Royal Dynasty: Fire Song Part 21

Aubery did not wait for William. He asked the clerk who accompanied him to help him disarm-a novel experience for the young man-and tumbled into bed, noting gratefully as he rolled over that although the bed was only straw-filled bags in a frame, it was wide enough for two. There would be no need for polite arguments about who should sleep on the floor, he thought as his eyes closed, and then sat upright abruptly, realizing that he had no idea what had happened to Fenice. In another moment he had dropped back. If she could get into and out of a tightly guarded prison, surely she could find a bed.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

In the antechamber of the king's apartment, one among the lesser men, waiting in hope of notice by the king or of the great lords who came to speak to him, was stricken dumb by the sight of Aubery entering in the company of John Mansel. Sir Savin stared at Aubery as he pa.s.sed, with a fury restored to fever pitch. Most of his rage was owing to his own current frustrations, but it was easier-and safer-to attach his anger to Aubery.

Since they had left Bordeaux, Sir Savin had not been so satisfied with his situation. For one thing, his sources of extorted income had been cut off when they left the town. For another, Lord Guy's temper had been atrocious since the king had decided that he would visit France and had been growing worse with every kind letter and generous gift King Louis sent to his cousin Henry. Savin was willing enough to lick the boots of the powerful for profit, but he was beginning to wonder if service to Lord Guy while he was in his current mood was safe.

Savin had, of course, considered leaving, but he was sure that Guy would deny his request-not because he wanted him for any special purpose, but because he was so furious at Henry, a fury he dared not express, that the denial of anything anyone asked for gave him pleasure. And even if the request to return to England were granted, the chances were strong that Lord Guy would resent it and remember Savin with displeasure.

Actually, the main and deepest source of Savin's rage was his realization that he had chosen wrongly, had made worthless all the time spent in Gascony and Castile. Savin's purpose in joining the prince had been to get a powerful patron who would protect him. It was true that the king's half brothers had more power than Prince Edward at present, but Savin now knew how untrustworthy they were. No matter how long or well he served them, he could not count on them to help him in the future. Seeing Aubery, whom he had thought out of his reach, gave a focus to Savin's rage. If he could rid himself of this enemy, who had been the cause of all his troubles from the beginning, from the moment he lost the wards.h.i.+p of young Harold of Herron, he was sure the troubles would be solved.

The fury held Sir Savin motionless for only a little while. Then he made his way as if idly to the door of the king's inner chamber. By the time he reached it, the other men were again busy with their talk, and Savin, leaning against the wall beside the door, seemed as purposeless and bored as all the rest. But Savin was not bored. While he stared sightlessly into the room, one of his hands was busy behind him. A little careful manipulation of the door latch unhooked it and allowed him to open the door just a hair. He could not hear what Aubery was saying, but the king's angry exclamations were loud enough for him to guess that something had enraged Henry.

For a while, Savin hoped that the rage was directed at Aubery and that at any moment he would see armed men summoned to take him away. Soon, however, he realized that it was the tale Aubery was telling, not Aubery himself that was infuriating the king. The disappointment, naturally, did nothing to soothe Savin, and he had to grit his teeth over curses until, suddenly, he heard quite clearly Lord Geoffrey's furious exclamation. It could not be directed against the king, so it must be Aubery at whom Geoffrey was shouting. Savin listened tensely, but the voices had dropped too low again, and a few minutes later they stopped altogether.

The silence warned him so that he was away from the door when Aubery and John Mansel came out together, but he was not so far that he did not hear Mansel's compliment. Realizing that Aubery must have ingratiated himself still further with the king was almost too much for Savin to bear. Only knowing that he would bring ruin on himself by an attack kept him from leaping at Aubery's throat, and he had to turn away completely lest he betray himself. Then he remembered Lord Geoffrey's angry remark, and he drew a deep breath of satisfaction.

If he found a way to kill Aubery, Savin thought, the Lusignans would be in his debt, and would be glad to be rid of him if the crime could not be traced to them. And with Aubery dead, it would be worthwhile to hurry back to England. There would be no one to run to Richard of Cornwall with complaints every time Savin helped himself to a woman or to the produce and cattle of a farm that did not belong to him. In fact, by the time Sir William got back from following the king all over France, it was possible that the farms would belong to him, and maybe even Ilmer, too. Sir William might complain to the Earl of Cornwall, but the Lusignans would be sure to support the claim of the man who had killed the king's favorite for them.

