SirenSong Read online

  “Well, go in.” Alys’s voice came sharply through the opening of the door.

  “I do not wish to intrude on such old friends,” Mauger replied, completely without inflection.

  “Do not be so silly,” Alys snapped. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Sir Mauger, but if Papa wanted privacy he would lock the door. He often closes it to keep in the warmth.”

  Elizabeth laughed aloud at the stunned expression on William’s face. Plainly Alys had told a barefaced lie in the smoothest and most natural manner, and her father had never before caught her at such a thing. The sound, as well as Alys’s warning guaranteed that Mauger would neither hear nor see anything improper whether he waited or burst in at once, so he opened the door fully. He found his wife still smiling, her face turned toward the door, and William wearing an expression of surprised affront that was scarcely loverlike.

  “I heard you had been taken ill just after I left, Elizabeth,” Mauger said. “I am glad to see you so quickly recovered.”

  “I was not ill,” Elizabeth answered colorlessly. “I had a shock and felt faint for a few minutes. Sir William brought me in here because he also thought I was ill and cold.”

  It was the exact truth. Elizabeth, who had to live with Mauger, did her best not to lie to him because she would have to remember her lies or be caught in them.

  “But what could have shocked you here?” Mauger asked.

  His voice was smooth, but Elizabeth knew he was in a violent rage. Suddenly she realized that he had almost certainly gone off with Alys to try to talk her into becoming betrothed to Aubery. If Alys had been careless and Mauger guessed that Elizabeth had warned her… He would kill her! She paled and did not answer. She had forgotten the question. She did not see William’s color rise as hers fell or the way he tensed, but Alys saw.

  “It was my fault,” she said, her voice sharp and spiteful. “I forgot it was the custom in your family, Sir Mauger, to keep your women in ignorance like Moslem slaves. I told Lady Elizabeth about the war in Wales.”

  “Alys!” William snapped, shocked at the tone and disrespect.

  “I am truly sorry,” Alys then said, having given a good reason for her father’s flush and tenseness. Her voice softened. “I had forgotten also that Aubery was with the Earl of Hereford and would be in some danger.”

  “I had no intention of keeping my wife in ignorance,” Mauger growled, goaded away from Elizabeth’s doings by his fury with the spoiled bitch of Marlowe. “I did not know myself.”

  The exchange had given Elizabeth time to think. Alys, she realized, would never betray her to Mauger, whom she had never liked. She had better get Mauger and William apart before something happened to put them at each other’s throats. Elizabeth stood up.

  “I would like to go home now, please,” she said. “I would like to write—I mean, have a letter written to Aubery.”

  Numbly, William responded to the flat statement by going into the hall and telling one of the menservants to have Sir Mauger’s horses brought from the stables. Aubery! But Elizabeth had not once mentioned the boy in connection with the Welsh war, only when they had been talking about… He sought wildly for an excuse to keep her, but there was none except the truth and it was unthinkable to expose her when he must soon leave.

  But he could not go back to the old relationship with Elizabeth. He had tasted her. What if Mauger— No, Elizabeth said he had not touched her in years and there was that woman…Emma. William sighed. Thank God for Emma. Besides, now he remembered Mauger had said something about being called up for Wales himself. That was odd…

  He had no time to think it through, however, for Mauger was beside him, saying a formal farewell. William had to give his attention to it lest he do something stupid, and by the time he turned to help Elizabeth to mount, she was up already. She was pale, very pale, but that did not surprise him. He felt as if his own heart was being torn out.

  Chapter Nine

  William shifted on his cot and thought wearily that a hundred miles or a thousand separating him from Elizabeth would not procure him a full night’s sleep. Distance did not mute the siren’s song. He was in no physical need, there were drabs enough in the camp, and he had no taste for anything better than a vessel to empty himself into as he would use a chamber pot. It was most fortunate that Richard was not with this army. William did not believe he would have been able to fulfill his usual part in the jollifications Richard made so much a part of camp life. He was actually glad to be able to say he was too busy when the other vassals wished to make merry in the town.

