“Alys,” William teased, “are you so cruel as to lead him to think you are as struck with him as he was with you? Why not a cot in the hall? And what do you mean—bad fish? He is another of that ragtail crew that follows the court, but at least he has come with the intention of doing honest service for his living.”
“Honest? Are you sure?”
The laughter left William’s eyes and voice. “What do you mean? The lad is poor enough—”
“Is he?” Alys interrupted. “Did you see his sword?”
William laughed, good humor restored. “Of course. Do you think I would miss a thing like that? Do not be a fool, Alys. Men often do without food and drink to buy such a weapon or, if it has been given them, would starve gladly before they would part with it. I would.”
That was true. Alys frowned. Could she be seeking bad signs because she found Sir Raymond’s thin, dark face with its pale eyes so attractive? She had not protested when her father said the young man was struck with her. Alys did not suffer from any mincing false modesty and knew her features to be the very image of those lauded in every romance written or sung by minstrels. They were all there—the flawless white skin, pink cheeks, strawberry lips, blue eyes, gold hair, full breast, swan’s neck… Say it, and she had been praised for it.
Two things had saved Alys from self-destructive vanity. One was knowledge of the dichotomy between Martin’s beauty of soul and loathsomeness of body. That object lesson on the worthlessness of physical beauty alone was driven home by her constant contact with the old steward. The second was more subtle. Alys knew her father loved her and, in a way, thought she was the most beautiful and most perfect creature on earth. However, she also knew that he would have thought the same even if she had been as deformed as Martin. Papa loved his daughter. That she was fair of face and form was a happy and rather amusing accident but totally unimportant. In fact, Alys was well aware that her father was not much drawn to her kind of beauty. It was another kind of woman entirely that he desired.
Thus, although she recognized her effect upon men and did not hesitate to use it when she needed to, she was not really puffed up by her appearance. Most of the time it was a nuisance, for it was necessary to fend off unwanted attentions.
This time, however, Alys had been aware of a flicker of interest within herself when Sir Raymond’s eyes fixed on her. Was it because he was more interesting to her, and she knew she should not be interested in a penniless knight who came to serve her father, that she found so many suspicious signs surrounding him?
“Perhaps you are right, Papa,” she said hesitantly, “but his manner…that bow… I do not know… It seemed finer than it should for so simple a knight.”
William frowned slightly. “Why does he have to be a simple knight? Did you see his shield—a head without a face? And it is new, nearly unmarked. He is denying his past. Many high families have been thrown down—”
“Not in Aix, you said he came from Aix.”
“The king’s letter said he came from Aix—yes, and so does his speech say it—or, at least, it says he comes from the south. What the devil are we talking about anyway? If Raymond is not a poor knight, simple or not, seeking a living less uneasy than the tourney route or selling his sword in a war, what is he doing here?”
“That, Papa, is what I am asking you. Why should the king send us a knight?”
“Why should he not?” William rejoined. “It is one less mouth to eat at his table, one less suit of clothes for which he must pay. Moreover, he would be doing a kindness to both Raymond and myself. Henry is kind. He enjoys doing kind things. If Raymond suits me and Marlowe suits him, we will both be grateful, and Henry likes gratitude also.”
Alys nodded. Her father was right. Everything he said was reasonable, and Uncle Richard might well have mentioned Sir Peter’s and Harold’s deaths to the king. The brothers chatted about all kinds of things. They were warm friends, when Richard was not driven wild by Henry’s behavior and Henry was not enraged by Richard’s criticisms. Only…only what? Alys sighed. There was nothing to be suspicious about. Her father might be the best and wisest man in the world, but he was not one of the great ones whom the king felt obliged to watch. The only connection he had with the power structure of England was through Uncle Richard, and Alys knew the king would not set a spy on his brother.
That drew a smile from her. The last thing King Henry wanted was someone else to tell him what Uncle Richard thought. Uncle Richard was far, far too likely to be telling him what he thought himself, at the top of his lungs and in public. Papa was always begging him to talk softly in private, to appeal to the king’s better nature. Henry did have a better nature, and it was not impossible to lead him gently away from the silly things he sometimes wanted to do.
