Siren Song
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Siren Song
ISBN 9781419921421
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Siren Song Copyright © 1980 Roberta Gellis
Cover art by Dar Albert
Electronic book Publication September 2009
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Siren Song
Roberta Gellis
Chapter One
The elegantly clad court functionary looked down his long English nose at the ragged knight who had asked anxiously if the king or queen was in residence. The young man had a thin, dark face, a high-bridged, aristocratic nose, and light gray eyes, which were startling. His features and expression bespoke breeding, but his armor was covered with dirt and rust, his surcoat was stained, muddy, and torn in several places. Even the French he spoke was ragged, carrying an odd, rough accent. Another foreign beggar, Michael Belet thought with contemptuous irritability. Ever since King Henry had married, the court had been full of them.
“They are here,” Belet said shortly. “What is it to you?”
The young knight smiled in relief. He had a sweet temper and, besides, was of such station that he did not notice subtle insult from a stranger, being unable to conceive that anyone would dare offer it. In fact, he rather pitied the elegant functionary, believing his bad manners to be an unconscious result of a lifetime in this barbaric backwater.
“I have already been to London and Windsor in hot pursuit,” he said merrily, “and if I follow my aunt about much longer, my destrier and I will both need new shoes.”
The courtier’s lip curled even more scornfully. The young man looked as if he needed new shoes right now. He had been right. This was another office seeker close on the trail of some woman in the queen’s service. Then that woman would beg the queen for a place for her nephew and the queen would go to the king… Belet’s face flushed with rage. The young knight misread the flush for one of embarrassment. He would have been embarrassed if he had spoken so crudely to the nephew of the queen. He smiled again.
“It does not matter,” he said kindly. “Just point out the proper person to announce me—or give me his name.”
“Announce you? To the king?” Belet’s shock made his voice somewhat faint. He could only suppose that this tatterdemalion came from some tiny, jumped-up principality where the ruler was little richer or more powerful than the pauper knights he led. Before Belet could put the creature in its place, however, one of the queen’s women came out into the hall.
“Sir Michael,” she began, then stopped and goggled. “Raymond?” she gasped, “is it you?”
“Yes, indeed, Lady Blanche.” The young knight smiled and his eyes lit with mischief.
“Oh!” the woman gasped again, her eyes running over his soiled clothing and battered mail. “What has befallen you?” And then, before he could reply, “No, never mind. Come with me.”
Belet opened his mouth to protest, but then he bit his lips together. That scarecrow would find a place—and a good one. Lady Blanche was one of the queen’s favorites and had come with Eleanor from Provence. Nonetheless, one could not help liking Queen Eleanor. She was good-natured and a peacemaker between the king and those who had incurred his wrath for little things—and she did not interfere in great matters of state. Lady Blanche had pushed Raymond along a corridor and into the antechamber of the queen’s apartment with all haste.
“How did you get into such a disgraceful condition?” she cried. “What happened to your clothes? Where are your servants? Why did you not tell Eleanor you were coming? Oh, Raymond, is something wrong? Your father? Your mother?”
Emotion flickered across the dark, young face, but it was gone before Lady Blanche noticed, and Raymond shook his head. “Everyone is well, very well. I have only come for a visit. I suppose I have outstripped the messenger or, likely, some accident befell him.” Raymond’s voice was stiff. In general he was a truthful young man, and he did not like to lie.
“But Raymond, where—”
“Raymond?”
The voice was warm, a little high with surprise. Both Lady Blanche and the young knight turned toward the inner doorway. Lady Blanche sketched a curtsy. Raymond bowed low, but the dark, beautiful woman who had come through the door did not wait with dignity for him to complete his obeisance. She ran across and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“Raymond, dear, I am so happy to see you. How are my brother and your dear mama?”
“Very well, and the rest of us also. I understand you have had no word of my coming. I hope it is not in any way inconvenient to you.”
“Of course not,” the queen cried, kissing him again.
“And for heaven’s sake, do not ask me where my servants are and what happened to my clothes,” Raymond said, laughing. “Let it stay that I have come to no harm, that I was well pleased to be without them, and that I do not intend to answer such questions as the answers would not be fitting for your auntly ears.”
That was, of course, a jest. Eleanor and Raymond were almost exactly the same age, Eleanor being one month to the day the elder of the pair. She was the soberer of the two, however, and Raymond always teased her about being an “old aunt”.
“Raymond, what sort of scrape are you in?” Eleanor asked characteristically, but when he only laughed again and shook his head at her, she sighed resignedly. “If you will not tell me, will you tell Henry?”
Raymond flushed slightly. “It is not a matter to trouble a king with. Truly, madam, it is of no consequence. I am here, safe and sound. Your husband has far more important things to think about than how I came here without clothes or servants.”
