SirenSong (11 page)

The plan was excellent, only it had not worked. As Mauger
came back into the hall, a flash of irritation ran through him. Without ever
seeming to object, William had managed to avoid a formal betrothal or even a
formal promise. Mauger had never really dared to press too hard. He disliked
William intensely. Under the smooth and courteous exterior, William was rock
hard, and he had a sickening sense of honor. For all the heat of his looks and
in spite of being insinuated into various private and even intimate situations
with Elizabeth, he had never said a word or made a gesture to which the most
jealous husband could take exception.

As he sat down by the hearth again, Mauger actually licked
his lips. That was over. Something had happened between William and Elizabeth.
He was not sure what or how far it had gone, but the easy rapport between them
had been destroyed. Where previously their eyes had met often, even when their
remarks were addressed to others, this time neither had looked at the other.
Mauger was sorry now that he had given Emma such a beating for her presumption.
She had done him a good turn.

All his plans were working now. Mauger was so excited that
he could not sit still and had to get up and pace the hall. The tale he had
paid Theobald of Hurley to tell the king had had far more direct results than
he expected. The abbey at Hurley, to which Mauger owed knight service, was
corrupt and rotten all through. That was all to the good. It made the abbot
very willing to do Mauger a good turn whenever he could so that Mauger would be
disinclined to complain about the behavior of the monks among his serf women
and in other ways. Thus, when one of their number had been selected to serve
the king, the abbot had sent him to Mauger to ask if there was any little
service he could do.

Mauger was aware that William was vassal to Richard of
Cornwall and that he was often in service with his lord. He was not aware of
how close the bond between them was because William never mentioned it. Since
it would never have entered Mauger’s mind to be so restrained—if he had an earl
for a friend, he would have screamed it aloud every moment—Mauger assumed the
relationship between William and his overlord was formal. All he had expected
Theobald’s story to do was to raise suspicions against William’s character that
would reduce any sense of surprise or outrage in his overlord when he was
murdered for tampering with another man’s wife.

It had never occurred to Mauger that the king would take
Theobald’s story so seriously, but then, he did not know exactly what tale
Theobald had told, aside from the fact that it must show William as treacherous
and dishonorable. Actually, most of the details had been owing to Henry
himself, who had, by his questions, directed Theobald’s quick mind into the
suggestions that would most disturb and infuriate the king. All Mauger knew was
that the knight in William’s household must be a spy, and he chortled with joy.
There would be plenty of material to gather—plenty. Probably William would
follow his advice and try to keep the most innocent things secret from the spy,
that would make the fellow suspicious. Then, too, William was not by nature
secretive or mealy-mouthed. Surely he would forget himself and say something to
criticize the king.

Mauger’s pacing stopped suddenly. Had his warning to William
been strong enough? He went back to his seat beside the fire to consider the
various ramifications of William’s behavior. Mauger wanted the spy to report
that William was disloyal in intention, but he did not want the king to be so
convinced that he would disseisen William. That way Alys would not inherit and
Mauger could not hold the lands through her. It would be useful to have the
betrothal made formal—Mauger intended, now that matters had changed between
William and Elizabeth, to make another effort in that direction—but it was not
essential. After William was dead he could simply seize the girl. No one would
care, and he had witnesses enough that the marriage had been discussed and even
approved by the girl’s father.

What was necessary was to keep a close eye on what was
taking place at Marlowe. In a day or two he would ride over. Perhaps he would
take Elizabeth and try to judge from her reaction and William’s exactly what
had happened between them. Mauger sighed with satisfaction. Yes, he was sorry
he had beaten Emma so hard. Perhaps he would find some trinket of Elizabeth’s
to give her.

The rays of the sun had pierced Elizabeth’s window. From
where she sat, the light struck directly into her eyes. After a moment this
assault broke into her painful-wonderful waking dream. She shook herself
angrily and rose to take up the ordinary tasks of her daily life. When she opened
the door of her chamber, however, she heard the heavy shuddering sobs of a
woman who had been crying for a long time.

