Winter Song (46 page)

Still, Alys did not yet feel easy. Until she saw Alphonse
ride out through the gates, she did not really draw a comfortable breath.
Alphonse had a few difficult minutes at the end, when he began to worry about
how his wife would be affected, but Alys reminded him of how strong Lady
Jeannette had been when grief had overpowered him, and assured him that his
wife would rise to the need of supporting her daughters. More sincerely, Alys
promised that in case Lady Jeannette should be afflicted, she herself would
care for her. Fortunately, Alphonse found this last promise sufficiently
reassuring, for he kissed Alys, called her a treasure once more, and departed.

Alys was, in fact, less worried about the storm she knew
would break over her head from Lady Jeannette’s direction than that Alphonse
would lose heart and turn back. In this, however, she was mistaken. Once on the
road, Lord Alphonse was overtaken by an enormous sense of freedom. He was
totally unaware of how much he had feared Raymond-Berenger, of the dread he had
felt at being required to advise Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo because, somehow,
he knew his father would be listening and his advice would be wrong. Now he had
a clear duty, one of which he
knew
Raymond would approve and one he knew
he could perform perfectly. Alphonse was equally unaware that his son had taken
his father’s place.

Having waited a little while to make sure Alphonse would not
come back, Alys went wearily back into the keep. She looked dully around the
great hall, where servants were laying away pallets and beginning the duties of
the day. Gervase hurried over to her.

“Will you break your fast, my lady?”

Alys blinked heavy eyes. She had been to Mass at lauds with
Sir Alphonse, and it was perfectly in reason to eat now if she liked. But she
had no desire for food and shook her head. Gervase looked at her with
considerable anxiety. Alys’s face was white and strained, and mauve rings
circled the eyes that showed lids blued with fatigue. Never in his years of
employment at Tour Dur had Gervase had a day like the one past.

When Gervase had heard the news of Raymond-Berenger’s death,
he had almost wished for his own. Not that he was so attached to the Count of
Provence, although he knew him and reckoned him a good man, but Gervase had
dreaded the days that would follow. Sir Alphonse, distraught with his own grief,
would be further tormented by his shrieking, fainting women. Orders would be
given, then canceled, renewed, changed, and Gervase would be blamed for every
failure and confusion.

However, the seemingly childlike bride-to-be of Lord Raymond
had grasped the reins firmly in her small hands. Under Alys’s tactful guidance,
Lady Jeannette had comforted her husband instead of adding to his troubles, and
both were out of the way. In addition, Lady Jeanine had shown more energy and
decisiveness than Gervase ever remembered, and Lady Margot also had been
actively helpful. A miracle had come to pass.

“You are overweary, my lady,” Gervase murmured.

Alys smiled at him. “You, also, I fear, poor Master Gervase.
You are a paragon. If not for your support, nothing would have been
accomplished.” She laughed tiredly. “And I would be dead, I think, instead of
only tired. I thank you.”

For a moment Gervase was struck dumb. He was trusted and had
considerable power and a comfortable life. These things had made his position
valuable, but a man hungers for more, especially praise. Sometimes Lord
Alphonse or Lord Raymond would utter a casual thanks for a particular task, but
from the ladies of the house—and it was too often with those that he dealt—he
received only complaints. Gervase’s heart swelled with satisfaction and
gratitude for Alys’s recognition of his service. From that hour, Alys had a
devoted slave.

“It is a great pleasure to serve you, my lady,” Gervase
said. “You make every task easy, for you say what you desire and do not change
ten times. I should rather thank you. But, indeed, you must rest.”

Alys was so tired, the south tower seemed leagues distant.
She glanced toward the stairs to the women’s quarters, and Gervase understood
at once.

“Lord Raymond’s room is now empty,” he suggested, “and there
is a fire there.”

“Oh yes.” Alys sighed with relief. “How foolish of me. I had
forgot.” She took a few steps and then turned back. “You had better call me
when Lady Jeannette asks for Lord Alphonse.”

Gervase’s lips tightened, and their eyes met. He sighed. “Yes,
my lady.”

