Siren Song

by Roberta Gellis

  Henry was sitting at his ease in the inner chamber, alone, for he had been expecting Theobald. He did not turn his head immediately when the clerk said, “Sire,” and thus was utterly astonished when Raymond pushed past, crying, “Uncle Henry, I need help.”

  “Raymond!”

  Before his uncle could rise and embrace him, Ray­mond flung himself down on his knees and raised his hands in the formal gesture of supplication.

  “Good God, Raymond, what is wrong? What have you done? Stand up, boy, do not kneel there like a fool.” Henry stood up himself and pulled Raymond upright.

  “Done? I have done nothing wrong!” Raymond exclaimed. “And neither has Sir William, yet he is besieged without strength to withstand the attack and will die if you do not help him.”

  “Sir William again, eh?” Henry said, his face hardening. “Done nothing, has he? Has he not his neighbor’s wife in his keep?”

  “Yes, Lady Elizabeth fled to him because her husband held her prisoner and wished to starve her to death. Sire, the man is a monster. I have a tale to tell of his doings that is years long, but there is no time for that. You sent me to Marlowe to test Sir William’s heart. I tell you it is the truest heart in the realm.”

  “Sir William loves me well, does he?” Henry asked sardonically. Raymond’s slightly hysterical exaggeration was pushing him into Mauger’s side again. It certainly implied a warping of Raymond’s judgment. “No doubt he speaks widely of my wisdom and goodness.”

  “No, he does not,” Raymond replied, swallowing nervously. He was so frantic that he did not recognize the trap that Henry had laid for him, but he had been set a task and had agreed to do it. His answers must be as honest as he could make them. “I do not remember that he spoke particularly of you at any time, except once when Earl Richard was visiting—”

  “Richard visited Sir William? When?”

  “In the spring. He wished Sir William to act as quartermaster to the force he was sending to Wales. At that time, Sir William spoke of you just as he should—he said that you did your duty as king. Sire, I will answer your doubts at large later. I swear to you the man is honest and loyal. He stinted neither men nor service in Wales but went gladly—”

  “And returned more gladly, saying he was wounded to death for a scratch or two.”

  “Scratch?” Raymond gasped. His voice rose as he forgot in his surprise and indignation to whom he was speaking. “He was near death! I dressed his wounds on the way.”

  “A man near death does not ride hundreds of miles,” Henry snapped.

  “He did not ride, sire.” This time Raymond spoke respectfully. Partly he remembered William remonstrating with Richard about his manner to the king, and feeling considerable sympathy for Richard suddenly, and partly he, himself, realized that angering Henry would scarcely accomplish his purpose. “Nor was it Sir William’s decision to leave Wales,” he continued quietly. “He was, by that time, too ill to decide anything. It was the Earl of Hereford’s decision. There had been several attempts on Sir William’s life—”

  “Raymond, you are bewitched! I swear the man is a sorcerer. All he does is good, whatever it is, even to taking another man’s wife.”

  “Bewitched?” Raymond was shaken for a moment, thinking of Alys’s beauty. Was he seeing her father through her eyes? But how could Henry know about Alys? For that matter, how could he know about Lady Elizabeth. “Has Sir Mauger been here before me?” he asked.

  Henry turned away without answering. A king does not have to explain himself to others!

  “Sire, I beg you to hear both sides,” Raymond pleaded. “At least stop Sir Mauger’s attack until the evidence against him can be heard. Summon Sir William and examine him yourself. Ask the Earl of Hereford about his service in Wales and his wounds.”

  Henry had been standing with his back to Raymond, but at the mention of Hereford he turned to face his nephew-by-marriage. Here he was on firm ground. “I have already written to Hereford—many days ago.” That was not true, it was only four days, but Henry wanted Raymond to believe his next statement. “I expect a report from him at any moment. When that comes, I shall be better able to decide.”

  “Thank God!” Raymond exclaimed with such fervor that Henry became decidedly uneasy. “But if you do not stop Sir Mauger’s attack, it may be too late to do Sir William justice. I tell you, Marlowe is near naked. We had, perhaps, fifty veteran men-at-arms, and I found near a hundred more men willing to serve, but they were all untrained. Sire, I beg you, give order that Sir Mauger hold his hand.”

