SirenSong (25 page)

A faint resentment flickered in Alys that might have grown,
but it was completely drowned when her father was carried ashore. She and
Elizabeth were waiting at the dock, and they heard William raving before the
boat was warped in. Alys burst into tears and rushed forward as the stretcher
was lifted out of the boat. Raymond had climbed up just ahead of it, and he was
barely able to pull Alys out of the way as William struck out at her.

“Careful,” Raymond cried, “let me—”

But Elizabeth had already stepped forward and she said,
“William, stop that!” not loudly, but in a clear, compelling tone. At the same
time she laid one hand on his forehead. His glazed eyes turned toward her, and
his struggling body went limp.

“Why did you bring him when he was so sick?” Alys cried,
turning on Raymond.

“I had no choice, I swear it,” Raymond replied. “If I had
not—”

“Later,” Elizabeth said firmly. “First we must get Sir
William into his bed.” She turned to the four large serfs who had come with
them and directed them in English to take the stretcher and not to jostle it.
“Will you be so good,” she said to Raymond, having switched to French again,
“as to ride my horse back to the keep. I wish to walk beside Sir William.”

Elizabeth’s face was calm and her voice steady, but she was
sick with terror. William seemed a ghost of himself. All she could think of was
getting him where she could examine him carefully and do something for him. Had
she been less frightened, she would have waited for Alys to say whether she
wished to walk with her father also. Had Alys not already had another
preoccupation, she would have been furious with Elizabeth. However, when Alys
made her protest to Raymond and received his answer, she had been looking full
into his face. He was hollow eyed and haggard.

“You are not well yourself,” Alys said.

“I am only tired and—and very, very worried.”

His voice faltered. Raymond had remembered Alys was
beautiful, but his memory had been pale in comparison with her reality. The
blue eyes that could glitter with anger or twinkle with humor were misty with
concern for him now.

“Were you hurt also in that battle?”

“It was only a raid,” Raymond murmured idiotically.

Ever since Alys had budded breasts and her body had formed,
men had been looking at her with the bemused longing that showed in Raymond’s
face now. Mostly she had found it very funny, because it followed or preceded
sessions of boasting and strutting that reminded her sharply of cocks strutting
before the hens in the poultry yard. Once or twice she had been frightened or
disgusted, because there was an ugly rapacity mixed into the longing. A few
times she had felt pity.

This time, Alys did not even remember that she had ever
before seen men look at her thus. She was suffused with tenderness, with the
desire to put her arms around this man and tell him not to worry, that she
would bring him peace, fulfill his longing. She had moved a step forward and
put out her hand, which he took, before she remembered that he was only a
hireling, totally unsuitable for her. It would be a dreadful cruelty to lead
him to believe she could be his. A sharp pang of loss made her push the ugly
thought away. There were more immediate problems than her relationship with
Raymond.

“Are you hurt, Raymond?” she repeated sharply, squeezing his
hand and giving it a little shake to wake him from whatever dream held him.

“Hurt? Oh, not to speak of.”

“Idiot!” Alys exclaimed, but somehow the tenderness she felt
crept into the word and turned it into a caress. Raymond caught his breath.
Alys hurried on. “If I did not wish you to speak of it, I would not have asked.
Where are you hurt?”

“A cut on the arm and another on the leg. Nothing.” His
voice was not steady.

“Are they healed?”

“Not—not quite.”

“Come then, I will see to you.”

She turned from him to give orders about bringing what
little baggage Raymond had carried along up to the keep and then gestured the
man holding the horses forward. Raymond moved to lift her to the saddle, but
she shook her head, telling him that he looked as if he would have enough to do
to mount himself. As they turned toward the keep, Alys saw the group carrying
her father and guilt smote her. She had forgotten him! Then while she watched,
Elizabeth bent over the litter, either speaking to or touching William. Guilt
and jealousy dwindled together. Elizabeth would care better for her father than
she could herself, and she would be free to… No, she would not think of that
now. When she had time and quiet would be soon enough to reexamine things in
her life that she had considered basic principles.

“Why did you bring Papa home?” Alys asked again, when they
were moving slowly in the wake of the walking party.

