Winter Song Read Online Free PDF Page B

for that idiot singing now, the words were ludicrous
to Alys:
     
    The lady
said no more
    Except
that she sighed
    And just
before the end
    Murmured, “God
keep you, dearest friend.”
     
    That wasn’t so bad, but Alys knew what was coming and
struggled to restrain her giggles.
     
    And with
these final words she pressed
    Her arms
hard against her breast
    Fainting
in agony. All trace
    Of color
vanished from her face.
    Her heart
was still, and she lay dead.
     
    That, Alys thought, really was the outside of enough. Those
sentiments would be just the best thing in the world for a man going off to war,
just the thing to clear his mind so that he would be able to concentrate on
protecting himself.
    Then Alys had to fight harder to control laughter. It was
quite likely, she thought, that any man afflicted with a lady of such
sensibility would go to battle with a clearer mind or, anyway, with a sense of
relief, if she dropped dead before he left. Still, there was Elizabeth with
tears in her eyes listening to this nonsense. But Alys herself had seen
Elizabeth send her husband, who was already weakened by previous wounds, to a
desperate battle with a kiss and a smile and quiet assurances that there was no
need to worry about her.
    Apparently it was true that real life had little or nothing
to do with these ridiculous effusions, and Elizabeth had admitted as much when
she had reprimanded Alys. Nor was Elizabeth asking Alys to change her tastes,
but only to seem appreciative. She was right, Alys thought, echoing the coo of
admiration Queen Eleanor accorded a particularly sickening sentiment. Eleanor
was a Provençal. Raymond was also a Provençal. Very likely his mother and
sisters were as enamored of this nonsense as were the queen and her sister,
Countess Sancia.
    Alys’s own eyes misted with tears, but it had nothing to do
with the heartaches of the silly lover in the song. She loved Raymond, but the
longer she remained at court, the more doubts she felt about being a suitable
wife for him. Of course, it was delightful for a week or two to have nothing to
do but read and embroider, ride out hawking, play games, and dance. But a whole
life of it?
    The song ended. Alys joined the others in calling compliments
while she prayed that the requests she heard for an encore would be denied. By
a special mercy of God—or so Alys thought of it—the king and his gentlemen
entered just then, and the lady set down her lute. Henry was almost as addicted
as his queen to the delights of this musical art. Had he come in while the song
was in progress, he would have softly found a seat and listened while his
gentlemen stole like mice along the walls so as not to interrupt. However, as
they had come in after the piece was over, the mood was broken by greetings and
invitations.
    Alys’s father strode across the room to stand by his wife.
He, Alys thought caustically, rising to join them, was almost as silly as
Elizabeth about songs and tales of love. Then her expression softened. Poor
Papa, probably that was because he had had to wait so long before he could
marry Elizabeth, whom he had loved from childhood. If I could not have
Raymond , Alys wondered, would I, too, begin to appreciate the sad tales
of star-crossed lovers ? Somehow Alys did not think so, but her eyes were
soft with tenderness and understanding as she looked at her father’s peaceful,
happy face.
    For him, Elizabeth cured all ills, but, Alys thought as she
made her way toward them, the topic the men had been discussing could not have
been very pleasant. There were a good many frowns lingering on faces, and Uncle
Richard—no, she must remember to call him “my Lord of Cornwall” in
public—looked black as thunder. He was bowing over his wife’s hand, finding a
smile for her, but his eyes had the suffused look Alys associated with bellows
of rage and disastrously accurate, if impolite, characterizations of his
brother.
    Alys was concerned, knowing that the king’s ill-will