SirenSong

by Roberta Gellis

  When he had finished breaking his fast, William took his cloak and went out. While he was eating, he had seen Alys sign to Martin and he knew his horse would be waiting by the outside stair. He mounted the big, brown gelding, and he rode easily over the drawbridge and down toward the town, which sat on an outward bend of the river about half a mile away.

  When he reached the outskirts of the town, William pulled the brown beast up and stared. What were they doing in the common field adjoining the river? Marlowe was not a walled town. It was not yet large enough to merit a wall, although it soon might come to that, and was indefensible from the river side anyway. In time of real danger, valuables were removed to the keep and the people followed their goods at the first sign of attack. Thus far Sir William and his ancestors had protected the town quite effectively by attacking first themselves. They had been burnt out only once, nearly thirty years ago when the late Louis of France had been in England. Since then, there had been no real threat.

  Riding closer to the disturbed ground, William snorted in irritation. His suspicions were correct. Those idiots were starting to erect buildings there. Commoners, free or serf, had no common sense! William touched his horse with his heel and rode forward.

  “Where is the headman here?” he asked in English, but the man had already run over and was bowing.

  “My lord?”

  “Take it all down,” William growled, gesturing at the standing framework. “You cannot build here. This is common ground.”

  “But my lord, it is agreed in the whole town. The cattle will not suffer. We are clearing on the north side. There will be sufficient grazing there! The merchant who needs these warehouses has purchased that land and will exchange—”

  “Numbskull!” William roared. “What do I care where the cattle graze? If you build on this curve of the river, you will block my view of the town wharfs. Boats could put in here and I would not see them.”

  The master builder swallowed. He had been consulted about the site and had given it his approval, but he was thinking only of how far the river might rise in time of flood and whether the ground was firm enough to support the structures required.

  “It is not in my power,” he pleaded. “I only—”

  “It is in my power,” William snarled. “Take it down and save your timber or I will send down my men to burn it and break a few heads also.”

  He set heels to his horse again and rode off, picking up his pace so that the horse was near a full gallop by the time he entered the town itself. People scattered in confusion, women screamed and snatched up small children, mules and asses were wrenched out of the way. Coming to a hall at the center of the town, near the guildhall, William reached down and grabbed a shrinking man by the hair.

  “Summon me the guildmaster,” he snapped.

  “Wh-which gu-guildmaster?”

  “The one who sits highest in the guildhall, or if he is not here, any other, so long as he be in authority.” The trembling man nodded and ran. Sir William glared around, but the green facing the guildhall was now empty. What the devil was the name of the guildmaster and to which guild did he belong? William had not even realized there was more than one. When he did business with the townsfolk, one man would usually approach him as spokesman. As long as dues and tolls were paid promptly and in full, William did not trouble himself with the town management. It had seemed to work well, but now William began to wonder whether he had been stupid.

  It seemed to him, now he thought of it, that fewer and fewer cases had been brought before him when he sat in justice. That was odd because the town had grown in the past few years. Since men were men, it seemed highly unlikely that an increase in business and population could have brought a decrease in crime. Neglectful, William told himself. He had been sorely neglectful. In recent years, as Richard became more and more involved with public affairs, William had insensibly been drawn to think more and more about such things, even though he did not go often to court, and less of local matters.

  The guildmaster—a guildmaster—was now bowing to him, introducing himself as Thomas Mercer. William told him briefly that he had ordered the building headman to tear down what he had erected and smooth over the pits he had dug. No building was ever to be constructed on that curve of the bank, he ordered. “But my lord,” the guildmaster wailed, “it is perfect dockage. The river has scoured a deep pool there, and ships can—”

  “I know that,” William snapped. “That is why I forbid buildings there. As the land lies, such buildings would block the view of the docks from the keep.”

  “My lord, my lord,” Mercer cried wringing his hands, “we would not cheat you! Never! You may send men to watch the dockings if you will.”

  William could feel his jaw starting to drop with surprise, and he firmed it hastily. It had never entered his mind that the townsfolk would cheat on fees or tolls. He had been thinking solely of defense. If his guards did not have free and open land down to the river, enemies could bring boats ashore unseen. Even when the guards could not see so far, on moonless nights, for example, the open, slowly rising land was valuable, for sound traveled well along it up to the keep. It would be very hard to land enough men in a silence so profound as to fool the night watch. Buildings would block both sight and sound.

  “Naturally you would not cheat me,” William said quietly, with a cold threat in his voice. “It would be unsafe and unhealthy to do so, I promise you. That was not my concern. I do not choose to open so inviting a door to enemies. You may, however, build open docks on that bank if you wish.”

  The chagrin on Thomas Mercer’s face would have made William laugh if he had not been so disgusted. The man had intended to cheat. Just a little at first, probably, then more and more if William remained indifferent and unaware. Two considerations saved Mercer from being struck down where he stood, whining about the cost of cartage from such open docks as William was willing to permit and the danger to delicate cargo from being moved in the rain or the hot sun. First, William made a nice profit from tolls and fees paid by merchants, and it would be a mistake to kill one of them in a seeming fit of bad temper over the proposed buildings. Second, Mercer was almost certainly neck-deep in some kind of dishonesty already, or he never would have conceived such an idea.