Elizabeth went to discover what was wrong and found Emma,
bruised and terrified. The previous day, Elizabeth might have simply walked away
or even felt some satisfaction. She did not want Mauger but, being human, could
not help resenting the women he took to his bed. Also, Emma had given herself
airs, which the others, seeing that Mauger was on good terms with his wife, had
been clever enough to avoid. Now, however, Elizabeth felt differently. The
passionate pleasure she had experienced in William’s arms, and the knowledge
that it was Emma’s indiscretion that had furnished that pleasure, were still
fresh in her mind. She bent over the disconsolate, sobbing heap.

“Poor child,” she murmured, “you should have been more
thoughtful, but he should not have beaten you so hard. Come with me. I will put
some salve on your bruises so they will not hurt so much.”

Having soothed Emma’s physical hurts, Elizabeth also calmed
her terror by assuring her that she would not be cruel to her if Mauger was so
angry that he did not want her as a mistress any longer. It was an easy enough
promise to give. Elizabeth knew that Mauger would never leave such a beauty to
be a maid in the keep. If he became bored or disgusted, he would sell Emma for
a round price to some other man. He had always done so with his women in the
past, and Emma was so exquisite that she should bring a nice profit.

There was no point in telling this to Emma, because it would
add to her fear, Elizabeth thought, but Mauger probably was not yet ready to
part with the girl. He would not have bothered to beat her if he did not wish
to teach her a lesson. One of Mauger’s good points was that he was never cruel
or even harsh without a purpose. Most of the dreadful things he did were the
result of neglect or necessity. With this in mind, Elizabeth even went so far
as to tell Emma that, if she behaved properly, Mauger would probably keep her
for the present.

These assurances stilled Emma’s weeping, but left her
nervous. “How will I know?” she wailed.

Elizabeth tried to hide her laughter. The situation really
was funny. It was not every household in which the mistress ran to the wife for
help and advice. Still, it might have its advantages. “If you are puzzled, come
and ask me, Emma. I will do my best to tell you what Mauger will expect.”

Emma was stupid but not completely an idiot. She looked at
Elizabeth with suspicion. “Why should you?”

There could be no harm in telling her part of the truth,
Elizabeth thought. “Because I do not desire that my husband share my bed. If he
puts you aside, he will come to me or take one of my maids, and that would make
trouble in my household. As you have learned,” Elizabeth pointed out, “you are
no danger to my place. You do me a service in occupying Mauger. Why should I
not help you?”

To Emma it made sense. She was not clever enough to look for
layers of meaning. She knew deceit, but only the direct kind—stealing or lying
for an immediate purpose. She knew nothing of laying out a path to be followed
in the future. Thus, she was not suspicious and accepted Elizabeth’s kindness
as it was meant. Having given the girl a soporific draught in warmed wine,
Elizabeth went to see that dinner was properly served.

Skinny, homely bitch, her husband thought as she entered the
hall, but a good housekeeper. She was stupid, too, but that was useful. Talking
to her was like talking to a wall. Sometimes something echoed back from it that
made sense, but it did not volunteer anything. That was just as well. At least
Elizabeth had never given any trouble. It was too bad he would probably have to
kill her as well as William if he used their liaison as an excuse. Perhaps some
other way of being rid of William would turn up. Elizabeth was useful in
managing the estate.

Alys was no great trencherwoman, but this dinner she ate
more than either of the men who sat beside her. The fact that her father’s
appetite was small did not surprise Alys. He usually ate very little, if he
came home at all instead of spending the night with a whore in town, after a
visit to Hurley. But she was surprised and somewhat worried by Raymond’s
picking and feeding half of what he put on his trencher to the dogs. It was not
in the least unusual for a young man seated beside her to lose his appetite,
but Raymond did not display any of the symptoms Alys knew as characteristic of
being smitten by love.

