SirenSong (22 page)

“Well, there can be no harm in that,” the gentle old voice
said. “When he wakes, we will move him.”

William fought his burning thirst. He was hot and his whole
body throbbed, with peaks of pain centered in his right side above the waist,
his left shoulder, and his head behind the right ear. He thought longingly of
the place by the window where there would be a cool breeze, but he could not accept
a favor from Mauger. He could not.
Water
. The word rang in his body, but
he set his teeth over it, refusing to admit he was awake.

He thought he would die of longing but instead, worn out by
the struggle with himself, he slipped into darkness again.

The next time it was the thirst that awakened him. Before he
remembered it was important not to wake, he croaked the precious word. At once
his head was lifted. After the first few swallows, the cup was withdrawn.
William opened his eyes the better to say he was still thirsty and saw it was
Raymond bending over him.

“Raymond…” Then it all came back, quite clear in his mind.
“Thank God, you are alive,” he sighed, and then, petulantly, “I am hungry. When
is this?”

“Dawn, sir.”

“Dawn when? How long since that damn raid?” Then William
groaned. “What a fool I was. How many men did we lose?”

“Not so many,” Raymond soothed. “And you were not a fool,
sir. We would have all been dead if you had not called a warning. How did you
guess they were in the barn?”

“The loading doors were open.”

Despite pain and remorse, William could not help smiling at
the puzzled expression on Raymond’s face. That too-well-brought-up young man
had never in his life given a thought to loading doors in a barn. Well, if he
was going to marry Alys, he would have to learn such things. There was little
doubt in William’s mind now that Raymond would be his son. Alys was halfway in
love with him. William had only to tell her he was willing and she would yield
her heart completely. One thing was sure. William knew he owed his life to
Raymond. Watching him rise and put the cup away, he saw the young man was
moving stiffly.

“Are you much hurt?”

“No. A few cuts. Nothing of account. They have been tended.
Ah, here is your broth.”

This time William was propped on pillows. He wanted to feed
himself, but the acolyte would not permit that. By the time half the bowl was
finished, William was grateful. He was surprised at how tired the simple act of
swallowing made him. He had been hungry, but he could not even finish what was
in the bowl, and he slept again. However, he could not have slept long when
voices woke him. Raymond’s was immediately identifiable, but William paused
before he opened his eyes. Shame or no shame, he did not feel well enough to
speak to Mauger.

Then the friar said, “We were going to move him to the
window, but—” His voice was submissive.

“Nonsense! He is to be lodged in a private chamber. The Earl
of Cornwall will use my guts for garters if the smallest attention is lacking.
You must put him in the abbot’s guest house, and a man to watch by him.”

Now that he was fully awake, William recognized the
impetuous tones of the Earl of Hereford. He opened his eyes and smiled. “I am
quite comfortable where I am,” he said.

“Oh, so you are with us again. How do you feel—no, that was
a stupid question. I know how you feel. Can I do anything to help you?”

“Thank you, my lord, I think not. Raymond will see to the
men—”

“No he will not,” de Bohun said forcefully, with a peculiar
expression on his face. “He has a nasty cut on his sword arm and a hole in one
leg. He will stay here. Sir Mauger has offered to take your men into his care,
and they seemed willing also. He may not know much about war, but I have looked
at his encampment. It seems well enough ordered, and his men are not sullen. I
would judge him to be a fair master.”

Unable to object without doing Mauger still more harm,
William nodded. He felt as if he would choke on unwelcome favors, and his head
was ringing with pain and fever. Hereford, who was familiar with wounds, cocked
an eye at him and then looked over his shoulder. The friar was coming back with
four, strong acolytes.

“I see you are about to be moved,” Hereford said. “I will
leave you in peace. No, one protest for form is quite enough. Do not waste your
strength on more. Richard will not be pleased about this whole thing. Probably
I should not have—”

“Please, my lord,” William said, laughing in spite of his
physical discomfort, “I am not a feeble old woman who needs to be cosseted. I
have been hurt as badly in Richard’s own service. Both of us know the chances
of war. And I beg you not to write to him. I will do so myself in a day or
two.”

