“Yes, I think so,” Fenice admitted, and then brought forth another fear. “But Delmar did not care at first, and later—”
“Delmar was a weak-minded idiot who was still taking suck from his mother,” Alys sneered, and then she touched Fenice gently. “I deeply regret, my love that I did not see that before we entrusted you to him and that you have suffered so much for my lack of perception. But you need fear no such thing with Aubery. He is a man, and a strong one. Your trouble with him will be that he has too fixed a mind, not one that wavers. He is a lunatic on the subject of honor and honesty, and when he promises to honor and cherish you, you will be honored and cherished, whether you like it or not.”
Despite her anxiety, Fenice could not help giggling. “I do not think that so horrible a fate,” she said.
Alys smiled also. “Well, it depends on what form the cherishing takes. I remember when Aubery suddenly discovered that girls were different from boys and were supposed to be frail. I had to bloody his nose before he would agree—”
“Bloody his nose?” Fenice echoed with horror.
“Oh, you need not be afraid that Aubery is weaker than I,” Alys assured her, mistaking the cause of her stepdaughter’s reaction. “He is a big, strong fellow and always was. The only reason I was able to hit him in the nose was that fixed idea I mentioned that girls were weak. He made no effort to protect himself, and I got in a really good shot.”
“But, Lady Alys,” Fenice interposed gently, laughing now that she had recovered from the initial shock of hearing that Alys had physically attacked a man, “I do not think that is the wisest method of proving a point.”
“Well, we were very young,” Alys said, laughing also. “I had not yet discovered less direct methods of persuasion. But you are quite right. I suspect that bang on the nose was one of the reasons that Aubery did not wish to marry me, which was just as well because I did not wish to marry him, either. We were too close, too like brother and sister. And, you know, I do not think I ever really
did
get that idea of women being frail out of Aubery’s head. He did not hit me back—and if I had succeeded in changing his mind, he should have—” She stopped abruptly and shook her head. “Now you have got me telling tales of my misspent youth, and we have something far more important to do.”
Fenice tensed, and Alys laid a hand over hers, which had clasped nervously. “The matter of your birth is your father’s concern, not yours. Is this not also true, Fenice?”
“Yes.” On that score Fenice was not doubtful. Whatever her father chose to take unto himself, Fenice yielded without a struggle, and this she yielded with infinite relief.
“Very well, then. Unless your father or I release you, I am going to take an oath from you
never
—except to save your life—to reveal your mother’s name, place, or birth. Here is my cross. Lay your hand thereon, Fenice, and swear.”
Fenice’s hand trembled toward the cross Lady Alys held toward her and then stopped midair. “But what am I to say if…if someone asks?”
“Speak the absolute truth, that you have taken an oath before God never to reveal any fact concerning your mother.”
“But…but then everyone will believe that my mother was a fine lady whose honor must be guarded,” Fenice whispered.
“What others choose to believe is not your business,” Alys said sharply. “So long as you offer no hint one way or another and speak only the truth, you are guiltless. I command you, as you owe your duty to me for all I have given you over the years, swear.”
And Fenice laid her hand on the cross and swore, her eyes filling with tears of gratitude. She could not have done anything else, and even though she knew that was
why
Lady Alys had demanded her obedience, still all responsibility for the deception, if ever there was a deception, had been removed from her shoulders.
“Very well, Fenice,” Lady Alys said seriously. “The matter is now in your father’s hands. I will tell him of the oath I extracted from you, and he will decide what to do. I will let you know whether Aubery has been told or not, but you have no more to do in the matter except to put it from your mind completely.”
Naturally, that was much easier said than done, but the period of doubt was short. Before the middle of June an acceptance of the offer had come, and the only questions raised were those concerning the problems of ensuring that the quittances for the various properties were legal and could not be challenged in the future by the distant heirs of those involved.
