Siren Song

by Roberta Gellis

  “Do not say anything to anyone about this,” Richard warned. “We are going to Windsor to hunt—if anyone asks. My brother would be hurt if it seemed we did not think his writ of sufficient power to work on its own.”

  There were enough screams from the wounded that Mauger’s shriek of pain and rage brought no one. When Martin fell from his weakening grasp and his rage was spent, Mauger’s eyes were already dimming. He squawked for help, but many men cried for help, for water, for ease. No one noticed one more gasping wail. He started for the door, stumbled over Martin’s body, and fell. He tried to crawl, but the humpbacked corpse twisted and rolled under his feeble hand and he fell forward and lay still.

  In the morning when they were discovered, the captains were aghast, fearing they might be blamed. Then there was the question of the keep. They looked at it hungrily and then, with far more interest in the direction of the town, which they had not been allowed to plunder. Mauger had assured them that there was little in the town; that William drained it dry and kept all he got for he was a miser. Should they try to break into the keep, which would take time and lives or should they take what little there was in the town—there were always women, at least—and then hurry back and report Mauger’s death.

  At dawn, watches had been set inside Marlowe. Two of the shutters facing into the bailey from different angles had been opened enough for an experienced man-at-arms to keep an eye on what the troops were doing. The guards were surprised that they seemed to be doing nothing at all. This rather suspicious circumstance was reported to Diccon, who snorted with contempt. Probably Mauger was giving them another day and night to drink themselves into insubordination and grudge fights. Nonetheless, Diccon warned the men to keep close watch, reminding them of Mauger’s treacherous nature and that he might be preparing another trick. When the men started to strike their tents and pack their gear, William was at the window in minutes. He watched, his brain spinning as he sought a reason for the unreasonable. They were leaving. His horses were being led from the stables, the cattle were being driven from the pens, the grain and smoked meat available being loaded on carts. The portcullis went up, the drawbridge down. Some units marched out. The loot, such as it was, and the carts carrying the wounded followed.

  “What is it, William?” Elizabeth asked softly, seeing his knuckles white as they gripped the shutter.

  “They are leaving,” William said thickly. “I cannot believe it, but they are leaving.”

  “It must be a trap,” Alys warned.

  “What sort of—” William began, and stopped. Men were backing off the bridge to make way for eleven horsemen, one a knight in elaborate dress. When he swung around to face the three men who came up to him, his shield came into view, and William gasped, “It is d’Arcy.”

  His voice was grim, but he said no more. There was no sense in telling Alys and Elizabeth that d’Arcy was customarily employed by Henry to do his more unsavory errands. William continued to stare into the bailey where, obviously, some argument was taking place. Was d’Arcy urging the men to return and assault the keep? Why was that necessary? Where was Mauger? William called back into the hall to ask if there were any who were longsighted. Having described Mauger to the man who limped forward, he waited for him to scan the area, but he could not see Mauger anywhere either and he assured William that Mauger was not one of the three talking to d’Arcy. The argument seemed to be growing more intense, the mercenaries moving restlessly as if they were itching to discard their packs and seize their arms. They were; d’Arcy had forbidden the attack on Marlowe town, wanting them clear of the area quickly.

  Then there was another furor. William had thrown open the shutter by now and was leaning out of the window as far as he could. He heard horns blowing a warning from the road outside, and another man came galloping over the bridge to fling himself off his horse and draw aside the three captains who were talking to d’Arcy. This time the colloquy was brief. All hell broke loose. The men began to march over the bridge in quick time. Two of d’Arcy’s men dismounted and walked toward the stone storage shed. D’Arcy himself rode hastily out again.

  It was then William noticed that Mauger’s tent was there. He knew it well from the time in Wales. The troops were leaving, but Mauger remained? That was impossible. However, he did not have time to think about it because something even more impossible was taking place. His cattle and horses were coming back over the drawbridge, herded with shouts by several of d’Arcy’s men.

