SirenSong

by Roberta Gellis

  Now William was ashamed of the prejudice that had made him place the ugliest interpretation on an act of real consideration on the king’s part. Henry had much to think of and to remember. It was truly kind of him to call to mind the infinitesimal problem of a minor subject probably mentioned quite casually. Just because I would have preferred an English-born man, William thought, I have no right to reject the king’s kindness or make this poor young man uncomfortable.

  “You are very welcome,” William said, smiling now. “I was much surprised because I could not imagine how the king could have come to know my need. However, I suppose—”

  William’s voice checked as he saw Raymond’s eyes fix on something past his shoulder. He turned his head and hastily raised a hand to hide his grin. Alys, his daughter, had just come into the hall. Alys always had that effect on young men, and the reaction invariably amused Alys’s father. It was not that William did not recognize his daughter’s beauty—he did, it was because her character was at such variance with her appearance of exquisite fragility. Sometimes there was no immediate cause for awakening, and a young visitor would ride away with a dream in his heart. More often, either deliberately or by accident, Alys displayed what she was made of, and a much chastened and wiser young man left the keep than had entered it.

  Alys had hesitated when she saw her father engaged with a man in armor, thus one newly arrived who might have private business with him. Not that any business William had was really private from Alys, but she had discovered that knowledge of that fact made many men uneasy, and she waited politely before finding out what she wanted to know. However, William gestured to her and she came eagerly across to him.’

  “This is Sir Raymond, Alys. My daughter Alys, Raymond. He comes to us all the way from Aix to take Harold’s place—well, more than that of course, because Harold was not yet knighted—by the king’s recommendation.”

  “The king’s?”

  William frowned a little at the note of distaste that tainted the simple surprise in Alys’s voice. He had done his best not to infect Alys with the frequent exasperation Henry caused Richard and, through Richard, him, since it was not a safe feeling to hold, but he was never really successful in hiding things from Alys. He flashed a glance at Raymond, but the expression on the young man’s face was still stunned and utterly fatuous, certainly not the look of a man capable of measuring shades of meaning in a voice.

  “It was very good of the king to think of me,” William said reprovingly. “Richard must have told him of Harold’s death after that of Sir Peter.”

  “Would Uncle Richard tell King Henry a thing like that?” Alys asked doubtfully.

  “He must have done,” William replied. “Here, read his letter.”

  At the same time that he handed the letter to Alys, William cast another sly glance at Raymond. Sometimes the discovery that Alys could read, a skill that fit very ill with her delicate, feminine appearance, was sufficient to shatter a young man’s dream. Raymond showed no signs of being disgusted, however. William’s lips twitched. The arrow had struck him deep. He did not even look surprised, and it was surprising that the daughter of a simple knight should be literate. William would more likely than not have been illiterate himself, as his father was, had not he and Richard taken so strong a fancy to each other when they were boys. Yet, since Richard absolutely would not mind his book unless William, too, had to study, William was very literate. He could read and write not only French but Latin and English also.

  Thinking back, while Alys read and then reread Henry’s letter and Raymond gazed at her, William’s lips twitched again. He and Richard had nearly fallen out over the question of education. William had been most unwilling to “waste his time” over so useless an accomplishment as reading and writing. What, he had asked, were clerks for if not to read and write for their noble protectors? He had angrily accused Richard of forcing him into spending hours crouched over a book or painfully scribing with cramped fingers on much scratched-over parchment just so that Richard would not be outstripped in feats of arms. Richard had turned red as a rooster’s wattle—a thing he still did when angered—but he had not denied the accusation. His dark eyes had burned redly for a moment. Then the color had faded, humor sparkled in the eyes instead of rage, and Richard had agreed that William’s accusation was true. There were some privileges to being a king’s son, Richard had said, grinning, and not suffering alone was one of them.

  William remembered also his father’s fear when he crossed Richard. He had not understood it, and it had frightened him and made him uneasy so that he was careful in the future to quarrel with Richard only in private. Sometimes, of course, the results of a quarrel could not be concealed. One day he and Richard had returned to the keep well bloodied and still snarling at each other. Then his father had drawn him aside and told him never to anger the prince.

  “He is the image of his father,” old Sir William warned, “and John never forgot and never forgave a slight, no matter how small. Even if it took him ten years or twenty, he would be avenged, fairly or unfairly.”

  William had looked at his father in blank amazement. He knew Richard never held a grudge. He could be angry, he had a fierce temper. But once the matter was settled, it was ended for good. William judged things simply, and it was significant to him that, no matter how furious Richard was, he fought as fairly as his opponent.

  Over the years it had been proven that William was right about Richard of Cornwall. Men who had known the old king well finally learned that humor rather than rapacity or spite burned in the dark eyes, otherwise so like John’s. Richard was eager for money and ambitious, there was a lust to rule in him, and for that money was necessary, but neither greed nor ambition surmounted all other considerations as in the preceding generation of Plantagenets. Richard ruled in his own lands absolutely, and ruled very well. He took after his father also in his attention to the details of governing, in his lack of personal extravagance, in his ability not to be blinded by class in measuring justice.

