Siren Song

by Roberta Gellis

  Mauger drew a deep breath. He would need to be careful, of course. A man who threatened a king died, but a man who knew something and did not threaten might be forgiven many little things for which others would be punished.

  It never occurred to Henry that anyone, no matter how twisted his mind, could think he would urge harm to any member of his own or his wife’s family. He said “those in Marlowe” because he was not sure what dependents William had who would, if they were not silenced, run to Richard. That Mauger could believe his vagueness included Raymond was unthinkable to him.

  What Henry did explain in detail was that he had no intention of paying the men more than the term for which they had already been hired. Thus, Marlowe would have to be taken by assault within the next few weeks rather than by long siege. When Mauger had agreed to this with enthusiasm—people tended to get killed during an assault and explanations about it were not necessary—Henry told him to return the next day. He would then be taken to the camp and introduced to the mercenary captains who would be under his orders.

  Throughout that day and the next, while Henry made the arrangements that would protect Raymond and seal William’s doom, he was uplifted by a sense of a great coming freedom. So blithe were his spirits after Mauger had left, that his wife began to look at him askance.

  Eleanor of Provence loved her husband dearly. She had been only fourteen when she had come to England, knowing only that she would be a queen like her sister and that her husband was more than twice her age. Whatever fears she had had at that time, not one had been fulfilled. Henry was handsome, tender, loving, delighted with her and with everything she did and said. There seemed, in fact, to be little difference in their ages. Henry would romp and play as eagerly as any child.

  As the years passed, Eleanor grew older; Henry did not. There was much joy to be had from that. He was ever a gay companion, loving and laughing. But there was much to be feared in it also—the unbridled and unreasoning anger and spite of a child welded to the power of a king. Not that Eleanor feared for herself. Henry was never a threat to her or to their son, and if he grew angry, he was as easy to soothe as the child.

  Unfortunately, however, the great lords of England did not think of their thirty-seven-year-old king as a child. Eleanor did not interfere in the politics of England, although sometimes she thought if the barons would tell her what they wanted she could get it for them, but she watched her husband. She had heard what could happen when he took a spite and carried it too far. Just before she came to England the country had erupted into rebellion. It could happen again. Thus, when she could, she soothed him or explained away little things.

  Eleanor had noticed that something was pricking under Henry’s skin when he first arrived at home. It had faded, then flared up again. Now this sudden elation warned Eleanor that Henry had done something to “get back at” whoever had irritated him. She had asked no questions at first because, very often, simply being with her and Edward healed any small hurt, whereas talking about it might magnify it. Once Henry had spit out his spleen, however, it was sometimes possible to guide him into reducing the punishment he had ordered if it were too severe. He was vindictive only when he was afraid or still felt hurt and angry.

  The task was a delicate one, Eleanor knew. To say openly that Henry had been cruel or unreasonable would only bring back the “wrong” he had suffered and make him more obstinate. It was necessary to approach the matter in a roundabout way and then subtly insinuate the idea that his generosity and magnanimity would be praised if he showed himself merciful once he had already overpowered those who offended him.

  On the third day after Mauger had come, the queen led the king to play some of the laughter-provoking games he loved in the privacy of their own apartments. Naturally under Eleanor’s management Henry always won. Later, when they were cooling themselves from their exertions with well-watered wine—Henry was no lover of drunkenness—Eleanor mentioned his high spirits.

  “Is it some special news, my love, or only that you are happy to be home again?”

  “Nothing special,” he replied.

  Eleanor judged his expression keenly. He did not pout—which meant that she had not half guessed a pleasant secret he intended as a surprise for her. There was no angry frown either, to warn her away from a subject he did not wish to discuss. A slight shift of his eyes, a quiver in the drooping lid of the left eye—Eleanor specially loved that fault in her otherwise nobly handsome husband. It was an outward expression of the weaknesses that made him extra dear because she knew herself to be more necessary to Henry than she would be to a stronger man—those minute gestures hinted at uneasiness.

  To press hard would be a mistake. Eleanor wished now to introduce a topic that was different but still connected to pleasure. “Then I am happy also, for your gladness means you will stay with us.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Henry agreed firmly.

  “Is Richard coming soon?” Eleanor asked. “I am very glad he and Sancia live so well together that he sent for her to come to him in Scotland after the danger of war was over, but I long to see her again.”

  To Eleanor’s surprise, a clear expression of guilt crossed Henry’s face. She drew in her breath and swallowed her desire to ask whether the brothers had quarreled again. She knew she must avoid any hint of knowing Henry had been disturbed. To cover her nervous gasp, she laughed.

  “How strange it is,” she said, “that I was separated from Sancia by many miles and years and only missed her a little. Now that she is so close and I see her often, I miss her dreadfully when she is away only a week or two.”

  “It will not be very long,” Henry assured her. “A few weeks more should settle the business in Scotland, if it is not already done. Richard has a way of making peace seem more desirable than war so that men will keep a truce because they feel it is best, not out of fear. But it takes time to reason it all out and get all to agree with easy hearts and minds.”