Smiling broadly, Savin spoke to the few men with whom he had an acquaintance and said he would wait no longer. They nodded without particular interest. Savin often left early. Some were envious, thinking that he needed less to bring himself to the king's attention because of his connection with Lord Guy, but the real reason was that Savin preferred to avoid the queen. He thought she was just the type of nosy b.i.t.c.h to remind the king out of pure spite that he was supposed to be in Edward's service, even though she had done all she could to force the prince to dismiss him. However, this time Savin was not thinking about Eleanor. He merely wanted peace and quiet to work out a plan for killing Aubery.

The first method, crying insult and demanding a duel, Savin dismissed from his mind very rapidly. What he told himself was that it would be foolish to anger the king and reduce his hold on Lord Geoffrey by an open duel. But the real reason was that after seeing Aubery fight in Castile, Savin was not at all sure he would be the victor, or in a condition to enjoy his victory if he was. That left a.s.sa.s.sination, which was safer and surer, but here in Fontevrault, Savin had no gang of cutthroats to help him. In any case, he did not want to attack Aubery on the abbey grounds. Instead, he would have to find a way to induce Aubery to meet him somewhere and to come there alone and unarmed. It was something that would require some thought and planning.

Aubery woke to the sound of logs being added to the fire and mumbled, "Fenice?"

"No, it is I," Sir William said softly. "Sleep. Sleep." But Aubery had already levered himself upright. Seeing that the room was dark except for a single candle and the firelight, and that Sir William was clad only in a bedrobe, ready apparently for sleep, he asked anxiously, "Where is Fenice? Do you know?"

"Yes, of course. She is with the queen. There is nothing to worry about. The physician says he can find no fever or sign of other illness. She-"

"Physician?" Aubery echoed, a terrible pang of guilt stabbing him. "Why did she need a physician?" As he spoke, Aubery moved to get out of the bed but was pushed back.

"She did not need one," William said. "She is not sick. She was only very tired. Do not be a fool," he added as Aubery pulled at his hand in another effort to get up. "You cannot enter the queen's chamber at this hour of the night."

Rather relieved at this plain fact, which a.s.suaged his guilt for not going to inquire about his wife, since he was really reluctant to confront her, Aubery lay down. Actually, thinking about Fenice made him uncomfortable, and he said to William, "I hope this business about Pons will not overset more important plans. I was obliged to tell the king."

"Yes," William agreed without hesitation. "You could not betray the trust of your fellow prisoners or ignore the wrong done them, even if you made no promise of help. Fortunately, no harm was done. A deputation has already left for Pons carrying word of Henry's grave displeasure." He paused and grinned. "In fact, much good came of your unpleasant adventure. You may comfort yourself for your bruises and your foul treatment with that and sleep in peace."

"What good?" Aubery asked. "And to speak the truth, I do not know what harm could have come either, although I understood that John Mansel did not want me to tell Henry the tale."

"I can tell you in the morning as well as now," William said, looking anxiously at Aubery, whose bruised face had a gargoyle appearance in the dim, flickering light. "Rest now. I a.s.sure you all is well."

Aubery laughed affectionately. "I am not ten years old, William. The bruises are nothing. And I do not believe it is safe to wait until morning. Either of us might be called to the king or have other business arise. Since I am here and I can tell there is something brewing, you had better tell me now so that I do not fall into a pit unaware. Besides, I have already slept away the whole day. I am not sleepy now, only starved. Is there some way I could get something to eat?"

"Yes, of course." William went out into the corridor. After a few minutes he returned. "Thank G.o.d there are separate kitchens for the monks and nuns and for the guests," he said, lighting several more candles at the flame of the one burning. "I have no great taste for lentils and cabbage."

"Is that what the monks and nuns eat here?" Aubery asked with raised brows. The abbey at Hurley had had a corrupt abbot during Aubery's youth, and he was not fond of the monastic orders.

"Well, certainly not the abbess and her officers," William admitted, "but that is between the brothers and sisters and G.o.d, and no affair of ours. In any case, the kitchen that serves us is excellent."

The food arrived remarkably fast, a servant carrying in a tray loaded with soup, cold meat pasty, cheese, bread, and wine, all in generous proportions. William took the tray from him and set it down on the bed. Aubery freed his arms from the blanket he had pulled around himself and picked up the bowl of soup.

