He paused, but Fenice had completed her disclosures and merely snuggled herself against his body. Aubery was aware of a familiar surge of response, but he ignored it. An idea had occurred to him. He had thought of a more profitable way to use the fear he had noted. If treachery were planned, then Béarn would not need to bring a large army capable of overwhelming the defenses of Bayonne by raw force. Nip the treachery in the bud, and the attack, if any attack were planned, would fail. But would such a notion take root in the minds of men teetering on the edge of flight? Nonsense, flight was Fenice’s notion, the first thing of which a woman would think, and a silly one at that.
With his mind on what he could do—ten men had come with them from Blancheforte, since the roads were not really safe in these unsettled times—Aubery drew Fenice closer. The apparent timidity, which predicted flight, had assuaged his irritation. Ten men…there were fewer than ten gates to Bayonne. There was no question of his men defending any gate, but they could watch and report. That would serve well enough while he was in Bayonne, but what about after he left? Fenice stirred in his arm and kissed his shoulder. She was still sleeping on his right side now so that she should not accidentally roll against his bruised arm, although it was nearly healed.
“How can I make them believe that Béarn cannot bring a force strong enough to take the city unless he is given entrance by treachery?” Aubery muttered.
Because during her childhood the only place Fenice felt safe and comfortable was near Lady Alys, she had followed her stepmother like a shadow, and in doing so she had heard a great deal of adult conversation, much of it concerned with politics and political maneuvering. Because she was highly intelligent, Fenice had absorbed what she heard and had learned to draw conclusions quickly. It had been a game with her silently to guess what the right answer would be to the problems posed. Nor did Fenice fear to say what she thought, because Lady Alys’s sharp mind was respected by both her husband and her father-by-marriage. Thus, she answered instinctively.
“Tell them that Castile is about to abandon him, that the king’s envoys are well received, and the contracts for the marriage of Edward and Eleanor all but signed,” Fenice replied sleepily. “Without Castile, how large an army
can
Béarn muster?”
Aubery’s question had not been directed at Fenice. He was so astonished, both at the casual way she responded with a perfectly appropriate answer to that kind of question and also at the substance of her reply that he pulled back his head to look at her. It was a futile exercise, the light being too dim to make out an expression.
“Can that be true?” he asked. “Henry sent Roger Bigod and Gilbert Seagrave off to England to get more men and money only about a month ago. He had
them
convinced that Alfonso was amassing men to move into Gascony. I cannot say your father agreed, but he said that men and money would be most welcome and he would not try to raise any doubts of Henry’s sincerity.”
“I did not hear Papa say anything about that or about the marriage, but Lady Alys told me that the Bishop of Bath and the king’s special clerk, John Mansel, were dispatched from Bordeaux to negotiate with Alfonso in December. It is not so very far from Castile to Bordeaux, if King Henry’s proposals were not well received, that news would have come already, and I think Lady Alys would have heard. If Alfonso is giving serious thought to the marriage, surely he would not lend assistance to Béarn.”
“If he could conceal it… No, it does not matter. I am sure enough that there is some conspiracy to yield Bayonne to Béarn and that it is those who say they know him to be in Castile who lie. That is what I was sent to discover. Unfortunately, I do not believe Henry wishes to believe that, and when the king does not wish to believe a thing, it is best to have hard proof of it before one speaks.”
“We have been here only three days,” Fenice said soothingly. “In another four or five you should learn more.”
But Aubery did not care to stay longer in Bayonne. He wondered why, and then began to wonder why he was so sure that Béarn would attack. Was it actually the false notes he heard in the voices that insisted Gaston was in Castile? Or was it fear he would be caught in a besieged city? Instinctively his arm tightened still harder around Fenice, and the tension in his muscles supplied an answer. He did not fear for himself but for her.
And where did that leave him? Had his fear clouded his judgment? No, because Fenice had come to the same conclusion from what she had heard among the women. So, Béarn was expected by some. There was no reason to think he would attack within the next few days, or was there? The warm tickle of lips under his ear distracted him. Fenice had received the wrong signal from the increasing strength of his hold on her. He should decide… Fingers traced the line of his breastbone, circled his navel. Decisions could wait.
