“No, not at all,” William replied, furious with himself for showing a distress he could not explain. “It has nothing to do with him. Why are you so concerned—and why ‘Raymond’ rather than ‘Sir Raymond’? I want to know why you chose to ride out with him.”
“Because he does not speak a word of English, Papa. What is wrong? Why should I say ‘Sir Raymond’ to someone who is little more than a servant in our house? I went rather than sending Diccon or one of the other men because I wanted to find out what I could about him. And…and he is not what he says he is. He does not know the things that Harold knew, and he knows things he should not. Shall I drive him out, Papa? I can do it by—”
“No,” William interrupted, much calmed by Alys’s willingness to be rid of Raymond. “There is nothing in what Mauger had to say that reflects on Raymond, although Mauger thought there might be. I will tell you about that presently. As for Raymond’s past condition, I judge the same as you. He has a style and a way that shows high breeding.”
“Then what is he doing here? Why did he lie to us?”
“I do not believe he did lie to us,” William replied consideringly. “He said nothing other than that he hoped I would give him a place in my household, and I believe that to be true. I think his family has fallen upon bad times. Perhaps they were ruined by ambition or vice or even more likely fell afoul of the king of France.”
“I see. Of course, he would be ashamed of that and not wish to tell us or anyone. And it is reason enough to leave his own country where he would be known and might be suspected or pitied. Yes. That is quite reasonable, Papa. But what did Sir Mauger say?”
“Oh, he knew nothing of Raymond. Apparently Raymond did not arrive at court until after Mauger had gone. What Mauger did not like was that the king had sent him at all, because he says Henry is growing more suspicious of everyone and everything.”
Alys gasped. “Then he may be a spy. He—”
William guffawed. “A spy on what? How many lambs are being born? Alys, have a little sense. You know I have no influence on the doings in the see of Winchester and no connection any longer in Wales.”
“Wales? What—”
A scratch at the door interrupted her, and William called, “Enter.” Raymond stood in the opened doorway.
“I am sorry to interrupt, sir. The messenger you asked for is waiting, and Martin was not in the hall, so I—”
“Good,” William said, and then, impatiently, “well, call the messenger in and come in yourself. In fact, sit down for a minute. You, too, Alys. Just let me add two words to this letter and seal it.”
He picked up his quill, dipped it, glanced over his retelling of what Mauger had said about David and Gruffydd, and wrote, “Most likely you know all this already, but if it has not come to your notice, that would be particularly interesting because it would mark a special effort to keep you in ignorance. Sir Mauger might be wrong about any or all of the facts, but he is skillful at picking up rumor and has a son in Hereford’s household. Both David’s appeal to the pope and this rumor of freeing Gruffydd smell of trouble to me—if true. I hope Mauger is mistaken as to the facts, but if so, why are these tales flying about? It can do no harm to lay your ear to the ground. In haste, with love from myself to you and respect to Lady Sancia, William.”
He rolled the parchment, sealed it with string and wax, then handed it to the messenger. “To Earl Richard with what haste you may make. I think he is still at Wallingford. Put it into his hands only.”
The man bowed and left. Raymond felt like weeping. He had hoped so hard that the king’s suspicions would be groundless, and then this, a letter to be put into the Earl of Cornwall’s hands only. That meant that the content was dangerous if read by someone else, but what could a simple knight have to say to an earl that could be dangerous?
“I have just had some news from Sir Mauger,” William said, almost as if he were answering the question in Raymond’s mind, “that concerns your service with me, Raymond.”
“Who is Sir Mauger?” Raymond asked in surprise. “I have never heard of the man before.”
“No, you would not. He is my neighbor across the river and spends a good part of his time at court.” William went on to tell again the tale he had written to Richard. “You see,” he finished, “if either is true, it is likely to mean war with Wales.”
