SirenSong (47 page)

Sancia listened breathlessly. “For twenty years?” she
repeated. “Has William really loved her for twenty years?”

“He says so, and I have never known William to lie.” Richard
answered a little stiffly, thinking Sancia was going to laugh, to belittle his
credulity.

Instead her eyes filled with tears and she sighed. “Oh, it
is just like the romances. Aucassin was true just so and sought his love over
the whole world. Of course, William did not have to seek Elizabeth, but he
stayed nearby—did he not, Richard?”

“He most certainly did,” Richard replied wryly. “God knows,
I offered him everything—wealth, position, everything—to keep him by me, but he
only wanted to stay on that little dish of an estate. Only when I ordered him
to war or said I needed him would he come to me for longer than a few days at a
time. I thought he was overanxious about caring for his lands.” Richard burst
out laughing. “Why the devil did he not tell me? I think I would have had the
accursed husband
murdered
just to get William to act as marshal for me.”

“He could not tell,” Sancia breathed, her dark eyes wide with
romantic fervor, “for that would darken his lady’s name. So true a heart would
never tell.”

“No.”

Richard had no intention of saying anything to disturb
Sancia’s sweet dream of courtly love conventions come to life, but guilt lashed
him. William would have told him if he had ever asked. He realized now that
there had been times when he suspected William was carrying some heavy burden.
He had told himself that it would be wrong to pry if William did not speak of
his own accord, but it was not truly that. Richard knew he had been too much
taken up with problems of his own—with his brother, with his vassals and
estates. He had piled many of those problems on William and resented the fact
that William would not carry even more of his burdens. This spring he had
known
William was in trouble, yet he had ridden back to Wallingford to spend the
night in Sancia’s bed rather than listen and try to help.

“You do not mind that he did not tell you? Oh Richard, do
not be angry. He could not. Not because he did not trust you but…but…but it
must
be secret!”

Richard smiled at her. “No, my love, I am not angry—at least
not with William.”

“Can we help?” Sancia asked, her brow wrinkled with thought.
“I know that the romances all end sadly, but—but these are real people. I like William.
I do not wish to lament over his grave.”

“Sancia!” Richard exclaimed, suddenly feeling cold. “William
is in no danger of dying, nor Elizabeth either, since she is safe in Marlowe
now. Of course we will do something. That is what I came to tell you. We must
go to London as quickly as you can travel in comfort. I will speak to Henry and
to Boniface and see if we can arrange a divorce or an annulment of Elizabeth’s
marriage in such a way that the sons are protected.”

“Yes, indeed,” Sancia’s eyes brightened. “And I will get
Eleanor to help also. She can do more with Henry sometimes—especially on a
matter like this—than you could.”

Richard burst out laughing again and swept his wife into his
arms. Sancia was a perfect delight, a compendium of everything good in a
woman—innocent, foolish, loving—and practical in strange, womanly ways.

Chapter Twenty-Four

It seemed to Raymond in his haste and anxiety that
everything had gone wrong from the moment he touched Alys’s hand in silent
farewell and stepped off the dock into the boat. The journey was a nightmare in
slow time. Of course, Raymond knew objectively that each hour in his mind was
no more than a few minutes in reality. He could see that the stars had not
shifted in the sky and he could hear sounds from the shore—voices dimly and
occasionally the clang of metal or the thud of a wheeled cart jolting over a
stone. The sounds proved they were not past the men Mauger was bringing, but
that hardly reconciled Raymond to their slow progress. He was beginning to believe
that the armed train was miles long, that there would be thousands of men, that
they had come prepared for war, perhaps with siege towers as well as ladders.
If such a force were arrayed against Marlowe, it could not hold out for an
hour.

When they were finally past the incoming men and silence was
no longer imperative, Raymond urged the boatmen to speed. They did their best,
but the river loops and bends, and there were obstacles invisible in the dark.
Too often they struck, stuck, and needed to struggle to push the boat free,
losing time. As soon as the sun came up, Raymond knew he could not endure the
seemingly leisurely process any longer and told the men to make for land.

“Windsor, lord,” one man said, pointing down the river and
watching Raymond’s face to see if he understood. “Windsor. The king stays
sometimes.”

