SirenSong (27 page)

“Lie still,” she cried, prevented from moving quickly by the
guttering flames. “You will open something.”

He could see her face now, lit as it was by the candles she
carried. “I know I have been wandering. Am I still? What are you doing here at
this hour of the night?”

“Alys asked me to come care for you. She was afraid her
skill would not be sufficient.”

That produced another profound silence, but shorter this
time. “Either I have been more desperately sick than I thought,” he said at
last, “or I have been wrong about my daughter’s perceptions, and I thought I
knew her.”

“Neither,” Elizabeth answered, smiling. “As to the first, it
was Raymond’s fear to which Alys responded. He wrote a letter wherein it really
sounded as if he was bringing a dying man home as a last hope. He is a good
young man, William. His anxiety for you is most touching, but it frightened
Alys out of her wits, so she begged me to come. As to the other, you read her
aright, but she would never risk harm to you, no matter how small, just because
of jealousy. Besides, I do not think she is very jealous anymore.”

“What does that mean?”

William sounded puzzled rather than angry or apprehensive,
but Elizabeth knew this spurt of strength would not last long. She had no
intention, moreover, of telling him more until he had thought over the hints
she had already give him.

“Not now,” she said, lighting two more sets of candles.
“Does the light bother your eyes?”

“No. I have a little headache, but not much.”

“Then I will bring you the pot, and then something to eat.”

By the time he had relieved his bladder and bowels and had
eaten the clear broth—he would not take the stronger one with meat in
it—William’s eyes were glazing with tiredness. Nonetheless, he asked, “What is
it, Elizabeth? There is something different about you. It is something good, I
am sure, and could do me no harm. Tell me.”

Elizabeth’s lips parted, but all she said was, “You are too
tired. Sleep now.”

The flicker of relief on William’s face as his eyes closed
was Elizabeth’s reward for self-denial. Deep inside, there was also a suppressed
sense of panic averted. When Alys first said, “Ask Papa,” Elizabeth had been so
sure of William’s answer that she could barely wait for him to wake. By the
time his necessities had been attended to, however, she was remembering that
Alys had only known her father as a mature man. She had said that people did
not change, but that was not completely true.

Thus, Elizabeth kept putting off her question. The light
inside her dimmed with her doubt. Sensitive to her most vagrant mood, William
felt the change in her. With proper food and rest plus the treatment of his
hurts William was improving rapidly. Nonetheless he still felt ill enough that
he could not bear to look for trouble. He did not ask Elizabeth for an
explanation of the change, hoping the deep, vibrant joy would come back, not
wanting to hear what had spoiled it.

There was also not much time alone. Elizabeth took the night
watches and Alys sat with her father during the day while the older woman
rested. By the fourth day at home the scab was hard on the cut in his arm and
was forming well over the edges of the wound in his side. The draining had
almost stopped from the shoulder wound. Its edges were less raised and the
angry red was paling. That day, for the first time in the afternoon, William’s
head and body remained cool. On the fifth day, William ate his breakfast with
real appetite and demanded to see Raymond. Elizabeth looked at him, shrugged,
and summoned the young knight from the antechamber.

“Sit,” William said, pointing to a stool. “How bad is that
leg wound? I see you are still limping.”

“It is nothing,” Raymond assured him. “I am only favoring it
because it is near the knee and pulls when I bend it.”

“So? You should exercise it a little at a time. Do not favor
it too long or it will heal tight. Now, tell me why you dragged me home without
my men or my horses or, for all I know, even asking leave of Lord Hereford and
Lord Gloucester.”

“Not that. It was the Earl of Hereford who said I must take
you all the way to Marlowe.” Raymond looked doubtfully at Elizabeth. He was not
sure a sick man should be told someone was trying to kill him.

“I am not a child or a fool,” William snapped. “Did you run
to Hereford with that crazy tale that someone was trying to kill me?”

“Crazy tale!” Raymond exclaimed. “It was true enough. How do
you think you got that cut in your arm? Someone entered your chamber at the
abbey and tried to stab you.”

