SirenSong (6 page)

“I must ride over to Hurley this morning,” William said.

“Is Sir Mauger at home?” Alys asked sharply.

“I hope so. He was last week and said nothing to me about
leaving,” William replied blandly.

It was the very devil to have so acute a minx for a
daughter, William thought. No words had ever passed between them on the subject
of what he felt about Elizabeth, yet Aly s knew. It bred in her a strange
dichotomy. Alys loved Elizabeth for herself. Even before her own mother had
died, she had run to Elizabeth whenever she needed help and advice, and in the
last five years Elizabeth had been as good as a mother to her.

Still, Alys was jealous. It showed in little ways. Sometimes
when William reproved her, she would snap, “So I am not perfect like Lady
Elizabeth. Too bad!” William had never answered that Lady Elizabeth was far
from perfect because he had been afraid Alys would perceive the remnant of bitterness
in him. It did not really matter if that increased Alys’s jealousy. She could
do far worse than strive to model herself on Elizabeth.

Then there was the additional tension produced by Alys’s
having guessed that Elizabeth was the cause of her father’s failure to marry
again. On the one hand, Alys was as proud of her name as William was. She had
never regarded Marlowe as hers. When she married, her husband’s property would
be hers. Marlowe was where she learned how to be mistress—a practicing ground.
Alys wanted there to be a brother at Marlowe. She knew it was important to her
safety. If her husband should die, for example, while her children were young
and after her father’s death, a brother would protect her and her children,
fight for her dower rights if need be. Without male relatives, she would be at
the mercy of any warden set over her or at the mercy of her husband’s male
relations.

On the other hand, Alys probably did not relish the thought
of a stepmother, a woman who would have the right to rule Marlowe. She had been
too long mistress in her own right to step back into second place. From that
point of view, she might be grateful to Elizabeth for holding her father’s
fancy so that he could not bring himself to take a second wife.
And so I
have thought ten thousand times before
, William told himself impatiently.
It
is an old, old tale
. He turned to Raymond.

“Until I return, do you look over the demesne farm. You will
find its working much different than in your country. The people are different
too, I think, although I had little time to examine such matters when I passed
through the southern lands.”

“Yes, sir,” Raymond agreed quietly.

Alys opened her mouth, but thought better of what she had
been about to say. She was wearing a slight frown, but William decided that it
was not worth hurting Raymond’s feelings by calling Alys aside to speak
privately to her. Most likely, being suspicious, she did not want the young man
riding alone around the demesne, but surely that was excessive caution. What
real harm could he do? And if he attacked or mistreated the serfs—say, raped a
woman—that would solve the problem. William could send him away at once as
unsuitable.

When he had finished breaking his fast, William took his
cloak and went out. While he was eating, he had seen Alys sign to Martin and he
knew his horse would be waiting by the outside stair. He mounted the big, brown
gelding, and he rode easily over the drawbridge and down toward the town, which
sat on an outward bend of the river about half a mile away.

When he reached the outskirts of the town, William pulled
the brown beast up and stared. What were they doing in the common field
adjoining the river? Marlowe was not a walled town. It was not yet large enough
to merit a wall, although it soon might come to that, and was indefensible from
the river side anyway. In time of real danger, valuables were removed to the
keep and the people followed their goods at the first sign of attack. Thus far
Sir William and his ancestors had protected the town quite effectively by
attacking first themselves. They had been burnt out only once, nearly thirty
years ago when the late Louis of France had been in England. Since then, there
had been no real threat.

Riding closer to the disturbed ground, William snorted in
irritation. His suspicions were correct. Those idiots were starting to erect
buildings there. Commoners, free or serf, had no common sense! William touched
his horse with his heel and rode forward.

“Where is the headman here?” he asked in English, but the man
had already run over and was bowing.

“My lord?”

“Take it all down,” William growled, gesturing at the
standing framework. “You cannot build here. This is common ground.”

“But my lord, it is agreed in the whole town. The cattle
will not suffer. We are clearing on the north side. There will be sufficient
grazing there! The merchant who needs these warehouses has purchased that land
and will exchange—”

“Numbskull!” William roared. “What do I care where the
cattle graze? If you build on this curve of the river, you will block my view
of the town wharfs. Boats could put in here and I would not see them.”

The master builder swallowed. He had been consulted about
the site and had given it his approval, but he was thinking only of how far the
river might rise in time of flood and whether the ground was firm enough to
support the structures required.

“It is not in my power,” he pleaded. “I only—”

“It is in
my
power,” William snarled. “Take it down
and save your timber or I will send down my men to burn it and break a few
heads also.”

He set heels to his horse again and rode off, picking up his
pace so that the horse was near a full gallop by the time he entered the town
itself. People scattered in confusion, women screamed and snatched up small
children, mules and asses were wrenched out of the way. Coming to a hall at the
center of the town, near the guildhall, William reached down and grabbed a
shrinking man by the hair.

“Summon me the guildmaster,” he snapped.

“Wh-which gu-guildmaster?”

“The one who sits highest in the guildhall, or if he is not
here, any other, so long as he be in authority.” The trembling man nodded and
ran. Sir William glared around, but the green facing the guildhall was now
empty. What the devil was the name of the guildmaster and to which guild did he
belong? William had not even realized there was more than one. When he did
business with the townsfolk, one man would usually approach him as spokesman.
As long as dues and tolls were paid promptly and in full, William did not
trouble himself with the town management. It had seemed to work well, but now
William began to wonder whether he had been stupid.

It seemed to him, now he thought of it, that fewer and fewer
cases had been brought before him when he sat in justice. That was odd because
the town had grown in the past few years. Since men were men, it seemed highly
unlikely that an increase in business and population could have brought a
decrease
in crime. Neglectful, William told himself. He had been sorely neglectful. In
recent years, as Richard became more and more involved with public affairs,
William had insensibly been drawn to think more and more about such things,
even though he did not go often to court, and less of local matters.