"Go on," he urged.

William had already explained that Louis's warm and generous welcome to Henry might well have an ulterior motive, changing the truce which had ended the war in 1243 and had been several times renewed after its original one-year term, into a treaty of peace. That would, of course, mean officially giving up Normandy, Anjou, and Poitou to Louis. But since Normandy had been under French domination since 1204 and Anjou and Poitou for over ten years, such a treaty would merely be the recognition of a fait accompli. Still, Aubery had pointed out, actually signing a peace treaty would make a difference. Once the lands were legally Louis's, a rebellion of the barons in favor of Henry would become treason and punishable with far greater severity than a rising to throw off a conqueror. To which William had replied caustically that he, for one, and in his opinion England as a whole, would be far better off if the wars and follies of the Angevins and Poitevins were no business of the va.s.sals of the King of England.

Aubery agreed hastily as he ate, laughing and a.s.suring William that his earlier remark was made absently from a theoretical rather than practical point of view and not because he was in favor of trying to regain the lost provinces. He was young and adventurous and did not mind fighting abroad, but he knew how most of the barons of England resented being called out to war or taxed for any overseas conflict.

"There is not much more to say," William said. "All of us would like to see this peace made, except of course, the Lusignans."

"But why should the Lusignans-" Aubery began, putting down his spoon to reach for the pasty, and then shook his head. "I am an idiot. As long as Henry is the legal overlord of Poitou, they can hope to rouse those who had been their father's va.s.sals to rebellion and thus hope to regain what was theirs in Poitou." He picked up the meat pie he had reached for, his mouth twisted wryly. "Could a va.s.sal of theirs be such a fool?"

"Well, not if the va.s.sals knew them and compared them with Louis," William said, and went on to point out other aspects of the situation.

Aubery listened to William with half an ear while finis.h.i.+ng his soup and chewing on the meat pasty, which he washed down with sips of wine. And while William told of the loss of the Lusignan estates to Louis, he made excellent inroads into the cheese. When he was full and ready to talk, he pushed the tray farther down the bed and led William back to the present.

"Now I can see why Mansel did not wish me to tell a story that could cast a shadow of doubt on the friends.h.i.+p that Louis was proffering," Aubery said.

William grinned broadly. "But some good came of your talk because Lord Guy and Lord Geoffrey overreached themselves. I do not know exactly what they said, but Henry has forbidden them to accompany us to Pontigny and bade them go back to Gascony or to England."

Aubery frowned. "Why not send them hence at once?"

"Isabella was their mother as well as Henry's," William pointed out. "In decency the king could not send them away before the ceremony of removing her coffin to the church had taken place."

"By then they will have cozened the king into changing his mind," Aubery said sourly.

"I think not," William remarked thoughtfully. "Henry talks of nothing but his cousin Louis, and you know what he is like when he has taken a notion." Suddenly William smiled again. "I think Mansel was warning you as much for your own sake, to save you from losing the king's favor, as from fearing you would shake Henry's conviction about Louis's sincerity. Mansel likes you-oh, Lord bless me, I forgot to thank you. I am to have Bix again, and for less than I would have given Alys for a quitclaim."

"You thank me for feathering my own nest?" Aubery protested, laughing.

William sighed. "There were many ways you could have feathered your nest more directly." He touched the unbruised side of Aubery's face gently. "My son, you should think more of your own needs. If you would take the income from Bix-" He sighed again as Aubery shook his head and then smiled. "Well, you cannot stop me from settling Bix on the next Wiliam of Marlowe as soon as he is born."

He was about to add lightly that Aubery would have to use the income for his future son's needs but hesitated as an expression of pain flickered over his stepson's face. Could Aubery be worried because Fenice had not yet conceived? They had been married over a year, but Aubery had been with her only now and again because of the war and the services he had performed for the king. The poor girl had not had a reasonable chance to get with child, except the last three or four months. Then William had a cold sinking feeling. Had Fenice lost a child with all the traveling they had done? Was she with child and Aubery afraid she might lose it?

Mentally William withdrew from a personal wound that was still raw. He would not have denied Aubery the comfort of talking out his fears if he wished to do so, but William could not introduce the subject himself. Thus, when Aubery stretched, yawned, and said he was ready to sleep again, William removed the tray from the bed and with a shamed feeling of relief went over to snuff all the candles except the night-light. He knew Aubery's profession of sleepiness was false but could not bring himself to say so, and he took off his bedrobe and lay down beside Aubery in silence.