Uncle Richard was growing quite clever about it, although it made Papa’s life harder. The rage had to come out somewhere. Since he had stopped shouting at his brother, Uncle Richard shouted at Papa instead or wrote him long, angry letters. Alys looked fondly down at her father, who had returned his attention to the letter he was trying to answer, frowning worriedly at a vitriolic paragraph in which the Earl of Cornwall asked how reason could be applied to a man, meaning Henry, who saw no contradiction in berating the pope for filling English benefices with Italians but was using every measure, fair and unfair, to push a Savoyard into Winchester.
Leaving him to it, Alys started back toward the hall to get to the stair. Her father’s low groan, “Damn the man! Why cannot he see the difference between something that will cause a growl and will be forgotten and what will stir the barons like a stick in a hive.” Papa was muttering to himself, but the sound bounced off the stone wall and out into the hall where it could be heard some feet from the doorway. Alys’s eyes flicked toward the northeast tower.
Most probably Papa was right and there was nothing strange about the new knight besides his attractiveness. Nonetheless, Alys decided against moving him out into the hall, at least until Papa’s outer room could be hung with tapestries that would dull all sound. It was silly, very silly, but her mind would be much easier, and it was even sillier to make herself miserable over a thing so easily cured.
Chapter Three
Although he had seemed to dismiss his daughter’s suspicions, William was disturbed by them. He was made no easier by Raymond’s behavior during supper that night. The young man’s manners were more polished than William’s own—and William’s, because of his training in Richard’s company—were better than those of much of the high nobility of England. Raymond’s knowledge of the politics of the whole European continent also seemed excessive, and he knew offense and defense in war better from the point of view of the commander than of the common knight.
It was impossible to avoid the knowledge that Raymond was not a simple knight, younger son to a man too poor to keep him on his own estates or find him a rich patron. Nevertheless, William also believed what he had said to Alys in defense of the king was true. There was no reason other than a wish to be useful that could have impelled Henry to send Raymond to Marlowe. This, coupled with Raymond’s uneasiness when questions were asked about his family, inclined William to believe that the young man came from a good house fallen on hard times. A profligate father who had lost his lands through extravagance or, of course, a father accused of treason, executed, or disseised, was a thing a young man might well be ashamed of and wish to conceal.
The sins of the father should not be visited on the son, yet it would be hard, indeed, for the scion of such a tainted house to find a place, particularly in his own land. Tactfully, William stopped asking questions that were answered with painful care and a flushed face. Alys, somewhat less willingly than her father, also gave up her probing.
William was reasonably satisfied with his deduction regarding Raymond’s origins, but it would be interesting to confirm it. William could, of course, ask Richard, but the Earl of Cornwall was not at court just now. Also, William was very wary of suggesting to Richard that ther
e was any ulterior purpose in anything the king did. Richard was sufficiently upset just now by the problems of the see of Winchester and he had very recently been married to Sancia of Provence, Queen Eleanor’s sister.
There was another possibility for information, however. Across the river at Hurley was the keep held by Mauger of Ilmer in the right of his wife. William moved restlessly in bed where, unable to sleep, he had been reconsidering Raymond’s arrival and antecedents. Mauger had been William’s neighbor for nearly ten years, ever since Gilbert and John of Hurley, the two young sons of the former holder, had been set upon while hunting and killed. A soft oath escaped William. Even after ten years, he was not reconciled to those deaths. Gilbert and John had been dear friends.
The killers had not been local, so they could not have murdered out of hatred. Nor could robbery have been the motive. Men do not carry purses nor go decked in jewels when they hunt on their own lands. Granted that Gilbert and John probably had come on the outlaws suddenly and been surprised. Perhaps they had threatened the band and ordered them off the land, although William would never have believed they could be so stupid if the group was large and armed.
