SirenSong by Roberta Gellis Page A

Tears filled her eyes. She had said she needed William’s
friendship, but could they be friends now?
    She heard a shod horse clattering over the planks of the
drawbridge over the inner ditch. It seemed to her that Mauger and William had
stood talking a very long time after they had left her. Had Mauger noticed
anything different in her manner? William’s voice had been as usual—or had it?
Elizabeth had not dared look at him. Had Mauger noticed that? She was of so
little interest to him, except that she saved him the cost of a steward, that
he had never noticed previously how much she looked at William.
    But Elizabeth was totally mistaken. Although it was
generally true that Mauger, who was by no means stupid, did not pick up the sly
double entendres his wife used to relieve her feelings about him and that he
did regard her as a dull and docile domestic animal, he was enormously proud and
possessive. He had no intention that any other man should be able to use his
property or cuckold him and was always alert to signs of incipient
betrayal.
    Elizabeth’s rejection of him and lack of interest in any
other man during the first five years of their marriage had nearly convinced
Mauger that she was a sexless creature only capable of breeding. Then William
of Marlowe had come to Hurley and could not, no matter how he struggled, keep
his eyes for long from her. That had set up a train of thought in Mauger’s
mind.
    Marlowe was a rich holding, richer than Hurley partly
because the town of Marlowe held the docks for the river traffic. The tolls
were shared, since Hurley commanded the river also and could stop the traffic
if the demands of its holder were not satisfied. Yet the profit from the town
itself, from the merchants and artisans who sold to the boatmen and repaired
the boats, went to Marlowe alone. It would be very nice, Mauger thought, if he
owned Marlowe too. And the hot spark in Sir William’s hazel eyes held out a
hope of how that could be arranged.
    Within the year the families visited back and forth
frequently and the children were fast friends. Mauger proposed that Alys and
his son be contracted in marriage. William, his eyes on the happy children and
his memory full of how Elizabeth and he had played and loved, young as they
were, was ready to agree. There was no thought in William’s mind that Mauger
desired Marlowe. Mary was alive and, in fact, breeding when the proposal was
first made. Although many babes had died, Alys lived, and the next to live
might be a son.
    It was Mary, limp, colorless Mary, who objected. She did not
wish her daughter to be contracted until she had a son alive and likely to live
to maturity. There would be plenty of time for a formal contract. Let it go for
now as a hopeful possibility. If she had no son, she pointed out to William
when they were alone, Alys, heiress of two rich holdings, could look far higher
than Aubery for a husband.
    William had explained to Mauger, saying frankly that he did
not care for a greater marriage but that Mary asked very little of him, ever,
and he would not go against her will in this, especially at this time. Mauger
was annoyed, but he concealed it well, comforting himself with the fact that
the longing in William’s eyes when he looked at Elizabeth grew and grew. It
would do no harm to let the man heat up a little more. Then, when the children
were betrothed, he would thrust William and his wife together. Doubtless the
man would try to take her. He would hear of it, spy on them, rush in on them,
an offended husband, and kill the insulter of his wife. By right of the
betrothal of the heiress to his son, Mauger would then hold Marlowe. Mary could
go back to Bix. He would arrange for her to die there after a decent interval
so she could not marry again and complicate the inheritance.
    The plan was excellent, only it had not worked. As Mauger
came back into the hall, a flash of irritation ran through him. Without ever
seeming to object, William had managed