Seeing that William was about to protest that no one
could
want to kill him, Raymond described the cut stirrups and detailed the incidents
at the abbey and then told him Hereford’s theory that the attempts were somehow
related to Richard of Cornwall. That stopped William’s argument, and he thought
it over.

“Perhaps,” he said at last, “although I cannot think of a
person or a cause. I had not even caught that accursed lazy clerk in any
dishonesty, but my head is still thick. In any case, it is nothing to worry
about now that I am home. Let it go. You had better start riding out again and
see if you can glean some more men to train. I have a feeling that this
business in Wales may not be over. If the king brings the army he gathered to
oppose the Scots to Wales that will end it, but if I know Henry aright, he will
not do that. When that army is disbanded, David will come down out of the hills
again.”

“But you will not—”

“I will be healed in a month,” William said firmly. “If
Richard goes, I will go too.”

“That is enough for now,” Elizabeth said, and Raymond rose
at once, shaking his head at William’s protest. “If you wish to be healed in a
month,” Elizabeth went on sharply, “you must not do yourself a hurt now.”

William subsided. He was not tired yet, and Elizabeth must
know it. Therefore, she wanted to be rid of Raymond for a reason. When he was
out the door, she drew her chair even closer to the bed and said softly, “It is
Mauger.”

What she meant was perfectly clear to William. He hesitated
a moment, wanting to believe it. If it was Mauger who had tried to kill him,
his oppressive sense of guilt would be assuaged. Of course, Mauger had a right
to kill him
,
but not on the sly. It would have been just and reasonable
for Mauger to challenge him to judicial combat. William would have fought him,
although he was by no means sure he would have survived. Probably he was the
stronger, more experienced fighter, but William believed in the power of God.
He was not sure that the chaste Almighty would understand or approve his hunger
for another man’s wife.

The strong temptation William felt to believe Mauger guilty
convinced him that Elizabeth was seeking the same balm for her guilt. “It
cannot be Mauger,” he said reluctantly. “He cannot want me dead.” He told her
of his talk with Aubery and confessed his inability to tell Mauger that any
hope of a union was over. Then he went on. “Mauger must know that Richard would
be her warden, and he must know also that Richard would not favor his suit. Why
should he? Even if Mauger does not realize how much Richard loves Alys, he does
understand that an overlord seeks to marry his wards where it will best profit
himself. There could be no advantage to Richard in giving Alys to Aubery.”

Stubbornly, Elizabeth shook her head. “That all may be true,
but—but I am sure it is his doing. I think your hurts are his doing also. That
he did not come to you in time apurpose.”

For answer, William took her hand and kissed it. He did not
wish to say he believed her conviction to be a result of a desire to assuage
guilt. Thus, his kiss was no formal gesture. He put his lips to the palm, not
the upper surface of her hand, and then nibbled the fingers, caressing the
balls with the tip of his tongue. Elizabeth drew in her breath sharply and
then, very gently, withdrew her hand.

“For shame,” she murmured, “to make such an invitation when
you cannot furnish a feast.”

“Who says I cannot?” William rejoined.

Elizabeth was startled by the eagerness of his expression,
and she could feel her color rise. William saw that too, and reached out as if
to take her in his arms. She caught his hands and held them. “Raymond,” she
mouthed, almost silently, and gestured toward the door with her head.

“Call him,” William whispered. “I will send him on an
errand. What the devil is he doing there anyway?”

Elizabeth blushed even more, but shook her head. “He guards
you,” she murmured. Then, ignoring William’s astonished expression, added, “It
is better that he be there. If you yielded to your desire, you would be sorry
for it, and so would I.”

“I would not be sorry, whatever the cost,” William urged,
forgetting his surprise at being told Raymond was guarding him.

“Nor would I, for my cost,” Elizabeth said, smiling
ruefully, “but when you must pay for all, William, I cannot be so careless.”

He turned his hands to seize hers and grinned at her.

“I promise the cost would be little. I know many ways. You
can do all the work, Elizabeth, while I lie at my ease.”

