Siren Song Read online

  “That is a high lord for a squire of so little note.”

  Raymond was growing less happy by the moment. Rannulf of Chester had been known throughout Europe as a man of the highest character, just, merciful, unwavering in his faith, fearless in advice, fine of purpose. Could a boy trained by the late earl of Chester grow up into a man who would maliciously seed discord in the royal family?

  “That is true,” Henry agreed, “but I believe he was taken because my brother begged for his company. After the country was at peace and Chester was not every day in the forefront of battle, he was my brother’s guardian.”

  Henry was a very self-centered person. Except for his wife, he rarely noticed what other people felt. This was not owing to coldness or indifference. Henry was a warm-hearted, loving man. It was merely that he was king, had been king since he was twelve years of age. By and large, people tried to echo and mirror the king’s feelings and, if they felt differently, kept it to themselves. His guardians, of course, should have molded him better, but they were more concerned to teach the young king politics than to give him understanding of individual feelings. Thus, Henry did not notice the reservation in Raymond’s manner and voice.

  “Then the earl of Cornwall and Sir William are longtime companions,” Raymond pointed out, trying to make the king see that the evil influence would have to be much older than a few years. The king’s expression clearly showed he had not taken the point, and Raymond went on. “I cannot see, sire, what so small a man could gain from such a thing. And surely, he must risk all by speaking ill of you to the earl of Cornwall. It is well known, even in my land so far from here, that the earl of Cornwall is most true and loving to you.”

  “Yet it was not always so.” Henry’s face darkened alarmingly. “When Richard Marshal raised rebellion against me thirteen years ago, my brother was very near to joining him.”

  The king, Raymond realized, feeling a little cold, carried grudges a long time. “That must have been a false tale told you by an enemy,” he protested.

  “Richard told me so himself, to my face,” Henry snapped pettishly. “And only six years ago, when I gave my sister to the earl of Leicester—both of them came weeping to me and begging my help, for they were mad for love and had long tried to vanquish the feeling and could not—Richard spoke to me most foul in full council.”

  “Surely you cannot doubt your brother’s love,” Raymond breathed. “He has proved it again and again.”

  What had he made himself agree to? he wondered. Was this uncle, praised to the skies by his young wife, some kind of monster who intended to destroy his own brother?

  But Henry’s face had cleared. “No,” he agreed, smiling, “I do not doubt Richard. He acknowledged his fault most handsomely and has supported me since then. But you asked me what such a small man hoped to gain. Is it not clear he hoped to gain a king who would raise him up among the mighty of the land?”

  Raymond’s mouth opened and closed without sound, his voice being suspended by horror. This time the emotion was so apparent that Henry could not miss it, and he laughed and shook his head.

  “No, no, I am not accusing Richard of treason. However mistaken my brother may have been in his actions, he never thought harm to me. He thought, of course, that he would save me from harm by preventing me from some act that would anger my barons. But I do not think Sir William wished to save me from harm. He, I think, hoped Richard’s action would so turn the nobles against me that I would be killed in war or by murder. Then he would sit at the king’s right hand.”

  That made a kind of sense. Raymond frowned in thought. “Have you spoken to Earl Richard and—”

  “You do not know my brother,” Henry said. “He is the most loyal man in the world. You heard what I said just before. As Richard would not for any reward be disloyal to me, so is he to other men. If I spoke to him, he would defend his friend. No, I need proof. Hear me. I do not think this Sir William is a fool—Richard does not suffer fools gladly. He would not speak open ill of me to Richard, no man could do so and retain my brother’s good will. He would say, ‘The king harms himself much by this thing he does. For his own good, it would be well to curb him at all cost.’ But perhaps among his own family and friends he speaks differently.”

  That, too, might be true, Raymond thought.

  “I cannot act against Sir William because Richard would be furious. I have made enquiry and so much is true that they are frequent companions. Whenever Richard is at Wallingford, he spends some time in Marlowe or Sir William goes to him.”

