So well had Beatrice responded to his attention and so attractive did Guillaume find her that he had begun to hope force would not be necessary. Now Guillaume took fright. He told himself he could not bear to lose Beatrice and decided to go back to his original plan. All the next day he avoided Beatrice until he found an opportunity to draw her aside when Alys was not in the hall. Then he told Beatrice tragically that he must no longer force his company on her.
“I wondered to where you had disappeared,” Beatrice said, smiling. “Have you been avoiding me? I assure you there is no need. I do not find you repulsive.”
“You give me life with such kindness,” Guillaume sighed, “but I fear others read more into your mercy to a man sore stricken in love than is good for you. I fear that, in order to part us, restraints will be placed upon you.”
“What restraints?”
“Who knows? Certainly you will be ordered never to speak to me or even cast a glance in my direction,” Guillaume announced tragically.
Beatrice felt like saying, Do not be so silly, my mother is not an idiot, but in a way she was touched by Guillaume’s fear. It was in the best tradition of courtly love that “friends” should be separated by unfeeling husbands or parents. And, in fact, Beatrice knew that Guillaume’s love could have no fruition. She would soon marry Charles of Anjou or some other equally highborn man with powerful connections. Still, that had nothing to do with love. She did have a tender feeling for Guillaume. He had been the first to woo her.
“Well, then,” she said teasingly, “you will need to sing your love songs to someone else.”
“Never!” he exclaimed passionately, “I will die! If I cannot speak to you, I will die.”
It was very romantic to hear such professions of faith. Beatrice sighed.
“I should not have showed so openly how I felt,” Guillaume went on, encouraged by this display of sympathy. “Others have noticed. Sooner or later, and I fear sooner, someone will make issue of my attentions to you and I will be driven away.”
That statement was not so farfetched to Beatrice. She did not fear that she would be constrained to avoid Guillaume. Such an order would be too difficult to enforce, but Guillaume might be told to leave if his wooing of her came to her mother’s attention. Lady Beatrice would not like hints that her daughter was amorously inclined to come to the ears of her future husband. She was not in love with Guillaume, nor had she forgotten Alys’s remark that Charles of Anjou, the most likely suitor, might be more attractive to her and she to him now that both were more mature. Nonetheless, she was touched by Guillaume’s protestations, and she was doubly annoyed that her first “friend” would be driven away while she was not even included in the discussions of whom she should marry.
“I will be sorry for it,” Beatrice said regretfully, “but—”
“We could avoid being parted,” Guillaume interrupted eagerly. And then, as Beatrice shook her head, he cried tensely, “Do not deny me before you hear me out, I beg you. I desire your good, only your good, from the bottom of my heart. I love you more than life. I would not hurt you or cause you the smallest shame, I swear.”
“But Guillaume,” Beatrice protested, “you know that soon you must go, even—”
“Only listen,” he pleaded, interrupting again, “that is part of my plan. I know I must go, but I will die if I cannot see you. Only see you and speak to you, I do not ask more than that. Will you let me die?”
Moved by this passionate plea, Beatrice responded, “I would see you if I could, but I cannot guess how it may be arranged.”
“Easily, so easily, and safely, also. I will leave at once, this very day so that any suspicion that might be raised will die, but I will not go far, only to the Abbey of Montmajour.”
“Ah,” Beatrice cried, “of course. Mother will allow me to go to the abbey.”
The light of adventure lit her eyes. She would have to think of a reason for going to the abbey and of a reason for going there without her mother. This was just the sort of adventure to appeal to Beatrice. It was perfectly safe, the abbey was less than a league away, and she could not be blamed even if she were found in Guillaume’s company. No one had told her to avoid him, and it was not her fault if he happened to be visiting the abbey at the same time as she.
“But it must seem as if we meet by accident,” Guillaume warned. “God forbid you should be blamed or punished for your mercy to me. I cannot watch for you. That, I fear, would give away our stratagem. You must tell me a time and a day. Then I will contrive to be where you are, as if it were by chance.”
“Yes, that would be best. Let me see—”
“Let it be soon,” Guillaume interrupted. “Please let it be soon. After these days so close to your sweetness, each moment apart will be ten years in torment. Think of my suffering. Let it be soon.”
It would have to be soon, Beatrice thought. A few days more must bring not only a decision about her fate but the departure of all the funeral guests. Once her mother’s attention was no longer fixed on political matters, it would turn on Beatrice herself. Beatrice did not fear that. Mostly it would be pleasant, but it would take up much time. A suitable wardrobe for a bride and a countess, rather than the youngest daughter of the house, would have to be planned, fitted, and made. Jewels would have to be chosen, and once the offer of marriage was made and accepted, Beatrice knew her mother would instruct her fully about her future husband and her lands. Thus, the only possible time for a last meeting with Guillaume would be the next few days.
Beatrice thought of naming the next day, but did not wish to seem too eager. “The day after tomorrow,” she said. “But it may be only to say farewell. Once the conferences are over, I fear I will be kept close making ready for my betrothal and marriage.”
