Royal Dynasty: Fire Song Part 2

"But I am sure Raymond's letter to the king was about the Gascons and the earl fighting-"

"Yes, well, there seem to have been some differences between what the king remembered was agreed and what Leicester remembered. I am not much surprised. Neither of them was in the mood to listen to the other."

"Does that mean the war will continue?" Elizabeth asked.

"Not with the same ferocity, I am sure. And in any case, Raymond is out of it. Leicester may have been impatient with Raymond's suggestions, but he would never attack Raymond's property, and Henry's instructions to Raymond and the rest of his supporters are not to aid Leicester if he continues to ignore the truce."

"I am glad to hear that." Then, suddenly, Elizabeth looked confused. "William, how did we get involved in discussing Gascony?"

He laughed. "I was trying to ease your conscience, my love, about my decision to leave Marlowe to Aubery rather than to Alys's little Raymond when I go to my final rest. And in truth the continued restlessness there is part of my reason. I cannot foresee the character of the people changing, no matter what settlement Henry makes. Thus, neither Raymond nor either of his sons is likely to have much time for one single estate in England. To me, the most important thing of all is that Aubery will be here, in England, at worst no farther away than Ilmer or Ardley. The land and people will not be left for years at a time to the tender mercies of a bailiff or castellan who, not fearing the eye of the overlord, might well rape what should be tenderly nurtured."

Elizabeth leaned forward and kissed her husband. "Very well. If Alys agrees, I am more than content."

"Alys will give no trouble. I taught her from the beginning that Marlowe was no more than a training ground for her. I wish, however, that I had not gone through this whole argument with you." William smiled wryly. "I am sure I will have to say all the words over again to Aubery."

Elizabeth laughed because she knew her son, but William had always been able to handle Aubery, often better than she could herself, so she offered no advice. Instead, she asked what mischief little Bess had been up to, for Elizabeth had taken care of Aubery's daughter since her son's wife had died. When William had answered to her satisfaction, the conversation drifted to casual, everyday subjects, which finally lapsed into a comfortable silence, warm with loving companions.h.i.+p. This had not lasted long when a maidservant entered softly and said there was someone waiting in the great hall who had a matter of business to discuss with William.

He made an impatient gesture, but Elizabeth stopped the maid and said, "Go, love. You cannot spend all your time sitting with me. Besides, I think I will sleep for a little while now. You might as well see who has come and what he wants."

After only a momentary hesitation, William nodded and rose from the bedside, kissed his wife once more, and went out. It had occurred to him that any man who had business with him would have sent up his name. Therefore, it must be Aubery below, who had forbidden the maid to give his name lest his mother wish to know why he did not come up himself instead of asking William to come down. And that Aubery had not come up meant that he had some urgent news to impart that he did not wish his mother to hear, or that he had been hurt. William began to hurry.

Three days earlier news had come to Marlowe that Aubery's keep at Ilmer had been attacked. Aubery and William had stared at each other with blank amazement. There was nothing in Ilmer that anyone could want. The place was bare bones for no one had lived in it since the days of Aubery's grandfather. Nor was it possible, in this day and age, to seize a property by force, at least, not the property of a man with such powerful friends as Aubery of Ilmer had. William and Aubery would have thought it some kind of joke had not the messenger been one of the small troop of men-at-arms Aubery maintained in the castle, and wounded at that.

Aubery had not wanted to leave Marlowe because of Elizabeth's illness, but William insisted that she was already well along the road to recovery and that Aubery should not risk the ruin of the demesne farms, which had just begun to show normal yields and profits after years of abuse by his father and grandfather. So Aubery had taken his own few men and about a hundred of William's and ridden out. William had given the matter no more thought. Aubery was very capable of taking care of himself, and William's whole being was concentrated on watching Elizabeth gain back her strength day by day. Now, however, he almost fell down the narrow tower steps in his anxiety. He had suddenly comprehended the only reason possible for an attack on Ilmer.

William's headlong pace only checked when he saw his stepson standing near the hearth with a cup of wine in his hand. "It was a trap," he said. "Fool that I was, not to see it at once. Are you hurt?"

