Royal Dynasty: Fire Song Part 23

"A jest?" Aubery repeated. "To use my name to draw my wife out of your care? What kind of jest is that? If I had by chance been occupied and not come here, a whole day might have pa.s.sed before you knew Fenice was not with me, or I knew she was not with you."

"But why?" Eleanor cried. "Why should anyone wish to seize Fenice? No one could want to harm her. I am sure she has not an enemy in the world. And where could she be taken? And how? We are so crowded here and in the village also, no one would dare carry off a woman in the middle of the day. Someone would be sure to see."

Aubery had not spoken, but in his mind Eleanor's questions found answers. Fenice in herself was not valuable and had no enemies, but he had a bitter enemy, an enemy William had just warned him would strike at his back-Savin. Aubery had no answer to where she could have been taken, but how... He gasped as memory replayed the sight of Savin carrying a rolled rug. He had called Savin a lickspittle, but that was his own stupid pride again. True, Savin would not have contemptuously refused an order to collect or move a rug as he himself would have done. On the other hand, Savin would not have carried it himself. He would have ordered a servant to carry it while he followed to see the article was not stolen or damaged.

So, if Savin carried the rug himself, there was something very special about that rug-its weight, perhaps. Would Fenice weigh enough to make a servant notice something strange? No matter! Savin's knowledge of wrong would make him too cautious to allow anyone else to touch his burden. With a snarl of rage, Aubery turned and ran headlong out of the apartment.

Having stowed Fenice safely, Sir Savin had hurried to the refectory and eaten with more appet.i.te than he had had since he had first seen Aubery and realized his bte noire had not gone back to England. He was in so good a humor that others at the table looked at him in some surprise. It was not often that Savin put himself out to be agreeable, however, he had seen a lot of action and could be interesting when he wished. Several men who had nothing special to do lingered after the meal to listen to his stories.

When Savin was sure half a dozen men would swear that at dinner he had been easy in his mind and indifferent to time, he abandoned his company and made his way back to his lodging. A problem he had not considered earlier had occurred to him-how to get the message he wanted delivered to Aubery. He could not send a verbal message because saying enough to induce Aubery to come would be too incriminating. That meant the message had to be written, but although there were more clerks in the area than Savin ever hoped to see again, plainly it was not possible to ask anyone to write a ransom note.

There was nothing he could do but write the note himself, Savin had decided. He was not totally illiterate. An effort had been made in his youth to teach him to read and write. He retained enough learning to sign his name when needful, which he did not find difficult and gave him a false sense of confidence. Thus, having made a detour to obtain parchment, quills, and ink, Savin closed his door and, with a grimace of distaste, sat down to write to Aubery.

It was an extraordinarily frustrating task. Not only was it difficult to remember which symbol represented which sound, but the parchment, quills, and ink all seemed to have taken on lives of their own, characterized solely by a determination to resist him. What Savin had seen clerks do in a few minutes had occupied him for more than an hour, and he was nowhere near finished.

Savin modified his aims. He himself would write only what could be incriminating. The description of the place to which Aubery must come, the time, and all other matters that any man could write to any other with whom he planned a meeting could be written on a separate sheet by a clerk. Much relieved by this curtailment of his onerous task, Savin cut off a small piece of parchment and, beginning again, wrote, "I hav lidy finis bring al gold fer her lif c.u.m alon wif no sord or armor on or-" He intended to finish with the words "she dies" but as he reached to dip his quill, a burst of shouting followed by two agonized shrieks right outside the house startled him so that he knocked over the inkhorn.

Bellowing an obscenity, Savin pushed the parchment out of harm's way and rushed out of the room, sword in hand, fit to kill whoever had caused the disturbance that had startled him. He was on the stairs when Aubery burst through the door roaring, "Where is Savin?"

Savin stopped, shocked out of the advantage he could have had by leaping down and slas.h.i.+ng, before Aubery, who was half-blinded by coming out of the light into the dim hallway, could see who was there. Savin could not even deny his guilt before Aubery recognized him.

"You wh.o.r.eson murdering dog," Aubery said, his voice soft now, almost a lover's croon. "Come down to me and die."

