Obviously Fenice knew her connection with the queen, it had been stressed in Bayonne. It seemed to Aubery that Alys was emphasizing the blood bond to cover something else. Aubery was reminded of Fenice’s fear that her marriage contract would not be signed and of other oddities in her behavior. There
was
a secret Fenice was hiding from him, and just as he had thought from the first, it was a secret Alys knew.
In a sense the fact that Alys was privy to the secret was good. If Alys knew, Aubery was certain it could not be a dark or dangerous secret, not something that could touch his honor or his security. Very likely it was a little thing, only of importance to his wife personally, a thing that made her shy and fearful when she must appear in a public capacity but did not shadow her private life. Perhaps, as a child, Fenice lost control of her tongue in public and stammered, or even fainted or had fits from shyness. Clearly she had outgrown whatever problem she had, but feared it would return. The fact that the secret existed did not trouble Aubery. The fact that Fenice felt that he must be excluded from knowing it hurt and angered him.
“I told you it was not a matter of your choice or mine,” he said harshly. “It is the king’s order, and you must obey, as must I.”
“But—” Fenice began, looking pleadingly at Alys.
“Fenice!” Alys’s voice was ominous with warning again.
The byplay between the two women infuriated Aubery still further. Had Fenice addressed her appeal to him, he would have asked her what she was hiding and assured her that he would somehow protect her from whatever she feared. Since she clearly felt her stepmother to be closer to her and more important than her husband, she could just manage without his help. He was not such a weakling or a fool as to be curious about a woman’s silly secret. Let her keep it to herself or share it with Alys. He did not care.
“I am very sorry that your pleasure in my reward does not equal mine,” Aubery said resentfully, thinking that Matilda might have tried to hide some little thing from him, but only out of fear, and she would never have shared the secret with someone else.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” Fenice cried, turning toward him and stretching her hands to him. “I did not mean to spoil your pleasure. Forgive me, my lord.”
“It does not matter,” he answered coldly, stepping back so that Fenice could not touch him. “I will take my news where it will be more welcome.”
“Aubery!” Alys exclaimed. “Do not be foolish. We are both—”
That “we both”, coupling Alys and Fenice, put the lid on his fury. On the words he turned and began to stride down the hall, ignoring Fenice, who followed crying bitterly and pleading with him to wait. Unfortunately, she had no idea about what he was really angry, so she kept trying to explain how happy she really was about his appointment, and hers also. Her voice was clogged with sobs, the words scarcely distinguishable. No one could have been convinced by the protestations. Once, Aubery said, “Let me be,” but he did not repeat it or push her away.
He allowed her to follow him all the way down to the door of the forebuilding before he turned and dealt her a stinging slap. The tears and the assurances of joy were meaningless. Amid all her hysterical pleading, she had said nothing of her reason for wishing to avoid service with the queen. Frightened as she was, she would not confide her secret to him. Very well, let her keep it.
“When I want you, I will come for you or send for you,” he said. “You, I am sure, have no need for me.”
Chapter Eighteen
Fenice staggered back against the wall of the forebuilding and sank to her knees under the force of Aubery’s blow. It had not been a very hard slap, Aubery could easily have shattered the bones of her face if he had unleashed the full power of his arm. Although Fenice had been unprepared for the blow, her recoil was as much from the words he spoke as from the force or pain.
For a minute or two she was too stunned to move, then she levered herself to her feet and away from the wall, crying her husband’s name. She was halfway across the bailey when she saw him riding full tilt through the gates. She stopped where she was then, staring after him, tears running down her cheeks so freely that the bosom of her gown was all wet. Over and over she heard his words, “You have no need for me.” What could that mean? He was her life, the sun in her sky. How could she have no need for life, for the sun?
Alys had not followed Fenice and Aubery. She was thoroughly annoyed with both of them, with Fenice for her extreme insecurity and with Aubery for taking offense at what she felt he should realize was only timidity. However, when neither of them returned, she finally went down into the bailey herself and found Fenice still weeping helplessly. She heaved an exasperated sigh.
“Now you see what comes of your stupidity,” she said sharply, and when Fenice did not respond but still stared toward the gate and wept, she slapped her almost as hard as Aubery had. “Come within,” she said. “It is useless to stand here crying.”
Fenice shuddered, although she had hardly felt the slap. The pain had merely wakened her from her paralysis of grief and fear. “He said I had no need for him,” she sobbed. “What can that mean?”
“He said what?”
Fenice gulped and repeated Aubery’s exact words more clearly, then her eyes widened in shock when Alys began to laugh. She shrank away, terrified by what seemed cruelty in one who had never been cruel to her.
“Oh, you ninny,” Alys cried, seizing her arm. “Do you not understand what that means? He loves you.” Then she said more gently, “Come, child. Do not be so frightened. You made a mistake, but it can be amended. Men are not very sensible creatures. A man expects the woman he loves to feel always exactly what he feels, even about things no woman could like. When she does not, he takes that as meaning she does not love in return.”
