Siren Song Read online

  “Usually,” Richard said when they were seated to eat, “one gives the bad news first, but the bad is so complicated that I think I will start with the good. The matter of the see of Winchester is settled.”

  “Which way?” William asked.

  “Henry will soon invite Walter Raleigh to come home and will assure him of a good welcome and that Winchester will be open to him.”

  “Thank God for that,” William said heartily, then grinned. “I told you so. I told you that if you reasoned softly, only in private, and did not cross the king’s will with the whole council gaping at you both and, moreover, did not throw insults at him, which you and I both know are false but you always say in anger—”

  “Papa, it is very rude, unwise too, to tell people ‘I told you so.’ You have told me so a hundred times or more.” Alys was teasing, her eyes and voice merry, her dimples showing distinctly.

  “And so it would be,” Richard chuckled, “if I had had the slightest part in Henry’s decision, but I did not.”

  “So much the better,” William exclaimed.

  Richard’s smile grew a little awry. “You mean because he would resent it later? Well, I do not mind that. Better he should be angry with me than meddle with the Church further. You remember that Neville, bishop of Chichester, died in the beginning of February? Well—”

  “But Chichester is no see fit for William of Savoy,” William interrupted.

  “No, of course not. I am sorry for it but I do not think Savoy would stay now even if Henry could offer him Canterbury. He was hurt, much hurt by the behavior of the nobles and the clergy. I blame myself in part. I tried to explain, but perhaps my own feelings showed and I may have made matters worse instead of better.”

  “There is no blame to you, and I am not sure I am sorry the queen’s uncle goes,” William remarked. “In himself, Savoy is a good man, but there is so much murmuring against ‘this horde of foreigners’…even at Wallingford I heard it. No, do not shake your head, Richard. These are the lesser men, men like me, some of them your own vassals, others in the retinues of the other earls. They would not speak to you, but to me they do.”

  “What the devil do they mean, foreigners? I am Angevin and Poitevin and Angoulême. You are Norman—”

  “Mostly, with a few other strains but that is not what I meant. We were both born here in England and our main interest and heritage is here in this land. Even in little things… Do you not speak English, Richard?”

  “Of course. These people are so stubborn about learning French one cannot deal with an artisan or stop in an inn without using a translator, and that is so awkward. Besides my English servants—”

  “I speak French to you, Richard, but Alys and I often fall into English when we are alone or in company with our neighbors because we use that language so much every day. Perhaps it is a little thing, but it is one of the things at the heart of the ill feeling over these Italian priests the pope sends in ever-increasing numbers to English benefices.”

  “Now that is perfectly reasonable,” Richard said firmly. “A priest must minister to a flock, and if the flock cannot understand one word the priest says, what kind of ministry can there be? But in the higher offices of the clergy, the language cannot mean much.”

  “Why not?” Alys asked. “The canons and monks are mostly native born and many not even from the nobility. For most, English is the only unlearned tongue they speak. To Latin they grow accustomed, but French comes slowly and awkwardly to them. I think in their hearts there is anger when they are made to feel stupid by slow understanding.”

  Richard opened his eyes wide. “You may be right, my love. I think you are. Whatever put it into your pretty head?”

  Alys giggled. “Raymond.”

  Both men turned to look at Raymond, where he sat at William’s left, but he looked even more dumbfounded than they did. “I never said a word about the canons of Winchester,” he protested. “I never spoke to one of them and know nothing about them.”

  “It is by example you taught me,” Alys laughed. “You grow irritable when the people on the estate or the castle speak to me in English, and it is even worse when they speak in their broken French that you cannot follow easily. But that was not all.” She grinned at him merrily. “I would have put that down to plain bad temper if I did not myself feel like telling you to take the pebbles out of your mouth when you speak to me. Moreover, I often feel like saying something much worse when I ask you to repeat, and you look down your nose at me as if I were deaf or a lackwit.” She turned to Richard. “And it is not all a matter of temper. Do you not think there must have been misunderstandings from time to time that brought blame or even punishment and that would linger most hatefully in the mind?”

