Winter Song

by Roberta Gellis

  Alphonse was almost as much in love with his daughter-by-marriage as was his son. It seemed to him that as soon as Alys appeared, he was freed from all the unpleasant aspects of his wife’s demands for his attention. Raymond’s news about the faithfulness of the vassals had washed away the bitterest portion of his guilt, but enough remained that he was spurred to exert himself to fulfill his part of the bargain he had made with his son. He had wished to write some letters, but had not been able to get away from Lady Jeannette. Then Alys came, and he was free.

  Jeanine’s feelings toward her sister-by-marriage had also undergone a change. It was Alys who had given her the key to unlock her prison and pointed out the door. Not only had her father promised to seek a suitable marriage for her as soon as possible, but he had mentioned that the way Alys’s dower was settled obviated the necessity for him to add anything to it or to Raymond’s allowance. Thus, Jeanine’s portion could be increased. And now, Alys was sitting patiently with Jeanine’s mother, not quite agreeing that Raymond was cruel and mad but still nodding and murmuring sympathetically so that Jeanine could escape unnoticed. It was Raymond’s disgusting behavior when he announced the marriage, Jeanine told herself, that had prejudiced her against Alys. She should not have blamed Alys for what Raymond had done. Alys herself had many good points.

  Lady Jeannette had not been won over yet despite Alys’s attention to her, but the event that would conquer her began before nightfall. The connection was not immediately apparent. No one would have guessed that particular outcome from the tragedy that preceded it.

  In the late afternoon, a tired rider flogging an exhausted horse called that he had an urgent message. The name of his master brought Alphonse, looking pale and shocked, out into the bailey. And the rider’s news, although it was not really unexpected, wrenched a cry of pain from Alphonse. Raymond-Berenger, his father, was dead!

  Alphonse discovered in that moment that it is one thing to talk about an event and quite another to experience it. Although he had discussed his father’s death calmly with Raymond, now that it had taken place he realized that he had never believed it could happen. He was stunned, grief-stricken, and terrified all at once. He had loved his father and depended on him. Now the whole world seemed to be collapsing and sliding away from him. Alphonse reeled, and Arnald caught him and supported him, calling over his shoulder to the nearest man-at-arms to fetch Lady Alys quickly.

  Alys ran down from the women’s quarters at once when called, believing at first that Alphonse had been taken ill. When she heard the cause of his faintness, however, she bade the man hurry back and have Lord Alphonse carried into the keep. This was not a time for her to intrude. Comfort must be administered by those most familiar. Alys herself ran up again, trying to think of a way to present the news that would not bring on hysterics, but there was no time for long, gentle preparation. All she could do was to sink into a deep curtsy before Lady Jeannette. This was unusual enough to be a warning.

  “Madame,” Alys said softly. “I am the bearer of ill tidings. I beg you to be strong so that you may comfort your husband. The Count of Provence is dead, and Lord Alphonse is sore stricken with grief.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Lady Jeannette cried, “This day is accursed! My son mad, my father-by-marriage dead, my husband—”

  “Your husband needs you, madame,” Alys pleaded, praying that for once in her life Lady Jeannette would, at least temporarily, abandon her selfishness. Then Alys was stricken by a brilliant idea. “If you do not comfort Lord Alphonse and support him,” she warned, “he could become ill, even himself die of grief.”

  That remark hit home. If Alphonse were seriously ill or dead, Lady Jeannette realized, Raymond would rule Tour Dur. Alys would be mistress there, and Lady Jeannette herself would either be put out to a small dower manor or sink into insignificance in her own home. The selfishness that ordinarily kept Lady Jeannette at rest while everyone around her worked to support and amuse her now spurred her to activity, as Alys had intended. Lady Jeannette rose from her chair and hurried to the stairs.

  Alys uttered a sigh of relief. She did not believe anyone could die of grief. If it were possible, she thought, she herself would have done so last night or when she woke this morning. However, death from grief was a convention of those ridiculous lute songs Lady Jeannette loved so much. Likely she believed grief could kill. In any case, she would now attend most assiduously to Lord Alphonse, and that was most important. What next? Alys wondered.

