“But will Lady Alys be safe?” Arnald interrupted anxiously.
Sir Romeo was suddenly aware of Raymond’s stricken face. He came forward and gripped Raymond’s shoulder hard. “There is nothing to fear for Lady Alys or your sister. Even that young fool would not dare do them any harm if he hopes to rule Provence. To make a bitter enemy of your strongest neighbor would be insane. It is only Beatrice for whom I fear.”
Raymond sucked air into his lungs. It was true that des Baux would not permit Alys to be hurt and des Baux, not Ernaldus, ruled. It was not even certain that Ernaldus was there. Raymond strangled his fear and started to think.
Actually, by then Sir Guillaume would gladly have turned all three women over to his torturers. Since he could not, he had turned on the man who had introduced the scheme to his mind. He came roaring back into the keep after he had washed the sand from his eyes and the filth from his face and body, struck Ernaldus, shook him until his head snapped back and forth, threw him on the floor, and kicked him, all the time screaming, “You brought this on me! Get me out of it! Find me a way to save myself without marriage or I will kill you. I would not marry that bitch to be king of heaven. Find me a way out!”
Again and again Ernaldus shrieked for mercy and promised a resolution to the problem if Guillaume would only cease from abusing him and let him think. Having relieved the worst of his fury and frustration, Guillaume snarled that he had better think quickly and strode away. But there was nothing for Ernaldus to think about. He knew there was no way to stave off punishment except for des Baux to marry the heiress and get her with child. He crawled to his feet, knowing he must escape and knowing also that there was no way he could save anything beyond his life. He further realized that if he did escape, he would soon die of cold and starvation, a penniless outcast. With that knowledge came hatred and with hatred an answer.
Sir Guillaume and Les Baux could not be saved, but Master Ernaldus could save himself—save himself and probably garner a handsome reward. He had only to carry to Arles the news of who had the heiress and that there was a secret way into Les Baux. Ernaldus began to hurry, whining with pain but terrified that Guillaume would return for his answer or remember to tell the castle folk and guards not to obey him or to keep him from leaving. All day he scurried from room to room in the keep and then into and out of a certain tower, always keeping to dark corners and peering around anxiously to see if he was noticed.
At dusk, the serfs who owed corvée and were assigned tasks within Les Baux left to go back to their huts outside the walls. The keep itself did not cover the entire flat surface of the strange isolated plateau on which it stood. To the east was an area large enough to be farmed, and those who attended to the farms lived on them in huts. Some did day labor in the keep, some carried in produce and carried out slops for the animals and manure for the earth. Among these people there was an extra.
The laborers were tired after a day’s work and more interested in getting out of the rain than in their companions. No one actually looked at the extra. The casual glance or two that passed over him recorded a face that was vaguely familiar, which was not surprising, for almost everyone had seen Master Ernaldus. Nor was it surprising that no one recognized him. He was far more portly than natural, what showed of his face under the hood that shadowed it was puffed and bruised, and he walked awkwardly and painfully.
Besides, the serfs had only seen Master Ernaldus dressed in velvets and furs with a fine cap on his head. Now he wore a coarse, dirty cloak and under it the gown of a clerk. The hood hid more than his face, for he had cut his hair away from the crown of his head in a rude tonsure. It had occurred to Ernaldus that only the most desperate of men would harm a man in holy orders and that he would do well to imitate that condition in life until he was safe.
As soon as he could, Master Ernaldus dropped behind the group and sought shelter between some bushes. He wept with rage and pain and fear as he crouched there, execrating Sir Guillaume for every vice of character and evil, except the ones he truly had, youth, a hasty temper, and a limited understanding. Ernaldus credited himself with extreme cleverness in having eluded his master, but the truth was that Sir Guillaume was no more eager to see the bailiff than the bailiff was to see him.
