each reminding the others of incidents that had displayed his lack of consideration for their tender feelings. At last they heard his voice in the large chamber outside the solar. All of them stiffened before emitting even louder wails as he entered, but the sound of his words came no nearer.
Their indignation grew as they heard the thin, high voices of two little girls mingling with Raymond’s. He had stopped to speak with his baseborn daughters. Disgusting! Surely his mother and sisters should have precedence over the daughters of a common serf-woman elevated to a weaving woman.
Actually their indignation was wasted. Raymond did not give much thought to his bastard daughters and would not have stopped to seek them had they not run out to him. He was kindhearted, however, and had taken them in his arms to kiss and fondle, remembering with a faint pang of guilt that it had been his custom to bring them little toys and geegaws when he had been away for some time. He was apologizing for neglecting this and promising them that he would have something for them later in the day when their mother came hurriedly forward to draw them away.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said softly. “I was busy and did not see them run to you.”
“They did no hurt,” Raymond responded, but he felt somewhat awkward. He had realized as he spoke that he must get rid of Lucie before he brought Alys home. “You are looking well, Lucie,” he added uneasily, wanting to say something pleasant.
Her expression changed infinitesimally. Raymond would not have noticed if he had not been wondering how to avoid hurting her more than necessary. He had never before thought about what Lucie felt, although she had been his bedmate at Tour Dur whenever he felt the need for a woman. He had first seen her when he was eighteen, some seven years before, in her father’s hut on the demesne farm, and had bought her for a few copper pieces with the old man’s blessing. It had not occurred to Raymond to wonder what Lucie had felt about it. He had assumed she would be grateful and overjoyed.
The assumption was quite correct. Lucie would have kissed Raymond’s feet in gratitude even if he had used her harshly for the lot of a serf-woman who has lost her man is not pleasant. To be elevated to service in the castle, even if that service included rough usage, was a miracle of good fortune. But Raymond was not cruel in his love play. He was gentle and good-humored, if somewhat indifferent.
At first that did not bother Lucie. She was so happy with the new clothing he gave her, with the fact that her stomach was full all the time, and with dry and warm lodging, compared to her previous lodging, even when she was not called to her master’s bed. All she feared was that when Raymond’s term of leave from his duties in the court of Navarre was over, she would be sent back to the horrors of life as a field serf. Pregnancy saved her from that fate. Raymond freely acknowledged that the child was his and directed that Lucie be taught skills that would make her useful in the castle so that his child could be fittingly raised.
The next time Raymond came home he called Lucie to his bed again, and she came gladly. However, she was more accustomed to her better condition, and she began to realize that Raymond did not “notice” her. When he needed a woman, he would seek her out and remark that she was pretty and give her a length of fabric to make an overdress or a tunic, or some trinket with which to adorn herself. At other times he could pass right by her and not even nod his head in recognition.
Naturally Lucie did not resent this, she was no one and nothing. She knew Raymond could casually order her killed instead of casually flinging her a trinket. Nonetheless, she found that she no longer dreamed about him or particularly desired that he summon her to his bed. She began to notice the men around the keep, and it warmed her heart that they obviously noticed her.
Lucie was with child again before Raymond left, and glad of it because the second babe would secure her position. The first had been only a girl, perhaps the second would be a boy. Or, if one died, the other would still bind her to the keep. However, with her belly full, it was safe to look around. Gregoire, one of the huntsmen, looked back with such longing in his eyes that Lucie was moved to comfort him.
She found in the end as much comfort as she gave. Gregoire understood her condition. He, too, had come out of the fields by an accident of fate. He could no more be jealous of a lord than of God, nor would he have thought for a moment of refusing or expecting Lucie to refuse any demand a lord made. What was more wonderful to Lucie was that Gregoire was as happy to be with her, to talk to her and listen to her, when she was unable to satisfy his lust as when she had first yielded to him.
When Raymond came home again, there was only another daughter to offer him. He did not mind, but he was not much interested. He was not much interested in Lucie, either, however, his mother objected to his playing about among the maidservants, so he used Lucie when the mood moved him. Ther
e were plenty of women of the better sort in the court of Navarre who were drawn to his pale, brilliant eyes and dark skin. For all her lush beauty—and Lucie was lush now, being well fed and ten years older than Raymond—she bored him.
