Later Alys sent Bertha to procure wine, cold meat, and some sweet cakes. She ate a little but put most aside in case Raymond should want refreshment if he was able to come to her. By the time it was fully dark, however, she had all but given up hope of that, and when a furious winter storm broke, Alys sighed, called down to Bertha to warm the bed for her, and crept in alone. Unlike the nights at Blancheforte, she slept at once.
When Raymond had returned to the hall after carrying Alys out with so little delay and so little regret in his expression, Lady Jeannette felt her work was already complete. However, when her son showed so much reluctance to visit Lady Catherine, always a great favorite with him, and insisted he wished to take Alys with him, Lady Jeannette became doubtful again. His yielding, when she said Catherine had been ill, soothed her, but she did not like Raymond’s discontented expression. Even if he did think of Alys only as a useful servant, one could grow fond of servants. It was not enough, Lady Jeannette decided, that he should not accord Alys the highest form of love. It would be best if Raymond learned to dislike his wife as well as feel contempt for her.
Lady Jeannette had planned how to accomplish this. She intended to give Raymond’s two daughters into Alys’s care. It was only fitting that the children be raised in their father’s household and not distract their mother from her work. That would be one benefit, but Lady Jeannette was sure Alys would be resentful about having such mongrels thrust upon her. As sure as the sun would rise in the morning, that nasty blonde bitch would be cruel to the children. Whatever Raymond thought of his baseborn daughters—and he seemed too fond of them for his mother’s taste—he would dislike his wife very much for mistreating them.
Perhaps Lady Jeannette should have taken warning from the beginning of the hard winter’s storm that night. The wind blew in angrily from the sea, howling and whining around the towers. About midnight the storm slackened, but it was apparently only gathering strength for a new onslaught. Toward dawn, rain began to fall in torrents, and one would have thought that the sun had not risen. It was nearly as dark as night when it should have been morning.
Partly out of exhaustion and partly because it was so dark, Alys slept very late. She missed Mass and breakfast before she stretched and put aside the bed curtains. Bertha was waiting, sewing by the fire, which leapt and danced and occasionally spouted gouts of smoke into the room in response to the vagaries and violence of the wind. It was clear from the maid’s attitude that she had been waiting a long time.
“Good gracious,” Alys murmured, looking toward one of the narrow slits, which were all the windows the tower had. “I have not slept the day through, have I?”
“No, my lady,” Bertha replied, smiling. “It is not much past tierce.”
“Why did you not wake me?” Alys cried, bouncing out of bed.
“My lord was here about the prime and bid me strictly not to disturb you.”
“He came in and I did not wake?” For no particular reason that worried Alys.
“Not up here, my lady. Lord Raymond came in below and bade me look in on you. He said he knew you would wake if you heard his step.”
Alys was both pleased and annoyed. She was glad Raymond should be so tender and considerate, but doubtless Lady Jeannette would have something to say about so slug-a-bed a daughter. Alys used the pot and washed sketchily. With the wind so strong, it was cold in the tower room despite the fire, so she dressed quickly, but with careful choice nonetheless. Although no one had said anything, Alys had seen glances cast at her well-worn traveling dress. Nor was there any need, she thought, to worry about her clothing being damaged. She would not be going to the kitchens or around the farms. Clearly the ladies of this house did not demean themselves with such duties.
By the time Alys had struggled across the bailey, she discovered that the ladies had retired to Lady Jeannette’s solar, and Raymond and his father were “somewhere about the keep”. Resisting the temptation to sit down by the fire and wait for her husband, Alys made her way up the stairs. She found her mother- and sisters-by-marriage typically employed. Lady Jeannette and Jeanine were playing at tables, and Margot was plucking softly on a lute and apparently copying down the notes. The scene irritated Alys so much that she needed to bite her lips to keep from shouting at those three silly women.
Alys had nothing against playing games. She enjoyed them very much and was skilled in chess, tables, and a number of others. But games were for long evenings when the day’s work was finished, or to ease the impatience of a convalescent. Just then Lady Jeannette saw her and beckoned her forward with a smile.