  Henry was growing more and more uneasy. Raymond’s enthusiasm for Hereford’s judgment certainly meant that Sir William had been severely wounded and Hereford had sent him home. That meant that Mauger had lied about that. Probably the man had lied about everything except his stolen wife. Then he was seized by a sudden dreadful qualm. Richard must be in London by now. He had not seen his brother yet, but Sancia had written to Eleanor to say they were only a day’s ride away. When had that been? Yesterday? The day before? If Richard and Raymond met…

  But there was a way out of the dilemma. It was obvious from the way Raymond was phrasing his plea that he did not know the men with Mauger were the king’s own mercenaries. All Henry need do was recall them and keep Raymond and Richard both in London until the men dispersed. If Mauger had lied to him, he deserved to be deserted. Henry felt he had a right to be avenged against such a liar who had led him into an unjust act against his brother’s dear friend. Sir Mauger must suffer for that crime! And if Sir Mauger—instead of Sir William—was dead, he could never mention that the men were the king’s.

  “Yes, you are right. I will,” Henry said.

  “Thank you, Uncle, thank you,” Raymond cried, going down on his knee and kissing Henry’s hand.

  Henry smiled at him, puffing his chest out a little. He had decided the right thing now. Raymond was behaving most properly and Richard would be very pleased. No doubt the suspicion against Sir William had been planted in his mind apurpose. He had been very wise to send Raymond to sift out the truth without acting against Sir William.

  “Will you have the writ prepared now so I can take it back?” Raymond begged.

  “You take it? By no means!”

  “But I must go back, I must!” Raymond’s voice rose hysterically.

  Because Henry had convinced himself he was blameless, he was free of preoccupation and really saw Raymond, saw the travel-stained garments, the sunken eyes, the greenish tinge under the swarthy skin that betrayed the young knight’s exhaustion. The king, who was truly kind of heart when his childish pride and spite were not roused, put his arm around Raymond’s shoulders.

  “Now, now,” he soothed, “let me go about this in my own way.”

  “Why cannot I go? I must see what has befallen them.”

  “And so you shall,” Henry agreed patiently, seeing his way clearly now and well pleased with himself, “when you are rested. When did you last eat or sleep, Raymond?”

  “What does it matter? I will not fail, I promise you. My horse is foredone, but if you will lend me another—”

  “Raymond, have some sense.” Henry laughed. “Sir Mauger knows you as Sir William’s hireling. If you come with a writ from me, would he believe you? Would he not more likely think it was some forgery, a trick? Certainly he could say it was, and who would fault him?” Henry knew that was not true. He had identified Raymond as his nephew, but Raymond did not know that. “When truce is declared, you can go back,” the king promised.

  “But I will not know if the writ came in time. Let me go back with your messenger. Let me—”

  “No. You look like a wakened dead man. You must eat and sleep. Then we will see. Now do not argue with me, Raymond, or you will make me believe Sir William has ensorcelled you. And the more time I spend arguing with you the later the writ will be prepared.”

  That silenced Raymond and he stood biting the knuckles of his hand while Henry went to the door and bellowed for Michael Belet, to
whom he introduced his nephew-by-marriage. Belet was not pleased at the arrival of another of the queen’s relations, although he did not remember having seen Raymond before. Nonetheless, he bowed politely as he received the king’s orders that Raymond be suitably lodged, fed, and clothed.

  “Go,” Henry said, shoving Raymond toward the door.

  “The writ,” Raymond begged.

  “Yes, yes,” the king soothed and told Belet to fetch Theobald first.

  As he said the name of the clerk, a bell rang in the king’s head. It was Theobald who had told him the tale about Sir William in the first place and who had brought Sir Mauger to see him. A black frown darkened Henry’s face as the clerk entered and Belet led Raymond out. Henry trusted Theobald, and he did not like to have his judgment shown to be mistaken.

