It was not Aubery’s way to lay on flattery with a trowel. In fact, it made him sick to do it and was one of the reasons he was so determined to avoid the court. He was aware of Henry’s susceptibility to flattery, however, and he was so furious at the contemptuous attitude of Lord Geoffrey that he cast aside both his revulsion at using one of his father’s devices and his knowledge of how dangerous it was to annoy the king’s half brothers. The sad fact, Aubery knew, was that Henry was not at all above treachery, a fact that made him more sensitive to being accused of it. Aubery was not surprised, therefore, when Lord Guy jumped to his feet and interrupted him.
“How dare you!” Lord Guy exclaimed, his face red with rage, for he realized he had inadvertently implied that all kings were dishonorable and Aubery had deliberately made it seem he was slyly insulting his own half brother as well as Louis.
Henry grasped his brother’s arm and said deliberately, “Sit down, Guy, and let Sir Aubery finish.”
Aubery was not at all deluded that he had done the Lusignans any permanent harm. Henry was far too attached to his half brothers for any small mistake to anger him for long. And although it did his heart good to see the sneer wiped from both Guy’s and Geoffrey’s faces, Aubery was not fool enough to pursue the attack. He did his best, in fact, to look surprised and bewildered, as if he had no idea what had angered Sir Guy. Off to his right, there was a soft, stifled sound like a discreet cough, but Aubery knew it was Mansel suppressing a laugh, and he found himself unable to continue for a moment while he repressed a similar urge.
“Go ahead, Sir Aubery,” the king urged. “What were you about to say?”
Aubery suspected that Henry was angling for more compliments, but he could not bring himself to pander further to the king’s vanity. “What I was about to say, my lord, was that Alys d’Aix, my stepsister, knows King Louis from having visited her husband’s aunt, Queen Margaret, and Alys says that though he has faults, as does any mortal man, Louis does not lie or break any oath he has made. Indeed, Sir William, my stepfather, who is marshal to your brother Lord Richard, says that Louis has kept the truce made with you, even when the acts of others could have served as an excuse to break it. Thus, I cannot believe that King Louis has made any profession of friendship to you that he does not intend to fulfill.”
The reminder of Sir William’s connection with Richard of Cornwall and of Alys’s connection to Margaret and to himself was in Aubery’s opinion necessary self-preservation, considering the black looks he was receiving from the Lusignans. Since Queen Eleanor and Queen Margaret were sisters, any connection with Margaret was equally one with Henry’s much-loved wife. In addition, Richard of Cornwall was certain to protect his marshal’s son against those he hated. Aubery did not like the constant three-way tug-of-war over the king among the queen and her uncles, the Lusignans, and Richard of Cornwall, however, it was useful in this case. Lord Guy and Lord Geoffrey would be likely to think several times before trying to harm anyone
both
the queen and Lord Richard would defend.
He hoped that he had achieved his purpose but could not spare a glance at either of the Lusignans lest he betray that purpose to the king. Henry was not stupid and might put together Aubery’s naming of his relatives, which was scarcely necessary as Raymond and William were well known to the king, with glances at his half brothers. Just now the king was smiling happily, well pleased with Aubery’s defense of Louis, and Aubery felt that the moment to make his escape had come. Thus, when Henry had agreed that Sir William’s remarks about Louis’s maintenance of the truce were correct, Aubery hastily mentioned his confidence in his king’s ability to affect the rescue of Warwick and the other English knights, commented on his long ride, his fatigue, and his battered condition, and begged permission to leave. Permission was graciously granted, and Aubery and Mansel withdrew.
Outside the king’s apartment, Mansel did laugh and said, “I am sorry to have doubted you, Sir Aubery. That was well done, very well done. You spoke the truth about King Louis and spoke it in a way that will do your king and England much good.”
“I hope so,” Aubery said, rather grimly, thinking he might have done himself much harm, “but what I said about being tired and bruised was also true. I need sleep more than thanks.”
Mansel pursed his lips. “We are crowded here, but—”
“If you can tell me where Sir William is lodged,” Aubery interrupted, “I can share his bed or, at least, use it until he needs it.”