  He need not have been “too busy”. Raymond could have checked that clerk’s accounts. It was obvious that large-scale supplies for war were things with which Raymond was very familiar. Raymond… William shifted uneasily again. Raymond was not happy. Oh, he was enjoying the war. He had been delighted with the two small engagements they had fought. Perhaps he was a trifle too daring, but he was a very strong fighter and he had held his place well, not indulging in dangerous heroics.

  Raymond was carrying a burden around with him, however, just as William himself was. They were sharing a tent for convenience and economy, and too often when William lay awake he could hear that Raymond was also sleepless. Another symptom of the young man’s unease was a recent spate of looking unhappily at William and saying, “Sir—” and then letting his voice drift away. Or, if William was so unkind or lacking in thoughtfulness as to ask, “Yes, what?” flushing up and shaking his head with an awkward, “Nothing. Sorry, sir.”

  William’s sore heart ached for him also. It seemed so hard that, having lost so much already, he could not have the sweet compensation of a woman he could love. The hunger in his eyes when a messenger rode in from Marlowe with a letter from Alys was pathetic. Why should Raymond not have Alys, William asked himself again. Alys seemed somewhat inclined in that direction, and she had certainly decided against Aubery for good, although she confessed to her father that she had not been as definite with Sir Mauger, because it was really her father’s business to refuse the match.

  That knowledge sent William off to Hereford two days ahead of his troop so that he could speak privately and at length with Aubery. The talk was one bright spot in the muddle of unhappiness. Shamefaced but honest, Aubery had confessed he had no more desire for Alys than she had for him.

  “I do not know why, sir,” the boy said, blushing hotly, “for she is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen, but…but…”

  “Never mind, Aubery,” William had replied, sighing with relief that Elizabeth’s son, whom he loved for his own sake also, would not be hurt. “I am only glad that you and Alys are agreed. I would have liked you for a son, but I hope I have not lost much. I hope you will love me even if there is no blood bond between us.”

  The answer to that had been completely satisfactory, but, three days later, Aubery had come, white-faced, to beg William not to tell his father he had admitted he did not love Alys. William reassured him, saying that the admission had really had no effect on the question of the marriage. He would have grieved, if he knew Aubery had been hurt, but he would not have forced the marriage on Alys in any case. Aubery need not worry. It was William’s business to settle with Mauger, and he could easily do it from Alys’s point of view without ever mentioning Aubery.

  Although that was true, William found he could not approach Mauger with a rejection he knew would hurt and disappoint him. It just seemed too much first to refuse his son—for that was how it would seem if Aubery could not bring himself to say he did not want Alys—and then to take his wife. As his thoughts came back to Elizabeth, William groaned aloud.

  “Are you ill, sir?” Raymond’s voice came anxiously from the other cot.

  William barely suppressed another groan. “No,” he said. “Go to sleep, for Mary’s sweet sake.” There was no reply, but William knew Raymond was watching him in the dark, and he added, “I have eaten and drunk nothing but from our own supplies. I am not sick or in pain. Go to sleep.”

 
; That was another puzzle. Two weeks past, when they were still mustered at Hereford, William had returned from a hunt with the earl and some cronies to find a roast and garnished goose in his tent. The gift had not surprised him. When men with loving wives received special tidbits from home, they often shared them with friends. He had not eaten of it because he was bid to dinner in the keep and, because he was hurried, he forgot to leave a message that Raymond should eat it. Then, either he or Raymond had left a flap of the tent undone, and one of the dogs that roamed the camp had found his way in. When William had returned he had tripped over the sprawled body of the dog—dead.

  Anything might have killed the animal. It was a stray, mangy and scrawny, but it was a suspicious thing that no one would come forward and say he had sent the goose. William had not inquired about any of these matters, but Raymond had gone about the camp to offer thanks for the gift and no one would accept the thanks. That roused Raymond’s suspicions, and he had voiced them to William, who had laughed at him, asking who in the world could want him dead.

