SirenSong (28 page)

Once the shock was over, it was obvious Lady Elizabeth and
Sir William could not be talking about Alys and him. Certainly he had not lied,
for he had been asked no questions. As for Alys, Raymond swallowed uneasily,
did she care enough to need to lie about him? She did not display any of the
symptoms of love familiar to him. She neither sighed nor blushed when he spoke
to her about ordinary everyday topics, and he did not dare speak of anything
else, nor was she haughty and cold in the tradition of
amour courtois
.

On the other hand, her voice did seem softer when she spoke
to him, and her eyes, he would swear her eyes lingered on him when they were in
the hall together but not close. Still, there was nothing that could give him
any real assurance of her love.

Nonetheless, Raymond could not help wondering whether the
order to ride out and recruit was a deliberate effort on Sir William’s part to
separate him from Alys. He was very much afraid he was not as good at hiding
what he felt as Alys was, if she felt anything. The order was kindly meant, he
was sure. William, not Alys, was the crux of his problem. If Alys did not yet
love him, she did not love anyone else either and he could win her love. It
would be far more difficult to win Sir William’s approval.

How, Raymond wondered, had he ever allowed himself to be
thrust into so disgusting a position? Damn King Henry and his sweet smile and
airy request for a “little” service that needed a trustworthy man. Raymond had
taken William’s full measure by now. He loved the man for his directness and
honesty. But how would such a man judge the “little service”? How would he
judge the man who had blithely accepted the task and the deceptions that went
with it? How, Raymond wondered, would he ever be able to explain what he had done
to Sir William?

With many men, Raymond knew that his wealth and position
would more than compensate for the omission in mentioning them. Unfortunately
that was not true for Sir William. Alys had said enough the last few days for
Raymond to understand that her father was more interested in keeping her near
him and ensuring continued good management for Marlowe than he was in having
his daughter make a great marriage. That had been the final blow to Raymond’s
confidence. He leaned his head against the rough stone surrounding the window
he had been staring out of sightlessly and closed his eyes in misery.

Alys glanced at him when she entered the room, but he did
not stir and her lips tightened.

“Do you feel ill?” she asked. “Is your head hot?”

He jerked upright and turned to face her. “No. I was
thinking.”

“The thoughts cannot have been very pleasant.”

Alys was having the most frustrating experience of her life.
She was having her first taste of rejection, not complete rejection, for that
would have raised her pride and she would have been able to strangle the
newborn love in her. She thought she was meeting the kind of honorable
rejection that counts no cost in pain so long as right is done. It was easy to
recognize. She could see the longing in Raymond’s eyes when he looked at her,
but not even the broadest hints that her father did not specially desire a rich
son-by-marriage could wring a word out of him. In fact, he looked more
despairing each time Alys proffered that comfort.

There could be several causes for that. Raymond could
believe she was not telling the truth or telling it as she wanted it to be
rather than as it was. This fear had considerable weight. She was sure her
father would not force her into an unwelcome marriage, but that he would
willingly forgo a rich and influential match in favor of a penniless young man
was much more doubtful. Probably he would want to send Raymond away, and Uncle
Richard would provide a dozen suitors in the hope that Alys would change her
mind.

Doubtless if she held firm, she could have Raymond in the
long run, but how long? Years, perhaps. Alys did not want to wait years, and
she knew quite well how to get around that. All she had to do was swear to
Raymond and have him swear to her also. Papa would yield if she told him that.
He might be angry, but how angry could he be when he had done the same himself?

When she first thought of the idea, it had seemed so simple.
But it had not worked out that way at all. She expected Raymond to leap on the
suggestion that her father would accept him and instantly avow his love.
Instead he looked frightened and—yes—hopeless. This left the possibility of
confessing her own love first, but Alys could not do that. It was not strictly
a matter of pride, although pride did add to the problem.

