SirenSong

by Roberta Gellis

  “Shall I call up the men?” Raymond asked.

  “No. Why should they lose sleep before it is needful? We will all be short enough on that before this is over. They will not attack tonight. If that had been intended, they would have come better grouped and begun already. No, I do not believe they will attack at dawn or any time tomorrow, either.”

  Raymond looked surprised and, for the first time since he had taken service with William, seemed about to argue. “I am not being deceived by my own wishes,” William said. “If Mauger could have taken us by surprise, he would have done so. Since he has not, I believe he has not in hand what he needs for an immediate assault. He will need time to build scaling ladders, to dam and drain the moat…”

  “He could have left orders to build such things at Hurley and then float them across the river with boat or horses to guide them,” Raymond suggested, looking out into the dark as if he expected to see such activity.

  “That is clever, very clever,” William said with admiration after a moment. “I would not have thought of it myself, and I doubt Mauger would have thought of it either. He must have been nearly beside himself when he left, if what Alys and Elizabeth say is true. I find it hard to believe he was thinking of anything clearly. However—yes, double the guard and tell them to watch the river especially.”

  “And alert the men? Even if we do not send them to the walls, should we not—”

  “No,” William said firmly, still looking out into the night. “We must not seem to be afraid, Raymond. If we take the heart from these inexperienced churls, we will be lost. Remember, these are not longtime men-at-arms who are accustomed to judging the odds for themselves, who know that four or five men are needed for assault to match every one man inside a keep. These will judge their chances from our manner and orders. To double the guard is a reasonable precaution, but to alert all the men will cause them to feel attack is imminent and make them fearful and nervous.”

  That made good sense. Raymond was well aware how woefully inadequate their preparations were. They had all worked as hard as they could, but there had not been enough time to make the keep ready for war. No one had believed there would be less than two or three weeks in which to bring the men from Bix, cart in grain, vegetables, and cattle from the farms, and teach the new men how to defend the walls. All the more reason, Raymond knew, to appear confident.

  “I wish I knew how many there were,” Raymond said.

  William shrugged. “Mauger is not fool enough to come with fewer men than would make taking Marlowe possible. If he has the minimum, we may survive until Richard comes. If he has more…” He shrugged again. “Well, I think I will go back to bed and finish out my sleep. Tomorrow will be soon enough to worry.”

  Before William could turn, Raymond gripped his arm. “Sir—”

  Fighting back an urge to scream, Let me be. Give me time to face my despair so I can bear it like a man, William only waited.

  “I do not know how to say this,” Raymond began. He felt William’s arm stiffen under his hand, then the muscles went loose again with resignation.

  “If you wish to leave before you are trapped, you have my—”

  “No!” Raymond shouted.

  “I beg your pardon,” William offered promptly. “Do forgive me for such a suggestion, but you have so strange a look—”

  “Oh God,” Raymond interrupted, “I do not know how I ever—I do not know how to tell you, but Alys—”

  “I am not blind,” William said gently. “Do not be so troubled. I am not guiltless myself. I meant you to have her…”

  His voice drifted, and he looked out over the wall again. Poor Raymond. But Alys was in no danger. The worst that would befall her was that Mauger would try to force her into marriage, but Richard would be back in time to prevent that.

  “You do not understand,” Raymond said. “I have something to tell you, something that might—not that I love Alys, which I do with all my heart. I am not ashamed of that. But—”

  “Can it not wait until tomorrow?” William asked.

  “No,” Raymond replied, “because—because if I am to— No. You must listen to this now because you must tell me what to do.”

  “About what?” William found that he was shaking with fatigue and chill. He had not felt it while they paced the walls, but standing still made it worse. “Come in. Let us at least sit by the fire in my chamber.”