Aubery grinned at him. "Not a bit, but only because I am both stupider and more trustful than that dog's t.u.r.d Savin. There was nothing to be learned at Ilmer. In fact, the attack was broken off soon after the messengers sneaked out at the postern gate. That should have told me it was, as you said, a trap, but... I suppose I was thinking mostly of my mother. Anyway, I left most of the men at Ilmer to guard the farms, and then took the short road back, the one that runs by Radanage."

There was no surprise in William's face, only an ugly hardening of hatred. "And Savin and his men were lying in wait! I told you you should have killed Savin when he challenged you. I knew that sparing him when you had beaten him would only make him hate you all the more. That kind has no grat.i.tude, and you know it, too. But it was a crazy thing to ride right by his keep. One day, Aubery, you will take a dare you cannot fulfill."

Aubery shrugged. "It was no dare," he said indifferently. "I did not think he would be there, and actually I was right, which is why I am alive. Savin, too, did not think I would dare ride right by Radanage, so he was lying in wait near the main road with the whole force that had attacked Ilmer. He left a small troop as a safeguard to delay us and send him a warning if I did choose that route, but there were not enough of them."

But the reminder that Aubery had escaped unhurt did not relieve William's fury. "Will he still be there, do you think?" he asked. "We can go out with the remainder of the castle guard and take him unaware, coming as we will from the opposite direction."

"No, he will not be there, I-"

"I suppose you could not prevent some of his troop from escaping," William said with a grimace of chagrin. "But this is ridiculous! You cannot go about expecting a knife in the back or take along a small army each time you ride out. I will complain-"

Aubery grinned. "You did not let me finish. We took some captives. Most are housed comfortably but securely below. A few I sent back to Savin, warning him that if he tried again, I-or you, if I am not alive-will bring these men before the king to give witness against him and name him coward and treacher and murderer so that he will be hanged, drawn, and quartered as a common felon."

For a moment William was silent, then he put his hand on Aubery's shoulder. "I am proud of you," he said. "And I beg your pardon for thinking of you still as a wild, crazy boy who would take any dare-"

"Do not give me too much credit," Aubery remarked, chuckling. "I am not yet perfect," he added teasingly, for he was aware that his stepfather loved him dearly, and believed William credited him with far more virtue than he had. But then, before William could deny indignantly that he was so foolish as to believe any human perfect, Aubery asked, "Shall I go up and speak to my mother? Does she know I have been away? And what the devil should I tell her if she asks what I have been doing?"

It was William's turn to chuckle. Aubery was a very bad liar in general and was utterly incapable of lying to Elizabeth, who knew him too well. "She does know you have been away, of course. Do you think your mother would not notice that you have not been near her for three days? I told her that since she was so much better you had taken the chance to go to Ilmer to check the spring plantings and do whatever other business was necessary. Let us hope she does not ask any questions, but it will not matter even if you tell the truth. She really is much better, Aubery. Thank G.o.d, she has been spared to us."

"Thank G.o.d," Aubery echoed devoutly.

"I do thank G.o.d and Mary and all the saints," William went on, "but I am not going to tempt their mercy again. Elizabeth will be brought to bed no more, and if it is a sin-well, it is on my soul, and I am willing to bear it. But that means I must find a suitable heir for Marlowe, and to my mind there can be no better man to hold these lands than you."

It was easy to say, for William meant from the bottom of his heart what he had said. It was not, however, so easy to get the statement accepted. In fact, Aubery was much harder to convince than Elizabeth. William was surprised. Although he knew Aubery was extremely punctilious about not taking anything that did not belong to him, he also knew Aubery loved Marlowe deeply and wished to care for the estate. What he had failed to understand was that the very love and desire Aubery had for Marlowe was what made him resist.

To Aubery, the offer of Marlowe was like a hot rod applied to a festering wound. He knew he would anger his stepfather by resisting so generous and, really, so practical a solution to the disposition of Marlowe, but he could not bring himself to say aloud what stuck in his craw. Instead, he said, "But I have enough. I have Ilmer and Ardley and a dozen lesser farms. Alys carries the blood of Marlowe, and it is her blood that should hold the keep."