Since William had made no comment when Aubery winced away from the subject of the generation of children, Aubery hoped his reaction had gone unnoticed. He had controlled the expression quickly but was painfully aware that the emotions inside of him were not controlled at all. A surging need for Fenice mingled with the remnants of his resentment and, unfortunately, reinforced it because of his fear of being dominated by l.u.s.t for his wife. Yet to give William a grandchild...

Painfully, Aubery wrenched his mind away from Fenice altogether. A bed, he told himself, was no place to consider their future relations.h.i.+p rationally. He fixed his mind on the results of making peace with France. There was not much chance that Henry could have forced the barons of England into supporting a war to reclaim the lost provinces, but their resistance if he proposed such a war would further sour the king's relations.h.i.+p with his subjects, and that did not need extra souring.

Thus, yielding Normandy, Anjou, and Poitou legally would be an advantage. And, doubtless, in exchange Louis would agree not to support any rebellions in Gascony. So, squeezed between Alfonso, whose daughter would suffer from any rebellion, and Louis, who was adamant in keeping his oath, Gaston de Bearn would have his claws drawn. Aside from minor personal quarrels, it seemed that Gascony would lie quiet, at least while Louis and Alfonso of Castile lived.

Aubery recognized the political advantages of a settlement, but he found the notion of all that peace and quiet so dull that he yawned and felt sleepy in earnest. A few more minutes of contemplating the endless and boring negotiations that would be necessary to bring about this even more boring peace sent Aubery soundly to sleep.

Having slept so long, Aubery woke before dawn and, in trying to get out of bed, woke William. He apologized, but his stepfather only said grumpily that he would have been awake himself in a few minutes. "It is this doing of nothing all day," William growled. "I know Richard needs a trustworthy ear near the king when Eleanor and the Lusignans are with him, but listening and talking is not enough for my body, no matter how tired it makes my mind. If Richard does not soon give me permission to come back to England, I will kill someone just for the exercise."

Aubery laughed. "Let us both arm, then, and we can exercise-"

"In the abbey?" William made a sour face. "It is out of the question, and I doubt the folk of the village would welcome our activity either. They are all pensioners of the abbey or bound to it in other ways. And until the Lusignans are gone, I dare not be long away from the king." He sighed. "I can offer you no more amus.e.m.e.nt than ma.s.s and breakfast. And I think you must thank Henry for his prompt aid to the prisoners in Pons."

"They are not free yet," Aubery grumbled.

Reminded suddenly that the one part of the story Mansel did not seem to know was how Aubery himself had escaped from the prison in Pons, William had been about to ask, but Aubery's remark distracted him. "Even if they are not freed, the king deserves thanks for trying to help them," William remonstrated, looking with some surprise at his stepson. Aubery was seldom discourteous and never when an attempt to help failed. Then he smiled. "Henry will not begin to seek your company again," he promised. "He has Eleanor for his quiet hours, and prayers and consultations with the abbess, and a host of French n.o.blemen both curious and with real business to draw his attention."

Although Aubery had not thought about why he should be so eager for a morning of practice combat with William when he was still bruised and aching from the beating he had taken in Pons, he accepted William's objections with reluctance. Only after several attempts to change his stepfather's mind did he pull ordinary clothing from his baggage, which he found piled with William's at the end of the room.

Once dressed, he became resigned and followed his stepfather docilely to ma.s.s, to eat in the central refectory that served the individual guesthouses designed for the n.o.bility, and then to the audience chamber of the king's lodging. They were early, of course, since they had started their day earlier than most, but William knew there would be a good fire in the audience chamber, and it would be a comfortable place to wait. He also wanted to hear what would be said about the quarrel between the king and his half brothers.

Thus, the room was still almost empty when Aubery saw Savin come through the door. His lips tightened, and William turned his head to see what had disturbed Aubery. William's own face took on an expression of distaste, and he muttered, "He is in Lord Guy's household, could you not have guessed?"

"So long as he is away from the prince, I do not care," Aubery said calmly, smiling as he added, "I do not think even Savin could corrupt the Lusignans."