  “I am going mad,” William groaned. “Do you see what I see?”

  Elizabeth laughed and kissed him. “William,” she cried, “I am going up to tell the wounded men that we are saved. Joy is the greatest healer of all. Let them have that to ease their pain.”

  Alys did not bother to answer. Her eyes were alight. It was obvious to her that Raymond had succeeded and saved them. It was obvious to William also, but he could not understand the return of his property. Even if the king had forbade the attack, what had been taken before the order arrived could usually be counted as lost. Probably that was what the argument with d’Arcy was about. It surprised him that d’Arcy had not shouted for him, that he had ridden out again. That made William a little uneasy, but the last of the troops were marching away and did not turn back.

  William was just about to leave the window to order the unbarring of the door and a ladder to be let down when d’Arcy returned with Richard and Raymond beside him, and all three rode into Marlowe. Then, of course, there were no more doubts. All the shutters were flung wide, the door was unbarred, the ladder let down. As William prepared to descend, his daughter dragged him back.

  “Oh no! Let them come to you. You will open that shoulder a third time and it will never heal aright. There, Papa, see. Richard is coming.” She leaned from the door to shout a greeting and bade the earl come up before her father jumped down.

  But the beaming smiles that met Richard dimmed at the trouble in his face, then vanished as he told them what lay in Mauger’s tent.

  “Martin?” William said. “I do not believe it. That Mauger could—could torture him—yes. But that Martin could wrest the knife from him and strike back—no. Even if he had the strength, which he did not, he would not. Not Martin.”

  “Martin struck first, William,” Richard said softly. “The knife is yours—that with the stag horn handle carved like a wading bird. You say Martin would not—not for himself, I agree—but for you and Alys?”

  “Murder? Martin? No!” William insisted.

  “You did not commit murder when you fought the men on your walls. Likely Martin thought what he did an act of war—the only act of which he was capable.”

  “I do not care what he thought,” Alys said. “You are right. He did it for us. Papa had talked about these men being hired men, not bound by loyalty. Martin understood that if he killed Mauger and there was no pay, they would go away.”

  “Yes,” William agreed. He hid his face in his hands for a moment. “I shall miss him. He was an other self.” Then he turned and roared across the hall for the carpenters to get themselves down the ladder and knock up a staircase. He made as if to go down and Richard held him back, saying that Raymond had stayed.

  “But he cannot make him decent,” Alys said, “and he will be needed for other things. I cannot let Martin lie all bloody. I will go down. No, you will not, Papa. Do not make more grief for me and labor for Elizabeth by doing yourself a hurt. He will not be impatient if you do not come right away.” Her voice broke on the words and she leaned against her father, sobbing. “I will not weep,” she said after a moment, pulling away. “He could not bear it when I wept—or you either, Papa. So let us not.”

  “No,” William said slowly. “There is nothing to weep about, Alys. The dearest wish of Martin’s heart was to repay me for saving his life. He must have died very happy, love, believing he had done so. It was his choice. We must be content with it.”

  She called some women, sent one up to summon Elizabeth from the wounded
to comfort her father and bade others gather vessels and cloths for washing the body. William stood looking out the window toward Mauger’s tent for a little while, then dried his own wet eyes. Richard had walked toward the hearth where the family sat to give William time to control himself. There, seated on a chair, looking idly into the fire while everyone else ran about busily, was the loveliest creature he had ever seen in his life. No wonder William was bewitched and Raymond jumped at her name.

  “Madam,” Richard said, bowing, “I have news.” It was awkward, he realized, to announce the death of a husband to a woman who must regard this as the best of good tidings. Nonetheless, it was better for him to tell her than for William to do so. “Sir Mauger is dead,” he said simply.

  “Oh? How delightful!” Emma crowed, jumping up and clapping her hands.

