Siren Song

by Roberta Gellis

  To Emma it made sense. She was not clever enough to look for layers of meaning. She knew deceit, but only the direct kind—stealing or lying for an immediate purpose. She knew nothing of laying out a path to be followed in the future. Thus, she was not suspicious and accepted Elizabeth’s kindness as it was meant. Having given the girl a soporific draught in warmed wine, Elizabeth went to see that dinner was properly served.

  Skinny, homely bitch, her husband thought as she entered the hall, but a good housekeeper. She was stupid, too, but that was useful. Talking to her was like talking to a wall. Sometimes something echoed back from it that made sense, but it did not volunteer anything. That was just as well. At least Elizabeth had never given any trouble. It was too bad he would probably have to kill her as well as William if he used their liaison as an excuse. Perhaps some other way of being rid of William would turn up. Elizabeth was useful in managing the estate.

  Alys was no great trencherwoman, but this dinner she ate more than either of the men who sat beside her. The fact that her father’s appetite was small did not surprise Alys. He usually ate very little, if he came home at all instead of spending the night with a whore in town, after a visit to Hurley. But she was surprised and somewhat worried by Raymond’s picking and feeding half of what he put on his trencher to the dogs. It was not in the least unusual for a young man seated beside her to lose his appetite, but Raymond did not display any of the symptoms Alys knew as characteristic of being smitten by love.

  That, however, was just Raymond’s trouble, although he had not yet admitted it to himself. He only admitted that, instead of being overjoyed when he discovered Sir William to be totally guiltless of anything the king suspected, his heart had sunk like a stone. First he tried to deny he was depressed, then he tried to dismiss the feeling. Finally, he told himself that it was because his mother would hear of his whereabouts sooner if he went back to court. That reason for his depression was so rational that he seized hard on it, only too willing to allow it to cover a deeper and far more dangerous reason for his distress.

  Put in terms of his mother, Raymond was able to examine the problem more calmly. His first thought when he realized Sir William was innocent was to rush back to court and tell Henry so. But what was the need for haste after all? An odd fluttering in his chest when Alys asked him a brief question, which he answered as briefly, strove to warn him that there was need for haste, that there was a desperate danger for him in this keep, but he would not heed the warning.

  In fact, Raymond told himself, it would be stupid to rush back to Henry and assure him Sir William was faithful. What evidence did he have? Only his own interpretation of a single conversation.

  To recount such a thing convincingly was another matter entirely. More likely the king would think he was a silly, inexperienced boy befooled apurpose by a clever older man. Then his defense would do Sir William more harm than good. What he needed, Raymond told himself, was better evidence. He should wait at least until Sir William was called to serve in the Welsh war, if there was one. Then it would be real proof to say, “He called up his men at once and went and fought bravely.” Yes, that would be best.

  “I fear my cooks are less skilled than those you are accustomed to,” Alys remarked snippily.

  Raymond turned blank eyes to her, then followed the direction of her gaze to the untouched food before him. It was true enough that English tables were furnished with far more plain roasts and fewer “made” dishes. Raymond did miss the highly spiced and seasoned ragouts of his home.

  “The food is different,” he admitted, “but just as good. My mind has been so full—so full of what you showed me today that I have forgotten to eat. I did not mean to offend you. I beg you to forgive me. New things, like new foods, take time to be digested.”

  All very smoothly spoken, but Alys was quite sure it was not how the serfs of Marlowe tilled their land that had glazed Raymond’s eyes. She was ashamed of herself for picking at him. To sit with herself and her father and be served so simple a meal—a soup, a baked swan, a boiled carp, a roast of venison, and a suckling pig, plus two stews of veal and beef—must indeed be a bitter reminder of his losses. How cruel of her to make it worse by stabbing him with words that named the difference aloud.

  “You must forgive me,” she said remorsefully. “I am out of temper because of this stupid Welsh business.”