He heard William laugh and remark that the Lusignans and Savin were a perfect match in rapacity and dishonor, and he nodded agreement but went back to the subject on which they had been conversing earlier without mentioning his suspicion that Savin had tried to arrange his death in Castile. Since he had no proof and telling William would only worry him, it was better to say nothing. Then Aubery realized he would have to warn Fenice not to speak of what had happened in Castile to anyone, which she might do if she should see Savin, and that reminded him of how she had run to the queen with the story after he had bade her tell no one.

The room had been filling rapidly while these thoughts ran through Aubery's head, and since their conversation had been no more than idle talk to fill the time, William was paying more attention to the arrivals than to what he or Aubery was saying and did not notice Aubery's distraction. Soon after, the king and queen came from the private chamber in which they had broken their fast and moved slowly through the room, pausing to speak to those they wished to honor, encourage, soothe, or invite to private audiences. William and Aubery, who had been near the far end of the room from their entry, watched with considerable interest who was greeted and who was ignored.

A number of men and women Aubery did not know received cordial notice, and William muttered in his ear that they were French. Then, as the royal pair approached, one couple bowed, and a youth and maiden behind them also dropped a deep bow and curtsy, and Aubery saw the queen stiffen for a moment and lose her smile. His eyes followed hers, and again fell on Savin, who had been hidden behind the French family, talking desultorily to a man well known as a hanger-on of the Lusignans.

Eleanor recovered immediately, smiled again, and began to speak graciously to the wife and blus.h.i.+ng daughter while Henry engaged the men. Aubery did not believe anyone besides himself had noticed the queen's brief display of surprise and displeasure, however, as parting words were spoken and the French family sank into bows and curtsies again, Aubery realized that Savin was aware that the queen had noticed him, and not with delight.

In the next moment, Aubery and William had been seen. Eleanor immediately beckoned vigorously for Aubery to approach and a.s.sured him as soon as he was close enough that Fenice was much recovered, wide awake, and eagerly awaiting him.

"Indeed," Eleanor said, smiling, "it was necessary for me to exert my royal authority to keep her abed, for nothing would content her but to go seeking you to be sure you were not sleeping in a stable or starving."

"She is always too concerned for my welfare," Aubery replied stiffly.

Aubery's rigid expression reminded Eleanor that he had not wanted Fenice to disclose to her his suspicions of Sir Savin, whom she had thought dismissed to England. It had been so brief a glance, she wondered if it were possible that she had been mistaken, and her head turned again to where Savin had been standing, however, he was gone, and she looked back at Aubery, whose gaze had naturally followed hers. The idea that Aubery was still angry with Fenice annoyed Eleanor.

"Too great a concern is better than too little, Sir Aubery," she said reprovingly.

But even as she spoke she realized that her recent shock in seeing Sir Savin-if, indeed, it was he-must have led her to misinterpret Aubery's uneasiness. In fact, now that she stopped to think, she could not believe the man she had seen actually had been Sir Savin. Surely Aubery would have done something or said something if it had been Savin. Eleanor knew Aubery to be a fond husband. Probably he was only eager to get to Fenice and see for himself that she had come to no harm but did not wish to be rude to his queen.

So Eleanor smiled again, somewhat apologetically, and added, "I will not tease you by holding you here longer. You are free to go."

"Only let me thank my lord the king for his swift action on behalf of the prisoners in Pons," Aubery began, aware of a reluctance to leave that was strange, considering his usual desire to avoid Henry.

Henry smiled warmly. He liked to be appreciated, but he was also a fond husband. Being unaware that Sir William had not told Aubery that Fenice had collapsed, Henry a.s.sumed that only a deep grat.i.tude to him and a rigid sense of duty, which he knew Aubery had, were keeping Aubery from rus.h.i.+ng off.

"There is no need for thanks," the king said kindly. "It is a king's duty to protect his va.s.sals, as it is their duty to serve and protect him. Go to your wife and a.s.sure yourself all is well with her. I will speak to you again soon."

There could be no lingering after so positive a dismissal, and Aubery could only bow and depart. Nor, he thought, as he turned toward the stairs to go up to the queen's chambers could he simply go off by himself and not visit Fenice. He stopped abruptly midway up the stairs, shocked when he realized that his persistent attempt to draw William into practice combat and his sudden eagerness to stay and talk to King Henry were both only devices that would permit him to avoid his wife.