  “It might,” Richard agreed thoughtfully, and William nodded his approval.

  The two older men looked at each other, thinking only of a new facet on an old problem. Raymond looked at Alys, marveling at her ability to enlarge on a personal irritation in an impersonal way. His sisters never did so. Offended by an equal or a superior, they merely scolded or wept. Alys had considered the reason behind what had happened. When his attention returned to the men’s conversation, it had moved from the general to the particular, William having recalled Richard to his initial statement about the see of Chichester.

  The earl sighed. “Yes, well, Henry suggested Robert Passelewe to the canons, and between a judicious gift here and there and their memory of the misery of Winchester, they elected him without argument.”

  “Passelewe, eh?” William shrugged. “He is a good servant and did right well if a little too harshly and suddenly on the matter of the king’s forests. Of course, he is no scholar. However—”

  “You need not go any further. It may not matter to you or to the canons that he is no scholar, but it does to Boniface. He gathered a group of bishops and ‘exam­ined’ Passelewe, found him wanting and annulled the appointment.”

  “No! What the devil got into them? To begin another brangle with the king, and when this damned Master Martin is just waiting to swallow the revenues of any vacant see for the pope’s purposes, is plain idiocy. Boniface of all men—”

  “Yes, he should be grateful when my brother fought so hard for his appointment as archbishop of Canterbury. I spoke to him. He said there is a higher good… Damn! I think he even believes it and is convinced he is doing his duty to God this way. You remember that old story about my grandfather and St. Thomas à Becket. However, Boniface is not a fool with regard to the pope’s greed. He has already appointed Richard de Wiche as bishop and seen that all the revenues were distributed to the proper persons.”

  William made no reply to that other than a low whistle. Richard nodded and continued. “That settled the matter of Winchester. Henry knew it was a lost cause anyway, and I think Savoy had told him he no longer desired it. Henry was hanging on out of stubbornness, but he saw quickly enough that yielding on Winchester, which the pope has been urging so strongly, would gain much sympathy for his point of view about Chichester.”

  “So be it,” William remarked. “Chichester is not important enough to worry about, and since Passelewe and de Wiche are both ‘English’, the barons will not care much, although there are many who hate Passelewe because of his exactions after the forest inquisition. Still, this is not the tinderbox thing that Winchester was. If that is all of your bad news, we are most fortunate.”

  “No,” Richard said grimly, and had anyone been there who had known King John, he would have shuddered, so strong was the look of the old king on the son at that moment. “Gruffydd ap Llewelyn is dead.”

  “Dead?” William’s voice scaled upward.

  “The day I had your letter, I had also one from Henry on the same matters. I had known about David’s appeal to the pope. If I did not mention it to you—”

  “Never mind,” William put in, smiling. “You were in no mood for business when I last spoke to you and the matter was scarcely urgent.”

  “Then i
t was not, but this matter of Gruffydd makes it much worse.”

  “Was there something suspicious in how he died?” William asked.

  Richard shrugged. “No… Yes… I do not know. William, you know what the Welsh are. He tried to escape. He made a rope of cloth—sheets, tablecloths, tapestries—and tried to climb down. The knots did not hold. He was a big, heavy man. He fell to his death.”

  There was an appalled silence out of which Alys said softly, “Everyone says they are like wild beasts, and I suppose it is true in that they cannot bear to be caged.”

  William shuddered, but he did not take his eyes from Richard’s. “There was no other way to hold him,” he assured his friend. “His parole was worthless. No one will blame Henry for this. He was permitted his wife’s company, and others, and provided with every luxury—”

  “Except freedom,” Richard broke in bitterly.

  “Be reasonable,” William urged. “He would have raised war when Henry had promised David peace. And, if he had been taken by David, his fate, I mean while he lived, would have been worse.”

