Fire Song (44 page)

It did not surprise Lord Guy that Savin and Aubery should be enemies. Guy himself disliked Aubery thoroughly and felt Aubery was a self-righteous prig with his honor and his modesty. Nonetheless, Lord Guy had not the slightest sympathy for Savin, and it was not Aubery against whom his current fury was directed but Savin. That the man should dare allow his personal quarrels to impinge on Guy and his brother, that he had the unmitigated gall to use
their
lodging for his petty revenge—and on the great-niece of the queen, too! Guy was so angry that he could not speak, could only stare with hatred at the moaning creature on the floor.

Worst of all, Guy felt he had been making headway in convincing the king to change his mind and include them in the party that would continue on through France and join King Louis at Chartres. The news that a man sworn to their service had abducted Lady Fenice would not only enrage Henry—who was in Guy’s opinion stupidly chivalrous toward women in general and in addition liked Fenice personally—but would give the queen all too good a weapon to use against them.

The sight of Aubery passing the door with Fenice’s totally limp body in his arms broke the paralysis that rage had engendered in Lord Guy. He turned his head toward one of the men-at-arms and gestured toward Savin, saying, “Kill him,” and he watched, hard-eyed and indifferent to Savin’s shrieks, while the order was carried out. Lord Guy snarled, strode forward, and kicked the corpse brutally, knowing that Savin’s act had cost him any chance he might have had to prevent an eventual peace with France.

It was fortunate that the knowledge that Fenice was alive and unhurt restored Aubery’s ability to think, for the rug in which she had been rolled was no longer in the position Savin had described. However, Aubery needed only a moment to realize that the rug had rolled away from the wall and that a number of baskets and chests that had been stacked around it had fallen down on it. He wrestled the objects off, terrified anew that Fenice had been badly hurt, almost reluctant to unroll her lest he discover that the rug
was
her death shroud.

He cried out with agony when he saw her eyes closed in a ghastly pale face, but when he snatched her up against him he cried out again with joy. Her cheek was warm! Without waiting to unbind her hands or remove her gag, he jumped to his feet and ran, thanking God that between the abbey and the royal party the best physicians would be available to attend her. And scarcely had he rounded the front of the guesthouse and passed the door when he saw the queen coming toward him hastily.

“She is alive, but hurt,” Aubery gasped. “Please—a physician.”

“Bring her to my chamber,” Eleanor cried.

“No!” Aubery exclaimed, clutching Fenice closer. “No! I wish to watch by her myself.”

Eleanor was a sensible woman and long accustomed to dealing with a very unreasonable man. She could see Aubery was totally beyond good sense or logical argument.

“I will send a physician to Sir William’s chamber at once,” she said soothingly, stepping forward and pulling the gag from Fenice’s mouth so she could breathe more easily. “I will also send a maidservant to help you. Do not run, Sir Aubery, so that you do not jostle her, and lay her down softly. Let the maid undress her—” She stopped because Aubery had already set off toward his chamber. At least, she thought as she turned to send one lady flying for her physician and another to the abbess to request another, he had heard enough so that he was not running and bouncing Fenice up and down.

No one had noticed that Fenice’s eyes had opened and closed several times while the queen was speaking. She had not been deeply unconscious when Aubery found her, for although the air inside the rug had been foul enough to deprive her of her senses each time she had roused and tried to struggle free, there had been enough fresh air seeping in constantly to revive her after a period of immobility. However, the terrible sensation of strangulation had left her dazed with fear and hopelessness so that her mind moved slowly.

The first thing of which Fenice became certain was that she was being carried. Next, she associated that with the words, “Do not run, Sir Aubery.” So it was Aubery who was carrying her. She had been rescued!

“Aubery,” she cried, only the word came out as a croaking whisper.

He stopped dead, his arms tightening involuntarily and then relaxing. “Hush, beloved,” he said tenderly, “hush. I will go more carefully. Oh, dearling, forgive me if I hurt you. Try to endure—”

“You are not hurting me,” Fenice assured him, her voice clearer now, her eyes widening with delight at being called dearling and beloved.