  It was time for a thorough investigation into the town’s government. Doubtless sufficient bad practices would be uncovered so that Thomas Mercer could be hanged. This would serve the multiple purpose of giving the man his just desserts, enriching William’s purse by the forfeiture of Mercer’s property, setting an example to the rest of the merchants of the results of dishonesty, and pointing out clearly that William was no longer going to allow himself to be fleeced.

  The whining plea, which now included offers of money, had come to a halt. William looked down and shook his head. “I told the builder and I will tell you. If the timbers are not gone by the time I return, I will send my men down to burn the area clean.” His eyes were the color of cold, muddy water behind the long, curling lashes. “Do not try my patience.”

  Another torrent seemed about to burst forth, but William did not wait to hear it. He urged his big gelding forward toward the river again where, a little to the west, a broad, heavy-bottomed boat lay that served as a ferry. As he did so, William was suddenly surprised at all the events of the morning. Why had he said to Alys he must ride to Hurley? Normally he would have taken the boat docked below the keep. Of course, that meant walking up from the village or sending someone over first to say he was on his way so that a horse would be waiting for him.

  It almost seemed as if… Then William smiled at his own superstition. God, he was sure, did not trouble Himself with whether or not buildings were put up in the town of Marlowe. He had said he would ride because of what he had been thinking last night. When Elizabeth was alone in Hurley, he always took the boat and walked. When Mauger was there, he always rode. William had to smile wryly. He was a fine one to talk about pride. He was worse yet, not wishing either to
demean himself by arriving on foot or by asking that a horse be sent to him. William could not help chuckling, despite his fury at Mercer, at his own silly pride, so that he was in a much better humor when he waved a negligent greeting to the guards at the gatehouse of Hurley and rode through.

  Hurley was older than Marlowe but not as strong. Although it had both inner and outer walls, neither wall was of the height or thickness of Marlowe’s. In a sense, there was no true keep, the inner wall taking its place with the dwelling portions built almost as part of that wall. It made the hall very dark because there were no windows, only arrow slits, on the outer side and the windows on the inner side seldom received the sun. Half blinded by coming in out of the bright bailey, William asked the first person who hurried up to him where Mauger was.

  A pretty, tinkling giggle and a rush of scent made William recoil a step. “My lord has gone out,” a little-girl voice told him.

  “Where is the lady?” William asked harshly.

  His clearing sight had confirmed what voice and scent hinted, that he was confronting Mauger’s most recent mistress. She was an exquisite thing, fairer than Alys and far more voluptuous, her bosom almost spilling from a too-low-cut bodice and most imperfectly covered by a thin, silk tunic. The loose cotte was too thin also, showing clearly the shape of hip and waist beneath.

  William had no objection to women in seductive clothing, but he did not think a married gentleman’s home was the place for them. He was no saint and had never accorded even lip service to chastity. He had always been discreet in his infidelities, however. That he did not love his wife was no reason, to his mind, to affront her sensibilities or to be discourteous to her.

  “Above, I suppose,” the girl tittered. “I am Emma. Can I do something for you?”

  William’s hand half lifted to strike her for insolence, but her eyes were as empty of sense as a painted doll’s. Her French was execrable. Probably she had not meant to be vulgar or insolent.

  “Go and ask whether Lady Elizabeth can spare Sir William of Marlowe a few minutes of her time,” he said in English.

  “I am not a servant,” the girl pouted, still speaking in French, which she obviously felt was a mark of status.

  That time William might well have hit her, but he was distracted by an older woman’s voice, exclaiming in pleasure. Lady Elizabeth’s maid, Maud, curtsied, snapped her fingers at another maidservant to bid her bring wine, and led William toward a chair, saying that Elizabeth would be down in a few minutes. Throughout she acted as if Emma was an indecent and unmentionable lump of dirt on the floor that everyone must try to avoid noticing to prevent embarrassment. The blank, open-mouthed confusion with which Emma regarded Maud nearly put William back into a good humor.

  This was rapidly dispelled when Elizabeth, coming from the stairway, greeted Emma gravely and pleasantly. William stood up, feeling his face flush with rage. Elizabeth looked at him and smiled slowly. His breath caught. He knew she was not beautiful. Most men would not even have given her a first glance when Emma was by. She was too tall and far too thin, her small bosom hardly lifting her cotte and the full folds of the cloth obscuring what, if any, shape she had. But William knew her body had been well formed at thirteen and he did not believe that twenty years or two children had changed it. She was as lean and light as a boy, but far more graceful. Her every movement was an enchantment, as now, when, still smiling, she raised a single long finger to her lips.

  William set his teeth against the furious remarks he had been about to make. Elizabeth took his hand and drew him toward a wall chamber. Emma’s lips pouted like a petulant child’s, and after a minute hesitation, she followed them. William half turned, his free hand rising to strike. Elizabeth tightened her grip on the hand she held.

