SirenSong

by Roberta Gellis

  Desperately William strove to keep his own section clear, which was growing more difficult because a second ladder had been successfully raised nearby, and to shout orders and instructions. It soon became horribly clear that those were of little help. Unlike Raymond or Harold or Sir Peter, these men were not listening for his voice. There was too much noise, too many shrieks of agony, too many shouts of success, too much clashing and clanging as blows struck shields or went awry and metal met stone. The men were fighting better than he expected, desperation generating bravery, but it was no good. He must try to organize them for retreat.

  William surged forward, striking down one man as he climbed over the wall and killing another by nearly decapitating him from the back. A third whirled to face him, and William held him for a few seconds, sword striking shield, until one of his own men came up and stabbed him from the rear.

  “Keep together,” he roared at the men. “You cannot keep them from coming over. Keep together and fight your way toward me.”

  He had temporarily relieved the pressure on the men nearest him, and they were transmitting his orders down the length of the wall. He could do no more for the men except keep the route of escape clear. Cursing, he turned back and cursed again as he saw the men coming up the ladders had been more agile than he had counted on. There was already an enemy man-at-arms between him and the tower door with two more half over the wall. He struck the nearest climber on the back of the neck with his shield, grunting with pain as he felt his shoulder wound tear open.

  It was the beginning of the end for him, William knew, as the warmth of oozing blood spread with the pain. The loss of blood would add to his weakness and fatigue until his will could drive his body no further. For now, it did not matter. William brought his mailed foot down as hard as he could on the face of the man he had felled, feeling a vicious satisfaction as the bones crunched. That one would not rise to strike him in the back. That stamp was all part of a single forward movement that brought his raised sword in reach of the second climber.

  Bent, the man struck at William with his shield. He had no weapon in hand because one hand was necessary for holding onto the wall he was climbing over. William leaned back a little, just enough to avoid the edge of the shield, then snapped forward, thrusting at the man’s unprotected breast. Instinctively he jerked back but there was no back, nothing except empty air, and he fell, wailing. Perhaps he knew he had a minor revenge, that in trying to save himself his shield had hit William’s violently, further jarring his sore shoulder. If he knew, perhaps he had a moment’s satisfaction before he sank in the waters of the moat.

  The man who was nearly at the tower door turned, realizing he could not get through in time to avoid William, who would surely thrust through his unprotected back. They traded blows, the man-at-arms far more anxious to defend himself than to harm William. Time was on his side. More of his comrades were already climbing up and would soon be over the wall so that William would be surrounded.

  His caution undid him. William knew as well as his enemy that he had only a minute or two to finish his man and put the door of the gate tower at his back. He struck out furiously with shield and sword at his opponent’s right side, blow after blow. Dodging and weaving, the man was driven to the left, more to the left. He saw that William was working his way around so that their positions would soon be reversed. Trying to avoid that, he advanced a step and struck out harder himself, but he was still buying time and safety, concentrating on the wall and the tower door. His attention was on guarding his right side. He was unprepared for William’s sudden charge straight forward, for the strong forward thrust of William’s shield. He staggered back and back again to avoid a sword thrust that brought the point rather than the sharpened edge to bear. He was puzzled by the gesture, which he caught easily on his shield, puzzled until William straightened his powerful right arm, lunged forward with the full strength of his body, and pushed him right over the inner edge of the battlement. He understood then, in the second before the terror of falling and the agony of ceasing to fall ended all understanding.

  Before his opponent had disappeared, William whirled back to his post, only to confront still another man who had just come over the wall. He was still gasping with the effort of his previous furious attack, trying to dismiss the pain in his shoulder and the growing sensation that his arms were made of cold porridge while his sword and shield were weighted with lead. Desperately he looked down the wall, but none of the retreating groups was near enough to help him.

  That bitter truth was a spark to relight the rage of hopeless frustration. William charged forward, no longer much aware of pain or weakness. It was fortunate his sudden action, after what had seemed an initial decision to wait for an attack to be made on him, so surprised his opponent that William’s second backhand blow disabled him. However little he felt his disabilities, they were slowing him, making him clumsy. He caught another man at a disadvantage and disposed of him also. Then he was momentarily free.

  He released the handgrip of his shield and sought the horn that hung around his neck. His grasp on it was awkward, the shield dragging painfully by its elbow strap. One half second longer he delayed to glance again down the wall and across, nothing had changed, at least not for the better. It was bitter, bitter, bitter to be driven from his own walls. But the sun—he had not noticed before that the sun had burned away the thin morning mist—the sun was glistening on more and more of the metal bands that strengthened the hardened leather of the common soldiers’ helmets. If he did not blow now, he might never have another chance.

  The horn came up. Pure and sweet William blew the mort. The hunt was done. The animal was dead—only this time Marlowe was the hunted animal.

  On the same day that Mauger had finally been granted an audience with King Henry, both William’s messengers found Richard of Cornwall in York. He had finished his work with the Scottish monarch and nobles and was riding south slowly, enjoying the early autumn weather and showing his young wife her new country. Surprised by two messengers, Richard read both of William’s letters immediately. One had been written in the morning, the other in the evening of the same day. Apparently in those few hours, William’s whole life had fallen apart and been remade. No, that was wrong, Richard thought, looking from the brief, stiff note of the morning to the tumbling, passionate words of the later letter. The stone facade of William’s private life had been torn away, exposing the jumble underneath.