Raymond was so uninterested in Lucie that he had never realized that she did her best to avoid him. Both her daughters had survived—a great surprise, which she attributed to the healthier situation of the castle—and she had become a skillful weaver. Thus, she was reasonably sure she would not be cast out, even if Raymond no longer desired her. Of course, she had never dared deny him. All she dared was to keep out of his way as much as possible.
Had she been less fearful, Lucie would have achieved her heart’s desire years earlier, but she had not been bred in the castle. She still saw the lords as creatures apart, superhuman, and as incomprehensible as God. So when Raymond summoned her, she came. She had conceived once more, but as soon as she missed her flux she had gone to an herb-woman who cleaned out her womb. Gregoire’s get had gone the same way, but she had wept over those. Even so, she prayed Raymond would stay away. She found it harder and harder to seem willing.
This time when he said how well she looked, Lucie could not quite keep all expression from her face. She cursed herself for coming forward, but she had been afraid Raymond would be angered by the importunities of his daughters and punish them. Hastily she looked down at the little girls and sent them away, struggling to bring some welcome into her expression.
When she raised her eyes, fear almost stopped her heart. Raymond was staring at her with raised brows.
“Why did you not tell me you did not find my attentions pleasing, Lucie?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered. “No, please! I—”
“Do not be frightened,” Raymond hastened to assure her, much surprised by her reaction. “I am not angry. To speak the truth, I am glad. I am about to be married, and that means you must be married, also.”
“I? Married?” Lucie breathed. “To whom, my lord?’
“I had not thought about it,” Raymond admitted easily.
In fact, if his daughters and Lucie had not accosted him, he probably would not have remembered their existence. This notion made him rather grateful to little Fenice and Enid and to Lucie, also. He smiled at her.
“Is there someone you would like to marry, Lucie?” Raymond asked. “You have been obedient to me and have never asked for anything. I would be happy to dower you and know that you are content.”
She stared at him, lips parted, desperately trying to read from his face whether this was some kind of cruel trap. But Raymond had never been cruel to her. Daring greatly, Lucie whispered, “Gregoire. The huntsman, Gregoire. He is a good man—kind.”
“Gregoire…” Raymond shook his head, then put out his hand to catch Lucie as she grew pale as milk. “What ails you woman? I am only trying to think whether I know the man. Well, it does not matter. I suppose you can point him out.” He let go of her and pulled his purse open as her color returned. “There.” He put five gold pieces into her hand. “That is for you. Keep it safe. You shall have your Gregoire, although when I will have time to attend to it, I cannot guess.”
Lucie watched fearfully, but there was no discontent in his face, only a look of consideration. She began to hope. If Raymond were bringing home a bride, of course he would not want his bedmate anymore. There was one problem.
“Fenice and Enid?” she asked timidly.
“They must stay here,” Raymond replied. “They are my daughters. But you may see them when you like, Lucie. I will see about getting a house for you near Tour Dur so you may continue your work here during the day. But I do not know what may be available, and I must go away again almost immediately. You may have to wait a little time. Go back to your work now. I promise I will not trouble you again.”
She dropped a curtsy and fled back to her loom, almost in love with Raymond again for his enormous kindness to her. It was a great relief to know she would not have to take her daughters with her. Although the most generous of men, Gregoire was uncomfortable in the presence of the little girls. They were the lord’s get, and he was somewhat in awe of them. Also, indubitably, he would have resented needing to find dowers for another man’s daughters if Raymond repudiated them. Then, too, Lucie loved her girls enough to be willing to part with them if that parting would be to their advantage. Great lord’s daughters, even if left-handed so to speak, might be married into the lesser nobility or to one of the rich merchants’ houses. Lucie sat and thought and dreamed of Raymond, like a distant god, presiding over her fate.
Chapter Two
Raymond dismissed Lucie from his mind as swiftly as she had intruded upon it. In spite of his words of assurance to his father, he was not looking forward to the coming interview with his mother. However, he had the evidence of her obedience to his firm orders last night and this morning to reinforce Alys’s earlier advice. If he faltered or showed weakness or sympathy, Alys had warned, he would be defeated. Thus, he strode into the solar with a tight mouth and an angry frown and thrust Eleanor’s and Sancia’s letters at her.