It was a puzzle that would never be solved now, William thought, dismissing it from his mind. Mauger was at Hurley and would remain there until his son Aubery was old enough to take over the lands. William smiled. Aubery was a nice lad, in service with Humphery de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, now. William sighed and shifted in bed again. Would Alys agree to marry Aubery as Mauger kept urging? It would be nice to have her so close, but she would have to wait another four or five years, and she was really ripe for marriage now. Besides Elizabeth… William stopped his thoughts abruptly. If he began to think about Elizabeth, he would never get to sleep at all.
In any case, Elizabeth and Aubery had nothing to do with his present problem, which was Raymond. Mauger might have the answer to that because he spent a lot of time at court and was attentive to every whisper of gossip. William found his jaw set and deliberately relaxed it. He reminded himself for the thousandth time that Mauger was a good neighbor, always pleasant and friendly. He did not encroach on William’s lands, or offer hurt to his serfs, or insult, or take more than his share of the river tolls. It was none of his business if Mauger took more out of the land than he put in. Hurley was a rich property, and Aubery would be able to restore it when he took hold, Alys would see to that if she married him.
Right now it was just as well that Mauger did spend his time and money peacocking around at court instead of overseeing his property. No, William reminded himself severely, it was not vanity. Mauger’s sycophancy and flattery might be so sickening to him that he avoided him like the plague when they happened to be at court together, but what right had he to think ill of it? He had a powerful friend from childhood and did not need to suck around the hems of the great. And Mauger’s favor seeking had paid off. It had won Aubery a place in de Bohun’s household—quite an elevation for a boy of no particular parentage.
It was his own fault, too, that Mauger had to crawl to find Aubery a place. He should have told Mauger he could obtain a place for the boy in Richard of Cornwall’s household—he would gladly have asked that favor of Richard for Elizabeth’s son… But he could never bear to mention his friendship with Richard to Mauger. Besides, Mauger was not a man who liked to ask or receive favors.
Nonsense! This time William grunted with irritation and turned over on his stomach. The only one in the world Mauger did not like to ask favors from was himself. Somehow his distaste must show, struggle as he would to hide it. And it was so unreasonable. Why should he dislike the man for doing what he wanted him to do? When he perceived his own thought clearly, William groaned and rolled out of bed, shuddering as the cold floor bit at his bare feet. He ignored the discomfort, pulled his night robe over his shoulders, poured a cup of watered wine, and stalked out to sit in a chair by the banked fire.
Life was such a muddle. He could not bear it that Mauger did not value his wife, yet it would have torn his heart out to see Elizabeth loving and beloved. Who would believe he could be such a fool as to love the woman all these years—twenty years? No, more. He could not remember a time when he did not love Elizabeth. He had adored her when she was four—and fat—tagging after her brothers Gilbert and John to their great disgust and his joy. She and William had sworn they would marry each other…
“Oh damn!” William sighed wearily as rage and grief wrenched him again almost as painfully as it had twenty years ago when his father had told him Elizabeth was married. He had cried out in disbelief, but Sir Gilbert, her father, had confirmed the news. For a long time he had hated her for her weakness, and in the throes of that hatred he had agreed to marry the woman his father proposed to him. Poor Mary. Was she really so stupid, so ineffectual by nature, or had his inward revulsion for her destroyed her?
No. William put down the cup, shook himself, and went back to bed. Mary was Mary. He was not to blame for her. Even if he had showed his dislike, she had been more than ten years older than he. Any normally intelligent woman of twenty-seven, already married and widowed, should have been able to bend a boy of seventeen any way she liked, particularly a hurt and angry boy—and Mary had been physically beautiful, almost as beautiful as Alys. Besides, she had not known how she repelled him. From the beginning she had clung to him, leaned on him. No, he was not to blame for Mary. She had been as happy as it was in her nature to be. If anything had destroyed her, it was the death of all the babies.
