“He seems better,” Elizabeth said at once. “There is no mortification. I think—oh, I am sure—he will recover.”
There she stopped. When the case had seemed desperate, Alys had been willing to cede her right to care for her father so that he should have the best care she could furnish for him. Now that there was no need to consider a last-ditch battle with death, it was possible she would want her right to him back. Elizabeth would have gone down on her knees to plead for permission to stay, but she feared that would worsen rather than improve her chances by exacerbating Alys’s jealousy.
She need not have worried. Alys loved her father, but she had found a new focus for her attention. She would never have abandoned William to the care of the servants. She would have sat with him and nursed him herself, knowing that Raymond’s need was far less. Nonetheless, since she knew Elizabeth’s nursing was more skilled and would be equally, if not more, devoted, she was glad to relinquish the harder, less precious task, for the easier, more delightful one.
“Thank God for that,” Alys said softly. “Will our voices disturb him? I must tell you why Raymond brought Papa home. And I have brought something for us to eat.”
“Oh, thank you, love,” Elizabeth sighed, lowering her eyes to hide her tears as she realized Alys had not come to wrest the joy of tending William from her.
Alys drew a small table between two chairs, set the tray on it, and uncovered the food. They ate hungrily, as Alys retold Raymond’s story. Before she was half finished, Elizabeth was ashen again.
“Mauger!” she whispered.
Alys stared at her. “I thought so too,” she burst out, “but Hereford believes it must be someone who wishes to destroy Papa’s influence with Uncle Richard. And there is no reason, Elizabeth, after all these years—” She broke off abruptly and covered her lips with her hand, blushing.
Elizabeth swallowed and color came into her face also. “I am sorry, Alys,” she said at last. “I hope you know that we—we did nothing, ever, that could have been an insult to your mother. It was an old, old thing that began when we were children. We expected to marry and swore to each other, but your grandfather felt that my portion was not enough for his eldest son. My brothers were alive then. And my father agreed. He preferred to accept your grandfather’s offer of your Aunt Alys—she died the year you were born, I believe—to be betrothed to my brother. That way he had the blood bond and he could use me to make another bargain.”
There was a long silence. Elizabeth looked at her hands, folded quietly in her lap. Alys stared into the distance. A few months ago, before she met Raymond, she might have been jealous or might have regretted the marriage had not taken place. If it had, she would have been Elizabeth’s daughter. Today the simple story struck her in a most painful spot, her conscience. Her father, she feared, would be no better pleased with her choice than her grandfather had been with his heir’s. Papa had warned her twice not to give Raymond hopes that could not be fulfilled.
Could she resist Papa? That would be very wrong. To hurt him who had always placed her good, her joy, ahead of his own was terribly ungrateful. It was a sin in the eyes of the Church and in the eyes of all men to disobey one’s parents. But to lose Raymond?
“Did you not even try to tell your father that you loved—”
“Try to tell him!” Elizabeth interrupted harshly. “I defied him outright! He beat me and starved me, but I would not yield.”
“But then—”
“Your father ‘accepted’ the better bargain,” Elizabeth hissed. Then she covered her face with her hands, murmuring through them, “No, do not listen to me. That was my old bitterness speaking.”
“You mean Papa gave you his word, and broke it?”
Elizabeth uncovered her face and sighed. “You do not understand, my love. It was easy for me. I never loved my father. He never cared for me. I was a waste, being a woman. But your papa loved his father, and—”
“No,” Alys said. “I do not believe it. If Papa gave his word, he would not break it, not for love or hate or anything.”
“He was young then,” Elizabeth suggested, but there was an uncertainty in her voice.
“No,” Alys repeated. “People do not change that way. Have you changed?”
“But your father’s papa came and told me that William had—had accepted Lady Mary.” Elizabeth’s voice roughened on the hated word.
Stubbornly Alys shook her head. “Papa would not break his word. Are you so certain your father and my grandfather did not lie to you? They might not have thought it a lie because you were only children, and if they told it, then it would become true.”