When she spoke, Beatrice’s face was pensive. She was a little sad to think this one adventure might be her last. All unwitting, she refired Guillaume’s determination. He had begun to waver over the idea of abducting so sweetly trusting a maiden, and he was concerned, too, about his honor, having promised no harm would come to her. However, her apparent sadness when speaking of her betrothal and marriage led him to believe she returned his love and thus regretted her need to marry elsewhere. Then why should she? Why should Beatrice not marry the man she loved and at the same time bring back all the power the des Baux had lost?
Final arrangements about time and place were made. Guillaume kissed Beatrice’s hands again and again, uttering passionate thanks and declarations of love. Finally he tore himself away. He had a great deal to do, for naturally he did not intend to be seen at the abbey himself or to allow Beatrice to arrive there.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Oddly enough, had not Alys’s objections to love poems caused so much amusement, Beatrice might never have fulfilled her intention of meeting Guillaume. Raymond de Villeneuve had been so enchanted by Alys’s original attitude toward poets and poetry that the younger Villeneuve described the whole scene to his father, not realizing that Sir Romeo would not see it as funny.
Sir Romeo was a wise and just man, but unfortunately his wisdom did not extend to the management of high-spirited—not to say spoiled—young ladies. Instead of carrying the tale to Lady Beatrice, who would have laughed and said such an occupation was natural to young people, Sir Romeo gave young Beatrice a sharp lecture on propriety.
Sir Romeo did not accuse Beatrice of any personal partiality. His son had not mentioned Guillaume’s attentions because he did not think them dangerous and he did not wish to get Beatrice into trouble. However, Sir Romeo scolded her for allowing such behavior in her presence. Did she not realize, he said, that she was about to be betrothed? Did she want her future husband to hear she had no modesty? What might be fit for a married woman—although he did not himself approve it—was not to be countenanced for innocent maidens. And so on and so on.
Beatrice was furious. She had never liked Sir Romeo, who had always seemed to regard her as a feeble-minded doll. Normally she would have
complained to her mother, who would have soothed her, but Beatrice was very much annoyed with her mother. Since her father’s death, her mother seemed to have forgotten she was a living person and acted as if she were part of the estate of Provence, a mere piece of land.
Too young and too spoiled, Beatrice did not stop to consider that her mother’s very real grief for her husband, which had to be suppressed to permit her to deal with political necessities, was dulling Lady Beatrice’s own emotions and perceptions. All young Beatrice felt, particularly after Sir Romeo had scolded her, was that her mother did not care about her and would allow her to be misused by anyone. In comparison, Guillaume’s passionate assertions of love became more attractive, and the idea of meeting him, which would throw old Romeo into a convulsion, took on a new luster.
The scolding had another ill effect. Whereas previously Beatrice would have asked openly for permission and escort, now she began to scheme to get away without telling anyone. This, she soon realized, was impractical. She would not be able to get her mare saddled and ride out all alone. Finally, she confessed her problem to Margot, who had been the most sympathetic and was a member of her family. Margot immediately suggested that Alys could arrange it, but warned Beatrice against telling the truth since she was sure Alys would not approve a clandestine assignation.
Unfortunately for everyone, the appeal was made to Alys at just the right moment. Not only was she restless from being pent up in Arles with nothing to do, but she could not stop wondering whether Raymond had received her letter and what his reaction to it would be. She seized on the suggestion with enthusiasm after she learned that the abbey was less than a league away and that the reason the girls wanted to go was to obtain some of the special cheese and wine the abbey made.
Alys was very wise for her age, but she had never been a great heiress. The danger of an abduction never entered her mind. Nor did she think of Sir Guillaume, since Beatrice did not seem in the least disturbed by his departure. Nonetheless, she might have been less gullible if half her mind had not been concentrated on her husband. Alys knew when her letter would have arrived at Aix. If Raymond happened to be there and decided to come to Arles, he could arrive sometime late in the day that Beatrice and Margot wanted to go to the abbey. Alys also knew that there was a good chance he would not be at Aix and the letter would take several days longer to get to him. Still, her eagerness to see Raymond and her anxiety about his reaction was making time hang heavy on her hands. She wanted a diversion, and this small expedition to the abbey seemed ideal.
The weather could have saved them. Had it been particularly cold or wet, all might have preferred comfort to adventure. Instead the sky was bright with sunlight, and there was even a hint of spring in the air. Alys sent down a message to Arnald that she and two ladies would ride out for an hour or two. Her mare and those of Margot and Beatrice were to be saddled.
However, Arnald did not like to leave his troop. Aelfric had been left in Blancheforte, Hugo had remained behind in Tour Dur to escort his wife, Bertha, and the two little girls to Lady Catherine’s manor. He was the only other man who spoke fair French. It seemed to him that every time he left the men, a fight developed owing to misunderstandings or pure aggressiveness. He mentioned this to Alys, who said immediately that he need not come since their objective was an abbey less than a league distant. In addition, Arnald had never been guard to an heiress. Lady Alys had often ridden to Bix with only two men. An armed and mounted man was easily proof against three or four ragged thieves, and he knew the land around Arles was tame and at peace. To be on the safe side, he called out four men, the best in the troop, and told two to ride before and two behind the ladies.