Raymond looked at the beautiful face turned to him, at the
firm chin and steady eyes, and could have wept with relief. Had his mother or
sisters asked that question, he would have had to lie, to continue to carry
the burden all alone, and he was so tired! Alys would not fall into hysterics.
Alys would help him.

“Someone is trying to murder him. I, and the earl of
Hereford also, felt he would be safer at Marlowe than anywhere else.”

Alys’s eyes opened wide with astonishment, but she did not,
as Raymond expected, give any sign of fear. “That is ridiculous,” she said. “I
do not believe there is anyone in the world who hates Papa.”

“You must believe me!” Raymond exclaimed. Hastily he related
what had happened in the camp and the abbey. Alys listened, belief and
confusion growing together.

“I do believe you,” she said at last, “but it is quite mad.
Who could possibly wish…?”

She stopped. Her eyes were fixed on Elizabeth, who now
seemed to be holding her father’s hand while she walked beside him. If Sir
Mauger knew… Alys remembered him standing outside her father’s closed door,
listening. What if he had heard something that made him suspicious? She had
come as quickly as possible, but she had been lagging behind, making herself
busy with something. She had had quite enough of Sir Mauger on the little ride
they had taken. Like a fool, he had been sighing over Aubery’s passion for her.
Did he think her an idiot? Alys remembered Aubery’s attitude on his last
visit—it had only been a few months earlier—and to say the least, it had not
been one of deep passion. Elizabeth had warned her, too, that Aubery had not
changed.

“That is what Hereford and I could not imagine. Your father
is well liked everywhere. The earl and I came to believe it must be something
to do with Richard of Cornwall.”

Alys had been about to voice her suspicion of Mauger, but
that stopped her. Hereford’s idea was far more reasonable, really. After all,
Elizabeth and her father had loved each other for many years. Sir Mauger had
done nothing in all those years. Why should he burst into violence all of a
sudden? On the other hand, it was not at all impossible that someone wished to
separate Papa permanently from Uncle Richard. No one had ever tried to kill him
before, but other attempts of all kinds had been made to destroy Uncle
Richard’s love for Papa. And at war it might have seemed that it would be easy.

“That is possible. I had not thought of it before.” Alys’s
eyes narrowed. “While Papa is sick, there is no need to worry. It will be easy
to tell the servants that no one is to enter his apartment but you, me, Martin,
and Elizabeth. Once he is on his feet again—” Her voice quivered. “He will get
well, will he not?”

“I am sure he will,” Raymond said as heartily as he could.

At that moment they caught up with the litter party.

Alys bent to look at her father. He was quiet now, although
his lips moved as if he were talking in his dreams, but his right hand was free
again and it clung to Elizabeth’s. Elizabeth turned to Raymond. Her lips
trembled. There was something she was afraid to ask, but she had to know the
answer.

“Has he been out of his head the whole time?” she asked.

“No, my lady. Yesterday for a few minutes he knew me, and
this morning…” Raymond’s voice thickened, and he cleared his throat. “This
morning I thought he was better. He woke and spoke to me quite sensibly, asked
me about the men and such, and he slept quite easy, not trying to toss about or
muttering. I thought…but then he seemed to grow worse again.”

“Oh, excellent!” Elizabeth exclaimed, and then smiled at
Raymond’s expression. “No, I did not mean it excellent that he grew worse. One
does not put off a fever like this in a single day. But if he knew you in the
morning, he is growing better. When he is washed and cooled, he will be easier,
and still better tomorrow morning, I hope.”

In the keep, after the bustle of getting William settled was
over, Alys came out of her father’s chamber into the hall and found Raymond
sitting limply in one of the chairs near the great hearth. He began to struggle
to his feet when he saw her.

“Sit,” she said, and then, “no, get up.” She came forward
and lent a surprisingly strong hand to pull him out of the chair. “Come into
your own chamber and let me see to you. I think you would be better in bed
yourself.”

“Should I speak to Diccon about—”

“There is no reason for you to speak to Diccon now,” Alys
said, pushing him gently toward the northeast tower. “I cannot believe anyone
will send an army against us. In any case, the guards will give warning. That
would be soon enough to speak to Diccon.”

