SirenSong (12 page)

“You are fit for it, certainly,” Raymond said, ridiculously
angry at the notion that Alys should not be considered the equal of any woman,
even his aunt, the queen.

“I do not know about that, although Papa has taught me court
usage as well as he can. But it is not my manners anyway. The thing is that I
am not rich enough to marry so high and one of Uncle Richard’s friends
made…made Papa an offer for me, to have me out of wedlock—”

“Who?” Raymond roared, his hand falling to where his sword
hilt should be.

“Hush!” Alys hissed, casting a glance at her father.

“Who what?” William asked, starting out of his private
thoughts.

“Who is my Uncle Richard,” Alys replied hastily, kicking
Raymond good and hard under the table.

“What do you mean, ‘Who is your Uncle Richard,’ and why in
that voice?” William insisted.

Alys giggled. “Because Raymond is annoyed with me. I have
been teasing him.”

“Teasing Raymond? What the devil is making you act the fool
today, Alys? If you cannot act as befits your age and station, go and sit among
the children of the maidservants as you deserve.”

“I am very sorry, Papa.” Alys lowered her head under the
rebuke. It was the correct gesture, but it also hid the fact that her eyes were
dancing. Perhaps Papa
should
have stopped to couple a whore in the town.
He was out of measure cross. Never having been afflicted either by love or
desire, Alys found such torments rather funny. Still, it would be better to
appease Papa before he really lost his temper. “I miss Harold,” she said quite
truthfully. “Harold did not get angry when I teased him. I forgot.”

Raymond had listened to this exchange in silence because he
had not been able to command his voice. His sense of outrage at the insult
offered to the most perfect woman he had ever met was so great that, had she
named a name, he would have ridden out to challenge the man. He knew it was
ridiculous. Plainly Alys had come to no harm, and between her father and the
Earl of Cornwall, she had sufficient protection.

It was all the more painful in that, instead of protecting
her, his stupidity had brought trouble on her. The violent blow on his shin had
pointed out to him most sharply that to remind her father of such an incident
would be a dreadful solecism. And then, instead of saying that she did not know
why he had fallen into a rage or tried to pass it off some other way, as his
sisters would have done, Alys took all the blame upon herself.

“I am at fault, sir,” Raymond put in, finding his voice. “I
had no right to speak in such a tone to your daughter. I beg your pardon.”

Alys’s apology had made William ashamed of his outburst
which he knew was caused by his own unhappiness. He smiled at the crimson-faced
young man. “I am glad you were so moderate. Alys’s teasing has made older and
calmer people wish to strangle her.” He turned his eyes to his daughter. “Have
a care,” he warned. “Harold grew up with you from a child and knew your ways.”
Then he looked back at Raymond. “I imagine you wanted to know why Alys calls so
great a man as Richard of Cornwall uncle. It is true that there is no blood
bond. Simply, we have been friends from boyhood, Richard and I. He dandled her
on his knees when she was a babe, and he did not wish that she should grow in
awe of him.” William paused and his lips twisted wryly. “He should have known
her better. Alys is not overgiven to awe. However, he bade her call him uncle
and so she does.”

“I see,” Raymond said. “Thank you.”

Alys was still looking down, but her father noticed a faint
wrinkle between her brows, as if she were considering some puzzling question.
He could only hope that his warning had taken hold and she was thinking about
how unsafe it was to be playful with a young man who had not grown up regarding
her as a sister. Alys was too kind to wish to inflict needless pain on anyone.
She was, indeed, but it was not her father’s warning that had given her food
for thought. She was considering, with a strong mixture of concern, doubt, and
pleasure, Raymond’s reaction to her mention of a proposition being made for
her. Alys was quite familiar with the characteristic male response to deep
insult, and Raymond had reacted like a man whose own wife had been offended.

Chapter Six

A week later Richard of Cornwall accompanied only by two
squires rode into Marlowe just in time for dinner. He was travel-stained and
weary, for he had ridden from London the previous afternoon. Raymond had heard
much of the close friendship between Richard and Sir William, but it was still
a surprise to him to see the familiarity with the earl and all the residents of
the keep.