The journey was very pleasant. The road wound along the river for a short way and then curved up to higher ground, but the rise was very gentle. Margot and Beatrice chattered excitedly, trying to make a plan to keep Alys from interfering with a private meeting between Beatrice and Guillaume. Since they dared not say anything direct about the subject, their discussion was obscure. Still, Alys might have guessed they had a secret—only she was thinking that Raymond would not ride as slowly as they were. If he were coming…if…
Alys’s men talked idly, too. They looked about, but it was ridiculous to fear danger on this road so near a town as large as Arles. There were other travelers, not very many, but enough to make any attack unlikely. There was too great a chance another party would appear to help the victims or report the thieves. Then Lady Beatrice called out and pointed. The lead men obediently turned right into a narrower path. This was more heavily wooded and climbed more steeply, but now they were only a few minutes from the abbey.
The sudden sound of breaking brush turned pleasure to nightmare. Alys’s men jerked to attention and drew their swords, but they did not shift their shields and they were not anxious. Thieves, to their minds, were poor creatures on foot. The tearing brush and branches could only be caused by large bodies. The men thought that something had startled a herd of deer that was now fleeing in panic. The swords were drawn only to ward off the creatures.
These thoughts barely had time to form, however, before the first armored man burst through the trees. Margot and Beatrice shrieked in terror, and Alys saw instantly that they had fallen into a trap. She saw her lead men engaged, heard more men coming, and screamed in English, “Flee! Flee! Do not fight. No harm will come to us. Tell them at the keep that we are taken.”
For the lead men, however, this order came too late. Alys saw one already down, and the other, bleeding from several wounds, was falling. Alys had no time to see whether either of the others had broken loose, but she feared they had not. She was trying to get her mare around Margot’s and Beatrice’s mounts, but the animal was terrified and would not obey the rein, turning in a half-circle and balking. It was too late anyway. A man in knight’s armor had ridden up to Beatrice and pulled her from her saddle, setting her before him on his own mount. Setting spurs to his horse, he rode off. Another, a man-at-arms, had seized Margot, and a third was reaching for Alys. Her hand went to her breast to pull her eating knife, but it was too late for that, too.
Alys was not frightened, she was furious. As soon as the party of men-at-arms appeared, she had guessed the intention was to abduct Beatrice, and when the knight seized Beatrice first, that guess was confirmed. Obviously no harm would be done her or Margot or the heiress, but Alys’s impulse was to fight. She subdued it, knowing it was useless. Even if she could draw her knife and stab the man who held her, she would not be able to escape. There was no way she could turn the horse against the tide of other horses, and the men would pursue her and bring her back.
Most of her fury was directed against herself for her stupidity. Now she recalled glances between Margot and Beatrice, half-uttered sentences that were suddenly cut off. How could she have been so stupid as to miss the fact that they were hiding something? Then she realized it was because she had been thinking about Raymond. Oh, God! He would never forgive her for this! Never! Alys began to weep.
“No one will hurt you, lady. No one will hurt you,” the man-at-arms soothed.
Alys paid him no more attention than she paid the horse that carried them. Nonetheless her tears soon ceased, dried by the heat of her rage. Those idiots! Those romantic, birdbrained lackwits! They had arranged this! But the shrieks and wails that came floating back to Alys were sufficient proof that neither of the girls had expected an abduction. Margot and Beatrice were silly ninnies, but what could be expected when they had been raised on lute songs about love? It was she herself who should have known better, Alys thought, sobbing again with anger and frustration, thinking she was not fit to be Raymond’s wife. Had she been a great lady, she would have understood why it was important that Beatrice should not leave Arles. Raymond would despise her! He would never forgive her.
“My lady, do not fear,” the man-at-arms said to her again. “No harm will come to you. There is nothing to fear. We mean no hurt.”
This time the words p
enetrated, not that Alys had ever thought physical harm was intended, but the attempt to soothe the captives betokened consideration in the captor. This notion, plus the conviction that the ambusher knew when and where Beatrice would be traveling, created the first fruitful idea Alys had had. A romantic abduction! Guillaume des Baux! It must be Sir Guillaume who had seized them, Alys thought. Oh, she would kill that nitwit Beatrice. That young idiot Guillaume probably thought he was saving his ladylove from a fate worse than death.
It occurred to Alys at this point that Margot and Beatrice had stopped screaming. Also, although she could hear Beatrice’s voice, the tones were vituperative rather than terrified. For a time Alys was quite hopeful that Guillaume, having learned he had made a mistake and that Beatrice did not wish to be saved from marriage to Charles of Anjou—or whoever else was suitable—would then return them to Arles.
Alys was correct in thinking that Sir Guillaume would be disappointed to learn that Beatrice did not welcome her abduction. He might, indeed, have acted just as Alys hoped, except that Master Ernaldus had prepared him.
* * * * *
“She will be very angry,” Ernaldus had told Sir Guillaume. “She will call you a fool and far worse things.” Master Ernaldus had been surprised and not too well pleased when he discovered that Guillaume’s courting had been too effective and the young man thought himself in love, but he had quickly found an answer.
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