Winter Song

by Roberta Gellis

  Alys dropped her eyes. She had remembered a remark made in the past about the freedoms southern lords took with their vassals’ wives and daughters. Then she looked up and smiled at her husband. To be jealous without reason was to pave a path to misery for herself and Raymond.

  “It is just as well, then, that I will have the children to occupy me. But I will miss you, Raymond. I do not sleep easy in a cold bed.”

  “Neither do I, my love, I assure you.” He laughed and stood up. “I will go now to give that master-at-arms a bone to chew on.”

  Before Alys could speak, he was gone. She started up to follow him, but exerted self-restraint, telling herself not to be a fool. If Raymond meant to be unfaithful, surely he would have said nothing. To mention his own distaste for sleeping alone must only mean he meant to do so. Besides, what one does not know does not hurt, Alys warned herself. It was true that it could do her no harm if Raymond disported himself elsewhere. It should not even touch her pride. To men, such things meant little.

  But old, wise saws had little effect on her, and Alys could feel herself flush with rage. She rose and walked to a window to cool her face and saw that the wind had died. It was only raining slightly, and there were pale gold streaks among the black clouds. It seemed a good time to take the children to her own quarters and establish them there, particularly as she was in no mood to make polite conversation with anyone.

  Because it began to rain and blow again soon after she shepherded Fenice and Enid across to the south tower, the move was successful insofar as it protected Alys from Raymond’s female relatives. Alys’s mood improved while she arranged where they were to sleep and delivered the presents Raymond had promised. These were a hair ribbon for each girl—pale blue for Fenice and red for Enid—and a silver penny, which Alys promised they could spend as they liked when the weather cleared and it was possible to take them into the town.

  Certainly it seemed that the children would be no trouble. After their morning of terror and the excitement of Alys’s and Raymond’s kindness, both little girls nodded off to sleep not long after they expressed their joy over the presents. Alys remained in her own quiet chamber until dinnertime, when she made her way back to the great hall. She stopped Gervase and ordered that a plain, simple meal be sent to the south tower for the children, then was seized upon by Margot. Since a glance at her husband showed him deep in conversation with his father, she allowed her sister-by-marriage to pull her aside.

  Raising the question of new clothing and a suitable wedding dress interested Margot enough to divert her from the subject of music, and when Lady Jeannette called her younger daughter away, Alys was fortunate enough to be near the chaplain. She discussed with him the question of a governess for the little girls, a woman who could teach them the duties and manners of a gentlewoman, and a tutor who could teach them to read and do accounts in case she should be too busy to attend to such lessons herself.

  This subject, with all the explanations and circumlocutions necessary to avoid saying outright that their grandmother had neglected them shamefully, carried Alys to the dinner table, where she discovered that Raymond and Alphonse had pleaded urgent business and withdrawn to eat in private. Since Raymond’s seeming neglect of his new wife had put Lady Jeannette in high good humor, she was sweetly sympathetic to Alys about how women were pushed into the background and ignored. Alys made proper, if slightly absent, replies. She was thinking with intense satisfaction that Raymond would be certain to come to her that night, since he might be away for more than a week thereafter.

  By the time dinner was over, the weather had finally cleared, and Alys had had enough of Lady Jeannette’s conversation. She made care of the children her excuse and went back to her own quarters, assuming that Raymond would come when he had finished his talk with his father. As the hours wore away, however, she became more and more irritable. It did no good to tell herself she was being unreasonable, that she was not ignored and forgotten, that her husband was merely very busy.

  A nasty little inner voice kept telling her that Raymond should not be so busy as to preclude a short visit. Knowing that she was being ridiculous, however, only made Alys more irritable. Partly out of a feeling that she could bear no more of Lady Jeannette and Jeanine, who had made several pointed remarks about how brief was a husband’s attention since wives were trapped prey and not interesting, and partly out of a feeling that Raymond would notice her absence and be concerned, Alys did not go across for the evening meal. Bertha fetched suitable food for them all, and it was pleasant and cozy in the south tower.