  “You never liked him,” Richard said.

  “No, I did not and I do not like David any better. I wish old Llewelyn had been less farsighted and abided by Welsh custom. If he had divided the lands between them, they would have been enough occupied with fighting each other to leave us in peace.”

  “Oh no,” Richard remarked angrily, “it would have been the same. One or the other would have appealed to Henry, and he would have let himself be dragged in—”

  “It is his duty and his right,” William stated. “He is overlord of Wales. He must settle quarrels between his vassals.”

  “Everyone except the Welsh is in agreement,” Richard snapped, and then sighed. “Well, it does not matter. They are in arms again.”

  “What? Over Gruffydd’s death? How did they hear so soon?”

  “How can you ask that, William? You yourself wrote to me about the rumors that everyone had heard. What did you think Gruffydd intended to do when he reached the ground, walk or swim to Wales? This was not one man’s doing. How could it be that the guards did not notice tablecloths and tapestries missing? Do you think it takes a minute to cut such things and tie so long a rope? I do not doubt someone rode off to Wales less than an hour after it happened. All that I cannot guess is who was involved and whether it was intended that Gruffydd escape or die.”

  “One would depend upon the other, I should think,” Raymond said, then stopped and flushed when both older men looked hard at him.

  “Yes? Well?” William urged.

  “I beg your pardon,” Raymond said. “I should not have thrust myself forward.”

  “Oh no,” Richard remarked. “You cannot whet our appetites with a statement like that and then withdraw. Let us hear the rest.”

  William also smiled encouragingly, and Raymond realized his sharpness had been interest not irritation because a young man intruded his thoughts on his elders, a frequent problem Raymond met at home. Still, he continued a little less certainly than he had begun.

  “It seems to me that there must be two, or rather three, possibilities. The first is simplest, those who love Gruffydd and simply could not bear to think of him caged.”

  “A small and unlikely group,” William muttered under his breath. Richard shook his head at his friend but did not speak.

  “Then there are those who either do not desire a war in Wales or, rather, wish to see King Henry’s influence reestablished by the desire of the Welsh rather than by force of English arms. Last, there must be a group that urgently desires to have all impediment to free action by David ap Llewelyn removed.”

  William shifted uneasily in his seat, but Richard cast him a warning glance and he held his tongue.

  “I see where you lead,” Richard commented, “but say it for me. Those who loved Gruffydd, of course, desired him alive and free for his own sake. Go on from there.”

  “From what I have heard,” Raymond continued, so intent on what he was saying that he missed the byplay between Richard and William, “if Gruffydd had come to Wales alive his first act would be to gather those faithful to him and attack his brother. The immediate result would be that David would have to use the force he has raised to resist Gruffydd rather than to attack the English. The second result must be that either David or Gruffydd, or both, would appeal to King Henry for help and reestablish the treaty as the king desires.”

  “Are you suggesting that the king urged or was party to the escape attempt?” Richard asked quietly.

  “Sacred Heaven, no!” Raymond exclaimed, with every evidence of sincerity. “I never thought at all,” he added with a guilty look in William’s direction. “I was only reasoning it out like a puzzle.”

  As he spoke, a last nail was hammered into the coffin holding his suspicions of Sir William. The clerk could have heard a conversation very like this one, Raymond thought, where innocent speculation had taken on an ugly implication. Certainly Raymond had no intention of turning Richard’s mind against his brother yet that implication could very easily be read into his words, and he had spoken them even after William had warned Alys against just this sort of thing.

  “I am sure,” William said dryly, “that if the king was in any way interested in Gruffydd’s escape it would have been accomplished safely. What need for sheets and tablecloths? If no tale of bribery so that Gruffydd could walk out the door would work, surely a decent rope could have been provided. It is far, far more likely that David wished to be free of the millstone around his neck.”

  “It is more likely that one brother would seek to destroy the other?” Richard remarked with distaste.

