Fire Song (8 page)

Sick at what she had been forced to do—for to Fenice, Lady Alys’s suggestions were equivalent to direct orders from God—Fenice never gave a thought to eating, but the cooks had taken to heart the lesson taught by their smarting backs. Thus, though she gave no orders for a meal, Lady Fenice’s dinner was delectable, dainty dishes, more fitting for the visit of a king than for the everyday table of a simple knight’s lady. The chief cook fainted when the food came back scarcely touched, before the shaking boy who carried the plates could tell him Lady Fenice found no fault but was not hungry. And Fenice’s big bed was made up afresh with hysterical care that there be not one single crease in the sheets, and it was warmed again and again lest one tiny spot be cold, despite—or, rather, because of—the agony that every motion caused in raw backs and hips. Very quietly, with her face buried in the carefully arranged and plumped pillows, Fenice cried herself to sleep, sick with horror and pity at the punishments she had meted out.

Two months later, Lady Alys and Lord Raymond came to pay a formal call on their daughter. Of course, letters had passed between Fenice and Alys almost every day, advice and encouragement from Alys, and assurances that all was going well or occasional questions about details of management with which she was not completely familiar from Fenice. And from time to time Sir Raoul, who was acting as castellan in Fuveau at Raymond’s request, had ridden over to Tour Dur to speak to his overlord. But neither Alys nor Raymond had come near Fuveau, wishing Fenice to establish her authority on her own. However, the day before the visit, Raymond had received a letter from his kinsman Rustengo in Bordeaux that made necessary a return there in the near future. The letter had mentioned that Lord Simon, Earl of Leicester, after being besieged at Montauban and being forced to return some of the prisoners he had taken in previous actions, had gone to France.

Alys and Raymond found Fuveau a model of smooth efficiency, at least as well run as when Lady Emilie and Sir Jean-Paul had managed it for Delmar. Fenice came running out to greet them in the court. Grooms were at hand to take the visitors’ horses, and it was Fenice they looked to for instructions, even though Raymond had started to give orders about the care of the mounts. Of course, Fenice immediately gestured the grooms’ attention toward her father, but Alys nodded, well satisfied.

For another hour or so, Alys continued to be content. Fenice was flushed with excitement and pleasure at their coming, and she spoke easily of the events since her cataclysmic assumption of control in Fuveau. Later, when Raymond rode out with Sir Raoul to look at a problem of drainage on one of the farms and Fenice took Alys to see the work of the women, Alys became much less satisfied. Not that there was anything wrong with the service or demeanor of the servants or that there was anything lacking in the output or quality of work from the women’s chambers, however, as Fenice’s flush of excitement faded, Alys did not like what she saw. Fenice’s face was drawn and hollow-eyed, and when Alys slipped her arm around her stepdaughter’s waist, she could feel Fenice’s ribs under her clothing.

“Come, love,” Alys said, “you have spent a deal of time proving to me what I was already sure of, that you are well fit to manage your own home. Let us sit down in comfort in your chamber, where we will not be interrupted, and talk of ourselves until the men return for dinner.”

“Oh, yes,” Fenice agreed readily, “and to my shame I have been so full of my own doings that I have not asked about the children.”

Alys laughed. “What need to ask? If they had been other than well and causing endless trouble, you would have heard at once.”

“Why did you not bring them?” Fenice asked.

“Because I did not want them to miss another day of lessons. We spend so much time these days traveling between Aix and Bordeaux that they are running wild.”

“I am sorry my troubles had to bring you home,” Fenice said guiltily.

“Do not be a goose,” Alys chuckled. “Your troubles were heaven-sent—oh, Fenice, I am sorry, I did not mean—”

Fenice squeezed Alys’s hand. “No, do not fear you hurt me. I know you never would, and…I do not…much…grieve for Delmar.”