It was obvious Alys was not taking that possibility
seriously. Raymond said, “But…” and then fell silent. He did not really expect
any attack. What had happened in Wales was beginning to seem like a bad dream.
Inside the strong walls of Marlowe, surrounded by devoted servants, it seemed
impossible that any harm could come to William. Raymond sighed as the load of
responsibility, which had become nearly intolerable, slipped away. He was so
tired. The bed in the dim inner room beckoned invitingly, but his progress
toward it was stopped abruptly.

“Stand still,” Alys said.

Dull with fatigue, Raymond tried to think what he had
forgotten to do. While he wondered, his surcoat was whipped off and, before he
could marshal his wits to protest, his tunic followed.

“Sit down now,” Alys directed, pushing him toward a chair.

Alys then untied his shirt. Raymond put up his hand to stop
her, but she grasped his wrist and looked at the sleeve, which was stained with
pus and dried blood and stuck to the wound under it. At once her eyes went to
his legs. Above the right knee was another similar mess.

“Sit still,” she said. “I must get cloths and water to soak
your shirt and chausses free of that muck.”

Raymond gaped at her back as she walked away. When he tried
to stop her from removing his shirt, it had been because he wished to save her
from seeing the ugly wounds. He could not even imagine his mother’s reaction to
such a sight. One of his sisters had become faint from seeing a nearly healed
scar. His fatigue was so great, however, that he was reacting to everything in
slow motion. By the time he had formulated the ideas clearly, two maids had
come in. One woman wet his arm and knee with warm water and oil shaken
together. The other carried a small table near and began to lay salves on it.

Raymond closed his eyes and leaned back, dozing in spite of
the increased ache in arm and knee. He had slept only in few minute snatches
for almost two weeks. Eventually, he was wakened by a sharper pain as the shirt
was pulled away and removed, but he did not bother to open his eyes until
Alys’s voice said, “Lift your hips a little, Raymond, so we can get these
chausses off you.”

That snapped him nearly awake. “What?”

“I have cleaned and bound your arm. Now I want to do your
knee. Then you can go to bed and sleep yourself out. Come, Raymond, just stand
a little.

“No.”

“No, what?” she asked, smiling at him tenderly.

He was dazed with insufficient sleep and his brow was
furrowed with anxiety. He looked like an overtired little boy with a problem.

“You cannot…” he faltered, and shook his head to clear it.

In an eye blink Alys thought she understood. He did not wish
to be naked before her. Alys flushed slightly. She had not thought about it at
all. Naked men had no particular meaning for her. She bathed her father and
Earl Richard, as her mother had done before her, and had salved hurts on
Harold, John, and Aubery that necessitated their being bare. But now she felt
shy, all of a sudden, not at all inclined to say,
Do not be ridiculous,
as she would have to Harold or Aubery.

“Fetch a clean shirt for Sir Raymond,” Alys said to a maid,
“and bring me a—a drying cloth.”

The maid looked surprised but trotted away obediently.
Raymond did not notice. He had just made sense of what Alys said three remarks
back, that she had cleaned his arm. He looked down at it, neatly bandaged in
clean linen. His mind then grasped the fact that Alys, not the maids, had
tended his hurt and that she intended to do the same for the wound on his leg.
He stared at her, but she looked just as usual, not pale nor faint nor
nauseated.

“The wounds are very ugly,” he said apologetically, knowing
the truth but not quite believing it.

Alys patted his shoulder comfortingly. “That is only the
spoiled blood and the evil humors coming out as they heal. Do not fret
yourself. It will heal all smooth and do your fighting skill no hurt at all.”

“Do you know of these things?”

It was strange enough that Alys could force herself to wash
and bandage, it was stranger still that she spoke as if it was an everyday
thing, more, as if it was one of her skills, like embroidery.

She smiled at him. “You need not think I offer false
comfort. I cannot say I have set as many stitches in flesh as I have in cloth,
but I am no novice at it. Lady Elizabeth taught me, and she is a fine
physician. I know what will heal well and what will not. You may trust me.”