In Raymond’s room, Alys bent automatically to pick up a
tunic that had fallen to the floor. It was the one Raymond had put on without
even a shirt under it when he ran out to see whether Alys had left Tour Dur,
and the sweat of his exertion and anxiety had soaked the wool. The odor,
Raymond’s particular odor, came to Alys as she lifted the garment. It was her
first chance to think about her husband in relation to herself since she sent
off her letter, and she burst into tears.

She should have written she loved him! One mistake could not
spoil months of tenderness and consideration. Certainly Raymond had not been
himself. Something had been wrong with him. She had realized that as soon as
her own sanity returned. She had herself done what was nearly unforgivable, yet
Raymond had acted with love in taking Lucie away to be married. And it might be
long, long weeks, even months, before she saw him again. Sobbing, Alys carried
the tunic with her to the bed and wept herself to sleep holding it.

Chapter Twenty

Getting Alphonse off before Lady Jeannette was awake turned
out to be the
best
move Alys could have made. It had been decided
between Alys and her father-by-marriage that his destination had better be a
secret for as long as possible. Weak Lord Alphonse might be, but he was no
fool. He recognized readily all the suspicions that might form in Sir Romeo’s
mind if he heard that Raymond-Berenger’s son had run posthaste to King Louis
without attending his father’s funeral or taking part in the discussions
concerning his half sister’s fate. Whether Alphonse meant that the secret be
kept from his wife, Alys did not know, but she certainly intended to keep it so
since she had not the smallest hope that Lady Jeannette could or would hold her
tongue.

Thus, when Gervase was finally driven to confess that Lord
Alphonse had left Tour Dur and told to summon Alys, she promptly denied all
knowledge of where he had gone. The fact that she had known he was leaving and
had assisted him to do so brought her a vicious scolding, but Alys only widened
her eyes and said, “But madame—” Alys had discovered that Lady Jeannette
preferred the respectful “madame” to the affectionate “mother”.

“But madame,” Alys said, “how would I dare question Lord
Alphonse? He said he wished to go. His clothing was ready packed and the men
prepared—”

“Why were clothes packed and men prepared?” Lady Jeannette
interrupted furiously.

“Because Sir Romeo de Villeneuve begged in a letter that
Lord Alphonse and you, madame, come at once to Arles to advise what is best to
be done in view of our tragic bereavement.” It was the truth, Alys thought. She
had been asked where Lord Alphonse had gone, not whom he had gone to see. Alys
did not know in which castle King Louis would be found. It was true that she
did not know
where
Lord Alphonse had gone. And the clothes
were
packed and the men alerted because of Sir Romeo’s letter.

Lady Jeannette stared into Alys’s face, but she did not see
her. “Do you mean,” she said finally in a thin, furious voice, “that Alphonse
went to Arles without us? He is mad. There is plenty of time before the
funeral, and since we were, I am sure, the first to have the news of the count’s
death, there will be time enough to decide what to do. What was Alphonse’s
hurry?”

“I do not know, madame,” Alys replied. “He did not tell me.”
That, too, was true. Alys had told Alphonse why hurry was necessary, not the
other way around.

“That fool!” Lady Jeannette burst out. “Now we have no
escort. How are
we
to go?”

“With respect, madame, I have twenty good men and my
master-at-arms is trusty and skilled.”

“But who is to tell them what to do?’ Lady Jeannette wailed,
and Margot and Jeanine dissolved into tears of disappointment.

Alys bit her lip. She had had a few hours of sleep but was
still tired and on edge. She did not know whether to laugh at the silliness of
the three or to weep over the burden of supporting and guiding them—and she did
not dare do either. A flicker of anger touched her. It was ridiculous that she,
hardly more than a girl, should be responsible for the three, one of whom was
more than double her age and the other had been married longer than she. Then
she had to bite her lips again to keep from laughing. No doubt this was God’s
lessoning. She had feared she would be bored to death!

“My men were well trained by my father and Raymond,” Alys
said to the weeping trio after a pause to steady herself. “There is no need to
tell them more than that we wish to go, and I will do that.”