Elizabeth stared at Alys, dumbfounded. A pall that had clouded her whole life seemed to be lifting. Could it be true? If it were so—if only it were so…
“Ask Papa,” Alys said.
With that, Elizabeth turned her head to listen, but all was still quiet in William’s bedchamber. When she looked back, there were tears in Alys’s eyes. “He will be well soon,” Elizabeth soothed, thinking her gesture had worried the girl, but Alys did not respond, merely bit her lip and stared at the wall. “What is it, my love?” Elizabeth asked then.
“I have done what you warned me against,” Alys said. “I have fallen in love with Raymond.”
“Oh dear,” Elizabeth sighed. “Oh dear. Oh, it was very wrong of him to—”
“He has done nothing, except to look at me. And he tries not to do that,” Alys interrupted defensively. “I did not really know it until he came ashore with Papa. I saw him, and I forgot about Papa.” Her voice was stricken.
Another woman would have brought out a host of platitudes. Alys would have been told she was very young, that she would soon forget the hireling knight when she was the mistress of a fine estate, that she should consider how she would be robbing her own future children if she married a man with nothing. And all the platitudes would have been true.
Elizabeth could say none of those things. They were contrary to her own experience. And for Alys, there was already Marlowe and Bix. If William did not marry again, Alys’s children would be well provided for, and Richard of Cornwall could be depended upon to find good places for any extra sons. Besides, a little evil voice said, if Alys married Raymond, William would have no reason to marry. His daughter would remain with him, and there would be children.
“My pet,” Elizabeth said, “it is natural for a woman to place the man she loves above her father. Do not blame yourself for that. But…” Elizabeth’s conscience pricked her painfully. William had such hopes for his daughter. “Oh, dear! Do try to curb this feeling in yourself, especially while your father is so sick. When he is better, if—if you feel the same, but you must promise me you will try to change your heart, I-I will plead with him for you.”
“Will you?” Alys cried, and then clapped a hand to her mouth.
Elizabeth jumped up and went swiftly into the other room. Although he was not awake, William was stirring. Alys was waiting in the doorway and stepped back as it became clear Elizabeth would come out again.
However, she did not sit down or go back to the subject uppermost in Alys’s mind.
“Love, will you tell the cooks to send up some clear broth and also some with finely minced meat in it. I am not sure what he is able to take, but I think he will soon wake enough to eat a little.”
Alys agreed and went out immediately, although she felt a bit aggrieved that her discussion with Elizabeth had been cut short at such a point. Then she felt guilty for thinking such a thing when her father’s need was so much more important. Last she laughed at herself, remembering that Elizabeth had said it was natural she should think first of Raymond. It was such a comfort to have Elizabeth there. If only Elizabeth could stay Papa would think first of her and not care, much, whom Alys married. Raymond and I could go to Bix, which is really mine, Alys thought. The idea was so lovely, it would make everything so perfect, just like heaven. Papa happy and well, never lonely, never worried because he did not h
ave a son and Marlowe might be neglected. She thought of herself and Raymond at Bix, so near to Marlowe that she could see Papa anytime and yet far enough that she would be, as she had been for so long, a lady in her own keep.
She gave the necessary order, dimly aware of the eagerness of the servants to hear and their relief when they understood that Sir William would eat. That was one order that would be fulfilled without watching. The broth for her father would reach his chamber probably before he woke. Her mind reverted at once to her dream. Its bright colors had dimmed. Elizabeth would not be at Marlowe. As soon as Mauger came home… Mauger. If Mauger had been the one who tried to murder Papa and that could be proved… No, Alys thought, I am growing into a monster! Think of the shame for Aubery and John. I must not seek my happiness out of the pain of others or it will turn bitter in my mouth.
