Winter Song (39 page)

In fact, Lady Jeannette’s hysterics were rather more genuine
this time than usual. She had been truly shocked by Jeanine’s outburst.
Although her daughter had mentioned more than once that she regretted the death
of her husband, which deprived her of her own household and the hope of
children, and that she would not be averse to another marriage, Lady Jeannette
interpreted these statements in her own way. Jeanine, she thought, was a truly
loving daughter. She did not wish her mother to grieve over her past
unhappiness nor to fear for her future unhappiness if political necessity
forced her to be given again in marriage.

Naturally a daughter would wish to remain safe and protected
at her mother’s side where there was no need to be at a man’s beck and call.
Lady Jeannette could not imagine that her demands on her daughter could be in
the least onerous. She was sure Jeanine enjoyed serving her. Of course, Lady
Jeannette was happy with her husband and, if another man as good and kind as
Alphonse should appear, then she would have tried to have a marriage with him
arranged for Jeanine. But men like Alphonse were few and far between. Certainly
none like him had come to Tour Dur asking for a wife, and surely Jeanine was
happier at home attending on her mother than serving the purposes of some
coarse man.

Besides, if Jeanine married again, Margot would be the only
one left. Then if there should be a
need
to provide a daughter for an
alliance, Margot would have to be married. But that would produce a calamity.
Lady Jeannette would be left alone. She had intended to protect herself from so
dire a fate by choosing her sons’ wives to suit herself. It would be natural
for Raymond and young Alphonse to be happy with any girl she chose, and if they
were not, there was nothing to stop them from taking mistresses. But Raymond
had been bewitched by that succubus Alys, and young Alphonse was not ready for
marriage.

Jeanine had no right to want to be married, Lady Jeannette
thought. It was her duty to be happier with her mother than alone in some
dreadful foreign keep. Soon Margot would “want” to be married. It was unfair.
Lady Jeannette had borne the pains of childbirth to give them life. Surely
their lives belonged to her. Surely they could give her their time after all
she had done for them. No one cared for her. All her sacrifices were thrown
aside or used without thanks. She was cruelly misused, cruelly!

Lady Jeannette’s reiteration of this litany of ills, which
produced the shrieks and sobs and wild gestures, was brutally interrupted by a
stinging slap on the right cheek. She uttered a gasp and one more shriek, which
was immediately followed by an equally stinging slap on the left cheek.

“There, now,” Alys said loudly, “you feel better. You must
not scream anymore or you will make yourself ill, nor throw yourself about lest
you be all bruised.”

A blind rage pushed all other thoughts and emotions from
Lady Jeannette’s mind. Air rushed into her lungs, but she had no inclination to
scream. Instead her hand rose to return, more viciously, the blows that had
been dealt her. Alys caught and held the raised hand, and Lady Jeannette gasped
with surprise. The grip bruised her wrist. For all her small size and frail
looks, Alys was far stronger than she.

Then, quite deliberately, Alys let go, saying, “You may slap
me if you wish, Mother, but, indeed, I meant only kindness.”

Had she thought about it, Lady Jeannette would have burst
into tears again and had a perfect case to present of Alys’s cruelty. But she
did not think. Not only did she take more than full advantage of Alys’s
invitation, but she jumped to her feet, pulled off Alys’s headdress, and tore
at her hair. At this point, Gervase the steward and the chaplain hurried
forward. Gervase interposed himself between the women, and the chaplain pulled
Lady Jeannette away, saying some sharp things to her about her unnecessary
violence. Margot came running across the hall bearing a cup of hot wine, which
she virtually forced down her mother’s throat.

As the older woman was assisted into her chair again, Alys
began to rearrange her hair. Her expression was blank, but her cheeks reddened,
as much from fury as from the stinging slaps. It was not, of course, the first
time in her life that Alys had been beaten, but her father never slapped her
face and it had been many years since he had struck her at all. Gervase asked
solicitously whether she was hurt, but Alys only shook her head. She was too
angry to speak. She wanted no more of this ugly game, and she looked around for
her cloak.