That was not completely true. Very often, indeed, as she went about her daily duties Fenice thought how wonderful it would be if it were Delmar instead of Sir Raoul talking to the men or riding about the farms. Then he would come to dinner, and they would talk about the accomplishments of that day and the duties of the next, and they would read a book together, or she would play her lute and sing, and when the day was over they would go to bed. At that point, tears would invariably fill Fenice’s eyes. She had come thoroughly to enjoy her marital duties abed, and she missed them. If only there had been no mother to come between herself and her husband… But her mind would pause there, not wishing to formulate the idea that what she wanted was to have escaped knowledge of her husband’s weakness.

“Is that true, Fenice?” Alys asked. “No, in a sense I know it is not true. What I mean is, are you clinging to the memory of Delmar and tormenting yourself?”

“Oh no, Lady Alys, I swear I am not. I cannot help thinking of him sometimes, but I am not overpowered by grief.”

She seemed sincere in her assurance, but Alys could not perceive any other reason for the pale cheeks and blue-ringed eyes. It was useless to ask the same question again; she would only receive the same assurance. Then Alys’s agile mind seized on another, surer test.

“I am glad to hear it, for you know you cannot live long alone. With Fuveau and Trets, you became something of an heiress, and there will be men suing for your hand.”

Fenice’s eyes opened wide. Plainly the thought had not previously occurred to her, but it was equally plain it was not at all an unpleasant thought. In fact, a little color came back into her pale face.
Then it is not grief for her loss that is tormenting her
, Alys thought. Alys knew that if Raymond died and someone suggested another marriage to her, she would have refused absolutely to consider the idea unless politics or war threatened her children and she needed a protector for them.

But Fenice was under no threat at all. Alys had not phrased her statement as a threat.

Fenice herself confirmed the thought at once by saying, “I am ready to obey you and Papa in whatever you decide.” The words were only what was proper to an obedient daughter, but there was no dragging reluctance in the tone, and more curiosity than sad memory looked out of Fenice’s eyes.

Although Alys was glad to know that Fenice had not been either badly hurt or permanently soured, she was not yet really considering the question of remarriage. She wanted to know why her stepchild looked like death warmed over, and if the idea of marrying again, which would ordinarily mean leaving Fuveau, brought color to the girl’s cheeks, most likely it was something in Fuveau that was haunting her.

“You are unhappy here,” Alys said. “No, do not deny it. You are so thin I can feel your bones, and I can see that you do not sleep. You are not sick. I have kissed you and felt no fever. What is wrong in Fuveau, Fenice?”

“Nothing,” Fenice whispered. “Nothing.” Then she said more firmly, “You see that I am obeyed.”

“If it is not the servants, then it is Sir Raoul,” Alys spat. “I will—”

“No!” Fenice cried. “Oh no. Sir Raoul is kindness itself to me.” But then her eyes dropped, and her voice sank to a whisper again. “But he
knows
. And the servants obey because they fear retribution, but they all know.”

“Know? Know what?” Alys asked, completely confused.

“That I am a serf’s daughter, no better than they are. That I am a false image of a noble—”

“Fenice!” Alys exclaimed. “I have told you a thousand times that your father’s blood is the stronger. You have proved it yourself. No serf girl would have fought her way free of that convent and walked all the long, weary miles to fulfill a duty. She would have stayed where she was comfortable and well fed and in no danger. You
are
a noblewoman. You should be proud to be the natural daughter of Raymond d’Aix.” Alys took Fenice’s hands. “My love, in a way our situations are not so different. I am not of Raymond’s class. You have heard Lady Jeannette say over and over that I am a coarse barbarian.”

Suddenly, Fenice’s eyes flashed. “I could kill Grandmother for that,” she said, her lips thin and hard.

Alys burst out laughing. “If you could see your face, my Fenice, wearing just the hawk-look of your father in a temper. How can you doubt yourself?”

“I do not think it is myself I doubt,” Fenice said very slowly. “I am not sure I can explain to you, but I have not your strength to resist opposition—no, not opposition, that is the wrong word. I
can
resist opposition. It is…ill feeling I cannot endure.”

“Ill feeling? Who has ill feeling toward you, my dear? Who could? You are sweet and good.”