After a moment’s struggle, Raymond agreed. Apparently
William had told the men to make for Windsor. Of course, he must have. It was
one of Henry’s favorite residences, Raymond remembered, and William must have
known they would reach it soon after first light. Even if the king was not
there, perhaps someone would know where he was. And Raymond could almost
certainly buy a horse at Windsor.

He was quite right on both counts. A clerk in the castle was
able to tell Raymond that the king was in Westminster and was expected to
remain there for a week or more. Raymond also found a good horse furnished with
a respectable saddle. Raymond did not complain of the price, although he knew
he was being grossly cheated. In spite of so quickly learning the king’s
whereabouts and finding a horse, Raymond was near frantic with disappointment.
His hopes had been so high. He had convinced himself that the king would be at
Windsor and that he could ride back to Marlowe that same day with the writ.
Thus, he still felt everything had gone wrong and that he would be too late,
long too late to help Sir William or save Alys.

Nonetheless, he rode off at once. He had not slept since the
preceding night nor eaten for many hours. The landlord of the inn at Windsor
had offered food to so generous a buyer, but Raymond could not choke it down
and would not wait a minute after the saddle had been set on the horse’s back.
His haste brought him to Westminster just before the gates were closed at dark,
but his anxious inquiries for the king coupled with his simple dress caused the
guards to conceal smiles and direct him to a side office. The guards were
accustomed to simple provincial knights who believed the king was available to
anyone who asked to speak to him. Thus Raymond fell into the hands of an
officious clerk, who passed him to another clerk. His haughty announcement of
who he was met with an even greater display of fury.

It did not take Raymond long to realize that talking to this
second pompous fool was getting him no nearer to Henry. He began to bellow with
rage, and Theobald of Hurley, who was just leaving his writing table in an
inner chamber to go to Henry, strode out to see who dared cause such a
disturbance among the king’s clerks.

“I do not care who you are,” Raymond screamed. “I
am
Raymond d’Aix, blood-bound to the queen. I must see the king. Now! At once! I
do not know what idiot sent me here among a bunch of tonsured fools, but you
will lack heads instead of just hair if you do not direct me to where the king
is.”

“Many men wish to see the king,” Theobald said, raising his
head and looking down his nose. “This is the office where such appointments are
made. It is our purpose to spare King Henry importunity. All sorts of lies and
threats—”

The statement ended in a squawk as Raymond vaulted the table
behind which Theobald had been standing and took him by the throat. The other
clerks set up a clamor, but Raymond had dragged Theobald out of the chamber,
shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat. In the courtyard, he relaxed his grip
enough so that Theobald would not lose his senses.

“Which building?” he grated. “We are going alive together,
or I will leave you here dead and find another guide. I tell you I am nephew to
the queen. If I am not, you will have your revenge.”

Nephew! Theobald now remembered the king had mentioned a
nephew of the queen’s in relation to the business of Sir Mauger’s. Merciful
Mary, had Mauger done something to annoy the queen’s nephew? Theobald began to
utter a cringing apology, but Raymond’s hand tightened on his throat again, and
he gagged and scuttled in the direction of the king’s private chambers.

Henry was sitting at his ease in the inner chamber, alone,
for he had been expecting Theobald. He did not turn his head immediately when
the clerk said, “Sire,” and thus was utterly astonished when Raymond pushed
past, crying, “Uncle Henry, I need help.”

“Raymond!”

Before his uncle could rise and embrace him, Raymond flung
himself down on his knees and raised his hands in the formal gesture of
supplication.

“Good God, Raymond, what is wrong? What have you done? Stand
up, boy, do not kneel there like a fool.” Henry stood up himself and pulled
Raymond upright.

“Done? I have done nothing wrong!” Raymond exclaimed. “And
neither has Sir William, yet he is besieged without strength to withstand the
attack and will die if you do not help him.”

“Sir William again, eh?” Henry said, his face hardening.
“Done nothing, has he? Has he not his neighbor’s wife in his keep?”

“Yes, Lady Elizabeth fled to him because her husband held
her prisoner and wished to starve her to death. Sire, the man is a monster. I
have a tale to tell of his doings that is years long, but there is no time for
that. You sent me to Marlowe to test Sir William’s heart. I tell you it is the
truest heart in the realm.”

