SirenSong (3 page)

Chapter Two

The keep at Marlowe was not very large, but it drew a look
of surprised admiration from Raymond, for he judged it to be near impregnable
if properly manned. It was set upon a hillside above the river, and below the
two huge round towers that joined to make up its southern face, the hill had
been cut sheer away and faced with stone. From the sides of the towers, the
walls of the outer ward marched away east and west, curving back from the bank.
To the west, which Raymond could see best, the walls ran down to the foot of
the hill where a wide channel had been dug to provide a moat. This curved
around toward the north and disappeared. Probably, Raymond thought, the moat
did not go all the way around because of the rise of the land.

The drawbridge was down and a fair amount of traffic was
moving over it, merchants on mules riding beside empty or near-empty carts
coming out, servants and serfs who labored on the near sections of the demesne
farm coming in. Raymond examined the faces of those he passed with interest. He
was a little surprised at the general look of well-being and contentment and at
the easy answers he had to the questions he asked the merchants. Certainly on
the surface it seemed that Sir William was neither hated nor feared.

There were guards on the walls near the gate tower that
controlled the drawbridge and portcullis, but they were lounging at their
stations, idly watching those who came and went. When Raymond had entered, a
man-at-arms did come forward, but he only greeted the young knight civilly and
told him where to leave his horse. Guests were apparently frequent and welcome
at Marlowe. On being asked, the man-at-arms assured Raymond that the lord was
in the keep, and gestured behind him.

It was then that Raymond realized there was no inner ward.
From his present position, he could see that two matching great, round towers
made up the north face of the keep and that between them was a stretch of wall
almost as strong that had been roofed over. It was not until he entered the
building by a relatively flimsy wooden stair, which ran up inside the wooden
forebuilding on the flat western face, that he realized Marlowe was not very
old. It had never been four towers connected by walls that originally enclosed
a small inner bailey but had been built in recent times just as it stood.

A remarkably ugly, deformed, but quiet-eyed elderly man
advanced upon Raymond as he entered the hall and offered the hospitality of the
house, introducing himself as the steward. Raymond thanked him without recoil.
He was surprised at the position of influence that the deformed cripple held
but not affronted by his ugliness. Such people were often used as buffoons or
jesters. His mother had a little dwarf woman, although she was not near as ugly
as this man. Raymond then asked whether Sir William could spare him a few
minutes. The steward nodded and hobbled away, leaving Raymond to look around
curiously.

The keep itself was very strong. The door passage was ten
long strides deep and opened into a wide and lofty hall lit by deep window
embrasures on both flat walls. On the two short walls between the towers north
and south, huge hearths blazed with fire. At each corner, a doorway led into
one of the towers. Raymond assumed that one contained a stairwell to the upper
and lower floors. The other three might be private living quarters and were
large enough for two large or several small chambers. Naturally Raymond did not
expect to be accommodated in such luxury. For a hireling knight, a cot or even
a pallet on the floor of the hall would be sufficient. He did not mind. He was
not so far from his duties as a squire that he had lost the ability to sleep in
comfort on the hardest floor. A deep, pleasant voice spoke his name.

“Sir William?” Raymond responded, wishing to be sure this was
really the man.

He asked because he was surprised again, and had to remind
himself sharply that evil can often wear a pleasant mask. But Sir William’s
face had little of the mask about it. Square and, at first glance,
uncompromising, it was softened by a surprisingly sensitive mouth, wide and
mobile, and dominated by large hazel eyes that were shaded by laughably long,
curling lashes. Moreover, the broadness of the face implied at first glance a
stolidity that did not exist on further examination. Raymond, young as he was,
could easily read the emotions that played across it—pleasure in a guest,
curiosity, friendliness. He felt a twinge of doubt at the part he was playing,
but reminded himself that the only deceit in it was the concealment of his real
status and blood-relationship to the queen.

“Yes, I am Sir William. Can I serve you in some way, Sir
Raymond?”