  “Oh Richard, you know it is a family tradition among the Welsh. Do you want me to give you instances? There was never any love between-David and Gruffydd. David himself imprisoned Gruffydd and, I heard, not so kindly as Henry did.”

  “He imprisoned him. He did not kill him or even arrange his death,” Richard said softly.

  “While David held Gruffydd himself, he did not need to do so,” William snapped. “What could those who favored Gruffydd do with their lord in David’s hands? It was a very different matter while Henry held him. For David it was better that Gruffydd should run free than that he should be available for your brother’s use.”

  “It is indeed very curious and significant that Gruffydd should die just when David was seeking to throw off King Henry’s yoke,” Raymond added, trying to redeem the damage he had done. “If he had not, the king would have had an alternate ruler to offer the Welsh. That was the third case, and the most likely of all, I believe. I agree with Sir William that a better type of escape could have been arranged had it ever been intended that Gruffydd should come alive out of the Tower. None could benefit from his death except David ap Llewelyn, or those attached to his cause.”

  Richard sighed and nodded. He had been playing devil’s advocate because he had a dreadful fear that Henry had been somehow involved. It was a relief to him that someone who he believed could not have any partiality, absolved his brother from considerations of pure reason. Alys neither agreed nor disagreed, but her eyes were admiring as they rested on Raymond. No other young man had spoken with such freedom before her father and Richard of Cornwall, and had made good enough sense that they hung on his words with deep interest. Competent herself, Alys had a strong taste for competency.

  “Then it will be war,” William said, smiling slightly. “When should I be ready?”

  Raymond heard the hiss of Alys’s indrawn breath and looked up the table at her, but her face was still, her eyes fixed now on the remains of the meal. Richard’s squires moved around with well-trained quiet efficiency, refilling wine cups. The earl had also heard, and he looked down at the girl beside him and patted her hand. But, even while he offered wordless comfort, his attention was really on William.

  “You have not heard it all yet,” he said wryly. “I told you it was a long tale. The king of Scotland, moved by that devil of
a father-by-marriage of his, has sent a repudiation of his homage to my brother. He claims he holds no lands in Scotland of Henry, and to make this true he has spread the border of Scotland south to cover all the territory he did homage for when he was last here.”

  “Do you think this was concerted between David and Alexander?”

  “God knows, but it is hard to believe that so close a coincidence is completely an accident.”

  William growled softly then shrugged. “There is no difference whether it is planned or not. Both challenges must be met. We will be spread a little thin, but we are big enough for them both. Just tell me which we are to fight.”

  “You will go to Wales,” Richard said, a dissatisfied frown on his face.

  “I will go to Wales?” William echoed, frowning also. “I will do as you bid me, of course, but to speak plain truth, Richard, I had rather go with you.”

  “I had rather also,” Richard said, “but I have little choice in the matter. The Welsh war is to be managed by de Bohun and Clare.”

  “Clare?” William gasped. “But the Earl of Gloucester is not much older than Raymond here, and de Bohun—”

  “Yes,” Richard interrupted, “that is why I said I had little choice. You must go, and if it seems that those two hotheads are about to do something particularly stupid—”

  “Now what attention would de Bohun or Clare pay to me?” William asked, smiling.

  “Little, but you will not be afraid to open your mouth, which is important, and my men and others who know how dear you are to me will be willing to support you once you speak, although they would not be willing to step forward on their own.”

  “So much is true, Richard, but you give me too much credit. I have fought in Wales before, but only as squire to Chester or in your tail. How do you expect me to know what is brave lunacy and what is daring practicality?”

  “You have this comfort,” Richard responded, “that few will know better than you. The great old Marcher lords are all dead. We are all novices, David ap Llewelyn no less than we. And you have this advantage, the lesser men, who have long lived and fought in Wales, will be willing to tell you of their doubts where they would not be willing to broach such ideas to Clare or de Bohun.”