  Raymond smiled. What a delightful way to be out of temper. No red eyes and nose, no lugubrious sobbing. “Oh, I imagine it will come to nothing,” he said mendaciously, accustomed to lying to women to comfort them.

  Alys would have been furious had she known he was lying, but she merely thought him ignorant of the true facts of the case. “I think it will come to war,” she said. “Papa thinks so too, I fear. I know he thought the terms imposed on David too hard, and Uncle Richard did also. When the king took Gruffydd prisoner instead of making David share the lands with him, he grew more hopeful, but even then he said he feared the treaty would not hold very long.”

  “Your uncle—pardon me—Earl Richard talks of these matters to you?” Raymond asked in a slightly stunned voice.

  “If I ask him, of course. I do not mean he tells me secrets of state. That would not be right, and neither does Papa tell me such things—not that I would ask—but he is very good about explaining public matters to me.”

  Alys glanced at her father, but he was chewing slowly, his eyes blind. He would hear nothing, she decided. And, if Uncle Richard was coming, it might be well to warn Raymond, who clearly did not think much of women.

  “Papa likes me to ask Uncle Richard questions,” Alys went on with a little giggle. “It not only improves my mind, but it helps Uncle Richard. You see, while he is explaining to me, there is no harm in his shouting and stamping about and calling great men idiots, which if he did it to their faces would cause infinite trouble. I would never betray him, of course, but it is doubly sure I will not because I do not come among such men.”

  “You are fit for it, certainly,” Raymond said, ridiculously angry at the notion that Alys should not be considered the equal of any woman, even his aunt, the queen.

  “I do not know about that, although Papa has taught me court usage as well as he can. But it is not my manners anyway. The thing is that I am not rich enough to marry so high and one of Uncle Richard’s friends made…made Papa an offer for me, to have me out of wedlock—”

  “Who?” Raymond roared, his hand falling to where his sword hilt should be.

  “Hush!” Alys hissed, casting a glance at her father.

  “Who what?” William asked, starting out of his private thoughts.

  “Who is my Uncle Richard,” Alys replied hastily, kicking Raymond good and hard under the table.

  “What do you mean, ‘Who is your Uncle Richard,’ and why in that voice?” William insisted.

  Alys giggled. “Because Raymond is annoyed with me. I have been teasing him.”

  “Teasing Raymond? What the devil is making you act the fool today, Alys? If you cannot act as befits your age and station, go and sit among the children of the maidservants as you deserve.”

  “I am very sorry, Papa.” Alys lowered her head under the rebuke. It was the correct gesture, but it also hid the fact that her eyes were dancing. Perhaps Papa should have stopped to couple a whore in the town. He was out of measure cross. Never having been afflicted either by love or desire, Alys found such torments rather funny. Still, it would be better to appease Papa before he really lost his temper. “I miss Harold,” she said quite truthfully. “Harold did not get angry when I teased him. I forgot.”

  Raymond had listened to this exchange in silence because he had not been able to command his voice. His sense of outrage at the insult offered to the most perfect woman he had ever met was so great that, had she named a name, he would have ridden out to challenge the man. He knew it was ridiculous. Plainly Alys had come to no harm, and between her father and the Earl of Cornwall, she had sufficient protection.

&nbs
p; It was all the more painful in that, instead of protecting her, his stupidity had brought trouble on her. The violent blow on his shin had pointed out to him most sharply that to remind her father of such an incident would be a dreadful solecism. And then, instead of saying that she did not know why he had fallen into a rage or tried to pass it off some other way, as his sisters would have done, Alys took all the blame upon herself.

  “I am at fault, sir,” Raymond put in, finding his voice. “I had no right to speak in such a tone to your daughter. I beg your pardon.”