“Of course.” The clerk was obviously relieved that he would not have to evict anyone. “I will have you taken to his quarters and send someone to find him.”
Aubery did not wait for William. He asked the clerk who accompanied him to help him disarm—a novel experience for the young man—and tumbled into bed, noting gratefully as he rolled over that although the bed was only straw-filled bags in a frame, it was wide enough for two. There would be no need for polite arguments about who should sleep on the floor, he thought as his eyes closed, and then sat upright abruptly, realizing that he had no idea what had happened to Fenice. In another moment he had dropped back. If she could get into and out of a tightly guarded prison, surely she could find a bed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In the antechamber of the king’s apartment, one among the lesser men, waiting in hope of notice by the king or of the great lords who came to speak to him, was stricken dumb by the sight of Aubery entering in the company of John Mansel. Sir Savin stared at Aubery as he passed, with a fury restored to fever pitch. Most of his rage was owing to his own current frustrations, but it was easier—and safer—to attach his anger to Aubery.
Since they had left Bordeaux, Sir Savin had not been so satisfied with his situation. For one thing, his sources of extorted income had been cut off when they left the town. For another, Lord Guy’s temper had been atrocious since the king had decided that he would visit France and had been growing worse with every kind letter and generous gift King Louis sent to his cousin Henry. Savin was willing enough to lick the boots of the powerful for profit, but he was beginning to wonder if service to Lord Guy while he was in his current mood was safe.
Savin had, of course, considered leaving, but he was sure that Guy would deny his request—not because he wanted him for any special purpose, but because he was so furious at Henry, a fury he dared not express, that the denial of anything anyone asked for gave him pleasure. And even if the request to return to England were granted, the chances were strong that Lord Guy would resent it and remember Savin with displeasure.
Actually, the main and deepest source of Savin’s rage was his realization that he had chosen wrongly, had made worthless all the time spent in Gascony and Castile. Savin’s purpose in joining the prince had been to get a powerful patron who would protect him. It was true that the king’s half brothers had more power than Prince Edward at present, but Savin now knew how untrustworthy they were. No matter how long or well he served them, he could not count on them to help him in the future. Seeing Aubery, whom he had thought out of his reach, gave a focus to Savin’s rage. If he could rid himself of this enemy, who had been the cause of all his troubles from the beginning, from the moment he lost the wardship of young Harold of Herron, he was sure the troubles would be solved.
The fury held Sir Savin motionless for only a little while. Then he made his way as if idly to the door of the king’s inner chamber. By the time he reached it, the other men were again busy with their talk, and Savin, leaning against the wall beside the door, seemed as purposeless and bored as all the rest. But Savin was not bored. While he stared sightlessly into the room, one of his hands was busy behind him. A little careful manipulation of the door latch unhooked it and allowed him to open the door just a hair. He could not hear what Aubery was saying, but the king’s angry exclamations were loud enough for him to guess that something had enraged Henry.
For a while, Savin hoped that the rage was directed at Aubery and that at any moment he would see armed men summoned to take him away. Soon, however, he realized that it was the tale Aubery was telling, not Aubery himself that was infuriating the king. The disappointment, naturally, did nothing to soothe Savin, and he had to grit his teeth over curses until, suddenly, he heard quite clearly Lord Geoffrey’s furious exclamation. It could not be directed against the king, so it must be Aubery at whom Geoffrey was shouting. Savin listened tensely, but the voices had dropped too low again, and a few minutes later they stopped altogether.
The silence warned him so that he was away from the door when Aubery and John Mansel came out together, but he was not so far that he did not hear Mansel’s compliment. Realizing that Aubery must have ingratiated himself still further with the king was almost too much for Savin to bear. Only knowing that he would bring ruin on himself by an attack kept him from leaping at Aubery’s throat, and he had to turn away completely lest he betray himself. Then he remembered Lord Geoffrey’s angry remark, and he drew a deep breath of satisfaction.
