Part 3 (1/2)

”Please,” Fenice said as soon as she sat down, ”I wish to tell you everything that happened. I have done a dreadful thing.”

Lord Alphonse's face grew still. Perhaps Lady Emilie was not trying to keep possession of Fuveau but trying to protect Fenice by placing her in a convent. ”You did not use...er...give your husband a wrong medicine?”

”I could not,” Fenice cried, her eyes filling with tears. ”I was not let near him, though I begged and I prayed to be allowed to nurse him or even speak to him. Oh, Grandfather, I do not mean to say that Lady Emilie wished Delmar harm. I know she did not. But they bled him and bled him. I know bleeding is right for a fever, but Lady Alys has told me that medicines should be tried after each bleeding and that at least one day should pa.s.s before bleeding is used again. And...and now he is dead. I do not say I could have saved him, but Lady Alys saved Enid when she was so sick with fever, and I knew what she had done, was.h.i.+ng her with cold cloths, and I knew the draught she made from betony and marigold and-”

”Hush child, do not weep. You did your best. What is, is. It was G.o.d's will,” Lord Alphonse consoled her, smothering a sigh of relief and thinking that G.o.d had been good to his granddaughter. Lady Emilie's jealous care, whether it was wrong or right, had saved Fenice from being the target of any suspicion that in her youth and inexperience she had made some mistake that was fatal to her husband.

”Do not think of that now,” he went on, trying to distract her from what he believed was her worst pain by drawing her to talk of what he was sure was some minor error. ”Tell me instead of this dreadful thing you have done, and we will find a remedy, I am sure.”

Knowing that men did not like weeping women, Fenice hastily dried her eyes and swallowed her tears. She could not bring herself to tell her grandfather-who was also a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, although his mother had been a n.o.blewoman-why she believed Lady Emilie hated her. She thus began her story after her husband's death, confessing that she had been so distraught that she made no protest when she was sent away, except to beg to stay for Delmar's funeral.

”I thought they were sending me home,” she quavered.

Lord Alphonse nodded. ”No doubt they wanted you out of the way. A local priest, who would be beholden to Lady Emilie and would not talk, could bury him quietly. When the land matter was settled, they could raise a proper monument. I suppose Lady Emilie did not want you to know I had not been informed or summoned to the burial.”

”I do not know whether I would have noticed,” Fenice admitted, shamefaced. ”I forgot Fuveau was mine. I...I forgot myself, it seems. I do not even remember arriving at the convent, and not much about the next few weeks.”

”It is no fault in you.” Lord Alphonse kissed Fenice's cheek and took her hands in his. ”That shows a tender heart.”

Fenice leaned her head gratefully against her grandfather's arm, but she felt doubtful about the excuse he had provided for her. Lady Alys was Fenice's ideal in all things. She had a tender heart, but she would not have allowed herself to be so totally overpowered. I would not have felt so terrible, Fenice thought, if I had not been almost glad... She repressed that dreadful idea and went on hastily to describe to her grandfather the reasons for her steadily growing conviction that she was being kept prisoner in the convent at Lady Emilie's behest.

”There will never be any way to be sure, my pet,” Lord Alphonse said, frowning thoughtfully, ”but it is not impossible. Fuveau is a nice little property. It may bring in as much as twenty marks in a good year. It is sad that the holy sisters should be moved by so worldly a concern as money, but doubtless they have many charities, and their houses need repair, enlargement, and embellishment, all to the greater glory of G.o.d. If they had been told you had renounced the world and then you seemed to think otherwise, they might, indeed, try to hold you until they could reconvince you that your greater happiness and benefit in this world and the next was to join them. And they, no doubt, truly believe it.”

”But it is for Papa to decide,” Fenice cried.

”Yes, indeed, very proper,” Lord Alphonse agreed, smiling. ”If you had a vocation, if it were a firm and deep desire on your part to take the veil, for your own happiness your father might agree. But as things are, my Fenice, I do not think Raymond would wish either to lose you or to give so great a gift to a convent so distant. Certainly there is nothing dreadful in your decision to leave.”

”But in my manner of going there was,” Fenice said in a very small voice, and before she could lose courage, described her a.s.sault on the lay sister.

For one long moment, Lord Alphonse sat goggling at her, utterly speechless. Terrified, Fenice began to cry again, but her grandfather s.n.a.t.c.hed her into his arms and laughed heartily, all the while repeating disjointedly bits and pieces from Fenice's confession.