Fenice bit her lips, but tears rose in her eyes anyway. “Perhaps I am sweet and good,” she said in a rather choked voice, “but it is not enough. I-I am not welcome to my grandmother, and…and I am not welcome here.”

“I am not welcome to your grandmother, either,” Alys pointed out, rather exasperated. “If I allowed that silly woman’s opinions to trouble me, I would have no life. You should not care for the opinion of others who are less wise than yourself, especially when you know you are doing right.”

Fenice made no reply, sitting with bent head and struggling against her tears. Alys felt like shaking her, but exasperated as she was, she realized it would not help. Scolding Fenice only made matters worse. The girl was already trying as hard as she could to do and be what Alys wanted.

Besides, it never did any good to tell people that they should feel differently. Feelings were not commanded by “knowing”. Alys had “known” that she should not love Raymond, but she had loved him just the same, and she had “known” it was stupid to feel such grief when her children died, that the babes were better off in God’s embrace than in hers, for she could not shield them from pain or sorrow, and God could—still she had wept very bitterly.

Nor did Alys dare turn her back on the situation. She knew that as time passed, Fenice would become very dear to her servants, for the girl was kind and just and had real feeling for them. Alys thought that a mistake, but she had never been able to extirpate the sense of kinship Fenice felt for the serfs. The feeling exacerbated the problem. Alys herself would have ignored or laughed at the fear around her, but it was making Fenice sick, and there was the crux of the problem.

Gently, Alys lifted her stepdaughter’s face and looked at the hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. There was no time, she feared. The poor child was already nearly a wraith. She would die before those stupid, ungrateful fools came to realize the treasure they had for a mistress. And to take her back to Tour Dur was useless. Fenice would be happy enough while she and Raymond were there, but Raymond planned to leave for Bordeaux in a week or two. Leave for Bordeaux…Gascony… Why not take Fenice with them? Why not seek a husband for her in Gascony? No one there knew anything of Fenice’s background.

“I am sorry,” Fenice sighed. “You and Papa are so good to me. I am sorry to be such a fool.”

“Well, you are a fool, my love,” Alys said, smiling, “but there is no help for that. You are what you are. And I cannot bear to see you so sad. What would you say, dearling, to coming to Bordeaux with me and your papa? Would you like that?”

“To Bordeaux?” Fenice breathed, her eyes brightening and a trace of color coming into her cheeks again. “Are you going back to Bordeaux?” Alys nodded, and Fenice cried, “Could I? Oh, I would be so happy, but…but Fuveau? Is it not my duty to stay here?”

“Pish-tush,” Alys replied lightly. “Fuveau is in good heart. Anyone can manage this place. It needs no special care. Sir Raoul can stay, and he can send for his wife to see to the woman’s work. Do not give it a thought. Do not say anything to your papa about this notion of ours, though.”

“If he would not like me to go—”

“Nonsense,” Alys interrupted. “You should know by now what men are. Ideas must be inserted gently into their minds, and they must be allowed to think those ideas are their own.” Alys laughed. “You, my love, are far too honest. You must learn duplicity. And it will be a mercy for me to have you to help care for those wild animals of children I have bred. I would have asked you sooner, but I thought
you
would wish to hold Fuveau.”

“No. Oh no.” Fenice shuddered. “I… Forgive me if I seem ungrateful after you and Papa came all the way from Gascony to uphold my right, but I
hate
Fuveau.”

“Well then, you shall certainly come to Gascony,” Alys promised.

Her mind, however, was on a different aspect of what Fenice had said. If the girl married in Gascony, it would be months or perhaps even years before she came back to Fuveau. By then the bitterness would have faded. Yes, in spite of the constant turmoil there, it might be best for Fenice if Raymond looked for a second match for her there, in which case there would be no reason for Fenice to return to Provence.

“We will be staying in Bordeaux some months, I think,” Alys went on, not wanting to put any ideas into the girl’s head but wanting her to be prepared. “So pack up all your clothes. And you had better take all the jewels and money, except what you think Sir Raoul will need. He is honest, but it is not fair to make him responsible for such things.”