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much pleasure in books that he could not
deny his one child, the apple of his eye, the joys and solace he found in
reading. Thus, Alys was educated beyond her class. Raymond, of course, thought
nothing of the fact that this miracle of grace and beauty could read. He would
have felt her ignorance to be an imperfection. As one climbed the social scale,
literacy became more prevalent, and in general, the south of France was more
worldly, more cosmopolitan, more polished than England. Thus, Raymond’s mother
and sisters were literate, and he never stopped to think that they were very
great ladies and Alys only the daughter of a simple knight.
    She handed the king’s letter back and made a very slight
curtsy to Raymond. Startled by her movement in his direction, he roused from
his trance and swept a deep, elaborate bow. William successfully controlled a
grin. He felt a little sorry for Raymond but was not in the least worried about
Alys. She knew her worth and her place and was not likely to be led astray by
the blandishments of a hireling—of which she had plenty of experience.
    “I bid you welcome,” Alys said formally, which surprised
William. Ordinarily she was very friendly and merry. “If you will come with
me,” she went on, “I will show you around the keep and introduce you to those
who must know you. Papa, I know you wish to get back to your accounts.”
    “Wish to—” William swallowed the rest.
    Reading might be a joy, but accounts were something else.
Alys was actually better at them than he was and had done them for years.
William had not been doing accounts but trying to think of a soothing way to
answer a letter from Richard about the problems of the bishop of Winchester,
and Alys knew it. Why had she not said, “You wish to get back to Richard’s
letter,” or something of that sort? It was very odd, but Alys generally had
reasons for what she did, so after a momentary hesitation, William finished by
saying, “Yes, of course,” and turning away.
    Alys pulled her lips into a smile. “Perhaps you would like
to be rid of your arms and into more comfortable clothing before you meet our
people,” she suggested.
    Raymond flushed darkly. Somehow it was not so easy to appear
a beggar before Alys as it had been before William. “I have no other,” he
admitted.
    It was the truth. When he had stormed out of Tour Dur, his
father’s keep, after he had been told he could not lead the Gascon enterprise,
Raymond had been wearing just what was on his back now, a good suit of mail and
a simple surcoat. He had ridden blindly for about twenty miles, stopping at
last, when his horse began to flag, at an abbey. There he had left his shield,
painted with his father’s escutcheon and marked with the symbol for the eldest
son of the house. He had also borrowed a small sum of money from the abbot,
which he knew his father would repay on demand. A new shield bearing the device
of a man’s head without features—Raymond thought that was appropriate and a
good joke—had eaten up most of that sum. What remained, Raymond had kept by him
for emergencies, such as food on the road if he could not find a house to guest
him.
    To his surprise, Alys smiled at him much less formally and
more warmly. “Never mind,” she said cheerfully, “that is easily provided.” A
gesture brought the crippled steward to them. “This is Sir Raymond, Martin, who
will stay with us now. He may go into the northeast tower room. He will want a
bath. When that is seen to, come to me above and I will give you clothing.”
Then to Raymond, “I will see you at supper.”
    She tripped away and Martin stood quietly, watching
Raymond’s eyes follow her. “She is the lord’s only child,” Martin said softly,
warningly, “the heiress of all he has.”
    Martin had not said, She is not for the likes of
you , but that was what he meant. With an effort, Raymond pulled his eyes
from the doorway into which Alys had disappeared and looked down at Martin.