  Seeing the scowl on the king’s face, Theobald made an instant decision to cast Sir Mauger to the wolves and save his own skin. He had had considerable time to think, and his explanation of the entire matter was very smooth. By the time he was done retracting and withdrawing and apologizing, Henry was preening himself and feeling he was not at all a fool if his clever clerk had been deceived and, unknowingly, had deceived him. He forgave Theobald, who was humbly begging pardon. Then, glowing with righteousness and magnanimity, he told Theobald to send one of his squires for Philip d’Arcy and to obtain materials and prepare his Great Seal for a writ bidding Mauger to abandon his attack on Marlowe.

  In the outer chamber, impervious to Belet’s pleading, Raymond waited. “Let me be,” he snarled at the royal butler. “I will choke on food and lie sleepless anyway until I see done what must be done.”

  This was most uncomfortable hearing, and Belet slipped away to inform a group of his friends that another relative of the queen was waiting for some grant from the king, and from his nervousness, it must be a great matter. There was a general helpless gnashing of teeth and glaring at Raymond who was totally unconscious of the violent feelings he had aroused. Then, one of the men remembered that Richard of Cornwall was in London, a few minutes away, and he rushed out to fetch the king’s brother. Perhaps Earl Richard could dissuade Henry from giving away too much.

  Richard came at once. He had intended to present himself the following day, not wishing to seem to rush in only to ask a favor. “There is the man,” the courtier who had summoned Richard hissed, pointing, “the queen’s nephew.”

  Richard glanced quickly in the direction indicated and stopped dead in his tracks. “Raymond!” he bellowed. “Raymond d’Aix! Damn! I knew I had seen that face before.”

  Raymond swung around from his fixed concentration on the door of the king’s inner chamber and uttered a cry of joy. “Earl Richard!” He rushed across the room, stumbling with weariness. “Thank God you are come! Thank God! Marlowe is under attack and cannot stand.”

  “What? But William never—”

  “We were not under attack when Sir William wrote,” Raymond hurried on breathlessly. “We hoped Sir Mauger would not be able to find the men or that it would take him long but it happened so fast. There was no time to—”

  “What are you doing here if Marlowe is besieged? When did this happen?”

  “The men came last night—was it last night? I have lost count of time, my lord. When I saw there was no hope of driving them away, I told Sir William that I was the queen’s nephew and—”

  In the shock of hearing about the attack, Richard had forgotten why he had been summoned. “What was the queen’s nephew doing, acting as a hireling knight? Why did you lie to William? To me?”

  Raymond wavered on his feet. “It is so long a tale,” he sighed.

  Suddenly Richard’s black eyes were cold and calculating. “My brother sent you,” he said softly, remembering what William had told him. “And he would not send his nephew-by-marriage to be trained to take the place of castellan in the little keep of Bix, which is of no importance. Nor do I remember ever having mentioned William’s need to Henry. Why were you sent to Marlowe?”

  Tired as Raymond was, the deadly cold anger in Richard’s voice sounded alarm bells in his head. That the rage should fall upon him was not so bad, but it could not touch him without touching Henry—and that would be a disaster for everyone. Raymond did not like to lie, but to bend the truth just a little to accomplish a great good could not be wrong.

  “The king had heard a lying tale about Sir William—wait, my lord,” Raymond cried as Richard’s lips drew back from his teeth in a vicious snarl. “Do not think ill where no ill was intended. I was sent to watch, but to watch for enemies of Sir William as much as to watch Sir William. My lord, the king could not take the chance that someone had perverted a man you love so dear—and he would not take the chance that someone intended harm to your dear friend either.”

  “But why the stealth?” Richard wanted to believe Raymond’s explanation. His voice was eager now instead of angry.

  “How could he do otherwise?” Raymond asked. “If the king said to you he had heard ill of Sir William, would you not have flown into a rage? You would have listened to neither side, not that Sir William was to blame nor that another wished ill to Sir William. As now, you would have blamed your brother for listening at all. Yet, someone did wish Sir William ill. When the lying tale seemed to have no effect, Sir Mauger tried three or four times to kill him in Wales. I cannot say I saved Sir William’s life. He is a strong man and saved himself, but I helped him, at least, and there would not have been any help if the king had not sent me.”