A croak of protest forced its way from Savin's throat, but it was a protest of terror, a protest against death. He had never been a coward, but now he was so frightened he could not form words. The eyes staring up at him were those of a madman, and there was an unholy look of welcome on Aubery's face, such a welcome as the devil must give to a d.a.m.ned soul.

"Will you come down and fight like a man, or shall I spit you like a mad dog where you stand?" Aubery asked gently.

Desperation finally galvanized Savin into action, and he did what he should have done earlier-leapt down the stairs aiming a mighty slash at Aubery. Had Savin's weapon landed, it would have cut Aubery in two, but only mocking laughter met the blow. Savin screamed, for the force of his swing had turned him half around, and he expected a counterblow that would cripple or kill him. Instead, he was prodded contemptuously, and Aubery said, "Take a s.h.i.+eld, woman slayer. I do not want to kill you with my first blow. I want the pleasure of cutting you apart slowly."

Savin swung around, slas.h.i.+ng again, and this time his sword was caught on Aubery's blade. He shrieked wordlessly as his weapon rebounded so violently that the hilt hurt him through the heavy callus on his palm. It was as if he had struck a huge rock. And now Aubery's sword was arcing toward him, and he could not bring his back to block the blow. Yet it did not take off his head, as it could have done. It only cut his upper arm slightly.

"Take a s.h.i.+eld, I said," Aubery repeated.

Aubery felt very strange. As soon as he became convinced that it was Savin who had abducted Fenice, he was equally convinced that Fenice was dead. The rage that instantly filled him was so tremendous that he could feel nothing else at all. In a way he was blind and deaf. He did not recognize the queen nor hear her call out to him as he ran from the room, nor see and hear the people he pushed aside as he rushed through the antechamber and out of the building. In another way his perceptions seemed abnormally heightened. The men-at-arms who tried to block his way into the Lusignans' lodging appeared to move very slowly. He struck one down with his left fist, the other with the flat of his sword before they could raise their arms, and he did not feel the impact of the blows he dealt them, although they fell senseless to the ground.

Then, when Savin had appeared on the stairs, he, too, seemed to be laughably sluggish. When he finally decided to attack, Aubery had what appeared to be endless time to move away and to poke him, as one would poke a helpless serf to urge him to greater effort. And he hardly felt the slash he caught on his sword, although he allowed it to slide along the blade a little way to spare his weapon.

After he had dealt Savin the first minor wound, Aubery laughed as he watched him scuttle toward the s.h.i.+elds that hung along the wall. He did not take one himself. He did not need one. As soon as Savin held the s.h.i.+eld, Aubery leapt toward him and cut him on the thigh, then on the hip. He laughed again as he watched stains mar Savin's clothes and worms of red crawl down from them, hardly aware that he had twice deflected blows at his own uncovered body. He did not hear the clang of metal on metal as blade met blade, but he did hear the sound of angry voices, and he cut Savin twice more, forcing him around so that his own back was toward the wall, where he was protected.

Still, there was a distraction. Savin seemed to be moving faster, and Aubery was a second late on a parry. There was a sharp pain in his left arm, but he pushed Savin's sword away and thrust at him harder than before. A burst of blood from the thigh he had previously wounded only increased his rage. He had not meant to disable the man so soon. Now Aubery could hear Savin screaming something. It did not make sense to him, but the terror in the voice stirred in him an agony he had not yet allowed himself to feel.

Suddenly Aubery knew that he could not ease his pain by torturing even this vile creature. His next slash was harder, cutting well into the ribs. Savin went down, screaming the same senseless words over and over. Aubery poised his sword for the death blow.

"Stop!"

The authority in the voice penetrated the dying remnants of Aubery's berserk rage. Automatically, he put his foot on Savin's sword and pressed his own into his enemy's bare throat as he raised his eyes. The king's half brother Sir Guy stood in the doorway.

"What is the meaning of this?" he bellowed. "Are you mad, Sir Aubery?"

"Yes," Aubery replied, laughing, although tears had started to run down his face. "Yes, I am mad. This offal feared me too much to challenge me, so he abducted and murdered my wife. Fenice... His voice broke on the word, and the sword dug in, pressure breaking the skin so that blood welled up around the dull point.