The guildmaster—a guildmaster—was now bowing to him, introducing
himself as Thomas Mercer. William told him briefly that he had ordered the
building headman to tear down what he had erected and smooth over the pits he
had dug. No building was ever to be constructed on that curve of the bank, he
ordered. “But my lord,” the guildmaster wailed, “it is perfect dockage. The
river has scoured a deep pool there, and ships can—”

“I know that,” William snapped. “That is why I forbid
buildings there. As the land lies, such buildings would block the view of the
docks from the keep.”

“My lord, my lord,” Mercer cried wringing his hands, “we
would not cheat you! Never! You may send men to watch the dockings if you
will.”

William could feel his jaw starting to drop with surprise,
and he firmed it hastily. It had never entered his mind that the townsfolk
would cheat on fees or tolls. He had been thinking solely of defense. If his
guards did not have free and open land down to the river, enemies could bring
boats ashore unseen. Even when the guards could not see so far, on moonless
nights, for example, the open, slowly rising land was valuable, for sound
traveled well along it up to the keep. It would be very hard to land enough men
in a silence so profound as to fool the night watch. Buildings would block both
sight and sound.

“Naturally you would not cheat me,” William said quietly,
with a cold threat in his voice. “It would be unsafe and unhealthy to do so, I
promise you. That was not my concern. I do not choose to open so inviting a
door to enemies. You may, however, build open docks on that bank if you wish.”

The chagrin on Thomas Mercer’s face would have made William
laugh if he had not been so disgusted. The man had intended to cheat. Just a
little at first, probably, then more and more if William remained indifferent
and unaware. Two considerations saved Mercer from being struck down where he
stood, whining about the cost of cartage from such open docks as William was
willing to permit and the danger to delicate cargo from being moved in the rain
or the hot sun. First, William made a nice profit from tolls and fees paid by
merchants, and it would be a mistake to kill one of them in a seeming fit of
bad temper over the proposed buildings. Second, Mercer was almost certainly
neck-deep in some kind of dishonesty already, or he never would have conceived
such an idea.

It was time for a thorough investigation into the town’s
government. Doubtless sufficient bad practices would be uncovered so that
Thomas Mercer could be hanged. This would serve the multiple purpose of giving
the man his just desserts, enriching William’s purse by the forfeiture of
Mercer’s property, setting an example to the rest of the merchants of the
results of dishonesty, and pointing out clearly that William was no longer
going to allow himself to be fleeced.

The whining plea, which now included offers of money, had
come to a halt. William looked down and shook his head. “I told the builder and
I will tell you. If the timbers are not gone by the time I return, I will send
my men down to burn the area clean.” His eyes were the color of cold, muddy
water behind the long, curling lashes. “Do not try my patience.”

Another torrent seemed about to burst forth, but William did
not wait to hear it. He urged his big gelding forward toward the river again
where, a little to the west, a broad, heavy-bottomed boat lay that served as a
ferry. As he did so, William was suddenly surprised at all the events of the
morning. Why had he said to Alys he must
ride
to Hurley? Normally he
would have taken the boat docked below the keep. Of course, that meant walking
up from the village or sending someone over first to say he was on his way so
that a horse would be waiting for him.

It almost seemed as if… Then William smiled at his own
superstition. God, he was sure, did not trouble Himself with whether or not
buildings were put up in the town of Marlowe. He had said he would ride because
of what he had been thinking last night. When Elizabeth was alone in Hurley, he
always took the boat and walked. When Mauger was there, he always rode. William
had to smile wryly. He was a fine one to talk about pride. He was worse yet,
not wishing either to demean himself by arriving on foot or by asking that a
horse be sent to him. William could not help chuckling, despite his fury at
Mercer, at his own silly pride, so that he was in a much better humor when he
waved a negligent greeting to the guards at the gatehouse of Hurley and rode
through.

Hurley was older than Marlowe but not as strong. Although it
had both inner and outer walls, neither wall was of the height or thickness of
Marlowe’s. In a sense, there was no true keep, the inner wall taking its place
with the dwelling portions built almost as part of that wall. It made the hall
very dark because there were no windows, only arrow slits, on the outer side
and the windows on the inner side seldom received the sun. Half blinded by
coming in out of the bright bailey, William asked the first person who hurried
up to him where Mauger was.

A pretty, tinkling giggle and a rush of scent made William
recoil a step. “My lord has gone out,” a little-girl voice told him.

“Where is the lady?” William asked harshly.

His clearing sight had confirmed what voice and scent
hinted, that he was confronting Mauger’s most recent mistress. She was an
exquisite thing, fairer than Alys and far more voluptuous, her bosom almost
spilling from a too-low-cut bodice and most imperfectly covered by a thin, silk
tunic. The loose cotte was too thin also, showing clearly the shape of hip and
waist beneath.

William had no objection to women in seductive clothing, but
he did not think a married gentleman’s home was the place for them. He was no
saint and had never accorded even lip service to chastity. He had always been
discreet in his infidelities, however. That he did not love his wife was no
reason, to his mind, to affront her sensibilities or to be discourteous to her.

“Above, I suppose,” the girl tittered. “I am Emma. Can I do
something for you?”

William’s hand half lifted to strike her for insolence, but
her eyes were as empty of sense as a painted doll’s. Her French was execrable.
Probably she had not meant to be vulgar or insolent.

“Go and ask whether Lady Elizabeth can spare Sir William of
Marlowe a few minutes of her time,” he said in English.

“I am not a servant,” the girl pouted, still speaking in
French, which she obviously felt was a mark of status.