SirenSong (5 page)

Thus, although she recognized her effect upon men and did
not hesitate to use it when she needed to, she was not really puffed up by her
appearance. Most of the time it was a nuisance, for it was necessary to fend
off unwanted attentions.

This time, however, Alys had been aware of a flicker of
interest within herself when Sir Raymond’s eyes fixed on her. Was it because he
was more interesting to her, and she knew she should not be interested in a
penniless knight who came to serve her father, that she found so many
suspicious signs surrounding him?

“Perhaps you are right, Papa,” she said hesitantly, “but his
manner…that bow… I do not know… It seemed finer than it should for so simple a
knight.”

William frowned slightly. “Why does he have to be a simple
knight? Did you see his shield—a head without a face? And it is new, nearly
unmarked. He is denying his past. Many high families have been thrown down—”

“Not in Aix, you said he came from Aix.”

“The king’s letter said he came from Aix—yes, and so does
his speech say it—or, at least, it says he comes from the south. What the devil
are we talking about anyway? If Raymond is not a poor knight, simple or not,
seeking a living less uneasy than the tourney route or selling his sword in a
war, what is he doing here?”

“That, Papa, is what I am asking you. Why should the king
send
us
a knight?”

“Why should he not?” William rejoined. “It is one less mouth
to eat at his table, one less suit of clothes for which he must pay. Moreover,
he would be doing a kindness to both Raymond and myself. Henry
is
kind.
He enjoys doing kind things. If Raymond suits me and Marlowe suits him, we will
both be grateful, and Henry likes gratitude also.”

Alys nodded. Her father was right. Everything he said was
reasonable, and Uncle Richard might well have mentioned Sir Peter’s and
Harold’s deaths to the king. The brothers chatted about all kinds of things.
They were warm friends, when Richard was not driven wild by Henry’s behavior
and Henry was not enraged by Richard’s criticisms. Only…only what? Alys sighed.
There was nothing to be suspicious about. Her father might be the best and
wisest man in the world, but he was not one of the great ones whom the king
felt obliged to watch. The only connection he had with the power structure of
England was through Uncle Richard, and Alys knew the king would not set a spy
on his brother.

That drew a smile from her. The last thing King Henry wanted
was someone else to tell him what Uncle Richard thought. Uncle Richard was far,
far too likely to be telling him what he thought himself, at the top of his
lungs and in public. Papa was
always
begging him to talk softly in
private, to appeal to the king’s better nature. Henry did have a better nature,
and it was not impossible to lead him gently away from the silly things he
sometimes wanted to do.

Uncle Richard was growing quite clever about it, although it
made Papa’s life harder. The rage had to come out somewhere. Since he had
stopped shouting at his brother, Uncle Richard shouted at Papa instead or wrote
him
long, angry letters. Alys looked fondly down at her father, who had
returned his attention to the letter he was trying to answer, frowning worriedly
at a vitriolic paragraph in which the Earl of Cornwall asked how reason could
be applied to a man, meaning Henry, who saw no contradiction in berating the
pope for filling English benefices with Italians but was using every measure,
fair and unfair, to push a Savoyard into Winchester.

Leaving him to it, Alys started back toward the hall to get
to the stair. Her father’s low groan, “Damn the man! Why cannot he see the
difference between something that will cause a growl and will be forgotten and
what will stir the barons like a stick in a hive.” Papa was muttering to
himself, but the sound bounced off the stone wall and out into the hall where
it could be heard some feet from the doorway. Alys’s eyes flicked toward the
northeast tower.

Most probably Papa was right and there was nothing strange
about the new knight besides his attractiveness. Nonetheless, Alys decided
against moving him out into the hall, at least until Papa’s outer room could be
hung with tapestries that would dull all sound. It was silly, very silly, but
her mind would be much easier, and it was even sillier to make herself
miserable over a thing so easily cured.