  Neither of them could answer that question, and the dog’s body and the half-eaten goose were already disposed of. It was a suspicious circumstance, but there was no one to suspect except Richard’s clerk. William liked him no better than he had at first, but there was no sign of dishonesty in his records. It was ridiculous to suspect him anyway because he could not have had anything to do with the other two incidents. But they must be accidents of camp life, William told himself.

  Private quarrels did break out in an army, and the men involved were sometimes so infuriated that, instead of quieting when ordered to do so, they turned on the authority that tried to constrain them. It was fortunate that he and Raymond had been armed, being on their way to practice jousting. Even so, it had been a near thing. There had been only four men when they dismounted to settle the fight, but several more had rushed over. The noise had carried, and rescue had arrived before he or Raymond had been hurt. The men had scattered, except the few Raymond and he had killed or wounded, so that was the end of it.

  But then there had been the arrow that had skinned his left arm. That was a little harder to explain. It was a Welsh arrow, but many Englishmen used the Welsh bow now because it was easier to aim and much quicker to use than the crossbow, and it really was not likely that one single Welsh bowman would be so near the English camp. A few inches to the right, and William knew he would have been dead. Raymond had insisted that it was done apurpose, an attempt at murder, but William could not believe it. There simply was no reason for anyone to murder him—except Mauger.

  William nearly groaned again, but remembered Raymond in time and kept his feelings to himself. It could not be Mauger. Mauger did not yet know that he had a reason to hate his neighbor. He could not know. His manner to William was exactly the same as it had always been. In fact, Mauger had very good reason to want to keep William alive. Since he had not yet rejected the marriage between Alys and Aubery, Mauger must believe he still favored it. His death would end all hope of that union. Richard would doubtless find a much better match for Alys.

  The whole thing was ridiculous anyway, William thought exasperatedly. No one wanted him dead. God knew what the dog died of, maybe too full a stomach. The fight in the camp was an everyday occurrence. The arrow had doubtless been loosed by a thoughtless idiot who was scared out of his wits by his near miss and had hidden himself away. William would never have given any of the matters a second thought if it had not been for the way Raymond reacted. Suspicion not being enough, the young knight now dogged his master’s steps with the watchfulness of the nurse of a precious heir.

  It was embarrassing and yet so good and kind that he had not the heart really to scold Raymond. The anxious care would have been completely comical, except for one thing. William knew Raymond liked him—it was mutual—but he was sure such devotion was owing to Raymond’s terror of needing to tell Alys that harm had come to her father and he had not been there to prevent it. Raymond and Alys… Raymond had no lands, no home, and he loved Alys. If Raymond was there to protect Marlowe and Bix and Alys, he could take Elizabeth… William’s eyes closed and at last he slept.

  Just at dawn, he woke with a start, listening, but whatever sound had dragged him from his delightful dreams—if it had been a sound—was gone. He lay, thinking about those dreams, acknowledging with pain that Elizabeth was not bound to Mauger but to Hurley and, even if he were free of the responsibility of Alys and his lands, she would not be similarly freed. He sat up suddenly, and then looked guiltily toward Raymond, sorry if he had wakened him. He realized at once that Raymond had not been asleep. His glance had been so close to his quick movement, that he caught Raymond’s unguarded expression. William’s heart was wrenched. He knew that look too well. His own face had worn it too often for him to mistake the misery it betrayed.

  William said nothing. Raymond had already turned his back. In any case, what could he say? If Alys could be happy with the man Richard had in mind for her, should he deprive her of luxury because he wanted her with him or because he wanted to ease Raymond’s suffering? Then it occurred to William that, although Richard loved Alys dearly, he had no idea what it was to want a woman he could not have. Richard had married twice for duty and both times had been fortunate. His first marriage had been happy, if not wildly passionate. His second looked to be even more successful.