“But he is my life,” Fenice gasped. “There is nothing I would not do to please him. I tried to tell him that I was glad. He would not listen.”
Alys sighed again. “No, of course he would not listen. By then he was angry, and I must say your pretense of gladness would not have convinced an idiot, which Aubery is not. At least, not usually. And what in the world frightened you so much about being in Eleanor’s service? Queen Eleanor is very like your papa. She has a temper, but she is also very kind.”
“I am a serf’s child,” Fenice whispered. “It is not fitting that I—”
“You are your father’s child!” Alys interrupted angrily. “And you are kin to the queen—blood kin. You are also Sir Aubery of Ilmer’s wife, nothing else is of importance.”
“But if the queen should learn,” Fenice gasped, so desperate that she would even dare argue with Lady Alys, “she would be angry with Aubery and perhaps with Papa.”
That was a rational fear, not a silly fantasy of unworthiness, and Alys’s irritation dissipated. She did not answer Fenice immediately, only urged her again to come inside before both of them were chilled.
“Sit down by the fire and warm yourself, Fenice,” Alys said. “I am not angry with you. For once, what you fear might, if Queen Eleanor were other than she is, have been reasonable. In this case, however, you are wrong. I know Eleanor very well.” That was not the truth, but Alys felt the slight exaggeration was necessary. “I promise that even if she discovered the truth, she would not take offense. Nor would the king. Remember, Henry’s line was founded by William the Bastard, and William was the bastard of a tanner’s daughter, no noblewoman. Still he was acknowledged by his father and took and held his right as Duke of Normandy after Robert the Devil died on pilgrimage,”
“Yes, I remember,” Fenice said faintly, but she did not sound convinced.
“Well, I am sure he did not keep hold of his rights by hiding and whimpering about unworthiness,” Alys pointed out dryly. “Aubery has been appointed, and so have you. And if you think that the king named you merely to do Aubery a kindness, you are much mistaken. The fact that you are Aubery’s wife and Eleanor’s great-niece permitted him to appoint a lady from this area without showing favor or disfavor to any party. You cannot make an excuse and withdraw. You must serve.”
Fenice blinked. “I did not realize that. I thought…” Her voice faded, and then she finished hurriedly. “I thought Aubery might have asked to have me come.”
Alys smiled, “I do not think so, my love, but not because he did not want you. From what he said, the king was honoring him for a military success with a military duty. Under those circumstances, Aubery would not have thought it proper to ask that his wife accompany him. No, I am sure it was Henry himself who suggested you serve as one of the queen’s ladies. It is just the kind of thing Henry likes best, a pleasant surprise for his wife, an honor for your father, who has been loyal to him, a reward for Aubery plus a kindness in not separating a new-wed pair, and a neat avoidance of any offense to the late rebels, who have resworn allegiance.”
“How stupid I am,” Fenice said faintly. “But I did not know. All I could think was that Aubery did not know the truth and would be doing something wrong, and…” Her voice broke, and she burst into tears again. “And now he is angry.”
“He will get over it,” Alys assured her, trying to keep her amusement from her voice. “Tomorrow you may write a letter to him, and I will send a messenger.”
“But what will I say? How can I explain if I cannot tell him the truth?”
“Say what is true, that you love him, that you wish only to please him, that you will not be so silly anymore but will serve the queen gladly. Do not try to explain what cannot be explained. And for today, we must look again at your clothing and at Aubery’s. I fear nothing you have will be grand enough. You will need to begin anew and work twice as hard. I will help as I can, but you will still have enough to do.”
Since Fenice’s letter, like her original apologies, was directed at the wrong point, it did not salve the hurt Aubery had sustained. Even so, he might not have been able to resist so tender a missive if he had actually still been angry. The trouble was that he had scarcely reached Bordeaux when he realized he had deprived himself of a night in Fenice’s bed by losing his temper over a female idiocy. Resentment at his deprivation and at Fenice carried him to the nearest inn, where he demanded a dinner and a woman.
Both were provided, and both fell lamentably short of what he could have had at Blancheforte. As furious as he had been at Fenice before, Aubery was even more furious with himself. He swore that was one mistake he would never again commit in his life. Foolish or wise, glad or sad, Fenice was the only woman he wanted, and if he could not have her, in the future he would do without.
Naturally, Aubery’s dissatisfaction did not improve his temper. He was sufficiently just not to wreak mayhem on the inn, the innkeeper, or even the whore, but he was in no mood to be appeased by a love letter from the cause of his discontent. Still, he read it, and though he cast it angrily aside and told the messenger to go without any answer at all, he did not send the letter back.
In fact, he read it several times more over the next few days, and each time it was more appealing. He did not forget that Fenice had a secret she would not share with him, but being called the fire that warmed her heart and the sun in her sky made that secret seem less and less important. He would find a way to make her tell him, he decided, thinking how he would laugh at her for making such a to-do over nothing.