He laughed at her startled look. For all of her two
children, she was nearly as innocent as a young girl. Silently, William blessed
the high-born whores who were always seeking novelty and thus greatly enlarged
his knowledge of the many positions, some weird enough, in which one could make
love. What a delight it would be to teach Elizabeth. William did not fear she
would be shocked or refuse. Her face, now that the surprise was gone, showed
curiosity and eagerness.

In the next moment, however, that look was replaced by one
William could not read. Elizabeth dropped her eyes to their linked hands and
her color faded. She said, “Not now, William. When you are stronger,” but it
was not the act of love she was thinking of. It was the doubt that had dimmed
her joy that turned her cold. It could be put off no longer. William raised
Elizabeth’s hands and kissed them, this time with a tenderness that was not
touched by sensuality.

“Tell me,” he said.

Elizabeth knew at once he had read her change of mood right.
Often there was no need for words between them. They had communicated quite
well over and around Mauger by occasional glances. Panic rose in her, and she
tried to disengage her hands. Somehow it would be worse now to learn that she
had been told the truth, that William had “accepted” his marriage. The
brightness of the hope she had had would make what was only a small, dingy
failure in an uncertain boy seem like a black sin.

No longer very much weakened by illness, William’s grip was
firm. It would have taken real violence for Elizabeth to pull away. She made a
single abortive move for freedom.

“Tell me,” he insisted.

“Why did you marry Mary?” Elizabeth asked.

Of all the responses in the world, William was more
surprised by this than any other Elizabeth could have made. He released her
hands and stared at her. It was ridiculous! She must know the answer.
Bitterness lashed him. If she had stood fast, the guilt that soured their joy
in each other would never have cursed them.

“What was left for me after you yielded? What did it matter
whom I married, since you were wed already and beyond my reach?”

Such rage and hurt were in his voice that William was
appalled. He had not meant to flay Elizabeth with the anger he had carried all
the years. But his surprise at her question was nothing compared with his
amazement at her reaction to his cruel answer. She glowed with joy. What had
been leashed in by doubt at first and then had nearly died from being smothered
burst all bounds.

“William,” she cried, “they lied to us! They lied to us
both!” The loudness of her voice startled her, and she went on more softly but
just as intensely. “I did not yield, I swear it—not until I was told you had
already accepted Mary. I thought you had broken your oath first, and I, too,
felt it did not matter whom I married if you were lost to me.”

“You mean my father lied to me?”

To William, this revelation was almost as painful as his
original belief. He had loved his father and trusted him. Moreover, it was not
as important to William that Elizabeth be strong. To her, the fact that he had
not betrayed his oath knowingly was of paramount importance. It permitted her
to trust implicitly, to place her fate, her life, in her lover’s hands, to believe
he would protect her no matter what the consequences. To William, the discovery
of Elizabeth’s steadfastness besmirched a dear memory. Fortunately his question
exposed that hurt nakedly enough for Elizabeth to perceive it.

She cared for nothing except William’s peace. It did not
matter to her whether old Sir William had lied or not. “Be reasonable,
William,” she urged. “Think how often you have held back something from Alys or
told her a half-truth because you believed it was for her good.”

“I do not—” he began and then fell silent because, like any
parent, of course he did.

“Probably by the time your father told you, it was true that
I was married, or at least, sent away.” She leaned forward and kissed him.
“William, they could not have known. I am sure even my father did not wish us
ill, and yours was doing what he thought would end in the greatest happiness
for you, even if there was a little pain in the beginning.”

“God forbid I ever wish Alys well the same way,” William
sighed. “But you are right. My father was a great believer in raising his hand
to me lightly when I was young so that he would not need to use a whip when I
was older. It worked too, in everything but this. You were my siren, and I
always heard your song.”

Chapter Fourteen

When Elizabeth cried sharply, “They lied to us! They lied to
us both,” Raymond jumped to his feet and stood watching the door. Although he
knew it to be impossible, he could not help expecting Alys’s outraged and
infuriated father to burst out on him demanding an explanation of his improper
behavior. He had not been listening to the sounds from the bedchamber
previously, being immersed in his own not-too-pleasant thoughts. But the voices
again dropped to an indistinguishable murmur, and his tension eased.