SirenSong (9 page)

“I see. Of course, he would be ashamed of that and not wish
to tell us or anyone. And it is reason enough to leave his own country where he
would be known and might be suspected or pitied. Yes. That is quite reasonable,
Papa. But what did Sir Mauger say?”

“Oh, he knew nothing of Raymond. Apparently Raymond did not
arrive at court until after Mauger had gone. What Mauger did not like was that
the king had sent him at all, because he says Henry is growing more suspicious of
everyone and everything.”

Alys gasped. “Then he may be a spy. He—”

William guffawed. “A spy on what? How many lambs are being
born? Alys, have a little sense. You know I have no influence on the doings in
the see of Winchester and no connection any longer in Wales.”

“Wales? What—”

A scratch at the door interrupted her, and William called,
“Enter.” Raymond stood in the opened doorway.

“I am sorry to interrupt, sir. The messenger you asked for
is waiting, and Martin was not in the hall, so I—”

“Good,” William said, and then, impatiently, “well, call the
messenger in and come in yourself. In fact, sit down for a minute. You, too,
Alys. Just let me add two words to this letter and seal it.”

He picked up his quill, dipped it, glanced over his
retelling of what Mauger had said about David and Gruffydd, and wrote, “Most
likely you know all this already, but if it has not come to your notice, that
would be particularly interesting because it would mark a special effort to
keep you in ignorance. Sir Mauger might be wrong about any or all of the facts,
but he is skillful at picking up rumor and has a son in Hereford’s household.
Both David’s appeal to the pope and this rumor of freeing Gruffydd smell of
trouble to me—if true. I hope Mauger is mistaken as to the facts, but if so,
why are these tales flying about? It can do no harm to lay your ear to the
ground. In haste, with love from myself to you and respect to Lady Sancia,
William.”

He rolled the parchment, sealed it with string and wax, then
handed it to the messenger. “To Earl Richard with what haste you may make. I
think he is still at Wallingford. Put it into his hands only.”

The man bowed and left. Raymond felt like weeping. He had
hoped so hard that the king’s suspicions would be groundless, and then this, a letter
to be put into the Earl of Cornwall’s hands only. That meant that the content
was dangerous if read by someone else, but what could a simple knight have to
say to an earl that could be dangerous?

“I have just had some news from Sir Mauger,” William said,
almost as if he were answering the question in Raymond’s mind, “that concerns
your service with me, Raymond.”

“Who is Sir Mauger?” Raymond asked in surprise. “I have
never heard of the man before.”

“No, you would not. He is my neighbor across the river and
spends a good part of his time at court.” William went on to tell again the
tale he had written to Richard. “You see,” he finished, “if either is true, it
is likely to mean war with Wales.”

Alys drew in her breath sharply, and Raymond gritted his teeth,
expecting a wail of protest followed by hysterics. William, however, did not
glance apprehensively in her direction as Raymond’s father would have done. In
fact, Raymond could not imagine his father making such an announcement in the
presence of his wife or daughters. William’s eyes remained fixed on Raymond and
he went on speaking quite calmly.

“If there is war, it is very likely that you will have to
fight in it if you take service with me. By my tenure of Marlowe and Bix, I am
required to furnish two knights and seventy footmen to Richard of Cornwall, who
is my overlord. It is near certain that the king will call on his brother to
support him, and if Richard goes, I go. Now, war in Wales is a very nasty
business.”

“War is always a nasty business,” Alys said bitterly.

William laughed. “You are prejudiced, my dear. I do not
blame you. You have the bitter of it without the better. For men, war has its
good points when fought in a normal manner, but as I was saying, war in Wales
often does not go by the usual rules and can become very dirty work. I can see
no reason why you should be mixed into such a business, Raymond.”

“Do you have some reason, sir, to impugn my courage?”
Raymond asked tightly.