  For ten years at least, those who wished to see a land well governed and at peace with itself mourned inwardly that the wrong son was the elder. No one, however, had ever dared broach the idea that Richard should take Henry’s place. Such a man would have died on the spot with Richard’s powerful hands locked around his throat. The widest difference between Richard and his father was Richard’s loyalty to anyone who deserved loyalty of him. And, whatever could be said of Henry, of his petulance, his vindictiveness, his shifting purposes and disloyalty to others, he never wavered in his love for his brother. No matter how furious each was with the other, neither ever distrusted the other.

  “Papa?”

  William came back from the past with a start. Richard had been right about the reading and writing lessons. William had acknowledged that soon enough and learned to take so much pleasure in books that he could not deny his one child, the apple of his eye, the joys and solace he found in reading. Thus, Alys was educated beyond her class. Raymond, of course, thought nothing of the fact that this miracle of grace and beauty could read. He would have felt her ignorance to be an imperfection. As one climbed the social scale, literacy became more prevalent, and in general, the south of France was more worldly, more cosmopolitan, more polished than England. Thus, Raymond’s mother and sisters were literate, and he never stopped to think that they were very great ladies and Alys only the daughter of a simple knight.

  She handed the king’s letter back and made a very slight curtsy to Raymond. Startled by her movement in his direction, he roused from his trance and swept a deep, elaborate bow. William successfully controlled a grin. He felt a little sorry for Raymond but was not in the least worried about Alys. She knew her worth and her place and was not likely to be led astray by the blandishments of a hireling—of which she had plenty of experience.

  “I bid you welcome,” Alys said formally, which surprised William. Ordinarily she was very friendly and merry. “If you will come with me,” she went o
n, “I will show you around the keep and introduce you to those who must know you. Papa, I know you wish to get back to your accounts.”

  “Wish to—” William swallowed the rest.

  Reading might be a joy, but accounts were something else. Alys was actually better at them than he was and had done them for years. William had not been doing accounts but trying to think of a soothing way to answer a letter from Richard about the problems of the bishop of Winchester, and Alys knew it. Why had she not said, “You wish to get back to Richard’s letter,” or something of that sort? It was very odd, but Alys generally had reasons for what she did, so after a momentary hesitation, William finished by saying, “Yes, of course,” and turning away.

  Alys pulled her lips into a smile. “Perhaps you would like to be rid of your arms and into more comfortable clothing before you meet our people,” she suggested.

  Raymond flushed darkly. Somehow it was not so easy to appear a beggar before Alys as it had been before William. “I have no other,” he admitted.

  It was the truth. When he had stormed out of Tour Dur, his father’s keep, after he had been told he could not lead the Gascon enterprise, Raymond had been wearing just what was on his back now, a good suit of mail and a simple surcoat. He had ridden blindly for about twenty miles, stopping at last, when his horse began to flag, at an abbey. There he had left his shield, painted with his father’s escutcheon and marked with the symbol for the eldest son of the house. He had also borrowed a small sum of money from the abbot, which he knew his father would repay on demand. A new shield bearing the device of a man’s head without features—Raymond thought that was appropriate and a good joke—had eaten up most of that sum. What remained, Raymond had kept by him for emergencies, such as food on the road if he could not find a house to guest him.

  To his surprise, Alys smiled at him much less formally and more warmly. “Never mind,” she said cheerfully, “that is easily provided.” A gesture brought the crippled steward to them. “This is Sir Raymond, Martin, who will stay with us now. He may go into the northeast tower room. He will want a bath. When that is seen to, come to me above and I will give you clothing.” Then to Raymond, “I will see you at supper.”

  She tripped away and Martin stood quietly, watching Raymond’s eyes follow her. “She is the lord’s only child,” Martin said softly, warningly, “the heiress of all he has.”

  Martin had not said, She is not for the likes of you, but that was what he meant. With an effort, Raymond pulled his eyes from the doorway into which Alys had disappeared and looked down at Martin. The steward was right, of course. It was completely out of the question for the heir of Aix to marry a little nobody from England. It did not occur to Raymond at the moment that that was a strange thought for him to have. Marriage had never come into his head before when he had been attracted by the daughter of an unimportant knight. His normal reaction had been to begin a campaign to get what he wanted. Marriage had nothing to do with desire, or even with love, although, if one were fortunate, love grew out of marriage. Marriage was a thing planned and negotiated to tighten alliances, transfer land, or increase and consolidate power. It was not a thing a young man of Raymond’s position considered on his own. In fact, Raymond had been betrothed for many years to the daughter of a Gascon noble. He was free only because the girl had died a few months previously.

  Until this moment, Raymond had hardly thought of his betrothed’s death. He had not known the girl, had never seen her. They had been betrothed six years ago, when she was two years old. Had she lived, she would have come to Aix when she was ten. Raymond would have married her when she was twelve, coupled with her after her first flux, if she had not yet begun her regular bleeding, and hoped they would grow fond of each other.

