SirenSong (26 page)

Before he could answer most fervently that he did, the maid
returned. Alys slid the shirt over his head and laid the drying cloth across
his lap. Then, under this concealment, she grasped his chausses, which she had
untied before she first told him to raise himself. “Hold the cloth and lift,”
she said. Her eyes were on what she was doing and she did not see Raymond’s
expression, which would have surprised her greatly. It was an unlikely moment
for a man’s face to set into iron-hard determination.

The delicate thought of shirt and cloth to save him
embarrassment was the final stone in the structure of Raymond’s love. He would
have this woman, he decided, whatever the cost. There could be no other, he
believed, with Alys’s combination of beauty, courage, and good sense. He had
seen her in every circumstance likely to try a woman, and she had never failed.
She had met every test, surpassing even hopes he did not know he had.

Raymond thought of his father’s life with his mother. She
was sweet and loving and had brought great estates, but in her presence there
was always constraint, always a need to watch each word and gesture lest
something offend her sensibilities or frighten her. Then Raymond thought of the
three weeks he had spent in Marlowe keep, of the ease and the laughter, of the
talk that covered everything from low jests to high politics, and Alys in the
midst of all. Not once had she disturbed her men folk with tears or offended
silence or haughty withdrawal.

Humanly perfect, those words described her best. She was no
saint, whose perfectness shamed all about them and brought discomfort. She had
a quick temper, a sharp tongue, and a low sense of humor. Alys would twitch a
cow’s ear to see it kick a man into a dung heap. She was willful as the devil,
and far too prone to do things on her own without asking the advice or consent
of her men folk. But all of those things made her a woman rather than an angel,
made her the woman he intended to marry.

Chapter Thirteen

As the late afternoon waned into evening, William’s sleep
became easier and less restless. He was cooler, too, Elizabeth thought,
although she was not sure whether that was owing to the fact that she had been
wiping him with wet cloths. Her worst anxiety had been relieved, however. The
wounds were not mortified nor were they so bad as she had feared. He was terribly
thin. Raymond had mumbled something about his unwillingness to eat.

Alys stole softly into the room. She did not speak but
looked questioningly at Elizabeth, who nodded and came toward her. Together
they went out into the antechamber where torches and candles had been lit.

“He seems better,” Elizabeth said at once. “There is no
mortification. I think—oh, I am sure—he will recover.”

There she stopped. When the case had seemed desperate, Alys
had been willing to cede her right to care for her father so that he should
have the best care she could furnish for him. Now that there was no need to
consider a last-ditch battle with death, it was possible she would want her
right to him back. Elizabeth would have gone down on her knees to plead for
permission to stay, but she feared that would worsen rather than improve her
chances by exacerbating Alys’s jealousy.

She need not have worried. Alys loved her father, but she
had found a new focus for her attention. She would never have abandoned William
to the care of the servants. She would have sat with him and nursed him
herself, knowing that Raymond’s need was far less. Nonetheless, since she knew
Elizabeth’s nursing was more skilled and would be equally, if not more,
devoted, she was glad to relinquish the harder, less precious task, for the
easier, more delightful one.

“Thank God for that,” Alys said softly. “Will our voices
disturb him? I must tell you why Raymond brought Papa home. And I have brought
something for us to eat.”

“Oh, thank you, love,” Elizabeth sighed, lowering her eyes
to hide her tears as she realized Alys had not come to wrest the joy of tending
William from her.

Alys drew a small table between two chairs, set the tray on
it, and uncovered the food. They ate hungrily, as Alys retold Raymond’s story.
Before she was half finished, Elizabeth was ashen again.

“Mauger!” she whispered.

Alys stared at her. “I thought so too,” she burst out, “but
Hereford believes it must be someone who wishes to destroy Papa’s influence
with Uncle Richard. And there is no reason, Elizabeth, after all these years—”
She broke off abruptly and covered her lips with her hand, blushing.