“Good God, no!” William exclaimed, fighting a desire to grin
and add injury to insult, all unintended. “Nor did I mean to cast the slightest
shadow on it. If I had heard that Richard was going to Normandy or Gascony, I
would not have given it a second thought. But there is nothing to be won in
Wales, except hard blows. If we take a Welsh keep, it will be bare bones of
stone. If we take an English one overrun by the Welsh, what would be left in
it—if anything—will already belong to the king or one of the Marcher lords. It
just seemed unfair to me that you should fight so hard without even a hope of
booty or ransom.”

Raymond blinked, then bit his lip. He had almost asked
haughtily what need William thought he had for booty or ransom. That would have
been a prime piece of stupidity and totally foreign to the part he was playing.
“I did not come to take service with you in the expectation of booty or
ransom,” he said.

The remark had the merit of being true, but Raymond was very
much troubled. Was this an attempt on the part of Sir William to be rid of him?
If so, what had made the man suspicious? On the other hand, Raymond thought,
his heart lightening, if he had not given cause for suspicion—and he could
think of nothing unusual he had done or said—it was just as likely that Sir
William meant no more than he had said. It would be the most natural thing in
the world for a considerate man to warn one he thought in need that a campaign
would not be profitable.

Alys had grimaced with disgust when Raymond spoke what she
felt to be a peculiarly male idiocy. She had learned, however, that it was
useless to protest against the lust of men to fight. Her mother had wept and
wailed, pleading with Papa to hire a knight to fight in his place and sending
him tragic letters with all the bad news in the hopes that it would bring him
home. All she succeeded in doing was making Papa hide things from her.

“But it is not certain,” Alys said hopefully. “How could Sir
Mauger know what Prince David did or did not do?”

“I did not say he did know,” William rejoined. “It is a
rumor spread in the court.”

“By whom? Perhaps this is William of Savoy’s way to divert
attention from Walter Raleigh’s woes?”

“Alys!” William exclaimed. “That is ridiculous! And for
God’s sake, do not dare say it to Richard if he should come here.”

“Is Uncle Richard coming?” Alys asked joyfully, momentarily
diverted even from the question of war.

“He might, if he is still at Wallingford and if he has not
already heard what I told you.”

“Oh, goodness,” Alys gasped. “Will he bring Countess
Sancia?”

“Now how can I tell you that?” William asked, smiling
indulgently. “I do not even know whether Richard will come. If he wishes to
spend the night, he will send ahead and let us know. But Alys, I am serious.
Not one word of such a stupid idea about William of Savoy.”

Raymond had barely restrained himself from gasping when Alys
did. The one thing the king had not considered was that Richard of Cornwall
might bring his bride—who was also Raymond’s aunt—to his friend’s keep.
Naturally, if Sancia laid eyes on Raymond, there would be no question of
maintaining his pose. Internally, Raymond writhed with embarrassment at the
thought of explaining himself. It was fortunate, he thought, that Sir William’s
attention was wholly on Alys and hers on him, or both might have wondered what
there could be about Countess Sancia to make their hireling knight red as fire.

In this, Raymond underestimated William, whose quick eye had
caught both the stiffening when Sancia’s name was first mentioned and the blush
that followed. It seemed a confirmation of his deductions that the young man
should be so affected. Very possibly Sancia knew him from the days before his
family had been ruined. William was annoyed with himself for forgetting to
mention such a possibility to Richard so that he could warn his wife to pretend
ignorance. But he had not wanted to mention Raymond or how he arrived at
Marlowe at all. So far, between his interest in his new lady and years of
experience, Richard had behaved with great circumspection in his opposition to
the king’s persecution of Walter Raleigh. However, the tone of this last letter
indicated that the Angevin temper was rapidly pushing its way through both
preoccupation and experience.

Recently, Raleigh had been hounded like a felon. The gates
of Winchester had been closed against him by order of the king. His goods had
been confiscated, his friends forbidden to give him food and shelter. Richard
could not tolerate this injustice and, in addition, could see that the other
prelates and the nobility were growing resentful of Raleigh’s treatment. Thus,
Richard had changed his stand and began to try to induce Henry to drop the
matter. His approach was delicate at first. Nevertheless, although William of
Savoy had himself begun to express doubts, Henry remained adamant, and Richard
was beginning to lose patience.