Fenice was not even mentioned in William’s letter, and Aubery himself did not write, merely placing his signature below his stepfather’s to show that he had read and approved what was in the letter. In private, however, Alys frowned over that. She was a bit concerned that Aubery had not come himself with the answer, as she and Raymond had expected he would, and had no questions about a future wife he had never seen. Was that a sign that he
had
been attached to that brainless wife and was marrying unwillingly to oblige William?
On the other hand, Alys remembered that she had written quite comprehensively about Fenice in her original letter to her father and also that Aubery hated to write. She said nothing of her doubts to Fenice, reporting only that the offer of marriage had been accepted and no question had been raised about her maternal line.
Fenice’s joy was tempered by the fear that the problem had only been delayed until the actual marriage contract was written. Would her prospective husband not expect to see her mother’s name inscribed thereon? When it did not appear, would he not ask? She did not dare intrude the subject into the increasingly anxious discussions that were now taking place in the family circle in Blancheforte. In fact, it was unlikely that her father had given any thought to the contract, since her marriage was a minor matter compared with the political problems in which he was involved.
When the Earl of Leicester had left Gascony for France, his opponents, who had protested loudest about his breaking the truce the king had imposed, immediately attacked and took La Réole, St. Emilion, and several smaller castles. There was, as yet, no direct threat to Bordeaux in this action, although La Réole was less than fourteen leagues distant and St. Emilion even nearer, for Bordeaux was not held by men appointed by Lord Simon, nor was it undermanned as La Réole and St. Emilion had been. However, the countryside was in turmoil, the spring planting was being destroyed by marching and foraging armies, and there was no guarantee that those who had taken King Henry’s castles might not attack his city.
Worse yet, Gaston de Béarn was negotiating with the rebels, making them promises in the name of King Alfonso of Castile. Raymond felt the situation to be serious enough to send his children back to Tour Dur by ship. He had wanted Alys and Fenice to go also, but Alys absolutely refused. There would be time enough, she said, to leave Gascony when an attack was actually threatened. Since there was no way for the rebels to close the port, she could take ship at any time.
Once Alys had won her argument, Fenice’s plea to stay with her stepmother had been accorded no more than a shrug and a nod of agreement. And only a week after William’s letter accepting the proposed marriage, a second letter came with news that reduced the danger. William wrote that King Henry had summoned the knights who owed him military service and ordered all merchant ships seized in the ports to provide transportation. As soon as the army was assembled and there was a favorable wind, the king would sail for Bordeaux to put an end to the disorders in Gascony. The remainder of the letter contained somewhat more personal news:
I myself am coming, since Richard has been given joint regency of England with Queen Eleanor in Henry’s absence. Thus, I will be in command of Richard’s men. I am glad of it. I am sorry to say that, despite her good influence on the king, the queen is not much loved. Richard will provide an excellent balance, and it is just as well that he not appear in Gascony. The fondness with which many Gascons still regard him and the way they come to him to plead their cases with the king only arouses Henry’s jealousy.
Aubery is summoned, too, by his overlord, Hereford. Hearing of Aubery’s connection with you through his application to marry, the earl desires him to travel ahead of the army to get what information you can give him and what, with your help, he can see and hear for himself. Being constable of the army, Hereford has reason to be concerned, but he cannot come himself.
I, too, would like to come ahead of the army, so that we can settle our private business. Although Elizabeth will not be able to be present, I would like to be at Aubery’s wedding. In my opinion it should take place as soon as we can arrange the legal matters. Fenice, I suppose, would prefer to be married where you can support her rather than in England among strangers.
* * * * *
William and Aubery arrived at Blancheforte around the middle of July. Alys had been worried for weeks that the ship on which Aubery and her father had traveled had foundered. It turned out that they had come near it, having had a foul trip, more than a week longer than usual and sailing against contrary winds all the way. In fact, one of the first items of news that William gave Raymond after Alys’s ecstatic greeting and her forcible insistence that he and Aubery bathe and change into clean, comfortable garments before any talk of any kind, was that Henry and his army were still at Portsmouth waiting for the wind to change.