William, whose mind was less on what he was saying to Aubery than on his desire to return to Elizabeth's bedside, was so exasperated that he snapped, "What the devil ails you, Aubery? Do you feel there is some taint in Marlowe that you do not wish to be a.s.sociated with it?"

The moment he said the words, William wished that he had bitten out his tongue, for a painful flush darkened Aubery's fair skin, and William suddenly realized what was causing his stepson's resistance. William, who had his own burden of guilt, had been thinking that Aubery knew or suspected that his mother had been William's mistress before they were able to marry, and a.s.sociated Marlowe keep with that liaison. At the moment he had forgotten what must be far more important to Aubery, the greed of his father who had planned to murder William and force a marriage between Alys and Aubery in order to possess Marlowe. He embraced his stepson and kissed him.

"My son, forgive me. Had any thought of your father's desire for Marlowe been in my memory, you know I would not have said those words. That is nothing to do with you, Aubery, nothing. You are not guilty of Mauger's sins. I know you have never coveted my lands. I desire that they should be yours. Do you not understand, Aubery? You are my son. I will never have a son of my body, and I do not desire one. Your mother has paid too dearly already for that stupid notion. It is not very likely, even if I had a son, that I would live long enough to judge what kind of man he would be-"

"Do not say that!"

William's open statement of Mauger's shame had jabbed the hot rod deeper into Aubery's mental wound, but the dissociation of father and son had withdrawn it. The wound still ached, but it was the clean ache of the cautery, not the stinking pressure of a festering sore. Then, William's last remark had diverted Aubery from his past to an uncertain future. He could not bear the thought that William could die. He had been standing quietly in the circle of William's arms while William spoke, but now he returned his stepfather's embrace with such ferocity that the older man grunted with pain and then laughed.

"I will not survive even the time the Lord plans to give me if you squeeze me to death," William said.

"You are well and strong," Aubery replied forcefully, although he relaxed his grip. "Why do you talk of death?"

"I suppose because your mother came so close to it in her mistaken attempt to give me what I do not want. I have told her I will not tolerate another try. I cannot bear it." William's voice shook. "I will not have her laid on that rack again. I swear to you, Aubery, you and John are the sons of my heart, fine men, both of you, and I desire no others. You are the elder, and a father's lands go to the elder."

"But Alys has boys and may have more."

William sighed, stepped back, and sat down, gesturing toward a second chair near the hearth. He was a fool, he thought, to have forgotten Aubery's oversensitivity to any act that could possibly, or even impossibly, be misread to carry any implication of greed or dishonor. It was odd he should forget, too, because Aubery was the physical image of his most greedy and dishonorable father. He had Mauger's tall, heavy-boned body, Mauger's thick, straight blond hair, Mauger's handsome, even features, well-shaped, clear blue eyes, a straight nose, a wide mouth, and a firm chin.

But William knew why he never thought of Mauger when he looked at Aubery. It was because the expressions on the two faces were so different. Mauger's face had been closed and hard, his eyes always half-lidded to keep secrets. Aubery's blue eyes were direct and honest, his mouth mobile and sensitive. William sighed again, wis.h.i.+ng that the eyes did not hold so much trouble, that the lips were not so tight with remembered pain. It was wrong, he thought, for so young a man to be so somber.

"I have explained that more than once already, Aubery," William pointed out. "Marlowe is good land, but compared to what Raymond has, even if there should be a third or fourth son, it would not be worth sending a boy to England to live. Raymond will have uses for all the sons he has-and I do not think there will be many more children-if any."

"But Alys is young-"

Aubery heard the uncertainty in his voice and hated himself for it. One thing William had said was not true. He did covet Marlowe. Not for greed, not that, but he loved Marlowe, loved it far more than Ilmer or Hurley, his mother's estate, or even Ardley. All the other lands were in some way bound up with painful memories. Only Marlowe had always been a place of peace and happiness for him. He could not help himself and listened eagerly to William's explanation of why Alys was not likely to have so numerous a family that even one English estate would be welcome.