Chapter Three

Although he had seemed to dismiss his daughter’s suspicions,
William was disturbed by them. He was made no easier by Raymond’s behavior
during supper that night. The young man’s manners were more polished than
William’s own—and William’s, because of his training in Richard’s company—were
better than those of much of the high nobility of England. Raymond’s knowledge of
the politics of the whole European continent also seemed excessive, and he knew
offense and defense in war better from the point of view of the commander than
of the common knight.

It was impossible to avoid the knowledge that Raymond was
not
a simple knight, younger son to a man too poor to keep him on his own estates
or find him a rich patron. Nevertheless, William also believed what he had said
to Alys in defense of the king was true. There was no reason other than a wish
to be useful that could have impelled Henry to send Raymond to Marlowe. This,
coupled with Raymond’s uneasiness when questions were asked about his family,
inclined William to believe that the young man came from a good house fallen on
hard times. A profligate father who had lost his lands through extravagance or,
of course, a father accused of treason, executed, or disseised, was a thing a
young man might well be ashamed of and wish to conceal.

The sins of the father should not be visited on the son, yet
it would be hard, indeed, for the scion of such a tainted house to find a
place, particularly in his own land. Tactfully, William stopped asking
questions that were answered with painful care and a flushed face. Alys,
somewhat less willingly than her father, also gave up her probing.

William was reasonably satisfied with his deduction
regarding Raymond’s origins, but it would be interesting to confirm it. William
could, of course, ask Richard, but the Earl of Cornwall was not at court just
now. Also, William was very wary of suggesting to Richard that there was any
ulterior purpose in anything the king did. Richard was sufficiently upset just
now by the problems of the see of Winchester and he had very recently been
married to Sancia of Provence, Queen Eleanor’s sister.

There was another possibility for information, however.
Across the river at Hurley was the keep held by Mauger of Ilmer in the right of
his wife. William moved restlessly in bed where, unable to sleep, he had been
reconsidering Raymond’s arrival and antecedents. Mauger had been William’s
neighbor for nearly ten years, ever since Gilbert and John of Hurley, the two
young sons of the former holder, had been set upon while hunting and killed. A
soft oath escaped William. Even after ten years, he was not reconciled to those
deaths. Gilbert and John had been dear friends.

The killers had not been local, so they could not have
murdered out of hatred. Nor could robbery have been the motive. Men do not
carry purses nor go decked in jewels when they hunt on their own lands. Granted
that Gilbert and John probably had come on the outlaws suddenly and been
surprised. Perhaps they had threatened the band and ordered them off the land,
although William would never have believed they could be so stupid if the group
was large and armed.

It was a puzzle that would never be solved now, William
thought, dismissing it from his mind. Mauger was at Hurley and would remain
there until his son Aubery was old enough to take over the lands. William
smiled. Aubery was a nice lad, in service with Humphery de Bohun, Earl of
Hereford, now. William sighed and shifted in bed again. Would Alys agree to
marry Aubery as Mauger kept urging? It would be nice to have her so close, but
she would have to wait another four or five years, and she was really ripe for marriage
now. Besides Elizabeth… William stopped his thoughts abruptly. If he began to
think about Elizabeth, he would never get to sleep at all.

In any case, Elizabeth and Aubery had nothing to do with his
present problem, which was Raymond. Mauger might have the answer to that
because he spent a lot of time at court and was attentive to every whisper of
gossip. William found his jaw set and deliberately relaxed it. He reminded
himself for the thousandth time that Mauger was a good neighbor, always pleasant
and friendly. He did not encroach on William’s lands, or offer hurt to his
serfs, or insult, or take more than his share of the river tolls. It was none
of his business if Mauger took more out of the land than he put in. Hurley was
a rich property, and Aubery would be able to restore it when he took hold, Alys
would see to that if she married him.

Right now it was just as well that Mauger did spend his time
and money peacocking around at court instead of overseeing his property. No,
William reminded himself severely, it was
not
vanity. Mauger’s
sycophancy and flattery might be so sickening to him that he avoided him like
the plague when they happened to be at court together, but what right had he to
think ill of it? He had a powerful friend from childhood and did not need to
suck around the hems of the great. And Mauger’s favor seeking had paid off. It
had won Aubery a place in de Bohun’s household—quite an elevation for a boy of
no particular parentage.