Elizabeth swallowed and color came into her face also. “I am
sorry, Alys,” she said at last. “I hope you know that we—we did nothing, ever,
that could have been an insult to your mother. It was an old, old thing that
began when we were children. We expected to marry and swore to each other, but
your grandfather felt that my portion was not enough for his eldest son. My
brothers were alive then. And my father agreed. He preferred to accept your
grandfather’s offer of your Aunt Alys—she died the year you were born, I
believe—to be betrothed to my brother. That way he had the blood bond and he
could use me to make another bargain.”

There was a long silence. Elizabeth looked at her hands,
folded quietly in her lap. Alys stared into the distance. A few months ago,
before she met Raymond, she might have been jealous or might have regretted the
marriage had not taken place. If it had, she would have been Elizabeth’s
daughter. Today the simple story struck her in a most painful spot, her
conscience. Her father, she feared, would be no better pleased with her choice
than her grandfather had been with his heir’s. Papa had warned her twice not to
give Raymond hopes that could not be fulfilled.

Could she resist Papa? That would be very wrong. To hurt him
who had always placed her good, her joy, ahead of his own was terribly
ungrateful. It was a sin in the eyes of the Church and in the eyes of all men
to disobey one’s parents. But to lose Raymond?

“Did you not even try to tell your father that you loved—”

“Try to tell him!” Elizabeth interrupted harshly. “I defied
him outright! He beat me and starved me, but I would not yield.”

“But then—”

“Your father ‘accepted’ the better bargain,” Elizabeth
hissed. Then she covered her face with her hands, murmuring through them, “No,
do not listen to me. That was my old bitterness speaking.”

“You mean Papa gave you his word, and broke it?”

Elizabeth uncovered her face and sighed. “You do not
understand, my love. It was easy for me. I never loved my father. He never
cared for me. I was a waste, being a woman. But your papa loved his father,
and—”

“No,” Alys said. “I do not believe it. If Papa gave his
word, he would not break it, not for love or hate or anything.”

“He was young then,” Elizabeth suggested, but there was an
uncertainty in her voice.

“No,” Alys repeated. “People do not change that way. Have
you changed?”

“But your father’s papa came and told me that William
had—had accepted Lady Mary.” Elizabeth’s voice roughened on the hated word.

Stubbornly Alys shook her head. “Papa would not break his
word. Are you so certain your father and my grandfather did not lie to you?
They might not have thought it a lie because you were only children, and if
they told it, then it would become true.”

Elizabeth stared at Alys, dumbfounded. A pall that had
clouded her whole life seemed to be lifting. Could it be true? If it were so—if
only it were so…

“Ask Papa,” Alys said.

With that, Elizabeth turned her head to listen, but all was
still quiet in William’s bedchamber. When she looked back, there were tears in
Alys’s eyes. “He will be well soon,” Elizabeth soothed, thinking her gesture
had worried the girl, but Alys did not respond, merely bit her lip and stared
at the wall. “What is it, my love?” Elizabeth asked then.

“I have done what you warned me against,” Alys said. “I have
fallen in love with Raymond.”

“Oh dear,” Elizabeth sighed. “Oh dear. Oh, it was very wrong
of him to—”

“He has done nothing, except to look at me. And he tries not
to do that,” Alys interrupted defensively. “I did not really know it until he
came ashore with Papa. I saw him, and I forgot about Papa.” Her voice was
stricken.

Another woman would have brought out a host of platitudes.
Alys would have been told she was very young, that she would soon forget the
hireling knight when she was the mistress of a fine estate, that she should
consider how she would be robbing her own future children if she married a man
with nothing. And all the platitudes would have been true.

Elizabeth could say none of those things. They were contrary
to her own experience. And for Alys, there was already Marlowe and Bix. If
William did not marry again, Alys’s children would be well provided for, and
Richard of Cornwall could be depended upon to find good places for any extra
sons. Besides, a little evil voice said, if Alys married Raymond, William would
have no reason to marry. His daughter would remain with him, and there would be
children.