Alys drew in her breath sharply, and Raymond gritted his teeth, expecting a wail of protest followed by hysterics. William, however, did not glance apprehensively in her direction as Raymond’s father would have done. In fact, Raymond could not imagine his father making such an announcement in the presence of his wife or daughters. William’s eyes remained fixed on Raymond and he went on speaking quite calmly.
“If there is war, it is very likely that you will have to fight in it if you take service with me. By my tenure of Marlowe and Bix, I am required to furnish two knights and seventy footmen to Richard of Cornwall, who is my overlord. It is near certain that the king will call on his brother to support him, and if Richard goes, I go. Now, war in Wales is a very nasty business.”
“War is always a nasty business,” Alys said bitterly.
William laughed. “You are prejudiced, my dear. I do not blame you. You have the bitter of it without the better. For men, war has its good points when fought in a normal manner, but as I was saying, war in Wales often does not go by the usual rules and can become very dirty work. I can see no reason why you should be mixed into such a business, Raymond.”
“Do you have some reason, sir, to impugn my courage?” Raymond asked tightly.
“Good God, no!” William exclaimed, fighting a desire to grin and add injury to insult, all unintended. “Nor did I mean to cast the slightest shadow on it. If I had heard that Richard was going to Normandy or Gascony, I would not have given it a second thought. But there is nothing to be won in Wales, except hard blows. If we take a Welsh keep, it will be bare bones of stone. If we take an English one overrun by the Welsh, what would be left in it—if anything—will already belong to the king or one of the Marcher lords. It just seemed unfair to me that you should fight so hard without even a hope of booty or ransom.”
Raymond blinked, then bit his lip. He had almost asked haughtily what need William thought he had for booty or ransom. That would have been a prime piece of stupidity and totally foreign to the part he was playing. “I did not come to take service with you in the expectation of booty or ransom,” he said.
The remark had the merit of being true, but Raymond was very much troubled. Was this an attempt on the part of Sir William to be rid of him? If so, what had made the man suspicious? On the other hand, Raymond thought, his heart lightening, if he had not given cause for suspicion—and he could think of nothing unusual he had done or said—it was just as likely that Sir William meant no more than he had said. It would be the most natural thing in the world for a considerate man to warn one he thought in need that a campaign would not be profitable.
Alys had grimaced with disgust when Raymond spoke what she felt to be a peculiarly male idiocy. She had learned, however, that it was useless to protest against the lust of men to fight. Her mother had wept and wailed, pleading with Papa to hire a knight to fight in his place and sending him tragic letters with all the bad news in the hopes that it would bring him home. All she succeeded in doing was making Papa hide things from her.
“But it is not certain,” Alys said hopefully. “How could Sir Mauger know what Prince David did or did not do?”
“I did not say he did know,” William rejoined. “It is a rumor spread in the court.”
“By whom? Perhaps this is William of Savoy’s way to divert attention from Walter Raleigh’s woes?”
“Alys!” William exclaimed. “That is ridiculous! And for God’s sake, do not dare say it to Richard if he should come here.”
“Is Uncle Richard coming?” Alys asked joyfully, momentarily diverted even from the question of war.
“He might, if he is still at Wa
llingford and if he has not already heard what I told you.”
“Oh, goodness,” Alys gasped. “Will he bring Countess Sancia?”
“Now how can I tell you that?” William asked, smiling indulgently. “I do not even know whether Richard will come. If he wishes to spend the night, he will send ahead and let us know. But Alys, I am serious. Not one word of such a stupid idea about William of Savoy.”
Raymond had barely restrained himself from gasping when Alys did. The one thing the king had not considered was that Richard of Cornwall might bring his bride—who was also Raymond’s aunt—to his friend’s keep. Naturally, if Sancia laid eyes on Raymond, there would be no question of maintaining his pose. Internally, Raymond writhed with embarrassment at the thought of explaining himself. It was fortunate, he thought, that Sir William’s attention was wholly on Alys and hers on him, or both might have wondered what there could be about Countess Sancia to make their hireling knight red as fire.