  Raymond was glad of the brief respite, and he lengthened it a little by closing the shutters of the window, lighting a branch of tapers, and renewing the fire. Before he had arranged in his mind what he wanted to say, Elizabeth appeared in the doorway. Looking at her, Raymond thought he knew where Alys had learned her strength. Elizabeth’s eyes were large with fear, but her face was quiet and her voice calm.

  “Shall I go and wake Alys and the women?”

  “No, my love. Go back to bed. We are safe enough for tonight.”

  Their eyes locked, and Raymond looked away from the intimacy of that glance. There was such love, such communion between them. Although she must know she was the cause of this threat, there was no apology in Elizabeth’s expression. There was no blame in William’s, no look of I do this, lose all, for you. There was only a joy in being together for however short or long a time they were granted. Before he averted his eyes, Raymond saw a flicker of impatience cross William’s face. Elizabeth moved back into the bedchamber. He realized how precious the few remaining hours of peace must seem to them, but what he had to say might give them a whole life rather than a few hours.

  “There is no easy way to do this,” he said harshly, I can only tell you outright that I am the eldest son and heir of Alphonse, Comte d’Aix, who is the natural son of Raymond Berenger, Comte de Provence, which makes me nephew, although by the bend sinister, to Queen Eleanor.”

  For a long moment William did not move or speak. His first thought was that fear had somehow unhinged Raymond’s mind, but there was no fear in the dark face or the brilliant eyes that met his. There was determination in the firm lips and set jaw, unhappiness in the frowning brows. No, William thought, this is the truth he is speaking.

  “You should have told me sooner,” he said. “It was not fair to let Alys love you when you must have known—”

  “It is nothing to do with Alys. I will marry Alys if it is the last thing I do in this life,” Raymond said forcefully. “When we are safe, I will sue for her properly, and you can tell me what you think of me. I will accept any condition you wish to lay upon me so long as I can have her to wife, but—”

  “But to achieve that you must live. I see. I also see that it would be most impolitic for the queen’s nephew, no matter by what bend, to be slain in a little keep—” Raymond’s face had crimsoned under the lash of sarcasm in William’s voice, but suddenly William stopped and shook his head. “Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “I am talking like a hysterical woman. You risked your life for me in Wales more surely than here. Think of the royal favor Mauger could obtain by returning you unharmed to your aunt. So, you are not looking for a door to safety.” He gave Raymond another, somewhat sour look. “Raymond, if you have kept me from my bed and my Elizabeth to ease your conscience, I will murder you here and now, in spite of my curiosity.”

  “No sir,” Raymond replied seriously, not able to smile in response. “That is what I meant when I said you must tell me what to do. I may have the key to a door to safety for all of us, but I am not sure how I would be of the most use to you. I am ready to stay and fight on the walls. I am not afraid. But if I went to the king, could he not stop Sir Mauger?”

  “I do not know,” William said slowly. “The king might be reluctant to offend whoever lent the men to Mauger and say it is not his affair to interfere in domestic quarrels—which is true. Even if the king sent a writ, I am not sure Mauger would obey it.”

  “I can convince my uncle to send a writ no matter whose men are here,” Raymond assured William with the insouciance of youth. “It is the second question I
need answered.”

  “I cannot answer it,” William said. “It depends on the state of the assault when the writ comes. If we have thrown Mauger back with losses, he probably would obey and take his case, claiming seduction and so forth, to the Church. If he is near success, he would ignore the writ, take the keep, and apologize humbly to the king afterward. He does not know that Richard would hunt him. I never told him Richard was my friend.”

  Only half William’s mind was on his answer. He could not help wondering more and more why Henry had sent Raymond to him. As if reading his thoughts, Raymond flushed up again. “Alys knows,” he said. This made William laugh at his own forgetfulness. The personal affairs of the young are far more important to them than matters that can make or break nations.

  “I wanted to tell you,” Raymond continued earnestly, “but both she and Martin told me to hold my tongue.”

  “Why?” William asked, so astonished he himself forgot for the moment that besiegers were ringing his keep.