”Bless you, child,” he gasped, collecting himself and releasing her, ”I have not laughed so hard in years. Wait until your father and my darling treasure Alys hear of this. They always say you are too meek. This will prove that you have the soul of a lioness in defense of your rights. Such intrepidity! Such courage!” And then he added more soberly, ”I am proud of you, my love, for not only did you have the strength to act but the wisdom and, more important than either, the endurance, which is the most precious kind of courage, to come that long, long way all alone, with no one to support or encourage you.”

”Then you do not think I was wrong to strike the sister?” Fenice asked uncertainly.

”My love, sometimes one must strike first, or lose the battle before one begins to strike at all.”

”That is what I thought,” Fenice said, relieved, and went on in a firm, satisfied tone. ”And I could not risk Papa's right to Fuveau and Trets. Only Papa or you or Lady Alys have the right to dispose of me.”

”And you may be sure we will take the very greatest care in whatever disposition we make,” Lord Alphonse a.s.sured her, and then clapped himself on the forehead and called himself a monster for having forgotten in the midst of the talk that she must be starved and probably exhausted, too.

Fenice disclaimed any desire to have a meal brought specially, but her grandfather's kindness brought tears to her eyes. These and her seeming lack of appet.i.te, which was really owing to the generosity of almsgivers along the road rather than to any unwillingness to eat, made Lord Alphonse remember her recent loss.

”You will not want to join us for dinner,” he said sympathetically. ”There is such a bustle and noise, and Alys's maidens do so chatter and laugh. They make your grandmother and me very merry, but I am afraid that will not suit you just yet, especially not when you are tired. I will tell Lady Christine that a meal is to be brought to you privately. Then, perhaps, when you have slept a little, you will want to join us for the evening meal. We take that quietly, here near the fire.”

At Alphonse's mention of dinner, Fenice grew pale. It would be unbearable to have Lady Jeannette questioning her in front of all the n.o.ble maidens Alys fostered. Her grandmother would not be openly unkind while her husband was present, but she was quite capable of asking really cruel questions in a cooing voice that utterly deceived him. But the phrasing of Alphonse's remark reduced Fenice's fears to manageable proportions. Her trial would be delayed until evening, and then there would be no witnesses. Yet where could she be safe and private? At once she thought of the south tower, where the fire still burned and there were only memories of peace and happiness.

”I am a little tired,” she admitted, ”and the women's quarters are so large. It...it is lonely to be there when they are empty. Grandfather, could I stay in the south tower?”

”But it is empty and cold. Will you not be more lonely there?” Lord Alphonse asked anxiously.

”Oh, no,” Fenice replied. ”There is a fire, and to me it is almost as if Lady Alys were there.”

Alphonse smiled. ”If that will give you comfort, child, so be it. I am sure Alys would wish you to have whatever can ease you.”

So it was that the five weeks Fenice spent in Tour Dur before Alys and Raymond returned were far pleasanter than she had ever expected. Her newly widowed status protected her and permitted her to withdraw to the south tower whenever she wished. Lady Jeannette, although she looked sourly at Fenice now and again, ignored her most of the time, and Fenice had to admit to herself that it had been many years since her grandmother had actually been overtly unpleasant. It was her own sensitivity to an atmosphere that was only cold and lacking welcome that made her miserable.

Still, she was very, very glad when Lady Alys and Lord Raymond rode into Tour Dur, despite a repet.i.tive pinch of anxiety that they might not find her adventure as funny as Lord Alphonse did. In fact, Raymond and Alys had been appalled when they heard of her young husband's death. Their only thought now was to give Fenice all the support and comfort in their power to provide.

As soon as they arrived, Raymond took his daughter in his arms and wept over her until Alys, who had tears running down her own lovely face, remonstrated that he was only renewing Fenice's sorrow. And when they heard the tale of Fenice's escape and her long, lonely journey home, both were fiercely proud of her.

”There is your blood in her,” Alys cried, looking from Raymond to Alphonse.

And Raymond said, ”You are my daughter, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. Tomorrow I will send out a summons to the va.s.sals. Do not fear, my Fenice, you will have for your own what you struggled so bravely to keep.”

But Fenice saw the flash of fear in Alys's eyes, and she turned cold at the thought that her father might be injured in an attempt to retrieve something that was meaningless to her, except that it belonged, in her opinion, to him. ”But Papa,” she said, ”you and Grandfather have many va.s.sals and are very strong, while Fuveau is only one keep. Perhaps since Lady Emilie must already know I am no longer at the convent and there really is no chance for her to keep Fuveau, they will yield to you without a war.”