He not only embraced Martin but asked anxiously about his
health, referring to an illness the steward had suffered late in the preceding
year. There was no mistaking the earl’s real concern nor his fondness for the
elderly, ugly cripple. By the time he had been reassured, Alys had flung
herself into his arms in joyous welcome.

“I’m so glad you have come. I have not seen you for so
long,” she cried.

He hugged and kissed her warmly. “And I to see you,
dearling, but you will soon wish me at the devil’s door, because I bring bad
news.”

“Never,” Alys exclaimed, although Raymond could see that her
joy had been dampened. “Wales?” she asked.

“Yes, but where is your papa? There is no sense telling bad
news twice.”

The question went unanswered as Sir William came in from the
outer door and strode quickly across the hall. The two men embraced each other,
but William drew back with concern in his eyes.

“Come into my chamber, Richard, and rid yourself of this
armor. You look tired to death. Is something wrong?”

“A very good question,” Richard replied, smiling wryly. “I
do not know whether to answer yes or no or only a little. I have a long tale to
tell and you will think I am making some of it up, William, but I swear—”

“Come and get comfortable first,” William interrupted.
“Alys, make ready a bath for—”

“No,” Richard interrupted in turn. “I will not stay the
night, and it is too cold to ride out again after bathing.” He smiled again, a
little shyly this time. “I wish to sleep at Wallingford.”

“Sleep?” William teased, drawing Richard toward his rooms.
“Perhaps you wish to lie abed there, but sleep?”

“Do not be so crude, Papa,” Alys said reprovingly, but her
dimples quivered in her cheeks, betraying hidden laughter.

“Shocking!” Richard rejoined, laughing openly. “You shock
me, Alys. You should not have the faintest idea what your father is talking
about. And, even if you do, it is very…very unmaidenly to show it, not to
mention improper to be remarking on your papa’s gross vulgarity.”

“It was not gross,” William said blandly. “I thought I had
wrapped the whole thing up very neatly.”

The three of them were so obviously enjoying themselves that
Raymond, who really had been shocked, began to reconsider. It really was rather
pleasant that Alys did not turn red or grow angry or simper and run away.
Perhaps it was because the serfs always seemed to be consulting her on which
cows should be sent to the bull to be serviced and which mares offered to which
stallion. He was starting to wonder whether there was not something good to be
said for a less sheltered life than his sisters had led.

“The boys must be exhausted,” William remarked, waving away
Richard’s squires, who had started to follow their master to be made
comfortable by Alys and Martin. “Besides, I would like you to meet Sir Raymond,
who is new in service with me. Let him disarm you.”

Richard nodded acceptance and the three men went together
into William’s chamber. Politely, Richard asked how Raymond had found his way
from the south—which so plainly marked his speech—to England. “He is from Aix,”
William put in hastily. “Henry was so kind as to send him to me. I suppose you
must have told him of Harold’s death and that I needed someone. It was good of
Henry to remember so small a matter among all his other concerns.”

“He
would
remember and be glad to do you a kindness,
but…it is very odd, William. I do not recall saying anything…”

He stared attentively at Raymond, whose color rose and who
wished the floor would open and swallow him. Raymond knew he had never met
Richard, but he also knew that he looked something like his grandfather, as did
Queen Eleanor and Richard’s wife, Sancia. He was also worried sick that Richard
would guess his brother’s purpose. A week in Sir William’s service had taught
Raymond much about the quality of the man and had confirmed everything Martin
had said. Raymond could not bear to lie openly to Sir William, and yet it would
be monstrous to expose the king’s stratagem, not to mention Raymond’s own
embarrassment at confessing the part he had consented to play.

“You must have spoken to Henry about it,” William insisted.
“Raymond brought a letter from him. How else could Henry know I needed a
knight? Mine is not a large household where any number may be employed, so it
must be that you spoke of it.”