"Yes, but she has been married nearly ten years and has borne six children in that time. It is true that despite being so small, Alys has borne her children easily, but you must remember that she was not well during her last pregnancy, and Raymond was so frightened that he sent for Elizabeth to come to her. She did not recover as quickly as usual afterward, and the girl was born dead. Elizabeth said that Raymond's father, too, was almost crazed with worry about 'the dearest treasure of his house' and gave Raymond no peace about his unbridled l.u.s.t and his lack of consideration for his wife."

Aubery s.h.i.+fted uneasily in his chair, and William smothered another sigh and said hastily, "Your wife did not die in childbed. She was not even with child when she died. You are utterly blameless of any fault regarding her. You were a most tender husband."

Although Aubery nodded a seeming acceptance of his stepfather's a.s.surances, he did not answer directly because he did not know what to say. He did blame himself most bitterly, not actually for Matilda's death, but for everything else that had gone wrong with his marriage, and most of all for no longer loving his wife at the end of her short life. It was the knowledge that he did not love her that had made Aubery grieve, that still tormented him every time he thought of Matilda, and prevented him from enjoying his adorable daughter, despite his love for her.

William had not expected Aubery to reply. From the hour of Matilda's death, he had responded only with silence to any attempt at comfort. And, although he would never say it to Aubery, William actually felt his stepson was well rid of a woman to whom he would soon have regretted tying himself. In fact, William came close to the truth when he sometimes wondered if Aubery had not already regretted the marriage and, because he was secretly glad to be rid of his wife, blamed himself for being guilty in some unknowable way of causing her death. William had never cared much for Matilda of Ardley. Not that she was not a very pretty girl and a good one also, but William knew her to be as witless as a cuckoo bird and suspected she was also as s.e.xless as a wet rag.

Now and then William wondered whether he was prejudiced because Matilda so much resembled his own first wife. Not that Matilda looked like Mary, but she certainly was like her in her inability to utter a sentence that was not a plat.i.tude, in her terror of responsibility of any kind, in her laziness, and in her blind devotion to the least sensible utterances of ill-taught and fanatical priests.

He and Elizabeth had agreed to the marriage after some initial protests, because Aubery desired it and because the girl was a substantial heiress. The keep at Ardley was large and the demesne very rich. There were other lands, too. Matilda had been Richard of Cornwall's ward, and Aubery had met her when he had accompanied William on a visit. Aubery had returned several times on his own, drawn by shy glances and blushes. The attraction between them had come to the notice of Richard's wife, Sancia, and her romantic Provencal heart had been touched. She had urged her husband to approve the marriage. Richard had been willing enough. Perhaps the girl's estate could have merited a baron, but Richard knew of William's intention that Aubery have Marlowe. He was sure Matilda would be kindly treated and her lands well managed, and, most important, he was certain that Aubery would be politically trustworthy.

By the time William became aware of the affair, it was really too late to protest. The few words of caution he had said to Aubery had brought them closer to a real quarrel than they had ever been, and Aubery had actually had a bitter argument with his mother over the girl, flinging himself out of Marlowe and vowing not to return until Elizabeth apologized for what she had said about Matilda. After allowing the matter to hang for several months and realizing that Aubery was only being made more stubborn by opposition, William and Elizabeth had unhappily withdrawn their objections.

At the time, William had pointed out to Elizabeth that they must not judge what would make Aubery happy in marriage. Aubery had not wanted to marry Alys, who was the exact opposite of Matilda in every way and much more beautiful. Perhaps, he had suggested, Matilda's stupidity was soothing in some way. But that was said only to ease Elizabeth's worry. What William had thought privately was that once Aubery had had his craw full of his wife's simpering holiness, he would find himself a warm, willing mistress.