  Richard had known of Elizabeth, of course. He had listened to William hour after hour and tried to comfort him over the first unhappy months of his marriage to Mary. Little by little the complaints had died away. Naturally enough, Richard had assumed that William had become accustomed to Mary and his feelings for his childhood love had grown into indifference. As the years passed, Richard had forgotten that Elizabeth ever existed. William had seemed perfectly normal, no more indifferent to his wife than most men.

  Only now that he looked back, Richard realized there had always been certain peculiarities in William’s behavior. Right after he had been married, and for about five years after that, William had gone home to Marlowe as infrequently as possible and when he was at home any excuse would draw him away. Then, quite suddenly, that had changed. Richard looked at the second letter and nodded. Yes, ten years. The woman had returned to Hurley ten years ago, and just at that time William had developed a most peculiar reluctance to come to court, to go to war, to do anything at all that would take him away from Marlowe.

  So, it had been the woman all along. Richard had assumed that William had developed a conscience about his estate just about the time that Richard had begun to realize his own duties and responsibilities both for his lands and for the realm at large. The question was what to do about it. How to avert disaster? A divorce or annulment on decent grounds must be obtained. That should not be too difficult. With the evidence that the mistress and the maid could give to force the husband to be compliant, he could be urged to discover a “prior
contract” or something similar, something his father had done, perhaps, and not told him about that would permit an annulment and an arrangement for the sons to be legitimated.

  The haste of the second messenger bothered Richard. The man had made up ten hours of time, riding for a day and a half without stopping except to change horses when the beasts tired. Yet William said nothing of any special need for haste and he knew how dilatory was the Church. It would not matter whether Richard spoke to Boniface today—which was naturally impossible—or next week. With all the prodding in the world, it would still take the Church several months, perhaps a year, to grant the decree. And it would be necessary to apply pressure to this—Richard looked at the letter again—this Mauger first.

  Mauger—the husband! Richard got up from his chair suddenly. What an idiot I am, he thought. William believed I was still involved in the treaty arrangements in Scotland. He could not ask me to hurry that, but the husband will not sit there tamely waiting to be threatened. Naturally, he will try to protect himself. War? Not likely unless he could get help. Marlowe was very strong, too strong to be assaulted by one knight’s forces. He would go to the Church or the king for redress—but which? Then he started for the door of the chamber. A stupidity to waste time asking himself such a question. If he went to London he would find both king and Church at once. Richard beckoned to his chief squire and told him to pass the word that they would ride on straight toward London tomorrow morning. It remained only to explain the matter to Sancia.

  Here Richard expected some resistance. Since he set about Henry’s business in the spring, Sancia had seen very little of him until about a week ago, and she did not hesitate to say that she did not like it. Of course, Richard was flattered by his bride’s fondness for his company, but it was she who had suggested that they come south by easy stages, stopping here and there as it suited them for a few days. Probably she would not be pleased at the change in plans. Richard told William’s story as persuasively as possible, with no caustic references to “the woman” or “sirens”.

  Sancia listened breathlessly. “For twenty years?” she repeated. “Has William really loved her for twenty years?”

  “He says so, and I have never known William to lie.” Richard answered a little stiffly, thinking Sancia was going to laugh, to belittle his credulity.

  Instead her eyes filled with tears and she sighed. “Oh, it is just like the romances. Aucassin was true just so and sought his love over the whole world. Of course, William did not have to seek Elizabeth, but he stayed nearby—did he not, Richard?”

  “He most certainly did,” Richard replied wryly. “God knows, I offered him everything—wealth, position, everything—to keep him by me, but he only wanted to stay on that little dish of an estate. Only when I ordered him to war or said I needed him would he come to me for longer than a few days at a time. I thought he was overanxious about caring for his lands.” Richard burst out laughing. “Why the devil did he not tell me? I think I would have had the accursed husband murdered just to get William to act as marshal for me.”

  “He could not tell,” Sancia breathed, her dark eyes wide with romantic fervor, “for that would darken his lady’s name. So true a heart would never tell.”

  “No.”

  Richard had no intention of saying anything to disturb Sancia’s sweet dream of courtly love conventions come to life, but guilt lashed him. William would have told him if he had ever asked. He realized now that there had been times when he suspected William was carrying some heavy burden. He had told himself that it would be wrong to pry if William did not speak of his own accord, but it was not truly that. Richard knew he had been too much taken up with problems of his own—with his brother, with his vassals and estates. He had piled many of those problems on William and resented the fact that William would not carry even more of his burdens. This spring he had known William was in trouble, yet he had ridden back to Wallingford to spend the night in Sancia’s bed rather than listen and try to help.

  “You do not mind that he did not tell you? Oh Richard, do not be angry. He could not. Not because he did not trust you but…but…but it must be secret!”

  Richard smiled at her. “No, my love, I am not angry—at least not with William.”

