SirenSong (42 page)

Of course, Raymond was there in Marlowe keep. No matter. Sir
William would not allow such a precious person to be endangered, and the
captains Henry sent would instruct their men to protect at all cost the knight
who wore a shield painted with a faceless head. Henry stopped his pacing and
looked consideringly at Mauger.

“What is it you want of me?” the king asked.

Mauger wanted desperately to say, “Nothing,” and run away,
but he knew if he did that he would lose everything he had worked for all his
life. He swallowed. “I want help—men or money to get the queen’s nephew safe
out of Marlowe and to revenge the dishonor done me by the treacherous monster I
thought to be my friend.”

“Very well.”

Mauger was so surprised by the flat agreement that he stood
with open mouth.

“I will give you five mercenary captains, and the troops
they lead, of course. Together with your own men that should be enough to take
a small keep. There are conditions, however. No one is to know that I have
assisted you. If a rumor of my part in this comes out, I will accuse you of
forging my order and taking the men without my knowledge. Do you understand?”

“I will obey, my lord. But I do not understand,” Mauger got
out.

He did not like this. The king had a way of turning on those
he helped from time to time but only, Mauger reminded himself, when he was
blamed by others for what he had done. That made Mauger feel a little better.
If no one knew, the king could not be blamed and would not grow angry. Also,
Henry might well be inclined to look the other way when Mauger married Alys. He
would not be afraid of Mauger—not that. He simply would prefer that Mauger did
not confess how he came to have Alys in his power.

“It is simple enough,” Henry replied blandly to Mauger’s
assertion that he did not understand. “I feel for your hurts and wish to help
you. However, I do not wish that every man in the kingdom whose wife runs away
should come to me to settle his affairs. Also, I hope that those in Marlowe
keep will not be free to tell this tale either.”

“I see, my lord.”

Yes, indeed, Mauger believed he saw a great deal. Again,
after all his uncertainties and disappointments Mauger saw the flower of
success opening under his eyes. The king would never say it, but he wanted
Raymond dead. That was the reason for all his anxious inquiries. That was why he
frowned so angrily when Mauger said he tried to warn Raymond against Sir
William. That was why he asked so eagerly what Raymond had said. Of course,
Mauger knew that he must not, even by a blink of the eye, show he understood.

Mauger drew a deep breath. He would need to be careful, of
course. A man who threatened a king died, but a man who knew something and did
not
threaten might be forgiven many little things for which others would be
punished.

It never occurred to Henry that anyone, no matter how
twisted his mind, could think he would urge harm to any member of his own or
his wife’s family. He said “those in Marlowe” because he was not sure what
dependents William had who would, if they were not silenced, run to Richard.
That Mauger could believe his vagueness included Raymond was unthinkable to
him.

What Henry did explain in detail was that he had no
intention of paying the men more than the term for which they had already been
hired. Thus, Marlowe would have to be taken by assault within the next few weeks
rather than by long siege. When Mauger had agreed to this with
enthusiasm—people tended to get killed during an assault and explanations about
it were not necessary—Henry told him to return the next day. He would then be
taken to the camp and introduced to the mercenary captains who would be under
his orders.

Throughout that day and the next, while Henry made the
arrangements that would protect Raymond and seal William’s doom, he was
uplifted by a sense of a great coming freedom. So blithe were his spirits after
Mauger had left, that his wife began to look at him askance.

Eleanor of Provence loved her husband dearly. She had been
only fourteen when she had come to England, knowing only that she would be a
queen like her sister and that her husband was more than twice her age.
Whatever fears she had had at that time, not one had been fulfilled. Henry was
handsome, tender, loving, delighted with her and with everything she did and
said. There seemed, in fact, to be little difference in their ages. Henry would
romp and play as eagerly as any child.