“We thought you were afraid of the storm and had decided not to come across to us,” Lady Jeannette said. “I was quite cross with Raymond for placing you so far away that we could not comfort you.”
This was an interesting turnabout, Alys thought, but she only said, “What is there to fear in a storm? Perhaps if I were at sea or in the open or in a serf’s flimsy hut, I would be afraid, but in the south tower I did not even know there was a storm. I am sorry to say it was sloth, not fear, that kept me away. I slept very late.”
Jeanine looked up from the game board. “Do you not feel uneasy, shivery, and likely to cry for no reason?”
It was difficult to discern in the warm light of the many candles that lit the room, but Alys thought Jeanine was pale. She must be the one who feared storms. There was nothing silly in that, it was one’s nature or not one’s nature. Alys knew horses and dogs reacted to storms, and no one could accuse them of silly fancies.
“Sometimes I do feel that way, indeed,” Alys replied sympathetically, “although in my case it is not storms that bring it on.”
An expression of interest crossed Jeanine’s face. She seemed about to speak again when Lady Jeannette said, “It is your move, Jeanine. You are delaying the game. Sit down, Alys.”
Sit and watch them play? Alys’s jaw tightened over a yawn. She glanced at Margot, but realized there would be no immediate relief from that quarter. The younger girl had smiled at her warmly when she came in and then waved a hand at what she was doing to indicate she wished to finish it.
“I think I will disturb you less if I go down to the hall,” Alys said. Perhaps she could find the steward and discover what she could do to help him. The man, she had felt the previous day when he had shown gratitude, surprise, and relief that she did not expect him to oversee her unpacking, was probably overburdened.
“No, no,” Lady Jeannette protested. “I have something of great interest to show you. It will be best if you wait here.”
Reminding herself that she had known she would be bored to death in Tour Dur and that open rebellion over a few minutes more or less in that state was stupid, Alys walked toward a window. To reach her goal, it was necessary to pass Margot, and the girl reached up and drew Alys down on the bench with her.
“I am copying some simple music,” Margot said very softly. “Mama thinks you should learn to play. Raymond would like it very much if you could sing to him.”
The first thought that came into Alys’s head was that Lady Jeannette knew how much Raymond disliked formal music. Her next thought, which came almost simultaneously, was how funny Raymond would think it if she did learn. The third and first sensible one was that music was not a skill that could be learned in a week or a month, even if she had a talent for it. Suddenly Alys chuckled. Lady Jeannette did not know that Raymond only listened to his sisters’ songs out of politeness. Doubtless his mother hoped he would be disgusted by Alys’s singing and playing because of the sour notes and bad timing a beginner displayed.
“I could not,” Alys said, equally softly. “I am so stupid and clumsy. I fear this art is not for me.”
“I cannot believe that,” Margot replied, smiling. “A person who is moved to tears, as you were yesterday, will learn easily and quickly. There must be a great desire in you to make music.”
There was a little silence while Alys again choked on suppressed mirth. She promised herself she wo
uld murder her husband for all the trouble his warped sense of humor had brought upon her. Unfortunately, the heightened color that came into Alys’s cheeks from suppressing her laughter merely served to convince Margot that Alys was fearful of her lack of ability rather than reluctant to waste valuable time on a silly pursuit. Margot murmured comfortingly to her sister-by-marriage that she was too modest, that all would be made easy and simple. And, she added as confirmation, even if Alys found the lessons difficult, they would have the pleasure of one another’s company.
This last remark gave Alys enough to think about to curb her mirth. She saw at once that it would be possible to divert Margot from music and therefore agreed. Margot was beautifully dressed and was clearly fond of her, Alys thought. Thus, Margot would be just the one to advise on the remaking of her gowns to suit the Provençal style. Alys asked a question about the shaping of a sleeve, pointing to her arm and then Margot’s, which were side by side.