That, however, was just Raymond’s trouble, although he had
not yet admitted it to himself. He only admitted that, instead of being
overjoyed when he discovered Sir William to be totally guiltless of anything
the king suspected, his heart had sunk like a stone. First he tried to deny he
was depressed, then he tried to dismiss the feeling. Finally, he told himself
that it was because his mother would hear of his whereabouts sooner if he went
back to court. That reason for his depression was so rational that he seized
hard on it, only too willing to allow it to cover a deeper and far more
dangerous reason for his distress.

Put in terms of his mother, Raymond was able to examine the
problem more calmly. His first thought when he realized Sir William was
innocent was to rush back to court and tell Henry so. But what was the need for
haste after all? An odd fluttering in his chest when Alys asked him a brief
question, which he answered as briefly, strove to warn him that there
was
need for haste, that there was a desperate danger for him in this keep, but he
would not heed the warning.

In fact, Raymond told himself, it would be stupid to rush
back to Henry and assure him Sir William was faithful. What evidence did he
have? Only his own interpretation of a single conversation.

To recount such a thing convincingly was another matter
entirely. More likely the king would think he was a silly, inexperienced boy
befooled apurpose by a clever older man. Then his defense would do Sir William
more harm than good. What he needed, Raymond told himself, was better evidence.
He should wait at least until Sir William was called to serve in the Welsh war,
if there was one. Then it would be real proof to say, “He called up his men at
once and went and fought bravely.” Yes, that would be best.

“I fear my cooks are less skilled than those you are
accustomed to,” Alys remarked snippily.

Raymond turned blank eyes to her, then followed the
direction of her gaze to the untouched food before him. It was true enough that
English tables were furnished with far more plain roasts and fewer “made”
dishes. Raymond did miss the highly spiced and seasoned ragouts of his home.

“The food is different,” he admitted, “but just as good. My
mind has been so full—so full of what you showed me today that I have forgotten
to eat. I did not mean to offend you. I beg you to forgive me. New things, like
new foods, take time to be digested.”

All very smoothly spoken, but Alys was quite sure it was not
how the serfs of Marlowe tilled their land that had glazed Raymond’s eyes. She
was ashamed of herself for picking at him. To sit with herself and her father
and be served so simple a meal—a soup, a baked swan, a boiled carp, a roast of
venison, and a suckling pig, plus two stews of veal and beef—must indeed be a
bitter reminder of his losses. How cruel of her to make it worse by stabbing
him with words that named the difference aloud.

“You must forgive me,” she said remorsefully. “I am out of
temper because of this stupid Welsh business.”

Raymond smiled. What a delightful way to be out of temper.
No red eyes and nose, no lugubrious sobbing. “Oh, I imagine it will come to
nothing,” he said mendaciously, accustomed to lying to women to comfort them.

Alys would have been furious had she known he was lying, but
she merely thought him ignorant of the true facts of the case. “I think it will
come to war,” she said. “Papa thinks so too, I fear. I know he thought the
terms imposed on David too hard, and Uncle Richard did also. When the king took
Gruffydd prisoner instead of making David share the lands with him, he grew
more hopeful, but even then he said he feared the treaty would not hold very
long.”

“Your uncle—pardon me—Earl Richard talks of these matters to
you?” Raymond asked in a slightly stunned voice.

“If I ask him, of course. I do not mean he tells me secrets
of state. That would not be right, and neither does Papa tell me such
things—not that I would ask—but he is very good about explaining public matters
to me.”

Alys glanced at her father, but he was chewing slowly, his
eyes blind. He would hear nothing, she decided. And, if Uncle Richard was coming,
it might be well to warn Raymond, who clearly did not think much of women.

“Papa likes me to ask Uncle Richard questions,” Alys went on
with a little giggle. “It not only improves my mind, but it helps Uncle
Richard. You see, while he is explaining to me, there is no harm in his
shouting and stamping about and calling great men idiots, which if he did it to
their faces would cause infinite trouble. I would never betray him, of course,
but it is doubly sure I will not because I do not come among such men.”