“My pet,” Elizabeth said, “it is natural for a woman to
place the man she loves above her father. Do not blame yourself for that. But…”
Elizabeth’s conscience pricked her painfully. William had such hopes for his
daughter. “Oh, dear! Do try to curb this feeling in yourself, especially while
your father is so sick. When he is better, if—if you feel the same, but you
must promise me you will try to change your heart, I-I will plead with him for
you.”

“Will you?” Alys cried, and then clapped a hand to her
mouth.

Elizabeth jumped up and went swiftly into the other room.
Although he was not awake, William was stirring. Alys was waiting in the
doorway and stepped back as it became clear Elizabeth would come out again.

However, she did not sit down or go back to the subject
uppermost in Alys’s mind.

“Love, will you tell the cooks to send up some clear broth
and also some with finely minced meat in it. I am not sure what he is able to
take, but I think he will soon wake enough to eat a little.”

Alys agreed and went out immediately, although she felt a
bit aggrieved that her discussion with Elizabeth had been cut short at such a
point. Then she felt guilty for thinking such a thing when her father’s need
was so much more important. Last she laughed at herself, remembering that
Elizabeth had said it was natural she should think first of Raymond. It was
such a comfort to have Elizabeth there. If only Elizabeth could stay Papa would
think first of her and not care, much, whom Alys married.
Raymond and I
could go to Bix, which is really mine
, Alys thought. The idea was so
lovely, it would make everything so perfect, just like heaven. Papa happy and
well, never lonely, never worried because he did not have a son and Marlowe
might be neglected. She thought of herself and Raymond at Bix, so near to
Marlowe that she could see Papa anytime and yet far enough that she would be,
as she had been for so long, a lady in her own keep.

She gave the necessary order, dimly aware of the eagerness
of the servants to hear and their relief when they understood that Sir William
would eat. That was one order that would be fulfilled without watching. The
broth for her father would reach his chamber probably before he woke. Her mind
reverted at once to her dream. Its bright colors had dimmed. Elizabeth would
not be at Marlowe. As soon as Mauger came home… Mauger. If Mauger had been the
one who tried to murder Papa and that could be proved…
No
, Alys thought,
I am growing into a monster! Think of the shame for Aubery and John. I must
not seek my happiness out of the pain of others or it will turn bitter in my
mouth.

It was bitter already, but Martin came up to her to tell her
that the servants had been told that no one must enter Sir William’s apartment.
He would sleep in the antechamber himself, on a pallet, so that he could fetch
anything Lady Elizabeth might want during the night. He had ready a cot to be
set up in Sir William’s bedchamber for Lady Elizabeth. Alys sighed. Martin
never could see that his service was enough. He always wanted to do more. One
of the cook’s assistants was by her elbow when she finished speaking to Martin,
and she took the pots from him and went to the door of the bedchamber. The room
was dark, except for what light came through the door. Lady Elizabeth saw
Alys’s shadow and came toward her.

“He is not awake yet,” she reported. “You look tired, my
love. Perhaps you should lie down for a while.”

It was true Alys looked tired. There were mauve shadows
around her eyes, the result of two wakeful, fearful nights. Elizabeth’s concern
was largely selfish, however. She was well aware that fatigue would do Alys,
who was very strong, little harm. What Elizabeth wanted was to be alone with
William when he woke. The cheerfulness with which Alys accepted this stricture
and the lightness with which she tripped away alerted Elizabeth to what she had
done. Doubtless the girl would go to young Raymond. Well, would it not be best
after all?

The bed creaked as William moved restlessly and he began to
groan. Elizabeth hurried toward him, fearful that he had wakened to some false
reality of delirium in which he might do himself some harm. Her heart sank when
she came through the door and his voice snapped a harsh, “Who is that?”

“Elizabeth,” she replied. He had responded to her voice each
time he had been restless, but this time the silence after she spoke was so
profound that she grew frightened. She bent over. William’s eyes were open, the
whites gleaming faintly in the dimness.

“Light some candles,” he said. “I think I must be still
dreaming.”

His voice was softer, hesitant, and the reply was perfectly
sensible. Elizabeth sighed with relief and ran to bring a branch of candles
from the antechamber. She heard the bed creak again and William utter an oath.