  “Can we help?” Sancia asked, her brow wrinkled with thought. “I know that the romances all end sadly, but—but these are real people. I like William. I do not wish to lament over his grave.”

  “Sancia!” Richard exclaimed, suddenly feeling cold. “William is in no danger of dying, nor Elizabeth either, since she is safe in Marlowe now. Of course we will do something. That is what I came to tell you. We must go to London as quickly as you can travel in comfort. I will speak to Henry and to Boniface and see if we can arrange a divorce or an annulment of Elizabeth’s marriage in such a way that the sons are protected.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Sancia’s eyes brightened. “And I will get Eleanor to help also. She can do more with Henry sometimes—especially on a matter like this—than you could.”

  Richard burst out laughing again and swept his wife into his arms. Sancia was a perfect delight, a compendium of everything good in a woman—innocent, foolish, loving—and practical in strange, womanly ways.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It seemed to Raymond in his haste and anxiety that everything had gone wrong from the moment he touched Alys’s hand in silent farewell and stepped off the dock into the boat. The journey was a nightmare in slow time. Of course, Raymond knew objectively that each hour in his mind was no more than a few minutes in reality. He could see that the stars had not shifted in the sky and he could hear sounds from the shore—voices dimly and occasionally the clang of metal or the thud of a wheeled cart jolting over a stone. The sounds proved they were not past the men Mauger was bringing, but that hardly reconciled Raymond to their slow progress. He was beginning to believe that the armed train was miles long, that there would be thousands of men, that they had come prepared for war, perhaps with siege towers as well as ladders. If such a force were arrayed against Marlowe, it could not hold out for an hour.

  When they were finally past the incoming men and silence was no longer imperative, Raymond urged the boatmen to speed. They did their best, but the river loops and bends, and there were obstacles invisible in the dark. Too often they struck, stuck, and needed to struggle to push the boat free, losing time. As soon as the sun came up, Raymond knew he could not endure the seemingly leisurely process any longer and told the men to make for land.

  “Windsor, lord,” one man said, pointing down the river and watching Raymond’s face to see if he understood. “Windsor. The king stays sometimes.”

  After a moment’s struggle, Raymond agreed. Apparently William had told the men to make for Windsor. Of course, he must have. It was one of Henry’s favorite residences, Raymond remembered, and William must have known they would reach it soon after first light. Even if the king was not there, perhaps someone would know where he was. And Raymond could almost certainly buy a horse at Windsor.

  He was quite right on both counts. A clerk in the castle was able to tell Raymond that the king was in Westminster and was expected to remain there for a week or more. Raymond also found a good horse furnished with a respectable saddle. Raymond did not complain of the price, although he knew he was being grossly cheated. In spite of so quickly learning the king’s whereabouts and finding a horse, Raymond was near frantic with disappointment. His hopes had been so high. He had convinced himself that the king would be at Windsor and that he could ride back to Marlowe that same day with the writ. Thus, he still felt everything had gone wrong and that he would be too late, long too late to help Sir William or save Alys.

  Nonetheless, he rode off at once. He had not slept since the preceding night nor eaten for many hours. The landlord of the inn at Windsor had offered food to so generous a buyer, but Raymond could not choke it down and would not wait a minute after the saddle had been set on the horse’s back. His haste brought him to Westm
inster just before the gates were closed at dark, but his anxious inquiries for the king coupled with his simple dress caused the guards to conceal smiles and direct him to a side office. The guards were accustomed to simple provincial knights who believed the king was available to anyone who asked to speak to him. Thus Raymond fell into the hands of an officious clerk, who passed him to another clerk. His haughty announcement of who he was met with an even greater display of fury.

  It did not take Raymond long to realize that talking to this second pompous fool was getting him no nearer to Henry. He began to bellow with rage, and Theobald of Hurley, who was just leaving his writing table in an inner chamber to go to Henry, strode out to see who dared cause such a disturbance among the king’s clerks.

  “I do not care who you are,” Raymond screamed. “I am Raymond d’Aix, blood-bound to the queen. I must see the king. Now! At once! I do not know what idiot sent me here among a bunch of tonsured fools, but you will lack heads instead of just hair if you do not direct me to where the king is.”

  “Many men wish to see the king,” Theobald said, raising his head and looking down his nose. “This is the office where such appointments are made. It is our purpose to spare King Henry importunity. All sorts of lies and threats—”

  The statement ended in a squawk as Raymond vaulted the table behind which Theobald had been standing and took him by the throat. The other clerks set up a clamor, but Raymond had dragged Theobald out of the chamber, shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat. In the courtyard, he relaxed his grip enough so that Theobald would not lose his senses.

  “Which building?” he grated. “We are going alive together, or I will leave you here dead and find another guide. I tell you I am nephew to the queen. If I am not, you will have your revenge.”

  Nephew! Theobald now remembered the king had mentioned a nephew of the queen’s in relation to the business of Sir Mauger’s. Merciful Mary, had Mauger done something to annoy the queen’s nephew? Theobald began to utter a cringing apology, but Raymond’s hand tightened on his throat again, and he gagged and scuttled in the direction of the king’s private chambers.