  Alys’s apology had made William ashamed of his outburst which he knew was caused by his own unhappiness. He smiled at the crimson-faced young man. “I am glad you were so moderate. Alys’s teasing has made older and calmer people wish to strangle her.” He turned his eyes to his daughter. “Have a care,” he warned. “Harold grew up with you from a child and knew your ways.” Then he looked back at Raymond. “I imagine you wanted to know why Alys calls so great a man as Richard of Cornwall uncle. It is true that there is no blood bond. Simply, we have been friends from boyhood, Richard and I. He dandled her on his knees when she was a babe, and he did not wish that she should grow in awe of him.” William paused and his lips twisted wryly. “He should have known her better. Alys is not overgiven to awe. However, he bade her call him uncle and so she does.”

  “I see,” Raymond said. “Thank you.”

  Alys was still looking down, but her father noticed a faint wrinkle between her brows, as if she were considering some puzzling question. He could only hope that his warning had taken hold and she was thinking about how unsafe it was to be playful with a young man who had not grown up regarding her as a sister. Alys was too kind to wish to inflict needless pain on anyone. She was, indeed, but it was not her father’s warning that had given her food for thought. She was considering, with a strong mixture of concern, doubt, and pleasure, Raymond’s reaction to her mention of a proposition being made for her. Alys was quite familiar with the characteristic male response to deep insult, and Raymond had reacted like a man whose own wife had been offended.

  Chapter Six

  A week later Richard of Cornwall accompanied only by two squires rode into Marlowe just in time for dinner. He was travel-stained and weary, for he had ridden from London the previous afternoon. Raymond had heard much of the close friendship between Richard and Sir William, but it was still a surprise to him to see the familiarity with the earl and all the residents of the keep.

  He not only embraced Martin but asked anxiously about his health, referring to an illness the steward had suffered late in the preceding year. There was no mistaking the earl’s real concern nor his fondness for the elderly, ugly cripple. By the time he had been reassured, Alys had flung herself into his arms in joyous welcome.

  “I’m so glad you have come. I have not seen you for so long,” she cried.

  He hugged and kissed her warmly. “And I to see you, dearling, but you will soon wish me at the devil’s door, because I bring bad news.”

  “Never,” Alys exclaimed, although Raymond could see that her joy had been dampened. “Wales?” she asked.

  “Yes, but where is your papa? There is no sense telling bad news twice.”

  The question went unanswered as Sir William came in from the outer door and strode quickly across the hall. The two men embraced each other, but William drew back with concern in his eyes.

  “Come into my chamber, Richard, and rid yourself of this armor. You look tired to death. Is something wrong?”

  “A very good question,” Richard replied, smiling wryly. “I do not know whether to answer yes or no or only a little. I have a long tale to tell and you will think I am making some of it up, William, but I swear—”

  “Come and get comfortable first,” William interrupted. “Alys, make ready a bath for—”

  “No,” Richard interrupted in turn. “I will not stay the night, and it is too cold to ride out again after bathing.” He smiled again, a little shyly this time. “I wish to sleep at Wallingford.”

  “Sleep?” William teased, drawing Richard toward his rooms. “Perhaps you wish to lie abed there, but sleep?”

  “Do not be so crude, Papa,” Alys said reprovingly, but her dimples quivered in her cheeks, betraying hidden laughter.

  “Shocking!” Richard rejoined, laughing openly. “You shock me, Alys. You should not have the faintest idea what your father is talking about. And, even if you do, it is very…very unmaidenly to show it, not to mention improper to be remarking on your papa’s gross vulgarity.”

  “It was not gross,” William said blandly. “I thought I had wrapped the whole thing up very neatly.”

  The three of them were so obviously enjoying themselves that Raymond, who really had been shocked, began to reconsider. It really was rather pleasant that Alys did not turn red or grow angry or simper and run away. Perhaps it was because the serfs always seemed to be consulting her on which cows should be sent to the bull to be serviced and which mares offered to which stallion. He was starting to wonder whether there was not something good to be said for a less sheltered life than his sisters had led.

  “The boys must be exhausted,” William remarked, waving away Richard’s squires, who had started to follow their master to be made comfortable by Alys and Martin. “Besides, I would like you to meet Sir Raymond, who is new in service with me. Let him disarm you.”