  “That is true,” Richard admitted wryly. “I would have jumped down poor Henry’s throat before he could explain.” Then he frowned. “But all this does not explain what you are doing here now. You said Marlowe was besieged?”

  “Yes. Sir William sent me out before the net was drawn tight. I came to ask the king to forbid the attack until the evidence concerning Lady Elizabeth could be sifted. That, too, is a long tale—and horrible.”

  “I know about that. William’s letter was full of it. But what are you doing here in the antechamber? Has Henry refused to see you?” Richard’s dark eyes were dangerous again.

  “No, no,” Raymond said hastily. “He saw me at once and the writ is being prepared now, but—but I could not go to eat and sleep as the king desired. I cannot rest. I fear Marlowe is fallen, and if it is,” Raymond’s voice shook, “Mauger will kill them.”

  “So bad as that?”

  “We had nothing. It happened so fast. The men I gathered were all untrained louts, and there was no time for the trained men to come from Bix—” He covered his face with his hands and fought sobs. “It cannot stand! It cannot!”

  What Raymond said was very serious, but Richard realized that Raymond was near hysteria and collapse from worry and fatigue, and he discounted more than half his urgency. No doubt attackers had ringed Marlowe and the keep was not well prepared, but Marlowe was very strong and William knew his business in matters of defense. Also, it was not possible to assault a keep five minutes after the attacking force arrived. That was all fear in Raymond’s mind. If Henry’s writ went out tomorrow there would still be plenty of time to stop the attack.

  Richard looked kindly at the overwrought young man. “Do you believe I love William?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I swear to you that I will make sure the writ goes out in time, and I will summon my own men from Wallingford and the keeps round about there to gather at Marlowe, and I will go in my own person to see that the writ is obeyed. Believe me, no harm will come to William or anyone else in Marlowe.”

  “But it must be soon, very soon,” Raymond begged.

  “This very night I will begin,” Richard promised.

  Raymond sighed and seemed to sag. Richard gestured Belet to him and said that Raymond was now ready to rest and eat, and Raymond followed the puzzled royal butler without argument. Belet and his friends had overheard some of the talk. They had been wrong in assuming Raymond was being given a grant of some kind—at least at pre
sent.

  As Raymond staggered out one door, Richard entered the inner chamber. Theobald was scratching away at a copy of the writ he had completed and Henry was finishing his instructions to Philip d’Arcy. Richard’s lips thinned when he saw d’Arcy. He did not like the man and never had liked him. He did not think Henry liked him either. But he used him. Suspicious, Richard picked up the writ, but it was just what Raymond said it would be. Richard felt contrite. He was far too often suspicious of Henry without cause.

  “You are so kind, Henry,” he said warmly, going toward his brother.

  Henry started with surprise. He had been so intent on his low-voiced orders to d’Arcy that he had not heard his brother enter. Now if Richard had not thrice suspected Henry and thrice been proved wrong, he would have read the guilt on the king’s face immediately. As it was, he blamed himself for seeing evil where there was no more than surprise and took Henry’s hand and kissed it.

  “You are very good,” Richard went on. “You do for me what I would have begged before I even ask. Thank you, dear brother.”

  Henry was so relieved and delighted that Richard seemed to know and yet know nothing, that he clasped his brother in his arms and assured him passionately that he always wished to please him. He gestured for d’Arcy to go and wait for the writ to be delivered to him outside, and then urged Richard to a seat and asked if he would drink or eat.

  “I have no need,” Richard replied, smiling, “and I have finally sent that young idiot Raymond off to bed. I wish to thank you again, Henry, for what you have done, not only in sending this writ so swiftly but in sending Raymond to Marlowe.”

  “Well, I…” Henry faltered, stunned. It seemed that Richard knew everything and was pleased.

  “You were perfectly right to send him without my knowledge,” Richard continued. “As Raymond pointed out, I would have stormed and ranted, thinking the worst, when you intended—and, indeed, accomplished—the best. Sometimes I think myself so wise that I am the more a fool.”