“Sir William loves me well, does he?” Henry asked
sardonically. Raymond’s slightly hysterical exaggeration was pushing him into
Mauger’s side again. It certainly implied a warping of Raymond’s judgment. “No
doubt he speaks widely of my wisdom and goodness.”

“No, he does not,” Raymond replied, swallowing nervously. He
was so frantic that he did not recognize the trap that Henry had laid for him,
but he had been set a task and had agreed to do it. His answers must be as
honest as he could make them. “I do not remember that he spoke particularly of
you at any time, except once when Earl Richard was visiting—”

“Richard visited Sir William? When?”

“In the spring. He wished Sir William to act as
quartermaster to the force he was sending to Wales. At that time, Sir William
spoke of you just as he should—he said that you did your duty as king. Sire, I
will answer your doubts at large later. I swear to you the man is honest and
loyal. He stinted neither men nor service in Wales but went gladly—”

“And returned more gladly, saying he was wounded to death
for a scratch or two.”

“Scratch?” Raymond gasped. His voice rose as he forgot in
his surprise and indignation to whom he was speaking. “He was near death! I
dressed his wounds on the way.”

“A man near death does not ride hundreds of miles,” Henry
snapped.

“He did not ride, sire.” This time Raymond spoke
respectfully. Partly he remembered William remonstrating with Richard about his
manner to the king, and feeling considerable sympathy for Richard suddenly, and
partly he, himself, realized that angering Henry would scarcely accomplish his
purpose. “Nor was it Sir William’s decision to leave Wales,” he continued
quietly. “He was, by that time, too ill to decide anything. It was the Earl of
Hereford’s decision. There had been several attempts on Sir William’s life—”

“Raymond, you are bewitched! I swear the man is a sorcerer.
All he does is good, whatever it is, even to taking another man’s wife.”

“Bewitched?” Raymond was shaken for a moment, thinking of
Alys’s beauty. Was he seeing her father through her eyes? But how could Henry
know about Alys? For that matter, how could he know about Lady Elizabeth. “Has
Sir Mauger been here before me?” he asked.

Henry turned away without answering. A king does not have to
explain himself to others!

“Sire, I beg you to hear both sides,” Raymond pleaded. “At
least stop Sir Mauger’s attack until the evidence against him can be heard.
Summon Sir William and examine him yourself. Ask the Earl of Hereford about his
service in Wales and his wounds.”

Henry had been standing with his back to Raymond, but at the
mention of Hereford he turned to face his nephew-by-marriage. Here he was on
firm ground. “I have already written to Hereford—many days ago.” That was not
true, it was only four days, but Henry wanted Raymond to believe his next
statement. “I expect a report from him at any moment. When that comes, I shall
be better able to decide.”

“Thank God!” Raymond exclaimed with such fervor that Henry
became decidedly uneasy. “But if you do not stop Sir Mauger’s attack, it may be
too late to do Sir William justice. I tell you, Marlowe is near naked. We had,
perhaps, fifty veteran men-at-arms, and I found near a hundred more men willing
to serve, but they were all untrained. Sire, I beg you, give order that Sir
Mauger hold his hand.”

Henry was growing more and more uneasy. Raymond’s enthusiasm
for Hereford’s judgment certainly meant that Sir William had been severely
wounded and Hereford had sent him home. That meant that Mauger had lied about
that. Probably the man had lied about everything except his stolen wife. Then
he was seized by a sudden dreadful qualm. Richard must be in London by now. He
had not seen his brother yet, but Sancia had written to Eleanor to say they
were only a day’s ride away. When had that been? Yesterday? The day before? If
Richard and Raymond met…

But there was a way out of the dilemma. It was obvious from
the way Raymond was phrasing his plea that he did not know the men with Mauger
were the king’s own mercenaries. All Henry need do was recall them and keep
Raymond and Richard both in London until the men dispersed. If Mauger had lied
to him, he deserved to be deserted. Henry felt he had a right to be avenged
against such a liar who had led him into an unjust act against his brother’s
dear friend. Sir Mauger must suffer for that crime! And if Sir Mauger—instead
of Sir William—was dead, he could never mention that the men were the king’s.