  Richard felt sick. The large blue eyes had fixed on him now and he saw their emptiness behind the surface joy. Was this what William had loved for twenty years? Even as the revolting question rolled through his mind, he realized that this girl could hardly have been alive for twenty years. In the same moment, William came up behind him and snarled, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Emma sidled over and leaned against him suggestively. “My chamber is full of wounded men bleeding and groaning,” she simpered. “There is not a clean or quiet corner up there, so I came down to be near you.”

  William choked, then took a breath as if to blast a reprimand, but instead he merely pushed her away gently. Richard blinked, completely at a loss.

  “Oh, Emma, my dear,” a soft voice said, “do make your curtsy. This is the Earl of Cornwall, and he may know someone who would like your company. Someone very rich.”

  Emma dropped into a deep curtsy at once, all smiles, but Richard was looking over her head. This was the siren? Her wimple was crooked and the hair that escaped from it curled wildly about her face, her gown was laced up all wrong, and one edge had caught in her garter so that a graceful leg and neat ankle were exposed. Then he saw the great, luminous eyes and the sweetness of her smile, and her hand came out in a gesture of such grace that he was enchanted. William’s face lit with a deep, inner joy that wiped the pain from it. Compared with Emma’s face, Elizabeth’s was brown and plain, but already Richard felt warm and comfortable in her presence.

  “Now you must go away for a while, Emma,” Elizabeth continued placidly, “so we can decide what is best for you.”

  Emma looked toward William, but the fixity of his attention on Elizabeth was so palpable that even she recognized it. “I want to live in London,” she reminded Elizabeth. “I do not wish to be imprisoned in a keep in the country.”

  “Yes, yes, I remember,” Elizabeth assured her hastily, hearing a growl begin in William’s chest, “but go up above and help Maud cut cloth for bandages. You must show you are good and obedient.”

  As soon as she was gone, Elizabeth dropped a deep curtsy before Richard. “I beg your pardon, my lord, for using your name in such a way, but—”

  “Never mind that, Elizabeth,” William interrupted. “I must tell you that Martin and Mauger have somehow killed each other.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes grew enormous and she reached for William’s hand. “Martin? How?”

  “We do not know exactly,” William said and then Richard told her what had been found.

  “Do not grieve for Martin, beloved.” Elizabeth’s voice was not steady. “For such a soul there cannot even be purgatory. He must, at last, be straight and beautiful and at God’s very knee.” Then she was silent. “Mauger,” she sighed, “I hope God may have pity for him, although there is little of it in me. He died with many black sins on his soul.”

  They had little more time for private talk. All were fully occupied restoring Marlowe to as near normal as possible. Much discussion did not clear up the problem of the queer behavior of the mercenaries. Even d’Arcy blandly asserted he could not understand, and the subject was abandoned after a time as a mystery that would never be solved. Martin was laid out. Mauger’s body was sent back to Hurley to be packed in brine and transported eventually to Ilmer. There was so much to be done that they did not even sit down to dinner and, as soon as it was dark all tumbled into bed and to sleep, Elizabeth somehow having found time to prepare chambers for Richard and d’Arcy and pallets in the hall for their men.

  The next morning d’Arcy left early to inform the king that his writ had been obeyed. Richard had suggested that he say nothing of his presence, and the suggestion was accepted gladly. By dinner time a close approximation of normalcy had been restored.

  William and Richard came to sit by the fire and found Emma there again. William’s outraged roar as the girl plumped herself down in his lap brought Elizabeth, who sent her away again.

  “I must apologize for Emma,” she sighed in answer to Richard’s exasperated question and explained the circumstances of bringing the girl to Marlowe. Then she looked at him piteously. “I can only hope that you do know someone who would be glad to keep her. She means no ill—really, she is so stupid that she could not mean anything—but she is totally useless except in bed. Do you know a rich merchant or even—even a—a house where such girls are kept… It would not be a cruelty. She was in such a place before Mauger bought her and speaks of it with—with longing. And she will drive William mad if she remains here much longer.”

