SirenSong (24 page)

Alys wiped her eyes and tried again. She found she had to
read the letter aloud and to think of the sounds in Raymond’s voice, but Martin
was right. In those terms the words were intelligible, and hearing in her mind
Raymond’s pleasant baritone saying them calmed her. Somehow it was more
possible to believe he was telling the truth, that her father was badly hurt
but not dying.
I will go to him
, Alys thought.
I will make him well
.
But the next sentence caught her eye just as she was about to lay the letter
down and stopped her.

“For certain reasons that I will tell you when we arrive,
the Earl of Hereford has thought it best that I bring your father home to
Marlowe.”

Alys read it aloud twice to Martin. “Am I right in what he
says? Is he bringing Papa home? But if he is hurt, will it not be very
dangerous to jolt him in a cart so many miles?”

“I do not know, my lady,” Martin replied. “I did not nurse
the sick and know nothing of such matters, but I am sure Sir Raymond does what
is best for our lord.” Only he was not sure. A horrible fear had come into his
mind. Raymond desired Alys. If her father were dead… Martin pushed the idea
away, telling himself that Raymond was a decent, honorable man.

“But why?” Alys was crying. “I could be with Papa in a few
days. I could ride faster to Wales than he can be brought here.”

“Sir Raymond must know that, and the Earl of Hereford also,”
Martin replied, trying to hide his worry. “They must feel that the danger of
the journey is less than the danger of remaining.”

There was no older woman of authority in the keep. Alys’s
nurse-companion had died years in the past, and now Alys sensed Martin’s
concealed fear. She needed comfort and support, and for all his soothing words,
this time she could not obtain it from Martin. Clutching the letter nervously,
she stood up.

“Lady Elizabeth will know,” she said breathlessly. “She is a
good physician.”

She would have run to the boat just as she was, but Martin
clung to her hand crying that it was getting cool and begging her to wait until
a maid could fetch her cloak and Diccon could warn two men-at-arms to accompany
her. Alys could have pulled away, but the long habit of years prevented her
from using any physical force on Martin—even as a child she could hurt him—and
the little delay of making ready was in its own way soothing. It was what had
always been done when she went to Hurley.

The normalcy implied normalcy, implied that all was as
usual, that the pattern of life was
not
broken. Papa had set the pattern
of being accompanied to Hurley by two men-at-arms when she was a little child,
and Alys had never gone without them, even though, as she grew up, she thought
it was silly. There was no person in Hurley who did not know her almost as well
as her own servants in Marlowe. She could not come to harm in Hurley.
Peculiarly, relief flooded her at this check to her headlong flight, and she
thanked Martin passionately for making her wait. Hope can breed on nothing when
it must do so to avoid despair. Because she was still obeying her father, Alys
was suddenly convinced that he would live. She did not think how silly it was.
She hugged the comfort to her and did not even urge the boatmen to paddle
faster.

Only when she was hurrying up the short road to the keep did
Alys begin to fear that Elizabeth might be out. She nearly burst into tears
when Emma minced up to greet her. She guessed as quickly as her father who the
stunning creature was, but she had no emotion to spare for outrage. All she
could do was ask where Lady Elizabeth was.

The answer came from the lady herself, who had been warned
by a servant of Alys’s arrival and came running down from the women’s quarters
just a minute too late to shield Alys from Emma’s greeting. She drew the girl
quickly into the stairwell.

“I am so sorry, my love,” Elizabeth murmured. “If I had
known you were coming, I would have sent her away. She is the simplest
creature, really silly, and likes to pretend she is mistress. Do not tell your
papa—”

Elizabeth’s voice checked suddenly as Alys winced. It was so
dark in the hall and stairwell that Elizabeth had not noticed the girl’s pallor
and too-wide eyes. She swallowed and stood still, clutching the rough stone and
fighting a sudden overwhelming fear.

“William?” she breathed. “Alys, is something wrong with your
father?” She tried to stiffen her knees, which were threatening to buckle and
pitch her over the unguarded edge of the uneven stair. “Dead?” she whispered.

“No, thank God,” Alys got out, and then began to cry.

It was impossible for Elizabeth to take Alys in her arms.
The stairs were too narrow and precipitous. She patted her and urged her
upward, following close behind, one hand on the wall to steady herself. In her
own chamber, she finally held Alys close until the girl could control her
choking sobs.