“I hope I can serve you, sir,” Raymond replied. “I have a
letter to you from the king that will explain.”

“From the king?” Sir William’s brows shot upward in frank
amazement, but Raymond could detect not even the smallest hint of fear or
anxiety, and his hand stretched out at once to take the letter without a
tremor. He examined the seal before he broke it, but only cursorily, like a man
of unsuspicious nature who also had no reason to fear any trap. His eyes
skimmed the opening lines and came to the body of the letter, whereupon his
mouth firmed, the corners tucking back in distaste.

That was all Raymond saw because Sir William turned away
quickly, carrying the letter toward the nearest window. It was true the light
would be better there, but it was quite sufficient where they stood. Raymond
was sure Sir William had walked away to hide what he felt until he could
control his expression. He was right. When Sir William returned, his face was
blank, the mobile mouth set hard, and the expressive eyes hidden behind lowered
lashes. That was suspicious, but Raymond felt no satisfaction, only
disappointment and embarrassment. He had liked Sir William on first sight and
had never before been in a place in which he, personally, was not welcome. If
it had not been for his promise to King Henry, Raymond would have left right
then, preferring to sleep in an open field and go hungry rather than accept
grudging hospitality. He felt his color rise.

William had been rather surprised when Martin told him there
was a young knight asking for him by name, but the mild surprise William felt
at first was nothing compared to his amazement when the young man had said he
came from the king. In spite of the fact that the king’s brother was William’s
closest friend, he had never had much to do with Henry. He had always done his
best to avoid the king. Since there were always large numbers of men striving
for Henry’s notice and favor, William had been quite successful in this
purpose. In fact, until Raymond presented himself, William had believed that
the king would not recognize his face and probably would barely recognize his
name. He had first been thoroughly annoyed by the tone of the letter and by the
assumption that feeding the flock of foreign scarecrows who followed the court
around was the duty of every landholder in England. Now, however, seeing the
painful flush on Raymond’s face, William’s irritation disappeared. At least this
Raymond seemed willing to work for his keep. If all young Raymond had asked for
was an introduction to someone who had place for a knight in his household that
was an honest enough desire.

Actually William did need just such a person as Raymond
seemed to be. He had lost his squire to a virulent chill and fever the
preceding winter, just as the young man was ripening into real usefulness. That
loss had been the more painful because it came on top of the previous loss of
the castellan of Bix, Sir Peter, who had taken over William’s responsibilities
when he was called away to war or foreign travel in Richard’s tail. William had
not replaced the castellan of Bix because he intended that place for poor
Harold—and now Harold was dead and he had no one. William could only assume
that Richard had passed this information to his brother and that the king had
remembered when a likely candidate for such a place had appeared.

Now William was ashamed of the prejudice that had made him
place the ugliest interpretation on an act of real consideration on the king’s
part. Henry had much to think of and to remember. It was truly kind of him to
call to mind the infinitesimal problem of a minor subject probably mentioned
quite casually.
Just because I would have preferred an English-born man
,
William thought,
I have no right to reject the king’s kindness or make this
poor young man uncomfortable.

“You are very welcome,” William said, smiling now. “I was
much surprised because I could not imagine how the king could have come to know
my need. However, I suppose—”

William’s voice checked as he saw Raymond’s eyes fix on
something past his shoulder. He turned his head and hastily raised a hand to
hide his grin. Alys, his daughter, had just come into the hall. Alys always had
that effect on young men, and the reaction invariably amused Alys’s father. It
was not that William did not recognize his daughter’s beauty—he did, it was
because her character was at such variance with her appearance of exquisite
fragility. Sometimes there was no immediate cause for awakening, and a young
visitor would ride away with a dream in his heart. More often, either
deliberately or by accident, Alys displayed what she was made of, and a much
chastened and wiser young man left the keep than had entered it.

Alys had hesitated when she saw her father engaged with a
man in armor, thus one newly arrived who might have private business with him.
Not that any business William had was really private from Alys, but she had
discovered that knowledge of that fact made many men uneasy, and she waited
politely before finding out what she wanted to know. However, William gestured
to her and she came eagerly across to him.’