  “Are you perfectly sure the tale is true?” Raymond asked.

  “No. That is my second reason for holding my hand. I am this sure, that the clerk who carried the tale had no private reason to do so. He is not connected with Sir William in any way except that the abbey in which he was trained is nearby. It seems he heard by accident some talk that betrayed Sir William’s purpose. Still, things overheard can be misunderstood. There is a chance, indeed, that Sir William is not guilty.”

  The feeling of being trapped by his own too hasty offer of help, of being a dirty instrument used to cut a man down, receded. Raymond smiled. The king was well within his rights to weed out disloyal subjects. Raymond still felt a little uneasy about acting the spy. However, so long as his purpose was to discover the truth, not to find evidence by hook or crook to condemn an innocent man, Raymond was willing to gain his freedom by a small subterfuge.

  “But I do not know this man,” he pointed out, “nor even Earl Richard. What am I to say to him? I do not see—”

  “Oh, I will give you a letter, saying—if you will forgive me the jest—that you came penniless to my court seeking succor. I will ask Sir William to take you into his household. As to why I send you to him rather than to another, I will say Richard has spoken well of him to me and so I thought he would be a kind master to a young man needing kindness.”

  At that Raymond laughed aloud with relief. He could scarcely be accused of spying if he came with a letter from the king. Apparently Henry did not wish to de­ceive his brother’s vassal, only to discover the real truth.

  “Excellent,” he agreed. “I can be a simple Sir Raymond from Aix. That will not give me away. Every third man in Provence and Aix is named either Raymond or Alphonse.”

  “Perfect,” Henry approved, and they laughed together like children over the mischief they were brewing.

  Then Raymond’s smile faded. “But how long am I to stay with Sir William? What if I find nothing that suggests either guilt or innocence?” He smiled wryly. “Sooner or later I suppose I must go home or at least tell my father where I am.”

  “I did not intend that you should spend the rest of your life as a hireling knight,” Henry laughed. “I have not yet told you the end of the tale. There has been trouble in Wales. I will not take the time to explain that in full now. There is always trouble in Wales. But it grows more and more likely that we will have to march in with an army and lesson this David ap Llewelyn. What this clerk Theobald overheard was that Sir William’s new plan for enraging Richard against me was to force me to attack him.”

  “Attack him?” Raymond said with patent disbelief.

  “Not with an army, but to seem to persecute him,” Henry explained. He paused, and his face darkened again. “I am always accused of unjust persecution. When I wished to free myself from being shackled like a slave to the will of Hubert de Burgh, that was unjust persecution. When I wish to obtain a see for a dear friend and a relation I am accused of persecution of Walter Raleigh. When Richard protects his friends, that is noble. When I do it, that is persecution.”

  Raymond was appalled. The king’s voice had risen to a petulant whine as he recounted his wrongs and there was nothing Raymond could say. What Henry complained of was both true and not true, according to the tales Raymond had heard in Aix. De Burgh had certainly become too great and needed a set down, but Raymond’s father said he thought the king had carried the matter too far and too long. It was the actio
n, Alphonse d’Aix pointed out, of a young man who still feels the chain of tutelage when all others can see that it has fallen away. Thus he continues to strike out for freedom after the enemy has fallen and should be shown mercy.

  In the matter of the see of Winchester, which Raymond had heard about in every hospice in France, Henry again was not totally innocent nor totally at fault. He had begun a perfectly legitimate campaign on behalf of a perfectly worthy man, but the see of Winchester had long been held by a great man of affairs who was more often absent from his diocese than in it. Those who held the right of electing the bishop claimed they had suffered neglect because their lord’s attention was so much drawn away from them. Thus, when the king suggested to them another man much like Peter des Roches, the previous bishop, they said they would not have him and elected Walter Raleigh, also learned and wise but with no political interests or foreign connections.