“Not dead,” she kept assuring herself, “not dead. He is not
dead.”

The murmured repetition penetrated to Alys, who began to
shudder even harder and wailed, “But he is sore wounded and Raymond says he is
bringing him home. Oh, Elizabeth, is that right? Can it be right? Will it not
do him harm if he is hurt to drag him hundreds of miles in a jolting cart?”

“Not in a cart, love,” Elizabeth said, scarcely knowing her
own voice. “You told me when your father’s last letter came that they were West
of Shrewsbury. Most likely they will carry him in a litter so far and then take
him by water down the Severn to Gloucester. From there it is only fifty miles
to Oxford, and that road is a good one. From Oxford they can come by boat again
down the Thames right to Marlowe.”

Alys stopped sobbing and looked hopefully at Elizabeth. “But
the horses and the men…”

“Does not the letter say, sweetheart?” Elizabeth asked
tenderly, struggling to hold back her own tears. “Who wrote to you?”

“Raymond wrote.” Alys took a deep, shaken breath and
produced the letter. “I do not know. I did not read the whole letter. It is so
hard to read. I was so afraid. I came here.”

“You did just right, love, just right,” Elizabeth soothed.
She looked at the sheet of parchment Alys was holding. “Come, read it now,
while I sit with you.”

“It is so hard to read,” Alys sighed. “He writes in his own
tongue.”

“The
langue d’oc
?” Elizabeth asked.

Alys blinked at her. “What?”

“Does Raymond say
oc
for
oui
?” Elizabeth
asked.

“Yes, he does. Do you know Raymond?”

“They all say
oc
in his part of the country. I know
from the poetry.”

“Poetry?”

Practical from the top of her highest curl to the tip of her
longest toe, Alys would never have thought of wasting so useful a skill as
reading on poetry. If Alys herself was to take the time from her work to read,
it had better be a treatise on how to make better crops or get more milk from a
cow or remove stains from silk.

“Do you read poetry?” Alys asked in a puzzled tone.

“Yes, and much of it is in the
langue d’oc
,”
Elizabeth said. Her voice shook. Over the years, that had been William’s gift
to her, books and scrolls of tales and poetry, a gift that would be safe from
her illiterate husband. She looked hungrily at the letter in Alys’s hand, but
Alys was already extending it toward her.

“Read it to me,” she cried eagerly.

Elizabeth stumbled over the first few words, but that was
more because of the choking sensation in her throat when she read Raymond’s
description of William’s hurts and illness than any trouble with the language.
Alys was crying softly but Elizabeth did not stop reading until she finished
that part. There was no need after that. The tears were more of relief than of
fear now. The poor child had not really been able to make out what Raymond said
and had thought the case was worse than it seemed. Unless Raymond was lying…
No, he could not be such a fool as that.

“It is not so bad, love,” Elizabeth said. “Your papa is very
strong and—and he has a great desire to live.”

She then read the sentence that reported Raymond would bring
William home and went on, translating into Norman French as she went along. “It
is thought here that the war is over for this time and that the Earls of
Hereford and Gloucester will soon dismiss the levies. Until that time Sir
Mauger, your neighbor at Hurley, will care for your father’s men. Arnald
remains as master-at-arms so there should be no trouble. Sir Mauger will also
bring home Le Bête, Gros Choc, and the young destrier. Lion, I am sorry to tell
you, is dead. He did not suffer, as his throat was pierced by arrows in the
same instant that your father was wounded.”

“Poor Lion,” Alys sighed. “Papa will grieve for him.”

There was then a description of the rescue which ended, “I
should have stayed close by my lord, but the village seemed completely empty,
and I fell neatly into the trap. I pray that you will try to forgive me, for I
will never forgive myself.”

Elizabeth stopped and looked at Alys, who had made a soft,
inarticulate sound. The struggle in her face was very revealing, and after a
moment, she asked, “Could he have saved Papa from being hurt?”

“I doubt it very much,” Elizabeth replied. “It was not
hand-to-hand combat but a flight of arrows. How could Raymond possibly stop
that?”

“Then why does he blame himself and ask my forgiveness?”