  The question had been rhetorical as it rose in her mind, more an exclamation about the fact that she seemed to be living in a whirlwind for the last few days. However, as the words formed, they took on a practical context. Literally next was to inform Raymond. Down the stairs Alys ran again, just slipping out past the party that was supporting Alphonse up to his wife’s bedchamber. He was weeping freely, and Lady Jeannette was murmuring comfort. Neither of them noticed her.

  Snatching a cloak, Alys ran out to the bailey calling for Arnald. He was with her in a moment, asking anxiously whether they should close the keep. He had been only a small child when King John died in 1218, but he had heard many tales of the violent disorders of that time. Moreover, he was worried and startled by Lord Alphonse’s collapse, unable to imagine what kind of catastrophe had overtaken them. Nothing he knew of could have caused a similar collapse in Sir William.

  “No, there is no need for that,” Alys assured him. “Lord Raymond has spoken to me of this already. It was not unexpected. There may be war, but not in the next few days or weeks. What is most necessary is that this news go to Lord Raymond at once. You must tell the master-at-arms—oh, good God, he is dead, too.”

  “There is a new man,” Arnald told her.

  “Very well. He must choose a trusty man who knows the way to Gordes to carry a letter to Lord Raymond. Let him come to the keep. I will go in and write the letter now.”

  Alys knew she should be sorry about the death of Raymond’s grandfather, and in a sense she was because she knew Raymond had loved him and would be grieved. Nonetheless, she was not too distressed, aware that the death was expected and would not be the shock to her husband, who was strong, that it had been to Lord Alphonse, who had regarded his father as a support for his weakness. And, truly, it was as if God had arranged it at this moment so that she would have an excuse to write to Raymond. As that thought crossed her mind, Alys offered up a prayer to be forgiven for presumption, but she could not completely quell her happiness.

  She found the chaplain and Gervase in anxious consultation with the messenger, who, it seemed, had a letter but had not time enough to deliver it before Lord Alphonse collapsed. Alys put out her hand.

  “I will take it. Gervase, please see to the messenger’s comfort and let him rest. I do not know whether it will be necessary to send a reply at once. It is possible that we will need to leave for Arles ourselves. Please give some thought to what might be needed for the journey. I will come to you with definite instructions as soon as I am able.”

  Then Alys went up to Lady Jeannette’s apartment again where she found Margot and Jeanine clinging together and weeping. For the moment Alys did not disturb them but went to listen at the bedchamber door. There she heard Lord Alphonse speaking in a broken voice of his father’s many kindnesses to him and his insufficient gratitude, and between the phrases, Lady Jeannette assuring him that he had ever been a most dutiful and loving son. His father, Lady Jeannette urged, had always desired his happiness and health, and to be a good, dutiful son now, he must strive to accept God’s will. Alys nodded and withdrew.

  Nothing could be better. Lady Jeannette knew her husband best, and when it was in her interest to do so, she was the one who could best soothe him. However, Alys did not think this was a good time to precipitate another crisis by presenting a letter that might contain only details of Raymond-Berenger’s death. Unfortunately, however, the letter could not just be put aside until Lord Alphonse was ready to deal with it. It might also c
ontain important news. At Marlowe, Alys would not have hesitated an instant but would have cracked the seal, for she had always been her father’s trusted deputy. In a way she had that right now, for she was the wife of the heir, and Lord Alphonse was unwell. However, she did not wish to overstep the bounds of propriety, either.

  “Jeanine,” she said softly, approaching the sisters. “I am sorry to intrude on your grief, but there is a letter here for your father.”

  Jeanine sniffed and looked at her. “Why do you tell me?”

  “If this letter only tells of…of the sad bereavement,” Alys told her, “then it may be put aside until your father can bear it, but if there is some matter of urgency in it, then it cannot wait upon his grief but must be acted on at once.”

  “You desire that I open a letter addressed to my father?” Jeanine gasped.