  Richard nodded acceptance and the three men went together into William’s chamber. Politely, Richard asked how Raymond had found his way from the south—which so plainly marked his speech—to England. “He is from Aix,” William put in hastily. “Henry was so kind as to send him to me. I suppose you must have told him of Harold’s death and that I needed someone. It was good of Henry to remember so small a matter among all his other concerns.”

  “He would remember and be glad to do you a kindness, but…it is very odd, William. I do not recall saying anything…”

  He stared attentively at Raymond, whose color rose and who wished the floor would open and swallow him. Raymond knew he had never met Richard, but he also knew that he looked something like his grandfather, as did Queen Eleanor and Richard’s wife, Sancia. He was also worried sick that Richard would guess his brother’s purpose. A week in Sir William’s service had taught Raymond much about the quality of the man and had confirmed everything Martin had said. Raymond could not bear to lie openly to Sir William, and yet it would be monstrous to expose the king’s stratagem, not to mention Raymond’s own embarrassment at confessing the part he had consented to play.

  “You must have spoken to Henry about it,” William insisted. “Raymond brought a letter from him. How else could Henry know I needed a knight? Mine is not a large household where any number may be employed, so it must be that you spoke of it.”

  “I suppose I must have,” Richard agreed slowly. “I was just trying to think… Well, it does not matter. You are right, William. I must have mentioned it to Henry.” But Richard’s eyes had never left Raymond’s face as the young man removed his armor. Finally, he said, “Sir Raymond, and from Aix. Do I not know you? Or, perhaps, your father?”

  “Not me, certainly, my lord,” Raymond faltered. “As…as to my father…I…I think not…”

  At which point, William kicked Richard hard enough to make him wince and also to get across to him that he wanted him to drop that line of questioning. Richard promptly did so, remarking blandly that so many fair complexions in England made one think all dark-skinned people were kin. William then asked a question about one of Richard’s favorite horses that had been giving trouble and the reply kept them busy until Richard had changed into one of his friend’s gowns.

  It was natural enough for Raymond to take leave then, which gave William time to explain his theory of Raymond’s background. Richard did not argue. The situation certainly would explain Raymond’s embarrassment and even the fact that his face was vaguely familiar. Still the earl felt it was odd that he could not remember discussing William
’s need of a retainer with his brother. He could not, in fact, remember thinking about it at all.

  Richard never thought about what he could do to help William. One firm rule in his life was that he must not offer William any kind of assistance. That had been settled when they were still children, respectively ten and twelve years of age. William had admired a handsome, richly jeweled eating knife Richard had received as a New Year’s gift, and Richard had handed it to him, saying, “It is yours if you like it. I have so many.”

  Instead of taking the knife, William had flushed and said bitterly, “You fool!” and stalked away. Naturally enough, Richard had been furious that what he had meant as a kindness should be rejected with insult.

  For two days the boys had not exchanged a word. On the third night, Richard had been found by the Earl of Chester crying himself to sleep. The old earl had already been alerted to trouble because earlier in the day William had asked to speak to him and then had asked for leave to go home. William would not say why, but Rannulf of Chester had the story out of Richard, who was terribly hurt and still did not understand what had happened.

  It was easy enough to explain to Richard once Chester knew the facts. Richard was well aware of his position as the king’s second son and heir apparent to the throne. He simply had not associated his wealth and position with William, who was in those days almost an other self. Once it was made clear to him that William could not be his friend, truly a friend, if he received material benefits from that friendship, Richard had been very careful.

  It had worked well, and by now was a habit so long established that Richard did not need to be careful. He simply did not think about being helpful to William. He thought about what he wanted from William sometimes, and this made him uneasy with the idea that he had discussed William’s need with his brother. Still, there did not seem to be any other answer, and Richard put the matter out of his mind. There were a great many more pressing things to worry about than how Raymond had obtained an introduction from the king.