“Mmmph,”
Raymond muttered, the indeterminate sound through folded lips indicating his indecision. Was it better to pass this information to the council of Bordeaux, where it would certainly be welcome, but from whence it would most certainly be passed to the rebels at La Réole and St. Emilion, or allow Henry’s arrival, which could not be much longer delayed, to come as a surprise? Completely absorbed in this question, Raymond had no eyes for his daughter, who had been summoned to the hall by Alys, nor for Aubery, who was staring at Fenice with no expression at all on his face.
Since his acceptance of Raymond’s proposal, Aubery had managed not to think about Fenice at all. The idea of a second marriage raised violently conflicting emotions and made him uncomfortable. Then he had been fully involved in the hectic activity of making ready to leave England. He had had several discussions with William about the forms of the quittances, the disposition of Marlowe in the marriage contract, and the allowance to be made to Fenice from Marlowe’s revenues. But not once had Fenice herself been mentioned.
Aubery had forgotten that Alys’s letter contained a description of his bride-to-be, and even if he had remembered, he would have been too embarrassed to ask to see the letter again. He would also have felt it to be wrong, a violation of his mourning for Matilda. Thus, Aubery had no preconception, or, if he had any, it was a very slight feeling that Fenice must be unattractive. The way William had said Alys waxed lyrical over her stepdaughter’s perfections, and the additional comment that there was some reason neither Alys nor Raymond made plain for wanting the girl out of Provence and Gascony, had settled into his mind as a very vague picture of a plain girl, good, clever, and obedient—the perfect wife.
What was now before him was a beauty with a smooth, creamy skin that cried out to be tasted, brilliant eyes, a full, rich, red mouth, and what must be, from the way the gold net that held it bulged, a magnificent mane of dark hair. If a fault could be found in her, it was that the skin was a trifle too pale. Aubery flushed slightly himself when he realized she was staring at him with an intensity equal to his own. That bold look gave him a mild shock.
Fenice, of course, had no intention of being bold. She was merely regarding Aubery with great curiosity and trust, since Alys had assured her of his goodness and kindness. She was not at all surprised at his appearance, Alys had given her an accurate enough description, but she thought him far more handsome than Alys had implied. She was, in fact, entranced by his blond hair and fair skin. Aubery was the first man she had seen with such coloring, and Fenice thought he looked like an angel.
Properly, of course, Raymond should have presented Fenice to her future husband. But having cast a single glance at her husband and father, who were moving toward a secluded corner to talk, Alys decided that no good would come of attempting to draw their attention from public to private business. Alys also noted that Aubery’s eyes had remained fixed on Fenice as if he were unaware that the other men had moved away.
Alys was no stickler for forms, and she believed in striking while the iron was hot. Taking Fenice by the hand, she led her a few steps forward and said, “You know each other by repute, I am sure, but to remove all doubt let me present Lady Fenice. And this, of course, is Sir Aubery of Ilmer, my love.”
Fenice dropped into a deep curtsy, and Aubery took her hand to lift her from the bow, himself bowed deeply, and kissed the hand he held. Fenice blushed with pleasure. Never had she been treated with such grave courtesy. A tiny prick of guilt made her drop her eyes, a feeling that it was not quite right that so fine a gentleman should bow to the daughter of a common woman, but Alys’s command that she must put the matter out of her mind reassured her.
The blush almost undid Aubery. Although he had not been totally celibate since Matilda’s death, a strong restraint on his sexual impulses had been one of the penances he had imposed upon himself. It was particularly appropriate because Matilda had never taken pleasure in coupling, submitting without protest but always with distaste. It was, she had told her husband, a sin to feel pleasure in the act that was designed by God for the procreation of children. The pleasure was an evil temptation, a thing to be resisted. But the pleasure, Aubery had snarled at her more than once when she preached at him, was unavoidable to a male, whatever it was to a female, and thus could not be a sin. It was like calling pissing a sin. Matilda had no answer to that the first time he said it, but the second time she was prepared, repeating the lesson taught by her priest, that pissing was not a sin, but taking pleasure, even in that, was.