"She is alive!" Savin screeched, just before Aubery's blade made it impossible for him to speak.

The sword was withdrawn. "Alive?" Aubery cried. "Where?"

"I did her no harm," Savin wept.

"Where?" Aubery roared.

While Savin whimpered that Fenice was still rolled in a rug in the storage shed behind the guesthouse, Sir Guy stared down at the wounded man. Nor, when Aubery ran out of the house automatically sheathing his sword as he went, did Guy give any instructions to the servants who stood s.h.i.+vering behind him or the two groggy men-at-arms who had at last roused from Aubery's blows and staggered into the room. Lord Guy had been angry and astonished when he was called from the king's chamber and told his house had been invaded by a madman who had felled two of his men-at-arms and was waving a sword and screaming for Sir Savin. Now, however, Guy's astonishment was over, and he was much, much angrier.

It did not surprise Lord Guy that Savin and Aubery should be enemies. Guy himself disliked Aubery thoroughly and felt Aubery was a self-righteous prig with his honor and his modesty. Nonetheless, Lord Guy had not the slightest sympathy for Savin, and it was not Aubery against whom his current fury was directed but Savin. That the man should dare allow his personal quarrels to impinge on Guy and his brother, that he had the unmitigated gall to use their lodging for his petty revenge-and on the great-niece of the queen, too! Guy was so angry that he could not speak, could only stare with hatred at the moaning creature on the floor.

Worst of all, Guy felt he had been making headway in convincing the king to change his mind and include them in the party that would continue on through France and join King Louis at Chartres. The news that a man sworn to their service had abducted Lady Fenice would not only enrage Henry-who was in Guy's opinion stupidly chivalrous toward women in general and in addition liked Fenice personally-but would give the queen all too good a weapon to use against them.

The sight of Aubery pa.s.sing the door with Fenice's totally limp body in his arms broke the paralysis that rage had engendered in Lord Guy. He turned his head toward one of the men-at-arms and gestured toward Savin, saying, "Kill him," and he watched, hard-eyed and indifferent to Savin's shrieks, while the order was carried out. Lord Guy snarled, strode forward, and kicked the corpse brutally, knowing that Savin's act had cost him any chance he might have had to prevent an eventual peace with France.

It was fortunate that the knowledge that Fenice was alive and unhurt restored Aubery's ability to think, for the rug in which she had been rolled was no longer in the position Savin had described. However, Aubery needed only a moment to realize that the rug had rolled away from the wall and that a number of baskets and chests that had been stacked around it had fallen down on it. He wrestled the objects off, terrified anew that Fenice had been badly hurt, almost reluctant to unroll her lest he discover that the rug was her death shroud.

He cried out with agony when he saw her eyes closed in a ghastly pale face, but when he s.n.a.t.c.hed her up against him he cried out again with joy. Her cheek was warm! Without waiting to unbind her hands or remove her gag, he jumped to his feet and ran, thanking G.o.d that between the abbey and the royal party the best physicians would be available to attend her. And scarcely had he rounded the front of the guesthouse and pa.s.sed the door when he saw the queen coming toward him hastily.

"She is alive, but hurt," Aubery gasped. "Please-a physician."

"Bring her to my chamber," Eleanor cried.

"No!" Aubery exclaimed, clutching Fenice closer. "No! I wish to watch by her myself."

Eleanor was a sensible woman and long accustomed to dealing with a very unreasonable man. She could see Aubery was totally beyond good sense or logical argument.

"I will send a physician to Sir William's chamber at once," she said soothingly, stepping forward and pulling the gag from Fenice's mouth so she could breathe more easily. "I will also send a maidservant to help you. Do not run, Sir Aubery, so that you do not jostle her, and lay her down softly. Let the maid undress her-" She stopped because Aubery had already set off toward his chamber. At least, she thought as she turned to send one lady flying for her physician and another to the abbess to request another, he had heard enough so that he was not running and bouncing Fenice up and down.

No one had noticed that Fenice's eyes had opened and closed several times while the queen was speaking. She had not been deeply unconscious when Aubery found her, for although the air inside the rug had been foul enough to deprive her of her senses each time she had roused and tried to struggle free, there had been enough fresh air seeping in constantly to revive her after a period of immobility. However, the terrible sensation of strangulation had left her dazed with fear and hopelessness so that her mind moved slowly.