Guillaume’s outburst had been the result of frustration and fear. Once it was over, he was rather ashamed of it and of having misused an elderly man, frailer than himself. Nor did Guillaume want to hear what he knew was the truth, that there was no way out of the tangle except to marry Beatrice or accept whatever punishment would be meted out. Moreover, it had never entered Sir Guillaume’s mind to order the servants not to obey Ernaldus or the guards to prevent him from leaving, anyway. As he was essentially an honorable young man, it was impossible for him to believe that Ernaldus would want to leave. Sir Guillaume would never have abandoned a man committed to a plan of his making.
A good part of Ernaldus’s curses should have been directed against himself. First, there was no need to leave. Ernaldus could have gone to bed and cosseted himself with no opposition from Sir Guillaume. Second, so long as he had not done it directly in front of Sir Guillaume, Ernaldus could have packed all his money and possessions, and a good part of his master’s, had the things loaded on horses, and ridden out of the gates without question. Not everyone in Les Baux liked Master Ernaldus, but all accepted his authority. Without a direct order from Sir Guillaume, no one would have questioned Ernaldus’s authority to do what he liked.
As soon as it was fully dark, Ernaldus started down the road that wound up the cliff. He was terrified, but he knew that the guards who watched this road were never lax. Even in the dark, he would be lucky to get down without being noticed, and even luckier if he did not fall off the road to his death.
In Sir Romeo’s chamber in Arles, Sir Romeo and Raymond were staring at Arnald, who had just said, “Long before a siege is over, if I know Lady Alys, this des Baux may offer you his keep free and clear just to be rid of her.”
“Are you mad?” Sir Romeo cried.
“Well, if he dare not do her hurt nor keep her in chains, Lady Alys will find a way to plague out his life,” Arnald answered with simple faith. “She will be very angry.”
Suddenly, Raymond’s face, which had been rigid with anguish, softened, and he began to laugh. He had to believe that Sir Romeo was right and that des Baux would not permit Alys to be harmed. Ernaldus was nothing and nobody. He would have no power to hurt Alys even if he was in the keep. Arnald’s words had restored Raymond’s perspective. It was ridiculous to think that Ernaldus had anything to do with the abduction. A common bailiff could have no influence on a nobleman. None of des Baux’s men or servants would help Ernaldus when their master had decreed that the women not be harmed. And Alys could protect herself against Ernaldus alone. She would find a distaff and beat in his brains, or stab him with a spindle.
“Have you gone mad also?” Sir Romeo snarled. “What is there to laugh about in this situation?”
Raymond sobered. “Nothing. But Arnald is right. Des Baux may find his captives less easy to manage than he thought, and Alys will keep Beatrice steady in refusal. However, if he separates them, Beatrice’s spirit may fail.”
“He was courting her, too,” Sir Romeo said angrily.
“Courting Alys?” Raymond asked, his voice sharp.
“No, courting Beatrice. My son told me about Lady Alys breaking up one of those poetical love fests. I spoke rather sharply to Beatrice about allowing… Good God, this whole thing may be my fault. If that young fool des Baux thought he was about to win Beatrice with lute songs and she turned him off sharply because of what I said—”
“It does not matter,” Raymond interrupted, with relief. What Sir Romeo said proved that Beatrice was the object of the abduction, not Alys. “What does matter is getting men out to that keep as soon as possible.”
Sir Romeo went gray again. “I tell you it cannot be taken by assault. Do not throw away your life—”
“No, no
, I assure you,” Raymond interrupted again. “With what do you think I could begin an assault, my ten men and Alys’s twenty?” As he said it, Raymond flushed slightly, remembering how Alys always said “our”. Assault was impossible, but if there were some way, any way… “I intend guile, not force,” he went on, keeping his voice steady. “I only wish to support Beatrice’s spirit by letting her believe an army has already come for her, and also to prevent allies from entering Les Baux if they are not already in the keep.”
This seemed so reasonable a notion that Sir Romeo put aside his doubts and began to discuss practical plans. Only a few hours later, despite the light rain that was still falling, Raymond set out with his troop and another thirty men from Arles, including several older men-at-arms who remembered the road to Les Baux. They made good time, keeping a fast pace until they passed the abbey, slowing until the older men found the sidetrack, and then going quickly again.