And Elizabeth was not to blame for yielding to her father’s will. What could she do, poor child? How could a girl of thirteen resist? Likely she had not even been told. Sir Gilbert was a good enough man, but he was of the old school. He would have sent Elizabeth away to Ilmer to be married without a word of warning. Sir Gilbert’s wife—William wrinkled his brow, he could scarcely remember the pale shadow that had been Elizabeth’s mother—could have done nothing. Sir Gilbert was the kind who did not believe a daughter was worth the food it took to keep her alive. Suddenly William smiled and relaxed. The more fool Sir Gilbert! Alys brought him more joy and solace than a dozen sons.
He had fallen asleep on the thought and woke with it in his mind. It was true, of course, but William knew it was wrong for Alys to be his only heir. He was still young enough to breed up sons. He should have married again as soon as Mary died. Alys’s children would be Ilmers—if she took Aubery, God knew what if she married elsewhere. William walked into the hall, his mind still fixed on the distasteful idea of his lineage ending with himself and came up short at the sight of Raymond standing beside Alys at the sideboard. Martin was there too, of course, but at a tactful distance. Alys was laughing at something the young knight had said and looking up at him. William strode forward quickly.
“You are late this morning, Papa,” Alys cried as soon as he came near.
Raymond bowed gravely. William recognized the tunic he was wearing. It had been Harold’s, quite new, and made too large because Harold had still been growing. On Raymond it was a trifle short and straining over the shoulders. That meant Raymond had brought no clothing—a proper beggar. Alys was pouring wine for her father, and Raymond cut a wedge of cheese.
“I must ride over to Hurley this morning,” William said.
“Is Sir Mauger at home?” Alys asked sharply.
“I hope so. He was last week and said nothing to me about leaving,” William replied blandly.
It was the very devil to have so acute a minx for a daughter, William thought. No words had ever passed between them on the subject of what he felt about Elizabeth, yet Aly s knew. It bred in her a strange dichotomy. Alys loved Elizabeth for herself. Even before her own mother had died, she had run to Elizabeth whenever she needed help and advice, and in the last five years Elizabeth had been as good as a mother to her.
Still, Alys was jealous. It showed in little ways. Sometimes when William reproved her, she would snap, “So I am not perfect like Lady Elizabeth. Too bad!” William had n
ever answered that Lady Elizabeth was far from perfect because he had been afraid Alys would perceive the remnant of bitterness in him. It did not really matter if that increased Alys’s jealousy. She could do far worse than strive to model herself on Elizabeth.
Then there was the additional tension produced by Alys’s having guessed that Elizabeth was the cause of her father’s failure to marry again. On the one hand, Alys was as proud of her name as William was. She had never regarded Marlowe as hers. When she married, her husband’s property would be hers. Marlowe was where she learned how to be mistress—a practicing ground. Alys wanted there to be a brother at Marlowe. She knew it was important to her safety. If her husband should die, for example, while her children were young and after her father’s death, a brother would protect her and her children, fight for her dower rights if need be. Without male relatives, she would be at the mercy of any warden set over her or at the mercy of her husband’s male relations.
On the other hand, Alys probably did not relish the thought of a stepmother, a woman who would have the right to rule Marlowe. She had been too long mistress in her own right to step back into second place. From that point of view, she might be grateful to Elizabeth for holding her father’s fancy so that he could not bring himself to take a second wife. And so I have thought ten thousand times before, William told himself impatiently. It is an old, old tale. He turned to Raymond.
“Until I return, do you look over the demesne farm. You will find its working much different than in your country. The people are different too, I think, although I had little time to examine such matters when I passed through the southern lands.”
“Yes, sir,” Raymond agreed quietly.
Alys opened her mouth, but thought better of what she had been about to say. She was wearing a slight frown, but William decided that it was not worth hurting Raymond’s feelings by calling Alys aside to speak privately to her. Most likely, being suspicious, she did not want the young man riding alone around the demesne, but surely that was excessive caution. What real harm could he do? And if he attacked or mistreated the serfs—say, raped a woman—that would solve the problem. William could send him away at once as unsuitable.
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