In spite of her anxiety, Elizabeth could not help smiling.
“I think he is just overwrought, love. He does not say, but it is possible he was
lightly hurt himself, and he has doubtless been tending your father, and he
knows how frightened and worried you would be when you had this news. He sounds
like a very nice young man, just the kind to blame himself for what was not his
fault.”

“Do you really think he was hurt also?”

There was a breathless quality to Alys’s question that
confirmed Elizabeth’s suspicion. Alys either already loved the hireling knight
or was on the thin edge of it. It was most unsuitable. She watched the girl
with troubled eyes as she said, “Very likely not. I was just trying to make a
reason for what he says. Alys, you should not think about this Raymond. He is
only a hireling, without—without even a shirt to his back but what you have
given him.”

“It was you who said I must marry for love,” Alys snapped.

“Oh, Alys,” Elizabeth sighed, “there are so many fine young
men. Do not permit yourself to love the wrong man. Please do not, dearling. It
hurts. It hurts so much.”

“I do not love anyone,” Alys said hastily, appalled by her
sudden perception of Elizabeth’s long agony.

She had never understood. Papa had concealed his misery
behind silence, business, and bad temper. Elizabeth had always presented a
facade of placidity and gentle humor, except that last time she and Papa had been
together. Alys had almost forgotten that. In fact, she realized, she had wanted
to forget it. Now, however, Elizabeth was concealing nothing. It was all she
could do, the best warning she could give, to the girl she loved as a daughter.

It was the wrong thing to do entirely. Elizabeth was
steadfast rather than daring. Alys could be steadfast, but she was far more
inclined to rush forward to meet trouble halfway. Although she cringed from the
knowledge of Elizabeth’s pain, that was for Elizabeth’s sake. From her own
point of view the depth of Elizabeth’s agony only made love more interesting.
Anything to which one would cling in spite of such suffering must be precious
indeed.

But Elizabeth’s eyes had already returned to Raymond’s
letter which held news of William. He went back to describing the battle and
Elizabeth could not help thinking that the poor young man must be far deeper in
love than Alys. He must know it was not necessary to spend all this time and
effort to tell her things he could tell her in person. Most likely he wrote
because he could not stop, because writing made him feel closer to her. Oh
dear! As soon as William was well enough, she must warn him of what was going
on.

“’Your father is much beloved by the Earl of Hereford, who
has provided us with every care and luxury this place affords. Do not fear for
your father’s comfort while we travel. We come by water nearly all the way, as
this will be swifter and easier for a man who cannot ride, and I hope will be
in Marlowe by the end of the month.’”

“There,” Elizabeth said, looking up from what she was
reading and sighing with relief. She had told Alys they would come by river,
but it was good to have her guess confirmed.

“The end of the month,” Alys exclaimed. “Today is the
twenty-eighth. The messenger was very slow. They may be here the day after
tomorrow.” But it was not relief Elizabeth saw in Alys’s face when she spoke.

“My love, what is wrong?” Elizabeth cried.

“I am afraid,” Alys whimpered. “I will not know what to do
for him. I will do something wrong and hurt him, make him worse.”

“No,” Elizabeth began in an automatic reflex of comforting,
and then drew in her breath sharply. This was her opportunity, her excuse.
“Alys, do you want me to come to Marlowe to nurse your father?”

There was a long silence. Elizabeth scarcely dared to
breathe while Alys stared at her own hands, knotting and unknotting in her lap.
Both women knew exactly what was at stake. If Alys conceded Elizabeth the right
to care for William, she would also withdraw her right to object to the
relationship between them. Fear struggled with jealousy, but a third force
entered the field. Raymond d’Aix would be coming home also.

“Yes,” Alys sighed. “Yes, please come, Elizabeth.”

It was fortunate that the boat bearing William and Raymond
arrived in the late afternoon of the second day. Had the voyage been slower
than expected, Alys might well have changed her mind. Although Elizabeth did
not deliberately put herself forward, it was very strange to Alys to have
another woman of authority in the house. Having heard, “But Lady Elizabeth says
it must be done thus and so,” from Alys for years, the maids simply came to
Elizabeth for directions and advice if Alys did not happen to be there. And
Elizabeth gave the order or advice without thinking. She was very proud of
Alys’s management, feeling quite correctly that it was largely owing to her
teaching, but she also felt as if Alys were a little girl playing at keeping
house.