Fenice was terrified when the messenger returned without a word of reply. Alys was troubled also, but she put a good face on the matter and told her stepdaughter that it was nothing to worry about. His temper had not yet cooled, Alys insisted. They must wait a few days more. Even then if he did not write, it would not mean much, she reminded Fenice, because Aubery hated to write. In another week or two Fenice could try again. But Alys did not wait so long. Two days later she wrote herself, describing Fenice’s condition pathetically, reminding him that he had promised not to hurt her, and begging him to make some reply, even an angry one if he must, to Fenice’s next letter, which would come in a few days.
Under the circumstances, the immediate effect of Alys’s letter was not good, reminding Aubery of the way the two women clung together and shut him out. However, it was the emphasis on his wife’s unhappiness that stuck in his mind. When Fenice’s second letter came, he did consider writing a reply, but between his own reluctance to wield a pen and the fact that he could not decide what he wanted to say, he merely told the messenger to inform her he had received her letter gladly but was too busy to write in return.
The negotiations dragged, but Aubery was bound to the camp because Hereford and most of his more important vassals left soon after it became evident that Bazas, too, would be yielded without a battle and they could not be accused of turning tail. Aubery was seeing a good deal more of the king than he desired, also. Henry, like his son, had a marked admiration for strong fighters, and modest men who did not ask him for favors were pleasant company for him. Before he recognized what was happening, Aubery did become a favorite. Unwilling, but too wise to protest, he found himself involved in the settlement of the terms of yielding and then saddled with the mechanics of getting the defenders out and the king’s men in.
He was not free until the middle of May, by when he had almost forgotten that he and Fenice had had a disagreement, but the same was not true for his wife. Fenice had had a difficult time. Her greatest anxiety had been relieved by the message saying that her husband had received her second letter gladly, but her security had been shaken. Despite Alys’s insistence that Aubery’ s bad temper was a proof of love and despite having come to understand the logic that led to her stepmother’s conclusion, there was always the frightening chance Lady Alys was wrong. Most of the time Fenice had gone about her work and duties calmly enough, but after Bazas yielded, when Raymond and Sir William came home and Aubery did not, her fears began to mount. Her father assured her that Aubery was tied by duty to Bazas and was not trying to avoid her, but she was not convinced. All the time Aubery was away, her spirits rose and fell as if they were being tossed in a blanket.
Jealousy had added to her anguish. She had asked Lady Alys about Matilda but was told sharply that it would be best if she simply forgot Aubery’s first wife had ever existed. If she could not, then what she should remember was that the woman was dead, and above all she was not to mention Matilda to Aubery. It was the best advice Alys could give, uncertain as she still was about Aubery’s feelings for his first wife, but it did not help Fenice, who feared it was a confirmation of Aubery’s devotion to a wraith.
Nor, Fenice had been told, was she to beg forgiveness or do anything to remind Aubery of the one-sided quarrel. By now, Alys explained, Aubery would be sorry he had lost his temper over something Fenice could not help, and to remind him he had been unkind would anger him anew.
Thus, when a servant had come running to say Aubery had arrived, Fenice leapt to her feet, but her anxiety was so acute that she became dizzy and had almost fallen. Alys pushed her down into a chair, scolding softly, and fortunately Raymond was outside and had delayed Aubery with questions, so that by the time he entered the hall, Fenice was able to come forward. She could not speak, but she held out a hand and gazed up at him with eyes full of tears.
“How now?” Aubery said, taking the trembling hand and smiling. “Why do you weep?”
The smile was enough. “With joy,” Fenice cried, and to her delight he bent and kissed her.
Although actually Fenice’s timidity in greeting him had reminded Aubery of the events the last time they had been together, her quick response to his kindness and the enthusiasm with which she responded to his kiss wiped out the guilt he now felt for treating her more harshly than she deserved. There was still a minor sense of dissatisfaction in his wife’s lack of confidence, but it was temporarily buried under the sensual pleasure he got from simply looking at Fenice.
He turned to greet Alys, but she had tactfully disappeared, and that improved his mood even more. “Well, for now the war is over,” he said.
“Thank God and Holy Mary and all the saints,” Fenice replied with such fervor that Aubery laughed, although her heartfelt gladness in his safety and presence sent a little quiver of excitement through him.
He subdued it, but it was there, seething under the surface of his calm when he suggested to Fenice that he would be glad to be rid of his armor. The alacrity with which she drew him to their chamber, where she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him again, almost overset him, but he could imagine Alys’s and Raymond’s mischievous amusement, so he had pressed her against him for a moment but then reminded her, gently and smilingly but firmly, that he was still weighted down with steel.
This time he was not fooled by the seemingly gentle stirring of desire he felt. He knew there was a powerful drive building up underneath. Aubery even knew he could have quenched the tension that would increase until it exploded in one of those climaxes so violent that the pleasure was like pain. All he had to do was take Fenice immediately. He was starved, he could have made a quick job of it, and most of the froth would have been skimmed from the beer. But he resisted the temptation. There was an intense pleasure both in his present mild sexual stimulation and in his awareness of what was to come. A twinge of guilt reminded Aubery of sin and of Matilda, but it was a pale memory and a faint discomfort that could not compete against Fenice’s creamy skin and glowing eyes.