If he found a way to kill Aubery, Savin thought, the Lusignans would be in his debt, and would be glad to be rid of him if the crime could not be traced to them. And with Aubery dead, it would be worthwhile to hurry back to England. There would be no one to run to Richard of Cornwall with complaints every time Savin helped himself to a woman or to the produce and cattle of a farm that did not belong to him. In fact, by the time Sir William got back from following the king all over France, it was possible that the farms would belong to him, and maybe even Ilmer, too. Sir William might complain to the Earl of Cornwall, but the Lusignans would be sure to support the claim of the man who had killed the king’s favorite for them.
Smiling broadly, Savin spoke to the few men with whom he had an acquaintance and said he would wait no longer. They nodded without particular interest. Savin often left early. Some were envious, thinking that he needed less to bring himself to the king’s attention because of his connection with Lord Guy, but the real reason was that Savin preferred to avoid the queen. He thought she was just the type of nosy bitch to remind the king out of pure spite that he was supposed to be in Edward’s service, even though she had done all she could to force the prince to dismiss him. However, this time Savin was not thinking about Eleanor. He merely wanted peace and quiet to work out a plan for killing Aubery.
The first method, crying insult and demanding a duel, Savin dismissed from his mind very rapidly. What he told himself was that it would be foolish to anger the king and reduce his hold on Lord Geoffrey by an open duel. But the real reason was that after seeing Aubery fight in Castile, Savin was not at all sure he would be the victor, or in a condition to enjoy his victory if he was. That left assassination, which was safer and surer, but here in Fontevrault, Savin had no gang of cutthroats to help him. In any case, he did not want to attack Aubery on the abbey grounds. Instead, he would have to find a way to induce Aubery to meet him somewhere and to come there alone and unarmed. It was something that would require some thought and planning.
Aubery woke to the sound of logs being added to the fire and mumbled, “Fenice?”
“No, it is I,” Sir William said softly. “Sleep. Sleep.” But Aubery had already levered himself upright. Seeing that the room was dark except for a single candle and the firelight, and that Sir William was clad only in a bedrobe, ready apparently for sleep, he asked anxiously, “Where is Fenice? Do you know?”
“Yes, of course. She is with the queen. There is nothing to worry about. The physician says he can find no fever or sign of other illness. She—”
“Physician?” Aubery echoed, a terrible pang of guilt stabbing him. “Why did she need a physician?” As he spoke, Aubery moved to get out of the bed but was pushed back.
“She did not need one,” William said. “She is not sick. She was only very tired. Do not be a fool,” he added as Aubery pulled at his hand in another effort to get up. “You cannot enter the queen’s chamber at this hour of the night.”
Rather relieved at this plain fact, which assuaged his guilt for not going to inquire about his wife, since he was really reluctant to confront her, Aubery lay down. Actually, thinking about Fenice made him uncomfortable, and he said to William, “I hope this business about Pons will not overset more important plans. I was obliged to tell the king.”
“Yes,” William agreed without hesitation. “You could not betray the trust of your fellow prisoners or ignore the wrong done them, even if you made no promise of help. Fortunately, no harm was done. A deputation has already left for Pons carrying word of Henry’s grave displeasure.” He paused and grinned. “In fact, much good came of your unpleasant adventure. You may comfort yourself for your bruises and your foul treatment with that and sleep in peace.”
“What good?” Aubery asked. “And to speak the truth, I do not know what harm could have come either, although I understood that John Mansel did not want me to tell Henry the tale.”
“I can tell you in the morning as well as now,” William said, looking anxiously at Aubery, whose bruised face had a gargoyle appearance in the dim, flickering light. “Rest now. I assure you all is well.”
Aubery laughed affectionately. “I am not ten years old, William. The bruises are nothing. And I do not believe it is safe to wait until morning. Either of us might be called to the king or have other business arise. Since I am here and I can tell there is something brewing, you had better tell me now so that I do not fall into a pit unaware. Besides, I have already slept away the whole day. I am not sleepy now, only starved. Is there some way I could get something to eat?”
“Yes, of course.” William went out into the corridor. After a few minutes he returned. “Thank God there are separate kitchens for the monks and nuns and for the guests,” he said, lighting several more candles at the flame of the one burning. “I have no great taste for lentils and cabbage.”