  Without doubt, Richard would expect Alys to do the same. William had never thought about the matter before. He knew Richard would do no more than suggest as long as he was alive, and he had always rather counted on the marriage to Aubery. Richard knew about that plan. He had not been enthusiastic, saying Alys was worth much better, but agreed that if she wanted Aubery the union would make a nice block of power and land in a rich area.

  Things had changed, however. The plan concerning Aubery was ended, and William thought suddenly, I am about to go into battle today. I am not immortal.

  He had not even been scratched in the two skirmishes thus far, but accidents did happen. If that arrow had been a few inches more to the right… They were about to set a trap for the Welsh in a small village this very afternoon. By some crazy mischance it might happen that he could be killed. Richard was far away, still in Flanders or marching toward Scotland. Alys would be left naked. He used to count on Mauger to protect her, but Mauger would be in the same action this afternoon, and even if Mauger came out unscathed, he was no safe protector for Alys. He would force her into an unwanted marriage.

  No. No more forced marriages. William drew on a bedrobe and got his writing desk. Setting it across his knees, he explained the whole situation in great detail to Richard, including his wish that Alys be permitted to marry Raymond if that was what she desired.

  When William looked up from sealing the letter, he found Raymond’s eyes on him, “Sometimes,” he said with a smile, “I think I am a fool. All the times I have gone to war before, it was in the Earl of Cornwall’s tail. Thus, I have never had to think what would befall if I were hurt or killed. Richard, as you know, would care for Alys as if she were his own. This time, however, he is far away, too far away, if…” William hesitated, then told Raymond of the plan for marriage with Aubery that had been aborted.

  “Does Sir Mauger know you are opposed to it now?” Raymond asked, suspicion rising in his eyes.

  “No. I did not think this a good time to tell him. He is not…not easy with his sons. I was a little afraid he would be harsh with Aubery, blaming him for not fixing Alys’s affection. There is another reason too,” William said slowly, “which is private to me. However, you need not suspect Sir Mauger of wishing me ill. My death could not profit him because Richard, who is my overlord, has no reason to favor a marriage with Aubery except to oblige me.”

  Raymond nodded, but his face was frozen. The talk of Alys’s marriage was tearing him apart. It was impossible for him to offer for her, impossible from every way he looked at it. His father would have a fit, would probably disown him for taking a wi
fe who brought no fortune and no alliance. On the other side, he would do Sir William, whom he loved dearly, great harm if he married Alys. She would need to live with him in Aix, and Marlowe would have no master. Worse would befall the estate than what William was now saying he feared for it.

  Raymond already understood that Sir William, who was well young enough to father and raise a male heir, would not marry again. The subject had come up in an early talk with Alys. She had only shaken her head and said, “There is a woman he cannot have. He will take no other.” In the beginning, Raymond had thought that attitude lunatic. Now, when he thought of marrying some woman other than Alys for lands or power, he felt sick. Sir William thought he would leave the estate to Alys and her sons. Could Raymond take even that away from him?

  Reason was all on one side. Reason told him that when this war was over and he had proof to give King Henry that Sir William was a loyal man, he should not return to Marlowe. As he thought of it, such a pang of longing tore at him that, involuntarily, his breath hissed in. Surprisingly, Sir William did not ask about it, did not even look at him, but went on explaining how dear Marlowe was to him and that he hoped Alys’s husband would be willing to make it his home.

  Reason flew right out the tent door flap when Raymond realized Sir William was subtly encouraging him, whom he thought to be a penniless and homeless hireling, to try for Alys. “Sir—” he gasped.

  But Sir William shook his head firmly. “There is no need to consider such matters now. Only if I should die, you must go at once to Marlowe to make sure that no one tries to seize Alys or to influence her against her will until Richard should be free of his duties and able to take her into his care. Here is a letter for him, explaining all I have said to you.”

  “You think that there is great danger in this raid that is planned?” Raymond asked, rather surprised.

  William smiled. “No. More than in the two previous ones, yes. From what the scouts have told us, the village might be a trap, but it is a trap we wish to spring and precautions are being taken to avoid excessive danger.”