As both their interests were engaged in the discussion of fashion, Alys’s and Margot’s voices rose from hushed murmurs to normal tones of speech. Absorbed in their conversation, neither noticed the irritated glances cast at them by Lady Jeannette. She had given Margot permission to teach Alys music for just the reason Alys had earlier deduced. There was nothing that set a music lover’s teeth on edge like the display of a crude, half-learned skill by a novice performer with too much pride and too little sense. However, she had not considered that her permission would open the door to friendship between Alys and Margot. The cheerful give-and-take of the conversation annoyed Lady Jeannette. She made several wrong moves and, at last, pettishly swept her hand over the board, knocking the pieces helter-skelter.
“That is enough, Margot,” she said, forcing a smile. “You are supposed to teach music, not gabble about dress. How do you expect Alys to learn anything? Finish writing the lessons now. I have something to show Alys—a charge it is time for me to transfer to her hands.”
Although she rose at once, Alys was surprised. It was true that Lady Jeannette now seemed much less antagonistic, but Alys still felt the only thing her mother-by-marriage would like to give her was a dose of poison. Thus, she was sure the “charge” would be unpleasant. Alys could not imagine what it could be, and certainly she did not immediately connect it with the two little girls uncomfortably perched on stools too high for them, tightly clutching one another’s hands, in a small, cold chamber off Lady Jeannette’s solar. The faces of the children were pale and tear-streaked.
Alys’s glance passed right over the little girls as her mind sought what “charge” could be given to her in a storage room or maid’s sleeping chamber. Jewels, which she could then be accused of taking without permission? Nonsense. Margot and Jeanine had heard Lady Jeannette say she was about to give her something.
Then a slight movement by the children, a shrinking together, brought Alys’s eyes back to them. The posture, the place, the tears had already added up in some subconscious part of Alys’s mind to “punishment”. Her own experience with being whipped and then told to sit and consider her sins had been liberal—Alys had been a very willful and mischievous little girl. Now, suddenly, Alys associated the “charge” with the punishment. It would be just like Lady Jeannette to tell the poor little creatures they were to be whipped and then make them wait and, in addition, try to make Alys do the whipping.
Alys had just got as far as thinking, No, I will not, when Lady Jeannette said, “This is Fenice, and this is Enid,” gesturing toward the children in turn. “They are Raymond’s daughters.”
“Raymond’s daughters!” Alys echoed. She could not believe her ears. Raymond would have told her had he been married previously.
“My son is not a eunuch, as you know,” Lady Jeannette said, elated by the shock Alys displayed and misunderstanding its cause. “They are baseborn, the mother was a common serf, but they are Raymond’s—or, at least, he says he believes they are—so they belong in his household.”
Alys had been staring at the little girls, who were clutching each other even more tightly and struggling to repress renewed sobs. Nonetheless, she had managed to take in the contempt in Lady Jeannette’s voice when she called them baseborn. Two feelings struck Alys at once, relief that Raymond had not lied about or “forgotten” to mention a previous marriage and jealousy of the children’s mother. Almost instantly her mind recalled the words “was a common serf”, fixing on the past tense and eagerly leaping to the assumption that the children’s mother was dead. The fact that the younger child was at least four years of age further encouraged Alys’s self-delusion.
Meanwhile, Lady Jeannette had turned angrily on Fenice and Enid, calling them stupid little sluts and ordering them to make their curtsies to their new mother. The use of the word “mother” was deliberate and emphasized. Lady Jeannette found it offensive that Alys, not nearly as highbred as she, should call her “mother”. She was certain that Alys would feel even more violently about having lowborn bastards call her “mother”.
The stools were too high for the children’s short legs to reach the floor, and the poor things had been sitting on them, frozen with fear and cold, for hours. They had always been afraid of “the great ladies”, having picked up their mother’s terror of the nobility. They were particularly afraid of their grandmother, since Lucie had repeatedly warned them to stay out of Lady Jeannette’s way—and Lady Jeannette’s attitude toward them when she did come across them had done nothing to reduce their fear. Her manner of ordering them dressed in their best and telling Lucie that they were to be “taken away” by a new mother, and then of telling them that they must not make a sound or move from the stools, had, naturally, induced terror in them. They had literally moved as little as possible, so that their little legs were quite numb. In attempting to obey Lady Jeannette’s harsh order, both finally tumbled down from their stools.