“Here, madame,” he announced, “are letters from the queen of England and the Countess of Cornwall recommending to you Alys of Marlowe, whom I intend to marry as soon as I return to England. I already have my father’s agreement. The scribes are writing a contract, so do not bother to raise objections.”
His treatment had the good effect of shocking his three auditors into silence. The sobbings over his cruelty were choked off by the enormity of the news and the new offense. One thing Lady Jeannette had long been determined upon was the choosing of her son’s wife to suit herself.
“Who?” she gasped. “Who is this Alys? Where is Marlowe?”
“Alys is my betrothed,” Raymond replied. “Marlowe is a town on the Thames in England, midway between Windsor and Oxford. Do you know more now?”
All three gaped at him, his mother and Jeanine in horror and growing rage. His younger sister Margot also knew she should be offended, but she was really more interested in Alys, who, she hoped, would add a little variety to her life. It was very dull in Tour Dur. Margot had hoped that she would become “eldest” daughter when Jeanine went away to be married two years ago. But Jeanine’s husband had died, she had returned home since she had not produced any child, and Margot was again pushed into the background.
That might have been an enviable position in a keep where many highborn maidens were raised and trained. Under such circumstances, being “last and least” provided freedom for fun and mischief. Aix should have had just such a group of demoiselles. Many of the lesser knights would gladly have sent their daughters to be trained. Lady Jeannette, however, said she was not strong enough, that she could barely manage her own daughters. The trouble was, Margot thought, that her mother was strong enough not to let her stray more than an arm’s length from her skirt.
“Read the letters,” Raymond was urging. “They will tell you more about Alys than I have time to relate.”
“But Raymond,” Lady Jeannette wailed, having caught her breath and gathered her thoughts, “you cannot marry a girl from England. We do not need ties to England. And what do you mean you have no time? You have just come!”
“Yes, and I will leave again as soon as Father and I decide which Gascon property we wish augmented. I believe it will be possible to have Alys’s dower settled in Gascony. Her father is marshal to Richard of Cornwall and has great influence with the earl.”
“Is that what decided you to marry this girl?” Lady Jeannette asked.
Then Raymond made a serious mistake. “No,” he replied, his voice softening. “No. I would have taken Alys barefoot in a shift, if I could have got her no other way. I love her—”
“That is ridiculous!” Jeanine interrupted, jumping up. “Do you think you are living in the pages of a romance? Or has this little slut withheld—”
Raymond slapped her face. “You will not speak of Lady Alys in such terms,” he sna
rled. “Alys will be mistress of Aix some day, and there is no woman in the world better fit to hold that place—or any other.”
Jeanine began to scream, and Raymond slapped her again, harder, thumping her down on her stool, and threatening to give her something truly worth screaming about if she did not hold her tongue. Margot began to whimper in sympathy, but she choked off all sound when Raymond turned his glare upon her. Then he looked at his mother.
“Well, madame,” he growled, “what have you to say?”
“You have been among barbarians,” Lady Jeannette whispered, “and have come back a monster.”
“Whatever you like, so long as you hold your tongue and treat my wife with the respect due her.”
“And what of the respect due to me from my son and my son’s wife?” Lady Jeannette quavered.
“You need not fear that,” Raymond assured her in happy ignorance. “Alys has been properly brought up. You will find her a most dutiful daughter. I am sure you will come to love her. Indeed, it is impossible not to love Alys.”
To that ridiculous statement, Lady Jeannette made no reply except a faint smile of combined bitterness and derision. Her son misread the expression completely and bent swiftly to kiss her. “There,” he remarked, “now that you understand the matter of my marriage to Alys is settled and will not argue with me, I can say I am very glad to see you again.” He turned to Margot and kissed her also. “You are looking very pretty, my sweet, and next to Alys you will look even prettier. She is very blonde and will set off your dark eyes to perfection.” Finally he stepped around his mother and stood before Jeanine. “I will forget what you said and forgive you,” he remarked quietly, “if you will be careful of your tongue in the future.”
“I will never forgive you,” Jeanine hissed. “How dare you!”
Winter Song Page 2