  Nonetheless, Alys found little comfort in the situation when Raymond did not come right after the meal. She guessed that his mother was holding him, either in talk or by insisting that he attend another recital of lute songs. For the first time, Alys’s conviction that her grip on her husband was too strong to be weakened by Lady Jeannette’s devices was shaken. Alys knew that such distractions would not have kept her from going to see why Raymond had not appeared where he was expected, and anger pricked her.

  Still, Alys struggled to subdue her temper with the reminder that she herself had warned Raymond to be conciliatory toward his mother so as to spare his father Lady Jeannette’s lamentations. Raymond would come as soon as he could, she told herself, and as punishment for her ill humor she set herself to unpicking the seams of a gown that she intended to resew in the style worn in Provence. Later, after the children had been sent off to bed and Raymond still had made no appearance, Alys told herself it was too late for a visit. He would wait now until the keep was asleep and only a few guards prowled the walls. Then he would come.

  This assurance permitted her to finish undoing the seams of the gown and let Bertha prepare her for bed with seeming calm. Underneath the placid exterior, however, there was a hard blister of rage. Alys knew that if Raymond arrived with sweet words and apologies, all would be forgotten. If he did not come…but that was impossible. There would be no one and nothing to stay him, except his own unwillingness to take the trouble to stay awake and walk through the passage to her chamber. But the hours passed, and he did not come, which intensified the fury already seething inside Alys’s quiet body.

  From the time they parted, Raymond’s day had been exactly the opposite of Alys’s. Her forenoon had begun rather pleasantly and degenerated into rage and misery. Raymond’s had started with rage and misery and worked its way slowly, very slowly, upward to a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. Although when he had left Alys he had felt only a quiet determination to set things to rights, having been buoyed up by her confidence in him and her agreement with what he planned, he had been thrown into a rage by the master-at-arms, who met his orders with scarcely veiled insolence and a hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Before Raymond gave it a thought, his own weapon was out. At this point, the master-at-arms retreated. To him, Raymond was no more than a boy who came and went at Tour Dur and had never before taken a serious interest in anything, Also, the master-at-arms had assumed the son was like the father, although he would have been equally surprised if he had tried to threaten Alphonse. Raymond’s father was no coward, despite the fact that he was disinclined to the arts of war and preferred music.

  The threat having backfired, the master-at-arms was more than willing to withdraw it. To do any harm to the son of the house would merit a punishment that was utterly unthinkable. The man was lazy and did not wish to be bothered restoring the effects of his negligence, nor did he wish to accept punishment and had thought a gesture of defiance would overawe a young man of weak character.

  To his horror he found there was to be no retreat. Raymond lashed at him contemptuously with the flat of his blade. The master-at-arms’ shriek of pain and fear attracted others to the scene. A few new men, who did not recognize Raymond and did not stop to think in their excitement, also drew weapons. Arnald, who had been watching with interest and approval as his young master blade-whipped a man who deserved it, now drew his sword and bellowed for
his men to come and defend Lord Raymond.

  Although there were far more men-at-arms belonging to Tour Dur’s than Arnald’s small troop, the well-disciplined group had seized shields and weapons and formed a ring about their master before the men of the castle, who had no leader, were aware of what was going on. Moreover, the older men-at-arms who knew Raymond were blocking those who wished to go to the aid of the master-at-arms. These older men were trying to explain, shouting that the attacker was Lord Raymond, Lord Alphonse’s son, and therefore inviolable, no matter what he chose to do to anyone.

  Unfortunately, everyone was growing more and more excited. The Englishmen, with shields locked, were stamping and shouting insults at those they thought to be traitors. Men-at-arms, who had been in distant parts of the castle, came running and, seeing the foreigners seemingly threatening their companions, rushed forward to protect their own.