It was bitter already, but Martin came up to her to tell her that the servants had been told that no one must enter Sir William’s apartment. He would sleep in the antechamber himself, on a pallet, so that he could fetch anything Lady Elizabeth might want during the night. He had ready a cot to be set up in Sir William’s bedchamber for Lady Elizabeth. Alys sighed. Martin never could see that his service was enough. He always wanted to do more. One of the cook’s assistants was by her elbow when she finished speaking to Martin, and she took the pots from him and went to the door of the bedchamber. The room was dark, except for what light came through the door. Lady Elizabeth saw Alys’s shadow and came toward her.
“He is not awake yet,” she reported. “You look tired, my love. Perhaps you should lie down for a while.”
It was true Alys looked tired. There were mauve shadows around her eyes, the result of two wakeful, fearful nights. Elizabeth’s concern was largely selfish, however. She was well aware that fatigue would do Alys, who was very strong, little harm. What Elizabeth wanted was to be alone with William when he woke. The cheerfulness with which Alys accepted this stricture and the lightness with which she tripped away alerted Elizabeth to what she had done. Doubtless the girl would go to young Raymond. Well, would it not be best after all?
The bed creaked as William moved restlessly and he began to groan. Elizabeth hurried toward him, fearful that he had wakened to some false reality of delirium in which he might do himself some harm. Her heart sank when she came through the door and his voice snapped a harsh, “Who is that?”
“Elizabeth,” she replied. He had responded to her voice each time he had been restless, but this time the silence after she spoke was so profound that she grew frightened. She bent over. William’s eyes were open, the whites gleaming faintly in the dimness.
“Light some candles,” he said. “I think I must be still dreaming.”
His voice was softer, hesitant, and the reply was perfectly sensible. Elizabeth sighed with relief and ran to bring a branch of candles from the antechamber. She heard the bed creak again and William utter an oath.
“Lie still,” she cried, prevented from moving quickly by the guttering flames. “You will open something.”
He could see her face now, lit as it was by the candles she carried. “I know I have been wandering. Am I still? What are you doing here at this hour of the night?”
“Alys asked me to come care for you. She was afraid her skill would not be sufficient.”
That produced another profound silence, but shorter this time. “Either I have been more desperately sick than I thought,” he said at last, “or I have been wrong about my daughter’s perceptions, and I thought I knew her.”
“Neither,” Elizabeth answered, smiling. “As to the first, it was Raymond’s fear to which Alys responded. He wrote a letter wherein it really sounded as if he was bringing a dying man home as a last hope. He is a good young man, William. His anxiety for you is most touching, but it frightened Alys out of her wits, so she begged me to come. As to the other, you read her aright, but she would never risk harm to you, no matter how small, just because of jealousy. Besides, I do not think she is very jealous anymore.”
“What does that mean?”
William sounded puzzled rather than angry or apprehensive, but Elizabeth knew this spurt of strength would not last long. She had no intention, moreover, of telling him more until he had thought over the hints she had already give him.
“Not now,” she said, lighting two more sets of candles. “Does the light bother your eyes?”
“No. I have a little headache, but not much.”
“Then I will bring you the pot, and then something to eat.”
By the time he had relieved his bladder and bowels and had eaten the clear broth—he would not take the stronger one with meat in it—William’s eyes were glazing with tiredness. Nonetheless, he asked, “What is it, Elizabeth? There is something different about you. It is something good, I am sure, and could do me no harm. Tell me.”
Elizabeth’s lips parted, but all she said was, “You are too tired. Sleep now.”
The flicker of relief on William’s face as his eyes closed was Elizabeth’s reward for self-denial. Deep inside, there was also a suppressed sense of panic averted. When Alys first said, “Ask Papa,” Elizabeth had been so sure of William’s answer that she could barely wait for him to wake. By the time his necessities had been attended to, however, she was remembering that Alys had only known her father as a mature man. She had said that people did not change, but that was not completely true.