  “No, as Raymond’s wife, that is my responsibility,” Alys replied coolly, “but I must ask you to advise me. The letter is from Sir Romeo de Villeneuve. Is he more likely to have writ of the…the sad details or of matters of business?”

  “Are you going to open the letter?” Margot asked, slightly breathless.

  “If Jeanine believes it is a letter of affairs, yes,” Alys said firmly. “Duty cannot be delayed by grief.”

  “I-I do not know.” Jeanine bit her lip. “Sir Romeo was judex for my grandfather, but he was also his closest adviser and companion.”

  “He was not solely a friend but an official of your grandfather’s administration?” Alys asked.

  “The most important official,” Jeanine confirmed.

  “Then I must see what is here,” Alys said and, before either girl could speak, broke the seal. Since it was too late to stop her, and if wrong had been done, Alys had done it, both sisters came forward eagerly. Alys held out the letter toward Jeanine. “It will be quicker if you read it. I am not completely familiar with the langue d’oc.”

  First Jeanine shrank back, but her curiosity overcame her timidity and she unrolled the parchment. At once it was clear to Alys that her act was justified. Sir Romeo confirmed the news the messenger had given and then requested that Lord Alphonse come to Arles as quickly as possible. Both he and Lady Beatrice, Raymond-Berenger’s widow, needed Lord Alphonse’s advice and support. Alys’s eyes narrowed as she listened, remembering what Raymond had told her. She was sure Lord Alphonse must not be trapped in Arles, and Alys knew instinctively that Arles would be a trap for him whether or not Sir Romeo and Lady Beatrice meant it to be. Once Alphonse was involved in discussing young Beatrice’s fate, he might be too long delayed to make his pact with King Louis. Lord Alphonse must go to King Louis at once, not to Arles. It would be very useful, Alys thought, if Alphonse himself carried the news of his father’s death to the king.

  “Then we must make ready to leave,” Alys said.

  “Make ready? Without my father’s order?” Jeanine quavered.

  “Do you believe Lord Alphonse would refuse Sir Romeo?” Alys asked.

  “No,” Jeanine replied, “but…but he is not fit to travel. And my mother…” Her voice drifted away uncertainly.

  “It is too late to go today,” Alys agreed, “but I believe your father will be recovered by morning. And your mother has enough to do in comforting him. You and Margot will know best what should be taken to Arles. If you will be so good as to order the maids to begin packing, I will see that Gervase makes ready the means for transporting what we will need. And I must send Raymond this news. Margot, would you be kind enough to find ink and parchment so I may write to him?”

  Margot, whose grief had been much dissipated by the thrill of Alys’s daring behavior and by the expectation of the excitement of new faces and new activities at her grandfather’s obsequies, went at once to do as Alys asked. Meanwhile, Alys stepped closer to Jeanine, ostensibly to take back the parchment, which she rolled up again.

  However, she also said, in a low voice, “I imagine all the important men in the south of France will come. Perhaps I should not be thinking of such matters at so sad a time, Sister, but life must go on. It cannot hurt you to look about and see if some of the gentlemen you will meet are particularly pleasing to you.”

  Then, before Jeanine could reply, Alys moved toward Margot, who was bringing forward a small writing table. This relieved Jeanine of needing to make a horrified protest, both at thinking of her marriage at her grandfather’s funeral and at the idea of “choosing” a gentleman. It would do her no good anyway, Jeanine thought bitterly. Her father had never listened to her plea to marry that handsome squire…squire… What was his name? Then she frowned, jolted into honesty by the events of the past few days. The fact was that her father had been right. Jeanine was now ready to admit that she had no inclination to follow a penniless knight from tourney to tourney or to live on the charity of her parents or brother. She was not likely to make so foolish a mistake again. So, actually, it might be well worth looking at the available men. Her father would be glad to please her if she chose wisely.

  With the light of determination in her eyes, Jeanine went to the door and began to call the names of the maids she needed. Then she began to discuss with Margot what they would need to take. Alys drew the parchment toward her and bowed her head over it to hide her smile. Jeanine, she was sure, would do her uttermost to assure that they left promptly. Margot’s desire to go had never been in question.