In the background she could hear Lady Jeannette hissing with
anger, saying things about her that could not have been true even if she had
been steeped in corruption from birth. The chaplain was trying to quiet her,
but his voice sounded shocked. Alys finally saw her cloak and started toward
it, still half blinded by rage and tears. Gervase followed anxiously, and Alys
turned her head to tell him she was all right. At that moment Alphonse came out
of a side chamber so close that he nearly trod on Alys. He steadied her and
began to go past when he saw the marks of his wife’s hands, red on Alys’s white
skin. Simultaneously he heard Lady Jeannette’s voice, and it was clear she was
raging, not weeping. Despite the fact that the chaplain was speaking at the
same time, Alphonse heard the vicious calumnies. Jeanine had just told him that
her mother had said
he
was unwilling for her to marry again, that the
dower, which he had given with her and which had been returned by her late
husband’s family because she was childless, was needed for other purposes. For
the first time in years, the first time since Raymond had been sent for
fostering, Alphonse was completely out of patience and out of temper with his
wife.

He marched forward, bellowing, “Jeannette!” And then, as her
mouth opened to scream and her hand came up to her heart, he roared even
louder. “Do not dare! Do not you dare play off those tricks on me now, or I
will treat you as you deserve and beat you soundly.” He turned his head toward
his younger daughter, who had never seen him in such a mood and was shrinking
away. “Margot, stand still! Answer my question. Do you desire to live celibate
and remain with your mother?”

“Celibate? I? No!” Margot cried, shocked.

Alphonse turned back to his wife. “Why did you lie to me?” he
screamed. “Only two months ago I had an opportunity to settle Jeanine most
advantageously. Why did you lie and make an enemy for me instead of giving me a
worthy son?”

“I did not lie,” Lady Jeannette shrieked. “It is her fault,
hers!” She pointed at Alys. “She has corrupted your daughters with talk of lust
and independence. They were happy until that daughter of Satan—”

“Jeannette!” Alphonse roared again. “You lie!”

Alys was sickened and horrified. She had heard secondhand of
such family conflicts, but had had no experience with them. She could not
imagine what the outcome would be and tried desperately to think of a way to
placate the combatants. Jeanine had now come from the chamber where she had
been talking with her father, and joined the argument, and Margot was
emboldened to defend herself from her mother’s accusations. Alys began to cry
with remorse for causing what she believed would be a permanent rupture in the
family. Then a hand fell gently on her arm.

“Come aside, Lady Alys,” Gervase said softly. “This cleansing
of the air has been needed for a long time. Lady Jeanine and Lady Margot must
be freed. When they have all shouted themselves hoarse, they will all weep, then
embrace, and the storm will pass over, leaving all fresher behind it.”

“Is this true?” Alys breathed.

“I assure you all will be well, my lady. This is not the
first time, and I fear it will not be the last.”

And it was true, at least insofar as the fact that
everything ended in tears and kisses. In a sense, Alys was relieved, but she
was also furious. She felt drained and battered, although she had only been a
witness of the violent dispute, and when she was drawn forward and forced to
become part of the general reconciliation, her fury grew. She tried to
withdraw, but this caused a renewal of tears and apologies and faint accusations
from Lady Jeannette that Alys had not
truly
forgiven her.

Bitterly Alys reminded herself that she was Raymond’s wife,
and she was doomed to a lifelong bond with this family. At one time it had
seemed that no price was too high to pay to be joined to Raymond, but he, too,
had offended her and neglected her. Nonetheless, the apologies made to her had
been handsome, and it would be ugly and ungenerous to reject them, no matter
how false they were at heart. Alys swallowed her rage and joined the now tender
and affectionate group.

Her penance lasted right through dinner, and the knot of
anger and disgust inside her made every dish she tasted sour. She was released
at last by an ill-natured shaft from Lady Jeannette, who asked why Alys had not
insisted on having Enid and Fenice join them at dinner. The truth was that in
the turmoil Alys had completely forgotten the children, but she was not going
to admit that.