Thus, Elizabeth kept putting off her question. The light inside her dimmed with her doubt. Sensitive to her most vagrant mood, William felt the change in her. With proper food and rest plus the treatment of his hurts William was improving rapidly. Nonetheless he still felt ill enough that he could not bear to look for trouble. He did not ask Elizabeth for an explanation of the change, hoping the deep, vibrant joy would come back, not wanting to hear what had spoiled it.
There was also not much time alone. Elizabeth took the night watches and Alys sat with her father during the day while the older woman rested. By the fourth day at home the scab was hard on the cut in his arm and was forming well over the edges of the wound in his side. The draining had almost stopped from the shoulder wound. Its edges were less raised and the angry red was paling. That day, for the first time in the afternoon, William’s head and body remained cool. On the fifth day, William ate his breakfast with real appetite and demanded to see Raymond. Elizabeth looked at him, shrugged, and summoned the young knight from the antechamber.
“Sit,” William said, pointing to a stool. “How bad is that leg wound? I see you are still limping.”
“It is nothing,” Raymond assured him. “I am only favoring it because it is near the knee and pulls when I bend it.”
“So? You should exercise it a little at a time. Do not favor it too long or it will heal tight. Now, tell me why you dragged me home without my men or my horses or, for all I know, even asking leave of Lord Hereford and Lord Gloucester.”
“Not that. It was the Earl of Hereford who said I must take you all the way to Marlowe.” Raymond looked doubtfully at Elizabeth. He was not sure a sick man should be told someone was trying to kill him.
“I am not a child or a fool,” William snapped. “Did you run to Hereford with that crazy tale that someone was trying to kill me?”
“Crazy tale!” Raymond exclaimed. “It was true enough. How do you think you got that cut in your arm? Someone entered your chamber at the abbey and tried to stab you.”
Seeing that William was about to protest that no one could want to kill him, Raymond described the cut stirrups and detailed the incidents at the abbey and then told him Hereford’s theory that the attempts were somehow related to Richard of Cornwall. That stopped William’s argument, and he thought it over.
“Perhaps,” he said at last, “although I cannot think of a person or a cause. I had not even caught that accursed lazy clerk in any dishonesty, but my head is still thick. In any case, it is nothing to worry about now that I am home. Let it go. You had better start riding out again and se
e if you can glean some more men to train. I have a feeling that this business in Wales may not be over. If the king brings the army he gathered to oppose the Scots to Wales that will end it, but if I know Henry aright, he will not do that. When that army is disbanded, David will come down out of the hills again.”
“But you will not—”
“I will be healed in a month,” William said firmly. “If Richard goes, I will go too.”
“That is enough for now,” Elizabeth said, and Raymond rose at once, shaking his head at William’s protest. “If you wish to be healed in a month,” Elizabeth went on sharply, “you must not do yourself a hurt now.”
William subsided. He was not tired yet, and Elizabeth must know it. Therefore, she wanted to be rid of Raymond for a reason. When he was out the door, she drew her chair even closer to the bed and said softly, “It is Mauger.”
What she meant was perfectly clear to William. He hesitated a moment, wanting to believe it. If it was Mauger who had tried to kill him, his oppressive sense of guilt would be assuaged. Of course, Mauger had a right to kill him, but not on the sly. It would have been just and reasonable for Mauger to challenge him to judicial combat. William would have fought him, although he was by no means sure he would have survived. Probably he was the stronger, more experienced fighter, but William believed in the power of God. He was not sure that the chaste Almighty would understand or approve his hunger for another man’s wife.
The strong temptation William felt to believe Mauger guilty convinced him that Elizabeth was seeking the same balm for her guilt. “It cannot be Mauger,” he said reluctantly. “He cannot want me dead.” He told her of his talk with Aubery and confessed his inability to tell Mauger that any hope of a union was over. Then he went on. “Mauger must know that Richard would be her warden, and he must know also that Richard would not favor his suit. Why should he? Even if Mauger does not realize how much Richard loves Alys, he does understand that an overlord seeks to marry his wards where it will best profit himself. There could be no advantage to Richard in giving Alys to Aubery.”
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