  The smile faded from Alys’s lips as she dipped her quill. The spoken message the man-at-arms would carry would ensure a reading of her letter, no matter how angry at her Raymond was, but her purpose was to assuage that anger, and she would need to be careful what she wrote. After a formal salutation she began.

  My dear lord, I am sufficiently aware of my great fault not to have dared address you at this time if there were not great need. I know how greatly I have wronged you and that for no reason but my own jealous fears and fancies. However, it is needful for me to explain what befell here after the news of your grandfather’s death, which the messenger has already given you.

  Alys looked up to think. Did she need to wrap up in fair words her opening of the letter? She thought not. Raymond knew his father. She continued writing quickly:

  With the sad news we had a letter from Sir Romeo de Villeneuve. Your father being too overcome with grief to attend to it, I made bold to break the seal. Sir Romeo desires your father’s presence at Arles as soon as may be. I do suppose this is for two purposes. First, to be sure that the only living son of the Count of Provence keeps faith and does not wish to seize the whole province, and second, for counsel on how best to preserve Provence. But, my lord, you told me already that it was all but certain Charles of Anjou must have Beatrice.

  At this point Margot ran in to ask whether she should tell Bertha to start packing. Alys thanked her with real warmth. It was a thoughtfulness she had not expected. It might only be a result of Margot’s eagerness to go, but even so it was a step in the right direction. She returned to her missive.

  Yet, if this marriage be agreed upon before Lord Alphonse can proffer homage to King Louis, it may be that the king of France will consider the fealty of Aix to be owing to his brother Charles. Thus, it is in my mind to urge your father, in your name, to go to King Louis at once, while your mother, your sisters, and I will go to Arles.

  Alys flicked the feather of the quill back and forth across her lips. She realized that if Alphonse’s act was suspect, she and the other women would be hostages, but she could not see that that would matter. Sir Romeo would not do them any harm. It would be boring, but they would be released as soon as Louis’s brother was betrothed to Beatrice, or sooner if Louis accepted Lord Alphonse’s fealty.

  Our presence will be an assurance of your father’s good faith. My lord, you must do all things as you see fit, but it is my thought—which you were once kind enough to say I should not withhold from you—that we women alone will be sufficient for Sir Romeo’s peace of mind. Your dealings with the vassals seem to me too important to be cut short
by a council that can only result in a foregone conclusion.

  She dared not go further and actually tell him to stay away, and she had said all there was to say. Yet she hated to break even the tenuous contact with Raymond that writing to him gave. There was also the question of whether, since she was in utter disgrace, Raymond would think she had intruded where she did not belong.

  My lord, I dare not beg mercy for my wrong to you nor for my present acts, if they be wrong. I only desire you to know that all my duty, all my desire, my every thought is for your good.

  Alys lingered over the last lines. She wanted desperately to add the word “love” but was inhibited both by the desecration Raymond had made of the most intimate demonstration of that emotion and by the fear that, knowing she had driven him to use force, he would find the word an offense. And, after all, what was love but what she had written, that all her duty, desire, and thoughts were for her husband’s good.

  Raymond received Alys’s letter the following evening. He had only arrived in Gordes himself a few hours earlier. Although he had intended to ride straight through, disregarding the fact that mountain trails are not safe in moonlight, even when there is moonlight, he had discounted the other effects of the mountainous countryside too easily. By dusk of the preceding day, they had lost one horse, and others were failing. Lucie had fainted from pain and exhaustion, and even Gros Choc, his own destrier, was showing signs of strain.

  The last fact decided Raymond that they would have to stop for the night. Even his driving need to get Lucie married and explain everything to Alys would not make him risk the well-being of his favorite destrier. And, because they stayed in the hospice of a tiny monastery, Raymond thought his jealous wife would have no cause to doubt him. Lucie was not even allowed in the building, being accommodated in one of the serfs’ huts of the small farm.