The first thing of which Fenice became certain was that she was being carried. Next, she a.s.sociated that with the words, "Do not run, Sir Aubery." So it was Aubery who was carrying her. She had been rescued!

"Aubery," she cried, only the word came out as a croaking whisper.

He stopped dead, his arms tightening involuntarily and then relaxing. "Hush, beloved," he said tenderly, "hush. I will go more carefully. Oh, dearling, forgive me if I hurt you. Try to endure-"

"You are not hurting me," Fenice a.s.sured him, her voice clearer now, her eyes widening with delight at being called dearling and beloved.

"You are so brave, my little love," he murmured, starting off again. "Do not try to talk. Just rest."

Fenice took a breath to say she thought she could walk if he would steady her, but Aubery kissed her temple and begged her to be still, telling her that it was only a little way and that her sufferings would soon be over. Since she still felt very muddled, Fenice made no further protest, and it was, indeed, only a few minutes more before Aubery managed to unlatch the door with his knee and lay Fenice gently on the bed. It was then that she realized that her wrists were still tied.

"Will you unloose me, my lord?" she asked, lifting her hands so that her cloak fell away and exposed the bindings.

Aubery had turned from the bed to throw wood on the embers in the fireplace that warmed the room, but he spun back toward her on his heel, his face instantly contorting with rage.

"How have I angered you?" Fenice cried, tears coming to her eyes at the thought that she had somehow broken the gentle mood in which her husband had at last spoken words of love.

"Not you," he cried, going down on his knees beside the bed. "It has never been you that was at fault." He bowed his head over the bound hands and kissed them. "I-"

Before he could say more, there were excited voices in the corridor, and then the room seemed to be full of people-two physicians, two maids, Sir William. The first four crowded Aubery away from the bed, all gabbling to each other and asking Fenice questions while William patted Aubery's shoulder and a.s.sured him that Fenice was a strong girl and that with good care she was sure to recover. Then, seeing the fearful way Aubery was trying to watch and yet trying not to watch what was happening on the bed, William drew him as far from it as he could, pushed him down on the stool so that he could not see past the standing attendants, and asked, loudly and firmly enough to force Aubery's attention to him, what had happened.

While Aubery tried to speak, inwardly he prayed that Fenice's death not be the final scourging administered to him for his sinful pride. His faith was strong enough to accept the fact that death would be no punishment to Fenice. She would go to heaven, to eternal bliss. Death punished the living, not the virtuous dead. He prayed silently, knowing himself guilty and undeserving, while somehow his mouth formed words to explain to William Savin's revenge and what he could remember of his actions in the Lusignans' lodging.

He was leaning back in the corner with his left arm against the wall so that William, who was asking repeatedly if Aubery was sure he had not been hurt, could not see the blood still oozing from the wound. Aubery had been completely unaware of it himself ever since he had felt and ignored the initial pain when Savin's sword cut him. And in the midst of all the excitement about Fenice, no one else had noticed the slit in his dark gown or the spreading stain around it. Then Fenice's voice cried, "My lord," and Aubery sprang to his feet and pushed aside those cl.u.s.tering around the bed.

"What is it, my dear love?" Aubery asked breathlessly, reaching toward her.

"Oh, my G.o.d, you are bleeding!" Fenice exclaimed, popping upright.

"You will hurt yourself," Aubery gasped.

"But I am not hurt," Fenice wailed exasperatedly. "All I have is a b.u.mp on my head. Please tell all these people to go away. No! Do not. Let the physicians look to your arm. Let me help you take off your clothes."

"My love," Aubery said, grasping Fenice and holding her still as she tried to get out of the bed. "Were you not crushed by the things that fell on you?"

"No," she a.s.sured him, leaning forward to kiss him as he bent over her. "The rug cus.h.i.+oned me. I swear I am whole and well, my lord. Let me see to you."

William had come forward when Fenice first exclaimed about the blood on Aubery's arm and now tore the sleeve from the gown. He, too, exclaimed when he saw the tunic sleeve soaked with blood, and ordered, "Stay where you are, Fenice. Aubery, stand up so I can get these things off you. Be reasonable. If the girl says nothing hurts her, she is probably all right."