Voices and footsteps interrupted and Henry, third of that name to rule England, came in. Lady Blanche bit her lip. She had gone out to tell Michael Belet, the royal butler, to have a flagon of the king’s favorite wine sent to the queen’s chamber and, in the excitement of seeing Raymond, had forgotten her errand. Dropping a curtsy, she edged out of the room.
By the time Lady Blanche was in the hall, looking for Belet, Eleanor had introduced her nephew to Henry, who blinked. As far as he knew, his wife had only one sister older than herself, married to the king of France, but certainly not married long enough to produce a son of this age. Eleanor trilled with laughter at her husband’s blank expression and explained that Raymond was the son of her half brother, Alphonse d’Aix. The king’s expression cleared. Of course, during the negotiations for his marriage, he had been told of the count of Provence’s youthful indiscretion—but that had been eight years ago and at the time he had paid little attention. All he had cared abo
ut was that the natural son born of that union would not complicate the succession in Provence.
Now, taking in the young man’s ragged appearance, Henry smothered a sigh. Apparently something had happened in Aix to reduce his wife’s relations to penury. Why the devil could they not go to the count of Provence for help? However, Henry did not remain irritated long. It was flattering to his ego that he was known as so rich and so generous that Raymond would prefer to travel all the way to England from the very south of France to beg succor rather than go to his grandfather or—suddenly Henry smiled warmly at Raymond—rather than go to that sanctimonious, tight-fisted Louis of France, who was his other uncle.
“We are happy to welcome you,” he said to Raymond, “and we hope you will be happy here at our court. Be sure you will be welcome to us as long as you wish to stay. What else can we do for you?”
“Sire—” Raymond began, but Eleanor cut him off.
“You can give him something decent to wear, for one thing, Henry,” she laughed. “Really, he cannot show himself in this condition. Everyone will think that my family has fallen into ruin.”
Since that was exactly what Henry had thought, he was much surprised by his wife’s remark, and even more when the young man made a gesture as if to urge silence on his aunt.
“Er…certainly,” Henry replied. “I am sure something suitable can be found.” His voice held a note of petulance. He had been prepared to be generous, a bountiful lord to a poor suppliant. It seemed from Eleanor’s light remark, however, that his bounty was not necessary. Her nephew’s problem seemed to be a temporary embarrassment. Henry did not like to have his generous gestures frustrated, but fortunately, before he could begin to feel spiteful toward Raymond, Eleanor spoke again.
“And he is in some trouble, Henry. Do make him tell you. He will not tell me!”
Color flooded into Raymond’s face. Henry felt better at once. Apparently his help was necessary. He smiled first at Raymond and then at his wife. “Very well, but if you want him decently dressed for dinner, I will have to take him away to my chamber now. It would scarcely be fitting if suits of men’s clothing were to be carried into your rooms, my dear.”
Eleanor agreed to this with laughter, although she was somewhat reluctant to part with Raymond when she had not yet really heard any news from Provence. To pacify her, Henry suggested that they have dinner together privately. Then he bore Raymond away to his own apartment. After he had seated himself and pointed out a stool to Raymond, he looked closely at the young man—who was still very flushed—and said, “Well?”
“I am not in any trouble,” Raymond said. “It is only because I have come without servants and baggage—”
“Yes? Well, that is an odd thing to do,” Henry remarked, with twitching lips. “Surely it cannot be a comfortable way to travel. And servants and clothing are easy enough things to obtain with money—so you have no money either.”
Henry gave in and grinned, his voice was warm, his blue eyes glinted with amusement. Raymond hesitated and then yielded to the charm that prevented Henry’s barons from hating him, no matter how much he plagued them and exasperated them.
“You will think me ridiculous,” Raymond sighed. “I have run away from home.”
There was a brief silence while Henry wondered if his ears had played him false. Men in their twenties did not “run away from home”, unless…
“You are escaping from an unwanted marriage contract?” It was the only sensible thing Henry could think of, but Raymond shook his head.
“My mother will not let me live,” he groaned.
“Your mother?” Henry’s throat closed and he could not get out the words, wishes you dead.
Henry had always adored his mother, passionately and hopelessly. He did not know his love was hopeless. Isabella said all the right words and made all the right gestures. Her voice was soft, her embrace graceful and scented. Nonetheless, Isabella could not or would not love, and Henry, although he would never admit it, felt the utter rejection of her frigid nature. Thus, he recoiled in horror from what any man with a more natural parent would have understood at once.
“This last matter was too much to bear,” Raymond continued, so wrapped in his private frustration that he did not notice the king’s reaction. “One of the vassals on her lands in Gascony had some idiot complaint and, instead of coming to my father in the normal way, flew to arms.”
“That is normal for Gascons,” Henry interposed bitterly.