Chapter Sixteen
Although Aubery made no conscious decisions that night, the problems of Bayonne must have followed him into his sleep because he woke with a very clear notion of what he intended to do. He would use Fenice’s suggestion about the portending marriage. He would take the chance and speak openly of the dangers of treachery to a city otherwise well able to drive away so light a threat as that Béarn could muster without the help of Castile, and he would, for his own and Fenice’s protection, set his men to watching the ways into the city at night.
By the fourth day of their visit, Aubery found time to meet quietly with the active rather than honorary leaders of the town militia. They were not paid soldiers like the small force employed to guard the gates and quell riots should one occur, but were able-bodied male citizens of Bayonne sworn to defend their city in times of attack. Among them, Aubery found no disaffection, and it was with them that he discussed most fully the only real danger he felt threatened the city.
On the fifth day a hunt was planned. It was remarkably successful, so successful that a faint uneasiness pervaded Aubery’s mind. He was not able to pick out what disturbed him immediately, largely because his longbow was so great a novelty that he spent most of the time not actively devoted to the hunt displaying it and demonstrating its powers. He was also distracted by the need to conceal his amusement over the chagrin of his companions at their lack of ability to master the weapon in a few minutes. Unlike the crossbow, where a hook held the bowstring and all a man’s attention could be given to aiming, the longbow needed long practice to coordinate pull, aim, and elevation.
Then there was a feast to celebrate the hunt, and more discussion about the advantages and disadvantages of the longbow. It was not until the evening that Aubery realized what was troubling him. The game had not only been more plentiful than he expected, but it had a driven look. They had gone east of the town, into the hilly forested area, and was that not the direction in which the river narrowed? It must be, because to the west was the sea. That was no proof of anything, but if a large body of men were following the river valley, the game might be disturbed. And Béarn’s chief keeps were to the east.
Aubery noted the fast-failing light of the short winter day, said hastily to Fenice that he had forgotten he had promised to speak to Pierre de Roset, and went out. He was not aware that she knew Roset was not in Bayonne, or he would have chosen another name. Actually he went to warn the men who watched the entries to the city to be especially alert and sent others to the captains of the militia to meet him at a wineshop where he spoke of his suspicions. It could do no harm, he pointed out, to tell their men to be ready. If he were mistaken, they would lose no more than a night’s rest.
He debated whether to return to his apartment, remembering how Matilda had impeded him when he had to make ready to go to war. It had not mattered, except for the pain he suffered at seeing her great distress, because he had never been responding to an emergency. This time he might need to arm in a few minutes. To have a wife weeping and pulling at him and perhaps interfering with the man-at-arms trying to help him would be more than a slight nuisance.
Then he sighed. He must have his armor, and to send a man to fetch that without explanation would make matters worse. He had no experience of Fenice’s reaction to an actual call to war. He had not left for La Réole from Blancheforte but from the camp outside Bordeaux and had not told her on his final visit that he would not soon return again. She had grown accustomed to his coming and going from the camp and made no more of their final parting than of earlier ones. Perhaps, Aubery thought hopefully, she would have grown tired of waiting for him and be asleep.
This hope was not fulfilled. Aubery was aware of that much before he actually entered the apartment, because he saw the antechamber ablaze with candlelight as he came to the door. He hesitated, listening, but there was no sound. Perhaps she had gone to bed and left the lights for him. Stepping softly inside, he was disappointed once more, for although Fenice had replaced her clothing with a bedrobe and loosened her hair, she was there, waiting for him. A small embroidery frame was in her lap and her needle was in her hand, but her head was turned so that she could watch the dancing flames in the hearth.
Fenice’s initial reaction to Aubery’s patently false excuse about seeing Pierre de Roset had been shock at the blatant lie, her next was a raging jealousy. That, fortunately, had not lasted long. There had been something in Aubery’s expression that did not fit with an intention to engage in light dalliance. Then why had he lied to her? The answer to that question had been a wave of terror against which the dying jealous rage was a poor defense.