“I did not wish to add a bone of contention to so sweet a
meal,” Alys said, “but you do well to remind me of my responsibilities. It is
time for Fenice to do some lessons and for Enid to sleep for a while. If you
will excuse me…”

There were protests, of course, and an offer to send a
servant, but Alys insisted that until she had a proper governess to see to the
girls, she was obliged to attend to their education herself. Eventually,
irritated as well as furious, Alys got away and went up to where the women
servants worked at sewing, spinning, and weaving. When she reached the chamber,
Alys paused to look over the work being done. She realized that she was in a
foul temper and wished to calm herself before she reclaimed Fenice and Enid.
They were already too timid and upset at the change in their situation. It
would be cruel if she snapped at them for what was not their fault.

Despite the emotions that seethed in her, Alys could not
help being interested. She spent a little time examining the spinning process,
which seemed to produce finer yarn than that spun in England. Behind her, where
the looms stood, Alys suddenly heard Fenice begin to talk, Enid joining in, and
both speaking with more freedom than they showed to her. That irritated her,
all over again, although she knew it to be natural that the children should be
less in awe of the woman who had raised them than of herself. In fact, it was
better that way. Nonetheless, Alys felt a sudden urgency to take them away, and
instead of calling them to her, she walked quickly in the direction of the
voices.

A moment later she came upon them, both girls standing
beside a woman who was obviously taking a brief rest from her work. Alys could
see the scraps with which the girls had been playing strewn about as they had
been dropped hastily. “Children,” she said.

The woman, whose head had been bent to listen, looked up and
gasped. Then she jumped to her feet and stared about wildly, as if she wanted
to run away. Alys’s eyes were drawn, to her by her hasty movement and in the
instant she recognized that this was no nurse but the children’s mother. There
was Fenice’s creamy complexion, Enid’s rich black velvet eyes. And she was
beautiful! In the same instant she realized the woman’s fear could only be
because she had been ordered not to allow Alys to see her. Shock froze all
emotion in Alys.

“Stay,” Alys said, as Lucie took a step sideways. “Are you
Fenice’s and Enid’s mother?”

Another terrified glance right and left and the recognition
that escape was impossible preceded a whispered, “Yes.”

“What is your name?” Alys asked.

“Lucie, my lady.”

“I had no intention of stealing your children, Lucie,” Alys
said, still so shocked that she was unable to react emotionally, but aware that
Fenice and Enid were stiff with fear, having absorbed their mother’s terror
although they did not know of what she was afraid.

“No, no,” Lucie whispered, going down on her knees. “I know
it is best for them, and they are so happy because you are kind. My lady, I beg
you, do not turn them away.” She pushed the two girls forward roughly, and they
both began to cry.

“Do not be so silly, Lucie,” Alys said. “You are frightening
your daughters. Of course I will not turn them away. Get up, do. All I meant
was that I would have arranged a time for them to be with you had I known you
were here. Now calm yourself, and calm the girls. They are too frightened to
come with me immediately. I will send my maid Bertha for them later.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” Lucie cried, weeping with relief.

Alys smiled at her mechanically and turned away. She still
felt nothing beyond surprise, and when she had returned to her own room in the
south tower she sat for some time staring into the fire without being aware of
thinking. Still, at some level below conscious thought, her mind was working.
Gathering up ideas and evidence distorted by disappointment and disgust, it
sorted the bits and pieces until a whole monstrous concept, concocted out of
hurt and anger and suspicion, was born.

Suddenly Alys remembered that Raymond had lied to her father
and herself when he first came to Marlowe, claiming to be a poor, simple knight
who needed to take service to live. From the beginning then, Alys decided, he
had only intended to use them. He had never loved her, merely seen her as a
tool with which to wrest a rich dower from the king.

At this moment Alys was blind to the truth, that there had
not been the faintest chance of any dower larger than the small estate of Bix
when Raymond first declared he loved her. She had decided that Raymond loved
Lucie, had always loved her, that he only needed a gentlewoman to produce a
legitimate heir, and that he had chosen her because her father was too far away
to protect her.