  “They both feared you would object to my offer and might send me away before your wounds were healed. Then if some emergency should arise, you—”

  William groaned. His loving daughter and steward were saving him from himself again. Very well, but why had Raymond’s status been kept a secret in the first place? The question brought another deep flush. Raymond had realized that he did not dare tell the truth and he would not lie to William.

  “I will tell you my part of it, sir. There is another part, and it is true that I am much ashamed of permitting myself to be involved in that, but I beg you will not seek to know it. There can be no benefit to you in knowing and might be some hurt. Alys knows.”

  “There could be no hurt in telling Alys but might be hurt to me?”

  “Women have no honor,” Raymond said simply.

  That was clear enough. William’s lips tightened. Raymond had come for some purpose that would be considered an insult deep enough to lead to a challenge for combat. But Raymond had come from the king. William had not thought Henry knew he was alive. Richard must have been talking about him far too much. Anger washed over William. It was useless and dangerous to be angry with the king, but the king’s messenger…

  His eyes lifted to Raymond, who had carried the insult, and there was a sullen glare in them.

  “Alys accepted this insult?” William’s voice was low and cold. He was not sure which hurt was paramount, Raymond’s deception or the fact that his daughter’s love was fixed so firmly on the deceiver that she would swallow her father’s dishonor.

  The color had faded from Raymond’s face, and he swallowed. “Not—not easily.” He remembered the way Alys had wiped her hand after touching him as if he were something slimy and leprous. The things she had said… Sweat beaded out on Raymond’s forehead.

  The great distress apparent in Raymond’s expression soothed William. Doubtless when she knew the king was involved, Alys had agreed to keep Raymond’s secret. That would not be for the sake of the deceiver but for his own sake, William knew. And plainly she had exacted a high price. It was very unlikely that Raymond would be so careless again. Alys must have scorched his ears good and proper from the look of him. William began to laugh. The immediate hurt eased. He knew that deception was scarcely Raymond’s forte. All the abortive “Sirs—” in Wales came back to him.

  Now that his rage had passed, William did not want to know how the king was involved, but his curiosity as to how Raymond had been inveigled into one of Henry’s harebrained schemes warred with necessity. As it had in every case that led man from a naked wanderer to a builder of castles, curiosity won. “Can you tell me your part in a few words?” William asked, trying to temper desire with need.

  Raymond had relaxed when William began to laugh. He knew his future father-by-marriage well now. William would never try to find out what the king’s reason was. He would never again ask Raymond nor would he permit Alys to tell him, even if she wanted to. He knew also this was no time to begin to explain the situation in his family that had led to his escape from it, but he did not wish to refuse to answer either. Amusement lit his pale eyes.

  He pursed his lips and brought out, “My mother would not let me be a man, so I left home without saying where I would go. King Henry sent me here because he did not think it likely news of me would get back to Aix, and he thought I would enjoy the Welsh war. Is that few enough words, sir?”

  There was a little silence while William struggled with himself. He would have been better off if Raymond had said it was too difficult to explain. Then there would have been nothing for his mind to pick at. The clever devil had instead given him two large bones well furnished with food for thought to gnaw on.

  “You—” William began, unsure of exactly how he would finish the sentence, but revelation came to him and his face became suffused with a happy smile. “You will deserve what you get if we all come out of this with whole skins and you do wed Alys. She will teach you to play with words.”

  A very faint qualm passed through Raymond, a slight premonition that marriage to Alys might not be all wine and roses. However, he was too much in love to want to examine the idea. “I will learn whatever she wishes to teach,” he said sturdily, in true courtly lover style, which made William guffaw and feel he had got his revenge for Raymond’s summary of his arrival. “But you must tell me,” Raymond said, ignoring William’s laughter, “whether I will be of more use to you here or whether I should try to reach my uncle.”

  The laughter died. William stood up abruptly. “I cannot tell you. All I can do is assure you that whether you go or stay, Alys will be in no danger.”