“Yes,” Raymond agreed, but without being deflected from his personal problem. “It was all arranged that I should give that idiot a firm setdown. It was nothing. One small keep and one small fool of a man bawling defiance. But my mother forbade it!”
“Does she not trust you?” Henry asked sympathetically.
“Trust me? What has that to do with it?” Raymond raged, in full spate now. “Put on a cloak, it is too cold for you, Ray. Do not go into the sun, it is too hot for you, Ray. That beast is too wild, you will fall off your horse, Ray…”
Henry was beginning to understand, and he could not help laughing at the young man’s fury of frustration. However, there was still a puzzle he wished to have explained. “I see,” he said, grinning broadly, “that your mother is a little too fearful for your health and safety, but I do not understand how she could forbid what your father ordered. I suppose it was by your father’s order that you were to go to Gascony?”
“Yes,” Raymond grated. “Perhaps ‘forbade’ is the wrong word. She wept, she wailed, she held her heart, she could not breathe…” He let his voice fade out at the king’s smiling gesture.
“But your father…” Henry said.
“When it is a matter of real moment, my father endures. I understand he lived away from her for near six months when I was sent out to be fostered. But…but he loves her, and in other ways she is a good wife.”
Henry nodded full understanding. Because of his mother’s coldness, his wife’s warmth had made him utterly her slave. Eleanor was a sensible woman, fortunately, but had she wept and wailed over something, Henry would have yielded also.
“I see that in a small matter like the Gascon business, he would surely give way for love of her. Still…” Henry’s mind was devious. He would yield to Eleanor when she wanted something, but if she did not know she wanted it and did not ask… “Why did your father tell her? Or did you tell her?”
“We are not so stupid as that,” Raymond replied. “I am not sure how she found out. Where I am concerned she seems to smell our intentions in the air. Six months ago I wished to ride in a tourney, only a tourney, and she fainted thrice and wept all night until my father told me to bide at home. I tell you, she will not let me live.”
The king nodded sympathetically. He had suffered the same frustrations as a boy, although with him it was his guardians who held him so precious that they watched every breath in and out of his mouth. So, warmed by the memories, Henry liked his wife’s nephew all the better.
“Well,” he said, “you are welcome here, and no one will keep you from such action as is available and that you wish to engage in. But, I am afraid it cannot be for long. Eleanor will write, no doubt, to say you have arrived safe.”
Raymond slapped a hand to his forehead. “What an idiot I am,” he groaned. “If I tell her—”
“No,” Henry said, “she will think only of your mother’s pain and be the more hot to assure her of your safety if she knows of her ignorance of your whereabouts. And, even if I could fob off Eleanor with some tale, someone at court would write to some friend in Provence. I assume your mother would send first to your grandfather to ask whether you had gone to him.”
“Yes,” Raymond sighed, then shrugged. “Oh well, I will have a few weeks at least.”
Henry frowned, his eyes looking past Raymond. Then he said slowly, “If no one knew you were here, and I told Eleanor she must not write because you are engaged in some secret work for me…” His eyes focused on Raymond. “I have a little t
ask, a minor annoyance but one for which I need a man truly trustworthy to me and yet not known to be my man—”
“I will do it if I can, and gladly,” Raymond offered quickly.
The king smiled most sweetly, his eyes luminous with warmth. “It will mean that you must forgo your rank and name for some time longer,” he warned.
Raymond laughed. “Nothing could give me greater pleasure.”
“I have a brother, as you must know,” Henry began, “whom I love most dearly, for he is a most excellent person. Some years ago, however, I noticed that Richard was at times cold to me and critical of what I did, and sometimes he acted even worse, berating me before my council. We have always been close, and such behavior hurt me to the heart. I could not believe it came of Richard himself, yet I believed also there was no one whom he loved who did not also love me.”
Raymond had been so surprised by the mention of Richard, earl of Cornwall, that his face went blank and hid his feeling of recoil. He had expected, after their conversation, that Henry wanted him to perform some feat of arms, and it was with this expectation that he had pledged himself to do the king’s will so eagerly and without reservation.
“Now I have heard,” Henry continued, “through a trusty clerk, that a vassal of my brother’s—no great man but only the holder of two keeps, albeit one sits on the Thames and the other commands a road of great importance—is the man who has poisoned Richard’s mind against me.”
“Is it likely that so insignificant a person could influence the earl of Cornwall?” Raymond asked stiffly, liking the turn of conversation less and less.
“I would not have thought so myself,” Henry agreed, “but after the clerk named him I remembered that in the last years of my father’s reign, during the troubles, and after, when Louis was in the land, this man’s father, a friend of de Burgh, was castellan of Wallingford and had Richard in keeping quite often. The vassal, William of Marlowe by name, is of the same age or perhaps a year or two older than my brother. They must have been, from time to time, playmates. Moreover, Richard mentioned to me that this William was squire to Rannulf of Chester.”