The only time her father lied to Lady Alys was to spare his wife anxiety about his safety. Then Aubery must have felt there was danger—now, this very night. Fenice’s clasped hands had pressed hard against her body just under her breast as if the pressure could still the fluttering of her heart. Her first impulse had been to run after Aubery and draw him back with her to safety, but that was only a single, hopeless pulse of raw emotion. Even while it lasted she had not moved.
She had examples enough of how a woman should behave, both good and bad. She had been witness to her grandmother’s protests when she discovered Raymond was going to war, the weeping and shrieking that only made her father furious. She had seen his gratitude and tenderness for Lady Alys who pretended that her face was not bone white with fear, made no complaint, even smiled and armed him with her own hands. And Aubery had been angry when she had only exclaimed over his bruise. If she acted the fool before he was hurt, he would regard her with the impatience and contempt her father showed for Lady Jeannette in any crisis.
Slowly, Fenice had gathered herself together and moved toward the bedchamber where the maids waited. Danger could only come from an attempt by Gaston de Béarn to take Bayonne. But Aubery would not have gone to meet a danger of invasion without his arms. Fenice drew a deep breath. For this moment, then, the danger was not physical, and that knowledge cleared her mind. The maids should not be in the apartment when Aubery returned. It was not likely he would bring those he went to seek back with him, but if he did, or wished to tell her something that should not be overheard, there should be no ears and eyes. The girl Lady Alys had sent with her was safe, but it would be unwise to keep her and dismiss the others.
Fenice had had herself undressed, said she would attend to her husband herself since he would not be back until late, and sent the women away. Then she had taken her work and sat down beside the fire. Before the women left, one of them had replenished the fuel, and the flames leapt cheerfully, chuckling and cackling as they drew the fresh logs into their bright embrace. There was comfort in their fire song, lively greediness, and in the sparks that danced gaily upward. “To think ill brings ill” was an old saying. Fenice allowed herself to be soothed.
Having seen his wife, Aubery abandoned stealth and came forward into the room. Fenice turned and smiled with apparent calm, laid aside the work in which she had set no new stitch, and got up to close the door. “Will there be an attack tonight?” she asked when she was sure her question would not be overheard.
“Why do you ask that?” Aubery countered sharply.
“You lied to me, saying you would speak with Pierre de Roset,” Fenice said. “I knew he had left Bayonne yesterday. Papa only lies to Lady Alys to save her from worry.” She shook her head. “It does not help. It only makes her worry more. I would prefer to know the truth.”
Aubery stared at her, hardly believing his ears. She was too clever and too bold by half to come so near the truth on so small a piece of evidence and to fling the word “lie” into his teeth. So she would prefer to know the truth, would she? “I do not know it to tell you,” Aubery said, but having been challenged, he described briefly what he had seen and surmised.
Fenice listened with downcast eyes, nodding mute acceptance of the points he made and fighting her fear. That she raised no additional challenge to his assumptions soothed him, for he had been shaken by this renewed reminder of her cleverness. Fenice’s calm should have been an additional relief in that it assured him he would not need to endure the emotional upheaval he had feared. In a way he was pleased, but there was an odd sense of dissatisfaction too. Irritably, he turned away and said he would go to bed. There was no sense in sitting up and waiting for an alarm that might never come.
But it did come. Not long after the sliver of moon had set, Fenice heard the tolling of a church bell. She stiffened, for although she had been lying still, feigning sleep, she was wide awake and immediately aware that the irregular jangling could not be a ringing of the hours of prayer. It was an alarm. Beside her, Aubery slept peacefully. She considered for a moment continuing her own pretense of sleep but knew it would be useless. Soon there would come a hammering on the door, a shouting that would wake her husband and draw him out to danger, no matter what she did. All that pretense would accomplish would be to shorten the time he would have to arm himself. She stifled one hopeless sob and shook Aubery’s arm.