Alys realized that many of the things she did surprised
Raymond. She was not “a lady” in the style to which he was accustomed. Some of
the things that surprised him also gave him pleasure, others shocked him still,
but he accepted them as part of her different way of life. For a woman openly
to pursue a man, however, would not only shock but disgust him. Even Alys’s
forthright nature quailed at the thought. Decent women did not do such things.
They waited until their fathers or guardians told them whom to love. To propose
love uninvited was to proclaim a lewd nature, to brand oneself a whore. There
was another reason for Raymond to reject the careful overtures she had made. He
might agree that Uncle Richard was right and that her father was doting. He might
feel that it was his duty, because he loved her, to save her from her father’s
foolish fondness, expressed in the willingness to accept any man Alys chose,
and see that she married a rich and powerful husband. When she thought of that,
Alys felt like grabbing Raymond by the ears and banging his head against the
wall.

Now irritation swept her again as Raymond dropped his pale,
clear eyes and said softly, “No. They were not pleasant thoughts.”

“You are doing yourself no good by chewing them over alone,”
Alys remarked dulcetly.

“It is not a matter of choice for me,” Raymond said
miserably. “I—I have—I have not
told
a lie but allowed one to be
believed…”

Alys’s eyes widened. The one thing she had not thought was
that Raymond might think himself unacceptable because of the stain on his
family, whatever it was, that had sent him into exile. She had forgotten about
that. No wonder the poor thing looked even more unhappy when she said Papa did
not care about wealth and position. But Papa would never blame the son for the
father’s fault.

She came across the room and took his hand. “Tell me,” she
urged. “You know Papa and I think differently than you on many subjects.
Perhaps because of the mists of your unhappiness, what you believe is a
mountain will turn out a molehill in our clear vision.”

Raymond raised his eyes from the hand she was holding and
they were caught in the perfection of her face. He wet his lips. It was over
anyway, he told himself. As soon as Sir William was strong enough to defend his
own land, he must go back to the king. The sooner Alys knew the better.

“I am not a poor hireling knight,” he said harshly. “I am
the eldest son of Alphonse d’Aix, Comte d’Aix, and nephew to Queen Eleanor.”

For a long moment Alys stared at him. Then she let go of his
hand and wiped her own on her skirt as if she suddenly realized she had been
grasping some slimy, revolting object.

“I hope you have had sufficient amusement from your
experiences of living among the common herd,” she said icily. “But I am sure
the jest has gone on too long for your taste. You are free to go, my lord. We
will manage quite well without your support.”

“Alys!” Raymond exclaimed, but softly, remembering William
and Elizabeth in the bedchamber beyond.

She did not hesitate but turned away, and he leapt after her
and grasped her arm. “Let go,” she spat.

“No jest. It was not a jest!” Raymond pleaded.

Angry as she was, it was not possible to believe Raymond was
insincere now. Perhaps he had meant to have an amusing few weeks laughing to
himself over the coarse and common ways of a simple knight and then—Alys knew
she was beautiful—he had come to desire her. No wonder he had been distressed
when she said her father would be willing to permit their marriage. He did not
intend
marriage
.

“I am not of your kind,” she snarled. “We stupid, common,
simple people do not lightly play at games of love. You will gain nothing
here.”

“Games of love? No!” His voice shook. “There is no price I
would not pay—”

Alys hit him so hard he swayed, but he did not release his
hold on her. “I am not for sale! Let me go or I will call the men. You may be a
great man elsewhere, but here—”

In her fury she had miscalculated. Raymond had a hand across
her mouth in seconds. She pulled back her lips, but before she could bite him,
he said, “To have you to wife! Alys, in God’s name, what I have done is
disgusting enough. Do not believe it worse!” Her eyes blazed at him, but he let
her go. “You can put me out. I will go if you bid me, but do not believe me so
foul as that.”

The mark of her hand was deep red on his cheek. Alys stepped
backward toward the door, but Raymond only watched her go without protest, his
eyes too bright. If he had tried to stop her or excuse himself further, she
would have shrieked for help. She did nothing because his eyes were full of
tears, because he did not speak or move, because he said he wished to marry
her, but that was easy enough for a man to say when there were no witnesses. He
knew she would not demean her pride by trying to hold him to his word. Still, he
had said it.