As the years passed, Eleanor grew older; Henry did not.
There was much joy to be had from that. He was ever a gay companion, loving and
laughing. But there was much to be feared in it also—the unbridled and unreasoning
anger and spite of a child welded to the power of a king. Not that Eleanor
feared for herself. Henry was never a threat to her or to their son, and if he
grew angry, he was as easy to soothe as the child.

Unfortunately, however, the great lords of England did not
think of their thirty-seven-year-old king as a child. Eleanor did not interfere
in the politics of England, although sometimes she thought if the barons would
tell her what they wanted she could get it for them, but she watched her
husband. She had heard what could happen when he took a spite and carried it
too far. Just before she came to England the country had erupted into
rebellion. It could happen again. Thus, when she could, she soothed him or
explained away little things.

Eleanor had noticed that something was pricking under
Henry’s skin when he first arrived at home. It had faded, then flared up again.
Now this sudden elation warned Eleanor that Henry had done something to “get
back at” whoever had irritated him. She had asked no questions at first
because, very often, simply being with her and Edward healed any small hurt,
whereas talking about it might magnify it. Once Henry had spit out his spleen,
however, it was sometimes possible to guide him into reducing the punishment he
had ordered if it were too severe. He was vindictive only when he was afraid or
still felt hurt and angry.

The task was a delicate one, Eleanor knew. To say openly
that Henry had been cruel or unreasonable would only bring back the “wrong” he
had suffered and make him more obstinate. It was necessary to approach the
matter in a roundabout way and then subtly insinuate the idea that his
generosity and magnanimity would be praised if he showed himself merciful once
he had already overpowered those who offended him.

On the third day after Mauger had come, the queen led the
king to play some of the laughter-provoking games he loved in the privacy of
their own apartments. Naturally under Eleanor’s management Henry always won.
Later, when they were cooling themselves from their exertions with well-watered
wine—Henry was no lover of drunkenness—Eleanor mentioned his high spirits.

“Is it some special news, my love, or only that you are
happy to be home again?”

“Nothing special,” he replied.

Eleanor judged his expression keenly. He did not pout—which
meant that she had not half guessed a pleasant secret he intended as a surprise
for her. There was no angry frown either, to warn her away from a subject he
did not wish to discuss. A slight shift of his eyes, a quiver in the drooping
lid of the left eye—Eleanor specially loved that fault in her otherwise nobly
handsome husband. It was an outward expression of the weaknesses that made him
extra dear because she knew herself to be more necessary to Henry than she
would be to a stronger man—those minute gestures hinted at uneasiness.

To press hard would be a mistake. Eleanor wished now to
introduce a topic that was different but still connected to pleasure. “Then I
am happy also, for your gladness means you will stay with us.”

“Yes, indeed,” Henry agreed firmly.

“Is Richard coming soon?” Eleanor asked. “I am very glad he
and Sancia live so well together that he sent for her to come to him in
Scotland after the danger of war was over, but I long to see her again.”

To Eleanor’s surprise, a clear expression of guilt crossed
Henry’s face. She drew in her breath and swallowed her desire to ask whether
the brothers had quarreled again. She knew she must avoid any hint of knowing
Henry had been disturbed. To cover her nervous gasp, she laughed.

“How strange it is,” she said, “that I was separated from
Sancia by many miles and years and only missed her a little. Now that she is so
close and I see her often, I miss her dreadfully when she is away only a week
or two.”

“It will not be very long,” Henry assured her. “A few weeks
more should settle the business in Scotland, if it is not already done. Richard
has a way of making peace seem more desirable than war so that men will keep a
truce because they feel it is best, not out of fear. But it takes time to
reason it all out and get all to agree with easy hearts and minds.”

Whatever it was, Eleanor thought, Henry was not now angry
with Richard. His warmth when he spoke of his brother assured her of that. Yet
the uneasiness remained. What Henry had done would hurt or displease Richard,
Eleanor guessed. That was bad. Eleanor liked Richard but more than her desire
for her brother-by-marriage’s happiness was involved. She knew Richard was
better in tune with the thoughts and desires of the barons than Henry. Often
what displeased Richard was politically dangerous. Eleanor did not dare
approach such a topic directly. A wrong word could set Henry into a fit of
stubbornness, and that might be a disaster.