  The master-at-arms in the meantime had been yelling for mercy and was so frightened that he did not realize Raymond was indeed being merciful. Raymond intended to do no more than beat the man to a pulp and throw him out to live or die as he chose. Since he could have had an insolent servant drawn and quartered, Raymond considered himself generous. However, the combination of pain and terror does not lead to clear thought. In desperation, the master-at-arms drew his weapon, thinking only to defend himself. That additional defiance changed Raymond’s mind.

  To draw steel on one’s master, except for the purpose of practice combat when ordered, was the ultimate sin. There could be no excuse for that trespass. Raymond turned his blade and began to wield it in earnest. He was not armed and had no shield, but the master-at-arms was in like case, and Raymond was not frightened, nor lazy, nor out of practice. He parried two wild swings and, when a third was launched, cut off his opponent’s arm, hand, and consequently, his sword. Having disarmed his man, Raymond hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should cut off the other hand too, sear the stumps, and use the remaining cripple as an object lesson.

  The noise surrounding him then penetrated through Raymond’s concentration on his own fight. A single swift glance told the story. Angry again at the trouble the man had caused, Raymond simply stepped closer to the master-at-arms, who was on his knees keening and holding his maimed arm, and struck off his head. A single bellow in English silenced Alys’s men. They remained with swords drawn at the ready, but challenges and insults were cut off. A second bellow, calling squad leaders by name, soon led to order being reestablished. There were, by this time, several wounded in addition to the dead master-at-arms. Raymond looked around at the disorder and lost his temper all over again. He flayed the Tour Dur men-at-arms for their lack of skill and lack of discipline, using language that made Arnald’s eyes round with admiration, and he promised them that they would find hell a place of peace and comfort before he was through with them.

  Finally Raymond ordered that all weapons be given into Arnald’s care until he had a chance to harrow out the noxious growths from the true plants. Seeing that this order was being obeyed in trembling haste, Raymond ordered that the master-at-arms’ body be hung in chains by the barracks, to remind the men, while the flesh dropped from the bones and the stench permeated their lodgings, of the result of negligence and disobedience. Then, still seething, he went to seek his father and relate what had happened.

  Considering the circumstances, the temper he was in, and Raymond’s feelings about the basic cause of all the trouble, which was his father’s lack of attention, Raymond was neither respectful nor conciliatory in what he said. Since Alphonse was already defensive, being as aware as Raymond that he had neglected his duty, he flew into a rage, too. A shouting match ensued, in which ugly accusations were exchanged. However, father and son truly loved one another. Both were so shocked by the disgusting half-truths that were flung in anger that mutual apologies and tears of repentance soon made peace.

  In the quiet of emotional exhaustion that followed, a more rational examination of the problem followed. Pretenses had been stripped away in the quarrel so that Raymond and Alphonse were better able to look at the naked truth. For this time, at least, neither wished for the ameliorative platitudes with which the women would try to cover the real facts. By mutual consent they withdrew to eat together and to work out the details for a division of responsibility between them that would benefit everyone. Although both were trying hard to be honest, each was now overanxious not to hurt the other, so that it took a long time to say what had to be said.

  The false dawn had already streaked the sky with pale bands that gave little light when Alphonse stood up wearily and rested his hand on Raymond’s shoulder. “No, my son,” he said in response to a final plea from Raymond that he believe his son was not trying to seize his father’s power. “I know that is true. In the bad years, when we were threatened by Toulouse, my father fought for these lands while I parleyed for allies and made pacts and treaties. I always hated fighting. I am more than glad that you are ready and willing to take up that burden. I am only fearful of laying too great a weight on your shoulders.”

  “The part you give me is what I like, Father, and what I understand. If you will deal with Louis and with Charles of Anjou—if and when dealing with them becomes necessary—I will have no burden that I consider heavy. I might contrive the pact with Louis, but I know from what you have told me that Charles of Anjou and I would, at best, rub each other wrong and, at worst, come to blows. I can make us strong. I can weld the vassals together. But I fear that saying sweet words to a sour neighbor or overlord might undo me.”