She stopped and stared at him. If his coming to them was not
some kind of drunken jest or wager and he had not stayed in hopes of seducing
her, what had he done that was in his own words disgusting? Why was he in
Marlowe?

“Papa always says I am too hasty, that I must not judge
without listening,” she said more calmly. “Why are you here?”

He flushed so darkly that the mark of the blow she had dealt
him was swallowed, and his eyes, which had been pleading, dropped. “The king
heard ill said of your father. I came to see if it was true.”

Again Alys stared at him without speaking for a moment. Then
she shook her head. “I could not, no matter how hard I tried, think you more
foul than you are. It must have irked you sadly that Papa is so good a man that
you had to linger so long to find a lie to tell about
him
. Go then, and
tell what tale you like.”

“I did not come to find a lie, but to unravel one. I have
unraveled it. I can truly say that your father’s friendship with the Earl of
Cornwall can do only good to the earl, to the realm at large, and to the king
himself. Oh God, it was you who trapped me into this folly, you and the stupid
desire for a little freedom.”

“What has Uncle Richard to do with this,” Alys snapped. That
he should blame her was natural and she ignored it. The remark about his
freedom was inexplicable, but Alys was in no mood to concern herself with his
problems. She stuck to what had meaning to her.

“Of himself, nothing. Will you let me tell you the whole?”

“I have no doubt it will be as pretty and fanciful as a
romance, but why not?”

Raymond was near tears at the scorpion lash of her voice.
Had he been older, wiser, or what Alys was trying to force herself to believe
he was, he would have been overjoyed instead. Her youth and her love both spoke
in the sentence. If she had been more experienced, she would have bespoken him
gently, pretended to be willing to believe, cozening him into a good opinion.
If she had not loved him, she would not have listened at all.

Shamed and distraught as he was, Raymond made short work of
his story, telling it without embellishment and without excuses, painting
himself in his despair blacker than he was. In fact, he did himself much good.
Ungarnished, the tale sounded what it was, the truth. Besides, Alys knew more
about the king than he did. Before he was done, Alys had moved to a chair to
sit and gestured him to another.

“After Earl Richard came,” he finished, “I should have gone
back to the king and told him the clerk heard amiss, but I—I wanted to go to
war in Wales and—and I could not bear to be parted from you. So I stayed. I
told myself I would have more evidence to offer to the king after the Welsh
war, but I only wanted to see you again.”

“It was not right,” Alys said, but her voice was sad rather than
angry. “You know your father would never agree to such a marriage, and I will
agree to nothing else.”

The last words were said harshly, but Raymond looked up at
last, his expression tense with hope. “Would you take me for a husband after
what you have heard?”

This time Alys’s eyes dropped. “It is nothing to do with
me,” she answered. “Your father—”

“My father has no bond on me,” Raymond said, getting to his
feet. “I do not care whether he agrees or not. Alys, answer me from your heart,
do not think of fathers or anyone else. Of yourself, would you be willing to
marry me?”

“It is not possible,” she said faintly.

“I will make it possible, if you are willing,” Raymond
exclaimed. He knelt by her chair and took her hand.

“I would be willing to
marry
you,” she said, and
withdrew her hand.

He understood, rose, and backed away a few steps. “You need
not fear, I swear. Alys, I beg you, do not think me a liar. I am not that. I
withheld the truth, but never spoke a lie. I will tell your father as soon as
he wakes, and—”

“No. Papa will not like this. He will not like it at all. He
must not be upset until he is stronger.”

“I know he will not like it,” Raymond sighed, “but I will
agree to any condition, anything at all, so long as he will let us marry.
Something can be worked out. My love…”

“Do not call me that,” Alys said. “I was very willing to be
your wife when you had nothing. Now, I am less sure. I am not lost for love,
and the more I think of this the less easy I grow. I must value myself, and
what value can I have in the high world in which you live?”