Still, it seemed the marriage had worked out well enough. Matilda had produced a daughter before she had herself sickened and died. The child seemed healthy and was bright as a gold b.u.t.ton, a delight to her grandmother, who had always wanted a daughter, and to William himself, who missed his Alys more than he would ever admit. William wished that Aubery were not so ambivalent toward the child. He would ask eagerly about her-in fact, some of the questions Aubery asked about his daughter gave William the opinion that Aubery was bored to death by Matilda-but when he saw little Bess, his eyes would fill with tears and he seemed incapable of playing with her or enjoying her adorable baby ways.

Had Aubery not been aware of his mother's and stepfather's opinion of Matilda and also that their opinion had never changed, he might have been able to confess his true feelings. As it was, he simply avoided all discussion of his dead wife. Still, both his mother and William had been kindness itself to her. William had always spoken to her about things in which she was interested and had explained anything that puzzled her as gently and patiently as if she were a child. He was more patient than I, Aubery remembered with a pang of regret. And Elizabeth had supported her through the birth of their daughter and nursed her most tenderly all the long months of her illness. Aubery swallowed. He had not believed Matilda was really so sick. He had thought her complaints were an excuse to push the care of the baby and the keep onto Elizabeth after the novelty of being a mother and lady of the manor had palled.

"But you cannot just will Marlowe to me," Aubery burst out, trying to avoid thinking about Matilda because he did not wish she were alive again, and he knew that was wrong and selfish. "Alys must have some recompense, even if she is willing to yield her right to the estate."

"Well, naturally," William said, a bit startled at the abrupt change of subject but accepting Aubery's warning away from something that was obviously still painful to him. "I thought I would offer her one thousand marks. That will surely buy an equivalent property either in Gascony or Provence."

Aubery frowned anxiously. "I do not see how I can possibly pay such a sum in any reasonable time. You know that Ilmer still does not yield much, and I am not sure it would be right to borrow from Ardley's revenues-"

"What are you talking about?" William asked. "What has the payment to do with you?"

"I cannot possibly take a gift of such value-"

"Curse you for a stubborn donkey." William laughed. "I am not giving you any gift. Do you think I intend to turn Marlowe over to you tomorrow? All I intend is to provide a good master for my lands after I am dead. Any arrangement I make with my daughter is my business, not yours."

"Well, I do not see it in that light. If the profit comes to me, no matter when, then I must buy the right to-"

William stood up abruptly. "Aubery, I do not wish to argue such a stupidity. I wish to go and sit with your mother. All I wanted was to explain to you what I am doing and why so that you would not fall down dead with shock when you learned you would be responsible for Marlowe. I am rich enough, having been marshal of Richard of Cornwall's lands for near ten years, to give that sum to Alys. The only reason I have not bought more lands myself is that I have had no reason to do so-and, in truth, I am too busy with Richard's property to want the burden of any more of my own."

"I-I do not know," Aubery muttered, torn by the joy of knowing that Marlowe would be his home for the rest of his life and the fear that he was grasping at what was not rightfully his. "Can I not pay something? I know you do not need the money, but... Have you spoken of this to my mother?"

"Yes, and she is almost as idiotic as you, but not quite. It took me only half the time to convince her. What is wrong with the two of you? You act as if I were handing you a bagful of vipers."

For the first time Aubery smiled. "No, you are handing me something I fear I want too much. I cannot help but feel it is wrong. And as for my mother, she loves Alys. Well, I do, too. Is she not my sister? Neither of us would take from her. William..." The name was a caress, a subst.i.tute for the word "father". "Are you sure Alys would not wish to keep Marlowe? There is another way. I could oversee the lands for her. I swear I would not neglect them."

"I do not fear you would neglect the lands if they were Alys's," William replied, smiling also. Aubery's answers reaffirmed what William knew already, but they were still good to hear spoken aloud. "I did, actually, give some thought to leaving the land that way, but it will not serve. Raymond will someday be a direct va.s.sal of France-his father is, after all, some years older than I-and thus Marlowe might come into contest. I do not say it is likely, but... I would not like to think that these lands could be adjudged to the king to hand to whomever he saw fit."