  Whatever it was, Eleanor thought, Henry was not now angry with Richard. His warmth when he spoke of his brother assured her of that. Yet the uneasiness re­mained. What Henry had done would hurt or displease Richard, Eleanor guessed. That was bad. Eleanor liked Richard but more than her desire for her brother-by-marriage’s happiness was involved. She knew Richard was better in tune with the thoughts and desires of the barons than Henry. Often what displeased Richard was politically dangerous. Eleanor did not dare approach such a topic directly. A wrong word could set Henry into a fit of stubbornness, and that might be a disaster.

  On the other hand she could not abandon the topic of her sister too abruptly. She was about to say something about missing her mother also, when she remem­bered there was another member of her family closer by. Raymond! She had been worried about him at first, but then, when the Scottish war was announced, she realized what Henry had done. Sometimes he was remarkably wise and kind. She smiled tenderly at her husband and took his hand.

  “And what about Raymond? I know you sent him away to keep him from fighting in Scotland. You are so clever, my love, and I am grateful. But surely that danger is past now. Can Raymond be recalled?”

  Henry stood up abruptly. “In a few weeks also,” he said. “I have already sent a messenger to him, but it may be he cannot come as soon as he wishes. He is quite safe, do not worry about him. And I have just remembered something I must attend to at once. I will come to you later, my dear.”

  Eleanor put a good face on—the half-pout, half-resignation of a loving wife abandoned for a duty she knows more important than her pleasure—and held it until Henry was out the door. Then she withdrew to her own chamber where her worried frown would tell no dangerous tales to anyone. The question about Raymond had obviously touched her husband to the quick, and it seemed—although on the face of it impossible—that it was the same sore spot as the one connected with Richard. How could that be? What could possibly connect Raymond and Richard? And what could she do?

  Henry had indeed been touched on the raw
. His blithe assumptions that Richard would not uncover what he had done and that Raymond would escape untouched in the battle to take the castle did not seem quite so certain upon reconsideration. Who the devil was this Sir Mauger anyway? Theobald had said only that he was the knight who held Hurley. He seemed to think Mauger a good man, but what could a clerk know of such matters? It was not as if Theobald was highborn and understood from birth and breeding, even if he had chosen the Church.

  Perhaps, Henry thought, he should not have acted quite so hastily. Yet, what else could he do? If Mauger did not begin the assault on Marlowe within the next few days, he would never be able to reduce the keep before Richard came back from Scotland. And how else was he to rid Richard of that evil influence? A faint quiver of doubt crossed Henry’s mind. He was not completely sure, now that no one was telling him what a snake William was, that William was the cause of Richard’s fury. That letter that had come—it had been several days before Richard broached the subject of leading the Flemish into Wales.

  If Sir William was innocent, it would be wrong to deprive Richard of his friendship. Yet if he were not innocent, he would soon drive Richard into some dangerous act that would cause everyone inestimable grief. Henry bit his lip, but then his brow cleared. There was no need to do anything in a hurry. Let Mauger march the men to Marlowe and set them up. It would take him a week or more before any attempt at an assault could be made. In that time, Henry could write to Hereford, who must know both men since they fought under him in Wales, and find the truth about them. Then, there would be time enough to recall the mercenaries if it was necessary to do so.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  King Henry had an adequate knowledge of war, but only from the point of view of major actions. It was quite true that a week or more was needed to move a large army into position to set up a siege or assault on a major stronghold in hostile territory. However, it was not at all true that such a period was necessary to arrange an attack on a single keep where no counteraction need be feared. By the time Henry had dictated his letter to Hereford and ordered that a messenger ride out with it, Mauger had his men encamped around Marlowe and well advanced in the construction of scaling ladders and devices to bridge the moat.

  Mauger had discussed the situation with the mercenary captains and found they were not only well primed for the task in hand but agreed with his plans. They were to go as quickly as possible and to cause as little disturbance as possible while passing. Mauger suggested that he send men from his own small troop ahead to the overlords of the lands they would pass and say they were marching additional reinforcements to Wales. This went well with the king’s desire for anonymity and was agreed upon.

  They arrived as silently as possible and at night, not for the sake of a surprise attack—they did not have ready the devices for an assault and Mauger had warned the captains how strong Marlowe keep was—but because Mauger wished to pacify the townsfolk and prevent them from running to the keep for protection. He left the captains to settle their men and rode into Marlowe town. Confidently he informed them that Marlowe keep was already invested. If they would victual his forces and make no attempt to aid those in the castle, he would not attack the town. If they attempted to defend themselves, he would turn his men loose on them.

  There was ready agreement, which Mauger knew there would be. He also knew the merchants would begin at once to hide their valuables, even that many would escape the town by river, but he did not care. He had no intention of damaging Marlowe town if it could be avoided. After all, it would be his in the future to drain slowly dry. Much more would be made out of it in that fashion than by raping it now.