“I can tell the moon to shine,” Lady Jeannette snapped, “but
that does not mean it will obey me. Men obey the orders of men, as the moon
obeys the orders of God.”

This time it was Alys’s turn to stare. The idea that any man
except Raymond, whether soldier or servant, would not immediately obey her had
never entered her mind.

“My men will obey me, I assure you,” Alys said. “If you will
give me leave to send for Arnald, I can give him the order in your presence so
that you may be assured both of his willingness and his ability.”

Without much more whining, Lady Jeannette allowed herself to
be persuaded into donning traveling clothing, and Alys had the satisfaction of
getting her party on the road within the time she had set. Fortunately, the
journey was not quite the nightmare Alys had expected. For this Alys blessed
the traveling wagon, which immobilized Lady Jeannette and prevented her from
complaining and giving direct orders—at least, to Alys. The fact that Alys was
able to “disappear” the moment any servant from the carriage began to look for
her also accounted for the journey taking no more than three days rather than
five or ten. They stopped only when it was necessary to rest the animals,
instead of every time the wagon hit a bump or rocked as the wheels slid in and
out of ruts. Lady Jeannette was not pleased and threatened dire punishments,
but it was Alys who held the whip, and no one was hurt.

After they had arrived, Alys wondered why she had tried to
hurry them, aside from the fact that any journey was dangerous in that it
exposed the traveler to enemies and outlaws. Naturally, Alys had known that
there would be trouble when Lady Jeannette discovered her husband was not
already at Arles, but Alys was not prepared for the violence of the outburst.
She had expected Lady Jeannette to be furious. It had not occurred to her that
her mother-by-marriage would immediately assume Lord Alphonse was dead.

In vain Alys pointed out that he had been traveling with ten
good men and that it was nigh impossible that all of them should be killed. In
vain she expostulated that Lord Alphonse had not been carrying anything
tempting enough to make outlaws attack eleven armed men. As fast as Alys
demolished one cause of terror, Lady Jeannette found another until, at last,
Alys realized she was being a great fool.

Lady Jeannette might, just at first, have been really
frightened. Within a short time, however, she had discovered that her
transports served two purposes—they prevented anyone from questioning her
directly about her husband’s whereabouts and they drew attention away from the
widowed Lady Beatrice to herself. In her own peculiar way, Alys figured out,
Lady Jeannette was protecting herself and enjoying herself. The feeling of
guilt that had tied Alys to the thankless task of soothing her mother-by-marriage
dissipated, and Alys slipped away to enjoy the company of the younger women.

Several days of relative peace followed. Lady Beatrice and
Sir Romeo spent much of their time together in anxious conferences, which often
included Lady Jeannette. This was less because they expected any sensible
advice from her than because they hoped her hysterics on arrival were a
pretense and she knew where her husband was. Even after they realized that she
did not know, they continued to draw her into their talk in the hope that she
could provide information on Alphonse’s attitude, even if she knew no specific
facts.

This was quite acceptable to Alys, who was certain that
neither Alphonse nor Raymond had any intention of trying to seize the whole of
Provence or even a share of Raymond-Berenger’s estate. Thus, anything that
could be extracted from Lady Jeannette would be soothing to Sir Romeo. Alys was
both hurt and relieved to be dismissed by Lady Beatrice and Sir Romeo civilly
but without a flicker of interest. Her property, if it had ever been mentioned,
was outside their range of interest, and she was sure Lady Jeannette had given
a most unflattering view of her intelligence and abilities.

On the other hand, she found herself fully accepted by the
youthful members of the party, young Beatrice, Margot, Jeanine, and the young
ladies being raised in the court. To her surprise, she even found that she was
a center of interest to them. At first, Alys was somewhat suspicious and
reserved, wondering whether these fine young ladies were meaning to make a
may-game of her. However, she soon realized that she was different, to them
exotic, and a relief to their boredom.

Like a beautiful doll, Alys could be dressed all anew in the
latest fashions. Alys joined wholeheartedly in this amusement as soon as she
determined that no one was trying to make her ridiculous by suggesting
outré
styles or colors that did not become her. Alys’s life, so different from
theirs, was also a source of fascination.