On the other hand, Master Ernaldus had made only very slow progress down the winding cliff trail. Because he was afraid of falling off the edge, he clung to the mountainside. But close to the inner edge, the road was less well trodden. More than once Ernaldus’s foot caught in a tuft of dead grass or weeds or trod on a stone that rolled. He staggered and tripped and occasionally fell, for he was heavy laden and off balance. The road was steep and pitched him forward. Ernaldus had not walked so far in years. Soon he stopped, crouching against the cliff, sure he could go no farther.
Fear drove him on as soon as his breath no longer tore his lungs with pain. If he were caught, he would die slowly and painfully. Better a plunge off the cliff, he was sure. Exhaustion stopped him again a few hundred feet down the track, and he whimpered that no death could be worse than the suffering he was enduring. However, there was no relief from suffering in crouching on the stony road in the rain. Ernaldus knew there were huts along the road where he could take shelter once he reached the plain. So, alternating between fear and the hope of comfort, he found strength to rise each time he stopped.
Ernaldus was not yet on the plain when he heard the thunder of hooves and, almost at once, thinly, from above, a cry of warning from the guard on the wall of Les Baux. If he had been higher up, Ernaldus might have thrown himself over the cliff in despair. He believed this must be the first detachment of men coming in response to the letters Sir Guillaume had sent out. But he was too far down to jump. He would only break bones and be unable to escape. Not that he would escape anyway. As soon as the men began to ride up the track, they would find him. He ran a little way, but he was so unwieldy with his gold and the stolen goods he had wrapped around his body that he tripped and fell, rolled, and caught himself almost at the edge. Then he lay still, too frozen with too many terrors to move.
He could see the horsemen, dim shadows on the road that was only less black than the brush and stubble of the fields. He could not tell how many—there seemed to be hundreds—but it did not matter, one would be too many for him. But then the miracle occurred. They turned off the path to the keep, veering left off the road toward the band of woods that bordered the grazing fields where they would be sheltered somewhat from the catapults and mangonels of the keep.
Barely suppressing a cry of joy and relief, Ernaldus scrambled to his feet, hope renewing his strength. If the men had turned off the road, they could not be Guillaume’s allies. Had they been supporters of des Baux, they would have clustered at the foot of the track up the cliff while one man rode up to identify them. They would not have gone to hide in the woods. Thus, they must be the first group sent out from Arles. That stupid, useless clot Guillaume must have left some clear sign that he was the abductor, Ernaldus thought with vicious satisfaction. Now Sir Romeo would besiege Les Baux before Guillaume’s supporters could get to him.
Muffling the laughter he could not contain, Ernaldus staggered down the road. Les Baux would be taken at last. The impregnable fortress would be broached, and all because of a virgin who refused to be broached. Oh, it was exquisitely humorous! And the one man who would come out scatheless and be well rewarded was himself, who had caused all the trouble to begin with. Content with this assessment of the situation, Ernaldus took no special care on the road now. He staggered and swayed, rocked by silent laughter, sure that nothing would come between him and his revenge.
Indeed, he made his way quite safely the rest of the way down and struck out across the fields toward the woods. Good fortune seemed to be his, for he did not need to search for the group. Before he had gone very far, a rider came out and hailed him. Ernaldus said his name was Bernard, a poor clerk, gasping out that he had only that day discovered Lady Beatrice was held prisoner in Les Baux and that he had escaped at great peril to bring word to her mother. Then he did not even have to walk any farther, he was assisted to the croup of the horse and carried pillion to the camp.
“Lord Raymond,” the man called. “Here is one from Les Baux who says he has news of Lady Beatrice.”
By now Ernaldus knew that Raymond was nearly the most common name in Provence. Then, too, Bordeaux was a very long way from Arles and Les Baux. Nonetheless, for no reason at all, a slight chill of apprehension marred Ernaldus’s satisfaction. He could not see the face of the leader, it was dark and Raymond’s features were further obscured by the uplifted visor. Besides, Ernaldus remembered, he had never seen the husband of that yellow bitch, Lady Alys. Still, the chill persisted.