  Fortunately for Raymond, Henry did not expect a response to his complaint. Until he was made aware of the fact by near brutality, the king assumed that everyone to whom he spoke was in complete agreement with him. It was an unfortunate assumption and the cause of much pain because, when someone was finally forced to disagree violently enough to make the king understand, Henry was all the more shocked and hurt. This time, however, the long-dead de Burgh and the see of Winchester were side issues. Henry shook off his petulance to return to the immediate problem.

  “Sir William’s plan, as I understand it, was either to be so slow when called to fight in Wales that he would be fined or reprimanded, or to cause such disruption in the campaign against the Welsh as to produce the same result. Then, when accused or blamed, to fly to Richard saying I wished to disseisen him or some such. That, on top of the Winchester affair and perhaps some other things of which I do not know, was to rouse my brother against me.”

  There was something wrong in what Henry was saying. If Sir William was Richard’s vassal, it should be Richard who would summon him to Wales. However, Raymond was aware that he did not really know whether the terms of vassalage were the same in England as in his country. Besides, he was not in a mood to examine things too closely. He was thrilled at the idea of a masquerade in which he would not have to play the role of a responsible heir of great territories. He nodded gleefully when Henry told him the Welsh affair would surely come to a head within six months. Six months would be a delicious spell of freedom. It would be a pleasure after that to go home and be cosseted. Then, if his mother still sought to shackle him, he would tell her plain he would be off again and see if that taught her wisdom.

  Chapter Two

  The keep at Marlowe was not very large, but it drew a look of surprised admiration from Raymond, for he judged it to be near impregnable if properly manned. It was set upon a hillside above the river, and below the two huge round towers that joined to make up its southern face, the hill had been cut sheer away and faced with stone. From the sides of the towers, the walls of the outer ward marched away east and west, curving back from the bank. To the west, which Raymond could see best, the walls ran down to the foot of the hill where a wide channel had been dug to provide a moat. This curved around toward the north and disappeared. Probably, Raymond thought, the moat did not go all the way around because of the rise of the land.

  The drawbridge was down and a fair amount of traffic was moving over it, merchants on mules riding beside empty or near-empty carts coming out, servants and serfs who labored on the near sections of the demesne farm coming in. Raymond examined the faces of those he passed with interest. He was a little surprised at the general look of well-being and contentment and at the easy answers he had to the questions he asked the merchants. Certainly on the surface it seemed that Sir William was neither hated nor feared.

  There were guards on the walls near the gate tower that controlled the drawbridge and portcullis, but they were lounging at their stations, idly watching those who came and went. When Raymond had entered, a man-at-arms did come forward, but he only greeted the young knight civilly and told him where to leave his horse. Guests were apparently frequent and welcome at Marlowe. On being asked, the man-at-arms assured Raymond that the lord was in the keep, and gestured behind him.

  It was then that Raymond realized there was no inner ward. From his present position, he could see that two matching great, round towers made up the north face of the keep and that between them was a stretch of wall almost as strong that had been roofed over. It was not until he entered the building by a relatively flimsy wooden stair, which ran up inside the wooden forebuilding on the flat western face, that he realized Marlowe was not very old. It had never been four towers connected by walls that originally enclosed a small inner bailey but had been built in recent times just as it stood.

  A remarkably ugly, deformed, but quiet-eyed elderly man advanced upon Raymond as he entered the hall and offered the hospitality of the house, introducing himself as the steward. Raymond thanked him without recoil. He was surprised at the position of influence that the deformed cripple held but not affronted by his ugliness. Such people were often used as buffoons or jesters. His mother had a little dwarf woman, although she was not near as ugly as this man. Raymond then asked whether Sir William could spare him a few minutes. The steward nodded and hobbled away, leaving Raymond to look around curiously.

