Siren Song

by Roberta Gellis

  Stubbornly, Elizabeth shook her head. “That all may be true, but—but I am sure it is his doing. I think your hurts are his doing also. That he did not come to you in time apurpose.”

  For answer, William took her hand and kissed it. He did not wish to say he believed her conviction to be a result of a desire to assuage guilt. Thus, his kiss was no formal gesture. He put his lips to the palm, not the upper surface of her hand, and then nibbled the fingers, caressing the balls with the tip of his tongue. Elizabeth drew in her breath sharply and then, very gently, withdrew her hand.

  “For shame,” she murmured, “to make such an invitation when you cannot furnish a feast.”

  “Who says I cannot?” William rejoined.

  Elizabeth was startled by the eagerness of his expression, and she could feel her color rise. William saw that too, and reached out as if to take her in his arms. She caught his hands and held them. “Raymond,” she mouthed, almost silently, and gestured toward the door with her head.

  “Call him,” William whispered. “I will send him on an errand. What the devil is he doing there anyway?”

  Elizabeth blushed even more, but shook her head. “He guards you,” she murmured. Then, ignoring William’s astonished expression, added, “It is better that he be there. If you yielded to your desire, you would be sorry for it, and so would I.”

  “I would not be sorry, whatever the cost,” William urged, forgetting his surprise at being told Raymond was guarding him.

  “Nor would I, for my cost,” Elizabeth said, smiling ruefully, “but when you must pay for all, William, I cannot be so careless.”

  He turned his hands to seize hers and grinned at her.

  “I promise the cost would be little. I know many ways. You can do all the work, Elizabeth, while I lie at my ease.”

  He laughed at her startled look. For all of her two children, she was nearly as innocent as a young girl. Silently, William blessed the high-born whores who were always seeking novelty and thus greatly enlarged his knowledge of the many positions, some weird enough, in which one could make love. What a delight it would be to teach Elizabeth. William did not fear she would be shocked or refuse. Her face, now that the surprise was gone, showed curiosity and eagerness.

  In the next moment, however, that look was replaced by one William could not read. Elizabeth dropped her eyes to their linked hands and her color faded. She said, “Not now, William. When you are stronger,” but it was not the act of love she was thinking of. It was the doubt that had dimmed her joy that turned her cold. It could be put off no longer. William raised Elizabeth’s hands and kissed them, this time with a tenderness that was not touched by sensuality.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  Elizabeth knew at once he had read her change of mood right. Often there was no need for words between them. They had communicated quite well over and around Mauger by occasional glances. Panic rose in her, and she tried to disengage her hands. Somehow it would be worse now to learn that she had been told the truth, that William had “accepted” his marriage. The brightness of the hope she had had would make what was only a small, dingy failure in an uncertain boy seem like a black sin.

  No longer very much weakened by illness, William’s grip was firm. It would have taken real violence for Elizabeth to pull away. She made a single abortive move for freedom.

  “Tell me,” he insisted.

  “Why did you marry Mary?” Elizabeth asked.

  Of all the responses in the world, William was more surprised by this than any other Elizabeth could have made. He released her hands and stared at her. It was ridiculous! She must know the answer. Bitterness lashed him. If she had stood fast, the guilt that soured their joy in each other would never have cursed them.

  “What was left for me after you yielded? What did it matter whom I married, since you were wed already and beyond my reach?”

  Such rage and hurt were in his voice that William was appalled. He had not meant to flay Elizabeth with the anger he had carried all the years. But his surprise at her question was nothing compared with his amazement at her reaction to his cruel answer. She glowed with joy. What had been leashed in by doubt at first and then had nearly died from being smothered burst all bounds.

  “William,” she cried, “they lied to us! They lied to us both!” The loudness of her voice startled her, and she went on more softly but just as intensely. “I did not yield, I swear it—not until I was told you had already accepted Mary. I thought you had broken your oath first, and I, too, felt it did not matter whom I married if you were lost to me.”

  “You mean my father lied to me?”

  To William, this revelation was almost as painful as his original belief. He had loved his father and trusted him. Moreover, it was not as important to William that Elizabeth be strong. To her, the fact that he had not betrayed his oath knowingly was of paramount importance. It permitted her to trust implicitly, to place her fate, her life, in her lover’s hands, to believe he would protect her no matter what the consequences. To William, the discovery of Elizabeth’s steadfastness besmirched a dear memory. Fortunately his question exposed that hurt nakedly enough for Elizabeth to perceive it.

  She cared for nothing except William’s peace. It did not matter to her whether old Sir William had lied or not. “Be reasonable, William,” she urged. “Think how often you have held back something from Alys or told her a half-truth because you believed it was for her good.”

  “I do not—” he began and then fell silent because, like any parent, of course he did.

  “Probably by the time your father told you, it was true that I was married, or at least, sent away.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “William, they could not have known. I am sure even my father did not wish us ill, and yours was doing what he thought would end in the greatest happiness for you, even if there was a little pain in the beginning.”

  “God forbid I ever wish Alys well the same way,” William sighed. “But you are right. My father was a great believer in raising his hand to me lightly when I was young so that he would not need to use a whip when I was older. It worked too, in everything but this. You were my siren, and I always heard your song.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Elizabeth cried sharply, “They lied to us! They lied to us both,” Raymond jumped to his feet and stood watching the door. Although he knew it to be impossible, he could not help expecting Alys’s outraged and infuriated father to burst out on him demanding an explanation of his improper behavior. He had not been listening to the sounds from the bedchamber previously, being immersed in his own not-too-pleasant thoughts. But the voices again dropped to an indistinguishable murmur, and his tension eased.

  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? W
hy 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.