  “You cannot come with us, Emma,” she said gently. “Sir William is a very old friend, and he is about to say some very harsh things that will only hurt your feelings. You would not wish to hear them, I assure you.” Her lips twitched, restraining laughter, as Emma paused indecisively, trying to work that out. But she did not wait for the girl’s slow processes of thought to come to a conclusion. She drew William into the room she had chosen and shut the door.

  “What the devil is wrong with you, Elizabeth?” William snarled when they were alone.

  “There is nothing wrong with me. I am in excellent health,” she replied mischievously.

  This room was better lit than the hall, and William had to struggle with his breathing again. Elizabeth watched him with a twinkle in her large, misty green eyes, a strange color like shallow water over pale golden sand. Her nose was a little too long, her mouth too wide for her thin face. She looked more like a naughty elf than a fairy princess. Her complexion was of the earth also, a warm brunette, and her hair of a nondescript brown, was very fine textured and curly. It was mostly hidden by her wimple now, but little ends had escaped here and there and curled deliciously around her face and forehead.

  “Perhaps you cannot drive that creature out,” William said in a constricted voice, “but there is no reason for you to treat her with courtesy nor to endure her attempts to usurp your place.”

  Dear William, Elizabeth thought, he always does exactly the right thing. Mauger had always had a woman or two in the keep but the others had been clever enough to keep out of the way. Emma was simply too stupid to do so. It did not mean anything, Elizabeth knew that. Nonetheless, the open exposure of the thing was painful, shameful. William’s fury had turned it funny, although there was nothing funny about the emotion that fueled his rage.

  “She cannot usurp my place,” Elizabeth replied. “You know that is not Mauger’s intention.” She paused, watching William’s face, and then added softly, “Why should I not be courteous to her? She does me a great service.”

  For a moment William stood and stared at her without answering. For ten years they had met frequently, sometimes they had been quite alone, as now, yet in all that time no single personal word had passed between them. Of course, William had never before been greeted by Mauger’s whore, acting as if she were the lady of the keep, either. William understood that his rage on Elizabeth’s behalf had broken through some wall of reserve she had built. It had driven her into making a clear statement of her own feelings about her husband. It was dangerous, horribly dangerous, but William did not care.

  “It is disgusting,” he said, his voice shaking. “He could at least keep her in the village.”

  Having already said too much, Elizabeth threw all caution and reason to the wind. “But Mauger likes his comfort. If it should be a chilly or wet night, he would not wish to ride out, and then… No! I prefer to have Emma here.”

  Knowing he was mad and that he would bring his world crashing down around his ears, William took a step forward and pulled Elizabeth into his arms. He almost expected her to cry out or push him away, but she did not resist, allowing her head to fall back so that he could kiss her. And her mouth was as sweet, as warm and willing as it had been twenty years ago. Completely lost, heeding now only the siren song of his long love, William devoured her face, kissing eyes, cheeks, chin, and returning to her lips between. Elizabeth was no passive partner. Her mouth opened under his, inviting the invasion of his tongue, and she clutched him with one arm while she ran her other over his neck and shoulders, down his back, as if she wanted all of him included in the caress.

  After a time, William pulled his mouth free. “Come to me, Elizabeth,” he begged. “I will honor you as you deserve, I will—”

  She put a shaking hand gently over his mouth. “You are asking me to play Emma’s role in your home.”

  “I have no wife,” he cried.

  “You have a daughter. Should I ask Alys to give countenance to such a thing? Should you?”

  “I love you—”

  She silenced him again. “If you love me, do not ask me what I desire to give and cannot. William…no! Mauger does not deserve that.”

  “Does not deserve—” he choked. “His behavior—
”

  “Is as much my fault as his,” Elizabeth interrupted. “In the beginning I hated him—hated the world—and made it all too plain. I was fortunate he did no worse than turn aside from me. He is not an unreasonable husband.” Then she smiled gently. “You know it is not possible, William. Mauger could not swallow such an affront. It would mean war.”

  He did know, but he wanted her so much it was like a physical pain. “I could take you to Bix,” he said passionately.

  A flame leapt in her eyes, then died. She pulled away, out of his arms completely. “We are both mad,” she sighed, “to torture ourselves this way. I thought we had passed the danger point years ago. I cannot think what made me say—but you caught me at a bad time. I am so sorry I have broken your peace, William. You know it is not possible for me to leave Hurley. Even if we could keep Mauger and Alys from knowing—and I do not believe that we could—I would lose Aubery and John. I love my sons. Also, I dare not leave Mauger alone in Hurley. So far, I have kept him from despoiling the estate beyond recovery, but if I were to leave… You do not know what Ilmer is like—the broken, cowering people, the wasted land… It is not all Mauger’s fault, of course. His father ruined the place before Mauger took hold of it, but he never learned anything from the old man except how to spend and to want. He has not the slightest notion of management. William…”

  She touched his face gently, and he closed his eyes, breathed deeply, opened them. They were blank and bitter. William knew the call of duty. He had answered it many, many times against his will.

  “I have had no peace since the day I lost you,” he said. “My heart is yours, my house is yours, my strength is yours. When you want any, or all, tell me, and they will be delivered.”