"She never complains," Aubery protested, watching her anxiously. "She rode all the way from Pons-"

"Yes, yes," William said soothingly, "but she will lie down again if you will let us attend to you."

"I will," Fenice agreed. "I will lie still and do whatever they say if you will only let them look to your arm first."

Although he watched Fenice all the time, Aubery allowed his stepfather to remove gown, tunic, and s.h.i.+rt and permitted the physicians to examine his arm. They consulted gravely and agreed that the cut was not serious but should be sewn. William had come to this conclusion some time before the grave consultation was complete and had stepped out of the room to send one of the abbey servants for a barber to sew up the wound. Grave and learned physicians did not stoop to such common tasks. He thought it would have been better for Fenice to do it, but knew that would cause Aubery too much anxiety.

By the time the physicians had discoursed and decided on the correct diet to alleviate fever and best encourage healing, a monk from the infirmary had st.i.tched Aubery up, bandaged his arm, and promised to return the next day if Aubery developed a fever and needed bleeding. It took a while longer for Fenice to convince everyone that she was intact but tired and needed to be alone-except, of course, for her husband-so that she could rest, but she succeeded at last.

Aubery shut the door behind them, relieved to be rid of everyone but still doubtful that it was safe to let them go. In his deeply contrite mood, it seemed impossible that he should be allowed to keep Fenice. He turned and stood looking at her, not realizing that his intense, anxious examination appeared to Fenice as a ferocious frown.

"I am sorry to have caused so much trouble," she said tentatively. "I tried to tell them I was not hurt, but-"

"Then why were you limp and pale as death when I found you?" Aubery asked, coming forward and looming over her so threateningly that she shrank back slightly.

"It was hard to breathe," she said, "and the air was too thick, that was all. I cannot tell you more, Aubery. I cannot."

Aubery had not missed the small gesture of retreat. "What do you mean you cannot tell me more?" he snarled. "What did that beast do to you?"

"He hit me on the head," Fenice cried, wide-eyed with terror as she caught her husband's suspicion. "I do not know any more to tell, I swear it. I would not-"

"Forgive me," Aubery interrupted her by catching her in his arms and kissing her. But he could feel her shaking with fear, and he freed his lips to say, "Love, love, I know he did not use you. There was no time or place. Now that I think of it, he came in to dinner only a few minutes after I did. I saw him myself. Beloved, forgive me. My pride and my temper will destroy us both if you do not help me learn to curb them."

"Are you so proud?" Fenice asked faintly.

But instead of replying, Aubery kissed her again, first on the lips, then on the throat below the ear, then he nibbled the ear itself and ran his tongue along its edge. Fenice had been stiff with apprehension. Her capture by Savin seemed to have broken some dam of reserve in her husband which permitted him to give her the gratification she desired, spoken words of love. But the love-words had been followed by a clear declaration of what she had feared since she had felt the depth of Aubery's rage over her disguise in Pons. If he was so angry over the contamination of serf clothing, what would he say to serf blood?

He need never know. You gave your oath not to tell. It was as if the words were broad blocks of paving on a wide, easy road-the road to h.e.l.l. It was a lie she was living, and she had no right to give an oath that would involve the best man in the world in that lie. She had no right to foist on Aubery the grandchildren of a serf woman. A quiver of more intense fear pa.s.sed through Fenice. She might be with child right now. Her flux was late. Of course, that might only be owing to the fear and exertion she had lived through this past week, but could she allow a child to be born, many children perhaps, all tainted, who would be beloved of their father?

Could she be sure Aubery would never discover the truth? What would happen if he did learn it after children were born of her? It was an omission in the marriage contract that would give him the right to put her aside and to declare any child born of her a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, she was certain of that. Would he do that? And even if he did not, if his love for the children was too strong to discard them like dross, still there would be a bitter, bitter gall mixed into that sweet love, a poison that would turn all joy to grief.

She would have to tell him. Now, just when she had reached the pinnacle she desired, when she had the proof that settled the last little doubt about her husband's love, she would have to tell him. She could not delay even a day or two because he must be able to be rid of her before she knew for certain whether there was a child. Tears began to trickle from Fenice's eyes.