In this, Raymond underestimated William, whose quick eye had caught both the stiffening when Sancia’s name was first mentioned and the blush that followed. It seemed a confirmation of his deductions that the young man should be so affected. Very possibly Sancia knew him from the days before his family had been ruined. William was annoyed with himself for forgetting to mention such a possibility to Richard so that he could warn his wife to pretend ignorance. But he had not wanted to mention Raymond or how he arrived at Marlowe at all. So far, between his interest in his new lady and years of experience, Richard had behaved with great circumspection in his opposition to the king’s persecution of Walter Raleigh. However, the tone of this last letter indicated that the Angevin temper was rapidly pushing its way through both preoccupation and experience.
Recently, Raleigh had been hounded like a felon. The gates of Winchester had been closed against him by order of the king. His goods had been confiscated, his friends forbidden to give him food and shelter. Richard could not tolerate this injustice and, in addition, could see that the other prelates and the nobility were growing resentful of Raleigh’s treatment. Thus, Richard had changed his stand and began to try to induce Henry to drop the matter. His approach was delicate at first. Nevertheless, although William of Savoy had himself begun to express doubts, Henry remained adamant, and Richard was beginning to lose patience.
Because he was distracted by his concern for Raymond from the primary object, which was to keep Richard from boiling over, William unwisely brought William of Savoy back into his daughter’s mind. He could have kicked himself for it. Had he just kept his mouth shut, Alys would have concentrated on the possible visit of Sancia and busied herself with household matters.
Now her eyes sparkled, and she said, “Why is it stupid?”
“William of Savoy is a good and clever man,” her father replied sourly. “He would never think there could be any ultimate benefit in stirring up a war. Besides, even if he has lost his mind and becomes possessed of devils and has done such a thing, it would be far better for everyone if Richard did not know it.”
“How can you say that?” Alys cried. “How can it be better for a false rumor to start a war—”
“Do not talk like a fool,” William snapped. “If it is a false rumor, it will not start a war, and Richard’s patience is already much strained by the difference of opinion between himself and the king on the treatment of the bishop-elect of Winchester. I will not have anything said, no matter how silly and no matter that it comes from the mouth of a chit who should know better, that could further inflame Richard against his brother. Are you an idiot, Alys, to think of such a thing?”
Her eyes dropped. “I am sorry, Papa. I do not want a war.”
Raymond had forgotten completely his concern over his aunt’s possible discovery of him. What he had just heard virtually proved his uncle-by-marriage was wrong about Sir William. Far from inciting Richard against the king, Sir William seemed intent on keeping the Earl of Cornwall and his brother on good terms. But there must be substance to the rumor William described. Raymond remembered that Henry had said to him that there was trouble in Wales.
“Sir—” he began, then hesitated, realizing he probably should not know of such things. But William was looking at him questioningly, and he had to say something. “Do you mean that the Earl of Cornwall would rise against his brother?” It was a question a stranger might safely ask, and the answer might well amplify or confirm the opinion he had of Sir William’s innocence.
“Of course not,” William replied smiling. “I do not believe anything could make Richard into a rebel, but certainly not a difference of opinion about the disposition of the see of Winchester. However, there is much bad feeling about it, and it would be better for all concerned if the king yielded and found some other see for William of Savoy. The thing is, if Richard loses his temper, he will shout and rant—as likely as not in public—and tell Henry a few home truths about being stupid and stubborn.”
“But that is no way to bring the king to reason,” Raymond protested.
William laughed. “You know it, and I know it, and Richard knows it too. But the Angevins have tempers. It is said that the king’s grandfather rolled on the floor and chewed rugs and pillows when his rage became ungovernable. Thus far Richard has spoken the king most fair, entreating him gently to reconsider and seek a new solution that will content everyone. I would not for the world have a word said, true or untrue, that would overset him.”