A soft, angry sound came from Aubery's throat, and Sir Savin, who had been standing just inside the door where he could watch without being himself seen, drew farther back. Savin checked the motion before it was complete, shaking with rage because he had reacted with instinctive retreat to a threat from Aubery that was not, he now realized, even directed at him. It put the final edge to his hate to recognize his fear. That atop what he had seen in the queen's eyes-and then she and Aubery had been talking about him. Though he had moved away, he had seen them both looking at the place in which he had been standing.

He had to get rid of Aubery, and soon. Lord Guy and Lord Geoffrey were both wild with rage at having been told they could not accompany the king farther in France. Savin guessed that the refusal had something to do with the news Aubery had brought. He had heard Guy and Geoffrey screaming at each other and accusing each other of misusing the news and, incidentally, cursing Aubery also. He could bear witness that they had wished Aubery dead, and he would not be the only one. Every servant in the guesthouse had heard them. No one would try too hard to discover who had killed Aubery when the trail would lead to the king's half brothers.

But he had not yet been able to think of a device for finding Aubery alone and unarmed. There were too many people around for Savin to try to kill him here. And what the devil had Aubery gone up to the private apartments for? There were plenty of pages to carry messages. Then Savin remembered that Aubery's wife was one of the queen's ladies, and he remembered, too, that there had been some jests among the men about Aubery's devotion to Fenice. Savin smiled broadly. The woman-if he took her and demanded ransom, it would be only reasonable to demand also that Aubery come alone and unarmed to pay it.

The smile disappeared. He would need a safe place to keep her, and he would need a device to bring her to a quiet spot where he could seize her. Savin left the king's lodging and walked slowly back to the house in which the Lusignans were staying. He no longer needed to watch Aubery, but he would need information. However, he was sure that Lord Guy's servants could find out about Lady Fenice and would not be surprised that Savin should act as intermediary.

Appalled by the revelation that he was afraid to face Fenice, Aubery rushed up the remainder of the stairs and almost collided with a maid carrying a tray. The maid's cry of surprise and the check to his physical motion, while he steadied the tray and rea.s.sured the girl, gave Aubery a few minutes to adjust his emotions, so that he entered the antechamber and asked for his wife quietly. One of the king's squires of the body on duty there led him immediately through the bedchamber and pointed out the inner room where the queen's ladies were lodged.

Aubery did not see Fenice at once, for her cot had been placed nearest to the door of the bedchamber so that the ladies who sat up to attend Eleanor, should she need something in the night, would also be able to watch Fenice. He advanced a step or two into the room before her voice, quavering on the edge of tears, stopped him. She was so beautiful when Aubery saw her, with her hair still tumbled from sleep, holding the coverlet to her to s.h.i.+eld her nakedness, that his desire overwhelmed the tenderness her frailty had engendered. Yet her eyes were full of tears, and her voice was thin and frightened. He understood that if it had been anger that made her refuse his tentative offers of help on the ride, she was angry no longer.

She put out her hand to him, but he dared not take it and would come no closer for fear his desire would betray him in some way. And guilt made his voice harsher than he intended when he said, "I am sorry to have driven you so hard and so far that you were made ill."

"I am not ill," Fenice replied faintly, shrinking back and dropping her eyes. "I am ready to leave for England at once if you wish."

At that moment she thought she would die of shame. Aubery had always greeted her with the pleasant formality of kissing her hand, even when they had only been apart for a few hours. He would never kiss her hand again. He would always see her as a common creature crossed with filth, even though he did not know of her serf mother.

"I am afraid we will be delayed a few days," Aubery said. "Now that we are here, I do not think it would be wise to ask for permission to leave until Queen Isabella's coffin is moved from the graveyard to the church."

"Very well, my lord," Fenice agreed. "If you will tell me where we are lodged-"

"You will stay here with the queen," Aubery's voice grated as he fought his desire to tell her to dress and come with him to William's chamber. No one would be there now and he could have her, but he knew it would be wrong. No matter what Fenice said, she was not well enough for coupling.

Aubery was right. Fenice was sick and dizzy. Had she been normal, she would have recognized at once what was wrong with her husband, and have arranged to cure it, thus curing her own fears also. Her weakness bred terrors that simple logic would have driven out at any other time.

"Will you put me aside, my lord?" Fenice whispered, her face white and her eyes wide with shock and shame.

