SirenSong (44 page)

“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.

“Yes, ask.” Raymond agreed eagerly.

He wanted very much to look once more on Alys, even if she
would not permit him to touch her. Perhaps Lady Elizabeth would be shocked and
refuse, although Lady Elizabeth was almost as remarkable a woman as Alys. The
thought was rewarded by the sight of Elizabeth running past him, obviously to
fetch Alys down. Having got what he wanted, Raymond was no longer sure he
wanted it. What could he say to her? Would she realize the necessity of what he
was doing or think he was deserting Marlowe in its time of need?

William left, returned in a few minutes saying something
Raymond could not concentrate on about Martin and boatmen. Raymond suddenly was
uncomfortably aware of the disorder of his dress—his chausses hanging loosely
ungartered, the strings of his tunic protruding untidily through his unlaced
mail. He was fumbling with those strings, trying to tie them or thrust them out
of the way when Alys entered. Her face was pale as milk, her eyes unnaturally
large and bright.

“William,” Elizabeth said, following on Alys’s heels, “you
will want to speak to the men who are to go.”

“Yes,” he agreed, smiling and sliding an arm around her
waist. Tactful Elizabeth would not say,
Leave the poor things alone
, but
he really did want to oversee the final arrangements and be sure the men who
were half asleep overlooked nothing.

“You are dressed all by guess,” Alys murmured. “Let me help
you.”

“It was your father’s choice,” Raymond said. “He thought it
more needful that I go to my uncle and get a writ to curb Sir Mauger than—”