"Good G.o.d, no!" Aubery exploded, getting to his feet as if he were ready to defend the property.

William felt like laughing but remained suitably grave for fear of hurting his sensitive stepson. "Good. I will go up to your mother now, and between us we will compose a suitable letter to Alys and Raymond. Do you wish to come up?"

"No." Aubery flushed. He was afraid that he would look as though he were gloating while the matter was discussed. "If you and she permit, I would like to join you and my mother for the evening meal. Now I think I should ride over to Hurley and talk to John. If he does not like this plan-"

"Then I will box his ears," William said, laughing. "I absolutely refuse to explain to even one more person."

But William was not worried. John was neither greedy, nor did he seem to carry the deep scars Mauger's acts had left on Aubery. John looked much like Elizabeth and seemed to have inherited her placid but merry nature. He would be delighted, William was sure, to know that his brother would control the fortress across the river from his own property.

Chapter Four.

Fenice had limped into Aix several days before the arrival of the letter Alys wrote from Blancheforte asking her father-by-marriage to find an excuse for Raymond and herself to come home. The gate guard hardly spared a single glance for the tired lay sister who pa.s.sed through the small postern and into the outer courtyard. It was not usual for a sister to be alone, but her robe was mud stained and travel worn so she might be doing a penance, begging her way from shrine to shrine. She could be no danger to Tour Dur, and she was not the guard's business.

Halfway across the courtyard, a well-dressed woman servant paused on her way to the kitchen and said kindly, "There is no church here, Sister, only the lord's chapel, but if you wish to eat-"

She paused uncertainly as the robed and cowled figure shook its head. She was a little frightened because the face was veiled and the hands hidden in the sleeves, methods often used to conceal the ravages of leprosy, but a leper would never dare enter the gates or go without staff and clapper to warn of the disease.

"I have a message for the master-at-arms, Georges," Fenice mumbled breathlessly.

"A message for Georges?" Isabelle repeated doubtfully. She could not imagine what kind of message the master-at-arms, who was a hard man, dedicated to his profession, could receive from a convent.

Desperately Fenice said, "It is not your business." She then turned away and hurried, limping, in the direction of the master-at-arms's quarters.

She did not notice Isabelle staring after her, white-faced. The maid's superst.i.tious mind had made an image of horror out of the fact that Fenice had veiled her face and kept her hands concealed inside her sleeves-those too-white, too-soft, long-nailed hands that could never have belonged to any hardworking lay sister. For an instant, Isabelle thought that Fenice was carrying disease and death to Georges.

Fortunately, Georges was less superst.i.tious or he might have refused to send for Lord Alphonse. Although he did not recognize Fenice, Georges did find the voice familiar. What he thought was that the woman was one of Lord Alphonse's doxies who had been told to contact his lords.h.i.+p in this way, so he made no difficulty, and Alphonse soon arrived in response to his message.

As soon as she saw him, Fenice ran toward him, throwing back her hood and pulling off her veil. "Oh, Grandfather," she cried, "such dreadful things have happened."

Lord Alphonse goggled at her. "Fenice? Is it you, Fenice? What are you doing here?"

Fenice stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes widening. "G.o.d help me, did you know Lady Emilie had placed me in a convent after Delmar died?" she asked, her voice rising hysterically.

"Died?" Lord Alphonse gasped. "Delmar died? Fenice, what are you saying? Are you mad?"

They stared at each other, both appalled, until Fenice said weakly, "Did you not receive my letter to say Delmar had taken a fever and was very ill?"

"Of course I did not receive any such letter. Would I not have come to see Delmar? It is no more than two leagues from here to Fuveau, child."

"I thought perhaps Lady Jeannette did not wish you to expose yourself," she said. "I would not have wished it myself." And then, bitterly, "But I should have guessed when I did not receive a letter back that Lady Emilie had not sent my message. Grandfather, I am not mad. You must listen to me. You must. Lady Emilie would have forced me to take the veil so that she could keep Fuveau and Trets."