"Do not be ridiculous," Aubery snarled, angry with himself for frightening her. "Fontevrault is crowded to bursting. I am sharing a bed with William. Do you wish to join us?"

Fenice's face went whiter still. It was not unknown in serf households to have three or even four crowded onto a pallet. She could not speak, and stared mutely at Aubery who, of course, had not the faintest idea what she was thinking but did realize that his angry tone was making matters worse.

"Come, Fenice," he said in a milder voice, "you are being very silly. It must be because you are still tired, and I see from the bandage on your arm that you must have been bled. I will leave you to rest now. Perhaps if you are stronger later in the day, I will see you again."

He bowed formally and went out, ashamed of seeming so bad-tempered but incapable of explaining, leaving poor Fenice too numb for tears. A moment later, movement at the end of the room attracted her eyes, and she realized a maid had been left to watch her. The girl put down her work and came toward her, but Fenice could not bear the thought of the maid's sympathy, so she lay down and pulled the coverlet over her head as if to keep out the light. It was a foolish thing to do, she realized only a few minutes later. She should have tried to convince the girl that there was nothing seriously wrong between her and Aubery, that he spoke so sharply only because he was still overtired himself. But when she uncovered herself and sat up, the girl had gone out. Fenice lay down once more, now even deeper in despair. She knew the maid had rushed out to tell everyone she met about the quarrel, but there was nothing she could do about it now. If she tried to explain or deny, she would only be confirming what the girl had said.

Although it was only Fenice's misery that made her think the maid had nothing to do but spread gossip about herself and Aubery, the girl was actually talking about her at the moment. Taking what she had heard Aubery say together with how exhausted Fenice had seemed after her husband's brief visit, the girl felt Fenice would be unable to get up for dinner. Thus, she was on her way to the kitchen to arrange for a meal to be brought to the room when a servingman stopped her. He asked solicitously whether Lady Fenice had recovered and if she thought Lady Fenice would be glad to move to other lodgings or would rather stay with the queen. The maid a.s.sured him that Fenice would be very eager to join her husband.

"If you know of someone who is leaving," the maid said, "do please tell me, and I will let my lady the queen know. I am sure she would wish to make the chamber available for Sir Aubery and Lady Fenice. Lady Fenice is her great-niece, you know."

"I had better not give you the name before I am sure," the man said. "It was only a half-heard remark, but I will try to find out for certain and let Sir Aubery know. He is easier to reach than the queen. Then he may make his own arrangement or go to the king if he needs authority to confirm the place as his."

The maid agreed that it would, in fact, be best if Sir Aubery made his own arrangements. She went on toward the kitchen somewhat puzzled at who could be planning to depart and decided to say nothing to Fenice lest she rouse false hopes. However, just before dinner, a young boy she thought of as a page came with a message that Sir Aubery wanted his wife to meet him in the porch of the church.

"Oh," the maid cried, giving the message to Lady Fenice, "it must be that Sir Aubery has been able to obtain a lodging."

Fenice looked very startled but sent the boy back with the reply that she would come as soon as she could get her clothes on, and the moment the boy was out of the room she leapt out of bed as if the mattress had suddenly turned to hot coals. Having seen Fenice's surprised expression, the maid described her meeting with the servingman and what he had said. After she helped Fenice to dress, the girl belatedly remembered that the queen had ordered Fenice to stay abed and ran after her to beg her to come back to the queen's room to eat her dinner rather than join the rest of the ladies and gentlemen. Because she felt the maid's anxiety, Fenice said, "Yes, yes, of course," but without understanding a word the girl had said.

There was no room in Fenice's mind or heart for anything beyond an agonizing hope that she had somehow misunderstood everything, that Aubery had not sent her off to the queen because he did not wish to see her or speak to her, that he had been telling the truth when he said she must stay with the queen because he had nowhere to lodge except with Sir William. And if he had sent for her the moment he found a place, did that not mean he truly wished her to join him as soon as possible?

Fenice was halfway across the courtyard before she realized she did not know where the church was. She hesitated, about to ask one of the servants hurrying to and from the refectory, then shook her head at her silliness and looked up and around until she saw the bell tower. Knowing in a general way how the church would be positioned with respect to the abbey, she went toward the nearest gate on the same side as the church, in the wall that protected the guest buildings. But Fenice had realized that it would be improper to run through the church or even to walk swiftly through without genuflecting. Instead, she ran around the side of the building as quickly as she could.