“This is Sir Raymond, Alys. My daughter Alys, Raymond. He
comes to us all the way from Aix to take Harold’s place—well, more than that of
course, because Harold was not yet knighted—by the king’s recommendation.”

“The king’s?”

William frowned a little at the note of distaste that
tainted the simple surprise in Alys’s voice. He had done his best not to infect
Alys with the frequent exasperation Henry caused Richard and, through Richard,
him, since it was not a safe feeling to hold, but he was never really
successful in hiding things from Alys. He flashed a glance at Raymond, but the
expression on the young man’s face was still stunned and utterly fatuous,
certainly not the look of a man capable of measuring shades of meaning in a
voice.

“It was very good of the king to think of me,” William said
reprovingly. “Richard must have told him of Harold’s death after that of Sir
Peter.”

“Would Uncle Richard tell King Henry a thing like that?”
Alys asked doubtfully.

“He must have done,” William replied. “Here, read his
letter.”

At the same time that he handed the letter to Alys, William
cast another sly glance at Raymond. Sometimes the discovery that Alys could
read, a skill that fit very ill with her delicate, feminine appearance, was
sufficient to shatter a young man’s dream. Raymond showed no signs of being
disgusted, however. William’s lips twitched. The arrow had struck him deep. He
did not even look surprised, and it was surprising that the daughter of a
simple knight should be literate. William would more likely than not have been
illiterate himself, as his father was, had not he and Richard taken so strong a
fancy to each other when they were boys. Yet, since Richard absolutely would
not
mind his book unless William, too, had to study, William was
very
literate. He could read and write not only French but Latin and English also.

Thinking back, while Alys read and then reread Henry’s
letter and Raymond gazed at her, William’s lips twitched again. He and Richard
had nearly fallen out over the question of education. William had been most
unwilling to “waste his time” over so useless an accomplishment as reading and writing.
What, he had asked, were clerks for if not to read and write for their noble
protectors? He had angrily accused Richard of forcing him into spending hours
crouched over a book or painfully scribing with cramped fingers on much
scratched-over parchment just so that Richard would not be outstripped in feats
of arms. Richard had turned red as a rooster’s wattle—a thing he still did when
angered—but he had not denied the accusation. His dark eyes had burned redly
for a moment. Then the color had faded, humor sparkled in the eyes instead of
rage, and Richard had agreed that William’s accusation was true. There were
some privileges to being a king’s son, Richard had said, grinning, and not
suffering alone was one of them.

William remembered also his father’s fear when he crossed
Richard. He had not understood it, and it had frightened him and made him
uneasy so that he was careful in the future to quarrel with Richard only in
private. Sometimes, of course, the results of a quarrel could not be concealed.
One day he and Richard had returned to the keep well bloodied and still
snarling at each other. Then his father had drawn him aside and told him never
to anger the prince.

“He is the image of his father,” old Sir William warned,
“and John never forgot and never forgave a slight, no matter how small. Even if
it took him ten years or twenty, he would be avenged, fairly or unfairly.”

William had looked at his father in blank amazement. He knew
Richard never held a grudge. He could be angry, he had a fierce temper. But
once the matter was settled, it was ended for good. William judged things
simply, and it was significant to him that, no matter how furious Richard was,
he fought as fairly as his opponent.

Over the years it had been proven that William was right about
Richard of Cornwall. Men who had known the old king well finally learned that
humor rather than rapacity or spite burned in the dark eyes, otherwise so like
John’s. Richard was eager for money and ambitious, there was a lust to rule in
him, and for that money was necessary, but neither greed nor ambition
surmounted all other considerations as in the preceding generation of
Plantagenets. Richard ruled in his own lands absolutely, and ruled very well.
He took after his father also in his attention to the details of governing, in
his lack of personal extravagance, in his ability not to be blinded by class in
measuring justice.