  He turned away, but he was tired and slow and Raymond caught him by the arm. “Sir William, in God’s name, tell me what is best for you.”

  “I cannot!” William bellowed. “You are like a pagan priest asking a mother which of her children she prefers to lay on the altar.”

  “What?” Raymond breathed, nearly stunned as much by the sudden change in William’s mood as by what he said.

  The cords stood out in William’s neck as he fought for control. All through the talk about Raymond’s purpose and the half-jesting exchanges about Alys, something inside William had worked over the essential facts. “You are asking me,” he said more quietly, “to tell you to go, which might cost your life if you are captured, to sacrifice you and, thus, Alys’s happiness, to save Elizabeth. If you stay, Mauger will not harm a hair on your head. He will send you to the king, and once there, you can prevent him from forcing marriage on Alys. Yet, if I tell you to stay and the keep falls, Elizabeth must die.”

  “My lord,” Raymond said, coming up close and seizing William’s arms, “my dear lord, you are building phantoms out of your weariness. I cannot be in any greater danger if I try to leave Marlowe. Surely if I were caught I would be brought to Sir Mauger for questioning. I can tell my tale then, just as if I should be taken within the keep.”

  William’s strained look eased, and he put his hands up to rub at his eyes. “That is true,” he muttered, very aware that he had been yielding to despair before he was beaten. “That is true. And God knows, if you fought on the walls, you might be hurt or killed. Men strike first in the taking of a keep and ask questions later. Yes, then, yes, it would be better that you go. God! What a fool I am to waste time with all this talk. You must go as soon as we can make ready. Let me think what way would be best.”

  “I have thought of that,” Raymond said quickly. “I will take the boat. If I can get it mid-river, I can let it drift with the current until I am past the encampment. Then I can either buy a horse or hire boatmen, whichever is quickest. But sir, you will lose a strong arm on the walls and…and I fear you cannot afford it.”

  Without answering, William went to a chest and took from it his strongbox, which he opened. He began to count out silver and copper. Embarrassed, Raymond protested. William looked up at him in surprise. “What has friendship to do with money? You have served me well and honestly. I owe you
your hire whether you need it or not. I pay my rents to Richard, although we love each other. Why should I not pay you?”

  Raymond shifted from foot to foot, uneasily. William’s remarks were unanswerable, but it still seemed wrong to take money for hire from the man who, he hoped, would soon be his father-by-marriage. Noticing the boyish foot shuffling, William smiled and stopped counting. He was not insensitive and recognized that what might be right between equals, like himself and Richard, might be wrong between father and son. He pushed all the coins together, grabbed a large handful of copper, a smaller one of silver, and added two gold pieces.

  “I see you do not like my reasons. Very well. As a father, I will provide for your needs, and you will need money to get to London quickly. I do not know whether Henry is there, but the officials of the Exchequer will know where he is.”

  As he handed over the money and suggested how Raymond distribute it to save himself from tempting robbers, part of his mind wondered whether he had been unfair and unkind to Richard all these years. Had his pride been satisfied by demeaning Richard’s? Had he the right to belittle his friend’s kindness and generosity by tacitly forbidding him to offer freely tokens of love? Not now, William thought, pushing aside the uncomfortable notions. Now it is needful to stay alive until I see Richard again. Then will be time enough to think if I have injured him and offer amends.

  “Do you wish to say farewell to Alys?” William asked.

  “Yes!” Raymond blurted, but before William could move he caught the older man’s arm. “No.”

  William waited, studying Raymond’s expression. “She will not trouble you with weeping or pleading,” he said after a moment.

  “I know that.” Raymond’s voice was indignant, and William could not help smiling. Of course, Raymond would think Alys perfect. “I am not concerned for me but for her,” Raymond went on more softly. “Will it be easier for her if I go without seeing her?”

  “I am not a woman. I do not know. I can ask Elizabeth,” William offered.