Until Fenice said that last sentence, Lord Alphonse had been staring at her in horror, unable to believe that his va.s.sal, Delmar de Fuveau, had died and no one had informed him. After all, he was Delmar's overlord as well as his relation by marriage. It was his duty to arrange for the care of Delmar's property and widow in the absence of the widow's father, and it would have been his duty even if the widow did not happen to be his granddaughter. All of his va.s.sals trusted him to care fairly and wisely for their womenfolk or minor heirs. No one would conceal a death from him. The instant she said Lady Emilie wished to keep Fuveau and Trets, though, he had remembered that both properties had been settled on Fenice in the event of Delmar's death, excluding the boy's mother and uncle.

"My poor child, my poor child," Lord Alphonse said, putting his arm around his granddaughter and taking her hands in his. "Good G.o.d, your hands are like ice, and your robe is all wet. You will take your death. Come within. You must have a hot bath and something hot to drink."

"Do you not believe me?" Fenice faltered, her eyes filling with tears. She did not realize her grandfather had been distracted from commenting on what she had said by his concern for her physical condition.

"Oh, I believe you," Lord Alphonse a.s.sured her as he drew her toward the hall. "I warned your father at the time the contract was being written that the reversion clause might cause trouble. I suppose Raymond a.s.sumed Delmar would explain to his mother and uncle that they would suffer no disadvantage, and the boy did not do it." He smiled down at Fenice rather sadly. "He was afraid, was he not, that they would think him so enchanted by your beauty and sweet ways that he allowed your papa to take advantage of him."

Fenice could not answer. She only turned her face into her grandfather's shoulder and sobbed softly. She did not want to go in, not even to be dry and warm. She had almost forgotten what it was to be dry and warm, but she feared that the price of those pleasures would be to lose Lord Alphonse's protection and fall alive to Lady Jeannette's hands. Now that he had the meat of the matter, perhaps her grandfather would not care about what had happened to her.

Fenice had underestimated her new importance. Fuveau was a valuable little estate, not large, but fruitful, and its proximity to Tour Dur increased its significance. Although Lord Alphonse was marginally aware that his wife did not like her baseborn granddaughters, he had no intention of allowing her to delay Fenice with questions, exclamations, and lamentations. Thus, Fenice was not sent up among the women to make her own way as best as she could. Lady Christine, her old governess, was called down and bidden to arrange for the girl's comfort as swiftly as possible, and was told not to cross-question her or allow anyone else, including Lady Jeannette, to delay her return to him.

Fenice pulled Lady Christine away from Lord Alphonse, who was already calling for a scribe. "We can go to the south tower," she said. "Most of Lady Alys's furniture is there."

Ordinarily furniture was carried from estate to estate as a family moved, but it was a great distance from Aix to Bordeaux. After many years of traveling back and forth, Alys and Raymond had become tired of being tied to a long baggage train, which invariably delayed them by getting into difficulties. Having considered the expense of double furnis.h.i.+ngs and compared that against the trouble saved and the cost of cartage over the years, they decided that in the long run it would be better to take the novel step of furnis.h.i.+ng Blancheforte and leaving the furniture in Aix.

"But it will be cold," Lady Christine protested. "There has been no fire in the south tower all winter."

"I do not care," Fenice insisted. "We can have a big fire lit now, and the water in the bath will be hot. While I am bathing, you can warm some clothing for me before the fire. I will do well enough."

Lady Christine looked at Fenice for a moment and then smiled. She thought that being married had finally given the girl a little self-confidence. But Fenice was so worried about what her grandfather would do and say when he heard the whole tale that she had given the orders without thinking. She also made remarkably quick work of bathing and dressing in some of her Aunt Margot's cast-off clothing and hurried back to the hall.

"I have already sent off a letter to your father and Lady Alys telling them of Delmar's death and of the possibility that there will be trouble over the reversion clause in the marriage contract. I am sure that, if they can, they will come home at once. There is nothing more for you to worry about," Lord Alphonse said kindly, drawing a stool right next to his chair in the warmest place beside the fire, "so you just sit down here near me and have something warm to drink."