“Is that what the monks and nuns eat here?” Aubery asked with raised brows. The abbey at Hurley had had a corrupt abbot during Aubery’s youth, and he was not fond of the monastic orders.
“Well, certainly not the abbess and her officers,” William admitted, “but that is between the brothers and sisters and God, and no affair of ours. In any case, the kitchen that serves us is excellent.”
The food arrived remarkably fast, a servant carrying in a tray loaded with soup, cold meat pasty, cheese, bread, and wine, all in generous proportions. William took the tray from him and set it down on the bed. Aubery freed his arms from the blanket he had pulled around himself and picked up the bowl of soup.
“Go on,” he urged.
William had already explained that Louis’s warm and generous welcome to Henry might well have an ulterior motive, changing the truce which had ended the war in 1243 and had been several times renewed after its original one-year term, into a treaty of peace. That would, of course, mean officially giving up Normandy, Anjou, and Poitou to Louis. But since Normandy had been under French domination since 1204 and Anjou and Poitou for over ten years, such a treaty would merely be the recognition of a fait accompli. Still, Aubery had pointed out, actually signing a peace treaty would make a difference. Once the lands were legally Louis’s, a rebellion of the barons in favor of Henry would become treason and punishable with far greater severity than a rising to throw off a conqueror. To which William had replied caustically that he, for one, and in his opinion England as a whole, would be far better off if the wars and follies of the Angevins and Poitevins were no business of the vassals of the King of England.
Aubery agreed hastily as he ate, laughing and assuring William that his earlier remark was made absently from a theoretical rather than practical point of view and not because he was in favor of trying to regain the lost provinces. He was young and adventurous and did not mind fighting abroad, but he knew how most of the barons of England resented being called out to war or taxed for any overseas conflict.
“There is not much more to say,” William said. “All of us would like to see this peace made, except of course, the Lusignans.”
“But why should the Lusignans—” Aubery began, putting down his spoon to reach for the pasty, and then shook his head. “I am an idiot. As long as Henry is the legal overlord of Poitou, they can hope to rouse those who had been their father’s vassals to rebellion and thus hope to regain what was theirs in Poitou.” He picked up the meat pie he had reached for, his mouth twisted wryly. “
Could
a vassal of theirs be such a fool?”
“Well, not if the vassals knew them and compared them with Louis,” William said, and went on to point out other aspects of the situation.
Aubery listened to William with half an ear while finishing his soup and chewing on the meat pasty, which he washed down with sips of wine. And while William told of the loss of the Lusignan estates to Louis, he made excellent inroads into the cheese. When he was full and ready to talk, he pushed the tray farther down the bed and led William back to the present.
“Now I can see why Mansel did not wish me to tell a story that could cast a shadow of doubt on the friendship that Louis was proffering,” Aubery said.
William grinned broadly. “But some good came of your talk because Lord Guy and Lord Geoffrey overreached themselves. I do not know exactly what they said, but Henry has forbidden them to accompany us to Pontigny and bade them go back to Gascony or to England.”
Aubery frowned. “Why not send them hence at once?”
“Isabella was their mother as well as Henry’s,” William pointed out. “In decency the king could not send them away before the ceremony of removing her coffin to the church had taken place.”
“By then they will have cozened the king into changing his mind,” Aubery said sourly.
“I think not,” William remarked thoughtfully. “Henry talks of nothing but his cousin Louis, and you know what he is like when he has taken a notion.” Suddenly William smiled again. “I think Mansel was warning you as much for your own sake, to save you from losing the king’s favor, as from fearing you would shake Henry’s conviction about Louis’s sincerity. Mansel likes you—oh, Lord bless me, I forgot to thank you. I am to have Bix again, and for less than I would have given Alys for a quitclaim.”
“You thank me for feathering my own nest?” Aubery protested, laughing.
William sighed. “There were many ways you could have feathered your nest more directly.” He touched the unbruised side of Aubery’s face gently. “My son, you should think more of your own needs. If you would take the income from Bix—” He sighed again as Aubery shook his head and then smiled. “Well, you cannot stop me from settling Bix on the next Wiliam of Marlowe as soon as he is born.”