It was his own fault, too, that Mauger had to crawl to find
Aubery a place. He should have told Mauger he could obtain a place for the boy
in Richard of Cornwall’s household—he would gladly have asked that favor of
Richard for Elizabeth’s son… But he could never bear to mention his friendship
with Richard to Mauger. Besides, Mauger was not a man who liked to ask or
receive favors.

Nonsense! This time William grunted with irritation and
turned over on his stomach. The only one in the world Mauger did not like to
ask favors from was himself. Somehow his distaste must show, struggle as he
would to hide it. And it was so unreasonable. Why should he dislike the man for
doing what he wanted him to do? When he perceived his own thought clearly,
William groaned and rolled out of bed, shuddering as the cold floor bit at his
bare feet. He ignored the discomfort, pulled his night robe over his shoulders,
poured a cup of watered wine, and stalked out to sit in a chair by the banked
fire.

Life was such a muddle. He could not bear it that Mauger did
not value his wife, yet it would have torn his heart out to see Elizabeth
loving and beloved. Who would believe he could be such a fool as to love the
woman all these years—twenty years? No, more. He could not remember a time when
he did not love Elizabeth. He had adored her when she was four—and fat—tagging
after her brothers Gilbert and John to their great disgust and his joy. She and
William had sworn they would marry each other…

“Oh damn!” William sighed wearily as rage and grief wrenched
him again almost as painfully as it had twenty years ago when his father had
told him Elizabeth was married. He had cried out in disbelief, but Sir Gilbert,
her father, had confirmed the news. For a long time he had hated her for her
weakness, and in the throes of that hatred he had agreed to marry the woman his
father proposed to him. Poor Mary. Was she really so stupid, so ineffectual by
nature, or had his inward revulsion for her destroyed her?

No. William put down the cup, shook himself, and went back
to bed. Mary was Mary. He was not to blame for her. Even if he had showed his
dislike, she had been more than ten years older than he. Any normally
intelligent woman of twenty-seven, already married and widowed, should have
been able to bend a boy of seventeen any way she liked, particularly a hurt and
angry boy—and Mary had been physically beautiful, almost as beautiful as Alys.
Besides, she had
not
known how she repelled him. From the beginning she
had clung to him, leaned on him. No, he was not to blame for Mary. She had been
as happy as it was in her nature to be. If anything had destroyed her, it was
the death of all the babies.

And Elizabeth was not to blame for yielding to her father’s
will. What could she do, poor child? How could a girl of thirteen resist?
Likely she had not even been told. Sir Gilbert was a good enough man, but he
was of the old school. He would have sent Elizabeth away to Ilmer to be married
without a word of warning. Sir Gilbert’s wife—William wrinkled his brow, he
could scarcely remember the pale shadow that had been Elizabeth’s mother—could
have done nothing. Sir Gilbert was the kind who did not believe a daughter was
worth the food it took to keep her alive. Suddenly William smiled and relaxed.
The more fool Sir Gilbert! Alys brought him more joy and solace than a dozen
sons.

He had fallen asleep on the thought and woke with it in his
mind. It was true, of course, but William knew it was wrong for Alys to be his
only heir. He was still young enough to breed up sons. He should have married
again as soon as Mary died. Alys’s children would be Ilmers—if she took Aubery,
God knew what if she married elsewhere. William walked into the hall, his mind
still fixed on the distasteful idea of his lineage ending with himself and came
up short at the sight of Raymond standing beside Alys at the sideboard. Martin
was there too, of course, but at a tactful distance. Alys was laughing at
something the young knight had said and looking up at him. William strode
forward quickly.

“You are late this morning, Papa,” Alys cried as soon as he
came near.

Raymond bowed gravely. William recognized the tunic he was
wearing. It had been Harold’s, quite new, and made too large because Harold had
still been growing. On Raymond it was a trifle short and straining over the
shoulders. That meant Raymond had brought no clothing—a proper beggar. Alys was
pouring wine for her father, and Raymond cut a wedge of cheese.