The maids had stripped her to her s.h.i.+ft before she had begun to protest that she did not need to be abed, and Aubery was investigating the edges of the s.h.i.+ft's concealment with his lips. Suddenly, Fenice became fully aware of his caresses, and she was wildly, achingly in need. The last time! She could not delay a day, but for as long as it took to love and be loved one last time, she would continue to live her lie.

'Take off your bedgown and come into the bed," she whispered.

"My soul, my precious jewel, heart of my heart," Aubery murmured, "are you sure I will not hurt you?"

"No, you will not hurt me," she sighed, holding back sobs. "You will give me a joy to hold in my heart forever."

Aubery hesitated. He still had a vision of Fenice crushed by the heavy chests, and baskets that had fallen on her, but the caresses he had initiated to convince her that he was certain she was unsullied by Savin had, of course, stimulated his desire.

"Please," Fenice whispered, "please, I need you."

There was an odd note in her voice that convinced him whatever hurt he might do to her body in coupling with her would be nothing compared to what he would do to her heart if he refused. He cursed himself again for implying a defilement he knew had not been possible, but he did not curse himself very bitterly, for he was too busy flinging off his few garments. In addition, the sinuous contortions Fenice used to rid herself of her s.h.i.+ft without getting out of the warm bed convinced him both that she could move her body without feeling pain and that the cure she suggested for her fears was a most desirable one.

Still, Aubery had not quite recovered from the shock of thinking Fenice dead or crushed and dying. She seemed infinitely precious, and he felt a need to touch her, to see with his eyes and feel with his lips the wholeness of her body, the unblemished smoothness of her skin. He never looked at her face. He had known from the moment he released her that her lovely features had not been damaged. It was the lush, creamy-skinned body for which he had feared, and it was the body that he stroked and kissed, saying over the old love-words and inventing new and more tender endearments with which to praise his pearl without price. And when he could resist the ultimate pleasure no longer, he mounted her with infinite gentleness, carefully, slowly, prolonging the aching desire because that, too, was a pleasure.

Fortunately by then Aubery's eyes were closed. He felt the tremors shaking Fenice's body, he even heard her sobs, but he never a.s.sociated them with grief. Indeed, the violence with which she seized on him and responded to him, coming to a shuddering, moaning climax almost as soon as he entered her, gave him every reason to believe she was sobbing with joy.

He did not hurry himself, indeed, he turned them so that she was above him in order to have more freedom to caress her, sure from her quick reaction that he could bring her to climax again. And he did, twice more, although the third for her was part of his own violent o.r.g.a.s.m. And he clung to her even after he was satisfied, holding her tight against him when she would have rolled away. It was then that he realized his neck and shoulders were wet with tears and that the sobs that shook Fenice were more violent than ever. His eyes snapped open.

"G.o.d in heaven," he cried, "I have hurt you."

"No," she gasped. "No. You have given me the love I desired all my life."

"If you are not hurt, why do you weep? Fenice, what is wrong?" He laid her down gently and sat up, leaning over her.

Wearily she wiped the tears from her face. "Once," she said, "I promised that I would never tell you a lie. But I have lied, not with my voice, but with my silence. I have kept a secret from you."

Aubery straightened up and looked away. "Then keep it still," he said harshly. "I love you. I do not want to know."

"I cannot keep it," she whispered, "for it is a shameful thing that will break your pride and stain your children if they are born of me."

So his penance was not done. There was still a scourging to be endured before he was absolved of the sin of his pride. "Well, then?" he asked stoically.

Fenice had stopped crying and was looking at him as if she were dying and it was the last time she would see him. "My mother was a common field serf. My father bought her for a few coppers," she said softly.

Aubery waited, staring blankly into nothing, every muscle tensed for the blow that was coming, but Fenice said no more. "And?" he urged, thinking that, after all, she could not bear to tell him the rest.

"And?" Fenice sobbed, trembling. "Is that not enough?"

Slowly Aubery looked down. Fenice raised an arm as if to s.h.i.+eld herself from a blow. "This is your dreadful secret?" he asked in a stunned voice. 'This is what you have been hiding and weeping over, that your mother was common born?"