SirenSong (51 page)

Softly, slowly, Martin eased himself to the doorway and out.
He leaned against the stone for a little time to steady his legs, which were
weak and shaking with having knelt so long in prayer. When he was ready, he
slipped between the tent and the shed so he could come around the back out of
sight. No one noticed the dark figure—a distorted shadow among other shadows.
Buoyed up by success, Martin lifted the tent flap and crept inside. He could
see before he entered that a light was burning, but most men slept with a night
light. However, the hope of coming upon Mauger unaware was not fulfilled. As
Martin entered, Mauger turned on his cot and called sharply, “Who is there?”

“Do not cry out, lord,” Martin whispered, “I have a secret
to sell.”

Mauger sat up abruptly, reaching for his sword, but his hand
dropped. He could see the twisted shape and knew at once that it was William’s
crippled steward. He did not ask how Martin came to be there, assuming that the
foul little beast had deserted his master as soon as danger threatened. Now the
creature would want to buy new protection.

“Sell,” Mauger sneered. “I do not need to buy. You are in my
hands and I can wring from you whatever I want. Say what you have to say
quickly. If it is worth something, perhaps I will let you live.”

“Yes, yes,” Martin agreed eagerly. “I have good news for
you. You will let me live and reward me also, but allow me to approach closer,
my lord. One thing I have to say,” he lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper,
“should not be heard by too many.”

“What do you mean?” Mauger asked, but he gestured Martin closer,
hoping for what he was about to hear.

“In the years when my lord’s father guarded Wallingford, he
got much good,” Martin began suggestively.

“There is a hoard in Marlowe?” Mauger whispered. “Where?”

“Is it worth my life to know of it, and of a secret way into
Marlowe keep? But it is not so easy to find,” Martin tittered horrid laughter.
“Let me bring the table and the light nearer so I can show you something that
will bring you the reward you deserve for your mercy and your generosity.”

The creature must have a map, Mauger thought. No wonder
William never complained about need of money. He was so excited he never
stopped to wonder why Martin should be so stupid as to show him a map that
would make Martin himself unnecessary as a guide. Mauger knew he could have
wrested the map from the old man, but it suited his sense of humor to allow the
cripple to struggle painfully to drag the table across the room.

Solicitously Martin arranged the table so that it fit over
Mauger’s knees and blocked his path to grip his sword. Then he carried the
candle over and set it by the table where it made a little pool of light. When
he stepped to Mauger’s side, close enough that Mauger would need to twist his
neck uncomfortably to look at him, Mauger instinctively looked down at the
little pool of light. It would be there that Martin would lay whatever he had
to show.

That instant Martin’s hand slipped into his breast, drew the
knife, and struck. Blood spurted wide. Mauger howled and reached out, twisting
to grip his attacker, but the table held him down momentarily and Martin clung
to the knife, pushing against it and weeping with horror and terror.

In the end it was Martin’s fear and Mauger’s rage at the
insolence of the inept attack that killed them both. Martin had never in his
life used violence against any living thing, man or beast. He was so terrified
by the actual fact of what he had done that he was frozen. Mauger, on the other
hand was so convulsed with rage that he lunged forward, which drove the knife
deeper. Then he tore at Martin’s hands, lacerating his throat more and more
while he struggled for the knife. And when he had it, he stabbed and stabbed
and stabbed at the unresisting cripple while his lifeblood poured away.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Raymond waked as the sun rose, about half an hour after
Philip d’Arcy rode away from Westminster. He lay for a few moments trying to
reorient himself. The huge, soft bed with its elaborate curtains had cast him
back to Aix. He had not slept in such a bed since he left home. However, in
seconds he knew he was not in Tour Dur, and memory came rushing back. Then
began one long battle against himself. All he wanted to do was ride back to
Marlowe, but the king had forbidden it, and Raymond did not wish to annoy the
king who had done all he could already.

He managed to eat, but he could not endure the talk of the
courtiers around him. All he could think of was Marlowe. His need brought him
out to the stable where, after some trouble, he found the horse that he had
bought. When a groom hurried forward and asked if he should saddle the beast,
Raymond agreed eagerly.

Then he felt a fool. Where could he go? The only place he
wanted to be was Marlowe. It came to him then that there was one other person
nearby who was as interested in Marlowe as he—Richard of Cornwall. The groom
was able to give him directions, and Raymond rode off feeling less as if he
were stifling. He found the earl awake, at breakfast, and was welcomed kindly
despite the fact that there were several clerks waiting for Richard’s
attention.

“I am intruding on your time of business,” Raymond said.

“All times are times of business for me,” Richard responded
sourly. “I am again without a marshal. The lands are so great that they are a
temptation to avarice and power. It is a hard post to fill. This is all
nonsense.” He gestured with his head at the clerks. “Stupidities of receipts
and disbursements that should be seen to in a round of visits to the estates,
but I am sent hither and thither by Henry and I do not complain of that for it
is needful and right. However, I cannot be in two places at once.” He sighed.
“You have met Lady Elizabeth. Do you think…?” He looked at Raymond, who had
jumped as if he had been stung. “What is it?”

“I do not know,” Raymond sighed. “I am so uneasy. Lord
Richard, what if Mauger will not obey the king’s writ? Sir William said that if
Marlowe was near to falling, Mauger would take it first and apologize later to
the king. But it is not a question of the keep or goods, which can be restored.
Mauger will have Sir William and Lady Elizabeth killed if he can lay hands on
them. I know it.”

“Marlowe will not fall so quickly,” Richard soothed, and
began to explain that it took time to build engines of war.

“He does not need to build them,” Raymond pointed out, reminding
Richard how close Hurley was and continuing to describe the situation. By the
time he had enumerated the weaknesses in William’s situation, Richard was
beginning to look as worried as Raymond felt.

“I have not men enough with me,” the earl muttered.

“Are there no free mercenary bands in so large a city as
London?” Raymond asked. “If you will lend me the money to hire men, my lord, I
will repay you. I am heir to Aix, and I have some small estates of my own.”

Richard pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Do not be silly,” he
replied. “Why should you pay for that? William has been my friend for thirty
years. No, no more than my own troop should be needed. Mauger might ignore a
king’s messenger and a king’s writ, but he will not ignore
me
. Idiot
that I am, but I did not know…”

Richard got to his feet and the clerks surged forward. He
cast them a glance of exasperation and waved them away, shouting for a servant
to tell his troop to arm. Raymond jumped up also begging to go along. Richard
cast him one slightly quizzical glance, remembering how the young man had
jumped when Lady Elizabeth had been mentioned. Was that the reason for
Raymond’s surely excessive devotion? Had he too fallen under the spell of the
siren who had held William in thrall for twenty years? What a beauty this must
be! However, he said nothing of that, merely nodding and telling Raymond to
ride back for his arms while he told Sancia that he would be away for a few
days.

“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.