SirenSong by Roberta Gellis Page B

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