  “Do you mean to let that creature loose on the world?” Richard asked with twitching lips. “William seems immune to her. Perhaps she is safest here.”

  Elizabeth’s rich chuckle rewarded him. “You do not know how persistent she is,” she sighed, although her eyes twinkled. “She cannot believe William could prefer me to her and pursues him whenever she can.”

  “If you would let me beat her soundly,” William suggested dryly.

  “No,” Elizabeth pleaded. “It would be cruel! She is so simple, like a stupid child. And she did save my life and Alys’s.”

  “Well, I cannot take her home,” Richard said, horrified as he saw where this was leading. “Sancia is very young. She would—er—never understand I was only doing William a favor.”

  “Brothers,” William remarked with a malicious grin, “should share their troubles.”

  “Do not be such a tease, William,” Elizabeth laughed. “Of course you cannot take her, Richard, but you could ask about.”

  “But William must go to London, too, to thank the king for his kindness.” Richard spoke gently, but he was worried. Did Elizabeth intend to keep William pent on these small estates? Was she too timid or lazy to go out into the world? If so, his hopes that William would be willing to take on the position of marshal of his lands would probably be at an end. Once he was married to Elizabeth, he would be even less eager to spend much time away.

  “London?” Elizabeth said. “Are you going to London, William?”

  “You will not come with me?” William asked rather anxiously.

  “You have not invited me,” Elizabeth rejoined, her eyes laughing again. She simply had not thought of this solution. “Perhaps you wish to take Emma there on your own…”

  “Imp! Evil imp!” William exclaimed. “How dare you tell me not to be a tease?”

  It was now Richard’s turn to grin maliciously. “But if William is going to London, and you are willing to trust him to take Emma, I do not hesitate to say that he knows as well as I where to show her off.”

  “Traitor!” William groaned, and was about to complain further when Richard’s expression made him turn his head.

  Alys was coming, hand in hand with Raymond. It was clear that somehow Richard had not previously noticed their attachment in the hurry and bustle of the past day and a half. The earl drew a sharp breath. How had he been such a fool as not to think of Alys immediately when he wondered what inspired Raymond’s devotion?

  “He is the queen’s nephew,” Richard said under his breath, but his eyes were on the radiant young faces, and he suddenly remembered how Henry had cried, What could I do? when his sis
ter and Simon de Montfort had wanted to marry.

  “I know now,” William replied to Richard’s anguished protest, “but I did not know when I first saw they loved. You wanted her to make a great marriage. I only wanted her to be happy. I thought it would be no bad thing, even if he had nothing. Elizabeth was not free then. I did not expect to marry. I thought they would have Marlowe and Bix and that would be enough for them.”

  “Have you given your approval to this?” Richard asked stiffly.

  “You know I have not. Raymond only told me after we were besieged. We did not have time… I only said he was unkind to let Alys love him—”

  “And I said that I would marry Alys if it was the last thing I did in this life.” Raymond had come up to them during the last words William spoke. There was no deference in his voice.

  “Marriage for the heir of Aix is not a matter of personal preference,” Richard protested, but his voice was less certain than Raymond’s.

  “I have a brother,” Raymond replied. “There is no need for me to be heir of Aix.”

  “Do not be ridiculous!” Richard snapped. “Can you imagine the troubles that could arise in Aix and in Provence if your father tried to change the succession—not to mention the bitterness that could be caused between England and Provence if my brother countenanced this marriage?”

  “What troubles? Are you implying that my grandfather would make war on England because the son of his natural son is, in his opinion, a fool?”

  “I said this would not work, Raymond,” Alys said stonily. “I am not fit—”

  “You are fit for anything,” Richard interrupted in an agonized voice. The bleak resignation of her words, the way her brilliant eyes had dulled and her face slipped into lines of grief were unbearable. “It is nothing to do with you, sweetheart. You are fit to be a queen, but—”