“You are so brave, my little love,” he murmured, starting off again. “Do not try to talk. Just rest.”

Fenice took a breath to say she thought she could walk if he would steady her, but Aubery kissed her temple and begged her to be still, telling her that it was only a little way and that her sufferings would soon be over. Since she still felt very muddled, Fenice made no further protest, and it was, indeed, only a few minutes more before Aubery managed to unlatch the door with his knee and lay Fenice gently on the bed. It was then that she realized that her wrists were still tied.

“Will you unloose me, my lord?” she asked, lifting her hands so that her cloak fell away and exposed the bindings.

Aubery had turned from the bed to throw wood on the embers in the fireplace that warmed the room, but he spun back toward her on his heel, his face instantly contorting with rage.

“How have I angered you?” Fenice cried, tears coming to her eyes at the thought that she had somehow broken the gentle mood in which her husband had at last spoken words of love.

“Not you,” he cried, going down on his knees beside the bed. “It has never been you that was at fault.” He bowed his head over the bound hands and kissed them. “I—”

Before he could say more, there were excited voices in the corridor, and then the room seemed to be full of people—two physicians, two maids, Sir William. The first four crowded Aubery away from the bed, all gabbling to each other and asking Fenice questions while William patted Aubery’s shoulder and assured him that Fenice was a strong girl and that with good care she was sure to recover. Then, seeing the fearful way Aubery was trying to watch and yet trying not to watch what was happening on the bed, William drew him as far from it as he could, pushed him down on the stool so that he could not see past the standing attendants, and asked, loudly and firmly enough to force Aubery’s attention to him, what had happened.

While Aubery tried to speak, inwardly he prayed that Fenice’s death not be the final scourging administered to him for his sinful pride. His faith was strong enough to accept the fact that death would be no punishment to Fenice. She would go to heaven, to eternal bliss. Death punished the living, not the virtuous dead. He prayed silently, knowing himself guilty and undeserving, while somehow his mouth formed words to explain to William Savin’s revenge and what he could remember of his actions in the Lusignans’ lodging.

He was leaning back in the corner with his left arm against the wall so that William, who was asking repeatedly if Aubery was sure he had not been hurt, could not see the blood still oozing from the wound. Aubery had been completely unaware of it himself ever since he had felt and ignored the initial pain when Savin’s sword cut him. And in the midst of all the excitement about Fenice, no one else had noticed the slit in his dark gown or the spreading stain around it. Then Fenice’s voice cried, “My lord,” and Aubery sprang to his feet and pushed aside those clustering around the bed.

“What is it, my dear love?” Aubery asked breathlessly, reaching toward her.

“Oh, my God, you are bleeding!” Fenice exclaimed, popping upright.

“You will hurt yourself,” Aubery gasped.

“But I am
not
hurt,” Fenice wailed exasperatedly. “All I have is a bump on my head. Please tell all these people to go away. No! Do not. Let the physicians look to your arm. Let me help you take off your clothes.”

“My love,” Aubery said, grasping Fenice and holding her still as she tried to get out of the bed. “Were you not crushed by the things that fell on you?”

“No,” she assured him, leaning forward to kiss him as he bent over her. “The rug cushioned me. I swear I am whole and well, my lord. Let me see to you.”

William had come forward when Fenice first exclaimed about the blood on Aubery’s arm and now tore the sleeve from the gown. He, too, exclaimed when he saw the tunic sleeve soaked with blood, and ordered, “Stay where you are, Fenice. Aubery, stand up so I can get these things off you. Be reasonable. If the girl says nothing hurts her, she is probably all right.”

“She never complains,” Aubery protested, watching her anxiously. “She rode all the way from Pons—”

“Yes, yes,” William said soothingly, “but she will lie down again if you will let us attend to you.”