“I suppose I must have,” Richard agreed slowly. “I was just
trying to think… Well, it does not matter. You are right, William. I must have
mentioned it to Henry.” But Richard’s eyes had never left Raymond’s face as the
young man removed his armor. Finally, he said, “Sir Raymond, and from Aix. Do I
not know you? Or, perhaps, your father?”

“Not me, certainly, my lord,” Raymond faltered. “As…as to my
father…I…I think not…”

At which point, William kicked Richard hard enough to make
him wince and also to get across to him that he wanted him to drop that line of
questioning. Richard promptly did so, remarking blandly that so many fair
complexions in England made one think all dark-skinned people were kin. William
then asked a question about one of Richard’s favorite horses that had been
giving trouble and the reply kept them busy until Richard had changed into one
of his friend’s gowns.

It was natural enough for Raymond to take leave then, which
gave William time to explain his theory of Raymond’s background. Richard did
not argue. The situation certainly would explain Raymond’s embarrassment and
even the fact that his face was vaguely familiar. Still the earl felt it was
odd that he could not remember discussing William’s need of a retainer with his
brother. He could not, in fact, remember thinking about it at all.

Richard never thought about what he could do to help
William. One firm rule in his life was that he must not offer William
any
kind of assistance. That had been settled when they were still children,
respectively ten and twelve years of age. William had admired a handsome,
richly jeweled eating knife Richard had received as a New Year’s gift, and
Richard had handed it to him, saying, “It is yours if you like it. I have so
many.”

Instead of taking the knife, William had flushed and said
bitterly, “You fool!” and stalked away. Naturally enough, Richard had been
furious that what he had meant as a kindness should be rejected with insult.

For two days the boys had not exchanged a word. On the third
night, Richard had been found by the Earl of Chester crying himself to sleep.
The old earl had already been alerted to trouble because earlier in the day
William had asked to speak to him and then had asked for leave to go home.
William would not say why, but Rannulf of Chester had the story out of Richard,
who was terribly hurt and still did not understand what had happened.

It was easy enough to explain to Richard once Chester knew
the facts. Richard was well aware of his position as the king’s second son and
heir apparent to the throne. He simply had not associated his wealth and
position with William, who was in those days almost an other self. Once it was
made clear to him that William could not be his friend, truly a friend, if he
received material benefits from that friendship, Richard had been very careful.

It had worked well, and by now was a habit so long
established that Richard did not need to be careful. He simply did not think
about being helpful to William. He thought about what
he
wanted from William
sometimes, and this made him uneasy with the idea that he had discussed
William’s need with his brother. Still, there did not seem to be any other
answer, and Richard put the matter out of his mind. There were a great many
more pressing things to worry about than how Raymond had obtained an
introduction from the king.

“Usually,” Richard said when they were seated to eat, “one
gives the bad news first, but the bad is so complicated that I think I will
start with the good. The matter of the see of Winchester is settled.”

“Which way?” William asked.

“Henry will soon invite Walter Raleigh to come home and will
assure him of a good welcome and that Winchester will be open to him.”

“Thank God for that,” William said heartily, then grinned.
“I told you so. I told you that if you reasoned softly, only in private, and
did not cross the king’s will with the whole council gaping at you both and,
moreover, did not throw insults at him, which you and I both know are false but
you always say in anger—”

“Papa, it is very rude, unwise too, to tell people ‘I told
you so.’ You have told
me
so a hundred times or more.” Alys was teasing,
her eyes and voice merry, her dimples showing distinctly.

“And so it would be,” Richard chuckled, “if I had had the
slightest part in Henry’s decision, but I did not.”

“So much the better,” William exclaimed.

Richard’s smile grew a little awry. “You mean because he
would resent it later? Well, I do not mind that. Better he should be angry with
me than meddle with the Church further. You remember that Neville, bishop of
Chichester, died in the beginning of February? Well—”

“But Chichester is no see fit for William of Savoy,” William
interrupted.