On the other hand she could not abandon the topic of her
sister too abruptly. She was about to say something about missing her mother
also, when she remembered there was another member of her family closer by.
Raymond! She had been worried about him at first, but then, when the Scottish
war was announced, she realized what Henry had done. Sometimes he was
remarkably wise and kind. She smiled tenderly at her husband and took his hand.

“And what about Raymond? I know you sent him away to keep
him from fighting in Scotland. You are so clever, my love, and I am grateful.
But surely that danger is past now. Can Raymond be recalled?”

Henry stood up abruptly. “In a few weeks also,” he said. “I
have already sent a messenger to him, but it may be he cannot come as soon as
he wishes. He is quite safe, do not worry about him. And I have just remembered
something I must attend to at once. I will come to you later, my dear.”

Eleanor put a good face on—the half-pout, half-resignation
of a loving wife abandoned for a duty she knows more important than her
pleasure—and held it until Henry was out the door. Then she withdrew to her own
chamber where her worried frown would tell no dangerous tales to anyone. The
question about Raymond had obviously touched her husband to the quick, and it
seemed—although on the face of it impossible—that it was the same sore spot as
the one connected with Richard. How could that be? What could possibly connect
Raymond and Richard? And what could she do?

Henry had indeed been touched on the raw. His blithe
assumptions that Richard would not uncover what he had done and that Raymond
would escape untouched in the battle to take the castle did not seem quite so
certain upon reconsideration. Who the devil was this Sir Mauger anyway?
Theobald had said only that he was the knight who held Hurley. He seemed to
think Mauger a good man, but what could a clerk know of such matters? It was
not as if Theobald was highborn and understood from birth and breeding, even if
he had chosen the Church.

Perhaps, Henry thought, he should not have acted quite so
hastily. Yet, what else could he do? If Mauger did not begin the assault on
Marlowe within the next few days, he would never be able to reduce the keep
before Richard came back from Scotland. And how else was he to rid Richard of
that evil influence? A faint quiver of doubt crossed Henry’s mind. He was not
completely sure, now that no one was telling him what a snake William was, that
William was the cause of Richard’s fury. That letter that had come—it had been
several days before Richard broached the subject of leading the Flemish into
Wales.

If Sir William was innocent, it would be wrong to deprive
Richard of his friendship. Yet if he were not innocent, he would soon drive
Richard into some dangerous act that would cause everyone inestimable grief.
Henry bit his lip, but then his brow cleared. There was no need to do anything
in a hurry. Let Mauger march the men to Marlowe and set them up. It would take
him a week or more before any attempt at an assault could be made. In that
time, Henry could write to Hereford, who must know both men since they fought
under him in Wales, and find the truth about them. Then, there would be time
enough to recall the mercenaries if it was necessary to do so.

Chapter Twenty-Two

King Henry had an adequate knowledge of war, but only from
the point of view of major actions. It was quite true that a week or more was
needed to move a large army into position to set up a siege or assault on a
major stronghold in hostile territory. However, it was not at all true that
such a period was necessary to arrange an attack on a single keep where no
counteraction need be feared. By the time Henry had dictated his letter to
Hereford and ordered that a messenger ride out with it, Mauger had his men
encamped around Marlowe and well advanced in the construction of scaling
ladders and devices to bridge the moat.

Mauger had discussed the situation with the mercenary
captains and found they were not only well primed for the task in hand but
agreed with his plans. They were to go as quickly as possible and to cause as
little disturbance as possible while passing. Mauger suggested that he send men
from his own small troop ahead to the overlords of the lands they would pass
and say they were marching additional reinforcements to Wales. This went well
with the king’s desire for anonymity and was agreed upon.