“I will,” Fenice agreed. “I will lie still and do whatever they say if you will only let them look to your arm first.”

Although he watched Fenice all the time, Aubery allowed his stepfather to remove gown, tunic, and shirt and permitted the physicians to examine his arm. They consulted gravely and agreed that the cut was not serious but should be sewn. William had come to this conclusion some time before the grave consultation was complete and had stepped out of the room to send one of the abbey servants for a barber to sew up the wound. Grave and learned physicians did not stoop to such common tasks. He thought it would have been better for Fenice to do it, but knew that would cause Aubery too much anxiety.

By the time the physicians had discoursed and decided on the correct diet to alleviate fever and best encourage healing, a monk from the infirmary had stitched Aubery up, bandaged his arm, and promised to return the next day if Aubery developed a fever and needed bleeding. It took a while longer for Fenice to convince everyone that she was intact but tired and needed to be alone—except, of course, for her husband—so that she could rest, but she succeeded at last.

Aubery shut the door behind them, relieved to be rid of everyone but still doubtful that it was safe to let them go. In his deeply contrite mood, it seemed impossible that he should be allowed to keep Fenice. He turned and stood looking at her, not realizing that his intense, anxious examination appeared to Fenice as a ferocious frown.

“I am sorry to have caused so much trouble,” she said tentatively. “I tried to tell them I was not hurt, but—”

“Then why were you limp and pale as death when I found you?” Aubery asked, coming forward and looming over her so threateningly that she shrank back slightly.

“It was hard to breathe,” she said, “and the air was too thick, that was all. I cannot tell you more, Aubery. I cannot.”

Aubery had not missed the small gesture of retreat. “What do you mean you cannot tell me more?” he snarled. “What did that beast do to you?”

“He hit me on the head,” Fenice cried, wide-eyed with terror as she caught her husband’s suspicion. “I do not
know
any more to tell, I swear it. I would not—”

“Forgive me,” Aubery interrupted her by catching her in his arms and kissing her. But he could feel her shaking with fear, and he freed his lips to say, “Love, love, I know he did not use you. There was no time or place. Now that I think of it, he came in to dinner only a few minutes after I did. I saw him myself. Beloved, forgive me. My pride and my temper will destroy us both if you do not help me learn to curb them.”

“Are you so proud?” Fenice asked faintly.

But instead of replying, Aubery kissed her again, first on the lips, then on the throat below the ear, then he nibbled the ear itself and ran his tongue along its edge. Fenice had been stiff with apprehension. Her capture by Savin seemed to have broken some dam of reserve in her husband which permitted him to give her the gratification she desired, spoken words of love. But the love-words had been followed by a clear declaration of what she had feared since she had felt the depth of Aubery’s rage over her disguise in Pons. If he was so angry over the contamination of serf clothing, what would he say to serf blood?

He need never know. You gave your oath not to tell.
It was as if the words were broad blocks of paving on a wide, easy road—the road to hell. It was a lie she was living, and she had no right to give an oath that would involve the best man in the world in that lie. She had no right to foist on Aubery the grandchildren of a serf woman. A quiver of more intense fear passed through Fenice. She might be with child right now. Her flux was late. Of course, that might only be owing to the fear and exertion she had lived through this past week, but could she allow a child to be born, many children perhaps, all tainted, who would be beloved of their father?

Could she be
sure
Aubery would never discover the truth? What would happen if he did learn it after children were born of her? It was an omission in the marriage contract that would give him the right to put her aside and to declare any child born of her a bastard, she was certain of that. Would he do that? And even if he did not, if his love for the children was too strong to discard them like dross, still there would be a bitter, bitter gall mixed into that sweet love, a poison that would turn all joy to grief.

She would have to tell him. Now, just when she had reached the pinnacle she desired, when she had the proof that settled the last little doubt about her husband’s love, she would have to tell him. She could not delay even a day or two because he must be able to be rid of her before she knew for certain whether there was a child. Tears began to trickle from Fenice’s eyes.