That seemed to settle the matter. Raymond could not believe this scene was set up to deceive him. It had come about too naturally. Besides, there had not been the smallest sign that Sir William or Alys was trying to hide anything. There was no need for Sir William to have given his letter and instructions to the messenger in Raymond’s presence. If he had not been bidden to sit down, he would have left the room. He would never have known a letter had been sent to Richard or that it was to be delivered into his hands only. Thus, Sir William had no cause to hide those facts.
There was then only the question of how Sir William felt about the war in Wales. He had said already that if Richard went, he would go also, but would he try to prevent Richard from going? “You say there is no profit in fighting the Welsh. Will you urge Earl Richard to try to divert the king from that also?”
“No. I doubt he will speak against it, and I certainly will not. If David ap Llewelyn is trying to break the agreement he made, he needs a lessoning. For myself, I do not at all mind a campaign in Wales. I only thought I should warn you that you will get no more out of it than your shilling a day.”
Alys uttered a frustrated sob, and Raymond stiffened and turned toward her, but William only said warningly, “Now, Alys!” and her face composed itself. Raymond could hardly believe such a marvel of self-command in a woman. He made some suitable remark about it being a poor kind of service that was only content with extra reward, and William smiled at him warmly. The young were always generous of their strength, being so sure they had enough and to spare of it—and of time also—to win a fortune.
Then he said gently, “Alys, will we eat today or not?” and she started out of the unhappy thoughts masked behind her quiet features and jumped up to see whether the tables were laid for dinner. Raymond rose also, and William nodded dismissal at him pleasantly.
When they were gone, he covered his eyes with his hands and let out a long breath. He hoped he would be able to eat enough so that Alys did not notice he was out of sorts. Welcome a war in Wales? He would welcome a cataclysm that shook the earth! Anything that would take him away from Marlowe would be welcome. How the hell was he going to sit here, two miles away from Elizabeth? He could feel the muscles in his legs tense with the desire to get up and go to her.
Ridiculous! For ten years they had lived two miles apart. But he had not known how much contempt and dislike she felt for her husband. He had not held her in his arms, nor tasted her lips, nor realized that she had loved him as quietly and hopelessly as he loved her all those years. If Mauger should die… Wi
lliam removed his hands from his eyes and they made fists. No. Mauger had done nothing in himself to merit hatred. He had his faults—he was vain and ambitious and a bad landlord and he cared nothing for his wife's comfort and self-respect—but he was not cruel or brutal or even dishonest.
There was no way out of this coil, none. Why had Elizabeth not stood fast? When his father had first announced to him that he was to marry the heiress of Bix, he had said no flatly. He would have Elizabeth of Hurley or no one. For days his father had reasoned and pleaded, then he descended to more direct methods of persuasion. William had been beaten, confined to a dank wall chamber, threatened with everything old Sir William could think of. He would have endured forever, or died, but Elizabeth had yielded. Why? Why? Stop being a fool, William told himself. She was thirteen, a frightened child in a strange keep with no one to turn to. She did not betray you. She could not help it.
Chapter Five
Lady Elizabeth had sat quietly as her husband and the man she had loved all her life discussed the knight who had come to William’s keep and the pending trouble in Wales. She did not really hear what they said, although her body seemed to throb in response to William’s voice. Why had he yielded? Elizabeth asked herself bitterly. He was older than she, stronger than she. If she had been able to resist being beaten, locked up, fed nothing but bread and water, and not much of that, why had William broken the oath they had sworn to each other?
She rose when the men did, but did not accompany them out of the keep. Like a sleepwalker she said a formal farewell and issued a formal invitation to her guest to return. Then she went up the stairs to her own chamber and closed the door. There she sat in a chair beside the banked embers of the morning’s fire. She tried to free her mind of old grief, but the feeling of being betrayed had been renewed, almost as fresh and bitter as when her father had first told her that William was married. Perhaps she would not have believed him if he had not enjoyed telling her so much. They had been through the familiar pattern…
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