“Perhaps,” Hereford remarked with patent disbelief. He could
see the glaze of fever in William’s eyes and suspected it would be a good while
longer than a day or two before he wrote to anyone. “Nonetheless,” he
continued, “Richard would rightly blame me for allowing his friend to lie in
the common room with the men-at-arms.”

That was true enough, and in any case, accepting de Bohun’s
favor would save him from accepting Mauger’s. William smiled and said, “Thank
you.” Hereford made an
It is nothing
gesture and walked away.

There was no need, de Bohun thought, to add to William’s
difficulties the necessity of putting a brave front on his pain while he was
being moved. That was a good man, but why the devil anyone should want to kill
him was inexplicable. He did not seem to be the type who made enemies. He had
nothing worth killing for. Nonetheless, the stirrups of his saddle had been cut
nearly through. Someone intended that William of Marlowe should fall from his
horse in the middle of a battle and be killed.

The young hireling knight had discovered the cut stirrups
when he went to take his master’s saddle from the dead horse. He had come to de
Bohun nearly frantic because he had to see to William’s troop and William was
alone and helpless with his hurts. At first de Bohun had wondered whether
Raymond had been hit on the head during the fighting. But, when he heard of the
goose, the fight in camp, the arrow, and looked at the knife marks on the
stirrup leathers, he changed his mind.

It must be something to do with Richard of Cornwall, de
Bohun decided as he walked out of the abbey to ride back to camp. There was nothing
about William himself that was important enough to kill for. Thus it behooved
him to put William where it would be somewhat more difficult to get at him. It
also would be a good idea to keep the whole matter quiet. Richard was too near
the throne to take attacks on his favorites lightly. Having done what he could
for the moment, Hereford put William out of his mind and wondered whether there
was any other device he could use to bring David ap Llewelyn to battle.

If Mauger could have aided the Earl of Hereford on that
score, he would have done so. He would have done anything he could to redeem
himself. Everything had gone wrong. The plan had worked perfectly, and
still
William was alive. Worse, Hereford had blasted him for being a fool.

How could he have known there would not be another month or
so of fighting? Had he known about the Scottish peace, he would never have sent
those messengers off to summon de Bohun when he was attacked. Deep inside
Mauger there was a quiver of doubt. He had had no idea how difficult it was to
fight a group of men who seemed to appear and disappear in and out of the
wooded glades. Their archers shooting from the shelter of the trees had done
more damage than Mauger expected. It had taken them so long to win free from
their own attackers, he had never dreamed that William’s troop could hold out,
especially with their leader dead.

Only William had not been dead. That accursed hireling of
his had saved him. Who would have expected the young fool to show such
devotion? If he had had a brain in his head, he would have gathered what was
left of the troop and run for his life. But no! He had to be a hero, offer his
horse, just like one of those puling knights in the romances, and stand over
what he must have believed was a corpse to protect it from being robbed or
mutilated. It was because he had hopes of the girl, Mauger thought, and ground
his teeth. Neither of them must be allowed to live. They must both die here in
Wales. It was out of the question for Mauger to leave now. He did not dare do
anything that would further irritate Hereford. Therefore, neither Raymond nor
William must leave Wales either. At least it had been easy enough to have
William moved to the window. That would mark the position of the bed clearly.
Mauger wished he had not needed to approach the friar personally to make that
arrangement, but none of the tools he had used to carry the goose or start the
fight or slit the stirrups was the kind of person to make such a request. The
friar would surely have wondered why such a wretch should seek William’s
comfort. Not only that, no one would move a pin for the amount of offering such
a person could make.

It should not matter. Mauger looked up as Egbert—body
servant, tool, faithful henchman—entered the tent.

“Well?” he asked.