  Alphonse produced a tired smile. “That I can do, and take pleasure in the doing also. Sleep well, my son. I will see you in the morning.”

  “No, you will not, for I intend to be gone by first light.” Raymond stood up, stretched, and yawned.

  “You are tired,” Alphonse protested. “Go tomorrow.”

  Then he sighed and shook his head. He would have delayed a day because he was tired, and then perhaps another because it rained, and in the end, he might not have gone at all. Raymond was different, and he had agreed that Raymond should act as he saw fit as his deputy. Then Alphonse saw his son reach for his hauberk.

  “Raymond,” he protested again, “at least sleep for an hour or two. It is too dark to ride out now.”

  “Help me on with this, Father. I must go down and settle on a temporary master-at-arms and choose out a group to ride with me. By the time I have done that, it will be light.”

  Alphonse closed his mouth over another protest. It would not stop Raymond and would only annoy him. He lifted the mail shirt and slid it over Raymond’s raised arms after his son had cast aside his elegant tunic and surcoat and pulled on an arming tunic of heavy homespun wool.

  As his head emerged through the neck opening, Raymond said, “Alys’s men will be here and may be trusted implicitly if there should be any grumbling among our people, for I will leave orders about their training that some of the lazy dogs will not like. You had better tell Alys to give them their orders—”

  “Alys!” Alphonse’s voice rose to a muted shriek. “What could a woman know of such things? She would faint with fear among the guardsmen.”

  “Not Alys,” Raymond said with pride. “She will sew up their wounds, order them whipped for wrongdoing and watch the whipping, and then salve their weals with not a change in complexion or countenance. She held Marlowe for her father when he was away at war.”

  Alphonse was now beyond words. He simply stared as Raymond laced up his hood, pulled on a surcoat for riding, and belted his sword. His son’s expression first showed a marked longing and then firmed into determination.

  “I will not go to her myself,” he said with a wry smile, “for I might not find the strength to leave as soon as I should. What I started to say was that if orders are to be given to the Englishmen, tell Alys and she will pass the order along. Arnald speaks fair French, but of the northern kind and most of the other men have only a word or two. Alys will speak in E
nglish. They understand that best.”

  Raymond was pleased with himself for having found an excuse for Alys to give the orders that would not hurt his father’s feelings. The truth was that he was not sure Alys’s men would obey Alphonse. Then he leaned forward, kissed his still-stunned father fondly, and strode out.

  By noon Raymond had reached Gréoux, the stronghold of one of Lord Alphonse’s most powerful and influential vassals, where he was greeted with considerable surprise and somewhat more warmth than he had expected. On the way, he had berated himself for forgetting to tell his father about Ernaldus, warning him to investigate carefully any stranger who came to Tour Dur, and telling him to guard Alys against such a person, but Sieur de Gréoux’s greeting put it out of his mind. In fact, Raymond soon discovered that matters were not nearly as bad as he had believed. In a way he had underestimated his father. Alphonse was no warrior, but he was just and honest, His vassals had a deep affection for him and would not, under ordinary circumstances, seek to free themselves from his overlordship.

  The trouble was that circumstances might become far from ordinary any day. Gréoux did not hide the fact that he had been worried. With Raymond-Berenger’s health so precarious and a young, unwed girl as heiress to the province, it was impossible to say what would happen. Romeo de Villeneuve was a paragon of strength and virtue, but it would be a catastrophe for him to try to withstand by force of arms any of the large, hungry mouths that would gape to swallow Provence. This was no time for an overlord to be playing at draughts with his wife, Gréoux said, with more frankness than courtesy.

  “I am not so sure of that,” Raymond returned. “The Count of Provence is my father’s father, after all. And my father has good reason to love him. Would you have him bury his father before he is dead? What can he do but sit at home and wait for news?” Raymond paused, raised his expressive brows, and continued, “That does not mean he cannot think and plan, or that I, his son and deputy, cannot see to the arming and organization of the men of Aix.”