Because he was distracted by his concern for Raymond from
the primary object, which was to keep Richard from boiling over, William
unwisely brought William of Savoy back into his daughter’s mind. He could have
kicked himself for it. Had he just kept his mouth shut, Alys would have
concentrated on the possible visit of Sancia and busied herself with household
matters.

Now her eyes sparkled, and she said, “Why is it stupid?”

“William of Savoy is a good and clever man,” her father
replied sourly. “He would never think there could be any ultimate benefit in
stirring up a war. Besides, even if he has lost his mind and becomes possessed
of devils and has done such a thing, it would be far better for everyone if
Richard did not know it.”

“How can you say that?” Alys cried. “How can it be better
for a false rumor to start a war—”

“Do not talk like a fool,” William snapped. “If it is a
false rumor, it will not start a war, and Richard’s patience is already much
strained by the difference of opinion between himself and the king on the
treatment of the bishop-elect of Winchester. I will not have anything said, no
matter how silly and no matter that it comes from the mouth of a chit who
should know better, that could further inflame Richard against his brother. Are
you an idiot, Alys, to think of such a thing?”

Her eyes dropped. “I am sorry, Papa. I do not want a war.”

Raymond had forgotten completely his concern over his aunt’s
possible discovery of him. What he had just heard virtually proved his uncle-by-marriage
was wrong about Sir William. Far from inciting Richard against the king, Sir
William seemed intent on keeping the Earl of Cornwall and his brother on good
terms. But there must be substance to the rumor William described. Raymond
remembered that Henry had said to him that there was trouble in Wales.

“Sir—” he began, then hesitated, realizing he probably
should not know of such things. But William was looking at him questioningly,
and he had to say something. “Do you mean that the Earl of Cornwall would rise
against his brother?” It was a question a stranger might safely ask, and the
answer might well amplify or confirm the opinion he had of Sir William’s
innocence.

“Of course not,” William replied smiling. “I do not believe
anything could make Richard into a rebel, but certainly not a difference of
opinion about the disposition of the see of Winchester. However, there is much
bad feeling about it, and it would be better for all concerned if the king
yielded and found some other see for William of Savoy. The thing is, if Richard
loses his temper, he will shout and rant—as likely as not in public—and tell
Henry a few home truths about being stupid and stubborn.”

“But that is no way to bring the king to reason,” Raymond
protested.

William laughed. “You know it, and I know it, and Richard
knows it too. But the Angevins have tempers. It is said that the king’s
grandfather rolled on the floor and chewed rugs and pillows when his rage
became ungovernable. Thus far Richard has spoken the king most fair, entreating
him gently to reconsider and seek a new solution that will content everyone. I
would not for the world have a word said, true or untrue, that would overset
him.”

That seemed to settle the matter. Raymond could not believe
this scene was set up to deceive him. It had come about too naturally. Besides,
there had not been the smallest sign that Sir William or Alys was trying to
hide anything. There was no need for Sir William to have given his letter and
instructions to the messenger in Raymond’s presence. If he had not been bidden
to sit down, he would have left the room. He would never have known a letter
had been sent to Richard or that it was to be delivered into his hands only.
Thus, Sir William had no cause to hide those facts.

There was then only the question of how Sir William felt
about the war in Wales. He had said already that if Richard went, he would go
also, but would he try to prevent Richard from going? “You say there is no
profit in fighting the Welsh. Will you urge Earl Richard to try to divert the
king from that also?”

“No. I doubt he will speak against it, and I certainly will
not. If David ap Llewelyn is trying to break the agreement he made, he needs a
lessoning. For myself, I do not at all mind a campaign in Wales. I only thought
I should warn you that you will get no more out of it than your shilling a
day.”

Alys uttered a frustrated sob, and Raymond stiffened and
turned toward her, but William only said warningly, “Now, Alys!” and her face
composed itself. Raymond could hardly believe such a marvel of self-command in
a woman. He made some suitable remark about it being a poor kind of service
that was only content with extra reward, and William smiled at him warmly. The
young were always generous of their strength, being so sure they had enough and
to spare of it—and of time also—to win a fortune.