  Mauger’s troops had moved quietly, but not so quietly that the guards on Marlowe’s walls did not notice. Diccon was awakened and peered through the dark while circling the walls. He did not see much, but what he did see worried him. He passed the responsibility to Raymond, who hurried from his bed with his mail drawn over unlaced shirt and chausses without cross garters. His eyes and ears learned no more than Diccon’s, but both agreed troops were moving around the castle. Raymond’s first instinct was to bid his men arm and ride out to attack them, but to do that was to risk every veteran in the keep. The other men, half trained and some not even able to ride a horse, were useless. Although he hated to do it, Raymond went to wake William, whose right it was to judge whether to attack or endure.

  William was tired. For eight days he had been struggling to regain his strength in arms and to train the men Raymond had gleaned from the farms and the town. His own strength improved more rapidly than he expected. The wound in his right side was well healed and did not much impede his swordplay. That in his left shoulder was not in such good case. It was tender and had started looking angry and swollen at the edges again. William knew he would be unable to use his shield as a weapon, as he was accustomed to doing. Nonetheless, he could hold it, and that was important. More important was that his legs no longer shook under him after a few hours of merely sitting or walking.

  Nonetheless, by the end of each day, William felt half dead. He tumbled into bed expecting to be asleep as he lay down. Instead, through the aching fatigue, tendrils of heat stole, soon joining across his loins into a blazing need. The first night, William was as much surprised as Elizabeth by the hot lash of his passion. He had never thought of himself as a particularly lustful man, who needed to couple only because a woman was available, but he saw no need to deny himself either, watching her undress through half-closed eyes, relishing her surprise, her halfhearted protests that he should rest, her joyous yielding to his love play when he persisted. He was even more surprised when he woke just before dawn with an equally urgent need. Again Elizabeth yielded, but when he dragged himself from bed an hour later to work with the men, her eyes were worried.

  The second night, Elizabeth drew the curtains of the bed as soon as William lay down so that he could not see her undressing. She idled over it also, trying to make sure he fell well and deeply asleep before she joined him. It made no difference. William was not sure whether he was awake and imagining or asleep and dreaming, but when Elizabeth’s slender body settled beside him, he was already afire.

  “Dear love,” she sighed when they were finished, “I think I must seek a chamber in the women’s quarters.”

  “Why?” William teased. “Have I not contented you?”

  They laughed together. The one effect weariness seemed to have on William was to make his climax slow to come. Elizabeth had been twice convulsed with joy before he found his release.

  “Because you will kill yourself this way.”

  William chuckled. “I cannot think of a better way to die.” He felt her move and pulled her close against him again. “No. I do not believe it would make any difference. It is not because you touched me in the bed but because you are here, mine—mine without shame or guilt. If you settled above, either I would have to follow you there or I would lie here, listening to the siren’s song, and I have done that for too many years.”

  His voice was slurring with sleep, and Elizabeth said no more. But after he had again wakened in the dawn to caress her awake, mount her, rouse her from torpor to lust, and satisfy that lust, Elizabeth began to think her exaggeration of the previous night was no exaggeration. If he continued this way, William would kill himself. They argued about it while she helped him dress.

  “You cannot go on like this,” Elizabeth warned. “You are too tired!”

  “If I were too tired, I would not be doing it,” William pointed out, laughing. Then more soberly he said, “That is true. Unless I am overburdening you, my love, let me have my way. The weariness passes. I am stronger each day.”

  “You are pressing yourself harder each day,” Elizabeth said sadly.

  William shook his head. “No. I am pressing myself to my limit each day—that I admit. But each day I can do more. Thus, I am growing stronger. My life—for you are my life—let me live my own way. If Richard comes home before Mauger finds the help
he needs to attack us, we will come out of this scot-free. If he does not…”

  He did not finish and did not need to. If Mauger found someone who would give him enough men to attack Marlowe and they could not hold off the attack, she and William would die. Perhaps William was trying to make up twenty years of unfulfilled longing in the short time granted them. It was foolish, but Elizabeth would not deny him anything that gave him happiness. She argued no more, responding to him each successive night with all the fierce joy engendered by her own long deprivation. Dum vivimus, vivamus, she thought, while we live, let us live!

  It was not surprising, however, that when Raymond called from the outer chamber it was Elizabeth who awoke. William slept on, sodden with exhaustion. She pushed aside the bed curtains, resolved to tell Raymond that he should go about his duties as best he could and let William have his sleep out. The darkness of the room changed her mind. Raymond would never call William in the middle of the night unless it was a real emergency. She shook her lover as Raymond called again.

  The combined stimulus pierced William’s deep sleep. He got out of bed, cursing and groaning, promising to murder Raymond if the sky had not fallen, but he fell silent as he listened. To Raymond’s question about leading a force out to disrupt the invaders he shook his head firmly.

  “If we lose one or two men, it will do us more harm than if they lose fifty. Nor is this a mercenary group merely looking for pickings, as happened in the bad old days. Those could be driven away by a show of force. If the castle is being invested, it is Mauger, and he has come to take us.”

  He did not bother to dress, merely belted his bedrobe tighter around him and put on his shoes before he went to the wall. He, too, walked all around it, looking and listening, particularly westward toward Marlowe town.