  Suddenly, Raymond was aware of a violent distaste for such a marriage. He was shocked at the feeling, scorned himself for being so unseated from reason by a pair of bright blue eyes, yet he never once thought of taking for himself what it would have been natural to take in other circumstances. There was something in Sir William’s manner, something in Alys herself, that said flatly, These are not such people. This girl was not for sale for money or advantage.

  The knowledge brought a sense of loss, of something beautiful slipping away. To shake off the ridiculous notion, Raymond turned his full attention to the steward. He had been surprised when Martin first introduced himself but had not taken the time to wonder why so unsuitable a creature should be steward even of a poor knight’s household. He had been trying to think of a speech to make to induce Sir William to accept him, if he raised any objections.

  “Are you come in service to the lord?” the steward asked as they walked toward the northeast tower.

  “Yes,” Raymond answered.

  The question seemed odd, but then he remembered that Alys had not said he was a hireling knight, only that he had come to stay with them. Raymond’s heart contracted. She was as kind and good as she was beautiful, for she implied that he was a guest so that he should be treated with greater honor than might be accorded to a knight in service.

  “What sort of man is Sir William?” Raymond went on hastily, not thinking that it was a stupid question to ask a servant who obviously could not speak ill of his master. He was only trying to push the thought of Alys out of his mind.

  “The kind of man who would find a place of usefulness and honor for such as me,” Martin replied.

  Raymond was shocked into attentiveness. The words could have been sneering and bitter, but they were not. There was passion in them, a passion of devotion. Martin’s large brown eyes, his one beautiful feature, examined Raymond gravely, and then he nodded as if he had come to a decision.

  “You were recommended by another lord, one who does not know my master well, I must suppose, or he would have told you how good Sir William is,” Martin went on. “You would learn soon enough by being with him, but it is my pleasure to tell you. You see me, crooked of back and twisted of limb and face, so I was born and, being useless, left for God to care for at the gate of Hurley Abbey. There Father Martin took me in, he was abbot in that time, and out of his holiness he gave me his own name and did not let me die.”

  The steward paused. Raymond opened his mouth, but there was nothing to say, and he shut it again. Martin smiled at him, knowing that the young man was wondering whether the abbot had been cruel rather than kind. In his youth, Martin had also wondered. Now that he was old, he was grateful. With all his sorrows and suffering, he had been granted much joy in his life.

  “I could not dig nor herd the sheep nor even clean the rooms,” Martin continued, “but my mind was sound. The next abbot, Father Anselm, set me to counting the barrels of wine and salt meat and fish and testing the salt and spices that the abbey bought. I also saw to the necessaries that were portioned out, such things as a steward does. But I was never taken into the Church, for there was none to pay a fee for me and some thought I was not fit for that holy order. Then Father Anselm, being old, died. The new abbot thought my deformities an affront to God, a mark of sin, the seal of Satan. He put me out.”

  “But—” Raymond protested, horrified.

  “It was his right.” Martin shrugged. “I was not so calm and easy when it happened,” Martin went on. “Now…now I see that it was a great blessing the Lord bestowed on me. It is very foolish to question the beneficent acts of God or to doubt His goodness.”

  Raymond stared. He was shamed that he should rail against strictures of too much love while this tortured being could praise the goodness of God with such deep sincerity.

  “The act that thrust me out and left me to starve brought me to Sir William. In my first bitterness, I went off the abbey lands the quickest way, across the river. But on this side none knew of me and all shut their doors against me in horror. At last, I lay on the road, near dying. Sir William, going by, stopped to inquire what I was, for he is a careful guardian of the peace on his own land and feared lest I should rob or harm his people. In my extremity, I be
gged, and he looked at me and said, ‘You are a stranger to the art of begging. What are you good for?’ I told him, fearing that the abbot would deny my tale but fearing more to lie. ‘God gave us a good meeting,’ Sir William said then, ‘for my lady is sick and such skills as yours are needful in my house.’ He took me up, filthy and sick as I was, and brought me here. Seeing how all feared me—except my lady Alys who was then scarce more than a babe—he stood over his servants while they tended me, and then he set me over them in a place of honor. You asked me what sort of man he is—I have told you.”

  “I…then I have come to good fortune,” Raymond said. He could say nothing else, but he was appalled at the thought that he had come to uncover an act of treason in a man of such caritas. It seemed impossible that the father of Alys and the protector of Martin could be so flawed. Yet Raymond knew that one thing had no relevance to the other. Only, perhaps, Sir William was himself deceived about the king. The idea came as a relief. If that was the trouble, Raymond assured himself with the unconscious arrogance of youth, he could turn so good a man from that self-destructive path and save Martin his place and Alys, who had done all the kindness in her power to one she thought a poor, friendless hireling, from pain. A man eye-struck into love sees what his heart paints, his eyes being blinded.

  After handing him over to Martin, Alys had bid a maidservant choose out guesting clothes of the middle sort to give to Martin for the new knight and had taken herself into her father’s chamber in the southwest tower. “There is a faint stink of bad fish about Sir Raymond,” she said. “I put him in the northeast tower—”