Raymond frowned, but Alphonse laughed. ”The girl is speaking sense, Raymond. If Emilie's brother, Jean-Paul, intends to fight, he has already had near six weeks to make ready. Another week or two cannot make much difference. There would be no time-even if he had the money-for Jean-Paul to send to distant parts for mercenaries. The man cannot be readier if you warn him by demanding his submission before you summon our va.s.sals.”

”I suppose you are right,” Raymond admitted, somewhat ungraciously.

The taking of Fuveau by storm was just the type of fight Raymond liked best. It would be an enjoyable exercise, with no dangerous or widespread repercussions. However, the property was Fenice's. It would be wrong to damage it unnecessarily, and some damage and looting were inevitable if the place were overrun by men-at-arms. The idea that Fenice did not want her property damaged having occurred to him, Raymond looked at his daughter with respect. She had apparently learned more from Alys than he had previously believed.

Fenice's spirits were greatly uplifted by her father's and stepmother's reactions and her grandfather's support of the first remark she had ever in her life made concerning a matter outside of a woman's proper sphere. Unfortunately her happiness was not long lasting. Only a few hours later, when she was overseeing the placement of Alys's and Raymond's clothing in the chests and the removal of all traces of her own occupation of the south tower, Alys came in.

”Oh, thank you, my love,” she said. ”My maid Bertha is so big with child, she can scarcely waddle. I had to leave her in Bordeaux, for I thought that she would surely deliver on the road from the jostling of the cart. I would have come to you sooner, but I wished to be sure that the letter your father sent to Sir Jean-Paul was not too threatening. Men never seem to realize that threats can sometimes cow, but they can also make a person desperate. And your father is so angry that they should take advantage of your grief...” Alys's voice faltered. ”Oh, sweet, I am so sorry, so sorry.”

They clung together for a few minutes, weeping, but Alys soon pulled away, wiping first her own and then Fenice's eyes on the hem of her wide oversleeve.

”It does not help to weep,” she went on. ”When little Alys and Henry died, I wept until my eyes were dry, but it did not help. The only thing that eased my heart was work, but I see you know that already. Ah, well, you will soon have work in plenty, for the management of two estates as the time for planting comes will give you no time for sad-”

Alys's voice cut off sharply as she looked at Fenice's whitened face and fear-dilated eyes. This was not grief she saw, it was terror.

”They will not obey me,” Fenice whispered. ”She-Lady Emilie-told them that I was baseborn and no better than a serf myself, and they laughed at me when I tried to give them orders. And when I told Delmar,” she began to sob again, far more bitterly than before, ”he said it was true.”

Alys's mouth opened to ask furiously why Fenice had not told her, but the question was a stupid one. Although Fenice's frequent timidity usually infuriated her stepmother, Alys was able to understand this time. When she and Raymond were first married, she had for a very, very short time believed that her husband was so ruled by his mother that he would forsake her own bed. The fear and fury Alys had felt caused her to behave like a madwoman and nearly ruin her marriage, but she had thought only once of informing her father, and the shame that overwhelmed her at the idea of exposing her inability to hold her husband's love far outweighed every other emotion, no matter how violent.

”It is my fault,” Alys said, trying to draw the poison from Fenice's wound. ”Your father said Delmar was too gentle to be of any help to him in war, but I did not connect that with weakness as I should have done. Delmar was too weak to say no to his mother, so he laid the fault on you.”

”But it is not your fault,” Fenice cried. ”You meant well for me. You wanted a husband for me who would be gentle and who would not tear my heart to shreds by running to war more eagerly than to a feast. And there was no fault in your teaching of me, either.”

”I never thought there was,” Alys agreed, more to bolster Fenice's self-confidence then because she herself wished to be absolved. ”I saw you at Trets, and you knew what to do and were not afraid to do it. Nor, Fenice, was your will or strength too little. I see in your face that you blame yourself for lacking determination to fight back. But there was no way you could fight at Fuveau. The servants and men-at-arms were accustomed to obeying Lady Emilie. Your husband being too feeble to uphold your right, there was nothing you could do except cry for help from your father and me, and I understand why you did not do that. No, often I have scolded you for too great meekness but not this time, my love.”

Although there were tears in Fenice's eyes again, she heaved a sigh of relief. ”Thank G.o.d you understand why I cannot go back-”

”Not go back!” Alys echoed. ”Nonsense! Fuveau is yours. Oh, you need not fear. By the time your father is finished with them, the servants will crawl on their bellies and kiss the mud where your feet have pa.s.sed, and the men-at-arms will be your men, obedient to your slightest breath.”