“It is well,” Egbert replied. “I did not go in because I did
not wish to make an excuse that might lead someone to remember me, but I saw a
bed moved under the window and a man therein. I could not see his face though.
It was turned away, and I did not dare stand and watch.” Egbert had been with
Mauger since they were boys. He never thought about the things his master asked
of him, only performed them as well as he could. This was not owing to any lack
of intelligence on Egbert’s part. Usually he knew quite well why Mauger did the
things he did without being told. He was totally devoted, although he did not
love his master, because his comfort, his well-being, even his life was
Mauger’s to dispose of as he liked.

With all of that, Mauger was a good master, never cruel or
unreasonable, although he could lose his temper and land a sharp buffet. Egbert
certainly did not hate or really fear Mauger, but there was no warmth in their
relationship either. Never had Mauger asked after his health or considered whether
he was warm or cold, fed or hungry. He was rewarded with money, and the comfort
and status that would buy, but never with a word of heartfelt praise.

He also knew he was by no means indispensable. If he claimed
sickness, he was excused from duty and indifferently replaced with another.
Thus, Egbert understood that he was only of value while he performed and
performed well. If he failed, he would be cast aside to sink into the poverty
and total deprivation from which he had risen when he had been chosen to be
Mauger’s servant. That was what he feared, not Mauger himself, and that was
what kept him faithful and close-mouthed and efficient.

“Then the friar has done as I asked,” Mauger responded.
“Very well, but remember it must not seem as if Sir William was sought out
especially.”

“No, I remember. I will steal some things, I saw several
worth taking. It will appear that he woke and saw me stealing and I silenced
him. Otherwise, if you prefer, I could slit three or four throats as well as
his.”

“No. You had better stick to the thief idea. They will not
search as hard or long for a frightened thief as for a madman who goes about
slitting throats for no reason.” Mauger reached into his purse and drew out a
gold coin. “There will be more when I am richer, as I will be when I hold
Marlowe and Bix. Now, have you heard anything said among Sir William’s men
about how he was hurt?”

“None saw it happen, but he was hit by arrows.”

“I know that. I wondered if anything was said about those
stirrups. I thought they would both be dead and I could get the saddle, but
that interfering bastard was before me.”

“The stirrup leathers were gone from the saddle when the
troop came back to camp, that is all I can tell you. But no outcry has been
made. I would say the young knight took them off and threw them away for fear
he would be blamed.”

It was a pleasant relief to come innocently up to the abbey
the following day with the offering he had promised and find the place in
turmoil. It was the most natural thing in the world to ask what had happened.
It was a pure delight to be told that a thief had somehow gotten into the
infirmary, struck the acolyte on watch unconscious, stolen several fine eating
knives and purses, and had killed one man who must have wakened and been about
to cry an alarm. Mauger had not the slightest difficulty in making his voice
tremble as he said his friend was in the infirmary and expressed a desire to
see him and be sure all was well with him.

When Mauger entered the infirmary and saw the empty bed
under the window, he felt for a moment that he would faint with joy and relief.
He stared at the empty bed, transfixed, not really believing in the midst of
his joy that the planning of years had at last come to fruition.

“What is it, my son?” the infirmarian’s voice asked at his
elbow.

“My friend,” Mauger stammered, “the man I asked to be moved
to the window— Where is he? I heard…”

“No, no, it was not he, not Sir William,” the friar
comforted, patting Mauger’s arm. “By the earl’s desire, he is in a private
chamber in the abbot’s guest house.” Mauger’s face, which had been pale, blazed
red with rage. The brother took it to be a flush of joy and smiled happily. “He
is safe, quite safe.”

“May I see him?” Mauger asked.

The infirmarian’s smile faded. “See, yes. Speak to, no. He
is greatly fevered and would not know you, likely. We try,” he added
apologetically, “when such high fever comes to keep all excitement, all
stimulus away.”

“Greatly fevered?” Mauger’s voice was shaking with hope
again. Perhaps all the failures had been to save him the trouble of committing
murder. Perhaps William was fated to die of his wounds. “Is he then in danger
of his life? Yesterday you said he would live,”