  The keep itself was very strong. The door passage was ten long strides deep and opened into a wide and lofty hall lit by deep window embrasures on both flat walls. On the two short walls between the towers north and south, huge hearths blazed with fire. At each corner, a doorway led into one of the towers. Raymond assumed that one contained a stairwell to the upper and lower floors. The other three might be private living quarters and were large enough for two large or several small chambers. Naturally Raymond did not expect to be accommodated in such luxury. For a hireling knight, a cot or even a pallet on the floor of the hall would be sufficient. He did not mind. He was not so far from his duties as a squire that he had lost the ability to sleep in comfort on the hardest floor. A deep, pleasant voice spoke his name.

  “Sir William?” Raymond responded, wishing to be sure this was really the man.

  He asked because he was surprised again, and had to remind himself sharply that evil can often wear a pleasant mask. But Sir William’s face had little of the mask about it. Square and, at first glance, uncompromising, it was softened by a surprisingly sensitive mouth, wide and mobile, and dominated by large hazel eyes that were shaded by laughably long, curling lashes. Moreover, the broadness of the face implied at first glance a stolidity that did not exist on further examination. Raymond, young as he was, could easily read the emotions that played across it—pleasure in a guest, curiosity, friendliness. He felt a twinge of doubt at the part he was playing, but reminded himself that the only deceit in it was the concealment of his real status and blood-relationship to the queen.

  “Yes, I am Sir William. Can I serve you in some way, Sir Raymond?”

  “I hope I can serve you, sir,” Raymond replied. “I have a letter to you from the king that will explain.”

  “From the king?” Sir William’s brows shot upward in frank amazement, but Raymond could detect not even the smallest hint of fear or anxiety, and his hand stretched out at once to take the letter without a tremor. He examined the seal before he broke it, but only cursorily, like a man of unsuspicious nature who also had no reason to fear any trap. His eyes skimmed the opening lines and came to the body of the letter, whereupon his mouth firmed, the corners tucking back in distaste.

  That was all Raymond saw because Sir William turned away quickly, carrying the letter toward the nearest window. It was true the light would be better there, but it was quite sufficient where they stood. Raymond was sure Sir William had walked away to hide what he felt until he could control his expression. He was right. When Sir William returned, his face was blank, the mobile mouth set hard, and the expressive eyes hidden behind lowered lashes. That was suspicious, but Raymond felt no satisfaction, onl
y disappointment and embarrassment. He had liked Sir William on first sight and had never before been in a place in which he, personally, was not welcome. If it had not been for his promise to King Henry, Raymond would have left right then, preferring to sleep in an open field and go hungry rather than accept grudging hospitality. He felt his color rise.

  William had been rather surprised when Martin told him there was a young knight asking for him by name, but the mild surprise William felt at first was nothing compared to his amazement when the young man had said he came from the king. In spite of the fact that the king’s brother was William’s closest friend, he had never had much to do with Henry. He had always done his best to avoid the king. Since there were always large numbers of men striving for Henry’s notice and favor, William had been quite successful in this purpose. In fact, until Raymond presented himself, William had believed that the king would not recognize his face and probably would barely recognize his name. He had first been thoroughly annoyed by the tone of the letter and by the assumption that feeding the flock of foreign scarecrows who followed the court around was the duty of every landholder in England. Now, however, seeing the painful flush on Raymond’s face, William’s irritation disappeared. At least this Raymond seemed willing to work for his keep. If all young Raymond had asked for was an introduction to someone who had place for a knight in his household that was an honest enough desire.

  Actually William did need just such a person as Raymond seemed to be. He had lost his squire to a virulent chill and fever the preceding winter, just as the young man was ripening into real usefulness. That loss had been the more painful because it came on top of the previous loss of the castellan of Bix, Sir Peter, who had taken over William’s responsibilities when he was called away to war or foreign travel in Richard’s tail. William had not replaced the castellan of Bix because he intended that place for poor Harold—and now Harold was dead and he had no one. William could only assume that Richard had passed this information to his brother and that the king had remembered when a likely candidate for such a place had appeared.