“Your name?” Raymond asked.
“Bernard, a poor clerk,” the bailiff replied, but his voice shook. For a moment he thought he had heard Rustengo speaking. “I come from Avignon.” That was a papal city and likely to be a source of clerks. “I have been in Les Baux only a few weeks, and this morning, to my horror, I learned…”
Raymond listened without interrupting, and the tale was perfectly reasonable, but something was bothering him, and the longer he listened, the more it bothered him. At last, it came to him that the uneasy feeling had nothing to do with the actual events this Bernard was describing. There was something familiar, the man’s speech. That was it! It was not the speech of Provence. It was of Bordeaux! Rage and fear flashed up in Raymond. Could he be Ernaldus rather than Bernard? Raymond controlled himself with an effort. If Ernaldus was here, he could not hurt Alys, unless…
But Raymond dared not simply leap at the man and throttle him. Revenge was less important than finding out about Alys. “Is Lady Beatrice alone?” Raymond asked sharply.
“No, my lord,” Ernaldus answered, startled by this interruption and by Raymond’s odd tone of voice.
“Who is with her?”
“That I cannot tell you, my lord,” Ernaldus replied truthfully, calm again because he thought the sharp anxiety he had heard in the first question was for Beatrice’s situation. It was the truth, Ernaldus had not asked, and Guillaume had not named the women to him. They had been intent on the more, important business of getting out the summonses to supporters. “I am not so great that Sir Guillaume would speak to me,” he added.
But Raymond had eased his manner even before the clerk finished his answer. Perhaps this Bernard was who he said he was. A person from Bordeaux might easily go to the papal city of Avignon to study, and that was all the man had said. And, Ernaldus or Bernard, it was the truth that this man did not know who was with Beatrice. There was something in his voice that made Raymond certain of it.
Besides, Ernaldus must be sure that no one would think a bailiff from Bordeaux, even if he was a bastard uncle, would be harmed or punished in any way, whatever happened to Les Baux or Sir Guillaume. And, if this was the treacherous Ernaldus, the last thing Raymond wanted was that he should think himself suspected until the last grain of information had been leached out of him. Raymond shrugged mentally at the thought. He was not one to think ill of men usually, but Bernard or Ernaldus, there was something about the man he did not like.
“How do you know where the ladies are kept?” Raymond asked.
“I heard by chance from one of the men-at-arms who took pa
rt in the abduction. He said they had been carried to the Sow’s Tower.”
There was a pause while Raymond stared into the dark, trying to see the man’s face more clearly. It sounded like the truth, but it was very odd. Why should des Baux have placed the women in a tower when they would have been more comfortable, and more secure, in the keep itself?
“Why?” Raymond asked. “Why in the tower? Why not in the keep?”
“Because Sir Guillaume was too knightly gentle to place so fine a lady in the cells below the keep.” Ernaldus stopped abruptly, appalled both at the slip he had made and at the bitter tone in his voice. “Or so I did hear,” he added quickly, “and also I do suppose he wished to keep the knowledge of what he had done from his mother. He is young still and much affected by her weeping when she is distressed.”
Several ideas collided in Raymond’s mind, sudden sympathy for Guillaume des Baux, who seemingly was afflicted with the same kind of mother he had, conviction that Alys, Beatrice, and Margot were truly in the Sow’s Tower—the conviction resting on the bitter anger in this Bernard’s voice, and from that same cause a second conviction, that whether this man were Bernard or Ernaldus, he was personally and deeply involved in the abduction. Most likely, Raymond thought, this rat, despairing of success in the plot to force Beatrice into marriage because Sir Guillaume would not countenance cruel treatment, had decided to desert his master and make what profit he could from his desertion.
That conclusion pleased Raymond. Although he had no intention of letting the man go until he was sure that he was not Ernaldus, he said, “Very well, I thank you. A clerk has no place in a war camp. You may leave at your will. I suppose you wish to be as far from Les Baux as possible when missiles begin to fly.” Raymond began to turn away, sure that his indifference would draw more information in the hopes of a reward.
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