Whatever Alys’s reaction might have been under other circumstances, this pathetic sight overcame any reservations. She leapt forward and then knelt beside the sobbing children, gathering them into her arms.
“My poor little dears,” she cried. “Are you hurt? Those stools were too high for you. You shall have smaller ones. Come, loveys, do not weep. Alys will make all better. Tell Alys where you are hurt.”
This softness surprised Fenice and Enid very much, for though their mother loved them, she had neither the time nor the type of personal experience that would lead her to cosseting her children. They stopped crying to look up with wonder at this soft-voiced, sweet-smelling great lady.
“There, my dears, there,” Alys soothed, falling automatically into the tone of voice and words her own nurse had used with her. “There is nothing to be afraid of anymore. Alys will take good care of you.” She set them on their feet and smiled at them. “You are Fenice,” she said to the taller child, and was rewarded with a shy nod. “And you are Enid.” The little one only stared with wide, dark eyes. “I am your papa’s wife,” Alys continued, “and I am sure you love your papa. I also love your papa, so I must love you, too, and I am sure you will learn to love me.”
Lady Jeannette had been listening to this in blank amazement. She simply could not believe that Alys meant what she said. Tear-stained and sniffling children, even her own, had never appealed to Lady Jeannette. She had occasionally enjoyed playing with her own babies when they were happy, but had handed them back to their nurse at the first sign of whimpers. All she could think was that Alys believed she was fond of the creatures and wished to take them away to spite her. Alys had certainly been horrified when she first heard that Raymond had children. It was inconceivable that Alys had changed her tune so rapidly without good reason to do so.
In a sense Lady Jeannette was correct. Alys’s warmth—after she had recovered from the shock of learning that Raymond was a father—had been generated by pity. However, even as she soothed Fenice and Enid, her mind had been working on a different level from her tongue. She had seen in the children a solution to a whole series of pro
blems. Not only would Fenice and Enid provide some antidote to boredom, but they could be used as an excuse for avoiding too much of Lady Jeannette’s company or Margot’s music lessons. What was more, their education could be used as a cover for almost any activity in which Alys wished to engage.
Now, rising to her feet, she took one little hand in each of hers and became aware that the children were shivering and cold as ice. Their dresses were far too thin, Alys saw, and a little too small, also. It occurred at once to Alys that the gowns might have been given or ordered by Raymond the preceding spring when he was last at home for an extended period, and being their “best”, they had been clothed in these inappropriate garments to meet their new mother. What was more, the children had clearly been prepared to meet her as soon as she arrived in the morning. That meant the poor creatures had been waiting in that icy room for hours. And then, Lady Jeannette had calmly gone on playing that stupid game… Before she even thought to restrain herself, Alys cast a furious glance at Lady Jeannette.
“Have they a nurse?” Alys asked icily.
The enraged glance, the icy voice, and the question about the nurse confirmed all Lady Jeannette’s hopes about Alys’s rage at being saddled with Raymond’s lowborn get. “Of course not,” Lady Jeannette replied. “Since when do serf-children have nurses?”
She almost added that their mother gave them such care as was necessary for a serf’s children, when she recalled that Lucie was no longer supposed to be living in the keep. Raymond had told her to have the woman married off, but that was ridiculous. Sometimes her son was too soft, and always to the wrong people. Imagine saying that Lucie had a right to a life of her own. She was a good weaver, one of the best she had, and Lady Jeannette had no intention of losing her labors. Instead, Lucie had been told to keep out of sight.
Alys bit back an angry retort, which she knew would do no good. Not much interested in Fenice and Enid at first, she had been forced by Lady Jeannette’s indifferent cruelty into active championship of the two shivering mites she was now holding close to her sides for whatever warmth they could find in her full-skirted gown. This was no time to cross Lady Jeannette, who, seeing that she did not regard the “charge” as onerous, might try to take the children back. Alys lowered her glittering eyes, fearing that too much might be read in them.
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