He was instantly awake, completely alert, being accustomed to sleeping more lightly when he knew action was imminent. He heard the bell at once and grinned with satisfaction at having guessed so well. Fenice drew on her bedrobe. By then, he had pulled on his shirt, chausses, and tight mail leggings. Fenice helped him into arming tunic and hauberk, but he shook his head as she offered the
cuirie
. In the narrow streets of the town he might be fighting on foot and preferred the greater lightness and freedom to the extra protection that would offer.
She was fixing his ailettes when the pounding on the door began. Aubery shouted that he was coming and that Draco, his destrier, should be saddled. He snatched his sword belt from Fenice’s shaking hands and buckled it himself as he strode toward the antechamber. Fenice followed. Her bare feet were silent, but he heard her gasping breath and turned.
“Go back to bed,” he said. “There is nothing to fear. I will send some men to guard your door.”
“Oh, no!” she cried. “I am not afraid. Take the men with you.” He hesitated, and she added urgently, “My safety lies in your success.”
That was so sensible that Aubery nodded. A few men-at-arms could not really provide much protection if the militia were overwhelmed. However, the remark had an effect Fenice had not intended by increasing Aubery’s determination to drive off Béarn’s men. He found his horse ready and rode eagerly after his guide, just able to keep to the center of the street by the wavering light of the torch the man carried. Draco’s shod hooves sounded loud on the hard-packed earth, for this part of the town was silent. He and Fenice had been lodged in the center of Bayonne, near the mayor’s house. As yet, the alarm had not penetrated this far, although a few houses showed lights, and once someone shouted a question from a window. Aubery replied with a bellow of “Arms! Take arms!”
In the dark it was difficult to tell direction, but a faint hum told Aubery that his guide had not mistaken the way. The sound increased, and now and again he could see a faint glow as a torch passed somewhere ahead. Then there was a louder clamor, and from a side street an armed band burst into the wider road. Aubery shouted, “King Henry and Bayonne!” and the men ran on, calling the same battle cry. A moment later the gleam of torchlight was cast back from metal bosses and then from sword blades. He drew his own weapon and spurred his horse, calling warnings to the men ahead so that he would not ride them down.
He had arrived, it seemed, just in time, for the invaders were beating back the disorganized groups of militia who had arrived to oppose them. When Aubery’s man first ran to give warning to the nearest captain, Béarn’s men were entering only by the small postern opened for them. But as soon as the clamor of the alarm bell rang, some of them had rushed to open the main gate for their comrades. They were pouring in by the time Aubery arrived.
He saw instantly that there would be little chance for Bayonne’s militia to break through and close the gates. The invaders were trained fighting men, and the militia, amateurs. However, it might be possible to use their very training against them. The men were forming up in companies as they came in to protect their way of entry and if it came to that, of retreat. If they could be contained in a limited area near the gate, not many more than had already entered could do so, and the militia could thrust them out again.
As the idea came to him, it must simultaneously have occurred to whoever was leading the invading troops. Several of the groups coalesced and began to move forward. Aubery roared a war cry and charged, the militiamen rushing after him.
Whatever Béarn’s men had expected, they were clearly not prepared for a knight in full armor on a war destrier. There were shouts of consternation as Aubery rode in among them, and he struck down a man with each of four blows. Matters grew less simple then. He had little way of telling friend from foe after the militiamen thrust in among the invaders. It was like an imaged scene from hell, the shouting, heaving men falling, rising, screaming—open mouths black, blood black—appearing and disappearing in the angry, uneven light of the flaring torches.
Torches were used as shields and weapons, too. Aubery saw a soldier with his surcoat in flames, and as he disappeared, shrieking with pain and terror, another soldier slashed at the torch and cut it in half so that it fell and was extinguished. Aubery roared a curse and, in turn, struck. He needed light, for he was judging whom to attack by the direction the men were facing and the quality of their armor. None of the militia wore mail, except the leaders, who could afford so costly a garment. The others wore good, hardened leather, some sewn with rings, and the short, round helmet in common use.